Locked out of Apartment

The first thing Karen Starr registered was sunlight. Not the harsh, accusatory glare of a police interrogation lamp or the blinding flash of an exploding moon, but a gentle, warm stream filtering through the blinds, painting lazy stripes across her duvet. It was a rare, precious thing: a day off. No board meetings at StarrWare, no alien invasions, no calls from the Justice League. Just… quiet.

She stretched, a long, luxurious motion that started from her toes and arched her back, her muscles singing with a pleasant, lazy ache. The silence of her high-rise apartment was a balm. No city sirens, no frantic news reports. For a moment, she just lay there, letting the calm settle over her. Karen Starr, CEO, and Power Girl, protector, was, for today, simply a woman enjoying her bed.

But the call of a hot shower was undeniable. With a groan of ****, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet padded softly on the cool hardwood floor as she made her way to the en-suite bathroom. The room was pristine, all white tile and chrome, smelling faintly of lavender and eucalyptus. She flicked on the light, the soft glow illuminating the vast space, and caught her reflection in the mirror.

Even in her rumpled sleepwear, she was a striking figure. Short, honey-blonde hair was a messy halo around her head. Her face, free of makeup, was sharp and defined, with high cheekbones and a determined set to her jaw that could intimidate seasoned generals. But it was her body that truly commanded attention. She was the very image of an Amazonian powerhouse, sculpted by solar radiation and endless battles. Her shoulders were broad and strong, flowing into powerful, well-defined arms. Her waist nipped in dramatically before flaring out into hips that were wide and solid, a testament to the formidable strength in her lower body. And then there were her breasts, large and full, so perfectly sculpted they seemed almost a work of art, a physical manifestation of her Kryptonian heritage.

"Alright, you," she muttered to her reflection, her voice a low, slightly husky rumble. "Time to wash the city off you."

With practiced efficiency, she began to undress. First to go was the teal-colored t-shirt and light khaki sweatpants, clothes chosen for comfort, not style. She pulled the shirt over her head, and the motion made her heavy breasts sway gently beneath the thin fabric of her bra. She tossed the shirt onto a wicker hamper. Next, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the baggy sweatpants and shimmied them down her long, muscular legs. Her thighs were powerful, corded with muscle that could shatter concrete, yet they still held a feminine curve. As the pants pooled around her ankles, she stepped out of them, leaving her in just her plain white bra and thong.

"God, I feel like I've been wearing the same clothes for a week," she grumbled, reaching behind her back to unhook the bra. The white straps slid down her shoulders, and she freed her arms, letting the garment fall. Her breasts, now unrestrained, dropped slightly, their full weight a familiar and grounding presence. The pink areolas were large, the nipples hardening slightly in the cool bathroom air. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her thong and slid it down her hips, stepping out of it a moment later. Standing naked before the mirror, she gave herself a once-over. A faint scar on her ribcage, a souvenir from a Doomsday clone. The definition in her abs. The power coiled in every inch of her.

"Ready for the real world," she said with a wry smile, turning away from her reflection to start the water.

She adjusted the taps until the spray was a perfect, steaming cascade, and stepped under the stream with a sigh of pure bliss. The heat soaked into her muscles, loosening the tension she always carried. She leaned her head back, letting the water sluice through her blonde hair. After a few moments of simple enjoyment, she reached for a bar of soap and began to wash, the suds sliding over her powerful form.

Her gaze fell upon the razor sitting on the tiled shelf. With a flick of her eyes, a faint, crimson glow emanated from them, precise and controlled. She aimed the micro-thin beams of heat at the razor's head, and the blade heated to a perfect, sterile temperature in an instant. It was her own invention: laser shaving. Far more efficient than any manual razor.

She lifted one long, sculpted leg onto the edge of the tub. Her skin, already smooth, glimmered under the water. With another focused burst of her heat vision, she ran the glowing blade over her shin, the hair vaporizing into nothingness without a sound. It was a practiced, mundane act for her, a blending of her superhuman abilities with the most human of routines.

As she worked, her mind wandered back to the conversation she’d had last night with Atlee. She smiled faintly. Her young friend, a breath of fresh air from the subterranean world of Terre, was currently navigating the "surface world" with the gleeful abandon of a puppy in a field of butterflies. On a whim, Karen had gifted her a top-of-the-line, untraceable smartphone, mostly so she could keep tabs on her, but also because she knew Atlee would get a kick out of it.

Right on cue, as if summoned by the thought, the phone sitting on the vanity buzzed. Karen’s own phone, waterproof and shatterproof, of course. She leaned out of the spray, snagging it with a wet hand, and saw Atlee’s face on the screen. She swiped to answer, propping the phone against the soap dish, and angled her head so her ear was clear of the water.

