(no subject)

Amalgamated Temporary Employment Inc.
10:25 A.M.

It's the day after The Incident and Wendy is wearing her look-how-corporate-and-professional-I-can-be outfit, pantyhose and all, the most genuine smile she can manage plastered across her face. Her one job is indefinitely on hold – a headline-making 'gas explosion' can do that to a research lab – but fingers crossed there will be someone else out there looking for an art school grad with an eye for detail and the capability to type seventy-five words per minute.

Hopefully.

Wendy is contemplating how much she truly hates pantyhose when words from the stern-looking manager across the desk snap her back to reality.

"...And the police say the explosion by a lighter." This woman can say anything and make it sound about as thrilling as a root canal. "A polished silver Zippo lighter with a DC-3 airplane engraving."

"My dad's lucky lighter?" Wendy asks. Her frozen smile melts somewhat.

For someone so bored, the woman is sharp. "So you know something about it."

"Oh – you don't think that --" Wendy stutters to a stop. The manager's expression shows that clearly, she does think that. "Oh, come on! I was just fidgeting with that lighter. It's like an OCD thing! Only... different."

This is going on her file, isn't it.

Wendy tries a different tactic. "Okay. Look. I have three credit cards that are about to pop at the seams and my mother's on me twenty-four seven to quit painting, move back to Orlando, meet a good man, eat fried foods, swell up like a tick and start squeezing out calves like Elsie mainlining fertility drugs. Do we understand each other?"

The response comes in a mononous drone, as the manager searches through her desk drawer. "Until we can be certain that one of our temps didn't burn down her last place of employment while playing with fire, there's nothing I can do." She pulls out a cigarette.

"Okay, A: When my father’s DC-3 tragically crashed under as-of-yet unexplained and mysterious circumstances, I swore that I would never lose the only memento he left behind. Which brings me straight to B: I did not cause that explosion."

For a moment the manager doesn't respond, her cigarette held out towards Wendy. When neither of them moves, she cocks and eyebrow. "Can't find your lighter?"

Wendy snaps. "Okay, you want the truth? Those idiots were working on some whacked-out genetic experiment that went completely bonkers and this monster made out of body parts attacked me and then this Middleman guy showed up and told me he’d kill me."

The door blows open, slamming back against the wall, and in the glare of sudden light Wendy sees the broad-shouldered shape of the strange man from the lab. He gives a quick pitying shake of his head as he lowers his ridiculously oversized blaster weapon directly at her head.

"Sorry, ma’am. I warned you."

And the world goes white.

-- No, wait. Bad plan.

Wendy doesn't snap.

Instead she sighs, offering a polite smile despite the manager's cold stare. "I get it. Thank you."

She'll have to try somewhere else instead.