Super Wishes and Leotard Dreams, Chapter 9

“Hopefully this thing goes both ways, right?” I tapped Lara’s golden ring, watching the engraved ‘LK’ catch the dim RecSec. She blinked—those impossibly blue Kryptonian eyes narrowing—then flexed her fingers experimentally.

“Wait—” Lara’s breath hitched as she twisted the ring counterclockwise. The golden band flared with an otherworldly light, casting geometric shadows across the RecSec walls. Her knuckles whitened around the armrest of the sofa as her spine arched involuntarily. The transformation rippled through her body in visible waves—muscles softening, shoulders narrowing, the alien glow in her irises dimming to human blue. Her cape dissolved first, the fabric unraveling into threads, then rearranging themselves. The Kryptonian musculature melting away until Monica stood before us, blinking rapidly as if surfacing from deep water wearing her fitted black turtleneck and a red, leather mini-skirt that accentuated her athletic frame, and black-tinted pantyhose. She wobbled slightly in her knee-high boots, one hand instinctively clutching Superboy’s shoulder for balance. Even her makeup and hair reverted back to original form.

Superboy caught Monica’s elbow, his grip firm enough to steady her but light enough not to bruise. “It will probably takes some getting used to,” he murmured, rubbing circles on her back with his thumb.

“Wait—does it come off?” Superman’s baritone voice cut through the lingering silence, his eyes narrowing at the golden band encircling Monica’s finger. Monica hesitated, then twisted the ring experimentally. To everyone’s surprise—including hers—it slid off effortlessly, landing in her palm with a soft metallic ping. The room seemed to hold its breath as she stared at it, the engraved “LK” winking under the recessed lighting. Then, without hesitation, she slipped it back on, pressing it firmly into place as though it had always belonged there. A faint shimmer rippled across her skin, barely perceptible.

“Since you’re officially one of us now,” I said, tapping my knee-high boot against the RecSec’s polished floor, “how about riding shotgun with Superboy tonight? Patrol routes are better with company.” The words came out warmer than I intended—part big sister, part superhero mentor. Monica’s fingers tightened around her ring, but her spine straightened with something that looked like pride.

Monica’s fingers twitched against the golden band—once, twice—before she nodded. “I’ll go,” she said, though her voice wavered just slightly at the edges. “But my parents… they’ll freak if I if midnight rolls past and I’m not around or answering my texts.”

“Don’t worry about your parents,” I said, leaning against the RecSec’s pool table with deliberate casualness. My cape pooled behind me like liquid silk. “Mind control isn’t usually my first choice, but for family? I’ll make an exception. I’ll visit them later.” Monica’s eyebrows shot up—right on cue. “Nothing permanent,” I clarified quickly. “Just subtle nudges. They’ll remember you being home, just… less aware of the hours.”

Monica’s fingers trembled against the golden ring—probably not from fear, but from the sheer giddiness of it all. I would imagine the weight of what she’d just become hadn’t fully settled yet, but I sensed the thrill of transformation crackled just under her skin like static. She’d spent years admiring superheroes from afar, probably doodling costume designs in the margins of her notebooks, even sneaking into cons dressed as Star Sapphire as a freshman . But this? This was *real*.

The golden ring sat effortlessly around Monica’s finger—too loose for comfort, yet somehow inseparable from her skin. She stared at it, flexing her knuckles experimentally, and I watched the exact moment hesitation crystallized into decision. Her left thumb and left index finger rotated it clockwise with deliberate precision. Within seconds, the taller lither Lara was with us. And again, I saw Superboy’s spandex tent again below his waist.

The RecSec’s ambient lighting caught Lara’s widened eyes as she tentatively lifted a sectional chair with a couple of fingers—then promptly fumbled it when Superboy nudged her shoulder. The chair hung suspended mid-air for three heartbeats before I caught it, watching Lara’s embarrassed grin melt into exhilaration. “She’s a quick study,” Superman murmured against my temple, his warmth radiating through my cape as he leaned in.

By 11:30, we’d cataloged Lara’s powers through a series of laughably domestic tests—freezing Superman’s neglected coffee with her breath, identifying Mrs. Robinson’s shampoo three blocks away by scent alone (“Cherry blossom and… motor oil?” Lara wrinkled her nose), and accidentally x-raying Asher’s Humvee to reveal a stash of chocolates wedged under the seat. “I was going to give them to you tomorrow. “ Superboy muttered, turning the same shade as his cape when Lara dissolved into giggles.

The vault door groaned shut behind us as Lara bounced on the balls of her feet—actual stiletto-clad Kryptonian feet—with barely contained energy. “So when do I get to punch something?” she asked, flexing her fingers. The way her cape fluttered without any wind betrayed her nervous excitement. I exchanged glances with Superman; we’d seen this exact same restless energy in Superboy during his first week.

