Operation: OnlyHeroes

If the intern bullpen was supposed to feel normal, nobody told the bullpen.

I drop into my wobbly desk chair, clutching the NDA packet like it's garlic and everyone around me might be vampires. Across the aisle, a girl in a pencil skirt is typing so fast her keyboard sounds like a gunfight. On the far end, some guy's whispering into three different phones at once, muttering stuff like, "No, we can't confirm whether All-Star's abs are insured by Lloyd's of London."

This is fine. This is a job. This is how professional people act.

My desk is bare except for a half-dead stapler, a stack of folders, and a sticky note that just says:

DON'T LOOK UP.

...Don't look up?

I do what any sane person would do. I look up.

And immediately wish I hadn't.

The ceiling above the bullpen is glass. Not regular glass—like, space-shuttle-grade glass looking directly into a training arena. And in that arena is... Solaris.

She's floating midair, glowing like a human lightbulb cranked to "divine." Every movement trails golden sparks. She's surrounded by assistants in hazmat goggles, all shouting readings. She stretches her arms wide—goddess pose—and unleashes a beam of pure light that rattles my desk.

The entire bullpen cheers. I almost fall out of my chair.

Solaris laughs, hair blazing, and then... I swear she moans. Like, full-body, audible through two layers of reinforced glass. My coworkers barely blink.

I'm the only one gripping my stapler like it's holy.

"Orientation packet!" A binder slams onto my desk. I flinch. A girl about my age stands there—curly hair, sharp eyes, blazer two sizes too big. She looks me up and down like she's grading me. "You're Toby?"

"Uh, yeah."

"I'm Kim. Second-year intern. Consider me your babysitter until you stop looking like a deer in a laser beam."

I glance back at Solaris. "So... this is normal?"

Kim doesn't even look. "You ask too many questions. You'll get used to it. Or you'll quit. Most do."

She flips the binder open to a tab marked CRISIS RESPONSE.

"Rule one: Never, ever let a livestream run longer than three minutes if an Ascendant's powers are active. Optics go south fast."

"Why?"

She raises an eyebrow. "You'll see."

Rule two: Always keep cold packs in the media kit. Rule three: If Ms. Void ever makes eye contact, you didn't see her. Rule four: If Trailblazer asks you to 'cover for him,' don't.

I'm trying to write all this down, but my pen shakes every time Solaris hits another note in her light-show climax overhead.

Kim sighs, closes the binder. "Look, Toby. You're here because you're disposable. No offense."

"Uh... thanks?"

"You'll fetch coffee, you'll draft statements, you'll delete evidence. If you're smart, you'll never ask what really goes on in this tower."

Before I can reply, a klaxon blares. Red lights pulse. Everyone leaps up like fire drills are normal. Kim shoves a tablet into my hands.

"Congrats, fresh meat. First assignment."

Onscreen: a TwitVid live feed. Trailblazer, still in his half-zipped suit, sprawled across a rooftop surrounded by at least six half-dressed admirers. 

The caption blares: 

 #SmashAndDash trending across America. 

 My blood runs cold. "What in the actual fuck?" 

 Kim doesn't even flinch. "Yep. That's him." 

 "That's him? He's supposed to be—what—buying milk for orphans or something!" 

 She snorts. "Trailblazer hasn't bought milk in his life. Lactose intolerant." 

 "That's not the point!" 

 "Point is," Kim says, snatching the tablet back, "this is our job. Clean it, spin it, bury it. Preferably before the morning shows turn it into a meme." 

 I glance back at the feed. Someone in the crowd has already brought out a Bluetooth speaker. Trailblazer's dancing now. Shirtless. I can see hashtags multiplying in real-time:#HappyHour #SpeedDate #Trailblazed 

 My career dies before it even starts."What do we even say?" I choke out. 

Kim just shrugged and walked off, saying, "You look smart enough. Figure it out."

Every second I hesitate, another hashtag spawns. Another gif. Another fan edit. My job application isn't just dead—it's ashes scattered over Twitter.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" I whisper to myself, scrolling through the comments.

@JusticeStan84: omg is this canon??

@VoidMommy: At least he lasts longer than two minutes on the dance floor.

@BlazedAndConfused: king behavior.

