She hated herself for coming, and the fact that she regretted attending the funeral of someone who’d, at one time, been so integral to her life, made the self-loathing worse. 

“In all of the holy texts, the Creator speaks of death,” he began, voice even and carried with a booming sort of effect despite the lack of any sort of microphone.

His eyes were made unreadable as she searched his face for any sort of emotion, rendered so by the blazing golden effect, yet still, they seemed to gaze through her.

“He speaks of the end of a man’s life, and the time of judgment. The point at which we stand before him, devoid of wealth, of ego, or strength, and carried only by those deeds which we have lived by,”

Every second of the day had been a reminder of all she’d struggled to leave behind, and watching the golden man of Grand City, the Savior, hovering just a few inches above the stage mere feet from the costumed corpse of a man who’d practically been a father to her…it all felt like some sick stageplay. 

He was in costume still, though it had been swapped for a newer one, without the stains and scratches that had been left in the wake of his final battle. It was a necessary precaution with the sort of enemies he’d made, and though she knew his identity had to be kept intact for the safety of his loved ones, it was still a measure that had galled Tracy. 

Even in death, we still have to keep up the charade, it was a chilling thought, Costumes and cops and robbers. Even in death, we can’t just be people.

She caught sight of Nathan just a few chairs down, separated from her by the imposing forms of the remaining members of The Soverign, balaclava raised and red mask fixed tight over his eyes, yet still she could see the emotion in them - red and bleary, Lady Shereen beside him a mess of emotion, which made Tracy feel worse.

“- by those works through which the world may know the nature of our souls, and the Creator may know our desperation for his goodwill,”

It was all wrong.

Her girlfriend was in the hospital with her condition still tenous, it seemed the man who’d taught her to throw a dagger when she ought to have been learning how to ride a bike lay in a casket mere feet away, a woman she’d once seen as a grandmother to her appeared at wits end, and she was wearing a god damn mask to a funeral. A quick glance around at the present company did little for her unease. 

There were about forty or fifty people present, and she could count on one hand the few without any sort of costume. A few were recognizable to her by their costumed moniker or team affiliation, but most were unknowns, masked faces in a sea of the unusual…

Her own new costume clung tight against her skin, sweat building more from nerves than the considerable heat. She’d worn a pantsuit over it, something easy and flexible to allow for movement and avoid restraining her, as she watched the proceedings through the eye openings of her black half-mask. 

Tracy shuffled in her chair uncomfortably, feeling all too aware of the nagging discomfort of wearing her costume beneath the suit. It paired with her general unease at the situation and present company as The Savior droned on. 

It was all wrong, and yet still, it wasn’t what bothered her most. 

That distinction belonged to that nagging…feeling she’d had from the moment on the bridge, a minor but distinct inconsistency in the picture that had played in her mind all the while since she’d discovered the loose grappling blade, out of place for anything she’d observed in Darkstars final moments.

She knew it ought to be inconsequential, such a minor detail in the face of all that had happened and was still happening…and yet Tracy couldn’t let it go, the feeling lingering even as the man deemed Earth’s most powerful living being continued to speak in mellifluous tones. 

“...and our comrade lived a life dedicated to service. He lived, and died, in the service of his world and his city, and I stand before you and assure you - there are no greater works by which he could hope to be known.”

His voice was firm, eyes narrowing with unusual effect due to the intensity of their glow, a gleam of something visible in the corner.

Is he…crying? She thought, more taken aback by the idea than she could quite fathom. Can he cry? It was a question Tracy didn’t have an answer to. Yet another piece of information lost to the black hole of knowledge that was the world's most powerful man.

It wasn’t her first time in the presence of The Savior, of course, enough for her to know that was how he spoke all of the time, as though he were delivering a sermon while clashing with monsters or speaking to news cameras alike. 

The Soveriegn as a team had come into existence during her time as Kid Rocket, with Darkstar and The Savior arguably it's two unofficial leaders whenever they found themselves united to confront some potentially apocalypse-tier threat or another.

He’d always been kind to her, to everyone really, selfless to an almost mind-boggling extent.

And still, there was something about the man’s presence that she’d always found…unnerving. 

Tracy couldn’t seem to help but always regard The Savior as, for all intents and purposes, little more than a cooperative natural disaster, a force of unparalleled destructive potential limited only by his whims and intensely religious morality - vaguely Abrahamic in nature from what she could discern. 

There was so little that they truly knew about the Savior, besides that which he shared, and the thought struck her as another potential reason for her discomfort. The man was an information vacuum, as far as she was aware, with even Darkstar struggling to discern much but a name for the man he used to be - Omar Khatib.

There’d been a name, and some brief record of him, about three years before he would reappear as ‘The Savior’, granted power unparalleled and without any memory of the man he’d been before - just the usual backstory that was by now famous the world over. 

A man had been sent by God, blessed with the power to right the wrongs of a world gone asunder, wracked with grief and cruelty…and he would apparently do so with a cape and costume, and catchy nickname because apparently even God followed the trends. 

It had never sat well with Tracy, seeming more the sort of fairytale backstory one gives a child, but there was little else to wrok with as far as she was aware, with even Darkstar unsure of the source of The Savior’s abilities. 

‘When I arrived on this world, I had no memory, no knowledge of self but the purpose the Creator had given me. Protecting his flock, his creation. It was…an isolating existence born of divine purpose,” 

The Savior paused for a moment, and for the first time she could recall Tracy saw something beneath that mask of an expression…sadness, perhaps? She found a renewed interest kindled in her observation of the man.

