Supergirl

by Jo Whittemore

  “She builds up her own body,” explained J’onn, making a muscle. “Strength training.”

  “Oh.” Mon-El relaxed and laughed. “You mean she lifts weights.” He rubbed his chin. “I wonder if that’s why her superpower is levitation.”

  “It would make sense,” said J’onn. “She’s interested in lifting things, Bee Breather was interested in bees, and the meteorologist is obviously interested in the weather.”

  “You guys might be right,” said Kara. “But it still doesn’t explain why the counter guy at Noonan’s has superstrength.”

  “Wait, what?” Alex gave her phone a perplexed look. “The one who was flirting with you this morning?”

  “Flirting with who now?” Mon-El stepped closer to the phone.

  Alex shushed him with a look. “He has superstrength?”

  “He saved me from getting hit by a truck, Alex,” said Kara. “But I couldn’t get him to tell me how he got his powers. He just kissed me and ran off.”

  “He”—Mon-El grabbed the phone from Alex—“he kissed you? Like, on the face?”

  Kara chuckled. “It was my fault. When Marcus saved me, I thought it was you at first, so I went to kiss him. I backed away when I realized it wasn’t.”

  “Aw.” Mon-El ducked his head and grinned. “You thought it was me?” His expression sobered. “Wait. After you backed away, he still kissed you?” Mon-El thrust the phone at Alex and walked over to Winn’s chair. “What’s this Marcus guy’s last name and where does he live?”

  “Mon-El . . .” Kara’s tone of warning carried through the phone.

  “According to the Noonan’s employee database, his last name is Gaius, and he lives in Shady Oaks apartments,” said Winn. Then he frowned, his eyes caught by something else on his screen. “Hold up. So does Jacqueline Reyes.”

  Winn transfered the data to the video wall.

  “Could their powers have literally come from the same place?” Alex asked J’onn.

  “It’s possible. Winn, where do Wendell Geary and Samantha Coen live?” asked J’onn.

  With a few more mouse clicks, Winn said, “Wendell Geary’s also at Shady Oaks, but not Samantha Coen.” He tapped a few keys. “And that guy Digits lives there too!”

  “Four out of five is too big to be a coincidence,” said Alex.

  “Lady and gentlemen, we’ve got an origin point!” Kara cheered through the phone. “I wish I could check it out right now, but I have to get yelled at by Snapper.”

  J’onn and Alex exchanged a look.

  “Someone should stay with Bubbles,” said Alex.

  Mon-El raised a hand. “You can both stay, and I can check out the apartment complex.”

  J’onn frowned. “You shouldn’t go alone. If whatever happened affected everyone in the building, they could all have superpowers.”

  Mon-El nodded and glanced at Winn. “Text James. We may need Guardian.”

  5

  Kara had hoped to return to CatCo victorious, with the Jacqueline Reyes interview in hand. After she’d warned the storm bringer about using her power, however, the woman had turned out to be even colder than the snow she could muster.

  “What you did for this city was wonderful, but you’re not Supergirl,” Kara had told her. “You’re human and fragile. Supergirl’s an alien who can withstand bullets and being tossed across the room, either of which could kill you.”

  Jacqueline had curled her lip and twirled one finger. A strong wind whipped around Kara, who shielded her eyes to avoid the ashes and embers from the smoldering building nearby.

  “Sweetheart, with one motion, I can whisk bullets aside or cushion my landing,” Jacqueline said, clenching her fist to stifle the wind. “I don’t need to be an alien. And you don’t need to be jealous. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a city to save.”

  Jacqueline walked away and hailed a cab.

  “I’m not jealous!” Kara shouted after her. “I’m worried about your life!”

  Now Kara was on her way up the CatCo elevator, worried about her own life. Or at least her future at CatCo. She hadn’t gotten the interview with the mayor, and she hadn’t gotten the interview with Jacqueline Reyes. In that moment, calling herself a reporter felt like a bit of a stretch. She had a feeling Snapper would think the same.

