In a world torn between heroes and villains, it can be a dangerous and hostile place. Some take comfort in the Gifted that stand up against those who would use their powers for greed and chaos. While others choose to hide away, fearful of the day...
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"Sir, I haven't spoken with Civic yet, but I hope you'll allow me to skip that formality so we can move as soon as possible towards a solution."
"That's an awful lot of words just to say you want to say something," grumbled Dom, his own words dragging out in a lazy drawl over his loose lips. "Just spit it out."
He leaned over his desk, his head balanced in his palm, which was supported by an elbow braced upon the tabletop. His other hand rested on the mouse of his computer while his finger scrolled the wheel and his blank eyes looked past the computer screen. He started out with intentions to investigate Fortress's press release about the Abyssal, or Purr-seus as his staff called it. They assured the public that it was no longer a threat and that they were close to discovering the source of the apparition. However, after determining that Fortress was playing their cards close to their chest, Dominic's attention got diverted by a link about his recent party. Then about robots, and then about cats riding robots, and at that point he wasn't even sure where he was anymore.
"You need to sleep, sir."
"No shit," he mumbled in reply. "I have slept though."
"I don't qualify you passing out on the study sofa for a couple hours as sleeping." Walt's eyes darted over to the couch that wasn't even long enough for Dom to lie out on without his feet dangling over the armrest. "You need to return to your room and sleep for at least eight hours in a proper bed. So long as you are headed that way, I can get Civic to provide a sedative to help silence any thoughts..."
"And what thoughts do you think are preventing me from sleeping?" snarled Dom, whose growl was just as pathetic as his bite, at least in this situation. Walt didn't even blink, and Dom returned his gaze to the screen where a kitten was riding a turtle. "Don't pretend you know my thoughts," mumbled the tired tycoon in one last stab at displaying his dominance.
"So, it was wrong of me to presume that your lack of sleep is stemming from the fact Ms. Hart left your bedroom in a hurry and with tears in her eyes after the party?"
"She's clearly still mad that I killed her!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air before collapsing into a heap on top of his desk. He buried his face in the bends of his arms so Walt couldn't see the shame riddling his features. "I can't take that back."
"Considering you didn't actually kill her, it certainly seems possible."
"It's the intent, Walt." Though his words were muffled by his lips' proximity to the thick wood of his desk, he knew his talented assistant wouldn't have any difficulty hearing him.
"I can't presume Ms. Hart's feelings..."
"But mine you can," interrupted Dom.
"I've known her for only six months and half the time I was working under the assumption she was dead. You, however, I've had the honor of knowing for two decades."
