Out of the Ashes by Misty Meenor A Comic RetCon Universe Story The Martian Manhunter and Miss Martian characters are the property of DC Comics. The moon had the night off; the few widely-separated streetlights in this part of town had to work extra hard tonight, just to keep each other in sight through the humid darkness. Lightning flashed over the city, making sudden shadows jump, the crash of thunder following quickly on its heels, rattling windows. Despite the imminence of the oncoming storm, it was largely ignored; anyone still trying to scrape a living off the dusty streets at this lonely hour wouldn't be put off by a few measly fireworks. They had more urgent things to be afraid of. Me, for instance. But tonight I was after bigger fish. I was pretty sure the bigger fish were after me, too.

---

The old meat-packing plant had been shutdown for more than a year, the gates padlocked, windows boarded, graveled lot gone to weeds. Which made the arrival of each of the large black cars particularly unusual.

Each car would stop at the gate, and the driver would exchange a few words with one of the men at the gatehouse, who would check the name on a list. Sometimes he would consult with someone by radio. Invariably after a few moments he would give the thumbs-up signal, and another man would open the formerly padlocked gate, and the car would rumble around to the back of the plant, out of sight of the road.

The basement room was a good size, but the single naked bulb over the long table left deep shadows around the edges . A dozen men in expensive suits sat making uncomfortable small talk; the air was dense with the smoke of expensive cigars.

Anthony "Tony Three Balls" Carpaci stood in his customary position at the head of the table and waited for the small talk to die down. Tony was a stocky man of medium height, his dark hair slicked back, professionally tailored, the best smuggled Cuban cigar between his fingers. The men at the long table quickly fell silent; it wasn't smart to keep Tony waiting for anything. He might find something to do while he's waiting. With your body parts.

Tony's eyes swept the room. "Gentlemen, I know you're curious. We haven't risked meeting in person like this in a long time, but I can assure you, this will be worth it."

He paused for a moment, savoring the attention. "I have been approached by a… person, making some pretty unbelievable claims, offering certain… services. Understandably, I was skeptical. But this person has backed up those claims with some impressive demonstrations -- including Hillary Carstairs -- and I find myself persuaded."

At this the men began to whisper excitedly amongst themselves. Hillary Carstairs had been scheduled to testify before the grand jury, a witness under airtight protection. Nobody was quite sure what happened, but according to the papers, she'd vanished under the noses of the cops assigned to protect her, much to the embarrassment of the District Attorney and the glee of the Carpaci famiglia.

The rumors were simply not credible. Grand Jury witnesses do not just spontaneously combust.

Tony held up his hand, and the room quickly fell silent. "This kind of help doesn't come cheap. It's gonna cost us all. But I feel certain I can say to you, our increased profits will be more than worth it.

"Now, I've arranged for a final demonstration, not just for your benefit, but for the benefit of the entire city. A demonstration that should show the new mayor and her pet District Attorney that the Crime Cartel is ALIVE and WELL, and OWNS… THESE... STREETS!" His fist pounded the table, emphasizing the words.

~o~O~o~

The moon had the night off; the few widely-separated streetlights in this part of town had to work extra hard tonight, just to keep each other in sight through the humid darkness.

Lightning flashed over the city, making sudden shadows jump, the crash of thunder following quickly on its heels, rattling windows. Despite the imminence of the oncoming storm, it was largely ignored; anyone still trying to scrape a living off the dusty streets at this lonely hour wouldn't be put off by a few measly fireworks. They had more urgent things to be afraid of.

Me, for instance.

But tonight I was after bigger fish. I was pretty sure the bigger fish were after me, too.

~o~O~o~

The Bone Fist gang had been doing cheap break-and-enters for years, strictly small time stuff, but lately they've been moving up in the world. Word on the street was, they were the muscle behind a recent series of robberies. The muscle, but not the brains; that was the worrying part. Word was, somebody was using the Fists, using them to move into the big leagues.

Word on the street. The word on the street talks too much.

I'd been working the streets for years. Even the greenest rookie can tell you, different people know different things, everybody only sees little pieces of the big picture. This cabbie knew which businessman took his secretary to lunch -- at the motel. The old blind guy working at the poolhall, nobody really sees him, but he hears things. That shopgirl knew the comings and goings of the dealer in the alley across the street. A junkie knows when the product is fresh -- and when it's been cut too much. Hookers -- the hookers know when it's payday, when the next payday's coming, and more about other people's business than you'd expect. They party with the big boys, and get treated like furniture -- but the furniture has eyes and ears.

Little, unrelated things. It's my job to put the little things together. Once in a while they make a Big Thing.

Lately, though, I'd been getting handed a Big Thing, ready-made. The same Big Thing, from all over. Everybody on the street seemed to know it: Bone Fist gang, Natural History Museum, tonight. If it was any more secret, it would have been on the front page of the Enquirer.

It stank. It stank worse than a fishmarket on a hot afternoon. That didn't mean I wasn't listening to the Word. It just meant I was holding my nose.

The night had brought no relief from the sticky heat, though it had finally started to rain, an unenthusiastic kind of drizzle that was neither cooling nor even particularly wet; not enough to wash away the grit from the back of my neck as I crossed the street to the surveillance truck. Inside the air was stifling, rife with the sweat of the operators, like living in a gym sock with four other people. At least one of whom apparently loved curry.

I nodded to the woman in front of a bank of flatscreen monitors. Her t-shirt was plastered to her back, and her hair tied into a ponytail to keep it off her neck. She was fanning herself with a folded paper fan. "Love your perfume, angel. Is it new?"

She grimaced at me. "You try spending a few hours in this sauna with these apes. I'm surprised I haven't melted yet." The apes protested good-naturedly.

"A couple more hours, and we can all go home to a cold shower." I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. "I'll even wash your back."

The woman laughed sharply. "Ha! In your dreams, Detective. My dream involves a cold shower, alone. Followed by a nice long sleep, curled up in front of a roaring air conditioner." She pauses, considering. "And ice cream. My dream definitely has ice cream."

