“Have fun do re mi-ing the fa so la ti dos and I'll see you after work!” Sylvia makes me wave to her from the car so no one will think I'm driving her back to school because we were fucking. While she has a good point, mostly due to that being the truth, I still don't like it. I want to kiss her goodbye after we do that. We've been sneaking time with each other for years.

I hope some day we won't need to.

Sylvia waves back at me, smiling brighter than the sun on her silver strands of hair. I've always envied her a little for getting her hair from both of her parents while I got Olivia's not-quite-red shade of brown hair. Then again her hair probably wouldn't look so good cut short just above her shoulders like mine, but I can't imagine her looking any other way. Sylvia always stands out; her clothing is tight enough to stop her from looking formless and loose enough to flow around her majestically. Her movements are always so graceful.

Damn it - I'm staring. I don't mean to. I really can't help it. My lovely Honda coughs as I bring the engine back to life. When I started working at the diner, our parents agreed that I needed a car. They just didn't agree with me that one built during my lifetime was a good idea. I don't even bother remembering the year this scrap heap was assembled, but I know it was during the early nineties.

Linda's isn't far from Midas High, and it's even closer if I break the speed limit a little. Soon I'll be graduating, which means Sarah will let me be a solo cape. I don't intend to use the rust-mobile for my transportation, but the practice at ignoring street signs never hurts.

Well, it did the two times I got pulled over, but I've gotten better about that. Luckily my parents aren’t influential enough for it to go in the paper. No headlines of “Daughter of Silver Girl is Already Butting Heads with the Thin Blue Line”, or “Aurora LaSilvas: Young Heroine or Trouble Vigilante in the Making?”

I don't want an anything-mobile. This is the 21st century. If I can't have a hover car, then I want a motorcycle. My real mothers - Sarah and Olivia - used to drive around Midas on a sweet bike. They had style. I have a picture of them standing in front of Sylvia (their bike) and they look amazing. They look like the kind of heroines you see on TV, only cooler because they're my parents.

Though, a Ducati isn't really my thing. I'm saving up to buy something a little more American, something that screams style and defiance that could, in time, be something for my enemies to dread and the innocent to hope for.

Besides, thanks to my golden mother's gift, I can turn into solid metal - electrum thanks to being born an alloy. I can imagine how imposing seeing a woman with skin shining as much as the chrome on her speeding Harley would be. It would have to be something more than a little retro, of course, like a good old-fashioned Knucklehead, but there's nothing bad about that kind of retro. It's more the kind of old you don't make fun of for being old: you call it a classic.

I leave my lovely junker behind in its usual resting place and head on in. I'm a little early like always, but that's how I like it. Through the glass I can see we're getting business, but it looks like we won't get swamped.

Good. Linda tells me she always used to wish Sarah an uneventful patrol. Here's to an uneventful shift.

The woman at table five has one of the nicest pair of legs I've ever seen in my life. She's wearing strappy heels and a skirt that looks like it was sewn in a country where cloth is a luxury. She smiled at me, and I mean really smiled at me, when I brought her order. It wasn't much - just a small salad, some onion rings, and a Diet Coke - but she smiled at me as if I'd milked the Coke cow myself.

I can quite easily say I didn't mind one bit.

Standing by the register as I wait to slide a card or welcome in a customer, I keep glancing over at her legs. They're tan in a way that says she spent time not wearing a skirt and makes you wonder if she has any lines. Midas isn't by a beach, but she looks worth a lot of money. She might have gone on a business trip to some tropical island for a week. I glance at the door as she starts to look toward me. It's not polite to stare at the customers. Customers are supposed to be staring at me in my tight black blouse and matching slacks. The reverse is just rude.

Besides, it makes me feel guilty. Sylvia encourages my wandering eyes, but they make me feel disloyal. Thinking about sliding my tongue along the inside of her leg from her ankle to the sweet spot where her thigh meets her body might make my thighs burn and my chest feel a little hot, but I'd be happier holding Sylvia. It's so much more than sex.

Graduation is getting closer and closer. We're both already eighteen. I want to be with her for the rest of my life.

