A Second Generation Whateley Story

The Perils of Penelope

by

Wasamon

 

Part One: Homecoming Havoc

 

Sunday, November 14th, 2016

If there were a standard dictionary definition of a normal teenager, Penelope Stein was not it. She could, however, fake normalcy in public. In the privacy of home, she had her morning routine, sealed by months of repetition until it had become the most normal thing in the world. It wasn't, and she had to remind herself of that fact almost every morning so she wouldn't freak out people who didn't know her half as well as they thought.

After half an hour of calisthenics, then another half of weights, then a full hour of martial arts sparring with her grandmother—almost winning against her, as usual—she then took a shower so her blonde top wouldn't look too ragged. The warm water had her feeling practically human.

Just the other day, she'd dropped in to visit her cousin Erica's school for Parents Day. Aunts, uncles, and curious cousins were welcome as well. A few hours in that mad house made her appreciate the value of appearances all the more. Some of Erica's friends couldn't look normal if they tried. Others could, but didn't bother. It was kind of a refreshing change from the usual high school experience.

But that was yesterday and today was today—but tomorrow, homework was due. She had to find the angles in the English literature assignment, suss out the social studies, calculate the calculus, and try to be civil with civics. Before all that, she had make-up work from the Hebrew class she'd missed out on the day before. It was by far her favorite subject, and she wasn't even doing it for school credit.

Over in its nook, recently claimed for the purpose, a charging station hummed. Out of all the surprising things to happen during Parents Day at Whateley, a lifetime's worth of birthday presents was not what she'd expected. But there it was, her own custom-made stealth suit, with a matching handbag that was bigger on the inside than outside and an assortment of holdouts. She wasn't even sure what the full list was yet, only that two teens and two tweens thought they were essentials, and that a member of the Whateley science faculty agreed. Considering the source, this left a lot of leeway.

But she had to finish her homework before she could go through it all. Seriously, she could not get through senior year quickly enough.

Monday, November 15th, 2016

Morning again. The routine, again. Her grandmother let her try out some of the new toys, whatever worked in the space of their basement exercise room, but mainly she enjoyed wearing the suit. It was sleek, flexible, and everything she could ever want. Safta Margit still handed her own ass to her, but it was done with style. Then there was the full breakfast of protein pancakes with blueberries and a plate of smoked salmon in lieu of bacon, finishing with an extra cup of her grandmother's special blend of kibbutznik coffee.

All of that happened before she left for school on her motor scooter.

The smaller of the high schools in Muncie, Indiana, the unimaginatively named Muncie South-West High stood on a low spot between two hills. The main building wasn't old enough to attend its own classes. It was nothing compared to her cousin Erica's school, but then again, there was no place like Whateley.

Thank goodness. The drama here was bad enough without the threat of superpowers every ten seconds. She wasn't sure how Erica managed.

Penelope shrugged her way through the main security checkpoint into the building, safe in the knowledge that she had no drugs, knives, random contraband, or firearms located immediately upon her person.

Her shoulder tote, a stylish new bag with an IBOTI logo on the front, passed a cursory examination by a security guard who had no idea what she was looking at, much less how to look properly into it. Penelope was not about to tell anyone the bag's secret tricks, either.

"Penny!" A brunette around her age and size intercepted her on the way to the lockers. Girasol Dupree was the only friend she'd made among the senior class in the two and a half months since she'd officially transferred to South-West High, and the teen's insistence on hanging out at any opportunity smelled faintly of desperation.

She could commiserate with the girl. "Hey, GiGi. Rough night?"

Girasol blinked sleepy eyes. "No, why?" A yawn ended the sentence. "Not all of us are crazy hyper morning people."

Again, Penelope resolved never to tell her friend about the morning routine. It might break the girl's brain. Instead, they found a bench to claim below the fraying banner for Homecoming 2016, in place for almost as long as she could remember. She had some extra breakfast bars hidden in the depths of her bag, and she was happy to share. As usual, Girasol had woken up late and skipped the most important meal of the day.

"Thanks," the other girl mumbled around a mouthful of granola and raisin. "You're a lifesaver."

"Don't mention it."

Her ears caught the word 'piggy' in passing, and some oinking noises. Girasol ignored it all, again as usual. Jerks had to jerk it, and neither of them would give the jerks the benefit of their attention.

Of course, some of them demanded that attention anyway.

"Ugh, again?" It was a fine whine from sour grapes. Marion Serri looked like she regularly skipped breakfast, too, if only to stay in her cheer outfit for game days. With homecoming hopefully to happen by the end of the week, the queen bee of their grade had taken to wearing the outfit every morning. Her entourage did the same except for the youngest, who wasn't on the team yet. "I don't know how you can stand to eat that garbage."

"It's good for when you need it," said Penelope. "And good morning, Marion. Priscilla. Millicent. Antonia. Salutation. Evelyn. Melissa." She had all the names down pat, in their fullest forms, because she knew it pissed off Marion. None of her girl squad were ever referred to by anything but their shorter nicknames most of the time, by royal decree, and most seemed to prefer it that way. Salutation Langford physically cringed whenever her full name came up in conversation.

"Penelope." The queen bee never shortened one name in particular. "Of course you would—"

"Would what?" she slipped in. If there was one thing she was not, it was overweight, and they both knew it.

"Ugh. Not important. Here." Marion snapped a finger to the youngest of her entourage, the freshman named Melissa. The girl handed out flyers. "Thank you, Missy. We're letting the entire senior class know that we are not going to stand letting some freak-o mutants cancel our homecoming for a third time this year. So I guess we have to tell you two along with everyone else. Meeting after school, if you feel like you have anything to contribute."

"Thanks for letting us know," said Penelope. She waited for Marion and her followers to depart before adding, "What a bitch" to the open air.

"I know, right?" Girasol enjoyed the last of her breakfast bar. "She does have a point."

"GiGi, she's conspiracy-nutting. No way some secret mutant cabal is interfering with homecoming."

"But twice now? I mean, that freak flood—"

"Look where the school's situated," she said. "Bottom of two slopes, uphill both ways? Might as well build it under Niagara Falls. And as for the second?" A shrug said it all. "The entire town was caught up in that one. Look..." The numbers crunched between her ears. "A school this size, about fifteen hundred kids? Statistically there can't be more than three or four mutants, total, for all grades—and that's if they don't actively self-select themselves to a school without an open H1 fanclub on campus. Marion's just looking for peeps to blame. But while she's doing that, I am passing the statistical part of science class and learning from history."

As if on cue, the warning bell rang for first period. "Shit, gotta get to English," said Girasol. "Um, stay safe, okay? I think Marion's got it more in for you than usual today."

She could wave that concern away. "I'll survive. It's what I do."

It's what she would have to do, to get to her history class on time. The hallway was the dictionary definition of 'throng' for the whole nine yards to Mrs. Trully's classroom, and no high school quarterback ever had it so hard. Penelope took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders, and walked straight through. Despite the chaos, despite the crowd, nothing ever touched her. Every errant elbow missed, no bothersome bag or book bounced into her, and not one kick to the knees connected. They all passed through space where she was not, making for zero hits but a score of near-misses.

It had taken much training with her grandmother to make this look natural, like a happy string of coincidences that lined up perfectly for her. A low-level danger sense was a useful trick to have; it could make a girl nervous and jumpy until she got used to it. By now, this sixth sense of hers was second nature, and no one ever noticed.

Marion was glaring at her as she arrived in Mrs. Trully's classroom. It occurred to Penelope that some of the hits she'd failed to connect with had not been accidental. But she wouldn't acknowledge the queen bee right then, because that might give the game away for real. Instead, she said hi to Rick and Jewel, who were in the middle of checking their homework assignments. Hallway politics could wait for another day.

"Any thought on a homecoming date?" asked Girasol over lunch.

"Nope. You?" Penelope took a bite out of her sandwich. Her grandmother'd told her not to worry too much about pareve, treif, or other aspects of kosher outside of the home, but the bacon was still turkey instead of pork, with mustard instead of mayonaise.

"Nobody's asking me."

"Same here." 

"Yeah, but I'm..." The brunette waved a hand vaguely around herself. "Perpetually out, yanno? No guy's gonna ask me. I'm just happy I'm not getting too much shit about it this year. Er, pardon my French."

"No pardon needed." A sip of soda washed the turkey bacon down. "Well, if someone asks, I might say yes. But I don't think anyone's going to ask the new girl in town." She was pretty sure there were a few who might want to, but none had gotten up the nerve, so far. 

"Yeah, I'd be careful," Girasol warned. "Marion's the kind who'd put someone up to it, just for a bad reaction."

Penelope did not ask how the girl knew. She didn't need a danger sense to realize there was a minefield. "Should we go to her meeting?" she asked instead.

"You know what she's gonna say." Girasol shook her head at the thought. "And anyway, I'm not welcome anywhere the football team is."

Which was why they were eating lunch out on the rear lawn, as usual. "Nice day, isn't it?" she commented.

"Yeah..." Her friend took the out. "Yanno, Penny? I wish I were more interested in girls. It'd make things easier."

"Not the first time I've heard someone say that." She chuckled. "But I can see your point." Her sandwich finished, Penelope hopped to her feet and stretched her arms. "You can bet Marion's secretly afraid one or both of us are crushing on her. It'd fit into her need to be the center of the universe."

"Ugh," said Girasol. "No thanks. I do have standards. Somewhere."

Their shared laugh lingered on as a long, tandem chuckle all the way back to their lockers, where it ended abruptly. Her own metal cubby door was bare and utilitarian. She hadn't been at this school long enough to worry about personal flair. 

Girasol's locker was decked in pink, white, and blue ribbons—but also now there was a large yellow sheet of paper taped to it, with a 41% printed in very large black font. Penelope didn't need to ask what it meant. The look on her friend's face was enough. With a single, short jerk, she ripped the paper off the door and stuffed it in her IBOTI bag. "Fuck that," she said.

"It's not..." The lie died on Girasol's lips. "Um... I think I should get going..."

"Wait." She didn't mean for it to be a command, but the syllable made her friend freeze in her tracks. Penny stepped in to deliver a lifeline of a hug and a whispered "Hang in there."

"Thanks," said her friend. Then the girl fled the school for the day.

Penelope still had the paper in her bag, with strips of tape still attached. With fingerprints visible on the strips. It was on.

later that evening

The school wasn't much better at night, only quieter. Marion's senior class meeting hd gone about as expected, being mostly the queen bee ranting about the unfairness of life and blaming mutant conspiracies for the rainstorm and flash flood that had forced the school to postpone homecoming the first time, then the invasion of Blaster Master and his hard rock felines that had shut down the city for the weekend of their second attempt. No one was sure what'd been up with that second one, but Marion took it personally.

Penelope tuned it out after the first few minutes. Instead, she focused on being social and friendly, shaking as many hands as possible. No one seemed to notice the thin glove she was wearing. The gadget was one of the suite of devices she'd gotten for her birthday over the weekend, and it blended with her skin tone, texture, and body temperature as its first trick. With its second trick, it lifted fingerprints from anyone she shook hands with, and by the end of the meeting, she had identified three different members of the football team as having had their hands on the paper from Girasol's locker.

Now, much later in the evening, she got to proper work.

