Why was the cat up a tree in the first place? Did the little girl trying to get it down even want your help? There’s a couple arguing in the apartment across the street and it’s starting to sound like a death match, but sure, the cat in the tree is probably more important, right? Is anyone watching? What if there isn’t a little girl needing help? What if it’s a stray cat that’s just scared to get down, would you still help it? What happens when you save it, anyway? It runs right back up and now you’ve got to come back and get it down again? Don’t you have better things to do?

  There is a literal supervillain murdering people in the bay area, but yeah, sure, save the freaking cat.

  That’s a summary of the entire three hour class, lightly salted with Rowan pitching in her ideas every other minute about how pointless it is that superheroes even bother with the small things when there’s plenty of other shit we could be doing, Hope adding her thoughts on what would actually happen if nobody was around to see the hero go up the tree to save the cat, and the class firmly getting split evenly down the middle with the clean-cut precision of a blind butcher.. It all comes to an end when a handful of Vanillas march out of the class, grumbling under their breath with thirty minutes left on the clock, and thank God! Furmore took pity on us and dismissed everyone early, and I left as soon as I possibly could before anyone could grab my hand and ask me questions I am so not ready to answer. I left Hope trailing behind me until the crowd separated us, but I had to make a very, very urgent phone call.

  The kind of phone call I’ve made dozens of times, mostly when I’m covered in blood and a kid just came around a corner and found me halfway through murdering someone evil. The kind that makes dead bodies go away.

  The kind that also keeps my career alive, unlike the aforementioned evil people.

  Because trust me, if certain things went public, my career would look as ugly as a mangled corpse.

  “Come on, come on,” I mutter, quick-walking around a corner. It was late afternoon, the sun bleeding into the sky, air warm with an undercurrent of bite. I’m starving, but that’s for later. There’s still several other classes left to get through for most people until eleven, and thank God that’s not me. “Pick up, pick up, the one time I need—”

  “Is that my rockstar on the line?” a voice says through my phone, making it crackle. I dial it down as Harry laughs in my ear, because that’s my manager for you, always so cheery—and who wouldn’t be? I’ve been making this guy enough cash to take his family on yearly cruises since I was ten. “How’s your first week of college going? Crazy parties. Boys. Or girls! Whenever you wanna sit down and decide what you’re into, by the way, hit me on my line so we can start working on the marketing package for that, superstar. Right now, the public is all for the mystery of who you are, you know? We’ll milk that a little more. Besides, being under-age gave us enough breathing room, but now…” I can almost hear a shrug and the intern he’s probably trying to impress with his metal debit card. “But I’m rambling. These past few days have been nuts. You’re trending like crazy, superstar. Talk to Uncle H, what’s—”

  “Poltics,” I say, scratching the back of my head as droves of people walk past. PU students always seem to be going somewhere and nowhere all the time. Lounging. Jogging. Walking. Arguing. Making out. “What am I?”

  “Ah,” he says, then I hear him quietly tell the intern to get out of his office. “Wow. Politics. Fun. Have you called Roxanna about this, too?” I shake my head, but my silence is an answer enough. “Alright, hang on, lemme just get her on the…” My phone beeps, and now we’ve got a party going on as my agent promptly joins the call.

  “If nobody’s rotting, on fire, dying or suicidal, then I’m not sure why this call is happening,” she says.

  “Politics,” Harry says to her, “and if that’s not gonna kill, burn, or send her career off a cliff, then…”

  Roxanna, sounding like she was walking somewhere, stops. “Politics? You’re in college.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I say. “But it’s been a really, really weird couple of days, and people keep asking me all these big questions that I have no idea how to answer, so before I say something stupid, I need to know. Now.”

  “She’s brilliant. Brilliant!” Harry says. “Atta girl, that’s the right thing to do. Uncle H and Aunt R—”

  “Don’t call me that,” Roxanna says dryly.

