The President of the United States leaned into the office and rapped on the door.

"Margaret? Got a minute?"

"John!" the Vice President exclaimed. "H-how are you feeling?"

"Oh, I'm fine," the President smiled as he strolled in and sat in one of the deep blue chairs. "Nothing a few days' rest couldn't cure."

"Thank you for allowing me to serve," she said, "Even if it was only briefly."

President Caruthers laughed. "You'd make a fine President if I were gone," he said. "The country was in good hands."

"...Thank you, sir," the Vice President smiled. "Still, it's nice to have you back."

"Thanks, Margaret."

He paused for a moment. "I think we both know that the only reason I'm sitting here today - heck, maybe both of us are sitting here - is Americana."

The Vice President nodded.

"I was wondering... have you heard from her? How is she?"

"Well, from reports provided by Senator Caniff and Special Agent Roswell, she was hurt pretty badly - cut up, bruised, her leg and possibly ribs broken."

"She seemed pretty good on TV. Faking it?"

The VP nodded. "Did a pretty good job holding up her end. But she was hurt, and I thought it best not to contact her."

"Any thoughts on this arrest thing?" the President asked thoughtfully. "I know how much trouble we get into every time we try and override a local law, but... "

"No new reports," Rockwood said. "Still no idea how the switch occurred, FBI is looking at it from their end."

"The Assistant D.A.?"

"Still in hiding, it seems. Who wouldn't be? Arresting Americana just days before she saves the President?"

"Hmm," said the President, leaning back in his chair. "And how do you think Americana feels about that? After all she's done, to get hauled in like a common criminal..."

"I don't think she'd... well, honestly, I think she'd be a little ticked, actually."

"I've been thinking," the President said. "She didn't have to go, you know. She could easily have just knocked out the cops, or flown away, or something. She knew she hadn't done anything and yet she let herself be arrested.

"I don't know about you, but that says more to me than all her strength and invulnerability and flying."

The Vice President just nodded - he was on a roll, she could tell.

"Now... I want to thank her, to let her know she's appreciated - all the more so after that arrest garbage. I want her to know that we're behind her."

"You want to invite her to dinner."

"Yes, I - eh?"

"You want to invite her to a nice State dinner, as guest of honor," the VP said. "Instead of the usual speech on oil or wars you give a heartfelt 'thank you' speech, reiterate how much you believe in her, and maybe present her with a plaque or something..."

"Yes. Yes!" the President said excitedly. "And you know, the perfect opportunity?"

He banged his fist down on her desk.

"The fourteenth."

"The... fourteenth..."

"Come on, Margaret," the President smiled. "It's Flag Day."

"Of course..."

"Glad you agree," the President said. "What do say we call her?"

The things one has to do, Astrea Starr sighed, to maintain a secret identity.

The meeting was now in its third hour, and Davidson was droning on again about the need for ancillary sponsorship. Even if Astrea had been able to form a coherent opinion, it wasn't her place to voice it; she was here as Mr. Findlay's assistant, and as such didn't wield decision-making power.

Thank heavens for that, at least.

And for the fact that she didn't seem to carry all of Americana's injuries into her normal ID. The surface cuts and abrasions had pretty much faded away, although a few of the deeper ones were still visible under her clothes. There was still a little pain in her leg, but for the most part it worked just fine.

As Americana, she would swear it had been broken.

Odd, considering when she had gotten sick a few weeks ago she had still felt pretty bad as Americana. Whatever - she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

If she could just catch up on her sleep, let the city take care of itself for a few days... heck, Washington got along just fine without her before -

"... you, Will," Mr. Findlay was saying. "We'll pick this up in the morning."

Thank. Heaven.

Maybe tonight the air conditioning wouldn't go out, and she could get some sleep. Maybe tonight she and Jason could just split a pizza or she could make sandwiches and -

She stared at her watch.

The watch was vibrating.

She sighed.
 
 
 

"I'm sorry, honey."

"S'okay," Jason said, picking the sausage off of his pizza. "We'll just celebrate your birthday another night. It's not every day the President asks you to have dinner."

"I really should go. I couldn't exactly tell them that it's my birthday and - "

"Hon. It's fine. Better than fine. I mean, granted, now I gotta come up with something better than the President..."

Astrea laughed.

"That's better!" Jason said, smiling. "There's the girl I know and love."

"I've been moody, huh?"

Jason took her hand. "You've been a little more than moody, hon. I understand, I think ... it must have been, well, kind of frightening."

"Terrifying," Astrea said with a shiver. "He was... it's not like I haven't taken on people who were more powerful than I am, before... Ex-Patriot, Umbra...

