"Why do you think everyone hates you?"

What? Tearing my gaze from the calendar on the wall I swivel in my chair to face Dr. Egret, my therapist and the only person that makes me dissect my emotions and thoughts more than Titular or Edison does. "I don't think everyone hates me." Heat fills my mouth along with a defensive prickle under my skin. We were talking about my relationship with Edison deepening at the speed of a glacier, not what I think of everyone else.

"Do you?" His gaze is steady, patient, just like it always is when he's prodding me to think deeper instead of knee-jerk answering. His weathered old hands are tucked under his chin, and, paired with the large streaks of dull gray in his naturally metallic silver hair, it gives him the appearance of a wise bird perched just so to hear your woes and offer counsel.

"I—" I scowl at him and bite down on another sour gummy—my favorite—from the jar on his table. The sour part of the candy fades as I think, turning into a balm of sweetness that has no effect on my mood. Sometimes this whole 'examine yourself' thing in therapy is cumbersome and annoying, especially right now—mostly because I find stuff I don't like and because he's almost always right.

Stifling a sigh, I turn inward and peel back the layers of annoyance and defiance with reason. I don't think everyone hates me because Edison doesn't hate me and David...probably doesn't. Edison has plainly said he doesn't (but what if he's lying? Or down in there somewhere he does and doesn't acknowledge it?) and David is simply too nice at heart to hate me for long (but he probably hates me right now because I lied to him so many times). And then the other heroes in Storm Cell... Shoot. "Edison doesn't hate me."

Dr. Egret nods. "But?"

"But maybe he does? I've done some pretty nasty things to him and sometimes he gets this look and—it's not the 'you're not the brother I lost' look—it's the one that sees me as the villain. Maybe he hates me then..."

"And David?"

"Megabytes, Dr. Egret, you know how he is. I don't think he can bring himself to hate me—for long—but I've hurt him. I'm not his friend, not the villain, not even Edison's real brother and he doesn't know what to make of me now, I guess."

He gives me the, 'and?' look and I slide my eyes to the table. There goes the trail off plan.

I sigh. "Aben definitely still hates me. He's so prickly and cold and...gah. Galah is smiles to everyone so really she could hate me under there and I wouldn't know. And she—all of them, really—has reason to hate me because I stole their new Team Leader and sort of forced them into a hardcore vacation? I can't read Titular at all so she probably despises my guts or something and..."

I've just proved I think everyone hates me. Why on earth does Dr. Egret have to be right all the time?

"Go on."

Shaking my head, I run a hand through my curls, pulling out tangles as I do. "Okay, fine. I do think everyone hates me. But that's because I am a villain and people hate them." I hold up a hand before he can interject. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm not a villain and all that stuff. But people think I am and treat me as such."

It's in the look in their eyes, the guarded mistrust in their body language, the careful stepping around possibly inflammatory conversation topics until every mundane conversation is so substanceless I want to blank things. Which would only prove their need to be cautious around me and— the rest of my sentence dissolves into a frustrated explosion of sparkles and fizzles. I am getting nowhere and it's not for lack of trying. Why can't people just see me as me, not me as the ex-villain?

"Why?" With my free hand I shove a handful of the sour gummies in my mouth—chewing with more force than necessary—and draw a frazzled loop in the air as if making a buffering circle would help translate my thoughts into words. "Why won't this Villain label come off? For that matter, why does it even exist?"

Swallowing, I return both hands to my hair, face scrunched in thought. "All you can be is Villain, Hero, or Citizen and it's like once you're one, you can never be the other. 'Don't be a Villain because they're evil' and, 'Be a Hero and get all the glitter, glamor, and glory' and, 'Or just be ordinary like the rest of us and fawn over the Heroes and hate on the Villains' with nothing in between! It's not so simple and straightforward. So why is the world set up in rigid labels?"

Dr. Egret's eyes grow distant and he nods slowly, taking his time to speak like he always does. He's not the kind of person to rush into anything, including answering life-altering questions. Sometimes it's nice (since I know he takes the time to actually answer my sometimes strange questions and not just brush them off) and sometimes I wish this was a recorded session and I can set the playback speed to 1.75.

