The Chattel Girl

BY : tooshoes
Category: DC Verse Television > SuperGirl
Dragon prints: 1806
Disclaimer: I do not own Supergirl, nor the characters or any story elements from TV show. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter image:

I don’t expect much when I arrive at work the day after, but I do expect people to treat me differently.

They don’t.

Of course, they don’t know that I’m the girl who saved the plane, but I thought they would see the differences in me, how I’m dressed, how I’m acting, and how I feel.

But nobody is paying attention to little old me. All they are talking about is the girl hero, not knowing that the hero is in their midst.

Even Winn, who usually greets me at the door, is fussing over videos of the rescue on his computer.

“Pretty cool, huh?” I say nonchalantly.

“A plane saving lady?” he scoffs, sounding like he cares even less than me. “How is the world supposed to take her seriously when she can’t even come up with a suit? Pfft, I don’t know what the fuss is about, she’s just a rookie.”

I hesitate at my desk and say dejectedly, “Do you really think so?”

Winn immediately notices my change in tone and rolls his chair from his desk to mine with a kick. “Not really, but you know I love a good costume. How can I make an action figure for her without a costume?”

I smile, now knowing that he was joking around, and also because he came quickly to me when I was feeling a little down.

“Something’s different about you,” he says, making me smile even brighter. Finally, someone noticed. “You aren’t wearing your glasses. Are you wearing contact lenses?”

I shake my head. That's all he can see? Or maybe he's trying to be polite. I feel so frustrated I can barely stand it.

When I left home this morning, I made some rash decisions. That seems to be my M.O. lately, after Alex belittles me: I throw caution to the wind. I’m not even thinking. It worked out great for me last night, so I tried it again this morning.

I dressed in a sexy but work-friendly blouse and miniskirt combo with high heels. But nothing else. I dressed only with what I absolutely needed, deciding that everything else was a crutch and left those things at home. It worked great for me yesterday. The first thing I abandoned were my glasses, despite being afraid that someone might recognize me as National City’s new hero. Or maybe I hope they recognize me, I haven't decided. Anyway, I will never wear glasses again. Then I decided against my cell phone, though Cat Grant likes me available every moment of the day. Once again, I left my apartment door open, so I don’t need my keys. I don’t need my wallet if I don’t plan to buy anything. I don’t need my purse if I don’t have my wallet. I don’t need my bra in my loose-fitting, plunge blouse. And then I decided that I don’t even need panties if I can just stop thinking about sex for eight hours.

Reckless is too kind of a word to describe me today!

Then I let my long hair go a little wild, paint my lips in bubblegum color, and frame my eyes with pinkish shadows because Alex says it makes me look like a slutty schoolgirl, and that gets me more excited.

The cherry on top is a small, fake rose tattoo on my neck that reveals itself whenever my hair moves.

These all feel like major changes to me.

To my disappointment, nobody seems to have noticed my rebellion. Maybe everyone is being polite, but I wish they wouldn't be. I hate political correctness right now!  It's the bane of my existence.

When Winn finally observes that I’m not wearing my glasses, it ignores so much that it feels insulting.

But maybe I'm just impatient. He looks me over, and he begins to say, “You know, Kara...”

I await his next words on pins and needles.

But just then Cat enters the office space and is followed by an entourage of CatCo and Tribune employees into her office.

I touch Winn’s hand and beg him to “hold that thought,” as I sneak into Cat’s office behind everyone else.

Cat immediately turns on the large TV on her wall, and I see a soon-to-be-famous photo of myself splashed across the screen. Everyone gawks. The image is much clearer and sexier than the photo I saw last night. My clothes were almost completely burned off, and the wet, black soot covered me like body paint. My nipples and pussy leaves nothing to the imagination, but somehow it must not count as nudity, because they are showing it on television. The bigger the news, the less the rules seem to matter.

No wonder my coworkers didn't notice the clothes I am wearing now when that slut on the TV is wearing nothing! Now I feel overdressed! I wish I could have come to work looking like that: filthy and unpresentable, but captivating nevertheless. Everyone would have noticed me, then.

