There was something about Sailor Jupiter that made her impossible to miss, even when she wasn’t throwing thunderbolts or flattening monsters with one well-aimed punch. Maybe it was the way she towered over everyone else, her height making her seem like she belonged to a species that was part girl, part skyscraper. Or maybe it was the green and pink of her uniform—a combination that really shouldn’t have worked, but somehow did, like roses growing on steel. Then there was her hair: chestnut brown, pulled into a ponytail so high and defiant it practically dared gravity to try her.

And Makoto Kino, when she wasn’t Sailor Jupiter, was every bit as formidable. She could bake a cake from scratch and then knock out anyone who had the audacity to say it was too sweet, which, thankfully, no one ever did. Her punches were as legendary as her cooking, and she had a reputation for flooring bullies as easily as she whisked batter. She was the kind of girl who could fix your broken toaster, offer you heartfelt advice about your love life, and still find time to water her houseplants—each of which had a name and, apparently, a personality.

Today, though, Makoto’s skills were on full display in a less domestic setting. The monster—a bizarre, vine-covered thing with snapping jaws and an unnerving number of glowing eyes—loomed over the park, snarling and flinging chunks of dirt as it advanced. It had already torn through a row of innocent picnic tables, and its next target seemed to be the playground.

“Not on my watch,” Jupiter growled, planting her feet firmly as lightning began to gather around her. “You mess with swings and slides, you answer to me.”