Super jaded, p.1
Super Jaded, page 1
Super Jaded
Written by Hiker Angel.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - 4
Chapter 2 - 10
Chapter 3 - 15
Chapter 4 - 22
Chapter 5 - 27
Chapter 6 - 33
Chapter 7 - 38
Chapter 8 - 43
Chapter 9 - 49
Chapter 10 - 55
Chapter 11 - 60
Chapter 12 - 65
Chapter 13 - 70
Chapter 14 - 74
Chapter 15 - 79
Chapter 16 - 85
Chapter 17 - 91
Chapter 18 - 95
Chapter 19 - 102
Chapter 20 - 105
Chapter 21 - 110
Chapter 22 - 114
Chapter 23 - 119
Epilogue - 128
Chapter 1: Photoshoot
“How about something sexier?” Neil, the photographer, asked me as I walked on onto the set from backstage. My conservative, floor-length gown brushed the floor, despite the three-inch heels I wore as I paused to look in his direction. Gazing toward the source of the voice, I shielded my eyes from the bright lights on either side of him.
But I quickly realized that my instinctive reaction to the bright lights was silly. They wouldn’t damage my eyes. They couldn’t even impair my vision. I was simply acting out of habit.
If I’d been born with superpowers, I probably wouldn’t still be doing that sort of thing. But I haven’t. I hadn’t begun gaining powers until I was 14. Within a few months of my Grandpa giving me the serum, I found that my eyes could see anything. Through anything. Well, I guess I still struggled with lead a bit.
That had been almost a decade ago. The thought of my grandfather still made emotion well inside me. But I forced it down. Then, I lowered my arms, forcing my eyes to stop squinting. I turned my attention to the words the photographer had spoken and smirked.
Of course he wanted me to wear something skimpier. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that I spent half my life in form-fitting spandex, only abandoning the process recently. But I didn’t really mind. Sometimes I enjoyed showing off a little. I certainly had the body for it. Besides, it would make Fern all hot and bothered tonight when I showed her the photos.
“Fine,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. I acted put-out by the request, despite the fact that I was secretly a little pleased at his suggestion. I couldn’t have him thinking that I’d do anything without complaint, now could I? I’d learned that lesson the hard way a few years back. Give someone like him an inch without any sort of protest at all, and they always took a mile.
Neil snapped his fingers, and a girl in her early twenties—probably pretty close to my age, actually—hustled onto the set, rolling a rack of skimpy garments toward me.
As I eyed the scant bits of fabric, I pretended to be even more put out, raising an eyebrow at the photographer. “Seriously? You guys might have to donate a few thousand more to that charity if you want to take pictures of me in that stuff!”
The man frowned, then withdrew his phone, thumbing in a text or something. He was probably asking for the extra money. He hadn’t even objected! Damn. Should have asked for more. Oh, well. At least the kids would get a little something more out of my skin show.
As the girl tugged the rack to a sudden halt in front of me, she quickly hurried around it. She eyed the options carefully before reaching into the center of the still-swinging hangers to pull out two miniscule items. She turned, extending her arms to hold them in front of my body before giving them a critical eye. Looking to the photographer to see whether he approved of the cropped, cleavage-baring top and cutoff jean shorts so tiny that they were practically bikini bottoms, the girl watched him smile.
A moment later, his phone dinged with a message. Checking it, his smile broadened. “Ten thousand more… as you requested.”
I frowned, annoyed at myself for not asking for a hundred grand. Grumbling, playing up my displeasure as if I were contending for an Oscar, I snatched the two small pieces of fabric from the girl’s hands and stormed off toward the dressing room, not letting my displeasure go unknown.
I removed the dress, put my bra back on, and donned the thin, midriff-baring top. I pulled the shorts over my long legs, squirming them over my rounded hips. I actually had to use a bit of super strength to stretch these ultra-tight hip-huggers over my curvaceous ass.
I looked in the mirror. I had to admit—this little outfit did look good on me. That wardrobe girl apparently knew her stuff.
Not that anything didn’t look good on me. Another side effect of my superhuman power-up had been a pretty memorable puberty. I’d blossomed like you wouldn’t believe, in the end winding up with a body that pretty much any model—or athlete for that matter—would kill for. There were now subreddits dedicated to every one of my body parts. More than one in some cases. Don’t even get me started on the 37 discussion groups dedicated to my breasts. At this point, I didn’t even want to know what they were saying about me on 4chan.
Taking a deep breath that made the tight top creak under the pressure of my breasts, I flung open the door and marched petulantly onto the stage once again. I lay down on the sofa, extending my long, toned legs, pretty much fully bared by these tiny shorts, and flipped my thick mane of blonde hair behind me. I turned my blue eyes toward the camera and gave it my best come-hither, knowing that’s what this guy was going to want. It was easy as long as I imagined Fern in his place. Staring back at me. With those gorgeous dark eyes of hers...
