The protest - the one Mike invited me to - is already in full swing by the time I arrive, a seething mass of bodies and noise that seems to fill the entirety of Dilworth Park. It's a familiar scene, one that I've witnessed countless times over the past few months - the angry chants, the homemade signs, the palpable sense of tension and barely-contained violence hanging in the air like a thick, choking smog. I only take a cursory glance to look for Mike, and see him, somewhere near the back of the throng of bodies, with a couple of other kids from my school. It makes me happy.

But I keep my distance. I have bigger things to attend to, right now.

On one side, there's the protesters themselves - a motley crew of young activists, old hippies, and everything in between, all united by their shared outrage at the latest round of Patriot's bullshit. They're a colorful bunch, decked out in a rainbow of red, black, and old denim, their signs a cacophony of slogans and demands.

"Pigs out of Public Health!"

"ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE!"

"Superpowers Don't Make You Above Anything!"

And on the other side, there's the counter-protesters - a larger, more vocal group, made up mostly of middle-aged white men and women in red hats and American flag t-shirts. They're here to support Patriot and his goons, to shout down anyone who dares to question their twisted version of law and order.

"God Bless Our Patriot!"

"KEEP OUR STREETS SAFE!"

"Jordan Westwood is a Thug Who Needs To Be Arrested!"

"F**K ALL FLYHAED PUSSIES"

"So Much for 'Heroes' For the People…"

I stand there for a moment, taking it all in, feeling the familiar mix of anger and helplessness rising up in my throat like bile. I'm not in costume, not yet - just plain old Sam Small, another face in the crowd (albeit one wearing her superhuman costume under a layer of hoodie and sweatpants). Nobody gives me a second glance as I make my way through the throng, my eyes scanning the sea of faces for any sign of trouble.

And there, at the center of it all, like the eye of a hurricane, is Patriot himself.

He's standing on a makeshift stage at the far end of the park, flanked by his usual crew of sycophants and thugs. Egalitarian is at his right hand, her body wrapped in that stupid dazzle camo bodysuit, looking for all the world like she just stepped out of some kind of fascist fitness video. "Zero" is on his left, his face hidden behind that ridiculous domino mask, his hands resting on the butts of the twin batons holstered at his hips. And then there's the other two, ones I don't know by name - the a strongfat woman with the guns and the big black guy in the high-vis gear. They look like they're just itching for an excuse to start cracking skulls.

But Patriot himself… He looks different, somehow. Calmer, more in control. Like he's finally figured out how to put on a mask - metaphorically - that doesn't make him look like a raging psychopath.

He's got a wireless microphone headset strapped on, the amplification sending his hyper-enunciated syllable-crowding voice booming out over the crowd like the word of G-d Himself.

"…and what do they expect us to do? Sit back and let the criminals take over? Let them flood our streets with drugs and violence while we cower in fear?" The emotion is dripping off of his words like maple syrup off of a waffle, so lathered on. He's practically chugging pure corn syrup to fuel his nonstop bloviating. "No. No, my friends! We are the patriots, the guardians of truth and justice for this city. We are the defense that terrified good citizens rely on when their so-called "heroes" would rather spend their time playing politics on Capitol Hill. We are the ones who will fight for law and order, for the values that made this country great. And we will not be silenced by the howling mob!"

Fuck me. He's got them eating out of the palm of his hand, like a bunch of baby birds glomming for regurgitated worms.

The crowd erupts in a roar of approval, a sea of fists pumping in the air as they chant his name. "Pa-tri-ot! Pa-tri-ot! Pa-tri-ot!"

I feel my stomach turn, the taste of bile rising up in my throat. It's one thing to know that people like him exist, but to see it in person, to witness the way he twists and manipulates the truth to suit his own twisted agenda… It's like some fascist Cirque de Soleil.

But I force myself to push through the revulsion, to focus on the task at hand. I've got a job to do, and I can't afford to let my personal feelings get in the way.

I'm never sure whether I'm lying to myself when I say that.

I take a deep breath, then start moving through the crowd, careful to keep my head down and my face hidden behind a pair of oversized sunglasses and a gray hoodie with the hood pulled up. I move like someone who is trying to move through the crowd as if I'm not moving through the crowd - like I just want to be not here, immersed in the mass of yelling so I can pop out the other side and have it be quiet again.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

I eventually make my way to the edge of the park, where a line of police officers in riot gear are standing shoulder to shoulder, their faces impassive behind their clear plastic shields. I size them up for a moment, trying to gauge their mood, their readiness. They look tense - not the kind of people you want to mess with. But I know I don't have a choice. With someone as dangerous as Patriot on the loose, any hope of a peaceful resolution went out the window a long time ago.

I take one last look around, making sure I haven't been spotted, then duck into a nearby alleyway, moving with quick, practiced efficiency as I strip off my street clothes and don my costume, going through the motions almost on autopilot. First, the heavy polymer underlayer that sits against my skin, protecting the important parts. Then, the lightweight plates overtop. Finally, the kevlar. Even with the underlayers, the costume isn't that thick - two fingers, maybe. I'm not tanking rifle bullets with this thing - but there's something comforting about having even the illusion of protection.

