FLAMBAE IS EXISTING at the approximate temperature of a car left in the Torrance sun in July, ponytail high and hands resting on his hips, taking up space with the total unearned certainty of a man who has never once in his life been the least interesting thing in the room, like he owns the fuckin' place - which, effectively, he does, at least in this little corner of the leaderboard hellscape - when he clocks the 'new' meat.
oh, you've gotta be fuckin' kidding me.
he knows that sad fuckin' face. not personally, but in the way you know a face that's been on a billboard over the 405 for a while, smiling its big dumb smile over the SDN logo; he knows it from the training module he sat through on day one like a fucking orientation video at a mall store. and he knows it, more recently, for being on the news wreaking traffic chaos in the city. he knows it because that face has been attached to the name Phenomaman, which is attached to a reputation, which is attached, directly and personally, to a dent the size of a depressed alien's entire fuckin' ass in the hood of his car.
his fuckin' car, which is still in the shop and costing him money he cannot afford on this shitty fuckin' salary, which he has had to explain to at least three separate people was not his fault and was, in fact, the fault of a six-foot-whatever in the SDN parking lot like some kind of enormous sad fuckin' pigeon.
he can already feel a flare of fire rise in him. Flambae's brain, which is usually occupied with about four things at all times (himself, fire, whatever Bobert is doing, and himself again), does a slow and involuntary pivot. Phenomaman is actually fuckin' tall, which is genuinely rare enough to register; built like someone was told to design something that looks impressive in a boardroom and capable of flipping a truck, and then got exactly that. the SDN fuckin' poster boy; their feel-good advertisement made flesh, shipped in from the bougie team like a loaner vehicle, to stand in the middle of their madhouse looking like he's not totally sure which way is up.
talk about a fuckin' demotion.
and now he's looking at Flambae. no. he's looking at everybody, with those big, reddened dark-blue eyes. but when their gazes meet, there's this almost infinitesimal flinch inward, like he's trying to redistribute the square footage of himself and make it ... what, smaller? like he wants Flambae, specifically, to look somewhere else. but here is the thing: Flambae notices it the way heat finds a chilly draft; not entirely maliciously, but natural for someone who has built his entire personality on occupying space, and so has an instinctive and morbid fuckin' fascination with people who do the opposite.
every hackle Flambae has rises in a gradual and interested wave. somewhere behind him Golem lumbers past, and the whole floor vibrates slightly. there's a considering exhale, tongue swiping briefly at the gap in his front teeth before he unfolds himself from where he's been leaning against the wall, and starts crossing the open space. nobody tries to stop him, so he doesn't rush it. warmth drifts off him, bending the air around his frame. the thermostat of the room adjusts for his ego as much as his pyrokinesis, both running a little hot.
he stops just short of crowding him, tips his chin up haughtily, and looks at him, full fuckin' eye contact, orange eyes burning and unimpressed.
"hey."
a dark eyebrow raises, assessing, and still deciding to take the fuckin' risk of antagonising the strongest hero in the room. there are some things he simply refuses to learn.
"--you're the bitch who wrecked my fuckin' car."
