I’m the last one left in the tunnel, standing where the sunlight can almost brush my boots. The stadium is…huge. Really, really huge. All I can see in front of me is a heaving wall of noise, of people waving scarlet, bronze, and white Pantheon U flags over their heads, faces painted, some of them spinning their shirts wildly, too. There’s a buzz in the air. Frantic. Loud. It makes the entire stadium shudder underneath my feet. They’re still introducing the five other superheroes that had stuck around with me inside the locker room. It turns out the highest ranked of them is Jordan, fourth nationally, then Red in sixth, Summer in eleventh, Kory in twenty-third, and finally Bandit, who, to everyone’s surprise, was actually Unranked. How the hell he managed to get into Pantheon U without even being ranked is a mystery to me and a prolonged huh? in the crowd. Jason had waved, grinned, and sat on a bench that the rest of them had been told to get comfortable on without anything else to say. Almost everyone had stared at him.

  But he’d kept his eyes straight, arms folded, and lips in a thin smile.

  The stage in the center of the field was bigger than I could have imagined. The American flag snapping in the wind above the stadium, clean and perfect with all thirty spangled stars, billowed in the wind like a cape.

  My heart has never beaten this quickly before. God, I feel like puking right now. But there’s cameras on me. All I can do is shift from foot to foot, letting the sweat trickle down my neck and soak into my suit’s collar. I tug at the spandex around my neck, because if you’ve never worn brand new spandex, just know that it’s stiff as a board and as uncomfortable as a dry rubber glove. It clings to my armpits and the back of my knees, pinches my sides and holds me so tight I can barely move. Nervous? Pfft. C’mon, me, nervous? I’m the future leader of the Ultra Force. All my life, everyone’s told me I’m gonna get drafted into the Major Leagues as soon as I graduate college. This is…

  This is everything I’ve ever worked for in my life, screaming at the end of this painfully long tunnel.

  “Just don’t barf in front of the entire world, and you’ll be fine,” I whisper to myself.

  Jets scream overhead, leaving trails of red, white, and blue smoke. I shade my eyes and watch them skim through the sky to the roaring applause of everyone inside the stadium. I count eight flags alone in just one section of the stadium. A dozen more on the handful of army officers standing on stage, arms by their sides, looking to the sky and making their shiny aviators reflect the flag above them. The military is here, too. Lots of them. Folks in uniform, some more in black fatigues and tilted berets. Most of them look bored. A few of the graying, older ones scan the freshmen sitting below them, like they’re trying to look for something that’ll get a smile onto their stony faces. Why the army is here, I’ve got no idea. Ever since the Second Cape War, they’ve kinda become antiques.

  Kinda like going to a museum to see what a nuclear warhead used to look like. Chunky and awkward.

  And just a little bit obsolete.

  Because when superhumans were finally allowed into the military, why send your average joe into battle when you could send a Bruiser through enemy lines that shrugs off artillery with ease? Maybe it's a ceremonial thing. It’s been tradition for so long that you kinda don’t have any choice except to include them in all of this shit.

  Like letting an old lady take your seat in the subway because you feel bad for them. Look at them, all old and wrinkly and so close to death that I could literally sneeze and I’d probably tear their fragile bodies in half.

  Note to self: don’t sneeze on humans, they’re built like paper.

  “Hey, kiddo.” I spin around. Nobody. I frown and search the crowd I can see, but that was mom’s voice, and I can’t see her anywhere. “I’m up in the sky with Saint and a few others. It’s easier up here. Can you hear me OK?”

  “Yeah,” I say, then clear my throat and say it again.

  “Atta girl,” she says. My chest swells, then tightens when the guy standing in front of a slim scarlet podium begins running through my stats, my saves, the feats I’ve pulled off and, of course, who my mom is. “And loosen up a little. Smile. They’re gonna use these pictures of you for the next four years, so make ‘em look good.”

  “I feel like I’m gonna be sick all over that stage in a second,” I mutter, still bouncing from foot to foot.

  “What’re you so afraid of? You’ve been in front of crowds this big before.”

