"Huh," I say, leaning forward in my chair until my sternum almost touches the edge of the table. The anchor on screen looks deeply uncomfortable, like he's reading someone's hostage demands. Which, I guess, he technically is.

  "Citizens of Philadelphia, your attention please. This is Rogue Wave speaking. Have you ever wanted to become a mad scientist's assistant?"

  The news anchor pauses, swallows visibly, then continues reading:

  "For too long, the scientific establishment has suppressed true innovation. Corporate R&D departments, university ethics boards, government regulations - all designed to maintain the status quo and keep you living in mediocrity. But today, right now, we're offering a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to become part of the greatest pharmaceutical revolution in human history."

  "Is this for real?" Maggie whispers, her breakfast burrito frozen halfway to her mouth.

  "Shh," Tasha hisses, turning up the volume.

  "We're looking for someone with laboratory experience, a flexible moral code, and the ambition to help us reshape the fundamental power structure of society," the anchor continues reading. "The pay is competitive - low six figures, plus benefits, plus all the evolutionary potential you can handle."

  The camera zooms in slightly on the anchor's face as he flips to another page, his professional demeanor cracking just a little.

  "This isn't just another dead-end job. This is your chance to stand at the forefront of human potential. To work directly with the mind behind Jump and Fly. To help tear down the artificial constraints that keep the exceptional chained to mediocrity."

  "Snake Oil," I mutter, the pieces clicking together in my head. "That was his name, right?"

  Nobody answers me.

  The anchor continues, his voice slightly strained now: "Interested? Good. Because we're starting the application process right now. At exactly 7:30 AM, we need all serious candidates to appear at one of the following locations - "

  The screen switches to a printed-out map of Philadelphia, included with the letter, with three points marked: Rittenhouse Square, FDR Park, and Frankford Transportation Center.

  " - carrying a copy of any book published by Milton Friedman, or, if you really need to, Ayn Rand, preference given to Friedman. Don't have these items? Then you're not resourceful enough for this position. There'll be a fifteen minute buffer."

  "Jesus, they're not even trying to be subtle," Gossamer says, shaking her head.

  "The position requires initiative, creativity, and a willingness to get your hands dirty. So show us what you've got. First hundred qualified candidates at each location receive further instructions. Late arrivals get nothing. Cops get worse."

  The anchor winces slightly at that last line before finishing: "Remember: this opportunity isn't for everyone. But if you've ever felt that you deserved more than what this broken system offers, if you've ever wanted to remake the world instead of just consuming it, then we're waiting for you. Rogue Wave out."

  The feed cuts back to the anchor desk, where the man sets down the paper and looks directly at the camera. "NBC 10 does not endorse this message and encourages viewers not to participate in what may be illegal activities. Police have been notified and advise citizens to avoid the listed locations. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming."

  The five of us sit in silence for a moment, staring at the screen as the broadcast transitions to a weather report like nothing happened. Like Rogue Wave didn't just put out an open call for a mad scientist's assistant on live television.

  "It's 7:08," Tasha says finally, checking her phone. "They're starting in twenty-two minutes."

  I'm already on my feet, ignoring the protests from my bruised throat and wrists. "We need to get to one of those locations. Rittenhouse is closest. If we leave now - "

  "Whoa, hold up," Gossamer interjects, rising more slowly. "Sam, you need to think this through. Look at yourself."

  I glance down at my battered body - bruises on my wrists and throat barely concealed by makeup, exhaustion weighing on my limbs, a slight tremor in my right hand. She's not wrong, but still.

  "This is our chance," I insist, my voice coming out raspier than I'd like. "We can identify candidates, maybe follow them to the next stage, get closer to Snake Oil."

  "And then what?" Gossamer challenges. "You can barely stand. None of us have slept. We're in no condition for a confrontation."

  Maggie jumps up, face flushed with excitement. "I'm with Sam. This is huge! We could actually get a lead on one of their inner circle."

  Blink, who's been quietly eating her breakfast burrito, finally speaks up. "You realize this is almost certainly a trap, right? They just announced these locations on public television. The police will flood those areas."

  "Exactly!" I say, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair. "Perfect cover. We blend in with the crowd, stay out of sight, just observe."

