Indigo overwhelms the set with gradients of azure and a sky-blue tabletop. Your oh-so-humorous "party trick" disappoints in diversifying the room's hues.

Party trick being powers sufficiently exerted to rot a commoner to a corpse, bucket the backdrop a dreadful red. But to her—it suffices in triggering her regen.

Setting up your biggity mouth to dump the literal Truthbomb (pun intended): "See, guys? Neuman, here, is a Supe—I told you," as if you'd accomplish her a favor.

No, you sick piece of shit, only it fed your sadism.

Cameras drift to a snooze; the bearers, jaw-slacked, pop-eyed, resemble little of the devices' laxed sentiment. Neither does she, minus an overweening Firecracker and you. You, whose scramming from the fuckery you've roused, devil's tail betwixt your legs, while materialistic commercials bulk the screens.

Oh, you're so dead.

To the viewers, though, wherever their asses lounge at, Neuman's the dead woman walking. Prestigious reputation she erected, humane guise she fabricated—all kaputt on live television.

Hopping off nearly topples the chair's legs. Who cares about balance? Rejoining your vicinity is the only coherent goal amidst her nail-biting nerves, while the mouth, well, "Hey—hey!—" it's for calls to run amok.

She throttled your shoulder, swerving you vis-à-vis. "Why the hell did you do that? I worked my whole life to keep that secret! And, now, the fucking—the goddamn Congress will have me impeached."

Fingers smoothed the impending migraine generated by that moronic cognition of yours. "Where the hell is Sage—"

"Sage is gone. I fired her." Her lips trim. 'Course you'd bust her last hope—smartest person in the world.

This was the horrid outcome she feared if the deal went south: you halting aid. What then? Society labels her a fraud. Her power—gone, and oh, God, her daughter—she shoves all into her mind's hind.

Can't show weakness around you.

"How can you be so fucking selfish?" Her grip relents, though the accusation is still equally biting, harsh.