“Why us and not the police?” Tristan asked.

“Because when they sent a PRT hero in covertly, he blacked out. Same as what happens when anyone with powers is near anyone who gets powers. Given that the situation isn’t resolved, we have to assume it was the shooter.”

“Alright,” Tristan said. He looked at the others. He saw smiles and nods.

It took a minute before all instructions were given. Tristan was careful.

They probably talked it over beforehand, Tristan thought.

“Go go go!” Figurehead hissed the words. The entire group, Steamwheel excepted, ran down the slope and along the shadowy area where the fence-mounted lights didn’t reach. They reached the fence, and Coiffure cut the fence with her hair.

Figurehead likes to fall back on the playbook. When making up a crime, have the details be ones you already know.

He went with the group, and then they began splitting up, fanning through the building.

They asked each other if they’d talked about this one in front of me. They must have agreed that they didn’t.

They forgot that I’ve gotten drunk with most members of the team. I remember other people’s drunk stories.

Students on a field trip, during the day, not the evening. One person taking them and their teachers hostage. One of the kids triggered.

It was a training exercise or a trap. The trap made more sense.

The moment the group had fanned out enough that Tristan wasn’t in sight of anyone, he took a detour. Down to the basement. Personal cell out.

Backup. His insurance.

The intensity of the moment made the sick feeling faint and ethereal. The trap meant they suspected. If he could just distract, maybe things could go back to normal.

He had four names on his contact list. Three were local. Two fit for this situation. Bazilizk, ‘z’s instead of ‘s’s, and Throttle.

In the dark, the glow of the screen was painfully bright. He saw the first message pop up, and then the second.

He felt calmer than he’d imagined he would. As if everything going as wrong as possible meant he had nothing to worry about.

He’d already laid groundwork. The fourth name on his list was a tinker, one capable of behavior modification with needles. He’d already planted evidence around his room, changed his schedule.

If they really did suspect him because he’d been acting strangely, he could use that, create reasonable doubt.

The alternative to that was losing his Mama and Papa. It was losing Reach, Furcate, Figurehead, Coiffure, Tribute. It was losing everything.

Still, he felt calm.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. There was no commotion. There were no gunshots or powers used. He heard people pass by, and he knew they were looking for him.

Come on.

Another minute passed. His screen glowed.

They were here. The insurance.

He texted them his location in the building.

They’d give him an out, an excuse, and time, all of which were things he needed. He’d get away, then he’d figure out his next steps.