Tacony Academy Charter High School looks exactly the same as it did before summer break, which is somehow more unsettling than if they'd painted it neon green or something. Same redbrick facade. Same American flag flapping limply in the late August heat. Same banner over the entrance that's been there since I was a freshman.

  But the security checkpoint at the entrance is definitely not the same.

  Last year, after the courthouse attacks, they installed metal detectors and started doing random bag checks. It was annoying but manageable - mostly theater to make parents feel better. Now, though...

  "All electronics in the bin," barks Officer Nguyen (male), who replaced Ridley after the whole Rogue Wave incident. No relation, I presume, to Officer Nguyen (female). His hand rests casually on his taser, which is decidedly not casual. "Bags open and on the table."

  I place my phone and calculator in the plastic bin, unzip my backpack, and try not to fidget as another security guard - someone new I don't recognize - runs a wand over my body. There are only three guards visible, fewer than last year, but they're... different. More militarized. More on edge. They're positioned like they're guarding a fortress rather than a school, stationed primarily at entrances and exits rather than patrolling the halls.

  The line of students stretches out the door and halfway across the front lawn. Everyone looks half-asleep, standard first day of junior year energy, but there's an undercurrent of tension I don't remember from previous years. Kids are quieter, more watchful.

  "Arms out," the guard says, running the wand along my sides. It beeps at my wrist, and he frowns at my tracker. "What's this?"

  "Medical device," I lie smoothly. Technically not a lie - Mom considers my ability to disappear a medical condition at this point. "I have a note from my doctor if you need to see it."

  He hesitates, then waves me through. "Next!"

  Some security.

  I collect my stuff and hurry into the main hallway, which is a churning sea of teenagers trying to find their homerooms and reconnect with friends they haven't seen all summer. The usual first-day chaos, but again, there's something different about it.

  It takes me a minute to figure it out: the students are clustering differently. Last year, groups were more fluid, overlapping. Now there are distinct islands with clear boundaries. The athletes. The theater kids. The academic overachievers. The burnouts. Less mixing, more tribal.

  And quieter conversations. More furtive glances.

  "Sam!"

  I turn to see Melissa bouncing toward me, her long brown hair a wild halo around her face. She looks happier than anyone has a right to be at 7:45 AM on the first day of school.

  "Hey," I say, genuinely glad to see her. "How was your summer?"

  "Boring," she says, lowering her voice and giving me a meaningful look. "Mom and Dad made me volunteer at church like every day. Nothing happened. What's your schedule like? I've got Rivera for homeroom."

  Almost nice, to consider a life where "nothing happened". Good for her! Genuinely.

  "Same," I say, relieved to have at least one ally in my first class. "Then Perlman for U.S. History, Liu for Pre-Calc, Jeffries for English, lunch, Santiago for Physics, and Mendoza for Spanish."

  "We've got Physics together too!" She pumps her fist in excitement. "That's fifth period for me."

  We head toward Rivera's classroom, navigating the crowded hallway. I'm trying to place faces - that's... Abe's(?) friend with the blue hair? And the tall guy who was in my Bio class last year, whose name I absolutely cannot remember but who always wore band t-shirts. And that's definitely whatshername, the girl who did that presentation on honeybees that brought actual bees to class. A constellation of people whose names I only barely recall, if at all.

  Rivera's homeroom is on the second floor, at the end of a hallway decorated with student art from previous years. The room itself is plastered with inspirational posters featuring multicultural figures and quotes about perseverance. Classic teacher decor.

  I slide into a desk near the back, Melissa taking the one beside me. Students trickle in, most looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. A few nod in my direction or offer tired smiles. I return them automatically, scanning faces and trying to match them with names.

  "So what's with the security Nazis?" Melissa whispers. "They've gone full prison guard this year."

  "Higher budget, higher anxiety," I reply. "Fewer guards but more visible hardware. It's all psychological."

  "It's working," she mutters. "I felt like I was entering a maximum-security facility, not a school."

  Before I can respond, Ms. Rivera enters, a stack of papers clutched to her chest. She's young for a teacher, maybe late twenties, with a perpetually harried expression.

  "Good morning, everyone! Welcome to your junior year. I'm Ms. Rivera, and I'll be your homeroom teacher. Let's start with attendance."

  As she reads through names, I let my mind wander, trying to process the changes I've observed. The heightened security, the social segregation, the subdued atmosphere - all symptoms of a school under stress. The question is, what's causing it? Just the usual first-day jitters amplified by Richardson's anti-vigilante rhetoric? The Jump epidemic? Or something else I've missed? I mean, realistically - probably the Jump.