I'd never dare ask her what she thought about that. Knowing me I'd probably ruin the question with some bad attempt at love poetry, anyway. The one girlfriend I had freshman year only took a week before she admitted I couldn't write a poem to save my life.

Didn't help that I had to try really hard not to write them for someone else. The woman at table five looks away. My finely-honed peripheral vision tells me she was discreetly trying to look at my ass. It feels way too flattering. She looks like she could buy and sell it, but she'd rather savor the view.

Pallas a slow shift can feel like it lasts forever.

My eyes drift to the woman's shoes. They're red. Not the loudest red, more of a cuddle-me-red than something raw. That has its own strange kind of appeal. She doesn't need volume to get attention. She's the kind of song you can turn down but still hear the words whispered right into your ear.

But who knows. All I know is she likes to flirt with waitresses. Maybe she's shallow. Maybe the reason she's so good at being subtle about where she stares is because she's a serial killer that only goes after women who have the right curves.

It can't be healthy that I'll give her the profession of literal lady-killer to try to make myself stop fantasizing about anyone besides my sister. It can't be healthy that the thought of Sylvia thinking about another woman makes me sick. Then again, I fuck my sister. It's been established that I am at least a little sick.

Just how sick is a matter of perspective.

The woman at table five clears her throat and I try as hard as I can not to blush. She winks. Maybe it was just a blink and I only looked at one of her eyes, but I'm pretty sure that was a wink. Wow. She is a very forward woman. Then again, I'm the waitress staring at her shoes.

Sylvia has a pair of heels the same color as the purple strands of her hair. If it's been a few days since she's shaved and they're all she's wearing . . . it's a breathtaking view. She always is, really.

A man walks into the diner and the sight of him instantly makes my mind stop wandering. He's wearing a long dark trench coat, a black skullcap, and his eyes don't stay still for more than two seconds. He doesn't even stare at my tits. One of his hands is inside a wide pocket.

Sarah's training or not, this guy would set off red flags in anyone's mind. The woman at table five even looks a little nervous. The man walks past me and stops in front of the register. We don't do assigned seating, and the thought of talking to him or even serving him a glass of water makes my stomach knot. If he walked toward me on the sidewalk, Electrum or not, I'd cross the street. Something about him looks unclean both physically and mentally.

But I'm not on a sidewalk. I'm at work. She knows I can hold my own, but Linda usually takes care of situations like this. I grudgingly move behind the register after a quick scan of the diner lets me know she must still be in the back. “Hello sir, how can I help you?”

His right hand, the hand in his pocket, shakes. Pallas what I wouldn't give for X-Ray vision. That also applies to the woman at table five, though it's hard to get worked up at the moment.

“Y-yeah . . . you can help me . . .” His voice shakes like a wet rat and his breath reeks like an alleyway. His darting eyes only slow down when he looks at the register. High alert mode doesn't begin to describe how tense my body feels.

Instead of continuing, he just stares and seems like he can't find the words. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin looks stretched a little too tightly over his elongated skull.

I feel bad for the sketch artist his likeness is bound to be inflicted upon sooner or later.

“Yes, sir?” Using the word ‘sir’ in his direction makes a part of me cringe. Sir? Him, a sir? ‘Pigpen's aura of grime’ at least had some charm. I never thought there would be a day when I was going to be calling someone like him sir.

He takes a big step back, and his whole body shakes with it. I thought at first that he might be tweaking. The odds are better that he wishes he were. Desperately. His right hand shakes a little more. Quicker than he's been able to do anything else he pulls out a shining black gun too far away for me to yank away from him. Table five is too close for me to want to duck and hide, should he be angry that I didn't feel like helping.

“M-money! All of it, now! Nobody'll be hurt . . . You just give me the money . . . !” His voice drips with uncertainty. I don't think he wants to hurt anyone but I think he's afraid he'll have to now that he's come this far. God damn it. Why did this have to happen today? “Just put it all in a takeout bag or something!”

