She grimaced as she munched on the chalky tablets; how someone actually thought this stuff tasted remotely like cherry was beyond her.

Of course, she reminded herself, this was the girl who had been unable to take even the orange children's aspirin without inserting it in a marshmallow first.

She glanced at the clock.

Two hours.

In a little over two hours she'd find out her score on last week's math exam.

The test hadn't seemed terribly hard, which just made her all the more nervous - after all, this was math! Her bugbear since grade school! She was an historian - when would she ever need to solve quadratic equations, anyway?

Well, she thought, if she hadn't solved those blasted equations she was dead. She needed a math course to graduate, and she simply did not have the money to take a class over.

Not to mention what effect a lowered GPA or an outright failure would have on her fragile network of scholarships, Astrea sighed.

She was the first - the only - one in her family ever to go to college. There had been too many sacrifices over too many years from too many people for her not to complete her degree.

She had already pulled out of school once - this was her last chance.

Astrea punched at the keys as she shut down her computer.

She had done her best - hadn't she?

She had attended every class, studied almost every night, stayed after hours with the professor...

Stopped a couple of bank robberies, nabbed a few muggers...

Oh, yeah, she thought sarcastically as she pulled on her fading raincoat - in addition to working full time and going to school at night, she also had the added responsibility of being Americana.

No wonder she had no time for a life.

Oh, listen to you, she scolded herself as she trudged through the back hallways of the Smithsonian.

Did she think no one else in that class has other responsibilities? A second job, maybe, or children, or an older relative to care for?

She had been blessed with rare gifts indeed. Counting the bad guys there were, what, maybe twenty people on the planet with true paranormal powers?

As Jesus had taught in the Parable of the Talents, gifts from God were given to be used, not hidden away. That applied as much to her ability to sing or track down historical documents as it did to her ability to juggle Buicks.

Not, she smiled to herself, that she had actually tried to juggle cars...

"Hey, Astrea," a mildly-overweight man in shirtsleeves nodded to her as he passed.

"Hi, Duncan. No jacket? You working late?"

He stopped for a moment and shrugged behind the stack of binders in his arms. "Might as well. The Key Bridge's blocked off; traffic's backed up for miles."

Duncan Bright continued on down the hall.

"Heard it on the radio," he said over his shoulder. "Some idiot's in a shootout with the police."

Suddenly, despite her coat and sweater, Astrea felt very cold.

Astrea turned and hurried though the back hallways of the National Museum of American History, studiously avoiding the main corridors where coworkers would be leaving for the day.

Please, she prayed, don't let it be Dad or Athena.

Oh, she knew full well that real police officers didn't use their guns with anywhere near the frequency you'd see on TV - but it seemed that those times were changing. Her father hadn't so much as drawn his weapon in his entire career on the force, but her sister had already been in two gunfights after just a couple of years.

And her mother - every time there was a shooting her mother worked herself into a knot until she had heard both husband and daughter were safe. That cold dread was a trait shared among police families.

It was also one of the prime reasons Astrea had told neither her parents nor her sister that she regularly put herself in harm's way as the real-life superheroine called Americana.

"Americana."

A worn copy of AmericaNews was slapped onto the desktop, the heroine's face beaming from the cover. "Americana."

A crisp WePeople smacked on top of the newsmagazine, trumpeting a possible romance between movie star Will West and the star-spangled superheroine.

"Americana."

The latest TeenMiss, proclaiming that close fitting red, white and blue would be this summer's colors, hit the desk.

"And you say you can't find anything on her?"

Nick D'Arcangelo shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

The lean young man looked from the pile to the balding figure looming over his desk.

"Mr. Mayor," he said carefully. "These articles... are basically hearsay and speculation. A few theories, a few pictures... and few facts."

D'Arcangelo absently tapped his finger on the pile of periodicals.

"If you want me to go after her I'm gonna need a little more to work with than fashion tips."

Larry Darien's face darkened.

"Are you telling me you can't come up with one case of assault? False arrest? Trespassing?"

"Not," Nick said, "If you want the charges to stick. That is the point, isn't it?"

The mayor clenched his fists, turned, and took slow, measured steps across the well-worn office carpet.

