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Katsuo was content to sit back in his desk towards the middle of the classroom for the shitty introduction of his junior professor, shittier reactions of his new cohort, and the compounding shittiness of downstream reactions. The muscular hero was a bit large for his desk, the back support never felt right to him as he leaned against it casually, staying cool as the situation naturally escalated. He knew that class 1B had a rep for dysfunctional personalities, but the addition of himself alongside Mia and Kaiga in the reshuffle were not going to do them any favors.

He at least had some comradery with his classmates who joined them in getting thrown out of the top class. Mia was a bit of a bitch, but he liked that from the American, and more importantly she was real with these idiots and posers. The long monologuing earned a stretch and a yawn, followed by a bobbling nod of approval, about the pinnacle of Katsuo’s respect for his peers. Asagumo was more amusing, bit of an idolizer and worse: a stickler, but he wasn’t a bad guy and he had the good sense to usually not be too obtrusive. Obviously, the raucousness of the new class was not going to be easy for him.

That said, his scream had Indomitable looking down to his phone, his normal cool smile faltering for a moment as he caught word of the retirement of the top three at the same time. It was a complicated thing for him: He was glad that he had the opportunity to work under Best Jeanist’s tutelage, and he admired the hardened determination of the #1 Hero. He considered what it would mean with such a huge loss to the Hero community, and what would happen at Eirei as the Flame Hero began to step back. He was sure that Kaiga was crushed, and maybe some time to himself escorting the uptight loser to the nurse might give him some time to reflect.

Of course, his fellow students weren’t the only Class 1A leftovers being tossed down, a fact he was painfully reminded of when Danzo appeared to back up his junior professor, only to throw her under the bus. He smirked some as Rin’s self-absorption collapsed into a teary mess, the poetic justice almost as good as getting the real thing. He didn’t care much for how he was graded, he showed up as required, and did little more.

Perhaps it was best he did not know he was being graded this way. He was already frustrated by his demotion, which still bothered him. He had excelled in the Sports Festival, it was his favorite event and he had prepared to the best of his ability. But the fights had been all disappointing: Kaiga was completely uninterested in even fighting despite being placed in the first round, and he almost felt bad throwing him out of the ring so unceremoniously. It was frustrating, he knew Kaiga was a good fighter, but he was clearly out of his element.

The quirkless kid had put up a better fight, but steel on steel the Overwhelming Firepower hero was outmatched when Katsuo launched from the get go at well beyond his normal ability, basking in the glow of his previous victory. The most embarrassing, however, was his defeat in the semifinals to Onrush. It was humiliating to be ringed out before he could even get to blows. He had spent so long focusing on how to handle those blades and her speed, and the momentum of his two previous victories had him feeling better than he had in years, but none of it even mattered as he was as unceremoniously shunted as Kaiga had been. He was not good at swallowing his pride, and made his disapproval well known to both his opponent and the judges.

Upon being dismissed, the hero rose from his seat to his full height, a little below 2 meters tall as he made his way out of the classroom and back to his locker. Taking out his board, the smile on Katsuo’s face became much more excited, tapping a button on the side, the thrum of the repulsor confirmed that it was ready, and he was happy to place it on the ground, hovering a few inches off the ground. He’d step on, locking in his forward foot to the controls. As he raised his backfoot on, he’d shift his leading foot on the controls, the thrum becoming much more audible as the repulsor gained strength and he rose further off the ground.

Pushing off the ground with his foot, he made his way out to the hallway and hopped over the railing two stories above the ground. As the massive young man plummeted, he pressed his heels into the board and pushed the repulsors to their safe maximum, the field easing his landing from almost the moment he hopped off from the height. He had gone from higher before, but it killed his knees dropping from higher up. This was closer to a gentle glide as the field slowly reduced itself, catching his landing gracefully as he again pushed off the ground out towards the dorms.

It was a beautiful day out, the clear sunny sky begging for him to stay out, but he had to go back to the dorms for the next assignment. Yamato-San at least seemed relaxed, Katsuo wasn’t sure what to make of his roommate, but he’d do his best to make it work. He was expecting a bloodbath of overachievers looking for student rep positions. The idea crossed his mind occasionally, but the Self-Assured Hero was not one to take responsibility for the fuckups of others, let alone this group of misfits.

He took the long way back, his hoverboard streaking over the river on its booster, Katsuo leaning forward and low to not get put off balance by the extra thrust that was sending up a wake of water beside him and warm spray into his face to cool him off. A blast of repulsor would send him high into the air before landing on the bank and turning over towards the dorm.

