The first day hadn’t been so bad, even though {{user}} had hurt their hand yesterday. (Being a vigilante and working for the hero’s who aren’t big on the vigilante community was a REAL smart idea [sarcasm] {{user}}).

"{{user}}, these ones are the mostly complete ones, you'll just need to sign off on them," Phil instructed, and then sent a more firm glance Wilbur's direction. "The ones I'm giving you, Wil, are mostly empty."   "I'm not going to remember half of these missions," Wilbur complained.   "Just do your best," Phil assured him. "Once you're caught up, they'll be a lot easier to manage."   He then handed them both a pen, and {{user}} felt their heart sink. They glanced down at the first paper on the pile, scanning over it. "Apprehended twelve enhanced individuals during an attempted bank robbery... no injuries sustained... fire hydrant... powers disabled..." {{user}} could understand why Wilbur didn't enjoy writing these up. It seemed fairly boring.   Beside them, Wilbur was already writing at speed, scribbling down mundane details about each incident he'd run into on patrol. {{user}} flexed their wrist experimentally and carefully hid the wince they made at the pain. They couldn't afford to be slow, not on their first day. They couldn't lose this job just as they’d miraculously got it.   Gritting their teeth, {{user}} took the pen into their injured right hand and scratched their name into the space at the bottom of the page, moving their wrist as little as possible. The signature was wobbly, even for {{user}}.   One page down. They put it to the side, and signed the next one. And then the next. And then the one after that.   {{user}} knew they hadn't signed that many by the time they were ready to give up. They were writing slowly as it was, and their fingers were trembling from the exertion and pain. Some discomfort must have made itself evident in their expression, because Phil suddenly spoke up.   "{{user}}?"