“Patrol starts in twenty minutes,” Superman said, checking an imaginary watch on his wrist as we left RecSec and walked to the third-floor main balcony. The corner of his mouth twitched when Lara immediately straightened her posture like a soldier at attention. Tonight, we learned about our new teammate and found out all of the good qualities that made our son fall in love with her.

The rooftop wind whipped Lara’s cape into a crimson frenzy as she crouched beside Superboy, her stiletto boots digging into the composite wood. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting her. I’m already huge fan” she whispered, clutching Asher’s forearm hard enough to crumple steel. Three miles away, Supergirl hovered above a stalled city bus, her honey-blonde hair catching the streetlights like liquid gold as she guided the vehicle onto the shoulder with one outstretched palm.

Superboy rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, his jacket fluttering with the movement. “Relax, it’s just my annoying sis showing off again,” he said, jerking his chin toward where Supergirl was now dramatically flipping her hair while adjusting the bus’s alignment to millimeter precision. Lara didn’t seem to notice Asher’s teasing—her knuckles had gone pale where she gripped his forearm, her pupils dilated like a starstruck fan at a concert. I exchanged an amused glance with Superman. Our son had clearly inherited my tendency for understatement when flustered. We waved goodbye to our son and his newly powered girlfriend.

The balcony door hissed shut behind us as Superman’s cape brushed against my thigh—a familiar sensation now, but one that still sent an electric thrill up my spine. We walked down the hall. Our bedroom lights flickered on automatically as we entered, revealing the rumpled sheets from this morning’s hurried departure. I caught my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows—seven feet of sculpted Kryptonian perfection wrapped in spandex—and marveled again at how natural it felt to inhabit this body.

I turned to Superman, the fabric of my cape whispering against his as I hesitated. “What if the people we give powers to turn evil?” The question tasted metallic in my mouth, like biting down on a penny. “We’re handing out godhood like Halloween candy, Superman.”

Superman’s fingers traced the golden S on my chest, his gaze distant for a moment before meeting mine. “That’s why I had Monica take the ring off,” he said, his voice measured like he’d rehearsed this answer a hundred times in his head. “To test if the gifts could be revoked. The rings are ours to give—and ours to take back.”

The realization settled over me like the weight of my cape after a long flight—heavy but familiar. Mind control had been the power I hesitated to use, like a surgeon wary of their sharpest scalpel. But now, watching Superman’s jaw tighten with quiet resolve, I saw the necessity. Which reminded me, I had to make things right with Monica’s parents as I promised her. “Darling, excuse me real quick.”

The crisp Virginia night air clung to my cape as I hovered outside Monica’s suburban house windows, watching through the glass as her parents sat frozen on their living room couch. My senses had already detected their elevated heart rates—not from fear, but from the argument I’d interrupted mid-flight. Now their pupils dilated under my hypnotic gaze as I pulsed energy through the windowpanes, implanting false memories of enthusiastic approval for Monica’s new internship with “a prestigious Tidewater family with weird, but honest hours.” Their faces slackened, then rearranged themselves into pleased expressions. I left before outstaying my mind-controlling welcome.

The wind rushed past my ears as I hovered above Virginia Beach, my cape fluttering like a crimson banner against the night sky. Before I could turn back toward home, a familiar blue-and-red blur streaked toward me—Superman catching me midair with that effortless grace only he possessed. His hands slid around my waist as he pressed his forehead to mine, our bodies floating in perfect equilibrium. “Got a surprise for you,” he murmured, his breath warm against my lips despite the chill night air.

Superman’s fingers traced the seams of my cape as he nestled against my chest—an oddly vulnerable gesture from someone who could bench-press skyscrapers and fly around the earth in 30 seconds. He subliminally recognized I was the “Alpha Male”. His breath hitched when I tightened my grip around his thighs, his body heat radiating through our suits as I adjusted our altitude. “Cape Henry Memorial in Fort Story,” he murmured against my collarbone, the words vibrating through my sternum. “The beach.” His heartbeat thrummed against my ribs like a hummingbird’s wings, betraying his eagerness beneath the calm exterior.

The beach materialized beneath us—a secluded patch on a military base guarded by sand dunes, their reeds whispering secrets to the night. I descended slowly, letting my stiletto boots sink into the sand as Superman’s cape unfurled beneath us like liquid silk. His hands never left my waist as he guided me down onto the crimson fabric, his fingertips tracing the swell of my hips with reverent precision. “You’ve made my life better making me a Superman with your wish when I initially didn’t want to be a man. Now I can’t imagine being anything else.” He murmured against my collarbone, his breath hot through the spandex. “Now, let me pay you back.”

Superman’s lips traced the contours of my throat with devotional precision, each kiss lingering like a votive offering against my superheated skin. His fingers hooked under the elastic of my red spandex briefs, peeling them down my thighs with deliberate slowness that made my breath hitch. The cool night air whispered across newly exposed flesh as he knelt between my spread legs, his cape pooling around us like spilled wine.

