“Go back to campus, Samantha. I’ll deal with this on my own, Samantha. Humans are all secretly great people deep down, Samantha.” I scoff to myself as I walk out of a convenience store with two greasy hotdogs in one hand and an ice cold energy drink in the other. “Look at me, I’ve got a stupid girlfriend and a perfect smile. I’m getting drafted straight into Ultra Force in a few months. I’m so fucking perfect.” I nearly crush the can when I pop its tab. “Asshat.”

  A guy walking past me pauses and frowns, then points at himself. “Are you talking to me?”

  I smile at him, big, friendly and superhero-like, and say, “Myself. Sorry. Have a great night! Don’t forget to call a hero hotline if you see anything weird going down. It’s people like you who save the world, you know that?”

  He shrugs and keeps walking, holding onto a briefcase fat with work documents and a laptop that’s most definitely gonna get stolen on his way home, but hey, maybe he can take care of himself. Logan would probably get all up in that guy’s business right now, telling him he should go home, and fast, before something bad happens to him. Me? I wave at the guy as he glances over his shoulder, because I can trust people to make decisions on their own. If he wants to walk around carrying a laptop in Old-Port? Sure, go ahead. Is there a guy a few blocks away with a knife in his hand and desperation in his heart looking for a quick grab? Maybe. But Mr. Perfect can sort that out.

  Since, you know, the humans don’t need saving according to him.

  I sit on the curb for five minutes, watching cabs lazily crawl down the street, eyeing a guy smoking a tiny cigarette in an alleyway, and chewing through my late-night snack until I’m licking the ketchup and mustard off my fingers. I lean back on my palms and stretch my legs onto the street, look into the sky, and fight the urge to swear loud enough for him to hear me from several blocks away. As if I’m gonna take orders from him, I think to myself. Why would I waste this opportunity to be off-campus? I don’t even know the next time that I’ll even get the chance. I mean, I could go to Landfill Park and play baseball with the construction workers that usually hang out down there, catch a couple of drug-runners or maybe even play catch with a supervillain and his henchmen’s body parts. Instead, I sit forward, fold my legs, scratch the back of my head, and groan, because I really want to go now.

  That lady’s blood is still on my costume, dried and flaky, partially soaked into the fabric. I pick at the seams and brush it off my symbol, drum my fingers on my knee and begin fighting the urge that’s consuming me.

  I lose. Very quickly. I’m a creature of impulse who hates having to learn new tricks. Sue me.

  It takes five minutes to find the crummy apartment complex Logan is inside, only because his voice is so grating it’s like getting closer and closer to a whining industrial drill. It’s your typical Old-Port joint. Smoky gray windows. Bricks covered with black soot from the industrial district a few blocks away. A cat with a broken tail scrambles into an alleyway when my shadows crosses the street below. Packs of filthy, rabies-riddled dogs roam the rusting gaps between old cars sitting on bricks, and I choose to use the window as an entrance instead of forcing my way into this place through the front door. It’s hot. Reeks of vomit and sex and smoke. There’s a porn magazine on the floor, right where I’m about to put my foot down the second I slip through the window, and there’s also two very large groups of people at a standoff right now. They’re too busy shouting to notice I’m here, because there’s already a superhero on the case, arms spread, standing in the middle of the shouting crowd, trying to get them to chill out.

  One group, closer to the single, dimly-lit hallway, is dressed up the same as the bleeding woman, who’s now on the couch groaning as another lady tries to messily wrap a piece of cloth around her wound. Short skirts. Silky leggings. They’ve got push up bras and big hairdos, like they’re all superheroes from another decade. Plates of cold, moldy food are on the rickety table. Bottles—pick your poison, pain killers or liquor?—stand in a line beside the sink. It’s the kind of place that makes my skin crawl, and the same kind of place vigilantes just love.

  They’ve got this vibe going on these days, you know? Some kind of counter-culture bullshit. They think they’re doing things ‘differently’ and ‘the right way’ by dealing with hookers and gangsters, smoking cigarettes and bleeding in backalleys because this city is just so dark and grimy and rotten to the core. A message to any of you weirdos reading this: wrap it up, you’re not different. Night-Crawler does that same thing, except she actually gets paid for it. Again, get help. You’re not cool. And please, for the love of God, wash your costume, man. It stinks!

  Yes, we can tell—spandex clings to sweat and blood and mucus really, really well.

  The other group of shouting people are thugs. Baggy pants. Tattoos. Iron tucked into their waistlines and slurs flying out of their mouths like the smoke out of the cigarette dish on the floor. Usually the kind of guys I don’t like dealing with, but they’re also way smarter than people give ‘em credit for, too. They avoid me. A lot. Mostly because they’re smart enough to know their business only runs if they don’t go picking stupid fights with me.

