"Must be tough, being in charge all the time," I say. "Hard to find people you can rely on, people you can trust to have your back when the chips are down. Most people, they don't know what it's like. The kind of pressure that comes with being responsible for so many lives."

I see something flicker in his eyes at that, a momentary crack in that smug facade he wears like a second skin. "You'd know all about that, though, wouldn't you?" he says, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "I heard about the incident with Deathgirl over at the courthouse. Can't imagine that was a walk in the park."

"It wasn't," I reply honestly, trying not to think too hard about the memory of her cruelty, the feeling of her spikes lancing through my thigh, leaving deep, bloody holes in their wake. "But we stopped her. That's what matters."

He cocks his head to the side, studying me with a newfound intensity. "Now when you say 'stopped' her…"

"I mean, Daisy is not going to be leaving her jail cell for a very long time," I say flatly. "I put her there, and she's going to stay there. With any luck, she'll get the help she needs to get her head on straight." Unlikely. I didn't fight her any more after getting her trussed up, but I did have to listen to her unhinged ranting beforehand.

"And Chernobyl? I heard you were the one who convinced that glowing bastard to turn himself in. How'd you manage that?"

I pause for a moment, considering my words carefully (while trying very very hard not to take offense to "glowing bastard". I decide not to fight that battle today). "Mr. Federov is a complicated man," I say finally. "A man no different than you or I in some ways. He made some bad choices, did some terrible things… but in the end, I think he just wanted to make things right. To atone for his sins. I think anyone can understand that - the desire to repay the world for one's mistakes."

Patriot frowns, deep and heavy, his face scrunched up like tissue paper, his brow furrowed in thought. "And you think that's enough? A few pretty words and a half-assed apology, and suddenly all is forgiven?"

I shake my head. "No, of course not. But Mr. Federov is in prison now, and he's going to stay there for a long time. He'll pay for what he's done. It's called 'restorative justice' - the idea that punishment alone isn't enough, that we need to focus on healing and rehabilitation as well."

"Restorative justice," Patriot snorts, his lip curling in contempt. "That's the kind of soft-hearted bullshit that's going to get us all killed. You mark my words, Bloodhound. The day we start coddling these freaks and lunatics is the day we sign our own death warrants."

There's a coldness to his voice now, a hardness that wasn't there before. The friendly, relaxed veneer is starting to crack, allowing the real man to peer through. The man who sees the whole world as a battlefield, everyone standing in opposition to him as the enemy - me included, I realize with a sinking feeling. G-d save anyone who winds up at ground zero of his blast radius.

I can tell that the conversation is going downhill fast, that I'm not going to get anywhere by trying to appeal to his sense of compassion or mercy. But maybe I can still salvage something useful out of this whole mess, if I play my cards right. I just need to find the right angle, the right pressure point to get him talking…

"I suppose we all have our own ways of dealing with the burden," I say carefully, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. "Our own ways of coping with the things we've seen, the things we've had to do. I know that my experiences have changed me, sometimes in ways I'm not always proud of. Still working on trying to become the kind of hero this city deserves."

I see his eyes narrow at that, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I shrug, trying to keep my body language casual even as my mind races to find the right words, words that will set him at ease without revealing too much. "Only that none of us are perfect. That even the best of us make mistakes, do things we're not proud of. The important thing is that we learn from those mistakes, that we don't let them define us."

Patriot lets out a bark of laughter, the sound harsh and grating against my ears. "Spare me the after-school special crap. You think I don't know about mistakes? About the hard choices that come with wearing the uniform? I've been making those choices since before you were in diapers, kid." He leans in close, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. "You want to talk about duty? About strength? Let me tell you a little something about my time in the service."

He straightens up, his chest puffing out with pride as he launches into his story. "I enlisted right out of high school, you know. Wanted to serve my country, make a difference in the world. Wound up overseas, fighting terrorists and insurgents. And let me tell you, those were some mean sons of bitches. Had to be, to survive in a place like that. But we were meaner. Had to be, to do what needed to be done."

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There's a faraway look in his eyes now, like he's seeing something that isn't there. Something that I can't even begin to imagine, even with all the hero-ing I've done. "We did what was asked us overseas. We did things that stay with you. Things that change you, in ways a small fry like you can't even begin to understand. But we did what we had to do. What our country asked of us. And we did it without complaint, without hesitation. Because that's what it means to be a soldier. To be a patriot. To do the dirty work, so everyone else stays clean."

