Finding PU’s dorms is pretty easy—all you’ve got to do is follow the most amount of noise echoing through school. It’s laughter and it’s music, and it’s muffled moaning behind curtains mingling with the ruckus shouts and chanting of super-powered boys having one hell of a party. As far as I know, there aren’t any official frats or sororities in this school, not even any buildings, either. But your powers usually meant you knew your people. Speedsters hung with Speedsters. Teleporters popped in and out of existence, meaning conversations would abruptly cut-off mid-sentence as they came and went in front of me. A pack of Bruisers are outside of the massive dorm building, barking at a poor freshman with knobby knees and nasty acne, trying to get him to lift a beer keg over his head. He doesn’t, and fails miserably, knocking himself out with the steel drum and sprawling onto the grass to the cheers of the other Bruisers.

  I step over his body and wander through the massive glass entrance, right into warmth, bodies sprawled on couches, massive flat screens in the corner filled with Cape-Fight V, upperclassmen skimming through the air, and banners hanging from the ceiling. I can’t help but spin as I walk, my hand still firmly tucked inside of my jacket. Not a single ounce of trash. A couple of beer cans on tables, sure, but no wrappers, no loose boxes of candy. I watch a guy with crystal-like skin get used to open a soda bottle in the midst of trying to get a girl to talk to him. He spins around and grabs the guy who used his shoulder. The girl he was talking to rolls her eyes and vanishes. It’s chaos. Literal chaos. It’s warm and it’s loud, and I’m still sore from getting punched and vomiting and nose-bleeding, so my usual instincts to go and get myself wasted get put on hold for tonight. I pause, though, when someone shouts my name. Well, they shout, Hey, Guardian-Girl! and I’m forced to smile and look over my shoulder, and then curse.

  It’s the same jackass who punched me in the stomach barely an hour ago, now with some other girl under his arm and a beer can in his hand. He grins at me and waves me over. He’s sitting in the corner with a bunch of older looking supers. Feet on tables. Girls sprawled onto laps. Boys semi-shirtless, hair wet with sweat, breath smelling like barely and beer and cigarettes. I cautiously wander over, because I am so excited to get hit again!

  “Catch.” He throws me the beer. I do it with my good hand, then frown. “Oh, come on,” he says, spreading his arms. “Everyone gets punched from time to time. And hey, listen, take that beer as a token of my goodwill, OK?”

  A girl floating slightly above the couch hovers closer and says, “We should totally livestream together.”

  Put my skull between KillDozer’s hands first, that sounds a lot more fun.

  “Sure!” I say. “We’d have so much fun.”

  Kill me.

  She spins around and throws up a peacesign, then says, “Smile!”

  I do.

  Then she’s texting on her phone, floating toward someone else who looks interesting to her. I’m about to walk away when the guy from before calls me that stupid name. I grit my teeth, then slowly look over my shoulder.

  He points at me, a sloppy smile on his face. “I heard you know how to party. Is it true?”

  They’re all looking at me, some quizzical, some testing—one of their phones is out, trying to discreetly record this. I chew on the edge of my tongue, weighing my options, feeling my head pulse with a slowly growing headache. Ten more minutes of being in here, and I’m either going to make a bad decision, or an even worse one.

  I choose to shrug and say, “Nah, partying isn’t my thing. Besides, I’m seventeen. I can’t drink this.”

  “Right, right,” he says, then snaps his fingers at the girl recording me. “Carly, kill that.” She does, but only with an eye roll and a muttered curse at him. He leans forward and says, “Come on, tell us the truth. We’ve all heard the rumors, GG, and besides, you’re a superhuman. One beer is gonna run through you like water. Come, sit down.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I wasn’t offering,” he says, voice now flat.

  He stares at me. Blue eyes intense. Black hair wild, wet, and unruly as the girl beside him toys with it.