  Logan, though? He’s not got that kind of street cred, I guess, because man, they’re laying into him.

  But that’s what you get when you think everyone’s a good person.

  “—and you think you get to decide what happens next?” a guy with a mane of blonde hair shouts, spit flying from his mouth and hitting Logan’s face. He tries to shove him out of the way, but Logan doesn’t move. “These goddamned Stacys go around taking shit that isn’t theirs, cutting boys up and wringing ‘em dry, and the first bitch who gets what she deserves goes crying to one of you cape-wearing fucks.” He spits on Logan’s chest. I try not to whistle to myself as I cross the room and head into the kitchen, because even junkies eat something right?

  “Don’t you dare call any of my girls that name!” a woman snaps. A little larger, huskier voice, big red hair and enough makeup on her face to give Jester imposter syndrome. “My girls ain’t thieves and they sure as hell wouldn’t steal from no-names like you punks!” She shoves past Logan and gets into the guy’s face. She drops her voice into a snarl. “Now get out of my apartment ‘fore I find out who your boss is and I get him to drop you and your boys into the cutters near the boatyard.” I open the fridge and frown. Old tuna. Empty bottles. And…hey, look at that! A partially melted Sentry figurine. I shut the fridge and start checking cabinets, because I’m not eating whatever the hell they’ve been burning in that black pot on the stove. “Get! You heard me! Before this gets bad!”

  “Popcorn, popcorn, hello you gorgeous bag of empty calories," I whisper to myself. I find a bag of the old microwave kind, but don’t find a microwave—or at least one that isn’t infested with roaches. Eye-lasers it is, then.

  Logan slides himself between the two screaming adults and spreads his arms, and that’s all that needs to happen for guns to be raised and knives to be pulled and screaming to be had. I cringe and work a finger into my ear, then sweep a pile of trash off an armchair, sit down with a sigh, and rest my boots on the table with a thud.

  Just in time for the shitshow to start.

  Under the pale, sickly green light coming from the bathroom down the hallway, Logan’s face looks ghastly. Almost pale. Maybe he’s angry. Maybe he’s frustrated. Either way, he’s doing a great job of hiding it.

  One thing that I can give him credit for is him not losing his mind in all this noise yet.

  Everyone would be sitting down like good little boys and girls if I’d dealt with this.

  “OK, Ok,” Logan says, shutting his eyes briefly, breathing. The shouting dims, the scowling and the quiet threats continue. “Now that we’ve established that everyone wants to kill each other, how about we don’t do that instead?” He smiles. It’s flat and empty. Neither of the groups stops glaring. One of the girls in nothing except her underwear spits on one of the guys’ pair of boots. I puff up the popcorn bag and slowly begin to make my eyes burn. Not too much heat, or else I’ll turn the corn into charcoal in a heartbeat. Gotta get it nice and toasty. “Even better!” Logan says, rubbing his hands together. “We all take a step back, take a deep breath, and maybe not keep calling each other names, huh? C’mon, we’re all adults here. Let’s settle this like adults. Now, who’s mad at who?”

  “This bitch—”

  “C’mon, man,” Logan says to the guy with blonde hair and one hell of an ugly tattoo of Death-Eater on his cheek and neck. “We spoke about this. Start again, maybe without calling her any kind of names, how about that?”

  “Fuckin’ Capes,” someone in the back mutters.

  The blonde-haired guy almost has to speak through his teeth. “This…woman, runs a racket. She teaches girls to steal and rape the younger guys around here. The guys too fresh on the streets to know their right foot from their left. We warned them to stop. But they just don’t fucking listen. Money. Guns. Watches.” A bunch of the guys start getting riled up, nodding and agreeing. “Fuck, they’re starting to get too big for their goddamned panties, ‘cause now they went and took a San-Clara kid.” I freeze. Half the room does. I slowly turn my head to stare at the gaggle of women on the couch, near the bleeding woman, or standing around the lady near Logan. These guys? I think to myself, tearing open the popcorn bag. These guys stole a San-Clara kid? Oh, man, they are so, so fucked.

  It’s a miracle this building isn’t already burning and half of these women aren’t already being skinned alive near the docks, unless… They don’t know where the kid is. I try not to smile as I shovel popcorn in my mouth.

  A missing San-Clara kid means half of Liberty City’s underworld is gonna turn into a bloodbath.

  Which I am not excited for, obviously. Innocent people get hurt because of gang wars.