"That is a very good question with a very complicated answer," he says at last. He leans forward, dropping his hands to the table as he does. "To put it succinctly, we put things in neat boxes and absolute terms to simplify our complicated world so that we can understand and function. It's easier to think of someone as completely evil or completely good, especially when facing difficult and life-threatening situations."

"Then why don't we change it?" Villain is written all over me and despite how compliant I've been, how well I've taken each law and regulation thrown at me here, I can't get it off. And it hurts, itches, burns. Can't I be good? Can't I be just not a Villain? Why is it this way? Why can't we change it?

"Categories aren't inherently wrong—" His holowatch chimes and he glances at it, swipes away the notification, and continues, "—They're useful, a term and word to describe a certain type of person, but it becomes harmful when it's applied to the wrong people or tainted by the action of one or more people with that label. Even if we use another term, people will just use another box. The root problem is elsewhere."

Dr. Egret unfolds his hands and sits back a little in his chair. "That's the simplified answer. It's more complicated and intertwined than that but unfortunately we're out of time. Here, you can read these articles for more information and we can talk about it in-depth in the next session, okay? If you have any burning questions before then, you can always call me."

Megabytes, I was finally getting answers. But my next session will inevitably roll around again like the rest of my predictable schedule and it's not like I can't wait a little longer, either. Dr. Egret will still be here, I'll still be here, and this way, I can practice my arguments and sort out my thoughts.

I nod and unknot my hands from my hair. "Sure." Reaching into the only pocket I have, I grab my small holopad—my equivalent to a holowatch but much, much less powerful—and hold it out. Dr. Egret swipes a few tabs onto the holopad and I glance through at them before tapping 'accept' and marking them as TBR.

Using Dr. Egret's desk for extra support, I haul myself to my feet, leaning heavily on my arms until my legs accustom themselves to my weight and the rush of black dots leaves my vision. Once I am steady enough, I make my way to the door, rubbing the PowDown patch on the back of my neck. It doesn't ease the cool prickle of the power suppressants fighting with the Parasite, but helps to pretend it does.

Before I open the door, something twangs through my ribs and I glance back at him. He looks back at me with his usual kindly gaze, his slightly frazzled gray hair once again completing the wise, tired old grandfather look.

I think I had a grandfather once. I don't remember him much—just the impression of wrinkles and warm hands—but I like to think that he looked like Dr. Egret.

"Yes, Elias?"

A jolt runs through me, riding on a tide of winter to my fingertips. Shoot. My mind wandered again. Scrambling to find the reason I stopped, I open my mouth to stall and instead, something completely different tumbles out. "Do you hate me?"

Dr. Egret raises his eyebrows, though a faint smile lifts the corners of his lips. "No, I don't."

A tension I didn't know I had loosens in my shoulders. I peg a smile of my own to my face, though it's more of a ghost than a real one. I reach to press the 'open' button for the door.

"And Elias?"

I look back at him.

"You are not evil." His smile is more filled out now, gentle and reassuring with a tinge of amusement born of a shared inside knowledge. "Remember that for me, will you?"

"Yeah." I pause, rolling around his words like a pearl between a jeweler's fingers. "Thanks."

As I leave, our conversation churns in my head, getting heavier and more intertwined each time it's turned over. I stick my hand into my pocket, loop the thumb of my free hand into the elastic of my pants, and navigate to the small waiting room by autopilot.

Edison pops to his feet when he sees me. He's half-way through his customary, "Hey" when he sees my face and hurriedly switches. "Did it go alright?"

"Fine. Just thinking." I hold up my holopad and he checks 'Therapy' off my schedule.

"Care to share?"

I glance up and around at the waiting room and its comfy, dark blue couches and thick, sound-absorbing rug. It's empty at the moment but I don't want to linger here just in case. Besides, there's bound to be cameras in here, anyway. "In your room—we're still crashing there, right?"