  “Yeah, but…” Oh, man, the guy on the podium just glanced at me. “This is my future right now.”

  I need this to be perfect. I have to make this perfect.

  “Breathe, Sams. If there’s one person I know who can handle anything, it’s you.”

  “I guess I don’t really have a choice, huh?” I say quietly.

  A roar from the crowd as the announcer says, The one, the only—

  “Nope,” mom says, voice lost in the screams filling my head. “But there’s nothing my little superhero can’t handle, not now, not tomorrow, not in four years, and not in a million. You deserve this, Sam. Go be great for me.”

  “SENTRY!” the announcer bellows. Feedback screams through the speaker system. The crowd screams even louder. I nod to myself, then start off with a jog until I burst into the sunlight, and then the smile is on my face without even asking, my arm is in the air, waving, and now I’m spinning as I fly into the sky above the podium, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt as I spread my arms wide and watch the humans beneath me scream and shout and wave my flags and wave their hands right back at me. And, for a second—for the smallest fraction of a second—I feel it in my chest, this energy, this surge of heat and sickness that fills my gut and rolls through all of my veins.

  The air reeks of burnt honey. The wind softly toys with my hair as I breathe in deeply, filling my lungs.

  I tilt my head back and breathe out through my mouth, then swallow, lick my lips, and look down.

  They’re all looking up at me, some of them blinded by the sunlight glaring above my head.

  Good. Shade your eyes, squint, try to get a better look at me—I know you can’t.

  And I love that they try.

  I land on the large stage, like I’d been told to do by the girl with the clipboard, with a sudden bang. Knee on the ground, knuckles chewing into the podium. Stick the superhero pose. Rise from it, roll my shoulders, and wave to the crowd. My cheeks are starting to cramp. I might’ve landed wrong, because my ankle now hurts a little.

  The guy behind the podium doesn’t give me any time to catch my breath. He grins and pats my shoulder, then waves me down the stage. I go shaking hands, hating the feel of their pasty human skin and their gross human fingers curling around my own. But I grin. I laugh when they tell their dry, humorless jokes, thank them for coming, smile when they tell me I look great in my costume, as if I needed some graying bag of human skin and plastic surgery to tell me that I do. Then it all ends when I meet the general—the guy clad in a black military uniform, with medals on his chest, a scar going from his jaw to his throat, and thick silver hair slicked backward along his head. I stand in front of him, hand out, the smile cramping my face. He looks down at me, then glances high into the sky.

  He squints, then sees mom right there on the edge of the stadium, standing on the dome’s edge.

  She’s quietly muttering something to Saint. Saint folds her arms and shakes her head.

  Whatever they’re talking about, neither of them looks happy.

  “Your mother isn’t good enough to sit here alongside us?” he asks me, finally looking at me.

  I blink, open and close my mouth, then say, “I guess she just liked the view from up there.”

  “Of course she did,” he grunts. “Different colors, same superhuman bullshit.”

  I glance at the people standing beside him. They’re all thin-lipped, suddenly not as smiley as they had been a second ago. Except they’re all looking at me, head tilted, as if they’re waiting to see what I’ll do next. I mean, if they really want a show, I can shove my hand inside his chest and puppet him around like a ventriloquist.

  But that’s disgusting, or whatever, so I let the smile keep cramping my cheeks. Just shake my hand already.

  He doesn’t. Just stares at me like he’s offended I’d even offer my hand in the first place.

  “Well,” I say, snapping off a lazy salute with the wrong hand, “it was an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Jackass.

  His lips curl with disgust. A scowl is on his face by the time I’m jogging off the stage.

  I find my empty seat beside Jordan, right in the center of the row of chairs. I fish for a water bottle under my seat, crack it open and drown my dry throat. Oh, thank God. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and catch the general still looking at me as they all sit down again. His jaw is hard. Eyes sharp. I discreetly look over my shoulder, making sure he’s not looking at someone else, but…nope, he’s glaring right at me and only me right now.

  I lean closer to Jordan as the speeches continue. “Is that army guy staring at me, or am I crazy?”

  “He’s been staring at all of us,” she mutters, picking something out of her nails.

