Astrea Starr stared vacantly out the bus window, watching the world go by.

She hated going to the bank, but this was the third time they had failed to post her check on time, despite her switching to direct deposit. She was still living month-to-month, her new salaried position notwithstanding, and she needed that money.

What she really needed, she thought as she got off the bus, was another bank. One that didn't mess up her finances by occasionally losing her check for a week. One that actually had a branch close to work or home – either one would be fine. One that –

One that would actually be open on a Saturday?

The bank was closed? But she still had an hour before they –

Ohh, heavens. Her own bank was being robbed?

She ducked into a nearby alley, and looked quickly from end to end. She was going to feel mighty silly if the bank actually was closed, but even Arlington Federal wasn't about to close an hour early on their busiest day of the week.

Whoom! A star-shaped burst of energy exploded from her chest, and there stood a tall and powerful black woman where Astrea Starr had been. Her powerful frame was clad in a high- necked leotard, star-spangled blue on top and red on the bottom. Her white boots and gloves were topped with silver stripes that matched the stripe across her chest. And centered on that stripe was a large white star.

Americana noted that the bank's exposed side was solid brick, with nary a window in sight. And the front windows, were cut narrow enough to keep out unwanted visitors.

That left only the front door. One way in, one way out.

Evidently, the heroine sighed, this was what her father meant when he was talking about "stop and robs".

She could just wait for the criminals to walk out of the building, she supposed, but there were likely a lot more pedestrians out here, a lot more ways for things to go wrong.

Besides, she decided crossly, today she just wasn't in the mood to play nice.

The outer doors were made of steel, reinforced with iron; there were no windows.

She was almost sorry to tear them off their hinges.

Americana boldly stepped into the bank – and immediately gasped in shock.

Not two feet inside the entrance lay the bank guard, blood flowing from his broken nose!

She didn't know him well enough to know his name, but she had seen him often enough – a kind, older gent who Astrea had often thought couldn't harm anyone had he tried. But someone had harmed him!

Americana instinctively went to one knee and placed a hand on his forehead. Still warm, thank heaven, but he was –

WHAM!

Something metallic struck the heroine's head, hard, sending her sprawling!

"Hey, lookie here! Sweet super chick's got herself clobbered!"

Americana put her hand on her head. Geez. She had actually felt that!

She looked up to see a young black man with short hair and a goatee, standing over her. He rhythmically slapped his open palm with what appeared to be brass knuckles made of steel.

"And you are - ?"

The man peered over fancy, orange-lensed sunglasses and grinned. He pointed to the numbers sewn on his leather jacket – five, four, three, two, one. "I'm Countdown, bee-aitch. Cause when I hitcha, you gonna be down for the count!"

He drew back his fist. "Five, fo', three, two –"

The next thing Countdown knew, he was slamming into the wall on the far side of the lobby.

"One," hissed Americana, holding him by the front of his jacket.

Countdown's head slumped, his heavy metal "brass" knuckles falling from his hands. His sunglasses followed them to the floor.

Americana drew back her fist. "Listen, you," she said evenly. "If I ever, ever catch you beating up an old man again I'll – eh?"

She thought she had felt a jabbing in her back – there it was again!

She turned, still holding the all-but-unconscious Countdown.

A small, wiry man stood, sheepishly, holding a long, thin knife. He was wearing navy blue sweatpants and sweater, overlaid with a white icicle pattern, like a scarf. He also wore a matching white mask with the eyeholes cut a little too wide.

"All right, who are you?"

"Um, uh, I'm Shiv'r. Get it? Shiv? Shiv'r?" He held out the thin blade.

Americana sighed and backhanded him unconscious.

The ambulance doors shut and the vehicle pulled away, its siren wailing mournfully. Americana watched until it turned a corner two blocks away.

Lombardo. Ernie Lombardo was the guard's name.

Americana was relieved that at least she wouldn't have to tell Mrs. Lombardo her husband had passed on. Still, it would be several days before he would be let out of the hospital.

"Damn crazies. Can't just rob a bank anymore," a policeman snorted. "Everybody's gotta have a gimmick. Damn pro wrestling wanna-bes."

"Oh put a sock in it, Harris," sighed his sergeant.

"Didn't mean nothing by it. Just sayin', is all."

"Hey, thanks for helping out… Americana?"

The sergeant looked up – the heroine was already a block away and picking up speed.

"Sheesh. Never stays still for a minute."

Nick D'Arcangelo stood by the open door of his car and watched her go, too. The Assistant District Attorney sighed.

"No. No, she doesn't."

"At least he wasn't trying to kill you yesterday," Beth offered. "Cookie?"

"I suppose," Astrea took one oatmeal cookie from the tray her friend had offered. After all, have to watch the weight if one was going to run around in a leotard.

"Still, those clowns managed to put a guard in the hospital. What… drives people like that?"

"I'm glad you're still asking yourself those questions," Beth said seriously. "It's when you stop asking that I get nervous."

"How about, 'why does Arlington Federal keep messing up my checks?'," Astrea said ruefully. "I never did get that straightened out. Guess I'll be going back there on Monday."

"Maybe before," Beth said, nodding to the television screen. She hit the volume button up several times.

"… officers down. Repeat, officers are down and ohhh! A concerned citizen, who was trying to help one of the officers, has been shot!"

On the television, the front of the Arlington Federal Bank was a smoking hole. In front of the bank, dodging in and out of the range of the camera, was a tall black man in a kind of neoprene jumpsuit, trimmed in orange, with an orange wrap-around visor. His arms were encased in gigantic gauntlets, which were surrounded by large black dots of energy.