"Morning, Atlee," she said, her voice echoing slightly in the tiled room.

Atlee’s cheerful, slightly breathless voice came through the speaker. "Karen! Oh my gosh, you will not believe what this little rectangle can do! I pointed it at that big, twisty building downtown—you know, the one that looks like a helix—and it told me its name! And that it was built in 2004! How does it know things? Is it magic?"

Karen chuckled, a low, warm sound. "It's not magic, Atlee. It's GPS and an augmented reality app. It accesses a database of information based on your location."

"A-ought-jay… what?" Atlee sounded utterly bewildered.

"Never mind. Just… be careful with it. And don't go into any dark alleys showing people the 'magic rectangle'."

"I wouldn't! But Karen, there's so many people! And the food! I had this… this thing called a 'pizza'? It was a circle of bread with red sauce and melted cow cheese on it! It was amazing! I wanted to hug the man who gave it to me!"

"His name is probably Tony," Karen deadpanned, switching to her other leg. The crimson beams from her eyes danced over her thigh, meticulously removing every stray hair. Her leg muscles flexed under the invisible heat. "And I'd advise against hugging strangers, no matter how good their pizza is. It's considered… forward."

"Oh." Atlee paused, processing this. "But… why? If you’re happy, and they made you happy, shouldn’t you share the happiness?"

"Just… trust me on this one," Karen said, a fond exasperation in her tone. "So, besides nearly hugging pizza chefs and interrogating buildings, what else has the mighty Atlee been up to?"

There was a tell-tale shift in the younger woman's voice, a breathy, excited lilt that made Karen’s ears perk up. "Well… I met someone."

Karen paused her laser shaving. "Oh? Do tell. Is he a handsome building? A talking hot dog?"

"Very funny," Atlee huffed, though she was clearly smiling. "No, he's a boy. A man, I mean. I was at the… what do you call it? The place with the loud music and the sticky floor? A bar! I was at a bar, and he came up to me. His name is Jax."

"Jax," Karen repeated, her tone flat. "Of course it is."

"He's got this… hair. It's dark and it falls over his eyes, and he wears this leather jacket that makes a swish sound when he turns around. And he has a tattoo of a skull on his arm!"

Karen couldn't help but let out a short bark of laughter. "Oh, he sounds like a real winner. A leather jacket and a skull. The trifecta of bad news. What did this paragon of virtue want?"

"He just wanted to talk! He was very… intense. He asked me what my story was, where I was from. He said my eyes were 'like looking into a nebula'."

"Poetic," Karen said, resuming her shaving. "And completely nonsensical. He’s trying to charm you, kid. It's a classic bad boy move. They’re all the same. They use big words they don’t understand and lean against things."

"He's not a bad boy!" Atlee protested, her voice rising in defense. "He's just… mysterious!"

"Mysterious is what guys who don't want you to know they have a criminal record call themselves," Karen retorted. She finished her second leg and admired her handiwork. Smooth, flawless. She turned off the water, the sudden silence making Atlee's voice seem even clearer through the phone. "So, what's the plan? Are you going to let this Jax take you on a 'mysterious' date to a 'mysterious' fast-food joint?"

"I don't know! Maybe!" Atlee sounded flustered now. "I just think he's interesting."

"Right," Karen said, a smirk playing on her lips as she reached for a towel. "I'll bet he is. Let me guess, he drives a motorcycle that's louder than a jet engine and thinks 'settling down' is a type of martial arts."

"You're being mean!" Atlee whined. "He's nice!"

"He's a guy in a leather jacket named Jax, Atlee. He's probably got a personality as deep as a puddle and a penis to match." The words were out of her mouth before she could filter them, the kind of blunt, sarcastic humor she used to deflate situations. "Probably hasn't seen four inches in his life."

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. Then, a soft, indignant gasp. "Karen! That's… that's so rude!"

Karen winced slightly. Okay, maybe that was a bit much, even for her. She could practically feel Atlee’s pout through the phone. The girl was a soul of pure, unadulterated innocence. Insulting her new crush was like kicking a puppy.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," Karen relented, her voice softening. She stood up from the tub, water dripping from her body and forming a puddle on the floor. "I just… I worry about you. The surface world has a lot of… sharp edges. I don't want you to get hurt."

"You don't even know him," Atlee mumbled, still sounding wounded.

"You're right, I don't," Karen conceded as she wrapped a large, fluffy pink towel around her torso. She tucked the end in securely above her bust. "But I know his type. And I know your type. You're a sweet kid who thinks the best of everyone. He's probably looking to take advantage of that." She walked out of the bathroom, the phone still pressed to her ear. In the mirror of her bedroom, she saw her reflection. The pink towel was a stark contrast against her toned, tanned skin. It was wrapped tightly around her curves, accentuating her wide hips and the impressive swell of her chest above the terrycloth edge. Her damp hair clung to her neck and forehead.

