Hangovers suck, and this one feels like it’s determined to split my skull in half before I can pry my eyes open. I do. Eventually. It feels like I’m dragging steel off my eyes, and then strobes of harsh white light come stabbing down like needles, making me wince. I taste blood on my lips. I feel the sting of Star-Sentinel’s palm against my face. I groan and try to sit up, but gentle hands push me back down. Which I don’t like. At all. I swing my arms uselessly around, moaning and grunting like some caveman waking up from a nightmare, until I can roll onto my side, curl into a ball, and shove my face off the cold concrete floor. I sit upright, head hanging, coils of hair hanging in front of my eyes. Fuck. My bender a few days ago felt a lot less intense. This feels like someone’s swinging a hammer against my nose over and over, like there’s something precious inside my brain they just really, really need to get.

  “Finally,” someone mutters. Roman. I can recognize that asshole’s voice from anywhere. I look at him through squinted eyes, leaning against the glass wall, arms folded. “Is passing out your second superpower, GG?”

  “Relax, dude,” Curly-Hair says, crouched beside me with a hand on my back. “It was her first time.”

  Roman spreads his arms. “None of us passed out in our first simulation. I mean, come on! And she’s meant to be the best in her class?” He shakes his head. “Give me a break. For all I know, her mom paid for that spot, too.”

  “Now’s not the time,” Logan says. He’s somewhere behind me. I can’t turn my neck enough to see him. His voice is soft, but also loud enough to echo. He ruffles my hair. I slap his hand away. “I’m glad you’re back. You had us worried for a sec. One second you’re just fine, the next thing I know you’re on the floor, foaming at the mouth and convulsing. Dude, I thought you were having some kind of stroke. Thank fuck you didn’t, because your mom would’ve killed me. And, you know, I would’ve felt pretty shitty if you died because of me, too. That would suck.”

  A girl with chestnut hair and circular glasses has her hands stretched toward me. I can see the slight green luminescence bleeding from her fingers. Healer. I hate the way it makes my skin feel so itchy and my blood so hot. She lowers her hands, sweat on her brow, and smiles softly at me. “Oh, thank God. For a second I thought you—”

  “Mary,” Logan says through his teeth. I slowly turn my head to look at him. He smiles again.

  “What…” I swallow and lick my dry lips. The taste of blood is slowly vanishing. A pale guy with dark hair, also a Healer, judging by the red and white band around his arm, hands me a water bottle. He looks like death. As in literal death. His skin is so white it’s nearly see-through, and when he smiles, it’s like he’s trying to act as human as possible, which makes the two of us right now. I take the water bottle and drink half of it in one slurping go, then wipe my mouth with my hand, nearly vomit, and then say, “What the fuck was that? I thought you said you guys were gonna fight the Dark League. And what the hell was that outfit! Pick on the freshman, I get it, but come on!”

  They look at one another. Even the Soviet with the black wings raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Maybe she’s got a brain worm.” I shoot the Japanese girl a look. “What?” she says. “I heard they screw with your head, like those brain-eating amoeba things. Maybe she’s tripping out because she’s got ‘em inside her.”

  “Doubt there’s much for those things to even eat up there,” Roman mutters.

  Lasers burst from my eyes, a quick darting shot that scorches the glass where he’d just been standing.

  The dark-haired jackass whistles quietly, now just a few meters away. “Someone woke up with a spine.”

  I try to stand, stumble—Curly-Hair grabs my forearm and steadies me before I face-plant in front of some of the most important people this school has to offer. I pull my arm away, roll my shoulders and massage the back of my neck. They’re all looking at me strangely, almost… No, I’m not gonna say worried. They’re only afraid of me telling my mom that I got fucked up because of them. I can see it in their eyes, see it with how the Japanese girl is toying with her fingers, or how Curly-Hair keeps fiddling with his air force bomber jacket. And I hate it. This look of fucking concern on their faces, because Jesus—I’m not some kind of little kid that needs to be coddled and kissed and touched all the time. The girl with the buzzcut looks at me funny, smacking gum loudly between her teeth. The guy who wrote me a flying ticker smiles tightly, but there’s sweat beading across his smooth forehead.

