Most days, my threshold for pain is higher than the average person's. But right now? Elias is digging antiseptic-soaked gauze into the thirteenth micro-cut on my face, and it feels like someone's tracing my cheekbone with a lit match.

  "Jesus fucking Christ," I hiss, jerking back involuntarily. "Easy with that shit."

  "Hold still," Elias says, not unkindly. His massive column of hair seems to sway with each precise movement of his hands. The wheelchair is positioned perfectly for him to reach my face where I'm sitting on the medical table. "These need cleaning. What even are these? They're too clean for knife wounds."

  "Teeth," I say, and watch his expression shift from concentration to disbelief.

  "Teeth?"

  "Little psycho was growing them out of her knuckles. Like tiny dog canines." I demonstrate with my hand, making a fist and mimicking teeth protruding from my knuckles. "Like Wolverine from the X-Men."

  From across our Camden safehouse's makeshift infirmary (basically a repurposed kitchen with better lighting and suspicious stains bleached out of the linoleum), Snake Oil snorts without looking up from my shoulder wound. "Fascinating anatomical adaptation. Remind me to add it to my research backlog, right after I cure cancer and perfect cold fusion."

  "Hey, you asked for field data on the Philly vigilantes," I point out, wincing as he probes the bullet wound with something that feels distinctly more like a screwdriver than a medical instrument. "Consider this my contribution to science."

  Snake Oil's fingers pause momentarily as he glances at me over his thick-framed glasses. Short, stout, and perpetually annoyed, he looks more like an irritable pharmacist than a revolutionary chemical genius.

  "We asked you to ensure Elias's getaway. That did not involve getting in a fistfight. Your contribution to science," he says dryly, "is bleeding on my workstation and complaining about basic wound care."

  "And getting shot," I add cheerfully. "Don't forget that part. The Gun Dad saga is gonna trend on every forum from here to Sacramento. Mission accomplished."

  Snake Oil's mouth tightens into a thin line as he returns to my shoulder. "Yes, congratulations on your bullet wound. Very impressive. Now hold still while I pull pieces of 9 millimeter out of you."

  "How'd you know it was a 9mm?" I ask.

  He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't you watch your own footage? It was a Smith & Wesson. 9mm. At least take comfort in knowing you put a bigger hole in him than he did in you."

  Across the room, Monkey Business looks up from his laptop, the familiar half-mask covering his features but not hiding the amusement in his eyes. "The market response has been... enthusiastic," he admits, his lawyer-precise voice carrying that hint of satisfaction he gets when our plans exceed projections. "I've already got people begging for more Jump and it hasn't even been an hour. Everyone wants to be Bloodhound or Gun Dad."

  "Nobody wants to be me?" I ask, mock-offended. "The dashingly handsome speedster with the superior fashion sense?"

  "You got shot, nonheroically," Birthday Suit points out from her position by the door, arms folded across her chest, biceps bulging against her tactical gear. "Not exactly an aspirational outcome."

  "I got shot being awesome," I correct her. "There's a difference."

  Snake Oil yanks something from my shoulder that feels distinctly bullet-shaped, dropping it with a metallic ping into a specimen dish. "And now you're being awesome with partial deltoid damage that will take approximately three weeks to fully heal, assuming you don't aggravate it by showing off."

  I roll my eyes. "Yeah, but I kept our little giveaway going and did a great product demo doing it. Gun sales go up, Jump sales go up, disorder goes up, everyone wins. Buzzkill," I trail off into a mutter, then yelp as Elias dabs antiseptic on a particularly deep cut along my jawline.

  "Sorry," he says, not sounding particularly sorry. "This one needs a butterfly bandage."

  I study him while he works, still evaluating our newest recruit. Elias Franklin, formerly of the "Philly Phreaks" (god, what a terrible name), now our resident biochemist-in-training under Snake Oil's reluctant mentorship. Smart as hell, with a chip on his shoulder, and with all the smarts of Snake Oil and none of the attached curmudgeon.

  We gotta get him a better supervillain name, though. Chimera? Yawn. Doesn't really fit the whole gambling slash circus sideshow thing we're doing. The Human Werewolf! Uh... Big Strongman! I'll leave it to Monkey Business.

