My last class of the day after lunch is a behemoth, three-hour monster. A threat level 15.5 superhuman killer called Cape-Ethics! The horror! The agony! I struggle to even realize the extent of the excruciating boredom I’m about to be put through. I had decided to sleep off most of my frustration and exhaustion from both the night before and Applied Combat, woke up five minutes before class, and thankfully found where I was meant to go because Clare left a sticknote on my backpack with directions. The devil, as far as I know, is very well-prepared. I leave the dog chasing its own tail mid-air and leave the hostels dreading what was coming next. For some reason, most freshmen were giving me a pretty wide berth, even the Non-Powered ones, too, like I had a virus they didn’t want to catch.

  Which is fine by me, because it means finding a seat in a massive lecture hall in an older-looking brick and limestone building called the Concord Hall. I’m a minute early, and immediately, there’s something a little odd going on the moment I step inside. It’s one of those really big rooms that looks like a section of the colosseum, stiff red chairs in a curved bank bearing down on a slightly raised platform at the front of the room. A man in a white turtle neck is flipping through sheets of paper and fiddling with his wire-thin glasses, taking questions from anyone who gathers enough courage to walk up to him, but none of that is the problem. My biggest problem comes with the people filling the massive room. There’s easily two-hundred-plus people here. Most of said people are human.

  And no, I’m not grouping them all together again—I literally mean Vanillas. A good chunk of them sit on the front four-dozen rows, chattering and talking, laptops open and pens ready, like they’re itching for our first set of exams despite this literally being our first day here. I look around, holding my backpack a little tighter, and don’t see anyone I know. A bunch of superhumans are sitting higher up, nowhere near as ready. Some of them are even half-asleep, heads nodding and drooling on their own chests. Right, I think to myself. We’ve all got different timetables. I can work with that. It beats having to stomach a bunch of people skirting around me like cowards.

  “You have got to be stalking me,” someone says beside me, nearly making me jump out of my skin. I look to my right and find Hope standing next to me, her amber eyes almost glowing as she smiles. “You’re here, too?”

  I step back from her and wait for my throat to fill with blood, but…

  Nothing.

  I swallow, and my saliva just tastes like the greasy burger I got from the pavilion. The necklace mom gave me feels warmer against my skin as I adjust my backpack on my shoulder. “Yeah,” I say, still arm’s length away. “I guess I am. What the heck are you doing here? I thought you were some kind of journalist major or something.”

  She shrugs. “I am, but this is one of my electives. It goes well with Cape-Law, too. Excited?”

  “Barely,” I mutter. “What could this guy teach us for three entire hours? Hit the bad guy, save the good guy, and smile for the cameras. Those are the only ethics I know, and pretty much the only real ethics that I need.”

  “Riiight,” she says, finding a seat for herself. She’s in loose jeans and a crop top today, the kind that shows her waistline and— Samantha, I chide myself. She made you run away and bleed, don’t forget that. High-alert, superhero. Keep your eyes on the enemy. So I pull my eyes off her belly button piercing and drop myself into the seat next to her. Enemies close, or whatever. “And what if the good guy you saved is actually a convicted rapist?”

  “Jesus,” I say, pulling my laptop out—a new one after mom smashed the last one. “I just save people.”

  “I thought you said you save good people.”

  “I save whoever needs to be saved,” I say, waving my hand. “If the guy’s a rapist, then he gets to go to prison afterward instead of getting turned inside out by Bozo the Clown. I don’t make the rules, I just follow ‘em.”

  She raises an eyebrow and says, “Should I quote you on that?”

  “Are you recording this?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” She smiles softly and pokes me in the ribs with her pen. “Maybe I just wanna get all up in your business and figure out how Sentry’s mind works. The Psychology of the Cape, by Doctor Simon M. Furmore. Have you read it?” I shake my head, because the last book I read was the Invincible Star-Sentinel, Issue #45: Justice Day, which freaking rocks, by the way. Even if I’ve read it five times now. “Here,” she says, pulling it out of her bag and handing it over. It’s got a blank-faced superhero staring at himself in the mirror, his reflection partially nude, scarred, bruised, and tattooed with all the mental health issues people think superheroes suffer, like anxiety and nervousness and blah blah blah. You get the picture. Hope jerks her chin at the guy standing at the very front of the lecture hall, her voice now much lower, smelling like honey and soda. “That’s him. There’s a reason his classes are always so full. It’s a miracle I even got in this semester.” She looks at me. “Or maybe that’s fate, y’know.”

  “Doubt it,” I say, smiling at her, then giving her back the book. Time for the most boring part of my day.

