The walk home from the Music Hall is familiar enough that I could do it with my eyes closed. Twenty minutes if I'm taking my time, fifteen if I'm booking it.

  I'm not booking it. I'm walking at a normal pace because I've been good, I've been following the rules, and curfew isn't for another forty-five minutes anyway. The tracker bracelet on my wrist itches a little - it always does when I think about it - but I resist the urge to scratch at it.

  Mom and Dad are probably watching the little dot that represents me moving steadily homeward. They do that sometimes. I pretend not to notice.

  It's cold enough that my breath comes out in white puffs, and the streetlights are starting to flicker on as the January evening settles into proper darkness. There's that quality to winter air where everything feels sharper, more defined. The sounds of traffic from Frankford Avenue carry differently. Fewer people out walking - it's dinner time, everyone's inside where it's warm.

  I'm about halfway home when I notice the red-and-blue costume dropping down from a rooftop ahead of me. It takes a split second to sort of reorganize mentally. Who is that? Oh, right. It's Turbo Jett.

  Oh, fuck. It's Turbo Jett.

  She lands in a crouch, then straightens up with the kind of easy grace that comes from doing gymnastics since you were five. Her costume is bright even in the poor lighting - red jacket with blue and yellow trim, like a racing suit. Her dark hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail. She's grinning.

  "Hey there, Bloodhound," she says cheerfully.

  My stomach drops. "Not my name anymore," I say, loud enough to be heard, projecting composure I'm not sure I feel.

  I turn to look behind me, already knowing what I'm going to see.

  Patriot steps out from between two parked cars, his shield catching the streetlight. The red, white, and blue costume, the self-righteous expression, the way he holds himself like he's about to give a speech about American values.

  Yeah, I remember you. He rolls his shoulders until they pop.

  "Samantha Small," Patriot says, his voice carrying that formal tone he uses when he wants to sound official. "We have a warrant for your arrest."

  I don't move. My brain is doing rapid calculations. Distance to home: three blocks. Distance to the Music Hall: half a mile back. Distance to either of them: too far if Patriot decides to grab me.

  "A warrant," I repeat slowly. The two of them have me pincered but this is a four-way intersection. I could break left, or break right. "For what?"

  "Multiple counts of unlicensed vigilantism in violation of city ordinance," Patriot recites. He's enjoying this. I can see it in his eyes even if his voice stays level. "Breaking and entering, stalking, reckless endangerment of civilians. You need to come with us."

  "I didn't do any of that." My voice comes out steady. I'm not a little girl and I'm not afraid of these two as people - only as objects of violence. I'm not a pussy. "I've been following the rules. I haven't done any vigilante work since--"

  "Since you retired Bloodhound?" Turbo Jett asks, still grinning. "Funny thing about that. Because we've got like a dozen incidents over the past six weeks. Eyewitness reports. Security footage. The whole deal. So either something crazy is happening, or you're a damn liar, because right now we've got two Bloodhounds running around and only guy one is playing by the rules."

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  That doesn't make sense. I've been at home, or at school, or doing mentorship sessions. The tracker bracelet proves it. Unless--

  Unless someone's been pretending to be me. Someone who isn't named Derek. My brain tries lunging for connections desperately. What the fuck? Are they just lying?

  "Check my tracker," I say, holding up my wrist. "My parents have been monitoring me constantly. I can prove where I've been for every single one of those incidents--"

  "That's great," Patriot interrupts. "You can explain all that to your lawyer. After you're processed."

  After I'm processed. After I'm in custody. After Patriot has me in a patrol car with no witnesses and can do whatever he wants while claiming I "resisted arrest."

  I take a small step backward. Who would even bother? Did someone get a costume? Anyone could wear a helmet, but you'd have to look awful close to make one.

  "Come on, kid," Turbo Jett says, and she actually sounds sympathetic. "You're just making this harder on yourself. We've got the warrant. There's pictures of your face without the helmet on. This is all legal and by-the-book. You come with us, we take you in, you get your phone call, lawyer shows up with your alibi evidence, probably you're out by tomorrow morning. Easy."

  "Easy," I repeat. "Right. Except Patriot here nearly killed me twice."

  "That was different," Patriot says, and his jaw tightens. "You were aiding and abetting a fugitive from the law. You attacked me."

  "I didn't attack you, you--"

  "--and I responded with appropriate force to subdue a dangerous metahuman."

  "I was unarmed! I wasn't even in costume!"

  "Doesn't matter." His voice is flat. "You're always armed. Those teeth don't come off."

  Another step back. Turbo Jett tracks the movement but doesn't advance. Not yet. She's still smiling, but there's something predatory in it now. Like a cat watching a mouse decide whether to run.

  Who? Who? My brain is running circles like a squeaking, squealing hamster wheel.

  Maya Richardson wasn’t in Harrisburg during the hearings. Whoever was there wasn’t Maya. The truth won’t set you free, Smalls. The truth is a prison. This isn’t help, it’s a curse, and I’m a bad guy.

  Here’s some more shit on your plate,

  I hear Rush Order's voice in my head like a screaming crow.

  Eat it.

  "Look," I try one more time. "I know you think I did these things, but I can prove I didn't. Just... give me five minutes to call my parents, have them bring the tracker data--"

  "That's not how warrants work," Patriot says. He's moving now, slow and deliberate, closing the distance. "You're under arrest. You can make your call from the station."

  The station. Where it'll be me and him and however many other cops think a teenage vigilante deserves whatever she gets.

  My heart is hammering. Fight or flight response kicking in, adrenaline making everything sharp and clear. I can feel my teeth starting to push forward, my body getting ready for a fight I can't win.

  Three blocks to home. Mom and Dad are watching the tracker. If I can just get to the house, get inside where there are witnesses, where my parents can call their lawyer--.

  "I can see you thinking about it," Turbo Jett says. She shifts her weight, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. "Fair warning: I'm really, really good at catching runners."

  "Don't run, Samantha," Patriot adds. "That'll just add resisting arrest to your charges."

  If I comply, he gets to hurt me. If I run, I'm guilty. If I fight, I'm assaulting federal officers.

  There are no good options.

  But there's home. Three blocks away. Parents. Witnesses. Safety.

  My lizard brain makes the decision before my rational brain can object.

  I run.

  Behind me, I hear Turbo Jett laugh - genuinely delighted - and then there's a sound like air displacement as she shifts up. Her skin will be flushing red right now, heat shimmer starting to rise off her.

  "Runner!" she calls out, and she sounds like she's having the time of her life. "Gear two!"

  Patriot shouts something about the warrant, about coming back, about making this worse for myself.

  I'm not listening. I'm running, sneakers pounding pavement, cold air burning my lungs, three blocks stretching out ahead of me like a marathon.

  The tracker bracelet on my wrist bounces with each step.

  I really, really hope my parents are watching.