  "So," I say conversationally as Elias applies the bandage, "what'd you think of the show? Worth the price of admission?"

  His hands pause momentarily, dark eyes meeting mine. "You mean getting shot to create a distraction while I escaped?"

  "Among other things."

  Elias finishes applying the bandage before answering, his movements deliberate. "It was effective," he finally says. "But unnecessarily theatrical."

  I laugh, ignoring the sharp pain in my shoulder. "Unnecessarily theatrical is my middle name. Dean 'Unnecessarily Theatrical' Carver."

  "I thought it was 'Alexander,'" Monkey Business comments without looking up from his laptop.

  "That too," I concede. "I contain multitudes."

  Snake Oil finishes suturing my shoulder with efficient, if not particularly gentle, movements. "There. Try not to tear these out showing off for at least 48 hours." He steps back, examining his work with clinical detachment. "The bullet missed major vessels and nerve clusters. You're lucky."

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  "Skill, not luck," I correct automatically.

  "Your body automatically compensating for motion without your conscious knowledge is about as lucky as it gets beyond coin flips," Snake Oil points out. "There was nothing your brain could've actively done to make the situation better. Outside of not getting in the situation to begin with."

  "Details, details."

  Monkey Business closes his laptop and approaches, examining me with that calculating gaze that always makes me feel like I'm being assessed for market value. "The operation achieved its objectives," he says after a moment. "Public spectacle, viral media coverage, and tangible evidence of our core philosophy - ordinary citizens taking direct action against superhuman threats. Plus, Elias's batches are going out, we get a bunch of test data, I've heard at least one police officer died - awesome - so I'm with Rush here. I think it was a fine night."

  "All that, plus we got Elias here safely to headquarters," I add, gesturing toward our newest member, who's now cleaning up the medical supplies with a quiet efficiency that suggests years of practice. "And I scouted Bloodhound's capabilities. Impressive for a kid. Took a beating that would've put most adults in traction, and still kept fighting."

  "Regenerator?" Snake Oil asks, interest briefly overriding his perpetual irritation.

  "I don't know. She's got crazy stamina. Still clearly a teenager though. But she could keep on kicking, anyone else would've been concussed by the second headshot and out cold by the third. She took like, what, seven? It was like trying to punch a rock," I explain, shaking out my battered, cut up knuckles experimentally. "I don't know what she's got going on in her shoulders but it was crazy."

  "Noted," Monkey Business says, in that tone that means he's filing away information for future use. "And the father's intervention?"

  I grin, feeling the pull of bandages across my face. "Pure serendipity. Couldn't have scripted it better if we tried. Middle-aged suburban dad pulls a gun on a supervillain to protect his kid? That's narrative gold."

  "Not his kid," Birthday Suit corrects, her voice sharp. "Just some random vigilante, according to the police report. He claimed he was 'protecting a minor from excessive force.'"

  "Uh huh," Monkey Business replies, not buying it.

  "Sure," I say, keeping my tone casual. "Random vigilante. Whatever the story is, it worked out perfectly for us. Nothing sells our philosophy better than ordinary people standing up to capes - good or bad. I don't think we need to torture the poor girl. She's useful. At the very least, if she is a regenerator, that means we can beat her up again and again. Pure spectacle flywheel."

  "That sounds like torture," Birthday Suit wrly points out.

  "It sounds to me like torture whenever you shove a strap-on up Larry's ass but that doesn't mean I'll yuck your yum about it," I point out back.

  "Does consent mean nothing to you?" Monkey Business replies, chuckling. "If we want to stage fights I'm sure there's ten dozen contractors we could grab for that any day of the week. Take it easy on her. If it is this guy's daughter she's probably still in high school. Teen suicide's no joke."

  I laugh so hard my ribs hurt. Everyone looks at me like I just turned into a fly.

  Elias wheels himself back from the counter, having organized the medical supplies with borderline obsessive precision. "The timing of the whole incident was fortunate," he observes. "Richardson's pushing her anti-vigilante bill statewide next month. This feeds right into the narrative that people need to protect themselves when heroes can't or won't."

  "Fortunate indeed," Monkey Business agrees, with that slight uptick in his voice that suggests he's smiling behind the mask. "Almost as if the universe conspires to validate our approach."

