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Chapter Text

The cafeteria was bustling with the kind of chaotic energy that only a thousand super-powered teenagers could create. The clang of a dropped tray, the low hum of conversation, and the soft whoosh of a student flying just a few feet over the tables filled the air. The student body president was next to me, finishing the tour of the school.

“Now that's all settled, it's time for your lunch.” She smiled.

“Thanks, Gwen! Honestly, I don't know what I would've done without you.”

“Hey, that's my job. Wouldn't want the transfer kid getting lost around here,” she laughed then continued. "Unfortunately I have to take my leave now; the principal was asking for me. You can have your lunch, though, and go to your class according to the schedule."

“Alright, thanks so much, Gwen! I'll catch you later.” Waving good-bye with a big smile, I watched her walk out of the cafeteria.

For a moment, I just stood there, letting the sheer noise of the place wash over me. A thousand different possibilities all screaming for attention at once: a 78% chance that the boy in the corner would drop his tray, a 45% chance the girl flying overhead would lose momentum, a 99% chance that the couple in the back was about to break up. It was a constant storm of information, and I took a quiet breath, pushing it all down until it was just a dull roar in the back of my mind. For the sake of my sanity.

I made my way to the queue and waited for my turn to get the food, humming a tune to myself until I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned around with a bright, welcoming smile and saw a girl with pigtails wearing a green shirt beaming at me. "Hi, you must be the transfer student, I'm Layla,” she greeted, stretching out her hand for me to take.

Taking her hand and giving it a friendly squeeze, I introduced myself, prompting a nod from her.

“That’s a pretty name,” Layla said, a bit nervously, as if she were about to say something else. Eventually she made up her mind and continued, “I don't know if you have a seat yet, but you're welcome to sit with me and my friends, if you'd like, of course. We're all in the Hero Support program, so we kind of stick together.”

I couldn't stop the grin that spread across my face. “Oh, my gosh, I'd love that! I was hoping I wouldn’t have to eat alone.”

Layla let out a breath of relief and laughed. “Oh, good, I was scared I spooked you out or something!”

I giggled, grabbing my tray. “Not a chance! Let's get our food and get to that table.”

As we made our way through the line together, it felt like a small victory. I might have finally made my first friend here and we are getting food together! I got my food before Layla and waited for her to get hers before looping my arm with hers, walking towards our destination hand in hand. We finally reached the table and the others—who I later came to find out are Will, Ethan, Magenta, and Zach—were all laughing and making room for us once they noticed our arrival. Layla introduced us to each other and everyone gave their welcomes to me as the new transfer student. I sat down next to Layla who has Will on her other side, with Zach, Ethan, and Magenta on the opposite side. 

Ethan pushed his glasses up his nose. “Welcome,” he said earnestly. “If you need a map of the school's ventilation system, I have one. Surprisingly enough, it’s faster than using the hallways during peak traffic.”

I blinked, then giggled. “Uh, thanks! I'll keep that in mind.”

Zach waved a dismissive hand at him before calling out to me, “Don't mind him. So, what brings you here? A little late to the year, but still a good time to start.”

Hearing that question, everyone turned to look at me out of curiosity of the answer. I felt a nervous flutter in my stomach, and my smile became a little more strained. “Oh, you know,” I started, trying to sound casual as I pushed some food around on my plate with a fork. “Just some complicated family stuff. It's a super long and boring story, trust me.”

I tried to change the subject immediately. “So, what's the deal with the classes here? Layla mentioned something about ‘Hero Support’?”

My attempt to deflect was completely lost on them.

“Family stuff?” Ethan piped up, leaning forward with interest. “Is it hero-related? Did your parents get assigned to protect this city or something?”

“Yeah!” Zach added, his face lighting up. “Are they famous? My parents are just... normal.” He said the word 'normal' like it was a boring flavor of ice cream.

Will, trying to be helpful, chimed in. “My parents are The Commander and Jetstream. It can be a lot of pressure, so I get it if you don't want to talk about it.” While his intention was kind, it only drew more attention to the topic.

I offered a weak laugh, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. I opened my mouth to try and come up with another vague answer, but thankfully, Layla cut in.

She gently nudged my shoulder, drawing my attention. “Guys, give her a break. She literally just got here,” she said, before turning to me with a kind smile that let me know she understood. “Anyway, to answer your question, Hero Support is... interesting. Mr. Boy is our teacher. He used to be All-American Boy, The Commander's old sidekick.”

The boys, getting the hint from Layla's tone, finally dropped it.  Will had the decency to look a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck, while Zach just shrugged, his curiosity already moving on to the next topic. The conversation shifted to stories about Mr. Boy and the general weirdness of Sky High, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I shot Layla a small, grateful look, and she gave me a subtle nod and smile in return.

A genuine warmth spread through my chest, a feeling I hadn't let myself have in years. It had been so long since I'd just sat at a table and laughed with people. And these people... they were different. They could glow, melt, and shapeshift. They could handle themselves. For the first time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could actually relax.

The topics came and flowed easily between us. I came to find out that they were all placed in Hero Support because of their ‘less useful’ powers like Zach who glows (in the dark), Ethan who can melt into a puddle of goo, Magenta who can shapeshift albeit limited to a guinea pig, except for Will who had no powers and Layla who refused to participate in the Power Placement test. Questioning her decision, Layla then explained how she doesn’t want to support the hero/sidekick dichotomy. She continued on how unfair the system is when I felt a burning sensation in the back of my head. I looked around to find out the source of it, eventually coming to the sight of a guy with black hair wearing a black leather jacket sitting by himself. He had a sharp glare directed towards our table, specifically to the back of Will’s head, accompanied with a deep scowl decorating his already angry face. I turned back to the table. 

“Who is that guy over there?” I pointed towards the grumpy guy’s way.

Everyone turned to look at the direction my finger was pointing at to see who I was talking about. Once they figured out who it was, they immediately turned away from looking towards his direction. Will flinched and hunched his shoulders slightly, Layla shot a quick worried glance from Will to the brooding guy, and Zach muttered, “Don’t make eye contact,” under his breath.

“Oh, that’s Warren Peace,” Magenta said dismissively as if that name was supposed to ring a bell for me. It didn’t. None. At all.

Looking at the others, everyone had the same ‘yea that’s the guy’ look. Still not satisfied with the answer, I chimed, “Is he a bitter failed singer, or something? He looks so… grumpy…” then turned to look at him again, confused as to why that name was supposed to be something so important that every pupil in Sky High should know about it. Facing his general direction again, his gaze was no longer digging a hole to the back of Will’s head but instead directed at me. A little taken aback by the sudden hostility, I composed myself then threw a wide grin and excitedly waved to him.

His eyebrows raised a little and for  a single, fleeting moment, the sharpness in his expression was gone; and the anger in his face was replaced by pure, unfiltered confusion. That was, at least before he got back to putting on the expression he had earlier. He gave a slight shake of his head and turned back to his food, pointedly ignoring our table.

The silence that fell over my new friends was deafening. I turned back from Warren to find five pairs of eyes staring at me as if I had just grown a second head.

It was Zach who broke the silence, his voice a loud, incredulous whisper. "Did you just... wave at him? Like, an actual, friendly, 'hello-how-are-you' wave?"

"She did," Magenta confirmed, her voice completely deadpan. She took a slow sip of her soda. "A new record for the shortest life expectancy at Sky High."

"He's not going to do anything!" I laughed, trying to brush off their concern. "He just looked lonely."

"Lonely?" Will squeaked, his voice an octave higher than usual. "He's not lonely, he's... Warren Peace! His dad is Baron Battle!"

Layla placed a gentle hand on my arm, her expression soft but serious. "Will's right," she said, her voice low. "You shouldn't have done that. Don't you know who he is?"

I looked from Layla's concerned face to the others, who were all nodding in agreement. Then I glanced back over at the boy sitting alone, now eating his food. A slow smile spread across my face.

"Nope!" I said, my voice full of sudden energy. "But I'm about to find out."

