A couple thousand feet in the air now, Yarn Man took a left, which became a wide U-turn; soon we were heading south over the Bay of New York. To the west was New Jersey; below us were Ellis and Liberty Islands; the Statue of Liberty lay dead ahead. Beyond that, as my visor readout labeled for me, were the large gantry cranes loading and unloading container ships in the Port Jersey Marine Terminal. Beyond that was Bayonne, a New Jersey town long industrialized to the point of toxicity, and already past its peak in terms of economic output and population.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You see that building straight ahead?” asked Bing, pointing to the Bayonne shore. “The one on top of that promontory?”

I couldn’t miss it; it was big and off-white, and sat in majestic isolation, surrounded largely by grassy slopes.

“You mean the one that says ‘Devengers’ in twenty-foot-tall illuminated letters across the top of the roof?” I said. “I wondered how we were going to find them.”

“That’s the one,” said Bing. “I got some pals there who might be able to shed some light on your actual paternity.” This was thoughtful. But at the same time, I remembered Preston speaking with disdain of the deleterious influence the Devengers had on Yarn Man’s behavior.

“Yeesh,” said Koz. “That place gives me the creeps.”

The Devengers headquarters in Bayonne, New Jersey was a remodeled factory building, actually a nineteenth-century textile mill, whose brick surfaced had been stuccoed over in off-white. Its smooth, blocky surface and beveled roofline, with its jazzy “Devengers” logo splayed along the top of the façade, gave it a mid-century veneer of remodeled modernity. The building sat up the slope from the lower Bay of New York, a place I later learned was called Constable Hook, an old Dutch settlement. If one were to look from there toward Lower Manhattan, one would see the Statue of Liberty directly in its path, a bit beyond the midpoint in the middle of the bay.

Bing settled the car on the lawn that spread in front of the building. The grass encircled by a U-shaped driveway that wound past the front door. A glass-and-chrome vestibule with a revolving door marked the front entrance of the building, and the shrubs along the sides looked carefully manicured. Six stories of windows rose above us to the Devengers sign; the overall presentation looked sleek if a bit dated. But this megahero headquarters was at least several cuts above the shabby Youthful Permutations headquarters. And, unlike the Megatropolis Quartet Headquarters which had been blown to smithereens, the Devengers home was still here in this dimension—despite advertising to every megavillain and evildoer in the world exactly where they were located.

Avie and I hopped out, as did Koz and Bing, and crossed the frosty grass and the blacktop driveway. Avie showed no sign of being wobbly despite having nearly plummeted to her death mere moments before; I was proud of her.

We rolled through the front door. The lobby was all chrome and travertine veneer, and the security guards, while listless and sleepy, at least appeared to have a pulse, unlike the Navy Yard’s old Gus.

Bing waved and called out to the guards by name as we crossed the lobby; they eyed him suspiciously, as if he were a traveling salesman they couldn’t quite place who had shown up with sample bags to pester the managers in the office.

“Are you expected?” asked one guard.

“Just tell Colonel Turtle his old pal Yarn Man’s here to see him,” said Bing, sourly.

The guard made a phone call.

I noticed that I was perspiring from my exertions over on Fifth Avenue, and that it was warm in this building—unlike the drafty Navy Yard warehouse—and decided to take off my civvies while we waited. I put on my boots, gloves, and cape and the threw my backpack over my shoulder.

A few minutes later, a door on one side of the lobby opened; out waddled a big green turtle—or rather, a heavy-set man in a padded turtle costume.

“Bing, what the hell are you doing here?” said Colonel Turtle, not seeming at all thrilled to see his old pal, Yarn Man. “We’re in an important meeting.” He looked at me in my Ms. Megaton Man uniform. “Although we are interviewing for a few empty slots.”

We followed Colonel Turtle up the stairs into a large chamber where the team was already gathered, if you could call it a team. A mere three costumed characters sat a table that was large enough to seat twenty-five people. Shaped like the letter D, it was half a circle at least twenty feet long along its straight edge, replete with an open space in the middle, just like the letterform. The rounded side was ringed with a couple dozen red tulip chairs, most of which sat empty.

