The administrative wing of Olympus Tower was a chaotically controlled mess of sweaty bodies, printers, phone calls, yelling, and lots of coffee cups stuffed inside of trash cans. I’m standing in the doorway of the sprawling office space, wondering if I should even bother going in here as my nose gets assaulted by so many kinds of old take out and sweaty armpits that my tongue shrivels inside of my mouth. Some older guy jerked his thumb at this place and kept walking past me when I asked for directions, so here I am, and nobody seems to give a shit about that fact. A split second before I decide to bail out, I catch a stack of files and a piping hot mug of coffee out of thin air, before a speedster in heels and a pencil skirt skids across the carpet in front of me. Young-looking, thin glasses, rubbing her nose as she groans off the floor and picks herself up. She looks at me, then groans with heavy relief.

  “Oh, thank God,” she says, and then the stuff in my hands is suddenly in hers, wedged against her chest. She adjusts her glasses, scans me up and down, almost as if she’s wondering how to fit me inside one of the files she’s carrying—or better yet, recruit me. “You look familiar. Freshmen. Nobody wears those gaudy tracksuits.”

  “Yep, that’s me, freshmen number one,” I say, then jerk my thumb into the office. “Doctor Lively?”

  She raises one eyebrow. I just noticed that, when she went sliding across the carpet, she smeared half her mascara along her forehead, almost like a nasty scar. “Wow. First day here and you’re already in the doghouse.” She points toward the very end of the office space, where a hallway leads into a corner office…I think. There are a lot of bodies to see through, and at some point, all my x-ray vision shows me are organs and bones and an intern quietly crying inside of his cubicle. “Down that way, go left, knock three times and pray she’s in a good mood today, which she probably won’t be, because the entire faculty just came out of a meeting and they are not happy about today.”

  My eyebrows screw together. Not happy about today? I’m here, that should’ve made it even better.

  Well, whatever—I’ll just sweet talk Dr. Lively into a better mood, and get myself out of this mess.

  “Thanks, anyway,” I say. “And good luck with the whole super-receptionist thing.”

  She scowls. “I’m a junior, bitch. It’s called getting extra credit.”

  Then she’s gone in a violent burst of wind.

  “I try to be supportive, and that’s what I get,” I mutter under my breath. Humans, always so antsy and emotional. My mom tells me that they’re born this way. Predisposed to argue and fight, and that’s why half of America is a nuclear wasteland, and the Soviet Union is a cesspit of mutants and Class One Anomalies. Like, what’s so hard about talking to other people nicely, you know? I mean, I’m nice, and the only thing I ever get is insulted.

  And sidekick duty, which isn’t going to happen. Over my dead body.

  Five and a half minutes later of wandering through a maze of teleporters, speedsters, and translucent people who make my skin itchy (no, literally, I’m allergic), I finally make it through the office space and head down the long hallway. Frosted glass office doors line the wall to my left, each one of them soundproof and lined with some kind of material I can’t see through. Blurry figures move behind the glass in some rooms. Most, though, are entirely empty. To my right are floor-to-ceiling windows, giving me one hell of an impressive view of the Hall of Triumph, this massive cathedral-looking building with a statue of Patriot standing proudly in front of it. The sun glares off his golden smile, shining off the four other members of the Pantheon Five standing around him, including one of the school’s president himself, fists planted on hips, cape billowing and jaw set into a wide, shit-eating grin.

  But I’m only looking outside to distract myself from the awful feeling brewing in my gut.

  The closer I get to the corner office at the very end of the hallway, the worse it gets, becoming so bad I nearly puke in my mouth. My nose twitches. I scratch the back of my hand and find a rash spreading up my arm. What the hell? Must be all the humans crammed in one place. Barely any ventilation, either, except for a fan built into the ceiling that’s quietly humming. I sneeze, and blood hits the roof of my mouth. Yep, definitely the humans.

  I force myself to swallow, then reach the door at the very end of the corridor.

  The hellscape of offices down the other end of the hallway is a muffled blur down here. I can only see papers flying through the air, quickly followed by Speedsters zipping past. I swallow, then look at the door. Frosted glass. Dr Heather Jones Lively engraved on a golden plate, bolted to the door. Soundproof glass. Can’t see through it clearly, either. This entire hallway feels like being a kid again, when I was still learning how to turn my x-ray vision on and then off. The headache I’m getting right now would probably kill a regular person, and all I can do is massage the back of my neck and knock on her door. I try to peer through the glass, but all I can make out is one person standing behind a desk, whilst the other patiently sits in front of it. I think. A minute more of knocking on the glass, and the person sitting down gets up, picks up a briefcase, and heads toward the door. I stand back as it swings open, and a thin, dark-skinned man walks out, passes me, and then pauses. He turns around to stare at me.

  And I stare at him back, raising an eyebrow.

  “Huh,” he mutters, before adjusting his tie, and continuing down the hallway.