  “I’m fine,” I say, then give the water back to Dead-Boy. “Run it again.”

  “Yeah, that’s not happening.” Logan pats my back gently. “You’ve probably had some kind of concussion. You should probably head to the medical center and get checked out. Then rest. You’ve had a pretty busy weekend, and you haven’t even had your first class yet!” Another smile. Another tight squeeze of my shoulder. “I can walk you there if you like. Katie’s done nothing except hear me talk about you, so I can also introduce you to her, too.”

  I roll my shoulder, getting him off me. “I said run it again. I’m fine. Let’s just do this shit already.”

  “GG,” Roman says, and I am this close to chasing him down and strangling him. “Sit this one out.”

  “I’m fine!” I snap. “You assholes are the ones who put me in that stupid place, anyway! I mean, come on, what’s my mom got to do with the Dark League? And why the fuck was she married to Star-Sentinel? That’s weird!”

  Weird is my version of fucking disgusting, you goddamned humans.

  But, you know, I can’t say that here—cameras and eyes and all.

  “What?” Curly-Hair says. “Your dad is Star-Sentinel? What the— How the— How old are you?”

  “My dad’s not literally Star-Sentinel,” I snap. He takes a step back, hands up. I sigh and massage my eyes, because this headache keeps slamming into my temples. I grit my teeth, then force my jaw to unclench. “Look. I don’t know what you guys did, or if you’re just screwing with me, but cut it out. I’m not asking. Just turn it on.”

  “I think the little American should go to bed,” the Soviet says. “She’s not ready for this level yet.”

  I stare at her, then say, “I’m not ready? Me? I’m Sentry. There’s nothing on this Earth I’m not ready for.”

  “That’s the kind of ego that gets people crippled,” the Japanese girl mutters to Buzzcut. She grunts.

  The Soviet shrugs. “A reaction so violent to a simulation can only mean a lack of preparedness to what you are about to go through. Maybe it’s just a fact that you’ve been babied too much for your own good, Sentry.”

  “Go to hell, you—” I bite my tongue before I say what I really, really want to. “Asshole,” I mutter.

  “Creative,” she says.

  “You know what—”

  “Alright, alright,” Logan says, stepping in front of me. “Sam, chill. I know you might feel embarrassed or whatever, but it happens to the best of us, alright? I should’ve warned you. The first time I ever got in here, I started puking everywhere. It screws with your head, mostly because of how realistic the sim is. You’ll get used to it here.”

  I jab my finger into his chest. He hardly moves. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid.”

  “You kinda are,” Roman says.

  “Do you want me to—” God! Fuck! If I keep biting my tongue, I’m gonna end up chewing it into a bloody mess by exam week. I slide my shaky fingers through my hair, inhale very, very deeply, just like my therapist says I should whenever I feel like murdering someone, and then I exhale slowly, letting my gut relax and my shoulders slowly lower until the tension in my spine vanishes. I nod slowly, put my hands on my hips, then turn around and walk away, because trust me, if I stick around any longer, I’m gonna hit someone, and that probably means death, a seizure, or I get kicked out of school for hurting PU’s freshest batch of draftees. Logan calls my name. So does Curly-Hair and the girl with chestnut hair. I ignore them and shove open the iron door, and head for the elevator.

  “Is she crying?” Roman whispers. “Dude, she is totally crying.”

  “You’re a jackass,” one of them mutters.

  “Not my fault she can’t handle it.”

  I force my legs to keep walking, fists so tight my fingernails almost embedded themselves into my palm.

  The last thing I see before the doors slide shut is Roman shaking his head, and the rest of them staring at me, lips thin, brows creased, as Logan’s smile finally slips off his lips. The doors shut, and now I’m all alone again.

  Just the way I fucking like it.

  I massage my wrist, ignoring the tiny crescent scars embedded in my flesh.

  I spend the rest of the day alone in my room, slamming my fists into the stiff scarlet leather punching bag. The TV is cranked to its loudest, blaring rock music so loud it makes the bulletproof windows rattle. Or maybe that’s because of my fists crashing into the leather again and again, so fast, so violent, so loud that it sounds like one buckshot after another going off in quick succession. Artillery. That’s a better word. A bombardment from my knuckles that’s making my back burn and my shoulders scream. Sweat slides down my face, stings my eyes and wets my hair. I spit into a cereal bowl, use my t-shirt to wipe my eyes, then step back, raise my aching fist, and swing as hard as I can.

