Over the winter break, I did make a trip to New York—not as Ms. Megaton Man, but as a plain, civilian tourist—with my sister Avie. We made plans over Thanksgiving: Avie was eager to see all the hot Broadway shows and museum exhibits and do shopping, while I drew up an itinerary that included definitely meeting my father. Since I didn’t know how to do that, I just planned to visit every megahero team I could think of, starting with Bing’s Youthful Permutations.

     When we realized it would cost us a fortune to stay in a Manhattan hotel for a week, or even for lodgings reasonably close to the city, Koz suggested we stay in the Y+Thems dormitory. It wouldn’t be elegant, but it would be free.

     “But I’m not ready to join any team, or even to show up as Ms. Megaton Man,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to impose on Bing—in case he gets any ideas I want us to get back together.”

     “Screw Bing,” said Koz. “Have Preston make the arrangements. They’re bound to have extra rooms, particularly over the holiday week, and especially given the turnover rate on that team. Besides, you’ll be running around the city most of the time, seeing the sights. I bet you’ll hardly see Bing at all. Think of it as a whaddyacall—a youth brothel.”

     “You mean a youth hostel,” said Avie. “Like they have in Europe.”

     “Whatever,” said Koz. “Yeah, it will be like that.”

     We insisted Koz come along, since he would know the area. He professed disinterest at first, but in the end he didn’t take much persuasion. In truth, Koz was a bit homesick for Megatropolis and wanted to see all his old megahero pals again. First, we thought to book tickets on a bus line, but then we realized if we traveled that route, Kozmik Kat would have to be shipped in a cage, and there was no way he’d agree to that. So, Avie and I decided to drive in her Pacer, taking turns behind the wheel, with Koz riding shotgun.

     Christmas fell on Saturday that year, so Avie drove out to Ann Arbor on Christmas Eve to pick me and Koz up. Mama didn’t know what to make of Koz, but he proved helpful to Daddy who was still stringing lights all over the house—Koz flying around saved him getting out the ladder. Right after church on Sunday we had brunch, then the three of us—me, Koz, and Avie—set out from Detroit in Avie’s Pacer. Mama was worried about the winter weather, but I assured her as Ms. Megaton Man I could dig us out of just about any snowbank—I had helped enough stranded motorists along Michigan Highway Fourteen all semester long. We did have to promise Mama we’d stop at a hotel overnight and not overdo the distance driving. But, being cheap, Avie and I just took turns driving while the other dozed—even Koz took the graveyard shift behind the wheel—so we never did. Except for rest stops, and deducting the time from Ann Arbor, we ended up besting the Q-Wagon’s record between Detroit and New York by at least an hour.

     Before noon on Monday, we were on the Cross-Bronx Express—I was using my visor to navigate now that we were closer to our destination. Koz and Avie were singing along to a Frank Sinatra cassette she bought at the last rest stop with the theme to New York, New York, naturally—over and over. It was driving me crazy. Preston had advised us to steer clear of Lower Manhattan, which we did, but it still took us another two hours to work our way down to Brooklyn due to construction and unforeseen other tie-ups.

     I was very tempted to use my megapowers—to pick up the damn Pacer up bodily—and fly the rest of the way, if only to be outside the car and not hear the singing. But Avie and Koz talked me out of it—they were a little skittish I might drop them into the East River. We persevered in traffic another hour, and finally found the unlikely secret headquarters of the Y+Thems in a converted warehouse—one of those excessively long buildings alongside the old Navy Yards.

     Avie looked at Koz. “Are you sure this is the right place? It looks kind of low-rent. I thought New York megaheroes were supposed to be all that and a bag of chips, with high-rise luxury headquarters and whatnot. This is definitely Grunge City.”

     “The Y+Thems are just a start-up,” said Koz. “Who needs all that overhead? You were expecting the Taj Mahal?”

     I agreed with Avie. “This looks more dangerous than the Cass Corridor. I’m not sure we want to leave a car parked overnight in this neighborhood—or even in broad daylight.”

     “What do you think they have rooftops for?” asked Koz.

     “There’s rooftop parking?” I asked. I looked around for the drive-in entrance. “Great. How do we get in? I don’t see an entrance.”

     “I didn’t say there was a parking structure you could drive into, just that there was a rooftop you can park on. You’re a megahero, ain’tcha?”

     “Oh,” I said.