“We’re in the middle of roll call,” explained Colonel Turtle in a whisper to us, as if we were interrupting the deliberations of the United Nations Security Council, or the War Room in Doctor Strangelove. He instructed us to sit at one end of the table opposite two costumed colleagues. “You stay here—this might take some time.” Then he waddled along the straight edge of the letter D to rejoin his teammates.

One of them was an unshaven, baldign man with a big nose and a mustache. He wore goggles with stereoscopic camera lenses.

“That’s the Lens,” Bing explained in a hushed whisper. “Next to him, the lady with the skull for a head and feathered wings—that’s the Angel of Death.”

Colonel Turtle waddled around and sat down in the chair on the other side of the fearsome woman.

“…the Worthwhile Worm; the Zygomatic Zoetrope; Bilious Bill…” the Lens recited from his clipboard to no response.

I looked around the room; there was no one else besides the three costumed characters who sat opposite me, Avie, Koz and Bing.

“…Bombastic Man; Dioxin Girl; the Silver Skyscraper…” the voice of the Lens droned on, echoing hollowly around the empty chamber.

“…Mister Sandman; Armageddon Lad; Bubba; My Gal from Kalamazoo …”

I noticed the room was lined with a row of pictures of past members, framed and hung reverently all the way around. But they didn’t answer.

“Face it, Lens,” interrupted the Angel of Death. “None of those members are present. I move that we suspend the roll call and proceed directly to the business of the meeting.”

The Lens let out a deep sigh. “I guess you’re right,” he said setting down the clipboard. “We may as well face facts…The Devengers are back to their original line-up: The Lens, Colonel Turtle, and the Angel of Death.”

“I second the motion,” said Colonel Turtle.

“What motion?” asked the Lens.

“That we table the roll call,” said the Angel of Death.”

“Oh, of course,” said the Lens. “All in favor say aye.”

The three Devengers were unanimous.

I raised my hand, too. “You’re not a member,” Avie whispered.

“The ayes have it; the motion carries,” said the Lens. “Roll call will herewith be suspended. The secretary will read the minutes of the last meeting.”

Now it was Colonel Turtle’s turn to sigh. “Uh, if memory serves,” he said, “we tabled the roll call and adjourned the meeting.”

“Well, then,” said the Lens. “I move that we adjourn the meeting…”

“Wait a minute,” said Colonel Turtle. “I move that we acknowledge our visitors.”

“Where?” said the Lens.

“At the far end of the table,” said the Angel of Death. “I second the motion, by the way.”

The Lens adjusted the focus of his goggles. “Ah, I see. We have visitors. And whom might you be?”

“Yarn Man and Kozmik Kat,” said Koz. “What, are you blind?”

“And a couple young black chicks,” said Colonel Turtle.

The Angel of Death elbowed him in the ribs. “They’re African-American, Mort.”

“I see,” said the Lens. “And what business have you in the Great Hall of the Devengers?”

I stood up and stepped around the corner of the table. “I’m Clarissa James, and this is my sister Avril,” I said. “I’m the daughter of Alice James.”

“Alice James?” said the Angel of Death to her teammates. “Wasn’t she the Mod Puma a few years back? I didn’t know she had a daughter.”

I gasped. “The Mod Puma!” I cried. “That must be the serious name for that parody character, the Tie-Dyed Tabby.”

Avie whispered to me, “They’re not going to have any idea what you’re talking about—they don’t look like the type that reads coverless parody comic books; they look like a parody comic book.”

“Are you a megahero?” asked the Lens. “Are you seeking to join the hallowed ranks of the Devengers?”

“We’re holding a membership drive this month,” said Colonel Turtle. He glanced over to the empty tulip chairs. “As you can see, we’re a bit short-handed at the moment.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with your lousy health coverage, does it?” Avie demanded. Knowing Avie, she was already planning a picket with the Youthful Permutations in her mind’s eye.

