Notes: I am so sorry guys. This was written weeks ago, but my computer got slammed with a nasty, nasty virus, and I was going insane trying to save everything. I'm good now, and apparently clean, but I wasn't able to upload anything for a while. But here's the next chapter, which includes a New, Improved Hypothesis on the Matter of Jenny's Power.

(Also--I cannot claim ownership of the Super Mom title; I hope you don't mind that I borrowed it, Une-Mauvaise-Femme?)


CHAPTER ELEVEN – In which girl (Jenny) attempts a return to sanity (Maxville)

Sunday, September 19th, 8:34 am

According to Rolph, when she settled me down in her living room and handed me a lopsided mug full of her absolutely yummy hot chocolate, Peace's behavior was perfectly normal in the circumstances. It turned out that she knew about the weird stall incident – she's got a healing power, believe it or not (where I suppose Peace's vague indestructibility comes from, because she's got it too), and she could sense something off with Peace from thirty feet away.

He told her everything. The shmuck.

"Jenny," she said, sitting next to me on the couch and looking sympathetic, "it's not your fault."

"Of course it's my fault," I hiccupped into my chocolate.

"No, Jenny," she said, running fingers through my hair. "It was Warren's fault, actually."

"Warren just stood there," I said, remembering the tension in his body. "He didn't prompt anything or . . . anything. It was all my fault." I burst into a new wave of tears.

"He went after you," she said. "He knew what would happen."

"I thought I had better self-control," I said, feeling the light scrape of her nails against my scalp. "Maybe he did, too."

"That's not why," said Rolph.

I raised my eyes to hers and took a sip of chocolate. She was looking at her hand as it pulled through my short hair. "Why, then?" I asked. I was sure that whatever her answer was, it wasn't to be trusted. Or at least automatically believed. She was, after all, attempting to (badly) calm me down.

"We had a talk," she said, "while you were in the bathroom. About his test results."

"Yeah?" I asked, not really interested.

"I was wrong," she said quietly.

"About what?" I asked, surprised.

"About the direction of your hypersensitivity." She sighed, and stalled her fingers. "We have a new functioning hypothesis." Her hand curled around my head. "We believe that you do have hypersensitivity . . . but that what you're sensing is not your own attraction, but the attraction of the men you're around."

"Sorry," I said, "what?" Tired and aching, even hot chocolate couldn't make processing this at five-thirty in the morning any easier.

"Your power makes men attracted to you," she said, "and a lesser part of it reflects the attraction in your brain. Everything you've felt has been a reflection of a man's own attraction. Your pheromones bring them to you rather than the other way around."

I paused, hot chocolate halfway to my lips. "So . . . it's not me?"

"It is you," she said gently. "You influence them, however, rather than the other way around. Your hypersensitivity is actually a slightly increased sensitivity to the hormones of the men you affect." She sighed. "The fall that you mentioned didn't suppress the hypersensitivity – rather, because your sensitivity is not as severe as originally presumed, the pain shut it off."

"I'm not hypersensitive," I said slowly. I put the hot chocolate on the table and pulled myself away from her. "I'm just a little more sensitive than normal?"

"Yes."

"And what's really happening is I'm making guys attracted to me?"

"Yes." I tilted my head back so her hand fell away. "Jenny," she said, reaching for her own cup of chocolate, "we're still right about many things. You're still genetically marked – your mother was a predecessor, of course, and nature didn't quite get things right with her. But we think that because your pull – Julianne insists on calling it the Thrall – didn't exist in any of your grandparents, your children will have very interesting powers. New powers."

"Oh." There it was again, the Super Mom hypothesis. I never really considered having children. Not that I didn't want to – I still want to, actually, because I love kids (er. The idea of kids, at least. Seeing as how I barely get out of the house long enough to interact with them. Crap. I'm going to be a crap mother, aren't I?). I just never thought I'd be able to get over my . . . what, Thrall? . . . long enough to have a secure marriage.

The conceiving part would not be a problem, I think.

"Why is it off?" I asked. "Why didn't David, y'know . . . yeah."

"Warren is your body's prime choice."

