Super Wishes and Leotard Dreams, Chapter 8

The morning of February 27^th, I found myself at the dining room table with Crystal and Asher. Superman was out on patrol. The soufflé collapsed the moment Crystal exhaled near it—which was unfortunate, because Alice had spent forty-five minutes perfecting the damn thing. My daughter froze mid-bite, her fork hovering over the ruined pastry as Asher snorted into his orange juice. “Nice super-breath,” he muttered, flicking a bacon crumb at her. It hit her forehead with an audible *ping* before bouncing into my coffee cup.

“Dad’s concert went *phenomenally*,” I said, swirling my coffee to dissolve the stray bacon crumb Asher had flicked into it—some habits die hard, even with superpowers. “The Times called it ‘a seismic shift in classical interpretation’ and I caught at least three critics weeping in the balcony.” Crystal giggled, twirling a lock of honey-blonde hair around her finger—a nervous tic she’d kept since recent childhood, though now the motion made her blouse ripple like liquid sunlight.

“Wait, he got reviewed in the *Times*?” Asher’s fork froze halfway to his mouth, the fork tines bent slightly under his grip. “That’s… actually kinda cool.”

“So,” I said to Crystal, tapping my nails against the porcelain coffee cup, “How’d patrol go last night as Supergirl? Save any kittens from trees? Or just the usual assortment of idiots who forget gravity exists?”

Crystal grinned, her blue eyes flashing with that particular mischief that made her look like she’d just swallowed a secret whole. “Three car accidents across the eastern seaboard—one was a drunk driver swerving into oncoming traffic, two were just idiots texting—blew out a fire in Memphis, and then there was old Mrs. Fukuyama’s cat again in Kyoto. That fluffy menace keeps jumping onto her neighbor’s satellite dish.” She rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her voice betrayed how much she adored the old woman who always left out cookies shaped like little S-shields. “Oh! And I got asked out on a date... And I accepted.” She cooed.

Asher’s fork clattered onto his plate with a sharp *clink*. “Wait—what?” His voice cracked mid-word, his newly deepened baritone betraying him like it still sometimes did. The kitchen lights caught the faint pink creeping up his neck as he stared at Crystal. “Who asked you out? Was it someone from the debate team? Because I swear if it’s that smug little—”

Crystal spun her fork between her fingers, the silver tines blurring into a tiny metallic cyclone before she let it clatter onto her plate with deliberate nonchalance. “Okay, so picture this—” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m coming back from Kyoto after rescuing Mr. Kamikaze for the third time this week, right? Decided to take the scenic route home after patrol over the naval air base because the aurora was killer last night.” She gestured vaguely upward, as if we could all see the cosmic light show she’d witnessed at 30,000 feet.

Crystal’s grin widened, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the tablecloth as she leaned back. “So there’s this *gorgeous* guy—like, unfairly tall, huge, shoulders you could land a plane on—stuck in his F-150 halfway into a ditch on Oceana Boulevard. Ice patch took him by surprise.” She mimed a skidding motion with her hands, complete with sound effects. “I landed right in front of his headlights—cape catching the snowflakes, boots crunching the ice—you know, *dramatic*—and he just stares at me like I’m some kind of winter mirage.”

Crystal’s fingers danced along the edge of her plate, her grin turning conspiratorial. “So I lifted his truck like it was a Matchbox car—one-handed, obviously—and set it back on the road. His jaw actually *clicked* when it dropped.” She demonstrated the motion with her own chin, her blue eyes sparkling under the chandelier light. “I checked to see if the man was okay. He climbed out, all shaky-kneed, and I realized three things simultaneously: One, his biceps were literally straining his flannel shirt. Two, he smelled like pine needles and motor oil. Three—” She paused dramatically, twirling a honey-blonde lock around her finger. “—he had these dimples on his cheeks that made him look like a romance novel cover.”