  School! Oh, boy! I can’t wait to know about ‘ethics,’ the most important part about being a superhero!

  Said nobody fucking ever.

  The class falls silent as Dr. Furmore clasps his thin, pale hands. I can almost see the veins through his flesh, pressing against them so hard I can probably pull them out with a pinch. “Sometimes,” he begins, and I hear a girl near the front furiously type that into her laptop, “removing a superhero does more harm than keeping them around. Sometimes, a hero who saves a hundred and violates one is more useful in costume than behind bars.” He walks slowly across the stage, shoes biting into the wooden platform. Then he stops and stares at us, eyes almost squinted because of his thin smile. “And sometimes, the ethics of heroism become blurred by the rights of the public. Yes?”

  Heads nod. People mutter.

  Hope puts her hand in the air and says, “I disagree.”

  I shift and look away, because man that’s a lot of people glaring at her. I clear my throat and find something very interesting to look at on my shoes as Hope flips through a notebook, scribbles something down, and looks up.

  “Please, everyone,” Dr. Furmore says to the whispering and muttering many. “This is what I encourage all of my students to do. Argue with me. Infuriate me. Make me think. There is no value in thought if it is unopposed."

  And now I’m sitting here thinking: I came to PU for some kickass superhero classes, not…this.

  Hope adjusts her glasses and says, “I’ll take Ocean-Boy’s headline incident three years ago for—”

  He waves his hand. “Five new laws have been put in place since then. Give me a more—”

  “Fine,” Hope says, flipping her notebook shut with a pronounced slap of paper. “Just last week, we all witnessed Titan saving thirty-seven people from Mad-Bomber’s terrorist syndicate just here in Old Port. I’m even more sure that many people here come from that side of the city and can tell you for a fact that homes, roads, and even critical buildings like hospitals and a local public high school were destroyed.” There’s heavier silence in the air, and I’m starting to sweat on her behalf, because Dr. Furmore hasn’t even blinked or moved in the past minute. “And according to the official United Hero League report released to the public, this was because of the Bomb Syndicate’s weaponized and strategic attacks. That, in truth, is a lie.” I frown, then turn my head to look at her, just like two-hundred or so other people do in unison. Hope swallows, clears her throat, and breathes out—it comes shakily and dry, but only loud enough for me to hear. “According—” She clears her throat again. “Sorry. According to my own research, because yes, I went there myself because I have family who stay there, the Bomb Squad was—”

  “I see where you’re going,” Dr. Furmore says, nodding slightly, eyes slightly wider. “Is Titan at fault?”

  “Titan has a track record of not being friendly in the scope of public property.”

  “Suck Titan’s balls, is what you can do,” someone two rows below us mutters. “He’s the greatest ever.”

  “Titan has statistically been the third-most reliable superhero in terms of threat neutralization in the country,” Dr. Furmore says. “Ever since he was drafted into Ultra Force, their efficiency has risen ten percent.”

  “Right,” Hope says. “According to the UHL reports, which are all fabricated to make him look better.”

  The silence that announces itself is violent, sudden, and I cannot believe she just said that.

  Out loud, too! Is she nuts!

  Titan, the Titan—dubbed the freaking Best Recruit in Decades by Cape Monthly, because when does Ultra Force of all teams personally tell you that you’ve got a massive contract offer before you’re even finished with your freshmen year in PU? The guy only stayed here for so long because he wanted to shatter every single Fight Night record, leave a mark on school grounds and have his cape hung up in the stadium. He was ranked first for four years in a row. I’ve only been ranked first for the past couple of months. If I sneeze wrong, I’ll find myself in near thirtieth.

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  “Titan stopped a Threat Level 9.4 all on his own when he was nineteen,” I say to Hope, my voice echoing through the hall. “I’m pretty freaking sure that the guy can get some grace for damaging a couple of buildings. Besides, he’s always doing charity drives and whatever for the people down there. They can fix buildings any time of the year, but the people he saved can’t magically come back to life if Titan hadn’t been there to save everyone.”

  Hope blinks as she looks at me, mouth parting to say something.

  Dr. Furmore speaks before she can. “Samantha Luck, is that who I’m seeing right now?” He walks closer to the edge of the stage and adjusts his glasses, then smiles even more thinly, like his head is about to split open from the mouth and around his skull. “Well, of course it is. Tell me, Miss Luck, from your perspective as a seasoned hero, presumably unlike the girl beside you”—Hope’s jaw tightens; I can hear her knuckle strain around her fountain pen, too—“why is it that you think superheroes should be granted leeway in lue of public property damage? Is there even an argument for superheroes to walk away without paying a single dollar? On average, Major League superheroes earn roughly five million dollars a year upward, and that’s not counting brand deals, sponsors, paid appearances…you get the picture.” He clasps his hands. “Give us your view. From someone who lives that life.”

