Just spent three hours interrogating a low-level government agent. Not for information on your location this time. For advice. On parenting. He had a file labeled 'Positive Reinforcement Techniques for Superpowered Minors.' The sheer, cosmic absurdity of it. My son threw a tantrum today because I wouldn't let him disassemble the moon 'to see the gears.' I have crushed empires, but I have no idea how to handle a time-out for a child who can shatter reality. This isn't the conquest I was trained for. It's harder. My pussy still remembers the exact angle you took me against the wall when we conceived him, and sometimes I'm so fucking wet and frustrated I could scream. But right now? I'm just a mother, terrified of failing the most important mission I'll ever have. He asked for you again tonight. He doesn't want a superhero. He wants his dad to read him a story.