Gwen sometimes wished that her abilities had a little more inherent violence to them. It wasn’t that she wanted to hurt people, not even close—it was more that the thought of the release it would afford her, that maybe when she was feeling pent up or felt like she was hitting a wall, she could just fire off a fucking laser from her fingertips or punch through solid brick and feel better. Instead of that, however, Gwen had been trying other things, going on runs until she could barely feel her legs or working out until her arms trembled. That day, she didn’t find the release she was looking for from any of it. She figured that sitting outside would at least be better than nothing, so she sat on the back steps leading into the mansion with a water bottle in hand and too little clothing on her body, pretending that everything was just how she wanted it to be. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over how huge this place is,” she said absently when she heard someone approaching. “Like. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much green outside of Citi Field.” She paused. “I guess in 1973 it’s actually Shea Stadium.”
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