Sonja Simpson felt underdressed.

Which was objectively ridiculous. Even before the Awakening she had always prided herself on a professional appearance. After taking on the salaried position with Barclay-Hoffmeyer, she had been able to step up from off-the-rack clothing to expensive tailors. The tan suit she wore now was one of her best, tailored especially for her in London. But the way these people were dressed made her look absolutely plain. The Kevlar, spandex, and leather ensembles (most of which in their entirety cost less than the sunglasses she wore) were in all sorts of gaudy collars and outrageous fashions. She cringed as one serious-looking man walked past with an enormous two-foot long collar extending past his head, making him look a little like a dog with a veterinary cone. She had to fight hard to suppress a giggle at that, but she had to admit that it had a certain grandeur and drama to it. Showmanship, that's what she was missing.

Maybe she didn't belong here, she thought to herself. As if on cue, a woman in neon pink and yellow tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, do you have any gluten-free options?" The stranger spoke imperiously, loudly, clearly. Sonja sighed to herself. Of course.

"I'm sorry, I'm not one of the caterers," she said patiently. Thank God she had already dropped off the case of wine she had brought as a gift for her hosts- excellent Nortons, Missouri's greatest contribution to viticulture. Otherwise there'd be no getting out of this one.

The stranger's brow wrinkled. "But you're dressed so plainly," she whined, confused. Sonja refrained from explaining exactly how much a genuine Nutters of Savile Row suit had cost, and instead turned and walked away in search of better company. 

It wasn't the clothes, Sonja decided as she milled through the crowd. Hell, that giant made of metal didn't even wear any. Sonja thought she recognized him, half-remembered from some news broadcast. From the Bay Area, maybe. There was a man who let his deeds speak for him, not his clothing.

That was it. Her record as the Spirit of St. Louis spoke for itself. She had taken down Dragan Musić and his whole Bosnian Mafia. She had liberated Forest Park when the 21st Century Schizoid Man had taken it hostage. She had magically dueled the alliance of the Somnambulist and Dr. Salieri in the haunted caves beneath the Lemp Mansion. And of course there had been the invasion of the catfish people. Yeah, she had earned her right to be here.

With a little more spring in her step, Sonja stopped at one of the empty tables. A young woman was there alone, enjoying a few slices of pizza. She was dressed plainly but practically, just black street clothes. For some reason that appealed to Sonja, and she sat down across from the younger woman. "Pizza any good?" she asked with a smile. "The Chicago style is pretty unpopular back home, but maybe I could give it a shot."