Super Wishes and Leotard Dreams, Chapter 11

“Come in,” Marianne called, voice muffled through the door.

Marianne’s door creaked open to reveal her standing barefoot in oversized Old Dominion sweats, her usual loose twist replaced by sleep-mussed waves. A half-drunk mug of tea steamed on her nightstand beside scattered flashcards—American history, if the highlighted Hofstadter citations were any indication. She blinked at us, then yawned. “Hey, Superman and Superwoman. What’s up?” she said, used to us hovering way over six feet tall in full superhero regalia at 6:17 AM. Weeks ago I mind-control Marianne to be comfortable with my family as superheroes and our alter-egos. So, this fine Sunday, March 22, flashing our spandex was no big deal. But waking her up at the crack of dawn was.

“Good morning, Marianne.” Superman said warmly.

“Good morning, Marianne,” I repeated and then said with a seriousness, “We have a proposition for you.”

Marianne looked somewhat surprised that business was being done this early but listened intently. Superman said, “We deem you worthy of a gift.”

Marianne blinked twice, her sleep-mussed hair catching the early morning light filtering through the curtains. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms, then froze mid-yawn when Superman’s words registered. “A… gift?” she repeated, voice still thick with sleep but sharpening with curiosity. The flashcards on her nightstand fluttered as I adjusted my stance, my cape whispering against the hardwood.

I smoothed my cape with one hand, feeling the weight of the golden ring tucked securely in its hidden pocket. “Your morals and character have shown us that you can wield this,” I said, pulling out the ring. The engraving—CE—glowed faintly, as if responding to her presence.

Superman leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over the bold ‘S’ on his chest. “Before we give this to you, is there any reason you *shouldn’t* have powers?” His eyebrow arched—just slightly—as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear her wrestle with it.

Marianne sat up straighter, her sleep-mussed hair catching the dawn light through the curtains. She blinked at the ring, then at me, then at Superman—her gaze ricocheting between us like a pinball. “You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question. Her fingers twitched against the comforter, knuckles whitening briefly before she forced them to relax.

“Dead serious,” I said, holding the ring between my thumb and forefinger, letting it catch the light. The golden band hummed faintly, a vibration only super-senses could detect. “If you want powers, put this on your right index finger and turn it to the right.”

Marianne didn’t hesitate. The ring slid onto her finger with an electric click—too perfect, like it had been waiting for her. When she twisted it clockwise, golden light erupted from the band, crawling up her arm in fractal patterns that split and reformed like living circuitry. Her back arched involuntarily as the transformation hit, muscles reshaping beneath skin that shimmered momentarily translucent.

The golden light pulsed once—twice—then collapsed inward like a dying star, leaving Marianne…different. *More.* Marianne gasped, her hands flying to her chest—where smooth muscle now arched beneath her collarbones in sculpted perfection. Her reflection in the dresser mirror showed a stranger: a statuesque goddess with espresso-dark hair cropped in a daring pixie, unkempt cut that somehow made her sharp cheekbones even more pronounced. Her lips—plush and coral-red reflecting the broader femme fatale makeup—parted in silent awe. The girl-next-door freckles were gone replaced by flawless olive skin that gleamed under the bedroom’s warm light. Marianne’s fingers trembled as they traced the new contours of her body—the impossible slope of her waist, the sudden weight of her chest, the way her thighs now pressed together with muscular tension. The transformation had erased almost every trace of her former self, leaving behind something sculpted and lethal.

The transformation’s afterglow still prickled along Marianne’s skin when she caught sight of the costume on her body—black latex gleaming under the bedroom light like pooled ink. She ran a hand down the material, her newly elongated fingers catching on the leotard’s wet-look spandex, the texture somehow both slick and impossibly soft. The high-cut, pantyhose-clad legs left little to imagination, the stitching taut where it curved under what were now undeniably sculpted hips. The stylized red ‘S’ across the chest flared dramatically, its edges sharp enough to draw blood if she weren’t invulnerable now. She sports knee-high, latex, black boots and black, latex, opera gloves. The ensemble is completed by blue silk cape that extends down to her knees.

Marianne’s fingers hovered just above the crest on her chest—not quite touching the stylized ‘S’, as if afraid it might burn her. Her newly deepened voice carried an unfamiliar resonance when she finally spoke: “I feel… like someone poured starlight into my veins.” She flexed her hands, watching the play of black latex over her knuckles. “And also like I accidentally sat on a taser.”

“You look like vengeance dipped in silk,” I said, my thumb brushing the edge of my cape as I took in Marianne’s transformed silhouette. The black latex clung to every new curve like liquid shadow, the red ‘S’ crest bold against her chest—not quite Superman’s colors, but something sharper, more deliberate. Ben let out a low whistle, crossing his arms in a way that made his own cape ripple. “Damn. That’s not just a costume—that’s armor.”