Or maybe they are only gawking at her because the girl on the TV screen is a hero, and I, the girl in their midst, am a nobody.

In the photo, the only part of my clothes that remained intact was the very top of my shirt, where the chattel symbol is clearly visible. Dozens of people saw me wearing that symbol yesterday, and it's only a matter of time before someone says something. Maybe the bar has security recordings. My identity might not be secret for very long.

Cat points at the screen and paces back and forth impatiently, saying, “I know many of you are used to being second best, but it’s new to me. Last night was the biggest event for this city in years, but the national news networks have dominated the coverage. We don’t have any exclusive content of any kind. This is unacceptable!”

“We don’t have much to go on,” complains a program director, “but we have several interviews with passengers and even the flight crew.”

“That’s not the story,” Cat waves him off. “We need information on the girl. Anything. Where does she come from? What does that symbol mean? Is she a black girl or a white girl under that soot?”

One of his reporters chimes in. “We estimate that she’s between  15 and 25 years old, caucasian, blue eyes, and around 5 feet tall. It’s hard to gauge her height measured against the wing of a passenger jet. Dark hair, maybe black.”

“We don’t know that,” James says, startling me. I didn’t know he was here, but suddenly he’s beside me. “Maybe her hair is filthy, like the rest of her, blackened by the plane exhaust and burning fuel.”

I hold my breath.

“You make an excellent point, James,” Cat says. “I’m glad you are here. Do you think there is any connection between this girl and …”

“My friend in Metropolis?” James ponders. “I don’t know. She seems pretty amateurish, like she’s never done this sort of thing before. Some people are not born to be heroes, and I would not be surprised if she never shows her face again.”

I turn away from James, shocked and hurt. I can see he is getting hard again, standing next to me, but I’ve lost all interest in him.

Apparently, Cat has, too, because she ignores his comment and says, “Well, she’s a hero today, and we’re going to do everything we can to make her feel at home with CatCo. This girl is the answer. She is perfect for us. She is exactly what we need to save the Tribune and raise the stature of National City. We just got a football team last year, and now we’re going to have this young, sexy sensation, if I have anything to say about it. It will drive Metropolis crazy!

"Maybe..." one of the older editors begins, and everyone pauses for a second, anticipating what she will say. "Maybe she's bigger than a hero. I mean ... the way she showed up ..."

Then there is an awkward silence and an almost solemn expression among the older people in the room. Several people nod.

I'm not well educated, so I am never surprised when I don't understand what goes on around me, but my ignorance is frustrating when I know that I'm the topic of discussion!

Cat finally breaks the silence with determination. "We can't focus on that. Maybe her clothes were burned off and that's all there is to it. But we'll present her as a hero. That's what people think they want. We'll let the chips fall where they may. We are going to blow her up, give her puff pieces on the editorial pages, push her hard on social media, but we need images if we are going to feature her on TV. We need video, and interviews and exclusive access to her. And we need to give her a name. We need to brand her and tie her name to us. We can’t keep calling her ‘the girl.’ ”

“How about Starlet,” suggests one voice.

Cat considers that idea, then she shakes her head. “Too Gotham. And it doesn't sound important enough.”

“Powerwoman?” suggests another.

Cat shakes her head again. “Everyone already thinks of her as a girl.”

“Chattel Girl?” I suggest, terrified and excited that she might actually consider the idea.

“What?" Cat is startled. She gives me a funny look, then she counters, "No, why not Supergirl? That’s what everyone is thinking, so we’ll call her Supergirl, and if Superman sues, it will make her an even bigger star. But we need to be first. She needs to be tied to us.  So go! Go get me that girl! If she’s not a hero, we will make her into one!”

Cat points to the door, which is her command to get to work, so the editors, photographers and reporters all disburse immediately.

I hesitate, unsure if any of her orders apply to me, while also knowing that I could end this charade by just telling Cat who I am.

I don't know how to feel about my new but secret fame. I love and hate that Cat wants to call me Supergirl. It feels like an honor and an insult at the same time. I don't want to be compared to Superman. If she would just name me Chattle Girl, I wouldn't feel so conflicted. That term was never meant to be an honor, but I know that is who I am. For the first time in my life, I've done something amazing, and I have to keep it to myself.

