Marc Svenson was leaning against a vending machine, doing god-knows-what on his phone. On the job. It was nothing surprising. He was a sower of disorganization and interpersonal drama around HQ, but on the field… he was someone else entirely.

A little convinced he was somehow the Protagonist Of Life, sure, but competent. A good, competitive fighter, a charismatic leader only a few steps away from Rikk… And he was good to know casually, too. Only casually. Anything more would only cause Infinite Strife, which was not typically something you wanted from an intimate partner. Or even a close friend.

But he ALWAYS killed the baddies and he ALWAYS had the best witty comebacks. And he was HANDSOME probably, and he was LIKED BY PEOPLE, and he was IMPORTANT, so really there was nothing wrong with him at all.

… As he’d seen himself until a week ago, at least.

“MARC HUGO SVENSON!” Yelled someone, from down the hall. “YOU FORGOT TO TURN IN YOUR FUCKING REPORTS AGAIN.”

he didn't look up, even as footsteps approached, eyes remaining fixed on god-knows-what.

“Marc. I swear to god if you don't PAY ATTENTION to me I'll fucking faze you.”

Nothing.

Someone, somewhere, snapped their fingers.

He looked up.

It was Hilda Ramirez, of course, standing an inch from his face. Dressed in a crossword-print shirt (of course those existed), v-neck shirt, and jeans, with an oversized belt buckle, engraved with some pastoral scene.

They weren't needed in the field today, which was a blessing- for her. As Marc saw it, it just made him as good as useless.

“The forms, Marc, about your fight with Irving Riffington. You haven't handed them in yet.”

“Oh, I have.”, he explained, with all the confidence of someone who had never had to work for anything in his life.

“Then why don't the people at archival have them!? I swear, they yelled my ears off about it! My. Ears. Not yours.”

“Look, okay, maybe I haven't.” Marc’s quick thinking came in handy again. “Written them, that is. Maybe whatever happened was really damn traumatic and I don't want to fill out paperwork about it.”

Hilda shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and pointer finger. “Then talk to a therapist about it, or at least tell them why you can't.”

“Yeah, whatever- Marc’s nerve-addled brain took a second too long to process what he'd just heard. - - wait… you're telling me I can get out of writing reports just by saying I have trauma!? Oh my god! You're a lifesaver, Hilda!”

He clapped her on the back. Her facial expression only soured.

“Marc- yes- of course they- she sighed. -just don't go abusing that, okay? It's an actual damn support. For people, y'know, like me.” She pointed at herself, at her still and probably eternally paranoid self.

She turned away from him, and walked on.

“Oh, come on, not even a goodbye!?” He called after her, hoping to raise the mood.

“Goodbye.” She said, voice so sour it almost looked hand-lettered. Maybe it was. Marc was no good at telling these things.

“Wow, PMS much!?” He mumbled to himself. And paused, before punching himself in the arm. “No. Fuckin’ - you're not supposed to say that shit, man. Get it together, Marc, get. It. Together.”