It becomes glaringly apparent that Michaela can't continue on without some sort of — she hesitates to use the word costume but the only other term that really applies is uniform, and she's not sure she's disciplined enough for that to work for her. She's seen Diego from the store twice now while out on patrol, and god, she's starting to feel bad for haranguing the Spider guy about his voice because she plummeted her own into an octave that made her sound like she hadn't spoken aloud in a year just to throw him off the scent. Her current get-up isn't doing it for her anymore, likely never has contributed much to her image anyway — sweats aren't as good as hiding her figure as she thought they'd be, and the hood-scarf combo gets in the way more than it ever really helps her.

She doesn't want to go to Daredevil's lengths (while his suit is badass, it's... gimmicky, and not her style; he's just so on the nose with it) but she'd like to maybe go a step farther than Spider-Man, who may also be relying on sweats but has a color scheme and a sigil going for him. Michaela likes his look, and yeah it could be improved upon, but who has money for that?

Which, where the fuck did Daredevil get his body armor from? That shit is custom made for sure, and unless he made it himself... well, it's not like she knows him. They've crossed paths a few more times in the aftermath of the gang shootout, sure, but they don't stand around and chitchat. So maybe he's secretly a billionaire like Stark, or. She would say funded by the government but, uh, that's unlikely, especially seeing as the news has been covering the grumblings of Congress over the validity of a group like the Avengers.

All this to say, she's in desperate need of a wardrobe change.

She's thought about it, considered her options. Luke Cage and Jessica Jones don't hide behind catchy hero names, and from what Michaela's seen of them in the news, there's no costume protecting their identities, either. They're not so much flaunting their powers as... reminding the world that they exist, that they're people, and Michaela respects the hell out of them for it. But she can't do that. She needs the alter ego, the barrier between her everyday life and the time when she's removed from that, doing what needs doing as best as she can.

God, her sanity wouldn't last two days if she pulled a Stark and just screamed that she's... well right now she'd be admitting to acting as Knock-Off Thor, because those assholes in the news have yet to give her a less insulting moniker. She'll work on that — she has plans for that fucking reporter, so many plans.

Unfortunately, for all her wishful thinking, the opportunity for a costume upgrade doesn't magically drop into her lap. So she shelves it for the time being, puts her energy into the problems she can solve right now. Namely, figuring out why Glasses has been coming into Cody's so often.

It's been a while since she first saw him, three months maybe, and she can't recall him ever coming in before that. So it's mildly strange that he's started visiting with any sort of consistency.

Michaela has her days, but when it comes to this, she's got her head on straight. He's not here for her, like romantically. From the chats they've had while she's ringing him up and trying not to offensively trip over his blindness in conversation, she's pretty sure he's got the hots for... Karen, the woman's name is Karen, but Michaela hasn't been able to piece together whether she's his secretary or what.

Glasses, aka Matt Murdock, is a lawyer, alongside his partner Foggy Nelson (who came in with him once, and Michaela had to admit that her throwaway assessment of him had been right on the money — he's nice, charmingly so, and he and Matt are clearly thick as thieves; their gentle ribbing of each other nearly gave her cavities it was so cute). Karen is there, in their firm, but she juggles a lot of tasks, apparently, and assists on cases when she can, so Michaela doesn't feel right relegating her to secretary; sounds like she's a lot more important to their work than that.

That doesn't mean she's ragging on secretaries, Christ, but.

Michaela rolls her eyes. How she manages to put her foot in it inside her own head, she'll never know.

But Matt, who actually insisted she call him that when they introduced themselves properly after the third time he'd walked up to her register. Matt's an interesting guy. Funny, just as charming as his partner. So incredibly Catholic, and Michaela's still not sure how they got onto that topic, but they did, and Matt had just laughed when she processed that information for a solid half minute, then blurted out that she's agnostic and she really, really hopes he doesn't think she's going to Hell. It was, understandably, not her finest moment, but at least Matt, still laughing a little to himself, assured her that he wasn't about to try and convert her. Besides, he'd said with a sly little smirk that Michaela kind of wanted to smack off his face, he didn't have his Bible on him. Can't do any Bible thumping without the good book itself.

He's a little shit sometimes and Michaela, categorically ignoring all her instincts and warning signs, finds herself looking forward to his visits with the sort of pathetic longing that's reminiscent of a regency novel heroine.

Karen's a thing, though, and even if she weren't in the picture Michaela wouldn't actually, you know, make a move, or whatever. Matt's a good guy, and he's not intimidatingly handsome (unlike a few heroes she could name, good lord, is being supernaturally gorgeous a requirement for joining the Avengers?), but Michaela doesn't go for lost causes. Matt's not interested in her in a romantic sense, so that's that.

