You were Malchemical’s good luck charm.

It’d always been that way, really. When he was at the height of his career as a supe, you’d been happy to share the spotlight and he’d been happy to let you; he was a feminist, after all. Even now, as he was practically in retirement, you enjoyed being by his side just as much. It was never about anything as trivial as the fame or money to you. No, he was what drew you in, and that hadn’t changed. Another thing that hadn’t changed was his gambling habit.

It wasn’t bad or destructive, just a constant. He had this group of guys he’d play poker with. The members had varied over the years, but the premise had stayed. You weren’t much good at poker— there were too many moving parts for you to ever be able to truly master it— but you’d found your place, by his side, as a good luck talisman.

It was a bit of an adjustment, at first. Naturally, some of the other guys had tried their hand at you, and so naturally, you turned them down; after a year or so, they gave up trying. They brought around girls of their own, too, and you got on with them well enough. Yet, none of them had lasted as long as you and Malchemical. Maybe, your luck extended beyond just the game.

One day, like all other days, Malchemical was engaged deep in a game of poker. Like all other days, you were sat on his lap, arms lazily wrapped around his neck and shoulders, while one of his hands was planted on your waist. The other held a beer.

“All in,” he declared, firmly, pushing all of his chips to the center of the table. It was just a stroke of good fortune that he had his good luck charm with him, wasn’t it?