Before any of them could react, I stood up from the table with my tray in hand and walked directly towards his. The low hum of the cafeteria seemed to fade as I crossed the floor. I could feel the eyes of my new friends—and probably half the student body—on my back. When I reached his table, I didn't hesitate.

"Hi," I said cheerfully, placing my tray down and sliding into the seat opposite him, throwing out my name. "I'm new here."

Warren looked up from his tray, his eyes narrowed into slits. The fork in his hand was held so tightly his knuckles were white. He didn't say anything, just stared at me with pure, undisguised suspicion.

"What do you want?" he finally bit out, his voice a low growl.

"Company, mostly," I replied, completely unfazed. I took a bite of my food. "And I was curious about something."

"Curious about what?" he asked, his tone laced with impatience.

I leaned forward slightly, resting my chin on my hand and looking at him with genuine interest. "Do you have a lot of internal conflicts?"

His scowl faltered, replaced once again by that look of utter confusion. It was even more pronounced up close. "What are you talking about?"

"Your name," I explained simply. "Warren Peace. It sounds like 'War and Peace.' I was just wondering if the name also applies to the person."

He just stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. For the first time since I’d seen him, the anger was completely gone, washed away by a wave of disbelief. He looked utterly, completely speechless.

He stared at me for a long moment, the confusion on his face slowly hardening back into a scowl, but this time it's mixed with a look of disbelief. He lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"You're analyzing me now?" he said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "What's next, are you going to ask me about my relationship with my mother? Get lost."

With a final, dismissive glare, he grabbed his tray, stood up, and walked away, heading for the cafeteria exit. I watched him go, my brow furrowed.The gang was right; he was grumpy. But the way they had reacted to his name... it was a familiar kind of fear. The kind of fear people have when they're looking at a legacy, not a person.

As he passed the last row of tables, I called out, my voice clear enough to cut through the noise. "Am I supposed to know anything about you?"

Warren froze mid-stride. His back to me, but I could see his shoulders tense up. For a few seconds, he didn’t move. Then, very slowly, he turned his head just enough to look at me over his shoulder. The anger was gone again, replaced by that same, genuine confusion from before.

"You really have no idea, do you?" he asked, his voice no longer hostile, just genuinely baffled.

Without waiting for an answer, he turned back and walked out of the cafeteria, leaving me with five stunned friends and a brand new mystery.

I took a deep breath, suddenly aware of just how quiet the cafeteria had become. Dozens of eyes were on me. With as much confidence as I could muster, I picked up my tray, stood up, and walked back to my friends. As I slid back into my seat beside Layla, the spell of silence was finally broken.

Zach leaned so far over the table he almost knocked over the salt shaker. "Okay, seriously," he said, his voice a mix of awe and sheer disbelief. "You're either the bravest person I've ever met or you're completely insane. I haven't decided which yet."

"She's insane," Magenta stated flatly, not looking up from her tray. "But it was entertaining."

Ethan pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, looking at me like I was a science experiment that had just gone unexpectedly right. "Statistically speaking," he said, "the probability of a hostile reaction involving property damage was approximately 98.7%. You're a fascinating outlier."

"Why?" I asked, finally turning to face them fully. "What's the big deal? So his name is a pun and he's grumpy. What did I miss?"

Will looked like he had swallowed a bug. "What did you miss? His dad is Baron Battle." He said the name in a hushed, dramatic tone, as if the cafeteria walls might be listening.

Baron Battle. The name was vaguely familiar, a headline from a news report I’d half-listened to years ago. But it had nothing to do with the angry, isolated boy I’d just spoken to. The connection didn't click. I just stared back at Will with a blank expression.

Layla, seeing my genuine confusion, took over, her voice gentle but serious. "Baron Battle is one of the most dangerous supervillains of all time. He's in prison for life." She paused, then gestured to a still-shaken Will. "Will's dad... The Commander... was the one who put him there."

That's when it all clicked into place. The burning glare at the back of Will's head. The gang's immediate fear. The hostility that radiated from him like heat off pavement. It wasn't just a bad mood; it was a legacy. They were judging him for his father's sins. And I knew better than anyone how heavy a burden that could be.

"Oh," I said softly, looking towards the empty doorway he had disappeared through.

I had thought he looked lonely. But it was more than that. He was completely, utterly isolated, living in the shadow of a war that had ended before he was even old enough to fight. And everyone here, I realized, was making sure he never forgot it.

A new feeling settled in my chest, pushing past the confusion. It was determination. My new friends saw him as a threat, a legacy of a villain. But I saw someone who was hurting. And I wanted to know the boy, not just the legacy he was forced to carry.

Chapter Text

A loud, shrill bell echoed through the cafeteria, signaling the end of lunch. The noise level, which had been a dull roar, immediately spiked as a thousand students scraped their chairs back and started moving.

"What do you have next?" Layla asked, gathering her things.

I pulled the folded schedule Gwen had given me out of my pocket. "Uh... Power-Based Physical Education. With a Coach Boomer?"

Zach’s face lit up. "No way! We all have Boomer next. C'mon, we'll show you the way. Try to keep up." He shot me a grin and started walking, the others falling into step around me.

We made a quick stop at the locker rooms. My new friends changed into the standard-issue grey Sky High gym uniform. Since my transfer paperwork was still being processed, I hadn't been issued one yet, leaving me feeling a little out of place in my regular clothes.

The gym was a massive, cavernous space. Unlike the chaos of the cafeteria, it was relatively quiet. A handful of other students—the rest of the Hero Support class, I presumed—were scattered on the bleachers, talking quietly amongst themselves. We joined them, the mood calm and relaxed before the inevitable storm.

A few minutes later, the doors at the far end of the gym slammed open, and the storm arrived. Coach Boomer strode in, his footsteps echoing like thunder. He blew a sharp blast on his whistle, and everyone immediately sat up straighter.

"Alright, listen up!" he bellowed, his voice ricocheting off the walls. "Before we begin today's lesson on why you'll never be a real hero, we have a special guest. A transfer student who missed the festivities on the first day."

His gaze swept across the bleachers and landed squarely on me. The full force of his voice hit me like a physical wave as he barked out my name. I met his stare and raised my hand, a small, steady gesture in the suddenly silent gym.

"Front and center!" he commanded. "Principal Powers wants a proper evaluation. Let's see what you've got."

Layla gave my arm a reassuring squeeze as I walked out onto the gym floor, the eyes of the entire class on me. I could feel the familiar, low hum of possibilities buzzing in my head, a thousand potential outcomes for this moment. I took a quiet breath and pushed them all away.

"Well?" Boomer barked impatiently. "We haven't got all day."

I looked up at him, offered a polite, calm smile, and said, "No, thank you."

The gym went dead silent. Coach Boomer's face, which had been a ruddy red, started to creep towards a deep purple. "What did you just say?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"I'd prefer not to," I repeated, my smile never wavering. "Thank you for the offer, though."

He stared at me, his jaw working silently for a few seconds before he finally exploded. "You'd prefer not to? This isn't a restaurant, kid! This is a direct order from the principal! You don't have a choice!"

"I understand," I said calmly. "And I'm respectfully declining."

For a moment, I thought he might actually combust. Then, with a look of utter disgust, he pointed a thick finger towards the bleachers where my new friends were sitting.

"Fine! You don't want to show me your power? Then you don't have one worth showing! Get over there with the rest of the rejects! SIIIDE-KICK!"

As I walked over to join Layla and the others, a small smile played on my lips. The roar of possibilities in my head had quieted to a whisper. On the bleachers, Layla gave me a knowing, proud look.

"Welcome to the club," Magenta said in her usual deadpan voice as I sat down.

Ethan nodded sagely. "A statistically brave, if strategically questionable, decision. I respect it."

I looked at my new friends, all of them smiling at me—the girl who had chosen to be one of them. For the first time, being a "sidekick" felt less like a label and more like a victory.

My moment of triumph was cut short by the sharp blast of Coach Boomer's whistle.

"Alright, you rejects, listen up!" he bellowed, pointing to a series of obstacles set up across the gym floor. "Today's lesson: Obstacle Course! The rules are simple. Get from this side to that side. Shouldn't be too hard... for a hero." He shot a meaningful glare at us.

