Turning her back on the glare of the window, she was confronted by a Fauvist interpretation of the muted impressionist color palette she’d used to decorate Hugh’s office. One wall was acid yellow, the others, bright orange.

The living room was even worse. The elegant Louis XIV furniture she’d spent a fortune to ship from London was now a collection of blocky, modernist eyesores. A simple, square light fixture replaced the beautiful cut crystal chandelier she’d won at auction. Had Hugh lost his mind?

Eyes aching from this onslaught, she returned to the bathroom to again splash her face, but, where was it? Not the bathroom – thankfully Hugh hadn’t changed anything there – but her face? This was a real mirror, not a screen, and she stared straight through herself to the spectrum of beige towels on the wall behind her. She held up her hands – nothing.

Oh god, she’d gotten a bad pair of lenses. This was why the EU hadn’t approved them yet. Was it too late to get them removed? The nanobots needed 24 hours to bond with her eye tissue.

Back in the office, she tried to find the troubleshooting guide on the charging station but the menus cascaded into infinity. She needed help.

Mrs. Constantino answered the door so quickly she must have been standing beside it.

“I’m so sorry,” Arabella began, but Mrs. Constantino needed no explanation.

“Come in, dear.”

She ushered Arabella into a large, clean living room. Framed photographs of buildings covered the six-meter high walls.

Arabella gaped. “I didn’t know any of the apartments had such high ceilings.”

Mrs. Constantino smiled. “My husband was a builder. The builder, in this case. He gave us the best unit. Would you like a tour?”

Arabella contemplated her invisible feet. “Maybe later. Right now I need help resetting my lenses. Something is wrong.”

Mrs. Constantino crooked a finger. “Come to my room. We’ll fix you up.”

Her bedroom was as neat and tasteful as the living room. Arabella couldn’t reconcile this walking pile of rags with the upscale furniture that surrounded her, and the cats she was sure infested the place had yet to make an appearance.

Mrs. Constantino gestured to a rig similar to Hugh’s. “Lean in and I’ll talk you through it.”

A few minutes later, Arabella hurried to a large white and gold mirror and looked with relief into her own red-veined eyes. “Thank you so much. I downloaded my husband’s settings and…”

Mrs. Constantino shushed her and took her arm. “Let’s have a drink.”

“Oh no, I–”

“I insist.”

Arabella, surprised by the strength of the woman’s grip, allowed herself to be led back to the living room. Mrs. Constantino mixed and poured two martinis with the ease of a hotel bartender.

“What was wrong with your lenses?” she asked, once she and Arabella were seated.

Arabella sipped tentatively. She usually drank white wine. “Well, the apartment was different, but that wasn’t the real problem. I couldn’t see myself!” She held out a slim, manicured hand. Still there.

Mrs. Constantino laughed, a disturbing half-cough, half-chortle. “Oh honey. Finish that drink and come here.”

She swallowed hers in a gulp and waited for Arabella to choke down a bit more of the astringent liquid.

Back in the bedroom, Mrs. Constantino pointed to the charging station. “Get back on there. Choose ‘Charles’ from the settings menu. Don’t worry, we’ll put you back to basics after that.”

Arabella did, hesitantly. Once her lenses were updated, she stepped back and faced a beautiful, lithe, 20 year-old woman with waist-length black hair.

The woman gazed at her with bewitching, long-lashed brown eyes. Smiling coquettishly, she turned slowly, showing off the kind of figure Arabella failed to attain despite hours a day at the gym.

“Your lenses aren’t broken, honey,” the beautiful woman proclaimed in an incongruously weary, feathery voice. “Your husband hasn’t decided what you look like yet.”

Arabella recalled the Miami beach scene, the garish colors in Hugh’s office, the altered furniture in the living room, and her own invisibility.

“Unfortunately,” she replied, “I’m afraid he has.”

………………………………………………

M. Luke McDonell is a San Francisco-based writer and designer. Her near-future fiction explores the effects of technology on individuals and society, with particular focus on the growing power of corporations and the associated voluntary and involuntary loss of rights and privacy.

The Brat and the Burly Qs

David Perlmutter

1.

It seemed like the usual scenario: fly in, tell the bad guy he sucks, stomp him up a bit, and “save the day”, as they put it. But there’s always a sort of complication involved before you can go ahead and restore order, and this was a bit more unusual than most.

First, allow me to introduce myself, as it’s likely we’ve never met or spoken before this time, right?

My given name, such as it is, is Precious XY-300. The reason being is that I come from a planet (yes, I’m an alien) where the natives have half their bodies made out of metal on account of our evolution to the climate – you don’t see it on me so much ‘cause I painted my mechanical parts so that they’d look more “human”. I’m here on your Earth, and going under the cover name Precious O’Reilly, on account of some skullduggery in my homeland I’d rather not go into now. Too painful. The point is, I ended up in your solar system, and I now fight crime etc. within it as the Brat. That accounts for the “B” on my shirt, in case you were wondering.

Now, you might also be wondering what a “three year old girl”, blonde haired, blue eyed, wearing a blue wool jacket, white skirt and boots, and the aforementioned shirt, is doing here in a bar unaccompanied, and drinking a beer. Well, let’s get something straight, pal. I’m not a three year old girl! I can pass as one, as you’ll soon see, but, in all other respects, I am an adult. Everyone on my planet is the same, diminutive size as me through youth and adulthood. Anyone over 4 feet tall is considered as much of a freak of nature as someone who weighed 400 pounds or more would be amongst you guys. Still, people see me as a little girl and treat me like it. Until I open my mouth or throw a punch at them, that is.

Sorry for the info dump, but it’s necessary to understand the story I’m gonna tell ya. I don’t want the good readers of “Super Heroics Illustrated” getting the wrong idea about me, after all. And it’s a sign of good faith on your part that you can keep that thing going, considering how many of us don’t want to talk to you. But my friends say you’re legit, so I guess I can trust you. Up to a point!

Anyhow, this is what happened on Mars:

2.