  I keep chewing my tongue, hating him so badly I want to lunge over the couches and take his head clean off his shoulders. But there’s people watching. More people watching. They’re gathering around the couches, a lot of them drunk, a lot of them sweaty, and a lot of them curious. My skin begins crackling with nerves, or maybe because there are so many humans surrounding me right now. My gut still aches. My mouth still tastes like vomit.

  Then he pats the couch beside him and says, “Goodwill, right? I’m making it up to you.”

  “Come onnn,” a girl with gills in her throat says. I watch them flare, and…gross. What the fuck? They let mutants in here, too? Wait. No. Bad thoughts. There’s probably a Telepath somewhere here, so…cool! A fish…thing with pretty…with… I’ve got nothing. Her skin is moist and her hair is braided with beads, and when she reaches for a beer on the table, I stop myself from staring at her webbed fingers. “Don’t be such a loser. Most of you freshmen are hauled up in your dorms. Like you’re afraid of us. You’re stuck here, so you might as well get comfortable.”

  “Sit down, freshman!” the guy says, patting the couch even harder. “Sit down! Sit down! Sit down!”

  And now they’re all chanting, jostling and shoving and…

  For a second, I shut my eyes, breathe, and relax my fist coiled inside of my jacket. I can feel my knuckles split open again. I can feel the blood wetting the gaps between my fingers. I drag my eyes open again, and now I’m thinking faster than I should, which has slowed everything down. They’re slow to get down from the air after they jump. They’re slow to stop beer from spilling out of their cans when they cheer. I look at their faces, covered with sweat and lipstick-colored kisses. There’s…power here. Raw power, almost humming in the air. Making it quake. Making the stiff concrete underneath our feet shudder. I look up, and watch the banners above us, dozens of them with names and dates, shuddering as they keep jumping. A stiff breeze blows through the large doors and even larger windows, and then, just like that, I breathe out, roll my shoulders, and the world suddenly speeds up again.

  “Fine,” I shout, then haul myself over the couch and sit opposite the guy instead of next to him. I wedge myself between two girls, one in a vest that’s got muscles so sculpted I can’t help but be jealous, and another, so tiny and mousy and frantic she almost does remind me of a mouse. She’s got a blunt between her fingers, and is so busy giggling at something on her phone she doesn’t even notice when someone takes it from her. I get handed a red solo cup full of something foul. Something that smells way worse than anything I took on my bender a few weeks ago. Stronger. Punchier. It’s clear and crystalline, which never means anything good. Now they’re quiet. Anticipating. Staring at me as they lean forward, lips bitten, hands clasped, almost like they’re nervous now, too.

  I raise the cup over my head and say, “Roll Titans.”

  And then down it in one go.

  Now, listen—superhuman biology is…weird. Sometimes you’ve got people who won’t get wasted no matter how much they drink. Their bodies are so efficient that they’ll probably piss it out in a couple of minutes. And then you’ve got the superhumans whose bodies dial everything they take up to eleven and then some. I’m one of them. I guess because my biology isn’t the same as theirs, I get slammed quickly, and get sober even faster. It means I have to keep myself going. Heck, I’ve dried out entire parties before just so I can keep an hour-long high going. And if there’s one thing humans know how to do, it’s have fun. And if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s wake up in strange places, the sun harsh on my face, mouth dry, throat drier, groaning because my entire body feels like one giant bruise. And then comes the headache. Violent. Unannounced. Unwelcome. I clutch my head and shut my eyes tight, then groan and try to curl into a ball, but there’s something heavy and awkward lying across my gut.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Everything after I forced that liquid down is one big black memory.

  I don’t even bother trying to remember, because I know I won’t.

  And a part of me doesn’t want to, because all I do remember is it being loud. Very loud. And very stupid.

  And God do I need some water right now.

  Slowly, I drag my eyelids open. Sunlight glares off something above me and shines directly into my eyes. I cringe and roll onto my side, then push the passed out person lying on top of me off my body. I grunt, get on all fours, feel the world tilt, and force myself to steady. I stand. Stumble. Sway. Blink once, twice, and then look up.