The school's security and surveillance system, she'd hacked in the first week. It'd been a special homework assignment from her grandfather's regular IT wizard, LAN Ulster in Wichita, and she was thankful for it that evening. She didn't have permission to take out her new stealth suit just yet, the one that could manage the next best thing to invisibility with its chameleon circuit dappling the colors of the night, so she had to do this little act in her street clothes. But with the video feeds showing a pre-set loop, the night watchman never saw her, or even noticed the faint flicker as the monitors began their infinite ten minutes of innocence. Breaking into the three lockers was easy, as was arranging them so full of the raunchiest gay porn available that they could hardly shut right.

Under her breath, she muttered continuous words of thanks to Safta Margit for helping her find the magazines on such short notice. 

She did not plan on being anywhere near the place the next morning when Brad, Josh, and Marlowe would open them to a nasty surprise, but she looked forward to hearing about it later.

Tuesday, November 16th, 2016

Penelope might wish the sheer busywork of a high school session's schedule would help keep trouble and drama away. Who had time, after all, when there was chemistry lab? Or English? Or Calculus to bluff her way through, since she'd taken none of the prerequisites listed on her fictitious academic history and so had endured crash courses over the summer to catch up?

Seriously, who had the time for drama?

Marion Serris, that was who. Penelope still wasn't sure what she'd ever done to be on the queen bee's shit-list, other than being new, interesting, and more of a natural blonde than the would-be homecoming royal herself. They also had three classes in common, every day of the week, so it wasn't like they could avoid one another.

She still did her best to ignore the girl, however, and her danger sense kept the swings and elbows of oops-an-accidental fortune hitting her too often on the way down the hall between classes.

Words were harder to dodge. "Did you hear the latest about yourself?" Girasol asked her at lunch.

"What, rumors? Wouldn't I be the last to know?" Penelope had carrot sticks and a cup of ranch dressing that day. One slice of orange taproot snapped in half, mulched between molars, as her friend continued.

"Marion's convinced you're a mutant."

Slow chewing, careful thoughts. "She does, does she?"

"Yeah, something to do with you never getting bumped in the hallways?"

"Despite her best hit jobs, I'm sure. Well, I've got too much experience dodging crap," Penelope said. "My last few schools weren't as classy as Muncie South-West."

"Oh, and that the reason you transferred in was because of a mutant incident at your last school, presumably you."

It was actually because of the Federal Witness Security Program lifting her out after her old foster home sold her to literal Nazis, but she couldn't say that. "What're my powers supposed to be?" she wondered out loud. "Maybe I sneeze glitter and fart rainbows?"

That made Girasol giggle. "And she thinks you're responsible for three of our star football players getting busted with gay porn in their lockers."

Well, that was one thing the queen bee had right, if for the wrong reasons. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," she said. "Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

"Heh." Her friend gave her the side-eye. "You wanna convince people you're normal, then you should stop quoting Shakespeare off the cuff."

"And yet you recognize the lines," she teased back. "And who wants to be normal?" A carrot stick provided a substitute for a one-fingered salute to the world.

later that evening

Her handgun fired six times in quick succession, sending shockwaves back through her wrists and properly posed arms. At the far end of the shooting range, a paper target gained six perfect perforations in a neat grouping that relieved it of its center completely.

She didn't need to imagine Marion's face on the page, but it hadn't hurt her aim to do so.

"Well done," said her grandfather. Those two words were all she needed. From Adolf Stein, retired Nazi hunter and first-generation super-soldier, two words did the work of two thousand.

She nodded but did not reply until she had retrieved the paper target, left the shooting booth, and settled at a table to do some cleaning. Stripping the firearm was second nature by now. 

"I have word on a potential internship," said Adolf.

"You do?" She tried not to sound too eager.

"Yes. Considering you are now eighteen, properly equipped, and undertaking nighttime infiltrations of your high school..." The old man's chuckle was one of approval. "...we figured it best to get you some real-life experience before you sought it out for yourself. If you still wish to do so?"

Only one answer for that, and it was "Yes! When do I start?"

"If I hear back soon enough, then perhaps in a day or two. There are always minor jobs out there for the taking, if one knows where to look. Nothing glamorous," he warned. "Nothing high-profile or dangerous, but necessary work, nonetheless. It is a good way of getting your foot in the door."

"Understood, sir."

"Now," he continued. "Whose face was it you were imagining in place of a target just now, and is it related to your activities the other evening?"

There was no hiding anything from her adoptive grandfather, and no reason to try. As she reassembled the firearm, Penelope gave a basic accounting of Marion the queen bee and her one-sided shadow war against the new girl in town. The more she said it out loud, the more ridiculous it sounded, but it was no less true.

"A bothersome young bitch," said her grandfather. "Too much effort to eliminate, too little reward for doing so."

"Aside from personal satisfaction," Penelope agreed. "And that's not enough. I don't know how far she'll take things, but I do have plans, just in case."

"Good." It was another word that spoke more than it said. "Shall we stop by for ice cream after this?" Adolf Stein might never have expected to find himself a grandfather, but he had the important parts covered.

"Sounds like a plan," she told him.

Wednesday, November 17th, 2016

Civics was the last class she would ever want to repeat—and yet here she was, again, as mandated by state law. Some busybody in the legislature had managed to slip it in, effective for the 2016-17 school year, and so she and her fellow seniors were all stuck with it. The teacher, a middle-aged dude named Mr. Griswold, did his best to keep it interesting, but it did not change the fact that the course was filler fluff for most student records.

What did change it was a knock on the door, followed by a "Is Ms. Stein present?"

"Here!" she called, dutifully raising her hand before Mr. Griswold could say anything. She could hear Marion snickering behind her, but she cared even less than normal now. Her attention was on the man standing with the vice principal at the door.

A tall dude, and thick, wearing the sort of generically official-looking black suit favored by folks who were at best borderline official. The ID card was already in his hand, and its logo was blatant enough to be visible across the room.

"Oy, fuck me." The words slipped out naturally, and behind her was the noise of confusion as the homecoming cohort struggled between shock and amusement. "A moxxing? Really?"

"Ms. Stein, if you would come with us?" said the vice principal.

"With all due respect, Mr. Peterson, but no. I am not going anywhere alone with a fucking MCO agent." She could stand, however, and she did. "I had to do a report on this kind of thing at my last school. In civics class, no less. You know how much responsibility these guys are liable for?"

"Ms. Stein—"

"Zero! Nil! Zilch! Bupkis! They aren't government agents and most confidentiality laws do not apply. Nor most constitutional amendments," she added. "Illegal search and seizure? Ha!"

"Ms. Stein!" the vice principal tried again.

"You know if anything goes wrong, it's your ass on the line, right? Mr. Peterson?" That shut the man up for a second, giving her the chance to whirl around with an accusing fingers slashing through the murmurs to her rear. "Who was it? Thinking it's a fun idea to call in an MCO check 'on reasonable suspicion'?" She marked the phrase with finger scare-quotes. "That's all they need, a phone number and zero evidence. But yanno what? Bring it, Mr. MCO Man. Your testing machine. Right there on Mr. Griswold's desk, right now."

The civics teacher had on an uncanny imitation of a deer in the headlights. "Oh, um. But, er, confidentiality?"

"I'm over eighteen. I can waive that part," she said. "And he's not bound by HIPAA or anything else. I'm sure Mr. Peterson's about to tell us all that school policy is to do what the nice man with the badge says—"

No one in the room missed the vice principal's open mouth, now snapping shut.

"—but if he's so sure about that, maybe he can take it up with my grandfather." She enjoyed seeing how pale that made the man. Adolf Stein had that effect on people. "So let's cut to the chase and give the audience what hey want, huh? Blood and tears."

The MCO agent's face seemed stuck halfway to a smirk. "If you're willing to sign the waiver, then fine. Let's do this." He waved the vice principal's next words away. "We prefer privacy because of the risks associated with a positive, but if she's this sure of herself, fine. Where's your school security officer?"

The campus rent-a-cop was nowhere to be seen, if he'd been waiting in the hall in the first place. Behind Penelope, even the proverbial crickets were quiet. Perhaps it was occurring to some of them that outing a mutant on campus was not the smartest of moves. Lucky for them, she wasn't a mutant. They'd tested that quite thoroughly over the summer.

That also meant she was uncomfortably familiar with the portable testing device favored by the MCO. The ugly black beetle of a diagnostic tool came out of its case and was laid upon the teacher's desk. Uncle Hans' model had been dis-, re-, and mis-assembled into a far weirder beast than this squat little thing, but it was still a threatening presence. "Right, so on with the class report!" she shouted to her classmates. "These machines have one purpose: to give a quick Yes or No on whether the subject is a mutant. They do this with a blood sample. Is this little bastard ready?"

"...yes," said the MCO bastard, grudgingly.

"Good. So, I put my finger in here, wait a second, then—"

The shunk of the needle striking home made the rest of the room flinch.

"Er zol vaksen vi a tsibeleh, mit dem kop in drerd!" She didn't really know what the phrase meant. She was learning Hebrew in the synagogue school, not Yiddish, but she'd asked Safta Margit for a selection of the most creatively awful things to say in that language, and then memorized them all. Whatever it was, it sounded absolutely awful.

"Now," she gasped out a second later. "The machine processes the sample and gives us our Yes or No. It should take...?"

"Five minutes," said the MCO man. "It's the newest model."

"Nice." She withdrew her punctured finger, swept it pointedly across her captive audience, and then turned back to the agent. "Got a bandage? As you can see right here, no regeneration."

There was a first aid field kit in the agent's bag. She got a dab of iodine that stung almost as much as the needle, and then a bandage over the fingertip. This was done in silence, because no one was talking. It was practically unnatural how quiet the seniors in the civics class had gotten. Mr. Griswold looked ready to faint, and Mr. Peterson was holding back a fit. The MCO agent continued to look amused.

A chime announced the results. "Negative," the agent announced to the world. "Sorry to bother you, Ms. Stein."

"Not to worry," she replied. "I understand you're just doing your job. On behalf of the class, I apologize for wasting your time here." Again, she didn't look at anyone in particular, but noted everyone who winced. "But I suppose you have to take every call-in seriously."

"That I do," said the agent as he tidied up his kit. "Mr. Peterson? The MCO thanks you for your cooperation. If you would walk with me back to my vehicle now? We can discuss ways to deal with, ahem, moxxing along the way."

Penelope settled back into her chair with a smug smile. There was just enough time to open the books again and look at the day's unit before the period bell rang to let them out. She did feel sorry for Mr. Griswold, though. After a performance like that, the teacher had no hope of recovering momentum.

"I cannot believe someone would do that to you," said Girasol at lunch. "The nerve! The... the..." The girl shivered. "I don't wanna think about being stuck in a privacy booth with that guy and his machine, making me prove I'm... well, that I am me. But doing it in front of the entire class?"

"It made Marion and her groupies uncomfortable. Worth it."

"Yeah, true. Um." Girasol gave her the side-eye. "Who do you think called you in for a moxxing?"

"You really wanna know?"

"It was Marion, wasn't it? Or if it wasn't, then she still told them to. That bi—"

"I called it."

"—huh?"

"Well, I know it'd occur to someone eventually, so I wanted it to make it convenient for me." Penelope chuckled through the next bite of her sandwich. "Wasn't expecting Agent Newmond there to have such perfect timing. No complaints, though. Except for my finger. Yee-ouch."

Girasol's smile was about as brittle as her laughter as it broke into tiny pieces. "You really are something, Penny." The girl didn't sound sure whether this was a good thing, though.

later that evening

When her grandparents drove around town, it was in a modest brown sedan, the most average of average automobiles. It was the sort of car James Bond would be offered as a gag in one of the old Roger Moore films. They weren't driving that car this evening.