I sigh and turn to leave Cat's office after everyone else has already left.

"Oh, and Kara?" Cat turns her attention to me and winks. "Get me a lettuce wrap.”

I cover my mouth and suppress an awkward laugh as I walk away. It feels unreal.

James walks beside me and asks, “Hey Kara, while you are getting Cat’s lunch, could you get me a pastrami on rye? Swiss and mustard, please.”

I stop and glare at him as he walks away, feeling furious.

I take a deep breath. I thought I was reckless and bold today, but everyone is still taking me for granted, so I walk up to the one person in this world who seems to care for me at all.

Winn is heavy into some Matrix-looking coding when I sneak up behind him, but he hears my approach and looks up.

“Winn, I need to talk to you on the roof,” I say frantically and walk straight towards the stairwells.



“Is this going to be a regular thing?” Winn yells out over the open space.

I’m pacing back and forth in the open area used for helicopter landings.

Winn approaches nervously because there are no supports where we are standing, and I’m pacing too close to the edge. “Whatever it is, can we make this quick?” he pleads.

“Okay,” I say and walk quickly up to Winn. Then I gulp. “Winn, I’m going to tell you something about me that only three people in my life know. Can I trust you?”

Winn looks nervous for a second, which is good, because I feel nervous, too. But then he collects himself and reassures me, “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Good,” I say, touching his hand and sighing in relief. “Everything is a confusing mess, and my family is against me, and I’m afraid nobody will understand. I just … really want someone to be excited for me.”

Winn nods though I still haven’t told him anything.

“Right,” I say and struggle with the best way to tell him. “You see, there is something about me that for most of my life, I’ve been ashamed of. My parents and my sister treated me like I was a dirty secret. But it’s a part of me, and I don’t want to be ashamed of it anymore. Then, last night, I embraced who I am, all of it, and I don’t want to stop.”

I pause for a moment, caught between hope that he’ll understand and fear that he’ll reject me out of hand.

“Oh my god,” he begins as a lightbulb goes off in his head. “You’re a lesbian.”

I wince and look down.

Winn hurries to show his approval and excitement at the news. “Oh, Kara, this is great news! That’s why you didn’t want to date me yesterday. But I don’t mind. I’m happy for you.”

“I’m not gay!” I stop him short, realizing I’ll just have to spit it out: “I’m, you know … her!”

“Her?” Winn asks, looking as confused as ever.

“The girl who saved the plane!” I finally say it in exasperation, laughing as if it’s a joke.

But Winn thinks it is a joke, and he laughs, too. “Okay, right.” He looks away, trying to understand the punch line.

I throw up my hands and turn away from him, frustrated. Is it really so hard for people to believe that I could be someone special? When will I learn that for people to take me seriously, I need to do something serious?

“Hey, Kara!” I hear Winn call out from behind me, as the wind picks up. “Don’t get so close to the edge! You could get hurt!”

I turn back to face him. I’m touched that he is genuinely afraid for my safety, but I don’t want him to worry.

I have to show him, even if that changes everything between us. But how do I show him? I flew yesterday because I needed to, but I can't remember how I did it. I just started moving and pretending that I could fly, and then I was flying. Maybe using my powers is like riding a bicycle. I just need to start moving and believing, and my powers will take over.

I smile hopefully.

I walk away from the edge of the roof and back towards Winn. I walk like I’m on a tight rope, arms spread. I take five steps, but my sixth step never touches the ground.

He looks confused.

I feel unsteady. I’ve never hovered in the air, before. I take another few steps up into the air until I’m almost standing over him.

He looks thrilled!

I playfully smile and wink at him.

Then I remember that I’m not wearing panties, and he is looking right up my skirt!

I lose my balance and fall nearly on top of him.

He catches me by my shoulders before I can crash into the ground.

Now holds me in his arms, and we look in each other’s eyes from inches away, seeing each other like never before. I feel strangely vulnerable, and he looks strangely fascinated and excited, like I am all of his fantasies come true. He mouths in awe, “You really are her!”

“Yep!” I reply with an embarrassed laugh. “I’m her.”


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