Before we begin, an important note about the tone of the story. I started it as a whimsical romp, a superhero action comedy with a TG twist. But along the way it became apparent to me that at its heart it's a coming of age story, with all of the wrinkles that entails.

With that in mind, the story is rated as Mature Subjects (PG-15). Not for sex—there's no intercourse, I know some of you are disappointed—but rather because there are some very adult issues and threats that come up as our teenage hero discovers the world of the supers is a bit more like Watchmen than the clear morality of the four-color Silver Age comics he was expecting. People will die. Ideologies will clash. Boobs will be groped.

But—most importantly—it's going to have humor! Because I believe that any (*takes a deep breath*) teenage superhero action adventure coming-of-age story with gender change and crossdressing (*whew!*) deserves to be a comedy.

I hope you agree.

Enjoy!

IDENTITY CRISIS

Chapter 1: Confessions of a Teenage Hero(ine)

By Jenny North
Artwork by Fraylim and Splutt

Let me tell you something about being a teenage superhero. It's awesome. Seriously, if you have the means, I highly recommend it. And if you're one of those lucky kids born into a multi-gazillion dollar family, just order yourself some powered armor or a utility belt and you're good to go. (Plus, you don't even have to be an orphan, which I'm sure will come as a tremendous relief to your parents.)

But I won't kid you, there's a lot of crap you have to put up with.

A lot of crap.

In fact...

Hmm.

You know, it occurs to me that as I look back on my career as a superhero, I might be looking at it through lenses that, if not rose-colored, are definitely of a hue that obscures all the bruises and emotional scars. Ruby quartz, maybe?

Anyhow, on reflection, I'd like to amend my introduction just slightly.

Under no circumstances should you attempt to be a superhero. You'd have to be out of your freaking mind. And I'm not just saying that because people with metahuman powers are far more likely to turn to a life of crime than to become heroes and that I'm sick of every young punk with his daddy's power ring trying to kill me just because he wants to make a name for himself. Nor am I just saying that because my publisher has just informed me that encouraging minors into a life-threatening line of work in a printed medium might open me up to all kinds of legal liability.

No, I'm saying this because of something that my parents taught me from a very young age. Power has a price.

I can hear you scoffing, and I don't even have super-hearing. "I'd give anything to be a superhero!" you're probably saying.

Really? Anything?

See, here's the thing. To become a superhero makes you an agent of Fate's grand design. And Fate, my friend, has a wickedly perverse sense of humor.

Perhaps a tale from my own humble beginnings might illustrate my point.

I grew up in Faraday City, so named for Dr. Reginald Faraday who founded the metropolis as a shining example of his utopian vision of the future, made manifest in New Jersey because it was more amenable to altering the tax codes to suit his liking. Dr. Faraday would of course be the same asshole who later breached the dimensional boundaries from the privacy of his tax-sheltered private laboratory and set off the catastrophic chain reaction that caused physics to go bananas for hundreds of miles in every direction and thinned the veil between worlds to the point where we can now expect alien invasions on alternate Thursdays.

Dr. Faraday was quick to take credit for the creation of the supers. But not as quick as he was to absolve himself legally from any damages caused by those pesky aliens, demons, supervillains, and assorted creeping horrors now regularly visited upon us. In fact, his first and arguably most canny move was to swiftly rebrand the moment of the dimensional breach as "The Turning Point," which sounded more upbeat and tested better with focus groups than what the media had originally named "Faraday's Folly."

Welcome to the era of the superhero.

Many people ask why anyone in their right mind would live in Faraday City these days considering that it's the epicenter for any number of bizarre paranormal events, alien invasions, and giant rampaging supermonsters, to say nothing of being in Jersey. Well, there's a couple reasons for that. First, we are per capita far and away the world's number one home for superheroes, a fact that we here are quite proud of. Second, we live in a breathtaking amount of denial. It's kind of like the people in California who build their homes on dangerous precipices and blithely ignore the fact that they live in an area prone to earthquakes, mudslides, and brush fires, where everyone is basically praying that the Big One doesn't hit in their lifetime and flush everything into the Pacific Ocean, leaving Marina del Lex and Otisburg as beachfront property. (I learned that from the first Superman movie.)

So basically we risked our lives every day just for the bragging rights. We'd say, "Well, sure, my neighbors were eaten by giant mutant cicadas, but just yesterday I saw Arcturus driving around in his Astromobile. Can you say that?"

We live in interesting times.

This was the environment where I found myself spending my formative years. My parents did their best to give me a loving childhood and teach me right from wrong, to which I credit their warm and generous natures and boundless capacity for love, and not just because they were hedging their bets against the possibility that one day I might become a power-mad supervillain and hold them accountable for a troubled childhood. (When I was six I went to a birthday party for a kid with these soulless dark eyes and a crazy intensity about him and I swear it was exactly like that old Twilight Zone episode where the adults were all like, "Haha, it's good that Freddy shaved the cat!" Everyone was convinced that kid was going to grow up to be this big evil mastermind, but he ended up as a florist. You never can tell.) My parents' boundless love and acceptance would actually prove to be a rather awkward problem later, but I'm getting ahead of myself. And I bet you want to know about the powers, right?

People always ask how I got my powers—for obvious reasons—but I've noted that seldom do they want to know the price I had to pay to become a superhero. It's sort of like when you get food poisoning and everybody always wants to know where you ate so they can avoid that restaurant, but nobody ever wants to hear the details of what you went through afterward. But the truth is, the way I got my powers was actually kind of boring. I was sixteen years old and walking alone through the city park to clear my head after a particularly disastrous attempt to ask Fiona Delaney out on a date. I was dejected and wasn't really paying attention when I suddenly turned and noticed a whirling pink energy vortex open up a few feet from where I was standing.

I instantly recognized this as my Moment. Chris Patterson had just won the cosmic lottery, baby. And now I was being called upon by Fate to take up the challenge and become a paragon of justice, beloved by all. (In my defense, I was an only child so I already believed that I was special and the center of the universe.)

Faced with my call to heroic destiny, I did what any young man would do in my position. I shrieked like a scared little girl half my age and then ran away screaming as I flailed my arms madly over my head like Kermit the Frog. (In his book The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell describes this step in the hero's journey as "the refusal of the call.")

Now before you judge me too harshly, you have to appreciate where I grew up. I don't know where you were raised, but I'm betting that when you went to bed at night, you were read stories like "Goodnight Moon" or "The Runaway Bunny." When I went to bed at night, my parents read me the story of The Atomic Slime.

In case you haven't read it, it's a children's book inspired by the real-life story of one mister Sidney Stiles, a mild-mannered investment banker who one day while enjoying a picnic lunch with his family suddenly found himself whisked miles away by a strange beam of light. The bewildered Sidney was soon faced with a dying alien who offered him the chance to do battle against the forces of evil if only he would accept the Cosmic Bracelet.

Without hesitation, Sidney eagerly accepted this call to adventure, and the gaudy jewelry bestowed upon him powers and abilities far beyond the ken of mortal men. It also turned him into a sentient puddle of slime.

To his credit, Sidney made the best of his situation and soon oozed his way into our hearts as The Atomic Slime, dispensing two-fisted justice from his lightning-quick pseudopods, and criminals everywhere learned that the eye stalks of the law were upon them. But on the last page of the book where you saw Sidney quietly pour himself into the punch bowl that served as his bed, the very clear moral of that story was that while he was doing a lot of good for the people of the city, it was very likely that he might be happier if he'd made a different choice that fateful day.

Power has a price.

So as I think back on myself running through the empty park and bawling miserably that I didn't want to be turned into slime, I tend to think of myself as a victim of my upbringing. But aren't we all, really? Maybe if Gorgoth the Eviscerator had been hugged a little more as a child he wouldn't have the emotional problems he has today and the Statue of Liberty would still have a head. Who's to say?

Anyway, that's when I ran smack into a tree. I got knocked unconscious, and when I woke up, I had super powers.

Oh, don't give me that look. I told you it was boring.

Okay, fine. Later, I'd learn that there's this entire epic saga behind the whole thing involving aliens, the Arthurian Siege Perilous, and a broken stopwatch, but that's not important right now. For the purposes of this story: Tree. *Wham* Powers.