  “—have your back,” Harry says anyway. “Now, the best way to deal with politics right now is to not deal with politics right now. Don’t worry, we’ve got that package ready, but that’s for your twenty-first birthday, which goes nice and snug with your graduation year, too. It’s gonna be a Hello, World moment. Politics right now? Pfft. That’s a no-go, mostly because we’re still in phase-one, and phase-one is all about freshmen stuff. Finding yourself, making friends, going to parties and getting work done. That girl you’ve got, Sinclare? She’s been really good.”

  “For once, Harry has a point,” Roxanna says. “It’s just not the right time. I’m still sorting out a lot of your contracts. Being in college means it’s harder to get you across the country for appearances, and a lot of people don’t want to foot the bill and come to you. I’m gonna crack them. I always do. Your NIL deal is coming along well. PU might have its fifth highest contract on the table ready for you, but they’re stubborn on a few clauses I don’t like, so you’re gonna just have to wait. Getting involved in politics right now just won’t help, Sam. Stay away from it.”

  “So…” I say, as someone I don’t know stops, takes a selfie with me, and keeps walking. “I ignore it.”

  “Yep,” Harry says.

  “Exactly,” Roxanna says. “The longer, the better.”

  “So if someone asks me if I’m pro superhuman rights—”

  “Let’s not even go there,” Harry says, chuckling uncomfortably.

  “Whatever you say,” I sigh. Humans and politics, a match truly made in hell.

  “Oh, and Sam?” I pause before I cut the call. Roxanne says, “Happy belated birthday. To many more.”

  Then she cuts the call herself, leaving me in a slightly awkward silence with Harry.

  He clears his throat, drums his fingers on his desk, and says, “Anything else, champ?”

  “I nearly killed someone today, I think. In class.”

  Silence, then: “Well, are they dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Alrighty, then there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll send a message to Rox. Now, I’ve gotta run, but you’ll get my intern if you can’t get me, alright? And hey, you keep being awesome, alright? Tell Sinclare I said thanks!”

  That’s how it usually goes with Harry and Rox. We first met when I was eight, and back then, I didn’t really understand why a kid like me needed to sit in a massive boardroom all day long listening to grown ups argue about me and my future when I was literally missing my favorite superhero cartoons. Other people have tried getting me to join their agencies or their freelancer brands, but Harry and Rox are like invisible buzzards—in a good way, of course. They’re always circling, always watching, ready to pick someone apart before I even know they’ve been trailing me for months. The only thing left behind is usually a corpse of someone’s career and a dead phone number they tried to give me. They’re protective, overly protective. I once went skinny dipping with a couple of other younger heroes during summer and got caught by some sleazy asshole looking to blackmail me into doing a favor for him or else he’d release it to the public. Long story short, that guy got nabbed, caught with gigs of illicit hero material and government documents, and promptly got sentenced to a cozy thirty years in Liberty Penitentiary. A few days later, Harry called me into his office, shredded the last remaining photos in front of me, and said that all I need to do is be smart, always be on the lookout, and never trust anyone with a camera unless I’m smiling for it.

  I think they’re just about the only two humans on this planet mom doesn’t fully despise.

  Before I can pocket my phone, it vibrates and lights up with a message from an unknown number. I’m pretty used to that. Sometimes you’ve got superhumans smart enough to track your cell down, but if you pay a little extra to your cell provider, they flush them out and block their number for you—which isn’t what’s happening right now. Usually, a tiny red flag pops up next to their number, right before another message tells you it’s a scammer trying to get money out of my account or whatever. I know, just trust a Techie to be a pain in the ass sometimes.

  I stare at the message the number just sent me and frown, then glare at it and nearly crush my phone.

  I consider ignoring it and going to find something to eat, then going back to my room to make sure that little hellhound hasn’t chewed a hole straight through my couch—instead, the bottom of the message stops that.

