Maybe I could turn it from a puff piece into something more. A hard-hitting interview with the world’s greatest superhero would be a nice checkmark to add to my resume.
“It’s short notice,” I nodded to Jackson, “but when does the news ever wait for us, eh, boss?”
“Yeah, but …” He chose his words carefully. “Do you think this is more about that accident than wanting coverage for the ball?”
Slotting a thumb drive into the ports lining one side of my desk, I shrugged slightly as I chewed on my lip. “Maybe, but does it really matter? If it is, it’s not like it would be that bad. Mr. Washington would be more concerned than anything.” My fingers glided across the desktop, copying all the possible hits on Hardware to the drive.
“I suppose.” Jackson pushed off the edge of the cubicle wall. “Look, I’m just … as amazing as this unique opportunity is,” – I could sense from his emotions that he meant more than just the event that night – “I worry, all right?”
I pushed up out of my chair, snatching my purse with one hand and the thumb drive with the other. Turning back to Jackson, I planted a quick peck of a kiss on his forehead. “Thank you for that, but don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
The kiss melted the gruff exterior of my editor, and he stepped aside to let me through. “You say that, but when are you ever careful, Little Miss Investigator?”
“There’s always a first time, right?” Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I patted Jackson on the shoulder as I passed by. “I’ll have you some copy in the morning.”
The mix of worry, painful arousal, and that hint of jealousy that came off of him lingered after me as I made my way across the bustling offices of the New Harbor Sentinel. The main area set aside for the bullpen of city desk reporters was a maze of clean, white cubicle walls contrasting off the cream-colored walls of the big room, the doors to editorial offices and other departments scattered around almost haphazardly. Dodging around a rushing worker with an armful of printouts, I ducked into the elevators before any of my colleagues could ask where I was off to in such a hurry.
The ball was set to start at 6 p.m., and it was just then barely past noon. If I planned an hour to get out to Halcyon Bluffs, where the Washington estate was, and thirty minutes to get back to my apartment, I had maybe four hours to prepare, and I had one big problem in that regard: what exactly should I wear?
It wasn’t even a matter of picking out a dress from the closet and fussing over colors and styles, the usual things you would think about a woman in my predicament. No, the source of the problem was that four days ago, all my sizes had changed, from head to toe. You don’t grow two inches, go up a cup size, and add fifteen pounds of lean muscle without decimating your wardrobe. With Jackson’s help, I had taken care of getting a week’s worth of casual and work clothes quickly enough, as well as my Ms. Miracle uniform, but a ball gown?
No, that hadn’t been on my priority list. I didn’t even have a set of heels worth a damn, opting for flats to try to obscure my sudden growth spurt at the office.
What was worse was I had to find something that would either compliment or conceal my costume. It was possible I wouldn’t need it, especially with Paragon in attendance, but at the same time, Paragon was in attendance. It was simply the fact of the matter that his very presence invited some overconfident villain to come wreck the party, or a very greedy one might be attracted by the bevy of celebrity and wealthy guests on hand.
Fortunately, I had a solution by the time the Auto-Annie pulled up to my apartment building. The smiling robot driver, a feminine torso with a look calculated to be pleasant yet not dip into the uncanny valley, turned to wave as I hopped out. “Have a good day and thank you for choosing Auto Annie!”
I waved absently back as I dashed inside, opting to take the stairs. With no one watching, I could take them three at a time with bounding steps, up to my apartment in no time. Through the door, tossing my keys into the cute cat dish by the door and my purse on the coat rack, I headed straight for my personal computer.
My idea was to go to the best source for fast, discrete, and superhero-friendly clothing. I put in an emergency order with Powerstyles.
Yes, Paragon owned it, and maybe he was watching purchases from the secure account attached to my Hero ID. I didn’t care. It’s not like I hadn’t been willing to trust him on that rooftop. To be honest, I was now more than a little curious as to the colleague of his that had put him up to this little game. I’d make a list of suspects later if I couldn’t get Paragon to tell me directly.
At that moment, I was more focused on the evening wear section of the Powerstyles website. It wasn’t a surprise they had one. It’s not like superheroes always wore their uniforms to every function. Trust me, skintight Duraplex doesn’t pass the dress code at most high-end functions. Fortunately, not only did I find something that was perfect for the occasion, the Hot Night on the Town Battledress could be made with a variation on my costume to wear underneath, perfect for a quick change if things went badly.
My fingers tapped at the touchscreen monitor, picking from the very helpful design menu, similar to Powerstyles’ costume design section but adjusted for high fashion. I decided on what I thought would look both flattering and flexible, a sheath gown of shimmering glitter lace in the same deep green as my costume. Why not give the man a hint, after all?
The geometric neckline looked elegant and daring, the see-through patterning showing enough to entice while leaving enough hidden to add to the mystery. The support of the full neckline would be appreciated if my hunch about trouble was accurate. I opted for sleeves, mostly to hide the now-itchy bullet wound in my shoulder but let the skirt trail to the ground with a daringly high slit up both sides. Not only was that provocative and sexy, but it would also maximize leg movement. Adding a pair of titanium-reinforced spike heels, I knew I’d at least catch the attention of anyone that looked in my direction.