"But this guy... I mean, he used to call himself a hero... he murdered people, almost casually... he attacked the President! And there was nothing anyone could do!"

Astrea paused a moment, looking down at her fingers. "He's gone and shown everyone just how dangerous people like us really are."

"No. Not like you."

Jason paused. "Look, I hear what you're sayin'... but you and him are totally different. Totally. I look at you and I see the kindest, sweetest girl - whether you're wearin' a costume or not."

Astrea felt her face grow warm.

"I'm just tired, Jase. I just... I need a vacation. Away from Americana."

Jason hesitated.

"This.... doesn't have anything to do..." he said carefully. "With that arrest business, does it?"

"No!" Astrea snapped.

She softened almost immediately. "Maybe a little..."

Jason considered his next words very carefully.

"Honey, you know I'm with you, one hundred per cent, no matter what you want to do...

"But, sometimes you can avoid a problem only so much, you know? Sometimes the only way to truly beat a problem is by standin' up to it. Confronting it."

"What... what do you think I should do?"

"You've done nothing wrong. You've stood up against every tights-wearing weirdo that's shown up."

Astrea chuckled at that one.

"If you want to take a break for awhile, that's okay. You've earned it. But don't give him the satisfaction of thinking he's made you run. I mean, you saved the damn President of the United States - from the same guy he tried to use to mess you over!

"You own major points for that, you follow?

"You stand tall, you go have dinner with the President, and you take care of business. You want to take some time off afterward, you go right ahead. But until then you stand tall."

Astrea thought for a moment - her fiancee made a lot of sense.

"Okay...

"But first, I'm going to need a costume."

"Wow." Beth Sullivan said admiringly. "How does it feel?"

Americana turned slowly in the full-length mirror.

"Like a second skin," she said softly.

She smiled - she hadn't said that because it was tight, but because for the first time in weeks she was in the costume she had made famous: a long-sleeved, high-necked leotard, star-spangled blue on top and red below. Silver stripes ran across the tops of her white boots and gloves, and a matching stripe ran across her chest and through the large white star in the center.

It truly was her second skin.

"Thank you, Beth," she said, turning to the suit's creator. "It's... just wonderful."

"My pleasure," Beth smiled. "I cannibalized your old outfit a bit - that radio's back in the sleeve, the metallic stripes, that sort of thing."

"Terrific," Americana chirped as she spun. "I mean, it's perfect! You are a wiz, Beth!"

She laughed.

Performance sports costuming was her living, after all. And she knew full well that each of her clients wanted costumes based on what they were comfortable wearing - from so-modest-you-could-wear-them-to-church to so-sexy-it's-banned-in-three-states.

Americana's outfit ran more to the modest side; it was close-fitting without being super-skintight, cut nicely on the legs without being immodest.

More like your big sister, dressed up to dance, Beth thought, than a showgirl.

"So," she said, "Americana's back in action?"

The heroine hesitated.

"Not... quite.

"My leg... it still hurts like crazy when I put any weight on it... "

She ran a finger behind her ear.

"I've been using my ability to fly to keep off the ground... but flying uses up my powers more quickly than anything else - punching or lifting or whatever...

"I think it's broken, along with a couple of my ribs."

"AC! Have you seen a doctor or - ?"

"Nothing they can do, Beth - nothing I can do, except wait for it to get better.

"Guess I just have to hope that the pounding I gave to Razorback makes supercrooks think twice."

Americana floated over to a chair and sat down, flinching at the pain in her ribs.

Oh, yeah - she had forgotten about her ribs.

"Whoa - hope you're better for that dinner at the White House."

"Yeah, me - hey! How did you know? I just found out yesterday!"

"'Yesterday'? Yesterday is ancient history in the age of the Internet, honey. It's been all over the news," Beth chuckled. "You do know that they have reporters just on the Americana beat, don't you?"

"Well... actually... "

Beth exhaled forcefully. "Honestly, girl. You can be so naive."

Americana smiled wanly. "Sorry. I've just had a little more to think about lately... "

"Hmm-m. Yeah, you've had a rough couple of weeks. But that rescuing the President? I gotta tell you, AC... that was awesome."

"'Awesome'?" the heroine smiled.

"In every sense of the word. I sat up most of the night, until you had that press conference. You were calm, powerful, confident. Just amazing."

Americana blushed. "Oh, come on."

"I'm serious, AC. If you weren't a national figure before you sure are one now. You're more famous than half the Senate."

"Don't you think," the heroine said, raising an eyebrow, "that's a slight exaggeration?"