  The reinforced punching bag explodes, smashing sand against the wall. I pant and step back, watching it vomit grain onto the floor until it’s weak and empty. It’ll join the three others I’ve turned into broken sacks of red leather on the floor. I rip the tape off my knuckles and wrists. No blood, of course. No way in hell a punching bag is going to tear through my skin. It doesn’t mean my wrists don’t ache or my shoulders aren’t killing me, but there’s a lot of heat and hatred and anger and spite frothing in my stomach right now, and the second I open my bedroom door, I’m gonna bump into someone who’s gonna get sent through a wall. Not because I want to. But because I kinda need that right now. Fuck, this place blows. It’s so silent up here. It’s almost dead silent on campus, too. The only thing I can hear outside my window are people lounging on the quad outside of the dorm buildings, flirting, laughing, throwing around a frisbee or mindlessly scrolling through their phones. Where’s the fighting? The angry, raging Bruisers who pick fights with anyone because they think they’re the best? Where are the cliques? Where are the asshole jocks? I need someone to hurt… No. No, you don’t, Sam. I sigh. Heavily. Then sit on the edge of a chair.

  I hang my head. Sweat drips off my hair and my nose, dampening the concrete floor.

  I can’t help but keep rubbing the crescent scars on my wrist, too deep, too painful, to just be a simulation. Since when do sims leave you with scars? Mental ones, sure, but you learn to shrug those off. Not physical ones.

  Let alone on my skin. Scars and bruises are hard to come by when you can shrug off explosives.

  I’m pretty sure only mom can hurt me or leave me with scars, and in some ways, I guess she did.

  Well, she didn’t. Right? I mean, that wasn’t actually mom—it was the simulation acting up.

  “First set of scars,” I whisper to myself, turning my wrist to catch the orange sunlight streaking through my open windows. I slouch in the chair. The poor thing creaks as I slowly spin around, staring at the ceiling fan above me. It spins slowly, round and round in a quiet groan. I shut my eyes and grab the TV remote, then dial down the rock music until it’s nearly dead silent. Birds. That’s the first thing I hear. Right outside my window, chirping and bickering and flapping their tiny wings against gusts of wind. I watch one, tiny and black, land on my windowsill, hopping from one side to the next, head tilted toward me as its dark little eyes scan and stare. “What?” I ask quietly. I swivel around in the chair to look at the thing. It chirps at me. “You want something to eat, little guy? You’re not gonna find much. If you crack open an energy drink, you’re probably gonna explode, and that’s just gross, right?”

  It chirps at me again, nonplussed that I’ve got nothing to offer, then quickly flies away.

  Good, I think to myself. Who cares if you stay? I don’t. I’m fine on my own.

  “That is not how it works.” I frown, then slowly lean forward on the seat as a voice from the grassy quad outside worms into my ears. That’s Summer’s voice. “You can’t just run into any old store and steal things, that’s illegal. Besides, Speedster-tracking cameras exist. My cousin, Jim-Bob Lee—awesomest guy, by the way—tried to get away with stealing candy bars for the rest of us when we were little. Turns out that cameras keep up with us.”

  I slowly stand up, my body aching with exhaustion. I look outside the window, searching for… There. They’re sitting in a loose line on the grass. Jason with his arms behind his head, staring at the sunburnt orange sky. Jordan is too busy taking pictures of herself to listen to Summer. Red, though, has no other option except to pay attention to both her and the burger she’s ripping in half. I clench my jaw. Why the hell did they pick there to sit around and talk? They must’ve done it on purpose. They probably know my room is right above the quad. Heck, I might be able to see most of the school grounds, and a pretty damned good chunk of it is gorgeous this time of day, but…why here? I don’t give a fuck about Summer’s hillbilly Speedster family, or care about Jordan forcing Jason to get up and take pictures of her as she spreads her wings in some dazzling dramatic pose. And Red, gnawing on that greasy monstrosity of a burger like she’s got some vendetta against all things perfectly grilled and juicy with oil.

