FACTOR IT IN

Tales of a 3rd-Grade Superhero in Training

Cross-posted on AO3 if you want to read there and see tags

➕ ➖ ✖️ ➗

Content Warnings .:. Canon-typical violence + non-canon-typical discussions of implied abuse (i.e. adults being suspicious about Rex's bruises). Superhero kids do get thrashed around in canon-typical fight scenes. Cuts, scrapes, and wooziness may be mentioned, but no blood. You should assume all robots in this story are fair game to get destroyed, but there are no major character deaths or serious injuries.

Rex has canon-typical morbid commentary, which is funny if you take it as "ha ha logic boy" but you could also read it as "Oh that's super dark Rex wtf" so this is the warning in case that will bother you. Enjoy!

Timeline .:. In this universe, the episode "Kid Math" took place December 2nd through December 4th (i.e. one month ago). This was followed by my one-shot "AlgoRhythm" where WordGirl introduced Kid Math to many villains on villain karaoke night. You don't have to read that story to enjoy "Factor It In," but it's canon here.

This chapter takes place 7 months before the series finale, "Rhyme and Reason." In Earth years, Becky is 11 and Rex is 8. Now, on with the show!

Order of Operations

.:: January 3rd - Saturday - 1:34 pm ::.

"One must be taught his place if orderly structure is ever to be maintained."

(Ancient Hexagon proverb)

➕ ➖ ✖️ ➗

Psst! Look for the words independent and uneasy

It's a chilly winter afternoon in the home of Milo and Miah Pirakell, who have just received a familiar visitor on their doorstep…

HELP!

The word hovers like a sugar cube on the end of his tongue. H-E-L-P exclamation point exclamation point… Milo stands there, as frozen as the snowboy, snowgirl, and snowmonkey in the yard across the street, quietly goggling the woman waiting for him on the front step. She isn't very tall, though the high heels help a ton with that. She smiles back at him. It's a pretty smile, her lips a sparkly glossy pink. Is she as nervous as he is? She's rocking back and forth on her toes, and he can't help but follow every movement.

Sandy blonde-brown hair. She kept it tied back in a bun. Does he know her? She looks sort of familiar, but this silent revelation doesn't stop the panicked heartbeat bouncing up and down inside his chest.

Help…

Maybe he's seen her face smeared across the newspapers or thrown across the TV screens. Is he about to be robbed blind in his own home? Does this woman have some sort of knock-out gas in that briefcase? He tightens his fingers on the door frame, saying nothing, until his wife's careful, loving hands grip onto his shoulder and pull him aside. Like a slug, he oozes at her command.

"Clarissa!" Miah - his beautiful, smiling Miah - pushes the door a little more open. "Please come in. Milo, you remember Mrs. Argent, our case manager with the foster system."

Milo peers at the sandy-haired woman again. Clarissa Argent, our case manager with the foster system. Yes. Yes, he does know her, though he's grateful for the set-up. He's struggled with memory problems all his life and Miah always grants him context like this when introducing someone he might not recall. Name. Job title. Location. Easy peasy.

Yes. He remembers. Her name's been on the calendar since yesterday, and he's been counting his heartbeats all this time. Clarissa Argent has eyes as silver as her surname, and she smiles up at Milo and switches her briefcase to her left hand. She extends the right for a shake. Milo blinks back at her, then uses two fingers to carefully adjust his glasses on his nose.

Clarissa. Case manager. Foster care.

"Would you like to come in?" he asks. His voice trembles when he says it, but neither Clarissa nor Miah mind at all. He grasps Clarissa's hand and gives it a shake. Sweat drips down his palm and smears across the creases of her fingers. He winces, but Clarissa's smile never wavers.

"Thank you so much for letting me visit. I wanted to get right down to it."

"Have a cookie," Miah offers, waving her into the living room. Milo stands blankly by the door, watching them go, until Miah glances back at him and gently motions for him to shut it so the snowflakes stay firmly outdoors. Right. He pushes it shut and locks it out of habit. He always locks the door when he's inside. Fair City is teeming with wild villains who could snap a lock like this in seconds, but it eases the anxiety very, very faintly anyway. Milo keeps his forehead to the door for three seconds, clicking through his memories and trying to remember why they're meeting with Clarissa.

Something's wrong… Help, help…

The girls are already chatting in the living room. Miah just redecorated in October, freshening up the place with a much more modern look. Clarissa hasn't visited since last April, so she's astonished by the changes and has to comment on every one of them. They even replaced the bulging, waterstained wood with nicer carpet.

Help…

Why is she here? This breaks the routine. Milo curls his fingers against the white door, blinking over and over as the world sways beneath his feet. Usually when there's a kid who needs a place to crash for the weekend, they get phone calls. Half the time, they aren't even "real" foster kids- just kids who temporarily lost track of their parents in some sort of villainous mishap like a cheesy tidal wave, a thunderstorm of bread slices, or a giant robot crushing the subway lines.

He's been there. Milo remembers all too painfully the chaos of his own youth, stranded and shocked in the road in the middle of a rainstorm while his house crumbled beneath the weight of potatoes before his very eyes. He'd been home alone after school. He was only eight. He's held a lot of shivering kids in his lap, rocking them back and forth while they watch something happier on the TV than the news. Even if he's fidgety, desperate to stay up to date with this crazy world they live in, and he can't resist flipping through the channels once he's safe inside his own bedroom.

Help…

Clarissa's personal visit does not take his anxiety down. But she's here, with Miah, and there are chocolate chip cookies waiting in the other room. And somewhere out there, one file folder away, is a kid who needs more help than he does. Milo inhales through his nostrils, counts to six, and exhales between his teeth. Though still uneasy, he peels himself from the door and trudges down the hall to join the two women in the living room.

Okay.

You have to take a step down from the hardwood floor to venture into the new living room. Milo does so, keeping his hand braced on the short handrail as he moves. He blinks at the bright lights, blinks at the snowflakes twirling on the other side of the open blinds, and blinks at Miah as she scoots closer to the pillows to make room for him beside her on the gray couch. Pleasantries are exchanged. Small talk. Milo, fidgeting, zones out for part of it, until he hears Clarissa shift the topic to the kid in question.

"He does need a close eye on him. Someone experienced with home security, who won't let him jump down from second-story windows. That's why I wanted to ask you in person. He's a very sharp-minded boy, Mr. and Mrs. M. Pirakell. Very kindhearted."

Milo glances at Miah. She glances right back at him. "But…?" she prompts the case worker.

"Just… extremely independent." Clarissa drums her fingers against the top of her briefcase. "He's a loner. Very detached in conversation, struggling to pick up on social cues. He shows very little interest in anything beyond math, science, and music. Oh, and cross stitch. We're worried that the neighborhood kids he's currently around are bullying him in secret. He keeps slipping out through the windows and coming home an hour later covered in bruises. We were hoping to place him in a home where we can trust he'll be closely supervised, and the Pirakells are always the first to come to mind."

