The Dark League are the bastardized dead bodies of America’s first ever superhero team. They died way before the first Cape War happened, defending America from some genetically-enhanced space thing the Soviets had sent our way. I think. That’s the version we get taught in history class, anyway. All I know is that the president at the time, good-old Johnny Preacher—God bless his trigger-finger, they always say—wasn’t too happy when the American Hero League was suddenly tearing through Washington, New York, California, and they’d almost finished taking Canada off the map before someone took them down. Nobody wanted to believe it at first, because come on, they’re literally what every superhero in existence compares themselves to, but there they were, corpses with rotting flesh and missing limbs, trapped in their destroyed leather costumes, snarling and screaming about the great and glorious Soviet Union across the ocean. Listen, mom and I were nowhere near Earth. Heck, I wasn’t even born yet, either.

  I do know, though, that they weren’t easy to take down, and were even harder to…deconstruct. What’s also a fact is that I shouldn’t be smelling apple pie right now, or feeling warm sunlight washing over my face as it slips through my eyelids. It feels buttery. Too thick, like a dog’s fat, sloppy tongue dragging across my neck and cheek.

  Whatever this simulation should be, it shouldn’t sound like lawn mowers, barbecues, and squeaky bicycles. I was expecting a lot more chaos, you know? Explosions. Buildings getting destroyed. Superhumans tear through civilian bodies as Pantheon U’s finest try to stop the chaos. Not— I flinch when something rough and wet drags across my cheek, again and again, and then it barks sharply into my ear. I drag my eyes open and shove the large golden retriever off my chest. then knuckle my cheek and try not to shudder. Gross. Who’s fucking dog is that? Animals on this planet don’t usually like me. They take one whiff of me and decide alien skin is only good for snarling at or barking at or hissing uncontrollably at. I always wanted a dog, too. Kinda like the big dumb-eyed one that’s sitting on the floor, staring at me with his large pink tongue flopping loosely out of his slack-jawed mouth.

  A golden tame tag hanging from his neck says, Bud. Bud barks again, then goes back to panting at me.

  I’m too busy massaging my temples to care what a dog has to say to me right now. I’ve had headaches before, but this one means all kinds of business. I knead my skull so hard it almost feels like I’m trying to crack it open and get my fingers inside of my own brain. Ears ringing, the high-pitched kind of whistle that drives me crazy whenever someone blows a dog whistle. Except Bud keeps stupidly staring at me, head cocked, looking all worried.

  I groan and slowly roll. The pillow under my head is fucking stiff, like someone used a brick to knock me out and then put it under my head. Then I’m on the floor, hitting it hard enough to make myself thump against the carpet. Wool. Fluffy. Like sheep’s skin. God, where the hell am I? I shake my head. The world spins. I put a fist to my mouth before vomit can come surging out, then force it back down and gag. Bud lies down beside me, mouth shut, tail still beating against the floor. A pair of blue flats are on the carpet beside the bed. They’ve even got tiny golden stars sprinkled all over them. But I’m focused more on the mutt than on the navy blue shoes with gum stuck underneath them. I glare at the large golden dog, push his face away before he can start forcing his muzzle into my ear, then push off the floor. Wood? Where the hell… I groan some more when I slowly and stiffly get on my feet.

  It feels like it takes an hour to get onto my feet, and when I finally get up, my ribs are killing me. And so are my ankles. And my back. And just about everything else. I woozily look around, tugging at my t-shirt’s… Wait.

  I frown and look down at myself, then freeze.

  The first problem is simple: shoes, I’ve got none. Just sweaty white socks.

  The second problem is bigger. Much, much bigger.

  I’m wearing a navy blue skirt that just about reaches my knees, and I am immediately set in stone, bones going stiff, heart stuttering in my chest, listening to blood grinding past my ears as I breathe deeper and deeper until I rush toward a table full of makeup and pencils and notebooks and— I stare at myself in the tiny handheld mirror I snatch off the table. My hand shakes as I stare at my rosy cheeks and freckles, at my finely done eyebrows and coiled blond hair sitting on my shoulders. Not black at the roots, the way it usually is. Golden folds, like the sun decided to bend and break and shape itself into thick curls just for me. What the fuck? Whatthefuckwhatthe—

  I drop the mirror on the carpet. It bounces and clatters onto the wooden floor.