  “Then,” Red says through a mouthful, “why don’t you, like, destroy the cameras before they see you.”

  “Because that’s wrong, duh,” Summer says. “I’m a superhero. People would totally hate me if I stole.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Red snorts. “You’re a superhero, someone out there already hates you for that.”

  “God, no, not like that,” Jordan says. “Higher. Portrait. Why do you keep crouching?”

  Jason sighs and spreads his hands. “I’m not used to taking pictures, alright? I’m not some journalist in my spare time, Glory. I’m trying my best here. Just cut a guy some slack. Look, most of these turned out pretty great.”

  “Try again,” she says, without even looking at them.

  And…

  Fuck, why am I clutching the windowsill like a bird, watching them so hard?

  I’ve known those people for a handful of hours. According to literal math, Jordan is probably the only one down there that’s gonna make it all the way to senior year with me. And getting attached is just something I can’t do, not to a human, at least. They die too easily to care so much for them. One day they’re fine, laughing with you at lunch, sharing their apple pie, and the next second they’re in the newspaper obituary’s section because a villain dropped a car on them in a fight just after school. Dead. Gone. Kaput. Now we’ve got to have a moment of silence for them before school starts, and everybody walks around all teary-eyed and pale, hugging each other extra hard, telling everyone they meet to stay safe. You get what I’m talking about, right? Like, it’s even a phenomenon in itself they live long enough to have kids. Roaches. Sometimes funny, sometimes attractive, sometimes cool—but still roaches, scuttling around, resiliently resisting the world’s urge to murder them every second of the day. What I’m getting at is simple: I don’t care about them. I’ve known Jordan for a while, and Red, too, but so what? I’ve known sidekicks for years, just for them to get brained by a metal pipe and then sent on fire. Shit just…happens when you’re a superhero. That’s the industry for you. Ruthless. And they’re all just playing catch and taking pics and flirting and holding hands and playing games on their phones, like Pantheon U is some kind of fancy resort.

  “Newsflash, losers,” I mutter to myself, turning my back to the window, “we haven’t made it yet.”

  But I guess if your bar is as low as theirs, even just getting into this place is enough.

  I’m not ready for this level yet. Yeah, sure, whatever you chicken-winged Soviet bitch—I’m ready for anything Earth has to throw at me. I’m destined for this shit. It just means more for me than it does for most people. Unlike these guys, I’ve seen war, I’ve seen genocide…well, mom has painted a pretty damned good picture of it in my head, anyway. But you know what I mean. Half of these guys probably don’t even know what sound a body makes when you smash it against concrete, because you don’t negotiate with supervillains, or poke and prod and prance around doing fancy flips as you throw quips and one-liners at them. Keep that shit for the cameras and the civilians still alive enough to see it. You kill evil. Simple. You grab their throat in one hand, take their head in your other, and pull them apart like those old Patriot action figures. Done. No screwing around. Threat firmly neutralized.

  “Hey,” Summer says softly. “Do you guys think Sam is alright? I haven’t seen her all day.”

  I freeze, back to the window, pulling my sweat-soaked t-shirt over my head.

  I slowly lower my arms and glance over my shoulder.

  “Who cares?” Red says, then burps. I can hear Jordan mutter, ‘gross.’ “If the super princess wants to live in her castle all-year long, then she can be my guest. She’s always been an asshole, and now that she’s got that weird chick with the tablet licking her feet clean, too, she’s probably gonna get worse. Nepo-hero is a lost cause, speedy.”

  “Yeah, but…” Summer sighs. “It sounds stupid, but Sentry’s kinda the reason I’m a superhero, y’know.”

  …what?

  I’m at the window again, not looking outside, back pressed against the wall next to the opening.

  “Sentry is your idol?” Red asks her. “No freaking way. That moron?”

  “Are you ever nice?” Jasons asks her.

  “I am. Just not to liars like her.”

