The Serenoid document was a special kind of torture, designed by sadistic, multi-jointed linguists from beyond the stars to drive the unworthy insane. My brain felt like it was trying to solve a Rubik's Cube made of smoke while wearing oven mitts.

  Their symbols didn't just translate to words; they conveyed concepts that had about as much in common with human language as a supernova does with a birthday candle. The only bits I could halfway grasp were in the realm of energy manipulation, which, let's be honest, was still mostly guesswork decorated with fancy math and the charred remains of my lab equipment.

  Warnings, however, are a universal language. They were emphasized with darker, more aggressive glyphs and helpful pictograms showing various species of aliens having a very, very bad day. I’d even managed to puzzle out the Serenoid equivalent of an exclamation point, which looked like a startled squid. Wee. My life’s ambition, achieved.

  One section that was painfully clear was about the dangers of forming an early core. Apparently, living in an extremely high-essence environment—like, say, our beloved Death World—came with a complimentary gift basket containing cancer, birth defects, and the cheerful possibility of spontaneously developing a monster core. The recommended path to advancement for such lucky individuals? Go out, hunt other high-essence creatures, and… ugh… eat them. A literal farm-to-table supervillain program.

  This was the "demonic cultivation" Sabrina had mentioned, stripped of its philosophical baggage and reduced to its cannibalistic, metaphysical bare bones. I could sort of understand why the purity snobs would look down on it.

  It’s one thing to tap into ambient chaos energy; it’s quite another to make a sentient being part of your balanced breakfast. The documents strongly implied that Alphas who developed these cores were, for all intents and purposes, a type of chaos monster themselves.

  So, did that mean the big-name Class 8s and 9s got there by snacking on their rivals? Or were they dining on radioactive Kaiju steaks? With my power, I could probably make Kaiju meat safe to eat. A gourmet experience, I was sure. But I had a sneaking suspicion the answer was a little from column A and a little from column B, with a side of existential horror.

  The texts mumbled something about ways to deteriorate a monster core if you found one rattling around inside you, either through alchemy or some kind of energy absorption that let you keep the power without the icky moral implications of having someone else’s life force screaming from your large intestine. Of course, trying that sounded like a fantastic way to either blow myself up or strip my powers permanently. My life: a constant choice between a grenade and a black hole.

  I shook the thoughts away and forced myself to focus on the guest instructor for Game Theory. The class was nothing as I’d expected. It was less about grand military strategy and more about the nitty-gritty, soul-crushing legalities of being a super-powered civilian. Because when you’re packing enough energy to level a city block, the government gets very interested in the fine print.

  “Remember,” droned Officer Wilkins, a man whose face was a roadmap of cynicism and whose posture screamed ‘three days from retirement,’ “even though you may be called upon for law enforcement assistance, you are still civilians. Yes, you can make a citizen’s arrest, and in some ways that gives you a lot more leeway, but it can also cut your throat if you are stupid.”

  He scanned the room, his eyes landing on Lurker, who was practically vibrating with heroic eagerness. “You. If you saw Metalstorm out of costume, walk into a house, what would you do?”

  Lurker smiled, a bright, earnest thing that probably came with its own theme music. “I would go in and capture him, and haul him to the police station. Citizen’s arrest, since regular police would need to call in a super team for someone like that.”

  I tried to stifle a snicker. Metalstorm was one of my more profitable rent-a-villain personas—a magnetokinetic, easy to simulate with some strategically placed ferromagnetic plating and a lot of theatrical arm-waving. The thought of this eager beaver trying to “capture” me while I was just trying to enjoy a post-gig burrito was hilarious.

  Officer Wilkins’s cop-dar must have been pinging off the charts because his gaze immediately locked onto me, one eyebrow climbing his forehead like a skeptical mountaineer. “Do you disagree?” he asked, his tone implying he already knew the answer.

  I sighed. “Can I plead the fifth?”

  He shook his head, a slow, weary motion. “Not unless you would be incriminating yourself. Why do you have something you need to confess?”

  “No,” I said, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just didn’t want to sound like a smart-ass.”

  He glanced at Lurker. “Do you mind?”

  She shook her head, her lilac eyes—set strikingly against her dark skin even beneath her domino mask—narrowing slightly in my direction. “Not at all. If I have a grudge, I’ll challenge him.”

