March 1st, 2047 — 10 months before.

"Is it that strange I want to have sex to Gotye's State of the Art?" Léon asked in a whisper.

Satina Hamman scoffed and whispered back, "Do we really need to discuss this now? We're kind in the middle of something, cousin." She glanced at the golden plaque nailed on the double doors before them, then looked at Léon again.

He twiddled with his fingers and looked around the somber corridor. The yellowish lights pouring around the expensive greek busts and old paintings were the only thing between them and total darkness. "Can we? I'm nervous as hell, trying not to think about being dismembered... or fired. Or both."

Satina rolled her eyes. "All right. Make your case about those old-as-hell songs you like."

Léon breathed out a thankful smile. "Being old is what makes them unique. I mean, there's nothing like it anymore."

Satina snickered, staring at his good eye. "We have better music. Like Mercurial Unicorn. Have you heard their latest single? It's the pinnacle of new-meaty-synth!"

"Let's be real, Tiny. It's the remix of a cat sneezing." Satina furrowed her brow and shushed, but he continued. "You have to hear Beyoncé, EXO, Mc Tha, and mainly The Darkness. That's real music!"

"And BTS?"

"And BTS."

Satina was smaller than Léon, but she scoffed and looked down at him as if she was one meter taller. "Right. No one cares about that, Leo. I mean, I love you, but you're obsessed. Be a neo-hipster if you want; just don't grate my nerves." She crossed her arms, her shocking-blue uniform contrasting with the strong sienna in her pouty lips. "We're three years away from the half of the century. Be a part of it."

A second woman cleared her throat.

"Sorry," Léon and Satina said in unison.

And yes, chatting about music should be enough to calm him, but being called to the main office was never a good sign—and it was even worse for the two villains with the worse personal rankings in the entire company.

Wringing the plastipaper folder in his hands, Léon Dickens stared at the closed wooden doors. Goosebumps formed on his arms. "Say something," he whispered to Satina.

At his side, Satina took in a deep breath and turned to the woman beside them. "Are you sure this is necessary, Nica? We were about to leave for a mission—a three-point-nine mission. We received word of a hijack in the freelancers' neighborhood. Silver Coldheart is trying to steal something from one of The Mayor's facilities, and we want to intercept the cargo before the League can have it."

Anachronica stared at them. She was a tall woman with a thick Old Continentian accent who always wore red pantsuits and white wingtips that clicked on the marble floors like tap-dance shoes. As second in command, she answered only to Iara Iamí-Xarãma, her wife and CEO of Invidia Company; different from Iara, Anachronica was severe and direct—and filled with a warm strength that inspired trust.

Today, though, she seemed exhausted.

"Since our mission rankings go as far as fifteen," Anachronica said, "I'm sure you understand your boss' direct order is much more important than your mission, no?"

Satina grimaced while Léon placed his trembly fingers on his forehead. That was it: they were screwed. Few things were more important in Invidia than getting missions done, so to ignore one like that... Iara's reason must be something else, Léon thought.

Anachronica checked her wristwatch. "It's time. Wait here." She crossed the double doors and closed them.

"It's okay, cousin," Satina said, squaring her shoulders. "Whatever happens, we're in this together." She took in a trembly breath and raised her chin.

Satina had always been like this. Since the first time they had worked together, in that small office in Old Continent, as much as she complained about his loose clothes, perfume, and the pomade he used, she always stood by his side. He remembered little of his time in Old Continent, of course, but since then, he drank from Satina's knowledge and friendship as if drinking cheap vodka: it seemed like a good idea at first until the headache started.

And it was a huge headache when she appeared at his doorstep all those years ago, asking for help. She was still dressed in jailbird-orange, with wide eyes and a blood-stained uniform from the St. Lucretia Reformatory School. Satina was only twelve that day; he was fifteen—or so she told him. Eight years later, he was still paying the price for helping her. But he'd be lying if he said he regretted that. The only thing he regretted was not helping her before she went to jail in the first place.

"Where's Mary?" Léon asked.

"Taking photos and autographing shit for the launch of her new line of toys. It brings a lot of money to Invidia, so I doubt she'll be here. Besides, Mary's personal ranking is ten times better than ours."

Léon sighed and bobbed his head. This was bad. This was really bad.

The double doors opened again, and Anachronica motioned for them to follow.

The main office stood at the very bottom of the 47-floor building, surrounded by a subterranean layer of rock and dirt. It was a spacious room dimly lit by bluish lights, with a large swimming pool in the center of an elevated platform. The water spat ethereal-blue reflections on the walls that danced to the humming silence of high-tech air ventilators. Around them, clipping the rock-textured concrete, were two-story-tall glass windows half-covered by massive bushes, flowers, and fruit trees. It looked like the type of cave Jules Verne would've imagined, deep within the earth.

Anachronica stopped a few steps from the staircase leading to the pool.

Léon and Satina stopped, and the tips of sharp dorsal spines cut the water surface.

Iara Iamí-Xarãma emerged. Iara was, like the rumors said, unique. Her hair had no specific color; hers was a shade of black onyx and gold, of summer love and sunsets on the beach. Wet, it changed as she moved, glistening pink or red or green over the dense silky black. Her face, her lips, her body; she was all seduction and soulless black eyes.

Iara ran a hand across her face to remove the excess of water. She swam towards them and rested her elbows on the edge of the pool. Under the water, where her legs should be, there was a blue tail distorted by ripples. She propped her chin on her palm and smiled; the fins on her back and arms retracted.

"Welcome." She narrowed her eyes and whispered, "You're different in person." Iara pointed to a silk robe and sat on the pool's edge with her naked back to her employees. As she got up, the blue scales on her thighs faded to match her smooth mocha skin. "How long have you two been with us?" Iara asked with a gentle voice. Her feet left wet steps on the hardwood floor.

