The crowd parts before me like the Red Sea, creating a clear path straight to the stage where Maya Richardson stands frozen behind her podium. The murmurs grow louder, a wave of whispers spreading through the audience as I walk steadily down the center aisle.

  "Is that really--"

  "Bloodhound--"

  "The one who fought--"

  "--Rush Order--"

  "--Gun Dad!"

  I keep my pace measured, fighting the urge to wince as my ribs protest each step. The reinforced suit Amelia designed helps, distributing pressure evenly across my torso, but there's only so much technology can do against multiple fractures that haven't fully healed.

  Richardson stands frozen behind her podium, mic still held close to her lips, caught mid-sentence about "reasonable boundaries" or whatever political doublespeak she was spinning. For just a moment, her carefully constructed facade cracks - surprise, then recognition, then something colder flashing across her features. It's gone in an instant, replaced by her practiced political smile, but I saw it.

  "Well," she says, her amplified voice cutting through the murmurs. "This is certainly an unexpected addition to our program."

  Security personnel hover uncertainly at the edges of the room, hands moving to radios, eyes darting between me and Richardson. She gives them a subtle gesture with her head, a little flick - wait.

  "I apologize for interrupting," I say, projecting my voice to carry through the hall. The acoustics of the helmet distort my voice a little bit, and I've gotten used to speaking from my chest. So I just have to hope nobody recognizes me by sound. "But your town hall seemed incomplete without representation from those most affected by your legislation."

  Even if nobody believes what I'm about to say, it doesn't matter. I'm not giving her a free two hours to gab on about whatever she wants. You want that time? Take it from me.

  Richardson's smile doesn't falter. "While I appreciate your enthusiasm, this forum is for constructive community dialogue, not costumes and theatrics."

  Camera phones rise throughout the audience, documenting the confrontation from every angle. I'm acutely aware of how this looks – teenage vigilante versus composed public official. But I didn't come here for optics.

  "What, and your friendly neighborhood Bloodhound isn't part of your community?" I counter, stopping at the foot of the stage, right before the metal dividers. Close enough to be heard clearly, far enough to avoid appearing threatening. "Your legislation criminalizes teenagers who never chose to have powers, while the real threats operate with impunity."

  Richardson sighs into the microphone, the sound amplified throughout the hall. "This is exactly the kind of impulsive, unsanctioned behavior my legislation addresses. Young people with extraordinary abilities but without the judgment to use them responsibly. Thinking that the world belongs to them."

  The crowd shifts, some nodding in agreement, others watching with uncertain expressions. I need to make my point before security decides to intervene. And while I can still maybe get one over on her rhetorically.

  "Let's talk about judgment," I say, turning slightly to address both Richardson and the audience. "When your political opponent Richard Duvall started asking questions about your connections to organized crime, he mysteriously died of an 'embolism' just weeks after the election."

  A ripple of surprise moves through the crowd. Richardson's smile tightens almost imperceptibly.

  "I understand emotions are high," she says smoothly, "but surely we can all recognize the danger in masked vigilantes throwing around wild conspiracy theories that they heard on VidBucket or wherever people are watching viral videos these days. Should we just accept that any politician or public figure might get harassed by a teenager with a mask, and they get carte blanche?"

  "You were the last person seen in a car with him. A cashier at Checkers fulfilled your order, saw the two of you in your personal vehicle, and then he was found dead the next day when his wife got home. Nobody had seen him in the interim," I say, louder this time. "No investigation was opened because they don't investigate natural deaths."

  What, you thought I was going to just let you embarrass me again, you hag? No, I did my fucking research since last time. You don't read the local forums much, do you? Some random cashier talked a little too much about how cool it was to see Councilwoman Richardson, and now I've got a pin in your wing.

  That gets a reaction out of her. Her nostrils flare. Her eyebrows crumple down like she kissed a lemon but only the top half of her face is reacting, her lips remaining perfectly pursed and plump. "I won't pretend I didn't wine and dine him with Broad Street's finest, but I can assure you, he was fine when he left the car. I can't be held to task for an old man's grease-fueled heart attack," she quips, with studied, practiced indifference.