What exactly was the point, D'Arcangelo wondered?

As an Assistant District Attorney, he wasn't thrilled with the idea of a private citizen taking the law into her own hands, either. When Darien had first approached him about taking down Americana, he had been inclined to agree with him.

But now, as if her being honored by the President weren't enough, the FBI had announced an official policy of encouraging agent cooperation with Americana as circumstances allowed.

"This may not be such a good idea."

The mayor turned.

"What?" he growled.

"Let's look at the big picture, here. Americana's riding a tidal wave of popularity. She's on magazines, on TV - the people love her. The media love her. The government gave her a liaison to the FBI and the President gave her a medal."

He threw up his hands and let them fall and slap his thighs.

"What, I'm supposed to haul her into court for disturbing the peace?"

Larry Darien exhaled forcefully.

"I don't recall popularity being a valid excuse for breaking the law, Mr. D'Arcangelo."

The mayor planted his fists on the edge of the desk and leaned forward.

"Although," he said, a thin smile on his lips, "We both know that a high profile case can increase an assistant DA's visibility... and make him the next District Attorney."

D'Arcangelo tensed and sat back, slowly, in his chair.

Darien grunted and straightened.

He paused for a moment to stare down at the younger man through narrowed eyes, then, satisfied, turned toward the door.

"This city has police officers, FBI agents, Federal Marshals, Secret Service, and the goddamn Postmaster General," the mayor said. "The District has no room for freelance law enforcement.

"I expect to see some progress, D'Arcangelo - soon."

Unlike the drivers below, honking in frustration at their lack of progress, Americana found Georgetown fairly easy to get around.

The rooftops she was racing over were all of similar height, and the narrow streets made leaping over the chasms between them no more difficult than hopping over a curve.

Most nights she would enjoy this, somersaulting over the streets and performing flips off rooftop air conditioning units, but the more scenarios she ran through her mind the more her stomach knotted.

If only she had some idea of what was happening!

She would have to ask Dr. Archer about adding police bands to the radio incorporated into her costume.

At times like this she wished she had more control over her ability to fly; instead of soaring gracefully she tended to hurtle through the sky like an out-of-control missile. She was much more comfortable with running and gymnastics - a bit slower, but more natural than flying.

Never mind that there were laws prohibiting flying so much as a kite over much of Washington - a matter of national security - but her flying over the District simply wasn't all that practical anyway.

Not if she wanted to keep her secrets.

Washington's skyline was remarkably open as large cities go. Preservation laws limited the height of buildings to only a few stories tall. Add in the wide-open spaces like the National Mall, the parks and highways and it would be almost impossible to fly around the District without being spotted - and tracked.

She would prefer people not begin to link Americana to areas near her work or her home.

Then, too, flying - more than any of her other abilities - exhausted her stores of... of whatever it was that fueled her powers. She had learned that her powers were not without limits, and those limits were unforgiving - the moment she should exceed them she would be forcibly changed back to the very mortal Astrea Starr.

And transforming back in midair or in front of a hail of bullets... well, the exposure of her true identity would be the least of her problems.

Speaking of bullets, Americana mused as she grabbed a decorative iron railing and flipped gracefully over a traffic-clogged street, close as she was now, she hadn't heard any gunfire.

She paused on the precipice of a steep, tiled roof.

Below, Georgetown's typically terrible traffic had come to a complete standstill. Access to the Francis Scott Key Bridge, the primary route home to Virginia for thousands of suburban commuters, was blocked at several intersections by police cruisers.

The police manning the roadblocks, Americana noted, seemed more concerned with getting traffic moving again than with any gunman. Even up at what she took to be the command post, there were only a few rifles and heavy vests in view.

And, she thought with relief, no ambulances.

Their attention was focused on a lone, disheveled figure at the foot of the bridge. He - Astrea was fairly certain it was a 'he', though more from his stance than any details she could see from this distance - was standing amongst a half-dozen or so red metal boxes, waving something in his outstretched fist.

Standoff, she sighed as she descended behind the police blockade.

The term, Duncan, is standoff - not shootout.

Not yet, at least - and maybe she could help prevent that from happening.

