The rest of the day passes in a blur of classes and awkward introductions. By the time the final bell rings, I'm more than ready to blow off some steam. And what better way to do that than with a good old-fashioned gym class?

I change into my gym clothes in the locker room, wincing slightly as I pull on my shorts. The wound on my thigh, courtesy of Deathgirl's stealing my powers and then stabbing me with them, is mostly healed thanks to my regeneration - plus, every time I overexert myself, it heals a little faster. But it's still tender to the touch, and I know I'll have to be careful not to push myself too hard. I unwrap the gauze, throw out the padding, and get some more stuff to wrap it back up with.

I make my way out to the gymnasium, where Coach Simmons is already barking orders at the assembled students. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let's get moving! I want to see some hustle out there!"

I fall in line with the rest of the class, starting with some basic stretches and warm-up exercises. As we move through the drills, I can feel the eyes of my classmates on me, watching my every move with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

I try to ignore them, focusing on the burn in my muscles and the rush of adrenaline that comes with physical exertion. But it's not easy, especially when I overhear a group of girls whispering about me from the sidelines.

"I heard she got special treatment last year because of her 'condition,'" one of them says, making air quotes with her fingers. "Must be nice to have a get-out-of-gym-free card

I grit my tooth caps, feeling a surge of anger rising in my chest. If only they knew the truth about my "condition," about the months I spent in the hospital recovering from injuries that would have killed a normal person. From acute radiation poisoning! But of course, they don't know. And even if they did, they probably wouldn't believe me. And I shouldn't tell them anyway.

Especially not with Illya in the news like he is. Nobody needs to know what I was in the hospital for. I just got sick. It happens.

I push myself harder, determined to show them what I'm really capable of. We move on to strength training exercises, and I find myself excelling at every station. Pull-ups, push-ups, squats - it's all easy for me. I don't have "enhanced strength" or "enhanced endurance" or anything like that, but limping on my leg like this, it keeps the lactic acid at bay - and my regeneration means I've been packing on muscle way better than everyone else in the first place.

By the end of the class, I'm barely even winded, while my classmates are panting and sweating like they've just run a marathon. Coach Simmons gives me an appraising look, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Impressive work, Small," he says gruffly. "Keep it up, and you might just give some of these boys a run for their money."

I nod, feeling a small swell of pride in my chest. It's been a while since I've done anything sports related besides pick-up games of basketball, and, as much as I may feel bad about it, outcompeting nearly everyone in the class feels good. I love winning.

But even as I bask in the glow of my small victory, I can't shake the feeling of unease that's been growing in the pit of my stomach all day.

As the final bell rings, I grab my backpack and head out of the locker room, my mind already racing with thoughts of the afternoon ahead. I have a meeting with the Young Defenders scheduled for later, and I know we'll have a lot to discuss after the events of the summer.

I'm just about to head out the front doors when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around to see Jordan, their face etched with concern.

"Hey, Sam, wait up," they say, falling into step beside me. "I forgot to ask earlier, but Alex mentioned something about a meeting under the bleachers after school. You coming with?"

I frown, trying to remember. I had been only half-listening to the conversation at lunch, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of the security guards and the rumors swirling around me. Do I remember anything being said? No. But I do believe Jordan, probably against my better judgment, that it was mentioned.

"Yeah, ok. Why?" I ask. "Actually, surprise me."

Jordan laughs a little bit, grabbing me by the wrist and gently guiding me along the right path. "Apparently, there's a group of students who are pretty pissed off about the whole 'riot police in our school' thing. They want to do something about it."

I raise an eyebrow. "Like what? Start a petition? Stage a protest?"

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"I don't know," Jordan admits. "But I think we should check it out," they start, feigning putting glasses on over their nose. "If nothing else, it might give us some insight into how the student body is feeling about all of this."

"When have you ever used the phrase 'student body' in your life? I think you just want to start trouble," I say, stopping. I hesitate for a moment, weighing my options. On the one hand, I'm not sure I want to get involved in any student activism, especially if it means drawing more attention to myself. But on the other hand, I know that Jordan is right. As vigilantes, it's our job to keep our finger on the pulse of the city, to know what's going on and how people are reacting to it.

"Alright, fine," I say finally. "Let's go see what this is all about."

Jordan pumps a fist in the air. "Yes!"

I know they just want to start trouble.