     So, Koz and I got out and we hoisted the Pacer—with Avie behind the wheel, slightly terrified, since she’d never seen a demonstration of my strength. I did most of the heavy lifting while Koz, reluctantly, helped steady the front bumper. Koz and I gently set the vehicle down on the roof; there were other four-wheeled vehicles up there already, and a motorcycle, presumably belonging to various Y+Them members.

     There was also an oval vehicle—as big as a boat with retractable wheels and no top, but a tarp stretched over the seating. On the front and back hoods were big, white Q emblems, the insignia of the defunct Megatropolis Quartet.

     “That’s the Q-Mobile,” said Koz. “Not to be confused with your Q-Wagon station wagon.” He rapped the side with the knuckles of his paw. “This here’s a flying car—the set of wheels Yarn Man usually employs to get around town. If you think New York street traffic is scary, try flying around the city in this thing—Bing is a terrible driver.”

     At least we were in the right place. We found the door to the stairs into the building unlocked. Inside, on the top floor ,was a makeshift security guard station—apparently, most megaheroes enter buildings from rooftops in Megatropolis. A grizzled old watchmen was stationed there, his feet on a cluttered desk, reading a used Philip José Farmer paperback and dreaming he was on a distant, primal world with a bosomy babe. He could have been keeping an eye on a warehouse full of plumbing fixtures or a lumber yard with more interested than he showed for a secret megahero team headquarters.

     “Old Gus!” said Koz. “Buzz us in! Bing’s expecting us.”

     “Buzz yourself in, you mangy critter,” growled Gus. “You know the lock’s been busted for months. Wise guy.”

     We helped ourselves through a door to an even dingier stairwell covered with graffiti. On the next floor down was an even more non-descript hallway with peeling paint, half -illuminated with fluorescent lights.

     “This certainly isn’t the glamorous presentation of the orbiting ICHHL satellite,” I said. “That was all high-tech and shiny; this lacks the charm of even the River Rouge plant.”

     Avie frowned. “Maybe they’ve must have saved all their interior design budget for the megahero compartments. The utilitarian exterior is just to discourage the curious who might come seeking autographs.”

     “Don’t like the environs?” said Koz, a bit offended by our critical remarks. “Gentrification will be along any minute. Some asshole developer will convert the whole place into multi-million-dollar lofts before you can say ‘slum lord.’” He was probably right.

Bing’s tiny office, when we found it, was almost as shabby as the dank, ill-lit hallway we found it in. And we hadn’t even opened the door yet, which was marked:

> Bing Gloom

>

> Y+Thems Team Leader and Chief Administrator

     “Looks like they kicked the poor schlub upstairs,” said Koz. “I can’t imagine my old comrade too happy in a desk job.”

     I gave Avie a searching look. I was hesitant about seeing my old boyfriend again—I saw him briefly that time after our rec room fling, but I wondered how uncomfortable seeing him now was going to be. Maybe I would luck out and he’d be too busy all week running the day-to-day affairs of the team to even notice we were around.

     “Are you sure he’s expecting us?” said Avie.

     “He should,” I said. “Preston made all the arrangements.”

     I knocked.

     There was no immediate answer; only muffled sounds.

     “Maybe he’s meeting with the accountant,” said Koz. “End-of-the-year tax stuff. Hope he saved those receipts for utility belts and whatnot.”

     I was about to knock again, but Avie beat me to it.

     “Oh, come on, you scaredy-cat,” she said, turning the door knob.

     She threw open the door.

     The room was dark. On one side was a cluttered desk with a dim lamp—the only illumination. There was a swivel chair with some clothes hung over it, a dented filing cabinet, some tattered shelves, and a note-covered bulletin board—nothing megaheroic so far.

     On the other side, away from the light, sat a tattered leather sofa. On this, a couple of people lay horizontally, embracing—how do you say, en flagrante.

     I stepped into the space behind Avie, and Koz hit the light switch before we realized what we were barging in on. The overhead fluorescent lights blinked on.

     On the sofa was splayed a fabulous, leggy redhead—I mean, she was built—with quite a rack and long, flowing, brassy locks. I could tell this even though the man on top of her—a gorgeous, fit, nicely-muscled blond man—was humping away to beat the band.

     On the floor and draped all over the office furnishings were parts of different uniforms that had been shed in a hurry. A red and yellow body suit—his, presumably—was tossed over the office chair; a mint and kelly green body suit—hers—lay crumpled on the floor. Boots and gloves had been flung every which way and hung from shelves or open file drawers.

     I could tell hers was a team uniform because the Y+Thems team logo was clearly legible on its torso—while retaining the shape her ample boobs.

