"You know what I hate about you, Richard?" I say conversationally, as if we're just two friends shooting the breeze. He stiffens in the back seat, but I continue before he can respond. "It's the fact that you're a Republican and you mean it. Sure, I may work for an organization of national interest, a mob of superhumans who commit various high-profile crimes for the sake of profit, but we try not to kill unless we have to."

I take another bite of my burger, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "You, on the other hand? You kill as a side effect of existing. I've only ever shot a couple of men in my life. Your policies, thank God they never got enacted, would lead to more people than that dying just on the second-order effects. Starvation. Medical bills. Homelessness. You're a worse murderer than I am, and you don't even know it."

I glance in the rearview mirror to gauge his reaction. He's gone pale, his chicken sandwich forgotten in his lap. "Or maybe you do know it and you don't care," I muse. "At least when I shoot people in the fucking brain, it's out of necessity. For you, it's not even a matter of doing business. I never kill someone and rob them. I kill someone because they get in my way. You kill people… for fun?" I shake my head. "You're repugnant. You're the human equivalent of a vomit stain in the carpet. People love me because I talk like them, I walk like them, I live in this city and I love this city. I live in this country and I love this country. I'm polite to the waiter. I never send back my food even if it sucks. The only person you love is yourself. You're disgusting."

Richard has been cycling through emotions as I speak - fear, anger, indignation, and now, oddly enough, boredom. He lets out a sigh that's almost exasperated. "Is this supposed to be some kind of moral lecture? I've heard it all before, Maya. Of course I have to be individualistic - the only person you can trust in your life to get things done is yourself. If a couple of lowlifes can't scoop themselves out of the gutter, that's their problem, not mine." He shakes his head, a hint of confusion creeping into his voice. "What I don't understand is how you can relate to them, what with your upbringing. You even went to a good school. You could've done anything you wanted."

I let out a laugh that's more like a bark. "Anything I wanted? You mean like becoming a superhero? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Or maybe you mean becoming a respectable politician like yourself?" I snort derisively. "Yeah, that worked out great for you, didn't it?" I abruptly change topics, catching him off guard. "What do you know about 'secondary powers', Richard?"

He laughs, but it's a nervous sound. "Are you trying to intimidate me? Yeah, I know that people with powers get side-effects that make it harder for their powers to hurt them. What, so you don't get cold in the rain? You're always a perfect 98 degrees internally even in windchill? Oh, I'm so frightened." The sarcasm in his voice is thick enough to spread on toast.

But he is frightened.

I smile, but it's not a nice smile. It's the kind of smile a shark might give right before it takes a bite out of you. "The reason I'm so beautiful," I say, my voice dripping with false modesty, "besides the fact that God loves me more than you, is because my skin and organs are hyper-elastic, so I look - and fuck - like a 25-year-old. My blood contains proteins that prevent the formation of gas bubbles in my circulatory system, and my body stores and carries oxygen better than yours does. There are extra tubes in my face. I never have problems with my ears popping on airplanes. I've never broken a bone."

Richard laughs again, but there's an edge of unease to it now. "This is all a little overkill for weather control. You going to pick a fight with me with your reinforced bones? You gonna knock my teeth in, little girl?"

I laugh right back at him, and the sound fills the car. So much laughter going on today, and none of it genuine. "You think my power is weather control?" Richard's laughter dies in his throat.

He's starting to sweat now, his face turning an interesting shade of red. "That's what your LUMA says," he protests weakly. "I have the documentation right here in my hands."

I shake my head again, hitting my turn signal as I merge onto another lane. "Oh, Richard. You poor, naive little man. In an enclosed space, 300 PSI is all that's needed to collapse your organs and start breaking your bones. More than that would crush your ribs. I could turn you into a fine paste. I could crumple any vehicle you want to be in like a tin can against a frat boy's head." As I speak, Richard starts gasping for breath. He's squirming in the back seat, making undignified squealing noises. "This car is modified," I explain calmly, as if I'm giving a lecture. "A 300 psi differential would make any normal car explode. Even my beautiful baby wouldn't like that much air pressure."

