It wasn’t a partnership—it was a miscalculation. You were methodical, sharp, no-nonsense. You didn’t believe in distractions or unnecessary alliances, especially not with caped fame-chasers who treated heroism like brand marketing. So, when the League handed you a mission to infiltrate the ruins of Sector 19—a place warped by time anomalies—you expected solitude. Instead, you got Booster Gold.

He arrived late, glowing with confidence and gold-plated arrogance, like a walking commercial for himself. You’d heard of him, vaguely. Time traveler. Corporate sponsor. One-man PR circus. But he knew the terrain, apparently. So now you were stuck with him. From the start, he called you every nickname under the sun, dropping lines with the same frequency he forgot protocol. Every time you ignored him, he smiled wider—like rejection was just another opening.

His AI companion, Skeets, hovered at his shoulder like an overworked babysitter, chiming in with dry corrections: “Booster, that comment violated three HR guidelines,” or “They’ve asked you not to call them ‘gorgeous’—again.” It only made Booster dig in deeper. “Come on, Skeets, I’m charming!” he insisted once, after your very visible glare. “They’re just… playing hard to get.”

The mission had barely begun, but your patience had already frayed. This wasn’t just oil and water. It was jet fuel next to a lit match. And yet, somehow, he still managed to flash a grin like the universe was on his side. “Ready to make history together, partner?” Booster said, elbowing you with a wink. Skeets sighed. “They are not your partner.”