Asteria
"Wait, hold up-- what the fuck? It's been literally twenty minutes and the Hulk's already here to kill you? Should I be impressed?" She felt like she should've seen it coming, or heard it coming, anyway-- like, where was all the screaming, the panicked masses running in the opposite direction, the tragic yet dutiful news reporters? But oh, right. Aster didn't need to see the trail behind Psychopath, much less peek inside an illusion, to come to the conclusion 'run the fuck away, fast'. It was only natural, after all. To a spiked powerhouse like that, anyone was basically a half-dead rabbit served up on a plate.
Perhaps with the adrenaline buzzing in her veins, some luck, and maybe if she was really careful with her illusions-- Aster knew she had a chance of getting out of there. It wouldn't be anything that she'd never done before, you know? Saving her own skin, saying 'to hell with the world', playing survivor for a game that taught people what not to be. Psychopath? Not her problem. People like that-- people like that were like the meth heads, the street rats who shot themselves higher until they burned up in the sun; fucking up everyone else every step of the way (dying without even the decency of paying back her couple hundred, assholes). Psychopath would kick the bucket eventually, under a Wicked One or a U.S. nuke. Aster didn't really need to do anything at all.
She certainly didn't owe anyone anything. 'Less even some heroic group of misfits looking for a place in the world.'
But, as she watched the weird classy dude summon the weird cat with an attitude (Despair, was it? Didn't he seem too cute for that?), she realized that damn it, she was hesitating. And not just because of the whole 'bravery and confidence' thing ('Pfft, right.'), but rather at the absurdity of it all-- Aster almost wanted to laugh, because of course the arch-villain had an 'insane physical condition' and had it personal with the Wicked Ones. That amusement though, that was the point. When was the last time that she'd wanted to laugh in the face of a bloodthirsty, partially insane psychopath? Longer than it should've been acceptable. 'Life's fucking boring, what's a girl to do?'
So Aster broke no argument when she stood behind Cain's shadow, decidedly not leaving and yet not enthusiastically volunteering herself either. She'd stay, sure, but it didn't seem like she was needed anyway; and this was as good of a time as any to see what she'd really signed up for (or what the Wicked Ones were made of). And by the sound of the ringing in her head (something painful altogether, like nails on a chalkboard), she knew that this time-- if she let up, this time her illusions would definitely go out of control. Psychopath's bloodlust was on a whole other level, and even with the somewhat far proximity she was still manhandling Aster's ability along.
It didn't take a genius to figure that Psychopath probably wanted (and therefore, would have seen, felt) a delicious massacre of the Wicked Ones, but it sure as hell wouldn't stop there. Aster was almost curious, whether it would end with the collapse of L.A., the state, or the country altogether. 'Or would it even end?' It was probably better not to know.
Aster winced, a hand to her head, as she made an effort to not look at Psychopath (it's worse when she does); cringing at the increasing volume of internal screeching. Her control had always been precarious at best, but this time it'd just have to be worse, given how she wasn't running away. She muttered, "'As far away from her as possible', right. Would the other side of the city count?" Astor was poised, alert, probably at the furthest back in the group; conspicuously inconspicuous, so to speak. Evidently uninterested in getting involved with Psychopath, anyway.
If one cared to look, it'd be fairly obvious that she was fighting something supernatural-- and so she vaguely offered to anyone concerned (or within earshot):
"If I lose it, knock me out. Doesn't matter how, you'll know. And I'm fine."