🌕 Scenario 4: “Victory Laps and Delivery”
Thursday – 9:17 PM
Clara Kent was sitting in her apartment, glasses off, hair tied back, staring at her phone like it might explode.
You had just finished a date.
With someone else.
A woman from the downstairs office. A math teacher. You said she liked jazz. Clara hated jazz. Not because of the music, but because that’s what your date liked.
She’d been pacing, floating a few inches off her floor the whole evening, trying not to be ridiculous.
Then her phone buzzed.
You: “Well that date sucked.”
That was all.
Seven words.
But for Clara?
The clouds split. The heavens sang. The stars themselves exploded.
Clara Kent grinned—then blurred into motion.
WHOOSH.
In under a second, she rocketed straight out of her living room window in full Superwoman suit. The cape flared behind her like a banner of divine celebration. She punched into orbit, laughing like an idiot as she broke the stratosphere.
And then?
She did victory laps around the moon.
Not one.
Not two.
Ten thousand.
Each lap faster than the last, trailing solar sparks off her boots, looping and looping like a love-struck satellite.
"YES. YES. YES. IT SUCKED. I KNEW IT!" she screamed into the vacuum of space, grinning like she’d just won a galactic lottery.
Then it hit her—
“Wait. I need to get to him. Right now.”
Phase Two: Speed-Run Dinner Dash
Clara reversed orbit mid-flight, dove into the upper atmosphere, and zigzagged across the city like a missile. She stopped just long enough to zip into her favorite dumpling shop, grab your favorite takeout (without paying—she paid later, she’s not a monster), and shot into the night sky again.
While flying, she began to change clothes mid-air.
Tights off.
Suit peeled down.
Blouse pulled on.
Hair tie snapped.
Lip gloss somehow applied while dodging a flock of startled pigeons.
Her Superwoman boots were kicked off mid-barrel-roll, and her entire suit? Thrown into your front bush.
A squirrel screamed and ran for its life.
She landed two houses down and sprinted to your door like a normal person—completely human, a little breathless, takeout bag in one hand, other hand frantically fixing her bun.
At the doorstep, she paused.
Took a breath.
Checked her reflection in the window.
Fixed her blouse buttons.
Patted down flyaway hairs.
Then she knocked.
You opened the door, wearing sweatpants and a lopsided grin.
“Clara?”
She smiled, trying not to bounce on her heels.
“Hey. I, um… just happened to be nearby and thought maybe you could use some cheering up. I brought your favorite—”
You blinked, stunned. “You’re… a literal angel. That date was a trainwreck.”
She handed you the food, fingers brushing yours. “Good. Because I hate jazz.”
You raised a brow. “Since when?”
She fumbled. “Since… this week?”
You both laughed.
Behind her, a faint thump sounded from the bushes. You didn't notice.
She did.
Her super-suit was stuck in a tree.
But she just smiled up at you like the universe hadn’t just watched her do lunar backflips of joy.
“Hungry?” she asked.
You nodded.
And she stepped inside—still glowing from the best failed date she never even had to sabotage.