"Look," Karen continued, her tone practical now. "If you really like him, then ask him out. Take control. Show him you're not some doe-eyed tourist. But," she added, a teasing lilt returning to her voice, "don't you come crying to me when you find out his 'swagger' is all he's got going for him downstairs. Four inches, Atlee. Tops."

"You are impossible!" Atlee cried, though Karen could hear the hint of a laugh fighting its way through the girl's indignation. "I'm hanging up! I'm going to go… have a smoothie! A mysterious smoothie!"

"Have fun," Karen said, her smirk widening. "And text me if he tries to sell you a timeshare!"

She ended the call, chuckling to herself. The kid was too easy to tease. But her heart was in the right place. Atlee deserved someone good, someone genuine. Not some leather-clad cliché named Jax.

Her own phone buzzed again, but this time it was an internal alert from her building’s security system. A motion sensor in the hallway outside her door had been triggered. She frowned, using her x-ray vision to glance through the walls and floor. The hallway was clear of people, but there was a small pile of envelopes and a package sitting on her doormat. The mail. Right, it was Tuesday.

"Already?" she muttered to herself. "Guess I'd better get it before one of the neighbors decides to 'help' by 'returning to sender'."

She sighed. So much for a lazy morning. But she was already up and dressed—well, towel-d. It would only take a minute.

"Alright, Stinky, I'm just popping out for a second," she called out to her ginger tabby cat, who was curled up on a velvet armchair in the corner, looking utterly unimpressed with her morning activities.

She padded barefoot out of the bedroom and down the short hallway to the apartment door. As her hand touched the cold metal of the doorknob, a flash of orange fur shot between her ankles. It was Stinky, suddenly decided that her departure was an invitation to play.

"Hey! Stinky, no!" Karen laughed as the cat began to bat playfully at the edge of her towel, its little claws snagging slightly in the terrycloth. "Not now, you little pest."

She took a step forward, trying to dislodge him, but Stinky was persistent. He latched onto the towel with his teeth and began to tug, a low growl of feigned ferocity in his throat. It was cute, for about two seconds.

"Stinky, I swear to—" Karen began, trying to shake him off.

With a sudden, surprisingly strong yank, the cat pulled. The towel, already on the precipice of loosening, began to slip. Karen gasped, her reflexes far too slow for this domestic nonsense. She instinctively clamped one hand over the towel to hold it in place, but the damage was done. The knot gave way, and the towel fell from her upper body.

Her large, heavy breasts, suddenly freed, bounced with a soft, fleshy weight, their full, round shape exposed to the cool air of the hallway. The pink areolas were tight in the chill. For a horrifying second, she was completely topless in her own doorway.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" she hissed, snatching the towel up with lightning speed and clutching it to her chest. Her heart hammered in a rhythm of pure, unadulterated mortification. She glared down at the cat, who simply looked up at her with wide, innocent green eyes, his tail twitching. "Bad cat!"

She shooed him away with a frantic wave of her hand. Stinky, taking this as an excited new game, let out a playful "Mrrrow!" and darted back into the apartment with a burst of speed. He shot past her legs, a blur of orange, heading straight for the bedroom.

"No, Stinky, wait!" Karen cried, pivoting on her heel.

But it was too late. The cat, in his frantic dash, didn't just run past the door; he bumped against it with his little body. The heavy, solid-core door, which had been standing wide open, began to swing shut with the inexorable momentum of its own weight. It slammed into the doorframe with a deafening BANG!

And then, with a sound that froze the blood in Karen's veins, came the definitive, metallic CLICK of the automatic deadbolt engaging.

Karen stared at the closed door, her mind refusing to process what had just happened. Her cat was inside. Her clothes were inside. Her phone was inside. Her glasses were inside.

And she was outside.

In the hallway.

Wearing nothing but a hastily-clutched pink towel that was, she now realized with a fresh wave of horror, snagged on the exterior latch of the door. The corner of the terrycloth was caught, preventing the door from being perfectly flush, but it was still locked tight.

"No," she whispered, a single, **** word. She lunged forward, grabbing the doorknob and twisting. It didn't budge. She rattled it, a frantic, useless gesture. She pushed against the door. Nothing. It was a slab of reinforced steel, designed to withstand a battering ram.

