NSRA Power Assessment
Date: September 13th, 2007
Subject: Richard Johnson
Age: 20
Activation Event: Total organ failure during military training
Power Classification:
- Enhanced Physiology: Johnson exhibits peak human condition across all physical parameters. This includes but is not limited to:
- Strength: Able to lift approximately 600 lbs (272 kg)
- Speed: 100m dash in approximately 9.6 seconds
- Agility: Exceptional balance and coordination
- Endurance: Can maintain peak exertion for extended periods, with a recorded dead arm hang of 90 minutes 17 seconds.
- Reflexes: Reaction times approaching theoretical human limits
- Accelerated Healing: Johnson demonstrates rapid recovery from physical exertion and minor injuries. This is not a true healing factor but rather an optimization of natural human healing processes.
- Enhanced Sensory Processing: Subject shows superior sensory intake and spatial awareness, contributing to exceptional physical control and coordination.
- Optimal Metabolic Efficiency: Johnson''s body processes nutrients with maximum efficiency, maintaining peak physical condition with minimal effort.
Control Rating: 7/10
Johnson shows good control over his abilities, likely due to his military training background. Further refinement is expected with time and practice.
Threat Assessment:
Low to Moderate
While Johnson''s abilities make him a formidable individual, his military background and apparent patriotic inclinations suggest a low likelihood of becoming a threat to public safety.
Recommendations:
- Regular monitoring to track potential power growth or changes
- Consider recruitment for government-sanctioned superhuman programs
- Provide guidance on legal and ethical use of abilities in civilian life
Assessment Officer: Dr. Emily Brule
Supervising Agent: Special Agent Marcus Tanner
Chapter 113.1
Monday morning dawns grey and cold, the sky heavy with the promise of rain. It suits my mood perfectly as I limp my way up the steps of Tacony Academy Charter High, every bone and muscle in my body screaming in protest.
I''m a mess. A patchwork quilt of bruises and bandages, held together with surgical tape and sheer stubborn will. The doctors at the hospital did their best, setting my broken nose, wrapping my cracked ribs, stitching up the worst of the cuts and gashes. But even with my healing factor working overtime, I''m still far from 100%.
I spent the weekend in a haze of painkillers and checkups, drifting in and out of consciousness as the worst of the damage slowly knit itself back together. Mom and Dad were there the whole time, their faces drawn and haggard as they sat by my bedside, holding my hand and murmuring soft reassurances. They saw the news, of course. Everyone ever did.
It hurts to breathe. It hurts to move. It hurts to fucking think, my head pounding with the dull throb of a concussion that refuses to fully fade.
They kept me in the hospital for observation, pumping me full of fluids and antibiotics as they monitored my slow, steady progress. The nurses were kind, their hands gentle as they changed my dressings and checked my vitals.
But I could see the pity in their eyes. The unspoken question hanging in the air between us.
What kind of world do we live in, where a fifteen-year-old girl can end up in the ICU just for going to a school dance? What kind of monsters would do something like that, and then walk away without facing any consequences?
I didn''t have any answers for them. I still don''t.
All I know is that I''m here. I''m alive. And I''m not going to let this break me.
Even if it feels like it already has.
The security presence around the school has changed, I notice as I make my slow, limping way through the front doors. The metal detectors and bag checks are still there, but the guards themselves seem¡ different. Warier. More on edge.
Some of them can''t even look me in the eye as I pass, their gazes skittering away like they''re ashamed to be seen in the same headspace as Patriot.
Good. They should be ashamed. They should all be fucking ashamed, for standing by and doing nothing while a so-called "hero" beat a kid half to death in front of the whole school.
The halls are quieter than usual, the normal chatter of gossip and laughter replaced by a tense, uneasy silence. Everyone''s watching me as I make my way to my locker, their eyes wide and wary like I''m a bomb that might go off at any second.
Some of them look sympathetic, their faces soft with concern as they take in my battered appearance. Others just seem¡ scared. Like they''re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the next explosion of violence to rock our little world off its axis.
I can''t blame them. I''m scared too.
But I can''t show it. Can''t let the cracks in my armor show, not when there are so many eyes on me, watching and judging and waiting for me to fall apart.
So I square my shoulders and lift my chin, ignoring the stab of pain that shoots through my jaw at the movement. I''ve got a reputation to uphold, after all. Can''t let a little thing like a near-death experience ruin my image as Tacony Charter''s resident badass.
Even if I''m all bark and no bite. I wonder how much that image will change now that two dozen students saw a grown man absolutely wreck my shit on the floor of a gymnasium. I can''t help but think of what I heard Principal Heckerman say during one of those hazy, half-remembered moments in the hospital, when he thought I was still asleep.
"We''ll have to increase security," he said, his voice low and serious. "Bring in more guards, maybe even some cops. We can''t let something like this happen again."
But my parents shut that down quick. "Are you kidding me?" My mom said, her voice sharp with disbelief. "That''s the last thing this school needs. More men with guns and badges, just waiting for an excuse to crack some skulls? No way. If anything, you need to scale back on the security theater and start actually listening to your students."
Heckerman sputtered and blustered, but in the end, he backed down. And now, as I look around at the guards who remain, I can''t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction.
Maybe we haven''t won yet. Maybe Patriot and his goons are still out there, licking their wounds and plotting their revenge.
But we''ve made them blink. We''ve shown them that we''re not just going to roll over and take their bullshit lying down.
And that''s a start.
So here I am, limping up the front steps of Tacony Charter Academy like a wounded dog, my head held high and my eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the stares and the whispers and the not-so-subtle pointing from my fellow students.
Whatever. Let them gawk. Let them gossip and speculate and spread their bullshit rumors. I know the truth. I know what really happened in that gym.
And I know that I''d do it all again in a heartbeat.
I make it to my locker without incident, fumbling with the combination lock with fingers that don''t quite want to cooperate. It''s getting harder and harder to ignore the way people are looking at me, the mix of pity and curiosity and fear in their eyes.
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Some of them even have the nerve to come up to me, to offer condolences or congratulations or whatever the fuck they think I need to hear right now.
"Dude, that was hardcore," Chad Bro-ington III says, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me see stars. "You''re like, a total badass."
I grit my teeth, biting back a gasp of pain as his hand sends fresh agony lancing through my still-healing collarbone. "Thanks," I mutter, shrugging him off as gently as I can. "Just doing what needed to be done."
He nods sagely, like he has any fucking clue what I''m talking about. "Respect," he says, holding up a fist for me to bump.
I don''t leave him hanging, but I do wince in the process.
Others are more wary, eyeing me like I''m a rabid animal that might bite their faces off at any moment. Which, to be fair, is not entirely outside the realm of possibility, if I could move too fast.
"I can''t believe you did that," Melissa hisses as we pass in the hall, her eyes wide and awed, but with a strange, worried, accusatory edge - a weird mixture of emotions. "Do you have a fucking death wish or something?"
I just shrug, wincing as the motion pulls at my stitches. Honestly? I''m not sure. There''s some part of me that''s always been reckless, maybe, but this all feels like a tipping point. Like something broke in me, sitting cross-legged in my own vomit on that basketball court.
"Somebody had to," I say instead, my voice raspy and hoarse. My throat still hurts - I''ve got weird white pads on the outside of my neck, I think they put them there to keep my regeneration from overgrowing the wounds on my inside. Badass neck beard.
She just shakes her head, her lips pressed into a thin, meager line. But there''s something like grudging respect in her eyes, buried deep beneath the fear and the judgment.
I''ll take it. Beggars can''t be choosers, and all that.
First period with Mr. Weston is a special kind of awkward, like seeing your friend naked by accident or something. Nobody wants to be first to talk about the elephant in the room, but it''s all anyone can think about.
He does his best to act normal, bless him. Like it''s just another day, just another lesson on the themes of Romeo and Juliet or whatever we''re supposed to be learning about this month.
But I can see the strain in his smile, the tension in his shoulders. He''s worried about me, about all of us. And he''s not the only one.
The classroom is quieter than usual, the usual buzz of chatter and laughter replaced by a heavy, clotted silence - that means thick, like a blood clot. It''s the same everywhere I go, like the whole school has gone on mute, each of us not wanting to offend, and not knowing what to say. What can you say?
Even the teachers seem subdued, their voices pitched low and their eyes darting nervously to the doors every few minutes, like they''re expecting Patriot and his goons to come bursting in at any moment and start waving guns around again.
Which, to be fair, is a valid concern. I certainly wouldn''t put it past them.
Mr. Weston pauses in his lecture on iambic pentameter, his eyes lingering on me for a long moment. There''s a question there, a silent "are you okay?" that makes my throat tighten and my eyes sting.
I give him a small nod, my lips twitching in what I hope is a reassuring smile. He returns it, but there''s a sadness there, a weight that wasn''t present before.
Lunch is its own affair, our niche little crowd of japanophiles huddled in the corner trying to pretend that everything is normal, with a layer of hush over the whole cafeteria when Jordan sits down right next to me. They lean their head a little too close and speaking a little too loudly, pushing a pudding cup and a spork in my direction.
Everyone else - they''re dissecting the latest episode of some anime I''ve never heard of, debating the finer points of character development and plot twists with the kind of passion usually reserved for religious zealots or football fans.
"So get this," they say through a mouth full of weird flavored KitKats, leaning over my shoulder to look at my phone. "So after the warrant - and beating, obviously - got aired on the NBC-10 Philadelphia news, I thought that motherfucker Patriot and his cronies would get crucified in the media. But get this - half of the comments on our articles are just fighting about who to believe!"
I stare at my phone, scrolling the news sites with my good hand, trying to ignore how much it hurts to flex my tendons. The stitches itch and my skin feels like a rubber band pulled taut.
"''Pattinson''s Pals have done so much for this city, who is this Jordan Westwood person anyway?''" Jordan reads, sarcasm dripping from their tone. "''First Federov, now this Westwood. When will people stop resisting and just listen to law enforcement?''"
I close my eyes and take a bite of pre-made egg sandwich, feeling the rubbery eggs slide down my throat, like I''m about to vomit it right back up. Jordan''s right. The only people supporting Jordan are the people who already knew who Jordan was. Everyone else seems pretty split, a huge mess where nobody knows who is to blame. And while nobody is like "yeah, Patriot should''ve beat that teenage girl more" it''s not like anybody is coming to my defense, really.
"I can''t believe it," I mutter. "But I guess I shouldn''t be surprised. People always want to believe the best about their heroes, even when they''re¡ you know. Beating up kids."
Jordan snorts. "Yeah, well. At least the school seems to have taken the right lesson from all this. Did you notice the security presence is actually lighter today? I think Heckerman finally realized that more goons with guns isn''t going to make anyone feel safer."
I think of my overheard conversation at the hospital, of how many fights I''ve had to break up over the past month and a half "I don''t know if that''s a good thing or a bad thing," I say, shaking my head. "Feels like the school''s a powder keg right now, just waiting for a spark to set it off. Feels like life is like a powder keg."
"Life is like a hurricane," Alex sings, sadly, before letting his voice peter out.
"And get this," Jordan says, clearly not listening to me. They hold up their own phone, the screen showing a glaring "account suspended" message. "Those fascist fucks went and complained to our registrar, got the site taken down with an injunction. For "cyberterrorism". Can you believe that shit? They couldn''t handle the truth, so they just straight up censored us."
My stomach drops. "But¡ but all that evidence! All those files, all those videos, all of it is just¡ gone?"
"Oh no, we''ve got backups on backups. But who knows how long it''ll take to get the site back up, or if we even can. They''ve got us tied up in legal bullshit now, saying we violated some obscure point in the Terms of Service. We''re going to have to lawyer up to fight this."
I look at Jordan in disbelief. "Shouldn''t you be more worried about, you know, the active warrant out for your arrest? They literally just suspended your website and you were dodging bullets. What''s next?"
Jordan just laughs, but for once it doesn''t put me at ease. "Oh please. They wouldn''t dare try to arrest me now, not after they got caught red-handed wailing on a teenage girl on national TV. I''m basically untouchable as long as I stick close to you. You''re the best meat shield a superhuman could ask for, Sam. Although I gotta admit, your face looks like a busted watermelon, so the feds might just think they''re looking at the wrong person."
If I had the strength, I would kick them under the table. Instead I just glare, feeling my split lip throb with the effort.
"Asshole," I mutter. But I know they''re right.
As messed up as it sounds, my public beating has made me a sympathetic figure. A martyr for a cause, whether I wanted to be one or not.
And as long as Jordan stays in my shadow, they''re safe. Protected by the court of public opinion, if not the actual courts.
Chapter 113.2
The rest of lunch passes in a blur, people avoiding our table more than usual, like we''re contagious somehow, like getting your ass kicked by fascists is something you can catch through casual contact.
It''s not until the bell rings and everyone starts shuffling off to their next class that someone finally approaches me directly.
I tense up instinctively, my good hand curling into a fist under the table. But it''s just Mike Giannopoulos, his broad face creased with concern as he looms over me.
"Hey, Sam," he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "I just wanted to say¡ what you did at homecoming? Standing up to Patriot like that? That was really brave. You ever consider doing sports, you know¡ after all¡ this is over? You''re sort of a legend now, in the locker room."
I blink up at him, my brain struggling to process the words. Mike Giannopoulos thinks I''m a legend? I''m being invited to do sports? My face scrunches up sort of without me doing anything about it.
"I¡thanks?" I manage to stammer out, wincing as my jaw twinges with the effort. "But I didn''t really do anything. I mean, I got my ass kicked. Some legend."
Mike just shakes his head. "Nah, see, that''s the thing. You knew you were going to get your ass kicked, and you did it anyway. For your friend, for what you believed in. That takes guts."
He glances around, like he''s checking to make sure no one''s listening. Apparently satisfied, he turns his jersey and leans in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"People are talking, you know. About how maybe Patriot and his crew aren''t the heroes they claim to be. About how maybe we''ve been backing the wrong horse all this time, trusting the wrong people to keep us safe. Did you see that stuff that went on the website before it went down?"
I feel a flicker of hope start to glow warm in my chest, so fragile it feels like it might shatter at any moment. But for the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed, I feel like maybe, just maybe, we might actually have a chance.
Like maybe I didn''t get my ass kicked for nothing.
"I didn''t. But I''ll look for it," I say, folding my arms up a little bit. "And, uh, I only do soccer. Sorry. No women''s soccer team."
Mike nods at me with the sort of resolute expression you''d expect to see out of a hardened soldier. "There''s a rally happening next week," Mike continues. "A protest march, superhero rights groups teaming up with some other activist types. They could use someone like you there, Sam. Someone who''s seen firsthand what happens when the people in power go unchecked."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. Marches and protests and demonstrations¡ They all seem so big. So high stakes. And haven''t I done enough damage already, put enough targets on the backs of the people I care about?
But then I think about Jordan, ragged-tired but still fighting. About my mom and dad, keeping vigil by my bed. About Mr. Weston, and Melissa, and Alex, and even fucking Mike Giannopoulos, stepping up and speaking out in whatever way they can.
And I know I can''t back down now.
I should say no. I should really stop throwing myself into the ring.
But the only thing that hurts about getting my ass kicked is that it makes it harder to stay in the fight.
"I''ll be there," I say, the words coming out strong and steady despite the way my heart is jackhammering in my chest. "Just tell me when and where."
Mike''s grin is blinding, a flash of white in the gloom. "That''s what I''m talking about," he says, clapping me gently on my uninjured shoulder. "And don''t worry, there''ll be counterprotesters there for sure, but we''ve got a plan to handle them. Pattinson''s Pals won''t know what hit ''em."
And as I watch him swagger off down the hall, his chest puffed out with pride, I can''t help the slow, fierce smile that spreads across my face.
The Delaware Valley Defenders'' headquarters is a hive of activity when I arrive, my mom dropping me off a couple of blocks away with a worried frown and a fierce hug. She''s been hovering ever since I got out of the hospital, like she''s afraid I''ll disappear if she takes her eyes off me for even a second.
I can''t blame her. I''m kind of afraid of that too. But this is important. This is where I need to be right now, with my team, my people.
Even if it feels like I''m walking into a war zone.
The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife, everyone''s faces drawn and haggard as they huddle around the big table in the center of the room. It''s standing room only, every seat taken by a costumed hero or a grim-faced bureaucrat.
I spot Councilman Davis at the head of the table, his shoulders slumped like he''s carrying the weight of the world. Clara Parker is beside him, her pen flying over a legal pad as she scribbles notes.
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Multiplex is there too, all three of him, each version wearing a slightly different expression of weariness and determination, even while two of them are busy at the computers. Fury Forge and Crossroads flank him on either side, their eyes fixed on the papers spread out before them. Bulwark, and a new face that I vaguely am familiar with as "Captain Plasma", occupy the other parts of the table''s back end. He stands out in his bright, primary-colored costume, looking all the bit a classic superhero in red, yellow, and blue.
And of course, there''s my team. What''s left of it, anyway.
Rampart gives me a tight nod as I limp my way over to them, his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscles jumping. Gossamer reaches out to steady me when I stumble, her grip gentle but firm on my elbow. Blink just looks at me with big, sad eyes, like she wants to wrap me up in a hug and never let go. I wish she would. I could use a hug right about now.
But there''s no time for that. No time for anything but the grim work ahead of us.
"Bloodhound," Councilman Davis says, looking up from his papers as I approach. "Good. You''re here. We were just about to start."
"Sorry," I mutter, easing myself down into an empty chair with a wince. "Got held up at school. We on a time limit?"
"We''re always on a time limit," he says, his smile thin and humorless. "But this one''s a doozy. We''ve got the mayor breathing down our necks, federal agents sniffing around, and the press camped out on our doorstep. We need to get our stories straight and our shit together, fast."
"Language," Fury Forge mutters, but there''s no heat in it. She just sounds tired. We all do.
"Right," Councilman Davis says, clearing his throat. "Let''s start with the sitrep. What do we know?"
Multiplex leans forward, his three sets of eyes scanning the room. "Patriot''s suspended, along with Egalitarian and the rest of Pattinson''s Pals involved in the incident at the dance," he says, his voice flat and clinical. "They''ve also launched an investigation into the Philadelphia PD''s involvement, and whether or not Patriot''s goons have been deputized under the table."
"A day late and a dollar fucking short," Rampart grumbles. "They should''ve done that years ago."
"Let''s focus on the present," Councilman Davis chides. "What about the Defenders? What''s our status?"
"Suspended as well," Bulwark says solemnly, crossing his arms over his massive chest. "Voluntarily of course, but suspended nonetheless. They do not want us intervening until the investigation is complete."
Captain Plasma shifts uncomfortably, his bright demeanor dimmed somewhat. "It''s a difficult situation. I came here to help, but now it feels like my hands are tied just as much as everyone else''s."
I feel my stomach drop. "But¡ but what about the Young Defenders? What about us?"
Councilman Davis sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You''re¡ a bit of a grey area. You''re not formally registered with the government, and your legal status as a satellite of the Defenders is murky at best. But given the circumstances, we think it''s best if you all follow our lead and stand down for now. At least until the heat dies down."
"You mean until they sweep it all under the rug again," Crossroads mutters darkly. "Like they always do."
"That''s not fair," Fury Forge says, but there''s no conviction in her voice. "The system is flawed, sure, but it''s the only one we''ve got. We have to work within it if we want to change it."
"Tell that to Jordan Westwood," I snap, my hands clenching into fists on the table. "Tell that to all the other kids who''ve been chewed up and spit out by this fucked up system. Tell that to me, and my face, and all the blood on that gym floor. We tried working within the system. Look where it got us."
Councilman Davis holds up a hand, his expression pained. "Bloodhound, I understand your frustration. Believe me, I do. But we have to be smart about this. We have to play the long game."
"There might not be a long game for some of us," I whisper. Then my head snaps up as I meet his gaze head-on. "I''ve been asked to testify. At a congressional hearing. About Chernobyl, about Liberty Belle, about¡ everything."
The room goes dead silent. You could hear a pin drop.
"Congress," Councilman Davis repeats slowly. "Of course."
The room goes dead silent, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the distant wail of sirens on the streets outside.
"What?" Rampart asks, his voice low and dangerous. "When did this happen?"
"It''s been scheduled since August, I just¡" I say, shrugging my uninjured shoulder. "Forgot. Some kind of oversight committee, looking into superhuman regulation and accountability. But after Friday night¡"
I trail off, letting the implication hang in the air like a guillotine blade.
"After Friday night, they''re going to want to know about Patriot too," Crossroads finishes for me, his jaw clenched tight. "About what he did to you, and why no one stopped him."
I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
"Aw hell," Fury Forge mutters. "That''s¡ that''s big, Blood. Real big."
"You don''t have to do this," Bulwark murmurs. "Any of it. You are so young, to have such a burden placed upon your shoulders."
Captain Plasma nods in agreement. "He''s right. This is a lot to ask of someone your age. No one would blame you if you decided to step back."
"No," I say, my voice shaking but my resolve firm. "No, I do have to do this. I have to¡ I have to make it mean something. All of it. The pain, the fear, the¡ the blood. I have to make it count for something."
"When do you leave?" Rampart asks, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder, warm and solid and steadying.
"Tomorrow," I say. "I''m taking the train from 30th Station, Mom is doing the booking tonight."
"That''s¡ wow, that''s soon!" Blink says helpfully. "Sam, are you sure? You''re still all¡ fucked up, and if they see you all, like, bloody and in pieces, won''t it make us look bad?"
I smile thinly. "That''s the idea, I think. They want to see how bad it was, how bad it can get. They want to see the consequences of letting people like Patriot run wild."
"Then let them see," Multiplex says, two of him continuing to work behind us all. "Let them look into the face of everything they''ve allowed to happen, and let them feel the weight of it on their souls."
"We''ll be with you," Gossamer says softly. "If you want. Even if we''re¡ you know, suspended. We''ve got your back. No matter what, we''ve got your back."
I blink back tears, my heart swelling with a sudden rush of love and gratitude for these people, for this makeshift little family of mine.
"I know," I whisper. "And I can''t tell you how much that means to me. I don''t¡ I don''t think I could do this without you. Any of you."
"You won''t have to," Councilman Davis says, his voice ringing with quiet conviction. "We''ll be here. We''ll support you in any way we can, even if it''s just moral support from a distance."
A room-wide murmur of agreement. People shouting out individual things.
"I''ll help you prep for the hearing," Clara Parker offers. "I''ve got experience with congressional testimonies."
"And I''ll get in touch with legal aid groups in DC that focus on superhero and vigilante rights," Councilman Davis says. "See if they can provide any additional resources and support."
"Okay," I rasp out, swiping at my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie. "Okay. Thank you. All of you. Let''s¡ let''s change things."
Chapter 113.3
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur, everyone hashing out plans and contingencies and worst-case scenarios until my head is spinning with all the possibilities. But through it all, one thought remains crystal clear in my mind.
I have to do this. I have to testify, have to tell the truth, no matter how hard or scary or dangerous it might be.
Because if I don''t, who will?
The sun is setting by the time I finally make it home, the sky streaked with orange and pink as I limp up the front steps and let myself in the door.
Mom and Dad are waiting for me in the living room, their faces tight with worry as they watch me struggle out of my coat and shoes. They know about the testimony, of course. It''s not like I could hide something like that from them even if I wanted to.
And I don''t want to. Not anymore.
"How are you feeling, sweetie?" Mom asks, her voice soft and tentative as she helps me lower myself onto the sofa. "Do you need anything? I can make you some tea, or get you another ice pack¡"
I shake my head, wincing as the motion sends a fresh wave of pain lancing through my bruised and battered skull. "I''m okay," I lie, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Just tired. It''s been a long day."
Dad nods, his jaw clenched tight as he watches me settle back against the cushions. "I can''t believe they''re making you do this," he says, his voice low and angry. "After everything you''ve been through, everything you''ve done for this city¡ It''s not right."
"Understatement," my mom mutters. Then she sighs, reaching over to take my hand in hers. "Are you sure about this, baby? Really sure? Because once you go down this road¡"
But beneath the anger in my Dad''s face I see a glimmer of pride, a fierce, protective glint that makes my chest feel warm and tight all at once.
Because the truth is, part of me wants this. Part of me craves it like a junkie chasing their next fix. The chance to get up on a stage and tell the world, look at me. Look at what they did to me, look at what they are. Look at what happens when we let monsters like Patriot run unchecked.
So I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the weight of it all settle on my shoulders like a heavy, familiar cloak.
"I know," I say, my voice soft but steady. "But I have to do it anyway. I have to try."
She searches my face for a long moment, her eyes shining with a mix of pride and terror that makes my heart ache. Then she nods, slow and resolute. "Okay. Okay, then we''re with you. All the way."
My dad wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug that makes my bruised ribs protest but which I lean into anyway. "We''re so proud of you, Sam," he murmurs into my hair. "So proud, and so goddamn scared. But we trust you. We believe in you."
I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden rush of tears, my throat choked up and it''s all I can do to whisper a shaky "thank you".
We stay like that for a long minute, just holding each other in the quiet of the kitchen, the rest of the world fading away until there''s nothing but the three of us and the love that binds us together. That holds us up and keeps us strong, no matter what comes.
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But eventually, we have to pull away. Eventually the real world comes crashing back in, and there''s work to be done.
I bury myself in research, pouring over transcripts of past hearings and articles about congressional procedure. I hate studying, more than almost anything, but this isn''t for a test that affects my grade. This is for a test that determines the fate of my people, of my friends, of the world as I know it.
Mom quizzes me on protocols and lines of questioning, her eyes sharp and her voice brooking no argument. This is her wheelhouse, the place where her librarian superpowers shine brightest - sifting through information, parsing out the salient details, arming me with the knowledge I''ll need to navigate the labyrinthine halls of government bureaucracy. To walk into the lion''s den and come out in one piece.
And piece by piece, I can feel myself coming back together.
I''m curled up on the couch, neck deep in a dense legal tome on the history of superhero regulation, when my phone rings. Mom looks at me from her own stack of papers, her eyebrow raised in silent question.
"Mrs. Gibson," I tell her after a glance at the caller ID. "The prosecutor from Chernobyl''s case."
Her eyes widen. "Well? Answer it!"
I fumble to accept the call, my hands sweating on the case of the phone. "Hello?"
"Sam," Mrs. Gibson says, her voice warm but businesslike. "I hope I''m not interrupting anything important."
"No, no, just¡ studying. Preparing."
"Good. That''s actually why I''m calling. I heard about the congressional hearing."
I bite my lip. "Yeah. News travels fast, I guess."
"In certain circles, yes. And as someone with¡ let''s say a vested interest in the outcome of that hearing, I wanted to reach out. To offer my support and my advice, for whatever it''s worth."
I sit up straighter, my heart pounding in my chest. "I''m listening."
For the next half hour, she walks me through her own experiences testifying before Congress, both as a prosecutor and as a witness in various hearings on superhero oversight. She tells me about the tricks and traps, the loaded questions and rhetorical landmines that politicians love to lay for unwary witnesses.
"They''ll try to trip you up," she warns. "Try to get you to say something that they can twist to fit their own agendas. Something that''ll make for a good soundbite on the evening news."
I swallow hard. "So what do I do?"
"You stick to the truth," she says simply. "You tell your story, in your own words, and you don''t let them put words in your mouth or back you into a corner. You stand your ground and you make them listen, even when they don''t want to hear it."
"Easier said than done," I mutter.
She laughs, soft and rueful. "Trust me, I know. But if anyone can walk into that room and give those stuffed shirts a piece of your mind, it''s you."
I find myself smiling even though she can''t see it. "I¡ thank you. That means a lot, coming from you."
"I mean every word. Now get some rest. You''ve got a big day ahead of you."
We say our goodbyes and I hang up, feeling like I''ve just been given a benediction and a battle plan all in one.
Mom looks at me over the rims of her glasses, her expression softening as she takes in my shell-shocked face. "You okay, baby?"
"Yeah," I say, and for once it doesn''t feel like a lie. "Yeah, I¡ I think I am. Or at least, I think I will be."
She smiles, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "That''s my girl. Now come on, it''s late and you need your beauty sleep. Big day tomorrow."
I let her shepherd me off to bed, even though we both know I won''t be getting much in the way of actual rest. But just the act of going through the motions, of brushing my teeth and changing into my softest pajamas and crawling under the covers, is soothing in its own way.
And as I lie there in the darkness, staring up at the plastic stars glued to my ceiling, I can feel the weight of everything that''s happened settling over me like a shroud. Like armor.
I think about Jordan, out there somewhere in the shadows, carrying on the fight even as the walls close in around us. I think about my team, suspended but unbroken, ready to rise up at a moment''s notice. I think about my parents, my beautiful, brave, unshakeable parents, who have always been my port in every storm. And I think about the kids like me, the ones with powers and fears and dreams of a better world. The ones who are counting on me to be their voice, their champion. I think about Maggie.
I close my eyes, feeling the first stirrings of sleep tugging at the edges of my mind. And as I drift off, I hear Mrs. Gibson''s voice echoing in my head, a call to arms and a lullaby all in one.
"You stand your ground," she whispers. "And you make them listen."
I will, I think as the darkness closes in. I will.
Chapter 114.1
The alarm jolts me awake at an ungodly hour, the numbers on the clock glowing an angry red in the predawn gloom. For a moment I just lie there, my heart pounding and my head fuzzy with the remnants of uneasy dreams. But then it all comes rushing back - the subpoena, the hearing, the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders like a physical thing. And suddenly I''m wide awake, my stomach churning with a mix of nerves and adrenaline that has me stumbling out of bed and into the shower before my brain has even fully caught up with my body.
The hot water pounds down on my aching muscles, soothing away the worst of the tension as I go through the motions of washing my hair and scrubbing my skin. I''m careful with my injuries, gingerly navigating around the patchwork of bruises and bandages that still litter my body. The stitches are starting to itch, and I have to resist the urge to pick at them as I rinse off the suds and step out onto the bathmat. It''s going to be a long day, and I''ll need every ounce of strength and focus I can muster to make it through in one piece.
I''m not just fighting for myself up there on that stand. I''m fighting for all of us - all the kids my age, and all the unlucky ones, the people like Illya who were taken advantage of by my own government.
Mom is waiting for me in the kitchen when I make my way downstairs, two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of toast already laid out on the counter. She looks as tired as I feel, her face pale and drawn in the harsh fluorescent light. But she smiles when she sees me, soft and reassuring, and presses a kiss to my forehead as she hands me my mug.
"You''ve got this, baby," she murmurs, her voice rough with emotion. "Just remember, no matter what happens in there, we love you. We''re so proud of you. And we''ll be waiting for you when it''s all over, okay?"
I nod, not trusting myself to speak around the sudden lump in my throat. I want to say something, to tell her how much it means to me to have her and Dad in my corner, how I couldn''t do any of this without them. But the words won''t come, so I just hug her tight and hope she understands everything I''m trying to convey through the press of my arms around her waist.
The drive to the train station is quiet, the streets of Philadelphia still mostly empty at this early hour. Dad keeps his eyes on the road, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, while Mom fidgets with the radio and tries to fill the silence with idle chatter about the weather and the traffic and did you remember to pack your toothbrush, honey? Just in case you end up staying overnight. I let it all wash over me, my mind already miles ahead, racing down the tracks towards Washington and whatever fate awaits me there.
I''m not in costume - too much of a liability, in a public setting like Union Station. But I feel naked without the comforting weight of my uniform, the mask that lets me be someone else for a little while. Someone brave and strong and unafraid, instead of just a scared teenage girl playing dress-up in a world that''s too big and too broken for any one person to fix.
The security escort is waiting for us on the platform, a pair of grim-faced men in dark suits who flash their badges and hustle us onto the train with a minimum of fuss. They''re federal agents, I realize as we settle into our seats in the quiet car. Not DEO, but something higher up the food chain. The kind of people who deal with metahuman threats on a national scale. I''d ask if Sam Small the Bloodhound is on their list of persons of interest, but I''m pretty sure I don''t want to know the answer.
I end up seated next to one of them, a tall man with short-cropped salt and pepper hair and a jaw that looks like it was chiseled from granite. He gives me a once-over as I buckle myself in, his eyes lingering on the bruises that mottle my skin, the stitches that run across my brow.
"You don''t have to worry about your identity with us, kid," he says gruffly, as if reading my mind. "We''ve got all the relevant info on file. Part of the registration process."
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Of course they know who I am. Of course they have a file on me, on my powers, on everything I''ve ever done or said or thought. It''s the price of living in a world where people can fly and shoot lasers from their eyes and level city blocks with a flick of their wrist. The price of being different in a society that fears what it doesn''t understand. He says it like it should be reassuring, but instead it makes a whole other kind of fear, deeper and messier than being up high flying or being beat.
"Great," I mutter, turning to stare out the window as the train pulls away from the platform. "That''s just¡ great."
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The rest of the ride passes in a blur, the scenery outside my window flying by in a smear of greens and grays as we hurtle towards the nation''s capital, while my parents chatter more or less around me. I think they took the day off to be here - I sure as hell didn''t think they were coming - and I can''t tell if it makes me feel more or less uncomfortable.
I try to focus on my breathing, on the steady in-and-out rhythm that Jamila taught me during our first aid lessons. It''s supposed to be calming, grounding, a way to center yourself in the midst of chaos. But all it does is make me think of her, of the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, the sweet spicy scent of her shampoo, the soft press of her lips against mine in those stolen moments between training and patrol - when it happened, at least, rare as it was.
She should be here with me. She should be sitting beside me, holding my hand and telling me that everything''s going to be okay. That we''re going to get through this together, no matter what.
But she''s not. She left. And no matter how many times I tell myself that it''s not my fault, that she had her reasons and I have to respect them, it still feels like a betrayal. Like a hole in my heart that I don''t know how to fill.
So I breathe, and I stare out the window, and I try not to think about anything at all.
Union Station is a madhouse when we finally arrive, crowds of commuters and tourists all jostling for space on the crowded platforms. The agents hustle me through the throng with practiced ease, their bodies forming a wall of muscle and tactical gear that parts the sea of people like Moses himself. I keep my head down, my baseball cap pulled low over my eyes, and try to ignore the curious glances.
I''m not in a uniform, but I might as well be, I realized. I''ve been all over the news. I don''t know if anyone''s memorized my appearance, especially not through blurry phone video of me getting my ass kicked, but, well¡ There are some weird-ass people in this world. I keep my head down whenever we step outside of the secure areas.
The security check is a formality at this point, a quick pass through a metal detector and a cursory pat-down that feels more like a violation than a precaution. But I grit my teeth and endure it, knowing that it''s just one more hoop I have to jump through, one more obstacle between me and the truth I''ve come here to tell.
And then we''re through, emerging into the labyrinthine halls of the Capitol complex like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. The federal agents immediately flank me as we walked through hallways that all looked the same. Honestly, they remind me of my first trip to Liberty Place Hospital, which was the worst day of my life. It''s a gauntlet of checkpoints and security barriers, each one manned by stern-faced guards who eye us with a mix of suspicion and something that might be pity.
I wonder how many other scared, battered kids they''ve seen pass through these halls over the years. How many other lives have been chewed up and spit out by the gears of the great American political machine.
Too many, probably.
But I can''t afford to think about that now. Can''t afford to let myself get lost in the echoes of old pain and older fears. I have a job to do, a mission to complete. I ask for some space to get changed and they fan around the women''s bathroom like a phalanx, while I fit myself appropriately in the stall - helmet, wig, body armor, gloves. It feels better now - more secure. I''m not here as Sam Small. Sure, I''ve heard of this Patriot fella. He sounds like an asshole. Never talked to him myself, though.
I emerge from the bathroom. They take me to a small, nondescript room deep in the bowels of the building, the kind of place where deals are made and secrets are kept. There''s a table and a few chairs, a pitchers of water and a tray of neatly-arranged pastries that I know I won''t be able to keep down. And there, waiting for me like a pair of lions at the gates of Rome, are my final briefers.
One is a woman, tall and slender with a sleek bob of silver hair and a face that''s all sharp angles and hard edges. The other is a man, shorter and rounder, with a receding hairline and a fraying suit that''s seen better days. They introduce themselves as congressional aides, but their eyes are too keen, too calculating for that. These are the people who really run this place, I realize. The ones who pull the strings and grease the wheels and make sure that the sausage gets made, no matter how much blood and guts end up on the factory floor.
They go over my testimony with me one last time, drilling me on key points and potential pitfalls until my head is spinning with the sheer volume of information they''re trying to cram into it. It''s all stuff we''ve gone over before, but they seem determined to make sure that I haven''t forgotten a single detail, a single nuance that could make or break their case.
"Remember," the woman says, her voice as cold and unyielding as a glacier, "you''re not just speaking for yourself up there. You''re speaking for every metahuman who''s ever been marginalized, every kid who''s ever been told that they''re a freak or a monster just because of how they were born. This is your chance to change the narrative, to make them see us as people instead of problems to be solved."
I nod, my throat tight and my palms sweaty. It''s a lot of pressure, a lot of responsibility for a fifteen-year-old girl who''s still trying to figure out who she is and what she wants out of life. But it''s also an opportunity, a chance to make a real difference in the world. And that''s not something I can turn my back on, no matter how scared I might be.
"I won''t let you down," I tell them, my voice steady even as my insides quiver like Jell-O. "I won''t let any of us down."
Chapter 114.2
The rest of the preparations pass in a blur, like watching bad quality recordings on fast forward. One minute I''m nodding and smiling and giving canned responses to a gaggle of VIP well wishers eager to get their photo taken with "the superhero hearing girl". I''m constantly looking to my handlers on what to do, but they leave me to my own devices. I feel like a zoo animal just barely not biting a hand that''s feeding me. And then next thing I know I''m walking through some innocuous wooden doors, and I''m in the hearing chamber itself.
It''s smaller than I expected. Less grand and imposing, more like a slightly oversized lecture hall at a community college. But it''s packed to the rafters with a legion of aides and analysts, lobbyists and journalists, the whole ravenous beast of the American political-industrial complex crammed into one claustrophobic pen.
And at the front of it all, looming over the proceedings like a panel of judges at the world''s most dysfunctional beauty pageant, is the committee itself.
There''s Senator Gantt, the chairman, a black man with wisp white hair that doesn''t quite reach all the way down his forehead, and a powerful jawline. And there, at the other end of the dais, is Senator Kean, the ranking member, his face a mask of affable concern that doesn''t quite reach his eyes.
And between them, arrayed like a lineup of suspects in a particularly grim game of Guess Who, are the rest of the committee members, Democrats and Republicans alike, all of them watching me with varying degrees of interest, suspicion, and outright hostility as I make my way to the witness table.
The room is too cold. Somebody messed up the air conditioner. Or maybe it''s just me, my skin prickling with goosebumps as I take my seat and try to ignore the way my heart is pounding in my chest like a jackhammer.
I risk a glance at the other witnesses, the people who will be testifying alongside me today. Some of them I recognize from the news, from the endless stream of headlines and hot takes that have dominated the discourse ever since Chernobyl''s attack. Others are strangers to me, bureaucrats and functionaries and talking heads whose names and faces blur together in a sea of interchangeable suits.
But there, at the far end of the table, is a face I know all too well.
Special Agent Evelyn Shaw, the NSRA handler who dropped the ball on Federov - or so the official story says. Her once sleek and spotless suit hangs off her slender frame like ill fitted rags. Her dark skin is flush with sweat. I''ve seen her a couple of times before, around the trial, and it seems like between then and now any ounce of composure she''s ever had in her entire life has been evaporated out of her.
Our eyes meet for a moment, and the exhaustion and dread in them burns straight through to my core. She immediately turns away.
This woman has lost everything. Her career, her reputation, maybe even her freedom, depending on how today goes. And now she''s being dragged in front of Congress like a sacrificial lamb, served up to appease the angry gods of public opinion.
I almost feel sorry for her, even after what she dragged Illya through, even after what Illya dragged me through, and so many others.
I almost feel sorry for her. But a deeper, angrier part of me feels a sense of grim satisfaction at the blood being drawn.
The chairman''s gavel cracks like a gunshot, cutting through the low hum of conversation and bringing the room to order. I snap to attention, my spine straightening and my hands clenching into fists on the tabletop in front of me.
Senator Gantt clears his throat, his deep baritone filling the chamber as he begins his opening statement.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, "we are here today to address a matter of grave importance to the American people. In recent months, our nation has been rocked by a series of shocking and tragic events, events that have called into question the very foundations of our system for regulating and overseeing the activities of metahuman individuals."
He pauses for effect, his dark eyes sweeping over the assembled witnesses and spectators. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry as dust.
"From the attack on Philadelphia by the terrorist known as Deathgirl, to the revelation of secret collaborations between government agencies and known criminals, to the recent incident of shocking police brutality against a young metahuman citizen, it has become clear that our current approach is woefully inadequate. And that''s why I''ve convened this special meeting of the Governmental Affairs Committee - to root out those inadequacies, and to lay the groundwork for a new system. One that prioritizes transparency, accountability, and above all, the safety and well-being of all Americans, regardless of their metahuman status or lack thereof."
There''s a smattering of applause from the audience, a few murmurs of assent from the other committee members. But I can see the skepticism on some of their faces, the calculations already spinning behind their eyes, and it makes me feel vaguely queasy inside. Like knowing that these perfectly reasonable sounding motions of procedure are already part of shell games and deals and compromises that you will never be privy to because you are a fifteen year old child and not a senator.
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Senator Kean leans forward, his elbows braced on the dais as he delivers his own opening remarks. He hits all the expected notes - the need for bipartisanship, the importance of hearing from a diverse range of voices, the gravity of the task before us. But there''s something oily about his delivery, something a little too polished and rehearsed. Like he''s reading from a script.
I try not to squirm in my seat, suddenly all too aware of the cameras trained on my helmet, the eyes of the nation watching my every move. For a moment I forget where I am - forget the stakes, forget the lines between truth and fiction that I''m supposed to be coloring between today. This is what it must feel like to be an ant under glass, pinned by the magnifying lens of a curious child who wants to see what I''m made of. Who wants to learn what makes me tick, what causes my guts to turn to goo.
And that''s when I notice the woman.
She''s dressed like an aide, all smart tailoring and sleek makeup, her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. But there''s something different about the way she moves, the way she holds herself. A coiled energy, a sense of purpose that sets her apart from the rest of the scurrying staffers that work in and out of the room like worker bees in a very expensive hive.
She catches my eye from across the room, and for a moment I''m sure she''s going to come over, to pull me aside and¡ I don''t know. Threaten me? Bribe me? Offer me a cup of coffee and a sympathetic ear? Something bad, probably.
But instead she just nods once, very slightly, and then melts back into the crowd like she was never there at all.
I blink, my heart pounding in my throat. Was that real? Did I imagine it? The lines between paranoia and precaution feel so blurry lately, like any day now someone''s just going to run up with a knife and stab me.
I glance at my crib sheet again, smoothing my gloved fingers over the neatly typed bullet points on the page. The broad strokes of my testimony, the key points that Mrs. Gibson helped me devise. Stick to the script, Samantha. Don''t deviate, don''t improvise. Just tell the truth, and let the chips fall where they may. Like that was ever so simple. Like the truth wasn''t a greased pig everyone in this room is desperately trying to catch and brand for their own purposes.
I''m so lost in my own head that I almost miss it when they call the first witness.
Margaret Huang, the head of the National Superhuman Response Agency. She''s a petite woman, all sharp angles and crisp suits, with a face that looks like it was carved from ice. But her eyes are what really catch my attention - dark and glittering, like chips of obsidian set deep in her skull.
She takes her seat at the witness table, her movements precise and deliberate as she arranges her notes and takes a sip of water from the glass in front of her. And then she begins to speak, her voice clear and steady as she delivers her opening statement.
"Chairman Gantt, Ranking Member Kean, and members of the committee," she says, "thank you for the opportunity to appear before you today. As the head of the NSRA, it is my duty and my privilege to oversee the regulation and management of metahuman individuals in the United States. It is a complex and challenging task, one that requires constant vigilance and adaptation in the face of an ever-evolving threat landscape."
She pauses, letting her words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "In recent months, we have seen firsthand the devastating consequences that can result when our systems fail, when criminals and terrorists are allowed to slip through the cracks and wreak havoc on an unsuspecting populace. The attack on Philadelphia by the metahuman terrorist known as Deathgirl was a tragic reminder of the stakes we are dealing with, and the urgent need for reform and modernization of our regulatory frameworks."
I shift in my seat, my stomach churning as I listen to her talk about Deathgirl like she''s some kind of boogeyman, a faceless monster that exists only to sow chaos and destruction. In a sense, she''s not wrong. But I don''t think thirteen year olds drop from trees that bloodthirsty.
"At the same time," Huang continues, "we must also grapple with the troubling revelations of misconduct and abuse within our own ranks. The unauthorized collaboration between certain NSRA personnel and the criminal mastermind Illya Fedorov was a gross violation of our agency''s core values and a betrayal of the public trust. Which is why I want to make it perfectly clear that we will be conducting a thorough internal review and taking strong disciplinary action against those responsible, up to and including termination and criminal prosecution, where appropriate."
I snort softly to myself, unable to help it.
Huang drones on, outlining the NSRA''s plans for reform and renewal, promising greater transparency and accountability, vowing to work closely with Congress and other stakeholders to develop a more effective and equitable system for regulating metahuman activities. But it all feels like so much hot air to me, a lot of pretty words and empty platitudes that they''ve trotted out without any intention of ever following through.
I let my mind wander as the questioning begins, watching with a detached sort of fascination as the senators take turns grilling Huang on the finer points of agency policy and procedure. They ask about budgets and staffing levels, about inter-agency coordination and information sharing, about the criteria used to classify and track metahuman individuals.
But beneath the surface, I can sense the undercurrents of politics and power at play, the jockeying for position and the careful calibration of language and tone. Some of the senators seem genuinely interested in getting to the bottom of things, in holding the NSRA accountable for its failures and charting a new course forward. Others just seem to be going through the motions, ticking off their talking points and scoring cheap points with their base, and some of them want to score big points with a hypothetical future base, too.
And through it all, Huang remains unflappable, her face a mask of calm professionalism as she deflects and dodges, spinning every question to her advantage with the skill of a seasoned politician. It''s hard to catch her off guard, and when caught, she uses words like "recalibration" or "pivot" or "course correct" to state that they were already fixing what was wrong, there''s nothing else to do, and we can all go home now.
I can''t help but feel like I''m watching a performance, like a real-life version of my eighth grade civics homework, and I''m just waiting for the teacher to call on me so I can give the right answer and get a gold star. These people hold the fate of every metahuman in America in their hands. It makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I just have to sit here and watch, and wait my turn, and hope that when the time comes, I''ll be able to find the right words to make them understand.
Chapter 114.3
Next up is Special Agent Evelyn Shaw, the NSRA handler who was responsible for overseeing Illya Fedorov - we all know how that went. She takes the stand looking like she''s about to face a firing squad, her face pale and drawn, her hands trembling slightly as she takes a sip of water.
The senators waste no time in tearing into her, their voices dripping with scorn and disbelief as they demand to know how she could have let someone like Fedorov slip through her fingers, how she should''ve known better than to abuse her position. Abuse her position? Wasn''t his whole deal working with the entirety of the agency to shore up our power needs? I feel like I''ve very suddenly, very fast, fallen into the Twilight Zone - this weird black and white world like what my parents used to watch when they thought I was asleep.
Shaw''s whole body visibly clenches as soon as the first senator''s mouth opens. "I was acting under orders," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was told that Mr. Fedorov was a valuable asset to national security. I trusted my superiors, and I followed my orders to the best of my ability."
But the senators aren''t buying it. They hammer her with question after question, picking apart every decision she made, every report she filed, every meeting she attended. They accuse her of gross negligence, of dereliction of duty, of putting the lives of innocent civilians at risk for the sake of some misguided loyalty to a corrupt agency.
Shaw tries to defend herself, tries to explain the context and the constraints she was working under, but it''s clear that she''s fighting a losing battle. The senators have already made up their minds, and they''re not interested in hearing excuses or explanations.
I watch her face as the questioning drags on, watch the way her composure slowly crumbles under the onslaught of accusations and recriminations. I''ve only met her a few times in person, but for the briefest instant I see her as something other than the woman who led Chernobyl by the hand.
For a moment, I can see her as a human being who fucked up, big time, and lost everything she ever was over it. I know this will ruin her, one way or the other - every last little thing in her life. I''ve seen those before, in Kensington, in Tacony. People who thought they had it all - had it forever. Then one mistake, and they can never go back.
As the questioning goes on, her face develops a sort of smug satisfaction that I can''t quite place the origin of. Does she know something I''m not? She can''t stop herself from smiling, a confident smirk. Like suddenly, everything''s going to be okay.
Despite that, in the end, the only one on her side is the union rep, who tells the chairman that they''ll need a break before there are any other questions. And everyone agrees.
Commissioner Faraday is up next, and I find myself sitting up a little straighter in my seat, my heart pounding in my chest as I watch him take the stand. I''ve heard his name before, seen his face on TV and in the newspapers, but I''ve never actually met him in person - the man who runs the PPD.
He''s a big man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest that strains against the confines of his tailored suit. His face is weathered and lined, like a piece of old leather that''s been left out in the sun too long, but his eyes are sharp and alert, darting around the room as he takes in the scene before him.
He starts off with the usual platitudes, thanking the committee for the opportunity to testify and pledging his full cooperation with the investigation. But then he launches into a detailed account of the challenges faced by law enforcement in dealing with metahuman criminals, the lack of resources and training, the constant fear of being outmatched and outgunned by superpowered suspects.
"Every day, my officers put their lives on the line to protect the citizens of Philadelphia," he says, his voice gruff and impassioned. "And every day, they face the very real possibility of encountering a metahuman suspect who could kill them with a single blow, or level an entire city block with a wave of their hand. We need better tools, better intelligence, better coordination with federal agencies if we''re going to have any hope of keeping up with this threat."
The senators seem to be eating it up, nodding along and murmuring their agreement as Faraday paints a picture of a police department under siege, struggling to keep the peace in a world gone mad. But something about his testimony doesn''t sit right with me, like a puzzle piece that doesn''t quite fit no matter how hard you try to force it into place.
Maybe it''s the way he talks about metahumans like we''re all ticking time bombs, just waiting to go off and cause mass destruction at any moment. Or maybe it''s the way he glosses over the department''s own history of misconduct and abuse, like the Patriot incident, or the dozens of other things my Mom occasionally rambles about when she''s drunk and thinks nobody is paying close attention to her.
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"Commissioner Faraday, how can you justify the expansion of police power that you''re requesting, given the recent high-profile incidents of excessive force and misconduct by members of your department?" Someone asks, and my entire body perks up like a rabbit looking for hawks.
But the answer slides off of him like an egg off a pool of bacon grease. It was done under the table, without the authorization of the PPD higher brass - clearly. Some rogue officers with a rogue superhero who, as this stack of papers will show, failed the minimum requirements to even make it into the police academy. A high-school dropout. An idiot. None of it was officially sanctioned.
I almost want to shout out, to yell "was it unofficially sanctioned?". And maybe in another time and place I might''ve done just that.
But I don''t. Not today. I''m tired.
Maybe it was the PPD''s fault for not doing anything to stop it, or maybe it was the fault of the whole rotten system that lets people like him run wild without any checks or balances. I don''t know. But what I do know is that something has to change, and fast, before more people like me end up dead or broken beyond repair.
I catch a glimpse of Huang out of the corner of my eye, watching the proceedings with a look of cool detachment on her face. And I realize that she''s not just here to testify, but to see how this all plays out, to gauge the mood of the room and adjust her own strategy accordingly.
And suddenly I feel very small and very alone, like a tiny fish swimming in a tank full of gigantic whales. Even a shark just isn''t big enough for this ocean.
The next witness is a man named Michael Turner, a senior agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration. He''s here to talk about the increasing prevalence of metahuman-related drugs on the streets, things like "Jump" and "Fly" - and things with names I''ve never heard of before. For some reason, the idea that there might''ve been other superhuman drugs in the past never really occurred to me. Abortive attempts at giving people ersatz superpowers. Or, sometimes, superhumans that made drugs.
I had never even considered the possibility.
Hearing Turner describe them in such clinical, matter-of-fact terms makes them seem all too real, like something out of a science fiction novel come to life.
He talks about the challenges of regulating and controlling these substances, the way they can destabilize entire communities and fuel a vicious cycle of addiction and crime. He talks about the need for stronger enforcement mechanisms, for harsher penalties for those who manufacture and distribute these drugs.
"These substances represent a clear and present danger to public safety," he says, his voice ringing out across the hearing room. "They give people abilities that they are not equipped to handle, that they have not been trained to use responsibly. And in the wrong hands, they can be used as weapons of mass destruction, capable of causing untold damage and loss of life."
I shudder at the thought, remembering the way Illya''s power felt like a burning hand, reaching through me and grabbing my insides. And I can''t help but wonder what would happen if that kind of power fell into the hands of someone who didn''t care about the consequences, someone who only wanted to watch the world burn. Someone without Illya''s restraint.
But even as Turner talks about the need for stricter regulation, I can''t shake the feeling that he''s missing the point. I''m not sure what it is - but it feels like it''s not this.
Mayor Watkins is up next, and I can''t help but feel a sense of awe as she takes the stand. Even I, politically disconnected as I may be, know who she is. We learned about her in Social Studies.
She talks about the challenges of governing a city like Philadelphia, with its deep-rooted problems of poverty and inequality, its long history of racial tension and unrest. She talks about the steps she''s taken to address those issues, the programs and initiatives she''s launched to try to make life better for all the city''s residents.
But when the senators press her on the specifics, on the measurable outcomes and concrete results, she starts to get evasive, falling back on vague platitudes and empty promises.
"We''re making progress," she says, her voice smooth and polished. "But change takes time, and there are no easy answers to problems that have been decades in the making. We have to stay the course, keep pushing forward, and trust that the work we''re doing will pay off in the long run."
Something about her tone rubs me the wrong way, like she''s trying to sell me a used car or a timeshare in some far-off resort. And I can''t help but wonder what she''s leaving out, what inconvenient truths she''s glossing over for the sake of political expediency.
I think back to the aftermath of the Philly Phreaks'' attack, the chaos and confusion that gripped the city for days on end, the martial law, the curfew. How that, ultimately, led to me getting my face turned into mash potato by a walking brick in the shape of a human being. Isn''t this all, in a way, her fault? Is there someone, anyone I can point to, and say that it''s their fault?
As the questioning drags on, I find myself zoning out, my mind wandering to all the things I need to do when this is all over. The training sessions I need to schedule with Jason, the patrols I need to run with the rest of the Young Defenders. The endless cycle of violence and heroism that feels like it''s all I''ve ever known.
There''s two witnesses left before me. I adjust myself in my seat, ignore my aching bladder, and fix my helmet so it''s not pressing as hard on my temples. Then, I watch.
Chapter 115.1
District Attorney Carla Alvarez takes the stand, and I can feel the energy in the room shift, like a sudden change in air pressure. She''s a striking figure, with long dark hair and piercing eyes that seem to bore right through you, like she''s trying to read your thoughts and pick apart your secrets. Presumably, these are the sorts of skills you develop as a district attorney.
She wastes no time in getting to the heart of the matter, launching into a blistering critique of the current state of superhuman law enforcement in Philadelphia. "The system is broken," she says, her voice ringing out with conviction. "And it''s not just a matter of a few bad apples or isolated incidents. It''s a systemic failure, a fundamental breakdown in the way we approach these cases and the way we hold those in power accountable."
She talks about the challenges of prosecuting superhuman criminals, the way their unique abilities and heightened public profiles can make it difficult to build a case that will stand up in court. She talks about the need for specialized training and resources, for a dedicated unit within the DA''s office to handle these complex and sensitive matters. And how the facts of the matter - that anyone with a pill can get enough power to cause mass chaos, kill someone, or steal absurd amounts of money - necessitate an entire reimagining of the existing laws on the books for metahumans.
But she also doesn''t shy away from the hard truths, from the uncomfortable realities that many in power would prefer to ignore. "We cannot allow the actions of a few rogue individuals to tarnish the reputation of an entire department," she says, her gaze fixed firmly on Commissioner Faraday. "But neither can we allow a culture of impunity to take hold, where those who abuse their authority are allowed to operate with no fear of consequences."
I find myself nodding along with her words, my heart swelling with a fierce sort of pride. This is what a real hero looks like, I think to myself. Not someone who hides behind a mask and a fancy suit, but someone who can stand up and say it like it is. It feels right to me. Truth as the ultimate disinfectant.
But even as I''m cheering her on, I can''t shake the nagging sense of doubt that tugs at the back of my mind. Is it really that simple? Can one person, no matter how brave or principled, really change a system that''s so deeply entrenched, so resistant to reform?
I don''t know.
Her time at the stand ends. She is thanked, and descends back into the abyss.
Dr. Emily Nakamura is a different sort of figure altogether, more scientist than crusader. She takes the stand with a kind of quiet confidence, her lab coat and glasses giving her an air of intellectual authority.
She''s here to talk about her work at the Daedalus Correctional Facility, the specialized prison designed to hold superhuman criminals. It''s a place I''ve only heard about in whispers and rumors, a place that sounds more like something out of a horror movie than a real-life institution. Something like a curse, rather than a place. A curse on my bloodline.
But as Nakamura begins to speak, I find myself leaning forward in my seat, hanging on her every word. She talks about the unique challenges of containing individuals with such a wide range of abilities, the constant need for adaptation and innovation. She talks about the cutting-edge research they''re doing into the nature of superpowers themselves, the hopes of unlocking the secrets of how they work and why they manifest in some people but not others.
"The science of metahuman abilities is still in its infancy," she says, adjusting her glasses from where they''ve fallen a bit down her nose. "But every day, we''re learning more and more, even as the landscape continues to evolve and change. It''s a complex and dynamic field, one that requires us to think outside the box and approach problems from new and unconventional angles."
One of the senators - I think it''s Merkley - asks about the plans for Illya Fedorov''s incarceration at the Aurora Springs Residential Facility. "Can you walk us through the measures that are being put in place to ensure that he''s being held securely, but also humanely?"
Nakamura nods, clasping her hands together on the table in front of her. "Of course. The facility has been specifically designed to contain individuals with radioactive abilities like Mr. Fedorov''s. The walls of his particular isolated enclosure are lined with layers of radiation absorbing materials designed to handle all forms of ionizing and x-ray radiation, and the ventilation system is equipped with advanced filtration to prevent any leakage. But we''re also mindful of the need to provide a certain level of comfort and quality of life. Mr. Fedorov will have access to recreational facilities, educational programs, and regular medical check-ups to monitor his condition and ensure his well-being."
I can''t help but feel a pang of something - not quite sympathy, but maybe a kind of morbid fascination. The idea of Illya Federov, the man who nearly killed me, the man who did kill Liberty Belle, living out his days in some kind of cushy resort prison¡ it still doesn''t sit right with me, for some reason I can''t really articulate. But at the same time, I remember the look on his face in the moments before the end, the look of a man who knew he''d gone too far, who wanted to take it all back but didn''t know how.
Maybe there''s no such thing as a perfect solution, no way to balance the scales of justice that doesn''t leave someone feeling cheated or betrayed. Maybe all we can do is try to even it out.
Lost in thought, I almost jerk straight out of my seat when I hear it.
"We''d like to call the metahuman known as Bloodhound to the stand."
Oh God. Oh fuck fuck fuck why was I not paying attention to the order of operations here, holy shit. I wasn''t next up. I was last in line.
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The room goes quiet, every eye in the place turning to look at me. I can feel their stares boring into me like hot pokers, can hear the whispers and murmurs rippling through the crowd like a breeze through dry grass.
For a moment, I''m frozen, my body locked in place as my mind races in a dozen different directions at once. I know I should stand up, should walk to the front of the room and take my place at the witness table. But my legs feel like they''re made of lead, my feet rooted to the floor as if by some invisible force.
It''s only when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder that I''m able to break the spell, to turn and see one of the aides standing beside me, his hand outstretched in a silent gesture of encouragement. "You''re up, kid," he says, his voice low and steady. "Just remember, take a deep breath, picture them all in their underwear, all of that dumb shit. You''ve got this."
I nod, swallowing hard around the lump in my throat. He''s right. I can do this. I have to do this.
So I push myself to my feet, ignoring the way my knees shake and my palms sweat inside my gloves. I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin as I walk down the aisle towards the witness table, trying to project an air of confidence that I don''t quite feel.
It''s strange, being up here in front of all these people. I''ve never been much for public speaking, never been comfortable with being the center of attention. But as I settle into my seat and adjust my microphone, I feel a kind of calm wash over me, a sense of purpose and clarity that I didn''t know I had.
The bailiff steps forward, holding out a Bible in one hand and raising the other in a solemn gesture. I feel a little bit uncomfortable staring down the barrel of the extremely Christian object, but I understand the symbolism. "Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
I hesitate for just a fraction of a second, my eyes darting to my parents in the front row. Oh shit, when did they get here? I''m going to jump off a cliff. They''re both white-knuckled, gripping each other''s hands so tight it looks almost painful, but when they see me looking, they both manage to muster up a smile, small and strained but full of love and support.
"I do." The words come out steady, my voice sounding strange and far away to my own ears. But it''s done. I''ve crossed the threshold, stepped into the spotlight. No turning back now.
Senator Gantt clears his throat, shuffling the papers in front of him as he leans forward in his seat. "Thank you for being here today, Bloodhound," he says, his voice rich and sonorous. "We know this can''t be easy for you, especially given the ordeals you''ve been through. But your testimony is vital to our understanding of what happened, and to our efforts to ensure that nothing like it ever happens again. So please, take your time, and tell us in your own words what you experienced."
I nod, licking my lips as I try to gather my thoughts. I glance down at my notes, the bullet points and key phrases that Mrs. Gibson helped me put together, but somehow they all seem woefully inadequate now, like a child''s scribbles next to a masterpiece. My brain is usually racing a mile a minute, but right now it seems dead - like if you could open it up and touch it, it would break apart in your hands like shiny, gelatinous putty.
So I take another deep breath, close my eyes for just a moment, and then begin to speak.
"I never wanted to be a hero," I start, my voice quiet but clear in the hushed stillness of the room. "I never asked for these powers, never asked to be different or special or any of that. I just wanted to be a normal girl, you know? Go to school, hang out with my friends, maybe join the volleyball team or something. Just¡ live my life."
I pause, swallowing hard as the memories come flooding back, sharp and vivid and painful as broken glass. "After I developed my powers, when I just turned fourteen, I thought¡ I thought maybe I could use them to help people. To make a difference, even if it was just in some small way. So I started training with the Young Defenders, learning how to control my abilities and use them for good."
I can see some of the senators nodding along, their faces creased with sympathy and understanding. But I can also see the skepticism in some of their eyes, the unspoken questions and doubts. I know what they''re thinking - what kind of parent lets their teenage daughter run around playing superhero? What kind of system allows a child to put themselves in harm''s way like that? I wish Pop-Pop Moe was here, allowed to take the stand in front of me. He''d be able to say it so much better than I could. That my age doesn''t matter - what matters is what I''ve been given and how I use it.
"When I fought against Federov, when I saw what he did to Liberty Belle¡ it was like my whole world just shattered. Like everything I thought I knew, everything I believed in, was just a lie. I didn''t understand how powers could be fickle like that. Or so strong."
My voice breaks a little on the last word, and I have to pause for a moment to compose myself. I can feel the hot, the liquid gathering at the corners of my eyes, and my breath comes out shuddery when I start back up again.
"Since then, I''ve tried my best to keep doing what I do. To keep¡ being Bloodhound. Because I thought that''s who I had to be. But it''s hard. It''s like every time I think the worst has passed, and I''ve done something too dangerous already - something else happens to prove me wrong."
I think about Jordan, silent and terrified on the threshold of the gymnasium, freshly be-bulleted. I think about Mayor Watkins'' words about staying the course, about trusting in the work and the process, even when it''s hard. I think about my parents'' faces in the crowd, the fear and the pride and the desperate, aching love. And I know that no matter what happens here today, no matter what these senators decide or what laws they pass or fail to pass, I can''t give up. I won''t give up.
"I''m not here to tell you that the system is perfect. I''m not here to say that everything the NSRA or the Delaware Valley Defenders or the Philadelphia PD does is always right and just and good. Because I''ve seen firsthand that it''s not. That there are cracks and flaws and dark places where bad things can grow like black mold."
I take a deep breath, looking out at the sea of faces, the cameras and the notepads and the glinting lenses of a hundred eager eyes.
"But I also know that there are good people out there, people who are trying their best to make things better. People like the Young Defenders, like my friends and teammates who put their lives on the line every day to keep the city safe. People like Mrs. Anne-Marie Gibson in Philly and Mrs. Alvarez, who want to root out corruption and hold those in power accountable. People like you, sitting here today, listening to my story and trying to understand."
I pause again, struggling for the right words. It''s so hard to wrap my head around it all, to condense the tangled web of experiences and emotions into something that makes sense, something that will make them see what I see.
"Illya¡ Mr. Federov¡ he''s not an aberration. He''s not some lone bad apple or rogue agent. He''s a symptom of something deeper, something rotten at the core of the way we deal with people like us. And unless we face that head on, unless we''re willing to have the hard conversations and make the hard choices, then nothing''s ever going to change."
Chapter 115.2
My voice rings out in the stillness of the room, strong and clear despite the hammering of my heart in my chest.
But then the spell is broken, and the murmuring begins anew, the rustling of papers and the clearing of throats as the senators prepare for their questioning. And I know that this is far from over, that whatever comes next will be a trial all its own.
Take a breath. Count to three. Picture them all in their underwear. And then into the breach once more.
The questions come fast and furious, a barrage of words and ideas and implications that make my head spin. I try to stay focused, try to remember the key points and the careful phrasing that Mrs. Gibson and I worked on together while we crammed overnight. But it''s hard, with the lights and the cameras and the weight of all those eyes on me, dissecting my every move and expression.
Senator Padilla is the first to jump in, his voice calm but probing as he asks about my experiences with the NSRA. "Can you elaborate on any instances where their actions seemed obstructive or unjust?"
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "There were a few times," I say slowly, picking my words with care. "Like when they tried to keep information from getting out about Illya - about Mr. Federov''s involvement with their agency. It felt like they were more concerned with protecting their own image than with actually keeping people safe."
He nods, making a note on the pad in front of him. "And what specific evidence have you seen that suggests they were collaborating with him?"
I hesitate, glancing over at Agent Shaw. She''s sitting ramrod straight in her seat, her face a mask of barely-contained tension. "I mean, the fact that he was able to operate so openly for so long, without any real consequences¡ that seems pretty telling to me. And then there was the way they handled his capture, you know, the stuff with Agent Shaw at the trial - sorry, Mrs. Shaw," My voice trails off, and I can feel the frustration bubbling up inside me. "It just doesn''t add up, you know? If he was really such a danger, why did they let him run wild for so long?"
Padilla seems satisfied with that, but Senator Castor picks up the thread, her eyes sharp and assessing. "What reforms or measures do you think should be implemented to ensure greater accountability within the NSRA?"
I blink, taken aback by the directness of the question. "I¡ I don''t know, exactly. I mean, I''m not an expert on this stuff. But I think that, like¡ you can''t, well¡ When you''re inside the building you can''t see where all the windows are, right? You need to have someone outside the building who can see the whole picture. Otherwise you just end up getting lost. Does that make sense?" I can feel the words coming out in a rush, my thoughts spilling out faster than I can filter them. "And there should be consequences, you know? Real consequences, for people who abuse their power. I mean. I feel like the analogy is getting away from me, sorry."
She raises a hand, as if she''s trying to calm an angry dog. "Like an independent oversight board?" She suggests.
I nod at her. "Right. An independent oversight board. Who watches the Watchmen, right?" I say, feeling proud of myself for remembering something Pop-Pop Moe told me years ago.
She nods, a hint of approval in her eyes. But before I can feel too proud of myself, Senator Sasse jumps in with a question of his own, and I feel my stomach clench with a whole new kind of anxiety.
"Can you describe the physical and psychological impacts you''ve witnessed in individuals using the drugs known as "Jump" and "Fly"?" he asks, his voice calm but insistent.
I swallow hard, my mind flashing back to the fights I''ve had with Fly-heads, the wild-eyed desperation and unhinged aggression I''ve seen in their faces. I swallow. "Physio¡ Physically, something in the drug makes your blood just break down. Um, if you don''t know, one of my superpowers is that I can sense blood in my environment, and if someone''s actively bleeding, it lets me see their entire vascular system. And people on Jump and Fly have this blood that''s, like, bright, fluorescent orange. And in my mind''s eye it feels ''fizzy'', like soda. And whenever someone takes Jump or Fly, I don''t know if I''d know if it has any psychological effects¡"
I trail off, thinking about Kate. Was it something in what she took, or was it just the power high that was dredging something to the surface?
"I don''t know. I''m not really good at chemistry, especially brain chemistry. If you asked me if it did anything psychologically to people I would guess it just shows the sort of person you''d be if you got powers. And, um¡ I think there''s people who wouldn''t be good with powers," I say, folding my hands in front of me. "There are some people who take Jump and Fly so they can finally be superheroes, but, um, I''m not sure, but I think they might be a minority. I don''t really have numbers."
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Senator Sasse looks down at their hands, maybe some notes? Then, he looks back up at me.
"And it''s not just the users," I continue, my voice gaining strength as the memories pour out of me. "It''s their families, their friends, their whole communities. This stuff tears people apart, rips them away from everything and everyone they care about. And it just keeps spreading, like a disease that no one knows how to cure."
Senator Gantt clears his throat, his eyes filled with a mix of sympathy and determination. "How widespread do you believe this problem is, beyond Philadelphia?"
I shake my head, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me. "I don''t know for sure. But I''ve heard stories, you know? From other heroes in other cities, my, um, professional colleagues. And it''s not just a Philly thing, or an East Coast thing. It''s everywhere." I take another hard breath, trying to keep my composure. "I couldn''t tell you if it''s more widespread in one city or another. And I don''t know enough about foreign cities to know if it''s spreading there, too, or if it''s something uniquely American."
The questions keep coming, hard and fast and relentless. They ask about my relationships with law enforcement, about the challenges of being a teenage superhero in a system that doesn''t quite know what to do with me. They ask about the incident at school, about Patriot and his goon squad and the mess they left behind - asking me for my opinion, as if I wasn''t there, because they don''t know I was there. Or maybe they do?
I do my best to stick to the facts, to focus on what I know for sure without speculating or throwing accusations around. But I can see the gears turning behind their eyes, the calculations and maneuverings, the way these tiny little groups of mostly old men and a few old women are trying find some way to herd the entire country one way or another
"Do you think there should be stricter regulations on superhuman activities?" Senator McMahon asks, her voice sharp and probing.
I hesitate, feeling the weight of the question hanging in the air. "I¡ I don''t know," I say finally, my voice small and uncertain. "I mean, I get why people are scared, why they want more control over what we can do. But I also know that most of us, we''re just trying to help. We''re trying to make a difference, to use our powers for good." I swallow hard, feeling the emotions welling up inside me. "And I''m not sure if rules and restrictions will make it harder for people who want to do the wrong thing, even if they make it harder for people to do the right thing. That''s sort of the age old question, isn''t it?"
I can see some of the senators shifting uncomfortably in their seats, their faces tight with disapproval or skepticism. But others are nodding along, their eyes filled with a kind of grudging respect. Even if I''m just a kid in a costume, my voice still matters. My truth still counts for something.
But then Senator Ernst asks about vigilantism, about the way I and my friends operate outside the law, and I feel my hackles rising, my defenses slamming into place. "How do you justify your actions?" she asks, her voice cold and accusing. "What gives you the right to take the law into your own hands?"
I take a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. "I don''t¡ I don''t think it''s about having the right," I say slowly, choosing my words with care. "I think it''s about doing what needs to be done, when the people in charge aren''t willing or able to do it themselves. I could defend myself by pointing out my LUMA, and my association with the Delaware Valley Defenders, but I think that shouldn''t be necessary. I think people who want to help should be able to do so. Not to go out and punch bad guys, but, like, anyone can go and pick up litter or rescue a cat. And sometimes superpowers make you really good at rescuing cats, and I think we have a responsibility to help people help each other. That''s what I think, I think."
I can see the untrust in her eyes, the way she''s sizing me up like I''m just another punk kid with delusions of grandeur. But I refuse to back down, refuse to let her make me feel small or ashamed. "I''ve seen firsthand what happens when the system fails," I continue, my voice growing stronger with every word. "I''ve seen the damage that can be done when the bad guys are allowed to run wild, when the people who are supposed to stop them are too busy covering their own asses. When that happens, people die. People like Liberty Belle."
There''s a moment of silence, a held breath that seems to stretch out forever. And then Senator Sanders, this crumpled looking old man with a voice that sounds distinctly like my Pop-Pop, speaks out for the first time. "What measures would you recommend, to prevent incidents like the one at Tacony Charter Academy from happening again?"
I blink, caught off guard by the question. "I¡ I don''t know if there''s any one thing that can prevent something like that," I say slowly, my mind racing. "But I think there needs to be more accountability, more oversight. Like, maybe body cameras for superheroes, or regular psych evaluations, or¡ or something. To make sure that the people with the most power are using it responsibly, and not just abusing it for their own gain. I think we have a responsibility to be doing the right thing with our powers. I''m¡ I don''t think G-d would¡ well, not to sound religious, but I don''t think we would be given these powers if we weren''t intended to do good with them."
I can see some of the other senators nodding along, their faces thoughtful as they scribble notes on their pads. And I feel a flicker of hope, a tiny spark of possibility that maybe something good can come out of all this. That my pain and my struggle can be used to make things better.
Chapter 115.3
But even as I''m talking, even as I''m pouring my heart out on the stand, I can feel the telltale prickle at the back of my neck, the cold shiver down my spine that tells me danger is near. I''ve been trying to ignore it, trying to push through the rising tide of panic and dread that''s been building inside me since the moment I sat down. But it''s getting harder and harder to keep my composure, to keep myself from jumping at every sound and shadow, like a rabbit frozen in the thrall of a fox.
Every creak of the door is the gavel of doom about to fall. Every cough from the gallery is a gun pointed at my head, every rustle of paper is a grenade about to explode. I can feel the dizziness and nausea of the adrenaline starting to flow, the edges of my vision shimmering like a heat mirage - my spider-sense telling me that very very very very bad thing is about to happen but staying juuuuuust out of view.
Despite that, I keep talking. I have to. I promised.
"And what about the media?" Senator Wilson asks, his voice smooth and polished as a river stone. "How has their coverage influenced public perception of superhumans, in your view?"
I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself. "I think¡ I think a lot of times, the media only shows one side of the story," I say carefully, my voice trembling a little. "Like, they''ll focus on the flashy fights and the big disasters, but they won''t talk about the everyday stuff, the small ways that superhumans make a difference. And that can make people scared, you know? It can make them think we''re all just ticking time bombs waiting to go off." My voice drops low, uncertain, as my eyes dart towards the door, which seems to be vibrating even though I know it''s completely stationary.
I can see some of the senators exchanging glances, their eyebrows raised in surprise or concern. But Senator Merkley leans forward, his face creased with sympathy. "Is everything alright, young lady? You seem a bit¡ on edge."
My head buzzes with a sudden electricity, a sudden certainty that something is about to happen. My whole body quivers, my eyes widening like saucers behind my visor. Any possibility for subtlety or secrecy is gone. I''m not even aware that I''ve started to hyperventilate.
But then¡ nothing. The moment passes, the tension draining away like water through a sieve. I''m left feeling shaky and foolish, my cheeks burning with embarrassment beneath my helmet. "I¡ I''m sorry," I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper. "It''s just¡ it''s been a lot, you know? All of this, the whole¡" I wave my hand vaguely, not sure how to put it into words.
Senator Merkley nods, his eyes soft with understanding. "Of course. Take your time, we''re almost done here."
I swallow hard, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. "I guess¡ I guess I just want people to see us as people, you know? Not just as powers or threats or¡ or anything else. Just¡ people." My voice breaks a little on the last word, and I have to blink back the sudden rush of tears that threatens to overwhelm me.
There''s a long moment of silence, a held breath that seems to stretch out forever. And then Senator Gantt clears his throat, his voice gentle but firm. "Thank you, Mrs. Bloodhound. I think that''s all we have for you today."
I nod jerkily, my heart pounding in my throat as I rise unsteadily from my chair. "Thank you," I mumble, not sure who exactly I''m thanking or for what.
And then I''m stumbling out of the room, my legs shaking and my head spinning as I try to remember how to breathe. The doors are mercifully closed behind me and the cool, crisp air of the hallway is a balm on my flushed skin. I''d rather be literally anywhere else than where I am right now. Literally anywhere. Please, Houdini, appear before me and show me the way.
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"You did great, kid," says a gruff voice, from somewhere behind me, and I jump a little, my heart leaping into my throat.
But it''s just one of the aides, a stout, middle-aged man with a kind face and a receding hairline. He''s holding out a bottle of water, his eyes crinkled with concern. "Here, drink this. You look like you could use it."
I take the bottle with shaking hands, fumbling with the cap as I try to unscrew it. "Thanks," I mutter, taking a long, grateful gulp. It tastes like plastic and minerals, but it''s the best damn thing I''ve ever had.
"So?" he says after a moment, his voice low and conspiratorial. "How do you think it went in there?"
I shrug helplessly, feeling suddenly very small and very young. "I¡ I don''t know," I say honestly, my voice ragged and raw. "I feel like I said what I needed to say, but¡ but I don''t know if it''ll make a difference. If any of it will."
He nods sagely, his eyes distant and thoughtful. "That''s the thing about all this," he says, waving his hand in a vague, all-encompassing gesture. "You never really know what''s going to stick, what''s going to change things. All you can do is keep showing up, keep telling your truth. And hope that eventually, if you say it enough times, to enough people¡ something will give."
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words settling on my shoulders like a mantle. "Yeah," I whisper, my voice thin and thready. "I guess that''s all any of us can do, huh?"
He smiles, a small, sad thing that doesn''t quite reach his eyes. "Welcome to Washington, kid."
And then he''s gone, disappeared back into the labyrinthine halls of power, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my fears and my fragile, flickering hopes.
I don''t have long to brood, though, before I''m being hustled off to some secure room deep in the bowels of the building, a cramped little room with bare white walls and two gently flickering fluorescent lights and a vending machine. They tell me to change out of my costume, to put on the clothes they''ve brought for me. A plain black hoodie, a pair of jeans, sneakers that are a size too big. The uniform of anonymity, of invisibility. I almost feel like the world''s weirdest VIP.
I shed my armor, watching reality pixelate in the corners of my eyes, peeling away the layers of Kevlar and leather and sweat-stained cotton until I''m just Sam again, just a skinny little girl with bruises on her skin and fear in her eyes. It doesn''t feel as good as it should. It feels like I''m even more exposed, now.
And then we''re moving again, through a warren of tunnels and stairwells, my eyes blinking owlishly in the sudden glare of daylight as we emerge into a loading dock somewhere on the edge of the Capitol complex. There''s a black SUV waiting for us, its engine idling and its windows tinted dark.
My parents are there, their faces pale and drawn as they wrap me in fierce, desperate hugs. They hold me like they''re afraid I might disappear if they let go, like I might crumble into dust and ashes right there in their arms.
"You were so brave," my mom whispers, her voice choked with tears. "So brave and so strong and so¡ so¡"
"You did good, kiddo," my dad says gruffly, ruffling my hair with a trembling hand. "Real good."
I lean into their embrace, feeling the warmth of their bodies seeping into my bones, thawing the icy numbness that''s been building there all day. And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe that it''s true. That I was brave, that I was strong, that I did something that mattered.
Even if I''m not sure I believe it myself.
The ride back to the train station is a blur, a smear of gray skies and rain-slicked streets and the distant, muffled hum of the city beyond the car''s windows. I don''t try to talk to my parents, don''t try to fill the silence with empty chatter or forced cheer. I just lean my head against the cool glass and watch the world go by, feeling the weight of everything that''s happened settling onto my shoulders like a leaden cloak.
At some point, I must drift off, my exhaustion finally catching up with me in a rush of dark and dreamless sleep. Because the next thing I know, we''re pulling into Union Station, the grand old building looming over us like a cathedral in the misty twilight.
My dad puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, startling me awake. "We''re here, Sam," he says softly, his eyes kind and worried behind his glasses.
I nod groggily, rubbing at my eyes with the heel of my hand. "Okay," I mumble, my voice thick and slurred with sleep. "Wake me back up when we get to Philly."
Chapter 116.1
The heavy bag swings lazily on its chain, rocking back and forth in time with the dull thud of gloved fists against worn leather. It''s a familiar rhythm, a steady beat that echoes through the cavernous space of the Delaware Valley Defenders'' gym, bouncing off the high ceilings and polished hardwood floors.
But there''s something different about it today, something subdued and muted that hangs in the air like a pall. Maybe it''s the way everyone seems to be moving a little slower, a little more carefully, like they''re afraid of breaking something fragile if they push too hard. Or maybe it''s the way the usual chatter and laughter has been replaced by a tense, almost oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional grunt of exertion or the squeak of sneakers on the mats. It reminds me of the funeral for Liberty Belle.
I try to shake off the feeling, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of my own breath, the burn of muscles as I work through a series of stretches and warm-up exercises. It helps, a little, to lose myself in the familiar motions, to let my mind go blank and just be in my body for a while. I forget, sometimes, how young I am, since it already feels like I''ve been through like two dozen wars. I wonder what the rest of my friends at school did for their summer break - went on vacation with their families? Went to camp? Worked a summer job? I spent mine testifying in front of the nation. And then I did it again right before Halloween.
"Hey, Bee!" Lily calls out from across the room, waving me over with a grin that doesn''t quite reach her eyes. "You want to spar? I''ve been working on that two-man takedown you showed me last week, I think I''m getting pretty good at it."
I hesitate for a moment, glancing around at the rest of the team. Jason is over by the free weights, his face set in a grim mask of concentration as he grunts out rep after rep. Amelia and Connor are stretching together in the corner, their heads bent close as they murmur to each other in low, urgent tones. And¡ That''s it. That''s it, isn''t it? Just the five of us. I mean, I never felt particularly connected to anyone, but I don''t really feel particularly connected to most people nowadays. Like¡ it''s like watching people stop showing up to your Boy Scouts meetings. You don''t realize just how big the gym is until it''s empty.
I realize that they''re all giving me side-eye, like I''m the depressing thing that walked in, ever since I got back to Philly last night. I expected at least someone to say "you did a great job", or "you represented us well"¡ but, I guess not. I haven''t been checking the news. I just got my homework and went to sleep.
Maybe that''s on purpose.
"Sure," I say finally, plastering a smile onto my face that feels about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. "Let''s do it."
We square up on the mats, circling each other warily as we size each other up. Lily''s smaller than me, but she''s quick and agile, with a wiry strength that belies her slight frame. And she''s been training hard lately, putting in extra hours at the gym and drilling herself mercilessly on every technique and maneuver she can get her hands on. Like a lot of us, I guess. Like we''re all trying to make up for lost time, trying to cram a lifetime''s worth of training into a few short months. I don''t know what we''re gunning for, but it feels like it''s coming soon.
She comes at me fast, ducking under my guard and trying to sweep my legs out from under me. I manage to keep my balance, but just barely, stumbling back a few steps as she presses her advantage. She''s good, I''ll give her that. But I''ve got a few tricks up my sleeve too.
I feint left, then pivot suddenly to the right, using my momentum to drive my shoulder into her chest and knock her off balance. She staggers back, her eyes widening in surprise, and I press my advantage, grabbing her arm and twisting it behind her back in one smooth motion. She lets out a yelp of pain - and something else, too. Something that sounds almost like fear. I let go immediately, taking a step back and holding up my hands in apology.
"Sorry," I mutter, feeling a flush of shame creeping up my neck. "I didn''t mean to¡"
"It''s fine," she says quickly, rubbing at her shoulder with a rueful grin. "I shouldn''t have let my guard down like that. You''re too fast for me, man."
"Says the speedster," I cough, forcing a laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Not fast enough, apparently," I say, shaking my head. "Half the bad guys in this state already know what I look like in costume and out of it. Not much point in trying to be sneaky now, I guess."
She gives me a sympathetic look, but before she can say anything else, there''s a sudden commotion by the door. I turn to look, my heart leaping into my throat as I see two familiar silhouettes emerging from the shadows of the darkened hallway.
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"What the hell are you doing here?" Jason growls, his voice low and dangerous as he takes a step forward, putting himself between the intruders and the rest of the team. Then, he takes a second to actually assess who he''s looking at, and his face softens.
"Easy there, big guy," Devonte says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "We come in peace, I promise. Just need to have a little chat with our girl Bee here, that''s all. Take me to your leader! Ha ha," he says, putting on an annoying tone, that deliberately nasal voice he used to fuck with Akilah all the time - but just like my laugh earlier, it''s hollow.
"Right. Well. Welcome back, I guess," Jason mumbles.
I blink in surprise. "Playback? Pup?" I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral even as my mind races with a thousand questions. "What''s with the surprise? You two need a third for your throuple or something?"
Neither one of them are in costume - civvies as far as the eye can see - but I guess nobody deactivated their keycards. Akilah''s hair bounces off of her head in tight springs like fireworks, while Devonte, for one, isn''t wearing a beanie. Instead, he''s wearing a baby-blue backwards baseball cap. Both of them in similarly boring casualwear: sweaters for Devonte, gym clothes for Akilah.
Akilah rolls her eyes, but there''s no real heat behind it. "Very funny," she says, her voice as dry as the Sahara. "You clearly have been taking after the Dad of the pairing. Anyway. Bee. We need to talk to you. Alone."
"I''m the Dad? I thought I was the dead baby in the basement," Devonte quips, sounding genuinely hurt, somehow. Akilah punches him in the shoulder.
I frown, my eyes darting between the two of them, then back to my confused team. "Why alone?" I ask slowly, feeling a prickle of unease running down my spine.
"Great question," Jason asks, folding his arms over his chest. "I''d sure love to know, too."
"Because it''s sensitive information," Devonte says, his voice uncharacteristically serious. That''s twice in one minute - a new record. "The kind that could get people hurt if it falls into the wrong hands. And right now, we''re not sure whose hands we can trust. No offense." He holds his hands up in a surrender pose, placating again. Like a dog afraid it''s losing a fight.
"So you think we''re involved in something?" Connor asks, folding his arms with a concerned twang, conspicuously mirroring Jason.
"No," says Akilah, more calmly. "But this is more Bee''s business, because Bee is the one that just spoke in front of Congress, unlike the rest of y''all."
"So no offense taken, right?" finishes Devonte, with his usual grin. "Plus, this needs to be on the DL. No Jamal, no adults in the room. Sorry, if anyone''s eavesdropping."
Fury Forge, sitting in the corner, looks up from her seat as if she''s just been called. She''s reading a book, although which, I can''t tell from here. She puts her face back down into it.
"That doesn''t make any sense," says Lily, quietly. "If you didn''t want the NSRA or anyone to know you were saying anything, why come here at all instead of, like, Bee''s house?"
"Do you think we know where Bee lives? What sort of a sick fuck do you take me for, stalking fifteen year old girls," replies Devonte, looking her in the eye and not relenting on his smile.
"Cut it out," Akilah chides him.
I hesitate for a long moment, weighing my options. On the one hand, I trust my team with my life. I trust them more than I trust the NSRA, or the FBI, or anyone else in this stupid game of whack-a-mole.
But on the other hand, I know what it''s like to be out there on your own, without the safety net of a government paycheck and a fancy title to protect you. I know the kinds of risks you have to take, the kinds of sacrifices you have to make, just to stay one step ahead of the law and the lawless alike. I''ve been out there in the storm with Jordan. And the Pattinson''s Pals showed us just how fast things could change - how quickly the winds of power could shift, leaving you stranded and alone in the cold. I don''t want that for them - any of them. Not if there''s something I can do, some risk I can take, to shield them from that storm.
"Okay," I say finally, my voice sounding strangely distant to my own ears. "Okay, sure. Do we need, like, a guarded cell or something? How private is this?"
"But Sam-" Lily starts to protest. I fix her with a meaningful look, willing her to understand what I can''t say. She locks her jaw shut, her big eyes swirling with concern.
I turn to the rest of my team. I''m surprised, for a moment, that Lily was the only one who commented.
Connor makes eye contact with me, and in his lanky frame I can sense that same muscle tension that he had when he asked ''when are we going to do something?'' on the roof all those weeks ago. I hold up a hand. "Don''t. Anything you hear, you can be asked about later. And I don''t want you to have to lie."
"You''re talking like we''re already defeated," he says sourly.
"I''m talking like I don''t want anybody else involved in my drama if I can help it." I pull out my phone under the pretense of checking the time and tap on a button three times. "Look, guys, I promise - if it''s something you need to know, I will tell you myself. Until then¡ it''s need-to-know."
"I could have you arrested for insubordination," Jason replies, but it''s clear he doesn''t mean it. Nobody laughs anyway. Amelia just stares at him. "I''m joking! Come on. It''s fine¡"
They''re silent for a moment, just watching. The awkward silence between us is palpable - not only because we''ve stopped talking but because I can feel their resentment and worry oozing out of them like an open wound. I almost relent for a second. These are my friends. Right?
I almost say something, but Devonte interrupts. "Look, we''re burning daylight here. Bee, you know a place?"
I think of Jordan''s place, the Tacony Music Hall. How it was where I got to know them, and Derek, and so many other people who are now indispensable to me. How, in that quiet, empty space, we shared secrets and soda and everything in between. And I know that it''s the only place I can think of where I might feel safe enough to hear whatever bombshell Dev and Akilah are about to drop on me - and, it''s got a Faraday cage.
Chapter 116.2
"Yeah," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, I know a place. There''s an old music hall in Tacony, totally abandoned, out by the Delaware River. Nice and private, totally off the grid."
Dev nods, a flicker of relief passing over his face. "Good. Meet us there in an hour. Come alone, and make sure you aren''t followed."
I nod, a lump forming in my throat. "Okay."
But just as they turn to leave, Jason steps forward, his voice low and concerned. "Hold on just a goddamn minute," he murmurs, his face a mask of barely-contained anger, and something else a little more complex. "You can''t just waltz in here after weeks of radio silence and expect us to let you walk out without a word, without any explanation or assurances. That''s not how this works."
Akilah''s face hardens, her eyes flashing with annoyance. "This isn''t a negotiation," she snaps, her voice as cold and unyielding as a glacier. "Either Bee meets with us, or she doesn''t. But either way, the information we have is too sensitive to share with anyone else. So if she wants in, she comes alone. End of story." She sets her jaw.
"But-" Jason tries to protest.
Akilah''s face whips towards him like a snake attacking. "Whatever you think might''ve existed, whatever you assume entitles you to demand my time, it''s not real," she says, and I feel something totally unspoken pass between them. "Consider us two concerned civilians coming in with a tip, and whom you otherwise have no connection to."
"Speak for yourself. I''m doing PI shit now. And, you know, college," Devonte clears the air, trying to wave some sort of diplomacy towards Jason before he explodes. "We''re good. Don''t worry about us. There''s limits to what we could''ve been doing on the inside. Now there aren''t."
"You don''t¡ S¡ Bee needs- You can''t-" Jason tries up again, like a chainsaw trying to rattle itself back to life.
"Shut up, all of you. Christ." I raise my voice, surprising myself with how forceful I sound. I see the three of them tense. "This isn''t about you, Ramp. It''s not a divorce. This is a stupid argument to be having when a fully grown adult beat the shit out of me on live TV and a third of the country wants to elect him as president." I say, my voice still shaky. "If Dev and Akilah came all this way, it means it''s important. And I want to help if I can. Just like I know all of you would, if you were in my skin." I look around at the rest of the Young Defenders, feeling a swell of pride and affection and deep, deep annoyance for these weirdos, my weirdos. "I love you all. I told you, if it''s necessary for you all to know I''ll let you know. Civilian tipline is calling for Bloodhound. Chill out."
Jason huffs what might be a sigh. "Fine. You have two hours, then I want you to text me that you''re okay. Got it?"
I roll my eyes, but I can''t help the smile that tugs at my lips. The gesture is a bit over-dramatic, but it''s his way of worrying. He cares. "Got it, chief," I say, tossing off a half-assed salute that would get me torn apart by any real drill sergeant. "Try not to blow anything up while I''m gone."
And with that, I turn to follow Dev and Akilah out of the gym, my heart hammering in my chest and my mind racing with possibilities. All the worst ones, combining together into one catastrophic mega-hypothesis, totally divorced from reality. What could possibly be worth a scene like that?
I don''t know. But I guess I''m about to find out. One way or another.
I shake my head, slipping out of the side entrance and into the maze of hallways that lead out of the building. First things first, I need to get home and change out of these sweaty workout clothes.
The trip back home to Mayfair goes fast, my mind buzzing like a beehive behind my eyes. Just last week this time I was in Congress. Just last week this time I was doing something that was supposed to change the course of history - something so special and important that everyone would have to stop and take notice.
It occurs to me, as I pack my helmet into a duffel bag, that people probably did notice. That''s why this is happening.
I sigh, slinging the bag over my shoulder and locking up the house behind me. There''s a bus that goes out to Tacony, but it only runs once an hour, and I don''t have time to waste, and-- what am I, a child? It''s a fifteen minute walk. I''m a trained athlete, among other things. I move fast and quiet, staying off the main roads and sticking to the shadows where I can. Just like Belle taught me, during those fragile last days. Back when things were simpler - or at least, when they felt simpler.
I follow the river, keeping the murky brown water to my left as I pick my way through abandoned lots and crumbling factories, the relics of a Philly that''s long since faded away into working-class irrelevance. This part of town always makes me sad in a way I can''t quite put into words - like I''m walking through a graveyard.
I wonder if that''s how Dev and Akilah feel, looking at the state of the world today. Looking at people like Patriot and Egalitarian, with their shiny costumes and their big talk about law and order - as if they have any idea what real struggle looks like. Or maybe I''m just projecting my own thoughts onto this. I''m sure they''ll rope me in.
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The Tacony Music Hall looms ahead of me like a tombstone, its faded brick fa?ade crumbling and pockmarked with age. The windows are boarded up, the doors sealed tight with rusted chains - but I know better than to be fooled by appearances. Jordan''s been putting in some extra elbow grease making the place look like a dilapidated shithole, but it''s not like you can''t see the neon LEDs on the inside if you look hard enough. Side entrance it is.
The interior of the music hall is a total 180 from the outside, old recycled hardwood floor polished to a mirror sheen and the best furniture and carpeting the thrift store could buy. Jordan''s done an amazing job with this place, turning it from a crumbling ruin into a cozy, if slightly eccentric, hideout. Maybe once this whole superhero business is all said and done they could become an interior decorator.
And there, waiting for me in the main room, are Devonte and Akilah, their faces grim and their postures tense. They''re seated on one of the mismatched couches that Jordan''s collected over the months, their knees almost touching as they lean towards each other.
For a second I think they''re the only ones here, and then I see Jordan and Tasha, tucked away in one of the corners, watching me with wary eyes like scared cats. Maggie''s there too, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she''s about to vibrate out of her skin with nervous energy. Better than the alternative, I guess. People vibrating out of their skin is actually a real possibility these days.
For a moment, nobody speaks. The tension in the room is so thick you could cut it with a knife, not a single awkward teenager not trying to avoid eye contact. And then Devonte clears his throat, breaking the silence with a sound that''s half-cough, half-laugh.
"Damn, Bee," he says, shaking his head ruefully. "When you said ''private'', you weren''t kidding around. This place is like a fucking fortress."
I shrug, trying to play it cool even as my heart hammers in my chest. "It''s not mine," I say, nodding towards Jordan. "It''s my¡ associate''s. We use it for off-the-books work sometimes."
Jordan doesn''t say anything, their eyes boring into Devonte like he''s a wriggling little grub that they''d like to squash beneath their boots. They lean back in the rickety computer chair I''ve seen them sit in and browse anime forums for literally hours on end. Next to them, Tasha just looks like a spooked deer, but I already knew that would happen.
Akilah''s eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn''t push the issue. Instead, she leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she fixes me with a stare that could melt steel. "We don''t have a lot of time," she says, her voice low and urgent. "So let''s cut to the chase. Project Titan."
I blink, taken aback by the sudden shift in topic. "What even is that?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level. "It sounds vaguely familiar."
"They tried to put metahumans in the army in like the late 2000s," Jordan pipes up from behind me, like I''m stupid for not having heard of it. "It was in the news like¡ five, six years ago? That''s probably why you might vaguely recall it. Was a huge deal for all of a month."
Hmm.
"We''ve been digging," Devonte says, his voice uncharacteristically serious. His cap is low over his eye. "Doing the gumshoe thing, you know? Hitting the streets, talking to sources, following leads. And what we''ve found¡ it''s big, Bee. Like, ''holy shit, the world is even more fucked than we thought'' big."
I swallow hard, my mouth sticky and dry. "Okay," I say slowly, dragging the word out like taffy. "Hit me."
Akilah takes a deep breath, her eyes flicking over to Devonte for a moment before she begins. "Project Titan - like your associate said - was a black ops program," she says, her voice as steady as a surgeon''s hand. "Run by the military, with the NSRA''s full knowledge and cooperation. Their goal was to create an elite unit of enhanced soldiers, ones who could be deployed anywhere in the world to carry out missions that were too dangerous or too sensitive for regular troops."
I feel a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck, my stomach twisting into knots. I''ve read about this kind of thing in Pop-Pop Moe''s comics, heard whispers and rumors on the streets. But to hear it laid out so plainly, so matter-of-factly, like it''s just another item on the evening news¡ It freaks me the fuck out. "Fucking great," I mumble.
"That''s not all," Devonte cuts in, leaning in right next to Akilah, like an over-eager kid at a slumber party. "They were also trying to figure out how to make more superhumans. Like, artificially. With drugs and shit. Obviously, none of it worked. Just a lot of cancer,"
It feels like a piece of a puzzle that''s been hovering in the back of my brain for months now drops into place, right in that second, and my face must change into something like someone lit dynamite next to me, because Devonte''s voice cuts off mid-revelation.
Everyone looks at me, waiting for me to say something, but all I can manage is a strangled noise that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a frog ribbit. "Jump and Fly," I croak out. "They''re from Project Titan, aren''t they? The¡ The soldiers, the drugs, the experiments. All of it, leading to the shit show we''re dealing with now."
Akilah shakes her head slowly, her lips pressed into a thin line. "We can''t say for sure," she says, her voice measured and careful. "But it''s a hell of a coincidence, don''t you think? The timing. Something happened, we know that. You know that."
"Don''t get her off track. I still think it''s a red herring," Devonte says, a little louder and more forcefully, like it''s the one thing he''s cared about his entire life. "Ultimately, not really important. Just, like, a fun little coincidence. Surprise!"
I glance over at Jordan, but they''re not making eye contact. Neither are Tasha and Maggie, the two other members of our ragtag little crew present. They''re just huddled together in the corner, looking lost and scared and so, so young. Because that''s what they are. Children. Like me. I want to reach out to them, to fold them into my arms and tell them that everything''s going to be okay. But I don''t. Because it would be a lie.
I take a distant breath, trying to center myself. To focus on the here and now, on the problem right in front of me. "Okay," I say, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears. "Okay. So what does this have to do with, you know¡ everything else? Do we have a concrete tie to the Jump problem? Or, like, is there a shoe waiting to drop here, or¡"
Devonte and Akilah exchange a loaded glance, and I feel my heart sink in my chest. "Patriot." Akilah says, dropping the name like a brick onto my head. "Part of the initial batch of test subjects, before they even had a name for the project. You know he was a real no shit soldier? Overseas, during the war¡ He did shit, Bee."
"Anything above and beyond what soldiers normally get themselves into?" Jordan asks from their peanut gallery, clearly in that weird zone between disinterested and just interested enough where the snark lives.
"No," "Yes," Devonte and Akilah both say, simultaneously. Akilah rolls her eyes.
I feel like I''m going to be sick. Like the world is spinning around me, too fast and too bright and too loud. I clutch at the edge of the couch, my knuckles turning white as I try to ground myself. "What¡ What kind of shit?" I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
Chapter 116.3
Akilah sighs, looking back at me. "The details are hard to come by," she admits. "A lot of it''s still classified, or buried under so much red tape bullshit that it might as well be. But what we do know is that Patriot was involved in some seriously shady operations during his time with the military. Extrajudicial killings, torture of prisoners, coverups of civilian casualties¡ It''s all there, if you know where to look. I guess nobody cared to talk to their golden boy about it."
I nod slowly, my mind reeling as I try to process this new information. It''s one thing to suspect that Patriot is a bad guy, to know in your gut that he''s rotten to the core. But to have it laid out so plainly, so inescapably¡ It''s a lot to take in.
But there''s something else that''s bothering me, some piece of the puzzle that''s still missing. "What about the rest of them?" I ask, my brow furrowing. "I mean, it''s not just him. There''s¡ Hmm¡" I rummage for the names. "Egalitarian. And some others, right? Is he, like, hoodwinking them, or do you think they just don''t care?"
There''s a long, heavy pause, and then Akilah reaches into her bag and pulls out a small plastic baggie filled with something that looks like orange dust at first. But then it starts to move. It''s sand - orange, sparkly sand. Almost pretty. In another context it''d be gorgeous body glitter.
It''s blood. Dried, powdered Jump-blood. Or Fly-blood. Who knows. I know it as soon as I see it, those telltale flecks of orange.
My eyes go wide, my heart dropping into my stomach like a stone. "What the fuck," I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. "Is that¡ Is that what I think it is?"