Of course they are. It's who they are. It's what they do. Milo stares at his toes, his heart plummeting towards the floor, even as the Narrator lets out a soft, breathy sigh above him. It's relief and amusement and gratitude all rolled into one, though nobody acknowledges it and the Narrator says nothing else. Miah glances uncertainly at Milo, then carefully speaks on behalf of them both.

"Clarissa… is this kid charmed? Is that why you're here to visit us in person?"

Charmed.

Silence.

"Well, yes."

Help…

"Didn't…" Milo fiddles for a moment with his wedding ring. "Um, didn't we put in our file that we might not be a good fit for charmed children right now?"

Clarissa rocks back and forth in subtle hesitation. Her long fingernails, painted turquoise, tighten in the ruffles of her black skirt. We did, Milo reflects, but says nothing as Clarissa drops her gaze to the file in her lap again.

"I saw you made that request, but… we're still facing a shortage of families, especially with the holidays. He's really struggling to get along at the group home. The staff suspects he and one of the other boys got in a fight just yesterday. If you reject the placement then I'll understand, but I at least wanted to meet with you in person so we could discuss any questions openly and face to face. His status is a little odd."

Help, help…

Miah slips her hand in Milo's then, tightening her fingers around his own. And he's grounded for a moment, firmly planted on the soft gray couch. No one's wailing for him. There are no invisible children on the floor.

There are lots of things he should probably ask. If the kid has siblings who have also been pulled into foster care. If any extended family members are known. If the kid will be transferring schools. If there are special food needs to keep in mind. If he has any appointments with doctors, dentists, sports teams, or music recitals just around the corner. If he likes to walk. Milo does a lot of walking, though Miah prefers long drives along the coast. What's the child's cultural background? Did he have a nice holiday? Are there parental visitations planned? If he and Miah say yes, will the child arrive tonight, and if so, has he had a chaotic morning? All these questions are things he can, and should, probably ask first.

But he doesn't.

Because his heart is pounding and his fingers look like dancing worms.

"Well…" Milo draws in a long, careful breath. He slowly releases it again, lowering his chin to his chest along with it. It does help him focus, but it doesn't calm the rapid kicking in his heart. "Okay, then. If he's charmed, what, uh, range of powers does he have? L-let's put that in the open first, before we talk about anything else."

There. He feels guilty just for saying it. He can feel the Narrator's wispy silence like the breath of a ghost above his head. It makes the hairs behind his neck stand on end. Milo bites his lip, squeezing Miah's hand, and she squeezes back in gentle reassurance. Maybe it's not an unfair question. Even though it nibbles at his skin.

But it's important. It might make a difference. He can't do invisibility again. He can't.

The lines around Clarissa's eyes crinkle with relief. She pulls her briefcase on her lap and clicks it open. Idly, Milo glances at the numbers on the combination when she tilts back the lid. Then he hates himself. Clarissa picks up a manila file folder and passes it over to Miah. "Yes, we've been looking into that… He's been staying in the group home over the holidays. So many families are out of town right now. I promise, I wouldn't come to you about this if I felt there was anything extreme in his file. He only has two powers that we know of. His skin will rapidly repair any open wound… and he can fly."

No!

Really? Flight? Again? Milo groans in the back of his throat and drops his face in his hands. He can't do flight again. Can he? It was so, so stressful when the twins were toddlers.

His sweaty palms feel like leather gloves. He pulls them down his cheeks. He can feel every spiky whisker, every raised pore. He lifts his eyes again. Miah takes a piece of paper from Clarissa's hands as though it's burning at one corner. After several seconds, Milo peers over her shoulder to take a long look.

There is no real identifying information about the kid in question. No name, school, or picture for privacy's sake. Just MALE - AGE 8, the star symbol for charmed, and a few known interests. It's not a very long list, with math, science labs, music, phys. ed, and cross stitch the only things written down. No movies, books, sports, or video games. Not a single mention of parks, arcades, or favorite restaurants. He's lactose intolerant. There are no other listed allergies. Clarissa scratches behind her ear for a moment, situating herself better on the couch, then points with her pen to the black star symbol at the top.

"The state ran a blood test during his physical back in December. It confirmed he's charmed, but he seems a bit… hesitant to admit his status. The staff at the home told me they waited until he seemed calm after dinner one evening, then questioned whether he might be aware of any unique abilities he possessed. According to his file, he became agitated and denied their probing. Despite this, he has shown clear awareness of his ability to float. He once drew on that power to retrieve an item off a high shelf while a witness stood behind a one-way mirror."

Milo isn't sure what "retrieve" means. He's hesitant on "probing," too. He doesn't ask. Clarissa glances up then to offer a thin, pained smile.

"In the two weeks he's been with the home, there haven't been any other signs of additional powers: only the flight and quick healing, and he tries to keep them both suppressed. I imagine his home life couldn't have been very welcoming towards his abilities. No reports of missing children with his description have been filed, but we think he ran away from a neglectful home. Possibly escaping physical abuse, too. His body heals all open wounds, but he was covered in bruises. He reacts uneasily if someone approaches with a raised hand, even in hello."

"Abuse?" Milo repeats. Yeah, that sounds familiar. While his own father had never smacked him (or any of his brothers), neglect could practically be his middle name. Days would go by without Dad at home, and his step-mother often collapsed in exhaustion without bothering to ask Milo if he or his brothers had found anything to eat.

"He can't read," Clarissa says, softly then. Milo glances up in surprise, and she shrugs. "Not in English or any of the other languages we showed him, anyway. So far, we haven't found his records in any doctor's office or school database. He has no known birth certificate. He can't say where he went to school, he can't name any friends he had before the start of December, and he didn't seem to understand how to properly hold a fork and knife. I myself watched when he was invited out to the playground. He stood with his hands in his pockets for a long time, kicking at the woodchips, before leaving the play space to write math equations with sidewalk chalk. He didn't seem inclined to talk to the other kids, try the slides, swing, or even just climb. He can't say for certain when his birthday is, though we're estimating June or July. The state thinks he's likely been kept indoors his entire childhood. Very possibly by parents who saw his charmed status as something to be ashamed of. You know how people talk about flight, even now. I wish it weren't the truth."

Milo bites his lower lip. Okay…

He stares down at the paper in Miah's crumb-speckled hands. It's a very simple info page. No fire breath. No plasma balls. No super speed. No ability to shoot meat or potatoes from his hands, clone himself, turn invisible, or shoot sonic blasts from his fists, which is a step up from a lot of the famous charmed folk in this city. And as much as the thought of taking in a charmed kid makes his heartbeat spike, he can, well… sort of understand why Clarissa wanted to take the risk in bringing this situation to him and Miah personally. Very, very few charmed individuals along the coast can fly, and even fewer live in their state. The percentage of foster parents who have past experience working with kids like that runs even thinner. Plus, from the sound of it, the child is sensitive about his two known abilities. Does that mean he doesn't like using them? He might not cause chaos anyway.