  “It's OK, it’s OK,” I whisper, pushing my fingers through my hair. I scrape a fingernail against my scalp, flinch, then stare at my bright red nails—not bright with blood, but bright with nail polish. Heart beating. Head spinning. Whistling in my ears. I stumble against the table, accidentally knocking over bottles of polish and varnish and what the fuck! Where am I? Wait. No. Logan said this was a simulation. Some kind of really, really high-tech simulation. Better than any I’ve been inside. “Nothing’s real in here,” I mutter, because it’s better than listening to the stupid lawn mower or the kids outside or the men heartily laughing to the chorus backdrop of some woman softly humming. I pause. Freeze completely, like Frostbite just slammed ice into my gut. The humming is coming from down the hallway. The bedroom door is wide open, revealing flowery, yellow wallpaper beyond it.

  No, this is…fine. Yeah, sure, I can dig this. Logan wanted something vintage. Maybe… Maybe this is part of the simulation. Maybe I’ve just got to go out there and find the Dark League before they attack all these happy, sun-kissed people. That makes sense. Why wouldn’t that make sense? Of course it makes sense. And this stupid, God-awful costume must be some kind of prank. Point and laugh at the freshman, haha. Funny. God, I hate this stupid thing. It’s made of wool and cotton, stupidly tight around my ribs and squeezing the hell out of my chest. I can barely breathe without cringing, and the collar—shirt collar, not the normal spandex ones—is buttoned right up until my jaw. I tug it and fiddle with the buttons, but my fingernails are long and get in the way. They did tell me not to get in their way, and I guess putting these dumb nails on my fingers means I can’t fight. Fuck it. I grab the collar and pull it apart. A button pops off and shoots into the wooden floor, ricochets, and impales the thin walls.

  I stare at the tiny hole I just made, dead center in a black and white poster, right inside of a man’s chest.

  But…not any man. That’s…

  My shoulders lower, so do my hands. I gape at the walls covered with posters, all of them in black and white, all of them with superheroes wearing wide, proud grins, all of them guys. And then me, lifting a chunky old sedan over my head, grinning wildly, hair still perfectly coiled. In chunky letters, it says: STRONG GIRLS MAKE A STRONG AMERICA. I swallow. Take a step back. Another poster, a silhouette of a superhero flying toward a rising sun, saying, EVIL NEVER SLEEPS, AND NEITHER DO WE! I’m in the doorway when my eyes land on the final poster, one of the largest, of the man who I put a hole through his chest, fists on his hips, squared jaw in a grin, big beautiful cape billowing in the wind, proudly staring past me. EVERY POWER HAS A PURPOSE. JOIN TODAY!

  I slowly turn to look at the calendar on the wall, with a day circled in red marker, saying, Today!! Finally!!

  Draft day, it says, circled around and around in scarlet marker. 1951, the calendar tells me quietly.

  I stare at the date, then a smile creeps across my face, then laughter, quiet, uncomfortable, bubbles in the base of my throat, because…wow. I mean…wow. Pantheon U really goes all out with their simulations, right? You can’t even get your hands on any of these Star-Sentinel posters without going bankrupt or going to the museum. And come on, that poster of me lifting the car above my head? Pfft. Great one, simulation. Real smart. Heck, I’m gonna take it as a complement. And sure, this costume is tight and stupid and is making me sweat just standing still, but I’m flattered, honestly. Before coming to this school, I figured they had tech that regular gyms just don’t have the access to. Mom doesn’t even bother training, anyway. She always says that, eventually, I won’t have to either because that’s just how much better our physiology is compared to humans. Like a talent or a skill, they’ve got to keep chipping away at their powers every day to get better and better, or else they’ll get sloppy and weak, too.

  I just wish I didn’t have to wear a damned skirt for this, but fine. Sure. I’ll roll with it for now.

