My vision is starting to blur, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps as Patriot's fingers tighten around my windpipe. He's toying with me now, drawing it out, savoring my pain and humiliation like a fine wine.

In a distant, detached sort of way, I'm aware of the crowd still screaming and shouting, of the police sirens wailing outside, of the crackle and hiss of Jordan's power cutting and pasting space. But it all seems so far away, so unimportant compared to the white-hot agony of Patriot's fists, the metal-bright tang of blood in my mouth.

This is it. This is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. Not with a blaze of glory, but with a sad little fizzle, a pathetic damp squib of a death scene.

I always knew I'd go out fighting. I just never thought it would be like this. Never thought I'd be so outclassed, so utterly helpless in the face of a stronger, faster, better opponent.

Patriot draws back his fist, slow and deliberate, relishing the moment. I brace myself for the impact, for the bright burst of pain that will send me spiraling into oblivion.

It never comes.

But it's not because of any act of mercy on Patriot's part. No, it's because suddenly, impossibly, Mike Giannopoulos is there, his meaty hands wrapped around Patriot's leg as he heaves and retches and clings on for dear life.

"Stop it!" he gasps out, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Just… just fucking stop, man!"

Patriot looks down at him, his expression a mix of disgust and disbelief. "Get off me, you little shit," he snarls, trying to shake Mike loose.

But Mike won't let go. Even as his stomach rebels, even as his body shakes and shudders with the force of Egalitarian's power, he holds on, his fingers digging into Patriot's leg like claws.

And he's not the only one. All around the gym, students and teachers alike are staggering to their feet, their faces set in masks of grim determination as they push through the vertigo, the nausea, the bone-deep wrongness of having their inner ears scrambled.

Mr. Weston is there, one arm thrown over Mrs. Nguyen's shoulder as they stumble forward together. Carlos from my homeroom is crawling on his hands and knees, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles jumping in his cheek.

Even Melissa is up, her hair plastered to her face with sweat as she sways and wobbles but doesn't fall.

They're all moving towards us, a shambling, staggering mass of bodies that puts itself between me and Patriot, between Jordan and the cops. Some of them have their phones out, little pinpricks of light in the chaos as they record everything, to share with their chatrooms and forums later. Like the world's most hopeful zombie hoard.

Patriot's eyes widen, a flicker of something that might be fear crossing his face as he realizes what's happening. He's not just fighting two kids anymore. He's fighting the whole fucking school.

And the school is winning.

I see the moment it hits him, the moment he realizes that he's lost control of the situation. His eyes dart around the room, taking in the cameras, the crowds, the looks of horror and disgust on so many faces. I think he was expecting Egalitarian's powers to prevent anyone from fighting back - or just his aura of awe. I don't think a person like Patriot has any faith in the common man. And maybe before today, I didn't either.

He hesitates, just for a second. But it's enough.

Jordan seizes their chance, ducking under Egalitarian's grasping hands and slipping through a gap in the police line. They're fast, faster than I've ever seen them move, their power crackling around them like a living thing as they snap tiny inch-thin slivers of space beneath their feet.

I try to call out to them, try to shout some word of encouragement or warning or I don't even fucking know what. But all that comes out is a wet, hacking cough, a spray of blood and bile that splatters across the gym floor.

My head is pounding, my vision swimming in and out of focus as I struggle to stay conscious. Everything hurts, every breath a knife in my lungs, every twitch of my muscles an agony.

But I can't stop. I can't let myself fall. Not now, not when we're so close, not when everyone is counting on me.

I push myself up on shaking arms, my fingers slipping in the puddle of my own vomit as I force myself to my feet. The world tilts and spins around me, but I lock my knees, refuse to let myself collapse.

"Jordan," I rasp out, my voice a thready, broken thing. "Jordan, run…"

And they do. They run like the devil himself is on their heels, like the hounds of hell are snapping at their ankles. They run and they don't look back, not even as the police start to give chase, not even as Egalitarian screams in frustration and redoubles her efforts to bring them down.