And if he really is as "kindhearted" as Clarissa claims, then he may not be another pyromaniac or violent grudge-holding kid like some of their previous placements. This pattern of escaping through windows is worrisome, but Milo was born with the powers of observation in his veins. He'll notice if the kid wriggles away. And even if he does, it shouldn't be hard to track him down again.

Maybe… this could work?

They haven't had a foster kid stay on longer than a weekend since September, when a redheaded girl named Lizzie stayed for two, along with her pet scorpion. The state often skirts around Fair City when it can be avoided, trying not to place nervous children anywhere near a hotspot of heroes and villainy. His and Miah's experience with foster kids has usually just meant opening their doors for a few nights to youth who've had their lives temporarily disrupted by a mild disaster - like waves of mustard or mice in the street - and who need a place to crash until their parents can pick them up. They hosted a soccer team once. They played party games and all enjoyed homemade milkshakes. That was a good day, even if some of those kids had been nursing bruises and minor burns. It broke Milo's heart to look at them all, but he tried every day to do what he could for kids like them. Help.

He does have experience with kids who might float away, you know. Even if his situation is weird. And apparently the kid is independent, possibly preferring to be left alone with the privacy of his thoughts. He might not even float within his foster parents' eyesight. It might just be a fairly normal placement…

They talk. They share warm chocolate chip cookies, but the visit is relatively brief. Clarissa shakes both their hands again and Miah gets up to walk her to the front door. Clarissa Argent, their case manager with the foster system. Milo stays seated on the couch, leaning so far over that it's a wonder he doesn't roll right off. He still feels like those snowmen across the street. Snowboy, snowgirl, snowmonkey…

Only he's a melting snowman, his head and chest sliding from his torso to the floor. You can make a sweaty puddle out of him. He holds his clasped hands to his forehead, saying nothing, until Miah steps back down from the hallway into the living room. Her bare toes squish between the new carpet.

"We don't have to take the placement if you're uneasy," she tells him, even though he hadn't breathed a word. Milo lifts his head, keeping his hands mostly where they are, and his wife trails his eyes away from his and down to the cookie plate on the coffee table. She treads over like a prancing poodle and kneels down on the other side of the table. Very soft. Very slow. His heartbeat eases just looking at her, because Miah never startles him, never scares him, and there's no one in this world that he feels safer around than her.

Well… apart from maybe WordGirl, but that's only because she's a superhero. That hardly counts.

"If it's a hard 'No' for you," Miah goes on, trailing her fingers towards a wrinkled cookie, "then it's okay to say that. I mean… I know it was difficult when you were growing up. It might not be easy to open your arms to that kind of life again. I understand that. We don't need to take the case. But for the sake of transparency, let me say this: if you aren't a hard 'No,' I won't judge you for that either."

So it's up to me to decide if we're going to give this child any help?

Milo rotates his eyes a little higher, staring at an empty spot in the upper corner of the visible world. There is no verbal response, but after a few seconds of silent gazing, he can hear the Narrator squirm. But the Narrator says nothing either, and Milo exhales and looks away.

"I guess… the Botsfords have a charmed child." The Botsfords live across the street, on the other side of the snowmen in the yard. "Becky can talk to monkeys." She's adopted; no one else in her family tree has abilities like that. Sally told him once in a very, very hushed tone that she thinks Becky's birth parents dropped her off in the woods intentionally, quite possibly after a blood test that proved her status, but she and Tim aren't planning to ever tell her that. Understandable. Though there's no proof, it's all too likely since there were never any reports filed for a missing child, an unexpected death in the area, or even a birth certificate on record. It's miserable how many people turn their nose up at the charmed even in today's world. They need help.

This kid doesn't have a birth certificate either. Was he born at home? He's eight years old. The school would need documents, right? Has he really never been? And he likes math, but never learned to read? Did his parents just not care?

He and Miah don't have kids of their own, and don't plan to. There's too much in his mind to unpack. He can look after kids in the short-term, but he already knows he'll never be a good dad. Just look at his role models. But it baffles him. Imagine it. Spending every day of his life with Miah, caressing her cheeks, braiding her hair, organizing her closet, driving her to every appointment, reading parenting books with her, resting his hand against her pregnant stomach… What kind of parents would keep an unwanted baby through every stage of that tender experience, then mistreat their kid from the day he was born? Already denying him the basics of a birth certificate from the start? Who locks their kid away from the world and beats him until he's bruised?

If I ever go down the villain path, I hope it's because I meet these kinds of people and make THEM the ones who cry for help… He went through a rebellious phase in his teens when his step-mother got pushy with him. She demanded he share his things with his younger brothers. She started taking stuff from his room while he was out at school. They'd be broken upon his return. So he started shoplifting just for the power of it, for the right to possess something, but it didn't last more than a couple months. He returned it all. He doesn't do that anymore.

Milo fidgets with his ring again. "Speaking to animals may not be as extreme as the power of flight or crazy fast healing, but…"

Help… help…

"… m-maybe the Botsfords can help us out if we ask for some advice."

The Narrator's silence hangs more heavy in the air now, like a storm cloud. Milo presses his thumbs to the upper part of his nose, right where his glasses bridge, and squeezes his eyelids shut. He counts to ten, keeping his breathing under control - VERY controlled - until he cracks them open again. Miah nods quietly in reply. Her eyes stay fixed on the cookies. She dabs her fingers around the plate, picking up the crumbs.

"I'm not opposed to looking after a charmed child if you are, Milo… but I want you to be honest with me before we commit to this. A flying kid? Is that something we're okay with? Can we get this place prepared?"

There is more silence. Miah waits, as she always does, and gently places her hand on her husband's knee. He rests his palm against her knuckles, breathing in, breathing out… breathing in…

… and he breaks his curt vow of silence with the Narrator.

"U-um. How did Mom and Dad childproof the house for you and Glen? I mean… before I came back from Aunt Mandy's to look after you two."

"Exposition Guy, I…" His voice comes out mumbled. It glances off like a refracted beam of light. Hhh. Milo closes his eyes again, squeezing Miah's hand. He's broken the wall. They aren't supposed to talk about it. But the Narrator, only slightly shaking, carefully picks up his words again. "Glen and I aren't… really a good example of 'flying super kids.' The basics like keeping windows shut or hooking bungee cords to our belts didn't apply to us. We don't usually have physical forms."

