[attr="class","mittag"]

Naomi Sato

[attr="class","mitmain"]
He slides along the metallic corridors like the horseman of pestilence, pale visage reflected in hammered steel walls. The bags under his eyes are more akin to the endless void one stares into, though his are only accessible via mirror.
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He pauses outside her door, head lolling to the side. Some sort of feverish panic crawls across his skin, breaking him out in slight sweat, but whether it’s the face he’s once again made uncomfortable by socialization, or the constant threat of impending doom, he doesn’t really know.
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How quickly we unlearn two years of progress when the other half of your heart is ripped out and cast away.
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Before, he would have come bearing coffee and treats, and piles of research to be offered, sanctified script to be torn asunder on whatever alter he was beseeching. But now, after so long being run into the ground of his own anxieties and failures and singular loneliness, all he has is his own skin and bone. And barely much of that.
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His footsteps are quiet, hidden under the squeaking of hinges needing oiling.
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“Knock, knock, Batman,” he calls, almost jumping at the sound of his own voice. “I have a riddle for you.”
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They would know each other, of course, as contemporaries of Rocket science, though working, previously, on different projects. They would have spoken in passing, and been on a first-name basis, if by the skin of their teeth. They aren't, certainly, familiar enough for such a callous greeting, especially after whatever hell Dr. Sato has just gone through.
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But if she wants a superhero moniker she's going to get the superhero greeting from the villain.

[attr="class","mitpoke"]