“They think I’m a Megavillain in this reality?” I cried, stunned. “But look, I’m busting some jewelry thieves or something, right here on the front page.”

It was true; Clarissa Too was shown in a halftoned photograph busting some crooks with handkerchiefs around their mouths, although the caption read, Who is this mysterious “Megahero,” and what is her agenda?

“They’re afraid of the color of your skin and the fact that you have ovaries,” said Avie. “You’re the only Megapowered being in existence in this reality—the power structure’s afraid of a rising tide of color that will overwhelm their lily-white, male-dominated world. Fear of a female black planet—hey, that’s a good name for a song or something. Where’s my notebook?”

While my alternate sister Avie was seized with musical inspiration, I was gripped with horror; because there were no white male Megaheroes in this Civilian Reality—no Megaheroes except the truncated ‘Ms. Megaton’—she, I, was the locus of racial anxiety more than in my home reality, where there were dozens of crimefighters, and at least some racial and gender diversity, if not total equality.

“I’ve got to see Grandma Seedy,” I said.

“What good is that going to do?” asked Avie.

“Avie, Dr. Mercedith Robeson-James runs the biggest quasi-governmental secret agency in Washington, D.C.” I explained to my sister, as if she were a two-year-old. “I visited her in her monumental headquarters on the Potomac just last weekend.”

Avie patiently countered that perhaps Grandma Seedy was some behind-the-scenes big deal in my reality, but in the Civilian Reality she was just a retired school teacher who lived in Pontiac who like to sew. “You know the old family story; she faced all sorts of racial prejudice that prevented her from doing anything important with her degree,” said Avie. “In any case, there’s a big difference between the Potomac and Pontiac.”

I doubted my reality was any less prejudiced than the Civilian one, but my more immediate concern was who in this world I could turn to? There were no Megahero teams, no grandmother ensconced in the government. “Ms. Megaton’s been operating on her own prerogative all this time?” I asked Avie. “With no government oversight of any kind?”

“Pretty much,” Avie replied. “Ever since my sister laid hands on that Cosmic Cue-Ball thing—that gave her the power to fly and strength and so on—she’s been a free radical. Every spare moment she has, which isn’t much since she’s always studying Hypothetics—she’s flying off to right wrongs and avenge injustice and all that jazz, according to her own high sense of ethical integrity.” Avie thought for a moment and asked, “What’s it like in your reality?”

I explained there was a loose but complex network of Megahero teams and other costumed crimefighters and at least two entities in government—the Ivy-Covered Halls of Higher Learning and Pentagon Office 17a—that kept their watchful eyes over costumed crimefighters. I explained, “America’s Nuclear-Powered Hero, Megaton Man—the Original Golden Age Megaton Man, the Silver Age Megaton Man, the Bronze Age Megaton Man, and Ms. Megaton Man—all had handlers.”

“All white guys, aren’t they?” asked Avie.

I nodded.

“Figures,” she grunted in disgust. “Like they would attribute that much importance to a black girl. Although that creepy guy from Ann Arbor has been hanging around quite a bit—you know, the gay guy who used to date the hippie journalism student before he came out.”

“You mean Preston Percy?” I asked.

“Yes. He’s been dropping by fairly frequently since you moved back to Detroit—I mean, since my Clarissa moved back to Detroit. And I don’t think it’s because he’s into you. You and he would always go off and hold private conferences I was never privy to.”

I was elated. “That’s perfect, Avie,” I said. “Preston Percy was Megaton Man’s handler in my reality, too!” The only problem was how to get ahold of him.

***

Avie said driving me out to Ann Arbor to locate the elusive secret agent—at least, he was a secret agent in my reality—was out of the question, given her all-important band rehearsal that evening. Besides, in this reality, Clarissa James had not only learned to drive herself, but owned her own used 1979 Datsun hatchback her parents bought her after graduation. As far as Avie was concerned, I could either learn to drive in five minutes—which I could do legally in this reality, since Clarissa Too was licensed by the state of Michigan and had conveniently left her I.D. for me—and probably crash, since I couldn’t drive in fact—or take the risk of flying under my own power in broad daylight. There were at least three airports between Detroit and Ann Arbor; given the press Ms. Megaton was getting on the eve of the election, I feared being spotted and the Air National Guard alerted, and probably triggering World War III.

