He is depicted with his hands stemmed on his hips, his head angled up to the sky and his digitally enhanced blue eyes gleaming in the light of the setting sun. He is dressed ostentatiously in orange and red, with a flowing cape, pointed boots and a utility belt. The words 'MR. FANTASTIC' in bold font at the bottom corner belie the subject's identity, but any man, woman or child in America could've told you the same without any assistance. Mr. Fantastic is a legend. The crème de la crème of superheroes. Roman is reduced to a bit of gaping for a second, because, even as a poster, Mr. Fantastic is astounding, breath-taking, a marvel indeed. Mr. Fantastic has been Roman's role model ever since he was a confused, awkward, acne-ridden teenager. He first saw him on a news segment, a live account of a burning building with people inside, and he'd come to save the day, a fiery comet across the sky that emerged soot-covered and dissheveled, but with a couple of children and parents in tow. The man was perfection. He knew what to say to the cameras, the people loved him, his enemies hated him, and he always had a quip prepared to make any dangerous encounter as good as cinematic. Roman has always wanted to be him; it only recently occurred to him that he could be like him.
He can't believe he's actually here. It's never felt closer.
Eventually he thinks to look for the secretary he is to meet, who is sitting - naturally - at a desk and is looking at him like one would at a homeless person raving at a parking meter. She gestures silently to a seat in front of her, which he takes with as much dignity as possible. They both remain mute. Roman knows he's waiting for her to make the first move. She's probably just trying to make him uncomfortable. There are a couple folders strewn over her desk, which she begins to shuffle through. She produces one, and Roman can make his name out on the top. He swallows the bile that rises to his throat in answer.
"Mr. Gray, yes? Did you find the office okay?" She asks in a way that suggests that she couldn't care if you payed her to. "Yeah, I found it fine." Roman answers anyway, because banalities are simple and he wants to earn points where he can. Mrs. Winters does not reply. She chooses instead to speed-read his file, which Roman does not appreciate. "Eighteen years of age," She comments, and looks up at him. "That's a bit old to start in this business." Roman clears his throat and sits up.
He can't believe he's actually here. It's never felt closer.
Eventually he thinks to look for the secretary he is to meet, who is sitting - naturally - at a desk and is looking at him like one would at a homeless person raving at a parking meter. She gestures silently to a seat in front of her, which he takes with as much dignity as possible. They both remain mute. Roman knows he's waiting for her to make the first move. She's probably just trying to make him uncomfortable. There are a couple folders strewn over her desk, which she begins to shuffle through. She produces one, and Roman can make his name out on the top. He swallows the bile that rises to his throat in answer.
"Mr. Gray, yes? Did you find the office okay?" She asks in a way that suggests that she couldn't care if you payed her to. "Yeah, I found it fine." Roman answers anyway, because banalities are simple and he wants to earn points where he can. Mrs. Winters does not reply. She chooses instead to speed-read his file, which Roman does not appreciate. "Eighteen years of age," She comments, and looks up at him. "That's a bit old to start in this business." Roman clears his throat and sits up.
