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Classes at Tremorton High lasted for 55 minutes with a five-minute break in between. While most students used as much of the break as possible to grab books from their lockers or to gab with their friends, Jenny Wakeman used mere seconds to rocket between one classroom and the next. She zoomed into her seat and buried her head in her textbook, hoping to avoid any and all social contact.

The teenage robot had appeared on the first morning of the new school year looking like a wreck and then wrecked her reputation by wishing for an end to the world she was built to protect. If Jenny could just make it through the rest of the day without anyone looking at her, talking to her, or mocking her, then she could fly home, convince her mom to move across country, and begin her life all over again. Maybe she could even change her name and model number. 

Jenny successfully avoided all contact till lunch period. Her plan was to grab a quart of oil and drink it while hiding in the bathroom. Or maybe the janitor’s closet. Better yet, her own locker.

But two figures blocked her exit from the lunchroom: goth princess Melancholia Adams, glowering from behind a curtain of black hair, and punk poser Jeremy Pistol, who twitched repeatedly. 

“Where do you think you’re off to then?” said Jeremy.

“I’m dying to talk to you,” droned Melancholia.

Jenny “braced for impact” as the two teens approached. If only she could transform into turtle-mode, she’d retreat into her shell and never come out.

Jeremy raised his palm and waited. “Don’t leave me hanging.” Confused, Jenny gave him a tentative high-five. “Bollocks! You can do better than that.” She gave him a real high-five. Jeremy hissed and shook his hand like it was on fire. He chuckled admiringly. “You really gave it to Razinski this morning, did’ncha?”

Still confused, Jenny mumbled, “I guess. . .”

Melancholia said, “When you wished for death and destruction on all of humanity, I just about died.” She exhaled an upbeat groan, the closest she ever came to laughing.

Jenny said, “And that was. . . a good thing?”

“The best,” said Melancholia.

“Death to humanity!” shouted Jeremy and raised his palm for another high-five, then thought better of it, and put it back down. “So, uh, you want to join me and the lads for lunch?”

“Nuh uh, Jeremy. Jenny’s a guest of the Goths today,” moaned Melancholia.

“No way! I asked her first.”

Melancholia pointed to the giant “A” on Jeremy’s t-shirt. “Since when do anarchists believe in rules?”

Were these two really fighting over her? Suspicion seized XJ9’s circuits. It was probably a prank. “Speaking of rules, don’t both your lunch tables have strict dress codes? Jenny gestured to her banged up body and slowly backed away. “I don't think I qualify.”

“Sure you do,” said Jeremy. “Your whole look is post-apocalyptic. Very punk. Very anarchic.”

Melancholia sighed and narrowed her eyes. “Your giant wings remind me of a bat. Giving off a vampire/gargoyle vibe. Very graveyard. Very goth.”

Jeremy snatched one of the pieces of shrapnel from the explosion of the X-Plor-R probe and started fashioning it into a bracelet. “You just need a little fine tuning is all.”

Melancholia swiped a finger through the soot on Jenny’s forehead. “This will make for some killer eyeliner.”

Jeremy scoffed. “As if you know more about eyeliner than me.”

The two went to work and in a matter of minutes they’d changed Jenny’s disastrous appearance into a truly unique fashion statement. 

From Catastrophe to Catastrofique!