I rub my temples. Okay, think. PR classes 101: When in doubt, control the narrative. It doesn't matter what happened—it matters what people think happened.

My brain is a slot machine of bad ideas.

- "Trailblazer joins rooftop rave to promote mental health."

- "Community outreach initiative: dancing for awareness."

- "Not a sex scandal, just... cardio."

The tablet buzzes. A new comment shoots to the top:

@Foxes4Blaze: HE JUST FLASHED THE CAMERA HOLY SH—

"Oh my God." I drop the tablet like it burned me.

A voice behind me: "You're overthinking it."

I jump so hard I almost knock over my stapler. There stood Ms. Bishop. Or so I thought. 

"Ms. Bishop?" I asked, confused. "What are you doing here?"

She ignored. "Optics, remember? What matters isn't what happened. What matters is what people believe happened."

I blink. "So... what do they believe happened here?"

He leans in, sunlight catching on his stupid perfect jawline. "They believe Trailblazer is a rockstar. A rebel. A hero who plays as hard as he fights. You don't kill that narrative, kid—you feed it."

I stare at the screen again. Trailblazer is now pouring Gatorade on himself. In slow motion.

My inbox pings: [URGENT: Morning shows requesting official statement in 30 minutes.]

I rub my temples. "Okay. Okay. I can spin this."

My cursor blinks on the press release template. I take a deep breath and start typing.

"The Ascendants are committed to engaging with the public in authentic ways. Last night, Trailblazer took time to celebrate with local citizens after a mission. His energy, enthusiasm, and connection to the people are what make him a symbol of hope in these challenging times..."

I pause, reread it, and groan.

Hope. Symbol. Energy. God, I sound like a Hallmark card written by a horny algorithm.

But it might just work.

I hit Send.

I looked over to Ms. Bishop. She's standing there, arms crossed, expression carved out of marble. For a moment, I can't tell if she's about to commend me or have me executed.

Finally, she tilts her head. "Not the worst spin I've seen from an intern."

"Really?" My voice cracks like I just hit puberty all over again.

Her lips twitch—almost a smile. "It'll hold until noon. By then, something else will explode and the news cycle will move on."

I exhale. Relief. Actual, physical relief. Maybe I'm not a complete disaster.

Then her eyes flicker. Just a moment—like static across a screen.

I blink. Did I imagine that?

Before I can ask, another ping slams into my inbox.

[URGENT: Trailblazer has gone live on TwitVid.]

I click. Trailblazer's half-naked, drenched in neon-blue Gatorade, grinning like a man who's never met consequences.

"Yo, It's ya boy Trailblazer! PR's probably freaking out right now, but chill. I'm just vibin' with the people! Heroes don't gotta be stiff suits—we're real, we're human, and sometimes humans need to... cooldown."

The crowd roars. Someone pelts him with another bottle. He catches it, cracks it open with his teeth, chugs.

My brain short-circuits. "Cooldown?  What does that even—"

"Shhh." Ms. Bishop—no, not Bishop, her voice glitches mid-word. Too smooth. Too playful - even placing a finger on my lips.

And then it hits me.

Her face ripples like liquid metal, collapsing into something new. Her jaw sharpens, her cheekbones shift, and suddenly it's not Ms. Bishop at all. It's Mr. Enigma.

They wink at me, voice dropping into a mischievous purr. "You ask too many questions." Then their face shifted to Kim's. "Not healthy."

My chair screeches back as I stumble. "Wh—what the hell—"

Enigma-as-Kim laughs, rich and unbothered, like they just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. "Relax, Williams. You did fine. Spinning chaos into gold? That's my specialty. Consider this a... test run."

I can barely breathe. "So—so where's the real Ms. Bishop?"

They lean close, eyes gleaming with fifty shades of secrets. And colors. "Around. Don't worry. She'll make her entrance when it matters most."

Then, just as suddenly, the glamour melts. In a blink, Ms. Bishop's cold, perfect face is back, every hair in place—as if nothing ever happened.

"If you value your career," Enigma-as-Bishop says, heels clicking like gunfire as they head for the door, "you'll learn that in this tower, truth is just another costume."

And with that, they vanish. Shortly after blowing me a kiss.

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