  "Samantha Small?"

  "Present," I call out, snapping back to attention. "Sam is fine."

  Ms. Rivera makes a note, then continues down her list. I catch snippets of whispered conversations around me:

  "...saw it on the news..."

  "...parents are going to that hearing thing..."

  "...my brother said they're shutting down the subway during the protests..."

  Everyone seems to be talking about the upcoming state senate hearings, but in that vague, disconnected way most teenagers discuss politics - like it's happening in another dimension that occasionally intersects with ours.

  After homeroom, Melissa and I part ways, and I head to U.S. History with Mr. Perlman, a balding man with a booming voice who's been teaching at Tacony since the dawn of time. He wastes no time launching into his annual "Why History Matters" speech, which I'm pretty sure hasn't changed since he first wrote it on stone tablets.

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  "...and that's why understanding the patterns of civil disobedience throughout American history is crucial to comprehending current events," he's saying, pacing in front of the whiteboard. "From the Boston Tea Party to the Civil Rights Movement to more recent demonstrations, the question of when and how citizens should resist unjust laws has been central to our national identity."

  His eyes sweep across the classroom, and I could swear they linger on me for a half-second longer than anyone else.

  "This semester, we'll be examining several case studies of civic resistance, including some contemporary examples. I want you all to think critically about the line between justified protest and unlawful disruption."

  A girl in the front row - Amanda? Amber? something with an A - raises her hand. "Like those parents who interrupted the town hall meeting at City Hall?"

  My spine stiffens involuntarily.

  "That's one example we might discuss," Perlman nods. "Though I'll need you all to do some independent research before we tackle such recent events."

  The rest of the class is procedural - going over the syllabus, explaining assignment expectations, the usual first-day stuff. But I can't shake the feeling of being watched. Maybe I'm just paranoid.

  Pre-Calc and English pass in a similar blur of syllabi and introductions. By the time lunch rolls around, I'm starving and mildly bored, which is probably the best-case scenario for the first day of school.

  The cafeteria is a cacophony of voices and clattering trays. I grab a sandwich that's allegedly turkey but could be any pressed mystery meat, an apple that looks mostly edible, and a carton of chocolate milk. Scanning the room, I spot The Goth Table, now missing a very conspicuous Jordan, and amble over. Ouch, why did that hurt, of all things?

  "Mind if I sit?" I ask, gesturing to an empty chair. I look around for Alex, but can't find him. Hopefully he hadn't moved? Or maybe he's just sick.

  A guy with shaggy brown hair - Trevor? Tyler? definitely starts with a T - shrugs. "Free country. Sort of."

  I sit, unwrapping my sandwich. The conversation at the table picks up where it apparently left off.

  "All I'm saying is that it's a legitimate safety concern," says a girl with a nose ring and purple-streaked hair. "You can't have random powered people running around without oversight."

  "But the bill isn't about oversight, it's about age restrictions," argues a Black girl with braided hair pulled back in a ponytail. "It's saying if you're under 18, you shouldn't be allowed to use your powers at all, even if you have a license."

  "What if you need them, though?" asks a boy with glasses too big for his face. "Like, what if your power is that you can breathe underwater, and someone's drowning? Are you just supposed to let them die?"

  "That's what lifeguards are for," Nose Ring girl says dismissively.

  "Not everyone lives near a lifeguard," Glasses points out.

  The conversation continues, swinging between passionate argument and teenage indifference. No one asks my opinion, which is fine by me. I'm more interested in gathering intel than sharing my obviously biased perspective. Or getting into arguments.

  As I eat my mediocre sandwich, I notice a news segment playing on someone's phone further down the table. The volume is low, but I catch glimpses of a protest in Pittsburgh - parents holding signs with slogans like "POWERS ARE NOT WEAPONS" and "PROTECT OUR CHILDREN FROM UNJUST LAWS."

  The cafeteria buzzes with a hundred different conversations, but I keep catching fragments about Richardson, the hearings, the protests. It's become the background radiation of daily life - always present, impossible to ignore completely.

  After lunch, I have a scheduled meeting with the school counselor, Ms. Winters. I'm not really sure why but if I had to guess it's about the, uh, everything.

  Her office is small but neat, with a desk, two comfortable chairs, and walls covered in college pennants and posters about mental health.

