“Yes, you fell. Landed right on lawn by base of Quentin statue, lucky you not fall on statue. You were unconscious. No one was quite sure why. Sports medicine specialist said you had dislocated shoulder, but X-ray machine come back blank.” He tapped his own robust shoulder. “Alpha density, very tricky. They were worried you might have head injury, but alphas are hard to read. Doctor Landhurst said your brain weren’t damaged, you just had power exhaustion really bad. You lucky you not dead.” He peered at me, curiosity in his eyes. “Not flying? Sometimes folks fly, and burn themselves out by mistake and fall, thought maybe that was what happened, especially if you fly out of… sewer? Fighting shock rats?”

  I nodded, my ego shriveling up and dying a quiet, humiliated death. “Something like that.” My brain finally booted up into safe mode. I’d been on the roof, cultivating. I’d gotten the spiral going. It wasn't power exhaustion—I could feel the energy inside me right now, twice as much as before, circulating in a hazy, lightning-filled vortex. It was an overload. A spiritual brown-out. I’d been so engrossed in playing galactic janitor that I’d probably starved my own brain of some essential process. My body, operating on the last stupid command from the cockpit—“shadowbox!”—had just kept moving. Right off the goddamn edge.

  I’d pitched over the safety rail, tobogganed down a lower roof, and executed a perfect two-story swan dive onto the grass. I’d dislocated my shoulder, but if I’d landed on the statue or the concrete, they’d be mopping up Jake Doyle with a sponge and a tearful eulogy from people who barely knew me. No resets for that, since resets require an act of consciousness. My one consolation was that Mister Bob and I had been right. The energy was real. I just hadn’t accounted for the catastrophic system failure that would accompany my first successful download of universe.exe. The universe, it seemed, had terrible error-handling protocols.

  I needed to get out of here. I needed to think, to process this somewhere I wasn’t a danger to myself and others. Preferably a padded cell with a built-in taco dispenser.

  “Can I go?”

  He raised an eyebrow, a feat on a face that large. “Are you safe to go? You were banged up, and doctor doesn’t know why you were unconscious for fourteen hours.”

  Fourteen hours? I’d missed a full day of classes. My perfect record of academic anonymity and low-profile misery was in tatters. I was becoming notable. In my world, notable is a prelude to death. I did a quick internal diagnostic. Bruised collarbone, aching shoulder (someone had kindly popped it back in while I was taking my unplanned nap), a headache that was probably a residual concussion, and general soreness that felt like I’d lost a fight with a freight elevator. Nothing a few thousand calories and a well-placed sarcastic grumble couldn’t fix.

  I nodded, attempting to look responsible and stable. A difficult sell, given the circumstances. “I’m a support healer. I seem to be in pretty good shape.” The tar and sewage? That tracked. Every alchemy text mentioned the disgusting expulsion of impurities. I’d apparently sweat out a biohazard. Someone, probably this gentle giant, had had to clean that up. I owed someone a very awkward fruit basket and a lifetime of shame.

  “Support healer? What is that? You are not listed on reserve? Oh, I am Bill. William Enoha.” He offered a hand the size of a dinner plate. I shook it, my own disappearing into his. “Usually, anyone with any gifts related to healing or triage quick to get on clinic reserve.”

  “I am Jacob Doyle. I guess you know that already? I’ve only been here a week, and I’ve been in remedial classes. What is the reserve?” I asked, genuinely curious. A legal way to use powers on campus? That sounded like a fantastic cover for all sorts of illicit activity, and maybe, a legal way to stretch my powers safely.

  He grinned broadly. “If you can help with medicine, you can be placed on training reserve. That is, maybe, supposed to improve your experience healing. It will also help earn school credit and increase support rankings. I am on reserve. I am strong and have a paramedic associate’s degree from University of Oahu. Helps pay for school and improves ranks.”

  I nodded, genuinely impressed. His accent and phrasing might make him seem simple, but this was a solid, clever plan. A brilliant way to leverage his obvious physical assets and practical skills into a legitimate career path. It was the kind of forward thinking my seven different villain identities would applaud. “You wouldn’t fit in an ambulance easily.”

  He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated in my chest. “It has its compensations. You feeling up for getting checked out? Or wait for dinner first? Your sponsor was here… two hours ago? Cute girl, looked worried.”

  Mindy. Of course. Worried about her investment, no doubt. I shrugged, testing my shoulder. I’d let it heal the old-fashioned way. No point wasting precious, hard-won energy on something time and a protein shake could fix. “Go ahead and get a discharge started. Are we on campus?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Campus has good clinic. Lots of minor injuries in training. We are behind the Bullworth building. I’ll get set up for discharge.”

  I was feeling alright, all things considered. Pain was an old friend at this point; we just didn't send each other holiday cards anymore. I managed to change into the academy sweats they’d given me—my original clothes were likely declared a total loss by the EPA and given a solemn burial at sea—and shuffle to Criminology class. I’d met the formidable Doctor Landhurst on the way out. She ran the trauma center with the severity of a general who’d seen too many idiots march off her cliff. She’d looked me over, pronounced me “functional, if an idiot,” and signed my release. I fit right in.

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  The class was a blur of legal precedents for powered combatants. I took notes on autopilot, my mind racing over the implications of my new… let’s call it a ‘spiritual upgrade.’ Alpha-dar. The ability to sense other Alphas. It was faint, like hearing a mosquito in another room, but it was there. This was huge. And incredibly, terrifyingly illegal. The BSA would black-bag me for this alone. It was a strategic intelligence-gathering tool of unimaginable value. I’d have to be very, very careful.