For the occasion, they'd pulled a standard switcharoo tactic in the local mall parking garage, leaving in a different vehicle than the one they'd gone in with: a standard black van with no side windows and a tinted windshield. That it only looked mildly suspicious was a testament to the designers' skill. A good look at the dashboard or the main cabin would upgrade it to highly suspicious. Penelope sat with her stealth suit on as Sava Adolf brought them near the rendezvous point.

"Now, remember," he told her. "This person does not know your name, nor does she know mine. Arrangements were made through trusted intermediaries. It is up to you to make sure this works out. Likewise, if you feel that it is a bad match, or otherwise problems present themselves, do not hesitate to terminate the arrangement. Politely, if possible," he added. "I do not think it shall come to such, but we must not go burning bridges indiscriminately."

"Understood, sir." Penelope pulled the cowl and face guard into place, then the goggles over her eyes. Her suit's material shimmered as she adjusted its settings before settling into a deep midnight blue. Upon her breast pocket and the backs of her wrists, silver shields of David, six-pointed stars, glinted. After a moment, she toggled the dimming function on those as well. SilverStar was her code name, taken from Safta Margit's old handle of Silberstern, but that didn't mean 'target'.

The suit was the present to end all birthday presents, and she did not wish to know how much her grandparents had spent on it. Even at a discount, arranged by her cousin at Whateley with the aid of a friendly faculty member, it would not have been cheap. Stylish, sleek, with chameleon circuit and gecko pads, telemetry and gear suites, plus the bag—

Oops, she'd almost forgotten about the bag. The IBOTI brand handbag helpfully morphed and contracted down to pouch-sized, with its logo serving as a fastener to attach it to particular spot on her waist. It blended in with the rest of the chameleon circuit shortly. After one final check, she turned to her grandfather and asked, "How do I look?"

"Professionally dangerous."

Coming from him, that meant a lot. Penelope gave him a quick hug and then set out into the night to meet her potential mentor. It didn't take long to reach the rendezvous point, and even less time to find the woman. She sort of stood out—and up, close to seven feet tall without shoes on. The heroine's costume was open and loose, the better to show the muscles underneath, and her hair was a wilder sort of blonde more fitting for certain queens of the savannah.

Penelope recognized the color, the woman, and the code name, all of which came together in a single word. She kept to the shadows and circled around, getting the best approach she could.

"You can come out now," the heroine announced. "I can hear you out there, being all sneaky. Also, you passed upwind of me."

Seriously. This lady did not futz around. Penelope—now as SilverStar—stepped out into the open and waved. "Tawny, I presume?" she said. "You're a ways from home base."

Two hours by highway, in fact. Cincinnatti was southeast, just over the border in Ohio, while Muncie was further north of that, in Indiana. It wasn't till she'd moved to the state from her foster situation in Nebraska that she'd come to appreciate how much could be fit into relatively small areas of land, but Indiana was still larger than it looked.

"Such is work," grumbled the leonine lady. Tawny was her name and tawny was her mane, which bristled and shook with disgust. "Someone I trust very much says that someone he trusts very much trusts you to know your way around the area. SilverStar, was it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

A grunt. "Damnit, how old are you?"

"Old enough to be held legally liable for knowing better. But I am new to the profession," she admitted. "The, ah, someone who trusts me believes that this would be a good way for me to get better."

Tawny was looking her up and down. "Why?" came the question.

"Because I'm already on at least one major villain's shit-list, and I wasn't even trying," said SilverStar. "So if she's going to come after me eventually, I might as well try harder."

Now there was a laugh. "Fair enough. What is it with the silver code names..."

"Ma'am?"

"Nothing, just a passing memory. Come along. We can talk in the car."

The heroine's wheels were a lot nicer than Adolf's, but then again, the heroine had an image to maintain. As a principal member and often leader of SPECTRUM, Cincinnatti's longstanding hero team, Tawny had likely earned her custom coupe with the ample leg room and paintjob to match her hair color. It even had a lion emblem on the hood. Then, with a few buttons tapped on the dashboard screen, the color deepened to green and the windows went tinted. By the time they came back around to town, the car was no longer identifiable as Tawny's.

"Okay," said the woman as they crossed town. "As you can likely tell, I am not the best person for undercover or stealth work."

That was an understatement that was best left unstated.

"That said, I'm following up a lead on a... let's call it a personal matter, involving a technocrat group that's not as smart as its members think they are. I do not have hard evidence, or probably cause, but they have multiple local governments in their pocket. I am stuck in need of help and not having enough to ask for it via regular channels."

"You need eyes on these guys," she extrapolated.

"Exactly. They know I'm nosing around. They also know that I am leading a seminar on police-hero interactions one town over, all week. And if I'm over yonder, they assume that's where I'm looking."

"While I'm looking at them." She nodded. "Starting from now?"

"If you're up for it." The heroine hesitated one last time, then asked, "What is your power set, by the way? Stealth is a given, but anything else?"

"Stealth suit," she confirmed. "A selection of tools and holdouts. Ongoing martial arts and small arms training. Moderate physical enhancement and danger sense, rated EX-2 ESP-2 equivalent."

"Just what the job requires. Speaking of which," said Tawny as she took the coupe onto the shoulder of the road. "There's the target."

A stocky building stood to the southeast of town, one of many old offices, factories, and warehouses left behind when the old industries left this world. Other things had since moved in. SilverStar didn't know what this one used to be, but she was going to find out what it was now. She accepted the file transfer from Tawny's palmtop to her suit's computer, gaining the mission prospectus and details. "I can arrange pickup for myself," she told the heroine. "I'll scope out the perimeter tonight, see where things lie, and observe any vehicles. No direct approach or infiltration."

"Good," said Tawny. "Send me a report in the morning. Even if nothing happens. Regular check-ins are an important part of cooperative superhero... gah, I've been reading my seminar lecture notes too much. You know the drill, so stay safe."

SilverStar was already slipping out of the coupe and into the night. "Will do." The words faded away with her outline as the stealth suit did its job.

By midnight, she understood this to be an exercise in patience. Not all hero work was fast fights and exciting escapades. A lot of it was simply work. By two in the morning, she understood it to be an endurance challenge as well. The new and improved Thulean enhancement protocal had left her with super-teen stamina, but even that wore thin in the wee hours. SilverStar sent brief texts whenever anything of interest happened, noting the handful of vehicles to pass through the target checkpoint, as well as how many people seemed active at the hour. She hoped that some of it would be useful to Tawny.

At half-past-four, she signed off and headed to the extraction point. At the appointed moment of 4:37 AM, Sava Adolf's van passed by, slowing just enough for her to dash and leap through the side hatch. SilverStar rolled into the nearest seat and accepted a flask of coffee from her grandmother. Just like that, she was Penelope Stein once more, spending an early hour with her adoptive grandparents.

She'd done well, they assured her. That was all she needed to hear. Now, she needed to survive a day of school on nothing but naps and concentrated infusions of caffeine. As Sava Adolf said, this too was part of the learning experience for a young agent in training.

Penelope might've prefered the usual morning routine.

Thursday, November 18th, 2016

"You look wiped," said Girasol as they sat on the benth at lunch. "You didn't sleep well?"

"Long night," she admitted. Then yawned. "Nothing bad, just some stuff that had to get done."

"Must've been some stuff," said her friend. "You're making me look like a morning person here."

Their laughter startled the potted bush next to the bench, and then Melissa tumbled over backwards. The freshman had a perpetually panicky face, one which turned red with embarrassment as she ran off.

Penelope watched her go, then wondered out loud, "Did Marion send her to spy on us, or was she doing that on her own?"

"Who, Missy?" Girasol shook her head. "Poor kid. Her sister graduated last year. Alpha-level super-bitch. Marion can only try. But Missy's been cowed since kindergarten. So to answer your question, no way she'd do that on her own. Dunno if Marion expects anything of it, but she's definitely plotting something."

"Whoo, yay..." Penelope tried not to sound too enthusiastic.

Girasol huffed. "Being serious here, yanno. Homecoming's in, like, two days, and Marion has, um, a history of..."

There was history here, all right, and not just the queen bee's. "What did she do to you?" Penelope asked the other girl quietly.

Nervous fingers smoothed a rumpled skirt. "I, um, I was a year and a half into, yanno," said the girl. "Finally liking how I looked and all. Actually had a guy ask me to junior prom. I was living the dream, yanno?" A nervous giggle ended in a sob. "Then, the night of, he dumps me. Like, in front of the entire school, so he could take Sally instead. He, he only asked me because they put him up to it as, as a joke."

There wasn't much to do besides hold her friend's hand and pat it in a comforting manner, and Penelope performed the task admirably. "Do you think they'll try the same trick on me?"

"On you?" Girasol sniffled. "No. You're, like, too real for that one. You'd take one look at the dude and shut him down."

"I suppose I would, if it were that obvious. But, 'too real'?"

"Not desperate. Not lonely. Not fa... fa..." The girl choked on the syllable.

Now it was time for a hug, again performed admirably. "Neither are you," she declared. "You're the girliest girl I ever met."

"Um, th-thanks." Sniffle. "I, I do try..."

Their luncheon bench was out of the way of everything important, with almost no one around—Melissa's attempt at espionage notwithstanding. This made the approaching crowd all the more obvious. The two of them had just enough time to wipe tears with tissues and make themselves presentable before the queen bee's plot swept in. And it had to be Marion's doing, she knew. Three of the retinue were hanging in the wings: Millicent, Evelyn, and Salutation, who Girasol'd been dumped in favor of on the night of junior prom. Knowing this detail did not lower Penelope's estimation of the girl any further, because it was already in the negative.

At the center of it all, a few of the football team guys were offering their own peculiar brand of encouragement to a young man who was certainly not on the team.

She knew his name, too, and better than the football team's: Morton Becker. He and his family went to the same synagogue as her grandparents. He was in her Hebrew class every weekend and her Calculus class during the week. He also had the social acumen of a mud clam, which she figured as the reason why he hadn't tried to ask her to homecoming.

Oh. Oh no. Seriously?

He had a flower in his hand and a look of near-panic on his face. "Um, h-hello, P-penelope..." he stammered. "I, I was wondering..."

A long pause left her and their audience hanging for the words that were sure to follow. It gave her time to regroup, to gather her thoughts and analyze the sitch. If this was orchestrated by Marion to embarrass her... no, she realized. Morton's nervous glances were aimed away from her and towards the football team. They weren't using him to hurt her; they wanted her to hurt him.

Of all the possible scenarios, this pissed her off the most. Morton of all people didn't deserve this. She actually liked him as a person. It was tempting to just say yes, right then and there, but they needed to finesse this a little more... "Hey," she said, switching to Hebrew, "Taakov achari." Follow my lead. Safta Margit's list of useful words and phrases proved itself once more. "Tiraga bebaksha." Calm down. "Kach nishima amuka." Take a breath.

First she took the flower, something small and pink from the school's front planters. After a moment's examination, she gave him a look that said, "We can do better."

His sheepish grin begged to differ.

"Right," she said for real—in English for the sake of their audience. "This is senior homecoming, Morton. If you're gonna do it, make your bubby proud. A dozen red roses, natch. Next..." She pretended to brush lint off his shoulder. "Dress to impress. Not a Weird Al t-shirt. Mandatory Fun? Great album, bad timing. Wash up, clean up, dress up. Ask again." For the last part, she switched back to Hebrew. "I'm going to say yes, but put on a good show. Understood?"

"Ani mevin," he blurted out. "Um, yes, I understand. Um, see you, um, tomorrow?"