  “Uh…” I begin, very intelligently. I’m used to people staring at me, but since when are the lights this bright, the room this hot, and what’s with all the heartbeats I can hear all of a sudden? I shake my head and sit a little straighter in my seat, clear my throat, lick my lips, and say, “Well…from my experience, superheroes are pretty important. I mean, I’ve accidentally destroyed a building before, and I partnered up with that burger joint and made them so green that they sold the company a few months into our deal. So…yeah.” I shrug. “Besides, when the cops go and shoot up a building, you don’t see their pay checks getting cut to replace a couple of windows and stuff.”

  “That’s not the same thing,” Hope says. “The police are public servants.”

  “And, what, I’m some kind of clown in a costume, getting punched through walls ‘cause I like it?”

  A couple of people quietly laugh. The air almost seems to shift inside the room.

  “The UHL classifies superheroes as: State-licensed enhanced responders operating under conditional public mandate.” She stops talking, long enough for the silence she’s invited to kill the laughter in the room. “So yes, you are a public-servant, every single superhero, every vigilante, every Independent, is one. However, for whatever reason, superheroes aren’t held to the same accountability standards the police or the fire department are.”

  Heads turn to look at her. Pens get put down and quiet swear words slip through tight lips.

  But Hope’s not even looking at me anymore. She’s looking at Dr. Furmore.

  He says nothing, so she marches onward, voice clearer, steadier, and much louder.

  “Police departments budget for misconduct settlements,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “Whn they do destroy property, they get audited, documented, litigated—and legally, at least—they do actually answer for it, just not directly from their pockets.” Her shoulders move, almost in a tiny sorry-not sorry kind of way. “But when a cape goes and flattens a hospital in the name of saving the day, we chalk up their collateral damage as a price the public has to pay for being kept safe. And who’s left to pay for that? The tax payer. The people who needed those roads to get to work, who needed that car to pick up their children, who needed that medicine and can’t afford to go all the way across the city to buy it. So no, superheroes aren’t clowns in costumes, they’re much, much more powerful, and I think a lot of people are just afraid of forcing them to take accountability. That’s a fancy buzzword, right? We do it all the time when capes get caught saying something derogatory or harassing someone, but not when it’s this big.”

  “So, Miss Bishop,” Dr. Furmore says, slicing through the deathly silence. “Your point?”

  “Just because they’re powerful doesn’t exempt them from being held to public standards.”

  “Very good,” he murmurs, nodding slowly. He then looks at me. “Your rebuttal, Miss Luck?”

  I massage my jaw and avoid his eyes, then sigh and say, “The military has its own rules. We should too.”

  “Counter-point—”

  “No,” Dr. Furmore says to Hope. “You’ve given me what I need. Someone else. Right or wrong?”

  A brown-haired girl in a polo shirt and short skirt says, “Wrong.”

  I recognize her from last night. Or the night before? Man, I need to stop drinking. She’s the girl who yelled at Ashley on the pavilion after Mikey got attacked. She’s with the Humanity League, now with a band-aid crossing her nose and a bruise just under her right eye. She looks messy, hair in a bun trying to keep itself together with a pencil and a rubberband, a piece of stale gum grinding between her teeth, and half a dozen plastic bracelets around her wrist. She’s sitting by herself right up at the front, almost so close to Furmore she can get up there and speak.

  “Isn’t it the lovely Miss Freeman,” Dr. Furmore says. “Back for another semester of vocal sparring?”

  “Not my fault you failed me again just because you don’t like what I’ve got to say.”

  He lowers his hands and says, “Third time’s the charm. Illuminate me, Rowan.”

  “Well,” she says with a sigh, then tilts her head back to look at me. “You guys aren’t the military. You’re not even that special. You can fly, big whoop. So could my gerbil when my brother kicked it.” She turns around in her seat and points her pencil at me. I fold my arms. “The military actually teaches people how to deal with these big, messy combat situations, and the only reason they’ve got their own laws is literally because they’re entirely a separate organism from the public. You don’t see servicemen getting paid two-hundred million freakin’ dollars of good ol’ uncle Sam’s finest drug to go on TV and tell us to be good people, or whatever.” That makes my skin itch, because in case you’re living under a rock, yeah—my mom signed one of the biggest contracts in cape history a few months ago, adding to the previous two-hundred she’s already made on her previous contract. Where all of that cash goes, I’ve got no idea. I swear, she can fund a small military if she wants. “You guys go through life getting told you’re the most specialest, bestest, most perfect superhero ever, only for you to rape someone the second they don’t want to look at you twice. So, yeah, you’re not the military. You’re glorified fire-fighters. Protect the public and don’t preach about how I should be nice to everyone when half of Ultra Force’s alumni have been sued for assault.”

