AN: This chapter is another "ripped from the headlines" story, inspired by recent (as of this writing) events in Paris where an Algerian teen was shot by the police, triggering widespread protests that drew condemnation from the victim's family as well as intense scrutiny of the Paris Police after the video footage contradicted the officers' account.

Bang.

Nabatala's arms tightened involuntarily around her legs. A shiver ran down her spine – whether from the chill evening air or frustration, she wasn't sure. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, trying to block out the sights and sounds around her. A police siren wailed in the distance; below her on the street, she could hear the sound of glass breaking. Someone shouted, followed by a sudden grunt. Nabatala clenched her hand into a fist and smacked the rooftop next to her. The cement cracked.

She really should go down and try to stop this. But, hero or not, she was only one girl. At this point, how could she stop what was happening?

Everything had been "normal" (or at least "Paris-normal") less than three days ago.

The incident had started when a teenaged boy had been stopped by a police car while walking down the sidewalk on his way home from a class at his mosque. A few other people had been on the street at the time, but none of them had been close to the boy when it happened. There had been a confrontation; no one had heard what was said between them except the officers. Then… bang. The boy had been dead before his body hit the ground. A dozen people had recorded it on their phones, and the videos had been all over social media within minutes. Protests had started less than an hour later. And with the protests, the riots. At first it had been peaceful: people just wanted to know what had happened, why this teenager was dead. But then someone had thrown a rock, then a dozen more. Scores of stores had had their display windows broken in. The looting had spread out of the arrondissement where it happened and into half the city. The incident had rocked the Algerian community – Nabatala's mother had insisted that they all needed to stay in the apartment until it all blew over, though her father had gone out to do what he could for the injured.

Nabatala had thought about joining him… but what could she do in the face of all of this? When she had gotten up and moved toward him, her father had given her a stern look and said, "Not this way."

She had transformed and slipped out her bedroom window… but she hadn't really done anything since leaving. There was just too much happening for one Nabatala to deal with it.

Grabbing the edge of the roof to brace herself, Nabatala sniffled, squeezing her hand so tightly the cement blocks crumbled between her fingers. She was a superhero! For the last five months, ever since Emilie had entrusted her with the Narwhal Miraculous, she had tried her hardest to keep people safe, to be a superhero – one who was both Muslim and an immigrant. But how much good had any of that done? She had become a symbol, yes. But yesterday the arrondissement paper had begun insisting that she needed to start leading these protests! Directing them toward the police – police officers that she had come to know and appreciate during the Chaos, when it felt like her, the New Heroes of Paris, and the Paris Police against the world! But what was happening around her right now wasn't any better than the Chaos. Her community was tearing itself apart – hurting each other almost as much as they hurt the rest of the city – and there was nothing she could do to stop it. And the scary part? A small voice in her head said that maybe this wasn't such a bad thing. After all the hurt and abuse and cruel words that had been thrown at her, maybe all of this was right.

"It looks like you've been having almost as good of a day as I have," a familiar voice observed from somewhere behind Nabatala.

She didn't look up as the Owl sat down next to her, his legs dangling off the edge of the roof. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, immediately regretting the bitter tone in her voice.

The Owl let out a heavy sigh. "I guess, probably the same thing you're doing," he replied. "Trying to get away from the madness down there. Someone tried to rob M. Chabani's store. I… persuaded them not to."

Glancing over at him and taking in the heavy slump of his shoulders, Nabatala raised an eyebrow dubiously. "Are you sure one of the Heroes of Paris should be siding against the protesters?"

He shrugged. "The protesters? No. The looters and rioters? Yes. Considering that that store already got closed and sold once because of looting, I wouldn't want to see it happen again…" He cocked his head. "What's up with you?"