     It had only taken a fraction of second to take in all of these details—yet Koz, Avie, and I stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity.

     The man didn’t stop what he was doing, or even turn to look at us; the woman, however, glared.

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     “Do you mind?” she said. “Chuck, I think those kids from that high school newspaper are here to interview you.”

     Chuck didn’t respond or even look toward the door; he just kept jack-hammering away, and grunting.

     Avie and I were dumbstruck. Even Koz, for once, was speechless.

     Avie quickly snapped off the lights, and the three of us backed out of the office and closed the door.

     “That wasn’t Yarn Man,” said Avie. “Who was that?”

     “I’m pretty sure that was Chuck Roast,” I replied, “Stella Starlight’s half-brother. Looks like he was, uh, doing some administrating.” I looked down at Koz for confirmation.

     “That was the Human Meltdown, all right,” the cat confirmed. “The babe, I’ve never seen before.”

     “What’s he doing in America?” asked Avie.

     “The missionary position, from the looks of it,” quipped Koz.

     “I mean, isn’t he supposed to be in Europe or something? I read that he ran off after the Quartet went kaput.”

     “To Paris, to be exact,” I replied. “Where he’s supposed to be living with his wife and daughter.”

     “Was that his wife?” asked Avie. “Do you think?”

     “His wife is supposed to be a redhead,” I said. “But something tells me that wasn’t her.”

     “That was not Felicia,” said Koz. “Not unless she’s had basketball-sized implants and become a leggy supermodel since the last time I last saw her.”

     I’d been hearing stories about the Human Meltdown for more than two years now. From what I had gathered, after megavillains destroyed the Megatropolis Quartet Headquarters and the team was kaput, Chuck and Felicia—the girl who had filled in for Stella—split for Paris, where they married and soon had a daughter. Both had artsy careers going over there, but from time to time the Human Meltdown would return to New York—most notably as a special guest star with the X+Thems, the earlier incarnation of the Y+Thems, and most memorably during their bout with Mars, God of War, which drew in my housemates from Ann Arbor. By all accounts, Chuck and Felicia had a stormy marriage, mostly because Chuck couldn’t keep it in his pants, and he would come to New York whenever things got too unpleasant back in Paris. But they would always reach a rapprochement because of the daughter—Geneviève, I think—who was sickly.

     I recounted all of this to Avie.

     “I don’t see how he’s going to solve his marital difficulties that way,” said Avie, “or that he’s even trying. But he sure look the part—I’d cast him as America’s Nuclear-Powered Hero before I’d cast Trent.”

     From down the hallway, a man’s sing-song voice called out to us. “You must be the James sisters. Preston told us you’d be our guests this week.”

     The voice belonged a slender man in a Y+Thems purple and magenta body suit with long, lustrous hair. His full, overly-sensuous mouth and heavy-lidded eyes gave his features a feminine aura, which he accentuated further with heavy make-up, all of which contrasted with his large nose and square-cut jaw. He looked like he might be trying out for a hair metal band, or was preparing for a drag show but hadn’t put on the falsies yet. He had a lot of keys on his belt and a clipboard in his hand, with some individual key sets.

     We introduced ourselves. “Hi, yes—I’m Clarissa, and this is my sister Avie.” I pointed to the closed office door, from which muffled moans and groans still emanated. “We were—uh—expecting to find Bing Gloom—Yarn Man.”

     The slender man glanced at the closed office door and rolled his eyes. “Oh, my, yes,” he said, quickly motioning us down the hall and away from the door. “Yarn Man is no longer with the organization, I’m afraid.” He informed us of this like an overly solicitous administrative assistant reading from a carefully-worded Human Resources memo. “We have an interim leader for the moment.”

     “Chuck Roast?” I said. “That’s you’re idea of an interim leader?” I know, I was being sexist in assuming that it wasn’t the leggy redhead—Avie would lecture me on that later.

     “Oh, you know Mr. Roast?” said the man.

     “I’m housemates with his half-sister back in Michigan,” I said. “Preston must have explained everything to you.”

     “Yes, of course,” said the man. “There are so many backstories to keep track of on a megahero team, you would not believe.”

     The moans and groans from the office, even muffled by the closed door, followed us down the hallway and began to crescendo. The long-haired man, suddenly pale, quickened our pace toward the stairwell. “Let me show you to your lodgings.”

     I asked, “And you are?”

