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"What's with the hoodie, short-stuff?"
People say a lot of things about me, some nice, some not so nice. There's a lot more in the second column than the first, to be brutally honest, but one thing I'll always challenge anyone on is calling me unobservant.
Creating the 'Powers Are Bullshit' meme, I'll gladly own up to, however.
No, comedy requires a keen eye. Timing too, but being aware of your surroundings is kind of a key part. Kind of like my powers, really. You just need to pick the right target, the right material, the right moment, then...bam.
Admittedly, I can be slap dash at times. Mean spirited even. They say the best comics are the sad clowns, yet I try not to let that anger leak out. Even with the kind of day I've had, Vista doesn't deserve to feel shitty.
With silence my answer, I slid next to her on the Ward's sofa. Yes, it's branded and yes, it has a brute two rating. Even ignoring that her dress sense shifting so radically means something is up, there's a distinctive feeling of tension in the room. It's weird, sitting in our civvies waiting for a meeting none of us, old or new, fully understand the meaning of. Probably something dumb and clerical. It always tends to be. Or...
"Redesigns!"
I snap my fingers, the flourish more for myself than Vista. There's a beat before she glares at me, eyes hollow, deep in her hood. That hack job of a haircut she got ripped apart by PR over peeking out at me.
"What?" I say, shrugging off her glare like I've not endured it a thousand times before.
She grits her teeth, flopping back further into the lemon yellow (Maximum visibility! Great marketability!) pillows. Missy looks like a particularly short shadow right then, inky black hoodie eating her up. I can barely tell where she ends, and it begins, honestly, less a person and more a shape.
"Why would they want both of us for redesigns?" She eventually huffs, rolling a single eye my way in a disturbingly accurate copy of Sophia.
Shrugging, I follow her example in the comfort department, allowing myself to be swallowed in sinfully soft cushions.
"I dunno, maybe to save time? Or perhaps they want some of the ol' Clockblocker magic? I do have a way of making Capes stand out."
Silence reigns between us, for how long I don't know. It's a void I'm uniquely positioned to fill, but despite that I spend my time being useful.
It's all about the little things.
Missy's foot taps slowly, less than a heartbeat, more than idle boredom. Fingers flex and twitch in accompaniment beneath her hoodie's central pocket, the flesh of her wrist shifting to the tempo. Her eyes may be haggard, with bags big enough to hold an Endbringer, but they never stop flitting to the door, as if the oncoming meeting is about her death sentence and not a meaningless bureaucracy fest.
I mean to ask about her parents, to see if whatever… this is has to do with them. Coming from my own home life it's alien to think of hating your own family so much, but I know this world is fucked up and try to soldier on. She beats me to the punch, though.
"Do you know It's redesigns? Or were you just guessing?"
Her voice is hard, but has an edge to it. An underlayer of something, not quite fear but certainly in that ballpark.
"Guessing," I reply matter-of-factly, though a frown soon follows. "I know we'll be due one soon. I'm almost graduating and…well…" I flap my arms in her general direction, wary of stepping into the minefield known as ‘Vista’.
She was never happy with her role. Costume, weapons, PR, it always ended in an argument aimed towards some suit that ranked below Piggot but certainly higher than I cared to know.
Her next words were so quiet I barely heard them.
"If they try the skirt again, I'll quit."
"Don't be so dramatic, Missy."
It was stupid of me. A quick snap reply made off the cuff with no caution, especially foolish when I could see the tension building, hands no doubt balled into tight fists.
She turns, and for a brief moment I see the thing lurking behind her eyes, the Shaker Nine that can tear a city apart with ease if so pressed. It fades soon enough, Missy once again a barely fifteen year old girl both hurt and furious in equal measure.
"I'm serious, Dennis, I'll fucking quit if they put me back in the skirt!"
"Ok, ok, sorry, jeez," I raise my hands, guilt on display.
She settles back, reminding me all too much of a rattled animal. Something that warns inquisitive passerbys 'Back off, or else!' before going in for the idiots' throat when they don't take their warning to heart.
Pushing down the sigh, I look at my watch. Its face stared back dispassionately telling me we'd been here for barely five minutes.
Christ.
As if in answer to my despair, Missy begins to fold in on herself, knees held tight as a loop of wires snaking through her hoody confirms she's lost to the world. As heavy metal blares to my left, I rest my neck and look skywards, staring at the ceiling.
Sometimes I just didn't get that girl.