Well. Renee was never the kind of girl who wanted to live in
the past. She likes her mostly-comfortable tampons, and
she likes the fact that being a dyke in the city means that,
most of the time, she can just do her thing without getting
hassled. She's a cop -- she *was* a cop, anyway, and
she still is at heart -- and she got quite enough hassle with
her day job, thanks.

And this *isn't* the past -- all of the newspapers say
2004 -- but...

It's something out of the fifties. The women wear skirts
and the men call her "ma'am," and way too many
well-meaning people have said way too many well-meaning
things about her 'people.'

She gave up on Gotham weeks ago, even though she
knows she'll have to go back there eventually in order to
find a way *home*. If she can.

She isn't thinking about it.

She's thinking about the fact that even here, in this strange
candy-colored world with the strange, candy-colored
heroes and villains, there are places where she *can*
belong.

She rolls over in the narrow bed and breathes deep of
country living and girl -- woman.

Alien.

There are freaks everywhere, after all. You just had to
know where to look.