I nod slowly, trying to process everything he's saying. Trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the monster I know him to be. "And is that what you're doing now?" I ask quietly. "What your country is asking of you?"

He blinks, his eyes refocusing on me with a sudden sharpness. "What I'm doing now is what needs to be done. What no one else has the guts to do. This city is tearing itself apart, Bloodhound. Criminals and deviants running wild in the streets, the so-called 'heroes' too busy playing politics to do anything about it. Someone has to take a stand. Someone has to draw a line in the sand and say 'no more'."

"Is that what you were doing at the homecoming dance?" I ask, my voice carefully neutral. "Drawing a line in the sand?"

He stiffens at that, his eyes narrowing to slits. "That was… an unfortunate incident. The girl was out of line, causing trouble where she had no business being. Protecting a criminal."

"She's fifteen years old," I say softly, feeling a cold knot of anger twisting in my gut. "A child."

"Old enough to know better," he snaps, his voice sharp as a whip crack. "Old enough to understand that actions have consequences. What was I supposed to do, let her keep her terrorist friend safe? Convince everyone else that open rebellion to protect a threat to society is alright? No."

My stomach churns with sudden nausea, but I force myself to ignore it. "She was wearing a suit. A nice, black suit, probably a rental. She was trying to be pretty, not protect a criminal."

"Pretty?" He snorts. "I don't care about how pretty she is. Physical appearance doesn't mean anything to me. She was in the way. I don't feel bad for insects that get splattered on the windshield when I'm driving."

"She's an insect to you?" I ask, trying to keep my tone as even as possible.

His nostrils flare. "An insect raised by intellectuals. A pansy and a tax leech. I don't care much for intelligentsia. As far as I'm concerned, as a species we'd probably be fine putting a stop sign right here and just focusing on keeping everything stable instead of constantly trying to change things. Let the socially liberal work out the last of their identitarian concerns, and then we can finish society. A nice final form, like a noble gas. With no room for rabble-rousers like the Smalls."

I want to scream, to lash out at him with a roundhouse right hook, to make him suffer for even daring to talk about my parents like they're some kind of disease. But I don't. I keep my hands clenched to my sides, white-knuckling and silent.

"You sure seem to know a lot about her," I say instead, my voice soft and dangerous. "About her family."

"It's my job to know," he says bluntly, utterly unaware of who he's speaking to and the unbelievable amount of shit I could do to him for that comment alone if he wasn't a superhuman and I didn't have the moral high ground. "To keep tabs on potential troublemakers like her and her kind. So next time she decides to stick her face where it doesn't belong, we'll be ready." He says the last word like he's talking about hunting season - grim but excited, like she's a deer he bags every year.

"Her kind?" I ask, my voice as cold as the grave, barely restraining the amount of pure acid that wants to leak out like venom. Like his blood, if I opened up his carotid right now.

"You know exactly what I mean," he says, his lip curling in a sneer. "Have you ever read Francis Fukuyama, kid? You really should."

I take a deep breath through clenched teeth, willing myself to stay calm. To stay focused. I can't afford to lose control, not now. Not when I'm so close to getting what I need from him. "I'm not familiar,"

"His best work is this dense tome called 'the End of History' - hold your horses, it's not nearly as sinister as it sounds," he says, like that at all assuages me. "Just a compelling argument that liberal democracies like our own represent the ideal end goal, the natural way that all societies will end up. My handler in the NSRA made me read it about a decade ago. Really scratched my brain just right."

I nod, feigning interest. "So you believe our system is the best possible outcome for society?"

"Absolutely," he says, his eyes lighting up with fervor. "Look, I've seen what happens in countries that resist this natural progression. It's chaos, bloodshed, oppression. Sometimes, for their own good, they need a push in the right direction. We need to topple homophobic theocrats and plutocratic dictators. It's our duty as the shephards of western civilization."

"Even if that push comes at the end of a gun?" I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.

He doesn't flinch. "If necessary, yes. It's not about race or religion or any of that identitarian nonsense. It's about values. About protecting and promoting a system that works."

"And what about people who come here, to America, from those other countries?" I probe, sensing a thread I can pull.

Patriot's jaw tightens. "That's the real threat, isn't it? They bring their old ways, their resistance to progress. They don't understand what we've built here, what we're trying to protect. It's not about where they're from or what they look like. It's about what they believe, what they're willing to do to undermine our way of life. They don't even have to be doing it on purpose. I don't think they are. But they can't do it here. They either have to Americanize, or leave."