  Tasha's brow furrows without a response while she checks the internet, presumably for some sort of forum or chatroom response. My hand is on the door when a wave of dizziness hits me, not the fun kind of dizziness I get from getting smacked in the head at just the right velocity. The bad kind, where I feel like my vision is about to white out. Actually, those are pretty close to each other. I grab the doorframe to steady myself, hoping no one notices, but Gossamer is suddenly beside me, her hand on my arm.

  "Sam," she says quietly, "your body is telling you no. Listen to it for once in your... life."

  I prepare to argue. I prepare to push through this like I always do, ignore the pain and exhaustion, beat my body into submission through sheer force of will. I will. I can do this.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Look," Tasha says, turning her laptop screen toward us. "Police scanner confirms units are already mobilizing to all three locations. And--" she taps a few more keys, "--traffic cams show people already gathering. Lots of people with books - too many. Rittenhouse Square is next to a bookstore. They're betting that the police can't detain all of them, especially not on suspicion of having an extremely popular economist's book. That's not a crime."

  I slump against the wall, surrender washing over me in an uncomfortable, unfamiliar wave. "So we just... what? Let it happen?"

  "We observe," Gossamer says firmly. "Remotely. We gather intelligence. We rest. And then, when we're not half-dead, we plan our next move."

  She's making sense, which I find incredibly annoying. I hate when people who aren't me make sense, especially when that involves standing down.

  "Fine," I concede, sliding down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor. "But I'm not happy about it."

  "Noted," Gossamer says dryly.

  Maggie looks between us, her enthusiasm deflating. "So we're just gonna sit here? While Rogue Wave recruits a new evil scientist right under our noses?"

  "If you want to go out there alone and get yourself arrested, be my guest," Gossamer tells her. "But Sam's in no shape to back you up, and neither am I."

  Maggie's shoulders slump. "No, I - you're right. I just hate missing the action."

  "We're not missing it," Tasha corrects, turning her laptop for us all to see. "We're watching it. Come here."

  I crawl over to where Tasha has set up, practically dragging myself across the floor like the exhausted, pathetic wreck that I am. On her screen are multiple windows: police scanner audio, a HIRC feed scrolling with updates from fifteen other HIRC feeds, and most impressively, live feeds from traffic cameras near all three locations.

  "How did you get access to those?" I ask, genuinely impressed.

  Tasha blinks a couple of times. "Almost every traffic cam in a major city is unsecured, there's websites that collect them."

  The Rittenhouse Square feed shows at least two dozen people already gathering, ambling around like lost chickens. Each clutches a book, and I can make out the distinctive cover art of "Atlas Shrugged" on several of them. My Mom always told me to avoid that book, so I tried to read it once. I did not like it.

  "They're really doing it," Blink marvels, peering over my shoulder. "People are actually showing up to become evil henchmen."

  "Research assistants," I correct absently. "With benefits."

  At FDR Park, the crowd is smaller but growing. The Transportation Center crowd is largest of all - maybe thirty or forty people, with more arriving. Patrol cars are visible at the periphery of each location, officers watching but not interfering. Yet.

  "Look at Frankford," Tasha points. "See the guy in the white hoodie? He's just watching, not participating. Plainclothes cop, almost certainly."

  "They'd be stupid not to infiltrate," Gossamer agrees.

  "Which Rogue Wave knows," I add. "Which means they have a way to filter out law enforcement."

  The clock on Tasha's laptop reads 7:23. Seven minutes until whatever Rogue Wave has planned begins. My eyes are heavy, the adrenaline from the night finally draining away completely, replaced by a bone-deep fatigue that makes even sitting upright a struggle.

  I reach into my pocket, pull out the pack of cigarettes I've been nursing for the past couple of weeks, and stare. I've been trying very hard to keep it to less than one cigarette a week. But some days you just need that kick in the pants.

  "You know those are terrible for you," Gossamer says without much conviction.

  "So is getting strangled, but here we are." I push myself up and stagger toward the window, sliding it open to let the morning air in. The first drag hits my system like a defibrillator - not enough to dispel the exhaustion, but enough to momentarily sharpen my focus, and make me feel a little bit like vomiting.