The course was clearly designed to favor a specific set of powers. It started with a twenty-foot wall, followed by a wide chasm, and ended with a massive concrete block that had to be moved to cross the finish line.

"Zachary Braun! You're up!" Boomer yelled.

Zach puffed out his chest and ran at the wall. He jumped, managing to get a few feet up before sliding back down. He tried again, his body starting to glow faintly as if for encouragement. It didn't help. With a final, frustrated sigh, he gave up.

A wave of secondhand frustration washed over me. I’d known the probability of him making it was less than one percent, but seeing the hope drain from his face still felt like a punch to the gut. The urge to just... nudge a foothold into existence for him was a familiar, bitter taste in my mouth, one I had to swallow down.

"What's the matter, glow-stick? Can't light the way up the wall?" Boomer jeered. "Pathetic! Next!"

One by one, the sidekicks tried and failed. Ethan melted into a puddle at the base of the wall, unable to climb. Magenta, with a bored sigh, turned into a guinea pig, scurried halfway up a support beam, then seemed to lose interest and just sat there grooming herself. Layla and I didn't even try; we just stood with our arms crossed, watching the farce.

Then, Boomer brought in a few of the Hero students to "demonstrate." A girl with wings simply flew over the entire course. A boy with super strength picked up the concrete block and tossed it aside like a pebble. They finished in seconds.

It wasn't impressive; it was just... inevitable. There was no struggle, no challenge. Just a display of power that proved nothing at all.

Boomer blew his whistle, a smug look on his face. "And that, sidekicks, is the difference between a winner and a loser! Hit the showers!"

As we walked toward the locker rooms, Layla shook her head. "See? This is what I was talking about. The whole system is designed to make us feel useless."

I looked back at the smug Heroes, then at my friends. Zach was trying so hard to pretend it didn't bother him, but I could see the large, ball-shaped bruise already forming on his stomach as he tried to laugh it off.

The realization that this wasn't a class, but a lesson in humiliation, settled in my stomach like a cold stone as I followed Layla and Magenta to the locker rooms to change, waiting for them outside the stalls. Once they were all back in our regular clothes, we met up with the boys in the hallway.

"I think I'm gonna be glowing from my stomach for a week," Zach groaned, poking tenderly at his new bruise.

You should put some ice on that," Ethan advised, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Seriously, it'll reduce the swelling. It's basic thermodynamics."

"Or," Magenta said, her voice completely deadpan, "you could just not run headfirst into a wall next time."

Zach opened his mouth to retort, but Layla cut him off with a sympathetic smile. "Don't listen to her. You were brave to even try."

"Yeah, bravely stupid," Magenta muttered.

Zach opened his mouth to retort, but then just grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His expression suddenly changed from annoyance to confusion and curiosity. He pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

"No way!" he yelled, his previous frustration completely forgotten. "Where did this come from?!"

Will leaned in, his eyes widening in recognition. “Dude! Is that the twenty you were complaining you lost this morning?”

Zach's face lit up as he examined it. "It is! I remember I folded the corner just like this. I thought it was gone for good!" He pumped his fist in the air. "This is my lucky day!"

Layla just laughed, shaking her head at his sudden change in mood. Magenta rolled her eyes. "Great. Now he's twenty dollars more annoying.”

I just offered a warm smile, trying to keep my expression neutral. "See? The universe decided you deserved something good to happen after that class."

I couldn't help but laugh as Zach started celebrating his newfound wealth, debating whether to spend it on comics or a giant slushie. As we walked down the hall, their bickering felt comfortable and familiar. For a moment, surrounded by my new friends, the heavy weight of being the new girl seemed to lift just a little.

The feeling stayed with me all the way to a classroom with a bright, comic-book-style sign on the door that read: "Hero Support." The inside of the classroom was the complete opposite of Coach Boomer's sterile, intimidating gym. It was smaller, a bit cluttered, and felt lived-in. The walls were covered with faded posters of old hero teams, framed newspaper clippings, and display cases filled with retired gadgets. It felt less like a classroom and more like a clubhouse.

A man with tired eyes and a slightly slumped posture sat at the front desk. He wore a faded blue polo shirt with a small, almost unnoticeable "A" embroidered on the chest. This had to be Mr. Boy.

He looked up as we filed in, offering a weary but genuine smile. "Take a seat, take a seat," he said, his voice calm and conversational. "And welcome," he added, his eyes landing on me. "I hear you made quite an impression on Coach Boomer."

I felt my cheeks flush, but he just chuckled. "Don't worry. Ruffling Boomer's feathers is practically a rite of passage for the best students in this program."

A wave of relief washed over me. This was a different world from the gym.

"Alright, let's get started," he said, turning to the board. "Today, we're talking about collateral damage assessment. A hero's job is to punch the bad guy. A sidekick's job is to make sure a building doesn't fall on a bus full of nuns while he's doing it."

He looked directly at us, his expression suddenly serious. "Never forget: the flashy stuff gets the headlines, but the smart stuff saves lives. Boomer will teach you that power is everything. I'm here to teach you that he's wrong. Brains will always beat brawn."

Ethan was practically vibrating with excitement, his hand already in the air. Zach was trying to discreetly play a game on his phone. But I just listened, a real, genuine smile on my face.

After the gym, I felt torn down. But here, in this cluttered, hopeful room, I felt like we were being built back up.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the world felt different. As I sat on the flying school bus, squished between a laughing Zach and a quietly reading Layla, the dull roar of possibilities in my head felt less like a storm and more like a gentle hum. It was all still so new, so strange. And for a moment, the quiet felt peaceful, like the start of something.

When the bus landed with its customary jolt, we all piled out, joining the river of students flowing toward the school's main entrance. And then I saw him. Walking about twenty feet ahead of us, a solitary figure in a black leather jacket, was Warren Peace. He walked with his head down, a clear, invisible bubble of "do not disturb" around him.

My friends didn't seem to notice him, their conversation flowing easily around me. But after yesterday, he was a puzzle I couldn't ignore. A new feeling, part determination and part pure, unadulterated curiosity, propelled me forward.

"Hey, I'll catch up with you guys in a second," I said, already breaking away from the group.

I heard Layla call my name, a note of concern in her voice, but I was already weaving through the crowd. I picked up my pace, finally catching up to him just as he reached the classroom doors and planting myself directly in his path. "Good morning!" I beamed.

He stopped, forced to look at me. His expression was a familiar mix of annoyance and deep, weary suspicion. "What do you want?" he grumbled, his eyes darting around as if to make sure no one saw us talking.

"Nothing," I chirped. "Just saying hi."

He just stared at me for a second, then grunted and pushed past me into the classroom. I followed right behind him, my grin unwavering. The sign on the door read "History of Super-Heroics." I quickly pulled out my schedule to double-check. There it was: first period, Tuesday. It was a core curriculum class, one of the few that integrated both Heroes and Sidekicks. What a coincidence, I thought, though a small part of me knew it probably wasn't.

Warren headed for a desk in the back corner, the most isolated spot in the room. An empty seat sat right next to him. Perfect.

I started to walk toward it, but a gentle hand suddenly closed around my wrist. I turned to see Layla, her expression a careful mix of a friendly smile and something else I couldn't quite place.

"Hey," she said, her voice a little too bright. "We saved you a spot over here with us. You don't want to sit all by yourself, do you?"

She tugged me gently toward the opposite corner of the room where the rest of the gang was already settling in. I glanced back at Warren, who was now watching us, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he turned away to stare out the window. A strange sense of a missed opportunity settled over me, but I let her pull me away, sliding into the seat she'd saved.

I pouted at Layla as everyone else settled in, but I didn’t say anything. From across the table, Magenta caught my expression and let out a soft, dry chuckle, shaking her head at my visible annoyance.

Just then, our teacher, Mr. Harrison Vance, cleared his throat from the front of the room, and the class fell silent. He was a man who seemed perfectly starched, from his crisp white shirt to his perfectly coiffed silver hair. He adjusted his tie, his movements precise and economical.