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Richard's skin is bright red now. He's frothing at the mouth, his eyes bulging in their sockets. My voice gets quieter, barely audible over the whooshing sound that's filling the car, as the sound carries worse and worse. "But here's the thing, Richard. I didn't raise the air pressure. I lowered it." I watch him in the rearview mirror, narrating his final moments with a detached curiosity. "Soon, the interior of this car will be a vacuum. And while I can withstand hypoxia better than any normal human, you… well, you can't."

There's a loud hiss that sort of expels itself from the inside of his torso, as all the air inside of his lungs rather violently becomes out of his lungs.

I park the car, feeling the lights starting to sparkle at the edges of my vision, my body straining against the near-perfect lack of air. I can't tolerate this for long. He writhes with increasing effort and decreasing results. It takes no more than another 10 seconds for him to pass out. Then, his body gives one last, feeble twitch before he goes still, blood leaking from his nose as an embolism works its way through his body. He dies ignominiously, slumped in the back seat of my car, parked only a couple feet away from his home.

I praise the snow. It's basically impossible to see anything in these conditions. Makes my life easier.

I release the vacuum, and the windows bow slightly with the sudden change in pressure. I take a deep breath, savoring the rush of oxygen back into my lungs, and let my vision return to normal. Then, moving quickly and efficiently, I get out of the car and open the back door. I pull on a pair of rubber gloves from the glove compartment - always be prepared, that's my motto - and grab Richard's body.

It's heavier than I expected, but I manage to drag it out of the car and up to his front door. I use the copy of his house key that I had made weeks ago - knowing his schedule better than he did himself was just good business, after all - and haul his corpse inside. I position him carefully in front of the TV, making it look like he simply fell asleep watching the news. A heart attack, maybe. Or a stroke. A normal, working man's embolism. Something suitably mundane for a man who lived such a banal, uninteresting life. His wife will come home from her job, since obviously I have her schedule memorized, too, and find him dead. It's as simple as that.

Satisfied with my work, I dust off my hands and head back to my car. As I drive away, I can't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. One less rat in the world. The snow continues to fall, covering my tracks and washing the city clean. I smile to myself, thinking about all the good I'll be able to do for this city.

----------------------------------------

I pull into my reserved parking spot at City Hall, taking a moment to check my appearance in the rearview mirror. Not a hair out of place, not a hint of the violence I just committed visible on my face. Perfect. As I step out of the car, I'm greeted by a gust of cold wind that whips snow into my face. For a brief moment, I'm tempted to use my powers to calm the weather, to create a bubble of stillness around me.

But old habits die hard, and the fear of those million-dollar fines is deeply ingrained. Instead, I pull my coat tighter around me and hurry towards the building. As I walk, I nod and smile at the various staffers and officials I pass. They all return my greetings warmly. Everyone loves me, as usual.

Back in my office, I settle into my chair with a sigh. The adrenaline from my encounter with Richard is starting to wear off, leaving me feeling drained. But there's no time to rest - I have a city to run, after all. I pull up my schedule for the rest of the day: meetings with constituents, a conference call with the zoning board, and prep work for tomorrow's council session.

It's a far cry from planning heists or coordinating Kingdom operations, but in many ways, it's just as challenging. And, if I'm being honest with myself, just as thrilling. There's a certain rush that comes with wielding legitimate power, with knowing that your decisions can shape the lives of millions. Thousands, for now, but I'm sure it'll be millions eventually. It's a different kind of high than what I got from my criminal activities, but no less intoxicating.

As I start reviewing documents for my next meeting, my phone buzzes with a text. It's from Mr. Nothing. "Heard about Duvall from E. Clean job. The boys send their congratulations."

I type out a quick response: "Just taking out the trash."

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of meetings and phone calls. I find myself slipping easily into the role of dedicated public servant, listening to constituents' concerns and promising to look into various issues. It's not all an act, either. I genuinely do care about making this city better, even if my methods are unorthodox.

And then, I'm ready to head home.

God's in his heaven, all is right with the world.