  When she saw Snapper’s desk empty, Kara’s heart gave a hopeful leap. But it just as quickly plummeted when she realized he was standing in the media room, watching the local news stations. Jacqueline Reyes appeared on all of them: News 25, News 37, Channel 68—each station featuring slightly different sound bites and chyron, captioning details about the meteorologist across the bottom of the screen.

  “Great,” Kara muttered.

  She adjusted her glasses and skulked toward Snapper, hands clasped in front of her.

  “I know what it looks like,” she started.

  “I know what it doesn’t look like,” he responded, not taking his eyes off the screens. “The exclusive you told me you’d get. Did you let this one cancel the interview, too?” He gestured at Jacqueline’s image.

  Kara winced and hurried forward. “The interview wasn’t worth pursuing, Chief. Trust me. By tomorrow, she’ll be old news.”

  Snapper finally turned to face Kara, scowling. “Of course she’ll be old news tomorrow. That’s how news works, Ponytail. And it’s why we want to get it first.” He brushed past Kara to return to his desk.

  “She’s not the only supercitizen I’ve come across today,” Kara informed him. “And I’m pretty sure she won’t be the last.”

  “Supercitizen?” Snapper spat the word out as if it tasted bad. “What kind of millennial garbage is that?”

  Kara fought back a smile. If only he knew it came from the mouth of a centuries-old Martian.

  “There’s a bigger story here. Not just Jacqueline Reyes,” said Kara. “Where are these supercitizens getting their powers? What does it mean for the future of National City?”

  Snapper chewed on his pen and didn’t interrupt her, so Kara kept going. At first, she’d brought up the supercitizens to convince him to forget Jacqueline Reyes. But now she felt a potential story brewing.

  “These supercitizens all have something in common. I traced them back to one location.”

  Snapper took the pen out of his mouth. “How?”

  Kara cleared her throat and fidgeted with her glasses.

  Snapper sighed. “Danvers, if you say Supergirl—”

  “An anonymous source,” Kara said instead.

  “Oh, that’s much better,” he muttered, dropping his pen.

  Kara paced in front of his desk. “Sir, Jacqueline Reyes wasn’t a story, but I think this . . . this surge of supercitizens could be.”

  “This surge is already all over the news!” Snapper gestured to the media room. “Provided by one of my own reporters, who should have kept the info to herself.” He arched an eyebrow at Kara.

  That had definitely come back to bite her.

  Kara took a deep breath. “The surge might be on the news, but not the details. I can get those.”

  Snapper grunted and massaged his eyes. “Fine, you can work this ‘supercitizen’ story.” He stressed the word with air quotes. “But I still want that interview with the mayor.”

  It was all Kara could do to keep from flopping onto the floor and throwing a tantrum.

  “But Mayor Lowell doesn’t want to talk to anyone at CatCo!” she said in exasperation. “Do you have any idea why?”

  “Maybe he went on a bad date with Cat Grant,” her boss suggested. “Although I guess bad date’s a little redundant when it comes to Cat.” He smirked.

  “Hey, Ms. Grant is a wonderful person!” said Kara.

  Snapper didn’t look swayed. “You know she can’t hear you, right?”

  “Mayor Lowell was fine with the interview until last week,” Kara continued. “So something we published recently must have changed his mind.”

  Snapper reached into a pile of papers on his desk and yanke
d out a copy of the latest CatCo magazine. “You want answers? Knock yourself out.”

  He handed the magazine to Kara. “I want that supercitizen story and an interview with the mayor lined up by Wednesday.” He stopped a man walking past and handed him a paper marked in red ink. “Too many words. Too little substance.”

  Kara’s mouth dropped open. “This Wednesday? As in two days from now?”

  Snapper blinked at her. “You can turn it in sooner if you want.”

  Without another word, Kara pressed the magazine to her chest and retreated to an empty nook to flip through the pages.

  None of the letters to the editor mentioned the mayor, nor did the section on fashion don’ts, current events, or any of the featured articles. Mayor Lowell didn’t have a wife or kids, so there was no offense to be had there. If he was upset at CatCo, it wasn’t because of the latest issue of the magazine.

  Which meant it had to be an earlier one.