Crystal’s fork clattered against her plate as she clasped her hands together, her blue eyes practically glowing with excitement. “He just *blurted* it out—‘Can I take you to dinner?’—like he wasn’t even thinking, just reacting.” She pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks, the delicate blue flecks in her irises catching the light. “I mean, I *could’ve* said no—”

“You were *immediately* smitten with him,” Asher interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Which, honestly? Suspicious. Normal people don’t fall for truck guys who smell like garage floors.”

“Shut up, bro,” Crystal admonished but then giddily continued, “If you must know, I said ‘yes’. But I insisted our date be on a secluded beach away from undue attention from the public. Then he asked me if Sunday afternoon was okay and I eagerly agreed.”

“Honey,” I began, watching Crystal’s animated face, “you know I trust your judgment, but…” My hesitation hung in the air like the scent of Alice’s apple pie cooling on the counter. The mother or father in me—the part that remembered changing her diapers barely a decade ago—clashed violently with the superhero who’d seen her bench-press a freight train last Tuesday. It what is after all her first date ever.

“Mom,” Crystal groaned, rolling her eyes with enough force that I half-expected them to stick that way permanently. She twirled a lock of honey-blonde hair around her finger—a nervous habit she’d never quite shaken, even with godlike powers. “His name’s Zachary Bevins. He’s some type of sports baller at least that’s what he told me when he got back in his truck. Something about Broncos.”

Asher’s fork bent between his fingers with an audible *twang* as he and I exchanged glances. “You seriously don’t know who Zachary Bevins is?” His voice cracked somewhere between disbelief and amusement. Crystal blinked those impossibly blue eyes—currently glowing faintly from residual supercharged adrenaline—and shrugged with the grace only an indestructible teenage goddess could muster.

Asher and I exchanged glances—a silent, parental telepathy that needed no superpowers—as the name ‘Zachary Bevins’ hung in the air like the scent of Alice’s fresh apple pie. The Denver Broncos’ offensive lineman was practically Virginia Beach royalty, a hometown hero who’d bulldozed his way from Salem High to the NFL with the same unstoppable momentum Crystal now used to stop runaway trains. Jansen taught world history to him at Virginia Tech. My lips twitched. Of *course* my daughter would land a date with someone whose biceps were roughly the size of Virginia. I knew she may be in good hands with this date.

“You have my consent. I know him; he’s a good man. Even if he plays for the Broncos,” I smirked as I stated and Crystal kissed my cheek.

Asher smirked widening as he leaned across the breakfast table. “So, Mom,” he began, drawing out the word with exaggerated suspicion, “tell me exactly how many times you *accidentally* flew over Monica’s mansion?” The clatter of Crystal dropping her spoon into her cereal bowl echoed through the sudden silence.

“Sorry about my spying,” I said sincerely with a smile. I mock bowed to my son seeking forgiveness. He rolled his eyes playfully. I continued, “How did your date go?”

Asher’s smirk wavered under the sudden scrutiny—two pairs of superpowered eyes locking onto him with varying degrees of amusement and anticipation. Even Raccoon the cat paused her meticulous paw-washing to stare. “I-uh . . We-uh,” Asher stammered.

Crystal gasped so loudly that Raccoon the cat leaped straight up from her perch on the windowsill, fur bristling like an actual squirrel. “Oh my *god*, you *did it*!” she shrieked, pointing a dramatically trembling finger at Asher’s crimson face. “Your pupils just dilated to the size of Virginia! You *totally* had sex with Monica!”

Asher’s fingers drummed against the mahogany table —too fast, too hard—leaving tiny fissures in the wood before he caught himself. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered, rubbing his neck where a blush crept past his collar. “We did. But—” His eyes flicked to mine, suddenly serious. “Before you ask, *yes*, I used a condom. Triple-checked the expiration date and everything. And I was gentle with her. I restrained my superstrength, which was extremely hard to do.”

Asher’s confession hung in the air like a balloon about to pop. He cleared his throat—once, twice—before blurting out, “I really love her.” The words came out half-strangled, like they’d been fighting their way up his esophagus for days. His fingers twitched against the tabletop, leaving another hairline crack in the wood before he shoved his hands under his thighs.

