The SUV merged onto the 405 with the kind of smooth acceleration that suggested the driver had opinions about lane discipline and intended to enforce them.
Caden had already connected his phone to the Bluetooth and filled the cabin with something between lo-fi and trap that nobody had asked for and nobody complained about, the universal soundtrack of six guys in a car who had collectively decided that silence would be worse.
"Okay." Caden twisted around in the passenger seat again, seat belt carving a diagonal across his white t-shirt. "FMK. Pro Heroes edition. Round one."
Marco held up both hands, one still clutching the chip bag. "Finally. Finally someone asks the real questions. The questions that matter. The questions the entrance exam should have included."
"It would have been my best score," Eden said from the back, lighter clicking. "Rock on."
Finn’s eyes stayed closed against the window. "I’ll participate under protest."
"Protest noted and ignored." Caden turned to face the full car. "First trio. And I went with the classics because you gotta establish the baseline before you get weird with it. Ready?"
He paused for dramatic effect that nobody requested.
"Apis. Tempest. Grande Dame."
The car went loud immediately.
"Oh FUCK," Marco said through a mouthful of barbecue chips, spraying crumbs across the center console in a pattern Percy would probably photograph later. "You opened with that? You opened with the Holy Trinity of Arguments?"
"Starting hot. It’s the Boyz Day way."
"There is no established Boyz Day way because this is the first one," Percy observed, though his pen had stopped moving, which meant the question had actually penetrated whatever analytical fortress his brain maintained against casual entertainment. "However, I’ll note that all three subjects are publicly documented figures whose physical characteristics have been rated by independent media outlets. The data exists. I’m simply acknowledging data."
"Percy just said he’s looked at hot Hero rankings." Eden sounded reverent. "So manly."
I settled deeper into my seat and let the debate wash over me. The California sun cut sideways through the windows and warmed the left side of my face while the air conditioning battled against it on the right. For the first time in seventy-two hours my brain was not running projections about federal verification requests or conference room incidents that would follow me through graduation.
"I’ll go first," Marco announced.
Of course he would. Marco always went first when the topic involved women and the venue involved an audience.
"Kill Grande Dame."
The car erupted.
"WHAT." Eden lurched forward against his seat belt hard enough that the mechanism locked. The restraint caught him mid-motion and held him in place like someone had grabbed his collar. "You’re killing Grande Dame? Bro, she’s literally sixty-seven feet tall."
"Yeah, and sixty-seven feet of what, exactly?" Marco twisted in his seat to face the back row directly. The chip bag abandoned on his lap spilled a few stray pieces onto the console. "I’ve studied Grande Dame’s case record. Extensively. For research purposes."
"Research purposes," Finn repeated without opening his eyes. His tone suggested he had heard this justification before and remained unconvinced.
"Yes. Research purposes." Marco’s expression was the picture of academic integrity. "And my research has led me to a conclusion supported by extensive documentation."
"Her property damage index is the highest in the state. Higher than Prominence’s. Higher than anyone in the top twenty except this one dude in Texas who fights with actual tornadoes." Marco ticked points off on his fingers. "She destroyed a food court. A whole food court. The Malibu Incident in 2021 put three city blocks under structural review. Her Villain Insurance premiums are so expensive that her agency accountant reportedly cries during quarterly reviews."
"None of those facts are relevant to the game," Caden said with the patience of a man guiding children toward enlightenment. "This is about personal preference, Marco. Not actuarial science."
"Personal preference IS actuarial science when the woman can grow to sixty-seven feet and step on your car." Marco crossed his arms with the conviction of someone who had done the math and found the numbers personally offensive. "Also her Mite Form is eighteen inches. Eighteen inches. That’s smaller than my sister’s dog. The size range is insane. The logistics alone would—"
"We don’t need the logistics."
"You absolutely need the logistics. Someone has to think about the logistics."
I let Marco’s rant about Grande Dame’s insurance premiums continue for another thirty seconds before the car’s collective attention swung toward me with the gravitational certainty of people who had learned that my opinion tended to generate the most violent reactions.
"Belmont." Caden pointed at me with the authority of a game show host. "Your answers. Go."
I ran the options through my hundred-Intelligence brain at approximately sixty percent above peak human processing speed, which meant I had the answer before Caden finished the word "go" and spent the remaining seconds deciding how honest to be about it.
Apis, Tempest, Grande Dame.
Three women whose physical characteristics, combat capabilities, and public personas I had studied with varying degrees of professional and personal interest during my research phase at the Fitzgerald estate. I remembered the video of Grande Dame growing to full Titan Form and crushing a concrete-manipulating villain with a single devastating stomp, her violet eyes gleaming with theatrical confidence while the camera angle emphasized every curve of her two-toned purple bodysuit.
I remembered Tempest’s interview on Point of Impact, the compact blonde with the permanent scowl who told two of the most influential voices in Hero media that their questions bored her while wearing cargo pants to national television.
And Apis, the bee-themed Hero from Verano whose fighting style was described as "dancing like a bee to sting like a bee" and whose crimson stinger projectiles could puncture reinforced concrete while she spun through capoeira kicks in thigh-high white boots with a plush faux-fur collar framing her bare shoulders and those large, compound green eyes tracking everything in her field of vision.
"Kill Tempest," I said.