"I'll be waiting." With a nod and a wave, she let him loose to run off to wherever he was about to do. "And everyone else?" she said in the direction of the football dudes, but more specifically to the three girls hanging behind them. "Butt out."

"Weren't you a little mean to him?" Girasol whispered as the small crowd dispersed.

"Not as mean as they wanted me to be," Penelope replied. "And if he follows through? Even better. Morton's a smartie, fast-tracked for MIT, I heard. My dear Jewish grandmother will be thrilled to have the chance to gush over my relationship prospects." She chuckled. "We shall just have to see what the future holds."

What she did not see, though it might have encouraged her, was Morton in the school parking lot, huddled down in the seat of the old sedan a maiden aunt had left him when they moved her to the nursing home. His phone was pressed to his ear, and he was whispering, "Please, pick up, please... Ah!" he cried as the person at the other end picked up. "Um, Uncle Shane? Yeah, it's me. Yeah, I know I should be in class—it's lunch break, okay? Er, sorry. Remember last August? That party for night of Tu b'Av?" He winced as his uncle repeated a joke from that day with a laugh. "Right, you do. Okay. You made me an offer... Yeah. that's the one. Is it still available? Homecoming's this weekend, and I really need the help..."

later that evening

The second night of surveillance was no more eventful than the first. SilverStar had brought all her school reading, digitized to her tablet, and finished up a couple of near-future literature assignments in the long stretches of inactivity. A dozen vehicles were logged, both coming and going, but aside from the hour there really wasn't anything odd about the office building. She scouted the exterior regularly, but hadn't found anything to suggest laboratories or other workshops above ground. There didn't seem to be anything below ground, either, or at least she didn't see any of the visual signs that the installation might extend deep under the earth. This wasn't like the facility in Wichita.

She could give thanks for small favors.

All observations were relayed to Tawny, and when Sava Adolf picked her up at the rendezvous, she repeated it to him as well.

"A coordination center," was his suggestion as they had coffee at home. "Distant from the main activity—safely so—but where the legal aspects of the organization can interact with the extralegal ones. Very businesslike."

"Is that good news or bad?" she asked.

"It could be either but is most likely worse," he told her. "For a decision-maker, distance makes the head dumb and the heart bold, even before we look at the myriad issues with the corporate leadership principle at work. Whatever they are up to, the leadership is too far away to care if it blows up, literally or figuratively."

"Great," she mumbled into her coffee.

"This is mere conjecture, of course," said her grandfather, "but I would try to get more details out of Ms. Tawny. You should know more about what you are dealing with."

"Got it." Penelope drained her mug, yawned, and then stood to get another refill. "Hope I can nap through Calculus..."

She came, she saw, she slept. Mr. Vance's calculus class was a final stop for students fulfilling their credit requirements, and the old man was an old hand when it came to managing expectations. As long as a student kept up, asked the occasional question, and turned in all work on time—for which Penelope was three for three—then he did not begrudge them the occasional need for extra shut-eye.

The man would, however, record any loud snoring on his smartphone and add it to his sound garden for posterity. Penelope only hoped to remain off that year's highlights reel.

The well-earned nap ended with the ringing of the bell, and it was only as the class shuffled out that she did a headcount and came up short one. She probably wouldn't have noticed if it weren't a very specific one.

"Um, seen Morton today?" she asked Girasol at lunch. The young man's absence from their one shared class was something she'd chewed over as she munched through the boxed lunch her grandmother had made. Basil and veggie grilled cheese sandwich with apple slices and another thermos flask of coffee with creamer; Safta Margit knew how to treat a girl.

Her friend was looking at the sandwish enviously as she said, "No one's seen him today. The rumor mill's been grinding, but nothing new. He just didn't come to school today."

"Damn, I hope I didn't scare him off." Penelope growled through another bite. "If he'd asked me on his own, I'd've said yes."

Morton's absence remained the elephant in the room for the rest of the day. Now that she was awake and alerted, Penelope caught some of the rumors, herself. Their little scene had grabbed the attention of the class as a whole, and she hoped he could follow up.

At the end of the day, when she went to her locker to deposit books for the day, there was something waiting for her: a note, handwritten in Hebrew letters.

"Um, what does it say?" asked Girasol. Her friend was close enough to peek at the paper, and other girls nearby were clearly envious of the privilege. "I barely passed two years of French."

"It's a time," Penelope told her. "And a place." And an attempt at poetry, but she kept that part to herself. The verses were the cringiest sort of charm, and they were hers. "The front roundabout, in five minutes."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Again, Girasol was the envy of all for the honor of the next line in what was shaping up to be something quite worthy of rumors.

The front roundabout was mostly for the loading and unloading of freshmen, but it was nearing the end of the afternoon rush as they passed through the security checkpoint and out the front doors and down the steps. By no mere coincidence, Marion and her coterie were in position nearby. The queen bee and her top three wing-ladies had football boyfriends on their arms, while the freshman Melissa sat alone and confused nearby. Presumably, the little spy had informed on them again, but Penelope admired Marion's ability to react so quickly while feigning nonchalance.

At the appointed minute, a new vehicle pulled into the roundabout, only barely managing the curve. The pure white limousine stopped on a dime with its main passenger door lined up with the school steps, and Morton Becker stepped out.

He'd listened well and cleaned up better. The young man was fitted in a nice suit, his Sabbath finest, and the tailoring was on point. His hair had gotten a trim and some cream to make it manageable, while his cravat and yarmulke were perfectly coordinated. A good foundation hid the worst of the spots on his cheeks, and someone had done a trick with eyeliner that she would like to find out more about. In short, he looked nice.

A dozen red roses led the way as he stepped up and presented himself. "Penelope Stein," he began, with a confidence born of much rehearsal. "Would you do me the honor of going with me to the homecoming dance?"

She wouldn't make him sweat for this. The roses did smell nice as she took them in her own hands and inhaled. "Of course, yes," she told him. Then, leaning in, she delivered a quick kiss to his cheek and said, "Now hurry back to that limo and get away before the football team realizes you made them look cheap."

"Right! Oh, um..." Morton blushed beneath the foundation. "I guess I'll call you this evening and, um, make plans?"

"I'm looking forward to it." She waved as he made good on his escape. The silence of his wake lasted all of twenty seconds before Girasol and the other girls around her all squealed and crowded round to congratulate her. Even Melissa the freshman was in to look at the flowers before a sharp word from Salutation pulled the girl back over to Marion's orbit.

Just one day till homecoming. She didn't have a dress. The realization nearly forced a cussword from her lips. But at least it wasn't the worst sort of complication in her life.

later that evening

Things, realized SilverStar in the middle of the night, were about to get complicated. From her surveillance spot, her suit's chameleon circuit blending into the leaves, she could see all manner of activity around the office building. More than a dozen cars and buses had arrived in the past half-hour, lights were on in all the windows, and the place was practically thrumming with people moving about.

She had no idea why, but she was already texting Tawny when another, more pressing complication passed below her position.

"You up there. I don't have a good targeting lock, but grenades don't need one. Come down, now."

Who was she to argue with hand grenades? Better if they agreed to disagree from a politely safe distance. SilverStar dropped to earth six yards away from the guy with the grenades and took a better look.

Tall, though that might have been the boots. Dark, certainly. Handsome? Difficult to say, because he was clad head to toe in stylized armor, close-fitting but with anachronistic lines, like the Black Knight done in cyber noir. He even had a sword. The build was buff, and the voice was older. The list of possibilities shrank down to one.

"Tek Knight, I presume?"

"You are correct." The villain was looking her over just as carefully. "You're new to the business, I take it?"

"First real job, sir," she said. "Surveillance. Don't know why or who, only that I need to report any goings-on." She paused. "Um, is there anything going on?"

"Perhaps." With a twist of his wrist, Tek Knight's sword gained a gleaming laser edge. "Code name?"

"SilverStar, sir."

"And where did you get your stealth gear?" he inquired. "My scanner is telling me that it feels familiar."

Funny he should say that... "Um, my cousin hooked me up," she admitted. "She's a freshman at Dickinson Cottage this year."

That got the man's attention. "And who did your cousin hook you up with, then?"

"Code names only?" SilverStar nodded, then continued. "Retrofit, Electradyne, Power Stunt, and... Tek Witch. She did the work on the chameleon circuit and a lot of the style design."

The man's chuckle bore a hint of pride. "Of course she did. As well as lifting ideas from my own stealth tech. You met her?"

"At Parents Day last weekend, sir." She hesitated.

"How is she getting along?" asked the girl's father.

"Pretty well, it looked like. She was getting along with her design team and other kids. It sounded like she was pretty popular. Er... she did mention that you were busy with something and couldn't come for the day. Was it...?" She gestured towards the office building.

"Yes." The flat syllable boded ill for someone, and she was glad that it was not her. "But that is my business. Thank you for telling me. I have things to do, so I shall go. Good evening to you."

"Wait!" Oops, what should she say... "Mind if I tag along? At a discrete distance?"

"How discreet?"

"Discretely three meters behind you unless otherwise requested. I mean, it's pretty obvious that this job ends tonight, so I'd better make the most of it."

The villain took only a second to consider. "Fine. They'd expect me to come alone, so two people might throw them off. And I would like to see more of my daughter's handiwork in action."

"What's the plan, sir?"

"We walk right in." The outline of the armor wavered and warped, and a standard-looking businessman stood before her. "No, this is not my face," he told her. "The chameleon circuit accounts for that. If Mi... if Tek Witch used my notes as a basis, then you should find an option for 'social camouflage' on the control menu."

"Got it." She made a note to explore the menu commands more thoroughly, and soon. This should not have missed her attention. By selecting 'personal assistant' on the appropriate menu, she made her suit flex and shift as both its colors and its contours changed.

"Not bad," said the approving father. "My system is mostly holographic—the armor is still under it all—but your suit... hm... what is the material?"

"Proprietary, is all they'd tell me," she admitted. "Electradyne would be flattered you asked, probably." Pulling a mirror compact from the IBOTI bag, SilverStar examined herself. The face was not too far from reality, with the nose a bit broader, the jaw a little sharper, and her skin tone four shades darker. Her hair was black. "All I can say is that I got my money's worth with this class project."

"Quite. Come along." The fake businessman led the way, and she followed. At a discrete distance.

"This face I am wearing," he informed her along the way, belongs to a mid-level director of this organization, a man named Bilosevic. Remember that name; you are his personal assistant..."

"Marion." If she had to play a bitch, she could use the help staying in character. "Marion Greenwood."

"...I hope that is not your real name."

"Not on your life," she told him. "Ask Tek Witch later."

"I will. Scrambling surveillance now." Something went click near his wrist. "Straight across the rear yard, through the door, and act like I own the place."

"Yessir." Keeping her discrete distance behind him, SilverStar pulled a blank paper and clipboard out of the IBOTI bag. There was half a stationery store within its wacky inner geometry, and it was time to put it all to good use.

Just as the man had said, they were across the yard, through the door, and past a large number of industriously busy people before anyone noticed them—and that was only because the villain bellowed, "Throckwood!" at the top of his lungs, followed by a "Why the hell am I out here this late!"

The unfortunate Throckwood only barely caught his own clipboard before it could fall to the floor. "Mr. Bilosevic! Sir! When did you—"

"A few minutes ago, and I am still figuring out whether it is too damn early or too damn late! Ms. Greenwood!" He turned to her. "What time is it?"

"2:51, sir," she answered without seeming to check a chronometer.

"Too damn early it is," Bilosevic concluded. "Report, Throckwood!"

