A headache...that was what Betty was feeling at the moment. While it didn't come out as a surprise to her...all the times she had drunk, she had suffered the same symptoms of a hangover, it still came out as uncomfortable. It didn't help that this Wednesday – statistically the day with most suicides (and she could see why, knowing she was still in the middle of the week) – Another super villain had decided to attack. She hated Mondays, yes, but Wednesdays? While not as bad, she still knew that she had to work. She left herself remind of what had happened last Monday, as expected she had been screamed at. Between threats to her budget, blaming, and asking just why the "hell" she was being paid for, she had shut herself off the conversation. She knew she had to have patience, but it came to a certain point where that side of the president...the one the common American didn't see, tired her.

And after a day of freedom, returning to the same job was kind of revolting. She looked at all the paperwork she had to do next, one day off and the desk was filled again. 12 hour shifts or no, she needed a secretary. But again, secrecy, and those documents were highly confidential, so there wasn't any chance of that, realistically.

She massaged her temples with her hands as she thought of what she had to do today. Besides planning the defence protocols, paperwork, the inevitable attack, paperwork, budget managing, paperwork, taking that shower and then return to the paperwork, then maybe she could try and release some tension in the fighting rooms.

The headache still bothering her Dr Director tried to focus on the papers...damage reports, laser guns...the words flew in and out of focus as she tried reading. She didn't need glasses, she just wished those words were bigger...to someone with such a bothersome headache, reading fine print and small fonts was, undoubtedly, a pain. She knew that somehow, even though they were printed out in a small size, the letters had filled her desk, and that just made her want to read it even less. The probabilities of there being thousands of words were high, probably in the thousands of percentage.

She focused again, but it was hard, and she tended to lose interest fairly quickly. While she normally had a tight grip on her imagination, she was tired, and that made it double hard to focus.

Her mind wandered and she realised that she likely wouldn't be able to do her job properly that day. For some odd reason she focused on her loneliness...it had been years since she had had a mate, and while she had recollections of having enjoyed those times were they were in intimacy, it had been far too long...but then again, maybe it was for the better.

She was interrupted by the blinking light on the telephone, she mentally cursed, what now? CNN 24 hours was still focusing on a missing plane (something that seemed to be happening more and more frequently). She had already sent a team to the terror attack there wasn't much else that she could do. She picked the telephone...did she really want to pick up the call...then she sighed...did she even have a choice? She pressed the button.

"Yes?" – The exasperation in her voice was plain, but the president didn't care much for it, if he had detected it he didn't let it reveal.

"Where are your men?"

She mentally cursed again, she was near Azores, if the super villain was attacking America how the heck would her team get there in less than 6 or 7 hours, even in their jets? Did the president flunk math at school? She thought it very likely, with how he had studied law and entered politics through it, not through science.

But her scorn had to be reserved to the punching bags in the training room downstairs. Eventually she would get there, for now she had to deal with the president.

Faking a cordial tone she pressed a button and CNN turned into a map of the world, similar to the ones in planes. Every single one of their jets had a GPS system that sent codified messages to inform of their localization, every couple of minutes. Though she already knew the answer, she still looked at it. The little icon showed that team Zeta, the team she had sent, was still crossing the Atlantic.

"They're on their way"

The president huffed like a bull into the telephone, he didn't know why he had called, after all, she always seemed to take too much time, and who was to blame for two attacks in a week? He would take the blame in the eyes of the American people. And he couldn't even blame her because she was technically not under his command. That didn't matter though, a huge part of their funding came from his government and if she didn't start stopping those attacks before they happened, she would lose it.

"Well tell them to hurry up!"

Keeping her tone jovial and warm was hard, she felt the urge to grind her teeth instead, but she managed to, with lots of self control. Stopping the urge to smack down the phone she simply pretended to do that. While all the jets had the ability to be called, she wasn't going to try and break the laws of physics just for the satisfaction of someone with no idea of how they worked.

"They'll try"

Another huff, another urge to facepalm.

"Trying isn't enough, get them here!"

She wondered where the kind hearted all for the people portrait of the president had went, but then she reminded he was a politician, he was used to lying.

Her headache had gotten worse, most prime ministers and presidents had her number (at least in Western Europe and North America), but none bossed her around like the American one.

This was why she hated her job...she needed fun...she needed excitement she needed...companionship.

And this time she wasn't going to get drunk to achieve it.