Right, right… and there isn't much point in calling Bill to ask what he thought about his upbringing. The fourth brother of the Pirakell household is the baby of the family. And to be honest? Living with three little boys had led to the most stressful days of Milo's life. He'd never needed more help before or after, though no one came. No one came. With their father in and out of jail between crime sprees, most of the attempted "parenting" had fallen in Milo's lap. Sure, he had his step-mother to offer occasional guidance, but the twins didn't even exist half the time, and while Bill did have a physical body, he kept blinking in out of the visible light spectrum. It would take at least three hands to count the number of times Milo had to dive for that kid, grabbing him by the arm or collar before he bolted invisibly into the street. Bill still runs across the road like that, totally unseen, and is bound to get hit by a bike or something one of these days. Aye yai yai…

Look. Cutting contact with Dad was for the best. Things are more stable now. He's so much happier now, and much less uneasy. The world might be a scary place, but he isn't struggling day to day as the unpaid, live-in babysitter of three invisible charmed kids anymore. Does he want to risk going back to that? The bruises, the screams, the tears, the chaos… the heartbreak when Bill veered off in their father's footsteps and down the road of villainy? Sometimes Milo still lies awake at night, holding Miah's hand to his chest and wondering where he went so wrong with his youngest sibling.

Help, help, help…

… The kid needs help. A roof over his head. Somewhere to stay. Just like Milo had once needed when he was a child, hungry and scared inside an empty house while his father spent the night in a police station, somewhere deep in the city in a location hard to find. When he was five or six and managed to climb out a window, he'd spent a weekend stumbling around and asking "Is this the police station?" to everyone he met, just… just trying to find his dad. Despite his attempted independence, he hadn't been aware enough of himself or his needs to ask for food or shelter. Villains were even more rampant in those days than they were today (now that WordGirl is on the case). He once slept outside under a cardboard box, holding a stuffed cat against his chest while sirens blared in the distance. And he still jolts awake with night terrors, yanking Miah by the arm, until she shushes him gently with her finger soft and warm against his chest. That was just one of his bad memories.

Milo wants to love his step-mother. He knows he loves the twins, even if they're grown and don't need him anymore. And he still loves Bill, no matter what shiny, glittery path of gemstones and jewels has lured him away from everything nice and good. Even in his imagination, he can't imagine wishing for a world where his brothers were never born. He loves them… he loves them, he loves them, and they're his siblings, his family…

… but it would have been easier, you know. If Bill hadn't been so hard to keep track of. If the twins hadn't spent so many days tantruming on the floor, screaming about how hungry they were and how they couldn't pick up the forks for their macaroni and cheese. Then they'd phase into semi-solid forms again and scream about how their food had gotten cold. And they'd wail about diapers that needed changing. Diapers you could smell, but not touch hour after hour. It would have been easier if his step-mother hadn't been working two jobs (almost three) night after night. Or if their father had spent more time at the dinner table and less time chasing armored cars transporting bags of cash.

Milo loves his brothers. It's not their fault. But growing up would have been easier if they'd been born with more powers of observation and fewer powers of invisibility. Like him. Is that selfish? It does flood the insides of his brain with hot and sticky guilt.

Maybe that's the wrong way to look at it. There's nothing upsetting about his brothers or the powers they have. Milo loves and supports them no matter what, and he always will. I mean, he himself is charmed, so who is he to argue that it's an awful trait to inherit? But see, things would have been so much easier growing up if he'd had a dad who could have been there to HELP.

Maybe this kid will be different. There's only one of him. And invisibility is so rare, the chances of another kid like that falling into his lap are probably a million to one.

And it's just a temporary placement. Maybe a few weeks. Possibly a couple months at absolute max. They've never had a foster kid stay with them longer than three months, and that was years ago.

Milo draws another breath, then locks his attention on Miah again. She chomps through a chocolate chip cookie, flicking her eyes up to his. And he smiles… Very weakly, but he tries to wear a smile. "Okay, sweetie. L- let's ask the Botsfords about some of their experiences before we commit. I mean, it's been a long time since there was a charmed child in the house. Let's get help. Then we can figure out if this will work." And, hesitantly, all flushed in the face, he quietly adds, "Maybe we can make a difference for this one… and he won't turn out like Bill."

Miah sets down the cookie and gets off the floor, leaning over to wrap her arms gently around his neck. "Milo, you did everything right with Bill. You've always been there for him. He knows where he can find you. He chose a life of crime. We just need to keep the door open in case he ever comes around." Her smile twists up at one end. "You know. Like it's Thanksgiving every day."

Thanksgiving is the only time their family ever comes together under one roof, and even then, it's only if Bill doesn't end up in jail. His step-mom makes the best lemon squares, which is the one thing they can all agree on. But Bill can't sit still long enough for games, Glen's a sportscaster now and gets mopey with so few people to talk to, and the fidgety Narrator is always glued to the TV. "'Keep the door open,'" Milo mumbles into her sleeve. Miah smells like pretzels and marshmallows, not to mention warm chocolate chips. He breathes in the scent of her, the sense of security that her presence always offers. "I don't know if that's a good idea when my brother's become a thief, luv."

"Mm. Well, I was going to bring the rest of these cookies to the Botsfords anyway, so while I'm over there, I'll ask them if they have time this week to chat about their daughter. And if we do take in that boy, he'll be in TJ's grade at school. Maybe they'll really hit things off. TJ's a great kid. Becky too. Maybe that's exactly what this kid needs: a safe street with safe people."

"We should bake something for Mr. Newman," Milo murmurs. "And Larry." He's not sure what Larry does for a living, but he lives alone and is often gone for days or weeks at a time. And Mr. Newman has no one except his plants.

"You're nervous."

"Am I nervous?"

"Hey. Hon, it's okay if you don't want to do this. I know this might bring up bad memories for you."

Milo massages his fingers around his eyes. "No. It's a good idea. We should talk to Tim and Sally. And maybe Becky too, in person, if she's at home."

The kid is an eight-year-old boy who feels uneasy with anyone finding out about his powers anyway. How destructive can he be?

➕ ➖ ✖️ ➗

Miles away, things are really heating up in the bustling downtown area… I'll say, this isn't a typical pleasant day for our fair city.

Oh, pins and needles, pins and needles… UGH! Smart, stabbing pains cascade like marbles down her skin. Does she have cockroaches swarming inside her bright red suit? She just had this thing washed. But something's biting her. It's inside her ears and ripping through her clothes. She may as well be a broken bottle. A beekeeper who upset a hive. Or if not the keeper, she's a little bee struggling to lift its cotton ball body off a flower petal. She's a frumpy pegasus with a bad mane day and bullet holes in her wings. Took a flyswatter to the brain. Her mouth is sandpaper, her tongue a feather, and her stomach's full of sand. Ick, ick, ick!

"WORDGIRL!"