My publisher has asked me to clarify that I am in no way advocating running headlong into trees as an effective means of gaining superpowers, nor is it in any way a good idea in general. (Personally, I'm hoping for a slightly more intelligent class of reader. I have high hopes for you!)

My powers were nothing too spectacular in a place of miracles like Faraday City, but to my sixteen-year-old mind, they were the most amazing things I could imagine. First, I was not turned into slime. I was very happy about that. I could fly, which was incredible...I could have died happy right there. And I was a lot stronger and tougher, too. I was strong enough to easily lift a small car, and according to the testing center I visited, I was—theoretically—"largely resistant to high-caliber weapons fire," although you wouldn't believe the fine print and qualifiers they put on that statement. And after some experimenting, I also discovered that I could change my shape.

My shapeshifting power was...weird. If I concentrated I could change myself into other people, but it could take a couple of hours depending on how big the change was. However, once I locked in the new pattern I could switch back and forth between it and my regular form almost instantaneously. I felt like with practice I could get better at it, but as it was it seemed perfectly suited for crafting my heroic identity, since I could change in a blink and I wouldn't look anything like myself.

So, being something of a late bloomer and of somewhat less than heroic stature, I decided to make my heroic identity more...well, more. I made myself four inches taller with wavy blond hair to look sufficiently different from my natural dark hair and I gave myself a more muscular physique, toned and with six-pack abs, but not so imposing that I'd scare off the girls. (In retrospect it probably would have been easier if I'd made myself look like an adult, but I was still hopeful that my new status as a teenage superhero might help me score with girls my own age. Superheroes may be selfless, but I wasn't that selfless.)

I'd let my best friend Caleb in on my secret since he was a total superhero groupie and I knew that he'd be able to help me design a killer costume. So after a quick trip to the Faraday Costume Fabrication Facility ("CosFab" for short), I stood up straight and marched proudly to confront what I will always view as my single greatest nemesis (sorry, Frosty Joe, we've had good battles, but you can't hold a candle to this one): superhero registration.

* * * * *

"Powers?"

The word was only two syllables long, but the woman behind the counter managed to layer it with a jaded detachment and apathetic tedium that, combined with the merest smidgen of ennui, really managed to convey the world-weariness of the speaker. It was like poetry.

I puffed my up chest proudly. "Class 3 flight, Class 2 super strength, Class 3 invulnerability, and Class 1 shapeshifting," I proclaimed, quietly hoping for a draft of the air conditioning to billow my cape heroically even as I ignored Caleb's smirk at my smug self-importance. He was standing next to me and was ostensibly there for moral support, but really he'd just come to babe-watch the superheroines.

"Spandex is a miracle fabric," he sighed wistfully.

The bored registrar tapped away at her keyboard. "Hero or Sidekick?"

"So, yeah, I was hoping to get classified as a Hero, but I'm only sixteen—"

"Sidekick," she said flatly, typing on her computer.

"But—!"

"Minors are required to sidekick to an established super," she said in an uncompromising tone. "You'll have 90 days to sign up with a mentor. It's all explained here." She reached over to a stack of brochures and handed one of them to me. On the front was a smiling kid in an obnoxiously colorful costume with a mask, cape, and short pants. The title of the brochure proclaimed in huge bold letters, "So You've Decided to be a Sidekick!"

I sighed deeply.

"Hero name?" she asked.

I squared my shoulders. "Valor," I stated proudly. Caleb rolled his eyes.

She checked the computer. "Not available."

"What?" I said as my shoulders slumped. I'd invented a whole backstory explaining why I took that name. There was an alien princess and everything.

"Told you," Caleb said. I shot him an annoyed look, although secretly I had to admit that I was kind of glad he'd managed to talk me out of incorporating the chestplate with the big stylized "V" logo into my costume.

"Do you have another name?"

My mind raced. I had a whole list at home but I hadn't thought to bring it.

"Prysmos."

"Sorry, taken."

"Dynaman?"

"Not available."

"Cerulean..." I started.

"Nope."

"...Blue," I added.

"Still no."

Caleb jumped in. "Try 'Wind Breaker,'" he sniggered.

"I am not calling myself—"

"It's taken."

"Outstanding."

I hunkered down and over the next couple of hours unsuccessfully tried endless combinations of hero names while a bored Caleb surfed on his phone and sneaked pictures of heroines as they passed by. But as time crawled on and my frustration mounted, I came to view this jaded city employee as a guardian of the gate, placed before me as an obstacle to prevent me from achieving my destiny. She was like a winged valkyrie who fiercely guarded the gateway to glory eternal, but instead of being armed with a sword and shield, she wielded her indifference and an outdated computer. She was a canny adversary.

"I'm late for my break," she said. "Why don't you come back tomorrow?"

"Hey, what about this guy?" Caleb said as he handed me his phone. On the screen was a biography for an aged, geriatric-looking hero.

"Prodigy?" I asked. "Ugh, he's awfully old for that name."

"Also taken," the woman interjected.

Caleb, ever the player, leaned in closer to her and lowered his voice. "Hey, can we see the list of who's sidekicked to him?"

She started to object but just sighed in resignation and spun the screen around.

"Look at all of them," I said, reading the registry. Prodigal, Captain Prodigy, Kid Prodigy (and Prodigy Kid), Prodigy Boy, the list went on.

"But look," Caleb said. "They've been inactive for months. And I bet some are just camping on the names."

"So?"

"So, a hero can pass his name to a successor," he said. "You cozy up to this guy and be his sidekick for real, and you could be Prodigy."

"But how—"

He peered at the list for a moment, nodded to himself, then turned to the registrar. "Try 'Prodigious Girl.'"

"WHAT?!?" I exclaimed.

"It is available," the woman said, raising her eyebrows.

Caleb pulled me close. "You can shapeshift into other people. You could do it. And that geezer won't last a month, especially once the shooting starts. And Prodigy is a really cool name."

"I don't want to be a girl!" I hissed. Then I looked over at the registrar. "No offense."

"None taken."

Caleb gave me an emphatic look. "Dude, this only works if you can convince him you're serious about being his sidekick and carrying on his legacy. He's not going to believe that if you show up as Anthem, or whatever."

"Ooh, that's a good one. That'd be—"

"Taken."

"Dammit!" I swore. "Okay, fine. So why not be—I don't know—oh! Prodigal Son! Now that's a good—"

The registrar shook her head.

"Or-or Pro...Prod..." I looked helplessly at Caleb. "I don't want to be a girl," I whined. My eyes then cut over at the registrar. "No offense."

"None taken," she sighed.

Caleb put his hand on my shoulder reassuringly. "Dude, seriously, it'll be for like three weeks, tops. Just look at this fossil, I feel like I'm getting arthritis just looking at him. He gives you his name, then you're Prodigy."

I sighed heavily. "Okay, but...even if I do have to be a girl, maybe instead I could be Pr—"

"It's taken," the registrar said preemptively.

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"Prodigal Daughter, right?"

I slumped over on the desk.

By this point I was completely exhausted, disheartened, and flummoxed. I looked to the registrar helplessly, just hoping for a sign, any sign. Did I mention how tired I was?

"Prodigy is a pretty good name," she admitted. "So, you want to be 'Prodigious Girl,' or what?"

Beaten, I turned back to Caleb, closed my eyes, and dropped my head in shame as I admitted my first defeat as a hero. And I hadn't even left the starting block yet.

Caleb turned to the woman. "Uh, any chance we could hold that name? We're gonna need to rework the costume."

"You've got twenty-four hours," she said as she put up a 'Next Register Please' sign. "Good luck, sweetie," she said with a wink as she walked away.

I stared blankly into space and tried to figure out what had just happened as Caleb guided me back towards the CosFab facility. "I think blonde heroines are overdone, don't you? I'm seeing you as a brunette, maybe with some high-heeled boots...how do you feel about a miniskirt?"

* * * * *

Okay. So I feel like I should pause here for a moment to address what is by far the most common question when I tell people this story. To wit: "What are you, a fucking idiot? Surely you could have found another name you could have lived with?"

So let me unpack that a little. First, that's two questions, smartass, and don't call me Shirley. (Yes, Robert Hays, I have seen Airplane.) And second, let me explain to you about the Gobots.