  “Gotta go and find Logan first,” I mutter to myself. The earpiece must’ve fallen out. Whatever. It’s not like this place is real, anyway. I can probably go on some kind of mass rampage and kill everyone (not that I won’t, just saying that I can), and I’ll probably only get weird looks from the team. Instead, like a normal, totally sane person would do, I leave the bedroom behind and wander down the hallway, bare feet padding against the floor as I yank the soft white blouse out from the skirt. A tucked in hero costume? God, being a First Generation superhero must’ve really sucked. I can’t even begin to imagine having to clomp around in heels and a skirt and try to stop a bad guy.

  And these nails? This hair? I kinda wonder how the rest of the team looks now, too.

  Maybe this is part of the simulation. Absolute realism for maximum effect.

  Sure, I dig it. Let’s go beat up some bad guys and look great doing it.

  There’s a woman humming in the kitchen over a stove, a cigarette smoldering quietly in a tea cup beside her. I walk past, because she doesn’t smell evil, and I’m gonna trust my nose on this. The sim probably can’t even generate fully realistic civilians, just ideas of idle people we’ve got to swoop in and save. Civilians tend not to run when they’re in danger. They’re like deer in front of headlights, frozen solid in place, pissing themselves with terror. My guess is that it’ll definitely be the same. The sim probably wants us to think of better ways to save them, too.

  Coming to PU really was a great choice. I got a boatload of scholarship offers.

  But this one just felt so right.

  Remind me to keep trusting my gut.

  Cigarette smoke colors the air light blue, lazily drifting from the kitchen to the hallway, carried on the kind of summer breeze that rarely feels this gentle in Liberty City. I walk into the living room, shaded the same blue by a cigar being puffed by a man sitting with his back to me in an armchair. He’s reading a large newspaper with the tiny square TV set turned onto the news. I look around. Books. Couches with blankets draped over them. Orange sunlight gushing through the windows. The front door is slightly open, just enough to let Bud scamper outside.

  “Ten out of ten for the realism,” I mutter, spotting the apple pie perched outside the kitchen window. It’s still so hot that it’s still steaming, and that makes my mouth water. But, remember, this is all just a simulation.

  “Good evening, America,” a pale anchorman on the TV begins, black hair slicked back, hands clasped on the desk in front of him. He’s cheery, all smiles, with lines carved around his eyes, like he doesn’t ever stop smiling. The man in the armchair lowers the newspaper, and the woman in the kitchen stops humming. The entire suburb outside also dims, and oh, man, this must be the build up to the supervillain attack. I can feel it in my gut. My guess? A nuke is gonna decimate this suburb, and then it’ll be maximum hell when the Dark League starts attacking everyone. Star-Sentinel is gonna crash right through the ceiling, and then Liberty Flash would blitz right in, throw two-dozen punches into my stomach, and then— Wait! I’ve got an even better idea. They all attack at once. That would be insane. God! If I had my phone right now, I’d post this on my… Shouldn’t I have my phone right now?

  I pat my sides, but I’ve got no pockets, just a zipper for this torture device of a skirt.

  “Thanks to the brave actions of the American Hero League, led proudly and patriotically by Star-Sentinel himself,” the anchorman continues, his voice humming with static, “order has been restored to the savage coastlines of Southern America, Northern Africa, and the dense urban jungles of Eastern Europe. All in a day’s work for our country's finest heroes.” I look up at the ceiling. Any second now, Star-Sentinel. “Officials have confirmed that casualties are minimal, but unfortunately also unavoidable.” The man in the armchair quietly grunts. The woman in the kitchen picks up the cigarette with her finger tips. “Citizens should be reminded that sacrifice is the foundation of freedom, and today, America must continue to wage its war against villainy to make a better tomorrow, today.”

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  “So fucking lame,” I mutter. “Just like back home. When’s the news ever gonna have anything good on—”

  The man sitting in front of me drops the newspaper and stands, and holy moly he’s massive. Broad, big shoulders pressing tightly against his white shirt. Tie loose. Brown slacks hitched to his shoulders by stretched suspenders. He drops the newspaper on his seat and takes the cigar out of his mouth, and then turns to look at me.

  My eyes go wide, and for a second, neither of us moves, and the woman in the kitchen stands still.