     “Oh, forgive me,” he said. “My name is Kavanaugh Kleinfelter; you can call me Kav. I’m the tele-empath of the group; they call me Tempy, although I’m not overly fond of that.”

     “Are you transitioning to a woman, by any chance?” asked Avie.

     Kav placed his hand on Avie’s arm. “You’re exceptionally perceptive,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I am considering it. Are you a tele-empath, too?”

     “No, I just do a lot of experimental theater.”

     “Who was that woman?” I asked. “The redhead in the office?”

     “Doesn’t she have beautiful hair?” said Kav, almost swooning. “I’m also the team stylist. I have no idea—they come and go so quickly with Mr. Roast.”

     “We were just wondering if that was his wife,” said Avie. “We were kind of thinking not.”

     Kav looked directly into Avie’s eyes. “You are definitely tele-empathic, my dear. And absolutely correct—that was not his wife. She’s literally no one—that is to say, she’s undeclared. A lot of our new recruits don’t have clearly discernible megapowers or megahero identities until they’ve been with us for a while. That’s what I’m doing—finding myself.”

     “And doing a good job of it,” said Koz.

     “Looks to me like her particular megapowers include being a good lay for the interim team leader,” I said. “I’ve never laid eyes on one before, but that scene back there looked to me like the classic casting couch.”

     “You know how people are desperate to break into show business,” said Kav. “We’ve had concerns about our team leadership recently in that department.”

     “You mean older guys boffing younger women?” said Avie. “Sexual predators taking advantage of vulnerable victims in unequal power relationships?”

     “I’m afraid so,” said Kav, in a hushed whisper. “Professor Rex liked to chase the girls around—really, all he could do was be handsy. The Original Golden Age Megaton Man, well, you’ll see what he wrought, soon enough. Now, for the moment, we’re stuck with the Human Meltdown.”

     I suddenly felt a vacuum in the pit of my stomach. Was Bing let go for similar reasons—because of some pending sexual harassment lawsuit or allegation of molestation or something? Had my own fling with Bing been nothing more than another notch on his emotionally insecure bedpost? The thought made me feel used and violated.

     Avie asked the question I was thinking. “Was Yarn Man shit-canned for the same kind of misbehavior?” she demanded.

     “Oh, no,” said Kav. “Actually, we all loved Yarn Man—he kept his mitts off the new recruits, at least. It’s just that he had no business running a team. He was well-liked, but—I hate to say it—utterly incompetent; no temperament for paperwork, or for delegating responsibility. He was in over his head. You know, he’s been going through some issues, of late; he’s in a twelve-step program, now, and really making progress, I understand.”

     This was reassuring to hear.

     Kav suddenly stiffened and turned to me. “You’re not pressing charges, are you?” he said.

     “Me? Against Bing? No. We were cool.”

     “Oh, thanks goodness,” said Kav. “For a moment there, I thought you were here to file yet another harassment complaint. Our insurance can’t take another out-of-court settlement.”

     “Have there been many?” asked Avie.

     “It’s been a nightmare,” said Kav. “We’re nearly bankrupt.”

     We got to the stairwell at the opposite end of building—it was a pretty big place—and descended another floor.

     “Team stylist, you say?” Koz said to Kav. “Ha. ‘Tempy gives perms!’” He was reading some of the graffiti on the walls.

     “That’s very unkind,” said Kav. “Some of the more insecure males have machismo issues.”

     “That’s terrible,” I said. “What kind of team is this? Treating women like sex objects, bullying gay guys—how do they treat blacks and Hispanics? Good Lord.”

     “I thought about transferring to the ICHHL satellite,” said Kav. “As you know, that’s all they do up there is play with their hair. Agent Lemon Lime would love to have me, but I make Preston a bit uncomfortable. He’s one of those gay men who used to be in the closet but still isn’t comfortable around what he considers fairies—at least in public. He even called me a queen the last time he was in New York, which was very hurtful. But he sure doesn’t mind them in private, let me tell you. But I may take them up on it if things don’t pick up around here.” Kav put his elbow in one hand and tapped his chin with a finger. “Although I don’t know how I feel about outer space; you would need a lot of mousse in zero gravity, wouldn’t you?”

     “All I know is they did my burgundy hair,” I said. “I’m long overdue for a retouch.”

     “I’d love to handle that,” said Kav. He suddenly stopped in his tracks. “You’re not thinking of joining the Y+Thems, are you?” He looked gravely at me and Avie.

     Avie shook her head. “I’m not even a megahero.”

     “No,” I answered. “We’re just here on a visit.”