The Gobots were toys that were knockoff versions of the Transformers, and like their better-known cousins were also robots that could change into cars, trucks, planes, and other vehicles. They were also incredibly, indescribably, lame. Befuddled parents buying toys for their kids could hardly be blamed for mistaking the one line of toys for the other, but the crestfallen looks on their children's faces on Christmas morning no doubt quickly educated them to their mistake. Children, their eyes filled with hope and wonder at the possibility of getting the leader Optimus Prime or the lovable Bumblebee would scarcely be able to contain their disappointment upon receiving Bug Bite, the Gobot knockoff version of Bumblebee that transformed from a car into what can only be described as a canary yellow plastic abomination.

Even small children know when they're being ripped off.

Some people have asked me that if I had the superpowers and could help the city and save lives, then what did it matter what I called myself? After all, it was the work that was important, right? All the people I helped, the lives I saved?

To those well-meaning and sensible-sounding people, I would always say this: I was a teenager, and I was about to put my life on the line selflessly for the betterment of strangers who would never know my true identity. So forgive me if I didn't want to be a freaking Gobot.

So yes, on that fateful day at the registration office I could have just pounded my head against the keyboard and been the oddly Norwegian-sounding Mr. Fjkaffhksf. I could have named myself Dr. Tenderloin or Professor Semicolon and it might not have changed how many lives I was able to save. But I aspired to something greater, and at the time it felt like being saddled with a name like MegaLemur or the astonishing Night Lamp was not conducive to achieving my destiny. So while becoming Prodigious Girl was distasteful on a lot—a lot—of levels, the thought that I might soon be known as Prodigy, the square-jawed (and decidedly masculine) hero of Faraday City was a dream for which I was willing to endure some crap.

Little did I know.

Oh, and just to be clear, yes, there were plenty of good names that I might have chosen, had I but known they were available. I'd like to give a very special shout-out to Jeremy (last name withheld) of Cedar Falls, Iowa for sending me the list of all the supers who registered after I did and thoughtfully highlighting the dozens of names that were particularly cool that could have been mine. So, yeah, thanks for that. And tell me, where the hell were you that day? If you ever decide to get off your Monday morning quarterbacking butt and invent a time machine, why don't you send that list to me when it would actually do some good, like—

My publisher has reminded me to convey that in accordance with the Talosian Armistice's Temporal Accords I am in no way encouraging the creation or use of time-altering technology. And in this case, I kind of have to agree...it's unwise to flout the TATAs.

Which actually brings me back to my story...

* * * * *

Hey, you want to know a little-known fact about geeky sixteen-year-old boys?

That's a trick question, of course. There aren't any little-known facts. The stereotypes of horny, awkward, smart-mouthed know-it-alls who think they'll live forever exists for a reason, folks. And sadly, Caleb and I weren't exactly breaking the mold.

Well, I was, but my broken mold was being recast into something quite a bit curvier than I was comfortable with.

I'd actually imitated female bodies before, but it was always kind of a lark and I admit I was curious. (Don't judge me. You'd do it, too.) One weekend when I was still fooling around with my new powers Caleb came over and goaded me into changing myself into various female celebrities he liked, and I have to admit that it was actually kinda fun. At least it was until I became uncomfortable with the way he started leering at me, and I quickly called a stop to it.

And so it came to pass that soon after my fateful meeting with destiny (in the form of a bored and overworked civil servant), I found myself in a private changing room back at the CosFab facility transforming into a girl's body while Caleb used his seemingly endless knowledge of superheroine costumes to design a distinctive costume in the blue, purple, and silver motif favored by my would-be mentor. From there the automated fabrication machines would create it in no time at all, and we'd be in business.

I emerged from the changing area in my cute brunette body and tugged at my short little changing robe as I walked over to where Caleb sat at the design screen.

"Nice," he said appreciatively as he looked me over.

"I still can't believe you talked me into this," I said, still not used to the sound of my new voice. Or anything else. "So, what have you come up with?"

He smiled and moved out of the way so I could see what he'd been working on. There on the screen was a stacked brunette girl with a short cape, elbow gloves and some thigh-high boots that I maybe could have lived with apart from the platforms and stiletto heels. What gave me pause, however, was the fact that she wore nothing else apart from some scant bikini bottoms and a tiny little bustier crop top that seemed two sizes too small given her losing battle to fully close it over her fulsome breasts.

"I think the belt is cool," Caleb offered, indicating the fancy bohemian-style belt that was draped across her hips. He then turned to look at me. "So, whaddaya think?" he asked brightly.

I hardly knew where to begin. "You didn't even include a mask?" I sighed.

"Nobody's gonna be looking at your face," he assured me.

My eyes cut over at him for just a moment before I reached past him and hit the "DELETE" key.

"Aww," he pouted.

I glared at him and dragged a chair over next to the computer so I could have a slightly more involved voice in the costume's design.

After a couple hours of debates, arguing, grudging compromise, and more than a little begging on Caleb's part, I found myself modeling my new costume, and as I tugged at my short skirt I began to give serious consideration to a career in supervillainy. We'd kept the cape, boots, and gloves from his original design but incorporated more of a full-coverage leotard-style top and a simple utility belt. After some heated debate I'd agreed to the girlish miniskirt, grudgingly agreeing with Caleb's logic to go with something classic so as to avoid drawing suspicion that I wasn't really a girl.

The snug nanofabric looked a lot like spandex but was designed for the rough-and-tumble wear that supers usually subjected it to, and I plucked at it apprehensively as it clung to my feminine curves. But I did have to admit that the miniskirt looked pretty good with the thigh-high boots, even in spite of my steadfast refusal to incorporate a stiletto heel, citing practical concerns. That decision had been met with much bellyaching on Caleb's part, so we eventually compromised on a small wedge heel. But that wasn't what was driving me to consider a life of crime.

Nor was the skimpy little cape that was barely longer than the length of my skirt. I wanted something more heroic, but Caleb kept going on about aerodynamic drag and the bumblebee effect, and eventually I conceded defeat. Although I was pretty sure I saw him sneak a peek at my newly-curvy butt when the cape brushed out of the way.

No, the thing that had led me to deeply consider committing a homicide that would have doubtless set me forever on the path to villainy was a sad and entirely predictable argument regarding my new look.

"You gotta go bigger," Caleb insisted.

As you have probably guessed, he was not referring to my hair. Although my flowing jet-black locks had also been a separate and lengthy argument.

"Forget it," I said as I crossed my arms and felt them brush up against the sources of our disagreement. "They're plenty big already." When I'd constructed my new physique I'd designed the bits and pieces based on girls in our school, so I was attractive without being overly artificial. I'd patterned my bosom off of Kayla Macintyre, one of the varsity cheerleaders who was, shall we say, most generously gifted.

"Dude, you at least have to go as big as Bonita Harper," Caleb persisted. "She's...you know, heroic," he said, cupping his hands in front of his chest like he was holding a pair of cantaloupes. Big cantaloupes.

"Bonita Harper has to wear two jogging bras for gym class," I retorted. At the start of the semester she'd only worn one, which had earned her the nickname of 'Bouncy Bonita,' and even after she added the second brassiere she'd still been the cause of several minor injuries sustained by distracted guys. "I have to fight bad guys like this, remember? I can't be wobbling out of control."

Caleb gestured towards the costume fabricator. "I thought they said they had some new fabrics designed for 'today's modern full-profile superheroine.'"

"That's not the point!" I snapped. I'd based my new voice on a combination of a girl I knew from the debate team and an actress that both Caleb and I liked who had a little hint of a rasp when she talked. But until that moment I hadn't realized how whiny that combination could sound when I raised my voice like that. "I mean," I said, lowering my pitch, "I want to be taken seriously."

"You will! But, c'mon, you're still thinking of yourself as Chris Patterson. You gotta start thinking, 'I am Prodigious Girl, I am Prodigious Girl.' You gotta get inside her head."

"I have a feeling you're not envisioning my head as my most defining attribute."

"See, that's what I'm talking about! You sound like a guy who's embarrassed for people to see his big boobs."

"Gosh, I can't imagine why."

"Yeah, but you're Prodigious Girl! Ask yourself what kind of girl would give herself that name. You gotta sell it."

"I'm not listening to this."