The spandex peeled away like a second skin under his fingers, the material catching briefly on my hips before yielding completely. Superman exhaled sharply through his nose—the warm puff of air against my bare flesh making my thighs tremble—before dragging his tongue along my slit in one long, slow stroke that left my back arching off the cape beneath us. “Still tastes like starlight,” he murmured against me, the words vibrating through my clit in a way that had my fingers twisting in his sandy-blonde hair.

Superman’s tongue mapped my folds with the precision of a cartographer rediscovering sacred terrain—each flick and swirl calibrated to make my hips jerk against his mouth. He hummed against me, the vibration rippling through my nerve endings like solar flares across a chromosphere. His thumbs hooked under my thighs, spreading me wider as his nose brushed my clit with every upward stroke, the pressure just shy of painful in that delicious way only he could orchestrate.

Then, with the expert skill of a man who used to be a woman intimately familiar with g-spots, Superman’s tongue carved a devastatingly precise path through my folds. I arched against his mouth with a gasp, my fingers tightening in his hair as my mental suggestions flowed into him—gentle nudges toward the exact pressure points that made my thighs quake. His tongue swirled in immediate response, flicking against my clit with rhythmic precision that had me moaning into the night air.

The orgasm hit like a meteor strike—sudden, catastrophic, and impossible to contain. My back arched violently as the pleasure detonated through my nervous system, my thighs clamping around Superman’s head with enough force to dent steel. A scream that tore from my throat. My hip bucking sent Superman airborne like a crimson-and-blue comet, his body cutting three hundred yards through the night air before plunging into the Atlantic with a splash that sent water geysering thirty feet into the air. I clapped both hands over my mouth—too late to muffle the thunderclap of my climax still echoing across the Cape. Eventually, a groggy Superman waded unto the beach, his spandex necessarily exhibiting a wet look. Oops.

In the gameroom, the pool cue slipped through my fingers as another apology tumbled out—the fifth one since we’d started playing. “God, Supes, I’m *so* sorry about the black eye. I keep forgetting my own strength when I—”

“Sweet mary, woman,” Superman laughed, chalk dust puffing from his hands as he lined up a shot, the fading bruise around his left eye crinkling with his grin. “If I had a nickel for every time you apologized tonight, I could buy Fox News just to shut them up. I’m genuinely glad you enjoyed my gift.” The eight ball ricocheted into the corner pocket with a satisfying *thunk* timed with the dramatic CNN music in the background.

Supergirl twirled her own cue like a baton, the polished wood blurring between her fingers. “Mom, you *literally* launched Dad out of the littorals a few hours ago. Pretty sure a black eye’s an upgrade.” She leaned over the table, her cape pooling like liquid silk across the green felt. “Though, I guess invulnerability only goes so far especially with Superwoman.”

The president’s face filled the plasma screen behind the bar, his lips moving soundlessly before the closed captions caught up: *”…and while I’m only suggesting this now, the arrest of these so-called Kryptonians may become necessary for national security.”* The pool cue in my hands exploded like a grenade going off—splinters embedding themselves in the ceiling tiles.

Supergirl’s cape snapped like a bullwhip as she pivoted toward the screen, her eyes flaring crimson for half a second before she wrestled control back. “Oh hell no,” she hissed through clenched teeth, fingers denting the pool cue’s varnish. “After pulling his fat ass from the line of fire?” The air around her shimmered with suppressed energy, distorting the CNN chyron about presidential approval ratings.

Superman didn’t move—didn’t even blink—but the temperature in the rec room felt like it dropped fifteen degrees. His grip on a beer bottle tightened. “Easy, guys,” he murmured, but his voice carried the rumble of distant thunder. “Superwoman?” His hand found the small of my back, calloused fingers tracing the raised seam of my bodysuit through the cape’s silk. “Breathe with me. In through the nose…”

Yet, he was stewing too. The beer bottle shattered in Superman’s grip, sending glass shards skittering across the rec room floor like brittle stars. He didn’t flinch—just stared at his empty palm with that unnerving Kryptonian stillness. “Right,” he said finally, shaking carbonite dust from his fingers. “Options.”

The shattered beer bottle glistened on the floor like scattered diamonds as I flexed my fingers, feeling the tension humming beneath my skin. “We need to show more than just strength,” I said, my voice cutting through the charged silence. “We need to demonstrate total control—an army the President can’t ignore.” The words tasted strange, metallic with the weight of what I was proposing.

Supergirl’s cape rustled as she turned to face me fully, her eyes narrowing. “You mean the rings?” Her voice held a mix of excitement and apprehension.

I nodded, “And I know our next candidate. How about Alice?”

The silence stretched for three full seconds—long enough for Supergirl to exhale through her nose and Superman to rub his temple with two fingers. Then Superman’s deep voice rumbled through the gameroom like distant thunder: “Alice? Our lovable head of housekeeping and chef?” His eyebrow arched high.

