Begin Arc 7: Security

The hallway is packed with students, all of them trying to get to their homerooms before the first bell rings. It's a sea of bodies, and I'm just one more fish swimming upstream. I'm not sure if it's just my imagination, but it feels like there are more security guards around than last year. They're standing at the end of each hallway, their eyes scanning the crowd like they're looking for trouble. I guess after everything that happened with the Philly Phreaks and all, they're not taking any chances.

I spot Jordan across the hall, and I wave to get their attention. They look up from their phone and grin at me, pushing their way through the crowd to join me. "Hey, Sam. Ready for another year of academic excellence?" they ask, their voice dripping with sarcasm.

I snort. "Oh, definitely. I can't wait to spend my days learning about the triangles and frog guts."

Jordan laughs. "At least you've got a few more years left. I'm a senior now, which means I get to spend my days learning about college applications and the inevitable heat death of the universe."

"Wow, sounds like a blast," I say, rolling my eyes. "Speaking of blasts, did you see all the new security guards? It's like they're expecting an invasion or something."

Jordan's smile fades a bit. "Yeah, I noticed that too. I guess they're not taking any chances after what happened last year. Can't say I blame them, but it's still kind of weird, you know?"

I nod. "Yeah, it's like they're trying to turn the school into a fortress or something. I get that they want to keep us safe, but it's kind of... I don't know, oppressive?"

"Tell me about it," Jordan says, shaking their head. "It's like they forget that we're just kids trying to get an education, not potential threats to national security."

We walk in silence for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts about the state of the city and our role in it as superheroes. Mostly mine. I don't think Jordan cares too much. It's a heavy burden to bear, especially at our age, but it's one we've - I've - chosen to take on. And if I'm being honest, I wouldn't have it any other way.

The bell rings, jolting me out of my thoughts. "Shit, I gotta run. AP Calc waits for no one," Jordan says, giving me a quick hug before darting off down the hallway.

I watch them go, feeling a twinge of envy. Jordan's always been the smart one, the one with the big plans for the future. Me? I'm just trying to survive high school without getting expelled or outed as a superhero. Or killed. Being killed would be bad too.

I make my way to my homeroom, dodging elbows and backpacks as I go. The room is already full when I get there, and I have to squeeze my way through the desks to get to my seat in the back. I plop down with a sigh, dropping my backpack on the floor beside me.

"Good morning, everyone," a voice says from the front of the room. I look up to see a tall, thin man with wire-rimmed glasses standing at the whiteboard. "My name is Mr. Weston, and I'll be your homeroom teacher this year."

He looks around the room, his eyes landing on each of us in turn. When he gets to me, he pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. "Samantha Small?" he asks.

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I nod, feeling a bit like a deer caught in headlights. "Yeah, that's me."

"I'm glad to see you back in school," he says, his voice taking on a softer tone. "I heard about your hospital stay last year. Are you feeling better now?"

I shift in my seat, feeling the eyes of my classmates on me. Stop bringing me up. Don't put me on a pedestal in front of all these piranhas. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

Mr. Weston nods, but he doesn't look entirely convinced. "Well, if you ever need anything, please don't hesitate to come to me. My door is always open."

I force a smile, trying to ignore the way my stomach is churning. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

"That goes for the rest of you, too!" He says, louder, drawing attention away from me. "If you have a problem, my door is always open to resolve it. Problem at school? I'm here. Problem at home? I'm here too. There's nothing we can't do together.

He moves on to the next student, but I can still feel his eyes on me every now and then throughout the rest of homeroom. It's like he's trying to figure me out, to see past the facade I've carefully crafted over the years. I don't like it. I don't like feeling exposed, like someone might see through me at any moment and realize who I really am.

The bell rings again, signaling the end of homeroom, and I practically bolt out of my seat. I grab my backpack and head for the door, eager to put as much distance between myself and Mr. Weston as possible.

My first class of the day is Algebra II, which is just fantastic. Math has never been my strong suit, and last year's extended hospital stay certainly didn't help matters. I slip into a desk near the back of the room, hoping to avoid drawing too much attention to myself.

But of course, the universe has other plans. Because who should walk in the door just as the bell rings but Mr. Weston himself, a stack of textbooks tucked under his arm.

"Good morning, class," he says, setting the books down on his desk. "I'm Mr. Weston, and I'll be your Algebra II teacher this year."

I sink lower in my seat, trying to make myself as small as possible. But it's no use. Mr. Weston's eyes find me almost immediately, and he gives me a little nod of acknowledgment.

"I know some of you may be feeling a bit rusty after the summer break," he says, his gaze sweeping over the room. "But don't worry, we'll start off slow and build up from there."

He starts writing on the whiteboard, his handwriting neat and precise. "Let's begin with a quick review of the basics. Can anyone tell me what the Pythagorean theorem is?"

I stare at the board, trying to make sense of the symbols and equations. But it's like trying to read a foreign language. I can feel my mind starting to wander, drifting off to thoughts of last night's patrol and the new leads we've been chasing on the Kingdom of Keys.

"Samantha?" Mr. Weston's voice snaps me back to reality. "Can you tell us what the Pythagorean theorem states?"

I blink, my mind scrambling to come up with an answer. "Uh, it's something about triangles, right? Like, the square one side of the triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides?"

Mr. Weston nods, but I can see the hint of a frown on his face. "That's almost correct, but can you tell us what that means in practical terms?"

I feel my face heating up as I struggle to find the words. "Um, I guess it means that if you know the lengths of two sides of any triangle, you can find the length of the third side?"

"That's close," Mr. Weston says, but his tone is more concerned than congratulatory. "Samantha, I know you've had a tough year, but it's important that you stay focused in class. If you're having trouble with the material, please don't hesitate to ask for help."

I nod, feeling like a complete idiot. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

I spend the rest of the class trying to pay attention, but it's a losing battle. My mind keeps drifting back to my responsibilities as Bloodhound, to the people I've sworn to protect and the enemies I've made along the way. It's a heavy burden to bear, and sometimes I wonder if I'm really cut out for it.

But then I think about the lives I've saved, the difference I've made in this city. And I know that no matter how hard it gets, no matter how much I have to sacrifice, I'll never stop fighting for what's right.

Even if it means stumbling my way through Algebra II and pretending to be a normal teenager. Because at the end of the day, that's just another mask I wear. And if there's one thing I've learned in my short time as a superhero, it's that sometimes the most important battles are the ones we fight in secret, when no one else is watching.

In math class.