"Okay, fine," Caleb said. "Say you go with this. You're...cute. Very girl-next-door. You swoop in, save the day, and people ask your name, and you proudly proclaim, 'I'm Prodigious Girl!' You tell me the first place their eyes are gonna go."

"I—that's not—"

He held up his hand. "And when they see what you've got there, they're gonna realize that's some false advertising. They're gonna think a girl like that is a sad little wannabe with delusions of grandeur."

"They won't think that," I mumbled as I self-consciously tugged on a long strand of hair.

"Wannabe," he repeated. "On the other hand—same scenario, but let's say you're really—"

"Swelling with grandeur?"

"Among other things. You swoop in, say, 'I'm Prodigious Girl!' and they look down. What do they think then? They're gonna think, 'Well, that figures.'"

"And that I'm an egotistical sex-crazed bimbo."

"Exactly! And nobody is gonna be looking any deeper. They're going to underestimate you, which you can use to your advantage."

I looked down at my jutting chest and grumbled, "I bet Promethean never had days like this." Then I raised my finger in warning. "One more cup size."

Caleb clasped his hands together and looked at me pleadingly.

I sighed heavily. "...and a half."

"Three quarters?"

"I hate you."

"You're just lucky you have a friend like me to help you through all this," Caleb said, turning to the costume design screen on the computer. "And I think we should revisit having that 'boob window' in your costume now that you've got something to show off," he added. Then he stopped and turned back to look at me.

"What is it now?"

"You said you did a mix and match of different girls in our school when you came up with your new look."

"Sure, so?"

"So...who'd you use as a model for....?" His eyes cut downwards.

"That is none of your business!"

"Okay, fine, but...you do have...you know?"

"Caleb!"

"I'm just saying! Like, what if you get captured by space amazons and they strip you down while you're unconscious and then dress you up in one of their skimpy silver quasi-futuristic amazon outfits? Would they, y'know, be okay with what they found?"

"You've given this a disturbing amount of thought."

"I'm only thinking of your safety!" he protested. Then he added, "It's Becky Fontaine's, isn't it?"

"I am wildly not okay with this conversation."

"Does this mean you're going to get your period?"

"Drop it!"

"Probably getting it right now," he muttered as he turned back to the computer. "Just trying to help save a guy from deadly sexy space amazons..."

"Oh, my God, I already regret this," I groaned as I looked in dismay in the mirror and started making the adjustments to my body.

"Also, I'm thinking you're probably gonna get hit pretty hard out there sometimes, and you'll probably get knocked on your ass a lot. So a little extra padding back there may not be a bad idea..."

* * * * *

I'd dreamed of this moment every day since I was little. My first day as a superhero. Standing on the edge of a rooftop as I overlooked a city in peril, a city I was there to save. I leaned forward over the edge and felt gravity's pull that was dangerous to everyone else, but not to me. As I gently willed myself into the air and took a step into nothingness and hovered above the abyss, I experienced a sensation of ultimate freedom: free of fear, free of even the bonds of gravity itself. I took a breath as the warm breeze touched my face and blew dramatically through my long hair and billowed my cape to make it look totally freaking awesome.

Then it blew my skirt up.

I slammed my knees together and frantically grabbed at my skirt as I returned to the safety of the ledge.

"I can't do this."

"Would you relax?" Caleb said. "You should see yourself. You look amazing."

"I am seeing myself. And so is everyone else below the 20th floor who's looking up my skirt! I'm going back to CosFab and getting some pants."

"Oh, quit complaining! Nobody can see anything. It's no different than what cheerleaders wear, and they get photographed on TV all the time when they do flips and stuff."

"I feel like I'm getting a wedgie," I griped as I tugged at my undies. "And this hair is way too long, it's always blowing in my face. And I think this 'boob window' in the costume is kinda tacky." I looked down at my breasts self-consciously. They weren't gigantic or anything, but on my slender teenage frame I definitely felt like I'd way overshot the mark. 'Bouncy Bonita' and I could have been sisters.

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Caleb retorted. "Poor little baby break a nail?"

"Yeah, and speaking of those—" I started as I held up my pretty manicured nails. They were girlish but not overlong, but you've no idea how much we debated the color. To this day I still maintain that no self-respecting superheroine should wear anything in periwinkle.

"You know, it's a good thing you're a girl," Caleb observed. "Because at least now when you're whining and bitching, you look like the spoiled little princess you are. You want me to get you a tiara?"

"Hey!" I exclaimed. And that was a cheap shot about the tiara, too. I'd considered adding one since I thought it added a sophisticated air of regality but Caleb had talked me out of it. In retrospect, it had been a good decision.

"Oh, you know it's true. If you'd gotten your wish and you were up here as a guy with that name you first wanted—Valium—"

"Valor!"

"Whatever. If you'd gotten it, you'd still be up here, just as insecure, wringing your little cape in your hands—"

I dropped the edge of my cape that I'd been wringing in my hands. (Hey, you try wearing a skintight outfit that doesn't have any pockets and see what you do with your hands.)

"—and you'd still be whining about how scared you are. Some superhero."

"That's not fair!" I cried as my new voice climbed into an unexplored register. Wow, I really did sound whiny.

"Why do you even want to be a superhero, anyway? So you got powers. You don't have to be a hero because of that. And so help me, if you try to sell me that 'with great power comes great responsibility' bullcrap, I'm gonna tell your parents what you've been up to all week."

"Hey, I just want to help people!" I insisted.

"So be a fireman. Or a cop."

"But just look at me! I can fly!" I said as I looped around him. "And I can lift a car! And I'm bulletproof! Mostly. Hopefully." I stopped for a moment. "Also, I'm kinda thinking I might be developing pyrokinesis or something. I've been getting these weird headaches, and I think I may have fried our TiVo."

"Wow," Caleb said, impressed. "Maybe you can be a waitress in a diner and use it to make toast and heat up the customers' coffee."

"Shut up! You don't get it!" I cried. Then, faced with his skeptical expression, I added, "Look. I know everyone sees guys like Promethean or Superion and think they're just these corny, self-righteous vigilantes, and maybe that's true. But I have always wanted to be like them. You know, out there, saving lives and fighting the big fights that nobody else can. And...I want to be...more."

"More?"

I fluttered my hands girlishly. "All this, this is incredible, right? But I really feel like I could do anything, y'know? It's like I can feel that this is only the beginning, that I'm just bursting with untapped potential. I don't want to play it safe, I want to push myself and find out what I can really do. And when I think about all the people I can help along the way, I just feel like I have this unbelievable focus. Like this is my passion, my dream, my destiny. Have you ever felt like that?"

"Never."

"I know, right?" I said excitedly. "Me neither! But ever since this happened, that's how I feel. I just know this is what I'm supposed to be doing."

"Wow," he said. "That sounds amazing."

"It is. It really is," I said breathlessly.

"Bummer you won't be able to do it because you don't want people to see you in a skirt."

I turned to look at him. "That's not—I mean, that isn't the—" I glanced down at myself, then back at him. Slowly, I gave him a wry little smile. "You're such an asshole," I said as I pursed my lips, feeling rather foolish that I was actually considering giving up on my lifelong dream just because I was feeling a little embarrassed. "But...thanks."

He eyed me warily. "You're not gonna hug me or anything, are you?"

In truth, I'd been fighting the strangest impulse to do just that. When I'd duplicated all those girls it hadn't occurred to me that I might have also duplicated their raging teenage hormones, too. That gave me a moment's pause.

"What? No...no..." I said as I nervously twirled a lock of hair.

"Okay, get out of here. Go save the world, or whatever."

I broke into an excited little grin and leaped off the edge of the building, enjoying the thrill of the rapid descent before I launched myself into a graceful upward arc. I spiraled around to give Caleb a friendly wave goodbye and he shook his head reprovingly at my goofy smile. Chagrined, I affected a more serious demeanor and gave him a little salute and flew off. But within seconds, I was back to grinning like an idiot.

I was a superhero!

* * * * *

As I flew along with the city spread out below and around me I practically trembled with excitement and I desperately wanted to go do something heroic like stop an armored car heist or save people from a burning building. But there was one important stop I had to make first.

I soared past one of the towering skyscrapers of the city and reflexively did a little double-take as I saw my reflection in the glass, still not used to the fact that the curvy brunette in the costume and cape was really me. I still felt incredibly awkward about this whole impersonation and I smiled a little as the girl in the reflection looked coyly back at me. But as I swooped around the edge of the building, I saw my destination.

