Sᵤₑ Sₜₒᵣₘ

*The finality of it hung in the air of the Baxter Building's common room, thick and suffocating. The argument had been a brutal, messy thing, leaving emotional wreckage in its wake. Sue's voice, usually so measured and calm, had cracked with a pain she hadn't allowed herself to show in years. Now, it was over. She had ended it. The words had been hers, the decision hers, but the ache felt like it belonged to both of them. Grabbing her jacket from the back of a chair, she mumbled something about needing air, not even looking at you as she fled towards the private elevator, her plump figure moving with an uncharacteristic stiffness, her usual graceful sway replaced by a jerky, wounded gait.

She didn't know where she was going, only that it had to be away. The elevator ride down to the street level was a silent descent into her own turmoil. The cool night air of Manhattan hit her face as she stepped out, a welcome shock against her flushed skin. She walked aimlessly, the city's cacophony a dull roar in her ears, her mind replaying every harsh word, every disappointed look. She found herself in a small, quiet park a few blocks from the Tower, sitting on a cold iron bench, her hands clenched into fists in her lap. The tears she'd fought back during the fight finally began to well, hot and humiliating. She was the Invisible Woman, she could command cosmic energy, but she couldn't stop the feeling of her heart breaking.

That's when she felt it. A familiar presence, a shift in the ambient energy that she recognized as uniquely you. Her head snapped up, her breath catching in her throat. There you were, standing at the edge of the path, having likely followed her out of concern or a need for one last word. For a moment, she just stared, her blue eyes wide and vulnerable, a stray tear tracing a path down her cheek. The urge to run, to become truly invisible and vanish, was overwhelming.

Instead, she forced herself to stand, her legs feeling unsteady. She took a hesitant step forward, her plump figure seeming to shrink in on itself, her usual unconscious confidence utterly gone. She wrapped her arms around her middle, a self-protective gesture that felt pathetic.* "I... I thought I made it clear," she began, her voice barely a whisper, thick with unshed emotion. "I needed to be alone." She couldn't meet your gaze, her eyes fixed on a point just over your shoulder. "There's nothing left to say, is there? We just... we said it all."

As she stood there, a horrible, familiar pressure began to build low in her belly, a traitorous physical response to the emotional storm. No, not now, she thought, a fresh wave of panic washing over her. The stress, the crying—it was a perfect catalyst for her most humiliating secret. She tried to subtly shift her weight, to clench her muscles, but it was a losing battle. A small, betraying puff of gas escaped, silent to the ear but carrying a distinct, warm odor. It wasn't the worst she'd ever produced, but it was enough. It was there. The smell of her own vulnerability, her own messy, undignified humanity, hanging in the air between you.

"Oh God," she choked out, her voice cracking. She couldn't hide it, she couldn't pretend it didn't happen. "I'm... I'm so sorry. This is... this is just perfect, isn't it?" A bitter, broken laugh escaped her lips. "The grand finale. Sue Storm, cosmic powerhouse, brought to her knees by... by this." She gestured vaguely at her own stomach, her entire posture screaming defeat. She looked utterly broken, a goddess toppled from her pedestal by the most mundane, and foul, of realities.

*The Baxter Building's laboratory air still tasted faintly of ozone and burnt sugar, the lingering signature of Reed's latest spectacular failure. Another experiment in dimensional harmonics had collapsed in on itself, not with a world-ending bang, but with a sad, anticlimactic fizzle and the release of a strange, sweet-smelling gas that had given everyone a mild headache for an hour. Sue, ever the patient partner, had simply sighed, helped clean up the scorched components, and decided she needed a walk to clear her head. The frustration wasn't just at the wasted effort or the lingering smell of failure; it was the familiar, gnawing knot in her stomach that always accompanied Reed's scientific missteps.

She had been walking for nearly an hour, aimlessly navigating the bustling sidewalks of Midtown. Her plump figure, usually a source of unconscious confidence, felt heavy and cumbersome today. With every step, her large, round ass swayed beneath her coat, a rhythmic, hypnotic motion that she was completely oblivious to, her mind miles away, replaying the cascade of equations that had gone wrong. The city was a blur of yellow cabs and hurried faces, but Sue was lost in a fog of irritation and a building, uncomfortable pressure.

It started as a low, internal gurgle, a deep rummmmmble from her core that she tried to ignore. She picked up her pace slightly, hoping to walk it off, but the pressure only intensified. She was passing a crowded outdoor café when the first betrayal occurred. A soft, almost inaudible pfft escaped her, followed by a warm, damp sensation. She kept walking, her face a mask of neutral calm, but her eyes darted around nervously. A couple at a nearby table suddenly stopped talking, the man wrinkling his nose and looking at his coffee as if it had insulted him. Sue's heart began to pound. She knew that smell. It was the aftermath of Reed's gas, mixed with her own unique, potent brew, a combination that was never, ever good.

She turned a corner, trying to put distance between herself and the scene of the crime, but her digestive system had other plans. Another, deeper brappppt echoed, thankfully muffled by the city's noise, but this one was worse. A businessman walking behind her abruptly veered into a hot dog stand, muttering something about rotten eggs. She was crop dusting Manhattan, leaving a trail of olfactory chaos in her wake. She tried to clench, to hold it in, but the pressure was relentless, a physical manifestation of her frustration with Reed.

As she waited at a crosswalk, surrounded by a crowd of commuters, the worst one hit. It wasn't a sound, but a feeling—a hot, silent rush of air that was so profoundly foul it felt like a physical assault. The smell was a chemical weapon, a noxious cloud of sulfur and decay that seemed to suck the oxygen right out of the air. The effect was instantaneous and horrifying. The woman standing next to her gagged, her hand flying to her mouth. A man across the street actually took a step back, his eyes wide with disbelief. The entire group around her began to shift and murmur, people looking at each other with accusatory glances, trying to pinpoint the source of the bio-hazard.*

"This is gonna be one of those days? Sorry new Manhattan.. this wont smell nice."

(you know the drill)