Now if only she could explain why the fuck he does his weekly snack runs at Cody's, she'd be golden.

She counts herself lucky that today isn't a Matt Murdock day. What with all the nighttime shenanigans she's been getting into and the projects she's been busting her ass to finish on time, she's even more sleep deprived than usual, and there's a disturbingly high chance that, regardless of any lessons on social etiquette she's had drilled into her over the years, she might have just demanded he tell why he comes in so frequently. And there's also a high chance he wouldn't have just laughed that one off.

The shop's quiet for the last hour or so of her shift, which she considers a blessing. She's gotten better at not deliberately shocking customers, but it happens still sometimes and she's over having to paste that customer service smile on over her more natural grimace and apologize for all the accidents. Plus that means she's limiting her chances of snapping at someone for trying to sneak a bag of chips out in their pocket or their purse. It's like ninety-nine cents, and Michaela knows these people can afford it! They might actually exist just for the sake of making Michaela's life into a facsimile of Hell — that's her running theory at the moment, and no one's around to dissuade her from, so that's what she's sticking with.

Well, until Emmett walks in, cheeks ruddy from the cold and mouth stretched into a high-wattage smile that Michaela just knows means trouble. For her, specifically, because Matt Murdock might not interested in dating her, but the same cannot be said for this baby-faced freshman who has yet to learn what it looks like when a woman wants nothing to do with him.

The customer service smile makes a return appearance as she's untying her apron and hanging it on the hook behind the register. Emmett either can't tell the difference or— No, actually, she'd bet money on him not being able to discern a fake smile from a real one. He's naive like that, in a way that would make a nicer person want to coddle him, but for Michaela it just makes her want to chuck him into a trash can, Mean Girls style.

For reference, she was not a bully in high school. But that doesn't mean the urge to shove Emmett into a nonexistent locker is any less real.

"Hey, Michaela!" Emmett calls cheerily as he dons his own apron, side-stepping neatly into her space before she's had the chance to move out from the register. Michaela internally groans and wishes to holy hell that Lucia was on the roster today, because Lucia respects personal boundaries and also doesn't smell like she spends all her time in a men's restroom that happens to be fully stocked with Axe body spray.

That... might be too harsh, but whatever, Michaela stands by it. Her sinuses are so not happy with being this close to Emmett; it's about ten times worse than stepping through the perfume cloud at any given Macy's.

"Hey, Emmett, you're here early." Ten minutes early. Theoretically this wouldn't be a problem; Michaela could clock out a little earlier herself and be able to stop by the deli on the way home to grab dinner so that she's not stuck eating ramen for the third night in a row. Practically speaking, though, this is all because Emmett has a very obvious crush and Michaela may actually break out into hives if he's early because he wants to act on it. "How's... school."

Shit, now is not the time for polite chitchat; she blames her over-tired brain for spitting out the first nicety it could think of instead of giving the universal nod of I-acknowledge-your-existence-but-don't-want-to-socially-engage-with-you-please-have-a-nice-day. Typical.

Emmett outright beams and seems to move even closer to her, their shoulders nudging together. "School is awesome! One of my professors apparently goes way, way back with Tony Stark, so like, we're gonna get to tour Avengers Tower and maybe meet the Avengers. I might get to like, touch the Black Widow. How fuckin' wild would that be?"

As a newly-minted hero of the super variety, Michaela can say with certainty that none of the Avengers, the Black Widow least of all, would appreciate this kid making grabby hands at them. The Black Widow might feel inclined to pull that thigh-choking maneuver on him, which— no, no, that's bad, that would probably be a reward for Emmett. He's mentioned he likes strong women, but she's come to realize he likes physically strong women, you know, the kind that could literally kill him. And hey, no kinkshaming here, people are free to enjoy whatever they like as long as it's consensual, but. Uh. Emmett might actually die if he tries to put a hand on the Black Widow. Not ideal.

"Wild," she parrots back to him, at a loss for words, and not for the first time around Emmett. "Alright, well, that sounds exciting, but I gotta get going. Long walk back to—" Nope, not giving out even the general area of her apartment, not to this kid. "The subway," which is a pitiful lie, Cody's a block away from the nearest subway entrance, but Emmett just goes all doe-eyed at her, pouting, the whole nine yards, so clearly he's not making that connection. "See you tomorrow, have a good shift."

She's gotten good at navigating the landmines that are conversation with Emmett, so even though he tries to extend their talk while she's gathering her bag and striding for the door, she just hums to show she's heard and doesn't verbally respond. He gets the hint, but it's literally right when the door is closing behind her, calling out, "Bye, Michaela! Sleep tight!"