  If it wasn’t already silent, you’d think the government just told us Liberty City got nuked again.

  “Well,” I say quietly, “if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that no Vanilla saved America after the bombs fell.” Rowan’s lips go tight as she keeps staring at me. “Superhumans rebuilt Liberty City after it got hit. And when the West Coast nearly got taken out, Patriot led the First Frontier to victory, saving the thirty million people who’d left the East Coast after the war ended.” I lean forward. “My mom has a grand total of zero people dead on her watch. Zero. Nobody’s done that with the amount of villain situations she’s been in. She’s got a better freaking success rate than Star-Sentinel and the Pantheon Five. So, yeah, if someone’s gonna preach about being a better person, I think my mom kinda has some merit to that because she’s the best person to rely on for advice.”

  A chorus of agreeing voices ripple through the room, most—if not all—of them superhuman.

  “Calm, everyone,” Dr. Furmore says. “I can see where this is going, and it’s not where I would have wanted it to go. There is no us versus them mentality in my classes. The great American race is who we are, that is all. Not Powered and Non-Powereds.” A few of the Vanialls in the room flinch at that word. Rowan shoots him a glare that he ignores. “What I strive to teach is…thought. No example of ethics can be viewed through one lens and be entirely correct. Throughout this semester, we’ll have guest speakers, some familiar, some unfamiliar, all with their own stories to tell, all with very interesting perspectives to share. As for now, we have business to cover and a syllabus to understand, because without ethics, there are no heroes, and without heroes, there is no New America.”

  With that, he presses a button on a tiny remote and turns on the large screen behind him.

  Hope leans in, facing forward, and whispers, “Humans made up the majority of the people who rebuilt Liberty City. The First Frontier was logistically impossible without the brilliant strategists that were forced to work through a nuclear winter blackout under piling government stress and supervillain pressure, whilst Patriot took all the glory for leading a largely failed operation to retake the West Coast.” She looks at me. “Comic books are great to read, but they’re not history books. A lot of people treat them like they are, but if I were you, I’d dig a little deeper. I know it’s not fun, and there’s a lot of boring stuff between the juicy bits, but it really makes you wonder.”

  I try not to clench my jaw. “I’m not… I read books, by the way.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” I say through my teeth, as Dr. Furmore begins reading off a slide. “I’m very well-read, actually.”

  “Read this, then,” she says, taking my arm and writing a phone number across my palm. Her fingers linger on mine for a beat longer, then Hope pulls away and smiles, the warmth of her fingertips still burning softly under my skin. “I figured you must’ve thrown away the card I gave you or forgotten about it, so here. I live off campus. You’ll be allowed to visit if you let ‘em know you’re leaving and get a slip from the admission center, but you’re only gonna have an hour or so off site before they start getting antsy. It’s a two minute walk away. Probably a few seconds for someone like you.” She turns on a tablet, making her eyes glow. “Come over for a book sometime.”

  “Why’d I go through all of that to come over just for a book?” I ask her.

  Hope smiles a little and adjusts her glasses again. “Dunno, I guess you’ve got to find out.”

  “I thought you’d hate me for arguing with you, not inviting me over to sit and read psychology books.”

  “Hate you? Because we had a constructive argument in class?” She puts a hand on her chest. “Samantha Luck, I would never.” She smiles and bumps my shoulder. “Like Furmore said, what’s thought without criticism?”

  “I think I’m out of my depth for this class,” I mutter. Just sitting here makes my head hurt.

  And I’ve still got two hours left! Fuck!

  Where’s Time-Skipper when you need…

  Right. He beat up that guy who tried to kiss him. Jail, that’s where he is.

  “Stick with me, and it’ll be fine,” she says. “I think we’ll have lots of fun this year, Sam.”

  “Something you want to share, ladies?” Dr. Furmore asks.

  “Just excited to be here, Doctor,” Hope says.

  He smiles. “Well, I’m glad you all are. Now, chapter one: the fallacy of the cat in the tree.”

  “Riveting,” I mutter, flipping a notebook open. This is gonna be just so fun.