Derek's street explodes with activity the second I step outside. Literally explodes - someone's setting off fireworks three blocks down, because apparently that's the rational response to an emergency alert about free superpowers. The sound bounces between brick row houses, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.

  I duck into an alley to change, throwing my hoodie and jeans into my backpack, pulling on the costume underneath. The polymer wolf helmet goes on last - reinforced, rebuilt, and decidedly canine. Brick red. Now with a synthetic mane; my hair gets tucked underneath.

  My phone buzzes as I'm zipping up the backpack.

  Mom: Are you okay? We're seeing reports of disturbances in South Philly.

  I type quickly: Still at Derek's. Riding it out here. Don't worry.

  First lie of the night. Great start.

  I focus on Elias's blood trail. It's distinctive - thinner than normal blood, with a weird orangish tinge that's fading as the Fly works its way out of his system over the however long it's taken. What, a year? He bleeds like any other Fly-head, not that they're a common sight. Diffuse, thinner. When he moves, it flicks further through the air, makes larger, thinner splatters.

  The trail leads away from Derek's building down the alley, then up a fire escape to a roof, across, and down another. Not random movement. He's being methodical, picking his way through Point Breeze with purpose. The blood's still tacky, just a little bit, when I touch it. He can't be more than thirty minutes ahead of me.

  My blood sense pings as I follow - old blood, fresh blood, blood on doorknobs and railings and sidewalks. Some from tonight, some weeks or months old. The oldest stuff is just a dull pressure against my senses now, like background noise I've learned to filter. There's always a low level filter over my view of the world, enough blood spilled over every urban surface in aggregate that I always have a fairly consistent 3d model of the world around me. At least while I'm outside.

  What's weird is how easily I can still pick out Elias's trail even with all this interference. Normal blood has a consistent feel - a specific gravity, a certain way it coagulates and dries. Elias's blood moves wrong. It seeps into concrete where regular blood would bead up, soaks into brick in strange patterns. I used to have to concentrate to follow a single blood trail. Now I can filter out everything else without even thinking. When did that happen?

  I reach the end of the alley just as my phone buzzes again. Tasha this time.

  Jump dead drops across the city from the HIRC chats. Envelopes with 10 pills each. At least 30 confirmed locations. Maggie and Lily helping with Kensington. Amelia doing first aid.

  Thirty locations. Jesus. That's, what, potentially three hundred people with temporary superpowers, most with zero training or self-control. And that's assuming one pill per person, which is definitely not happening.

  A crash from the street ahead pulls my attention back to the immediate. Three guys grappling over what looks like a white envelope, rolling around on the pavement in front of a corner bodega. The shop owner stands in the doorway, baseball bat in hand, looking uncertain about whether to intervene.

  I start forward, then pause. Elias's blood trail leads in the opposite direction, up another fire escape. If I lose it now...

  But no, I won't. Not with how distinctive it is. The blood from his calf wound drips more frequently than normal blood would—once every three steps instead of every five or six. I've tracked enough bleeding perps to know the difference. Plus, it's got that weird, almost copper-like scent that normal blood doesn't have. I can pick this back up.

  Another crash, thump, glass almost breaking - cracking. One of the men has slammed another into the bodega's front window. That decides it.

  I sprint toward them, voice pitched to carry: "ENOUGH!"

  They freeze for half a second - the power of the costume, the authority it projects. Then the largest guy, built like a linebacker with a neck tattoo creeping above his collar, lunges for the envelope that's skittered into the gutter.

  I'm faster. One quick slide across the pavement and I've got it, tucking it into my belt as I spring back to my feet.

  "You don't want this," I tell them, keeping my voice steady. "Whatever you think it'll give you, it's not worth the side effects."

  "Give it back, bitch," Neck Tattoo snarls, reaching for me.

  I sidestep easily. "Really? We're name-calling now? Very mature."

  The other two men are circling, trying to flank me. One's bleeding from his forehead where he hit the window. The shop owner has stepped fully outside now, bat raised.

  "I'm keeping this," I say, patting my belt where I've stashed the envelope. "You three can leave, or we can make this difficult."

  "Three against one," says the bleeding guy, pulling out a pocket knife. "I like those odds."

