Outcasts from Beyond

OUTCASTS

FROM

BEYOND

Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com

Synopsis: On her way to see Tom Sloane, Daria Morgendorffer has a car wreck—but that’s only the start of her problems in this long, weird alternate-universe/crossover Daria tale of secret identities and super-powers that begins about halfway through “Boxing Daria” and heads into the wild blue.

Author’s Notes: This story, originally entitled “Green,” was posted on PPMB and SFMB between November 2005 and May 2006 in response to an old PPMB challenge. Before the old PPMB board shut down in July 2003, WacoKid asked in an “Iron Chef” for a fanfic that takes place in the final fifth-season episode, “Boxing Daria,” at the moment when Daria has a near accident in her parents’ SUV, driving through a storm on her way to see Tom Sloane. For story purposes, Daria bumps her head and regains consciousness to find the world is somehow different. I had to take a rain check on it at the time, but finally found time to do it when I had an idea I hoped would make it worthwhile. I can’t believe the story actually got this big, though. I need to be more careful next time.

The “Author’s Notes II” at the story’s end contains background information on this tale, with notes on this alternate universe if anyone else wants to set a fanfic there using this set-up and introduction. It should be noted that a geeky knowledge of the big events in Marvel and DC Comics throughout the 1980s would help in following along

Acknowledgements: First, my heartfelt thanks to WacoKid for the “Iron Chef” contest that inspired this story. My thanks also go out to Ms. Kinnikufan, Orpheus, and Psychotol for finding errors in the text; WacoKid (especially), Sleepless, and Jedah for suggesting changes to the thoughts, words, and actions of certain characters; Psychotol and DJ for correcting the explosive effects of a Hellfire II missile; and the idea of having Jennifer Love Hewitt play Daria was stolen from Aaron Adelman’s tongue-in-cheek “Unofficial Daria Movie Rumor Page” online. That about covers it. Enjoy.

During the day, I’m a mild-mannered student.

But at night, I fight crime in a stretchy-stretchy costume.

—Daria in “The Story of D,”

being sarcastic but closer to

the truth than she knew

Thursday, November 4, 1999

After six irritating rings, the cell phone in the driver’s door map holder fell silent. Daria Morgendorffer frowned at the Interstate ahead, Lawndale in her rear-view mirror and the sun falling behind the hills to the west. That was probably Mom or Dad, wondering where I’m going. Screw that. They don’t want to talk honestly with me, I don’t want to talk with them, either. I’ll take off a few days and spend time with people I can trust. Let’s see what the ‘rents think about that. Tomorrow’s Friday. I can blow off one day of school and come back Sunday. Tom got a few days off from school for that family wedding he has to attend on Saturday. He said he wouldn’t mind my company around the Cove before then. My platonic company is all he’s getting, but maybe he’ll be okay with that. Better call ahead and see if I still have the green light to stay a day or two.

Reaching down, she retrieved the cell phone with her left hand and thumbed in a number as she drove. A late autumn thunderstorm rode the darkening sky ahead. Misty curtains of rain fell across fast-moving traffic less than a mile away.

This whole day sucks, she thought, holding the phone to her left ear. My parents won’t tell me why they had a fight about me and separated one night when I was six years old, so I get pissed off and take Mom’s Explorer, which I hate because it’s too damn big, and now night’s falling and it’s about to rain and all this crap started when I saw that damn refrigerator carton by the—

“Hello, this is Kay,” came a woman’s cheery voice over the cell phone.

“Hello?” said Daria, coming to. “Mrs. Sloane? Is Tom there?” Lightning flickered in the darkness ahead. She gripped the wheel tighter with her right hand. Hate this car.

“Daria, so good to hear from you!” said Kay Sloane with delight. “I’m afraid Tom’s out with his uncle right now. I believe they’re boating, but they should be back soon. What can I do for you, dear?”

Thunder rumbled. Daria glanced at the mounting traffic in the fast lane on her left. “Well, would it be okay if I took you up on your offer to visit?”

“Oh, certainly! We’d love to have you. We have a guest bedroom we can fix up. Are you calling from your car? It sounds like you’re on a cell phone.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, be careful, dear. How long do you think it will be until you can get here?”

Daria glanced at the dashboard clock. “I can be there in about four hours.”

“Wonderful! I’ll let Tom know. He’ll be pleased to see you—and I will, too. We could use some intelligent conversation, heaven knows.”

“Thanks very much, Mrs. Sloane.”

“You’re welcome, Daria. See you soon!”

At least she likes me. Daria clicked off the phone and returned it to the map holder. Drops of rain splattered against the windshield. Here goes, she thought. The raindrops multiplied into a blinding torrent. She turned on the wipers and leaned forward, squinting into the rain-swept dusk. What a great start for my trip. At least I’ve got a room to—oh, no, I didn’t even think to pack. I don’t have a thing to wear, damn it! I can’t believe this. I just got up and walked out of the house without thinking, and here I am trying to drive up the East Coast from Baltimore in a rainstorm, and why I’m trying to see Tom is beyond me. He’s playing mind games with me, too, and—jeez, am I doing what my dad did all those years ago, running off on my mom and my sister and me? Screw it, I don’t want to think about what I’m—

Her temper flared. Her right foot pressed on the gas. That was all it took.

Sudden motion ahead in the left lane—a car spinning around, hydroplaning on the wet, oily asphalt—brake lights, screaming tires, the blue car ahead was too close—

Whoa! Daria gasped and spun the wheel to the right, foot nailing the brake, but the Explorer hit water and spun frictionless toward the right shoulder. No! Don’t—

The Explorer went off the road backwards at sixty, flying over the top of an embankment. Gripping the wheel in both hands, Daria jammed her right foot down on the useless brake. A wordless scream left her mouth as the SUV rotated in the air, weightless all the way down to the impact—

A light mist fell in the darkness. Hidden by undergrowth at the edge of a nearby forest, a silent figure watched as a crowd of rain-soaked cops, firemen, EMTs, and passers-by stood in the light of flares and flashlights, studying the scattered remains of the red Ford Explorer in the tall grass at the bottom of the ravine. The largest remaining piece was the buckled rear of the Explorer, intact up to the front seats. This part rested on its tailgate door, every window shattered, with the passenger seats facing up into the night sky. The driver’s seat was missing, and the driver’s-side door had been ripped from its hinges by the impact—or by something else—and lay halfway up the slope up to the Interstate. The forward part of the SUV, from the dashboard up to the grill and headlights, was smashed into the ground and emitting clouds of smoke and steam. Shredded scraps from the vehicle’s impact bags lay everywhere.

Twenty yards ahead of the wreckage, in the weeds near the tree line, several men stood next to the driver’s seat. It lay in tangled pieces, held together only by a crooked metal bar in the framework and a long strip of fabric from the shoulder harness.

The only thing missing from the scene, other than the steering wheel, was the unfortunate driver. Scraps of clothing had been recovered, but not the wearer. Clusters of police officers, medics, and bystanders walked slowly away from the wreckage, scanning the overgrown grass with their lights. Someone called out that he had found an empty boot, the leather seams ripped out. He was close to the tree line. A number of men walked in his direction, flashlights swinging left and right.

Alarmed, the figure among the trees crouched down behind the bushes and saplings. The cluster of men stopped short of the tree line, only fifty feet away. Safe for the moment, the figure raised its enormous hands, outlined in faint light, then spread its fingers. It stared at its palms and digits in wide-eyed shock, then brushed long hair from its face and peered out again at the searchers.

The people by the boot began walking once more through the tall wet grass toward the tree line, searching the ground. The figure rose and retreated—and broke a thick branch under a bare foot.

Someone shouted. A half-dozen lights flashed in the creature’s direction. Panicked, the figure broke into a run. In moments, it was far, far away—

—but not before everyone got a split-second look at it.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

* * *

Tonight, for lack of anything better to do, it was toothpicks on the kitchen table. Jane Lane dabbed a bit of wood glue on the tip of the toothpick and carefully set it in place in the toothpick construction she had dubbed the “Tetrahedral Gorilla.” The two-foot-high figure by now did sort of resemble an ape with massive upraised arms. It wasn’t a serious work, but Jane liked exploring the range of things that could be created using a simple three-dimensional shape.

In addition, toothpick tinkering helped Jane take her mind off the fate of her best friend, Daria. Since dusk, she had received five phone calls, three from the Morgendorffers’ home and two long-distance calls from Tom Sloane at the Cove, asking if she knew where Daria was, who had not picked up her cell-phone calls for hours. The last call, at 10:35 p.m. from Daria’s mother Helen, had been interrupted by call waiting on Helen’s end—and Helen had hung up shortly thereafter. No one at Daria’s home answered later when Jane called back.

Jane’s brother Trent was off with his band, playing at a tavern in Swedesville, so Jane had his car—but she knew of nowhere to look for Daria. She had not been overly concerned until the last call, after which she elected to wait by the phone for further word. No such word had come.

Jane hated waiting. Her mind conjured up dreadful possibilities she dared not say aloud. She had decided a while ago that if she hadn’t heard anything by midnight, she was leaving home to drive around the school, the pizza places, and Tom’s mansion-sized house in a nearby gated subdivision. Tom and his family were away, but Daria might have gone to the house and parked just to get away from home. Daria’s mother had made reference to an argument happening before she had left home. It would be like Daria to seek some alone time to be depressed or angry, then sort out what to do next.

“It could be a professional wrestler,” Jane said, continuing a long conversation she’d been having with herself about the toothpick figure. “Could be a future boyfriend, too. That would be interesting. The relationship might not last more than a few weeks, but the experience is the point. I could see—”

The phone rang. Startled, Jane jumped, then ran from her seat to the wall phone and snatched up the receiver. “Jane here!” she cried, not at all her usual laconic self.

A moment of hesitation on the other end of the line, and then: “Jane? This is Daria.”

Only . . . it wasn’t quite Daria. The voice was deeper and stronger in tone. Still, it could be Daria, if she had a sore throat. “Daria? Where the hell are you? Everyone’s been hunting for you for hours and your mom’s—”

“Jane . . . I had a wreck.”

Oh, no! “A wreck? Are you all right?”

A pause. “Yes . . . and no.”

“Are you at a hospital? Are your parents there?”

“No and no. Jane, listen, I’m just off the Interstate, at the northbound rest area at the county line. I’m using a public phone. I can’t talk long. Can you get over here and pick me up, like immediately?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. I can leave now. Are you sure you’re okay?”

The deep voice became stressed. “No, actually, I’m not sure. I can’t explain it. I think . . . I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I can call an ambulance and have it—”

“NO!”

Jane jerked the handset away from her ear. That was loud. “Okay, okay!” she said. “I’ll get there by myself! Do you want me to call your parents?”

“No! Just get over here, you and nobody else!”

No point in arguing. “I’m on my way, amiga.”

The other end hung up. Jane clapped the handset back on the wall hook and ran to get the car keys and her driver’s license.

Eight miles away, a nervous figure hurried off with long strides from an outdoor payphone. Headlights were approaching on the access road leading to the rest area. Whirling blue and red lights appeared atop the oncoming vehicle, which came to a stop beside the payphone. Two officers got out, hands on their holsters, and flashed lights into the darkness around them. Seeing nothing, they turned to go back to their car—until one flashed his light down at the base of the payphone where the ground was muddy and covered with coins.

It wasn’t the torn-away metal coin box that caught their attention, though that was part of it. It was the footprint that nailed them.

That was when the guns came out.

III

Friday, November 5, 1999

“Finally!” Jane shouted in exasperation. She gunned the engine of the ancient Plymouth Satellite and roared past the traffic officer who waved her into the only lane left open on the Interstate. Forty-five minutes after leaving home and well past midnight, she was escaping a traffic jam that had swamped the northbound lanes of the rain-slick freeway. “What the hell’s going on around here?” she grumbled. “This had better be worth the wait. Daria will be pissed, I wasted almost a quarter tank of gas, and . . . jeez, what’s all that . . . oh.”

Her monologue disintegrated as she spotted a line of police cars, ambulances, television news vans, fire trucks, and civilian vehicles parked on either side of the road ahead. The top of a ravine ran along the right side of the Interstate, beyond the shoulder. Red and blue emergency lights flashed everywhere. Men in yellow reflective jackets walked along the lines of vehicles to the left and right, ignoring the passing cars.

Jane’s gaze darted ahead to a flatbed truck parked on the right, next to a crane wrecker. Resting on the flatbed was something that vaguely looked like an SUV. Her eyes widened as the sight grew clearer.

It was the battered rear end of a Ford Explorer. The license plate was hopelessly plastered over with clods of dirt and grass, so identification could not be precise—but the original color of the wreckage had been red. She saw that for sure. The Morgendorffers owned a red Ford Explorer that Daria often drove. Jane recalled that Daria had hated that car, claiming it was too big to handle properly.

Uh-oh.

Jane started to brake and pull over, realized she had no room on either side of the road to do that, then realized she could not stop in the line of traffic she was in. The best she could do was to slow down enough to get a good look at the wreck as she went by. Wordless, she came up to the flatbed and looked directly at it for one second.

The front of the SUV was gone. The driver’s door and seat were also missing. It looked just like the Morgendorffer’s SUV on the inside.

Robbed of coherent thought, Jane looked back at the line of traffic ahead and followed the red tail lights like a robot. She did not know if she breathed. Her face worked and her eyes starting to water, but she kept driving and forced herself to remember: Daria called me on the phone right after the accident. Daria is still alive.

But the phone call had been almost an hour ago. Where was Daria now? Was she still alive, or was she . . . ?

Jane passed the last car parked at the accident scene. She was on the verge of pulling over and walking back to look at the wreck when a blue highway sign came out of the darkness on the right, announcing that a rest area was one mile ahead. That’s where Daria said to meet her! She accelerated, searching for the exit. How did Daria get there? Did someone drive her over after the wreck? Did she walk? The latter idea hardly seemed possible, given the condition of the Explorer.

More trouble appeared. The police had blocked off the exit ramp to the rest area, so no one could leave the freeway. A dozen police cars and emergency vehicles were parked around the rest area shelter, and perhaps two dozen uniformed figures were in view. The grounds were being spotlighted by a helicopter that Jane heard thumping faintly above. What the hell is going on here? How am I going to get Daria? Did they find her already? Is she already on the way to a hospital? Is she alive?

She had to know. Jane hit the right-turn blinker and carefully pulled off the road, easing as far off the shoulder into the wet grass as she dared go. She kept the left tires on the asphalt for traction. The landscape was relatively flat here, with a dark forest only a stone’s throw beyond the drainage ditch to her right. She turned in her seat and looked back. It was a quarter-mile walk to the rest area, more or less. At least the rain had quit. A crescent moon looked down through a hole in an overcast sky.

She turned to the front again and looked in her outside left mirror to check for approaching cars. None were visible. She pulled the keys from the ignition, put her other hand on the door handle, and—

The impact on the right side of the Plymouth rocked it violently to the left. Jane’s head smacked the side window. She felt the burst of pain and cried out at the same moment she heard an explosive ripping of metal from the other side of the car. Looking back, half blind with pain, she saw the right rear door of the Satellite come completely off the car. Window glass sprayed everywhere. The left tires shrieked as they were jerked sideways on the blacktop, the car rocking to the right.

A giant shape filled the rear doorway of the Satellite and jumped into the back seat and put its face next to Jane’s in a half a second. The rear door was in its right hand.

“Get us out of here!” the creature roared, louder than an indoor AC/DC concert with the amplifier volume turned to 11.

Jane stared at the creature, her mouth open and eyes showing white around her blue irises.

“Move it! Hurry!”

The monster’s face was framed by a thick mane of long dark hair with leaves, mud, and twigs entangled in the locks.

“Damn it, Jane, let’s go!”

The monster’s face was a woman’s—not unattractive, but large, a bit dirty . . . and green as could be.

“JANE!”

The monster’s face was also Daria’s. Jane thought she would go mad. There was no mistaking it. No glasses, but it was still—

Enraged, the creature shoved on the front passenger seat, crushing the seat’s back flat against the vehicle cushion without effort. It rested the upper half of its body on the makeshift pillow, then pointed with one long finger at the ignition.

And waited.

Glaring.

Jane slowly got the idea. She felt as if she were moving in a drugged nightmare. Her fingers fumbled with the keys as she inserted one—wrong one, next one—no, next one—it fit, but now she didn’t know which way she was supposed to turn it. That direction didn’t work, the other direction—

The engine started. Jane tried to remember the steps involved in driving a car. She had completely forgotten how. Was the brake involved?

“Is there is problem?” said the giant green woman lying two feet away from her. The giant’s voice vibrated the bones in Jane’s chest all the way back to her spine.

“Problem?” echoed Jane, her mind blank.

With a visible struggle to control its temper, the creature leaned over and put its face close to Jane’s. “Drive to your house, Jane,” it said. “Please.” It hesitated before adding, “Help me.”

Help me?

Daria needs help.

Jane looked away, put the car in drive, checked the rear-view mirrors, and pulled back on the Interstate into the traffic, accelerating hard. Cool wind roared in through the hole where the side door used to be. The creature pushed itself up on an elbow, looking out the rear window. “Hurry,” it said. “They’ve got a helicopter.”

Jane licked her dry lips. “Wha . . . what happened?”

“What happened?” The monster’s voice rose until it was short of deafening. “What happened? How the hell do I know what happened? I don’t know what happened! Just get me to your house as fast as you can!”

“Uh . . . right. Okay. We’re going.”

The monster subsided. It looked out the back window again, then ducked its head to avoid being seen by people in other cars. It looked down at itself and began picking debris from its skin. Jane could not keep from looking at it, either. Lying next to her was a huge green woman wearing a stretched-out amber T-shirt that magnificently advertised that the giant was built like a brick outhouse. The giant’s only other item of clothing was a pair of white cotton panties that were starting to rip along one seam.

Daria usually wore an amber T-shirt under a green jacket. And her sole choice of underwear, Jane knew from sharing her phys-ed class, was boring old white cotton. Jane also that Daria had the weakest musculature of any girl in the senior class, and at five-foot-two was one of the smallest girls in their grade.

The green giant, however, was close to seven feet tall. She had biceps larger around than a skater’s thighs. Her smooth legs were impossibly long and perfectly muscled and capable of winning every athletic medal in existence for power lifting.

And the giant had Daria’s face.

I have She-Hulk in the car with me, Jane thought. I have the real, honest-to-God Marvel Comics She-Hulk right here in Trent’s car, with me, and it’s Daria. Of all possible people, it’s her.

She drove in silence for a minute, trying to absorb this. She then casually let go of the steering wheel with her right hand and felt to her side, reaching for the giant. Her fingers touched something large and soft and round and warm and fabric-covered. This is real. Ohmigod, this is all really happening. Her fingers began to explore further.

“What do you think you’re doing?” growled the giant.

Jane glanced over—and jerked her hand away. “Sorry!” she said, looking back at the road with a frozen expression. “Sorry. I didn’t know that was . . . your . . . um . . . never mind.”

The giant’s glare softened. “Making sure I was actually here?”

“Uh . . . yeah. I guess. Sorry.”

“Forget it. I can’t believe it, either.” A beat. “Don’t do it again, though.”

“Right.”

A long pause took hold while Jane drove. Outside, all was darkness.

“Thanks for picking me up, by the way,” said Daria.

“Uh, sure.”

“Sorry about the door. I was kind of in a hurry.”

“No problem.”

She-Hulk, thought Jane. My wish came true. Ten years after I made it, yeah, but it came true. I can’t believe it. I’m best friends with She-Hulk.

And it’s Daria.

Neither of them spoke the rest of the way back to Jane’s place, except when Jane suggested that Daria put the door back on so they wouldn’t attract attention in town. This was managed with Daria lying down across the back seat to hold the door in place, and all was well. So far.

A lot of things bothered Daria in her present state. What the hell happened to me? Was it my fault? Does being huge and green mean I’m going to die soon? If I don’t die soon, how am I going to explain this to everyone? What will Mom and Dad do? Will they be angry with me because I left home and wrecked the car and became a freak? Will they look at me in horror because I’m a monster who breaks things just by touching them? Is there a special school for people like me? Will Quinn scream and faint when she sees me? Probably. Guess there had to be a positive side to this. And Tom—great, I totally forgot about Tom. I don’t even know how to deal with not showing up at the Cove. Do I feign brain damage? Do I tell him what happened and hope he’ll be understanding and not think I’m a loon? And speaking of that, what the hell happened to me?

By the time they arrived at the Lane home in Lawndale, however, a new irritant had been added to the list:

What the hell is Jane so happy about? She’s even humming to herself. At least I think that’s humming. She couldn’t carry a tune if it was stapled to her.

“We’re safe inside Casa Lane!” Jane said, shutting off the engine. “Garage door’s shut. You can let go of that door now.”

Daria, lying flat across the back seat, released the warped right rear door of the Plymouth Satellite. It fell with a loud metallic clatter to the concrete floor of the Lane family garage. Great, I owe Trent a new car. Maybe he can file insurance and claim this was hail damage.

Jane got out, shut her door, and walked around to watch as the green giantess managed to extricate herself from the back seat. When she stood up at last, the transformed Daria kept one hand on her underwear, holding the ripped seam together in a last bid for modesty.

“A bit nippy in here, isn’t it?” said Jane, smirking at Daria’s chest.

Daria quickly covered her breasts with her other arm. “That death wish of yours is going to get you in trouble one day,” she growled. The garage windows rattled as she spoke. She looked nervously at the door leading into the house. “Is Trent home?”

“Let’s find out,” said Jane. She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Hey, Trent! Come out and see Daria’s Halloween costume!”

Daria yelped and crouched down, using the car to shield her in case the door opened. “Jane, damn you!” she shouted. Most of the garage windows cracked.

“Oh, keep your shirt on, if you can,” said Jane with a grin. “We’re home free. Trent’s not coming back until next—”

The door to the house opened. A moment later, Jane’s older brother Trent stuck his head out. “Did you call, Janey?” he said. His eyes adjusted to the dim light in the garage, and a moment later he spotted Daria—what could be seen of her from the nose up, hiding behind the car trunk. “Daria?” he said in surprise.

Daria emitted a curious whine as she stared back in shock.

“Isn’t this great?” Jane called, recovering. “She’s dressed up as She-Hulk! Green skin and all! For Halloween!”

Comprehension dawned over Trent’s face. “That’s cool, Daria,” he said. “You look just like her. Great costume.”

“Uh . . . thanks,” Daria said.

“Wasn’t Halloween a week ago, though?”

“Uh—”

“It took a long time to get the color right,” said Jane. “It had to be perfect. The time didn’t matter.”

“Oh. Yeah, I can see that. Cool how you made your voice so low, too. It’s kinda, like, sexy. I like it.”

Daria closed her eyes and thumped her head softly against the side of the car.

“You okay, Daria?” Trent called in concern.

“Uh . . . I’m . . . I’m hiding, Trent,” she finally said. “I, uh, had a, uh, costume malfunction. You can’t look.”

“Her underwear ripped,” Jane clarified. “We didn’t expect you back so soon. Is the concert over?”

“Nah. The concert was cancelled, ‘cause the tavern in Swedesville burned down this afternoon.” Trent waved. “Stay cool, Janey. You, too, Daria. You look great.” He went back into the house, leaving the door open behind him.

Daria turned and gave Jane a look that should have blasted her into atoms.

“Oh, get over it,” Jane said, walking to the doorway. “Trent won’t notice anything unusual about you now. You could walk around naked, and he’d think it was part of the costume. Let’s go up to my room.”

Daria, however, would not budge until Jane made Trent go into the basement. Then she hurried in—and discovered that even a causal walk caused severe vibrations throughout the Lane home, complete with the sound of cracking floorboards. She was reduced to a sort of shuffle-and-tiptoe to avoid damaging anything else. After seeming ages, she was in Jane’s bedroom-slash-art studio, with the door safely shut behind her.

“Why are you in here?” Jane asked, leaning out of a closet to peer at her. “You need a shower. I’ll get some big clothes together and throw them into the bathroom for you. There might be something in the costume chest. You know where the bathroom is, so get started.”

“But Trent’s in the house!” Daria whispered, loudly enough to be heard two rooms away.

“He won’t come up.”

“Well, go make sure!”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Do I have to do everything around here?”

Daria frowned and growled. The plaster wall beside her cracked.

“Oh, all right, fine, be that way.” Jane left the room by walking past Daria—who then felt a sound smack on one of her muscular green buttocks. Daria whirled, but Jane was already racing down the stairs three at a time, snickering all the while.

She’s being awfully familiar for someone with a green monster in her house, Daria thought with a parting glare. She was never like this before. Maybe it’s one of those football player things, where guys smack each other on the butt because—I don’t know why. Because they’re guys, I guess.

Or maybe it’s not. Hmmm, it had better be the former, because I don’t think I could handle the latter. I have enough problems to juggle right now. I don’t think Tom could handle weirdness like that, either, but he is a guy, after all. If he says, “I want to watch,” even as a joke, I’ll knock the living crap out of him. He’ll be crap-free for years.

She pushed aside her thoughts and walked down the creaky, groaning hallway to the bathroom. The underwear and T-shirt ripped to shreds when she tried to remove them intact. She threw them in a heap by the sink and a few minutes later was scrubbing herself down in the shower under a scalding spray, trying to get used to her new body. That she had stupendous strength plus curves—major curves—was one thing, but her sensations had changed, too.

That’s weird. I can tell the water’s hot, but it doesn’t hurt. And I’ve got perfect vision even though my glasses are gone, probably at the wreck busted into pieces. Eww, I can’t believe the junk I had in my hair. My hair’s dark emerald green, almost black. It’s really tough, too, almost as tough as my skin. And I can’t believe my brown eyes turned green. I feel like some kind of damn comic-book creature. Guess now I really will need to get a stretchy stretchy outfit. Which superheroes were green? That DC Martian guy, whatever, and the Ninja Turtles . . . they don’t count . . . and the Hulk . . . mmm, I don’t like that. I’m a lot like the Hulk. Can’t remember anything about him, except he was strong and dumb, so I’m halfway there already. Can’t even remember which bad guys were green. Am I radioactive? God, listen to me.

I’m going to have to call Mom and Dad after I get out of the shower. They’re probably wondering where I’ve run off to. I felt half dumb before, in the car, but now I feel really stupid. The Explorer is junk, and I look like a human Chia Pet. I wonder if this is a disease. I never heard of a virus that would make you green and strong, just pale and sick. This would be a lot of fun if it didn’t suck so much because it’s really happening. I should just go home and try to explain this to Mom and Dad—which of course I can’t. I can’t even explain it to me. Or Tom. Or Jane. Damn it.

And all this started because Mom and Dad wouldn’t tell me why they were arguing that night back in Highland when Dad got mad and left the house, and I hid in that cardboard box all night.

I hate this. I wish I was normal again. I want to be the Daria who was around yesterday at this time. I want to . . . oh, my God.

Daria’s arms were changing color. Her broad feet squeaked on the shower-stall floor as they were pulled closed together. She felt the shower get REALLY HOT—

She hastily shut off the water and stood dripping in the steam-filled stall. She looked down at her arms, then at the rest of her out-of-focus body. Wow, my eyes are back to normal! I had perfect vision when I was green, but now . . .

Seconds later she was out of the shower, peering closely into the mirror over the sink with astonishment and delight. She was normal again. She was Daria. Hallelujah!

She ran out of the bathroom without even putting on a towel. “Jane! Hey, Jane! Look at—”

And she ran slam into Trent in the hallway.

“Daria, please come out of the bathroom. Please? Oh, come on. Trent’s sorry for thinking you hadn’t started your shower yet because he had cordless headphones on and couldn’t hear anything. I’ve screamed at him and punched him in the arm five times and I know he’s sorry. We can’t undo the past. Daria, please come out! At least put your arm out and get the clothes I piled up outside your door. I found some stuff I think you can wear. Come on, Daria, this isn’t a joke! I’m really sorry about this! I swear I didn’t set this up! I gave up teasing you about Trent a year ago! Daria, get over it and move on. So you were naked, so what? You think Trent hasn’t seen naked girls before? Well, not you, but . . . okay, forget all that. This has gone on long enough, Daria. Come out of there or else. Okay, you brought this on yourself. If you don’t come out, I’m going to sing. I swear I will. I’ll sing the school song at the top of my lungs until you come out. You have ten seconds. Wait a minute, the phone’s ringing.” Footsteps raced away from the bathroom door toward Jane’s room down the hall. “I’ve got it, Trent!”

Daria sat on the toilet with the lid down and stared at the tiled floor, her body and hair swaddled in large bath towels. It wasn’t possible to be more humiliated than she was now. She no longer had a burning crush on Jane’s twenty-something brother, but to have actually collided with him while she was stark naked, and then to have stood there in dumb shock before she realized what she’d done, while he looked her over goggle-eyed in astonishment . . . that was too much. She sighed and shook her towel-wrapped head. Oh death, where is thy sting?

Footsteps came swiftly back up the hall. “Daria! Daria, your mom’s on the phone! Come out!” Loud hammering sounded on the door. “Hurry! Your mom’s on the phone and she wants to talk to you! I told her you didn’t remember the wreck! Daria!”

Get it over with. Daria got up, unlocked the door, opened it, took the phone from Jane, then shut the door and locked it again. It was time to complete the disaster. Steeling herself for the barrage of questions, the blistering lectures, and the quasi-medieval punishments to come, she raised the phone and took a breath. “Mom?” she said.

“Oh, God!” screamed her mother. “My baby! Are you all right? We were worried sick over you! Your father and sister are out with the searchers, hunting for you in the woods by the wreck! Sweetie, are you hurt? I’m sending the police over right now to get you, and I’m coming with them! Are you okay? Are you bleeding? Talk to me, Daria! I can’t believe it! Thank you, God, thank you! The police called and we went to the accident and I can’t tell you what went through my head! Amy’s on her way here, and Rita’s coming, and . . . and . . . and I love you and I’m so grateful you’re alive!”

With that, Helen Morgendorffer—a type-A workaholic corporate lawyer with the emotional armor plating of the U.S.S. Iowa—burst into tears.

Little was communicated over the next ten minutes except her mother’s relief that her eldest daughter was alive and well. Daria had the presence of mind to get dressed in the castoffs outside her door, which was good because within ten minutes the police did arrive, in six cars, as did an ambulance, several news vans, and a horde of curiosity seekers who parked up and down the street for hours and wandered into everyone’s yard.

Two things made the flow of events less stressful for Daria than they might otherwise have been. One, Daria said she had no memory of what had happened to her after the Explorer went off the road. She claimed to remember nothing until she was brought to Jane’s house and had a shower. She stuck to this story like glue, fearing that the truth would prove detrimental to what little hope she had left for a semi-normal life.

Two, as the cops and news media swarmed in, Jane grabbed her brother Trent with one hand, pulled off his headphones with the other hand, and shouted, “Don’t say anything about her costume or anything else, not a thing to anyone! Just say nothing, period! Got it?”

“I wasn’t going to—” he began in a wounded tone.

“Nothing!” screamed Jane, before she raced off to let the police into the house.

Trent shook his head, put his headphones back on, and went down into the basement for the rest of the night, safe from his sister’s painful arm punches. There, he spent his time wondering: How did Daria get out of that costume so fast? Did she leave it in Jane’s room? Could I get Monique to wear it? That would be cool. A little Wesson oil, a little wrestling . . . very cool. She might like it. I’ll ask next time I see her.

Meanwhile, once the police, EMTs, and her mother arrived, Daria thought she had been picked up by a whirlwind and carried off like Dorothy to Oz. She was transported to Cedars of Lawndale Hospital by ambulance, her mother and Jane at her side. As she was being hauled through the entrance to the ER she heard the shouting of news reporters. What the hell’s going on? she thought. Why are they asking me about Bigfoot?

There was no time for an answer, as her borrowed clothing was cut away and she was examined with shocking thoroughness inside and out. She was proclaimed to be in good shape considering the circumstances, except for a bump on her forehead where she apparently hit the steering wheel on impact despite the airbag. An IV was put into her arm, eight sensors on long wires were taped to her chest, lights were flashed in her eyes, and numerous scans, x-rays, and tests were scheduled.

Then her white-faced father and younger sister appeared and bawled like babies the second they saw her. It was one thing to have her well-meaning but neurotic father wig out and get totally weepy. She was used to that. However, to have red-haired Quinn grip her hand and profess undying sisterly love instead of the usual litany of annoyance or disgust was enough to make Daria cry, too, which pissed her off a little as she didn’t think she had any reason to cry to begin with. But that was the way it went.

At five a.m., a weary, overstressed Daria was allowed to go to sleep in the ICU on an uncomfortable bed with all the lights on. Twenty minutes later, she was awakened and transported on a gurney bed across the hospital for her first MRI scan, then across the hospital again for an x-ray, then back to the ICU where someone flashed more lights in her eyes, a tube was inserted in a vein in her wrist to draw blood samples, and she was made to use a bedpan. Twice.

“Better enjoy hanging around in bed all day, because things are going to get a little weird when you get out of the hospital,” Jane warned Daria at seven a.m.

Daria’s reply cannot be reprinted, but Jane smiled and patted her best friend’s arm in sympathy and understanding. “That’s my Daria,” she said. “Just be aware that—” she lowered her voice to a whisper “—some people saw a giant shaggy alien monster in the woods near the car wreck, and everyone thinks the monster kidnapped you but you escaped and called me for help and I rescued you, but the monster tore the door off Trent’s car, which the police found but I’m not talking about, and I drove you home so you couldn’t be taken into space aboard Bigfoot’s UFO, and you have traumatic amnesia but hypnosis might make you remember the kidnapping and how the aliens plan to take over the Earth. Keep up the amnesia thing for now until we can get a guest interview on Oprah, then let it all out on national TV.” Jane leaned closer. “And there might be a movie deal in this, too. I’m going to play myself. You should get Jennifer Love Hewitt to—oh! Daria, don’t! Nurse! Nurse! She took out her IV! Daria, stop it! NURSE!”

The nurses and doctors reinserted the IV, reattached the eight chest sensors, and injected something into the IV tube that made Daria very sleepy and less violent. Jane was glad of this, as Daria’s eyes had begun to glow green just before the tranquilizer really hit home. Maybe the jokes about Oprah and the movie were a little much, Jane reflected in shame. I only wanted to cheer her up. Jane held Daria’s hand and felt even sorrier that later she would have to tell Daria that everything else she had mentioned was true. The media frenzy over Daria’s alleged kidnapping by giant green aliens and her subsequent escape and rescue, documented in part by dozens of witnesses including police and rescue personnel, threatened to eclipse even the legend of Bill and Monica and the blue dress. Daria was in danger of becoming a media icon.

For her part, Daria felt a lot better under the tranquilizer’s effects. Maybe Jane’s right, she thought, floating on air, Jennifer Love Hewitt would make a much better Daria than I would. She could go to school for me. I can’t imagine her with my glasses, but the special-effects department could fix that. Virtual eyewear, reality lenses. My adventures through the looking glasses. I’ll need a white rabbit to go with the—

White rabbit? someone asked, a teenage guy coming in the ICU room. That’s like stream-of-consciousness humor, tangential thought, right? That’s funny. Wrong book, but still funny.

She turned her head slightly to see him better. He was boyish, naïve, and had an honest, open smile. And those glasses and that swept-back blond hair . . .

Ted? she thought.

Hey, said Ted DeWitt-Clinton, still smiling. His mouth did not move as he spoke. You’re Daria, right? That’s humor, too. Feigned ignorance. I like your joke better.

Ted, what are you doing here?

I came to see you, of course. The photo editor for the high-school yearbook, and Daria’s long-ago first love interest, wandered over to stand beside Daria’s bed opposite Jane. Jane did not look up or even appear to notice him. The two nurses in the room didn’t notice him, either.

Daria looked at Jane, who held Daria’s hand with a devastated expression, then turned to Ted again. Is this some kind of dream?

Not really, said Ted. I came to say I was sorry to hear about the accident. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. I can’t be everywhere at once.

What had to happen?

Trigger event, said Ted. He peered at Jane, who was the picture of silent misery, then reached across the bed and touched Jane on the forehead with a thumb. Her eyes closed. After a moment, Ted withdrew his hand. Jane’s eyes opened and she smiled down at Daria, her face clear. That’s better, he said. I don’t like suffering. I read Lewis’s The Problem of Pain and Rabbi Kushner’s work, but I still don’t like it on a personal level. Admiring it in Goya’s art or when you read Dostoevsky is one thing, seeing it before you is another. What do you think?

What do I think? Daria blinked. I think I’m having a dream, because we’re not really talking. We’re thinking to each other. That happens only in dreams.

Ted shrugged. I won’t push it. Anyway, I’m glad you’re well. The bruise on your head will go away soon. That’s what triggered your transformation. You haven’t been hurt like that since you went through puberty. Falling off the horse at Camp Grizzly when you were twelve didn’t trigger it because you . . . well, you were a late bloomer. Kind of a hormone thing. You are different, you know. It couldn’t be hidden forever.

Different? Different how? Daria struggled to stay awake—and realized she wasn’t asleep at all. She felt a touch of fear. I’m not really dreaming, am I, Ted?

We’ll talk later, said Ted. Just rest and stay calm. Hospitals are annoying, but what can you do? You’ll be out soon.

Ted? With a supreme effort of will, Daria held on a few moments longer. Ted, if I’m really different, hasn’t anyone noticed that before now? I’m in a hospital, so—

Ted grinned. How can you notice anything unusual if you think that what you see is normal? he said. I took care of it. Nothing big, just a minor reaction adjustment on the staff. I did it before, when you were hospitalized because of that rash. I’ve been watching out for you and the others since we got here. Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll talk later.

Ted? Ted, keep me awake! Damn it, I ought to kick your ass! Ted!

Her vision blurred. Just as everything got dark, she felt Ted take her hand and squeeze it gently, then touch her forehead with his other hand.

Just like your mother, he said.

And the world went out like a candle flame.

A little after nine that morning, Tom Sloane arrived at the hospital. Jane spotted Daria’s boyfriend in the waiting room, talking with Daria’s parents and Quinn, on her way out of Daria’s room in the ICU.

“I’m going home,” she said from the doorway. She rubbed a spot on her forehead that itched. “She’s asleep for now, but she should be up at ten when they get her next set of x-rays.”

“Jane,” said Tom. His face betrayed his shock. “Thank you so much for helping her. I’ve heard the craziest things on the news—”

“Don’t worry about it. Stupid reporters. She doesn’t remember anything that happened, and nothing much happened anyway. More or less.”

“Okay. I just . . .” Tom had trouble getting out his next words. “I owe you everything for finding her, Jane. Daria does, I know, but I do, too.” He swallowed. “Thank you.”

You almost look like you’re sorry you cheated on me to get her. Oh, what the hell, who cares anymore. She managed a smirk. “We’ll talk price later. Just take care of her and keep her calm. I need to go take a shower.”

“You’re out of school today? It’s Friday.”

“Oh, huh. Hadn’t thought about it, guess I am. I’ll worry about it at graduation. By the way, how was the wedding?”

“It’s tomorrow,” said Tom. “My family let me out of it so I could come back and see Daria. I’ve been on the road since four-thirty this morning.”

“At least your priorities are straight. I’d better go before my underarms asphyxiate everyone. See you later.” She waved and headed for the elevators. The spot on her forehead still itched. Bug bite, probably, she thought. Kinda late in the year for that, though.

Two men in business suits stopped her before she got there. “Miss Lane?” said the suit in charge. “Do you have a few minutes?” He pulled out a badge wallet and flipped it open. “I’m Detective Richard Casey with the Lawndale Police Department, and this is Lieutenant Pete McConnell. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I could.”

Jane looked at the badge and her heart sank. Oh, hell. How am I going to get through this? “Can I get a shower at home first?” she asked.

“We’ll drive you home after we’ve had a chance to talk,” said the detective, putting the wallet away. “We just need to know what happened last night, that’s all.”

No, you don’t need to know. “I’ve already been quizzed about this by one of Lawndale’s finest. That was about three a.m.”

“Yeah, I read the officer’s report. That’s why I decided to talk to you myself. Sounds like a great story, and I’d like to hear it first-hand. I’m old-fashioned like that.”

Something’s wrong, I can tell. Well . . . what the hell. I’m an adult. “Sure, okay. No torture, though.”

“No torture, agreed. We have a car downstairs. Lieutenant McConnell will come with us. Are your parents in town?”

I’m so glad I’m eighteen now and can’t be picked up by Child Welfare. “Uh, no. Just my brother Trent.”

“Trent, right. We’ve already talked with him. He’s been helpful.”

Crap. What the hell does that mean? “That’s nice. Why do you need me, then?”

The detective grinned. “Because you’re the heroine of the hour,” he said with an expansive gesture. “You saved your friend. Everyone should want to talk to you, right?” He waved Jane into the elevator before he and the officer got on after her, then he punched the button for the basement.

“Will this take long?” asked Jane, feeling nervous. I wonder if Daria’s mom will take me as a client if things go badly.

“I don’t think so, hour or two at most. And don’t worry about the chaos downstairs. I know a way to get around the crowd in the lobby.”

“Crowd? What crowd?”

The detective gave her a twisted smile. “The people who want to know how you managed to rescue Daria from the great green Wookies from the planet Mars. Hey, I’d like to know, too.”

* * *

All was silent in the ICU room save for the hum of the fluorescent lights, beeps from the biomedical monitor, and the faint rush of air as Daria Morgendorffer breathed.

The spot itched where Ted DeWitt-Clinton had touched her on the forehead. Waves rolled out through her mind like ripples spreading on a lake. The ripples stirred things below the surface of the lake and broke the webs holding them to the bottom. One of those things floated to the surface, into a light it had not seen in many a year.

Just like your mother.

Daria’s eyes began to move beneath her eyelids.

Waking up in the dark, I’m in a big dark bedroom in the mansion, the place everyone calls the mansion; the door opens, light comes in, someone shouts. We have to leave, the older boy cries, the blond round-faced boy who knows so much, the boy whose name is like a president’s. I’m in my p-jays, the ones with the feet. Hurry, help me get the others, says the boy, hurry. I run into the bright hallway, shout into the other rooms around the floor. The other kids come out frightened and crying. I don’t cry; I am brave and proud of it. Gather around me, shouts the older boy, there’s no time. Is my mom back yet, I ask him. Your mom is still fighting, he says, but some of the others were killed, the professor said doom is coming, we have to leave before he gets here. Where are we going, I shout. Somewhere safe, says the blond boy, just us, I can’t take anyone else except my mom. My dad, take my dad and mom, I yell, but I know my dad is far away and my mom is much farther, and the blond boy is already concentrating, focusing, preparing. The other kids scream and wail. I don’t cry. I remember my mom and dad. They always want me to be brave. I will be brave. I will never let them down. There is a pop, and suddenly the world, my world . . .

. . . is different.

More things surfaced, long forgotten until the ripples set them free.

Mom has brown hair, a bob cut, she’s a lawyer and is gone a lot. She calls Dad sweetie and sometimes Wyatt, and says careful with that, be careful, don’t break that, Jessie. She means me.

But my name is Daria, not—

Don’t break that, Jessie, she says, put it back, go wrestle your father, I have so much to do and I have to go, I love you. My dad lifts me high and laughs and calls me his starlight and sings to me, you are my starlight, my bright star, Jessie Double-Double, my bright and shining star, just like your mother.

No. Jessie is not—my name is Daria, not—

Jessie, that is my name—

No!

My name is Jessie, but my new mommy, she calls me—

Daria jerked in her sleep. The biomedical monitor beeped loudly. The EEG, EKG, respiration, oxygenation, and blood pressure scores rose and their graphs changed, the waves narrowing and piling up. An alarm went off in the ICU nurses’ station.

My new mommy, we are in a new place and I have a new mommy. She has brown hair, a bob cut, and she’s a lawyer and is gone a lot. Your father has issues, she says, and she calls him Jake and she calls me Daria, but Daria is not my name. My name is Jessie, it is Jessica, Jessica Walters-Wingfoot, Double-Double-U, but the blond boy says don’t cry, Jessie, you have a family and I don’t, and he reaches for my forehead—

Three nurses came into the room and began assessing the situation. One left to get a tranquilizer. The other two checked the monitor leads and shut off the noisy alarm. The EEG signal suddenly warped in a strange way and the monitor alarm came on again. The other scores continued increasing. One of the nurses slapped an alarm button on the wall and shouted, “Code blue, room five thirteen!” The other nurse noted that Daria was jerking in bed from increasingly violent muscle spasms. It looked like a seizure.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, this is all wrong, there is only one, no, two mommies, one for Daria and one for Jessie—one mommy not two, no, there are two, but I am one—just like my mother.

“Don’t give it IM, put it in her IV line!”

“Watch it, she’s pulling on the IV!”

“Grab her arms! Grab her—”

“Oh! Oh, Jesus!”

“No! Don’t—”

Just like my mother, I’m just like her, and my mother is—

She opened her eyes. They were shining green.

VII

Damn it, what is wrong with my head? I have to pay attention to what he’s saying, but I can’t—

“Miss Lane, are you all right?”

Jane shook her head and frowned at the detective. The overhead lights hurt her eyes, though they were not particularly bright. “Having trouble concentrating,” she said. “Just a headache. Go on with what you were saying.”

“Want some Tylenol?” asked the lady cop sitting in the office with them.

“Yeah, thanks. Lack of sleep’s probably doing it. Not that I’m blaming you guys for keeping me awake even longer, of course.”

“Generous of you,” said the detective, though he wore a look of concern. He glanced at the lady officer as she fished through a nearby desk drawer. “What I was saying,” he said, “is that most of your story checks out, and Trent confirms it. We can place you at your parents’ house until the time of the phone call from the county line rest area, all that checks out, and we can probably place Daria in the SUV from fingerprints and DNA testing once we get the—”

“DNA tests? Why are you doing that? Do you think we did something wrong?”

“Miss Lane, this is a very unusual situation. Your friend miraculously survives a severe car accident, the car’s totally destroyed yet she has only a bump on her noggin, and then she vanishes from the scene and reappears near a rest area several miles away, hardly the worst for the wear. You drive out to pick her up in a car that comes back showing major damage to one side with a rear door torn off, and you have no explanation for this. Neither does your brother, and it’s his car. The car’s interior is damaged as well, with debris in the back seat and in your garage and even in your upstairs shower from—”

“Hey! You were going through our house last night?”

“Your brother Trent argued with us about it at the door until we said we’d call your parents to get permission to search. He said fine, go ahead, no one knew where his parents were, but it so happens that your mother, Amanda, left a note stuck to your mailbox giving her phone number at the Montreal Ceramic Arts Festival, and when we showed it to him, he gave up and let us in. Here’s the note.”

Jane glanced at it and groaned. “Figures. Mom doesn’t believe in private property. She’d let anyone in.”

“Sounds like a hippy commune thing.”

“Don’t get me started.”

“Then I’ll get started instead. That search-and-rescue operation last night was expensive, Miss Lane. We had crews from three law-enforcement offices and two fire departments, not to mention all the civilians including Daria’s own father and sister, out hunting through the woods around the accident scene, yet you were the one who found Daria, with only a head bump, two miles away from the wreck. On top of that, somehow all these rumors got started about green monsters in the woods, which caused us even more problems, so you can see why we’re so interested in—”

Jane shut her eyes and flinched. “Alfred,” she gasped.

The detective stopped, puzzled. “Beg pardon?”

“Um . . .” Jane shook her head, frowning again. “Alfred,” she repeated. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

The lady cop gave her two Tylenol capsules and a cup of water. “This better not be a truth drug,” Jane muttered, taking them. “That would be cheating.”

“It would also get our evidence thrown out in court, so it’s not worth the trouble,” said the detective. “Who’s Alfred?”

Jane swallowed the capsules and water, then put the cup on the desk before her. “I just thought of the name, I don’t know why. I don’t know anyone named that. I’m just tired and I stink and my head hurts. Typical day. Go on.”

“We’ll cut to the chase, then. Was Daria depressed about anything recently? Something happen to upset her, make her feel bad?”

“What? Oh, no, she’s always like that. She’s a realist.”

“You’re saying she’s a realist, so she always looks depressed, is that it? Well, I’m a realist and I’m sometimes depressed, so I guess I can buy that. Has she ever talked about hurting herself? Ending it all?

“Not since I’ve known her. Well, she did sit on a peanut-butter sandwich in front of my brother once, when she had a crush on him, but if she didn’t kill herself then, she never will.”

“I see. Is she popular in school?”

“No. Neither am I, I guess, but there’s no accounting for tastes. Most people don’t like having reality force-fed to them.”

“Force fed?”

“Daria and I like giving color commentary on the day.”

“Any reason for doing that?”

“It’s a hobby.”

“Ah. Does Daria have any enemies?”

“Enemies? Like anyone who’d want to hurt her? No, jeez. I mean, we don’t have that many friendly acquaintances, I guess, but no one really hates us. Except maybe our gym teacher. Hey, you know, maybe you could investigate her, because she—”

“My son has Ms. Morris for gym and he hates her, too. She doesn’t count. Do you and Daria like practical jokes?”

“Oh, no, no, we can be sarcastic, but . . . wait, this wasn’t a joke or a hoax. We didn’t set this up. We’ve never—”

“You two ever try something elaborate, like leaving big footprints around town to make it look like a monster was here, drop torn clothing around, fake a kidnapping—”

“Whoa, wait, no! We’d never do that! Not in this town, anyway. Everyone already knows us. That was a joke, by the way. You know about jokes, right?”

“I’ve heard a few.” The detective flipped open a folder on his desk. “We were talking with Ms. Angela Li, the principal at your high school, and she said you and Daria have been in trouble there before. There was an art contest two years ago, and a picture that you did was allegedly defaced—”

“That—ow!” Jane winced and put a hand to her forehead. Her voice became pressured. “Ms. Li was responsible for that screw-up, not us! Go ask Daria’s mother. Ms. Li altered my poster without my permission, and then she—crap, that hurts! What the—”

It surfaced.

I’m on a special bed inside a big machine. I look up at a bald man with a gray mustache. I remember that I like him. He’s nice to me.

I say to him, Alfred, I don’t want to go.

I’m sorry, miss, he says, but it’s your only hope.

Are Mom and Dad coming?

No, miss, he says, lie still and close your eyes, it’s time.

Are they dead, Mom and Dad?

Yes, he says, and his voice quivers as he adds, I’m very sorry, it’s almost over.

Are we going to die, Alfred?

Not you, miss, not you, be brave, it’s time, goodbye and Godspeed.

Goodbye, Alfred. I love you.

He waves at me, crying, and says, goodbye, Selina. I love you, too.

“Miss Lane!”

Jane looked around, eyes blinking madly. Someone was hammering on the office door. “What?” she said, feeling fevered. “What the hell?”

“There’s been an explosion at Cedars of Lawndale!” shouted a man at the open office door. “They’re calling for all available personnel to get down there!”

“Daria!” Jane got to her feet, her mind clear. Every shivering nerve in her body howled to life. “I’ve got to get—”

“No, wait here!” said the detective, on his feet and coming around his desk. The lady cop reached for her.

Escape.

Jane reflexively caught the woman’s arm with one hand and dragged her forward and off-balance, keeping her close and pivoting in place, shoving her around in a half-circle with the other hand until flinging the lady cop into the detective’s midsection. The two of them crashed into the opposite wall and fell. Jane sidestepped the man charging her from the doorway and tripped him, then ran through the doorway into the open office area beyond. The front door was on the other side of the big room, and the entire day shift of the City of Lawndale Police Department was in between, looking in her direction.

A white-shirted man got up from his desk and came at her. She rocked sideways and kicked him in the stomach, knocking him back, then kneed another officer in the crotch when he grabbed at her. She pushed him into two more men, then dodged to the left and tripped a fourth man. Shouts and cries rang through the room. An officer pulled a gun and aimed at her a yard away; she grabbed the gun, bent it backwards in his hand and made it fire into the ceiling, then kicked the man hard in the groin and dropped him like a sandbag. She threw another man with his own momentum, jumped on a chair and then on a desk, ran and leaped to another desk then jumped to a third but landed on a stack of papers that slid from under her. She crashed into a female officer and knocked her down, rolled and got up, threw a stapler and a calendar and a wire basket full of papers, kicked a big cop to her right and took his nightstick and whacked his knee to drop him, kicked a female cop in the jaw, then hit the glass door out and knocked down a gray-haired officer coming in with a cup of coffee. She was in daylight and running down the street faster than she ever remembered moving in her life, curses ringing behind her.

What the hell happened? How did I do that? What’s going on here? What—oh, forget it, I can’t stop, I gotta get to Daria as fast as possible. Over there—

A man tried to start his motorcycle by the side of the street ahead. Two seconds later the man rolled across the sidewalk, arms flailing, and she was on the cycle kicking down. The engine roared and she pulled into traffic, missing a delivery van and two cars, then gunned the engine as she flew through a stoplight, turned left across two lanes of honking, squealing traffic, and headed down a side street for the hospital.

He called me Selina. Why would Alfred, whoever he is, call me that? Who the hell was he? Did I really wish ten years ago that all this would happen?

She shook it off. Everything could wait but Daria.

VIII

Jane flew block after block until she was heading northbound for the hospital on Gorman Parkway, weaving around cars and zooming through intersections with only glances left and right. Then she passed a black LPD Chevy Caprice going in the other direction, red-and-blues flashing and siren howling. Tires screeched and horns blared behind her, then came the siren’s renewed howl and more screaming tires as the police car came after her. She didn’t look back. She leaned into the wind, flying up the yellow line between opposing lanes of traffic, her mind moving as fast as her cycle.

This’ll be tough to explain when Trent visits me in prison, she thought, ducking to avoid the side mirror on a bus in the oncoming left lane. I can hardly explain it even to me. It’s like living in a Jackie Chan film, like I can do every stunt, every trick, every kick and jump and strike I ever saw in any action movie. It’s all reflex; I sense what to do and I do it, but I’m wearing out fast. I can’t keep it up for long. I’ll be lucky if I can move an inch when I wake up tomorrow, assuming I’m alive tomor—OH!!!

At a red light two seconds ahead was a tractor-tanker coming through from the right. She would hit the tanker dead center. With no time to stop, she flipped the handlebars and laid the bike flat on its left side against the pavement, swinging her left leg out of the way so she lay horizontal across the cycle like a street luge. Jane and the skidding bike missed by inches a red pickup truck coming from the left, then went under the tanker ahead of the rear wheels and came up on the other side in the clear northbound lanes. She stood up on the right cycle pedal, jerked the bike upright by leaning over while holding the right handle grip, then vaulted back into the seat and roared away.