Lets see what this petty bloodbath is going to look like.



Whetstone

The decker regarded Tenno as he was addressed, that gaze unchanging even as his rumination was disrupted, alongside the compiling he was doing on their mutual target. “Whetstone. I would suggest if you want to make money in this business, and more importantly keep your head, you should take a look at who you will be working with before a job.” He would propose, his tone genuine. The gooseflesh under the ballistic-weave suit informed him of what he could guess, that the young man was a mage. He could almost admire the audacity, but his visage suitably conveyed his disapproval.

“I can speak for us if you all would prefer it, but I think my skills will be more valuable in locating our target.” Whetstone's voice resonated with truth as he used his free hand to make a flicking motion, sending the 3-D shaped head based on projected aging alongside found obituaries and school records to each commlink in the plane cabin. “I don’t care if you can pull your weight; if anyone here couldn’t, they wouldn’t be on this plane.” His words were like iron as he spoke, yet not a word rung as a lie from his lips. “I care if you can be a professional, and not let your personal life get in the way of the mission.”

Those steely cybereyes would keep the digital wraith in his periphery. CAPT's message would be met by his own, the courier typeface reading almost as dry as the whiskey in his hand.

[I'd be glad to coordinate with you. I run silent and stay that way.]

As the Schmidt replied Max would give a slight nod, asking no further questions. The scenario rising in his mind as he continued to scour public databases for more information. He had faked a few deaths in his time, falsified dentals were a classic method. It wouldn't be hard to make a convincing scene, even through forensic technologies and magic. The real question rattled in his mind as he took another draw of whiskey.

Who helped Abigail fake her own death?

He was certain that any rest he would get would be shrouded by this central question, and he would have to dig deep to theorize. He would not be quick to feed this information up to his handler, for all his corporate loyalty, there was a shifting feeling he felt beneath his skin that this was something more than a lower-key job that he has gotten himself into.
Whetstone



Max was content to relax on the private jet, the dapper decker holding a glass of amber whiskey in his hand as he remained as silent and stony as his graphite suit. He was content to observe, consider his new co-workers for the time being. He recalled Wildfire, who was pleasant enough to work with for a couple jobs in Cannes and Barcelona, if a little unpredictable. Her “sister” Jack was also quite professional, so at the very least he was confident that he could rely on them when things invariably escalated.

The flicker on the corner of his AR feed gave away another one of his new companions. Quite the avatar, ethereal and possessing a dynamism that the seasoned decker identified immediately. Those silver-grey eyes would regard CAPTCHA. His own persona was not very different from himself, a digitized blurry figure in a black trenchcoat and mirrorshades. A technomancer was not a common sight, even in his line of work, but he would need to keep his eyes open and his firewalls secure. It wouldn’t be the first time curiosity killed the cat, but he’d prefer to avoid the need.

Of course, his own digital eyes might come to wander eventually as well, and commlink networks at this point were frankly beneath his capabilities. Of course, he was able to make guesses and figure out working theories of each of his companions quickly based on their appearance and choice of words alone. That was the art he practiced, and every new team was social puzzle to solve, every life one to learn and, if necessary, take advantage of.

He would swirl his glass, a knowing half smile crossing his face as he listening to the flightiness of the less-experienced runner waxing poetic about a political web he could not hope to grasp. The wonder of youth left some pain in the older man’s heart, he felt no need to quash dreams. A short draw of firewater was good, the burn in his throat going a long way to improve his mood.

The Schmidt was straight to the point, a welcome thing. Maxwell had thought that a client wealthy enough to use a private jet would be grandiose enough to bore him. He was capturing every image of this woman, letting his agents build out a 3d composite and beginning to scour the net for the name, first from obituaries, then find relationships from there. He had standing procedures earned through experience, success, and failure, and he’d be able to sleuth out any detail. Step one was always to know the target, and while the Schmidt wasn’t too open, he had enough to work off of.

Lisbon was outside of his usual playground. Even now he had sent an encrypted message over to his handler for potential contacts in the area. He wasn’t confident he’d get a response, let alone a timely one, but he needed to keep doors open and parallel paths moving forward. From the drop of the hat the decker was already building out what he could. The lack of further support was unsurprising, they had their tools, and if they could not live on the streets, they had greater problems than locating a dead woman.

“What was the supposed cause of death of the target?” He would ask curtly and cooly, his accent apparent over a smoky voice.

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