The cafeteria holds its breath. Ridley's body slumps against the tile floor, his chest rising and falling in shallow waves. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. The only sound is the soft hum of fluorescent lights and Jordan's ragged breathing as they pull themselves up using the edge of the lunch table.

My arms ache. My blood sense is still screaming, still tracking too many elevated heart rates, too many people breathing too fast. I can't tell who's scared and who's processing what they just saw. Who's thinking about contracts. Who's wondering if they're next.

The security guards move first. Two of them drop down beside Ridley, checking his pulse, his breathing. Officer Nguyen stands between us and the crowd, her hand hovering near her belt, her eyes sharp and alert. She barks something to the others--"Get him stable, watch his head"--but she doesn't take her eyes off us.

Jordan wobbles on their feet. Their hoodie is torn where the taser barbs hit, and their throat is already starting to bruise, a dark band forming where the baton pressed down. But they're grinning. Because of course they are.

"Okay," they rasp, their voice rough and shaky. "That went about how I expected."

Nguyen's eyes narrow. "Both of you. Principal's office. Now."

Jordan raises a hand, still trembling. "Wait. One more thing."

The crowd shifts. Phones are out--some still recording, some texting frantically, some just held like lifelines. Whispers ripple through the room. I catch fragments: "Holy shit" and "Did you see--" and "Is he dead?"

Jordan clears their throat. Winces. Takes a breath.

"Just to clarify," they say, their voice gaining strength. "I'm not actually a criminal mastermind. That was a bit. Thanks for playing along."

A nervous laugh from somewhere in the crowd. Jordan's grin widens, but there's something sharp behind it now. Something serious.

"See, here's the thing about those contracts Monkey Business was talking about," they continue. "They respond to exposure. If you ask the wrong question--" They gesture to Ridley's prone form. "Well. You saw what happens."

The whispers die down. The phones lower. Everyone's watching now.

"So if you signed something for Rogue Wave--maybe you thought it was a joke, or easy money, or even a good cause--you need to understand something." Jordan's voice drops, deadly serious. "You are not in control anymore. You need to tell someone. Your parents, your teachers, the police--I don't care who. But you need help."

Behind me, Ridley stirs. His eyes flutter open, unfocused, confused. The security guards help him sit up, but he doesn't look at anyone. Doesn't say a word. Just pushes himself to his feet and starts walking--not running, but moving fast, purposeful. Embarrassed. Caught. He knows he's in deep shit, contract or no contract.

Jordan watches him go, their expression unreadable. Then they turn back to the crowd.

"And if you think someone else might be contracted? Don't push them. Don't try to trick them into admitting it. Don't even hint at it. Because if you ask the wrong question--if you make them think about Rogue Wave for even a second--they will try to kill you." Their voice cracks on the last words. "They won't have a choice."

The fluorescent lights buzz. Someone's tray clatters against a table. A phone chimes, the sound sharp and sudden in the silence.

"That's what this is about," Jordan says, softer now. "That's what we're dealing with. So be careful. Look out for each other. And if you're one of them--if you signed something--get help before someone asks you the wrong question."

Officer Nguyen steps forward, her jaw tight. "Are you done?"

Jordan's shoulders slump. The trembling in their hands is getting worse, but they manage one last grin. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm done. You can haul me off now."

Nguyen gestures to the door. "Let's go."

As we follow her out, I catch fragments of conversation starting up behind us. Nervous laughter. Urgent whispers. The sound of chairs scraping against tile as people remember how to move again.

Jordan stumbles slightly. I catch their arm, steadying them.

"You okay?" I mutter.

They laugh, then wince. "Ask me again when the taser burns stop tingling."

"That was stupid," I tell them.

"Yeah." They grin, rubbing at their throat. "But it worked."

I can't argue with that. So I just help them walk, trying not to think about what comes next. About suspensions or expulsions or whatever fresh hell we've just bought ourselves.

Behind us, the cafeteria erupts into noise--everyone talking at once, processing what they just saw, what it means. Trying to make sense of a world where asking the wrong question can get you killed.

I don't look back. I just keep walking, keeping Jordan upright, following Nguyen down the hallway toward whatever consequences are waiting.

At least we gave them something to think about.