"So I'm not 'enthralling' anyone else?"

"For now, no."

"According to your hypothesis," I said, then had to pause and clear my throat and lick my lips and try again, "how do I turn it off?"

She looked away. "The normal way to deplete pheromones, Jenny."

"Ah," I said.

Sex.

And then I said something I really, really regret. Not just what happened afterwards, but that I said it at all because Rolph has been wonderful, and it's not her fault she has to deal with my emo-ness. I said it because I was angry, at Mother Nature (the real one) for making me some sort of evolutionary slut, for Warren Peace for not freaking telling me, and probably just about everyone else in the universe, for no reason other than that I hated myself.

"Are you saying your medical recommendation is that I sleep with your son?"

"Jenny—"

God hates me. I know he does.

"They told you."

I turned around slowly.

Peace, of course. Standing in his mother's entryway at six in the morning. There was a bag of bagels in his hand. His hair was caught up in an approximation of a ponytail. Strands had come loose and were scraping his cheekbones.

"Why didn't you?" I asked. He was far enough away that I didn't feel the need to throw myself at him. Much.

"I was busy," he said. My face turned red. It probably matched my strawberry-dotted pajama pants. Feeling self-conscious, I crossed my arms in front of my (barely covered – it's September, normal people wear tank tops to bed) chest.

"Warren," said Rolph from behind me, "be nice."

"Hn," he grunted, and dropped the bag of bagels on the table next to the door.

"Are you mad at me?" I finally asked, because it wasn't like Peace or Rolph were going to add anything to the conversation.

"Yes," he said.

"Warren," said Rolph.

"It's not like I picked you," I said. Where did he get off? Couldn't he be mature enough to be mad at the situation, not me, when I had NOTHING TO DO WITH IT? "There was zero conscious decision-making going on, let me tell you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"You're temperamental and anti-social and mean!" I said. "Why would I have picked you?"

"Monroe, you're not exactly a catch yourself."

"Hey! At least I'm capable of stringing two words together! And I don't consider grunts a form of intelligent conversation."

"Do you even know what intelligent conversation is?"

"I know enough to know that you don't have it. Hello, at least David never glared at me."

(Much.)

Watching the paint begin to peel off the ceiling of Rolph's entryway, I probably should have realized that this was a good time to stop the temper tantrum. But it was true – David was lovely and sweet and understanding, at least before Peace came and killed our budding relationship. Why couldn't Peace be like David? Liking him would be easier if he was like David.

"David didn't know anything," he said.

"David actually cares about me. David doesn't—"

"David broke up with you," he said. "He doesn't care. No one cares, Monroe. Your fucking power pushes everyone away."

"Shut up!" I said, in a voice high and squeaking. "Just shut up, Peace! The only reason you have friends is because they're too stubborn to leave you alone!"

"I have friends," he said. "You had to steal mine."

The flames were licking up to the shoulders of his jacket, and there was smoke coming out of his mouth with every deep breath that he took. For every iota of anger that I felt, there was the rather desperate need to launch myself over the seat of the couch and pull of that stupid jacket and see what his arms looked like with the flames peeling across his skin.

So I was angry at him and at myself when I picked up my mostly-empty cup of hot chocolate, not even thinking about it's owner at the other end of the couch, aiming at his head, when he reached out and the ceramic exploded.

According to Rolph, who angrily banished her son and began to fix my hand, the air pockets in the clay expanded due to the extreme heat, and the pressure made the cup explode; completely inadvertent on Peace's side, apparently, although I'll believe that the day I personally witness Layla settling into a nice, juicy steak. Knowing that didn't make looking at the ragged bit of ceramic stuck into my palm any easier, but it was nice of her to at least attempt to explain.

She suggested that I go home for the night. "Spend time away from Warren," she said, cool fingers crisscrossing my palm. "I suggest you sit down and think about what you want to do," she said. "Now that you know – the decision to continue testing is entirely up to you. Knowing what we do, it might be more difficult to fix. With hypersensitivity, it was a question of neurology – now, who knows?"

She ran fingers through my hair again.