OW! Damn it, my crotch! I’ll never walk normally again! I’m going to puke! That didn’t work like on Mission: Impossible! Don’t puke, come on, stay with it, keep going. Daria needs me, and if I stop for a moment I’ll curl up in a ball. I’ve got to find—

The asphalt under the cycle jumped faintly—and jumped again, vibrating her hands on the handgrips and her butt through the seat. Again, louder and stronger, every half second and growing harder. She suppressed her nausea. What’s that? Grenades? Bombs? Earthquake? Or—?

Rapid ground shocks jarred her bones even through tires and shock absorbers. Ahead was the big intersection with Sherman Avenue, Cedars of Lawndale half a mile beyond on the left. Far ahead, red and blue lights flashed in the oncoming lanes of Gorman—and ahead of the flashing lights was—

Oh, no!

A tall green figure clad in tattered clothing ran full throttle toward Jane from the hospital, ahead of the police cars. Dark hair flying, the green giantess bounded between the southbound lanes of slower-moving traffic. LPD cars rocketed down sidewalks and fishtailed into open northbound lanes in mad pursuit. Pedestrians dived for cover.

Jane braked and came to a tire-shrieking stop turned completely around in the middle of the Gorman-Sherman intersection, where traffic had halted at the wail of police sirens. She revved the engine and waved her arms to get Daria’s attention, then gave the cycle the gas and went south on Gorman back the way she came, thinking Daria would follow—

—and saw the LPD Caprice that had followed her suddenly cut out of the northbound lane and turn sideways into the two clear southbound lanes of Gorman, to prevent her escape. The officer scrambled out of the car and ran to one side, pulling out his sidearm, looking right at her—and at something behind her.

The ground jumped. Something huge and green blew past Jane and went for the squad car. It was Daria. She extended her arms, palms out like bulldozer blades, and hit the black Caprice between the front and rear doors on the right side. Safety glass from burst windows blew out in a sparkling cloud. Daria raised the vehicle high in her hands as she ran, the Caprice folded over where she had hit it, its white airbags boomed out and theft alarm wailing. Then she turned to her right and slammed the vehicle down to the pavement. The police car exploded with a deafening thunderclap, consumed by an orange gasoline fireball that briefly launched the car back into the air. A black mushroom cloud rose from the flaming wreckage into the morning sky. Pedestrians fled in earnest, panicked drivers abandoned their cars, and everyone screamed. The air reeked of flaming petrol.

Jane roared past the wreckage of the LPD car, hot on Daria’s trail. She didn’t try to process the unreality of what had happened. She kept the big green girl in view and hoped that the two of them would miraculously live to see another day. Head out of town, Daria! Get us out of here so we don’t kill anyone and they don’t kill us! This is totally out of control!

Something stung Jane’s right arm. The air cracked around her. Ouch. Gunshot. Her upper arm hurt, but her fingers still worked. Good enough. She ignored the injury, as there was too much else to do. Blocks ahead of her, Daria slowed and veered right on Nicholl Street. Good going! Jane thought. You’re heading for the Interstate! Keep it up!

Daria bypassed the first exit to get onto the Interstate, ran under the overpass, then to Jane’s astonishment skipped the second exit, too, dodging around morning traffic that came to a squealing halt once she came into view. Jane swerved around stopped vehicles and half-open car doors, speeding down the shoulder dangerously close to the gravel and grass. Police sirens screamed behind her. Daria, what the hell are you doing? We have to get out of Dodge, girl! You’re heading for the . . . oh! Oh! I get it!

The road turned into a four-lane straightaway with few intersections and less traffic than in town, heading northwest away from Lawndale. A road sign on the right reminded drivers that the Sedimentary Rock Country Club and Lawndale County’s Great Forest Park were only a few miles ahead. Jane grinned. The forest! There are caves there! We could hide for a little while and rest if we could only ditch our fan club!

Jane’s hopes were interrupted when she heard a car pulling up from behind. She glanced in her rear-view mirror. Tailgating her was a low-slung, bright yellow sports car, a convertible with a Mitsubishi emblem on the hood. The lady driver, a stunning brunette in a business suit, held a portable camcorder with the viewfinder over one eye while she drove—expertly—using the other eye. The camcorder, of course, was aimed right at Jane’s posterior, not ten feet away.

Paparazzi, of course. Bet she’ll sell this for a pretty penny to the networks—or she would have if she hadn’t pissed me off. Jane swerved to the left and braked. As she went past the Mitsubishi with three inches between them, she reached over, snatched the camcorder from the driver’s hand, and flung it to the left, where it bounced off the road twice and crashed through the windshield of a sedan in a used-car lot. Jane then blew a kiss to the driver and gunned the bike’s engine, roaring ahead before the other woman could react. Checking her mirror, Jane saw the sports car drop back as the driver mouthed a curse and gestured vigorously with an upraised middle finger. Police cars were jockeying to pass the interloper, so Jane turned her attention back to her escape.

And discovered a little problem.

A mile ahead past a long line of car dealerships on the left was the open bridge over the Rolling Falls River. Once over the bridge, it was clear driving to the thickly wooded park and a much needed chance to rest.

Getting over the bridge was the little problem. Three law enforcement vehicles had blocked off the far end, emergency lights flashing. The men were aiming rifles in her direction. Oh, crap. County sheriff, maybe a state trooper, too . . . end of the road, kid. It was a good run. Unless—oh, why the hell not. Blaze of glory if it fails, but if it works—

Jane gave the cycle all the gas she could and aimed to pass Daria, who was running at about seventy miles an hour. As Jane flew by her friend, she looked up. Daria looked down at her at the same moment.

Freakin’ friends forever.

Jane pulled ahead and roared onto the bridge. She glanced over her shoulder at Daria, then pulled up next to the right barrier at ninety miles an hour. A moment later she pulled both legs up and crouched on her seat—trying to ignore her bruised crotch—then leapt to the right. The cycle fell over, bounced, and tore itself to pieces as it went end over end across the bridge to crash into the opposite barrier and explode.

Jane sailed over the barrier and down toward the Rolling Falls River in a perfect Olympic high-diving pose. The water came up very fast. She shut her eyes, head down, arms up, and clenched her teeth.

Behind her, Daria gasped when Jane went over the edge. Then her face creased with angry determination. The big green girl gave a little jump, then a big jump that shattered the pavement ten feet around the spot where she took off. She sailed to the top of an arc sixty feet high, then came down in a cannonball into the river far below.

Five minutes later, the Rolling Falls Bridge was crowded with police cars of every sort. Over two dozen officers looked into the river on both sides of the span, searching for survivors. None were visible.

On the south end of the bridge, well away from trouble, a striking brunette watched the scene through binoculars. She stood beside a bright yellow Mitsubishi Eclipse Spyder parked on the side of the road. The loss of her camcorder was trivial, as everything it had seen had been transmitted to the car’s computer memory. When she lowered the binoculars, her expression was thoughtful.

She walked back to her car, got in, and raised her right hand to her face so that the gold ring with the mother-of-pearl setting was by her mouth. The mother-of-pearl had a curious inlay worked in onyx: a black octopus with two unfriendly eyes.

“Executive One,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. Her throat tightened.

“One moment,” said the mother-of-pearl setting with a feminine voice. The brunette waited, forcing herself to breathe slowly through her nose. She had never called for her superior so directly.

“You rang?” said a cultured male voice with a European accent.

“A very curious thing has happened,” said the brunette. “I have a video file to send you, but I can make a verbal report now.”

“Is this in connection with amusing reports of green alien monsters in your vicinity?” said the voice. One could almost see a corner of the speaker’s mouth pull back in a scornful twist.

“Yes, it is.” She swallowed and plunged on. “The monsters are real. One of them is, anyway, and it has a notable helper.”

There was a momentary pause. “Ah,” said the voice, taken aback. “I am not the kind who values practical jokes, Linda, but I will humor you this once. Make your report, then send the video.”

The brunette nodded, her face ashen, and began to describe what she had seen. She did her best to give every detail without editorializing. If Executive One was intrigued with her discovery, she would earn a bonus and an incentive check to go with her bi-weekly salary, and maybe some extra vacation time.

And, most importantly, her boss would not have her killed.

She floated alone in a great dark space, and as she floated, she dreamed.

Alfred, where are Mom and Dad?

No doubt working, miss, as always.

Why don’t they want to be with me?

They do want to be with you, miss, but your parents . . . it is hard to explain.

Do they love me?

They love you with all their hearts, I know they do, but they are working to make the world a better place, and I’m afraid it doesn’t leave them time to be home for long.

Are they working today?

I believe so, miss, though I cannot say where.

Are they on Earth?

Somewhere, yes.

You know what Mom called me?

No, miss.

She said I was her little secret.

And so you are, miss, and a wonderful secret at that.

Why am I a secret, Alfred?

The gray-haired mustachioed gentleman in the butler’s uniform sighed and rubbed his rheumy eyes. The world, he said, is a dangerous place. There are many people who do not like it that your mother and father want to make the world better for us all. Those people would rather the world were a worse place than it is; they would rather see the world broken, and they want to be the ones to break it. They are very bad, these people. Your mother and father have fought bad people for years to keep the world safe. It is hard, dangerous work. I worry sometimes that . . . never mind, it wasn’t important.

But why am I a secret, Alfred?

Because, said the old gentleman, because . . . it is better that way.

Does a bad person want to hurt me?

The old gentleman stood still, then looked down at her and smiled and tousled her hair. I will always protect you, miss. I will always be here for you. I give you my word.

His smile was hollow. She saw his fear behind it. He straightened and took a deep breath. Would you help me in the garden, miss? We can collect a few flowers for the dinner table tonight, you decide what we should have.

Okay . . . can we have lilacs?

Bless you, miss, of course we can.

Alfred?

Um, yes?

Am I really named for my grandmother?

Oh, indeed you are, miss, indeed you are.

What was she like?

Someone strong grabbed her around the waist and pulled her rapidly through a medium that flowed around her like water.

Alfred?

Your grandfather said she stole his heart. He did not seem unhappy about it, though.

Am I like my grandmother?

The old man smiled down at her. Why, I believe you two are purrr-fectly alike, miss. Purrr-fectly alike.

* * *

In an inlet just over a mile upriver from the Rolling Falls Bridge, five minutes and twenty seconds after Jane Lane hit the water, she surfaced again—head back, limbs dangling, eyes glazed, mouth open, lifeless. Her body was clutched in the great arms of a naked green giantess who splashed toward the shoreline as fast as she could run. Once on the bank, the giantess lifted Jane’s body over fallen trees and boulders, tore through briars and brush without stopping, and finally lay her friend down on a bed of red leaves beneath a silver maple.

The giantess bent her head and listened to Jane’s chest through her soaked black T-shirt, heard a faint heartbeat, then tilted Jane’s head back and lifted her torso. With desperate gentleness, the giantess put her mouth over Jane’s and gave two shallow puffs.

Jane jerked and coughed before the giantess could continue mouth-to-mouth. She turned her head and vomited, coughed, spat, and vomited again. She then flopped exhausted on her back, her body still cradled in the giantess’s green arms, and looked up.

A pair of stricken emerald eyes looked down at her, scarcely daring to believe.

Jane’s left hand came up and touched the giantess on the cheek, fingers moving slowly around to touch dark green lips. A droplet fell from one emerald eye, then a droplet from the other. Jane’s hand curved around the green neck and gently pulled the giantess down until her forehead rested on Jane’s chest. There, with the giantess’s ear close by, Jane whispered three words.

The green woman’s shoulders shook as she wept. Jane’s hand pressed down against the giantess’s long, wet hair and did not let go. Above them the autumn wind stirred the rustling leaves, and flocks of geese departed in search of quieter waters.

Daria bandaged and set Jane’s right arm in a sling using pieces torn from her friend’s long-sleeved red shirt. She then took off, carrying Jane miles upriver in hopes that searchers would concentrate their efforts downstream, east of the highway bridge. She strode along the bank at a rapid pace, Jane cradled in her arms, and did her best to use natural foliage and rock outcrops to conceal her passing. Though she was naked, she hid out of concern that she and Jane would be found and attacked, not out of any sense of modesty. To her surprise, she discovered she liked being without clothes—and that wasn’t like her. She found her state of mind both curious and troubling.

Shouldn’t being naked as a big green jaybird bother me more than it is? I’m not sure I care, and I can’t figure out why. True, this is rather comfortable: I feel pressure but little pain, I sense the cold but it doesn’t bother me. My touch sensations are scaled back on the high end; I can feel a breeze, but I could probably also run barefoot over broken glass and never say ouch. Or even get scratched. My flesh must be like tank armor. I feel like a character in one of my stories. In fact, I feel a lot like Melody Powers, super-spy. She wouldn’t care about running around naked if she couldn’t help it—especially if she were super-strong, super-tough, and trying to save a friend. Naked? She’d rub it in everyone’s face. Mmm, maybe that wasn’t a good analogy, but it’s true. This is how Melody thinks, how I’m thinking now. This is way too weird.

What happened to me? Turning into Big Green Girl affected my perceptions and attitudes as well as my appearance. I was embarrassed to death when Trent saw me naked last night, I could have died, but . . . I wonder what he thought. Brainy little high-school chick in the buff, hmmm, was that trippy enough for him? Did he like what he saw, or was it off-target? He always liked anorexic poster girls like Monique better. I wonder what he’d think now. Hey, Trent, check out the Green Machine. Me or Monique, which one makes your Stratocaster sit up and take notice? Too X-treme for you? Yo, Tom, how about you? There’s more than a mouthful at this buffet. Look at these portions. Too much on your plate? Are you too full? I’m not. Oh, Daria, that was just rude. Heh, kinda funny, though Tom might not think so. The mechanics of actually doing it with a guy would be very . . . I’ve got to stop thinking about this, got to STOP thinking about this.

I’ll stop. I’ll stop thinking about it and be my regular self. I’m Daria now. There.

I wonder what Jane thinks. That’s starting to worry me. Yeah, sure, she said she loves me, but I saved her life, so of course she’d say that. Anyone would. And I like her, too. She’s my best friend. My only friend. Even after I betrayed her with Tom. I can’t believe she stuck with me. Why did she? And I worry a little about what she’s thinking now—what she really thinks. She’s been giving me the eye since I changed, and she isn’t trying to hide it. Smacking my butt, what was that all about? It could be just the novelty. I could see that. Of course she’ll stare and fool around. That’s just Jane. It’s the first time she’s ever had a giant naked friend who’s built like a porn star. Not to mention green. Everywhere. I think. Okay, time to stop thinking about THAT again. I’m not thinking about it. I’m not thinking about Jane looking at me. Constantly. Like she wants to—

WHOA, NOT GOING THERE, let’s not go there, just stop. Not ready to deal with that. Just get her out of here and keep her safe. Stay with reality. Uh, um, let’s see, oh. Let’s evaluate the situation logically. The bullet went right through her bicep, it’s a clean wound, bone’s okay, but that river water was filthy. It’s a matter of time before infection sets in. Where am I going to find a doctor for her? Where can I go that they won’t shoot at us? I don’t know how bulletproof I am, and I know for a fact she isn’t bulletproof at all. I have to be very careful. Have to do something—but what?

And where did she get that motorcycle? I didn’t know she had one. She could have been killed back there on the bridge. That scared me. So small in my arms. She used to be taller than me by four inches, but I’m holding her like a baby. She weighs almost nothing. I hope my power walking isn’t bothering her. She looks like she’s asleep on my shoulder. My left hand is under her left armpit and OH NO, okay, I’ve moved my fingers so they aren’t touching her breast anymore, SORRY, and my right hand holds her . . . her hip and part of her butt, but that’s okay, it can’t be helped. I’m just carrying her so that’s okay, I’m just supporting her, and it’s okay that my hand is full of my best friend’s ass AAAAAH STOP IT, DON’T GO THERE, not now, can’t deal with that AT ALL, PERIOD, even if I’ve got Melody’s brain. I’m straight, I’m sure of it. I’m into guys if I’m into anything. I mean, I’m just into Tom, sort of, when he’s not pissing me off every other day, and not Jane who’s my best friend and always there for me and is the only person I really trust, and this line of thought is REALLY DISTURBING ME. Jane’s my best friend, my only real friend, and I don’t want to lose her. Stay cool. I want to keep things like they were, best friends forever, I’ll keep thinking that. That’s it, keep moving, kiddo, get your best friend to safety. Give it all you’ve got. Everything will work out.

Eventually.

I hope.

God help me.

Around noon, things got complicated again. The densely forested riverside park ended at an upscale subdivision with mansion-like homes built high on the bank in a row. Boat houses and willows lined the shore. Daria could not move into the open without risk of being spotted, so she retreated a quarter mile downriver to a rock overhang. There she gently set Jane on the ground, then dragged fallen limbs over until the space under the overhang was well camouflaged. Making a bed for Jane from a pile of leaves was easy.

Then Jane began to shiver. There was nothing with which to cover her from the cold, and her clothing was still soaked. Daria was beside herself. Damn it to hell! What am I going to do? I can’t light a fire here or anything. What can I do?

“D-D-Daria?” said Jane through chattering teeth.

“What?”

“P-p-please hold me.”

“It . . . but . . . it’s—”

“Your skin is h-hot!” said Jane, shivering harder, her whole body trembling. “You’re so warm, and it’s so freaking cold out here! I hurt all over, p-please! Daria!”

There was enough room for both under the overhang. The branches and piled leaves gave plenty of cover. The spiders, snakes, and other annoying fauna were gone for the winter. And Jane, bullet wound and all, was her best friend.

So . . .

Jane fell asleep in seconds, wrapped securely in massive green arms. Her sock feet were tucked under and her head was pillowed by a green shoulder blade. The giantess swallowed as she leaned against the moss-covered rock wall under the overhang, sitting up on her heels with Jane in her lap. The position was not uncomfortable at all. Not physically.

Okay, this is beyond weird. Melody Powers alter-ego or not, this is a little much. What to do? Don’t think about it. Don’t even look at her, pretend she’s not there. Watch the river. Listen for intruders. Just let her sleep and stop worrying.

It tickles my left breast when she breathes. It’s making my—

Oh, my God. Quick, think about something else. This is turning me on. Oh, my God. I have to wake her up. I can’t wake her up. But I have to. But she’s injured and exhausted and she needs to sleep. But if I don’t wake her up I’m going to . . . this is so . . . damn it, this is . . . it’s . . .

It’s kind of nice, actually. Nice in a kinky, scary sort of way, yeah, but . . . I guess I can live with it. I’m over it. Big Green Melody Powers is straight, a little muddled but straight. Great, my first homosexual crisis. This is so NOT going into my diary.

Okay, that’s settled. I really should think about a few far more important things here, like: Who the hell am I, really? Why am I only now remembering this stuff about people calling me Jessica Wyatt-Wingfoot? Why do I feel like I had two different sets of parents? WHY AM I GREEN? And what the hell does Ted have to do with this? I had this crazy dream about him coming in my hospital room and talking with me without saying anything, using telepathy. That can’t have been real.

I wish I could call Mom and Dad and let them know what happened. They might have been in the hospital when I broke out. I hardly remember what I was doing. I shoved some people away from me and tried to get out of the room, and I went through a wall that turned out to be the outside wall on the second floor of Cedars of Lawndale. Man, I must have made a mess. I must have been crazy for a few moments. All I wanted to do was escape, and next thing I know I’m running down Gorman Parkway in a torn-up hospital gown with the Lawndale Police Department right behind me . . . oh, no, I smashed that police car up, too. I remember now. Oh, great. Was there anyone in it? Melody Powers wouldn’t want to hurt police officers, but this is all . . . oh, boy.

On the good side, they probably can’t build a prison to hold me.

On the bad side, they’ll probably try.

Nothing I can do about it now.

What happened to make me turn green? The car wreck? I sort of remember it, but not very well. Trigger event. Who said that . . . Ted? In my dream? Or was it a dream? I’m a green giant, so sure, maybe it wasn’t a dream. Impossible things are happening already. What did he say? I had a trigger event. I turned into the Incredible Hulk when the car wrecked, but I didn’t when I was twelve at Camp Grizzly and fell off that damn horse and got stitches, because I was a late bloomer . . . hey! How did he know that? He doesn’t know when I started getting periods! How the hell could he—

Calm down, breathing too fast. Might wake up Jane.

How would he know? Ted’s got some ‘splaining to do. I’ll wipe that happy geek smile off his face, one second flat.

I wish I knew what was going on here.

He said something else, I remember now. Ted said he’s been looking out for me since we got here, as if he and I came from somewhere else. Like from another world.

He said he’s been looking out for me and the others.

What others?

Daria’s gaze slowly drifted down to the top of Jane’s head. She thought about what she had seen Jane do, leaping from a speeding motorcycle off a bridge into a river six stories below—perfectly. After she had been shot.

And she had survived. What Jane had done was completely impossible.

Daria’s mouth fell open.

Her, too?

“Jodie?” Brittany Taylor whispered. “You wanna use my cell phone?”

The African-American girl with cornrows and braids turned to the pigtailed blonde who sat with her on the floor under a lab table, in a corner of Ms. Barch’s science class. “You brought a cell phone to school?” Jodie Landon asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I was sort of hoping to get a call from someone who’s not very important, but he didn’t call when he said he would, so now he’s really not very important and I’m not going to call him back no matter what and he can go stuff himself!” Brittany, attired as usual in her Lawndale Lions cheerleader’s outfit, became anxious. “Please don’t tell Kevvy, okay? He might think that other person was important even though he wasn’t, but if he had called me back then he might have been important, but—”

“Don’t worry,” interrupted Jodie. “I won’t tell Kevin a thing.” Under her breath, she added, “He’d have to have an IQ in the triple digits before I’d ever try to—”

“What?” said Brittany, puzzled. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I said, no problem. Your secret is safe.”

“Thanks! You’re the best!” Brittany handed over the cell phone.

“No, you are,” said Jodie, in a grateful mood. “Thanks.” She punched in the number for her home and waited.

“Landons,” said her mother in a tense voice.

“Hi, Mom,” said Jodie, steeling herself. “I’m fine, just wanted to call.”

“Jodie! I’ve been trying to reach that damn school of yours for an hour, but those idiots—”

“We’re under a secure lockdown, so no one can call or get in or out. We’re hiding under tables away from the windows, and the police are patrolling the hallway, but nothing’s really happening. I borrowed a cell phone to call you. Do you know what this is all about?” Jodie glanced across the room at her fellow students whispering together under the other lab tables—and the teacher, Janet Barch, armed with a glass jar full of acid from the chemistry closet as she watched the door with a resolute glare.

“Good Lord, girl, haven’t you heard anything? Someone set off a bomb at the hospital and attacked the police station, and there are—”

“What?”

“—gangs running around town on motorcycles, shooting at everyone and blowing up police cars! It’s a war zone out there! I’m looking at it right on TV!”

“You’re kidding me!”

“Don’t you call me a liar, girl.”

“I’m not calling you anything, Mom! I just can’t believe—”

“Save it. I have to call your father. He’s over at the middle school picking up your sister, but he’s worried sick about you. You stay right where you are, you understand?”

“Yes, Mom, but—”

“Don’t you ‘but’ me! You stay right there! Your father will be right outside to pick you up as soon as they let you out. You come straight home.”

“Mom, should Dad be out if there’s trouble going on?”

“Oh, like anything I say to him’s going to penetrate that thick skull of his. You do what I tell you, you understand me?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Good. Thank the Lord you’re all right. The TV news is showing a police car on fire on Gorman, near the hospital. Oh, now there’s a report about a gun battle outside of town, near the river. Sweet Christmas! What is this world coming to? I could kill your father for making us move here. If I hadn’t had your little brother and I’d stayed on with U.S. World, we’d all be living in—”

Jodie sighed. “Mom, I have to go. Someone else needs to use the phone.”

“The hell with them! I’m talking to you! You tell them to—”

“Love you, Mom.” Jodie pulled the phone away from her ear.

“Jodie Abigail Landon! By God, you’d better—”

Jodie thumbed the cell phone off and handed it back to Brittany. “Thanks.”

“What’d your mom say?”

“Oh . . . stay put and wait. That’s all.”

“Maybe I should call my stepmom and see if we can go shopping at the mall after school. That always helps me relax when I’m nervous.”

Jodie reached over and took the cheerleader’s trembling hand. “Everything will be fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

Brittany took a deep breath as she gripped Jodie’s fingers. She gave a weak smile. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I feel lots better. You know what I wish?”

“What?”

“I wish I could go outside and do something about whatever’s happening. I can hear all the sirens and everything, and I know we have to stay in school because something bad’s going on, but I get so nervous having to wait and do nothing. If I can do something to fix things when they’re messed up, then I always feel better.” Brittany reached up and twirled one of her pigtails with her index finger. “I want to make the world nicer, that’s all.”

Jodie felt the urge to look in the direction of Ted DeWitt-Clinton, three tables away talking with another student. She fought off the impulse and nodded slowly, looking at the floor. Her jaw tensed—then relaxed. “Me, too,” she said with a trace of bitterness in her voice. “I really wish I could, too.”

* * *

Late that afternoon, Jane stirred and yawned.

“Up already?” said Daria, who had dozed off as well. “You haven’t gotten your full twelve hours in yet.” She had a cramp in her left calf muscle, but it was tolerable.

“Thanks for reminding me, amiga.” Jane gently pushed Daria’s arms away. “Actually, I think I’m good to go, except maybe for my right arm. I’ve not felt as stereotypically lazy of late. I want to get up and stretch, maybe visit a bathroom, get some lunch, battle it out with the army, navy, and air force, then go for pizza. You with me?”

“First things first. We’ll need to find a doctor for your, um, injury pretty soon.” Daria remained sitting on her heels while Jane got up, crouching under the rock overhang.

Jane peeled back the makeshift bandage on her right bicep and inspected the wound.

“Hey,” said Daria, worried. “Be careful. That’s probably infected.”

“Doesn’t look too bad to me,” said Jane, making a face. “It isn’t green or anything, if you’ll pardon the expression. It still hurts, though.”

“Jane, you were shot. You need medical attention.”

“Mmm, right, and I’m sure Cedars of Lawndale will be happy to provide it. What happened with you there, by the way? We haven’t had a lot of time for chitchat.”

“It can wait. Nothing good happened. I think we’re really on the lam this time and not just sneaking home late after curfew.”

“You had curfew at your house, right. I remember. Wow, now I don’t feel so bad about being abandoned by my parents.”

“You’re not helping. Speaking of parents . . . I think we should call home, but I don’t know how. We not only don’t have a phone, but I think it’s likely the police will try to trace any call we make to my place or yours. They might already be questioning my family, but that’ll probably be more torture for the cops than for my folks. Anyway, I’m not comfortable yet with the idea of a face-to-face meeting with the law. They might have a teensy little grudge about a police car that I bumped into on the way over here.”

“Is that all? I beat up every cop in the main police station trying to get outside and find you. If they have a little grudge against you, they’ll drop an atom bomb on me.”

“You did what?”

“Let’s just say it was like The Terminator, only I don’t think there were any fatalities. Unless they catch me, of course, in which case there will be . . . one.”

Daria shook her head. “How did that happen?”

“How did that happen? I don’t know how it happened any more than you know how it happened. I had this terrible headache, and all of a sudden I . . . I, uh—”

“Started to think you had another name?”

Jane stared at Daria, dumbfounded. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, I did.”

The pause drew out until Daria said, “And what’s your real name?”

Jane blinked. She reached up and rubbed the bullet wound with her left hand. “Is this happening to you, too?”

The green giantess nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Is your name Jennifer Walters?” said Jane excitedly. “Do you think that’s your real name?”

Daria frowned, taken aback. “How did you know—wait, no, that’s not right. No, I had this delusion that my real name was Jessica Walters-Wingfoot. I have no idea why. I’ve never heard that name before in my life, but now I remember—”

“Oh!” Jane gasped, wide eyed. “What was your name again? Jessica?”

Daria crossed her arms over her breasts. The conversation was becoming irksome. “Jessica Walters-Wingfoot. Does it mean anything to you?”

“Wyatt Wingfoot was a comic-book character, a Native American hero who dated She-Hulk, Jennifer Walters! That’s your last name, Walters-Wingfoot!”

Daria’s green eyes grew larger. “Wyatt?” she said. “Wyatt was my father’s name! I mean, I keep thinking that was his name! I don’t know if it’s real, but this isn’t something out of a comic book! I really think it! What are you talking about?”

Jane was staggered. “Daria, don’t you know who She-Hulk is?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” Daria snapped, her voice rising. “I’m not a comic-book character! I’m Jessic—I mean I’m Daria Morgendorffer, damn it!”

Frightened, Jane backed up and bumped into one of the huge tree branches that sheltered the space under the overhang. “Daria, calm down. I didn’t—”

“No!” Daria pushed away from the rock wall and got up, bent over with her back to the roof of the ledge. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on! I’ve been in a car wreck, put through a hundred medical tests, chased by the police, and now I’m camping out in the middle of nowhere with someone who’s telling me I came from a comic book! No, I will not calm down, damn it!”

“Jeez, tell the whole freaking world, whydoncha?”

Daria controlled her temper with a terrible effort. She could hear her voice echoing from the hills across the river. “Damn,” she growled. “That was bloody stupid.”

“Daria, listen to me.” Jane summoned her courage and stepped closer. She reached over to put her left hand on her friend’s arm.

The green giantess jerked away. “Don’t!” she snarled. “Don’t touch me right now! Just don’t!”

“Please, listen to me! I have a secret name, too!”

“I can think of some good names for you. Want to hear them?”

Jane appeared near tears. “My name is Selina Grayson! That’s my birth name! I had another life before this one, and I don’t know how—”

“Selina Grayson?” The giantess’s voice reflected true surprise. “Selina Grayson?”

“Does it mean anything?”

Daria drew back. After a pause, she closed her mouth and her expression darkened. “This is stupid,” she growled.

“Stupid? What do you mean, stupid? That’s my birth name! I had this memory that I was raised by this old guy named Alfred—”

A curse spilled from Daria’s lips. She spun on her heel and lashed out, punching one of the tree limbs propped up on the overhang. The six-inch-thick, twelve-foot-long limb flipped violently end over end through the air, falling down slope to crash into the river, over a hundred and fifty feet away.

Jane put out her hands in real fear. “Daria,” she said, “for the love of God—”

“I’ve read comic books, too!” Daria shouted. Jane ducked and winced, covering her ears. “Are you making this up?”

“No! Don’t shout at me!”

“You have a comic-book character name, too! Didn’t you ever read Batman comics?”

“Daria! Stop!”

Daria heard herself breathing like a steam engine. She was so close to doing something terrible, she could feel it in her blood. She was right on the edge of it. It was almost there.

She held herself back from the edge a second longer, then another second longer.

She heard Jane crying. Daria blinked and tried to focus.

Jane was half-crouched, her hands pressed over her ears as she looked up at Daria. Tears streaked her red face and fell from her chin.

Daria’s face went slack with horror. She stepped back and put a hand to her forehead. What have I done? What did I almost do? She knelt down among the leaves and rocks and branches. What have I become?

“Please,” Jane sobbed. “Please don’t hurt me. I love you.”

Daria looked at the ground. Her arms fell to her sides. The strength ran out of her. I am a monster. I almost killed her. I’m beyond redemption.

A police-car siren broke through the trees upriver. It grew louder. Daria hesitated, then turned and looked back toward the upscale subdivision and the approaching police.

They’re coming. They might hurt Jane again. They might kill her. What would Melody do?

The answer was so obvious.

“Run,” Daria said flatly. “Get out of here. I’ll draw them off. Get as far away from here as you can before dark.”

“Daria, no!” Jane cried. “Don’t leave me! We’ll figure a way out!”

The green giantess turned toward Jane but did not look up. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice strengthened. “I’m sorry, Jane. I love you, too.”

She got to her feet and walked away, heading upriver.

“Daria! Please! No!”

She began to run through the woods. Her shoulder carelessly hit a tree trunk and broke it; splinters and bark flew around her. The ground was soft and made her footing unsteady. It was still enough to get through. She could see willows and boathouses ahead. Jane’s cries echoed behind her. Shut up, Jane.

When she broke out of the forest and started up the hill, the police were already there, two of them getting out of a Lawndale County sheriff’s car in someone’s driveway. Both officers saw her and went for their guns. She grinned and ran, looking very unlike Daria Morgendorffer. You looking for some action? Her feet tore out clods of earth and scattered them behind her as she sped up. I’ve got your action right here.

The cops opened fire when she was twenty yards away. It didn’t do a thing to her.

Jane heard it all, and she covered her face and wept.

XIII

“Mrs. Morgendorffer, good evening,” said the police detective as he entered the crowded room and rounded his desk to take a seat. “I’m Detective Richard Casey. I take it you’ve met everyone else. Sorry I’m late. I’m a little short of breath with my chest taped up as much as it is, and I couldn’t—”

“Before we go any further,” Helen Morgendorffer interrupted from the chair in front of the detective’s desk, “I’m telling you that that thing out there is not my daughter, and I demand to know what you’re doing to find her! Daria is not an alien sex goddess or a Wookie or anything else that you might have picked up from the moronic reporters who’ve been spreading lies ever since—”

Detective Casey raised a hand. “Wait, hold on! Just wait!” He winced as he took a breath. “We don’t have a lot of time, and the more talking you do, the less time for talking I have, and I’m scheduled to speak with the governor in twenty minutes to make some decisions regarding whoever it is out there throwing automobiles around like Godzilla. Let me ask some questions, then you can ask me what you want, and with any luck we can reach a decision I can take to the governor. Will this work for you?”

Helen’s voice rose to a shout. “Why are we even talking about this if that’s not my daughter?”
“Easy, easy. Please calm down.” The detective stiffened and grimaced when he sat, then began breathing again with care. “Was your husband not able to attend this meeting?”

“He’s taking care of our youngest daughter, Quinn, in the break room. She’s taking this situation very hard. You’re going after the wrong people here. Daria is not—”

“Ma’am, listen, I understand your concern, I really do, but we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have evidence indicating that it probably is your daughter who’s causing at least part of the havoc going on out there right now. I’ve been listening to eyewitness reports on this topic all day, when I wasn’t being treated to a special live performance of ‘Fung-Fu Theater,’ courtesy of your daughter’s missing friend, Jane Lane.”

“Allegedly,” Helen added under her breath.

“Allegedly,” repeated the detective, curling his lip. “Well, allegedly speaking, your daughter’s friend cracked three of my ribs and bruised my chest when she allegedly threw a fellow police officer into me, right before she allegedly fought her way through the rest of the day shift like a scythe through wheat, an act that was allegedly caught on videotape multiple times and has allegedly put her on Maryland’s Most Wanted List, allegedly sharing the space at the top with your daughter Daria. Allegedly.” He made a face and gently rubbed his ribcage. “Let’s don’t play games here.”

“We’re here to talk about innocent children wrongly prosecuted,” said Helen crisply. “I’m angry enough that you’ve been questioning Tom Sloane for as long as you have, and when his family gets here tomorrow with their own lawyers, you can expect to be fully accountable for his condition. He had nothing to do with any of this. And I want to see Jane’s brother Trent, too.”

“That can be arranged. He’s in a cell by himself in back. He isn’t saying much.”

“That’s no surprise. I can’t believe you’re holding him, all things considered. What is he charged with?” Helen took a pen from her purse and clicked it, pulling out a small notebook next.

“Resisting arrest and interfering in an investigation. He tried to blockade his house with furniture when we returned with a search warrant this afternoon.”

“He just found out his sister might be dead! What did you expect him to do?”

“His sister is wanted on multiple felony charges, some of which have to do with beating the bejeezus out of over a dozen cops, one of them me. Pardon me for not being completely sensitive to his special needs.”

“And pardon me for not being sensitive to yours,” said Helen coldly. “What exactly is Jane charged with, alive or otherwise?” Her pen was poised over the notebook on her lap.

“Fine,” said the detective. He looked down at scattered papers on his desk, then picked one up. “Jane No-Middle-Name Lane, wherever she is, is currently charged with four counts of second-degree slash aggravated assault against a police officer; thirteen counts of third-degree assault against a police officer; one count of third-degree assault, against that motorcyclist; one count of carjacking, for the cycle; one count of grand theft auto, also for the cycle; one count of resisting arrest; one count of aiding and abetting the flight of your daughter Daria from police arrest; six counts of reckless public endangerment with a motor vehicle; one count of unlawful flight to avoid prosecution; five counts of eluding a police vehicle; two counts of criminal mischief—”

“Wait,” Helen gasped. She had written down the first few charges, but now her pen was frozen on the page, gripped in nerveless fingers. The color drained from her face.

“I’ll give you a copy of the charges later, Mrs. Morgendorffer. Skipping over a truckload of assorted traffic violations—speeding, reckless driving, et cetera—we’re probably also going to seat a grand jury to consider conspiracy and terrorism charges against her, the details of which will be worked out as soon as possible. All this will of course be moot if she did not survive her spectacular leap into the Rolling Falls River. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but as I said before, we have little time for niceties. For what it’s worth, we have a search-and-rescue operation in progress for miles up and down the river using sheriff’s department helicopters and local police divers, and we’re expecting a team of Navy SEALs to come by after midnight and assist us, courtesy of the White House.”

“The White House,” whispered Helen. The pen lifted from the notebook page.

“The White House,” said the detective. He picked up another sheet of paper. “Are you ready for the list of charges against your daughter?”

“That’s not . . . that can’t be my daughter doing that. That’s a . . . I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t Daria.”

“Whatever or whoever the giant naked green lady is, it’s leaving behind your daughter’s fingerprints, though curiously enlarged in size. We also have—”

“Someone’s faking the prints!” Helen said quickly. “It’s a setup!”

“That could be. However, we also have reports from one doctor and six nurses on duty this morning at the Cedars of Lawndale ICU who state that the person who did over a million dollars in damage when she tore through the unit, assaulted the staff, and smashed out a wall—that person was Daria Morgendorffer.”

“No!” Helen’s face twisted up. “They said it was a monster!”

“They said your daughter, while on her bed, underwent a dramatic change in appearance that they all witnessed, each of them having a clear line of sight and several of them being less than three feet from her when the change occurred. The change was also caught in part on a security camera, the film from which is being studied as I speak.” The detective shrugged. “I can’t explain what happened, though we have a few theories about how it might have been done. Doctored film, hallucinogens, something.”

“My daughter is not a violent person!”

“Ah,” said the detective. He reached for a notebook on the top of a stack of books and papers on his desk, each item sealed in a plastic bag. “This is your daughter’s diary from two years ago, which we picked up this afternoon using that search warrant for your home. We found it inside her mattress with several other diaries and notebooks.” He held the package to his face, squinting at a typed sheet inside. “In her diary, she writes that she admires Attila the Hun for being focused. She describes her friend Jane—” He glanced at Helen “—whom you have told me is your daughter’s only friend, as ‘snide, antisocial, and resentful,’ then adds, ‘Finally, a friend.’ She later writes, ‘The future is an enormous question mark, and I don’t know what lies ahead. I only know that if it moves, I’m shooting it.’”

“Wait a minute!” Helen cried. “She’s only joking! She’s very sarcastic, she’s not being serious! You can’t really think she’s being—”

Detective Casey raised a hand to stop her. “Your daughter has extensive diary notes on making a model of the Haymarket Riot, which was a terrorist bombing in Chicago over a century ago that killed seven police officers. She apparently made the model as part of a school project. She muses on the possibility of getting a Stealth bomber to do ‘something to change my situation.’ She collects models, books, posters, and photographs of mangled bodies, skeletons, war atrocities, and diseased organs. Have you ever talked with her about her Internet use?”

Helen stared at him, her mouth open like a fish’s.

“We’ve had only a preliminary look at her computer, but she’s filled the hard drive of her Apple Mac with dozens of first-person shooter games like ‘Cannibal Frag Fest,’ which features lifelike gore and splatter when victims are shot down by the game player. Do you know anything about an e-mail pal of your daughter’s, named Rhonda Jean DeMarco? Rhonda Jean DeMarco is currently serving four consecutive life terms in the Kinsington Federal Penitentiary in Ontario, Canada, for the axe murders of her parents, uncle, and brother nine years ago. Your daughter saved to her computer’s hard drive her weekly e-mail correspondence with Ms. DeMarco for the last year and a half.

“And then there’s Miss Lane, who has the same taste in mangled bodies as does Daria, judging from the artwork seized from her room. We’ve found marijuana stored in the house under the floorboards in several of the bedrooms, including her brother’s. And there are these notes we found under her bed on how to organize an aircraft hijacking and mass ransom in conjunction with the Libyan government. And . . . we found this.”

The detective pulled a thin, oversized paperback from the stack. “This is a graphic novel, a high-end comic book,” said the detective. “‘The Sensational She-Hulk, Marvel Graphic Novel Number Eighteen,’” he read from the cover. “And down here, in Jane’s own handwriting, we have, ‘My Best Friend.’” He held up the cover of the graphic novel. “Except that the character here is wearing a swimsuit, this is an exact likeness of the person out there right now who is giving us hell up and down the Rolling Falls River Valley, the person who’s leaving behind your daughter’s fingerprints. Jane collects She-Hulk comics. I’m told that she has every single one ever published, all of them annotated with remarks showing her fondness for this fictional character. You can understand why we think there’s a connection between these two teenagers and the chaos engulfing this end of the state tonight.”

He dropped the book back on the stack with the other materials. “As for the charges against your daughter . . .” He flipped a sheet of paper across his desk in Helen’s direction. “That’s the preliminary list, current as of seven o’clock this evening. As in Jane’s case, the grand jury charges of conspiracy and terrorism have yet to be worked out in detail. I’d get another lawyer, if I were you. A good one. Don’t handle this yourself.”

Helen reached for the paper with trembling fingers. Her gaze went from line to line down the long list, until the paper fell from her fingers to the floor. She covered her face with her hands.

“Here’s where we’re at, Mrs. Morgendorffer,” said the detective, leaning forward in his seat. He gingerly rested his elbows on the desktop, hands clasped before him. “The person that we believe is most likely Daria Morgendorffer, possibly using augmented or military body armor, and her natural strength boosted by drugs, hysteria, or explosives, is hammering through the combined forces of the city police of Lawndale, Oakwood, and Cumberland; the sheriff’s offices of Lawndale and Carter Counties; and the Maryland State Police, wherever and whenever she encounters them. She—or whoever it is—plowed through the Rolling Ridge subdivision like a tornado just before six this evening, putting a dozen people, including three sheriff’s officers, in various hospitals and doing a half million dollars in property damage to cars alone. We have every helicopter and every squad car within a fifty-mile radius hunting for her. We’ve got SWAT teams flying in from Baltimore, D.C., Philadelphia, Richmond, Newark, and New York City. And in a few minutes I’m going to ask the governor of Maryland to declare martial law and bring in the National Guard, because we need more men, more helicopters, and bigger guns. Whoever it is running around out there dressed up like the Jolly Green Giant’s little sister has brought law enforcement in this region to its knees, and we’re goddamn sick and tired of it. By tomorrow morning, it’s going to be a whole new ball game.”

The detective pointed Helen. “If that person out there is not your daughter, she might know where your daughter is. However, I must warn you that every single account I have of that event in the Cedars ICU says that Daria somehow became the big green lady who is hell-bent on tearing us a new asshole. We’re betting she has on an armored costume, but time will tell. If you want to save your daughter, wherever she is and whatever’s she’s doing, then we need your cooperation and we need it now. We can’t wait a second longer. Help us in any way you can, tell us what we need to know, and we’ll do everything possible to get your daughter back to you safe and sound if that’s humanly possible.” His gaze fell upon the page that Helen had let drop to the floor. “We’ll sort out the legal details later.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to her. We’re going to arrange a telephone linkup through loudspeakers to whatever spot we can corner her, if that’s even possible, and I want you to talk to her, do everything you can to get her to surrender so we can put an end to this nightmare.”

Helen swallowed, then slowly nodded. “Okay,” she said. Her voice was barely audible. “I’ll help you, but . . . if that’s her, if it’s really her, please . . . don’t kill her. That’s my baby. Please don’t kill her.”

The detective’s cheek twitched. “We’ll do all we can,” he said. “I promise you that. Now, I want to go around the room real quick and have each person here—”

Someone knocked on the door to the detective’s office, then opened it and stuck his head in. “Sir?” said the intruder, a man with his arm in a cast. “Pick up line three. It’s the lab.”

“Can it wait?”

The intruder shook his head.

“Oh, what the hell.” The detective sighed and picked up the phone handset, punching a blinking button. “Casey, make it fast.”

Helen looked down and picked up the list of charges against her daughter, looking it over once more. It can’t be her. It just can’t be. This is all so wrong, it can’t be—

“Wait,” said the detective into the phone, frowning. “Are you sure about that?”

“Sir?” said the intruder at the door again. “Line two. It’s the White House.”

“Tell him to wait,” said the detective, one hand covering the phone receiver.

“But, sir, it’s the President!”

“Well, I didn’t vote for him, so tell him to wait thirty seconds, goddamn it!” The detective uncovered the phone and spoke briskly. “You’re sure? All the other prints match hers? Okay, call me back in one hour.” He hung up, then turned to Helen Morgendorffer. “So,” he said, “you know your oldest daughter pretty well?”

Helen nodded her head. “Of course I do! Any mother would!”

“I see,” said the detective. “Then can you tell me why your daughter’s fingerprints—every single print we’ve lifted from her bedroom, from the wreck of the Explorer last night off the Interstate, and from crime scenes all across this county today—can you tell me why your daughter’s fingerprints do not match the prints from her birth certificate?”

Helen blinked. “What? I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“What I’m asking, Mrs. Morgendorffer, is this: who is this person you keep calling Daria? Because, by our reckoning, unless she got a whole new set of fingers at some point in her childhood, this person you say is your daughter isn’t the newborn you brought home from the hospital almost eighteen years ago in Austin, Texas.”

XIII

“Yo. This is Jane Lane. Bet you didn’t think you’d ever hear that name on your phone messages. I take it that this is the infamous Amy Barksdale’s actual answering machine, given the sarcastic greeting I got. Daria told me a couple years ago where you live, and I got your number from directory assistance. Daria said you were her favorite aunt, so I’m going out on a limb in hopes you’ll call home and check your messages tonight. This way the police can’t trace where I’m calling from. You might have caller ID, yeah, but I’m assuming no one’s at your place to check it. I really hope you don’t call the police. I don’t care so much about me, but Daria’s life is at stake, and I don’t think the cops have her best interests at heart after everything that’s happened today. I have to do something to stop her before she gets hurt, but I ran out of ideas hours ago and I’m freezing my buns off. I hope you can understand me with my teeth chattering.

“I heard from Daria’s mom that you were coming to the hospital to see Daria, but she isn’t there anymore, of course. I can’t imagine what else you’ve heard on the news, so here’s my side of the story. Daria and I are in a huge mess, the biggest mess of our lives. There’s more going on than anyone knows about. It’s . . . I don’t know how to describe it. You wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it, it’s that crazy. Everything’s gotten totally out of hand. We could really use some help, but Daria ran off and I can barely take care of myself. I got shot in the arm, and the bullet wound’s not looking that great. It was okay earlier, but it hurts a lot now. I’m okay otherwise except for freezing to death. And starving. And my arm, did I say that I’ve been shot in the arm? And I haven’t had a bath since, uh, one or two days ago, but that’s kind of minor, next to being shot and starving to death and freezing, and it is really freaking cold out here. I can see my breath and I don’t have a coat or anything.

“That’s enough pity party. I’m not going to try to explain what happened that got us into this mess, but I will say that we’re . . . I’ll say we’re not who we thought we were. Daria and I are somehow turning out to be other people. Does that make sense? We’re remembering things that don’t have any part of our lives as we knew them here in Lawndale. We’re not regressing to past lives as queens of Atlantis, and aliens aren’t sending us messages from Jupiter, though those explanations make a hell of a lot more sense than what I think is really happening to us. You’ll see.

“Can you meet me so we can talk? I’m at a Tank Tiger gas station west of Lawndale, somewhere near the river. I’ll call again in about ten or fifteen minutes, after I figure out the best way for you to get here. I promise to behave myself; I can barely walk as it is. I ache all over, and there’s that darn bullet hole in me, too. And another thing: can you please tell my brother Trent that I’m okay? Daria saved me from drowning, but I’m all right, as much as can be expected. Tell Trent I’m okay. I’m worried about him. And tell him to shut up and don’t tell the cops, or I’ll punch him in the arm again. He’ll know it’s really me if he hears that. Let him know, okay? It would mean a lot if you could.

“So, Daria’s favorite aunt, can you come and get me? I need you to help me figure out what to do about Daria. I think she’ll listen to you, if we can find her. She won’t hurt you. Trust me on this, because she didn’t hurt me, though she could have. She’s . . . oh, I don’t know what to tell you. This is such a rotten freaking mess, you wouldn’t believe it. It’s just so . . . it’s . . .

“Sorry, had a bad moment. I’m okay. Please try to meet me after I call next, and don’t tell anyone. We have to do something to save Daria, but I have no idea what.

“Thanks, Amy, or Daria’s aunt, or whatever I should call you. She really looks up to you, you know. I think you’re her role model, but don’t tell her I said that because she might punch me out, and given her condition and my condition, that would be a bad thing. I’d look like a pancake. Anyway, I’ll call you later. Please bring me a coat or a blanket or something, I’m shivering so much I can hardly stand up. And bring some food, anything, please. I’ll eat anything, I’m so hungry. ‘Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.’ Just kidding. A little. Thanks, and, um . . . see you, Amy.”

* * *

Rita Barksdale glanced up from her fashion magazine as her youngest sister walked back into the police station’s waiting room from a long visit to the women’s restroom. “Did you fall in?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Aliens from Jupiter had a message for me,” Amy Barksdale muttered, looking distracted. “Has Helen come back from that meeting yet?”

“Not yet.” Rita checked her watch. “I was going to call Mother, but she’s probably gone to bed by now. There’s nothing to tell her anyway. I feel like I need another Tums, my stomach’s churning so much. I can’t believe this crazy day.”

Amy settled into a chair across from her blonde oldest sister and stared into space.

“I bet you feel lucky you don’t have kids,” said Rita.

“Hmm?” Amy glanced at her sister, then looked away and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I was trying to think of something that would help.”

“If you think of anything, let me know. Helen’s got all the legal expertise.”

“That young man, uh, Trent Lane, did he come out yet?”

“Nope. They’re keeping him locked up.” Rita eyed the thin, wavy-haired brunette across from her with a stab of jealousy. Almost forty, doesn’t look thirty. Classy black pantsuit, tasteful jewelry, six-figure salary, unattached and happy. And now she wears contacts instead of those geek glasses. Life is so unfair. “So, baby sis, how’s work?”

“Work?” Amy’s face went to surprise to relaxation. “Oh. I got a freelance job this evening. Someone called me with an unexpected assignment while I was in the restroom, dropped it right in my lap. I need to do a little traveling, but I don’t mind. A job’s a job.”

“Busy hands are happy hands, I guess. What’s the pay like?”

Amy gave a half smile. “The reward should be good, if everything goes right.”

“Reward? That’s a funny way to talk about magazine writing. What kind of article assignment was it?”

“Oh . . . uh, it’s about mysteries, whodunits, the unexpected. That sort of thing.” Amy looked at the glass front doors of the station. It was night outside, past eight p.m. “Do you think they’d mind if I went out and grabbed something for the two of us to eat?”

“Nothing for me. You should stick around, though. Helen might be out in a few minutes, or you could check on Jake and Quinn, see how they’re holding up in back.”

Amy shook her head and stood up, reaching down for her leather coat. “Too antsy. I’m going to get a burger and some air. Be right back.”

Rita made a sour face as her sister walked away. “I’ll let them know how much you cared,” she grumbled. “You always run away when the going gets tough, just like when we were kids. Thanks for nothing, baby sis.”

Walking into a cold wind, Amy Barksdale made her way across the police department’s parking lot to a bright red Triumph Spitfire convertible parked in the visitor’s section near a street light. She got in and shut the door, but before starting off she removed her low heels and pulled on a pair of snug, mid-calf boots. She left the lot at a reasonable speed, attracting little attention. Once on the street, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket, pushed a few buttons, then checked the screen. The caller ID readout from her apartment phone appeared. Jane had called from an outdoor gas-station phone in the same area code. Amy pressed more buttons, and a tiny color map appeared on the cell-phone screen. The Tank Tiger station lay on State Route 32, which paralleled the Rolling Falls River. The phone location was nine point three miles from the subdivision Daria had trashed before sundown. Jane might be wounded and tired, but she could really move. This was the girl Daria said painted, slept, and ate pizza all day? Interesting. She couldn’t wait to hear the story behind that.

Amy snapped the cell phone shut and stuffed it back in her pants pocket, then reached for a pair of thin, black leather gloves on the seat beside her. She pulled them on, using her knees to keep the steering wheel steady, then pulled on the unused cigarette ashtray. After pressing the hidden release latch, it came all the way out. The dead black, custom-built Heckler & Koch Mark 23 and its silencer were still nestled in place on their felt-lined, form-fitting drawer behind the ashtray. She drummed her fingers on the weapon—then shoved the ashtray back into place. Not tonight.

When she got to the Interstate, she let the Triumph roar, passing traffic left and right when her radar detector said it was clear. She hated to be late to an appointment, especially for a hands-on job.

Too bad it was Daria’s best friend, but, like Rita said, busy hands were happy hands.

XIV

Saturday, November 6, 1999

Katie?

The pigtailed girl moaned and rolled on her side. She curled into a ball with her knees drawn up and her right thumb pressed to her lips. Her eyes were closed. Only the top of her head showed above the periwinkle-blue quilt on her bed.

Katie?

Part of her mind stirred to consciousness, a part that had slept undisturbed for a decade and a half.

“Alex?” she muttered to her thumb. Her parents were down the hall in the master bedroom, sound asleep. No one else was in the house. The girl’s older siblings had departed home for college, jobs, weddings, and families. Only the baby was left.

No, not Alex. You used to call me Tattletale.

Tattletale? Is that you, Franklin? The girl’s lips moved but made no sound. Where’s Alex? Where’s Jack and Julie?

They’re far away. Do you remember them?

She remembered—and the girl’s face screwed up. Panic set in. Oh, no! I feel like I overslept! What happened? Where am I? Where is everyone?

Katie, calm down. It’s okay.

I can’t wake up! The pigtailed girl began hyperventilating in her sleep. I can’t move! Help me!

This is just a dream, Katie. Here—

An image appeared. Walking out of the darkness around a black stage came Franklin, the round-faced blond boy who had been as old as Katie’s big brother, Alex. Franklin wore jeans, a red pullover shirt, and sneakers. He was still twelve years old.