  “Look,” Summer says. “My dad’s my idol. He was the first ever superhero in my hometown to ever make it into the Minor Leagues. He was massive news in his hay-day. And when you come from where I do, dreams like that are a dime a dozen. Everyone wants to be someone. Barely anyone ever does. And Sentry just…went out there and did it, you know?” Red scoffs. Summer continues, a ball of lead sitting firmly in the base of it as I turn my head to glance outside the window. She’s standing in front of them, blonde hair dancing in the wind, the sun kissing her thighs and bare feet and the freckles on her nose. “I know she’s Guardian’s daughter, but that’s just harder. It’s easy for us guys. Well, not you, Jordan. But we can screw this all up, and everyone’s gonna shrug and figure, yeah, that makes sense, you’re not special. But she’s different. She has to get everything right. And… I dunno. I think she kinda needs friends. Besides, my brother and sister would totally freak if they found out I’m her best friend, too.”

  “Good luck with that,” Jordan mutters, snatching her phone out of Jason’s hands. “She’s invincible, inside and out. A lot of us legacy kids grow up together. It’s the only kind of ‘normal’ we have. It makes us feel less—”

  “Oh, save me the woe is me bullshit,” Red says. “You were born with gold coming out of your mom’s—”

  “Talk about my mom, Sydney, and I’m going to wire your jaw shut so you never do.” Red, to my surprise, rolls her eyes and decides to pick meat out of her teeth instead. Jordan sighs and says, “Sam never liked us. Ever. I’ve invited her to ten of my birthdays, a dozen more other parties, advertising events, movie premiers, costume parties, meet-and-greets with a ton of Major League superheroes, and not once has Sam even said ‘no’ to me. She just doesn’t come. She’s always busy fighting someone, or in a commercial, or pretending she cares about school and avoiding every single text I send her. She’s a bitch, don’t get me wrong. But she’s also not that bad, either.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Red mutters, flicking meat off her fingernail. Jordan looks grossed out. I almost smile. “Say all you want, but she thinks she’s special, and that’s never gonna change. Once an asshole, always an ass.”

  “Yeah, well,” Summer says, shrugging, “I think she’s great, and mark my words, she’s gonna be calling me her very best friend before the end of this semester, if my name isn’t Summer Sabrina Slide!” She proudly plants her fists on her hips. She looks like a total idiot, but also…heck, it puts a small smile on my face. “We’re all going to be best of friends, and we’re gonna go on so many trips, and get detention together, and fall asleep doing assignments together, and sobbing over our GPAs together. Oh, man!” She vanishes in a blur, then she’s behind them, pulling them all into a messy, swear-filled hug. The thing about Speedsters that nobody ever clocks is just how strong they are, because their bodies have to withstand all that velocity and sudden stopping they do, meaning she’s mushing three superheroes together, as if she’s trying to absorb each one of them. “This semester is gonna be so awesome!”

  “Let go of me,” Red gasps. “Keep touching me, speedy, and I’m gonna burn you bald.”

  “Torch my wings, and you’re a dead girl walking,” Jordan wheezes, then cringes when Summer squeezes.

  Then Jason looks up at me. It’s a sudden jerk of his head, a narrowing of his eyes. And then a smile.

  We lock eyes for a handful of seconds. He’s the only one who looks like it doesn’t hurt.

  Then he winks.

  I stand back from my window, then drag the curtains shut.

  For a guy with no powers, he’s damned perceptive.

  Or lucky. No way he actually saw me.

  But…

  You know, I am kinda hungry, and sustaining myself on energy drinks and candy isn’t gonna last forever. I’m gonna have to eat something. Don’t know where to get food, either. Those dorks on the grass probably do. So…

  “Fuck,” I mutter. “Now I’ve got to go outside and ask them for help? Kill me now, universe. Please.”

  Lame. Lame, lame, lame! Screw it. I’ll grab one of them, get something to eat, then come back here.

  Before I can get into the shower, a voice suddenly erupts in my room: “Heya, superhero!” I cringe, then spin around, because that’s Clare’s voice. Sharp. Cheery as ever. Only in my underwear with a towel draped around my neck, my heart starts racing, and if I wasn’t already covered in sweat, I’d be bleeding the stuff right now. “It’s me, your one and only sidekick. Listen, I heard about your little mishap in the sim-room. It happens. Nothing to be worried about, alright?” I swallow, throat dry. Where is she? Is she invisible now? I tug the towel tighter around me, then narrow my eyes and scan my room, trying to spot human vitals, listening for a heartbeat that isn’t mine. But she’s not here. Nowhere near. “So if you could be a darling and open the door, I can hand over your food, your timetable of classes for this semester, and a handful of other stuff I quickly need signed. Nothing official. Just your first batch of college merch. Jackets. T-shirts. Baseball caps. This stuff is really heavy, so could you, like, hurry?”