"Good morning, students," he said, his voice as neat and ordered as his appearance. "Today, we will be concluding our unit on the Golden Age hero, Triumph."

He launched into a lecture that felt less like a story and more like a recitation of facts. It was a sanitized, black-and-white version of history, full of clear heroes and unambiguous villains.

"...Triumph, you see, represented a time of moral clarity," Mr. Vance stated, tapping a pointer on his desk for emphasis. "A time of clear lines, not like the messy, chaotic theatrics of modern-day thugs. He didn't need elaborate plans or doomsday devices, unlike criminals such as Baron Battle."

He said the name with a tone of academic dismissal, as if he were a footnote not even worthy of serious study. But the name hit the room like a stone. A few students shot quick, nervous glances toward the back corner. I did, too.

Warren hadn't moved, but the change was immediate and profound. His posture, which had been slouched and disinterested, was now ramrod straight. His hands, resting on his desk, were clenched into tight fists, his knuckles white. He was staring at a point on the far wall, his gaze a million miles away, his jaw set so tightly I was afraid he'd crack a tooth. It was a quiet, suffocating pain, and I felt a pang of it in my own chest.

I was so focused on him that I didn't notice Layla watching me until she gently nudged my arm. Mr. Vance was asking a question I hadn't even heard. I just shook my head, my eyes still fixed on the boy in the back corner who was trying to pretend he hadn't just been publicly branded with his father's sins.

When the bell finally rang, the tension in my shoulders released. As we filed out into the crowded hallway, heading for our next class, Layla fell into step beside me.

"You were a million miles away in there," she said, her voice soft. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, then hesitated. "It's just... did you see Warren?"

Layla’s expression immediately filled with concern. "I saw you watching him," she corrected gently. "You shouldn't. It's not safe to get involved."

"Involved? I just feel bad for him," I argued.

Will, who was walking just ahead of us, overheard and turned around, his face grim. "Feel bad for him? He's the son of the guy who tried to kill my parents. Trust me, you don't want to get mixed up in that."

"I don't know," Zach chimed in, a grin on his face. "I think it's kind of cool. You're the only person who isn't scared of him."

Ethan pushed his glasses up his nose. "Statistically, Zach, fear is the appropriate response. The probability of him having a... hostile emotional reaction is significantly higher than that of a baseline student."

"If you have a death wish, you should definitely keep poking the angry fire-breathing bear," Magenta added from behind us, her voice dripping with sarcasm with a tinge of amusement. "It would be an interesting social experiment, at least."

Their words swirled around me—a mix of genuine worry, encouragement, and dry humor. They were trying to protect me, each in their own way. But as we arrived at the gym for Unarmed Combat, all I could think about was the look on Warren's face. They saw a villain's legacy. I just saw a boy who was hurting. And I had a sinking feeling I was about to make it worse.

Chapter Text

The gym was stark and practical, smelling of sweat and disinfectant. Unlike the main PE gym, this one was smaller, with padded mats covering the floor and a set of worn, wooden bleachers against the far wall. My friends and I found a spot to sit while we waited for class to start. Warren, predictably, sat on the opposite end, as far away from everyone else as possible. I knew Unarmed Combat was another one of the mandatory mixed classes, but seeing him in the same section as me, just an hour after our tense history lesson, felt like a coincidence that was a little too convenient.

Our teacher, a woman with a severe haircut and a military posture, barked, "Line up!"

"For the new ones here, I am Sgt. Adams," she announced, her voice sharp and clear. "In this class, your powers mean nothing. Your strength, your speed—useless. Here, you will learn discipline, control, and how to defend yourself when all you have is your own two hands. Now, find a partner."

Before I could turn to Layla, Sgt. Adams' voice cut through the air again. "Actually, no. That's too easy. I'll assign partners. I want you working with someone who will challenge you."

Her eyes scanned the room, and a slow, cruel smile spread across her face as she looked from me to the back of the bleachers. "You, new girl. You're with Peace."

A nervous silence fell over my friends. I saw Layla take a small, involuntary step toward me before stopping herself. I took a deep breath and walked to the center of the mat, where Warren was already waiting, his expression unreadable but radiating a tense, coiled energy.

"Today's drill is simple," Sgt. Adams continued. "One partner on offense, one on defense. The goal is not to strike, but to unbalance your opponent. Peace, you're on offense."

Warren nodded, his eyes fixed on me. The frustration from history class was still simmering just below the surface, and I could see him sizing me up, seeing this as the perfect opportunity to finally intimidate me. He expected me to be clumsy or scared.

I wasn't.

He lunged first, a quick, aggressive jab meant to push me back. But I could feel it coming before he even moved—a 97% probability he would lead with his right. I shifted my weight, letting his momentum carry him past me as I effortlessly parried his arm. He stumbled, catching himself at the last second.

He came at me again, this time with a series of faster, more complex moves. But it was like trying to catch smoke. The hum of possibilities in my head was a clear, steady signal, telling me where he would be a fraction of a second before he was there. I didn't fight back; I simply moved, a constant, frustrating dance that kept me just out of his reach.

His frustration grew with every failed attempt. His precise, controlled movements became sloppy, his jabs more reckless. He was trying to overwhelm me, to use his anger as a weapon, but it was having the opposite effect. He was losing his focus and energy.

Finally, after a particularly wild lunge that left him completely exposed, he stopped, breathing heavily. He was glaring at me, his chest heaving, his face a mask of pure, undiluted frustration. His anger wasn't working. His physical presence wasn't working. He was the one being made to look foolish.

I just stood there, my own breathing calm and even. I looked at him, at his tense shoulders and his clenched fists, and the words came out before I could stop them, a simple, quiet observation.

"You're off-balance."

His eyes widened for a split second, a flash of shock cutting through the anger. The word hung in the air between us, true on every possible level. He opened his mouth to say something, but the sharp blast of Sgt. Adams' whistle cut him off.

"Time! Next pair!" she barked.

The drill was over. Without another glance at me, Warren spun on his heel and stalked back to the edge of the mat, his fists still clenched. He threw himself onto the far end of the bleachers, a solitary, fuming statue. I watched him for a moment, the tension from our drill still humming in the air, before turning my attention back to the mat.

Sgt. Adams called the next pair, two brawny hero-track students whose drill was less a dance and more a series of clumsy, grunting shoves. It ended quickly when one unbalanced the other with a simple trip.

Finally, she called, "Williams! Stronghold! You're up. Stronghold, offense."

Will gave Layla a slightly nervous but determined look. He was just a regular guy without any powers, but he moved with a surprising grit, trying to use his normal strength to push Layla off-balance. But Layla was calm, centered. She didn't meet his force with her own; she simply used his momentum against him, redirecting his lunge with a gentle spin that sent him stumbling past her. He looked surprised, and she just gave him a small, placid smile.

Before anyone else could go, the bell shrieked, signaling the end of class.

Warren was on his feet before the echo died. He didn't even glance at the locker rooms, just grabbed his bag from the bleachers and barged through the gym doors, a walking storm heading directly to wherever his next destination was.

"Hit the showers!" Sgt. Adams barked at the rest of us.

"Whoa," Zach muttered, watching the doors swing shut behind Warren. "Someone's in a bad mood."

"You think?" Magenta deadpanned as we headed for the locker rooms.

After a quick change, we joined the lunchtime rush, the psychic roar of the cafeteria already a dull ache behind my eyes. We got into the queue, but the line was so long that by the time we were halfway through, Will was still stuck at the back.

"Let's go grab a table before they're all gone," Layla said, pointing to an empty one near the windows. "We'll wait for Will there."

We settled in, and my eyes immediately found him. Warren was in his usual corner, a thundercloud of fury, stabbing at his food.

"Are you going to stare at him all through lunch?" Layla asked gently from beside me.

"I'm just worried," I said, pushing my food around my plate. "He was really angry after that drill."

"Hey! Over here!" Zach yelled, waving his arms wildly. Will, finally free from the queue, spotted us and started making his way over. Ethan held up a small bowl. "I saved you a pudding!"