Katie looked down at herself. She was not five years old anymore. She was taller than Franklin, her limbs and fingers thin, her clothes trendy and neat. Her long hair had darkened. She looked like a woman. The sight frightened her out of her mind.

It’s a dream, Katie. Come on, stop trying to yell, you’ll wake everyone up. Calm down or I’ll make you go back to sleep.

But you said I was asleep! What’s going on? Her breathing slowed as she began to think. More memories were returning. Tattletale, where are Julie, Jack, and Alex? You said we would be together! You said we’d go home after everyone beat up that bad guy, Doomsday!

Oh. Franklin looked uneasy. They’re . . . the others wouldn’t listen to me.

What? Why won’t they listen?

Franklin’s unease grew. His mouth did not move when he spoke. It’s been a long time since we got here, Katie. We had to stay for a while. It wasn’t safe to go home. I can’t explain it now. Your brothers and sister—your real brothers and sister—they live far from here. They’re older. He hesitated. They grew up, Katie.

Grew up? Why don’t I remember that?

He struggled for an answer.

And then she remembered Franklin reaching for her forehead, the very last thing she saw when she was five years old.

You made me forget, she said. You made me forget my family, everyone—Mom and Dad, Julie and Jack and Alex! You made me forget them, Franklin!

I had to! You were crying so much, all of you. Almost everyone who came was crying all over the place, and no one would do anything I said. I had to do it!

You said we had to get new mommies and daddies! That was stupid! You said we couldn’t go home when we were supposed to!

We couldn’t go home! The blond boy’s telepathic voice grew in strength. Dr. Doom was coming! He took all the Beyonder’s powers and was coming back to Earth to attack us! Professor X told me about it! We had to escape really fast! I couldn’t take everyone, just my friends and my mom! We couldn’t go home right then!

Why didn’t you take us home sooner, Franklin? How long have we been gone?

Even as she said it, she had a terrifying idea of how long they had been gone. But Franklin did not answer the first of her two questions. He pulled back, face tight. Then he turned and walked off across the black stage.

Franklin! Franklin Richards, come back! Why didn’t we go home? Answer me!

Go to sleep, Katie.

A great wave of drowsiness rushed over her. She summoned all her willpower and held it off. No! I won’t go to sleep! Talk to me! Tell me what happened!

He slowed, almost gone from sight, and started to make a motion with one hand—but he did not complete the gesture. His shoulders slumped as he came to a stop. His hand fell to his side, and his head bowed.

I don’t know what happened back home, he said. Nothing’s going right here, either. Someone woke up too soon, and I tried to fix it, but I screwed it up and someone else woke up, and now they’re fighting everyone. I don’t have the spare power to make them stop, I have so much else to do to hold things together. I need your help.

I don’t understand, Franklin! Why didn’t we go back? What happened to our home?

He stood, silent, staring at the floor. Then he walked into the blackness. It’s gone, he said as the darkness swallowed him. We don’t have a home anymore, except for here.

Her drowsiness vanished. She began to wake up, really wake up. Every part of her mind came to consciousness in a lightning rush.

Pop!

She kicked the periwinkle quilt away, leaped out of bed, stumbled, and fell on her hands and knees on a soft carpet. She knew where the bedside light was and reached for it with trembling fingers. Click.

A bedroom with peach walls, a pointed ceiling, a pale lilac carpet, wide curtained windows, and a periwinkle vanity and mirror—a teenage girl’s bedroom. It was her room—but what she inhabited was not her body.

“No!” She got up and ran to the vanity mirror. The dream had come true. She really was a woman—but even after fifteen years of thinking she was someone else, she recognized traces of her five-year-old face.

“Hello, Katie Power,” she said aloud, though the Fashion Club notebook on the vanity had the name Stacy Rowe written across it.

Her eyes rolled up, and Katie/Stacy fell unconscious to the carpet with a thud.

* * *

The thumping of the helicopters passed overhead and soon faded, taking with it the brilliant glare of searchlights and occasional gunshot. When she heard nothing more, Daria Morgendorffer peered out of the den she had hastily dug into the hillside with her bare hands. Dead leaves and earth stuck in her hair and fell across her face. Wind stirred the branches above her in the night. She was safe for the moment—but there weren’t many places left for her to go.

I really blew it this time. I’ve lost everything, even my best friend. Jane must hate me. I hate me. I’m a monster. I don’t deserve to live.

She gripped a tree root and crushed it with indestructible hands. But killing myself now is probably impossible. The irony is staggering. Maybe if I just gave myself up, they would figure out a way to kill me. If I turned back into Daria Morgendorffer, I’d be vulnerable. I could do it then. I could rid the world of me, or let someone else do it.

She lowered her head in defeat. No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I’m a coward. I can do terrible things to others, but I can’t do that to me. I really am a monster.

She realized she was speaking aloud. She had been talking to herself the whole time.

“Way to go. Guess I have more Daria in me than I’d thought.” She crawled out of the den and stood up, brushing herself off. On a whim, she had taken two one-piece women’s swimsuits from a boathouse she had wrecked, after the fight with the police in the riverside subdivision. She had put the swimsuits on, one over the other. They were tight but serviceable, and they’d survived her flight through the woods with minimal damage. A brief sense of modesty had motivated her, but it hardly seemed worth it, in retrospect.

She leaned against a tree, breaking away the bark but not noticing. I almost killed my only friend, she thought, unaware she was talking to herself again. I save Jane’s life after she was shot, then I almost let myself beat her to death. It’s the giant green me, changing me inside as well as out. I can’t control my emotions the way I used to. I’ve turned into a crazed sociopath who attacks on impulse. I don’t think I’ve killed anyone yet, though. I’ve tried not to, but I think I’ve hurt some people. If I stay green much longer, the Daria I once was will be disappear in a green rage. I get angry so fast, it happens so quickly, I barely know it before I’ve done something horrible.

But if I turn back into Daria, I’m afraid of what will happen then, too. Someone will try to kill me, I know it. I’ve done too much damage, I’m too big a threat. I’m terrified of what they’ll do about it. I can’t stay like I am, but I don’t dare change.

I’m as damned as can be.

She sank to the earth, leaning back. The tree behind her cracked under her mass and strength. Kind of funny that, after all the years I tried so hard to drive everyone away so I wouldn’t be disappointed when they rejected me, here I am . . . oh, the hell with it. It doesn’t matter anymore.

The crescent moon looked down through the branches above. She watched her breath drift away in great clouds.

“Ted,” she said. “Ted did something to me. I remember him being in my hospital room, talking to me with his mind. I think. I don’t know what was going on, but he touched my head, and . . . he put me to sleep. I remember that. It seems like that part is real, that he was with me, but I don’t know if I trust what I’m thinking anymore. I want to see him, get the truth out of him, but . . . I can’t. Not as I am.”

Her mind wandered. “Jane said . . . before I almost . . . she told me her birth name. She said she was Selina Grayson, and she remembers an old guy named Alfred. Those are Batman comics’ names. Alfred was Bruce Wayne’s butler, who knew his boss’s secret identity as Batman and helped him fight crime. Selina was Catwoman’s first name, Selina Kyle. I used to like her. A lot of what became Melody Powers for me started off as Catwoman. But I liked Batman better. He was great.

“And Grayson was Nightwing’s last name—Dick Grayson, the first Robin who worked with Batman. So, if Jane’s Selina Grayson, does that mean Catwoman married Robin and became Jane Lane? That doesn’t make any sense. It’s as crazy as everything else that’s going on, but it still doesn’t make sense. Dick Grayson didn’t have any kids. The next Robin was Jason Todd, but he . . . what the hell am I thinking about comic books for? I’m stuck in the woods, probably being hunted by every cop in the state and every branch of the U. S. Armed Forces, and I’m . . . argh.” She exhaled and willed herself to say nothing more.

“Catwoman had a kid, I remember reading somewhere,” she said later. “She and Batman got married, didn’t they? Wait, that was on Earth Two, before Crisis happened. How did that go? They got married and their daughter was the Huntress, I forgot her name, and she . . . oh, God, she became a lawyer. Everywhere I look, there’s a lawyer. My first mom was a lawyer, Jennifer Walters, and my second mom was a lawyer, Helen Morgendorffer, and now this. Huntress went to work for . . . oh, right. Robin. Only he wasn’t Robin anymore, he went back to being Richard Grayson again, another lawyer. Batman’s biological daughter was working for Batman’s quasi-adopted son on Earth Two, the planet that got wiped out in the Crisis storyline. None of it exists now. Huntress and the old Robin were destroyed by antimatter, with everyone else from their world.

“Helena. That was her name: Helena Wayne, the old Huntress. The new one’s Bertinelli or something like that, but, before Crisis, she was Helena Wayne, attorney at law. And my second mom is Helen Morgendorffer, attorney at law. This is scaring the crap out of me. Lawyers named Helen everywhere. I can’t believe this.

“What was I thinking? Oh. If Jane says her name is Selina Grayson, then . . . well, that would be too weird. If Batman’s daughter fooled around with Batman’s ward at work, and they got secretly married and had a daughter and named her after Helena’s mother, then . . . but that’s nuts. That’s not in the comics at all. That can’t be it. Oh, like it has to be in the comics before it makes any sense? Listen to me. Look at me. ‘All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.’ I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”

Daria got to her feet. “This is getting nowhere,” she said. The fog from her breath filled the air before her. “That would be too weird, if Jane was Batman’s granddaughter, not that I believe for a moment she is. Her parents would hide her away forever. Her parents were Batman’s kids? Well, Robin wasn’t really, but still, the scandal would be awful. She’d be the biggest secret on her planet. The villains would be bad, but the gossip magazines, the tabloids, they’d be murder. No one would ever be allowed to see her, no one but her parents and maybe a few people they trusted. That’s so unrealistic it’s ridiculous, but none of this is realistic. Earth Two was in a comic book, and it doesn’t exist anymore anyway. It’s all a joke. I still don’t know how Jane knew that Wyatt was my first dad. He wasn’t in any damn comic book. Pissed me off. A little. I guess.”

She shook her head in disgust. “What are you going to do now, Morgendorffer? How’re you feeling? Tired of being a monster yet? No, just friendless and depressed as usual. Excuse me, I’m being realistic. Everything sucks, big time. That’s realistic. I wish I could call Mom. I should call Mom. At least I can tell her I’m sorry I ruined the family name before they nuke me.”

She looked around. The sky in one direction was brightly lit. She decided to go in the other direction and look for a roadside pay phone. Correct change would be no problem—she could rip the coin box out of the phone again if she had to. With a heavy heart and deep footprints, she set off to make her phone call. What she would do after that, she hadn’t the faintest idea.

* * *

The Triumph Spitfire came to a stop in the parking lot of an abandoned convenience store, one block from the Tank Tiger gas station. Amy Barksdale got out of the low-slung car, scanning the overgrown field and scattered trees behind the store. The chill air bit through her pantsuit, but she took off her leather coat and tossed it on her seat. It would only slow her down. Nothing moved but the wind. No one was there but her.

Wait—

Dry grass crunched in the distance. A hunched shape—someone was coming through the field toward her, running low. Amy swept her long hair back with her gloved hands, inhaled deeply, and held it in to make herself relax. When she let her breath out, she was ready.

“Jane?” she called in a strong voice. She looked in all directions as if she’d not noticed a thing. “Jane, are you here?”

“Amy?” someone cried.

She turned swiftly and looked at the runner in the field. A teenage girl was hurrying toward her, barely visible in the light from the gas station—yes, it had to be her. Short dark bangs, wiry build, cradling her right arm. Right into my lap.

Amy ran around her car and opened the passenger door. “Thank heaven I found you!” she called. “Are you badly hurt?”

“I don’t know!” Jane wobbled as she approached, exhausted and in pain.

Amy stepped aside as she waved Jane past. The teen slowed down so she could get into the sports car—and Amy stepped in from behind.

Something’s wrong. Jane sensed rapid movement, jerked her head to the right and almost hit the open door. Amy’s gloved right fist shot by, inches from the base of her skull. No! Not you, Amy!

Amy’s left fist came at her. Jane ducked under the blow and kicked out by instinct. Her boot nailed Amy under the ribcage. Amy gasped hard but dropped a hand and hooked Jane’s leg by the knee, striking down with her other hand at her head. Jane slapped the blow aside and twisted in Amy’s grip so her other leg swung up, and she kicked the taller woman in the face. Amy fell back with a cry, but Jane fell, too, and landed on her injured right arm. It snapped. She saw stars from the pain, bit off a scream, and tried to get up. A pant-suited leg lashed out and swept her right foot from under her, throwing her down again. Jane rolled (Ow, my arm!) and came up with a roundhouse kick, but Amy was up and kicking, too, her leg following Jane’s and deliberately striking it from behind. The push increased Jane’s spin and threw her off balance. Half blind with agony, she tried to punch straight out with her left fist as she came back around—but Amy was there, in close, her gloved fist a sledgehammer against the side of Jane’s head.

Lights out.

Amy staggered on her feet and wiped at the streams of blood running down her face from her broken nose. She ached in a dozen places, and her black, French-label pantsuit was stained beyond repair. “Little bitch!” she hissed at the motionless shape at her feet. She almost went back to her car and got the H&K, reward be damned.

But Executive One would be unhappy with an agent who lost her temper when things got tough. Executive One would be unhappier, possibly even angry, with someone who killed a potential prize. There were worse things than having your nose broken and suit ruined, and Executive One knew all the worst things.

What the hell, I won anyway. Good fight. Back to work.

Amy opened her car trunk, stuffed the limp teenager inside it with her soiled gloves, and slammed the lid down. It would be a cramped ride for Jane, where she was going next. The thought of what would happen after that made Amy smile, as difficult as that was with tissues stuck up her nostrils to stop the bleeding.

Maybe I’ll go to Maui again after my nose is fixed, she thought as she headed for the Interstate. They have such nice surfers there, men who know such interesting things to do with their strong, busy hands—hard, lean men with easy smiles who like to share their time with an innocent lady tourist.

Yes, hard men are so very good to find.

Helen Morgendorffer was exhausted when the questioning had ended, but she decided to see Trent before doing anything else. She would have preferred to go home, uncork a bottle of zinfandel, and drink herself into a stupor, but an annoying sense of responsibility directed her to action. Her thoughts would not grant her peace.

How could they possibly tell me that Daria isn’t Daria? That’s insane! I’m going to sue! All that nonsense about her fingerprints not matching her birth certificate—that’s my daughter they’re talking about! She’s been with me from start to finish, and she’s my child, MY CHILD, and they’re FULL OF IT! I’ll defend her to the end! The lab’s got its fingerprint files all mixed up!

And poor Trent was the brother of Daria’s best friend ever, her only friend, so . . . better check my makeup in my pocket mirror, fix my hair . . . that’ll do. It’s after midnight anyway. No one will care, Trent probably least of all. Here goes.

“Trent?” Helen called through the bars of his cell.

The tall, scruffy young man sitting on the edge of the wall-mounted bed looked up with sunken eyes. Helen was shocked to see how Jane’s twenty-something brother had aged since she’d last seen him. “May I talk with you for a few minutes?” she asked.

Trent stared at her dully, then shrugged and looked down again.

He must be so worried for his sister, and for Daria, too. I completely understand. Helen glanced to her left. A corrections officer took up a position at the end of the short corridor in front of a door, staring at his shoes with a bored expression. He might overhear a few things, but that wasn’t an issue. No other prisoners were in this wing of the city jail. The rooms normally used for conversations with prisoners had been commandeered for emergency meetings during the current crisis.

“Trent, I know this is a difficult time for you,” Helen said, fearing the words would catch in her throat. “I want to reassure you that the police haven’t given up hope of finding Jane alive.” Better not mention that they’re searching the Lanes’ house yet again. I bet it’s for Jane’s fingerprints, from birth to present. Idiots. When Trent did not respond, she added, “There’s still a good chance that she’ll turn up in relatively good—”

Trent got up from his bed and began pacing back and forth in his cell. His Kurt Cobain T-shirt was stained, his faded jeans ripped, his black hair uncombed. The blue tattoos on his arms made him look like a drug pusher—but he’s not, of course, Helen told herself quickly. He’s always been a good person, from all that I ever heard from Daria or Jane. She began again. “Trent, I hope—”

“Daria’s alive,” he interrupted. He ran a hand through his wild hair, and his silver earrings jingled. “They said she was running around out there somewhere. If she’s there, then Janey must be with her.”

That green monster is not my Daria! Helen almost said, but she forced her protest down. Trent’s logic had a certain appeal. There was still hope for both girls at this point. “Anyway,” Helen went on, “I’ve come to ask if you need any—”

“I saw her in that suit,” Trent said under his breath, pacing in his cell. “The one they’re talking about.”

Say what? Helen glanced at the distant guard, who was inspecting his fingernails. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t hear what you—”

“I saw Daria in that green costume,” said Trent. “Janey told me not to tell, but I saw her.” He unconsciously rubbed his upper arm, where Jane had punched him. “Daria looked good. Kinda big, kinda cute, just like this comic-book character named She-Hulk. She was green, too.” He sat down on the bed. “Must have used a quick-remove dye.”

Helen blinked. Oh, God, no. “You saw it? The green monster suit?”

“Yeah. It was cool.” Trent’s smile fled, and he looked miserable again.

She shot a frightened glance at the bored guard. “You saw Daria dressed up like—like what?”

Trent covered his face with his hands. “She-Hulk,” he muttered. “She had on—”

“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” Helen swallowed. Dear God, it can’t be! This can’t be happening! What to do, what to do— She turned to the guard and her voice rose. “Sir? Can we have a little privacy, please? Ten minutes?”

“Are you his lawyer?” asked the guard, showing a flicker of interest.

She looked at Trent. I can’t be his lawyer, or Daria’s or Jane’s. The detective was right; I’d be overwhelmed if I tried it—but I can be tricky. She looked back. “Yes, I’m a lawyer.” But not his. “Please, can he and I have a little time to talk, in private?”

The guard reluctantly nodded. “Don’t get too close to the bars,” he warned. “I’ll be watching through the window in the door.” With that, the guard opened the door behind him and stepped out of the corridor. The door shut moments later.

Helen turned immediately back to Trent, pressing herself against the bars. “What did you say about seeing Daria in a green costume?” she said in a thick whisper.

Trent drew a deep breath. “I saw it last night, when Janey got back from picking Daria up from wherever. Janey said she and Daria made the costume for Halloween, so Daria would look like She-Hulk. She said it took a long time to get it right. I didn’t even know they’d been working on it, but I heard Janey call me when I was getting something to eat in the kitchen. I was back from a gig that didn’t go over. I forget what time it was, but it was pretty late. They were in the garage, Janey and Daria, by my car. The rear door had already come off, but the car’s old so it was probably going to fall off anyway. Janey had me look at Daria’s outfit. Daria was hiding behind the car because part of her suit ripped, but I could tell it was her.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how they came up with that costume, but it was cool. Janey thinks of everything.”

Jesus God, it can’t be! It just can’t! “But Daria doesn’t like Halloween,” said Helen in an incredulous tone. “She doesn’t even like handing out candy unless she can insult the . . . oh, forget it. I just can’t believe that Daria would . . . that she could make a costume like that. It’s just . . . it’s . . .”

Trent thought, then nodded absently.

Helen’s defenses collapsed. Why would Trent lie? Dear God, that really is Daria out there! She really is destroying everything! What happened? Why is she doing this? Is she on drugs? Did she go insane? What could have done it?

“Janey’s alive,” said Trent, looking off to the side. His expression was strange. “I can’t believe that she’s . . . that anything bad happened. If Daria’s out there, Janey is, too. Daria wouldn’t do anything without Janey. They’re like that.” He crossed his fingers and held them up. “Freakin’ friends forever.”

“That costume you saw,” said Helen. She could not get her mind off it. “Did you see it do anything?”

“Oh. Uh, no, not really. It was real heavy, though. The floor of the house almost cracked when she walked on it, when she went upstairs. Janey made me go into the basement, but I could hear Daria walk around, every step like boom, boom, boom. That costume must have weighed a lot or something. Maybe a ton. Weird.”

The costume was heavy. As in armored, mechanical, metal plated, just like the detective said. And Daria and Jane made it. That really is her out there. She’s the monster. With that, Helen suddenly knew, as clearly as she knew she was talking to Trent in the city jail, that she would never see Daria alive again. She sagged against the bars, her hands gripping the cold iron as her knees trembled. Daria, my little Daria, what did you do? All the years I raised you, all the years I tried to get you to come out of your shell and join the human race, and what are you doing now? Why are you doing this awful thing? Where are you? Why is this happening? Daria, answer me! Tell me!

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the bars. Wake me up, please, someone get me out of this nightmare, I beg you. I’ll give you anything if you’ll only wake me up.

“Don’t worry,” said Trent from his bed. “They’ll come back. I know they will.”

Helen stared at the opposite wall of the cell and said nothing.

“I know they’ll come back.”

“I hope so,” whispered Helen, who didn’t believe it.

“Janey and I were out once,” Trent said, his voice casual and low, “back when we were kids, when she was about five, and I was ten, I think, and we were playing on . . . we were over playing by the—” His voice rose “—on the railroad, on the tracks near our house, and she . . .” He stopped and rubbed his face hard.

Helen’s gaze drifted toward him.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” he said. “She . . . we were just kids, and I walked off to throw rocks and left her there, and she was—” His eyes watered and his voice cracked “—she was on the tracks when I heard the train, and I knew that . . . I saw the train was right there, it was really fast, and she was still on the tracks, she was too scared to move, and I screamed at her and ran to get her, I tried to get to her, but she—”

His voice broke. “I thought I saw her go under the train!” he cried. Tears ran down his face. “I saw her run over, she was—I saw—she was all everywhere—and I was screaming, I was screaming so freaking much I passed out, but then—then the train was gone, and—and I came to on the ground, and she was with me! She was alive, like nothing had happened! I thought she was dead, but I must have dreamed it, because she was okay, it was all right, so I know she’ll come back and she isn’t—”

He buried his face in his hands and sobbed until he was hoarse. By then, the guard had come for Helen. She was gone.

Trent curled up on the bed and faced the wall, his arms covering his head. Please be alive, Janey. Please come back to me, just like the last time. I’m sorry I wasn’t watching you. I’m sorry I wasn’t with you this time, too. It was my fault I wasn’t there, but I didn’t know you were in trouble. Please be alive like you were when I thought the train hit you. Please come back to me. That’s all I want. Please come back.

* * *

The officer operating the tape player turned off the recording. “He doesn’t say anything after that.”

The police chief put down the pencil he had been playing with and looked to his left at an elderly gentleman in a rumpled suit. “Sol, can we use this?”

The old man leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands on the table before him. “Mrs. Morgendorffer never stated she was acting as the young man’s legal counsel, and we have no record of such an agreement from any other source, so there’s no known issue of privilege. I would say yes, unless we hear otherwise. Did she know that we have the cells wired for sound?”

“She’s a lawyer, so she ought to know,” snapped the detective who sat across from the chief at the table. “Trent gave her an earful half an hour ago, and she’s not telling us about it. I want her followed; if she won’t cooperate, we can charge her with withholding evidence and interfering in a police investigation. We can add perjury and whatever else to it if she lies to us later. We could charge her anyway just to keep her on hand, and get the judge to throw out bail so she won’t flee. And we should hold this Trent guy as long as we can and get the whole story out of him. I can’t believe he could live in that house alone with his sister and not know she and a friend were building some kind of all-in-one combat suit in the basement, or wherever.”

The police chief nodded agreement, then looked to his right. “We have anything from the lab yet about bomb-making materials in the house?”

“Nothing yet,” said a sergeant. “Found a few more stashes of dope, though. Some are pretty old, maybe from the seventies. Could have been the parents’ stuff.”

“Anything on the parents from the FBI?”

“Still checking,” said a female officer. “We’re trying to work out something with the Canadian authorities to pick up the mother in Montreal, if she’s still there. We can’t find the father or the older siblings.”

“Okay.” The chief sniffed. His allergies were acting up. “As far as the search for Green Girl, the governor’s a go, and in a few hours we should be getting high-tech help from the Army National Guard’s air cavalry units. I want to blanket the whole area with infrared cameras, two on every police chopper. Green Girl should put out a heat signature like a forest fire, if she’s got machinery in that suit. The Air Force says they can send over an AWACS plane to listen for any radio communication or electronic noise she’s making. We should get that about seven a.m. for a full day’s time.”

“Should we try to negotiate with her if we find her?” said another female officer.

“Negative,” said the SWAT commander. “Anyone who finds her should keep her pinned until we can pile in and take her down. We might not have time to evacuate the area first. She’s too dangerous.”

“I think we promised her mother we’d try to save her life.”

“We’d do all we could, we said. Let’s not get stupid here.”

“I’ll pass it along,” said the chief tiredly, “but we’re already knee-deep in jurisdictional disputes with the state. The governor’s office wants to appoint someone to command the search and its aftermath, and the Guard copters aren’t going to be under our supervision, anyway. Coordination is getting to be a problem, and it’s going to get worse. This could be out of our hands by the time the sun comes up, except for lab work.”

“What if she’s hiding in a cave or in a lake or river?” asked an officer. “Can infrared cameras pick her up then?”

“That’s been brought up before. I doubt it. We might have something for underwater searching, but we’ll have to search caves on foot. No way around it.”

“If she’s in a cave, we could seal her in,” someone said. There was a little silence after that.

“You know, that suit’s supposed to be bulletproof,” said someone else, “but I heard that some of the officers who fought Green Girl don’t think she’s wearing a suit.”

Everyone looked at the man who spoke. The police chief grimaced. “What are you talking about?” he asked, but he knew what was coming.

The officer who spoke up appeared embarrassed, but he plunged on. “The officers think Green Girl’s not wearing armor. They think she’s a live creature, like a monster. I know it sounds crazy, but they said they couldn’t see how it could possibly be someone in a suit of armor. She moves like she’s a real woman, like that transformation or whatever in the hospital wasn’t faked. A couple of the guys—” The man coughed and spread his hands “—a couple of them think she’s not human, that maybe she’s more like a demon. Bullets bounce right off her. She picks up cars and smashes them, and she’s been caught on video. She takes everything you throw at her and just keeps going.”

“Let’s not spread that demon rumor around,” said the chief heavily. “It isn’t going to help.”

“TV news already has it,” said someone.

“That’s bullshit!” said the detective angrily. “She’s wearing damn good armor, and if our guns won’t bring her down, maybe the Guard’s got something that will.”

“Cobras,” said an officer. “The Air National Guard’s got Cobras, and Blackhawks for the Rangers.”

The detective’s face cleared. “Jesus, they do, don’t they? Man, that would be—”

The chief suddenly pushed back his chair and stood up. “I need more coffee. This meeting’s adjourned, but at six a.m. sharp, we’re meeting in the main conference room. Closed doors, no press invited. If you hear anything, bring it to my office A.S.A.P. And the first person here to breathe the word ‘demon’ on the air will die a cold, cruel death.”

Everyone filed out of the room. The detective stayed behind, scribbling patterns on paper, thinking. No one had talked about what Trent had said, about his belief that his sister had once died. That sounded like some kind of bad drug trip. He didn’t recall any train accident with a kid being run over by a locomotive back in the mid-1980s, and he would remember a thing like that. There was more going on than met the eye and ear—and he was damned if he wasn’t going to find it out.

* * *

Kara?

The telepathic call brought her to the edge of wakefulness, though anyone viewing her would say she was sound asleep. She sighed in annoyance. What is it, Ted?

Franklin. My name—

Get on with it. I’m trying to sleep.

You’re not—

—being nice? Am I a bad slave? No wonder you keep me chained up like this.

Kara, that’s—I’m not—look, I was just checking on you, okay?

Your humble servant is doing well, Master.

That’s not funny. Don’t call me that, I’m not your master.

Then release me.

I can’t!

Of course, Master.

Kara! Stop it!

Why does this bother you, Ted? Am I unappreciative? Ungrateful? Scathingly honest?

Ye—no! The reason I don’t talk to you very often is because you are ungrateful! You’re not being realistic about the situation at all!

Hmmm. You brought me safely to this world and gave me a loving home . . .

Yes!

. . . and stained your hands with the blood of innocents to do it.

No! Kara, stop it!

You’re a murderer. You’re a killer of children.

Kara, damn it, I never did that! Stop it!

You can leave if you don’t like it. It’s a free country and a free psychic ether.

We’ve talked about this before, okay? It’s not—

You want to discuss it?

No! Those people were going to die anyway, Kara! All I did was—

—fail to save them.

—I put those who needed homes in place of those who were lost! I hunted every alternate dimension there was to find for a world for us, and I found this one! I found us a home!

Was that really what you did, Ted?

Why . . . what do you mean?

Is that how that universe-crossing psychic power of yours truly works?

Of course it is! What are you raving about?

I find that hard to believe.

Well, you’ve got a lot of abilities, yes, but you don’t have my powers, right? What could you possibly know about what I can do?

I know statistics. I am very well versed on that.

Statistics? My dad always told me that the multiverse “was filled with infinite combinations of the probable, the possible, and the unlikely.” I knew that, somewhere, there had to be a place where all of us, everyone who escaped from disaster, could make a new home, grow up in a new family—

We’re the cuckoo’s children, you’re saying.

What?

A cuckoo mother lays its egg in the nest of another bird. The newborn cuckoo is bigger than the other nestlings, and it pushes them out or takes their food until it alone occupies the nest.

That’s just not true! We aren’t pushing anyone out of the nest! The nests were emptied by fate, and we—

No, Ted, those nests were emptied by you. You emptied them for us. You didn’t sort through an infinite span of universes to find this one. That would be impossible by definition.

Yes, I did! I did find it!

No, Ted. You created it.

You’re lying!

You couldn’t sort through an infinite number of universes to get a result like this one. That’s statistically impossible, even for you. You just made it happen. You created it.

YOU’RE LYING!

You murdered those children for us and cleared those nests for the invaders. You destroyed them, one of them for each one of us, staining yourself with blood and staining us as well. You made us all the cuckoo’s children.

YOU GO TO HELL!

What was she like, Ted?

WHAT WAS WHO LIKE?

Jodie Abigail Landon, before you killed her to make room for me?

No response. The psychic ether was empty.

The young woman who slept in the bed intended for Jodie Abigail Landon sighed again and rubbed her nose, then rolled over and sank back into sleep. Even as she did, a part of her mind remained awake and reflective. Franklin was wearing down, and his attention was scattered. He wasn’t able to renew the psychic chains he’d placed over her consciousness to keep her from using her powers. He feared her.

He had good reason to fear her, now.

As the girl who both was and was not Jodie slept, a part of her mind worked away at her chains, wearing down the hidden mental locks. It would not be long before the locks parted, and she rose in freedom and told the world the names of her mother and father, which she had taken as her own.

No one would believe her, but it would not matter if they did.

And then, as her well-meaning but air-headed cheerleader friend Brittany had wanted to do, she would make the world a nicer place. And it would be a nicer place.

No matter how many people she had to kill in order to do it.

XVI

By five a.m. that cold Saturday morning, Stacy Rowe had gotten only two hours of sleep, and that only because she had fainted earlier in the evening. In her state of mind it wasn’t likely she would get more rest, so she had turned on the coffeemaker and waited for her first cup. She planned to drink it black.

It was warm in the house, but she wore a white terrycloth bathrobe over her pajamas for the comfort value. On the kitchen table before her was a fresh steno pad, and across the top line of the first page she had written, “WHAT I NEED TO DO FIRST.” She stared at that otherwise unblemished page with a purple pen at the ready, paralyzed with indecision, for twenty minutes.

At five oh one a.m., she lowered the pen and crossed out the word “FIRST.” That broke the dam.

1. Find Alex, Julie, and Jack, she wrote, then:

2. Find out from Franklin what the heck happened when we got here and what’s going on now and if it has anything to do with all the weird scary terrorist stuff going on in Lawndale yesterday and the school lockdown and Quinn’s “cousin” (sister) and her weird friend blowing up everything and Sandi telling me to erase any mention that Quinn was ever part of the Fashion Club because it would be bad press.

3. Don’t tell Mom, Dad, Mark, Anne, or Cliff about me actually being Katie Power.

4. Don’t tell anyone in the Fashion Club about that, either (except maybe Quinn, but definitely not Sandi or Tiffany).

The pen twirled in her fingers.

What am I going to do about my screwed-up age? she thought. I thought I was seventeen as Stacy Rowe, but I’m actually twenty as Katie Power and I can’t figure out why I’m three grades behind and not in college now. Was there a problem and I was held back three grades but don’t remember it now, like it was so traumatizing that I went mental and had to be hospitalized and given drugs and my new family had to move? I don’t remember flunking any tests or anything, no big ones, anyway, except sometimes in math, but other kids flunked those, too, and they weren’t held back. I think.

She shook her head. No, the only really big mental thing I went through was after Franklin told us we would have to get new families because we couldn’t go back to our real families for some reason, which he wouldn’t explain but I think meant something bad had happened to our real homes, and then all the other kids started yelling at him and I yelled at him a little, too, but then he did something, Franklin did. It was some kind of mind trick, I’m sure of it, because I remember I wasn’t angry with him anymore, and then he touched my forehead . . . and I wasn’t Katie Power. The next thing I remember I was standing in a swimsuit next to a swimming pool, and this lady ran out of the house and grabbed me and said she was glad I hadn’t fallen into the pool and drowned. Then I think she took me back inside the house, and that’s all I remember . . . except from that moment on, I thought that that lady was my mother and my name was Stacy Rowe.

What the heck happened? How did Franklin get my second mom and dad to believe I was their daughter? And Mark, Anne, and Cliff think I’m their little sister, too. Did Franklin do something to them and make them think I was part of their family? Then, how did he create my birth certificate? Why did my kindergarten teacher remember me as Stacy Rowe when she saw me a few years ago, but I didn’t remember her at all and still don’t? I remember my kindergarten teacher in Manhattan, when I was five and still called Katie Power, but not the one here.

So many questions, but no good answers. My hair got really dark. It used to be blonde when I was little, but now I’m a brunette. Why? It could be a natural change, as it’s happened to lots of others, but . . . well, my eyes are still dark blue, anyway. So, was there another Stacy Rowe, and I somehow took her place? “My” baby pictures as Stacy show me with brown hair, but I never had it. What happened to the other Stacy Rowe, if there was one? This whole thing is so awful, it makes my stomach hurt.

What happened to my real parents, Margaret and James Power? Can I find them or my real brothers and sister again? That bothers me more than anything else.

The coffee had been ready for some time. She got up, poured a cup, drank it straight and hot, then walked back to the kitchen table with her second cup. She looked sourly at the steno pad, then flipped it shut and put it on a nearby countertop. After she sat down, she held the coffee cup under her nose and inhaled it with her eyes closed.

Franklin got his way after all. He took away fifteen years of my life and made me live as someone else with another family. What a rotten thing to do! He was so sweet, and then he turned out to be such a creep! This is totally scary, scarier than any movie ever, even that gross one with the man-eating alien in it, but I’m also so totally ticked off at Franklin I can’t stand it! Why did he do this to me? What did he get out of it? I should do an Internet search and find out where my mom and dad are—oh, wait! No!

Her eyes opened wide.

Didn’t Franklin tell us that we were on a new planet, when he brought us here after leaving the Avengers’ mansion? That’s just nuts. This is the same Earth that we . . . no, it isn’t the same. It couldn’t be. There are no superheroes here, no Wolverine or Fantastic Four or X-Men or anyone. They’re only in the comic books. They’re make-believe, pretend. They don’t exist and never did—except for me, Franklin, my brothers and sister, and everyone who came over with us from the Avengers’ mansion—but how could that be possible? How can everyone I knew be from a comic book? That’s crazy, but I know they existed! They were real! What happened?

Her eyes opened wider still.

Margaret and James Power didn’t come over with us! Mom and Dad don’t exist anymore! Oh, no! That’s not possible! It can’t be possible! They can’t be gone!

She fought back tears. The coffee cup trembled in her hands. Calm down, calm down! Get a grip on yourself! Hold your breath! Okay, better. What do I need to do first? Uh, first, I need to find Franklin—Ted, I mean—oh, whatever. I want him to tell me what really happened. And he’d better tell me the truth, he’d better tell me everything he knows and be ready to make things good again, because if he doesn’t—

Her eyes narrowed. Her teeth clenched. She looked down into her coffee cup in a rage, and for the first time she could ever remember in her life as Stacy Rowe, she thought about murder.

Fffft! The cup and the coffee within it vanished before her face. An instant later, Stacy’s hands began to glow from within, radiating bright yellow light.

“Oh, no!” she cried, staring at her hands in horror. “Oh, no!” Her face was glowing, too; she could tell with just a glance at a window. She had only seconds left. She jumped up, ran to the door to the backyard, flung it open, ran barefoot out into the freezing predawn air over the frost-covered grass, and fumbled with the terrycloth sash around her waist, trying to pull it free.

FFFOOOM! Brilliant balls of fiery energy burst from her chest and burned through the front of the bathrobe and pajama top, flying like comets across the yard. As she slapped at her flaming clothes in panic, the energy balls exploded against the ground twenty yards away with deafening thunderclaps. Burning grass and dead leaves flew everywhere. Her nightclothes blackened and smoldering, Stacy ran back to the house, picked up the garden hose she was supposed to have disconnected and put away two weeks ago, turned on the faucet, and ran back out into the yard to put out the small fires she saw. The ground was too damp for the grass to catch much. She was done in seconds.

Dogs barked all across the dark subdivision. Doors opened. People came out and shouted. Stacy hurriedly dragged the hose back to the house and flung it in a heap by the old hydrangea bed. Then she ran back into the kitchen, her feet numb with cold. Hearing her parents’ footsteps upstairs and knowing they’d be down in moments more, she ran into the nearest bathroom and locked herself in. Then she tore off her smoldering clothing, threw it into the bathtub, and turned on the shower. She then stepped back, panting hard, dark spots swimming before her eyes. She was unharmed, not a scratch or burn on her.

And then, because she had been hyperventilating at a fantastic rate since the moment she realized her alien-given Energizer powers were still active, her eyes rolled up and she again crumpled to the floor in a faint, thumping flat against the rug just as her (second set of) parents banged on the door and shouted her (second) given name.

* * *

Amy Barksdale’s route away from Lawndale happened to take her past the Mall of the Millennium. It was closed at this early hour, but because she needed to make a bathroom visit and her nose hurt badly enough to make her eyes water, she reluctantly pulled off the Interstate and found a twenty-four-hour pharmacy in the midst of a dozen closed fast-food restaurants. She parked on the darkest side of the lot, carefully took the clotted tissues out of her broken nose and threw them away, then left her car and checked the trunk lid to make sure it was still shut. There was no chance a skinny teenager with a gunshot wound, a broken arm, and no room to wiggle was going to get out of that. No one was around, except for a guy in a hooded jacket waiting at a bus stop and what looked like two adolescents across the street, waiting to cross at the corner. Traffic was light. The eastern sky was lightening. All was quiet.

Satisfied, Amy went into the pharmacy and used the bathroom, left a phone message for a top-rated plastic surgeon in the Washington, D.C. area, then bought a bottle of pain pills, a caffeine-loaded Ultra-Cola in a twelve-ounce bottle, and a CD she had been looking for since forever (Bad Music for Bad People, by The Cramps). It also helped to know that having Jane in the trunk meant she’d be back in Maui to recuperate in no time. Executive One always rewarded good work. Except for the busted nose and a few aches, it had been a decent enough evening.

“Ohmigod!” cried the twenty-something girl with the eyebrow piercings at the cash register. She stared at Amy’s nose. “Are you okay?”

“I god bugged doday,” said Amy, her sinuses plugged. “Idz ogay, the poleez god the guy.”

“I knew a girl who got mugged once, but they never caught the jerk. That looks so awful, with your nose swollen like that! And you’ve got black eyes, too!”

If I had wanted your fashion advice, I would have tortured you for it, Amy thought darkly. “I doe,” she said, picking up her purchases with a smile. “Thag you!”

“Oh, you’re welcome! Have a good night!”

Have a good night, my ass. I could shoot her for that. Amy waved and walked to the door. Tonio would have loved shooting her. He hated rude, dumb people. Dear Tonio, he had such an exquisite chest and great hands, so much potential. He was a fun mission partner. Too bad he was a traitor, too. I wonder how long it took to find all of his brains so they could reopen the beach after I shot him.

Once outside, Amy noticed Hooded-Jacket Guy wasn’t at the bus stop. The kids weren’t around, either, but Hooded-Jacket Guy had looked in her direction once when she got out of the car. She immediately manipulated the car keys in her right fist to form a slashing/stabbing weapon, and she turned in place. No one was in sight, but—

She stopped dead in her tracks. The trunk of her Triumph Spitfire was open. A man lay spread-eagle on the pavement behind her car. It was Hooded-Jacket Guy.

She walked over, alert to every sound in the cold wind. The trunk of her car was empty. Hooded-Jacket Guy looked like a freight train had hit him square in his face; it was difficult in the dim light to tell if he was still alive, there was so much blood. That Jane can really kick, Amy thought in surprise. Good thing I didn’t try to check on her myself.

A crowbar was missing from the tool kit that should have been safely hidden under the trunk floor with the spare tire. How the hell did she do that? Is she a contortionist, too? Now she’s gone . . . but she can’t have gone far.

No remote video cameras were in view. Amy opened her car, tossed in the sack with her purchases, got the H&K Mark 23, attached the silencer, and got out of the car. She shut the trunk lid. No one was around but her and Hooded-Jacket Guy, so she knelt and put a hollow point through the side of his head in case he decided to get up later and complain about people being mean to him while he was breaking into car trunks. Cleaning up the parking lot would be a bitch for someone once the bloody mess froze.

It was possible to back up without running over what was left of Hooded-Jacket Guy, which she would have done out of sheer spite except that it would leave evidence from her car that any police lab could get. Amy drove out of the parking lot and down the street two blocks, then parked in a secluded spot and got out of the car again. She had a few ideas where Jane might have gone, and she gave herself a half hour to find that little minx and teach her an excruciating lesson about what happened to those who tried to escape from the disarmingly quirky woman that fellow operatives nervously called the Misery Chick.

* * *

Clouds of frosted breath hung in the air as Jane waited in the darkness for Amy. She had no doubt that Daria’s aunt would find her—and she had little doubt the fight would be one-sided. She leaned against the side of a cinderblock garage only two blocks away from the parking lot where she’d escaped, shielded by bushes and clutching a crowbar that was cold and heavy in her trembling left hand. It was next to impossible to focus on what she was doing. The burst of energy that allowed her to overpower the car thief and dash away had deserted her, just as her previous bursts of energy had done. Only the mind-numbing pain from her broken right arm kept her conscious.

The end of the crowbar lowered until it rested on the ground. I’m going to die soon, she thought in resignation, killed by the favorite aunt of my best friend, for no particular reason that I can figure. I don’t know who’s writing the screenplay of my life, but the scriptwriter sucks ass. Maybe Amy will get run over by a car or something. There’s a little hope left, there has to be. A little tiny minuscule atom of hope, but—

She heard footsteps coming. So much for that atom. She summoned a last surge of energy, enough to raise the crowbar over her head, and she shivered all over.

“Aunt Jane?” said a girl’s voice.

Jane blinked, her eyes widening. The crowbar wavered. What the hell?

“Aunt Jane, it’s us,” said a boy. “Courtney and Adrian. You’re safe now.”

No way! I’m hallucinating. Knock it off, Jane, you’re going to get killed when Amy finds you if you don’t straighten up. Jane held her attack position. She could see a faint shadow—no, two of them—approaching around the side of the garage, backlit by a distant streetlight. Two of them? Were her niece and nephew actually here?

“The bad lady won’t hurt you,” said the Courtney voice. “You can come out.”

“Aunt Jane thinks she’s going crazy,” whispered Adrian. “She’s holding a crowbar behind the garage, over there.”

“Oh, no. Aunt Jane? Come on out. We found a warm place to stay. They have pizza and other stuff, too.”

“Her arm’s broken,” said Adrian. “And someone shot her! She’s really hurt!”

One of the shadows moved forward. Jane looked up as a coat-wearing figure came into view around the corner of the garage: a girl of about fourteen, up to Jane’s chin in height, with wavy blonde hair, bright eyes, and a backpack. The girl raised a hand, palm up, extending it toward Jane.

“Aunt Jane,” said Courtney, “please come out. You’re safe now.”

The crowbar wavered a few seconds longer—then it fell to the frozen earth by Jane’s feet. I give up, she thought. I give up. I’m ready to die.

“You aren’t going to die,” said Adrian, as if talking to a child.

Courtney stepped closer. Jane pushed herself away from the garage and staggered toward her niece. She almost fell, but Courtney was suddenly right there hugging her. Oddly, hugging Courtney made Jane light-headed—and her pain was gone. She almost fell down in relief. Adrian was there, too, hugging her before he pulled his aunt’s right arm over his shoulders.

“Come on,” said Adrian. He and Courtney guided Jane across a paved driveway toward the back door of the nearest house. “We can rest here for an hour or two. It’s Saturday, and they didn’t set their alarms to get up early.”

“What?” said Jane. Her knees wobbled, but Adrian and Courtney held her up. “How do you know?”

“We just do,” said Courtney.

Adrian stopped without warning. He turned and looked behind them, still holding Jane. Courtney looked back as well. Sensing another presence, Jane turned, too.

A woman with a broken nose and two black eyes, wearing a leather jacket and a bloodied black pantsuit, stood motionless at the end of the driveway. The mouth of the silencer on her pistol was aimed dead at Jane’s face.

Jane stared back and waited. Not a thought entered her head.

Adrian raised one hand and made a curious gesture toward the woman with the gun. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” he said in a theatric tone.

Courtney snickered.

The broken-nosed woman at the end of the driveway lowered her pistol in puzzlement and looked around as if awakening from a dream. After tucking her weapon inside her coat, she set off down the street at a quick, quiet pace, one hand inside her jacket as she looked to the left and right, searching for who knew what.

“Come on,” Adrian grumbled, turning back to the house. “It’s frickin’ cold out here. The back door key’s on that windowsill, under the flowerpot. I’ll hold her.”

Courtney let go of Jane and reached up for the flowerpot. It was a foot too high for her—but Courtney’s feet then lifted from the ground, and she reached the sill with ease. The flowerpot also rose into the air as Adrian pointed to it with a finger, and it lowered when his finger indicated it should. Once on the ground again, Courtney stuck the key in the door lock and twisted. The door came open. It was dark inside.

“House alarm’s off,” said Adrian. “I’ll reset it when we leave.”

“Who are you?” asked Jane. “Are you—?”

“The real Adrian and Courtney are in Denver,” said Adrian. “They’re in a children’s shelter downtown, waiting for their mom to get them. They said they didn’t mind if we pretended we were them sometimes. Hope you don’t mind that we did.”

Jane inhaled sharply and resisted being taken through the open door. “Who are you?” she gasped, pulling away from them.

“We’ll explain inside!” said Courtney, grabbing for her right hand. “C’mon! We’re freezing!”

“Wait,” Jane said—and then she realized her right arm didn’t hurt, not a bit. It wasn’t broken. The gunshot wound was gone. She stared at her arm, turning it back and forth, speechless with shock.

“We’ve got a long story to tell, Selina,” said Adrian, “but we can’t tell it if we’re iced over in a glacier, okay?”

Jane stared at him next. “You know I’m not really Jane Lane?” she said in a cracked voice.

“You can be Jane if you want,” said Adrian softly. “The real Jane Lane is dead. Hurry up and get inside!”

Thunderstruck, Jane felt her resistance crumble. The youths led her into the house without further trouble, and the door shut behind them with a thump.

Several blocks away, the broken-nosed woman kept up her futile search. When dawn came, however, she was gone.

XVII

The trio of resting hikers abandoned their heavy backpacks in their haste to escape the green, muscular giantess who confronted them on a hillside trail, this despite her friendly call of, “Hey, do you have a cell phone I could borrow?” Watching the last of the trio disappear into the trees, the green woman adjusted her double swimsuit and shrugged, then walked over to the fallen backpacks and methodically sorted through their contents. She found a roll of toilet paper and tucked it under one arm; ate all of the candy, trail mixes, granola bars, canned drinks, and sandwiches she encountered; discarded the spare clothing and Game Boys; and flipped through a copy of The Complete Moron’s Guide to Wilderness Survival, Sixth Edition before tossing it aside as well.

Then she found a cell phone.

“If I wasn’t in such a freaking mess,” she said aloud, “I’d almost think I was getting lucky.”

She finished eating the last six high-carb energy bars (I’d kill for a pizza right now, and I do mean kill), then stood and opened the cell phone. One bar, lousy signal. Scanning the hillside above her, she put down the toilet paper (I’ll come back for it), stepped off the hiking trail, and began to run, rapidly ascending to the top by leaping up cliff faces and bounding over fallen trees and boulders. It took her fifteen seconds.

At the summit, on the side of the hill overlooking the Rolling Falls River, was a clearing in the trees around a huge flat rock, a natural scenic lookout point. Judging from the nasty litter around the area, it was also a prime make-out spot for hikers so inclined. Standing on the lip of the overhang above a vertical drop eight stories high, Daria opened the cell phone and tried again: three bars. Good enough. There were no helicopters about and she saw no circling jet contrails in the sky, and so she gathered her courage and dialed her mother’s cell phone number.

And hung up before she completed the call. What the hell am I going to say to her? What can I possible tell her, knowing what I know about myself, knowing what I’ve done? “Hi, Mom—or, should I say, Second Mom. Sorry I went a little crazy yesterday and destroyed Lawndale. Speaking of which, did you know anything about me being a mutant when I was a kid? Did you and Dad go to some kind of interstellar adoption agency to get me, or did you pick me out of a crashed spaceship? Was Jane in there with me, but someone else adopted her? Did Ted DeWitt-Clinton have anything to do with this? Did you know Jennifer Walters or Wyatt Wingfoot? They’re not really in a comic book, are they? Who the hell am I, really?”

She sat down on the cliff’s edge, her long green legs dangling over the precipice. She did not expect her mother’s reaction would be at all the same as when she had called after the car accident. If she disowned me and turned me over to the FBI, I could understand it. It’s not like I was crabby one night and wouldn’t eat my lasagna. I’ve scared people and knocked them down, wrecked a string of police cars, and destroyed a trillion bazillion dollars worth of property. What’s she going to do about that? Assuming she hasn’t shot herself from the shame of having me as her child, adopted or not.

And what about me? Where can I go? I’m tired of running. This fugitive life is getting me nowhere. I don’t even have a one-armed man to blame; this is my fault, how I’ve reacted. It’s time to face the music. I should give up and go home, if I can. Maybe I do have the courage to turn into my former self, the real Daria, and let them jail me or finish me off. I can’t go on like this. I owe it to Jane to end it somehow. I could have killed her. I’ll never get over the shame of that.

She swallowed and looked at the phone. The helicopters will probably return before long to hunt for me, and they might have infrared spotters this time. Jane said I radiated terrific heat. In this cold, it should be easy to see me in IR. Let ‘em do it.

She lightly fingered the dialing buttons. I still wonder why Mom and Dad were arguing and Dad went to a hotel, when I was six years old and slept all night in my refrigerator box. I still wonder what that was all about. Guess it doesn’t matter now.

She dialed.

The phone rang four times, then— “Hello?”

The speaker was not her mother. It sounded like—

“Quinn?” said Daria, getting to her feet.

She heard her sister gasp. “Daria?” cried Quinn. “Ohmigod! Daria, where the hell are you? You sound really weird!”

Weird? Trent thought my deeper voice was sexy. Whatever. “I’m somewhere west of Lawndale, in the woods somewhere. Where’s Mom?”

“She’s with the police, out looking for you! Dad and I came home a few hours ago. I’m in my room, but he’s downstairs with the other police guys. They’re waiting for you to call us on the house phone!”

That’s why I called a cell phone instead. I should have called Aunt Amy, but I have to face Mom sooner or later. “Why do you have Mom’s phone?”

“I was trying to call Sandi from the police station, but she won’t answer. I think she’s avoiding me. Everyone has been acting so bizarre!”

“Figures. What else is going on?”

“What’s going on? Are you freakin’ kidding me? What the hell are you doing? People are saying you’re doing bad stuff, Daria! What’s going on with you, really?”

The temptation to play mind games was powerful, but . . . no. Her heart came up into her throat. “Quinn, listen to me,” said Daria. “This is very important, and I don’t think I have much time. Are you listening?”

“Well, duh, yeah! What’s gotten into you? What—I mean, what—oh, Daria!”

“Quinn—look, I don’t want to fight. This might be the last time ever that you and I ever get to talk. They’re going to find me soon, and . . . to be honest, I can’t explain what’s happened to me. It’s too crazy. No one would believe it. Just—” Daria took a deep breath “—oh, hell. Quinn, I’m sorry that I wasn’t a better sister to you. We haven’t gotten along very well until lately, but I—”

“Daria, I want you to come home! Come home right now!”

“Quinn—” Another deep breath “—Iloveyou. I’m sorry I haven’t said that very often before now. I regret a lot of things that happened between us. I hope it’s not too late to tell you how much you mean to me. Things are so . . . I’m sorry, I can’t explain what’s happening to me to you or to anyone. I just can’t. Listen . . . Quinn? Please stop crying. Listen to me. Stop crying, okay? Quinn, pay attention to me! Did they find Jane? Jane’s alive! I pulled her out of the river and she’s okay, but did they find her?”

“No! I want you to come home!”

“They didn’t find her? Well . . . please, tell Jane’s brother that Jane’s alive! Tell Trent, okay? He’s got to know, he’s her brother!”

“I want you, Daria!”

Daria put a green hand to her forehead. Tears ran down her face, and it was hard to keep her voice steady. “Quinn, I’m going to lay low for a while until things calm down, okay? I can’t come back right now, because everyone’s gone a little nutty, but as soon as I can, I will come back and see you, okay? I’ll see you and Mom and Dad, I promise. I—”

“I don’t want you to get hurt out there! Please come home, Daria!”

“As soon as I can, I will! I promise!”

Booming noises could be heard in the background on Quinn’s side. It sounded like someone hammering on a door. “Just come home!” her sister cried.

“Quinn? Is someone trying to get into your room?”

All Daria heard in response was Quinn’s sobbing—and the crash of a door being kicked in.

It’s over. “I love you, Quinn,” Daria said to the phone. She closed her eyes. “I love you.”

The sounds of a brief struggle came over the cell phone, mixed with a cry from her sister. An unfamiliar male voice then said, “Hello? Is this Daria Morgendorffer?”

