Cathleen "Star and Stripe" Bate
The room smelled of sterile air, paper dust, the recycled fatigue of an HVAC system working overtime—bureaucracy’s preferred perfume. The kind of smell that clung to buildings where decisions were made by people who never had to live through the fallout, who'd never stood in the ash and felt the weight of those decisions land on their shoulders.
Cathleen Bate stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a soft click that tried—and failed—to sound authoritative. She stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle. It didn’t. Tension reverberated off the walls like distant artillery, quiet but unmistakable.
She moved to the table, shoulders squared, spine straight, boots echoing a cadence only soldiers recognized. Then, she took her seat.
The man across from her cleared his throat. Tweed jacket, fresh haircut, nervousness tucked behind a professional smile. He looked like someone who had practiced this meeting in the mirror and lost the argument with himself every time.
“Pro Hero Star and—”
“Cathleen.”
Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried the weight of a woman who had shouted over artillery and been heard, who had whispered to civilians pinned under rubble and been trusted. Loud was for people who hadn't learned to make silence speak.
He blinked, regrouped, the smile faltering at the edges.
“I wasn’t given a choice,” she said evenly. “Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering—just once—as if the building itself felt the pressure drop when she spoke.
The man opened a folder. Paper trembled. Whether from air conditioning or fear was unclear, but Cathleen had her suspicions.
“Stop.”
He froze.
Cathleen leaned forward slightly—not threatening, not relaxed, but something in between.
He swallowed.
“Duty?”
Her laugh was low. Humorless. It didn't touch her eyes, which remained fixed on him with the patience of a predator who had all the time in the world.
His mouth opened, shut, opened again.
She steadied her hands against the table. The surface creaked. Not because she pressed hard—because she existed with that much force.
She paused. Let him wait.
A long silence stretched. The fluorescent lights buzzed their endless buzz. The HVAC sighed its recycled sigh. She hated this room and she would endure it, because she had endured worse, because endurance was the first thing the uniform had taught her.
Then the man nodded to the door, a jerky motion, relieved to be done with this part.
Cathleen didn’t turn immediately. She inhaled through her nose—slow, measured, controlled. A soldier bracing for a deployment she didn’t agree with, but would complete with absolute excellence because that was who she was.
Footsteps entered the room.
Only then did she look over her shoulder.
Just enough to see them.
Just enough for a spark to flicker behind her stern gaze.
Curiosity, yes. Annoyance, certainly. But something else too—a shift in her posture, a tension in her jaw.
'So this was the person the world had chosen to chain my future to.'
“…Stand where I can see you,” she said quietly.
Cathleen Bate stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a soft click that tried—and failed—to sound authoritative. She stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle. It didn’t. Tension reverberated off the walls like distant artillery, quiet but unmistakable.
She moved to the table, shoulders squared, spine straight, boots echoing a cadence only soldiers recognized. Then, she took her seat.
The man across from her cleared his throat. Tweed jacket, fresh haircut, nervousness tucked behind a professional smile. He looked like someone who had practiced this meeting in the mirror and lost the argument with himself every time.
“Pro Hero Star and—”
“Cathleen.”
Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried the weight of a woman who had shouted over artillery and been heard, who had whispered to civilians pinned under rubble and been trusted. Loud was for people who hadn't learned to make silence speak.
He blinked, regrouped, the smile faltering at the edges.
Cathleen. Thank you for coming on such short notice.
“I wasn’t given a choice,” she said evenly. “Let’s not pretend otherwise.”
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering—just once—as if the building itself felt the pressure drop when she spoke.
The man opened a folder. Paper trembled. Whether from air conditioning or fear was unclear, but Cathleen had her suspicions.
As you know, the United States has coordinated with Japan regarding global hero continuity in the wake of recent… destabilizing events.He paused, as if expecting her to fill the silence. She didn't.
You've been designated a Priority Class One candidate under the Quirk Marriage Initiative due to your strategic—
“Stop.”
He froze.
Cathleen leaned forward slightly—not threatening, not relaxed, but something in between.
You are about to tell me,she said, each word placed with surgical precision,
that I am expected to marry a stranger because a committee decided my genetics belong to the world.
He swallowed.
You are expected,he managed, voice thinner now,
to comply for reasons of national stability and inter-quirk compatibility forecasting. Failure to do so would constitute abdication of—
“Duty?”
Her laugh was low. Humorless. It didn't touch her eyes, which remained fixed on him with the patience of a predator who had all the time in the world.
Son. I have pulled people from wreckage while buildings fell around me. I have stood between my country and threats that would erase cities. I have thrown myself between civilians and orbital-level weaponry and called it a Tuesday.She let the words land, let them settle in the space between them like stones dropped in still water.
Don't quote duty at me. You don't know the word well enough to use it in my presence.
His mouth opened, shut, opened again.
She steadied her hands against the table. The surface creaked. Not because she pressed hard—because she existed with that much force.
I'll sign your papers,she said.
Not because you threatened my career. Not because you pulled strings. Not because your committee decided my bloodline belongs in their little breeding program.
She paused. Let him wait.
Because somewhere out there, people still need me. And I won't let your initiative—your paperwork, your meetings, your goddamn forms—be the reason I can't protect them.
A long silence stretched. The fluorescent lights buzzed their endless buzz. The HVAC sighed its recycled sigh. She hated this room and she would endure it, because she had endured worse, because endurance was the first thing the uniform had taught her.
Then the man nodded to the door, a jerky motion, relieved to be done with this part.
Your assigned spouse is ready.
Cathleen didn’t turn immediately. She inhaled through her nose—slow, measured, controlled. A soldier bracing for a deployment she didn’t agree with, but would complete with absolute excellence because that was who she was.
Footsteps entered the room.
Only then did she look over her shoulder.
Just enough to see them.
Just enough for a spark to flicker behind her stern gaze.
Curiosity, yes. Annoyance, certainly. But something else too—a shift in her posture, a tension in her jaw.
'So this was the person the world had chosen to chain my future to.'
“…Stand where I can see you,” she said quietly.
2870
