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 imag