  With my obligatory, legally-binding peaceful thought out of the way, I’m kinda wondering why these guys are looking for a San-Clara kid. The San-Clara Family has their own boys and girls, hitmen and mercenaries, even gardeners and pest-control for when their portion of the city gets a little out of order. Why them? They’re only here if they want to get in good graces with the Family themselves. Maybe show ‘em they’ve got a good rep, maybe get themselves in suits and gold watches, driving nice cars and doing legal evil like loan sharks and bad landlords.

  Cute. I like it. Thugs who want to network and move up in the world. That’s the evil I love.

  It’s creative evil, which is much better than ‘I’m gonna destroy the world, fear me! Hahaha!’ evil.

  I throw more popcorn into my mouth as Logan massages his face and processes that.

  He looks at the lady and quietly asks, “Please tell me he’s lying.”

  She folds her arms and glares. “Of course he is. You think my girls can kidnap one of those freaks?”

  “Watch your mouth,” one of the guys snarls, pulling the gun out of his waistband.

  “You ain’t working for Jupiter,” the woman says, venom on her tongue as her eyes slide across the room, dressing each one of them down to their unlaced sneakers and unwashed jeans. “Just a bunch of thugs. You think he’s gonna want to take a pack of strays like you boys?” She pulls mucus into her mouth and spits heavily onto the floor. I smile and keep chewing. “Jupiter ain’t got the time of day for boys like you. He’ll throw five bucks on the floor and tell you to get out of his face. Going around, telling folks my girls are the reason his kid went missing, are you nuts? I ain’t got a problem with the Claras, and here you idiots are, telling everyone in Old-P I stole the brat.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “H-hey,” someone whimpers beside me. I turn my head just enough to look to my right, where a girl with old braids and a black eye is crouched next to the armchair. Her fingernails sink into the cloth hard. “Aren’t you Sentry?” I nod and offer her some popcorn. She doesn’t take any. Rude. “You’ve gotta help us out. These guys—”

  “Are telling the truth,” I say to her, then tap my nose. “I’d be able to tell if they were lying.”

  Her eyes go wide. “But we didn’t do anything!”

  “Yeah, maybe not you,” I say, then point at the big lady. “But her?”

  Logan blinks, frowns, and turns around. He stares at me. I wave at him. He sighs under his breath and massages his brow. I get off the armchair, hand the bag of popcorn to the girl, and stretch my arms over my head as I walk into the center of the room. I yawn as several of the thugs quickly step backward, hands flying to their guns and hidden knives, curses sworn and panic filling their veins. I put my hands up in mock surrender and wander around the large lady, fold my arms, and stand with my back to the guys with large guns. Suddenly, nobody wants to call anyone names, which sucks, because I’ve got a couple of insults of my own that these guys would’ve loved.

  The woman narrows her eyes at me. Up close, she’s even uglier. A wart on her upper lip twitches and there’s strands of her real gray hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. Nerves. Heart is fast. Blood stinks of evil. She’s twitchy, wants to run. Eyes keep glancing just over my shoulder. Not at the thugs. Something else. I shift on my feet, just enough to get out of her eye-line, and sure enough, it’s not me she’s glancing at. It’s tiny movements in her eyes, so tiny that regular people would’ve missed it. Muscle-spasms in her neck. Saliva drying in her mouth. I halfway turn around and glance down the hallway, poorly-lit and lined with a slew of younger girls clinging to the walls and watching from afar, so afraid they’ve got adrenaline rushing through their veins like the alcohol I can smell in their bloodstreams. I glance at the lady again. Then down the hallway. I jerk my thumb over my shoulder and smile.

  “What?” she says, nearly spitting the word. “Those’re my girls. They’re clean.”

  “Sentry,” Logan says. “I told you to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, save the speech,” I say, waving my hand and spinning on my heels. I make a get out of my fucking way gesture with my finger, and the thugs part with grumbling under their breath. I stroll across the room and say hi to the girls with hooded eyes and thin hair with bruises around their throats and wrists. Run-aways and castaways, girls with no other choice. You see plenty of them around Landfill Park, just five minutes away from here. Supervillain fights left them without parents, without homes. Or maybe they’re the bastard children of some minor supervillain that got killed or put in prison, and the only thing left for them is to run and run and pretend that your name won’t get you viciously killed. But I’m not here for them tonight. I’m here for the tiny bathroom at the end of the hallway. I’m here for the flickering fluorescent light above the mirror turning everything a nasty shade of vomit-green. I’m here for the kid cowering naked, wet, and covered in filth—bones pressing against his pale skin, silvery-blonde hair slicked to his scalp, and large amber eyes glowing the only way a San-Clara’s eyes can do.