  Jason, sitting to her right, leans in and whispers, “Jack Brosmir. Head of the Superhuman Armed Forces.”

  “Did you just say Superhuman Armed Forces?” Summer not-so-quietly hisses. “Are we getting drafted?”

  “Is there a fucking war going on right now, genius?” Red mutters, arms folded over her chest.

  “Well…maybe. I don’t know. I don’t watch the news much. Is there?”

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  “No, moron. He’s probably only looking at us because he wants to scare us straight.” Red hasn’t taken her eyes off him, almost like some silent challenge. “He’s the intimidating kind. He wants to see what we’re made of.”

  “We’re some of the best Junior Capes on the planet,” I say. “We’re made of the best.”

  Well, some of us. I can’t speak for the fire-hazard, the silent Japanese guy, and Jason.

  “Sam,” mom says. I flinch. “Pay attention, there’s cameras on you.”

  “—and what a Draft Class this is!” the speaker continues, wearing a perfect smile. Shapeshifter. I can smell the greasy layers of flesh shifting underneath his skin. “The two-hundred and seventh class to be enrolled in our glorious institution. Eighty-three superheroes. Thirty of which are ranked in the top one-hundred. Ten of them are ranked in the top twenty-five.” He waves a hand at me. “We’ve even got ourselves the highest ranked superhero in the world joining us. If this isn’t one of our strongest classes to date, people, then I have no idea what is. Seven legacy families returned, including three children whose parents are current Ultra Force members! Can you believe that? Oh my God, whatever we’ve done to deserve this, let’s make sure our good luck rubs off on these kids, too!”

  More cheering. More applause and sharp whistling. We all uncomfortably shift as cameras zoom in on us.

  I throw a discreet peace sign at a Liberty News camera. Jordan bats down my hand.

  “Gross,” Jordan mutters. Her feathers ruffle as she wipes her fingers. “You’re sweating. Like, a lot.”

  “Sorry that my sweat offends you, chicken wings,” I mutter.

  “Call me that again and we’re gonna have a problem,” she says through her teeth.

  “So does bird brain sound better, or?”

  She nudges me. Hard. My ribs find a new way to express so much pain in so little time I go dizzy.

  Power dampeners. Still. What the fuck is up with this place? And why am I getting the brunt of it?

  I tug at my costume’s neckline again, trying to get rid of excess sweat.

  “Withour further ado,” the man says, “I’d like to introduce you to our school’s president, Ultra Force draftee, West Coast League Hall of Famer, served our glorious country through the Second Cape War, co-founder of the Pantheon Five, and… Oh, come on, PUers, make some noise for the one, the only, and my very closest friend—”

  Marcus Vale (a.k.a. Golden-Man) is the drug addicted picture of the perfect superhero. I can smell the coke in his veins, rushing through his bloodstream, and so can a few of the other superheroes in the crowd with a good enough sense of smell. He’s tall, muscular, broad-jawed and blonde—the Perfect American Icon, like the newspapers used to call him when he was off fighting on the front lines decades ago. Is he immortal? Is he aging so slowly that he might as well be considered one of the very few Immortals the world has ever seen? Who knows? Kidney failure is probably gonna get him before time ever does, but you wouldn’t be able to tell as he slams into the podium with an ear-splitting explosion of air. No superhero pose for him. On his feet, wearing a suit that hugs his shoulders and a golden wedding ring that probably can’t slide off his finger. He shakes hands. Hugs people. Kisses women on the cheek, and ignores Jake Brosmir completely when the general stands up to shake his hand. I try not to snicker.

  Because that’s rude! And so obviously deserved. I feel liberated.

  President Vale grins at the crowd and leans into the microphones. “TITAN!”

  “LEGION!” the student section booms. I can’t help but grin. I’ve heard this on TV so many times before I can feel my tongue moving inside my mouth, my lips moving as Vale shouts, “TITAN” again and the student body actually present for this screams, “LEGION!” back. The band surges into life, drums hammering away, trumpets blaring loudly, before Vale holds up his fist and they suddenly go silent. The air hums. The stadium almost feels like it's holding her breath. The student section stands, meaning it's only us, the freshmen, left sitting down, because the general public that’s also here climbs onto their feet, too. Cameras pan and zoom. Phones come out and start recording. Vale walks past the podium, looks around, nods a little, then raises his hand, “ONE WILL, ONE WILL!”