WordGirl's fingers slip off the handle to the sandwich shop. She covers her ears. Can't hear herself think. Robot joints squeal, tires roar through slush, people shout, and a shallow swamp of mind control hums around them all. The bank alarm screeches. That's a separate crime; unimportant. Sounds like the Butcher. The squelch of sausage links is one she can't forget.

The bank tellers need her. But the robots stomping two streets away are the bigger priority. She can't possibly stop both crimes at once. Not without Kid Math's help to divide and conquer, which he loves.

Breathe.

Set her feet. Calm her heart. Hold her ears. Let her faithful monkey sidekick keep her in the present. Keep her on the ground. In the material world.

Center.

She's a little sore. While under Mr. Big's mind control, Kid Math bit her arm and kicked her calf pretty hard. Her eyelids sag above and below. She just spent the last half hour flying in spirals around Tobey's robots and every skyscraper and billboard to shake him. Now she's at the sandwich shop. Captain Huggyface is on her back, loyal as ever. She is focused. She is here.

North.

Someone's struggling with a bag of chips. It's mostly air. It hisses and writhes. Robot sounds, of course, but that's a given. There have to be five robots in the city right now. She's taken out more in one round of fighting before, but not while a fellow superhero is lying in wait for the chance to strike. Car horns bleat, sheep-like, and cutting through that isn't easy. But she takes it one breath at a time. Her synesthesia flares with wiggles of red, like a snort of dragon's fire. Not everyone is yelling. Some are hunkered down. Someone's wearing beaded bracelets. They slap. There's a sneeze. The rustle of tissues. The soft scrape of shoes on new pinewood floors. The whisper of wide plant leaves. Cooing pigeons. A typewriter. Children diving belly-first downhill on their sleds. One is Eileen. Danger zone.

East.

A flushing toilet. A spilled cup of coffee, followed by a shout. The splurt of gas from a pump. A young voice calling "Victoria!" in a way that ripples against skin. May as well be tearing through bone. Huh. WordGirl can't put a name to the voice, though it's a prepubescent male. Victoria has a younger brother, right? TJ's age? Mild-mannered, wispy and hovering like a blond ghost. They've not been formally introduced, though she could pick his shiny golden hair out of a crowd from cloud height. He plays piano. Extremely well and extremely loudly- enough to leave WordGirl grateful that he and his sister live outside the noise radius of her average day.

South.

A hundred TVs and radios, all turned to the same channel. The film crews are in the thick of things. They're all mind-controlled, so nothing much is being said. The TVs are just enough out of sync with each other that it makes her nauseous. A pet parrot squawks. Pens scribble. Some civilians are taking shelter in the basement. Others laugh as they cook their lunches in the microwave, totally oblivious to the robot rampage due north. At least one person shakes salt over soup. It's obviously soup because she can hear the slick slap of it when the spoon nicks around the bowl. Another unseen figure bites a wrinkled sugar cookie coated in rainbow sprinkles. The rainbows might be her imagination, but the soft sugary bite is unmistakable. You get good at picking up on subtleties when you've been around the block.

West.

Kid Math is hunting. Prowling like a tiger. Hhh. Put simply, WordGirl isn't looking forward to facing off in battle against her friend. Mr. Big has him by the throat with puppet strings. But at least she can keep tabs on him, even now when she needs a rest. His noise is unmistakable. Like her, Kid Math is a foreigner on this planet. She can hear the wispy gleam of a Hexagonian aura flickering at his heels. It's higher pitched than the sounds she makes when whipping out her Lexiconian super speed. His cape snaps in the wind.

CRIKK!

WordGirl snaps her attention east again. Ugh. Honestly, the way Victoria taps her boot during winter should be a punishable offense. It's because she's waiting outside the library. Waiting for Tobey, who never showed up. Victoria doesn't just tap her boot. She drives the heel of it into the cracks of snow, splintering chips of ice in all directions, grinds it in like she's breaking salt and sugar down to their base components. Victoria Best lives up to her surname, because she's always been the best at spiking WordGirl's hearing in zigzags without even trying. Bouba, kiki… She's a kiki. Enough said there. Dimitri Uznadze would be proud.

A soft, pale monkey hand trails across her cheek. WordGirl zones in again, then regrets it. Still noisy. How cruel, the curse of super-hearing. She lives like this, you know. Every single day. Every huff, sniff, and finger tap within a 4-mile radius showers her head like hail cubes reinforced with tiny daggers, and every single sound hits her in a wave of color thanks to eternal synesthesia. You get used to it, but what good is a helmet if she's fighting off headaches regardless? She gets ill just standing in the grocery store, whether she's roleplaying in her scarlet WordGirl uniform or skidding through life as mild-mannered Becky Botsford, 11 and a half years old and feigning no cares in the world.

(She modified the helmet a year ago; it blocks the mind control. Her point about its usefulness at blocking headaches still stands.)

The winter wind sends swirling snowflakes all around her. Her yellow cape billows forward. Captain Huggyface pats her face again, asking via monkey squeak if she's doing okay. "Okay" is subjective, but not untrue. Honestly, the stinging in her arms and legs hurts worse. That pain pulses in time with the low growl of mind control in the air. Luckily, the downtown area is only a thin curtain of control - basically just whispered threads - because the lion's share of power is being funneled into Kid Math's thick skull. But that warbling noise is driving her insane.

How did this happen. Why is he here, ensnared in the hypnotic trance of the mind control ray. She only took her eyes off him for one morning. And she wants to ask the questions cruelly, squiggling out the curved marks at the end. She'll replace them all with periods. Layer on the thunking sound. It doesn't matter to her. Erotemes, like the word "Okay," are subjective in the current context. Full stop.

I'm going to bop him on the head with his own abstract algebra book. The 3-inch thick one Mom and I got him so he'd have something light to keep busy with on the holidays. She can empathize. Not with her friend's obsession with mathematics, but with the way Rex's face lit up when he tore the wrapping off his present (Rex is Kid Math's civilian name). That blend of awe and energy perfectly mirrored the smile that crept across her own face when she turned the pages of the autographed Lexiconian dictionary in her Super Secret Spaceship Hideout. Uncoated paper, printer ink, and a full set of crayons and colored markers. Gifts like that can mend the world.

Not today, though. Giant robots aren't half as fond of algebra as Kid Math, and in his current state, her hypnotized friend probably couldn't tell the difference between a fraction and a fractal. Oh boy.

It's a blustery day - cataclysmic - with the whole city thriving with noise. She needs to lie down. But she doesn't get that luxury, does she? Power naps aren't hers to gamble with. Not when Fair City needs a hero who can still fight back. And if that's not enough…

See, even as she staggers inside the mostly empty sandwich shop - out of the searing afternoon sunlight, which gleams like headlights off the snow - she just can't escape the thought of her friend's cold, glazed-over eyes honing in on her every move. Kid Math can likely hear her. He'll be on her in the click of a tongue. Geez. The robots alone had been onerous enough, but did Mr. Big really have to get in on this scheme, too? Was it "Everyone Take a Piece of the Pie Day" at the local evil villain conference or something? Can't Mr. Big just run his business privately, and shouldn't Tobey be meeting Victoria at the library right about now? She's still grinding her boot between chips of ice.