"Aw, now Dolores, don't be that way. It takes more than a cold shower to cool me off." I held up the 7-11 bag I'd been carrying. "I come bearing gifts." I passed around bottles of water, from the back of the cooler in the store, the coldest I could find.

Her eyes flashed as she twisted the cap off a bottle. She paused to take a long drink, then rolled the cool bottle across her forehead. "Ah, well. That changes everything." She pointed to a large hairy man, currently chugging his own bottle non-stop. "I'll let you wash Thomson's back," she grinned. Thomson played along, turning his back and lifting up his t-shirt obligingly, showing off more body hair than most orangutans.

"Sheesh. Do I need soap, or carpet shampoo?" I asked. I made a mournful face. "Come on, Dolores, you know it's only you I want."

She studied my face, a speculative look in her eyes, tapping the bottle against her chin. "One of these days, Detective Hunter, some poor girl just might believe you. Then you'll be in trouble." She blinked and cleared her throat. "Ahem. To business."

She spun in her seat to face the screens, suddenly businesslike. "The museum is sealed, Detective, we've got men inside every entrance. There's no way to get in without us knowing it." She tapped on a keyboard, and the displays cycled between exterior and interior views of the building, confirming her words.

"From below?"

She shook her head. "A service tunnel under the street, but there's no route into the building. We're covering the basement, just in case."

"The roof?"

She tapped her pen on a screen showing a computer-generated map. "The museum is taller than any of the neighboring buildings. No way to get up to the roof. The chopper patrol route is meant to look random, but it's never more than a few minutes away." As if to mark her words, I could hear the police helicopter fly overhead, the camera monitors showing the spotlight sweeping the rooftops with a cone of illuminated drizzle.

I nodded, grudgingly. "What about the jewels?"

"Five men in the gallery itself, another five covering hallways and staircases."

The jewels were part of a travelling display, on loan from the Smithsonian, displayed in the Rocks and Minerals gallery. They included some of the largest examples of cut precious stones in the world, including the Thorpe Diamond, and the emerald known as El Corazon. I figured if they’re big enough to have names, they have to be worth something.

The display case containing the jewels was remarkable in itself; sealed at the Smithsonian into a sphere of ultradense synthetic quartz, it couldn't be moved without a forklift, and was proof against any conventional tools. No-one would be able to open the case again until it returned to Washington at the end of the tour.

"Thanks, angel. If the Bone Fist is going to try, it'll have to be soon. Keep your eyes peeled." I moved to get out of the truck.

Dolores laid a hand on my arm. "Be careful, Dan. This isn't a simple heist. It makes no sense."

I met her eyes and we shared a look, then I nodded and climbed out of the truck.

The drizzle had changed from unenthusiastic to moderately enthused. I stood in the shadows across the street from the museum, smoking in the rain, turning the problem over in my head. The word on the street had been spread deliberately. So it followed that the Bone Fist would know we'd be boosting the security on the jewels, and didn't care. Nothing I knew of the Fists led me to believe they had the subtlety to break into a guarded building. And if they did break in, there was no way to get the jewels out. Not unless they brought heavy equipment. Which was far from subtle. So the jewel heist was a ruse, had to be.

Which meant, whoever was controlling the Fists specifically wanted a dozen or so police officers in the museum, tonight. Why? I ruled out the idea of a bomb, since we'd given the place a thorough inspection when we upped the security. A diversion? Bay City is no New York or Los Angeles, but it's not small, either; a dozen cops is still a drop in the bucket. It wasn't going to stretch us thin anywhere else. Which left, they weren't after the cops. They wanted a specific cop.

If word got out that there was going to be a robbery at the museum, there were only so many people who could get tasked with making sure it didn't happen, and the Bone Fists were my turf; I'd be at the top of the list.

I was the guy who'd built the case against the members of the Crime Cartel, including Tony Carpaci himself. I was the one who'd convinced Hillary Carstairs to testify. With her gone -- I wish I knew how they'd managed that -- the D.A. was relying on my testimony to the grand jury. With me gone, the whole thing fell apart.

I'd figured that much out weeks ago, which is why I'd made sure I was the one assigned to protect the jewels. I hadn't told anyone else my suspicions, or the D.A. would have me locked up in a secure facility someplace, until I could testify.

I grinned to myself as I flicked my cigarette into the gutter, and started across the street to the museum.

Like I said, tonight I was after bigger fish. I was pretty sure the bigger fish were after me, too.

~o~O~o~

"Dan -- something in the sky, incoming from the west." Dolores' voice sounded through my concealed earpiece. I glanced up, but the buildings blocked my view. There -- a yellow-red fireball, streaking across my narrow view of the sky, headed straight for the museum. Shooting star? Not with the storm -- that thing was flying under the clouds. I braced myself for an explosion, but it didn't come.

I toggled my throat mike. "Get the chopper back here, pronto. Something's on the roof. I'm going inside, tell them to open up for me." It's show time.

I dashed across the street as every security alarm in the museum seemed to go off at once. I pounded on the front doors, holding my badge to the glass, and making sure the uniformed cop inside could see my face. Dolores must have been in his ear, because he nodded and quickly let me in. I pushed past him and took the wide staircase two steps at a time, leading to the second floor Rocks and Minerals gallery, the way lit by rotating red alarm lights, the whoop-whoop of the alarm making it impossible to think.

"Chopper says it's just one person, in some kind of fire-suit; he just… burned a hole in the roof to get in." Dolores' voice betrayed her disbelief.

I nodded to myself. If it worked for the roof, it'd work for the intervening floors. "Warn them he's coming through the ceiling. Everybody else stays put; it might be some kind of diversion. I'm almost there. And kill the damned alarms."