She swallowed. "Sorry. I just… I don't know what I'm even doing anymore," she admitted, looking back down at the street. Four cars had been parked along the sides of the road at the beginning of this mayhem; all of them had been smashed, the tires removed, leaving the doors hanging open uselessly. "This is hardly any better than back during the Chaos! Only then, I wasn't a hero at the start, so there really wasn't anything I could do. But now I am a hero… and there's still nothing I can do to make this stop!"

Hesitantly, the Owl reached a hand out toward her before pulling it back. "I'm sorry. I–I didn't realize–"

Nabatala sniffled. "No – I'm sorry. I shouldn't lash out at you like that. You didn't deserve that. It's just frustrating to see all of this madness. I thought that things were better, you know? I thought I was starting to make a difference. That people wouldn't be afraid of immigrants anymore, now that they see me as a superhero. But then this happens and…" She threw her arms up in disgust. "Ugh!"

"Did you know him?" asked the Owl. "Kharim, I mean."

"No." She shook her head. "Not personally, at least. He attended a different mosque than my family, plus he was a few years older. I think my father might have treated his cousin a few months ago, but…" She shrugged. "I never actually met him. But now his death is tearing my community apart."

"Not to mention the city," the Owl muttered.

"It's like nothing I ever did ever mattered."

The Owl tensed, turning to face her fully. "You have made a difference, though," he insisted. "You've changed the way that so many people view, well, people like you. Immigrants aren't 'scary.' Muslims aren't the 'enemy.' That's thanks to you. My dad would always complain about the immigrants – 'They're taking our jobs' and that kind of nonsense. For the longest time, I would parrot whatever he said about them. But then I met you. I got to know immigrants. I started spending time in this community. I became a hero and started trying to protect everyone – immigrants or not. And suddenly, my whole view on immigrants changed. Thanks to you. And thanks to one of my school friends." He chuckled humorlessly. "Actually, it was thanks to you – and thanks to being a hero – that I could stand up to my father when he started threatening my friend a few weeks ago."

Nabatala froze, trying not to betray her shock at his words. The incident came back to her mind, unbidden. Thierry's father had accosted their friend group at the park. Had called her a name. And then Thierry had knocked his father down… using a move almost identical to something the Owl had shown her. She had almost asked him about it then… but she had kept it to herself. What if her suspicion was correct? But… what if she were wrong? What if she gave away her own identity by accident? Did she really trust Thierry that much? No… but maybe she trusted the Owl.

"Nabatala?"

Blinking several times, Nabatala glanced over to find the Owl staring at her. "Huh?"

"I just asked… um… what can I do?"

Sighing heavily, she looked over the skyline. "I don't know," she admitted. "Although if you could go back in time so we can prevent this, maybe that would be a start…"

He chuckled. "Sorry; I left my time machine in the other suit!" She blinked. He let out a snort. "I'm kidding! Although M. Damocles has been after Pegasus for weeks now to finish his time machine… Pegasus insists that time and time travel don't actually work that way."

She started to smile, though it didn't quite reach above her face covering to her eyes. "We can wish." The smile turned into a frown, and her shoulders slumped. "Did you see yesterday's paper? The article about me and the riots?"

He nodded. "I saw it. I understand why you don't want to get involved with all of this. It feels so much bigger than anything we've dealt with before now – and you fought the Tarasque! But this is about people, and all the suspicions and fights between different groups of people. It's so much bigger than us."

"What are we even supposed to do in a situation like this?" she wondered. "I'm not going to try to 'lead' these riots or anything insane like that. But what can we do?"

He shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "I saw Lieutenant Ramus – from the Superhero Liaison Department – on my way over. He said that they are going to be looking into this incident. Maybe the shooting was demanded by the Lynchpin? He's don't crazier things to make the heroes look bad. Maybe he did this to make the heroes and the police took bad so his group can come out looking better and more appealing to everyone else."

"Maybe…" she agreed hesitantly. "But… I don't know. I don't think this is something he would do. But at the same time, I almost hope it is the Lynchpin. Then, we'll be able to beat up a bad guy and let everything else go back to normal."