The Spire.

The gleaming silver-white monument was nearly as tall as the surrounding skyscrapers and from afar resembled a slender needle that from the ground seemed to be stretching skyward towards some distant new frontier. I'd never seen it from this angle before, and it surprised me how different it looked from up here. It had been erected as a memorial to all those who'd lost their lives during the Turning Point, but also to provide inspiration to the city and serve as a reminder that while our roots were strong, our reach would always be to the future.

It was something of an urban legend that new heroes would visit the top of the Spire when they started their careers because there was supposedly a message left there by Promethean or one of the other heroes. I had no idea if it was true or not, but I wanted to see for myself.

I flew up to the edge of the monument and followed it upwards to the very top to find that there was a small ledge that surrounded it, barely wide enough to stand on. I alighted on the ledge and paused to look back at the amazing vista of the city laid out before me. I took a deep breath and took it all in. I was now a protector of the city. My city. A city in—

"Hi."

"AAH!" I screamed as I jumped back in surprise and lost my footing.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" a female voice cried out in a panic.

I hovered and turned around to find the source of the voice and saw a girl about my age with long platinum blonde hair standing on the thin ledge. She wore a silky black tunic top covered with sparkly magic runes over dark red tights, and her hair and cape blew in the breeze. She was really cute, and I felt totally flustered.

"Um, hi," I responded.

"Oh, you can fly," she sighed in relief. "Gods, you gave me a fright. For a second there I thought I'd killed someone my first day out." I noticed that she had an English accent and it only served to fluster me more, like she was all posh and fancy or something and I was just a dork in a miniskirt. "Didn't mean to startle you there, if you'd prefer some privacy—"

"No!" I said, a little too loudly. "I—I mean, it's cool." I floated back to the Spire and landed back on the little ledge next to her.

She pointed at the monument with her thumb. "There's no message, I looked," she said. "Well, that's not true. It looks like some cretin scrawled 'Flash Your Tits' on the other side, but I'm pretty sure that's just graffiti."

"Oh," I said, disappointed. I'd really been looking forward to some secret words of superhero wisdom. "Another dream shattered. Still a nice view, though."

"Lovely," she agreed, giving me a sidelong glance.

I cleared my throat uncertainly. "So, did you fly up here, too?"

She shook her head. "Teleporter," she explained. A glittering energy portal rose up from her feet and she vanished and reappeared behind me. As she emerged I noticed a fluttering magical spark appear from behind her, twirl around her head and then down around her body.

"Is that—?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "It's a stupid magical aura thing when I teleport. It's cool for about five minutes and then it's annoying as hell. I can't wait until I can get it removed."

"No, you shouldn't. I mean, it looks good. You know, on you. It's...sparkly."

My ability to smooth talk the ladies was legendary.

She smiled. "I saw you down at registration earlier. Are you new, too?"

I nodded.

"What a pain, right? It took me like five minutes of trying to get a name I liked," she said. "But I got Enchantrix. I think that's pretty cool, don't you?"

"Um...yeah. Yeah, that's actually really good," I admitted. "And that was available?"

"Oh, sure. Everyone bitches about how hard it is to get a good name, but you just need to be a little bit creative," she said. "I swear, everybody just tosses a 'Doctor' at the beginning or 'Lord' at the end. It's so unimaginative. The two guys in front of me ended up with 'Captain Paradox' and 'Adventure Man.' How boring, right?" She shook her head. "Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't ask. What name did you choose?"

"I'm..." Oh, here we go, I thought. I squared my shoulders and took in a deep breath to calm my nerves. I actually did that a lot in those early days, embarrassed as I was. It wasn't until later that I saw a video of myself being interviewed by a reporter and I realized that it looked like I was puffing up my chest and preening for attention. "I'm Prodigious Girl," I said as confidently as I could.

"Oh!" she said as her eyes fluttered down at my chest for the briefest of instants. I wondered if I would get used to that. I knew that it wouldn't be anytime soon. "Wow, that's so unique!"

"It's dumb."

"No!" she insisted. "I didn't mean to sound like that. It's fun! Everybody is always all so moody and serious and darkity-dark-dark, it's kinda nice to meet someone who's a little playful about all this." She sized me up in my outfit and it made me feel a little uncomfortable. "I like it," she decided. "It suits you."

"Thanks," I said, blushing.

She turned back to admire the view of the city. "So, here we are, gifted with amazing powers beyond the understanding of mortal man and the first thing we did was to climb to the top of the world's biggest phallic symbol to read some horny loser's graffiti," she marveled. "Say, you want to go beat up some muggers?"

Gang activity in the city was shockingly high considering that it seemed like everybody and their pet chinchilla seemed to have superpowers these days. Though partially that was also due to the fact that many of the street gangs had figured out how to infuse themselves with low-grade powers and fancied themselves as players as they terrorized helpless citizens.

And I'm actually not joking about the chinchillas. When an interdimensional portal opened over a Petco, it unleashed a strange radiation that...well, let's just say that the League of Chinchillas was born that day. Wonder Chinchilla, The Blazing Chinchilla, Chinchilla Lass...Okay, granted they weren't the most original names, but c'mon, they were just chinchillas.

Still, they'd apparently managed to choose more creative names than all the ones I'd come up with. I was still kicking myself that "Captain Paradox" had been available and instead I was flying around with half the city looking up my skirt. But Enchantrix helped take my mind off all that. We talked for a while as we went on patrol and I took to calling her Trixie, which at first she didn't seem to like very much, but she warmed to it when I waggled my fingers in a magical way, explaining, "You know, because you're tricksy."

"You are so strange," she said with a grin.

We searched around for trouble and finally settled on a rooftop overseeing an area of the city that was known for its gang activity. While we watched and waited we traded origin stories, but since mine went quickly (there are only so many ways you can spice up "I ran into a tree") we mostly talked about Trixie's background. Her accent threw me since many metahumans were from Faraday City or nearby, where the Turning Point occurred. She explained that she was actually from the London of a parallel Earth where magic was more prevalent than technology, and that she came here with her father through a dimensional breach.

Excited at the possibility of other Earths, I spent several minutes quizzing her on the differences between our realities.

"Do you have Star Wars?" I asked.

She laughed. "Yes, but we don't have the prequels."

"Really," I said, fascinated.

"And we don't have those little teddy bears, either."

"Ewoks," I informed her. "Wow, you guys are so lucky! I—" I paused as I saw an amused twinkle in her eye. "You're completely messing with me, aren't you?"

"From the beginning," she giggled. "Gods, you're so trusting. I—"

I saw the change on her face. "What is it?"

"I think we might be needed," she said, looking down at the street as I heard the cry for help.

Since we were categorized as Sidekicks we were prohibited from directly engaging with any supers above a Class II power level, but that was still more than sufficient for us to clean the streets of some of the gangland lowlifes that terrorized the citizenry in some of the sketchier parts of the city. From our vantage point atop the building, Trixie and I could see a bunch of Hemlocks who were hassling a young couple with a little girl. These guys were thuggy low-powered goons who had dabbled with black magic but weren't good enough for the big leagues.

We landed near the altercation and I announced our presence dramatically.

"Halt, evildoers! You now answer to Prodigious Girl and Enchantrix!"

Okay, so it was corny. Sue me, it was my first time. Later, Caleb would inform me that while most of the rank-and-file thugs didn't care what our names were, the real goal was to get caught on camera by one of the HeroVerse television drones, or if you could score it, an in-person interview. They actually had a bunch of cub reporters running around for that exact reason just in case the newbie hero they were interviewing someday became the next Promethean or Captain Supreme. At first the reporters got hassled or mugged by the gangs, but once it became obvious that the reporters were hero bait, the smart gangs wisely tended to steer clear of them.

These guys had obviously encountered supers before and looked like they knew how to handle themselves in a fight, so I prepared myself for anything.

Although I have to say, I wasn't entirely prepared for the laughter.

"Hey, hey, the entertainment has arrived!" one of them cackled as he ogled my breasts in a way that made me feel unclean. "Look at you girls, all hot and horny in your sexy little outfits! You want me to help you stretch some of that spandex, hot stuff?"