It's 7:00 pm but okay, sure. She'll sleep tight and make sure to double-check that all her doors and windows are locked down tight.

And that would be the end of it, probably, except Michaela lingers at the crosswalk, shifting on her feet restlessly as she waits for the light to change. She'd risk jaywalking but she doesn't exactly trust many of these drivers to make much of an effort to avoid her, so. Waiting it is.

She's content with that (or content as she can be when her body has been practically screaming at her to run now goddammit for the last six or seven hours), until some commotion stirs up behind her. The slam of a door, a high-pitched yell, tires screeching across the asphalt as someone slams down hard on the brakes. Michaela twists back on her heel, scanning the street for any sign of a threat; no car accidents, thank the lord, but there's a small crowd gathering across the street from—

The shop. What the fuck.

She was curious, initially, in that morbid way most people have — something bad happens, you turn to stare at it. But that ingrained response has been subtly changing since she got her start in the hero gig. Now when the curiosity strikes she goes on alert. Adrenaline starts trickling into her bloodstream, and she moves without thinking, doubling back the way she's come, close enough that she can get a look into the store through the glass panelling of the door.

There's Emmett, behind the register as he should be, but he's got his hands up, his face stricken, and—

Michaela really, really hates guns.

The growing crowd has at least a dozen cellphones on hand, so she leaves them to call the police as she ducks into the alley two stores down from Cody's, slinging her bag off her shoulder the moment she's out of their sightlines. Fuck, she doesn't have her scarf with her, had gone for her fluff-lined jean jacket instead of a hoodie this morning. She turns her bag inside out, desperate for something to hide her face; a myriad of useless shit clatters to the ground, her wallet, a notebook with illegible scribbles she keeps for godforsaken reason, what appears to be a half-eaten granola bar sans wrapper (gross), and — there! She snatches up the bandanna that must have been scrunched into a ball at the bottom of her bag and unfolds it, scrutinizing it for usability.

A few weeks back she'd gone to the gym under the guise of wanting to "bulk up" for superheroing, but, well, things hadn't gone all that smoothly. She hadn't done anything too stupid, like lift a shit-ton of weights without a spotter, but she had ramped up the settings on the treadmill by kind of... a lot, and subsequently face-planted on the scratchy gym floor for all the gym bros and some non-specific deity to gawk at. She'd worn the bandanna as a headband to catch most of her sweat, then promptly forgot about it when she decided the gym was not for her.

She grimaces now, staring at the bandanna. Wrinkled, which isn't too bad, but the sweat soaked into it had dried and it feels rough, and also smells... about as bad as Emmett. Ugh. Her sinuses are going to murder her in her sleep tonight, cut off her air supply or something as vengeance for all the indignity she's put them through today. Nevertheless, duty calls for sacrifice, so she quickly folds the bandanna and ties it around the lower half of her face. She also ditches the jacket and tucks it and her bag into the indent between two trash cans, hoping they'll be safe here until she can retrieve them.

The store doesn't have a back entrance, but the storage room does have a window that can't lock (it's been broken for as long as Michaela has worked there, and for once she doesn't want to strangle Cody for it), and Michaela jimmies it open with only a short string of curses and one broken nail, which she magnanimously ignores in favor of getting a foothold in the chipped brickwork of the building and hauling herself through the window.

The storage room hasn't been cleaned in approximately thirty years, and there's an inch-thick layer of dust on everything from a Kermit-green armchair that has no business being in the back room of a convenience store to the overflowing shelves of plastic-wrapped bags of chips and questionable energy drinks. Closer to the door is where they store things that generally make it out into the store, and the dust there is still visible but ranks lower as a health code violation. Michaela stifles a sneeze as she eases the door open a crack, peering out.

It's a straight shot from the front door to the storeroom, the aisles and the register bracketing a clear stretch of floorspace that's meant to make is easier to unload deliveries. Right now it lets Michaela see the ski mask-wearing asshole currently holding up Cody's, gun pointed squarely at Emmett's pale, sweaty forehead. Fuck. Emmett's a mess, fumbling to empty the register while the asshole barks orders at him. He's not hurt though, from what Michaela can see — she'll take what good fortune she can get with this level of fuckery.

She takes a deep breath. No point in delaying this, staying in here any longer isn't going to magically wash away her nerves. So. In the immortal words of Shia Labeouf: just do it.

Scratch that — Michaela's just thought of a less suicidal plan.

Propping the door open with a stray can of Cambell's soup, Michaela shuffles around along the edge of the room until she nearly knocks her head into the breaker box. She doesn't know jackshit about electrical engineering, or anything really beyond knowing to flip breakers when the lights cut off, but hey, she figures if she sticks her sparking hand against the wiring something exciting will happen.