"H-here?" The nervous office worker glanced around at all the people still rushing by, one way or the other.

"Where would you rather have it?" the false director challenged.

"Oh! Um, this way, sir."

The office building was as banal as the outside would suggest. The grey carpeting matched the beige wallpaper, but mainly out of boredom. If this was a secret techno-cabal's base of operations, then the principal defenses were psychological. SilverStar could feel her brain shutting down non-vital functions as she followed the so-called Bilosevic following the so-called Throckwood into the so-called meeting room.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon, sir," said Throckwood. Nervous eyes flicked over to the so-called Marion Greenwood. "Or with your lovely personal assistant. Er, I don't believe we've been introduced...?"

"Just business, Throckwood."

"Yes, sir. As to the business at hand—"

Her danger sense pinged just as the sleeve pistol fell into the man's palm. Her arm shot out as he pulled the trigger. The defensive personal forcefield projector on her wrist expanded into a pale blue Shield of David, catching the low-caliber bullet.

Then it sputtered and faded out. PFPs of that size were an emergency measure and never lasted long. It would take time to recharge.

Throckwood still had the gun. She had no time.

But she had another hand, and a fist at the end. It all worked like trained routine: step in, sweep arm, punch throat. Step back so the pencil-pusher could collapse. Then she turned to where Tek Knight still stood. "Were you planning on doing anything?" she asked.

"You had it well in hand. Now, Throckwood..." The illusion of Bilosevic faded away, and the cyber noir warrior knelt by the prone man. "What have you to say for yourself?"

The only reply was a gurgle.

"I thought as much. Well," said the villain to the heroine-in-training. "Ready yourself. We're going to fight our way to the central command room, most likely, and then back out again."

"Understood, sir." SilverStar dialed up a selection of knicknacky gadgets and holdouts from her IBOTI bag. Like the PFP, they were one-use items that needed time to recharge, but they were the pinnacle of Whateley freshman trickery. After a moment of fitting, setting, and attaching, she nodded to the villain, and they set out. She kept the chameleon circuit active, since the power drain was minimal and the veneer of normalcy might buy her a second of hesitation from anyone gunning for her.

Tek Knight was in full armor display. No one was going to mistake him for anything else. SilverStar kept a discreet distance between them.

They were ten seconds along when the corridor of beige and grey turned red and black. The main lights overhead snuffed out, to be replaced with bloody strobe lights and a high-pitched alarm. All of the perfectly normal, perfectly busy office workers in sight halted as one and turned glassy-eyed glares towards the intruders. Faces curled into snarls, while fingernails glinted with strange paintjobs in the light. Then the mob struck.

One on one, this would be nothing. Two or three on one would be a challenge, but doable. The office workers piled onto Tek Knight ten at a time, or more. Literally everyone in the hallway was jumping on him. The villain's power suit took the load, but he wasn't going anywhere.

She should do something. Right. Her brain struggled for a moment with the question of "What?" but her hands found the answer on her belt. Helpful holdout #1, courtesy of Retrofit. It looked like a miniature air horn. It rumbled like a miniature jet engine at close range.

BRRRRRRRRT.

Noise-cancelling earplugs were part of the standard Whateley kit, and now she got why. In the confines of the officer hallway, the sound was practically explosive. The mob was on the floor, clutching its collective heads. Tek Knight punched and kicked his way free, then took his blade to the nearest wall, carving a new door for them to pass through. Two drones launched from the epaulets of his armor, going first into the next space. Sleep darts made sure there were no surprises awake to bother the villain and his reluctant sidekick of the hour as they continued on.

"Do I want to know what this is about?" she asked.

"The mob?" Tek Knight paused to let his epaulet drones dock properly. "An experiment in groupthink optimization. The extralegal branch of the company hired me to procure some tech from a Eurojank group called Les Fils de Reseau, which in hindsight I should have passed on. More trouble than it was worth for the job."

That much was obvious to SilverStar, thoguh she felt she might regret the techno-zombie part as well. Once the zombies were safely in the past, rather than building a barricade up ahead. "Grenade!" she shouted to the villain before lobbing useful holdout #2 at this new mob cluster. One of Electradyne's, the sphere puffed into an expanding net of sticky fibers that covered the mind-controlled office workers and fixed them in place.

"Is your entire loadout non-lethal?" Tek Knight inquired as they passed the struggling mass of people.

"Whateley puts certain restrictions on official class projects," she reminded him. "Plus, anything's lethal if you try hard enough."

"Fair." He slashed through another partition. "You might wish for something harder-hitting in the future."

"Understood, sir." The next mob was rushing at them now, and Safta Margit's training kicked in. They grabbed; she pulled. They pulled; she punched. No room for fancy moves, no spin kicks or knee drops. Just her fists until the last glass jaw was shattered and the mob was down for the count.

"How many more people can they send at us?" she wondered.

"Anyone in the building who's been lojacked into the system," said Tek Knight. "But there shouldn't be many left. I took out the main research station for the groupthink project last week; this is a satellite campus. I presume they intend to recruit more warm bodies in Muncie."

The thought made her shiver. "Let's decapitate this worm, then."

"And burn it to ashes and dust," agreed the villain. "In fact, the next room should... Hello, George."

The next room, the last room of their little office invasion, was a deconstruction of a mainframe computer from the inside out, with the wires and circuit boards built up into a throne, upon which sat a man, logged into life. LCD screens surrounded him, orbiting slowly on wire frames. SilverStar saw herself and Tek Knight on one of them as it passed around.

"It's you," said the alleged George. "And you brought a friend. How unlike you."

"It's a dangerous game you're playing, George," said the villain.

"What, improving efficiency? Increasing cooperation? Removing conflict? These things make a company stronger, more profitable. Shares are going nowhere but up." The man's laughter was canned like an old sitcom.

"Setting me up to take the blame for the Ithaca incident." Tek Knight sounded like he might spit if it weren't for the helmet. "Dirty business, dirty dealing, and you made me miss Parents Day at my daughter's school." The sword came up, its laser edge aglow. "As it turns out, there is something I take more personally than a broken covenant."

"Spare us." The words were rhetorical, ironic. The sheen of a force field flickered between George and the world. "Do you see what we have accomplished in such a short time? What a melding of individual ingenuity and the will of the many might accomplish? And yet you refuse to gift us the benefit of your own abilities."

Tek Knight hefted his blade. "What can I say? You didn't hire me for my brains. Nor are they for sale now."

The man within the force field enclosure never moved, but his voice shrugged for him. "Whatever. We were not about to pay for that which we can take." The side doors of the meeting room opened. SilverStar braced herself for yet another wave of hapless mobbed-up civilians. What came through the doors was fewer than that, but considerably worse for them. 

They were three, in fact: One lean man with hair permanently swept back and stiff. One man in tactical gear and belts of mismatched gadgetry. And one mountain of meat that must have been human because gorillas didn't grow beards. They had the look of mid-tier villains or upper-grade henchmen in plainclothes, but she couldn't ID any of them.

Tek Knight could. "Cleansweep, MusMaximus, and Provoker. You went after retirees?" he demanded to George. "Seriously? Provoker's been out of the racket for more than half a decade."

"We'd think you'd be more concerned about your own retirement," said the group-thinker. With that, everyone attacked.

The one called Cleansweep dashed in at triple-speed, knocking her over in passing as he slammed himself at Tek Knight. The armored villain caught the brunt on a PFP shield and redirected the speedster into the nearest wall. That same shield glittered and then fractured against the force of the muscle-man's fists.

That left the third one for her. The retiree, Provoker he'd been called. He was smaller, slower, and at a second glance he was carrying too many replacement parts. The fist that tried to punch her was metal fixed to metal, and even without the benefit of danger sense it would be easily dodged. The guy moved like the out of shape middle-aged man that he was. She kept an eye on his holdout belts, though. There was a lot of random tech on there, and eventually he would remember that.

The metal hand gripped a bright red sphere, yanked it hard enough to stretch and break the cord attaching it to the belt, and then he lobbed it at her. With her danger sense blaring, SilverStar roundhouse-kicked, connected, and batted the grenade-thing at the force field barrier. It struck and exploded into sticky red gunk. 

Okay, it was time to take the dude down. Tek Knight was fending off alternating attacks from the speedster and the muscle-man, all of them delivering near-misses that left holes in the walls and floor, while she was stuck with the utility-belter. Seriously. But if it was going to be tricks, then she had some of her own. Rushing in, she palm-slammed the Provoker in the chest.

Useful holdout #3, courtesy of Power Stunt: a one-shot taser ring. Against anyone else in the room, it would've been a pop-gun in a sniper's duel. Unleashed in direct contact with the Provoker's chest, it shocked the prop man back three feet and to the ground. Metal arm and leg spasmed, and for a second his face was stuck in a ridiculous expression of panic. Then he was down for the count.

Seriously? She hoped she hadn't killed him. The dude was a victim here, as far as she could tell. She stooped to check his vitals, then sighed with relief that he still had them. 

"H-he..." He was trying to speak, too. "Help?"

"Trying to," she told him. "But your boss is hiding behind a screen."

"B-b-b..." The word stuck for a second. "Bastard."

"You said it." SilverStar hunkered down to watch the two-on-one continue. Tek Knight was a warrior born, deflecting blows with his force shields and slicing through tables and other items of furniture as they were lobbed his way. As she looked on, the dude literally punched his fist into a wall, ripped away a beam, and threw it at the villain. The speedster was down and out, hobbled by tripwire, but the muscle-man was playing it safe.

Or rather, he was being played strategically. The man named George still sat behind his curtain of light, directing the action via groupthink.

"M-more coming," stammered the Provoker. "C-can feel the e-echoes. T-telling me... b-but I'm t-too fried. Th-thanks."

"Don't mention it." Especially since she hadn't intended to short-circuit anything more than his limbic system with that jolt. Too bad she only had the one shot. "We need to get that guy, though."

"P-pocket. Third... pocket. B-blue tag."

It took her a moment to fumble through his belts to find the proper holdout. It looked like a round, blue remote control for a garage door opener. "This it?"

"Y-yeah. C-c-cancellator's. Use on b-bastard."

It was worth a shot. Her IBOTI bag was open and ready to provide other items, just in case, but she brought the blue remote up first. There was one real button on it, red on blue. It begged to be pressed, so she did.

There was the sensation of the world switching to black and white, then the reverse to white and black, finishing with the strange crackling noise of a force field rupturing. The glow around George faltered, distorted, and then shattered into the ether.

The groupthinker said nothing, but the muscle-man suddenly turned towards her.

Crap. Her hand was already in the bag, grabbing useful holdout #4, a personal gift from her grandfather: a SIG Sauer P290RS pistol with 9mm ammunition. She had it out, aimed, and firing in one smooth motion.

BANG. She appreciated the noise-cancelling headgear once more. George wouldn't be appreciating anything after this.

The muscle-man stopped in his tracks, then clutched at his head and screamed. The speedster was likewise thrashing and crying on the floor. Next to her, the Provoker whimpered, and in the distance more screams could be heard.

"Time to go," said Tek Knight as he stepped over the prone and trembling body of his former opponent. "Nice shot."

"Yeah..." She was trying hard not to think about it right then. It wasn't the first time she'd shot at someone, but there was no way for her to lie to herself about the damage done this time. "Um, what do we do about the mess?"