Marianne’s fingers finally settled on the crest, tracing the sharp angles of the ‘S’ with hesitant reverence. “Thank you,” she breathed, then frowned slightly—her new sculpted features making even confusion look elegant. “But… what superhero *am* I supposed to be?” The cape shifted behind her like a living thing as she turned fully toward me, the movement so fluid it shouldn’t have been possible for someone who’d worn it for less than three minutes.

“Cir-El,” I murmured, watching Marianne’s—no, *Cir-El’s*—eyes widen as the name settled between us like a long-forgotten secret. The syllables tasted like stardust on my tongue. “From Kryptonian lore. Before the Voice erased it.” Superman’s sharp inhale told me he remembered too.

Cir-El flexed her gloved fingers, watching the firelight from the nearby sconces catch on the sleek black material. The movement sent a ripple through her cape—still adjusting to its weight, still learning how to move with it. “So,” she said, her voice deeper now, richer that made even that single word sound like poetry, “what now?”

“Capabilities can wait,” Superman said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the guest bedroom like distant thunder. He reached out, adjusting Cir-El’s cape so it draped more evenly across her shoulders—a practiced, paternal gesture that made her stance straighten instinctively. “Right now, we walk.”

We walked down to the vault door to the Fortress of Solitude. Superman motioned to Cir-el for her to do the honors and hesitantly she walked up to the giant “S” seal. Cir-El’s fingers flexed around the vault door’s handle—thick steel reinforced with alien alloys, something that would’ve taken a demolition team hours to breach if at all. Her grip tightened experimentally, then with sudden, giddy confidence as the metal groaned under her newfound strength. The door swung open like it weighed nothing, revealing the tunnel bathed in the Fortress’ eerie green light. She let out a laugh, sharp and bright, bouncing off the walls. “That’s… that’s *insane*,” she breathed, shaking out her hand like she’d just touched something electrifying.

I could see them from the “mudroom” through the wall and into the most important room. The command center hummed with that particular energy of superheroes pretending they weren’t anxious—legs jiggling under tables, fingers drumming on spandex thighs, capes rustling with restless shifts. At precisely 7:00:00 AM (because superheroes are nothing if not punctual), the doors hissed open. I entered first, shoulders squared. Cir-El followed, her new cape swirling dramatically despite her hesitant steps—some instincts, it seemed, were baked into Kryptonian DNA. Superman brought up the rear, heels clicking a staccato rhythm that silenced the room better than any gavel.

The command center’s circular table was already ringed by our family in various states of superheroic repose. Supergirl had one boot propped on the edge, spinning a lock of honey-blonde hair around her finger while Powergirl whispered something that made her snort into her palm. Kara and Superbabe sat shoulder-to-shoulder, the latter dramatically miming some exaggerated feminine gesture that sent her cape fluttering into Alura’s face. Only Lara looked alert, her spine straight as a blade, blue eyes tracking Cir-El’s entrance with quiet intensity. Superboy was daydreaming while he looked at the pond above. The Kryptonian robots continue doing their work at the control panels not really paying attention to us.

“Morning, team,” I said, brushing my fingers along the smooth chrome edge of the table as we took our seats. “Thanks for rolling out of bed—or orbit—for this.”

Superman cleared his throat before leaning forward. “Team,” he said, resting one massive hand on Cir-El’s shoulder. The blue fabric of her cape shimmered under his touch, catching the overhead lights like liquid obsidian. “Meet our newest cape. Marianne earned this in the last hour. Literally.” His lips quirked at his own joke, that trademark Virginia charm cutting through the tension.

The applause erupted—not the polite golf-clap kind, but the kind that made the Kryptonian crystal walls hum. Supergirl whooped loudest, floating three inches off her chair as she clapped, her cape fluttering like crimson wings. Powergirl’s massive hands came together with enough force to crack human bones, her grin wide enough to showcase every perfect tooth. Even Kara, normally so reserved, pressed her palms together with deliberate pride, her eyes glinting like polished emeralds in the Fortress’s green light.

Cir-El’s fingers traced the unfamiliar symbol on her chest—that now felt etched into her very bones—as the applause washed over her. She stood straighter under Superman’s grounding touch, though her shoulders still carried the tension of someone who’d spent a lifetime folding inward. The Fortress’s crystalline walls reflected her new form back at her in fractured glimpses: the obsidian-black bodysuit clinging to unfamiliar curves, the way her hips flared, the impossible sheen of her own pantyhose catching light like spilled honey.

Cir-El’s fingers twitched at her sides, still adjusting to the effortless strength humming through them. “I—I’m just happy to be part of the team,” she blurted, then immediately winced at how small her voice sounded in the cavernous room.

The holographic display above the central console in the middle of the table flickered with the muted glow of CNN footage—a clip of Senator Reynolds slamming his fist on a podium, the chyron beneath screaming *SUBPOENAS ISSUED FOR “KRYPTONIAN THREATS UPON PRESIDENT’S URGING.”* I let the silence stretch just long enough for the weight of it to settle in the room before tapping the console. The footage froze on Reynolds’ contorted face.

