Vic Martel picked the needle off the Willie Nelson record that had been the soundtrack to her life for the last couple hours. Being surrounded by music and music lovers at all hours was the benefit of working at a record store, but it was up to the customers what played. While Vic could appreciate some country, it was usually just before bed when she was about to fall asleep, not when she was trying to stay alert at work. The fact that it was a slow day didn't help, either.
She dragged the sign off the streets and trudged down the alley the entrance to the shop was hidden down. Ignoring someone leaning against the wall across from her smoking, she entered through the unassuming door on the side of the brick building and locked it behind her. A single yellow light bulb lit up the stairwell, casting her shadow against the walls heavily plastered with posters upon posters. She hated the entrance to her work. The stairs were too narrow and the walls hugged them too tightly. She used these stairs to torture herself, ascending them as slowly and purposefully as she could. Her shadow crept with her. She kept her eyes on the weak daylight above, ignoring the shadows and the crushing lack of space. It was time for her to get over this. Besides, at least they were stairs, not an elevator.
Once out of that horrible place, Vic made a beeline to the small radio on the side of the counter. She turned it on and tuned it to the local rock station, nearly smiling when she heard the trance-inducing sounds of The Velvet Underground. Rock and Roll was definitely the genre and song to refresh her palate after all that country. She swung her head and mouthed the upbeat lyrics as she flicked notes through her fingers, cashing up for the day.
Soon she was plugging in the vacuum cleaner and was about to turn it on when she heard a familiar base line crackling through the radio's speakers. She slowly rose from the ground and stared at the little mechanism. At the first crash of a symbol, her dulled eyes brightened.
“Her lips are ice cold,” a distinctive voice sung, “Baptized in ethanol... and I wonder, if I'll bring her back tonight -”
Vic sprang at the radio, turning it up as loud as it could go. It boomed over the noise of the vacuum as she rocked her heart out around the store, thrashing to the beat of her own drumming.
By the time she got home, the sun was setting. Her aunt had left out some spaghetti to be warmed up for her. She worked the night shift at the children's hospital and was already gone. Vic plonked her bag on the kitchen table and jogged up the stairs to her room. Vic's room was one that appeared messy at first, but in actuality if you took a closer look you'd see she took care of her living quarters. Band posters were scattered over the walls and clothes hung from hangers from nearly everything. A terrarium hosting two hermit crabs sat on her desk beside her laptop and an empty bottle of creaming soda. Vic tossed the bottle into the recycling bin in the corner of her room and sprinkled food pellets into the terrarium, stroking the shells of the crabs affectionately. A breeze tickled the back of her neck and she turned to the ajar window. She pulled open the black curtains then opened the windows up further. The breeze was cold but comforting, a perfect night to fly.
Vic shut her eyes and breathed before bringing her hands in front of her and focusing. Slowly, the particles from her fingertips began to disperse. She watched them float and become nothing, the anomaly beginning to travel its way up her arms. She looked down to she was no longer standing - her feet were gone, and her legs were going. Soon, she appeared to be completely gone.,, but she wasn't. She was Nobody. Vic passed through the open window into the sky. She traveled past the suburbs and over the city, to the canvas on which the squabbles of hero and villain took place. As Nobody, Vic watched. She slipped through the conflicts leaving only the faint scent of licorice behind her. She considered revealing herself to some and joining in a supernatural scuffle she happily watched unfold, but was too tired to go through the hassle. Instead, she took joy in bothering innocent people with strong breezes. When she had enough, she flew home, became Vic again, ate her spaghetti, watched a hilariously bad 90s horror movie and went to bed.
Such was the life of a parahuman whose ambitions laid in the mundane.