I chuckled. “I am not going to run with that straight line, but I think you might be onto something. I know Wisconsin Company specializes in alpha problems, but like you said, they are a merger of criminal and business law. I could see you standing in front of the Empire State Supreme Court someday fighting for some kind of alpha rights if you played your cards right.”

  A slow, ambitious smile spread over his face. “I can actually see a good slot right now. Alpha men’s rights!”

  “Huh?”

  “Alright, well, obviously most alphas are women, right? And traditional family law has always been tilted towards women, for good reason… but alpha men are absolutely a minority. A lot of super teams won’t even accept a male, claiming social or morale problems.”

  I nodded, adding more weight to the machine and grunting as I fought through the soul-crushing fatigue of my Debt. “Right? That and the chance that under stress they might develop a second power and… you know… level a city block.” A legitimate concern, statistically speaking.

  He grinned. “You just gave me the perfect Junior thesis. Why Title IX should be extended to male alphas. I mean, it’s not like they are rare by choice, which means they are a clear minority.”

  I looked at him skeptically. “Title IX? The sports thing?”

  He nodded, his eyes gleaming with the light of a thousand billable hours. “Yeah, any organization that accepts federal funding is required to offer minority opportunities. Usually that means women and other minorities, but in this case, I think I could make a pretty good argument for male alphas.”

  I shrugged, sitting up and grabbing my towel. Weight courtesy: always clean your mess. “I know what Title IX is, I just am not sure if that’s really necessary. I mean, male superheroes are already celebrities, and if anything, they make a lot more money. There are a lot of teams that would tell them no, thank you, but if they really pressed, their celebrity status probably would get them on a team that doesn’t want them anyway… most of the teams have serious sponsors, and those sponsors wouldn’t throw away the PR.”

  He looked at me, surprised. “I thought you were a logistics math major, not communications or legal.”

  “Sure, but I am also not an idiot. If you suddenly awakened pyrokinesis and decided you wanted to join the Black Sisterhood in Chicago, Quench-ade energy drinks would probably pay to put you on the team, to hell with whatever Sister Scripture said. Even if half the team quit because they don’t want a male, the sponsors would tell ‘em not to let the door hit them in the ass on the way out, probably including Sister Scripture herself.”

  He nodded slowly, the lawyer in him recognizing cold, hard capitalist logic. “Yeah, you are right that that is common sense, but it’s not about common sense.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  He shook his head, his expression turning serious. “Nope. It’s about standing in front of the courts, on camera, very visible while everyone knows your name, and arguing for fairness. It’s about taking a position that no one has ever seen before, and being armored and ready to fight that position while knowing it’s completely defensible.”

  “And it’s about getting rich, famous, and powerful doing it,” I added, because I knew how this world worked.

  He tapped his nose. “Got it in one. Are you sure you don’t want to switch over to a law major?”

  I laughed, a dry, hacking sound. “No. I’d probably wind up defending supervillains that beat up old ladies.”

  He shrugged, his eyes already drifting back to the freshman. “It takes those too. Everyone deserves a fair shot in court.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that in my experience, the court of public opinion and the court of alleyway justice were a lot faster, and a lot less forgiving.

  It had been a very long day. On the plus side, the agonizing workout had paid off. I could feel it in the slightly-less-agonizing emptiness inside me—my energy pool had expanded. I confirmed it when I got home with my jury-rigged battery detector: 262 potential points, currently hovering at a pathetic twelve. Progress. Slow, miserable, calorie-devouring progress.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Since my recovery was based on a percentage of my total pool, not a fixed amount, there was hope. One day, I might be able to consistently match a low-tier hero’s output. Of course, to match their recovery rate, I’d need a pool in the tens of thousands, but a guy can dream. Maybe I’d find some magical artifact or a technique to stay in a state of perpetual, productive Debt. The Alpha version of a perpetual motion machine: powered by cynicism and ham.