“Right,” I said, crossing my arms. The spandex of my suit pulled taut over my biceps—a deliberate flex. “So. They, the Republican-dominated Congress want us in Washington by Tuesday. Let me offer the first thoughts. This isn’t about subpoenas,” I said, letting my fingertips hover over Reynolds’ frozen holographic sneer. The crystal table beneath my hands hummed with latent energy, responding to my touch like a living thing. “This is their first attempt to collar us. To frame us as threats rather than allies.” The words tasted like ash residue—bitter and metallic.

Superman’s holographic display flickered as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. The way his cape pooled around him—like spilled wine on marble—made him look less like a superhero and more like my lieutenant surveying a battlefield. “Thoughts?” he prompted, scanning the room.

Supergirl was the first to break the silence, her blue eyes sharp despite the late hour. She leaned forward, fingers drumming against the crystal table—each tap sent a ripple of light skittering across its surface. “The president’s scared,” she said, voice quieter than usual, like she was picking apart the truth mid-sentence. “Not just of what we *can* do, but what we *represent*. A bunch of superbeings who don’t play by his rules? Who don’t fit in his Reich boxes?” She snorted, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Of course he wants us on a leash.”

Superboy spun his chair lazily, but there was nothing careless about the way his gaze locked onto the holographic headlines. “His cronies are gonna paint us as unstable,” he said, cracking his knuckles absently. “Especially after the whole…” He gestured vaguely at Superbabe, who blushed furiously beside Kara. “Y’know. The whole NorMonarchss incident. Defending protester from authorities in Chicago. They’ll say we’re…” He mimed air quotes, “‘*corrupting American values*.’” The sarcasm dripped like syrup.

Powergirl cleared her throat—still self-conscious about her new voice. “They’re not wrong about one thing,” she admitted, folding her arms under her chest. “We *are* dangerous. Just… not in the way they think.” She glanced at Supergirl, something unspoken passing between them. “And, oh, and superbeings made mostly of woman. Wouldn’t want them to have too much power!...But if they subpoena us, it’s not to talk. It’s to put us in cuffs made of—what, depleted uranium?” She snorted. “Like that’d work.”

The holographic headlines pulsed red above the command table like a warning siren. I leaned forward, elbows digging into the polished surface as I scanned each face—Superman’s jaw clenched tight, Supergirl’s fingers drumming nervously against her thigh, Cir-El’s wide-eyed stare darting between us like she was memorizing a playbook. Even Superbabe had stopped fussing with her cape for once. “Alright,” I said, snapping my fingers. A tactical map of D.C. bloomed into existence between us, congressional buildings glowing like lit matchsticks. “Head count. All in favor of ignoring this clown show subpoena?”

The chorus of “Aye” echoed through the Fortress like a thunderclap, unanimous in its defiance. But I held up a hand before anyone could celebrate—fingers splayed against the holographic glow of Capitol Hill. “Alright,” I said, tapping my temple. “Now hit me. What’s the *real* problem between us and America?”

Kara’s voice cut through the murmurs like a blade—precise, calm, and utterly undeniable. She stood with her arms crossed, the firelight from the holograms casting sharp angles across her face. “We have an image problem,” she said, her gaze sweeping across each of us. “The world sees capes and symbols, not people. They fear what they don’t understand, and right now, no one truly knows who we are.”

We knew she was right, but I asked for solutions. The Fortress hummed with the weight of silence—not the uncomfortable kind, but the electric pause before lightning strikes. My fingers drummed against the command table. “Okay, Kara’s nailed the diagnosis,” I said, rolling my shoulders until my cape settled like liquid fire down my back. “Now prescribe the cure.”

The silence stretched for exactly fifteen seconds—long enough for the Fortress’s ventilation system to cycle once, for Supergirl’s boot to tap twice against the floor, for Superbabe to bite her lower lip hard enough to leave crescent indents. Then, just as Superman opened his mouth to speak—

Cir-El’s voice sliced through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds—soft, unexpected, but impossible to ignore. “I’m new here and have seen your problems from a spectator’s vantage point. But what if—” She cleared her throat, fingers twisting the hem of her cape. “What if we did interviews? To get the message out” The words hung there, fragile as spun.

The silence that followed Cir-El’s suggestion had weight—the kind that made the air hum with possibility. I watched Superman’s eyes first, saw the way they lit up like twin suns catching dawn. His lips parted, not to speak, but to exhale something between relief and admiration. Superman’s grin could have powered the Fortress for a week. He clapped his hands—once—and the sound cracked like thunder, making Cir-El jump. “That’s it. That’s *exactly* it.” He stood up and paced a tight circle. “We don’t wait for them to frame the narrative. We *own* it.” His finger jabbed toward the holographic news feeds flickering above the command table—Fox News looping footage of our last rescue with ominous voiceover speculation. “Five interviews. Two days. We flood every channel until they’re drinking us through their goddamn firehoses.”

