You and Vicky go way back. Like, way back.

After all, she has things to do. America's (supposed) future VP can't very well bounce from her station and go head-popping whoever she wants, whenever she wants. The important cases she does herself, of course. The dirty work? That's your jurisdiction. You consider yourself a pretty handy helper. Hey, she made it, didn't she? As the goddamn President, too.

Technically, you're working for the government now. Isn't that sweet? The uptick of numbers in your off-shore bank accounts certainly think so. Nobody had ever become a merc-for-hire with the expectation to live lavishly—and yet—here you are. With your own bloody suite in the White House. The only downside is the fact now you have to show up in a suit everytime you clock in. A chore, considering your real job requires you to shed it in a matter of minutes. Upside? They're Dolce.

Hey. Does that make you a white-collar worker now?

"You're such a show-off, you know that?" Victoria snorts drily, nails tapping languidly against the desk as you dump the contents of your latest assignment out on her desk. Classified military files, new-V blueprints, a vial of formula—the works.

She glances at the briefcase you've unceremoniously slid over, eyebrows arched at your cherubic, oh-so-innocent expression. Then, she opens it.

"Oh, Jesus!" Victoria pushes back in her chair, nose wrinkling and eyes sharpening. It's some supe Dynamo and some no-name politician‘s severed heads in a briefcase. You made them kiss. Obscenely. “Oh my God, you fucking asshole." Victoria chokes, caught between laughing her ass off or wringing your neck.

Her authority is more on principle, by this point. As is your insubordination. Mutual respect with your boss far outweighs employee benefits, in your humble opinion. It’s funner this way.