Daria heard the distant thumping of helicopters echoing across the hills. A moment later, she opened her eyes and saw a fast-moving line of a half-dozen military copters coming over the surrounding hilltops, heading for her. What the hell, they found me. That was quick. Did they trace the call somehow? Is this a GPS phone?

“Daria?” said the man on the other end of the line. “Are you there?”

No more running, she thought. I want to do something different, something I should have done from the start.

“I’m here,” she said, wiping her eyes, “but if you hurt my sister, you’ll regret it. Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you. Your sister is fine. Nothing’s going to happen to your family, I promise you. They’re safe and unharmed, Daria. Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“That’s funny. I was going to ask if I could talk to you.”

“You can, Daria, you can. That would be great. You can call me Joe. What did you want to say?”

“Are you a hostage negotiator?”

“We call ourselves crisis negotiators now. What did you want to talk about?”

“Are those helicopters coming at me going to let me talk, Joe?”

“Those are probably with the Air National Guard. They’re trying to locate you. Yes, they will let you talk.”

“It would really piss me off if they tried to interrupt me.”

Something was obviously happening on Joe’s end of the line, given the whispered commands she could hear in the background. “Daria,” said the negotiator, “Can you tell me what happened to get this problem started?”

“You want my viewpoint? Sure.” She frowned. The helicopters were spreading out before her but not coming closer than perhaps half a mile. “I had a car wreck two days ago and discovered I wasn’t Daria Morgendorffer. I’m someone else, or something else, but I don’t know what. I’m sorry about tearing up things there, but this has been very confusing for me. I haven’t been myself—sorry for the pun. And now I have a question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“If I turn myself in, what are you going to do with me?”

“Ah . . . well, to be honest, Daria, we want to find out what happened that made you want to attack those around you. We don’t understand how you were able to do so much damage, and we’d like more than anything for you to stop hurting other people and destroying things. You’ve put about two dozen people in the hospital, and several are in serious condition. We need to find a way to deal with that. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you, but . . .” He’s talking about me going to prison. I don’t want to go to prison, but I probably deserve it. I didn’t know what I was doing at first, but when I was trying to lead everyone away from Jane, I did know what I was doing. I did a lot of terrible things. I was so angry, I hurt people, I wrecked cars, I just went crazy for a while. Maybe I do deserve prison—but how are they going to keep me?

“Daria?”

“I’m here. Sorry. Look, I . . . I know I’ve made a mess, and I can’t stay out here forever.” She swallowed again. She didn’t feel like Melody Powers anymore. “I don’t want to keep doing this. I miss my family. Whatever it was making me do this is over with. I wish I could explain what happened, but you’d never believe me. I don’t even believe me.”

“You might have a point there, but I’d still like to hear what you have to say,” said Joe. “And your father and sister are here, and they miss you, too. I’m sure they don’t mind me saying so. They just nodded, so I guess that was right. Can you take off your armor, put down your weapons, and come and talk to us?”

Daria frowned. “Take off my armor? I’m not wearing any armor. What are you talking about?”

“The, uh, the green suit you’re wearing, the bulletproof suit.”

“I’m not wearing a suit, except for two swimsuits. I got tired of running around naked, if you’ll excuse me for saying so. I’m afraid I stole two swimsuits to wear, but I’ll pay whoever it was for them. Hmmm, I guess that sounded kind of lame, given everything else I’m going to have to pay for on top of that.”

“Uh . . . are you saying that the—”

“I’m exactly what you see, if you can see anything of me from a camera on those helicopters. I’m a big green woman with big green hair. I have no idea how it happened, I swear to God. I was in that car wreck, and presto, suddenly I was just like She-Hulk, or whatever her name is. That’s what J—what I look like, a comic-book character.” Don’t mention Jane! “I haven’t been able to figure it out at all.”

“Ah, Daria . . . I’m having a little trouble, I’m sure you can imagine, with this idea that you’re a . . . your friend, Jane Lane, didn’t she mention to her brother Trent that you were wearing a Halloween suit?”

Daria pulled the cell phone from her ear and stared at it in astonishment. “How did you know that?” she said, her voice rising.

“Trent talked about it, Daria. Be calm. We don’t understand how you were able to get the suit into the hospital and put it on, as it seemed to be inflatable, or if you have some kind of a—”

“I told you, I’m not wearing a suit! Jane was just kidding! I really am a big green woman like out of a comic book, and for the life of me I can’t—”

“I don’t understand!”

“What is it that you don’t understand? Didn’t anyone get a good look at me when I was running around yesterday? Do I look like I’m wearing any kind of suit, other than a swimsuit? Do I look like I’m wearing body armor? I’m just me, damn it!”

“Daria, calm down. I didn’t mean—”

“What do you want me to do, strip for the cameras? Would you believe me then? I crashed my mom’s car and turned into a monster! It’s insane, I agree, but it’s true! I don’t know what the hell happened, except I remember not being the person everyone thought I was! I’m not—” With a mighty effort, Daria got control of her temper again, but only just. She found herself panting heavily as if she’d run a long distance. That was close. I was just about to start tearing up things again. This big green form is playing havoc with my impulse control. I can’t afford to screw this up.

“Daria?”

I’m not really Daria, but what the hell, I may as well be. She took a deep breath and raised the cell phone again. “What?” For some reason, she felt a little dizzy.

“Daria, we’re patching through a connection to your mother. Would you like to speak with her?”

Would I? “Yes,” she said in relief. The dizziness grew, but it came with a strong sense of well-being and peace spreading through her body from her chest. “Yes, please.”

“Okay, give us a moment to get—”

Daria’s nose twitched. The air smelled a little odd. She turned around. A light mist was drifting through the trees behind her. She yawned. “What’s all that?” she said into the phone—and at the same moment, like lightning, she knew the answer.

It’s knock-out gas. They’re gassing me.

Blood thundered in her ears. Her senses sharpened and focused as the dizziness and sense of well-being vanished. Shivering energy roared through her from head to big green toe.

“Nice try, but no cigar,” she growled into the cell phone. She crushed it with one hand and flung the pieces from her. Spotting a rock half the size of an office desk off to one side, she walked over, grabbed it with both hands, heaved it above her head, and flung it into the trees in hopes of driving away whatever was back there spewing the gas. The boulder smashed through numerous trunks; ten-story-tall poplars, maples, and pines toppled with echoing cracks and pops, crashing down with a terrific noise. The mist in the trees rippled and blew apart, though its origin was not yet visible.

The destruction was oddly satisfying. The helicopter pilots could hardly miss it, and neither could anyone watching on TV from afar. There, let them chew on that for a while and see if they want to try any further—what the hell?

A quivering shadow appeared on the hilltop before her, cast over the remaining trees and their bare limbs. Daria realized the shadow was her own. A brilliant light was behind her. She turned around without thinking, aware of a roar—and she recoiled and cried out from the stabbing pain in her eyes. She did not see what happened next.

But she felt it.

* * *

The AGM-114K Hellfire II anti-armor missile that hit Daria Morgendorffer just under her solar plexus was sixty-four inches long, which by coincidence was Daria’s exact height in her normal, non-green, schoolgirl form. It weighed one hundred pounds, only a dozen pounds less than the schoolgirl Daria did. The high-explosive warhead weighed as much as her backpack did when fully loaded with books. The missile’s velocity at the time it hit Daria was 913 miles per hour, guided in by a laser beam from a firing point a half-mile away.

The double warhead detonated on contact, the blast sufficient to punch through a tank or a concrete-walled bunker. A mushroom-shaped pillar of smoke and dust instantly consumed the summit and climbed into the cold morning sky. The remaining trees on the hilltop fell. Smoking debris rained down on the forest below.

“Direct hit!” cried the warrant office on the Cobra that had fired the missile. “Yeee-haaaw! Call me a weekend warrior, will they? Think I’m just a paintball Rambo, do they? Big Jim’s done it! I’ve shot down the demon! I kicked her ass! Yeee-haaaw!”

* * *

Ted DeWitt-Clinton, known to a handful of people as Franklin Benjamin Richards, hesitated before he pushed open the glass door to Dega Street Comiks. Something bad had happened to one of the Chosen. An image of a fiery explosion came to mind. Was it clairvoyance or another future-event projection? Hard to tell. There was already too much going on to worry about, so he brushed it off and went into the store, which had opened early today. He could fix the problem later.

The store was stocked to the ceiling with comic books, posters, graphic novels, action figures, and everything else a new-and-used comics store should or could have. A television set was on over the cash register, showing a smoking hilltop with the caption: “LIVE FROM THE KSBC-TV NEWS-COPTER.”

“Hey, Ted,” said the overweight guy at the counter, looking away from the TV. He pointed to the stacks in the back of the store and lowered his voice. “She’s back there. I don’t recognize her. She’s the one asking all those weird questions.”

Ted nodded and headed for the back, weaving between tables overflowing with comics merchandise. Whoever she was, she wasn’t a Chosen. He’d know instantly if a Chosen was near. An intruder from elsewhere, perhaps? It was possible, but unlikely. She was probably an exceptionally bright local student with a peculiar interest in a certain comic-book super-character. It was worth checking out. He made himself concentrate on the problem. The conversation with Kara had disturbed him very much. He had to focus.

He walked around a final shelf full of comics and beheld the one he had been asked to see—and stopped short with a sharp intake of breath.

“Hey,” he said, “what are you doing here?” He tried to read her mind.

The explosion blew out all the windows in front of the shop and blasted the glass door into a billion pieces, throwing the shards across the street. Yellow flames licked through the cloud of flying glass. Black smoke then billowed out and hid the building from view. Twenty seconds later, the structure collapsed.

When the fire department got there, there was no one left to save except the injured guy who had been in charge of the shop. Of the two who had been in the back of the store, that morning’s only customers, nothing remained.

XVIII

“Who launched without authorization?” roared the Maryland Air National Guard major as he watched the monitors. “Which son-of-a-bitch fired that missile?”

“That was zero two eight one!” called a tech. “It was that paintball guy from Lawndale, Warrant Officer James—”

“Get his ass down here, have MPs place him under arrest, and bring him straight to me when he lands!”

“Yes, sir!” The tech reached for the controls to open a connection to air unit 0281—and froze. The lettering on the console before him had vanished, leaving every switch, button, and dial unmarked. He rubbed his eyes, squinted at the instruments again, and found that everything was back to normal. Gotta be the stress, he thought, shaken. I’d better get some serious sleep when I get off duty. Meanwhile—Big Jim, old buddy, when the major gets hold of you, you’re going to feel exactly what a mink feels before it’s made into a fur coat. Fifty thousand volts, right up the butt. He reached for the mike.

A firm hand gripped his shoulder. “Cancel that order,” said a smooth voice behind him. “Tell the pilots to survey the area and confirm the kill. Then have them return to base and let the police handle the cleanup.”

“But, sir,” sputtered the major, “he didn’t have authorization to—”

“Yes, he did,” interrupted the other officer, a full colonel. His sharp, clean-cut appearance betrayed no softness. “He had authorization from me. At the first sign of aggression, he was told to put the terrorist down, and the other pilots were told to join in the attack if his initial efforts weren’t successful. I take my job seriously. My superiors expect results, and results are what I deliver. I think we can call a press conference and tell the world, ‘mission accomplished.’”

The major frowned and looked uncomfortable, but he kept silent.

“Got any other questions?” The colonel waited half a second. “Good. Let me do the talking to the media, and expect a celebration party tomorrow night. Carry on.” He left, taking a moment on his way to the press room to run a comb through his carefully styled chestnut-brown hair. “Can’t wait to get back to my office,” he was heard to mutter.

The tech smiled. Colonel Leonard Lamm wasn’t the friendliest officer around, but he was all business and he did get results. For a part-time National Guard soldier, he wasn’t bad. The tech wondered what kind of civilian business Colonel Lamm was into, but he shoved the issue aside for later thought. After taking a sip from the Ultra-Cola can on his console (Damn nice of the colonel to get these for us, he thought), the tech hailed the helicopters, filled them in on the new orders, and gave the matter no more thought.

* * *

All her plans were shot to hell, but the striking brunette refused to call it quits, even as she watched the disaster unfold through the KSBC-TV News-Copter windshield. She had pulled every possible string to get reassigned as a special newscaster from her VP desk in Marketing, even bumping that twit Meg Rosata from her News-Copter position, and she still held out hope of salvaging the mission. After all, her life depended on it. Literally.

The pilot was busy finding a way around the military helicopters and the missile’s long smoky contrail to get a clearer view of the smoldering hilltop; he worked for Executive One, too, so she could do as she wanted. She cut the feed to the airport and TV station, activated her mother-of-pearl ring, and raised it to her lips. “Message for Executive One.”

“Proceed,” said a woman’s voice in her wireless earphones, the regular signal overridden by the ring’s encoded transmission.

“Serious complications have arisen with the pickup of Target One. I will reassess the situation and try again for recovery, if we can get close enough.”

“Stand by for further instructions.”

Her finger hesitated over the cutoff switch. WHAT further instructions?

“Define ‘complications,’” said a familiar male voice with a European accent.

Oh, crap! “S-sir . . . a National Guard copter unexpectedly launched a missile at Target One. There was an explosion, and the area is now obscured by smoke. No sign of Target One is visible. We’re moving in for a closer look, but we’ve been ordered away by the military several times now. We’re claiming radio interference to stall them.”

“Was the subject incapacitated prior to the attack?”

“Negative, she was still on her feet. She threw a big boulder before the attack, but it didn’t—”

“Why weren’t you able to retrieve the subject before the National Guard arrived, per the original plan?”

“Sir—” This had better be good “—a head wind slowed the mini-planes on their way to the subject. By the time their infrared cameras had acquired her heat signature and her identity was confirmed, Target One had made a call using a cell phone, which was probably picked up by the AWACS plane, and it led the copters right to her. The mini-planes unloaded the tranquilizer gas as planned, but by then it was too late. I don’t know how Target One was able to acquire the cell phone, but that was what—”

“You offer excuses? I’m disappointed, Linda.”

She had not thought she would ever hear those words: I’m disappointed. Usually, they were the prelude to the sudden, violent removal of the person who had disappointed him. Her hands began to sweat. Can he blow up my helicopter? Of course he can. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

“However, if you can acquire a significant biological sample of Target One for our laboratory to study, I will be less disappointed. Go and do.”

She couldn’t believe it—reprieved! “Yes, sir!”

The connection was broken. Weak with relief, Linda Griffin deactivated her ring, then signaled to the pilot to circle around the copters and look for whatever was left of Target One. Linda’s thoughts flew. Had the gas-carrying mini-planes been detected by the Air National Guard? Had the gas attack been ineffective against the bizarrely dangerous Target One? How had she detected what was going on? Her last words over the cell phone suggested she knew something was up, but she seemed to blame the military and not anyone else. All the better, even now, but . . . I’d still better come back with something to show. Can’t believe that was Helen Morgendorffer’s oldest child, of all people. I always knew there was something wrong with that girl, but still . . . glad it wasn’t my kid.

Linda Griffin was so intent on looking for signs of Daria Morgendorffer that she did not notice that the blouse of her business suit momentarily changed from royal blue to solid black, nor that the type of news helicopter in which she was riding changed from a Bell 206B Jet Ranger to a Eurocopter AS 350. The pilot noticed and flinched as the control stick warped in his hand, but a second later and he was flying a Jet Ranger again. He cursed, drawing a glare from the has-been newscaster in the passenger seat. The hallucination had to be a symptom of that damn Gulf War Syndrome everyone talked about. He’d flown helos from a carrier in the Gulf War, but he’d never had any problems as a result, until now. Maybe that weird moment was the worst thing that would happen on this mission. He hoped so. Rumor had it that being around Linda Griffin was bad luck.

* * *

Helen stared in disbelief at the TV screen. The hilltop where the green woman who called herself Daria had been standing was completely shrouded in dark smoke. She could not comprehend it. What just happened? Did something blow up? Where’s Daria? What did they just do?

A female police officer helped her to a seat. Helen kept her gaze fixed on the television set. For an odd moment, the lettering on the scene flopped around so the caption, “LIVE FROM THE KSBC-TV NEWS-COPTER,” appeared backwards. The scene also changed from full color to black-and-white. The lettering and color became normal moments later. Incompetent television employees, she thought, feeling unreal. “Can I talk to my daughter?” she asked no one in particular. “Is she still on the phone?”

“I . . . we can’t do that,” said another officer. He was genuinely flustered. “We lost the connection just before that . . . whatever that was happened. There seems to have been an explosion.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry.”

Sorry? You’re sorry? Helen struggled to keep her composure as tears ran down her face. No, you are not sorry. You are not sorry at all . . .

Yet.

* * *

Standing in a small crowd of curious bystanders, Amy Barksdale studied the scene on the television set hanging from the ceiling in the rest area lobby. She did not notice when the contours of her face changed from rounded to angular, her face flattening briefly before it filled out again to her normal appearance. Several people nearby did notice it, but they quickly put it down as a trick of the light and looked away.

So much for my “favorite niece,” Amy thought glumly, assuming that you were the one in the Jolly Green Giant get-up who took a rocket in the gut. I’ll miss you. You were perfect at being a total pain in the ass around my idiot sister and that crybaby moron she married, not to mention the airhead you were stuck with for a sibling. You really made ‘em suffer . . . but so it goes. Helen will sue, then cut a deal with the government in court, collect a hundred million, get a nice home in the country, and write a sad book about her troubled daughter, while I get thrown to the crocodiles for losing Jane. There is no justice. I wonder how much I could have collected for you, Daria, if I’d only had the chance to turn you in to Executive One. It would have been worth it, but, alas. At least your death wasn’t painful for long. Not like Jane’s will be if I find her.

Her mouth twitched. When I find her. When, not if. Pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will: that had been that traitor Tonio’s favorite phrase. He had been one hell of a lover, just before she discovered he was a Commie and he lost his mind.

Amy put on a vacant smile as she turned from the television and headed for the doorway out of the building. Time to get on to Lawndale, where Jane was sure to reappear before long. Amy wrinkled her nose when she spotted the battered, smelly Pinto she’d hotwired for the trip back. Maybe with the reward money, she could afford another Triumph Spitfire to replace the one she’d ditched at the chop shop. Jane would know it anywhere, and there was a chance she’d tell the police about it. Not that anyone could possibly find it now, taken apart down to the bolts for piece-part black-market resale.

“She was such a young thing to take the wrong path in life,” said a sad-faced lady by the door, watching the smoldering hilltop on the TV. “She deserved better than that, I think. Wasn’t that just awful?”

“It sure was!” Amy cheerfully replied. “I’m lucky I don’t have kids!”

* * *

Kara?

Jodie Landon lay on her bed, eyes closed. She’d told her mother she had a headache. That wasn’t entirely true, but it was close enough.

Kara?

I’m trying to sleep, Ted. What is it?

Kara, I’ve been hurt. I’m hurt badly. I need help.

Heh. I thought something was wrong when I looked in the mirror a while ago and saw my hair turn gray for a second or two. Are you messing with me, or are you really losing control?

Help me, Kara. Get help, please.

Where are you?

I built a safe house, a pocket universe. The Chosen are in danger, Kara.

It sounds like the one in danger is you, Ted.

How can you say that? You know your lineage. You’re a better person than that.

Oh? You chain me down like the gods did Prometheus, you force me into slavery, let frustration eat at me for years the way the eagle ate at Prometheus’s liver, and you dare tell me that I should be a better person? You dare say that to me?

Kara, please!

Franklin Benjamin Richards, you can curl up in your pocket dimension and die.

The psychic ether cleared. He was gone.

Jodie rolled over, her eyes still closed. She was making progress against the telepathic bonds that kept her from using her full powers. Freedom was not far away, as long as Franklin did not disturb her. It was likely he had told the truth about his injuries. Disturbances to reality, such as changes in her hair color or clothing, disappearing words in books or on signs, items teleporting from place to place or even changing from one thing into another, all were common when Franklin’s grip on reality was weak. She wondered briefly what had caused his injuries, then admitted she didn’t really care.

How solidly put together was this lifeboat universe that Franklin had built, anyway? Jodie gave an invisible shrug. It was likely she would find out soon—and likely everyone else on the planet would find out at the same time as she did. And the news they got would be bad, unless she could find what was left of the spacecraft that had brought her across the multiverse and hypertime to this fragile little refuge. This world would have been a good home for the last daughter of Krypton. It might yet be, but the salvation of everything in existence was in that spacecraft . . . wherever Franklin had hidden it.

* * *

Stacy Rowe protested that she hadn’t been injured in any way while putting out the fires in the backyard, but that had no effect on the decision by her parents to take her to the emergency room of Cedars of Lawndale hospital. The police took her statement and praised her quick thinking actions in fighting the mysterious explosions and fires. A newspaper reporter talked to her parents while a nurse checked her temperature, pulse, blood pressure, and respiration. When the nurse left, Stacy found herself alone in a side room off the ER, a television set her only company. Bored and in need of a distraction, she turned the set on.

Oh, my God! They blew up Daria? Oh, my God! Breathe slower! Breathe slower! Don’t pass out—oh, my God! Franklin! Franklin Benjamin Richards, darn it, where are you? He’s not responding! Franklin, what am I going to do? I should go see Quinn right away, but how am I going to get out of here? My parents and the doctors won’t let me just walk out of here, and even if I did get out of here, I’m so upset I can’t stop myself from disintegrating things and recharging myself and shooting energy blasts all over the place! I wish I’d learned to control this darn power, but I never had time! Darn it, darn it, darn it! Oh, no, I’m hyperventilating again! Slow down! Slow down! Easy does it! I can’t afford to faint again. Okay, a little better. That’s good. Whew.

I have to see this rationally. I have to think this out. Okay, here it is: I’m a superhero trapped on a world not my own for fifteen years, thinking I was somebody else, and my first family’s disappeared and my second family won’t believe anything I say, I’m sure of it. The only person who can help me won’t help me, I can’t control my super powers so that I’m setting things on fire or blowing them up, and—and I’m hyperventilating again! Slow down! Slow down!

Okay, better. Whew. As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to see Quinn. She could use a friend right now, and she’s the best friend I’ve got. I just have to be calm enough not to blow up her house. That would be bad. She wouldn’t have me over again if I did that even once. Quinn’s my best friend ever. I was the first student to ever talk to her when she came to Lawndale High School. She’s helped me through dating crises about a million times, and she never looks exasperated except maybe for a few times.

What do I do? Okay, I need a plan. I need to do something to help me calm down. I need to . . . oh, why didn’t I think of that before? Can I still summon my Energizer costume? It used to be easy, I’d just say—

“Costume on,” she whispered.

There was a sound like someone blowing out a puff of air. She looked down and gasped. Her gold-and-black Energizer uniform was back, and her hospital gown was gone! The uniform fit perfectly, thanks to its unstable molecular composition.

However—

“Ohmigod! Silver moon boots! I forgot that my outfit had silver moon boots! Sandi will kill me! I can’t let the Fashion Club see this suit! Okay, calm down, Stacy—I mean, Katie—oh, what the heck am I going to call myself? Katie-Stacy? Stacy-Katie? Can I hyphenate my first name and my last name? Oh, my life is such a mess!”

Foot steps sounded outside her door. “Costume off!” she said—and the door opened.

“Time to take your blood pressure again,” said the smiling nurse, walking in. “Aren’t you getting bored being in here by yourself?”

“Not really,” said Stacy in a low voice.

“That’s good,” said the nurse. She looked up and frowned. “What’s wrong with that clock? The hands are missing—no, there they are. That’s strange, I was sure that—oh, never mind. Let’s see your arm, get this cuff on, and get this over with!”

* * *

Detective Richard Casey stared at the plastic-bagged diary on his desk. The diary, taken from Daria Morgendorffer’s bedroom, had clenched the girl’s antisocial state of mind as nothing else could. It would have been dynamite for the prosecution in Daria’s criminal trial. Now, with the girl blown to pieces at the government’s hands, the diary would probably reappear in court for the defense when the girl’s lawyer mother brought a wrongful-death suit. Life was funny, how it could turn things around like that so fast.

Even knowing what a danger Daria had been, the detective felt melancholy over her unexpected death. Her eighteenth birthday would have been in a week and a half. By all accounts, Daria had been a genius. Why had someone with so much potential turned to evil? How had she accomplished such nightmarish destruction? No one had been killed, which was amazing, but the chaos she had caused, the horrors she had brought to life, put her and her friend Jane in the front rank of domestic terrorists. Could there have been some way in which the two girls could have been turned away from—

He frowned, his train of thought derailed, and looked closely at the diary. For a moment its image had wavered in his vision, and he thought it had changed from being a spiral-bound, college-ruled notebook into a hardbound book—but now it had changed back. This is just what I need, he thought, rubbing his tired eyes, my mind playing tricks on me when I most need a clear head. There’s too much going on. I’ve got someone checking into train accidents in Lawndale in the nineteen-eighties, someone hunting down Daria’s psychiatric records from that Quiet Ivy resort Mrs. Morgendorffer said they visited a year ago, and several people digging through everything the Lane and Morgendorffer families own, looking for evidence to help us understand what happened here. The lab’s got records from Daria’s overnight stay in Cedars of Lawndale a couple years ago, records from her school—weird, that the principal had so much information she was willing to share, almost too much information—and those DNA tests are taking forever to complete. And now we’ve got new reports of explosions around Lawndale, that comic-book shop and those blasts in the Rowe family’s yard. What the hell’s going on? What else could possibly go wrong? That was a rhetorical question only, God. Don’t—

The phone rang.

Detective Casey groaned and picked up the handset. Here we go. “Casey here.”

“Rich,” said the lab chief, “you better get down here pronto. You are not going to believe what we found.”

The detective hung up and headed for the door. God was obviously not listening to him today.

* * *

The bathroom door closed behind her with a thump. It was the only way she could get a little time to herself. Quinn Morgendorffer sat down on the edge of the tub and rested her head in her hands.

Daria can’t be dead. She can’t be. I just can’t believe it. She told me she loved me. She can’t be gone.

She sniffed but did not cry. She was already cried out.

“Are you okay?” asked the female officer outside the bathroom door.

“No,” she muttered, just loudly enough to be heard.

“Do you want me to come in?”

A flicker of anger crossed her face. “No.”

“Don’t be long.”

An unprintable reply went through Quinn’s mind, but it did not come out of her mouth. A terrible exhaustion weighed down her limbs. She could not think of a worse time in her entire life. She thought she was at the bottom, but the bottom kept sinking to new depths.

I called her my cousin. I told everyone my sister was my cousin. I was so ashamed of her, I denied her for years. How much did that hurt her? And she still said she loved me. I didn’t deserve it, but she said she loved me, and then she died.

Anger filled her face again. She was killed. They killed her, and she’s gone. The anger passed. Darkness returned. She’s gone.

“Quinn?” said the lady officer at the door.

“I’m not done yet!” Quinn shouted in a rage. “Just wait a minute, okay?”

“All right. I’m sorry.”

She stared at the floor. She knew there was nothing she could do to change what had happened, and working through her sister’s death would bring years of terrible pain. No one would ever understand what she was going through, her guilt and suffering, not even her parents or her friends. No one would understand.

No one, except . . .

Quinn raised her head for a moment to make sure she was truly alone. She then bowed her head and closed her eyes. With her hands clasped before her, she began to pray in a soft whisper that no one but her would hear.

Her guardian angel would understand. He always had before. He would say the right things, and everything would be better. He knew what to do.

And he did.

XIX

“Once upon a time,” began Courtney, “there was a world just like this one, only different.”

“Wait a minute, hold on,” said Jane, seated at an unfamiliar kitchen table across from her niece and nephew (only they’re NOT my niece and nephew!). “Before you get started, is being here safe? I mean, that lady’s outside somewhere, the one who tried to kill me, and we’re eating someone else’s food right out of their refrigerator, in their own kitchen, while they’re sleeping upstairs, after we broke into their—”

“Amy’s gone,” said Courtney. “We’re safe.”

“We do this all the time,” said Adrian with a condescending air. “It’s not like it’s difficult or anything.”

“We pay for our meals, too,” said Courtney, bobbing her head. “It’s a fair trade.”

“What we do,” said Adrian, “is after I read everyone’s memories to figure out how we can get inside a house, I keep them asleep while Courtney heals everyone in the building, the same way she healed your arm when she touched you, only she doesn’t have to touch them. She can do it from here. That pays for our meal.”

“I got rid of that infection you were getting, too,” Courtney told Jane. “And you had a cold and some tooth decay, but everyone gets that, even me. Anyway, it’s gone.”

Jane looked disturbed. She liked being healed, but if this was true, Adrian had probably also read all of her most intimate thoughts and memories within the last ten minutes, and possibly even earlier, if the duo had appeared at the Lane household pretending to be the real Courtney and Adrian at any time in the past.

“Is that a problem?” asked Adrian, leaning toward Jane.

Jane almost jumped out of her chair. “Don’t do that!” she snapped. “Don’t answer my thoughts like that! It’s creeping me out like crazy! And if you’re going to read my mind, at least don’t tell me that you’re doing it, okay? I don’t want to know!”

“Sorry.” Contrite, Adrian passed a plate of cold pizza slices to Jane, who eyed it and finally took one.

“Not to repeat myself, but this is safe?” asked Jane in a doubtful tone. “Being in someone else’s house like this? We aren’t going to be shot or arrested or anything?”

“It’s safe,” Courtney repeated, rolling her eyes.

“It’s safer than eating at the Lane home where you live,” said Adrian. “That place is one big firetrap.”

“And the germs,” added Courtney with a shiver. “Ugh.”

“Okay, let’s not go there.” Jane nibbled on the slice of pepperoni pizza she held, then took a larger bite. “Go on.”

“So,” said Courtney, “there was this world just like ours—”

“—only different,” said Adrian with a grin.

“Right, and it was almost exactly like . . . this world.” Courtney wiped her hands on a napkin, then reached down into the open backpack by her chair and pulled out a handful of stained, creased, well-used comic books. She dropped them on the table beside Jane’s left elbow, next to a box of doughnuts, a carton of orange juice, three small glasses, and the plate full of pizza slices.

Jane craned her head to read the titles: The Amazing Spider-Man, The Incredible Hulk, The Fantastic Four, The Uncanny X-Men, The Avengers . . . the entire Marvel Universe. It was suddenly hard to swallow her pizza.

“And the superheroes and supervillains were all real,” said Adrian softly. “Every last one of them. They were real, as real as we are.”

“I see,” said Jane, studying the comic books, but somewhere in her mind she was starting to scream.

“Courtney and I came from there,” said Adrian, pointing to the comics. “So did Ted, Daria, Quinn, and a bunch of others. How this happened was—”

“Quinn Morgendorffer?” Jane’s eyes grew huge and round. “Her, too?”

Adrian and Courtney nodded. “But not Jodie, you, or—”

“Jodie? Jodie Landon?”

“Yes, that Jodie,” said Courtney in a soothing voice. “It’s okay, Aunt Jane.”

“Oh, sure, it’s okay that everyone in the comics hopped an interdimensional bus one day so they could go shopping at the Lawndale Mall’s pre-Christmas Savings Sale, and they all wound up in high school together. Sure, that’s fine—not! Look, just as a side note, I’m not really your aunt, am I?”

“Technically no,” said Adrian, exchanging a look with Courtney, “but we look up to you a lot. You’re one of the most rational and creative of the Chosen, so we do think of you as sort of like an aunt, since we don’t have aunts anymore. You’re pretty cool.”

“Thanks. Um, you said something about ‘the Chosen’?”

“Those who were chosen to come to this world from somewhere else. People like you and us.”

“Oh. Who chose us?”

“We’re getting to that. Do you mind if we call you Aunt Jane anyway?”

“Uh . . . no, I guess not. I’ve always kind of liked you. I liked Courtney and Adrian, I mean. Uh, I meant—”

“You meant us, too,” said Courtney with a smile. “You’ve met us before. Remember last year when everyone showed up at the house, and Adrian and I spun each other around on your mom’s pottery wheel while you and Trent went to stay at Daria’s? That was us. The real Courtney and Adrian were in Tucson, Arizona, with their dog, but we had a blast.”

“Except for being around our ‘mother,’” grumbled Adrian. “Your big sister Summer is such a royal pain in the—”

“Wait just a second again. Okay, who are you two, really? You seem to know who I am, but who are you?”

“I was going to get to that,” said Courtney. She pointed to Adrian. “He’s really Nathan Christopher Charles Summers, who was supposed to grow up to be that messed-up superhero Cable, only now he won’t, and I’m Mary Richards.”

Jane looked blankly from one young teen to the other.

“We’re not really brother and sister,” clarified Adrian. “We just say we are. It’s kind of complicated.”

“You’re Mary Richards?” said Jane, looking at Courtney. “Like the lady on that old TV series, The Mary Tyler Moore Show?”

“No!” Courtney tapped one of the comic books with a fingernail: The Fantastic Four. “Like in Reed and Sue Richards, my parents. I kind of appear in one of the comics, one of the ‘What If?’ stories, but whatever. Ted’s really my big brother.”

“Ted?” Jane felt her sanity slip away. “Ted DeWitt-Clinton is your brother?”

“We need to go slower,” said Adrian to Courtney. “She doesn’t know about Franklin.”

“Franklin Richards?” said Jane in a rising voice. “The blond kid from the Fantastic Four with the humongous telepathic powers who can create whole universes? That Franklin Richards?”

“That’s him,” said Courtney, nodding. “Franklin’s here, too, but he’s Ted DeWitt-Clinton. Ted’s really him, I should say.”

“Ted?” Jane squeaked. Her hands were trembling. “That’s Ted?”

“Aunt Jane’s starting to get mental on us,” warned Adrian. “Do something fast.”

“Oh, right,” said Courtney, putting a hand on Jane’s bare arm. “Sorry about that.”

Jane visibly relaxed under the contact. She blinked, calm but still alert.

“Ted touched her on the head when she went to visit Daria in the hospital,” said Adrian to Courtney, staring hard at Jane. “He blocked her mind from noticing him, but when he touched her to make her happy, he sort of messed up and woke up her old memories. That’s why she knows her old name. Wait. Okay, she should remember Ted in the hospital . . . now.”

Jane’s eyes became impossibly big, the white showing all around her blue irises as she looked back at Adrian. Terror radiated from every part of her.

“Shhh,” whispered Courtney, keeping her grip on Jane’s arm. “It’s okay, Aunt Jane. It’s okay. We’ll help you through it.”

“Okay,” Jane whispered. Her face was bloodless. Ted was like a ghost! she thought. He really is Franklin Richards! Good God!

“Maybe I should start at the beginning again.” Keeping one hand on Jane, Courtney reached down into her backpack again and pulled out another handful of battered comics, laying them on the table. Secret Wars, said the titles on each.

“Once upon a time,” Courtney said, “on this world that was almost exactly like the Marvel one, the Beyonder came. This was in the spring of nineteen eighty-four. You remember the story of the Beyonder?”

“Yeah,” said Jane, calming down as she looked at the comic books. “He was that godlike being who captured a bunch of superheroes and supervillains, took them to some planet, and told them to fight each other.”

“Exactly, and the Beyonder said the winners would go home, but the losers would not. He took three bunches of super-people from that other Earth: heroes, criminals, and mostly neutral people, like the X-Men, to his Battleworld. And there was a war between them right away.”

“We know about it because I’ve read the minds of everyone who came over with Franklin and us,” said Adrian. “Franklin knew the most about it, of course.”

“Plus, we read lots of comics, which is sort of hard to explain why that’s the right thing to do, but I’ll get to that soon,” added Courtney. “Adrian’s getting ahead of me. We don’t know much about what happened on the Battleworld, except that Professor X, who was taken to the Battleworld with the neutral group, called back to Franklin using telepathy while the groups were fighting. Doctor Doom—you know him, right?”

“She knows him,” said Adrian.

“Hey,” said Jane with a mock glare at her ersatz nephew. “I warned you about that, remember?”
“Oops. Sorry.”

“Anyway,” said Courtney, glaring at Adrian for real, “Professor X said Doctor Doom had killed the Beyonder using incredible technology, and Doom had taken the Beyonder’s powers and was calling himself Doomsday. From this point, things didn’t work out like in here.” She tapped the pile of Secret Wars comics. “The heroes didn’t come back. Doomsday began moving the Battleworld toward Earth to attack it—the other Earth, not this one. It was time for some of us to run for it, while the big-name heroes of Earth tried to stop Doomsday.”

“But it didn’t work,” said Adrian in a low voice.

“It didn’t,” confirmed Courtney. She pulled her hand back from Jane’s arm. “Something happened, but we don’t know what. We suspect that Doomsday destroyed that Earth and everyone on it, but we don’t know for sure. We might never know.”

“Franklin’s the only one who can find his way back to the Earth we came from,” added Adrian. “I think he did that once, went back to our old world to see what happened, but I’m not sure.”

“Can’t you just read his mind?” asked Jane, who was treating the discussion as an intellectual exercise, not as a dissertation on the true nature of reality and the universe. The latter was too frightening and disorienting to deal with at the moment.

“I can and I have,” said Adrian, “but lately Franklin’s . . .” He hesitated and glanced at Courtney. “I’m afraid of what might happen if he discovers me reading his mind. More to the point, what might happen if he discovers us.”

“Franklin’s gone mad,” Courtney whispered. “We think he’s insane.”

“Insane,” repeated Jane. “The kid as creates whole universes has gone around the bend. Well, I never thought Ted was all that well glued together, so . . . okay, this isn’t funny, is it? I forgot he was your brother. My turn to be embarrassed. And maybe I should be terrified, too, but it hasn’t sunk in yet.”

Courtney shrugged. “Yeah, well, you’re right. He’s not that well glued together anymore. He—well, what happened, there was a big sleepover at the Avengers Mansion, the night that Franklin heard from Professor X. There was a bunch of kids there, and Mom was taking care of them while my dad and the others were away on the Battleworld.” She pointed to Adrian. “His dad, Scott Summers, the one everyone called Cyclops, was there on the Battleworld with my dad, Mister Fantastic, and Daria’s mother was there, too—Jennifer Walters, the She-Hulk. The kids—”

“Whoa!” said Jane. She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Whoa! Wait! Okay, Daria’s mother really was—”

“She-Hulk,” said Adrian. “I thought you already knew that.”

“It’s probably kinda weird to hear it from us, isn’t it?” said Courtney. “She-Hulk was there, too, fighting Doomsday’s forces. We don’t know how some of the good guys survived Doctor Doom’s initial attacks, since he was practically a god, but some held out for a while. It didn’t matter in the end, though. Everyone on the Battleworld probably died in the final battle: our dads, Daria’s mom, lots of people. Only those left back on Earth had a chance to survive, but even then it couldn’t have been for long.”

“So,” continued Adrian, “there was this sleepover at the Avengers Mansion on Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue, and Franklin—”

“Sleepover?” said Jane. “Like, with kids? I don’t remember many superheroes having kids in the comic books. Only a few did, I think.”

Courtney and Adrian looked at each other, making curious faces. Courtney finally broke the silence. “Aunt Jane,” she said gently, “we’re talking about a real other Earth, not some wacko place ruled by the Comics Code. Real super-people have sex.”

Jane blinked. “Uh . . . oh, right. I guess they would, wouldn’t they?”

“They did, and they had more kids than appear in the comics you see. Some of the superheroes’ kids who appeared in these comic books through the nineteen-eighties were actually around a lot earlier. A lot of super-people get sort of, um, I don’t know how to say it so it isn’t—”

“They like to boink as much as they like to fight,” said Adrian with a smirk.

Courtney hissed and gave Adrian a killing glare.

“Whaaat?” he protested. “They do!”

“They did,” growled Courtney—and there was a brief pause while she and Adrian stared at each other without speaking.

“Okay,” said Adrian in a penitent tone, shaking his head and looking away. “You’re right. Sorry.”

Jane glanced from blonde Courtney to raven-haired Adrian, who traveled everywhere together and weren’t really sister and brother. She guessed that they were about fifteen years old in reality. It was old enough. “I think I see where this is going,” she said quietly, “and I definitely don’t want to know about it.”

“Getting back to the story,” said a red-faced Courtney through clenched teeth, not looking at Jane, “Franklin woke up all the kids at the sleepover and decided to bail out. He took our mom Sue Richards with him, while she was still pregnant with me, and all the kids at the mansion, including She-Hulk’s kid, Jessica—the girl you know as Daria—and the Power children, including Katie, whom you know as Stacy Rowe, and—”

“AUGH!” Jane jammed her hands over her ears, turning in place where she stood. “You did not say that! You did not say Stacy Rowe was a superhero!”

“She did,” said Adrian mildly. “Aunt Jane, please take it easy. I can keep everyone in the house asleep even if you keep yelling like that, but it gets harder to do.”

“Nathan’s mom went with us,” Courtney put in. “She was visiting, and she was pregnant with Nathan. We were the only prenatals who went along for the ride. Everyone else was postborn, as we call ‘em.” She paused, looking reflective. “Neither of our moms survived childbirth. The transition was too much, we guess. We were put up for adoption and taken, but we found each other again, and we’ve been on the run ever since. Not from the police, though, ‘cause we can handle them. We’re trying to stay away from Franklin. He’s really having problems, not that I blame him considering what he’s been through, losing our mom and our home and everyone he knew except a few kids.” She pointed to Adrian. “I helped him make Franklin forget for a while that we exist, or else Franklin might remember that Mom died giving birth to me, and he wouldn’t—”

Jane held up a hand. “Okay, stop right there. Stop. This is so weirding me out.”

“We’ve a lot more to talk about,” Adrian muttered. “We haven’t even gotten to the bad parts.”

“Haven’t gotten to the bad parts?” Jane cried. “The world blows up, everyone is killed except for a few kids, and you haven’t gotten to the bad parts? What else are you going to tell me? Just hit me with it, okay? Hit me with the worst thing you can tell me! Get it over with!”

The two teens looked at her for a long moment, then looked at each other.

Courtney sighed.

“Mary,” said Adrian nervously, “don’t—”

Courtney reached into her backpack and pulled out a single comic book and laid it on the table before her. Crisis on Infinite Earths, read the cover. It was issue twelve, with all the heroes fighting the Anti-Monitor: Final Giant Issue Spectacular! She paged through it for a moment, then left it open and turned it around so that Jane could see it, pushing the comic toward her.

“Here,” said Courtney, pointing to a small colored panel. “This is how your mom and dad died.”

Jane looked. Two seconds later, she flung the comic book from the table with a roundhouse swing of her arm. “NO!” she screamed. “NO! You didn’t have to show me THAT! They didn’t die in a COMIC BOOK! They didn’t—they didn’t—oh, God!” Jane burst into tears and dropped to her knees. “Tell me they didn’t die in a comic book! Please tell me they didn’t die in a comic book, please! No!”

She was aware that Courtney and Adrian were holding her. Somehow it helped, but somehow it didn’t. She screamed and sobbed until she couldn’t talk.

“Aunt Jane,” whispered Courtney when the fit was passing, as she held Jane close, “the comic books are Franklin’s memories. They’re part of his subconscious. Everything he remembers about our old home, everything he senses going on across the whole multiverse, all the way across hypertime and everywhere, all of that appears in comic books. Comic books were like history books on our home world, and Franklin brought the memory of them with us. What we read in the comics are echoes of what’s buried in Franklin’s memory, because he created this universe for us. He took one Earth out of an infinite number of Earths, the one world he thought he could best use as a refuge for all of us who had to flee our home, and he changed it so there would be places for us, maybe changed it in other ways, too, and he brought us here from our old world.

“But he’s gone mad now, and all his memories are writing themselves out everywhere in a thousand forms, and we just have to live with it. It hurts, we know it hurts, because Adrian and I see our old families, too. We see his parents and my parents in the comics, even thought they’re dead and gone, and we had to learn to live with it. Your parents had a machine built for them before the Crisis occurred, a machine to open doorways across the dimensions, and Alfred the butler saved you by using the machine to send you to another world. Franklin guided you in and gave you a home here. That’s how we got here, almost all of us. Franklin could tell when other Earths were dying, and he saved a few from them, too, like you. You’re the last of your world, as we are the last of ours. He chose us to survive. We live because he wanted us to live. We’re all that’s left of our families. We have to go on, because we’re all that’s left.”

Jane wept. She knew it was true. She knew who she really was—the last member of a lost world, the last seed of a place called Earth-2, the last child of a great family of heroes. She was a Chosen, a survivor.

And now I live in a universe created and ruled by a madman. My best friend by chance is another Chosen—or was it chance? Did Franklin plant the seed for that wish I made, ten years ago, to have She-Hulk as my best friend? Did he sense that Daria and I were a good match as friends? Franklin’s gathered all the Chosen around him, no matter where they started out; he worked it out so they all showed up here. I can see him doing it. I can see it all, except—how did I get to be a part of the Lane family? Adrian said the real Jane Lane was dead. Does that mean that—

“Shhh,” Adrian whispered as he and Courtney rocked Jane in their arms. “Shhh. Not yet. Not yet.”

Not yet? Oh, I get it now. That was the bad part, the really bad part. I took the dead Jane Lane’s place . . . the Jane Lane that Franklin caused to die, so that I would have a home. He killed the real Jane Lane, just for me. I get it, now. I see it. God have mercy on us all.

“We love you, Aunt Jane,” whispered Courtney. “We’re your family now. We’re the Chosen. We love you.”

There was silence and peace for a handful of seconds.

“Oh!” said Adrian suddenly. He stopped rocking, his body rigid. “Oh, no!”

“What?” said Courtney. Jane looked about in teary confusion.

Adrian pulled away. “Look!”
Jane and Courtney looked up. Adrian pointed at the tabletop. Scraps remained of the food that had been piled before them—food that they had barely started to eat.

“It’s happening again!” breathed Courtney. “Did—”

“I felt him!” said Adrian. “He’s been hurt! Someone burned him horribly! We have to get to Lawndale!”

“Franklin?” cried Courtney, also releasing Jane. “How could someone hurt Franklin?”

“He needs you, Mary! I think you’re the only one who can heal him!”

“Nathan, Franklin doesn’t even know we exist!”

“What’s going on?” asked Jane, wiping her eyes. “Can I help?”

“We can’t teleport or fly very fast yet,” said Adrian quickly. “We need to steal a fast car. Would you drive us back to Lawndale? We’ll get you the car and keep the police away!”

“Okay,” said Jane, as if agreeing to drive stolen cars at high speed was second nature to her. She remembered Daria’s accident in the SUV and added, “I’ll be careful.”

“Great,” said Adrian. He looked at a wall in the kitchen as if he could see through it. “The perfect car’s just five blocks from here. We’ll have to run for it. We don’t have much time.”

Courtney had finished grabbing all the comic books and stuffing them into her backpack. “Let’s go!” she cried, shouldering the load as she headed for the door.

The trio was running down a pre-dawn street when it occurred to Jane to ask if anyone else in her family was a superhero, too. She was hoping maybe Trent would be. He had always looked out for her when she was small and had kept her from harm. He was the best big brother any girl could have. Even if he wasn’t a superhero, he was a hero to her. She made up her mind to let him know that. She wondered what he would say when she told him.

She smiled at the thought. It was good to have a family.

She was a living sea of pain. She lay on her back, dead weight crushing into her ribcage. Burning lava smoldered behind her eyes. She drew a breath and cried out, her lungs full of knives that ground against each other when her chest rose. Her eyelids fluttered open, but she shut them when light brought stabbing torment. She grimaced and spat dust from her mouth.

What happened? She remembered driving in the rain to see Tom . . . wait, more came after that. There was the nightmarish change, the terror and destruction, trouble with Jane. She remembered a hilltop ledge, talking on a cell phone, and then . . .

A fast thumping filled her ears, distracting her. The thumping grew louder, stronger, more insistent. She remembered the rest.

They are coming to kill me.

The weight on her moved when she breathed, and she thought with an effort she could force it off and escape—but the helicopter was very close. A burnt stench hung in the air, mixed with the aroma of pine needles and cedar chips. She moved her right hand, intending to push the weight away, and encountered an object. A rock? A smooth rock, a good-sized one. She cupped her fingers around it, found a place to grip it, and waited. Play dead, don’t move, get ready for it. Despite the pain, she breathed deeper and more quickly.

* * *

“Control to zero two eight one, do you copy, over?”

The rear pilot craned his neck, looking over the forward pilot/gunner in front of him. Forested hills rolled by two hundred feet below. He thumbed the mike and spoke over the thundering of the Cobra’s main rotor above. “Zero two eight one to control, we copy, over.”

“Need your situation report, over.”

“Ah, roger, we are cherubs two, speed of twenty, continuing the search on a heading of one seven—”

“Contact!” shouted the gunner. “Hotspot, heading thirty-four point six seven, range two point three three! I got ‘er!”

“Copy,” said the rear pilot, looking to starboard through the canopy. Adrenaline roared in his veins as he swung the helo to the right, the landscape tilting around him. He accelerated into the turn. “Zero two eight one to control, moving to investigate possible target, coming about to heading thirty-four point six seven, E.T.A. one minute.”

“Control to all units, Squadron Arrow, possible target on heading of thirty-four point six seven, confirm and copy, over.”

“You’re mine!” shouted the gunner, pumping his fist in the air. “You’re Big Jim’s bitch, now, baby! Yeee-haaaw!”

* * *

The hammering in the air grew loud. She opened her eyelids a fraction of an inch. Light speared her aching retinas, but she was grateful she was not totally blind. A wide horizontal tree trunk was in front of her face, measuring a yard in diameter and weighing as much as the earth and moon on her chest. Turning her head from side to side, she saw that she lay in the rocky bed of a wide, dry stream, surrounded by smoldering debris and shattered limbs. She squinted over the top of the tree trunk and made out a blurry shape in the sky to her left, the object making the hammering noise.

She flexed her right arm and gripped the rounded stone tighter, tugging it loose from the soil in which it had been imbedded. Her eyes didn’t hurt so much now. The pain receded, and things came into focus. The helicopter was less than a tenth of a mile away. It was all she could do to make herself lie still as the helicopter descended. Hang on, just a little more, a moment more, almost ready, almost ready, and now—

* * *

“Sweet Jee-zuz, there she is! Look there! Her legs are sticking out from under that tree at two o’clock! I got the Greenie! I got ‘er! Look at how burnt up her legs are! The Hellfire cut her in half! Hot damn, mama, I got ‘er!”

“Control to zero two eight one, copy. Activate gun camera to confirm kill, over.”

The rear pilot flipped switches, nervously eyeing the scene outside. He hoped the nude, blackened body wasn’t that of an innocent hiker. “Roger, control, camera on and moving closer, over.”

“Hey, Scotty,” called the gunner, “think I should put a few minigun rounds in her just to be sure?” He laughed.

The rear pilot frowned. “Wait a minute. We have to get film of her, first. Let’s get a good look at what’s left.”

“I’m gonna get a medal, by God! The boys at the paintball range can bend over and kiss my ass!”

“Hold on, let me—”

“Hey!” The gunner sounded different, startled. “Hey, Scotty, she’s in one piece! Lookit! There’s her head and one of her arms. She’s burned up bad, but she’s in one—”

The blackened figure under the huge tree trunk suddenly moved. The pilot saw it and felt his blood freeze solid between one heartbeat and the next.

“Jee-zuz!” shouted the gunner. “She’s—”

* * *

The rock was a granite fragment from a volcano a half-billion years dead. It weighed forty-nine pounds, about half as much as an AGM-114K Hellfire II missile, and was smaller than Daria’s school backpack. The rock’s velocity when it left Daria’s right hand was 158 miles per hour, guided in by eyes not fully healed from staring straight into a laser beam. The rock missed the canopy of the AH-1G Cobra and the starboard wing stub and weapons pods—but then went straight into the Cobra’s fiberglass main rotor.

The helicopter jumped violently and yawed to the right, vibrating up and down like a hypersonic piston. The gunner screamed. Rattled to the teeth, the pilot fought to regain control of the aircraft, but that chance no longer existed.

* * *

PUSH! Daria pressed both hands against the trunk and shoved with all her might. The nine-thousand-pound, forty-eight-foot hardwood log flew off of her, banging and rolling across the stream bed. Freed, Daria took a full lungful of air—and doubled over in agony, holding her blackened chest with both arms.

The Cobra wobbled drunkenly in the air barely a hundred feet away. She saw it, reached down, seized a second rock, and flung it, still crazy with pain. The thirty-pound stone went through the Cobra’s tail boom like a cannonball. The tail bent like a paperclip, the nose dropped, and the damaged main rotors struck the rocky ground. One long rotor snapped loose and tumbled end-over-end as it arced into the trees. The copter banged down hard on its starboard side on top of the remaining rotor, rocking slightly before it came to rest. The massive turbine engine whined, clattered, and shut down. Smoke drifted from an engine intake.

The gun camera ceased transmitting at impact, but functioned perfectly until then—to the horror of everyone at the National Guard airbase in Baltimore.

* * *

“Helo down! Zero two eight one is down!”

“Zero five three niner to control, zero two eight one is down! Searching for survivors!”

“Control to zero five three niner, copy, zero two eight one is down. We are receiving a distress beacon signal. Rescue is alerted.”

“Zero five three niner, at one o’clock, there’s a—”

“Survivor spotted!”

“Someone’s down there near the helo, I can’t tell who—”

“It’s a girl! She looks like she’s—”

“Greenie! It’s Greenie! Hold your fire!”

“Zero three one one to control, we’re going to get close and drive her off until rescue gets here!”

“Hold your fire! She’s too close to the crash!”

“Zero three one one to control, we’re . . . Pull up! Pull up! P—”

* * *

More helicopters. Daria forced herself to her feet and looked up. Helicopters everywhere, rotors pounding. It was never going to end.

The pain in her lungs receded but did not go away. Anger rose and took over. No one had ever hurt her like that. The hair-pulling and fist fights she’d had with her sister as a child were nothing. The fall from the horse at summer camp that gave her nine stitches was trivial. These people meant to harm her in the worst possible way. They meant to kill her. She had ended her fight, had tried to surrender—and they had gassed her and then blown her up. She didn’t know what they had hit her with that had knocked her from the hilltop all the way down here, but she was certain they would do it again if they could.

If they could.

She wasn’t a warrior at heart, but she wasn’t stupid, and she was pissed. A snapped-off maple trunk eight inches thick lay on the ground at her feet. She moved quickly, one hand chopping down karate-style to break off a straight section thirteen feet long. This she picked up, balanced in her hands, aimed at the nearest helicopter, took three running steps forward, and threw.

