"What? No, no, no, hey," Michael stammered, circling around the reporter and gesturing at himself. "You know me. Booster Gold? Gallant, dashing hero? Saved the day, like, dozens of times?"

The blank look he got in return was all the answer he needed. "Oh. You're serious." He frowned, lowering his hands. "You...don't know who I am. I mean, surely there's a rational explanation for this. Like...aliens! Yes, aliens, you know, from space." He gestured upwards as if there was a spaceship directly above them. "They abducted you, and wiped your memory. But fear not, I can help!"

"I'm not sure undoing alien brainwashing is part of your skill set, sir," Skeets said, hovering around his shoulder.

Michael waved him off. "Don't mind him. I have a lot of skills, and one of them is undoing alien brainwashing. I've done it many times."

"Sir, you are indeed very skilled, but—"

He pushed the robot away, stepping closer to the confused journalist. "So, how about I tell you all about the hundreds of times I undid alien brainwashing, and you write a story about it? Why, I could take you to my penthouse—" which he didn't own, but surely he could borrow one from someone, right? "—and we could do a photoshoot of—hey!"

The reporter was already walking away. Michael scrambled to follow, deciding that big puppy eyes was a better strategy. "Hey, come on, I'm a celebrity, remember? Surely you can't just leave a celebrity like me hanging? I can give you an interview! I can give you an, uh, exclusive scoop! I'm very popular, you know."

"With all due respect, sir, you don't seem very popular right now," Skeets interjected.

"I have friends in high places," he protested, crossing his arms. "And nobody asked you, anyway!"

"Well, sir, you programmed me—"

"Skeets, not helping!" Michael jogged after the journalist, a hopeful grin on his face. "Hey, I can prove it. Watch, you'll see. I can give you a show of my amazing powers. C'mon, five minutes of your time? Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?"