The alarms stopped as I ran down the final hallway. In the sudden silence I could hear a hissing noise, like a blowtorch, only louder. Just outside the gallery, I passed a firehose station. I stopped, and pulled the hose to its maximum length, and spun the water on all the way; the hose bucked and twisted as it filled. There was a chemical extinguisher, too; I grabbed it with my free hand and brought it along.

The gallery for Rocks and Minerals was a large windowless room; high-ceilinged, carpeted, with exhibit cases laid out around the perimeter in wall cases. Additional exhibits were scattered around the open space in tall pedestal cases. In the center of the room was a raised stage containing the Smithsonian Jewels in their crystal sphere; the stage was large enough for several dozen people at a time to view the display from all sides. The ceiling was sprayed with echo-deadening foam and painted black; the large ventilation ducts ran along one side, painted fluorescent colors.

Currently, the room also contained five cops, weapons aimed at an impossibly bright spot at the leading edge of glowing arc in the ceiling, which had almost completed tracing a full circle maybe six feet across. Bits of glowing sound insulation fell to the floor, continuing to smolder. An acrid smell filled the room; the smell of things burning that were supposed to be fireproof. Like a concrete ceiling. The hiss was much louder here, coming from the thing making a hole in ceiling. Whatever it was, it was cutting through a foot of reinforced concrete like it was soft cheese.

The circle complete, the bright spot vanished. For a few moments, there was dead silence, then with an almighty crash, a disk of concrete six feet across and a foot thick dropped into the gallery, crushing several of the displays. Into the hole stepped… a human shape, his figure concealed in flame. Instead of falling, he floated down, landing gently on the shattered concrete, ignoring the weapons pointed at him. The air rippled with the heat he was giving off; even at the edge of the room it was like standing at the mouth of a blast furnace. The sound was like the flicker of a candle flame multiplied by a thousand; a flag rippling in a strong wind.

The nearest cop exchanged glances with the others nearby, then stepped forward, clearing his throat nervously. "Stay where you are! You're under arrest!"

The man-fire-thing laughed. "How are you gonna arrest me? You can't even get close enough to cuff me." He held his hands out obligingly, offering them for the handcuffs. The cop holstered his gun and took out his handcuffs, prepared to give it a try, but could only approach another step before he was forced to fall back, his hands and face turning a painful red and the cuffs of his uniform jacket beginning to smolder. He tossed the cuffs to the man's feet. "Put them on, then."

The fiery figure stooped to pick up the cuffs, holding them in his outstretched hand, as the tempered steel began to glow red and sag like soft butter on a hot day. "Ooops. Looks like you're outta luck." He tossed the mangled lumps to the cop's feet.

I'd seen enough; I hit him with the firehose. The effect was gratifying; it killed his flame and knocked him on his ass. I kept the hose on him, rolling him across the floor to the base of the stage before I cut the flow. I had no intention of giving him a chance to re-light, or whatever it was he did. "Cuff him and frisk him!" I shouted. Another of the cops was quick to comply, cuffing his hands behind his back, while I took a good look at our thief.

It was just a teenager, a scrawny kid. He was tall and lanky, like he'd just put on some height, and hadn't grown into it yet. He had a mass of carrot-orange hair with the pale skin and freckles to match, and as they dragged him to his feet he tossed his head to get the wet hair out of his eyes, in a curiously girlish way. There wasn't much for them to frisk; a bright yellow tank top over a pair of black chinos; sneakers on his feet. No piercings, no jewelry; not even a watch.

"Nothing in his pockets, Detective."

I frowned at that. What the hell lit him up, then? "What's your name, kid?"

The kid grinned breezily. "Tell you what, I'll trade ya. What's yours?" he asked.

I studied him suspiciously. Something didn't ring true. The kid wasn't acting like a kid. Even tough little punks should be nervous, caught in the act, cuffed and surrounded by cops like he was. He acted like he was still in control. String him along. "I'm Detective Hunter. And you are…?"

"You can call me Heatstroke. I got a message for you, Hunter."

I readied my grip on the nozzle, ready to soak him down again at the slightest provocation. "Oh, yeah? From who?"

"Tony Carpaci says hi. Oh, and he wants me to kill you."

My eyes narrowed. "Like you killed Hillary Carstairs for him."

The kid shrugged modestly. "That was quick. He wants yours to be slow."

I snorted. "Yeah, I get that a lot. And what's he paying you for this?"

"I get to keep the jewels." The kid's grin was getting on my nerves.

My eyes widened in mock surprise, "Wow, I'm worth that much? What did he pay you for the hit on Carstairs?"

He sighed. "That was a freebie, kind of a proof of concept. Tonight's heist should cover my fee for both you and Carstairs." He leaned towards me. "Tony doesn't really think I can steal the jewels, " he confided.

I chuckled. "Kid, I don't think you can, either." Time to wipe that smirk off his face. I reached for my radio and switched it to speaker. "You getting all this, angel?"

Dolores' voice crackled. "Loud and clear, Detective. Audio and video. Clear confession to the murder of a grand jury witness, conspiracy to grand theft for the jewel heist, implication of Tony Carpaci to both. Should be in the morning papers, if you hurry up in there."

The kid paled, but it looked to me like he was still figuring the odds. Too cocky. What am I missing? On a hunch, I spoke to Dolores. "Make sure that what you have is backed up to Police HQ."

"Already going out, as we speak."

That got to him. I could see the anger rise in his eyes, but he surprised me again. He laughed. "Oh, you're good. Carpaci warned me about you." He pulled himself up to his full height, and cocked his hip, sticking out his skinny chest at me, a bizarrely feminine pose. "I'll tell ya what, Detective Dan Hunter. If I can't steal the jewels, I won't kill you."

I ignored the threat, studying his face, his strange body language. "You're no kid. What are you?"

For the first time, the kid's attitude cracked. "I'm still figuring that part out, " he admitted.

I chuckled. "You'll have a lot of time for that."

Then he took a deep breath, and the crack in his attitude sealed shut. Smiling nastily, and with a foosh sound like a gas jet igniting, he burst into flame, molten handcuffs dropping to the floor behind him.

