They came for him again.

Phoenix's mood soured so quickly that he almost turned around just to glare at the tracker. So soon? he thought. The last one showed up only two weeks ago, and there was usually a month-long gap in between each one, during which he could live like a normal person and pretend that this recurring problem didn't exist.

He shook his head in irritation. His year's worth of experience with this monthly dilemma meant almost nothing; he knew that even a minor slip-up had the potential to cause a major catastrophe. No amount of experience would change that.

He glanced over his shoulder, digging his nails into his palms. The man had been trailing him for ten minutes, too long to be coincidental. Even though the two-week gap was unusual, he had to be a tracker, and his appearance only proved it: inconspicuous clothing, a blank, neutral expression, and an easy gait. Eyes glued to the sidewalk. Black boots. To anyone else on the busy streets of Queens, it looked like he was walking to work, but Phoenix knew what to look for. It was the boots, mainly. For whatever reason, every tracker that was sent after him wore boots.

Exactly who the man was, Phoenix had no idea, but he knew why he was here.

Phoenix rubbed his palms, smoothing out the crescent-moon indents his nails had left on his skin. He was in the middle of making a potentially disastrous decision—he needed the tracker to catch him, and that meant allowing himself to be cornered, but there were too many people around. Ducking into an alley with someone following him would turn at least a few heads. This was never a problem with the others, who had surprised him in quieter, easily manageable areas. Now, the only private place he could go was his apartment. Bringing a tracker directly to his home was a bad idea, but it was also the only idea he had.

Besides, he knew the routine. If he was careful, there would be no harm done.

His apartment building was quiet, like always. It never bothered him before, but now he wished there were more creaking floorboards, or barking dogs, or noisy air ducts, just anything loud enough to drown out his pounding heartbeat. He went up the stairs two steps at a time, expecting the tracker to be trailing behind close enough to see where he was going.

When his apartment door was closed and locked behind him, Phoenix stood with his back against it, listening. Aside from the low, dull hum of the building's ventilation system, he heard nothing. He waited for the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside.

They didn't come.

Phoenix turned and stared at the door. Even though it was locked, he was sure the tracker would force his way in...but there should still be footsteps, shouldn't there? Was he being paranoid? Maybe it truly was a coincidence that some random man was tailing him for ten minutes. It wouldn't be the first time he thought something was bigger than it really was.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Phoenix blinked hard before turning around. The tracker was sitting at the kitchen table.

Phoenix said nothing. Each tracker was different; sometimes they waited for him to speak first, and sometimes they spoke first. But whoever broke the silence, it didn't matter, because the meetings always ended the same way.

The tracker raised his hands to show that they were weaponless. There was no concern on his face, no wary stiffness in his posture. It was clear he had no idea what he'd gotten himself to.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he said calmly. "I'm here to talk."

Phoenix blinked like he was confused. "About what?"

"Let's take this nice and easy," the tracker replied. "Why don't you sit down?"

Phoenix pulled out the chair across from him. It was easy to act scared and apprehensive, easy to act like he wasn't the one leading here. He had plenty of practice. "What's this about?" he asked, flicking his eyes toward the door to look worried.

The man noticed the motion, as he was meant to. "You don't have anything to worry about," he said, raising his hands again and spreading his empty fingers. "I'm here on behalf of the League. Are you aware of what that is?"

Only someone living under a rock wouldn't know what that was. The League of Superheroes, referred to as the League, was the country's federal organization of top-secret agents and superheroes. Most of its operations and members, besides the few known heroes, were kept out of the public eye.

The one insider thing Phoenix knew about was the tracker program. Superpowers, whether they were random, hereditary, or the result of an experiment or accident, were incredibly rare and potentially dangerous, so the League tried to track down who they could and register them into a database. It was only a precaution—it's better to know the threat before it even becomes one. That was what they believed. But tracking down superhumans wasn't easy, and judging from the month-long gap, Phoenix guessed it wasn't a top priority, either. It just happened to be his terrible luck that they'd somehow discovered he had superpowers, and now they were trying to bring him in.

It was a miracle, really, that they'd failed this many times. Good for him, but frustrating for them. He didn't enjoy avoiding people who were trying to do something for the benefit of the greater good, but he needed to stay as far away from them as possible. His parents, dead for three years, were the reason for that.

