Tuesday was too grey and rainy to think of flying up to Royal Oak in my newly-dry-cleaned Ms. Megaton Man uniform—aside from my general aversion to use my Megapowers for merely everyday tasks. I had just read an article about acid rain and feared it might be the one thing that could undo the indestructible Quarantinium-Quelluminum fabric and my Grandma Seedy’s costuming handiwork.

Instead, I decided to use public transportation, which maybe was a mistake. It took about three buses to get up to Royal Oak and to Fanny’s—I mean Donna Blank’s—office on Woodward Avenue, instead of a leisurely four-minute flight for America’s Nuclear-Powered Hero. By the time I got there, I was a bit bedraggled, as are all riders on Metro Detroit mass transit, such as it is; that’s the whole point of having mass transit—to remind the Great Unwashed that they are, after all, the Great Unwashed.

At least the forty-five minutes allowed me time to think. I brought along my book bag and some of my textbooks and photocopies of journal articles to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I just stared out at the window at the passing storefronts, most of which were vacant, in the once-thriving retail district of the motor city, thinking of all the things I could be doing in alternate dimensions.

When I finally got to Fanny’s block, it was like I’d taken a trip to the past. The business district of Royal Oak was a well-preserved strip of vintage architecture and thriving businesses that time and White Flight had completely forgot. College-educated preppies could park their bikes, get a cup of coffee, browse new releases at a snobby independent bookstore or record and tape store; moms could park their foreign cars and stroll with their kids who were already taking music lessons and playing soccer; overpriced lawyers and dentists and ophthalmologists served their elite clientele in plush offices. Gentrifiers had no business in the neighborhood, since this community had never fallen to that urban blight as had ravaged much of the Motor City especially since the sixty-seven riots, but had slowly gnawed at the edges since at least the nineteen-twenties.

First, I stopped in a bohemian coffee shop to get two cups of coffee to go. The white girl who took my order listened carefully to my diction as she looked me over. After one of those quick glances that every black person gets from a white person when they venture into the near suburbs, she must have discerned from my book bag and diction—and perhaps my eyeglasses—that I was a student, and therefore a black Detroiter who was at least trying to make something of herself. After I paid, she handed me the coffees in one of those cardboard trays and smiled at me warmly, relieved perhaps that I hadn’t caused trouble—like murdering her.

***

I walked up the flight of stairs and came to a hardwood landing. On either side were several oak doors with frosted glass. One on the left said,

Donna Blank

Licensed Social Worker

and the one on the right said,

P.J.G., C.G., and B.B.,

Private Investigations

I heard someone rustling around inside the detective agency office and knocked. “Come in,” said a voice. “It’s unlocked.” How nice to live that way, I thought.

I turned the brass knob and opened the heavy oak door. I instantly noticed the place smelled a lot better without Bobo the Gorilla’s cage taking up half the space. Donna, behind her desk, was sorting what looked like legal books from a shelf into cardboard boxes.

“Are you moving out permanently?” I asked.

“No, just putting most of this stuff in storage,” she replied. “I’ll be subletting both offices now that I’m in New York; it was one of the details I couldn’t tend to last spring, it being such short notice. I’ll be renting this space out as a studio for a one-armed commercial artist. Nice guy; he illustrates an historical graphic novel set in frontier Michigan. At least he doesn’t mind keeping the detective agency lettering on the glass, in case I ever decide to come back here. He says it appeals to his creative imagination.”

“Hmm,” I said. “I’ll to mention him to Chas later. Here, I brought you a coffee.”

“Thanks,” said Donna, wiping her hands on a rag. “Why don’t we go next door? We’ll be more comfortable.”

In her social worker office, there was still the shrink’s classic couch and armchair, both upholstered in wine-colored leather. There were more cardboard boxes, half-filled with books, and bookshelves half empty. I couldn’t help but notice Donna didn’t give me a big hug, as she’d do as the Phantom Jungle Girl. Instead, she was more reserved and professional. Maybe it was the spikey black hair and the librarian glasses, and the fact she was wearing actual slacks and a blouse, not a flowing orange wig, stone earrings, a cat-eyed mask with opaque lenses, and a tiger-striped bikini.