I reached across the table—careful not to send silverware flying with my superstrength—and pulled Asher into a hug that made his ribs creak just slightly. “Oh, sweetheart,” I murmured into his sandy-blonde hair, which smelled faintly of Monica’s jasmine perfume. His heartbeat thundered against my collarbone, fast as a hummingbird’s wings. “I’m so happy for you.” His shoulders relaxed incrementally beneath my hands, the tension leaking out like air from a punctured tire. “I can’t wait to meet her again tomorrow for dinner.”

The breakfast table chatter blurred into white noise as I watched Asher shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth with that ridiculous post-sex glow still clinging to him. Crystal was mid-sentence about Zachary Bevins’ picnic plans. But my mind was distracted about Monica. Should we offer her a ring? Ben and I need to size her up.

Meanwhile, the sub-ticker headline on Fox News on the wall-mounted flatscreen blared *ADMINISTRATION CALLS SUPERS ‘VIGILANTES’, ‘FREAKS’ AT MORNING PRESS CONFERENCE*

On Saturday, 6 p.m., February 28^th, we prepared for Asher to arrive with Monica. Supergirl took her shift on patrol relieving me.

The steak sizzled as Ben flipped it with casual precision, the smoke curling around his forearms where the rolled-up sleeves of his dark blue button-down strained against his biceps. Alice hovered nearby with a tray of marinated vegetables, her freckled nose wrinkling at the scent of searing meat while she adjusted the messy red bun threatening to unravel completely. We had excused the staff for the day all except our practically family member who bakes a killer pizza. Of course, I had to shower after saving the day. I adjusted the straps of my sapphire-blue wrap dress—conservative by my standards, though the way it clung to every curve would’ve been scandalous on anyone else—and checked my reflection in the patio’s glass doors.

The engine hadn’t even turned onto our street when Ben looked at me—our superhearing had caught the distinctive diesel rumble of a Humvee three miles out. Before the thought fully formed, we were already moving in that eerie synchronized way we’d developed since the transformations, streaks of color blurring through the mansion as we arrived at the garage door.

The door opened with my son entering first. Asher’s shoulders rigid—his Superboy physique suddenly looking oddly vulnerable in his civilian clothes, the sleeves of his charcoal Henley stretched taut over biceps that had previously bench-pressed school buses. Monica stood on the threshold in a fitted black turtleneck and a red, leather mini-skirt that accentuated her athletic frame, her knee-high boots and black-tinted pantyhose adding inches she didn’t need against Asher’s towering height. The way her fingers twisted around the strap of her leather backpack betrayed nerves her confident posture tried to mask.

“Mom, Dad—this is Monica. Mom, you remember Monica, right?” Asher said, his voice cracking slightly on the vowels. He hovered near the threshold like he couldn’t decide whether to shield her or push her forward. The Humvee’s diesel growl still echoed faintly in my superhearing, mixing with the frantic drumbeat of Monica’s pulse.

Monica’s fingers twitched toward Asher’s wrist—not quite holding hands, more like grounding herself on his invulnerable skin. “Mrs. Jenkins,” she began, then faltered when her gaze traveled up, up, up my seven-foot frame in the doorway. Her throat moved as she swallowed, “Ma'am.”

“Please, call me Jennifer. It’s nice to see you again” I smiled genuine. Although I met Monica at Comic-Con last week, my son’s relationship with her got quite serious. It felt like I was meeting her for the first time. I continued “You look so pretty in that skirt!” My son gave a look of embarrassment and Monica blushed.

Monica’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around Asher’s wrist as she stepped inside. Ben appeared at my shoulder, his Superman physique accidentally intimidating in a dark blue button-down—the way the fabric stretched across his pectorals made even casualwear look like tactical gear. He extended a hand, “Monica, welcome. I’m Ben. Asher hasn’t stopped talking about you since Comic-Con.” His voice carried that effortless warmth Benna used to reserve for nervous students during violin lessons.

Her knee-high boots clicking against the marble foyer. The sound echoed strangely—too loud for human ears, too quiet for ours—and Asher winced before catching himself. “You have a beautiful place” Monica murmured, her gaze flickering to the cathedral ceilings. Supergirl hovered just outside out of sight, suppressing giggles behind a potted ficus.