"Yeah." Curiosity flashes in his eyes, but he reigns it in and hands me an energy bar.

A knot eases its hold in my chest. He knows now to let me think and I am glad he doesn't press. My thoughts spin like ribbons of 3D code in a washing machine and I don't think I could translate them into coherent words. Offering a small smile of thanks, I tear open the wrapper and bite into it. Spiced beef. Not bad.

Edison leads me out of Dr. Egret's office into the psychology wing. The carpet here is a calming blue and extra soft, a pleasant change for my bare feet (high risk inmates like me aren't allowed slippers like the others), and the strip of light running along the middle of the ceiling casts a warm hue. It's only a short walk to the two-person Leapers and the Crossroads, where most of the main halls of the facility intersect.

As we go through the familiar route to Edison's room in the Guardian wing, something Dr. Egret said earlier clicks into place and everything shifts into a new light. I've noticed the people we pass before, seen some enough times to recognize their faces, but this time I see them. It's not just ex-villains being escorted by their heroes, it's a bear-footed boy younger than me laughing almost hysterically over something a much older purple-haired man said, or a blonde woman trying to cheer up a glum-looking girl in a thick sweater.

It's not just a group of Guardians chatting with their Wards, it's the dynamics of strong friendships blending together into an intense debate over the necessity (or unnecessary existence) of super short socks. It's not just the staff fading into the background, it's the waves and thrown smiles as we and others pass, or the calls of greetings, or others huddled in a corner, catching up.

Now that I am looking, in all of it I see the cracks and chinks, the imperfect smiles and nobility of the heroes, the rare genuine grins and help from the villains. Why did I not notice this before? It's so blindingly obvious and yet with each person we pass, my brain scrambles to tag them as Hero, Villain, or Civilian. It's a habit. A box. A label.

"Why do you think everyone hates you?"

A frown sneaks its way onto my face, twitching as I chew on the last bite of my energy bar. Three boxes emerge from the blankness in the place of my memories, each neatly labeled. Now that I am watching, I see how much I filter through them and it's...interesting, almost captivating what goes where and how it's twisted to fit into a box.

The next time I look up, we've reached Edison's door. It beeps an automated greeting after scanning his palm and slides open. Inside is a comfortingly spacious but not terribly fancy interior. To the left of the small hall (the "shoe hall", as Edison likes to call it) is the small kitchen which is open to the living room.

Dumping the wrapper into the garbage, I beeline for the rounded couch cupping a big holoscreen and flop down, my muscles almost sighing in relief. This place is not much bigger than my old apartment, but compared to Edison's old place, it's much, much smaller.

A drop of ink slides into my mind, slowly turning my thoughts cloudy. Shifting so I can rest my head on the back of the couch, I watch Edison prepare some snacks as he hums to himself. There's a smile on his face, a lift to his eyebrows, and the fluid way he moves says he's relaxed, content, maybe even happy, but his eyes are still heavy with shadows.

He's given up so much to be my Guardian. His old place, temporarily his job, his familiar routine of life, all set aside to be with me. To fight for my case. To help dig me out of this Villain hole. I've asked him why before and all he said was, "You're my brother." It doesn't make sense.

Edison sits down beside me, setting down a tray of apples and cheese and two glasses of juice on the glass table in front of the couch.

I snag a slice, searching his face for answers as if they would be written on his face in a neat, compact paragraph. "Villains are the bad guys, right?"

He freezes, eyes shooting to mine. "Elias—"

"In the media, I mean. And popular opinion."

Closing his mouth, he frowns, brows furrowed. "Yes..."

"Well, why are the heroes doing all this for us?" I gesture at the room: the large holoTV, the super customisable LED lights, even the holopanels on the far left wall showing live feed of the outside garden like a window. There must be so much money poured into this place, and it's not even for someone important, just a Guardian. So much money and time and people have to be here to keep it running—so much more than if they simply built a high-security prison. "Aren't we the enemy?"