Will grinned, but before he could take another step, a red-and-white blur—Speed—zipped past, snatching the pudding right out of Ethan's hand. At the same moment, a striped hand stretched out from under a nearby table, tripping Will with a sickening thud.

The boy went flying. His entire tray of food sailed through the air and landed with a perfect, catastrophic splat all over Warren Peace.

The cafeteria went dead silent. The only sound was the drip of soda from Warren’s leather jacket.

He rose from his seat, the scraping of his chair against the floor unnaturally loud. He was a statue carved from fury, dripping with mashed potatoes. The air around him seemed to shimmer with heat.

"Oh," Will said, scrambling to his feet. "Sorry."

"You will be," Warren growled, his voice a low rumble that promised violence.

"Alright, let's not do this," Will pleaded, still breathless.

"You think you can do whatever you want just 'cause your name's Stronghold?"

"I'm sorry that my dad put your dad in jail, but—"

Warren lunged forwards, grabbing Will by the collar, "Don't you dare talk about my father," he snarled. His hands began to glow, an angry orange light pulsing at his fingertips.

The psychic chaos in my head exploded. It wasn't a roar anymore; it was a physical force, a disorienting shriek of a thousand violent probabilities. 89% chance of a broken jaw. 76% chance the next fireball hits a civilian student. 94% chance of severe burns. My head pounded, and the room seemed to tilt on its axis.

"Mr. Boy, do something!" Layla pleaded.

Mr. Boy, who was sipping on his soda, took one look at Warren's flaming hands and said, "I'm on it!" before turning and running out of the cafeteria.

A fireball erupted from Warren’s hand. Will, reacting on pure instinct, blocked it with a lunch tray. The plastic sizzled and warped, melting into a molten slag that dripped to the floor. As another fireball came flying, Gwen Grayson and her army of Penny clones walked in, watching the chaos with the detached amusement of spectators at a gladiator match, along with other students chanting and encouraging the chaos.

Warren was relentless, a force of nature. Fireballs exploded against pillars and walls, sending shrapnel flying. Lash, with a cruel laugh, tripped Will again, sending him sprawling. Warren stalked forward, both arms now wreathed in flame. Will scrambled under a row of tables as fireballs rained down, blasting them to splinters.

"Where's your sidekick now, sidekick?" Warren roared.

"Right here!" Zach yelled defiantly.

"Yeah!" Ethan added, though his voice trembled. I saw his hand shake as he adjusted his glasses, wiping his, probably now, sweaty hands on his pants.

They ran forward. Warren intensified his flames, and Ethan, true to his word, immediately melted into a shimmering, nervous puddle.

"Leave them alone!" Will shouted.

His hands found themselves placed under the edge of the heavy, bolted-down tables. For a second, nothing happened. He strained, his face red with effort. Then, with a guttural roar, the bolts screeched and the entire row lifted.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. The roaring noise in my head didn't just get louder, it changed keys. A new, raw, and completely uncontrolled power had just entered the equation, and the probabilities were spinning wildly, too fast for me to track.

Will himself looked just as shocked as everyone else. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face as he held the immense weight above his head. He looked down at his own hands, then back at the tables, and whispered to himself in pure, joyful disbelief, "I'm strong?"

I glanced at our friends. Zach’s jaw was on the floor, his eyes wide with pure, unadulterated glee. Ethan was staring, his analytical mind visibly trying to calculate the physics of what he was seeing. Even Magenta’s bored facade had cracked, her eyebrows raised in a rare show of genuine surprise. But it was Layla’s expression that held me—a breathtaking, terrified, and fiercely proud smile that lit up her entire face.

Will's moment of discovery was cut short by the reality of the situation. With a final roar, he threw the entire table, sending Warren crashing into another set of tables ten feet away.

The room was stunned into silence for a beat. Will stood there, breathing heavily, looking at his own hands with a newfound sense of wonder. Then, his shock hardened into a dangerous confidence. He turned to Lash and Speed.

"Now," he said, his voice low and steady. "Who tripped me?"

They didn't stick around to answer.

But it wasn't over. A low growl echoed from the wreckage. "Stronghold!"

Warren rose from the splintered tables, his whole arms now fully engulfed in a controlled, furious flame. The heat washed over the room in a tangible wave. Will didn't back down. He squared his shoulders, a grim, determined look on his face, ready for more.

They met in the middle of the room with a sound like a car crash. It was a blur of raw strength against fiery propulsion. The psychic shriek in my head intensified with every blow, every near miss. The probabilities were no longer just about injury; they were tipping into the red, into the realm of the permanent, the fatal. This wasn't a schoolyard fight anymore. This was a battle.

Will got his hands on Warren’s jacket, using his momentum to pivot and hurl him bodily. Warren didn't just hit the wall; he went through it, a human cannonball of brick dust and splintered wood, disappearing into the room beyond.

For a moment, there was only a gaping, jagged hole in the wall and a stunned silence. Then, a figure staggered out of the dust, bruised and bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but his eyes were burning brighter than his flames.

"You think I can't take a hit?" he snarled, the fire on him roaring back to life as he charged again.

The shriek in my head became a physical pain, a needle of pure raging noise boring into my skull. It has to stop. Across the room, Layla had the same idea, yanking a fire extinguisher from the wall. "Will!" she yelled and tossed it to him.

My own body moved on pure instinct, a desperate scramble for the other extinguisher. The cold metal was a shock against my hands, the pin coming loose with a sharp metallic click that felt deafeningly loud in my head.

I spun around just in time to see Will fumbling with the canister Layla had thrown him, his eyes wide, his movements a half-second too slow for the inferno bearing down on him.

I ran, my feet pounding against the floor, and planted myself directly between them.

For a split second, the world narrowed to a single point: Warren, a charging wall of heat and furious flame. His eyes were locked on Will, but as I stepped into his path, his focus shifted. I saw his eyes widen, a flicker of shock cutting through the rage. His momentum faltered, his charge slowing almost imperceptibly. I wasn't the target.

It was all the time I needed.

I aimed the nozzle and squeezed the handle. A thick, white cloud of foam erupted, engulfing him completely. The flames died with a wet, hissing sound, and the force of the blast knocked him off his feet, leaving him sputtering and covered in white just a few feet from where I stood.

The fight was over. The shriek in my head finally quieted, leaving behind a ringing silence broken only by the drip of foam onto the floor. My arms trembled, the heavy extinguisher suddenly feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. My awareness slowly expanded from the foam-covered boy on the floor to the gaping hole in the wall, to Will, who was standing awkwardly to the side, sheepishly putting down the extinguisher he never got to use.

The ringing silence was suddenly replaced by something heavier—a wave of pure, unshakeable authority that cut through the lingering adrenaline.

Standing just a few feet from where Warren lay sputtering on the floor was Principal Powers. She stood amidst the wreckage, her expression not one of anger, but of profound, weary disappointment—the look of a woman who had seen this exact brand of chaos a thousand times before.

Her gaze swept over the scene, taking in the destruction with a chilling stillness. Her eyes landed on Will, then on Warren, and finally, they locked onto mine. She didn't need to say our names. Her stare was a physical weight, pinning the three of us in place.

"Follow me," she said, her voice dangerously quiet.

As we walked silently down the hall, I caught Layla's eye. She wasn't angry, just deeply worried. She gave me a small, sad shake of her head, a look that said everything: I told you so.

Chapter Text

The walk to detention was the longest of my life. It was a silent, suffocating journey, each footstep echoing in the empty hall. Will walked beside me, shaking his head every few steps and muttering under his breath. His shoulders weren't hunched with guilt, but squared with a kind of bewildered frustration—the look of someone who couldn't understand how he'd ended up being punished for defending himself. Warren stalked a few feet away from us, a rigid statue of fury, but every so often, I could feel his gaze shift from the back of Will’s head to me. His brow was furrowed, not with anger, but with a kind of analytical curiosity, as if he were trying to understand the deep, bone-weary exhaustion I felt radiating from me in waves.

Principal Powers led us not to her office, but to a stark, windowless room with a single heavy, metal door. "Detention," she announced, her voice flat.