  “Not a fucking chance,” I whisper. I’ll jump out of my window before I ever see her again.

  Which is exactly what I’m going to do once I finish showering. Doors are overrated.

  “Sam,” Clare says again, then grunts. “Please? I know you’re in there.”

  Over my dead body, bitch.

  “Is this about the trusting me thing?” I pause. “Because if it is, you’re just going to have to. Besides, not a single thing out of my mouth was a lie. You’d tell if I was lying in a heartbeat. You succeed by being smart, and being smart means focusing on your future. And right now, Sam, I’m kinda in your future, too. We’re stuck together for the next four years, so you might as well get used to me. Now, open the door, I’ve got your birthday gift, too.”

  “Jesus,” I whisper. “Just leave already.”

  Then the steel door groans open on its own, the lock going from red to green with a hissing click. Clare drags a rattling trolley into the room, and atop it sits a massive blue and gold cake, with a figurine of myself mid-flight, one fist in the air, the other near my chest, like I’m planning to launch myself through the ceiling. How did she get in… Stupid question. I watch her slide a card into her back pocket, then she grins and throws her hands into the air above her head. “Surprise!” she says. “It’s your favorite: marble cake, not too sugary, just perfect. I’ve already taken dozens of pictures, now I just need a couple of you eating it, maybe a few cutesy ones of you with cake on your nose, and your socials are gonna be gold for the next two days.” She looks me up and down, then notices the gravel crunching under her heels. Clare looks at the destroyed punching bags, sighs through her nose, then turns to look at me. “Well,” she says, “everyone’s got their outlets, right? Personally, I like pushing pins into a tiny stress ball my dad gave me. It really works wonders, because I just imagine I’m putting knives inside of whoever just pissed me off, and then I feel better. Much better.” I tug the towel higher up my chest, because this freak of a human is slowly getting closer, heels snapping against the floor until she’s arm’s length away. Clare smiles and loosely folds her arms. “So, super-Sam,” she says. I hate that name already. “What happened in the simulator?”

  “Get out of my room, Clare,” I say flatly.

  “Sam, I need to know.”

  “And I need you to get the fuck out so I can shower. Don’t you follow orders? Isn’t that your thing?”

  Her eyes are empty, and her face is blank. “Sam, what happened?”

  “Nothing!” I say. “Now can you just get out already?”

  Clare sighs. “Fine.” She boops my nose with her finger. I rub it. “I’ll be here waiting for you to finish, because you’ve got a couple of contracts to fulfil. Remember the ones you signed, the legally binding ones?”

  “What’re you even talking about?”

  She turns off the TV and sits on the couch, grabbing a massive wrapped gift box. “You’re super-duper special, Samantha. So special. So special, in fact, that we’re going to sit here and fulfill all of your obligations to your sponsors and your shareholders and Pantheon U, because it’s the least you can do. It’ll take a few minutes.”

  I clench my jaw. I can’t hear those dorks outside of my window anymore, only far off into the distance.

  “Clare—”

  She rattles another gift box, then shows it to me. “New watch, anyone? Diamond-encrusted from one of your new boosters. It’s got your name on it, too! This one is a new necklace, and this one might be a set of jeans you like. Kinda flared. Kinda torn up. All so expensive that I’m not just a little bit jelly, but this is all so exciting, S!”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Clare pouts. “Aw. Someone hasn’t eaten properly. I’ll call someone to bring you some food. Pizza?”

  “Clare,” I snap. She freezes amongst a pile of gifts. I massage my eyes. “Shut up and get out.”

  Silence. Long and hard, almost like a wall between us.