“I’m not really seeking membership,” I said. “Although I’m flattered that my mother’s reputation precedes me. I’m just looking for information.”

Avie raised her hand. “I might be interested,” she said. “I love your costumes. But the health coverage is a deal-breaker—I’m planning on having all kinds of babies.”

“We’re not exactly Mount Sinai,” said the Lens, folding his hands. “Nor are we the New York Public Library, in regards to your request for information.”

“That depends,” said the Angel of Death. “What do you wish to know?”

“It’s about my father,” I said. “Do you know who he might be? Where I might find him? If he’s still alive and in this dimension?”

The Angel of Death whispered to the others, “I don’t remember the Mod Puma having children, or even getting pregnant. I had no idea she had a daughter, let alone two. Did you?”

“Why don’t they just ask their mother?” whispered the Lens.

“I thought the Mod Puma was dead,” said Colonel Turtle.

“She isn’t dead,” said Bing. “She kicked me in the balls less than a year ago.” He turned and looked at me. “You remember when I said I recognized your mother, Clarissa? It’s because the Mod Puma was on the Megatropolis Quartet nearly twenty years ago. That’s where I know her from.”

“A kick in the balls from beyond the grave,” said Colonel Turtle. “It’s been known to happen.” He pointed at the Angel of Death from behind his hand.

“Actually, we don’t think our mama ever was the Mod Puma,” said Avie. “We think our Alice James was—and always has been—a civilian.”

“And who are you, again?” asked the Lens.

“I’m Avie, Clarissa’s half-sister. I already know who my daddy is, by the way.”

“Thank you for that clarification,” said the Angel of Death. She whispered, “Try to pay attention, Lens, for God’s sake.”

“Sounds to me like a counterpart situation,” said Colonel Turtle.

“A what?” I asked.

“A counterpart. Whenever there are alternate realities—and there are no end of alternate realities—there’s always a counterpart. Every one of us has a counterpart in every alternate reality—”

“Except those realities in which we were never born,” said the Angel of Death.

“Right,” said the Turtle. “Except in those realities where we never existed. But in those realities that are more or less similar to our own, there are individuals—just like us, but living different lives, under different circumstances.”

“In one universe, Alice James could very well be a civilian,” explained the Angel of Death. “In another reality, her counterpart could be a megahero, say, the Mod Puma.”

“Happens all the time in the Multimensions,” said Colonel Turtle. “I once met my counterpart in another dimension; he was a used car salesmen in Scranton with a wife and three kids.”

“So, the Mod Puma never kicked me in the balls,” said Yarn Man. “Isn’t that a kick in the head?”

“But could Alice James be both a civilian and the Mod Puma in the same reality?” I asked.

“Sure,” said the Lens. “All she’d need to do is change her clothes and put on a uniform.”

“That’s not what she means, you idiot,” scolded the Angel of Death. “She’s asking if her civilian mother and her mother’s megahero counterpart from another reality could exist in the same reality. And the answer is no; not without a crossover of some kind.”

“Not without a crossover of some kind,” Colonel Turtle repeated. “Or unless two realities somehow fused together.”

“That can never happen,” said the Lens. “Realities split apart all the time; they can never fuse back together.”

“I’m not a physical therapist,” said Colonel Turtle. “All I’m saying is, we’re either dealing with a crossover of some kind, or a fused reality,” said the Turtle. “If it’s not a fused reality, then it has to be a crossover.”

“You mean physicist,” said the Angel of Death.

“What did I say?” said the Turtle.

“You said physical therapist.”

I waved my hands frantically.

“All I’m asking is, could she have crossed over or otherwise met one of your Devengers?”

“Could who have crossed over?” asked the Lens. “I’m getting confused.”

“My mother—Alice James,” I shouted. “Could she have crossed over and mated with some megahero from another dimension?”

“Anything’s possible,” said the Lens. “But that’s not going to help you narrow things down; just the opposite. Your father could be from any reality in the Multimensions, to be perfectly honest.”