One big problem though. Money.
While the Sentinel didn’t pay poorly, I wasn’t rich by any stretch, and my resources had been stretched to their limit this past week. As much as Powerstyles was helpful in extending lines of credit to new heroes, they were still a business. I had enough left that I could scrape together to get the gown, but without the bells or whistles. No quick-change catches with built-in backup costume, no polychromatic threading, and no concealed micro-pockets just the right size to tuck a spare mask into without killing the drop-dead silhouette of the dress. Still, the Hot Night on the Town came standard made of Toughthread, a cheaper formulation of Duraplex that wasn’t so clingy, so it wouldn’t be ruined if things did go wrong.
Maybe I could fake a mask with a tablecloth or something if things went south. With a deep sigh and maxing out my last free credit card, I put in the order with the rush delivery option. The courier drone would show up at the rooftop drone delivery stand with the package in a few hours. I would have just enough time to dress up, catch a cab, and make one of the least elegant entrances to a ball one could make.
Auto-Annies do not the red carpet make. My press pass, though, would cut me right into the party. I simply had an hour or so to kill now that it was ordered, enough time to take another shower, check my shoulder wound, do my hair, and apply just the right make up to complete the look. I was going for sexy professional, and I was certain I could hit that mark.
The time flew by. It was a fun distraction from worrying about lonely superheroes and threatening supervillains to do myself up, and I had enough time to spare to work up a series of potential interview questions if I did manage to peg Robert Washington down for an interview. By the time my phone chimed to alert me about the delivery, I was about ready in every other way.
Picking up a package sent by Powerstyles was like being in an old spy movie. The courier drones couldn’t exactly drop off the package for obvious reasons and one lingering around a mail drop point wasn’t much better for concealing the identity of the recipient. That was where S.O.S. Labs came
to the rescue, installing stealth technology derived from the Smoke Ninja’s own invisibility powers.
So, the courier drone would be buzzing up on the roof, invisibly waiting and scanning for the data chip embedded in each Hero ID Card. When it detected the proper card close by and made a visual confirmation, the little flying bot would decloak, ask to scan the badge, and drop the package right into your waiting arms.
Of course, that led to all sorts of sneaking and peeking by yours truly. It would blow the entire secret identity thing to be seen taking a package from a distinct blue-and-gold Powerstyles drone. I crept up the disused stairwell, taking furtive glances around every bend and listening at every landing. So far so good, all was quiet as I reached the roof.
Wouldn’t it just be peachy if there was an unannounced roof party right then? I shook my head at my wild imagination and opened the door to the roof.
Fortunately, my crazy thought was just that: crazy. The roof was as empty as it usually was, with most of my neighbors still caught in the buzz of rush hour traffic in the streets below. I stepped out onto the roof, swiftly crossing it to the drone drop-off point. The little enclosure was lined with drop-off boxes for every apartment below, each one fitted with an electronic lock for easy access by mail drones.
I heard the courier bot before I saw it, the whisper-quiet electric fans keeping it aloft whirring up to speed as it shimmered into existence. It was a four-fan model with the main body no bigger than a breadbox, metal clamps latched around a cardboard box. The camera mounted in a bubble on the top oriented on me.
“Greetings from Powerstyles,” the drone chirped merrily. “Please present your Hero ID Card!”
With one last glance behind me, I displayed my card, complete with a driver’s license quality picture of my masked face. The scan took only a moment, a line of red light passing over the surface of the card.
“Thank you!” The drone buzzed forward, right to where it could drop the box into my arms. “Please prepare for delivery.”
Obligingly, I held out my arms, and the clamps popped open, delivering the precious cargo. I smiled. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome and thank you for choosing Powerstyles for your heroic needs!” The chipper robot let out a few pings as it flew back from me, and without any further ceremony, faded from view as quickly as it had appeared.
I nodded to myself as I stared at the box in my hand. Strangely, this entire day felt like something out of a modern fairy tale. The powerful prince trying to deduce some strange girl’s identity, the promise of a magical ball, and the beautiful dress delivered by a flying envoy. It made me wonder what would happen at midnight.
I had a sneaking suspicion that it would be far less pleasant than my carriage turning back into a pumpkin.
9
The fairy tale vibe didn’t fade, even if my coach was an Auto-Annie. Halcyon Bluffs was arrayed on the bluffs that overlooked the heart of the city and the bay for which it was named. It was one of the most pristine spots in New Harbor, the power of the old-wealth families that built their estates enforcing the preservation of as much of the natural beauty as possible.
The main road that led into the Bluffs curved along the edge of the rise. The sparkling lights of the city and the reflection of moonlight off the Atlantic Ocean were laid out below while forests of pristine pine and oak flanked the other side, only broken by the occasional majestic estate. It was breathtaking. Though I had seen this view a dozen times or more before, it was breathtaking that night, as if I had never seen it before in my life.