The moment I stepped across the threshold, the world tilted. The dull, persistent ache behind my eyes, the lingering echo of the psychic shriek from the cafeteria—it all just... vanished. The sudden absence of the roar was so profound that I stumbled, my feet suddenly clumsy and uncooperative.

It wasn't just the shock of the silence; it was something more. I’d always been a little clumsy, and I realized in that instant that my power had been subconsciously working all this time, a thousand tiny, imperceptible nudges keeping me balanced, keeping me steady. Without it, I was a puppet whose strings had just been cut. I fumbled with my bag, nearly dropping it as I tried to regain my physical footing. I glanced from Will to Warren, who stood tense and ready for a fight. They were strong. Durable. Not like before, a cold voice in my head whispered. No one here is fragile.

I practically collapsed into the nearest chair, the exhaustion from the fight hitting me all at once now that the psychic noise was gone. Will and Warren remained standing, a tense, silent buffer between them.

"I didn't do anything, though," Will chimed. "He started it."

"Your dad started it," Warren snarled, taking a step closer to Will. "And I'm gonna finish it." He snapped his forearm downward in a sharp, violent motion. Will flinched back instinctively, bracing for a roar of flame, but there was only a dull, empty silence. He stared at his hand in confusion, his knuckles white with strain as he tried the forceful gesture again. Still nothing.

"Don't bother," Principal Powers said calmly. "The detention room neutralizes all superpowers." She pointed a stern finger at the two empty chairs beside me. "Sit."

The boys sat, flanking me on either side.

Principal Powers stood before them, her expression firm. "Here at Sky High, we do everything we can to teach you how to use your powers, but what you do with them is up to you." She paused, looking first at Will. "Living up to your father's reputation..." Then her gaze shifted to Warren. "...or trying to live it down, is a sad waste of talent. Your talent. Try to keep that in mind the next time you're about to do something stupid."

Her gaze then shifted to me, and her entire demeanor softened. The hard lines around her mouth relaxed, replaced by a look of genuine, personal concern. "And you," she said, her voice much quieter, losing its authoritative edge. "I know your only intention was to help. But you need to be more careful." She gave me a strained, worried smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Take care of yourself."

The shift in her tone was so obvious that I saw both Will and Warren glance from her to me, their expressions a mirror of shared confusion. They didn't understand the subtext, but I did. Be more careful. She wasn't talking about the fight. She was talking about my powers, about the terrible cost she knew I was so afraid of. It was a coded message of concern, a quiet acknowledgment of the secret we shared.

Principal Powers walked out, the heavy door sealing us in. I finally allowed myself to sink into the feeling that was blooming in my chest. It was quiet. Not just the absence of sound, but the absence of the hum. For the first time, my own head was completely, blissfully silent. The atmosphere of the room is something a bit different, though. The silence was thick and heavy, charged with the leftover energy from the fight.

Will, looking surprisingly mature in the quiet, finally turned to Warren. "Look, we're not our dads, alright? They had their issues, but that doesn't have to be us. Let's just... put it aside. What do you say?"

He extended his hand, the gesture cutting through the space between me and Warren.

Warren just stared at the hand as if it were a snake. "I say," he snarled, his voice low and full of venom, "that if you ever cross me again, I'm going to roast you alive."

Will’s hand dropped, and he slumped back in his chair, the brief attempt at peace shattered. He then turned to me, his voice dropping to a quiet whisper. "Hey. Thanks. For... you know."

I turned to him and gave him a small, tired smile. It was a real smile, one that reached my eyes.

"You look..." Warren's voice was a low grumble from my other side, and I turned to face him. For a split second, his guard was down, and I saw his usual anger replaced by that same, baffled curiosity. Then, as if catching himself, his expression went carefully blank, his gaze shifting to a point on the wall just over my shoulder. But the question still came, his voice a low, indifferent monotone. "Why do you look so relieved to be in here?"

I looked around the stark, white room, at the two boys who were miserable and on edge, and then I thought of the beautiful, deafening silence.

"It's just..." I said, my voice barely a whisper. "It's quiet."

They both just stared at me, a hundred new questions in their eyes. But for once, neither of them dared to ask. We just sat there together in the quiet, the three of us, until the day finally ended.

Chapter Text

The next day, Wednesday, the five of us walked into Mr. Boy's classroom together, the events of yesterday still hanging heavy in the air. We took our usual seats, the energy buzzing with a nervous excitement.

"I still can't believe it," Zach said for the tenth time, a huge grin on his face. "You're a legend, man! You made sidekick history!"

Ethan pushed his glasses up his nose, a rare, genuine smile on his face. "Right?!. No one will dare mess with us now."

Will just grinned, a new kind of confidence radiating from him. The long bangs that used to fall over his eyes were now pushed back, and he walked with a swagger I hadn't seen before. "It was pretty cool, right?"

"Cool? Will, that was incredible!" I said, my voice full of genuine awe. "You were so brave. You didn't back down for a second, even before you knew you had powers."

A faint blush rose on his cheeks, and he rubbed the back of his neck, the swagger from a moment ago replaced by a more familiar humility. "Brave? You're the one who ran between a guy throwing fireballs and a guy throwing tables," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Seriously, I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't stepped in. So... thank you. Really." He shuddered, the memory of the fight clearly still fresh.

The conversation then shifted to the other major event of the previous day. Layla, Will, and Magenta were already in their seats, but Zach, Ethan, and I were still standing between the desks, the celebratory energy from Will's power reveal still buzzing between us.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound casual, though my voice felt too loud in the relatively quiet classroom. "Has anyone seen Warren today?"

The reaction was immediate and physical. Zach, who had been leaning against a desk with a huge grin, pushed himself upright, his smile vanishing. Ethan, who was fiddling with a small gadget, stopped, his hands falling stiffly to his sides. Magenta, who had been doodling in a notebook, stopped, her pen hovering over the page.

"After what happened yesterday, you're still looking for him?" she asked, her voice flat and devoid of its usual amusement.

"You're crazy," Zach said, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair.

Ethan took a step forward, his expression serious and his voice sharp with a logic born from recent terror. "Seriously? He put a hole in a brick wall yesterday. I don't think 'feeling bad for him' is going to stop a fireball."

Will, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke, his voice low and firm. "They're right. He's not just some guy with a temper. He's dangerous."

Layla’s expression was the most pained. She reached out and gently touched my arm, making me lean down closer to her desk. Her voice was a soft, urgent whisper. "He's right. You need to stay away from him. He didn't even stop when he saw you step in front of Will. He was going to run right through you."

I opened my mouth to argue, to tell her about the hesitation I saw in his eyes, the split-second of shock when he realized it was me. But looking at their worried, unified faces, I just pressed my lips into a thin line and gave a small, tight nod because I knew it was useless. They hadn't seen what I'd seen. They had only seen the monster they were raised to expect.

Just then, the classroom door creaked open, and Mr. Boy walked in. He let out a long, weary sigh as he dropped a worn leather briefcase onto his desk, the sound echoing in the suddenly quiet room. "Alright, settle down, settle down everyone," he said, before his eyes landed on Will. His expression shifted, a flicker of something that looked like resigned pride. "Ah, except for you, Mr. Stronghold. I have something for you."

He pulled a single, crisp sheet of paper from his briefcase and held it out. Will walked to the front of the room, his steps hesitant.

"A revised schedule," Mr. Boy explained, his voice flat. "You've been transferred to the Hero track, effective immediately."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. The easy, celebratory energy that had filled our corner of the room just moments before evaporated. Zach’s grin faltered, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief. Ethan stopped fiddling with his gadget, his hands falling still.

Will took the paper, the crinkle of it sounding unnaturally loud. He looked from the schedule to our faces, his own expression a battlefield of conflicting emotions. I could see the undeniable pride warring with a deep, gut-wrenching sadness. He was leaving us. The rift wasn't just forming anymore; it was a chasm that had just opened up at our feet.

"But... what about them?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost lost.

Zach was the first to recover, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We'll see you at lunch, right?" he said, trying to sound upbeat. "And on the bus."

