"Nothing much taken - just gold coins, cash... stuff that's easily converted."

Americana listened to the officer as she floated around the room.

"Leads us to believe he's not exactly a pro," he said decisively as he snapped his notebook shut.

She bent down to look at the circle of glass, cut out of the window, that lay on the carpet. "Yet he seems to specialize in these 'impossible crimes'," she muttered.

"Americana will find the guy," piped up a young boy of around eight, standing in the doorway. "Woncha, Americana?"

The heroine floated over to the youngster and knelt on one knee so as not to tower over him.

"I certainly hope so," she said earnestly. "I'll try my best."

"Daniel, don't bother - " a woman started to say as she hustled over.

"He's no bother," Americana said quickly.

"Look, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but... can I ask why a superhero is looking into a simple burglary? I-I mean, not that I don't appreciate it... "

Poor thing - she's nervous, thought Americana.

Of course she's nervous, stupid! Someone broke into her home!

She remembered her father talking about 'the illusion of safety' one feels in one's own home, and the violation one feels when that home is broken into.

The heroine put on her most disarming smile.

"Well, ma'am, it seems that this is the sixth 'impossible' " - she made quotes with her fingers - "burglary in as many days. High windows, no equipment obvious. Evidently we have a flying bad guy out there who's hitting these second- and third-floor windows, bypassing the alarms...

"Apparently at random," she shrugged. "Don't worry, I'm going to nab him.

"Uh, assuming the police don't get him first."

The woman nodded as she placed a protective arm around the boy.

Americana almost didn't notice the stacato click-whizzzz of the officer's Polaroid - it had, after all, been shooting a lot of photographs already this afternoon.

The policeman walked over and handed the photograph to the kid.

"In case you need proof that you met her," he smiled, tipped his hat and walked away.

It was a picture of Americana, still on one knee, talking with the boy.

Maybe she shouldn't have promised the boy even that much.

Americana flew high in the skies over downtown Washington, wondering what exactly she should be looking for.

It always seemed so much easier on television, anticipating where criminals would strike.

From what her dad and sister had told her, the police in real life were more likely to play clean up than to anticipate where a criminal would commit a crime. You had to be incredibly stupid to get caught before you actually committed a crime, it seemed.

Well... let's assume this criminal is incredibly stupid.

He's struck mainly around the Capitol area, and at - let's face it - houses that betray the owner's relative wealth. He'd never bother with, well, her apartment, for one.

He's not struck any of the really expensive and well-defended homes, and gone mainly after cash and jewelry and other things that are small and easily disposed of. As opposed to say, a 48" television.

The good thing was that he seemed to be an early bird of sorts - he always struck before 1:00, and usually hours earlier. Maybe he had a job in the morning.

All right, let's assume he's - or she's! - going to strike somewhere in these ten blocks by about... ohhh, ten. Plenty of targets, plenty of poorly-lit backyards, plenty of trees and tall buildings to hide someone.

Not, she thought with a grin, from a flier.

Such a simple power, she thought as she cruised over the city. Not nearly as complicated as Cameo's spells or Windjammer's tornadoes or even her own strength, but to see the city of Washington from up here, well... it was the power she most wished she could share with others.

Coupled with her ability to see as clearly at night as during the day, another power not high on the impressive list, she was able to see for blocks at a time.

And that's when she saw the cheerleaders trooping through the backyards.

She didn't recognize the uniforms - black, tight-fitting cut-off sweaters and tiny red miniskirts - on the gals, anyway; there were two guys there, too. There was a red, flame-like pattern on the sweaters and tiny black flames along the skirts' hems.

Panty-flashers, she thought dismissively. Enmity swelled with her as she recalled the cheerleaders at Carver, pracing around in the uniforms on Fridays.

Of course, no one in her school wore skirts as short as those these gals were wearing.

She was surprised at the level of enmity she felt.

After all, she hadn't felt such animosity in high school.

Either way, it was a pretty cold night to be out running around in those outfits - tights could only keep one so warm. Must be some kind of scavenger hunt for school or something like that.

Or-r-r-r-r-r-r, maybe not.

She recognized the house that they were gathering behind. There couldn't be another townhouse with that particular combination of gables and granite.

What was the old owner's name again?

Templeton. John Wesley Templeton.

Yes... and his... grandchildren, Georgia and... Sherman.

How could she forget?

It was mere weeks after she had gotten her powers. She had faced her first supervillain, Umbra, after the shadow-woman had taken a chest from Templeton's home. She had chased her through these rain-slicked streets.

And she had received the beating of a lifetime.

It had been a hard lesson, learning she was very tough, bulletproof even, but not invulnerable.

Eventually she had recovered the chest, which had contained the mortal remains of a Colonial-era British assassin and silver plates supposedly made from the blood money Judas had received for betraying Christ. Eventually she, with Cameo's help, put a permanent end to Umbra.

