EXT. BEACH - DAY
CU of NISSA dressed in swimsuit, sitting in demure pose on what appears to be a bronze rock.
PULL BACK to reveal the bronze rock is actually the bicep of FLEX LUTHOR.
Nissa turns her glare from the script on her personal comm unit to the guilty eyes of her agent.
“They want me to sit on Flex Luthor’s bicep while the two of us are in swimsuits? Like, seriously, Bob?”
The agent is sweating, likely because he’s wearing a regular suit under the summer sun. It can’t possibly be the knee-high diva standing on the picnic table, being disagreeable again.
Bob replies, “You’re not a child model anymore, Miss van Donk. We discussed this. You told me you’re comfortable in your own skin.”
“It’s his skin that’s making me uncomfortable, Bob! The very thought of my butt parked on Flex Luthor’s oiled muscle makes my skin crawl.”
“So shall we cancel then? You might want to sleep on that. PR for superheroes is a lucrative prospect. And I’m sorry to say that sex sells. You never complained about those poses for the Clearweave ad.”
Nissa blushes. “That ad was cute, though. And it was just me in a bunch of sexy outfits. But this bit with Luthor isn’t sexy—it’s sexist.” It’s not lost on Nissa that her stereotypical hands-on-hips body language is diminishing her hear-me-roar moment. “Why not have me with a female superhero?”
“You mean you would prefer to sit on the Vermilion Vixen’s lap?” He contemplates the image in his head. “Hmm... that’s actually pretty hot.”
“Bob! No! I don’t want to sit on anyone’s bare, bulging muscle! I want something… wholesome!”
The agent laughs a few tears—and forces himself to regain his composure. “You’re a role model, Miss van Donk. You think of the children and teenage girls that look up to you. Yes! That’s how we’ll play it.”
Bob laughs, but not as hard this time. “Spoken like a pristine maiden.” Ignoring the look in Nissa’s ice blue eyes, the agent goes on in a businesslike manner. “Get some sun, if you like, Miss Donk. You’ll be with fashionista Addy Lane this evening, modeling her excrement petite line.”
“You mean extrêmement petite.”
“Same difference. You’ll work with other models. Gnomes. Twin sisters. They’re feisty,” he warns.
HOURS LATER, AT BOSTON THEORETICAL…
Nissa is sitting on what appears to be a bronze rock. Tears rain from her eyes, like drops of molten gold streaming from two miniature suns.
“So he… he warned me about a couple of mean girls—and *sniff* they’re kinda sweet, actually. B-but no one warned me about this!”
The ‘bronze rock’ Nissa is sitting on is, in fact, Flex Luthor’s well-tanned flesh. Nissa is not on his bicep. She is seated in the palm of his hand. The twin gnomes are there, as is the Vermilion Vixen.
Studying the extrêmement petite model, the Vixen says, “Whatever happened to ye, the folks here can help ye sort it all out.”
Flex Luthor adds, “You’ll make an excrement superhero too, little lady.”
“Excellent,” Nissa replies, her voice like a tiny bell to those towering over her inches-tall form. “Or maybe you didn’t misspeak. I’m no hero. I never did anything great, and I don’t even have an origin story! What the heck is happening to me?”
As if in reply, a door opens. Behind it is, perhaps, answers.