  “MANY HANDS, MANY HANDS!” they bellow back at him.

  “FORM THE LINE!” he barks.

  “ROLL TITAN!” they scream.

  I’m shifting in my seat, almost giddy and excitable, trying not to bite my lip. Jordan looks at me like I’m stupid. Red rolls her eyes. I look around me, spot faces in the freshman section either entranced, scared, or bored.

  The idiot I am, I stand up the second Vale shouts, “FOR GLORY!”

  “FOR LEGION!” they rage, and so do I, right from the top of my lungs, thrusting my fist into the air.

  The entire stadium goes into a frenzy, so mad and loud you can barely hear the band playing the Titan Legion’s war chant. Drums. Trumpets. It screams of glory and war and victory and fuck, my body tingles and my skin itches, and I feel like jumping up and down, just like the rest of the crowd roaring and thrusting their fists into the air and screaming ROLL TITAN over and over again. It’s a dizzying force of sound and heat and golden valor.

  And I drink up every single freaking second of this.

  Because this is what it must’ve felt like back on Utopia before the genocide.

  Vale, after several minutes, heads back to the podium, motioning for the stadium to settle down. I’m so pumped full of adrenaline that I end up sitting on the edge of my seat, almost like an attack dog frothing at the bit. “So,” he says, voice deep and smooth. “It looks like we’ve got a bundle of new superheroes on our hands.” I’m the only one who whoops, which… Yes, I cringe at that too, but Vale grins at me and points at, well, me. “She gets it! Now that’s a Titan at the heart!” Applease from the crowd. I try not to break into a puddle of grinning sweat. But the entire freshmen section is now looking at me, almost glaring. “So let’s give them all a very, very warm welcome. It’s not going to be easy here in Pantheon U. Nobody becomes a superhero because easy is what you want to do with your life. From this day onward, you will pledge yourself to goodness, perseverance, to justice, to the unblinking faith in New America and her brightest future. With every generation that steps forward, humanity strides toward a brighter, better future. And what better school to learn how to be the greatest superheroes the world has ever known, than the very same school founded on the goddamned bedrock that was once New York City, birthplace of heroes, home of legends. We are, and will always be, the program which makes the best, the very best. TITAN LEGION!”

  “ROLL TITAN!” the crowd roars in return.

  Vale claps his hands and laughs with his chest, and I can smell the alcohol stuck deep in his throat. The men and women behind him clap and nod, maybe a little uncomfortable with all the shouting and screaming and constant wail of noise. The general, though, sits stiffly, eyes still glued on me like he wants to pick a fight now.

  But I am having way too much fun right now to care about some grumpy old man.

  “Now, I’m going to hand it over for the closing speech,” Vale says. “I’m sure a lot of you know him. I’m sure a lot of you have heard about him. He’s not only ranked highest amongst our university seniors, but also highest in Draft-Eligible Capes in the entire country.” Applause. And then a cheer that makes me pause: We love you Logan! Vale says, “He’s been like a son to me in many ways, and I’ve watched him go from a trouble-making freshman, just like all of you right now, to maybe one of the greatest superheroes the world will ever know. Ladies, gentlemen, mutans and everyone else, please put your hands together and give Logan Wilde a hand of applause!”

  Logan? As in, the guy with the board shorts, flip-flops, and Hawaiian t-shirt? He’s the Number One?

  He comes out of the tunnel to a pulsing roar of cheering and the band erupting with noise. He’s in costume now, something simple—purple and gold, with a crimson cape flowing off his shoulders. He’s devilishly handsome, and Jordan is suddenly paying a lot more attention to something that isn’t her nails or her costume. He jogs on stage, no flying, no sudden impacts—a lot of hugs he pulls people into, a lot of high-fives he gives to the bored army people that makes them chuckle and red-faced. He even gets a thin smile out of Brosmir, who does more than shake his hand, and instead whispers something into his ear, grunts a quiet, then goes back to glaring at me.