Her mind, usually a whirlwind of tactical solutions and super-powered options, was momentarily blank. Of course, she could tear the door off its hinges. She could use her heat vision to melt the lock. She could phase through the wall. She could—

—have to explain to the building super, Mr. Paul, why there was a five-foot-eight-inch hole melted through her apartment door. Again. The last time she'd had to do that, she'd had to invent a whole new story about a faulty gas line and pay for a "specialist" from a "unique materials" company (a disguised Martian Manhunter) to come and fix it, all while a dozen bewildered contractors stood around. The paperwork alone was a nightmare. And she was out of spare, reinforced doors. Getting a new one installed would take weeks.

She leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the door, the towel pulling uncomfortably against her chest where it was snagged. "Okay, Karen, think," she muttered. "There's always a way."

She could fly. But she was naked under a towel. Flying through the skies of New York like that would be a PR disaster of epic proportions. She could try to call for help, but her phone was inside. She could try to break down the door, but then she'd have to deal with the fallout.

She strained her ears, listening for any sound from within the apartment. Nothing but the faint, satisfied purring of a certain ginger cat. "Stinky," she hissed through the door. "You are sleeping outside tonight."

As she stood there, trapped and debating her next move, a new sound reached her. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate footsteps coming up the main stairwell at the end of the hall. Her blood ran cold. Her building was generally quiet, but it wasn't a fortress. Anyone could be coming up those stairs. A neighbor. A delivery person. Mr. Paul, checking on a leaky faucet on this floor.

Panic, a feeling she hadn't truly experienced in years, flared in her chest. She was Power Girl. She fought cosmic tyrants and stared down gods. But the thought of one of her neighbors—sweet, elderly Mrs. Higgins from 12B, or the young, awkward couple from 12A—seeing her like this… it was a different kind of terror. She was a relatively private person, especially about her civilian identity. This was a violation of that privacy on a fundamental level. The humiliation would be staggering.

She pressed her back flat against the door, trying to make herself as small as possible, her hand coming up to cover her face in a gesture of pure, abject misery. The footsteps were getting louder. They were definitely coming to this floor. She braced herself, her mind already racing with pathetic, flimsy excuses.

Oh, hi, Mr. Paul! I was just… testing the door's… locking mechanism. From the outside. In a towel. It's a new StarrWare product, very secure!

Hello, Mrs. Higgins! Don't worry, this is just… avant-garde performance art. It's called 'Tenant's Lament'.

Her cheeks burned with a heat that rivaled her heat vision. This was worse than fighting a planet-eater. This was personal. This was mortifying. She even found a grim, dark humor in the situation. "Great," she whispered to the unhearing door. "Just great. First my tits, now my ass. Mr. Paul's going to get a full show if this goes on. I mean, it's not like he hasn't seen me in the nide before. He'll probably think I've got a very unusual hobby."

The footsteps were at the end of the hallway now, just around the corner. She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable, soul-crushing moment of exposure.

And then, it hit her. A thought so terrifying it made the panic she'd felt before seem like a mild case of indigestion.

Her glasses.

They weren't on her face.

She'd taken them off before getting into the bath and placed them on the bathroom counter. When she'd left the bathroom to take the call from Atlee, she'd forgotten to put them back on. It was her day off; she hadn't planned on going anywhere or seeing anyone. Her vision was, of course, perfect without them, but that wasn't the point. The glasses were a crucial part of her disguise. They were the visual cue that said "Karen Starr, bespectacled tech CEO," not "Power Girl, Kryptonian powerhouse."

The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Right now, standing in the hallway of her apartment building, was a woman with a supermodel's body, displayed for all to see in a flimsy towel. She had superhuman presence, a bearing that radiated power even when she was terrified. Without the softening effect of the glasses, without the slightly awkward, intellectual persona they projected, what would people see?

They would see Power Girl.

And they would see her standing in front of the door to apartment 12C, the registered residence of Karen Starr.

The connection was too simple. Too obvious. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of local heroes, anyone who'd seen a clear photo of Power Girl, would put two and two together. The blonde hair, the impossible hourglass figure, the defiant set of her jaw even in panic. It was all there. Her secret identity, the one she guarded more fiercely than anything else, the one that allowed her to have a normal life, to run a company, to have friends like Atlee, was about to be blown wide open by a stupid cat and a locked door.

The footsteps rounded the corner. They were slow, measured. A man's shoes. Polished leather.

She was out of time. She was out of options.

The only choice left was the one she'd been trying to avoid. The towel was snagged. To get free, she would have to leave it behind. She would have to ditch it. She would have to stand here, completely and utterly naked, and try to wrench it free from the latch, or just let it go and face whatever came next.

The alternative was worse. To stand here, in a towel, and have her entire life, her entire world, unravel in front of a stranger's eyes.

"Crap"