How does he do that? I twisted the nozzle on the firehose, but he was quicker; his arm shot out and a fireball erupted from his outstretched hand, severing the hose far behind me, where the escaping water made it flop and twist like a headless snake. I could feel my face and hands start to blister from his sudden heat, and I dove away, rolling behind one of the exhibit cases.

Shots rang out as the other cops opened fire, but the bullets just seemed to flare up and evaporate before they could get close enough bother him. He laughed and gestured with his arm, and a wall of fire appeared across the entrance to the gallery, trapping us in and keeping reinforcements out. The air was so hot it hurt to breathe it in, like we were standing in an oven. Everything was giving off acrid fumes as it began to burn or melt, filling the air with a noxious black smoke, making us cough and retch; I was sure I was sweating; but it was evaporating so quickly my skin felt parched.

Lifting gently into the air, the kid set down on the stage, next to the sphere. He placed his hands on the crystal, and his hands glowed even more brightly. Astonishingly, the sphere appeared to resist his attack. He seemed as surprised as anyone; but he braced himself, and bowed his head, redoubling his efforts. The wooden platform quickly charred and then burst into flame around him, but he paid it no attention, and this time, the crystal appeared to be softening.

The other cops and I were pressed into the corner by this time; as far from the searing heat as we could manage. Most of us were showing signs of pretty serious burns on our exposed skin; even our clothes were starting to singe, metal buckles and fasteners beginning to scorch anything they touched. I kept my eyes closed as much as I could, squinting when I had to see; they felt like they'd been dragged through ground glass.

One of the men screamed in pain as the ammunition in his gun began to detonate, and hurriedly we all divested ourselves of our guns and ammunition. I removed the ammunition clip from my gun and the spare from my shoulder holster. I looked thoughtfully at the clips for a second, weighing them in my hand, though they were already dangerously hot. "Take cover!" I shouted to the men, and flung both clips at the kid. The clips spun end over end through the air, and as they reached within a few feet of the blazing form, began to melt, just as the bullets had -- and then the cartridges began to explode, like deadly firecrackers, sending bullets and shrapnel in all directions.

The stunt was only partially successful; the kid cried out in pain and clutched his leg, his flame flickering briefly. He gestured angrily and another wall of flame flashed into existence between him and the cops, pinning them in the corner with its terrible searing fury, leaving them screaming and writhing in agony as their flesh began to sizzle and blacken and split. And oh, dear God, the smell...

I'd narrowly escaped being trapped with them; I was crawling through the smoke in search of something. My lower legs and feet were in agony, skin blistered and peeling. Finally, I came across what I had been searching for; the chemical fire extinguisher I'd brought in. It was much to hot to touch, the skin of my fingers wanted to stick to it. It would explode any second, I was sure, but somehow I climbed to my feet, howling in rage and desperation and defiance, and I managed to hurl the thing at the stage, before collapsing into a display case and onto the floor.

The heavy extinguisher exploded in a most gratifying way; some of the shrapnel managed to penetrate the heat shield to strike the kid -- but more importantly, coating everything in the area with a thick layer of fire-retardant foam.

The kid shrieked as a glowing-hot shard of metal punctured his side, and his flame died, smothered in foam. "Hunter, you son of a bitch! Where are you!" Wiping foam from his face, he scanned the room for me, but the display case was sufficient cover for the moment. The horrible screaming from the men in the corner had died away, finally. I was grateful that their suffering had ended, and expected to join them soon enough.

He probed tenderly at the metal in his side, wincing, and cursing impressively. I couldn't tell how deeply it had penetrated; with any luck, he'd bleed to death, but then luck wasn't my strong suit this hand. There was a growing red stain on his yellow shirt; I'd have to be content with that. He did his best to rid himself of the foam, even so, it seemed to take enormous effort before he could re-ignite. He turned back to the jewels, the crystal sphere clearly indented where it had softened under his hands, but the blazing form seemed to slump, recognizing he had neither the time nor the strength to finish the task. "You win, Hunter," he called to the room, turning in place, still looking for me. "But you lose, too. I'm going to kill you now."

He rose slowly into the air, one hand clasped to his wounded side, turning slowly to try and locate me. I lay as still as I could, struggling to get the poisonous air into my scorched lungs without coughing. The rock from the shattered display case lay next to my head. The card said,

ANTARCTIC METEORITE

Possible Martian Origin

The stone was giving off a greenish gas as it heated. Somehow the gas soothed my burnt face and throat. I breathed it deeply, trying to get air into my dying lungs.

Finally he stopped, facing my direction. "I seeeeee youuuuuu, " he called. He began to drift upwards to the hole he'd cut in the ceiling. Just as he was about to rise out of sight, his hand shot out towards me, and my universe ended in a fireball, screaming.

He kept his promise; it was slow. It took almost a minute to burn to death.

~o~O~o~

I don't know how long I'd been unconscious, but the room was still in flames. Somehow it seemed better lit than before, though the primary source of light seemed to be the burning stage, and even that wasn't burning with much vigor, now the kid was gone. The smoke was still thick, any electrical light fixtures had been destroyed by the heat -- the room should have been in almost total darkness despite the flames, but the darkness wasn't impenetrable anymore. It was more like a shadow on a sunny day. Even the smoke was transparent, like a wavering heat mirage.

The walls of flame cast by Heatstroke were gone; perhaps they could only last while he was nearby to feed them, however he did it. There were men in heavy fireproof suits and respirator masks, some spraying down the flames with hoses, while others searched the room with powerful flashlights. Firefighters. It made no sense to me why they'd need more light.

I climbed woozily to my feet, feeling dazed and lightheaded. At some point one of the heavy wall display cases had fallen on top of me, but it moved without effort as I pushed it away. I was about to call to the nearest fireman -- I don't know why he couldn't see me -- but stopped to brush something out of my face.