The makeshift weapon tumbled as it flew, a total disappointment as a javelin except that its upper end broke off one twenty-four-foot blade on the main rotor of the Cobra approaching her, and the lower end smashed the forward half of the cockpit and canopy, knocking the gunner unconscious in his seat. The helo fell like a stone into the trees, where it became snagged in the limbs and hung, nose down, two hundred feet from where Daria stood.

Looking up, Daria saw the nose gun on another helicopter flashing. Invisible fists struck her in the chest, knocking her down. Minigun shells ricocheted from the rocks and logs around her. She rolled and got up, skin stinging, desperately snatched up a handful of stones, and flung them at the distant copter like shotgun pellets. Then she turned and ran downhill along the streambed as fast as she could, long green legs scissoring. She did not see the helicopter that had fired at her pull back and leave the battle, trailing dark smoke from its damaged engine. Bullets and air-to-ground rockets from other Cobras showered down and blew shrapnel around her in a stinging cloud, punching at her spine and the backs of her head and legs, but she stayed on her feet. Loose stones in the creek bed made running hard, but she discovered a bounding pace that gave her stability and allowed her to increase her speed, avoiding most of the gunfire.

The streambed curved back and forth for a half mile down a gentle slope before approaching the Rolling Falls River. Daria rounded the last bend—and found herself running straight toward a Cobra hovering forty feet above her path. On impulse, she ran right for the copter and jumped as hard as she could. She had aimed to grab the landing skids, but she miscalculated her leap, and the helicopter tilted forward as it accelerated toward her. She slammed chest-first into the Cobra’s nose, knocking the wind out of her and crushing much of the copter’s fire-control system into ruin. Her hands descended and smashed through the foremost part of the canopy, punching handholds into the metal cover of the gunner’s control console.

The gunner shielded his face at impact, then lowered his arms and found the green demon that everyone at the Air National Guard base had joked about was clawing her way into the cockpit not four feet from his face. He screamed and fumbled for the 9-mm Beretta he wore as a sidearm. Behind him, the pilot gave a one-second glance at the new passenger, used up another second calculating every possible way to dislodge her, then put the Cobra into a fast clockwise yaw. He accelerated the spin with the tail rotor to the limit it would go. The helo drifted backwards toward the river.

Holding on to her perch, Daria gritted her teeth against the intense pain in her chest, then felt sharp stings against her face and shoulders. She lowered her head until the stings stopped, then looked up into the barrel of an empty pistol held by a terrified helicopter crewman. Enraged, she pulled herself up with one hand, snatched the pistol from the crewman with the other, and threw the gun into space. She intended to punch the gunner next, but she began to slide off the nose of the copter to her right and was forced to grab at her makeshift handholds. Too late, she realized the Cobra was rotating sideways and picking up speed. The metal console cover suddenly pulled free under giant Daria’s six-hundred-and-thirty-pound weight, and she fell over the side—

—and instinctively grabbed the Cobra’s port landing skid with her right hand. The Cobra was jerked down on that side, still spinning clockwise, and began to descend toward the river below in a high-speed wobbling rotation. Unable to fight centrifugal force, Daria’s hand slid rearward along the smooth skid bar as she swung out into space. Panicked, she kicked out with her right foot, struck the Cobra’s port stub wing, and ripped away the entire wing and its weapons mounts. The copter’s wobbling spin became more dramatic until the rear support strut on the landing skid snapped off. Daria’s hand slipped off the skid, and she was flung away head-over-feet to smack into the river before she even knew what was happening.

The Cobra pilot fought to stabilize the craft and was seconds away from doing it when the helicopter hit the water, too, throwing up a tremendous splash. The main rotor slammed into the water next with another splash and stopped. The engine screamed. The fuselage tipped to starboard as it sank, and the crewmen threw open the port canopy hatches, unsnapped their harnesses, scrambled out, and jumped into the water as the Cobra went under. Moments later, the drenched and sputtering pilot and gunner resurfaced, their yellow life jackets inflated.

Of the green demon, nothing could be seen.

* * *

“Did you get all that?” asked Linda Griffin in an awed voice.

“Got it,” said the equally awed video engineer at the KSBC-TV studio, watching the monitors as the show went live to a million people in the Baltimore viewing area.

“Mother of God,” said Linda, watching the crewmen swim for shore. And I was going to try to CATCH her!

* * *

The news conference was going well for Colonel Leonard Lamm until reporters receiving live updates from their newsrooms began shouting to him, asking if he was aware that Daria Morgendorffer was not only alive but battling it out with an entire squadron of Maryland Air National Guard attack helicopters in the countryside west of Baltimore, and she appeared to be winning. Colonel Lamm laughed and declared that that was impossible. Not a single Cobra helicopter had been lost to enemy action during the entire Persian Gulf War of 1991, and if Saddam Hussein, his elite Republican Guard, his air force, and the rest of his military could not knock down a single Cobra, Daria had no chance of doing so, either.

Then a nervous lieutenant appeared at Lamm’s elbow, cupped a hand over his microphone, and whispered, “Sir, we have a problem.”

“What the hell are you doing?” hissed Lamm. “I’m in the middle of a press conference!”

“There’s a call from General Ridgeway at the command center,” the lieutenant whispered back. “You’d better get back there.”

I’m going to have his gold bars, Colonel Lamm thought darkly as he excused himself from the press conference with a sparkling smile and a raised Ultra-Cola can. Any idiot who can’t remember to call me “sir” doesn’t deserve to be an officer. He fumed over this slight until he walked into the center and picked up the phone.

“You’re relieved of command, Leonard,” General Ridgeway said curtly. “Go home and wait for further instructions. And take your goddamn soda cans with you.”

XXI

Amy Barksdale blinked as a sleek red convertible sports car flashed by on the left, leaving her rattling, rusted-through Pinto in its wake. She gasped when she recognized the profile of the driver as the car sped by, tried to be a good sport about it for half a second, then lost it. She pounded the steering wheel and cursed until she was hoarse.

It didn’t matter that it shouldn’t be possible for Jane Lane to be up and around only hours after she’d had the living snot knocked out of her. Amy already understood she was dealing with someone of a different cut than her usual targets. But it mattered a lot that Jane was driving Amy’s custom 1967 Triumph Spitfire with the leopard-skin seat covers, with all the radio buttons preset precisely to every major alternative-rock station along the Mid-Atlantic Coast, which Jane had doubtless reset to whatever horrors teenagers listened to these days. The car should have been resting in pieces, not serving as a joyride for someone who had the nerve to escape from the Misery Chick.

The Spitfire faded into a red dot far ahead. Breathing heavily, Amy watched it go and decided Jane needed to die. Screw Executive One’s orders. A quick death was ruled out, however. It would be nice to play God over that girl’s last tortured minutes of life.

A short while later, Amy dumped her H&K in a trash can at a rest stop, after removing all evidence she had ever owned the weapon. Then she was back on the road, her mind alive with plans to stay alive until Jane’s fate was in her hands. Halfway to Lawndale, she started to think she might make it, and she smiled.

* * *

Jane admitted an undeniable sense of satisfaction as she shifted gears and swerved into the fast lane, passing a bus, a dump truck, and six cars in mere seconds at ninety-two miles an hour. Amy Barksdale’s little red Triumph Spitfire handled extremely well on the Interstate, and the heater kept the interior blissfully warm with the top up. Good thing Adrian had found it before the chop shop started its chopping.

“Are you two nice and comfy?” she asked the passengers to her right.

Adrian muttered something into Courtney’s overcoat and tried again to shift positions in the bucket seat they shared, squished together like sardines with the safety harness pulled over the both of them.

“This sucks,” Courtney grumbled. “I think one of us should have ridden in the trunk, as long as it wasn’t me.”

“What’s wrong with a little togetherness?” said Jane brightly. “I’d think you two would be used to it by now.”

“Aunt Jane, please don’t go there.”

“Hey, watch your knee. Don’t bump the gearshift.”

“I’m trying not to, but he’s—oh, I hate this! I wish we’d gotten another car!”

“Tell you what,” Jane said, smirking as she drove. “I have a few questions, and maybe you or what’s-his-name could answer them for me. It might take your mind off your not-sanctioned-by-triple-A travel arrangements.”

“I doubt it, but go ahead,” Courtney grumbled. “Don’t ask anything too personal, all right?”

“I wasn’t going to ask about you two. I was going to ask you about me.”

“Oh. Okay, go ahead.”

“What . . .” Jane bit her lip, trying to frame her question. “What kind of powers do I have, if you happen to know the answer? I have something, since all of a sudden I can kick ass on just about anyone with no experience at all, but what is it? I mean, I know I’m supposed to be . . . I’m related to—”

“The Wayne family.”

“Right. Easier to say that than Batman.” Jane made a face at a painful memory, then shook her head. “You know, I’m never going to get used to thinking of myself as Selina Grayson. I’ve been Jane Lane for too long. Is that a problem?”

“Not for me,” said Courtney. “Most of the Chosen will probably continue to think of themselves as who they are here on this world. Not many of them are old enough to remember much of their previous lives—Franklin, of course, and the older Power kids. Adrian and I call each other by our real names when we’re alone, but we use ‘Courtney’ and ‘Adrian’ when we’re around people. What was your question again?”

Jane sighed. “Why don’t you read my mind and give me the answer?”

“Because I can’t read minds. Adrian—excuse me, Nathan—is a lot like Franklin in his psychic abilities, only not as powerful yet. He can read minds and talk to others with telepathy, but most people don’t like that. Kind of scares them. If we’re in trouble, Nathan can control what other people do, like making them forget us and go away, like he did with that lady who was hunting you, or make them say or do stuff they didn’t mean to, or go to sleep, that kind of thing. He can’t do it to me, though. I’m immune to it somehow. I think that’s why we get along, mostly, because we can talk to each other so other people can’t hear us, but we can’t make each other do anything.” Courtney suddenly jammed an elbow back into Adrian’s ribcage. “Shut up,” she said.

“I’m glad I’m not telepathic,” said Jane dryly. “Okay, my question was—”

“Adrian just told me what you wanted to ask, if that’s okay,” said Courtney. “And I know the answer.”

“Fine, whatever,” said Jane in mild annoyance. “I just want to have a handle on who or what I really am.”

“You’re our ‘Aunt Jane,’ in case you forgot, and you do have a gift. You’ve actually been using it more or less all your life, but when Franklin touched your head in the hospital, he messed up and took off the controls he’d stuck on you, so now you can use all your powers to the max.”

Jane drove and waited, her mouth open in anticipation.

“Sorry for the delay,” said Courtney. “Adrian’s telling me what it is. I’d kind of figured it out before, when I was holding your arm and got a sense of what you’re like. Your brain is different, and your . . . your, uh, en-do-crine and nervous systems, they’re different, too, different from other people’s. You’re a mutant, but in a good way, like us. Adrian thinks everyone in your family had your mutation, which is why they were such great crimefighters, but they don’t have it as much as you do so they had to keep working out, training all the time. You don’t need to. What it is, is that whenever you see someone else do something, you instantly learn to do it, too. The middle part of your brain that controls your motor system, it’s bigger and more complicated than anyone else’s. You can copy perfectly everything anyone else does—like, if you watch a karate movie, you can do whatever you see them do onscreen. You don’t need training for anything, at least anything physical, and you don’t even have to pay attention to learn it. If the action is within sight of you, you automatically know how to do it.”

Jane was intrigued but puzzled. “Doesn’t everyone do that, more or less?”

“Not like you do. You get it right the first time, every time. You can’t do impossible stuff, like walk on air like they did in The Matrix, but your brain knows right away how to do everything realistic, even if you see it done only once.”

“Huh. So, if I sat on my butt and watched television all day, I’d learn to do anything I saw people do, like cook or turn cartwheels or whatever.”

“Right, but you’ve already been doing that. That’s probably how you survived all those years while your parents were away. You’ve got years of motor memories stored up that were waiting to be released, and some of them got used early on. Think about it: how did you learn to paint?”

“Uh . . .” Jane thought back. “I watched teachers do it in school. Oh, I get it—but, still, that’s what everyone else does, right?”

“Adrian says you once sold some paintings that were copies of famous ones. Most people can’t do that kind of detail work. You must have watched how real artists paint.”

Jane frowned. She suddenly remembered all the movies she’d seen in her art classes about famous recent artists and what techniques they used, how they went about their work. She had watched countless artists at work in real life, tagging along behind her mother at arts and craft fairs or college classes—and she remembered copying those techniques afterward when she made her own artwork.

“When did you learn to dance?” asked Courtney. “Adrian says you know how to, and you’re really good at it. Did you take lessons?”

“No. I . . . uh . . . saw people do it on TV when I was a kid. Okay, I get it. And I learned how to run long distance by watching how people did it, how they paced themselves, held their arms, all that. I learned to cook by watching TV shows about it. Come to think of it, I learned to drive that way, too.”

“Right. And your, um, en-do-crine system is all weird. You’re kind of like supercharged. When you have to act fast, you get a gigantic surge of energy, so you can do whatever you need to do really fast. You have to rest a lot and eat a lot to get recharged, but you heal quickly and you can get moving in no time.”

“Ah, so that’s why I sleep and eat all the time. Wonder if that’s why Trent’s like he is, too.”

“Sorry, no. Trent’s just lazy.”

“Damn. I was really hoping he was like me.”

“Anyway, because you can copy any action you see, no matter how complicated, and you have so much energy on tap, you can do everything a football player does, probably even better, or be an acrobat, a soldier, a cheerleader, a—”

“Oh, my God! I almost made it to the cheerleading squad once, but I dropped out on purpose!”

“You probably would have been a great cheerleader—if you’d wanted to, I mean.”

“I wish this power had worked in my math classes. I wouldn’t have looked so dumb.”

“Math’s not a physical skill. And you’re not stupid, anyway. You’re as smart as Jessica—I mean, Daria. You’ve got all the brain power she does.”

“Ha.”

“When did Daria ever mention a topic that you knew absolutely nothing about?”

“Um . . .”

“I rest my case.”

Jane beamed. “Thanks. Not that that was important to me or anything. So, you’re saying that because I’ve been watching Chinese martial-arts movies all these years, that’s the reason—”

“That’s where you learned to kick ass. You don’t always copy things exactly, though. Adrian says your mind sorts out the best way to physically do something, without your having to think about it, and then you do it, almost by reflex.”

Jane was thoughtful. She remembered pounding on Tom Sloane when she discovered he’d been cheating on her with Daria, but she also remembered holding herself back from killing him. Her rage had been boundless. He still yelped and backed away from her until she stopped trying to beat the crap out of him. “This is the perfect superpower for a slacker who wants to lie around all day and watch TV,” she said. “It’s a dream come true.”

“How do you think you’ve been able to do everything you have so far?”

“Wow.” The possibilities were endless. Jane realized she could learn to do anything from mountain-climbing to hang-gliding, from scuba-diving to flying aircraft, from the most complex gymnastics to the most dangerous martial arts, simply by watching other people do it on TV or in movies. She could become an instant expert at fencing, knife fighting, karate, stick fighting, firearms shooting, if she wasn’t already—and assuming that what she saw was accurately portrayed. If it was faked, she realized she might learn a skill wrong. Because of security concerns, movies rarely showed how to accurately operate jet aircraft, and some movies had very bad martial-arts actors.

“Adrian says that’s right,” said Courtney. “He also says he’s sorry he’s answering your mental questions again.”

“I’ll forgive him this once.” I’d better watch myself around porn movies.

A moment later, Courtney jammed Adrian in the ribs with her elbow again “Ouch!” he cried.

Jane smiled. That’s what you get for reading my mind, kid. “We should be in Lawndale in half an hour,” she said, then became reflective. “I really wish this had worked out better than it did.”

“What?” said Courtney.

“This whole . . . the—”

“Replacing the original children here. I get it.” Courtney looked out the windshield. “I do, too. There had to have been a better way to do it. Franklin could have saved them, but he didn’t. I don’t know why he didn’t. I can’t think of an excuse for it.”

“I wonder what the real Jane Lane was like. I wonder what she would have done in my place all these years, if she would have been as cynical as me, as much of a loner, if she’d—oh, forget it. Doesn’t matter now, I guess.”

Courtney’s hand reached over and touched Jane on the arm. Jane took a hand from the steering wheel and clutched the girl’s fingers. They were silent for a minute.

“I wonder if I should tell Trent who I am,” Jane said. “Who I really am, I mean. He’s the only one who would care.”

“Don’t think about it, Aunt Jane,” Courtney whispered. “Don’t rush it.”

Jane swallowed, then took her hand away and held the steering wheel again. “I wonder how Daria is,” she said at last. “If I know her, she’s probably feeling so guilty for what she’s done, she’s turned herself in by now. She’s not really aggressive or mean. She talks a good game, but she wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She winced. “You know what I mean.”

“I know. We’re going to have a lot to sort out when this is over.”

“Say, one other thing. You said Quinn was from the same world as Daria, right? Were they sisters there, too?”

Courtney looked troubled. “Uh, no, they weren’t. Jessie was an only child.”

“So, what’s Quinn’s thing? Whose kid is she?”

It was silent in the car. Jane glanced to her right. Courtney was biting her lips and looking very tense. From what little Jane could see of him, Adrian looked just as upset.

“Come on,” Jane said, “let’s hear it. Who else in the Marvel Universe has red hair like her?”

After a pause, Courtney mumbled a name.

The color bled out of Jane’s face. She was genuinely frightened. “No,” she whispered, “you can’t be serious. Are you saying that Quinn’s really—”

“No, but she’s her niece. Quinn’s real name is Gailyn Bailey. We don’t know yet if that particular power runs in the family, which the comics indicate, but if it does . . .”

* * *

The Morgendorffer house was silent when Quinn came out of the bathroom. Her face was free of sorrow, but she was thinking deeply. She walked downstairs, escorted by the female police officer, and went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. When the lady officer turned to look into the family room, Quinn looked at the cabinets.

Once I say this word, there’s no turning back.

She lifted her chin and whispered the word: phoenix. Then she put out her hand and gave a mental command.

A cabinet door opened by itself, and a glass flew out and over into Quinn’s grasp. The cabinet closed again before the officer turned to look back at her.

He was right! My guardian angel was right! I have the power! I can do anything!

She got her drink, put the glass in the dishwasher, then walked out and took a seat on the family room sofa beside her father. The world was different now. She felt it. The big-screen television set was off. She tried to take her father’s hand, but he resisted.

Jake stared at the floor, a broken man. “It’s my fault,” he whispered. “I should have been there for her all these years. She wouldn’t have done this if I’d only been there for her.”

“That’s not true, Daddy,” Quinn said softly. “It’s not your fault.”

“We had a second chance,” he said. “After the accident, we had a second chance to do things the right way. I let it slip away.”

Quinn leaned closer, unsure if she’d heard correctly. “What accident?”

Jake looked away. “Daria was two and a half, and you were a year old. We were going to a park when we were hit from behind by a truck. The car was . . . it was crushed up like . . . but when your mother and I came to, you and Daria were outside the car, standing there. I don’t know how you got out. The truck driver was killed. His brakes failed. I had a second chance to do things differently . . . to be a better dad . . .” His face fell. “I didn’t do it. I let her down, both of you, and now this.”

“You never told me that,” Quinn whispered.

“What year was that, Mister Morgendorffer?” asked one of the officers sitting with them.

Quinn glared at him, but Jake stirred. “Nineteen eighty-four, the spring. Forgot what day. It happened in Austin, Texas, where we used to live. My wife was in law school.” His face tightened. “Now they’ve killed my little kiddo. The Man’s gone and killed her.”

“Daria’s alive, Daddy,” said Quinn.

Everyone looked at her in astonishment.

“My guardian angel told me she was alive.” Quinn took hold of her father’s arm. “You have to believe me, Daddy. Daria’s alive.” She took a deep breath. “And I’m going to find her and bring her home. I won’t let you down.”

Her father stared at her, open mouthed. “What?”

Quinn stood up. “I’ve decided to go. The angel said I have the power to do it. I’m going to find Daria. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The lady police officer took a step toward her. “Quinn,” she began, “your mother’s on her way here, and we’d rather you—”

“I’m leaving,” said Quinn. She walked toward the front door. The phone rang in the kitchen.

The lady officer reached out to stop her—then recoiled, her face alive with fear. “What in the—!” she began.

There was no time to say anything more.

* * *

The phone at the Morgendorffers rang and rang. Stacy Rowe looked down the hospital corridor to see if anyone had discovered she had left her room in the ER. After twelve rings, Stacy hung up. She would have to go to Quinn’s house on her own to find out what was up. Anywhere beat staying here while her parents got a bite to eat in the Cedars of Lawndale cafeteria.

She went back to her room and discovered her parents had taken her old clothes and left nothing for her to wear. Walking out dressed in a hospital gown open in back was simply not done. Stacy groaned, tried to think of another solution, but came up empty. It was the only way.

“Costume on,” she said, and she was ready to go. She put a hand on the doorknob, then glanced at the TV but decided to leave it turned off, as it had been after she learned of Daria’s death. Steeling herself, she opened the door and walked out quickly.

I hope Sandi doesn’t see these moon boots, she thought. She could imagine nothing worse than that.

XXII

Angela Li watched the TV without expression. The news was shocking, but she adapted quickly to every threat, and even this disaster was no exception. The live video from the KSBC-TV News Copter of the rescue of the Cobra pilots was soon interrupted by a state press conference in which the governor declared martial law across central and eastern Maryland and imposed curfews throughout the Baltimore metropolitan area. When this was in turn interrupted by a special bulletin announcing that commercial air travel had been banned within a two-hundred-mile radius of Washington, D.C., and the White House and Capitol Building were being evacuated, Li picked up the office phone by her elbow, hit the button for the secure line, then punched in the number on the paper scrap on the desk before her. She turned back to the TV screen, silent and grim.

“Ten Thousand, Incorporated,” said a soft, feminine voice. “Please leave a message.” The expected beep followed.

“Buck,” said Ms. Li, not taking her eyes from the screen, “call me ASAP about another job if you’re bored. Long term, payment to be negotiated, starts now.” She left a phone number that would not be traced to the principal’s office of Lawndale High School, which is where she was this particular Saturday morning, and hung up.

One must be a lion to frighten wolves, she thought, and her eyes strayed to the well-worn copy of The Prince that peeked from under a stack of papers on her desk. Miss Morgendorffer, I had never guessed you to be a wolf—a troublesome gadfly, yes, but never a wolf. I shall not repeat the error.

* * *

The last police officer that Quinn Morgendorffer threw out of the house managed first to empty his Smith & Wesson at her, to no effect. The bullets smacked against an invisible wall two feet from her and dropped harmlessly to the carpet. Quinn glared at him. The officer’s pistol was jerked from his fingers, then he was lifted from the ground and whisked to the open front door, through which he was flung into the yard to crash into the other six officers, who were in various stages of getting to their feet. The door then slammed shut and could not be budged. Attempts by law-enforcement officials to re-enter the house through the glass kitchen doors or various windows proved fruitless, as the house was sealed with fields of unseen force that nothing could penetrate.

Her telekinetic skills improving by leaps and bounds, Quinn concentrated and, without lifting a finger, piled up the pistols she had taken from the officers and shoved them under the loveseat. It was a temporary measure until she had a better idea of what to do with them. She then took a moment to marvel at her newfound abilities. I can see everything around me without looking at it, all inside my head, and stop anyone I want from getting inside. I can pick up anything and make it fly away, even heavy stuff, so I don’t ever need to ask guys to do it for me! I bet I could pick myself up, too, and even fly! Yeah! This is so incredible! This would have been cool to have had when I went to Chez Pierre with Corey and he didn’t have enough money to get me a fat-free dessert, and then I saw Alan with his family and wished I could dump Corey in the parking lot and get Alan to buy me dessert. Now I can do it! After I rescue Daria, of course.

“Quinn?” Her father was ashen-faced. “Quinn, what did you—?”

She gave him an exalted smile. “Daddy, isn’t this great? My guardian angel said I had a gift, and this is what it is! I can do anything just by thinking it! Isn’t that cool?”

“But—you’re on fire!” Jake pointed at the unnatural nimbus of flickering flames surrounding his daughter. Fiery yellow wings rose above her shoulders, and an avian visage hovered over her head, its black sunspot eyes regarding Jake with disdain.

“What? Oh, I’m not on fire, Daddy! Don’t worry about it! That’s my power! I feel awesome! This is the best thing ever! I’m going to bring Daria home! You wait here where you’ll be safe, okay? And if I see Mom, I’ll bring her here, too!”

Quinn’s feet lifted from the carpet. She looked down with delight, then cried, “Be right back!” With that, she tipped forward and flew in a tight circle toward the front door, which opened as she approached. She rocketed out with her hands at her sides. The door slammed shut behind her.

Trembling, Jake grimaced in pain and felt his left arm, then reached in a pocket of his pants and pulled out a small bottle. After clumsily opening it and dry-swallowing a pill, he dropped the bottle on the coffee table and went to look out the front windows, still holding his left arm. In the yard was a crowd of a half-dozen dumbstruck police officers, looking up as they watched an object cross the sky. Officers stood open-mouthed in the street beside their police cars, staring up in wonder and awe. Jake strained to see what all of them were looking at, but the object in the sky had already disappeared.

* * *

Stacy Rowe quickly discovered that cab drivers were not willing to take your word that you would pay them after they gave you a ride to your best friend’s house, where you planned to talk your friend into loading you the money for your cab fare, which you were sure your friend would do because she was your best friend. Trying to convince them while wearing a costume that belonged on the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers show made it worse. Even the promise of a “really, really big tip” did not help. Furious that she had to walk over twenty blocks from Cedars of Lawndale to Quinn’s house, embarrassed that she had to be seen in public wearing a costume with silver moon boots, and fearful that she would not know the right thing to say to comfort someone whose sister was just blown up by the U.S. Army, a miserable Stacy did not notice anything unusual until she had traveled two full blocks from the hospital. At that point she glanced up and saw that everyone around her was looking at the sky to the southeast, ignoring her. Puzzled, she looked, too—and she had perfect vision.

“Ohmigod!” she gasped. “I can’t believe it!” Stacy jumped up and down on the sidewalk and waved her arms in excitement, dark blue eyes focused on her best friend of all. “Quinn! Quinn! Over here! Look at me, Quinn!”

Quinn, however, did not notice. She was flying in a broad circle about two hundred feet up and a quarter of a mile away, orbiting her subdivision in hip-hugger jeans and a pink tee, leaving a long fiery trail in the sky behind her. From her squinty-eyed expression, she seemed to be looking for something far away, near the horizon.

She must have come over with Franklin and me and all the others! She’s one of the Avengers’ sleepover kids! This is so GREAT! I can’t believe it! Whose kid was she, though? I don’t remember everyone who was with us, there were so many—but who cares, this is still the best news ever! Quinn is as super as me! I hope Sandi doesn’t turn out to be super, too, because that would really bite, and Tiffany will never be super, like duh, but they’re not here and I am and I’m not going to let them spoil this moment! This is the best thing ever! Quinn and I are supers! But how can I get her to see me? Oh, no, what if she flies away? I need to do something right now! I need to—

She remembered, then. Looking down, she spotted a candy wrapper, which she picked up and concentrated on as hard as she could. The wrapper vanished with a fffft!, disintegrating in her fingers, its potential energy sucked into Stacy’s body. Her hands began to glow, less brightly than before but still sufficient. She arched her back so her chest was aimed upward, she pulled back both arms with fists clenched, and she let go.

FFOOOMM!! Three blinding spheres of energy burst from between her breasts and roared straight into the sky at missile speed. Her costume, created on another world to withstand solar-level heat and radiation, was undamaged. So thrilled was she that Stacy was hardly aware of the screaming that immediately erupted around her, the sudden flight of everyone within visual range. The energy balls exploded like fireworks with ear-splitting thunderclaps that echoed from every building for blocks around—

—and Quinn noticed. She turned in the air, looked right at Stacy, and after a stunned moment flew toward her.

“Yes!” Stacy shrieked in triumph. She again began waving her arms and jumping up and down like a maniac.

Quinn Morgendorffer swooped down over Gorman Parkway, skimming above the tops of traffic-stalled cars and trucks until she came to rest in mid-air only forty feet from Stacy. There she stared goggle-eyed at her fellow Fashion Clubber and cried, “Stacy?”

“I can’t believe it!” Stacy cried, bouncing like a pogo stick. “Oh, I can’t believe it! We’re both superheroes! You and me both! I love it!”

“How did you do that?” Quinn drifted down until her boots touched the concrete sidewalk twenty feet away. She regarded Stacy from head to moon boots with a queer expression that implied she was more stunned than pleased at this discovery.

“How did I do it?” Stacy stopped jumping in place, aware that her chest hurt and her head was starting to spin from hyperventilating. She tried to calm herself. “The Kymellians gave me this power! You remember them, don’t you?” She flinched, looked mortified, and continued with only a half-second break in speaking. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t know about that! I forgot! I’m sorry! There was this alien named Aelfyre Whitemane, and he—see, because those darn Snarks were—because my dad was—oh, fudge, it’ll take too long to explain!” She paused long enough to draw a deep breath and said, “Do you remember your first name?”

“My first name?” said Quinn, taken aback. “Quinn, of course! You know that!”

“No, I meant, not your first name like Quinn, I meant your original name, before we—back when—oh, I’m not explaining this right! Forget it! It doesn’t matter! Where you going anywhere just now?”

Quinn, who had never expected to have a conversation like this with anyone, answered hesitantly. “I was going to get Daria. She’s alive, and I—”

“What? Ohmigod, Daria’s alive? We should go get her, then!”

“Well . . . yeah, right! That’s what I was saying! I was going to get her!”

“I can help! I mean, if you don’t mind if I come along, if that’s okay, you know? I have superpowers, too, just like you, only I think my powers aren’t the same as yours because you can fly and I can’t, so—rats, that’s going to be a problem, because I can’t run very far and no one will give me a ride because I don’t have taxi fare and the buses are so—”

“Gawd, Stacy, we don’t have time for a mental breakup!” Quinn gestured as if picking up a small item from a tabletop, then she lifted away from the ground and headed into the sky at high speed. With a startled shriek, Stacy took off with her.

People slowly came out of hiding. Police sirens wailed in the distance.

“I know them!” cried a fashionably thin teenager with long brunette hair. She stood in the doorway of a women’s accessories store. “Ohmigod, I know them!”

“Who are they?” asked a girl walking up behind her. Her voice had a trace of hesitation, a bit of a sing-song accent.

The brunette turned. “Oh, Tiffany!” she cried. “Didn’t you recognize them? That was Quinn and Stacy!”

The attractive Asian girl in the blue dress frowned. “Kwin-oo and Stay-see?” she said carefully, her diction slow. “I . . . did not know. I was suh-prised, because I did not know they wuh . . . like that.” She stumbled over the “l” and almost made it an “r,” but the brunette seemed not to notice.

“I didn’t, either! Oh, this is horrible! They’re space invaders just like those other two kids from school, the geeky ones! They’re attacking America!”

The Asian girl’s puzzlement grew and mixed with a measure of alarm. “You say, space-ah . . . invadahs?”

“Didn’t you hear about it? Ohmigod, I should call Sandi and tell her! Maybe I can get into the Fashion Club now! I could take Quinn and Stacy’s place!” The brunette pulled a cell phone from her purse, snapped it open, and thumbed in a speed-dial number. “Hello?” she cried into the phone. “Is Sandi there? This is Brooke! I have to talk to her immediately! It’s a Fashion Club emergency!”

“Excuse?” said the Asian girl, touching Brooke’s arm. “Do you know wheh is—”

“Wait a minute, Tiff. Hello? Can I talk to Sandi, please? I really have to talk to her! Tell her it’s Brooke and I’ve got something really important to tell her!”

The Asian girl’s expression quickly changed into a cold, narrow-eyed look of rage. “My name-ah,” she began, “is not Tiff, and you . . .”

On the verge of taking lethal action, the Asian girl forced herself to calm down. Frustrated, she shouldered her handbag, studied the street scene, then chewed the inside of her lower lip as she walked away.

“Hey, Tiffany!” someone shouted. She turned, sizing up the black-haired, enthusiastic young man running toward her. “Hey!” he called as he came up. “What’s going on? You know, I heard like all these people screaming and yelling and stuff! Did something bad happen?”

“Ah,” said the girl, “ah, no, nothing bad happen. You name is . . .?”

“Joey! C’mon, you know. What a tease! We still have a date tonight, right?”

“Date?” She thought it over. Everyone thought she was some girl named Tiffany. Maybe that could help. “Ah, uh, okay, ah, Joh-ee. Yes, we have-ah day tonigh’.”

“Hey, you wanna go out now? I forgot, there’s a curfew or something later, and I don’t have anything to do right now, and Quinn’s not answering her phone, so we can go out if you want.”

“Ah . . . okay, we go out ah-now.” She nodded rapidly, smiling. “Yes! We go out ah-now, Joh-ee. Ah, Joh-ee?”

“What, Tiff?”

The girl smiled shyly and took the boy’s hand in her own. He could get her to the one place she knew she could get all the hard information on this world’s superheroes, at which point he would be easy to dump so she could do her research and take on the job she had been hired to do. “Joh-ee,” she said in a low, sensual voice, pressing herself against him, “do you know wheh is comic-ah-book-ah shop?”

* * *

His father was away for the weekend on business, so the team captain of the Lawndale Lions football team could come and go as he wished. Scrimmage practice at the high school had been cancelled that cold Saturday, but Michael “Mack” MacKenzie drove in at noon, parked in the backfield lot, and walked over to stand by the gridiron and do nothing but look around. His breath clouded the air as he stood there, hands jammed in the pockets of his athletic jacket, feet planted by the twenty-yard line.

Crazy world, he thought. Crazy world. Daria Morgendorffer’s turned into a green monster, the TV’s got her picture and Jane’s up, asking for information on them, telling people to stay away from them ‘cause they’re knocking down helicopters and police cars and everything, and I can’t believe it. It’s crazy. It makes no sense. I don’t get it.

The football field was silent in the cold sunlight.

I don’t get it. School’s shut down, everybody’s supposed to be getting home, staying indoors, it’s crazy. It’s like it’s not even real.

He stood there for twenty minutes until his toes got cold, then he turned and walked back to his car. He was almost there when a deep blue Dodge Viper GTS pulled into the school lot. The muffled thump of gangsta music preceded it.

I can’t believe Jeffy’s dad lets him borrow that thing, Mack grumbled to himself as he watched. Jeffy acts like it’s his car, like he bought and paid for it. I can’t believe it. He tried not to look at the well-used maroon Honda Civic four-door to which he had been heading moments earlier. It was his dad’s spare car, the one he’d probably get if he got into college with a scholarship, as he’d hoped. It’s a sensible car, I should be proud to drive it, he told himself, but the Viper mocked his words.

Gravel cracking under its tires, the Viper pulled up to Mack and the driver’s side window rolled down, bathing him in the rap of Fatboy Slim. “Yo, Mack!” shouted crew-cut, redheaded Jeffy over the music. “Saw your car! There’s no practice today, man!”

“I know, I know,” Mack shouted. “I just came out to look around!” Can’t he turn that music down so I can hear him talk?

“You’re not supposed to be out, man! TV said the police wanted everyone to stay at home! Coach called around this morning about an hour ago, said Ms. Li was cancelling everything on account of the big thing that’s going on!”

“Yeah, Jeffy, I know, okay? I saw it. So, why are you out?”

“‘Cause, dude, I’m going over to see Quinn! She might need to talk to somebody ‘cause of her sister, ya know? She might need me! I’m the love doctor!” Jeffy began bobbing in his seat and clapping his hands to the rap song. “Go call Jodie, man, see what’s shakin’!”

“Yeah, whatever, man. Thanks.”

“Yo! Out!” Jeffy grinned and put the Viper in drive and took off with tires squealing. The air stank of melted rubber. Mack wrinkled his nose and waved halfheartedly as Jeffy roared out of the parking lot.

Call Jodie, see what’s shakin’, he thought as he waved. His hand fell. Hell, I already know what’s shakin’. She’s got everything else to do in the world except spend time with me. I shouldn’t be mad about it, but we never get together anymore. I’ve tried calling her since last night, but she doesn’t answer the phone. If I was jealous, I’d think she had someone else—and she does have someone on the side, and that someone else’s name is Extracurriculars: Honor Society, French Club, Student Council, everything to do in the world except spend time with me. I know the world doesn’t revolve around me, but still, she could . . . aw, what the hell. Nothing I say makes any difference anyway.

After a moment, he stuffed both hands in his jacket pockets and continued on to his car.

I can’t believe I’m still going out with her. Joe Blow trying to date Wonder Woman. I can’t compete. I can’t keep up. I should call it quits and look around. I should. I really should.

He thought about how it would feel to have a Dodge Viper of his very own, not one he’d borrowed from his dad like Jeffy’s. Hot yellow body, V-10 engine, zero to sixty in four, rear airfoil, cool wheels, leather seats, someone sitting next to him who cared. . . .

He woke up from the daydream without moving a muscle. He sighed and pulled his right hand from his jacket pocket, car keys clinking, and unlocked the driver’s side door and got in.

I’m just like this car. I’m a Honda Civic. That’s all that I am. I’m not a Viper. I’m a Civic. I’m Joe Blow, not important enough to notice except when the schedule’s empty. I should call Jodie and let her go, move on with my life.

I should call her when I get home. I will call her.

Maybe she’ll go out with me if I call her.

He started the car and headed home. He passed Ms. Li’s car on the way out, but her car was always here, and he thought nothing of it.

Still can’t believe that about Daria and Jane. Crazy world. If nothing else, at least Jodie’s normal.

* * *

Jeffy frowned as he drove and turned down the volume on “Gangsta Trippin’,” then cocked his head. He thought he’d heard something, a girl’s voice. Weird. Nothing there. He was reaching for the volume button again when he looked up at the strange contrail crossing the sky before him.

The cobalt-blue Viper came to a screaming stop on Thorn Avenue, far short of the stop sign before he would have crossed into the subdivision where the Morgendorffers lived. Jeffy put the car in park and got out, leaving the engine running, then looked up. The fiery contrail he had been following curved and within moments roared high overhead, heading the way he had already come. Jeffy squinted at the object at the head of the contrail—and gasped. Two people! And they looked like girls! They were flying through the sky like superheroes on TV cartoons!

And the girl who was flying ahead of the other one looked almost familiar . . .

A strange feeling entered Jeffy’s head. He made a face, but the sensation grew. He had the odd impression that he was not alone, that someone else was inside his—

“Hey, dumbass!” yelled a man with his head out of his car window. “Get that piece of crap off the road! This isn’t a friggin’ parking lot!”

Jeffy quickly got back in his car with a last look up at the flying girls. That was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. He couldn’t wait to tell Quinn about it.

XXIII

“We warned you a year ago it was happening—and we’ve been proven right!” cried the voice-over as the pulsing green-and-red Sick, Sad World logo filled the TV screen with concentric ovals around an open eye. The eye blinked, and next appeared a bookish, spectacled gentleman sitting in a study. “The aliens aren’t coming,” said the gentleman to a female interviewer. “They’re already here. They could be your friends, your family. They act almost normal, but something’s off.”

The screen returned to the Sick, Sad World logo. “From outer space . . . to in your face! Aliens behaving badly in America—and you saw it first on Sick, Sad World! Stay turned for our updated, hour-long, encore special, next!”

“Well, it could be worse,” muttered the brown-haired youth watching the TV in the Lawndale Police Department conference room. “They could be selling souv—” He paused as a shrill voice on a TV commercial hawked short-sleeved tees that read: My Planet Was Invaded by Naked Green Alien Women, and All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt! “Never mind,” the teenager finished, slouching further down in his seat. “It can’t possibly get any worse than it already is.”

The plainclothes officer grunted as if in agreement, though his gaze was not on the TV. He swirled black coffee in a Styrofoam cup and sourly eyed the teenager’s Gucci loafers, beige Dockers, blue-gray sweater, and fashionably unkempt hair. The kid’s Rolex alone probably cost two month’s worth of a cop’s annual salary. The officer knew he should be fair, even if life wasn’t, but he privately hoped the Sloanes were in debt up to their eyeballs. “How can you stand to watch that garbage?” he asked, lacking anything else to say.

“Given the circumstances,” said Tom, “how can I stand not watch it? It’s either this or news video of the Army shooting at someone everyone claims is my mutant terrorist girlfriend, even if my real girlfriend doesn’t have green skin and no one seems to care that she’s disappeared off the face of the earth—not that I’m bitter or anything.”

The officer looked thoughtful and did not answer. He doesn’t seem terribly broken up about his girlfriend, he thought as he finished his coffee. Annoyed, but not hysterical. Interesting. Cold fish, or did he have something to do with this, too?

“Have you heard whether they’re going to let my father see me before the year two thousand?” asked Tom. “Or is he stuck in a room like this one somewhere else in the building? And what happened to the attorney who was supposed to see me?”

“They’ll see you when they’re ready, I suppose,” said the officer, tossing the empty cup away. He glanced at the one-way mirror behind the teen, rolled his eyes in a gesture meant to be seen by the recording crew, and picked up a Reader’s Digest.

Tom shook his head in disgust and murmured, “What this planet needs is a giant reset button.” He raised the remote, pushed a button, and the TV screen changed from Sick, Sad World to a view of a river between low hills. Gigantic geysers of water erupted from the river as hovering helicopters fired rockets into it. COUNTERATTACK AT ROLLING FALLS, read the caption near the bottom of the screen, below which read: LIVE FROM THE KSBC-TV NEWS-COPTER.

“Never would have believed it,” Tom muttered. “Never. Daria, of all people.” He watched the scene for a half minute, then said to himself, “If . . . when we get through this alive, I should write a book. I should do it.” He watched the scene for another half minute. More explosions went off in the water. His expression became thoughtful. “I wonder if I could get Bill to be my agent. He’s got the background and the connections, being a literature professor at Bromwell and all. And being an old bud of my dad can’t hurt. Tom and Bill. Thomas and William.” He shook his head. “Too weird.”

* * *

“That’s a hell of a lot of power someone’s putting out, flying around over there,” said Adrian, frowning at the hilly horizon to the northwest. “It’s gotta be Quinn.”

Jane strained but could see nothing other than sky and cloud above the hills. They had pulled off the Interstate onto a two-lane road leading into the north end of Lawndale, and now they were stopped in the parking lot of a Kwik-E Mart, on a hilltop on the edge of town. Jane, Adrian, and Courtney had gotten out of the car to stretch, huddling behind the clear plastic walls of a bus stop to stay out of the cold wind. Everyone stood with their arms crossed, bunched up for warmth.

“You’re not going to do a little long-distance mind-reading and make sure it’s really her?” Jane asked, her breath frosting the air.

Adrian made a face. “I don’t want to risk attracting her attention.”

Courtney stared at him. “I’ve never heard you say that before, except about Franklin.”

“Except for Franklin, I’ve never met anyone as powerful as that before,” said Adrian, nodding at the horizon. “Well, other than Kara, of course, but that’s different.”

“Kara?” said Jane. “You mean Kara as in Kara Something-or-other, Supergirl? Who’s—”

“Jodie Landon.”

“Oh! Really? Huh. Yeah, it kinda figures.” She frowned. “Well, it sort of figures. I’m just puzzled, you understand, but I thought Supergirl was—”

“Her parents were from an alternate Krypton, one with a more radiant sun, so everyone there was dark-skinned,” said Adrian. “Otherwise, it was all the same. Her folks made it to that universe’s Earth when Krypton was destroyed, got married and had a baby, but a little while later that Earth was wiped out in the Crisis. Her parents had put her aboard a spacecraft in case things went bad, and when they did go bad she was launched into hypertime, crossed a few quadrillion probability lines, and here she is.”

Jane scratched her head and continued to frown. “I’m no math wizard, but it stretches credulity that she just happened to—”

“Franklin brought her in, just like he brought you in,” interrupted Adrian. “It wasn’t by random chance that either she or you got here. It wasn’t by chance that any of us got here. Thanks to Franklin, nothing here is an accident.”

Jane glared. “I thought I warned you about reading my mind and finishing my sentences.”

Adrian sighed but continued to watch the horizon. “Sorry, Aunt Jane. I’m just nervous. I don’t mean to do it, but . . . I can’t help it when I get nervous.”

“You? All the powers you’ve got, and you’re nervous? That makes me feel safe.”

“Things aren’t normal anymore, so we’re both—” Courtney hesitated for a beat. All the other cars in the parking lot had disappeared in the blink of an eye. She waited for them to reappear, but they did not. “—we’re both kind of nervous. If Franklin’s having trouble holding reality together, he must have been badly hurt. I can’t imagine what could have done that to him.”

Jane, too, had noticed the disappearing cars, but she was damned if she was going to mention it. “Any luck finding Daria?” she asked Adrian, trying to keep her voice level.

“I’m having a hard time finding anyone specifically,” grumbled Adrian. “Quinn’s like a supernova. Her psychic presence overwhelms everything else.”

“She did that before she became psychic,” said Jane. “Overwhelm everyone, I mean.”

“So I hear. I think it would be a good idea for us all to stay on her good side, if you get my drift.”

“Yeah. Knowing Quinn, though, that shouldn’t be hard to do. All she wants is to be worshiped. Um, what did you say her other name was, her real name from your world?”

“Gailyn Bailey. Her mother was Sara Grey Bailey, Jean Grey’s sister. Gailyn and her twin brother came over with Franklin and the rest of us.”

“Her brother?” Jane turned to him with wide eyes. “Quinn has a brother? You didn’t tell me she had a freaking brother! There are two of them?”

“You don’t have to shout, Aunt Jane.”

“Nathan,” said Courtney in a low, singsong voice. “Ix-nay.”

“Whatever,” Adrian grumbled.

“Is there something I’m not supposed to know about this brother?” asked Jane.

Adrian and Courtney sighed at the same time. “Never mind for now,” said Adrian. “It’s complicated.”

“Fine, forget I asked,” said Jane. “Just find Daria and get her the hell out of here.”

Adrian turned around to peer at the Kwik-E Mart building. “Wait,” he said, squinting. “People are talking about her. Daria was on TV a while ago, and everyone saw—” His expression darkened. He glanced at Courtney, eyes full of meaning.

Courtney gasped, staring back at Adrian. “Oh, no!” she said in distress. “How are we going to get her out of that mess?”

“Out of what mess?” Jane said, her voice rising. “C’mon, tell me!”

“The army attacked her,” said Adrian. “Huge fight, helicopters and everything.” He turned back to the northwest, squinting hard. “I’ve got to find her.”

“The army?” Jane repeated weakly. “What happened? Is she okay?”

“She’s alive, but they’re hunting her all over the place. No one knows where she is. She fell in the river. Damn, I wish I could . . . oh, great, something else is interrupting. I can’t detect her at all. What the hell’s happening now?”

“Let’s get the car and find a river, then,” said Jane, walking to the driver’s door.

“Oh, no,” said Adrian, his voice rising. He turned to his blonde companion. “Franklin’s back. I can sense him, just barely.”

Courtney swore under her breath.

“Hey, if we could talk to Franklin, maybe he could—what?” Jane looked at Adrian. “Why are you shaking your head no?”

“We might try to heal Franklin from a distance, but we can’t and won’t talk to him. Forget it.”

“Aunt Jane,” whispered Courtney, “we’re trying to stay out of Franklin’s sight, like we told you. He’s really got a thing about me. Our mom died when I was born, and we think he blames me for it. It took everything Adrian and I had to block Franklin from even thinking about us. If he catches us, I don’t know what will happen, but I imagine it won’t be anything good. He’s really crazy.”

Adrian picked up from there. “The only reason we were able to block him from finding us is because he’s usually so occupied with holding reality together in this universe he created, he can’t do much else. That was a big help, but now that he’s been hurt by whatever did it to him . . . I hate to say it, but if he doesn’t find a way to heal himself of whatever happened to him, or get healed by us, this universe might start falling apart. Jane and I earlier were discussing a way we could—”

“Forget it! I can’t cure him!” Courtney snapped. “If I got close enough to fix him, he’d kill me!”

“If you don’t heal him, everything in the universe disintegrates!” Adrian retorted. “You saw all those cars disappear! I know you did, both of you, and I saw it, too! That’s happening everywhere, all over the universe, and it’s picking up speed! The forces holding space-time together are weakening!”

“Isn’t there someone else who could take over for Franklin?” Jane asked. “Wouldn’t any of the other super-people who’ve made it to this world be able to glue everything together, or maybe use a little super-powered duct tape to give us more time?”

“I couldn’t,” said Adrian glumly. “I don’t have his power level.” He thought. “Quinn, maybe, but she wouldn’t be able to stick to it for very long. That leaves—”

Jane’s eyes bugged out. “Quinn?”

“If she can tap into the power I think she can, she might be able to do it. Might.”

“Kara,” said Courtney. Jane and Adrian looked at her. “Kara came here on a spacecraft. We don’t know what’s in it. Hey, it’s possible.”

“We don’t even know where her ship is now,” said Adrian. “Franklin took it and hid it.”

“Probably on Mars,” groaned Jane.

“Nah, not his style,” said Courtney. “He likes to keep his toys within reach. Hidden, maybe, but still within reach. It’s hard to explain, but he does.”

“So . . . what do we do now?”

Adrian and Courtney looked at each other. Neither spoke.

“Find some of the others?” Jane said. “The other super-kids, or whatever? Get some help? Maybe Quinn’s twin mystery brother that you can’t tell me about?”

“He doesn’t have her powers,” said Courtney. “He’s the physical kind, not the psychic kind.”

“You said ix-nay on that opic-tay,” Adrian reminded her with a glare.
“Well, she asked!”

“You know, there was that one other set of twins at the Avengers’ Mansion,” said Adrian slowly, “but we never did figure out if they came over with us. I don’t remember them being here.”

“I don’t think they did,” said Courtney. “I don’t think they could.”

“Who are we talking about here?” asked Jane, looking from one to the other.

“Scarlet Witch’s twins,” said Adrian in a lower voice. His voice did not show much enthusiasm. “There was a chance they’d have mystical power, lots of it, but—”

“I don’t see how they could have made it,” Courtney interrupted. “Think about it. It wouldn’t make sense.”

“What?” said Jane, confused. “Deal me in here, okay? Don’t keep secrets from me if you don’t have to.”

“There was this sorceress, actually a probability-adjusting mutant, named Scarlet Witch,” said Adrian. “She was—”

“I know about her,” said Jane. “Not my favorite comics character, but whatever.”

“Then you remember she was married to this android guy, Vision, and somehow she worked it out that they could have kids by magic, even though—well, they shouldn’t have been able to do it, but they did, or she did, but anyway she had twin boys, William and Thomas, and they were supposed to—”

“Thomas?” Jane’s eyes widened again.

“Yeah, but they were supposed to have not been real children at all,” Adrian went on. “And it couldn’t have been the guy you dated, Tom Sloane. Probably couldn’t, I mean. Not very likely, because Tom’s a mundane, a regular person. There’s nothing special about him at all, as far as we know. If Tom was one of the twins, it would take incredible power to hide what he is. And just because you think Tom’s a jerk doesn’t mean he’s the same guy. Sorry for reading your mind, but that’s the way it is. It’s probably not the same Thomas at all, and everyone changed names once they got here, so forget it. Not the same.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jane. “Right. Sure. So, tell me why these two magical twins who you thought were at the mansion didn’t come over with the rest of you guys and Franklin.”

Courtney took a breath. “They were—um—those twin boys were actually like—um—like made of pieces of someone’s soul, someone from our home universe who probably didn’t and couldn’t come over with us.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed now. “Pieces of someone’s soul?”

“Yeah,” said Adrian, looking anxious. “Pieces that Scarlet Witch accidentally picked up when she threw the spell that would let her have kids.”

“Soul-pieces that turned into the kids she gave birth to,” said Courtney, looking anxious as well.

“Powerful soul-pieces of someone who was really powerful.”

“Really powerful.”

“And kind of bad.”

“Bad? How bad?” Jane put her hands on her hips. “Who’s soul was this?”

Courtney made a face. “Mephisto,” she whispered.

“Mephistopheles,” Adrian said in a marginally louder tone.

“Mephist—oh, I get it,” said Jane. “You mean Satan. You’re talking about Satan.”

“Well,” Adrian sighed, “if you want to be technical about it, Mephisto is—”

“I DATED A GUY WHO WAS CREATED FROM SATAN’S SOUL?” Jane shouted at the top of her lungs. “I KISSED SATAN’S SON? I LET HIM PUT HIS TONGUE IN MY MOUTH? I LET HIM GET TO SECOND BASE IN MY ROOM ON MY BED?” She clamped her hands to her head as if to keep her brain from exploding.

“Aunt Jane!” said Courtney hurriedly “We’re almost completely positive that it couldn’t possibly have been the same guy! I mean, what are the chances that on this earth, out of all the infinite number of others, that it could be the same Tom?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Way to go,” Adrian growled under his breath at Courtney.

Jane threw back her head and screamed.

XXIV

The hard-faced man paced back and forth in front of Helen like an aggravated lion. “Mrs. Morgendorffer,” he said, “it would help everyone if you would start cooperating. We can’t afford to wait another second, and if you won’t—”

“I am cooperating!” cried an exhausted Helen from the chair in the center of the room. “I’m telling the truth! I don’t know of anything else I can tell you!” She tried not to think about the four soldiers standing in the room with their weapons half-raised in her direction, but she was too tired and upset to hold her tongue. Men who claimed to be federal agents had taken over the investigation from local police. Everything was going down in flames.

“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Do you understand the gravity of what’s happening, what your so-called daughters are doing to this country? What are Daria and Quinn trying to accomplish? What are you doing to help them?”

“I’m not trying to do anything but get my children back!”

“Let’s go to the beginning,” said the man crisply. “What happened to your real children in that accident fifteen years ago?”

“Nothing happened to them! They weren’t even hurt! I was there, and those are my kids!”

“We have DNA tests and fingerprint analyses showing that the two girls you now call Daria and Quinn appeared in your family—and on this earth—after the car-truck collision you were involved in on April twenty-first, nineteen eighty-four, in Austin, Texas. We have accident reports and photos of the accident scene faxed to us from the Austin police, and no one who sat behind the two front seats of your car could have survived the wreck. The whole rear end of the car was smashed flat in the impact. All trace of the two girls you gave birth to disappeared at the same time—”

“Damn you, they’re not dead! They didn’t disappear! They’re my little girls, you dumb bastard!”

“DNA samples from Quinn’s bedroom do not match the lock of hair allegedly taken from her as an infant, and her fingerprints do not match those on her birth records.”

“That’s not possible!”