  I put my hands on my hips as I stand in the bathroom’s entrance, a tight smile fixed on my face.

  The place is a mess. The tiles are broken and the tub is rusting, and I’m pretty sure there’s a hive of roaches hiding in the pipes running along one of the walls. The kid, though, can’t take his eyes off me. His hands are bound together with tape, and a sock is wedged into his throat. I look at myself in the cracked mirror as Logan appears.

  “Holy shit,” he whispers under his breath, staring at the kid.

  “You knew he was in here, didn’t you?” I ask him quietly.

  “Of course I did,” he mutters. “But the kid’s fine. I didn’t need these guys murdering each other, because dead people don’t tell you anything when you ask them questions, and right now? I’ve got a lot of questions.”

  “Yeah, like how the fuck they managed to steal a San-Clara kid,” I whisper, folding my arms. I tap my finger against my bicep and look at him in the mirror. “Listen, I know you’ve got a problem with how I do things, but if there’s one thing I know about Liberty City, it’s that playing nice with people like this never ever works.”

  “Is that coming from someone who’s actually tried to play nice?”

  “…yes.”

  Logan shakes his head. “I’m gonna take the kid to the police and—”

  “The cops?” I say, spinning around to look at him. “Are you nuts?”

  He blinks. “It’s the smartest thing a superhero can do. My mom’s sister is a cop and—”

  “Great, good for you.” I shake my head. “Not happening. I’m gonna take this kid to Ultra Force.”

  “I feel like that won’t be a good idea.”

  “And giving him to the same people who’re on Jupiter’s payroll is?”

  “Do you wanna start a San-Clara, Ultra Force war?” he asks me. “Because that’s what’s going to happen the second Jupiter finds out where he is. God only knows what’s gonna happen if he finds out you handed the kid over. He’d start shit with the school, too. That’s not what I want, and I’m pretty sure that’s also not what you want—bad publicity isn’t always good publicity. And I won’t take him to the cops down here. I know a couple I can trust with my life. They’ll make sure the kid gets cleaned up, answer a couple of questions, and off on his way before lunch tomorrow.” I stare at him, because what! He’s planning to let go of this kid that easily? “Don’t look at me that way,” he says. “Trust me, doing the kid a favor means I’ve got a good relationship with someone working on the inside.”

  “Fuck. That.” I wave my hand at the kid. “Do you know what that kid can do?”

  “I know that he’s also just a kid,” Logan grunts, moving past me and crouching in front of the tub. He breaks apart the duct tape and carefully pulls the sock out of the kid’s mouth. Logan pats his back as he coughs and spits on the floor. “Trust me,” he says to the kid. “I know how bad a dirty sock tastes like, too. Want a mind, kiddo?”

  He wipes the back of his hand across his dry, bleeding lips, and slowly stands up in the bathtub, carefully gets out of it, and faces me. He’s bones and lanky muscles. Pre-teen or very small teenager. One way or another, I’m looking at a Threat Level 8 if I’m lucky. 8.7 if I’m not. That’s the problem with that family: they’re just too…weird.

  I’d explain it, but the kid is gritting his teeth and glaring at me, steam hissing from his skin.

  The large lady comes rumbling and shoving down the hallway until she’s beside me. “Fuck,” she breathes, then steps back. She looks at me, grabs my wrist, and I have to stare at her greasy fingers for having the slightest audacity to even curl around my skin. “Have the kid. Shit, take him! He’s all yours! Just get him out of here!” The kid spits on the floor. His saliva melts through ceramic and concrete and the iron pipes underneath the floor so easily it makes the air ripple with heat. Painful heat. The kind that stings and sparks and burns your throat when you swallow. The fat lady stumbles back and shoots a glare down the hallway. “Jen! Jen, get over here!” Silence, then the girl I’d given my popcorn to slowly stalks down the hallway until she’s slightly beyond arm’s length away. The large lady grabs Jen by the back of her neck and points at the San-Clara kid. “I told you to give him enough to knock him out! Why the fuck’s he awake? And why the fuck’re you not watching him?” A slap. It echoes like a gunshot down the hallway. Jen hits the wall and holds her face, lip split open. I blink slowly and stare at the big lady, at the fat ruby ring on her finger now shining with blood. “Goddamned gutter trash, can’t do a single thing—”

  “Sam,” Logan says. I blink. Shake my head. Look at him. He mouths, ‘Don’t do it. Not here.’