“Make yourself at home,” said Donna. “I’ll grab my notepad and pencil.” She located what she needed from a grey steel filing cabinet while I sat down and stretched out.

She sat down in the armchair and made herself comfortable. “So, what’s on your mind?” she asked, sipping her coffee.

“I was just thinking,” I said, gazing up at the vintage tin ceiling. “The last time we did a shrink session—the only time—as at the Ditty in the City, remember?”

“The North Cass Street Fair,” said Donna. “I remember. That’s when we first met.”

“I was looking up at tree branches then,” I said. “I just needed somebody to talk to, you know? More than I realized. Then, I didn’t know you were a Megahero, or a costumed crimefighter, or whatever. Now, I need somebody to talk to again. And I just don’t know who to turn to. I mean, I can talk to Avie only so much, or my other friends. You know.”

“I understand,” said Donna. “There are so few people knowledgeable about our particular way of life. So, how’ve you been?”

“I’m good. It’s just that …” I sat up again and turned around to face her. “I feel more comfortable talking to you face-to-face, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine,” she said.

“I don’t want you to take this personally, Donna,” I said. “I mean as the Phantom Jungle Girl. But I just don’t want to be a Megahero anymore. Not that I ever asked for it. I just don’t have any desire for the profession. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Donna. She set down her pencil.

“I just don’t have the heart for it. But in a different way from Trent or Stella. Trent feels there’s too much pressure, being Megaton Man. He never wants to go back. And Stella just wants to raise her kid to be normal. I’m different from them, because I actually like it. But for me it’s fun. I like flying and everything. But I just feel guilty about it. I don’t think it’s supposed to be fun.”

“You mean, you feel guilty because other people can’t do extraordinary things like you?”

“No, it’s not like I have Civilian guilt or anything,” I said. “I just feel I should be using my abilities for some great purpose, and I can’t imagine what purpose that might be. Maybe that makes me the world’s first Atomic Soldier conscientious objector.”

“Hmm,” said Donna.

“I mean, what good is it, being a Megahero? We group in headquarters only to be attacked; we team up with reckless abandon; we cross over willy-nilly into other dimensions. It’s the crossing over that’s problematic for me. I don’t think anyone realizes the deleterious effect we’re having on reality by doing that—sorry, I’ve been reading a lot of intellectual books lately.”

“I see,” said Donna. “Yes, I remember you expressing those misgivings while you were in New York. All those dislocated Civilians Rex brought along with the Quantum Tower from the other dimension really seemed to bother you.”

“Yeah, that’s a perfect example. I mean, mad science is great and everything, but there are so many unintended consequences. The Megatropolis Quartet was restored, but all those people were stranded here, in this dimension, homeless.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t because of your Megaheroics, strictly speaking,” said Donna. “Not that I’m defending Rex’s actions. But I agree, Megaheroes need to operate on a higher sense of ethics. What I hear you saying it that it’s all too ad hoc.”

“It’s more than that. I just don’t think anyone should have these powers. It’s too much for any human. It’s kind of like nuclear energy and weapons and advanced biology and all that jazz—we know too much about the mechanics of the universe but lack the wisdom to use our knowledge properly.”

“So you’d rather not use your Megapowers at all, even when you see some injustice that could be corrected?”

“I’m not sure I’m omniscient enough to know where to begin,” I confessed. “Sure, reality is tough, but how exactly am I going to make it better? I mean, yeah, the really obvious stuff, like when a killer robot is attacking a grade school, I can intervene. But how often is that opportunity going to present itself, in such black-and-white, simplistic terms?”

“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” said Donna.

“You’re right, I have made up my mind,” I said. “I didn’t ask to be Ms. Megaton Man, you know. There are other Clarissa Jameses out there who are not Ms. Megaton Man—in other realities, I mean. At least I think there are. The only other one I know about started out as a Civilian, but turned into Ms. Megaton Man anyway.”

“What do you plan to do, then?”

“I’m just going to try to make the world a better place with the same abilities every Civilian has—their brains and their desire for justice. And their two hands. “I’m through flying and leaping and hopping dimensions and crossing over.”