  "The universe doesn't conspire," Snake Oil grumbles, washing his hands with methodical thoroughness. "People respond to incentives and constraints in predictable patterns. Richardson creates constraints, we create incentives, and the inevitable friction produces demonstrations of our philosophy in action."

  "Poetry from our resident nihilist," I tease, sliding off the examination table and testing my weight. A wave of dizziness hits me - blood loss, probably - but I manage to stay upright through sheer stubborn pride. "Speaking of incentives, where the hell are Dead Drop and Jackpot with the food? I need about ten thousand calories, stat."

  As if summoned by my complaint, the safehouse door opens, and Dead Drop enters, chains clinking softly with each deliberate movement. She carries several large paper bags emitting the unmistakable aroma of greasy Chinese food. Behind her, Jackpot struggles with a case of energy drinks, humming tunelessly under his breath. Oh, perfectly melodic. That stim will get annoying as soon as his current power wears out in twenty minutes.

  "Delivery service," Dead Drop announces, her annoyed Goth Chick gaze sweeping the room before settling on my bandaged form. "You look like shit."

  "Good to see you too, sunshine," I reply cheerfully. "Please tell me there's twice the usual orange chicken in there."

  "Triple," Jackpot confirms, dropping the case of energy drinks on the counter with a concerning clatter. "Boss's orders. Gotta fuel the metabolism." He squints at my face. "Dude, what happened? You look like you made out with a paper shredder."

  "Bloodhound apparently produces very sharp teeth from her knuckles," Birthday Suit informs him, already helping Dead Drop unpack the food onto the kitchen island that separates the infirmary area from what passes for our living room. "Caught Rush Order by surprise."

  "Teeth? From her knuckles?" Jackpot's eyes widen with appropriate appreciation for how fucking weird that is. "That is so metal."

  "Intensely inefficient anatomical adaptation," Snake Oil mutters, examining one of the deeper cuts on my forearm. "The energy required to generate calcified structures at that rate would be--"

  "Fascinating, I'm sure," I interrupt, making grabby hands at the food. "Science later, calories now."

  The room shifts into our familiar routine - food distributed according to metabolic needs (triple portions for me, standard for everyone else), casual debriefing disguised as dinner conversation, Monkey Business observing more than participating as always. Despite the pain in my shoulder and the burning sensation across my face from a dozen tiny cuts, I find myself relaxing into the familiar dynamics. Better family than mine ever was, that's for damn sure.

  "So," Jackpot asks between mouthfuls of lo mein, "was it worth getting shot?"

  I consider the question while shoveling orange chicken into my face at a pace that would alarm medical professionals. Was it worth it? The pain, the recovery time, the inevitable scarring?

  "Absolutely," I decide, reaching for my third energy drink. "Gun Dad's going to light a fire about 'capes vs civvies'. Richardson's bill will face public backlash as soon as people realize it would've criminalized Bloodhound's response to my epic supervillainy. And meanwhile, Jump distribution numbers are gonna go through the roof because everyone wants to level the playing field."

  Jackpot grins at me, wiping sauce off his dinky little pedophile mustache.

  "Plus," I add with a grin that pulls at my bandages, "did you see me on those drones? I looked fucking awesome."

  Monkey Business makes that sound that's almost but not quite a laugh - more of an amused exhale. "Ever the professional," he comments, but I can hear the approval beneath the dry delivery.

  "The real question," Elias says, carefully separating his food into precise sections on his plate, "is what happens next. Richardson won't back down. If anything, she'll double down."

  "Let her," I say, leaning back in my chair despite Snake Oil's disapproving glare at my shoulder movement. "The harder she pushes, the more people will resist. Basic physics."

  "Basic human psychology," Monkey Business corrects. "For every action, a disproportionate and emotionally-driven reaction. It's why prohibition fails, why censorship backfires, and why her dumb little anti-superhero crusade will ultimately strengthen our position."

  I raise my energy drink in a mock toast. "To unintended consequences and the beautiful chaos of human nature."

  "To marketplace innovation," Monkey Business counters, raising his own drink.

  "To not getting shot again," Snake Oil mutters, but joins the toast anyway.

  I just hope my shoulder heals before the next pressure point. Getting shot once for the cause is heroic. Twice is just careless.