"Not really," Beth said simply. "I bet most people can't name their own Senators. Everyone knows you."

Americana sank back into the couch, trying, without success, to come up with an answer disproving that point.

Beth stood there with her hands on her hips and slowly shook her head.

"You are famous, you know. You're better known than virtually any singer, any movie actor you can name. When you appear on a magazine cover? It's circulation doubles, triples. You have one of the top Q-ratings in the world."

"'Q-rating'?"

"Measures your familiarity and your appeal. Used by ad agencies and PR firms."

Americana blinked.

"Hello? Performance Sports Costuming! I read the journals."

"Ah. Hence the thinking I should talk more with the press."

"Couldn't hurt."

"No, it couldn't," Americana admitted. "Especially in light of my recent arrest. I've got some political capital built up, I might as well use it."

"... what?"

The heroine grinned at Beth's consternation.

"Give me a little credit, Beth - I'm not a complete moron. I listen to the news and read the papers a bit more than I used to."

Beth chuckled. "Well, good. Good for you. I won't mention it again."

"Oh, no, no, no!" Americana sat straight up. "I didn't mean it like that. I need your criticism, Beth - I value your opinions.

"I mean - you're one of only two people that know who I am, and my fiancee is a little too close, you know?"

Beth smiled and nodded. "Yeah... "

"Good," Americana said happily, flopping back into the couch. "I'll let you in on a little secret. Did you know that this dinner I'm invited to is on my one-year anniversary? Of being Americana?"

"No!"

"Yep - Flag Day, actually," she grinned.

"Oh, you know the President chose that day for a reason!"

"I've already got a speech prepared, in case anyone asks," Americana said, tapping her forehead. "See, I am getting smarter."

"Heh," Beth smiled. "You given any thought as to what you're going to wear?"

Americana frowned. "That's... a tough one. I'm thinking, just wear the costume - but I'll be in a room full of people dressed up..."

"Let me show you," Beth said, grabbing a sketchbook from the table, "some of the ideas I have on that score..."

Well, you wanted bigger stories, Victoria Valentine sighed to herself.

A kid, no more than sixteen, held a very big handgun to her temple, but she wasn't afraid, really. Well, sure, she was frightened and didn't want to get killed, but aside from that she was oddly calm.

She would have to figure that out someday.

Provided she lived that long.

"We are gonna walk out of here!" the kid bellowed. "Understand!?"

"Sure, Jackie," Victoria said calmly. "There aren't any cops or anything waiting, you know..."

"Walk!"

Okay, walking, Victoria thought.

She looked over at his trembling mother. Oh, no, my son doesn't use drugs, she thought sarcastically.

She flashed a warm smile at the woman. What the heck, it might be her last good deed.

They went out into the driveway, Eric carrying the camera, then Victoria, then Jackie Five. Hey, he could call himself anything he wanted, since he had the gun.

"You're gonna take me to Sausilito, got it?"

Victoria hesitated. "Wait - Sausilito? California?"

She heard the gun click. "You got a problem with that?"

"No, no - Sausilito sounds fi- "

Suddenly, the gun vanished.

By the time she realized that the pistol had been crushed, Jackie Five was laid out cold on the driveway.

"Wh- what - "

"You all right, Ms. Valentine?"

Americana stood casually, the remains of the pistol in her hand.

"... Ms. Valentine?"

Victoria stared at her hands; her arms were shaking. "Y-yeah. Wow..."

"Are you all right, Victoria?"

"Oh, sure... sure," the newswoman said, gingerly lowering herself to sit on a low rock wall. "Just... need a minute... "

Americana nodded, chastened a little. It wasn't long after she got her powers that she realized that pistols were no more threat to her than pea shooters; Victoria's reaction was probably a good deal more normal.

"Americana!"

"Hey, Eric!" she waved to the cameraman. "How you doing?"

"Great!"

"How are you doing?" Victoria looked up. "After Razorback, I mean."

"Okay, I guess. You want to ask me on camera? I can wait a few minutes..."

Victoria stood and gathered her microphone.

"Not necessary," she said quickly. She eyed Americana with some suspicion. "You're going to talk with me... again?"

"Sure," Americana replied cheerfully. "You did such a great job last time."

Victoria hurriedly motioned to Eric, a dozen questions roaring through her mind.

She raised her microphone, then paused.

"Um, just... one... thing."

"Sure."

She gestured to where Jackie Five lay unconscious on the ground. "Could you... tie him up or something, first?"

"Oh-h, my," Americana breathed.

It was certainly not the first time she had seen the State Dining Room - it was on some of the tours, after all - but it was the first time she had seen it fully laid out for a dinner.