  I sigh. "Math isn't your strong suit, huh? It's four against three. And one of us is a superhero."

  Neck Tattoo glances at the shop owner with his bat, then back at me. "You're that dog girl. From the courthouse attack."

  I grit my teeth. "Yeah."

  Neck Tattoo's smarter, hanging back, assessing. "I'm out," he says, and I have to wonder what it is that did it. Maybe I saved his sister that day? It's always a mystery.

  "Fuck this," third guy mutters, backing away. "Not worth it."

  He helps Bleeding Guy up, and the three of them retreat, casting glances over their shoulders.

  "Thanks," the shop owner says, lowering his bat. Older guy, maybe fifties, with tired eyes. "They were trying to break in. Said there was Jump hidden in my store."

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Is there?" I ask.

  He shrugs. "How would I know? But they're not the first tonight."

  I take the envelope and toss it down the nearest storm drain. "That's what you do with it. For future reference."

  My phone buzzes again. My dad this time: Just checking in. Call if you need pickup.

  I send back a quick thumbs up and return to Elias's trail, which leads me up the fire escape he used. From the roof, I can see several blocks in all directions. Smoke rises from somewhere to the east. More fireworks pop in the distance. Sirens wail. Great vantage point.

  The blood trail stops briefly at the roof's edge, then continues across and down another fire escape on the far side. He stood here, watching. Taking in the view. Then moved on.

  My phone buzzes with another update from Tasha: Cops in riot gear deploying to South Street and Broad. Nothing north of Market yet. DVDs handling Center City.

  I text back: Following blood trail in Point Breeze. Multiple street fights. Any pattern to the drops?

  Her response comes seconds later: Not random. People are calling them out near stores, hospitals, schools, police stations. Groups trying to find them to dump them down storm drains. Apparently.

  Of course. Maximum chaos, maximum visibility.

  I follow Elias's trail down to street level again. He's making his way north and east, toward Broad Street, taking a zig-zagging path that hits specific vantage points. Not running, not panicked. Moving with purpose.

  Two blocks later, I spot the first cop in riot gear - standard issue black tactical vest, helmet with face shield, baton at the ready. He's standing guard outside a PNC Bank branch that's already got its windows smashed in. One guy, one bank, while the rest of the neighborhood burns. Sure.

  "Nothing here," he barks when he spots me. "Move along."

  I give him a mock salute and keep going, following Elias's trail around the corner.

  The scene on the next block stops me cold. A full-on street brawl, at least fifteen people throwing punches, wielding improvised weapons, some already on the ground. Blood splatters spitting left and right. Mostly shoving, thank god, no knives yet, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time.

  In the center, a metal mailbox has been pried open, its contents scattered across the pavement. Among the letters and packages, white envelopes identical to the one from earlier.

  "Fuck," I mutter, assessing options. I can't break this up alone. I need backup.

  As if on cue, a loud BANG! rips through the air, sending several fighters stumbling backward. A massive figure strides into view from the cross street, built like a brick shithouse in a hoodie over some kevlar. And I'd recognize that crew cut anywhere, even if there wasn't custom caution tape labeled "BULLDOZER" wrapped around him like a bandolier.

  Following close behind is a woman in a matching tactical vest, wielding what looks like a souped-up paintball gun. Parabellum - I recognize her from the patrols immediately. She fires in quick succession, with a sound more like a sort of SHOOMPFH than a bang, with what look like three or four bright pink bean bags blurring across my field of vision into the most well-armored of the brawlers (which isn't saying much).

  "DISPERSE," Bulldozer's voice booms, throat audibly straining. "THIS AREA IS UNDER PATTINSON'S PALS PROTECTION. DISPERSE NOW."

  About half the fighters take the hint, scrambling away down side streets. The rest are either too committed or too dazed to respond.

  Parabellum spots me across the chaos. She nudges Bulldozer, who follows her gaze. Recognition flashes in his eyes.

  "Bloodhound," he calls. "Bit far from your usual territory."

  "Following a lead," I reply, moving closer but still keeping my distance. Our last meeting wasn't exactly friendly, but it wasn't openly hostile either. Uncertain ground.

