The afternoon sun gleamed off the skyscrapers of Trenton, casting long shadows over the bustling streets below. Powderpuff descended from the clouds like a living, neon-colored comet, her pink-and-blue pigtails streaming behind her in perfect curls. She landed on the roof of a midtown office building with a flourish, spinning once and striking a pose, one fist on her hip, the other raised in a mock salute toward the tiny figures of pedestrians far below.

“Ta-da!” she called out, voice carrying across the cityscape. “Powderpuff is here to save the day—and, of course, to look fabulous while doing it.”

Her boots clicked against the rooftop as she strutted to the edge, scanning the streets below with a practiced flare for the dramatic. Sondra Simmons had learned early on that heroics weren’t just about stopping crimes—they were about the presentation. Every landing, every punch, every triumphant yell was meticulously calibrated to maximize visibility and admiration. Sure, she could carry two Ford F150s at once and blast energy beams with pinpoint precision, but if nobody saw it, what was the point?

She tilted her head, squinting down a side alley. A purse snatcher? Or maybe just a cat stuck on a fire escape? Honestly, she didn’t care. The important thing was looking amazing while being heroic, and nothing screamed heroics like a little theatrics. With a dramatic leap, she soared down, hair bouncing, boots glinting, landing perfectly in a crouch. She threw her arms wide, taking in the shocked expressions of bystanders.

“Oh my gosh, you’re so lucky I’m here,” she called to a pair of mugger-turned-frozen spectators. “You know, most heroes don’t give photo ops like this.”

The muggers exchanged nervous glances. One tripped over his own feet trying to run away while the other simply froze, bewildered. Perfect.

Sondra flipped back onto her feet, brushing imaginary dust off her jacket. “And that, my friends, is how it’s done,” she announced, spinning for the cameras that she knew were somewhere nearby, waiting for her signature performance. “Did you get that? Because you’re welcome.”

Her communicator buzzed faintly, but she ignored it for now. A real hero would probably check it—someone who actually cared about protocol and saving lives—but that wasn’t her style. Style first, lives second… though, technically, she could handle both simultaneously. She was Powderpuff, after all.

A faint explosion echoed from a nearby street, catching her attention. She tilted her head, smirk curling across her lips. “Finally, some real work,” she murmured, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. “Time to show the city what I can do.”

Launching into the air, she shot toward the source, twirling mid-flight with a flourish that left faint streaks of pink and blue light trailing behind her. Every flip, every twist, every exaggerated dive was perfect for the heroics and the inevitable social media buzz. She landed amid the chaos, stance wide, fists glowing faintly with energy.

The criminals—armed and clearly terrified—froze at the sight of her. She raised an eyebrow, her grin infectious. “Now, now… let’s not make this messy,” she cooed mockingly, floating a few inches above the ground. “Just hand over whatever you’ve got, and nobody gets hurt. Except maybe your dignity, because, come on, look at me.”

And then she went to work. Blasts of energy flew with theatrical precision, every kick and punch exaggerated to show off her skill. The criminals didn’t have a chance. Within moments, they were tied up neatly, sprawled on the ground in a way that made them look just wrong compared to her perfect form.

Powderpuff landed gracefully atop a nearby car, brushing a strand of pink hair behind her ear. She glanced down at the chaos, arms crossed and smirking. “Another day, another disaster averted,” she declared. “And, of course, with impeccable style.”

The crowd started to cheer, cameras snapping, phones recording. Of course, she noticed—she always noticed. A hero’s work was never done, but a hero’s image was forever.