Neil disappeared behind the camera momentarily before popping back up and yelling in his annoying voice. “I can’t see enough of your breasts from this angle! WARDROBE!!!”
The clothes-rack girl hustled to the stage once again, shooting the photographer a confused glance.
“You’ve covered her up far too much! We need to sell magazines here! You can’t handicap me by covering up her best features!”
Best features? He must mean my breasts. Did this guy not see that I was practically dressed in a swimsuit already? I thought my breasts looked pretty amazing in wardrobe girl’s duds.
The clothes girl plucked out a bikini top from the rack and extended it toward me. I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? I was supposed to be in a dress for this shoot! If you want to put me in a bikini, you’ll have to cough up another hundred thou for the kiddies, buddy.”
“Done,” he said.
Shit! He hadn’t even texted for that. He must have already gotten authorization for that much more. Apparently I was still undershooting my value!
I pushed her outstretched arm aside as I plucked the bikini top from her fingers, turning away from the man. I didn’t bother to go all the way to the changing room this time, opting to move things along more quickly by just pulling the crop over my head, unclasping my bra, then putting on the swim top. I turned, giving him an exaggerated roll of my blue eyes as I extended my arms outward.
“Happy now?” I asked him as the clothing girl wheeled away the rack once again.
The photographer licked his lips. Lecherous fucker.
“Much better,” he said, his eyes twinkling with lust. Shaking my head, I draped myself over the lounger once again.
He must have taken a thousand pictures during the fifteen minute shoot, but at least it was over as quickly as it was supposed to be. After he wrapped up, I called over to the clothing girl to ask if she wanted the clothes back. She shook her head. I was actually rather happy about getting to keep the clothes. Fern would dig seeing me in this getup. It was super sexy and fit my body like a glove.
I flashed to the dressing room to retrieve my phone from my bag at super-speed, returning to the stage with the phone already dialing, only the blast of wind from my sudden starts and stops serving as evidence that I’d even moved. The wardrobe girl’s hair was twisted twice around her head, and she clawed at it with her fingers in a vain attempt to recover her painstakingly styled look.
“Sorry about that,” I told her. It was a lie. I didn’t feel sorry for her. Messing up her hair really wasn’t that big of a deal. I probably should be more empathetic, I knew. But after everything I’d been through the last couple years, I was having more and more trouble feeling empathy for anyone other than Fern. People who said something nice to you one day would be on television dishing every bit of dirt they had on you the next. It was just how most people were. I knew that better than anyone.
Giving the girl a faux smile, I dialed my phone. “Hello?” came my agent’s tinny voice a moment later.
“Brenda? So that classy dress shoot for the kiddie’s charity you signed me up for?”
“Yes, sweetheart?” came Brenda’s Brooklyn accent.
“Well, it somehow became a bikini shoot,” I made sure my voice was stern, even though I really didn’t care. I just needed her to be straight with me, so it had to be addressed.
“Oh no, doll! That’s horrible. I must have mixed up this one with one of the other ones.” She paused for a moment. “But you did it, right? You went through with it?”
I sighed, knowing that she was a lot more concerned about her 20% cut than about me or the children I was doing the shoot to support.
“Yes, I went through with it.”
“That’s great, Nina. The cancer people will really thank you for it. Thanks for taking one for the team.”
“It’s an MS charity, Brenda.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Silly of me,” she said distractedly. “Listen, we good? ‘Cause I’ve got another call comin’ in .”
“Sure. Whatever, Brenda.” I hung up the phone. I didn’t know why I’d even gotten an agent. I could sign myself up for shitty endorsement deals and negotiate far under my value for charities just as well as she could. And give an extra 20% to the charities I was trying to support.
I could feel my cheeks heating at my own agent’s complete lack of interest in me or my causes. The crack of my phone’s screen made me realize I had gotten more worked up than I thought, and I released the pressure of my fingers around its edges.
I stormed off the set at superspeed, leaving the stunned wardrobe girl plucking strands of hair out of her face again. I swept into the dressing room to retrieve my bag, then exited the building, launching myself into the sky.
As I cruised through the air, I checked my twitter feed through the prism that was now the screen of my phone. That was a mistake, especially considering I was already fairly upset.
“hey babe wanna get naked i have a huge cock” —babekiller99
“You’re part of that alien conspiracy to fuck over earth aren’t you?” —Brad000191828
“UR hot. U single? —M3rcyM3_479
“Never forget that this so-called “hero” didn’t save the building of one Steven Eunice on 23rd street even though she was right there. #notmyhero” —MyDiamond01
I felt the glass, aluminum, and plastic of my phone crunch under the pressure of my slim fingers as my phone became a ball of useless junk faster than I could stop myself. Why did I even bother to tweet “good morning!” earlier today!? I should have known better than to look at social media when I was already upset!