We make our way out to the athletic fields, where a small group of students is already gathered under the bleachers. I recognize a few faces from my classes, but most of them are unfamiliar to me.

As we approach, I can hear snippets of conversation floating on the breeze.

"...can't believe they're searching our lockers now..."

"...my dad got shook down by the cops the other day, just for walking down the street..."

"...and what's with this curfew? Since when does the mayor have the right to tell us when we can and can't leave our houses?"

I exchange a glance with Jordan, my eyebrows raised. It seems like the student body is even more riled up than I realized.

We join the group, trying to blend in as much as possible. A girl with long, pink hair and a nose ring is speaking animatedly, her hands waving in the air as she rants about the injustice of it all.

"We can't just sit back and let them turn our school into a prison," she says, her voice ringing with conviction. "We have to do something about it. We have to fight back. My sister's a superhero and she'd never let this stand."

A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd, and I can see heads nodding in assent. But not everyone seems convinced.

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" a boy with shaggy blond hair asks, his arms crossed over his chest. "In case you haven't noticed, we're just a bunch of kids. What can we do against the cops and the mayor?"

"Wait, I didn't know Nina was a superhero?" someone else says from the collection of bodies, none of whom I recognize.

The girl with the nose ring glares at the first guy. "We can make our voices heard," she says firmly. "We can organize, we can protest, we can let them know that we won't be silenced."

She ignores the other comment.

The debate rages on, with students arguing back and forth about the best course of action. Some want to stage a walkout, others want to start a petition or a letter-writing campaign. A few even suggest more drastic measures, like hacking into the school's security system or vandalizing police cars.

"None of you guys know how to hack anything, don't kid yourself," Jordan mumbles, just loud enough to be heard by at least two people, who shoot them a dirty look.

Through it all, Jordan and I stay mostly quiet, listening intently to the different perspectives and opinions. I can see the gears turning in Jordan's head, and I know they're already thinking about how this might tie into our work as vigilantes.

But for me, it's not so simple. As much as I sympathize with the students' frustrations, I also know that there are bigger forces at play here. The increased security measures, the curfew, the crackdown on public gatherings - it's all part of a larger response to the growing threat of supervillains and metahuman criminals. And as a superhero, I have a responsibility to protect the city and its people, even if that means working within the system that others might see as oppressive.

At least, that's what it feels like to me.

The air starts getting a little cold, and a roll of dark grey clouds starts to slide over the sky like a blanket, putting the afternoon to bed.

As the meeting starts to wind down, I nudge Jordan and tilt my head towards the exit. They nod, and we slip away quietly, leaving the other students to continue their discussions.

We walk home in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the sidewalk, and I can feel the first hints of autumn chill in the air.

"So, what do you think?" Jordan asks finally, breaking the silence. "About the meeting, I mean."

I sigh, kicking a pebble out of my path. "I don't know," I admit. "I get where they're coming from, but I also know that it's not as simple as they make it sound. There are a lot of factors at play here, a lot of competing interests and agendas."

Jordan nods, their face pensive. "I know. But that doesn't mean we can't do something about it. We have a unique perspective, Sam. We see things that other people don't. And we have a responsibility to use that knowledge to make a difference."

I chew on my lip, considering their words. "Maybe. But we also have a responsibility to keep people safe. And sometimes, that means working within the system, even if it's not perfect."

Jordan gives me a sidelong glance, and I can see the glint of mischief in their eyes. "Since when are you the voice of reason?" they tease.

I punch them lightly on the arm. "Since someone has to be, apparently."

We lapse back into silence, but it's a comfortable one this time. We've had this conversation before, in one form or another, and I know that we'll have it again. It's the nature of the work we do, the constant push and pull between our ideals and the reality of the world we live in.

As we turn onto my street, I can see the warm glow of the living room lights spilling out onto the front porch. My dad is probably in there, examining paperwork or going through the latest in zoning. My mom might be curled up on the couch with a book, or maybe she's in the kitchen, experimenting with a new recipe.

It's a comforting thought, the idea of my family waiting for me at home. A reminder that no matter how crazy my life gets, no matter how much I might struggle to balance my different roles and responsibilities, I always have a place to come back to.

I say goodbye to Jordan at the bend, watching as they disappear down the street with a wave and a smile, closer to their home in an abandoned music hall. Then I take a deep breath and head inside, ready to face the unique social challenges that being an only child brings.