The scent of seared ribeye and garlic butter filled the dining room as Alice carried the final platter to the table, her freckled cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat. Ben pulled out my chair with exaggerated chivalry—his Superman strength making the solid mahogany slide effortlessly across marble. “For my favorite Amazon,” he murmured, fingertips brushing the small of my back in a way that sent electricity through my indestructible skin. Across the table, Asher practically vibrated with nervous energy as he guided Monica to her seat, his grip on the chair leaving microscopic fissures in the lacquered wood.

The “Amen” still hung in the air when Monica surprised us all by crossing herself with practiced ease—her fingers moving from forehead to chest before brushing each shoulder with the unconscious grace of someone raised in pews. Ben’s eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. “You’re Catholic?” he blurted out, then immediately looked sheepish.

Monica’s blue eyes darting between Ben and the untouched steak on her plate. “St. Pius X since kindergarten,” she said slowly, “Still have the skirt to prove it. I hold on loosely to the morals of my faith and it’s important to me even when the church is flatly wrong.”

“I’ve always believed faith should be a compass, not a cage,” I said, watching Monica’s shoulders relax as she recognized a kindred spirit. Her smile bloomed—not the practiced politeness from earlier, but something warmer, the kind that reaches the eyes. Ben’s fingers found mine under the table, squeezing in silent approval.

Ben leaned forward, his forearms resting against the tablecloth in a way that made the sleeves of his button-down strain slightly over his biceps. “So Monica,” he said, voice carefully casual, “what’s the five-year plan look like after high school?”

Monica dabbed her lips with the linen napkin, the motion elegant despite the nervous flutter of her fingers. “Modeling is the final goal,” she said, her voice steadier now that the conversation had shifted to safer territory than faith. “As you probably know, Gram modeled—she’s the one who convinced me to try it. And I really like it. I also believe in education is important. I’ve got early acceptance to Columbia for poli-sci.” Her gaze flicked to Asher, who was staring at her with that particular blend of pride and hunger only teenage boys with invulnerability and first love could muster. “Assuming I don’t flunk my finals trying to balance photoshoots with AP Gov cram sessions.”

Ben’s fingers twitched against mine under the table—three deliberate presses, our old marital code for *she’s holding up well.* I watched Monica’s throat move as she swallowed her sip of water, the delicate column of her neck belying the steel in her spine when she met my gaze.

Monica’s fork paused mid-air when I leaned forward, the crystal chandelier above catching the glint of my silk dress. “What would you do,” I asked, watching the pulse in her wrist accelerate to a hum only I could hear, “if you woke up tomorrow with powers like those so-called vigilantes on television?” The silence stretched just long enough for Asher’s knee to start bouncing under the table—his superhuman restraint preventing the floor from cracking beneath his sneakers. Monica’s fork hovered mid-bite, her blue eyes widening slightly as she processed my question. The steak knife in Asher’s hand bent imperceptibly—just enough that only our superhuman senses would catch the metal’s quiet groan under his tension.

Monica set her fork down with deliberate precision, her fingers lingering near the stem of her water glass. “Honestly?” Her voice didn’t waver, but the condensation on the glass trembled ever so slightly—just enough for my vision to register the microscopic vibrations. “I’d do exactly what Superwoman, Superman, Superboy, and Supergirl are doing right now.” Her gaze flicked to Asher for half a second before returning to me. “Try to make a positive difference in our society.”

Monica’s answer hung in the air—a perfect pitch of sincerity that made Asher’s shoulders relax half an inch. No deception, no calculation. Honesty. Very interesting.

The chandelier’s light fractured across Monica’s water glass as I tilted my head, letting my superhearing catch the microscopic hitch in her breathing. “What do you think It is the biggest problem in our society is today?” I continued, tracing a fingertip along the wood.

