Is it wrong of me to hope that Amazon Island does not have an enlightened penal system? I mean, I seriously do not want Diana Prince in a 'country club' prison setting. I won't say I'll go as far as to wish the rack, or thumbscrews, or starvation, or red hot pokers...

Excuse me. I've read way too much goth lit.

As I've said, I don't wish, like, permanent physical damage. But I'm thinking damp, moldy walls, little or no light, maybe a length of chain. Rats. Rats would be nice. 'Cause I know they'd give Diana something to keep her occupied. She'd probably eat the boogers out of sheer spite.

It isn't too bad back at work. The apprentices and copy boys are sympathetic, but not intrusive. A couple of the punkier ones offer to check around, then kick the crap out of whoever mugged me. I thank them, and tell them that their mothers would be proud. I seem to have a talent for making people in this universe blush.

I get hold of a copy of the appropriate Daily Planet issue and check out the first article they've done on me. Hey, I made the front of the 'Science' section! There's a quarter page picture of me that I wasn't aware had been taken. So they did hire a photographer to follow me. Shudder, shudder. Stalker time.

But it's fairly innocuous. It looks like it was taken in the lunch room. Well, I guess I wouldn't have taken that much notice. Photographers are pretty common around newspapers, after all.

It's a closeup head shot. I admire how the dude managed that, without the sophisticated lenses and zooms of my time period. He made me look pretty good, actually. Of course, this was pre-Clive, and the background was mostly hair. But it managed to look more curly than frizzy, like it was that way on purpose, instead of because I'd long ago surrendered any attempt at control.

I must have just gotten through laughing at something, because I'm smiling, with just a hint of teeth, and my eyes are a little crinkled. No one's going to mistake me for Barbie, but then Barbie hasn't been invented here, and I look pretty good, dammit.

I read the article. It covers everything clearly and concisely. Clark keeps making references to Superman as his source. I sound like a pretty interesting individual. Actually, I didn't realize I'd told him that much about my life back in Terra Mundania. He must've compared notes with Lois.

There's a newsstand just outside the Daily Planet building, one of those kiosks I've seen all my life in old movies, but never in real life. The kind with not only racks of magazines and papers in front, but magazines and digests lining the inside walls and festooned around the roof edge.

And I find that dozens and dozens of images of myself are staring back at me. Lois is flagging for a cab, and I tug at her sleeve. "Lois? Could you please check to see that I'm not hallucinating?" She glances at the newsstand. Her mouth drops open a little. "Oh, good. I'm not crazy. Now I can concentrate on being confused again. What up with that?"

"Well... they did say that they'd hired a freelance photographer. If they didn't specify that all shots were the property of the Daily Planet, technically he'd be free to sell them elsewhere. I've worried about the intelligence of our legal department for some time now."

"But I don't get this. Usually there's a two, three month lead on material published in my world. You know, they're shooting the swimsuit layout when most of the country is up to their navels in snow. How the heck did they get this published so quickly?"

"Well, Scribe, it looks like there are at least a few areas where we've outstripped your world. I must say I'm glad. It gets a wee bit tiresome hearing how everything is stronger, faster, more sophisticated, better designed..."

"I get the picture. I'll try to ease up on the smugness."

"Still... I'd rather this wasn't one of the areas."

"Why?"

"Hey!" I jumped as the proprietor almost shouted in my ear.

"I didn't take anything. If I did, I'll put it back!  Damn, this naturally guilty conscience. What?"

"It's you, ain't it?"

"No, I'm in Chicago. Me, who?"

"You, that interdim... what the hell ever. Some other place dame. Right? Right?"

I wince at his volume. People are starting to stare. I'd rather not have them stare unless I've started out to make them stare.

"Could you lower it a few dozen notches? Yeah, as far as I know I'm the only interdim... what the hell ever some other place dame. Though I prefer broad, thank you."

"I knew it! I knew it! Looka this." He waved his hand at his stock. "I got in twenty new magazines yesterday, and you know what?"

"I think I can guess, but you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

"Your face is on eighteen of 'em. Eighteen ! The only ones that missed were Private Dick Stories, and My Steamy Confessions. I 'spect that's cause they're both pulp fiction, and the writers haven't had time to come up with anythin'. Though I do think the article in Poodle Fancier was kinda a stretch..."

I held my head. "...as the universe goes mad around her..."

Lois is methodically piling up a copy of every magazine that has my picture on the cover. "How much for these?"

"Oh, no charge! My pleasure."

My head goes up. Freebies? Oh, this is serious. I narrow my eyes at him and test the water. "Oh, no. We couldn't possibly." My tone is as sincere as a telephone solicitor's around the dinner hour.

"I insist! Here." He starts piling other magazines on.

"Really, we couldn't possibly. I'm just an ordinary person, I pay my bills like everyone else."

He's filling a sack with gum and candy bars. "Wait'll I tell everyone that you shop here! Maybe I can put up a sign..."

The cab comes, and I crawl inside, after leaving him with a slightly sickly smile. Lois drops her load between us as the cab pulls away. When I look out the rear window, he's waving. Unfortunately, he's also pointing, and people are looking interested.

"Lois, what the heck was that all about?"

She's reading something called Femme Fashions. It looks like they airbrushed some lipstick and eyeshadow on the photo of me they used on the cover. "Did you know that you favor 'the natural look', and shun pastels?"

"Huh? Is that their way of saying that I don't wear makeup, and I arrived in dark clothes?"

Now she was reading something called Debate Theories. Very scholarly looking, small print, small tasteful photo, where they caught me without a smile. "Here they’re arguing whether you're a serene, all-knowing goddess sent to save our planet, or an interdimensional siren seductress with a secret plot to take over the world."

"I'm a semi-repressed middle-aged fangirl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What is it with these people?"

"People believe what they want to, Scribe. It looks like you're from far enough outside their everyday experience that they feel inclined to hang a whole lot of fantasies on you."

"What? Don't be absurd. I live with my mother. I buy clothes in the 'half size' section. I slept with a stuffed rabbit through college. I can't be anybody's fantasy."

"Tell them that." She showed me an issue of Bridal Planner. My head was superimposed on the body of someone wearing a white lace and seed pearl confection. At least the model didn't have a Scarlet O'Hara wasp waist.

"Oh, geez. I never even went to the senior prom, and they have me in a bridal gown? There is something so wrong with this universe." I take a few very deep breaths, and almost succeed in hyperventilating. "Okay. Who do I sue?"

"I'm not sure you can. I don't think the photographer would have made such a... er, massive effort if he wasn't pretty sure that he wouldn't be liable."

"Well, isn't this just ducky." We ride in silence for awhile. At last I say, "Okay, so I'll be a three day phenomenon. I guess I can ride it out."

"I'm not so sure it's going to just go away, Scribe."

"Hey, the next interdimensional shift or super villain should take the heat right off of me. This place must be due for interstellar contact at any moment. I just have to hang tough." I sigh. "There's one thing I'm grateful for. I miss VCRs and CD players and PCs, but..."

"Is everything just initials over there?"

"Only the important stuff. ISP, ROM, RAM, ICQ and all that. But, as I was saying, I'm glad that your T-shirt technology is behind ours."

"Why?"

"It means I don't have to worry about seeing myself staring back at me from the chest of every dork that has fourteen bucks and a herd mentality."