The announcement for the assembly crackles through the school's intercom during seventh period, and a collective groan ripples through the classroom. Assemblies are the universal signal for wasted time, and nobody's particularly excited about spending the end of the day crammed into the auditorium instead of zoning out during study hall.
For me, though, the timing feels like a punch in the gut. The helicopter footage from this morning is still looping in my head, and the idea of sitting through a dog-and-pony show from whoever's on stage makes my skin crawl. I close my notebook with a snap and shove it into my bag, trying not to let my annoyance show. The last thing I need is someone asking why I look like I'm about to explode.
The hallway is a slow-moving stampede as students shuffle toward the auditorium, a mix of apathy and mild curiosity hanging in the air. I spot Jordan leaning against a locker near the science wing, and they catch my eye, jerking their head toward the crowd.
"Guess we're doing this," they say, falling into step beside me.
"Guess so," I mutter, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag.
The auditorium is already half-full when we get there, the usual chaos of teenagers trying to find their friends and claim the best seats. Jordan and I slip into an empty row near the back, and I slouch into the uncomfortable plastic chair, pulling my hoodie tighter around me. The hum of chatter dims as the stage lights come on, and a line of city officials files onto the platform, their polished shoes clicking against the wood.
And there she is. Maya Richardson, perfectly composed in a tailored blazer that probably costs more than my mom's car. She stands front and center, flanked by a few other council members and a man I recognize as the principal of one of the other high schools in our district. The audience quiets, and Maya steps up to the podium, her expression one of calm authority.
"Good afternoon, students," she begins, her voice carrying easily across the room. "I want to thank you all for taking the time to be here today. I know assemblies aren't always your favorite way to spend an afternoon, but what we're here to talk about is important--not just for you, but for the future of our city."
Jordan leans over slightly, whispering, "She's good. I'll give her that."
I nod stiffly, my eyes locked on Maya. Good isn't the half of it. She's a master at this--at walking the line between approachable and commanding, at making you feel like she's on your side even as she's twisting the knife.
"As many of you have probably heard, early this morning there was an incident on the Pennsylvania Turnpike involving the transport of two dangerous criminals," Maya continues, her tone grave but measured. "Thanks to the brave efforts of law enforcement and registered heroes, the situation was contained, but it serves as a stark reminder of the challenges we face in ensuring the safety of our community."
She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle over the room. The students around me are mostly quiet, a few shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Jordan glances at me, their expression unreadable, and I clench my jaw, forcing myself to stay still.
"These individuals," Maya says, her voice rising slightly, "were not LUMA-approved heroes. They were criminals. And the attack this morning was carried out by other unregistered superhumans, operating outside the law. This is exactly why we need legislation like the Superhuman Activity Regulation Act. To bring order to chaos. To ensure that those who wield power are held accountable, and that those who wish to help are properly trained and supported."
She's so calm, so reasonable. It makes me want to scream.
"And let me be clear," she says, her gaze sweeping over the audience. "This legislation is not about punishment. It's about protection. Protection for our neighborhoods, for our families--and for you."
Her tone softens as she shifts gears, and I can feel the mood in the room change with her. She's good at this. Too good.
"Imagine," she says, her voice almost gentle now, "being a young person with powers, feeling the weight of responsibility to do something good, but not knowing how. Imagine going out there, trying to help, and finding yourself face-to-face with someone like the man described this morning--a man who can turn into a Tyrannosaurus rex. Can you imagine a child in that situation?"
A ripple of murmurs spreads through the room, and I glance around, watching as Maya's words land. She's not just talking to the students. She's talking through us--to the parents who'll hear about this later, to the voters who'll tune in to the local news tonight.
"This legislation," she continues, "is about giving young people the time and resources they need to grow into their abilities safely. To focus on their education, their training, and their futures--not on putting themselves in harm's way."
She steps back slightly, giving the audience a moment to absorb her words. The principal takes the mic next, saying something about how proud he is to have Councilwoman Richardson as a representative for our district, but I barely hear him. My thoughts are spinning too fast.
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"She knew," I whisper, barely moving my lips. Jordan hears me anyway.
"Of course she did," they whisper back, their voice tight. "She's part of the Kingdom. She probably planned it."
It's not just that she knew. It's that she's using it. Spinning the whole thing into a perfectly crafted argument for her legislation. None of those criminals had LUMAs. None of those officers were kids. But here she is, painting a picture of chaos and danger, making it sound like anyone who isn't on her side must be rooting for anarchy.
The students around us clap politely, not because they care, but because clapping means the assembly's one step closer to being over. For most of them, this is just another boring speech they'll forget by the time the buses pull out of the parking lot.
But for me, it's personal. And for Maya, it's deliberate. She's laying the groundwork, planting seeds. She knows how this works. Kids go home and tell their parents what they heard. Parents talk about it at the dinner table, at work, at church. The narrative grows, spreads, takes root.