A lock of hair. Long hair. Long red hair. I have brown hair. Short hair. Whitewall ears kind of short. This was very long, and very red. I tugged on it. And very attached to my head.

And my hand wasn't my hand. It was too small, for one thing. For another thing, it was green. Green hand, connected to a green arm, connected to a green --

Remain calm. I have green tits. I made my little green hand grope one, experimentally. Yes, mine.

I have naked green tits. Just the two, as far as I could tell. I guess that was something.

I have long red hair and small green hands and naked green tits. And long green legs that went all the way down to little green toes. And between my legs…

Nothing. Well, not the thing I used to have there, anyway. At least it wasn't green. What I did have down there seemed to go well with the tits. Whatever color it might be just didn't seem important at the moment. But it was naked, too.

Situation report, Hunter!

Sir! I seem to be a guh… A g-guh…

My mind wanted to shy away from the thought, but I forced myself to face it head on.

I seem to be a guh-- green person, sir! Of the naked female persuasion!

I decided I really didn't want to be seen just yet, and dropped to my knees. My eyes fell on the rock sample, the meteor from Mars. I recalled breathing the gas. Could it have caused this? There was no doubt in my mind I was dead; the memories of my fiery death were far too vivid; it simply wasn't possible I could have survived it.

Who ever heard of an after-death hallucination?

Duh, who ever would hear of an after-death hallucination?

So… the gas from Mars rock made me dream I'm a little green man -- err, woman? I didn't feel like I was that small, not cartoon alien small. I placed my hand on the rock, then picked up the half-melted label card that had gone with it. I measured my little green hand against it, spreading my new slim fingers. It was maybe a foot wide. My fingers still reached more than halfway across; I judged I was still person-sized at least, though certainly smaller than I had been.

If I'm dead, where's my body?

I had no problem at all finding where it should have been, I was kneeling on the spot. I found charred scraps of my clothing; my belt buckle, warped and discolored by the heat with a bit of leather still attached. Pieces of shoe leather, scorched and brittle. Assorted bits from my shoulder holster, half-melted coins from my pockets, my car keys, now fused together into a jagged mass. My police badge, now a barely recognizable blob. My wallet, credit cards melted and maybe fifty bucks in cash half-burned.

I'd investigated fires before. I knew what should be here. But there wasn't. No burnt teeth, no bits of bone shattered by the heat -- I knew what had happened, I'd lived it -- hell, I'd died it. Anything hot enough to leave no trace of my body, wouldn't have left fabric and leather behind.

Hypothesis 1: You're dying and somebody else's life is flashing before your eyes. Somebody green, female, and naked. In which case let's string this out as long as we can, because as interesting as this looks, I'm really not gonna like how it ends.

Hypothesis 2: You're dead, and you're green, female, and naked. Would that put me in heaven, or hell? I would assume heaven would have a better Welcome Wagon. Best to play it safe until I knew more.

Hypothesis 3: You're not dead, and it's not a dream. You're green, female, and naked. And in the middle of a mass murder scene, all of them cops, ordered by the Cartel boss, no less, with a completely ludicrous story for which I have not a shred of evidence. There was no way I'd be allowed to just stroll out of here. Best to play it safe until I knew more.

So, a plan. Get out. Get dressed. Get home.

Getting out wasn't nearly as hard as I expected. I slid around the edge of the room towards the door, dodging the firemen -- I began to realize that the room really was dark to them. As long as I stayed out of their way, I was pretty safe. Besides, who's going to admit to catching a glimpse of a naked green woman in the shadows, while on duty?

Getting out the doorway and into the hall was trickier, as they were bringing in more lights, and it was busier there. It took a few moments, but eventually I made it, dashing across the hall for the stairwell. The stairwell door must have been weakened by the heat -- it came off of the hinges as I shoved it open, making a huge clamor as it slid down the stairs. I had no choice but to rush up the stairs to the third floor, but that worked out for the best; the cops assigned to guard duty had been recalled, and it was easy to make my way across to a stairwell on the opposite side of the building.

Back down the stairs to the first floor, I smiled in satisfaction as I stuck my head out and confirmed my navigation. I was in the back part of the museum, a kind of warehouse area, near the loading dock. The back door to the gift shop was right across the hall. Locked, of course. I rummaged around the loading bay looking for something I could use to open the door, and eventually discovered a screwdriver in the toolkit of a forklift truck.

Which was of exactly zero use, as all the hinges to these kind of doors are on the inside. Frustrated, I slammed my hand against the door.

It buckled. The steel door buckled. My little green hand felt fine. The door buckled.

What are you? I'm still figuring that part out.

This isn't the time to think about it. Get dressed. Get home. I hit the door again.

Inside the shop, I quickly sorted through the t-shirts and settled on a man's large size, which covered me almost to my knees. It had an outline of a fossilized Tyrannosaurus head and the words 'Bite Me', which somehow seemed to suit my mood.

I covered the otherwise tent-like fit with a hooded jacket, which would cover my hair and help to hide my face. I had a lot of hair, I realized as I slipped the t-shirt on over my head and pulled my hair out through the collar. And pulled. And pulled. Eventually I got it out and it swung free, hanging down to the top of my ass. I have a green butt.

It was lousy couture, but it was less obvious than a naked green woman on the street, and it would have to do. I slunk out the back by the loading docks, relieved that the storm had finally arrived in force, bringing some heavy rain. It was pitch black, on a moonless night, pouring rain -- and I could see as well as at high noon on a sunny day. Better, even. I discovered that if I wanted to, I could focus on details there was no way I should be able to see. Like the recommended inflation pressure off a tire on a car two blocks away. A moving car. Thirty-five P.S.I. Do not overinflate.

Keep moving. Figure it out when you get home.

The rest was easy. Walk two blocks in the pouring rain to my car, keeping to the shadows when I could. I kept a spare key under the dash -- yeah, I know, but in my line of work I'm always losing keys, besides the car looked like crap, nobody was going to want to steal it -- drive home, park in the garage. I'd put in a set of numeric entry code locks -- always losing keys -- so I was inside in a jiffy.