  As I polished off a carton of eggs and a chunk of ham that would make a caveman proud—breakfast for dinner is a staple of the energetically indebted—I scrolled through my Vilnet mail for Strategic Special Simulations.

  As expected, Hot Shot’s people were still trying to book a rematch. Another email, another refusal. The offer was bigger this time: two hundred and fifty grand and a promise to retract his infamous one-star review. But I was done with that human dumpster fire. This time, I made it clear, adding the phrase “I’d rather juggle live grenades in a fireworks factory than work with that douche-spatula again.” Maybe the specificity would get the point across.

  There were the usual bottom-feeder offers: get-rich-quick schemes targeting supposedly stupid villains, phishing attempts I dutifully reported (Vilnet’s admins were notoriously vicious toward those who broke the platform’s peace), and a bulk assistance request for a Titan incursion on the West Coast. Honest work, driving off a city-killing monster, and a decent way to beta-test a new villain identity under the radar of the BSA. But I had no way to get there fast, and showing up to a kaiju fight with my energy in the negatives was just a fancy form of suicide. Those things didn’t care about your no-killing rule.

  Then there was the usual suspect: Black Box Incorporated. Their email practically glowed with ominous intent. They’d mailed me before, but Glacier Girl’s glowing five-star review seemed to have bumped me up their list. The offer was always the same, and always tempting: a week’s work for a cool five mil, tax-free, plus a federal pardon for any known felonies. No questions asked.

  Because they were the ones asking the questions. Everyone knew BBI was a federal front—they didn’t even try to hide it. That’s how they could offer pardons and tax-free income. The problem was, their “jobs” were black-bag deniable ops, and the Vilnet forums were littered with threads about up-and-coming villains who’d taken a job and simply vanished. Not all of them, but enough to paint a picture of work that was not only murderous but came with a high risk of your own murder. I wasn’t a killer. Not on principle—I believed unrepentant monsters needed culling—but I wasn’t going to sign up to be a government-sponsored hitman. My moral flexibility had limits. It was a spork, not a shovel.

  Mixed in were a few legitimate villainous team-ups. I had to be picky. I wasn’t opposed to a little non-lethal, victimless criminal mischief, especially against “secretly evil” corps or governments. But flying any ideological flag was a great way to make real enemies, the kind who wouldn’t play by the rules of staged fights and good PR. I was a coward by some definitions. I preferred to think of myself as selectively courageous. My dad used to say, “A real man knows what he is willing to live for, what he is willing to die for, and what he is willing to kill for.” I agreed. I just didn’t feel the need to publish my list in the daily paper.

  The most interesting message was a personal correspondence from someone named Hotcocoa37 with the subject line ‘thanks.’ I decrypted it, my eyebrows rising toward my hairline.

  Dear SSSinc:

  I would like to give your contractor a thank you from the bottom of my heart. I lost control, and he kept it from doing something I’d regret for the rest of my life. I just wanted to let you know that I recognized what he did and am eternally grateful. My agent didn’t want me to send this because he said it opens me up a little, legally, but I couldn’t just let it go.

  I saw the damage I caused and really regret it. Please let me know if he is okay? I am sorry, I couldn’t afford a bonus or medical liability, but if I could have, I would have. I keep seeing all the damage my accident caused, and the blood, and I am terrified that I almost did something I can’t take back.

  I was originally intending to leverage the PR to get into a local workshop part-time while I finished my education, but I realized that I still need an enormous amount of training before I can safely pursue my career. Fortunately, the Kellar Academy offered to assist me both in completing my degree and becoming a certified emergency specialist.

  Please let the contractor know that I owe him a huge favor, and I take favors seriously. If he needs a PR victory after my schooling is complete, or anything else, please tell him to let me know.

  Well. I’ll be damned. A hero with a conscience and self-awareness. The universe really was full of surprises. I saved the message. A favor from a future Class Four, possibly Five, hero who felt genuine gratitude? That wasn’t just a paycheck. That was an investment. And it almost made getting knocked on my ass by a medicine ball feel worth it.

  Almost.