They worked for the League, but they quit a few years before he was born. That itself wasn't the problem; the problem was that they had never registered him in the database as they probably should have. Instead, they'd cut off all contact with the League, rarely spoke about it, and never told him or his sister if they should be involved in any way. Phoenix used to ask them about it, about what had gone wrong that made them act that way, but he never got a clear answer.

And now, with his parents and sister dead, it was his problem. All he could think of to do was avoid the League like they had, and so far, he'd succeeded.

"I don't know much," Phoenix said after the long, long stretch of silence. "Aside from what it is. Are you...an agent?"

"I'm what they call a tracker agent," the man replied. "My job is to collect information on certain individuals as a matter of security. A precautionary measure, if you will." He took a moment to smile kindly. "We're aware that you have powers."

Phoenix flinched.

The tracker nodded. "Telekinesis, right?"

Telekinesis, yes, but it wasn't just that. Phoenix had two superpowers, but since the other was rather...undetectable, the League still didn't know about it, and he was using it against them. He nodded. "Telekinesis. Yeah."

"We've been trying to get you for almost a year now, but all our previous trackers failed. I guess I got lucky." He smiled again, but there was caution behind it. "I'm requesting that you come with me to our East headquarters so we can register you into our database. What you do next is your decision—we don't expect you to work for us or even keep in contact. Like I said, these are precautionary measures." He stood up. "What do you say?"

Phoenix watched him, the familiar weight of guilt settling onto his shoulders. He never hurt the trackers and never planned to, but that didn't make him feel any better. His cause was hopeless, he knew that: the League wasn't stupid and would get to him eventually, so why bother messing with them like this? Sometimes he wondered if he should let them take him, because maybe what happened next would lead to answers as to why his parents acted so strange.

Or maybe he would find out there was something wrong with the League, something dangerous, and he would have to stay away anyway.

The tracker, unaware of the painfully conflicting thoughts going through his target's head, gestured to the door. "Will you come with me?" he asked.

Phoenix looked down at his hands. Using one index finger to direct the motion, he telekinetically moved the man's chair inward. The tracker fell back into his seat when it hit the backs of his legs, and Phoenix shoved the chair into the table so that there was no room to move.

The tracker stared at him, surprised, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he tried to push himself out. "What are you doing?"

Phoenix shook his head. "I can't go with you."

"No one is going to hurt or threaten you," the tracker insisted, "and I'm sorry if it seems that way. The database only exists so we don't get blindsided by a dangerous superhuman. It's a precaution."

"I know, I know," Phoenix said quietly. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

The tracker kept trying to shove himself out, but Phoenix's telekinesis held the chair firmly in place.

"I don't understand," the man said. "Every failed agent reported that some villain named Plasma stopped them from ever reaching you." He suddenly stopped struggling, and his eyes narrowed. "Have you been sending them back?"

"Yes."

His eyes narrowed even further into angry little slits. "Then why haven't they said so?"

Phoenix raised his hands and wiggled his fingers like a magician. "I have telekinesis, yes, but I'm also pretty capable of controlling minds."

The tracker went still, taken aback by the answer. Then he laughed and shook his head, all the fight draining out of him. "You'll get caught eventually."

"I know."

Phoenix got up and stood behind the tracker, leaning down into his ear. He didn't need to speak to control minds, but it felt easier, more effective that way.

"Plasma," he said, stating the made-up name of the made-up villain who he pinned the trackers' failures on, "stopped you from reaching me. That's what you'll tell your superiors. I never even saw you, and this conversation never happened. Forget about it. Now go."

He released his telekinetic hold on the chair. The tracker simply stood and left without a word, and Phoenix gently closed the door.

He sat back down, rubbing his face. He was sick of this, but even though he so desperately wanted it to stop, he didn't know what else to do.

He slouched in the chair and stared at the ceiling. The League was a busy organization, but someday they would have enough time to realize what was going on. They would get him, and he didn't think he would even be upset about it. After all, it wasn't the database he was wary of, it was his parents' secret. The more he tried to figure it out, the more confused he became. The past couldn't be changed, and knowing what happened might not matter at all, but he knew the day would come when he would have to confront everything he didn't know, and he wasn't sure what to expect.