Enormous yet delicate tables of Americana cherry were surrounded by high-backed chairs. Gleaming white china was decorated with a spectacular - Americana actually thought it a bit too spectacular - pattern of golden swirls, and the silverware glistened with a radiance quite unlike the utensils she used at home.

The room itself was modeled after that of neoclassical English houses of the late 18th century. Natural oak paneling with Corinthian pilasters and a delicately carved frieze decorated the walls. Three console tables with eagle supports were placed against the walls, and a silver-plate chandelier illuminated it all.

Americana was impressed, certainly, but she had been in a few nice places before.

She hadn't been in nice places where one hundred sixty people were all looking at her.

"Americana. So glad you could make it."

Vice President Rockwood stepped forward and took her hand. "My, what a lovely dress."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Americana wasn't quite sure whether the Vice President was merely being polite or actually admired her outfit, but she liked it, at least.

She wore a red blouse and a long navy skirt, topped off with a blue blazer. Over her heart she wore a pin, a single white star. And, since she wore her uniform underneath, her white boots and gloves set off the navy blue of the skirt and coat.

"Come, I'll introduce you to a few people... ah, Senator Carlston, Americana."

"How do you do?"

"Fine, sir..."

"The Senator hails from - "

"Oregon," Americana said, grinning at his surprise. "Carlston-Hayworth bill, protecting the forests, right?"

"Why... yes. Yes, indeed!" the Senator smiled broadly.

Another man stuck out his hand. "Wilson Thickett, Americana. I truly admire your work."

"Thank you, Mr. Thickett. I've enjoyed your poems very much."

The Library of Congress' poet laureate peered over his glasses with abject curiosity. Since she had recognized him, chances were good that she had actually read some of his work as well. Remarkable.

"Here's someone who really wants to say hello, dear," the Vice President said in her ear.

Americana turned... to see Irene Caruthers standing patiently.

First Lady Irene Caruthers.

Her small body was encased in an absolutely gorgeous dress, in white and silver. She wore just the right amount of pearl jewelry to look dazzling without having overdone it.

As lovely as she looked on TV and in the papers, Americana thought, they did not do her justice. No wonder then-Senator John Caruthers had married her.

"I wanted to say thank you, for saving my husband," she said, then smiled slyly. "Though I know you probably didn't do it just because of that."

Americana thought about making a sly remark of her own before she quickly quashed it.

"You're, uh, you're welcome," she stammered. Oh, geez, that was a good answer.

"You probably get that kind of thing a lot..."

"Well... less often than you'd think."

Come on, Astie - slow down, speak clearly...

"Which just makes me appreciate it all the more," she smiled, "when I do hear it. Thank you, ma'am."

"John's running a little behind tonight - that business in the Mideast."

She shook her head. "Honestly, sometimes it seems that they'll never get along."

"Then, logically, there must be times they will."

The First Lady smiled. "My. An intelligent woman. I'll - oh! Senator Ballard! Say hello to Americana."

The senator had his back to them and had just picked up an hors d'ouvre from a serving tray when he heard the First Lady's greeting - the heroine noted he froze for a second.

Then, Americana froze a bit, too. She had saved the senator, a few months back, from a big native calling himself Orinoco, but the senator hadn't been exactly personable.

He turned, nervously.

Oh, what the heck, she wasn't about to embarrass him in front of everyone.

"Senator. You're looking well, sir," she said with a smile.

"Ah, thank you, Americana... "

"Dad! You know her?"

A young man with wide eyes popped into view; Americana guessed him to be about twenty.

"We've met before," Americana said casually.

"Um, this is my son, Brian. He's acting as a Senate page until autumn."

Brian pumped her hand. "Oh, man, I am so glad to meet you! Thank you for saving my Dad - that was so cool how you handled that guy! I mean -

"Well, uh," he said, straightening himself, "you probably get that a lot."

"More often in some places," Americana said drily, looking at the amused First Lady, "but I appreciate it each time I do."

"Ladies and Gentlemen," a deep voice intoned. "The President of the United States."

Everyone turned and clapped for the Chief Executive as the band played "Hail to the Chief"; the song had a glory and a majesty to it that resonated in Americana's heart.

The assembled throng began to make its way to the tables; there would be plenty of time later to chat and perhaps meet the guest of honor.

She was escorted up to the front, to sit with the President and the Vice President and their spouses. Frankly, it was a little... embarrassing. But it was Americana they were honoring, not Astrea, and that made her a little more comfortable.

Not to mention that she could finally sit down; her leg still bothered her, and she had lifted herself a half-inch or so above the floor by flying.