"That's for the heroes to clean up. I assume that's who you were texting before we entered the building? Whoever it was specifically, they'll be here soon, and I'll be gone. I'm taking Dummy here with me. I owe him that much, at least." The cyber noir armor lifted the prop man like he was nothing, then proceeded towards the exit. "Oh, and if you should make a performance report to your suit's designers, then..." She didn't imagine the sigh. "Tell Tek Witch that her daddy is proud of her, and that he hopes to see her again soon."

"I will," she promised. It was probably the easiest talk she would have for the next few days.

The Henny-Penny Diner wasn't so far from the disaster zone of an office building, but it might've been a whole other world anyway. SilverStar kept her eye on the waitress and other customers, but none showed any sign of the banal normalcy of the groupthink. All were the regular level of weirdness she'd expect from a truck stop diner at 4 AM.

This included the woman sitting across from her at the table. Tawny actually looked mostly normal, if one paid no mind to the physique. Everything else somehow escaped notice, giving the impression of a regular woman in a trucker's jacket and cap, despite everything SilverStar knew to be true. The glittering green pendant around the heroine's neck likely had something to do with that.

She didn't ask. Questions were not her side of the conversation.

Trucker-Tawny ordered for them. As soon as the waitress was away, the heroine put her phone on the table and pressed an icon. All sound outside their booth diminished to whispers. "Right, so first things first. Is that your real face?"

"No." She still had her suit in personal assistant mode, with the color and feature alterations set. "There's a social camouflage setting in the chameleon circuit."

"Smart." From the sound of it, this might be the only time Tawny used that adjective that morning. "Now, what were you thinking?"

There was nothing to say but the truth, dumb as it sounded: "I figured if it was going to be the last day of surveillance, I might as well go see what happened."

"And Tek Knight just let you tag along?"

"I didn't tell him why I was there," SilverStar explained, again. "Only that I was observing that building, and since he apparently had it in for them..."

The other woman groaned out her next breath. "The enemy of my enemy is convenient, yes. You were lucky that Tek Knight is a more reasonable sort of mercenary."

"Lucky, yeah." She hadn't mentioned knowing the villain's daughter, and affirmed it to herself to remain mum on the matter. "Are we done here, ma'am? I already submitted my report."

"So you did, yes. There is one last thing." Tawny canceled the privacy screen as the waitress arrived with waffles, fruit, and fried chicken. "Breakfast!"

She couldn't say no to that. Her body ached, her nerves were shot, her emotions were raw, and she still had homecoming to worry about. Waffles with extra syrup were an effective remedy for many of life's ills.

Food delivered, privacy screen restored, and after much chewing, she finally mustered the courage to ask a question of her own: "What was I doing there, anyway?"

"Hm?" Tawny was caught with a mouthful of chicken.

"I mean, why did you want me to keep an eye on the place?"

The chicken continued to provide an excuse not to answer immediately for a few more chews before the heroine admitted, "I didn't know what was going on in there, honestly. I just knew that an old... well, someone I knew had gotten caught up in something probably bad. You saw him, MusMaximus?"

"The muscle dude? Him? Why—" Pieces clicked into place. "Ex-boyfriend?"

The chicken survived mastication for an admirable length of time before Tawny couldn't keep pretending to be busy with it. After a gulp and a sigh, the heroine nodded. "I knew he was retired from the business, but then there was a notification that he'd gotten involved with something, and I just had to, ah..."

Girl-talk time it was, then. Some things never changed. "So how'd the two of you end up together?" she asked.

A shrug. "We were imbued around the same time, me with the ferocity of the lioness and him with the power of a kung-fu rat master or something like that. So naturally life kept forcing us together, fighting the good fight or the bad or whatever. And, well..." The heroine sighed again. "Look, off record and everything?"

"Of course," said SilverStar.

"You know how strong I am. Do you have any idea how hard it is to have a romantic life when you've got literal mortal-crushing thighs? Mus and I both knew it was never going to work out, but it was nice to have someone on call for an occasional evening of fun, and be certain they were going to survive the evening. And when he wanted out of the business, I was able to help him safely retire."

"Which is why you knew he wouldn't be back in willingly," SilverStar concluded. "Which is why you wanted me to check out his new employer. Gotcha. So..." A flicker of the perverse in her heart prompted her to ask, "You gonna take him home with you this time?"

"I might. Just to make sure he's okay. And how are you getting home this morning?"

Her suit's interface was pinging her to say that Sava Adolf was en route with the van. "I have the usual arrangements. Should probably get going, in fact." After a few more bites of waffles and syrup. "Mm, that hits the spot. In any case, it's been a pleasure working with you, Ms. Tawny, and perhaps we shall again."

Oh, what an evening. Oh, what a day. Oh, hell, she still had homecoming. Stuffed on waffles as she was, Penelope Stein just wanted to crash in her own bed and stay there indefinitely.

Saturday, November 20th, 2016

So on the seventh day, she rested. If she were a good and proper young Jewish lass, she wouldn't have worked at all from sunset of the night before, but as Safta Margit said, finding reasons and loopholes to avoid the rules was almost as Jewish as following them all. Penelope appreciated that her grandmother didn't insist on the morning routine after she got home, an hour before sunrise. One final report to the senior partners later, she was free to be a teen again. And the teen thing to do was to sleep until noon.

After a very welcome shower and a brunch lunch, she was 100% back to being Penelope Stein, faking it as a normal teenager. Unfortunately, all of Penelope Stein's problems were still valid. First and foremost was the fact that homecoming was that evening. A close-running second was that she didn't have a dress ready for it. She hadn't planned on going, after all, and a good dress took time to choose and tailor to fit.

Marion probably hadn't been thinking that far ahead when she arranged embarrassment by homecoming proposal—the queen bee was no 2D chess player, much less 4D—but there was no doubt the girl would take advantage of any mistakes on Penelope's part.

"It is good to worry," said Safta Margit after her granddaughter laid out the situation through mouthfuls of pancakes. "Worries help you determine what to plan for. So, time to play dress-up. Rather last minute."

She nodded past the obvious. "I was searching up shops yesterday evening before the sitch blew up like it did. Dress stores, hair stylists, makeup specialists. Everything local's full up for homecoming prep. Some of the reservations must go back months by now. My hair's going to be whatever we can do with it."

"Leave that to me, Penny dear. It would not be the first time I had to do a surprise makeover on short notice."

"Not surprised. Anything in the past decade?"

"No, but some styles are timeless. For everything else, there is hairspray. And the outfit? We can do it cheap, good, or fast. Best two out of three."

"I had some thoughts on that," said Penelope. "And then a windfall of inspiration." On her tablet, currently synched to her suit, the command menu for social camouflage was on display. The suit itself was folded and tucked into its charging dock, but it had a good bluetooth connection. "Like, Twitch went to town with this chameleon circuit stuff. My facial disguise last night wasn't a default; it was algorithmically designed to mismatch my real appearance to a specific degree. And more importantly," she continued as her fingers tapped up the nested submenus, "it's got customization sliders."

"Ooh..." Her grandmother's whistle was properly appreciative. "The wonders of technology. I wish I'd had such a trick, back in the day."

Brunch lunch continued as grandmother and granddaughter bonded over plans for how best to dress to impress. Whenever Penelope called in the product report to Erica—and she most definitely would soon—Twitch was getting glowing words of praise all around.

They had six hours to get ready. Safta Margit needed only two. Penelope wasn't sure what sort of events her grandmother had attended in the past on mission-critically short notice, but they had to have been more impressive than a high school homecoming dance. The makeup was exquisite and battle-hardened, guaranteed to smudge for nothing less than a literal explosion in the face until the proper cleanser was applied or twenty-four hours had passed. Her hair fitted perfectly with a piece that matched her natural blonde coloration while giving her the length and full-bodied bounce of a 1950s femme fatale.

"Ooh, I did love this one," said Safta Margit as she practiced placing and removing it at speed. "Winnie and I would sometimes prank the boys, leaving as one profile and returning as someone completely different to flirt with them more." Her laughter was years younger. "We got Hans in so much trouble once with Winnie's maiden aunt because she thought he was cheating with other girls, when it was Winnie all along in half a dozen disguises. And looking absolutely ravishing in each.

There was a niggle of doubt in her heart. "Um, how do I measure up?"

"Beautifully, Penny dear. Now, time to suit up and see what fun there is to have."

The stealth suit fit her like a glove, with its integrated circuitry automatically adjusting to her without any tailoring required. Penelope really did not know what they'd made it out of, beyond the fact that it appeared to be techno-organic and capable of receiving printed circuitry at the microchip level. It really was a wearable computer, dedicated to very specific processes. And the camouflage submenus proved just how specific she could make it. There was an array of archetypal styles to start from: casual, business, formal wear, swimwear, sportswear, a selection of cosplay items that had to be Power Stunt's idea for a test phase—and prom dresses. An entire category of high school prom and homecoming dresses, possibly scanned from a magazine. This had to be Twitch's handiwork.

As Tek Knight had noted before, the material of her suit actually reshaped its contours to support whatever the chameleon circuit was showing. Her cowl, left around her neck and collarbone, morphed into a foulard that hid the clavicle and her plunging neckline even as it left the shoulders bare. Ruffles encircled her upper arms, while the gloves remained thin across her hands and fingers. Her trouser legs flared in imitation of something with a hemline and the illusion of a split up the side. The IBOTI bag contracted to a convenient purse size with a fake logo.

"Oh, in some bygone decade I would have been most envious of you, Penny dear," said her grandmother. "Definitely Bond girl material. I can think of a few events in particular where you might have made a killing in six different ways." The mostly retired femme fatale chuckled. "I do hope the Becker boy doesn't drop dead from shock. Have you decided on a color?"

That had been the subject of much consideration on Penelope's part, and yet only one thought: "Marion's wearing red. It's her color, and she's been telling everyone else who cares that she's got dibs on it."

"So, red it is?"

"The deepest, most vivid red we can manage," Penelope confirmed. "Vermilion or carnelian or Elizabeth de Bathory's personal bubble bath. Whatever the shade, it'll be the color her face turns when she sees me. I want to be the Jessica Rabbit to her Lena Hyena."

"Oh, I saw that movie in the theater with your grandfather once." Safta Margit nodded as she chuckled some more. "That's my girl. Now, do you have your safety kit prepped?"

"My what?" Seriously, there was more?

"A girl's got to stay safe, after all, and it's better you don't bring out the sidearm too soon," said her grandmother. "I figured you might need some help, so let me get my bag here... Right. First, a perfectly normal can of pepper spray. It's considered a firearm for legal purposes, so make sure you have your concealed carry permit on you."

"Always do."

"Good girl. Next, a perfectly normal taser. That ring of yours is a wonderful trick, but I wouldn't want to explain it to a police officer. Or anything else to a police officer. Remember, Penny dear, the truth may hurt, so don't hesitate to lie."

"Yes..."

"Now, here's a practical assortment of condoms, multiple size options, ribbed or sheer—"

"Grandma!" Her ears burned and her face flushed.

The old lady tutted. "We must be practical, Penny dear. You went through a lot last night, with all the excitement and adrenaline. I have been there, done that, and I know how this plays through. First there's the flight reflex, which you ignored oh so well, then the fight reflex, which you exercised thoroughly. But that much excitement takes time to work through the system, and your body's still keyed up like nothing you know, which leads us to the third F..."

"Don't want to hear this..." she groaned.

"Like it or not, your body's a rocket primed to blast off as soon as someone presses the right button," said Safta Margit, "and you're walking into a situation that's nothing but button presses. And if things work out well with Morton and all, well, it's best to be prepared."

The assortment pack went into her bag with no further argument, because she was too embarrassed to say anything else and her grandmother wouldn't take the excuse in any case. "Anything else?"

