Saturday, February 19
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So much could change in a couple of months. But it’s even more amazing how much stayed the same.
Two months ago, I’d been giving a press conference in the December cold, wincing as flashbulbs went off and reporters shouted questions my way. Now, I was an hour away from giving another one in the February chill, but I’d be giving it as the victor. As the winner. As the hero—the most famous hero on Earth.
Negotiations had begun to figure out how to pull all the Ilneat Network’s stuff off of Earth. Almhurst had been processing heroes and villains nonstop, with The Warden working overtime to determine who needed to be held and who needed to be released after the Ilneats’ surrender. And, of course, my email and phone had both been blowing up nonstop with interview requests and invitations to appear on shows I’d never heard of.
But Mom and Dad were still angry with me for cutting classes.
“What do you mean you haven’t been to class all week, Anika?” Mom asked over video chat.
I sighed. She just didn’t get it. “Mom, I’m literally the most famous superhero in the world right now.”
“And finishing your degree is even more important because of it. You said you were taking classes on public relations and how to keep your image up, right? Those are going to matter more now, not less. Sure, you could hire someone to help you and Bianca manage your public image or something, but there’s no way of knowing what kind of money will be in superhero work in the future. You might be working the diner with me and being a superhero in your free time.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a change from now, then,” I muttered.
“What was that?” Mom asked sharply.
“Nothing.” I’d been working and doing college full-time. What would the difference be?
“Your mom’s right, Dot. You don’t know what the world’s going to look like in three months. We’re both proud of you for what you did, but you can’t expect to ride that fame into the future,” Dad said.
Half the professors weren’t even in class yet. Drs. Jackson and Mays were recovering from their last two months, and it didn’t look like they’d be back until next week at the earliest. And there wasn’t a clear timeline for Dr. Mindstorm’s return; she’d only been released from the Ultra-Max wing at Almhurst yesterday, and her statement included phrases like “find the truth about Launch Day’ and ‘Ilneat interference in everyday Earth life.’
That didn’t sound like someone eager to return to teaching.
Besides, most of my classes weren’t relevant anymore. Who cared about manipulating Episodes when the Network was on its way out? Rocko themself was stuck in Almhurst, too, until negotiations started, and everything about the system was canceled except the system itself.
Classes had taken a back seat for another reason, too. Bianca had been…extra affectionate…since my little space mishap. I’d spent a lot of time stuck next to her, unable—and, frankly, unwilling—to escape. As far as being kidnapped by a super went, it was the most fun I’d ever had.
Not that Mom and Dad would believe any of those reasons—or that I could tell them some.
“Alright. I’ll start going to the classes I can on Monday. It’s been a busy few weeks, though, so I might need to ease back into it,” I said, crossing my fingers off-screen.
“Just as long as you don’t fall behind,” Dad said before Mom could cut in. “We know you can do this. It’s been a rocky semester, but we believe in you.”
“Thanks, guys,” I said, sniffling a little. “I’ve got a press conference I have to be at in an hour, and I’ve been having nightmares about it all week, so I need to get ready, but I love you both.”
“A press conference? You can’t go to classes, but you can go to a press conference?” Mom said.
“Claire, it’s okay. It’s the weekend, and she’s going to do better next week. That’s all we can ask, right?” Dad interrupted. “You are going to do better next week, right, Dot?”
“Yes, Dad. I’m going to do better,” I said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“Alright. Good luck with the media. Let us know how it went. Love you, Anika. Bye,” Mom said, and the video feed cut off.
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The nightmare I’d been having was so stupid.
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I’d find myself giving the press conference. At first, it’d go well. Lots of questions about the battles in the Hot Zone, a focus on what being on the Ilneats’ cruiser was like, and all that. Easy peasy. But then, I’d look out at the sea of reporters, and they’d all be the woman in the blue jacket from my press conference in December.
And that’s when it’d get weird. They’d all ask me the same questions in unison, and no matter what I answered, they’d just keep asking for more. More answers, more elaboration, more details. I couldn’t leave the mic either; as soon as I went to move, I’d realize I was in my undies. In front of the Tokyexico Council of Heroes building. In February. With a million cameras on me. Then I’d die of embarrassment and wake up.
I’d woken up sweaty and warm-cheeked the last three nights. Sometimes several times a night.
So, even though I desperately wanted a fifteen-minute cat nap to catch up just a little bit on sleep, I did my makeup, picked out a nice outfit to wear, and did everything a normal person getting ready to meet the press might do.
Then I transformed into Magical Girl Understudy.