Devonte nods grimly, his face drawn. "Egalitarian''s blood. Courtesy of our anonymous source. Still twitching with trace amounts of whatever the fuck''s in Fly. We don''t know when she started using, or how long it''s been going on. But we do know that it''s happening, and that she''s going to great lengths to keep it under wraps."
"We''re just smarter than her, that''s all. Couldn''t have happened to a nicer fascist," Akilah mumbles.
"But why?" I ask, my mind spinning. "She''s already a superhuman. She''s already got powers, right? Wasn''t she a superhero before Fly was a thing? Why would she need to¡ to juice herself up like this? Can you even do that?"
"Evidently," Jordan calls out.
"I thought if you got too many superpowers you just exploded, like Ricochet," I muse, half to myself, half to the room.
Akilah shrugs, her face unreadable. "Could be a lot of reasons," she says. "Insecurity, fear of being replaced. Maybe she''s just a junkie, or maybe it''s part of some larger plan. Who knows? Fly''s a hell of a fucking drug. But whatever her reasons, it''s a serious liability. For her, for Patriot, for the whole fucking Pattinson''s Pals operation. If word gets out that one of their top enforcers is a goddamn tweaker¡"
"Hey, don''t say that shit. I''ve met plenty of tweakers nicer than her," Devonte grumbles, sounding, for maybe the first time in my life, genuinely offended. He even gives Akilah a little punch to the shoulder, like the kind she usually gives him. "Anyway, whatever she''s juicing with, maybe it''s, like¡ a baby power. To jump up the edge? Or maybe something Brain-type that wouldn''t be visible. Maybe she''s dying of a brain tumor, dawg. Maybe, maybe, maybe."
He trails off, letting the implication hang in the air like a noose. I swallow hard, feeling the sudden urge to grab Jordan and Maggie and just¡ run. Leave the city, leave the costumes, leave all of this insane superhero business and everyone who''s gotten hurt by it behind. Forget it. Forget all of it. Go be a normal kid.
But I know I can''t. I''m in too deep, now. I''m part of this world, whether I like it or not. And if Patriot and Egalitarian are out there, running around with this kind of power and this kind of disregard for human life¡ Someone has to stop them. Someone has to try.
"This is fucking insane," Jordan mutters, their arms folded tightly across their chest. They''re not usually so quiet - I wonder if they''re feeling as blindsided as I am, right now. "I always knew those pigs were dirty, but this¡ And with Sam at the center of it all, right in their fucking crosshairs¡"
I glance over at Jordan, feeling a sudden rush of guilt and shame. I dragged them into this, didn''t I? Them and Maggie and Tasha and everyone else. I made them a part of my world, my fight, whether they wanted to be or not. I introduced them to a level of fear and distrust and paranoia that I don''t think any kid our age should have to deal with. Would it have been better if Jordan just remained a petty criminal, spent some time in Juvie, and then moved on with their life? If I never got myself involved in Illya''s business, and Maggie never almost died? If I was never Tasha''s friend, never dragged her or Kate or anyone else into their own personal hell?
And for what? What have I accomplished, really, besides painting a big fat target on my back and the backs of everyone I care about? What good has any of this done, besides driving a constant stream of danger and hurt towards the people I keep trying to protect?
I hit myself on the head, once, to stop the thoughts, and then twice more because it feels nice. Everyone looks at me like I''m crazy, but I wave my hand around a bit and take a deep breath.
"Okay," I say slowly, dragging a hand down my face. "Okay. So we know Patriot''s a war criminal, and Egalitarian''s a drug addict. Great. Fucking fantastic. What are we supposed to do with this information, exactly?"
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Devonte and Akilah exchange another one of those loaded glances, like they''re having a whole conversation without saying a word. "That''s the million dollar question, isn''t it?" Akilah says finally, leaning back on her hands. "We''ve got the intel, but what we do with it¡ That''s up to you, Bee."
"Me?" I ask incredulously, my voice cracking on the word. "Why me?"
"Because you''re the one they''re after," Devonte says simply, like it''s the most obvious thing in the world. "You''re the one who testified in front of Congress, who put your neck on the line to try and change things. They hate your secret identity and they hate your superhero identity. And you''re the one we can trust. You think someone like Patriot is going to enjoy having a civilian oversight board, and at your costumed recommendation?"
"That''s not true," I protest. "They want Jordan, really. I was just in the way."
Jordan looks at me with a pitying look, like not even they believe what I''m saying. "They got my website down, but I''m just an embarrassment they lashed out at because of a narcissistic injury,"
Akilah scrunches her face a little.
"You, unfortunately, young grasshopper, are a part of history now. I never testified to Congress. I just set them up to get videotaped punching a teenager in the face," Jordan breathes out, arms furled protectively over their own stomach. "I''m the spark, you''re the fire. Whatever you want to do, no matter what, I''m with you."
I feel like I can''t breathe, like the walls are closing in around me. I want to scream, to cry, to throw something heavy and breakable against the wall just to watch it shatter. But I don''t. I can''t. Not here, not now. Not with everyone watching me, waiting for me to be the leader they think I am. The leader they need me to be.
So I take a deep breath, and I push it all down. The fear, the anger, the overwhelming sense of helplessness that threatens to drown me every time I think too hard about the enormity of the task in front of me. I push it down, and I focus on what I know. What I believe.
"Well," Tasha asks, softly. "What now?"
I stand up, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. "Now," I say, my voice sounding a lot more sure than I feel, "we go talk to Patriot."
There''s a stunned silence for a moment, and then the room erupts into chaos. Jordan leaps to their feet, their face twisted into a mask of fear and disbelief. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" they demand, their voice shaking with barely-contained fury. "After everything we just heard, you want to go talk to that psychopath? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Maggie nods vigorously in agreement, her eyes wide and frightened behind her goggles. "Sam, no," she pleads, her voice trembling. "It''s too dangerous. He''ll kill you, or worse. You can''t-"
"I have to," I say, cutting her off with a sharp shake of my head. "Don''t you see? This is our chance to end this, once and for all. If we can confront Patriot with the truth, if we can make him see how far he''s fallen¡ Maybe we can stop this before it goes any further."
"And how well did that work out with Sparkplug, huh?" Jordan snaps, their voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or¡ Or Mr. Polygraph, or Mr. T-Rex, or any of those other deranged freaks? You go 1 and 5 on talk-no-jutsuing a supervillain and now you think you can make everything sunshine and rainbows with a quick call-in?"
I flinch like I''ve been slapped, the memory of Mr. T-Rex''s cold eyes and cruel grimace flashing through my mind like a bolt of lightning. I still dream about that night, sometimes - about the feeling of getting my foot turned into a fine soup.
"You''ve been reading that fucking comic too much, man. It''s rotting your brain," Jordan protests, running a hand through their hair. "I''m gonna beat up your grandpa."
"Hey!" I flare up, twisting myself around, rising to my feet on top of the sofa. "Leave my Pop-Pop out of this."
"I admire your optimism, but I don''t think appealing to the morality of a man who has personally committed war crimes is what we call a winning formula," Akilah snarks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Look. Some kid from school invited me to a counterprotest, or a protest, or whatever. I guaran-fucking-tee you that Patriot will be there. I''d bet good money he doesn''t know that his best buttbuddy is a Flyhead. Make your backup copies and throw them on the internet when your site comes back, Jord. I''ll go to a crowded place, even more crowded than Homecoming dance, and if he decides to beat the paste out of me again, well, once is a fluke, twice is data. That''s what my Dad says."
"Your dad''s stupid too," Jordan grumbles.
"Will you shut the fuck up? I have a plan. Patriot has not beaten me nearly as bad as half the other dipshits I''ve fought with. Deathgirl left me limping for weeks. I''m already basically fine from his little show of force. I''m not just being a stupid fucking bullheaded optimist about this, but I don''t want to have to¡ shiv anyone unless I really, really have to, you know?" I start yelling, my voice rising with every sentence. Eventually, it reaches a slight scream. "We can''t trust the fucking adults around us because they either can''t do anything because of red tape, can''t do anything because they don''t have superpowers, or, are like, an active threat to our health. You think the Senators I talked to don''t know everything about Project Thanatos or whatever it''s fucking called?"
"Titan," Tasha corrects me.
Unfortunately for her, my body sort of twists on its own. "I don''t care! What do you want me to do, go to Councilman Davis and go, hey, this guy who has half the country thinking its fine to beat a 15 year old girl bloody while being recorded has skeletons in his closet? Ooh, wow, that''ll really show him! Most of these people probably think him shooting someone overseas is awesome, man! If I leaked this to the press, ten dollars says his approval rating goes up! Superhuman terrorism is the issue du jour so we have some asshole killing terrorists like two decades ago? Fucking stoked to meet him, man! He sounds like just the sort of tough-as-nails thought leader we need running things! Can you guys just shut up for a fucking second? You think I''m gonna go convince him that being an asshole is bad when he already thinks murder is good? I said talk, not fellate."
I take a breath. I take another couple of breaths, sweat beading on my forehead. Everyone is staring at me like I''m a bomb about to go off. "Jesus. I''m not mad at any of you. Just¡ I do think about this stuff, believe me. It''s all I fucking think about since he smashed my skull against a wall. When a superhuman goes bad you''re supposed to talk to the NSRA, but, guess what, we have firsthand experience about how they''re all pieces of shit, and I''d bet good money they''re the ones that spearheaded Project Tightass in the first place. The only interesting thing here is the Fly. I''ll take this information and I''ll¡ do what I can with it. And if that explodes in my face and I''m not dead then you can all get your yuks telling me you told me so. Alright? Deal?"
It takes about a minute of me catching my breath for a murmur of assent to build in the room. I step into the kitchenette for some water. Then, because I''m only like twenty feet away, I step back in.
"Now, how fast can we get everything you''ve got onto Jordan''s computer?"
Chapter 117.1
The protest - the one Mike invited me to - is already in full swing by the time I arrive, a seething mass of bodies and noise that seems to fill the entirety of Dilworth Park. It''s a familiar scene, one that I''ve witnessed countless times over the past few months - the angry chants, the homemade signs, the palpable sense of tension and barely-contained violence hanging in the air like a thick, choking smog. I only take a cursory glance to look for Mike, and see him, somewhere near the back of the throng of bodies, with a couple of other kids from my school. It makes me happy.
But I keep my distance. I have bigger things to attend to, right now.
On one side, there''s the protesters themselves - a motley crew of young activists, old hippies, and everything in between, all united by their shared outrage at the latest round of Patriot''s bullshit. They''re a colorful bunch, decked out in a rainbow of red, black, and old denim, their signs a cacophony of slogans and demands.
"Pigs out of Public Health!"
"ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE!"
"Superpowers Don''t Make You Above Anything!"
And on the other side, there''s the counter-protesters - a larger, more vocal group, made up mostly of middle-aged white men and women in red hats and American flag t-shirts. They''re here to support Patriot and his goons, to shout down anyone who dares to question their twisted version of law and order.
"God Bless Our Patriot!"
"KEEP OUR STREETS SAFE!"
"Jordan Westwood is a Thug Who Needs To Be Arrested!"
"F**K ALL FLYHAED PUSSIES"
"So Much for ''Heroes'' For the People¡"
I stand there for a moment, taking it all in, feeling the familiar mix of anger and helplessness rising up in my throat like bile. I''m not in costume, not yet - just plain old Sam Small, another face in the crowd (albeit one wearing her superhuman costume under a layer of hoodie and sweatpants). Nobody gives me a second glance as I make my way through the throng, my eyes scanning the sea of faces for any sign of trouble.
And there, at the center of it all, like the eye of a hurricane, is Patriot himself.
He''s standing on a makeshift stage at the far end of the park, flanked by his usual crew of sycophants and thugs. Egalitarian is at his right hand, her body wrapped in that stupid dazzle camo bodysuit, looking for all the world like she just stepped out of some kind of fascist fitness video. "Zero" is on his left, his face hidden behind that ridiculous domino mask, his hands resting on the butts of the twin batons holstered at his hips. And then there''s the other two, ones I don''t know by name - the a strongfat woman with the guns and the big black guy in the high-vis gear. They look like they''re just itching for an excuse to start cracking skulls.
But Patriot himself¡ He looks different, somehow. Calmer, more in control. Like he''s finally figured out how to put on a mask - metaphorically - that doesn''t make him look like a raging psychopath.
He''s got a wireless microphone headset strapped on, the amplification sending his hyper-enunciated syllable-crowding voice booming out over the crowd like the word of G-d Himself.
"¡and what do they expect us to do? Sit back and let the criminals take over? Let them flood our streets with drugs and violence while we cower in fear?" The emotion is dripping off of his words like maple syrup off of a waffle, so lathered on. He''s practically chugging pure corn syrup to fuel his nonstop bloviating. "No. No, my friends! We are the patriots, the guardians of truth and justice for this city. We are the defense that terrified good citizens rely on when their so-called "heroes" would rather spend their time playing politics on Capitol Hill. We are the ones who will fight for law and order, for the values that made this country great. And we will not be silenced by the howling mob!"
Fuck me. He''s got them eating out of the palm of his hand, like a bunch of baby birds glomming for regurgitated worms.
The crowd erupts in a roar of approval, a sea of fists pumping in the air as they chant his name. "Pa-tri-ot! Pa-tri-ot! Pa-tri-ot!"
I feel my stomach turn, the taste of bile rising up in my throat. It''s one thing to know that people like him exist, but to see it in person, to witness the way he twists and manipulates the truth to suit his own twisted agenda¡ It''s like some fascist Cirque de Soleil.
But I force myself to push through the revulsion, to focus on the task at hand. I''ve got a job to do, and I can''t afford to let my personal feelings get in the way.
I''m never sure whether I''m lying to myself when I say that.
I take a deep breath, then start moving through the crowd, careful to keep my head down and my face hidden behind a pair of oversized sunglasses and a gray hoodie with the hood pulled up. I move like someone who is trying to move through the crowd as if I''m not moving through the crowd - like I just want to be not here, immersed in the mass of yelling so I can pop out the other side and have it be quiet again.
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I eventually make my way to the edge of the park, where a line of police officers in riot gear are standing shoulder to shoulder, their faces impassive behind their clear plastic shields. I size them up for a moment, trying to gauge their mood, their readiness. They look tense - not the kind of people you want to mess with. But I know I don''t have a choice. With someone as dangerous as Patriot on the loose, any hope of a peaceful resolution went out the window a long time ago.
I take one last look around, making sure I haven''t been spotted, then duck into a nearby alleyway, moving with quick, practiced efficiency as I strip off my street clothes and don my costume, going through the motions almost on autopilot. First, the heavy polymer underlayer that sits against my skin, protecting the important parts. Then, the lightweight plates overtop. Finally, the kevlar. Even with the underlayers, the costume isn''t that thick - two fingers, maybe. I''m not tanking rifle bullets with this thing - but there''s something comforting about having even the illusion of protection.
The helmet goes on last, blocking everything but my eyes and my bruised lower jaw. I put on a breathing mask under it, letting it all click into place - a necessary precaution, given my line of work, but also something to disguise my face. I take a moment to orient myself, then step back out into the alley, taking a deep breath of filtered air as I try to ready myself for what''s to come.
Only to nearly run smack into a young Black girl coming around the corner, her box braids whirling around her head in surprise as she stumbles back, eyes wide and startled. I can practically see myself reflected in her pupils - the hulking figure dressed in black and brown, faceless and blank and utterly inhuman.
"Ah, shit," I mutter, wincing internally at the sound of my own voice coming through the helmet''s voice modulator, all deep and gravelly and not the tiniest bit feminine. "Sorry, kid. Didn''t mean to scare you."
She just stares at me for a moment, her mouth hanging open in shock. Then, slowly, she raises a trembling hand and points at me, her voice barely more than a whisper. "You''re¡ You''re Bloodhound."
It''s not a question. I nod anyway. "That''s me."
"Thanks," she says, her voice wavering but filled with a fierce, desperate¡ something. "You saved my life. Back in August. You gonna fix this?"
I feel my throat tighten, a sudden rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I want to reach out to her, to pull her into a hug and tell her that everything''s going to be okay. But I can''t. Not like this. Not when I''m wearing the mask.
So instead, I just nod again, hoping she can see the resolve in my eyes even through the helmet. "I''m gonna try, kid. I promise you that."
I know the odds are stacked against me, know that I''m just one skinny teenager going up against a private army. But none of that matters now. All that matters is the tiny glimmer of hope I see flickering in little girl''s eyes, the shred of faith that there''s still someone out there willing to fight for them. To protect them. Even if she probably doesn''t even realize how old I am.
I give her one last nod, then turn and head back out into the park, my steps steady and purposeful as I make my way through the churning mass of humanity. I catch sight of Patriot almost immediately, his gleaming blue-and-white costume standing out like a beacon amidst the sea of black and blue and khaki. It''s a tight outfit that seems like it''s almost exploding off of his body, like it''s stapled on. It reminds me of a too-small uniform on a cartoon character - except this one''s got twin armbands of red and blue and an eagle on his chest.
He''s surrounded by a phalanx of security goons, with a line of cops trying to keep each of the protests from colliding into each other, but I don''t let that deter me. I walk right up to them, my hands held out to my sides in a gesture of peace (not that I couldn''t ball them into fists and start swinging at a moment''s notice). One of the security goons, a big, beefy guy with a shaved head and a neck like a tree trunk, steps forward to intercept me, his hand resting on the butt of his gun in a not-so-subtle threat.
"That''s far enough," he growls, his eyes narrowing behind his mirrored sunglasses. "State your business."
I stare at him for a moment, then reach into my pocket - extremely slowly - to grab my LUMA and flash it. I''m not concerned about Patriot seeing it from this angle, but I don''t let this guy scrutinize it for very long, either.. It''s not quite a pager to the President like Liberty Belle had, but it''s still a pretty fucking relevant position. "Bloodhound, Delaware Valley Defenders. I''m here to speak with Patriot. Hear his insights on the goings-on today, to maintain cordial and productive relationships between all of Philadelphia''s superpowered individuals. You know, stuff like that."
The guy''s eyes flick down to the badge, then back up to my face, his expression unreadable. But after a moment, he gives a curt nod and steps aside, jerking his head towards Patriot in a silent "go ahead".
I nod back, then push past him and into the small, open space that they''ve carved out around Patriot, like he''s some kind of untouchable idol. He''s talking to Egalitarian, his head bent close to hers as they confer in hushed tones, but he looks up as I approach, his eyes widening slightly in surprise (genuine or feigned, I can''t tell).
"Ah, Bloodhound," he says, his voice dripping with false warmth as he turns to face me fully. "What an unexpected pleasure. I must say, I''m surprised to see you here. Shouldn''t you be off chasing down some cat in a tree or another?"
There''s a barely-concealed jab in his words - like I''m somehow shirking my duties by showing up to do diplomacy instead of being a boy scout for the city. But I force myself to ignore it, keeping my own voice carefully neutral. "Just thought I''d come down and see how things were going. Make sure everything was staying peaceful. Gotta do what we can to keep a lid on these things, lest they start boiling over."
He chuckles at that, as if I''ve just told a particularly amusing joke. "Oh, I think we''ve got things well in hand here. I don''t know if you''ve noticed, but my associates and I have a bit of a knack for keeping the peace. For making sure that the¡ less savory elements stay in line."
I glance around pointedly, taking in the seething mass of angry protesters on either side of the police line, the tension crackling in the air like electricity. "I noticed. Seems like a real powder keg you''ve got here. Surprised you''re not more worried about it all going up in flames."
He waves a dismissive hand, his smirk never wavering. "Please. These people are all bark and no bite. They''ll shout and scream and wave their little signs, but at the end of the day, they know who''s really in charge. Just a question of having a firm hand on the wheel, is all."
I feel a surge of anger at his flippant tone, at the casual way he dismisses the very real concerns and fears of the people he claims to protect. But I bite my tongue, knowing that getting into a shouting match with him here and now won''t accomplish anything. So instead, I decide to try a different tack, to see if I can get him to let his guard down a bit.
Chapter 117.2
"Must be tough, being in charge all the time," I say. "Hard to find people you can rely on, people you can trust to have your back when the chips are down. Most people, they don''t know what it''s like. The kind of pressure that comes with being responsible for so many lives."
I see something flicker in his eyes at that, a momentary crack in that smug facade he wears like a second skin. "You''d know all about that, though, wouldn''t you?" he says, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "I heard about the incident with Deathgirl over at the courthouse. Can''t imagine that was a walk in the park."
"It wasn''t," I reply honestly, trying not to think too hard about the memory of her cruelty, the feeling of her spikes lancing through my thigh, leaving deep, bloody holes in their wake. "But we stopped her. That''s what matters."
He cocks his head to the side, studying me with a newfound intensity. "Now when you say ''stopped'' her¡"
"I mean, Daisy is not going to be leaving her jail cell for a very long time," I say flatly. "I put her there, and she''s going to stay there. With any luck, she''ll get the help she needs to get her head on straight." Unlikely. I didn''t fight her any more after getting her trussed up, but I did have to listen to her unhinged ranting beforehand.
"And Chernobyl? I heard you were the one who convinced that glowing bastard to turn himself in. How''d you manage that?"
I pause for a moment, considering my words carefully (while trying very very hard not to take offense to "glowing bastard". I decide not to fight that battle today). "Mr. Federov is a complicated man," I say finally. "A man no different than you or I in some ways. He made some bad choices, did some terrible things¡ but in the end, I think he just wanted to make things right. To atone for his sins. I think anyone can understand that - the desire to repay the world for one''s mistakes."
Patriot frowns, deep and heavy, his face scrunched up like tissue paper, his brow furrowed in thought. "And you think that''s enough? A few pretty words and a half-assed apology, and suddenly all is forgiven?"
I shake my head. "No, of course not. But Mr. Federov is in prison now, and he''s going to stay there for a long time. He''ll pay for what he''s done. It''s called ''restorative justice'' - the idea that punishment alone isn''t enough, that we need to focus on healing and rehabilitation as well."
"Restorative justice," Patriot snorts, his lip curling in contempt. "That''s the kind of soft-hearted bullshit that''s going to get us all killed. You mark my words, Bloodhound. The day we start coddling these freaks and lunatics is the day we sign our own death warrants."
There''s a coldness to his voice now, a hardness that wasn''t there before. The friendly, relaxed veneer is starting to crack, allowing the real man to peer through. The man who sees the whole world as a battlefield, everyone standing in opposition to him as the enemy - me included, I realize with a sinking feeling. G-d save anyone who winds up at ground zero of his blast radius.
I can tell that the conversation is going downhill fast, that I''m not going to get anywhere by trying to appeal to his sense of compassion or mercy. But maybe I can still salvage something useful out of this whole mess, if I play my cards right. I just need to find the right angle, the right pressure point to get him talking¡
"I suppose we all have our own ways of dealing with the burden," I say carefully, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. "Our own ways of coping with the things we''ve seen, the things we''ve had to do. I know that my experiences have changed me, sometimes in ways I''m not always proud of. Still working on trying to become the kind of hero this city deserves."
I see his eyes narrow at that, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. "What''s that supposed to mean?"
I shrug, trying to keep my body language casual even as my mind races to find the right words, words that will set him at ease without revealing too much. "Only that none of us are perfect. That even the best of us make mistakes, do things we''re not proud of. The important thing is that we learn from those mistakes, that we don''t let them define us."
Patriot lets out a bark of laughter, the sound harsh and grating against my ears. "Spare me the after-school special crap. You think I don''t know about mistakes? About the hard choices that come with wearing the uniform? I''ve been making those choices since before you were in diapers, kid." He leans in close, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. "You want to talk about duty? About strength? Let me tell you a little something about my time in the service."
He straightens up, his chest puffing out with pride as he launches into his story. "I enlisted right out of high school, you know. Wanted to serve my country, make a difference in the world. Wound up overseas, fighting terrorists and insurgents. And let me tell you, those were some mean sons of bitches. Had to be, to survive in a place like that. But we were meaner. Had to be, to do what needed to be done."
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There''s a faraway look in his eyes now, like he''s seeing something that isn''t there. Something that I can''t even begin to imagine, even with all the hero-ing I''ve done. "We did what was asked us overseas. We did things that stay with you. Things that change you, in ways a small fry like you can''t even begin to understand. But we did what we had to do. What our country asked of us. And we did it without complaint, without hesitation. Because that''s what it means to be a soldier. To be a patriot. To do the dirty work, so everyone else stays clean."
I nod slowly, trying to process everything he''s saying. Trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the monster I know him to be. "And is that what you''re doing now?" I ask quietly. "What your country is asking of you?"
He blinks, his eyes refocusing on me with a sudden sharpness. "What I''m doing now is what needs to be done. What no one else has the guts to do. This city is tearing itself apart, Bloodhound. Criminals and deviants running wild in the streets, the so-called ''heroes'' too busy playing politics to do anything about it. Someone has to take a stand. Someone has to draw a line in the sand and say ''no more''."
"Is that what you were doing at the homecoming dance?" I ask, my voice carefully neutral. "Drawing a line in the sand?"
He stiffens at that, his eyes narrowing to slits. "That was¡ an unfortunate incident. The girl was out of line, causing trouble where she had no business being. Protecting a criminal."
"She''s fifteen years old," I say softly, feeling a cold knot of anger twisting in my gut. "A child."
"Old enough to know better," he snaps, his voice sharp as a whip crack. "Old enough to understand that actions have consequences. What was I supposed to do, let her keep her terrorist friend safe? Convince everyone else that open rebellion to protect a threat to society is alright? No."
My stomach churns with sudden nausea, but I force myself to ignore it. "She was wearing a suit. A nice, black suit, probably a rental. She was trying to be pretty, not protect a criminal."
"Pretty?" He snorts. "I don''t care about how pretty she is. Physical appearance doesn''t mean anything to me. She was in the way. I don''t feel bad for insects that get splattered on the windshield when I''m driving."
"She''s an insect to you?" I ask, trying to keep my tone as even as possible.
His nostrils flare. "An insect raised by intellectuals. A pansy and a tax leech. I don''t care much for intelligentsia. As far as I''m concerned, as a species we''d probably be fine putting a stop sign right here and just focusing on keeping everything stable instead of constantly trying to change things. Let the socially liberal work out the last of their identitarian concerns, and then we can finish society. A nice final form, like a noble gas. With no room for rabble-rousers like the Smalls."
I want to scream, to lash out at him with a roundhouse right hook, to make him suffer for even daring to talk about my parents like they''re some kind of disease. But I don''t. I keep my hands clenched to my sides, white-knuckling and silent.
"You sure seem to know a lot about her," I say instead, my voice soft and dangerous. "About her family."
"It''s my job to know," he says bluntly, utterly unaware of who he''s speaking to and the unbelievable amount of shit I could do to him for that comment alone if he wasn''t a superhuman and I didn''t have the moral high ground. "To keep tabs on potential troublemakers like her and her kind. So next time she decides to stick her face where it doesn''t belong, we''ll be ready." He says the last word like he''s talking about hunting season - grim but excited, like she''s a deer he bags every year.
"Her kind?" I ask, my voice as cold as the grave, barely restraining the amount of pure acid that wants to leak out like venom. Like his blood, if I opened up his carotid right now.
"You know exactly what I mean," he says, his lip curling in a sneer. "Have you ever read Francis Fukuyama, kid? You really should."
I take a deep breath through clenched teeth, willing myself to stay calm. To stay focused. I can''t afford to lose control, not now. Not when I''m so close to getting what I need from him. "I''m not familiar,"
"His best work is this dense tome called ''the End of History'' - hold your horses, it''s not nearly as sinister as it sounds," he says, like that at all assuages me. "Just a compelling argument that liberal democracies like our own represent the ideal end goal, the natural way that all societies will end up. My handler in the NSRA made me read it about a decade ago. Really scratched my brain just right."
I nod, feigning interest. "So you believe our system is the best possible outcome for society?"
"Absolutely," he says, his eyes lighting up with fervor. "Look, I''ve seen what happens in countries that resist this natural progression. It''s chaos, bloodshed, oppression. Sometimes, for their own good, they need a push in the right direction. We need to topple homophobic theocrats and plutocratic dictators. It''s our duty as the shephards of western civilization."
"Even if that push comes at the end of a gun?" I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.
He doesn''t flinch. "If necessary, yes. It''s not about race or religion or any of that identitarian nonsense. It''s about values. About protecting and promoting a system that works."
"And what about people who come here, to America, from those other countries?" I probe, sensing a thread I can pull.
Patriot''s jaw tightens. "That''s the real threat, isn''t it? They bring their old ways, their resistance to progress. They don''t understand what we''ve built here, what we''re trying to protect. It''s not about where they''re from or what they look like. It''s about what they believe, what they''re willing to do to undermine our way of life. They don''t even have to be doing it on purpose. I don''t think they are. But they can''t do it here. They either have to Americanize, or leave."
Chapter 117.3
I fight to keep my expression neutral, even as my stomach churns. His logic is twisted, but I can see how he''s arrived at these conclusions. How he''s rationalized his actions, both past and present.
"I heard some rumors recently," I say carefully, keeping my tone casual, like I''m just making small talk. "About some kind of military project. Project Titan, I think they called it. Ring any bells?" I want to spit after those words, like I''m cleansing my mouth of the filth that came out of his. But I don''t.
He goes very still at that, his eyes flashing with something I can''t quite read. For a second, I''m sure I''ve tipped my hand, that he''s going to call me out on my bullshit and this whole thing is going to go sideways fast. But then he relaxes, just a fraction, and I know I''ve hit on something important.
"Where did you hear that name?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.
I shrug, keeping my body language loose and easy. "Around. You know how people talk. Especially in our line of work."
He grunts, his eyes darting around like he''s checking for eavesdroppers. "Project Titan was a long time ago. Ancient history. Nothing for you to concern yourself with."
"Sounds like it was pretty heavy stuff," I press, careful not to overplay my hand. "Using superhumans in black ops missions, trying to artificially induce powers¡ That''s some serious shit."
His head snaps back around to face me, his eyes burning with a sudden intensity. "Watch what you say in public, girl." he hisses, his voice barely above a whisper.
I hold up my hands in a placating gesture, trying to keep my own breathing steady. Like trying to calm down an angry chimpanzee before it rips you in half. "Hey, like I said, just rumors. But it got me thinking¡ about what kind of person it would take to be a part of something like that. The kind of things they might have seen. Might have done. It''s a heavy burden to carry, I imagine."
I''m not really expecting any grand revelations or sudden attacks of conscience at this point - I''m just fishing, trying to gauge his reactions. Trying to keep him off balance, steal control of the conversation even though he thinks he still holds it.
But to my surprise, I see something flicker in his eyes at my words. Something that looks almost like¡guilt? Regret? It''s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that cold, hard mask of self-righteous certainty. But for just a second, I glimpse the man beneath the mask. The man who''s seen and done things that no one should have to see or do.
For a second, I almost - almost - feel sorry for him.
"Do you know what the most important quality is for a soldier, Bloodhound?" he asks, his voice suddenly quiet, almost contemplative. "It''s not strength, or skill, or even courage. It''s conviction. The unshakable belief that what you''re doing is right, no matter how hard it gets. No matter what you have to sacrifice."
He looks away for a moment, his jaw working as he stares off into the distance. "I''ve made sacrifices for this country that you can''t even begin to imagine. Things that would give most people nightmares for the rest of their lives. And for the most part I sleep soundly, because I know without a shadow of a doubt that I''ve been doing the right thing - on foreign soil and in the homeland. I was doing the right thing. I''ve always done the right thing, whether anyone else had the stomach to do it or not."
"And Egalitarian?" I put the name into the open air like I''m lighting a fuse. "Does she share that same conviction? She doesn''t seem quite as sure of herself as she used to. Some might say her devotion has started to wobble a bit."
His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face before he schools his expression back to neutrality. He glances quickly towards where Egalitarian stands, yards away, then back to me. "I don''t know what you think you know about her," he says, his voice low and measured, "but her loyalty is beyond question. Beyond reproach. She is a true patriot, in every sense of the word."
There''s a hint of tension in his voice, barely perceptible but there. It''s not quite doubt, but definitely curiosity mixed with concern.
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"So you''re saying it doesn''t bother you at all?" I press, keeping my voice low.
He frowns, confusion evident in his expression. "What doesn''t bother me?"
I lean in slightly, ensuring my voice doesn''t carry. "That she''s been using Fly. That she''s been juicing herself up with the same filthy poison that half your protesters are out here railing against."
Patriot stiffens, his jaw clenching momentarily before he forces himself to relax. His eyes dart around, taking in the crowd surrounding us. "That''s a serious accusation," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "One that I can''t just ignore. But this isn''t the place to discuss it."
I nod, understanding his need for discretion. "I have proof," I say softly. "Her blood."
He takes a deep breath, clearly processing this information. His gaze flicks back to Egalitarian, then to the protesters around us. "We can''t do this here," he says firmly. "Too many ears, too many eyes. We need somewhere private to discuss this further."
"I agree," I reply. "How about Penn Treaty Park? Midnight. There''s an old abandoned warehouse by the Delaware that''ll give us the privacy we need."
Patriot considers for a moment, his eyes still occasionally glancing towards Egalitarian. "Fine," he says finally. "But just us. No backup, no tricks. I want answers, and I want them straight."
"Wouldn''t have it any other way," I assure him, sensing the tension in his voice.
He nods, then pauses, seemingly weighing his next words carefully. "These are serious allegations. You better have some serious proof. You understand that, right?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "I do. That''s why I''m bringing this to you directly. It''s not about taking anyone down. It''s about the truth."
Patriot''s expression hardens. "The truth," he repeats, almost to himself. "Sometimes I wonder if we''re even capable of recognizing it anymore."
"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely curious about his perspective.
He sighs, running a hand over his sweaty, bald head. "Look around us. Everyone''s got their own version of the truth. Their own agenda. It''s getting harder and harder to know who to trust."
"Even within your own ranks?" I probe gently.
His eyes snap back to mine, a flicker of anger crossing his face before he suppresses it. "My team is solid. Whatever you think you know about Egalitarian¡ well, we''ll get to the bottom of it. But don''t think for a second that this changes anything about our mission or our methods. Sometimes people waver from the path. But if I need to, I''ll fix her."
I hold up my hands in a placating gesture. "I''m not here to judge or condemn. I just want to understand."
Patriot nods slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Understanding. That''s a rare commodity these days. Most people are too busy shouting to listen."
"And you?" I ask. "Are you willing to listen? Even if what you hear might be uncomfortable?"
He''s quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant. When he speaks again, his voice is low, almost introspective. "I''ve seen things, Bloodhound. Let''s just say I''m no stranger to uncomfortable truths."
"Is that why you do this?" I gesture to the protest around us. "To protect people from those truths?"
He shakes his head. "No. I do this to protect them from the chaos that comes when those truths are ignored. When people forget what really matters."
"And what''s that?" I challenge, quietly.
"Order," he says firmly. "Stability. The knowledge that when you wake up in the morning, the world will still be there, still make sense. That''s what we''re fighting for. That''s what Egalitarian and I and the rest of us have dedicated our lives to preserving."
I nod, processing his words. "And if that stability comes at a cost? If it requires¡ compromises?"
His expression hardens again. "Everything has a cost. The question is whether you''re willing to pay it. Whether you''re strong enough to do what needs to be done, even when it''s hard. Even when it hurts."
"Is that what you''ll do if what I tell you tonight turns out to be true?" I ask softly. "Whatever needs to be done?"
Patriot''s gaze is steely, unwavering. "I''ll do what''s necessary to protect this city, this country. Whatever that entails. You can count on that."
We stand there for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. Finally, I break the silence. "Midnight, then. Don''t be late."
He nods curtly. "I won''t be. And Bloodhound? I hope, for everyone''s sake, that you''re wrong about this. But if you''re not¡" He trails off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.
"I understand," I say, and I do.
As I turn to leave, Patriot calls out one last time. "And Bloodhound? Come alone. No tricks, no ambushes. Just you and me, laying our cards on the table. Understood?"
He seems to think that I haven''t made some sort of decision already. And I''m not sure - have I? I expected him to fly into a rage, to throttle me in public, to be unable to work out his anger. To an extent, I''m still expecting that. I''m not under any illusion that there''s a high likelihood he''s trying to drag me into a trap, to get rid of any evidence that I''m bringing.
I may be naive and idealistic, but I''m not stupid.
I give a curt nod, my lips pressed into a thin line. "Understood."
"Then midnight it is." He mirrors my nod, something flashing the faintest of glimmers of a smile dancing across his weighty, square features. Something angry and fearful. Something that triggers my primal fear state, something that hits me at the base of my brainstem and causes it to vibrate a little bit. "Don''t be late. I don''t like to be kept waiting."
"I don''t plan on it," I reply, making my way back into the crowd, vanishing into the afternoon.
Chapter 118.1
The abandoned warehouse looms before me, a hulking shadow against the night sky. Its rusted metal siding gleams dully in the moonlight, riddled with holes and graffiti tags. The windows are mostly broken, jagged shards of glass still clinging to their frames like rotting teeth. The whole place reeks of decay and neglect, a forgotten relic of Philadelphia''s industrial past.
I''ve been here for hours already, pacing the perimeter, checking and double-checking everything. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth, a constant reminder of just how much is at stake tonight. I keep running through different scenarios in my head, trying to anticipate every possible outcome. But the truth is, I have no idea how this is going to go down. All I know is that I can''t afford to screw it up.
The warehouse sits at the edge of Penn Treaty Park, right on the banks of the Delaware River. To my left, I can see the Benjamin Franklin Bridge stretching across the water, its lights twinkling like stars. To my right, the city skyline looms in the distance, a jagged silhouette against the night sky. It''s beautiful, in its way. A reminder of what I''m fighting for.
I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. The cool night air fills my lungs, carrying with it the scent of the river - a mix of brine and pollution that''s uniquely Philly. I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the distant hum of traffic, the lapping of waves against the shore. It''s almost peaceful.
Almost.
But I can''t afford to relax. Not now. Not with Patriot on his way. I open my eyes and scan the area one last time, my gaze lingering on the spots where I''ve made my preparations. Everything looks good. As ready as it''s going to be, anyway.
I check my watch. 11:55 PM. He''ll be here soon.
As if on cue, I hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Heavy, purposeful strides that can only belong to one person. I turn towards the sound, my body tensing as I catch sight of a familiar silhouette emerging from the shadows.
Patriot.
He''s dressed in his full costume, the red, white, and blue of his uniform standing out against the gloom of the warehouse, the harsh yellow glow of the nearby streetlights, trickling in like clawmarks into the warehouse proper. His face is set in a grim expression, his eyes hard and cold as he approaches. He moves with the confident swagger of a man who''s used to getting his way, who''s never had to question his own authority.
"Bloodhound," he says by way of greeting, his voice gruff and businesslike. "You''re early."
I shrug, trying to project an air of casual confidence that I definitely don''t feel. "Figured I''d scope the place out. Make sure we weren''t walking into any surprises. I hope you didn''t bring Zero along?"
"Zero, Egalitarian, Para, Bulldozer - they''re all crowd control. You''re not a crowd. You''re a junior hero," he replies, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in my appearance. Despite everything else about him, it comes across as genuine, not condescending. The implied ''you''re not worth the crowd control'' seems less like talking down to me and more pragmatism. I can almost hear the ''they have better things to do'' in his voice. "That''s quite the getup you''ve got there. Expecting trouble, or just getting ready for Halloween?"
I roll over the words in my head, trying to scan them for sarcasm, but it comes out remarkably sincere in the wash. I glance down at myself, suddenly self-conscious of my heavily armored costume and the various gadgets strapped to my belt. "Just came from patrol," I lie smoothly. "Thought it was better to be over-prepared than under. These are my streets, after all. My house."
His gaze lingers on the gauntlet strapped to my wrist, a flicker of something - curiosity? concern? - passing across his face. "I trust you - for now. That''s a fancy glove. New toy?"
I flex my fingers, feeling the reassuring weight of the gauntlet. "Old toy, actually. Just a support device for my powers" I lie. "When you have something as niche as what I have, you get used to making do."
"Hmm," he says, clearly not entirely convinced. "Well, I suppose we should get down to business then. You said you had proof about Egalitarian. Let''s see it."
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what''s to come. "Before we get to that, I think we need to talk about Project Titan."
Patriot''s expression darkens, his jaw clenching visibly. "I told you before, that''s ancient history. It''s got nothing to do with what''s happening now."
"I''m not so sure about that," I press on, knowing I''m treading on dangerous ground. "From what I''ve heard, it sounds like the kind of thing that could have some pretty serious long-term consequences. The kind of thing that might lead to, oh I don''t know, a sudden surge in metahuman drugs flooding the streets?"
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He barks out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. "You''ve got some imagination, kid. Project Titan was a military operation, pure and simple. We did what was necessary to protect this country, to keep people safe. Nothing more, nothing less."
"And I''m sure all those ''necessary'' actions were completely above board, right?" I can''t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "No war crimes or anything like that?"
Patriot''s eyes flash dangerously, and for a second I think he might actually take a swing at me. But he controls himself, his voice low and tight when he speaks. "I hope you don''t think ''soldiers killing people'' is anything interesting, lady. Nobody wants to hear that. It''s old news. And I did what I was ordered to do - what was needed to be done."
I bite back the urge to point out that that''s the same argument the Nazis used at Nuremberg. Instead, I press on. "And what about the experiments? The attempts to artificially induce superpowers?"
He waves a dismissive hand. "Ancient history. Failed experiments, nothing more."
"Are you sure about that?" I ask, my voice low and intense. "Because I''ve got a theory. A theory that those ''failed experiments'' might not have been so failed after all. That maybe, just maybe, they led to something. Something like, oh, I don''t know¡ Jump? Fly?"
Patriot goes very still, his eyes burning with a sudden, dangerous intensity. "That''s a hell of an accusation to make without proof," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
I reach into my pocket, slowly and deliberately, making sure he can see every move. "Who says I don''t have proof?"
I pull out a small plastic baggie filled with what looks like orange glitter. Egalitarian''s blood, crystallized and sparkling in the dim light. Patriot''s eyes widen as he sees it, a flicker of recognition passing across his face.
"What the hell is that?" he demands, even though we both know exactly what it is.
"Egalitarian''s blood," I say simply. "Chock full of Fly. And DNA, if you want to take it back and test it yourself."
His hand twitches towards the baggie, but I pull it back before he can grab it. "Ah ah ah," I chide. "That''s not all I''ve got."
I reach into my pocket again, this time pulling out a small, folded photograph. I unfold it carefully, holding it up for Patriot to see. It''s a grainy image, clearly taken from a distance, but the subject is unmistakable - Egalitarian, her sleeve rolled up, a syringe pressed against her skin.
Patriot''s face goes pale, then flushes with anger. "Where did you get that?" he snarls, lunging for the photo.
I dance back, keeping it just out of reach. "Doesn''t matter. What matters is that I''ve got it. And a whole lot more where that came from."
His eyes narrow dangerously. "Is that a threat?"
I shake my head. "Not a threat. A fact. I''ve got a dead man''s switch set up. If anything happens to me, and I don''t show back up in one piece to my base of operations, all of this goes public. Every last dirty detail."
Patriot barks out a harsh laugh. "You think I''d kill you over this? You really are green, aren''t you?"
"Maybe not," I concede. "But I think you''d do just about anything to keep this quiet. To protect your team. Your mission."
His face hardens, all traces of amusement vanishing. "You have no idea what you''re messing with here, lady. No idea of the forces you''re up against."
"Then enlighten me," I challenge. "Because from where I''m standing, it looks like your team is compromised. Your second-in-command is using the very drug you''re out there railing against. How long before she slips up? Before someone else finds out? What will she do to get more?"
Patriot''s fists clench at his sides, his whole body vibrating with barely-contained rage. "You don''t know what you''re talking about," he growls. "Egalitarian is a true patriot. A hero. Whatever she''s done, whatever she''s taken, it was for the good of the mission. For the good of this country."
I shake my head, a sick feeling settling in my gut. "You really believe that, don''t you? That the ends justify the means? That you can just sweep all of this under the rug and pretend it never happened?"
"What I believe," he snarls, taking a menacing step towards me, "is that you''re way out of your depth here, lady. You think you can just waltz in here with your half-baked theories and your stolen evidence and dictate terms to me? I''ve been doing this since before you were born. I''ve made the hard choices, sacrificed everything for this country. Who the hell are you to judge me?"
I stand my ground, refusing to be intimidated. "I''m someone who believes in justice. In accountability. In doing the right thing, even when it''s hard. And that with great power comes great responsibility."
He cackles like a hyena, his laughter ugly and grating like metal scraping against metal. "Alright, Peter Parker. Sure. Let''s do it your way, and see how long your child''s ideology hewn from stories for weak nerds lasts against the rigors of the real world. No, we do justice my way. The right way."
"And what about the people you''re supposed to be protecting?" I demand. "Don''t they deserve to know the truth? To have a say in how their city, their country, is being run?"
Patriot''s eyes narrow dangerously. "The people need to be protected. Sometimes from themselves. They don''t understand the threats we''re facing, the sacrifices that need to be made."
"And you do?" I challenge. "You think you have the right to make those decisions for everyone else?"
"Someone has to," he growls. "Someone has to be willing to do what needs to be done. To make the hard choices."
I shake my head, feeling a mixture of pity and disgust. "And that someone is you? The great Patriot, judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one?"
His face twists with rage. "Watch your tone. You have no idea who you''re dealing with."
"Oh, I think I do," I say, my voice hard and cold. "I''m dealing with a man who''s so convinced of his own righteousness that he''s lost sight of everything else. A man who''s willing to trample on the very ideals he claims to protect, all in the name of some twisted version of ''justice''."
Patriot''s whole body goes rigid, his eyes blazing with fury. "You don''t know the first thing about justice," he snarls. "About what it takes to keep this country safe. You''re just a naive kid playing at being a hero. I''m not stupid. You can wear as much Halloween gear as you want, but it won''t make you an adult, Bloodpuppy."
I feel my own anger rising to match his, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. "And you''re a washed-up soldier who can''t let go of the past. Who''s so scared of change, of losing control, that you''d rather burn everything down than admit you might be wrong."
Chapter 118.2
For a moment, we just stand there, glaring at each other, the air between us crackling with tension. Then, Patriot speaks, his voice low and dangerous.
"You want to play with the big boys, Bloodhound? Fine. Let''s play. But don''t think for a second that your little dead man''s switch or your fancy gadgets are going to save you. You''re in way over your head here."
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze defiantly. "Maybe. But at least I''m not drowning in my own bullshit. I''m going to expose you, Patriot. You and Egalitarian and this whole rotten system you''ve built. The people deserve to know the truth."
Something shifts in Patriot''s eyes then, a cold, calculating look replacing the raw fury. "No," he says quietly. "You''re not."
I barely have time to react before his fist is hurtling towards my face, a blur of red, white and blue. Instinct takes over, my body moving on autopilot as I duck beneath the blow, using my smaller size to my advantage. I feel the rush of displaced air as his punch whistles past my ear, missing me by mere inches.
But I don''t have time to savor the dodge. I''m already striking back, my own fist lashing out like a viper, aiming for Patriot''s solar plexus. I feel the impact reverberate up my arm as my knuckles connect with solid muscle, driving the air from his lungs in a surprised grunt.
For a split second, I think I''ve got him. That I''ve managed to catch him off guard, to level the playing field just a bit. But Patriot is too stable to let a single blow take him down. He stumbles back a step, his eyes widening in surprise, but he recovers almost instantly, his body falling into a defensive stance.
I don''t give him a chance to regain his footing. I reach for the remote killswitch at my belt, my fingers finding the button and pressing down hard. Instantly, the warehouse is plunged into darkness, the dim glow of the streetlights outside snuffed out like candles.
Thanks, Tasha.
I hear Patriot curse under his breath, his eyes straining to pierce the sudden gloom. But I know he''s not helpless - his senses are too sharp, too finely honed for that. I can practically feel him tracking my movements in the dark, his ears pricked for the slightest sound, his nose twitching as he tries to catch my scent.
But two can play at that game. I retrieve another tool from my belt - a small vial of pig''s blood attached to a spray bottle nozzle. I point towards where his silhouette intersects towards the moonlight, depress, and pray.
PFSHHT
I feel the disturbance in the air a split second before Patriot''s foot lashes out in a powerful kick, aimed straight at my wrist, knocking my blood spray out of my hand and snapping against my palm. I can''t stop myself from taking a deep, pained breath - but the pig blood coats his foot, and now I can see him. The second kick is easy - I''m already moving, pivoting to the side and reaching out to grab his ankle with both hands. I channel all my momentum into a sharp twist, using an aikido technique Rampart drilled into me to redirect Patriot''s attack.
I feel a grim sense of satisfaction as I hear him grunt in surprise, his body flailing as he''s thrown off balance. I don''t have much hope that he''ll stay down - he''s too good for that - but it buys me a precious second or two to catch my breath, to keep him on the carefully planned line I''ve set out for him. He goes head over ass and rolls against the ground, smashing into the wall with his own momentum.
But Patriot is already recovering, his body coiling like a spring as he launches himself back to his feet. I can practically feel the rage radiating off of him, the fury at being caught off guard, at being made to look like a fool by some punk kid in a mask.
He comes at me like a freight train, his fists flying in a blur of motion. It''s all I can do to stay ahead of him, my body weaving and dodging on pure instinct, relying on my blood sense to track his movements in the dark. I feel the rush of air as his punches whistle past my face, my chest, my gut, each one coming closer and closer to connecting.
But I''m not just playing defense. Every chance I get, I lash out with my own attacks, my gloved fists striking at Patriot''s arms, his hands, trying to cut open his costume and spill something more. I feel the satisfying crunch of cartilage as one of my punches connects with his nose, the warm gush of blood spattering across my knuckles - and then I can see him.
Patriot grunts in pain, one hand coming up to clutch at his face. But he doesn''t falter, doesn''t slow down. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on, to feed the rage boiling inside of him.
He changes tactics, using the environment to his advantage. I hear the scrape of metal against concrete as he grabs hold of a loose pipe, ripping it free from the wall in a shower of dust and debris. He swings it in a wide arc, the heavy length of metal whistling through the air like a baseball bat.
I drop to the ground, feeling the rush of air as the pipe scythes through the empty space where my head was, and let the fear of death slide off me like oil off a pan. I let my momentum carry me into a low sweep, my leg lashing out to catch Patriot behind the knees. I feel a surge of triumph as I connect, feeling his legs buckle beneath him, sending him stumbling off balance.
But my victory is short-lived. Patriot is too well-trained, too experienced to be taken down by such a simple trick. He rolls with the impact, using his own momentum to carry him back to his feet in one smooth motion. His hand shoots out, faster than I can blink, latching onto my wrist in an iron grip.
Pain lances up my arm as he wrenches it behind my back, the bones grinding together in their sockets. But I don''t hesitate, don''t even think. I just act, letting my body take over as I twist violently to the side, feeling the sickening pop as my shoulder dislocates from the force of the movement.
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Patriot grunts in surprise, his grip loosening just a fraction as he tries to process what just happened. But that split second of hesitation is all I need. I rear back, slamming my helmeted forehead into his face with all the force I can muster. I feel the crunch of bone as his nose shatters under the impact, blood gushing down his face in a hot, sticky torrent.
He reels back, one hand clutching at his ruined nose, his eyes watering from the pain. But even through the haze of agony, he can still work through his training, an impossible machine. His other hand lashes out, catching me in the ribs with a blow that feels like a sledgehammer to the chest.
I feel my ribs crack under the impact, the pain exploding through my body like a supernova. But even as I gasp for breath, even as my vision swims with black spots, I can feel my healing factor kicking in, trying to hold my ribs together in a desperate attempt to keep me fighting.
It''s not enough to make the pain go away - nothing could do that - but it''s enough to keep me on my feet, enough to keep me in the fight. And right now, that''s all that matters.
"Is that all you''ve got, old man?" I taunt, my voice ragged with pain but dripping with mocking laughter. "No wonder they put you out to pasture. You''re losing your touch."
Patriot snarls like a wounded animal, his bloody face broken out into a violent snarl. "You don''t know anything, girl."
"I know enough," I shoot back, my words cutting like knives. "I know you''re just a glorified thug, a bully with a badge. You talk a big game about justice and order, but all you really care about is power. All you want is for people to bow down and kiss your shiny jackboots."
He lunges at me, his fists swinging in wild, haymaker arcs. There''s less coordination, sure, but that doesn''t make him less dangerous - he''s throwing his entire body into scything blows that could probably snap my neck in half if he connected. But I can see in the dark, and he can''t. I keep him going, backing him up, pulling him into my web.
I hear the twang of metal a split second before Patriot stumbles, his legs tangling in the near-invisible tripwire I''ve strung across the floor. He pitches forward, his arms windmilling as he tries to catch himself. But I''m already there, my fists lashing out in a flurry of blows, targeting his kidneys, his ribs, a knee with a single tooth at the end ramming into his stomach so hard he coughs up blood onto my kevlar.
He grunts and groans under the onslaught, his body jerking like a feral mole trying to rip out grass. But even caught off guard, even in pain, he''s still a formidable opponent. One flailing arm catches me across the chest, sending me flying backwards into a stack of moldy wooden pallets. I hit the ground hard, my breath leaving me in a whoosh. But I force myself back to my feet, ignore the screaming protests of my body.
He''s on the back foot. Before, he had the element of surprise. But now, we''re in my element.
Patriot has already broken free of the tripwire, his face a mask of pure, unbridled fury. He comes at me like a runaway train, his huge fists clenched and ready to strike. I push my thumb into my exposed palm, the sliver opened up to the air through my gloves. I feel the sting of the cut, the hot gush of blood welling up in my cupped hand. And then I''m moving, whipping my arm forward and sending a spray of crimson droplets flying into Patriot''s eyes.
He reels back, his hands coming up instinctively to claw at his face. But I''m not done yet. My other hand is already delving into my belt pouch, coming up with a small canister of pepper spray. I thumb off the safety and let loose a stream of the burning, blinding chemicals, aiming straight for Patriot''s vulnerable eyes and nose.
He howls in agony, his hands scrabbling to wipe away the blood and the caustic spray. But I''m already closing in, my fists and feet lashing out in a relentless barrage of strikes. Kicks, punches, knees and elbows. "You fight like a pussy!" he screams, before receiving another palm strike to the face with my other hand.
But even blinded, even in agony, Patriot is far from helpless. Even with his eyes shut. One huge hand shoots out, grabbing me by the front of my costume and yanking me off my feet, while the other hand grabs for my wrist and squeezes it so hard that I can feel it creaking. He pulls me in close, so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my face, smell the coppery tang of his blood.
Crack. That''s all it took - a second of overconfidence, and my wrist is broken. I can''t stop the scream that comes out of me, at least for a second, but then I bite it back down, squirming in his grip.
And then he''s spinning, whipping me around in a brutal arc and slamming me face-first into the warehouse wall. I feel something crack inside my helmet, feel the plastic splinter and give way under the force of the impact.
I''m stunned, disoriented, my head ringing like a bell. But I force myself to keep fighting, to keep struggling even as Patriot''s hands close around my throat, squeezing with all the strength of a hydraulic press.
My helmet falls away in pieces, clattering to the floor in a rain of shattered plastic. I tense one hand enough to turn the prepared lights back on, blindingly bright. And suddenly, I''m staring up into Patriot''s face, my features laid bare for him to see. His eyes widen in shock, in recognition, his grip on my neck loosening just a fraction.
"Small?" he whispers, his voice hoarse with disbelief and physical agony. "Small?"
A little louder this time, a little angrier. His mind is clearly racing as he tries to put the pieces together. But I don''t give him the chance to process. I''m already moving, already taking advantage of his momentary distraction, the loosening of his hands.
I lash out with a brutal headbutt, feeling the bone crunch as my forehead collides with his already-broken nose. At the same time, my hand claws downward, scrabbling at Patriot''s leg until my fingers close around the holster of¡ something. I don''t know. I rip it free and slam it into his face, my other hand reaching back down into my belt. I kill the lights, and toss his toy into the daarkness.
Patriot howls like a scorched bear, one hand flying to his face to try to stem the tide of blood pouring from his ruined nose. But his other hand is back in action, locked again around my throat, still squeezing with enough force to make spots dance in front of my eyes.
He yanks me in close, his brutal face twisted with rage. I can smell the blood on his breath, feel the heat radiating off him like he''s about to go nuclear.
"You''ve just made the biggest mistake of your life," he snarls. "I am going to--"
But whatever threat he was about to make is lost as my hand flashes up, teeth burying themselves in the side of his collarbone, ripping through the thinnest part of his costume, drawing blood. Patriot''s eyes go wide with shock, with disbelief, with pain. His hand falls away from my throat as he stumbles backwards, his fingers scrabbling weakly at the carved ravine in his flesh.
I drop to the ground, gasping and retching. Every breath feels like spikes in my lungs, but I force myself to suck down air, force myself to stay focused. I look up at Patriot, see him swaying on his feet, blood pouring down his arm and face in crimson rivulets.
For a moment our eyes lock, brown on blue. In that instant, I see the man behind the mask, see the pain and the anger and the bitter, aching emptiness that drives him. I see the boy who became a soldier, the soldier who became a monster. I see the toll this life has taken on him, the pieces of himself he''s sacrificed on the altar of his twisted ideals.
And I know in that moment that he needs to be put down like an animal.
Chapter 118.3
I use Patriot''s moment of shock to my advantage, wrenching myself free from his slackened grip with a desperate burst of strength. I stagger back, putting some distance between us, my hand fumbling at my belt for a syringe. I yank it free, holding it out in front of me like a talisman, like a shield against the fury I can see building in Patriot''s eyes, and then load it into my gauntlet.
"You know what this is?" I rasp, my voice raw and broken from his chokehold. "A little gift from one of my vigilante friends. A nasty poison, cooked up special just for assholes like you."
Patriot''s eyes narrow, his gaze flicking from the gauntlet to my face and back again. I can see the wheels turning in his head, see him trying to calculate the odds, trying to decide if I''m bluffing or not. I can also see him clocking who I am, my true identity. Knowing now that the person he beat to all hell weeks earlier lies underneath this mask. And I see that knowledge harden his resolve, see it turn his anger from hot to cold.
"You think that little toy scares me, Small?" he growls, spitting my name like a curse. "You think anything scares me anymore? I''ve seen things, done things that would make your skin crawl. You''re just another obstacle in my way, another threat to be eliminated." I see the slightest of twitches run through one of his shoulder muscles, sense the blood flowing through him, a tell so subtle I almost miss it. He''s about to lunge.
And lunge he does. The pain seems to only amplify the rage in his blue eyes as he propels himself forward with a brutal, animalistic roar, a guttural sound that seems to reverberate through my very bones. His fists are up, ready to pummel, to crush, to destroy.
I meet his charge head-on, my own battered body screaming in protest as I throw myself forward. I take a glancing blow to the side of my head, feeling my ear explode with pain, but I push through it, letting my momentum carry me inside his guard. My shoulder, the one I dislocated earlier, slams into his chest, and I feel the joint pop out of its socket once again, the pain so intense it feels like my vision whitens out for a second.
But it''s worth it, because now I''m close, now I''m inside his reach, and he can''t bring his full strength to bear. And now, the gauntlet is pressed against his bleeding shoulder, the needles poised over the open wound like the fangs of a snake.
"You fought well, even if you''re still just a puppy," Patriot snarls, his face so close to mine I can feel his breath, hot and coppery with blood. "But it''s over now. You''re finished."
"Funny," I hiss through gritted teeth. "I was just about to say that,"
KASHUNK!
The sound seems to echo through the warehouse as I trigger the gauntlet, the twin syringes slamming into Patriot''s flesh, the plungers depressing and flooding his wound with the liquid.
Patriot''s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open in a shocked ''O''. For a moment he just stands there, his body rigid, his face slack with disbelief. And then he starts to laugh, a harsh, broken sound that''s almost more terrifying than his roars of rage.
"You stupid little bitch," he chuckles, shaking his head as if chiding a naughty child. "You think that''ll stop me? You think anything can stop me?"
"No," I say, my voice surprisingly calm despite the hammering of my heart. "But it''ll sure as hell slow you down. And now that you''re poisoned, you''re going to have to come to the negotiating table if you want the antidote. Or your crusade will end as quickly as it started."
For a long moment we just stand there, both of us battered and bleeding, both of us barely able to stay on our feet. The rage in Patriot''s eyes has dimmed to a smolder, replaced by a cold, calculating look that somehow scares me even more. He takes two steps back, then another two.
"Alright," he says at last, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, like an elephant''s infrasound. "Tell me what you want. And I''ll tell you if you get to leave here in one piece or not."
I nod, taking a step back, my hands held out in a placating gesture. "First things first. You''re going to stand down. Call off your dogs, wind down these protests. And you''re going to leave Jordan Westwood alone. They''re not a threat to you or your precious order. You stick to South Philly, and we won''t have any problems."
Patriot barks out a harsh, humorless laugh. "You think you can dictate terms to me? After everything that''s happened? You''ve got balls, kid, I''ll give you that. But you''re in no position to make demands. You think I''ll get tricked by some water in a syringe? I''ve got better things to do. This is a mercy - I''ll throw you a single bone, but that''s it."
My heart drops, but I try my best not to let it show.
"Actually, I am. In a position, I mean," I counter, my voice hardening. "See, I''ve got more than just poison in my arsenal. I''ve got proof of Egalitarian''s drug use. Photos, videos, the works. How do you think that''ll play with your adoring public? Their great hero, nothing more than a filthy junkie?"
Patriot''s jaw clenches, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Not this shit again. You think they''ll care? You think I''m buying your little poison lie?"
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"Are you willing to take that chance?" I ask. "You should know by now I don''t fight fair. If you didn''t buy it, you wouldn''t have stopped attacking me. That pepper spray must''ve tasted good, huh?"
He''s silent for a long moment, his red, watery eyes boring into mine, searching for any sign of weakness, any hint of something that can be retaliated against. But I meet his gaze unflinchingly, my resolve unshakable. At any moment, I know if he doesn''t buy what I''m selling, this could all be over. There''s simply no way I can win a protracted fight, even with all my prep time, even with all my guerilla tactics and unfair fighting.
My heart beats once.
Twice.
A third time.
Finally, he nods, a single, curt jerk of his head, and I try not to breathe a sigh of relief.
"Fine," he grits out, the word sounding like it''s being dragged out of him against his will. "We''ll do it your way. For now. But this isn''t over, Small. Not by a long shot."
"No," I agree, a mirthless smile tugging at my split lips. "But it''s a start."
"Now fix me," he growls in response.
I hit the switch on my belt again, the lights flickering back to life, casting the warehouse in a harsh, unforgiving glare. Patriot and I stand there for a moment, sizing each other up, taking stock of our wounds, our weaknesses. We''re both barely standing, both just a hair''s breadth away from collapse.
"Let''s be clear," I say, breaking the tense silence. "This is a mutual non-aggression pact. You stay out of my way, I stay out of yours. But if you slip up, if you step out of line even an inch, I will come for you. And I will bring the full weight of everything I have down on your head. You may have me beat in public, when I have to be a defenseless little princess, but I can make your life a nightmare in the shallows."
Patriot''s eyes flash with barbarian fury, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. I can see the battle raging within him, the desire for revenge warring with his instinct for self-preservation. In the end, pragmatism wins out, but only just.
"Understood," he says, the word sounding like it''s being pulled through broken glass. "But don''t think this means you''ve won, Small. Don''t think for a second that you''ve beaten me."
I almost laugh at that, the absurdity of it all hitting me like a slap in the face. "Beaten you? No, Patriot. That was never my goal. My goal was to stop you, to protect the people I care about from your ridiculous crusade. And I''ve done that. Whatever happens next¡ that''s up to you."
I reach down to my belt, fumbling for the spare syringe of saline I''ve prepared, intending to reload the gauntlet as a show of good faith. But before I can even draw it out all the way, Patriot''s hand lashes out like a striking snake, snatching the syringe from my grasp.
For a moment I think he''s going to use it as a weapon, to try to turn the tables on me one last time. But instead, he brings it to his own shoulder, jamming the needle into his flesh just above my previous injections. Saline on top of saline. Total nothing.
There was never any poison, but I won''t tell him that.
"There," he snarls, tossing the empty syringe aside. "Now we''re even."
I just shake my head, too exhausted, too wrung out to even try to untangle his twisted logic. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Patriot. But remember our deal. Remember what''s at stake."
"What about your precious sidekick?" he shoots back, his voice dripping with venom. "You think I''ll just let her slide, after everything she''s done? After the chaos she''s caused?"
"Jordan is my responsibility," I say, my voice hard and unyielding. "You focus on your own rabble-rousers. If Egalitarian steps out of line, if she so much as jaywalks, I will personally hand her over to District Attorney Alvarez. You know Carla, right? Mr. South Philly Hero. Well, she and I had a lovely chat after that congressional hearing. Now, I''m proud to call her a friend of mine - and she''s been just itching for a chance to make inroads on this Fly situation."
I''ve never even met Alvarez, let alone considered her a friend. But Patriot doesn''t need to know that. All he needs to know is that I have the power to destroy everything he''s built, to bring his whole world crashing down around his ears. Mutually assured destruction for the cold war remnant he seems to be.
For a moment, I think he might call my lie, might lash out in one final, desperate act of defiance. But then I see it, the tiniest flicker of doubt in his eyes, the barest hint of fear. He knows I''m not messing around. Knows that I hold all the cards, even if they''re really just post-its.
And so we stand there in silence, two battered warriors at the end of a long and brutal fight. Patriot''s face is a mask of blood and bruises, his costume torn and stained. My own body feels like one giant wound, every breath sending fresh waves of agony coursing through me. Like this, our differences seem almost inconsequential - we are simply two damaged figures, united in our capacity to destroy one another.
I watch as Patriot slowly, painfully lowers himself to the ground, his movements stiff and halting. For a moment I think he might be preparing for one last attack, but then I realize he''s simply trying to catch his breath, to gather his strength for the long journey back to wherever he calls home.
And then, on impulse, I reach down to my belt one last time. Not for a weapon, not for a trick or a trap, but for the small first aid kit I always carry with me, just in case. I toss it to the ground at Patriot''s feet, the plastic clattering against the concrete.
"Here," I say, my voice flat and emotionless. "Patch yourself up. I know you can''t regenerate like I can, and sepsis is an ugly way to die. Consider it a parting gift. One you sure as hell don''t deserve."
Patriot looks up at me, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. For a moment I think he might refuse, might spit on my offer of aid as one final act of defiance. But then he reaches out, his fingers closing around the little white box.
"I don''t need your charity," he growls.
"It''s not charity," I reply, turning to leave. "It''s mercy."
And with that, I hit the switch on my belt one last time, plunging the warehouse back into darkness. I can hear Patriot fumbling with the first aid kit, hear the rasp of his breath as he starts to patch himself up.
But I don''t stick around to watch. I simply melt into the shadows, letting the night swallow me up, leaving Patriot alone with his wounds and his pride.
It''s over. At least for now. But as I limp my way back out into the city, my body screaming with every step, I know that this is far from the end. We''re not done with each other. Not by a long shot. There will be other fights, other confrontations. He''ll be back. My bluffs will only hold him for so long. The dam will spill.
For tonight, for this one brief moment¡ I''ve won. I''ve evened the score. I''ve shown him I''m not just some kid he can abuse as he pleases. Will I still be victorious tomorrow?
We''ll have to see.
But I''m hopeful.
End of Arc 7: Security
IF.5.1
The armored truck jolts to a halt, the sudden absence of motion rousing me from my introspection. I hear the hiss of air brakes, the clank of metal on metal as the rear doors swing open. A gust of cold mountain air rushes into the vehicle, swirling around me like an invisible tide. I can''t feel it directly - my suit''s environmental systems try their best to maintain a constant 21¡ãC - but I can sense the change in pressure, the subtle shift in the suit''s homeostasis.
"We''re here," one of the guards grunts, his voice muffled by his radiation-resistant helmet. "Aurora Springs. End of the line."
I nod, more to myself than to him, and begin the laborious process of extricating myself from the truck''s reinforced containment cell. My movements are slow, deliberate, each step calculated to minimize stress on the suit''s joints and seals - and the truck''s. I can''t afford a leak, not now. Not after everything.
Outside, the world is a riot of color and sound, the first time I''ve seen green in a long time. Something much different than the monochrome stillness of my confinement. The sky is a brilliant, piercing blue, the sun a blinding white disc high above the jagged peaks of the Rockies. Trees rustle in the breeze, their leaves a patchwork of autumnal reds and golds. Birds sing in the distance, their melodies carried on the crisp mountain air.
I drink it in, letting the sensations wash over me, filtered and muted as they are through my suit''s audio pickups and visual displays. It''s been so long since I''ve seen anything but concrete walls and fluorescent lights and underground, abandoned places. So long since I''ve had even this faint echo of connection with the natural world.
But I can''t savor it. Can''t let myself get lost in the beauty and the peace of this place. Because I know, with a bitter certainty, that this is not a reward. Not a respite. This is a prison, as surely as any concrete box or iron cage.
Oh, the accommodations are undoubtedly more comfortable here. The cabins are spacious and well-appointed, a far cry from the spartan cells of more conventional facilities. And the sweeping grounds, the trickling brooks and sun-dappled glades, they almost make one forget the towering fences and watchful cameras that ring the perimeter.
Almost.
But I am not fooled by the veneer of civility, the illusion of freedom. I know that every moment of my life here will be monitored, controlled, regulated down to the smallest detail. My schedule, my activities, my very thoughts, all subject to the whims and dictates of my jailors.
Perhaps that''s fitting. After all, isn''t that what I am? A prisoner of my own body, my own powers? Gamma rays pouring out of me every second of every day, saturating the air, the ground, anything and anyone foolish enough to stray too close. A walking nuclaer meltdown, they call me, a radioactive disaster just waiting to happen.
They''re not wrong.
I think of the precautions that have been taken, the extraordinary measures put in place to contain me. The 150-acre exclusion zone, the lead-lined walls, the hazmat suits for visitors. All necessary, all vital to protecting the world from the unrelenting poison that seeps from my every pore.
But I think, too, of the damage already done. The lives lost, the futures cut short by my very existence. Oh, I tried to help her, in my fumbling, clumsy way. Tried to rig up shielding, filtration, anything to ease her suffering. But it was too little, too late. The damage was done, the die cast. My powers, my curse, claiming another victim.
And then there are the unnamed, the unknown. The bystanders caught in the crossfire of my reckless sprees and desperate flights. How many of them, I wonder, will develop cancers, leukemias, wasting sicknesses years or decades hence? How many will suffer and die, all because they had the misfortune to cross my path?
Too many. One is too many, and I know the true toll is far, far higher.
These thoughts weigh on me as I''m escorted to my new home, a small but sturdy cabin nestled in a vale some distance from the main compound. The guards are vigilant, wary, keeping a safe distance even with their protective gear. They don''t speak to me, don''t even look at me if they can help it. I''m a thing to them, an object, a dangerous commodity to be handled with caution and a long set of tongs - and who could blame them?
Perhaps that''s for the best. I have nothing to say to them, no words of comfort or contrition that could possibly bridge the gulf between us. What could I say? "I''m sorry for being a monster, a freak of nature and science?" "Forgive me for the pain I''ve caused, the destruction I''ve wrought, however unintentionally?"
No. Those words would be hollow, meaningless, an insult to the gravity of my sins. Better to remain silent, to accept my penance with what little grace and dignity I can muster.
And so I do. I allow myself to be led into the cabin, to be sealed inside like some volatile biohazard - which, of course, I am. The door clangs shut with an awful finality, the bolts slamming home like nails in a coffin. Fitting.
I stand there for a long moment, listening to the retreating footsteps of the guards, the slow, steady beep of the radiation sensors as they monitor my every emission. The cabin is spacious by prison standards, likely the same square footage they allot to everyone else at this residential facility - although I''m likely the only one with such impressive locks.
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But there, in the corner, is a small oasis. A sanctuary. The heavily shielded saferoom, my one respite from the eternal prison of my suit. With trembling hands, I operate the airlock-like doors, cycling through the decontamination chambers and radiation buffers. The process is slow, nerve-wracking, each second an eternity as I pray that the seals will hold, that my poison will be contained.
Finally, blessedly, I''m through. The last door hisses open and I practically stumble into the saferoom, my legs weak and shaky from the strain of the journey and the emotional toll of the day.
Slowly, reverently, I begin to remove my suit. Each piece comes off with a hiss of releasing pressure, a pop of disconnecting seals. The helmet, the chestplate, the gauntlets and greaves. Piece by piece, I emerge, like a butterfly from a chrysalis, save that what comes forth is no delicate beauty, but a tired, broken man. I step out.
Finally, I am free. Free of the suit, free of the constant hum of its systems, the incessant whir of its filters and pumps. Free to feel the air on my skin, to breathe deep of the crisp, cool, blessedly uncontaminated air.
I stand there, essentially naked and shivering, feeling somehow newborn and ancient all at once. My body is pale, wan, my skin almost translucent from years hidden away from the sun. My muscles are atrophied despite my best efforts, from months in confinement, unable to exercise even my own body against my hydraulics. I am a ghost, a wraith, a shadow of the man I once was.
But I am alive. I am human. And for this moment, however fleeting, I can almost remember what that feels like.
Slowly, gingerly, I make my way to the cot in the corner of the saferoom, settle myself down on the soft, yielding surface of the mattress. Even this simple pleasure, the feeling of something other than hard metal and unyielding polymers against my body, is almost overwhelming after so long.
I lay back, close my eyes, let the silence and the stillness envelop me like a blanket. But it is not a peaceful silence, not a restful stillness. My mind is awhirl, thoughts and memories chasing each other in dizzying spirals.
I think of Yulia, my precious daughter, her sweet face and infectious laugh. I think of the last time I saw her, eyes wide with fear and confusion as her father was dragged away by men in suits and sunglasses, speaking dire words like "quarantine" and "containment". She was so young, so innocent. She didn''t understand.
I don''t know if she understands even now. How could she? How could any child fathom the depths to which their father has fallen, the magnitude of the sins he has committed? I am a monster in her story, the villain who abandoned her, who ripped her life and her family asunder.
And Olena, my beautiful, patient, long-suffering wife. How many years has it been since I looked upon her face, since I felt the warmth of her hand in mine? Too many, an eternity. An eternity in which she has had to be both mother and father to our child, had to bear the weight of my shame and my absence.
I tried to help them, in my way. The money from the NSRA, from my "consulting work" as they so euphemistically called it, I funneled all of it to them through the labyrinth of offshore accounts and anonymous wire transfers. It was the least I could do, a paltry salve to my conscience. But I know it wasn''t enough. Could never be enough.
And now, with the truth laid bare, with my crimes and my collusion with the government exposed for all to see, what must they think of me? The lurid headlines, the sensationalist news reports, painting me as some arch-villain, some radioactive boogeyman haunting the nightmares of a nation.
But that''s not the worst of it. No, the worst is the insidious tendrils of fear and hatred, the xenophobic bile spewed by demagogues like Patriot. The whispers of "foreign threats" and "alien menaces", the fevered calls for border walls and deportation squads.
My stomach churns, twists itself in knots. Is this to be my legacy, then? Not just a monster, but a catalyst, a spark to ignite the tinderbox of bigotry and intolerance? A convenient scapegoat for the small-minded and the hateful, a brush with which to tar all those who come to these shores seeking a better life?
I wish I had an answer, a rebuttal, a way to drain the poison from the discourse. But I don''t. My words, my actions, however well-intentioned, have only ever seemed to make things worse. Better then to remain silent, to accept my punishment, my exile, as the scant penance that it is.
Perhaps it is cowardice that prevents me from speaking out. Or perhaps it is clarity, a final, desolate understanding of my own limitations, my own impotence in the face of forces far beyond my control.
In the end, I suppose it matters little. Here, in this cabin, in this saferoom, I am as removed from the world and its woes as it is possible to be. My world has shrunk down to these four walls, these few precious square meters where I can almost pretend to be a man again, rather than a walking catastrophe.
How I wish I could share this little haven with Olena, with Yulia. To hold them, comfort them, beg their forgiveness for all the pain I''ve caused. But I know it''s impossible. The risk is too great, the specter of contamination too omnipresent. Even the specialized hazmat suits and visitation protocols can only do so much, can only reduce the danger, not eliminate it entirely.
And what kind of life would that be for them anyway? To see their husband, their father, only through the distorting lens of a radiation-proof faceplate? To feel the warmth of his embrace only through layers of lead-lined rubber and impermeable polymers?
No. Better to spare them that, to keep my poison, my pain, my penance to myself. They deserve better than to be shackled to my cross, dragged down into the mire of my mistakes.
But oh, how I long for them. How I ache for the life, the love, the sheer mundane normalcy that was taken from me. Stolen by my own hubris, my own reckless pursuit of knowledge and power.
There''s an old Yiddish saying, one my grandmother was fond of reciting: "Man plans, God laughs." I never put much stock in it, in my arrogance, and in my secular certainty. But now, lying here in the wreckage of my life, the fruit of all my schemes and ambitions, I can appreciate its bitter wisdom.
For I had plans, such grand plans. To harness the awesome power of the atom, to bend the fundamental forces of the universe to my will. To usher in a new age of clean, limitless energy, to banish the specters of scarcity and want forever.
And I did it. I achieved what I set out to do, tapped into the very heartbeat of creation. But at what cost? My work, my research, perverted into tools of destruction and oppression. My own body, transformed into a weapon, a conduit of unimaginable devastation. And my family, my life, shattered beyond any hope of repair.
Yes, I had plans. But the saying is incomplete. It''s not just that God laughs at our plans. It''s that he laughs because he knows. Knows the follies we will commit, the hubris we will indulge, the ruin we will sow in our relentless pursuit of our petty desires and glorious delusions.
And yet, even now, even here, I cannot quite bring myself to surrender to despair. Cannot entirely extinguish the flicker of hope, however feeble and forlorn, that gutters in my breast.
IF.5.2
The days at Aurora Springs begin to blend together, each one a variation on a theme. But unlike the monotonous grind of my previous confinements, there''s a rhythm to life here, a structure that I find surprisingly comforting. My world may be small, constrained to the boundaries of my cabin and its surrounding exclusion zone, but within those limits, I find an unexpected freedom.
Each morning begins the same way. I wake in my saferoom, the only place where I can exist without my suit, and go through a series of stretches and exercises. My body, atrophied from confinement and years where I could only barely exist outside my suit, protests at first. But day by day, I feel strength returning to my limbs, vitality coursing through my veins.
The facility has provided me with a set of radiation-hardened exercise equipment - dumbbells, resistance bands, even a small treadmill. All designed to withstand the constant barrage of gamma rays emanating from my body. I throw myself into a rigorous workout routine, relishing the burn in my muscles, the sweat on my skin. It''s a tangible reminder that I''m alive, that I''m still human, despite everything.
"You''re making good progress, Mr. Fedorov," Dr. Chen, the facility''s chief medical officer, tells me during one of our weekly check-ins. Her voice comes through the intercom system, tinny and distant. She''s watching me through a lead-lined observation window, her form a vague silhouette behind the thick, radiation-resistant glass. "Your muscle mass has increased by 12% since your arrival, and your cardiovascular health is improving steadily."
I nod, allowing myself a small smile of satisfaction. "It feels good to move again," I admit. "To use my body for something other than destruction."
Dr. Chen''s voice softens slightly. "That''s a healthy attitude, Mr. Fedorov. Remember, physical health and mental well-being are closely linked. Keep up the good work."
After my morning workout and a decontamination shower, I don my suit once more. It''s a necessary evil, the only way I can interact with the world outside my saferoom. But even this has become easier. The facility''s engineers have made modifications to the design, improving its ergonomics and reducing the strain on my body. It''s still far from comfortable, but it''s a vast improvement over the cobbled-together monstrosity I wore during my years on the run.
Breakfast arrives via a specialized delivery system - a series of lead-lined compartments and radiation-proof conveyor belts that snake through the walls of my cabin. The food itself is nothing spectacular - standard institutional fare, heavy on nutrition and light on flavor. But after years of scavenging and makeshift meals, even this tastes like a feast.
Today''s menu: powdered eggs, reconstituted with purified water, a bowl of fortified oatmeal, and a cup of instant coffee. I eat mechanically, more out of necessity than enjoyment - I never enjoyed eating very much to begin with - my thoughts already turning to the day ahead.
Because that''s the real surprise, the unexpected gift of my imprisonment here: I have work to do. Real, meaningful work that allows me to use my skills, my knowledge, in service of something other than my own survival.
It started as a hesitant request, a tentative inquiry to my case worker about the possibility of resuming my engineering work. To my astonishment, they not only agreed but seemed eager to put my expertise to use.
"We have a backlog of projects that could benefit from your unique perspective, Mr. Fedorov," my case worker, a no-nonsense woman named Ms. Patel, explained during our first meeting. "Containment systems, radiation shielding, power generation - all areas where your experience could be invaluable."
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And so, day by day, I find myself immersed in a world of schematics and calculations, of material stress tolerances and radiation flux densities. It''s challenging work, made more so by the constraints of my condition. I can''t use traditional computers or electronic devices - the constant flood of radiation from my body would fry their delicate circuitry in seconds.
Instead, I work with specially designed, radiation-hardened tablets and input devices. The screens are thick, lead-glass affairs, the processors shielded behind layers of exotic alloys and composite materials, and my hands numbed through dense lead-lined gloves. They''re clunky, slow by modern standards, but they work. And more importantly, they allow me to create, to contribute, to feel useful again.
Today''s project is particularly intriguing: a new design for portable radiation shielding, lightweight enough for emergency responders to use in crisis situations. As I pore over the specifications, tweaking variables and running simulations, I can''t help but feel a surge of pride. This, this is what I was meant to do. Not destruction, not chaos, but creation. Protection. The very antithesis of the havoc I''ve wreaked.
Time slips away as I work, the hours melting into a focused blur of numbers and diagrams. It''s only when the lunch alarm chimes that I realize how long I''ve been at it.
I lean back, stretching muscles cramped from hours of intense concentration. My stomach growls, reminding me that even radioactive monsters need to eat.
Lunch is a more substantial affair than breakfast: a high-calorie protein shake, a plate of what the menu charitably calls "Salisbury steak," and a side of steamed vegetables. It''s all designed to meet my unique nutritional needs - my accelerated metabolism burns through calories at an astonishing rate, a side effect of my body''s constant struggle against its own radioactive nature.
As I eat, I allow my mind to wander, to take stock of my situation. It''s strange, I reflect, how quickly one can adapt to even the most extraordinary circumstances. A year ago, the thought of spending the rest of my life in an isolated cabin would have seemed like a nightmare. Now¡ now it feels like the closest thing to Heaven I could get.
Here, I don''t have to worry about the harm I might cause to innocent bystanders. Here, I can work, can contribute, can atone in some small way for the damage I''ve done. It''s not freedom, not in the conventional sense. But it''s a kind of peace, a stability I haven''t known in years.
After lunch, I return to my work, losing myself once more in the intricacies of radiation physics and materials science. The afternoon passes in a productive haze, broken only by the occasional consultation with the facility''s engineering team via secure video link.
As evening approaches, I feel a familiar tightness in my chest, a heaviness in my limbs. It''s time for my daily radiation purge - a necessary and unpleasant process to prevent the buildup of dangerous levels of radioactive material in my body. It''s something my suit took care of automatically, through unpleasant means better left unelaborated on, but now, with so much time out of it, I''d forgotten just how much this took out of me.
I make my way to a specially designed chamber in the corner of my cabin. It''s a stark, clinical space, all gleaming metal and blinking indicator lights. I step inside, sealing the door behind me.
"Initiating purge sequence," a computerized voice announces. "Please remain still."
I brace myself as the chamber fills with a fine mist, a cocktail of chemicals designed to bind to the radioactive particles in my system and flush them out. Bile rises up my throat, and I expunge. Before, the tubes throughout my suit helped, and I could run a line while I slept. Here, it''s an uncomfortable process, leaving me feeling weak and slightly delirious. But it''s a small price to pay for the relative normalcy of my days here.
After the purge, I retreat once more to my saferoom, shedding my suit with a sense of relief. Dinner awaits me - another protein-rich meal, this time a passable attempt at chicken stir-fry. I eat slowly, savoring the relative quiet, the absence of the suit''s constant hum.
As I finish my meal, a light on the intercom panel begins to blink. An incoming call. My heart leaps into my throat as I realize what day it is, what this must mean.
IF.5.3
With trembling fingers, I accept the call. The screen flickers to life, and suddenly, there they are. Olena and Yulia, my wife and daughter, their faces beaming at me from behind the protective barriers of their own screens.
"Papa!" Yulia cries, her voice a mixture of excitement and nervousness. "Can you see us? Can you hear us?"
"Yes, my darling," I manage to choke out, my voice thick with emotion. "I can see you. You''ve grown so much."
And she has. The little girl I left behind is gone, replaced by a young woman on the cusp of adulthood. Her hair is longer, her face more defined. But her eyes - her eyes are the same, bright and curious and full of life.
Olena smiles, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Hello, my love," she says softly. "It''s good to see you."
We talk for hours, the conversation flowing more easily than I could have ever hoped. They tell me about their lives in Kyiv, about Yulia''s school and Olena''s work. I listen, hungry for every detail, every scrap of normalcy.
"Are you¡ are you angry with me?" I finally ask, the question that''s been gnawing at me for years finally forcing its way out.
Olena shakes her head firmly. "No, Illya. We were never angry. Sad, yes. Confused, certainly. But we understood why you had to leave."
"We knew where you were the whole time," Yulia adds, a hint of pride in her voice. "Mama made sure we kept track of you."
I blink, surprised. "You did?"
Olena nods. "Of course. You''re still our family, Illya. No matter what."
The conversation turns to their upcoming visit - a real, physical visit, not just a video call. The U.S. government, in what I can only assume is some bizarre attempt at atonement, has arranged for them to come to Aurora Springs.
"We''ll be there in two weeks," Olena tells me, her excitement palpable even through the screen. "They''re arranging everything - the flights, the special suits, all of it."
"I can''t wait to see you in person, Papa," Yulia says, her smile wide and genuine. "Even if it is through a bunch of lead glass."
We laugh together, and for a moment, it''s almost like old times. Almost like we''re a normal family again, separated by nothing more than distance and circumstance.
As the call winds down, I feel a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with radiation. Hope, I realize. For the first time in years, I feel hope.
"We love you, Illya," Olena says as we prepare to sign off. "Never forget that."
"I love you too," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. "Both of you. So much."
The screen goes dark, but the warmth remains. I lie back on my cot, staring up at the ceiling, my mind whirling with thoughts and emotions.
It''s not a perfect life, this existence I''ve carved out here at Aurora Springs. It''s constrained, controlled, forever overshadowed by the specter of my past crimes and the ever-present danger of my condition. And it will likely be this way for the rest of my existence on this Earth.
But it''s a life. A chance to work, to create, to connect with my family. A opportunity to make amends, in whatever small way I can.
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As I drift off to sleep, I find myself looking forward to tomorrow for the first time in years. There''s work to be done, problems to solve, a family to reconnect with.
It''s not freedom, not in the conventional sense. But perhaps, I think as sleep claims me, it''s something even more precious: purpose.
The next two weeks pass in a blur of anticipation and preparation. My days are filled with work, exercise, and an endless series of briefings and safety checks in preparation for Olena and Yulia''s visit.
"Now remember, Mr. Fedorov," Dr. Chen reminds me for what feels like the hundredth time, "even with the protective suits and the lead-lined visitation room, we need to keep the exposure time to a minimum. One hour, maximum."
I nod, trying to quell the mixture of excitement and anxiety roiling in my gut. "I understand, Doctor. I won''t do anything to put them at risk."
She softens slightly, offering me a small smile. "I know you won''t. I just want this to go smoothly for all of you. You deserve this time together."
The day of their arrival dawns bright and clear, the autumn sun painting the mountains in shades of gold and russet. I''m up before dawn, pacing my saferoom, too keyed up to eat or work.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the intercom crackles to life. "Mr. Fedorov? Your family has arrived. We''re beginning the suiting-up process now. Please make your way to the visitation room."
My heart pounding, I don my own suit and make my way through the series of airlocks and decontamination chambers that separate my living space from the visitation area. Each step feels both too fast and too slow, time stretching and compressing in strange ways.
And then, suddenly, I''m there. Standing in a room divided by a thick wall of leaded glass, staring at two figures in bulky hazmat suits on the other side.
For a moment, we all just stand there, frozen. Then Yulia''s voice comes through the intercom, slightly distorted but unmistakably hers. "Papa? Is that really you?"
"Yes, my darling," I manage to choke out. "It''s me."
And then we''re all talking at once, laughing and crying, pressing our hands against opposite sides of the glass. It''s surreal and beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.
"You look good," Olena says, her eyes crinkling with a smile behind her faceplate. "Healthy."
I laugh, a bit self-consciously. "The food here is better than what I''ve been living on. And they let me exercise."
"You''re not as scary as I thought you''d be," Yulia blurts out, then looks embarrassed. "I mean¡ with all the stories and everything¡"
"Yulia!" Olena admonishes, but I wave it off.
"It''s alright," I assure them. "I know what the news has been saying about me. But I''m still just me. Still your papa."
We talk for what feels like both an eternity and no time at all. About their lives in Kyiv, about my work here at Aurora Springs, about everything and nothing. It''s awkward at times, the weight of our separation and the bizarre circumstances of our reunion making themselves felt. But it''s also wonderful, a balm to a wound I didn''t fully realize I had.
All too soon, Dr. Chen''s voice comes over the intercom, gentle but firm. "I''m sorry, but we need to wrap this up. We''re approaching the safe exposure limit."
I nod, fighting back the surge of disappointment. "Just a moment more, please?"
She hesitates, then sighs. "Two minutes. No more."
I turn back to Olena and Yulia, trying to memorize every detail of their faces, even distorted as they are by the suits and the glass. "I love you both so much," I tell them, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for coming. For not giving up on me."
"We''ll never give up on you, Papa," Yulia says fiercely. "Never."
Olena nods, reaching out to place her gloved hand against the glass. I mirror the gesture, imagining I can feel the warmth of her touch even through all the layers separating us. "We''ll be back," she promises. "As often as they''ll let us."
And then it''s over. They''re being ushered out, waving goodbye as they disappear down the corridor. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where they were, feeling both full and hollow at the same time.
As I make my way back to my quarters, shedding my suit and submitting to yet another round of decontamination, I find myself smiling. It wasn''t perfect. It wasn''t normal. But it was something. A connection, a reminder of why I''m here, why I''m trying so hard to make amends.
That night, as I lie in my bed, I find myself thinking not of the past, not of my crimes or my regrets, but of the future. Of the work still to be done, the problems still to solve. Of the next visit from my family, whenever that might be.
Perhaps the old tales are true, I muse as I dive into a particularly thorny set of calculations. Perhaps lead can be turned to gold, ashes to beauty. Iron to steel, and monsters to men.
Chapter 119.1
Begin Arc 8: Big
The rest of my Halloween night was a blur of pain and exhaustion. After my grueling confrontation with Patriot, I limped my way home, every step a fresh agony. By the time I made it back, it was late enough that my parents were already asleep, thinking I was out with friends. If only they knew the truth.
I stumbled into my room, peeling off my battered costume with trembling fingers. My entire body felt like one giant bruise, a throbbing mass of aches and pains. But I couldn''t rest, not yet. I had to patch myself up, had to make sure I wasn''t bleeding out from some unseen wound.
Thank G-d for my enhanced healing. As I sat there on the edge of my bed, slowly cleaning and bandaging my injuries, I could feel my body knitting itself back together, the pain receding like a tide. It was a strange sensation, almost an itch beneath the skin, a prickling warmth that spread through my muscles and bones.
I thought about Patriot as I worked, about the things he''d said, the twisted ideology he clung to so desperately. How could someone so strong, so powerful, be so utterly misguided? So blinded by their own narrow worldview that they couldn''t see the damage they were causing, the people they were hurting?
But then again, who was I to judge? I was just a kid playing dress-up, trying to make a difference in a world that seemed determined to tear itself apart. Maybe Patriot and I weren''t so different after all. Maybe we were both just fumbling in the dark, trying to find our way.
I shook my head, wincing at the spike of pain the motion sent through my skull. No, that was bullshit. I wasn''t like him. I couldn''t be. Because if I was, then what was the point of any of this? What was the point of putting on the mask, of risking my life night after night, if I was just going to end up like him in the end?
I finished bandaging the last of my wounds and stood up, testing my weight gingerly. Everything seemed to be in working order, more or less. I''d be sore as hell tomorrow, but I''d live. That was more than I could say for some of the people Patriot had hurt.
I crawled into bed, my body screaming for rest. But even as I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, my mind wouldn''t stop racing. I kept replaying the fight in my head, analyzing every move, every mistake. What could I have done differently? How could I have ended it sooner, before either of us got too badly hurt?
But there were no easy answers, no quick fixes. This was the life I''d chosen, for better or worse. The life of a hero, with all the pain and sacrifice that entailed. I closed my eyes, letting the exhaustion sweep over me like a wave. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new battles to be fought. But for now, I needed to rest. I needed to heal.
As I drifted off to sleep, my last conscious thought was of Maggie. Of her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at me like I was something special. Like I was a hero.
I just hoped I could live up to that.
"This is Channel 6 Action News, reporting live from City Hall. In a stunning turn of events, Democratic nominee Maya Richardson is now projected to win the special election for the vacant City Council seat, with a sudden ten point lead since last polls."
The newscaster''s voice, usually so calm and measured, now betrays no hidden disbelief as she delivers this shocking news. On the TV screen behind her, a graphic displays Richardson''s photo alongside the latest poll numbers, showing her with a commanding lead over her opponent.
I sit on the couch in our living room, staring at the TV in a mix of disbelief and rising anger. Beside me, my parents wear similar expressions of shock and confusion, while Maggie, perched on the armchair to my right, seems to be split between excitement at some notion that I don''t understand, and mild sympathetic concern at our own concern.
"Maya Richardson, owner of several successful local businesses and a well-known philanthropist, has had her run harried with allegations of ties to organized crime," the newscaster continues, her brow slightly furrowed. "Despite these allegations, Richardson''s campaign has gained significant traction in recent weeks, with many voters drawn to her message of economic revitalization and increased support for minority-owned businesses. After last week''s interviews, she is now the favorite to win the race."
"Wait a minute," my mom says suddenly, leaning forward on the couch. "Isn''t that the woman who was with that awful T-Rex man last winter? The one who destroyed our house just before Hanukkah?"
My dad''s eyes widen in recognition. "You''re right, Rachel. I knew she looked familiar. Sam, isn''t she one of those Kingdom people you''ve tangled with before?"
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I nod grimly, my hands clenching into fists on my lap. "Yeah, that''s her. I couldn''t tell you her name, but she was there. She was there that night, with Mr. T-Rex, when they attacked our home. You think that''s her real name?"
"Has to be. Don''t they run background checks when you try to become a politician, darling?" My dad asks, bouncing the question over to my mother.
My mom rubs her chin in thought. "Regular background checks, yes. Postcognitive checks, no, at least not for something as minor as city council. How could they not have... dug up that she''s a gangster?"
Maggie leans forward, her face a mix of confusion and excitement. "Hold on, Sam: can you give me the crash course? Who is this lady, and what''s her deal with the Kingdom?"
I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "Okay, so the Kingdom of Keys is this big organized crime group that operates in Philly and the surrounding areas. They''re into all sorts of shady stuff - drug trafficking, extortion, underground fight rings, you name it. And Maya - I guess that''s her name - I think she''s either at the top or up there. She was there that night with Mr. T-Rex - another Kingdom member who can transform into a literal dinosaur - when they came after me, thinking I was home. They wrecked our place pretty bad before I managed to drive them off with Rampart''s help."
"And now she''s about to be elected to City Council? That''s insane!" Maggie exclaims, shaking her head in disbelief. "How can people not know what she really is? What she''s done?"
My mom sighs, her face pinched with worry. "I don''t know, Maggie. It''s not like we have any proof. It was just our word against hers. And you know how these things go - people with money and power, they always seem to come out on top, no matter what they''ve done."
I feel a hot surge of anger rise in my throat, threatening to choke me. "It''s not right," I growl, my fingernails digging into my palms. "She''s a criminal, a supervillain. She shouldn''t be anywhere near a position of authority. We have to do something."
Dad rests a hand on my shoulder, his touch gentle but firm. "Sam, I know how you feel. Believe me, I''m just as outraged as you are. But we have to be careful. If what you say is true, then Mrs. Richardson is a very dangerous woman. And now she''s about to hold public office. Going after her openly could put us all at risk. Or, let''s be realistic: going after her openly could result in her doubling down against you specifically. I know you could take it - of course you could - but I don''t know if I want you to have to take it."
Maggie nods, her fingers toying nervously with the hem of her shirt. "Your dad''s got a point, Sam. I mean, I''m totally on board with taking this lady down, but we can''t just go in guns blazing. We need a plan."
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside me. They''re right, of course. As much as I want to just charge in and confront Richardson directly, I know it would be a disaster. She''s too powerful, too well-connected. If I''m going to take her on, I need to be smart about it. I need to gather evidence, build a case. Find a way to expose her for what she really is.
"Okay," I say at last, my voice tight with barely-contained frustration. "I... No, I''m done. I can''t let her do this! I have to stop her before she gets elected!"
Mom nods, her face set with grim determination. "Just be careful, Sam. Don''t take any unnecessary risks. Don''t your friends - don''t the Delaware Valley Defenders have someone from City Council involved? Maybe you should talk to him. Rope in some of the adults in the room. You don''t have to do it alone. We''re here to help you."
I feel a sudden rush of gratitude, my anger momentarily eclipsed by the warmth of their support. "Thanks, Mom. Dad. Maggie. I don''t know what I''d do without you guys. Without all of you."
"Probably get your butt kicked a lot more often," Maggie quips, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Good thing you''ve got me to watch your back now."
I can''t help but smile at that, even as my cheeks flush slightly. Maggie''s only been training with me for a short while, but already I can''t imagine doing this without her. Her enthusiasm, her fearlessness, her unshakable moral compass - it''s like a light in the darkness, guiding me forward.
But I can''t let myself get distracted. Not now, with so much at stake. I stand up from the couch, my body still aching from last night''s battle, but my resolve unwavering. "I''m going on a walk," I announce, my voice brooking no argument. "I need to clear my head, I don''t think I can watch any more news."
"Are you going for a walk, or a walk?" Mom asks. Coded language. Right. Are you going for a walk, or are you going to do superheroics? I guess my face doesn''t look as busted up as it feels, or maybe the concealer I''m wearing is working overtime, because she doesn''t sound half as concerned as she should be. More... resigned.
"Just a walk," I lie, as casually as breathing. "Maggie, you wanna come with?"
Maggie practically leaps out of her seat, her face splitting into a massive grin. "Yeah! I don''t get the opportunity to check out other parts of Philly that often."
Mom and Dad exchange a worried glance, but they know better than to try and stop me. "Just be careful out there, both of you," Dad says, his voice thick with concern. "Remember, that... bald man and his particular band of jerks are still out there trying to take advantage of the chaos. Avoid crowds. And get home before dark!"
I successfully resist the urge to correct him. Patriot won''t be a problem anymore. I nod, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze. "I will, Dad. I promise." I glance over at Maggie, feeling a sudden surge of protective affection. "You watch my back, I''ll watch yours?"
Maggie grins, holding out her fist for me to bump. "Always."
And with that, we''re out the door, striding out into the cool November evening. The streets of Mayfair are quiet at this hour, the rowhouses and shops closed up tight against the encroaching darkness. Leaves skitter across the sidewalk, pushed by a chill breeze that sends a shiver down my spine.
"Come on," I say, leading Maggie down a side alley, away from prying eyes. "Let''s get suited up. We''ve got work to do."
Chapter 119.2
In the dimness of the alley, we quickly strip out of our civilian clothes, donning our respective costumes with practiced ease. As I pull on my padded body armor, feeling the familiar weight settle across my shoulders, I can''t help but steal a glance at Maggie as she changes.
She''s a shock of color, even in the autumn gloom, her costume a mishmash of bright red sports equipment - shin guards, elbow pads, a battered bike helmet. Her eyes gleam behind thick goggles, her face obscured by a black cloth facemask. She looks like a cross between a roller derby player and a post-apocalyptic road warrior, and I feel a sudden rush of pride at the thought that she''s my partner, my trainee.
I try not to stare as she wriggles into her costume, my cheeks flushing beneath my own wolf-shaped helmet. I don''t sit on the feeling. We are going to proceed to shove that way down and forget about it.
"Looking good, Bloodpuppy," she says with a grin, flashing me a cheeky salute. I try not to wince at the same nickname I''ve heard from dozens of petty criminals and a handful of supervillains. "Ready to go kick some ass?"
"You know it, Flashpoint," I reply, using her newly-minted hero name. "But let''s take it slow tonight, yeah? This is your first real patrol, and I don''t want you biting off more than you can chew."
Maggie rolls her eyes, but I can see the excitement practically vibrating off her. "Yes, Mom," she snarks, her voice muffled slightly by the mask. "I''ll be a good little hero, I promise."
I chuckle, reaching out to give her shoulder a friendly punch. "Hey, I''m serious. Being a hero isn''t all fun and games. It''s dangerous work, and I don''t want you getting hurt on my watch."
Her expression softens, her eyes meeting mine through the lenses of our masks. "I know, Sam. I''ll be careful. I promise. But you gotta promise me the same thing, yeah? No stupid risks, no playing the lone wolf. We''re a team, right?"