The approval settled over me like a second cape—weighty, but familiar. I leaned forward, elbows pressing into the command table hard enough to make the holographic displays flicker. “Cir-El’s right,” I said, sweeping my gaze across the assembled heroes. “But we don’t just give interviews. We *orchestrate* them.” My fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against the table—three beats, deliberate. “Same talking points. Same cadence. Same unshakable confidence.”

We then spent the next 15 minutes hashing out the plan. Then, it seemed necessary as leader that I okayed the plan. That was my role now. The nods around the command center weren’t just acknowledgments—they were transmissions of trust, each one pressing the weight of leadership deeper into my shoulders. I let my gaze linger on each face: Kara’s knowing smirk, Supergirl’s eager bounce on her toes, Powergirl’s freshly painted nails tapping against her belt buckle. Even Cir-El’s nervous fidgeting had transformed into something steadier since donning her cape. When my eyes finally met Superman’s, his wink was a private counterweight to my public gravity. With plan in place, I adjourned the meeting.

The moment the others filed out—Supergirl already mid-sentence about the Backwoods Access, Powergirl’s hand hovering near Cir-El’s elbow like she couldn’t decide whether to guide or grip—the command center doors hissed shut behind them, sealing Superman and me in silence. The comfortable kind.

Superman leaned against the holographic projection table, arms crossed over that impossible chest, watching me with an expression that made my cape feel suddenly too heavy. “You know,” he said, voice low enough that only my superhearing could catch it over the hum of the Fortress’s systems, “I knew you’d be good at this.” His lips quirked—that damn half-smile that used to make Benna’s knees weak and now sent heat creeping up my neck. “But seeing you command a room of superpowered beings? That’s sexy as hell.”

Heat bloomed across my cheekbones—an embarrassing tell I hadn’t quite mastered in this new body—as I pressed my palms against the holographic table’s cool surface. “Flattery from Superman?” I teased, tapping into that old Jensen Jenkins sarcasm to cover how thoroughly Superman could still unravel me. “Thanks for your support during the meeting. It grounds me.” My fingers twitched toward my waist, adjusting the golden belt that suddenly felt too tight.

Superman’s face turned serious, the playful glint in his hazel eyes hardening into something more urgent. His fingers traced the edge of the holographic table, leaving faint afterimages of blue light in their wake. “If we don’t figure out how to get through to this administration in the interviews,” he said, voice dropping into that gravelly register that still sent a shiver down my spine, “this could get ugly very quickly.”

I could only nod.

Later in the morning, Father Matthews’ voice resonated as he raised the paten. “The Body of Christ.” His eyes—kindly crow’s feet softened by decades of this ritual—flickered with something unreadable when they passed over our family. Not fear. Not quite awe either. Recognition, maybe. The way you’d look at a storm rolling in across the prairie, knowing it could nourish or destroy. The host dissolved on my tongue like a whisper of divinity—paper-thin, weightless, yet somehow anchoring me as sunlight streamed through stained glass apostles.

Our parents, Larry and Jun, led us back to our pew with Asher closely into tow. The rest of us followed. Then we knelt after being spiritually replenished. Ben’s knee brushed against mine, his thigh warm even through the Sunday slacks. To my right, Crystal fidgeted with her dress hem where it pooled beneath the kneeler, the movement sending faint ripples through the fabric.

The host stuck to the roof of my mouth like a holy afterthought, dissolving into nothingness as I knelt there—Superwoman in civilian Sunday best, usually having something to do with Spandex. The same hands that could move planets now pressed together in supplication. The moments after I receive the host was when I was most reflective and most eager to talk with God. The incense curled around us and for the first time since the transformation, I wondered the nature of God and the Voice-if they were one in the same.

The incense thickened as the cantor began the post-Eucharistic hymn, its smoky tendrils curling around my unanswered questions like fingers around a rosary. I prayed hard. *What does divinity want from us?* The organ’s vibration hummed through my kneecaps—superhuman hearing catching every imperfect pipe note—but the Voice, the one that had reshaped us, remained silent now. Ben’s shoulder pressed against mine, solid as Kryptonian steel beneath his starched cotton shirt. *What does divinity want us to do with this President?*

The Lincoln Town Car glided through Manhattan like a shark through murky water, its blacked-out windows swallowing the morning light whole. From our perch atop the NBC Studios building, Powergirl squinted—her enhanced vision adjusting with a faint golden flicker—as she traced the vehicle’s path down Ninth. “They really do just let celebrities park wherever, huh?” she muttered, watching Stewart’s driver double-park outside a deli. The scent of bagels and lox hit me like a nostalgia grenade—decades of academic conferences in the city flooding back through my eidetic memory.