  "Samantha, come in," she says warmly as I knock on her open door. "How are you settling into the new school year?"

  "Fine," I say, taking the offered seat. "And it's Sam."

  "Sam, right," she makes a note in her file. "I wanted to check in with you given everything that happened last year. You've had... quite a life, I've been told, although I'm not privy to the exact details."

  I keep my face neutral. "It was a challenging year."

  "And how have you been coping?"

  "Fine," I repeat. "We rebuilt. I'm good."

  She studies me for a moment, then changes tack. "I understand your mother has become quite involved in advocacy work."

  Warning bells go off in my head. This isn't about the dinosaur. "She's always been civic-minded," I say carefully.

  "The Parents of Powered Kids Coalition has gained quite a bit of attention," Ms. Winters continues. "It must be interesting to observe that movement from within your own household."

  "I guess," I shrug, trying to appear disinterested. "Mom's always been passionate about stuff."

  "And you? Do you share her views on Richardson's legislation?"

  I choose my words carefully. "I think everyone wants what's best for young people with powers. They just disagree on what that looks like."

  "Very diplomatic," she says with a small smile. "And what about the vigilante presence in Philadelphia? Do you feel safer knowing such individuals are active in your community? I know your dad was recently involved in an altercation with a supervillain. How do you feel about that?"

  My heart rate kicks up a notch. "I don't think about it much," I lie. "I'm more focused on school and friends and normal stuff. I think we're just trying to put it behind us."

  Ms. Winters nods, making another note in her file. The conversation stretches on for ten more agonizing minutes, interrupting what I'm sure is a very engaging physics class. We do, actually, manage to get back to things like "how am I" and "how am I feeling", but I successfully stonewall her with patented teen angst.

  "Well, my door is always open if you want to talk. Junior year can be stressful enough without adding political tensions to the mix," she says once we're through, with an award-winning smile.

  I nod and stand, eager to escape what feels increasingly like an interrogation rather than a counseling session. "Thanks. I should get to Physics."

  As I leave her office, I can't shake the feeling that wasn't a routine check-in. She was fishing for something specific. But what? And why? Or am I just getting too paranoid to function?

  The hallway to the science wing is relatively empty, most students already in their classrooms. As I round a corner, I nearly collide with a security guard - tall, broad-shouldered, with a buzz cut and mirrored sunglasses despite being indoors.

  "Sorry," I mutter, stepping aside.

  He doesn't move immediately, just stands there, his expression unreadable behind those reflective lenses. "Samantha Small?" he asks, his voice oddly flat.

  "Yes?" I answer, alarm bells ringing even louder now.

  "You should get to class," he says after an uncomfortable pause. "Wouldn't want to be late on the first day."

  "Right," I say, hurrying past him. I resist the urge to look back, but I can feel his gaze following me down the hallway.

  Physics is in Lab 3, a large room with black-topped tables arranged in pairs. Mr. Santiago is already writing equations on the whiteboard as students file in. I spot Melissa waving enthusiastically from a table near the windows and head her way.

  "You look spooked," she whispers as I slide onto the stool beside her. "What happened?"

  "Tell you later," I murmur as Santiago turns to address the class.

  "Welcome to Physics," he announces, clapping his hands together. "I'm Mr. Santiago. This year, we'll be exploring the fundamental laws that govern our universe - motion, energy, electricity, magnetism. We'll study how objects interact with forces, how energy transforms, and how to predict the behavior of physical systems."

  He pauses, scanning the room with an intensity that suggests he actually cares whether we learn this stuff or not.

  "Some of you may wonder why this matters," he continues. "After all, in a world where people can fly or generate energy from nothing, don't the laws of physics seem... optional?"

  A few students chuckle nervously.

  "But here's the fascinating thing," Santiago says, leaning forward. "Even metahuman abilities follow patterns. They have rules, limitations, consistencies. Understanding the standard laws of physics helps us comprehend the basics here. Like they say in Jazz, you have to learn the rules before you can break them."

  My ears perk up a little bit.

  "This year," Santiago says, his enthusiasm evident, "we'll be exploring both traditional physics and its applications to understanding metahuman abilities. I think you'll find it illuminates both subjects in fascinating ways."

  I flip through the syllabus, pretending to read about lab safety protocols while my mind races ahead to tonight's patrol, to tomorrow's library shift, to all the moving pieces in this increasingly complicated game. Yeah, yeah, force equals mass times acceleration. What I need right now is a force multiplier, more than anything else.