  Star-Sentinel, leader of the American Hero League, the First Hero himself, is glaring at me! Holy shit! Of all the times for my phone to go missing, it just had to be right now. Oh, man, this would’ve done crazy numbers all over my socials. I’d humble brag about PU’s simulation tech, but getting to tell the entire world I’m hanging out with quite literally the blueprint for every superhero in existence would literally shove my follower count into the high hundreds of thousands. This is prime time content! I mean, this guy is literally the reason America cashed in on superhumans instead of stupid old atom bombs. Atom bombs are clunky, archaic things that get sent to dusty corners in the museum. An atom bomb with a butt chin, blue eyes, hard nose and blonde hair that can also lift a building over his head or fly faster than, well, you know what they say—now that is a weapon. Hero, I mean. Sorry.

  Now this is a superhero. God, he is huge. How the fuck does he even take a crap? Is the toilet in this house made to fit him? Are the plates reinforced? Does he have to hold everything with his fingertips, afraid he’d break everything, too? I’ve just had another brilliant realization—I’m in Star-Sentinel’s home! He lived in California in the same house his mom and dad raised him and his siblings in. White picket fence heaven. Well, according to him and his old interviews, it was heaven. I kinda hate how boring my old neighborhood is. But this is so freaking—

  He slaps me across the face.

  My head snaps sharply to the right.

  Blood immediately trickles onto my tongue. Several droplets dash against the flowery yellow wallpaper. The woman in the kitchen tenses, her shoulders going rigid, but she keeps facing the window. The world is silent. My cheek burns and keeps stinging. Slowly, I move my jaw, hearing it click and feeling it quietly start smoldering.

  Not a lot of people ever get the chance to hit me.

  Fewer slap me.

  None make me bleed.

  Right now, it sits on my tongue—raw, tangy, and fucking vile.

  Well, I think, using my thumb to wipe scarlet off my lips, so much for wanting an autograph.

  “I raised you better than that,” he says sharply. “It’s all those goddamned songs you kids are listening to these days. Your rock and roll and your strange dances. Is it a boy who taught you that word? Who was it? Speak.”

  Speak?

  Speak, like I’m a mutt and he wants me to bark for him.

  I know the simulation is going for super realistic here, but if it wants me to hit him that badly, then…

  “Richard,” the woman in the kitchen says quietly. We both turn our heads as she looks over her shoulder. And suddenly, like someone’s flipped a switch, cold, fiery anger surges into my gut. Mom? But…how? Why? What the fuck does she have to do with the simulation? My chest is beginning to rise and fall, and right now, I kinda want to stop whatever’s going on. I understand that this is meant to all get inside of my head, to fuck with me and to make me want to quit or get distracted, but…why? And since when does she pin up her hair? Since when does she have circles of exhaustion around her eyes and…and since when does she wear a pencil skirt? Or a pink blouse? Where are her jeans and her old sneakers and that faded baseball cap she likes so much? The woman standing near the oven is slim, tall, with a soft face and softer blue eyes, but she’s got a glass of whiskey beside her and this sharp look in her eyes that dries my throat. I stand there, staring at her, then look at Star-Sentinel standing right beside me.

  “What the fuck?” I whisper, stepping back, looking around. “What the fuck kind of simulation is this?” I spread my arms. The woman lowers her cigarette. Star-Sentinel clenches his large, blocky jaw. “Alright!” I shout to the ceiling. “This isn’t funny anymore, guys. I get it. Screw with the freshman. Really funny! Now can you get me the hell out of this stupid thing? I hate this costume and trust me, I’m going to put a hole through the gym’s wall if this Stat-Freak standing next to me tries to touch me again. Roman! I know this is your fault! Let me out, asshole!”

  And for all my shouting, the universe answers with a perfectly loud bout of silence.

  “Guys?” I say, lowering my arms, throat drier. “Anyone?”

  None of this is real. None of this is real, Sam.

  So why can I still taste blood on my lips?