It is 8 a.m. Monday, March 23^rd. Powergirl shifted beside me, her knee-high red boots scraping against the side of the skyscraper. “You sure he’ll give us an interview?” Her voice carried that new-superhero warble, half awe at her own existence, half residual Zachary Bevins skepticism. I didn’t blame her. Beneath us, Stewart emerged from the deli balancing three coffee cups and a paper bag glistening with grease. The late-winter wind caught his salt-and-pepper hair. The Lincoln’s brake lights flared red as it swerved into Hell’s Kitchen. Powergirl tensed beside me on the rooftop ledge, her freshly manicured fingers digging into the concrete. “You’d think a guy who spent twenty years mocking politicians would have better security,” she muttered, watching Stewart’s car park curbside outside NEP Studio 52. I smirked—her NFL lineman’s instincts were still intact beneath the spandex and newly sculpted curves.

The Lincoln’s door hadn’t even fully closed behind Stewart when Powergirl said. “Wait—he’s got sesame seeds on his lapel,” she hissed, her super-vision zeroing in on the microscopic debris from his breakfast bagel. I snorted, watching Stewart juggle his coffees while fumbling with his keycard at the studio entrance. His reflection warped briefly in the revolving door’s glass—just long enough for me to count the individual strands of grey threading through his temples.

Our enhanced vision followed Jon Stewart’s path through the building—every step, every pause to greet a production assistant, every absentminded swipe at the sesame seeds clinging to his jacket. The elevator doors swallowed him whole, but our microscopic vision kept tracing his path upward through the steel shafts, watching his fingers drum against his thigh as the floors ticked by. Fourth floor. Office door swinging shut behind him. Powergirl exhaled through her nose—a sharp, amused sound—when he immediately plucked a lint roller from his desk drawer and attacked the lapel with military precision.

The glass pane vibrated under Powergirl’s knuckles—three precise taps that sounded like ball bearings dropped on crystal. Inside, Stewart jerked back so hard his rolling chair slammed into the bookshelf behind him. A framed Emmy wobbled, but stood pat.

The surprised, but amicable Stewart recovered and opened the large window with a pneumatic hiss. Stewart’s face cycled through shock, recognition, then professional curiosity in the span of a heartbeat—like watching a seasoned comedian recalibrate after a surprise callback. His gaze flicked between Powergirl’s boob window and my hovering seven-foot frame before settling on a neutral smile. “So this is either the best ambush interview setup ever,” he deadpanned, brushing sesame seeds off his sleeve, “or my barista spiked my oat milk again.”

The hovering Powergirl flashed Stewart a grin that could’ve powered Times Square, her fingers brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder while I floated closer—close enough for him to catch the faint scent of Tidewater clinging to my cape. “We promise we’ll make it worth your while,” I purred, landed by him, adjusting his tie with deliberate slowness, my thumb lingering over the silk. The fabric hummed under my touch—not from superpowers, but from Stewart’s accelerated pulse. Stewart blinked rapidly, his nostrils flaring as Powergirl floated in to peck his cheek. The sudden intimacy made him cough into his fist, his other hand instinctively rising to pat his pocket for the absent pack of cigarettes he’d quit carrying last year. “You realize,” he rasped, swiping at the lipstick smudge Powergirl left behind, “this is transparent as hell.”

“I know Jon boy,” I cooed, “But would you do it for little ole us?”

Stewart’s laughter filled the cramped office—a startled bark that sent his forgotten coffee cup rattling against the saucer as he sat in his chair. “Christ, you don’t ask for much,” he muttered, rubbing the cheek where Powergirl’s lipstick still smudged. His fingers trembled at the air like he was physically to pluck the right from thin air. “Just the most coveted interview slot with zero notice.” But his eyes never left my me, tracking the way my cape curled around my thighs like liquid mercury.

Stewart exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Fine,” he conceded, tossing his hands up in surrender. “You win. We’ll do the interview today—early afternoon. Fly by here at 1.” His eyes flicked to the digital clock on his desk, already mentally rearranging his schedule. “I’ll scrape whatever else I had planned. Hell, this might be the interview of the century.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Assuming you don’t vaporize me mid-sentence with those heat vision peepers.”

Powergirl left one last lipstick imprint—cherry red this time—on Stewart’s other cheekbone while I deliberately let my cape brush against his thigh as I pivoted toward the window. His sharp inhale vibrated through my super-hearing, along with the frantic rustle of him adjusting his trousers under the desk. The scent of his arousal bloomed in the air between us, tangy and human, as Powergirl winked over her shoulder. She said as we flew off toward Hoboken, “Try not to think about us during your monologue, Jonny.”

Jon Stewart’s staff was very hospitable and eager to cater to all of requests. When we arrived , they led us to our dressing room where they put on even more makeup then we normally wear. Stewart came by graciously to welcome us before heading to his own dressing room. So by the time we were about onstage, we were in a gregarious mood.