  Wilkins gave me a thin, humorless smile. “Please, feel free to unleash your inner smart-ass.”

  I nodded slowly, like a bomb disposal expert deciding which wire to cut. “Okay. Lurker would be very, very lucky if she didn’t spend the next twenty years in an alpha penitentiary. And by lucky, I mean she’d better have a brilliant lawyer, tens of millions of dollars to pony up for a settlement, and the hope that Metalstorm is desperate for money and feeling uncharacteristically forgiving.”

  “Why?” Wilkins prompted, playing the straight man to my stand-up routine on jurisprudence.

  “Because a civilian only has the right to intrude on private property if they have reliably witnessed the commission of a violent felony in progress. Otherwise, that’s breaking and entering, trespassing, and a one-way ticket to Lawsuit City. If she heard screams, maybe. But just seeing a fugitive? Not enough.”

  “Secondly,” I continued, ticking points off on my fingers, “she would have just broken the mask law in the most premeditated way possible. Cops can perp-walk an unmasked cowl as long as they didn’t do the unmasking themselves. A civilian doing it? That’s doxxing, which is a criminal and civil offense. We’re talking civil awards so high they’d need a satellite to see the top.”

  “Thirdly, the grab? That’s assault and battery. If he’s a known felon actively escaping custody, maybe you have a case, especially if you’re deputized—which many alpha heroes are. But if not? You just attacked a guy for the crime of… walking into his own house. Add kidnapping for taking him to the station, unlawful imprisonment if you cuff him, and a whole menu of aggravated assaults. And if you use your powers to commit any of those crimes? Each one becomes a Class Three felony with a mandatory five-year minimum, consecutive sentencing. You could be looking at a life term for trying to be a hero.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I shrugged, the picture of nonchalant doom-saying. “Her only real hope is to bribe him and pray he doesn’t press charges. Even if he’s a smirking asshole who taunts you about your inability to touch him while he’s buying milk… he’s technically right. Speech is not a crime, and she is not a police officer... hearsay, all the way.”

  Lurker was staring at me, her earlier eagerness replaced by a calculating intensity. “You seem to know an awful lot about that.”

  I gave her my best ‘who, me?’ look. “I was in school for corporate logistics. One of the most important courses involved how to legally defend your property and personnel against mask attacks. We had a lieutenant who drilled into us exactly when and how force was legally applicable, even for a security force containing Alphas.” What I didn’t add was that the most important lesson for a professional villain is knowing the exact line the heroes can’t cross. It’s the difference between a profitable sparring match and a one-way trip to a black-site prison. Hotshot taught me that. The hard way.

  Lieutenant Wilkins actually cracked a real smile. “Looking for a job with the Alpha Auxiliaries after graduation? You did your research. I could put in a good word for you.”

  I shook my head vehemently. “No, sir. I’d rather fight giant Kaiju and murderous villains. A police officer’s job is far too dangerous for me.” Getting shot at by bank robbers? Dealing with spouse or child abusers? Serving warrants? No, thank you. I’ll stick with world-ending abominations. Less stressful.

  He grinned and nodded. “Good job, smart-ass.”

  “You know you are getting a very strange reputation,” Senpai Bob said, floating serenely above the gym mat like a bald, muscular, non-asian Buddha. “Between the suits, your kidnapping, and the… energetic incident… with Frost Phoenix, no one knows what to think. You are starting to make people very nervous.”

  I grinned, working through a new stance I’d cobbled together from Savate. Pure Tai Chi was for people with a different center of gravity and a less intimate relationship with imminent catastrophe. My body was built for flexible, durable power—for taking a hit and returning it with interest.

  If that meant stealing techniques from kickboxing, wrestling, or interpretive dance, I’d do it. The actual movements were secondary anyway; the real work was visualizing the flow of essence, guiding the torrent of power through the patterns that defined my very being. My vision of momentum wasn’t just about motion; it was about impact.

  “I probably shouldn’t be enjoying this,” I said, shifting my weight, “but I sort of am. The more time goes by, the more I start to realize my old plans were small, my mind was small, my ideas were small, and my world was a neatly contained, easily manageable little snow globe. Then someone shook it, and now I’m drowning in plastic glitter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you knew my history. What do you think I meant?”

  He chuckled, the sound like gravel rolling downhill. “Isn’t that my job? To answer questions with thoughtful riddles that force you to recognize truths?”

