Simple - choose one of your heroes - and use them to tell a joke (the worse, the better.)
"Okay..." Bella rested her head in her hands, trying to decide if the situation warranted tearing out her hear, or banging her head on the desk until the voices told her the world was a sane and calming place. "I've read the report, what is your side of the story."
"It was just a night dancing." Jackie admitted. "Zee Club D was packed. Zey played zee Twist, so I did the Twist. They played the Frug, so I did the Frug. They played Jump Around, so I jumped around."
"You are the soul of innocence." Bella growled, deciding that incineration may be more therapeutic than concussions or a new hair style. "Then what happened?"
"Zey played Come on Eileen." Jackie admitted. "And I was asked to leave."
"Hey, hey," Superball protested, "what's the problem? This sort of thing happens all the time, yeah? Hell, it's fashionable, right? It's still the new, hip, totally in thing."
Leading Lady opened her mouth, starting to say something. But she didn't manage to complete the thought. Whatever it was she'd planned to say, it just emerged as a choked, incoherently muffled syllable.
Instead of replying, she shut her jaw with an audible click. She deliberately broke eye contact with her colleague - or eye-mask contact, anyway, considering that Superball's face was hidden by fabric and bug-eyed goggles, and shifted her attention to where the emergency responders were loading the unconscious gang members en-masse into waiting ambulances.
Leading Lady held her breath, and counted to ten. Finally, she turned back to Superball. "No, just...no. That's not---I don't even know where to start. There are so many things wrong with that logic."
"C'mon, work with me here," Superball shot back. The masked man twirled his improvised weapon like an oversized baton, the ends rapping loudly against the pavement. "I'm a scrapper, right? Says so on my hero license. That's my archetype. Black and white and everything. Tells people I've got awesome superpowers that let me fight crime in the face."
"That's not---it doesn't...no, it means you're a certified melee specialist," Leading Lady corrected, "it doesn't give you carte blanche to literally rearrange people's faces. We've been over this before. Your scrapper classification doesn't mean you can just---"
"Wait, wait," Superball said, "let me finish. I'm a scrapper, yeah? And you know how staff melee's still a hot new powerset for scrappers, after it came out in the Freedom Phalanx MMO?"
Leading Lady blinked. "Yes," she said cautiously, "there's been some rise in the number of actual registered heroes trying to fight like that, but I don't see how that justifies you---"
"I'm totally allowed to respec," Superball argued, "it totally fits my concept."
"Your...I can't believe I'm saying this...your concept is bad jokes and wisecracks," Leading Lady sighed. "How does hitting Hellions and Skulls with---how does that even fit in with...whatever it is you do?"
Superball held up his 'staff', a badly-dented length of metal. He grinned. His head was completely covered, but the fabric stretched just enough to make it clear he was sporting an exceedingly smug expression.
"Man walks into a bar..."
-- Acyl
Strictly speaking, this doesn't fit the terms of the prompt. These aren't my characters. They're Ops. But I mentioned this in passing, and OpMegs made the terrible mistake of asking for it...
Sylia steepled her fingers, the tips of her neatly-manicured nails clicking softly on each other. She rested her elbows on the desk, and peered over the top of the little triangle formed by her linked hands. Her expression was disapproving.
"So," she said, "we need to talk about how you handled the Statesman case."
The redhead squirmed in her chair, wilting beneath Sylia's glare.
"You have to understand, Nene," Sylia continued, "this whole affair was extremely high profile. The prospect that Statesman, the world's greatest hero, had somehow been ressurrected..."
Nene flushed, looking embarrassed.
Sylia shook her head. "I commend you on your work in deducing that the...new Statesman is an imposter. But you could have handled the public revelation with a greater degree of tact."
"I-I-I was tired," Nene spluttered, defensively, "I pulled an all-nighter analysing the camera footage of his movements, okay? Then I had to compare it to the data we had on all of Crey's Paragon Protectors, bioroids, and other artificial humans to prove that his combat style and body language suggested programming by..."
Sylia sighed. "I'm not dismissing your work, Nene. You did a good job. It's how you handled the press conference."
Nene sunk deeper into her chair.
* * * * * *
Earlier:
Net Sabre wasn't a very tall woman, even in her power armour. This meant the small forest of news network microphones being shoved in her direction - and a number of mobile phones and other recorders - took up a great deal of the camera shot. The rest was occupied by her shiny red helmet.
"I did a quick hack of the track," she sang, "now the truth is known! The Statesman is just a clone!"
EDIT: Because some folks didn't get it,
and the gag's probably subtle...
-- Acyl