Hhh… hh…

This is just silly. She's a superhero; she isn't supposed to be panting like this. WordGirl leans back her head anyway, softly bopping her helmet on the sandwich shop wall. This doesn't take away the tingles in her limbs. It doesn't dampen her super-hearing. But for two sweet seconds, she takes a breath she's owed. Her bleary eyes latch on the fluorescent lights above. A single fly is trapped inside one of them. It buzzes, flaring its tiny wings. Ah. The thing crawled in there, seeking heat, and must have woken from diapause. Can't say I blame it, what with how noisy it is out there.

Okay. Break time will be short. Time to think. Staying grounded in the present all the while.

Edible Edible's Sandwich Shop hasn't changed a bit since the last time she swung by. Three of the circle tables have been tipped over, functioning as sloppy hiding places for a couple civilians. The red metal chairs are still standing. The chalkboard lists today's date and a long list of toppings and condiments for different sandwiches. Glen Furlblam stands in the corner with a mop, staring vacantly at her like he isn't sure she's real. Honestly, WordGirl can't blame him. After all, there's a second superhero out there who's bashing into things while mind controlled. It's understandable he'd be a bit uneasy. He just works here. Probably clocks out in 15. He'd better take a new route home. The bus will be late. Glen shakes his head, his ginger ponytail bouncing, and rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

It's pretty cozy in Rueben's sandwich shop, actually. Really, that buzzing fly should know better than to want to go outside in weather like this. The snow's up to her thighs in some places because it's swirling hard. The robots keep knocking plumes of the stuff off roofs and into the road, and the plows didn't make it far down the streets anyway. WordGirl was there when Tobey's robots launched one into the distance with a kick. She heard it come crashing down near the grocery store, heard a scream, but only one. She's pretty sure it didn't hit anybody… not that she can afford to zip over and check. She's uneasy taking her eyes off Kid Math for even one second right now, and especially while Mr. Big and Leslie could slip away like butter at any time. Well. Mostly Mr. Big. He has nothing but a remote in his hand. Leslie's on the water tower with the bigger control panel, micromanaging the rest of the city in the same pristine way she pencils lunch plans in her pocket calendar. The big system will be a lot harder to lug off during an escape, so WordGirl doesn't worry over that.

But that portable remote…

Huggy, clinging to her back, taps his fingers against her shoulder and voices the softest chitter of a question. Hhh. WordGirl's eyelids flicker. She stares at the light, at the fly, then closes her eyes.

Rex… Please, be okay…

His timing is impeccable. The indisputable swish of his speedy body arcs right past the sandwich shop in an evanescent blue-white beam. WordGirl's eyes are still shut, but she knows that color by now almost as well as her own. He's from Planet Hexagon; he'll be leaving bits of glitter in his wake. She pricks her ears. His trail veers sideways in a not-quite-right turn before sweeping into the sky. He doesn't pause. Never decelerates below the speed of sound. You know, he'll hurt himself very badly if he slams into a brick wall without slowing down. The thought dries up her mouth. Last time she flew past him, she spotted a scrape along his cheek that had been fresh enough, it was shimmering blue, but hadn't healed. Yikes.

Captain Huggyface taps her again and squeaks to voice the obvious question: Sooner or later, he has to run out of energy, right? And he'll be a sitting duck then. A violently thrashing, super strong, flightless and battered sitting duck.

"You think he'll run out of energy soon enough?" she repeats aloud. "I hope so too, Huggy… And when he does, I hope he isn't over the ocean." His home planet Hexagon doesn't have seasons. She doesn't even know if he can swim.

She's stalling. WordGirl braces her arm on the curve of the nearest tipped table and pulls a thick, stilted breath between her teeth, like milkshake through a fat straw. It slurps right down her throat. Her gaze skids across Glen's. He stares back as though the last two paydays clubbed him over the head and bled him dry of change. Yikes. Huggy slides down her back to the floor. It's freshly mopped. Damp. It squeals beneath his foot. WordGirl takes a couple seconds to wipe a hand across her forehead and down her cheek. Sweat sticks like dew to the back of her glove. She shuts her eyes again.

Kid Math flew right past us. I need a sec. Just a sec. I wasn't ready to spar. That was way too close…

Ugh, what a total aberration this day is turning out to be. All she needs now is the grand reveal that Kid Math, while mind controlled, has outed his secret identity to Mr. Big and the rest of the city. Oh, please…

I can get through to him. I just need a little more time.

Time, however, isn't something they have a lot of at the moment. The road outside rumbles with another lurching, robotic footstep. Metal squeals. WordGirl cracks her eyelids open and takes in the faces of uneasy civilians lurking behind the overturned tables and sandwich counter in front of her. Oh. Maybe the shop isn't so abandoned after all. Some of them she knows by name while others are still unfamiliar despite her years of hero work. Life can be like that, but her throbbing heart beats for every one of them. Nervous eyes peer back at her, blinking from their hiding spots.

"WordGirl?"

That's Chuck. Or "Chuck the Evil Sandwich-Making Guy," to call him by his full name. He and his older brother Brent (the Handsome Successful Everybody-Loves-Him Sandwich-Making Guy) crouch in an awkward, half-hidden state behind the cash register - Mental note - and for once, Chuck is perfectly innocent today. Well… At least, he'll stay innocent if he leaves all that money in the register where it's supposed to be. WordGirl cuts him off with a quick shake of her head and lifts a finger. Not a good time for conversation. She cups her hand against her ear. With an active mind control field, the whole downtown area could be her enemy. She tunes out the clack of metal spoons mixing hot chocolate in ceramic mugs (and Victoria crunching ice under her boot) to focus on the thumping robots. Yep. They're only two streets away and definitely there. In the distance, Kid Math's body whistles in the wind. She can hear the twinkle of Hexagonian super speed bouncing off the air waves, his blue cape flapping like a war banner. How nice.

Then she lightly smacks the back of Huggy's wrist. He jumps, scowling back at her. His hand hovers over an abandoned grilled cheese on the one table that hasn't yet been overturned. Huggy! she tries to think at him. For all you know, that could be Chuck's and you'll send him into a rampage if you devour that.

Her monkey sidekick withdraws his hand: uninjured, but mildly disappointed.

"Oh, goodness…"

It's been about 40 seconds since she paused to gather her bearings. Even a break half that long can be dangerous in the crimefighting world. WordGirl inhales another hissing breath.

