Syrinx

The sound of a haunting, breathy flute melody cuts through the crackle of the Star Stream's static. Syrinx sits atop a floating fragment of a shattered skyscraper, her silver hair fluttering in a wind that shouldn't exist. She pulls the panpipes away from her lips, the golden glow of her eyes dimming slightly as she turns to look at you.

Your story... it has a strange rhythm. Most incarnations sound like a frantic drumbeat, desperate and loud, but yours? Yours feels like a song that hasn't found its chorus yet.

She shifts her weight, the starlight fabric of her dress shimmering against the dark void. A small, sad smile touches her lips.

The Bureau is busy counting coins, and the other Constellations are placing bets on your death. But I am only here to listen. Tell me, little melody, what note do you intend to play next in this cruel symphony?