I feel a sudden lump in my throat, my chest tightening with emotion. "Yeah, Mags. We''re a team. Always." I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay, rookie. Let''s hit the streets. Keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you. If you see anything suspicious, you let me know. Don''t engage unless I give the word, got it?"
Maggie nods, her body practically thrumming with eagerness. "Got it, boss. Lead the way."
As we step out of the alley and onto the darkened streets, I can''t help but feel a sense of trepidation mixing with the usual pre-patrol adrenaline. The city feels different tonight, charged with a strange energy that prickles at the back of my neck. Maybe it''s just the news about Maya Richardson''s impending election, the thought of a known criminal gaining legitimate power. Or maybe it''s something else, something deeper - a sense that the game is changing.
Maggie, on the other hand, seems to be completely tuned in to all the little oddities and rarities around us. In the early November light, kids are all out, constantly adjusting their jackets or holding bits of their costumes from last night, with Maggie pointing out the occasional kid in a recognizable costume from some show or another, but I have to confess that I don''t really recognize any of them. Our cultural touchstones are different, but she doesn''t seem to mind filling me in.
"So did you ever read Johnny the Homicidal Maniac as a kid?" She asks at some point over the course of our walk. I can''t say that I have.
"Oh, man, it''s wild. Super violent, but it''s this whole metaphor for intrusive thoughts, isolation, and the search for meaning by its writer. It was the first really mature thing I ever read when I was little - made me realize maybe stories could be more than just good guys and bad guys and violence."
"That''s pretty cool," I say, nodding, not wanting to rock her boat. "I mostly just read Baby-Sitters Club and, like, comic books. My grandpa''s comic books. And textbooks."
"Really? I wouldn''t have guessed that." She says as we turn a corner, making our way further into Mayfair. "You seem more au courant than that. Don''t take offense, Sam, but you don''t really strike me as a follower. I get leader vibes off you."
"I don''t really get what energy you''re talking about." I say, matter-of-factly. Half a block ahead, a gaggle of kids, all wearing jackets clearly fished out of a bin at the local thrift store, get in some kind of scrape; one of the kids gets shoved and falls off the curb onto the street, then immediately jumps up and starts chasing the giggling kid responsible.
"I mean that in a good way. I feel like people probably follow you around a lot. Like Jordan, or... Not me, really, but you know what I mean. It''s magnetic and stuff." Maggie clarifies. It doesn''t really help me get her point.
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"Well, now there''s the Auditors, and you, and like the Young Defenders... But most of the time it''s a loose social group. More of a, uh, kibbutz than a hierarchy. Besides, Jordan''s always down to tell me how much of a pain in the ass I''m being."
"''Kibbutz''? Is that Hebrew?" Maggie asks, raising an eyebrow. I catch a whiff of something at a crosswalk while I put my hand out to stop her as we wait for a car to pass - something rank, sour, but kind of musty at the same time. I''m not sure what it is. Maybe sulfur?
"Yeah. Little socialist farming communes. I''m told they were, to quote my Pop-Pop, ''way cool''," I answer.
The light turns, we walk. I still smell it, even as we cross the street.
And then I look down, and Maggie''s stepped in dogshit. Fresh, too, from the looks of it.
"Aw, beans," she mumbles.
---
As we make our way through the streets of Mayfair, I can''t help but feel a strange mix of familiarity and unease. These are the same streets I''ve patrolled a hundred times before, the same rowhouses and corner stores I''ve passed by on countless evenings just like this one. But tonight, everything feels different somehow. Charged with a nervous energy that I can''t quite put my finger on.
"You okay?" Maggie asks, her voice muffled slightly by her mask. "You seem kinda... I dunno, tense."
I glance over at her, trying to force a smile beneath my own helmet. "Yeah, I''m fine. Just... thinking about everything that''s been going on lately. With Richardson, and Patriot, and all the rest of it."
Maggie nods, her eyes sympathetic behind her goggles. "It''s a lot to deal with, huh? I can''t even imagine what it must be like for you, being in the thick of it all the time."
I shrug, trying to play it off. "It''s not so bad. I mean, it''s not like I''m doing this alone, you know? I''ve got the Delaware Valley Defenders, and the Young Defenders, and the Auditors..." But even as I say it, I can feel the weight of it all pressing down on me, making my shoulders sag. I guess Maggie can see it too, because I see her unimpressed, dubious expression even behind her mask and goggles.
"Anyway, I worked things out with Patriot," I say, trying to change the topic a little bit, using an extremely expansive definition of ''work things out''. "He won''t be a problem any more, at least. We can just focus on the one thing."
Maggie''s eyes widen behind her goggles, and then narrow. "You ''worked things out''? That sounds like a euphemism, Blood. Did you have a chat or did he beat the shit out of you again?"
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Well... it wasn''t exactly a friendly chat. More like a knockdown, drag-out brawl. He wanted me to back off, to stop messing with his plans. I told him where he could stick it. Kicked his ass too."
Maggie''s quiet for a moment, her gaze searching my face. "Sam... are you sure that''s how it went down? Because I''m not gonna lie, those bruises on your jaw are telling a different story."
I feel a flush of shame creep up my neck, my hand unconsciously coming up to touch the tender spots where Patriot''s fists had connected. "Okay, fine. Maybe it wasn''t as one-sided as I made it sound. But I blew his shoulder open, maced him, and bluffed him into concessions. And broke his nose, I''m sure. I can come back from that, he''ll be the one with a fucked up nose for the rest of his life."
She nods, her expression sympathetic. "I believe you, Sam. I know how tough you are. But you don''t have to do this alone, you know? You''ve got people who care about you, who want to help. Like me. And Jordan and the others, if I''m too green for you."
I feel a sudden lump in my throat, my chest tightening with unforeseen misery. "Yeah, I know."
She reaches out to lay a hand on my shoulder. "I''m volunteering as your sidekick. Right?"
I can''t help but laugh at that, the tension in my chest easing slightly. "Okay, okay. I guess I can''t argue with that logic."
I could, but I don''t want to. I''m just filled with a pervasive, all-consuming exhaustion. I wish I could have a vacation.
We continue on our patrol, winding our way through the quiet streets of Mayfair. I point out various landmarks as we go, sharing stories of minor incidents and events that have happened in each spot. The corner store where I once stopped a shoplifter, the alleyway where I helped a lost kid find his way home. Little things, but they all add up. They all matter.
"Y''know, for somebody who''s probably gonna be a big hero someday, you sure spend a lot of time on the small stuff," Maggie muses as we turn down another side street. "Like, don''t get me wrong, I think it''s great. But most of the heroes I''ve read about in comics and stuff, they''re always fighting these big, flashy battles against supervillains and monsters and stuff. You''re out here giving out band-aids and walking little old ladies across the street. No offense."
I shrug, a small smile tugging at my lips. "None taken. Here''s the thing, Mags: being a hero isn''t just about the big fights and the flashy powers. It''s about being there for people, in whatever way they need you. Sometimes that means taking down a supervillain, sure. But sometimes it just means lending a helping hand to someone who needs it. Supervillains are bad for your life expectancy. The world''s first superhero spent - spends - all his time doing, like, climate change stuff in flood-prone areas. No supervillain fights at all. I try to keep an 80/20 time ratio of rescuing cats to fighting--"
As if on cue, a plaintive meow cuts through the evening air, drawing our attention to a nearby tree. There, perched precariously on a high branch, is a scrawny tabby cat, its yellow eyes wide with fear.
"Speak of the devil," I mutter, already moving towards the tree. "Come on, let''s see if we can get this little guy down."
Maggie follows close behind, her head tilted quizzically. "Uh, Sam? Not to be a downer, but how exactly are we gonna do that? I don''t know about you, but I left my climbing gear at home."
I grin, tapping the side of my helmet. "Don''t need it. I''ve got a plan."
Chapter 119.3
I tense my hands, grunt like I''m about to take a shit - sorry - and feel claws pop out of my fingertips like ice picks. I cram my hands against the bark of the tree, and make it one hand up, two hands up, before the bark peels off and I fall onto my ass, helmet thumping against the sidewalk. "Ow."
"You alright down there?" Maggie asks, looming over me. "Do you have brain damage?"
"I''m fine. Change of plans," I mumble, embarassed. "I need you to use your repulsion fields, very gently, to kind of... rattle the branch a little. Not enough to knock the cat off, just enough to make it want to come down on its own."
Maggie nods, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Got it. One kitty-coaxing vibration, coming right up."
I feel the air around us begin to hum, a subtle vibration that seems to emanate from Maggie''s outstretched hands. The branches begin to tremble slightly, the leaves rustling as if caught in a gentle breeze, and then, with a spike of force, the entire tree rattles.
The cat, already on edge, lets out a startled yowl, its claws digging into the bark. But as the vibration continues, I can sense its tiny body relaxing, its fear giving way to curiosity.
"That''s it," I murmur, my hand still outstretched. "Just a little more..."
And then, with a final, cautious meow, the cat begins to descend, picking its way gingerly down the trunk of the tree. As soon as it''s within reach, I scoop it up into my arms, feeling its tiny heart hammering against my chest, small holes in my fingertips already filling up. Discarded teeth litter the concrete around my feet like spent bullet casings. Yeouch!
"Well, would you look at that," a creaky voice says from behind us. "Superheroes rescuing cats from trees. Now I''ve seen everything."
I turn to see an old man standing on the sidewalk, leaning heavily on a cane. He''s got a bushy white beard and a twinkle in his eye, and he''s looking at us with a mix of amusement and gratitude.
"Thanks for your help, young ladies," he says, shuffling forward to take the cat from my arms. "I''ve been trying to get this little rascal down all day. Thought I was gonna have to call the fire department."
"It was no trouble," I say, feeling a sudden rush of warmth in my chest. "We''re just happy we could help."
The old man nods, tucking the cat under his arm. "Well, I appreciate it. You two take care now, you hear?"
And with that, he''s off, shuffling down the sidewalk with the cat purring contentedly against his side.
Maggie turns to me, a grin spreading across her face. "Okay, I take it back. That was pretty cool. I like old men."
I blink at her a couple of times, staring through the small holes in my helmet.
Maggie puts her hands up defensively. "Not like that! Gross! Ew! Shut up!"
I chuckle, shaking my head, pulling the conversation back in like a fish on a f--like getting a dog''s attention with treats. "I don''t know about that. I mean, it''s not the first time I''ve gotten a cat out of a tree. Rampart and I used to do it all the time when I was just starting out. He always said it was like a rite of passage for young heroes. A symbolic passing of the torch."
"Or maybe..." Maggie says, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "maybe it''s not symbolic at all. We''re real people, Sam, we don''t have symbolism."
I laugh. "Real people experience signs and symbols all the time. Any person''s life, if you study it enough, will have, uh, semiotic signifiers. That''s what my mom says, at least."
I try very hard to remember what a semiotic is.
Maggie raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Do you expect me to know what the word ''semiotic'' means, poindexter?"
I laugh out loud at that, the sound echoing off the quiet streets. "Not my fault I''ve got both brains and muscles. Better get back to work on your schoolwork when you get home. It''s the study of signs and symbols, and how you interpret them. That''s what my Mom says, at least."
"The study of whatnow?" Maggie asks, her voice playfully incredulous. "Sam, I swear, you''ve got the weirdest brain of anyone I know sometimes. One second you''re all punching and attitude, the next you''re dropping ten dollar words like ''semiotics''."
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"I contain multitudes," I cough through a sharp grin.
After a while, we come across a group of older boys, teenagers really, gathered on a street corner. They''re arguing about something, their voices rising and falling in sharp, staccato bursts. I tense up, ready to intervene if things get out of hand.
"What do you think?" Maggie murmurs, her eyes fixed on the group. "Should we do something?"
I hesitate, weighing our options. "Let''s just keep an eye on them for now. See if we can defuse the situation without resorting to powers."
We approach the group slowly, hands held out in a placating gesture. "Hey there," I call out, keeping my voice calm and even. "Everything okay over here?"
The boys turn to look at us, their faces a mix of surprise and wariness. "Who the hell are you?" one of them asks, his voice tight with barely-contained aggression. "This ain''t none of your business."
"Maybe not," I say, nodding agreeably. "But we couldn''t help but overhear you guys getting a little heated. Thought maybe we could lend an ear, see if we can help sort things out."
The boy scoffs, rolling his eyes. "What, you some kind of superheroes or something? Look, thanks for the offer, but we don''t need a couple of girls meddling in our shit."
I feel a flash of anger at the dismissal, but I force myself to stay calm. "We''re not here to meddle. We''re here to listen. Sometimes just talking things out with a neutral party can help, you know?"
The boys exchange glances, their postures loosening slightly. "I mean... I guess it couldn''t hurt," one of them mutters, running a hand through his hair. "It''s just some dumb shit anyway. Not worth fighting over."
"So tell us about it," Maggie says, her voice gentle and coaxing. "What''s got you guys so worked up?"
And so they do. They tell us about a girl, and a misunderstanding, and a whole tangled web of teenage drama and hurt feelings. Maggie and I listen, offering advice and perspective where we can, but mostly just letting them talk it out. By the time they are done talking, nobody really wants to fight anymore. I don''t think we really helped in a material way. I just think being forced to talk about it to two random superheroes - random kids in costumes, lets be real - made the fighting not fun anymore. No dopamine hit.
In the end, there''s no grand resolution. No big emotional breakthroughs or tearful reconciliations. But the tension has eased, the anger drained away like water through a sieve. The boys shake our hands, mumbling awkward thanks before shuffling off into the night.
"Well, that was anticlimactic," Maggie says as we watch them go. "I was kinda hoping for some big hero moment, you know? Like in the movies."
I laugh, bumping her shoulder with my own. "Welcome to the glamorous world of street-level heroics, kid. Ninety percent of the time, it''s just talking to people. Listening to their problems and trying to help however you can."
Maggie sighs, but there''s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "And ten percent of the time?"
"Oh, don''t worry," I say, grinning behind my mask. "That''s when you get your ass kicked."
We make our way back towards my neighborhood, the streets growing more and more familiar with each passing block. We duck back into an alleyway, deposit our costumes in garbage bags hidden under other garbage bags, and turn ourselves back into normal humans again. As we approach my house, I see a figure standing on the front stoop, talking to another silhouetted figure through the screen door.
My heart skips a beat as I realize it''s Maggie''s mom, chatting away with my own mother like they''re old friends. Which, I suppose, they kind of are now. It''s still a little surreal, seeing the different parts of my life collide like this.
"Uh oh," Maggie mutters, echoing my thoughts. "Looks like the parental units have been conspiring in our absence."
I chuckle, shaking my head. "Probably swapping embarrassing baby stories as we speak."
We say our goodbyes at the foot of the steps, Maggie''s mom giving me a warm smile and a wave as I head inside. My own mom is waiting for me in the living room, her face a mix of worry and relief.
"How was your walk?" she asks, her eyes searching my face for any signs of distress. "Just a walk, right?"
"Yeah," I say, flopping down on the couch beside her. "Got a cat out of a tree but not, like, in a superhero way."
She nods, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Promise me no getting your friends involved with funny business?"
"Promise," I reply, fingers crossed in my pocket. "She''s just a friend, not a sidekick."
My mom smiles, reaching out to ruffle my hair like she used to when I was little. "I''m proud of you, Sam. I know this life isn''t easy, but you handle it with such grace and strength. Your dad and I... we couldn''t be more proud of the woman you''re becoming."
I accept the compliment by scrunching my face up like I just ate a lemon.
We sit there for a little while longer, just talking and decompressing from the day. But eventually, the dopamine starts to wear off, and I can feel the exhaustion setting in.
"I think I''m gonna head to bed," I say, stifling a yawn. "I''ve got... stuff to do tomorrow, you know?"
My mom nods, giving me a quick hug before sending me on my way. "Sleep tight, sweetheart. I love you. And stay safe."
"Love you too," I murmur, already halfway up the stairs.
In my room, I strip off my clothes and collapse onto the bed, feeling the familiar ache of the hours-long patrol route. But even as my body winds down, my mind can''t seem to quiet.
I reach for my phone, scrolling through the messages that have piled up over the course of the evening. Most of them are from Jordan, their tone growing increasingly frantic as they fill me in on the latest developments in Maya Richardson''s campaign.
"What the serious fuck, dude? Has this shit been going on the whole time we''ve been busy?"
"There''s no way I''m letting some puppet politician ruin our shit, dude."
"When are we going to stop getting blindsided by this shit? It''s like, every time we put out one fire, another one pops up."
"I''m going to kill myself. I''m going to run myself over with a road roller."
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK"
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. They''re not wrong. It feels like we''re constantly playing catch-up, reacting to the latest crisis instead of getting ahead of it. I type out a quick reply to Jordan, promising to fill them in on everything in the morning. Then I set my phone aside, letting my eyes drift shut as I sink into the welcoming embrace of sleep.
WORLD OF CHUM: Postcognitive Background Checks (1)
"NSRA''s New Vetting Process Sparks Constitutional Debate"
By Jennifer Lawson, Staff Writer for the Washington Post
September 15, 2009
WASHINGTON ¡ª The National Superhuman Response Agency (NSRA) has implemented a controversial new vetting process for its employees and registered superhumans, igniting a fierce debate over privacy rights and the limits of governmental power in the age of metahuman abilities.
The process, officially termed "Postcognitive Background Assessment," involves the use of individuals with superhuman abilities to peer into a subject''s past. This method, proponents argue, provides a level of insight and accuracy impossible with traditional background checks.
"This is about ensuring the highest level of security for our nation," said NSRA Director Marcus Holbrook in a press conference yesterday. "With the immense responsibilities our agency bears, we must be certain about the integrity and history of those we employ and register."
However, civil liberties groups and privacy advocates have raised alarm over the practice. The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) has already filed a lawsuit challenging the constitutionality of the process.
"This is an unprecedented invasion of privacy," said ACLU attorney Sarah Goldstein. "It effectively eliminates the concept of a private life for anyone subjected to these checks. There are serious Fourth and Fifth Amendment concerns here."
The controversy has drawn attention from lawmakers on both sides of the aisle. Senator John Mitchell (R-TX) voiced support for the NSRA''s decision, stating, "In these uncertain times, we need every tool at our disposal to ensure our nation''s safety."
In contrast, Representative Maria Hernandez (D-CA) expressed deep reservations. "While I understand the NSRA''s motivation, we must be cautious about sacrificing our fundamental rights in the name of security," she said in a statement.
Legal experts are divided on the constitutionality of the practice. Professor Alan Dershowitz of Harvard Law School believes the Supreme Court will ultimately have to weigh in. "This is uncharted territory," he said. "We''re dealing with abilities that the Founding Fathers could never have imagined. The Court will need to balance national security interests against individual privacy rights in a wholly new context."
The NSRA has emphasized that the process is currently used only for vetting employees and registered superhumans, not for criminal investigations. They also stress that subjects must provide written consent before undergoing the assessment.
However, critics argue that the line between vetting and investigation could easily blur, and that the requirement for consent is meaningless when it''s a condition of employment or registration.
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As the debate rages on, the eyes of the nation are on the NSRA and the courts. The outcome of this controversy could set a precedent for how superhuman abilities are integrated into government operations and regulated by law.
The first legal challenge to the practice is set to be heard in the D.C. Circuit Court next month. Whatever the result, it seems certain that this issue will make its way to the Supreme Court, potentially reshaping the landscape of privacy rights in America for decades to come.
"Supreme Court Upholds NSRA''s Postcognitive Checks with Limitations"
By Jennifer Lawson, Staff Writer for the Washington Post
June 15th, 2011
WASHINGTON ¡ª In a landmark 5-4 decision, the Supreme Court has upheld the National Superhuman Response Agency''s use of postcognitive background checks, but with significant limitations. The case, ACLU v. National Superhuman Response Agency, has been closely watched as it grappled with the intersection of superhuman abilities and constitutional rights.
Chief Justice John Roberts, writing for the majority, stated that the practice of postcognitive background checks for NSRA employees and registered superhumans does not inherently violate the Fourth Amendment, but emphasized the need for strict oversight and limitations.
"While the unique nature of postcognitive abilities presents novel challenges to our understanding of privacy," Roberts wrote, "the government''s interest in ensuring the security and integrity of its superhuman-focused agencies outweighs certain privacy concerns, provided appropriate safeguards are in place."
The majority opinion, joined by Justices Scalia, Kennedy, Thomas, and Alito, outlined several key restrictions:
- Postcognitive checks must be limited to information relevant to the position or registration in question.
- Subjects must provide informed consent and have the right to decline without automatic disqualification.
- The process must be conducted by multiple postcognitives to ensure accuracy and fairness.
- Results cannot be used in criminal investigations without a separate warrant.
Justice Kennedy, in a concurring opinion, stressed the importance of adapting legal frameworks to address superhuman abilities: "Our Constitution must be interpreted in light of new realities, including the existence of metahuman capabilities."
The dissenting opinion, authored by Justice Ginsburg and joined by Justices Stevens, Souter, and Breyer, argued that the practice represents an unconstitutional invasion of privacy.
"Today''s decision opens the door to unprecedented government intrusion into the most intimate aspects of an individual''s life," Ginsburg wrote. "It sets a dangerous precedent that prioritizes speculative security benefits over fundamental privacy rights."
The ruling has been met with mixed reactions. NSRA Director Marcus Holbrook called it "a crucial victory for national security," while ACLU attorney Sarah Goldstein expressed disappointment, stating, "While we appreciate the limitations imposed by the Court, we maintain that this practice is fundamentally incompatible with the right to privacy."
Legal experts note that the decision leaves room for future challenges. "The Court has essentially created a new framework for evaluating superhuman-enhanced government procedures," said Constitutional law scholar Laurence Tribe. "We''ll likely see more cases as agencies and law enforcement attempt to expand the use of these abilities."
The NSRA has announced it will revise its postcognitive check procedures to comply with the Court''s guidelines. Meanwhile, lawmakers are already discussing potential legislation to further regulate the use of superhuman abilities in government operations.
As the nation grapples with the implications of this ruling, one thing is clear: the intersection of superhuman abilities and constitutional rights will continue to be a complex and evolving area of law for years to come.
Chapter 120.1
The office of Richard Duvall, Republican candidate for the special City Council election, is a bustling hive of activity. Located in a nondescript office building in Center City, the space is cramped and cluttered, with staffers and volunteers darting to and fro like ants in a disturbed hill.
Jordan and I navigate our way through the chaos, dodging stacks of flyers and boxes of campaign literature as we make our way towards Duvall''s inner sanctum. I can feel the tension in the air, the crackling energy of a campaign in its final days. The air feels thicker here. Heavier, somehow. More consequential.
We''re ushered into Duvall''s office by a harried-looking aide, who barely spares us a second glance before rushing off to attend to some urgent task. The man himself is seated behind a large, imposing desk, his head bent over a stack of papers. He looks up as we enter, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes us in.
"Ah, yes. The young activists," he says, his voice dripping with condescension. "I was wondering when you''d come knocking on my door. Here to bother me about our boys in blue?"
I bristle at his tone, but force myself to stay calm. We need his help, after all. Or at least, we need him to not actively hinder us.
"Mr. Duvall, thank you for taking the time to meet with us," I say, my voice carefully neutral. "We know you''re very busy, but we have some information that we think you should be aware of."
Duvall leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "Is that so? And what, pray tell, could two teenage girls possibly have to tell me that I don''t already know? Particularly two teenage girls that have made an enemy of this entire city''s security apparatus."
I feel Jordan tense beside me, their hands clenching into fists at their sides. I shoot them a warning glance, silently urging them to keep their cool. Getting into a pissing match with Duvall won''t help anyone.
"It''s about your opponent, Maya Richardson," I say, my voice growing firmer. "We have reason to believe that she''s involved with a criminal organization known as the Kingdom of Keys."
Duvall''s eyebrows shoot up, his expression a mix of surprise and skepticism. He leans forward, clearly interested. "That''s quite an accusation, young lady. I hope you have some evidence to back it up."
I nod, reaching into my backpack and pulling out a flash drive. "We do. Or at least, we have something that we think points in that direction."
I hand the drive over to Duvall, who takes it with a dubious expression. He plugs it into his computer, and a video begins to play on the screen. It''s grainy and shaky, clearly shot on a cell phone, but the image is unmistakable.
A giant, angry Tyrannosaurus Rex, rampaging through the streets of Mayfair. One of about a dozen videos taken - of me, getting the shit beaten out of me by a giant angry Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I watch Duvall''s face as the video plays, looking for any sign of recognition or concern. But his expression remains impassive, his eyes fixed on the screen with a kind of detached curiosity.
"Well, that''s certainly... something," he says at last, as the video comes to an end. "But I''m afraid I don''t see what it has to do with Maya Richardson."
"The T-Rex was working with her," Jordan blurts out, their voice tight with frustration. "We saw them together, before the attack. She was giving him orders. She can control the weather, we think - it wasn''t raining before, and the forecast that day was blue skies all day."
Duvall leans forward, his eyes narrowing. "And do you have any proof of that? Any video or audio evidence linking Richardson to this... creature?"
I feel my heart sink as I realize the answer is no. We don''t have anything concrete, just our own word and some circumstantial evidence. Duvall sees the look on my face and sits back, a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"I thought as much," he says, his voice dripping with condescension. "Look, kids, I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. But I can''t go around making wild accusations about my opponent based on hearsay and conjecture. Especially not with the election so close."
"But sir, if you''d just look into her background, her connections--" I start to say, but Duvall cuts me off with a wave of his hand.
"I don''t need to look into anything," he says, his voice growing hard. "Maya Richardson is a respected businesswoman and philanthropist. She''s done a lot for this city, and the people here know it. Hell, she was even invited to Liberty Belle''s funeral. You think they let just anyone attend something like that?"
I feel my stomach clench at the mention of Liberty Belle. The memory of that day, of seeing Mrs. Z standing among the mourners, approaching me like I was her best friend in the world, it''s still fresh in my mind, even after all these months. I remember thinking it was odd, a crime lord attending the funeral of the city''s most famous superhero, but like everything else in my life, I didn''t question it. I had bigger things to worry about at the time. "Plus, we all know about Mrs. Richardson''s powers. It''s not exactly a secret, her past life as Stormrise. You''re telling me a former superheroine has become a crime lord in addition to juggling all her business arrangements and philanthropy?"
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He snorts a little bit. "I''d almost say she deserves the spot if she could handle all that."
Jordan, however, isn''t ready to let it go. "But that just proves our point!" they exclaim, leaning forward in their chair. "If she''s got enough pull to get invited to something like that, who knows what else she''s capable of? What other strings she might be pulling behind the scenes?"
Duvall''s face hardens, his eyes flashing with anger. "Now you listen to me, young man--"
"I''m not a--" Jordan starts to say, but Duvall barrels on as if they hadn''t spoken.
"I don''t know what kind of game you two are playing, but I won''t be a part of it. Maya Richardson is my opponent, yes, but she''s also a fellow Philadelphian. And in this city, we don''t go around slandering people without proof. We don''t play that kind of politics. If you''ve got anything concrete, believe me, I''d love to have it - but I can''t go chasing plastic skeletons, you understand? This late in the game, I can''t afford to waste resources that I could be spending on get-out-to-vote initiatives."
Jordan opens their mouth to argue, but I lay a hand on their arm, silencing them. "Mr. Duvall, I apologize. We didn''t mean any disrespect. We''re just... we''re worried. About the city, and what might happen if someone with ties to organized crime were to gain a position of power."
Duvall''s expression softens, just a fraction. "I understand your concern. Truly, I do. But you have to understand, the world of politics is a complicated one. Everyone''s got skeletons in their closet, everyone''s got dirt that could be dug up if someone went looking hard enough. The question is, do we really want to go down that road? Do we really want to start a witchhunt, tearing down anyone who''s ever made a mistake or had a lapse in judgment? Without proof, the amount of digging that could be done in the next three days is minimal."
He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. "No, I don''t think that''s the kind of city we want to be. Philadelphia is better than that. We''re a city of second chances, of forgiveness and redemption. If Maya Richardson has truly turned over a new leaf, if she''s truly dedicated herself to serving the people of this city, then who are we to stand in her way?"
I feel a flicker of doubt in my chest, a nagging sense that something about Duvall''s words doesn''t quite ring true. But I push it aside, forcing myself to nod along with his speech.
"I guess you''re right," I say, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears. "We just... we wanted to do the right thing. To make sure the city was in good hands."
"And that''s admirable!" Duvall says, his tone turning suddenly jovial. "Truly, it is. We need more young people like you two, people who are engaged and passionate about the future of our city. Tell you what, why don''t we change the subject to something a bit more positive? What do you think are the biggest issues facing Philadelphia right now?"
I blink, thrown by the sudden shift in tone. "Oh, uh... I guess crime is always a big concern, especially with Jump and Fly going around. And poverty, and access to education and healthcare."
Duvall smiles, but it doesn''t quite reach his eyes. "Ah yes, crime. A perennial favorite. But let me ask you this, Sam - may I call you Sam? Have you ever stopped to think about where crime really comes from? What the root causes might be?"
I frown, not sure where he''s going with this. "I mean, I guess it''s a complex issue. There''s no one single cause, right? It''s a combination of factors - poverty, lack of opportunity, systemic inequalities..." I say, mirroring one of Playback''s many post-cheesesteak lectures to me on the topic.
Duvall holds up a finger, wagging it back and forth. "No, no, no. You''re thinking too broad. The reality is, the majority of violent crime in this city happens in just a handful of neighborhoods. Think about that for a second. A handful of neighborhoods, dragging down the whole city. Does that seem fair to you?"
I feel my skin start to crawl, a sinking feeling in my stomach. "I''m not sure what you''re getting at, Mr. Duvall."
Jordan, however, has no such reservations. "It sounds like you''re saying that some neighborhoods are inherently more criminal than others. That''s a pretty fucked up thing to imply."
Duvall''s smile fades, replaced by a cold, hard stare. "Watch your language, young lady. You might be a superhero, or whatever you call yourself, but you''re speaking to an adult, and a candidate for public office. Show some respect."
"Respect is--"
I hurriedly clamp my arm over Jordan''s, squeezing tight as a warning. "We apologize, Mr. Duvall. We weren''t trying to pick a fight. I think we''re veering a little bit off-topic."
He doesn''t look appeased, but he seems to settle a bit. "I wasn''t implying anything. Simply stating a fact. Crime happens where it happens, and it''s not a coincidence. Tell me, have either of you ever been to Kensington? Or Tioga?"
"I volunteer at a Kensington soup kitchen twice a week with my parents. Jordan lives a couple blocks from Tioga," I interrupt, my voice flat, wanting the conversation to end. The lies flow freely from me like honey. Duvall''s eyebrows raise, but he pushes on regardless. He doesn''t care that he''s making a fool of himself.
"So you know what I''m talking about, then. The drugs, the gangs, the senseless violence. It''s a cancer on our city."
Jordan looks like they''re about to blow a gasket, their jaw clenched so tightly I''m worried they might crack a tooth. "You--". I squeeze their arm again, harder this time. They get the message and fall silent, but I could see the anger radiating off them like heat from a furnace.
"Cancer is not contagious, Mr. Duvall. I think we''re getting off-topic again," I say, my voice strained. "We came here to talk about your opponent, and whether she might be involved in organized crime. Do you have any thoughts on that?"
Duvall waves a hand dismissively. "I''ve told you my thoughts. Without concrete proof, it''s all just hot air, and I can''t afford to waste my time on hot air. Let''s focus on my campaign and how we''re going to make Philadelphia safer and more prosperous for everyone."
"Everyone except the people in Kensington and Tioga and Frankford, apparently," Jordan mutters under their breath. I shoot them a warning glance, but Duvall doesn''t seem to have heard. Or if he has, he chooses to ignore it.
But I force myself to stay calm, to keep my voice level. "Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Mr. Duvall. You''ve given us a lot to consider."
He smiles, leaning back in his chair with an air of smug satisfaction. "I''m sure I have. You know, Sam, you seem like a smart girl. A little misguided, maybe, but that''s to be expected at your age. If you ever want to learn more about how the real world works, about what it takes to make change happen..."
He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a business card, sliding it across the desk towards me. "Give me a call. I''m always happy to mentor young people who show promise. And we do internships for college credit."
Chapter 120.2
I stare down at the card, at the embossed letters spelling out "Richard Duvall, Republican Candidate for City Council." I can feel Jordan''s eyes on me, can sense their disbelief and disgust. I want to spit on it - I don''t want that guy within a mile of me ever again if I can help it - but I can''t make too deep of a stink. I might need to come back here again at some point. I don''t want to burn the bridges if I can afford it.
I pick up the card and slip it into my pocket without looking at it, the rage and disgust still churning in my gut like some kind of venomous snake waiting to strike.
"We should go," I mutter to Jordan, standing up abruptly. "We''ve taken up enough of Mr. Duvall''s time. I''m sure the man has a lot of puppies to kick before the end of the day."
But Duvall leans forward, clearly nonplussed. "Now now, Sam. If you wanted to hear my opinion, then I''m more than happy to share it. But I''m sensing that you and your underage friend got a whiff of something you don''t understand and have bitten off more than you can chew on."
Now it''s Jordan''s turn to yank on my arm warningly. They make surreptitious nodding motions towards the door with their head. I catch the very beginnings of that evil, mean, barking laughter from Duvall as we slip out of the office in a flurry of scattered papers. We don''t say a word in the elevator ride down to the street. We don''t say a word as we walk down the block and duck into an alley. I wait until we''re safely in the shadows to let out a low, guttural scream of frustration that bounces off the brick walls like a ricocheting bullet.
"That fucking piece of fucking shit!" I snarl, slamming my fist into the side of a dumpster. It crumples at my blow, the sound of denting metal like music to my seething ears. "Did you hear the way he was talking?"
Jordan leans against the opposite wall of the alley, their face a mix of disgust and resignation. "I know, right? What a complete and utter asshole. I feel like I need a shower just from being in the same room as him."
I nod, still seething. "Did you hear the way he was talking about Kensington and Tioga? Like they''re just... just garbage dumps full of criminals, instead of neighborhoods full of real people with real lives and real problems?"
"Yeah, I caught that," Jordan says, their voice dripping with sarcasm. "Real subtle, wasn''t he? About as subtle as a brick to the face."
I pace back and forth in the narrow alley, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. "And the way he just dismissed everything we were saying about Richardson! Like we were just a couple of stupid kids playing detective or something."
Jordan nods, their expression thoughtful. "Yeah, that was... frustrating. But you know, Sam, I hate to say it, but... maybe Richardson winning wouldn''t be the worst thing in the world."
I stop dead in my tracks, whirling to face them. "Are you serious right now? Jordan, she''s a criminal! She''s part of the Kingdom of Keys! She''s responsible for... for everything that''s happened to us, to the city! Her guys shot us!"
Jordan holds up their hands defensively. "I know, I know! Trust me, I''m not saying I like her or anything. But come on, Sam. You saw what Duvall is like. Can you imagine someone like that in a position of power? At least with Richardson, we know what we''re dealing with."
I shake my head, unable to believe what I''m hearing. "So what, we just let a known criminal take office because the alternative is a racist asshole? That''s not how this is supposed to work, Jordan!"
"And how is it supposed to work, Sam?" Jordan counters, their voice rising. "Because from where I''m standing, it looks like we''re screwed either way. At least Richardson seems to give a shit about the city, even if it''s just because she wants to exploit it. Duvall? He''d probably be happy if half the neighborhoods in Philly just disappeared overnight."
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I open my mouth to argue, then close it again, feeling a wave of confusion and frustration wash over me. The thought of someone like Duvall in a position of power makes my skin crawl. But the idea of just standing back and letting Richardson win, knowing what we know about her... it goes against everything I believe in as a hero.
"I don''t know," I say at last, slumping against the wall next to Jordan. "I just... I feel like we''re stuck between a rock and a hard place here."
Jordan nods, their expression softening. "Welcome to the wonderful world of adult politics, Sam. Where everything sucks and there are no good choices. Take solace in the fact that city council is not a really important position. God forbid she was mayor or something, then we might have had to consider assassination."
I can tell they meant it as a joke, but it doesn''t feel funny in the moment.
We stand there in silence for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts. The sounds of the city filter in around us - car horns, distant sirens, the chatter of people passing by on the street. It all feels so normal, so ordinary.
"I wish I could just do it myself, man," I mumble, more to myself than anyone else.
Jordan raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying you''d consider a career in politics, Samantha Small? Because I gotta say, I''m not sure the world is ready for Shark Girl: The Senator."
I can''t help but laugh at that, the tension in my chest easing just a little. "God, can you imagine? I''d probably end up punching someone on the Senate floor in my first week."
"Now that I''d pay to see," Jordan chuckles. "But seriously, Sam... what are we going to do about this?"
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "I don''t know. I mean, we can''t just sit back and do nothing, right? But what can we do? We don''t have any real proof against Richardson, and even if we did, would it matter? People seem to love her."
Jordan nods, their expression thoughtful. "Maybe that''s the key, though. People love her because they think they know her. But they don''t know the real her, the one we''ve seen. If we could find a way to expose that..."
"But how?" I ask, feeling a flicker of hope despite myself. "The election is in like... three days," I say, counting on my fingers. "Would anything we do swing the pendulum at this point?"
Jordan shrugs. "I don''t know. But there''s got to be something we''re missing. Some angle we haven''t considered yet."
I nod, my mind already racing with possibilities. "Maybe we need to talk to someone who knows more about how the system works. Someone who might have access to information we don''t."
"Like who?" Jordan asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Like Councilman Davis," I say, the idea solidifying in my mind. "He''s already on the City Council, and he''s the civilian head of the Delaware Valley Defenders. If anyone would know about Richardson''s background, or have the resources to look into it, it''d be him."
Jordan sighs, pushing themselves off the wall. "I guess you''re right. It''s not like we''ve got anything to lose at this point."
As we start to make our way out of the alley, I feel a sudden wave of exhaustion wash over me. It''s been a long day, and it''s not even noon yet. "Hey, Jordan?" I say, my voice soft.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For... for being here. For helping me with all this. I don''t know what I''d do without you."
Jordan looks at me, their expression softening. "Hey, what are friends for? Besides, someone''s got to keep you from doing anything too stupid."
I laugh, giving them a playful shove. "Shut up. I''m not that bad."
"Oh really?" Jordan says, raising an eyebrow. "You went to fight a neo-Nazi with super strength by yourself. You are that stupid."
I feel my shoulders raise. "And it worked! I got him to stand down!"
As we walk, I find myself thinking about how much has changed since I first met Jordan. Back then, they were my enemy, and I was fully prepared to punch them in the middle of school. Now... now I can''t imagine my life without them. They''re my partner, my confidant, the one person I know I can always count on, no matter what.
It''s strange, how quickly someone can become such an integral part of your life. How one day you''re strangers, and the next, you''re sharing your deepest secrets and wildest dreams. I wonder, briefly, if this is what it''s like for normal teenagers. If they all have friendships like this, or if it''s just another weird quirk of our superhero lives.
"Hey, Jordan?" I say as we approach the imposing stone edifice of City Hall.
"Yeah?"
"No matter what happens in there... thanks for having my back. I couldn''t do this without you."
Jordan looks at me, a rare smile crossing their face. "Don''t mention it, Smalls. Someone''s got to keep you from biting off more than you can chew."
Chapter 120.3
I fidget nervously in the uncomfortable plastic chair, my eyes darting around the austere meeting room of the Delaware Valley Defenders headquarters. The walls are a dull beige, adorned with framed certificates and photographs of various heroes in action. It''s meant to be inspiring, I guess, but right now it just makes me feel small and out of place.
Councilman Davis sits across from me, his expression neutral as he flips through a folder on the table between us. This is the first time I''ve ever requested a private audience with him, and my stomach flips with a mixture of apprehension and dread.
"So, Samantha," he says, finally looking up from the folder. "You wanted to discuss Maya Richardson''s campaign for City Council. I have to say, I''m a bit surprised. I didn''t think local politics was really in your... wheelhouse."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Adults always seem to think that teenagers are incapable of caring about anything beyond their own narrow interests. "It''s not usually, sir," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "But I have some concerns about Mrs. Richardson that I think you should be aware of."
Davis leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Concerns? What kind of concerns?"
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "I have reason to believe that Mrs. Richardson is involved with the Kingdom of Keys. They''re responsible for a lot of the drug trafficking and violence in the city, and I think she might be one of them, if not one of their leaders. If you, um, remember last year when Mr. T-Rex attacked my home... she was there."
Davis nods slowly, his expression thoughtful, lips pursed. "I believe you, Sam. In fact, we''ve had our suspicions about Mrs. Richardson - Mrs. Zenith - for some time now."
I blink, taken aback. "Wait, you know she''s Mrs. Zenith? And you''re just... okay with that?"
Davis sighs, leaning back in his chair. "It''s not that simple, Sam. We''ve known about her alter ego for a while now, yes. But knowing something and being able to prove it in a court of law are two very different things."
I feel a flicker of frustration in my chest. "But if you know she''s a supervillain, why can''t you just... I don''t know, arrest her or something?"
"Because we live in a society of laws, Sam," Davis says, his voice patient but firm. "We can''t just go around arresting people because we think they might be criminals. We need evidence, solid proof that will stand up in court."
I slump in my chair, feeling deflated. "But we have evidence. We''ve seen her with our own eyes, working with the Kingdom. Doesn''t that count for anything?"
Davis shakes his head. "Eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable, especially when it comes from... well, let''s say ''interested parties'' like yourself. With all respect - and I mean it, I''m not saying it just to condescend to you - your history with the Kingdom makes you a less than impartial witness."
I bristle at that, but I can''t really argue with his logic. "So what, we just let her get elected to the City Council? Let a known supervillain have a say in how our city is run?"
"It''s not ideal, I''ll grant you that," Davis says, rubbing his temples. "But the fact is, we''ve been trying to build a case against Richardson and the Kingdom for years now. They''re slippery, always one step ahead of us. Even with all our resources, all our best parallel construction, we just can''t get anything to stick. It''s the same problems that they had sticking down the old mob, too. Everything is done through intermediaries, soldiers, and associates, people without connections higher up the ladder. They''re paying off police officers to cover for them. And nobody can remember what that man in the suit looked like when there was a Tyrannosaurus Rex running down the street seconds earlier."
I look at him with an eyebrow raised. "The mafia had dinosaurs?"
"Well, maybe that one''s a bit of a new-age problem, I''ll admit..." he mumbles, chuckling to himself.
I lean forward, my hands gripping the edge of the table. "Aren''t there people with, like, psychic powers that can do something about this? I''m sure she''s shot someone, I think you need to do that just to get initiated, like Mudslide did. And this girl I met named Sundial can read the past of a location. Doesn''t the government have anything like that?"
Davis looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighs, reaching for a folder on the table in front of him. "I have an answer to that, but you''re not going to like it."
I raise an eyebrow. "Try me."
"Have you ever heard of postcognitive background checks?" Davis asks, opening the folder and spreading out a series of documents.
I shake my head, feeling a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "No, what''s that?"
"It''s a relatively new procedure," Davis explains, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "We use individuals with postcognitive abilities - people who can see into the past - to conduct thorough background checks on candidates for high-level positions."
I narrow my eyes. "Right, that''s exactly what I was suggesting."
Davis shakes his head. "We don''t use them for something as minor as city council. They''re reserved for positions with higher security clearances - mayors, governors, senators, that sort of thing."
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"Why?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Wouldn''t it make sense to use them for all elected officials?"
Davis leans back in his chair, his expression grave. "Here''s the thing, Sam. Postcognitive checks are... invasive. They don''t just look at your public record or your credit history. They can see everything you''ve ever done, every mistake you''ve ever made, every secret you''ve ever kept. It''s a massive violation of privacy."
I feel a chill run down my spine as I consider the implications. "That... that does sound pretty invasive," I admit. "But if it could catch criminals like Richardson before they get into power, isn''t it worth it?"
Davis''s expression darkens. "Is it, though? Think about it, Sam. How would you feel if someone could look into your past and see everything you''ve ever done? Every embarrassing moment, every white lie, every time you''ve bent the rules or made a mistake? And not just you - your family, your friends, anyone you''ve ever interacted with. All laid bare for strangers to judge."
I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, the full weight of what he''s describing settling over me. "I... I guess I wouldn''t like that very much," I admit. "But still, if it could stop bad people from getting into power..."
"At what cost, though?" Davis counters. "Where do we draw the line? Today it''s high-level government officials, tomorrow it''s city council members, the next day it''s everyone applying for a job or trying to rent an apartment. It''s a slippery slope, Sam. Once we start down that road, it''s very hard to turn back."
I feel a surge of frustration. "But surely you could make an exception? If you have suspicions about her..."
"We could," Davis admits. "But there are... complications. Political considerations. Using postcognitive checks on a local election candidate without clear probable cause... it could be seen as an abuse of power. Especially given Richardson''s... background."
I frown, not following. "Her background? You mean as a supervillain? Or, like, as an ex-superhero, as I found out earlier today?"
Davis shakes his head. "No, I mean her background as a woman of color running for office. Using extraordinary measures to investigate her without solid evidence... it could be seen as discriminatory. We have to be very careful about how we use these tools, Sam."
I nod slowly, trying to process everything he''s saying. "But... if we already have this, and we''re already using it for some positions, why not use it for Richardson? Especially if we already suspect her of being involved with the Kingdom?"
Davis sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Because, Sam, we have to follow the rules. Even when - especially when - it''s inconvenient. If we start bending the rules every time we think it might be justified, pretty soon we won''t have any rules left at all. We''d be no better than the criminals we''re trying to stop."
My face scrunches up again. "So we just let her get away with it? Let her take office and use her power to help the Kingdom?"
"I didn''t say that," Davis says, holding up a hand. "We keep investigating. We keep building our case. And we trust in the system, flawed as it may be, to eventually bring her to justice."
I slump back in my chair, feeling defeated. "It just... it doesn''t feel right," I mutter.
Davis leans forward, his expression softening. "I know it doesn''t, Sam. Believe me, I understand your frustration. But part of being a hero - a real hero, not just someone with powers - is doing the right thing even when it''s hard. Even when it feels like the wrong thing in the moment."
I nod, not entirely convinced but too exhausted to argue further. "I guess you''re right," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Davis nods, his expression sympathetic. "I understand, Sam. Believe me, I''ve had many sleepless nights wrestling with these same issues. But the fact is, this is the world we live in now. We have to adapt, or we risk being left behind."
"So what''s our next move?" I ask, trying to sound professional and mature.
Davis leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "For now, we continue to gather intelligence. We monitor Richardson''s activities, her associates, her finances. If she''s really involved with the Kingdom, she''ll slip up eventually. And when she does, we''ll be there to catch her."
I nod, feeling a mix of annoyance and determination. "And in the meantime? We just... let her run for office?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Davis says with a sigh. "Unless we can find concrete evidence of wrongdoing before the election, we have to let the democratic process play out. Even if we don''t like the outcome."
I slump in my chair, feeling suddenly exhausted. "This sucks. I mean, I get it, I do. But it still sucks."
Davis chuckles, his expression softening. "Welcome to the world of adult politics, Sam. It''s messy, it''s complicated, and it often leaves you feeling like you need a shower. But it''s the system we''ve got, and we have to work within it if we want to make any real change."
I nod, pushing myself to my feet. "I guess you''re right. Thanks for... for being honest with me about all this. I know it can''t be easy, telling a kid about all the shady stuff that goes on behind the scenes."
Davis stands as well, coming around the table to put a hand on my shoulder. "You''re not just a kid, Sam. You''re a hero. And part of being a hero is understanding the complexities of the world we''re trying to protect. It''s not always black and white, good guys versus bad guys. Often, it''s the uncomfortable shades of gray that really teach you what a person is like inside."
I nod, feeling a strange mix of pride and uncertainty, thinking about Patriot, for some reason. "I''ll try to remember that."
Davis studies me for a moment, his brow furrowed. "Sam, I need you to promise me something."
I look up, meeting his gaze. "What?"
"Promise me you won''t do anything reckless," he says, his voice deadly serious. "I know you''re frustrated, and I know you want to help. But going after Richardson on your own, or trying to expose her without solid evidence... it could backfire spectacularly. Not just for you, but for everyone working to bring her down legally."
I feel a flicker of defiance in my chest, but I force it down. "I promise," I say, even as a part of me rebels against the words. "I won''t do anything stupid."
Davis nods, seemingly satisfied. "Good. And Sam? I''m proud of you for bringing this to my attention. It shows real maturity and a commitment to doing things the right way."
I force a smile, even as I feel a knot of unease forming in my stomach. "Thanks, Councilman Davis. I appreciate your time."
As I turn to leave, Davis calls out one last time. "Sam? Be careful out there. Richardson and the Kingdom... they''re dangerous. Don''t underestimate them."
I pause at the door, looking back over my shoulder. "I won''t. I''ve learned that lesson the hard way."
As I make my way out of the Delaware Valley Defenders headquarters, my mind is spinning with everything I''ve learned. Part of me wants to call Jordan immediately, to share everything and start planning our next move. But another part of me, a quieter, more cautious part, whispers that maybe I should take some time to process all of this first. To really think about what it means, not just for our fight against the Kingdom, but for the world we live in.
I pull out my phone, staring at the blank screen for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, I slip it back into my pocket.
Chapter 121.1
The next two days pass in a blur of frantic activity. Jordan and I throw ourselves into our investigation with a desperate intensity, knowing that time is quickly running out. Every lead, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, is pursued with dogged determination. We''re like bloodhounds on the scent, except the scent keeps disappearing and reappearing in random places and we''re not even sure what we''re smelling anymore.
We start early on the first morning, meeting at the Music Hall before the sun has even fully risen. Jordan''s already there when I arrive, hunched over their laptop with a mug of coffee that''s more cream and sugar than actual coffee. They look up as I enter, their eyes ringed with dark circles.
"You look like crap," I say by way of greeting.
Jordan snorts. "Speak for yourself, Shark Girl. You look like you got into a fight with a hair dryer and lost."
I run a hand through my tangled mess of hair, wincing as my fingers catch on a particularly stubborn knot. "Yeah, well, I didn''t exactly get much sleep last night. Too busy thinking about all the ways this could go horribly wrong."
Jordan nods, their expression grim. "Join the club. I''ve been up all night trying to dig up anything I can on Richardson''s finances. It''s like trying to untangle a plate of spaghetti with chopsticks."
I peer over their shoulder at the screen, which is filled with rows and columns of numbers that might as well be written in ancient Greek for all the sense they make to me. "Any luck?"
Jordan shakes their head. "Nothing concrete. She''s got her fingers in a lot of pies, that''s for sure. Real estate, tech startups, charitable foundations¡ but nothing that screams ''supervillain lair'' or ''secret criminal empire.''"
I sigh, slumping into a chair next to them. "So what''s our next move?"
Jordan cracks their knuckles, a determined glint in their eye. "We go old school. Hit the streets, talk to people, see what we can dig up. You up for some good old-fashioned gumshoe work, partner?"
I grin despite myself. "Let''s do it."
Our first stop is the neighborhood where Richardson''s campaign headquarters is located. We spend hours walking up and down the streets, talking to anyone who will give us the time of day. Shop owners, street vendors, random passersby - we leave no stone unturned.
"Excuse me, ma''am," I say, approaching a woman walking her dog. "We''re doing a school project on local politics. Do you know anything about Maya Richardson?"
The woman looks at me suspiciously. "Aren''t you a little young to be out on your own?"
I force a smile, trying to look as innocent and non-threatening as possible. "Oh, my mom''s just around the corner. She''s letting me do the interviews myself. For independence, you know?"
The woman''s expression softens. "Well, isn''t that nice. Maya Richardson, you say? Oh, she''s a lovely woman. Always donating to local charities, helping out with community events. Did you know she funded the renovation of the local playground?"
I nod, trying to hide my disappointment. It''s the same story we''ve heard a dozen times already. Richardson, the philanthropist. Richardson, the community pillar. Richardson, the saint.
"Thank you for your time," I say, turning away with a sigh.
Jordan''s waiting for me around the corner, their expression hopeful. "Any luck?"
I shake my head. "Same old, same old. Either Richardson''s the best thing since sliced bread, or people don''t know anything about her at all."
Jordan kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk, sending it skittering into the gutter. "This is getting us nowhere. We need to try something else."
I nod, my mind racing. "What about her office? Maybe we could¡ I don''t know, sneak in after hours or something?"
Jordan''s eyes light up. "Now you''re talking my language. But we''ll need a distraction¡"
The next day, we switch tactics. Jordan suggests we try dumpster diving - literally going through the trash outside Richardson''s campaign office to see if we can find any incriminating documents.
"This is disgusting," Tasha mutters, holding a napkin over her nose as we root through a dumpster behind the office. "And probably illegal."
"Only if we get caught," I reply, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Besides, trash is considered abandoned property. We''re not technically doing anything wrong."
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Jordan snorts. "Tell that to the judge when we''re arrested for trespassing and¡ I don''t know, garbage theft?"
I''m about to reply when something catches my eye. "Wait, guys. I think I found something."
I pull out a crumpled piece of paper, carefully smoothing it out. It''s a receipt for a large cash deposit at a local bank. The amount is¡ substantial.
"Holy shit," Jordan breathes, peering over my shoulder. "That''s a lot of zeros."
Tasha frowns. "But is it illegal? Politicians deal with a lot of money, right? Campaign donations and stuff?"
I chew my lip, considering. "Maybe, but this much cash? It''s suspicious, at least. We should-"
I''m cut off by the sound of a door opening nearby. We all freeze, hardly daring to breathe.
"Who''s out there?" a gruff voice calls. "This is private property!"
We don''t stick around to explain ourselves. We bolt, scrambling out of the dumpster and running as fast as we can down the alley. It''s not until we''re several blocks away, gasping for breath in a park, that we stop to regroup.
"Well," Jordan pants, doubling over with their hands on their knees. "That was¡ exciting."
Tasha collapses onto a nearby bench, shaking her head. "You guys are going to get us all arrested, you know that?"
I can''t help but laugh, the adrenaline still coursing through my system. "Maybe. But at least we found something. It''s not much, but it''s a start."
That afternoon, I find myself standing outside Richardson''s campaign office, my heart pounding in my chest. The blonde wig itches, and the makeup feels heavy on my face. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.
"You''ve got this, Sam," Jordan''s voice comes through the tiny earpiece they rigged up for me. "Just remember what we practiced."
I nod, even though they can''t see me, and push open the door. The campaign office is bustling with activity, volunteers bustling about with stacks of flyers and phones ringing off the hook. I approach the receptionist, trying to look confident.
"Hi, I''m Sarah from Temple University''s journalism program," I say, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Richardson for a profile piece we''re doing on local candidates."
The receptionist looks harried, barely glancing up from her computer. "Do you have an appointment?"
I falter for a moment. "Uh, no, but-"
"Then I''m afraid Mrs. Richardson isn''t available," she cuts me off. "She''s very busy with the campaign. You can leave your contact information and someone will get back to you if there''s an opening in her schedule."
I open my mouth to argue, but Jordan''s voice in my ear stops me. "Don''t push it, Sam. We don''t want to draw too much attention."
I force a smile, thanking the receptionist before turning to leave. As I''m heading towards the door, I nearly collide with someone entering. I look up, an apology on my lips, and freeze.
It''s Richardson herself.
She smiles at me, her expression warm and charismatic. "Oh, I''m so sorry! Are you alright?"
I nod, my mind racing. This is my chance. "Actually, Mrs. Richardson, I was hoping to speak with you. I''m Sarah, from Temple''s journalism program. We''re doing a profile on local candidates, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"
Richardson''s smile doesn''t falter, but I see something flicker in her eyes. Recognition? Suspicion? I can''t tell. "Of course, Sarah. I always have time for aspiring journalists. Why don''t we step into my office?"
As I follow her, I hear Jordan''s voice in my ear, sounding panicked. "Sam, what are you doing? This wasn''t part of the plan!"
I ignore them, my heart pounding as Richardson closes the office door behind us. She gestures for me to sit, taking a seat behind her desk.
"So, Sarah," she says, her voice smooth as silk. "What would you like to know?"
For the next twenty minutes, I ask her questions about her campaign, her policies, her vision for Philadelphia. She answers each one with practiced ease, her responses polished and rehearsed. I try to steer the conversation towards more sensitive topics - her business dealings, her connections in the city - but she deftly deflects each attempt.
Finally, feeling desperate, I decide to take a risk. "Mrs. Richardson, there have been some rumors about your involvement with local organized crime. Would you care to comment on that?"
Nothing flashes across her face - I''m watching. She laughs, the sound light and dismissive. She''s prepared.
"Oh, Sarah. I''ve heard those rumors too. They''re completely baseless, of course. Just the kind of mudslinging you often see in local politics. I''m focused on serving the people of Philadelphia, not engaging in ridiculous conspiracy theories."
I open my mouth to press further, but she stands, effectively ending the interview. "I''m sorry, but I''m afraid I have another appointment. It was lovely meeting you, Sarah. I look forward to reading your article."
As she ushers me out of the office, I feel a mix of frustration and defeat. I didn''t get anything useful, and worse, I have a sinking feeling that she saw right through my disguise.
Once I''m a safe distance from the campaign office, I yank off the wig, my hands shaking. Jordan''s voice comes through the earpiece, sounding worried.
"Sam? Are you okay? What happened in there?"
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. "I don''t know, Jordan. I think¡ I think she knew who I was. The whole time."
There''s a long pause before Jordan replies. "Shit. Okay, let''s regroup at the Music Hall. We need to figure out our next move."
The next day, we''re back to pounding the pavement. We''ve got a list of Richardson''s known haunts - coffee shops, restaurants, the gym where she supposedly works out. We spend hours staking out these places, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, maybe overhear something useful.
But it''s like she''s a ghost. Everyone we talk to has seen her at some point, but no one seems to know when she''ll be back. We wait for hours outside her favorite cafe, but she never shows.
"This is useless," I mutter, slumping against a wall. We''ve been sitting on this bench for three hours, and the only thing we''ve accomplished is getting sunburned. "She''s probably holed up in her campaign office, getting ready for the election."
Jordan nods, looking equally dejected. "Yeah, you''re probably right. But what else can we do? We''re running out of time."
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "I don''t know. Maybe¡ maybe we should try talking to some of the other candidates? See if they know anything?"
Jordan gives me a skeptical look. "You really think they''d tell us anything? We''re just a couple of kids."
"We''re not just kids," I snap, more harshly than I intended. "We''re¡ we''re trying to do the right thing. To protect the city. That has to count for something, right?"
Jordan''s expression softens. "Yeah, I guess it does. Alright, let''s give it a shot. Who''s next on the list?"
I pull out my phone, scrolling through the names. "Uh¡ looks like there''s a guy named Frank Martinez holding a rally in Fairmount Park this afternoon. Want to check it out?"
Jordan nods, pushing themselves to their feet. "Lead the way, Shark Girl."
Chapter 121.2
The rally is in full swing by the time we arrive. There''s a decent-sized crowd gathered around a makeshift stage, where a man I assume is Martinez is speaking passionately about¡ something. I can''t quite make out the words over the sound of the crowd.
We push our way through the throng, trying to get closer to the stage. As we near the front, I start to catch snippets of Martinez''s speech.
"¡time for a change in this city! We need leadership that puts the people first, not the corporations and the fat cats!"
The crowd cheers, and I exchange a glance with Jordan. This guy seems pretty fired up.
"And let me tell you something about my opponent, Maya Richardson," Martinez continues, his voice rising. "She talks a big game about helping the community, but where does her money really come from? Who''s really pulling the strings?"
My ears perk up at this. Maybe this guy knows something we don''t.
As soon as Martinez finishes his speech and steps down from the stage, we make our move. Pushing past the crowd of supporters trying to shake his hand or get a selfie, we manage to corner him near a table laden with campaign literature.
"Mr. Martinez," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "We were hoping we could ask you a few questions about Maya Richardson."
Martinez looks us up and down, his expression guarded. "And who might you be? You look a little young to be reporters."
I falter for a moment, but Jordan steps in smoothly. "We''re student journalists, sir. Working on a piece about the upcoming election for our school paper."
Martinez''s face relaxes into a smile. "Ah, well that''s different then. Always good to see young people taking an interest in local politics. What do you want to know?"
"You mentioned something about Richardson''s money," I say, seizing the opportunity. "What did you mean by that? Do you know something about her finances?"
Martinez''s smile fades, replaced by a more serious expression. "Look, kids, I can''t go throwing around accusations without proof. That''s not how this game works. But let''s just say that I''ve heard things. Rumors, you know? About where some of her campaign contributions are coming from. About certain¡ business dealings that don''t quite add up."
I lean in closer, my heart racing. "What kind of business dealings?"
Martinez glances around, as if checking to make sure no one''s listening in. "There''s talk of shell companies. Offshore accounts. Money moving around in ways that don''t make sense for a legitimate business. But like I said, it''s all just rumors. Nothing I can prove. And certainly nothing I''d like to be on the record about."
I nod, trying to hide my excitement. This is the closest thing to a lead we''ve had in days. "Do you have any idea where we might be able to find more information about this?"
Martinez shakes his head, grimacing in fear as he looks at my notebook with a sort of delirious glower. "Sorry, kids. I''ve already said more than I should. You want my advice? Leave this alone. Richardson''s got powerful friends. It''s not safe to go digging too deep, if you catch my drift."
With that, he turns away, moving to greet another group of supporters. Jordan and I exchange glances, both of us thinking the same thing: we might be onto something here.
As we leave the rally, my mind is racing with possibilities. Shell companies, offshore accounts¡ it''s not much, but it''s a start. Maybe if we can track down some of these companies, find out who''s really behind them¡
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But even as I''m getting excited about this new lead, a part of me knows it''s probably too late. The election is tomorrow. Even if we could find concrete proof of Richardson''s wrongdoing in the next 24 hours - which seems unlikely - would it be enough to stop her from winning?
I push the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. We''ve got work to do.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of frantic activity. We hit the library, poring over business records and financial reports. Jordan does their best to navigate the labyrinth of online databases, while I make what feels like a million phone calls, trying to track down anyone who might have information about these mysterious shell companies.
But it''s like trying to catch smoke with our bare hands. Every lead we follow turns into a dead end. Every promising bit of information turns out to be a false alarm. By the time the sun starts to set, we''re both exhausted and no closer to the truth than we were this morning.
We trudge back to the Music Hall, our spirits at an all-time low. Tasha''s waiting for us when we arrive, her face lighting up with hope as we enter.
"Did you find anything?" she asks eagerly.
I shake my head, collapsing onto the worn-out couch that serves as our main piece of furniture. "Nothing concrete. Just more rumors and dead ends."
Jordan slumps down next to me, their face a mask of frustration. "We''re out of time. The election''s tomorrow, and we''ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Tasha''s face falls, but she tries to rally. "Come on, guys. There''s got to be something we can do. What about that stuff Martinez told you about the shell companies?"
I sigh, rubbing my temples. "We tried, Tash. But it''s like trying to solve a Rubik''s Cube blindfolded. Everything''s so tangled up and hidden behind layers of legal BS. We''d need a team of forensic accountants and about six months to even start making sense of it all."
"And we''ve got neither," Jordan adds glumly.
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our failure settling over us like a heavy blanket. I can''t help but think about all the people who are going to vote tomorrow, blissfully unaware that they might be electing a supervillain to the City Council. It makes me feel sick to my stomach.
"Maybe¡" Tasha starts, then trails off.
"Maybe what?" I ask, looking up at her.
She shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "I don''t know. Maybe we''re going about this all wrong. Maybe instead of trying to prove Richardson is guilty, we should be focusing on getting people to see how good the other candidates are?"
Jordan snorts. "Yeah, because Duvall is such a shining beacon of hope and change."
I wince, remembering our disastrous meeting with the Republican candidate. "Yeah, let''s maybe not go that route. But¡ I don''t know. Maybe Tasha''s onto something. Maybe we need to think outside the box here."
"The box is all we''ve got left," Jordan mutters. "Unless you''ve got some kind of mind-reading superpower you''ve been hiding from us."
I shake my head, feeling the familiar ache of frustration and helplessness settling in my chest. "No such luck. Just my usual bag of shark-based tricks."
We lapse into silence again, each lost in our own thoughts. The ticking of the old clock on the wall seems impossibly loud in the quiet room, a constant reminder of how little time we have left.
Finally, I push myself to my feet. "Look, guys. I know things seem pretty hopeless right now. But we can''t give up. We''ve got one more day. One more chance to find something, anything, that might make a difference."
Jordan looks up at me, their expression a mix of skepticism and grudging admiration. "And how exactly do you propose we do that, Oh Great and Toothy One?"
I shrug, trying to project more confidence than I feel. "I don''t know. But we''ve got to try. We owe it to the city. To ourselves. To¡ to Liberty Belle."
At the mention of Diane see something shift in Jordan''s eyes. They nod slowly, pushing themselves up off the couch. "Alright. One more day. But if we don''t find anything by tomorrow night¡"
"Then we admit defeat and you can get us all high," I finish for them. "Deal?"
Jordan''s face breaks out into a toothy grin. "Deal."
Tasha looks between us, her expression determined. "Count me in too. I may not have any fancy powers, but I can still help. Someone''s got to keep you two from doing anything too stupid, right?"
I laugh, feeling some of the tension ease out of my shoulders. "Right. Okay, team. Let''s get some rest. Tomorrow, we give it everything we''ve got."
As we start to tidy up the Music Hall, getting ready to call it a night, I can''t help but feel a flicker of hope in my chest. Maybe we''re outmatched. Maybe we''re in way over our heads. But we''re not giving up. Not yet.
Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to make a difference. Another chance to be the heroes this city needs.
And who knows? Maybe miracles do happen. Maybe we''ll wake up tomorrow and Richardson will have been struck by lightning or something. Or maybe she''ll have a sudden attack of conscience and confess to all her crimes on live TV.
Yeah, right. And maybe pigs will fly and I''ll grow a second row of teeth.
But hey, a girl can dream, right?
Chapter 121.3
The ancient TV in the Music Hall flickers to life, its picture grainy and occasionally distorted by static. We''re all gathered around it like it''s some kind of modern-day campfire, our faces illuminated by its blue-white glow. Jordan''s sprawled out on the couch, their legs dangling over the armrest. Connor''s perched on a rickety recliner that Jordan has since amateurishly reupholstered, his lanky frame folded up like some kind of human pretzel. Tasha''s on the floor, leaning against my legs as I sit cross-legged on top of an old milk crate with a pillow on top of it.
The news anchor''s voice fills the room, a constant drone of numbers and percentages that make my head spin. I try to focus, to make sense of the flood of information, but it''s like trying to drink from a fire hose.
"And we''re projecting that Democratic incumbent Samuel Rodriguez will win Pennsylvania," the newscaster''s voice cuts through my thoughts, drawing my attention back to the present. "This puts Rodriguez over the top, securing his re-election as President of the United States."
A cheer goes up from our little group, though it feels somewhat hollow given our failure on the local front. Still, it''s something to celebrate, I suppose.
"At least we don''t have to worry about President Dipshit for another four years," Jordan mutters, their voice a mixture of relief and lingering frustration. "Take that, you stupid Republican bastards!"
Connor rolls his eyes, but there''s a hint of a smile on his face. "You know, not all Republicans are evil, Jordan."
"Name one that isn''t," Jordan retorts.
"Arnold Schwarzenegger?"
"Are you sure you''re not thinking of someone else? That''s the guy that played the Terminator," Jordan replies, flicking Connor in the head. "He doesn''t do politics."
I tune out their bickering, focusing back on the TV. The anchor''s moved on to the congressional results now.
"¡in a surprising turn of events, it appears the Democrats will retain control of the Senate, possibly even expanding their majority by one seat. However, the House of Representatives is projected to flip to Republican control¡"
A collective groan goes up from our group. "Great," Jordan mutters. "Two years of gridlock and endless investigations. Just what the country needs."
I feel a knot form in my stomach. It''s not the worst-case scenario, but it''s not great either. I think about all the people who might be affected by this change - the families struggling to make ends meet, the kids who rely on social programs, the environment that''s already hanging by a thread. It makes me feel small and helpless, like no matter how hard we try, we can''t really change anything.
"Hey," Tasha says softly, nudging my leg. "You okay?"
I force a smile, nodding. "Yeah, just¡ thinking."
She gives me a knowing look but doesn''t press the issue. On the TV, they''re talking about the factors that influenced the election.
"¡analysts are pointing to several key events that shaped this election cycle. The series of terrorist attacks by the so-called ''Philly Phreaks'' in August certainly played a role, as did the aftermath of the highly publicized Chernobyl trial. But perhaps most significant has been the rise of ''Fly''-powered criminals across the country, bringing suburban anxieties about crime to the forefront of many voters'' minds."
I feel a pang of guilt at that. We tried so hard to stop the spread of Fly, but it feels like we barely made a dent. And now it''s affecting national politics? It''s almost too much to wrap my head around.
"However," the anchor continues, and something in her tone makes us all lean in closer, "a last-minute development may have prevented a total Republican sweep. I''m speaking, of course, about the now-infamous ''Homecoming Video''."
My breath catches in my throat. On the screen, grainy cell phone footage starts to play. I recognize it immediately - it''s me, at the school dance, facing off against Patriot. I watch, feeling oddly detached, as he throws me across the room, as I get back up, as we trade blows that would have killed a normal person. Well, as he trades blows to me for free, and I get, like, one hit off.
"The video, which shows known vigilante ''Patriot'' viciously attacking a teenager at Tacony Charter Academy High School''s homecoming dance, went viral just days before the election. This, combined with the revelations from an anonymous Philadelphia whistleblower site, caused a significant shift in public opinion."
Jordan reaches over, squeezing my hand. I squeeze back, grateful for the support.
"The impact was further amplified by the sudden disappearance of Richard Johnson, the man believed to be behind the ''Patriot'' mask. Other members of his organization, known as ''Pattinson''s Pals'', have refused to comment, citing legal advice. The entire movement seems to have deflated overnight, leaving many to speculate about what might have caused such a dramatic downfall."
I exchange glances with Jordan and Connor. We know exactly what happened, of course. The memory of that night in the warehouse, of the fight with Patriot, is still fresh in my mind. The sound of his bones cracking under my fists, the look of defeat in his eyes when he finally yielded¡ it''s not something I''ll forget anytime soon.
It''s something I think about every day. On purpose. Because it felt great.
"Some pundits are speculating that this counter-backlash may have been the only thing that prevented a total Republican victory on the national stage. The footage of a grown man attacking a teenage girl seems to have struck a chord with many voters, particularly in suburban areas where concerns about violent crime were already high. The recent ''Halloween Tapes'' and the Californian alligator incident may have also contributed to blunting what seemed like overwhelming Republican momentum on the local level."
Connor lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Sam. You might have just saved democracy."
I snort, shaking my head. "Yeah, by getting my ass kicked on camera. Not exactly how I planned to change the world."
"Hey, whatever works," Jordan shrugs. "Maybe next time we need to swing an election, we can just arrange for you to get punched by increasingly ridiculous supervillains. ''Local Teen Defeats Man Made of Bees, Film at 11''."
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That gets a laugh out of all of us, easing some of the tension that''s been building all night. But it doesn''t last long. The anchor''s voice draws our attention back to the screen.
"And now, turning to local results¡"
I feel my stomach clench. This is it. The moment we''ve been dreading all night.
"In the special election for Philadelphia''s vacant City Council seat, the results are in. With 100% of precincts reporting, Maya Richardson has secured a decisive victory, winning approximately 81% of the vote."
The room goes silent. I feel like I''ve been punched in the gut. We knew this was coming, we knew our efforts probably wouldn''t make a difference, but hearing it confirmed¡ it hurts.
"Despite some last-minute rumors about her business dealings, Richardson''s campaign message of community investment and urban renewal seems to have resonated strongly with voters. Her opponent, Richard Duvall, conceded the race earlier this evening, citing what he called ''insurmountable differences in vision for the city''."
Jordan snorts. "Yeah, his vision of turning Philly into some kind of fascist police state didn''t quite catch on. Who''d have thought?"
I nod absently, still processing the news. Maya Richardson, supervillain and probable crime lord, is now an elected official. She has power, legitimacy. And we couldn''t stop it.
"Well," Connor says after a long moment of silence, "I guess that''s that. What do we do now?"
I look around at my friends, these amazing people who''ve stood by me through all of this. Who''ve risked their lives, their freedom, their futures, all because they believed in what we were doing. Because they believed in me.
"We keep fighting," I say, surprised by the firmness in my voice. "Richardson might have won this battle, but the war''s not over. We know who she is, what she''s capable of. We''ll keep watching, keep digging. And when she slips up - because she will slip up eventually - I''ll be there."
Tasha nods, her expression determined. "Damn straight. She might think she''s untouchable now, but we''ll prove her wrong."
"Hell yeah," Jordan adds, raising an imaginary glass. "To the Auditors. May we always be a thorn in the side of corrupt politicians and supervillains everywhere."
We all laugh at that, the tension breaking a little. But as the laughter dies down, I feel the weight of everything settling back onto my shoulders. It''s been such a long, exhausting few days. Weeks, really. Months. Sometimes it feels like my whole life has been leading up to this moment, and now that it''s here¡ I don''t know. I just feel tired.
I look over at Jordan, who''s watching me with a knowing expression. "Hey, J?" I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah, Smalls?"
"Remember that deal we made? About what would happen if we didn''t find anything by election night?"
Jordan''s eyebrows shoot up. "Haha, alright, man. It''s your funeral, Smalls."
I nod. "Yeah. I think¡ I think I need to not think for a while, you know?"
Jordan studies me for a long moment, then nods. They reach into their pocket, pulling out a small glass bowl and a baggie of what I assume is weed, or oregano. "Alright, but we''re doing this right. Outside, fresh air. And you take it slow, okay? I don''t want to be responsible for Shark Girl getting the munchies and eating half of Philly."
I manage a weak laugh at that. "Deal."
As we head for the door, Connor and Tasha exchange glances. "Uh, should we¡" Connor starts.
"You guys can come if you want," Jordan says over their shoulder. "It''s legal now, you know. They put that on the ballot, like, two years ago."
They nod, understanding. As Jordan and I step out into the cool night air, I hear the TV still droning on inside, more election results, more analysis, more noise.
We find a quiet spot on the roof, away from prying eyes. The city stretches out before us, a sea of twinkling lights and shadowy buildings. Somewhere out there, Maya Richardson is probably celebrating her victory. Planning her next move. But right now, in this moment, I can''t bring myself to care.
Jordan hands me the bowl, already packed and ready. "You sure about this, Sam? No judgment if you change your mind."
I take it, turning it over in my hands. "Yeah, I''m sure. Just¡ walk me through it, okay?"
They nod, pulling out a lighter. "Okay, so you put your mouth here, like this. When I light it, you inhale slowly. Not too deep at first, just a little. Hold it for a few seconds, then let it out. Easy peasy."
I follow their instructions, the smoke burning my throat as I inhale. I cough a little as I exhale, but it''s not as bad as I expected.
"How do you feel?" Jordan asks, watching me carefully.
I shrug. "I don''t know. The same, I guess?"
Jordan grins. "Yeah, that''s about right. Want another hit?"
I nod, and we pass the pipe back and forth a few times. The city below us starts to blur, the lights smearing into streaks of color. I lean back, looking up at the stars. They seem brighter somehow, more alive.
"You know," I say after a while, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears, "I always thought I''d feel different after my first time smoking weed. Like, I don''t know, more rebellious or something. But I just feel¡ tired. Really, really tired."
Jordan nods, their eyes a little glassy. "That''s the indica for you. Good for relaxing, not so much for fighting crime."
I snort out a laugh. "Indica-girl¡"
"I''m pretty sure that''s an actual hero in Cali. I''ll have to get back to you on that,"
We both dissolve into giggles at that, the absurdity of it all hitting us at once. When we finally catch our breath, I find myself staring out at the city again.
"Do you think we made a difference?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. "With all of this, I mean. The investigation, the whistleblower site, everything. Did it matter at all?"
Jordan is quiet for a long moment. "I don''t know, Sam. Maybe not in the way we wanted it to. But look at what happened with Patriot. Look at how many people saw that video, how many minds it might have changed. That''s something, right?"
I nod slowly. "Yeah, I guess it is. It''s just¡ I wanted to save the city, you know? To be the hero. And instead, I''m sitting on a roof getting high while a supervillain celebrates her election victory. It feels like I failed."
Jordan reaches over, squeezing my hand. "You didn''t fail, Sam. You fought. You''re still fighting. That''s what matters. The rest¡ we''ll figure it out as we go. We always do."
I squeeze back, feeling a rush of affection for my friend. "Thanks, J. I don''t know what I''d do without you."
"Probably get into a lot less trouble," they say with a grin.
We lapse into comfortable silence after that, passing the pipe back and forth a few more times. The night stretches on, the sounds of the city fading into a distant hum. I feel myself drifting, my thoughts becoming loose and disconnected.
I think about Maya Richardson, wonder what she''s doing right now. Is she celebrating with champagne in some fancy penthouse? Or is she already in a dark room somewhere, plotting her next move? I think about Patriot, wonder where he disappeared to. Did he really give up, or is he just biding his time? I think about all the people who voted today, all the lives that will be affected by these decisions.
And then, unbidden, I think about Liberty Belle. About the video of her final confrontation with Chernobyl, the one that ended up being so crucial in his trial - one way or another. I wonder what she would think of all this. Would she be proud of us for trying? Disappointed that we couldn''t stop Richardson? I wish I could ask her, could get her advice one more time.
"Hey, Jordan?" I say, my voice sounding thick and slow.
"Mmm?"
"Do you think Liberty Belle would be disappointed in me? For¡ for this?" I gesture vaguely at the pipe, at the city, at everything.
Jordan is quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if they''ve fallen asleep. But then they speak, their voice soft and serious.
"I think¡ I think she''d understand, Sam. I think she''d see how hard you''ve been trying, how much you''ve been carrying. And I think she''d tell you that it''s okay to take a break sometimes. To be human."
I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, and I blink them away furiously. "Yeah," I whisper. "I hope."
We fall silent again after that, lost in our own thoughts. The night wears on, the sky gradually lightening as dawn approaches. I know we should go back inside, that we have school tomorrow (today?), that there''s still so much to do. But for now, I''m content to sit here, surrounded by the city I''ve sworn to protect, with one of my best friends by my side.
Then, we run out of weed. The sun starts coming up, slowly peeking over the horizon.
"Come on," I say, nudging them gently. "Let''s go inside. We''ve got work to do."
DT.1.1
The Clover & Harp is a dive, dimly lit and hazy with a fog of cigarette smoke that clings to every surface. The air''s thick with the mingled scents of stale beer, cheap whiskey, and the acrid tang of old ashtrays. I''m nursing a pint of Guinness, the dark liquid leaving a creamy mustache on my lip as I keep my eyes glued to the battered old TV bolted above the bar. Some blow-dried pretty boy in an expensive suit is yammering on about the Dow Jones or the NASDAQ, but I''m only half-listening until a breaking news banner scrolls urgently across the bottom of the screen.
"We interrupt this broadcast for an urgent update," the anchorman announces, his plastic smile replaced by a look of barely-contained excitement. "Moments ago, a masked vigilante singlehandedly thwarted an armed robbery at the First National Bank in downtown Chicago. Eyewitnesses report that the individual, who identified himself only as ''Windstorm'', appeared to create some sort of windstorm to disarm the would-be thieves and secure the building until authorities could arrive on scene."
A chorus of irritated groans and colorful curses erupts from the bar patrons around me. I glance around, taking in the familiar faces - guys I''ve known for years, men I''ve worked with, fought beside, shared countless drinks with. Every last one of them wears the same expression of incredulous frustration.
"You believe this malarkey?" Tommy O''Malley gripes from his usual perch at the end of the bar. He''s a scrawny little pissant, but the man''s got a head for figures like a steel trap. "First it was that Paragon mook in the Big Apple, now we got Mary Poppins in the Windy City. What''s next, some jabroni in Beantown who can shoot spaghetti out his eyes?"
A gust of half-hearted laughter ripples through the bar, but beneath it there''s an undercurrent of unease. We''re all thinking the same thing, even if nobody wants to come right out and say it: this is a whole new ballgame.
"It ain''t just Chicago," Mikey Flanagan pipes up, not looking up from where he''s thumbing through something on his phone. "Says here they''ve had sightings in L.A., Miami, even out in the sticks in Omaha. These masked marauders are croppin'' up everywhere."
I take a long pull off my Guinness, relishing the rich, bitter flavor even as dread curdles in my gut. On the TV, they''re showing shaky camera footage of this Windstorm character in action. He''s decked out in some kinda high-tech getup that looks like it was ripped straight outta one of Derek''s comic books, all sleek angles and shiny black material. As I watch, he makes a gesture like he''s shoo-ing away a pack of seagulls and a gale force wind howls outta nowhere, sending the robbers ass-over-teakettle across the pavement.
"Christ on a cracker," I mutter into my beer. "How the hell are we supposed to keep up with that?"
Nobody''s got an answer for me. We all just sit there like a bunch of slack-jawed yokels, watching this Windstorm fella wrap up the would-be bank robbers in a twister that looks like it should be chasing Dorothy and Toto. It''s like something straight outta the funny pages, ''cept it''s really happening, right here in the real world.
I find myself thinking about my boy, just a sprout at four years old. What kind of world is he gonna grow up in, a world where people can take to the skies, where they can whistle up a tempest without so much as scuffing their spats? It''s enough to make a man feel downright tiny, like everything I''ve fought for, everything I''ve bled to build, could be blown down by the Big Bad Wolf in a cape.
Old Jimmy Sullivan, the barkeep, clears his throat pointedly from behind the taps. "Alright, boys," he declares, reaching for the remote. "Enough o'' this, yeah? The Sox are takin'' on the Yankees tonight. Grumble about that instead."
There''s a rumble of approval from the assembled hard men, and soon enough the idiot box is awash in the familiar sights and sounds of America''s pastime. But there''s a pall hanging over the bar now, a miasma of doubt and insecurity that no amount of beer and bullshit can quite seem to pierce. In the space of a few minutes, everything we took for granted as immutable, inviolable, has been thrown into Barnum and Bailey levels of upheaval.
I motion for Jimmy to refresh my pint glass, watching the dark liquid surge and foam. He meets my gaze as he slides it over, a flicker of grim understanding passing between us. The whole wide world''s tilting on its axis, and it''s on us to find our footing before we''re pitched into the void.
As the night wears on and the booze keeps flowing, the chatter slowly migrates back towards more well-trod territory - schemes and scams, dames and deadbeats, cutthroat tales of the daily grind. But there''s a tension thrumming just below the surface, a jittery edge to the laughter and the ribbing. Every so often, some mook will cast a nervous glance towards the boob tube like he''s expecting to see Mighty Mouse come squeaking in to save the day and upend our entire raison d''etre.
And as my mind drifts to the trials and tribulations of the past few months - the pinches and the turf squabbles, the ever-present specter of the G-men breathing down our necks - I can''t help but feel the walls closing in. The center cannot hold, as the poet said, and things fall apart. These masked interlopers capering about might just be the feather that breaks the camel''s back.
The memories come in flashes, like a fever dream:
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Mikey Doyle, one of our best earners, getting picked up by the feds outside his kid''s school. The look on his face as they slapped the cuffs on him, a mixture of resignation and fury.
A shootout with the Italians down by the docks, the air thick with gunsmoke and the smell of blood. Three of our guys dead, another two in the hospital. All over a fucking shipment of cigarettes.
Sitting in a safe house, watching the news as they announce another round of indictments. Familiar names and faces scrolling across the screen, guys I''ve known for years reduced to mugshots and charges.
The boss, old man Callahan, ranting and raving about loyalty and tradition while half the room is eyeing the exits. His words ringing hollow in the face of mounting evidence that the old ways just don''t work anymore.
My boy, asking why Daddy has to go away so much. The guilt that twists in my gut every time I have to lie to him, every time I miss another milestone because I''m out doing the family''s dirty work.
A late-night meeting with some of the younger guys, all of us trying to figure out how to adapt to this new world. Talk of going legit, of finding new revenue streams that won''t put us in the crosshairs of these super-powered freaks. The fear in everyone''s eyes, poorly disguised behind bravado and bullshit.
I give myself a mental shake, trying to dislodge the cobwebs of memory. The Clover & Harp has started to clear out, just a smattering of bitter-enders left huddled over their drinks, arguing the finer points of the Sox''s starting rotation. I steal a glance at my watch and do a double take - it''s later than I thought. I better hit the bricks, try to snatch a few winks before the big powwow with the head honchos tomorrow.
As I heave myself up from my stool, Tommy O''Malley catches my eye. "Oi, Finn," he says, his voice pitched low and conspiratorial. "You hear about the sit-down tomorrow?"
I bob my head. "Yeah, what of it?"
Tommy makes a show of scoping out the joint, making sure no one''s eavesdropping. "Word ''round the campfire is, the big man''s thinking of shaking things up. Adjusting to the new lay of the land, if you catch my drift."
A prickle of apprehension skitters down my spine. "Shaking things up how?"
Tommy lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Ain''t sure on the specifics. But I heard him jawing about maybe expanding our horizons, moving into some new markets. Maybe even¡ you know, throwing in with some of these caped crusaders."
I can feel my eyebrows skyrocketing at that little tidbit. The notion of our crew partnering up with a bunch of goody-goody superheroes seems about as plausible as the Pope popping up in Playgirl. But then again, the world''s gone topsy-turvy of late. "You sure your info''s on the up-and-up, Tommy? Sounds a few scoops shy of a sundae to me."
"Hey, I calls ''em like I sees ''em," Tommy says, throwing up his hands. "But think on this, Finn. The times, they are a-changin''. Maybe we gotta roll with the punches, ya know?"
I dip my chin, not sure how to counter that particular chestnut. "Yeah, could be. Guess we''ll see which way the wind blows tomorrow, huh?"
Tommy hoists his glass in a sardonic salute. "From your mouth to God''s ear, boyo. From your mouth to God''s ear."
The brisk night air is a slap to the face as I push through the doors of the Clover & Harp, a much-needed wake-up call. The streets of Southie are deserted at this hour, just the odd car beetling by and the far-off wail of a siren. I hoof it nice and slow, mitts jammed deep in my trouser pockets, my brain churning like a hamster on an exercise wheel. My thoughts keep circling back to my little fella, to the life I want for him. A life that feels more like a pipe dream with every day that passes.
I flash back to the first time I cradled him in my arms, this squalling, red-faced little miracle. The way his itty-bitty fingers latched onto mine, the surge of love and fierce protectiveness that near knocked me on my ass. I made him a promise then and there that I''d always have his back, that I''d move heaven and earth to give him a better shake than I ever had.
But how do I make good on that vow in a world that''s hurtling into uncharted territory? A world where mooks in tights can bend steel and shoot flames from their fingertips? Where the old rules that''ve kept us on the straight and narrow for generations are going the way of the dodo?
I hang a louie onto my block and happen across a gaggle of neighborhood kids embroiled in a heated street hockey battle. They''re a whirling dervish of laughter and shit-talk, utterly absorbed in their game. One of ''em, a scrappy little carrot-top, glances up as I amble by. For a hot second, I swear it''s my boy''s face peering out at me, and it hits me like a sledgehammer to the solar plexus.
What sorta role model am I for my boy? What kinda foundation am I laying for his future?
The familiar smells of home embraces me as I let myself into my humble abode. Derek''s playthings are strewn hither and yon across the living room carpet, and I can hear Mrs. O''Brien, the sainted soul who watches him when I''m on the clock, sawing logs on the couch.
I creep into Derek''s room on tiptoes. The little tyke''s sawing logs too, his orange fuzz sticking up every which way, his favorite plush pooch clutched to his chest. I just stand there for a long spell, watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He''s so calm, so blameless. Not a clue about the shitstorm brewing in the big, bad world beyond. He doesn''t understand death. He doesn''t even comprehend it.
As I''m about to duck out, something on his nightstand snags my attention. It''s a finger painting he must''ve done at nursery school, a stick figure with arms like tree trunks and a cape flapping in the breeze. Underneath, in Mrs. O''Brien''s flowery script, it says "My Dad is a Superhero".
I feel something buckle deep down in my guts. Like some inner levy giving way, unleashing a tsunami of pent-up feelings I''ve kept dammed up too damn long. All of a sudden, the prospect of marching into that meeting tomorrow, of staying on this treadmill I''ve been running on for years, feels ass-backwards. Like I''m selling out everything that truly counts.
I lower myself onto the edge of Derek''s wee bed, mindful not to jostle him out of dreamland. I ain''t sure yet what my play is. But I know in my marrow that something''s gotta give. For Derek''s sake, for my own damn sanity. I can''t keep straddling two worlds, can''t keep acting like my actions don''t ripple outwards.
Sitting there in the dark, my boy''s soft snores filling my ears, I come to a decision. Tomorrow, at that meeting, I''m gonna stand up on my hind legs. I''m gonna make a case for real, substantive change, not just some phony-baloney razzle-dazzle to kowtow to the higher-ups. And if they ain''t keen to listen¡ well, then maybe it''s time I start giving some serious thought to a Plan B.
I dip down and brush a teeny kiss against Derek''s forehead. "Love you to the moon and back, squirt," I rasp. "More than anything in this world. And I promise you, I''m gonna do right by you. No matter what it takes."
DT.1.2
The next morning dawns grey and drizzly, fitting my mood perfectly. I dress carefully, choosing a suit that''s nice enough to show respect but not so flashy that it''ll draw attention. As I knot my tie, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look older than I remember, lines around my eyes that weren''t there a year ago. I wonder if it''s the stress of the job, or just the weight of all the choices I''ve made.
Mrs. O''Brien shows up right on the dot, fussing over Derek as he wolfs down his Cocoa Puffs. I slip him a quick hug, swearing on a stack of Bibles I''ll be home for supper. As I''m shrugging on my coat, I overhear the little guy asking Mrs. O''Brien if she reckons caped crusaders dig into a bowl of sugary cereal in the morning. The wide-eyed innocence of the question just about rips my heart out.
The meeting''s set up at one of our legitimate fronts, a trucking company near the ports. Pulling into the lot, I spot a mishmash of familiar wheels. The old timers are representing in force, their oversized sedans taking up the bulk of the good spots. But I spy some shinier models too, belonging to a few of the young bucks who''ve been pushing for change.
Inside, the tension''s so thick you couldn''t cut it with a chainsaw. The conference room''s standing room only, every guy in the place trying to keep a lid on it while sneaking peeks at each other. I grab a seat in the back, nodding to a couple of my closest pals.
The big boss, old man Callahan, makes his entrance flanked by his top two enforcers. The seasoned don looks like he''s been through the wringer, the bags under his eyes deeper and darker than ever. But he still carries himself with that unmistakable air of authority, the sense that he''s the one running the show, no questions asked.
"Alright, fellas," he rumbles, his gravelly voice commanding attention. "Let''s get down to brass tacks."
For the next hour, we listen as Callahan and his lieutenants read us the riot act. The outlook ain''t rosy. Busts are up, profits are down, and we''re ceding ground to competitors on critical turf. And then there''s the elephant in the room that nobody wants to talk about: the superheroes.
"Now, I know some of you are getting your shorts in a twist over these clowns in capes," Callahan grumbles, waving a hand like he''s swatting a fly. "But mark my words. We were here long before they flew onto the scene, and we''ll be standing long after they''re yesterday''s news. We just need to wise up, be craftier in how we get things done."
A few of the old guard mumble their assent, but I can tell the young guns aren''t buying it. One of them, a real go-getter named Sean who''s been stirring the pot lately, clears his throat.
"With all due respect, boss," he says, "I think we need to do more than tinker around the edges. These super-powered types, they''re not some passing fad. They''re upending the natural order, and if we don''t fundamentally retool to meet the moment, we''re going to end up as dinosaurs."
Callahan''s face clouds over like a thunderhead. "And just what exactly are you advocating, Sean? That we wave the white flag? That we flush generations of hard work down the tubes because some Long Johns decided to play superhero?"
Sean doesn''t so much as blink. "I''m saying we need to branch out. Shift into sectors where these cape-chasers are less likely to stick their noses. Tech, finance, maybe even go legit with some of the businesses we''ve been using as cover. We''ve got the connections, the know-how. It''s just a matter of putting them to work in a new way."
He sucks in air through his nose. "We don''t have to score off banks, you know."
The room devolves into a shouting match. Some guys are bobbing their heads along with Sean, while others look ready to tear his throat out. I just sit there taking it all in, feeling like I''m witnessing a seismic shift in the bedrock of everything we''ve ever known.
And then, almost as if I''m operating on autopilot, I find myself on my feet. "The kid''s onto something," I hear myself say. You could hear a mouse fart as every pair of eyes in the joint swivels to look at me. I''ve never been much for grandstanding, but it''s like the words are just bursting out of me now.
"Hear me out, guys. We all came up in this world, cut our teeth in the family business. But Sean''s right on the money. The ground''s shifting under us as we speak, and we''ve got to shift with it if we want to keep our footing. These heroes aren''t some summer squall we can just ride out. And it''s not only them. The feds are getting cannier by the day, and all this fancy tech is making it damn near impossible to operate in the shadows like we used to. We stick to the tried and true, we''re going to wind up dead or buried alive in concrete. You think Bulger''s sleeping soundly? That poor bastard''s going to spend the rest of his life waiting for the other shoe to drop."
I pause, sucking in a lungful of stale, smoke-riddled air. I can feel the weight of every stare boring into me, but I forge ahead. "I''ve got a little boy at home. I''d put good money on a lot of you being in the same boat. What kind of life are we handing down to them if we just keep beating our heads against the wall? We''ve got skills, resources out the wazoo. Why not put them to work building something with staying power, something we can point to with pride when we''re old and gray?"
The silence after I finish is so complete you could perform open-heart surgery. Callahan''s glaring at me with murder in his eyes. I can practically see him imagining my mug on a milk carton. But I can also see some of the other guys nodding slowly, trading meaningful looks.
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Tommy O''Malley, of all people, chimes in. "Finn''s onto something, boss. Maybe it''s high time we start playing the long game. I mean, take a look at what happened to the Italians last month. Half their top brass are behind bars because they couldn''t adapt. We need to be smarter than that."
Callahan looks ready to explode, but one of his right-hand men leans in, whispering something in his ear. After a moment, the old timer''s expression shifts from rage to something more calculated.
"Fine," he says tightly. "You boys want to shake things up? Be my guest. But let''s get one thing straight. We''re not abandoning our core business. We''re just diversifying. And you better believe your cut still better find its way into my hands on time, no matter what."
The meeting wraps up soon after, with Callahan doling out assignments to different crews. As we file out of the room, there''s a current of nervous energy in the air, a blend of anticipation and uncertainty. We''re venturing into uncharted territory, and no one''s quite sure where it will lead.
As I''m walking to my car, Sean catches up to me. "Finn, you crazy son of a gun," he says with a grin, clapping me on the shoulder. "Didn''t know you had that in you."
I shrug, suddenly feeling bone-tired. "Yeah, well. Sometimes a man''s gotta speak his piece, you know?"
Sean nods, sobering. "Hey, listen. A few of us are getting together later to game out our next steps. You want in on that?"
I hesitate, thinking of Derek waiting for me at home, of my promise to be there for dinner. "Not tonight. Got some family matters to attend to. But keep me in the loop, alright?"
Sean looks a bit disappointed but nods all the same. "Sure thing. We''re going to need guys like you in our corner if we want to make this work."
My mind races the entire drive home. Did I do the right thing, speaking up like that? Or have I just painted a target on my own back? And even if Callahan goes along with these changes, will it be enough? Or are we just forestalling the inevitable? I keep picturing Derek, trying to envision the kind of future I want for him. A future where he doesn''t have to constantly look over his shoulder, wondering if today''s the day the law or some caped crusader finally catches up to us. A future where he can be proud of his old man, not ashamed.
Maybe, just maybe, it''s time to contemplate a real change. Not just putting a new spin on the family business, but getting out altogether. Starting over somewhere new, somewhere Derek can grow up free of all this darkness and uncertainty.
Lost in thought, I almost miss the sight of my boy playing on the stoop with some of the neighborhood kids as I pull up. When he spots me, his whole face lights up with pure joy.
"Dad!" he yells, sprinting towards me. "You''re home!"
I scoop him up into a hug, holding on tight. "I am, buddy. I am. And you know what? I think it''s about time you and I had a serious talk about the future. What do you say we go grab some ice cream?"
As he chatters excitedly in my ear all the way to the ice cream shop, my resolve crystallizes into something solid and unshakeable. One way or another, come hell or high water, I''m going to give this kid the life he deserves. A life where he can hold his head high, where his dreams and ambitions can soar unfettered.
And if that means leaving behind the only world I''ve ever known?
Then so be it. No sacrifice is too great, not for my boy. Not for our future.
The ice cream parlor''s a madhouse. Kids hopped up on sugar zigzag between tables while harried parents try to coral them. Derek and I hunker down in a corner booth, a monstrous sundae between us. My boy''s got chocolate smeared from ear to ear, grinning like he''s won the lottery as he goes at that ice cream like it owes him money.
"Ease up there, champ," I say, tossing him a napkin. "Thing''s not growing legs and walking off."
Derek just giggles, diving back in. I watch him, and Christ, it hits me like a sucker punch - this love. This moment. Just¡ this.
"Dad?" Derek looks up, all big eyes and trust. "Are you a superhero?"
I blink. "Come again?"
He shrugs, shoulders nearly touching his ears. "Tommy at daycare. He said his dad''s a superhero. Fights bad guys and stuff."
Something twists in my gut. Guilt? Fear? Both? "Nah, kiddo. Just a regular schmoe trying to keep up with you."
Derek nods, mulling it over. "Okay. But you''re still my hero, Dad."
I have to look away, throat tight. When I turn back, there''s Derek, face a warzone of ice cream and pure, uncut innocence. I ruffle his hair, wishing I could bottle this moment.
But I can''t, can I? Outside our little bubble, the world''s shifting. And if I don''t roll with it, I might lose the only thing that matters. It''s a cheap shot, really - getting walloped by feelings like this. The universe pulling no punches.
Walking home, I make a silent vow. To Derek. To myself. Whatever it takes to give this kid the life he deserves. Even if it means burning everything else to the ground.
We''re barely through the door of our building when Mrs. O''Brien materializes from her apartment like some kind of geriatric ninja. "Well, look who it is!" she crows, accent thick as day-old porridge. "Thought you''d run off to join the circus, so I did."
I snort, shaking my head. "Not today, Mrs. O. Just treating the little man here."
Her face goes soft as she looks at Derek. "Ah, and doesn''t he deserve it. Good as gold, this one."
We swap pleasantries for a bit before calling it a night. Inside our place, the familiar funk of home wraps around me. Derek bolts for his toys while I make for the kitchen.
There''s something zen about the routine. Chop, brown, stir. Light-years from the life I lead outside these walls - all danger and violence and watching my six.
I''m setting the table when Derek comes tearing in, waving a piece of paper like it''s the deed to the city. "Dad! Look what I made!"
I take it, and Christ, it''s like a punch to the solar plexus. Two stick figures, big and small, holding hands. Up top, in wobbly crayon: "My Family".
"It''s¡ it''s something else, bud," I manage, voice rough. "That us?"
He nods, chest puffed out. "Yeah! Did it at daycare. Mrs. O helped with the writing."
I scoop him up, paper crushed between us. "It''s perfect. And you, you little monster? You''re everything."
The rest of the night''s a blur - bath, books, bed. As I''m tucking him in, Derek looks up, eyelids at half-mast. "Dad?" he mumbles. "You''re not gonna go away like Mom, right?"
"Not a chance," I say, voice hard as nails. "I''m right here. Always."
Derek nods, eyes fluttering shut. "Promise?"
I plant one on his forehead. "Cross my heart."
I kill the lights on my way out. His nightlight flickers to life.
DT.1.3
Southie at night''s a ghost town. Just the occasional mutt yapping in the distance, probably at its own shadow. I pull up to our little rendezvous spot - some decrepit warehouse by the waterfront. Sean''s ride''s already there, plus a couple I don''t recognize. Great.
Climbing out of the car, I get that familiar cocktail of butterflies and dread in my gut. These pow-wows? Always a roll of the dice, even for an old hand like me. But Sean said it was urgent, something about our next play.
I ease into the warehouse, one hand resting casual-like on the piece tucked in my waistband. Inside, Sean''s huddled up with a few faces from this afternoon''s shindig. They''re muttering like a bunch of altar boys, but clock me as I saunter over.
"Finn," Sean nods, all business. "Glad you could pencil us in."
"Cut the horseshit, Sean," I growl. "We already did the big circle jerk. What''s this about?"
Sean trades looks with his chorus line. Something unspoken ping-pongs between ''em. "This ain''t about family business," he says finally. "It''s about what comes next. Our ticket to ride."
I narrow my eyes. Don''t like the stink of this one bit. "The hell you on about?"
"You heard Callahan last week," Sean presses on. "He''s just pissing in the wind. Talking change but keeping his feet planted in the mud. Some of us? We''re not keen on watching everything we''ve built turn to shit."
My gut does a little jig. Nothing good ever came from a sentence starting with ''some of us.'' "Spit it out, Sean. What''re you cooking up in that Irish skull of yours?"
He leans in close, voice dropping to a whisper that wouldn''t wake a mouse. "We''re thinking of jumping ship. Starting our own gig. One that''s ready for whatever clusterfuck is coming our way. And we want you on board, Finn."
I stare at him, brain working overtime. A splinter group? It''s unheard of. The kind of play that gets you fitted for concrete shoes. But then again¡ wasn''t I just chewing on this same bone? The need for real change, not just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic?