"How are you, Americana? I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner."

"Heck, Mr. President, I just got here a few minutes ago myself. Your wife and the V.P. have been very kind, introducing me to people, making me feel comfortable."

"Good, good!"

A waiter swiftly lay a salad plate down in front of her, and dinner began.

Conversation started about the President's dealings with the Middle East, then on to the new Education Code. At first Americana quietly munched her lettuce (well, so far as she knew it was lettuce) and tried to gauge the rhythm of the conversation, and by the time the main course was served (Happy Mountain chicken - chicken topped with onion, cheese, pineapple and coconut - delicious!) she felt comfortable enough to join in the conversation.

Of course, much of the conversation turned out to be about her - the enemies she fought (who was Powerbolt, anyway?), places she'd been (yes, she enjoyed California very much) and mysteries solved (she couldn't actually think of one).

Then, when everyone had finished with dessert (Americana discovered that she wasn't too fond of caramel cheesecake) the President stood to address the room and the TV cameras.

He began by talking about the Flag and how this day meant much for the symbol of our nation, and how he was lucky to be here for this celebration...

Americana truly wished she could have listened more closely, but she was mentally rehearsing her own little speech that she would surely be asked to give. It was only a few sentences long, but she sure didn't want to blow it.

"...and so I give you the heroine of the hour, who knows a little bit about flags herself - " he paused for the polite laughter of the crowd, "Americana."

Most of the room stood and cheered as Americana walked the few steps to the lectern, with the rest of the people staggering to their feet to avoid being the only ones still sitting down.

It was a tad embarrassing.

"Thank you, Mr. President," she smiled, pausing for the photographer as the President handed her a very nice plaque. Heaven knew where she could put it, though - she couldn't very well hang it in her hallway. Not without blowing her secret identity, that is.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," Americana began. "I am very honored by this award, and this dinner."

"When the time came for me to choose a symbol, it was no accident that I chose the colors of the flag. The red symbolizes hardiness and valor. The white symbolizes purity and innocence. And the blue represents vigilance, perseverance and justice.

"I have done my best to live up to those ideals..."

As she spoke, she looked around the room, pausing to make eye contact with an audience member before moving on to the next - a habit she had picked up in Toastmasters.

"... no one knows the true, exact origin of the first American flag. Some historians believe it was designed by Congressman Francis Hopkinson and sewn by Philadelphia seamstress Betsy Ross... but chances are we will never know for certain. I rather like the mystery.

"Which could be why I keep my true name to myself," she smiled.

She caught her breath while the audience laughed politely.

Americana was no vexillogist - one who studies flags - but she knew more than enough to keep her audience entertained.

"... and I thank you all for coming tonight." <

It was only after the applause died down and she was seated that she allowed herself to relax again.

"Very nice, dear," the Vice President leaned over and said. "Who writes your material?"

Americana laughed softly and took a drink from her champagne glass.

A reporter passing by quickly took a photo.

"Americana - drinking? Champagne?"

The heroine blinked, then laughed.

"No, no," she said, tapping the rim of the glass. "Seven-Up. Diet Seven-Up."

"He really should know better," the Vice President said crossly, as the man shuffled away.

"Oh, he thought he had a good picture," Americana said with a smile. "Can't blame him, really."

"Ah. Forgive me for saying, but you'll change your mind soon enough."

"Well, ma'am... it's just that... well, I have so many enemies, powered and not... I don't need to make the list longer, you know?"

"Americana!" the President cut in. "I'd like to introduce you to the Prime Minister of Britain..."

For the next hour or so, Americana was introduced to dozens of ministers, senators, ambassadors, representatives, and even a couple of Supreme Court Justices. She did her best to recall something about each person, and knew enough to let her host introduce those she couldn't.

Through it all she maintained her smile - after all, they were here to see her.

Well, mostly, at least, she told herself. She wasn't that naive!

Americana made sure to thank everyone for such a fine evening, right down to the White House guard who escorted her to the door.

A broad smile lit up her face as she rose into the skies over Pennsylvania Avenue. Though she certainly didn't feel that it was necessary, it was nice to be thanked... especially after that arrest business -

Suddenly it seemed like every cell in her body was erupting in pain!

She spiraled toward the ground, dimly aware that she had been shot in the back. The heroine was too hurt to halt her fall; she crashed through some newspaper sales boxes and bounced, twice.

Groggily, she lifted her head.

Floating above her was a silhouette, a shadow, whose ragged black cape and hood blended seamlessly into her features - and who was pointing a black, black hand... at Americana.

Recognition came with shock.

"Umbra."