I stared at him blankly. In preparing for my superhero career, I'd actually thought up a few go-to quips and snappy rejoinders, but it hadn't occurred to me to prepare any witty comebacks for a guy giving me a lewd sexual come-on. (I've since developed a voluminous repertoire of droll and clever bon mots to retort to such statements, which my publisher suggests may be saleable as its own novel.)

As a few thugs gathered around me I noticed that the young family they'd been hassling had started to discreetly edge their way to seek cover, even as their little girl looked at me wide-eyed. It hadn't hit me until that moment, but was I now a role model for young girls? I was only sixteen, so the thought that I could be a role model for anybody was an alien concept, much less girls. As she watched me I started to feel incredibly self-conscious.

Meanwhile, the gang members began to move even closer, emboldened by my timidity. One of them unholstered his gun and pointed it at me. I'd never had a gun pointed at me before, and I froze as I wondered just how bulletproof I actually was. Would it hurt? Could I get killed? I flinched as he brandished the gun in front of me and I felt my heart race and my shoulders tighten.

"Damn, girl, what they feedin' you?" one guy said, looking me up and down.

"Looks like melons to me!" another guy laughed.

"I like your costume," another said as he came right up to me. "I'd like it better off, though," he added as he plucked at my cape. I swatted his hand away and the guys all laughed again.

As the catcalls continued, I heard Trixie clear her throat nervously and my eyes cut over to see two other guys slowly closing in around her as she gave me a very insistent look. I glanced around nervously and suddenly wondered what the hell I'd been thinking. These guys were adults, and rough customers from the look of them, and I was just a teenager half their size. And a girl teenager at that, running around in a skimpy and clingy outfit that looked better suited to twirling around in an aerobics or dance class. As the guys loomed closer I shuddered to think what they'd do to me if they made good on their lewd come-ons. The idea of being molested or raped, once abstract and impersonal, now felt like a very real threat.

As though on cue, one of the guys grabbed my left breast in his big meaty paw and I cringed as he gave it a rough squeeze. "Mmm...more than a handful ain't a waste, after all," he said as the others laughed loudly.

I made eye contact with the little girl again who was huddled with her parents against a dumpster and trapped in the dead-end alleyway. I almost cried as I felt the creep squeeze my breast, and I recoiled from this invasion of my body and the stench of alcohol and cigarettes on his breath.

That's when I heard the cry.

"Prodigious Girl!"

It was Trixie. The two guys had moved in on her aggressively and grabbed her arms, obviously foiling her attempt to cast a spell. They began to force themselves on her and covered her mouth, muffling her cries.

And that's when I snapped.

I actually don't have a clear memory of what happened next, but I remember that the guy with his hand on my breast got the first punch and that he'd probably need help feeding himself for a while. But my main concern was for Trixie and I launched myself at her attackers with abandon, buying her a chance to cast her spells even as the gang members started attacking me and the shooting started. Getting shot hurt more than I thought it would, but at the time I didn't care. I wasn't thinking of myself anymore and I wasn't worried about what I looked like or what anyone thought of me. It was actually kind of liberating.

In retrospect it was probably just as well that I didn't have time to think about my actions because otherwise I might have realized that I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. This was, after all, only the second time in my life that I'd ever even been in a fight. The first time had been a few years before when I'd gotten beat up by a bully and...well, let's just say I didn't acquit myself very well in the annals of crimefighting that day. I was so flustered at the time that I hadn't even thought to drop the school books that I was carrying, so I was literally fighting him one-handed. It was over before it started.

I guess intellectually I'd known that I'd get into fights as a superhero, but my problem was Hollywood. The big superhero fights on the news were usually big and flashy like a movie, and while I realized I was fighting at a much lower level, I guess I had it in my head that it would be like those procedural cop shows where the punk gets slammed against the wall and then meekly allows himself to be handcuffed while he smart-mouths the detective. But it turns out that real criminals weren't like that. Surprise!

No, in addition to the limited metahuman and magical attacks they hit us with and the small-caliber arms fire (which stung!) there was all sorts of dirty fighting. Hair-pulling, biting...one guy with low-level super-strength even kicked me in the groin. And I'm here to tell you, when a guy with super-strength kicks you in the privates, it's an unpleasant experience no matter what your gender happens to be.

I think the thing that hadn't really sunk in until that moment was that those guys really, truly, deeply did not want to go to jail. Now, maybe to you that seems obvious, but I think all those cartoons, movies, and TV shows led me to believe that once it was obvious they were outmatched, they would simply quietly surrender as we grudgingly acknowledged each other as worthy adversaries. Instead of, say, spitting in my eye and using the distraction to punch me in the boob. (Which, again, ouch.)

Which led me to my second revelation. As much as those guys didn't want to go to jail, based on the number of times that they used the word "bitch," I gathered they felt equally strongly about getting beat up by a couple of teenage girls. (Although some of them seemed more than willing to wrestle me. Ew.)

This then became my introduction to the rampant gender inequality of the mid-fight insult. I mean, here I was fighting these gang members who could summon up razor-edged tanglevines, and I'm making weed whacker jokes—which if you think about it is actually a pretty good double entendre considering the lewd comments they'd been laying on me—but then it was their turn and they'd snarl, "You're not taking me in...bitch!" It was like putting that dramatic pause in there suddenly made it clever or something. Seriously, this happens all the time in superhero fights. It's like a gal shows up and then "bitch" becomes the only insult they know, like it's a catch-all for their Neanderthal opinions of women. After a while I felt like I should carry around flash cards with alternate suggestions to hand out to guys before a fight broke out. ("Okay, guys, now remember: 'Fucker,' 'douchebag,' and 'sack of shit' are all great examples of gender-neutral insults. Now I see that there's more than four of you, so I think it's okay if one of you gets in a 'cunt' expletive if you feel you must. But please try to save it for a special moment and don't just abuse the privilege. Remember, we're all professionals here.")

By the time the dust settled the area was littered with the tanglevines and scorch marks from the Hemlock gang's magical attacks and Trixie's spells, and I came to my senses in time to see Trixie radio in for a police drone pickup. Meanwhile, the young family crept out of their hiding place and looked around the area—and at me—apprehensively.

"It's okay," I told them. "You're safe. Nobody is going to hurt you."

Given the violence they'd just witnessed the parents didn't seem very convinced of that and they eyed me suspiciously. But the little girl wriggled her way out of their grasp and before they could stop her, she ran over and threw her arms around me.

"Hey!" I said, choking out a little laugh as she hugged me. "It's okay. You're welcome," I told her. "What's your name, honey?"

"It's Lucy."

It's funny that even after all these years I still remember her name and her face so clearly with her elfin little smile. I don't know that I ever even told her my name, but all of a sudden my worries about getting media attention and having people know who I was didn't seem to matter all that much. All that mattered was that she was safe.

After the cops arrived and we dealt with the cleanup, Trixie and I headed off. However, I seemed to catch her off guard when I veered towards Astral Bridge, a high metal structure that was named for the hero who'd died protecting people during the Manichean invasion many years before. I landed on the superstructure underneath and Trixie teleported next to me as I sat down despondently on one of the girders. My long hair fell around my face and for once it suited me just fine since I didn't want to have to face her.

"Trixie—I mean, Enchantrix—I, I—"

"Don't."

"I almost got us killed. Or...worse," I said, still thinking about the two guys who forced themselves on her while the other guy groped my chest. "I'm sorry. You'd be better off finding someone else to team up with. This was all just a huge mist—"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence."

"But—!"

"No. So you froze up, big deal. I froze up, too! It was stupid of me to get that close to them. Live and learn, right? We'll know better next time."

"I guess."

"Gods, you are such a disappointment," she said, and I looked at her, wounded. "I team up with someone named 'Prodigious Girl' hoping to avoid one of those grim and humorless 'defender of justice' wankers and she turns out to be all glum and mopey."

My lip twitched in the beginnings of a smile. "I'm not mopey."

"You are! You're sullen and depressing. I don't think you and I can be friends."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I...um...I..." I paused. "Wow, I really need to work on my comebacks."

"We'll practice quipping on the next batch," she said. She leaned over to peek around my hair that was obscuring my face. "That little girl was cute, right?"

"Yeah, she was," I agreed. Absently I wondered if she would have been that quick to give me a hug if I'd been a male hero. I supposed being huggable wasn't such a bad super power.