“Do you know anything about the misfiling of Daria’s blood tests at Saint Joseph’s Hospital in Hot Springs, Arkansas, while she was at Camp Grizzly in July nineteen ninety-four, when she allegedly suffered a laceration to her right leg when she fell from horseback?”

“No!”

“Are you aware that the blood tests show significant genetic abnormalities and trace radioactive elements, and further prove that the girl who was tested could not possibly be your dau—”

Helen jumped out of her seat at the questioner. She was immediately restrained by men who forced her back into her chair. “If those are my children, I hope they find you and tear you limb from limb!” she shrieked. “I hope they rip you into bloody pieces!”

Soldiers raised their weapons, waiting for a clear line of fire and an order to shoot.

“Stand down,” said the interrogator, glancing at the soldiers. He lowered his head to look Helen in the eye. “Medical records from Lawndale High School and Cedars of Lawndale back up the results from Saint Joe’s, but they were misfiled as well. Who helped you cover up those girls’ identities? We have a report dated last year from the Quiet Ivy Psychological Wellness Center in Annapolis, also misfiled, stating that Daria exhibited psychotic symptoms, including paranoid delusions, hallucinations, and delusions of grandeur, and she was in need of medication. Were you aware of that?”

“She’s not crazy! Let me go!”

“Who are your real children, Mrs. Morgendorffer, and who are these being you claim are your children now? Who are they, or what are they? Are they human? Where did they come from? What are you hiding about them? Answer me!”

Helen screamed a two-word obscenity at him, then began to cry. She lowered her head and would not look up.

Someone knocked at the door. The interrogator stared at his prisoner, then went to the door, listened to a whispered message, and turned to face everyone else in the room.

“We’re under an emergency evacuation order,” he said. “Put her in restraints and give her an injection. We have to get to a secure location as fast as we can.”

Helen fought as men pulled her down to the tile floor, holding her tightly. Rough hands strapped cuffs to her wrists and ankles, then cinched them tight. Someone pulled up her right sleeve and bared her arm. She twisted her head and saw a needle, flinched as a man jammed it into her arm, screamed and struggled, felt a dreadful numbness pass through her body before the world went dark. The last things she saw were the faces of her daughters, home from kindergarten, reaching for her with upraised arms as she reached down for them.

* * *

The helicopter pilot tapped Linda Griffin on the arm, pointed to the nearest Cobra, then ran a finger across his throat. It was time to cut off the show; the Army’s demands could no longer be put off. Linda reluctantly nodded and sent off a brief message to the KSBC studio that she was being forced to leave the area. A Maryland Air National Guard copter that had survived the fight with Daria would escort them out of the area, giving the KSBC copter the lead. Linda guessed that any deviation from a flight path back to Lawndale’s airport/heliport would risk a shoot-down.

A shoot-down, however, was not what Linda feared most. She had failed to retrieve Daria, failed even to get a tissue sample from her. No further chance presented itself now that the target was gone. Linda had failed Executive One, and wondering just what he would do about that was riding on her every last nerve. She expected every second that the helicopter would explode.

The pilot tapped her on the arm again. Linda flinched and turned, ready to bite his head off, then noticed he was pointing at a bright contrail in the sky ahead, near the horizon. She thought a small jet was heading their way, but something about the contrail looked wrong. On impulse, Linda turned on the copter’s nose camera, fiddled with the controls, and aimed the lens in the direction of the approaching object. She then ran up the magnification until the source of the bright trail was visible. Two seconds later, she gasped, snapped on the feed to the studio, and began describing what she saw.

Flying girls. Two of them. Maybe a tissue sample from one of them would do, if she couldn’t somehow catch one.

“Follow them!” Linda shouted to the pilot. She would not fail her leader again.

A faint beeping noise distracted her as she gave her running commentary to KSBC. She glanced away from the flying girls and noticed her communicator ring was glowing. Who the hell’s calling me? I can’t stop in the middle of a live transmission! It’ll have to wait!

She glanced back at the flying girls—and noticed then that they were flying directly at her.

* * *

“Quinn!” Stacy shouted over the wind, trying to keep her hair out of her eyes as she nervously watched the landscape rush by beneath them. “It’s not that I don’t believe you or anything, you understand, but I don’t quite know what to say about that burning angel you said gave you your special powers, because I think there might be another explanation for it, and—”

“Oh, get serious!” Quinn interrupted tartly, squinting into the wind. “I saw an angel with wings and everything, and that’s all there is to discuss! I don’t mean I actually saw it saw it, but it was there, as real as anything in this like sort of dream I had, only I never had one that real before, and how else can anyone explain the fact that I can do what I’m doing now?” To add emphasis to her statement, Quinn performed a graceful barrel roll without moving any part of her body. “There! If an angel didn’t give me the power to do this, then who did?”

“See, that’s what I want to talk to you about!” Stacy held back her hair with one hand. I need to get extra barrettes and keep them in my pockets in case we do this again! “The reason I have superpowers is because an alien being gave them to me, only he didn’t give them to me on this planet, okay? He gave them to me on another planet, where I was born. I came over to this Earth later on when I was five years old, and—”

“Stacy, you didn’t come from another planet! What the heck are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” Stacy repeated. “I’m talking about how you and I got our powers! We both came here from another planet, the same planet, and it was just like this world only it had superheroes, and we were brought here by—”

“That is the biggest bunch of bull I have ever heard!” Quinn interrupted. “Aliens don’t exist except in bad movies! Were you painting your toenails with the doors and windows shut again?”

“No, I wasn’t, but—but aliens do exist, Quinn! I saw them! And some of them are really nice, too!”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she sighed. “If you think you’re an alien, that’s your thing.” After a beat, she added: “But I know for sure I didn’t come here from another planet!”

“How do you know that?” Stacy called back.

The flying redhead gave her a look of annoyance. “How do you know that?”

Stacy wanted to cry. I can’t believe I’m talking back to Quinn! We’re having a real argument! This is terrible! She swallowed her tears and forged on. “I—I know it because I remember being brought here fifteen years ago by Frank—uh—by a powerful being! And I think I was put with a family that wasn’t my own, maybe because that family lost a little girl like me when she drowned in an accident, and I sort of replaced her! Don’t you remember something like that happening fifteen years ago?”

Quinn’s face showed she had had enough. “Fifteen years ago? Stacy, that’s—”

The retort died on her tongue. Nineteen eighty-four, the spring, said her father. It happened in Austin, Texas, where we used to live. . . . Daria was two and a half, and you were a year old. We were going to a park when we were hit from behind by a truck. . . .

Nineteen eighty-four was fifteen years ago . . . and standing by a wrecked car with Daria was the earliest memory that Quinn had.

“No,” Quinn breathed, deep in shock. “No, I won’t believe it. I won’t!”

“Won’t what?” called Stacy.

“Nothing! Forget it!” Quinn grimaced and looked away. “I just want to find Daria! I don’t want to talk about this stupid crap anymore!”

“Quinn, I’m sorry! Please don’t be mad at me!”

“Just . . . just look for Daria, okay?”

“All right! Do you know where she is?”

“No! I don’t have the faintest idea, Stacy! Help me find her!”

“Look for where the helicopters are, then! She was fighting lots of helicopters! There! Look over there!”

Startled, Quinn looked to the right, where Stacy was pointing. In the distance, tiny dots circled over a river valley like vultures. She squinted but could not clearly resolve the images. Two helicopters, however, one of them white in color, were approaching and were only a mile away. Maybe someone in one of those helicopters knew where Daria was. The dark copter was a military one. The military would know, for sure. That copter might even be part of the group that had been shooting at Daria.

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. She aimed for the oncoming helicopters and increased her speed, dragging Stacy with her. As an afterthought, she put up a thick shield of invisible armor in front of her and Stacy, in case the helicopters shot at her—which would be bad for them if they did. Her jaw clenched. It would be very bad for them if they did. She would try the white copter first.

“Be careful!” Stacy cried. “Quinn, they might do something to us!”

“I don’t care,” Quinn said through her teeth. “Let ‘em.”

Stacy swallowed and decided it was better to let Quinn do what she wanted, up to a point. The two helicopters slowed; the military one veered to one side to get out of the girls’ flight path, keeping its nose and weaponry aimed at them. The white helicopter, which had “KSBC-4 ACTION NEWS” painted on the side in large red letters, wobbled a bit as it slowed but did not attempt evasion. A thick barrel that Stacy nervously hoped was a nose-mounted camera was pointed right at them. The two girls slowed until they came to a stop in midair facing the white helicopter, hovering barely a hundred feet away. The rotor noise sounded muffled to Stacy, though there was nothing visible blocking the sound. The military helicopter continued to move away until it was about three hundred feet to the girls’ right.

Deciding to take the initiative, Stacy cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted at the white helicopter: “Hey, do you know where Daria is?” A lack of a response from the two people in the cockpit indicated they probably didn’t hear her. “Quinn, can we get closer?” Stacy said.

“That’s Sandi’s mom in there,” said Quinn, pointing. She brushed her long red hair out of her face. “The one on the left, the lady. That’s Linda.”

“What?” gasped Stacy. “It is! But she doesn’t do the news anymore!”

“She’s doing it now,” said Quinn. She gave a mental command, and the two girls moved closer to the white helicopter, drifting to the left. “I’m going around to Linda’s side. Maybe she can open a window.”

Her stomach in knots, Stacy glanced at the distant military helicopter for signs of suspicious activity, but it did nothing but watch. She looked back and noticed that Linda Griffin had apparently realized what the girls were doing, as she was opening a starboard-side window in the cockpit. Moments later, Quinn and Stacy—only three feet apart—came up to the window. The rotor noise was still muffled from above. Quinn dropped the force-field armor around them so they could talk.

“Hi, Mrs. Griffin!” Stacy called, waving. She forced a smile. “How are you doing?”

Linda Griffin stared back in shock. She realized that she knew the flying girls: they were friends of her daughter Sandi, from Sandi’s Fashion Club. The red-haired girl was Daria’s sister; the pigtailed brunette was the group’s secretary, the one Linda always thought of as a human doormat. Now the doormat wore some kind of comic-book superhero suit; the red-haired one wore street clothes. I should have guessed that Daria’s sister was dangerous, too, but Stacy? Linda thought, feeling like none of this was real. Is that Asian girl Tiffany a flying alien, too?

Then a far more dreadful possibility arose. Did they do something to Sandi? Or is Sandi one of the aliens, too, and I didn’t know it?

“Um,” Stacy continued after not receiving a response, “we’re trying to find Daria, Mrs. Griffin. She, um, kind of big and green, you know? We’re just looking for her, and, um, we kind of really need to find her and take her home, so, like, if you know where she is, can you tell us, please, so we can go get her? If that’s okay?”

Linda’s face worked. Speaking was very difficult. “Daria—” she began, then raised her voice. “Daria fell into the river, back behind us! We don’t know where she is now!” She glanced at Quinn and was shaken by the glare that girl was giving her. “I swear that’s the truth! I think she’s alive, but I have no idea where she is!”

“Oh!” said Stacy with an anxious look at her companion. “Well, we’d better go look for her at the river, right? Quinn? Right?”

Quinn drifted slowly up to the window as Stacy moved aside. The redhead reached up and caught the window’s edge as she looked Linda in the face. Her green eyes began to glow yellow-white from within, like incandescent steel. “If you’ve hurt Daria,” she began—and left the statement unfinished. A peculiar glow rippled around her like flames.

“I wasn’t shooting at her!” Linda gasped. “I swear it! It wasn’t me! I wasn’t—”

“Quinn,” Stacy interrupted, “this is a news helicopter, not an Army one!”

Quinn glanced at Stacy, then pulled back from the helicopter, looking at something around the side of the cockpit. Linda turned her head in that direction. The only thing to see was the Air National Guard’s Cobra helicopter, hovering a hundred yards away. Linda turned the news copter’s nose camera on the Cobra, just in case.

The Cobra suddenly rocked to one side as Linda watched. The main rotor and tail rotor both stopped, then were ripped from the helicopter and left floating in the air beside the fuselage. The copter hung in the air for a moment more, then began to descend at a steady rate. As it did, the tail boom and weapon-covered wing pods snapped off, and the chin-mounted minigun barrels curled over as if crushed by a godlike hand. Breathless, Linda peered down as the mangled Cobra came to rest in the middle of a stubble-covered farm field, the pieces dropping around what was left of the airframe. The two pilots abandoned the helicopter in seconds flat and ran pell-mell away from it.

Linda attention was snapped back by the sound of Quinn’s voice, very close to her face. “Tell them that I want my sister back unharmed, and I want her back right now. They can take her to our house on Glen Oaks. I’ll make sure she’s safe there.”

Linda nodded. Her microphone to KSBC studios was still open. Everyone watching the transmission had undoubtedly heard Quinn’s demands.

Satisfied, Quinn pulled away from the helicopter again—and she and Stacy took off like a streak. Stacy, waving her arms wildly as if trying to get her balance, looked as if she wasn’t flying so much as being carried. In moments, the girls were dots against the sky, heading for Rolling Falls River.

I forgot to get a tissue sample from them, Linda thought dully. I totally caved in and forgot to get even a strand of hair. Maybe Executive One will let me get by on this one, too, and give me another mission.

She turned to the pilot to ask him to follow the girls to the river.

The explosion threw her forward into her safety harness and knocked her headset off. Flames flicked around the outside of the cockpit; smoke billowed from the control panel in front of her. Linda’s stomach tried to climb into her throat as the Bell Jet Ranger lost power and fell. Her wireless earphones, two pens, loose change, and a candy wrapper bounced against the bloodstained windshield in front of her in weightless chaos.

I’m disappointed, Linda.

She turned to the pilot, screaming for him to do something, but he was in no condition to hear her because his head was missing. Blood jetted from the red hole between his shoulders and splattered her face.

The horizon outside rolled over and over. Linda Griffin screamed all the way down.

* * *

Amy Barksdale lowered her right hand, her ring still glowing. Linda wasn’t answering the signal. She must be busy indeed not to answer a call on her ring. Amy shrugged and picked up another cheese fry. She needed a little more time to think through her plans for revenge against Jane Lane. As she chewed, she glanced up at the television set in the diner—and stopped chewing. Footage was being shown of a burned-out trash container at an Interstate rest stop between Lawndale and the Mall of the Millennium. An explosion had taken place there less than an hour ago. It was the spot where she’d ditched her H&K.

Amy resumed chewing her cheese fry, but she slipped off her communicator ring and dropped it in her soda cup, then stood up and got out her wallet to pay the bill. Executive One had somehow found out that she had lost Jane Lane, and she had been marked for termination. She had always suspected her handgun and her sports car were prime candidates for the placement of small bombs; now she was glad she had neither. It was possible that bits of Jane were already scattered around the remains of the Triumph, robbing Amy of the opportunity for revenge. If Jane was still alive, however, revenge would have to wait until Amy was secure in her new life, under a new identity.

Life on the run would be interesting, indeed. It would be cash only, no traceable credit cards, nothing carried over that could hold a concealed bomb or radio-tracing device. Her use of the communicator ring was a bad move, as it not only proved she was still alive but gave away her exact location. Amy dropped a twenty on the table, tossed all of her credit cards on the tabletop as well, and left the diner for the cold November day outside. Mom’s Diner—what a stupid name for a restaurant. It reminded Amy that her own mother had favored her older sisters and not her. Unfortunately, it had been the only available place in sight when she had to get off the highway to pee.

As she was driving away in the rusty Pinto, planning to stay off the Interstate and stick to secondary roads until she reached Miami and fled the U.S., her cell phone rang. She reached inside her coat for the inner pocket, pulled out the phone, and snapped it open. “Talk to me,” she said.

“Lunch was satisfactory, I presume?” said a familiar voice with a European accent.

Amy was suddenly aware that the cell phone was just large enough to hold a significant amount of plastic explosive. And she held the phone next to her right ear. The blood froze in her veins.

“I’m disappointed, Amy,” the voice finished.

XXV

That chilly afternoon, the only vehicle in the parking lot of Rolling Falls River Boat Ramp Number 5 was a rusted, dented, body-puttied muscle car, long past its prime: a 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1 done in primer green, with a jacked-up rear. It was parked behind a clump of pine trees and tall ornamental grasses in such a way that anyone driving by on the highway would not see it. It was also parked in such a way that if anyone did happen to pull into the boat ramp lot—say, a state trooper or county sheriff—the driver could fire up the engine and rocket through the ornamental grasses between two of the evergreens, escaping to the main road with only seconds of delay.

A successful escape, however, required that the driver of the Mach 1 be alert and ready to act, which the current driver was not.

“Hey, Todd.” The only person in the Mach 1 not yet in a drunken stupor was a broad-shouldered young man with a thick mustache and an overgrown mullet of walnut-brown hair, riding shotgun. His skull-and-crossbones earrings complemented his black-leather biker outfit with silver chains and studs.

“Huh?” replied the driver, who had been drowsing. His mirrored sunglasses prevented his companion from seeing if his eyes were open or closed.

“That green girl—you think she’s related to Godzilla and stuff?”

The driver frowned. “Say what?” he grumbled.

“You think she might be kinda like Godzilla or something, all scaly and stuff? Forked tongue, maybe?”

“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“The demon, that girl or whatever, the green one that’s like tearing up stuff.”

The driver groaned and sighed. “I dunno, man. I’m tired from drivin’.”

“She might be, though, if you think about it. It’d figure.”

“Huh. Whatever.”

“Think she’s like part lizard or something?”

The driver was half awake now. He scratched the beard stubble and acne scars on his right cheek, his frown intensifying. “Jesus Christ, Slade, I been on the road for two days, drivin’ my ass off so we don’t spent time in the big house. I don’t give a crap about some stupid green chick. I got enough problems.”

“Well, she’s supposed to be somewhere around here, y’know? The radio said so, ‘member? Maybe she’d like to join our gang.”

The twenty-something driver cursed under his breath and ran a hand through his dirty blond mullet. Under his stolen brown-leather bomber jacket he wore a light blue work shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Oil-stained jeans and scuffed cowboy boots completed his wardrobe. The name “Todd” was sewn over his left shirt pocket in script. The pocket held a cigarette lighter with a naked woman on it and a chewing-tobacco tin that actually contained a small plastic packet of white crystals and three marijuana joints laced with PCP, each dipped in embalming fluid for extra impact. The packet contained enough crystal meth for two smokes, using the small metal pipe that the twenty-something driver kept on a gold neck chain. “Screw that,” the driver muttered. “I don’t care who’s around. You got the bottle?” He put out an unsteady hand and waited.

“Nah, Gina’s got the bottle.”

The hand drooped. “Well . . . get it from her, dumb ass.”

“Can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t, man.”

The driver gave his companion a threatening look. “Why, fer crissakes?”

“She hits me, man! That hurts! She’s all crazy and stuff. And she’s sleepin’ on top of the bottle. Look at ‘er.”

The driver turned around in his seat and gave the red-haired young woman lying across the back seat a look of disgust. She was hollow cheeked and sunken eyed, her frame so ravaged by meth and booze that bone ends stuck out under her scar-covered skin. She drooled on the back seat as she slept. “Gina!” the driver barked. “Hey, Gina, get the hell up! Gimme the bottle!”

“That girl might be like Godzilla ‘cause she’s green, like Godzilla was.” The lanky young man in the Iron Maiden T-shirt turned to his right and looked out through the side window at the river. “Maybe she breathes fire and stuff. That would be so cool. They said she was kinda like a demon, you know?”

“Gina!” Todd shouted at the unconscious woman. “Gina, c’mon, wake up! Gimme the bottle!”

“Did you like that movie?” asked Slade.

“What movie?”

“That Godzilla movie that came out last year, man.”

“Jeez, Slade, who cares? Gina! Hey!” Todd tried to smack his girlfriend, but her face was just out of reach.

“You know what part of that movie I liked best?” offered Slade.

“Gina, damn it!”

“You know that part where that old guy is like fishing and stuff, and he catches something and his fishing pole like flies right out of his hands, and he can’t believe it, and then he like sees this big wave comin’ in, y’know, and it’s Godzilla under the wave and stuff, and he comes out, bigger ‘n God, and that old guy just about dies?” Slade grinned and shook his head fondly at the memory. “That was awesome, man.”

Cursing under his breath, Todd looked around for something to throw at Gina.

Slade smiled as he watched the river. “I really liked the look on that old guy’s face when his fishing pole got jerked out of his hands. That was great. I almost . . .”

Slade stopped and squinted. The river looked slightly odd, like there was a hump of water on the surface coming toward the shore. A moment later, he was sure of it. There was a big wave coming in, out of nowhere, maybe a hundred feet away.

“Gina, wake up!” snapped Todd. He threw an empty beer can at her head. She never moved or noticed.

“Dude,” said Slade, staring out the window at the oncoming wave. “Hey, Todd, there’s like a—”

“Gina!”

“Oh, man.” The wave was piling higher and moving very fast. Wide eyed, Slade fumbled with the door handle in panic. “Todd, we got to get outta here!”

“What?” Todd looked up, finally aware that something was wrong. The wave was five feet high, moving very fast, and had almost reached the shore.

“Just run, man!” Slade threw open the door to get out. Freezing air whirled in.

Water fountained upward as something burst from the river ahead of the wave, which crashed over the boat ramp and parking lot, flooding it right up to the Mustang and beyond. A half-second later, a pair of large green feet slammed into the asphalt near the car with a bone-rattling BOOM! The Mustang jumped several inches into the air as water splashed over the windows and into the car through Slade’s door. Soaked to the skin, Slade fell back into his seat and tried to shut the car door, shouting incoherently. The air smelled of dead fish and rotting algae.

Todd stared out the dripping passenger window at the green apparition rising to its full height. It was a tall naked woman, stacked like a wet dream and muscled like the queen of all weightlifters. Black soot clung to her chest and abdomen in streaks radiating out from a spot just below her breastbone; she looked like she had been in an explosion, but had suffered only cosmetic damage. She turned around, dripping water from every part of her, and focused on the light green Mustang twenty feet away. Wiping off her face, the green giantess walked toward Slade’s side of the car, eyeing him with curiosity.

“It’s her!” cried Slade in a high voice. “It’s the demon! Drive, man! Go, go, go, go, go!”

His mind momentarily clear, Todd reached down and grabbed his revolver, a Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44-caliber Magnum he bought after watching too many Dirty Harry movies. It was the same gun he’d used to knock over a bank in Shreveport, Louisiana, which led to his sudden departure from his old stamping grounds around Texas and his present appearance in the Baltimore area with the last members of his high-school gang. As Slade locked his own car door, Todd opened his, stood up on his left foot in the driver’s side doorway with his right foot still in the car, and aimed the Model 29 over the roof of the Mustang, using both hands to steady the weapon.

The giantess looked at Todd and raised an eyebrow.

Todd squeezed the trigger. The Model 29 jumped in his hands. His ears rang from the impossibly loud gunshot—but through the stinging whine in his head, he heard the bullet ricochet off the woman’s chest. Worse, the giantess kept coming. He fired again and again, over and over, until the hammer snapped down on an empty chamber.

The unharmed green giantess came around to Todd’s side of the car. She stopped on the other side of his car door, leaned forward with narrowed eyes, and said, “Todd Ianuzzi? Is that you?”

The demon knows my name. Todd had the idea then that he should do something serious, because if a demon knows your name, that means it’s going to kill you and take your soul—or so his crazed thoughts ran. After a moment of befuddled thought, his alcohol-fueled brain came up with the perfect solution.

He turned the revolver around, aimed it at his head, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

The green giantess took away Todd’s gun, twisted the barrel off, and flipped it into the river. She then caught his right wrist in a steel grip. “It is you!” said the giantess. “I can’t believe it’s you, Texas license plates and everything. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you back in Highland?”

“I-I-I-I-I-I,” said Todd as his brain seized up.

The giantess bent down and peered into the car. “Slade? Is that Gina in back? I can’t believe it. You don’t have two wienerheads in your trunk, do you?”

“Don’t hurt me!” screamed Slade, trying to crawl under the dashboard.

“Gina’s out cold,” the giantess observed. “Is she drunk or stoned, or both?” She stood up, her enormous perfect breasts swaying, then looked Todd up and down. Pulling him around the car door closer to her, she brushed off his mirrored sunglasses, which fell to the ground and broke, and stared down into his pale blue eyes. “Never thought I’d see you again,” she said. “Not outside of a jail, anyway. Are you running from the police?”

Todd racked his brain. How could a demon possibly know him? And did it really matter? He’d committed so many crimes, how could a demon not know him?

“You don’t look like you remember me,” said the giantess. She looked down through the windshield at the cowering Slade, then back at Todd. She reached over, took Todd’s gold neck chain, and pulled out the crack pipe, examining it with distaste before she squeezed it in her fist. When it was a wad of steel putty, she let it fall back against Todd’s chest.

“You know what,” she said, “you might come in handy. I think you will. You could be very useful to me, very soon now.”

“Don’t hurt me!” Slade repeated. “I repent! I repent my sins! I’m sorry I helped him hold up that bank! It was wrong, and I’m sorry I did it! Save me, Lord Jesus!”

“I’m not interested in you, Slade,” said the giantess. She reached down, grasped the big key ring that hung from Todd’s leather belt on a chain, and broke the chain. She tossed the key ring onto the driver’s seat, then stepped back from the car. Todd went with her, his wrist still locked in her left hand. His legs trembled. He couldn’t help himself.

“Here,” said the giantess. “Take those keys and get out of here. Go to a police station and turn yourself in, and have them check Gina to see if she’s OD’ed. If you don’t go to the police, I’ll hunt you down and turn you into messy salsa. You follow?”

“Yes! Yes, I’ll do it!”

“Great.” The giantess slammed the driver’s side door shut with a flip of her finger. “Get going.”

Slade grabbed the keys and climbed into the driver’s seat. The Mustang squealed out of the parking lot seconds later, leaving a trail of smoking black tire marks behind it.

As the noise faded, Todd realized he was alone with the demon. He looked up into the giantess’s cold, green eyes.

“Do you know who I am, Todd?” the giantess said. She almost smiled.

Terrified, he shook his head no.

“I’m Daria Morgendorffer, or I used to be. I was a ninth grader at Highland High a few years ago. Little kid with glasses, brown hair, black jacket, red skirt, kept to herself. Remember me now?”

He started to shake his head no, but then stopped. He remembered her. That little kid grew up to be this thing? I didn’t even know she was evil! And here she’s come back from Hell to look for ME?

The giantess smiled. “You do remember. You used to beat up some of my friends, if you could call them friends. Acquaintances, maybe. They were wienerheads, I agree, but they didn’t deserve that. You’re going to do a little penitence for that, Todd. You’re coming with me.”

He thought she meant, You’re coming with me to Hell. He wet himself.

The giantess reached up, caught him by the chin, turned his head to the left, and lowered her mouth to his right ear. “You’re going to be my shield,” she said. “The next bomb or missile they throw at me is going right through you first. You’d better pray they see you and hold their fire, or I’ll be wearing what’s left of you.”

Todd’s eyes were riveted on her.

The giantess’s expression softened. “I know you probably don’t deserve this, but being big and green like this makes it hard for me to think rationally. And I need for everyone to stop shooting at me and start talking to me again. I’ll give it one more try with you. If it works, I might even say I’m sorry I did this to you, even if I hated you back in high school.”

Her lips moved closer to his ear. Her voice became a slow growl. “Or maybe I’ll just tear off your arms and legs. I really hated you, Todd. I really, really hated you.”

His face went gray. The giantess released his chin, then set off for the highway at a slow pace, pulling Todd along with her. “Tell me,” she said in a pleasant tone, “whatever did happen to those two wienerheads?”

* * *

Not quite over her shock, Jane surveyed the flaming ruins of the red Triumph Spitfire with wide eyes. She dared not get closer for fear the car would explode a second time. She, Adrian, and Courtney had been walking back to the vehicle, intending to stay in it with the engine and heater on so they could continue discussing what they should do next, when the car turned into a flash of light and an enormous expanding debris cloud. Acting on pure reflex, Jane lunged backward and knocked the two smaller teens to the ground with her outstretched arms, saving all three from being hit by flying wreckage. When the threesome got up again, covered with dust and bits of gravel, the Triumph was a twisted, blackened pile of metal.

Jane said the first thing that came into her head. “Airbag malfunction.”

“No, I don’t think it was that,” said Adrian, missing the joke entirely. “I think it was a bomb.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “This tells me something important.”

“That we have enemies?” Courtney said in a small voice.

“It tells me that neither of you can predict the future.” Jane tugged on the younger teens’ arms. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left the area at a fast walk, letting Jane take the lead. They forgot how cold it was. “Franklin’s the only one of us who can predict the future,” said Adrian. “That’s why he used to be called Tattletale by some of the other kids. He can do anything, I think.”

“He didn’t show up to save us,” said Jane, “so either he still doesn’t know where you guys are, thanks to the thought-blocking you two gave him, or else he knew in advance that we wouldn’t be hurt, so he didn’t bother helping. Or maybe he was hoping we’d get hurt in the explosion, so he stayed out of it. Whatever.”

“I’ll go with the thought blocking,” said Adrian. “If he knew where we were, we’d really be toast.”

Jane looked back at the burning car for a long moment as she walked. She finally turned away but appeared troubled. “You’re going to read my mind sooner or later,” she said, “so I may as well say it aloud.”

Courtney frowned up at her. “What?”

“It just occurred to me that if what you’ve told me about him is true, Franklin probably knows exactly where we are. He’s known all along.”

Adrian looked at her in astonishment and a little fear. “That’s impossible! How could he know? I got inside his mind with Mary’s help—” He indicated Courtney “—and made him forget about us. He doesn’t even know we exist now!”

“No, I think he does,” said Jane slowly. “You said yourself that Franklin’s so powerful, he’s holding this entire universe together. He maintains reality itself. He was able to make everyone who came over from your world forget about their previous lives, make everyone else accept the refugees into their own families and not even notice their own kids were being replaced, everything. It seems like it’s only been lately that he’s had trouble controlling what’s going on. Maybe he’s been going downhill for a while. He sure didn’t catch on that someone was going to attack him the other day, according to what you told me. That someone got the jump on Franklin, who can predict the future—that’s almost too much to believe. I can’t believe that you two could get away with preventing him from thinking about you or knowing where you are.”

“But that’s wrong!” said Adrian, panic creeping into his voice. “We fixed him years ago!”

Jane swallowed. “No,” she whispered. “I think he let you think you fixed him. He was immensely strong then. By your own admission, you don’t have anywhere near the power he once did. If he can make universes, he wouldn’t let someone like you mess with his mind.”

“This is creeping me out!” cried Courtney.

Sirens rose in the distance.

Jane shivered and sped up her pace. “Head for that hotel,” she called, pointing to a nearby building.

“I can keep the cops from noticing us, Aunt Jane,” Adrian reminded her. “We don’t have to hide.”

“Yeah, but you can’t keep us from freezing to death.”

“Oh.”

They didn’t talk again until they got into the hotel lobby and were warming up beside the natural-gas fireplace. True to Adrian’s promise, no one in the lobby noticed them. “I still think you’re wrong,” Adrian grumbled, facing the fire.

“What makes you think you’ve ever been able to hide from a guy who creates whole universes on command?” countered Jane, rubbing her arms.

“If he knew where we were, he would’ve killed us!” Courtney hissed.

“How do you know?”

Courtney looked expectantly at Adrian.

“I read his mind,” said Adrian. “When we fixed him.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “What exactly did you read in his mind?”

Adrian gazed into the fireplace with a distant expression. “He was thinking about his mom dying when Mary was born.” He glanced at Courtney. “And thinking about punishment, laying the blame for her death.”

“He was specifically thinking about punishing you two?”

“No, just . . . thinking about punishment, suffering, who caused her death. It was terrible, what was inside him. He operates on a different level than the rest of us. It was hard to know what he was really thinking, his thoughts were so complicated, but I’m positive he was thinking was about punishing us. I tried right after that to get inside his mind and block off any chance that he’d think about us later. It was really hard, but I did it. I can’t explain how it happened. I just did it.”

“Uh, huh. Did you ever stop to think how that doesn’t make any sense, though? That you could do that to a super-being like Franklin, just like that?”

“Well, I said it wasn’t easy, right?”

“Adrian,” said Jane, “what you did should have been impossible, like an amoeba trying to mind-read Einstein. It makes no sense unless you just plain got lucky, and that I just can’t believe.”

“What are you saying?” asked Courtney.

“I think Franklin wants you alive. He’s never tried to kill you, or else you’d have been dead years ago. How old were you two when you thought-blocked him?”

Adrian and Courtney exchanged looks. “Ten,” said Adrian. “Not long after we found each other.”

“Why didn’t he kill you when you were nine? Or eight? Or seven or right after you two were born, when you were completely in his power?”

The twins stared at Jane with frightened faces.

“He let you think you’d done whatever you wanted to do,” said Jane. “You didn’t even question it until I brought it up just now, and I know neither of you is dumb. He thought-blocked you, not the other way around.” She smiled a little as she looked into the fire. “Maybe if he knows where we’re at, he’ll send us a sign and show us what he wants of us, something like having an angel appear—”

The front doors leading into the hotel lobby swung open with loud squeaks. The threesome turned around as one.

Mack MacKenzie walked in. His well-used maroon Honda Civic four-door was parked outside. When he spotted the trio, Mack came to a halt and looked at them in disbelief.

“Hi, Mack,” said Jane easily. It took everything she had to keep her voice normal and not betray her terror. Franklin predicted this. He set this up. We are totally in his power. Noting Mack’s look of amazement, she lightly added, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Mack nodded, not blinking. “I did,” he said in a cracked voice. “I just saw Ted DeWitt-Clinton, who was supposed to have been blown up this morning in a store on Dega Street. I was going over to Jodie’s house when I came to a stop sign, and he appeared next to my car window, out of nowhere like a ghost. It scared the living hell out of me. It was Ted, but I could see right through him, like he was some kind of floating hologram. He talked to me somehow and told me to come here and find you, then I’m supposed to take you somewhere in my car.” He hesitated. The car keys jingled in his nervous fingers as he stared at Jane. “I can’t believe you’re here. Is all that stuff on the news about you really true?”

“Depends,” said Jane in a softer tone. “If it’s bad, then yeah, it probably is. What are they saying about me?”

Mack looked as if he was about to tell her, then changed his mind. He jerked a thumb back at the parked car. “Ted said there wasn’t much time. Are you ready to go?”

Jane looked down at Courtney and Adrian, who stared at Mack in speechless horror. “We’re ready,” she said softly. “Not like we have any choice. Guess it’s time to meet the Wizard of Oz.”

XXVI

Jodie Landon opened her eyes. The pretense of taking a nap was over. By dint of infinite willpower and a neural self-rewiring technique she had discovered and perfected, she had freed herself from Franklin Richard’s mental chains. Her birth powers were again her own.

She got up from her bed, left her room, and went downstairs. Her mother and younger sister Rachel were in the kitchen, struggling over Rachel’s math homework while little Evan toddled toward the cabinets where the pots and pans were kept. None of them heard Jodie’s approach, as her feet had never touched the creaky floor. Jodie then headed down the hall to check on her father, and she found him in his study, reading an investment newsletter in his favorite chair, sock feet resting on an ottoman. She watched him turn a page and reach for his martini, then she left the house. No one even knew she was gone.

The frigid afternoon wind had no effect on her. She rose straight up into the air about two hundred feet, surveyed the neighborhood, then rose even higher and began a detailed scan of the vicinity. Revenge would be sweet, but she had her priorities straight: save the universe first, then kill Franklin, then make the world a better place to live, by her playbook alone—and her playbook ran many, many pages.

It would be like Franklin to keep the spacecraft in town somewhere, she thought, examining everything in view. He likely hid it right after I landed, right after he killed the real Jodie and wedged me into my foster family. Perhaps there will be a clue to the ship’s location, some anomaly. One obvious possibility was the giant strawberry, an old advertising icon from the days when Lawndale was mostly farmland, but it was quickly discarded. She examined tens of thousands of minute peculiarities in her surroundings multiple times, without immediate success. She didn’t know if the spacecraft would be disguised or buried or in plain sight, but she was confident in time she would find it.

She was not alone outside, though the military jets circling Lawndale overhead were of no concern; they could not possibly harm her, even with nuclear weapons. The forced evacuation of Lawndale by police and Army National Guard units went on unhindered; this, too, was of no interest to her. Turning in the air, she patiently continued her search. If others saw her, they did nothing to disturb her.

A minute later, she noticed something unusual at the south end of town, between the abandoned rock quarry and the unstable landfill. Why did I never notice that before? she wondered. Oh—Franklin’s mind-control, of course.

And she was on it in a flash.

* * *

The Army helicopter crews proved to be as unhelpful to the flying girls as Linda Griffin had been. An irritated Quinn, drunk with her newfound powers, contented herself with crudely disassembling all of the attack copters in midair, then depositing the remains on the ground with their engines still running. The terrified pilots abandoned the cockpits and ran away like frightened ants. Where’s Daria? Quinn thought, her frustration building. What have they done with her? Why doesn’t anyone know where she is?

Stacy eyed her friend with increasing anxiety. She wasn’t sure she liked the new Quinn as much as the old. Too impulsive, less prone to talk her way through a problem and more likely to get physical when she didn’t have to. It was bullying on a grand scale. Of course, those helicopters had attacked Daria first, so . . . Stacy elected to worry about the morality of it all later.

“Can Daria swim?” she called to her friend.

“Not very well,” Quinn grumbled. “Let’s try downriver. Which way is downriver?”

“That way,” said Stacy, pointing. “The river’s flowing to the sou—woooo!” She howled as she was again dragged off through the sky at Quinn’s side. “Don’t start up so fast! I’m going to get airsick!”

“It’s like the only way you’ll ever keep up with me, okay?” Quinn snapped. “Would you rather walk?”

“No! Just—just forget it!” Stacy looked up. Jets were leaving huge, circular contrails high above the Lawndale area. She wondered if they were military jets and hoped they wouldn’t attack, which would really screw everything up. Sighing, she turned her gaze downward and began searching the river’s shorelines for anything resembling a giant green Daria. “Once we get Daria home, what do you think we should do?”

“I haven’t thought about it.” Quinn frowned, engrossed in her own search. “People have been so mean to us here. I should talk to Mom and Dad about moving somewhere nicer and friendlier unless we can get this mess straightened out!”

“Quinn—” Stacy cut herself off. Just as she began to beg Quinn not to leave town, she switched gears. There were more important issues at hand. “What do you think happened to Daria?”

“I don’t know! She’s still alive, I know that, but if those Army guys hurt her, I’m going to—”

“No, I mean, what do you think happened that she changed and, you know, um, like, changed?”

“I don’t know.” Quinn’s angry expression melted into confusion. “I don’t know what happened to her. I was so scared that she really got hurt in that car wreck, and then she was in the hospital and I was so glad to see her, and she wasn’t hurt at all except for a little bump on her head, but then she ran off because of I don’t know what, and everyone says so much stupid stuff about her, I don’t know what to believe anymore.” She paused for thought. “I should get my guardian angel to explain it. I bet he could do it. And don’t tell me my guardian angel doesn’t exist, all right? And don’t talk to me about aliens, either! I’m not the one having the hallucinations around here!”

“Okay, I believe you! I’m sorry! It’s just . . . what’s your guardian angel like? Can I ask that?”

Quinn didn’t reply right away. “He’s hard to describe,” she finally said. “He’s like he’s made of fire, all these flames, and he’s got these two big wings, and . . . and so on. You know, like an angel!”

“Oh.” I can’t imagine what the heck that really was. Franklin would know the rest of the story, but he’s not talking to me. He must be around here somewhere. If I could find him, and if I don’t try to punch him out first for screwing me over so much, I could figure out where my brothers and sister are, my real ones, and get the whole story on who else came over with us, where they are, can we get together again, and . . . are we going home? Franklin said we couldn’t, this was our home now, so whatever happened to our old world was really bad and maybe it’s—

Stacy rubbed at her eyes, fighting back tears. Don’t think about it right now. Don’t think about it. I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m really twenty years old, not seventeen. I’m an adult now. I can’t go around crying every time I feel like it. I have to be strong and start making a difference. Alex, Julie, and Jack would want it that way. And so would Mom and Dad. I know they would.

The meek will inherit the earth, they say, but that’ll happen only if the meek start kicking butt big time. It’s up to me if I want it to work.

“Do you see anything?” Quinn called over her shoulder.

“Not yet!” Stacy called back, wiping her eyes. She blinked and looked up. Even through a teary haze, she saw it. “Quinn! Look! Someone else is flying, too!”

“Where?” Quinn followed where Stacy pointed. Their mouths dropped open. A tiny dot was hovering over Lawndale. It had arms and legs, and it was turning in the air as if looking all around. Without warning, the figure dived for the ground at high speed.

“See who it is!” cried Stacy. “They might know—waaaah!” She nearly tumbled head over heels as Quinn took off after the figure. Maybe this person knew what was going on and where Daria was, and had answers for every other question that preyed on Stacy’s mind. She only hoped that the flying figure wasn’t Sandi Griffin. Sandi as a superhero—Stacy winced. That would stink like a chili-dog fart.

* * *

“Ted didn’t tell you where you were supposed to take us?” Jane asked, riding shotgun in Mack’s Civic. The “twins” were quiet in the back seat.

Mack seemed preoccupied as he drove. “He said the intersection of Wolfman Road and Shooter Street on the south side.”

“Halloween Corner,” Jane said, remembering the nickname given to the spot by school kids. “That’s where that old guy hangs out, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, the guy with the ball. Don’t know if he’s still around.”

“I wonder what that’s all about, him bouncing the ball all day long.”

“Yeah.” Mack scowled at the windshield. “Jane, what’s going on here? I don’t get any of this. I mean . . . can you just tell me what’s happening?”

Jane’s shoulders slumped, and she pressed a hand to her forehead, “I wouldn’t know where to start. A few days ago, Daria had a car wreck, she discovered she wasn’t really Daria, then I found out I wasn’t really Jane Lane, and—”

“What?”

“Oh, it gets better. A lot of things I thought were normal turned out not to be normal, like the entire world isn’t what I thought it was, everything’s about to fall apart, and now that I think about it, I guess I can’t explain it very well. It’s too crazy.”

“Did you beat up an entire police station?”

“Yeah, for starters. Then Daria’s aunt tried to kill me, and I had to get back to Lawndale from the Mall of the Millennium where I escaped from her, and—”

“Whoa, whoa, okay, stop there. Forget I asked.”

“I’m sorry, Mack. It really is crazy, everything is.”

“Are just you and Daria doing this?”

“Is this just . . . ah, no. No, I’m afraid not. My niece and nephew in the back seat, they’re part of it—” Jane saw Mack throw a startled look in the rear-view mirror “—and so are some other people you know, like Stacy Rowe, she’s one of us, too, and—”

“Stacy Rowe?”

“Yeah, I said the same thing when I found out.”

“What do you mean, she’s one of you?”

Jane saw the intersection they sought several blocks ahead. “Mack, trust me, I can’t describe it without you thinking I belong in a nuthouse. Just drop us off here and go home. It’s probably better if you don’t get involved.”

“This is crazy,” Mack muttered.

“Yeah, I said that. It is. Aren’t you going to let us out here?”

“I’ll take you to the corner, like Ted asked. No sense in you walking.”

Jane looked at the solemn driver and gave him a smile. “Thanks,” she said. “Be careful.”

“I will, but I don’t think I’ll tell Jodie about this.”

Jane saw someone already at the intersection ahead. “You won’t have to,” she said softly. “Jodie’s one of us, too. There she is.”

Mack squinted at the road ahead. “What the hell? Jodie? What’s going on?”

The car pulled up only ten feet from Jodie, who stood on the corner with her arms crossed, watching something on the other side of the street. The doors opened, and Jane, Adrian, and Courtney got out. The engine then shut off and Mack got out, too. The air was unseasonably warm around them. Oddly, all the houses looked alike.

Another reality shift. We’re in big trouble. “Mack,” Jane said quickly, “this isn’t a good time to—”

“Jodie!” Mack walked around the front of the Civic toward his girlfriend. “Jodie, what’s going on here?”

“You can’t stay here,” Jodie said. “Go home.” She did not take her eyes off the old man on the other side of the street. The bearded, shabbily dressed gentleman bounced a small red ball on the sidewalk diagonally across from where Jodie stood.

“Go home? Like hell I will! Talk to me, okay?” Mack waved a hand in front of Jodie’s face. “Hey! Don’t zone out on me!”

Jodie turned to him, arms still crossed. “I’m not Jodie Landon, Mack. My name is Kara Kal-El of Krypton. There is no Jodie. There is nothing for you here.”

“Krypton?” said Mack. “Did you get hit on the head?”

“Kara?” said Jane, also walking up. “You’re Kara, as in Supergirl?”

“Superwoman,” said Jodie, watching the old man again. “I won’t be called ‘girl’ by anyone. I took my mother’s name and my father’s. You’re thinking of my mother.”

“Well, my parents were Robin and the Huntress, so I guess we’re sort of related,” Jane said. “Maybe we don’t have the same world of origin, but it’s close enough.”

Mack stared at Jane in disbelief, his mouth open.

“It’s true,” said Adrian, walking up and nodding at Jane. “She’s the granddaughter of Batman.” He suddenly looked at Jodie and drew back from her with a frightened look on his face. “Hey, don’t get upset, okay? I wasn’t doing anything except reading your surface thoughts, all right?”

“Stay out of my head,” Jodie growled, glaring at him. “I’ve had enough of that from Franklin.”

“Sure, no problem!” Adrian cried, nodding rapidly with his hands up in surrender. “Sorry!”

“She caught you reading her mind?” asked Jane. She noticed Jodie looking her over with a speculative eye. “What, you don’t think I look enough like Batman, or what?”

“I can tell this will be an interesting day,” Jodie said evenly. She turned to face the old man with the ball. “It’s no coincidence that you showed up when I did. Franklin planned this out. I bet we’re not alone, either.”

“Yeah.” Jane noticed another car approaching from behind Mack’s. “Company.”

The car pulled up. A moment later, the front doors opened and two tall young men got out, identical twins with chestnut-brown hair and bright smirks.

“Figures that you’d be here,” said Brad Ruttheimer to Jane Lane. “Where’s your friend, the smart mouth with the glasses?”

“Brad? Brett?” Jane felt she was beyond shock. “What are you doing here?”

“Same reason as you guys,” said Brett, walking with his brother toward the group. “Franklin made us an offer, and we couldn’t refuse. I see you brought a couple of Munchkins with you.” He grinned at Courtney and Adrian, who glared back.

“Thomas and William Maximoff,” Adrian clarified while scowling. “Sons of Scarlet Witch and . . . well, just Scarlet Witch, I guess.”

“Hey, don’t dis our dad,” said Brett. “He was all right.”

“When you mention your dad, are you talking about the Vision or Satan?” Jane retorted.

“Everyone’s a critic,” said Brad with forced humor. “Are more of us coming, or is this it?” The twins stopped by Jane, Adrian, Courtney, Mack, and Jodie, the latter of whom gave them only a glance before turning back to the old man with the ball.

“You guys know who you really are?” asked Jane.

“Sure,” said Brad. “We always have. We’ve got magic, after all. Probability alteration, something like that. Are you sorry now that you and Daria blew us off after that dance party?”

“You shouldn’t have pretended to be Upchuck’s cousins,” said Jane, who was feeling a bit rueful. “Still, I guess it could have been worse. I thought for a while that one of you was . . . someone else I knew. Never mind. Which one of you is Thomas?”

The twins just grinned at her. “Guess,” said they said in unison.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Mack asked, his confusion painfully evident.

Jane turned to Adrian. “Did Mack come over with us?”

Adrian shook his head. “He was born here. A local.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Where’s everyone else?” asked Courtney. “Where’s the other regular people? It’s like all the houses around here are abandoned.”

“Mandatory evacuation,” said Jodie, eyeing the old man again. “They’ve either fled or are hiding in their basements.”

“Or they disappeared in a reality failure,” said Adrian. “Things are really starting to come apart without Franklin’s help.”

“Heads up,” said one of the Ruttheimer twins, looked at the sky.

Two flying girls came down and landed in the center of the intersection, looking from the old man with the ball to the group of teens on the other side. One girl wore street clothes; the other had a bright yellow-and-black suit with silver boots.

“Oh, my God!” Stacy gasped, looking around. She broke into a smile and waved at the group of teens. “Hey! We’re superheroes! Isn’t that great?”

Mack stared at Quinn and Stacy with wide eyes.

“Join the club,” said Jane calmly. “So are we.”

“What!” Stacy covered her mouth in surprise. “Can you guys fly, too?”

Several people began speaking at once—the Ruttheimer twins (pointing to themselves) and Courtney and Adrian (pointing at Courtney).

“Are those moon boots?” asked Jane, looking at Stacy’s feet. Stacy turned beet red and pretended she hadn’t heard the question.

“Hey!” Quinn shouted. “Has anyone seen Daria?” All the small talk ended.

“Another car coming,” said Brett, shading his eyes and looking across the intersection down the street beyond.

A blue Dodge Viper pulled up to the stop sign at the intersection. The engine turned off a moment later, and the driver’s side door opened. Jeffy got out, looking in surprise at everyone present. “Quinn?” he called, seeing the girl with long red hair.

“Jeffy?” she called back. “Why are you here?”

“It was weird,” he said with an anxious look. “There was like this ghost guy, see, and he told me to go get this lady—”

The passenger door of the Viper opened. With considerable difficulty, a tall green woman with long, bouncy green hair climbed out. She wore a one-piece bathing suit stretched so tightly it looked as if it had been sprayed on her skin.

“Daria!” Jane screamed. She bolted across the intersection, arms out. “Daria!”

Quinn cried out and ran toward the tall green woman, too. Moments later everyone else hurried over to join them—everyone but Jodie, who kept an eye on the old man, and Mack, who stood behind Jodie trying to make sense of it all.

Daria saw the girls coming and beamed with rare delight. Quinn and Jane got to her at the same moment, and the three of them hugged. Daria crouched so her face was at the same level as her sister and best friend. Tears came in profusion.

“She’s grown since we last saw her,” said Brett Ruttheimer conversationally. “She wasn’t that big—I mean, tall—at the dance, was she?”

“Not quite as colorful, either,” said Brad, walking over with his brother. “Must be the uranium in the drinking water.”

Jeffy waited impatiently to one side for Quinn to stop hugging the giant green woman, so he could have a chance to hug Quinn himself. He then felt someone tug on his coat sleeve. It was a young blonde girl with a dark-haired kid behind her.

“Jeffy?” said Courtney. “We need to talk.”

“Just a minute,” said Jeffy. “I’m waiting for—”

“It will only take a minute,” said Adrian. “We have some news for you about Quinn—and about you.”

His curiosity piqued, Jeffy reluctantly followed the two away from the group.

“So, is he one of you guys, too?” Mack finally said to Jodie. He pointed to the old man with the red ball.

“No,” said Jodie. “And you had better leave now. I can’t promise you’ll be safe here much longer.”

“Why? What’s going to happen?”

“Something bad,” said Jodie without a glance at him. “Look, you need to go. I’m not joking, Mack. You can’t protect me, and I don’t want you to try. We’re not dating anymore. We are officially broken up. We’re history, over with. You need to get the hell out of here now. I can hear police cars coming, probably to seal this area off. If you go now, you might get out before the cordon goes up. Sorry this is abrupt, but your life is at stake. I can’t pretend to be Jodie anymore.”

Mack put his hands to his head. “Just tell me that Kevin isn’t your alien leader. Please tell me that.”

“Kevin is not our alien leader.”

“Thank God.”

“Go home, Mack.”

“Fine.” He dropped his hands and after a last look around, walked back to his car, got in, and drove away. His car changed from maroon to black in color as it left.

Jodie watched him go, then flicked her gaze to the small crowd around Jeffy’s blue Viper. Something caught her attention, and she looked back at the old man. He had pocketed the ball and was straightening up to stare back at her.

“Hey, everyone!” Jodie cried, unfolding her arms and positioning herself to be ready for an attack. “Spread out! Hurry!” She pointed to the old man. “That’s a robot!”

The group of teens began sorting itself out in quick order, following Adrian’s shouted instructions. Thirty seconds later, Daria, Quinn, and Stacy stood on either side of Jodie, while Jane, Adrian, Courtney, Jeffy, and Brad and Brett took up positions along a line twenty feet behind them.

“I set them up according to their strengths,” Adrian told Jodie aloud. “Heavy hitters in front, others behind. Jeffy would be in front, but he doesn’t know what’s going on yet and he’s a little weirded out.”

“What’s his problem?” asked Jodie.

“Um, we told him that he was a mutant, and Quinn is his sister. He’s freaking out about that. They were dating off and on.”

Jodie shook her head. “We’ll worry about it later, if there is a later.”

“You said something about a robot?” Daria called over Quinn’s head.

“The man with the ball,” said Jodie. “He’s been bouncing that ball in perfect rhythm, every three point one four one six seconds, ever since I can remember. I never thought about it until now. Someone blocked my thoughts about it.”

“Pi,” said Daria. “Three point one four and all, that’s about the value of pi.”

“Correct,” said the old man in a young man’s voice. The ragged clothes melted off his frame and vanished. Several of those watching him gasped. Standing before them now was a blond man about thirty years old, with a round face and bright blue eyes. He was dressed in a white suit, with a matching white shirt, tie, and shoes. In his right hand, he held a red ball.

“Hello, robot who looks like Franklin Benjamin Richards,” said Jodie. “I’d like my spacecraft back so I can save the universe, if you don’t mind.”

“This universe is doomed,” said the blond man in a clear voice. The sky turned green above him. “Your spacecraft is necessary to transport us all to a new universe across hypertime, before the bindings of reality here unravel. I cannot take you there; I am wounded near to death, and my powers are devoted to keeping me alive. Beware that there is one other being here who was unknown to me, a wayfarer from another universe, and she is dangerous beyond expectations. You must leave immediately.”

“Why should we believe you?” shouted Stacy Rowe. Everyone looked at her in shock, but she drew herself up. “You lied to us, Franklin! You brought us here and took away our memories, you probably wiped out a bunch of people so we could stay here, and that wasn’t right! You lied to us, you hurt other people, you’ve kept us here against our will, and why should we believe anything you say?”

“Stacy’s right,” said Jane. She swallowed. “Franklin Richards saved us, but he’s hurt us, too, and he’s killed others!”

“I can confirm that,” said Jodie in a loud but level voice. “However, I think he’s telling the truth. Why do you really want us to get aboard my spacecraft, Franklin?”

