"Trying to date Ellie Brock is like trying to hug a cactus that occasionally hugs you back," I mutter to myself as I trudge down 23rd Street, hands shoved deep in my pockets. The afternoon sun beats down on my shoulders, unusually warm for November in New York.
"God, I'm so tired of her pretending she doesn't want to be with me," I continue my one-man therapy session, sidestepping a woman walking three identical chihuahuas. "Maybe I should just embrace single life. Focus on the hero thing."
Even as I say it, I know I'm full of shit. The image of Ellie's face flashes through my mind, those piercing blue eyes, that predatory smile when she thinks she's got me cornered.
"But she's exactly my type. Ugh," I groan, earning a concerned glance from a passing businesswoman.
I pull out the scrap of paper with the address Spider-Woman gave me, checking the numbers on the storefronts.
When I finally spot Leah's Tailoring sandwiched between a vegan bakery and a vintage record store, I pause. The storefront is surprisingly modest, just a simple sign with elegant gold lettering and a display window showcasing what looks like perfectly normal business attire.
As I approach the door, it swings open, and I nearly collide with a woman exiting the shop. She's tall, at least six feet, with shoulder-length brown hair and an athletic build beneath her casual business attire. But what immediately catches my attention is the ruby-quartz visor covering her eyes, glowing with a subtle red energy that sends my comic-book-loving brain into overdrive.
Holy shit. That's Cyclops. A female version of Cyclops. Just casually walking out of a tailor shop in the middle of the day.
She pauses, holding the door open for me with a polite smile. "Sorry about that," she says, her voice carrying the measured authority of someone used to leadership. "Didn't see you there."
"I… uhhh… You're Cyclops!" I blurt out, my voice jumping an octave as the words tumble out. My brain is short-circuiting at the sight of an actual X-Woman standing right in front of me.
She laughs, a warm sound that's somehow both surprised and amused. "How very astute of you," she says, her head tilting slightly as she studies me through that glowing visor.
My heart's hammering against my ribs as a lifetime of comic book fantasies collide with reality. Before I can engage my brain-to-mouth filter, I hear myself asking, "Can you shoot me with your laser eyes?"
The smile vanishes from her face instantly. She stands perfectly still, the red glow of her visor revealing nothing of the expression behind it.
"No," she says flatly, nothing more.
An awkward silence stretches between us, thick enough to cut with a knife. My face burns with embarrassment as I realize what I've done.
"Right. That was stupid. I'm sorry," I stammer, desperate to salvage whatever dignity I might have left.
"It's fine," she interrupts, her voice softening slightly. "But they're not lasers. They're concussive force beams." She adjusts her visor with practiced precision. "And they would shatter every bone in your body."
I stare at her, feeling like a complete idiot. "Oh. Force beams. That's... actually even cooler."
Cyclops sighs, but there's a hint of amusement in it. "You're here to see Leah, I'm guessing?"
"Yeah," I admit, trying to recover some semblance of dignity. "Spider-Woman recommended her."
Something shifts in Cyclops' posture, a subtle straightening of her shoulders, a hint of approval. "She's good people," she says simply. "Good luck with whatever you're working on."
Before I can embarrass myself further, she steps past me and strides away, her confident gait drawing stares from pedestrians who clearly recognize her.
I take a deep breath and push through the door into Leah's Tailoring, a small bell announcing my arrival. The interior is surprisingly ordinary, racks of fabric samples along one wall, a few mannequins displaying business suits, and a counter with a vintage cash register. The place smells like fresh fabric and something herbal, maybe tea.
"I'll be right with you!" calls a voice from the back room.
I wander around the shop, running my fingers over different fabric swatches, trying to imagine which one would make the best superhero costume. Something durable but flexible. Definitely not spandex, I don't have the physique for that kind of body-hugging material.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," says a woman emerging from the back room, wiping her hands on a small cloth. She's shorter than me, maybe in her fifties, with graying hair pulled back in a practical bun and glasses perched on her nose. "How can I help you today?"
"I... uh..." I glance around nervously, wondering how exactly to phrase this. "Spider-Woman sent me? She said you could help with... specialized clothing."
Leah's expression doesn't change, but she reaches past me to flip the 'Open' sign to 'Closed' and locks the front door.
"Follow me," she says simply, gesturing toward the back room.
I trail behind her through a beaded curtain into what looks like an entirely different establishment. The back room is three times larger than the storefront, filled with high-tech equipment, holographic displays, and mannequins wearing what are unmistakably superhero costumes in various stages of completion.
"Damn," I breathe, turning in a slow circle to take in the superhero workshop.
Leah pulls a clipboard from a nearby workbench and clicks her pen, all business. "So, what are you looking for?"
"Uhh..." My mind goes blank as the reality of the situation hits me. I'm actually commissioning a superhero costume. From a real superhero tailor. Who apparently works with the X-Women.
She sighs, adjusting her glasses. "It's all confidential, I don't care who you are, kid. Can I have a name?"
I open my mouth to about to say "Shane Steele" when she can clearly read my mind she cuts me off with a wave of her pen.
"Your hero name," she clarifies, "not your real name."