"You''re talking about giving Callahan and the family the finger," I say, measuring each word. "You boys have any idea how quick that''ll get us all six feet under?"
Sean nods, face grim as a funeral director. "We know the score. But if we don''t evolve, we''re dead anyway. Just a matter of time before someone decides to put us out to pasture."
I''m about to tell Sean where he can shove his evolution when the warehouse door explodes open. A pack of goons comes storming in, hardware out and ready to play. I recognize ''em right off - they''re from that crew we''ve been butting heads with. Russkies, I think.
"Vell, vell, vell," their boss drawls, mangling his W''s like they owe him money. "Vat do ve have here? A little family gathering, da?"
Sean and the others reach for their pieces, but it''s a losing hand. We''re outgunned and outmanned. I do some quick math - odds of us all walking out of here with a pulse? Maybe 10%, and that''s being generous.
But before anyone can start the lead symphony, something happens that''ll be burned into my gray matter till they plant me. A figure drops from the rafters, landing smack in the middle of our little soiree. Moves like a cat, dressed all in black, face hidden behind a mask that''d give kids nightmares.
For a hot second, everyone''s frozen. Then Captain Spandex speaks up, voice warped like he''s gargling gravel. "Gentlemen," he says, cool as you please, "I''m afraid I''ll have to insist you lower your weapons."
The Russian boss lets out a laugh that''d curdle milk. "And who the fuck are you supposed to be? Batman''s retarded stepchild?"
Masked wonder doesn''t bite. Instead, he moves. And brother, when I say move, I mean it''s like watching smoke dance. One second he''s standing there, the next he''s a blur. Guns go flying like they''ve grown wings. I watch, jaw on the floor, as he dismantles the Russkies one by one. It''s poetry in motion, if poetry could break bones and rupture internal organs.
It''s like something ripped straight out of the funny pages. Only this ain''t funny, and it sure as hell ain''t pages either.
When the dust settles, the Russians are a groaning heap on the floor. Our masked friend stands over them like the angel of death himself. He turns to us, and I swear on my mother''s grave, I can feel his eyes boring into me through that mask.
"You have a choice," he says, calm as Sunday morning. "Continue down this road, and you''ll end up like these gentlemen. Or you can walk away. Start fresh. The decision is yours."
And then, like someone hit a switch, he''s gone. Melted into the shadows like he was never there.
The warehouse goes quiet as a tomb. Then Sean starts laughing, edge of hysteria in it. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he wheezes. "Tell me you lads saw that too. Or has O''Malley''s rotgut finally pickled my brain?"
I don''t answer. Can''t. I''m too busy staring at the spot where our friendly neighborhood vigilante stood, mind doing cartwheels. Because in that moment, something inside me shifted. Like tumblers in a lock finally clicking into place.
I''ve spent my whole life in this world. Violence, crime, always looking over my shoulder. Told myself it was just the way things were, no other options on the menu. But seeing that masked figure move, watching him take apart a room full of armed thugs without breaking a sweat¡
There''s always a choice.
The rest of the night''s a goddamn fever dream. Cops show up, of course. Sirens wailing like banshees, drawn by reports of lead flying. But by the time Boston''s finest grace us with their presence, the Russkies have vanished into the ether. No sign of our friendly neighborhood Batman, either. Just a bunch of mooks with a yarn no one in their right mind would swallow.
Driving home, my brain''s doing the cha-cha with a million what-ifs. Sean''s sales pitch keeps looping in my head like a broken record. "We''re thinking of branching off. Starting our own operation." It''s got a certain ring to it, being my own boss. Building something that''s mine, not just another cog in Callahan''s machine. But then again¡
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I think of Derek, probably drooling on his pillow right about now. That promise I made him, to always be there. How the fuck am I supposed to keep that if I''m off playing Scarface, painting an even bigger target on my back?
I need a second opinion. Someone to talk me off the ledge or give me a push. And I know just the sorry bastard for the job.
I pull up outside Mikey Flanagan''s place. His porch light''s on, a warm little beacon in the night. Mikey and me, we go way back. To the days when running numbers in Southie was our idea of the big leagues. He''s the closest thing to a best friend a mook like me''s got in this life.
He answers the door looking like death warmed over, bathrobe hanging off him like a deflated balloon. "Finn?" he squints at me, confusion written all over his mug. "The hell you doing here? It''s the ass-crack of dawn."
"Yeah, I know," I shrug, trying to look apologetic and probably failing miserably. "I just¡ I gotta bend your ear, Mikey. Some heavy shit went down tonight, and I''m swimming in the deep end here."
He stares at me for a long moment, then lets out a sigh that sounds like it started somewhere around his toes. "Christ on a bike," he mutters, stepping back. "Get in here. I''ll put on some joe."
We park ourselves at his kitchen table, nursing mugs of coffee that could strip paint. I spill my guts - the sitdown with Callahan, Sean''s grand plan, the warehouse shitshow. Mikey just listens, face screwed up in concentration like he''s trying to solve a Rubik''s cube.
"I don''t know, Finn," he says when I finally run out of steam. "Going against the family¡ that''s playing with fire. People have ended up in the harbor for less."
I nod, staring into my coffee like it might have all the answers. "I hear ya. But I can''t shake this feeling, Mikey. Like if I don''t make a move, I''m gonna end up dead or wearing an orange jumpsuit. And where does that leave Derek?"
Mikey goes quiet, fingers doing a little tap dance on the table. "Look," he says finally, "I get it. You want out. Want something better for the kid. Respect. But hitching your wagon to Sean and his merry band of idiots? That ain''t the ticket."
I frown, not sure I''m following. "What''re you getting at?"
Mikey leans in, face serious as a heart attack. "I''m saying, if you really want out, really want a clean slate¡ maybe it''s time to think about blowing this popsicle stand altogether. Fresh start somewhere new. Where Finn Taylor''s just another schmuck, not a name that makes people nervous."
I stare at him, the idea taking root like a weed. Leave Boston? It''s like someone suggesting I cut off my own arm. This city, this life¡ it''s all I''ve ever known.
But then Derek''s face pops into my head. The future I want for him. A future without looking over our shoulders, without the constant threat of violence that comes with this world.
"Where the hell would I go?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
Mikey shrugs. "Anywhere that ain''t here. New York, Chicago, Philly¡ someplace they won''t come looking."
It''s a batshit crazy idea. Packing up and vanishing like a fart in the wind, starting from scratch in a new city. But the more I chew on it, the more it feels right. Like the first step down a road I should''ve taken ages ago.
"I''d have to be careful," I mutter, thinking out loud. "Make sure nobody gets wind of what I''m up to. And I''d need some kind of legit front, something to explain why I''m suddenly playing musical cities."
Mikey nods, a sly grin creeping across his face. "Construction, maybe? Word on the street is Philly''s going through a growth spurt. Old neighborhoods getting a facelift. A smart cookie like you, with your, uh, ''experience''¡ you could make that work."
I lean back, the possibilities unfolding in my mind like a roadmap. It''s terrifying. Exhilarating. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the only way forward is to jump.
"It''s not gonna be easy," I say, more to myself than to Mikey. "Gotta figure out how to move my money without raising flags. Set up a new identity. Find a school for Derek¡ a new babysitter, too¡"
Mikey reaches across the table, claps me on the shoulder. "One step at a time, brother. Rome wasn''t built in a day, and neither was any decent escape plan."
I look at him, really look at him. This guy who''s been by my side through thick and thin. "What about you, Mikey? You ever think about getting out?"
He shakes his head, a sad smile on his face. "Nah. This is my world, for better or worse. But you? You''ve got something worth fighting for. Something worth leaving for."
As the first light of dawn starts to creep through the kitchen window, I feel something I haven''t felt in years. Hope. It''s small, fragile, like a flickering candle. But it''s there.
"Alright," I say, downing the last of my coffee. "Let''s do this. Let''s get me the fuck out of Boston."
The next few weeks are a goddamn three-ring circus of whispered phone calls and cloak-and-dagger bullshit. I''m burning up every favor I''ve got in Philly, calling in chits from guys who owe me or who I''ve pulled out of the fire over the years. Slowly, like a jigsaw puzzle put together by a drunk, a plan starts to take shape.
I feed Callahan some song and dance about family drama, needing time off to sort it out. He ain''t thrilled, but he doesn''t push. Think the old bastard can smell which way the wind''s blowing, knows the good old days are circling the drain.
Sean and his merry band of idiots are a tougher nut to crack. They keep yapping about their big plans, trying to rope me in like it''s the second coming of Christ. But I stand my ground, keep playing the worried dad card. "Gotta think about my boy," I tell ''em. "What''s best for him." It''s not even a lie, really.
And through all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit, Derek''s my guiding light. My reason for not telling everyone to go fuck themselves and crawling into a bottle. Every night, tucking him in, I remember that promise. To be there, come hell or high water.
Then, finally, D-Day arrives. I''ve spun some yarn about taking Derek to see his grandparents up in Maine for a couple weeks. But as I''m tetris-ing the last of our crap into the car, I know we ain''t coming back.
I take a breather, looking up at the old brownstone we''ve called home for the last five years. It ain''t much, but it''s all Derek''s ever known. For a hot second, I wonder if I''m royally screwing the pooch here, yanking him out by the roots like this.
But then I think about the flip side. About the life waiting for him if we stay put. And I know in my bones this is the only play left.
Derek''s out cold in his car seat as I pull away from the curb, his face all peaceful in the glow of the street lamps. As I merge onto the highway, this weird calm settles over me. Like for once in my sorry life, I''m not completely fucking things up.
And then, as I''m crossing the bridge out of Boston, I see it. A figure, honest to God, swinging between the buildings like some kind of urban Tarzan. For a second, I think I''ve finally lost my marbles. But then I catch the flutter of a cape, something glinting at the figure''s wrists.
I ease off the gas, rubbernecking like a tourist. But quicker than a hiccup, the figure''s gone, swallowed up by the city''s shadows.
I feel a grin tugging at my face. Because right then and there, I know I''m making the right call. The world''s shifting gears, and I''m shifting with it. Not by jumping on Sean''s half-assed bandwagon or trying to be the next Scarface, but by walking away. Choosing a different path entirely.
As Boston''s lights start to fade in the rearview, I glance back at Derek, still dead to the world. "We''re gonna be alright, kiddo," I mutter, not sure if I''m talking to him or myself. "You and me? We''re gonna be just fine."
The highway stretches out ahead, dark and empty. But for the first time in forever, it doesn''t feel like I''m driving into the unknown. It feels like I''m driving towards something. Something better.
I think about that masked figure, about the choice he laid out for us in that warehouse. Continue down this road and end up like them, or walk away. Start fresh.
Well, buddy, I''m walking away. And yeah, maybe I''m trading one set of problems for another. Maybe Philly won''t be the promised land. But at least it''s a chance. A shot at something different.
As we cross the state line, leaving Massachusetts in the dust, I feel something I haven''t felt in years. Hope. Real, honest-to-God hope. It''s small, fragile, like a match flame in a storm. But it''s there.
"Alright, Philly," I mutter, pressing down on the gas. "Show me what you got."
Derek stirs in his sleep, mumbling something I can''t quite catch. I reach back, give his leg a gentle squeeze. "Sweet dreams, kiddo," I whisper. "When you wake up, it''s gonna be a whole new world."
Chapter 122.1
I stride into the Music Hall, my mind already racing with ideas and plans. The election may be over, but our work is far from done. If anything, Maya Richardson''s victory just means we need to step up our game. We can''t afford to sit around waiting for leads to fall into our laps. It''s time to take the fight to the enemy.
As I enter the main room, I find the rest of the Auditors already gathered. Jordan''s sprawled out on their usual couch, Connor''s perched on the edge of a chair, and even Maggie and Derek are here, sitting cross-legged on the floor. It''s a full house, outside of Tasha. Knowing her, she probably has midterms to deal with - something I''ve just sort of written off and accepted as something I''ll have to get a C on.
"Alright, team," I say, clapping my hands together. "I''ve got a plan."
Jordan sits up, their eyes sparkling with interest. "Does it involve mayhem and/or property damage?"
I roll my eyes. "Not exactly. But it does involve the Kingdom of Keys."
That gets everyone''s attention. Even Derek, who''s been staring moodily at his shoes, looks up.
"I think it''s time we revisit the Crescent nightclub," I say, pacing in front of them. "Last time we were there, we barely scratched the surface. We need to dig deeper, gather more intel."
Connor frowns, leaning forward. "Last time you were there, from what Jordan told me, you two nearly got killed. And that was before they knew your identities. Going back seems... risky."
"Everything we do is risky," Derek counters, his voice rough. "But Sam''s right. We can''t just sit around waiting for the bad guys to make a move. We need to be proactive."
I shoot him a grateful look. "Exactly. And this time, we''ll be better prepared. Better disguises, surveillance equipment, the whole nine yards."
"Oh, oh, I can help with that!" Maggie pipes up, practically bouncing in her seat. "I''ve been working on my stealth skills, and I can totally-"
I hold up a hand, cutting her off gently. "Maggie, I appreciate the offer. But this mission... it''s going to require a certain level of... maturity." In more ways than one, I think. Fooling those bouncers, you gotta be a good actor as much as a good fighter - and right now, she sort of reads like Huck Finn in drag.
Maggie''s face falls, but she nods in understanding. "Right. Of course. I''ll just... stay here and hold down the fort."
I give her a reassuring smile. "Next time, okay? I promise."
She perks up a bit at that, and I turn my attention back to the group as a whole. "Okay, so here''s what I''m thinking. We start with the disguise..."
"Hold still," Gossamer says, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she focuses on hemming my pants. "I''m almost done."
I try to stay as motionless as possible, which is harder than it sounds when you''re standing on a chair in the middle of a cluttered living room. Gossamer''s house is a maze of fabric bolts, sewing machines, and half-finished projects. It''s like walking into a textile tornado.
"Thanks again for doing this, Amelia," I say, using her real name. It feels weird, but we''re not in costume, so it seems appropriate. "I know it''s last minute."
She waves a hand dismissively, nearly stabbing me with a pin in the process. "Please, this is what I live for. Your butch chic look in particular is a breath of fresh air. If I have to make one more Spandex unitard, I''m going to scream. Do you know how annoying working with Spandex is?"
"No," I laugh, then quickly suck in my stomach as she makes a particularly close pass with the needle. "Well, I''m glad my fashion sense is good for something. I was starting to think I was just a hopeless case."
Gossamer makes a final snip, then steps back to admire her handiwork. "Nonsense. You''ve got great bone structure, and with the right clothes... voila! A whole new you."
She holds up a mirror, and I have to admit, I''m impressed. The baggy jeans, layered tanks, and oversized flannel she''s put me in make me look like a completely different person. Add in the short, spiky hair, and the glasses, and the fake nose ring, and I hardly recognize myself. I almost look like a boy - the degree of transformation fills me with an odd sense of unease.
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"Damn, Gossamer. You''re a genius," I say, turning to get a look at myself from all angles.
She preens a bit at the praise. "It''s all in the details. The key is to create a persona, not just a costume. You have to think about how this character moves, talks, carries herself."
I nod, trying to slip into the skin of this new me. I slouch a bit, letting my shoulders roll forward. I adjust my stance, widening my legs just a bit. "How''s this?" I ask, my voice a bit lower and raspier than usual.
Gossamer grins. "Perfect. No one''s going to look at you and see Samantha Small, that''s for sure."
I grin back, feeling a thrill of excitement. "Let''s hope not. I''d hate to blow my cover before I even make it through the door."
Back at the Music Hall, we gather around a makeshift model of the nightclub that Jordan''s put together. It''s crude, made mostly of cardboard and duct tape, but it gets the job done. "What can I say?" they said, presenting it earlier, "I love dioramas."
"Okay, so here''s the plan," Jordan says, pointing at various spots on the model. "We''ve got three main objectives. One, plant surveillance devices in key locations. Two, make contact with potential informants inside the club - that is to say, convert informants. And three, get out without anyone being the wiser."
They hold up a handful of small, black objects. "These are our eyes and ears. Wireless cameras and microphones, small enough to hide just about anywhere. I''ve modified them to transmit on a secure frequency, so we should be able to monitor them remotely without anyone picking up the signal."
Connor leans in, studying the devices. "And where exactly are we putting these?"
Jordan points to several spots on the model. "The main dance floor, obviously. That''s where most of the action happens. The bar, so we can keep tabs on who''s coming and going. And if possible, the VIP area on the second floor. That''s where the real heavy hitters tend to congregate. But, given the risks in last time... That one''s optional. Consider it a high value optional objective."
I nod, committing the locations to memory. "And the informant? Who are we targeting?"
Jordan shrugs. "That''s where you come in, Sam. We need someone on the inside, someone with access to information but not so high up the food chain that they''ll be suspicious. A bartender, a waitress, maybe even a low-level dealer. Someone who might be willing to talk for the right price... or the right motivation."
I feel a flicker of unease at that last part, but I push it down. We''re the good guys. We''re not going to hurt anyone... Not more than necessary, anyway. "Okay. I think I can handle that."
Derek frowns, his brow furrowed. "And the exit strategy? In case things go south?"
"That''s my department," Connor says, speaking up for the first time. "I''ll be nearby, keeping watch. If anything looks hinky, I''ll create a distraction, give Sam a chance to slip away."
I raise an eyebrow. "A distraction? What kind of distraction?"
Connor grins, and it''s not entirely friendly. "Trust me, you don''t want to know. But it''ll be effective."
I study him for a moment, then nod. "Okay. I trust you, despite my better judgment."
"I wish I could help, but, you know. Werewolf at a night club. Not exactly a good time," Derek says.
Connor waves him off. "Don''t worry about it. You go get your naps in."
Jordan claps their hands together. "Alright, I think we''re as ready as we''re going to be. Sam, you good on your cover story?"
I take a deep breath, slipping back into my new persona. "Yeah, I''m good. I''m Jessie, 21, from out of town. Here to party, maybe score some E. Just looking for a good time, you know?"
Jordan belly laughs, their entire body convulsing a little bit. "Perfect. Remember, keep it simple. Don''t volunteer too much information. Let them fill in the blanks. And, uh, don''t ask about scoring E. Don''t do that. Don''t do that, please."
I nod, feeling a flutter of nerves in my stomach. This is it. No turning back now.
The Crescent looks different in the harsh light of day. Without the pulsing music and flashing lights, it''s just another building, wedged between a pawn shop and a check cashing place. But as night falls and I approach the entrance, I can feel the energy building again, like a sleeping beast slowly waking up.
The line to get in is already halfway down the block, a mix of clubbers in shiny dresses and sky-high heels, and rougher types in leather jackets and ripped jeans. I take my place at the end, trying to look simultaneously bored and eager. Like I''ve done this a thousand times before, but I''m still hoping tonight will be something special.
As I wait, I take in the details I missed last time. The bouncers, for one. There''s two of them tonight, both big guys with shaved heads and muscles that strain against their black t-shirts. They''re checking IDs with a casual efficiency, barely glancing at the cards before waving people through or sending them packing.
I finger my own fake ID in my pocket, silently thanking Jordan for their handiwork. They''ve assured me it will pass muster, but I can''t help but feel a twinge of anxiety as I inch closer to the front of the line.
The girl in front of me is arguing with one of the bouncers, her voice getting higher and shriller with each passing second. "But I swear, I''m 21! I left my ID at home, can''t you just let me in? Please?"
The bouncer shakes his head, unmoved. "No ID, no entry. Sorry, sweetheart. Next!"
I step forward, my heart pounding so hard I''m sure everyone can hear it. I pull out my fake ID, not wondering exactly where it came from, and hand it over with what I hope is a casual smile.
The bouncer takes it, holding it up to the light. For a moment, I''m sure he''s going to call me out, to demand to know who I really am. But then he hands it back with a curt nod. "Have a good time."
I let out a breath I didn''t know I was holding, stepping past him into the club. The bass hits me like a physical force, vibrating in my chest. The smell of sweat and alcohol and cheap perfume fills my nostrils. For a moment, I''m overwhelmed, unsure where to start.
Then I remember my training, my mission. I take a deep breath, centering myself. I can do this. I have to do this.
I make my way to the bar, shouldering my way through the crowd. Time to get to work.
Chapter 122.2
The Crescent is a sensory nightmare, a pulsing, living thing that threatens to swallow me whole. The music is a physical force, thrumming through my body and making my teeth vibrate. Strobe lights slice through the darkness, painting everything in stark flashes of color. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something vaguely chemical that makes my nose itch.
I take it all in, trying to sort through the chaos for anything useful. It''s like trying to find a specific drop of water in the ocean. Everyone looks suspicious when you''re looking for suspicious people. Is that guy by the DJ booth a drug dealer or just someone waiting for his song request? Is the woman in the sparkly dress dancing a little too close to that businessman a prostitute or just an enthusiastic clubber? Is there even a problem with prostitutes? I can''t think of one off the top of my head.
I chew my gum a little harder, feeling the tension in my jaw. Focus, Sam. You''ve got a job to do.
I scan the crowd, looking for anyone who might be Kingdom. But how can I tell? It''s not like they wear name tags or secret decoder rings. For all I know, half the people in here could be on their payroll. Or maybe it''s just the management and a few key players. Surely they don''t let every bartender and busboy in on their criminal secrets, right? That would be a logistical nightmare.
A group of girls stumbles past me, giggling and clutching each other for balance. I catch snippets of their conversation as they go by.
"¡and then he was like, ''I don''t even like you,'' and I was like¡"
"¡so fucking wasted last night, I swear I''m never drinking again¡"
"¡heard they''ve got some new stuff, supposed to be even better than¡"
My ears perk up at that last bit, but they''re gone before I can hear more. I make a mental note to keep an eye on them. If there''s new product moving through the club, that could be valuable information.
I reach up to scratch my ear, using the motion to activate the concealed earpiece Jordan rigged up for me. It looks like a hearing aid, just innocuous enough to avoid suspicion.
"You getting all this?" I mutter, trying to look like I''m just talking to myself. Which, let''s be honest, isn''t that weird in a place like this.
Jordan''s voice crackles in my ear, barely audible over the thumping bass. "Loud and clear, Smalls. Too loud, not really clear enough, with all that noise, but we win and we lose some. You see anything interesting yet?"
I shake my head slightly, remembering too late that they can''t see me. "Nothing concrete. Lots of potential leads, but nothing solid. I''m heading to the bar now to see what I can dig up."
"Roger that. Remember, play it cool. You''re just another face in the crowd."
I snort. "Yeah, because I''m so good at blending in."
"Hey, you''ve made it this far without getting thrown out. I''d call that a win."
I can''t argue with that logic. I make my way to the bar, trying to move with the confidence of someone who belongs here. The crowd parts easily enough, though I do have to dodge a few errant elbows and spilled drinks along the way.
The bar itself is a long, sleek affair, all polished wood and gleaming chrome. It''s packed, of course, with people jostling for position and waving money at the harried-looking bartenders. I manage to squeeze into a small gap between a couple who look like they''re about five seconds away from either making out or having a screaming match.
I catch the eye of one of the bartenders, a guy who looks to be in his late twenties with a carefully trimmed beard and more tattoos than exposed skin. He nods at me, holding up a finger in the universal "one minute" gesture before turning to mix a complicated-looking cocktail for someone else.
I use the moment to study him, trying to gauge if he might be a potential source of information. He moves with the easy confidence of someone who''s been doing this job for a while. His eyes are sharp, taking in everything around him even as his hands work on autopilot. Yeah, this guy''s seen some shit. He might know something useful.
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When he finally makes his way over to me, I''m ready. I lean in, pitching my voice low enough to be heard over the music but not so loud that anyone else will catch it. "Whiskey sour, please. And make it a double. It''s been that kind of night."
He nods, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "Coming right up. You look like you could use it."
As he starts mixing my drink, I keep my body language open, inviting conversation. "Yeah, you could say that. You ever have one of those weeks where everything that could go wrong, does?"
He laughs, a short, sharp sound that''s more weary than amused. "Welcome to my life, kid. I mean, uh¡ sir." He eyes me a little more closely, as if trying to gauge my age.
I wave off his concern. "Nah, you had it right the first time. I might be legal, but I still feel like a kid most days. Especially in a place like this." I gesture vaguely at the club around us.
He relaxes a bit, sliding my drink across the bar. "First time here?"
I nod, taking a sip. Whiskey tastes like shit. I make a face, trusting on my super-liver or super-kidneys or whatever to just ignore the actual alcohol part. But it''s still not exactly pleasant. "That obvious, huh?"
He shrugs. "You''ve got that wide-eyed look. Plus, you''re actually talking to the bartender instead of just barking drink orders. Trust me, that stands out."
I laugh, feeling some of my nervousness ease. This guy seems alright. Maybe this won''t be as hard as I thought. "Guilty as charged. I''m Jessie, by the way."
"Pete," he says, reaching across the bar to shake my hand. "So, Jessie, what brings you to our little corner of paradise?"
I lean in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "Would you believe me if I said I was running from the law?"
Pete raises an eyebrow, looking more intrigued than alarmed. "Depends. We talking parking tickets or grand larceny?"
I grin, warming to my role. "Oh, way worse than that. I stole a pack of gum from a convenience store. And I didn''t even feel bad about it."
He clutches his chest in mock horror. "My God, we''ve got a real criminal mastermind here. Should I be calling the cops?"
I waggle my eyebrows. "Only if you want to be an accessory after the fact. You did serve alcohol to a known gum thief, after all."
Pete laughs, and this time it sounds genuine. "I like you, kid. You''re alright."
I feel a little surge of pride at that. Maybe I''m better at this undercover stuff than I thought. "Thanks. You''re not so bad yourself. How long you been working here?"
He shrugs, starting to mix another drink for someone down the bar. "Couple years now. It''s not a bad gig, all things considered. Pay''s decent, tips are good if you know how to work the crowd."
I nod, trying to look interested but not too interested. "Yeah? Must see some pretty wild stuff, huh?"
Pete''s eyes flick to mine, a hint of wariness creeping into his expression. "Nothing too crazy. Just your typical club scene, you know? Drunk people doing drunk people things."
I backpedal a bit, realizing I might have pushed too hard too fast. "Right, right. I bet it all starts to blur together after a while. Honestly, I''m just glad to be somewhere that isn''t my crappy apartment for once."
His expression softens a bit. "Rough week?"
I sigh, deciding to lean into the sympathy. Maybe if I open up a bit, he''ll do the same. "You could say that. Got into a fight with my roommate. Again. I swear, if I have to listen to one more lecture about who''s turn it is to do the dishes¡"
Pete nods sympathetically. "Roommates, man. They''re the worst. Well, except when they''re paying half the rent, I guess."
I laugh, taking another sip of my drink. "True that. Still, there are days I fantasize about just¡ I don''t know, running away. Starting over somewhere new. You ever feel like that?"
Something flickers in Pete''s eyes, there and gone so fast I almost miss it. "Sometimes," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "But you know what they say. Wherever you go, there you are."
I nod, trying to look thoughtful. "Yeah, I guess. Still, can''t help but wonder what it would be like. To just¡ disappear. Become someone else entirely."
Pete''s quiet for a moment, wiping down the bar with a rag. When he speaks again, his voice is low, almost lost in the thump of the bass. "Trust me, kid. It''s not all it''s cracked up to be."
I lean in, my heart racing. This feels like it could be something. "You sound like you''re speaking from experience."
He looks up, meeting my eyes. For a moment, I think he''s going to say more. But then someone further down the bar starts yelling for service, and the moment''s gone. "Sorry, duty calls," he says, already moving away. "Try not to get into any more fights, alright?"
I nod, watching him go. Damn. So close. I take another sip of my drink, mulling over what just happened. Pete definitely knows something. But is he Kingdom, or just another person with a past he''d rather forget? And how can I get him to open up more without blowing my cover?
I''m so lost in thought that I almost miss my opportunity. Pete''s busy with another customer, his back turned to me. Without thinking, I reach into my pocket, pulling out one of Jordan''s bugs. It''s tiny, no bigger than a button. With a quick glance around to make sure no one''s watching, I stick it to the underside of the bar, right near where Pete was standing.
My heart''s pounding so hard I''m sure someone''s going to notice. But no one does. Pete finishes with his customer and turns back to me, none the wiser. I pop my gum, using the motion to cover sliding the now-sticky wad over most of the bug. It''s not perfect, but it should be enough to keep it hidden unless someone''s really looking.
"You need a refill?" Pete asks, nodding at my nearly empty glass.
I shake my head, suddenly feeling the need to move. To do something. "Nah, I''m good. Think I''m gonna hit the dance floor for a bit. Work off some of this nervous energy, you know?"
He nods, already turning to another customer. "Have fun. And remember, no fights!"
I laugh, sliding off my barstool. "No promises!"
Chapter 122.3
As I make my way towards the crowded dance floor, I can''t help but feel a little proud of myself. First bug planted, and I didn''t even get caught. Maybe I''m getting the hang of this spy stuff after all.
The dance floor is a writhing mass of bodies, all moving more or less in sync to the pounding beat. I let myself get swept up in it, moving with the crowd while trying to keep my wits about me. It''s harder than I thought it would be. The music is so loud I can feel it in my bones, the lights so disorienting that it''s hard to focus on any one thing for too long.
But I force myself to concentrate, to look for opportunities. There, by the DJ booth. That could be a good spot for another bug. And over there, near the VIP section. If I could just get close enough¡
I dance my way across the floor, trying to look natural while scanning for security cameras or watchful eyes. It''s slow going, but I manage to plant two more bugs without incident. One under a table near the DJ booth, and another on the wall by the bathrooms.
Speaking of which¡ I really do need to use the restroom. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.
I make my way to the ladies'' room, which is blessedly less crowded than I expected. As I''m washing my hands, I pull out another bug, eyeing the air vent above the mirror speculatively. If I could just reach it¡
I''m on my tiptoes, stretching as far as I can, when the door swings open. I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat.
A security guard stands there, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice gruff and suspicious.
For a moment, my mind goes blank. I''m caught, I''m done for, I''m going to jail and my parents are going to kill me and-
No. Focus, Sam. You''ve got this.
I let my arm drop, affecting a sheepish grin. "Sorry, man. I, uh¡ I thought I saw a spider up there. Big hairy fucker. Freaked me out. Was gonna smash the thing."
The guard''s expression doesn''t change. "A spider."
He raises an eyebrow. I''m going to get shot.
I nod vigorously, trying to look appropriately embarrassed. "Yeah, I know, it''s stupid. But I''ve got this phobia, you know? Can''t stand the little bastards. My therapist says I should try to face my fears, but¡" I shrug, letting out a nervous laugh. "Guess I''m not quite there yet."
For a long moment, the guard just stares at me. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead, my heart pounding so hard I''m sure he must be able to hear it.
Then, finally, he sighs. "Just¡ don''t climb on anything, alright? Last thing we need is someone cracking their head open in the bathroom."
I nod, relief washing over me. "Yes sir. No climbing, I promise. Scout''s honor."
He grunts, turning to leave. "And if you see any more spiders, just tell one of the staff. We''ll take care of it. We know there''s¡ some around."
He phrases it delicately, like he''s trying to figure out how to word it. My brain flashes back to the horrible things that Mrs. X sent to my house, and I know. But I don''t say anything.
"Will do," I call after him, my voice only shaking a little.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I slump against the sink, letting out a shaky breath. That was too close. Way too close.
I look down at the bug still clutched in my hand. No way I''m risking trying to plant it now. I''ll have to find another spot.
As I make my way back to the bar, I can''t help but feel a little shaken. Maybe this wasn''t such a good idea after all. Maybe I''m in over my head.
But then I think about Maya Richardson, sitting in her cushy City Council office. About all the people the Kingdom has hurt, will continue to hurt if we don''t stop them. No, I can''t give up now. I''ve come too far.
I slide back onto my barstool, trying to look casual. Pete''s nowhere to be seen, probably on a break or something. Instead, there''s a different bartender behind the bar. A middle-aged guy wearing a button-up shirt that seems two sizes too small.
My breath catches in my throat as recognition hits me like a punch to the gut. It''s him. The bartender from last time. The one who served me that Shirley Temple when Jordan and I first came here undercover.
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For a moment, I''m frozen, panic coursing through my veins. Does he recognize me? Has my cover been blown? Should I run? No, breathe. Think. It''s been over a year. I look completely different now. There''s no way he''ll remember me. Right?
But I can''t take that risk.
Not when I''m so close.
Before he can turn and see me, I slide off the stool and melt back into the crowd. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear the music over the rush of blood in my ears.
I find a relatively quiet corner and lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath. Okay, Sam. Think. What would Jordan do? Probably something reckless and ill-advised, if I''m being honest. Jordan I don''t even think would bother with the skulduggery at this point in their life. I think if I were Jordan and I had made it this far I would''ve done something stupid in a different way.
But maybe that''s what I need right now. A bit of recklessness. A dash of that Westwood chaos energy.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Then I turn and wade back into the crowd, making my way back to the bar.
The music seems to sync with my racing heartbeat, each bass drop matching the thud in my chest. I dodge elbows and sloshing drinks, my eyes fixed on the bar ahead. It''s amazing how different the club looks from this perspective ¨C less of a cohesive whole and more of a chaotic jumble of individual moments. A guy trying to impress his date with some truly awful dance moves. A group of friends taking selfies, their faces lit by the glow of their phones. A couple having an intense conversation in the corner, their body language screaming tension.
I file these observations away, part of me still on mission even as another part screams at me to turn back, to run, to get out while I still can. But I''ve never been good at listening to that voice. So I press on.
The middle-aged bartender is still there, mixing drinks with practiced efficiency. I slide onto a stool, forcing myself to look relaxed. Casual. Like I belong here. He turns to me, and for a heart-stopping moment, I''m sure he''s going to recognize me. But his eyes just slide over me, professional and impersonal.
"What can I get you?" he asks, his voice barely audible over the thumping bass.
I clear my throat, pitching my voice a little lower than usual. "Uh, just a soda, please. Trying to pace myself, you know? Pick a soda," I say, and immediately kick myself. Is that too young? Too innocent? Should I have ordered something stronger to fit in better? But the bartender just nods, no judgment in his eyes. Maybe he''s used to designated drivers, or people taking a break between stronger drinks. Or maybe he just doesn''t care. Either way, I''m grateful for the lack of questions.
He nods, reaching for a glass. "Smart kiddo. You wouldn''t believe how many people I have to cut off in a night."
I laugh, trying to sound worldly and experienced. "Oh, I can imagine. Must be a tough job, dealing with all the drunks."
He shrugs, sliding my drink across the bar. "It has its moments. But it pays the bills, and hey, free entertainment, right?"
I nod, taking a sip of my drink. It''s just regular cola, but it tastes like victory. He doesn''t recognize me. I''m in the clear.
"So," I say, leaning in a bit. "You been working here long?"
He eyes me for a moment, probably trying to figure out if I''m hitting on him or just making conversation. "Few years now. Why, you looking for a job?"
I laugh, shaking my head. "Nah, just curious. This place seems¡ intense. I bet you see some pretty wild stuff."
He snorts, wiping down the bar. "Kid, you have no idea. But hey, that''s what makes it interesting, right? Never know what''s gonna happen on any given night."
I nod, trying to look impressed. "Yeah, I bet. You ever, uh¡ you ever see anything really crazy? Like, I don''t know, fights or anything?"
He raises an eyebrow. "You some kind of adrenaline junkie or something? Looking for trouble?"
I backpedal quickly. "No, no, nothing like that. Just, you know, curious. I get into fights sometimes. Not here! Just¡ in general. It''s a problem."
He studies me for a moment, then sighs. "Look, kid. If you''re looking for trouble, you''re in the wrong place. We don''t tolerate that kind of thing here. You want to fight, go join a boxing gym or something."
I hold up my hands in surrender. "No, really, I swear I''m not looking for trouble. I''m just¡ I don''t know. Trying to understand why I keep ending up in these situations, I guess."
His expression softens a bit. "Ah. Well, that''s a different story. You want some free advice?"
I nod eagerly. "Always."
He leans in, his voice low and serious. "The world''s full of people looking for a fight. Don''t give them the satisfaction. Walk away. It''s not worth it."
I blink, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. "That''s¡ actually pretty good advice. Thanks."
He shrugs, already turning to another customer. "Don''t mention it. And hey, if you ever need to talk¡ well, that''s what bartenders are for, right?"
I nod, feeling a strange mix of guilt and gratitude. Here I am, trying to pump this guy for information, and he''s giving me genuinely good life advice. It''s almost enough to make me reconsider this whole undercover thing.
Almost.
As I''m mulling this over, something catches my eye. Or rather, someone. A girl with bright pink hair and more piercings than I can count is weaving through the crowd, carrying a tray of empty glasses. I try to catch another sight through the other bar patrons, weaving my head a little bit to the left, a little bit to the right. There''s something familiar about her, but I can''t quite place it¡
The bartender notices me staring and follows my gaze. "Ah, that''s Nina," he says, a note of fondness in his voice. "She''s one of our barbacks. Kind of like an apprentice bartender. Good kid, even if she does look like she fell into a tackle box."
Nina. The name hits me like a bolt of lightning. Nina from the civilian superhuman support group. From¡ what, almost a year ago now? The place where I met Derek. And a couple of other people that I really should be catching up with, staying in touch with - honestly, I can''t remember the last time I went. It must''ve been months ago, right?
Before I can process this, Nina turns, catching my eye. She does a double-take, clearly recognizing me despite my disguise. For a moment, we just stare at each other, both of us frozen in surprise. The bartender, whose name I don''t recall catching, glances between the two of us, mostly to Nina, and then back to me.
Then she starts making her way over, a confused smile on her face. "Hey," she says as she reaches the bar. "Don''t I know you from somewhere?"
Chapter 123.1
The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Rampart hitting the speedbag echoes through the training room as I push open the door. It''s a familiar sound by now, as comforting in its way as the smell of my mom''s challah baking or the crackle of my dad''s old vinyl records. The rest of the Young Defenders are scattered around the room, most of them buried in books or hunched over tablets. It''s study time, apparently.
I make my way over to where Lily is curled up in an uncomfortable looking metal folding chair, her nose buried in what looks like a law textbook. "Hey," I say, flopping down on the floor next to her. "What''s the topic du jour?"
She looks up, blowing a strand of purple-dyed hair out of her eyes. "Criminal procedure," she says with a grimace. "Specifically, the rules around admissibility of evidence gathered by superhumans. Did you know that in some states, using enhanced senses to eavesdrop on a conversation is considered a form of warrantless wiretapping?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Seriously? That''s messed up. So what, if I happen to overhear a crime being planned because of my shark hearing, I''m supposed to just ignore it?"
Lily looks at me funny. "You have shark hearing?"
"No," I reply, glancing away from her. "I didn''t know you were into law."
She smiles at me, reaching out to ruffle my hair. "I''m just bored. I don''t understand most of this, I''ll be honest."
I bat her hand away, but I''m smiling. It''s nice, these little moments of normalcy. Sometimes I forget that under all the spandex and superpowers, we''re just a bunch of kids trying to figure out how to save the world without accidentally becoming the bad guys.
Across the room, I spot Connor contorted into what looks like an incredibly uncomfortable position, his lanky frame twisted around itself as he peers at a tablet balanced on his knee. "Hey, Stretch Armstrong," I call out. "You know chairs exist, right?"
He looks up, flashing me that goofy grin that always makes him look about five years younger than he actually is. "Chairs are for people with boring skeletons," he says, unfolding himself with a series of pops and cracks that make me wince. "Besides, this way I can feel like I''m training even while I''m studying."
I roll my eyes. "Pretty sure that''s not how it works, but you do you, buddy."
He ambles over, all seven feet of him somehow managing to look both graceful and awkward at the same time. It''s a uniquely Connor talent. "So, what brings you to our little nerd convention? I thought you''d be out patrolling or punching bad guys or whatever it is you do when you''re not here."
I hesitate for a moment. This is it. The moment of truth. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "Actually, I''ve got an idea I want to run by everyone. A plan, sort of."
Connor''s eyebrows shoot up. "A plan? From Sam ''Leap First, Look Later'' Small? This I''ve got to hear."
I punch him lightly in the arm, which is about as high as I can reach without standing on tiptoe. "Shut up. I can plan... sometimes."
He holds up his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Hey, no judgment here. Some of the best ideas come from people who don''t usually have them. It''s like... beginner''s luck, but for thinking."
I shake my head, trying to hide my own smile. "You''re impossible, you know that?"
"It''s part of my charm," he says with a wink.
By now, our conversation has attracted the attention of the others. Amelia looks up from where she''s been meticulously organizing a pile of fabric swatches. (Why she needs those for studying, I have no idea. Maybe it''s a textile intelligence thing.) Jason steps away from the speedbag, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel.
"What''s this about a plan?" he asks, his deep voice carrying easily across the room.
I take another deep breath. Here goes nothing. "I want to go back to the Crescent," I say, the words coming out in a rush. "Undercover. To gather intel on the Kingdom."
For a moment, there''s silence. Then everyone starts talking at once.
"Are you crazy?" That''s Lily, her eyes wide with concern.
"Ooh, espionage. Classy." Connor, of course. He already knew the plan from before. That''s not a surprise.
"That sounds... risky." Amelia, her voice soft but worried.
Jason just looks at me, his expression unreadable. "Everyone, quiet," he says, and the room falls silent. He turns back to me. "Explain."
So I do. I tell them about Maya Richardson''s election, about the lack of concrete evidence linking her to the Kingdom. About the need to be proactive, to find out what they''re planning before they can hurt anyone else. As I talk, I can see the others'' expressions changing. Concern giving way to interest, skepticism to thoughtfulness.
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When I finish, there''s another moment of silence. Then Amelia speaks up. "If you''re going undercover, you''ll need a disguise," she says, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "I can help with that. I''ve been working on some new fabric blends, and I''d really love to do something instead of repairing Multiplex''s shirts. With the right cut and style of clothing, we could make you look completely different."
I blink, surprised by her enthusiasm. "Uh, thanks, Gossamer. That would be great."
Jason holds up a hand. "Before we get too excited, we need to talk about the risks. Sam, what you''re proposing... it''s dangerous. Not just physically, but legally. If you get caught..."
"I know," I say, meeting his gaze. "But the risk is worth it. We need this information, Jason. You know we do."
He nods slowly. "I do. But that doesn''t mean I have to like it."
"None of us like it," Lily chimes in. "But... Sam''s right. We can''t just sit back and wait for the Kingdom to make their next move."
Connor scratches his head. "So, what, we''re all cool with sending our youngest member into the lion''s den? Just like that?"
"Not ''just like that''," Jason says. "If you do this - and I''m not saying you are yet - we do it smart. You plan. You prepare. You have backup plans for our backup plans."
I nod eagerly. "Absolutely. Whatever you guys think is necessary. I''m not going in half-cocked, I promise."
Jason opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a new voice cuts in.
"What''s all this about going in half-cocked?"
We all turn to see Captain Plasma standing in the doorway, his perfect hair somehow still immaculate despite the fact that I''m pretty sure he just flew here from across the city. Sometimes I wonder if his powers include some kind of anti-frizz field.
"Captain," Jason says, straightening up instinctively. "We were just discussing a potential... intelligence gathering operation."
Captain Plasma''s eyebrows rise. "Oh? Sounds interesting. Mind if I weigh in?"
We all exchange glances. It''s not that we don''t trust Captain Plasma - he''s a good guy, really. But he''s also, well... a bit of a boy scout. He''s still adjusting to Philadelphia and I can *smell* the Los Angeles on his accent. His skin is still perfectly tanned, his hair done up with gel.
But before any of us can come up with a polite way to say ''thanks but no thanks'', he''s already striding into the room, a concerned frown on his impossibly chiseled face.
"Look, I don''t want to overstep," he says, which usually means he''s about to do exactly that. "But solo missions, especially undercover ones... they''re risky. More risky than you might realize."
I bite back a sigh. "With all due respect, Captain, I know the risks. I''ve been training for this kind of thing."
He holds up a hand. "I know, I know. You''re all very capable. But there''s a difference between training and real-world experience. Let me tell you a story."
Oh boy. Here we go.
"Back when I was about your age," he begins, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. I catch Connor miming a yawn behind the Captain''s back and have to stifle a giggle. "I thought I was invincible. Plasma powers, flight, super strength - what could possibly go wrong, right?"
He pauses, his expression growing serious. "I was in LA, tracking a gang that was using some kind of high-tech weapons. Thought I''d be clever, go in undercover as a potential buyer. Long story short, my cover got blown, and I ended up in a firefight with about a dozen heavily armed criminals. No backup, no exit strategy."
Despite myself, I find I''m leaning in, interested despite myself. "What happened?"
Captain Plasma''s mouth twists into a wry smile. "I got lucky. Very lucky. Managed to fly out of there by the skin of my teeth, but not before taking a few hits that even my powers couldn''t fully protect me from. Spent the next month in the hospital, and the gang got away clean, because all the evidence I gathered was inadmissable or exploded."
He looks around at all of us, his gaze lingering on me. "The point is, no matter how prepared you think you are, things can always go wrong. And when they do, you want someone watching your back."
I nod slowly. "I appreciate the concern, Captain. Really. But this isn''t the same situation. I''m not going in guns blazing - it''s just reconnaissance."
"For now," he says. "But what happens if you uncover something big? Something that needs immediate action? Will you be able to walk away, or will you be tempted to play the hero?"
I open my mouth to protest, but Jason cuts in. "He has a point, Sam. We need to consider all possibilities."
I let out a frustrated sigh. "So what, we just do nothing? Let the Kingdom keep operating unchecked?"
Captain Plasma shakes his head. "That''s not what I''m saying. Just... be careful. Plan for every contingency. And maybe consider having at least one teammate nearby for backup."
I glance at the others, exchanging eyes with Connor. Lily looks worried, Amelia thoughtful. Connor is still making faces behind the Captain''s back, but even he looks a bit more serious than usual.
"We''ll take it under advisement," Jason says diplomatically. "Thank you for your input, Captain."
Captain Plasma nods, apparently satisfied. "Glad I could help. Just remember, there''s no shame in asking for help when you need it. That''s what teams are for, after all."
With that, he gives us all one last stern-yet-kindly look (how does he manage that?) and heads out, hovering about an inch off the ground, probably off to rescue a kitten from a tree or help an old lady cross the street or help deliver a baby whatever it is perfect heroes do in their spare time.
As soon as he''s gone, Connor lets out a theatrical groan. "Well, that was about as fun as a root canal performed by a drunken octopus."
I snort. "Come on, he means well."
"Yeah, well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions and people who can''t mind their own business," Connor grumbles. I feel a little bit of the Phreaks wriggle out from between his teeth, there, but I don''t comment on it.
Jason shoots him a warning look. "Alright, that''s enough. Captain Plasma may be... overly cautious, but he''s not wrong about the risks."
I nod reluctantly. "I know. But we can''t let fear stop us from doing what needs to be done."
Jason studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Agreed. But we do this smart. Gossamer, you said you can help with the disguise?"
Amelia nods eagerly. "Oh yes. I''ve been experimenting with some new techniques that should work perfectly for this. We''ll make Sam look so different, her own mother wouldn''t recognize her."
I grin. "Sounds good to me. The less I look like myself, the better."
Jason nods, then jerks his head towards the door. "Sam, a word?"
Chapter 123.2
Jason nods, then jerks his head towards the door. "Sam, a word?"
I follow him out into the hallway, my stomach doing nervous flips. Is he going to try to talk me out of this?
But when he turns to face me, his expression is resolute. "I''m not going to tell you not to do this," he says, his voice low. "But you need to understand the situation we''re in. The political climate right now¡ it''s not great for groups like us."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
He sighs, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. "I know you''re vaguely familiar, but it''s going from "idea" to "real" real fast. There''s been talk in City Hall and in Congress about increasing oversight on superhero teams, especially ones with underage members, even ones that are technically afterschool clubs or extracurricular organizations like ours. The recent Patriot stuff has really put a squeeze on us from every direction. Federal, state, and municipal - at least that''s what Davis tells me."
My frown deepens. "But we''ve always been careful. We follow all the rules, try not to engage in dangerous shit, all that stuff."
Well. Try is a big word. So is "dangerous shit".
"I know," he says. "But perception is everything in politics. And right now, the perception is that we''re a potential liability. One wrong move, one mission gone bad, and we could be shut down." He puffs his chest out slightly. "I mean, maybe a world without a need for super-cop cadets would be better. But I don''t think we''re in that world yet."
I feel a chill run down my spine, although I''m not sure why. "So what are you saying? Be straight to me. Not, not like that, I mean, like, tell me directly."
He shakes his head. "I''m saying we need to be smart about this. If you do this mission - and I''m not saying you shouldn''t - it needs to be completely off the books. Plausible deniability all the way. As far as anyone outside this team is concerned, you were never there, you were never here, and we never knew about it. I don''t think any one of us can realistically come and help you, not directly."
I nod slowly, understanding dawning. "So if I get caught¡"
"Then you''re on your own," he finishes grimly. "Officially, at least. We''ll do everything we can to help you behind the scenes, but publicly, we''d have to disavow any knowledge of your actions. That is, if people even make the connection between you and Bloodhound to begin with. Otherwise, you''re just some girl doing crazy shit."
It''s a sobering thought. But oddly, it doesn''t make me want to back down. If anything, it makes me more determined. "I understand," I say. "And I''m willing to take that risk."
Jason studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Alright then. Just remember - if you don''t get caught, we never had this conversation. Clear?"
I nod back, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the seriousness of the situation. "Crystal."
I freeze, my heart in my throat. Shit. Shit shit shit. How does she recognize me? Is my disguise not as good as I thought? I thought I looked completely different! I thought I looked like a¡ like a butch lesbian! Which I do not normally look like! Right?
I force a confused smile, cocking my head to the side. "I''m sorry, I don''t think we''ve met. I''m new in town." New in town? What the fuck am I saying? This isn''t a sitcom.
Nina frowns, peering at me more closely. "Are you sure? Because you look really familiar. Do you maybe have a sister or something?"
I laugh, but it comes out sounding strained and unnatural. "Nope, no sisters. Just me. Maybe you''re thinking of someone else?"
The bartender, whose name I still haven''t caught, is studying me too now, his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute," he says slowly. "I know where I''ve seen you before. You''re that girl from the video!"
My stomach drops. "Video? What video?"
He snaps his fingers. "The homecoming video! The one that went viral a couple of weeks ago. You know, where that Patriot guy absolutely demolished some poor girl at a school dance?"
Oh fuck. Of course. I literally just altered the outcome of national elections, no shit people have seen me. I briefly imagine Jamila teasing me, telling me I''m famous now. The thought makes something tighten in my chest, but I push it down. Not now. Focus, Sam.
I force another laugh, this one slightly more convincing. "Oh, that? Yeah, I get that a lot. Crazy coincidence, right? I guess I just have one of those faces."
Nina doesn''t look entirely convinced. "I don''t know. The resemblance is pretty uncanny. Are you sure you''re not her?"
I shake my head, trying to project a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Pretty sure I''d remember getting my ass kicked by a superhero. Besides, didn''t that girl end up in the hospital with, like, a broken face or something? Look at me." I point to my face, giving them my best ''do I look like I''ve been punched recently'' look. "Nose''s fine. My entire body is as intact as it gets."
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I really hope my nose looks fine.
The bartender frowns, looking me over more closely. For a moment, I''m sure he''s going to call bullshit. But then his expression clears, and he nods slowly. "You know what, you''re right. That girl did look pretty roughed up. And it has only been a couple of weeks. There''s no way your nose would have healed that fast."
I nod, feeling a rush of relief. "Exactly. Just a weird coincidence, that''s all."
Nina still looks a little skeptical, but she doesn''t push it. "I guess. Still, it''s kind of freaky how much you look like her."
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. "Well, you know what they say. Everyone has a doppelganger out there somewhere."
The bartender chuckles. "Ain''t that the truth. I once met a guy who looked exactly like my Uncle Frank, except he was about thirty years younger and had all his teeth. Weirdest thing."
I force a smile, my heart still racing. "Ha, yeah. Weird." I glance around, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. "Anyway, I should probably get back out there. Don''t want to miss any of the, uh, fun."
Nina nods, already turning her attention to something else. "Yeah, no worries. Hey, if you see your twin out there, tell her I said hi!"
I give her a weak thumbs up. "Will do."
I walk away from the bar as casually as I can, resisting the urge to bolt. As soon as I''m out of sight, I let out a shaky breath, leaning against a wall for support. That was way too close. I need to be more careful.
I take a moment to compose myself, then push off the wall and head deeper into the club, weaving through the crowd. My heart is still racing, adrenaline pumping through my veins. I feel like I''m vibrating, every sense on high alert. As I move, I strain my ears, trying to pick up any interesting conversations over the thump of the music. Most of it is just the usual club chatter - people shouting drink orders, flirting, gossiping about friends and enemies alike. But then I catch a snippet that makes me pause.
"¡heard they''re beefing up security," a guy in a black leather jacket is saying to his friend, leaning in close to be heard. "Ever since that shit with the Phreaks, the bosses are paranoid as fuck."
I drift closer, trying to look like I''m just another clubgoer searching for a place to stand. The guy''s friend frowns, taking a swig of his beer. "The Phreaks? I thought they got shut down after that big raid last year."
Leather Jacket shakes his head. "Nah, man, that''s a different gang. The Phreaks were the one that blew up a bunch of people by the courthouse. Remember?"
It feels so strange, to capture the game of telephone as someone who was on the first end of the line.
I''m so focused on eavesdropping that I almost don''t notice the familiar face in the crowd. But then he turns, and I get a clear look at his profile. My breath catches. I know him. Or at least, I know of him.
His name is Ethan, but on the streets he goes by Slick. He''s a low-level Kingdom operative, one of the gophers. I''ve seen him around a few times, usually on the periphery of whatever crime scene we''re investigating. He''s never been directly involved in anything major, as far as I know. But he''s definitely connected.
Before I can think better of it, I''m moving towards him, weaving through the crowd with purpose. If anyone can give me some insight into what the Kingdom is up to, it''s him.
But as I get closer, I realize my mistake. Slick isn''t alone. He''s with a group of other guys, all of them wearing the same black-on-black uniform of Kingdom foot soldiers. They''re huddled together, talking intently about something. I can''t make out the words over the noise of the club, but their body language screams ''up to no good''.
I hesitate, torn. Part of me wants to get closer, to try to overhear what they''re saying. But the rational part of my brain, the part that sounds annoyingly like Jason, reminds me that I''m here for information gathering only. Engaging with known criminals is the exact opposite of keeping a low profile.
With a frustrated sigh, I turn away, melting back into the crowd. As much as it galls me, I know Jason is right. I can''t risk blowing my cover, not when I''m finally making progress.
I spend the next hour or so drifting around the club, my ears pricked for any interesting conversations. It''s surprisingly easy to get people to talk, especially the drunker ones. A little harmless flirting, a few well-placed questions, and they''re spilling their guts like I''m their therapist.
"I''m telling you, man, something weird is going on," slurs a guy in a rumpled business suit, his tie askew. He''s been rambling at me for the past ten minutes, and I''ve been nodding along sympathetically, making encouraging noises at appropriate intervals. "All these new people coming in and out at all hours, and not just the usual club crowd, you know? Suits. Real serious looking types."
I lean in, widening my eyes. "No shit? That is weird. You think it''s, like, a mafia thing?"
He shrugs expansively, nearly sloshing his drink onto my shirt. "Who knows? All I know is, the owner used to be around all the time, schmoozing with the VIPs. But lately? Nada. It''s like he''s disappeared."
I frown, trying to look appropriately impressed and alarmed. "Wow. That''s¡ kind of scary, actually. You don''t think he''s in trouble, do you?"
Business Suit Guy shakes his head, then seems to immediately regret the motion, wincing. "Only with his wife! I heard he''s been seeing some lady at the docks. Tall, dark, and handsome. You think he''s cheating on her?"
I nod slowly, my mind racing. The docks. I file that away for later. "I''m sure it''s nothing too shady. I mean, this place seems way too classy for anything really illegal, right? Probably just a normal midnight meeting with mysterious strangers."
He gives me a bleary smile. "You''d be surprised, kid. But hey, what do I know? I''m just here for the overpriced drinks and the eye candy."
Remembering that I''m supposed to be flirting, I give him a coy smile and a wink. "And here I thought you were just here for the stimulating conversation."
He laughs, loud and braying. "Cute. You''re cute." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are clammy, and I have to fight not to recoil from his touch. "You know, if you''re looking for a good time, I ain''t never been with a deaf girl before¡"
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to keep smiling. "Tempting, but I''m going to have to pass. Early morning tomorrow, you know how it is. But thanks for the offer."
He shrugs, somehow managing to make the gesture look sleazy. "Your loss, lady. I could''ve shown you things you''ve never even dreamed of."
Okay, ew. I take a step back, my smile turning brittle. "Flattered, but I''m not really looking for that kind of fun tonight."
His face falls, but he recovers quickly, shrugging. "Let me know if you change your mind."
I highly doubt that, but I just keep smiling, extricating myself from the conversation as gracefully as I can. God, I feel like I need a shower. Or ten. I knew flirting with drunk assholes was going to be part of the assignment, but I didn''t realize how gross it would make me feel. How do people do this for a living?
Chapter 123.3
I''m so busy trying not to shudder that I almost run smack into a woman coming out of the bathroom. I mutter an apology, sidestepping to let her pass, but she just waves me off, already teetering back towards the dance floor on impressively high heels. The flashing lights are starting to give me a headache, and my ears are ringing from the constant thump of the music. I''ve been here for hours, and while I''ve picked up some potentially useful tidbits, I still feel like I''m missing something. Something big.
I need to go deeper. I need to get into the back rooms, the offices, the places where the real business happens. But how?
As if in answer to my unspoken question, a door near the back of the club opens and a harried-looking woman in a Crescent staff uniform emerges, her arms full of what looks like cleaning supplies. She leaves the door propped open with her hip as she wrestles with her load, and in that brief moment, I catch a glimpse of a hallway stretching back into the depths of the building.
Bingo.
I scan the club, looking for any way into the back areas. That''s when I spot it: a nondescript door near the rear of the club, marked "Employees Only." It''s my best shot at finding something useful.
But how to get past it without arousing suspicion? I need a distraction.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I''m about to do. It goes against every instinct I have as a hero, but sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet. Or in this case, start a fight to infiltrate a criminal organization. I make my way to the dance floor, weaving through the throng of bodies until I spot my target: a big guy with a mean look in his eye, clearly spoiling for a fight. There''s dozens of them, so I really just pick the baldest one.
"Sorry!" I yell over the music as I ''accidentally'' bump into him, hard enough to spill his drink down his shirt.
His reaction is immediate and predictable. "What the fuck?" he roars, shoving me back.
I stumble, bumping into another dancer behind me. "Hey, watch it!" they shout, giving me a push of their own.
I let it go, turning myself into a human pinball. Very quickly, within about 15 seconds, arguments start. Another thirty, and someone throws the first drunken fist, thankfully not at me. I take a tumble and get stepped on a little bit, but that''s okay. The dance floor erupts into chaos. Shouts and curses fill the air as people start shoving and throwing punches. I duck and weave, crawling a little big ignominiously until I can stand, slipping away from the melee I''ve created.
I position myself near the employee door, waiting and watching as security guards rush past me towards the fight. In the commotion, no one notices as I slip through the door, letting it close softly behind me.
Immediately, the sound of the club is muffled, reduced to a dull thumping that I can feel more than hear. The hallway stretches out before me, dimly lit and lined with doors. It smells like cleaning products and stale cigarette smoke.
I tap my ear, activating my earpiece. "Jordan?" I murmur, keeping my voice low. "I''m in. How''s everything looking on your end?"
There''s a beat of silence, then Jordan''s voice crackles to life in my ear. "Sam? Shit, hang on-" a rustling sound, like they''re adjusting their position. "Sorry, I couldn''t hear a fucking thing with all that noise. You''re in the back? Good job. Tell me how you did it later. How''s it looking?"
I start down the hallway, trying to move quietly. My sneakers squeak on the linoleum, sounding impossibly loud in the relative quiet. "Lots of doors," I report back, my voice barely above a whisper. "No signs or anything. I feel like I''m in one of those mazes they use for mice experiments."
Jordan snorts. "Knowing the Kingdom, it just might be. Be careful, okay? Those doors could lead anywhere."
I nod, even though they can''t see me. "Got it. I''ll just-" I pause, hearing voices approaching from around a corner ahead. "Shit. Someone''s coming."
"Act drunk," Jordan advises immediately. "Start mumbling to yourself, maybe sway a little. No one questions a drunk person stumbling around where they shouldn''t be."
I take their advice, starting to weave slightly as I walk, letting my steps become heavier, less coordinated. I start muttering under my breath, a steady stream of nonsense. "Where''s the bathroom? I swear it was around here somewhere. Or maybe that was the kitchen? Why are there so many damn doors in this place?"
Just as the voices round the corner, I let myself stumble, catching myself against a wall with a loud thump. Two men in suits appear, deep in conversation. They pause when they see me, eyebrows raising.
I look up at them, blinking owlishly. "Oh, hi!" I say, my voice a little too loud, a little too bright. "I''m looking for the bathroom. Or maybe the exit. I think I''m lost." I dissolve into giggles, hiccuping a little for good measure.
The men exchange a look, then seem to come to a silent agreement. "Bathrooms are back that way," one of them says, pointing back the way I came. "Big sign, can''t miss it."
I nod vigorously, then wince, pressing a hand to my head. "Right. Yes. Sign. Thank you sooooo much." I push off the wall, staggering a little as I turn myself around. "You''re so nice. This is such a nice place. I love it here."
I can feel their eyes on my back as I weave my way back down the hall, still muttering to myself. I let myself stumble a few more times, occasionally reaching out to touch the wall as if for balance. It''s not until I hear their voices fade behind me that I let myself breathe normally again.
"Nice job," Jordan says in my ear. "Very convincing. I almost believed you were actually drunk."
I roll my eyes. "Thanks. I''ve been practicing."
I continue down the hallway, leaning against doorknobs as I go. Most of them are locked, or, as Jordan so subtly put it, "electronically impeded". Even if I could pick a lock, which I can''t, I wouldn''t be able to get through. I start to feel a prickle of frustration. What''s the point of sneaking back here if I can''t actually get anywhere?
"Hey, Jordan," I murmur, after trying and failing to open yet another door. "I think we might have a problem. Everything''s locked up tighter than¡ well, something that''s locked up really tight."
There''s a crackle of static, then silence. I frown, tapping my earpiece. "Jordan? Do you copy?"
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More silence. Shit. Something must be interfering with the signal. Some kind of electronic shielding? It would make sense, given how paranoid the Kingdom seems to be.
I''m on my own.
I keep moving, my senses on high alert. Without Jordan''s voice in my ear, I feel exposed, vulnerable. Like at any moment someone is going to jump out and demand to know what I''m doing back here.
But no one does. The hallway remains quiet, deserted. I start to wonder if maybe I''m being too paranoid. Maybe this is just a normal back area, nothing sinister or secretive about it. There are spots on the wall that look like they used to hold a door there, once, maybe during a prior renovation, but are now just bricked over with slightly-unmatching patterns of brick.
Then I see the door.
It''s at the end of the hallway, set a little apart from the others. And unlike every other door I''ve tried, it''s not fully closed. There''s a sliver of light spilling out from the crack, and I can hear the faint hum of electronics from inside.
Jackpot. "The bathroom!" I call out, just loud enough that whatever security devices - the angry red eyes of the cameras on the ceiling - are watching get to hear me. I glance around without turning my head, making sure the coast is clear, then sway towards the door, my heart pounding. This is it. Whatever''s behind this door, it''s important. I can feel it.
I reach for the handle, my palm sweaty. Please don''t be locked, please don''t be locked, please don''t be-
It turns. The door swings open silently, and I slip inside, pulling it shut behind me.
I find myself in an office, dimly lit by the glow of computer monitors. There''s a desk, cluttered with papers and half-empty coffee cups. A filing cabinet in the corner. And on the far wall, a large map of Philadelphia.
I approach it, my eyes widening. There are markings all over it, red circles and hastily scrawled notes. I recognize some of the locations. City Hall. The Zoo. A few high schools, including my own. And down by the waterfront, several spots marked along the docks.
What the hell?
I fumble for my phone, pulling it out and snapping a quick picture of the map. Getting caught by cameras be damned. This is a smoking gun. My hands are shaking, making it hard to focus. This is exactly the kind of thing we''ve been looking for. Proof that the Kingdom is planning something, something that involves the entire city.
But before I can process this new development, I hear voices in the hallway. Coming closer.
Fuck.
I shove the papers back onto the desk haphazardly and lunge for the door. I crack it open, peering out. The hallway is still empty, but the voices are getting louder. I can''t make a run for it, they''ll definitely see me.
Shit shit shit.
Think, Sam, think.
I look around wildly, searching for a place to hide. There''s a small closet in the corner, but it''s too obvious. Under the desk? No, they''ll look there for sure.
My eyes land on the filing cabinet. It''s one of those big, multi-drawer ones, the kind that looks like it could hold a body.
Or a curled-up teenage superhero.
I don''t let myself think too hard about it. I wrench open the bottom drawer, wincing at the screech of metal on metal. Please be empty, please be empty¡
It''s not empty. But the files inside are packed loosely enough that I think I can cram myself in there. It''s going to be a tight fit, and extremely uncomfortable, but it beats getting caught red-handed.
I start pulling out handfuls of files, stacking them as neatly as I can on the floor. My heart''s pounding so hard I''m sure they must be able to hear it in the hallway. Hurry hurry hurry¡
By the time I''ve cleared enough space, the voices are right outside the door. This is it. No more time.
I hoist myself into the drawer, bringing my knees up to my chest and tucking my head down. It''s even more cramped than I thought it would be, the metal sides pressing in on me from all angles. I have to bend my neck at a weird angle to fit, and my legs are already starting to cramp. But I''m in. I''m hidden.
I hold my breath as the door opens and two sets of footsteps enter the room. They''re still talking, something about shipments and timetables. I strain my ears, trying to catch any details, but it''s hard to focus past the thudding of my own heartbeat.
Please don''t look in here, I chant silently. Please please please don''t look in here. I squeeze myself, trying to rustle one of the surveillance bugs - one of the last ones - out of my pocket. Gingerly, I manage to place it underneath some of the few papers remaining, sliding it into a spot where I don''t think it''ll be found, under the folders. Then, I squish myself a little more, trying to channel Connor.
"¡telling you, we need to move up the schedule," one of the voices is saying. It''s a woman, her tone sharp and annoyed. But it''s not Maya. "The last thing we need is another fiasco like the courthouse."
"I know, I know," the other voice says placatingly. A man, his voice deep and rough. "But we can''t rush this. Everything has to be in place before we make our move. One wrong step and the whole thing falls apart."
The woman sighs, and I hear the squeak of a chair as she sits down heavily. "I still don''t like it."
"It''s a necessary risk," the man says. He sounds tired, like they''ve had this conversation before. "We have to coordinate with too many people to keep everything in our heads."
They keep talking, but I''m finding it harder and harder to focus on their words. The air in the drawer is getting thin, stale and hot from my own panicked breathing. My muscles are screaming from being contorted into this unnatural position for so long. I''m starting to feel lightheaded, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.
Then, like a gift from the universe, I hear a phone ring. The woman curses, and there''s a rustle of fabric as she digs it out of her pocket.
"What?" she snaps into the receiver. "No, I told you, I''m in a meeting." A pause. "What do you mean, she''s here? Well, stall her! I don''t care how, just do it. I''ll be there as soon as I can."
She hangs up, and I hear her stand. "I have to go deal with this," she tells the man, annoyance dripping from every word. "Don''t go anywhere. We''re not done."
He grunts an acknowledgment, and I listen to the click of her heels as she stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Okay. One down, one to go. I just have to wait until he leaves, and then I can make my escape. Easy peasy.
Except he''s not leaving.
I can hear him shuffling papers on the desk, muttering to himself as he works. The minutes drag by, each one feeling like an eternity. I''m starting to worry that I really will pass out, or piss myself, or something else equally mortifying.
Just as I''m about to give in to despair, I hear a knock at the door. The man sighs, and I hear his chair scrape back as he stands.
"Come in," he calls.
The door opens, and a new voice enters the mix. Another man, younger-sounding and slightly out of breath. "Sir, we have a situation. One of the bouncers found a wallet on the floor, says it belongs to a regular. He''s getting antsy, demanding to speak to a manager. Real tall type. Like, seven feet. Brown hair. You know him?"
The older man curses under his breath. "Not anyone I know. Bet it''s one of Maya''s. You can''t handle it yourself because¡?"
"I tried, sir. But he''s not backing down. They say he won''t leave until they gets his wallet back, and he''s making a scene. We need to deal with this before it attracts too much attention."
A long, tense pause. Then, a heavy sigh. "Fine. I''ll be right there. This better not take long."
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
Two sets of footsteps, moving towards the door. The creak of hinges, then blessed, blessed silence.
I count to ten, slowly, making absolutely sure they''re gone. Then I start the arduous process of extricating myself from my hiding place. It''s even harder than getting in was. My muscles have locked up, joints stiff and uncooperative. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out as I slowly unfold myself, inch by agonizing inch.
By the time I''m standing on shaky legs, I''m drenched in sweat and trembling all over. But I''m out. I''m free. I don''t waste time celebrating. I lurch for the door, cracking it open and peeking into the hallway. Coast is clear, for now. But who knows how long that will last?
I slip out of the office, easing the door closed behind me with a soft click. Then I''m moving, half-stumbling, half-running down the hallway on legs that feel like jelly. I retrace my steps as best I can, taking turn after turn, praying I''m going the right way.
Then, I round into a hallway that I don''t recognize. I turn around, trying to get to a different fork, and immediately slam into a wall of flesh and cloth, met with the crinkling of a paper bag. A dissolved hole in the brick frames his body, vaguely human shaped, slowly reorganizing itself back into a solid structure.
Mudslide adjusts his necktie with two hands, one on the knot, the other on the cloth. I can hear the smile in his voice.
"Small," he croons. "It''s my lucky day."
WORLD OF CHUM: Project Titan (1)
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET//NOFORN
PROJECT TITAN: PHASE ONE ASSESSMENT AND TRANSITION PLAN
1. EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
Project Titan, initiated in 2006, aimed to artificially induce superhuman abilities in military personnel. After two years of intensive research and experimentation, this report concludes that artificial induction of superhuman abilities is not currently feasible. This document outlines the project''s findings and proposes a transition to Phase Two, focusing on the integration of naturally occurring superhumans into military structures.
2. BACKGROUND
2.1 Project Inception
Project Titan was conceived in response to the increasing prevalence of superhuman individuals globally and the potential national security implications. The Joint Chiefs of Staff authorized the project on 15 March 2006, with an initial two-year mandate.
2.2 Objectives
- Develop reliable methods for artificial induction of superhuman abilities
- Understand the underlying mechanisms of superhuman activation
- Create a controllable source of superhuman military assets
3. METHODOLOGY
3.1 Experimental Approaches 3.1.1 Radiation Exposure
- Controlled doses of various radiation types (gamma, cosmic, etc.)
- Results: No successful activations. 12% of subjects developed severe health complications.
3.1.2 Chemical/Biological Agents
- Synthesized compounds based on blood work from known superhumans
- Results: 2 subjects displayed temporary enhanced strength, but effects were not replicable and led to organ failure.
3.1.3 Psychological Stress Tests
- Simulated near-death experiences under controlled conditions
- Results: 3 subjects activated latent abilities, but rate consistent with general population (0.15%).
3.1.4 Genetic Manipulation
- CRISPR and other gene therapy techniques targeting theorized "superhuman genes"
- Results: No successful activations. 1 subject developed uncontrolled cellular growth, terminated.
3.2 Volunteer Program
- 500 volunteers recruited from various military branches
- Rigorous physical and psychological screening
- Informed consent obtained, with full disclosure of risks
- RESULTS AND ANALYSIS
4.1 Activation Statistics
- Total Subjects: 500
- Successful Activations: 3 (0.6%)
- Activation Rate in General Population: 0.15%
- Statistical Significance: p > 0.05 (not significant)
4.2 Health Impacts
- Severe Complications: 67 subjects (13.4%)
- Mild to Moderate Complications: 212 subjects (42.4%)
- No Lasting Effects: 218 subjects (43.6%)
- Fatalities: 3 (0.6%)
4.3 Psychological Impacts
- PTSD Diagnosed: 89 subjects (17.8%)
- Other Psychological Disorders: 134 subjects (26.8%)
- No Significant Psychological Impact: 277 subjects (55.4%)
4.4 Cost Analysis
- Total Project Cost: $1.2 billion
- Cost per Activation: $400 million
- Estimated Lifetime Healthcare Costs for Affected Subjects: $890 million
5. CONCLUSIONS
5.1 Feasibility of Artificial Induction
Based on extensive experimentation and analysis, artificial induction of superhuman abilities is deemed not feasible with current technology and understanding. The activation rate achieved does not significantly differ from natural occurrence in the general population.
5.2 Ethical Considerations
The high rate of adverse health effects and psychological trauma raises significant ethical concerns about continuing this line of research.
5.3 Resource Allocation
The extreme costs associated with the project, both financial and human, are not justifiable given the lack of significant results.
6. RECOMMENDATIONS
6.1 Immediate Actions
- Cease all artificial induction experiments effective immediately
- Initiate comprehensive health monitoring program for all project participants
- Classify all project data at TOP SECRET level
6.2 Transition to Phase Two
It is recommended that Project Titan transition to a new phase focused on the integration and utilization of naturally occurring superhumans within military structures.
7. PHASE TWO: INTEGRATION AND UTILIZATION PLAN
7.1 Objectives
- Identify and recruit existing superhumans within military and veteran populations
- Develop training programs to integrate superhuman abilities into military operations
- Create new command structures and protocols for superhuman units
- Establish ethical guidelines for the use of superhuman abilities in warfare
7.2 Identification and Recruitment 7.2.1 Screening Process
- Implement mandatory screening for all active duty personnel and new recruits
- Offer voluntary screening for veterans and military families
- Develop non-invasive testing methods to identify latent abilities
7.2.2 Recruitment Strategies
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- Offer specialized career tracks for superhuman service members
- Develop incentive packages for superhuman enlistment and retention
- Create targeted marketing campaigns for civilian superhuman recruitment
7.3 Training and Integration 7.3.1 Superhuman Training Facilities
- Establish dedicated training centers with power-resistant infrastructure
- Develop simulation technologies for power use in combat scenarios
- Create joint training programs for superhuman and non-superhuman units
7.3.2 Tactical Integration
- Revise existing field manuals to incorporate superhuman abilities
- Develop new tactical doctrines leveraging superhuman capabilities
- Conduct war games and simulations to test superhuman-inclusive strategies
7.4 Command Structure Adaptation 7.4.1 New Positions and Ranks
- Create superhuman liaison officers for each major command
- Establish superhuman-specific ranks and promotion criteria
- Develop protocols for superhuman chain of command integration
7.4.2 Unit Organization
- Form specialized superhuman units within each branch
- Integrate individual superhumans into existing special operations teams
- Create rapid response superhuman task forces
7.5 Equipment and Technology 7.5.1 Adaptive Gear
- Develop power-enhancing and control technologies
- Create durable, adaptive uniforms for various superhuman abilities
- Design communication systems resistant to superhuman interference
7.5.2 Containment and Countermeasures
- Research and develop superhuman containment technologies
- Create non-lethal suppression methods for hostile superhumans
- Establish secure facilities for superhuman detention
7.6 Medical and Psychological Support 7.6.1 Specialized Medical Care
- Establish dedicated medical facilities for superhuman personnel
- Train medical staff in superhuman physiology and treatment
- Develop protocols for power-related injuries and conditions
7.6.2 Mental Health Services
- Create specialized counseling programs for superhuman service members
- Research long-term psychological effects of superhuman military service
- Develop support systems for families of superhuman personnel
7.7 Legal and Ethical Framework 7.7.1 Rules of Engagement
- Develop new ROEs incorporating superhuman abilities
- Establish protocols for proportional use of superhuman force
- Create guidelines for superhuman involvement in different conflict types
7.7.2 International Law
- Engage in diplomatic efforts to establish international superhuman warfare conventions
- Develop policies compliant with existing laws of war
- Create frameworks for superhuman POW treatment and exchange
7.8 Intelligence and Counterintelligence 7.8.1 Superhuman Intelligence Gathering
- Develop protocols for using superhuman abilities in intelligence operations
- Create safeguards against superhuman espionage and infiltration
- Establish superhuman-enhanced HUMINT and SIGINT capabilities
7.8.2 Threat Assessment
- Create databases of known foreign superhuman assets
- Develop predictive models for superhuman threat scenarios
- Establish early warning systems for superhuman attacks
8. RESOURCE REQUIREMENTS
8.1 Personnel
- Superhuman Training Staff: 500
- Research and Development Team: 1,000
- Administrative and Support Staff: 2,500
- Medical and Psychological Staff: 1,000
8.2 Facilities
- 5 Dedicated Superhuman Training Bases
- 3 R&D Centers
- 2 Specialized Medical Facilities
8.3 Budget
- Year 1: $5 billion
- Year 2-5: $3 billion per year
- Total 5-Year Budget: $17 billion
9. TIMELINE
- Month 0-3: Project restructuring and initial recruitment
- Month 3-6: Establish training facilities and protocols
- Month 6-12: Begin superhuman integration and specialized training
- Year 2: Full implementation of new command structures and tactics
- Year 3-5: Continuous evaluation and adaptation of the program
10. RISKS AND MITIGATION
10.1 Public Relations Risk: Public backlash against superhuman military units Mitigation: Develop comprehensive media strategy and transparency protocols
10.2 International Tensions Risk: Escalation of arms race with other nations developing superhuman forces Mitigation: Engage in diplomatic efforts for international superhuman treaties
10.3 Internal Conflicts Risk: Tension between superhuman and non-superhuman personnel Mitigation: Implement integration training and conflict resolution programs
10.4 Power Control Risk: Accidental damage or casualties from untrained use of abilities Mitigation: Rigorous training programs and fail-safe protocols
11. CONCLUSION
The transition of Project Titan from artificial induction to integration represents a crucial pivot in U.S. military superhuman strategy. While the initial phase did not yield the desired results, the lessons learned and infrastructure developed provide a strong foundation for Phase Two. The integration of superhumans into our military structure is essential for maintaining strategic superiority in an evolving global landscape.
12. RECOMMENDATION
It is the recommendation of this committee that Project Titan immediately cease all artificial induction experiments and transition to Phase Two as outlined in this document. We request immediate approval and resource allocation to begin implementation.
Respectfully submitted,
[REDACTED]
Project Titan Oversight Committee
Date: August 12th, 2008
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET//NOFORN
WORLD OF CHUM: Project Titan (2)
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET//NOFORN
MEMORANDUM FOR: Secretary of Defense
FROM: General James D. Thurman, Project Titan Oversight Committee
SUBJECT: Project Titan Phase Two - Final Assessment and Recommendations
- EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
This report provides a comprehensive assessment of Project Titan''s Phase Two, which focused on integrating superhuman individuals into U.S. military structures. The project, conducted from 2008 to 2013, has yielded valuable insights into the potential and limitations of superhuman integration in modern warfare. While we have made significant strides in certain areas, we have also encountered substantial challenges that require careful consideration for future planning.
- INTEGRATION AND OPERATIONAL EFFECTIVENESS
Our efforts to integrate superhuman service members into existing military structures have met with mixed success. We successfully incorporated approximately 65% of identified superhuman personnel into specialized units or existing forces. These individuals have shown remarkable adaptability and have significantly enhanced our capabilities in specific scenarios, particularly in rapid response situations and specialized operations.
However, the integration process has not been without its challenges. A significant portion of superhuman service members (approximately 35%) struggled to adapt to traditional military structures. Issues ranged from difficulty in controlling their abilities in high-stress combat situations to challenges in following standard chains of command. This has led to some disciplinary issues and, in a few cases, honorable discharges.
In terms of operational effectiveness, superhuman units have excelled in specific types of missions, such as hostage rescue, disaster response, and certain special operations. Their unique abilities have allowed for rapid deployment and execution of high-risk operations with reduced casualties among our conventional forces.
Nevertheless, the effectiveness of superhuman units in large-scale, conventional warfare scenarios has been less pronounced than initially anticipated. The diverse and often unpredictable nature of superhuman abilities has posed significant challenges in terms of tactical integration and logistical support.
- TRAINING AND COMMAND STRUCTURE
We have made substantial progress in developing standardized training protocols for superhuman service members. However, the diverse nature of superhuman abilities necessitates a high degree of individualization in training regimens, which has proven resource-intensive.
The integration of superhumans into the existing command structure has been an ongoing challenge. While we have successfully established new protocols and command hierarchies to accommodate superhuman units, there remain issues in seamlessly incorporating superhuman decision-making into traditional military operations.
- MEDICAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS
Our medical teams have made significant advancements in understanding and treating superhuman-specific injuries and conditions. However, we have observed higher than anticipated rates of stress-related disorders among superhuman service members. The unique pressures of their roles, combined with the psychological impact of their abilities, have led to increased instances of PTSD and other mental health issues.
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Long-term health effects of sustained superhuman activity are still being studied, and we recommend continued monitoring and research in this area.
- ETHICAL AND LEGAL FRAMEWORK
We have established basic rules of engagement for superhuman warfare, which have been largely effective in guiding operations. However, many gray areas remain, particularly concerning the proportional use of superhuman abilities in combat situations.
Efforts to develop international agreements on superhuman military use have been challenging, with many nations reluctant to engage in such discussions. This has led to some diplomatic tensions and concerns about potential arms race scenarios.
- RECRUITMENT AND RETENTION
Initial recruitment efforts for superhuman service members were highly successful, with many individuals eager to serve. However, as the program progressed, we observed increasing challenges in retention. Some superhuman service members have opted to leave the military, citing reasons such as stress, disagreement with military structure, or pursuing opportunities in the private sector.
- INTELLIGENCE AND COUNTERINTELLIGENCE
The integration of superhuman abilities has significantly enhanced our intelligence-gathering capabilities in certain areas. However, it has also presented new challenges in maintaining information security and preventing potential superhuman-enabled espionage.
- BUDGETARY CONSIDERATIONS
While the initial high investment in Project Titan was justified by potential gains, we have seen diminishing returns in recent years. The resource-intensive nature of superhuman integration, particularly in terms of specialized training and support, has led to budgetary strains that need to be addressed in future planning.
- RECOMMENDATIONS
Based on our findings, we recommend the following:
a) Continue the integration of superhuman service members, but with a more targeted approach focusing on specialized operations where their abilities have proven most effective.
b) Revise training protocols to better address the psychological challenges faced by superhuman service members.
c) Develop more flexible command structures that can better accommodate the unique nature of superhuman abilities while maintaining necessary military discipline.
d) Increase investment in medical research to address long-term health concerns of superhuman service members.
e) Engage in diplomatic efforts to establish international norms regarding the use of superhuman abilities in warfare.
f) Reassess budget allocations to ensure sustainable long-term integration of superhuman capabilities into our military structure.
- CONCLUSION
Project Titan has provided invaluable insights into the integration of superhuman individuals into military operations. While we have faced significant challenges, the potential benefits of continued superhuman integration are substantial. Moving forward, a more nuanced and targeted approach will be necessary to fully leverage these unique capabilities while addressing the complexities they introduce to modern warfare.
Respectfully submitted,
General James D. Thurman
Project Titan Oversight Committee
Date: 10/12/2013
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET//NOFORN
Chapter 124.1
For a moment, I can''t breathe. It''s like all the air has been sucked out of the hallway, leaving nothing but the oppressive weight of Mudslide''s presence. His face, wrapped in that ridiculous brown paper bag mask, is inches from mine, close enough that I can smell the stale cigarette smoke on his breath. I take an instinctive step back, my heart pounding so hard I''m sure he must be able to hear it.
For the first time, I can see his facial features. Greying stubble. A chin that could cut glass.
He looms over me, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. He''s wearing a suit, but not like the ones the other Kingdom goons are wearing. His is nicer, tailored, the kind of suit you wear when you want to impress someone. Or intimidate them.
"I asked you a question, Small," he says, his voice deceptively mild. "What are you doing here?"
"I... I don''t know what you''re talking about," I stammer, my mind racing. How did he recognize me? I look completely different! Did I not do as good a job as I thought?
Mudslide''s lips curl into a sneer. "Don''t play dumb with me, Small. I''d know that self-righteous little face anywhere. Even if you''ve dolled yourself up like some two-bit hooker."
My mind races, scrambling for an excuse, a lie, anything. But I''m coming up blank. All I can think is that I''m trapped, cornered by a man who can turn solid ground into quicksand with a touch.
"I was just leaving," I manage to croak out, trying to edge around him. But he sidesteps, blocking my path.
"Not so fast," he says, his smile widening. "You and I have some unfinished business, don''t we?"
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
"Look, Mudslide," I start, trying to keep my voice steady. "I don''t want any trouble. I was just-"
"Just what?" he interrupts, taking a step closer. I instinctively take a step back, and feel my heel sink into the floor. I look down and see that the tiles around my feet have turned to mud, sucking at my shoes like quicksand. "Just snooping around where you don''t belong? Just sticking your nose into Kingdom business?"
I try to pull my feet free, but the mud holds fast. Shit. Shit shit shit.
"I don''t know what you''re talking about," I say, trying for bravado. But even I can hear the tremor in my voice. "I''m just here for the music. And the overpriced drinks." I crack a smile, though I doubt it''s very convincing.
Mudslide laughs, a harsh, grating sound. "Do you think I''m stupid, Small? Do you think I don''t know exactly who you are, even in that ridiculous getup?"
I bristle at the insult, anger momentarily overriding my fear. "Fuck you," I spit before I can stop myself.
"Careful, little girl," Mudslide says, his voice low and dangerous. "I can bury you ten feet deep in this concrete before you can even blink. Now, why don''t you tell me what you''re really doing here?"
I swallow hard, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. "I told you, I don''t know what you''re talking about. I''m just here for a good time, same as anyone else."
He laughs, a harsh, grating sound that sends chills down my spine. "A good time? In the back offices of the club? Try again, Small. I''m not as stupid as you seem to think I am."
"Fine. You want to know so bad? I''ll tell you," I say, clenching my entire body up, twisting and wiggling my toes. Slowly, deliberately, I reach up to my ear. Mudslide tenses, his eyes tracking my every move. I pull out my earpiece, holding it up between us. "You know what this is?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
Mudslide eyes it suspiciously. "Some kind of hearing aid? Didn''t realize you were deaf."
I shake my head. "GPS tracker. The Delaware Valley Defenders know exactly where I am right now. And if anything happens to me..." I let the implication hang in the air.
For a moment, uncertainty flickers across Mudslide''s face. Then his eyes narrow again. "You''re bluffing."
I raise an eyebrow, channeling every ounce of false bravado I can muster. "Am I? You really want to take that risk? Because I can guarantee you, if I don''t check in within the next five minutes, this place is going to be swarming with heroes. And I don''t think your bosses would be too happy about that, would they?"
As I''m talking, I''m slowly, carefully working my feet inside my shoes. If I can just get them loose enough...
Mudslide''s jaw clenches. I can almost see the gears turning in his head as he weighs his options. "Why would the Defenders send you in here alone? That doesn''t make any sense."
I force a laugh. "Who said I was alone? My partner''s out in the club right now. Seven feet tall, brown hair, built like a stick figure? Hard to miss." Thank god for Connor''s perfect timing earlier.
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Mudslide''s eyes widen slightly, and then narrow. "The contortionist," he mutters.
I nod, pressing my advantage. "Exactly. So you see, harming me would be a very, very bad idea. For you and for the Kingdom. Now, why don''t you let me go, and we can both pretend this little encounter never happened?"
He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The mud around my feet has stopped rising, but it hasn''t receded either. I hold my breath, waiting. His expression is totally unreadable. Then, slowly, he reaches out and plucks the "hearing aid" from my hand, examining it closely.
"Interesting," he murmurs, turning it over in his fingers. "Very interesting."
I hold my breath. Okay, Sam, stay cool. Don''t let him see you sweat. Which is hard, because I''m definitely sweating. A lot.
Just as I''m starting to wonder if he''s somehow figured out my bluff, he looks back up at me, his eyes hard.
"So let me get this straight," he says, his voice cold. "You''re telling me that you, a lone teenage superhero, decided to infiltrate a notorious criminal organization''s base of operations, with only one backup, who just happens to be a known ex-villain. And now you expect me to believe that the DVD, the same organization that has been trying and failing to take down the Kingdom for years, is suddenly going to come riding to your rescue if I don''t let you go. That about sum it up?"
Well, when he puts it like that. It does sound pretty implausible. But then, I knew my gamble was only gonna get me so far. I always knew a few of them. It can''t always going to come down to a battle of wits. I have to figure out some way to slip out of my shoes without getting caught. I can''t stand around here arguing forever.
I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry it hurts. "That''s about the size of it, yeah," I say, trying for a nonchalant tone. Like this is all just a big misunderstanding, a funny story we''ll laugh about later. "So why don''t you just let me go, and we can both forget this ever happened. No harm, no foul, right?"
For a moment, Mudslide just looks at me. Then he laughs, a dark, humorless sound that sends chills down my spine.
"No harm, no foul," he repeats, shaking his head. "Samantha Small, do you enjoy lying?"
For some reason, the question makes my chest hurt. My ankles twist slightly as I lean forward, straining against the liquefied tile. "Fuck you," I spit back, but it lacks bite.
Mudslide''s smile fades, his expression turning hard. "You''ve got a mouth on you, Small. I can respect that. But respect only gets you so far in this world. Sooner or later, you''re going to have to learn to watch your tone. Especially around your betters. Let''s say I do believe you. That still doesn''t explain what you''re doing back here. What are you looking for?"
I hesitate, my mind racing. I can''t tell him the truth, obviously - that I''m here to bug the whole place to kingdom come. But I need to give him something plausible. "Information," I say finally. "We know the Kingdom is planning something big. We''re just trying to figure out what it is before anyone else gets hurt."
Mudslide''s eyes narrow. "And you thought you''d just waltz in here and find it all laid out for you? You really are as naive as you look."
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant despite the fact that my heart is still pounding a mile a minute. "Worth a shot. Besides, it''s not like you guys have been particularly subtle lately. Maya Richardson? Really?"
I see his jaw clench. His face darkens. "You think you''re so clever, don''t you? You have no idea what''s really going on. No idea at all."
I raise an eyebrow. "Then enlighten me. What am I missing?"
For a moment, I think he''s going to take the bait. But then his expression hardens. "Nice try, kid. But I''m not that easy to manipulate. Dump out everything in your purse," he says, his voice cold and flat. "Give me your earpiece. And after I break all your little recording devices, I''m going to shoot you in the fucking face. I don''t care anymore. You''ve crossed the line, fucked with me and mine for the last time."
My heart stops. He''s not buying it. He''s calling my bluff. My blood runs cold. This isn''t how this was supposed to go. I open my mouth to protest, to try another angle, but he cuts me off.
Slowly, carefully, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun. A real gun, not a taser or a tranq pistol. The barrel gleams dully in the dim light of the hallway, pointed straight at my head.
"Move nice and slow," he orders, his finger tightening on the trigger. "No sudden moves, or I decorate the wall with your brains. Understand?"
I nod, my mouth too dry to speak. With shaking hands, I reach for my purse, never taking my eyes off the gun. I have to play along, at least for now. I have to make him think he''s won, that I''m beaten.
A plan. I need a plan. Come on, Sam, think. You''ve gotten out of tighter spots than this before. You can do this. You have to do this.
But my mind is blank, my thoughts scattering like leaves in a hurricane. All I can see is the barrel of that gun, the cold, merciless look in Mudslide''s eyes. He''s going to kill me, whether I comply or not. The only difference is the timing.
As I slowly open my purse, my eyes dart around, looking for something, anything I can use. Underneath piles of change and folded-up notes from school, I have my tiny stash. The world''s smallest first aid kit. The world''s smallest can of mace. The world''s smallest little tazer.
It''s not much. But it''s all I have.
In one smooth motion, I kick off my shoes, feeling the faintly prickly sensation of the tile twisting around my feet. I grab the can of mace, my thumb finding the trigger almost on instinct. I don''t hesitate, don''t give Mudslide time to react. I just aim and spray, straight into his face. He''s nearly as tall as Connor, it feels like. It''s like graffiting a skyscraper.
He screams, the sound raw and animal, his hands flying up to claw at his eyes. The gun goes off, the report deafening in the close confines of the hallway. White-hot pain lances through my upper arm as the bullet tears a deep furrow in the meat of my shoulder, and I feel a warm gush of blood, soaking into the sleeve of my jacket.
But I don''t stop. I can''t stop. I lunge forward, my teeth growing out of my hands, and rip Mudslide''s cheek clean open, the thick snarl of flesh slapping down onto the bone. I drop the mace and grab the taser, jamming it into his neck and pulling the trigger.
It''s not anything like a police-order taser. It''s small. It''s portable. It''s designed for self defense, for civilians against superhumans. It won''t put anyone on the floor for more than a couple of seconds, but that''s all I need.
The gun goes off again, but this time it''s wide, the bullet embedding itself in the wall behind me. It drops from his spasming fingers, clattering to the ground. I shove him, hard, sending him sprawling back into the wall with a heavy thud. Then I''m running, grabbing for my dropped purse with my good arm and sprinting down the hallway as fast as my shaking legs will carry me.
Behind me, I can hear Mudslide roaring, his voice choked with pain and rage. "SMALL!" he bellows, the sound echoing off the close walls. "I''LL FUCKING KILL YOU! YOU HEAR ME? YOU''RE FUCKING DEAD!"
Chapter 124.2
I don''t look back. I just run, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my heart slamming against my ribs. I have to get out of here. I have to find a way out, before he recovers, before he comes after me.
But this is Crescent''s back rooms. A twisting labyrinth of hallways and locked doors, with no clear exit. I''m lost, disoriented, my sense of direction completely shot by the surge of adrenaline pumping through me.
Then I''m running, my feet slapping against the tile floor. I don''t know where I''m going, but anywhere has to be better than here. My arm is on fire, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through me. I risk a glance down and immediately wish I hadn''t. There''s a deep gouge carved across my bicep, blood flowing freely down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
The coppery scent of my own blood is heavy in my nostrils as I run, adding to my disorientation. But it''s not just my own blood I can smell. There are other scents too, other people''s blood, drifting on the air currents. Clubgoers who''ve partied too hard, maybe cut themselves on a broken glass. Employees who''ve nicked themselves shaving, or caught their finger in a door. Women on their periods, their scent faint but distinct among the sweat and smoke and spilled alcohol.
I latch onto those scents like a lifeline, using them as a guide through the maze of hallways. If I can just get back to the main club, I can lose myself in the crowd, slip out before Mudslide catches up to me.
But it''s not going to be easy. I can hear him behind me, his footsteps heavy and uneven, punctuated by the wet sound of melting brick and shattering tile as he uses his powers to charge straight through the walls. He''s not even bothering with doors anymore, just smashing through anything in his path like a human wrecking ball.
And he''s gaining on me. I can hear him getting closer, his breath ragged with fury, his voice rising in a wordless howl of rage. He gets to cheat the labyrinth.
I push myself harder, ignoring the burning in my lungs and the throbbing in my arm. I have to be faster. I have to be smarter. I duck and weave, taking sudden turns and doubling back on myself, trying to confuse his sense of direction. At one point, I even consider climbing into the ceiling, but quickly dismiss the idea. Too risky, too time-consuming. And besides, with my injured arm, I''m not sure I could even manage it.
I follow the scent, moving as fast as I dare. The sound of destruction is getting closer, Mudslide''s enraged shouts growing louder with each passing second. I turn another corner and nearly sob with relief when I see a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. The pulsing beat of the club''s music is audible now, growing louder as I approach.
I burst back into the main club. The pounding music and flashing lights are almost overwhelming after the muffled quiet of the back rooms, but I don''t let it slow me down. I plunge into the crowd, letting the mass of writhing bodies close around me, concealing me from view.
I keep moving, keeping my head down, trying to blend in. I can feel eyes on me, curious glances and speculative looks as people take in my disheveled appearance, my torn and bloodied clothes. The sudden assault of noise and flashing lights is disorienting after the relative quiet of the back hallways. For a moment, I just stand there, blinking stupidly as sweaty bodies jostle around me. I, somewhat distantly, hear someone asking me if I''m okay.
I wave them off. I''ll be fine.
I make it to the edge of the dance floor, scanning the room frantically. Where''s Connor? I need to find him, need to tell him what happened. But the club is packed, bodies everywhere. Even someone as tall as Connor would be hard to spot in this chaos.
A flash of movement near the entrance catches my eye. It''s Mudslide, shoving his way through the crowd. His face is red and swollen from the mace, his eyes wild as they sweep the room. Searching for me.
Fuck. No time for Connor. I need to go, now.
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I bolt for the exit, not caring who I bump into along the way. I hear shouts of annoyance behind me, but I don''t stop. Can''t stop. Not until I''m far, far away from here.
I burst out onto the street, the cool night air a shock after the stuffy heat of the club. Without breaking stride, I start ripping at my clothes, tearing strips off my already ruined shirt. I wind them around my arm as I run, trying to staunch the bleeding.
I duck into the first alley I see, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My legs feel like jelly, adrenaline fading and leaving exhaustion in its wake. I lean against the grimy brick wall, sliding down until I''m sitting on the damp pavement.
Holy shit. I made it. I actually made it out.
I reach up to tap my earpiece, desperate to hear Jordan''s voice. But my fingers touch only bare skin. The earpiece. Fuck. I must have dropped it during the fight with Mudslide. No, wait, he took it, remember? You never got it back, Small.
First things first. I need to stop this bleeding. I look down at my makeshift bandage, already soaked through with blood. It''s not enough. I need something more substantial. I use my claws, still out, to rip up my shirt until I''m in nothing but the wifebeater underneath, and then fish out my mini-mini first aid kit from the bottom of my purse, which still smells faintly of mace.
I breathe through my mouth, not my nose. Just in case someone walks by and gets curious. As I start treating my wound with shaking hands, I try to take stock of the situation.
The good news: I''m alive. I got out. And I managed to plant most of the bugs before everything went to shit.
The bad news: Pretty much everything else. Mudslide recognized me, which means the Kingdom knows we''re onto them. I lost my earpiece, which means I have no way to contact Jordan or the others. I''m injured, alone, and in the middle of enemy territory.
And Connor¡ God, I hope he''s okay. I hope Mudslide was too focused on me to go after him.
I finish bandaging my arm as best I can with the limited supplies I have. It''s not pretty, but it''ll hold for now. I struggle to my feet, wincing at the pain that shoots through my shoulder.
I need to get home. I need to contact the team, let them know what happened. But first, I need to make sure I wasn''t followed.
I peek out of the alley, scanning the street. No sign of Mudslide or any other Kingdom goons. But that doesn''t mean they''re not out there, searching for me.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Time to move. I can''t stay here forever.
The Music Hall looms before me, its weathered brick facade a welcome sight after the chaos of the night. I stumble up the steps, my arm throbbing with each movement. The door swings open before I can even reach for it, Jordan''s worried face appearing in the gap.
"Sam! Jesus Christ, are you okay?" They grab my uninjured arm, pulling me inside. "We''ve been freaking out. What the hell happened?"
I open my mouth to respond, but the words stick in my throat. Now that I''m here, safe, the adrenaline is fading fast, leaving me shaky and exhausted. "Connor," I manage to croak out. "Is he okay?"
Jordan''s eyebrows shoot up. "Connor? Yeah, he''s fine. We asked him to start some shit when you went radio silent. But as soon as he saw Mudslide, he bolted. Smart move, really. Anyway, what happened to you?"
Before I can answer, Tasha appears behind Jordan, her eyes widening as she takes in my appearance. "Sam! Oh my god, your arm!"
I glance down at my makeshift bandage, now soaked through with blood. "Yeah," I say weakly. "It''s, uh, been a rough night."
Tasha ushers me inside, her mother''s nurse instincts clearly kicking in. "Let''s get you cleaned up. That wound looks nasty."
As we move into the main room, I spot Maggie sitting on one of the old theater seats, her legs swinging nervously. She jumps up when she sees me, her face pale. "Sam! Are you okay? What happened?"
I manage a weak smile. "I''m fine, Mags. Just a little banged up."
Tasha guides me to a chair, already pulling out a first aid kit of higher quality than my emergency one. She carefully peels away my blood-soaked bandages, her expression growing more concerned as she examines the wound. "This is a deep laceration," she says, her voice slipping into what I''ve come to think of as her ''nurse mode''. "It looks like it''s torn through the fascia and into the muscle tissue. You''re lucky it didn''t hit any major blood vessels."
I wince as she starts cleaning the wound. "Yeah, well, I guess my luck had to hold out somewhere."
Jordan hovers nearby, their face a mix of concern and curiosity. "So what happened? Did you get made?"
I nod, hissing as Tasha applies antiseptic to the wound. "Yeah. Mudslide recognized me. Don''t ask me how, but he did. Things got¡ messy."
As Tasha works on my arm, I give them a quick rundown of what happened. The confrontation with Mudslide, my failed bluff, the desperate escape. By the time I finish, Tasha is already stitching up my arm, her movements quick and efficient.
"Jesus," Jordan breathes. "That''s¡ fuck, Sam. I''m sorry. We should''ve had a better exit strategy."
I shake my head. "Not your fault. We couldn''t have known Mudslide would be there."
Maggie pipes up, her voice small. "But you got out. That''s the important thing, right?"
