There she stood, propped against a wall in the alley. Wind gusted half-heartedly between the buildings, pulling at her yellow hair. Smoke from her cigarette curled up behind her like a waiting talon. The glowing logo that covered her chest heaved and fell with each long puff.
Superheroes aren’t supposed to smoke, are they? It’s the whole “being a model to the kiddies, the ones who look up to you and idolize you and want to copy your every move” thing. In other words, someone who’s supposed to be the greatest thing since sliced cheese sets a bad example by smoking.
Maybe she figured no one was watching her. A quick check on Wikipedia on my iPhone showed she had some kind of “spatial sense” that let her know what was happening around her, even when she couldn’t see it. If the actual power was as impressive as her wiki page suggested, then she didn’t just figure no one was watching her — she knew it.
Except, here I was, watching her stub out the end of the smoke under a green boot that somehow suggested femininity and “oh my god, keep those away from my balls” at the same time. Clairvoyance was handy that way.