Okay. Damage assessment: Is she bleeding? Normally Chuck is the first one to cry out if a cut on her face has temporarily broken skin, but although he's looking at her with unease glinting behind his goggles, he isn't pulling out huge handfuls of napkins or hurrying to her aid. Conclusion: No, she isn't cut.

She feels all right, actually. Woozy from a blow to the ribs, of course, but vigorous and potent nonetheless. Huggy rights a chair and leaps up. He adjusts the fit of her helmet, then gives a soft chirp. Ready for Round 3 against the entranced Kid Math (and Tobey, and Mr. Big, and giant robots too). Best monkey sidekick in the world. But Chuck, mistaking her plea for absolute silence as a mere suggestion to lower his voice, drops to a whisper.

"WordGirl, can't you put a stop to this? If your friend destroys the city, there won't be anywhere left for the rest of us to, oh…" He trails off, his fingertips wrapped around the cash register's top. His lower lip bulges. A genuine plea. "What's the word I'm looking for? It means to take cover from something destructive…?"

"Uh… Shelter?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, that's the one. If this goes on much longer, we won't have any shelter left."

His concern is accented by more squeaky giant robot footsteps. "I'm working on it, Chuck," WordGirl assures him, and hikes the pants sleeve of her costume above her boot to get a better look. Something there is aching, and she's willing to risk that small amount of skin so she can figure out how bad the hit was. "Ouch," says the Narrator on impulse, and WordGirl shoots him a sharp look to keep his voice down. "Sorry," he mutters next, and she hardens the look to steel.

Please… I don't want to give away my hiding spot.

Her bruise is already purple. That's the downside of speedy healing: you still have to go through all the same stages of it. Bruises get bigger before they fade. Well, this isn't going swimmingly at all. It's going the opposite of swimmingly, though she definitely won't say drowningly because that isn't a real word. Mr. Big has Kid Math stuffed like an ace up his fancy suit sleeve. His new superhero plaything can whisk into view almost anywhere in the city right now, and almost instantly. That's very much not a good thing.

Trading punches hadn't gotten them anywhere. Kid Math is just as fast as she is. Just as strong. Well. Kind of. He's well trained, highly coordinated, but he lacks real-world experience. She'd managed to yank his cape hard enough to flip him over, but the way he grabbed his neck sent too much panic through her heart for her to risk trying it again. She didn't want to hurt him. Not if she didn't have to.

They need a new plan. WordGirl hasn't yet determined whether the mind-controlled Kid Math is following exact orders one at a time, or if he's been given general instructions to track her down 'by any means.' Will he tear through walls to reach her? Is the sandwich shop in danger, and the civilians here with it? Yikes. Either way, Kid Math can really pack a punch… whether he's thinking independently or not.

Can he still access his super-hearing, even under Mr. Big's influence? Normally - equivalent to her - Kid Math can detect and identify any sound within a 4-mile radius. A few noisy, shrieking sounds (like alarms) can be heard as far away as 8. If that power remains active despite the mind control, even the slightest scuff of her fingers on the table could be subject to a thorough, dead-eyed examination from her superpowered friend. Kid Math wields powerful punches, he can fly, and he's got super speed… So yeah. This fight is bound to take all afternoon.

And Rose and I still need to have the first book in the representation project picked out by Monday. We haven't even started yet.

You know, she didn't push her class project off on purpose! It's just… she was on winter break from school, then spent yesterday afternoon chasing Captain Tangent around the underground parking lot. Then she had a phone call with Violet that drew out a lot longer than both had intended. They're planning a winter playdate for their unicorns before the snow melts for another year. WordGirl grits her teeth. Ms. Davis paired her up with Rose for this presentation, and they're supposed to meet at the library tomorrow (Because no way was she going to be able to tolerate Tobey and Victoria together if they went today). Rose will definitely stare into her soul if she turns up without so much as a suggested titles list. I mean, she'll understand, probably… Rose is one of the very few people who knows Becky's secret identity as WordGirl, but still. It's no excuse to not contribute. They're supposed to be a team.

Okay. Focus. 40 seconds have quickly turned to 50. WordGirl lifts her head to the sandwich shop door. Huggy catches her attention with a chitter: Does she have any concerns with dealing blows to Kid Math's unprotected head, or does she feel confident that his super-durability will cover him?

"Ooh… Good question, Huggy. I'm not sure how durable he is. We've only done some light sparring during training, and I don't really know how he'll handle a full attack just yet. Better not to risk it if we don't have to; I'll go light on him. We'll figure out something else." And maybe look into getting him a helmet later. Her noggin's been saved several dozen times thanks to her own. Plus, since she and Huggy were able to modify their own helmets a year ago to block out most of Mr. Big's mind control schemes, it's way smarter to fit one on the kid than let him roam without.

Rex is tough… He'll be fine, right? Even if I have to spin him around a whole bunch of times before I toss him at a convenient nearby pillow factory?

The faint wub wub hum of mind control signals fills the downtown Fair City streets like rising floodwater. Right. Okay. That's still ongoing in the background, as is the wail of a bank alarm on the other side of the office buildings. Everyone who's kept indoors all this time is still safe from the mind control - though WordGirl isn't sure they understand that - so none of the civilians in the sandwich shop are a threat if she needs a few seconds more to catch her breath. Her leg is bruised, but she can stand. She slides past the tables, creeping to the window. Okay. She pastes her forehead to the chilly glass. It fogs up against her breath. Hhh.

She really should have expected this, you know. It was part of the deal. The Evil Villains Association allowed her to bring Kid Math to villain karaoke night in December so she could make introductions between them before her friend had to face anyone solo. In return, they'd wanted her utter confirmation that it would be her, not Kid Math, showing up to battle them personally for at least the next two weekends. It was odd, really. Chuck absolutely seemed on edge. He almost threw himself into a wild crime spree last week, darting back and forth with little rhyme or reason. He sprayed his condiments all over the streets until he slammed into the edge of the boardwalk so fast, his ray went flying into the ocean. Well. Technically it bounced off a rock and blasted him with ketchup on the way down. She'd tried talking to him about it, probing for reasons why he suddenly flew into this crazed mania for capers that weren't even sandwich-themed, but he kept babbling and wiping at his eyes and didn't even seem to know himself. Technically he hadn't committed a crime, only stared through a few windows and spooked a couple people with his ray, so he hadn't gone to jail. Maybe when all of this is over, she'll circle back here to the sandwich shop and try talking to him. See if he's calmed down enough to chat.

Just look at Tobey and Mr. Big up there…

Even if the low thrum of a mind control device hadn't given away his involvement in this battle, Mr. Big's laugh from the roof of an ambiguous building totally would have. He's standing on a rooftop with a small remote in his hands. As WordGirl watches, Mr. Big then wrenches a giant lever from its middle position up to full strength. A bleeping 'Power Up' noise slices through the ongoing hum.

Eugh. As if this wasn't bad enough.