Maybe it was the ever-growing empathic sense in me, reaching out to feel the whirling, intoxicating mix of human emotion in the city below, that brought on these feelings. Just as likely, it was the romantic in me, thinking ahead to the possibilities of the night ahead. Still, as grand as those might be, I had to keep my wits about me. I was here for a story, and I wouldn’t leave without one.
While I had been in Halcyon Bluffs on business before, I had never had the honor of being invited to the Washington estate before. The fact was that Paragon rarely held this kind of event at his own home. It was like some fortress of solitude for him, a safe zone that even villains rarely infringed on, probably because they got their asses thoroughly kicked when they did so. Most balls, charity events, or the like were usually held in one of Washington Future Endeavors’ holdings in the city proper. Why was this one being held here? was another question to my growing pile.
I’d have to ask Paragon when I saw him.
From the outside, the estate looked like modest enough, more like a millionaire’s mansion than a billionaire’s compound. Nestled in the woods at the top of the Bluffs, wrought-iron fences wound out of the forest to meet up at a huge, double-lane-wide gate. Beyond it, I could see the lights glowing like fireflies along the drive up to the manor proper, and I realized my initial impression of the size of the place was mistaken.
As the gates opened for the cab, the estate's grounds opened up to both sides. The forest and bluff had both done a good job of hiding the immenseness of the perfectly cultivated yard, the immaculate flower gardens, an honest-to-God hedge maze, and at least a dozen outbuildings each the size of a two-story home on its own. There could easily be more off in the depths of the grounds, and I had to admit, even the jaded city girl in me was impressed. The romantic girl in me was almost swept right off her feet.
The mansion itself was lit up, warmth spilling out of dozens of windows. The sprawling building stood three stories, but the sweeping roof rose higher, giving the entire building the look of the grandest of Gilded Age manors. The soaring look was enhanced by small towers, the highest of which rose another two stories from the center of the roof, a total of five along the length of the mansion.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “Okay, be professional,” I reminded myself.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the Auto-Annie called back from the front of the cab. “If you feel my responses or driving have been unprofessional, I would be happy to connect you with a customer service representative.”
That broke both the spell of Washington Manor and the tension of the moment. With a giggle, I shook my head. “No, that’s okay. You’ve been nothing but professional, Annie.”
And now here I was talking to robots. At least this one could respond. “Thank you, Ms. Klein.” The cab pulled to a stop, not in front of the main entrance where the red carpet swept into the estate, but by a side entrance where a suited, mirror-shaded man, security now doubt, was checking badges of my fellow professionals. “You have arrived at your destination. Have a good evening and thank you for choosing Auto-Annie!”
The door opened automatically, and I stepped out, slinging the clutch purse that came with the dress over my shoulder. My preferred purse size was suitable for a post-apocalypse survival kit, but I still managed to fit a voice recorder and my notebook into the little thing. I recognized most of the journalists and bloggers waiting to have security validate their IDs. Unlike Dr. Blair’s unfortunate exhibition, this was a spread of the best of the best, or at least the most popular.
From SNN’s loudest talking head, Samantha Conner to the World News Exchange’s dry-as-toast Christian Black, these were national, maybe even international names in the business … and they were all being made to wait in line like cub reporters. Me, I didn’t feel the least bit of shame in doing so myself, as my arrival turned some heads and caught the attention of most of the men in the line. From some, there came camaraderie and respect, from others, a more naked lust.
Well, at least the dress, clinging to my every curve like a shining waterfall of fabric, was having the desired effect.
There was another pulse of recognition, another unexpected pair of eyes on me as my colleagues began to murmur among themselves. The guard on-duty, almost as muscular as his employer but with a fuller head of hair, inclined his head towards me, as if peering through his shades, and put a hand to his ear. I kept my eyes on him, even as Polly O’Neil from one
of the local society magazines complimented me on my dress.
Giving Polly an off-handed nod as she moved on to ask me what kind of facial scrub I was using to have such perfect skin these days, I could see the guard patently ignore the reporter trying to get my attention. His throat was moving like he was talking, probably a sub-vocal microphone of some kind, his attention never drifting from me.
A moment later, Mr. Big said something to the guy next to him, something that didn’t make that man very happy at all, and moved down the line. It wasn’t a surprise to me at that point when he stopped in front of me. He loomed over me, so I looked up to match my green eyes to his mirror shades.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked innocently, easy to do when you are innocent. “I do have a press pass.” I began to dig into my little purse, but the guard let out a contrite cough.
“My apologies, Ms. Klein,” he said in a gravelly voice. “There’s nothing wrong at all, though I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t confirm that you do have a pass. As a matter of fact, I’m to show you inside right away.”
Gasps and harrumphs ran up the line of reporters as shock, confusion, anger, and envy roiled through them. I tried not to look smug or shocked as I pulled out my press pass and showed it to the guard. “That’s great, sir. Here’s my pass.”
He only glanced at it for a moment, but I caught the flash of a small LED from the corner of the frames of his glasses. Some sort of scanner or augmented reality rig, I guessed. He probably could scan every pass in here in five seconds flat; he had to be under orders to keep the influx of press slow.
“Thank you,” the guard nodded politely and offered his arm. Very gentlemanly. “If you would do me the honor, I’ll take you in.”
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