The pretty little thing is nattering at me. She's so small, I can't even hear her. My fingers wrap around her, engulfing her completely in my grip... she's no more than an inch tall. I don't bother pulling my hand out the way it went in. I just power my arm up and through the ceiling, sending rubble flying everywhere. I stand up and spin around, and sit on the beleagured building, demolishing floor after floor beneath me as I settle my enormous 400' frame into the structure. It caves in and around me, fashioning a makeshift throne. The exit is square between my splayed feet, and I entertain myself by crushing the survivors underboot as they flee the carnage I have made of the YWCA.
Soon, the tiny women have learned not to flee, and I grow bored. It's then I remember that I have a plaything in the palm of my hand. I open up my fingers to behold her, sweaty and bedraggled from being trapped in the stifling, sweltering prison of my gloved fist. Smirking at her disheveled state, I begin my amusements by issuing a command.
- T. Bolt