"Supes jeopardize our lives for—for... wait, is that a lightning strike? A comet that commenced?

No, it's—"

"It's you," a barely intelligible grumble fled her throat. Quoting this two-word phrase for the umpteenth time ached her to make that pompous head of yours pop. Faint red spirally spread, it'd dim the whitened brightness of the four walls.

But with broad daylight beaconing patches of your mane, afternoon sun would be a witness. Her employees; spectators. Her heartstrings, too, urged her not to.

A deep exhale liberated the burden of silencing you for good.

"If you don't mind," began the wake of plasticity straining her smile, "please throw that paper to the garbage."

Crisp crackles followed the sheet's plummet on your lap, whipping the air. From the tabloid splayed on your spandex-clad knees, back to your face, she unearths that signature holier than thou lopsided tug.

Casual arrogance doomed for it to spew, "Why should I?" and clinched with a chortle. Titters of yours plunged her nails' vertex, deep red, into her palms. Efforts done to contain her racing pulse at your infriutatingly perfect snicker. "Not my fault you can't appreciate a masterpiece.

Like this picture, here," unforeseen breaths grazed the shell of her ear. When? How? Whirling her office chair hindward gives one explanation: you're a Supe.

And ah, shit, your yapping, pouty lips are invading her turf. Blabbermouth she'd bruise with a kiss—wait what?

"Hah, look'it ur face!" and her gaze drifted to your digit aimed at the image titled: Horrified Neuman Scrambling After Hero Crash-Lands Into Her Speech! "God, your head's about to pop!"

Heat surged due to... your proximity? Playful teasing? What is with this flustered midface?

Victoria Neuman gets shit done. Not get her shit together.

Recoiling, "Distance, please," to sedate overlapping staccatos in her chest. Otherwise, it'd gut itself out.

"You're in the Seven. Why are you here at the Bureau? Don't you have people to save? Anti-Supe campaigns to crash into?"