----------------------------------------

Principal Heckerman's office feels smaller than usual. Maybe it's because we're all crammed in here--me, Jordan, my parents, Officer Nguyen by the door. Or maybe it's just that Heckerman looks like he's aged ten years since this morning, hunched over his desk like the weight of the whole school just landed on his shoulders.

Jordan's still grinning, but they're sitting weird, like their muscles haven't quite figured out how to work right after the taser. Their throat is starting to bruise properly now, a dark band across their neck that makes me wince every time I look at it. My dad keeps glancing at it too, his jaw tightening each time.

My mom's hand hasn't left my shoulder since she got here. I can't tell if she's trying to comfort me or hold me in place.

Heckerman shuffles some papers on his desk. Probably trying to figure out which handbook section covers "student nearly gets murdered by mind-controlled security guard."

"This," he finally says, his voice tired and strained, "cannot keep happening."

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Nobody argues. Not even Jordan, which is probably a first.

"Ms. Small." Heckerman looks at me directly. "This is the third violent incident you've been involved in this year. The third time you've physically engaged with staff members. I understand there were extenuating circumstances--"

"Extenuating circumstances?" My dad cuts in, his voice sharp. "A security guard tried to kill a student!"

"Ben," my mom murmurs, squeezing my shoulder.

"No, Rachel, this is--" He stops, takes a breath. "My daughter just had to stop a man from committing murder in the cafeteria. That's not 'extenuating circumstances,' that's--"

"Mr. Small," Heckerman interrupts, "I am well aware of the severity of what occurred. Officer Nguyen has provided a full account." He gestures to Nguyen, who's standing by the door like a statue, her face carefully neutral. "But this is exactly my point. These incidents keep escalating. And your daughter keeps being at the center of them."

I shift in my chair. "So what was I supposed to do? Just let him kill Jordan?"

"Sam," my mom warns.

"No, really!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "Jordan exposed a sleeper agent in our school. Someone who could have hurt anyone here. Are we just supposed to ignore that because it's inconvenient?"

"What you were supposed to do," Heckerman says, his voice getting that edge it gets when he's trying very hard to stay calm, "was alert staff to any concerns about security personnel. What you were not supposed to do was deliberately provoke an incident--"

"I didn't--"

"You switched seats to block Officer Ridley's path," he continues. "You tripped him. You escalated the situation before it became violent."

"Because Jordan asked for help!" I protest. "Because they knew--"

"And you, Mr... Mrs... Mr. Westwood." Heckerman turns to Jordan, who's still somehow maintaining their smirk despite looking like they might pass out. For once, Jordan does not correct the honorific, which... probably means nothing. "You deliberately created this situation. You publicly claimed to be working for a criminal organization. You incited panic in a crowded cafeteria. You directly challenged individuals you suspected of being compromised."

Jordan shrugs, then winces at the movement. "Worked, didn't it?"

Heckerman's expression could curdle milk. "That is not the point."

"It kind of is, though." Jordan's voice is still raspy, but they lean forward slightly. "We proved there are sleeper agents in the school. We proved how dangerous they are. Doesn't that matter more than whether we followed proper procedure?"

"What matters," Heckerman says, "is that I cannot allow students to repeatedly endanger themselves and others, regardless of their intentions."

He picks up a thick folder--my disciplinary file, probably--and lets it thump onto his desk. "Ms. Small, you were explicitly warned about further incidents. You were told that any more altercations would result in immediate expulsion."

My stomach drops. My mom's hand tightens on my shoulder.

"By the letter of our policies," he continues, "by every zero-tolerance rule in this district, you should both be expelled. Immediately. No appeals."

Jordan starts to say something, but Heckerman holds up a hand.

"However," he breathes. "However," he repeats, "I am capable of understanding context. And Officer Nguyen's report makes it clear that your actions, while reckless and unauthorized, likely prevented serious harm."

He leans back in his chair, looking suddenly very tired. "So. One week suspension. Both of you. And detention three times a week for the remainder of the school year."

Jordan perks up. "Wait, that's it?"

"That's not it," Heckerman says. "You'll both be required to meet with the school counselor weekly. You'll write formal apologies to the staff for disrupting school operations. And you will maintain perfect attendance in those detentions, or we will revisit the question of expulsion. Is that clear?"

My dad starts to say something - I'm not sure what - but my mom cuts him off. "That's more than fair."

"Mom--"

"No, Sam." She squeezes my shoulder again. "You're lucky. You know you're lucky. Take the suspension."