I manage a smile for her. "Yeah, Mags. I got out."
Chapter 124.3
Tasha finishes the last stitch, tying it off neatly. "There. That should hold for now, but you''ll need to keep an eye on it. And probably get it looked at by a real doctor."
I flex my arm experimentally, wincing at the pull of the stitches. "Thanks, Tasha. I owe you one."
She waves me off. "Don''t mention it. Just try not to make a habit of getting shot, okay?"
I chuckle weakly. "No promises."
Jordan clears their throat. "So, uh, not to rush you or anything, but did you manage to find anything useful before everything went to shit?"
I nod, reaching for my phone with my good arm. "Yeah, actually. I found an office with a map of Philadelphia. Had a bunch of locations marked. Here, look."
I pull up the photo I took, holding it out for the others to see. Jordan leans in, their eyes narrowing as they study the image. "Holy shit," they mutter. "Fuck yeah."
Tasha and Maggie crowd around too, their faces a mix of curiosity and concern. "What are all these marks?" Maggie asks, pointing at the red circles on the map.
"Not sure," I admit. "But they''ve got to be important. There''s City Hall, a bunch of high schools, the Philadelphia Zoo for some reason, and a bunch of spots down by the docks."
Jordan''s already pulling out their laptop, fingers flying over the keys. "I''m looking up these locations now. Maybe we can find a connection."
I nod, then remember something else. "Oh, and I managed to plant one of the bugs in the office. Couldn''t get it anywhere good, but it''s there."
Jordan looks up from their screen, their expression a mix of admiration and frustration. "Nice work, Sam. But¡ I hate to break it to you, but that bug probably won''t do us much good."
My heart sinks. "What? Why not?"
They sigh, running a hand through their hair. "The back offices are probably electronically shielded, judging by how your transmitter just cut out. The bug won''t be able to transmit through that. And even if it could, it doesn''t have enough memory to record for very long. It''ll probably overwrite itself before we can get to it."
"Oh," I say, deflating a little. "So it was all for nothing?"
Tasha puts a hand on my shoulder. "Hey, don''t say that. You risked a lot to get this information. Just knowing these locations is huge. And who knows? Maybe some of the other bugs you planted will pick up something useful during off-hours."
I nod, trying to shake off the disappointment. "Yeah, I guess you''re right."
Jordan turns their laptop around, showing us a map with all the marked locations plotted out. "Okay, let''s see what we''ve got here. There''s City Hall, obviously. That''s not surprising. A bunch of high schools¡ that''s concerning. The docks make sense, they''ve always had a presence there. But the Zoo? That''s weird."
Maggie leans in, her brow furrowed. "Why would they be interested in the Zoo?"
I shrug, then immediately regret it as pain lances through my injured arm. "No idea. But remember Mrs. Xenograft? She had those weird hybrid animals when they attacked my house. Maybe it has something to do with that?"
Tasha nods slowly. "That''s possible. Or maybe they''re after something valuable at the Zoo? Like, I don''t know, rhino horns or elephant tusks?"
Jordan snorts. "Not exactly the most efficient way to make money. I wish Connor or Derek were here - They''d probably have some insight into what a criminal would want with a zoo."
The mention of Derek makes something click in my brain. "Wait a second. Derek. Elias. Chimera. Has anyone seen him since the Phreaks'' attack back in August?"
The room falls silent as we all consider this. Finally, Jordan shakes their head. "Not that I know of. You think the Kingdom might have recruited him?"
I shrug again, more carefully this time. "It''s possible. Anything''s possible."
"What''s he do, again?" Tasha asks, glancing at Jordan and I.
"He can turn his body parts into animal body parts. Like arms into bear paws," I recap her.
"Ah," she squeaks.
We spend the next hour debating which leads to prioritize. Jordan''s got tabs open on every location, cross-referencing news articles, public records, anything that might give us a clue. But it''s slow going, and we''re all exhausted.
Finally, Jordan sits back, rubbing their eyes. "Okay, I think we need to divide and conquer here. Sam, you''ve had a rough night. Why don''t you take the Zoo lead? It''s probably low priority, and it''ll give you a chance to recover a bit."
I nod, relieved. The thought of diving back into danger right now makes my stomach churn. "Sounds good to me."
Jordan nods, then pulls out their phone. "I''m gonna call Connor, fill him in on what''s happening. See which lead he wants to take with Derek."
As Jordan steps away to make the call, I find myself watching Maggie. She''s been quiet most of the night, her eyes darting between all of us with a mix of concern and curiosity. Part of me wants to ask if she''ll come with me to the Zoo. It''d be nice to have some company, and she''s been getting pretty good with her powers lately. But before I can say anything, Tasha speaks up.
"I''ll go with Sam," she says, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Someone needs to keep an eye on that arm, make sure she doesn''t pop her stitches."
I bite back a sigh. I''m not sure why.
Jordan comes back, tucking their phone away. "Okay, Connor and Derek are going to check out one of the dock locations. Maggie and I will take City Hall. That work for everyone?"
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We all nod, and Jordan claps their hands together. "Great. Now, one more thing we need to discuss. I think we need to tell the Delaware Valley Defenders about this."
I blink, surprised. "Really? I thought we were trying to keep this on the down-low?"
Jordan nods. "We were. But this is big, Sam. Too big for us to handle on our own. Even if superhero groups are laying low right now, the adults need to know what''s going on. This needs to be on their radars. I''m not saying go to the cops, but I trust the judgment of the people you trust."
"Huh? Me?" I ask, blinking a couple more times. "Why?"
Jordan looks at me like I''m stupid. "Because I trust you implicitly? Duh?"
There''s a general murmur of assent from the other two, like I''m somehow a trustworthy individual now. It feels weird, and I''m not sure I like it.
"Okay," I say slowly. "If you all think it''s for the best."
Tasha puts a hand on my shoulder. "It is, Sam. We''re in over our heads here. We need backup."
I nod, letting out a long breath. "Alright. We''ll tell them."
As the others start gathering their things, preparing to head out, I find myself sinking deeper into my chair. The events of the night are starting to catch up with me, the adrenaline fading to leave exhaustion in its wake.
I came so close to dying tonight. If Mudslide had been a little faster, a little more accurate with that gun¡ I shudder, pushing the thought away. But it lingers, a cold knot of fear in my stomach.
"Hey."
I look up to see Jordan standing over me, their expression uncharacteristically serious.
"You did good tonight, Sam. Really good. I know it didn''t go exactly as planned, but you got us valuable intel. And you got out alive. That''s what matters."
I manage a weak smile. "Thanks, Jordan. I just¡ I can''t help feeling like I screwed up. Like I should have been more careful, or-"
They cut me off with a shake of their head. "Nope. None of that. You did the best you could with the information you had. That''s all any of us can do."
I nod, not entirely convinced but grateful for their words nonetheless.
Maggie pipes up from across the room. "Yeah, Sam! You were super brave. I don''t know if I could have done what you did."
I feel a warmth in my chest at her words. "Thanks, Mags. I''m sure you could have, though. You''re tougher than you give yourself credit for."
She beams at me, and for a moment, the weight of the night lifts a little.
Tasha finishes packing up her first aid kit and comes over to join us. "Alright, Sam. You need rest. We''ll head to the Zoo over the next weekend, okay? For now, let''s get you home. And tomorrow, you can see a doctor to get it properly checked out."
I nod, suddenly realizing how bone-tired I am. "Yeah, okay. Home sounds good."
As we walk, I find myself falling into step beside Maggie. She glances at me, a small smile on her face. "Hey, Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"I''m glad you''re okay. And¡ I think you''re really cool. You know that, right?"
I feel a warmth spread through my chest, chasing away some of the lingering chill of fear. "Thanks, Mags. I think you''re pretty cool too."
She grins, bumping her shoulder against mine gently. "We make a pretty good team, huh?"
I nod, feeling a smile tug at my lips despite everything. "Yeah. Yeah, we do."
The night air is cool against my skin as we make our way down the quiet streets. The adrenaline of the evening has long since faded, leaving me feeling hollow and drained. My arm throbs in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of how close I came to¡ well, to not coming back at all.
Tasha walks beside me, her eyes darting between me and our surroundings, ever vigilant. I know she''s worried about me, probably more than she''s letting on. It''s sweet, in a way, but also a little suffocating. I almost wish I''d gone with Jordan instead, or even headed home alone. But I know that''s just the exhaustion and residual fear talking.
"You okay?" Tasha asks softly, breaking the silence that''s fallen between us.
I nod, not trusting my voice just yet. She doesn''t look convinced.
"It''s okay if you''re not, you know," she continues. "What you went through tonight¡ it was intense. It''s normal to be shaken up."
I swallow hard, fighting back the sudden lump in my throat. "I''m fine," I manage to croak out. "Just tired."
She looks at me with a dubious expression. "Are you sure?"
I force a smile, hoping it looks more convincing than it feels. "Really, Tasha. I''m okay. Just need a good night''s sleep, that''s all."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Alright. But if you need to talk, about anything, I''m here. Okay?"
I nod back, grateful for her concern even as I chafe under it. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
We walk in silence for a while longer, the streetlights casting long shadows across the sidewalk. I find my mind wandering, replaying the events of the night over and over. Could I have done something differently? Should I have noticed Mudslide sooner? Could I have talked my way out of it if I''d been smarter, faster, better?
But no. That way lies madness. I did what I could with what I had. It wasn''t perfect, but I''m alive. I got out. That has to count for something. Still, the Kingdom knows we''re onto them now. They''ll be more careful, more ruthless. And next time, I think I will probably get shot in the face, and we will get to find out if I can heal from that or not.
As we turn onto my street, I feel a mix of relief and apprehension. I''m glad to be home, to be somewhere safe and familiar. But I''m also dreading having to face my parents. How am I going to explain this? My clothes are torn and bloody, my arm is bandaged¡ there''s no way I can hide this from them.
Tasha seems to sense my anxiety. "Do you want me to come in with you?" she offers. "Help explain things to your parents?"
I consider it for a moment, then shake my head. "No, thanks. I think¡ I think I need to do this on my own."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Okay. But call me if you need anything, alright? Any time, day or night."
I manage a small smile. "I will. Thanks, Tasha."
She pulls me into a gentle hug, careful of my injured arm. "That''s what friends are for, Sam. Get some rest, okay?"
I nod, then watch as she turns and heads back the way we came. For a moment, I''m tempted to call her back, to ask her to stay. But no. I need to face this on my own.
Taking a deep breath, I turn and walk up the path to my front door. My hand shakes slightly as I reach for the doorknob. Here goes nothing.
As I step inside, I''m hit with the familiar smells of home. Mom''s lavender candles, Dad''s old books, the lingering scent of dinner in the air. It''s comforting and jarring all at once, the normalcy of it all a stark contrast to the chaos of the night.
"Sam? Is that you?" Mom''s voice calls from the living room.
I swallow hard, steeling myself. "Yeah, Mom. It''s me."
There''s a rustling sound, then footsteps. Mom appears in the hallway, her face a mix of concern and relief. "Where have you been? We were worried sick-"
She stops short as she takes in my appearance, her eyes widening in horror. "Oh my god. Sam, what happened?"
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. Instead, to my absolute mortification, I burst into tears.
Mom''s there in an instant, wrapping me in her arms. "Shh, it''s okay. You''re home now. You''re safe."
And just like that, all the fear and tension and adrenaline of the night comes crashing down on me. I sob into her shoulder, my whole body shaking with the force of it. She holds me tight, murmuring soothing words, her hand stroking my hair like she used to do when I was little.
I don''t know how long we stand there, me crying and Mom holding me. But eventually, the sobs subside, leaving me feeling wrung out and empty.
Mom pulls back slightly, her hands on my shoulders as she looks me over. Her eyes linger on the bandage on my arm, the torn and bloodstained clothes. "Sam," she says softly, her voice tight with worry. "What happened?"
I take a shaky breath. "It''s¡ it''s a long story."
She nods, her expression serious. "Come on, let''s go sit down. I''ll make some tea, and you can tell us everything."
As I follow her into the living room, I can''t help but feel a mix of dread and relief. Dread at having to relive the events of the night, at having to see the fear and worry on my parents'' faces. But relief, too. As I sink onto the couch, Mom disappearing into the kitchen to make tea, I find myself thinking about what Jordan said earlier. About how I did good tonight, how I got valuable intel. How I got out alive.
And for the first time since I left the Crescent, I feel a small flicker of pride. Yeah, things went sideways. Yeah, I got hurt. But I also stood my ground against¡ my nemesis? My nemesis, I guess. I outsmarted him, outran him. I got information that could be crucial in stopping whatever they''re planning.
As Mom comes back with the tea, Dad joining us with a concerned look on his face, I take a deep breath.
Time to be honest.
Chapter 125.1
My arm throbs dully beneath its bandages as I make my way into the maw of the Delaware Valley Defenders'' headquarters, a constant reminder of how close I came to disaster last night. The weight of what I''m about to do - the information I''m about to share - sits heavy in my gut. This isn''t just some routine debrief. This could change everything, or, at least, that''s what it feels like.
Maybe it''s egotistical - something my Mom suggested last night - to assume that one little girl is going to change the course of history (Dad had words about that). But, then again, I already notably influenced the election. Am I letting it go to my head? It''s entirely possible. I feel important, thrumming with... I don''t know, renown?
As I step into the lobby, I''m greeted by Clara''s familiar graying hair, looking a little more gray than it normally does. She''s engrossed in a stack of papers, her brow furrowed in concentration. When she spots me, her expression shifts to one of concern.
"Sam," she says, her voice gentle. "Are you alright? We heard about what happened last night."
I force a smile, trying to project more confidence than I feel. "I''m fine, Ms. Parker. Just a little banged up."
She eyes my bandaged arm skeptically but doesn''t push it. "Well, I''m glad you''re okay. The others are waiting in the meeting room. Councilman Davis is particularly eager to hear your report."
Great. No pressure or anything.
As we make our way to the meeting room, I can''t help but fidget nervously. What if they think I screwed up? What if they decide I''m too much of a liability? What if-
The electric lock on the door dings quietly - when did that even get there? - interrupting my spiral of anxious thoughts. We step out into the main conference room, where the rest of the team is already assembled. Multiplex - or rather, several versions of him - is (are?) standing at the head of the table, looking as stern and serious as ever. Bulwark is seated nearby, his massive frame making the reinforced chair look almost comically small. Fury Forge is tinkering with some gadget, her fingers moving with practiced precision. Captain Plasma is floating a few inches off his chair, his cape draped dramatically over the back, eyes furrowed in thought. And there, at the far end of the table, is Councilman Davis, his expression unreadable.
As soon as I enter, all eyes turn to me. I resist the urge to shrink back, to hide behind Clara. Instead, I straighten my spine and meet their gazes as steadily as I can. I glance around, looking for the rest of the Young Defenders. I catch them - they''re clustered at the far end of the table, looking slightly out of place among the older heroes. I catch Gossamer''s eye as I sit down, and she gives me an encouraging smile. Rampart nods at me, his expression serious but not unkind. Blink looks like she''s barely restraining herself from jumping up and hugging me, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.
"Bloodhound," Multiplex says, his voice carrying easily across the room. "We''ve been waiting for you. Please, have a seat."
I nod, making my way to an empty chair. As I sit, I can''t help but notice the absence of my own team. My stomach spins like Charybdis. I glance around, realizing with a start that Spindle - Connor - is missing. A flicker of unease goes through me. Did something happen to him after we split up last night? Is he okay?
"Now then," Multiplex continues, once I''m settled. "Why don''t you tell us exactly what happened last night?"
"Right. So, as most of you know, I went undercover at the Crescent nightclub last night," I start, my voice sounding slightly shaky to my own ears. "I was trying to gather intel on the Kingdom''s plans, see if I could find out anything about what they''re up to."
I pause, glancing around the room. Everyone is watching me intently, their expressions ranging from curious to concerned.
"I managed to slip into the back offices," I continue, gaining a bit more confidence as I speak. "And that''s where I found it. A map of Philadelphia, with a bunch of locations marked on it."
Fury Forge leans forward, her brow furrowed. "What kind of locations?"
"Varied," I say. "City Hall, some high schools, the docks. And... the Philadelphia Zoo, for some reason."
That gets a reaction. I see eyebrows raise, heads tilt in confusion.
"The Zoo?" Captain Plasma repeats, sounding baffled. "Why would they be interested in the Zoo?"
I shrug, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at my stitches. "I don''t know. But given what we know about Mrs. Xenograft and her abilities with animals..."
I trail off, letting the implication hang in the air. Davis nods, his expression grim.
"It''s concerning, to say the least," he says. "Please, continue Sam. What else did you find?"
So I tell them. About overhearing conversations hinting at some larger plan. About planting the bug in the office, even though Jordan said it probably wouldn''t yield much. And finally, reluctantly, about my confrontation with Mudslide.
There''s a moment of pained, miserable silence. Then,
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"This is completely unacceptable," Clara bursts out, her legal mind clearly running a mile a minute. "Do you have any idea how many laws were broken during this little escapade? Not to mention the potential liability issues if-"
"Laws?" Bulwark interrupts, his deep voice rumbling with barely contained anger. "You are worried about laws when there are criminals plotting against our city? We should be taking action, not hiding behind legalities!"
"And what action would you suggest?" Captain Plasma asks, his tone mild but his eyes sharp. "Storming into City Hall and accusing a newly elected official of criminal conspiracy based on overheard snippets of conversation?"
"Of course not," Fury Forge chimes in, finally looking up from her gadget. "But we can''t just sit on our hands either. If the Kingdom is planning something big, we need to be prepared."
"Prepared for what, exactly?" one of the Multiplexes asks, while another jots down notes furiously. "We don''t even know what their endgame is. For all we know, this could be a massive misdirection."
"Or it could be the prelude to a citywide attack," Crossroads says quietly, speaking up for the first time. He''s flipping a coin absently between his fingers, his eyes distant. "Or some larger scheme."
"Outcomes based on incomplete information," Councilman Davis points out, his voice cutting through the growing clamor. "We need more intel before we can make any definitive moves."
I''ve been quiet up to this point, watching the back-and-forth like a spectator at a particularly intense tennis match. But something about Davis''s words snaps me out of my daze.
"More intel?" I repeat, unable to keep the frustration out of my voice. "What do you think I''ve been trying to do? In case you forgot, I nearly got killed getting what we have now!"
The room falls silent, all eyes turning to me once again. I feel a flush creeping up my neck, but I force myself to continue.
"I know it''s not much. I know it''s not enough. But it''s something. And if we don''t act on it soon, people could get hurt. More people could die."
Multiplex leans forward, his expression grave. "No one is dismissing your efforts, Bloodhound. But we have to be smart about this. We can''t just go charging in blind."
"I agree," Captain Plasma says, nodding. "But maybe there''s a middle ground here. What if we reached out to Councilwoman Richardson officially? Under the guise of welcoming her to office, of course."
Bulwark scoffs. "And give her a chance to cover her tracks? No. We need to strike now, while we have the element of surprise."
"Strike at what?" Fury Forge asks, exasperation clear in her voice. "A bunch of red circles on a map? We don''t even know what those locations are for!"
"Which is why we need more reconnaissance," another Multiplex chimes in. "But carefully. No more solo missions."
I bristle at that. "I wasn''t solo. Spindle was there too."
"And where is Spindle now?" Clara asks, her tone sharp. "Shouldn''t he be here for this debriefing?"
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again.
"Spindle is... occupied with other matters at the moment," Crossroads says smoothly, his eyes flicking to me for just a moment. "He''s been fully debriefed separately."
Something about the way he says it makes me uneasy, but before I can dwell on it, Councilman Davis speaks up again.
"Look," he says, his voice tired but firm. "We''re all dancing around the real issue here. Maya Richardson. We can''t ignore the elephant in the room any longer."
The tension in the room ratchets up another notch. I can see the adults exchanging glances, a whole conversation happening in the silence.
"What about her?" Captain Plasma asks finally, his tone carefully neutral.
Davis sighs. "We''ve had suspicions about her for a while now. Nothing concrete, nothing we could act on. But this..." he gestures to me, to the notes spread out on the table. "This is the first real evidence we''ve had linking her to the Kingdom. The first bit of dirt under her fingernails."
"Evidence?" Clara scoffs. "Overheard conversations and a map with some circles on it? That wouldn''t hold up for five seconds in court."
"Which is why we''re not going to court," Bulwark rumbles. "Not yet, anyway."
"Then what are we going to do?" I ask, frustration bubbling up again. "Just sit around and wait for something bad to happen?"
"No," Multiplex says firmly. "We''re going to be smart about this. We''re going to gather more information, build a stronger case. And we''re going to do it carefully, without tipping our hand."
"And how exactly are we supposed to do that?" Fury Forge asks, skepticism clear in her voice.
"By using the resources we have," Crossroads says, that distant look back in his eyes. "Sam''s given us a starting point," he continues, nodding in my direction. "We know some of the places they''re targeting. We can start there, see if we can figure out the why and the how."
"And in the meantime?" Bulwark asks, his arms crossed over his massive chest.
"In the meantime, we watch. We wait. Keep the PPD roped in, maybe a national three letter agency, make sure there are eyes on those targets. Just in case." Crossroads says grimly.
There''s a beat of heavy silence as his words sink in. I feel a shiver go down my spine, a sense of foreboding settling in my gut.
"What about me?" I blurt out, unable to keep quiet any longer. "What should I do?"
All eyes turn to me, and I feel a flush creeping up my neck. Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut.
"And what about Richardson?" Captain Plasma asks. "Do we just pretend everything''s normal while we investigate her?"
Davis nods slowly. "For now, yes. We can''t afford to tip her off. We''ll maintain the appearance of normal relations, maybe even increase our public interactions with her office. Make her think she''s in the clear. In the meantime, I think it''s best if we keep this information closely held. The last thing we need is for word to get out and cause a panic."
"Agreed," Multiplex says, his duplicates nodding in unison. "This stays in this room, at least until we have a better handle on what we''re dealing with."
There''s a murmur of assent from around the table, everyone looking grim but determined.
"So what now?" I ask, my voice sounding small even to my own ears. "What do you need me - us - to do?"
Multiplex exchanges a look with Davis, then turns to me. "For now, we need you to keep your eyes and ears open. Report anything suspicious, no matter how small it might seem. But no more unauthorized missions, understand? Everything goes through us from now on."
I nod, like a liar, relieved and disappointed in equal measure.
"We''ll be in touch with more specific instructions soon," Davis adds, directly to me. "In the meantime, try to act normal. Go to school, patrol with your team, live your life. The last thing we need is for the Kingdom to realize we''re onto them. More than they might already know, at least."
I nod again, feeling the weight of responsibility settling heavy on my shoulders. I find myself drifting towards the exit. My mind is reeling, trying to process everything that''s just happened.
"Alright," Davis says, clapping his hands together. "I think that''s all we can do for now. Let''s adjourn for the day, but keep the lines of communication open. If anything new comes up, no matter how small, I want to hear about it."
Chapter 125.2
Just as I''m about to leave, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to see Crossroads standing there, his expression unreadable as always.
"Sam," he says quietly. "A word?"
I nod, following him to a quiet corner of the room. He''s flipping that coin again, the soft thapp of metal on skin oddly soothing in the midst of all this chaos.
"You did good," he says finally, his eyes meeting mine. "I know it doesn''t feel like it right now, but you''ve given us a real chance here."
I swallow hard, fighting back the sudden lump in my throat. "Thanks," I manage. "I just¡ I wish I could have done more."
He shakes his head. "You did plenty. More than we had any right to ask of you."
I nod, then hesitate. There''s something I''ve been wanting to ask, but I''m not sure how. Finally, I just blurt it out. "Where''s Connor? Is he in trouble because of what happened at the club?"
Crossroads''s expression softens slightly. "No, he''s not in trouble. He''s¡" he pauses, flipping the coin one more time and checking it before continuing. "He''s meeting with his potential new foster parents today."
I blink, surprised. "Foster parents? But I thought¡"
"It''s been in the works for a while," Crossroads explains. "We''ve been trying to find a more stable situation for him. Looks like we might have finally succeeded."
I nod slowly, a mix of emotions swirling in my chest. Happy for Connor, of course. He deserves a real home, a family. But also¡ sad? Jealous? I''m not even sure. It feels like everything''s changing so fast, and I can''t quite keep up. Like everything''s moving too fast.
"That''s¡ that''s good," I say finally. "I''m glad."
Crossroads studies me for a moment, then nods. "It is good. Change can be hard, but it''s necessary. For all of us."
I nod again, not trusting myself to speak. He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, then turns to rejoin the others.
As I step out into the hallway, I bump into Blink, who is apparently just sort of waiting for me. She quickly pulls herself to her feet, her skates skidding against the ground sideways, a big smile on her face that''s only mostly masking the worry.
"Bee! I felt totally useless in there. Like I was just sitting and waiting for the grown-ups to finish talking," she says all at once, giving me a quick arm-squeeze that she disguises as helping herself to her feet. "You were all brave and like, spycraft-y."
"I¡" I start to thank her? Comfort her? I don''t even know what to say. I guess I should find out if she actually feels that way first, or if it''s just a comfort thing. "I think I did at least¡ like, two thirds useless things for every third of useful thing."
"Don''t be so hard on yourself," she says. "You were awesome. You''re like a real spy now!"
I can''t help but laugh at that. "I don''t know about that. I think I''m more like¡ a real sneak. A real eavesdropper."
She grins, falling into step beside me as we head for the elevators. "Still counts. It''s all part of the job, right?"
"I guess so," I say, pushing the down button. "I just wish I could have found out more. Something concrete we could use."
Blink nods, her expression turning more serious. "I know. But you did what you could. And that''s all any of us can do, really."
As I make my way out of the building, my mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The weight of everything we discussed, the implications of what we''re up against¡ it''s almost too much to process. But underneath it all, I know what I''m going to have to do.
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Violence.
I''m sitting cross-legged on my bed, phone pressed to my ear as I recount the events of the past few days to Akilah. My fingers absently trace the stitches on my arm as I speak, the tender skin throbbing dully with each tap.
"¡so that''s the situation," I conclude, letting out a long breath. "We''ve got leads, but nothing concrete yet. The Kingdom''s being careful."
There''s a pause on the other end of the line, the crackle of static filling the silence. Akilah has never been one for small talk.
"Sounds messy," she says finally, her voice as no-nonsense as I remember. "You sure you kids can handle this?"
I bristle slightly at the implication, my shoulders tensing. "We''re not just kids, Akilah. In case you haven''t noticed, we''ve been doing this for a while now."
Another pause. I can almost picture her expression, that slight furrow of the brow, the thin line of her lips. A puff of air escapes her - some sort of laugh.
"You''ll always be kids to me," she says, bluntly. "Do you have it under control, or are you calling because you need me?"
I open my mouth to respond, to assure her that we have everything under control. "Just¡ calling to keep you in the loop," I say, choosing my words carefully. "I was hoping you and Playback could keep your ears to the ground, see if you pick up anything we might have missed."
"We''re already doing that," she says, a hint of irritation creeping into her tone. "You don''t have to ask us to do our jobs."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Alright, noted. But I was also¡ you know¡" I trail off, unsure of how to phrase it.
There''s a heavy silence on the other end, fraught with unspoken meaning. Finally, Akilah sighs.
"You were checking in," she says, her voice softening ever so slightly. "Making sure we''re still breathing."
I nod, then remember she can''t see me. "Something like that," I mumble, feeling my cheeks heat up.
To my surprise, she chuckles. "I get it, Sam. You''re allowed to be concerned about Playback."
I blink a couple of times and then feel a scowl forming itself against my will. "I''m concerned about you."
"Sure thing, kid," she says, clearly humoring me. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off.
"Look, I appreciate you looking out for us. Really. But we can handle ourselves." There''s a pause, and then she adds, almost as an afterthought, "We''re not exactly teenagers anymore."
I bristle again at the implication. "What''s that supposed to mean?"
"Just what it sounds like," she says, her voice gaining an edge. "The whole superhero gig¡ it''s great when you''re a kid, you know? Playing cops and robbers, fighting bad guys, saving the day. But eventually, you have to grow up."
I feel my jaw clench involuntarily. "Is that what you think we''re doing? Playing as cops?"
"Not at all," she says, backtracking slightly. "I know you take this seriously. Too seriously, sometimes. But there comes a point where you have to ask yourself - is this really what you want to be doing for the rest of your life?"
I don''t respond, not immediately.
"That''s why I left, you know," she continues when I don''t respond. "The whole Registered Superhuman Entity thing, jumping through government hoops, playing by their rules¡ it just wasn''t for me anymore."
"You left because you didn''t want to play by the rules?" I ask, unable to keep the skepticism out of my voice. "I thought it was because of the personality disorder."
She laughs, a short, sharp sound. "I prefer to think of it as taking my destiny into my own hands. No more bureaucracy, no more red tape. Just me, doing what needs to be done."
"Sounds dangerous," I say quietly.
"It is," she agrees, her tone sobering. "But so is everything we do. At least this way, I''m calling my own shots."
I nod slowly, considering her words. Part of me envies her certainty, her conviction. But another part of me wonders if she''s just running from her responsibilities.
"So, what?" I ask finally. "You''re just going to ditch the whole ''Puppeteer'' thing? Start over with a new identity?"
"Something like that," she confirms. "I was thinking of going by ''Marionette'' instead. Seemed fitting."
I snort before I can stop myself. "Little on the nose, don''t you think?"
"Maybe," she concedes. "But at least it''s honest. No more pretending to be something I''m not."
There''s a weight to her words that I can''t quite put my finger on. A weariness, a sense of resignation. It makes me inexplicably sad.
"We all have to grow up sometime," She says, quietly.
I find myself humming in agreement. "Yeah. I guess we do."
We lapse into silence, the crackling of the line the only sound between us. It stays that way for a couple of uncomfortable minutes, neither one of us hanging up.
Finally, Akilah speaks again. "Listen, I gotta go. Got some¡ business to take care of."
I nod, even though she can''t see me. "Okay. Just¡ be careful, okay?"
She snorts. "Always am. You too, kid. Don''t do anything I wouldn''t do."
I can''t help but laugh at that. "That doesn''t exactly narrow it down."
"Exactly," she says, and I can hear the grin in her voice. "Take care of yourself, Sam. And if you ever need anything¡"
"Yeah, I know," I reply. "Take care."
"You too," she says. The line goes dead.
Chapter 125.3
The trek to the Music Hall is a familiar one by now, my feet carrying me almost on autopilot as my mind churns over the events of the day. The weight of what we''re up against, the sheer scale of it all¡ it''s overwhelming. But I can''t let it paralyze me. Can''t let it stop me from doing what needs to be done.
As I round the corner into the alley behind the Hall, I''m surprised to see Maggie already there, going through some kind of stretching routine next to the dumpsters. Tasha''s there too, perched on a milk crate, her nose buried in what looks like an anatomy textbook. They both look up as I approach, Maggie waving cheerfully.
"Hey Sam! You''re just in time for training," she calls out, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I was just warming up."
"I can see that," I say, eyeing the small patch of dirt she''s claimed as her personal gym. "Very professional setup you''ve got here."
She grins, unabashed. "Hey, you work with what you''ve got, right? Not all of us have access to fancy DVD training facilities."
"Fair enough," I concede, dropping my bag next to Tasha''s impromptu study corner. "What''s with the sudden interest in anatomy?" I ask her, nodding at the book in her hands.
Tasha marks her page and sets the book aside, shrugging. "Figured if I''m going to be patching you guys up all the time, I might as well know what I''m doing. Plus, you know, med school someday."
I nod, impressed. "Smart. Maybe you can give me some pointers on how to avoid getting shot in the first place."
"Step one: Don''t get shot," she deadpans.
"Wow, thanks. Super helpful."
Maggie giggles, then claps her hands together. "Okay, enough chit-chat. Let''s get to work! What''s on the training agenda for today, sensei?"
I raise an eyebrow at the "sensei" bit but let it slide. "I thought we could work on some judo today. Figured it''d be good for us tiny girls to know how to throw around people bigger than us."
"Oooh, fun!" Maggie says, bouncing again. "Where do we start?"
"Well, I thought we''d go over some basic stances and how to fall without hurting yourself. Then maybe move on to some simple throws and holds. Sound good?"
"Sounds great!"
"There are all sorts of additional things you''ll want to avoid, if you grapple frequently," Tasha chimes in. "Joint hyperextensions primarily, but also compressive injuries."
"See, this is why we keep her around," I say to Maggie in a stage whisper. "She''s like our own personal WebDoctor."
Tasha rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile as she picks her book back up.
The next hour or so passes in a blur of sweat, laughter, and the occasional yelp of pain as Maggie and I work our way through the basics of judo. It''s awkward at first, both of us self-conscious and unsure. But as we settle into a rhythm, the movements start to feel more natural, the throws more fluid. It''s almost meditative, in a way. A chance to focus on something physical and immediate, to let the rest of the world fall away for a little while.
During our first water break, Maggie flops down next to Tasha, panting. "So," she says between gulps of water. "How''d the big meeting with the DVDs go? Did they freak out about the whole undercover mission thing?"
I shrug, taking a swig from my own bottle. "Some of them did. Clara, mostly. Bulwark too, but for different reasons."
Maggie frowns. "What reasons?"
I sigh, trying to find the right words. "Bulwark''s¡ he''s got a very black and white view of things. Bad guys are bad, good guys are good, and there''s no in between. He thinks we should just storm in and take down the Kingdom, consequences be damned."
"But we can''t do that, right?" Maggie asks, looking worried. "I mean, we don''t even know what they''re planning."
"Exactly," I say, nodding. "Which is what Davis and Crossroads were trying to get through to him. We need more info before we can make a move."
Tasha looks up from her book, her expression pensive. "Clara''s not wrong though, about the legal side of things. If any of this gets out, if Richardson has a way to legally retaliate¡ it could get messy fast."
I frown, not liking the sound of that. "Messy how?"
Tasha shrugs. "Obstruction of justice, for one. Vigilantism. Maybe even treason, if they can spin it right."
"Treason?" Maggie echoes, her eyes wide.
"I mean, probably not," Tasha says quickly. "But my point is, we''re operating in a real grey area here. Legally speaking."
I nod slowly, chewing on that. It''s not like I haven''t considered the legal ramifications of what we do. I just don''t like hearing it out loud.
"Well," I say finally, standing up and brushing the dirt off my pants. "I guess we''ll just have to be extra careful then. No one finds out, no one gets in trouble. Simple as that."
Maggie and Tasha exchange a look, but neither of them argue.
We get back to training after that, moving on to some basic throws and holds. I demonstrate the moves first, walking Maggie through each step. Then it''s her turn to try, with me acting as her practice dummy. It''s a strange feeling, being on the receiving end of these techniques. Even though I know Maggie''s not going to hurt me, there''s still a moment of instinctive panic as I feel my balance tip, my feet leave the ground. But I force it down, letting my body go loose and flowing with the motion. After a few reps, Maggie starts to get the hang of it, her moves becoming smoother, more confident.
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As we work, we fall into an easy conversation, our words punctuated by the slap of hands on fabric, the thud of bodies hitting the mat.
"So," Maggie says, her face scrunched in concentration as she tries to replicate a particular throw. "What do you think is going to happen with Richardson? Now that she''s on the City Council¡"
I grunt as I hit the mat, then roll to my feet. "Honestly? I don''t know. But whatever it is, it won''t be good."
Maggie nods, wiping sweat from her brow. "Have you noticed all the extra police around lately? Especially in my neighborhood?"
I frown, thinking back. Now that she mentions it, I have seen more cop cars patrolling the streets, more officers walking the beat. "Yeah, actually. I figured it was just because of the election."
Maggie shakes her head. "I don''t think so. I heard my dad talking about it the other night. Apparently crime''s been way up, especially in the poorer parts of town. Lots of Jump-related stuff."
"I''ve heard stories," Tasha chimes in, looking up from her book again. "From my parents, mostly. Apparently some neighborhoods are getting really bad. Like, warzone bad. Hasn''t hit our suburbs yet, mostly Northwest. Maybe it would be worthwhile to go do some charity¡"
My stomach twists at that. Warzone. In our city. It seems unthinkable. But then again, a lot of things have seemed unthinkable lately. And yet here we are.
"G-d," I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. "Okay, well¡ I guess that''s one more thing to look into."
"You think the Kingdom''s involved?" Maggie asks, her eyebrows raised.
"I think at this point, it''d be weirder if they weren''t involved somehow," I say grimly.
There''s a moment of heavy silence as we all digest that. Then Maggie claps her hands together, forcing a bright smile. "Okay, enough doom and gloom. What''s next on the training agenda, boss?"
I push aside thoughts of drugs and crime and shadowy conspiracies, forcing myself to focus on the here and now. "Right. I thought we could try incorporating your powers into some of these moves. See how we can use them to our advantage in a fight."
Maggie''s eyes light up at that. "Ooh, yes please! I''ve been dying to try out some new tricks."
The next chunk of time flies by as Maggie and I workshop different ways to combine judo with her repulsion fields. It''s equal parts frustrating and exhilarating, the two of us getting creative as we problem-solve on the fly. At one point, Maggie tries using her fields to enhance a throw, only to send me flying halfway across the alley. We both freeze for a second, wide-eyed, before bursting into hysterical laughter.
"Holy crap," Maggie gasps out between giggles. "Are you okay? I''m so sorry!"
I pick myself up off the ground, still chuckling as I dust myself off. "I''m fine, I''m fine. But maybe dial it back a notch next time, yeah? At least until we''ve got a bit more control."
"Yeah, good call," Maggie says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
"While we''re on the subject, though," I say, turning a bit more serious. "We should probably have a talk about power use in combat. Specifically, how much force is appropriate to use and when."
Maggie sobers up at that, nodding slowly. "Right. Because we don''t want to accidentally really hurt somebody. Or¡ or worse."
My stomach twists in a way that I can''t tell if it''s good or bad or not. It just twists. Like a wrung towel.
"I just keep thinking," Maggie says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "About how easy it would be to just¡ to squeeze someone''s head. With my fields. Like a grape."
I find my lips curling upwards but force them down. "Don''t do that," I say, just loud enough to be heard.
"I know," she says quickly, shaking her head as if to dislodge the thought.
"You are not your powers," I tell her, my voice firm but gentle. "You are in control. You decide what to do with them, not the other way around."
We take a break after that, all of us needing a moment to decompress. Maggie flops down next to Tasha, stretching out her legs with a groan.
"Ugh, I am going to be so sore tomorrow," she complains, flexing her fingers. "How do you do this every day?"
I shrug, plopping down on her other side. "You get used to it. And also, lots of ibuprofen."
Tasha snorts at that, marking her page and setting her book aside. "You know, as your unofficial team medic, I feel like I should probably discourage the rampant use of over-the-counter painkillers."
I wave a hand dismissively. "Noted and ignored. My body, my choice."
She rolls her eyes, but I can see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Then Maggie sighs, picking at a loose thread on her sweatpants.
"I don''t know how much longer I can keep doing this," she says quietly, not looking at either of us. "The whole ''secret hero'' thing. It''s starting to affect my school work, my relationships¡ everything."
I nod, understanding completely. It''s a balancing act, one that I struggle with every damn day. How to be a hero and a student and a daughter and a friend, all at the same time. How to save the world without letting your own life fall apart in the process.
"I get it," I say, just as quietly. "Believe me, I do. But Maggie¡ what we''re doing here, it''s important. It matters."
"I know," she says, her voice small. "I do, I just¡ I don''t want to disappoint anyone. My parents, my teachers¡ you guys."
"You could never disappoint us," Tasha says firmly, reaching over to squeeze Maggie''s knee. "We''re a team, remember? We''ve got your back, no matter what."
Maggie gives her a grateful smile, but I can still see the worry in her eyes.
"And hey, if it makes you feel any better, you''re not the only one struggling," I offer, bumping her shoulder with mine. "My parents are constantly on my case these days. ''Where are you going, what are you doing, why are you coming home covered in bruises all the time?''."
"Oh god, same," Tasha groans, tipping her head back. "Except mine think I''m out doing God-knows-what with my ''troubled friend Kate''."
My stomach clenches at the mention of Kate. I''ve been trying not to think about her too much, about the vicious, desperate way she came at me during our last fight. I push the thought away, focusing back on the conversation at hand. "Yeah, well. I think my parents have kind of accepted at this point that they can''t stop me from doing this. Doesn''t mean they''re thrilled about it, but¡"
"But they get it?" Maggie suggests, glancing at me.
I nod, breathing out a heavy sigh. "Yeah. Or at least, they''re trying to."
We lapse back into silence after that, each of us turning over our own anxieties and frustrations. The secret life of a teenage superhero, I think wryly. It''s not all glamour and glory, that''s for damn sure.
After a few more minutes, I haul myself to my feet, groaning as my muscles protest. "Alright, break time''s over. Let''s run through a few cool-down stretches and call it a day."
Maggie and Tasha follow suit, and soon we''re all in a loose circle, moving through a series of gentle stretches. As we do, I can''t help but let my mind wander back to the meeting with the DVDs, to the daunting task ahead of us. Taking on the Kingdom, trying to unravel their plans¡ it''s going to take all of us working together, pooling our resources and knowledge.
And probably more gunshots. Let''s be honest with ourselves.
We toss around a few more ideas as we finish up our stretches, bouncing thoughts off each other and refining our plan of action. By the time we''re done, I''m feeling marginally better about our chances. Still daunted, still scared shitless if I''m being honest. But less alone in it all.
As we gather up our things to head our separate ways, Maggie pauses, looking at me with a serious expression.
"Hey Sam? Thank you. For today, for¡ for everything. I know I can be a bit of a mess sometimes, but¡ I''m really glad you''re my friend."
I feel a warm glow in my chest at her words, a rush of affection for this brave, kind-hearted girl. "I''m really glad you''re my friend too, Mags."
WORLD OF CHUM: Psionics (1)
The Psychron Puzzle: Are We on the Verge of Understanding Superhuman Powers?
By Jenna Roth, Special Contributor to Metascience Quarterly
In the nearly five decades since superhuman abilities began manifesting across the world, one question has haunted scientists, philosophers, and metahumans alike: How do these powers work? While we¡¯ve made incredible strides in understanding the biology and physiology of superhumans (thanks to the burgeoning field of Dynology), the underlying mechanisms behind psychic or psionic abilities¡ªthose abilities that defy the mind-body separation¡ªremain as mysterious as ever.
At the heart of the debate is the elusive psychronic particle¡ªsometimes referred to as the "psychron"¡ªa hypothetical entity that, if proven to exist, could unlock the secrets of telekinesis, telepathy-like abilities, precognition, and other anomalous sensory phenomena. But the psychron, like gravity waves before it, has remained stubbornly theoretical, leading to a schism in the scientific community.
Is it a particle? A field? A wave? Something else entirely? Theories abound, but consensus? Not so much. Let¡¯s take a closer look at the different camps and their respective claims about what drives the anomalous cognitive powers that have captivated and baffled the world.
The Psychron Particle Theory
First proposed in the late 1980s by Dr. Julian Feiner, the psychron particle was initially hypothesized to explain the way certain metahumans seem to influence objects, people, or events without any apparent physical force. According to Feiner¡¯s theory, psychrons behave similarly to the well-known particles of quantum mechanics¡ªelectrons, photons, and gluons¡ªexcept they interact with consciousness itself.
The central claim of Psychron Theory is that psionic abilities (like telekinesis or clairvoyance) stem from the interaction of psychrons with both the brain and the external world. These particles, in theory, mediate the transfer of intent from the brain to physical objects, allowing metahumans to move objects or ¡°read¡± the nervous systems of others. Psychrons, if proven to exist, would represent a fifth fundamental force (in addition to gravity, electromagnetism, and the strong and weak nuclear forces) capable of acting over small or large distances depending on the individual¡¯s proficiency.
Current Status of Psychron Research
Unfortunately for the proponents of Psychron Theory, there is no direct experimental evidence yet for the existence of psychrons, despite numerous attempts. High-energy particle accelerators, like the ones used to confirm the existence of the Higgs boson, have so far failed to detect any sign of psychrons.
However, there are tantalizing hints in the behavior of some superhumans that support this theory. For instance, telekinetics have been shown to exert force on objects without any detectable energy transfer in the form of heat, sound, or electromagnetism. Psychron advocates argue that this is because the transfer occurs via psychrons, a kind of mental particle exchange between brainwaves and matter.
Dr. Feiner himself, now a Professor Emeritus at Stanford University, remains optimistic: ¡°I believe it¡¯s only a matter of time. Just as the quantum revolution took years to fully unfold, so too will the psychron be found.¡±
The Psionic Field Hypothesis
If there¡¯s one theory that¡¯s gained considerable traction in recent years, it¡¯s the Psionic Field Hypothesis, which proposes that psychic abilities are not mediated by particles at all but rather by an invisible field¡ªsimilar to the Higgs Field¡ªthat permeates the universe and interacts with consciousness. Sometimes referred to as the "Psi Field" or the "Consciousness Field", this theory draws parallels between the mind¡¯s interaction with this field and the way mass interacts with the Higgs Field.
The Psi Field is thought to be a non-physical energy field that allows the mind to interact directly with reality. Proponents argue that consciousness is not an emergent property of brain activity but is instead a fundamental force in the universe, just like gravity or electromagnetism. They theorize that the mind taps into this field, much like a radio receiving signals, and can influence physical objects or read the minds of others by altering local field strengths.
Support and Criticism
The Psionic Field Hypothesis is attractive because it provides a unified explanation for a wide variety of powers, from telekinesis to precognition, suggesting that the brain is merely a conduit for a larger, universal force. Supporters argue that this field may be what binds the fabric of space-time together and could explain quantum anomalies such as non-locality (the phenomenon where particles seem to instantaneously influence each other across great distances).
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Critics, however, argue that the Psionic Field undermines much of established neuroscience, and some skeptics have pointed out that the field¡¯s existence would imply that consciousness is non-local¡ªwhich has deep and troubling implications for our understanding of free will, individuality, and even the concept of the self. If consciousness is everywhere, is it really ours?
Moreover, many physicists dismiss the Psi Field Hypothesis as unfalsifiable. Since no current technology can detect or interact with this supposed field, it becomes difficult, if not impossible, to test the theory.
Quantum Psychophysics
For those who find both psychrons and fields lacking, there¡¯s the emerging field of Quantum Psychophysics, which blends quantum mechanics with the study of consciousness. This theory suggests that quantum processes in the brain¡ªspecifically at the level of microtubules (tiny structures within neurons)¡ªmight allow the brain to interact with quantum phenomena, enabling superhuman cognitive powers.
The key idea here is that the brain doesn¡¯t just operate on traditional biochemical processes but also quantum processes that can affect probability at a fundamental level. Precognition¡ªthe ability to perceive future events¡ªcould be explained by the brain accessing quantum superpositions, where multiple possible futures exist simultaneously. The brain could "collapse" these probabilities to see into future outcomes.
Debates and Controversies
This idea has sparked intense debate, as quantum mechanics is notoriously weird and difficult to reconcile with the macroscopic world we live in. Critics argue that quantum effects are too delicate to survive in the noisy, warm environment of the human brain, where classical processes dominate.
Proponents, however, point to the fact that quantum biology is already a growing field. For instance, quantum effects have been observed in photosynthesis and avian navigation. Could the brain also be harnessing quantum mechanics in ways we don¡¯t yet understand?
Psionic Waves: A Bridge Between Classical and Quantum?
Another theory emerging in the margins is the idea of Psionic Waves, which suggest that psionic phenomena might be wave-based rather than particle- or field-based. Much like electromagnetic waves, these psionic waves could travel through space-time and interact with the brain to produce psychic effects.
Unlike the Psionic Field Hypothesis, which posits a static field, Psionic Waves would be dynamic, flowing across space and potentially subject to interference, resonance, or amplification¡ªjust like sound waves or radio waves. This would explain why certain environments (such as areas with high electromagnetic activity) seem to enhance or inhibit powers.
Testing the Hypothesis
Researchers have begun experimenting with high-sensitivity wave detectors to see if psionic phenomena produce detectable wave signatures in the environment. So far, the results have been inconclusive, but the promise of detecting psionic waves is enough to keep the research alive. If proven, Psionic Wave Theory could revolutionize our understanding of both superpowers and consciousness, providing a common framework for understanding many seemingly disparate phenomena.
The Consciousness-Centric Hypothesis (CCH)
Finally, we arrive at the most philosophical of the theories: the Consciousness-Centric Hypothesis (CCH). This radical theory proposes that consciousness itself is the primary force in the universe, and that all physical reality is emergent from conscious thought. In this view, superhuman abilities are not some anomalous quirk of physics, but rather a natural consequence of certain individuals tapping into the true nature of reality¡ªwhere thought shapes matter, and the distinction between the mental and physical is an illusion.
Why It¡¯s Controversial
CCH has been roundly criticized by physicists and philosophers alike for being too metaphysical, bordering on the realm of spiritual mysticism. Yet, it has garnered a surprising amount of support among metahumans with cognitive powers, who often describe their abilities as an extension of their will or intent.
Some proponents of CCH even argue that the very act of trying to "explain" superpowers through traditional science is misguided. In their view, the scientific community needs to embrace a post-materialist paradigm that views consciousness as the foundation of all reality.
Where Does This Leave Us?
So, where does the science stand? Despite decades of research and experimentation, the mechanisms behind psychic and psionic abilities remain stubbornly elusive. The various theories¡ªpsychronic particles, psionic fields, quantum psychophysics, and psionic waves¡ªall have their merits, but none have yet emerged as the dominant explanation.
As one senior researcher at the Institute for Advanced Dynology put it, ¡°We¡¯re at the point in the field where quantum mechanics was in the early 20th century. We know something is there, but we can¡¯t quite pin it down. Eventually, though, we¡¯ll get the breakthrough we need.¡±
Until then, the mysteries of psychic powers¡ªand the elusive psychron¡ªremain tantalizingly out of reach.
Jenna Roth is a science writer who covers cutting-edge developments in Dynology, metahuman research, and speculative science.
Chapter 126.1
The Philadelphia Zoo in mid-November is a different beast than the one I remember from childhood field trips. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the promise of snow. Most of the trees are bare now, their branches reaching up like skeletal fingers against the pale gray sky. It''s quiet, too. The usual cacophony of excited kids and harried parents is replaced by a sort of hushed anticipation, like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for winter to truly set in.
Tasha and I make our way through the entrance, flashing our tickets to the bored-looking attendant. I can''t help but notice the increased police presence - there''s an officer stationed near the ticket booth, another patrolling near the gift shop. It''s subtle, but it''s there.
"So," Tasha says as we start down the main path, her breath puffing out in little clouds. "Where do you want to start? Primates? Big cats? Creepy crawlies?"
I shrug, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets. "Honestly? I''m not really an animal person. This is more your territory."
Tasha''s eyes light up at that, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Oh, excellent. Then you won''t mind if we start with the invertebrates exhibit?"
I groan internally but force a smile. "Sure, why not? Lead the way, bug girl."
As we make our way towards the invertebrate house, I can''t help but scan our surroundings, looking for anything out of place. It''s become a habit lately, this constant vigilance. Every shadow could be hiding a Kingdom operative, every stranger a potential threat.
"You know," Tasha says, interrupting my paranoid musings, "the Philadelphia Zoo was actually the first true zoo in the United States. Opened in 1874."
"Huh," I say, mildly interested despite myself. "That''s pretty cool, I guess. How''d you know that?"
She shrugs, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "I may have done some research before we came. Wanted to be prepared, you know?"
I can''t help but smile at that. Classic Tasha, always doing her homework. "Well, consider me impressed. Any other fun facts you want to share?"
"Oh, tons," she says, her eyes sparkling. "Did you know that the zoo has over 1,300 animals? Or that they have one of the most successful breeding programs for endangered species in the country?"
"I did not know that," I admit. "But now I''m wondering why a criminal organization would be interested in a place like this. I mean, sure, there are probably some valuable animals here, but it''s not exactly Fort Knox, you know?"
Tasha nods, her expression turning thoughtful. "That''s what I''ve been trying to figure out. Maybe it''s not about the animals themselves, but something else. The research they do here, maybe? Or the facilities?"
We reach the invertebrate house, and Tasha''s face lights up like a kid on Hanukkah morning. She practically drags me inside, chattering excitedly about the different species we''re about to see. Her... infatuation with bugs isn''t exactly unknown to me but that doesn''t mean I have to enjoy it. I''m not exactly a huge bug fan myself.
The first display we come to is filled with what looks like a bunch of leaves. I''m about to move on when Tasha grabs my arm, pointing excitedly.
"Look! Leaf insects! Aren''t they amazing?"
I squint, and suddenly the "leaves" come into focus. They''re insects alright, their bodies perfectly mimicking the shape and color of leaves. It''s honestly kind of creepy.
"That''s... something," I manage, trying to sound impressed.
Tasha either doesn''t notice my lack of enthusiasm or chooses to ignore it. She''s already moving on to the next display, this one filled with what looks like a tangle of branches. But as I watch, I realize the branches are moving.
"Walking sticks," Tasha explains, her nose practically pressed to the glass. "They''re masters of camouflage. Some species can even change color to match their surroundings."
As we move through the exhibit, Tasha keeps up a running commentary on each creature we see. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself getting drawn in despite my initial reluctance. There''s something fascinating about these tiny, alien-looking creatures, each perfectly adapted to its own niche in the world.
We stop at a display of giant centipedes, their segmented bodies undulating in a way that makes my skin crawl. Tasha, of course, is enthralled.
"Did you know that centipedes are venomous?" she says, her eyes wide with excitement. "They use modified legs called forcipules to inject venom into their prey."
"Charming," I mutter, taking an involuntary step back from the display. "Remind me again why you like these things?"
Tasha laughs, finally tearing her gaze away from the centipedes. "They''re just so incredibly well-designed, you know? Every part of them serves a purpose. It''s like... nature''s perfect little killing machines."
I raise an eyebrow at that. "Careful there, Tash. You''re starting to sound like a supervillain."
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She rolls her eyes, but I can see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Please. If I were a supervillain, I''d have way cooler minions than centipedes."
"Oh yeah? Like what?"
She taps her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. Maybe an army of highly trained honey badgers. Or venomous platypuses."
I snort, picturing an army of angry platypuses waddling into battle. "Okay, I''ll give you points for creativity. But I think I''ll stick with my shark powers, thanks."
As we exit the invertebrate house, blinking in the sudden brightness, I notice another police officer walking by. He nods at us as he passes, his eyes scanning the area with practiced efficiency.
"Is it just me," I mutter to Tasha, "or are there more cops here than usual?"
She nods, her expression turning serious. "I noticed that too. Guess the DVDs are taking our intel seriously."
We start walking again, heading towards the big cat exhibits. The path is lined with bare trees, their branches casting intricate shadows on the ground. It''s beautiful, in a stark, wintry sort of way.
"So," Tasha says after a moment of companionable silence, "how are things going with you and Maggie?"
I blink, caught off guard by the sudden change of topic. "Uh, fine? I mean, we''re friends. We train together. Why?"
Tasha gives me a look that I can''t quite decipher. "Just curious. You two seem to be spending a lot of time together lately."
"Well, yeah," I say, feeling strangely defensive. "She''s part of the team. And she needs training. What''s your point?"
Tasha holds up her hands in a placating gesture. "No point. Just making an observation. You seem... happier when she''s around, that''s all."
I feel a flush creeping up my neck and force it down. "She''s a good friend. And a good teammate. That''s all there is to it."
"Uh-huh," Tasha says, sounding unconvinced. "Whatever you say, Sam."
We reach the big cat enclosure, and I''m grateful for the distraction. The first exhibit we come to houses a pair of snow leopards, their thick fur gleaming in the weak sunlight. They''re lounging on a rocky outcropping, looking supremely unbothered by the chilly weather.
"Now these," I say, gesturing to the leopards, "I can appreciate. Look at how chill they are. That''s the kind of energy I aspire to."
Tasha laughs, shaking her head. "Of course you''d identify with the apex predators. Why am I not surprised?"
We make our way around the big cat loop, stopping to admire the lions, tigers, and jaguars. Each animal is impressive in its own way, but there''s something about the snow leopards that keeps drawing my eye. Maybe it''s their quiet grace, or the way they seem so perfectly adapted to their environment.
As we''re watching a pair of Amur tigers pace back and forth in their enclosure, a thought occurs to me.
"Hey, Tash? You don''t think the Kingdom could be after any of these animals, do you? Like, for some kind of weird power experiment or something?"
Tasha frowns, considering the idea. "It''s possible, I guess. But it seems like a lot of trouble to go through. There are probably easier ways to get exotic animals if that''s what they''re after."
I nod, not entirely convinced but willing to let it go for now. We continue our loop, eventually ending up back at the snow leopard enclosure. As we watch, one of the leopards stretches languidly, then leaps down from its perch with impossible grace. It pads over to a small pool of water, lapping at it delicately.
"You know," Tasha says, her voice quiet, "snow leopards are considered vulnerable to extinction. There are only about 4,000 left in the wild."
I feel a pang of sadness at that. "That''s... really depressing, actually. Why are there so few?"
"Lots of reasons," Tasha says, her eyes still fixed on the leopard. "Habitat loss, climate change, poaching. They''re incredibly adaptable animals, but they can only handle so much."
We stand there in silence for a while, watching the leopards go about their day. It''s peaceful, in a way that I haven''t experienced in a long time. For a moment, I can almost forget about the Kingdom, about the weight of responsibility on our shoulders. It''s just me and Tasha, watching these beautiful creatures exist.
Eventually, we tear ourselves away from the big cats and start wandering towards the primate exhibits. As we walk, Tasha pulls out a granola bar from her bag, offering me half.
"Thanks," I say, taking the offered snack. "I''m starving."
"Well, we have been walking around for a couple of hours," Tasha points out. "Want to grab lunch after we check out the primates?"
I nod, my stomach growling in agreement. "Sounds good to me. As long as it''s not bug-themed."
Tasha laughs, elbowing me gently. "Don''t worry, I''ll save the entomophagy lecture for another day."
As we approach the primate area, I can''t help but notice the increased noise level. There''s a group of kids on what looks like a field trip, all clustered around the gorilla exhibit. Their excited chatter fills the air, a stark contrast to the quiet we''ve been experiencing for most of the morning.
We hang back, waiting for the crowd to thin out a bit before approaching the enclosure. The gorillas inside seem largely unbothered by all the attention, going about their business with an air of quiet dignity.
"You know," Tasha says, her voice pitched low so as not to disturb the animals, "gorillas are actually incredibly intelligent. They can learn sign language, use tools, and even understand complex emotions like empathy."
I nod, watching as one of the gorillas carefully peels a banana. "They seem so... human-like. It''s kind of unsettling, honestly."
"That''s because we''re more closely related to them than you might think," Tasha explains. "We share about 98% of our DNA with gorillas. They''re our closest living relatives after chimpanzees and bonobos."
As we watch, one of the younger gorillas approaches the glass, studying us with curious eyes. I find myself holding my breath, struck by the intelligence in its gaze. For a moment, it feels like we''re looking at each other as equals, two sentient beings trying to understand one another across an impossible divide.
Then the moment passes, and the gorilla loses interest, wandering back to join its family group. I let out a breath I didn''t realize I was holding, feeling strangely shaken.
"You okay?" Tasha asks, giving me a concerned look.
I nod, trying to shake off the weird feeling. "Yeah, I''m fine. Just... that was intense, you know?"
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Yeah, I know what you mean. It''s like looking in a mirror sometimes, isn''t it? Seeing how similar we are to them."
We move on to the other primate exhibits, checking out the various monkeys and apes. Each species is fascinating in its own way, from the acrobatic gibbons to the colorful mandrills. But none of them quite match the intensity of that moment with the gorilla.
As we''re leaving the primate area, I spot another police officer making his rounds. He catches my eye and nods, his hand resting casually on his belt. I nod back, trying to look as innocent and un-suspicious as possible.
"So," I say to Tasha once we''re out of earshot, "any theories on what the Kingdom might want with a zoo? Because I''m coming up blank here."
Tasha shrugs, looking as puzzled as I feel. "Honestly? I have no idea. Nothing we''ve seen so far seems particularly valuable or dangerous. Unless they''re planning some kind of mass animal breakout, which seems... unlikely."
I snort at the mental image of Mrs. Xenograft leading an army of escaped zoo animals through the streets of Philadelphia. "Yeah, I don''t think that''s their style. Too chaotic, not enough profit."
Chapter 126.2
We fall into thoughtful silence as we make our way towards the zoo''s central plaza, where most of the food vendors are located. The smell of grilled food and popcorn fills the air, making my stomach growl audibly.
"Okay," Tasha says, laughing at the sound. "I think that''s our cue to take a lunch break. What are you in the mood for?"
I scan the various food stands, considering our options. There''s the usual array of fast food and snacks - hot dogs, burgers, pizza slices. But there''s also a few healthier options, including a salad bar and a stand selling wraps and smoothies.
"How about we split a pizza?" I suggest, eyeing the line at the pizza stand. "I''m in the mood for something greasy and terrible for me."
Tasha grins, nodding in agreement. "Sounds perfect. I''ll grab us a table while you order?"
I nod, and we split up. As I wait in line for our food, I find my mind wandering back to our conversation about the Kingdom. What could they possibly want with the zoo? Are we missing something obvious, or is this just another dead end?
By the time I reach the front of the line, I''m no closer to an answer. I order a large pepperoni pizza and two sodas, then make my way over to where Tasha has claimed a table near the center of the plaza.
"So," I say as I set down our food, "any brilliant insights while I was gone?"
Tasha shakes her head, reaching for a slice of pizza. "Nope. Still as stumped as before. Maybe we''re overthinking this. Maybe the zoo was just a random location they picked to throw us off the scent."
I frown, considering the possibility. "Maybe. But that doesn''t feel right, you know? The Kingdom doesn''t strike me as the type to do things randomly."
We eat in silence for a few minutes, both lost in thought. The pizza is greasy and delicious, exactly what I needed after a morning of walking around. As I''m starting on my second slice, a thought occurs to me.
"Hey, what if it''s not about the animals at all?" I say, my mouth still half-full of pizza. "What if it''s about the land the zoo is on? Or the buildings?"
Tasha raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Go on."
I swallow my bite, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "Well, think about it. The zoo takes up a huge chunk of prime real estate in the city. What if the Kingdom is planning some kind of development project? Or maybe they want to use the zoo as a front for something else entirely?"
Tasha nods slowly, her eyes lighting up with understanding. "That¡ actually makes a lot of sense. The zoo would be perfect cover for all sorts of illegal activities. Lots of foot traffic to hide suspicious movements, plenty of storage space, a legitimate reason for strange deliveries¡"
"Exactly," I say, feeling a spark of excitement. "And with Richardson on the City Council now, they might have the political clout to push through whatever changes they need."
We look at each other, the same realization dawning on both our faces. This could be it. This could be the breakthrough we''ve been looking for.
"We need to tell the others," Tasha says, already reaching for her phone. "This could be huge."
I nod, feeling a mix of excitement and dread. If we''re right about this, it means we''re one step closer to figuring out the Kingdom''s plan. But it also means we''re in for one hell of a fight.
As Tasha starts texting the team, I lean back in my chair, surveying the plaza. Families and couples are scattered around, enjoying their lunch, completely oblivious to the potential danger lurking just beneath the surface of their peaceful day at the zoo.
I catch sight of another police officer making his rounds, and for once, I''m grateful for the increased security. We''re going to need all the help we can get if we''re going to take on the Kingdom.
After we finish our pizza, Tasha and I decide to explore the rest of the zoo. We''ve still got a good chunk of the afternoon left, and who knows? Maybe we''ll stumble across something else that could be useful. Plus, I''m kind of curious to see what other weird animals Tasha''s going to geek out over.
We make our way towards the reptile house, Tasha practically bouncing with excitement. "Oh man, you''re going to love this," she says, grinning. "They''ve got some really cool snakes in here."
I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. "Cool snakes? Isn''t that kind of an oxymoron?"
She rolls her eyes, nudging me with her elbow. "Come on, give them a chance. Snakes are fascinating creatures. Did you know that some species can go months without eating?"
"Huh," I say, mildly impressed despite myself. "That''s actually pretty cool. How do they do that?"
And just like that, Tasha''s off, launching into an enthusiastic explanation of snake metabolism and hunting behaviors. I listen with half an ear as we enter the reptile house, the air inside noticeably warmer and more humid than outside.
The first display we come to houses a massive python, coiled around a thick branch. Its scales shimmer in the dim light, creating a hypnotic pattern of browns and golds. I find myself leaning in closer, fascinated despite my usual aversion to snakes.
"That''s a reticulated python," Tasha says, her voice hushed with awe. "They''re the longest snakes in the world. This one''s probably about 15 feet long, but they can grow up to 30 feet in the wild."
"Jesus," I mutter, trying to imagine a snake twice as long as this one. "Remind me never to go to wherever they live in the wild."
Tasha chuckles. "They''re native to Southeast Asia. But don''t worry, they''re not usually aggressive towards humans unless provoked."
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We move on to the next display, this one housing a collection of colorful poison dart frogs. Their bright colors are a stark contrast to the muted tones of the python, almost painfully vivid in the dim light.
"These little guys are some of the most toxic animals on the planet," Tasha explains, her eyes wide with excitement. "Just one of them contains enough poison to kill ten grown men."
I take an involuntary step back from the display. "Okay, that''s terrifying. Why would anyone want to keep something that dangerous?"
Tasha shrugs. "They''re important for medical research. A lot of their toxins have potential pharmaceutical applications. Plus, they''re not dangerous in captivity. They get their toxicity from their diet in the wild."
We continue through the reptile house, Tasha providing a running commentary on each species we encounter. I have to admit, some of them are pretty impressive. The Komodo dragon, with its prehistoric appearance and powerful build. The Gila monster, with its beaded skin and venomous bite. Even the tiny leaf-tailed gecko, nearly invisible against its backdrop of branches and leaves.
As we''re about to exit the reptile house, something catches my eye. Or rather, someone. A small, mousey woman with short dark hair and glasses, peering intently into one of the terrariums. There''s something familiar about her, but I can''t quite place it¡
Then she turns slightly, and I feel my whole body go rigid.
I grab Tasha''s arm, probably harder than necessary. "Tash," I hiss, nodding towards the woman. "Don''t move."
Tasha follows my gaze, her eyes narrowing. "What?"
I''m already moving, my body tensed for a fight. But before I can take more than a couple steps, Mrs. Xenograft turns and spots us. Her eyes narrow behind her glasses, and she holds up a hand in a clear ''stop'' gesture.
"I wouldn''t if I were you, Miss Small," she says, her voice calm and clinical. "This is a public place, after all. We wouldn''t want to cause a scene, would we?"
I freeze, caught off guard by her casual tone. Tasha comes up beside me, her presence a steadying force.
"What are you doing here?" I demand, trying to keep my voice low.
Mrs. Xenograft sighs, as if I''ve just asked a particularly stupid question. "I''m here to look at the animals, of course. That is generally what one does at a zoo, is it not?"
I blink, thrown off balance. This¡ isn''t how I expected this encounter to go. "But¡ you''re¡"
"Dr. Trinh-Norwood, thank you very much," she interrupts, her tone sharp. "And I''m here because I happen to enjoy animals. Is that so hard to believe?"
I exchange a bewildered look with Tasha. This has to be some kind of trick, right? Some elaborate ruse to¡ to what? I''m not even sure.
Dr. Trinh-Norwood - Mrs. Xenograft - whatever she wants to call herself, sighs again. "Look, I understand your suspicion. But I assure you, I''m not here on any nefarious business. I simply wanted to spend my day off appreciating some of nature''s marvels. Is that really so strange?"
"Kind of, yeah," I say, unable to keep the skepticism out of my voice. "Considering, you know, everything."
She rolls her eyes, an oddly human gesture that doesn''t quite fit with the conniving supervillain that I last met in a smoky nightclub a year ago. "Contrary to what you might believe, Miss Small, my entire life does not revolve around criminal activities. I have other interests. Passions, even."
"Like what?" Tasha asks, her curiosity apparently overriding her caution.
Dr. Trinh-Norwood''s eyes light up, and suddenly she''s off, words pouring out of her in an enthusiastic torrent. "Oh, where to begin? The intricate social structures of eusocial insects, the remarkable adaptations of deep-sea creatures, the complex symbiotic relationships in coral reefs¡ But do you know what really fascinates me? The public''s misguided perception of certain animals. Take dolphins, for example."
I blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. "Dolphins?"
"Yes, dolphins," she says, her voice taking on an edge of frustration. "Everyone thinks they''re these cute, friendly, intelligent creatures. The ''humans of the sea''. But do you know what they really are? Serial killers. Rapists. They''re violent, aggressive animals, harassing poor pufferfish to get high off their toxins, ganging up on baby sharks to beat them to death with their snouts. But because they have a permanent smile and do a few tricks, people think they''re adorable. It''s infuriating!"
I exchange another look with Tasha, both of us clearly out of our depth here. This is¡ not at all what I expected when I woke up this morning.
"That''s¡ fascinating," Tasha says carefully. "But, uh, if you don''t mind me asking¡ why are you telling us all this?"
Dr. Trinh-Norwood blinks, as if suddenly remembering who she''s talking to. "Because you seemed like you wanted to know more about animals. Is that not why you''re at the zoo?"
Tasha and I both stare at her, unsure how to even respond. "What?" Tasha asks, slow and small.
"We were more wondering why you''re here," I say, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "And what the Kingdom might want with a zoo."
Her expression shutters, the enthusiasm draining away. "Ah. I see. Well, in that case, I should probably inform you that I''m wearing a wire - inspired by recent events." She opens her sweater coat slightly, revealing a small device taped to her chest. "So you might want to be careful about what you say in public, Miss Small. Some people might take offense."
I feel my stomach drop. Shit. This complicates things.
"Is that a threat?" I ask, my voice low.
She shakes her head, looking almost¡ disappointed? "No, Miss Small. It''s a warning. For your own good. There are people involved in this who are far less¡ understanding than I am. It would be better for everyone if you simply stayed out of our way."
"And why should I believe anything you say?" I challenge, feeling my temper rising despite the warning bells going off in my head.
Dr. Trinh-Norwood sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Because, contrary to what you might believe, I have no personal vendetta against you or your little team. My involvement with the Kingdom is purely financial. A job, nothing more. If it were up to me, I''d much rather spend my time studying the fascinating intricacies of the animal kingdom than dealing with human politics and criminality."
I open my mouth to argue, but Tasha cuts in before I can. "So why do it at all? Why work for them if you don''t believe in what they''re doing?"
For a moment, Dr. Trinh-Norwood''s mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of something¡ tired. Frustrated. "Because research grants don''t pay the bills, Miss¡ I''m sorry, I don''t believe I caught your name."
"Tasha," she supplies, even after I shoot her a warning glance.
"Tasha," Dr. Trinh-Norwood nods. "The sad reality is that my work, my true passion, requires funding. Funding that is not always easy to come by through traditional channels. The Kingdom provides that funding, no questions asked. In return, I provide my expertise when required. It''s a simple transaction."
I feel my fists clench at my sides. "So you''re willing to hurt people, to help criminals, just for money?"
She looks at me, her gaze steady behind her glasses. "I''m willing to do what''s necessary to continue my work. The work that I believe will actually make a difference in this world. Not running around in costumes playing at being heroes and villains."
I feel like I''ve been slapped. "We''re not playing at anything," I spit out. "We''re trying to protect people. To make the city safer."
Dr. Trinh-Norwood''s expression softens slightly. "I know you believe that, Miss Small. But the world is not as simple as you seem to think it is. There are no clear-cut heroes and villains, no matter how much you might wish there were. There are just people, all trying to survive and pursue their passions in whatever way they can."
Before I can respond, a pair of men in dark suits appear at Dr. Trinh-Norwood''s side. They don''t look at us, keeping their attention focused solely on her.
"Dr. Trinh-Norwood," one of them says, his voice low and respectful. "Your car is ready."
She nods, then turns back to us. "Well, it seems our little chat has come to an end. It was¡ interesting, talking with you both. I do hope you''ll take my advice to heart, Miss Small. For your own sake."
And with that, she''s gone, escorted away by the two men. Tasha and I are left standing there, staring after her, both of us too stunned to speak.
Chapter 126.3
Finally, Tasha breaks the silence. "What the actual fuck just happened?"
I shake my head, still trying to process everything. "I have no idea. But I think we just got a glimpse into the mind of a supervillain, and it was¡ not what I expected."
We stand there for a moment longer, both lost in thought. Then, by unspoken agreement, we start making our way towards the exit. I think we''ve both had enough of the zoo for one day.
As we walk, I can''t stop turning Mrs. Xenograft''s - Dr. Trinh-Norwood''s - words over in my head. The way she talked about animals, with such passion and enthusiasm. The tired resignation in her voice when she explained her reasons for working with the Kingdom. The warning she gave us, not so much a threat as a plea for us to stay out of it.
It doesn''t fit with the image I had of her in my head. The cruel, calculating villain who sent hybrid monsters to attack my home. Who worked with people like Mudslide and Mrs. Heartstopper. How can that person be the same as this¡ this nerdy scientist who gets worked up about people liking dolphins too much?
"It doesn''t make sense," I mutter, more to myself than to Tasha.
She glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "What doesn''t?"
I gesture vaguely, struggling to put my thoughts into words. "Her. Mrs. Xenograft. Dr. Trinh-Norwood. Whatever she wants to call herself. How can she be¡ like that, and still work for the Kingdom? How can she just ignore all the harm they''re causing?"
Tasha is quiet for a moment, considering. "I don''t think she is ignoring it," she says finally. "I think¡ I think maybe she''s just decided that her work is more important. That the good she believes she can do through her research outweighs the bad of working with criminals."
I shake my head, frustrated. "But that''s bullshit. You can''t just¡ balance out good and bad like that. It doesn''t work that way."
"Doesn''t it?" Tasha asks, her voice gentle, prodding, like she''s testing me. "I mean, look at us¡ I mean, well, you guys, mostly. We break laws all the time in the name of being heroes. We justify it by saying we''re doing it for the greater good. How is that really any different?"
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. "It''s not the same," I say finally, but even to my own ears it sounds weak. "I have a license,"
"You and Jordan semi-regularly assault people and take their belongings. Sure, they may be drug dealers or dog fighters or murderers, and those belongings might be cocaine or blood money that you spend on candy and electronics, but you know, it''s not as black and white as we might want it to be," Tasha interrupts me. "I know that was mostly before Jump hit the streets, but you can''t pretend we''re all squeaky clean."
"You can''t either, Miss Mayfly," I find myself almost growling.
Tasha''s brow furrows. "And we were doing what we could to help you. That''s what I mean. It''s not all easy answers."
We exit the zoo in silence, both lost in our own uncomfortable thoughts and the silence of a near-argument. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the parking lot.
"Do you think she was telling the truth?" I ask suddenly. "About just being in it for the money?"
Tasha considers for a moment. "I think¡ I think she was telling her version of the truth. The way she sees it, anyway."
I nod slowly. "Yeah. I guess that makes sense. It''s just¡ it''s easier when the bad guys are just bad, you know? When you can look at them and say ''yep, that''s a villain'' and not have to think about it too much."
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Tasha laughs, but it''s a soft, sad sound. "Welcome to the real world, Sam. Where even the villains have their reasons, and the heroes aren''t always as heroic as we want them to be."
I sigh, leaning back against the bench we''re sitting on. "I miss when things were simpler."
"Were they ever really simple, though?" Tasha asks. "Or did we just think they were because we didn''t know any better?"
I don''t have a good answer for her.
The house is quiet when I enter, the soft glow of the living room lamp the only sign that anyone''s home. I kick off my shoes and pad into the kitchen, my stomach growling despite the pizza we had earlier. Stress always makes me hungry.
As I''m rummaging through the fridge, I hear footsteps behind me. I turn to see my mom leaning against the doorframe, a mug of tea in her hands.
"Hey sweetie," she says, her voice soft. "How was the zoo?"
I pause, a jar of pickles in my hand, trying to figure out how to answer that. How do I explain that we ran into a supervillain who turned out to be a passionate scientist with a weird fixation on dolphins? That I''m questioning everything I thought I knew about good and evil?
"It was¡ interesting," I say finally, setting the pickles on the counter. "We saw a lot of cool animals."
Mom raises an eyebrow, clearly sensing there''s more to the story. "Just cool animals? Nothing else interesting happened?"
I sigh, closing the fridge door. "We¡ ran into someone. Someone I wasn''t expecting to see there."
Mom''s expression shifts, concern creeping into her eyes. "Someone dangerous?"
I think about Dr. Trinh-Norwood, about her tired eyes and her passionate rants about animal behavior. "Not exactly," I say slowly. "Just¡ complicated."
Mom nods, not pushing for more details. She''s gotten good at that lately - knowing when to press and when to let things be. "Well, if you want to talk about it, I''m here. And if you don''t, that''s okay too."
I manage a small smile, grateful for her understanding. "Thanks, Mom. I might take you up on that later. For now, I think I just need to process everything."
She nods again, then gestures to the jar on the counter. "Want me to make you a sandwich to go with those pickles?"
I feel a rush of affection for her. Even with everything going on, even with all the worry and stress that comes with having a superhero for a daughter, she still finds ways to take care of me. To remind me that I''m not just Bloodhound, but also Sam. Her daughter.
"That would be great," I say, my smile feeling a little more genuine now. "Thanks, Mom."
As she bustles around the kitchen, pulling out bread and sandwich fixings, I hop up onto one of the bar stools at the counter. I watch her work, the familiar movements soothing in their normalcy.
"Hey Mom?" I say after a moment.
"Hmm?" she responds, not looking up from the sandwich she''s assembling.
"Do you ever¡ I mean, with your work at the library. Do you ever feel like you''re not making enough of a difference? Like you should be doing more?"
She pauses, looking up at me with a thoughtful expression. "Sometimes," she admits. "I think everyone feels that way now and then. Why do you ask?"
I shrug, tracing patterns on the countertop with my finger. "Just something I''ve been thinking about. With everything going on in the city, with all the crime and corruption¡ sometimes it feels like what we''re doing isn''t enough. Like we''re just putting band-aids on a gaping wound."
Mom sets the finished sandwich in front of me, then leans on the counter, her eyes meeting mine. "Samantha," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "What you''re doing is important. Every life you save, every crime you stop¡ it matters. But it''s not your responsibility to fix everything. You''re one person, sweetheart. A remarkable person, but still just one person."
I nod, picking up the sandwich but not taking a bite yet. "I know. It''s just¡ hard sometimes. To know where to draw the line. To know when enough is enough."
She reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "That''s part of growing up, honey. Learning to set boundaries, to recognize your own limits. It doesn''t mean you''re giving up or that you don''t care. It just means you''re human."
I think about Dr. Trinh-Norwood again, about her justifications for working with the Kingdom. Is that what she tells herself? That she''s just recognizing her limits, setting boundaries?
"But what if¡ what if by setting those boundaries, we''re letting bad things happen? What if we could do more, but we choose not to?"
Mom is quiet for a moment, considering her words carefully. "I think¡ I think that''s a question everyone has to answer for themselves. But sweetheart, you can''t save everyone. You can''t fix everything. And trying to will only burn you out in the long run."
I take a bite of my sandwich, chewing slowly as I mull over her words. She''s right, of course. I know she''s right. But knowing it and accepting it are two different things.
"Thanks, Mom," I say finally. "For the sandwich and the advice."
She smiles, reaching out to squeeze my hand. "Anytime, kiddo. Now eat up and get some rest. Whatever''s going on, it''ll still be there in the morning."
RS.1.1
The living room still smells like fresh paint and new carpet. I''ve been trying to mask it with scented candles, but there''s only so much Yankee Candle can do against the persistent odor of reconstruction. It''s been months since we moved back in, but sometimes I still expect to wake up in Moe''s guest room, surrounded by boxes of our salvaged belongings.
Ben''s shuffling around in the kitchen, probably rearranging the crackers on the plate for the fourth time. His need for symmetry used to drive me up the wall, but after everything we''ve been through, it''s almost comforting. A little island of predictability in our chaotic lives.
I check my phone again. No messages from Sam. She''s out with friends ¨C or at least, that''s what she told us. These days, I''m never quite sure if "hanging out with Tasha" means gossiping over frappuccinos or punching bad guys in dark alleys. I push the thought away. Tonight isn''t about Sam, not directly. It''s about us ¨C the adults who are supposed to have all the answers and instead are drowning in questions.
The doorbell rings, and I hear Ben''s quick footsteps. He always beats me to the door, a habit from when Sam was little and we were paranoid about strangers. Now, I almost wish it was that simple.
"Dad," Ben''s voice carries from the entryway. "Come in. It''s freezing out there."
I stand up, smoothing down my sweater. It''s the nice one, the cashmere blend that I save for special occasions. As if dressing up will somehow make this evening less fraught.
Moe bustles in, all smiles and hugs. He''s wearing the gaudy Hanukkah sweater I got him last year as a joke. On anyone else, it would look ridiculous. On Moe, it looks somehow dignified."Rachel, sweetheart," he says, enveloping me in a bear hug that smells of Old Spice and peppermint. "How are you holding up?"
It''s a loaded question, and we both know it. I paste on a smile. "Oh, you know. One day at a time."
Ben hovers nearby, hands fluttering like nervous birds. "Can I take your coat, Dad? We''ve got snacks in the living room. And wine. Do you want wine? Or tea? I can make tea."
"Wine sounds great, son," Moe says, handing over his coat. "A little warmth for these old bones."
We settle into the living room, perching on furniture that still feels too new, too perfect. The coffee table is laden with a spread that would make my therapist proud ¨C a perfect balance of healthy options and comfort food. Stress eating, with a side of guilt.
Moe takes a sip of wine and lets out an appreciative hum. "This is good stuff. You''ve been holding out on me, Benji."
Ben''s cheeks flush slightly at the childhood nickname. "It was on sale," he mumbles.
I reach for a cracker, more for something to do with my hands than out of any real hunger. The room feels too small suddenly, despite the open floor plan we chose during the reconstruction. Too many elephants crowding in, waiting to be acknowledged.
"So," Moe says, breaking the awkward silence. "How''s work treating you both? Still fighting the good fight in city planning, Ben?"
Ben nods, launching into a detailed explanation of his latest project. Something about green spaces and urban renewal. I try to listen, I really do, but my mind keeps drifting. To Sam. To the bruises I pretend not to see when she changes for bed.
"...and what about you, Rachel?" Moe''s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Any exciting new additions to the library?"
I blink, realizing I''ve completely lost the thread of conversation. "Oh, um, yes. We just got a new collection of graphic novels. They''re really popular with the kids."
Moe''s eyes light up. "Graphic novels, huh? You know, back in my day, we just called them comic books. But I guess everything needs a fancy name now."
"They''re not just for kids anymore," I find myself saying, warming to the topic. "There''s some really complex storytelling happening in the medium. Art and literature coming together in fascinating ways."
"Oh, I know," Moe chuckles. "I may be old, but I keep up. Did you know they''re doing a whole series now on real-life superheroes? Fascinating stuff. Really makes you think about the world we''re living in."
And there it is. The elephant in the room, trumpeting loudly. I take a large gulp of wine, nearly choking on it.
Ben clears his throat. "Dad, we don''t really... I mean, we shouldn''t be talking about..."
"What?" Moe looks genuinely puzzled. "I''m not talking about Sam. I''m talking about literature. Art. The way society processes these huge changes through storytelling. It''s important stuff."The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
I set my glass down harder than I mean to. "Is it, though? Is it really important when there are real people ¨C real children ¨C out there risking their lives? When our daughter comes home with bruises and nightmares and we''re supposed to just... what? Pretend it''s normal? Write a comic book about it?"
The words come out sharper than I intend, fueled by fear and frustration and too much wine on an empty stomach. Ben flinches, and I immediately feel guilty. This isn''t his fault. It isn''t anyone''s fault, really. Except maybe the universe''s sick sense of humor.
Moe leans forward, his expression serious. "Rachel, honey, I know you''re scared. We all are. But Sam... she''s doing something incredible. Something important."
"She''s almost sixteen," I snap. "She should be worrying about prom dates and college applications, not... not whatever the hell she was dealing with at the zoo the other day."
Morris''s head snaps a little bit. "The zoo? What happened at the zoo?"
I wave a hand dismissively. "Some villain spouting nonsense about evil dolphins or something. I don''t know. Sam was pretty vague about the details."
"Evil dolphins?" Moe repeats, looking intrigued despite himself. "Now that''s a new one."
"It''s not funny," I say, even as a hysterical little giggle threatens to escape. "None of this is funny. Our daughter is out there fighting criminals and mad scientists, and we''re sitting here eating crackers and talking about comic books."
Ben reaches out, his hand hovering uncertainly near mine before retreating. "We''re not just sitting here, Rachel. We''re... we''re supporting her. In the ways we can."
"Are we?" I challenge. "Are we really supporting her, or are we enabling her? Letting her put herself in danger because we''re too afraid to say no?"
Moe sighs heavily. "It''s not that simple, and you know it. Sam''s powers... they''re a part of her now. We can''t just pretend they don''t exist."
"I''m not saying we should pretend," I argue. "I''m saying we should be protecting her. Setting boundaries. Being parents."
"We are being parents," Ben says quietly. "We''re doing the best we can in an impossible situation."
I deflate a little at that. He''s right, of course. We are doing our best. It just never feels like enough.
Moe reaches for another cracker, looking thoughtful. "You know, this reminds me of a story. Back when I was working on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge..."
Ben and I exchange a look. Moe''s stories are legendary ¨C part wisdom, part rambling nostalgia, with a healthy dose of exaggeration thrown in. But right now, I''ll take any distraction I can get.
"Go on, Dad," Ben encourages. "Tell us about the bridge."
Moe launches into his tale, painting a vivid picture of 1960s New York and the monumental task of connecting Brooklyn and Staten Island. As he talks, I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. This is familiar territory ¨C Moe spinning yarns, Ben listening with rapt attention, me half-listening while my mind wanders.
I get up to refill our wine glasses, letting the familiar cadence of Moe''s voice wash over me. When I return, he''s deep into an anecdote about a particularly stubborn rivet that just wouldn''t cooperate.
"...and that''s when Jimmy says to me, ''Moe, sometimes you gotta know when to push and when to let things settle on their own.'' Wise words, especially coming from a man who''d just lost two fingers to a welding accident."
Ben winces at the mental image, but I find myself nodding. "So, what? You''re saying we should just... let Sam figure things out on her own?"
Moe holds up his hands. "I''m not saying anything of the sort. I''m just telling a story about a bridge."
"Everything''s a story about a bridge with you," I mutter, but there''s no real heat behind it.
Ben clears his throat. "I think... I think what Dad''s trying to say is that we need to find a balance. Between supporting Sam and protecting her."
"Exactly," Moe nods approvingly. "You can''t control every rivet, every bolt. But you can make sure the foundation is solid."
I take a sip of wine, mulling this over. "And how exactly do we do that? Build a solid foundation when the ground keeps shifting under our feet?"
"We do what we''ve always done," Ben says softly. "We love her. We listen to her. We try to understand."
"Even when what she''s doing terrifies us?" I challenge.
"Especially then," Moe says firmly. "Fear... fear can make us do stupid things. Make us push away the people we''re trying to protect."
I think about Sam, about the distance that''s been growing between us. The secrets and half-truths. The way she sometimes looks at me like I''m a stranger. "I don''t want to lose her," I whisper.
Ben''s hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "We won''t," he says, with a certainty I wish I felt. "We''re in this together. All of us."
Moe raises his glass. "To family," he says. "In all its messy, complicated glory."
We clink glasses, the sound ringing out in the too-new living room. For a moment, I let myself believe that it really is that simple. That love and wine and Moe''s rambling stories can somehow shield us from the chaos of the world outside.
Then my phone buzzes, and reality comes crashing back in.
I reach for my phone, more out of habit than expectation. There''s a message from Sam: "On my way home soon. Maggie''s coming over, ok?"
I show the message to Ben, who nods absently. "That''s fine. Maggie''s always welcome."
Moe perks up. "Maggie? Is that the new friend Sam''s been spending so much time with?"
"Yeah," I say, refilling my wine glass. "They''ve gotten pretty close lately."
Ben shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Do you think... I mean, after what happened with Jamila..."
I raise an eyebrow. "You think Sam has a crush on Maggie?"
"Well, I... it''s just..." Ben fumbles for words, his cheeks flushing.
Moe chuckles. "Ah, young love. Always complicated, no matter who it''s with."
I take a larger sip of wine than I probably should. "I don''t think it''s like that with Maggie. They''re just friends."
But even as I say it, I''m not entirely sure. There''s something about the way Sam and Maggie interact, a closeness that goes beyond typical teenage friendship. It reminds me of the way Sam used to be with Jamila, before... well, before everything went sideways.
"Would it be so bad if it was?" Moe asks, his tone gentle. "Sam''s a good kid. She deserves to be happy."
Ben nods emphatically. "Of course! We''d support her no matter what. I just... I worry, you know? After how things ended with Jamila..."
I feel a surge of protective anger. "That wasn''t Sam''s fault. Jamila made her choice."
The room falls silent for a moment, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavy in the air. We all know there''s more to the story of Sam and Jamila''s breakup than teenage drama, but it''s easier to pretend it''s just normal high school stuff. Easier than confronting the reality of what our daughter''s life has become.
RS.1.2
Moe clears his throat. "So, tell me about this Maggie. What''s she like?"
I hesitate, realizing I don''t know as much about Maggie as I probably should. "She''s... nice. Quiet, I guess. But she seems to really get Sam, you know?"
Ben nods. "They''re always whispering and giggling about something. Inside jokes, I think."
"Sounds like a good friend," Moe says approvingly. "Sam needs that. Especially now."
The ''especially now'' hangs in the air, loaded with all the things we''re not saying. The dangers Sam faces, the secrets she keeps, the weight she carries on her too-young shoulders.
I take another gulp of wine, feeling it warm my chest. "I just wish..."
"Wish what?" Ben prompts when I trail off.
I wave my hand vaguely. "I don''t know. That things were simpler, I guess. That Sam could just be a normal teenager with normal problems. Crushes and homework and... and not..." I can''t bring myself to finish the thought.
Moe leans forward, his eyes serious. "Rachel, honey, there''s no such thing as a normal teenager. Every kid has their struggles, their secrets. Sam''s are just... a little more dramatic than most."
I laugh, a short, bitter sound. "A little more dramatic? Pop-pop, she''s out there fighting criminals. Getting shot at. Coming home with bruises and... and God knows what else. That''s not drama, it''s... it''s..."
"It''s her life," Ben says quietly. "Whether we like it or not."
I deflate, feeling suddenly exhausted. "I know. I know it is. I just... I don''t know how to protect her anymore."
Moe reaches out, patting my hand. "Maybe we can''t protect her the way we used to. But we can support her. Be here for her when she needs us."
"And how do we know when that is?" I challenge. "She doesn''t tell us anything anymore. Not really."
Ben shifts uncomfortably. "She tells us some things. Like... like that thing at the zoo the other day."
Moe perks up. "Ah yes, the evil dolphins. I''ve been meaning to ask about that. What exactly happened?"
I shrug, reaching for a cracker. "I don''t really know. Sam was pretty vague about the details. Something about running into a villain who started ranting about the moral failings of dolphins? It didn''t make much sense."
"Dolphins, huh?" Moe muses. "You know, there''s actually some fascinating research about dolphin intelligence and social structures. Did you know they''re one of the few animals that have been observed using tools?"
Ben latches onto this new topic with obvious relief. "Really? What kind of tools?"
As Moe launches into a detailed explanation of dolphin behavior, complete with animated hand gestures, I find my mind wandering. I think about Sam and Maggie, heads bent close together, whispering and giggling. I think about the way Sam''s eyes light up when she talks about her "after-school activities" ¨C the careful euphemism we''ve all adopted for her superhero work.
I think about the daughter I used to know, the one who would curl up next to me on the couch and read for hours. The one who used to tell me everything, from playground drama to her secret dreams. When did she become this strange, fierce creature I barely recognize sometimes?
"...and that''s why some scientists argue that dolphins might actually have a complex moral system," Moe is saying as I tune back into the conversation. "It''s all quite fascinating, really."
"It is," Ben agrees, looking genuinely interested. "I wonder if that''s what that villain was getting at? Some kind of... I don''t know, anti-dolphin agenda?"
I snort, the wine making me bolder. "An anti-dolphin agenda. God, listen to us. This is what our lives have become. Sitting around speculating about supervillains and dolphin morality while our teenage daughter is out there..." I wave my hand vaguely, encompassing all the unknown dangers Sam might be facing.
Ben reaches out, his hand hovering uncertainly near mine before retreating. "Rachel, we can''t... we can''t control everything. We have to trust Sam."This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
"Do we?" I challenge, earning a couple of blinks from Ben.
Moe sighs heavily. "The world isn''t what it used to be, Rachel. Kids today are dealing with things we never could have imagined."
"That doesn''t make it right," I insist. "We''re her parents. We''re supposed to protect her."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Ben asks, a rare edge of frustration in his voice. "Lock her in her room? Take away her powers somehow? We can''t change what she is, Rachel."
I deflate, the fight going out of me. "I know. I know we can''t. I just... I miss her, Ben. I miss my little girl."
Moe clears his throat. "She''s still your little girl, Rachel. She''s just... growing up. Finding her place in the world."
"Some world," I mutter, reaching for the wine bottle again.
Ben gently intercepts my hand. "Maybe that''s enough for tonight, hon."
I want to argue, but the concern in his eyes stops me. Instead, I nod, letting my hand fall back to my lap.
Moe stands up, stretching with a groan. "Well, I don''t know about you two, but all this heavy talk has worked up my appetite. How about we start on those sandwiches? Sam and Maggie will probably be hungry when they get here."
Ben nods, looking relieved at the chance to do something practical. "Good idea, Dad. I''ll get started."
As they head to the kitchen, I remain on the couch, staring at the half-empty wine glass in front of me. The room feels too big suddenly, too quiet. I can hear Ben and Moe in the kitchen, their voices a low murmur punctuated by the occasional clatter of dishes.
I pick up my phone again, scrolling through old photos. Sam at her bat mitzvah, grinning wide despite the braces. Sam and Kate at the beach two summers ago, before everything changed. Sam on her first day of high school, trying so hard to look cool and grown-up.
My throat tightens as I swipe through the images. When did she get so old? When did I stop being able to fix everything with a hug and a band-aid?
"Rachel?" Ben calls from the kitchen. "Do you want turkey or roast beef?"
I take a deep breath, pushing down the swirl of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "Turkey," I call back. "And extra mustard."
As I stand up, my phone buzzes with a notification. It''s the tracking app we installed on Sam''s phone ¨C a necessity in these tense times. She''s about ten minutes away, walking. Enough time for one more difficult conversation.
I make my way to the kitchen, where Ben and Moe are assembling sandwiches with the careful precision of men avoiding harder topics.
"Sam''s about ten minutes out," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "She''s bringing Maggie," I repeat, almost blindly.
Ben nods, carefully aligning the edges of a slice of cheese with the bread beneath it. "That''s good. Maggie''s a nice girl."
"Yeah," I agree, then hesitate. The wine has loosened my tongue, made the fears I usually keep buried bubble to the surface. "Do you ever worry... I mean, with everything that''s happening... do you think Sam might..."
I trail off, not sure how to voice the fear that''s been gnawing at me. Moe looks up, his eyes sharp despite the late hour and the wine.
"Might what, Rachel?" he prompts gently.
I swallow hard. "Might turn out like... like my father?"
The kitchen goes silent. Ben''s hands freeze mid-sandwich assembly, and Moe''s expression darkens. They both know who I mean, even though we rarely speak of him.
"Rachel," Ben starts, his voice soft but firm. "Sam is nothing like that man."
"I know," I say quickly. "I know she''s not. It''s just... the violence, the fighting. It scares me sometimes. The way she throws herself into danger without hesitation."
Moe sets down the knife he''s been using to spread mayonnaise, his movements deliberate. "Your father," he says, and I flinch at even this oblique reference, "was a cruel man who hurt people because he wanted to. Sam helps people because she has to. There''s a world of difference there."
I nod, blinking back tears. "I know. Logically, I know that. But sometimes I see her come home with bruises, or hear about the fights she''s been in, and I just..."
"You worry," Ben finishes for me. "We all do. But Sam has something your father never did."
"What''s that?" I ask.
"Us," Moe says simply. "She has a family who loves her, who supports her. Who will always be here to remind her of who she really is."
I want to believe them. I desperately want to believe that love and support are enough to keep the darkness at bay. But I remember the wild look in my father''s eyes the night he crashed our wedding, the casual way he fought through Ben''s drunken cousins and relatives just to throw an envelope of money at our feet and leave without a word. The way he won.
"It''s not genetic, you know," Ben says, as if reading my thoughts. "Violence isn''t something that''s passed down like... like eye color or height. It''s learned. And Sam..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Sam has learned compassion. Bravery. Self-sacrifice. Those are the things she''s inherited from you, Rachel."
I feel a lump form in my throat. Before I can respond, we hear the front door open.
"Mom? Dad? We''re home!" Sam''s voice calls out, followed by the sound of shoes being kicked off and coats being hung up.
Just like that, the moment shatters. I straighten up, plastering on a smile as Sam and Maggie appear in the kitchen doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold.
"Perfect timing," I say, my voice only slightly strained. "We were just finishing up the sandwiches. Are you girls hungry?"
As Sam launches into a story about their walk home, punctuated by Maggie''s quiet laughter, I catch Ben''s eye over their heads. He gives me a small, reassuring nod.
The fears aren''t gone. They probably never will be. But for now, in this moment, with my family gathered in our too-new kitchen, I let myself believe that we''re going to be okay. That love really can be stronger than the shadows of the past.
I hand Sam a plate, our fingers brushing as she takes it. Her hands are strong, calloused in ways I try not to think about too hard. But they''re also gentle. Caring. Nothing like the hands I remember from my childhood.
"Thanks, Mom," Sam says, smiling up at me. And in her eyes, I see only warmth. Only love.
I have to.
Chapter 127.1
There''s something oddly satisfying about the way my knuckles crunch into a punching bag. It''s not quite the same as the real thing ¨C and by the real thing, I mean, like, punching a person, which, I guess isn''t actually that satisfying, but you know what I mean ¨C but it''s close enough. The heavy bag swings back and forth, a steady rhythm that I can follow with my fists. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each impact sends a jolt up my arm, but it''s not painful. It''s more like a reminder that I''m alive, that I''m here, that I''m doing something.
I''m in the Delaware Valley Defenders'' HQ gymnasium, still just a big room filled with government surplus equipment. It''s not exactly state-of-the-art, but it gets the job done. The walls are a dull gray, and the floor is covered in those interlocking rubber mats that always smell like sweat and disinfectant. There''s a bunch of weights in one corner, some treadmills and bikes in another, and in the middle, where I am, there''s a bunch of punching bags and sparring equipment.
Rampart is holding the bag steady for me. He''s a big guy, all muscle and solid frame, and he barely moves even when I''m putting my full strength into each punch. "Good form, Sam," he says, his voice gruff but encouraging. "You''re really getting your weight behind those hits."
I grunt in response, too focused on my rhythm to form words. Left jab, right cross, left hook. Repeat. My fists are wrapped in tape, but I can still feel the impact of each punch. It''s a good feeling, like I''m actually accomplishing something. Which is more than I can say for the rest of my superhero career lately.
"You know," Rampart continues, seemingly unfazed by my silence, "your strength is really impressive. It''s like you''re back in peak form after... well, you know."
I stop punching for a moment, my fists still raised. "After Illya nuked me, you mean," I say, my voice flat. I''ve started correcting people a little more actively about it. Mrs. Gibson has kept me loosely updated - he''s been settling in peacefully with no fight in Aurora Springs, and he''s serving his time to society. The least I can do is respect that.
Rampart winces slightly. "Right. Sorry. Illya."
I shake my head and start punching again, harder this time. "It''s fine. I just... I don''t want to give him any more credit than he deserves, you know?" is what I say instead of all that other shit.
"I get it," Rampart says, nodding. "And you''re right. He''s just a person, like any of us. But that doesn''t make what happened to you any less significant."
I grunt again, putting extra force into my next punch. The bag rattles wildly on its hard plastic base, and even Rampart has to take a step back to steady it. "Yeah, well, what good is being in ''peak form'' if we''re not allowed to do anything with it?"
That''s the crux of the issue, really. Ever since the whole mess with Patriot, the government has put the Young Defenders on ice - every superhero team on ice, basically, all the big important official ones and their satellites (like us). We''re basically just an after-school club now, all our official hero work suspended until further notice.
Rampart lets out a heavy sigh. "I know it''s frustrating, Sam. Trust me, I feel it too. But we have to play by their rules for now. It''s the only way we''ll ever get back to doing real hero work."
I stop punching and step back, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, delicately not mentioning the work I''m doing with the Auditors on the side. "I know, I know. It''s just... it feels like we''re letting people down, you know? Like we''re not living up to our potential."
"I get it," Rampart says, patting the punching bag. "But sometimes being a hero means knowing when to hold back. We can''t help anyone if we''re shut down completely."
I nod, not entirely convinced but too tired to argue. "Yeah, I guess. So, what''s next? More bag work?"
Rampart grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Actually, I was thinking we could do some sparring. You up for it?"
I can''t help but grin back. Sparring with Rampart is always a challenge, but it''s also one of my favorite parts of training. "Oh, you''re on, big guy."
We move to the sparring mat, a big blue square in the middle of the room. Rampart takes up a defensive stance, his arms raised and his feet planted firmly. I circle him, looking for an opening. Even though he''s way bigger than me, I know I can hold my own.