  Liberty’s statue outside of the Hall of Triumph stands above me, fists on her hips, looking at the sky.

  It’s a bronze piece of eight-foot tall glory.

  With Guardian is better spray painted across her chest.

  The bad feeling settling into my stomach gets worse when I look at my hands, and, of course, they’re covered in red and blue spray paint. I look around. Bodies are scattered across the lawn, the stairs, leaning against marble busts of lesser-known alumni heroes. I can’t find the guy from last night. What I can find are several other statues covered in paint, all with various swear words, nicknames, and smiley-faced graffiti covering them. I open and close my mouth, testing my jaw. I’m down to my pants and a sports bra. No shoes. No t-shirt. I reek of sweat, and someone else left a large scarlet kiss on my collarbone, right beside three phone numbers scratched onto my arms.

  I lick my thumb, then wipe them off, just like I always do.

  “Oh, man,” I whisper, staring at Liberty’s statue. “I am so fucked.”

  What the fuck did they put in that cup?

  Well…on the bright side, nobody’s dead, right?

  I push my fingers through my hair, step back, and accidentally trip over someone passed out behind me. I stumble, lose my footing, then hit the ground, scraping my cheek against the grass. A sprinkler is busy spitting water into the air, washing over my face and spitting into my mouth. I bat it away and get up, stumble some more, and then get caught by someone standing in my way. I blink, then push backward. A girl in a white shirt, thin golden lace around her collar, and suit pants is smiling at me. Her green eyes sparkle, her freckles almost glow on her nose, and she’s also got a bottle of water in one hand, a tablet in the other, and a pen keeping her hair in a bun.

  I blink, then glance over my shoulder, because maybe the graffiti isn’t—

  Hooooooly shit!

  I tagged the Hall of Triumph, too.

  S. A big, scarlet S that's so bashfully unapolagetic that I'm pretty sure you'd see it from space, sparkling in the sunlight.

  That’s all, right there on the golden shield above the Hall’s large doors, the paint still so wet it dribbled down its crevices. I flinch, then slowly turn around. The girl is still there, smiling at me, then offers the water bottle.

  “Here you go,” she says, then twists it open for me, too. “Cold, just how you like it. I wish I had enough time to squeeze a little lemon in it, but I couldn’t get my hands on any. I’ve got your breakfast ready and I’ve also made sure to wipe your phone clean from last night, because you called two of your flings and wow.” She sucks air through her pretty white teeth. “In fact, your post this morning has ten thousand likes and a few hundred reposts. You’re up bright and early, going on a jog around campus. Hashtag my new school is super is trending because of you. Go Titans.” She nods and clutches her tablet. I step back a little. “Well? Let’s get going before campus police get here, and those guys really suck. The last thing we want is for people to think you were part of this, right?”

  I squint at her, my head still fuzzy, brain still sluggishly recovering. “Are you real?”

  “As real as this week’s hottest topic on Beyond the Cape,” she chirps. “Which is you, by the way. You’re the hottest topic. Congrats! I’ll try to arrange some kind of online interview you can do later this week, just so you can give the folks back at home something to talk about. Right now, honey, we need to get you clean and fed.”

  “Hold on,” I say, massaging my eyes. Everything hurts. “What…Who are you?”

  “Oh, silly me,” she says, then offers her hand. Her nails are navy blue and gold. Her thumbnail is painted with a tiny golden S. “I’m Sinclare. Or you can call me Clare for short. I’m your personal assistant. Or sidekick. Whichever you prefer.” She waits, hand still out, sharp nails pointing toward my groaning stomach. “Best pals?”

  I awkwardly shake her hand. Bony. Fragile. Entirely human. “I’m—”

  “Sam, I know. Huge fan. But also, kinda like a messy little sister that I really need to get out of here.” She laughs through her smile, almost nervous now. “So how about we continue this conversation back in your room?”