"Think," she said. "Take the 8:00 train back to Maxville. I'm sure your parents will be glad to see you, and Richard can suspend testing for tomorrow."

I doubt Mom and Dad will be all that glad to see me, especially since Rolph curled my newly-healed fingers around two twenties, wrapped me in a giant green sweater, and dropped me at the train station. I have a journal, a cell phone, and a black ballpoint pen to my name, at the moment.

I'm sitting on the train now, watching the trees pass. The sweater smells really nice, a bit like smoke. When we were little, Dad and Mom would have neighborhood barbeques. Then Linda Williams and her daughter moved in and started talking to the cows at the farm, and gave us the evil eye whenever we even vaguely suggested hamburgers.

So, no more smoke.

It's huge, too, but soft. I wonder what company made it –

The name on the label says that this article of clothing is the property of Maxwell Verne. Peace's father. Hmm.

11:00 am

The house is empty, but the spare key is in the potted plant that Mrs. Williams gave to us years ago. Williams, plants – holy shit, I've been Layla's next door neighbor for twelve years and I didn't even recognize her.

God, I am a failure of a human being.

11:02 am

It's exactly the same. I don't know what I expected to change, especially since it's only been about two weeks since I left, but they haven't moved a thing. I mean, I suspect Jane has come in and dusted, because my X-men figurines (and despite whatever Missy said, they are not action figures, god, they came in collectable cases and they don't have movable limbs) aren't even dusty.

But all of it, the posters, the indentation on my desk where my computer sat for years, my 20th anniversary edition of Watchmen – there's no change.

It just feels . . . off, you know? My life has gone to crap, after all. Why hasn't my room changed to reflect the complete suckiness of my current existence? I am really, really tempted to lie on the bed and then just never get up.

I mean, why do I want to become a geneticist? To heal myself, I guess, and to not interact with other humans. Those are probably the two worst reasons to ever go into a particular career. Knowing that I couldn't become a hero, I just chose something else.

What else could I do? The only reason I got into college was because I took online classes and my parents pulled a few strings. I got into science through comic books, and then chat boards. I can't do anything else – science was logical. Yeah, I'm good at it, but why? Did I force myself to be interested in it?

God, I have no idea what I want to do with my life.

What if Rolph and Kinthus and Julianne do cure me? Then what? I'm already the bane of the existence of my parents. Will they be happier when I'm powerless, or just more ashamed?

AARGH.

Oh, Dad's in the back. I should . . . go talk to him. Unfortunately.

Gah.

1:23 pm

Dad was at the edge of the creek when I'd finished the dangerous trek down the stairs and across most of the house. It's not really cold out, but it certainly isn't go-out-and-take-a-dip-in-the-creek-shirtless weather, either. Then again, I'm more susceptible to temperature than Dad and Missy.

"Dad," I said. "You got hypothermia yet?"

"Oh, Jenn," he said, turning around. I got all my . . . well, slimness from Dad, so he while didn't look homeless, I could sort of make out his hipbones. His hands were cased in thick ice gloves, little tendrils snaking down his wrists. "Dare I ask what you're doing home?"

"Visiting," I said, shrugging and pulling Maxwell Verne's gigantic sweater around me. "Thought I'd crash here and see how you guys are doing." Dad was rapidly losing interest and turning his attention back to the creak, thoughtfully weaving his hands back and forth. "Practicing?" I asked.

"Missy thinks she's developed a new technique," he said, flexing joints in the ice gloves. "I want to see if it's really possible." As he wound his hands together, flicking fingers and grimacing, I tried not to feel insulted that he and Mom had purposely called her. It wasn't that hard.

"Ah, I said, bored. "That's nice."

Having a power – if you could call it that – that isn't useful in battle, I don't really "practice" all that much. Watching Dad mutter to himself as he waved his hands wasn't that exciting, especially since our twenty minutes of silence went mostly uninterrupted. Whatever the technique was, Dad wasn't getting it. Eventually he stopped, melting his gloves back into the creek. "I thought so," he muttered. "Impossible, surely, unless she was manipulating on a molecular level—"

"Where's Mom?"