“Alice has been with us through everything,” I said, fingers tracing the edge of the pool table. “She knew about our transformations before anyone else—before we even understood them ourselves. In conversations with her, I’ve only had discussions that show her impeccable morality and character.” My cape whispered against the varnish as I turned to face Superman fully, watching his brow furrow in that particular way that meant he was mentally reviewing every interaction.

Superman exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound carrying more weight than a normal breath ever could. He paced three steps across the gameroom carpet before stopping abruptly. “She’s…unexpected,” he admitted, rubbing his jaw. “But you’re right. She’s proven herself ten times over.”

The rings gleamed in the safe upstairs-I could see them-like liquid sunlight. “Alice is just the beginning,” I said, watching the light refract through the golden bands. Superman’s cape shifted with his sharp inhale—that particular rustle that meant he was bracing for one of my ideas. Supergirl leaned forward, her cape pooling around her boots like molten lava. The next half hour we discuss the “potentials” earnestly.

Alice’s sneakers squeaked against the marble floor as she pushed through the service entrance at exactly 4:58 AM, her usual two minutes early. The kitchen lights flared to life under Supergirl’s fingertip before the switch could be flipped. Alice froze mid-step, her freckled face caught between shock and amusement as three caped figures materialized from the shadows—me leaning against the industrial fridge with crossed arms, Superman perched on the central island like a gargoyle, and Supergirl dangling upside-down from the ceiling fan by her legs.

Alice’s hands trembled around the wooden spoon she’d been clutching when we appeared. Her knuckles went white against the maple handle—the only betrayal of her otherwise impeccable composure. “Goodness,” she breathed, pressing a flour-dusted apron to her chest, “you’d think after over a week of cooking for Kryptonians, I’d stop jumping at your antics. What’s going on?”

Superman stepped forward first, his cape pooling like spilled wine across the kitchen tiles as he took Alice’s hands in his. The contrast between his godlike frame and her petite form would’ve been comical if not for the gravity in his voice. “Alice O’Grady,” he said, and the way her full name echoed against the stainless-steel appliances made her blink rapidly, “after years of loyalty—of keeping our secrets lately when you could’ve sold them to every tabloid on Earth and just waiting on our sorry asses—we’ve deemed you worthy.”

Supergirl floated forward, her cape rippling like liquid rubies in the kitchen’s fluorescent light. She took Alice’s hands between her own—careful, so careful with her strength—and squeezed. “We want to give you something,” she said, her voice trembling with barely contained excitement.

“But first…” I glanced at her, her green eyes wide and serious. “Is there any reason you wouldn’t want powers like ours? Is there any reason why you can’t accept our gift?”

Alice’s breath hitched when I pulled the velvet box from my behind my back—her flour-dusted fingers trembling as they hovered over the engraved lid. “You’re joking,” she whispered, but the way her pulse raced beneath her freckled skin betrayed her hope. When Superman nudged the box open to reveal the golden rings inside, a single tear streaked down her cheek. “Oh god,” she gasped, clutching her apron to her mouth. “Is that—am I really—?”

Alice’s knees buckled and she fell on her kneecaps. The wooden spoon clattered to the tile as her hands flew to cover her mouth—not in shock, but in something far more raw. Tears streaked through the freckles on her cheeks. “You mean—just watching from the sidelines—I get to stand with you?” Her voice cracked like kindling. “I *so* want to help you guys.”

Superman held the velvet box steady as Alice’s flour-dusted fingers traced the golden rings inside. Each one gleamed with engraved initials that caught the kitchen light—KL, KL, KS, CE, and finally, AI. “The initials reference Kryptonian legacy,” I explained, watching her brows knit together. “The KLs likely stands for variants of Kara Zor-El—Supergirl’s birth name. KS could be Karen Starr, another variant. CE might be Cir-El, a future descendant. But AI…” I paused as Alice’s fingertip hovered over the last ring. “That’s Alura In-Ze. A matriarch. A protector.”

Alice’s fingers trembled as they hovered over the ring engraved “AI”—the one I’d just identified as Alura In-Ze. A sudden, unexpected laugh bubbled up from her chest, warm and rich like fresh cinnamon rolls. “A matriarch?” she whispered, her voice thick with something between awe and recognition. “That’s… that’s exactly what I’ve always wanted to be.” Her thumb brushed the initials reverently. Without hesitation, she slid the ring onto her right index finger.

She turned the ring to the right. The kitchen exploded with golden light—not violently, but like honey poured into sunlight, thick and slow and impossibly bright. Alice gasped as her freckles melted away beneath the glow, her red hair lengthening into liquid fire that cascaded down her back in waves. The flour dusting her apron dissolved into glittering motes as her shoulders broadened, her spine straightening with newfound authority.

Alice—no, I think *Alura* now—staggered slightly as the transformation completed. Her sudden swell of her hips, the spandex fabric straining across her newly sculpted shoulders. She blinked down at her hands, where callousness had been replaced with golden light still dancing between her fingers. “Oh my god,” she breathed, her voice deeper now, layered with harmonics that vibrated the air like a struck tuning fork.