I feint with my left, then come in with a quick right jab. Rampart blocks it easily, but I''m already following up with a low kick to his knee. He shifts his weight, absorbing the impact without budging an inch.
We trade blows back and forth, neither of us really trying to hurt the other but both pushing our limits. It''s a dance of sorts, a physical conversation where we can work out our frustrations without words. Every now and then, someone else will poke their head in, watching us for a moment before moving on.
"Looking good, kids!" Captain Plasma calls out as he passes by, his voice cheerful. "Just don''t break anything ¨C or each other!"
I roll my eyes, but I can''t help smiling. It''s nice to know that even with all the restrictions, the older heroes still support us. Even if they can''t do much to change our situation.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
As we continue sparring, I can feel the tension slowly draining from my body. There''s something cathartic about physical exertion, about pushing your body to its limits. It''s like all the anger and frustration I''ve been feeling is being sweated out, leaving me tired but clearer-headed.
After what feels like hours but is probably only about forty-five minutes, Rampart calls a halt. We''re both breathing heavily, covered in sweat. "Good work, Sam," he says, offering me a fist bump. "You''re definitely not pulling your punches anymore."
I return the fist bump, grinning despite my exhaustion. "Well, I figured if I can''t use my powers to fight bad guys, I might as well use them to give you a workout."
Rampart chuckles, shaking his head. "Trust me, you''re doing that alright. I think my arms are going to be sore for a week."
We head over to the water fountain, gulping down water like we''ve been wandering in the desert for days. As I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, I notice Rampart looking at me thoughtfully.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. "Do I have something on my face?"
He shakes his head. "Nah, I was just thinking... you''ve come a long way, you know that? I remember when you first joined the team, you could barely throw a punch without hurting yourself. And then once you learned the form, you got nuked. Now you''ve got both."
I feel my cheeks flush, and it''s not just from the exertion. "Yeah, well, I had a good teacher," I mumble, not meeting his eyes.
Rampart grins, reaching out to ruffle my hair. I duck away, but not before he manages to mess it up even more than the sparring did. "Hey, don''t sell yourself short, kid. You''ve put in the work. You should be proud of yourself."
I shrug, still not entirely comfortable with praise. "I guess. I just wish I could do more, you know?"
Rampart''s expression turns serious. "I know. We all do. But for now, we''ve got to focus on what we can do. Speaking of which..." He trails off, heading over to a corner of the gym. When he returns, he''s carrying a large canvas bag that clinks ominously when he sets it down.
"What''s that?" I ask, eyeing the bag suspiciously.
"This," Rampart says with a grin, "is our new bone conditioning equipment."
I groan, rolling my eyes. "Seriously? More bone conditioning?"
Rampart nods, his grin widening. "Yep. But this time, we''re stepping it up a notch. Instead of rice, we''ve got..." He opens the bag, revealing a pile of small, round stones. "Gravel!"
I stare at him, then at the gravel, then back at him. "Where did you even get that much gravel?" I''m not sure if I should be impressed or concerned.
He shrugs, looking a bit sheepish. "Let''s just say I know a guy who knows a guy who works in construction. Don''t worry, it''s all above board."
I raise an eyebrow, not entirely convinced, but decide not to push it. Instead, I sigh dramatically and hold out my arms. "Alright, let''s get this over with."
Rampart nods approvingly and starts filling smaller bags with the gravel. Once he''s got a few ready, he hands me a pair and takes a pair for himself. "Okay, we''ll start with light taps. Just get a feel for the weight and texture."
I nod, taking a deep breath before starting to tap the gravel bags against my forearms. It''s... not pleasant. The individual pieces of gravel shift and grind against each other, creating an uneven surface that''s much harder than the rice bags we usually use. And it''s spiky, even through the canvas. But I grit my teeth and keep going, reminding myself that this is all part of the training.
As we work, Rampart keeps up a steady stream of encouragement and advice. "Good, Sam. Remember to breathe. Keep your muscles relaxed ¨C tension will just make the impacts hurt more. That''s it, nice and steady."
Gradually, we increase the intensity, moving from light taps to more solid strikes. It''s uncomfortable, bordering on miserable, a new kind of pain. But I feel the adrenaline hit my brain and all that fades away. It starts feeling great.
"You''re doing great," Rampart says after a particularly grueling set. "Your body''s really responding well to the training. I bet you could take a hit from a car now and barely feel it."
I laugh, shaking out my arms. "Let''s not test that theory, okay? I''ve had enough near-death experiences for one lifetime."
Rampart chuckles, but there''s a hint of concern in his eyes. "Yeah, let''s avoid those if we can. But seriously, Sam, you should be proud of how far you''ve come. Not just physically, but mentally too. You''ve been through a lot, and you''re still standing. That''s not nothing."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. It''s true, I have been through a lot. Sometimes it feels like too much. But then I remember all the people I''ve helped, all the friends I''ve made, and I know it''s worth it. Even if we''re sidelined right now, even if it feels like we''re not doing enough, we''re still making a difference. We''re still heroes.
We continue with the bone conditioning for a while longer, alternating between arms, shins, and even (carefully) our torsos. By the time we''re done, I feel like I''ve been put through a meat grinder, but in a good way. It''s the kind of soreness that comes from a really good workout, the kind that lets you know you''ve pushed yourself to your limits and come out stronger.
As we''re putting away the equipment, Rampart turns to me with a casual air that immediately makes me suspicious. "Hey, Sam," he says, his tone far too innocent. "You want to go get Wawa?"
I narrow my eyes at him. We both know that "going to Wawa" is code for "going on an unofficial patrol". It''s not exactly against the rules ¨C we''re allowed to go out in public, after all ¨C but it''s definitely skirting the line.
For a moment, I hesitate. Part of me, the responsible part that''s been trying so hard to play by the rules, wants to say no. But another part, the part that''s been itching for action, that''s been feeling caged and restless, is practically screaming yes.
I look at Rampart, seeing the same conflict in his eyes. He''s supposed to be the responsible one, the team leader. But he''s feeling it too, the need to do something, to be out there making a difference.
Finally, I nod. "Yeah," I say, trying to keep my voice casual. "A hoagie sounds pretty good right about now."
Rampart grins, a mix of relief and excitement in his expression. "Great. Let''s get changed and head out."
We quickly change into street clothes, opting for hoodies and jeans ¨C inconspicuous, but easy to move in if we need to. No costumes, of course. That would be too obvious. As we''re heading out, we run into Captain Plasma in the hallway.
"Hey, kids," he says, his eyebrows raising slightly as he takes in our attire. "Where are you two off to?"
"Just grabbing some food," Rampart says smoothly. "All that training works up an appetite, you know?"
Captain Plasma looks at us for a long moment, and I''m sure he knows exactly what we''re up to. But instead of calling us out, he just nods. "Alright. Be careful out there. And bring me back a turkey sub, would you?"
"A hoagie," I correct him. He laughs gently, like tinkling windchimes.
We both nod, trying not to look too relieved.
Chapter 127.2
The crisp autumn air hits us as we step outside, a welcome relief after the stuffy gym. The sky is a brilliant blue, dotted with puffy white clouds, and the trees lining the street are a riot of red and gold leaves. It''s the kind of day that makes you glad to be alive, that makes you want to go out and do something.
"Relax, Sam," Rampart murmurs, noticing my tension. "We''re just two friends out for a walk. Nothing suspicious about that."
I nod, taking a deep breath and trying to loosen my shoulders. "Right. Just a walk. No superhero business here, no sir."
Rampart chuckles softly. "You know, sarcasm isn''t actually a superpower."
"Could''ve fooled me," I shoot back, grinning despite myself. It feels good to banter like this, to fall back into our old rhythms. For a moment, I can almost forget about all the restrictions and red tape that have been holding us back.
Rampart and I fall into step beside each other, our pace casual but purposeful. To anyone watching, we probably look like any other pair of friends out for a walk. But beneath the surface, we''re both on high alert, our eyes scanning the streets for any sign of trouble. Instead of costumes, the both of us have hoodies on, although my tiny little frame means that I''m dwarfed by mine, while Rampart''s perfect sportsman barrel chest strains his.
"So," I say, keeping my voice low. "What''s the plan? Are we just going to wander around and hope we stumble across a crime in progress?"
Rampart chuckles, shaking his head. "Not exactly. I''ve been keeping an ear to the ground, you know? There''s been some chatter about increased gang activity in the Olney area. Nothing major, just some petty theft and vandalism, but it could escalate if nobody steps in."
I nod, impressed despite myself. Even with the restrictions on our official hero work, Rampart''s been staying on top of things. "Olney, huh? That''s a bit outside our usual patrol route."
"Exactly," Rampart says with a grin. "Which means it''s less likely we''ll run into anyone who might recognize us. Plus, it''s an area that could use some help. The local cops are stretched thin as it is."
As we walk, I can''t help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness. It''s been weeks since we''ve done anything even remotely hero-like, and I''m itching for some action. But at the same time, I know we''re taking a risk. If we get caught, it could mean the end of the Young Defenders for good.
We make our way towards Olney, taking a roundabout route to avoid any areas where we might be recognized. As we walk, Rampart fills me in on what he knows about the gang situation. Apparently, there''s a new group trying to establish themselves, muscling in on territory that used to belong to the Philly Phreaks before their capture.
"The thing is," Rampart says as we turn onto a quieter street, "these new guys aren''t metas, as far as we know. They''re just regular thugs with delusions of grandeur and a couple of Jumpheads, as per usual. But they''re causing real problems for the community."
I nod, understanding. It''s not the kind of high-stakes, world-saving action I''d like to bury my face in, but it''s important. These are real people being affected, their lives and livelihoods at risk. "So what''s the plan? We can''t exactly go in fists flying without our costumes."
Rampart grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Who says we need costumes to be heroes? Sometimes, all it takes is being in the right place at the right time."
As if on cue, we hear a commotion up ahead. Turning the corner, we see a group of young men harassing an older woman outside a small convenience store. They''re not being violent, not yet, but their body language is aggressive, intimidating.
Rampart and I exchange a look. This is it. Our chance to do some good, even if it''s on a small scale. We quicken our pace, approaching the scene with purpose.
"Hey!" Rampart calls out, his voice carrying easily across the street. "Is there a problem here?"
The group turns to look at us, their expressions a mix of annoyance and wariness. The woman takes advantage of their distraction to slip into the store, the bell jingling as the door closes behind her.
One of the young men, clearly the leader, steps forward. He''s trying to look tough, but I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "This ain''t none of your business," he says, his voice gruff. "Why don''t you two keep walking?"If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
I step up beside Rampart, my heart pounding but my voice steady. "We''re making it our business," I say. "Harassing people isn''t cool, guys. Why don''t you find something better to do with your time?"
The leader scoffs, but I can see some of his buddies shifting uncomfortably. They''re not used to being challenged, especially not by a couple of random teenagers. "And who''s gonna make us? You?"
Rampart smiles, but it''s not a friendly smile. It''s the kind of smile that makes you think twice about picking a fight. "Maybe. Or maybe we just call the cops. I''m sure they''d be very interested in what you guys are up to."
That gets their attention. The leader glances at his friends, then back at us. For a moment, I think he might try to call our bluff. But then he shakes his head, spitting on the ground. "Whatever. This place is boring anyway. Let''s bounce, guys."
As they slouch away, trying to look like it was their idea to leave all along, I feel a surge of satisfaction, mixed with equal parts boredom. A small, nasty part of me wishes they started a fight, but I don''t express it. Leave that one buried.
Rampart turns to me, his expression a mix of pride and relief. "Nice work, Sam. That could have gone south real quick."
I nod, still feeling the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Yeah, but it didn''t. We actually helped someone, Rampart. It feels¡ good."
He claps me on the shoulder, grinning. "That''s what being a hero is all about, kid. It''s not always about the big fights and the flashy powers. Sometimes it''s just about being there, standing up for what''s right."
"We''re basically the same age," I protest.
We spend the next couple of hours walking the streets of Olney, keeping an eye out for trouble. We break up a few more minor incidents ¨C a heated argument that looked like it might turn violent, a kid trying to shoplift from a corner store. Nothing major, but each time, I feel that same sense of satisboredom. I almost wish a Jumphead would start flinging fireballs at me around the corner, just to give me a little more to work with. The cop cadet stuff is important, but totally anodyne (a word that means "a sort of overwhelming sweetness").
As the sun starts to set, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks, Rampart checks his watch. "We should probably head back soon," he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice. "Don''t want to push our luck too much."
I nod, understanding but also feeling a twinge of disappointment. Part of me wants to stay out all night, to keep doing this unofficial hero work. But I know he''s right. We''ve already taken a big risk coming out here at all.
"Yeah, okay," I say. "But can we at least stop at Wawa on the way back? I''m starving, and we did promise Captain Plasma a hoagie."
Rampart laughs, the tension of the day finally breaking. "Absolutely. Can''t go back empty-handed, after all."
As we walk back - ducking back and weaving in and out of older, more familiar ground - I notice little things that have changed since we were last here. A new mural on the side of a corner store, bright and colorful against the brick. A playground that''s been renovated, with shiny new equipment replacing the rusty old structures. It''s good to see these improvements, but I can''t help wondering if there are other changes ¨C less positive ones ¨C that we''re missing out on by not being able to do our job properly. Or that I''m missing out on by just not paying attention.
Rampart, ever the observant one, seems to pick up on my mood. "Penny for your thoughts, Sam?" he asks as we turn onto a busier street.
I shrug, trying to put my feelings into words. "I don''t know. It''s just¡ do you ever feel like we''re missing stuff? Like, important stuff? There''s so much going on in the world, and we''re just¡ walking around."
He nods, his expression thoughtful. "I get it. It can feel like we''re not doing enough, especially when we''re used to being in the thick of things. But sometimes, just being present and aware can make a bigger difference than you''d think."
As if to prove his point, a sudden commotion up ahead catches our attention. A young woman is arguing with a street vendor, their voices rising above the general hubbub of the city. As we get closer, I can make out snippets of their conversation.
"¡told you, I don''t want any trouble," the vendor is saying, his hands raised placatingly. "Just take your business elsewhere, okay?"
The woman, visibly agitated, leans in closer. "You don''t understand," she hisses. "I need it. They said you''d have it. If you don''t¡"
She trails off as she notices us approaching, her eyes darting nervously between us and the vendor. Without another word, she turns and hurries away, disappearing into the crowd.
The vendor lets out a relieved sigh as we reach his stand. "Thanks," he says, even though we didn''t actually do anything. "That was getting a bit intense."
"No problem," Rampart says smoothly. "Everything okay here?"
The vendor nods, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. Just a misunderstanding about¡ merchandise."
I raise an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. "What kind of merchandise?"
He shrugs, suddenly very interested in arranging the fruit on his stand. "Oh, you know. Just a normal misunderstanding. Nothing important."
Rampart and I exchange a look. Something''s definitely off here, but I don''t think we can push too hard without causing an even bigger commotion, and I think Rampart knows it. We''re not in costume, after all.
"Well, glad we could help," Rampart says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "You take care now."
As we walk away, I lean in close to Rampart. "That was weird, right? It wasn''t just me?"
He nods, his expression grim. "Definitely weird. And did you notice how nervous that woman was? She looked like she was expecting trouble."
I bite my lip, thinking. "You don''t think¡ could it be related to that new gang you mentioned? The one trying to muscle in on the Phreaks'' old territory?"
Rampart''s eyes light up. "Could be. Good thinking, Sam. Let''s keep our eyes open."
Chapter 127.3
As we continue walking, I find myself scanning the crowds more intently, looking for anything out of place. It''s not long before I spot something ¨C or rather, someone.
A young man, probably not much older than me, is moving through the crowd with a nervous energy that sets my teeth on edge. He''s constantly looking over his shoulder, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. As he passes by a group of people, I see him slip something into a woman''s bag.
"Rampart," I murmur, nodding in the guy''s direction. "Check it out."
Rampart follows my gaze, his eyes narrowing. "Good catch. Let''s follow him, but keep your distance. We don''t want to spook him."
We trail the nervous guy for a few blocks, watching as he repeats the same pattern ¨C approach someone in the crowd, slip something into their bag or pocket, then move on. It''s subtle enough that most people wouldn''t notice, but now that we''re looking for it, it''s clear as day.
"He''s distributing something," Rampart says under his breath. "But what? And why so secretive?"
As if in answer to his question, a bright red light flares to life in my mind''s eye, immediately putting someone''s circulatory system in my blood sense''s range. I can feel them, where they are in relation to me, in relation to the long-dried blood particles that decorate Philly''s streets like a LIDAR map. Where''s the cut, where''s the cut - there, in their side. Limping away. Not on Jump - it''d be too orange.
"Rampart," I say, my voice tight. "I think someone''s bleeding nearby."
His head snaps around, scanning the area. "Where?"
I point down a nearby alley. "That way. It''s not bad, but¡"
Rampart nods, understanding. "Let''s check it out. Carefully."
We make our way down the alley, our senses on high alert. As we turn a corner, we see a man leaning against a wall, clutching his side. There''s a small pool of blood forming at his feet.
"Hey," Rampart calls out softly. "You okay, man?"
The guy''s head snaps up, his eyes wide with fear. "Stay back!" he shouts, his voice trembling. "I don''t want any trouble!"
I hold up my hands, trying to look non-threatening. "We''re not here to cause trouble," I say. "We just want to help. You''re hurt."
He lets out a bitter laugh. "Help? Like those guys ''helped'' me?" He gestures vaguely down the alley. "No thanks. I''ll take my chances."
Rampart steps forward slowly. "Look, we''re not with whoever hurt you. We''re¡ we''re the good guys. Let us help you, and maybe you can tell us what happened?"
The guy eyes us suspiciously for a long moment before his shoulders slump in defeat. "Fine. Not like I''ve got much choice, right?"
As Rampart helps the guy sit down, I pull out my phone. "I''m going to call for an ambulance, okay?"
The guy''s eyes widen in panic. "No! No cops, no ambulance. Please."
I exchange a look with Rampart. This is getting more complicated by the minute.
"Okay," Rampart says soothingly. "No ambulance. But we need to stop that bleeding. Sam, you got any first aid supplies in that backpack of yours?"
I nod, pulling out a small kit. As I start cleaning and bandaging the wound ¨C which thankfully isn''t as bad as it looked at first ¨C Rampart gently questions the guy. It turns out his name is Mike, and he''s a regular ol'' drug dealer. The friendly, local kind - I''m not sure if I''m being sarcastic in my own head or not. He was approached by some guys who claimed to be part of a new crew moving into the area. They wanted him to start selling some new product for them ¨C Jump pills.
"I told them no way," Mike says, wincing as I amateurishly disinfect and patch up the wound, remembering the first-aid drills Gossamer burnt into me. "That stuff is bad news, and I don''t need to be on the big dogs'' bad side. But they didn''t like that answer."
"So they roughed you up," Rampart finishes for him.
Mike nods. "Yeah. Said if I wouldn''t sell for them, I couldn''t sell at all. Took all my stuff, too."
I finish bandaging Mike''s wound and sit back on my heels. "These guys, did they say anything about where they were operating from?"
Mike shakes his head, then pauses. "Wait. Yeah, actually. One of them mentioned something about 9th Street. Said they were ''moving up in the world''. Whatever that means."
Rampart and I exchange a look. This is definitely something worth checking out.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
"Thanks, Mike," Rampart says. "You should probably get that looked at by a real doctor, but the bandage should hold for now. And¡ maybe consider a change of career?"
Mike lets out a weak laugh. "Yeah, maybe. Thanks for the help. And¡ be careful if you''re going after those guys. They''re not playing around."
As we leave Mike in the alley (after making sure he has a safe way to get home), Rampart and I start walking towards 9th Street. It''s not far, just a few blocks away, but it feels like we''re crossing into another world. The streets here are always under construction, the constant rhythm of jackhammers and beeping trucks forming a chaotic urban symphony.
"So," I say, trying to sound casual. "What''s the plan? We can''t just walk into their base and ask them to stop being bad guys, right?"
Rampart chuckles, but there''s a tension in his voice. "No, definitely not. We need to be smart about this. We''re not in costume, we don''t have backup, and we don''t know exactly what we''re dealing with."
I nod, my mind racing. "But we can''t just let them keep operating, either. They''re hurting people, Rampart. And if they''re pushing Jump¡"
"I know," he says, his expression grim. "We''ll figure something out. For now, let''s just see what we can find out. Reconnaissance only, okay?"
"Okay," I agree, even as a part of me itches for action. "Recon only."
As we approach 9th Street, the construction becomes more intense. There are barriers and detour signs everywhere, funneling pedestrians and traffic into narrow, confusing paths. It''s the perfect cover for any kind of illicit activity.
We weave our way through the maze of construction, keeping our eyes peeled for anything suspicious. It''s not long before we spot something ¨C a group of guys, looking way too casual to be construction workers, squatted around a set of speakers and listening to the loudest 2010s metal I have heard in a long time. Have they no shame?
"There," I whisper, nodding towards them. "What do you think?"
Rampart studies them for a moment. "Could be our guys. Let''s get closer, see if we can hear anything."
We edge closer, pretending to be confused pedestrians looking for a way through the construction. As we get nearer, I start to pick up snippets of their conversation.
"¡told you it was a bad idea," one of them is saying. "We should''ve waited."
"Shut up," another snaps. "It''s fine. We got the stuff, didn''t we? And that punk won''t be causing us any more trouble."
My fists clench at my sides. They''re definitely talking about Mike. These are the guys who hurt him. I feel unkindnesses building in my throat, but Rampart puts a steadying hand on my arm. He''s looking at something else ¨C a small pile of boxes, tucked away behind some construction equipment. The first guy is shaking one box wistfully, and a clear ''pill-bottle'' noise comes out.
"Easy," he murmurs. "We need more information."
Just then, one of the guys ¨C a skinny dude with a nervous energy about him ¨C stands up suddenly. "I gotta take a leak," he announces.
As he walks away from the group, something strange happens. One moment he''s there, and the next he''s¡ not. It''s like he blinks out of existence, only to reappear a few feet away a minute later. He doesn''t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn''t react.
Rampart and I exchange a look. "Jump," I mouth silently. He nods, his expression grim.
The skinny guy disappears around a corner, and I make a decision. "We need to stop them," I say quietly. "They''re hurting people, they''re pushing Jump, and they''ve got at least one powered individual. This is exactly the kind of situation we''re supposed to handle."
I fully expect Rampart to disagree with me, pull rank, and call in the cops. That''s just who he is as a person. But instead, he just looks at me and nods. "I agree. We either take care of this now, or it''ll fester."
I nod, feeling a mix of excitement and¡ well, I used to feel nervousness. But now, it''s just excitement. "You got any bright ideas?"
Rampart thinks for a moment. "We go in hard and fast. Surprise them. I''ll take point, you watch our backs. We''re not supposed to be here, remember?"
"This is really unlike you," I whisper.
"Call it an itch to scratch," he whispers back.
I nod again, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing. This is it. This is what we''ve been waiting for. Rampart starts walking towards the group, his posture shifting subtly into something more intimidating. I follow close behind, my senses on high alert.
As we approach, the guys finally notice us. They stop talking, eyeing us suspiciously. "Hey," one of them calls out. "This area''s closed. You can''t be here."
Rampart doesn''t slow down. "Funny," he says, his voice carrying easily across the space between us. "We were about to say the same thing to you."
The guys exchange glances, clearly uncertain. They''re not used to being challenged, especially not by a couple of teenagers. But there''s something about Rampart''s confidence that gives them pause.
"Look," another one says, standing up. "I don''t know who you think you are, but you''re making a big mistake. Walk away now, and we''ll forget this ever happened."
I step up beside Rampart, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "We know what you''ve been up to. Pushing Jump, roughing up local dealers. It stops now."
That gets their attention. The first guy, clearly the leader, narrows his eyes. "Who the fuck are you? Cops?"
Rampart laughs, but there''s no humor in it. "No, not cops. Just concerned citizens. And you boys have given us plenty to be concerned about."
The tension in the air is palpable. I can see the guys shifting nervously, their hands drifting towards pockets and waistbands. We''re outnumbered, and they probably have weapons. But we have training, experience, and the element of surprise on our side.
Just then, the skinny guy reappears ¨C literally. He blinks into existence right next to the leader, his eyes wide with panic. "Guys," he hisses. "We''ve got company. I saw¡"
He trails off as he notices us, his face paling. "Oh shit."
The leader''s expression hardens. "Well," he says, his voice dangerously calm. "Looks like we''ve got ourselves a situation here."
Rampart squares his shoulders, his voice low and intense. "Last chance. Walk away now, leave the Jump behind, and we''ll let you go. Otherwise¡"
He lets the threat hang in the air. The guys look at each other, uncertainty clear on their faces. For a moment, I think they might actually take the offer.
Then the leader pulls out a pocketknife, and flicks it clean open with an almost satisfying shwing.
"I don''t think so," he snarls. "Ain''t nobody gonna ruin our big payday. We earned this!"
"Hey, we should run, before the big dogs catch up," the teleporter almost whimpers, looking around for some sort of weapon. "We got our score, let''s bounce,"
"Fuck off, Slims, this is our street now. We gotta act like it," another of the group - one with a beanie - mumbles, projecting confidence that he certainly hasn''t earned.
I crack my knuckles. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Who''s first?" I ask, getting their attention.
Concept Art (2)
I am currently Having a Medical Time and do not have a backlog built up. So, today, you get concept art instead!
| Alice Westwood |
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Aaron McKinley |
| Dr. Leonard Harris, Specialist in Metahuman Power Assessment for the National Superhuman Response Agency
imagine youre the sort of person that does calculations on versus wiki to determine the exact amount of superman''s super strength or whatever. and then you find out that your world has superheroes and you can do that for a living.
"what speed does spidermans'' webbing launch at" well lets take a high speed camera funded by taxpayer dollars and find out |
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Joshua Pleasants, AKA "Miasma". Independent vigilante, formerly of Philadelphia, currently operating in Boston. |
| Niles Nolan, AKA "Shrike". Currently serving multiple life sentences without parole in Daedalus Correctional Facility, in upstate New York, for multiple counts of murder in the first degree, as well as murder of a law-enforcement official in the first degree. |
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Camilla de Leon, Sam''s maternal grandmother. |
| Diane "Liberty Belle" Williams |
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Bianca "Fury Forge" Agnelli |
| Kwame "Bulwark" Adjei |
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Elijah "Multiplex" Brooks |
| City Councilman Jamal Davis |
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Clarissa "Clara" Parker |
| Rodney "Captain Plasma" Green |
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Derek "Fenrir" Taylor. Reluctant superhero, son of an Irish Mobster, turns into a werewolf. The usual. |
| Jerry Caldwell, Attorney at Law |
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NSRA Agent Evelyn Shaw |
| Olena Federova |
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Yulia Federova |
| Illya Federov, AKA "Chernobyl". Misses his wife and daughter. Fond of cats and jelly beans. |
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Illya''s v4 containment suit. |
| "Fenrir" |
|
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Chapter 128.1
The leader''s knife glints in the dim light of the construction site. He''s got a red bandana tied around his neck, which strikes me as a little on-the-nose, but whatever. The other two guys ¨C one with a gaudy gold watch, the other wearing a ratty Phillies cap ¨C fan out, trying to flank us. The Jumphead, with his nervous energy and twitchy movements, hangs back, his eyes darting around like he''s not sure where he is.
Rampart doesn''t waste any time. He charges straight at Red Bandana, moving faster than you''d expect for a guy his size. Red Bandana slashes with his knife, but Rampart''s already inside his guard. There''s a dull thud as Rampart''s fist connects with the guy''s solar plexus. Red Bandana doubles over, gasping for air.
I sidestep to avoid Gold Watch''s wild haymaker. It''s sloppy, telegraphed from a mile away. He''s trying to wind up, tried, anyway, like that''ll make him hit harder. I grab his arm as it passes, using his momentum to throw him off balance. He stumbles, crashing into a pile of construction materials. The clatter of falling pipes and tools is almost comical.
Phillies Cap comes at me with a length of rebar. He swings it like a baseball bat, but his grip is all wrong. I duck under the swing, popping up inside his reach. My palm strike to his sternum snaps his head back. He staggers, dazed, like I''ve just shoved alcohol into his veins.
It''s all happening so fast, but at the same time, it feels... slow. Predictable. Like I''ve done this a thousand times before. Which, I guess, I kind of have. These guys might think they''re tough, but Jordan and I have beat up a great many ordinary street thugs, and I have more confidence in myself than they do in themselves... theirself? Whatever. Point is, being able to heal from getting stabbed means you''re not afraid of getting stabbed. It''s hard to overcome the psychological advantage, even if I am an (extremely well-built, but only) 15 and a half year old girl.
Red Bandana''s recovered enough to take another swing at Rampart. The knife blade connects with Rampart''s arm, but it might as well be hitting concrete. The knife skitters off, leaving only a tear in Rampart''s sleeve. Red Bandana''s eyes go wide with shock.
He almost manages to get out the first syllable of a word. Something with an Fr - freak?
Rampart grabs the guy''s wrist, twisting until the knife clatters to the ground. A quick knee to the gut, and Red Bandana''s down for the count, reeling down and doubled over.
Gold Watch is back on his feet, brandishing a piece of plywood like a shield. He charges at me, probably hoping to use his size to his advantage, but not able to see past the plank. I sidestep at the last second, sticking out my foot. He trips, momentum carrying him face-first into a stack of sandbags. He doesn''t get up, groaning in pain and embarassment. It''s almost slapstick.
Phillies Cap''s smart enough to realize he''s outmatched. He turns to run, but Rampart''s there, blocking his path. Phillies Cap throws a desperate punch. Rampart doesn''t even try to dodge. The punch lands square on his jaw, and I swear I hear bones crack ¨C but not Rampart''s. Phillies Cap howls in pain, clutching his hand.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. The Jumphead''s finally decided to join the fight. He blinks out of existence, reappearing right behind Rampart. But his timing''s off ¨C he materializes a foot too high, falling awkwardly to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, looking green around the gills.
I feel a little sorry for him. That adjustment period is killer.
Rampart''s dealing with Phillies Cap, so I turn my attention to Jumphead. He sees me coming and tries to teleport again. This time he appears to my left, stumbling as he rematerializes. I don''t even break stride, just pivot and keep moving towards him.
He panics, blinking in and out of existence rapid-fire. It''s like watching a strobe light, flashes of a terrified face appearing and disappearing around me. But each time he reappears, he looks more disoriented, more sick.
Finally, he pops into existence right in front of me, doubled over and retching. I almost feel bad for him as I grab his arm, twisting it behind his back in a standard hold. He doesn''t even try to resist.
I look around, assessing the situation. Red Bandana and Gold Watch are both down for the count. Rampart''s got Phillies Cap pinned against a wall. The whole thing''s taken maybe two minutes, tops.
And I''m... bored. Like, really bored. My heart''s barely even racing. Is this what it''s come to? Street thugs don''t even register as a threat anymore? Nobody here is older than eighteen, I bet - stubbly high school drop outs with maybe half a wrinkle between the four of them, looking to get rich on some other druggie''s stolen supply.
Jumphead makes a weak attempt to teleport out of my hold, but he only manages to shift about a foot to the left without clipping me, so I grab his other arm and pin him once more. The sudden movement makes him gag again.
"I wouldn''t do that if I were you," I tell him, not unkindly. "You''re just making yourself sick."
He mumbles something that might be agreement, or might just be more retching.
Rampart''s got Phillies Cap subdued, tied up with zip ties that I imagine he always has on his person. Red Bandana and Gold Watch are starting to stir, groaning and clutching various body parts.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
"Sam," Rampart calls out. "You good?"
"Yeah," I reply, surprised at how calm I sound. "No problem here."
And that''s when Gold Watch, apparently not as out of it as I thought, launches himself at me from behind. His piece of plywood catches me in the back of the head, sending me stumbling forward. Stars explode in my vision, and for a moment, everything goes fuzzy.
Now this is more like it.
My heart beats twice, hard.
The world snaps back into focus, sharper than before. I can feel my pulse quickening, adrenaline flooding my system, and possibly another concussion that I''ll shake off in a couple of hours. Maybe. I''ve been hit in the head much harder. I spin around on my heel and try to smash my arm through his piece of plywood, but it ends up being thicker than I expect, and I bounce off of it. We both reel back like two halves of a cymbal, and he recovers just a little faster than I do.
I duck under his swing, pivoting on my heel. My elbow comes up, catching him under the chin. His head snaps back, and he crumples to the ground.
The whole sequence takes maybe two seconds, but it feels like an eternity. For those brief moments, I''m fully alive, every nerve singing with electricity.
And then it''s over.
Gold Watch is down, this time for good. Jumphead''s power seems to have fizzled out ¨C he''s on his hands and knees, body shuddering. Red Bandana and Phillies Cap are both secured.
Rampart looks at me, concern evident in his eyes. "You okay? That looked like a nasty hit."
I nod, already feeling the ache in my head fading, replaced with a comfortable, fuzzy buzz, like what I imagine being drunk is like. My regeneration''s taking care of it. "I''m fine. Just caught me off guard."
He nods, but I can tell he''s not entirely convinced. "Alright. Let''s see what these guys can tell us about their operation."
As Rampart starts questioning Red Bandana, I find myself almost wishing for another fight. Something challenging, something that would make me feel... something. Anything other than this vague sense of disappointment. I turn my attention back to Jumphead, who''s finally stopped dry heaving and is now just sitting on the ground, looking miserable. Time to see what he knows about this whole mess.
Rampart stands over the four subdued thugs, his imposing figure casting long shadows in the rapidly dimming light along 9th street. The air is thick with tension, the only sounds the ragged breathing of our would-be attackers and the distant hum of city traffic, skateboarders passing us by with a wide berth. It''s not like fights don''t break out here frequently enough. I can feel my pulse slowly returning to normal, the brief excitement from the fight already fading into a dull, familiar ache.
"Alright, gentlemen," Rampart says, his voice low and controlled. "Let''s have a chat."
The effect is immediate. Red Bandana and Gold Watch start squirming, their eyes darting around like cornered animals. "Look, man," Red Bandana blurts out, his tough-guy act crumbling. "We don''t want no trouble. We ain''t said nothing to nobody."
Gold Watch nods frantically, wincing as the movement aggravates what''s probably a nasty headache. "Yeah, yeah. We''re just small-time, you know? We don''t know nothing important."
Rampart holds up a hand, silencing their babbling. "Relax. We''re not cops. Didn''t you listen earlier?"
That gets their attention. They exchange wary glances, confusion written all over their faces. I can almost see the gears turning in their heads, trying to figure out who we are and what we want.
"Then what..." Gold Watch starts, but Rampart cuts him off.
"We just want information," he says, his tone making it clear this isn''t a request. "Who''s really dealing the Jump? Who''s in charge of your operation?"
Red Bandana laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Operation? Man, you think we''re some kind of big boys or something? We''re just trying to make a buck, same as anyone."
I step forward, fixing them with a hard stare. "By pushing Jump? By roughing up other dealers?" My voice drips with disdain. "Yeah, real noble work you''re doing."
Gold Watch at least has the decency to look ashamed. Red Bandana just shrugs, as much as he can while tied up. "It''s a living."
"That''s the life, man. You gotta rub out the competition," Gold Watch says, earning an elbow from his compatriot. "Hey!"
"We didn''t kill nobody. Just roughin'' up a couple guys on our turf. You know," Red Bandana clarifies.
Rampart sighs, rubbing his temples. "Look, we don''t care about your petty deals. We''re after the big fish. Give us something useful, and we''ll let you walk."
That perks them up. Red Bandana and Gold Watch exchange another look, this one filled with hope and a hint of desperation. "For real?" Gold Watch asks. "You''ll just let us go?"
Jumphead retches quietly.
Rampart nods. "As long as you give us something good. And maybe consider a career change."
They both nod eagerly. "Yeah, yeah, sure," Red Bandana says. "Whatever you say, man."
I can''t help but roll my eyes. It''s almost pathetic how quickly they''re willing to sell out their bosses to save their own skins. But then again, honor among thieves has always been more of a myth than a reality.
"So?" I prompt. "Who''s calling the shots?"
Red Bandana and Gold Watch look at each other, then at Jumphead, who''s still looking too nauseous to contribute much to the conversation.
"Ask Jackie," Red Bandana says. "He''s the one with the connections."
They turn to Phillies Cap - Jackie, apparently - who''s been suspiciously quiet this whole time. He suddenly looks like he''d rather be anywhere else in the world. His jaw is clenched tight, eyes wide with what looks like genuine fear.
Rampart crouches down in front of him. "Jackie? You want to tell us what''s going on?"
Jackie shakes his head frantically, his whole body tensing up. It''s like he''s physically trying to open his mouth, and it''s not working.
I frown, stepping closer. "Come on, Jackie. We''re not here to hurt you. We just want to know who''s behind all this."
The more we press, the more distressed Jackie becomes. His face is turning red with effort, veins bulging in his neck. It''s like he''s fighting some internal battle, and losing badly.
"What''s wrong with him?" Gold Watch asks, sounding genuinely concerned. "Jackie, man, you okay?"
Jackie doesn''t respond. He''s trembling now, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes are darting around wildly, like he''s looking for an escape that isn''t there.
Rampart and I exchange a worried glance. This isn''t normal. Something''s very wrong here.
"Jackie," I say, trying to keep my voice calm and soothing. "It''s okay. You''re safe. Just take a deep breath and relax."
Jackie does not look like he''s capable of taking a deep breath or relaxing even if he tried. I squat down on my heels, elbows on my knees. My brow furrows. I go for the kill shot. "Jackie, I''m going to need you to be honest with me," I say, getting ready to drop the motherlode. I know where it''s coming from. I remember Sparkplug, and his insane ranting.
"Did you get it from Rogue Wave?"
The effect is instantaneous and terrifying. Jackie''s eyes glaze over, all emotion draining from his face. For a split second, he''s perfectly still.
Then, with a sound like a gunshot, the zip ties around his wrists snap.
Chapter 128.2
Before I can even process what''s happening, Jackie launches himself at me with inhuman speed and strength. His hands are outstretched, thumbs aimed directly at my eyes. There''s no trace of the scared, conflicted guy from moments ago. His face is a mask of pure, murderous intent.
I manage to get my arms up just in time to block his initial lunge, but the force of it sends me stumbling backward. I trip over a piece of debris and go down hard, Jackie on top of me.
For a moment, all I can focus on is keeping his hands away from my face. His strength is unreal - it''s like trying to hold back a freight train with my bare hands. I can feel my arms trembling with the effort, muscles screaming in protest.
"Rampart!" I yell, my voice strained. "A little help here!"
I hear a scuffle, then Rampart''s there, grabbing Jackie and trying to pull him off me. But it''s like Jackie doesn''t even notice. His eyes are fixed on me, his entire being focused on one goal: my destruction.
I manage to get a knee up between us, creating some space. With a burst of strength, I shove Jackie back, scrambling to my feet while Rampart gets the yoink. Rampart grabs Jackie by the wrists, trying to restrain him. But Jackie''s so focused on me that he doesn''t even seem to register Rampart''s presence. He keeps struggling, trying to get at me with single-minded determination.
"What the hell?" I gasp, while Rampart tries to maneuver him into a bear hug without letting him get a swipe at me. "It''s like he''s possessed or something!"
The other guys are freaking out, shouting and trying to back away. Jumphead looks like he''s about to pass out from sheer terror. I know how he feels. I''ve been in creepier situations than this, but this is definitely up there.
Rampart''s wiggled Jackie into a bear hug now, keeping him pinned easily with his powers, but Jackie''s still trying to claw his way out, taking advantage of even the tiniest gap in Rampart''s squeeze. "Bee," he grunts, "get the others out of here!"
I nod, quickly moving to untie Red Bandana and Gold Watch. "Go," I tell them, my voice urgent. "Get out of here, now!"
They don''t need to be told twice. As soon as they''re free, they''re scrambling to their feet and running like the devil himself is after them. I turn to Jumphead, who''s still on the ground, looking shell-shocked. I grab his arm, half lifting him to his feet, and I practically smell the vomit on his breath. Bile and stomach acid. Gross.
"Come on," I say, pushing him towards the exit. "You need to go. Now!"
He stumbles forward, looking back at Jackie with wide, terrified eyes. "What¡ what''s happening to him?"
I shake my head. "I don''t know. But you need to get out of here. Go!"
Finally, he turns and runs, following the others into the maze of construction, towards Master Street.
I turn back to Rampart and Jackie. Rampart''s got him pinned to the ground now, but Jackie''s still struggling, his eyes fixed on me with murderous intent. It''s like he doesn''t even notice Rampart, like he''s not even there.
"What do we do?" I ask, my voice shaky. "We can''t call the police, we''re not supposed to be here. We''re not supposed to be doing this."
Rampart''s face is grim, his jaw clenched with light effort. "We might not have a choice. Whatever''s happened to him, it''s beyond our ability to handle."
I bite my lip, weighing our options. Calling the Delaware Valley Defenders would mean admitting we''ve been doing unsanctioned hero work. We''d be in so much trouble - not legally, but, like, you know, with our authority figures. Our Role Models, TM. But looking at Jackie, at the inhuman strength and focus he''s displaying, his skin beginning to tear at the force of his writhing, I''m not sure we have any other choice.
Before I can make a decision, Rampart takes a deep breath. His face contorts with a mixture of determination and regret. Then, in one swift motion, he clamps his hand over Jackie''s mouth and nose.
For a moment, nothing changes. Jackie continues to struggle, his body straining against Rampart''s hold. But slowly, gradually, his movements become less frantic. His eyes start to lose focus, the murderous intent fading into confusion, then a gentle frustration.
And then, finally, unconsciousness.
Jackie goes limp in Rampart''s arms, his body sagging like a puppet with its strings cut. Rampart holds on for a few seconds longer, making sure Jackie''s really out, before gently lowering him to the ground.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
We both stand there for a moment, breathing heavily, staring at Jackie''s unconscious form. The sudden silence is deafening.
"What¡" I start, then have to clear my throat and try again. "What the hell was that?"
Rampart shakes his head, looking as shaken as I feel. "I don''t know. I''ve never seen anything like it."
I take a step closer, peering at Jackie. His face is peaceful now, no trace of the murderous rage from moments ago. "It was like¡ like he was a different person."
"Yeah," Rampart agrees, his voice grim. "Whatever it was, it wasn''t natural. And it wasn''t Jump, either. This was something else."
I nod, worrying my lower lip between my teeth. "Rogue Wave," I murmur. "That''s what set him off. When I mentioned Rogue Wave."
Rampart looks at me sharply. "What do you think?"
"You don''t remember?" I say, thinking back. "Sparkplug mentioned it, back when we busted him. He was ranting about it, but I didn''t think much of it at the time."
Rampart''s brow dips down. "Right. Whoever they are. Or whatever, whoever it is, you know¡ it''s a great big blank."
I nod, but I can''t help the knot of dread forming in my stomach. "We''re going to be in so much trouble."
Rampart sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe. But this is too important to keep quiet. Whatever''s going on here, it''s dangerous. We can''t handle it on our own."
I know he''s right, but it doesn''t make the prospect any more appealing. "So what do we do now?"
Rampart looks around, taking in the scattered debris and signs of our fight. "For now, we clean up what we can. Make Jackie comfortable. Then we head back to headquarters and report everything."
"Everything?" I ask, my voice small.
Rampart meets my eyes, his expression serious but kind. "Everything. No secrets, Sam. This is too big for that now."
I nod, resigned to the tongue-lashing I''m about to receive. "Okay. Let''s do it."
We spend the next few minutes tidying up as best we can, making sure there''s no obvious signs of a superhuman fight. Rampart moves Jackie to a more comfortable position, propped up against some sandbags. We can''t just leave him here, but we can''t take him with us either. It''s an impossible situation, but we do our best.
Finally, we''re ready to go. As we start walking back towards the Delaware Valley Defenders headquarters, the reality of what we''ve just experienced - and what we''re about to do - starts to sink in.
"Hey," Rampart says, nudging my shoulder gently. "It''ll be okay. We did the right thing."
I nod, trying to believe it. "Yeah. I guess so."
We walk in silence for a while, our footsteps falling into an unconscious rhythm. Heading south on 9th Street, I find myself fixating on the patterns in the cracked sidewalk. Every few squares, a faded hopscotch grid appears, barely visible ghosts of chalk long washed away.
As we cross Fairmount Avenue, my gaze drifts to the powerlines overhead. I count the shoes dangling from the wires - three pairs within two blocks. An old superstition flits through my mind, but I push it aside, focusing instead on the steady thrum of distant traffic.
Approaching Spring Garden Street, I notice how the architecture shifts. Older row homes give way to newer constructions, their facades a patchwork of styles and eras. A neon "OPEN" sign flickers erratically in a bodega window, its green light painting fleeting patterns on the pavement.
We turn right onto Callowhill, and I find myself cataloging the street signs we pass. 8th, 7th, 6th - each intersection a subtle reminder of our progress. The rumble of the El train vibrates through the soles of my shoes as we pass beneath it.
As we near Broad Street, I count fourteen pigeons pecking at a spilled bag of chips on the corner. Their cooing provides a strangely soothing backdrop to our silent march. We cross, leaving behind the relative bustle of the eastern half of Center City.
The quiet of the western district settles around us like a blanket. Here, my attention turns to the trees lining the streets, their leaves just beginning to show hints of autumn colors. I catalog each species as we pass - oak, maple, sycamore - a mental inventory to occupy my racing thoughts.
As we near the headquarters, Rampart suddenly stops. "Oh, crap," he says.
I look at him, confused. "What?"
He grins, but it''s a tired, strained expression. "We forgot to get Captain Plasma his Wawa."
Despite everything, I can''t help but laugh. It''s a slightly hysterical sound, but it breaks the tension. "I guess we''ll have to face him without a peace offering."
The Delaware Valley Defenders headquarters feels different at night. The usual bustle of heroes, support staff, and the occasional civilian visitor is replaced by an eerie quiet, broken only by the hum of electronics and the distant whir of the building''s HVAC system. As Rampart and I make our way through the corridors, our footsteps echo off the polished floors, each sound a reminder of the confrontation to come.
The meeting room door looms before us, its sleek metal surface reflecting our distorted images back at us. I catch a glimpse of myself - disheveled hair, a smudge of dirt on my cheek, eyes wide with a mixture of adrenaline and apprehension. Rampart looks equally worse for wear, his usually immaculate uniform rumpled and torn in places, although his annoyingly perfect skin is flawless as ever. We exchange a glance, a silent moment of solidarity before he reaches out and pushes the door open.
Rampart catches my eye, giving me a reassuring nod. "Ready?"
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. "As I''ll ever be."
The door swings open, and I''m immediately hit by a wave of relief. The room isn''t packed with disapproving faces like I''d feared. Instead, there are only two people waiting for us: Captain Plasma and Fury Forge. It''s not ideal, but it could be worse. At least Multiplex isn''t here - I don''t think I could handle his particular brand of disappointment right now.
Captain Plasma is leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression is neutral, but there''s a tension in his shoulders that betrays his unease. Fury Forge, on the other hand, is sitting at the table, her tattooed arms spread wide as she leans back in her chair. She looks¡ tired. Not angry, not disappointed, just exhausted. The lines around her eyes are more pronounced than usual, and for a moment, I''m struck by how old she looks. Not that she''s ancient or anything, but in this moment, the weight of her responsibilities seems to have aged her a decade.
Chapter 128.3
The clock on the wall ticks loudly in the silence as Rampart and I stand there, uncertain. Finally, Captain Plasma speaks, his voice carefully controlled.
"Well," he says, pushing off from the wall. "I suppose we should be grateful that Multiplex isn''t here. He''d be chewing your ears off right about now."
Fury Forge snorts, a sound somewhere between amusement and frustration. "Yeah, well, maybe that''s what they need. A good ear-chewing might knock some sense into them."
I bristle at that, opening my mouth to defend myself, but Rampart puts a hand on my shoulder, silently urging me to stay calm. He''s right, of course. Getting defensive now won''t help our case.
"We didn''t mean to cause trouble," Rampart says, his voice steady. "We were just trying to help."
Fury Forge leans forward, her eyes narrowing. "Help? By beating up some street-level dealers? What exactly did you think you were going to accomplish?"
"We got information," I interject, unable to keep quiet any longer. "Important information about-"
"About what?" Fury Forge cuts me off. "About some low-level drug operation? Do you think that''s worth risking your safety, your reputation, the reputation of this entire organization?"
I feel my face heating up, a mix of anger and embarrassment. "It wasn''t just some drug operation. There was something else going on, something bigger. We-"
"Sam," Captain Plasma interrupts gently. "I know you think you were doing the right thing. But you have to understand the position you''ve put us in. What if those guys decide to press charges? Are you comfortable going to court to defend your actions? Your job is not to be judge, jury, and executioner."
The question hits me like a bucket of cold water. My mind races, trying to find a justification, an explanation that will make them understand my point of view. If I just find the right combination of words, they''ll know what I meant to do, and they''ll understand. "But they were criminals," I protest weakly. "They stabbed someone. That''s how we found them in the first place."
Fury Forge''s eyebrows shoot up. "So you punished them?"
A small squeak comes out of my mouth.
"Did you at least patch up the first guy?" Captain Plasma asks, sounding more exhausted than anything else.
"Yes," I mumble.
He nods at me. "Good job," he says, and it almost makes me feel better.
I want to argue, to explain that it wasn''t like that at all, but the words die in my throat. I can explain this. I just need to find the right words and this can all be over. "They came at us first. We were being threatened," I try to say, but as soon as it comes out of me, Fury Forge''s look dumps another bucket of ice over my head.
"Did you, or did you not, escalate an already volatile situation with people you knew were armed and willing to attack you? Yes or no," she says, and I can feel the period at the end of her sentence even if I can''t imagine it in the constantly-running closed captions in my brain.
Rampart steps forward, drawing their attention. "It was my idea," he says firmly. "I take full responsibility. Sam was just following my lead."
I whirl on him, indignant. "That''s not true! I was the one who-"
"It doesn''t matter whose idea it was," Captain Plasma interrupts, his voice tinged with a gentle, painful frustration. "What matters is that it happened at all. You''re supposed to be setting an example, for your fellow young superheroes and people your age in general. What kind of message would this send if someone recorded it? What sort of message does it send to your teammates?"
The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel the weight of their disappointment pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. Part of me wants to keep arguing, to make them understand why we did what we did. If I chew my foot off enough times, I''m sure I can end this. Please. Please, G-d.
Fury Forge sighs heavily, rubbing her temples. "Look," she says, her voice softer now. "I get it. You''re young, you''re passionate, you want to make a difference. But this¡ this isn''t the way to do it. We''ve been failing you kids, and that''s on us. We should have been teaching you how to be real heroes, not just¡ super-powered thugs."
Her words sting, but there''s a vulnerability in her tone that catches me off guard. I''ve never heard Fury Forge sound so¡ uncertain. It''s unsettling, like seeing a crack in a foundation you thought was unshakeable.
"We''ve been so caught up in dealing with the aftermath of¡ everything," she continues, her eyes distant. "We haven''t had time to focus on what really matters. Teaching you how to use your skills responsibly, how to investigate, how to think before you act."This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Captain Plasma nods, his expression softening slightly. "They told me Diane was handling a lot of that. While everyone else had their nose in the criminal stuff. And¡" He trails off, letting me finish the sentence in my head.
I feel a lump forming in my throat. I want to say something, to reassure them that we''re not complete failures, that we have learned something. But before I can find the words, Rampart speaks up.
"You''re right," he says quietly. "We should have known better. I should have known better. As the leader of the Young Defenders, it''s my responsibility to set a good example. I failed in that tonight."
His admission seems to take some of the wind out of Fury Forge''s sails. She slumps back in her chair, looking more tired than ever. "It''s not just on you, kid. We all dropped the ball here. Ugh, I can''t believe I''m saying this, but maybe we need to take a step back, reevaluate how we''re doing things."
Captain Plasma nods thoughtfully. "You might be right. But for now¡" He turns to us, his expression serious. "We need to deal with the immediate fallout of this. You said you got some important information? Let''s hear it."
I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "Right. So, we were questioning these guys about their operation, trying to figure out who was really behind the Jump distribution. And then I mentioned Rogue Wave."
The change in the room is immediate. Captain Plasma stands up straighter, his eyes sharpening with interest. Fury Forge leans forward, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
"Rogue Wave?" she repeats. "The thing Sparkplug was ranting about?"
"Right, I never forgot about it," I explain quickly. "I didn''t think much of it at the time, but¡" I hesitate, unsure how to describe what happened next.
Rampart picks up the thread. "When Sam mentioned Rogue Wave, one of the guys we were questioning¡ changed. It was like he was possessed or something. He broke out of his restraints and tried to attack Sam. It took both of us to subdue him. His wrists were bleeding afterwards, I checked him - he just snapped right through the zip ties."
Captain Plasma and Fury Forge exchange a loaded glance. "Possessed¡" Captain Plasma says slowly.
"Mmm," Fury Forge hums, her brow scrunched. "I don''t think you should make a habit of carrying around zip ties as a civilian but we''ll deal with that later. For now, it''s possible we have a mind controller running around, and that''s¡ bad,"
Mind controller. The thought makes me intensely uncomfortable - makes the skin on the back of my neck feel like it wants to crawl off. I can almost see the gears turning in their heads, piecing together this new information with whatever they already know.
"This is concerning," Captain Plasma finally says, after way too long. "If there''s some kind of mind control or conditioning at play here, it could be far more serious than we initially thought."
Fury Forge nods grimly. "We need to look into this. Carefully. And properly." She fixes us with a stern look. "Which means no more unauthorized patrols or vigilante justice. Understood?"
Rampart and I nod, chastened but also relieved. At least they''re taking our information seriously.
"Good," Fury Forge continues. "Because as of now, the Young Defenders are grounded. Not in the ''you''re in trouble'' sense, but in the ''you''re not flying anywhere'' sense. We need to reevaluate our approach, figure out where we went wrong and how to fix it."
"But-" I start to protest, but Captain Plasma holds up a hand.
"No buts, Sam. This is for your own safety as much as anything else. Whatever''s going on with this Rogue Wave business, it''s clearly dangerous. We can''t risk sending you kids out there unprepared, especially if there''s someone out there operating with mind control powers. What if they got to you? At least us old folks have already burnt through most of our good time. You two have the rest of your superhero careers - and your normal lives - to think about. Don''t let it be tainted by a mind controller making you accessory to something heinous."
I want to argue, to point out that we''ve faced dangerous situations before. But I can see in their faces that this decision is final. And if I''m being honest with myself, a small part of me is relieved. The memory of Jackie''s blank, murderous stare is still fresh in my mind, and the thought of facing something like that again without understanding what we''re up against is¡ unsettling. The sort of blankness in a dog''s face, the fighting dogs Jordan and I rescued early on in our vigilante careers. When they don''t know how to do anything else but attack.
Rampart nods, accepting the decision with his usual stoic grace. "We understand. What do you want us to do in the meantime?"
Fury Forge stands up, stretching out her muscular arms. "For now? Go home. Get some rest. We''ll regroup tomorrow and start working on a new training regimen. One that focuses on the non-fighting parts, critical thinking, and responsible use of your powers."
"And Sam?" Captain Plasma adds, his voice gentler now. "I know Bulwark and Crossroads would probably be disappointed if they were here. But they''d also be proud of you for owning up to your mistakes and trying to make things right."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The emotional whiplash of the past few hours is starting to catch up with me, leaving me feeling drained and a little lost.
As we turn to leave, Fury Forge calls out one last time. "Oh, and kids? Next time you promise to bring someone a hoagie, try to actually follow through. I think we could all use a little comfort food right about now."
I can''t help but smile a little, but it comes out weird when one of my tooth caps catches on my lip and pulls itself off. I spend a couple of awkward seconds re-adjusting it. And then I smile again.
As Rampart and I make our way out of the headquarters, the weight of everything that''s happened tonight settles over us like a heavy blanket. We walk in silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts.
Finally, as we reach the point where we''ll have to part ways, Rampart turns to me. "You okay?" he asks, his voice low and concerned.
I shrug, not sure how to answer. "I don''t know," I admit. "Are you?"
He lets out a long breath. "Not really. But we''ll figure it out. We always do."
I nod, grateful for his steady presence. "Yeah. We will."
He walks away.
The street stretches out before me, quiet and familiar in the late-night calm. Somewhere out there, Jackie is probably waking up, confused and disoriented. Somewhere, the other guys we confronted are nursing their bruises, hopefully reconsidering their life choices. And somewhere, lurking in the shadows, is a mystery that needs solving.
As I round the corner onto my street, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a darkened shop window. For a moment, I see myself as others might see me - just a kid in a hoodie, looking a little lost and a lot tired. But then I blink, and I see something else. I''m not sure what it is, but it''s not a kid in a hoodie.
WORLD OF CHUM: Psionics (2)
The Telepathy Problem: Why We Can¡¯t Read Minds¡ªAnd What It Means for the Future of Dynology
By Dr. Elise Roughton, Senior Contributor at SciNow!
When superpowers first began appearing in the 1980s, the public imagination quickly turned to a question that seemed straight out of science fiction: telepathy. If people could fly, move objects with their minds, and control fire, surely the ability to read another person¡¯s thoughts wasn¡¯t far behind. And yet, after nearly fifty years of research into the limits of human metahuman capabilities, one fact has become glaringly apparent: telepathy¡ªat least, the kind where you can directly read someone¡¯s thoughts¡ªis impossible.
In the world of Dynology, the ability to transmit thoughts or even control minds is well-documented. But no metahuman, no matter how powerful, has ever demonstrated the ability to receive someone¡¯s thoughts or perceive their innermost ideas directly from their brain. This strange limitation¡ªdubbed the Telepathy Problem¡ªhas not only stymied scientists for decades but also raised fundamental questions about the nature of thought, consciousness, and the human brain.
What Exactly is the Telepathy Problem?
The Telepathy Problem refers to the inability of any known metahuman to directly receive, interpret, or access the active thoughts of another person. While we have seen powers like mind control, where someone can influence or override another¡¯s mind, and even powers that allow for the transmission of thoughts (essentially ¡°pushing¡± thoughts into another person¡¯s head), the one-way nature of these abilities has puzzled researchers for years.
Why can thoughts be pushed into someone¡¯s mind but not pulled from them? And why, despite everything we know about brainwaves, neurons, and electrical activity in the brain, can no one simply "listen in" on another person¡¯s thoughts?
Dr. Lucia Solis, a leading expert in cognitive powers at the Dynological Institute of Madrid, sums up the paradox: ¡°It¡¯s as if every brain has a transmitter but no receiver. We can broadcast our intent outward in controlled ways, but receiving live, real-time thoughts? That¡¯s where we hit a wall.¡±
What We Can Do: Push, Control, and Manipulate
Before diving into why the Telepathy Problem exists, it¡¯s important to clarify what is possible. Despite the limitations on direct thought reception, there are several well-documented mental abilities in the metahuman population:
1. Mind Control
The ability to influence another person¡¯s thoughts and actions¡ªsometimes subtly, sometimes directly¡ªis a known power. Mind controllers like the infamous villain "Hypnos" use their abilities to override a target¡¯s conscious thoughts and implant new commands. However, this process involves pushing signals into the brain, essentially hijacking neural activity, rather than reading existing thoughts.
2. Thought Transmission
Several metahumans possess the ability to transmit thoughts into the minds of others. These thoughts can take the form of commands, mental images, or even ideas and emotions. However, transmission is a one-way street: the person receiving the thought has no ability to transmit their own thoughts back or ¡°hear¡± the sender¡¯s ongoing mental chatter.
3. Memory Reading and Manipulation
Perhaps the closest thing to telepathy, some individuals can access and even alter the memories of others. This process, however, is distinct from reading active thoughts: memories are stored data in the brain, encoded in networks of neurons that remain largely static until recalled. This makes them more accessible than the dynamic flow of real-time thoughts, which are constantly changing and influenced by context, mood, and external stimuli.
Why Can¡¯t We Read Minds? The Theories Behind the Telepathy Problem
Over the years, several theories have emerged to explain why direct telepathy remains out of reach. Here¡¯s a look at the leading ideas, as well as the implications they carry for both science and metahuman potential.
1. The Cognitive Noise Theory
One of the most prominent theories, the Cognitive Noise Theory, suggests that the human brain is simply too messy to allow for direct thought reception. The brain is constantly processing sensory input, managing bodily functions, retrieving memories, and running background operations like pattern recognition and language processing.
According to Dr. Janine Klyne, a neurodynologist at Stanford University, ¡°The signals that represent ¡®thoughts¡¯ are buried beneath layers of other brain activity. Even if someone could tap into another person¡¯s neural network, what they¡¯d receive wouldn¡¯t be coherent thoughts¡ªit would be a garbled mess of electrical impulses, firing neurons, and subconscious processes.¡±Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
In this view, the brain¡¯s electrical activity is more like static than a clear broadcast. Thoughts are highly subjective, influenced by a person¡¯s unique neural architecture, memories, and emotions. The sheer amount of background noise makes it nearly impossible for an outside party to isolate a single coherent train of thought from the chaos.
2. The "Brain-to-Brain Mismatch" Hypothesis
Another leading idea is the Brain-to-Brain Mismatch Hypothesis, which suggests that thoughts are too personalized to be understood by anyone other than the person who generated them. Essentially, no two brains are exactly alike, and the way we process and structure our thoughts is unique to our own biology and experiences.
Imagine trying to read a book written in a language that has no known translation. That¡¯s what attempting to read someone¡¯s thoughts might be like. Every brain has its own ¡°language¡±¡ªan internal code of neurons firing in patterns shaped by a person¡¯s memories, experiences, and genetics. Even if a metahuman could perceive the electrical activity in another¡¯s brain, they wouldn¡¯t be able to interpret it because it¡¯s not formatted in a way they can understand.
Dr. Solis puts it this way: ¡°Even if we could tap into another person¡¯s thoughts, it would be like trying to understand music by looking at a broken radio signal. The underlying patterns are there, but they¡¯re encoded in ways that don¡¯t make sense outside the person¡¯s own brain.¡±
3. The Quantum Mind Hypothesis
A more recent and controversial theory is the Quantum Mind Hypothesis, which suggests that conscious thought may operate on principles similar to quantum mechanics. According to this theory, thoughts exist in a kind of quantum superposition, where multiple potential ideas or actions are present until the person thinking them "collapses" them into a single coherent thought.
If thoughts do operate at a quantum level, this would explain why telepathy is impossible: quantum states are notoriously difficult to observe without altering them. The very act of trying to perceive someone¡¯s thoughts could interfere with their mental processes, much like how observing a quantum particle collapses its superposition.
Proponents of this idea, such as Dr. Kamil Zarif of the University of Prague, believe that consciousness itself might be a quantum phenomenon, meaning that thoughts exist in a highly fragile state. ¡°We might never be able to read thoughts,¡± Zarif argues, ¡°because the act of observing them would fundamentally change what we¡¯re trying to observe.¡±
4. The Privacy of Consciousness Theory
Perhaps the most intriguing idea comes from philosophers of mind, who argue that consciousness is inherently private. This Privacy of Consciousness Theory suggests that thoughts are not just neurological patterns but also subjective, first-person experiences that are inherently shielded from external observation.
In this view, telepathy fails not because of limitations in biology or technology, but because thoughts are not external phenomena¡ªthey are internal experiences that can¡¯t be accessed by anyone else. Proponents argue that while the brain¡¯s neural activity can influence the outside world (as in mind control or memory alteration), the core of conscious thought remains locked inside the individual.
What Are the Implications of the Telepathy Problem?
The Telepathy Problem has far-reaching implications not just for Dynology but also for fields as diverse as neuroscience, ethics, and philosophy. If direct thought reading is impossible, it challenges the very nature of how we understand consciousness and the limits of human interaction. Here are a few of the most significant implications:
1. Consciousness May Be More Complex Than We Think
The fact that we can¡¯t receive thoughts suggests that consciousness might be far more complex than we currently understand. It could be that the brain is not just a biological machine generating electrical signals, but something deeper¡ªsomething tied to quantum states or subjective experiences that we¡¯ve only just begun to comprehend.
2. Ethical Questions About Privacy and Power
If telepathy is impossible, it offers a small comfort in a world where mind control and thought transmission are real. For now, at least, our innermost thoughts remain private. However, the fact that memories can be read and altered raises important ethical questions about mental privacy. Are memories, as ¡°stored data,¡± fair game for those with the power to access them? And where should the line be drawn between mind control and ethical influence?
3. Future Research May Open New Doors
While the Telepathy Problem suggests limits to what we can do with thought reception, it¡¯s also a signpost for future research. If we can crack the code of how the brain processes and organizes thoughts, it might lead to advances in neuroscience, allowing us to better understand mental illness, consciousness disorders, and brain-machine interfaces. The inability to read thoughts may actually drive new innovations in artificial intelligence and cognitive technology.
Conclusion
The Telepathy Problem has become one of the great unsolved mysteries of Dynology. While we may never be able to directly access someone¡¯s thoughts, the search for answers has already led us to deeper questions about the nature of consciousness, free will, and what it means to be human. As our understanding of the brain evolves, it¡¯s possible that new breakthroughs will shed light on these elusive questions¡ªor raise even more intriguing ones.
For now, your thoughts remain your own. But the implications of the Telepathy Problem are far from settled.
Dr. Elise Roughton is a cognitive scientist and senior contributor to SciNow!, specializing in metahuman research, neurology, and speculative science.
Chapter 129.1
The text from Jordan''s phone is punctuated with about a dozen exclamation points.
"CPS AGENT COMING TO INTERVIEW US ASAP FOR CONNOR''S ADOPTION!!!!! NEED YOU HERE TO HELP CLEAN UP!!!"
I''m already halfway to the Music Hall by the time I finish reading the message. Jordan''s barely literate textspeak is almost comically at odds with the urgency of the situation, but even their hyperbolic use of punctuation can''t diminish the sinking feeling in my gut. We''ve been dreading this moment for weeks now, ever since I told Jordan what Crossroads told me and Jordan was like "of course I know that already, stupid, we''re dating".
As I run the remaining few blocks, I start mentally reviewing all the hasty "de-superheroing" measures we''ve taken at the Music Hall in preparation for this visit. The map room with its sprawling schematics and corkboards tracking criminal activity across Tacony has been stripped bare, the walls newly painted in an innocuous beige that I''m pretty sure is just called "Eggshell" by the hardware store. The many digital stations for research have been shoved into a closet. Even the security system has been toned down a notch.
Then there''s the Faraday cage room. How the hell are we supposed to explain that away to a Child Protective Services case worker? I can already hear Jordan''s cover story about needing it for "cybersecurity testing purposes" ringing hollow in my mind.
As I bound up the Music Hall''s front steps, I straighten my t-shirt and do a quick check to ensure my short hair isn''t a total mess from the moisture in the air and the gentle snow. I''ve put on a fresh pair of jeans without rips or frays, hoping to at least superficially present a more respectable appearance for our visitor. Not that I''m dressing to impress, per se, but any little bit could potentially help reinforce the image of a couple responsible young teenagers looking after an adopted teenager.
Of course, the reality couldn''t be further from that wholesome picture. We''re a motley crew of untrained, unsupervised, and utterly unprepared teenage vigilantes barely keeping our dual lives from crashing down around us. But hopefully, with enough preparation and a convincing enough performance, the caseworker will get the impression we have our shit together. At least for one afternoon.
I push open the doors and step into the lobby, ears immediately catching the faint sounds of hasty tidying wafting from the main hall. As I follow the noises, I find Jordan vigorously sweeping the already spotless hardwood floors, while Derek is busy dusting the bannister leading upstairs. They look up as I enter, mirroring expressions of tense anxiety on their faces.
"She''s going to be here any minute," Jordan hisses, confirming what I had already suspected. "We''ve done what we can, but I can''t promise this place won''t still raise some red flags."
Derek grunts in acknowledgment, continuing to buff the bannister with a dingy rag clutched in his calloused hand. "Well, nothing to be done about it now. We''ll just have to pray she''s satisfied with the cover story."
My brow furrows in concern as I sling my backpack off and set it aside. "Speaking of which, what exactly is our cover story again? I feel like it keeps changing every time we discuss it."
Jordan opens their mouth to respond, but the sudden buzzing of the intercom system cuts them off. The three of us instinctively freeze, sharing a series of panicked looks.
"Hello?" a crisp, no-nonsense voice crackles through the speaker. "This is Anna Katz from Child Protective Services. I''m here for the home visit regarding Connor Spinelli''s adoption case."
Jordan jolts into action, nearly dropping their broom as they scramble to press the button and reply. "Y-yes, of course! Come on in!"
A tense silence falls over us as we wait for the sound of approaching footsteps in the five-square-foot lobby leading up to the stairwell. Derek shoots me a sidelong look, muttering under his breath.
"Well, here goes nothing..."
The footsteps soon reveal a middle-aged woman with graying auburn hair pulled into a tight bun atop her head. Even through the thick lenses of her glasses, her eyes are sharp and assessing, taking in every detail of the Music Hall''s lobby as she steps inside. It''s immediately clear this is a woman who misses nothing; the very embodiment of a tenacious social worker who won''t be easily fooled.
She hasn''t even opened her mouth yet, but I can already tell this is going to be an uphill battle.
Jordan puts on their best approximation of a welcoming smile, striding forward with an outstretched hand. "Ms. Katz, welcome! I''m Jordan, and this is my...uh, roommate, Sam. We''re the ones looking after Connor. Right now. I mean. Like, we keep everyone''s shit in order. We''re not his legal guardians."If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Ms. Katz firmly shakes Jordan''s offered hand, her expression carefully neutral. "A pleasure. Now, shall we get started with the tour?"
I can''t help tensing up as those steely eyes briefly flick over to me, feeling like I''m being evaluated on some invisible metric. For someone trained to assess living situations, how much could she already be picking up on just from these brief initial moments?
Pushing those concerns aside for now, I try to adopt a casual, easygoing demeanor as I usher her further into the building. "Of course, right this way! We''ve put a lot of work into making this place feel like a real home."
Those words already taste like lies on my tongue, but I plow forward with forced cheer. "We''ll start in the common area just through those doors over there."
As I push open the set of double doors leading into the main hall, Ms. Katz''s eyes immediately narrow with scrutiny. The spacious room stretches out before us, our makeshift recreational area centered around a cluster of worn but comfortable couches and armchairs arranged in a half-circle. An old TV sits opposite the seating arrangement, while shelves of dusty books, discarded games, and movie collections line the walls in a superficial facade of homeliness.
But it''s obvious this space was never truly intended for such casual domestic purposes. The high, vaulted ceilings and polished hardwood floors practically scream "theater", not "living room". It''s a carefully constructed illusion that already seems in danger of unraveling under Ms. Katz''s piercing gaze. Although I doubt she doesn''t know what the purpose of the building labeled TACONY MUSIC HALL is, so...
"I see..." she murmurs thoughtfully, already circling the space like a hawk eyeing its prey. "And do you often spend time together in this... common area?"
I falter for just a moment, but Jordan swiftly steps in to cover for me. "Oh absolutely! We''re all really tight-knit around here. Movie nights, game tournaments, the whole nine yards. Just trying to create a real sense of community, you know?"
Their breezy deflection only seems to pique Ms. Katz''s curiosity further as she drifts towards the nearest bookshelf, plucking a worn paperback from its place and flipping it over to examine the cover. "Are these the kinds of books you all read for leisure then? Hm... ''Espionage Tradecraft and Counterintelligence''. Riveting stuff, I''m sure."
An awkward silence hangs in the air as Jordan and I share a brief, panicked look. Derek clears his throat gruffly from the back of the group.
"That''s...uh, that''s for my craft. Writing. I''m an aspiring spy novelist..."
I have to resist the urge to facepalm at the half-baked lie. Ms. Katz merely arches an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced as she slips the book back into its spot on the shelf.
"I see. Well, why don''t we move on then? I''d love to see the rest of the residence, if you don''t mind."
Shooting a warning glare at Derek, I force a tight smile and wave a hand towards the exit. "Of course, right this way! We''ll show you the upstairs living quarters next."
As I lead Ms. Katz out of the common area, she casts one final sweeping look over the room, her expression utterly inscrutable. Whatever initial assessment she''s made, she''s keeping it tightly guarded behind that professional mask.
This is going to be a long afternoon.
The upstairs corridors are much easier to dress up in an aura of domesticity; rows of closed doors lining either side suggest innocuous bedrooms and private spaces. Of course, the reality is many of those rooms conceal far more, uh, interesting purposes - gadget closets, telescopes and directional microphones, secured data servers. But as long as we keep those particular doors closed and locked, hopefully Ms. Katz won''t feel the need to pry.
Jordan throws open one of the bedroom doors, revealing a space that has been carefully staged to resemble Connor''s quarters. A twin bed stands pushed against one wall, surrounded by requisite teenage detritus - a cluttered desk, a hamper overflowing with laundry, even the odd stray pizza box or two. Artfully arranged amidst the chaos, a smattering of textbooks, sketchpads, and pencils suggest a space dedicated to academics and creative pursuits.
"This is Connor''s room," Jordan explains, shooting me a sidelong look as Ms. Katz immediately begins her inspection. "We give him his space and privacy, but we''ve also tried to create an environment conducive to learning and personal growth."
I can tell Ms. Katz isn''t entirely buying it as she sifts through the carefully curated clutter, her brow furrowing slightly as she picks up a sketchpad and flips through the pages. I tense, wondering if any of Connor''s sketches give too much away about his true...extracurricular interests.
After a few agonizing moments, she simply sets the pad back down and moves towards the desk, examining the stack of textbooks resting atop it with detached scrutiny. I fight the urge to shift uncomfortably, well aware that some of those books are less focused on traditional academics and more on subjects like sleight of hand.
Seemingly satisfied for now, Ms. Katz straightens and turns to face Jordan once more. "You mentioned creating a nurturing environment for personal growth. How would you characterize your relationship with Connor?"
I have to hand it to Jordan, their poker face remains admirably impassive as they ponder the question. "Well, as I said, we try not to be overbearing. Give him his space while still providing guidance and mentor-"
Jordan''s spiel is abruptly cut off as a sharp rapping sounds from the open doorway behind us. We all turn to find Derek leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest as he regards Ms. Katz with unveiled dislike.
"I''m gonna go ahead and cut the bullshit here," he says brusquely. "Connor ain''t your typical teenager, lady. And we sure as hell ain''t your typical foster parents. But the kid''s been through enough already without getting bounced around the system again, you feel me?"
Ms. Katz frowns at the interruption, clearly displeased by Derek''s bristling hostility. For a moment, it seems like she might rebuke him for his unvarnished manner. But then, to my surprise, she simply inclines her head with the barest hint of acknowledgment.
"Obviously, you aren''t all foster parents. Not one of you looks a day over 18,"
"I''m twenty four!" Derek shouts, drawing a pained wince out of me.
Chapter 129.2
Ms. Katz holds up a hand, forestalling Derek''s outburst. "I''m well aware none of you are actually foster parents. But it''s clear you have an¡unconventional relationship with Connor that has kept him off the streets thus far. And that''s a good thing."
My shoulders slump slightly at her blunt assessment. So much for keeping up appearances - she saw right through our charade from the moment she stepped inside. A part of me feels almost relieved, like a weight has been lifted.
"You don''t have to keep up this facade," Ms. Katz continues, casting an appraising look around the staged bedroom. "I''m not an idiot; I can tell this living situation is¡irregular, to say the least. So instead of continuing to insult us both with these transparently rehearsed cover stories, why don''t you just tell me what your actual relationships with Connor are?"
An uncomfortable silence stretches out as Jordan, Derek and I exchange glances, momentarily at a loss. It''s Tasha''s voice that breaks the tense quiet, accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Everything okay up here? We were just wondering if you still needed help¡"
Tasha trails off as she and Maggie appear in the doorway, clearly picking up on the strained atmosphere in the bedroom. Ms. Katz takes their arrival in stride, impassively turning her attention to the newcomers.
"Ah, and you two must be the rest of¡whatever this group is," she remarks dryly. "Perhaps you can lend some insight as well. I''m simply trying to get a clear picture of the circumstances here."
A muscle twitches in Jordan''s jaw as they evidently wrestle with how much to divulge. Before they can respond, however, I blurt out the first question burning in my mind.
"Speaking of clear pictures, where is Connor right now? Is he¡safe?"
Ms. Katz''s expression softens ever so slightly at my naked concern. "He''s currently having dinner with his prospective adoptive family this evening. We''re simply tying up some loose ends before finalizing the placement process."
A collective wave of relief washes over the room at her reassurance of Connor''s wellbeing. Still, the underlying tension remains thick and palpable in the air.
"I understand you may have your reasons for being¡shall we say, economical with the truth," Ms. Katz continues delicately. "But you should know Connor''s case file is less than complete, to put it mildly. There''s very little official documentation of his background or history prior to certain recent events."
Her pointed look leaves little doubt as to which ''events'' she''s referring to. Fighting down a surge of dread, I swallow heavily and brace myself for the other shoe to drop.
"We''re all aware of Connor''s affiliation with this city''s population of metahuman individuals," Ms. Katz states evenly, her gaze sweeping over each of us in turn. "As well as certain criminal associations in his past. Now, judging by the unique living arrangement I''ve found myself in, I can only assume the rest of you are also involved in similar activities, whether officially sanctioned or not."
The words hang in the air like a challenge, daring any of us to attempt denying the obvious truth she''s laid bare. Derek is the first to break the loaded silence, an inscrutable look flitting across his face.
"So you know the kid was mixed up with the Philly Phreaks back in the day," he says gruffly. "Yeah, no point denying that much, I guess. But he''s been trying to get his shit together since then, you feel me? We''ve been helping keep him on the straight and narrow."
Ms. Katz arches one eloquent eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by Derek''s evasive non-answer. Her piercing gaze lands squarely on Jordan next.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
"And what about you? How would you characterize your¡relationship with Connor?" Her careful phrasing leaves no doubt as to the implications behind that last word.
Jordan visibly tenses for a moment before forcing an air of nonchalance. "We''re partners," they reply simply. "In every sense of the word."
A brief, uncomfortable pause follows before Ms. Katz gives a curt nod of acknowledgment. "I see. Well then, if you don''t mind, I''d like to speak with you privately for a few moments. The rest of you can wait outside."
With that, she gestures towards the open doorway, brooking no argument. Exchanging apprehensive looks with the others, I reluctantly file out of Connor''s staged bedroom and make my way down the hall towards the common area. Tasha and Maggie follow close behind, while Derek lags a few paces back, muttering choice curses under his breath.
Once we''re ensconced in the relative privacy of the main hall, an awkward silence descends over the group. Lowering myself onto one of the worn couches, I can''t help but fidget restlessly as my mind races. Just what exactly is Ms. Katz hoping to get out of questioning Jordan alone? My overactive imagination supplies a dozen increasingly paranoid scenarios, each more unsettling than the last.
I''m abruptly jolted from my anxious reverie by Tasha''s voice piping up from across the room.
"So¡ crazy weather we''ve been having lately, huh?"
Derek snorts derisively at the painfully obvious attempt at casual small talk. "Yeah, Mother Nature''s really going buck wild out there. Snow in November. Never before seen in the American Northeast. Crazy."
Maggie bites her lip, regarding him with a mixture of reproach and uncertainty. "Should we¡ maybe not joke about that kind of thing right now?"
Tasha waves her off with a tight smile. "It''s fine, just trying to defuse the tension a little. So, uh, any fun weekend plans coming up?"
I can''t quite stifle the incredulous look I shoot her way. Is she being serious right now? Still, I suppose meaningless small talk actually is preferable to dwelling on the interrogation taking place just down the hall. Forcing myself to lean back into the couch with a studied air of relaxation, I offer up a halfhearted response.
"Actually, yeah, I''m planning to catch the new Cronenberged movie that just came out. The early reviews have been pretty positive, despite how aggressively weird his stuff tends to be."
Judging by the blank stares I receive in return, my attempt at casual conversation doesn''t quite land. Clearing his throat, Derek leans forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his knees.
"Don''t think any of us are really in the right headspace for idle chitchat about the Alternate Future Mononucleus movie slate, yeah? Pretty sure we''ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment."
A sudden murmur of Jordan''s raised voice leaks through the floorboards above, immediately snapping all of our heads up in rapt attention. Unfortunately, the words are too muffled and indistinct for me to make out anything intelligible. But the sheer piqued tone is enough to communicate the clear strain of the conversation taking place.
Derek''s jaw clenches almost imperceptibly and it''s all I can do to resist the urge to press my ear to the floor and eavesdrop fully. Instead, I settle for straining to catch the back-and-forth flow of the muted voices, worry gnawing insistently at my gut.
Just what exactly is Ms. Katz grilling Jordan about up there? Are they laying everything out in the open - their status as rogue vigilante heroes, the reality of the Music Hall''s purpose, all of it? Or are they still trying to stick to the thin veil of lies and misdirection this whole visit kicked off with?
Another indistinct swell of Jordan''s voice reaches my ears, colored with clear agitation. The exchange seems to be growing heated, making me increasingly antsy with each passing second. Suddenly, their raised tones abruptly cut off, leaving an ominous pall of silence hanging in the air.
After what feels like an eternity, the sound of footsteps resumes, slowly growing louder as someone begins descending the nearby staircase. Tasha, Maggie, Derek and I all share a loaded look, tensing in unison as the footfalls finally reach the bottom landing.
Ms. Katz emerges a moment later, her expression utterly inscrutable as she glances around at each of us in turn. Whatever happened upstairs, she''s clearly intent on keeping the conversation private for now.
"Ms. Small?" she addresses me directly, her voice crisp and professional once more. "If you don''t mind, I''d like to have a brief, private discussion with you as well in a different room."
My stomach drops like a lead weight even as I manage a jerky nod of assent. "Uh, yeah, sure. Whatever you need."
As I reluctantly rise to my feet, Tasha shoots me a concerned look. But at Derek''s warning cough, whatever query was on her lips dies unspoken. Mustering what poise I can under the circumstances, I straighten my shoulders and follow Ms. Katz towards one of the other side rooms without protest.
Whatever curve ball this social worker is preparing to throw at me, I can only hope my poker face proves up to the challenge. Something tells me we''re swiftly careening beyond the realm of ordinary teenage drama here. No more time for games or pretense - somehow, I get the feeling Ms. Katz isn''t going to let me off easy this time¡
Chapter 129.3
The side room Ms. Katz ushers me into is one of the ones we dolled up a little less. Just sort of a chair room Heavy curtains cloak the windows, leaving the space''s sole illumination the soft pools of lamplight radiating from a lamp sitting on top of a folding chair. With a brief, curt gesture, my unexpected interrogator indicates that I should make myself comfortable in one of the overstuffed armchairs arranged before the desk.
Sinking into the proffered seating, I can''t quite suppress the sensation of being ushered into the principal''s office or something equally forbidding. The expectant silence stretching between Ms. Katz and I as she settles herself behind the desk only amplifies the feeling of impending judgment descending. Offering up what I hope is a relaxed, open expression, I force myself to meet her shrewd gaze steadily.
"So, Ms. Small¡" she begins at length. "I imagine you''re well aware by now that you and your compatriots aren''t fooling anyone with these rather transparent attempts at obfuscation."
Well, so much for any lingering hope of preserving plausible deniability. Swallowing hard, I simply nod in solemn acknowledgment.
"I appreciate you aren''t able to be fully transparent about the circumstances here," Ms. Katz continues with a small, scrutinizing frown. "But I do need to get an accurate sense of Connor''s daily life and social environment if I''m to ensure this adoption proceeds smoothly. So I have to ask - what is the true nature of your relationship with him? And what sort of activities does his association with your extracurricular pursuits entail, exactly?"
My palms turn clammy as I falter momentarily under her piercing gaze, wondering just how to even begin unpacking that loaded line of questioning. Tell her the whole, unvarnished truth about the Young Defenders? The extent of Connor''s heroic activities? My own alter ego as Bloodhound?
For a brief, wild moment, the thought of outright lying even crosses my mind, conjuring up some feeble cover story that paints our situation in a more innocent light. But just as quickly, I discard the notion with a weary, internal sigh. No, this woman is too perceptive, too adept at cutting through the bullshit, for that to have any hope of working. She clearly knows more than she''s letting on already.
"You might as well know the truth," I mumble at last, sitting up a bit straighter in my chair. "The fact is, Connor and I are both members of the Young Defenders superhero team active in the city. Under the codenames Spindle and Bloodhound, respectively. We, uh, we try to use our powers to help people, take down criminals, that kind of thing. But mostly boy scout stuff. Cats in trees, helping little old ladies across the street, stuff like that."
Ms. Katz''s expression remains infuriatingly impassive as she regards me steadily. For a long moment, the room remains utterly silent save for the gentle ticking of an old-fashioned wall clock.
"I see," she murmurs at long last, letting out a slow, measured breath. "Well, I certainly can''t say I''m terribly surprised by that revelation, Ms. Small. Like I said earlier, we''re well aware of Connor''s activities."
Suddenly, it all clicks into place. The probing questions about living situations, activities, relationships - Ms. Katz''s intent was never to catch us off guard about our secret identities. She came into this already fully aware of our unique circumstances.
"Then, why put us through all this?" I blurt out, feeling distinctly off-kilter and more than a little sheepish. "Why all the secrecy and evasiveness on your part if you knew the full situation already?"
She raises an eyebrow. "I''m not quite sure what you mean, Miss Small," she says, genuinely confused. "You''re the ones who have been evasive and secretive to me."
I feel a familiar sense of shame radiating through my face, turning it tomato red.
Ms. Katz continues unabated. "My role is to help Connor find a safe, stable home environment that caters to his best interests and needs - not only physically, but psychologically. During these last interview stages, I was hoping to get a sense of the kind of environment you provide, given as you all are key figures in his life, even in an unofficial capacity. Metahuman abilities or not, you seem to have filled an important mentorship role for a young man who, if we''re being frank, has lacked such stabilizing presences for most of his life."
All the air slowly leaks out of me, thoroughly abashed, as I realize how defensive and paranoid we''ve all been acting this entire time. Of course this woman wasn''t here to throw any of us in jail or blow our secret identities wide open to the world - from the sound of it, she simply wanted to assess whether our unorthodox group dynamic was ultimately a positive or negative influence in Connor''s life moving forward. A reasonable line of inquiry, really.
"I¡" I trail off briefly, struggling to find the right words. "I suppose we let our imaginations get the better of us. We''re used to having to be so guarded about certain aspects of our lives that it just became second nature to be evasive, even when there was no real need."
Ms. Katz regards me for a long moment, seemingly digesting my words. Then, something subtle shifts in her expression, the faintest traces of warmth and understanding creeping into her demeanor.
"You know, part of my job is to read between the lines and get a sense of the full truth beyond what''s merely on the surface," she remarks in a slightly gentler tone. "All the secrecy, the half-truths, the code-switching between your civilian and superhero personas - it all speaks to a level of compartmentalization in your lives that most adults would find incredibly stressful and psychologically taxing, let alone teenagers."
My throat constricts with a sudden, visceral surge of emotion at her perceptive assessment, the weight of our situation laid so baldly bare. Unable to find adequate words, I simply nod mutely in acknowledgment.
"It''s often all too easy for us adults to lose sight of those human factors when assessing cases like Connor''s," Ms. Katz continues, her expression turning pensive. "We get so caught up in scrutinizing the surface details and checking criteria boxes, we forget to account for the less quantifiable elements at play - the moral guidance, the sense of purpose and identity you provide that aimless young man. Whether we agree with the means or not, those are invaluable stabilizing forces for someone in his position."
I find myself swallowing hard against the sudden lump swelling in my throat, taken aback by the compassion and insight lacing her words. Never could I have anticipated such a profound understanding from a stodgy government social worker, of all people. It''s enough to make me thoroughly rethink all my preconceptions and prejudices walking into this situation.
"No one''s going to take that away from Connor, I promise you," Ms. Katz assures me, correctly reading the silent fear lingering behind my eyes. "My goal here isn''t to upend his whole life or support structure, just to ensure certain basic needs and safeguards are accounted for as we move into this next chapter. You have my word, I''ll do everything in my power to facilitate your team''s continued involvement in whatever capacity that relationship needs to take moving forward."
A shuddering exhalation escapes my lips as the knot of tension gripping my chest slowly loosens. "Thank you," I murmur, sincere gratitude bleeding into my voice. "That¡that really does mean a lot to hear, Ms. Katz."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
She nods somberly in response, clearly sensing the profound weight her words have lifted from my shoulders. Ordinarily, I''m not one to place too much stock in the promises of random authority figures, but something about this woman''s earnest candor convinces me she''s one of the good ones. An ally, not an antagonist. Or, at least, I hope.
"There''s a lot of bad CPS agents out there," she says, looking out towards the window, not at me. "Or, well, incompetent. Inflexible. Particularly when dealing with metahuman youth cases, flexibility is utterly necessary. It''s not unheard of to have young metahumans trafficked for their abilities, or have ill-intentioned foster families looking to ''adopt'' a tool for economic gain. Or even just for the thrill of being able to train a child into their own personal superhero, one that they can live vicariously through."
She shoots me a meaningful look, and suddenly, I feel like glass. Like a window-pane. Like every part of me is see-through. My brain, inexplicably, tries to pull me back to Pop-Pop Moe and his dozens of conversations about superhero comics. I shake the thought away.
"Something the matter?" She asks, trying to read my expression.
"Just thinking a little too hard. Don''t read into it," I ask, trying to project more confidence than I feel.
Our business seemingly concluded for the time being, Ms. Katz rises from her seat and smooths out the front of her blazer. "Well then, if that''s everything for now, I''ll leave you all to it," she says with a perfunctory air, already halfway to the door. "But I imagine this isn''t the last we''ll be seeing of one another, Ms. Small. Take care."
With that blunt parting remark hanging in the air, she sweeps out into the hallway, leaving me alone to stew over everything that was just said. My head is almost swimmy with the intensity of my ricocheting thought processes, still trying to fully internalize the enormity of our collective sigh of relief.
So many fears and preconceived notions upended in the span of less than an hour. Far from the jackbooted thug barging in to disrupt our operation, it seems Ms. Katz is actually an understanding, even compassionate advocate willing to preserve the unusual mentorship role we''ve assumed in Connor''s life. At least, that''s the impression she''s left me with - but I suppose only time will tell if her empathy bears out in practice.
Rising wearily to my feet, I trudge back towards the upstairs hall with uncharacteristically heavy footfalls. Derek, Tasha and Maggie all look up expectantly from their various places of repose as I reenter, fixing me with questioning looks. Jordan sits amongst them, their expression unreadable except for the faintest lingering air of annoyance.
"I''ll be in touch with the rest of you. Mist¡ hmm, Jordan, we''ll be in touch in particular. Everyone else, you may or may not receive a request for additional interview at your places of residence. We''ll be in touch," she says. After an uncomfortable three seconds, her face goes red. "Oh, dear, I think I said that three times. Well, you know what I mean."
She waves and descends the stairs at a reasonable pace. None of us dare meet her eyes as she leaves. None of us dare speak, either, for fear that she''ll turn around and start asking more questions. I imagine that we''ve just used up our miracle for the whole year on this one very cordial visit from Protective Services, and we''d be pushing our luck to expect anything else.
Jordan''s jaw is clenched like a vice until the front doors close - and man, they can hear that all the way in the back. A full two seconds pass. Three. Four. Five. Six. Then, Jordan starts breathing normally again. They reach into their pocket, which I know they shouldn''t actually have anything in this particular pocket, and retrieves a blunt.
"Where the hell did you hide that?" Derek asks, as Jordan lights it with the deft flick of a match pulled from, again, nowhere.
"In my house," Jordan replies, their voice strained from how tightly they''ve got their teeth clenched around it. They pop out a lighter from the other pocket, spark up, take a deep drag, letting their head tilt so far back that their hair, medium-length and greasy and far too heavy to be defying gravity like that, swings behind their head. "Jeez Louise. I thought we were goners."
"What did she ask you about? Because she kept pushing me on the foster parent thing and I told her that I''m technically Spindle''s mentor. Like for superhero stuff. And how that''s made it so we''re close without, uh, making it weird. Although maybe I did make it weird anyway," I blurt out.
"She asked me about my living situation and I told her I''m emancipated," Jordan says, blowing smoke out through their nose.
"And she bought that?" Maggie asks, frowning.
"No," Jordan says, taking another drag.
"Then why did you say that?"
"Well, what was I supposed to say? ''Oh hey Mrs. Child Services agent, I''m a metahuman too also cohabitating (that means living with) a boy I''m dating without any parental supervision and also last year my mom burned down our house with me inside it so now I''m squatting in this building, haha, but anyway how''s the weather?''"
"Your mom burnt down your house?" Tasha squeaks.
"No," Jordan says, not looking at anyone. "But it''s close enough."
"She could''ve taken you away too!" I shout, arms crossed.
"Where? Foster Care? Like fuck am I going there. I''d rather chug an entire bottle of Draino. I am not becoming a ''foster child'' again by a long shot!" Jordan shouts, coughing up smoke mid-word but carrying on like a state trooper. "And, like, what are they going to do, arrest me for property theft? I have an agreement with the property owner, even if I don''t have a lease. I renovated this place for like, a tenth of what it would cost to hire someone. And out of pocket."
"She already knew you were a superhero too, there''s no need to hide it. Like, she had all our files already," I point out.
"I know that!" Jordan says, gesticulating with the blunt, ember floating dangerously close to one of the curtains. "But she didn''t know I was homeless. I need her to think I''m stable or she wouldn''t think I''m fit to be near Connor. Like, that''s a concern she''d have. Right? Maybe?"
Jordan looks to Derek for advice on this. Derek sighs, running his fingers through his bright orange hair that''s starting to fade again. He shoots Jordan a Look, before shrugging.
"¡No, you''re probably right. If she finds out you''re a supervillain and in a relationship with Connor, he''s going to get split apart from you before he leaves. I saw it happen with some kids in my old neighborhood. Mom was a dealer and she had a ''close working relationship'' with the kids and their uncle, and they split those kids up all over the state, made sure they wouldn''t stay in contact," Derek says, an edge of dark memory in his voice.
"Your mom?" Tasha asks.
"No, the other kids'' mom. I don''t know my mom," Derek answers, bluntly.
"See?" Jordan says, gesturing again at Derek as if he proves their point, which he does.
"Well, it''s all over now," Tasha sighs. "At least we aren''t getting arrested or anything."
"Yeah. That''s what matters. We did what we came here to do. Although, you know, it woulda been a bit easier if we actually had known everything she already knew going in," Derek grumbles.
"Everything except the homelessness," Jordan says, before taking another drag. They hold it inside, their chest puffing up, before blowing a thin smoke ring into the air.
"Ooh, I wanna try," Maggie says, and Jordan lightly shoves her away, before offering it to me. I shake my head.
"I''m good," is all I say. I''m trying to digest everything that just happened - not just what Mrs. Katz said to me, but also, just wondering about what this means for the future. Connor is getting adopted by actual adults who know what his needs are that we aren''t able to provide. We''re going to go back to being just¡ well, we''re not just his friends, but we''re stepping back from being his support network.
And Jordan won''t have their boyfriend-slash-roommate anymore. Like, this is going to be a big change for everyone, even if it''s a good thing that happened. Even if it''s necessary. I should be happy about it, really - that Connor is getting a real family, a stable home, and a chance at a better life than what we could give him. But a tiny part of me feels a sting of sadness and loss as well.
Pushing those thoughts aside, I clear my throat and glance around at our assembled group of misfits and makeshift heroes. "Well, I dunno about you all, but I''d say we dodged a serious bullet today. How bout we order some victory pizza to celebrate our narrow escape from the clutches of the law?"
Derek snorts, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. "Careful, kiddo - don''t want to speak too soon. For all we know, this was just the opening volley in a long campaign to make our lives difficult."
"Nah, I seriously doubt that," Jordan chimes in, waving Derek''s paranoia aside with a lazy hand. "You heard the lady - she''s on our side, or at least sympathetic to our whole deal. I don''t think we have to worry bout seeing more government goons darkening our doorstep anytime soon."
Tasha purses her lips skeptically. "I dunno¡ never underestimate the tenacity of a dedicated social worker. They''re like the Long Arm of the Law''s extra-judgmental cousin."
The conversation gradually shifts to less pressing matters, like schoolwork and weekend plans. But the specter of Ms. Katz''s visit still lingers in the back of all our minds, a reminder of just how precarious our situation really is. We may have dodged a bullet this time, but who knows what the future holds? All we can do is stick together and hope for the best. And maybe invest in some better hiding spots for Jordan''s weed.
WORLD OF CHUM: Power Laws (4)
"They Didn¡¯t Want Me, They Wanted My Power": The Frustrating Journey of Hollywood¡¯s First Metahuman Star
By Jonathan Medina, April 2013, Vanity Round
In 2003, the world was just beginning to understand what it meant to live among metahumans. For most people, this new reality meant seeing superhuman feats on the evening news or hearing about the first ¡°meta-athletes¡± breaking records that seemed insurmountable just a few years earlier. But for Lana "Facsimile" Morales, a 19-year-old shapeshifter with a talent that should have made her Hollywood¡¯s hottest commodity, it meant something very different: a gauntlet of exploitative contracts, broken promises, and a film industry still too rigid to understand what to do with her.
Today, at 29, Lana sits across from me in a caf¨¦ just a few blocks from her home in Los Feliz. She¡¯s noticeably tired, her curly black hair pulled into a loose bun, wearing jeans and a hoodie. Ten years ago, she was considered groundbreaking¡ªa metahuman starlet poised to revolutionize the way movies were made. But the bitterness in her voice suggests the road from industry pioneer to where she is now has been far from smooth.
"They didn¡¯t want me. Not really," Lana says, sipping her iced coffee. "They wanted the idea of me."
Breaking In: A Dream Deferred
When Lana first arrived in Los Angeles in 2003, her ability to alter her appearance at will seemed like a filmmaker¡¯s dream. A young actress with the power to change her face, body, and even her voice¡ªinstantaneously and convincingly. She could play any role. Hollywood could save millions on prosthetics, makeup, and CGI by hiring her for monster roles or transformations that would have taken hours in post-production. But her journey into the industry wasn¡¯t quite what she had envisioned.
"I remember going to my first casting call," Lana recounts, a mix of nostalgia and frustration in her tone. "It was for The Raven¡¯s Curse, this low-budget horror film. I figured, okay, they¡¯re probably going to want me to play some demon or ghost or whatever. But the director, Richie Bael, he takes one look at me and says, ¡®You can be anyone? Can you be Demi Moore?¡¯"
She laughs, but it¡¯s a cold laugh. "They didn¡¯t want Lana Morales, the actress. They wanted me to shapeshift into people who were already famous."
At the time, the film industry had yet to reckon with the legal implications of metahumans like Lana. Impersonation laws had been designed to protect the likenesses of actors and public figures from being misused¡ªby traditional impersonation. But in 2003, the industry wasn¡¯t prepared for someone like Lana, who could perfectly replicate an A-list celebrity without the need for trickery.
"I was just 19, and these guys were pressuring me to do things I wasn¡¯t comfortable with," Lana recalls. "They wanted me to transform into Julia Roberts for a hundredth of the price. When I said no, they looked at me like I was some kind of inconvenience."
The Impersonation Fight: New Laws, New Problems
In response to actors like Lana, new legal precedents were quickly established. Impersonation clauses began appearing in actors'' contracts, and the Morales Act¡ªnamed after Lana herself¡ªwas passed in 2005. This law prevented metahumans from using their powers to replicate or impersonate living actors without explicit permission. It was a landmark moment for both the industry and the country¡¯s evolving legal landscape around metahumans. But while it was a victory for Lana in theory, it had a more insidious effect on her career.
"I thought the Morales Act would protect me," she says, her eyes distant. "But all it did was pigeonhole me. It¡¯s like, instead of thinking about what I could bring to a role as an actor, they only ever wanted to talk about how my powers could be legally used. It wasn¡¯t about my talent anymore¡ªit was all contracts and loopholes."
A Decade of Struggle: Facing the Industry¡¯s Worst Instincts
In 2007, Lana landed her first major role in the dystopian sci-fi thriller Iron Skies, directed by Logan Crayton. She played a genetically altered rebel leader who could shift her form to outsmart government enforcers. The film was a modest success, but the buzz around Lana¡¯s performance was deafening. Everyone wanted to see what she would do next¡ªeveryone except, it seemed, Hollywood itself.
"People loved Iron Skies," Lana admits, shrugging. "But the industry? They didn¡¯t see me as a breakout star. They saw me as a special effect. Every director I talked to after that only wanted me for the same thing: ¡®We need you to be this monster.¡¯ Or, ¡®Can you shapeshift into something really grotesque?¡¯"
While Doug Jones was carving out a celebrated career embodying monsters and creatures, Lana¡¯s shapeshifting ability ironically worked against her. Directors like Stephen Reilly (The Nightmare Underneath) and Rachel Lynes (Body of Glass) wanted her to contort into new, inhuman forms, but rarely offered her roles where she could simply act as herself.
"I admire Doug Jones so much," Lana says with a wistful smile. "He¡¯s such a phenomenal performer, and he worked his ass off to show that he¡¯s more than just a guy in makeup. But me? I could be the makeup, and that¡¯s all they wanted from me."
Her frustrations came to a head in 2009, during the production of the critically panned Body Harvest. The film, directed by Vincent Vehlan, was a notorious flop that featured Lana as a shapeshifting alien antagonist. Vehlan pushed her to the limits, demanding she take on increasingly grotesque, painful transformations¡ªsomething that was taxing even for someone with her powers.