Jordan shifts in their chair, wincing slightly. "So when you say suspension--"

"I mean suspension, Mr. Westwood. Not vacation. Not extra time to cause trouble. Your teachers will provide assignments. You will complete them. And you will not use this time to plan any more... demonstrations."

"But--"

"And you," my mom cuts in, "should be thinking very carefully about the target you just painted on yourself."

Jordan blinks. "What?"

"If this Rogue Wave organization is real--if they're really as dangerous as you just proved they are--you just made yourself their enemy. Very publicly." She glances at the bruises on Jordan's throat. "Maybe spending some time where there are actual security guards isn't the worst idea."

"The non-mind-controlled kind," my dad mutters.

Heckerman ignores that. "As for you, Ms. Small." He fixes me with a look that could probably strip paint. "I cannot enforce this, but I strongly recommend that your parents keep you at home for the duration of your suspension. You shouldn't be out there looking for trouble when trouble will almost certainly be looking for you."

"What?" I start to protest, but my parents are already nodding. "What about Jordan?"

"I am technically homeless," Jordan points out.

Heckerman does a double take, and then swallows it down. "We'll talk about that later."

"Don't worry about it," Jordan mutters, waving him away. "My adoptive parents are trying to get a word in edgewise," they mumble off into a silent ellipses, glancing towards my mom and dad.

"We've tried being understanding," my mom says. "We've tried to work with your... extracurricular activities. But this has to stop."

"I was helping--"

"You were lucky," my dad cuts in. "Again. But luck runs out, Sam. And I don't care what's happening in this city--you are not getting a felony on your record before you graduate high school. Once you've got your diploma, you can... I mean, I can't promise anything. You should go to college. But if you want to register and make... this your full-time business, I won't stop you."

"The detentions will limit your patrol time," my mom adds, her voice gentler but still firm. "Which, I mean, I-- I mean... Good! You shouldn't be patrolling. Yes, you did the right thing today. But there were smarter ways to handle this. Ways that didn't involve putting yourself or others at risk."

I slump in my chair. I want to argue. Want to point out that we exposed a serious threat, that we probably saved lives, that sometimes you have to act fast and deal with the consequences later.

But I look at Jordan, still trembling slightly from the taser, their throat marked with evidence of how wrong this could have gone. Look at my parents, their faces tight with worry. Look at Heckerman, who's probably wondering if his school is full of sleeper agents ready to snap at any moment.

"Fine," I mutter. "House arrest. Whatever."

Jordan opens their mouth, probably to say something that'll get us both in more trouble, but Heckerman cuts them off again.

"Against my better judgement, we will... utilize your methods, Westwood, to ensure that no compromised security guards are handling watching the two of you in detention," Heckerman says, and Jordan's eyes light up like they just won the lottery.

"I will now accept literally any punishment you deign fit now, my liege," Jordan babbles, 110% sincere.

"And, Mr. and Mrs. Small, I will speak with the board to see what resources are available to ensure the security of your home. It's not exactly the place of a school to be doing this, and I don't want your daughter and her friend to think I am rewarding their behavior," Heckerman says flatly, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. "But. I did not make it forty years being a school principal in this God damn city's public school system by being an idiot. Because the next incident--if there is a next incident--will result in immediate expulsion and transferal to another school. I don't care if you're fighting aliens or saving the president. Six students were lit on fire only a couple months ago. Including you, Samantha."

I want to protest. The words "that's not my fault" form in my throat, but Heckerman's glower pierces my skull like an acupuncture needle.

"Other students are beginning to withdraw from the school. Parents are informing us that, even with the increased security measures, they do not feel safe enrolling their children in the next school year. Every withdrawn student due to these superhuman incidents reduces our budget, which reduces the amount of security, and resources, and books, that we can provide to the rest of the student body. This is not a novel or a comic book. This is real life. There are second, and third, and fourth order effects to consider. Nothing happens in isolation, including your heroics."

I look down at my feet, unable to muster any sort of defiant response, or really a response at all. My mom squeezes my shoulder, but it feels placating, insincere.

"We're done here," he says, cold but clearly not uncaring. "Go home. Both of you. Think about the consequences of your actions. And be very, very grateful that you're getting a second chance."

He pauses, then adds, "Or in your case, Ms. Small, a fourth chance."

I can't really argue with that either.