"Yes, I happen to have a spray bottle of the Cuckoo Channel's Knock-Out #9 here—"

"What happened to 'perfectly normal'?"

"Sometimes you need a little extra," Safta Margit admitted. "And #9 here delivers. One little spritz and—whoo!—the target is unconscious with minor retrograde amnesia. They won't recall what hit them. Please use it responsibly."

She wished she could say there would never be a need for it. That would be a lie, they both knew, but it would be nice if she could.

Morton Becker came to pick her up at 6 in the same limo as before. She still didn't know how he'd managed that, though Sava Adolf's quick and dirty background check found nothing the least bit sketchy in the young man's life. And if her grandfather knew the specifics of the limo service, Penelope wasn't about to ask. Let some mysteries continue; it only added to the magic of the evening.

Her date barely flinched when faced with Adolf Stein at the front door—a point in his favor.

He'd brought a corsage of white roses. Another point. The flowers made a good contrast against the red.

He did not faint when he got his first glimpse of her wearing the dress of a lifetime, though he did seem to be living out a personal fantasy in the moment he pinned the corsage to her left chest. It meant he missed how the pin of the corsage didn't actually push through the material, but rather got stuck in a localized magnetic effect. He accepted a single red rose for his boutonnière in return.

She found it hard to pull her hand away after fixing the flower to his lapel. In his well-tailored suit with the tie vibing with the pattern of his cap, himself professionally shaved and trimmed and with a slightly confused grin on his face—well, she'd thought he looked handsome enough the day before, but she was really feeling it now.

Seriously. Why'd her grandmother have to be so right about some things.

The senior femme fatale knew it, too. She had her cameras out, taking pictures of the two of them from every angle and across several types of physical and digital media, from black and white to full color to possibly holographic. Safta Margit reveled in the opportunity to play the doting Jewish grandmother. Penelope loved that she knew how little of an act it was.

"Oh, little Morton Becker, you look so handsome in that suit! And is that your grandfather's yarmulke on top?"

The young man rubbed the back of his head nervously. "Yeah, um, my dad loaned it to me for, um, good luck."

"Luck? Oh, never you worry, Penny dear doesn't bite."

"Hey!"

"She does throw a mean punch, however," admitted her grandmother. "I wanted her grandfather to give a good threatening speech—you know, for tradition—but he said he trusts her to kill you if you cause her any problems. So don't." The old lady's smile was as sweet as lead paint, and it left Morton in a similar state of brain-fogged paralysis.

Seriously. She had to take matters into her own hands before her grandmother broke her date for the sheer amusement of it all. "Shall we be going?" she asked in her own flavor of sweetness.

"Hm? Oh! Yes, let's go," said Morton.

She had a coat on over her dress to protect her from the evening chill she couldn't actually feel. Ever the gentleman, Morton held the door open for her as they got in the limo, then helped her get seated. If his hand lingered a little too long on her arm, or his eyes a little too long on her everything in general, she was not going to complain. The limo itself was a dream. She'd never been in one before, and if she were to guess, it was only the second time her date had been in one, either. It wasn't a long ride to school, but it was filled with small talk and the curious flipping of switches.

This whole dating thing was going well so far. The young man was gracious, interesting, and knew how to keep his hands to himself. Eventually she'd tell him where to put those hands, but only if things continued to go well. Maybe on the second date.

They arrived in the wake of someone else, with all attention drawn to Marion's grand entrance as their limo eased into the auditorium parking lot. Only one person seemed to notice them stepping out, and she shuffled over in an array of pink ruffles and with an insta-camera in hand. 

Penelope was surprised to see Girasol there at all. "I thought you weren't going to come."

"Well, yeah..." Girasol's eyes rolled as the word trailed off. "No date and all that. But then I thought, 'I bet Penny's really gonna kill it tonight, and I want pictures.' So..." The girl held up her camera. "I'm gonna get Marion's exact face the moment she sees you in that dress. Oh, but first a picture of the happy date?"

With a bemused grin, Morton offered his arm, and she happily took it. Her coat was left in the limo, and they strolled up the sidewalk to the auditorium entrance accompanied by camera flashes. The dance hall was abuzz with conversation, centered on its queen bee, which made the absolute silence that announced their arrival all the more impressive. The entire social machine of high school screeched to a halt, and then Marion Serris turned to see what was up.

Marion, in her lovely red dress.

Marion, with her hair done up and a glittery pendant at her collarbone.

Marion, just now understanding that she'd lost a contest she hadn't even known she was in.

The queen bee's face went a bright red to perfectly match her dress. Flash, the camera caught it for perfect posterity. Penelope let her date lead her on past the bitch and her retinue without a single look in their direction, and then onto the dance floor.

As if realizing that now was the time to earn his evening fee, the DJ started up a slow dance number. "Do you know how to dance?" she whispered to her date as he nervously fitted one hand at her waist and clasped the other hand with hers.

"I took lessons," he admitted. "Last year. Mom signed me up for social stuff at the synagogue. I, um, didn't do well."

She couldn't say much for herself, either. All she could do was use footwork from a t'ai chi routine her grandmother liked and follow him around. "Let's keep it simple, then."

They had the dance floor to themselves, but not for long. Marion stormed past with her boyfriend Brad, and the two began dancing with intent. They were about as good at it as Penelope and Morton, but looked worse as they wheeled about.

She ignored them as best she could. This was her homecoming night, and her date was looking ever more handsome, the more she looked at him. Nothing was going to ruin that. Her happiness did not depend on other people's suffering.

Marion's did, however. The queen bee and her football drone swung past, and Penelope barely pulled herself and Morton out of the way in time. The first song wound down, and a more up-tempo one began. More couples had moved onto the dance floor, but Marion was still glaring daggers at her.

"Mind if I lead?" she asked.

"Not really," said Morton. "Um, why?"

"Because the power couple over there is gunning for us." She took a breath and let the danger sense fill the back of her mind. As an ESP ability, it was hard to quantify at times, but she bet if she focused on the two of them as one—

Right. Her sense of danger threshold stretched past her hands and around the young man. As long as they didn't let go... "Hold on."

There probably was a name for the dance they were doing. Something like the Hop or the Bop or something else that sounded straight out of the 1950s. All she cared was that it kept them moving, kept them bouncing hand in hand, arms around waists and whirling away from stray elbows or kicks. Her danger sense thrilled with each approach, guiding herself and her date out of the way of most hits. A few still landed, but all of them were accidental—the dance floor was getting crowded, and bumps were inevitable. Soon after, Marion was forced to retire after she and Brad nearly clotheslined Salutation and her date. Friendly fire ended in unfriendly argument as the two cheerleaders took it outside.

"Whew..." said Morton. "I didn't think I could move that fast."

"Those dance lessons paid off after all," she teased. "You better thank your mom. Oh, next one's a slow one. Shall we?"

He did not need any further encouragement. The next hour was spent mostly dancing to various rhythms and tempos, with the occasional break for punch. Girasol kept their drinks safe on the sidelines, and the girl showed them all the photos she'd taken between breathers. Penelope had to admit that, beyond all expectation, the two of them looked better than good together.

Felt better than good, too. She was snuggled in next to Morton, sitting hip to hip, and thinking that a third date after a second was definitely in order. Perhaps more than that. Intellectually, she knew it was all the dancing and low lights and general atmosphere pushing the metaphorical buttons of her previously adrenaline-pumped nerves. Hormonally, it was a good thing they were in public. Like Safta Margit had surmised, the evening before had left her keyed up and ready for anything.

"Um, could I ask a favor?" Girasol said at the next punch break. "I gotta visit the girls' room but I'm worried, yanno, the football team might try something..." She looked sick in the face just mentioning it.

Penelope would've done it for her friend anyway, but the announcement from the stage that it was almost time to crown the homecoming king and queen cinched it. No way did she want to see the smirking face of Marion Serris paired with a cheap tiara and vacuous wave. Morton must have felt the same, as he had no complaints walking them past the big double doors to the main school corridor so Girasol could use the washroom there. Penelope scouted the place, checking to make sure stalls were empty and that no one was behind the other door on the far side of the restroom. Finding nobody, she gave her friend a thumbs-up and then rejoined her date outside.

"I hate that this is necessary," she grumbled.

"Um, so you know she's, um...?"

"You got a problem with that?" she challenged.

"No! GiGi's a lovely girl. And a lot happier than, um, she used to be."

"Good," said Penelope. "You know that one song by the Spice Girls?"

Morton blinked in confusion. "Maybe? That's my mom's music. You mean the one that says 'Tell you what I want'?"

"Yeah, that one. The refrain?"

"'If you wanna be my lover...'" His mouth snapped shut for a second, then, "Er, wasn't sure I, y'know, had a chance? You're, like, an eleven out of ten and I'm—"

"Looking good," she assured him. "You took my advice, got help from someone who really and honestly knows what they're doing, and you're handsomer than any of the other guys out there tonight. But." Her pointer came up to wag in his face. "Fun is fun and all, but the song's got a point. 'If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends.' And GiGi's the only one I got at this school. So before we take things any further, I gotta make sure you're cool with that."

"Well, yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Good answer." She stepped in, closing the inches between them until—

Flash. "Sorry!" squeaked Girasol. "It was just so sweet and romantic and I know I should've waited, but..."

"It can wait till later," Penelope told her. She tried not to giggle at the hangdog look on Morton's face. "It's more of a second date thing, wouldn't you agree?"

"Hm? Hm!" It was hilarious how the young man's entire being perked up. "Yes, I suppose so?" he stammered. "If you want to...?"

"I'm looking forward to it," she promised him. "Far more than I am to seeing Marion getting her precious little tiara. But we need to be out there somewhere in the background so she won't complain too much later."

The three of them could share a groan at the thought, and then a giggle, before heading back towards the auditorium. From the sound of it, the homecoming coronation was just getting underway. They were at the the double doors when her danger sense went off the chart.

"Wait!" she hissed, then grabbed them both by the arms to yank them back.

"What?" said Girasol. "I don't—oh, shit!"

Seriously, they needed some stronger words in the English language, or at least better phrasing. 'Oh shit' didn't do justice to a billowing wall of flames springing up to bar all entrance to the auditorium. Colors shifted from orange to pink to a weird shade of blue that didn't seem physically possible to fit into the rainbow of red around it.

"Fire...?" Morton's shout died down in confusion. "Um, there's no heat? Floor's not burning?"

She poked it with a finger. "Yeeouch!" No heat, but she definitely felt it. "Still hurts. Might be a psionic projection."

"How'd you..." The debate went quiet as the shouting inside the auditorium flared up. It was mostly Marion's shrill voice, matched by an equally irate someone she didn't recognize. She couldn't make out the words unassisted, but there was a definite back-and-forth going on.

"Is that... Gwynnifer Easley?" said Girasol, peering through the not-flames from a safe distance.

"Who?"

"You wouldn't know her," said Morton. "She and Marion were thick for years, up until they were named cheer squad lieutenants last year."

"Then claws out," Girasol continued. "There could be only one captain, and all that. But then Gwinny left in the middle of spring semester and no one knows why."

Penelope eyed the wall of illusory flames. "I can hazard a guess. Ever see the movie Carrie?"

"Yeah, why... oh." Her best friend looked happy to be on this side of the wall at the moment.

"Right. Oh." And damnit, she was there, and licensed, and technically responsible... "GiGi, get your camera ready."

"For what?"