“I’m afraid the Lens is right,” said the Angel of Death. “Your father could be in New York—in Megatropolis—or in the equivalent city in any number of other alternate realities.”

I sat back down, slumped in my tulip chair, dejected—despairing now that I would ever find out who my real father was.

I looked around the perimeter of the room, at the scores of framed pictures of past members of the Devengers. I got up from the chair and walked toward one of the walls to get a closer look.

“Did any of these people know the Mod Puma?” I asked.

The Angel of Death got up and walked toward me, put a consoling arm around me. “Many of them did, but that’s not going to help you. The question is if they ever knew her counterpart, your mother. And that would seem very unlikely.”

“You might try visiting our archives in the basement,” the Lens suggested. “Unfortunately, it’s closed for the holidays.”

“Did you discuss this with your maternal grandmother?” asked the Angel of Death. “Maybe she would know about some of your mother’s old boyfriends.”

“We never met our maternal grandmother,” said Avie. “Why? Was Mercedith James a megahero too? Or was she a counterpart?”

“No, no, of course not,” said the Death Angel. “Don’t be silly. Your grandmother was never a megahero. She’s a scientist—she makes megahero uniforms as a hobby. Damn fine ones, too. She made all of ours.”

“You knew our grandmother?” I asked, confused. “She made megahero uniforms?”

“Seedy James?” said the Colonel. “She was the best.” He held out his claw. “See? Forty years and still like new.”

“And fashionable, too,” said the Lens.

The Angel of Death felt the material of my uniform. “I’m only asking because this appears to be her handiwork.”

I recalled the tag inside the collar of my uniform; I’d memorized it from reading it a million times:

C.D. Design Originals

Doomsday Factory—Bayonne, New Jersey

100% Quarantinium-Quelluminum

U.S. Patent Pending

Seedy James—could she be the C.D. behind my costume?

Then, it hit me all at once:

“Holy shit! This the Doomsday Factory, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” said the Lens. “Where else would the Doomsday Revengers to be headquartered?”

“The Doomsday Factory?” said Avie. “The Doomsday Revengers?”

“It’s a Cold War moniker,” said the Lens.

“If those Ruskies wanna Doomsday us, we’ll Doomsday them right back,” said Colonel Turtle.

“We shortened it to D-Vengers in the late fifties,” said the Angel of Death. “We dropped the hyphen in the mid-sixties.”

“Is our grandmother here?” asked Avie. “In this building?”

“Not right now,” said the Turtle. “But she works here. When was the last time you saw Seedy, Lens?”

The Lens scratched his unshaven chin. “Oh, last fall or thereabouts. Maybe before that—last summer. She’s in and out, you know.”

“That must have been when she made my costume,” I said.

“We’d be happy to show you her workshop,” said the Angel of Death.

Somebody moved to adjourn the meeting—which only took about another twenty minutes, and the Devengers led us upstairs to a floor in the Doomsday Factory that seemed little changed from the nineteenth century. There were spindles and machinery and sash windows that sat unused. There were also cutting tables and bolts of fabric and paper patterns all around.

“This used to be an old textile mill,” said the Angel of Death. “Your grandmother employs a number of excellent craftsmen, but they were rarely get together any more—only when there’s a special order, such as your uniform. Nobody’s around between Christmas and New Year’s, however.”

Avie was shuffling through the spare costumes that hung on a rack, enthralled with their creativity and workmanship. “Did she ever design any Broadway shows?” she asked.

“She was a scientist, Avie,” I reminded her. “Does she teach at a university, Angel of Death?”

“She’s long since retired,” replied the Angel of Death. “She likes to go on those exotic cruises over the holidays.”

There was a little desk over in the corner that must have been my grandmother’s. There were all kinds of small framed pictures on it. “Look at this, Avie.”

Avie came over and I showed her a picture. It was our mama—or her counterpart—dressed as the Mod Puma. “No way,” said Avie.

“I told you, this place is creepy,” said Koz. “Although probably not half as much fun as when it used to employ child labor.”