Summer checked herself over in the mirror one last time. She was never comfortable with the way she looked, far less when she dressed up. But the letter had specified formal dress, so formal dress it was, makeup, heeled shoes and all. She’d braided her long hair into a double coronet around her head and accented the burgundy dress with garnet jewellery.

Probably she ought to be grateful to have her work recognised, but then again recognition had very little to do with what she did as a heroine. It was simply something that needed doing that she was capable of doing, that was all. But the folk who had organised this charity ball didn’t seem to think so, and they wanted the empath Summer Rainault, who had, in their words, ‘helped save so many lives during and after the Manhattan Incident,’ to be one of their guests of honour while the rich and powerful of New York City celebrated the end of the cleanup.

Summer anticipated being largely ignored while the attendees swarmed around better known heroes like Captain America and Iron Man. Which, honestly, was fine by her. Making polite conversation with people who were largely unaware of her existence, all the while knowing just how little truth was in their words, had never appealed. She smiled, posed, and waved to the paparazzi on her way in, hiding how awkward and out of place she felt. Once inside the ballroom, Summer found a corner quieter than the rest, acquired a drink, and tried to ignore all the butterflies in her gut.