Despite my reservations, I opted to do the latter. Only, Avie persuaded me to wait a few hours until sundown. Naturally, I was nervous, not having flown for do many months back in my own reality. After having a bite to eat for dinner with Avie, I slung my book bag over my shoulder and climbed a metal ladder that lay along the side of the building to the roof.

Avie watched from below. After I disappeared from view, she called, “Be careful.”

“Thanks,” I said, peering back over the edge. “I hope you have great rehearsal.”

I took off my street clothes, folded them carefully, and packed them into bag. I already had on my Ms. Megaton Man body suit, as I said; all I needed to do was put on my yellow gloves and boots. It felt weird, knowing that I was the only person who was or ever had been a Megahero in all of reality, whereas in mine there had been generations of Megaheroes.

I snapped on my visor, cape, and buttons—that’s when I realized they were totally dead; I’d failed to keep them out in daylight for the solar batteries to recharge.

“Nuts,” I muttered to myself. “I’m going to have to fly blind, without the fancy avionics of my on-board computer.” But I knew my way back and forth to Ann Arbor pretty well, unless they happen to have completely changed the route for U.S. Highway 23 in this reality.

I also noticed I’d forgotten to pack the burgundy wig Kav “Tempy” Klinefelter had made me, which would have completed the picture. Although that was of little matter; I hated that mop anyway, and this was the new Ms. Megaton for a new reality.

Avie must have heard me muttering to myself, because she called up, “What’s wrong?”

I peered over the side of the roof again; she was still standing in the alley, waiting for me to take off. “Huh?” I said. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that my batteries are dead. My visor shows me maps and directions and stuff …”

“Oh, climb back down,” Avie called up. “I’ll drive you. Let me call Hadleigh and tell them to go ahead without me. Lord, for a Megapowered being, you’re helpless.”

“That’s what my sister tells me all the time in my own reality,” I said, as I put my street clothes back on.

***

One thing Avie and I accomplished during the drive out to Ann Arbor was a sort of cross-dimensional bonding. Instead of referring to each other as the alternate of our real sister, we tacitly decided for the duration to regard each other as our real sister—especially since we found all the faults, annoyances, and quirks in each other to be no different than our actual same-dimension sister. We accomplished this mostly by singing along to the radio—surprisingly, most all of the hits songs were the same as in my world, with the exception of a few lyrics, and in the case of Peter Gabriel, a few unexpected chord changes.

Avie was also relieved to hear that her real sister was safe and sound back in my reality—although I didn’t tell her the rod in Clarissa Too’s broken thigh bone was back, giving her a noticeable limp. But Avie agreed it was urgent to switch us back around to our correct reality as soon as possible so the everything was back to normal, which was the only reason she would give up her band rehearsal. The only question was what constituted “normal” in the vastly complicated and chaotic Multimensional Megaverse.

“Honestly, you never thought of acting?” I asked her just outside of Ann Arbor. “But Avie, you’re such an obvious ham.”

“Are you kidding? I have terrible stage fright,” said Avie. “You know me—I can’t approach a microphone unless I’m hiding behind a musical instrument as a security blanket.”

“But you’d be in the guise of different characters,” I pointed out. You’d have costumes and makeup and props and stuff.”

“Who wants to follow a script when I can improvise?”

I didn’t think to point out improv comedy, so I let it drop. But if I knew my sister, I knew Avie could overcome any fear because I’d seen it.

She was interested to learn what I was studying in my home reality. “Public planning and social policy? Really?” she said. “And you waitress and teach, too? I don’t know how you can handle all that. But I imagine it would make you a more outgoing person.”

“I suppose it has.”

We weren’t sure how to get in touch with Preston Percy, since I didn’t have his phone number in this reality and was loathe to call the house on Ann Street. I’m not sure how to account for my reluctance; Stella Starlight already knew my secret—that is to say Clarissa Too’s secret—but I wasn’t sure how much Stella knew of my present whereabouts, and I couldn’t be sure exactly who was on the side of Ms. Megaton in this Civilian Reality. I thought it would safer if fewer people knew I was looking for Preston Percy and why.

I decided it was better to try my luck at Border Worlds Used and Slightly New Bookstore, where I knew Preston had been working as a clerk. Avie dropped me off on the sidewalk in front of the storefront on State Street.