“That seems like a perfectly rational choice to make, Clarissa.”

“But my dad’s all like, ‘You better use your powers in this world, Clarissa, or you’ll use them. I mean my Silver Age Megaton Man dad. Like there’s a clock running or something.”

“You’re not going to get an argument from me,” said Donna. “I think you’ve given it a try, and found that it’s not for you. You have other interests. You’re going to school. Frankly, I wish more Megaheroes and crime fighters would get an education before they have all their titanic battles. First, do no harm, I say.”

I noticed Donna’s own sheepskin on the wall behind her, waiting to be boxed up.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “It’s a relief, hearing that.”

“I’m here to validate,” said Donna. “Also, parking. Did you drive? That was a joke.”

***

I knew I was being too hard on myself. It felt like there were three people on that couch analyzing me, in addition to Donna: me, Clarissa Too, and Ms. Megaton Man—as if my identity had refracted or was somehow coming apart at the seams. I saw my life through the eyes of my Civilian self, my Megahero self, and this third self from another reality. I felt that Clarissa Too had better integrated her Civilian and Megahero sides than I had. And all three of them were hyper-critical of me, whoever I was.

Donna went on a little longer about how I had to make my own choices, and that I didn’t need to feel obligated to anyone—to ICHHL, my father, Preston Percy, or my even my grandma. “You certainly don’t want to end up like Trent, the former Megaton Man, feeling all manipulated and guilty,” said Donna. “Boy, I’d like to have a session or two with that couple—Trent and Stella. I could probably write a paper on them.” She finished her coffee. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“There is,” I said. “It’s of a more frankly psychological nature.”

“Okay,” said Donna.

“Just in general,” I said. “I think I may be going nuts.”

Donna sat up and began taking notes. “I’m listening.”

I had to explain to Donna everything had happened to me over the summer, particularly my astral foray with Doctor Messiah. First, I had observed the life of another Clarissa James; and then, when she broke her hip, I became her, inhabiting her body. Finally, when I touched the Cosmic Cue-Ball, I was no longer her, but she became Ms. Megaton Man, and I was just observing her again. Finally, I recounted my brief return visit, courtesy of the Multimensional Pinpointer, where she and I just chatted about our respective lives.

“Now I dream about her all the time,” I said. “It’s like we’ve formed a psychic connection with her across the Multimensions.”

“I see,” said Donna, making notes.

“I even daydream that I’m her, like I just did on the bus. It’s so prevalent now, I’m not even conscious that I’m doing it. Sometimes I’m just watching her; sometimes I’m seeing reality through her eyes. And I’m not wearing my visor or anything. She’s the only Megahero in her reality, you know; it’s not like here, where everyone and her cousin wears a freakin’ costume. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Donna. “And how does that make you feel, when you have these dreams?”

“First of all, there’s nothing I can do. I’m helpless. What if there’s an emergency, and she needs me? What if my sister Avie’s in danger in another dimension, and the other me can’t save her—and I have to watch Avie die again? More generally, Clarissa Too could be having a tough time, all by herself, fighting robots and going after crooks and all that, without any back-up. It makes me feel guilty—here I am in this reality, with a team and all sorts of friends who have my back, and I don’t want to be a Megahero at all. When I wake up from a dream, or just snap back to my reality, I find myself praying for her, you know? Sending her all my energy, pulling for her. What do you think?”

“Has there been such an emergency?” asked Donna. “Has this other Clarissa been in some distress, and you’ve felt helpless to come to her assistance?”

“No, nothing major. But last night, I had a dream that she needed help reading all her books for the upcoming semester, and I couldn’t help her, because I’m taking all different classes and seminars.”

“That hardly sounds life-threatening,” said Donna.

“Yes, but what happens if something does? I live in fear of that.”

“Dreams are often conversations we have with our subconscious selves,” said Donna. “You have a lot to process.”

“What I don’t know is: Is this just my imagination? Is this just me talking to myself, or am I really seeing other realities now, without the aid of the Time Turntable or Dimensional Doorway or Multimensional Pinpointer of the Transceiver or my visor or Doctor Messiah’s astral tripping? Am I going to just have to live with all these visions intruding on my daily life, and not be able to control them, like one of those people who hear voices in their heads all the time?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer any of that,” said Donna. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m really in touch with this other dimension,” I said. “I think I’ve established a connection with this girl, this other Clarissa. I have this psychic link to the Civilian reality now.”