The man gestured, and a beam of orange, surrounded by the black dots, streamed out and hit a police car, destroying it in a fiery explosion.

"Oh, my God – he's turning toward us!"

Beth opened her mouth to shout that perhaps her friend would want to get down there, but the star-shaped burst of energy was already fading back into Americana's chest.

And for no more than a second there stood the most powerful woman on Earth.

The man in black and orange peppered the remnants of Sunday traffic with small bursts of orange energy- enough to knock over and explode the cars into bits.

Then, with a faint grin, he turned toward a gasoline tanker truck and extended his hand.

Picked a bad day to take a shortcut, mister.

He fired – but was intercepted by a tall black woman in a star-spangled leotard.

"Ummph! All right, mister, playtime's over!"

"Oh, we're just startin' here, bee-aitch," the man said, his grin vanishing. "Three, two, one… "

Americana's eyes opened wide as she noticed the stylized "3-2-1" emblem on his breast. "Countdown?"

"Zero."

Orange energy, surrounded by those crazy black dots, exploded from his hands! The blast knocked Americana straight into the gas tanker, which exploded into a fireball thirty feet high!

Countdown allowed himself a slight grin as Americana and the truck vanished in the rolling flames.

Then he turned to the policeman, groaning in the wreckage of his patrol car. He pointed his hand.

"Thought she was gonna save you, huh? Pity. Three, two, one, ze-"

His countdown was scrubbed as Americana, gasoline still burning on her body, let loose a left hook that knocked Countdown some thirty feet down the street.

"All right, mister. I don't know how you escaped from jail already, or who gave you those fancy gloves, but it ends now."

"Oh, it ends all right," Countdown growled as he staggered to his feet. "Three, two, one – zero!"

"Uugh!" Americana was sent sprawling by the blast!

"Unhhhh," she groaned as she picked herself up off the ground. That burst… coupled with the gasoline blast… fire must have burned away her oxygen.

"… two, one," Countdown said through gritted teeth. "Zero."

Boooom! The blast flashed out and struck Americana squarely, knocking her through the battered remains of a minivan.

Countdown waited for movement, but there was none.

After a moment or two, he grinned and cracked his two huge gun-hands together. He strode over to the minivan as his hands began to glow orange with power.

"Like I said, bee-aitch. I'm called Countdown because you are down –" he raised his hands above his head, then brought them streaking down! Arcs of orange energy flashed out and all but vaporized the van!

"For the count!"

"No kidding?"

Countdown turned – straight into a massive punch that sent him tumbling down the street.

Americana stood there and took some deep, quick breaths. She had already been knocked halfway into the sewers – a little tunneling and a little flight gave her some breathing room.

Heavens, this whole block looked like a war zone – over a dozen vehicles were smashed aside – and the people! Where were the –

"… onezero!"

Faaasshhh! The sky lit up a brilliant orange while the very air around her seemed to burn!

Americana blinked. She couldn't see! Oh no no no! Not now!

"Three, two, one." She heard him counting, but could only guess as to where he was…

"Zero."

Booom! Americana was knocked back into the remnants of an ice cream truck, now burned practically beyond recognition.

"Ohhhh, boy." H-he's coming and –

"Zero."

Booooooooooom!

Americana felt herself flung through the air. She hit something solid, and bounced off to the ground.

Ohhhh. A couple more of those… and she was finished. She was still seeing spots before her eyes – they'd never clear in time…

"Three. Two. One." Impossible though it was, she thought she heard a smirk in his voice.

"Zero."

Americana threw up her hands in time to painfully deflect some of the ray's power.

This made Countdown angry. He poured more energy into the blast.

And Americana, stood.

The pain was incredible; her arms were trembling, her palms felt like they were burning.

But Americana started forward, following the arc of the blast with her outstretched fingers.

Countdown cried out with rage and increased the power of his beam!

Americana grit her teeth. She wanted him to keep firing, for as long as he kept firing she had something to follow back to the source. But if she faltered, even for a second – well, she was in pain enough as it was; she was certain she couldn't take another blast.

Countdown yelled, "No, no!"

To Americana's surprise, it sounded pretty close.

Now if she could just –

She felt the edge of his massive gun-gloves!

With a triumphant cry she grabbed the devices, turned them toward each other, and slammed them together!

"Wha – woooooooaaaaaahhhhhh!" Countdown's hair stood on end as he fruitlessly tried to separate the huge metal gun gauntlets, which were glowing an unhealthy shade of orange as they fused together.

Americana couldn't see, but she could hear him just fine.

"Countdown! Turn them off, you idiot, before they –"

Boooooooom!

It was a few seconds more before Americana could see again, and a few seconds after that her hearing returned.

Countdown was lying spread-eagled on the ground, his massive gun-gauntlets now shredded scrap metal. His suit was torn off his arms and part of his chest, and little orange bolts played over his body.

Americana knelt by him and felt his neck for a pulse. Good, he was alive.

She frowned and picked off a piece of the shredded metal guns. The marking was familiar – a triangle, with each side bearing a stylized dog head.

What did it stand for again?

"Americana?" a voice said feebly.

Oh, heavens, there was somebody under that car!

She carefully pried up the remnants of the car, to reveal a middle-aged black woman in a green dress. "Easy, ma'am… easy."

"Ooh, thank you, thank you, dear," the woman breathed. "Thank God you came when you did."

Americana looked around. Between the hole in the front of the bank, the still burning gasoline from the tanker, the dozen or so vehicles up on their sides…

"Yeah," she sighed. "Hooray for me."