Sirens are blaring in the background. Police cars mobilize towards a fluid destination: a target on the move, dictating their rampaging route through the dusty city streets. But stronger than the radios they have inside their cabs is a popular face being televised on a tower's big screen. A face that is unfamiliar to you, yet netting the undivided attention of the masses. Pedestrians stop in their tracks in response to the abrupt broadcast; as well as to save themselves from getting run-over by the swarming, red-blue flashing force indiscriminately scouring the area. On numerous screens, as plentiful as the billboards attached to tower walls, Arthropeudics' very own star reporter informs the ignorant masses.

"Testing, one…two…" Picking up directly after a disturbance of electronic fuzz, a woman postures herself inside the boundaries of the screens. The voice that comes through has no place within the current chaos. Cheerful, almost happy to participate in the panic, she sings a small melody whilst preparing. Her vision is blocked by her hair, a safeguard against reality's retributions. "Hey, hey! How you doing down there, everyone? It's Pollexa Vespa coming to you with some very breaking news! My team did not have the liberty to set up a smooth delivery like our previous runs. But I know, I'm as surprised as you are. 'A broadcast at this time of the evening?!' " she vibrantly exclaims, gripping and stretching the peak of her cap. The lively portrayal pushes her emerald bangs deeper past her eyes. Inconsistent output on the video alters the hue of those strands into a bluer variety. Pollexa adjusts her cap back to how it was, shifting the pressure on her bangs to the hair at her neck; whichever way she wears it, one place or another is displaced. The length of her tresses never surpass her shoulders though. "I couldn't believe what I was hearing the first time the facts came across my ears minutes ago! You all will be sharing what I felt in just a bit, so hold on..."

The Arthropeudics reporter raises an arm. Popping out of the end of a sleeve – an inch or few too long – is a white glove, hovering underneath nothing. Half a second later, a flat image catches up to be the item above her hand. An image of <span class="mu-s">you</span>.

Next, a following collection of explosions on a facility's doorstep. If you turn your head around, the smoke captured in the graphic is slithering up into the navy skies.

"Caution to all nearby cities in the vicinity of Research Facility Jericho," she puts on a booming voice, "A defunct prototype of our beloved, award-winning super soldiers has gone haywire! <span class="mu-g">(ProtO-Model Leaper/ F-inal Drone mk.IV/ L-ine v.Sleuth)</span>– as you can see, <span class="mu-g">(He/She)</span> is wreaking havoc like crazy already, so watch out! It pains me to bring you guys this news, even after our hopes of recovering from the Pelagiohm Invasion years ago..."