  “Dear Samantha Luck,” I quietly read to myself, sitting on the edge of an empty bench. “We are pleased to inform you about your request to become a sidekick.” This fucking thing. I sigh through my teeth and keep reading. “We’ve now been able to fix sidekick slots during your free periods. During these periods, it is expected that you keep yourself available and near your cellphone. In cases that you aren’t available, please forward a message to Dr. Lively carefully stating the matter. Currently, you have—” I gasp and push my fingers through my hair, because there is no freaking way that many people need my help. No, wait, sorry—I’m meant to kick my heels and fly on over there to help anyone and everyone with whatever problem they’ve got! I bet they’ll want me to smile through everything, too. Maybe do a victory dance once they tell me I’ve done a great job. Fuck. Fuck this fucking school and it’s stupid freshman rules. I switch off my phone and rest my face against my palms, elbows on my thighs.

  I sit like that for several minutes, forcing myself through the dozens of breathing exercises mom has taught me for years now, the kind that force me to not want to murder someone. The only reason I haven’t gone and hit Dr. Lively in the face yet is because of my rank, both my GPAs, and just about every ounce of my future resting literally in my hands right now. And in my hands, I mean my head, because I have a lot of thoughts racing through it now.

  Mostly bad thoughts. Very degrading thoughts about humans and where they can shove it.

  I groan and sit back on the bench, resting my arms against it and looking into the sky. A flock of birds slowly cross the burnt-orange air above Pantheon U, along with superhumans carving through the wispy clouds.

  It would be so stupidly easy to just…leave.

  But I don’t, because I didn’t work my ass off getting into this school just to kick whenever I want to.

  “This blows,” I mutter, then check my phone. Oh, look at that, two more people need my help.

  That brings the total to a whopping eighty-seven. Eighty-seven.

  According to the message, this is a sidekick slot in my schedule that ends at eleven, so yay!

  Lucky me!

  “Mind if I brood with you for a while?” I look up and find Kory standing over me, backpack slung over his shoulder, wearing that tired green army jacket loosely over a white t-shirt. The guy looks like hell. Bags under his eyes. Hair slightly greasy. He smells like exhaustion and fatigue and cigarettes, and when he smiles, it’s so thin that I almost wince at what it’s doing to his face. I wave my hand at the free space beside me. He shrugs off his backpack and grunts as he sits, pushing hair out of his face and fishing through his jacket for a piece of candy. He offers me a cherry-bomb. I gladly take it as he pops another into his mouth. We sit in silence for several seconds, because it’s not like I’ve seen the guy since orientation. He’s like a ghost, literally. Any paler and he’d be naturally see-through. “Do you ever think,” he says, staring up at the sky as well, “that dead people have it easier than any one of us?”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  I chew the cherry-bomb for a couple of seconds, then turn my head to look at him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he sighs, then looks at me. “You look stressed out. What’s up?”

  “It’s this stupid sidekick thing,” I say, waving my phone through the air. “I got caught for flying on campus or whatever, and apparently that’s a rule that freshmen have to follow. Now I’ve got sidekick duty for the semester.”

  “That sounds like—”

  “Slavery?” I ask. “‘Cause yeah, that’s what I said.”

  “I was gonna say bullshit,” Kory mutters. I almost smile. His voice is soft, not quite—almost hoarse. “Mind if I have a look?” I hand over my phone as he scrolls through the requests. He slowly shakes his head. “Wash my car and wipe down the leather? Finish printing my finance homework? Clean my room?” Kory looks at me through the wispy strands of his dark hair. “I’m no genius, but this kind of sounds like glorified errand-boy work. No offence.”

