This was the thirty percent I didn’t like. The question mark. The places this could lead, theoretically. Places we were already starting to edge toward, slowly but surely.

“Less than five pounds of gun, if you even have a gun,” Jasper said, holding up the gun with the bike lock threaded through it. He caught my eye as he said it and he had a gleam in his eye. “Fifteen pounds of armor. It’ll be twenty-five pounds of armor if you’re with us for the long haul. These backpacks? They’re heavy. They’re miserable. Twenty-five pounds strapped to you. Food, water, first aid, tools.”

He holstered his gun and lifted up the bag with two hands, grunting a bit.

“Pay attention to those ratios. Twenty-five pounds of stuff to support and help…”

He dropped the bag and gave it a pat.

“…A good bit of protection…”

He rapped knuckles against the armor he wore on his chest.

“…And possibly a bit of offense.”

He tapped the gun where it was in its holster, the bike lock draped down and resting against his leg

Gilpatrick stepped up beside Jasper. “Good.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Students, if you’ll turn around to see the young lady on the stairs…”

The students did.

“…She’s our resident cape expert. If you’re sticking with us here in Patrol block, if her door is open, you can go ask her questions. She knows her stuff. If you’re not sticking with us and her door is open, you can go ask her questions and we’ll let you cut to the head of the line. You’ll find her office upstairs and to the left.”

I hadn’t heard that part before. Priority to people who weren’t part of the club. I smiled.

We had more kids than we wanted or could use, even though we didn’t pay any wages until they’d been with us at least a year, and we did everything we could to keep them miserable. Powers were compelling. Too many had reasons for wanting to be here.

An unfortunate share of the students were here because they were angry. Because the Patrol block had been started up by some ex-PRT folk and Gilpatrick’s speech aside, a lot of people looked at the armor, looked at the guns, looked at how we touched on the power stuff and the portals, and connected the dots.

“You want to go brief my seniors?” he asked me, from the far end of the room, over the heads of hundreds of new students.

I gave him a mock salute, then finished descending the stairs, joining the seniors while he resumed outlining things for the new kids. I motioned to the door, indicating for the group to follow.

A few of them were new, Gilpatrick had said. I didn’t like how angry or naturally resentful some of them looked. Cami was among them.