“I can’t gainsay that,” said Donna. “The question you have to ask yourself is, how do you plan to react.”

“Do you mean there’s no hope of controlling these visions?” I asked.

“I’m not saying that. But you can certainly control your response to the information you receive. You can simply say, ‘Thank you for the update. I’m glad to hear you’re doing well,’ or, ‘I’m sorry you’re having such a hard time.’ Just make up your mind that you’re receiving postcards from the edge of forever, and it’s nice to know what’s going on with the other Clarissa, but there’s only so much concern and attention you can give them. The point is, you have your own life to live, Clarissa.”

“You mean, I shouldn’t try to run and find the nearest Dimensional Doorway and crossover and try to help her?” I asked. “That’s a relief.”

***

I confessed to Donna that lately, another reason for me to refrain from using my Ms. Megaton Man Megapowers in this reality was the fear that I might somehow be taking away from Clarissa Too’s Megapowers in hers. “After all, she’s the only Megahero in that world—she needs them more than I do.”

“I see,” said Donna. “So part of your reluctance to be a Megahero is an inhibition—the fear that you’ll be subtracting from the other Ms. Megaton Man’s powers. Interesting.”

“Right,” I said. “That’s nuts, isn’t it? I mean, there can be more than one Ms. Megaton Man in more than one reality at the same time, can’t there? Or can only Civilians have counterparts? I mean, if my mama become the Mod Puma, too, that wouldn’t take away from Alice Too, the real Mod Puma, would it? I just don’t know these things.”

“I don’t know,” said Donna. “I’m not aware of any such law of averages between the Multimensions. In any case, I wouldn’t recommend living your life worrying about what effect you may have on another reality. You’ve got to make your own choices, Clarissa. If you want or need to be Ms. Megaton Man, you have to give yourself the freedom to make that choice, without regard for the consequences in another reality.”

“I know, that’s what Doc Messiah always tries to tell me. And Alice Too, and Clyde, and everybody,” I said. “But what if I use my Megapowers just to fly around town, like I could have flown up here today? And then later I dream that Clarissa Too got her ass kicked because she lost her powers? And meanwhile, all I did was just fly around and goof off, while she really needed them?”

“I see what you mean,” said Donna. “I would consider that possibility extremely remote.”

“I would really feel terribly guilty, causing the Ms. Megaton Man in the other dimension to get defeated in a fight with some robot or something, while I had only used my Megapowers frivolously.”

“That’s an ethical conundrum,” said Donna. “Personally, I’ve never considered whether there were other Phantom Jungle Girls in other dimensions, or whether my own actions had any effect on them. I suppose there could be; there have been down through history. But I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. That’s just me.”

“I wish I didn’t know there were other Ms. Megaton Mans in other realities,” I said. “It’s bad enough just knowing there are other Civilian Clarissa Jameses, but this is too much.”

***

Our session was at an end, and it was time to go. Worse, I knew Donna would finish packing up and heading back to New York—and I wasn’t sure when I would see her again.

“Well, thanks for everything,” I said, as we both stood up.

“Don’t mention it,” said Donna.

“Say, I forgot to ask—did you manage to track down Cowboy Gorilla?”

“Yes, I did,” said Donna. “He was at a pool hall in Farmington. He’s back now at the Troy+Thems Headquarters.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “I’ve missed you, Fanny.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Impulsively, I gave her a big hug, and kissed her on the mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I said right away. “I didn’t mean … I mean, I know you’re not …”

“That’s okay,” said Donna. “But you know, I’m spoken for. In fact, my boyfriend will be coming by later, so you better clear out.”

“You’re doing the long-distance relationship thing? You in Megatropolis and him in Motown?”

“It’s not so bad as you’d think,” said Donna. “We both have careers that keep us busy.”

“Will I ever get to meet him?” I asked.

“I’m sure he’ll introduce himself to you when the time is right. He’s the shadowy, mysterious type.”