Now what?

I'd been thinking about this on the way home. I needed help, of course. A woman's help, which narrowed it down somewhat. I needed Dolores, and she needed to know I probably wasn't dead. At a minimum, we'd find out if my hallucination was shared, or not.

I called her cell number, and let it ring. I doubted she'd answer it -- even if she wasn’t on duty, five cops had died tonight, with mothers and wives and children, and nobody was going off-duty just because their shift was over.

So I was surprised when it stopped ringing. "Parker, hello?"

I'd thought about what I needed to say. "I have a message from Steptoe. He's alive, but it's best to let them think he's dead for now. It's… it's complicated. He needs to meet ASAP, his place." At the last moment, I added, "Keep an open mind."

'Steptoe' was an inside joke, a nickname related to my dancing prowess. Lack of it, actually. Hopefully it would authenticate the message.

The sound of my voice distracted me briefly, it was definitely feminine, a gentle soprano.

"I-I understand." I thought I detected a note of relief in her voice, before she hung up.

With that out of the way, I needed to stop thinking for awhile. I staggered to the bedroom, shrugged off my wet clothes -- strange how I hadn't felt chilled at all, in the air-conditioned house -- and collapsed on the bed. I think I was asleep before I hit the pillow.

I awoke to the sound of somebody coming in the front door. The sun was up, but still low in the sky; I'd slept maybe two hours, but I felt energized and refreshed. Oh, God. It's not enough that I have to be green. I'm a morning person, too?

I sat up -- or tried to, I was tangled in hair. I ended up falling out of bed, with a squeal and a loud thump. I did not just squeal. It just gets better and better.

"Dan?" Dolores called. I could hear her footsteps approaching the bedroom.

In a panic, I called, "Wait! Don't come in here --" but she was already in the doorway, gaping at my clumsy efforts to roll off of my damn hair and stand up. I sighed, "Never mind."

Dolores' mouth worked for a few moments, but no sound came out. For a few moments after that, the sounds were pretty incoherent.

"Who are --"

"But you're gree -- "

"Where's -- "

But when she finally put it together, it was worth it.

"Dan?"

It was my turn to gape. "How did you know? I couldn't figure out how I could explai -- how did you know?"

She giggled at my expression. "Well, I didn't know, it was more of an educated guess, really." She began to count on her fingers. "One. Your message. Dan's not dead but let them think he is." She sighed unhappily. "Trust me. They think you are. It's all on tape, up until that fireball hit. That was… very hard… to watch." She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting off tears for a moment. She straightened. "You definitely should be dead. But you weren't. The message had to be real, it was from 'Steptoe'. And I have caller ID, of course. The call came from your phone. So you weren't.

"Two. You said 'It's complicated'. One look at you, and yeah, 'complicated' was one word that occurred to me." She gave me a pained smile.

"Three. You're filthy. Have you even noticed? You're covered in soot. You stink of… of that place. We could smell the fire from the street. You were there, you had to be."

"Four. Have you seen a mirror? C'mere." She took my hand and led me to the bathroom. There was a full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She closed the door and I stood in front of her, looking at our reflections. I shorter than Dolores by a few inches; she could peek over my head into the mirror.

"Hoooh, boy…" I gasped. I saw what she meant -- if I'd had a stunningly beautiful little sister, and she was green, she'd have looked like that girl in the mirror. Streaks of black soot covered my cheeks and forehead, but somehow I could see the family resemblance to my old face, but not in any one feature. The nose was smaller, with a slight upturn, the eyes were still brown -- not green! -- but a little larger in proportion. The chin was similar, but much less pronounced, and the new me had cheekbones the old me never saw. The mouth managed to capture the shape and expression of the old me, although the lips were much fuller and softer. I opened my mouth, and ran my tongue along them experimentally. My tongue was as pink, and my teeth as white as any toothpaste model's.

Then, there was the hair. It was as red as the rest of me was green. Not an auburn, not orange. Red. Long, with a wave to it that made it seem to ripple in the light. It was a filthy as the rest of me -- Dolores was right, I was really grubby -- but somehow it didn't seem matted or tangled. I combed it with my fingers, and they ran through it as smooth as flowing water.

The rest of me was every bit as feminine as the face. Overall, the new me looked slim and athletic, muscular without being bulky. My breasts were high and firm, with areolae and nipples a darker green. A flat stomach and narrow waist, curving into generous hips and backside. Legs that were lean and sleek, and went on forever.

I raised a hand to my face, wonderingly. "I-I'm just a kid…" My eyes met Dolores' in the mirror. "How old do I look to you?"

She studied me appraisingly for a few moments. "As-is, I'd say maybe sixteen. With the right outfit, you could pass for eighteen or twenty."

Thirty years. I've lost thirty years.

I sat on the edge of the tub. "Great. I'm a minor. I'm not even old enough to live by myself. What am I gonna do?"

Dolores tugged me to my feet, and turned me around to face the tub. "First, you're going to get clean. Then we'll get you some clothes. In between, we'll think." She drew the shower curtain and began running the water for me.

It seemed like my new body came with a non-stick coating. No sooner had I stepped under the shower -- I didn't have to duck my head under anymore, I could just stand under the shower -- than the water began running black down the drain; the soot just refused to stick. The same thing happened with my hair, one rinse -- although that was far from a trivial thing, there was so much of it -- and it felt squeaky clean. I washed and shampooed just in case, but I didn't notice any particular improvement. I didn't own any conditioner, but I was pretty sure I'd never need it. Even wet, my hair just refused to tangle.

In the privacy of the shower I had the opportunity to explore my new body to its fullest -- and chickened out. I did spend a little more time washing certain areas than strictly necessary, and judging from my body's responses I was sure that further attention to those areas would be warmly received. But no way was I ready yet.