It was not the most pleasant of memories.

More than enough reason, she thought as she pounded a fist into her open hand, to clobber those cheerleaders.

All right, she sighed, maybe not.

But it was kind of fun to think about.

No, she'd have to wait until they did something illegal.

Besides trespassing, she smiled to herself.

Hey, what - ?

One of the guys was pointing at a high window in Templeton's place, while they all donned large black domino masks.

Americana's eyes narrowed.

No.

It couldn't be.

One male stood still while his partner flipped the girls one by one up on his shoulders, quickly forming a stack of blond, redhead, blonde, blonde, and brunette.

Cheerleaders? A gang of cheerleaders was responsible for these burglaries?

They were all white, Americana noted as she zoomed down from the clouds. That, and those fancy uniforms, combined to mean that they weren't from the city. And the weight of all those girls on one guy's shoulder would explain the deep footprints she had noticed at the first burglary she had gone to.

So that's how they did it, she smiled grimly as she landed beside the flipper fellow.

He barely got a breath out before she gently tapped his jaw, knocking him out.

The rest of them didn't notice - they were all looking up as the girl on top, smallest and lightest of them all, reached into her cleavage and withdrew a special knife, one with a diamond blade - and quickly marked off a circle on one of the mansion's upper windows!

Americana walked up behind the man holding up the girls.

"Hey," she smiled, tapping the stack's base on the shoulder. "Forgot your keys?"

"Yaah!" The man jerked around, and the stack of cheerleaders on his shoulders swayed violently. The man's cry of surprise was swallowed by the girls' shrieks.

Americana quickly took two steps back and prepared to catch the girls as they fell, cursing herself for playing it cute. She didn't expect the man to react as he did, but probably should have. She should have begun picking girls off from the top of the stack.

Oh, you think?

But to her amazement, the cheerleaders flung off the stack in what looked like a prearranged pattern, top to bottom. The girls did somersaults as they fell; Americana knew that was to slow themselves down a little. The girls all landed on their feet, spread out in a semi-circle around the guys.

And much to the heroine's consternation - no one fled.

Uhh, ohh, she breathed.

She immediately thought of her friend, Marcy Conrad, and her night in costume as the Fearleader. Were these clowns somehow... related? Did Marcy put them up to this? Did she carry a grudge for getting beaten up on New Year's Eve?

"It's five against one, doll," said the man, holding up his hands. "No need to fight."

"I quite agree," Americana smiled, bringing up her fists into a defensive stance. "Surrender. Now."

The masked cheerleaders looked at each other.

Then they turned, raising their fists.

Definitely from out of town, thought Americana as they charged.

The redhead sprang to her hands, flipped, and landed with her feet in Americana's chest.

The man threw a punch at her jaw, a blonde, at her stomach.

The tiny brunette who had been on top of the stack hurled herself into a cartwheel, then flipped herself into the air - to land with her feet on Americana's forehead!

The other blonde threw a kick at Americana's head.

And Americana...

Smiled and grabbed the ankles of the redhead as she fell.

"Maybe you haven't heard - heaven knows how - but I'm pretty much invulnerable."

Doesn't mean I'm going to stand here and let you hit me, she thought.

She swung the redhead into the guy and the blonde who had punched her - gently! she reminded herself - and the three sprawled in a pile atop the man she had already downed.

Americana backhand-swatted the brunette so that she staggered back a foot or two, then fell unconscious.

The heroine turned to the remaining blonde, and smiled pleasantly.

The blonde's mouth hung open.

This... woman... had taken down five of her companions in seconds.

"H-hey, I'm... I mean... " she stammered.

Then she began to run.

Americana casually leapt up, flipped head over heels, and landed in front of her, all before she had gotten ten yards.

Unfortunately the blonde didn't register this fact fast enough to stop, and ran straight into Americana...

...and her eyes rolled back, and she slid down the heroine's legs to oblivion.

Well. That didn't take long.

As Americana bent down to pick her up, she heard three distinct cracks...

Followed almost immediately by three objects slamming into her head - hard!

She fell forward, splayed out on the ground. She desperately tried to get her arms to lift her, but they were limp as spaghetti.

N-no. No way, she growled to herself. I'm not about to get knocked out by cheerleaders!

With Herculean effort, her head swimming, she boosted herself up to her knees.

"Ah-ah chippie. Hands off my gal-pals."

Crack!

Something crashed off her forehead, exploding in a cloud of foul purple gas.

She choked on it, coughing furiously, trying to wave it away...

Until she fell forward onto the lawn.

She struggled to hang onto consciousness, staring through the purple haze as a new form appeared, walking toward her, almost jauntily.

Her eyes widened a bit. She recognized the woman.

Or more accurately, her costume - a white leotard-straitjacket combo over black tights.

"S-screwball?"