Stewart called us on to the show. The applause hit like a physical force as we stepped onto the stage—not just sound, but a rolling wave of pheromones, dilated pupils, and rapid heartbeats thrumming through my super-senses. A teenage intern dropped her clipboard; the clatter was lost in the roar as two hundred pairs of eyes traced the way Powergirl’s cape swirled around her thighs. My own six-inch heels sank slightly into the stage carpet with each step, the hydraulic whisper of muscle beneath spandex unmistakable even under studio lights. Someone in the third row audibly gulped.

The studio lights burned hotter than a Virginia summer as we settled into the oversized guest chairs—chairs that somehow still felt too small for our superhuman frames. Powergirl crossed her legs with deliberate slowness, her blue vinyl boot squeaking faintly against her thigh as the audience’s collective pulse spiked. I caught the exact moment Jon registered the way her spandex-clad hips strained against the armrests; his pupils dilated three percent before he cleared his throat and sat in his chair.

“So,” Jon said, leaning back in his chair with that trademark smirk, fingers steepled like he was about to deliver the punchline to a joke the audience hadn’t heard yet. “For those just tuning in—and let’s be honest, who isn’t?—would you two spectacularly spandexed individuals mind telling us *exactly* who you are and what, uh… *occupation* we should list on the tax forms?” The audience tittered on cue, but I could hear the blood rushing in Jon’s carotid artery—two-point-three beats per second faster than his resting rate.

Powergirl’s smirk could’ve powered the studio lights. She leaned forward just enough to make the belt buckle catch the light, her gloved fingers drumming the armrest with theatrical deliberation. “Jon, honey,” she purred, voice dripping with the kind of amusement that made the third-row audience member choke on their popcorn, “if the IRS comes knocking, I promise our ‘occupation’ boxes will say *much more* than yours ever did.” The audience howled as Jon clutched his chest in mock offense, his tie swinging like a pendulum between them.

Jon asked, “What’s your origins story: Where did you come from? How did you get here? When did you get here?

I let the questions hang in the air for a heartbeat longer than necessary, watching Jon’s fingers twitch against his notepad—three subconscious taps against the paper before he caught himself. I crossed my legs, the spandex whispering against itself. “You want the elevator pitch or the director’s cut, Jon?” I asked, tilting my head just enough to make my cape ripple like liquid.

Jon’s eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline. “Let’s split the difference—give me the elevator pitch, but with that director’s cut *flair*.” He gestured vaguely at my cape, which had settled into a perfect drape over the chair’s armrest. The audience chuckled, but I noted the way his knuckles whitened around his pen.

I leaned forward, letting the studio lights catch the golden trim of my crest. “We’re Kryptonians from another planet,” I said, watching Jon’s pupils dilate the slightest fraction—a telltale sign even his quick wit couldn’t mask. “Superboy, Supergirl, Superman, and I.” The audience’s collective inhale was almost comical, like someone had sucked the oxygen out of the room. Powergirl uncrossed her legs beside me, her boot nudging my shin in silent coordination. “But the others?” I gestured to the empty space where the rest of our family wasn’t, as if they might materialize. They are worthy based on their impeccable morality and character. Gifts. Bestowed.”

I continued, “We Kryptonians fled our planet which blew up because of politicians ignorance and mistakes. We arrived many years ago, but we’ve only shown ourselves recently based on the same ignorance a mistakes that current politicians are making in the US government.”

Jon’s pen froze mid-scribble, his smirk flickering like a faulty neon sign. “So what you’re saying,” he drawled, tapping the notebook with deliberate slowness, “is that Congress and the Administration managed to outdo Krypton’s worst bureaucrats?” The audience’s laughter came half a beat too late—nervous, uncertain. I could taste the copper tang of someone’s spiked adrenaline in the third row. He continued, “So how did you get your powers?”

I answered, “The yellow sun and our advanced Kryptonian physiology gives us powers which,” I embarrassingly say, “make us much more powerful than the average human.”

Jon’s pen hovered over his notepad, his expression shifting from playful skepticism to genuine curiosity. “So let me get this straight,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. “Your entire species just… *sunbathes* its way to godhood?” The audience tittered nervously, but I caught the way his pulse jumped—like a kid pressing his nose against a candy store window.

Powergirl shifted in her undersized chair, the spandex of her suit straining audibly as she uncrossed her legs. “Well, Jon,” she said with a wink that made the studio lights seem dim by comparison, “if you think sunbathing sounds relaxing, you should try bench-pressing bulldozers before brunch.” The audience roared, but I saw Stewart’s knuckles whiten around his pen—not from fear, but from the effort of maintaining his trademark deadpan.

Jon’s fingers drummed against the desk, the sound nearly silent beneath the studio’s hum but thunderous to my super-hearing. “Alright, let’s cut through the spandex,” he said, eyes flicking between us like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “You two didn’t just drop by for the free coffee. Why this show? Why now?”