“Sir . . .” I put my hands up over my head in the traditional sign for “please do not shoot me” and bite my lip. I'm a wee bit young to die, especially not in costume. “This is Midas City. This really isn't a good idea. Diners aren't the most lucrative targets, and any number of super-powered or utility-using heroes could be watching you right now. City of a thousand heroes, right? This is really not a very smart idea.”

I hoped if I could spout off enough bullshit I could buy some time to think of some way to disarm him, but I've got nothing. Throwing something at him would be an awful idea. I can fly a little but, even if that would help, I like being able to melt off the metal and not be known as Electrum.

The man freezes. He doesn't take the gun off of me, and he keeps one eye on me as he looks to either side as much as he can. No one in the diner moves. Good. No one wants to be a hero.

Instead of lowering the gun, which would be a lovely idea, the man grins. It's a sick and twisted grin that you'd imagine a child molester having for his worst moments. “Feels p-pretty good on this side of the gun!”

Shit.

I hear the click of the trigger, but only for a second. There's a reason that any loud sound is compared to a gunshot. The sound is impossible to miss. A bottle rocket has nothing on a pistol without a silencer.

The bullet slams into my chest, and I slam into the door to the back. I don't know how my hand got to my chest but it’s there and grasping tight enough to hurt. My heart is racing and I'm so dizzy that my eyes refuse to focus. There's a scream from the woman at table five, and then from Linda staring down at me.

I can feel my torn uniform under my fingertips. The torn uniform, and . . . metal. My chest must have transmuted itself on instinct. It feels like a piece of me must have broken off until I pull back my hand and see the crumpled shard of the bullet.

I can hear sounds of a struggle from the dining area. Metal hits the tile, and it's not me or the bullet. There are no more gunshots. Linda kneels down and stares at my chest. She whispers something, but my ears are ringing and I can't hear her well enough to pick out her words.

The gun wasn't that loud. I must be freaking out, which makes sense. I just got shot. That man just shot me square in the chest. It doesn't even sting. I doubt I would have fallen if I hadn't been so freaked out, unless that was a really strong gun. I don't know enough about guns. I really should change that.

My ears start to clear and the first thing I hear is “he's down!” and I breathe a sigh of relief. Good. He shot me and not someone else. Better he shot someone who could take the bullet. I can take a bullet to the chest.

I make the yellow-gray alloy melt back into my skin, and the bullet clatters to the floor. I think I'll take a little nap down here before trying to stand back up.

“Aurora! Aurora, are you okay?!” I'm sitting up, but I don't remember moving. Oh, right, I passed out. Blinking, I can make out Linda's face. She's been running the diner since before Sarah moved to Midas, and she still looks young. Not as young as Mom looks for being in her forties, but she's still young in her own way. “Lucky for us we get a fair amount of supers visiting . . .”

“Well, the not-so-famous Silver Girl worked here, and now her daughter does. That's gotta be worth something, right?” My grin is a little too wide at first and hurts my face, but that feels oddly encouraging. “I'm just a little dizzy, but considering how I should be feeling that's pretty amazing.”

Looking around a little I can see I'm in the employee bathroom. This is a surprisingly comfortable toilet. I actually thought I was sitting on a normal chair.

I look down at my chest. My uniform is ruined. The bullet hole isn't much, but it's not in an especially convenient place. I'll keep the shirt as a memento, but I don't think I'll wear it again unless I really need a good luck charm; after all, it helped me take a bullet to the chest. I can take bullets. Sarah never told me if Olivia could and, even then, my silver isn't as strong as Sarah's so my gold wouldn't be as strong as Olivia's. Shrugging off bullets? That'll be useful.

Not that I want to make taking bullets an everyday occurrence, but knowing I can means I can put myself in a lot more situations without there being real danger. Then again, there are lots of armor-piercing bullets, laser guns . . . I don't know how strong my metal really is.

Still, bullets!

“I knew who your parents were, but that still . . . that's pretty amazing. I was going to call Sarah, but Sarah would have been upset if I would have called Susan back when she took that chain to her head. I've told you about that time, right?” Sometimes Linda feels like part of the family. She doesn't know any of the real secrets, but she knew Sarah from way back and that's enough. Besides, she doesn't need to know everything.

