This is not her usual thing. No spandex tonight, just low-slung denim and a man’s white ribbed undershirt. The reflection in the mirror doesn’t even look like someone she knows.
For a couple seconds, he wishes he hadn’t cut off all his hair, but the combination of the clothes and the buzzed head looks kind of good, if he dares to say so himself.
She knows: she’s run the models, trying to figure out when the next city-wide crisis would hit, when the pattern would make itself known and what they’d have to deal with. The math and machines told her the when, but not the what. That’s the chaos in her theory.
There are no more pleasant dreams.
Post-fight postmortems are boring as hell, and dirty thoughts about teammates help to pass the time.
She takes a step forward. He backs up a step. Lather, rinse, repeat until he’s run out of steps and his fat ass is up against the wall