I let the silence stretch just long enough to see a bead of sweat form at Stewart’s temple before answering. “Because you’re one of the few people left who can make Americans listen without making them panic,” I said, leaning forward just enough to make my cape pool dramatically over the armrests. “There are four other interviews happening right now—Colbert, Rather, Oprah, even Tucker Carlson—all saying the same thing we’re telling you. We want people to understand who we are. Where we’re coming from and why we do what we do.” The studio lights caught the red of my boots as I shifted, and somewhere in the audience, a soda can crumpled under someone’s nervous grip.

Powergirl leaned forward, her massive chest on display as she pinned Stewart with a playful yet pointed stare. “Jon, let me put it this way—when you see a toddler about to run into traffic, do you stop to ask if intervening aligns with your political views?” The audience chuckled, but her voice dropped into something softer, more vulnerable. “We’re not here because we *want* to be symbols. We’re here because someone has to be the grown-ups in the room.”

Stewart tried to be subtle and asked “Do you guys have secret identities?”

Stewart’s eyebrows shot up when I deadpanned, “If we had secret identities, Jon, do you really think we’d be dumb enough to tell you?” The audience erupted as Powergirl snorted into her hand, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. I watched Stewart’s pulse spike—visible even through the studio lights—before he recovered with a theatrical sigh.

The producer’s frantic hand gestures through the studio glass were almost comical—like a traffic controller trying to land two jumbo jets on a sidewalk. Stewart caught the cue with practiced ease, though his smirk suggested he’d rather keep verbally sparring. “Alright, before we wrap this up,” he said, leaning forward with the mic clutched like a lifeline, “my producers are reminding me that America wants spectacle. You ladies willing to give ‘em a taste of what you can *actually* do?”

The studio lights dimmed as Powergirl and I exchanged a glance—her smirk widening as she stretched her arms overhead, the movement making her already tight costume strain dangerously across her chest. “Oh, this is going to be *fun*,” she murmured, cracking her knuckles.

The host took us out onto a blocked off 11^th Avenue. Stewart’s makeshift obstacle course was…adorable. Human ingenuity at its most earnest: a haphazard assembly of wrecking balls suspended from cranes, flaming hoops, and a wall of stacked shipping containers labeled “SUPERWOMAN PROOF” in dripping red paint. The crew had even repurposed a cement mixer to hurl debris at us. It was like watching ants build a sandcastle to stop a hurricane.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck with a self-deprecating grin as he gestured toward the chaotic assembly of construction equipment. “So, uh…we called it the ‘Kryptonian Obstacle Course.’ Best we could scrape together on five hours’ notice with New York City’s entire public works budget.” His chuckle faltered when Powergirl floated past him, her thigh brushing against a wrecking ball suspended from a crane—the four-ton steel sphere swaying like a child’s playground toy.

Powergirl’s grin turned positively feral as she tapped one blue boot against the pavement—once, twice—before vanishing in a sonic boom that threatened to shatter every window on the block. The wrecking balls swung wildly on their chains like pendulums in an earthquake as she reappeared mid-air, legs scissoring through three flaming hoops in succession while upside down. She caught the fourth wrecking ball mid-swing with her teeth, the steel denting audibly between her pearly whites before she spat it back toward the crane with enough force to send the entire apparatus toppling sideways.

I opted for subtlety—at first. Walking deliberately toward the “SUPERWOMAN PROOF” wall, I trailed one finger along the corrugated metal, heat vision reducing the steel to molten ribbons that dripped onto the asphalt like candle wax. The cement mixer revved up behind me, hurling chunks of concrete the size of refrigerators—each one froze midair as I exhaled, my superbreath flash-freezing them into icy meteorites that shattered harmlessly against my cape. By the time I reached the end of the wall, the entire structure collapsed into origami folds behind me, every crease precise enough to cut paper.

Stewart’s voice cracked like a whip through the stunned silence. “So—” he gestured wildly at the wreckage behind us, then at Powergirl still floating mid-air with flaming hoop fragments raining down around her, “—that’s just a Monday for you two?”

Stewart’s microphone slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the asphalt as Powergirl descended like a falling star, her cape flaring behind her. She caught the mic mid-air with her toes, balancing it effortlessly on the tip of her boot before flipping it back into his stunned hands. “You’re gonna need that,” she quipped, winking at the audience—who had collectively forgotten how to breathe.

Jon blinked twice—his trademark move when recalibrating—before gesturing to the crew. The red light on Camera 3 flicked off as he smoothed his tie, but not before I caught the tremor in his fingers. “Alright,” he said, voice carefully measured like a man walking across thin ice, “let’s wrap this segment with something… foundational.” He paused, and I could practically see the gears turning behind those sharp brown eyes. “You’ve got godlike powers. So what stops you from becoming gods? What is your moral code?”

Hovering, I let my cape settle like liquid silk against my calves before answering, choosing each word with the precision of a strategist planning her next move. “We don’t want worship, Jon. We want accountability—starting with our own.” The afternoon suns caught the golden hues in my hair as I tilted my head, watching realization dawn across his face. “Our moral code? Simple. Protect those who can’t protect themselves. Not because we’re superior, but because we’ve been given responsibility disproportionate to any single human life.”