  Clare slowly lowers the gift in her hands, puts it aside, and faces me. “Sam, let me explain something. Get rid of me, and there’s five more waiting—literally. Would you want five people fussing over you, or just one? And you can’t say no, not in PU. Your boosters are investing in you. They want to see you wearing their clothes, their jewelry and their tracksuits. You’re an investment. A very expensive investment. All I’m doing is making sure you keep trending toward more lucrative deals. Before you know it, you’ll be eligible for Superhero-Likeness, and then you’ll be pocketing a sweet few million dollars every month because PU wants you here. You, Samantha. Not your mom and not your ‘friends,’ but you. Don’t drop the ball now. Don’t fuck this up. But if you hate all of this stuff, if you want to let down all of your followers and plummet in the draft rankings, maybe all the way down to a second round pick, then…” Clare shrugs. “That’s fine, too. I’m here to help you achieve your goals, Sam, and if getting draftedby the fucking Atlana Avengers or the goddamned Houston Hero Corps is what you want to do with your life, then let’s hitch our wagon to mediocracy and wave goodbye to this room and the bags you just destroyed, the costume that costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to develop and tailor to your physiology, and, right, how can I forget about the amazing shower you’re now going to have to share with hundreds of other people. Oh, and by the way, the hot water runs out on the floors below, and since you’re such a heavy sleeper, you’re probably never going to find any.” She stands up. “So, should I tell your boosters you hate everything, or just that you aren’t aiming that high, anyway?”

  “Wait,” I say quietly. “What’s my draft rank got to do with any of this?”

  “Hm?” she says. “Oh, you don’t know?” She circles her finger through the air. “Who pays for this room, Samantha? Your scholarship? Ha. Right. Your symbol has been stitched onto all of your towels. There’s a giant carpet of your mother’s shield on the floor. None of this is on a scholarship of any kind. Jesus Christ, the shower even has a Sentry-mode. Some millionaire who wants to tell the entire world he’s the reason you look so great and fresh and ready to win the day designed that thing. A regular scholarship means a dorm room with four, maybe five other people. This? All of this? Someone is paying for it. A lot of people. So if you piss them off, they’re also the kind of people who can very easily crash your social pages’ engagement, churn out bad headlines to the public, and limit your exposure just like that.” I open my mouth to speak. She talks over me. “You can lift buildings over your head, you can move faster than bullets—I get it. But…then what? You want the Liberty route? Want to be the second Independent to make minimum wage and work an office job and still have to go out there and save the day?” She walks across the room and puts her hand on my shoulder. My body tenses all on its own. “Of course you don’t, Sam. That’s just not who you are. You’re a mega-star. A rockstar with a cape. So do me a favor and shower, then get your butt in here so we can take a bunch of photos, get you ready for tomorrow, and have a great time.”

  “I…” I lick my dry lips. “They can do that? Fuck with my draft rank?”

  Clare smiles. “You might be great, but number one great? Well…”

  I clench my jaw. “I fought tooth and nail for that fucking rank.”

  “So did a lot of other people. Hell, you’ve only been number one for a few months, Sam. You can always lose it in a heartbeat to someone else. Someone hungrier. Someone who just wants it more. Someone who thinks you don’t deserve it and listens to orders, too. Opinions change. Perspectives shift. People watch an old video of you fighting a supervillain and figure it’s actually not as impressive as you first thought. But who cares, right?”

  “I care,” I whisper.

  “What was that?”

  “I care.” Louder.

  Clare rubs her thumb across my jaw. “Good girl. Now, shower, then birthday cake. It looks so tasty.” The action figure topples off the top of the cake and loudly clatters onto the floor. She only smiles more. “Go on, Sam.”

  For my rank, and for my future, so I guess…

  Whatever, I wasn’t hungry, anyway.

  Like I said, those dorks are temporary.

  Draft rank, legacy, my future? That’s forever

  That’s immortality. That’s my name carved into the bedrock of heroes.

  That's me they'll be whispering about in history classes, in news segments. They'll put my costumes in museums one day, and some little girl somewhere is gonna stare at it and think, I want to be that. It'll be my symbol on buildings, on superhero foundations.

  It'll be me they simulate in their sim-rooms, craving just one shot at me to test their metal against the best.

  The best ever.

  “Just a couple of pictures, right?” I say quietly. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “Atta girl,” Clare says. She sounds just like mom. “Let’s keep being the best, m’kay?”

  I rub the scars on my wrist, and nod stiffly. “Right. Yeah. Let’s be the best.”