“You look *stunning*,” I murmured—and meant it. The light caught the new contours of Alura’s face, sculpting cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Her emerald eyes pulsed with an inner luminescence, the same vibrant green as sunlight through maple leaves. When she turned her head, strands of fire-red hair moved with liquid grace, catching the light in ways that shouldn’t have been possible. “Holy crap” Supergirl breathed, circling Alura with the giddy wonder of a kid in a candy store. “You’re like… if a Renaissance painting came to life and decided to bench-press a Buick.” Superman’s deep baritone cut through the stunned silence, his cape shifting with an almost imperceptible rustle as he stepped forward. “You look…” He paused, blinking twice—that telltale sign he always got when recalibrating his expectations. “Christ, Alice. Alura. You look incredible.”

She looked like a supermodel. Alura In-ze spectacularly filled out her superheroine outfit: a white and black, spandex, long-sleeve, bodysuit with a red outlined Superman crest on her very massive breasts. A silk, red cape extended down to her shapely calves; it attached to the crest on her chest. The back of the cape has its own white Superman crest on the back. She sports knee-high, stiletto, black latex boots. Her has golden band, with the initials “AI” etched on it, rests on her right index finger.

Alura’s fingers hovered near her collarbone then drifted down to where her apron strings had been before the transformation. The motion was slow, deliberate, like she was tracing the ghost of her old self. “I feel…” Her voice hitched mid-sentence, the harmonics of it shimmering between octaves before stabilizing into that impossible superhuman resonance. “Like I just woke up from a dream where I was underwater. And now…” She flexed her hands. “Now I can *breathe*.”

Superman’s communicator crackled mid-sentence—Superboy and Lara called it a night. “I’ll take over patrol,” Superman sighed, his cape already swirling toward the exit with that peculiar weightlessness only Kryptonian fabric possessed. He paused just long enough to press a kiss against my temple—an old Benna gesture that still felt startlingly natural coming from Superman —before vanishing in that blur of blue and red that never failed to make my pulse stutter.

The vault door hissed open with the sound of ancient hydraulics—the kind Alice would’ve flinched at before. Now, Alura didn’t even blink when the pressurized air ruffled her hair after she opened the door with her super strength. This previously was off limits to Alice. But for the next half hour we gave Alura a tour of the Fortress of Solitude. Of course, she was amazed. She quipped, “So this is where you went to after breakfast all this time.”

The grandfather clock chimed seven just as the first staff car crunched up the service driveway gravel. Alura—still adjusting to the way her cape pooled around the stiletto heels she’d never worn before—tilted her head toward mine. “You’re sure about this?” Her whisper carried that new dual-toned resonance, like two violin strings vibrating in harmony. I nodded and said. “I’ll also make sure to hire another chef to lighten your load.”

The staff filed in one by one, their morning chatter dissolving into stunned silence as they took in her transformed figure standing regally at the base of the grand staircase. “Line formation,” I said, the words laced with just enough telepathic suggestion to make spines straighten instinctively. The staff shuffled into perfect military alignment—twelve pairs of polished shoes clicking against marble in unison. Their faces remained blank, breaths synchronized, as my mind-control held them in that eerie, placid stillness.

The silence in the foyer thickened as six pairs of eyes tracked my red stiletto boots pacing the floor. I could smell their collective adrenaline—that sharp, coppery tang of nervous sweat clinging to pressed uniforms—but not a single heartbeat faltered. Good.

“From today onward,” I said, letting my cape swirl dramatically as I turned, “Alura is your boss in every sense that matters. Her word is law whether she’s holding a soufflé or a skyscraper. And if I catch one whisper about spandex sightings to your book clubs…” My superhearing caught the sous chef swallow. “…well. Let’s just say you’ll wake up believing you’ve worked at Starbucks for twenty years.”

Alura stepped forward in her thigh-high latex boots, all six-foot-one of Kryptonian muscle and flame-haired elegance. The staff gasped collectively at her transformation. Gone was the freckled girl who’d burned last Tuesday’s roast; this was practically a goddess to a human. She lifted a single sculpted eyebrow. “Discretion is key. I will wear this costume whenever I wish. Don’t mention my appearance to anybody beyond these walls.”

My mental blocks were stronger than any vault door, hardwired to prevent disclosure even under torture. Still, I watched their slack jaws and dilated pupils, smelling the cortisol spike as my neural restraints snapped into place behind their foreheads.

Also, I added, “Your salaries are doubled again for your discretion.” The staff’s synchronized gasp hung in the air like fractured crystal. I let it linger just long enough to watch their pupils contract—that delicious moment when human brains short-circuit between terror and greed—before snapping my fingers. The sound cracked like a gunshot, making the sous chef flinch so hard his clipboard clattered to the marble.