  “That’s why nobody does the whole sidekick thing anymore,” I mutter. “Besides, it’s a little weird if you’re some total stranger’s sidekick following them around all night long, wearing some skimpy costume they made for you, hanging out with them in their dark little man-cave.” I shudder, truly shudder, at the thought of what pre-war sidekicks had to put up with, judging by the stories you hear going around. Of course there’s all those sidekick union things nowadays that protect them, and it’s a whole legal process if a Minor or Major League hero wants to have a sidekick, and most of the time, you’ve gotta prove without a shadow of a doubt that you need this kid by your side, which is kinda hard to do other than: Yeah, I think it would be good for them to fight crime with me. I sigh and lean forward. “This really, really sucks. I’m Sentry. I can’t go around cleaning people’s filthy bathrooms.”

  “I can tag along if you like.”

  I frown, then look at him. “Huh?”

  Kory shrugs. “I’ve got no more classes left today, and I kinda don’t like my roommates.”

  “Who’re your roommates, anyway?”

  “Jason and Alex,” he says. “They’re…fine. But just loud.”

  “Jason is loud?” I ask. “That guy’s so soft-spoken I’m even surprised he’s actually here.”

  And, you know, he’s a Vanilla with an actual Rank. Which is freaking insane.

  And scary.

  “Their thoughts, I mean,” Kory says. “When they’re asleep, I hear a lot, and…it’s been a long weekend.”

  “You look like it,” I mutter. “So you’re a Telepath?”

  Great, another one.

  “Someting like that, but I can’t hear everyone’s thoughts. You’re quiet. It’s nice.” He hands my phone back and stands up. “I don’t talk much, so I won’t get on your nerves. But if you want to handle this on your own, then–”

  “You don’t have to do this shit, you know that, right?”

  Kory smiles thinly again. “Doing this shit is what I’m kinda used to doing.”

  “You actually enjoy doing someone else’s chores?”

  He shrugs.

  What am I not getting here?

  I narrow my eyes and look at Kory, from his busted sneakers and stone-washed black jeans, to the tired smile on his wary face. I’ve never met a superhero so willing to get chores done, let alone a teenage one at that. Is this some kind of prank? Some kind of weird got-you moment? But no, he’s still standing there, waiting for me to stop staring at him. But mom taught me better than that. Humans tend to do things for you only because they want something else in return. Kindness isn’t free and trust can be bought, and if it looks human and thinks human, then it’s probably planning to stab you in the back and bleed you dry somehow. Besides, if he does this with me, he can pull the old ‘I helped you, now you’ve gotta help me’ schtick eventually, and yeah, I’m not planning on chewing on the consequences of my actions any time soon, thank you very much. So I sigh and slowly get off the stiff bench.

  “I’ll be fine on my own,” I say. “Never needed help before and I’m probably not gonna need it now.”

  Kory’s smile thins even more somehow. “Oh,” he says, like it’s surprising that me, the superhero who’s never been a sidekick or ever wanted a sidekick in the first place, refused his help. He adjusts his backpack and nods. “That’s fine. I guess I should be going. I heard there are soundproof rooms around here somewhere, so I’ll go searching for those to clear my head.” He turns on his heels and walks away, pauses, then looks over his shoulder.

  “Thanks for making everything quiet for a couple of minutes,” he says, then turns back around and leaves.

  “Weird guy,” I mutter to myself, and feel my phone vibrate again and again against my thigh.

  Time for this day to get even more awesome.

  By the time I’m done washing cars, waxing hub-caps, folding laundry and— Ha! Yeah fuckin’ right. You’d never catch me actually doing any of that shit. The first thing I did was shut off my phone, toss it into my backpack, and head directly for my room, where I promptly fell asleep face-first on the couch until the dog came and started barking so loudly at the door it felt like Blade-Master was stabbing me in the ears. I throw a pillow at the pup and all it does is keep barking, barely moved as the pillow bounces off its rigid spine. I groan and roll onto my back, knuckle the drool off my lips and check the glowing clock near my bed. Ten-fifteen. I massage my eyes. Someone knocks hard against the dense iron door. Clare would’ve marched straight in here and shaken my shoulder to wake me up. Someone else. Someone strong enough to nearly shake the several inches of iron right off of their hinges.