Satina took a step forward. "Four years, Lady Iamí."

"Four years." Iara put on her robe. "And for four years, you both had stellar results in your missions."

She was being ironic. Right?

"Well. In some of them," Iara added.

"We always do our best, Lady Iamí," Satina said. Satina Hamman, the woman who promised never to kiss anyone's ass ever again... and there she was, doing just that. "We're glad you gave us this opportunity. We appreciate it."

Anachronica gestured forward, guiding the two villains around the swimming pool and towards a darker area, hidden by a curtain of beads and pearls. A bluish-green divan waited; in front of it, a round table and four chairs. Two of them were already occupied.

Iara pointed at the bar. "Grab something to drink, then join us. There's something I need to ask you."

The woman sashayed through the curtain and onto the divan while Satina and Léon walked in the opposite direction.

"I'm not liking this one bit," Léon whispered. "There's something wrong here."

Satina munched on her silence and nodded. She fished a bottle of whiskey and poured a double. "She's the boss." She raised her glass. "You gotta comply."

Léon gnawed at his lower lip. He thought about going for orange juice, but maybe he'd need something stronger this time.

Maybe he was going to be fired. That wouldn't be a surprise, but he still had a family to support. His mother had just started medical college, which meant her nurse's paycheck would have a bleeding cut. She and his little brother needed his money to complete their monthly almost-nothing. Besides, he had just bought a new gaming rig and a uniform. Shit, he was paying it in installments... that month would be the third out of thirty-six!

"C'mon, Leo." Satina tugged at his jacket, and they followed inside the curtains.

Could he make a mortgage payment? Not that the shithole he lived in was worth anything, but maybe it was enough to pay for the boots in his outfit. Or one of them...

Anachronica stood, hands clasped at her back. Sitting on the divan, Iara gestured towards the chairs.

Sat on one of them was Mary, the third part of their trio. On the other, a strange figure had a jute bag covering his head. The bulky man was tied to the chair with nothing but a thin rope, even though his muscles made it clear he could easily break them.

That was strange.

"Hey, Mary," Léon greeted, quirking an eyebrow.

He wanted to ask about her launch party, but—considering her shiny gold jumpsuit, her high heels, and the amount of makeup and glitter she was using—Léon had the impression she was dragged away from it way before it ended.

"Oh, hello! How are you, Leo, Tiny?" Mary smiled, waving a hand filled with golden rings and bracelets. It was always difficult to read past her always-cheerful demeanor.

Let's use our monikers today," Anachronica said.

Iara gave them a lopsided smile. "You three are so sweet. It'd be a shame if you were to lie to me. I'd have to skin those pretty faces of yours." Her gentle tone and the way she curled her lips made Léon wonder if she was serious.

Considering Satina's terrified expression, she was.

"When I offered you a job," Iara continued, "when I accepted you into my family, I asked you a question." She stopped and leaned in. "I asked you if you knew anyone related to The Heroic League. You said you didn't."

"And we don't, Lady Iamí." Satina glanced at Léon in a silent request for help.

"We're from Old Continent, and we only managed a spot in New Continent four years ago," Léon said. "It's not even possible that—"

Iara silenced him with a gesture. Anachronica took a step towards the mysterious figure in the room and pulled the stained jute sack, revealing the prisoner's face.

"Do you know him?" Iara asked.

Léon raised an eyebrow, a deadpan stare studying the ugly mass of beaten, wet flesh. Blood dripped from his wounds, and one of his eyes was closed, covered by a dark, swollen eyelid.

"Maybe. I mean, how can one recognize anything in there?" Léon asked.

The tied man chuckled, then winced in pain.

"Never saw it before in my life," Satina answered.

"Really?" Iara asked. She raised her hand, palm up, and Anachronica gave her a baton. Iara got up. "That's funny because..." She walked to the man and poked his chest. "He asked for you, specifically," she said, glaring at Léon. Her lips twitched. "Léon Dickens, Reality Warp, and his team. That's exactly how he said it."

Léon frowned. No one but his Mom—plus a few other villains—knew his secret identity.

"You can surely imagine my surprise when this man waltzed into our secret base and into my office," Iara said, putting a lot of weight on those two words, "and asked me to see my three favorite protegees, can't you?"

Favorite? Léon didn't like where this conversation was going. A cold shiver ran down his spine, telling him to keep his mouth shut.

Satina blinked several times and took a swig of her whiskey for each one of them. "And... what does the Heroic League have to do with this half-dead dipshit here?" She pointed to the man tied up.

Iara suppressed a laugh. "Right. Let's see if you can recognize him." Her thumb slid over a dark screen on the baton; it hissed and crackled with electricity. Without mercy or a second thought, she thrust the rod against the prisoner's nape, making him growl, then shout a gargled, strange sound as a current of high voltage ran through his body.

Mary shut her eyes; Satina's moved aside.

Léon, though, couldn't look away. His chest tightened, and his vision blurred as dark smoke left the man's fried skin. As much as his heart stung, something tugged at his thoughts. The tribal tattoos on the man's arms glowed in an intense green.

"What about now? Do you recognize him?" Iara insisted. For the first time, her voice trembled as if she was trying hard to contain it. The man's tattoos shone brighter and brighter, to the point green enveloped the room completely, leaving no other color around them.

The baton flicked, buzzed, and crackled until the energy stopped. Panting, Iara threw it aside on top of a small pile of similar rods. Fried out, every one of them.

"I-I," Léon said, eyes widened. "He's fucking Grizzly Bear. The Superhero!"