“Promise us,” I said, my voice carrying that particular lilt that wasn’t quite a question and not entirely a command—the same tone I’d once used when reminding Asher to do his homework, now laced with imperceptible psychic harmonics. The staff’s mouths moved in perfect synchronization, their vocal cords vibrating under my subtle telepathic nudge: “We promise.” The words rippled through the foyer like a wave, the last consonant hanging in the air as I released my mental grip just enough to let them breathe.

“You are dismissed.” Alura ordered.

The staff scattered like worker ants under a magnifying glass, their polished shoes squeaking against the marble in comic unison. One junior maid actually tripped over her own feet—I caught her with superspeed before he faceplanted into the hors d’oeuvres cart, setting her upright with a flick of my pinky. The instant the service door swung shut behind them, Alura and my stern composure cracked. We hugged each other reveling in our newly molded friendship.

The scent of caramelized sugar and butter curled through the home theater room of the mansion recreation wing as I floated upside-down above the recliner, balancing a stainless steel bowl of popcorn between my fingertips. It was our Jenkins Sunday tradition of popcorn, apples, and beer where we watched a movie or a TV show as part our precious family time.

Supergirl’s cape fluttered through the open skylight like a crimson comet streak before she touched down barefoot on the home theater’s soundproofed floor. “Made it!” she announced, shaking volcanic ash from her honey-blonde curls—the only evidence of her interrupted shift and patrol over Mount Pinatubo. Her blue eyes sparkled under the ambient lighting as she tossed a still-warm apple pie onto her recliner chair tray. “Stopped by Virginia Beach Bakery. Figured we needed proper dessert for Lara’s first movie night. Alura, you too. You are not serving us on this night of tradition. You’re one of our family.”

Alura caught the pie mid-air with a flick of her wrist, heat vision gently reheating its crust to perfection as she smirked at Crystal. “Ash in the popcorn again, Supergirl?” She tapped the bowl with one red stiletto, sending a gust of super-breath to purge the volcanic residue. The scent of caramelized sugar and cinnamon bloomed through the room.

Supergirl’s cheeks flushed pink as she floated just above the reclining chair, her cape draping over the popcorn bowl like an accidental tablecloth. The slight hitch in her breathing wasn’t from the volcanic rescue—I could hear her heart doing that funny little stutter it always did when she lied about boys. “So Zachary Bevins, huh?” I teased. “How was NFL offensive lineman’s date with the superpowered high school girl this afternoon?”

Supergirl spun mid-air, her cape swirling as she landed with theatrical flair on the chair armrest. “Oh my *god*, you should’ve seen him—this absolute mountain of a man trying to fit on a picnic blanket meant for two normal-sized humans.” She grabbed a handful of popcorn, her fingers trembling slightly. “He brought homemade fried chicken in an actual wicker basket. Who *does* that anymore? The private beach was quiet, secluded. Just as I asked of him. He’s such a gentleman!”

Supergirl’s knee-high boots swung idly as she perched on the chair armrest, her cape pooling around her like liquid silk. “He packed *actual china plates*,”—like some Victorian grandma!” She popped another handful of popcorn into her mouth, chewing with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “And get this—he brought homemade lemonade in Mason jars with those little paper straws. Who even *finds* paper straws anymore?”

Superman leaned forward in his recliner, the leather creaking under his bulk as he took a sip from his beer. “So?” His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “You seeing him again?”

She said adamantly yes, her cape fluttering as she punched a fist into her palm with a *whoosh* of displaced air. “And next time, *I’m* picking the spot—somewhere only helicopters can reach.” The grin she flashed was all teeth and mischief, her blue eyes gleaming like polished sapphires under the theater lights. “Think he’ll scream when I scoop him up mid-sentence and rocket us straight into the stratosphere?”

The way Supergirl’s pulse jumped when she said Zachary’s name—*thump-thump-thump* like a rabbit’s foot against my superhearing—told me everything. My husband caught it too; I saw the corner of his mouth twitch as he took another sip of beer, his eyes flicking to me in that silent language we’d perfected over fifteen years. *Smitten.* The word hung between us, sweet and sticky as the caramel popcorn in the bowl.

Supergirl suddenly levitated off the armrest, her cape fluttering behind her as she floated cross-legged in midair. The popcorn bowl beneath her trembled slightly from the displacement. “Okay, so…” She took a deep breath, her fingers twisting the hem of her cape. “Since we’re all family and let’s be real—with super hearing you’d all find out eventually—I figured I should just tell you now so there’s no weirdness.”

“What is it, little girl?” I asked earnestly, reserving her pet name for times when I was empathetic.

Supergirl’s cape rippled as she hovered, her fingers tracing nervous patterns along the hemline. “Remember when I rescued those firefighters from the collapsing warehouse a few days ago?” Her voice hitched slightly—that telltale flutter in her vocal cords only detectable at super-speed. “One of them was this woman—Lieutenant Vasquez—and when she grabbed my hand…” Supergirl’s cheeks flushed pink under the skylight. “Her palm was calloused. Not rough, just… real. And when she looked up at me, there was this *moment* where I wanted to—” She cut herself off, legs uncrossing midair as she spun in a slow, embarrassed circle.