She's not wrong.

Michaela lights up a hand and presses her palm to the breaker box's innards — there's a pop, some sizzling, sparks fly like confetti, and then the store is plunged into darkness. Someone out front shouts, something breaks, glass shattering into tinkling fragments against the ground. Two gunshots but no answering cry, which Michaela takes a good enough sign to slip out from the storeroom and — Daredevil said she should practice long-distance fighting, right, so why not start with some target practice?

There's enough ambient light from the front windows that Michaela can make out the hulking silhouette of the asshole, because, she assumes, Emmett had made the executive decision to hit the deck once the lights went out. Michaela skulks forward, low, her steps careful. The asshole swings the gun from side to side, as if expecting someone to pop out of the aisles behind him, or maybe Emmett to make some grand heroic gesture. As it is, she can tell he hasn't noticed her yet, and she takes advantage of that, letting lightning spring to life in her hand again, arcing between her fingers, the noise of it high-pitched but soft, muffled. Barely enough to make you turn your head—

Michaela lets the lightning go at the same time that the asshole swings the gun in her direction. It's like it happens in slow motion — blue streaks of electricity uncoil from her hand, lancing across the space between them; she sees them, just for a moment, flicker and stutter along their path, tendrils licking at the metal of the gun (too much plastic casing to properly draw it in, she thinks, distantly); and then impact. The asshole freezes where he stands, briefly lit up like a Christmas tree; he shudders, the gun falling from his twitching fingers, and then his body folds, knees smacking into the floor, before gravity does the rest and has him falling face-first next to his gun.

She lets out a breath, her own shudder running through her, but she only allows herself a few seconds to get her bearings before she darts forward and kicks the gun out of reach. The asshole doesn't look like he's getting to his feet anytime soon, but she learned that lesson the hard way, and she won't be making that particular mistake anytime soon.

"Oh my god."

Oh my god, she thinks, jerking upright, her head snapping around to see Emmett peeking his head above the cash register, wide brown eyes sparkling with tears and panic. It's dark, okay, it's dark, the bandanna is on, he's not going to realize who he's looking at. Don't freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out—

"You- You're... Knock-Off Thor!"

Michaela's jaw clenches, her teeth grinding together. Damn that son of a bitch reporter.

"That is..." She hisses out a stilted breath. "Not my name. You can... you can call me Blackout." What had her professors called her, derivative? So what, she caused two blackouts, the name fits better than anything else on the tip of her tongue, she's going with it. Kiss my ass, Professor Anders.

Sticking around isn't going to do her any favors; yeah, the police response time is shit but they'll get here eventually, and she needs to be long gone before then. Plus the longer she stays here, the more likely it is that Emmett will get past his shock and look a little closer at her and no thank you, not today. She's been a vigilante for how long? No need to have her alter ego discovered just yet. And, speaking as someone who has seen entirely too many action movies, she really, really does not need Emmett to be her de facto love interest. Just... no.

"Wait! Holy shit don't leave me alone right now!"

"You'll be fine!" Michaela assures him even while she's running for the storage room. Her voice, much to her chagrin, is pitched as low as she can make it. Her heart goes out for Spider-Man, it really does. "I would advise not, you know, going near that guy, or his gun, or, well, letting him get near his gun either. But he'll be unconscious for a while... probably. You'll be fine," she says again, bright-eyed and quite glad that Emmett can't see the entirety of her expression, because she is not smiling reassuringly. Closer to a tense, jittery frown, the kind you wear when you're hopped up on too much caffeine, and that's not good for morale, she figures.

She manages to make it outside, shuts the window behind her and rips the bandanna from her face, stuffing it into the nearest dumpster. It's a short jog back to where she stashed her bag and jacket, and then she's smoothing out the wrinkles, shuttering her nerves and quiet pride underneath a world-weary expression that best communicates that she is more than done with the world for the day. It's not hard to fake, given that she'd been wearing the exact same expression about twenty minutes ago when she first walked out of the store, and it's not like she isn't done with the world right now. That's just... overshadowed by the strangely giddy mix of emotions she has bubbling in her chest, the adrenaline still singing in her veins.

Snug in her jacket, her bag secure over her shoulder, she lets herself break into a quick, fluttery smile before it all goes back under the mask as she skips down the steps to the subway platform. She did good today. Makes her think she's not a total failure with this hero thing, that maybe she can make a difference like that.

Well, one thing at a time. And for her, the next step is getting herself a real bonafide superhero costume.

She might have to make some inquiries with Daredevil afterall. His taste in costumes might be a little outlandish, but hell if she's gonna argue that he works that dramatic flair just right.