"Shit shit shit," I mumble, bursting through the front door of the house. I'm fucked if Lucille sees me like this. Well, not literally-- that would be... something. Not in a bad way though, I mean that in the best way possible. Lord, why am I even considering that at this point. I should be focusing on the issue at hand, not dwelling on a word and its double entendre.

It's so hard getting a costume off. I really don't know how Clark Kent ever pulls off wearing his suit under his regular clothes. Maybe, it's because his suit is spandex because it's never as easy to switch clothes as it is presented in the movies. The movies are a lie.

In a world where zippers are virtually non-existent, one would wonder how the superheroes ever got their clothing off.

Unfortunately for me, I'm not animated enough to pull weapons out of thin air. I have to make holsters and compartments to accommodate mine, making them heavier and more difficult to take off. Nonetheless, I start yanking off my attire as fast as I can, heading towards my room.

I manage to get the upper half of the costume off and breathe out a sigh of relief-- then I remember the bomb. Well, I don't know whether it's really a bomb, and I've been trying to figure out what it does for the past two days. Turns out, it might be of importance-- if Ecstasy trying to murder me  is any indication.

I dropped it on the sofa when I first entered. I have to get it before Lucille walks through the front door-- or maybe the window if she's feeling a bit nostalgic. Cue my ugly snort.

Returning from my little adventure with the clearly murderous supervillain, I saw her walking up the block a couple of feet ahead of me. That is what prompted me to run till my heart beat its protests and I couldn't catch a full breath. That is why I'm currently panicking.

I discard the attachments on the bottom-half of my costume, stumbling into the living room and darting straight for the sofa. The device is not on it-- neither is it on any of the others.

I'm throwing cushions out of the sofas and scrambling to find the bomb when I hear, then see the knob of the front door turn. Immediately, I shove all the cushions back as fast as I can, while commanding the TV on and plopping down in a position that won't scream 'Panic! Of The Black Guy' when Lucille enters.

She does, a microsecond later, and I pretend to be enraptured by the TV, even though I'm more concerned about still wearing my too-tight suit pants. At least they lean towards the casual category of clothing, I hope.

As she shuts the door behind her, Lucille's eyes shift to my feet which are still clad in boots. She doesn't say a word as she stares  at the dusting of red earth I had dragged in with me. Shit, I probably trailed it all the way to my room too.

"You went out?" She finally asks.

"Yes. For a drink, out with... friends."

Her brown eyes regard me even as she nods, as if she doesn't fully believe me. To prevent further interrogation, I bring up my own question.

"Work was alright?"

"Work?" Her eyes go wide and her body stiffens for the fraction of a second. "Oh, work. It was eventful, kinda. Rush hour, haha." She leans back and runs her long fingers through her hair which looks patted down. "I'm so exhausted I could pass out any moment."

I nod too, digesting the information she gives me. Lucille works at a coffee shop three blocks away-- what she told me when I asked about her job.

"You can go to bed then, it's quite late." That would give me a chance to find the device and chance into more comfortable clothes. She has other plans though.

"Nah, I'll keep you company," Lucille says, dropping into another of the sofas, leaning back and placing the backpack she's always with, next to her. "I need to clear my system of the horrors associated with customer service. Some people are freaking unbearable."

I agree with a nod, standing up. "I'll get this cleaned up, watch what you want." On my way to get a broom, I can't stop thinking about how curt my words were. Does she find it suspicious or anything?

It seems she doesn't. When I return, she's laying on her side, remote in her hand as she flips through several channels. I sweep up the sand that litters the floor. Turns out, I was right about trailing it with me to my bedroom. After making sure every visible speck is gone, I slip into sweats and a tank top.

Lucille is watching the news when I sit and I wonder how old she is. I don't think I've willingly watched the news in my life. Read about it? Sure. Watch it? Big pass. But I sit tight and keep my thoughts to myself.

A reporter stands in front of the camera, pointing to the destruction happening behind her. The fire. The collapsing slabs of metal and glass. I appear in one of the shots and the camera zooms in. I don't look half-bad and I think of commenting on the new hero's looks when Lucille scoffs.

I'm not sure I heard her right but she speaks again, I realize that I wasn't mistaken. "Another one gets his 'five minutes of fame' debut."

I guess she really meant to scoff.

"Huh?" I ask, not really meaning to.

"That guy, over there." She points to the image of me leading people to safety. "I mean, the heroes could be doing so much more instead of these trivial jobs. The police and fire service exist for a reason."

"The police and fire service can't handle some of the... criminals that lurk in the shadows."

"I don't see any criminal on the news, do you?" Lucille lifts her sculpted eyebrows, and passes me a challenging look.