"She's smart," Jordan mutters, their arms crossed tightly over their chest. "I hate how smart she is."
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay quiet. It's not just smart. It's calculated. She's not even trying to convince us, the kids in this room. We're not her audience. We're just the delivery system.
"And let's not forget," Maya adds, stepping forward again, "that this isn't hypothetical. Some of you were at the homecoming dance earlier this year. Some of you saw firsthand what happens when vigilantes act without restraint."
My stomach twists, and I can feel Jordan tense beside me. She's talking about me. About Patriot. About the night he beat me to a pulp in front of half the school.
The crowd murmurs again, and I force myself to keep my face neutral, to look forward like none of this is getting to me. But it is. God, it is.
"How could you not be for this?" Maya asks, her voice ringing with conviction. "How could anyone not want to make our city safer, our heroes stronger, our future brighter?"
The students clap again, a little louder this time, and Maya steps back from the podium, smiling like she's just won an award. She hasn't even finished yet, but it already feels like she's scored her victory.
The principal announces a Q&A session, and a line begins to form at the microphones stationed in the aisles. Maya steps forward again, her expression calm and welcoming, like she's ready to field any question with grace and authority.
Jordan leans over to me, their voice low. "You think anyone's actually gonna ask her something real?"
I shake my head. "Doubt it. But if they do, she'll spin it. She's too good at this."
I fold my arms tighter, trying to keep my hands from shaking. The line to the microphone is crawling forward, one student at a time, each asking questions so dull it makes me want to scream.
"How does the legislation account for superhumans with, like, disabilities or impairments?" one girl from the debate team asks.
"That's an excellent question," Maya Richardson replies, her voice smooth as polished glass. She's sitting at the edge of the stage now, leaning forward just enough to make it look like she actually cares. "The registration system allows for a comprehensive assessment of every superhuman's unique abilities and needs, ensuring no one is left behind. It's about fairness."
The girl nods, satisfied. Some kids clap politely. Jordan, slouched in their seat next to me, mutters, "Fairness, my ass."
I want to laugh, but my throat feels too tight. I glance down at my lap, my fingers curling into fists. My notebook is still in my bag, but I don't need it. The words are already burning a hole in my chest.
"Sam," Jordan whispers, their voice low and sharp. I glance sideways, and they're staring at me like they already know what I'm about to do. "Don't."
"Don't what?" I mutter back, my voice a little too innocent.
Jordan narrows their eyes. "You're thinking something stupid. I can feel it."
"Relax," I say, but I can hear the tremor in my own voice. I stand as the line shifts forward again, stepping into place behind a kid from the robotics club. "Remember what you told me when we first met?"
"Yeah?" Jordan asks, trying to grab for my wrist.
"I'm being the thing that happens to someone," I say, moving out of their reach.
The kid in front of me drones on about something technical--"Will the registration program incorporate superhuman-friendly STEM pathways?"--and I tune out, my pulse hammering in my ears. I don't even hear Maya's response this time. All I can think about is her smile. That perfect, calculated smile that's been plastered on her face since this whole circus started.
That, and the way she spun my moment. The Homecoming incident. Me.
It's one thing to use a nameless hypothetical to sell her agenda, but she named the exact event. My humiliation, my pain. She used it like a tool, a shiny little prop to hold up in front of the room, and she barely even flinched when she said it.
Except she will flinch. I'll make her.
I step forward when it's my turn, the microphone cool and steady in my hand. The room is quiet, polite, expectant. I can feel the weight of their eyes on me--the students, the teachers, the city officials scattered along the edges of the auditorium. A couple of kids near the front whisper to each other, pointing.
They recognize me. Of course they do.
"Hi," I start, my voice clear and steady, even though I can feel my heart pounding against my ribs. "Sam Small, sophomore."
Maya's head tilts slightly, her smile freezing for just a fraction of a second. She knows who I am too. Good.
"Earlier this year," I continue, my fingers tightening around the mic, "a vigilante beat me to a pulp at Homecoming."
The room shifts, murmurs rippling through the crowd. A few kids lean forward in their seats, suddenly more interested than they've been all day. Maya doesn't move.
"Anyway," I say, my tone almost conversational, "I heard the incident you mentioned from this morning was carried out by the Kingdom of Keys. Aren't those the same supervillains who assassinated your political rival, Richard Duvall, a couple weeks after you got elected and framed it as a heart attack? I heard they have someone who can stop people's hearts by touching them. Any comment?"
For the first time, Maya Richardson looks rattled.
I can swear that I can see the sweat droplets on her forehead. The twitch in her cheek. But maybe I'm just imagining that. I'm not imagining the silence.
The murmuring swells louder. A couple of students laugh nervously, and someone from the back of the room actually whistles. The adults in the room are already moving, stepping toward the stage, toward me. But I'm not nervous.
This isn't nerves.
This is a fistfight.
I love fistfights.
The mic cuts off with a sharp click, leaving my last word hanging in the air like a thunderclap.