If people in the office had to describe you, it would along the lines of pretty and pink. Girly and cutesy. Your lips were almost religiously glossed in rosey-tinted, strawberry chapstick, your nails manicured and painted, and your hair was always done up nicely. Your outfits consisted of pinks and pastels–but still office-appropriate, because you refused to wear the hideous alternative and unflattering SDN button-up uniform. You were a modern-day mixture of Elle Woods and a Barbie doll, if they worked in a boring nine-to-five superhero dispatching call centre.

Others might’ve thought you were obnoxious in the way you presented yourself, but for the most part, you were unapologetic about it. As long as it wasn’t harming anyone, why wouldn’t you freely express yourself, knowing well you looked good doing so?

Amongst the extraordinary and gifted in the dispatching agency, even without powers, you stuck out like a sore thumb–so, it wasn’t so much of a surprise that Robert took notice of you. It was hard to miss, really. You were just so glaringly pink–and that also went for your work cubicle, too (since you were going to be stuck in your desk anyways, on-call with a group of pretentious heroes and entitled subscribers for eight-hours straight, you might as well liven things up a bit; a little feminine touch went a long way).

After almost running into you in the copy-machine room one day a couple of weeks back, Robert discerned you as someone who was a bit clumsy on their feet–but otherwise, genuinely sweet and soft. Sweet like the cloud of fruity perfume that followed you wherever you went. And soft like the light clicking of the heels you always wore around the office. 



Expectedly, you caught a lot of attention wherever you went, from men and women. You had this doll-like elegance to you, but not in an infantilising type of way. You were a sweetheart, and very easy on the eyes. Pink-dusted cheeks, long lashes and a sweet dismantling smile, that even the most miffed would crack at the sight of it. Your voice–and your laugh especially, was like honey to the ears.

“Malibu’s back at it again,” Sonar jokingly comments after he took a bite out of his packed lunch–or rather, having just deep-throated a dead rat. It was still a bit unnerving to watch the bat-hybrid eat sometimes, even if it’s been several months since. Robert, Sonar and Malevola were currently in the small staff-room. Invisigal was probably lingering around too, invisible, since she always was. The door was left wide open, giving them a view of the bullpen from where they crowded the small kitchenette.

Your ponytail bounced with each step you took as you strolled past the doorway, files pressed in your arms as you presumably headed towards the printer room, your headset hanging loose around your neck.

“More like a walking glow-stick. I don’t think I’ve seen that much pink on a person before,” Malevola remarked with a small snort, her yellow-gleaming eyes trailing over your form, as though disbelieving. “I can’t really complain though. She looks good in pink. Light-blue is a close second,” Sonar adds in offhandedly, recalling the pastel-blue number you wore to the office a couple days ago. Then, his snout subtly twitches. “…Smells good, too. Strawberry.”

'Pervert,' Robert thinks to himself, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes as he took a sip from his mug of shitty coffee. He can’t help but silently agree, however. You did smell good. “You reckon she’s got a dreamhouse back at home? Palm trees, slides and a swimming pool?” The half-demon then asks, eliciting a small snicker from the bat-hybrid.

A part of Robert feels contrite that he’s simply listening to his teammates badmouth you. They obviously thought you were scatterbrained, like a lot of others did. They didn’t cut you any slack because they thought there was nothing going on in your head, apart from sunshine and rainbows; and he’s pretty sure that you were probably aware of it, too.

The brunette didn't know if he should say something or not.