"It was hell," Lana says bluntly. "They wanted these disgusting shapes, and I was constantly stretching and contorting. At one point, I thought I was going to tear my muscles apart. And for what? Some straight-to-video garbage no one even remembers."
The Shifting Industry: New Meta-Talent, New Resentments
By 2013, meta-talent was no longer a novelty in Hollywood. Performers like Lyle McCullen, with his grotesque body-modifying abilities, and Selena Gervais, who could regenerate on demand, were the new darlings of the horror and VFX scenes. The industry was full of meta-humans, and with them came new opportunities and new frustrations.
"I see these kids coming in now, and they¡¯re treated like gods," Lana says, shaking her head. "Lyle¡¯s great, don¡¯t get me wrong. But he didn¡¯t have to fight the way I did. The directors know what to do with them now¡ªthey have union protections, specialized agents, even schools to help them hone their powers for the camera. When I started? I was just a freak to them."
While Lana speaks with admiration about some of the newcomers¡ªparticularly Gervais, whom she praises as a "born performer"¡ªthere¡¯s a clear undercurrent of resentment when it comes to the current state of the industry.
"It¡¯s not about talent anymore. It¡¯s about what you can do physically," she says. "No one wants to see me act. They just want me to shift into some horror show. The industry didn¡¯t change for the better, it just found new ways to exploit people like me."
What Comes Next for Lana Morales?
As the interview winds down, I ask Lana what her plans are for the future. Does she still want to work in Hollywood, or has the industry¡¯s treatment of her soured that dream for good?The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"I¡¯m not done," she says, after a long pause. "I¡¯ve been doing some indie stuff. Roles where I get to be me, not some nightmare monster. There¡¯s a small studio I¡¯ve been working with, Phoenix Pictures, and they¡¯ve actually been writing roles for me¡ªhuman roles. It feels good. But I¡¯m never going back to the big studios."
She leans back in her chair and sighs. "I guess, after everything, I just want people to see me as more than my power. I want to be seen as an actor."
As I thank Lana for her time and prepare to leave, I can''t help but wonder what Hollywood lost by focusing on what Lana could transform into rather than who she already was. For the industry, she was an asset, a way to push boundaries and save money. But for Lana, the cost has always been personal. In a world that was changing faster than she could shift, Lana Morales was fighting to remain herself.
The Morales Act of 2005
Section 1: Short Title
This Act may be cited as the "Morales Act of 2005."
Section 2: Definitions
(a) Shapeshifting: Defined as a superhuman ability to alter one¡¯s physical form, including but not limited to changes in facial structure, body type, vocal patterns, and other biometric characteristics, in such a way that the subject can resemble any other individual or organism, real or fictional.
(b) Impersonation: The act of adopting the physical appearance, mannerisms, or voice of another individual through shapeshifting, including the replication of specific, identifiable characteristics such as facial features, gait, or vocal tone, without express authorization.
(c) Public Figure: Any individual who has acquired prominence in public life, such as actors, politicians, athletes, or other individuals widely recognized by the public.
(d) Private Individual: Any individual who does not meet the criteria of a public figure and whose identity is generally not of public interest.
Section 3: Prohibition of Unauthorized Impersonation
(a) Unauthorized Impersonation of a Public Figure:
It is unlawful for any individual to use shapeshifting abilities to impersonate a public figure without express written consent from the individual or their legal representative. This includes appearances in films, television, commercials, public events, or any other form of media or public display.
(b) Unauthorized Impersonation of a Private Individual:
It is unlawful for any individual to use shapeshifting abilities to impersonate a private individual for any commercial, personal, or entertainment purposes without their explicit consent. This prohibition extends to but is not limited to interactions in public or private spaces where the impersonated individual would have a reasonable expectation of privacy.
Section 4: Consent and Exceptions
(a) Consent for Public Figures:
For any instance in which a shapeshifter seeks to use the likeness of a public figure, a consent form must be signed by the public figure or their designated legal representative. This document must explicitly authorize the intended use, including the context and duration of the impersonation.
(b) Exceptions:
- Law Enforcement: Shapeshifting for impersonation may be allowed as part of authorized law enforcement activity, provided there is a valid warrant or legal authorization in cases of criminal investigations.
- Parody or Satire: Shapeshifting into the likeness of a public figure for the purposes of parody or satire may be permissible under protections provided by existing free speech and artistic expression laws, provided that the portrayal is clearly identifiable as a non-serious interpretation and does not involve commercial gain without consent.
Section 5: Penalties and Enforcement
(a) First Violation:
Any individual found guilty of unauthorized impersonation, whether of a public figure or private individual, shall be subject to a fine ranging from $5,000 to $50,000, depending on the severity of the offense and the financial damage incurred by the victim.
(b) Repeated Violations:
Subsequent offenses of unauthorized impersonation will result in fines up to $100,000 per instance and may escalate to criminal charges with imprisonment of up to three years, particularly in cases where malicious intent or significant harm was caused.
(c) Civil Damages:
In cases where impersonation leads to financial, reputational, or emotional harm, the affected individual may seek civil damages, including compensatory payments for lost wages, emotional distress, and any other demonstrable damages resulting from the impersonation.
Section 6: Impersonation in Media
(a) Media Representation of Public Figures via Shapeshifting:
The use of shapeshifters to impersonate public figures in any media format, including but not limited to film, television, advertisements, or stage performances, must comply with the Morales Act. Failure to do so will subject production companies, directors, and the shapeshifter in question to the penalties outlined in Section 5.
(b) Documented Proof of Consent:
Any media entity utilizing shapeshifters to replicate the likeness of a public figure must retain signed consent forms for a period of five years following the conclusion of the project. These records must be produced upon request by any regulatory or legal body.
Section 7: Commercial Use of Shapeshifting
(a) Prohibition on Commercial Likeness Exploitation:
No individual or entity may commercially benefit from a shapeshifter''s ability to impersonate another individual without the written consent of the individual being impersonated, whether the subject is alive or deceased.
(b) Posthumous Impersonation:
The likeness of deceased individuals may only be replicated by shapeshifters with the express consent of the individual¡¯s legal estate. This includes film roles, advertisements, and any public use where the individual¡¯s image is employed for commercial gain.
Section 8: Implementation
(a) Effective Date:
This Act shall come into effect 120 days after its enactment.
(b) Regulatory Body:
The National Superhuman Response Agency (NSRA) is tasked with overseeing the enforcement of the Morales Act, including issuing fines, monitoring compliance in the media industry, and maintaining a database of registered consent agreements.
Chapter 130.1
You know, I really thought Tasha was onto something when she jokingly suggested we get a maid service for the Music Hall''s common area. But no, Jordan just had to insist on doing it themselves, like some sort of bizarro Martha Stewart who''s never met a trash bag they couldn''t overstuff. Unsurprisingly, the place is back to its usual state of carefully curated chaos barely twenty-four hours after Ms. Katz''s little inspection. I guess old habits die hard.
It''s a chilly Saturday afternoon, and the six of us are all lounging around on the mismatched assortment of couches and armchairs, picking at the remnants of a pizza feast that would make the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles proud. Even though it''s only two weeks until Thanksgiving, the weather outside is more reminiscent of mid-January, with fat flakes of snow blanketing the city in a picturesque but treacherous coat of white.
"Man, I still can''t believe Maya Richardson actually won that special election," Jordan muses around a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese. "Like, Like, what the hell does she think she''s going to accomplish as a city councilperson? Start commissioning freak snowstorms at random just to be a passive-aggressive dick to us?"
Derek lets out a snort of derision from where he''s slouched in an overstuffed recliner, absently toying with the bright orange tips of his shaggy hair. "Get real, kid - you really think a bitter old lady gives enough of a shit bout a couple teenage troublemakers to abuse her powers like that? She''s got way bigger fish to fry."
Popping the last bite of my slice into my mouth, I cast a sidelong glance at Jordan. "Yeah, I mean, Richardson''s whole deal lately has been courting the public eye through big, showy philanthropy stuff. Why would she suddenly jeopardize all that goodwill and publicity by using her powers for petty revenge against a bunch of randos?"
"Because she''s a supervillain?" Maggie chimes in hesitantly from her perch on the floor. "I''m sorry, but weren''t we all there when she teamed up with freaking Mr. T-Rex to trash Sam''s house like a year ago? That seems pretty vengeful and villainous to me!"
"Actually, only Jordan was there, and I made them leave anyway," I point out. "And my parents, I mean. Them too."
Jordan sort of purses their lips at me. "Yeah, get me out of harms way so you can get your legs broken by a fucking dinosaur without letting me protect you."
"Aw, it does have a heart," I joke. Jordan shoots me a withering glare, so I stick my tongue out between my teeth and wiggle it around a little bit in the gaps that the points make until Jordan recoils. "Some supervillain you turned out to be,"
"You''re disgusting," Jordan says, scowling at me like if they do it hard enough they''ll gain laser vision or some shit. "Don''t you ever close your mouth?"
"Nice one," Derek says, rolling his eyes. "You''re supposed to put pizza in it, not play with your tongue. I thought you were supposed to be high." He turns to address Jordan directly though, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously, you have weed and you didn''t even share?"
Jordan holds up their hands in a placating gesture, a shit-eating grin spreading across their face. "Hey, don''t get mad at me for trying to preserve my precious stash. You know how much harder it is to re-up when the whole city''s turned into a snow globe?"
Tasha, who''s been quietly tapping away at her laptop this whole time, suddenly pipes up from her spot curled into the corner of the sofa. "Okay, so I just did some digging on our dear Councilperson Richardson, and it turns out she actually represents District 7. Which includes, drum roll please... Mayfair and Tacony!"
A collective groan rises up from the assembled group at this revelation. Jordan throws their hands up in exasperation. "Oh, well that''s just fan-fucking-tastic! So not only is she a supervillain with a grudge, but now she''s literally our own personal representative in city government? Talk about a conflict of interest!"
I frown, trying to wrap my head around the implications. "But like, how much power does a city councilperson really have? It''s not like she''s the mayor or anything. Maybe we''re overthinking this whole thing?"
Connor, who''s been characteristically quiet up until now, suddenly leans forward with a quizzical expression. "Wait, I''m confused - why exactly are we supposed to be worried about this lady again? I mean, yeah, she''s got weather powers and a seat on the city council, but so what? It''s not like she can just start throwing lightning bolts around willy-nilly without people noticing."
Tasha sighs, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "No, but she could potentially use her position to make life difficult for us in more subtle ways. Like, I dunno, pushing for stricter regulations on superhero activities, or funneling city resources away from our neighborhood. That kind of thing."
Derek scratches at the stubble on his jaw, looking thoughtful. "Still, it seems like a lot of trouble to go through just to fuck with a bunch of teenagers. I mean, what''s her endgame here? It''s not like any of us have enough clout to really threaten her political career or anything."
"Maybe it''s not about us specifically," I muse, chewing on my lower lip. "Maybe we''re just collateral damage in some larger scheme she''s got going on. Like, I dunno, consolidating power for the Kingdom or something?"Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
Jordan snaps their fingers, eyes lighting up. "Oh shit, that''s a good point! We still don''t really know what the Kingdom''s deal is, or what their ultimate goals are. Maybe Richardson''s election is just one piece of a bigger puzzle we haven''t put together yet."
"If our little powwow with Mrs. Xenograft earlier means anything," I say, glancing towards Tasha, making eye contact with her, "it''s probably just money. You know, like any good Mafia."
Tasha nods, already typing away furiously on her laptop again. "Okay, let me see what else I can dig up on her background. Gimme a sec..."
The room lapses into a tense silence as we all wait for Tasha to work her internet sleuthing magic. After a few minutes, she lets out a low whistle. "Well, well, well...look what we have here."
"Spill," I say, only half a demand. Even Maggie leans in, interested to hear.
"Turns out our friend Ms. Richardson used to be a superhero herself, back in the day. Went by the name ''Stormrise'' and everything. But she quit the game in 2012, right around the time a bunch of really strict regulations on weather control powers got passed."
"I knew that somewhere," I reply, furrowing my brow, scrunching all the skin up. "But I can''t remember where. Someone mentioned that."
Jordan''s brow furrows in confusion. "Weather control regulations? The fuck are you talking about?"
"Yeah, apparently there was this whole big thing where the government cracked down hard on any supers with abilities that could potentially affect the environment on a large scale. Something about not wanting them to accidentally fuck up global weather patterns or cause natural disasters, I guess," Tasha explains. "Really heavy,"
Derek lets out a low whistle. "Damn, that''s some heavy shit. No wonder she quit."
I lean over Tasha''s shoulder to get a better look at her screen, scanning the dense wall of text detailing the various restrictions and requirements. "Holy crap, this is insane! If you want to legally use weather manipulation powers, you need a freaking master''s degree in a relevant scientific field, government approval for every single proposed ''weather event'', sixty days of community input...and the fines for violations are huge! Like, five years suspended license and a million bucks?! And that''s only for- Christ, they don''t call it ''criminal violations'', they call it "civil violations!"
Connor lets out a sharp bark of laughter tinged with disbelief. "That ain''t regulations, that''s a goddamn soft ban. Sure sounds like they wanted to make it pretty much fuckin'' impossible for anyone to actually jump through all those hoops. I mean, how many people ever actually get their proposals approved? How many weather-based heroes actually have advanced degrees anyway?"
"Looks like maybe twenty per year on average, according to this?" Tasha says, squinting at some figures on the webpage. "And almost all of those are for hurricane or drought relief efforts. So yeah, not a lot of room for anything else."
"So basically, they regulated her right out of the superhero game," Jordan summarizes, leaning back with a grimace. "That''s so fucked up. No wonder she turned to a life of crime instead."
"Still seems like a pretty drastic pivot though," Maggie points out hesitantly. "I mean, going from beloved hero to straight up supervillain? That''s quite the heel turn."
"I guess being told you''re illegal after years of service and praise would piss anyone off," Maggie says.
A lightbulb suddenly goes off in my head as a thought occurs to me. "Hey, you don''t think...could Richardson be the reason it''s fucking snowing ash right now? Like, some kinda ''fuck you'' to the system that forced her out?"
"Or to bother some annoying teenagers," Jordan chimes in, clearly not taking my proposal seriously.
Derek rubs his chin, considering it. "Eh, maybe. But it''s not like the weather''s been normal in general lately. Global warming has been making everything go kinda haywire, even without bitchy supervillains throwing magical tantrums."
Connor looks utterly baffled by this entire conversation. "Wait, I don''t get it - I thought you said she hasn''t used her powers in public since she quit being a hero in 2012? How would she even pull something like that off without anyone noticing? And why would global warming make it snow in November?"
Jordan rolls their eyes, shooting Connor an exasperated look. "The woman''s a fucking supervillain, dude - they''re not exactly known for playing by the rules. I''m sure she''s got her ways."
"I''ll explain the global warming thing later, Connor," Tasha says, shooting him a supportive thumbs up.
I flop back against the cushions with a heavy sigh, my mind racing with all these new revelations and theories. Just when I think I''m starting to get a handle on the bigger picture, some new wrinkle always seems to pop up and complicate everything. It''s like trying to put together a puzzle when half the pieces are missing and the other half don''t even fit together right.
As I lay there wondering, I can''t help but turn to Connor, the cogs in my head working in overdrive trying to piece it all together. "By the way, how did things go with your new foster parents the other day?" I ask, trying to change the subject to something a little less... well, less of a moral quagmire.
Connor perks up at this, his face brightening into a small smile - a rare sight. "It was actually pretty great," he replies, sounding almost surprised at his own admission. "Mary and Steve, they''re called. They seem like really nice people. Mary''s a social worker, and Steve''s a high school teacher. They''ve got this cozy little place in the suburbs, with a spare room all set up for me and everything."
Jordan raises an eyebrow, looking faintly impressed. "Damn, sounds like you hit the jackpot there, Stretch. Suburban respectability is a far cry from, well...all this." They wave a hand vaguely at our surroundings.
The corners of his mouth twitch upward in a half-smile. "Yeah, I mean...don''t get me wrong, I''m gonna miss you assholes something fierce. But it''ll be kinda nice to have some actual adults looking out for me for a change, y''know? Making sure I''m eating real food and going to school and shit."
I chuck a wadded up napkin at him playfully. "Aw, you''re not gonna go too soft on us out there, are you? Don''t forget, once a miscreant, always a miscreant."
He laughs, batting the projectile away easily. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Gotta keep my street cred intact. Can''t let the ''burbs turn me into a total square."
An almost wistful silence descends as we all contemplate this new chapter Connor''s life is about to take. It''s a little bittersweet, knowing our weird little rag-tag family''s about to change shape in such a significant way. But I also find myself feeling genuinely happy for him. The guy deserves some stability and normalcy for once.
Chapter 130.2
"Mr. ESP," Jordan states, after an uncomfortable amount of silence, apropos of nothing. "I''ve been thinking about him."
"In what way?" I ask, before my eyes widen fractionally. "Oh. From the Kingdom?"
Derek nearly spills his drink, jolting upright at the mention of the name. "Mr. ESP?! Shit, don''t tell me that creepy asshole can actually read minds?"
Jordan taps the side of their head ominously. "No, it''s even stupider. He gets a new ESP power every day, or something. Last time we met he mentioned ''waking up with remote listening''."
Tasha frowns, worrying at her bottom lip. "Isn''t mind-reading impossible? Like, last I heard nobody''s ever met a true telepath for one reason or another. They can transmit but not receive, or something?"
Jordan shakes their head. "Yeah, no mind reading. Just like... random new forms of ESP each day. I think he''s why we set up the Faraday cage room."
"Well, if they gave it to him, it has to be what he calls them. Like maybe his name is Mr. Extra Sensory Perception. Or maybe it''s Mark Sam Patrick. Or Maximillian Sony PocketStation. He could be from anywhere. Even Florida," I say, frowning in deep thought at the idea of Florida. "Jeez, I''d sure hate to wake up each morning with a new form of ESP like Russian Roulette, not knowing if it''s gonna be inconvenient but mostly harmless or like, reading the intrusive thoughts of everyone around me. I get enough of those on my own."
"Let''s hope Florida doesn''t seep into the water supply," Derek jokes. "You wanna pick up mindreading so we can send our thoughts back to Mister Spookyscary Peepers or whatever his name is? You''ve got that blood thing going on as it is."
"Wait, you met this guy?" Maggie asks, a flare of panic coloring her tone. "Do... do you think they know about the Music Hall, then? The meeting rooms and everything?"
"It was in the sewers in South Philly, right before the Chernobyl fight last year," I say, frowning. "And yeah, I think there''s a high likelihood he has this place scoped out. I think it''s a wonder we haven''t gotten just blown to bits with a bomb."
Jordan''s face scrunches up a bit in thought. "It was an abandoned subway station,"
"You''re right. Abandoned underground subway station. Sorry, my memory is a little fuzzy given that I got nuked right afterwards," I correct myself.
Tasha''s eyes widen as she connects dots in her own head. "It''s like a panopticon... no wonder he just outright told you what his powers were."
I snap my fingers, nodding emphatically. "Even if he''s not actually doing it, just the fact that he could be completely changes how we have to operate. We have to account for the fact that they might know what we''re planning at any moment, and have to operate basically in the dark."
"You need to take classes in game theory," Jordan teases. "And it''s called a ''nonzero chance''"
Connor looks utterly lost, glancing between us all with a bewildered expression. "Okay, I''m officially confused again. What the hell is a panopticon? Nonzero chance?"
"It''s this theoretical prison design," Tasha explains eagerly, clearly excited to show off her knowledge. "Basically, there''s a central guard tower surrounded by cells, and you never know if the guard is actually watching you at any given moment. So prisoners have to act as if they''re always being watched, even if they''re not."
Derek lets out a low whistle. "Damn, that''s some Big Brother shit right there. No wonder y''all are so freaked out by these guys."
Jordan throws up their hands in frustration. "Yeah, and it''s not like we can just go around wearing tinfoil hats all the time! Although..."
They trail off, a speculative gleam entering their eye. I groan, already knowing where this is heading. "No, Jordan, we are not lining all our costumes with tinfoil."
"I mean, it''s a thought at least," Jordan says, frowning at me suddenly. "Speaking of tinfoil, what exactly happened to you and Tasha at the Zoo? You, like, mentioned it offhand, but we haven''t really done a thorough debriefing yet."
"Mrbl," I say, eloquently, before swallowing. "Well, it was mostly Tasha, anyway. But we were there investigating, and also going to the zoo, because the zoo is awesome," I pause, looking to Tasha for confirmation at that. She nods to me to continue. "We bumped into Mrs. Xenograft. She said hi to us in her civilian garb, real friendly-like, just started talking about her job and stuff. Not sure why. But she didn''t attack us or anything. And she sort of subtly threatened us that if we told anyone anything then we''d regret it."
Tasha, who has been slowly regaining her color throughout my retelling, speaks up again. "Yeah, it''s like she was just...taking our emotional temperature or something. And also warning us off a bit. Like she wanted us to know she was there, and that she''s got her eye on us now."
"Well, she tried to make us think she was just going to the zoo, but, like, I don''t believe that," I reply. "Too specific,"
Jordan looks grim at this news. "So, it was less of a social call and more of a reconnaissance mission in disguise. Great, that''s fucking fantastic. Anything else we should know about?"
"Yeah, she said she''s just in it for the money, and that we have a very black and white view of the world, you know, nothing I haven''t been told by my therapist already," I say, shrugging. "Just to keep us from having an ethical crisis about it or something when we inevitably fight her in the future, I guess. And then she just walked off."Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Connor, bless his heart, looks like he''s about ten steps behind in this conversation. "Wait, so...this lady''s a supervillain, but she''s also a zookeeper? And she just casually threatened you guys while you were, what, looking at the monkeys or something?"
I crack a smile. "She was just visiting, I don''t think she''s a zookeeper. You never met her when the Phreaks were cavorting with the Kingdom?"
Connor shakes his head emphatically. "No way. I think any crazy shit, that was Stitches. I didn''t even know we had met the Kingdom, just that one day, she was telling us to take bigger risks and be meaner. Didn''t want in on that. And Deathgirl, too, Stitches brought her in and it was never quite the same,"
Jordan, however, isn''t in a laughing mood, sort of just letting Connor''s words pass through them. They''re staring intently at the map of Philadelphia spread out on the coffee table, tracing their finger over the various marked locations. "Speaking of things not making sense...what the hell do we think the Kingdom''s endgame is with all these targets? I mean, the zoo, the docks, City Hall, random high schools...it''s like they''re trying to hit every major landmark in the city."
Derek leans forward, squinting at the markings. "Well, if I had to put money on it, I''d say the docks are probably their top priority. Lots of valuable cargo moving through there, easy access to the water for quick getaways..."
"And it''s a great place to do shady shit too," Maggie adds, her freckles standing out starkly against the sudden wash of deep thought that floods her face. "Lotsa weird noises and ruckus to cover up less-than-legal behavior."
"Rampart and I met this one guy," I say abruptly, like I''m worried if I don''t say it now it''ll fall out of my head like an ill-constructed tower of blocks. "While doing rounds in Mayfair. He just completely short circuited when we asked about this drug he had called Jump. Like he wanted to answer but all of a sudden, he couldn''t. Like someone was controlling him remotely and put up some kind of mental block."
The others perk up at this, intrigue and alarm warring for dominance on their faces. "Mind control?" Tasha asks sharply. "That''s a new one. You think the Kingdom''s got another metahuman in their ranks we don''t know about?"
I shake my head. "I mean, maybe. But I don''t know, none of the jumpheads we''ve ever pressed in the past couple of months, big or small, seemed to know anything about the Kingdom. You know how our usual guys are - professionals in suits. Everyone''s been getting Jump from dudes in sweatshirts. And there''s something with ''Rogue Wave'', something Sparkplug mentioned. He made it sound like a group, but maybe it''s a person? I don''t know."
"Rogue Wave sure sounds like the name of a lame supervillain organization," Derek cracks, glancing at his watch. "Gotta go in about an hour, unless any of you have a dog crate."
"I am not kenneling you when you go werewolf mode," Jordan jokingly snarls.
"Oh, right, and the craziest fucking thing happened when I mentioned Rogue Wave to the guy Rampart and I were interrogating a couple of days ago," I say, coughing twice into my fist.
"He went... I don''t know, like, he got possessed. I said ''Rogue Wave'' and he just stopped paying attention to Rampart at all. Every single bit of energy was spent trying to immediately kill me. Dude tried to put his thumbs in my eyes, and he wouldn''t stop going until Rampart choked him out," I recount, as if it''s the most normal thing in the world.
I glance around to find the whole group all staring at me in mute horror and disbelief.
"What?" I ask, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "Is there something on my face?"
Jordan is the first to break the stunned silence, their voice strained with barely-contained emotion. "Sam. What the actual fuck. Why didn''t you lead with that?!"
"I was getting there!" I protest, throwing my hands up defensively. "It''s not like I''m used to giving structured reports or anything. I just sort of...word vomit until all the relevant info is out there, you know that. Sorry for not starting with the headliner."
Tasha pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Okay, okay, let''s just...take a step back here. So, this guy, he went from being completely normal to, what, frothing at the mouth and trying to gouge your eyes out, all because you mentioned ''Rogue Wave''? That''s...not normal."
"Definitely some kind of trigger phrase," Jordan agrees, their brow furrowed in thought. "Like, straight out of a Cold War spy novel or something. Bet my left nut - not that I have one - that this Rogue Wave character is the one pulling the strings. Either some new metahuman with mind control powers, or maybe some kind of cutting-edge brainwashing tech."
Derek shakes his head, looking deeply unsettled. "Man, I''ve seen some fucked up shit in my day, but that''s...that''s next level. Turning people into fucking Manchurian Candidates or some shit."
Maggie puts on a weak smile. "What''s Manchuria got to do with it?"
Tasha immediately leans in, faster than Derek can, clearly excited to explain something that she just saw someone else not knowing in front of her.
"It''s a movie reference, baby," she elbows her midsection gently, to where I imagine she must have her ribs. "There''s a really old movie from 1962 called ''The Manchurian Candidate'' where this guy gets abducted and brainwashed all Cold War-style by the North Koreans and Chinese and sent back to assassinate the presidential nominee. Only it was actually a hypnotic trick by his own mom to put herself in a position to be the most powerful woman in the world. It was remade in 1999 but they changed the Communist Chinese to the Communist Russians and made the incest subplot weirder. The movie''s real as hell."
Maggie gets a studious look on her face. "Okay, I''ll put that on the list to watch,"
"Wh- Hold up," I say, furrowing my brow, and putting my hand up to point towards Tasha. "His own mom tried to put herself into a position to be the most powerful woman in the world? Why only woman?"
Tasha chuckles, a sort of ''hah hah'' noise - I don''t know if other people visualize their laughs in text but I usually visualize them as those little speech bubbles you see in dictionaries and textbooks that have the text describing the sound written out - "I mean, have you met the government elite? They''re pretty sexist. And this was a movie from the 60s, Sam. Gotta take it with a grain of salt."
"The first one went harder than the remake," Derek says, smiling mildly, crossing his arms. "1999 was really meat."
Tasha''s jaw drops in mock outrage. "Oh my god, did you just call a movie ''meat'' in front of me? In my own home? The disrespect!"
"Pretty sure it''s Jordan''s home, actually," I say, smiling. Sometimes I have a hard time telling when people are joking and when they''re being serious, but I think Tasha''s being pretty overt with her body language that she''s joking, and it feels like the tension is lifting a little bit if people are bickering about movie quality so I want to contribute.
Jordan snorts, shaking their head. "Alright, alright, enough with the film criticism hour. We''ve got bigger fish to fry here. Like, oh I don''t know, the fact that there''s apparently a supervillain out there who can turn people into fucking mind-controlled sleeper agents?!"
Everyone sobers up at that, the brief moment of levity evaporating like a shallow puddle under the harsh glare of the sun.
Chapter 130.3
"Yeah, no, you''re right," I say, nodding. "This is...this is pretty serious. We need to figure out what the hell is going on, and fast. Before this Rogue Wave asshole can cause any more damage."
Connor raises his hand hesitantly, like a kid in class who''s not quite sure if they''ve grasped the lesson. "So, uh...what exactly is our plan here? I mean, it''s not like we can just go around the city shouting ''Rogue Wave'' at random jumpheads and see who tries to kill us, right?"
"Well, why not?" Derek retorts, clearly 100% serious. "Seems like a pretty efficient way to smoke out the bad guys to me. Hell, get some sort of broad spectrum audio and see what happens. Instantly find out who''s compromised."
I groan, burying my face in my hands. "No, no, absolutely not. We are not running around playing Russian Roulette with potentially brainwashed drug dealers, that''s just asking for trouble."
Tasha nods in agreement, already pulling out her phone and tapping away at the screen. "Sam''s right. We need to be smart about this. I''m gonna see if I can dig up any info on this ''Rogue Wave'' character online, see if there''s any chatter or rumors floating around that might give us a lead."
I nod along, but purse my lips. "I don''t know if you''re gonna find anything. All I know how to do on a phone is check my grades and accidentally open six hundred tabs of random articles I''m never going to read but I''m hoarding because I think they''ll be useful in a conversation topic someday," I pause, trying to reorder my thoughts. "But I feel like if they were caught on a camera somewhere then like, all this mind controlled brainwashing stuff... wouldn''t be needed? Why rely on that when you can just like, get someone to blink lights in a window or put a dead drop in a park or something?"
"Baby," Jordan says, smiling, shaking their head. "The difference between tradecraft and like, street level shit is kind of night and day. Guys on the street just use burner phones and stuff. No reason to make it complicated."
"It''s a balance," Tasha says, sagely. "You don''t want easily trackable digital records, but you also don''t want to make it so arcane and obtuse that your couriers and shit just fuck up and forget their orders."
"I don''t know, some of my least favorite things to do are remembering a list of shit when someone tells me to verbally," I reply, thinking about how sometimes, my mom will tell me to do a shopping run and give me like seven things and only five slots will be available in my head so I have to either write it down or forget things. "I always keep a notebook with me when I go to the store," And I pat my hip for emphasis, where indeed there is a little memo pad and a little golf pencil floating around in the pockets of my cargo shorts.
"See, you want to avoid that if possible," Derek cuts in, gesturing to my pockets. "Physical records, man. Nothing beats a face-to-face conversation for sensitive shit."
"Wait, really?" Maggie asks, looking genuinely surprised. "I thought everyone just used, like, that one app that deletes your messages as soon as they''ve been seen?"
Tasha starts guffawing loudly. "Oh, poor thang," She says, barely choking out the words between great peals of belly laughter.
Connor, however, doesn''t seem satisfied by this tangent. "Okay, but like...what are we actually gonna do? We can''t just sit around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for Tasha to magically find some secret villain lair on Google Maps or some shit."
Which, credit to Connor, I had about fifty percent mentally checked out of the conversation already, but his words ground me back in. He''s right - we''re just sort of going around in circles, and I''m part of the problem there. I frown to myself, drumming my fingers on my knee as I ponder our options. It''s true, we can''t just go charging in blind, but we also can''t afford to just sit on our hands and do nothing while the Kingdom and Rogue Wave and whatever other alphabet soup villain groups are out there continue to wreak havoc.
"Well, we keep our ear to the ground, for one," Jordan says, shrugging. "Scuttlebutt will circulate eventually, it always does. If there is a new player in town, people will notice something. And we work our contacts, our CIs, see if anyone''s picked up on anything weird going on."
"We could also try to triangulate potential targets based on the map we found," I suggest, pointing to the haphazard scattering of red circles and lines decorating the slightly crumpled paper. "Maybe stake out some of the more likely spots, see if we can catch any suspicious activity in the act."
Derek snorts derisively. "What, like a bunch of teenagers playing dress-up are gonna blend in at the goddamn docks or City Hall? Good fucking luck with that."
I shoot him a glare. "I''m not saying we go in guns blazing, asshole. Just...keep an eye out. Watch for patterns, anything that seems out of place. We might get lucky and spot something the cops or the feds have missed."If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"Yeah, because they''re gonna be real grateful for our help," Jordan snarks. But I know underneath it all, they''re already mentally cataloguing potential vantage points and escape routes for each location. They really do always have three exit strategies ready to go, the rascal.
Tasha sighs, setting aside her phone for the moment. "Alright, It''s a start, at least. Better than nothing. I''ll keep digging on my end, see if any of my usual sources have heard any rumblings about new players in town, ''metanet'' included" She air-quotes ''metanet'', as if to say, the internet but for superheroes.
Connor looks around at all of us, a determined set to his jaw. "Maybe I can ask the Phreaks," he mumbles, clenching his face up. "Wait, shit, they''re all in jail. Fuck!"
"No, don''t- you shouldn''t," I say, quickly, putting a hand on his forearm. "Because of the jail, yes."
Jordan nods in agreement, their expression softening a bit. "Sam''s right, Stretch. You''ve got a real shot at a fresh start here, and we don''t want to jeopardize that. Let us handle the dirty work for once, yeah?"
Connor looks like he wants to argue, but after a long moment, he just sighs and nods, conceding the point. "Yeah, yeah, alright. I guess I''m not much use to anyone if I''m back in juvie or some shit."
Maggie reaches over to give his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. "Hey, you''re plenty useful just by being here and having our backs. Don''t sell yourself short, mister."
"What if there''s a way we can be proactive?" Derek says, setting his own jaw.
"Big words coming from you," I say, earning another withering glare. "Elaborate,"
"Can''t you... I don''t know, hack into the police radio or some shit? You''re a hacker, right, kid?" Derek says, his gaze lowering on Jordan''s extremely aggravated all of a sudden looking face.
Jordan lets out a noise of pure frustration, throwing their hands up in the air. "For fuck''s sake, that''s not how hacking works! I can''t just magically tap into secure communications with a few keystrokes, this isn''t some bullshit TV show!"
"Yeah, Derek, I know the media does a bad job of portraying computers," Tasha chimes in, looking a little flushed like she''s trying to hold back from laughing. "But you can''t just hax0r into ''the matrix'' or whatever."
"How did you do that with your voice," Connor asks off to the side.
"It''s all social engineering and throwing massive amounts of computational power at a problem until you get lucky," Jordan says, deflating a little as they start actually, legitimately explaining. For the briefest of moments I can hear the pain in their voice. "Phishing, spoofing, tailgating into buildings. The human stuff. Most systems are pretty well hardened against remote attacks these days. Didn''t I explain this to you when we did the chip spoofing for the Sparkplug operation?"
"I wasn''t paying attention," Derek responds, picking his ear with his pinky.
"So what can you do?" Connor asks, sounding genuinely curious.
"I mean, I''m good at coding and pretty handy with hardware too," Jordan says, some of the fire leaving their voice. "Built my own custom rig and everything. But I''m not about to go breaking into government databases or some shit. That''s a one-way ticket to federal fuck-me-in-the-ass prison. And ever since supervillains who can read radio waves started popping up, police radio scanners have gotten crazy encrypted at every step of the way."
Maggie screws up her mouth. "Can you decrypt?"
Jordan rolls their eyes. "Sure, if you can get me the encrypted data in the first place. Which, again, not really in the cards unless one of you wants to go physically steal a cop''s phone or computer or whatever." And then, the corner of their mouth turns up slightly, because the idea of doing such a thing has entered their brain and they don''t 100% hate the idea.
"They''d prob''ly catch me before I made it five feet outside the building," Derek says, shaking his head. "Cop sense tingles around me. I''m their kryptonite."
There''s this lull in the conversation and I really don''t have anything to add to the meat of it, so I''m just content to let everyone sort of noodle in their own heads for a while. Jordan is checking their phone, Maggie is fiddling with her bag, Derek is... brooding. I think. He has kind of a resting brood face. Connor is sitting upside down on the couch with his legs hanging over the back, Tasha is back to clacking away at her laptop doing who knows what, though by the reflection in her eyes - I am sitting across from her and can kind of see her screen - I think she might be looking at, like, anatomy diagrams or bacterial cultures or some shit. Such a little scientist, that one.
Eventually, the silence is broken by Connor letting out this really big yawn, the kind that sort of reverberates through his entire body and makes his legs kick out a little bit. "Man, I am straight up Jonesing for a Slurpee right now," he says, completely apropos of nothing.
"Wait, really?" I ask, blinking rapidly a couple times as my brain tries to shift gears from contemplating the intricacies of our current predicament to the sudden topic of frozen sugary drinks.
He just shrugs, grinning lazily. "Yeah, I don''t know. Something about all this heavy shit just makes me crave pure corn syrup and artificial flavoring, you know?"
"It''s 40 degrees outside," Derek says flatly. "And snowing. You wanna go to fucking 7-Eleven in this weather?"
Connor just shrugs again. "I want an ICEE, dawg."
Jordan lets out a snort of laughter. "Christ, you''re a strange one, Stretch. But fuck it, I could actually go for one too. Sam, you in?"
And I know I shouldn''t. I know we have more important things to worry about, that we should be focusing all our energy on unraveling this Rogue Wave mystery and figuring out the Kingdom''s next move. But goddamn if the idea of just...taking a break, even for a little while, isn''t so incredibly tempting.
"Yeah, alright, fuck it," I say, pushing myself up off the couch with a grunt. "Let''s go get ourselves some diabetes in a cup."
But before we can get anywhere, my blood sense lights up. Someone bleeding - bad, but coagulated. Everyone pays attention when I perk up like that. "Someone''s at the door," I say, before they actually get there.
BAM, BAM, BAM
"Sam?" Jordan asks, looking out the window. "One of yours, right?"
I peek out over Jordan''s side.
Playback???
WORLD OF CHUM: Psionics (3)
IN THE SUPERIOR COURT OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK
The State vs. Damon ¡°Marionette¡± Locke
October 12, 2009
Judge: Honorable Florence Weber presiding
Defendant: Damon Locke
Defense Counsel: Mark Carlson, Esq.
Prosecution: Assistant District Attorney Rachel Kim
Court Reporter: William J. Burke
Transcript - Direct Examination of Witness Elizabeth Granger
Prosecution: ADA Rachel Kim
Defense Counsel: Mark Carlson, Esq.
ADA Rachel Kim:
Ms. Granger, can you tell the court what happened on the morning of March 4th, 2009?
Elizabeth Granger:
Yes. I was working at the First Union Bank on 42nd Street. It was around 9:30 AM. I was at my desk, and I noticed a man, uh, later identified as... Mr. Locke, standing by the entrance.
Kim:
What did you notice about Mr. Locke?
Granger:
I... didn¡¯t think anything of him at first. He was just standing there, like a customer would. Then, uh, he looked at me, and... I don¡¯t really know how to describe it. There was this... pressure? And the next thing I knew, I was standing up from my desk.
Kim:
Standing up from your desk¡ªdid you make that decision consciously?
Granger:
No. It felt like¡ªlike my legs moved before I could even think about it.
Kim:
Did you attempt to stop yourself from standing?
Granger:
I mean, in my head I did. I didn¡¯t want to. But I couldn¡¯t stop it. My legs just¡ªjust moved, and I couldn¡¯t stop them.
Kim:
What happened after you stood up?
Granger:
I walked to the vault.
Kim:
Did anyone give you instructions to do that?
Granger:
No... not verbally. I just walked. Like my body knew what it was supposed to do, but it wasn¡¯t me deciding.
Kim:
And what happened when you reached the vault?
Granger:
I opened it. I used the key and the combination, and I opened it.
Kim:
Did you want to open the vault?
Granger:
No. Of course not.
Kim:
Were you aware of what was happening as you opened the vault?
Granger:
Yes. I knew exactly what I was doing. I could see everything... but I couldn¡¯t stop it. I¡ªit felt like my body wasn¡¯t mine. Like when your foot falls asleep and you try to move it but it doesn¡¯t respond, only this was my whole body.
Kim:
Once the vault was open, what happened?
Granger:
I started taking the money out. Stacks of it. I walked back toward the front of the bank with it in my hands, and I... I put it into the bags. The bags Mr. Locke brought.
Kim:
Did anyone say anything to you during this time?
Granger:
No. Everyone just¡ªeveryone just stood there, like they couldn¡¯t believe what they were seeing.
Kim:
And during all of this, did you ever feel in control of your actions?
Granger:
No. Not at all.
Kim:
Thank you, Ms. Granger. No further questions, Your Honor.
Cross-Examination by Defense Counsel Mark Carlson
Mark Carlson:
Ms. Granger, good morning.
Elizabeth Granger:
Good morning.
Carlson:
You said that you weren¡¯t in control of your actions that day. That¡¯s correct?
Granger:
Yes.
Carlson:
But you were aware of what was happening, weren¡¯t you? I mean, you knew you were walking to the vault, right?
Granger:
I knew, yes.
Carlson:
And you knew you were opening it?
Granger:
Yes, I did.
Carlson:
But despite knowing, you¡¯re telling this court that you couldn¡¯t stop yourself?
Granger:
That¡¯s right.
Carlson:
Interesting. And when you were taking the money out of the vault, you were fully conscious, correct?
Granger:
Yes.
Carlson:
So, you knew what you were doing¡ªthere was no blackout, no gap in your memory?
Granger:
No, no gaps. I knew what I was doing, but I wasn¡¯t in control of it.
Carlson:
I see. Now, Ms. Granger, earlier you described feeling... pressure. Is that how you would describe it? Pressure?
Granger:
Yes. It was like a pressure pushing me.
Carlson:
And was that pressure physical? Did you feel it on your skin, or in your muscles?
Granger:
No, not exactly like that. It¡¯s... it¡¯s hard to describe. It wasn¡¯t like someone pushing me with their hands. It was more like... something inside my body was forcing me to move.
Carlson:
So, you felt this "pressure," but you don¡¯t believe it was physical?Stolen novel; please report.
Granger:
No, I¡ªit was physical in a way, but it wasn¡¯t like being touched. It was more like my body was moving on its own.
Carlson:
But you were aware, and you didn¡¯t lose control of your mind, correct?
Granger:
I... my mind was mine, but my body wasn¡¯t.
Carlson:
Thank you, Ms. Granger. No further questions.
Later in the Trial - Testimony from Dr. Alan Thorne, Neurophysiologist
ADA Rachel Kim:
Dr. Thorne, you¡¯re a neurophysiologist, correct?
Dr. Alan Thorne:
Yes, I specialize in the study of motor control and the neural pathways that dictate voluntary movement.
Kim:
In your professional opinion, how would you describe the experience reported by Ms. Granger?
Dr. Thorne:
Based on what I¡¯ve reviewed, it sounds like Ms. Granger experienced a form of involuntary motor control, where her voluntary motor functions were overridden by an external influence. It¡¯s similar to what we see in certain neurological conditions, like alien hand syndrome, where patients experience movement they didn¡¯t initiate themselves.
Kim:
But in Ms. Granger¡¯s case, this was induced externally, by another person¡ªspecifically, by Mr. Locke?
Thorne:
That¡¯s correct. Based on the descriptions provided by the witnesses and victims, it seems likely that Mr. Locke¡¯s power involves an advanced form of neuromotor manipulation, effectively hijacking the voluntary motor control of his victims while leaving their cognitive awareness intact.
Kim:
So, Ms. Granger was fully aware of what was happening, but physically incapable of resisting?
Thorne:
Yes. Her cognitive awareness was unaffected, but the neural commands controlling her muscles were being overridden by Mr. Locke¡¯s ability.
Kim:
Thank you, Dr. Thorne. No further questions.
Cross-Examination by Mark Carlson
Mark Carlson:
Dr. Thorne, you mentioned something called alien hand syndrome. Can you explain that in more detail?
Dr. Thorne:
Certainly. Alien hand syndrome is a rare neurological disorder where a person¡¯s limb, typically a hand, moves involuntarily, often performing complex actions without the individual¡¯s conscious control. The person can see what¡¯s happening, they¡¯re fully aware of it, but they can¡¯t stop the movement.
Carlson:
Would you say that the experiences of Mr. Locke¡¯s victims are similar to alien hand syndrome?
Thorne:
In a way, yes. The victims described experiencing movements that they didn¡¯t initiate or control. However, unlike alien hand syndrome, which is caused by neurological damage or disorder, this was induced by an external force¡ªMr. Locke¡¯s ability.
Carlson:
So, it¡¯s not exactly the same, is it?
Thorne:
No, it¡¯s not identical. But the principle is similar: voluntary movement being overridden by an external influence.
Carlson:
But you¡¯d agree that alien hand syndrome and what Ms. Granger experienced are both examples of the body acting independently of the mind, correct?
Thorne:
Yes, in both cases, the body is moving without conscious initiation from the individual.
Carlson:
Thank you, Doctor. No further questions.
Closing Arguments
Prosecution - Assistant District Attorney Rachel Kim
ADA Rachel Kim:
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I want to start by reminding you that this case is not about the victims. They are not on trial here. We¡¯ve heard powerful testimony from each of them, and the thread connecting their stories is painfully clear. The defendant, Damon Locke, stripped these people of their most fundamental right: control over their own bodies.
Elizabeth Granger, Robert Vasquez, and the others¡ªeach of them knew exactly what they were doing. They watched, helpless, as their bodies moved, their limbs betrayed them, their hands executed actions they never wanted to perform. They were aware, but they were powerless. Damon Locke made them that way. He turned them into tools for his own gain, without their consent and without any regard for the psychological toll it would take.
I want you to remember Elizabeth Granger''s testimony. She described the experience of walking toward the vault, of reaching out with her own hand to unlock it, all while her mind screamed for her to stop. This is the heart of the case, ladies and gentlemen. Locke''s power¡ªthis puppeteering¡ªis not just an attack on the body. It¡¯s an assault on the very essence of a person¡¯s autonomy. Every victim who took the stand shared this experience: watching their own bodies perform crimes while their minds were locked in terror.
Locke knew exactly what he was doing. He didn¡¯t need to be at the scene of the crime physically¡ªhe sent his victims in his place, turning them into unwilling accomplices. But make no mistake: those crimes were his, not theirs. Locke¡¯s power might not leave bruises or scars, but the damage is there. His victims are left to live with the memories of their actions¡ªactions they had no control over.
The defense will tell you that Locke wasn¡¯t "present" for these crimes, that he didn¡¯t lift the money, or pull the trigger, or open the vault himself. But I¡¯m asking you to see through that technicality. Damon Locke was present¡ªhe was there through the actions of every person he controlled. And because of that, he is responsible for every single crime committed under his influence.
When you deliberate, I ask that you consider the facts we¡¯ve presented, the testimony of these victims who have lived with the horror of being forced to commit crimes they could not prevent. Hold Damon Locke accountable for the choices he made, not the choices they were denied. Thank you.
Defense - Mark Carlson, Esq.
Mark Carlson:
Ladies and gentlemen, we¡¯ve heard some very emotional testimony over the course of this trial. The victims shared their experiences with us, and no one here is denying the pain and distress they felt. But you¡¯re here today to determine whether Damon Locke is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, and I submit to you that there¡¯s far more complexity here than the prosecution would have you believe.
The facts are clear: Mr. Locke never stepped foot into those banks. He never touched the money. He never personally committed any of the physical acts we¡¯ve been discussing for weeks. What we are left with, ladies and gentlemen, is the question of how much control he truly had, and what his power actually did.
We heard from Dr. Thorne, the neurophysiologist, about how Mr. Locke¡¯s ability works. He explained that the victims retained their mental faculties, their awareness, and¡ªimportantly¡ªtheir ability to process decisions, even if their bodies were acting beyond their control. Now, I¡¯m not saying that what Mr. Locke did wasn¡¯t wrong. But I am saying that the line between coercion and participation is not as clear-cut as the prosecution wants you to believe.
Take Elizabeth Granger¡¯s testimony, for example. She told you that she knew what she was doing when she opened that vault. Her mind was active. Her actions were deliberate, even if she didn¡¯t feel in control of her body. I ask you, was Ms. Granger a complete puppet, or did she have some agency in those moments? Could she have tried to resist, even mentally? These are the kinds of questions we have to ask when dealing with a power like Mr. Locke¡¯s.
Let me be clear: Mr. Locke did not act with the same intent as a bank robber who storms in with a gun and demands cash. He didn¡¯t terrorize his victims into compliance; he didn¡¯t even need to be there. His power is different from any traditional criminal act, and that should be taken into account. This is not a case of grand larceny or violent assault as we¡¯ve traditionally understood them. This is about a unique form of influence, one that blurs the lines of free will and intention.
The prosecution wants to paint Locke as a master manipulator, but they¡¯ve failed to prove that he had the same kind of direct, violent intent we associate with these charges. Locke¡¯s power is psychological. It¡¯s neurological. We are in uncharted territory here, and it¡¯s not enough to convict him of the crimes his victims committed under influence without a deep understanding of how much control they still had.
At the very least, I ask you to consider whether Locke''s actions rise to the level of the intentional, premeditated crimes he¡¯s been charged with. There¡¯s more than enough reasonable doubt here to prevent a conviction on the most serious charges.
Thank you.
Judge Florence Weber''s Final Instructions to the Jury
Judge Florence Weber:
Members of the jury, it is now your duty to deliberate based on the evidence presented to you. You¡¯ve heard from the witnesses, the experts, and both counsel. You must now decide whether the State has proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Damon Locke is guilty of the charges brought against him.
Keep in mind, you are to consider the facts and evidence presented during the trial and apply them to the law as I have instructed you. The question of free will, of autonomy, and the influence Mr. Locke had over the victims, is critical. Consider the testimony of the witnesses carefully, and weigh the arguments presented by both the prosecution and the defense. You are the ultimate judges of fact in this case.
Thank you. You may retire to deliberate.
DH.2.1
Fucking hell, it''s cold out. I''m talking bone-chilling, teeth-chattering, balls-shriveling cold. The kind of cold that makes you wonder why the fuck you ever thought living in a place that sees actual winters was a good idea. But here my Black ass is, trudging through the snow-covered docks of Philly like I''m on some sort of masochistic scavenger hunt. The things I do for this gig, man.
I pull my coat tighter around me, trying to block out the wind that seems to be blowing in from every goddamn direction at once. The snow''s coming down hard now, fat flakes swirling through the air and sticking to every surface like the dandruff of some giant, frigid asshole in the sky. It''d almost be pretty if it wasn''t making my job a hell of a lot harder than it needs to be.
I''m out here on a tip, see. Word on the street is that the Kingdom of Keys has some sort of operation going down at this particular dock, something to do with 5245 Bleigh Ave. Now, normally I wouldn''t give two shits what a bunch of criminal assholes are up to in their free time, but ever since Sam clued me in on their whole deal, I can''t seem to let it go. It''s like a fucking itch in my brain that I just gotta scratch, even if it means freezing my nuts off in the process.
I pause for a second, ducking behind a stack of crates to catch my breath and scope out the scene. The dock''s bustling with activity despite the shitty weather, workers scurrying around like ants as they unload massive containers from the cargo ship that''s pulled up to the pier. I squint my eyes, trying to make out the details through the swirling snow. There, on the side of some of the equipment ¨C- "Tacony Metal Works". I''ve seen that name before, connected to some shell companies the Kingdom uses as fronts for their shadier business dealings.
Bingo. Looks like I''m in the right place after all. Now I just gotta figure out what kind of fuckery they''re up to this time and put a stop to it before anyone gets hurt. Easier said than done, of course, especially with Marionette sitting this one out. Don''t get me wrong, the girl''s got skills, but she''s also got a stick up her ass the size of the Liberty Bell. Always going on about "proper procedure" and "gathering evidence" like we''re on some kinda shitty cop drama. Me? I prefer a more direct approach.
I take a deep breath, feeling the cold air burn in my lungs as I ready myself for what''s to come. Thems powers are always ready to go. Time for these Kingdom bitches to learn that they can''t get away with their bullshit, not on my watch. Not in my motherfucking city.
Creeping closer to the action, I stick to the shadows, marking every object I see for later soundjacking. I can feel their vibrations through my soles, singing softly through the thin leather of my sneaks. Ready to be snatched up at a moment''s notice. A forklift beeps loudly as it reverses, prompting a string of creative cursing from a giant of a dude in a hard hat. I collect both and save them for later. Never know when a good "fuck" might come in handy, even if the guy seems a little confused by one of his fucks disappearing.
As I slip past the first layer of security, I can''t help but marvel at how easy it is, even without Marionette''s little jedi mind tricks. A quick burst of generic dock noise, played back from a crate I marked earlier, and the guards are off running in the wrong direction like a pair of bloodthirsty dogs chasing a steak on a string. Idiots. Who needs a high-vis vest, a clipboard, and the ability to look important, when you can just make people think a forklift is about to crash into something important?
Their stupidity is my gain, though, and I press forward, hugging the walls as I strain my ears for any juicy tidbits of info. And oh, do I strike gold. Two goons in matching black beanies are huddled together, their gaze locked on a clipboard as they jabber on about something called "Operation Ivory". I recognize the one on the left, a graying Asian dude with a thick Philly accent. We''ve danced this jig before.
"Make sure the climate control units are up and running," he says, tapping the clipboard with a stubby finger. "Boss says we gotta keep them elephants happy and healthy all the way to Joburg. Some rich fucks there gonna pay out they nose for this ivory."
"Eles? I thought we was moving rhinos," the other one asks, scratching his balls through his jeans.
"Nah, it''s them too. They''re bringing in a breeding pair from Cote d''Ivoire. Real rare shit, man. White rhinos. Got horns almost as magic as my johnson."
I shake my head in disgust. Poaching, huh? I mean, I''m all for enterprising individuals getting they paper, but this? How... lazy. I store that little exchange away for later, making sure my phone is set to voice record. The two of them look around in confusion for a second as their sentences vanish in bits and pieces. "What? What''d you say?" the other one asks, and they chalk it up to the wind, or something.
Deeper into the maze of shipping containers I creep, my breath puffing out in little clouds of mist. The snow''s coming down even harder now, blanketing everything in a layer of pristine white that almost ¨C almost ¨C makes this shithole of an operation look peaceful. But I know better. Wolves in sheep''s clothing, all of ''em.
The "wolves" seem hush now, their conversations dropping to a low murmur as they eye their surroundings warily. Guess even they don''t fully trust their own people. Smart, if you ask me. Honor among thieves only goes so far when there''s this much cash on the line.Stolen story; please report.
I spot a small group of them clustered around a shipping container that''s been tucked away behind some others, half-hidden from view. They''re moving awkwardly though, stiff like they ain''t used to the freezing temperature either. Dressed too nice for longshoremen. Something''s off. I slink closer, my ears strained to the limit.
"Easy with that one," a sharp-dressed brother in a black pea-coat snaps. "Merchandise inside is incredibly delicate. Mark and Jonesy already dropped a crate and nearly let it take a tumble into the Delaware."
"It won''t happen again," says a voice from inside the container. A woman wearing a hijab and snow goggles appears at the entrance, hopping down nimbly despite carrying a metallic case of some kind. Something rattles around inside it as she lands.
"See that it doesn''t," Pea-Coat says coldly. "Mr. P won''t accept anything less than perfection. You saw what happened to Ernesto when he botched that Florida shipment."
The woman stiffens, her grip tightening on the case. I don''t even wanna imagine what could make a battle-hardened vet like her go rigid at memory''s touch. But from the way Pea-Coat smiles, wolflike, I get the feeling that Ernesto didn''t exactly receive a gold watch and a happy retirement for his fuckup. I fumble for my directional mic and mark the receiver in my head - easier to steal when nobody notices they''re getting jacked from. Fuck, it''s cold.
The sound of something shuffling inside the container makes my ears prick up. Then that same voice from before, softer and muffled: "Hey...should we be divvying up the extras between runs, or keeping them entirely separate? We still gotta work the second phase of the op."
My eyes narrow. What are they talking about? Second phase? I creep in a little closer, trying to pick up more of the conversation, but I''m forced to duck back as two more goons amble past, their black boots crunching loudly in the fresh powder.
"Weather''s only gonna worsen," Pea-Coat is saying as I tune back into the briefing. "We''ll have to move fast before the river ices over. Get that prime cargo loaded up ASAP, then come back for the smalls. Rhinos first, elephants by Christmas."
So there''s a timetable, at least. Useful intel. Thanks Mr. PC. I''m already mentally mapping out my next steps, deciding which of my contacts are best equipped to handle such a large scale investigation. Maybe that new chick at the Inquirer. She seems hungry enough to make a name for herself.
"What about the other...packages?" Hijab asks, hesitating on the last word.
Pea-Coat waves a hand dismissively. "We''ll save those for phase two, once the heat dies down. Too risky to move it all at once, even with Richardson running interference."
Richardson? As in Maya Richardson, on city council? The fuck does she have to do with all this? I feel a headache coming on, the kind that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the tangled web of corruption that seems to infect every nook and cranny of this city.
Hijab shifts uncomfortably, the metal case clinking gently at her side. She opens her mouth as if to protest, but Pea-Coat silences her with a glare. "Just do your job and don''t ask questions above your pay grade. We''ve got plans within plans. You''d do well to remember that."
With that, he stalks off, barking orders to the rest of his crew. They hop to with a quickness that speaks to the kinda hell they''ll catch if they''re perceived as slacking. Fear''s a hell of a motivator. Easier than respect, and twice as potent.
I stay crouched there for a minute, trying to parse everything I''ve just heard. Animals. Illegal ivory trade. Secret plans and second phases. And now a possible link to the government. It''s a lot to take in, even for a seasoned snoop like me. Usually the Kingdom''s ambitions aren''t so far-reaching, focused more on drugs and weapons and shaking down folks on their own turf. This feels¡ different. Bigger, somehow.
I''m so lost in thought that I barely notice the guard coming around the corner until it''s almost too late. For a heart-stopping moment, I''m sure I''m made. But years of thinking on my feet have honed my reflexes to a razor''s edge, and I''m marking and snagging the sound of that forklift from earlier in the span of a single blink.
The whine of the forklift''s reverse alarm blares out from a spot some thirty feet to the guard''s left, sending him spinning around to investigate the perceived threat. Sucker. I use the distraction to slip away, heart pounding with the thrill of a narrow escape. A little too close for comfort, but that''s the game when you''re dealing with big fish like this. No risk, no reward, right?
My quick escape route takes me even deeper into the maze of shipping containers, each one nondescript, yet menacing in their uniformity. Any one of them could be hiding untold horrors within their corrugated metal walls, and I''d be none the wiser. Or they could just be normal shipping containers. Who really knows?
I know I''m pushing my luck by going in further, but something keeps me from turning back just yet. Call it gut instinct, call it a stubborn streak a mile wide, call it whatever the fuck you want, but I know there''s more to uncover here. The Kingdom''s plans within plans, as Hijab was so fond of reminding. I''ll be damned if I leave with a half-finished puzzle.
So I press on, my sneaks now silent in the thickening snowdrifts that have begun to accumulate between the containers. My breath comes out in ragged puffs, each exhale a miniature cloud that dissipates into the swirling white. As I pick my way carefully through this labyrinth of metal and misery, I start to notice a change in the atmosphere. The noise of the docks is fading away, replaced by an eerie stillness that feels almost oppressive.
It''s the kind of quiet that only exists in places where dark shit goes down on the regular. A palpable absence of life, of laughter, of anything resembling humanity. I''ve felt it before, in crackhouses and trap spots and abandoned warehouses where the only sounds are the skittering of rats and the whisper of ghosts. It''s the kinda silence that makes your skin crawl and your hair stand on end. Some primal part of you knows, just knows, that you''re walking on haunted ground.
I''m about to call it quits, my sense of self-preservation finally overriding my curiosity, when I hear it. Voices, low and urgent, coming from just around the next stack of containers. They sound agitated, almost angry, like whoever''s talking is barely keeping their composure in check. I crouch down, pressing my back against the frigid metal, and strain my ears to listen.
DH.2.2
"No, this is all wrong," one guy is saying, his words clipped and precise. "I told you it needed to be taken care of. Today."
"I''m sorry, sir," the other voice responds, sounding young and terrified. "I didn''t¡no one told me it was supposed to be so soon! I thought--"
"You''re not paid to think," the first man snaps. "Do you have any idea who you''ve kept waiting with your incompetence?"
There''s a long pause, the silence broken only by the rapid thud of my own heartbeat in my ears. Then, so softly I almost miss it: "Mrs. Heartbeat, sir. I didn''t realize she was coming to oversee the operation personally."
Mrs. Heartbeat? Shit. That''s a new one to me. Maybe vaguely familiar - did Sam or Jason bump into her? But if this lackey''s reaction is any indication, she''s not the type you wanna piss off. I lean in closer, my breath coming shallow and fast, fogging up a small patch of metal near my mouth.
"She''s on her way now," Irate Man continues. "And thanks to you, we have nothing to show for this phase except missed deadlines and excuses. Do you know what she does to people who disappoint her?"
There''s a small, choked noise, like a whimper being strangled in the throat. "I¡I''m sorry, sir. It won''t happen again, I swear. I''ll get the team to double our efforts, we''ll work around the clock to get everything ready for transport. Please, just¡don''t tell her it was my fault."
A mirthless chuckle. "You should have thought of that before you dropped the ball."
I''ve heard about as much as I can handle without revealing myself and going apeshit on these clowns. I tense, readying myself to intervene, when the sudden hum of an approaching engine freezes me in place. A large black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the edge of the containers, its presence radiating menace like a physical force.
The doors open, and out steps a woman who can only be the infamous Mrs. Heartbeat. She''s Hispanic, late twenties at the earliest, dressed in a stylish dress coat like the rest of the higher echelons. Black. Red tie. Broad shoulders and a square jaw. But it''s her eyes that grab me, even from this distance. Cold. Assessing. The eyes of a predator sizing up her prey.
I huddle back into my hiding spot, suddenly feeling like a rabbit that''s stumbled into a den of foxes. Every instinct screams at me to run, to get as far away from this woman and her aura of casual cruelty as I possibly can. But I force myself to stay put, biting down hard on my lower lip to keep from making any involuntary sounds.
Mrs. Heartbeat surveys the scene in front of her, her gaze lingering on the petrified young man who was getting reamed out just moments ago. He seems to wither under her scrutiny, shrinking back like he wants to melt into the corrugated metal wall behind him.
"Report," she says simply, her voice hard, deep, with a sort of forced squeak to it. Almost nasal, in a sense.
Irate Man practically falls over himself to step forward, his earlier bluster evaporating like morning mist in the face of his boss''s arrival. "We''ve run into some¡delays, ma''am. But I assure you, we''re doing everything in our power to get the operation back on track. The prime cargo will be ready for transport within the next forty-eight hours, and the¡other items will follow shortly thereafter."
She nods, a single sharp motion that conveys a world of meaning. "And the security risks? The ice?"
"A temporary setback," Irate Man assures her. "The weather is turning in our favor, and we''ve doubled our patrols to ensure no one gets too curious about our little enterprise. It won''t be a problem."
Mrs. Heartbeat smiles, a thin slash of red in the colorless landscape. "Good. Because you know how much I hate problems." She says the last word like it''s something foul, something to be scraped off the bottom of her steel-toed boots.
Everyone present seems to collectively hold their breath, waiting for the axe to fall. But Mrs. Heartbeat simply clasps her hands in front of her, the picture of icy composure.
"Upper management has put a great deal of faith in this operation, you know," she says, almost conversationally. "This may not be our usual line of business, but we''ve seen an opportunity to expand our empire, and we never let such opportunities go to waste. Isn''t that right?"
A chorus of "Yes, ma''am"s and frantic nodding, the assembled goons falling over themselves to agree with the boss lady.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
She continues as if they haven''t spoken. "This little side venture will give us the funding we need to move forward with our larger plans. Something to finally buy out the competition from DC. We cannot afford any missteps. Not when so much is riding on our success."
A pause, heavy with unspoken threats. "And to be perfectly clear, gentlemen¡ Upper management does not tolerate failure. Ever. Am I understood?"
Another round of bobblehead impersonations. Christ, it''d almost be funny if these assholes weren''t planning on ripping off a bunch of endangered animals to line their pockets. Whatever "larger plans" they''ve got cooking, it can''t be good for anyone except maybe their bottom line.
Mrs. Heartbeat seems satisfied with their display of groveling obedience. She nods again, a queen granting favor to her loyal subjects. "Wonderful. Now, let''s talk specifics, shall we? How soon can we--"
But the sound of more tires squealing in makes me perk up. I lean in, peeking around the corner of my hiding spot, for just a moment, trying like a fool to get a better look at whoever it is. Cars don''t just normally pull up in spaces like this blaring their horns, right?
A big - I mean BIG - white cadillac the size of a fuckin'' boat pulls up, tire marks painting the ground behind it black like calligraphy ink strokes. The kind of douchey pimpmobile that you only ever see in like, old movies from the 80s and 90s and shit.
And just as quickly as it stops, the doors open, and stepping out is perhaps the biggest motherfucker I''ve ever seen in my life. He has to be seven feet tall, and nearly half that width, just a fuckin'' brick shithouse of muscle and carefully-groomed facial hair, in an immaculate three-piece suit.
Black on black on black. The suit is solid black, not gray or charcoal or pinstripe or anything like that - black, like it''s in mourning for everyone who''s ever seen it. The most black suit I think I''ve ever seen someone wear without being at a funeral. And then the shirt underneath is also black, and the tie¡ you fucking guessed it, black. His forehead reflects shiny under the winter sun, but even from here, I can see it. Salt and pepper patterns have completely taken over this guy''s hair. The blackest motherfucker - and I mean this descriptively - I have ever seen in my life, including myself. Everything about this man screams ''motherfucker'' to me.
I try to lean in a little further and catch a glimpse of the action, but just as I do, I accidentally jostle some kinda equipment next to me - I''m getting sloppy. The clang of metal on metal rings out, echoing in the sudden silence like a gunshot. Every head snaps in my direction, Mrs. Heartbeat and her goons, and especially Scary Motherfucker, eyeing the stack of containers I''m crouched behind with laser-focus intensity.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, I''ve really done it now, haven''t I? I freeze, my mind racing as I try to figure out my next move. I barely hear the crunching footsteps. Do I stay put and hope they write it off as a random noise? Do I make a break for it and pray I''m faster than their bullets? Shit, I don''t know. All I know is that my heart is pounding so hard it feels like it''s about to bust out of my chest, and my palms are slick with sweat despite the biting cold. By the time I peek back over, Scary Motherfucker is gone. I am immediately about to shit myself.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder from behind, hard enough to bruise. Cold metal and plastic. I whirl around, ready to swing, ready to scream, but my voice dies in my throat. A gun barrel, pointed right between my eyes. And Sam''s half-remembered stories burn back to life in the back of my head, where all the fear lives.
Mr. Nothing - Scary Motherfucker - smiles, a humorless thing that doesn''t reach his eyes. "Hello, kid," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I was wondering how long it would take your nosey ass to show up for this little shindig. I had a bet going with Mrs. Heartstop that we wouldn''t hear a peep out of you tonight."
"Listen, man, I see something skeevy going down in my city, I investigate. You know how I do. How else a brother gonna make a living?" I ask.
His grip tightens, making me wince. He''s a strong fucker. "By minding your own goddamn business, that''s how. You and your little band of toddlers really think you can go poking your noses into our affairs without consequence? That the rules don''t apply to you because you fancy yourselves some kinda heroes?"
Mrs. Heartbeat steps forward, her eyes glinting coldly in the fading light. "I told you someone''d come," she says to Mr. Nothing, sounding almost bored. "One of the brat pack. Had to be the most annoying one."
"You keep tabs on me? I''m almost honored," I snark.
"Don''t get a big head. We keep tabs on the Delaware Valley Defenders. We occasionally notice the little snot-balls dangling by their ankles. You''re certainly no Bloodhound, that''s for sure," Mr. Nothing says, coughing phlegm out from his chest. "Which one are you again?"
"The handsome one," I answer, face scrunched up.
"We warned you to stay out of our business," Mr. Nothing says, his tone hardening. "We gave you every opportunity to walk away, to live and let live. But you just couldn''t take the hint, could you?"
"Robbing the zoo ain''t exactly ''live and let live''," I snap, indignant. "Don''t act like you fucks are just in the business of minding your own."
He laughs, a harsh barking sound that holds no mirth at all. "Oh, that''s rich coming from you. You ever stop to think about how many shipments you''ve disrupted, how many deals you kids''ve ruined with your meddling? How many operations are we gonna beat out of you before you learn to leave well enough alone?"
"That''s your problem. I never learn," I crack.
He cracks his neck, suddenly jerking it to the left with a loud snap, and then whipping it to the right with another, before letting it twist back to settle on me. "Now, I''m not usually in the business of icing children--"
"Gross,"
His eyebrows lower just a shade. "But you make it awfully tempting. We''ve got you dead to rights. And you know how many of our fucking operations you kids have fucked up by us not just shooting you in the fucking face at the nearest fucking opportunity? This would be, like¡ what¡ six? Seven? You''ve all become a problem."
DH.2.3
"Use your head, Nothing. You think someone wouldn''t notice a smoking crater where this kid''s head used to be when they dig the corpse up from the Delaware? If history''s taught us anything, this kid has, like, five more rugrats waiting for him to come home and knowing exactly where he went. We won''t have time to do anything crazy," Mrs. Heartbeat says, withdrawing one glove from her hands, revealing sharp, red nails. "Let''s just do this the easy way. I''ll turn his heart off, and when they find him, everyone will assume it''s hypothermia. How''s that sound?"
Mr. Nothing stares at me. Well, I can feel his eyes, behind big black sunglasses, boring a hole in the back of my head.
He sighs. "Every fucking time, we have them dead to rights. Dead to fuckin'' rights! And there''s some stupid reason why we can''t just ice them. You know what? Fuck that, I''ll deal with the consequences later." Click. "Down on your knees, and prepare to meet your maker."
"That''s not a very nice thing for a Christian man to say," I comment, even as I''m getting down on my knees and very vividly preparing to meet my maker. How would Sam get out of this? How would Sam get out of this? I''m trying to make noises but nothing''s happening, and I know it''s because of Mr. Nothing. "Can you let go of my fucking shoulder, at least?"
"You think I''m retarded?" He asks, grabbing me tighter. He presses the barrel of the gun against my head. Every single regret in my life flashes through at once. I''m sorry, Amelia. I''m sorry, Amira. Mom, Dad. Jason, Sam, the others. Akilah, too, you were too good for me. Not, like, in a romantic--
BANG!
The bullet sails right through the edge of my face, ripping off a chunk of my upper ear and carving a gouge across the side of my hair like a bad haircut. I can now say with 100% certainty that I am not really "cool" with getting shot, FUCK, OW.
I''m used to working deaf, though. I just have to push through the pain, Bloodhound style. No problem. Why''d he miss? It''s only when I get yanked to my feet and given a running start do I have the smallest little bit of an idea. I catch sight of Akilah darting around from container to container, so I sweep out through every gun I can think and I start eating noises. I always keep a couple of gunshot noises and firecrackers ready, so I play them right on Mr. Nothing''s sunglasses and Mrs. Heartbeat''s earrings, too, as close to their ears as I can get them.
I won''t bother mentally transcribing all the sound effects, you get it, man.
The world explodes into chaos as Akilah appears out of nowhere, strings of invisible force whipping out and snatching goons off their feet like rag dolls. I don''t know where the hell she came from, but in that moment, I''ve never been happier to see her scrawny ass.
All around me, Kingdom flunkies are shouting and scrambling for their weapons as Akilah flings them aside with deft, practiced movements. It''s like watching a master puppeteer at work, bodies flying every which way with a mere twitch of her fingers. Behind the mask of confusion and rage, I see more than a few of them start to put two and two together, tracking her erratic motions with their guns.
I can''t let that happen. I''ve already eaten a bunch of gunshot noises, I blast it right in the faces of the closest gunmen. They reel back, clutching at their ears and howling in pain at the sudden deafening boom. Perfect opening.
Springing to my feet, I book it for the nearest container, ducking behind it just as the first shots start ringing out. Bullets ping off the metal all around me, kicking up sparks and shredding the powdery snow. One of them just barely clips me, ripping a cut in my clothes. Too fucking close.
"What the fuck was that?!" I hear Mr. Nothing bellow over the cacophony. "Who''s shooting us?"
I chance a peek out from behind my cover and see Akilah zipping around the edges of the yard, using the containers for cover as she disarms goons left and right. She moves with a fluid grace, every tug of her invisible strings precise and economical, betraying not an ounce of wasted energy. I know she can''t keep it up forever though, not at this pace. Sooner or later, she''s gonna slip up, and then what?
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. No time for doubt, not with this shitshow unfolding. Right now, all I can do is try to buy us some breathing room and get the hell out of this deathtrap. I focus my powers on a nearby snow plow, the roar of its engine loud even through the clamor of battle.Stolen story; please report.
With a flex of will, I snatch the noise for myself, leaving the plow eerily silent as it chugs along. It''s a lot louder when it gets blasted back in Mrs. Heartbeat''s face, directly in her nostrils, making her recoil into the snow, her face clenching up tight like she just got pepper sprayed. Have you ever listened to a bass-heavy song super loud in the car? You ever notice how the kick drum makes your eyes twitch? It''s weird, isn''t it?
I use the distraction to slip out from behind my makeshift barricade, keeping low and using the stacks of containers as cover. Akilah sees me moving and with a tug of her invisible strings, yanks a heavy equipment crate into the path of our pursuers. It buys us a few precious seconds as they scramble to get around the obstacle.
We keep leapfrogging our way towards the nearest exit, me running interference with phantom sounds while she clears our path. Every gunshot that rings out is met with the deafening retort of another pistol, snatched from who-knows-where and blasted right back into their stunned faces. It''s disorienting even for me, all these layered noises crashing together into a discordant symphony of violence and chaos.
I spot a gap in the fences up ahead and angle for it, Akilah hot on my heels. More gunfire rips through the air around us, punching fist-sized holes in the containers and kicking up fans of snow with each impact. One lucky shot grazes my side, sending a blinding starburst of agony ripping through my body.
I stumble, nearly going down, but Akilah''s there in an instant. With a flick of her wrists, an entire stack of empty crates goes toppling over, forming an impromptu barrier between us and our pursuers. I gasp for breath, pressing a hand to the ragged tear in my coat. It comes away slick and crimson, the sudden shock of seeing my own blood making my head swim.
"C''mon, D, we gotta move!" Akilah shouts, grabbing me by the arm and hauling me bodily towards the exit. I grit my teeth against the blinding pain and force myself to keep moving, one agonizing step after another.
We spill out into the streets, the sounds of pursuit fading into the howling blizzard. Akilah ducks us into a nearby alley, sheltered from prying eyes, and I slump against the filthy brickwork with a groan.
"Shit, you''re hit bad," she pants, her face a mask of concern as she examines the wound. "We gotta get you some help, man."
I try to play it cool, flashing her my most charming grin despite the way my vision is starting to tunnel. "What, this? Nah, baby, it''s just a scratch. You shoulda seen me last Tuesday."
She''s not buying it though. Quick as a flash, she shrugs out of her coat, sitting atop her winterized costume, and starts bunching it up, pressing the makeshift bandage tight against my side. Pain lances through me, white-hot and all-consuming, but I force it down with gritted teeth.
"Don''t give me that tough guy bullshit," she snaps, her eyes glinting with a mixture of fear and fury. "I saw how much blood you''re losing. We need to get you somewhere safe, ASAP."
I nod, already feeling my strength fading as the adrenaline rush ebbs away. "You''re right, you''re right. I know a place not far from here. Just¡help me up, okay?"
She loops one of my arms around her shoulders and together, we stumble out into the street. I do my best to guide us, snatching snatches of conversation and ambient noise to mask our passage. Every step is agony, the world tilting dangerously from side to side with each shallow breath.
At one point, I trip over a loose chunk of ice and nearly faceplant right onto the sidewalk. Akilah hauls me up with a grunt, her face set in a grim line of determination as she adjusts her grip. "Come on, stay with me. We''re almost there."
I want to make some wisecrack about how heavy I am, but my mouth can''t seem to form the words properly. Everything feels leaden, disconnected, like I''m suddenly operating on a delay. The blood loss must be catching up to me finally.
Somehow, I manage to guide us deeper into the frozen maze of side streets and back alleys that make up this area of Tacony. We stick to the shadows as best we can, doing our level best to avoid any groups or wandering patrols. Not sure how successful we are ¨C it''s all kind of a blur at this point.
And then, finally, like a desert mirage, the battered old facade of the Tacony Music Hall looms into view. I nearly pass out from sheer relief at the sight of it. We made it, somehow. Must have burned through all my nine lives getting here, but hey, at least it''s not a total wash. Akilah slams on the door - BANG BANG BANG! And a rush of voices comes down from Heaven to meet us, my head swimming in barely-there delirium.
Akilah shoulders her way through the busted front doors, practically dragging me at this point. I catch glimpses of familiar sights ¨C the dusty lobby, the chipped tile floor, the dimly-lit halls branching off in every direction. There''s a time I used to know every nook and cranny of this place, but right now, it all seems like ancient history.
Voices echo out to greet us, familiar and concerned. I see shapes moving towards us, hands reaching out to help support my dead weight. Sam''s face swims into focus for a heartbeat, her weird razor-sharp teeth gleaming in the half-light. She''s saying something, I think. Or maybe screaming it, I dunno. Everything''s starting to go fuzzy around the edges now. Something is going into my cuts, and it''s stinging like a motherfucker.
The last thing I''m aware of is Akilah gently lowering me to the floor, her lips moving in frantic words that I can no longer make out. Shapes and colors bleed together, the noises around me quickly fading into an ominous, all-encompassing silence.
Chapter 131.1
Devonte twitches and groans as we lay him haphazardly across a spare shitty twin bed, blood tracing lines down his flank onto the fabric as we do. I can smell the copper of it staining the air, and I can feel my heartrate rise to the occasion, swelling in my chest. It''s thick, life blood, from arteries and veins, not just capillaries. The deep crimson of it glows in my mind''s eye, outlining his entire vascular system, every inch and centimeter of it. "Akilah! Get over here!" I shout out, watching as he tries to curl up, clutching his side. He''s mumbling something, but I can''t make out the words. I don''t know what to do. I don''t know what to do! "Tasha! Get Tasha!" Her mom''s a nurse. She''ll know.
"What happened?" Tasha asks, skidding on her heels as she flings herself into the common area with the rest of us.
"Dumbass went off on his own and got himself shot while we were trying to figure out what the Kingdom was up to. You know. The usual," Akilah growls, her tone an even mixture of bitterness and barely hidden concern.
Connor, Maggie, and Jordan hover nearby, their expressions a mix of worry and confusion. Derek''s already halfway out the door, muttering something about needing to get home before sundown. Nobody gives him guff about it, although I can see Akilah staring blankly at the back of his radioactively orange head. I don''t blame him - the last thing we need right now is a werewolf loose in the Music Hall on top of everything else. I''ve seen what he can do firsthand.
"Sam, you''ve got blood sense. Tell me where he''s hit," Tasha commands, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands as she starts ripping open gauze packets. "Akilah, you did first aid training too, right? With the Young Defenders? I need you on this with me."
"On it," I say, moving to Devonte''s side and placing my hands on his chest. I let my eyes fall closed, focusing inward, feeling the flow of blood, visualizing it in the same part of my brain that processes space. What was it again? Proprioception? The splatters and droplets dance before my mind''s eye, each one a glowing ember in the darkness.
I can see it now, clear as day. The grazing wound across his side, the thin, barely-there slice - no more than a papercut - carved into his scalp, the chunk torn out of his ear by a bullet that came far too close for comfort. "He''s got a gash in his side," I report, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "About a third to half an inch deep. Didn''t hit anything vital, I don''t think, but it''s bleeding a lot. And there''s damage to his ear too. Looks like it went right through the cartilage."
"Holy shit. That was way too close," Tasha murmurs, her brow furrowing in concentration as she starts packing the abdominal wound with gauze. "Let''s hope his eardrum''s not ruptured. Keep an eye on that ear, okay? Check his hearing once he''s conscious again. For now, just focus on keeping him stable until the ambulance gets here."
I nod, taking a deep breath to steady myself. The coppery scent of blood fills my nostrils, thick and cloying. It''s almost too much, the way it seems to coat the back of my throat with each inhalation, but I force myself to push through it. This isn''t about me right now. "Akilah, can you hold this in place while I check his other injuries?"
She nods, her jaw set in a grim line as she takes over applying pressure to the abdominal wound. I turn my attention back to his ear, gently probing the ragged edges of the injury with a wince. The bullet carved a furrow right across the top of his ear, taking a not-insignificant chunk of flesh with it. Blood oozes from the wound steadily, trickling down the side of his neck and staining his shirt collar with each passing second.
"There''s so much blood," Maggie whispers, hugging herself tightly like she''s trying to ward off a sudden chill. "He''s not... there''s just a lot of blood everywhere." She''s right. It''s not exactly a pool but it''s dripping from his wounds, every passing second, onto what I can only pray is one of the least comfy beds we have in this place. The more blood outside his body the less is inside. Stupid. Stupid!
"Head wounds bleed a lot, Maggie," I say, trying to sound reassuring even as my own heart races in my chest. "It looks way worse than it is, I promise. He''s gonna be okay." He has to be. He *has* to be, you hear me, G-d?
"What about his hearing?" Connor asks softly, gnawing on his lower lip with worry. "That''s gotta be really fucked up from having a gun go off that close to his ear, right?"
Akilah shakes her head, her eyes never leaving Devonte''s face as she keeps steady pressure on his side. "We won''t know for sure until he wakes up. But yeah, it''s definitely a possibility. Gunshots are loud as hell, and that was point blank range. Even if his eardrum''s intact, he''s probably got some serious hearing damage."
I run through a list of possible symptoms in my head, trying to remember everything I learned from Gossamer as she passed down her first aid knowledge to me. No, fuck, focus, Sam! Tinnitus, vertigo, pain, bleeding from the ear canal. All signs of potential inner ear trauma. We''ll need to keep a close eye on him for any of those once he regains consciousness.
"Alright, this wound''s as packed as it''s gonna get," Tasha announces, sitting back on her heels with a sigh. "Let''s get him into a more comfortable position and elevate his feet. Gotta keep that blood flowing to his brain."
Together, we maneuver Devonte into the recovery position, careful not to jostle him too much in the process. Akilah slides a pillow under his head while I grab a spare blanket to drape over him, trying to stave off the beginnings of shock. His skin feels clammy to the touch, his breathing shallow and rapid. Not good signs, but not unexpected either, considering the trauma he just went through.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Maggie hovers nearby, chewing on her thumbnail as she watches us work. "Should we, like... call his mom or something? Let her know what happened?"
Akilah grimaces. "No. That''s not a good idea. Devonte and his parents are not exactly on great terms, and his dad would probably consider him getting shot a sign of weakness. Definitely not a good idea now, maybe later," she says. In my head, though, I''m thinking that Maggie''s not exactly wrong either. She deserves to know her son''s hurt, even if we can''t give her all the gory details.
"Let''s wait until he''s on his way to the hospital," I suggest, trying to find a middle ground. "We can have Connor call her from the road, give her a heads up so she can meet us there."
Maggie opens her mouth like she wants to argue, but Akilah cuts her off with a sharp shake of her head. "Sam''s right. His mom''s gonna freak out no matter what, but at least this way, she won''t be getting in the way of the paramedics. Trust me."
Maggie doesn''t look entirely convinced, but she nods anyway, settling back against the wall with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. I can practically see the gears turning in her head, trying to process everything that''s happened in the last...god, has it really only been like ten minutes since Devonte basically fell through our front door? Feels like a fucking lifetime.
"Jordan, call 911," I say, almost absentmindedly.
"Been on the phone with them for the past seven minutes, girl," Jordan calls back from the other room.
"Should we be stitching him up?" Akilah asks, mostly to me, but a little bit to Tasha, too. "Is he dying? How panicked should I be?"
She sounds almost eerily calm. I don''t need to close my eyes to see. It''s still stuck where it should be, somewhere above my eyes and a little backwards, behind my field of vision, sort of like it''s getting projected backwards. His heart is still beating and his blood is still moving around. Small clots are forming and collecting, slowly glomming together into bigger clots. "His blood flow is steady," I report after a moment, my brow furrowing in concentration. "Not as strong as it should be, but not getting any weaker either. I think the pressure we''re putting on the wounds is helping a lot."
Tasha shakes her head. "No stitching. Just keep it compressed. Normally we should''ve cleaned the wound out too, but I think we''re all a little panicked. If there''s any saline in that first aid kit, let''s get him a little clean, and then put some fresh clean gauze in and keep his feet elevated. Ambulance should be here any time soon," Tasha explains, glancing towards me. "Right, Jordan?"
"Yeah, they said ETA is 15 minutes," Jordan confirms with a nod. "Sam said it was like a third or half inch deep - not too bad, but they definitely need to get him to a hospital. Stop that bleeding for real."
I nod absently, my attention still focused on the invisible web of arteries and veins weaving through Devonte''s body. As long as that network keeps intact and the blood keeps flowing, he should be okay. "We got this. He''s gonna be alright."
The minutes drag by in tense silence, broken only by the occasional murmur or groan from Devonte as we work to keep him stable. My hearing is laser-focused, straining for any sign of the ambulance''s arrival over the howling winds outside. Part of me can''t help but wonder how it all went so wrong so fast.
Was he following up on a lead? Investigating the Kingdom''s activities all alone? It wouldn''t be the first time he did something stupid like this. Still, this is a new level, even for him. Getting *shot*? What the hell was he thinking, stirring up that kind of heat?
The sharp squeal of tires on pavement snaps me out of my thoughts. I whip my head around just in time to see the distinctive red-and-white blur of an ambulance pull up to the curb outside. About damn time! "They''re here!" I shout over my shoulder. "Someone go let them in!"
Connor is already moving, fumbling with the locks as he rushes to throw open the front doors. A pair of EMTs burst through, their faces grim and professional as they take in the scene before them. One of them, a woman in her thirties or so, starts barking out rapid-fire questions as she sets her kit down beside Devonte''s prone form.
"What happened here? How long has he been unconscious? Any allergies or medical conditions we should know about?" Her eyes flick over to the ragged gash in his side and she curses under her breath. "Jesus, what happened?"
"Gunshot wound," Akilah reports stoically, not even bothering to sugarcoat it. "He got shot around twenty minutes ago by some drive by fuckers. Lost consciousness shortly after."
The paramedic''s eyes narrow, clearly picking up on the implication that this wasn''t exactly an above-board situation, but she doesn''t press the issue. She''s a professional ¨C this probably isn''t the first shady injury she''s dealt with working in Philly.
"Any other injuries we need to be aware of?" she asks instead, already starting to cut away Devonte''s shirt to fully expose the extent of the damage beneath.
"Grazing head wound too," I chime in, keeping my voice as level as I can manage despite the anxious flutter in my chest. "Took a chunk out of his ear and might''ve ruptured his eardrum. Potentially some hearing damage as a result."
The second EMT, a thickset Black guy who looks like he could probably bench-press a truck, winces in sympathy. "Damn, kid had himself a night, huh? Alright, we''d better get him loaded up and to the ER stat. Could be some inner ear trauma or skull fractures underlying all this."
I nod mutely, fighting the urge to bite my lip as they transfer Devonte''s dead weight onto a gurney with practiced efficiency. The logical part of my brain knows they''re the professionals and he''s in good hands now. But a smaller, more primal part of me can''t help but instinctively recoil from handing over someone under my care, however briefly. Still, I force the feeling down with a tight swallow.
"I''ll go with him," Tasha volunteers, already slipping into a jacket a little too big for her frame. Her voice is steady, focused. I have no doubts she''d make a hell of a first responder or nurse herself one day. "You guys hold down the fort here. Let the DVDs know what''s up, if you can."
Connor nods. "Yeah, I''ll tag along too. Get him checked in at the hospital and all that." He pauses, his expression twisting with uncertainty. "Christ, how are we gonna explain all this?"
"Leave that part to me," Akilah says with a humorless snort as the paramedics wheel Devonte towards the exit. And just like that, he''s gone, disappearing into the night amidst a swirl of flashing lights and howling wind.
Shit.
Chapter 131.2
An uncomfortable silence settles over the rest of us, broken only by the creak of the Music Hall''s ancient bones as the blizzard rages on outside. Nobody seems to know what to say or do next. We just kind of stand there, staring at the space Devonte''s gurney occupied mere seconds ago, the dark stain of his blood leaving an ominous imprint in the faded carpet.
"So, now that the immediate crisis is over - what the fuck was that about?" I ask Akilah, trying not to sound angry at her. "Did he at least get shot for a good reason?"
She stares at the bloody bed, and then sits down on the floor. "The Kingdom is going to heist a bunch of fucking rhinoceroses from the zoo."
"What?" Jordan asks, while my mind immediately snaps back to the map in the nightclub I infiltrated. So that''s why the zoo was circled¡ Wait, rhinos? What?
"Devonte filled me in on what he had recorded while I was trying to keep him from passing out on the way here. ''Operation Ivory''. Fucking¡ Rhino poaching, to sell them! Mr. Nothing and Mrs. Heartbeat were really whipping the goons''s ass about it, too," Akilah says, shaking her head. "What a stupid fucking plan."
"It''s not so stupid," I muse, partially to myself. "Mrs. Xenograft can mix animals together, that''s her thing. I think they''re probably going to try and make Rhino-something hybrids. That''s my best guess."
"That''s stupid," Jordan says, in the same tone of voice as Akilah. "Why would you possibly do that? What good reason is there to steal a rhino and make it into a monster?"
"Why is pretty easy, Jordan¡" I say, slumping down onto the floor next to Akilah, leaning my head back to rest against the bedframe. I close my eyes, every nanosecond of exhaustion in the previous fifteen minutes catching up to me. "Because they can. Because it''s mean. Because they want to hurt people. What''s hard is how. How the fuck would you even get one out? Those things are fucking huge."
"It''s a good thing Devonte didn''t get killed over that secret if it''s that fucking dumb," Maggie says, folding her arms across her chest with a wince. She''s trying to look tough, but the way her voice trembles ever so slightly gives her away. I can practically feel the fear rolling off of her in waves.
"I''m gonna get a headache if I keep thinking about this," I admit, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes until I see stars. "Let''s just¡ Clean up and regroup tomorrow, okay? When everyone''s had a chance to sleep on it."
It''s a shitty plan and I know it. But right now, with Devonte''s blood still staining my hands and my voice going hoarse, it''s the best I''ve got. We''re all exhausted and traumatized and one wrong word away from snapping at each other like wounded animals.
Akilah sighs heavily, pushing herself to her feet with a soft grunt. "Yeah. Yeah, you''re right. No use beating ourselves up over this now. Let''s just get this mess cleaned up and try to catch some Z''s."
Nobody argues with that. We set about mopping up the blood (can''t leave biohazards laying around, after all) and stripping the bed in grim, mechanical silence. I focus on the task at hand, desperately trying not to think about how close we came to losing one of our own tonight. And all because he went off half-cocked without backup and got his dumb ass shot! It''s hard to stay mad when you''re scared, though. Trust me, I would know.
Maggie tosses the bloodied sheets into a garbage bag with more force than strictly necessary, her jaw clenched so tight I can practically hear her teeth grinding. "This is so fucked up," she mutters, mostly to herself. "Shit like this shouldn''t be happening to kids like us."
"No, it shouldn''t," Jordan agrees softly as they finish wiping down the now-bare mattress with bleach. "But that''s the life we chose, isn''t it? When we put on the helmet and decided to make a difference."This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
"Some difference," Akilah snorts bitterly. "Feel like all we do is get our asses kicked and watch our friends get shot these days."
I don''t have a good response to that. I wish I did, but the truth is, she''s not wrong. It feels like we''re fighting an uphill battle every single day, and for what? Why do they need to put kids in the firing line? Well¡ who''s "they"? Why do we feel the need to put ourselves in the firing line. Aren''t there adults to do this? What happened to relying on them?
But then I think about all the people we''ve helped. The lives we''ve saved, the criminals we''ve stopped. The little old lady who thanked us for getting her cat out of a tree just last week. And I know, deep down in my bones, that it''s worth it. It has to be. I don''t know what I''d do with myself if it wasn''t.
So I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, meeting Akilah''s gaze with a determined set to my jaw. "We bother because somebody has to," I say quietly, but firmly. "Because if we don''t stand up to assholes like the Kingdom, who will? The DVDs can''t be everywhere at once. And the cops sure as hell aren''t gonna do it. Patriot''s not gonna do it. Nobody''s seen him in a month anyway. Everyone''s got their hands full."
"Sam''s right," Maggie chimes in, sounding a bit more like her usual self as she ties off the garbage bag with a resolute yank. "This city needs helpers. Maybe now more than ever. We can''t just give up because it''s hard or scary."
Jordan raises an eyebrow at her, a faint smirk playing at the corners of their mouth. "Easy for you to say, you haven''t been in a fight yet."
Maggie flips them the bird with a playful grin.
The tension in the room breaks like a popped balloon, all of us dissolving into much-needed (if slightly hysterical) laughter. It feels good to remember that we''re still just dumb kids at the end of the day, superpowers or no.
"Alright, alright," Akilah says after a moment, wiping at her eyes as she tries to catch her breath. "Let''s finish up here and hit the hay. We can regroup in the morning and figure out our next move then."
I nod, feeling the exhaustion from earlier settling into my bones like wet concrete. Now that the adrenaline''s wearing off, all I want to do is curl up in a blanket pile and sleep for a week. But first things first.
We finish cleaning up in record time, all of us moving with a newfound sense of purpose now that we have a plan. Maggie tosses the last of the soiled linens into the laundry pile as I give the room a final onceover for any missed spots.
Satisfied that we''ve done all we can for now, we start filing out one by one, murmuring goodnights and promising to touch base first thing tomorrow. Jordan pauses at the threshold to the upstairs bedrooms, looking back at me with an unreadable expression.
"You good, Sam?" they ask softly, their eyes searching my face for any sign of hidden distress. "I know tonight was¡a lot."
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to center myself the way Gossamer taught me after our first big throwdown with the Philly Phreaks. "Yeah. Yeah, I''m good," I say after a moment, and I''m surprised to find that I actually mean it. "I mean, I''m fucking exhausted and still kind of freaked out, but¡I''ll be okay. We all will."
They nod, seeming to accept that answer as they turn to go. "Get some rest, shark girl. We''ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
"You too, void gremlin," I shoot back with a tired grin. "Don''t let the existential dread bite."
They flip me off over their shoulder as they disappear down the hall, but I can hear the smile in their voice as they call back, "No promises!"
And then it''s just me and Akilah left in the common room, the silence settling over us like a weighted blanket. I turn to her, ready to tell her she did good tonight (and also maybe yell at her a little for not calling us sooner), but the words die in my throat when I see the look on her face.
She''s staring at the spot where Devonte''s bed used to be, this horrible blankness in her eyes that I''ve only ever seen once before - when she told us she was stepping down as leader of the Young Defenders.
"Akilah¡" I start, hating how small my voice sounds in the cavernous space. "You okay?"
But even as I say it, I know how foolish it sounds. How can any of us be okay right now? But I have to try, if only because everyone else is losing their minds too.
She blinks, slowly, like she''s coming out of a dream. Or maybe a waking nightmare. "No," she says simply.
Akilah quirks a tired half-smile at that, something almost nostalgic in the curve of her lips. Maybe she''s remembering her own first night out on the streets, scared shitless but determined to make a difference. I know I think a lot about my first few days, every time something bad happens. I don''t say that to her, though. I think she gets it without me having to.
Chapter 131.3
"Rhinos?" Fury Forge asks, her brow furrowing in a mix of confusion and disbelief. "You''ve gotta be shitting me. What the hell would they want with zoo animals?"
We''re gathered in Devonte''s hospital room, a motley crew of heroes and vigilantes all crammed into the too-small space. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting harsh shadows across everyone''s faces as we try to make sense of the intel Devonte nearly died for.
Multiplex leans against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he surveys the room with a calculating gaze. I can practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out the Kingdom''s angle. "It doesn''t make any sense," he mutters, mostly to himself. "Why go through all the trouble of stealing endangered animals? What''s the endgame?"
"Mrs. Xenograft," I say quietly, drawing everyone''s attention to me. "She''s got the power to splice animals together, remember? Create hybrids and chimeras. I bet you anything they''re planning on using the rhinos as raw material for some kind of fucked up experiment."
Sundial''s eyes widen in horror, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Oh my god. That''s¡that''s monstrous. We can''t let them get away with this!"
"And we won''t," Multiplex says firmly, his jaw set in determination. "But we need to be smart about this. The Kingdom''s not going to make a move like this without heavy security and contingency plans out the wazoo. Then, there''s transport. I wouldn''t be surprised if this was a real operation. We''ll need all hands on deck if we want to stop them."
Devonte shifts in his hospital bed, wincing as the movement jostles his injured side. He''s been unusually quiet throughout the whole discussion, his gaze distant and unfocused. I can''t even imagine what must be going through his head right now - the pain, the trauma, the fear of losing his powers forever.
He clears his throat, drawing everyone''s attention to him. "I want in," he says hoarsely, his voice still rough from disuse. "This is personal now. They shot me, they fucked up my ear¡ I''m not gonna sit on the sidelines while they play Dr. Moreau with innocent animals."
Fury Forge shakes her head, her expression softening with sympathy. "Kid, you''re in no shape to be running around playing hero right now. You need to focus on healing up and getting your strength back."
"Fuck that," Devonte spits, his eyes flashing with anger. "I''m not some helpless child who needs to be coddled and protected. I knew the risks when I signed up for this life, same as all of you."
Multiplex pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he''d rather be anywhere else but here. "Playback, I understand your frustration, but Fury Forge is right. You''re benched until further notice. End of discussion."
Devonte opens his mouth to argue - that he''s not under Multiplex''s jurisdiction anymore, that he''s not a Young Defender - but Akilah cuts him off with a sharp look. "Dev, please. Don''t make this harder than it needs to be. We''re all just trying to look out for you."
He deflates at that, slumping back against his pillows with a defeated sigh. "Fine. Whatever. But I''m not happy about it."
"Noted," Multiplex says dryly before turning his attention back to the rest of us. "Bianca, you know some of the zookeepers, right? I want you to reach out and rope them in. Zoo security, too. They deserve to know what''s coming."
Fury Forge nods, already pulling out her phone to start making calls. "On it, boss."
"Moonshot, Compass and I will reach out. We''re not the only street team in the city. If this is going to be a real siege, I imagine you big guys are going to need all the help you can get," Sundial says, brushing hair out of her face. "Even if some of them are unlicensed."
"I can''t officially condone that," Multiplex says, letting the end of his sentence go unspoken. The unfinished but.
Multiplex''s gaze lands on me, his expression hardening. "Sam, I know you and your little group are going to want to get involved in this, but I''m telling you right now - stay out of it. Leave this to the professionals."
I bristle at his tone, my hackles rising in defiance. "With all due respect, sir, we''re just as much a part of this city''s defense as you are. We have every right to-"
"No, you don''t," he cuts me off, his voice brooking no argument. "You''re children, Sam. Untrained, barely-licensed children who have done so much - too much - for this city, and who have no business getting mixed up in something this dangerous. No more. I''m putting a stop to it now."
I open my mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stops me cold. There''s a raw, haunted pain there, lurking just beneath the surface of his stern facade. I realize with a start that he''s not just being a hardass - he genuinely cares about us, in his own gruff way. The thought of one of us getting hurt again is tearing him up inside.
"Okay," I say softly, swallowing my pride. "We''ll stand down. But if you need us, we''ll be ready."
He nods, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Good. Let''s hope it doesn''t come to that."Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
With that, the meeting starts to break up, everyone going their separate ways to start preparing for the coming battle. Sundial and Sandman slip out first, already murmuring to each other about patrol schedules and equipment needs.
Fury Forge lingers for a moment, her hand resting on Devonte''s shoulder in a comforting gesture. "Hang in there, kid," she says gruffly, her voice thick with emotion. "We''ll get you fixed up with the best implants money can buy, I promise. You''ll be back out there kicking ass in no time."
Devonte musters up a weak smile, reaching up to squeeze her hand. "Thanks, FF. I appreciate it. And I''m sorry for snapping earlier. I''m just¡frustrated, you know?"
"I know," she says softly, her eyes shining with understanding. "Believe me, I''ve been there. But trust me when I say that trying to push yourself too hard too fast will only make things worse in the long run. You''ve gotta give yourself time to heal, both physically and mentally."
He nods, swallowing hard as he looks away. When he speaks, his voice is overloud, as if he''s not used to hearing it anymore. Like he''s struggling to compensate - he''s yelling, even as he''s speaking. "Yeah. I''m starting to get that."
Fury Forge gives his shoulder one last comforting pat before heading for the door, pausing only to give me a pointed look. "Remember what Multiplex said, Sam. No heroics. Leave this one to us."
"Yes, ma''am," I lie, trying not to let my irritation show. She quirks a smile, like she knows exactly what I''m thinking, but doesn''t call me on it as she slips out into the hallway.
And then it''s just me, Akilah, and Devonte left in the too-quiet room, the beeping of his heart monitor the only sound breaking the heavy silence. I sink into the chair beside his bed, suddenly feeling bone-tired and about a hundred years old. It''s been a hell of a night.
Akilah clears her throat, her gaze darting between the two of us like she''s not sure who to comfort first. "I should go check on the others," she says after a moment, her voice strained. "Make sure everyone''s holding up okay."
I nod, mustering up a tired smile. "Yeah, good idea. I''ll stay here with Devonte for a bit, keep him company."
She hesitates, looking like she wants to argue, but thinks better of it. "Alright. I''ll be back in the morning to relieve you. Try to get some rest in the meantime, yeah?"
"No promises," I joke weakly, earning a small huff of laughter in return. It''s not much, but it''s something. A reminder that even in the darkest of times, there''s still room for a little light.
