We ran, together, out of the alley. I didn't bother to fly, nor did I bother to run faster than her. She knew I could, and she'd have ordered me to if necessary. But we weren't in costume, we were in uniform.
We flashed our badges, as pedestrians cleared their way across the sidewalk. Even with her dense body structure, she set the pace of an Olympic gold medal winner. Hopefully, we'd pass, as usual, as ordinary cops.
Unfortunately, when we got to the bank, more cops had gotten there before us. They had no idea where we'd come from, but looked grateful.
"Hostage situation," one of them told us, not keeping his eyes off the target he held at gunpoint. "Bank tellers."
"Dang it," I heard her mutter under her breath. She'd underestimated the police department, and now it seemed we were stuck undercover. We'd have to use our powers carefully, so nobody would suspect us.
"Nobody loves Lucy, not today," the officer beside us muttered as we trained our guns at the window.
"Ain't that psychopath I-Love-Lucy impersonator still in the cuchoo house?" she asked.
"We thought so too, but maybe this one's a copycat. And she's not working alone, either. There's a man in there, in some sort of bulletproof leotard. Snipers tried to take him out a minute ago, no luck."