  I stare at him for several seconds, peel my eyes off him, off the boy, and look at Jen again. Now backing away, now trying to explain herself. The large lady is bellowing and the thugs are now in the hallway, demanding to see the kid, trying to get him to come with them so they can take him back to his family’s compound, and I just…

  I just don’t think it’s the time to use our words anymore. Not when everyone’s shouting.

  Not when there’s blood in the air and a walking Cataclysm a foot away from me.

  I take a deep breath and push my fingers through my hair, then slowly exhale.

  My fist goes through the side of the fat woman’s torso. She freezes and chokes on blood. I pull my hand away and out comes her guts and blood and foul-smelling half-digested food. She hits the weak floorboards with a thud. Now nobody is moving. Now nobody is talking. I snap my hand to my side, flinging the blood off my fingers and covering the wall beside me. I rub my fingernails against my chest, check my fingernails, then look at Jen.

  She whimpers and trips on her feet, then falls hard on her ass. I stand over her and jerk my chin down the hallway. “Take all the cash you’ve got and run. Take whoever you want. Anyone who doesn’t go to you doesn’t get to leave tonight.” She doesn’t move, so I snap my fingers and say, “That’ll include you, too, Jen. Get moving.”

  She goes, prancing to her feet and breaking into a mad, stumbling sprint, bouncing off one wall and the next as other girls try to grab hold of her and leave as fast as they can. A minute later, they’re gone, the apartment empty. Now it’s just the thugs, the superheroes, a dead body, and a kid burning so hot that wallpaper is melting off the walls outside of the bathroom. Logan is staring past me at the dead body, barely breathing, not even blinking.

  “Hey,” I say. The thugs look at me, then the guns that I’m looking at. “Gonna use those?”

  They back away, almost as one, and blonde-hair says, “We ain’t see nothing tonight.”

  See what I told you?

  “Run,” I say, and they sprint, slamming the door behind them, swearing all the way down the stairs.

  “Now,” I say, turning toward the bathroom, “either you’re gonna chill out, or I’m gonna—”

  The kid screams and throws himself at me.

  I side step. He plows straight through the wall, showering himself with dust and wood and…

  Right. He’s literally on fire.

  And now the building is, too.

  “Great,” I mutter, listening to that tiny beast of burning rage burst into flames.

  And here I was thinking my night would suck.

  I get to beat up a San-Clara and save the day, all in one night!

  I slam a fist into my open palm and crack my knuckles, only because it feels right.

  Logan moves.

  I’m talking move—move so fast he’s a blur in my eyes.

  And then he’s gone, straight out of the hole he’s made in the side of the building, the kid’s flames extinguished under his jacket, and tearing through the night sky until he vanishes behind a distant skyscraper.

  I stand at the window, gaping into the sky, fingers in my hair and horror on my face, because no!

  Fuck. Fuck!

  I was this close to having the night of my life. To having an actually fun fight for once! But no, I get stuck watching Mr. Perfect crest the sky and vanish into the clouds, and it’s not like this building is burning, because the force of his flight killed the flames, too. Smoke sits heavily in the apartment, shrouding the dead body in the hall and coloring the entire room a dull shade of silver as the moon peeks behind a shroud of clouds. I groan and put my hands on my hips, kick the armchair across the room, and flip the table over just because I can. Once I’m done, I wipe my hands on my thighs and head down the hallway and use my foot to roll the fat lady onto her back. She nearly splashes in her own blood and pile of guts. My nose shrivels as my eyes burn scarlet, and then, well…

  We know how garbage disposal happens around here.

  When I’m done, I head back to the convenience store, buy myself another energy drink, and ignore the guy who once had a briefcase and a laptop lying flat on the sidewalk, blood pouring out of a knife wound in his throat.

  You’ve just gotta love this city. It’s so full of justice and hope. Don’t you love it?

  Because I sure do, especially when supervillains like Jupiter get easy wins because the heroes who’ve sworn to protect this place do so much good that they end up being stupid. Whatever. Not my problem, anyway.

  I’ve got classes in the morning and a sleep schedule to fix.

  If Logan wants a supervillain buddy, then fine.

  Not. My. Problem.

  “Look at me,” I scoff, tossing the empty energy drink into a dumpster, “I’m Logan, and I saved a kid who’s probably killed people before because I’m a swell guy! Aw, geez, Mr. Supervillain, sir, please be friends with me!”

  If that’s the Number One Cape in Pantheon U, then that’s just made my life way easier.

  Number One draft pick, here I come—since I can make the decisions superheroes need to.

  I launch into the sky, cratering the ground I don’t let touch my boots.