  Kara sighed and headed for the archives.

  I hope Mon-El and James are having better luck with their investigation, she thought.

  Mon-El and James were sitting in a car across from Shady Oaks apartments, waiting for someone, anyone, to step outside. Mon-El had already tried calling random tenants over the speaker box, but nobody wanted to let him in.

  “This town makes people too suspicious,” he muttered, slurping on a shake from Noonan’s.

  “Yeah, it’s the town. Not you,” said James with a chuckle.

  Mon-El gave him a withering look. “What makes me seem suspicious?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe the reasons you want into the building. They sound incredibly made up.”

  Mon-El threw his hands in the air. “Flower delivery is a real thing.”

  “Yes.” James leaned toward him. “But not when the flowers come from ‘Um . . . Er . . . That Place by the Dry Cleaner.’ ”

  Mon-El made a face. “Yeah, that may not have been my strongest lie.”

  James pointed past him. “Here we go. Old lady taking her dog for a walk.”

  They both got out of the car, and James smoothed his shirt.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” He trotted up to the woman and her German shepherd; the latter growled low in her throat.

  “It’s all right, Precious.” The woman patted her dog on the head while smiling up at James. “What can I do for you, son?”

  “I’m James Olsen, and this is Mike Matthews.” He gestured to Mon-El. “We’re with the Tribune and wanted to interview someone who lives in the building. Have you seen anything . . . strange going on today?”

  The woman frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Mon-El watched her reach for Precious, fingers touching empty space a few times before they connected with fur.

  “Uh . . . James?” he mumbled.

  “Have you seen anyone who looks unusual?” James tried again. “Maybe a woman with really long fingernails or a guy surrounded by a bunch of bees?”

  The woman looked at James . . . slightly past him, actually.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I haven’t seen anything like that.”

  Of course she hasn’t, Mon-El thought. Because she’s blind.

  “Ja-ames,” Mon-El singsonged.

  James smiled at the woman. “Excuse us for a second.” He pulled Mon-El aside. “What, man?”

  Mon-El pointed at his eyes with one finger and at the old woman with another, shaking his head. “I don’t think she wants to tell us she’s blind,” Mon-El said in a low voice. “This looks like the type of neighborhood where someone could take advantage of that.”

  James nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “Good call.”

  They rejoined the old woman, and James picked up where he left off.

  “So you didn’t see anything. But did you hear anything?” he asked her.

  The woman’s smile broadened. “I’m afraid I have fairly quiet neighbors. They don’t like to disturb me, you see, since I own the building.”

  Mon-El stepped closer to the old woman and lowered his voice. “If you own the building, then you should be concerned about the safety of everyone inside. Are you sure you didn’t come across anything suspicious today?”

  Precious whined and pawed at the old woman’s leg, and she nodded. “Well, now that you mention it, a tenant on the fifth floor had a little accident.”

  “An accident?” James repeated.

  She nodded again. “There was this loud boom that rattled the windows. Dr. Wanabi said his blender exploded when he was making a smoothie, but I’ve had my doubts.”

  Mon-El and James looked at each another.

  “Can we see if Dr. Wanabi’s home?” asked James.

  The woman frowned. “I don’t know . . .”

  “We just want to ask a few questions.”

  “And we can check on the place for you,” said Mon-El.

  The old woman grew quiet for a moment and then nodded. “All right. But I’m coming with you.” She tugged on Precious’s leash. “Let’s go home.”

  The lobby of the building was small but inviting with a few well-worn chairs and a table holding a pod coffee machine and foam cups.

  “How many people live here?” Mon-El asked, peeking down a corridor. There were welcome mats in front of a few doors, but nothing out of the ordinary.

  The old woman pushed the up button for the elevator. “More than a hundred.”

  Mon-El glanced back at James. A hundred potential supercitizens.

  The elevator dinged, and the door slid open.

  “Dr. Wanabi’s on the top floor,” she reminded them, stepping in with Precious, “Apartment 500.”

  Mon-El and James joined them, and James pressed the button. A short ride later, the elevator dinged again, and the door opened onto the fifth floor.