  I snorted. “Only in bad anime and chop-socky movies. It also helps if you pull an Uncle Ben right around the time I need a boot in the metaphorical ass. Right now, I am on the verge of something either amazing or catastrophically stupid, so I think a boot in the ass would disrupt my concentration more than light a fire under me.”

  “I think,” he said, his broad face crinkling, “that you are considering your prior… extracurricular activities… and seeing how you could leverage that experience into training opportunities for your team. And perhaps to showcase some of the projects you’ve been working on without prying eyes.”

  “Damned perceptive for a professional meathead.” I offered a slight smile. “You’re going to wreck your own reputation for solving problems by hitting them until they stop moving.”

  He nodded. “Are you asking for permission?”

  “Permission for what?”

  “Permission to head off-campus dressed up like a third-rate villain so you can do whatever it is that you want done outside of the island’s watchful gaze?”

  I shook my head, the picture of innocence. “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of putting that sort of responsibility on your shoulders. However, when I do head off campus dressed like a first-rate villain, I am merely letting you know in advance that I will be heading into action with a few select members of my team in order to obtain important supplies for our mutual power growth and continued survival.”

  “Wait, you are really going to dress up like a villain?” he asked, though he didn’t sound surprised.

  “What does a villain look like?” I countered. “My team will be dressed in nonstandard costumes. Specifically, test armors. Unless we get very, very lucky.”

  “Very lucky?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m trying to coax an instinctive cyberkinetic to build the software systems we need, but I don’t really have anything to offer her. Or at least, I have no idea what she wants. Frost Phoenix was thinking maybe if we offered her a prototype, she might be more favorable to negotiation.”

  “Have you spoken to the coder yourself?” Bob asked, his tone implying I’d just confessed to trying to bake a cake without an oven.

  I shook my head. “No, she’s shy. A second-year transfer student. We’re not on the same floor.”

  He looked at me like I was a particularly stupid dog that had just tried to mate with a fire hydrant. “Every once in a while, I mistake your paranoia for actual worldly experience. And then you do something like this and remind me you are unbelievably, phenomenally ignorant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He grumbled, the sound a low earthquake. “I should force you to figure this out on your own. You and… what was her name? Frost Phoenix?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You are potentially rich, and she knows it. You have an incredible power rank, could potentially boost others’ ratings, and are positioned to become very famous. You’ve been training her, expanding her power pool, increasing her flexibility… and you are, I am told, reasonably pleasant to look at, if one enjoys the ‘haunted, sarcastic wreck’ aesthetic.”

  I nodded slowly. “Right…”

  He grinned. “And she didn’t leave the leadership of her team to join yours. That means she’s ambitious. Do I really have to spell it out for you?”

  The penny dropped with a deafening clang. “Wait, you think she’s intentionally keeping me away from Quiet Code? Playing gatekeeper?”

  He shrugged, a massive movement of his shoulders. “Not in particular. But I also think you have some very curious blind spots. You will go on a single-minded bender to accomplish one goal, then give up at the slightest provocation in another area. You are a master of complex systems and a moron when it comes to simple social leverage.”

  I nodded, the gears finally starting to turn. “You have very good points. Can I get out of here?”

  “Why?”

  I looked at my watch. “Because Abigail—Network—has to be in class in forty-three minutes, and I need to have a chat with her about data brokerage and interpersonal dynamics.”

  He grinned, noticing the renewed focus. “Fine. Just don’t hurt anyone. You seem to be pretty good at escaping trouble, but if you are not in class by the beginning of next semester, I’m calling the truant officers and sending you to your room without dessert for a week.”

  “Hah. Hah.” My laugh was dry. “Wait, can you actually do that?”

  He nodded, his expression dead serious. “You and several others with momentum-related powers create gravitational anomalies when you use transit abilities. I can track those anomalies. You really don’t want me to try and stop you when you are traveling dispersed, though… it might not have any effect on you when you reconstitute, or you may be missing pieces.” He said it with the casual air of someone discussing the weather.

  I highly doubted that. He was a gravity controller, not a quantum metaphysicist. He couldn’t strip away parts of my own memory and ability to blueprint myself any more than he could read minds. But I didn’t need to tell him that. Let him have his fun. I had a trip to plan for, right after our midterms. And a certain data broker to see.