"Hey," an officer said, glancing up from his notes. "Americana?"

The rest of the gathered officers looked up as a young black woman in a now-familiar flag-patterned costume strode up to the van that was serving as a command post.

Conversations stopped in mid-sentence and slouching patrolmen straightened; those nearest to the tall, powerfully-built heroine stepped back so as not to block her view of the table beside the van.

"Hi. Can I help?"

One small, curly-haired woman stood before the small, map-laden table. She turned, slowly, deliberately, to face Americana, and eyed her coolly.

"How the hell did you get past the roadblocks?" she asked sternly.

"Um - well, I - "

"They're there to keep the civilians away. You are a civilian?"

Americana blinked. Well, yes, she supposed she was, but...

Hadn't she met this woman before?

Yes - late last year, when Cyberia hit that armored truck. She was a captain - Kane, her tag read - and hadn't seemed overly fond to see her then, either, come to think of -

"It's not a hard question. Look, I've got a delicate situation here and I don't need some grandstander getting somebody killed."

Americana started. 'Killed'?!

She stifled the protest that leapt to her lips.

Easy, girl, she thought. De-e-ep breath.

"I understand, Captain - I don't want to see anyone get killed, either."

"Good. Then you keep your fancy-powered butt out of this."

The officer began to turn away.

"I chose to use those powers to protect lives," Americana said calmly. "Including that fellow on the bridge.

"Let me guess - suicide by cop?"

Captain Rebecca Kane bit her lip.

"...Yeah," she finally said. "Keeps wavin' round, yelling for us to shoot him."

Americana sniffed. "Gasoline?"

"That isn't water he's standing in. He's doused himself in the stuff. Threatening to set himself on fire."

Kane nodded toward the man. "That little vial of nitro he's holding is like a deadman's switch - we drop him and he drops it. Boom, he goes up like a Roman candle."

Americana grimaced slightly. She knew cops and firemen often developed gallows humor to help them cope with the suffering they saw on the job - but she still didn't have to like it.

"We think he's got more nitro on him," Kane continued. "Same result. Anyone comes close he threatens to blow."

She stared up at Americana. "We're handling it. I got a negotiator on the way."

The heroine looked over at the ranting man. "By boat, I hope."

The captain exhaled forcefully. "Okay, so he's stuck in traffic."

"Let me talk to him."

"What?"

"I could talk to him."

Kane pushed back her cap and sighed. "Girl, you are not listening."

"You can't get a man close because he'd be hurt by an explosion," Americana said quickly. "I wouldn't be."

"I got a trained negotiator coming..."

"Who isn't here and who couldn't get close if he was. What are you going to do, talk him down by bullhorn?"

The police captain felt the eyes of the other officers on her.

"What," she said carefully, "are you going to do? Grab the vial? Hit him before he can explode?"

"No." Americana shook her head. "No, ma'am. Just talk."

Kane hung her head and rubbed her forehead.

"Ohhhh," she said softly. "I must be nuts."

"He's been there close to two hours, Cap'n," an officer spoke up. "And it's getting dark."

Kane took a deep breath and turned.

"You are clear on the situation, right? He drops the nitro or even falls over, it's instant fireball."

"Crystal."

The captain nodded toward the bridge.

Americana stepped from behind the police van and walked as casually as she could toward the man at the base of the bridge.

She could see him quite clearly now that she drew closer; the evening shadows could hide nothing from a woman who could see as well in starlight as in daylight.

He was graying, in his fifties she would guess, with a full beard and a bit of a paunch. He wore a Redskins sweatshirt that had been through a few too many washings, a stained blue jacket, and blue jeans from twenty pounds ago.

And he was staring at her.

"Hi there," she said when she had closed to about twenty yards. "I'm -"

"Don't come any closer!"

"All right, I won't," Americana said soothingly, holding out her hands. "Easy. I'm not going to hurt you."

"I-I know you! Americana!"

She nodded slightly. "That's right. What's your name?"

He eyed her warily.

"...Roger."

"Just Roger?"

"...yeah."

"Okay, Roger... um, can I call you Roger?"

He nodded slowly, his eyes still narrowed.

