"Mrs. Small," Richardson recovers quickly, her smile returning with professional warmth. "I'm deeply sorry about what happened to your husband. His bravery in the face of danger is precisely why we need better structures to prevent such incidents. Perhaps you'd like to share your perspective after we conclude with our current... disruption?"

  Mom's laugh is short and sharp, like breaking glass. "Oh, I think my perspective is relevant right now." She takes a step into the aisle, and then another, moving with deliberate purpose. "My husband was shot protecting a young person from assault. Protecting you," she says, pointing towards me, almost spitting the words. It makes my back ache like I've just been punched in the gut. I know she's just saying that, but it still hurts.

  Richardson smiles a little wider. I turn sideways so I can see both of them. My mom continues. "He's spent the last two weeks in excruciating pain, unable to climb stairs, struggling to use the bathroom without assistance."

  The crowd murmurs sympathetically. Richardson nods, her expression carefully calibrated to show appropriate concern.

  "And that's exactly why this legislation is necessary," Richardson says smoothly. "To prevent vigilante activities that escalate into violence affecting innocent bystanders like your husband."

  Mom's eyes narrow dangerously. I recognize that look from whenever Pop-pop Moe says something accidentally sexist at family dinners.

  "Is that what you think?" Mom asks, her voice deceptively calm. "That my husband was just an innocent bystander? That he regrets his actions?"

  She continues moving forward until she's standing about halfway between her original position and me. Close enough to be seen clearly by everyone, far enough to maintain separation from my standoff with security.

  "Benjamin Small drew his legally registered firearm and shot a superhuman who was beating a teenager half to death in public," Mom says, her voice carrying without shouting. "He didn't do this because of recklessness or vigilantism. He did it because your system failed. Where was Argus Corps during that incident? Where were the police?"

  Richardson's expression hardens slightly. "Mrs. Small, while I sympathize with your family's trauma, using isolated incidents to make broad policy arguments is--"

  "I'm not finished," Mom interrupts, something I've never heard her do in a public setting before. "You've been using my husband as the poster child for your anti-vigilante campaign for two weeks now. 'Gun Dad' this and 'civilian intervention' that. But you've never once asked what he actually thinks about your legislation. I know that because he hasn't left the house. You haven't even sent a gift basket. At least Rogue Wave declared him untouchable, for whatever damn good that means."

  The security guards exchange uncertain glances. One of them touches his earpiece, presumably receiving instructions. I remain frozen in place, hardly daring to breathe. Mom has the floor now, and I'm not about to interrupt.

  "Benjamin Small opposes your legislation," Mom continues, her voice gaining strength. "He believes that criminalizing young people with powers won't make our city safer. It will simply drive them underground or force them to stand by while people get hurt."

  A murmur ripples through the audience. Richardson's smile is fixed now, brittle around the edges.

  "Mrs. Small, while I respect your husband's opinion, I think it's important to consider the broader--"

  "I'm not just speaking for my husband," Mom cuts in again. She turns to address the crowd directly. "I'm speaking as the parent of a powered teen."

  My heart stops. For one terrifying moment, I think she's about to expose my identity right here in front of everyone. But she continues without specifying which of her children has powers.

  "My child developed abilities after a traumatic accident," she says. "Not by choice. Not for attention. And every day since then, my child has tried to use those abilities to help others."

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out a folder. "I've been collecting stories from parents across Pennsylvania. Children who manifested powers after car crashes, house fires, bullying incidents, medical emergencies. Children who are now afraid that helping someone with their abilities could result in criminal charges under your legislation."

  A movement catches my eye - another person standing in the audience. A middle-aged man in a flannel shirt.

  "My son can purify water with a touch," he calls out. "He volunteers at disaster relief sites. Under your law, he'd be a criminal."

  Another person rises - an elderly woman near the back. "My granddaughter can sense when people are having heart attacks. She's saved three lives at her mall job. Your law would silence her."

  One by one, more people stand throughout the audience. Not just a handful, but dozens. Some hold up hastily made signs I hadn't noticed before: "PROTECT POWERED YOUTH" and "SUPERVISION NOT CRIMINALIZATION" and "MY CHILD IS NOT A WEAPON."

  Mom's eyes meet mine briefly across the distance. I can't tell if she's mad at me or not.

  "You talk about evidence," Mom says, holding up her folder. "Here's your evidence. Real families. Real children. Real consequences if your legislation passes."

  Richardson's composure finally cracks. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in the growing number of standing protesters. This wasn't the carefully moderated town hall she planned.

  She speaks into her lapel, but nobody hears what she has to say.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  The guards next to me immediately close in, one on each side, gripping my arms firmly. I don't resist - not yet - watching to see what happens with Mom.

  Two more security personnel approach her, but others in the audience move to form a barrier around her. The parents of powered teens, having revealed themselves, are now actively protecting each other.

  "You can remove us," Mom calls over the growing commotion, "but you can't silence us. We're organizing. We're voting. And in September, we'll be testifying before the state legislature about the real impact of your bill."

  Richardson gestures more urgently to security. "Clear the room if necessary," she says, the microphone catching her words despite her lowered voice.

  The security guards holding my arms begin pulling me toward a side exit. I could break free easily - even with my injured ribs, I'm stronger and better trained than they are - but that would only reinforce Richardson's narrative about dangerous, out-of-control vigilantes. So I allow myself to be moved, watching over my shoulder as the situation with Mom deteriorates.

  More security personnel stream into the hall from side doors. The parents begin chanting - "HEAR OUR VOICES! HEAR OUR VOICES!" - while Richardson tries unsuccessfully to regain control of the microphone. There's more people here than I think, statistically, there should be, in terms of "parents of powered teens". Friends? Loved ones? I catch a lot of teenagers starting to surround my mom.

