luminous.

"are they really that bad if you still laugh at them?" he teases. "at some point, maybe you should just admit they're at least decent."

but his smile falters a fraction. he hadn't expected her to talk about what was going on. he offered her an out, and he wasn't going to retract the offer. but there wasn't much to his life outside of work. everything in his life--- from meetings with andy, to slipping information to isaac, to writing notes in the middle of the night --- revolved around his position as an officer.

scratching at his chin, he clears his throat. "i, uh --- unfortunately no new hobbies to speak of. wish i could tell you i've become the best billiards player this side of novus, but i think the last time i picked up a cue was the night we met. but when has rusty skills ever stopped me?"

“didn’t i beat you that last time, too? we could go for a rematch. and i guess—i could tell you what’'s been going on with me.” a beat of silence follows. the words sit on her tongue, set free a moment later. “what’s really going on.” they both know the weight of what she offers: the truth as a way to tie them back together, a tentative step forward in repairing what was broken. 

( and maybe, just maybe, she wants to set the weariness down. she wants to be comforted; she wants to be held. this, she will not tell. )

then, as if to add a disclaimer, she says, “as much as i can, anyway.” 

it’s not that she doesn’t trust him. he was, once, one of the people she trusted the most, and that still holds weight. but there are too many moving pieces for her to divulge fully regarding nero and the serum; too many people involved that she refuses to name because he still is nsa. he’s too good for them, he’s always been, but that is where he stays. she can’t tell him to leave anymore than he can tell her to give up crux.

"i'd still be gregory flores," he answers unyieldingly. "what defines me isn't my money or the company. my powers, my whole being. that's me." a scoff to match hers. "honestly, if you're lost then that's on you for letting your career or possessions or whatever define you."

and no, he doesn't want to imagine what happens if he loses everything— so he ignores her question and divert the attention elsewhere. "you experience loss all the time, so grow up."

once more, he rolls his eyes. "well, articles are just part of being a public figure." such salt to the wound. she seems to know which buttons of his to push, but he's not going to let her see that. this is surely why nsa paired them up together. so they can rile each other up then wear each other down— then remember who they are truly at the mercy of.

"what makes you think sentinel is second best?" he challenges. "paragon is nothing more than show monkeys nsa parades around."

she inhales sharply. her eyes dart towards the punching bag, spear of ice still embedded. “yeah, i can still skate now, but it’s not the same and it’s not ever going to be.” lunara’s gaze swings back to greg. “haven’t you ever been passionate about something in your life?”

grow up, he snipes. how original, she thinks. 

“i’d rather be angry than apathetic.” and who is he to tell her to just get over it? even if there is no choice but to push forward, the sting of resentment can’t be cut out so easily. it digs a little deeper every time she sees a former teammate win a championship, and thinks that should have been me; it pricks at her with every comment wondering when she’s going to make the official line-up.  

gregory flores has surely never lost his place in the world. so, she asks again: what right does he have?

then she shrugs, tone blithe. “i don’t know, and i don’t really care.” i just said it to piss you off. “i’m still learning everything, and that’s just what people say. what are you saying?” she tilts her head, feigning guileless curiosity. “that sentinel does the real work?”

devna is fairly confident she alone could keep the cybercafe in business. the employees all know her face, know she doesn’t talk to them (or anyone for that matter), know she knows more than they do about computers, know to leave her alone from her spot wedged into the back of the cafe with a 12-pack of celsius and a few sandwiches from her parents’ deli. this corner all but belongs to her- everyone else gets directed away from it on the rare chance dev isn’t already there occupying it.

one-handed, she pops the tab on her next celsius without even looking away from her screen - too enraptured in the lines of code therein but not so that she doesn’t see suzu come into the cafe. the security camera mainframe stays up in the corner of the monitor at all times, after all. three am isn’t late for crux heroes by any means, but she doesn’t often get in person visits from any of them.

it shouldn’t feel awkward, meeting her like this again. it was never meant to be anything more than a business partnership between the two of them, but there’s still a small sense of discomfort sitting in his chest somewhere knowing that their last conversation had gone — strangely, to say the least. he feels uncomfortable enough to be the one buying the drinks tonight; plus, he’s the one who’s come to her for help this time.

“i hear you and your friends are busy these days.” crux — ever vigilant, ever so secretive. but it's easy to deduce what they're after, mostly because it's the same thing he's interested in, too.

"oh, i," he adds, his line of thought a sudden reminder that he's brought something for suzu; it makes his face feel hot, a little.

he slides the bag of meds he may or may not have taken from the kronos repository across the table. " — i need a favor," isaac adds quickly, as though making sure their conversation doesn't devolve into the two of them thanking each other. "i need to get my hands on the fake serum."

“no vacation for me,” she quips dryly, peeking inside the bag he slides over. and blinks. before her sits a myriad of kronos meds—top of the line, better than anything she could afford—and the fact he’s brought them without her asking surprises her, considering where they left off. “thank you—” she’s about to ask what he wants in return before he follows up on his own, and it starts to feel like how it’s always been. 

