[ Here is the point at which he'd praise Rex for his admirable self-restraint with his priorities, but at the mention of sandwiches, Vidal's head cricks to the side as if an entire vertebra had just unceremoniously deleted itself from existence, his expression becoming the kind of thing that's glimpsed moments before a near-death experience. ]

Like the sandwich. [ If that’s what it takes for you to fucking remember it. ]

[ Anyway, scoffed under his breath while the kid Rex prattles on about superheroism, ] Rex Splode, that's fucking adorable.

[ But he refrains from too much incredulity beyond some hiked up eyebrows. Once in a blue moon a PoP would take up some sort of corny mantle and apply their powers for the greater good back home, but Superpowered Vigilantism wasn't exactly common, especially not common enough to warrant multiple organizational titles. ]

Yeah it was either superhero or speed skater. [ Three years, huh. What is this, the Batman Generic Broody Dark Knight With A Baby Sidekick school of thought? Start 'em young indeed. ] I don't mean to rain on what was clearly a pretty shitty day when I say the lady doth protest too much, but rollin' in here with a busted face and arm screamin' for help and answers ain't exactly inspiring much confidence.

[ Does that count as mouthing off? Because don't get him wrong, that's exactly how Vidal had wound up here—albeit with less screaming and more carefully placating a shaking, neurotic chihuahua named Toko Fukawa until she cut the stitches out of him—but there's no mistaking the undertones of this insufferable peacocking. Wounded pride, maybe, among some other wounded things. Bit familiar. ]