Monica set her fork down with deliberate precision, her fingers lingering on the stem like a violinist testing a chord. “Hate and fear,” She said bluntly. Her blue eyes flicked to Asher—just for a fraction of a second—before locking onto mine with a steadiness that made my x-ray vision activate on reflex. No pupil dilation. No capillary fluctuations. Just clean, transparent sincerity humming beneath her porcelain skin. She continued, “How we’d rather tear each other apart than admit we’re all just scared kids in grown-up costumes. He fear because we don’t want to learn; we hate what we don’t understand. That’s why we let authoritarian governments rule. They tell us what to think.” Monica finished, her voice softer now but no less certain. The dining room’s acoustics carried her words with crystal clarity—no stammer, no backtracking. Just raw conviction served alongside Alice’s rosemary potatoes.

Asher’s knee bumped the table—three thousand pounds of reinforced mahogany shuddering under involuntary superstrength—as he reached for Monica’s hand. “Mom,” he said, squeezing Monica’s fingers gently enough not to pulverize them, “I think she’s passed the Spanish Inquisition portion of dinner.” The rest of dinner was uneventful; we just bonded with jovial conversation.

Ben and I excused ourselves from the table, stating something like we needed to freshen up. The bedroom door clicked shut behind us with deliberate softness—a habit left over from when we still had mortal hearing. Ben turned, catching my wrist with that new reflexive gentleness his superstrength required. “You’re serious about the ring?” he murmured, his voice dropping into that register that vibrated through my ribs now.

I ran my thumb along the ridge of his knuckles—still marveling at how his hands had reshaped themselves. “She didn’t flinch at my questions,” I whispered. “She’s a woman of good character and morals. Our senses would have picked up she was lying. What do you think, Ben?”

Ben exhaled sharply—the superhuman precision of his breath sent the curtains fluttering. “Resounding yes,” he said, his voice carrying that new gravitational pull. His eyes viewed the rings through the safe behind steel and drywall. “She didn’t just pass your interrogation, Jennifer. She saw right through it.” The corner of his mouth lifted—that same half-smile that had once belonged to Benna. “Monica’s worthy.”

“Worthy for what?” Asher said from the toilet of the bathroom downstairs my x-ray vision and superhearing picked up.

“Asher,” I in an earnest manner asked, “What if there is way for your girlfriend, Monica, to have powers? Would you want that?”

Asher’s response came before the last syllable of my question had fully left my lips—an eager, resonant “Yes!” that shook the porcelain sink fixtures. Through the floorboards, I saw him freeze mid-handwash, soap bubbles dripping from his wrists as realization dawned. His reflection in the bathroom mirror showed pupils dilating.

“Then take Monica and meet us at the vault door down,” I instructed, “We will meet you there shortly.”

Asher’s heartbeat accelerated to hummingbird speed—audible even through two floors of marble and hardwood—as he processed what I’d just proposed. Water splashed violently in the sink when his super-strength grip shattered the faucet handle. “Uh. Yeah. Be right there,” he stammered, voice cracking like he was twelve again, which he was over 7 days ago. Through the ceiling, I watched him hastily pat his hair down in the mirror, then pause to flex his biceps unconsciously.

The velvet-lined box practically hummed in my hands as we took it out of our safe from the closet, its weight disproportionate to the delicate golden rings inside. Ben’s fingers brushed mine as we lifted it together—a silent acknowledgment of what this moment meant. The rings pulsed faintly, the etched letters catching the bedroom light in ways that made my super-vision ache.

Ben and I descended the staircase. Monica’s voice floated up from tunnel up ahead, crisp with curiosity despite the muffling effect of the vault door. “Wait, why does this say ‘S’? Is that for—”

Monica’s sentence cut off abruptly as Ben and I rounded the final turn of the tunnel. She stood frozen in front of the vault door, one hand hovering near the embossed Superman symbol—Asher poses awkwardly behind her with his hands shoved into his slack pockets. Her head tilted slightly, black hair spilling over her shoulder as she examined the metal around the emblem.

Monica and I stood face-to-face. I said with gravitas, “Monica, we are going to give you a gift because your practically family and we deem you worthy for your morals and kindness.”