For a second, just a second, I think they're going to make it. I think they're going to get away clean, disappear into the night like a ghost, a phantom, a legend whispered in the halls of Tacony Charter.

Then the back door of the gym explodes inward, blasted off its hinges by a shot that rings out like a thunderclap, like the voice of G-d himself.

The force of it sends Jordan tumbling, their arms pinwheeling as they try to keep their balance. I see their face, shocked and terrified in the split second before they hit the ground, see the bright bloom of blood that splashes across their cheek. Like a flower unfurling, hardwood shards blooming violently into the air. Splinters like shrapnel, like confetti made of knives, all around their feet, as the bullet hits the gymnasium floor.

Somebody's screaming. It takes me a second to realize that it's me, my voice high and thin and desperate as I claw my way forward, fighting through the crowds that suddenly seem so much thicker, so much more impassable than before.

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Jordan's down. They're down and they're bleeding and oh G-d, oh fuck, I can't let this happen. I can't lose them, not now, not like this.

The cut on their face is long and shallow, a thin gash that oozes crimson down the side of their throat. But they're alive. They're moving, struggling to push themselves up on hands and knees that shake like they're about to give out any second, more out of fear and shock than anything else.

The police are closing in, their guns drawn, their faces hard and set. Patriot is with them, his expression a twisted mask of rage and something that looks almost like fear.

"Stay down!" he shouts, his voice hoarse and ragged. "Don't you fucking move, you little--"

BANG!

Another shot rings out, this one going wide, chewing up the asphalt outside in a spray of gravel and rocks. Jordan flinches back, their eyes wide and white-ringed with terror.

They could have hit them. Whoever's shooting, they could have put a bullet right between Jordan's eyes, easy as breathing. But they didn't.

The police have stopped advancing, their heads swiveling as they try to pinpoint the source of the gunfire. Patriot is barking orders into his radio, something about a perimeter, about calling for backup.

But it's too late. The damage is done. The crowd is surging forward now, students and teachers alike linking shaky, nauseous arms, forming a human wall between us and them. Between the Pals and their goons, and the kids who didn't ask for any of this shit.

Somewhere in the distance, I can hear sirens. Real sirens, not just the tinny wail of the cop cars outside. Fire trucks. Ambulances. The cavalry's coming, and they're not on Patriot's side.

He knows it too. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his hands clench into fists at his sides. He's lost control of the situation, lost the initiative, lost the narrative he's been trying so hard to spin.

This was supposed to be his big moment. His triumph, his chance to show the world that he was right all along, that Jordan Westwood and their freaky little friends were a menace that needed to be put down, to put a kibbosh on that website that was bothering his friends' bonnets so much.

He looks around at the crowds, at the cameras, at the faces of the people who used to believe in him. Used to trust him to keep them safe, to protect them from the big bad world outside.

And he sees nothing but disgust. Nothing but anger and betrayal and a simmering, righteous fury that's just waiting for the right spark to set it off.

He takes a step back, his mouth twisting like he's tasted something sour. "We'll be back," he says, but his voice is weak, thready, stripped of all its former bravado. "We'll be back. With a warrant. You can't hide forever, Westwood," he says, not to me, but to Jordan, several dozen feet away.

Then he's turning on his heel, stalking out of the gym with Egalitarian and the rest of his little pack following close behind, like nothing ever happened. The gall of it would leave me appalled if I was capable of feeling such complex emotions right now. The police go with them, some of them still looking over their shoulders like they're not quite sure what just happened, like they're waiting for somebody to tell them what to do next.

And then it's just us. Just the kids and the teachers and the staff of Tacony Charter, standing together in the wreckage of what was supposed to be a night of magic and memories.

Homecoming. What a joke.

I take a step forward, meaning to go to Jordan, to see how bad they're hurt, to do something, anything to help. But my knees buckle under me, my body finally giving out now that the danger has passed, now that the adrenaline is wearing off and leaving nothing but pain in its wake.