All that work at looking pretty, covered up in a fanfare of choral music and lights. But it had distracted me, so it was worth it. Probably. I waited for Bee to climb aboard my sailboard and rocketed toward the Council of Heroes building.
The conference was scheduled for 10:45, so when we landed at 10:40, Bee and I took a minute to get ourselves in order after the flight. I had to double-check that my Costume was on, just in case.
Then I took the podium and cleared my throat. “Hello, everyone. I’m Magical Girl Understudy, and this is Fursona. We’ve got a prepared statement before we get to the question-and-answer part of the conference.”
Su-Bin and I had talked a lot in the last week. And I’d been paying attention to the other supers; a few of the pro-Ilneat ones had already started putting together the pieces for a post-Ilneat Network, run by supers instead of by the aliens. That sounded appealing in almost every way—but from everything Su-Bin could see, it still didn’t take the Extras’ safety and livelihoods into account.
I’d also re-read the intro to Golden Goose’s diary a couple of times, and I had to agree with my friend. If we picked up the Ilneats’ shows right where they’d left off, nothing would really change for most people. She wanted me to start putting a stop to that.
And, thanks to the very public knowledge of my win over Rocko, I had a lot of social capital to spend—and that was a superpower all its own.
“I’ve been a superhero since I was thirteen—the same age as Golden Goose was when she got picked up by the Style System. This has been my entire life, and I love what I do. But so much of it isn’t real. It’s been a game for me my whole career—climb the leaderboard, do the Episode, use this city or that building as set dressing.”
I paused to take a sip of ice-cold water. The winter sun shone brightly on the street beneath the half-destroyed CoH building. “I’ve worked with a few heroes who are true believers. People like Tranquility and The Narrator, who think they can make a difference—a real difference—in people’s lives. They’re not in it for the Episode wins or the power-ups. They’re trying to do better.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with anyone who wants to make a career out of this. I’ve been a fan of superhero shows since I was five. I have a Stella-Lunar poster on my bedroom wall back home and everything. I want to keep doing this myself, but I’ve seen us at our best and worst, and I think we can do better.
My lips were already dry, but I powered on. “I’m announcing my support, in principle, for a negotiated version of the New Gotham Accords. We need an agreement that takes into account people’s safety and their right to live a normal life without worrying about two superpowereds blowing up their living room. But it also needs to take into account superpowered’s rights. I’m not sure what that looks like. I’m not the most qualified person to figure that out. But I do know that if we put our minds to it, we can make it happen.”
There. My obligations to Su-Bin were done. I took a deep breath. “Fursona and I will take questions now.”
Someone shouted, “Are you done being a superhero?”
“No,” Fursona said. “We’re taking the semester off to focus on our last semester at TU and waiting for the future to be more clear. Annie and I have done enough for now. This is our last act as heroes until graduation—unless there’s an emergency. We’ll still be ready, but neither of us want to participate in the Network’s Episodes—or what’s being built to replace them—anymore.”
“What role do you think superpowered people will play in the future?” a woman further back in the crowd yelled.
I took a deep breath as Fursona looked my way. Somewhere, Su-Bin was watching. I’d done what she asked me to do, but this was a chance to show I believed it. And I did believe it. “I’m not sure. I think that, as long as people have powers, there will be people who use them for evil and people who use them for good. I don’t see a world where heroes aren’t necessary. But I do see one where heroes aren’t automatically money-makers for someone—where they do good because it’s good, not for money or points. What that will look like is up to the people trying to negotiate that future.”
The next question came in, and the next one. And, to my relief, almost all of them were about my statement. It was just like Su-Bin had said. If you took control of the press conference, the media would follow along. Fursona and I took turns answering them until, at last, an alarm went off silently on my phone. “I’ve got time for one more question, and then we have to get back to TU and study.”
“What’s it like being spaced?” a man shouted from the front row.
I laughed. “It sucks. A lot. I don’t recommend it, and I hope I don’t have to do it again.” Then, I walked away from the podium and ducked into the Council of Heroes building.
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An hour later, I shut off the lights in the Green Room, walked to the maintenance door, and pulled it shut. Tails was on my bed, and the Roo-Sona fursuit was in our closet, but neither of us had any plans to be Fursona or Magical Girl Undergrad for a while. The politics and negotiation that was about to happen would happen with or without us, so it might as well be without.
Not that we had anonymity. The Pro-Earth supers had all been outed, and there was talk about naming the rest to even the playing field. But even with our secret identities thrust into the spotlight, we had a model for how to act. I couldn’t help laughing at that; the models were all under five. But even so, they were comfortable being themselves, no matter what costume they wore.
We could do the same.