  And absolute darkness.

  Mon-El squinted into the black and saw nothing. But he heard at least a dozen unnatural sounds.

  Precious whined and pressed against the old woman, who stroked the dog’s head.

  “Maybe Precious and I should let you boys visit Dr. Wanabi on your own,” she told James and Mon-El.

  “Down the hall to your right,” she said.

  Mon-El took his phone from his pocket and turned on its flashlight. “Wait for us downstairs,” he told the old woman. “If we’re not there in ten minutes, call 911.”

  He and James stepped into the hallway, which grew even darker as the elevator doors closed.

  “What do you think this is?” asked James, lighting up his own phone.

  “I think someone doesn’t want to be seen,” said Mon-El. “And not because they’re throwing a surprise party.”

  They crept down the hallway, Mon-El dropping into a stooped walk, his muscles coiled for whatever came next.

  James shone a light on the closest apartment door.

  “Number 508. We have a ways to go,” he said.

  Mon-El nodded. “If it’s anything like the horror movies I’ve seen, Dr. Wanabi’s apartment will be at the end of the corridor, across from a portal to hell. Also, our flashlights will stop working right before we get there.”

  James swallowed audibly. “I see you’ve got jokes.”

  “Yeah, the funny guy lives the longest.”

  Wispy vapor curled out from under the closed door of number 508 .

  “The guy who stays to see what that is does not.” Mon-El clasped James’s shoulder and pushed him down the corridor toward number 500.

  Each apartment they passed confirmed that something strange had definitely happened in the building. The door of number 507 had deep grooves in its surface. The door of number 506 bore a sloppy sign with INVISIBLE BUT HOME written on it. Number 505 didn’t have a door, but a pair of glowing eyes watched Mon-El and James as they passed. The only door that seemed fairly normal was number 500.

  “How do we want to do this?” asked Mon-El, cracking his knuckles. “Pick the lock? Bust it down?”

  James pressed the doorbell.


  “Also effective,” said Mon-El.

  As the door opened, daylight obliterated the darkness, causing both Mon-El and James to squint and blink.

  “Finally!” A stocky Japanese man in black rubber gloves and safety apron came into view. “What took—” At the sight of Mon-El and James, his eyes widened. “Oh, sorry. What can I do for you?”

  “Dr. Wanabi?” said James, raising his hands to show he was harmless. “We were hoping you could help us with a problem.”

  Dr. Wanabi smiled. “Of course. Please come in.” He opened the door wide. “I’m so sorry for your troubles. What floor?” Dr. Wanabi indicated a couch.

  “Floor?” James repeated, perching on the edge of a couch cushion.

  “Do you live on?” asked Dr. Wanabi. He picked up a notebook from his coffee table. “I’m curious how far the effects went.”

  James’s forehead wrinkled and his lips formed another question.

  “Third!” blurted Mon-El. “We live on the third floor of this building.”

  Understanding showed in James’s eyes.

  “Yeah . . . yes. That’s right.”

  Dr. Wanabi nodded. “That’s a relief. It doesn’t appear to have spread any lower than the third floor.” He jotted a note. “And what are your names and superpowers?”

  “Uh, well, I’m James.” James looked to Mon-El. “But Mike’s power is more impressive than mine.”

  Which doesn’t exist, Mon-El silently added.

  Out loud, he said, “I’m Mike, and I have superstrength.” He pounded a fist on the coffee table, breaking it in half.

  Dr. Wanabi looked down at the remains of his table and frowned. “You don’t have to use your power. You just have to tell me about it.”

  “Sorry.” Mon-El winced and tried to reassemble the broken furniture.

  “And what about you, James?” Dr. Wanabi asked as he wrote.

  “Me?” James repeated with a nervous chuckle. “My power?” He glanced around the room, his gaze stopping on a vase of flowers. “I can make plants grow.”

  Dr. Wanabi looked up from his notebook. “Really? I have a tomato plant on my balcony that could use some help.”

  “Oh!” James scratched his head. “I thought you, uh, didn’t want us to use our powers.”