I hit the floor hard, barely feeling the impact through the haze of agony that envelops me like a shroud. Everything hurts. Everything is bleeding or bruised or broken, inside and out.

Mr. Weston is beside me in an instant, his hands gentle as he rolls me onto my side, checks my pulse, my breathing. "Just hold on, Sam," he says softly. "Help is coming. You're going to be okay."

And I want to believe him. I want to believe that anything is ever going to be okay again.

But I can't. It feels harder than anything else right now.

Because this is my world now. This is my reality, my normal. A world where kids like me have to fight and bleed just to survive, where monsters with badges can do whatever they want and nobody lifts a fucking finger to stop them. I feel like all the optimism has been beaten out of me, beaten bloody from my lips from a man wearing the American Flag.

We're on our own. We've always been on our own.

And if tonight has taught me anything, it's that we always will be.

At some point, I must black out. I fade in and out, surfacing from the dark like a drowning swimmer gasping for air. Snatches of sound and sensation flicker past me, jumbled and disjointed like a fever dream.

The wail of sirens, drawing closer. The flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance as it screams into the parking lot. The rumble of the gurney wheels on pavement as the paramedics rush in, their faces grim and focused.

There are cops too, but they're different now. Subdued. Wary. They stand back and let the medics do their work, let them load me onto the stretcher with careful, practiced hands.

Why did this happen? How did this happen? There was a warrant for Jordan but none for me, and Jordan wasn't even given a chance to surrender to it. That's just how it goes, I guess.

So many people, students, teachers, police, all with their phones out documenting it all, either to help me or crucify me. I wonder bleakly which it will be.

I surface again as they're wheeling me out, the cool night air washing over my face like a benediction. The parking lot is chaos, cop cars and news vans jockeying for position, cameras flashing like strobe lights in the dark. I see Officer Nguyen - just Officer Nguyen now, I guess, without the rest of her ilk - trying to keep them back, her face drawn and haggard. Of all the security guards, she's the only one out there. The rest of my people are swarming the ambulance. I see Melissa shouting furiously at a particularly aggressive reporter. The rest are just huddled around each other, hollow eyed with shock.

Jordan's there too, looking small and lost as they stand off to one side, a bandage stark white against their skin. Their eyes meet mine, just for a second, and everything we've been through, everything we've seen and done and felt over these past few crazy, terrifying weeks seems to pass between us in that single shared glance.

Then the ambulance doors slam shut, and they're gone. And I'm alone, just a broken, bleeding shell strapped to a table.

The paramedic squeezes my shoulder as she starts an IV line, her voice low and soothing over the shriek of the siren. "Just hang on, kid," she tells me. "We've got you now."

But I can't help but feel a little bit cynical. Who's got me?

Back home, Mom and Dad are probably glued to the TV right now, watching the pundits and the politicians shout at each other over what happened here tonight. Watching them point fingers and lay blame and spew all sorts of self-righteous posturing bullshit about how we need to have a "national conversation" about youth and power and responsibility.

As if that will change anything. As if that will make a single goddamn bit of difference to kids like me, like Jordan, like all the other freaks and outcasts who drew the long straw of superpowers. Or even the regular old outcasts, the ones that I can't protect.

We don't need conversations. We need action. We need protection. We need people in power to get off their fucking asses and do something before it's too late.

The painkillers are kicking in, the world going soft and fuzzy at the edges. I let my eyes drift shut, let myself sink down into the warm, dark depths of unconsciousness.

And as I slide under, as the blackness rises up to claim me once more, I hear Jordan's voice in my head. Telling me that we're going to beat them.

I want to believe them. More than anything, I want to believe that we can make a difference, that we can fight back against the hate and the fear that rules our lives.

But right now, lying broken in the back of an ambulance with the bitter taste of defeat thick on my tongue, it's hard to feel anything but misery.

It hurts. It hurts a lot.