  “Jake!” Mindy’s voice cut through the post-class chatter like a laser through… well, through me, if I wasn’t careful. I turned to see her standing with another girl. This one was… carefully constructed. Mousey. Short. A study in various shades of brown and beige, like a chic sparrow. Glasses. She was working the ‘beautiful all along’ and ‘sexy librarian if she takes off her glasses’ tropes harder than a Hollywood director. And I could feel the energy circulating within her, a calm, focused hum that was distinctly different from Mindy’s vibrant, icy torrent. She was definitely an Alpha. My new senses were confirmed. Fantastic. One more illicit, unregistered power to hide from the ever-watchful eyes of the Bureau. My resume of crimes was getting so diversified that I could teach a seminar.

  I stopped, my body protesting the sudden halt. “Hi Mindy.”

  “What on earth happened to you? I came by the hospital, but you wouldn’t wake up. Are you okay?” She looked genuinely concerned, which did funny, complicated things to my cynical heart that I promptly ignored and locked in a mental basement. Concern was a currency I was deeply suspicious of.

  I nodded, aiming for nonchalance and probably landing somewhere near ‘recently concussed.’ “Yes, I am fine. Do you want to go to dinner? I can’t really talk about it here.” The ‘here’ being a hallway likely riddled with eavesdroppers, psychic listeners, and at least three different types of surveillance tech.

  She nodded quickly. “Sure. Oh, first, I’d like you to meet Abigail Snow. Abbey, this is the guy I was talking about, Jacob Doyle. Abbey is remedial, also, and got rushed here yesterday just like us! She was pushed into the PR classes too, for the next two weeks until the mid-break.”

  Abigail performed the ritual perfectly. She pulled off her glasses with her left hand—I noted the lenses had no actual prescription; they were pure prop, a costume piece—and held out her hand. As I took it, she bit the earpiece, a move designed to draw attention to her unusual lavender eyes and her lips. It was a masterclass in calculated shyness, a performance of vulnerability meant to disarm. I’d give it an eight out of ten. Points off for being a little too on-the-nose.

  Oh, I knew this game. I’d seen it before, lived it before. Christine had played a similar one, though her nerd-to-goddess arc had at least been authentic at the start. This felt… rehearsed. I shook her hand lightly, my own senses on high alert. “Hi, Abigail, pleasure to meet you.” My voice was flat, neutral. A blank wall.

  If she wanted to play, I could play. I’ve grifted better grifters. But my internal alarms were blaring at a deafening volume. In the cockpit of my mind, Admiral Akbar was screaming, and he’d brought along a whole choir of paranoid angels. It’s a trap! She’s a plant! Abort!

  She smiled, showing a hint of a retainer. A deliberate, charming flaw to enhance vulnerability and approachability. Check. If she’d been a redhead, I’d have already been running for the hills. The coincidence would have been too blatant, too targeted. As it was, her short height, that slight dusting of brown freckles, and her compact, curvy body strategically concealed by shy, slightly-too-baggy clothes were all precision-targeted at my specific psychological weak points. She was a living, breathing honeypot, and I was the fly with trust issues.

  “Hello Jake,” she replied, letting her hand linger in mine a fraction too long. Her grip was firm, confident. Not a bookworm’s grip. “I understand that you are Mindy’s support?” Her voice was soft but carried an undercurrent of steel. Shy, but confident. Another checkmark on the ‘suspiciously perfect’ list.

  I nodded, extracting my hand as if it were withdrawing from a potentially radioactive sample. “Yes. And since you know that, I suppose that means you are an Alpha?” I stated the obvious, playing the part of the mildly slow newcomer.

  She nodded, replacing her glasses. “They rushed me in here. I just assumed that means the other rushes were here for a reason. I doubt very much that after we work and fight together that there will still be a lot of doubts about our identities, but in the end, we are all on the same team.” Her words were smooth, practiced. The right mix of camaraderie and implied shared experience.

  I offered a thin, non-committal smile. “At least I assume we will be on the same team, unless you plan on putting on a cowl and monologuing about world domination?” I tested, throwing out a line to see what she’d bite.

  She blushed—a perfect, practiced flush that climbed her cheeks on cue—and then laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “Right, no more internet! The world will return to printed books and newspapers! Muahahaha!” It was a good performance. Self-deprecating, nerdy, charming.

  I nodded slowly, my eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Is that a key to your psychology?” I asked, pushing a little harder. A genuine person would be thrown by the question.

  She shook her head, still smiling, utterly unflustered. “No, but I think that would be interesting. I am not a huge fan of old social media, but I read my books online just like everyone else. Why, are you looking for keys?” She turned the question back on me, a deft parry. Another direct hit. Intellectual, slightly counter-culture, confident. Either she was my dream girl or my eventual assassin. In my experience, there was very little difference between the two.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I deflected. “Will we be seeing you in teamwork training tomorrow? I have to ask my sponsor’s advice on a few things tonight.” I needed to extricate myself and debrief with Mindy immediately. And possibly invest in a food taster.

  She nodded, the picture of bright, enthusiastic innocence. “Yes! I’ll look forward to seeing both of you tomorrow!”

  I sure as hell doubted that was all she was looking forward to. The game was on. I just had to figure out what the game was and what the losing condition looked like. My money was on ‘painful and humiliating,’ since that seemed to be the usual way I rolled.