The First Official Mission
The alert blared: "CIVIL DISTURBANCE: CODE AMBER. FINANCIAL DISTRICT."
They arrived to a scene of surreal chaos. The streets were a maze of glowing, sentient traffic cones, herding cars into infuriating dead-ends. On a fountain, a man in a neon-orange suit—The Cone-mancer—cackled as he conducted the gridlock.
"Pathetic," Holt muttered, his fingers flying across his jetpack's interface. "A simple resonant frequency will revert them to inert plastic."
Orion strode into the plaza, hand on his prop katana, his "Cataclysm Blade" aura of panic making the air waver.
"You! Witness true order!" the Cone-mancer yelled. A phalanx of glowing cones shot toward Orion. He froze. One cone bonked him squarely on the forehead with a hollow thwump. His eyes rolled back and he crumpled.
At that exact moment, Holt activated his "Cone-of-Influence Negator." A silent pulse washed over the district. Every glowing cone flickered and died, becoming just plastic.
Quinn, hiding behind a bus, saw the unconscious Orion and the trapped citizens. She clasped her hands. "I just wish everyone could get where they're going," she whispered.
Across the city, drivers were struck with sudden, perfect clarity. The gridlock evaporated in a spontaneous ballet of perfect U-turns.
The media swarm arrived, finding the perfect shot: Orion stirring groggily, the red mark on his forehead.
"INCREDIBLE!" a reporter screamed. "ORION USED HIS OWN BODY AS A SACRIFICIAL PYLON TO BREAK THE SPELL!"
The HRA Merit Point update pinged that evening.
Orion: +200 Points. "Valiant Sacrifice."
Holt: -10 Points. "Unapproved Field Tech."
Quinn: +1 Point. "Punctual Arrival."
Holt stared at the screen. "A sacrificial pylon," he repeated, his voice dangerously calm.