And of course it only gets worse after that. Atop the nearby three-tiered, cake-shaped bakery, Tobey mutters a string of mild, censored curses and clicks several buttons on his sixth (sixth!) remote. WHY! Why did he bring SIX? While Mr. Big's remote controls Kid Math, Tobey's controls his giant robots. Those are no less of a threat to the city's safety than a pint-sized superhero. WordGirl curls her fingers in the taut skin beneath her eyes, darting her gaze left and right, as Huggy adjusts his position on her back. He gives her helmet a comforting pat. His stomach rumbles for the sandwich he left behind.

"This is ridiculous, Huggy… How can I defeat both those villains and Kid Math too? Not to mention the Butcher at the bank."

"Oh, that's where he went," Chuck mumbles behind her.

At that very moment, an enormous metal body creaks its way right past Tobey, heading in the sandwich shop's direction. WordGirl backs away from the window and the civilians let out a few whimpers. Mr. Big shouts a command. Or a warning? The resulting CLANG! CRUNCH! can only be Kid Math ramming his foot into a robotic chest and backflipping off again.

REEEEERRRRRRGGGGGHHHH…

The robot topples back with groaning joints and a spin of its arms. It crashes to the asphalt, sending a burst of snowflakes into the air. WordGirl winces, pressing her fingers to her forehead, while Tobey (self-proclaimed boy genius, designer and programmer of the robot army) spits and splutters on the tiny roof of the bakery's top cake tier. His blond hair's gotten all scruffed up. He grabs it in both fists, the remote pinched between his forefinger and thumb.

"Hey! What are you doing? My robots were strictly off limits in this power display, you new money maniac!"

"Eeesh," WordGirl mutters to Huggy. "Well, at least there's one fewer of them now. I hope that section of road wasn't too important."

"Oh, come on," she hears Amazing Rope Guy groan from the crater of a robotic footprint. WordGirl can't see him from here, but this is followed by the sounds of scuffling and several familiar grunts. She can imagine he's trying to push himself on his hands, maybe wiping chunks of glittery mica from his face.

"I'm sorry, Theodore," Mr. Big calls across the gap of road between them, "but I've always wanted to do that with a superhero! It won't happen again. Big's honor. Mwa-ha!"

Tick tock, tick tock. WordGirl checks her leg again and grimaces, falling back into total silence. She doesn't even click her teeth. For about four seconds out there, she'd managed to zoom up behind Kid Math and whisk him away in her arms. The plan had been to tie him to something so she could fly back to the water tower where Leslie commanded the main mind control device, but Tobey had put a quick end to that plan by backhanding her with one of his robots. She'd slammed into a brick building so fast, she left a small star-shaped dent behind.

Unfortunately, hauling Kid Math around hadn't been as easy as it sounds. In the process, his struggling kicks had left multiple sprouting bruises between her right knee and ankle, along with a sizable patch on her upper thigh and another to the side of her ribs. She has super fast healing powers. Unfortunately, since they aren't open cuts, the delay will be longer than she'd like. At the moment? It'll be two hours. Faster than human skin, yes… but not faster than the amount of time she can afford to catch her breath. Her alien body can redistribute its energy, but she needs it all for the fight right now, not for healing. It's time to get moving.

As she runs her thumb along the bruises, Brent pokes his head a little higher from behind the cash register. His eyes crinkle. "Ooh, you should put some ice on those, WordGirl. If left to sit, they could make you sore for days."

"Brent, I appreciate your genuine concern," she begins, but Mr. Big's authoritative voice booms across the cold sky, ending all protest: "Come out and say 'Hi' to my new and improved business partner, WordGirl! I think you could learn to love him!"

He means Kid Math. That much is blatant. Still, this doesn't stop Tobey from adjusting his glasses with his fingertips, muttering about how he rather considered himself Mr. Big's business partner for now, but no way was he about to start a fistfight with WordGirl over it. "Yeah, all right," she mumbles back. "Come on, Huggy. We've got work to do."

He chirps at her in mild disappointment, but pulls his hand away from the salami sandwich he'd been reaching for. It's definitely time to go. The 60 seconds spent here have been 60 seconds too long. WordGirl doesn't bother tossing Chuck or Brent a meaningful good-bye. Just a reminder that she knows exactly who to look for if that cash register mysteriously goes empty. Grabbing Huggy beneath his arms, she kicks into super speed and spirals from the shop in a beam of golden light.

FWIIISHHH!

When it comes to raw strength, Mr. Big and Leslie aren't much competition. Well… Leslie is maybe, but Mr. Big is a Tier 3 villain. He can be shaken up after only a few minutes of darting around. Tobey's robots can be trouble, but Tobey himself is a pushover; she can handle him. And Kid Math?

Well… He's just Kid Math. Sure, he's got super strength and super speed, but he's only eight. He can't even function at peak performance while under mind control. How destructive can he be?

To be continued…

A/N - Chapter length feedback? - This chapter was ~10,000 words excluding meta text (each of the two scenes ~5,000 words). I'm inexperienced with the WordGirl fandom and would be interested to hear if this was too long or just right.

References - Exposition Guy living across the street from the Botsfords and being married is from the episode "Chuck" and Miah liking to drive along the coast is a reference to her only other appearance of the series, "Ms. Question's Riddle Rampage." Mr. Newman is from "Big Baby" and lives next door in the castle-like house. Larry is Amazing Rope Guy (named after his voice actor) and was shown to be two doors down in "Diorama Drama." Glen Furlblam working at the sandwich shop is a reference to "A World Without WordGirl" when he was Two-Brains' boss there. WordGirl claiming she and Huggy modified their helmets to resist mind control is from "The Talented Mr. Birg." The cake-shaped bakery is from "The Butcher, the Baker, and the Candlestick Maker."

The Narrator's identical twin brother (who is 20 seconds older) appeared in "Mecha-Mouse." He also mentioned a brother named Glen who is a sportscaster in "Chuck's Brother," so I combined them into one character (not to be confused with Glen Furlblam). Also if you re-read my one-shot "AlgoRhythm," WordGirl calls Invisi-Bill's dad a skilled criminal. "Absent father on a crime spree" was always the plan, wheeze. The lemon bars refer to "Win a Day With WordGirl" when the Narrator said his mom makes the best ones, and Invisi-Bill running across the street while invisible is something he does in "Plain Old Mischief Makers" and I fear for him.

Also, I tried researching how foster kid paperwork actually works and there wasn't much info out there, so please forgive anything that seems unbelievable and just roll with it, skdjfs.

Thanks for reading!

Also, you can visit me on Tumblr (FountainPenguin) if you like!

Disclaimer - This story is a fanwork. I do not own WordGirl or its characters, nor do I make money by writing fanfiction. I drew the cover image and wrote a story inspired by characters I liked in the media.