“what, you want powers now?” she raises an eyebrow, half joking, half serious. it’s not worth gambling your life, she wants to say, but it’s not her place when she’s had powers since she was twelve. “why don’t you just swipe the real version?” her question is genuinely curious; surely that’s easier to access for him than a black market rip-off full of god knows what. 

but he swallows the apology. he's not certain how she would take it, especially since it would highlight the difference between them. he chose this life; walked into it with eyes open and aware of how important it was to keep the mask in place.

neither of them could change the past. but for now, at least, lunara knew more than she did before.

"if you have any questions," ryoji starts, the robotic voice softening despite the mask, "i'll do my best to answer. i have --- dolor has --- been doing this for so long that the knowledge has to pour out somewhere, you know?"

he doesn't wait for an answer; he settles against the wall, hands cupping, knees bending. "only way is up; get to the pipe, grab on, and feet on wall as you climb. building opposite the wall is shorter, so once you're at the top you can jump over there.

the question leaves her lips as she uses ryoji’s hands as a foothold and pushes herself up, grabbing the pipe he’d pointed out. it’s a quick scramble to find her footing before she climbs up the wall as he directed, hauling herself over the edge of the rooftop. this, she can do. athleticism has always been her strong suit. 

she’s about to jump across when she nearly trips over a body slumped on the roof, their figure shrouded in shadows despite the constant glow of neon lights dotting novus’ skyline. 

she looks down. a scream catches in her throat.  their eyes are open. blood is on the ground. she swallows it.  i saw them walking through hq yesterday. i just saw them, and now they’re—

or wrong, depending on how you looked at it.

“so...if samael doesn’t turn up with their head blown to bits soon, you think this means," isaac doesn't mean to smile, but there's definitely a smile playing at his lips. “they’ve found a way to stabilize it?” 

“no, there has to be a catch, right? even if they don’t end up dead, there’s always a catch. unless they’ve figured out something kronos hasn’t—” she stops suddenly, raising her eyebrows at his expression. something like a smile dances across isaac’s features, and she doesn’t know what to make of it. part of me wants to see them finish it so i can use it, she recalls him quipping, and she wonders how far that really is from the truth. “are you gonna go looking for it?”

but the last time he pushed ---

he closes his eyes. takes another breath. she's right; they agreed to patch things up, on both ends. re-connection is blossoming, and he cannot allow his worry to strangle the roots.

"no, no. really, you caught me at the best time: it's the hour i spend trying to convince myself i'm not too old to need an earlier bedtime."

it's easier than it should be to slip into jokes. and he jokes all the time, but never in the same steps he does with suzume.

and hope sparks.

because as much as she’d like to convince herself he wouldn’t notice, he has simply always been good at pretending he hasn’t. it is a dance they are both familiar with, and one they should stop practicing. 

just maybe not tonight.

“your jokes are still bad.” a smile creeps into her voice, and she shifts, resting her head in the crook of her elbow. “well, that’s why i liked them. in any case, we can’t all function on the night shift.” 

he gives her two options, a halting pause preluding the second before he darts forward: —if that’s a lot right now. 

licking their lips, they belatedly register her thanks. a soft chuckle echoes. "you're welcome. and thanks, for watching my back."

he leads them to a perceived dead-end; anyone else would turn around. but ryoji knows just where to launch themselves to scramble up the sides and onto the rooftops. he's about to ask if she can follow when she stops him in his tracks.

"wait, you don't know why they would say anything to you?" brows furrowing, ryoji faces lunara. even in the darkness of their surroundings, whenever the neon lights of the city glances over her face, recognition always sparks. olympic darling turned disgrace turned reformed trainee.

"you may not be a hero," ryoji slowly starts, "but they would know your name, your face, and potentially anything you have ever put on the public record. surely private records, if they wanted. not sure of nsa's protocol on protecting those details."

dread curls around their heart. nsa traded heroes in secret for their faces to be plastered around the city and beyond. how indifferent; how cruel.

he asks why she wouldn’t know, and a string of reasons as to why sit on her tongue: she’s just a trainee, they have other heroes to go after, she’s not worth the time. they all sound like excuses now, film over the truth: she’s an easy target because she’s a trainee. because she’s a new super. she’s one of the nsa’s darlings, and wouldn’t you nip that in the bud if you could?

“i don’t know what it is, either,” she mutters. “there’s a lot i don’t know.” 

you will always have a target on you, says ryoji, and all she can think is that the nsa never briefed her on this. maybe they didn’t think they had to; what else have they done with her other than parade her in front of journalists and allow her to do brand deals? the real work doesn’t start until you’re promoted, so just focus on training. ( what good are you if you’re not good at your powers? ) 

it’s an odd dichotomy—they claim they’ll protect her, while she’s the one that’s supposed to be doing the protecting.