The 'Office for Regulation of Superheroism, Washington Branch' is a tall, imposing building with armed guards standing sentry at the doors and petrified gargoyles standing sentry near the top. There is always someone coming or going, lending it the appearance of a giant, adamant beehive, where all the bees wear pantsuits and buzz, frenzied, into Bluetooth headpieces. Its banality is the best kind of fodder for a joyless misanthrope like Roman Gray. The term 'Superhero Headquarters' conjures up images of a big, floating castle made of alien crystal and the dreams of small children, but the reality is in fact an office building so utterly pedestrian that the word 'superhero' on the plaque appears to be a joke in bad taste. It's enough to make Roman smile, who is standing in front of the structure with his head craned back, in order to take in its full length. He wonders if the actual personalities are in there, Mr. Fantastic and EagleEye and Boltgirl and all the others, or if this is just the place they deposit their paperwork at. Probably the latter, by the looks of it.
Paperwork for a superhero. It's a concept nobody could possibly consider while absorbed in a comic book or a multi-million dollar grossing superhero flick, but it makes sense. Killing bad guys all the time, you've got to run into the occasional legal problem. It's one of those bad sides to something that sounds pleasant to you, something you don't notice until you actually experience it, Roman guesses. Like wanting to be a celebrity until you realize you won't get a moment's privacy from then on out, or dreaming about living deep in the woods, far from civilization, the job, the kids and the wife, until you realize you'd have to sleep in a tent and wipe your ass with poison oak. Something disgusting that drives you away if your will is not iron and your mind is not utterly set. Roman's will is less than immovable, and he might be coerced to leave for the right price, but at the moment he isn't really very good at anything else. So, why not? It may result in cash, and fame and glory as a nice bonus. Everyone loves a superhero. That's worth, he decides, even the ingloriousness of this office building.
He's here to physically meet with a representative of a superhero, an undisclosed one who may be interested in signing him on. That's a hallmark of success.
Paperwork for a superhero. It's a concept nobody could possibly consider while absorbed in a comic book or a multi-million dollar grossing superhero flick, but it makes sense. Killing bad guys all the time, you've got to run into the occasional legal problem. It's one of those bad sides to something that sounds pleasant to you, something you don't notice until you actually experience it, Roman guesses. Like wanting to be a celebrity until you realize you won't get a moment's privacy from then on out, or dreaming about living deep in the woods, far from civilization, the job, the kids and the wife, until you realize you'd have to sleep in a tent and wipe your ass with poison oak. Something disgusting that drives you away if your will is not iron and your mind is not utterly set. Roman's will is less than immovable, and he might be coerced to leave for the right price, but at the moment he isn't really very good at anything else. So, why not? It may result in cash, and fame and glory as a nice bonus. Everyone loves a superhero. That's worth, he decides, even the ingloriousness of this office building.
He's here to physically meet with a representative of a superhero, an undisclosed one who may be interested in signing him on. That's a hallmark of success.