  “See what I told you, Lucy?” Star-Sentinel says, waving his hand at me. The hand he used to smack me across the face is firmly inside of his pocket, almost like he’s waving at bad groceries. “She’s hanging around too many of those exotic supers down at that dirty little diner.” He turns his head to look at me, face suddenly serious, nowhere near the handsome, daring American patriot they’re showing pictures of on the TV. “You’re grounded. For life. And you should thank God, Samantha, that I don’t have to get the belt out again. We made one another a deal, and now you’ve gone and broken it. What kind of superhero do you think you’re going to become if you can’t even keep yourself proper?” His face softens, and that’s what frightens me the most. Then: a hug. He grabs my wrist and pulls me against his chest. He feels like…not like stone, not like concrete. I’ve been flung through both, and they’re softer than the muscle crushing the side of my skull. He runs his hand through my hair. I cringe as he presses further, stealing the air out of my lungs. “I’m going to find those illegals who did this,” he whispers. “Who hurt my little—”

  I shove him off me. My socks send me sliding until I slam against the front door, smacking it shut.

  Star-Sentinel hasn’t moved so much as an inch. He looks…hurt?

  His arms hand in front of him, almost as if he’s still clutching onto the feeling of me being there.

  “Samantha,” mom says flatly, then puts the cigarette in the corner of her mouth. “Hug your father.”

  I blink.

  The world feels like it screeches to a halt. The grandfather clock freezes. The droplet in the faucet hangs.

  My mouth opens, shuts, and my tongue finally unsticks itself from the roof of my mouth.

  “My father?” I say, then laugh—a short, unbelieving laugh, then look at him. “This guy?”

  Mom flicks the cigarette into the sink. I hear it sputter and die, then she turns around on her heels, and they snap sharply against the floor until she’s standing right in front of me. She looks down at me. I look up at her. And then, swiftly, quickly, faster than I realize, she grabs my wrist and sinks her rigid fingernails into my skin. I bite down a scream and try to pull away, and then she hauls me off the door, making me stumble. Now I’m standing in the middle of them. I massage my wrist, pain pulsing as tiny bloody crescents bleed into the white cotton sleeve.

  I look at Star-Sentinel, arms still open, and at mom, fingernails now bloody.

  This is real. None of this is fake.

  Because, for whatever reason, my eyes sting, watching mom look at me with passive indifference, like there’s not a single ounce of care she’s got at the blood seeping out of my wrist or the bruise burning on my cheek.

  If there’s one thing mom is, she’s protective. Overly so. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes it’s weird.

  Standing there, though, with her eyes narrowing, face blank, she feels…

  I shake my head, then knuckle my eyes. Whatever. That’s not mom. Jesus, Sam, get your shit together.

  Crying because of a little bruise? A couple of cuts? You fucking baby, grow up. This is why Red is always on my ass about not deserving what I’ve got, because I want mommy to come and kiss my owies all better and tell me I’m such a good little goddamned superhero. I spit blood onto the carpet. Star-Sentinel lowers his arms. Mom looks at the blood, then at me, barely turning her head. She’s bathed in shadows. The light gushing through the windows doesn’t reach her. It doesn’t reach either of them. Daylight is dying. Late afternoon warmth is withering away on the floor, bruised and purple, so weak it barely illuminates the room anymore. Mom rolls her shoulders. I hear bones straining, joints cracking and muscles stretching. I yank the hair clips from my hair, and the wig hitched to my head falls off my shoulders and onto the floor. I catch a glimpse of myself in the window’s reflection. Half of my face is red. My eyes are burning, literally, and also with hot, sizzling heat, turning tears to steam. Dark coils of hair hang around my face, and now mom’s eyes are exactly the same, except her face is still blank, brow still flat and bored. Her burning scarlet eyes shade the edges of her face, her cheeks, making her a shadow of a silent silhouette.

  A silhouette that can split Earth in half, and is still wearing heels, a brown skirt, and a golden cross.

  “Samantha,” she says plainly. I can hear the hum coming from her eyes. “I don’t know what it is you’re thinking, and I don’t know what it is you’ve learnt from your…friends, but it’s time to start putting your smile on.”

  Notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal, I chant in my head, because…because maybe it’s easier to think that.

  Rather than having to fight someone so powerful she’d sever my spine from my skull before I even realized my head wasn’t attached to my throat anymore. I swallow. Wince. My throat is so dry air rattles out of my throat.

  “My smile?” I say quietly. “That’s what you want me to do? That fucker just hit me, and you—”

  She’s in my face. Suddenly just here.

  I wish I could stumble back.

  I wish I could flinch.

