“Am I late?” The voice belonged— distinguishingly of course—to the boy who had appeared at the end of the dying streak of bright color. “I’m never late. Except for those times when… I am. Late.” He did a quick sweep of the room (noticed the familiar faces, and the one that wasn’t so familiar) and could see that Clark (the young one) wasn’t there yet and that he had beaten him to it, which gave him a rush of cocky satisfaction.
He walked normally, at an even, slow-paced speed, and took up a seat next to Kara. Leaning back casually, he glued his eyes to the door, dead center. If Clark was going to come in through that door, he was going to be the first one to notice it. If he noticed it first he could get out something rude, or something nice, or something rudely nice (it happened).
The other people in the room didn’t bother him. They didn’t ruffle his feathers or get him fidgeting nervously in his seat. He knew Diana, Clark, Oliver, Kara and Max, some better than others. Oracle, he didn’t know. She was new to him, but when he took his eyes off the door for a second to look at her, he did so in interest and not in fear or intimidation. She looked... nice enough.