“Where are you going to park?” I asked her as I got out.

“I dunno,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just drive around. I hate paying for parking in the lots they have; screw this mostly-white university town.”

That’s certainly socially conscious, I thought. Ruin the environment by burning gasoline while sticking it to the man.

Avie drove off down Michigan Avenue while I went inside the bookstore, which was hopping for a Monday night. I suppose all the over-educated liberals where jumpy about the pending election and needed to let off steam with a cup of espresso and some Tolkien in paperback.

It was easy to spot Preston in his blown-back mullet and aviators shelving coin collecting books in the hobby section. It was even easier to see he would have been more comfortable in dress slacks, a silk shirt, necktie, and dress shoes instead of the black polo shirt, jeans, and lanyard with a name tag around his neck—the Border Worlds standard outfit—they made him wear.

“Can I help you?” asked Preston gruffly without turning to face me.

“I’m looking for a secret agent,” I said.

He looked up at me. “Good Lord, Clarissa,” he said. “What on earth did you do to your hair?” he demanded.

“What?” I said. “I had a stereotyped gay hairdresser give me a bob. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” said Preston. “It’s just a big departure. I suppose under the circumstances it’s not a bad disguise. But, my God—you look like hell; what did you do, gain fifteen pounds?”

“Not that much,” I said, crushed. Avie told me only ten.

“Whatever it is, on a little girl like you, it’s hard to hide,” said Preston, turning to his work.

That was certainly unkind, I thought. It was just the Megahero uniform under my street clothes that made me look bloated.

I tried to explain my predicament to Preston as best I could while he continued to shelve books—that I was stuck in this reality and needed to get home, and that he might be the only person who could help me.

“What gives you that idea?” he said.

“Cause you’re a secret agent from a quasi-governmental spy agency and all that,” I replied. “In my reality, Preston Percy was Megaton Man’s handler; Trent Phloog used to be Megaton Man, and Stella Starlight was formerly the See-Thru Girl—related to the Meltdown family. You hung around to keep an eye on them, and were particularly concerned about Simon, their cross-bred Megaton-Meltdown offspring. You were the conduit between the White House and the Pentagon and all the Megaheroes and Megahero teams in the country, including the Y+Thems, local Midwestern team. And you tried your best to handle me.”

“Did I succeed?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I resisted your attempts to manipulate me whenever I could.

Preston sneered. “And what was the name of this spy organization I supposedly worked for?”

“The Ivy-Covered Halls of Higher Learning,” I replied. “They have a giant, orbiting killer satellite that looks like a handheld blow-dryer—aptly nicknamed the Blow-Dryer—and it’s manned by a legion of chicks in gold lamé space suits.”

“Ha!” Preston chuckled. “Look, I don’t know anything about this alternate reality business, but where I come from, ICCHL stands for Intelligence Central Headquarters—Heroic Liaison. Although the ‘Ivy-Covered’ thing is just the sort of patently ridiculous codename we’d devise for ourselves, should we want to be inconspicuous.”

“Then you are my handler in this reality too,” I said.

“They reached out to me, so to speak,” said Preston, “after you broke out—you or your Counterpart—when you grabbed that Cosmic Cue-Ball thing.”

“Who? My grandmother?”

Preston looked at me incredulously. “What? No. Let’s just say certain elements within the government have an interest in Ms. Megaton. But ICHHL doesn’t have any giant, orbiting killer satellites or chicks clad in gold lamé spacesuits—I only wish we had that much sophistication and panache. My job’s been to just try my best to prevent Ms. Megaton from getting herself into trouble. But as you well know, she has a mind of her own.”

“And to report back to Washington, D.C.,” I added.

“Naturally,” said Preston. “Although that doesn’t mean I tell them everything.” Preston stopped shelving books and turned to me. “Look, I don’t know how things are back in your own reality, but you’ll find the situation a good deal more complicated in this one. There are a lot of trip wires for the unwary, and if you don’t know the lay of the land, you’ll quickly find yourself in a heap of trouble.”

“That’s why I’ve come to you,” I said. “I can’t navigate in this world without your help.”

“Take my advice,” said Preston earnestly. “Put on another thirty pounds and get lost in the woodwork. This isn’t a world for heroes.”