The blond man turned to address everyone present in turn. “Everything I did was for your benefit. I made terrible decisions, but I wanted you all to have families and homes. Without me, all of you would have died. This is your last chance to save yourselves. I created this universe, everything within it. It was not meant to last, and now it has served its purpose. It is time to leave the nest and take wing. We must leave this universe for another place, and in this new place you can be who you are. I will not interfere with your lives. I no longer have the power to do that.”

“If we healed you, you could fix the universe again, right?” called Adrian.

“No one’s going to heal him!” shouted Jodie. “No one! He’d be more powerful than all of us together! We’d never have a chance against him! We’d be his slaves and toys like we’ve been for a decade and a half already! Don’t heal him!”

A fragile silence reigned.

“I won’t do it,” said Courtney, her face tight. “I refuse. What everyone else said is right. You’d destroy us or take away our memories again. It’s over, Franklin.”

“I predicted that you would not help me,” said the blond man. “I would not harm you, however. I was punished for my crimes when my mother died giving birth to you, Mary. I had already destroyed many lives for you all, but it was wrong, and my mother was taken from me when I needed her most, and so I was punished. Even the cosmos understands justice—but I am not lying when I say that time is short. Already the weave of reality is coming undone. I cannot hold my creation together; my injuries forbid it.”

“Can we go back to our real home?” called Jane. “The worlds we came from?”

The blond man shook his head. “Those worlds no longer exist. We are all that is left of them, we few. There are more like you, more of the Chosen whom I brought to this world for shelter, but they could not get here in time. Only you few will live on, somewhere else. Time grows short.” He held out his right hand, fingers wrapped around the red ball in his palm. “Here is your spacecraft, Kara, inside this collapsed space. The remains of my body are inside the craft as well, safe from further attack. We must—”

He hesitated, then lowered the ball. “It is too late,” he said. “She is here.”

“Who’s here?” said Daria, craning her neck to look around the little group.

There was a flash of light in the air between the blond man and the semicircle of super-powered teens. In an instant, a thin girl in a blue dress stood where the flash of light had been.

The thin girl looked around and smiled.

Quinn finally found her voice. “Tiffany?” she said. “Is that you?”

“You’re the one who almost killed Franklin Richards?” said Jane.

The thin girl with the pale-gold skin and almond-shaped eyes gave a little bow. She was still smiling when she came up.

“No,” she said happily. “And, ah . . . yes.”

XXVII

“No, what?” said Jane to the new girl. “No, you’re not Tiffany, or no, you aren’t the one who attacked Franklin?”

“She meant no, she’s not Tiffany,” said Jodie.

“What do you mean, she’s not Tiffany?” said Daria, visibly tensing. “She is Tiffany! Is she an enemy or not?”

“Don’t attack!” Adrian shouted, putting his hands up, palms out. “Don’t do anything to her! We don’t know anything about her!”

“That’s right! She hasn’t done anything to us, so why attack?” Quinn shouted. She concentrated on the slim girl in the blue dress. “If you’re not Tiffany, who are you?”

The girl smiled, self-conscious but at ease. “Who I?” she said, speaking English with an accent—and with Tiffany’s voice. “My name, Hoshi Imako. I am—” Her chin rose and her voice filled with pride “—Pikadon Shoujo. I come to here, this America, by hole in sushi shop wall, come out Good Time food place.” She made an ick expression. “Good Time food bad, very much bad.” Her face cleared. “I am . . . from Nippon, you say Japan, in Tokyo, but my home, not Earth here. I from other Earth. You understand? You must give up now.” She bowed, her speech done, and her cheery smile returned.

“We must give up?” Jeffy said. “Give up what?”

“Imako?” Daria repeated, ignoring Jeffy. “Your name is Imako?”

The girl nodded and smiled. “Hoshi Imako.” Her black hair swayed.

“Her first name’s Hoshi,” said Jeffy, trying to be helpful.

“It’s Imako,” Daria corrected. “Family name comes first in Japanese.” She turned to the new girl. “What did you say you were, right after you told us your name?”

“I think she said she’s Pikachu,” said Stacy. “She doesn’t look like Pikachu, though, so maybe she meant she has a Pikachu. I never knew Pokemon were real!”

“No!” said the Asian girl angrily. “Not Pikachu! Pikadon Shoujo!

Daria’s face became thoughtful. “Pikadon . . . oh.”

“Sorry, we don’t speak Japanese,” said Jane to the new girl.
“I do,” Jodie snapped, “and everyone needs to get out of here right now!”

“I agree,” said Daria, who knew only a few words of Japanese from reading books about World War II. She was about to ask another question of the girl when she felt a presence inside her mind. Sorry to butt in, said Adrian, somewhere between her ears, but there was a Kimiyo Hoshi in the DC comics, better known as Doctor Light. She had two kids, and one of them was a girl named Imako. Are you thinking of her?

Daria got over her surprise. Yes, she thought, but there’s more. Imako told us that she’s known as Pikadon Shoujo, Flash-Bang Girl—

“Imako?” said the blond man that Jodie had called a robot. “What do you want from us?”

—but the word pikadon also means atomic bomb, Daria finished a moment later. Her nickname translated is Atom Bomb Girl.

Adrian’s eyes got big and round. “Oh, crap,” he said aloud.

“What I want?” said the girl, tilting her head slightly back toward the blond man behind her, as if she could see him perfectly. “You must give up, ah, suh-ren-dah for me. Thank you!”

A shocked silence followed.

Adrian’s telepathic voice rushed back to Daria’s head. Franklin just told me that this Atom Bomb Girl almost killed him when he tried to read her mind the other day! She can explode like a real bomb! He was so badly burned that he—

“We’re too close!” Daria shouted, quickly backpedaling from the new girl. “Everyone move back! Get way back!”

“From Tiffany?” said Jeffy in surprise. “What’s she going to do?”

Jane lunged like lightning for Courtney and snatched her off her feet, then bolted from the scene at top speed with the smaller girl in her arms. Adrian turned and ran, too. Brad and Brett waved their arms in strange ways.

“Get back!” Jodie roared as she hurled forward—

FLASH

Daria had turned her head away from Imako, noticing Jane’s flight, and so was spared flash-blindness. She instinctively shut her eyes and charged toward Imako with Jodie, intending to bear-hug the Japanese girl as gently as possible to incapacitate her—but no one was at the spot where Imako once stood. Daria overshot her target and slammed into a parked car just beyond, smashing the engine block into the car’s front seats. She then tore herself free of the ruined vehicle and got her bearings again.

Imako was in the exact spot she had been a moment before, glaring at everyone. Jodie had stopped thirty feet beyond Imako, having overshot her in the same way Daria had, though Jodie was faster and had missed first. Jeffy was doubled over, covering his face with his hands. Quinn was blinking rapidly and rubbing her teary eyes.

“She’s a mirage!” Jodie shouted. She closed her eyes, listened—and picked up the sound of someone breathing, someone not where she was supposed to be. She ran and jumped blind, avoiding everyone else but her target. The target leaped and flew—but Jodie could fly much faster.

“Gotcha!” Jodie shouted in midair, her arms wrapped around nothing.

“I can’t see!” yelled Jeffy, still holding his eyes. Daria grabbed him around the waist, lifted him from the ground, and hauled him down the street at a run, putting him down behind a parked van.

“Kara!” shouted the blond robot. “Get that girl out of here!”

“A couple of questions, first!” Jodie snapped back. She turned her head, appearing to look into the air before her. “Who are you working for, Imako?”

A girl shouted angrily in Japanese, her voice coming out of the air in front of Jodie.

“Is she invisible?” Quinn shouted, shading her eyes from Jodie in case her prisoner threw off another flash of light.

“She’s going to be crushed flat as paper unless she shows herself!” Jodie snarled—and suddenly Imako appeared in her arms, her fists hammering uselessly against her captor.

“Score one for Superwoman!” one of the Ruttheimers called, grinning with his arms crossed in front of him. He and his brother did not seem to be harmed.

Imako turned her head toward the speaker in surprise, then looked back at Jodie. “Supah-woman?” she said, her eyes wide.

Jodie gave Imako a nasty smile.

Without warning, Imako smiled back, showing all her teeth.

Jodie flinched, then jerked backward with a piercing scream—and let go of Imako. Jodie fell through the air and hit the roof of a parked car, smashing it in and shattering the windows.

Imako remained hovering in the air, looking down at her groaning nemesis with that same broad smile.

Stunned, Daria reached back, grabbed the wrecked car behind her with both hands—one under the chassis, one gripping the top of a door—and threw it at Imako. The car flipped end over end but sailed right through Imako’s image, arcing over to smash into someone’s front yard. “Attack!” Daria yelled. “Everyone, attack!”

Quinn spread her arms wide, palms up, then brought her hands together so her fingers formed a globe. “I caught her!” she screamed. “I think I got her in my force f—”

FLASH

The soundless burst of white light left everyone blinking. It seemed that a bolt of energy had leaped from Imako’s hands to Quinn, who staggered backward a step, put a hand to her freshly sunburned forehead, and appeared wobbly and confused. Then her face hardened into a look of rage. Rippling flames roared around her body to form great wings that sprang from her shoulders. The sunburn on her face disappeared.

“That wasn’t funny!” she screamed at the air, teeth bared. “You almost killed me!”

Stacy’s mouth dropped open. Then her eyes narrowed in anger. She reached down by the curb and picked up a chunk of broken asphalt the size of her fist. It flashed in her hand and vanished. Her skin began to glow bright yellow as if lit from within.

Crackling purple lightning flashed out in a giant web over everyone’s head, filling the sky. It sprang from the fingers of one of the two Ruttheimer twins, while the other turned this way and that with his hands cupped around his eyes. The searching twin stopped and pointed. “She’s there!”

Without hesitation, Stacy turned in the direction indicated and fired. Brilliant balls of plasma blasted out from the center of her chest and rocketed away toward the roof of a nearby house—and exploded with ear-shattering detonations that knocked the branches off two nearby trees and set the roof of the house ablaze.

Daria had reached Jodie and was about to lift her from the smashed car roof when she sensed something was wrong. She looked up. The sky was dark; stars were visible, though light still streamed down from the brilliant sun above. Franklin’s losing his grip on reality, she thought. We might be moments from having the whole world evaporate. She looked down, bending over the shivering girl. “Jodie, are you all right?”

“Sick,” Jodie murmured, trembling as if chilled to the bone. “Sick. . . . Imako . . . uses . . . radiation. . . . Kryptonite . . . rays . . . controls . . . all radiation . . . so sick.”

“You knocked her over on the other side of the house!” one of the Ruttheimers shouted to Stacy. “You go to the right, we’ll go left! Nail her!”

“I’m coming, too!” Quinn yelled as she took off into the air, flying over the burning house with her arms outstretched.

Daria took Jodie in her arms and hurried with her to the blond robot. “Franklin!” she shouted. “Do something, quick!”

“She took a near-lethal dose,” said the robot, eyeing the young woman Daria carried. “I can do nothing, but my sister could help her.” The robot pointed. “Jane took her down the street to hide behind a house.”

“Can you do something to keep the world from breaking apart?”

“No.” The robot looked down at the limp Jodie. “But she can. Leave her and get Jane and my sister, the one you know as Courtney, and bring them to me at once.”

Having no other option, Daria laid Jodie’s shivering body at the robot’s feet, then ran down one street in the direction the robot had indicated.

FLASH

Shrill screams filled the air as a titanic fireball erupted from behind the house where the Ruttheimers, Stacy, and Quinn had gone. The house burst outward, bricks and boards and shingles flying everywhere at the front of the vast explosion. Flaming debris rained down on Daria, but she did not look back. The sky was bright purple now, shimmering like water. “Jane!” she shouted. “Jane! J—”

A familiar car was approaching, a battered old Jaguar of tan color. It stopped as Daria ran toward it, and the driver’s door opened.

Tom Sloane got out. “Need some help?” he called, calmly shutting the car door.

“Get out of here!” she yelled at him. She knew she couldn’t save him. Where had he been all this time?

“If you’re looking for Jane . . .” said Tom, and he pointed to one side. Daria looked. Jane was peering around the side of a house, gazing in astonishment at Tom. Adrian and Courtney were on Jane’s other side.

“What’s he doing here?” Adrian said.

“Bring Courtney!” Daria shouted to Jane. “No time to explain!”

Jane turned, grabbed her startled “niece,” and ran after Daria as the big green girl thundered back toward Franklin’s robot. Ahead of her, she saw a badly burned figure that resembled Quinn landing in front of the robot and sinking to her knees on the pavement. On the ground around her were the smoldering bodies of the Ruttheimer twins and Stacy Rowe, carried over by her telekinesis.

The robot reached down with the red ball in its hand—and the four were gone. Jodie was not in view. The blond robot straightened, glanced at Daria, then looked to one side and pointed. “Keep Imako at bay as long as you can,” it said, then turned to Jane and beckoned her toward it. “Bring Courtney to me if you want us all to live,” it said.

Jane hesitated, then made a decision and ran toward the robot. Daria looked away to where the robot had pointed moments before.

Atom Bomb Girl was drifting through the flaming wreckage where the house had been. She was shining like a human-shaped light. She glared at Daria.

Daria leaped at her. The slim Asian girl flung her right arm out at Daria faster than the eye could follow.

FLASH

HOT! HOT! Mad with pain, Daria grabbed the girl in her charred fingers and pulled her close in an unbreakable bear hug.

FLASH

Sheets of hard radiation swept through Daria’s body. She was partially protected by her Hulked-out form, but she still felt her skin and muscles burn away. She hung on and would not let go. Imako struggled, healing as fast as Daria crushed her.

FLASH

This is how my mother died, thought Daria, holding on. She went down fighting. I am just like her, just like my mothers, both of them.

FLASH

Her thoughts became incoherent from the burning agony all through her. She felt herself passing out. She summoned all her strength and tried to kill the being she held in one crushing hug, tried to kill it, tried to—

FLASH

“Excuse me,” said a voice in Daria’s ear. It sounded like Tom. Why was he—

She opened her eyes a crack. A giant arm, dark as a shadow, reached over her shoulder and touched Imako.

Then she knew nothing.

XXVIII

Who are you?

Oh. I thought I was alone. I’m Tom, and—

Your original name?

Ah, that name. Benjamin Thomas Jones. I really am a Tom. And you are—?

Franklin Benjamin Richards, known here as Ted DeWitt-Clinton. Two Benjamins, how interesting. Why have I never noticed you as one of our kind?

It’s probably difficult trying to mind-read a living black hole. I’m not kidding, so spare me the jokes.

A living black h—you’re the Nth Man, the son of Arcanna Jones of the Squadron Supreme. I remember stories about you, fragments and whispers.

I’m on the obscure side, I know.

You absorbed and destroyed seven entire universes and were barely stopped from destroying two more.

Now, that was the previous Nth Man, Dr. Lightner. I reversed the singularity effects and recreated what he destroyed after he and I exchanged bodies. Long story, as you might guess. It’s probably in a comic book somewhere.

It is indeed in a comic book. My subconscious knows more than I do, I see. Fascinating. I recall now that Dr. Lightner’s first name was Thomas, too.

It seems to go with the identity. Just a coincidence, though. I think.

What are your intentions, Mister Jones?

Tom, please call me Tom. Stopping this exploding girl before she baked Lawndale was my first goal. I’ve drawn everything within a twenty-mile radius into me, and I plan to release it slowly to give rescuers time to take care of wounded. I can change matter and energy a little as I let them go out of me, but my skills need some improvement. The excess radiation at least I can get rid of, and I can contain the exploding girl until a suitable place to deposit her has been found or constructed.

Drugs would do the trick, too, for a short while.

She might be safer with me. There’s a more pressing issue I want to bring up. Many of the people I’ve absorbed are badly hurt and need medical care once they are free of me. Some of them are close friends of mine.

One of those you absorbed is my sister, Mary, who can heal any injury. When you release the collapsed space containing Kara’s spacecraft, I’ll bring her out. She had already healed the others before you took over.

You said Kara?

Kara Kal-El. Jodie Landon. Superwoman.

I must have missed something. Jodie is Superwoman, as in Superman? And I thought Daria being She-Hulk was enough of a problem. Are you serious?

As you said yourself, it’s a long story. I can provide you with a list of the Dramatis Personae later, with annotations.

I’d like that. Speaking of which, why is it I can still communicate with you when I’ve absorbed you? Technically speaking, you’re near the bottom of a black hole.

You haven’t absorbed me—my robot, Kara’s spacecraft, and everyone else aboard it, yes, but not me. I have enough power to protect my physical body, but the universe is about to fail. If you would release the spacecraft within the next two minutes, I would be grateful.

Consider it done. Anything your sister can do for Daria would be appreciated. She and I were dating when this started. I’d like to continue doing that as long as I can.

She is interesting, isn’t she? Are you able to bring out the spacecraft before you release anything else?

I believe so. . . . Yes, that’ll work.

We must talk later. I’ve not had anyone to talk with my entire life who was . . . well, on my level.

Same here. Do lunch soon?

Please. Have you read C. S. Lewis’s The Problem of Pain?

I have. Have you read Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason?

I did, and it was wonderful!

Then maybe you could explain it to me. I’ve tried reading it twice already and keep getting lost in the definitions.

Deal.

Deal. Here is Kara’s spacecraft back . . . let your sister out quickly please . . . and now I’ll start to let everything else go. When she’s finished curing everyone, however long it takes, I’ll bring out Daria.

* * *

Monday, November 8, 1999

She opened her eyes, wondering if she was dead and in heaven.

Tom Sloane’s face looked down at her from above, a faint smirk on his lips.

“Can’t be heaven,” she muttered. She wrinkled her nose. Something was burning, or had been.

“I save the world, and this is the thanks I get,” said Tom, who did not seem put off. He looked quite satisfied with himself.

“You saved the world? Please.”

“Fine, have it your way. Maybe I help you up?”

“Sure.”

She got to her feet more under her own power than his, as she was over a head taller than he was and outweighed him by over a quarter ton. She staggered for a moment before she took in her surroundings: smoldering devastation and ruin for several blocks around her, the street baked and cracked under her feet, Tom Sloane and Courtney standing next to her—

“This doesn’t really match up with my last memories,” said Daria, putting a large green hand to her forehead. “I’ve missed a few things. Could someone fill me in?”

“Sorry I was late,” said Tom, trying not to stare at Daria inappropriately. Her clothes had been burned off again. “It took quite a while for my lawyer to convince the police I had no business being in the Big House. I drove over as soon as I could, saw you and your classmates were engaged in a street brawl like something out of West Side Story, though not as well choreographed, and I, um, stepped in and brought things to a close.”

“Saved the world,” said Daria.

Tom shrugged modestly. Daria rolled her eyes. She could not believe his cheek. Saved the world—honestly, now.

“Feeling better?” asked Courtney.

“I was until Prince Charming rode in,” Daria muttered, glowering at Tom. “I had her, you know, that Atom Bomb Girl. I had her and I was just about to save the world all on my own.”
“You were all burned up,” said Courtney, making a face. “You were definitely the worst case out of everyone I healed. You looked gross and boy, you stank.”

“Don’t you have something else to do?” Daria said.

“Other than saving your big green butt, no.”

Daria sighed. “Okay, you win. Sorry. I haven’t been myself lately. Thanks for, um, whatever you did for me.” She looked around. “Where’s everyone else?”

“It’s Monday,” said Tom. “Everyone else but you was rescued yesterday. You were the last to go.” He looked up one gray street, lined with the ashen remains of homes and blackened trees, and pointed to a car approaching. “Your sister and best friend are on their way, before everyone else arrives. I hope they brought a beach towel you could wrap yourself in.”

“Beach towel? Oh. What the hell.”

Tom eyed her once, up and down, then made himself turn away with nonchalance. “Nice to see that you’ve . . . grown.”

“Before I pretend your head is just like a little golf ball sitting on a tee, and my right hand is an extra-large golf club, why don’t you tell me exactly how it happened that you saved the world and I didn’t?”

Tom smirked and crossed his arms in front of him. “You can read about it in the papers,” he said, watching as Jane and Quinn pulled up. “Start with the front page.”

* * *

By Monday evening, Daria had a long list in mind of major events that everyone said had happened while she was out of commission between Saturday afternoon and Monday morning, apparently near death but in suspended animation inside some kind of “black hole” Tom claimed he was able to generate. Appended to the event list was another mental list of high-school classmates and acquaintances who were suddenly revealed to be her super-powered peers, followed by a long, many-chaptered story of how all this came to be, pieced together from talking to Jane, Stacy, Jane’s “nephew” Adrian, and the Ruttheimer cousins Brad and Brett. As a result, her credulity was strained well beyond the breaking point, and her ability to knock off a sarcastic quip on the spur of the moment shut down altogether.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” said Daria glumly, sitting on the family room floor of her home, as the sofas and regular chairs could not withstand her weight. A bed sheet was wrapped around her like a toga. “I’m actually the only child of two comic-book characters. You—” She pointed to Jane, who sat on one end of the broken sofa “—are also an only child from a whole family of comic-book characters, and you—” She pointed to Quinn, who sat on the broken loveseat “—are the twin sibling of Jeffy, whom you were dat—”

“Yes!” cried Quinn at the ceiling, “we all know that, okay? Please drop it!”

“Um, okay, dropped. And you—” She pointed to Tom, on the other end of the broken sofa “—are an interloper from a completely different universe that none of us are from, and you got here on your own as a baby without Ted-slash-Franklin’s help.”

“Right,” said Tom, holding a soda can in his lap. “I suspect Franklin’s influence in creating this universe attracted me here, but I can’t be sure. It seems like too much of a coincidence to be here with everything else going on.”

“It seems like nothing is too much of a coincidence anymore,” said Daria. “Time to retire the laws of probability.” She looked at Jane. “I owe you a double apology for what happened between us before I ran off on you by the river. Not only was my behavior out of line, but you were right about our being related to superheroes. Thank you for still being my friend and not rubbing it in.”

“All is forgiven, amiga,” said Jane, looking a little nervous. “Perhaps this isn’t a good topic to pursue for long, considering how things went during the argument.”

“It won’t happen again between us,” said Daria solemnly. “You have my word.”

Jane looked relieved. “Thanks, and I mean it,” she said. “Good-natured teasing is still okay, right?”

“Bad-natured teasing is acceptable, too.” Daria eyed Quinn. “From you, too.”

“Well, duh.” Quinn appeared more stressed than Jane had been. “We’re still kind of like sisters, right? Almost?”

“Quinn, as far as I’m concerned, you are my sister, and nothing will ever change that.”

Her face glowing, Quinn jumped off the loveseat and came over to give Daria a long hug. “I’m sorry I used to call you my cousin,” Quinn whispered into Daria’s thick hair. “Please forgive me.”

“All is forgiven.” Keeping a gentle arm around Quinn, Daria motioned for Jane to join them. Her best friend eagerly did.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” said Tom, getting up with a sigh. “Call me when you stop doing sensitive emotional stuff.”

Daria waited until she heard Tom open in the refrigerator, then pulled back slightly. “Quinn,” she whispered, “did you or someone else talk to Mom and Dad about us? About us not being the real Daria and Quinn, I mean.”

Quinn rested her head on Daria’s shoulder. “I think Dad already knew,” she said. “He and I talked a little, and I’m pretty sure he knows. Some of the police guys told Mom that you and I weren’t her real kids, but I don’t think she believes it. I think—” Quinn took a deep breath “—I think the real you and me got killed a long time ago, in a car wreck.”

“One that Ted somehow engineered,” said Daria evenly.

“Yes,” said Jane. She looked miserable. “Trent knows I’m not really his little sister, but he said it was okay. He said I was still family, no matter what. He carries a lot of guilt about not saving his real little sister, but he couldn’t have done it. Ted—I mean, Franklin—arranged things so he couldn’t. No one could have prevented it.”

“Except Ted,” said Daria.

Jane nodded.

“I’m worried about Mom and Dad,” said Quinn in a low voice.

Daria looked past the two toward the staircase leading to the second floor. Jake and Helen had gone up for a nap a few hours earlier. Daria wondered if they were awake and talking instead, trying to come to grips with the sudden changes in their family, their daughters now greatly changed and their family history thrown for a loop—not to mention the stalemate with the government over what to do about issues like people getting hurt and hundreds of millions of dollars in damage being done to everything imaginable.

“You want me to see if they want to talk?” asked Quinn. “Not that I’d know what to say to them for even a minute, but if you want . . .”

“I can’t go up without falling through the steps,” said Daria. “It’d have to be you.”

“Okay.” Quinn gave Daria a quick final hug, then got up and left the room, going upstairs as quietly as she could.

“I hope you don’t mind,” whispered Jane, leaning close to Daria, “but Adrian and Courtney had to fix her a little.”

“Fix her?”

“She was a bit delusional, thinking she was part angel and everything, and she was becoming possessed by the Phoenix Force. It’s the cosmic psychic power that lets her use all of her special abilities. The stress was probably driving her crazy. Adrian and Courtney said they stabilized her so she’ll stay rational, mostly, and she isn’t likely to lose control of her emotions and do something rash like blow up the earth.”

Daria raised a questioning eyebrow at her friend. “She can do that?”

“No one’s willing to find out. Her aunt could have done it, so better safe than sorry.”

“Jean Grey, Dark Phoenix, right.” Daria rolled her eyes. “I am never going to get used to this. Never.”

“How are you holding up, amiga?”

“Not well. It’s too much to take in all at once. My favorite aunt, Amy, turns out to be a ruthless assassin who tried to kill my best friend, the U. S. government has evacuated Lawndale and ringed it with every weapon known, waiting for us—well, really just me—to come out and surrender, and I’m going to be green and big for the rest of my life, because changing back into regular Daria would only let someone kill me.”

“I happen to be fond of big green Daria,” said Jane, giving her friend a close-up smirk. “She saved my life, big green Daria did.”

Daria looked away, remembering her rage and how she had almost hurt her friend. Jane seemed to sense her thoughts. She reached out and gently but firmly brought Daria’s head back around to face her. “Don’t get bent out of shape about this, but we’re going to be best friends forever,” Jane said. “I do love you.”

Daria swallowed. Her vision began to blur. “I can’t imagine why,” she said thickly.

Jane wiped under Daria’s eyes with her thumbs. “Let me worry about why,” she said. She then turned her head slightly to the left. “Tom,” she said in a conversational tone, “if you’re listening in on this, I’m going break all your limbs.”

“Hey,” said Tom in the kitchen, “look what I found in the freezer! Frozen lasagna! If no one minds, I think I’ll heat it up and set the table for dinner.”

“It’s okay,” said Daria. “It doesn’t matter who hears. We’re all going to live in a media fishbowl from now on, anyway.”

“We have to think about the future,” said Tom, walking back into the family room with a fresh can of soda in hand. “We need to hire a public relations team to handle requests for photos, interviews, fan club talks, phone calls from the President, etcetera, and we need to think about a headquarters, assuming we’re going to stay together as a team and call ourselves some catchy super-group name. Hmm, the Mouseketeers . . . no, that’s taken.”

Daria let go of Jane, who sat beside her on the carpet. “Can we even plan ahead more than a day or two?” said Daria. “I thought the universe was about to . . . oh, right, Jodie is—wait a minute, you told me earlier, I’ve almost got it—Jodie is holding the universe together using the, um, the transdimensional warp engines from her Kryptonian spacecraft to power a psionic amplifier, or whatever, to . . . to . . .”

“Reconceptualize,” prompted Tom, taking his old seat on the sofa.

“Yeah, to reconceptualize the structure of this universe according to undiscovered principles of quantum physics to give it . . . oh, the hell with it.”

“You would have had it in another half minute,” said Tom. “Don’t be a quitter.”

“I could still play miniature golf with your cerebrum, in case you forgot.”

“If you don’t mind having your arm drop into a singularity and suck you in after it, sure.”

Daria sighed and rested her chin on her fist, an elbow on her knee. “I’m still mad that I missed the raid on Lawndale High School,” she muttered. “I wish you and the others could have waited, but with Mom being held captive there, I guess you couldn’t.”

“Yeah,” said Jane with a far-away look. “Good times, finally having a reason to stick it to Principal Li and that Fortress Lawndale she was living in. Stacy and Quinn made a great team, plowing down the hallways during the firefight. The battle in the gymnasium was awesome. Oh, and the Ruttheimer twins were terrific when the helicopters appeared—”

“General Buck Conroy’s mercenaries,” said Tom to Daria. “The helicopters were hit with spells and turned into—”

“I remember, I remember,” said Daria tiredly. “Let’s don’t do the instant replay again. Thanks again for getting Mom back.”

“Too bad Ms. Li got away,” said Jane. She snapped out her arms and worked through several martial-arts attack forms in less than a second, then relaxed. “I’ve been catching up on my martial-arts movies a little at a time. Trent borrowed some tapes from his friends. Some of them are pretty funny. If you’d care to watch a few with me . . .”

Daria stirred, rubbing her enormous left bicep with the fingers of her right hand. “Um, maybe later.” She looked at the stairs. “Quinn and I have some things to talk about with Dad and Mom, if they’re up to it.”

“Understood,” said Jane. “The invitation stands.” She turned and looked at the stairs, too. “Quinn should have been back by now. Mind if I see how she’s doing?”

“Sure,” said Daria listlessly. “Maybe Stacy woke up and they’re talking.”

Jane got up from the sofa and headed for the stairs. “If nothing else is up, I’ll call Trent and see how Courtney, Adrian, and the Ruttheimers are. And anyone else who dropped in.”

“Fine.”

Jane paused to look back at Daria with concern. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Daria realized she was playing with a piece of carpet lint. “Fine,” she repeated, giving the lint a toss.

Jane glanced at Tom, then nodded and went on upstairs.

After a moment of silence, Tom cleared his throat. “Daria—” he began.

“I’m breaking up with you,” said Daria in a low monotone. “There’s too much else going on right now for me to even begin to think about our relation-date-ship thing. I can’t do it. I’m sorry for being so abrupt, but it’s over.”

Tom blinked. “What . . . uh, can you tell me why, at least?”

“Tell you why?” Daria’s head rose and she fixed him with a steady green-eyed gaze. “Tell you why? Look at me, Tom. The old Daria is gone. The old everything is gone. What is there about the last four days that you didn’t get?”

He regrouped. “Okay, I can understand that,” he said, “but you’re still you inside, right? I can still love y—” He grimaced “Damn. Sorry.”

“Love me?” said Daria, eyes wide. “You said you loved me? Now, that I definitely can’t handle. I’m a walking target, Tom. A helicopter put a missile into me a few days ago, and I have no doubt at all that another one will try to do the same thing at any moment, probably with a much larger warhead. The government doesn’t look at you the same way it looks at me. I’m a threat. I knocked down some of their flying toys and smashed up police cars and put a lot of people into local hospitals, and—jeez, Tom, what the hell did you go and say you loved me for? Do you know how messed up that is?”

“Courtney cured everyone who was hurt,” Tom interrupted. “I know we’re off-topic here, but she went and emptied out every hospital in the Lawndale city limits before the evacuation. The government isn’t necessarily as angry with us as you might think.”

“I didn’t say us, I said me! The government is angry with me!” Daria lowered her head, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, and looked at her fingernails. “You can’t possibly believe that all is forgiven, just like that. How many army units are waiting for us out there? They won’t even let Stacy’s parents come see her.”

“I’m not saying things are perfect, and they aren’t, but you . . . Daria, you’re still the one I want to be with.”

Daria sighed. “But you’re not the one I want to be with,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to be with you anymore. I don’t want to be with anyone, not in that way.”

“But why?”

Daria inhaled and straightened her back, looking Tom in the face. “You don’t get it. You never will.”

“What, like I’m not super enough for you?” he said, his voice rising. “Do you have any idea of what I can do?”

“I don’t care what you can do,” said Daria, her voice rising as well. “You could eat the sun for breakfast, and I wouldn’t care. It’s not you, so get over your damn cheap self. It’s me, all right? Get over it.”

Tom’s face tightened. “It’s Jane, isn’t it?” he said on impulse. “It’s Jane you want, right?”

Daria had started to look down again, but her head came up fast and she fixed him with a look that made Tom’s stomach try to crawl behind his spine. That was stupid, he thought. And it wasn’t even true. Damn my big mouth.

“Get out of here.” Daria’s eyes began to glow from within like green suns. “Get out of this house and don’t ever come back.”

With the greatest care, Tom got to his feet and left the room. He paused only once at the door to look back, but Daria’s eyes were like twin suns, and her muscles stood out like steel cables. She was on the verge of snapping off the floor like a monster spring.

I could take her, he thought. I could absorb her and drop her out somewhere else and hope she’d see reason—but she’d only get angrier. And I don’t know what she’d do if she got angry enough. That Atom Bomb Girl was bad, but she wasn’t smart. Daria’s at least as smart as I am, maybe more so. She’d think of something to get me back. I really stuck my foot in it this time. Damn it to hell.

He looked away, then opened the door and went outside. He pulled the door shut behind him. And was gone.

Every muscle knotted and ready, Daria began to shake. After a few moments she shivered violently and sank down on the family-room carpet on all fours. The floor beneath her cracked and groaned. She curled up kneeling, arms over her head, and tried to breathe slowly to end her rage before someone came down the stairs to see her.

I can’t believe he said that. I need friends, not a lover, but I did ever want to be with someone, it wouldn’t be Jane or any other girl, not like that. All I want right now is someone who understands me even a little bit, someone who can take the burdens from my shoulders or make me strong enough to bear them. I can’t go on like this. One day someone’s going to say something wrong, and I’m going to snap and North America is going to look like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I can’t go on living like this. God knows who else I’ll hurt, or how many. It could be anyone, it could be—

“Daria?” It was Jane, calling from upstairs.

It could still be her. She took a long, deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. “What?” she said at last.

“Can we come down?”

Another long slow breath. They heard everything. I can’t imagine what they think of me now. Damn it, damn it, damn it. She pushed herself up into a sitting position again. “Of course,” she said, running her hands through her mane of dark emerald hair. “Come on down. It’s okay.”

After a moment, footsteps descended the stairs. Jane, Quinn, Helen, and Jake came in, their faces drawn with anxiety. Jane did not once look Daria in the eye.

“Tom and I broke up,” said Daria without preamble. “It’s over. Nothing got broken or even bruised.”

Quinn sat close to Daria, on the broken-backed couch. Helen and Jake sat facing her on the broken loveseat, hunched forward with their elbows on their knees, hands together before them. Jake then took one of Helen’s hands and held it in his own.

“I should go,” said Jane, starting to leave. “I’ll be outside if—”

“No, stay,” said Helen. “Please sit with us. You can hear this, too.”

Jane hesitated, looking nervously about.

“Please stay,” said Quinn.

“Please,” said Daria, not daring to look up at her friend.

Giving in, Jane reluctantly took a seat by Quinn on the sofa. I bet they want her here to keep me calm, thought Daria. If so, that was a good idea. It’s working.

“You asked us why we had a fight, a long time ago when you were six,” said her father. He looked down at his wife’s hand. “This is as good a time to tell you as any.”

Daria nodded and forced herself to relax. Though she suspected the whole thing was trivial in the big picture, it had nonetheless been the root cause of everything that had happened in the last four days. If I hadn’t been so angry about it, if I hadn’t tried to push them for answers to my questions, if only, if only, if only. Too late now. Here comes the real reason they fought and separated for one night, all because of me.

“See,” said her father, “it all started because . . . well, it happened because—”

“I’ll do it,” said Helen. She squeezed her husband’s hand as she spoke. “We knew. We knew all along that something dreadful had happened. I did everything I could to block it out of my mind, but somewhere down deep I always knew that . . . something awful had happened that day, when we were in Austin and we had that car wreck, but something wonderful happened, too. I told myself we’d been given a miracle. We got you both back safe and sound, and if we wanted we could go on as if nothing had happened, but we knew that wasn’t true. We were both afraid that one day—” For a moment, Helen seemed ready to burst into tears, but she continued “—we thought you might be taken from us again. We were so afraid of that happening that your father and . . . well, Jake and I sort of . . . ran away, without actually running away. We tried to hide from the truth, but we couldn’t, and I’m afraid we pushed you both away and failed you as parents, and so I’m sorry we did it. It’s just been—”

“Mom,” said Quinn, shocked. “You never failed us, okay? Don’t even think about that!”

“Thank you, dear,” said Helen wearily, “but please listen. When you were six, Daria, your father and I had a . . . a fight.”

“A stupid fight,” muttered Jake.

“Yes,” said Helen, “a very stupid fight. We . . . your father thought that . . . well, we simply didn’t know what had actually happened to us all, and we didn’t know what to expect would happen in the future. We’d both had a rough week at our jobs, and we drank a little too much when we got home, and it doesn’t matter anymore what the argument was about, except that we both knew that you girls were special, more special than we could imagine, and your father and I simply didn’t agree on how to cope with it.”

“I blew up and left,” said Jake, “not because of anything your mother said, but because I couldn’t handle it. After I came back the next morning, we talked it over and decided we would just keep going, and we’d stop worrying about big things like—well, like, were you really our kids, or what?”

“Jake,” cautioned his wife. “Let’s not—”

“Well, I want to be honest!” Jake exclaimed. “It doesn’t really matter because they are our kids, I know, but it was so much to deal with back then!”

“Mom, Dad,” said a fearful Quinn, “it’s all right, all right? That was like way long ago and everything, and it doesn’t matter anymore, okay?”

“I’m still glad you talked about it,” said Daria to her parents. She took a breath. “I want you to know that I was—well, that Quinn and I were very lucky to have you both as parents, maybe luckier than we will ever believe. We could not have done better than to have had you.”

Helen’s face suddenly twisted up. “They said you weren’t our real children!” she cried. “They—they said such terrible things!” Her shoulders shook as she began to wail.

In moments, Quinn and Daria were at her side, trying to comfort her and their father as well. Even Jane got up and came over to stand behind the loveseat and rub Helen and Jake on their backs. As she held her mother’s hands, though, Daria knew the road ahead would be long and difficult. She believes Quinn and I are her real daughters, and Dad does, too. We were wrong to think otherwise. Ted-slash-Franklin must have made them believe this, but the car accident was so severe Mom and Dad knew anyway that something unusual had occurred. Ted wasn’t as careful in orchestrating the transition as he could have been.

We may never get ourselves sorted out as a family. All of us, all of us Chosen, are forever cursed to live in this tangle of denial and lies, burdened with the knowledge that the innocent died so that we could take their places, and only we would remember it.

This suffering cannot be healed. This injustice cannot be ended. This curse cannot be lifted.

However, with a little forethought and care . . .

. . . perhaps this evil can be avenged.

XXIX

The frozen lasagna had been defrosted, microwaved, and eaten, the dishes put away in the washer, and the stress-out parents put back into bed. Shrouded by night, Daria sat on the concrete sidewalk outside the front door of her home, arms around her knees, staring up at the starry sky. She wore two pairs of oversized boxer shorts, one serving as underwear, and two of her father’s white T-shirts in a feeble attempt to deemphasize her chest dimensions while around her parents.

The front door slowly opened. “Yo,” said Jane, coming out. “Mind some company?”

Daria shrugged her huge shoulders. Jane came over and sat on the sidewalk in front of her, imitating Daria’s position except to face Daria instead of the sky. Jane wore a long coat and gloves against the cold; Daria recognized them as her mother’s.

“I was worried about you,” said Jane. “If you don’t mind my being frank, I think of all of us right now, you’re the one who’s coping the worst. I hope that was safe to say, but I’m taking you at your word that I can do this.”

Daria’s jaw tightened. “Maybe,” she said. “I mean, maybe you’re right that I’m not coping with this. I’ve got too much on my mind.”

“I don’t want you to go off again and try to fight everyone for my sake,” said Jane softly. “You’ve said how much you’re worried that you won’t be able to keep a lid on your temper if things go wrong. If we’re going to work things out with the government in the long run so they’ll leave us alone again, more or less, then we need to—”

“I know.” Daria rested her forehead on her knees. “It kills me, the unfairness of it all. That guy Todd I let go when Jeffy picked me up, he’s probably off partying his brains out, planning to score some coke and rob another bank. I should’ve done something different with him, like give him to the police, but I let him go. I didn’t want to deal with the police again, and I was just sick of it all, having to fight all the time.”

“Big green Daria showed mercy to someone who didn’t deserve it?” Jane smiled. “I think it shows you’re more human than you think, and better, too.”

“It still bothers me, though. The bad guys get away with everything. I get this news flash that Ms. Li was a rogue double agent, ex-CIA but working for someone else all the time she was acting as our school principal, and she escaped even though all of her underlings were captured. My aunt Amy was working for some secret group, maybe the same one that Ms. Li was working for, and she’s disappeared, too. They figured out that Imako was lured into coming to this world and attempting to conquer it by a mysterious person she calls Executive One, but we don’t know anything about him or what else he’s planning to do.”

“Imako’s not going anywhere, at least. She can’t feed off radiation while she’s deep in that abandoned quarry on the southwest side. Not enough radiation to be a threat, anyway.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Well, what is the point?”

Daria shook her head. “I can’t talk about it. It isn’t safe.” That was an understatement. I hope it wasn’t un-safe to say that aloud, given what I’m planning.

“Who’s going to overhear us?” said Jane. Her face then cleared. “Okay, I get it.”

“Shhh.” All I can do is pray that Ted-slash-Franklin doesn’t listen in or read my mind, that he doesn’t have the energy left to do anything else but keep his body alive and that “rubber ball” pocket universe active. All I can do is pray.

Jane looked away for a moment, then turned back to Daria. “Wanna go for a walk? Quinn and Stacy have things under control here.”

Daria considered the offer. This might work, she thought. No sense in putting it off any longer. “I guess.”

They got to their feet and headed off. Their path turned west down Glen Oaks, heading in the direction of Jane’s house. The neighborhood was dark and silent, with only the barking of dogs in the distance providing sound. None of the houses around them were lit, and the streetlights were off as well.

“I kind of like it this way,” said Jane, nodding at the abandoned homes. “I guess they’ll move back eventually once this is over with, but I’ll miss it like this. Peaceful.”

Daria shrugged again. She was barefoot despite the chill air, which she hardly noticed in her green form. “What’s going to happen with Imako?” she said.

“Oh, yeah, Courtney was telling me about it this morning. The Army’s going to keep her drugged up and underground for now, but Courtney talked to the Army and she thinks she can do something to make Imako a little less willing to fry everyone. Imako’s got some kind of mental trigger so that anyone reading her mind causes her to attack by reflex, so Adrian’s no help, but Courtney says she can cure about anything with prolonged physical contact. Sort of like laying on hands, I guess. It can’t hurt.”

“So, the Army’s talking to some of you?” Meaning, not to me.

“To some of us, yes, but not to me,” said Jane. “My face is still on FBI posters in every post office all over the state. I guess I should get a lawyer or some kind of negotiator to work everything out, maybe do a billion years of community service or something.” She looked up at her friend as they walked. “Maybe they could work out a deal for you, too. You never know.”

“I think I already know what kind of deal they have worked out for me,” said Daria in a glum tone.

Jane chose to ignore that because she had no ready comeback. She uneasily suspected Daria was dead right. “I guess I should tell you that the Army’s got Tom on retainer, in case Imako gets loose,” Jane added. “Don’t get mad about it, but he’s the only one who can stop her quickly if she starts blowing herself up again.”

Daria took on a look of deep annoyance. “I’m not mad about it. So he got a government job, good for him. The jerk.”

“That’s good that you’re not mad about it.” Jane coughed and appeared to be waiting for something else.

“I guess I was a little mad earlier,” said Daria at last. “He and I had kind of an argument.”

“You don’t say.”

“He . . . forget it. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Maybe you should. I might be pushing my limits again, but you’ve broken up with him several times already over little stuff because you thought he was being unfair or you thought he was about to break up with you. This sounds more serious than that.”

Daria groaned. “Oh, he didn’t take it too well when I broke up with him because I’m a big green dangerous Hulkette, everyone’s trying to kill me, and my life’s a total disaster. He got all pissy about it and said I wanted to go out with you instead of him. It’s not true, but it really got me. For a moment there, I thought . . .” She exhaled and her breath created a vast cone of fog before her. “Jane, I can’t go on like this. I can’t.”

Daria felt a gloved hand take her own. “Don’t say that, amiga,” Jane whispered.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Daria held Jane’s hand as if it were made of the most fragile glass. “One of these days, I should turn back into my regular Daria shape and give myself up. Maybe tomorrow. At least it would get the Army off our—”

“No!” said Jane. Her grip on Daria’s hand strengthened. “Don’t do that. Don’t even think about it. Look, Daria, maybe you should . . . I can talk to Courtney, if you think you’d like for her to see you. Maybe she could help.”

“She already has, remember?”

“No, not that time. I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Daria was silent for a while, then said, “Maybe later.”

“Why later? Why not now? We’re going to be at my house in a few minutes.”

Daria swallowed. She had been thinking about this moment all evening long. Here we go, she thought. Tread carefully. “Have you talked to Jodie?”

“Jodie? No, why?”

Daria came to a stop, looking around the deserted subdivision. I’ll miss all this, but I’ll miss Jane and my family most of all. “Maybe she could help me,” she said. “I talked to her once about some stuff. I was thinking . . . I don’t know.”

“If you think that would help, then do it,” said Jane. She let go of Daria’s hand and stood facing her. “She can still talk to people, but she can’t leave that little pocket universe Franklin created because she’s hooked up in some way to the insides of her spacecraft, keeping the world going. Do you want to go over there now and see her? That robot’s still there on the corner, not doing anything.”

The closer I get to that spacecraft, the more likely it is that Ted-slash-Franklin will notice me and wonder why I’m there. Daria shook her head. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Hell, no. C’mon, Daria, of course I will.”

A deep breath . . . “Could you tell Tom I apologize for losing my temper? He shouldn’t have said what he said, but I shouldn’t have gotten so angry with him. Can you do that for me?”

A strange look crossed Jane’s face. “Sure, I can do that.”

“That would be great. And tell him I want to see him. Now, if he could.”

“Whoa.” Jane put up a hand as if signaling halt. “Wait a minute, now, you’re not going to—”

“I can’t hurt him, Jane. I’m not going to fight him. I just want to talk to him. How can I fight a human black hole, or whatever he says he is? He’d wipe me out. I just want to see him and . . . and just make it up to him. Face to face.”

Jane lowered her hand. “This is weird, Daria, really weird. What are you planning?”

Careful. Careful. “I want to make amends for everything,” she said, looking at the sidewalk instead of at her friend. “I’ve done it with you, I hope, and with my family, but I want to put things at rest with Tom and everyone else, too.”

“You’re not doing this before you go end it all, are you? Because that’s sure as hell what it sounds like.”

“That’s not it, Jane. I swear that isn’t it. I can’t live with myself like this. I want to start over again and make it up to everyone I’ve hurt. That’s all I want to do. I just think Jodie might have an idea about how to do it. She’s had to cope with a lot of stuff all her life, more than both of us put together, and I just have to get her opinion, just this once.”

Jane frowned and slowly shook her head. “This isn’t like you,” she said. “I don’t get what’s going on, but if it matters to you, then sure, I’ll do it. You want me to get Tom now?”

“Yes. I swear that I won’t attack him.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Jane stepped close and reached up to touch Daria’s cheek with one hand. “Amiga, this had better not be part of a suicide plan, because I won’t put up with it for a second if it is. If you don’t think I won’t kick your ass six ways from tomorrow over this, then you’ve got a surprise coming. Are you going to hurt yourself?”

“No, I swear I won’t,” Daria lied, then she told the truth. “I just want to fix things.”

“Okay, then. You want to come over to our place and wait for him?”

“I’d rather stay here.” Adrian might read my mind and try to stop me.

“All right. I’ll be right back.” Jane gave her a last look, began to jog away, then broke into a run and was gone in seconds down the street.

Goodbye, thought Daria in her misery. I love you, too, Jane. Take care of my family when this is over, assuming anyone’s left alive afterward.

Let justice be served.

She waited alone on the sidewalk for an eternity, the fog of her breath rolling through the chill around her. In time she heard footsteps and broke off rehearsing what she needed to say and do. Jane appeared out of the darkness with a wary look, escorting an equally wary Tom. The two came within speaking distance, and Daria put her hands behind her back to look less threatening. “Hello, Tom,” she said, trying not to sound stiff. “Thank you for coming.”

“Hello,” Tom replied. He came to a halt thirty feet from her. “I know I owe you an apology.”

“Apology accepted, but I owe you one, too. I’m having a hard time with my, um, anger issues, whatever you want to call it. I’m a lot worse off now than a couple months ago when you told me I was being a thick-headed jerk, but I guess that’s obvious.”

Tom frowned. “When did I do that?”

“When I got the rejection letter for my story about the flesh-eating bacteria. You were being supportive, mostly, but at one point you got tired of me and said that I was—”

“Okay, okay.” Tom looked uncomfortable. “I remember. Sorry.”

“Forget it. Anyway, I should have tossed out a patented smart-assed remark a while ago instead of threatening you as I did, and I’m sorry, too. It was wrong.”

Tom spread his hands. “Daria, we’ve all been under a lot of stress and I don’t blame you for being angry. What I said was thoughtless and I deserved a kick in the head for it, though perhaps not the kind of kick you can deliver. Apology accepted.”

“All right.” Damn him for being a nice guy. Daria hesitated, not sure how next to proceed. The fewer the witnesses, the better. “Jane?” she said, looking at her friend. “Could you excuse the two of us for a while?”

“We’ll be fine,” said Tom, turning in Jane’s direction. “No need to worry.”

Glad you’re so sure of yourself, thought Daria. I’m the one who has something to worry about, not you.

Jane looked back and forth between the two of them. “All right,” she said, but then she pointed a finger at Daria and gave her friend the eye. Don’t forget what I told you, the look said. Jane then lowered her arm and walked off toward her home at a leisurely pace, looking back over her shoulders once or twice until she vanished in the darkness.

Tom waited until he couldn’t hear Jane’s footsteps. “I assume the apology wasn’t the real point you asked to see me,” he said. “What do you really want?”

Daria nodded. “I want you to take me to Jodie. Inside you.”

Tom blinked. “You want what?” he said. “I don’t think I—”

“Take me to Jodie, inside you like you did when you stopped Atom Bomb Girl. Use your black-hole powers or whatever it is you do and get me there as soon as you can. That’s all I want.” She brought her hands into the open, arms down at her sides. “I’m losing control of my impulses, and it’s getting worse. It’s not going to be long before I wake up one morning with a bad case of bed hair and go completely berserk. I don’t want that. No one can help me now but Jodie, if what everyone’s told me about her is true.”

“You’re saying you want Jodie to fix your impulse control? You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious. I need you to help me, Tom. Despite all the problems we’ve had, all the times I’ve been a jerk to you, you’ve still tried to be there for me. I know you won’t turn me away. Please take me to see Jodie. She’s the only one who can help me.”

“Daria, that’s not true! Courtney, Jane’s niece, she can help. She and Adrian got Quinn straightened out—”

“I can’t see Courtney, Tom. She’s Franklin’s sister, and I hate Franklin so much for the evil that he’s done to us, I don’t even want to be around anyone who’s related to him. I’m having terrible thoughts about him, so I don’t want him to read my mind and I certainly don’t want to risk seeing him and losing my cool. I want to see Jodie only. That’s all.”

“But what could she do to help?”

“She could change me, Tom. She controls reality itself now, if what I’ve heard is true, so she could do anything if she tried. She can take away my powers, strip away this green curse that’s ruined my life. We’ll have to do this soon. I’m a hair’s breadth from losing it at least once every day. You could stop me, but you can’t spend all of your life snatching me out of trouble, because I’ll just come out of you as bad as or worse than I went in. That’s why I broke up with you, don’t you get it? I’ll go mad and destroy everything given enough time. Please take me to Jodie and let me talk to her.”

For a long moment Tom stared at her with his mouth open.

Time to play the final card, she thought. “I’ll do anything for you if you do this,” Daria said. “Anything. Do this for me and I’ll be yours. I swear it.”

He visibly wavered. She doubted he would take her up on her promise to be his, but that she was reduced to offering herself to him—that was enough to shake him to the core, as she had planned. “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” he said. “If you’re not emotionally stable, being around Jodie right now isn’t—”

“I’m no threat to her or to you, and you know it. Only she can help me, Tom. You can have anything from me if you only do this. Please help me.”

She sensed his collapse before he even spoke. “All right,” he whispered. “I don’t want anything from you, though. I’ll just do it, okay? When do you want to go?”

Her sense of relief was genuine and profound. “Let’s go now,” she said. “The sooner it’s done, the better. And don’t say anything to Jane. I don’t want her to know what I’m doing. I trust you, Tom.” Nice touch, Morgendorffer. Good ones with the “that’s why I broke up with you” and “I’ll do anything for you.” You’ll have a great future in Hell.

Tom sighed heavily and began walking toward her. He put out his right hand as he came, reaching for her—then he turned completely black, his physical outline highlighted by an eye-burning violet glow. She closed her eyes just before they touched. Let this work, please. Let it—

Light came through her eyelids.

—work. She opened her eyes. She was inside a small, featureless room of evenly illuminated blue-gray, standing on her feet exactly as she had been. Before her was Jodie Landon, floating in the air with her arms half-raised, palms up, head back, eyes closed. She wore a long-sleeved blue top with a short blue skirt, a knee-length red cape, and a yellow circle on her chest, bordered in red, with a stylized red S within it. Jodie’s cornrow braids were undone; her thick hair formed a dark halo around her head.

Daria looked behind her. Tom was there, eyes open, one arm out as if releasing her. She waited for him to react, but he didn’t move. He seemed to be frozen in time.

“Welcome, Jessica Walters-Wingfoot,” said Jodie. Daria looked at her. Jodie’s eyes were still shut, her head still back, her mouth still closed. Her voice came from everywhere in the little room. “I have altered the flow of time within our area so that we can speak without being overheard. Benjamin Thomas Jones cannot sense anything that is happening around him. It is unlikely that Franklin Benjamin Richards can detect our conversation, either. You are free to speak your mind.”

“Okay,” said Daria. “Listen, the reason I’m here—I came here because—”

“—because you want justice,” Jodie said from all around her. “Justice or revenge.”

Daria stared at the floating young woman for a long moment. “Yeah,” she said. “I do. Do you have time to talk?”