  What the fuck is this guy’s damage? I think. What did I ever do to him?

  Vale claps Logan on the back and steps aside. Logan pulls a microphone out of its stand, leans on the podium, and scans the crowd until they’re silent. “How’s it hanging, everyone?” A couple of girls cheer. Some of the guys in the student section thump their chest three times. Logan points at them. “I knew you guys would make it. But let’s get down to business—so, freshmen, congrats on making it here, but the job’s not done. Not even a little. Some of you are ranked. Some of you aren’t. And that’s cool, because I came into PU not even knowing what that meant. Frankly, I kinda didn’t care, either.” Vale chuckles and folds his arms. Logan shrugs. “These next four years will test you like you’ve never been before. It doesn’t matter if you’re ranked at the top, or at the very bottom, because every superhero bleeds, every superhero wins, and no supervillain can ever amount to any of us.” That gets whistles and applause. The band quickly plays a part of the war chant. “Most importantly, though—relax. Breathe. This is school we’re talking about. Make friends. Go on trips. Party—not all the time!—and remember to study, because yes, you’ve still got classes to attend. I know, I know.” Some of us groan. “It sucks, but before you know it, one of you is gonna be standing where I am in four years, saying the exact same thing to the next group of kids after you. So, remember, be brave, be loyal, and listen to your gut. I’d give you all a round of applause, but I’m saving that for the day you graduate, because life is just beginning, kiddies, so you better get ready to face the music.” He smiles one more time, eyes sparkling. “You’re gonna be great. If a kid like me could do it, then you definitely can.”

  Then he raises his fist and says directly into the microphone, “And welcome to the Legion. One Will!”

  The student section is silent, so is the crowd. I look around at the freshmen, then raise my fist.

  “Many Hands!” I shout. My voice echoes through the silence. Camera stare at me.

  Logan sighs and waves his hand at me. “Well, like Vale said, at least she gets it. The rest of you freshmen, you’ve got four years to work on your war chant, because that was the first extracurricular, and you totally failed.”

  Laughter from most of the crowd and some of the parents as kids shift and try to smile uncomfortably.

  I try not to grin, because what can I say? I really am just that awesome.

  “Big guy?” Logan says, handing Vale the microphone. “Gonna do the honors?”

  “Freshmen,” he says loudly, grinning for the cameras, “Welcome to Pantheon U!”

  For one last time, the student section screams, FOR GLORY!

  And I eat it up so much, you’d think I didn’t have a burger for breakfast.

  But when I look up toward the sky, sweat covering my face and a smile on my lips, mom is staring at me. Hard. Jaw set. Arms folded. She’s shaking her head a little, then looks into the sky and tears through the clouds a second later, almost so ferociously she turns them into tufts of curly white vapor that trail after her, clearing the entire sky. None of the other Ultra Force heroes were there anymore. She’d been the last to leave, as if she’d been expecting something or… Or waiting to see if I’d keep throwing my fist into the air with the humans and screaming.

  I chew on my tongue and swallow past the lump in my throat, then smile when Vale steps off the stage, heads toward me, and offers me a bearpaw of a hand to shake. “I love the energy,” he says, then squeezes my arm. “Keep that up, and you’re gonna make a lot of friends with the media. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, superhero.”

  With that, he winks, waves to the crowd, and also explodes into the sky, nearly throwing both me and my chair onto the ground with the shockwave that follows him. Logan ruffles my hair as he jogs past and vanishes into the tunnel, and when I’m done quietly cursing him out, the rest of the freshmen are staring at me, arms folded, eyes narrowed, hate so pure on their faces I can almost taste it. I stare at them back, sweat dripping off my forehead, lips dry, throat achingly parched. And then I shrug and turn around, force my fingers through my hair, and look upward.

  My heart is still racing. Racing so fast I can feel it leaping higher into my throat.

  “Way to go, licking their asses like that,” Red mutters.

  I shut my eyes and ignore her.

  Because I know one thing, and one thing for sure—I’m gonna love it here.