  “Coming, coming,” I mutter, swinging my legs off the couch. I yawn and stretch my arms over my head, then scratch my ribs as I stumble toward the door and pull it open. Logan is standing on the other side, hands on his hips, blonde hair a mess, with a tilted smile on his sun-burnt face. I raise an eyebrow. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I need a sidekick,” he says. “Turns out my neighbor is one. Suit up, we’re heading out.”

  I keep scratching my stomach as Bud forces himself through the gap between my legs and the door. I use my foot to push him back inside, but now he’s floating above my head and curiously staring at Logan. He looks up at the dog. The dog tilts his head and looks at him back. I grab the mutt and put him under my arm, feeling his tiny but powerful legs kick and madly squirm. “Long story,” I say, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “All due respect Mr. Number One Draft Pick, but I’m not gonna clean your car or wash your gym gear or whatever. If you don’t mind…”

  He puts his hand against the door, firmly stopping me from shutting it. The metal groans as I push.

  Logan’s forearm hardly tenses as he says, “Sam, this isn’t really a request. It’s one hell of a chance.”

  “Right,” I say, “because that’s what Dr. Lively said to me about getting to be a doormat.”

  Logan gets closer to the door and drops his voice, and now I’m realizing he’s in black pants and a loose PU varsity jacket over a spandex costume. I stand a little straight. “Sentry, between me and you, and probably the entire school, we all know you’re not gonna do the sidekick gigs. And nobody’s gonna make you. But they will remember that you don’t like doing the small things, and you also don’t like following orders. It goes on transcripts. It goes on their notes.” Closer, voice now barely above a whisper. “They watch us, especially if you’re Number One. So here’s some advice from a bone-head like me: tag along for just one night and blow off some steam with me.”

  I look past him and into the hallway, where the camera above my door is glaring right at me. I step back inside and narrow my eyes at him. “This is some kind of test, isn’t it?” I quietly ask. “Lemme guess, I’m in trouble.”

  Logan sighs and puts his hands up in a shrug. “Alright, if you don’t wanna kick some ass with me…” He turns around slowly and begins walking away, looks over his shoulder, but I’m still standing in my doorway, an eyebrow raised and Bud finally going soft in my arms. Logan stops halfway down the hallway, sighs, and jogs back to my door and says, “Katie always says I’m really bad at this, and Jesus, that girl is right about everything.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and says, “I need someone to watch my back. I’m going to Old-Port tonight and I’ll be back before morning.” I glance at the camera above us again, blinking with a tiny red dot. Yeah, totally some kind of test. I bet they’re mad I didn’t go do my sidekick duties. Well, they can suck it. “Logan shakes me. “Focus, Sam,” he says, almost through his teeth. “If you think I’m lying about this, then go and check your messages.”

  I sigh and do as he asks, because maybe he’ll go away and let me go back to…sleep.

  Huh.

  Ana sent me a picture of her in a towel straight out of the shower a few hours ago, throwing a peace sign as mist hangs around her. And another. And another. And a series of messages asking me if she’s done something wrong. What’s wrong with her? All of a sudden she can’t get enough of me, and now it’s kinda creeping me out.

  Whatever. I ignore her messages and scroll through the dozens more flooding my phone.

  “Wow,” Logan says quietly, looking over my shoulder, his eyes lit by the screen. “Popular much?”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I mutter. Red sent a message that just says up yours, which is nice of her, and Summer wants to hang out tomorrow and grab breakfast, and dozens of other superhumans want to collab on some kind of social media campaign that’ll be more beneficial for their pages than mine. And, finally, I find one of the oldest messages sent just two hours ago, tagged scarlet like the rest of the sidekick messages. And then I frown.

  Because how did I miss this?

  Request: Off-Campus Hero Work.

  Status: Approved.

  I blink, then look at Logan. “You did this?”

