Chapter 3: Walk of Shame
The silence of the apartment pressed down, thick as the foundation on Kara’s face. Jerome’s serum was a coiled serpent in her veins, its restless hum building from a whisper to a roar. Go. Be seen. Be validated. The need wasn't external command; it was an internal fire, demanding fuel. Staring at the tear in her bedspread from the fallen stiletto only amplified the pressure. The frilly pink blouse felt like a papery skin. The short skirt like an exposure.
Taking a shaky breath, she pushed herself up from the bed. Her ankles screamed in protest as she forced weight onto the needle-thin heels. Walking was a precarious negotiation. Each step was a conscious calculation – shift weight, balance, don’t fall. The click-clack of the patent leather on her own hardwood floor sounded absurdly loud, a brittle announcement of her frailty.
The door handle felt cold, alien. For a dizzying moment, the ghost of her X-ray vision flickered uselessly behind her eyes, showing her only the dense wood grain, not the city beyond. She yanked the door open.
Metropolis assaulted her senses. The roar of traffic was a physical wave, the exhaust fumes thick and metallic in the warm afternoon air. Sunlight, once her power source, now felt uncomfortably bright, making her painted skin feel tacky. The towering buildings seemed to lean in, judgmental giants. People flowed past on the sidewalk – a river of unconcerned humanity. And their eyes… they snagged on her like burrs.
A construction worker in a dusty vest whistled, low and appreciative. "Damn, sweetheart! Lookin' fine today!" The words were casual, tossed like trash. They hit Kara like a rock to the gut. Shame flared, white-hot, followed immediately by a shocking, treacherous warmth spreading through her chest. Validation. The serum purred its approval. She kept walking, head down, cheeks burning beneath the heavy blush.
Two teenagers in oversized hoodies snickered as she wobbled past. "Yo, check the Barbie doll!" one hissed. "Think she can even walk in those things?" Their laughter was sharp, cruel. The humiliation was a physical slap, but underneath, the serpent uncoiled further, whispering: They see you. They noticed. That’s what matters.
Each step on the pavement was an agony. The heels sank into tiny cracks, threatening to twist. Her calves burned with the unnatural strain. Sweat beaded under the thick makeup at her hairline. Men stared openly, their gazes lingering on the exposed length of her legs, the cinched waist of the blouse, the artificial plumpness of her glossed lips. Women glanced, some with envy, most with a flicker of pity or disdain she could feel like static electricity. A delivery driver leaned out his window, "Hey gorgeous, need a ride?" His grin was wide, suggestive.
Every unwanted remark, every lingering look, was a knife twisting. Yet, with each one, the serum’s fire burned brighter, hotter, momentarily easing the frantic need before demanding more. It was a sickening addiction, feeding on her degradation. She felt exposed, flayed open, a spectacle. And a horrifying part of her… craved it. Needed it. The alternative – being invisible, unnoticed – felt like a suffocating void the serum wouldn’t allow.
She turned a corner, seeking a moment’s respite down a slightly less crowded street lined with boutique windows. The relentless clatter of her heels echoed off the glass. And then she saw it.
Her reflection in a gleaming storefront window.
She froze.
The image was jarring, surreal. Not Supergirl. Not even the determined Kara Danvers who’d stood proud in CatCo. This was someone else entirely. A figure poured into an aggressively feminine costume. The ruffled pink blouse screamed calculated innocence. The impossibly short black skirt showcased legs made unstable by the cruel stilettos. Her face was a mask: poreless, flawless skin beneath heavy makeup, dark-rimmed eyes wide and artificial with layers of mascara, cheeks flushed with painted roses, lips a glistening, wet-looking pink.
She looked… broken. Sculpted into fragility. A parody of femininity served up for consumption.
A wave of pure revulsion washed over her. What have I done? What am I? The memory of her Kryptonian strength, the feel of flight, the certainty of her purpose – it crashed against the image in the glass like a tide against a paper wall. Despair threatened to choke her.
But then, a stronger, stranger sensation surged, swamping the horror.
She loved it.
The thought slammed into her consciousness, sickening and undeniable. She loved the exaggerated curves the clothes forced on her altered frame. She loved the unnatural smoothness of her concealed skin. She loved the dramatic sweep of the eyeliner, the impossible gloss of her lips. She loved the way the outfit screamed for attention, demanded to be seen. It was perfect. A perfect shield. A perfect presentation of exactly what the world, what he might… want.
The serum roared in triumph, a cascade of warm, chemical pleasure flooding her system, washing away the shame, the despair, the memory of who she’d been. It left only a dizzying euphoria focused entirely on the reflection. The reflection was beautiful. The reflection was desirable. The reflection was validated.
A shaky, utterly unfamiliar sound escaped her painted lips. Was it a sob? Or… a sigh of satisfaction? She couldn't tell. She raised a trembling hand, her glossy nails catching the light, and touched the cold glass, tracing the outline of the false face staring back. Her heart hammered, not with fear or anger, but with a terrifying, exhilarating thrill.
The reflection smiled back. A slow, deliberate curve of the sticky pink lips. It wasn't her smile. But it was the smile the world wanted. The smile the serum demanded.
The painted smile felt stiff on her lips, a brittle mask glued over her crumbling self. That reflection – frilly, glossy, alien – terrified her. Yet the serpentine warmth coiling in her belly purred its deep, chemical approval. They see you. They want you. This is power. It was a lie, slick and poisonous.
