BEGIN ARC 16: CATEGORY FIVE HURRICANE

  The confession hits the morning news while I'm eating cereal.

  I'm not even paying attention at first. Mom's got Channel 6 on in the background like she always does on weekends, and I'm focused on not getting milk on my phone while I scroll through the group chat. Maggie's freaking out about her hair. Lily wants to know if anyone's seen her left glove. Normal pre-event chaos.

  Then I hear "shapeshifter" and my spoon stops halfway to my mouth.

  "--confirmed that the individual in custody, identified as Elena Morales, also known by the nom-de-crime of 'The Doppelganger', has provided a full confession detailing her role in a series of impersonations targeting both the vigilante known as Bloodhound and City Councilwoman Maya Richardson--"

  Dad appears in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, eyebrows raised. We make eye contact. He tilts his head toward the TV in the living room.

  I abandon my cereal.

  The anchor is a woman I don't recognize, blonde, the kind of aggressively professional look they all have. Behind her, a graphic shows a silhouette with a question mark for a face next to photos of me in costume and Maya at some press conference. The chyron reads: SHAPESHIFTER CONFESSION: BOTH BLOODHOUND AND COUNCILWOMAN TARGETED.

  "--according to the confession, Morales was employed by the criminal organization known as Rogue Wave to impersonate both individuals on separate occasions, causing significant confusion during recent events in Northeast Philadelphia. Councilwoman Richardson was reportedly found in an abandoned vehicle on February 3rd, after being kidnapped earlier that day--"

  "Huh," Dad says, settling onto the arm of the couch.

  "Yeah," I say. "Huh."

  Mom joins us a minute later, dish towel over her shoulder, and we watch the rest of it together. The anchor interviews some expert on metahuman crime who uses the phrase "deeply concerning" three times in two minutes. They show footage of the blizzard from last week, the one that dumped sixteen inches on Mayfair while Center City got six. The weather guy comes on to talk about "unusual atmospheric conditions" and "localized pressure systems" and I want to throw something at the screen.

  It's not weather. It's Maya. It's always been Maya. But now they have weathermen talking about the obvious in the room - that it could've been Maya, but it clearly isn't, because they just found her bound and gagged in an ice cream truck in a park in Strawberry Mansion, all the way across the city. So it was an unseasonal, freak storm in a season of freak storms.

  Awesome! Cool! It's always been Maya, idiots.

  But they don't say that. They can't say that, because the confession doesn't say that. Elena blamed Rogue Wave for the whole operation, which is a lie, but it's a lie that protects the Kingdom and poisons any testimony Rogue Wave could ever give about Maya's double life. Anyone who saw "Maya" in two places at once? That was the shapeshifter. Obviously. The councilwoman was a victim here.

  "The timing's interesting," Dad says, once they cut to commercial.

  "Miasma," I say. It's not a question.

  "Your friend has a sense of theater."

  He's not wrong. Dropping the confession the same morning as Jamal's big event in Maya's district? That's not accidental. Maya has to choose between managing the PR crisis and showing up to smile for cameras while her rival cuts a ribbon. Either way, she loses something.

  It's satisfying. It's not enough, but it's satisfying.

  "She's going to spin it," I say, mostly to myself. "They're already spinning it. 'The councilwoman was kidnapped, she's the real victim here.' She gets to be sympathetic."

  "But she can't use the shapeshifter anymore," Mom points out. "That's gone now."

  "Yeah." I chew on that for a second. "Yeah, that's... that's actually huge. Every time she needs to be in two places at once from now on, she's exposed. No more alibi machine."

  "One less tool in the toolbox," Dad agrees. "Even if the immediate coverage favors her narrative."

  The news cycles back to the story, showing Maya's official headshot next to a photo of a woman I've never seen before. Or, well, I think she's a woman. She's covered head to toe in bandages, like a mummy, except for her lips, which are ruby red. She's wearing Maya's clothes, which are baggy in some places and tight in others. And just on the edges of her lips, I can see what is clearly the white callused skin of scar tissue.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The anchor mentions that Councilwoman Richardson is expected to make a statement later today.

  I check the time. Two hours until the Music Hall thing.

  "I should get ready," I say, not moving.

  "Sam." Mom's using her careful voice, the one that means she's about to say something I don't want to hear. "Are you sure you want to do this? The costume, I mean. You retired."

  She says this like she's sort of wishing it on a star.

  "Maggie can't do the whole thing herself. And Davis wants--" I stop, try again. "It looks better if Bloodhound's there. The original one. Shows continuity with the program. I'm not going back to it for real, I'm just... appearing."

  "In the costume," Dad says.

  "In the costume."

  They exchange one of their parent looks. This one, I can decipher, for once. This one says something like "we're worried but we know we can't stop her."