My eyes trembled with fury, my lips twisting into a frown. I had actually had to get insurance to protect myself from all the people suing me for rescue injuries lately. And I’d saved the lives of nearly all of them! Talk about ungratefulness!
But that’s how people were. Or at least how they became when they took things for granted. And they, just like my agent, definitely took me for granted these days.
I’d been at this for a good while. Eight years.
At first, it was amazing! The world had been wowed by the fresh-faced girl with impossible strength and myriad other abilities previously only seen in movies and comic books. When I had made my first public appearance, saving several cars during a bridge collapse, I had been an object of hope for countless millions. I had been an icon of positivity in an ocean of hatred, bigotry, and despair. When I had protected a free election in Colombia, I’d received the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Interviewers fawned over me. Everyone seemed to love me.
By the time I was eighteen, though, things had begun to change. Criticism began to appear, with a growing number of comments that took issue with collateral damage I’d caused. I’d made the mistake of agreeing to do a magazine shoot not unlike the one I’d just left, though even more explicit, creating a wave of negative publicity and lewd commentary on my socials.
I had known it was a bad idea, but the idea of feeling sexy in front of millions of people had its appeal. Still did. But that magazine producer had known exactly how to play on that desire, pushing me past the point of what I was comfortable with and changing my image in the public eye forever. Sexy pictures would have been one thing. I’d been displaying my body in public for years in my skimpy costume before abandoning it. But an exposé on my sex life to go with them? I let my frown deepen. I should never have let that man talk me into that. My agent Brenda was of the same ilk. Eager to profit off me, consequences to me, my reputation, and my mental health be damned.
I felt my blood boil. Maybe I should start paying those types of people visits rather than the more conventional criminals in the city. Most of the people I stopped from robbing others or from violence were victims of one sort or another themselves. Victims of predators like Brenda. Like magazine producers. Like most people in positions of power. It would serve them right. Who knew how many young women people like that would cajole into doing things they weren’t comfortable with for their own profit. Fuckers.
I landed on the balcony of my high-rise apartment, as usual, storming into my living room and turning on the television to the news channel I usually watched. The bottom ticker on the screen read. “Does Nina Eternal prioritize minorities at the expense of white people?”
What. The. Fuck?
Prioritizing minorities? Yesterday, another commentator had accused me of racism because I had saved a white couple from drowning while a black couple across town had burned to death in a house fire.
And the day before, China had declared me a threat to their national security, citing the fact that I only seemed interested in helping the United States and its allies.
I couldn’t win.
The screen flipped to a Congressman, announcing his proposal for Congress to investigate the potential national security threat of super-powered individuals.
And I was the only super-powered individual that I was aware of. Nice. A whole commission to investigate how dangerous I was. To my home country now.
It was the last straw.
I felt my lips contort in anger, and I growled as I ran up to the large LED screen. I launched a front kick directly into its center, snapping its cord with a sharp electric crack. The large screen flew backward, embedding it into the wall. A wisp of smoke twirled upward from its shattered center with a breathy hiss.
I turned, collapsing on the couch as bitterness boiled inside my stomach. I curled into a fetal position and began to sob.
Chapter 2: Grandpa
As I cried myself to sleep, I dreamed a memory. I did that a lot. Especially lately. And most of the time I thought of my Grandpa. Probably because this whole superhero thing was really his fault. It started when I was 14...
I coughed, grimacing in pain. I remember trying to raise my stick-thin arm to my mouth to wipe the saliva from my lips, but after a brief struggle, it fell immediately to the blanket. Willpower alone wasn’t enough. I just didn’t have the strength.
“Here, child. Let me get that for you.” Grandpa pulled a tissue from the box and wiped my chin. His eyes crinkled around the corners. It was his way of smiling, I knew. It probably had to do with me. I had been sick for years, but by then, it had gotten to the point where Grandpa’s smiles didn’t reach his lips.
His scrubbing motion with the tissue pushed my head this way and that. My neck muscles lacked the strength to keep my head steady from even as gentle a motion as that of my grandfather’s caring hand.
“I’m sorry I’m so weak, Grandpa,” I said. I apologized to him a lot. I knew I was taking up most of his time and energy, and I felt guilty about it. He was a retired geneticist. He should be able to relax and enjoy, but instead he was stuck with me.
His eyes grew glassy, the crinkles around them shifting. They still looked warm, but now they looked sad. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, sweetie. It’s not your fault you’re sick.”