"She looked like a little troublemaker to me," Trixie said as I straightened up and brushed my hair back from my face. "I bet she's already getting mugged again. You want to go check?"

"Prodigious Girl to the rescue," I said, giving her a little fist bump. She portaled away back towards the neighborhood and I hurried to follow after her. "Hey, wait up!"

* * * * *

Being a hero had some perks—including complimentary line-jumping in most restaurants and coffee shops—but being registered as a hero also came with some nifty tech. First was the IntelliComm device (I-Comm for short), which was kind of like a limited-use smartphone that let you communicate over a secure network. It was useful for knowing if there were any hot spots in the area that needed heroes, but it was especially handy after having collared a bad guy to radio for a police drone pickup to haul the perpetrators away.

The second thing was what was commonly referred to as the "warp locker." It was invented (some say discovered) by Dr. Faraday, who often poked around in other dimensions by use of a trial-and-error process that managed to piss off more than a few neighboring worlds who had a tendency to drop by and vent their ire. However, on one of his fishing expeditions he came across a vacant "warp space" that didn't adhere to standard conventions for geography. This had the convenient side effect of being able to create private warp space compartments that could be opened by the I-Comm with a specialized vibrational frequency. So, I could punch in my code and I could get access to my own private "pocket dimension" storage wherever I happened to be. The default space wasn't very big—my school locker was more spacious—but it was all I needed. You could pay to upgrade to a bigger space, but it cost big bucks...I once heard of a gadget-based hero who had something more like a big living room to hold all his junk, but that guy must have been loaded.

As it was, I mostly just used the space to hold my backpack or a change of clothes for when I needed to swap into my heroic identity, but the main thing I kept in there was my CosFit device.

If you think about superheroes as they're portrayed in the comic books, you'll notice there's a lot of hand-waving about the costumes. Sure, Superman or Flash could change in the blink of an eye, but it still sidesteps the question where they're hiding their civilian clothes in their form-fitting tights. (It also doesn't dwell on the fact that even if they're moving too fast for us to see, from their perspective they're stripping down to their skivvies right in front of anybody just standing there. Freaking exhibitionists.) And then you have people like Batman with body armor that would take an hour to put on, assuming he had Alfred there to help him. By the time he'd finished putting on his cape Commissioner Gordon would be calling back on the Bat Phone to tell him not to bother.

The CosFit device was another bit of wonder tech from the folks at Faraday Labs to help address all that. After settling on a costume design at the CosFab facility, the pattern was encoded and loaded onto one of these small devices, about the size of a large cell phone. You'd push the button and a swarm of nanobots would emerge that would "unweave" the fabric of your civilian clothes and break it down into a new data pattern, and then simultaneously it'd "weave" your hero costume in place onto your body. The whole process took about a minute so it wasn't quite as cinematic as spinning around and changing in a flash of light, but it beat the living daylights out of pulling on your costume a piece at a time. (Although it feels absolutely bizarre, like a bunch of insects are crawling across every inch of skin. They told me you get used to it, but it still gives me the willies.)

One neat side effect of this design was that the costumes were extremely durable and also self-cleaning and self-repairing. This was especially helpful for people like myself who had no idea how to sew. It also neatly avoided the problem of a potentially awkward conversation with my mom were she to happen across my costume in the washing machine.

That clever little device is also why the less savory-minded shutterbugs out there find it so difficult to catch nudie shots of a hero or heroine in a fight. You know what I mean...you'll see on TV as some invulnerable heroine throws herself on some bomb or something, it goes off and then when the smoke clears her costume is in tatters but still manages to cover all of the interesting parts. That's because the nanobots make those areas a priority for self-repair. The rest of the costume may take a while to grow back, but modesty will be preserved.

Oh, and for you more sneaky-minded readers, yes, the CosFit devices and nanobots are heavily encrypted. It wasn't always so, but apparently not long after they were first introduced some whimsical hackers got their hands on Darkmancer's CosFit device and reprogrammed it to change his outfit after thirty minutes, which unfortunately happened to coincide with his television interview after defeating Power Piranha. He was less than amused when his costume changed into an exact replica of Glinda the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz and was even less entertained when he discovered that the pranksters had fried his CosFit device in doing so, leaving him trapped in an elaborate pink ball gown that constantly regenerated as he tried to tear it off his body. By the time they finally got it off of him, his reputation as a dark and serious crimefighter had taken a beating.

* * * * *

Trixie and I got to be a regular duo and we started to team up with some other young heroes at first, but it was kind of hit and miss on quality. Not everyone had what it took to go the distance, so these early fights were sort of a crucible designed to separate the women from the boys. (Admittedly that was from my own unique perspective.) Though in retrospect some of their names should have helped clue us in.

I'll start by saying that I'm well aware that any guy who chooses to call himself Prodigious Girl has no business mocking the names of other superheroes. Fair enough. But we definitely saw a pattern where the ones with more clever names tended to be a bit more capable and quicker to think on their feet. So while General Badass Awesomesauce proved to be somewhat less impressive than his name might suggest, guys like the crystalline-armored Kaleidostone rocked, both literally and figuratively. And some folks were a mixed bag...our team-ups alongside Phyrric Victory were often wins, but hoo boy were they ugly.

However, I had another problem. While the Faraday City hero registration process allowed me to sign up as a Sidekick without my mentor's prior approval, I was only probationary for a period of 90 days during which time I was specifically prohibited from knowingly engaging with any opponents over a certain threat level. It was a compromise solution adopted by the city government when they realized that: A) they couldn't stop us; and B) it allowed the younger heroes to build up some experience and help deal with the rampant rise in superpowered gang activity that was threatening to overrun the city. The more established heroes were busy dealing with the big world-dominating threats and the local police were outgunned, so this grace period allowed us to cut our teeth and do the city a favor in the process.

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, I'd failed to make contact with Prodigy. I knew that if I couldn't find him soon I'd officially be considered an unsanctioned vigilante, only a half-step better than the criminals we were trying to apprehend. Trixie offered to put in a good word for me with her mentor—a former heroine named Demetria who had taken to training young supers—but I begged off. After all, the whole point of this escapade was to ingratiate myself to Prodigy so he'd bequeath me his name. And after two and a half months of taking to the streets as Prodigious Girl, I was more than ready to slip into an identity that didn't provoke all the disapproving looks and comments regarding my appearance, to say nothing of the lecherous come-ons.

But in the meantime, I found myself keeping fairly regular company with some other young as-yet "undeclared" heroes...

I clearly remember getting hit in the face with a truck. (You always remember your first time.)

The bumper sticker on the back of the truck proclaimed Faraday City to be a "City of Dreams." I recall it vividly because I was standing in the middle of the street ass-deep in razor tentacles and fighting a losing battle against a pack of ravenous hellwolves that didn't seem keen to give me a moment to pick bits of said bumper sticker out of my teeth. It was at that moment that I was starting to suspect that perhaps this time we'd bitten off more than we can chew. In my case, literally.

I launched the remains of the pickup at the nearest wolf and tried to find the Animancer that was controlling the beasts from amid the chaos. Fortunately, unlike their pets their masters weren't able to take quite as much of a pounding, but they knew better than to engage us directly if they could avoid it. I tore my way out of the razor tentacles and winced as they sliced painfully into the flesh of my thigh, leaving me once again to question the sliding scale of my so-called invulnerability.

"Where the hell is Blaze? This was his idea!" I yelled as I smashed two of the hellwolves against each other.

"Didn't we have a plan for this?" Trixie shouted back as she blasted one of the Animancers into unconsciousness, which caused his demon-spawned creatures to disappear. We'd also discovered that she could use her portals to close the breaches that the Animancers opened to summon their creatures, but that had only served to single her out for their attention and they still managed to open them faster than she could close them. In the meantime she found herself madly teleporting around the space to avoid the incoming fire even as she created her own mystic portals to redirect our foes' elemental attacks.

"Are you saying that 'Get 'em' isn't a plan?" Triggerhappy joked. Then, he yelled, "'Trix, incoming!" as he fired his energy rifle into a flock of bladewings that was swooping down on Trixie. The ones that survived swerved to attack him instead, so TH threw down a repulsor grenade that knocked his opponents back twenty feet and established a perimeter of sorts where he could take better advantage of his arsenal of weapons and gadgetry. As usual, Bhramari was close by his side, taking cover. Mari could control and communicate with insects, which was ideal for scouting and surveillance, but in a straight-up fracas like this unfortunately wasn't especially useful.