"Don't come any closer. You come any closer I'll drop this inta the gasoline!"

"Easy, easy, " she said as she held out her palms. "I'm staying right here.

"So. Roger. Why are you doing this?"

He looked her up and down.

"Didn't the cops tell you?"

"Well, not really. I just thought I'd ask you."

Roger shook, his lips trembling.

"Cuz I want to die.

"I want to die, you hear me?!"

"Okay, shh, easy now. You don't really want to do that, do you?"

"Why the hell not?! My...wife left me. I got... f-fired. For asking questions! I was a damn good chemist! A good one!"

Americana nodded. "I'm sure you were."

"No one will talk to me anymore! I don't exist! No one gives a frickin' damn if I live or not!"

Astrea ran a finger behind her ear.

"Well... I care, Roger."

"You don't even know me!" he exploded. "You're just saying that!"

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Americana rose a mere centimeter above the pavement.

"If I didn't care, why would I be here?"

"Cuz... it's your job."

She smiled and shook her head.

"No, no. It isn't. I do this because I want to. I want to be here, Roger..."

Before anyone else realized what had happened, Americana had flashed forward over ten yards; she was now standing squarely in the pool of gasoline.

"But I don't want to die."

"N-no! No, if I drop this you'll burn too!"

"But... what difference should that make? I mean, you're willing to burn yourself up -?"

"I-I'm not like you! I'm not important!"

"Come on, now - I'm no more 'important' -" Americana made quote marks with her fingers "- than you."

"Yes you are! Y-you're famous - a superhero! You're better'n me!"

"No," she said firmly. "I am not. We're all equal in the Lord's eyes. All of us."

"But you can -"

"Yes, yes, I can do some pretty neat things. But guess what? I'm a lousy chemist."

Americana gestured to his wavering hand. "I sure couldn't have come up with nitro if I had to. We all have different gifts, Roger - but we all have the right to be here."

She took a deep breath. "Now.

"You want to burn yourself up in a fireball, you're going to have to take me too."

She slowly extended her open hand.

"Please - give me the bottle."

He hesitated.

"They're saying the sun's going to be out tomorrow - first time in weeks, isn't it? I'd sure like to see that, wouldn't you?"

She looked at her outstretched hand, then looked at him.

The man's arm began to tremble slightly.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his arm - and placed the vial in the heroine's small palm.

Americana finally allowed herself to exhale, only now realizing that she had been holding her breath.

Roger, sobbing, collapsed, his arms around her.

"Shh. It's o-kay. It's o-o-okay."

She held him for a moment, then gently led him to the waiting police.

"Take care of him, fellas," the heroine said, handing over her charge. "He's more victim than villain."

"You bet."

A score of officers swarmed around her within seconds, all attempting to balance professional demeanor with smiles and congratulations.

Then, the sea of blue parted, and Americana looked up to see Captain Kane, standing some ten feet away, just... staring at her.

"Nice job," the officer finally said.

"Thanks."

The captain looked sideways at the star-spangled heroine, then nodded.

"We owe you one."

Americana smiled. "I'm not keeping score, Captain -"

Her eyes widened.

Score?!

Astrea bolted through the classroom door, only to see that her teacher standing amongst her seated classmates, handing out the test scores.

"Running a bit late, are we, Miss Starr?" the professor smiled.

"Sorry, ma'am," she said as she settled into the first open seat. "Traffic was backed up."

Which was true, Astrea thought - excepting the little detail that she didn't drive.

"Good," the professor said, thumbing though the sheaf in her hand. "I was afraid you weren't coming tonight.

"Ah."

She plucked a paper from the stack and thrust it into Astrea's hand.

Astrea held it as if it were a dead fish, not quite daring to look at the mark scrawled across the upper right corner. But slowly, inexorably, her eyes drifted across the page to the top right corner.

Eighty-one.

Eighty-one?

She'd passed!

Better than passed!

Yes, it wasn't going to do much for her average but it sure wasn't going to get her kicked out of school, either!

Eighty-one - in math, yet!

"Miss Starr?"

Astrea started.

"Whuh - ?"

Her bemused teacher was still standing beside her.

"I was saying," the professor smiled. "'Nice job.'"