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Jenny Wakeman was dazzled by her makeover, an unparalleled transformation having nothing to do with her circuits, cylinders, motors, or drives. She gazed at herself in wonder. Her eyes bugged out of her head. Jenny retracted them, afraid she’d smear her newly applied eyeliner.

She whispered, “I. . . look. . . amazing.”

“Hell yeah, you do!” said Jeremy Pistol. He offered his hands to Jenny and Melancholia Adams. “High fives all around.”

Melancholia declined with a groan. Rather than slapping Jeremy’s hand, Jenny seized it. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!!” She shook his hand vigorously. So vigorously that the vibrations shook the rest of Jeremy too. His carefully constructed hair spikes frizzled and collapsed.

“Oh dear,” said Melancholia. For the second time today, a smile threatened to breach her characteristic gloom. “I hope you brought the jumbo tub of hair gel today, Jeremy. You better run to the little boy’s room and get that fixed.” She took Jenny’s hand and pulled her deeper into the cafeteria. “Come along, Jen. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the goths.”

Jeremy grabbed Jenny’s other hand. “Forget it, Melancholia. Jenny’s sitting with the punks.”

Melancholia tugged Jenny her way. “She’s dying to dine with the goths.” 

Jeremy yanked her back. “Which is it, luv? You’ve got to choose.”

Her superhero duties had put XJ9 in a lot of dangerous situations where split-second decisions could mean the difference between life and deactivation. She brought all of her professional experience to bear on her current predicament. 

And came up with bupkis.

“Uh-err-ummm,” she stammered. “Maybe, just for today, I’m just wondering, if we could all eat together?”

Silence from Jeremy and Melancholia. Then, quietly, Jeremy said, “Yeah, alright.”

Melancholia sighed, “If we must.”

“Great!” chirped Jenny.

And it was great. After pushing their two tables together, the groups sat sullenly across from one another, lips curled, and brows furrowed. But the silence was broken when the ironically named Sunny rolled up his sleeves, revealing a small but vibrant bat tattoo he’d gotten to celebrate his 18^th birthday. It turned out that Jeremy’s older sister owned The Purple Bat tattoo shop. Before long the two groups had discovered how much they had in common, including some unexpected overlap in musical tastes. The meal became known as the Great Unification Lunch, or GRUL, which also happened to be the name of one of the bands both groups liked.

The good time continued after school at Mezmer’s, where, after a few too many Buzzberry Freezees, Jeremy suggested that the punks and goths join forces on a permanent basis. To everyone’s surprise, Melancholia seconded the motion, and everyone agreed with a rousing cheer. A second cheer went up for the girl who made it all possible – Jenny Wakeman.

Jenny was so happy she figuratively floated home. Under normal circumstances she could’ve literally floated home, but her circuits were still fried from that morning's solar explosion and her hover boots were inaccessible. Dr. Wakeman scolded XJ9 while repairing her internal mechanisms, punctuating her lecture with a wave of her torque wrench. Jenny barely paid attention, basking in the afterglow of adoration from her new clique. But when Dr. Wakeman tried to fix her exterior, Jenny bolted and barricaded herself in her bedroom. Afraid her mom might sneak in for some midnight modifications; she skipped sleep mode entirely and flew directly to school the next morning.

But trouble was afoot that day at lunch. The unity achieved the day before was threatened by a dispute over whether the newly merged group should be known as the Punk-goths or the Goth-punks. All charcoal-lined eyes turned to Jenny to cast the tie-breaking vote. Considering the negative outlook that had united them all in the first place, she suggested a third option —Doomsayers. Jeremy seconded the motion, but Melancholia had a small objection. She thought that Doomslayers fit better. Jenny agreed (putting aside the fact that the name was nonsense) and everyone else followed her lead. Unity re-achieved! 

The following day, a new, more intractable problem emerged. It turned out that the Doomslayers weren’t content to merely talk about doom and gloom. They’d found Jenny’s rant about ending the world to be inspirational. Uncomfortable questions about how the teenage robot might bring about some sort of cataclysm began to infect the group’s conversations. And once they started, they didn’t stop, no matter how hard Jenny tried to deflect. By the end of the week, things were taking on a distinctly villainous vibe. 

Continued group cohesion and Jenny’s newfound social acceptance depended upon her concocting a doomsday scenario. She spent the weekend hunkered down trying to invent a plan to end the world that wouldn’t really end the world. Fortunately, her robotic, positronic brain could process plans and calculate probable outcomes with blistering speed. Unfortunately, her teenage personality system overlay resented doing any sort of “homework” over the weekend and slowed things down considerably.

But by Monday morning, she’d done it. She had a plan to bring on doomsday. It was beyond intricate, with numerous time-consuming steps that would take the remainder of their time in high school to complete. The Doomslayers would either graduate and lose interest before they could bring the plan to fruition and commit any actual harm.  

However, Jenny’s own personal apocalypse came that very morning. It arrived in a familiar form, or rather two familiar forms. The despicable shapes of Brittany and Tiffany Crust loomed before her in the hallway. But who was that with them?

Brit’s nasal voice assaulted everyone’s ears. “Attention, peons!” 

Tiff piped up. “Listen up, fools!” 

Together they said, “We’d like you to meet our other cousin.”

Jenny rewound the digital recorder in her head. She couldn’t have heard that right. There couldn’t be a THIRD CRUST COUSIN!