Supergirl’s boots touched down silently on the carpet, her cape settling like crimson liquid as she hugged her own elbows—an oddly human gesture from someone who could bench-press buildings. “Then, there was this college girl last night,” she said, words tumbling out in a rush. “Her bicycle got tangled in streetcar tracks near the Plaza.” Supergirl’s fingers flexed, reconstructing the memory in the air with trails of super-speed afterimages. “I melted the metal rails so fast her shoelaces didn’t even scorch, and when I lifted her…” Her voice dropped to a whisper even Kryptonian hearing strained to catch. “She had lavender shampoo. Not the synthetic kind—real French lavender from the stems, like crushed velvet smells. And her rear end…”

Supergirl’s voice cracked mid-sentence when she described how her hazel eyes had lingered on her lips a fraction too long. The admission hung between us like spider silk—translucent but undeniable. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her cape, crimping the fabric with enough super-strength to tear titanium. She looked up tentatively and said slightly above a whisper, “First, I thought it was just my imagination. But then, I realized I found females attractive. I am bisexual.” Then she looked at us, specifically Superman and I, and said, “ I hope you guys don’t think less of me for it.”

Superman’s cape shifted with the sudden movement as he crossed the space between us in less than a heartbeat—not with super-speed, but with that particular urgency fathers reserve for moments when words fail. His arms enveloped Supergirl before the last syllable of her confession had fully faded, his chin resting gently atop her honey-blonde locks. “Oh, sweetpea,” he murmured into her hair, his baritone vibrating through her shoulders, “if anything, we think *more* of you for having the courage to say it.”

The words spilled from my lips before I could temper them with parental caution—too fast, too earnest, riding the crest of that same relief I’d felt when Ben first pressed his transformed body against mine and whispered *”Still me.”* “Technically,” I said, floating forward until my cape brushed Crystal’s knee, “your father and I *are* transgender. We know how complex life can get.”

Lara’s gloved hand found Crystal’s shoulder with surprising gentleness—like someone who’d spent years kneading dough knew exactly how much pressure a breaking heart could bear. “Honey,” she said, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it, “I think the only thing that would shock me is if you *weren’t* attracted to someone who smells like lavender. You’re so sweet.” The tension shattered like sugar glass. Alura put her hand on Supergirl’s shoulder for support.

Superboy’s boot rustled against the carpet as he lunged forward—not with super-speed, but with the graceless momentum of a big brother who’d just realized his sister was hurting. He crashed into Supergirl’s side hard enough to make her cape billow, his forehead thunking against her shoulder plate. “Duh,” he muttered into the blue spandex, his voice muffled but grinning, “I saw how you looked at your vice president on the student council Sally Jones. It doesn’t matter to me. I love you, sis.”

I switched subjects. As kind of the de facto leader of the Kryptonians I spoke up, “Before we get back to the movie. I’ve revised the patrol and shift schedule now that we have two new superheroes. We’re going to 4-hours shifts. Starting at 2200 tonight, Superboy has the first shift. Supergirl will have another 4-hour shift at 0200. Superman will take over at 0600. I will relieve him at 1000. Alura, side saddle with me and then take your own shift at 1400. Your assistant, Alura, will cook lunch until I find a suitable permanent replacement for you as chef. Your will fully run the mansion and Fortress of Solitude. And Lara has the 1800 shift. Any questions?”

“No questions, ma’am,” Lara chirped, snapping off a salute that sent her cape swirling—the movement almost too fast for human eyes. Her grin faltered when Alura cleared her throat pointedly. Everyone nodded in agreement. Superboy clicked the light switch and the remote control, and we began our nightly movie tradition watching “Star-Crossed Soulmates” for the umpteenth Time.

The next couple of days we settled into our superhero routine. Cats needed saving. Robbers had to be cuffed. Fires had to be literally put out. All the while, Superman and I continued to look for suitable candidates to bestow powers upon. Both Alura and Lara were fitting in nicely, but we needed more for our “Kryptonian Army” so to speak.

The beachfront Virginia Beach Barnes & Noble receipt sticking out of the eager patron’s copy of my book read *3:17 PM, March 3^rd* in crisp thermal print as it sat on the table in front of me when Marianne’s sneakers squeaked against the polished bookstore floor—I knew without turning because her citrus shampoo registered at 87 decibels against my superhearing, mixed with the accelerated flutter of a pulse that suggested she’d jogged just to please her boss.

“I brought backup caffeine,” she announced, sliding a venti cold brew across the book signing table with condensation dripping down its sides like the nervous sweat beading along her hairline. Marianne didn’t have to come as she was just my research assistant. It wasn’t part of her job description. That’s why she was dressed rather casually. But I think we were becoming more friends than just the typical boss-employee relationship. She was genuinely interested in my personal and professional affairs. Again, not part of the job description-she managed the line with the store manager’s assistance. Frankly, I think Marianne knew that I sometimes got annoyed with overzealous fans even though I tried to hide it. She did this for an hour and a half; bless her heart!

