Lisa/Fury
Eeermageeeerd!! The press - and I'm wearing garbage clothes!
Lisa was hiding a slight panic attack as they arrived upon the bridge, only to find a mob of the press swarming around them and wanting a post-battle interview. Lisa, for all of her red-rage might, looked like what she was: a late 20s/early 30s woman, a little wide-eyed, deer-caught-in-the-headlights lacing, and wearing the tattered remains of her clothes. Nothing scandalous, of course, she had a black, lycra suit beneath it for when she got tall, larger and juicer, but still. As the only woman in the group, she could already mentally imagine the scathing, smug chitter-chatter about her atrocious regalia, the insinuations already running across her skin like sharp needles.
And so, when the press semi-circled around her, phones flashing, Lisa just kept her head slightly down, offered glib and polite little smiles and moved away as best she could, waiting for a 'lift' back to their HQ and away from prying eyes...