I thought about some of the things I'd taken for granted since I'd changed; and out of curiosity began adjusting the shower so that it became increasingly hot. Finally it was as hot as it could go, filling the bathroom with thick clouds of steam. I stood there, scalding water running down my upturned face -- and though I could recognize the temperature as scalding hot, it caused me no pain. After a minute, I flipped the lever the other way, all the way to the opposite, full-on cold water. Again, I could recognize the water was cold, but it didn't so much as raise a goosebump.

Finally, I turned the water off, and got another surprise. Water didn't stick to me either. By the time I drew the shower curtain back and stepped out onto the mat, I was almost completely dry, even my hair. I wiped fog off the mirror, and gazed at my reflection. Get used to what you see, kid. I've got a feeling you'll be stuck with it a while. If only you weren't so damned green!

I sighed and tried to imagine how I might have looked with a more passable skin tone. I think I'd have been an outdoorsy kind of girl. I'd have a slight tan, a healthy color, not too dark…a few freckles dusted across my nose…some color in my cheeks… I nodded in satisfaction as the girl in the mirror obligingly assumed a more reasonable skin color, then I yelped at what I was seeing. "Doloreeeeeees!"

I met her in the hall. "Please tell me I'm not imagining things..."

She goggled at me. "You're not green anymore!"

I grinned and flung my arms around her, giving her a bear hug. "Thank goodne--"

Dolores screamed.

I let her go and she collapsed to the ground. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"

She gave me a glare and climbed slowly to her feet. "Y-you squeeze pretty hard, for a little brat."

The enormity of what had just happened finally hit me. "Oh! Dolores, oh, angel, I'm so sorry. I could have killed you."

She tenderly drew a deep breath, one hand feeling carefully along her rib cage. "Just bruises, I think. By the way, you're green again. What other surprises have you got? Maybe you'd better tell me everything."

"I kinda lost hold of my skin color when you screamed." I helped her to the couch and we sat while I told her everything I could remember, up to my experience in the shower.

"So… you don't hurt easily, your vision is better than good. You're incredibly strong, and you can change your skin color. Plus, you're perma-press and stain resistant. That cover it?"

I nodded. "So far, anyway. Well, that plus the whole green teenaged girl thing." I added. "Can you help me, doc?" I grinned.

She laughed. "Help you? Hell, I'd trade places with you, in a second."

I stiffened, and shook my head. "Really? Angel, I'm dead. Remember? That wasn't faked -- I burned to death a few hours ago. I felt every second of it. You'd think I'd get some time off, but noooo, here I am. Why? I own nothing, not even a stitch of clothing. I have no identity, I don't exist, no birth certificate, no education I can prove, no money. No chance at a job, unless you count circus freak. Have you really thought about it? Because that all I've been thinking about and I can't live here for long, and I have no place to go, and I'm in the wrong body, and I c-can't get used to this goddamn hair an-and I-I'm j-just so f-fucking g-green…"

She pulled me to her chest as I broke down, wrapping her arms around me and rocking as I just cried it out. "Shush baby, I'm here, you're not alone. I'm sorry, I can't imagine what you've been through… we'll figure it out…"

I hadn't cried and been comforted like since I was maybe six years old. I discovered I missed it. Eventually I straightened up, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands, and sniffling. I gave her an apologetic smile. "I-I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from… but it helped."

She looked at me fondly, and stroked my cheek. "One of the benefits of being a girl, kiddo. Welcome to the sorority. Now, how about you make us some breakfast, I have an idea I want to check out on that obsolete lump you call a computer."

I went and got one of my old dress shirts and rolled up the sleeves; it covered me to my knees and would do for cooking duty. I felt like a child doing fingerpainting in one of daddy's old shirts. I closed my eyes for a moment, and changed my skin to a more normal tone again, just to see how long I could make it last.

I scared up some scrambled eggs and toast while Dolores disappeared into the spare bedroom where I kept the computer. I poured the last of the orange juice and set the whole thing on a tray and carried it in to her.

"Oh, excellent timing. I think I can help with the whole ID thing. Love the skin, by the way." I set the tray on a TV table and pulled up a chair to watch her work her magic. "I'm looking at the coroner's records; recent unclaimed female bodies between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. Not Jane Does, these girls all have perfectly valid records. One too many valid records, unfortunately, the last one being a death certificate. Unclaimed means, no family. "

We traded seats and she spooned some scrambled egg on toast while I browsed. "How do you get away with this?" I asked in amazement. She smiled smugly and spoke around a mouthful of food. "Hey, I'm a cop. People trust us for some reason. You'd be surprised how many useful passwords I come across. I just… preserve them." She glanced meaningfully at a memory stick sitting on the table.

I just shook my head and went back to shopping for a new identity. Finally I'd narrowed it down. "This one."

We traded seats again and she inspected my selection. "Ah, good choice. Seventeen, that'll work. Not a high school grad, but you can say you were homeschooled, and take the Equivalency exam. In and out of foster homes, runaway at fifteen." She tsked sadly. "Poor thing was working the streets, but no arrests. Died of a heroin overdose."

She worked for another hour, erasing all trace of the unfortunate girl's death, stopping only for bites of egg on toast. I realized I hadn't touched any food, and didn't especially feel the need. It wasn't that I lost my appetite, more like I had no appetite to lose. I tried some egg, and a sip of juice, experimentally. They tasted fine, but I felt no inclination to eat anything more. What are you? I'm still figuring that part out.

Dolores sat back, and hit the enter key with a flourish. "It's done. The death cert's been issued to another name, and the records of the poor girl's burial are under that same name." She said briskly. "Replacement birth certificate and Social Security card should be in the mail shortly." She grinned. "Pleased to meet you, Megan Morse."

"Megan Morse…" I tried the name on for size, and decided it fit. Then I blinked. "In the mail? To where? Did you set up a post office box?"

She gave me an exasperated look. "Where do you think? You're a minor, you can't be out there all alone. It's dangerous. You live with your Aunt Dolores now."