  “Yep,” he says, grinning at me. “I tried getting a hold of you, but none of the other freshmen knew where you’d gone apart from this slightly creepy Asian guy who had a hunch you’d be in your room. I’ve been knocking for ages.” He pats my shoulder. “But hey, if you wanna sleep some more, I totally get it. Your first day on campus can be pretty darn hectic. I remember my first time here, too. I could barely keep my eyes open after my first class.”

  I pocket my phone, put down the dog, and a handful of seconds later, I’m suddenly standing in front of him again, wearing the costume that had been hanging in my wardrobe. It’s stiff and clingy the way new spandex tends to me, hugging me in places I don’t like and pinching parts of my body that make me wince. I work out the kinds as I roll my shoulders and bend my boots, because of course I’m gonna take this request—and no, I’m not his sidekick either. I’m leaving campus because I want to leave campus, and because this is the kind of shit I’ve been made to do for my entire life. Power nap. Save the day. School. Save the day. Soccer practice. Save the day. Just save the day.

  I’m so excited I’m pretty sure he can hear my entire body buzzing.

  Logan grins and throws his arm around my shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

  I shrug off his arm and say, “What’re we doing anyway? Snooping around the docks? Fighting a villain?” I get right up close to him and grab his jacket, pull him even closer and ask, “Are we gonna hunt down a syndicate?”

  He carefully peels my fingers off his jacket and says, “No. We’re gonna help my girlfriend move into her new place.” I blink, because…right, he’s obviously using some kind of code word for ‘stop gangsters from shifting weight through the city.’ Maybe it’s the San-Clara Family, or the King’s boys trying to ‘move into’ a new section of the city, and by ‘help’ he means take these guys down before they even step foot in so much as a square inch of a probable new territory. Duh. That’s superhero 101. He probably said that because of the camera in the hallway.

  I nudge his ribs. “Smart.” Then I wink. “Let’s go help your ‘girlfriend’ totally ‘move in.’”

  Logan looks at me funny, then says, “Uh…yeah, let’s get going then.”

  I slam my fist into my palm. “And how much weight…how many cardboard boxes does she have?”

  Logan scratches the back of his head. “A couple? She’s got a lot of stuff, mostly mine. We’re moving in together into this nice little place, and I need somewhere to keep my shit before I graduate and end up homeless.”

  God, this guy is a freaking genius.

  No wonder he’s Number One.

  He’s infiltrated these guys, pretending to be one of them just so he can be ahead of the curve. How long has he been doing the double-life thing, anyway? Must’ve been months. Over the summer, too. Building trust. Learning their lingo. He’s good at this. So good. My nose wouldn’t let me hang around evil that long, and neither would my patience if we’re being really honest. I fold my arms and shake my head, because goddamn, if I wanna be the best, I guess I’ve gotta stomach the stench of bad intentions, knuckle down and figure out what evil gets up to.

  “This’ll be easy,” I say, nodding my head. “What’s a little bit of weight for people like us, y’know?”

  Nudge. Wink. Sly smile.

  Logan shrugs. “I guess so. We should probably go before Katie rips me a new one.”

  Katie. God, that evil, evil replacement name for a gangster. Must be someone nasty like King himself.

  Oh, this is gonna be so, so much fun. I don’t usually deal with gangs, mostly because they’re a lot like the common cold. You think you’ve dealt with them until a few months later, and suddenly they’ve got someone new in charge, a new idea to follow, and a dozen more unregistered superhuman-grade weapons at their disposal. Crush one skull, two more grow from their corpse. But if we’ve got both Number One’s pairing up to take these guys down?

  Well, it looks like I’m gonna be on the news for the next whole month.

  “Alright,” I say, flexing and relaxing my fingers. “Let’s go deal with some weight.”

  “Awesome,” Logan says, “but maybe tone down the intensity, it’s weirding me out.”

  “Got it. Cool, calm, and totally ready to kick some butt.”