Monica’s lips parted to form a question that never escaped—the air molecules around us rippled in a sudden vacuum as two simultaneous sonic booms cracked through the basement. Her blue eyes widened as Superman’s cape settled first, the crimson fabric still swirling around his boots while I materialized beside him in a cascade of platinum-blonde hair and fluttering cape. Once Asher realized it was time for show-and-tell, that his family trusted her with their secrets, he blurred into position on her other side before she could gasp, his black leather jacket settling against his shoulders with the faintest creak of distressed material. Monica staggered back a step, her hands flying up instinctively—not in fear, but in that primal human reflex when confronted with something impossibly fast.

Monica’s knees buckled as the implications hit her—three impossible figures materializing around her in the heartbeat between breaths. Her pulse jackhammered against my superhearing, the scent of adrenaline spiking across my olfactory senses like burnt copper. I reached out with my mind before her body could collapse, weaving invisible threads through her nervous system to stabilize her. *Stay with us*, I pulsed through the telepathic connection, feeling her consciousness reel against mine like a skiff in a storm.

Monica’s breathing steadied as my mind support anchored her. Her fingers twitched at her sides, then slowly rose to trace the “S” on the vault door—not in fear, but with the reverence of an art student touching a Renaissance masterpiece for the first time. Then, the magic truly let her see us for the first time; the alter-ego façade evaporated. Her gaze first looked at Superman and I. Then, it traveled up Superboy’s leather-clad torso in increments, pausing at the way his jacket gaped open to reveal the S-shield stretched across his broad chest. A flush crept up her neck when her eyes reached his face, lingering on the way the basement’s ambient light carved shadows beneath his cheekbones.

Monica’s lips parted soundlessly as recognition dawned across her face—that fleeting moment when perception rearranged itself into undeniable truth. The basement’s dim lighting caught the tremble of her eyelashes as her gaze flickered between us, piecing together the impossible puzzle. “You’re them…” Her whisper dissolved into the charged air between us, fingers still pressed against the metal of the vault door.

Superboy shifted beside me, his leather jacket creaking with the movement. I felt him fight the instinct to reach for her. Monica didn’t notice. She was too busy staring at the symbol on my chest, then Superman’s, then Superboy’s, her breath hitching as television news footage superimposed itself over reality. “My boyfriend is Superboy?!”

Superman’s cape settled against his boots with a soft rustle as he stepped forward, the dim basement light catching the faintest outline of his jawline tightening before he spoke. “I know this is…” His deep voice hitched slightly—uncharacteristic for someone who could move planets—and he cleared his throat. “This is a lot to take in. But Monica?” His hazel eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made the air between them hum. “Do you truly love Asher? Because if this—” he gestured between her and our son, whose knuckles had gone white around the edge of his leather jacket, “—is serious, then we want to nurture that. In every way possible.”

Monica’s fingers curled into fists against the vault door before she turned to face Superboy completely. The basement’s faint hum of alien machinery seemed to pause in anticipation. “Yes,” she said, the word leaving her lips with the weight of a sacrament. “Wholeheartedly, yes—no matter what form you take. Asher, you know I like cosplay. This is better.” Her hand rose almost unconsciously to brush the S-shield on his chest, her fingertips tracing the fabric that pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath her touch.

The velvet box in my palm felt heavier than a neutron star—not from physical weight, but from the sheer impossibility it contained. My fingers trembled slightly against the plush fabric as I extended it toward Monica, the hinges whispering open to reveal six golden rings pulsing with restrained energy. Each one bore an engraved initial—KL KL, KS, CE, LK, AI- their alien metal refracting light in ways no Earthly jewel ever could.

Monica’s thumb hovered over the engraved initials, her brow furrowing as she traced the script. “What do these letters mean?” The question hung between us like gravity—undeniable yet inexplicable.

Superman cleared his throat—that soft, nervous sound as he said something monumentally absurd. “Honestly? We’ve got no clue what they mean.” His cape rustled as he shrugged, the movement sending reflected light skittering across Monica’s stunned face. “Go ahead and pick one and put it on your index finger.” He urged.