  “What about—”

  “Accountability is for people who they catch, honey,” she says. “They won’t catch you anywhere here.”

  “But they’ve got cameras and stuff!” I say. “And people must’ve recorded me being an idiot, too!”

  She gets closer, just one step, nothing more, then drops her voice. “It’s fine. I’ve got this covered. You’re not this afraid when you kill people, so why’re you this afraid because you spray painted a couple of old statues?”

  I blink, move back. “I’m a superhero, I don’t kill people.”

  I stare at her. She stares at me.

  Then she smiles. “I know. Just…let’s get out of here, alright? Your breakfast sandwich is getting cold.”

  “They’re gonna kick me out,” I whisper. “Oh my God, they’re gonna kick me out on my first day.”

  Clare grabs my hand and says, “Oh, please. Worse has happened. You’re not the first person to be around a crime scene in this school, and anyway, Sam, who would even think that Sentry would do this?” She tugs me along. I only move because my legs are too weak to fight back. She keeps talking as she steps over moaning, groaning bodies on the grass and the pavement. “Nationally ranked highest recruit of her class. Future Ultra Force prospect. Six-star dual threat superhero?” She flashes a grin over her shoulder at me. “No way. You were up bright and early for your run, and then you’re gonna have a quick breakfast before hitting the gym with a couple of your new pals.” I stumble as her strides get longer and more purposeful. “And then we’re gonna grab a light lunch of kale and stir-fry, lounge a little by the recovery pool, and then join a new club in the afternoon before going to sleep early tonight.”

  I stop walking, making her jerk and swing around. She winces and rolls her shoulder, but keeps that tight smile on her face. “Slow down,” I say. “Clubs? Late lunch? What’re you talking about? I’m already on some kind of shit list because of flying yesterday, and now I’m probably gonna get sent to some kind of dungeon for all of this.”

  “Do you want that?”

  I open my mouth, then shut it. “No,” I say. “But—”

  “So why do you keep mentioning it?”

  “I…” I don’t know.

  She pats my arm and jerks her head. “Come on, let’s get out of here. And you’re a superhero, Sam. Staying for the clean-up just isn’t part of your job description. It’s about looking great, being great, and feeling great. Right now, S, you don’t really tick any of those boxes. Besides, Sam. Do you see any of the seniors you partied with last night lying around?” I slowly shake my head. “Exactly. They’re stupid, but not suicidal. Right now, you’re being suicidal. Here’s some advice: you might not have your Hero GPA yet, but you will this time next week—-do not screw it up before you’ve even had your first set of classes. Seniors know that, because it’s crunch time for them, and they can’t afford to get bumped into second, or maybe even third round draft picks. Not if they want to make it into the Major Leagues, because you don’t survive four years of PU just to save cats from trees and help people cross the street.” She holds my hand again. The sun sits harshly on my bare shoulders, making them sting. “Powerful kids have fucked up a lot before. I’m gonna make sure that you don’t. So we’re gonna get you clean, full, and away from this place, just like you’ve been according to your socials for the past hour. AI is a marvelous little thing, isn’t it? Heck, I scheduled a post ten minutes from now of you chowing down PU’s great grub. Let’s go make it real, m’kay?”

  I stare at her, then look around at the bodies sprawled outside of the Hall. I swallow, lick my dry lips, crack open the water bottle and finish half of it before saying, “What kind of sandwich did you say I’ve got? Meaty?”

  “Nothing less for the world’s finest,” she says with a smile. “Oh, and by the way, happy eighteenth birthday. I’ve got this awesome little surprise waiting for you back in your room, but you can only open it at night.”

  Holy shit. Right. I forgot what day it was.

  Well…it’s a pretty good way of starting it, if you ask me.

  “You’re awesome, you know that?”

  Clare grins. “That’s just what sidekicks do.”

  Oh, man, I can get used to this.