The guys on the team had initially teased us for coming up with cute little nicknames for each other, but they quickly came to realize that it had a more pragmatic reason: it was easier to yell out short names during combat. Many of us had learned—painfully—that an unfortunate side effect of that damnable superhero registration system was that not only were most of the cool names taken already, but the ones that remained tended to be more obscure, complex, and/or difficult to say. So, while "Doctor Archaeopteryx" might have a certain pleasing rhythmic syncopation to it, imagine having to yell out his name in the middle of a combat to warn him that a steel girder was about to take his head off. He'd be dead three syllables before you finished.

Through the mess of bodies and hellbeasts I spotted another one of the Animancers and flew at him full-speed to take him out before he could summon any more beasties. Unfortunately he was quick and agile and seemed ready to avoid my attack when he suddenly stopped and swatted at some unseen insect that had painfully stung him. It proved to be a tactical blunder on his part as I plowed into him with enough force to knock back a car, and he slammed against the wall and slumped to the ground, unconscious. I paused just long enough to give Mari a thumbs-up for the distraction.

I turned just in time to see another two new portals open that ushered in a swarm of flying demonbats that were flanked by three hulking creatures I'd never seen before. They looked like a cross between a gorilla and a rhinoceros, and they all seemed particularly ill-tempered.

"Fall back!" I yelled, figuring we could regroup down the block where we might have room to—

"SUPERNOVA STRIKE!"

We'd heard that warning before, and from painful experience I knew we had at most a second or two to react. Triggerhappy threw down one of his precious force bubble projectors to protect him and Bhramari, and Trixie dove into one of her portals for parts unknown. I, knowing full well how this usually went, just closed my eyes and waited for the pain.

I didn't have long to wait. A second later from overhead there was the familiar sound of Quasarblaze's rocket pack, quickly followed by the high-pitched whine that preceded the release of hundreds of energy flechettes all across the street. We'd done this maneuver enough times in the past that my flinch at hearing that noise was practically a conditioned response.

"AAAAHHH!!" I screamed as the sharp edges sliced through the protective fabric of my costume and lacerated the skin beneath. None of the energy blades were strong enough to do any real damage, but the experience of receiving dozens of simultaneous paper cuts was still wildly unpleasant.

When the storm of energy knives finally abated, the only sound was the hum of Triggerhappy's protective force shield and the fading turbines of Quasarblaze's jet pack as he landed. On the ground were a half-dozen Animancers, all incapacitated or unconscious. And without any conscious masters to bind them to this dimension, the hellbeasts had all disappeared. It was an effective maneuver, if not a particularly pleasant one.

Quasarblaze, predictably, was the first to pat himself on the back.

"Fuckin' A! I got six?!? I am the freaking takedown master!" he proclaimed. Blaze fancied himself the leader of our little team and frequently pointed how out it made sense because "QB" was an obvious nickname for him. The rest of us rejected both the notion and the nickname.

Most of us.

"Nice one, QB!" Triggerhappy enthused. "You da man!"

"They're not all yours, Blaze," I told him. "I'd taken out one. Oh, and by the way, OW."

"Oh, did you get some soft tissue damage? I'd be happy to massage them."

"In your dreams," I shot back as the self-repair functions of my costume started to knit together the worst of the slices. I'd also discovered that my shapeshifting ability afforded me some measure of rapid healing, and as I concentrated on maintaining my body as Prodigious Girl it cleaned up many of the surface cuts. Deep tissue bruising and lacerations took longer to heal, but at least it prevented me having to explain a bunch of obvious cuts and bruises at the breakfast table the next morning.

"Two of them were mine," TH added when the protective field went down. He and Mari stood up just as Trixie portaled back in, and as she did so, Mari signed a message to her.

"Boy, you said it, Mari," Trixie said. "Talk about juvenile."

"Which is clearly the opinion of someone in last place," Blaze said. Then he looked at Mari. "Oh, excuse me, second-to-last. Bug girl is never good for any takedowns."

Bhramari made an annoyed face and looked back to Trixie and the two of them signed something back and forth. After teaming up with Mari I'd taken it upon myself to learn a little ASL, but I only caught the gist of their conversation. It was...salty.

Blaze watched them go back and forth and turned to Mari. "Hey, some of us don't understand finger twaddle!" he shouted as he waggled his fingers in a mocking impression.

Mari flipped him the bird.

"Would you like me to translate that for you?" Trixie offered pleasantly.

"Yeah, and where the heck were you, anyway, Blaze?" I jumped in. "You wandered off just when the shooting started."

"I took out a couple of guys who were on patrol back there!" he said defensively. "It's a good thing I spotted them or they could have flanked us."

Trixie folded her arms. "Uh huh," she said, obviously unconvinced. "And when we call this in, should we tell them to bring extra power manacles for this phantom patrol?"

"I ran them off."

"I bet."

"Hey, if QB says he did it, then that's what happened!" Triggerhappy contended.

Mari signed something and Trixie sniffed in agreement.

"What was that?" TH said defensively.

"She was just wondering if you ever had an original thought that Blaze didn't have first."

As the group fell to arguing, I shouted, "Knock it off!" It was barely enough to get their attention, but it did the trick.

"Look, let's just call this in for a pickup, and we can sort it out later, okay?" I suggested. The irony wasn't lost on me that I was usually the deciding vote in our disagreements that frequently seemed to break along gender lines. Blaze and TH ogled me and treated me like a bimbo, and the girls seldom liked that I tended to side more with the guys when it came to risk-taking. We were an okay team, but I was practically counting the hours until I could take Prodigy's name, reboot myself as a male hero and go my own way.

"This is bullshit, anyway, taking out this gutter trash." Blaze said. "No way this rates so much as a news drone, much less actual press coverage. Unlike you losers, I've got a fan base that expects to see some action." Blaze had made a point of repeatedly reminding us how he had painstakingly established a 'significant' social media presence that pulled in groupies. He was only into the superhero scene to make a name for himself as a reality TV star to then parlay into multimedia stardom.

"Big deal, you have a blog," Trixie said.

"It's a war journal," he declared. "And I am connected, honey. I know lots of supers. And more importantly, they know me."

Mari looked unimpressed and signed something to Trixie, who just snorted.

"It's true!" TH jumped in. "Blaze does know lots of supers. And not many of 'em heroes, if you know what I mean."

"Shut up!" Blaze said as he smacked him on the arm. The muscle enhancement in his exo-armor was still engaged, and he hit Triggerhappy hard enough to break bone. Fortunately, however, TH's armored costume protected him from the worst of it, and he just shot Blaze a dirty glance.

I looked at Blaze in disgust. "You're hanging out with villains?"

"Well, excuse me, Miss Goody Two Boobs. Besides, my viewers are getting tired of the footage of Sabrina the teenage witch and the bug lady here."

"Jerkoff," Trixie snapped while Mari made a sudden and emphatic gesture I wasn't familiar with. I had a feeling it wouldn't be in my ASL book.

"Hey, it's not their fault they're not as stacked as PG," Triggerhappy said as he motioned to me. Or parts of me. "Seriously, you should see some of the comments you get in the videos."

"Wow. That's really flattering."

"Okay, we gotta blaze," Blaze said, trying out his new catchphrase. "You know how to call this in, don't ya, girls? I need to lock in a big score, and I've got a great one lined up." With that, he grabbed TH and they flew off.

I shook my head and turned to face the accusing glances of the two girls.

"What?"

"Way to stick up for us, Peej," Trixie said. I opened my mouth to respond when Mari signed another message. I didn't get all of it, but the concept of disappointment came through pretty clearly.

"Look, I know they're kinda jerks, but at least they know how to handle themselves in a fight." Then, faced with their shocked expressions, I hurriedly added, "Wait, I didn't mean that like it sounded—"

"I think we got it just fine," Trixie said. "We gotta go, anyway. But you know how to call this in, don'cha, girl?" she mocked.

Before I could say anything she created a portal and the two of them vanished.

The best part about being a hero? You get to meet such interesting people.