Monica hesitated for only a heartbeat before plucking the LK ring from its velvet cradle with the decisive snap of a card player going all-in. The golden band slid onto her right index finger with improbable ease—no sizing necessary, as if the alien metal had been waiting specifically for her. She held up her hand, studying the way the engraving shined. “Now what?” Her voice wavered between skepticism and exhilaration, fingers twitching as the ring seemed to pulse once.

“Now twist it clockwise,” I murmured, watching Monica’s fingers hover over the pulsing metal. The ring flared gold as she turned it—not like jewelry responding to light, but like a star collapsing inward. Her sharp inhale echoed through the vault as the transformation hit.

Monica’s gasp fractured into something between pain and ecstasy as the golden ring seared against her skin—not burning, but rewriting. The transformation didn’t ripple outward like our gradual metamorphoses; it detonated. Her collarbones erupted first—not breaking, but blossoming, the delicate bones surging forward to frame newly sculpted shoulders that could’ve carried continents. Her black hair melted like liquid shadow, recoiling into a sleek cap that gleamed like polished onyx under the vault’s lights.

The sound of Monica’s joints realigning was like a symphony of popping champagne corks—not painful cracks, but the visceral satisfaction of a puzzle snapping into perfect alignment. Her spine elongated in one fluid motion, vertebrae stacking taller until she loomed over her previous height with effortless grace. The ring’s golden light didn’t just illuminate her; it *consumed* her, molten metal weaving through muscle fibers like liquid sunlight reforging a statue. Her once-loose sweater strained then dissolved against expanding deltoids as the spandex bodysuit materialized beneath it in a whisper of alien fabric, the S-shield blooming across her chest like a cresting wave.

Monica’s transformation crescendoed with her boots materializing—not forming around her feet, but *from* them, the red latex surging upward like living liquid. The stilettos didn’t just elevate her; they sharpened her entire silhouette into something lethal and elegant, the six-inch heels clicking against the vault floor with impossible balance. Her cape unfurled like a living thing, the silk whispering against newly sculpted calves before settling into a perfect drape that moved with its own gravity.

Monica’s fingers trembled as they traced the S-shield now fused to her chest, her breath coming in shallow bursts that made the cape flutter like a living thing. “I feel…electrified,” she whispered, rolling her shoulders as if testing new wings. The vault’s lighting caught the impossible contours of her transformed body—every curve armored in Kryptonian fabric, every muscle defined beneath spandex that somehow made her look both invincible and divine. When she lifted her gaze, her eyes held a luminosity that hadn’t been there before. “Like I could lift the moon,” she breathed, and the laugh that followed was pure, unfiltered joy.

Superboy’s spandex did nothing to hide his reaction—the sudden shift in fabric geometry drawing Monica’s gaze downward before she flushed and looked away, biting her lip. “Superboy,” I murmured under my breath, tapping his shoulder pointedly. He snapped upright with a cough, adjusting his jacket while Superman muffled a laugh into his fist.

Superboy finally recovered, blinking rapidly as if trying to reconcile the breathtaking woman before him with the Monica he’d known. “Holy—you look exactly like Lara from the DC Comics, or at least when Kryptonians existed in the D.C Comics,” he blurted, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure where to touch first. The comparison hung in the air between us—the shorter black hair, the athletic frame wrapped in Kryptonian blue, even the way she held herself with newfound confidence.

The initials on Monica’s ring—LK—glowed faintly against her finger, and it hit me like heat vision. “Lara Kent,” I murmured, testing the name. “Like Clark’s daughter in the myths. The initials on the rings stand for DC Comic Kryptonian characters.”

Superman traced a finger along the engraved initials on the other rings—his brow furrowing in realization. “It stands to reason,” he said, voice resonating with that deep timbre that still sent shivers down my spine. “If Monica’s ring says ‘LK’ for Lara Kent, then these others must correspond to Kryptonian characters too.” He held up the box, where the letters shimmered faintly under the basement’s artificial light.