I nod, feeling a strange thrill run through me. This is it. The moment my alter ego becomes real.
"Skip Step," I say, trying to sound confident despite the nervous flutter in my chest. The name had come to me during a training session with Ellie when she complained I kept "skipping all over the place" with my teleporting.
Leah writes it down without comment, her face impressively neutral. "Do you know what you're looking for?"
"Something easy to switch into," I reply, warming to the topic. "And something to hide my face."
She nods, jotting notes. "Did you bring sketches?"
"No," I admit, feeling unprepared. "I didn't think that far ahead."
Leah clicks her tongue disapprovingly but doesn't dwell on it. "How durable are you?"
The question catches me off guard. "I'm not sure."
"Can you survive gunshots?" she asks bluntly, like she's inquiring about my shoe size.
"No..." I say, suddenly very aware of my mortality. "Definitely not."
She writes something down. "Okay, then kevlar is a must." Her pen moves rapidly across the page. "Lightweight variant, I think. Don't want to slow down your... teleportation, right?"
My jaw drops. "How did you…"
"Spider-Woman mentioned you," she says without looking up. "Said you'd be coming by. Said you're a teleporter who's still learning the ropes."
I'm not sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed that Spider-Woman was talking about me. "That's right."
Leah continues writing. "Any other powers I should know about? Super strength? Energy projection? Anything that might affect the materials I choose?"
"No other powers," I say, then hesitate. "Though I do have this weird... side effect. When I teleport too much, I give off some kind of pheromones that make people around me... um... horny…
Leah raises an eyebrow and taps her pen against the clipboard. "I don't think I'd be able to do anything with that without knowing more about the mechanism. Some kind of fabric treatment might help, but..."
"That's fine," I say quickly, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "It's not a priority for the costume design."
She studies her clipboard intently for a moment before looking back up at me. Her eyes narrow slightly as she examines my face, my build, my awkward stance.
"No ideas at all for the design?" she asks, her tone suggesting this is unusual for her clients.
"No," I admit with a shrug. "I just need something functional that won't get me killed."
Leah nods once, then walks over to a filing cabinet. She pulls open a drawer and rifles through it before extracting a sketch. When she holds it up, my heart nearly stops.
It's the Last Stand suit, red leather jacket with black detailing and jeans. The iconic design is unmistakable, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from squealing like a fanboy.
"Spider-Woman didn't like this design when I showed it to her," Leah explains, "but it would work well for someone with your power set. The jacket is reinforced but allows for quick movement."
"Yeah, the reversible leather jacket," I say, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. "One side normal-looking, the other side costume."
Leah's eyes widen slightly. "Oh, you can just tell? Yes, exactly." She sounds impressed, which only makes my inner nerd glow brighter.
"I'd need a mask though," I add, trying to sound professional. "And could we add a hood to the jacket too?"
"Oh yeah, no problem," she replies, jotting down notes.
She walks over to another table and pulls out several sketches of different mask designs. After flipping through them, she selects one and holds it up.
"How about a mask like this?"
The design resembles a human face but it's all angles and planes, a low-poly geometric approximation of human features. It looks both futuristic and minimalist.
"It'd be lightweight," I observe, already imagining how it would look. "And I'd be able to see out of it well?"
"Yes," Leah confirms, nodding. "And I could make it fold and unfold very easily, so it could go in your pockets when you're not wearing it. One quick motion and it's on your face."
"That would be perfect," I say, feeling a surge of excitement. This is actually happening. I'm getting a real superhero costume from a real superhero tailor.
"What about colors?" Leah asks, tucking the sketches under her arm. "Any preferences?"
I consider it for a moment, picturing myself bounding across rooftops, teleporting between buildings. "Black as the main color for the jacket," I decide, "with maybe some red highlights? And gold for the mask?"
She nods, looking pleased with my choices. "Yeah, sure. That'll work well together. The gold will catch light nicely, make you more visible when you want to be seen, but the dark jacket keeps you hidden when needed."
The way she analyzes my color choices makes me feel like I've somehow passed a test I didn't know I was taking. Maybe there's more to superhero fashion than I realized.
"Alright, let's get you measured," Leah says, pulling a measuring tape from her pocket with the practiced ease of someone who's done this thousands of times.
"Wait, shouldn't we discuss price first?" I ask, suddenly remembering the very real concern of my very empty bank account. Spider-Woman had mentioned it would be expensive, and I'm a broke college student with exactly zero dollars budgeted for superhero attire.
Leah sighs, her shoulders dropping slightly as she looks up at me. "This is a favor for the Spider. I owe her one from a couple of months ago."
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "What'd she do?"
She shakes her head, lips pressed into a thin line. Something flickers across her face, gratitude mixed with something darker, more complicated. Whatever Spider-Woman did for her, it clearly wasn't small.
"Fair enough," I say, respecting her privacy. Everyone in this world has their secrets, and I'm quickly learning that the superhero community operates on an intricate web of favors and unspoken debts.
Leah gestures for me to stand with my arms outstretched. "Keep still," she instructs, all business again as she wraps the measuring tape around my chest.
"Yeah, sorry."