  But that's fine. Respond to me. Acknowledge it! Put the story in the public eye! Do it!

  "You were in Tacony, too. I don't need a tinfoil hat to read witness statements," I say, voice carrying through the hall despite the growing murmurs. "There's eyewitness testimony from multiple Tacony residents who saw someone matching your description at the scene of the dinosaur attack - a woman controlling the weather while a T-Rex demolished a family home. The same T-Rex that later appeared at the Philadelphia Zoo during a Kingdom operation."

  Richardson's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers behind her eyes. Annoyance? Concern? Hard to tell from this distance.

  "Eyewitness testimony?" She chuckles, the sound amplified through the microphone. "From whom? Some terrified neighbor who saw a dinosaur and then - what - a Black woman in North Philly? Congratulations, you just described half the city."

  The crowd laughs - not everyone, but enough. I feel my face burning beneath my helmet. I'm telling the truth! Why can she just... make people not believe me?

  "Those 'hallucinating civilians' include a high school teacher, a postal worker, and an off-duty EMT," I counter, projecting my voice to reach the back rows. I turn myself half-sideways, so my voice doesn't just go forward - it goes all around. "People whose testimony would be considered reliable in any other context. But somehow, when superpowers are involved, we're all just supposed to ignore what we saw with our own eyes?"

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Richardson addresses the audience directly now, her voice taking on a concerned, almost maternal tone. "This is precisely why we need the Young Superhuman Activity Regulation Act. Minors with extraordinary abilities but without the maturity to understand the consequences of their actions. Making accusations without evidence. Taking the law into their own hands."

  She turns back to me, her expression softening in a way that somehow feels more threatening than anger. "I understand your intentions may be good, but your methods demonstrate exactly why these powers need oversight and regulation. You've done a lot of good for this city working with the Young Defenders, Bloodhound. We all recognize your dedication to duty. You've saved a lot of cats and helped people locate a lot of internal bleeds. I'm not coddling you - what you do is valuable. Isn't it time you had a break? You should be focusing on college, not taking out your angst on me. Put that nose of yours to work in paramedic school. Why do you have to take the violent path?"

  The crowd murmurs in agreement. I'm losing them. Or maybe I never had them to begin with.

  "If you have actual evidence of wrongdoing," Richardson continues, "the proper channels are law enforcement, not disrupting a public forum while wearing a mask."

  "The proper channels?" I can't keep the incredulity from my voice. "When Chernobyl returned to Philadelphia, it wasn't the 'proper channels' that stopped him. When Rush Order was assaulting people on South Street, the 'proper channels' were nowhere to be found. They were getting their shit rocked by random Rogue Wave contractors while protecting diamond stores in Center City."

  "And your vigilante activities resulted in a civilian being shot," Richardson counters immediately. "Is that your definition of success? Escalating violence that puts innocent bystanders at risk?"

  That hits like a punch to my already damaged ribs.

  "That civilian chose to intervene because your system failed," I say instead. "Because in that moment, taking action himself was the only option left. Nobody else was there to do it. Just like it is for powered teens when your legislation would strip away our ability to help people in crisis. We didn't choose this. We're just trying to use what we have to help others."

  "Noble sentiments," Richardson says, her tone making it clear she thinks it's anything but. "However, good intentions don't prevent tragedy when coupled with inexperience and impulsivity. As we've seen repeatedly with young vigilantes in this city."

  She gestures to someone in the audience. "Dr. Chambers, would you share your professional assessment? As a child psychologist who's studied powered youth?"

  A middle-aged man stands up several rows back - gray-haired, professorial, wearing a tweed jacket despite the summer heat. Obviously planted for this exact moment.

  "Neurologically speaking," he begins in a measured voice, "the prefrontal cortex - which governs decision-making and risk assessment - isn't fully developed until the mid-twenties. Adding superpowers to that equation is like giving a formula one race car to someone who just got their learner's permit."

  Scattered applause follows his statement. I glance around the room, feeling the momentum shift further away from me.

  Fuck. This was a mistake.