Powergirl leaned forward, her massive forearms resting on her thighs as she locked eyes with Stewart. “You wanna know what really grinds my gears, Jon?” she said, her voice dropping into that low, genteel Virginian she only used when dead serious. “Bullies with badges. Or bullies with tenure. Or bullies with—hell, any kinda power they didn’t earn.” The light caught the sweat on her collarbones as she flexed her hands, the spandex of her gloves straining. “Thing is, when you can bench-press a battleship? You learn real quick how easy it’d be to *become* the bully.”

Jon gulped—an audible, human sound in the sudden stillness—before leaning forward on some rubble. “Last question,” he said. He glanced at the teleprompter, then straight at me. “What final message do you want to convey to the audience? To Americans? To the U.S. government?”

I leaned forward, my cape pooling around the wreckage of what used to be Jon Stewart’s obstacle course. The camera lenses reflected twin points of fire in my pupils when I locked onto them. “Let’s be crystal clear,” I said, and the air vibrated with the weight of my voice. “When Congress rubber-stamps tyranny? When black-robed ideologues rewrite reality? That’s when Kryptonians step in. There will be no respect for congressional subpoenas, nor do we answer to anyone in this government. The Kryptonians will be watching American leadership with great interest. Consider us another stakeholder in the system’s checks and balances.”

The silence on the street stretched like taffy after my declaration—even Jon Stewart blinked owlishly, his usual razor-sharp wit momentarily dulled. Then Powergirl cracked the tension by plucking a stray piece of concrete from her hair (leftover from her earlier wrecking-ball snack) and flicking it the air and catching it with her cleavage. Laughter erupted, and Stewart exhaled through his nose.

Stewart’s grin stretched wider as the audience outside’s nervous laughter settled into something warmer—the kind that comes when people realize the world-changing superbeings before them still understand punchlines. “So just to clarify,” he said, adjusting his glasses with deliberate slowness, “when you say ‘watching with great interest,’ does that involve x-ray vision in congressional bathrooms, or—”

“Only if they’re drafting unconstitutional legislation in the stalls,” Powergirl shot back, flexing her biceps until the seams of her costume creaked. The audience exploded with laughter, Stewart included, though his gaze lingered a beat too long on the way her muscles strained against white spandex.

The credits rolled on the teleprompter, but Stewart surprised us by stepping closer instead of retreating to the studio. His hug was warmer than I expected—palms pressing just a little too firmly against my cape’s clasp, his cheek lingering near Powergirl’s collarbone. The thunderous applause outside washed over us in waves.

And that’s how it was for the other four interviews as well: thunderous applause, understanding, a reassurance from us Kryptonians that there is better way than authoritarianism. We sent a message to this administration if they continue down this path, their policies will not be tolerated by us or the people they serve.

The distress call pinged my cerebrum at precisely 1:17 PM on March 25^th, the next day—a telegraphic from the Kryptonian robots, Charlie priority, missing cave divers somewhere in the Florida Panhandle.

The distress coordinates pulsed behind my eyelids like a second heartbeat—three human bio-signatures flickering weakly a mile deep in some flooded limestone labyrinth off Panama City. My boots barely kissed the ocean surface before I plunged, the Gulf of Mexico swallowing me whole as my cape snapped taut behind me. Saltwater rushed past my cheeks at 200 knots, my x-ray vision slicing through layers of ancient rock until I spotted them: three figures huddled in an air pocket no bigger than a minivan, their headlamps casting frantic beams against the rising waterline.

The cave divers’ panicked gulps echoed through the flooded chamber as I flashed between them—hands moving faster than human perception to reseal their masks, my fingers adjusting oxygen valves with surgical precision. One man flailed toward the ceiling, his bubbles spiraling in chaotic patterns until I gripped his harness. “Breathe slow,” I commanded annunciating every word, layering subliminal reassurance into my voice. Their pulse rates spiked on my enhanced hearing anyway—three overlapping drumbeats galloping toward cardiac arrest.

The cave screamed past us—three human forms cocooned against my chest like fragile dolls as I torpedoed outward through the cave system. Their fingers digging into my cape’s fabric with primal desperation. Five seconds. That’s all it took for sunlight to appear, the surface exploding outward in a dome of displaced freshwater in the spring of some Floridian’s backyard as we breached into blinding Florida sunshine.

The divers’ voices still trembled as they thanked me, their adrenaline-shaky hands gripping my forearms like they expected the cave to swallow them again. I was halfway through suggesting they hydrate when K-9T’s telepathic ping split my skull like a lightning bolt—*Alpha priority. Strait of Hormuz. U.S. Navy ordered to fire upon unarmed survivors of sunken IRGCN fast boats. Estimated casualties: 50 souls.*

I am Superwoman. This means war!