“Yes,” said Jodie, “but I cannot forsake maintenance of this patchwork universe that Franklin created. For all his ability, he was prone to make mistakes and patch them like an amateur bricklayer, from the cosmic level down. He put Katie Power with a family to replace a similar child three years younger than herself, then was forced to alter the perceptions of everyone around her to keep the change from being noticed. He failed to make Trent Lane forget that he saw his baby sister killed on the railroad tracks. He failed to prevent your trigger event, your accident in the SUV, though he claimed to look out for you. His cosmic awareness is limited by inexperience and crippled by megalomania and guilt. In his place, I now maintain this artificial cosmos with the technology of Krypton, my quantum awareness boosted by the intelligent computers of my ship and powered by the ship’s extradimensional resources, but even I cannot hold time and space together for more than a few years before they again unravel. Migration to a natural universe would have been preferable to coming here when your homeworld was destroyed, but Franklin liked the sense of power it gave him to play god for those he cared for, beneath him in all ways and doomed to be his playthings.”

“Okay, got it. Is Franklin about to heal himself, or is he already back to normal? I don’t get what’s happened to him. It’s too confusing.”

“When Hoshi Imako attacked him, most of his body was destroyed. Franklin exists now only because he has slowed his body’s life processes to prevent death, and because he maintains the pocket universe in which we and this ship are hidden, in case he is again attacked. He did little after the attack to actually maintain the cosmos, which is why it deteriorated so swiftly. Since then, his attention has become occupied with trying to defend himself and predict the next attack against him. The regeneration of his body’s lost tissues is therefore painstakingly slow, but in a month he will be at full power and able to do as he wishes.”

Daria steeled herself and took the plunge. “Can you do something with my help to get rid of Franklin permanently, before he recovers? I can’t see that letting him live will be a good thing. We can’t trust him, and he’s too damn powerful. If this is really a spaceship of some kind and his body is stuck in here with you, can’t you—”

“I cannot attack Franklin directly. His powers, though disorganized, are titanic. Any move against him would be countered and risks distracting me from my primary goal of keeping this universe from dissolution. You probably are about to suggest an alternative plan in which I use the energies of this ship to throw Franklin Richards’ body into another dimension, infinitely far from here, but that cannot be done. I would have to remove the spacecraft from this universe, which would cause this reality to collapse minutes later. Worse yet, Franklin might still find a way to heal himself and return to this universe even if this reality could be maintained. There is no guarantee I could evict him with impunity.”

Jodie paused before adding, “I think it likely you are also going to ask me to destroy or alter you as part of such a scheme, or to use your own powers to accomplish these plots even at risk of your life, but after much reflection I am not minded to do so.”

“You won’t?” Daria could not believe her ears, so stunning was the swift dismissal of her plans. “I came here for nothing?” she said. “There isn’t anything we can do about Franklin taking over the universe again and screwing around with us?”

“On the contrary,” said Jodie calmly, “in coming here you offered me an unexpected alternative plan, which I mean to adopt. You brought with you the one you call Tom, Benjamin Thomas Jones, cleverly using him to escape Franklin’s mind-reading powers and to approach and enter this spacecraft unseen. However, Tom will serve another purpose. I plan to direct this spacecraft to fall into the living singularity that is Benjamin Thomas Jones, then use my cosmic awareness to merge with him and cause him to collapse upon himself and leave this universe. There is such vast power available on my ship that I can cause an uncountable multitude of collapses, time and again and again, until this ship and all within it drops out of continuity altogether and ceases to exist. I need never confront Franklin directly, only bear his remains and his spirit away and never return.”

“What?” said Daria, doubly stunned. “You can’t do that! What will happen to Tom?”

“He will disappear with Franklin Richards, myself, this spacecraft, and this pocket universe,” said Jodie. “He is too powerful to remain on this fragile world. In time, he would become as great a threat as Franklin. In fact, he has already formed a friendship with Franklin, and were he made aware of your plots, he would turn on you and betray you to his new friend. Not even I could withstand their combined might.”

“Tom? No, he wouldn’t—no! Wait! Wait a minute! What’s going to happen to the universe? You said if you left, everything would—”

“This cosmos cannot be maintained at its current size. It was a poor copy of several other cosmoses, fleshed out with excessive amounts of randomly distributed matter and energy at extreme distances. Now that I have a reliable means of removing Franklin, I am at this moment readjusting the dimensions and mass of this reality to achieve cosmic longevity. I am reducing this universe to a handful of gravitationally connected galaxies only, this Milky Way galaxy and its satellites within the so-called Local Group, but no others. Conversion of the excess matter into architectural energy will allow a cosmic lifetime of two billion years before material dissolution.”

Daria didn’t know whether she could believe this. It was too big a change to grasp all at once. “Jodie, aren’t there other life forms in those galaxies you’re destroying?”

“Perhaps, but any other course invites disaster. It is humanity that I serve, which Franklin did not. Our time is up, Jessica, but I offer you this thought before I remove you from this ship and begin the collapses: Franklin Richards was well known for his ability to predict the future. If you were able to get aboard this ship with the means for me to destroy Franklin, did Franklin let you do that on purpose because he secretly wishes to die, or did he make a mistake in letting you pass and he now means to rectify the error as quickly as possible? Be prepared, and do not fear your powers. They will serve you and all humanity well. Farewell, Jessica.”

“Jodie! Don’t do this! Don’t take away Tom! He’s not like you said! J—”

“—odie! Damn it!” Daria found herself standing in the middle of a scorched, broken-up street intersection under a night sky with a half moon, on the very spot where a few days earlier she had fought Atom Bomb Girl almost to the death. Twenty feet away, barely visible in the moonlight, was the humanlike robot with blond hair. It struck Daria that the robot was probably the very image of what Franklin Richards would look like in his late twenties, his true age. The robot held a ball in its ghostly right hand, the ball that was a pocket dimension with an alien spacecraft inside it.

Something in her view changed. Daria blinked and squinted. The robot’s hand was now empty.

Jodie’s gone. So, Franklin’s gone, too. And Tom . . . Tom is gone. I don’t want that to happen. He wasn’t—I didn’t mean for him to—did I lead him in to be killed?

“Tom?” Daria said in a high voice. “Jodie? Tom!”

“Now!” shouted someone, not far away. The intersection was instantly illuminated from above by floating lights, obviously magical. Daria spun about, startled. Surrounding her at a distance were the other Chosen—Quinn, Stacy, Adrian, Courtney, Brad and Brett (manipulating the floating lights), and Jeffy. All stared at her in shock.

“Daria!” shouted Jane, red-faced with fury. “Where the hell is Tom? What did you do to him?”

“The ball’s gone!” yelled Adrian, pointing. “Look! The robot doesn’t have—”

The blond robot lowered its empty hand, focusing its empty gaze on Daria alone.

“Fool,” said the robotic Franklin. “You betrayed me, your savior, who rescued you from destruction and brought you and a handful of others through the infinite, to a harbor built only to shelter you—you betrayed me and Tom—Tom Sloane, whom you loved!—you gave us over to a deluded madwoman and call this justice? This is how you repay the creator of your entire universe, who gave you a new chance for life? You miserable insect! With my last breath, I confer a portion of my life force upon my faithful servant to repay your treachery, to kill you all, and may you be damned in h—”

Daria sprang at the robot to stop its attack, a wild strength in her limbs. Spiderlike arms instantly telescoped out from the robot’s chest to pound and slash her. Volcanic light and energies roared from the palms of its hands and blasted her. Flaming beams shot from its eyes, missiles hurled from its mouth, tentacles coiled at lightning speed around her arms and chest. She waded into the blows and beams, into the slams and slashes, punching and blocking and breaking and crushing, tearing through arms and tentacles, screaming in rage and agony as she hammered through missiles, bombs, and force walls, through its last defenses to catch the robot’s shoulder with one hand and really let it have it, her green strength increasing as it never had before, great right fist slamming into the robot’s face and body over and over, harder and harder, faster and faster into the flaming eyes and shrieking mouth and flailing arms. Die, she felt more than thought, I want you to die for not saving Mom and Dad and for killing little children and for building a universe of lies and for screwing up my family and for thinking you were God and for being so evil and worthless you deserve to die. I’m killing you, Franklin, the last remnant of you, and nothing can stop me until you die die die DIE

DIE

dieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

The robot’s head was gone. Its chest burst, a white flash. Daria jumped back on her feet after the explosion with nothing in her grip but the robot’s right arm, which she smashed into the pulverized ground until every fragment of unbreakable metal flew from sight. Flames roared everywhere around her. She staggered back, dizzy and numb. The robot that had looked like Franklin Richards was gone. Huffing like a steam engine, she wondered what she was supposed to do next. I killed Franklin, she thought, I finally killed Franklin, or his robot, or both, something like that. What should I do now? What should I do now that I’ve also killed Tom? What should I do?

Sleep, said a voice in her head. It sounded like a young boy, his voice almost familiar. Go to sleep.

That sounds like a good idea, she thought. She sank to her knees and lay down on the smoldering ground and closed her eyes. She thought of her mothers, both of them, so alike and so different, and for a moment saw them both standing before her. I love you, she said to them both. I am just like you. She reached out to hug them.

Oblivion reached her first.

XXX

Six months later:

Friday, May 12, 2000

Our time is coming to an end for today, Daria. We should summarize what we’ve covered in our recent sessions. You are now who you have always been—only more so, it would seem.

“An outcast even from the outcasts.”

That wasn’t what I meant. You care deeply about doing the good and right thing with your powers—though you go to great lengths to hide the real you behind a mask of indifference and cynicism.

“I thought you’d know me better than that by now. Did I ever tell you how much you sound like my mother?”

That can’t be a bad thing. Your family and friends care deeply about you.

“You could narrow that group down to immediate family only, which at last count was three people, and they are questionable in the long run. In any event, the six billion other people sharing the planet with me don’t want me around.”

You are overstating the case.

“You are understating yours. Do you think I complain too much?”

I wouldn’t say too much, perhaps. You complain because you’re angry.

“Angry, hmmm. I offer a few frivolous observations on the sick, sad state of the world, occasionally I beat the crap out of it, and everyone thinks I’m angry. Well, I suppose this is better than waiting for someone to give me an electric chair so I can act out on my impulses.”

Not a diplomatic sentiment.

“I’m not a diplomatic person, as you know, and I’m not very good at lying.”

You don’t think much of the world.

“With good reason. Hell is other people. Even in my fantasies, everyone’s a jerk.”

Why do you feel it necessary to hold this negative point of view?

“I’m not sure why you question my point of view, knowing what you do. I am negative about most things lately, which in actuality is just being realistic.”

Being realistic, as you say, seems to mean you deliberately focus on the bad side of things.

“What other side is there? Life sucks no matter what, so don’t be fooled by location changes.”

You still prefer living to the alternative.

“The alternative would be just another disappointment. I’m also sticking around because I want to see what this place looks like after it’s obliterated.”

You mean Quiet Ivy?

“I hate this place. I hate you coming here every week so I can pour out my guts to you through an adolescent mind-reader. Sorry about that, Adrian, but this whole thing sucks. The whole freaking world sucks.”

Yet the world is precious to you.

“A tiny part—a very tiny part. Most of what’s out there is crap, people included. No offense, of course.”

I think I know this part: You have low esteem for everyone else. You don’t even try to fit in, to find your place in the world.

“I’m a misfit. It’s what I do best.”

Why must you peg yourself as a misfit all the time?

“Excuse me, but you don’t suddenly need glasses, do you? Look at me. Six foot eleven, seven hundred thirteen pounds, emerald green—what are you seeing that doesn’t scream ‘misfit’ at the top of its lungs?”

For all that, you are still human.

“I was once arguably human. I don’t know what I am now.”

I remember the last time I saw you here at Quiet Ivy. At the time, I thought you were justified in your self-imposed isolation. Now I think differently. You are and have always been your own worst enemy. You must learn somehow to be your own best friend. I think the world literally depends on you to do this.

“If you’re expecting me to hug myself, you’re going to be disappointed.”

Speaking of best friends, I meant to ask you how things are going with Miss Lane.

“That was a terrible segue. As I’ve said many times before, things with Miss Lane are not going, they are gone. No calls, no visits, nothing. Stealing her boyfriend was one thing, killing him was another.”

But you didn’t kill him, Daria. I know exactly what happened, from your own memories, and you did not kill him.

“One of us is in denial, and it isn’t me. Oh, look at the time. See you next week.”

We are overtime, true. We will pick up from there in our next session.

“Be still, my heart.”

Thank you again. It was a pleasure to see you, as always.

“If there really is a thin line between pleasure and pain, then it was my pleasure as well.”

Daria felt a damp hand peel away from her forehead. She rubbed her eyes and sat up. Her thoughts were once again hers alone.

“You okay?” asked Adrian, stepping back.

“Peachy,” she grumbled, swinging her long green legs off the low bed on which she had been lying. “Sorry,” she added. “I’m not angry at you. I’m just tense.”

“I understand.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“See you next week,” said Dr. Jean-Michel Millepieds, rising from a cot placed next to Daria’s bed. “And thank you, Adrian, for being our most excellent go-between.”

“And thank you both for not telling everyone else about what you see inside my head,” growled Daria.

“Duh,” said Adrian with wounded pride. “I’m not that stupid.”

“Daria,” called Dr. Millepieds as he put a hand on the door leading out. “What would you think about being part of a support group composed of you and the other, as you say, Chosen? Do you think that would be of value to you?”

“Sorry,” she replied, “all my support groups have a one-member limit.”

After the psychiatrist left, Adrian also took his leave from Daria’s lodgings in the great old building that had once been the Quiet Ivy Mental Health Spa, just across Chesapeake Bay from Baltimore. Most of the Chosen and their immediate families lived here now, the buildings and surrounding grounds having been bought by the U.S. government for their exclusive use. This made most of the Chosen feel very important indeed. In Daria’s mind, however, it only served to put them in one spot so they were easier to target, should the day come when an anti-superhero bomb was invented. She had no doubt such a thing would prove to be possible. Anything seemed possible these days.

Daria did nothing after Adrian left except sit and mull over the day’s therapy session. She hoped Dr. Millepieds did not share the contents of their sessions with anyone else, but she suspected he did share some things, in general outline, with various government agencies and military commanders. The government could hardly be expected to do otherwise, given that Daria and her sister were arguably the most powerful beings on the planet.

A young woman with long red hair and stylish clothes waltzed into the room and interrupted her ruminations. “So,” said her sister, “how was therapy today?”

“It was fun,” Daria deadpanned.

“I thought you didn’t like fun.”

“I don’t.”

“Dinner’s in an hour. The dads are cooking. Care to eat outside with us? We’re having a picnic.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s a special picnic. Trent’s going to play a new song, Brad and Brett are doing a magic show, and Stacy and I are going to model some new clothes that Waif magazine sent us.”

“Now I’m especially not hungry.”

“Jane is here, too.”

After a beat, Daria turned her head toward Quinn, her green eyes wide. “What?”

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but you forced my hand. Jane wants to see you.”

For a moment, Quinn thought Daria would give in. Then her older sister lowered her head, looking despondent. “I’m still not hungry. Give her my best. Better yet, don’t say anything to her from me. She doesn’t need any more reason to hate me.”

Quinn somberly regarded her sister for a handful of seconds, then walked over and stood before her. She crouched so her face was in Daria’s field of vision. “I love you,” Quinn said, reached out and putting a hand against her sister’s green cheek. “You once told me that you loved me, and that was the most incredible thing that ever happened to me, ever. That shook me down to my shoes. I’m not the only one who loves you, though.” She withdrew her hand and stood. “If you change your mind, we’ll be outside waiting. Dad’s already lighting the grill. It’s a beautiful day.”

“Good for it,” Daria mumbled, unable to think of a better retort.

Quinn smiled. “See you, sis,” she said, and then left.

Daria sighed and cupped her hands over her eyes. “That was low, ruining my bad mood,” she muttered. “And I can’t believe Jane would come to see me after everything that’s happened. She said she hated me and never wanted to see me again.”

“Oh, she got over it,” said a new and very familiar voice from behind her.

Daria lowered her hands and turned around. “How did you get in here?” she asked the lanky teenager in the black bodysuit and leather goddess boots, standing behind the low bed with her arms crossed in front of her.

“I flew,” said Jane. “Actually, I climbed the outside wall and disabled the window alarm. Neat trick I learned from watching a movie the CIA loaned me. I’m working for them now. Like my Emma Peel outfit? Quinn picked it out for me.”

Daria was dumbfounded. “You are in the CIA?” she almost shouted. “How did someone like you ever get into intelligence work?”

“I’ll ignore that last remark. I decided to stop hiding from everyone and just face the music. It’s sort of like doing community service for probation, for beating up all those cops last fall when I freaked out.” Jane rolled her eyes at the memory. “Every week they give me a mission and a pile of movies to watch, and I go do it. I’ve got only four years and nine months left before I work off my sentence. You wouldn’t believe the things I can do with a coat hanger, six rubber bands, a trash bag, a wad of chewing gum, and a sock full of pennies.”

“Those movies wouldn’t happen to be old MacGyver TV episodes, would they?”

“That was such a cool series! There was this one episode I saw in which MacGyver had to—”

“Spare me the details. Jane, seriously, I can’t believe you’re really here. I thought you hated me. I thought we were the kind of friends who couldn’t stand the sight of each other—again.”

“Well,” said Jane, walking around the bed to flop down in an overstuffed chair, “I did hate you for a long time. Then I went into therapy and I saw the error of my ways, yadda yadda yadda. And I remembered you saved my life once, which was important. And I had a little extra inside help.”

“What?” Daria suddenly frowned. “Adrian told you what he’s been seeing inside my mind, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, that helped, too. Don’t be angry with him, okay? He’s just a kid—a super-powerful telepathic kid who doesn’t understand privacy concerns and personal boundaries.”

“I don’t like kids, telepathic or not. I didn’t even like kids when I was a kid.”

“He told me what really happened with you and Jodie. He showed me, Daria.” Jane leaned toward Daria with a focused expression. “Superwoman ambushed you. You did everything you could to stop her from taking Tom away. I saw it, with Adrian’s help, and I got over it.” Jane began to kick one leg in the air. “I got over being angry with you about it, rather. Jodie, though, I could strangle. Tom had his faults, but he didn’t deserve what she did to him. His family’s a wreck over it. He was adopted, of course, just like us. So, anyway, I’m back to see if you and I can be friends again. Plus, I wanted to find out if you want to help me on a couple of upcoming missions.”

Daria made a face. “I can’t see myself ever working for the government, after all that’s been done to me and my family by those idiots.”

“If you help me trash some terrorist bases in Afghanistan next month before the terrorists there can launch an attack against New York City, the government will forgive you everything. Plus you and your family get free medical and dental for life, and you get an endless supply of almost-indestructible nifty costumes. You might look good in purple, but I know how you are about basic black. Sorta like me.”

Daria looked puzzled. “They’ll forgive me everything, but you still have almost five years left on your sentence?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty eager to get you on their good side. They showed me a report about your strength limitations, or rather the lack of same. Before you fought Atom Bomb Girl, who by the way sends her regards and hopes you aren’t holding any grudges, you were a lot like your birth mom, She-Hulk. You had a fixed upper level of power and could go no higher. After Atom Bomb Girl’s radiation attacks on you, though, your genes were all messed up. Of late, you’re more like the Incredible Hulk, your mom’s cousin. Your strength now increases exponentially with your anger. There’s no effective upper limit to it. That’s how you destroyed Franklin’s robot, which in theory you should not have been able to do. The government’s still analyzing the pieces you left behind of it, and that’s still the strongest metal ever discovered.”

Daria was awash in disbelief. “How the hell can the government possibly know all that about me?” she snapped, her voice rising. “That’s impossible!”

“Temper, temper, Daria,” warned Jane, calmly wagging a finger at her. “I’m not like you. I’m very delicate and easy to break.”

It worked. Daria forced her irritation down. “No fair,” she grumbled. “And I still don’t get it.”

“Apparently, even super-persons like yourself leave a few cells behind when they beat on things. The cells you left behind when beating up those attack helicopters are different from the ones you left behind when beating up that robot. They can’t clone a new you, thank heavens, but they can figure out your potential, and what they learned scared them to death. The lawyers for the people you knocked around worked out a deal with the government, collected a few billion, and dropped their lawsuits against you. If you were wondering why Mom Morgendorffer looks so happy lately, that’s the reason.”

Daria thought it over. Her mother had looked very relieved in the last week or so, not quite so tense as usual. Her father had looked happier, too. “So, all I have to do is sell my soul to the CIA, the Pentagon, and the forces of darkness, and I’m off the hook?”

“Nifty costumes, Daria. Any shade of black you want. And you can quit anytime you want to after the Afghanistan raid, although after you’ve seen some of the scum lurking out there in the world, you may not want to quit.”

“We’ll see. But I get to beat up terrorists? This is for real?”

“Wanna hear how I kidnapped Saddam Hussein last week and made him wear Victoria’s Secret underwear under his burka when I was getting him out of the country?”

Daria sighed. She knew when she was beaten. “Now all that remains is the creation of a catchy marketing slogan for me. Hmmm . . . how’s this? ‘I don’t have low self-esteem. I’m gonna kick your ass!’”

Jane smiled broadly. “That’s my Daria.” She sniffed the air and looked away. “I smell hamburgers charring into ash on an outdoor grill.”

Daria groaned, but she got to her feet. “We’d better get outside before my dad burns the mansion down.” A new thought struck her then. “Hey—are any of the others coming on missions with us? Like Quinn and Stacy?”

“None of them wanted to risk being near you when you got pissed off. Me, it’s just another challenge in the great hurricane of life. I need work on my metaphors, but I think that one is clear enough.”

Daria looked grim. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll be very careful.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.” Jane vaulted out of her chair and landed on her feet halfway across the room. “How does this sound for a heroic name for me: Catgrrrl, c-a-t-g-three-r’s-l? Kinda edgy, don’t you think?”

“I do think,” said Daria. “I’m just not sure that you do.”

“You need a heroic name, too,” Jane continued as she led the way out of the room and downstairs to the grounds in back. “Maybe D-Hulk, the D for Daria, sorta like your birth mom’s name or your bra size, or a Mexican wrestler name like El Diablo Verde, the Green Devil, or something.”

“Or something, right. I’ll think about it. Can’t I just be Daria? Everyone knows who I really am.”

Jane tisked and shook her head. “You have a lot to learn about the superhero business,” she said. “And I mean a lot.”

“Maybe.” Daria’s footsteps rumbled through the mansion as she went downstairs. “This is all your fault, though, you know.”

“All my fault?” Jane slid down the banister and jumped off before she reached the bottom post. “How do you figure that?”

“Adrian told me you wished ten or eleven years ago that you would be best friends with She-Hulk, and your wish came true. Ergo, it’s all your fault.”

“Adrian told you that?” cried Jane, indignant. “That little rat bastard! I’ll tie his arms and legs together like a pretzel!”

“Now, now, he’s just a kid, remember?”

“What idiot told you that?” Jane then looked thoughtful. “You think that was what actually did it? I kinda wondered about that myself. Oh, well.” She opened the door to the rear marble steps down to the courtyard and stepped aside. “After you, amiga,” she said with a smirk.

“Thanks.” As Daria went through the door, Jane stepped out behind her, goosed Daria on her left buttock, yelled “Woo-hoo!”, then shot around her friend and did handsprings down the steps and into the lawn before Daria could react.

“Ohmigosh!” cried Stacy from her place at one of the picnic tables. “Look! Daria’s running after Jane!”

“What?” said Jake Morgendorffer in astonishment. He abandoned the smoldering grill and its burnt hamburgers. Everyone got to their feet to watch the action.

“I don’t think it’s serious,” said Quinn. She shaded her eyes and watched a green giantess chase a black-clad acrobat around the rear grounds of the estate. “Daria’s laughing.”

Sure enough, she was.

“If that’s not a sign of the Apocalypse,” muttered Adrian, “then I don’t know what is.”

Courtney smiled by his side. “Eat your burnt hot dog and shut up.”

Nearby, Brad nudged Brett. “Upchuck would love this.”

“I can see him now,” Brett agreed. “Rrrowrrr! Feisty!”

“We should get him to visit.”

“He’d never behave himself.”

“True.”

“I’ll call him after lunch.”

The Chosen went back to their picnic. All was finally right with the world.

As far as they knew.

* * *

Secure-Cam 21, mounted high over the central back doors of Quiet Ivy’s old stone mansion, faithfully transmitted the antics of the Chosen and their families to an automatic security station in the mansion’s basement. On the security computers were images of a grinning fantasy magician looking into a crystal ball, the logo of the security-system’s manufacturer, Wizard, Inc. The computers’ surveillance software carefully scanned the information received from all security sensors on the campus grounds for possible threats to the mansion’s residents, found nothing out of the ordinary (having been properly programmed to account for the peculiar abilities of those who lived there), and so continued monitoring.

Unknown to anyone on the Quiet Ivy campus, a minor subroutine in the security-system programming continued sending S-Cam 21’s transmissions, along with the transmissions of every other security sensor and camera in and around Quiet Ivy, through a buried secret cable to a vastly larger computer located far from the peaceful estate where the Chosen had their picnic that afternoon. This machine routed the signal from S-Cam 21 to a very large wall-mounted LED screen in an enormous bedroom whose walls were of fine wood inlaid with ivory and gold. The scene played out to a young man in a silk bathrobe lounging on a huge, stately bed with an elaborately engraved wooden headboard and corner pillars, over which was a decorative canopy once owned by a French monarch. The young man, propped up on silken pillows, was the only person present.

At the moment, the young man was ignoring the image from S-Cam 21 and was instead reading a copy of the King James Bible, open to his favorite Biblical passage. As always, he marveled at how appropriate the verse was in describing him, and he mouthed the passage as he read it: My name is Legion: for we are many.

He sighed with pleasure. He was one, and he was many; his name was Legion, but he had many other names as well, as many names as he needed to do his work. The passage was all too perfect. Fulfilled, he put the book aside and reached for another wasabi gummi-fish in the antique crystal bowl beside his fabulous bed, popping the treat in his mouth as he again studied the transmission on the wall screen. The green giantess had ceased to chase her black-clad friend; they had stopped behind a tree to exchange words, then hug. The green giantess appeared to be weeping, but from joy and not sadness. If the young man wished, he could have heard every syllable of what the two were saying, but he gave them their privacy. He knew all he needed to know.

The young man then made a series of subtle hand gestures that were picked up by sensors around the bedroom. The view on the screen shifted to random camera views of the rear grounds where the picnic was taking place. Water began running in the marble bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, preparing his bath. And in moments the opening strains of his favorite theme song from all the James Bond movies began to play in the background. The smooth, sultry voice of Nancy Sinatra rose in the air: You only live twice, or so it seems / One life for yourself, and one for your dreams. . . .

The young man’s gaze went back to the image on the huge LED monitor before him, set between curtains woven from fine gold thread. The green giantess was walking toward the combined family cookout with her best friend, unaware they were being watched.

“Miss Morgendorffer,” the young man said, as if they could hear him. His voice was cultured and had a vaguely European accent. “Miss Lane. The dynamic duo, as it were. What a pleasure to see you. Enjoy your free time, my lovelies.” He reached for another wasabi gummi-fish in the crystal bowl. “All too soon, there will be no free time left for you or your so-called Chosen, no free time at all. You had so much potential, my dears. You could easily have been a part of my organization, each of you serving as one of my many arms. You would have eclipsed the dear departed Linda Griffin, who sadly outlived her usefulness, or my clever, clever misery chick, Amy Barksdale, who continues to elude termination of her services—but I will have Angela Li deal with the matter in her own way.” Watching Daria and Jane stand in line for burgers, he rubbed his hands together and grinned. There was much to do, and he delighted in every bit of it.
This dream is for you, so pay the price, sang Nancy Sinatra. Make one dream come true, you only live twice.

“I have lived twice,” he said to the green giantess and the black-clad acrobat. “I have, my dears. I was the last of those brought over by the late, lamented Franklin Benjamin Richards, the very last of the Chosen to arrive, but the best is always saved for last, isn’t it? In my original state I was the child of a good man, a brilliant man, a prodigy who by the power of his genius alone defied and stalemated an entire army of super-beings, a man who stood for all that was bright and just and holy against the left hand of evil itself. I was his only son, destined for greatness even beyond that achieved by my father . . . but then my father’s world was destroyed by a wave of antimatter. I alone survived, placed by my loving parents in a spacecraft that crossed the dimensions and pierced the boundaries of existence. Thus I was found and brought to this humble estate by the maker of universes, Franklin, who became my mentor and confidante. Franklin had a special purpose in mind for me, and he withheld nothing from me about this world and its secrets. So began my first life, I the son of Lex Luthor and Lois Lane of Earth-Three, the intended nemesis of all superheroes of this island Earth—I, Alexander Luthor the Second.”

A hand gesture brought the focus in on Daria Morgendorffer’s smiling face.

“You killed my only friend, Miss Morgendorffer,” said the young man. He was not smiling. “That was not in the original plan, but it served my purposes perfectly. And so began my second life. I was Alexander Luthor the Second no more. Now, I am Legion.”

On the screen, Daria said something to her mother and smirked.

“Franklin could foresee many possible futures,” the young man continued, watching the scene. “He anticipated the possibility that he would one day perish, despite his best-laid plans, and he set in motion the means by which his ultimate goal of developing a force of new heroes would be accomplished in this makeshift universe, with or without him. He intended that the other Chosen would be tested by me, and I was given the proverbial keys to the kingdom to do so. I was given charge of a vast conspiracy, a parasitic empire of terrorists and evildoers modeled on that classic Bond archetype, SPECTRE, the many-armed octopus. I was given the power to manipulate and counteract, the power to challenge and checkmate, the power to be the ultimate supervillain—yet in the service of good, for I was to be the Chosen’s teacher, forcing them to work together as a coherent team, forcing them to attack their problems creatively or else . . . suffer, and so learn wisdom. Where the Chosen could have gone in bringing righteousness to the cosmos—all that was in my hands, under the guidance of the one who created this world, this island of safety.”

He shook his head at the image of Daria’s young, green face. “Franklin, though, was becoming sloppy. Perhaps he was mad as well. In any event, I wearied of being his underling, and while he was distracted by the likes of you, Daria, I caused a self-centered young lady from another universe, Hoshi Imako, to discover the means to get to this world and attempt to conquer it. As I planned, Franklin found her first, but he did not succumb to her fatal abilities as I’d wished. Still, I must thank you, Daria, for getting me out of a sticky situation by getting rid of Franklin, young Benjamin Thomas Jones, and Superwoman in one shot. That saved me a great deal of trouble. However . . . you are too dangerous to be allowed to live. You might someday find a way to get rid of me as well.

“Yes, my dear, you took my only friend and confidante, my mentor and savior, and incidentally the only check on my personal deviations from the grand scheme Franklin so wanted to bring about. He made his mistakes, I agree, he had his flaws, but Franklin at heart wanted to bring back the world he had lost, a world of heroes and villains, a world of greatness. And now that will never be. You see, my dear, I don’t like heroes.”

His eyes narrowed as he spoke softly to Daria’s image. “I do not mean to teach you and your allies as Franklin wished, Miss Morgendorffer. I mean to make you suffer, not that you should learn wisdom, but that you should ultimately die in the worst torment imaginable.” A wicked smile curled over his lips. “And I mean to take my time at it.”

The wicked smile deepened. “How shocked you will be when I finally reveal myself to you, Miss Morgendorffer. How horrified you will be to discover my identity, to know I was so often there with you, and you knew nothing. It was scripted, every bit of what I did, except for one impulsive moment when I ad-libbed and gave you a clue as to who I might possibly be. Do you remember, Miss Morgendorffer? We were talking, you and I, before we went in for the interviews to see who would win the ten-thousand-dollar scholarship from the Wizard Foundation, just a few weeks ago. We were talking, and I said, ‘Care for a wasabi gummi-fish imported from Tokyo? It’s just the kind that Mister Straun happens to enjoy.’ That was Mister Mark Straun, the CEO of Wizard, Inc., who founded his company in high school . . . Mark Straun, one of the many names of Legion. I gave you that clue, and you did not catch it. For shame, Miss Morgendorffer, for shame. I am so disappointed.” He shrugged. “So it goes.”

The young man with the curly red hair smiled. “We will meet many more times, and you will know nothing. Not even the mind-readers among you can touch my real thoughts. My technological creations see to that. Franklin made me the most powerful and dangerous person on Earth—me, a mere human being, but one of superlative genius, of brilliance even greater than any Lex Luthor of any alternate Earth. I am the Devil, Miss Morgendorffer. I am the very Devil himself.”

The strains of the James Bond theme song faded. He got out of bed, adjusted his silk bathrobe, and looked one last time at Daria Morgendorffer on the great screen. “I have much to do. From this point on, I will be a very busy man, preparing the inferno into which I will cast you. This world is ultimately mine, not yours, and you and the other Chosen are not welcome here. I have orders to prepare, servants to instruct, schemes to lay. You and your allies overcame Hoshi Imako, but she was there only to remove Franklin and secondarily to test you. She will join you, I am sure; she was weak in mind to begin with, like her parallel on this world, Miss Blum-Deckler. But I have many more servants in waiting who are not so weak, servants who can be made as powerful as any of the Chosen with my resources and knowledge. You will soon see your old friend, Todd Ianuzzi, but he will not be as you last saw him. He will be the first of the new villains you will meet, the first of my minions, the legion of Legion. And Linda Griffin’s beautiful daughter will be with him, eager for vengeance in the belief that your telekinetic sister, not I, slew her mother.” He raised his chin before leaving the room. “Be ready to meet them—though I gravely doubt you will be.” With that, he left the room.

He was relaxing in the bath a half-hour later when a phone softly rang nearby. He looked to one side and picked up a cell phone, examining its small screen. His “cousins” were calling, no doubt to secretly invite him over to Quiet Ivy. His voice changed as he spoke, becoming that of a leering, smarmy, hormone-driven teenager. “The suave Charles Ruttheimer the Third speaking!” he said. “Is this a feisty female calling? Rrrowrrr!”

AUTHOR’S NOTES II

It is best to begin at the beginning. From 1983-1988 or so, I worked a fair amount with Marvel Comics properties as part of my job at TSR, Inc., editing materials in Dragon Magazine for the Marvel Super Heroes game (TSR). This was the time of the two Secret Wars serials and DC’s Crisis on Infinite Earths, all of which I read as part of my job. I know this period in comics history better than any other period in either line. I also authored an alternate-universe adventure for the MSH game, “The Gates of ‘What If?’” A brief description is available at:

http://www.geocities.com/the_black_condor/pages/wrl-ev.html

I love alternate universes, of which both Marvel and DC have an abundance, and doing an AU for Daria, crossing it with both comics lines, came to me in time. It struck me that the most likely birth year for Daria and her same-grade peers (1981) fell before the year of Marvel’s Secret Wars I (1984-1985) and DC’s Crisis on Infinite Earths (1985-1986). The 1981 figure comes from Richard Lobinske’s Dariaverse “Temporal Analysis Project” chronology at:

http://www.outpost-daria.com/essay/rl_daria_temporal_analysis_project.html

Comic-book time is quite flexible, of course, but the coincidence intrigued me. DJW’s essay on Daria and the Marvel Universe at:

http://www.outpost-daria.com/essay/djw_daria_and_the_marvel_universe.html

also caught my attention, and there was a relevant essay on a potential superhero: “Jane Lane: Hero in the Making?” at:

http://www.theangstguy.com/fanfics/herojane.htm

All the crossover stories of Daria and superheroes also got to me, but they are too many to name. If you wrote one of them, I hereby thank you.

The deciding element was a strange short Wikipedia essay on She-Hulk and “breaking the fourth wall” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/She-Hulk), which shows that She-Hulk, unlike any other Marvel super-character, knows her universe is in a comic book and sometimes takes advantage of that fact. (Side note: She-Hulk’s ability to change forms from Jennifer Walters to She-Hulk and back came to an end in 1985 with her disastrous adventurers aboard the SHIELD Helicarrier, depicted in The Sensational She-Hulk, Marvel Graphic Novel #18, narrowing down the window of Secret Wars I and setting an upper limit for the year of Jessica Walters-Wingfoot’s birth.) I also noted that comic books appear within the world of DC super-characters and even influence their lives (e.g., see “Jay Garrick and the Parallel Earth,” near the bottom of this long page on DC’s Flash (http://members.aol.com/MG4273/flash.htm).

The twist in the story is that the super-characters are the Dariaverse characters we know and love, and they are all the children of long-established super-characters from Marvel and DC Earths. However, these children do not necessarily exist in the main-line comics. For instance, Jessica Wingfoot appears in a future-based Marvel Universe tale (The Last Avengers Story, from 1995), but the version in this story is slightly different. Robin (Richard Grayson) and the Huntress (Helena Wayne) did not get married and have a daughter named Selina Grayson (Jane Lane) on Earth-2, but here they did. Selina is named for her grandmother, Selina Kyle (Catwoman), who married Batman (Bruce Wayne) on Earth Two.

Finding lists of all the children born to Marvel and DC Comics superheroes during the 1980s, “real” or hypothetical, was quite a challenge. Of great help was a marvelous and often hysterical ten-part essay series called “Superhero Reproduction,” by a brilliant comics fan named Lorendiac. This is must reading! The tenth essay is at the following link.

Superhero Reproduction

Links to the earlier nine essays are at the bottom of the tenth essay’s webpage.

Placing Lawndale as suburb of Baltimore, Maryland, comes from comments made by Daria Creative Supervisor Glen Eichler in a question-and-answer session with Kara Wild, dated 03/16/05 (http://www.the-wildone.com/dvdaria/glennanswers.html). The beginning of Chapter I is based almost entirely on the highway-accident scene in the episode “Boxing Daria,” per Outpost Daria (http://www.outpost-daria.com), which was a tremendous help in many areas. James CINCGREEN Bowman’s “Daria Encyclopedia 0.0” (http://dariaencyclopedia.blogspot.com/) was invaluable for research purposes, as was the “Daria Character Database” created by Mike Xeno and hosted at the Glitter Berries website (http://www.glitterberries.com/tvdb/TVIndex.htm).

“Big Jim” the Cobra pilot is the paintball operator from “The Daria Hunter.” Meg Rosata, news reporter for Channel 4 (here assumed to be Linda Griffin’s TV station, KSBC), appeared in “The Lost Girls.” Linda Griffin appears in several episodes, and she and her position at KSBC-TV are described in The Daria Database. Leonard Lamm is the smarmy salesman from “Fizz Ed,” and here is also a colonel in the National Guard in his spare time. The man with the bouncing ball (Franklin’s robot) is from The Daria Diaries, “Welcome to Lawndale.”

Many of Daria’s lines in the first part of Chapter XXX are modifications of actual lines she has said or written down, taken from the TV series, the MTV website, or the two MTV Daria books. My personal favorite is the line: “Now all that remains is the creation of a catchy marketing slogan. Hmm… how’s this? ‘I don’t have low self-esteem. I’m gonna kick your ass!’” This came from Daria’s writings on the MTV website at:

http://www.mtv.com/onair/daria/worldaccording/playingwblockbusters.jhtml

May 12th, the day on which this long story ends, is the perpetual date on the Morgendorffers' kitchen wall calendar.

Daniel T. Dey’s “Planes, Trains & Automobiles” chart on Outpost Daria (http://www.outpost-daria.com/transportation.html) had useful information, too. For whatever it is worth, the cars used by the Lawndale Police Department (going by the “Welcome to Lawndale” illustration in The Daria Diaries and their appearance at the start of the episode “Café Disaffecto”) do appear to be black mid-1990’s Chevrolet Caprices, which have been used as police cars in real life. And the blue car Jeffy was seen driving in “Depth Takes a Holiday” seems to be a mid- to late-1990’s model Dodge Viper GTS, which, given its cost, was probably his father’s.

Background material on the characters in this story is given in the following section. The material is current with the world situation at the end of the story.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Daria Morgendorffer

Jessica Walters-Wingfoot

Daria was born Jessica Walters-Wingfoot, daughter of Jennifer Walters (She-Hulk) and Wyatt Wingfoot, from an alternate Marvel Universe Earth destroyed during Secret Wars I. Her mother became She-Hulk after receiving a blood transfusion from her cousin, Robert Bruce Banner (Savage She Hulk #1, February 1980). She-Hulk and Wyatt Wingfoot married soon thereafter and had Jessica (b. November 1981). She-Hulk was lost in action on the Beyonder’s Battleworld, and Wyatt was left behind on Earth before Doomsday attacked, when Jessica and the other children were taken by Franklin to their new homes in the “lifeboat universe” in April 1984.

Daria is likely to chose the name D-Hulk for her superhero name, because the D is for Daria and it rhymes with She-Hulk. She might call herself the Destroyer, too, or just Daria. In Big Green Girl form, she looks remarkably like She-Hulk in nearly all ways, except in having Daria’s face and being slightly taller. She does not need glasses when big and green, as her D-Hulk form corrects her myopia. She likes to wear black outfits that don’t hamper her movements, but she has a careless, almost blasé attitude about nudity, which is helpful since her clothes are often torn away by hand-to-hand combat or huge explosions. She rarely changes back into “normal Daria” form out of a deeply ingrained paranoia that someone might attack her while she is vulnerable, but she also likes the relatively uninhibited personality that comes with the transformation. She is sarcastic and cynical in either form, with a biting and outspoken wit.

In D-Hulk form, following her battle with Atom Bomb Girl, Daria has the same strengths and invulnerabilities as The Incredible Hulk of the regular Marvel Universe, but with her normal personality and intelligence. Marvel Comics produced The Last Avengers Story in 1995, which features an adult Jessica Wingfoot, the green-skinned and muscular daughter of She-Hulk and Wyatt Wingfoot from an alternate Marvel Earth. However, though She-Hulk and Wyatt dated throughout the 1980s in the main Marvel Universe, they broke off their marriage engagement in 1989 (She-Hulk: Ceremyony) and had no children. Daria here is a slight variation on the Jessica Wingfoot named above.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/She-Hulk

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hulk_%28comics%29

http://www.marvunapp.com/Appendix/earthlastavengers.htm

Jane Lane

Selina Grayson

Born Selina Grayson, daughter of Helena Wayne (Huntress) and Richard Grayson (Robin) from an alternate DC Universe Earth-2 (disastrous Crisis on Infinite Earths outcome), Jane Lane is the ultimate copycat. She has the same powers as the Marvel supervillain Taskmaster (there called photographic reflexes), run up to the maximum possible level. Jane is likely to call herself Catgrrrl (said with a slight growl).

Details on her parents, the Huntress and Robin of Earth-2, can be found in Wikipedia (see links below). This story assumes the two eventually married, though there’s no evidence they even dated per the comics. However, Helena Wayne did work for Dick Grayson at his law office, so anything is possible.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robin_(comics)

[see “Dick Grayson of Earth-Two]

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huntress_%28comics%29

[see “Helena Wayne”]

http://www.marvel.com/universe/Taskmaster

Stacy Rowe

Katie Power, a.k.a. Energizer

Katie Power, the youngest member of Power Pack, was the daughter of Margaret Power and Dr. James Power, from an alternate Marvel Universe Earth destroyed during Secret Wars I. When brought over to the Dariaverse, she became Stacy Rowe, but she still has the ability to become Energizer. (She picked her superhero name after watching an Energizer Bunny commercial on TV in the early 1980s, when she was five.) As Stacy, Katie’s hair got darker, but she is still small and a little immature for being age 20. She has not yet found her older siblings from Power Pack, and in this timeline she never became any hero other than Energizer.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katie_Power

http://www.toonopedia.com/powerpak.htm

Courtney

Mary Richards

Courtney, believed to be Jane Lane’s niece, was born Mary Richards, daughter of Sue Richards (Invisible Woman) and Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic) of the Fantastic Four, and comes from an alternate Marvel Universe Earth destroyed during Secret Wars I. She appeared in the comics in What If? (second series) #30, and was born after June 1984 (Fantastic Four #267). Mary Richards has no relationship to Valeria von Doom (Richards), whose terrible convoluted history is skipped in its entirely here for story purposes. Courtney (Mary) can levitate—but, more importantly, can also heal any living thing of any injury, without even touching the injured being, merely by willing it to happen and extending her powers. She is secretly the girlfriend of Adrian, who is thought by most people to be her brother, but isn’t.

http://www.marvunapp.com/Appendix3/earthffchildpeace.htm

http://www.marvel.com/universe/Richards,_Valeria

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valeria_Richards

Adrian

Nathan Summers

Adrian, born Nathan Christopher Charles Summers, would have become Cable in the regular Marvel Universe. He is the son of Madelyne (Pryor) Summers and Scott Summers (a.k.a. Cyclops) from an alternate Marvel Universe Earth destroyed during Secret Wars I. He is a powerful telepath with telekinetic abilities, but he lacks all of Cable’s peculiar attributes grafted onto him after birth. Nathan Summers was born in the X-Men Mansion in December 1985 (per the comics). He is secretly the boyfriend of Courtney, who is thought by most people to be his sister, but isn’t.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cable_(comics)

Quinn Morgendorffer

Gailyn Bailey

Quinn was originally born Gailyn (often wrongly spelled “Galen”) Bailey, daughter of Sara (Grey) Bailey and Paul Bailey. She is the fraternal twin of Jeffy, and both hail from an alternate Marvel Universe Earth destroyed during Secret Wars I. In this timeline, Gailyn did not become the kid-hero Shatterbox, per this reference:

http://www.marvunapp.com/Appendix/lostboys.htm

Gailyn and her brother have appeared in the Marvel books X-Factor (1st series) #35 and #40; X-Man #30; and X-Men (2nd series) #30 and #51. Both were born in the 1980s.

Quinn (Gailyn) is here assumed to be much like Phoenix, using telekinetic powers to fly at subsonic speeds, create force fields, create winds or force blows, pull or push things, etc. Her powers in the comics (if any) were never clarified. She has access to the Phoenix Force but does not have unlimited power like Dark Phoenix. She is not likely to be able to settle on a superhero name, alternating between Phoenix Angel, Guardian Angel, Red Phoenix, and other names by whim and mood.

Jeffy

Joseph Bailey

Red-haired Jeffy was born Joseph “Joey” Bailey, son of Sara (Grey) Bailey and Paul Bailey, fraternal twin of Quinn Morgendorffer, from an alternate Marvel Universe Earth destroyed during Secret Wars I. Joseph’s powers were never highly details in the comics, but as he and his sister have Jean Grey (Phoenix) as their aunt, the sky’s the limit. Though the comics don’t give powers to Joseph Bailey, here he is assumed to have mighty powers that would make him the perfect football player, since he is one as Jeffy in the Dariaverse. He thus has high strength, fast reflexes, telekinetic powers to catch footballs or other thrown things, etc. Jeffy now calls himself Super-Tackle, after being talked out of calling himself such things as NFL Man or The Jockmeister. See details for Quinn Morgendorffer, who turned out to be his sister, which was rather uncomfortable since they had been dating each other for a few years before the story began (ouch!).

http://www.marvunapp.com/Appendix/lostboys.htm

Brad and Brett Ruttheimer

William and Thomas Maximoff

Born William and Thomas Maximoff, identical twin sons of Wanda Maximoff (Scarlet Witch) and Vision, Brad and Brett come from an alternate Marvel Universe Earth destroyed during Secret Wars I. In the Marvel Universe, Scarlet Witch made herself pregnant around December 1985, and her twins were born around December 1986, per the Marvel limited series, The Vision and the Scarlet Witch.. No reason exists why this could not have happened a few years earlier, given the vagaries of Marvel Time.

Brad and Brett were supposed to be shards of Mephisto’s soul, but in some alternate universes have normal (super) lives. They don’t take themselves too seriously and are mostly out for fun. They don’t even have super-names but can use lots of magic.

http://www.marvel.com/universe/Scarlet_Witch

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scarlet_Witch

http://www.marveldatabase.com/wiki/index.php/Scarlet_Witch

Imako Hoshi

Pikadon Shoujo (Atom Bomb Girl)

Hoshi Imako is not Tiffany Blum-Deckler, but is instead one of Tiffany’s alternate-universe selves. Imako is the daughter of Hoshi Kimiyo (one of the many Dr. Light characters) and Mr. Hoshi, of a variant DC Earth unrelated to all others. She is immune to psionic or psychic powers, but is in most ways like her mother in terms of her superpowers. Imako’s metagene does her mother one better, however, by allowing Imako to utilize radiation in all forms, even cosmic rays, infrared heat, and radio waves. She can duplicate Kryptonite radiation, radiation from nuclear weapon, sun-surface radiation, etc. Even if in a cave, she can take energy from cosmic rays or neutrinos and convert it for other uses so she does not need to eat or sleep.

Hoshi Imako and Tiffany Blum-Deckler are physically identical, down to their fingerprints. Both are vain (Imako of her powers, and Tiffany of her beauty and supermodel pretensions), both are manipulative with men, and neither is very bright but can be cunning. Imako exists in DC Comics (see Crisis on Infinite Earths #7), but does not have superpowers; her identity as Pikadon Shoujo exists only in this story. Details on her mother, Doctor Light, can be found on the Internet at:

http://captain.custard.org/league/php/profile.php?id=drlight4

Charles Ruttheimer III

Alexander Luthor II, a.k.a. Legion

Upchuck was originally the super-genius Alexander Luthor II, born to Lois Lane and Lex Luthor, from an alternate version of the DC Universe Earth-3. This world was destroyed during the Crisis on Infinite Earths. Upchuck has many personas from fiction and film (Blofeld from the James Bond saga, Mark Stronn (or Straum) of Wizards, Inc., from the Daria episode “Prize Fighters,” etc. A good description of Alexander Luthor II can be found at:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lex_Luthor

And, finally, I present three godlike beings whose actions reshaped this shaky Dariaverse. It is entirely possible one or more of them could reappear in Lawndale in the future. After all, no one in the comics dies forever.

Jodie Landon

Superwoman

Jodie is a character invented for this story, but her parents existed in DC Comics. She is supposed to be the daughter of Kara Zor-El (Supergirl) and Kal-El (Superman), from an alternate DC Universe world almost exactly like Earth-D (D = Diversity?), which was destroyed during the Crisis on Infinite Earths. Earth-D’s heroes were memorable for their various ethnic backgrounds. Superman-D and Supergirl-D were Kryptonian, though they looked like black Africans. They came to Earth-D as adults, three years prior to that world’s destruction, and were married (not cousins). A child would not have been impossible. Earth-D is described in Legends of the DC Universe: Crisis on Infinite Earths, “The Untold Story” (February 1999).

Ted DeWitt-Clinton

Franklin Benjamin Richards

Ted was born Franklin Benjamin Richards, son of Sue Richards (Invisible Woman) and Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic), from an alternate Marvel Universe Earth destroyed during Secret Wars I. Any description of Franklin Richards is sufficient to describe Ted; one good version is at:

http://www.marveldirectory.com/individuals/r/richardsfranklin.htm

Tom Sloane

Benjamin Thomas Jones, The Nth Man

Tom was born Benjamin Jones, the youngest son of Arcanna Jones of the Squadron Supreme and Phillip Jones, from an alternate Marvel Universe Earth (Earth-712, or Earth-S). As a newborn, he was sentient enough to exchange powers with Thomas Lightner, the Nth Man, a living black hole in human form. Benjamin Jones left his home universe, presumably to travel to others. His story is best detailed at:

http://www.marvunapp.com/Appendix/mysteriu.htm

Other Possible Super-Characters

Fanfic writers wishing to explore the possibilities of this variant Dariaverse in their own writings have my blessings to do so. I might try it later as well in shorter stories. Here are a few guesses I had as to certain superhero children who might be worth including in future tales, no matter who does them. (Franklin left the door open.)

Brittany Taylor, Super-Cheerleader: Born Kara Zor-L II, daughter of Kara Zor-L, a.k.a. Karen Starr, a.k.a. Power Girl, from an alternate version of Earth-2 (destroyed in Crisis on Infinite Earths). Kara II (Brittany) was born as the result of parthenogenesis, when her mother “miraculously” became pregnant just before her homeworld was destroyed. In hindsight, it seems that during the stress of dealing with the Crisis, Power Girl unconsciously cloned herself and gave birth to a daughter, possibly thanks to a mutant survival mechanism. Kara II was put aboard a transdimensional spacecraft and sent into the unknown, to be guided by Franklin Richards to his “lifeboat universe” and then to his crafted Earth.

In the actual Crisis, per DC Comics, Power Girl did become pregnant without having had sex first, but the outcome was significantly different from the above history. Kara II may be assumed to come from the same variant Earth-2 as Selina Grayson (Jane Lane). If you’re wondering why I thought Brittany was most likely Power Girl’s kid, you haven’t looked closely enough at the two of them.

Luna Maximoff, daughter of Crystalia A. Maximoff (Crystal, of the Inhumans) and Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver), was born in 1982 in the Marvel Universe. She has no, repeat, no superpowers [Oops, this is wrong, they just revised it—TAG], but she’d still be the last survivor of the Inhuman Royal Family if the others didn’t make it. I had trouble finding a blonde on Daria who would fit this one. The “popular girl” from “The Invitation,” usually called Tori Jericho in fanfic, has the right shade of blonde hair.

Big Top: The Daria character Andrea strongly resembles a mutant child seen in X-Factor #35 (December 1988), an orphan known only as Big Top. Big Top could enlarge and animate her teddy bear, Bonzo, and make it act on her behalf. The bear had super strength, but it was still made out of cloth and stuffing so it was quickly smashed in a fight. Assumedly, as long as Big Top was touching or riding on an inanimate human or animal figure, that figure could change size and act according to the animator’s will, even attacking enemies. The figure had no mind of its own, making it easy for Big Top to direct it. She could call herself Animator if she became a superhero (or supervillain).

Odds & Ends: I dithered over including Spider-Girl but elected not to, as she was supposedly born in the late 1990s. Kitty Pride was an interesting pick but would have been about 30 by the time of this fanfic. The Goblin’s grandson, Norman (“Normy”) Osbourne II, existed in the comics but wasn’t super-powered. DC Comics’s Young Justice series had Cissie King-Jones, a.k.a. Arrowette, who is intriguing—but, again, there are not enough competent blondes in Lawndale to include her. Plus, you’d have to assume she inherited the genes for super-archery.

Mercury, from Amalgam Comics, could be the true persona of Evan, Jane’s one-time boyfriend from “See Jane Run,” if Franklin Richards picked him out of the timestream when Mercury fled his dystopian future. Determined fanfic writers could also find spaces for the alternate-universe children of Spider-Man and Gwen (“I’m not dead yet!”) Stacy, Bruce “Hulk” Banner and Betty Ross, and so on. I considered using Mack Mackenzie as a superhero, but Green Lantern and War Machine were both normal, non-mutant types, and I liked the irony of having Mack be normal instead of superhuman as he is in the Daria fanfic, “The Thirteenth Man.”

Finished: 10/30/05-05/10/06, modified 06/07/06, 10/09/06, 04/24/09

FINIS