That was enough to make me tear up again. "Oh, angel, I can't ask that of you, now that… I'm not… Dan anymore." I couldn't imagine how hard it had been to watch me die, then to have false hope that I was alive, only to have this whole confusing mess tossed into her lap. She'd lost a lover and gained a niece. It didn't seem like a fair exchange, but I was kind of biased.

She was tearing up, too. She opened her arms for a hug, and I let her enfold me. "Sweetie, I'm not saying it won't be easy… I don't know how it will work out… but you're still my Dan, I won't leave you." The hug was comfortable; we just enjoyed it for a while, a lessening of shared pain.

Finally she sniffled and let out a little laugh. "I guess we can get a fold-out couch for you, till we can move to a larger apartment."

I coughed. "Ah… actually. I'd been meaning to tell you for a while. You're going to inherit this place. My will leaves everything to you."

She grabbed my shoulders and held me at arm's length. "Say what?"

I shrugged uncomfortably. "After my mom died last year, I had to re-do my will. I kind of named you… I thought it made sense, since…" Too late, my brain kicked into gear, and I shut the hell up.

Dolores looked at me dangerously. "Since…?"

I drew a deep breath, and finished it. "Since I was going to ask you to marry me anyway."

Her expression was unreadable. "You were… how long were you planning to wait?"

I shook my head. "I wasn't planning to wait… I was just.. waiting for the right time." I winced, knowing how incredibly stupid that sounded, now that the right time was gone forever. "I had the ring and everything." I sighed, and admitted my craven cowardice. "I wasn't… sure you wanted marriage... I was afraid I'd mess things up."

Dolores' expression hadn't changed, her eyes were still searching my face. "You had a ring… I will see this ring."

I scrambled to my bedroom to fetch the box from my dresser, and back again. I had a feeling I knew where this was going. I got down on one knee, and presented the opened box to her. "Dolores, I love you with all my heart. I-I wish I'd asked you when this made sense, but… I want you to have this."

She took the ring with shaking hands, and slipped it on to her ring finger. Tears were running down her cheeks. Her words weren't meant for the new me, but for the ghost of the old me. "Oh, D-Dan… I w-would have m-married you any time you asked… you big stu-stupid b-bastard…"

She wrapped her arms around her pain, hunched over, her face contorted with grief, her sobs coming in silent gasps. I'd lost my life, but somehow I was still here; but Dolores had lost a lover, and now a fiance, and a dream of a husband, kids, and a white picket fence, and they were gone forever. Helpless, I tried to comfort her, but she would have none of it; she pushed me away and staggered to the bed, where she curled up in a ball and sobbed inconsolably.

I left her, angry at whatever had done this to us, and frustrated at my inability to offer her any comfort. I glared at my little hands, now decently flesh-toned, at least. Why did I turn into a girl? What kind of joke was this? I imagined them how they used to be, large, boney, with knuckles scarred from brawling, coarse hair starting just below the wrists, and spreading up the arms.

And they changed.

Startled, I waved them around a bit, I must have looked a bit like Popeye with his incongruously large fists. I closed my eyes and imagined my whole body as it had been just yesterday; taller, broader, muscular. My nose, broken long ago in college football. The scar along my ribs, my big hairy feet, the wrinkles around my eyes. Short brown hair, refusing to lie flat. And the parts that made me male.

I could feel that it was working, but I felt stretched to the limit, like a balloon skin about to pop. This shape was too much larger than my normal shape to hold for long, but I resolved to make it last as long as I could. The shirt that covered my Megan-shape to her knees now fitted as it should, and I undid the buttons as I knocked on the door frame, and I sat awkwardly on the bed. Was I doing the right thing?

"Um… I, uh… I can't keep this shape for very long, but I thought…"

She eyed me warily, her eyes puffy and red. "Dan?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Shut up."

And she pulled me down and kissed me, and I kissed her, and we kissed each other. And for awhile we just held each other and said our unspoken goodbyes, and then we made love for the last time, and I held her as she cried herself to sleep, and for some time after that.

Dolores had been up all night, and been on an exhausting emotional ride, so I let her sleep. I passed the time experimenting with my abilities. I discovered I could imagine myself clothed, and somehow my body would produce clothing that looked and felt like fabric. The problem was, it wouldn't come off -- I couldn't remove a jacket, or kick off my shoes, for example, so it had its limitations.

I found that I could maintain minor shape changes like skin or clothing almost indefinitely; although I did have to focus a small corner of my mind on holding it. The larger the change, the more I had to concentrate. A male shape tended to be harder than a female shape of the same size. I could shrink to about three feet tall, and my Dan shape was about as tall as I could get, a few inches over six feet. Being Dan for any length of time was actively uncomfortable. Not actually painful -- nothing was actively painful -- just requiring more concentration, like balancing on a rope. If I lost focus for even a second I'd revert. I suspected this was a muscle that would improve with exercise, and I intended to exercise it.

I entertained myself by designing an outfit for my green form, something suitable for the public appearances I had in mind. Bay City, meet the Martian Manhunter. Okay, it was a stupid name, but it fit the bill and would do until I could think of a better one. It's not like I was getting business cards printed up, or anything.

I knew about comic book heroes and secret identities; if anyone needed one it would be me. I tweaked my Megan shape a bit, making her a little taller and a bit slimmer, and giving her shorter hair, in a light brown shade. I didn't want anyone looking at Megan and being reminded of my other form. Then I practiced switching between Megan and my default shape in her outfit, until I knew each form well enough that could do it without having to focus on every detail.

Then I did the same thing with my Dan shape. I'd spare Dolores as much as I could, but Detective Dan Hunter had a fearsome reputation on the street that could only be improved by being dead. It was too good an option to pass up.

Then I watched TV, because she was still asleep and I was bored as hell. That was when I saw the news clip on this woman named Jade talking about metahumans.

Now you tell us.

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