  "We've got this contained," Parabellum says, reloading her weapon with a practiced motion. "Suggest you move on."

  My phone buzzes. Another text from Tasha: Some near Tacony Charter. Maggie is handling it.

  I glance at Bulldozer, who's watching me with an unreadable expression. "Thanks for the suggestion. I've got somewhere to be anyway."

  Bulldozer takes a step toward me, lowering his voice. "Bloodhound. This about what we discussed?"

  "Different problem," I assure him. "You know anything about a guy named 'Elias'?"

  He shakes his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. Stay safe out there."

  "I always do," I lie, already turning to follow the blood trail. It's weaker - drying. The more time I spend not chasing it, the more time each droplet has to dry. But, lucky me, I don't really need wetness, just presence. It's not like my power is based on chemical compounds or aerosols. Just blood.

  Note to self - see if someone could make fake blood I could use as well as pig's blood as a tracking implement? I wonder if something chemically similar enough-- FOCUS!

  The trail's getting fainter now - not just older, but different. The droplets are smaller, more spread out. Elias is starting to clot. When I first started tracking people, that would've been game over. But now I can pick up on the microscopic spatter, the tiny transfer stains where his hand brushed a wall or railing. It's like reading a language I didn't know I was learning.

  Before I can move, Parabellum fires past me, beanbag slamming into the shoulder of someone behind me. He goes down with a grunt. I'm not entirely sure if he was actually about to swing at me or not, so I sort of turn my head down in the best way I know to indicate displeasure.

  "You're welcome," she says flatly.

  "Maybe lighten up on that trigger finger," I say, trying to keep my voice as un-sixteen as I can. "Civilians might get hurt."

  "Gargle my nuts," she replies, slightly muffled through her bandana. Real mature, lady.

  I take off at a run, weaving through side streets toward the subway station. My phone buzzes twice more as I go.

  Mom: News showing major disturbances near Broad Street. Please confirm you're safe.

  I hesitate, then type: Still good. Derek's place is secure. Staying put.

  The second text is from Tasha: Jump drops creating perimeter around what looks like a central distribution point. One of many. Warehouse at 15th and Bainbridge. Multiple reports of unusual activity.

  Fuck my ass, near South Street? That's, what... another 1/2 a mile away? How far could Elias have gotten?

  As I approach Broad Street, the chaos intensifies. Storefronts with smashed windows. Small fires burning in trash cans. People running, shouting, some clearly high on something, whether Jump or more conventional substances. Officers lining up with riot shields and beanbag guns just like Parabellum.

  A woman staggers past me, her hands glowing with an eerie blue light. She seems to be stuck on them, not even looking up to avoid shoulder checking me.

  I stop her, grab her gently. Jump's not hallucinogenic, right? "Hey. Are you okay?" I ask, my gaze getting pulled down to her hands. Getting sucked down. Like water down a drain. Grabbing her hands. Stuck. Stuck,

  She shakes me back to wakefulness. "Oh my God, thank you!" she mumbles, pulling her hands away from me. I grab her wrists again and shove her hands down, towards the ground.

  "Keep 'em in your pockets, lady, and go home. It'll wear off in 3 hours," I try to sound reassuring.

  "Promise?" She asks, nose twitching like she has to itch it. Her face has only the slightest hint of wrinkling to it, creasing, no older than mid thirties.

  "Pinky promise. But you have to go home and get off the streets right now. Here," I tell her. I reach into my belt and rip out some gauze and tape, grabbing her hands to wrap over them a couple of times so that most of the light coming from her skin isn't visible. Makes it easier to look at. "You can itch your nose now. Very carefully!"

  She stops staggering and starts jogging at a light sprint. That's two minutes down, at least. More time for Elias's blood to dry and clot. G-d, this would be so much easier if there wasn't a crisis going on!

  I spot two more cops in riot gear at the intersection, standing back-to-back, batons raised as a crowd jeers at them from a distance. They're not advancing, not retreating, just holding position while the neighborhood disintegrates around them.

  My blood sense picks up multiple injuries in a storefront to my right - a convenience store with its security gate half-pulled down. I hesitate. Elias's trail leads straight ahead, toward the subway entrance. But those people need help.

  G-ddammit.