  “Don’t waste my time standing at the door. Come in if you’ve got a problem. You’ve got five minutes and the clock’s already ticking.” I blink, and then move inside, shutting the door behind me, and wow this is awesome. Her office is all windows, and you can almost see the stadium behind the trees off into the distance. A shelf full of trophies glitter in the sunlight pushing its way inside, right beside plaques and certificates and photographs with superheroes and even the last two mayors. There’s a bookshelf full of comics, all sealed in plastic, all of them signed, and no, I’m not jealous, but… She sits down in her high-backed leather chair, drums her scarlet fingernails on her desk, and says, “Perfect, a freshman. Usually you people don’t even know my name until you’re juniors. Most of you think I’m some kind of myth.” She uncorks a bottle of whiskey and downs it from the glass, leaving scarlet lipstick around the bottle. She pushes it aside, then says, “Sit down, talk to me. Four minutes. Keep it quick.”

  She looks like… I know you.

  I’ve seen her before.

  Wait a minute.

  “You’re—”

  “Kid, if you came all the way into my office just for a goddamned autograph, I’m gonna write you up for indecent exposure, and I’m thinking you’re not a fan of detention through your first week in PU. What is it? Talk.”

  Holy shit, she’s Alexandria. Same big, blonde, loud hair she used to have way back when. Same strong arms and shoulders, now hugged tightly by a white blouse unbuttoned to her chest. She even has that tiny scar on her lower lip where Conrad Red had punched her halfway across New York—when Liberty City was still New York. Holy shit. Holy shit! I don’t like a lot of superheroes, but a few of ‘em are stare-worthy. Whenever kids in high school asked me how it was like to live with Guardian as a mother, I’d shrug and say, She’s pretty shit at making pancakes, because she’s my mom, and I’m just used to her being a superhero, kinda like how a regular person’s dad can be a cop, or whatever. But her? Man! I read her comic books all the time when I was young! I learnt English from them, too! Well, some English. I guess that’s kinda why I talk the way I do, because mom was too busy trying to falsify my birth records and her own to teach me how to talk like these guys, so comics taught me how to do it.

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  She snaps her fingers and says, “Out. Time’s up. You’ll get your warning slip on your way out.”

  “Wait,” I say, then pull the seat in front of her desk. “Is it true you were here when the bombs dropped?”

  Her face darkens. I scoot closer. “What?” she asks quietly.

  “You know,” I say. “When the Soviets dropped the nukes on New York, you survived it, right?”

  Heck, she was one of the few superheroes from the First Wave to stick around to see it.

  Which is awesome. Can you imagine getting to watch a bomb get dropped on a city? The closest I’ve come is watching mom blow up a terrorist-hijacked oil-tanker, and that was intense. But an entire nuclear bomb?

  God, her skin must be so dense. Her bones must weigh dozens of pounds on their own.

  I kinda wanna touch her, just to see if her muscles really are like steel, like the comics used to say.

  Slowly, she leans back in her seat, eyes narrowing as she says, “You’re Guardian’s kid.”

  I grin. “Sentry, you’ve probably heard tons about me.”

  Jaw hard, eyes set, she presses a button on her desk and says, “Marge, why’s Guardian’s kid in here?”

  An elderly voice replies, “Oh, it must’ve slipped my mind. With all these freshmen on campus today—”

  “Marge,” she says dryly.

  “Right. She’s been given a flight misconduct. First freshmen on the list to break it! Just like that boy did years ago.” I shift in my seat as Alexandria’s jaw hardens. “Sidekick work for…wow, an entire month. That’s new.”

  “Thanks, Marge.” She folds her arms and stares dead into my eyes. It almost feels like she’s trying to see through my skull. I scratch the back of my neck. “Listen,” she says quietly. “Just because you’re Guardian’s little girl doesn’t mean a fucking thing, all due respect. And I like Guardian. She’s a hard worker. She deserves the big contract extension. Congrats, by the way.” I don’t know if I should nod or not, but I do. Just a little. “But she’s there, not here. She’s the one saving this city, putting New America back together, and you? Kid, you’re a nobody.” My spine stiffens, then I lean back. “I don’t care about your high school stats and I don’t care about what you did when you were five. Everyone in this university was the best at some point. In their district. In their region. Some of them were nationally ranked number one way before you came along. You’re a dime a dozen, kid, and breaking the rules doesn’t make you different, or quirky, or interesting. It makes you a pain in the neck. And it makes you my pain in the neck, because now I’m going to have to clear my Saturday mornings just so we can have meetings this entire semester. Does that sound fun to you, Guardian-Girl?” Sentry. It’s Sentry. My throat dries. My hands, resting on my knees, are clenched. But I keep my face neutral, shoulders relaxed. “No, it doesn’t. Have anything else to ask?”

  I open my mouth and try to speak. Nothing comes out. I try again. “What about class?”