Will nodded, but it was a slow, distant gesture. He picked up his bag, the motion heavy with a finality that made my chest ache. He started to walk out, then paused at the doorway, looking back at us one last time, his eyes pleading for something none of us could give him.

Layla, who had been silent this whole time, finally looked up. She gave him a small, sad smile that was heartbreaking in its sincerity. "It's okay," she said softly. "Go on."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, a silent, painful goodbye passing between them. And with that, he turned and was gone.

Thursday passed in a blur of classes. In Crowd Control, we learned the proper technique for herding panicked civilians away from a giant robot attack, which was somehow both terrifying and incredibly boring. Then came Hero Law & Ethics. I saw Warren the moment I walked in, already in his usual back corner. I sat with my friends, but I found my gaze drifting toward him throughout the lesson. He looked tired, the cut on his forehead from the fight a stark, angry line against his pale skin. But he was paying attention, his focus absolute. I saw him make a surprisingly intelligent point about legal precedents in collateral damage cases, his voice low and clear. He wasn't just a ball of rage; he was smart. The puzzle of who he was just got a little more complicated.

On Friday, I saw him a few times in the crowded hallways. I opened my mouth to say hi once, but the memory of my friends' worried faces made me close it again. The day dragged on, the tension of my unspoken promise to them making my shoulders ache.

Lunch was a welcome relief. Will, despite his new Hero-track classes, still sat with us, a small act of loyalty that meant the world.

"You guys are not going to believe this," Zach said, his mouth full of pizza. "I thought I totally bombed that surprise quiz in Mad Science, but Mr. Medulla gave me a C-! He said I get points for 'creative application of incorrect formulas'."

"And my mom finally found her car keys," Layla added, a puzzled smile on her face. "They were in the freezer. She's been looking for them for three days."

Ethan chimed in, his eyes wide with a nerdy kind of excitement. "And get this," he said, leaning forward. "I was in the library all morning finishing my research, and the network didn't crash once. Not even a flicker. I actually finished an hour early. That never happens."

Will laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "And don't even get me started on my powers showing up at the exact second I was about to get pummeled. Talk about perfect timing." He looked down at his own hands for a moment, a look of pure wonder on his face.

Magenta, who had been quietly sketching in a notebook, looked up with a rare, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise. "My black ink pen, which I thought was completely empty, suddenly started working again this morning," she said, her voice a flat monotone. "I was able to finish my drawing of a weeping gargoyle. So... hooray."

Will laughed. "It's weird, right? It's like we've all been having this crazy lucky streak ever since..." He trailed off, his eyes, along with everyone else's, landing on me.

Layla’s expression was soft and full of a gentle, dawning realization. "You're like our lucky star," she said, the words a quiet, affectionate observation.

Zach’s face lit up, and he pointed a slice of pizza at me. "That's it! That's what we're calling you from now on. You're our lucky Star!"

A warmth spread through my chest, so profound and overwhelming it almost brought tears to my eyes. For the first time, the strange, chaotic energy that I had always seen as a curse was being perceived as something good, something helpful. For the first time, I felt like my power wasn't a danger to the people I cared about. It was a gift. And I just smiled, a real, genuine smile, as my new friends officially gave me a new name.

The feeling of lightness carried me through the rest of the afternoon. I practically floated to my next class, Alien Languages, where we spent two hours trying to pronounce the clicking consonants of a Xylosian dialect. For once, the constant hum of possibilities in my head was a quiet, happy buzz, and the class passed in a fun, lighthearted haze.

Then came our last class of the day, one of the few electives open to both Heroes and Sidekicks: Costume Design & Material Science. I saw Warren the moment I walked in, already at a table in the back corner, completely absorbed in a sketchbook. I froze for a second, surprised. This wasn't a mandatory class. He had chosen to be here.

I remembered my promise to my friends and took a seat with Layla and Magenta, but I couldn't help but steal a few glances his way. He seemed different in this class—quieter, more focused, the anger from Tuesday replaced by a steady, creative intensity that was just as captivating. It was another piece of the puzzle that didn't fit with the angry, fire-breathing bear everyone else saw.

The final bell of the day rang, a shrill, piercing sound that signaled the end of the week. Warren was out of his seat before the echo even faded, grabbing his sketchbook and heading for the door without a word to anyone. The rest of us began to pack up at a more leisurely pace, the sound of chatter and zipping bags filling the air. As I was carefully placing my own sketchbook away, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

A cold dread, sharp and immediate, washed over me, silencing the happy buzz from the last few hours. I always kept it on silent. The only person who had this number was instructed to only call in an absolute emergency.

I fumbled with the phone, my heart hammering against my ribs. The caller ID read "St. Jude's Home for Children."

"I-I have to take this," I stammered to Layla, and bolted from the classroom.

I answered the call in the empty hallway, my voice trembling. "What is it? Is Anna okay?"

"She's fine, dear," a familiar, calming voice replied. It was Sister Mary, but her voice was tight with an urgency I'd never heard before. "There was an accident. We're at Mercy General Hospital—"

That was all I heard. The words "accident" and "hospital" were a one-two punch to my gut. The world narrowed to a single, terrifying point. I didn't even say goodbye; the phone was back in my pocket before she could say another word.

I was already running, shoving my books into my bag as I sprinted down the hall. I rounded a corner too fast and slammed directly into a solid wall of black leather.

"Watch it," a familiar voice grumbled. Warren was standing in front of his open locker, books in hand. His hands shot out, grabbing my arms to steady me before I could fall.

"Sorry," I gasped, looking up into his surprised face. He saw the pure, undiluted panic in my eyes, the tears welling up, and his usual scowl was replaced by a look of genuine, unguarded confusion. His grip on my arms loosened slightly, his expression softening.

"Hey, what's—" he started to ask, his voice surprisingly gentle.

But I didn't have time. The image of my little sister, hurt and alone in a hospital, was a fire in my mind. I pulled away from his grip, the brief moment of connection shattered by my own panic, and just kept running, leaving him standing alone in the hallway, watching me go.

The hospital was a blur of antiseptic smells and the quiet, efficient squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic that didn't slow even when I found Sister Mary in the waiting room. Her kind face, usually a beacon of calm, was etched with worry, and it was a welcome, grounding sight.

"She's fine, dear," she repeated, her voice a comforting balm as she took my trembling hands in hers. "The doctor just finished with her. She took quite a tumble from the top of the slide, sprained her ankle badly. They're putting a cast on it now, but she's a brave little soldier."

A wave of guilt washed over me. A sprained ankle. A cast. It was my fault. It was always my fault.

"She's been asking for you," Sister Mary continued, her eyes full of a sad, deep understanding. "Do you want to see her?"

I wanted to. More than anything in the world. I could picture her now, small and scared in a big hospital bed, her big, brave eyes searching for me. The urge to run to her, to hold her hand and tell her everything would be okay, was a physical ache in my chest. But then the other memory surfaced, cold and sharp as a shard of ice—the memory of my parents, of the terrible, silent cost of my power. The ache in my chest was replaced by a cold wall of pure, paralyzing terror.

"No," I whispered, the word tasting like ash. "I... I can't. It's not safe."

Sister Mary didn't argue. She just squeezed my hand, her expression full of a sorrow that mirrored my own.

"Can you just... can you give her a message for me?" I asked, my voice thick with unshed tears that I refused to let fall. I took a shaky breath, forcing the words out. "Tell her... tell her I'm so sorry I can't be there. But tell her I love her. And tell her we'll be together soon. Promise."

I didn't wait for her reply. I turned and walked out of the hospital, the sterile air feeling heavy and suffocating. The walk back to my empty apartment was a blur. The profound relief that Anna was okay was a small, flickering candle in a vast, dark room of aching loneliness. I had protected her, but in doing so, I had once again left her completely alone. And as I walked away, I couldn't help but wonder: which one of us was in more pain?

Chapter Text

Saturday was a vast, empty expanse. After the chaos of the school week, the silence of my small apartment was deafening. There were no friends to laugh with, no classes to distract me, just the four walls and the lingering, phantom ache of a promise I had made to a little girl in a hospital bed.