  "Anything interesting happening?" I call over my shoulder.

  "Not yet," Tasha answers. "But - wait. Something's happening at Rittenhouse."

  I turn, leaning against the windowsill as Tasha increases the volume on her laptop. Through the tinny speakers, we hear a police dispatch voice, tense but controlled:

  "All units at Rittenhouse, be advised. Subjects are distributing items to gatherers. Appears to be envelopes. No sign of Jump or other contraband at this time."

  The traffic camera confirms it - a figure moves through the crowd, handing something to each person. The angle is too high and the resolution too poor to make out details, but it's clearly some kind of organized distribution.

  "Same at FDR," Blink notes, pointing to another window on Tasha's screen.

  "And Frankford," Tasha confirms, clicking through feeds. "Synchronized."

  I take another drag, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of frustration and resignation. We should be there. We should be in the middle of it, gathering intel firsthand, maybe snagging one of those envelopes to see what's inside. Instead, we're reduced to watching grainy traffic cam footage like a bunch of -

  "Shit," Tasha says suddenly, her fingers freezing above the keyboard.

  "What?" we all ask in unison.

  She points to the Rittenhouse feed. The crowd is dispersing rapidly, people tucking envelopes into pockets and hurrying away in different directions. At FDR and Frankford, the same thing is happening.

  "That's it? That's the whole recruitment?" Maggie sounds as disappointed as I feel.

  "No," I say, the realization dawning on me. "That's just step one."

  I tap out my cigarette into a small little clay ashtray that we found at a thrift store and cross back to the table, leaning over Tasha's shoulder. "Can you zoom in on anyone holding those envelopes?"

  She clicks a few keys, and the Rittenhouse feed zooms in on a departing figure. The quality is terrible, but there's just enough resolution to see the person consulting what looks like a piece of paper from the envelope.

  "Instructions," I say. "They're sending them on individual paths now. Harder to track, harder for police to follow everyone."

  "A scavenger hunt," Gossamer suggests, understanding blooming on her face. "Maybe each person gets different instructions. Or there's groups."

  "Classic cell structure," Tasha agrees. "Even if the cops grab some of them, they can't compromise the whole operation."

  I slump back into a chair, my brief energy spike from the cigarette already fading. "Smart. Really smart."

  "And we're missing it," Maggie says glumly.

  "But we know it's happening," Blink points out. "That's something, right?"

  I nod, though it doesn't feel like much of a win. Watching a major Rogue Wave operation unfold from the sidelines while we're too beaten up and exhausted to intervene? Not exactly a highlight for the Auditors.

  "I hate this," I mutter, rubbing my eyes. "I hate knowing they're out there recruiting right now, and we can't do a thing about it."

  "We're doing something," Gossamer says firmly. "We're gathering intelligence. And more importantly, we're recovering so we can fight another day."

  "Recovery is part of the job," Tasha adds, closing some of the windows on her screen. "Even the Delaware Valley Defenders don't operate 24/7."

  My body chooses that moment to remind me just how right they are. A yawn forces its way out of me, sending a sharp pain through my bruised throat. My eyes water, and I blink rapidly to clear them.

  "I think," I say reluctantly, "I need to sleep."

  "You think?" Gossamer raises an eyebrow, but there's relief in her expression. "That's possibly the most sensible thing you've ever said."

  "Don't get used to it," I mutter, but there's no real heat in it.

  The makeshift beds and couches around the Music Hall have never looked so inviting. I drag myself toward the nearest pile of cushions, my limbs leaden and uncooperative.

  "I'll keep monitoring," Tasha promises. "If anything major happens, I'll wake everyone."

  "Wake me too," Maggie insists, though she's already curling up on another couch, her eyes drifting closed even as she speaks.

  "And me," Blink echoes, stretching out on the floor with a pillow under her head.

  I make a vague noise of agreement as I collapse onto my designated sleeping area. My body feels like it's made of cement, heavy and immovable. The last thing I see before my eyes close is Gossamer settling into a chair near Tasha, determined to keep watch just a little longer despite her own exhaustion.

  I should do the same. I should fight through the fatigue, force myself to stay alert, monitor the situation. That's what Liberty Belle would do. That's what a real hero would do. Right? And then--