  "Derek's okay with it?" Mom asks.

  "Derek doesn't own the name. I gave him the equipment, not the--" I make a vague gesture. "The brand. Or whatever. It's fine. He's not even going to be at the event, he's doing his own thing."

  That's mostly true. Derek's going to be watching from a rooftop somewhere, keeping an eye out for trouble, but he's not participating in the ceremony. We talked about it. He gets the night patrol, the investigations, the actual work. I get the photo ops and the PR appearances until we figure out what I'm doing next.

  It's a weird arrangement. It works for now.

  I finally drag myself off the couch and head upstairs to get ready. Some iteration of the Bloodhound costume is hanging in my closet, a Frankenstein assembled and repaired from all the various versions lying around. Amelia did the repairs, obviously. The seams are better than they were before. She's been experimenting with her power, figuring out new applications, and apparently that includes making costumes that are harder to tear.

  I stare at it for a while.

  The helmet looks back at me, empty eye holes, that familiar shape I've been wearing since I was fourteen. It doesn't fit right anymore. Not physically - Amelia adjusted it - but something else. Like wearing clothes from middle school. Technically they go on your body. Technically they cover what they're supposed to cover. But you're not the same person who wore them.

  My phone buzzes.

  Maggie: HELP my hair looks like a birds nest

  I send back: use more gel

  Maggie: I USED ALL THE GEL

  Lily: try hairspray?

  Maggie: what am i, a 1980s prom queen

  Tasha: yes

  Amelia: Maggie.

  Amelia: You are wearing a helmet.

  Amelia: Wash the gel out.

  Maggie: FUCK. I forgot

  The suit goes on in pieces - the underlayer first, then the armored vest Amelia reinforced, then the outer layer with all its hidden pockets and attachment points. The belt with the flashbangs and the zip ties and the first aid kit. The gloves. One big gauntlet that was used twice, scavenged from Miss Mayfly's equipment. The boots that are actually comfortable now after two years of breaking them in.

  Last, the helmet.

  I look at myself in the mirror. Bloodhound looks back.

  "Hey," I say to my reflection, trying to figure out how I feel about this.

  My reflection doesn't answer, which is probably healthy.

  The thing is, I don't miss it. Not really. The name, the costume, the persona - they were always tools, not identity. Sam Small fights crime. Bloodhound was just the label she did it under. And now Derek's Bloodhound, and that's fine, that's actually good because he needs it more than I do.

  But standing here in the suit, about to walk into a public event as the person I used to be, I feel like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Or maybe my own old skin, shed and preserved and pulled back on for one more performance. Like a snake wearing a snakeskin bag.

  Weird. It's weird.

  My phone buzzes again. Dad: Car leaving in 20 min

  I take one more look in the mirror, adjust the mask slightly, and head downstairs.

  The drive to Tacony takes longer than it should because there's some kind of accident on Frankford Ave and Dad has opinions about alternate routes. Mom's in the passenger seat going over notes for something related to her coalition work. I catch "Whitford" and my eyes go wide, and I catch "Xiuying", which is not a name I recognize, and then she notices me staring and turns her phone away from me with a very unserious tut-tut. Damnit.

  I sit in the back and watch Northeast Philly scroll past the window. The neighborhood looks the same as always - rowhouses, corner stores, churches, the occasional boarded-up property. But there are signs of the Kingdom's presence if you know where to look. The protection stickers in shop windows. The guys on corners who aren't quite loitering, aren't quite working, just... present. The way certain blocks feel heavier than others, like the air itself knows who's in charge.

  It's been getting worse since the blizzard. Maya's tightening her grip, even as her alibis fall apart. Maybe because her alibis are falling apart.

  We pass a news van setting up near the Music Hall and I sink lower in my seat instinctively. The helmet is in my bag, not on my face, but I still feel exposed. The news is going to be all over this thing - Councilman Davis's big community center opening, the same day the shapeshifter confession drops, in the district of the councilwoman who's suddenly looking like either a victim or a suspect depending on who you ask.

  It's going to be a circus.

  "You ready?" Mom asks, twisting around to look at me as Dad pulls into the parking area behind the building.

  "Define ready."

  She gives me a look that's half sympathy, half mom-sternness. "You don't have to do this, you know. Maggie can handle--"

  "I know. I want to." That's mostly true. I want to support the program, want to see the Music Hall finished, want to be there for Jamal after everything he's done to make this happen. I just wish I could do it as Sam instead of as a costume.

  They drop me off in an alleyway, not near anyone looking, and then kiss me on the forehead. Or, well, Mom kisses me, Dad hugs me, and then I slip the helmet on and give them my privacy jacket since I don't need it anymore.

  Then, they drive away. Alright. Time to be a symbol.