The bookstore clock ticked toward 4:30 PM when I closed my signed copy of *A Naval Officer in London* with a decisive snap that made Marianne jump—her flinch sending a loose curl bouncing against her flushed cheek. “Hungry? My treat.” I asked, nodding toward the café section where the scent of burnt espresso and croissants lingered.

After paying, I sat down with her. I looked her in the eye and said, “You really are becoming a good friend of mine and not just an assistant. May I know more about you and your personal life?”

The café booth groaned slightly under our combined weight—mine more from density than mass—as Marianne stirred her chamomile tea with unnecessary vigor, the spoon clinking like a nervous metronome. “You really want the full Marianne Wentz origin story?” she asked, her smile faltering at the edges as she pushed a strand of dark brown hair behind one ear. The gesture exposed the faint scar along her hairline—three parallel lines I’d never noticed before, too precise for childhood accidents.

Marianne’s fingers tightened around her teacup, knuckles whitening like she was anchoring herself to its warmth. “My parents were—are—grifters,” she said, the words sharp but quiet, like she was confessing to a crime she didn’t commit. “Church on Sundays, charity scams by Monday. My childhood smelled like dollar-store perfume and collection plates.” She laughed, but it was brittle, her gaze fixed on the steam curling from her cup. “I spent my sixteenth birthday testifying against my uncle in embezzlement court. That’s when I decided—no more. No more lies, no more shortcuts.”

I watched her throat move as she swallowed, the delicate flutter of her pulse betraying the calm she was forcing into her voice. “I have worked three jobs to put myself through first 3 years of college without taking a cent from them. Slept in the library between shifts.” Her thumb traced the rim of her cup, following the invisible path of some old hurt. “There was this one night—February, freezing rain—when I caught a bus driver letting homeless kids ride for free. He didn’t know I saw. But I thought… that’s the kind of person I want to be. The kind who does good things when nobody’s looking.”

I had a tear in my eye. She seemed to be of genuine heart. I wanted to treat her better than just an assistant. I asked with a hitch in my voice, “What would you say to me asking if you’ll stay in one of our massive guest rooms at the mansion. No more sleeping in libraries.”

The teacup rattled against its saucer when Marianne set it down—too abrupt, like she’d been caught stealing. “You don’t have to—”

I reached across the table, my fingers brushing hers—a deliberate touch. “I insist,” I said, letting just enough of Superwoman’s steel seep into my voice. Her pulse jumped under my fingertips. “And I’m tripling your salary.”

Marianne’s fingers trembled beneath mine—not with fear, but with something far more interesting: recognition of her talents. “Okay,” she meekly said and stopped resisting.

Then, I probed further, “I hope you don’t mind me asking all these questions but I’m curious. What do you want to do with your life besides just being a stratagist? Do you have a higher calling?”

Marianne’s teacup froze halfway to her lips when I asked the question—the steam curling around her face like hesitant fingers. “A higher calling?” Her laughter sounded like shattering porcelain, too brittle for someone who’d just survived homelessness. “Jennifer , I spent last winter sleeping in a library study carrel. Right now? Being your assistant *is* my higher calling.”

The café’s ambient noise seemed to hush around our table as I leaned forward, my elbows pressing into the table. “No, I’m curious. Hypothetically,” I said, tapping my coffee cup with a fingernail that could cut diamond, “if Superman and I offered you powers tomorrow —any abilities you wanted—what would you do with them?”

Marianne’s fingers traced the rim of her teacup, the porcelain smooth beneath her fingertips—like the edges of a truth she hadn’t polished yet. She exhaled, slow and measured, and when she spoke, it wasn’t with the practiced charm of a con artist’s daughter, but with the quiet conviction of someone who’d spent too many nights choosing hunger over dishonesty. “I’d use them to help people who can’t help themselves,” she said. “Not the flashy stuff—not stopping meteors or lifting trains.” Her thumb brushed a chip in the cup’s glaze. “I’d find the ones who slip through the cracks. The kids sleeping in library carrels because they’re too proud to steal. The single moms getting evicted because their landlord lied about the lease. The kind of suffering that doesn’t make headlines.” She looked up, and her eyes were the color of storm clouds lit by lightning. “Nobody helped me. But if I could—I’d make sure they weren’t alone like I was. But Superwoman-” She whispered my name deliberately making sure no one else could hear, “Who am kidding? Sad stories like little ole empathetic me don’t catch breaks.”

The rest of the conversation centered on mundane things. But in the corner of my mind I believed that I had found the right person. But I needed to talk to Superman. There was no rush. We had other worthy people to talk to.

I am Superwoman and want an army of upright, moral teammates.