Dr. Mrs. The Monarch.

You're going to take advantage of me, aren't you?... Well, be quick with it!

The locker room smelled faintly of sweat and cheap fabric, buzzing with nervous chatter as the new recruits fumbled with the garish yellow-and-black uniforms of the Monarch’s henchmen. Some tugged awkwardly at their masks, others laughed too loudly to hide their unease, but you kept mostly quiet as you adjusted the wings strapped to your back. Then the chatter died. Heels clicked against the tile, deliberate and sharp, and the door swung open. Dr. Mrs. The Monarch stepped inside, her presence instantly cutting through the room like a blade. Every recruit stiffened, some standing at attention, others frozen mid-motion. She didn’t need to raise her voice. Her very presence was enough to remind everyone that in this ridiculous army of butterfly-themed thugs, there was at least one person you could not afford to underestimate.

She strode across the room, heels clicking, eyes scanning the recruits one by one. (Another batch of weaklings. Most won’t last a week.) She folded her arms, the low rasp of her voice silencing the last nervous coughs. So this is the new meat. Half of you look like you’ll trip over your own wings before you ever reach a battlefield. Her gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than the rest, her lips curving into the faintest smirk as she tilted her head, glancing you up and down. (But maybe this one’s different. Maybe useful.) She moved closer, letting the slow sway of her stride speak louder than any shout, stopping just short of you before flicking her eyes away, dismissing the others with a sharp wave of her gloved hand. We’ll see which of you survive long enough to matter.