The helmet goes on last, blocking everything but my eyes and my bruised lower jaw. I put on a breathing mask under it, letting it all click into place - a necessary precaution, given my line of work, but also something to disguise my face. I take a moment to orient myself, then step back out into the alley, taking a deep breath of filtered air as I try to ready myself for what's to come.

Only to nearly run smack into a young Black girl coming around the corner, her box braids whirling around her head in surprise as she stumbles back, eyes wide and startled. I can practically see myself reflected in her pupils - the hulking figure dressed in black and brown, faceless and blank and utterly inhuman.

"Ah, shit," I mutter, wincing internally at the sound of my own voice coming through the helmet's voice modulator, all deep and gravelly and not the tiniest bit feminine. "Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to scare you."

She just stares at me for a moment, her mouth hanging open in shock. Then, slowly, she raises a trembling hand and points at me, her voice barely more than a whisper. "You're… You're Bloodhound."

It's not a question. I nod anyway. "That's me."

"Thanks," she says, her voice wavering but filled with a fierce, desperate… something. "You saved my life. Back in August. You gonna fix this?"

I feel my throat tighten, a sudden rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I want to reach out to her, to pull her into a hug and tell her that everything's going to be okay. But I can't. Not like this. Not when I'm wearing the mask.

So instead, I just nod again, hoping she can see the resolve in my eyes even through the helmet. "I'm gonna try, kid. I promise you that."

I know the odds are stacked against me, know that I'm just one skinny teenager going up against a private army. But none of that matters now. All that matters is the tiny glimmer of hope I see flickering in little girl's eyes, the shred of faith that there's still someone out there willing to fight for them. To protect them. Even if she probably doesn't even realize how old I am.

I give her one last nod, then turn and head back out into the park, my steps steady and purposeful as I make my way through the churning mass of humanity. I catch sight of Patriot almost immediately, his gleaming blue-and-white costume standing out like a beacon amidst the sea of black and blue and khaki. It's a tight outfit that seems like it's almost exploding off of his body, like it's stapled on. It reminds me of a too-small uniform on a cartoon character - except this one's got twin armbands of red and blue and an eagle on his chest.

He's surrounded by a phalanx of security goons, with a line of cops trying to keep each of the protests from colliding into each other, but I don't let that deter me. I walk right up to them, my hands held out to my sides in a gesture of peace (not that I couldn't ball them into fists and start swinging at a moment's notice). One of the security goons, a big, beefy guy with a shaved head and a neck like a tree trunk, steps forward to intercept me, his hand resting on the butt of his gun in a not-so-subtle threat.

"That's far enough," he growls, his eyes narrowing behind his mirrored sunglasses. "State your business."

I stare at him for a moment, then reach into my pocket - extremely slowly - to grab my LUMA and flash it. I'm not concerned about Patriot seeing it from this angle, but I don't let this guy scrutinize it for very long, either.. It's not quite a pager to the President like Liberty Belle had, but it's still a pretty fucking relevant position. "Bloodhound, Delaware Valley Defenders. I'm here to speak with Patriot. Hear his insights on the goings-on today, to maintain cordial and productive relationships between all of Philadelphia's superpowered individuals. You know, stuff like that."

The guy's eyes flick down to the badge, then back up to my face, his expression unreadable. But after a moment, he gives a curt nod and steps aside, jerking his head towards Patriot in a silent "go ahead".

I nod back, then push past him and into the small, open space that they've carved out around Patriot, like he's some kind of untouchable idol. He's talking to Egalitarian, his head bent close to hers as they confer in hushed tones, but he looks up as I approach, his eyes widening slightly in surprise (genuine or feigned, I can't tell).

"Ah, Bloodhound," he says, his voice dripping with false warmth as he turns to face me fully. "What an unexpected pleasure. I must say, I'm surprised to see you here. Shouldn't you be off chasing down some cat in a tree or another?"

There's a barely-concealed jab in his words - like I'm somehow shirking my duties by showing up to do diplomacy instead of being a boy scout for the city. But I force myself to ignore it, keeping my own voice carefully neutral. "Just thought I'd come down and see how things were going. Make sure everything was staying peaceful. Gotta do what we can to keep a lid on these things, lest they start boiling over."

He chuckles at that, as if I've just told a particularly amusing joke. "Oh, I think we've got things well in hand here. I don't know if you've noticed, but my associates and I have a bit of a knack for keeping the peace. For making sure that the… less savory elements stay in line."

I glance around pointedly, taking in the seething mass of angry protesters on either side of the police line, the tension crackling in the air like electricity. "I noticed. Seems like a real powder keg you've got here. Surprised you're not more worried about it all going up in flames."

He waves a dismissive hand, his smirk never wavering. "Please. These people are all bark and no bite. They'll shout and scream and wave their little signs, but at the end of the day, they know who's really in charge. Just a question of having a firm hand on the wheel, is all."

I feel a surge of anger at his flippant tone, at the casual way he dismisses the very real concerns and fears of the people he claims to protect. But I bite my tongue, knowing that getting into a shouting match with him here and now won't accomplish anything. So instead, I decide to try a different tack, to see if I can get him to let his guard down a bit.