  In an instant, the mood has gone from one end of the scale to another. What did my mom say this was? A gish gallop? I don't know what it was, maybe it was that moment of hot mic just now, or what, but nobody seems happy. The people who were eagerly agreeing with Richardson are just looking around, confused. The people who seemed less sure all look like they want to leave.

  "If it's alright with you all, I'd like it if we could calm down and continue this town hall in an orderly fashion," Richardson speaks into the mic, her voice professionally steady even as her knuckles whiten around the podium edge. Trying desperately to reclaim some sort of agency over the room. "I appreciate everyone's passion, but shouting over each other won't lead to productive dialogue."

  She gestures toward my mom with an expression of practiced sympathy. "Mrs. Small, I truly understand your concerns as a parent. Your perspective is valuable, and I'd be happy to arrange a proper forum where we can discuss these issues in depth. Perhaps we could organize a parents' advisory group for the legislation?"

  It's a politician's move - acknowledge, defer, redirect. But the momentum has already shifted too far. More parents are standing, sharing snippets of their children's stories. Signs that had been hidden in bags and under coats now appear throughout the audience.

  Richardson tries a different approach, her smile now fixed in place. "Security, please assist our more... enthusiastic guests in finding seats or, if they prefer, the exit. The rest of us would like to continue our discussion."

  The security team moves with more purpose now, creating a perimeter around the standing parents. One of them reaches for my mom's arm, but three other parents immediately form a barrier.

  "Don't touch her," a tall woman in a teacher's cardigan says firmly.

  "We have a right to speak," adds a man with salt-and-pepper hair and mechanic's hands.

  The security guard hesitates, looking back toward the stage for direction. Richardson gives a small, tight nod, and the guards begin pressing in more insistently. The more of them trying to handle my mom and the rowdy crowd she stirred up, the fewer of them are around me, so I just... I just break for it? I duck under some guard's arm, and I twist through, and I start moving through the crowd while security tails me like a gecko's tail trying to catch up with its body.

  Richardson says something polite into the mic. I don't really catch it. There's too much blood pushing through my ears right now.

  The crowd starts thinning, parting towards me. Not around me, like last time. No, it's more like someone is pushing through it, like a... I don't know, like a bulge of force in the crowd, shoving everyone, jostling them. There's too many people here. Someone's going to get trampled.

  Someone grabs my helmet, and the rest of my body swings out from under me until I reclaim my footing.

  "Bloodhound," someone I vaguely recognize says, his voice almost pleasant, not quite deep. The sort of voice you'd expect to hear in a comic book store, if not for the broad-shouldered man attached to it. "You can surrender peacefully and we'll take this down to the station, or you can make this a fight and we'll take this down to the station with more charges on top. You get to pick."

  Captain Devil's thumb hooks into the eye-hole of my mask, pushing against the thin black mesh. A billowing red scarf that gently wafts behind him like there's a breeze. A domino mask on his dark skin that almost blends in with it, and a red hat like that kind that old news kids wore. Like, the kids who would go around on bikes delivering newspapers. That kind of hat. Sam, focus?

  I slap at his hand, and he lets go before I can even make contact. The crowd has formed a loose circle around us, but, weirdly, nobody's even looking at me. Okay, well, a couple of people are. Like, people notice the circle, and then they notice the people inside of it, but it's more like the crowd is just drifting away from him - centered on him, not on me. I'm taking notes. Listening and learning.

  I hear my mom yelling something in the background. Civilians amble out, trying to either join the protest or leave what has obviously gone sour. "What, no time for Rachel? Just little old me?"

  "Civilians exercising free speech are not my concern," Captain Devil says, the glare of his almost black irises shining like white needles in the middle of his face. "Unauthorized vigilantes are."

  Time to assess my options. The exits are blocked by security. The stage behind me is a dead end. And I have no idea what Captain Devil's powers are.

  "These civilians are speaking because the system isn't working," I say, loud enough for people to hear, but I don't think a lot of people are even listening. "The same reason I'm here. The same reason Gun Dad stepped in when no one else would."

  "Not your call to make," Captain Devil replies, his face scrunching up. "Last chance, Bloodhound. Surrender peacefully."

  "And if I don't?"

  His hands curl slightly, gloves creaking. "Then I'll have to take you in forcibly. Don't make me do that."

  There's something in his voice - not eagerness, but resignation. Like he's following a script he doesn't particularly like.

  I glance around the room, taking in the civilians, the exits, the positioning of security personnel. Mom and her group have been corralled to one side but not removed. Richardson watches from the stage, her expression unreadable. The cameras are still rolling.

  "You know this legislation is wrong," I say, keeping my voice low enough that only Captain Devil can hear. "You know it won't stop crime. It'll just punish kids for existing."

  "My opinion is irrelevant," he replies just as quietly. "I have my orders."

  "From Richardson? Or from someone higher up?"

  He looks at me like I just asked him the capital of Timbuktu. Confused. "Final warning, Bloodhound. Stand down."

  I take a deep breath, weighing my options. Fighting in a crowded room risks civilian injuries. Surrendering means probable unmasking and definite loss of momentum for Mom's coalition. Running means reinforcing Richardson's narrative about reckless vigilantes.

  No good choices. Just like always.

  I shift my weight, assuming the defensive stance Multiplex drilled into me during our training sessions. My ribs protest the movement, but I ignore the pain. Fists up.

  "I can't do that," I say. My heart hammers in my chest in a way I can't control. I need to make space. I need to run.

  Captain Devil sighs, almost too quiet to hear. "I figured as much."