I spent most of the day wandering, my feet carrying me through unfamiliar streets with no destination in mind. By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the pavement, a deep, gnawing loneliness had settled in my stomach. It was then that I saw it: a warm, inviting glow from a restaurant on the corner. The sign, written in elegant, flowing script, read "Paper Lantern."

It was a Chinese restaurant.

A memory, sharp and bittersweet, surfaced—of weekend dinners with my parents, of the four of us crowded into a booth, laughing over shared plates of sweet and sour pork. It was a tradition, a small, happy ritual from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pushed the door open and went inside.

The place was busy, a lively hub of chatter and the clatter of plates. A hostess told me it would be a short wait, so I found a small, empty table near the back to wait. The menu was already on the table, but I didn't look at it. Instead, I pulled out my wallet and slid out the one photo I always kept with me: a faded picture of the four of us, smiling at a summer picnic. My dad's arm was around my mom, and I was giving my little sister, Anna, a piggyback ride. We looked so happy. So normal.

The usual bubbly energy that came so naturally to me at school felt a million miles away. The exhaustion from the week, the worry for Anna, and the profound loneliness of this moment had worn me down to a quiet, fragile core. There was just me, the ghost of my family, and the heavy weight of it all.

"Don’t worry, kid, we’ll get a server right over," a man who looked like the manager said as he passed, his voice full of pity that made me crawl and break more.

A few minutes later, a shadow fell over my table. "Ready to order?" a low, familiar voice grumbled.

I didn't look up, my gaze still fixed on the smiling faces in the photo. My voice was a tired, flat monotone, completely devoid of its usual energy. "I'll have the kung pao chicken, please. And a glass of water."

"Will that be all?"

I finally looked up, and my breath caught in my throat. It was Warren. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt and a notepad in his hand. He looked different here. At school, his dark hair was always falling over his face, a messy shield that hid his eyes. But here, under the warm lights of the restaurant, he had it tied back in a small, messy knot. His face was open, unguarded, and I was struck by the sharp, handsome lines of his cheekbones and jaw that were usually hidden. For the first time, I felt like I was seeing all of him. 

He was staring at me, his usual scowl replaced by a look of pure, undisguised shock. He had been expecting a sad, random girl, not... me.

A jolt of panic went through me, and I immediately tried to put a bright, wobbly smile on my face, wiping the stray tears I didn't realise I had shed. "Warren! Hey! Fancy seeing you here."

He just blinked, his eyes darting from my strained smile back to the photo on the table. He didn't say anything, just stood there, watching me.

"That will be all," I said, my voice a little too cheerful as I slid the menu back. My eyes moved to the picture. "And... an order of the sweet and sour pork to go, please. With a pen and paper, if you have them."

He paused for a fraction of a second, his pen hovering over the notepad. A flicker of something—confusion? curiosity?—crossed his face before it was gone. "Okay," he said, his voice still flat. "One to go."

He left to ring in my order and didn't return until he had my food. He placed the plates on the table without a word and was gone before I could say anything else. I didn't mind. I just ate. The familiar flavors serve as a small comfort in the echoing silence of my thoughts.

With the pen he’d brought, I scribbled a few notes on a napkin, trying to find the right words. Get well soon. I'm thinking of you. They all felt too small. I wrote, I love you, then immediately crumpled the napkin into a tight ball, my cheeks flushing with a familiar, hot shame. The words felt like a lie. How could I say that I loved her when I was the reason she was alone? I left the scrapped notes on the table, finally writing a new one that was just for us.

After I paid, I stepped out into the cool night air, the warm paper bag clutched in my hand. I paused on the sidewalk, taking a deep breath of the evening breeze. Looking back through the window at the glowing sign of Paper Lantern, I could almost see it: the ghost of my family in one of the booths. My dad, telling a bad joke. My mom, rolling her eyes with a smile. Anna, trying to steal a piece of chicken from my plate. I could almost hear their laughter over the real noise of the restaurant.

A sharp pang of longing, so intense it made my chest ache, pulled me back to reality. I clutched the paper bag a little tighter. The warmth from the food was a small, fragile comfort against the cold of the night. I didn’t know how long I stood there for but when I woke up from my daydream, I realised I had to go.

The walk to St. Jude's was quiet, the streets mostly empty under the deepening twilight sky. The rhythmic tap of my own footsteps on the pavement was the only sound, a lonely drumbeat in the silence. I was lost in my own thoughts, replaying the scene at the hospital, the ache of leaving Anna behind a heavy weight in my chest.

A sudden, sharp crash from a nearby alley shattered the quiet. The clatter of a metal trash can lid hitting the pavement echoed like a gunshot in the silent street.

My head snapped up, my heart leaping into my throat. Adrenaline, cold and sharp, flooded my system. I spun around, my eyes wide, searching the deep shadows between the buildings. Every dark corner, every recessed doorway, suddenly felt like a threat. My breath hitched, and the familiar, chaotic hum of possibilities began to roar in my head—a 60% chance it was a mugger, a 35% chance it was something worse.

Then, a stray cat, sleek and black, darted out from behind the overturned trash can. It gave me a startled, wide-eyed look, its tail puffed up, and then disappeared into the darkness of the alley.

A shaky, breathless laugh of pure relief escaped my lips. Get a grip, I thought, pressing a hand to my chest, trying to calm the frantic hammering of my heart. It was just a cat. I took a final, calming breath, the roar in my head slowly receding back to a manageable hum, and continued on my way, completely unaware that I had been right to be startled.

The rest of the walk was tense. The earlier melancholy had sharpened into a low-level paranoia, and every rustle of leaves in the cool night air made me jump. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt further over my head, hugging myself against a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. I didn't go to the front door of St. Jude's. I went around back, to the small, quiet office I knew Sister Mary used in the evenings, the familiar crunch of gravel under my feet a small comfort in the unsettling night. I knocked softly, my knuckles barely grazing the wood.

The door opened, spilling a rectangle of warm, golden light onto the dark pavement. Sister Mary stood in the doorway, her kind face, etched with the fine lines of a lifetime of worry, softening the moment she saw me. "Dear," she whispered, her voice a mix of relief and sorrow.

I stayed in the shadows, just beyond the edge of the light. "For Anna," I said, my voice tight as I held out the warm paper bag. "It's her favorite. And this." I handed her the final, carefully folded napkin. On it, I had written: ‘Get that ankle better, soldier. We still have to build the world's biggest pillow fort, and I need my chief engineer. I love you. We'll be together soon. I promise.’

"Can you make sure she gets them?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"Of course," she said, her warm hands brushing against my cold ones as she took the items. Her expression was full of a sad, deep understanding. "Are you sure you don't want to see her? She's been asking for you, you know. She keeps telling the nurses her big sister is coming."

The words were a physical blow, a punch to the gut that made me take an involuntary step back, deeper into the darkness. "I can't," I whispered, the words a familiar, painful ache that clawed at my throat. "It's not safe."

I left before she could say more, turning and walking away before the tears welling in my eyes could fall. I found a spot across the street, hidden in the cold, rough shadows of a large oak tree, and waited. A few minutes later, a light flickered on in Anna's second-story window. I could just make out her small silhouette as Sister Mary came in. I watched, my breath held tight in my chest, as she was given the bag. Her small body, which had been slumped in bed, immediately perked up. She hugged the bag to her chest for a moment before tearing it open. She opened the note, and even from this distance, I could see her break into a wide, beautiful, toothy grin.

She immediately turned and looked right at the window, her small hand pressed against the glass, a hopeful, searching expression on her face, as if she knew I was out there somewhere.

A single, hot tear finally escaped and traced a path down my cold cheek. I smiled, a real, bittersweet smile, before turning away from the window and the small, happy world it contained. The walk back to my empty apartment felt longer this time. I knew what the rest of the weekend would hold: the four walls of my room, the heavy silence, and the long, slow wait for the school bell to ring on Monday morning. It was safer that way. Alone, I couldn't hurt anyone. At Sky High, I could lie to myself, pretend that their powers made them durable, less fragile. But Anna... Anna was real. And I had already seen what happened to real, fragile people who got too close to me.