Her stilettos clicked a nervous rhythm down the sidewalk, each step sending jolts up her shins. The stares continued, a relentless current she was learning to surf. A man in a sharp suit slowed his pace, eyes sweeping over her like a scanner. "Nice stems, toots," he murmured, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. The words were cheap, dismissive. Yet the serum surged, a hot wave of validation washing over the icy shame. She forced her borrowed smile wider, a reflex now.
The city’s roar – the screeching brakes, the honking horns, the fragmented conversations – felt like physical pressure against her eardrums. Her senses, once capable of picking out a single heartbeat in a stadium, were now muffled, overwhelmed. A wave of dizziness washed over her; she swayed, catching herself on a lamppost. The cold metal shocked her bare arm. Weak. The thought echoed, sharp and small.
She pressed on, the serum’s imperative a drumbeat in her skull: More. Be more. Seen is not enough. Her gaze darted, restless, scanning the storefronts blurring past – coffee shops, tech stores, a dingy bodega. Nothing fit the gnawing, undefined need clawing at her insides. Then she saw it. Tucked between a dry cleaner and a pawn shop, bathed in a garish neon glow: 'Glamazon Nails & Hair - Walk Ins Welcome!'
The sign pulsed pink and blue, illuminating posters taped inside the window. Women with impossibly long, impossibly blonde hair cascading down their backs. Fingers tipped with talons of gleaming acrylic, painted in candy colors and intricate designs. It was cartoonish. Vulgar. A parody. Kara shuddered, a flicker of her old self recoiling. No. That's... grotesque.
But the serum ignited. It wasn't a thought; it was a visceral pull. The images weren't grotesque; they were magnets. That hair. Shiny, attention-grabbing, a beacon. Those nails. Long, impractical, undeniably feminine trophies. Proof. Tangible proof she had transformed, that she fit this new, demanding silhouette the world seemed to crave. The chemical warmth intensified, drowning the shudder, replacing revulsion with a desperate, dizzying need. It felt like the final piece clicking into place.
Before doubt could resurface, her legs moved. The salon door chimed with artificial cheer as she pushed through. The air hit her – thick and syrupy with the acrid tang of acetone, ammonia, and cheap perfume. Overpowering. Her eyes watered slightly. Pop music thumped from tinny speakers. Stations lined the walls, each occupied by women chattering or staring blankly at phone screens.
A woman with electric blue hair extensions and neon orange nails looked up from behind the counter. Her gaze swept over Kara’s pink blouse, short skirt, and pained posture in the stilettos. A slow, assessing smile spread across her face, devoid of warmth. "Well, hello there, sugar," she drawled, her voice gravelly from cigarettes. "Walk-in? What're we thinking today? Just a fill?" She gestured vaguely at Kara’s short, sensible, unchipped nails.
Kara’s throat felt dry. The words seemed to form on their own, pushed out by the relentless pressure in her chest. She pointed a trembling finger at a poster showing a waterfall of platinum blonde extensions cascading past a model's waist. "That," she rasped. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, thin and unfamiliar. "The hair. Like that. Platinum. And..." Her eyes darted to a display of long, coffin-shaped acrylic tips painted shocking pink. "...nails. Like those. Long."
The stylist, whose name tag read 'Candy', raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Honey, that's a transformation. We're talking full bleach job, bond-in extensions, the works. And them nails ain't for typing, lemme tell ya." She laughed, a harsh sound. "You sure you're ready for all that?"
Candy’s skepticism scraped against Kara’s raw nerves. The serum flared hot, defensive. She thinks I can't handle it. Thinks I'm not enough. The defiance felt alien, fueled by chemicals, not conviction. "Yes," Kara stated, injecting a brittle confidence she didn't feel into the single word. Her gaze locked onto Candy's. "Make me... make me look like that." She tapped the poster again. "Exactly like that."Perfect. Unmistakable. Seen.
Candy shrugged, the movement making her blue extensions shimmer. "Your scalp, your wallet, doll. Sit down at Tina's station. Tina! Got a live one for ya! Full Barbie!" She sounded almost bored.
A younger woman, Tina, with her own cascading honey-blonde extensions and impossibly long, glittery nails, waved Kara over to a padded chair facing a large, brightly lit mirror. Kara wobbled towards it, feeling ridiculous, exposed. She sank into the chair, the vinyl sighing under her weight. The mirror reflected her back – the ruffles, the makeup mask, the confusion warring with chemical need in her eyes.
Tina draped a black nylon cape around her shoulders, snapping it shut at the nape of her neck. The gesture felt oddly final. "Alright, gorgeous," Tina chirped, her voice sugary. "So, platinum bombshell with max length extensions? And stiletto nails? You're going full fantasy! Love it!" She ran her fingers through Kara's natural blonde hair, now dull and limp under the salon lights. "Gonna need to lift this way up, honey. It might sting."
Kara closed her eyes as Tina mixed the pungent bleach. The sharp chemical smell intensified, making her nose wrinkle. She felt the cold, wet paste hit her scalp. A familiar burn started to prickle almost immediately. Kryptonian healing wouldn't even flinch at this. Now, it was just pain. A necessary pain. For the transformation. For the validation. She focused on the image in her mind: the waterfall of unnatural blonde, the gleaming nails. Jerome would... The thought flickered, unwelcome but undeniable. He'd notice. He'd approve. The serum hummed its warm agreement. The burn intensified. She didn't open her eyes.