  My spine presses against Star-Sentinel’s chest. Mom, looking down at me, eyes burning, is still so close that the heat coming off of them makes my flesh sting. I cringe as she gets closer, then grabs my chin, sinks her fingernails into my jaw, and wrenches my head around so we’re nose-to-nose. “Look at me,” she says quietly. I can barely open my eyes against the heat coming off hers. “I said, Samantha, open your eyes and look at me. Now.”

  I scream when her fingers break skin. She clamps her hand over my mouth, stifling it. I try to shake my head violently, I try to bite down on her skin—but there’s no point, no point at all. It’s like chewing steel. It’s like fighting against gravity, so dense my neck muscles spasm as I try to rip my face away. My eyes burn. The cuts in my wrist smolder. Star-Sentinel has his hands on my shoulders, keeping me locked in place. My heart only gets faster, and faster, until I’m hyperventilating through the tiny gaps between my mother’s thick, strong, padded fingers.

  And suddenly, her eyes stop burning, her hand slips from my mouth, and she steps back. “To your room,” she says, pointing down the hallway. I watch a droplet of blood fall from her nails and hit the floor. “Now, missy.”

  I massage my jaw, swallow my racing heartbeat. I look at her, eyes still simmering with scarlet heat.

  “Now, Samantha,” she says sharply. “Before I make you.”

  Star-Sentinel gently squeezes my shoulders. I flinch when his fingers brush my throat. “You’ll only be getting dinner tonight if you fix that mouth of yours. Now, when you feel like apologizing to us, then you’ll come and talk to your mother and I properly. Or else we’re going to call school and tell them you won’t be coming for sign-up day. Do you want that, Samantha? Do you really want to let down your community, your family, your own country, by not helping our boys, just because you’re suddenly rude to us?” He turns me around. I don’t have a choice. He’s just that strong, just that powerful. My chin is bleeding. Stinging. So are my eyes, and I hate that they are, because they make me feel stupid and ridiculous and fucking moronic. Then he uses his calloused thumb to rub my cheeks, and I want to swipe away his hands, to shove him away again, but mom is still there, breathing down my neck, waiting for me to move. So…I don’t. I stand still. Rigid. My gut is a knot so tight I feel like vomiting. “There, there, sweetheart. Don’t cry. If you cry, then I cry, and you don’t want to make your old man cry, now do ya, Sams?”

  I swallow. Keep staring at his chest, barely breathing through the tiny gap between my lips.

  He sighs, then says, “Look what you did, Lu. You scared the poor girl again.”

  “She’ll learn. She always does.”

  With that, mom walks back into the kitchen, and quietly lights another cigarette.

  Nothing left to say, except a quiet swear word, because one of her fingernails broke against my skin.

  Star-Sentinel pats my back. “Go on,” he says. “When you’re not in such a foul mood, young lady, and you’ve got a written apology for the both of us, you won’t be going to school tonight, am I clear? Now go.”

  I stiffly turn, take two short steps, then—my heart like a wardrum in my skull—turn around.

  My eyes are red. Tears glisten on my cheeks, reflecting the scarlet glow of hellfire in my eyes.

  Fists tight, fingernails sinking deep into my palms. Jaw clenched so tight one of my teeth gives.

  Star-Sentinel stares at me, almost with a look of passive amusement on his face. “Come on, Sams,” he says, then picks up his newspaper again. “Let’s not do this tonight. It’s childish, and girls aren’t so easily violent, either. You know, Lu, I think this is the problem with girls these days. They want to be tough, too tough. What happened to my little superhero? Now she gets these violent mood swings, and…” He shakes his head, sighs quietly. He points the newspaper at me before sinking into the leather armchair. “Now, enough with those eyes. They’re ugly.”

  “Go to your room, Samantha,” mom says quietly, leaning her hands against the stove.

  She can’t even look me in the fucking eyes.

  I step back, and the last thing I see before my head gets light is a bronze insignia on the front of Star-Sentinel’s newspaper, one that almost looks similar to the one I spray painted. But I’m not thinking straight. Barely thinking at all. I want to put twin laser beams through the back of his skull, turn his brains into pink soup.

  But then my head goes light, my vision goes dark, and then the floor is rushing toward my face.