“Lara,” Superboy said decisively, testing the name with a slow nod. The way it rolled off his tongue carried the weight of myth—like he was speaking it into existence. Monica—no, *Lara* now—blinked rapidly, her fingers flexing as if testing the air itself. The name settled around her shoulders like the cape fluttering at her back, a perfect fit neither of us had anticipated.

“Test out your new strength, Lara,” I urged, “Only Kryptonians can open the vault door.”

Lara’s fingers hovered over the vault door’s embossed emblem, her newly sculpted muscles tensing with unfamiliar power. The steel surface reflected her sharp cheekbones—now more pronounced than Monica’s softer features—and the red cape draped across her shoulders like liquid authority. “What’s inside?” she asked, voice layered with that new Kryptonian resonance. The hesitation in her stance was pure Monica though; one stiletto boot scuffed the concrete in a nervous tell I recognized from her dinner with us.

Superboy grinned, hooking his thumbs in his jacket pockets with exaggerated casualness. “Consider it the Kryptonians-only club,” he said, gesturing at the vault with a theatrical flourish.

Lara chuckled, then realized something with a smirk as he hand leveled-between the top of his head and her forehead, “Superboy, you’re shorter than me!”

The leather jacket creaked as he shifted—a sound that was somehow boyish, sheepish, and superheroic. Lara’s responding laugh came out half-breathless, her newly deepened voice carrying an unfamiliar resonance that made the air hum.

The vault door groaned with reluctant grace as Lara’s fingers flexed against the steel emblem. For a breathless moment, nothing happened—then the entire structure hissed with pressurized release, sliding inward to reveal a chamber drenched in alien green light. Superboy let out a low whistle that echoed strangely in the vault’s acoustics, his leather jacket sleeve brushing my cape as he leaned forward. “Told you it was exclusive,” he murmured, but his usual playful tone carried an edge of genuine awe. Superboy made sure she got a thorough tour of the Fortress of Solitude.

The tour finished in 20 minutes. The recreation lounge hummed with an energy that had nothing to do with the pinball machines lining the walls—though Superboy was currently demolishing the high score on the Argo-city themed machine with one hand while absentmindedly spinning a quarter across his knuckles with the other. Lara perched on the edge of the sectional, her cape pooling dramatically over the leather cushions as she examined a live feed of the NORAD’s threat display on the 3-D screen on the wall. “So let me get this straight,” she said, “You can actually get any feed here on these monitors?”

“Yes,” I said, watching Lara’s eyes stew over the holographic display as it flickered with NORAD’s classified satellite imagery. The greenish glow of Kryptonian tech reflected in her widened eyes—still adjusting to the sensory overload. “Our systems can access anything with an electromagnetic signature. Traffic cameras, military satellites, even that baby monitor two blocks over if you’re feeling particularly creepy today.”

Superman said, “Kryptonian technology is very powerful.” We didn’t tell Lara about my wishes or the truth behind our powers. She didn’t need to know; nor did it matter. We just said her ring was a gift from us, recent refugees from the exploding planet of Krypton and left it at that.

Then Lara had a question that threw us for loop. “What do we call ourselves?? What’s our team name? Avengers? Fantastic five?”

Lara’s question hung in the air like Kryptonian gravity—simple, unavoidable, and somehow none of us had considered it before. Her stiletto boot tapped impatiently against the floor as she gestured between us. “We can’t just go around calling ourselves Superman, Superwoman, Superboy, Supergirl, and Lara. It doesn’t roll off the tongue.”

Then it hit me. I’ve been saying the word Kryptonian a lot lately. I smiled and said, “Why don’t we just call ourselves ‘The Kryptonians’?” The moment the words left my lips, the holographic display flickered—as if the alien tech itself approved. Lara’s stiletto stopped tapping mid-air. Superboy’s pinball machine chimed an accidental jackpot. Even Superman’s cape rustled without wind.

“Kryptonians,” Everyone repeated at once. Then, laughter rang through the RecSec like crystalline bells in joyous approval.

I smiled to myself and thought, “ I am Superwoman of the Kryptonians!”