"Establishing an alibi." Grabbing Morton by the lapels, she pulled him in for the kiss of all kisses, the defining moment for the 'best years of their life' with the camera recording it all for posterity. With time stamps and locker numbers in the background. She only regretted that it had to be so short. "Right. Alibi established. You two wait here."

"Where..."

She was already through the restroom door. "Someone's got to rescue Marion. Unfortunately." Her suit was pinging the school security system to prompt a complete crash. This would be embarrassing enough without the surveillance footage.

Her corsage parted with ease from its magnetic fixture and her hairpiece from her scalp, both to be left on the mirror sill. Her foulard stretched and flipped over her head to form her cowl. The dress shifted and changed color as the chameleon circuit returned to its defaults. She should pull the mask on to fit, tuck her hair in more firmly, but the disguise function distorted her features and altered her coloration enough that if anyone did manage to snap a picture, it would only make her deniability more plausible. She was going to need all the plausibility she could muster.

The far exit of the restrooms let out near the rear of the auditorium, but a quick check showed her that this way was also barred by psionic flames. Still no heat, still no sign of burning, but her danger sense warned against coming too close.

Right. Think. This had to be some kind of projection, so the main limitation lay in the projector. Did this person know all the exits, could they project with forethought, or was it just what they could see in the moment? Whatever, whichever, the door to the drama club room was only locked for a second before she was taking the route that was hopefully less expected.

The drama club had full access to the auditorium's backstage area, and that included ropes and ladders to the catwalks. As SilverStar, she bounced through the door and was up the nearest rope in seconds. Looking down from above, she saw that the perpetrator had put a wall of illusory flames right up against the curtain on stage, but the psionic barrier went up only two meters. She clambered straight over it.

Down below, two equally argumentative teenage queen bees were having it out, mostly with words. Marion Serris had her royal tiara in hand, waving it with each agitated syllabled. The girl's skin bore red marks, like bad sunburns, but her red dress was undamaged.

The other girl was dressed in red as well, though the outfit was hardly a dress. As a costume, it was hardly anything at all, which appeared to be the point. If she squinted, SilverStar could see how it might once have been a cheerleader uniform, taken through a goth phase by way of a pair of scissors, then given bright red fishnets to fill in the holes. A crimson letter R stood in place of a corsage on the outfit's left breast, and a matching domino mask sat on her face.

"Stop it, Gwynnie," Marion was saying. "You're embarrassing yourself."

"There's no Gwynnie here!" the other girl screamed back. "Not anymore! It's Ravenge, now, and I'll be having mine! You ruined my life, Marion!"

"Me? I wasn't the one who turned out to be a freak-o mutant!" The queen bee spat out the words. "Did you think we wouldn't notice? You think we wouldn't do the right thing?"

"Well, you didn't!" Illusory flame splashed out as the mutant put her foot down hard on the wood of the stage. "Not by me! Not by us! I thought we were friends, Marsi. Oh fuck, how I was wrong about that."

"Language!" snapped Marion, before a "...fuck" of her own escaped her lips as she watched her former friend light up with indignation.

"We had to flee for our lives!" screamed Ravenge. "They came for me and my parents and we barely made it out alive! We had to relocate. Did you know there's an entire underground railroad for people who get displaced like that? I didn't! And then my parents kick me out as soon as I turn 18? Fuck that! Fuck them! And fuck you, Marsi!"

Psionic flames gathered all around, separating partygoers from the stage and isolating Marion in particular. The homecoming queen cried out in pain that existed only within her mind. "S-s-stop that!" she cried. "Somebody, help me!"

That was her cue, she supposed. As much as she sympathized with the mutant girl, this was either going to end with someone getting hurt by the psionic flames or someone getting shot by the police. Possibly both. So, in spite of all her personal feelings, she was going to have to rescue the homecoming queen.

Time for useful holdout #5, the drop line. Courtesy of Retrofit, who apparently loved the first Mission: Impossible movie. One end clipped to the catwalk frame, and her suit automatically distributed the weight like a harness as she dropped straight down into the eye of the psionic storm. The so-called Ravenge broke her fall.

"What the—"

And a whiff of Cuckoo Channel Knock-Out #9 did the rest. The girl went limp. The flames shivered and began to recede, but not too quickly. The barriers were still flickering around her as she trussed Ravenge up like a turkey.

She turned her head, making sure Marion got a glimpse of a face that definitely was nothing like Penelope Stein, and then the recall on the drop line activated and she shot back up to the catwalk. From above, she could see the illusory flames sputtering out of existence, starting nearest to their creator and working their way to the doors. They were mostly gone by the time she'd raced back through the drama club room, then into and out of the restrooms as her suit morphed back into its Prom Dress 1 setting. She snagged the corsage and the hairpiece on her way past, tagging the first to her dress magnetically and quickly fitting the other to her head.

Her arrival coincided perfectly with Girasol's current phone conversation. With a nod to Penelope, the girl said, "Yes, ma'am. Me and my two friends are right outside the auditorium. Say hi, you two."

"Hi!" she and Morton yelled. "It looks like the flame-stuff is dying down," she added loudly.

"Yes, ma'am," Girasol continued. "That's right. We don't see anyone hurt from here. Oh, someone's down on the stage. I think it's the, um, the bad guy? We couldn't see what all was going on, but... Yes, ma'am. Okay. We'll be waiting."

"Who was that?" she asked after her friend ended the call.

"911 operator. No one called from inside the auditorium, weirdly enough."

Either there was electronic interference from being surrounded by psionic projections, or everyone was too busy taking photos and footage. They'd probably see it all over social media by the end of the hour. "So you couldn't see anything that happened?"

"No, we saw pretty much everything," said Morton.

"Inferred the rest," added Girasol. "Seriously, Penny. What the—"

"Later," she promised. "In private. Okay? For now, we need to decide on the script so we can stick to it."

"Wondered when I'd get 'lies to police' off my bingo card..." her friend grumbled. "Fine. Okay. As soon as it's safe. Let's just get this over with."

That turned out to be not as soon as anyone would like. The police arrived first, emboldened by reports by teens on the scene that the dangerous mutant was neutralized. A short while later, Tawny made an appearance on the scene as an observer to ensure that Ravenge didn't suffer any unfortunate accidents or mishandling while unconscious. Penelope and her friends were still speaking with the police when the out of town heroine came and went. No worries there about being recognized, at least for the moment. The rest of the evening was pretty much dead in the water, however. All the seniors left as soon as they were able, including the three of them in Morton's rented limousine.

"How'd you manage to swing this?" Girasol asked him, in lieu of any questions they weren't yet at liberty to discuss.

And it wasn't like Penelope didn't want to ask, herself. This was a nice ride.

"Um, well, my Uncle Shane..." Morton began. "Okay, do you know the feast of Tu b'Av? Penelope?"

She'd been crash-coursing Jewish customs for six months; of course she knew this one. "Fifteenth of the Month of Av, a day of happiness following six days of sad remembrance. Sort of the Jewish Valentine's Day," she finished for Girasol's benefit.

"Right. So, um, big surprise but I didn't have a date then—or, well, ever—so Uncle Shane had a few glasses of wine and he tells me if I ever want to impress a girl, he can hook me up."

"The catch?" asked Penelope.

"I'm working at his men's wear store three evenings a week until graduation."

She didn't ask him if it was worth it. Rather, she leaned in and made damn well sure he knew it was worth it, with a kiss that promised as much as he was willing to take. Eventually. They had a wide-eyed audience in Girasol, plus she didn't know the limo driver.

Also, there was still business to take care of that evening. "Could you drop us all off at my place?" she asked the driver after remembering to press the little talkie-button for the front cab. "We'll get him home safe and sound."

"Roger that," came the man's voice over the little intercom. Whatever he was thinking, it was probably more entertaining than the truth. This time. Penelope had high hopes for their second date.

She heard the ping of an incoming message, but not from any phone. This one was through the suit, and for her ears only. A quick glance at her phone interface showed it was from Tawny. With a groan, she slipped the device back in her bag. One more thing to worry about. Seriously. She had enough at the moment. Behind the chatter of the ride home, she plotted out what to tell the heroine.

When they got to her house, Safta Margit met them at the door. "Have you seen the news this evening?" were the first words to greet them all.

"Why?" Penelope replied. "It's not like my face is on there."

That got her a knowing smile. "So it is not." Then a glance at Morton and Girasol. Then a frown as Penelope nodded. "Right then. It's time for a coffee break. Inside, young ones."

She finished up the mail to Tawny while Safta Margit played hostess. The details needed only minor fudging: "Okay, so officially my alter ego took an anonymous security job for the evening because someone was paranoid and willing to pay in advance," she told her grandfather. "Easy money, low risk, primary intel source is a known conspiracy nut. Only it turned out that she had a former team rival who developed superpowers and was intending to do Carrie on homecoming. Threat dispatched with prejudice, after which I didn't want to risk any difficult questions, so I left as soon as the police arrived."

Her grandfather nodded. "Perfectly reasonable, though she'll likely take you to task for professionalism."

"I'll be properly penitent when that happens," she promised.

Girasol and Morton were over with her grandmother, leafing through a copy of Tales of the Fourth Reich, a graphic novel purporting to tell true stories of the fight against the Nazi themaagenten in the years after World War Two. Safta Margit was tsking playfully over the various embellishments and mistaken details, saying things like "Oh, his mask wasn't nearly as scary as they made it here" or "You must realize that tanks do not explode like that."

"And the hair!" the senior femme fatale squealed. "I like a touch of red to it, yes, but I only ever had it that shade of scarlet for a single mission, but that's the one they got my reference photograph from, so there I am, true carnelian all throughout the book. I suppose it does make the image pop, however. Do you remember me with that hair, Adolf?"

"With loving fondness, schatzi."

Morton couldn't stop glancing from the page to the reality and back again. "I actually own a copy of this book," he admitted. "Must've read it a dozen times, and I never realized I go to sabbath services with..."

"The years have not been that kind to me," Safta Margit teased.

"And she's your grandma?" Girasol still sounded a bit in shock. It was a completely understandable and expected reaction. 

"Adopted, technically," she admitted. "My parents died in a car crash ten years ago, and I got bounced around the Nebraska foster care system for a while before someone basically sold me to a Nazi villainess to train as a cadre soldier."

"Wait, really?"

Her grandmother clapped her hands. "Ooh! Now this is a story! It all started when Adolf's brother Hans and his wife Winnie—that's them on the page there, Morgenstern and Eisenmädel—got kidnapped by their idiot Nazi cousins along with our niece Erica—" Only Penelope would have known to notice the slight catch in the words that had long since worn down to nothing at all. "—and oh, long story short, Penny dear helped us blow their secret base wide open, guns blazing and fists punching. We just had to keep her after that."

"Wait, so you're not Jewish?" Morton didn't look like he knew what to think about that.

That got him a tut from the doting grandmother. "On all legal documentation and history, Penny is the daughter of my daughter, and if I and this hypothetical version of the late Melinda Rose were estranged, well, this just means that my granddaughter is tinok shenishba. We even rescued her as a child from captivity, technically speaking."

Her grandfather grunted. "She half-rescued herself with a dart-stunner."

"Right. She was made for this family, truly, and we welcome her as our own."

She had to wipe a tear from her eye before she could say anything. "My bat mitzvah is in June," she reminded him. "Only six years late. What did you think was going on with that? Beyond that, the details aren't as important. But you know what is?"

"Um, what?" Morton didn't flinch as she leaned in close, practically nose to nose.

But now that she had his undivided attention: "So, what are we doing for a second date?"

 

To Be Continued