  She stands up. Her bare feet pad against the floor as she pulls open a filing cabinet. “You’ll just have to study extra hard. Shouldn’t be too difficult, since you’re so special, right?” I chew my tongue. Keep smiling tightly as she pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me. “That’s your sidekick schedule. It’s your duty to answer all your calls and emails and requests, but also your duty to follow the schedule. Help teachers prep the Aegis Complex, the Forge, the Oracle Center, and the Vanguard Pavillion every morning at five and every evening at ten. You will also be on standby for Hero Nights.” She folds her arms. I peel my eyes off the piece of paper and stare at her. I can see through your skin. I can see the plates of metal bending around your skull, keeping your brain in one piece. “You should feel pretty honored for that one, because freshmen usually get the worst seats, if you ever get tickets in the first place. And the better job you do, the more points you’ll earn. Think of it like this—if you don’t get in any more trouble, and you keep your hands clean and buckle down, then you might just get to go off-campus with some of the seniors on their night watches.” I smile some more. Grip onto the piece of paper. My gut coils. I feel like vomiting. She pats my shoulder, then rounds her desk and sits down again. “Any other questions before you start?”

  “None,” I say quietly, then fold the piece of paper and slide it inside my pocket.

  But I don’t get off the seat. I sit still, chewing my tongue, looking at her.

  She raises her eyebrow again. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m a glorified slave,” I say, fingernails tearing through my pants.

  “I’ve known some pretty good sidekicks who’ve made a hell of a career out of it.”

  “I’m not planning on being someone’s mule.”

  She slowly leans back. “You think you’re better than your average sidekick?”

  I shrug, but keep my jaw firmly shut.

  “Why is that, Sentry?” she asks quietly, tilting her head. “Why are you any different?”

  “I’m better.”

  “How so?”

  “I just am.”

  Silence, and then: “Hm.” She shifts in her seat. “You wanna know a secret?”

  Not really.

  “Sure,” I say quietly.

  “Patriot was my sidekick during the war,” she says. My eyes almost widen. Almost. She waves her hand. “He doesn’t like talking about it. Superheroes are too proud of a species to ever admit they learnt something from anyone, least of all someone stronger than them. But here and now, between you and me, I can tell you for a fact that he only stopped being my sidekick because I let him. Being a sidekick doesn’t mean being a slave. It just means learning. You learnt a lot from your mom, right?” I don’t nod, just stare. “And does that make you a slave?”

  “Guess not,” I whisper. My fingernails cut deeper into my skin, almost making myself bleed.

  “Exactly,” she says. “And you’ve got the choice to leave. At any time. But if you do, then you’re gonna get handed a suspension, and I can tell you personally that the media are gonna eat you alive. There are eyes on you, there’s always been eyes on you, I get that. But you’d rather tough it out, learn what you can, and maybe even get to go on a patrol way before your grade ever gets the chance to sniff the gates. At the end of the day, you’ll be the one with all the experience, and they’ll be the ones following after you when you finally get your chance to do your own patrol.” She smiles tightly. “Think about it. Superheroes don’t start on their own. Sometimes you just need a helping hand. And sometimes you need to mop a couple of floors and wax some costumes and clean a few cars to work your way into the role you know you’re supposed to be in. Heck, even I started out as a sidekick, Sentry.”

  That’s you—not me, why the fuck should I care?

  “Cool,” I say, my throat tight—so, so tight. I stand up stiffly. “Guess I’ll get to cleaning then.”

  Before I reach her door, she says, “Samantha?” I turn my head, not my body, to look at her. “Chin up, alright? Punishments in PU are learning curves. And if you’re as half as hard working as your mother, then you’re going to be out helping the seniors on their patrols before your mid-term exams, then everyone’s happy, alright?”

  “Yep,” I say, throwing a smile across my lips. “I’ll do my best, I promise.”

  I accidentally leave an indent around the bronze doorknob, and crack her frosted glass door as I slam it shut. I take a moment outside of her door, shoulders rising and falling, heart racing and my brain so very fucking loud with thoughts and emotions that tear through anything even resembling common sense. And then I breathe. Because I’m in this school to get better, to get stronger, to learn things that mom can’t get her hands on, and then tell her all about it. And then, one day, I’ll be the one they’re building statues for, preferably from the stones of the dozens of ancient statues scattered across this entire campus. But, for now… God, I hate this. I hate this so much.

  I push a hand through my hair, then decide to call the one person who’ll know what to say right now.

  Because I can feel a stupid decision bubbling inside of me, and the longer mom doesn’t pick up…

  Voice mail. Busy saving the world. Of course.

  I pocket my phone, take a deep breath, and walk down the deathly silent hallway.

  I’m pretty sure I packed a couple of spray cans. Can’t let ‘em go to waste, not in this economy.

  Alexandria’s statue needs a new paint job.