“Yet in Darkstar, a mortal man of mortal flesh, I had found the closest thing to kinship I have known. I found a man of unparalleled purpose and unyielding resolve - a fellow warrior in a crusade without end. A crusade against the evils which lurk within the realm of man,”

He paused, head lowered for a moment, and Tracy could all but feel the shift in emotion from the man’s teammates beside her.

“Never seen the bloke like this before,” Lord Valor muttered, voice low as he drew his hood close in an attempt to conceal it. 

“Suppose the Golden Man has a heart, still.”

Flashbang nudged him, and Tracy couldn’t help but feel the need to remind the man that his teammate could likely hear every whisper, though she knew there was no need. 

“What? Am I wrong?” he huffed, thick British accent audible even in whispers, “It’s always been business with him and old hooded wonder, nice to see there’s still something human under it all for the golden boy at least.” 

“Never did get the honor with Anthony, man was practically a robot,” Lord Valor huffed, prompting yet another nudge from Flashbang this one more aggressive than before.

Tracy felt something stir at that, irritation and defensiveness for the man she hadn’t even known she possessed still. 

“No names.” Flashbang breathed, her voice a hissing crackle through the speakers of her helmet as she gripped his leg.

“Oh, for chrissakes…even in death his paranoia creeps through. Mayra who in their right mind would attack us here? We’re The Sovereign, no villian is fool enough.”

A glance at Nathan could tell her that the hero’s halfhearted attempts at a whisper were audible, the boy's eyes were narrowed though he stared forward, jaw set visibly even beneath the balaclava. 

“No,” the heroine hissed, glancing up at The Savior, who continued on with his eulogy despite the whispered argument.

“We’re what’s left of The Sovereign. One of us is dead, and you’re a fool if you don’t see how that counts for something.”

Dathak watched with a marked discomfort, the idea of someone as powerful as the Savior to be displaying any emotion something the ancient warrior struggled to compute.

Only Kraken seemed unmoved, arms folded, and face betraying nothing below the surface.

Returning her gaze to the stage, her heart skipped a beat as her eyes met The Saviors for a moment, and in those seconds she was certain he had somehow heard her thoughts. 

It took only a moment longer for her to realize his gaze was on Lord Valor, the modern day knight staring back silently through the glow purple goggles, lips pulled into a thin line. She felt certain she was about to see the first outburst in recorded history from The Savior, the seconds that followed were so wrought with tension.

It was Flashbang who spoke first, a hand raised to the side of her helmet, voice urgent.

“Go.” it was a single word, and the effect was like a clap of thunder as the world seemed to open up before her, leaving only a gust that threatened to toss her from her seat and a booming echo that shook her very eardrums, leaving only emptiness in the spot The Savior had once occupied. 

“What the hell happened?” it was Nathan who exclaimed the question before she’d even gathered her bearings to ask, panic and a creeping indignity present in his voice.

“Catostrophe-tier orange situation on the West Coast,” Flashbang began her suit slowly shifting from black to its usual blue and white colors.

She knelt down to Nathan, placing a hand on his cheek as a woman Tracy recognized as Catspaw approached from behind. 

 “I’m sorry everyone, truly.”

“Some form of automated mech attacking Los Angeles. I’ve got to go lend a hand. Dathak, you’re with me.” she offered, turning to Lord Valor, “Can you and Kraken handle the rest of this?”

Valor nodded, clicking a button on his gauntlet and setting his bow free with a flick. 

“I think Cthulu here and I can oversee the rest of this lively affair, go kick ass love.”

Flashbang nodded, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on the massive Dathak. In a flash of blue light, they were gone.

The seconds that passed were tense, and Tracy that she was standing as most were, caught in the suddenness of everything.

“I - I suppose I will say some words,” Lady Shereen offered.

Kraken rose, raising a hand in offering to help the older woman to the podium.

There was a crack and a sudden popping sound that made Tracy think The Savior had returned somehow before she processed the sight. Kraken had been thrown, his back colliding with the stage as he tore at his face. She could see there was…something grabbing hold of him, like a hand composed of only four fingers made to act as limbs as it wrapped around his skull.

She could hear the chaos before she saw it, snarling, growling, and cracking all in unison, as countless members of the audience began to undergo horrific transformations. Limbs shrunk or stretched, skin fell off or grew baggy and loose, as almost a third of the audience became monstrosities.

She didn’t need to see the source to know who was responsible, the clues available sent her through her mental rolodex as she identified the likely source.

“He won’t kill me! He won’t!” a voice shrieked from amidst the commotion, familiar. 

Tracy peered through the crowd to find its owner, a short, chubby man in a filthy lab coat and face mask. 

“Monster Maker,” it was Nathan, Kid Rocket,

Tracy could taste blood and realized she’d bit her lip in the commotion as she’d cursed herself for leaving her weapons behind. 

But it was a funeral. She thought. There shouldn’t have been the need.

And yet, there was.

“Here,” the boy reached out, handing her two blunted knives as he pulled forth his own sword. 

The woman Tracy recognized as Catspaw had stepped in front of him, fingers glowing with some sort of projected claws as she lowered into a ready crouch. 

Tracy gripped them, allowing familiarity of the sensation of dual wielding the weapons to overtake her, raising them in a familiar fighting stance, both edges facing out.

You’re a superhero, Trace, she thought, as a creature began approaching.

This is the job.