     “Thank goodness,” said Kav, as we egressed from the stairwell and entered the floor below. “Well, here we are—the dormitory wing of Casa Por Qué Ellos.”

Tempy took us past a number of closed doors that looked just like the ones in the dorms of South Quad—all covered in posters and stickers and decorations and such. Kav used his keychain to open the metal door to our lodgings—a tiny room with a double-bunk bed, a couple of chairs, a small table, and some nails on the wall to hang clothes. The accommodations made South Quad look like Club Med. He handed me and Avie our own sets of keys.

     “The showers are down the hall,” said Tempy apologetically. “And there’s a kitchen—if you can call it that—in the basement. But believe me, nobody eats there; we usually dine out or get Chinks—I mean Chinese takeout—or fast food or something. But there’s a microwave, if you want to reheat pizza or whatever.” He looked at us apologetically, with sad eyes. “I know you were probably expecting more, but we’re on a budget.”

     “Where’s everybody else?” I asked. “There’s a whole dormitory wing, but nobody seems to be around.”

     “Home for the holidays,” said Kav. “But there are a few of us core members around. You’ll get to meet us all shortly. After you’ve freshened up, take the stairs down one flight to the observation booth, and you’ll get to meet some of the other Y+Thems.”

     He left us to settle in, which wasn’t more than throwing our bags on our bunks and looking around in the corners to make sure there weren’t any cockroaches scurrying under the cove base.

     “Observation booth?” asked Avie, after Kav had left. “To what?”

     “The Devastation Chamber,” said Kozmik Kat. “Don’t you hear those rumbles?”

     We listened; the sounds from the office had covered them up before, but now we could feel vibrations in the floor through our feet. The sounds were getting louder. The entire building was being rocked, as if some very heavy objects were being moved—or thrown about—a floor or two below us.

     “The Devastation Chamber? What’s that?” asked Avie.

     “It’s their training room,” said Koz. “A combination gymnasium and re-enactment of Pearl Harbor. They used to have one in the old Megatropolis Quartet Headquarters, too; Professor Rex just recreated it here. When they’re not fighting megavillains, megaheroes have to stay in shape.”

     A particularly strong blast rocked the whole building.

     “Good Lord!” said Avie.

     Koz was not in the least bit alarmed. Instead, he flopped on the lower bunk. “So, where are you two going to sleep?”

     I yanked Koz off the bunk by his cape and looked around at the spartan dorm room. “The question is, where do you usually sleep?”

     Koz straightened his cape. “In Bing’s office, when it was Bing’s office, on the sofa. After what we saw a moment ago, that prospect doesn’t exactly thrill me.”

     “Then it looks like the floor for you,” I said. “We’ll have to scrounge up some extra cushions or blankets from one of the vacant rooms, I suppose. We’ll spread them on the floor in here.”

     Koz frowned. “I might have known,” he said. “I’ll see you downstairs.” He left me and Avie alone in the room.

     I looked at Avie, worried she would find the accommodations too horrid—because they were—and want to relocate. We had money for at least a night or two in hotel room. But no—she was actually thrilled to be in New York, and excited at the prospect of sleeping in a real megahero team headquarters.

     “Isn’t this wonderful?” she exclaimed.

     “You’re kidding, right?” I said. “Megaheroes are supposed to be making the world a better place, but this is most socially regressive situation I can imagine.” All I could think of was older men preying on younger women—my biological father perhaps among them. I was even questioning how I let myself be used by Yarn Man.

     But my half-sister, paradoxically, wasn’t dismayed in the slightest. She wasn’t even the least bit critical—which I would have expected. Instead, she did a pirouette in the middle of the room, although there was barely enough room to change your mind.

     “It’s just like I imagined off-off-Broadway,” she said. “Or maybe off-off-off-Broadway.” To her, every analogy was with the theater world. “Don’t you see, Sissy? Leotards, gay men, sleazy producers and directors, and young starlets trying to sleep their way into the business—even the classic casting couch. The only difference is, there’s no paying audience per se. But it’s a kind of extended performance art, isn’t it?”

     I couldn’t believe my ears. This was the woman who’d torn Trent Phloog a new asshole just for being a straight, white male. “But Avie, aren’t you offended by the exploitation, the predation?”

     “Oh, I’m sure Kav was just exaggerating,” said Avie. “He strikes me as more than a little histrionic. Nobody would stay on the team if it were as bad as he describes, would they? Besides, it’s New York, Sissy!”

     She started singing Sinatra.