Agent W hovered three feet above the ground, her boots smoldering slightly from a fresh spell. Across the street, a ten-eyed alien warlord roared, swinging a plasma axe the size of a Prius. Without flinching, she stirred her latte with a crooked finger, muttered a charm, and—poof—he exploded into a very confused flock of pigeons. “Men,” she muttered, sipping her drink. “Always trying to invade without reading the room.”
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