"On call," he said, wiping any lingering dampness onto his jeans. "She probably won't be back until tomorrow night. I'm sorry, but I promised Joan and Jerry that I'd go to the theatre and then dinner with them tonight. Can you fend for yourself? I think Jane left some pot roast in the freezer."

I didn't bother asking if the (vague) pun was on purpose.

"Har har," I said politely. "No, it's fine. I came back just to get away from campus."

"You aren't staying?" he asked, making it obvious he'd tuned me out earlier. Our bare feet slid over the leaves that littered the slope leading down to the creek as we climbed back to the house. Fall comes early in Maxville, something my dad and Missy always like.

"You mean, home for good?" I asked. "No, Dad. I'm not giving up."

Yet.

"That's good," he said, vaguely patting me on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you."

"Sure," I said, striving not to sound awkward and disbelieving. We reached the back door. He opened it, gestured me through. "Have fun at the theater, Dad. Tell Joan and Jerry to say hi to Susie for me."

"She's already got a sidekick and is out on the streets, did you know?" asked Dad. "In my day, we moved right out of school, like Susie – she's Alpha Girl, by the way. Now everyone wants to go to college first. Which is nice, but no one ever seems to realize how many responsibilities you have as a hero."

"Hmm," I said. "Imagine that."

He gave me a final absent pat on the shoulder, then went upstairs to change into something slightly more appropriate. No doubt the theater will be absolutely stifling for him this time of year; I wondered for a second why he even agreed to go with Joan and Jerry Rodheim, considering how little he and Mom like either of them. They aren't the Strongholds, after all, and my parents are big on Image.

3:34 pm

I found Jane skulking around the lower level after Dad left, reorganizing all of the hero paraphernalia my parents have gathered up over the years. It's a thankless job, but someone has to do it. Before I left, it was my monthly job. Now it appears to be Jane's.

"You're home," she said, sounding disgruntled.

"Yep," I said cheerfully. "I love you too."

"Hmph," she said. "College too much for you?"

"Just visiting," I said. She was prodding a ray gun, looking at it askew and about to kill herself, provided she pressed the green button. "That's Mi-T-Fine's," I said. "The Teh-Sizzle 2003."

"Ah," said Jane, and she scribbled it into her files before setting the ray gun to the side. "How long are you back for?"

"Tonight," I said, settling onto the floor to help her. "I have class on Tuesday, so I'm taking the evening train back."

"Did Missy come with you?" she asked.

"No," I said, scowling.

"Thank god," said Jane, and I (silently) agreed with her.

She was already half-way done with the process, and all that was left was categorizing all of my parent's old hero stuff. Mom's old suit (her hips were narrower, before she had Missy and I), Dad's Ice Ray gear from when he was solo, and Jane's Cosmic Girl stuff.

"You let Mom and Dad keep this?" I asked, folding the spangled leggings.

"Why not?" she said, shrugging. "It's not like there's anyone I can give it to."

"You have a son," I pointed out.

"With no powers," she said. "He doesn't know."

Which is why Jane lives with us, actually. She lost her powers, ages ago, in an accident with some crazy crime lord or a super villain or a mob boss or something (she won't tell me who or how, which I guess is her prerogative), and in return for Services Rendered or something equally patronizing, my parents keep her around.

She hates them, of course, which is fine with me because I do too, but there isn't really another career option for her. So now she helps Mom and Dad around the house, and they are condescending and call her Poor Jane.

Her son goes to a normal elementary school, adopted by normal parents, and she lives in our lower level, making the best beef stroganoff I've ever had in my life and mocking my parents mercilessly whenever they're not around to notice.

"Still," I said, "it's not like Mom and Dad are going to realize the worth of this. You should donate it to the National League museum or something."

"Hmph!" said Jane. She glowered at me from under her eyebrows.

"Or not," I added. "That's cool too." A second later, realizing that I sounded like Zach, I kicked myself.


As you can see . . . the truce didn't really have much hope of lasting. In related news, how do you think the current balance of power will affect the Warren-Jenny dynamic?