Edison puts down his drink and shifts so he fully faces me, thoughts masking his expression like a thickly-woven mesh. "You are not the enemy," he says, each word slow and carefully formed. "Villains are not the enemy."

I squint at him, scrunching my face. Isn't being a Villain all about being against the Heroes? As enemies? "But we go up against you."

He frowns, spearing me with a pointed look. "You aren't a villain anymore. And..." A quiet, waving note hums to life under his finger as he traces around the rim of his glass. "Do you know why I became a hero?"

"To find me?"

"Yes, and because I wanted to help people." He pauses, the note tapering out, and takes a long sip. "A lot of heroes are like me: we see our world hurting and want to help people. Villains are the ones who are hurting the most; they are rarely hurting so many others because they take sadistic glee in it.

"So we set up Ten Schools to protect high-powered kids from those who want to use them for—or situations that would lead them into—crime, and rehabilitation centers for those who we couldn't reach in time. Just because someone made mistakes doesn't mean they're evil." He meets my eyes, gaze steady and firm, the edges of his hero persona slipping through. "Just because they're called a Villain doesn't make them evil. They deserve a second chance. You deserve a second chance. That's why we're doing this."

The words drop on me like a mallet to a gong and my entire frame vibrates with the implications. The Heroes aren't fighting against the Villains. They're fighting for them. They don't want to wipe villains out; they want to help villains. Give them second chances. Give me a second chance.

The boxes in my mind waver, shimmer, and shift. Now the Villain box is tall and thin and the Hero box wide and long. It's different, strange, and doesn't quite fit. Something crusty and purple crumbles away from my heart, and I can breathe deeper. Maybe that's why Dr. Egret told me I am not evil; because even if I still fit into the Villain box, it doesn't make me evil.

I am not evil. I am not a villain. I have a second chance.

The prospect is too big to hold inside me but too swelling and complicated to put into words. It's like being given the sun after being promised the moon, being given the ocean instead of a pool, an entire house instead of the one-time shelter you requested. It's so much more, it's everything, and I...I want to laugh and cry and tear out my hair all at the same time.

What if I mess it up? Blank something important? Someone important? The PowDown patch can't stop me if I try hard enough. It only keeps me from blanking something on a whim. If I messed up, would—would I be given another chance? Or is it a one-use, get-out-of-jail free card? "What happens if I—if they need a third chance? A fourth?"

Edison grasps my hand, leaning forward, both brother and hero reflecting on his face. "We'll give you as many chances as you need."

A lump appears in my throat and the scratchy burn of tears leaps to my eyes as my body resonates with the warmth of a sudden gift, the coldness of doubt, tingles of shock, fizzles of fear, and the bright light of hope.

Shifting closer, he wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes.

Something breaks in me under his arm. I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder, a few tears slipping free. I sniff and wipe them away with my sleeve. "I don't deserve that." My voice is rough and low and no amount of swallowing fixes it.

Edison lets out a quick puff of air and squeezes me again. "That's the point, Edison. You don't deserve it but you're getting it anyway. It's a gift."

A gift, one I don't deserve. What do I make of that? It's...amazing. Touching. Crazy, but the nice kind. I tilt my face so I can see his, searching for a hint of a catch I know isn't there. Ever since I got here, Edison has never given me a choice with a catch. He means and does what he says and if there's something unpleasant, he doesn't hide or sugarcoat it.

A question balances on the tip of my tongue and I roll it around in my mind. "If I ask why you're giving it, are you going to say 'because you're my brother'?"

He smiles, the hint of amusement lining his words. "Hey, you're learning."

I laugh, the sound a little wet though pressure leaves with each moment I do. He really means this wholeheartedly. He'll give me as many chances as I need and...I don't know if there's anything I can do to thank him. Well...if I am good, if I complete this rehabilitation program, if I find who I am and what I want to do, maybe I'll be a little more deserving. At the very least, I will make the gift worth it.

"Thanks. For everything." A small smile sneaks onto my lips. "And the free ice cream."

Edison grins, his entire face lighting up. "Any time, Little Bro. Any time."