Nodding, I rub over the bare skin where that bullet hit. It's too bad the bullet is evidence or it would make a great keepsake. Silly judicial system requiring proof to lock people away.

Smiling, I look up at the ceiling and stretch just a little. “Yeah, she needed stitches after having a run-in with a gang not too far away after closing back when she was just starting to use the name Silver Girl. Sorry to worry you, but really I'm okay. The bullet didn't even hurt. I think I only fell over because I was scared or shocked or . . . and I think I passed out because I hit the floor pretty hard.”

“Still, you should probably get checked out. You have the rest of the day off - paid. You don't need to be waitressing after taking a bullet even if it didn't hurt. I can get Jamie to drive you if you're still dizzy-“

“-nah, I'll be fine Linda, thanks!” There's only one hospital that I would ever consider visiting, and that's the Midas Touch. I'd really rather not have Valerie find out like this. She'll want to hear why I got shot in the first place, and I'll have to answer with something along the lines of “Because I taunted a man pointing a gun at me.” That was the worst talking down in the history of standoffs. “I can drive there on my own, I'm good enough for that.”

Linda smiles and nods as she helps me stand. “I'll see you Monday, 'Rora.” I admit, I'm not really fond of that nickname when anyone but Sylvia uses it, but it's impossible to be angry with Linda. She's my boss, but she's family. Family . . . well, I wouldn't fuck Linda.

I don't go to the hospital, obviously. I go home to curl up on Sylvia's bed and smell her pillow. The realization that I just faced my mortality doesn’t hit until my face is buried in her pillow. The adrenalin rush was amazing, but that doesn't make it any less frightening. I was almost shot and killed. A bullet isn't always fatal, but his aim was pretty good for a junkie.

Her scent makes me feel a little better, but I still spend a couple of hours alternating between wanting to cry and feeling invincible. Bullets can't hurt me. I turned to metal as an instant defense mechanism, but not everywhere. I only turned metallic under my clothes. Only Linda knows and she already had a hint.

This is a good look at my job-to-be, but it's also frightening and embarrassing. I didn't even try to move. I didn't dive at him. I just took a bullet and crumpled up on the floor.

“Aurora . . .? Aurora, what's wrong . . .?” I must have been so lost in my own thoughts that I didn't hear her getting home. I'm so glad our parents are busy tonight. I need her tonight so bad. If we couldn't cuddle tonight I think I'd fall apart.

“A man tried to shoot me at work today. He shot me in the chest. The bullet . . . it just crumpled up.” I want my voice to sound enthusiastic, but it just sounds neutral. I'm not usually so bad at taking things like this! Being shot is a new experience that is a magnitude greater than anything else that I can remember happening to me, but I still thought I was stronger than this.

“Aurora! Oh sis . . .” Sylvia's arms wrap around me, pulling me so close. Her warmth is perfect and as I nestle into her, inhaling the scent of my actual sister, the day doesn't seem so bad.

I press my lips to her neck and savor the warm taste. “Can you melt me away for a little while . . .? I want to spend some time not thinking, just close to you . . .”

“Of course, of course. I love you sweetie . . . We can talk about this tomorrow if you want.” I can hear the curiosity in her voice, but she can hear the stubbornness in mine. She knows if I don't want to talk about something, I won't. What she's about to do might loosen my lips, but we have rules against that. Melting the other down to help her feel better or for a little bit of hot fun is one thing, but asking questions or leaving things behind isn’t fair.

The familiar feeling of her power begins to envelop me. It feels like a whirlpool of electric breeze pulling me inside, keeping me safe. It doesn’t feel the same as when it’s pure heat, pure lust. Now it’s so much more soothing, wrapping its way slowly around my mind like a warm blanket.

I can feel her heartbeat in her fingertips as they slide through my hair. Its rhythm sounds like waves lapping around me, drawing me deeper into her vortex of love, bliss, and surrender. Right now, that’s all that I want to feel.

“L-love you too, Sylvia.”

Her electric mist melts deeper, and it gets harder to focus on her, or my stress, or anything other than the way she’s making me feel. I drift away to the sound of her serene musical sigh.