  "You talk about brain development," I say, trying to regain ground, "but ignore actual behavior. The Young Defenders saved dozens of lives during the courthouse attack. Powered teens across the city have stopped muggings, fires, and accidents that would have ended in tragedy. Meanwhile, your government-sanctioned heroes were nowhere to be found when Chernobyl killed Liberty Belle. Only me. Ask any hero on the East Coast and they'll tell you I was there."

  "I don’t doubt that was harrowing," Richardson says, the edge of sympathy in her voice sounding almost real. "But one battle - one loss - doesn’t make you the arbiter of what’s safe for the public. For every life saved, how many were endangered by teenagers playing hero without oversight? What about the collateral damage? The civilians caught in the crossfire?"

  A voice from the audience calls out: "Where's your proof about Richardson? You can't just make accusations!"

  Others join in:

  "Yeah, show us evidence!"

  "Anyone can wear a costume and be loud!"

  Richardson watches with an expression of concerned sympathy that makes me want to scream. She doesn't need to attack me directly - she's letting the crowd do it for her.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," she says, raising her hands for quiet. "Let's maintain decorum. Our visitor has shared her perspective, however misguided. Now perhaps we can return to our scheduled discussion about community safety measures."

  "You mean your anti-vigilante propaganda," I snap, frustration getting the better of me.

  Richardson's expression hardens slightly. "Security, please escort our guest out so we can continue."

  Security personnel begin moving down the aisles toward me. I stand my ground, though my heart pounds against my broken ribs. This isn't how I imagined this confrontation going. In my head, I'd make my accusations, the crowd would gasp in shock, and Richardson would be forced to defend herself. Instead, I'm being dismissed as a delusional teenager in a costume, making wild claims without evidence.

  "You're using fear to push legislation that criminalizes kids for existing," I say, raising my voice as security draws closer. "While the real criminals - the Kingdom of Keys and Rogue Wave - operate with impunity!"

  "Those organizations are precisely the kind of threat my legislation addresses," Richardson replies smoothly. "By establishing proper protocols and oversight for powered individuals, we can effectively combat organized crime without vigilantes causing additional chaos."

  "You're part of it!" I shout, abandoning any pretense of calm debate. I'm beyond caring. My blood is hot in my ears and my face. I don't care anymore. Malign me however you want. If ten people go and NetSphere the Richard Duvall shit after this, I've won. I'm taking you to Hell with me. "You're working with them!"

  The crowd's reaction is immediate - gasps, murmurs, and more than a few derisive laughs. I've crossed the line from passionate advocate to conspiracy theorist in their eyes. Richardson doesn't even need to refute my claim - her pitying smile says everything.

  "This outburst demonstrates exactly what we've been discussing," she says to the audience. "Emotional reactivity, unfounded accusations, lack of impulse control. This is why proper training and oversight are essential."

  Two security guards are almost upon me now, their expressions grim but professional. I could escape easily - my training with Multiplex has taught me a dozen ways to slip past opponents without causing harm - but that would only reinforce Richardson's narrative about impulsive, dangerous vigilantes.

  "Fine - haul me out of here if it makes you feel safe. But look around! Who benefits when there’s fewer superheroes on the street? Just think for one fucking second, guys!" I find myself yelling, straining to be heard through my helmet.

  Come on. Something. Anything. Please. I see people talking, but I can't tell about what. I see people on their phones, but I can't see their screens. Are they talking about my point? Are they looking up Duvall? Fuck, man. What else is there to say?

  "Please come with us, miss," one of the guards says, reaching for my arm.

  I tense, preparing to either comply or evade, when a clear voice rings out from the middle of the audience. Harsh, strained at the edges, frying up like bacon.

  "STOP RIGHT THERE!"

  The command is so forceful that the security guards actually freeze. The crowd parts as a woman stands, her curly hair forming a wild halo around her determined face. Orange-brown ringlets, plump around the midsection, in the nerdiest cardigan you've ever seen in your life.

  Shit. Fuck.

  "My name is Rachel Small," she announces, voice carrying through the suddenly silent hall. "And since my husband is the man you're holding up as exemplar for your little political drama, I think I have something relevant to say about this legislation."