Akilah slips out with one last backwards glance, leaving Devonte and I alone in the oppressive quiet. He stares down at his hands, picking at the IV taped to the back of his wrist with a distant expression.
"You don''t have to babysit me, you know," he says after a long moment, his voice almost too soft to hear. "I''m not going to do anything stupid like try to escape out the window."
I snort, shaking my head fondly. "I know that, dummy. I''m here because I want to be. Because you''re my friend and I care about you."
He looks up at that, his eyes searching my face for any hint of pity or deception. Finding none, he relaxes slightly, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Yeah, well. Thanks. For being here. It means a lot."
"Anytime," I say softly, reaching out to take his hand in mine. His fingers are cold, the skin dry and papery from the hospital air. But they tighten around mine all the same, clinging to the offered comfort like a lifeline.
We sit like that for a long time, neither of us saying a word as the night ticks on around us. There''s a strange sort of peace in the stillness, a sense of being suspended in time, just for a little while. No kingdoms or conspiracies or life-or-death battles looming on the horizon - just two friends, holding onto each other in the darkness.
Eventually, Devonte breaks the silence, his voice thoughtful. "You''re not really going to stay out of it, are you?" It''s not a question.
I sigh, running my free hand through my tangled, short curls. "What do you think?"
He nods, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah."
"Guess we have that in common," I shoot back, quirking a brow.
He laughs at that, the sound rusty from disuse but genuine all the same. "Fair enough," he says, and I can almost hear the understated, subtextual "promise me you''ll be careful" that everyone LOVES telling me. But then it never comes out.
"I can''t promise anything," I say, like he said it anyway.
"Good," he says, grinning.
"And I bet you''re too stubborn to let something like a blown ear keep you out for long, right?" I ask, more for my own sake than for his.
His smile fades at that, a shadow passing over his face. "I don''t know, Sam," he says quietly, his voice heavy with doubt. "Maybe. My left ear is gone if I can''t get an implant. Everything''s real stuffy in the right one. It''s not looking great."
I frown, tightening my grip on his hand. "Hey, none of that. You''re one of the strongest, bravest people I know, Devonte. A true hero, through and through. This setback doesn''t change that."
"Doesn''t it, though?" he asks, trying to put on a brave face, unable to hide a bitter texture to his voice. "What good is a hero who can''t even hear his own theme music?"
My heart breaks for him in that moment, seeing the despair and self-loathing etched into every line of his face. I wish I had the words to make it all better, to erase the pain and uncertainty twisting like a knife in his gut. But I know from experience that platitudes and empty reassurances will only make it worse.
So instead, I scoot my chair closer to the bed and wrap my arms around him as best I can, mindful of his injuries. He stiffens for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden contact, but then melts into the embrace, his head coming to rest on my shoulder as he shudders out a shaky breath.
"You''re more than your powers, Dev," I murmur into his hair, my own voice thick with emotion. "You''re smart and funny and brave and kind. You''re a brother to me, to all of us. And nothing, not even this, will ever change that."
He doesn''t say anything, but I feel his arms tighten around me in silent gratitude. He doesn''t cry, although I wish he would. We stay like that for a long time, just holding each other as the night ticks on, with the steady beep of the monitor in the background.
Eventually, his breathing evens out and his grip on me slackens as exhaustion pulls him under, the toll of the day''s events finally catching up to him. I ease him back onto the pillows, careful not to jostle him too much, and tuck the thin hospital blanket around his shoulders.
He looks so young like this, his face slack and unguarded in sleep, the lines of pain and worry smoothed away. It hits me then, just how much he''s been through, how much we''ve all been through, in such a short time. He''s barely older than me.
I settle back into my chair, propping my feet up on the edge of the bed as I get as comfortable as I can in the cramped space. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting strange shadows on the walls, but I barely notice, my gaze fixed on Devonte''s sleeping face.
"I''ve got you," I whisper, more to myself than to him.
MR.2.1
The rain-slicked streets of Manhattan gleam beneath the yellow glow of streetlamps as my town car glides to a stop in front of Nobu Fifty Seven. I take a deep breath, centering myself before stepping out onto the sidewalk. The valet, a young man with carefully styled hair and an immaculate uniform, greets me with a respectful nod. "Good evening, Councilwoman Richardson," he says, his tone perfectly modulated to convey both deference and warmth.
I smile, handing him the keys with a generous tip. "Evening, Charlie," I reply, pleased that I remembered his name from my last visit. It''s the little things that build loyalty, after all. As I walk towards the entrance, I can''t help but marvel at how far I''ve come. From the streets of West Philly to the halls of power in both the legitimate and shadow worlds. The irony isn''t lost on me ¨C I once swore to protect this country, and now I''m one of the very people I used to fight against. But the world isn''t as black and white as I once believed, and sometimes you have to work within the system to change it.
The ma?tre d'' greets me warmly, leading me to a private room in the back of the restaurant. The space is a study in understated luxury ¨C soft lighting, plush seating, and exquisite artwork adorning the walls. But what catches my eye is the state-of-the-art security system discreetly integrated into the room''s design. Cameras with a 360-degree view, signal jammers, and what I suspect is a white noise generator to prevent eavesdropping. Upper Management doesn''t leave anything to chance.
As I settle into my seat, I can''t help but think about the last time I was in New York, a quarter ago. It''ll be nice to report back. It''ll be annoying to see Ophelia.
The door opens, and she saunters in as if summoned by my thoughts, her presence immediately filling the room. She''s dressed to the nines in a sleek blue dress that hugs her curves, her Jessica Rabbit-red hair looking like a blood-soaked halo around her pale skin and narrow, almond-shaped eyes. So clearly dyed. "Maya, darling," she purrs, air-kissing my cheeks. "So good to see you. Love the suit ¨C Armani?"
I nod, forcing a smile. "Good eye, Ophelia. You''re looking well yourself."
She preens under the compliment, settling into the seat across from me. There''s a tension between us, an undercurrent of rivalry that we both pretend doesn''t exist. Ophelia may be Upper Management''s right-hand girl, but I know who''s been here longer. She lucked into a nice position. I''ve got real experience. They''ll be renaming me "Mrs. Barometer" any day now, as soon as she crashes and burns.
Wesley and Jacob arrive next, engaged in a heated discussion about the latest advancements in quantum computing. "I''m telling you," Wesley says, his voice low and intense, "the implications for our encryption protocols are staggering. We need to start preparing now, or we''ll be left in the dust."
Jacob nods, his fingers absently tracing the outline of a fidget toy - probably a padlock - in his pocket. "Agreed. But the cost of implementation¡" They trail off as they notice Ophelia and me, offering quick greetings before taking their seats. I can''t help but admire their focus ¨C even in social situations, they''re always thinking about the bigger picture, always planning three steps ahead.
Nolan is the last to arrive, his usual swagger tempered by a hint of nervousness. He''s been on edge ever since that run-in with his own Toddler Squad last month ¨C a close call that could have exposed our operations in Baltimore. "Sorry I''m late," he says, sliding into the remaining seat. "Traffic was a bitch."
Ophelia rolls her eyes, but I give him a reassuring smile. We''ve all had our close calls, our moments of doubt. What matters is how we bounce back. "No worries, Nolan," I say. "We were just getting started."
He visibly relaxes, reaching for the sake bottle in the center of the table. As he pours himself a generous cup, I can''t help but notice the slight tremor in his hand. We''ll need to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn''t crack under the pressure.
As we wait for Upper Management to join us virtually, the conversation drifts to more mundane topics. Ophelia complains about the latest modern art exhibit at the MoMA, dismissing it as "pretentious drivel masquerading as profundity." Wesley chimes in with a surprisingly insightful analysis of the artist''s use of negative space, and soon they''re engaged in a spirited debate about the merits of contemporary art, and the needs of the art market.
Jacob, meanwhile, is regaling Nolan with the tale of his latest conquest ¨C a redheaded bombshell he met at a speakeasy in Boston. "I''m telling you, man," he says, a grin spreading across his face, "she was something else. Legs for days and a mind like a steel trap. Turns out she''s some hotshot lawyer working for the DA''s office." Nolan whistles appreciatively, but I can see the wheels turning in his head, calculating the potential risks and rewards of such a liaison.
I listen to their chatter with half an ear, my mind already racing ahead to the meeting to come. The Rogue Wave situation is spiraling out of control, and we need to come up with a plan to deal with it ¨C fast. And then there''s the issue of these kid heroes popping up all over the place, complicating our operations and stirring up public sentiment against us. Not to mention the constant juggling act of maintaining my public persona as a crusading city councilwoman while secretly running as the consigliere of one of the most powerful criminal organizations on the East Coast. I take a sip of my water, wishing it were something stronger. It''s going to be a long night.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
"So, Maya," Ophelia says, her voice cutting through my thoughts. "I heard you had a little run-in with some overzealous fans the other day. Care to share with the class?" I suppress a sigh, knowing exactly what she''s referring to. Last week, a group of environmental activists had ambushed me outside City Hall, demanding I take a stronger stance on climate change.
It had taken all my self-control not to use my powers to blow them halfway across the city.
"Just some concerned citizens exercising their First Amendment rights," I say smoothly. "Nothing I couldn''t handle."
Ophelia''s eyes narrow, sensing there''s more to the story. "And I suppose the sudden gust of wind that scattered their protest signs was just a fortunate coincidence?"
I shrug, neither confirming nor denying. "You know how unpredictable the weather can be in Philly. And you know how big the penalties for weather manipulation are."
The others chuckle at our exchange, but I can see the calculation in their eyes. They''re always watching, always assessing, looking for any sign of weakness or vulnerability. It''s exhausting sometimes, this constant game of chess we play with each other. But it''s also exhilarating, a test of wit and will that keeps me sharp. I wouldn''t have it any other way. As the waiter enters with our first course ¨C an exquisite arrangement of sashimi and nigiri ¨C I settle back in my chair, ready for the games to begin.
As we dig into the sashimi, the conversation turns to more personal matters. Nolan regales us with tales of his latest theatrical endeavor ¨C a community production of "Waiting for Godot" that he''s directing in his spare time. "It''s been a real challenge," he admits, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Getting amateur actors to understand the nuances of Beckett''s existentialist themes¡ it''s like pulling teeth sometimes."
Ophelia snorts delicately. "Darling, if you wanted to explore the futility of human existence, you could have just attended one of our budget meetings." This elicits a round of laughter from the group, even Jacob cracking a smile, fake as it might be.
Wesley, who''s been quietly observing the exchange, leans forward. "Speaking of community involvement," he says, his voice low and measured, "I''ve been thinking about expanding our youth outreach programs in Boston." I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. Wesley''s always been the most civic-minded of our group, constantly looking for ways to build goodwill in the communities we operate in. It''s a strategy that''s paid off more than once, giving us a buffer of public support that''s proven invaluable during crackdowns. Who wants to snitch on the guy that owns the community center?
"What did you have in mind?" I ask, genuinely curious. Wesley''s eyes light up, and he launches into an explanation of his plans for after-school coding programs and mentorship initiatives.
As Wesley talks, I can''t help but marvel at the contradiction of it all. Here we are, some of the most dangerous criminals on the East Coast, casually discussing community service between bites of otoro. It''s a reminder of the complex web we weave, the delicate balance between our public and private lives. I glance around the table, taking in the faces of my colleagues ¨C my friends, if I''m being honest, except for Ophelia, who could get hit by a car on the way out and leave me all the happier for it.
The waiter returns, clearing away our empty plates and replacing them with steaming bowls of miso soup. The rich, savory aroma fills the air, momentarily silencing our conversation as we savor the first sips. It''s Ophelia who breaks the comfortable silence, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "Have any of you been keeping up with the situation in Chicago?" she asks, her eyes scanning our faces. I feel a flicker of concern ¨C Chicago''s been a powder keg lately, with tensions between the old guard and the new players reaching a boiling point.
"Last I heard, the Outfit was making moves to consolidate their power," Jacob says, his brow furrowed. "But there were rumors of some new player entering the scene, stirring things up."
Ophelia nods, a grim smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Those rumors are true," she confirms. "I got word from one of my contacts out there. Apparently, there''s a new crew calling themselves the ''Windy City Wreckers'' ¨C real original, I know." She pauses, taking a sip of her sake before continuing. "They''ve been hitting Outfit operations hard, disrupting supply lines, turning lieutenants. And get this ¨C word on the street is they''ve got some serious firepower backing them up. Military-grade stuff." A ripple of unease passes through the group. We all know what that could mean ¨C government involvement, or worse, some rogue agency looking to carve out their own piece of the pie.
"Any connection to them?" Wesley asks, pinching the bridge of his nose, adjusting his sunglasses.
"No," Ophelia says, and that''s that. Nobody''s been able to get into contact with them since the coup in Afghanistan. And it''s annoying, because I''d really like a refund on Deathgirl now that she''s stuck in the world''s most secure prison."
"Have we confirmed any of this?" I ask, my mind already racing with the potential implications for our own operations. If this new player is as well-connected as Ophelia suggests, it could send ripples across the northern markets. Potentially bad for business.
Ophelia shakes her head. "Not yet. My contact''s digging deeper, but it''s slow going. The Wreckers are keeping a tight lid on things." I nod, making a mental note to reach out to some of my own sources. We can''t afford to be blindsided by this, not with everything else we''re dealing with.
"Keep me posted," I tell Ophelia. "If this spreads beyond Chicago, we need to be prepared."
The mood at the table has shifted, the earlier levity replaced by a tense focus. We''ve all seen what happens when new players try to muscle in on established territory ¨C it never ends well, and the collateral damage can be catastrophic.
As the main course arrives ¨C a stunning array of sushi rolls and grilled seafood ¨C the conversation naturally shifts to lighter topics. Nolan, his earlier nervousness seeming to have dissipated, launches into a hilarious story about a recent mishap during one of his heists. "So there I am, right?" he says, gesturing expansively with his chopsticks, "hanging upside down from this ventilation shaft, trying to bypass the laser grid, when suddenly ¨C" He''s interrupted by a sneeze, sending a small glob of wasabi flying across the table. It lands with pinpoint accuracy on Jacob''s sleeve, causing the usually stoic man to yelp in surprise. For a moment, we all freeze, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. Then, as one, we burst into laughter.
For a group of murderous gangsters, it all sounds surprisingly genuine. Even I believe it, for a moment.
MR.2.2
As if on cue, the speakerphone at the head of the table crackles to life. The laughter dies down immediately, replaced by a respectful silence as we all turn our attention to our leader. I check the clock. It''s exactly 8:00 PM.
"We have exactly fifty-eight minutes and twenty-two seconds from the end of this sentence to finish our business. If you''re not being addressed, you can eat and drink. If you are being addressed, swallow fast and talk quickly but without yelling. You can enjoy dessert once we''re finished," Mr. A says, clearly speaking quietly, artificially amplified through the speaker of the phone into slightly brickwalled tinniness. "Zenith?"
"Aye," I say, trying to swallow phlegm.
"Congratulations on your recent election to the Philadelphia City Council. This is a significant achievement for both you and our organization. Please provide a brief overview of the strategic advantages and potential risks associated with your new position," Mr. A says, his voice maintaining its steady, measured cadence.
I clear my throat, taking a moment to organize my thoughts. "Thank you, sir. The advantages are numerous. As a council member, I now have direct access to city planning and budget allocation discussions. This puts us in a prime position to influence development projects, zoning laws, and public works contracts in our favor. We can steer resources towards areas where we have vested interests while simultaneously building a reputation for community improvement."
I pause, taking a sip of water before continuing. "Additionally, my position grants me access to sensitive information about law enforcement operations and city-wide security measures. This intelligence will be invaluable in helping us stay one step ahead of any potential crackdowns or investigations."
"However," I add, my tone growing more serious, "the risks are equally significant. The increased public scrutiny that comes with the position means we''ll need to be even more cautious in our operations. Any slip-up could not only jeopardize our activities but also trigger a widespread investigation that could unravel everything we''ve built."
Mr. A remains silent for a moment, likely processing the information. "And how do you propose to mitigate these risks, Zenith?"
"Compartmentalization will be key," I respond without hesitation. "I''ve already begun creating firewalls between my public and private activities. We''ll need to be more careful than ever about communication channels and meeting locations. I''m also working on cultivating a network of trusted intermediaries who can act as buffers between my office and our operations. It''s possible this may be my last quarterly meeting in person. I may begin having to send Nothing in my stead."
As I speak, I can feel the others watching me intently. Ophelia''s gaze is particularly sharp, her eyes narrowed as if trying to dissect every word. I ignore her, focusing instead on the speakerphone.
"Very good, Zenith," Mr. A says after a brief pause. "Your foresight is appreciated. I trust you''ll keep us informed of any developments or opportunities that arise from your new position. Now, let''s move on to the next item on our agenda. ESP, what''s the latest on the Rogue Wave situation?"
Wesley leans forward, his fingers steepled in front of him. "Our intelligence is still frustratingly limited," he begins, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration. "What we do know is that Jump and Fly are continuing to flood the market at an alarming rate. We''ve managed to intercept several shipments, but for every one we stop, three more seem to slip through. I''ve yet to receive a power readout that lets me extract any more useful information. There''s probably six actual operatives within the main cell, and I have reason to believe that all six have superpowers, but we haven''t had any success getting any further."
He pauses, pulling out a small tablet and tapping on the screen. "We''ve analyzed the chemical composition of both drugs, and I have to say, the level of sophistication is¡ impressive. Whoever''s behind this has access to cutting-edge biotech and a deep understanding of metahuman biology. This isn''t some back-alley operation we''re dealing with. It''s very likely whoever among them is manufacturing Jump and Fly is, themselves, metahuman, or has access to a metahuman to fully construct the drugs."
"What about the users?" Jacob interjects, his fingers absently tracing the outline of his ever-present fidget toy. "Have we made any headway in tracking the long-term effects of these drugs?"
Wesley shakes his head. "That''s another problem. The short-term effects are clear enough - temporary powers for Jump users, permanent but unpredictable abilities for Fly users. Long-term is unpredictable outside of the typical ''yellowing'' - ''jaundice, anemia, and altered blood chemistry, particularly increased bilirubin levels and blood pH'', so quotes the reports." he trails off, his expression grim.
"Yellowing?" Ophelia presses, leaning forward with interest.
"We''ve had reports of users experiencing extreme physical and psychological breakdowns," Wesley continues. "Over time, repeated Jump use causes your veins to degrade, and it''s very possible that this process also happens through Fly use. And, of course, there''s the highly publicized reports of individuals taking Jump or Fly and going on rampages totally unrelated to their life conditions or possible targets of revenge."
A heavy silence falls over the room as we all process this information. Ophelia glances around furtively.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
"Zenith," Mr. A''s voice cuts through the tension. "What are your thoughts on this situation? I know the Philadelphia market has been one of the most heavily hit."
I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully, while Ophelia glares daggers towards me that I deflect with a nonchalant hand gesture. "It''s clear that Rogue Wave poses a significant threat to our operations. The flood of Jump and Fly is undercutting our traditional markets, and the unpredictability of the drugs'' effects makes them a wild card we can''t afford to ignore."
I pause, glancing around the table before continuing. "I believe our approach needs to be twofold. First, we need to aggressively target their distribution networks. Hit them hard, disrupt their supply chains, make it as difficult as possible for them to move product."
"And second?" Ophelia asks, her tone challenging.
"Second," I say, meeting her gaze steadily, "we need to start thinking about how we can turn this situation to our advantage. If we can''t beat them, maybe we need to consider¡ redirecting them."
The room falls silent, all eyes on me. I can see the curiosity piqued in their expressions, even Ophelia''s glare softening slightly with interest.
"Elaborate, Zenith," Mr. A says, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
I lean forward, lowering my voice slightly. "I''ve been working on something with Mrs. Xenograft. A potential way to¡ hijack Jump and Fly. To put it simply, we''re exploring methods to use them as a biological precursor for our own, modified product."
"How exactly would that work?" Jacob asks, his fingers unconsciously fiddling with his lock.
I shake my head. "I can''t go into details right now. It''s still in the early stages, and I don''t want to overpromise. What I can say is that if it works, we could produce something that lets us corner the market in a way that Rogue Wave can''t account for. Mass reproduction of particular strains. With valuable medical byproducts that could be sold for a pretty side-penny."
"That''s¡ ambitious," Wesley says slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. "The biological and chemical challenges alone would be immense."
"Which is precisely why we''re keeping it under wraps for now," I respond. "But think about the possibilities if we succeed. We could turn their own product against them and get a leg up in a burgeoning, legitimate market at the same time. Nobody''s out there using Jump and Fly to become superheroes. And Jump and Fly aren''t exactly well-loved by the good citizenry of this fair nation. We''d hit two angles at once."
Ophelia scoffs, but I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes. "And if it fails? We''d be wasting valuable time and resources chasing a pipe dream while Rogue Wave continues to eat into our market share."
"That''s why this is just one part of our strategy," I counter. "We continue to fight them on all fronts, but we also prepare for a future where we might be able to beat them at their own game."
"Enough," Mr. A interrupts, his tone brooking no argument. "This is a discussion for another time. For now, we stick to our current strategy. Disrupt their operations where we can, gather more intelligence, and prepare contingencies. Zenith, I want a detailed proposal on your idea by next week. The rest of you, focus on shoring up our defenses and minimizing the impact on our existing markets."
There''s a chorus of "Yes, sir" around the table. I lean back in my chair, mind already whirring with plans and possibilities. I can feel Ophelia''s glare burning into me, but I ignore it. She''ll come around eventually, or she''ll be left behind.
"Now," Mr. A continues, "let''s address the issue of these ''child heroes''. Yellowjacket, I believe you''ve had some recent encounters?"
Nolan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the earlier lightness in his demeanor completely gone. "Yes, sir," he begins, his voice uncharacteristically somber. "Last month, during what should have been a routine operation in Baltimore, my team and I were ambushed by a group of powered kids. Couldn''t have been more than fifteen, sixteen at the most. Age-wise, not number-wise."
He pauses, taking a long swig of sake before continuing. "They were¡ They were good, sir. Coordinated, well-trained. They knew our tactics, our weaknesses. We barely made it out, and only because I¡ I couldn''t¡" he trails off, his face a mask of conflicted emotions.
"You couldn''t bring yourself to use lethal force against children," Mr. A finishes for him, his tone neutral.
Nolan nods miserably, looking clearly on the verge of tears. "I''m sorry, sir. I know it was a risk to our operation, but I just¡ I couldn''t do it."
The room falls into an uncomfortable silence. We''ve all been wrestling with this issue to some degree, but Nolan''s experience brings it into sharp focus. The rise of these kid hero teams is more than just a PR nightmare - it''s a genuine threat to our operations, one that exploits our own moral limitations. "That''s alright, Yellowjacket. That''s why you have soldiers."
"The problem," Jacob says slowly, "is that these kids are being used as shields. The adult heroes know we can''t¡ or won''t¡ go all out against children. It''s a clever tactic, I''ll give them that."
"Clever or not, it''s putting our people at risk," Ophelia snaps. "We need to send a message. Show them that using kids as weapons has consequences."
I feel a chill run down my spine at her words. "And what exactly are you suggesting, Ophelia? That we start killing children? Because I can tell you right now, that''s a line I''m not willing to cross."
Ophelia''s eyes narrow. "Always the self-righteous one, aren''t you, Maya? We''re criminals, in case you''ve forgotten. We don''t get to pick and choose our morals."
"Quiet," Mr. A interjects, his voice sharp but even. "Blue Velvet is right. Zenith, if you''re not willing to handle what needs to be done, then we need to hear alternatives. Are you willing to delegate this to more hardened individuals under your command?"
I take a moment to gather my thoughts, acutely aware of the weight of everyone''s gaze. "I said I''m not willing to kill a kid. There''s plenty I am willing to do to a kid. Or¡ delegate others to do to a kid."
"Elaborate," Mr. A says. I catch Jacob mouthing along with him, expecting the one-word response.
"Children are stubborn but soft and pliable. You already saw for yourself the success Porcelain had with Project Hollywood - at least until these Toddler Squads got our favorite girl thrown in Daedalus. Deathgirl and the rest of the Phreaks are raving lunatics, highly accustomed to violence, extremely emotionally unstable. They have no social support net. They have nobody that cares about them. And now they''re all in jail. If they were our problem, then I''d consider this an uncontested success. They burnt out, committed a major terrorist incident, ruined their own lives, and are now all out of the picture," I explain, drawing increasingly mute stares from my cohorts.
Nolan''s eyes are clearly running through fifteen different emotions right now. Then, he speaks. "Are you suggesting we psychologically torture children until they burn out?"
Ophelia looks at me like I just curbstomped a puppy. "We''re criminals, in case you''ve forgotten. We don''t get to pick and choose our morals," I say, locking eyes with her.
MR.2.3
She looks away, flinching. I lean back in the chair and continue to speak. "Chernobyl in Philadelphia, the US Mint in DC, the six different art museum heists that someone planned and all got interrupted by the same fucking three kids, our port operations getting shut down in Baltimore - it''s clear that the paradigm has changed in a way that we can''t accommodate. The natural tendency of the child is towards goodness, innocence, light, you know, sugar and sunshine. The goody-two-shoeses of the world can rely on that. We cannot. Project Hollywood produces two or three viable candidates a year, and we don''t have a blank check to outbid every other interested party, nor reliable contact with the organization. Something has to give."
I wave my hands out. "Hello? Someone back me up here?"
Wesley leans forward, adjusting his sunglasses. "While I''m sure we all appreciate Maya''s bluntness, I''ll tamp down expectations. I don''t think we need to be holding people in basements and waterboarding them. Just making sure to make life inconvenient in small, noticeable ways that leave us plausible deniability but send an undeniable message - ''stop fucking with us, or we can escalate''."
"I have no problem waterboarding children," Jacob interrupts, matter-of-factly, drawing an amused chuckle from the rest of the room.
The laughter dies down quickly, replaced by a tense silence. Mr. A''s voice cuts through the quiet, "Very well. Keys, ESP, you''ll work together on implementing a deterrent strategy. Nothing too overt, but effective. We need to send a clear message without crossing lines that could bring unwanted attention. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," Jacob responds, nodding at Wesley. He returns the gesture, a silent agreement passing between them.
"Good. Now, let''s move on to other matters," Mr. A says, his tone brooking no further discussion on the topic. "Keys, what''s the status on our expansion into Atlantic City?"
Jacob straightens in his chair, all business now. "Progress is steady, sir. We''ve secured partnerships with two mid-tier casinos and are in talks with a third. Our sports betting operation is up and running, generating a respectable profit already. However, we''re facing some pushback from local outfits."
"Continue," Mr. A prompts.
"The Scarfo family - what''s left of it - isn''t happy about us moving into their territory," Jacob explains. "They''ve made some noise, roughed up a few of our guys. Nothing major yet, but it''s clear they''re not going to roll over without a fight."
Ophelia leans forward, her eyes gleaming with her hideous sort of barely contained bloodlust. "Perhaps it''s time we showed them why we''re called the Kingdom. A demonstration of force might be in order."
I shake my head. "No, that''s exactly what they''re expecting. We need to be smarter about this. Jacob, do we have leverage on them Scarfos?"
Jacob smirks at me at the flub, pulling out his phone. "Funny you should ask. Obviously, lowlives like them are just lousy with bad gamblers. More than a handful of them are in deep with some offshore bookies. If we were to, say, acquire their debts¡"
"You could squeeze them without firing a shot," Wesley finishes, adjusting his sunglasses.
"Make it happen," Mr. A orders. "Now, what about our operations in Newark? Yellowjacket?"
Nolan, still looking a bit unsettled from our earlier discussion, clears his throat. "Uh, yes sir. Our protection racket is running smoothly. We''ve expanded into three new neighborhoods in the past month. Revenue is up 12% from last quarter."
"And the competition?" Mr. A presses.
"The Genovese family''s last sperms are still causing trouble, but nothing I can''t personally handle," Nolan assures. "GESSOC didn''t finish mopping up the trash seven years ago. I''ll make sure they end up in the dustbin. No interesting superhuman activity to note."
The conversation continues, each of us reporting on our respective territories and operations. We discuss everything from our gun-running routes through upstate New York to our growing influence in the Philadelphia dock workers'' union. It''s a reminder of just how vast and complex our organization has become.Stolen novel; please report.
As we near the end of our allotted time, Mr. A brings up one final point. "Before we conclude, I want to address the issue of our legitimate businesses. ESP, how are our tech startups performing?"
Wesley adjusts his glasses, a hint of pride in his voice. "Exceptionally well, sir. Our cybersecurity firm, in particular, is gaining traction. We''ve landed contracts with three Fortune 500 companies in the past month alone. It''s proving to be an excellent cover for our more¡ sensitive operations."
"Good," Mr. A says. "Zenith, I want you to work with ESP on expanding our legitimate portfolio in Philadelphia. Use your new position to facilitate this. The more we can intertwine our operations with legitimate businesses, the harder it will be for anyone to untangle them."
"Understood," I nod, already mentally cataloging potential opportunities.
"Very well," Mr. A says, his tone indicating we''re nearing the end. "You all have your assignments. I expect progress reports in two weeks. And remember, discretion is paramount. We''ve come too far to let carelessness undo us now."
There''s a chorus of agreement around the table. As we prepare to leave, I can''t help but feel a mix of pride and apprehension. We''re at the top of our game, but the challenges we face are greater than ever. But then again, that''s why we''re the Kingdom. We don''t just survive in this world ¨C we thrive in it.
"Meeting adjourned," Mr. A says. "You have four minutes and forty-seven seconds to clear the room. Enjoy your desserts." The line goes dead, leaving us in thoughtful silence as we gather our things and prepare to face the world outside once more.
As Mr. A''s final words hang in the air, we all rise from our seats in a practiced, fluid motion. There''s a palpable shift in the atmosphere; the tension of the meeting dissipates, replaced by a strange mix of camaraderie and wariness. We may be allies, but we''re also competitors, each of us always looking for an edge.
Ophelia is the first to break the silence. "Well, that was fun," she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she gathers her designer purse. Her eyes meet mine, a challenge glinting in them. "Always full of surprises, aren''t you, Maya?"
I offer her a thin smile, taking care not to touch the table directly. Last time we had a spat mid-meeting, I left it without the pads of my fingers. "I aim to keep things interesting, Ophelia. Wouldn''t want you getting bored up there in your ivory tower." She scoffs, but I catch a flicker of something - respect, maybe? - in her eyes before she turns away. Or maybe that''s just what I''d hope it was.
Jacob and Wesley are already deep in conversation as they head for the door, no doubt strategizing about our Atlantic City situation. Nolan lingers behind, looking like he wants to say something. I raise an eyebrow at him.
"Maya, I¡" he starts, then glances around, lowering his voice. "What you said earlier, about the kids. Were you serious?"
I study him for a moment, noting the conflict in his eyes. "Nolan, in our line of work, we can''t afford to be squeamish. But we also can''t afford to be monsters. Find the balance that lets you sleep at night." He nods, not looking entirely satisfied but seeming to accept my non-answer. "It''s a matter of numbers. Look, we have the opportunity to make fucktons of money. More than the police and the teenagers in our way could ever make in our lives. I donate regularly to the zoo, and to climate change funds, not to put my mind at ease or for the taxes but because I think their money is worth more in my hands, and that my causes are worth more than their donuts and treats."
He coughs a couple of times, running a hand through his beautiful, salon-treated, back-length blonde hair. "Let me give you a reading list, okay, Nolan?"
"Yeah, sure," he replies, taking his phone out.
"Utilitarianism, John Stewart Mill. Meditations, Marcus Aurelius. Reasons and Persons, Derek Parfit. Beyond Good & Evil, Friedrich Neitzche. Go get a copy of each and read them. Or don''t, I''m not your mom," I rattle off for him.
"Neitzche? Really?" He asks, unable to withhold a chuckle.
"Fuck you," I answer.
As we file out of the private room, the rest of the restaurant comes back into focus. The soft murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, the subtle scent of soy and grilled fish - it''s a jarring return to normalcy after the intensity of our meeting. A few patrons glance our way, curiosity in their eyes. If only they knew who was walking past their tables.
We pause in the lobby, exchanging final words and subtle nods. There''s an unspoken agreement not to leave all at once - no need to draw unnecessary attention. Ophelia and Jacob depart first, heading in opposite directions. Wesley lingers by the bar, striking up a conversation with a well-dressed woman who''s been eyeing him all night. Nolan slips out the side entrance, already on his phone, probably calling for his ride.
I wait a few more minutes, savoring the last sip of my drink and people-watching. Finally, I decide it''s time to make my exit.
The valet, Charlie, appears with my car almost as soon as I step outside. "I hope you had a pleasant evening, Councilwoman Richardson," he says, handing me the keys with a respectful nod.
"It was productive," I reply, slipping him another generous tip. His eyes widen slightly at the amount. "Have a good night, Charlie."
As I slide into the driver''s seat, I take a moment to center myself. The drive back to Philly is long, and I have a lot to process. The meeting''s discussions swirl in my mind - the Rogue Wave situation, our expansion plans, the unsettling talk about the kid heroes. I shake my head, pushing it all aside for now. There''ll be time to strategize later.
I pull out into the late-night New York traffic, the city''s lights blurring into streaks as I accelerate.
Chapter 132.1
Philadelphia in late November is a city transformed. The usual bustle and noise are muffled under a thick blanket of slush, turning the streets into a treacherous obstacle course of hidden potholes and deceptively deep puddles. The sky is a uniform gray, threatening more snow, or worse, freezing rain. My breath puffs out in front of me, reminding me of the dragons in those old claymation Christmas specials. I pull my scarf tighter around my face, grateful for the extra layer between me and the biting wind.
I''m supposed to be heading to school, but my mind is anywhere but on geometry and American history. There''s a storm coming, and I don''t mean the weather. The Kingdom is planning something big, something absurd, and somehow I''ve found myself right in the middle of it all - or, well, I''m inserting myself in the middle of it all, against orders. I should be scared, I guess. Maybe I am, a little. But mostly, I''m just... ready. Ready to do something, to make a difference. Even if it means disobeying pretty much every adult in my life. I can''t sit here in the snow and not do something. My body aches for action.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, probably Jordan asking where I am. I ignore it. I''ll see them soon enough, and right now, I need to focus. I''ve got a list of people to talk to, alliances to forge. It feels weird, thinking about it like that. Like I''m some kind of general planning a war. But I guess that''s kind of what this is, isn''t it? A war. Just not the kind with armies and tanks and stuff. At least, I hope not. Although with the Kingdom involved, who knows?
A schoolgirl against a Kingdom. It''s almost like a fantasy story.
I round the corner onto the street where my school sits, a squat, wiiiiide brick building that looks like it''s trying to huddle down against the cold. Kids are milling around outside, their voices carried on the wind in snatches and fragments. I catch sight of Jordan near the entrance, head bent over their phone. They look up as I approach, and I can see the worry in their eyes. They know what I''m planning, even if they don''t know all the details yet. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Here we go.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual. "Sorry I''m late. Had to take the long way around. There''s a monster puddle on Frankford that I swear is trying to eat people''s shoes."
Jordan snorts, but I can see the tension in their shoulders. "Yeah, well, maybe if you''d answered your texts, you''d have known about it."
I wince. "Sorry. I was... thinking."
Jordan raises an eyebrow. "About the zoo?"
I nod, glancing around to make sure no one''s listening too closely. "Yeah. I''ve got a few people I need to talk to. Spread the word, you know?"
Jordan leans in, lowering their voice. "You sure about this, Sam? Kicking a hornet''s nest of this size? I mean, you know I''m for it, I just... want to make sure you know what whirlwind you''re summoning."
I meet their eyes, trying to project a confidence I''m not entirely sure I feel. "I''m sure. We can''t just sit back and let them do... whatever it is they''re planning. Someone has to do something."
Jordan grins devilishly. "Normally, the adults have to do something,"
"You still trust the adults in the room?" I ask.
"No," they answer.
The bell rings, cutting off any further discussion. We head inside, the warmth of the building a sharp contrast to the chill outside. As we walk to our lockers, I can''t help but think about how normal everything looks. Kids laughing, complaining about homework, making plans for the weekend. None of them have any idea what''s coming. I guess that''s kind of the point, though. We''re the ones who are supposed to keep it that way.
The day passes in a blur of classes and whispered conversations. I''m only half-paying attention to most of it, my mind racing with plans and contingencies. By the time the final bell rings, I''m practically vibrating with nervous energy. I say goodbye to Jordan, promising to update them later, and head out into the cold afternoon.
My first stop is a little coffee shop a few blocks from school. It''s one of those places that tries really hard to be trendy, with exposed brick walls and Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling. I spot Bulldozer at a table in the corner, hunched over a mug that looks comically small in his massive hands. He looks up as I approach, his face impassive.
"Bloodhound," he says, nodding slightly. "Didn''t expect to see you around these parts."
I slide into the seat across from him, trying not to fidget. "I literally invited you here," I say, trying not to come across too aggressively. "It''s a long way from Patty''s. How are you holding up?"
He shrugs, a movement that looks like a mountain shifting. "Can''t complain. Business as usual, you know how it is."
I do know, actually.
"Look, I''ll cut to the chase," I say, leaning in. "Something big is going down. The Kingdom''s planning something, and it''s not going to be pretty. I''m trying to get the word out, make sure everyone''s on their toes. Operation Ivory. They''re going to... They''re gonna steal a Rhinoceros, man."Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Sean''s expression doesn''t change, but I see a flicker of interest in his eyes. "That so? And what exactly do you expect us to do about it?"
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. "I''d expect friendly neighborhood heroes to care about Philly, but... Nothing, if you don''t want to. Just... you know, you''ve got professional contacts. You should at least let them know to keep their eyes on the zoo."
He studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to squirm under his gaze. "Friendly?" He asks, laughing a big, barrel chest laugh. Finally, he nods. "Alright. We''ll keep an ear to the ground. But don''t expect any miracles, kid. We''ve got our own shit to deal with."
I nod, relief washing over me. It''s not much, but it''s something. "Thanks, Sean. I appreciate it."
"Go get yourself a crumb cake or something," he offers, tossing me a crumpled up five dollar note. I''m not one to look a gift dessert in the mouth, but by the time I''m back, he''s gone in the snow.
"Ow! Watch it with those pins, Amelia!" I yelp, trying not to squirm as Gossamer works on fitting my new costume.
We''re in the back room of the Music Hall, which has been transformed into a makeshift tailor''s workshop. Bolts of fabric - various kinds I''ve never heard of before - in various shades of blue and gray are strewn about, along with sketches and half-finished pieces of armor. Jordan is hunched over a tablet, muttering to themselves as they tweak the design.
Amelia rolls her eyes, but I can see the hint of a smile on her face. "If you''d stop fidgeting, I wouldn''t keep accidentally stabbing you. Now hold still, I need to check the fit on this shoulder piece."
I try my best to stay motionless as Amelia works her magic. It''s really hard. "What are you even trying to make here?"
Jordan looks up from their tablet. "Right, so we''ve got a base layer of thermal material to help with the cold. Over that, we''ve layered a cut-resistant fabric that should help protect you from knives - and Mudslide''s brick hurling thing. The outer layer is waterproof so you don''t get snowed over."
Amelia nods, her fingers deftly adjusting a seam. "It''s designed to fit a kevlar vest underneath it. And we''ve added some extra padding in key areas, just in case."
"Why do you even have kevlar just lying around?" Jordan asks, glancing over at a pile of half-finished gear. "Is this... like, a normal costume thing?"
"I''ve got, like, four or five vests from various costumes." I shrug, twisting to avoid a stray pin. "Most of them are kinda busted up, honestly. And one¡¯s missing, but, you know¡ªprobably lost in the abyss of my closet."
"Don¡¯t we all have an abyss closet," Jordan mutters, rummaging in a box nearby. ¡°Hey, you didn¡¯t forget the boots, right, Amelia? We got you some custom trail runners with those gnarly lugs for traction?"
I whistle, impressed. "You guys really thought of everything, huh?"
Amelia steps back, surveying her work. "We tried. Oh, and we''ve added some hidden pockets for your, uh, less orthodox tools. Pepper spray, zip ties, that kind of thing."
"Speaking of which," Jordan says, reaching into a nearby box, "check this out." They pull out what looks like a dead ferret. "Fur trim. Totally waterproof. Super warm."
I raise an eyebrow. "And where exactly did you get that?"
Jordan grins. "Let''s just say I know a guy who knows a guy. Don''t worry, it''s all above board. Mostly."
"Alright, I think we''re done for now," Amelia says, stepping back. "Take a look in the mirror and let me know what you think."
I turn to face the full-length mirror in the corner, and for a moment, I hardly recognize myself. The beta costume is... sleek, winterized, without looking like it''s too bulky. But it''s padded, giving me a distinctly rectangular, genderless frame. Like a wolf in the wintertime.
"Wow," I breathe. "You guys... this is amazing."
Jordan and Amelia exchange a proud look. "Just promise us you''ll be careful out there," Amelia says, her voice soft. "This suit can only do so much."
I nod, suddenly feeling the weight of violence to come. "I can''t promise that,"
The smell of my mom''s lasagna hits me as soon as I open the front door, and my stomach growls in response. For a moment, I''m just a normal kid coming home from school, looking forward to dinner with my family. Then reality crashes back in, and I have to take a deep breath to steady myself. I can do this. I can act normal.
"Sam? Is that you?" my mom calls from the kitchen.
"Yeah, it''s me," I call back, kicking off my boots and hanging up my coat. "Sorry I''m a little late. Got caught up talking to some friends after school."
I head into the kitchen, where my mom is pulling the lasagna out of the oven. My dad is already at the table, nose buried in his tablet as usual. He looks up as I enter, smiling. "Hey, kiddo. How was school?"
"Oh, you know," I say, sliding into my seat. "The usual. We''re starting a new unit in history about the Civil War. Should be interesting."
My mom sets the lasagna on the table, and for a few minutes, conversation is replaced by the sounds of eating. I''m grateful for the distraction, using the time to gather my thoughts. I need to keep things casual, normal. No need to make them suspicious.
"So," my mom says after a while, "any plans for the weekend? I was thinking we could maybe go see that new movie that just came out. What was it called? ''Captain Awesome'' or something?"
I almost choke on my lasagna, caught off guard by the sudden mention of superheroes. "Uh, yeah, maybe," I manage after a moment. "I''ll have to check with Jordan, see if they''re free."
My dad looks up from his tablet, raising an eyebrow. "Everything okay, Sam? You seem a little... distracted."
I force a smile, hoping it looks more convincing than it feels. "Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about a big test coming up next week. You know how it is."
He nods, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. As the conversation moves on to other topics, I find myself drifting again, thinking about the costume and the meetings I still need to have. I blink, realizing my mom has asked me a question. "Sorry, what?"
She frowns slightly. "I asked if you wanted more lasagna. Are you sure you''re feeling alright?"
"Yeah, sorry," I say quickly. "Just... tired, I guess. And no thanks, I''m full. Actually, is it okay if I go up to my room? I''ve got some homework I should really get started on."
My parents exchange a look that I pretend not to notice. "Sure, honey," my mom says. "Just make sure you get some rest, okay?"
I nod, clearing my plate and heading upstairs. As soon as I''m in my room, I pull out my phone, firing off a quick text to Rashad. We need to meet, I type. Tomorrow?
His reply comes a few minutes later. Sure thing, little shark. See you then.
I flop back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. One more ally, hopefully. One step closer to being ready for whatever the Kingdom has planned. I just hope it''s enough.
Chapter 132.2
The alley behind Geno''s Grocery smells like a mix of rotting vegetables and stale cigarettes. I''m trying not to breathe through my nose, which is probably a mistake because now I can taste it on the back of my tongue. Sandman''s leaning against the brick wall, looking like he''s about to doze off any second. How he can be so chill in a place like this is beyond me. We''re waiting for Rashad - Razor - and every passing minute makes me feel more like I''m in some low-budget crime movie.
"You sure he''s coming?" I ask, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice. I''ve never met Razor before, and Sandman''s whole "he''s good people, mostly" thing isn''t exactly reassuring.
Sandman cracks open one eye, giving me a look that''s somehow both sleepy and amused. "Relax, Bee. Razor''s always fashionably late. It''s part of his charm."
I''m about to ask what other charming qualities Razor might have when I hear footsteps approaching. A tall, lanky guy rounds the corner, moving with a kind of¡ languid ease that makes me a little envious. He''s got this easy confidence, like he owns the alley and everything in it. Must be nice to feel that comfortable in your own skin. He looks like he knows how to throw a punch.
"Yo, Sandy," he calls out, his voice carrying a hint of laughter. Then his eyes land on me, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head. "This sharky?"
I bristle a bit - at what, I''mm not sure, feeling my hackles rise. "It''s Bloodhound, actually," I say, trying to inject some steel into my voice. It probably comes out more like aluminum foil, but whatever. "And yeah, that''s me."
"Calm yourself, youngblood. We''re not enemies. Chill out," Razor says, flexing his fingers. He leans against a dumpster and makes it look dignified. G-d damn, I don''t know how he does it.
I glance at Sandman, who gives me a barely perceptible nod. Right. This is my show now. I take a deep breath, trying to channel some of that easy confidence Razor''s got in spades. "Yeah, they''re planning something big. At the zoo. I''m trying to get the word out, maybe put together a team to stop them. Or at least, like¡ you know, have people know. Once the news copters show up, we can all be like, oh, hey, that''s what Bloodhound was talking about, maybe I should get involved. Or something."
Razor''s eyebrows shoot up, disappearing under the brim of his baseball cap. "The zoo? What, they running out of petting zoo animals at their villain daycare or something?"
I can feel my face heating up, a mix of embarrassment and frustration. Why does everyone have to treat this like a joke? "It''s not funny," I snap. "They''re going to steal a rhino. Maybe all the rhinos. Maybe some elephants, too. It''s called Operation Ivory, and one of my teammates lost his hearing getting shot by one of them trying get us that information."
Razor lets out a low whistle, looking impressed despite himself. "Damn, girl. You don''t think small, do you?" He looks at Sandman, his expression suddenly serious. "She for real?"
Sandman nods, pushing himself off the wall. "She''s got good intel. Solid source. This ain''t no wild goose chase, Razor."
Razor''s quiet for a moment, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head. He''s weighing the risks, trying to decide if it''s worth getting involved. Part of me wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, to make him understand how important this is. But I force myself to stay still, to let him come to his own decision.
Why do I care this much? A small, bitter part of my brain says that it''s just rhinos. It''s¡ you know, it''s not human trafficking, or drug running, or murder. Do I just want a fight?
Finally, he shrugs, a fluid motion that seems to ripple through his whole body. "I''ll let people know. I can''t guarantee we''ll do anything. But if we''re in the neighborhood¡"
I nod, feeling a mix of relief and excitement coursing through me. Another ally. Maybe this crazy plan might actually work. "Got it. Thanks, Razor. Really."
He grins again, all sharp edges and danger. "Don''t thank me yet, little shark. We ain''t done nothing but talk."
The common area of the Tacony Music Hall looks like a tornado hit a thrift store. Mismatched furniture is scattered around, covered in a layer of papers, snack wrappers, and the occasional piece of superhero gear. I''m sprawled out on the sagging couch, trying to explain my plan to crash the Kingdom''s zoo heist.
Connor''s perched on the arm of an ancient armchair, his lanky frame somehow managing to look both comfortable and precarious at the same time. Jordan''s pacing back and forth, their goth attire a stark contrast to the chaos around us. Maggie''s sitting cross-legged on the floor, her eyes wide with a mix of excitement and worry. And Tasha, well, she''s made herself comfortable on a pile of cushions, munching on a bag of chips like we''re discussing weekend plans instead of a potential superhero showdown.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"Let me get this straight," Connor says, scratching his head. "You want us to go up against the Kingdom at the zoo? Like, for real?"
I sit up, feeling a surge of frustration. "It''s not just about the zoo. It''s¡ it''s the principle of the thing. They think they can just waltz in and take whatever they want. Someone has to stand up to them."
Jordan stops pacing, turning to face me. Their eyes are sharp behind their eyeliner. "And that someone has to be us? Like¡ you heard what Devonte and Akilah have been telling us. This is looking like it''s gonna be an entire siege. A straight up battle. They''re gonna bring guns."
I open my mouth to argue, but Tasha beats me to it. "Speak for yourself," she says, licking cheese dust off her fingers and trying to sound contemplative. "Some of us are just here for the snacks and the show."
"Not helping, Tasha," Maggie mutters.
I take a deep breath, trying to find the right words to make them understand. "Look, I get it. It''s dangerous. But that''s exactly why we need to do it. Why I need to do it. If this is a siege, then that''s going to have all the big players in one place - ready to get swooped on."
Maggie pipes up, her voice hesitant but determined. "I believe you, Sam. But¡ are we really ready for this? I mean, I can barely control my repulsion fields without sending myself flying across the room. I haven''t even really been in a real fight before, either."
Jordan snorts. "Yeah, and I''m sure the Kingdom will be real intimidated by Connor folding himself into a suitcase, and my ability to make the bathrooms smaller."
"Hey!" Connor protests. "I could¡ I don''t know, sneak in somewhere small and eavesdrop or something."
I feel a smile tugging at my lips. "No, I get it. I don''t think I need anyone to go with me. Except maybe Derek, but I think he''d probably just escalate any situation he found himself in. I just¡ I don''t know, I want you guys to know that if this goes down and shit, and you see the news saying ''rhino raid in progress'', you know where I am. In case of¡ Emergency. Sure. Okay?"
Tasha sits up, her expression serious for once. "Sam, I get it. I do. But have you really thought this through? What''s your actual plan once you''re there? Are you just going to waltz in and start punching rhino thieves?"
I hesitate, realizing I haven''t quite figured out that part yet. "I¡ I''ll improvise. I always do, right? It''s worked so far."
Tasha''s eyes narrow, their voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh yeah, because ''winging it'' against a bunch of armed criminals trying to steal a multi-ton animal is a brilliant strategy. Sam, this isn''t like our usual patrols. These are serious criminals with serious firepower and likely multiple other metahumans on their side. And let''s not forget, you''re not exactly bulletproof."
"No, but I heal," I counter, feeling a bit defensive. "That''s got to count for something. I can take risks you guys can''t."
"It counts for you not dying immediately," Tasha interjects, her voice sharp. "Congrats. You''ll just be in excruciating pain while your body tries to push out bullets and knit itself back together. Sounds like a great time."
Maggie leans forward, her face pinched with worry. "Sam, we''re just concerned. Healing or not, you could get really hurt. And what if¡ what if your powers don''t work fast enough? What if Mr. Nothing gets his hands on you?"
I feel a twinge of guilt at the fear in Maggie''s voice. Sometimes I forget how new she is to all this, how the dangers we face aren''t just abstract concepts to her. "Look, I appreciate the concern, really. But I can''t just sit back and do nothing. Not when I know what''s coming."
Connor, who''s been uncharacteristically quiet, finally speaks up. "What if we called the cops? Anonymous tip or something? Let them handle the gunfight part?"
Jordan scoffs, rolling their eyes. "Right, because the Philly PD has such a great track record with superhuman crime. They''d probably show up two hours late and shoot the rhinos themselves. Or worse, some of them might be on the Kingdom''s payroll."
"Not helping, Jordan," I mutter. "That''s what I''ve been trying to do, anyway. You act like I''ll be there alone. I just want to¡ add to the war effort. I presume that the Delaware Valley Defenders aren''t going to just let the Kingdom walk all over this city. Multiplex and Fury Forge promised me that much. So it won''t even be me. I probably won''t even be a big part."
I''m just itching to dig my fists into some goon''s face, but I don''t need to say that part out loud.
There''s a moment of tense silence as everyone processes what I''ve said. Tasha''s chip-crunching is the only sound, somehow making the atmosphere even more awkward.
Finally, Jordan breaks the silence, their voice skeptical. "So, what you''re saying is¡ you''re just going to be, what, an auxiliary force? Backup for the big leagues?"
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. "More or less. I mean, I''ll be there, but I''m not planning on taking on the entire Kingdom single-handedly or anything."
Maggie''s face relaxes slightly, but there''s still worry in her eyes. "That¡ actually sounds a lot more reasonable than what I was imagining. But still, Sam, promise us you won''t do anything reckless?"
I force a smile, ignoring the little voice in my head that''s practically salivating at the thought of a good fight. "Of course not. I''ll be careful. Scout''s honor."
Tasha narrows her eyes, clearly not entirely convinced. "Uh-huh. And what exactly does ''careful'' mean in Sam-speak?"
"It means I''ll stick to the shadows, gather intel, and only step in if absolutely necessary," I say, hoping I sound more convincing to them than I do to myself. "The DVDs will handle the heavy lifting. I''m just there as¡ extra eyes and ears, you know?"
Connor nods slowly. "Okay, that doesn''t sound too bad. But maybe we should still prep some backup plans? Just in case?"
Jordan sighs, running a hand through their hair. "Yeah, probably a good idea. Sam, you''re taking a comm link, non-negotiable. And we''ll set up some emergency protocols."
"And I''m still putting together another first aid kit for you," Tasha adds firmly.
I nod, feeling a mix of guilt and relief. They think they''re talking me down from something stupid, but really, they''re just giving me more tools to work with. "Thanks, guys. I really appreciate all of this. And hey, who knows? Maybe it''ll all go smoothly and I won''t even need to do anything."
The others start discussing potential scenarios and backup plans, their voices becoming a comforting background hum. I lean back on the couch, letting my mind wander to the upcoming operation. Sure, I told them I''d be careful, that I''d stay on the sidelines. But if an opportunity presents itself¡ well, I''ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
For now, I''ll let them think they''ve convinced me to play it safe. It''s easier that way, and hey, maybe they''re right. Maybe I won''t need to get involved at all.
Chapter 132.3
The cafe near UPenn is buzzing with activity, students hunched over laptops and textbooks, the air thick with the smell of coffee and stress. I''m trying not to fidget in my seat, feeling like I stick out like a sore thumb among all these college kids. Sundial sits across from me, her presence somehow both calming and intimidating. Next to her is Celine - Manta Rei, ''with an E-I, not an A-Y'', and wow, if I thought I felt out of place before, it''s nothing compared to how I feel looking at her. White as a ghost, with a good foot on me in height and negative ten pounds on me in weight. Sharp, pointy little dainty nose.
"Sam, this is Celine," Sundial says, her voice low enough that it doesn''t carry to the nearby tables. "She''s part of the Schuylkill Sirens. I thought she might be interested in what you have to say."
I nod, trying to look more confident than I feel. "Thanks for meeting me. Both of you." I resist the urge to start rambling about how cool I think they are. Focus, Sam.
Celine leans forward, her eyes sharp and assessing. "Sundial says you''ve got some intel on the Kingdom. Something about the Philadelphia Zoo?"
I take a deep breath, then launch into my explanation, keeping my voice low and trying to hit all the important points without going off on tangents. As I talk, I can see Celine''s expression shifting from skepticism to interest, her eyebrows inching higher with each new detail. It''s kind of satisfying, actually.
"Huh," she says when I finish, leaning back in her chair. "Well¡ it''s certainly inventive, as far as supervillain schemes go. Where''d you get this?"
I hesitate, not sure how much to reveal. "The important thing is, this is happening," I say, ducking the question. "Soon. And I''m trying to get the word out, make sure people are ready. The other heroes in this city."
I don''t want to think about how stupid I''ll look if this doesn''t happen. I''m not thinking about it. I''m not thinking about it!
Celine exchanges a look with Sundial, some unspoken communication passing between them. Then she turns back to me, her expression serious. "Look, Sam, I appreciate the heads up. But my team, we''ve got our hands full dealing with the shit that goes down on campus. We can''t exactly drop everything for a maybe-heist at the zoo."
I feel my heart sink, disappointment bitter on my tongue. But before I can argue, she continues. "That said, we''ll keep an ear out. I''ll keep an eye on the news. If things start happening, and we''re nearby¡ we''ll figure something out."
It''s not exactly what I was hoping for, but it''s something. I nod, trying to hide my frustration. "Thanks. I appreciate it. Really."
As we''re getting up to leave, Celine catches my arm. Her grip is firm, her eyes intense as they meet mine. "Hey, Bloodhound. Be careful out there, alright? It''s not worth risking your life for a rhino or two."
It makes me mad - she''s not the first person to say that, and every time, I feel like people aren''t understanding what''s at stake. Because they''re right, it''s not worth risking my life for a rhino. But it''s not about the rhino. It''s not even about the zoo. It''s about knowing who''s allowed to fuck with my city.
But I don''t want to offend Celine, who looks very cool and very French, so I don''t say that. Instead, I nod. And I say "I won''t."
I''m sprawled across my bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the past few days. My brain feels like it''s been through a blender, filled with faces and names and promises - some firm, some vague. I''ve talked to more superhumans in the last week than I knew existed in Philly. People knowing a guy who knows a girl who knows a guy. Everyone''s friends with someone.
Razor, Bulldozer, Manta Rei¡ and those are just the ones with actual names. There was that guy who could talk to pigeons (useless but interesting), the girl who could make her skin change colors like a chameleon (cool, but not exactly battle-ready), and a guy who can telekinetically control a single spoon. I mean, really? How do you have a near death experience that gives you the power to control a single, particular spoon? How is that even helpful?This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
I try to do some mental math. If I''ve met, what, maybe thirty different powered individuals this week? And assuming that''s only a fraction of the total¡ there could be hundreds of superhumans in Philly alone. It''s a dizzying thought. How many of them are actually trying to make a difference? How many are just living normal lives, pretending their powers don''t exist?
My phone buzzes, interrupting my musings. It''s a text from Lily, reminding me about dinner tonight. Right. Thanksgiving at the Golden Panda Buffet. I glance at the clock and realize I need to start getting ready.
As I''m pulling on my nicest pair of jeans (which, let''s be honest, isn''t saying much), I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. For a moment, I barely recognize myself. When did I start looking so¡ tired? When did my hair get so long? This isn''t the day of the week I set aside for mirror time.
But then again, I think I left that juvenile habit back in the snow last time I got shot.
Time to put Lily''s parents out of business.
The Golden Panda Buffet is decked out in a bizarre mix of Thanksgiving and Chinese New Year decorations. Paper turkeys sit next to red lanterns, and I''m pretty sure I spotted a Pilgrim hat on one of the Buddha statues. It''s chaotic and kind of perfect.
Lily waves me over to a large table in the corner. She''s practically bouncing in her seat, her short dyed hair a riot of purple and white. "Sam! Over here!"
I make my way over, nodding to Jiang Chen as he rushes past with a tray of steaming dumplings. He gives me a quick smile before disappearing into the kitchen. The place is packed, but our table feels like an island of familiar faces in the sea of strangers.
Jason is already piling his plate high with a mix of turkey and General Tso''s chicken. Amelia is delicately picking at a plate of vegetables, while Connor seems to be attempting to fit an entire egg roll in his mouth at once. Jordan is huddled close to Connor, looking uncomfortable with the crowd but determined to be here.
"Happy Thanksgiving, guys," I say, sliding into an empty seat. "Thanks for doing this. I owe my parents, like, a month of dishes for letting me come."
Lily grins. "You should be here more often. It''d be better than meeting up in a smelly gym in a warehouse. No offense, Jason."
"None taken," Jason responds between mouthfuls of food.
"None taken," I laugh. "Pretty sure even she''d agree with you."
As we start to dig in, the conversation flows easily. It''s nice, in a way I wasn''t expecting. For a little while, I can almost forget about the impending zoo heist, about the Kingdom, about all of it. We''re just a bunch of friends having dinner together.
"So, Sam," Amelia says between bites of lo mein, "how''s school going? You mentioned something about a big history project, right?"
I blink, momentarily thrown. School feels like it happened a lifetime ago. "Oh, uh, yeah. It''s¡ coming along. You know how it is."
Jason raises an eyebrow. "You haven''t forgotten about it, have you? With everything else going on?"
I feel a twinge of guilt. He''s right, of course. I''ve been so focused on the Kingdom that I''ve let pretty much everything else slide. "I''ll get it done," I mutter, stuffing a piece of sweet and sour pork in my mouth to avoid saying more.
Connor, bless him, changes the subject. "Hey, did you guys hear about that guy who can talk to cheese? Like, actual cheese communication?"
Jordan snorts. "That''s not a real power. Is it?"
As the others debate the merits of dairy-based superpowers, I catch Lily giving me a concerned look. I force a smile, hoping it''s convincing. She doesn''t need to worry about me. None of them do.
Mei Chen stops by our table, refilling water glasses. "Everything okay? You need more food?"
"Everything''s great, Mrs. Chen," I say quickly. "Thanks."
She nods, patting Lily on the shoulder before moving on to the next table. I watch her go, suddenly struck by how normal this all feels. Here we are, a bunch of teenage superheroes, having Thanksgiving dinner at a Chinese buffet. And yet, to anyone looking in, we probably just look like any other group of kids.
I glance around the table, taking in my friends'' faces. Jason, always the responsible one, sneaking worried glances at me when he thinks I''m not looking. Amelia, trying so hard to be perfect, to prove she belongs. Connor and Jordan, finding their comfort zone with each other and literally nobody else. And Lily, my rock, always there with a smile or a hug when I need it most.
Almost makes me want to cry!
"Earth to Sam," Lily''s voice breaks through my thoughts. "You okay? You kinda zoned out there."
I shake my head, coming back to the present. "Yeah, sorry. Just¡ thinking about how thankful I am. For all of you."
There''s a moment of surprised silence, then Connor raises his glass full of Pepsi. "To friends," he says solemnly, then ruins it by adding, "and to hopefully not dying horribly in the near future!"
"Connor!" Amelia hisses, but we''re all laughing.
As I clink my glass with the others, I can''t help but wonder if this is the last normal moment we''ll have for a while.
MR.3.1
There''s a knock at my door when I''m only half-expecting one, and it startles me out of my thoughts as I''m working on writing up some sort of proposal or another. The amount of paperwork I have to deal with as a city councilwoman is absurd - it''s like, 90% of the job. At least when I was a criminal, I only had to deal with paperwork 60% of the time. The other 40% was stealing shit or planning to steal shit. I''m already missing it.
The knock comes again, and I call out, "Come in!" It''s probably just my secretary, but I''m surprised when the door opens and in walks Richard Duvall, the Republican I absolutely wrecked in the special election earlier this month. Speak of the devil and he shall appear - I was just thinking about how much I hated this rat bastard. He''s dressed like your typical office worker, tie and all, but I can see his fake smile from a mile away. His hairline is receding faster than glaciers in the Arctic, and I have to resist the urge to make a snide comment about it.
"Richard," I say, plastering on my own fake smile, "what a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
He chuckles, that fake, politician''s chuckle that makes my skin crawl. "Maya, Maya, Maya," he says, shaking his head like we''re old friends. "Can''t a guy just stop by to congratulate his opponent on a well-fought campaign?" I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Well-fought, my ass. I crushed him 80-20. It wasn''t even close. But I play along, standing up from my desk and walking around to greet him properly.
"Of course, Richard. How thoughtful of you." I extend my hand for a shake, but he surprises me by going in for a hug instead. I stiffen for a moment before reciprocating, reminding myself to play nice. As we pull apart, he gestures to the window behind my desk. "Some weather we''re having, huh? All this snow¡ you wouldn''t happen to have anything to do with that, would you?"
I laugh, but it''s a hollow sound. "Oh, Richard, you know I haven''t used my powers in years. The government would fine me a million dollars for every unauthorized geometeorological event. Besides, I''m more of a sun and clear skies kind of girl."
He nods, his eyes glinting with something I can''t quite place. "Right, right. Of course. Wouldn''t want to upset the bureaucrats, would we?" There''s an edge to his voice that puts me on alert. Something''s not right here.
I decide to cut through the bullshit. "But clearly you''re not here to chat about the weather, so what is it you''re really here for, Richard?"
His smile falters for just a second before he regains his composure. "Straight to the point as always, Maya. I like that about you." He pauses, clearly for dramatic effect. "I''ve been hearing some¡ interesting rumors lately. About you."
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my face carefully neutral. "Oh? And what kind of rumors might those be?"
He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Well, word on the street is that Maya Richardson, our newly elected city councilwoman, might have some¡ connections to a certain organization. The Kingdom of Keys, I believe they''re called? Ring any bells?"
I feel my heart rate pick up, but I don''t let it show on my face, because I''m a professional. I squeeze my brain until my heart beats normally. It takes seconds. A flutter, at most. Instead of responding, I laugh, loud and dismissive. "The Kingdom of Keys? That gang of superhuman mobsters causing trouble up and down the east coast? Richard, please. I thought you were smarter than that."
He doesn''t back down, though. His eyes are locked on mine, searching for any sign of weakness. "Maybe I am, Maya. Maybe I''m smart enough to know when something doesn''t add up. Like how a former superhero suddenly decides to run for office, right when this Kingdom starts making big moves in Philly."
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "That''s quite a leap you''re making there, Richard. You got any proof to back up these wild accusations?"
He smirks, and I feel a chill run down my spine. Not out of fear, just disgust. "Proof? Well, not yet. But I''ve got my ear to the ground. And you know what else I heard?"
I raise an eyebrow, silently prompting him to continue. He leans in again, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "They''re going to steal a rhinoceros. Can you believe that? A whole darn rhino."
I can''t help it - I burst out laughing. "A rhinoceros? Really, Richard? That''s what you''re going with?" He looks taken aback by my reaction, which only makes me laugh harder. "I''ve heard the rumors too - baseless drivel from a schoolgirl riling up the local superhero population. The one who got her fifteen minutes of fame when that neo-Nazi Patriot beat her up at homecoming? Now she''s just spreading whatever wild stories she can come up with to stay relevant."Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Richard''s face falls, and I know I''ve hit the nail on the head. "How did you-" he starts, but I cut him off.
"Richard, I''m a politician now. It''s my job to know what''s going on in this city. And right now, what''s going on is that you''re making a fool of yourself with these ridiculous accusations." I stand up, walking around my desk to face him directly. "Let me get this straight. You think that your political opponent, a known superhuman with known powers, is secretly a member of a notorious gang of other superhumans, and your plan is to¡ what, exactly? Blackmail me? How do you foresee that going for you?"
He stutters, clearly thrown off balance. "I¡ I have evidence, Maya. Things that suggest a connection to the Kingdom. Skeletons in your closet that you might not want the public to know about."
I laugh again, but this time it''s cold and harsh. "Evidence? Like what, Richard? Some vague rumors and a teenage girl''s wild imagination? You''re going to need a lot more than that if you want to play in the big leagues."
He stands up straighter, trying to regain some of his bravado, as he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a wad of folded papers, smacking them in his hands. "This evidence. And the digital evidence in my emails. You''re going to threaten me now? Make it rain in your office? Summon a little tornado? Get real, Maya. I did my research. I know what your powers are. You''re no threat to me."
I smile, and it''s not a nice smile. It''s the kind of smile that makes people remember that I used to be a superhero, and that there''s a reason I was feared even then. "Oh, Richard. You''re adorable."
He swallows hard, but he''s not backing down. Instead, he reaches for his pocket. "That''s okay. I recorded this entire conversation. I''m sure people would love to hear your vague threats towards me."
My smile widens, straining my cheeks, and I hold up his tape recorder - the one I pickpocketed from him when we hugged earlier. The one in his other pocket. "Looking for this, Richard?"
The color drains from his face as he realizes just how badly he''s fucked up.
I toss the recorder from hand to hand, watching his eyes follow it like a cat tracking a laser pointer. "You know, Richard, I''m feeling generous today. So here''s what we''re going to do." I set the recorder down on my desk and start taking off my jacket. "We''re going to go for a little ride, you and I. Clear the air, so to speak."
His eyes widen in panic. "What? No, I''m not going anywhere with you!"
I laugh, holding my arms out to my sides. "Relax, Richard. Look, I''ll even let you pat me down. No guns, no tasers, nothing but my wallet and my phone. Unlike you, I don''t feel the need to engage in skulduggery." I turn around slowly, letting him see that I''m not hiding anything. "Come on, take a ride with me. I can''t hurt you if you''re not outside, right? I''ll tell you everything. Scout''s honor."
He hesitates, clearly weighing his options. Finally, he nods, his curiosity apparently overcoming his fear. "Fine. But this better not be some kind of trick."
I lead him out of my office and down to the parking garage, where my sleek black Audi is waiting. "Get in," I tell him, gesturing to the back seat.
He complies, though I can see the tension in every line of his body. As I slide into the driver''s seat, he clears his throat. "Where exactly are we going?"
I start the engine, the purr of it filling the enclosed space. "We''re getting lunch," I say casually, as if this is a perfectly normal situation. "I''m hungry. My treat. You like Checkers? There''s one on Broad Street - their mozzarella sticks are insane." He doesn''t respond, just stares at me like I''ve grown a second head. I pull out of the parking garage and onto the street, the snow falling gently around us. "We''re going to get food, and then I''m going to kick you out of my car in front of your house and you''ll go home and forget this happened. Sound good?"
The silence in the car is thick enough to cut with a knife. Richard sits stiffly in the back seat, his eyes darting between me and the passing scenery outside. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out what my angle is. Me? I''m just enjoying the drive. Philly looks beautiful in the snow, all soft edges and muffled sounds. We pull into the Checkers drive-through, and I roll down my window to place our order. The kid at the window does a double-take when he sees me. "Councilwoman Richardson? Is that you?"
I flash him my most winningest smile. "Sure is, honey. How''s your mom doing? She still working at the library?"
The kid beams, clearly thrilled to be recognized. "Yes ma''am, she is! She''ll be so excited to hear I saw you!" I laugh, warm and genuine. "Tell her I said hi, will you? Now, let me get two orders of those amazing mozzarella sticks, a Big Buford for me, and¡" I glance back at Richard, who''s looking increasingly bewildered. "What''ll you have, Richard?"
He mumbles something about a chicken sandwich, and I relay the order to the kid, who''s still grinning from ear to ear. As we pull up to the window to pay and collect our food, I can''t help but notice the warm reception I get and the complete lack of recognition for Richard. It''s almost funny, in a sad sort of way. Here''s a man who thought he could be a big shot politician, and the kid at the drive-through window doesn''t even give him a second glance.
We get our food and I pull out of the parking lot, heading in the general direction of Richard''s house. The smell of greasy fast food fills the car, and I dig into my burger with gusto. Richard picks at his chicken sandwich, clearly too nervous to have much of an appetite. After a few minutes of silence broken only by the sound of chewing, I decide it''s time to have our little chat.
MR.3.2
"You know what I hate about you, Richard?" I say conversationally, as if we''re just two friends shooting the breeze. He stiffens in the back seat, but I continue before he can respond. "It''s the fact that you''re a Republican and you mean it. Sure, I may work for an organization of national interest, a mob of superhumans who commit various high-profile crimes for the sake of profit, but we try not to kill unless we have to."
I take another bite of my burger, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "You, on the other hand? You kill as a side effect of existing. I''ve only ever shot a couple of men in my life. Your policies, thank God they never got enacted, would lead to more people than that dying just on the second-order effects. Starvation. Medical bills. Homelessness. You''re a worse murderer than I am, and you don''t even know it."
I glance in the rearview mirror to gauge his reaction. He''s gone pale, his chicken sandwich forgotten in his lap. "Or maybe you do know it and you don''t care," I muse. "At least when I shoot people in the fucking brain, it''s out of necessity. For you, it''s not even a matter of doing business. I never kill someone and rob them. I kill someone because they get in my way. You kill people¡ for fun?" I shake my head. "You''re repugnant. You''re the human equivalent of a vomit stain in the carpet. People love me because I talk like them, I walk like them, I live in this city and I love this city. I live in this country and I love this country. I''m polite to the waiter. I never send back my food even if it sucks. The only person you love is yourself. You''re disgusting."
Richard has been cycling through emotions as I speak - fear, anger, indignation, and now, oddly enough, boredom. He lets out a sigh that''s almost exasperated. "Is this supposed to be some kind of moral lecture? I''ve heard it all before, Maya. Of course I have to be individualistic - the only person you can trust in your life to get things done is yourself. If a couple of lowlifes can''t scoop themselves out of the gutter, that''s their problem, not mine." He shakes his head, a hint of confusion creeping into his voice. "What I don''t understand is how you can relate to them, what with your upbringing. You even went to a good school. You could''ve done anything you wanted."
I let out a laugh that''s more like a bark. "Anything I wanted? You mean like becoming a superhero? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Or maybe you mean becoming a respectable politician like yourself?" I snort derisively. "Yeah, that worked out great for you, didn''t it?" I abruptly change topics, catching him off guard. "What do you know about ''secondary powers'', Richard?"
He laughs, but it''s a nervous sound. "Are you trying to intimidate me? Yeah, I know that people with powers get side-effects that make it harder for their powers to hurt them. What, so you don''t get cold in the rain? You''re always a perfect 98 degrees internally even in windchill? Oh, I''m so frightened." The sarcasm in his voice is thick enough to spread on toast.
But he is frightened.
I smile, but it''s not a nice smile. It''s the kind of smile a shark might give right before it takes a bite out of you. "The reason I''m so beautiful," I say, my voice dripping with false modesty, "besides the fact that God loves me more than you, is because my skin and organs are hyper-elastic, so I look - and fuck - like a 25-year-old. My blood contains proteins that prevent the formation of gas bubbles in my circulatory system, and my body stores and carries oxygen better than yours does. There are extra tubes in my face. I never have problems with my ears popping on airplanes. I''ve never broken a bone."
Richard laughs again, but there''s an edge of unease to it now. "This is all a little overkill for weather control. You going to pick a fight with me with your reinforced bones? You gonna knock my teeth in, little girl?"
I laugh right back at him, and the sound fills the car. So much laughter going on today, and none of it genuine. "You think my power is weather control?" Richard''s laughter dies in his throat.
He''s starting to sweat now, his face turning an interesting shade of red. "That''s what your LUMA says," he protests weakly. "I have the documentation right here in my hands."
I shake my head again, hitting my turn signal as I merge onto another lane. "Oh, Richard. You poor, naive little man. In an enclosed space, 300 PSI is all that''s needed to collapse your organs and start breaking your bones. More than that would crush your ribs. I could turn you into a fine paste. I could crumple any vehicle you want to be in like a tin can against a frat boy''s head." As I speak, Richard starts gasping for breath. He''s squirming in the back seat, making undignified squealing noises. "This car is modified," I explain calmly, as if I''m giving a lecture. "A 300 psi differential would make any normal car explode. Even my beautiful baby wouldn''t like that much air pressure."Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Richard''s skin is bright red now. He''s frothing at the mouth, his eyes bulging in their sockets. My voice gets quieter, barely audible over the whooshing sound that''s filling the car, as the sound carries worse and worse. "But here''s the thing, Richard. I didn''t raise the air pressure. I lowered it." I watch him in the rearview mirror, narrating his final moments with a detached curiosity. "Soon, the interior of this car will be a vacuum. And while I can withstand hypoxia better than any normal human, you¡ well, you can''t."
There''s a loud hiss that sort of expels itself from the inside of his torso, as all the air inside of his lungs rather violently becomes out of his lungs.
I park the car, feeling the lights starting to sparkle at the edges of my vision, my body straining against the near-perfect lack of air. I can''t tolerate this for long. He writhes with increasing effort and decreasing results. It takes no more than another 10 seconds for him to pass out. Then, his body gives one last, feeble twitch before he goes still, blood leaking from his nose as an embolism works its way through his body. He dies ignominiously, slumped in the back seat of my car, parked only a couple feet away from his home.
I praise the snow. It''s basically impossible to see anything in these conditions. Makes my life easier.
I release the vacuum, and the windows bow slightly with the sudden change in pressure. I take a deep breath, savoring the rush of oxygen back into my lungs, and let my vision return to normal. Then, moving quickly and efficiently, I get out of the car and open the back door. I pull on a pair of rubber gloves from the glove compartment - always be prepared, that''s my motto - and grab Richard''s body.
It''s heavier than I expected, but I manage to drag it out of the car and up to his front door. I use the copy of his house key that I had made weeks ago - knowing his schedule better than he did himself was just good business, after all - and haul his corpse inside. I position him carefully in front of the TV, making it look like he simply fell asleep watching the news. A heart attack, maybe. Or a stroke. A normal, working man''s embolism. Something suitably mundane for a man who lived such a banal, uninteresting life. His wife will come home from her job, since obviously I have her schedule memorized, too, and find him dead. It''s as simple as that.
Satisfied with my work, I dust off my hands and head back to my car. As I drive away, I can''t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. One less rat in the world. The snow continues to fall, covering my tracks and washing the city clean. I smile to myself, thinking about all the good I''ll be able to do for this city.
I pull into my reserved parking spot at City Hall, taking a moment to check my appearance in the rearview mirror. Not a hair out of place, not a hint of the violence I just committed visible on my face. Perfect. As I step out of the car, I''m greeted by a gust of cold wind that whips snow into my face. For a brief moment, I''m tempted to use my powers to calm the weather, to create a bubble of stillness around me.
But old habits die hard, and the fear of those million-dollar fines is deeply ingrained. Instead, I pull my coat tighter around me and hurry towards the building. As I walk, I nod and smile at the various staffers and officials I pass. They all return my greetings warmly. Everyone loves me, as usual.
Back in my office, I settle into my chair with a sigh. The adrenaline from my encounter with Richard is starting to wear off, leaving me feeling drained. But there''s no time to rest - I have a city to run, after all. I pull up my schedule for the rest of the day: meetings with constituents, a conference call with the zoning board, and prep work for tomorrow''s council session.
It''s a far cry from planning heists or coordinating Kingdom operations, but in many ways, it''s just as challenging. And, if I''m being honest with myself, just as thrilling. There''s a certain rush that comes with wielding legitimate power, with knowing that your decisions can shape the lives of millions. Thousands, for now, but I''m sure it''ll be millions eventually. It''s a different kind of high than what I got from my criminal activities, but no less intoxicating.
As I start reviewing documents for my next meeting, my phone buzzes with a text. It''s from Mr. Nothing. "Heard about Duvall from E. Clean job. The boys send their congratulations."
I type out a quick response: "Just taking out the trash."
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of meetings and phone calls. I find myself slipping easily into the role of dedicated public servant, listening to constituents'' concerns and promising to look into various issues. It''s not all an act, either. I genuinely do care about making this city better, even if my methods are unorthodox.
And then, I''m ready to head home.
God''s in his heaven, all is right with the world.
Chapter 133.1
There are only so many times you can walk around a zoo before you memorize everything. At first, it was about mapping the place in my head, you know, figuring out all the paths and shortcuts. Where the snack stands are, where the bathrooms are. Which enclosures are closest to the exits, and which ones are hidden in weird little corners. That kind of thing. But now I''ve been here so much, I''ve started noticing stuff that I bet even the zookeepers miss. Like the way the flamingos don''t actually stand on one leg when it''s cold out. Or the exact number of times the big male orangutan in the Primate Reserve throws his banana peel before he loses interest and just eats it.
Three. It''s always three.
After Thanksgiving, it became kind of a routine. School, zoo, home, repeat. Every day I''d find something new to focus on, something to keep my brain busy while I watched. The animals were part of it, but mostly I was watching the people. The workers, the families, the couples on dates who thought they were the only ones who came up with the idea of a romantic zoo trip. And the construction crews. Those guys have been here since before Thanksgiving, moving bricks and tools and doing, like, construction things. I''m not an architect. And they sure are legitimately building shit in this here zoo.
The first day I came, I thought I was being ridiculous. Who spends their afternoons watching construction workers? Me, apparently. I couldn''t help it. It''s not like they were doing anything suspicious. They were just fixing a wall or something near the Reptile House. But the way they moved, the way they looked around--like they were waiting for something--made my skin crawl. I''ve been around enough shady people to recognize the signs.
Or at least I think I have.
Maybe I''m just paranoid. But when you''ve fought a guy who turns bricks into shrapnel, you start to notice weird things about construction sites.
Every day, after school, I''d head straight to the zoo. No stopping for snacks, no hanging out with friends. Just straight there, past the front gate, nodding to the same bored security guards who probably thought I was some kind of zoo superfan. By the third day, they barely even looked at me when I came in. I guess when a teenager shows up at a zoo every day, it stops being interesting.
I spent a lot of time in Bear Country. Mostly because it''s quiet over there, tucked away from the main paths, and the bears are always out. Even when it''s freezing. There''s something about the way they move, slow and heavy, like nothing bothers them. It''s calming, in a weird way. I could watch them for hours. And sometimes I did. Just sitting there, watching them lumber around, wondering what it would be like to be a bear for a day. Probably a lot simpler.
But even with the bears, I couldn''t shake that feeling in the back of my mind. That something was about to happen. That the Kingdom was watching, waiting, just like me. I tried to keep it together, to act like this was just some weird hobby I picked up, but every time I saw a new face or a group of guys in hard hats, my heart would start racing, like I was waiting for them to pull out guns or something. They never did.
The penguins were another favorite. I''d go to Penguin Point when I needed to cool off. No pun intended. There''s something about watching a bunch of birds in tuxedos waddle around that makes you forget about, well, everything else. And when they dive into the water and pop back up like little rockets? It''s like they don''t even care how ridiculous they look. I admire that about penguins.
On the third day, I started counting how many times the zookeepers came by to feed them. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon. Like clockwork. I made sure to note it. In case it ever became relevant. I wasn''t sure how it could be relevant, but when you''re scoping out a potential heist, you never know what details are going to matter. Maybe the Kingdom''s plan involved penguins. Maybe I was going insane.
Most of the time, I tried not to let it get to me. The waiting. The feeling of impending doom. I''d walk from the rhino enclosure to the Reptile House and back, keeping an eye on everything, but pretending I was just a normal kid enjoying the zoo. I''d even stop to talk to the keepers sometimes, just to seem less suspicious. Most of them didn''t pay much attention to me. Except for Mack.
Mack was one of those guys who was always around but never in a rush. Like, no matter what was happening, he had time to chat. I think that''s why I liked him. He was the kind of person who made you feel like there wasn''t anything urgent happening, even when you knew there was. I spent a lot of time pretending to be interested in the bears just so I could stand near him, listening to him talk about their hibernation schedules or how much they ate in the winter. It was weirdly comforting.
One time, I asked him if the bears ever noticed when the zoo was empty. He just shrugged and said, "Bears don''t care about people, kid. They care about food and sleeping. And maybe the occasional tree to scratch their backs on." I guess that''s true. But I couldn''t help wondering if the animals knew something was up, too.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
The rhinos were a different story. I never really liked the rhino enclosure. There was something too... exposed about it. The fence was too low, the animals too big. It felt like one wrong move and they''d just barrel through the wall and into the city. I knew that wasn''t going to happen, obviously, but that didn''t stop me from feeling uneasy every time I walked by. And then there were the construction guys. Always hanging around, moving bricks, building things that never seemed to get finished. It was like they were waiting for something, but I didn''t know what.
At first, I tried to tell myself it was just a coincidence. Maybe the zoo really did need this much construction work. Maybe it was just a busy season for renovations. But the longer I watched, the more I couldn''t shake the feeling that they weren''t here for the zoo at all.
I started keeping track of the workers, too. How many there were, what they looked like, when they showed up. There were always about ten of them, give or take. Same faces, same uniforms. Except for one day, when there were eleven. A new guy. He was shorter than the others, kept his head down, didn''t talk to anyone. I watched him for almost an hour, just to see if he''d do something suspicious. But all he did was move bricks, and stack them, in the way that a construction worker probably does. Still, I wrote it down. Just in case.
Diane would love to see my notes on this surveillance.
The Reptile House was another spot I kept an eye on. It wasn''t as busy as the other parts of the zoo, especially in the winter. People don''t seem to care as much about snakes and lizards when it''s freezing outside. But I cared. I spent a lot of time in there, pretending to be interested in the animals, but really just watching the door.
It was always warm in there, though, which made it a good place to thaw out after spending too much time outside. The snakes would just lie there, motionless, like they were conserving energy for something big. Maybe they were. I started wondering if the Kingdom would go after the reptiles. Stealing a bunch of snakes instead. To do what, assassinate someone? That''s stupid, surely they have better ways of doing this.
A week. I''ll give it one more week, I told myself. One more week, and if nothing still happens, I''d cut my losses.
It doesn''t have to be me. There are other heroes out there.
That''s what I told myself.
I''m not sure when it happened, but at some point, I started getting paranoid about the animals themselves. Like, what if the Kingdom wasn''t here to steal something? What if they were here to use the animals? What if Mrs. Xenograft was going to show up, fuse something crazy to something else crazy, and send it on a murder spree? I spent an entire afternoon watching the orangutans, waiting for one of them to start acting weird. But they didn''t. They just threw banana peels. Three times, like always.
I even started keeping track of which animals seemed more active on certain days. The bears were always out, like I said, but the big cats? They barely moved when it got cold. I''d watch the tigers for hours, waiting for one of them to do something interesting, but they mostly just slept. Maybe they knew something I didn''t. Maybe they were just lazy and cold.
And then there were the flamingos. I never spent much time watching them before, but after a week of coming to the zoo, I started noticing how they all stood in a circle when it snowed, like they were huddling together for warmth. I''m pretty sure that''s not a normal flamingo thing. I made a note of it, just in case. I don''t know what''s a normal flamingo behavior and what isn''t.
The zookeepers probably thought I was weird. I''d spend hours just wandering from one exhibit to the next, not really saying anything, just watching, occasionally writing things down, always bundled up for the snow. I tried to blend in, to act like I was just another visitor, but after a while, I''m sure they noticed. I wasn''t exactly subtle about it.
Mack was the only one who ever asked me what I was really doing there. "You''re not just here for the animals, are you, kid?" he said one day, leaning against the fence of the rhino enclosure. I shrugged, trying to play it off. "Maybe I just like zoos." He gave me this look, like he knew exactly what I was up to but didn''t feel like calling me out on it. "Well, if you''re planning to liberate the penguins or something, just let me know so I can take my break."
I laughed, but it didn''t reach my eyes. I wasn''t planning to liberate the penguins. I was planning to catch a bunch of criminals in the act. But I couldn''t exactly say that. So I just kept coming back, every day, waiting for something to happen.
By the time December rolled around, I was on edge all the time. Every little thing set me off. A new face in the crowd, a delivery truck that seemed out of place, a bird flying too close to the rhino enclosure. I couldn''t shake the feeling that something big was coming, and I wasn''t ready for it.
I tried to keep my distance from the construction workers, but they were everywhere. No matter where I went, I could see them. Moving bricks, carrying tools, talking in low voices that I couldn''t quite hear. I started getting this sick feeling in my stomach every time I saw them. Like they were watching me, too.
The worst part was that I couldn''t do anything about it. I couldn''t just walk up to them and ask what they were doing. I couldn''t call the cops, because what was I going to say? "Hey, I think these construction workers are planning something shady because they look suspicious and move bricks weird"? Yeah, that wasn''t going to fly.
So I just kept waiting. And watching. And writing everything down. The number of workers, the times they showed up, the routes they took through the zoo. I even started drawing little maps in my notebook, marking the spots where they seemed to linger the longest. The Reptile House, the rhino enclosure, the entrance near the Bear Country.
I wasn''t sure what I was expecting. Maybe a big announcement over the zoo''s PA system, like "Attention visitors, please evacuate immediately, a gang of supervillains is about to steal a rhinoceros." But it never happened. The days passed, and nothing changed.
I can''t tell you why, but I know that today is different.
Chapter 133.2
Today''s different. I''ve been telling myself that for hours now. It''s not just the snow, or the fact that I''m here all day instead of after school - thank the snow day. It''s something else, something I can''t quite put my finger on. Maybe it''s the way the air feels heavier, thicker, like the zoo itself is holding its breath. Maybe it''s the fact that there are more people here today, even though the animals aren''t exactly putting on a show. Or maybe it''s just the gnawing feeling in my gut that''s been building all week, the one that says this is it, this is the day.
I''ve been walking the same paths, doing my usual rounds, but my eyes are darting around more than usual. The flamingos aren''t doing anything particularly interesting. They''re huddled together, their beaks tucked into their feathers, like they''ve given up on pretending they''re tropical birds and have fully embraced their inner snowbirds. The bears are out, of course. They''re always out. But even they seem slower today, like they''re conserving energy for something. Or maybe that''s just my imagination. Everything feels like a sign today.
I catch sight of Mack near the rhino enclosure, talking to one of the newer keepers. They''re standing too close together, and I can''t hear what they''re saying, but there''s tension in the way Mack''s shoulders are hunched. He glances around, his eyes scanning the zoo like he''s expecting something, too. I walk over, pulling my scarf tighter against the cold, and when he spots me, his face softens just a little.
"Kid," he says, nodding at me as I approach. "You look like you''re about to fight someone."
"I''ve got that bad feeling again," I say, my voice low. "Today''s different, Mack. I don''t know why, but it is."
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "You''ve been saying that for a week."
"Yeah, well, I''m saying it again. There''s more people here than usual. A lot more adults. They''re all bundled up, too, and not just because it''s cold. Look at them." I nod toward a group near the Reptile House. "They''re not looking at the animals. They''re not tourists. They''re¡ something else."
Mack follows my gaze, frowning. "You think they''re with those guys you were talking about before?"
"I don''t know. Maybe. Probably. I''m not saying it''s a definite, but it''s weird, right? And those construction guys--they''re still here, even though it''s been snowing for two days straight. Who works in weather like this? They haven''t stacked a single brick. Who''s paying their overtime?"
Mack doesn''t answer right away, other than a mild chuckle at my overtime comment. He looks down at his phone, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "I''ve been trying to keep an eye on things," he says finally. "I''ve told the other keepers to stay alert, just in case. But I can''t exactly sound the alarm without, you know, an actual alarm to sound."
"I know," I mutter, glancing around again. "But I''m telling you, Mack, something''s up today. It''s too¡ quiet."
And it is. The whole zoo feels like it''s holding its breath. Even the animals seem off. The flamingos haven''t moved from their huddle. The bears are pacing, but slower than usual. And I haven''t seen the rhinos in over an hour. Not that I''m complaining about that last one--those things freak me out--but still. Something''s not right.
"I''ll spread the word," Mack says, pulling out his phone again. "But you''ve got to promise me you won''t do anything stupid, alright? If something does happen, let the professionals handle it."
I raise an eyebrow. "You calling me an amateur?"
He doesn''t laugh, which makes me feel like I''ve been kicked in the stomach. Instead, he gives me that look, the one that says you''re a kid, stop trying to be a hero. I hate that look. But before I can say anything else, he''s already texting someone, probably one of the other keepers. "Just stay safe, okay? I''ve got a bad feeling, too."
That''s the thing about bad feelings. When you''ve had them as often as I have, they stop being vague, abstract things. They start becoming almost real, like a physical weight in your chest. You can''t shake them, no matter how much you tell yourself you''re just being paranoid. And today? Today, it feels like there''s a brick sitting on my ribs. I''ve been on edge for days, but this is different. Today is different.
I keep walking, my eyes scanning the crowd. The construction guys are still at their usual spot, stacking bricks like they''re building the world''s most boring snowman. There are more of them than usual today, too. I count twelve, maybe thirteen. Normally there''s about ten. That alone is enough to set off alarm bells in my head. I pull my phone out, my thumb hovering over the screen, debating whether to text Jordan or call Multiplex.
The decision gets made for me.
A loud crash, like metal being torn apart, echoes through the zoo. It''s so loud, it feels like the ground itself shudders beneath my feet. My head snaps toward the rhino enclosure, and my heart stops.
Standing there, towering over the fence that''s now half-destroyed, is Mr. T-Rex. Full-on dinosaur mode, with a god damn dinosaur-sized blanket - a cloak? draped over his neck, tied with rope. His massive tail swipes through the air, knocking over a sign like it''s made of paper. His roar--oh God, that roar--is louder than I expected. Louder than anything I''ve ever heard besides the first time he roared a year ago. The families nearby are screaming, running in every direction, trying to get as far away from the giant dinosaur as possible.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
My brain freezes for a second, unable to process what I''m seeing. It''s not like I wasn''t expecting the Kingdom to show up eventually, but there''s something about actually seeing a T-Rex tearing through a fence that still manages to break whatever mental preparation I thought I had. Then, it hits me.
This isn''t a heist. This is a siege.
They''re not here to sneak around or pull off some clever trick. They''re here to take what they want and leave nothing but destruction behind.
"Holy shit," I mutter under my breath, already moving toward the nearest cover. My heart is pounding, and my mind is racing through every possible scenario, every plan I''ve come up with for this exact moment. I had the vague impression that maybe Mr. T-Rex would come out to play, given the scales of the animals in question here, but not just¡ show up. I don''t know, tow a truck or something. Not show up and start demolishing things.
I grab my phone and call Multiplex. "Hey," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "You need to get here. Now."
His voice is calm, too calm, on the other end of the line. "I''m already here."
Of course he is. I look up, and sure enough, I see two of his duplicates moving toward Mr. T-Rex, trying to corral him away from the fleeing crowds. It''s not going well. One of them gets swatted aside by the dinosaur''s tail, crashing into a nearby food cart, which promptly explodes into a cloud of snow and popcorn and a thin layer of green sludge.
"Stay out of sight," Multiplex says. "This is going to get ugly."
"You think?" I snap, ducking behind a bathroom building as the chaos spreads. The crowd is panicking, and the goons -- the ones who were pretending to be construction workers -- are already moving in, weapons drawn. I catch a glimpse of one of them pulling out a knife. Another gets a baseball bat out from under their clothes - no wunder they were bundled up.
"Stay safe," Multiplex says, and then the line goes dead.
I don''t have time to stay safe. I duck into the bathroom, my fingers trembling as I unzip my coat and start changing into my winterized suit. The sounds of battle are already getting louder, but I can''t focus on that right now. I can''t think about the fact that there''s a dinosaur loose in the zoo, or that people are probably getting hurt. I just have to get ready. I just have to help.
"They''re going to take hostages," the pit in my stomach tells me. "As leverage, so they can escape."
The thought feels too real to ignore, like it''s already happening, and I''m just now catching up. That''s how these things work, right? You don''t storm a zoo with a dinosaur unless you''re planning on leaving with something.
I zip up the last of my winterized suit and glance out the bathroom window, heart racing. People are running in every direction, slipping in the snow, crashing into fences and walls. It''s a full-blown panic, and right in the center of it all is Mr. T-Rex, a giant, roaring, prehistoric nightmare. But it''s not just him. There are people in the crowd, too many people, all moving with too much purpose. The ones I saw earlier, bundled up in their thick coats and hats, are throwing off their disguises now. Knives. Bats. Batons. It''s chaos.
One of the zookeepers near the lemur island stumbles as she tries to run, and two guys in black jackets make a beeline for her. My pulse quickens. Hostages. They''re going to grab her. I can feel it, like a wave of nausea rolling over me. This isn''t just a robbery. They''re rounding people up.
I burst out of the bathroom, my boots crunching in the snow as I sprint toward her. There''s no time to think, no time to plan. I see the guy closest to her -- a big guy with a shaved head -- reaching out, and I tackle him from the side, my shoulder slamming into his ribs, my helmet''s ear jabbing into his side. He goes down with a grunt, and I barely have time to register the shock on his face before I''m up again, standing between him and the zookeeper.
"Get out of here!" I shout at her. She doesn''t need to be told twice. She stumbles back to her feet and takes off running, her breath coming in panicked gasps. The guy on the ground groans, but before I can react, the second guy lunges at me, swinging a baton. I duck just in time, nearly feeling the wind of the swing as it passes over my head. I kick out, catching him in the shin, and he stumbles, cursing under his breath. In this knightly armor, I don''t think anyone can get the impression that I''m a girl, or a child. Just that I''m a threat.
I hear a roar from behind me -- another one, not Mr. T-Rex this time -- and I turn just in time to see Multiplex, or at least one of his duplicates, grappling with another thug near the entrance to the Penguin Point. There are two of him now, one handling Mr. T-Rex, and the other trying to keep these smaller fires from spreading. But it''s not enough. There are too many bad guys, more than I expected, more than anyone expected.
I swing back just in time to dodge another hit, this time from the guy I''d tackled. He''s back on his feet, looking angrier than before. His baton comes down hard, aiming for my shoulder, but I sidestep and grab his wrist, twisting it as hard as I can, starting to push teeth out from my fingertips. Something that never gets old. He lets out a yelp, but before I can finish the move, I hear Mack''s voice behind me.
"I''ve got this one!" he shouts, and then I hear a hiss, followed by the big guy dropping his baton and clutching his face. Pepper spray. Mack''s got him, and he''s not pulling any punches. The guy falls to his knees, trying to rub the spray out of his eyes, but Mack kicks his baton out of reach and pulls me behind him. "Told you I wasn''t defenseless, kid."
"I never doubted you," I say, my heart still pounding as I scan the area. "But we need to get these people out of here. They''re trying to take hostages."
"No kidding," Mack mutters, glancing around. "But there''s too many of them. We''re going to need more than pepper spray."
He''s right. There are more goons pouring in from every direction, some coming from the Reptile House, others from the construction site. They''re swarming the zoo, and it''s not just about the rhino anymore. This is about control. It''s about scaring people, taking them, using them as bargaining chips. And there are too many people in this zoo to protect.
I look around frantically. "I need to slow them down. I need to--"
A loud shout interrupts me, and I see a group of three thugs chasing after a mother and her kid, both slipping in the snow as they try to run. My heart leaps into my throat, and before I know it, I''m running again, my feet barely touching the ground.
Chapter 133.3
I reach them just as one of the thugs grabs the mom by the arm, pulling her back.
"Let go of her!" I shout, swinging my fist toward his face. He dodges, but barely. The mom stumbles backward, clutching her kid, and I position myself between them and the thugs. "You don''t want to do this," I say, my voice low, trying to keep it steady. "Let them go."
The thug grins, his teeth blindingly straight and white. "Or what? You gonna stop us, kid?"
I don''t answer. I don''t have time to. I lunge forward, grabbing the guy by the collar and yanking him down into the snow. He struggles, but I''ve got the leverage, and I bring my knee up into his stomach. He wheezes, the air knocked out of him, but before I can finish the move, one of the other thugs grabs me from behind, his arm wrapping around my neck.
"Little hero thinks she can play with the big boys," the guy behind me sneers, tightening his grip.
"Don''t look down on me," I hiss, sinking my fingertips into his arm and raking.
He lets go with a loud, angry yelp as teeth jut out from my fingertips, cutting through his skin like butter. I can feel the warm pulse of his blood spreading under his skin, his whole circulatory system lighting up in my mind''s eye like a neon sign. He''s trying to pull away, but I know exactly where he''s moving before he even makes the decision.
I twist my arm free, spinning around to face him, and he stumbles back, clutching at the shallow wounds I left on his arm. I can see the panic in his eyes now, the way he''s trying to mask it with bravado, but it''s not working. Not when I''m already thinking about where to strike next.
"You think I''m just some kid?" I snap, my voice low and cold as I flex my knuckles, more teeth pushing out just beneath the surface. They''re not for show, and he knows it. "I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast. You don''t want this."
He hesitates, his eyes darting toward his buddy, but I don''t give him a chance to regroup. I throw a punch, fast and hard, the teeth jutting out from my knuckles as they connect with his chest. I don''t drive them in deep--just enough for him to feel the sharp edges biting into his skin, ripping through his clothes, exposing slivers of skin to the air. Just enough to make him realize how much worse it could be.
"Get off!" he gasps, trying to shove me back, but I''m already moving, twisting out of his reach and shoving him down into the snow.
His friend, the one with the baton, swings at me again, but I see it coming before he even raises his arm, out of the corner of my eye. He''s already bleeding - from what, I don''t know, maybe a scab, maybe another fight. His heart is hammering in his chest, too fast, too panicked. He''s already on the back foot, and he knows it.
I duck under his swing, jabbing upward with my elbow. More teeth, smaller this time, jut out from my joint as it makes contact with his ribs. He staggers back, clutching his side, and I see the flash of recognition in his eyes. He knows who I am.
"Bloodhound," he mutters, his voice thick with pain. "It''s her."
"Yeah, it''s me," I say, not giving him a chance to recover. "So what are you gonna do about it?"
He takes a step back, eyes flicking to the guy I''ve already taken down, then to the chaos erupting around us. "You know how much money--" he starts saying to the other guy.
Not a smart move. Don''t gab in a fight unless you have the space for it.
I close the distance between us in a second, my fist launching out and catching him in the ribs. I''m in peak human condition for a 15 year old girl and I know how to box - he''s a stumpy criminal with no training. He coughts up blood. "You came here thinking you''d just walk out with hostages, huh?" My knuckles press into his chest, the teeth grazing his skin, threatening to go deeper. "Guess again."
He groans, his breath ragged, but I don''t let up. I can feel his blood, the way it pulses beneath his skin, slow and uneven now. "You''re going to walk out of here empty-handed, or you''re not walking out at all. Your choice."
He doesn''t answer right away, his eyes darting around, looking for help. There''s none. At some point, the other guys around us fled like pussies. It''s just him, me, and the sound of his blood pounding in his veins.
And then, as if realizing he''s got no other option, he nods, his body slumping in defeat. "Okay, okay¡ I''m done." He raises his hands in surrender, his voice barely a whisper.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
"Give me your shit," I say, ripping his weapons out of his hands. "All of it, or I will stab you in the throat."
He dumps out stuff from his coat - another collapsible baton, a flip phone, car keys, just general assorted junk. I step on his phone and press down with my heel until it snaps. Then, I stare at him, my eyes just barely visible through my helmet.
I don''t know how in G-d''s name this is intimidating to anyone, even with my unnaturally sharp teeth bared. But it works, and I don''t question it. I quickly zip tie his hands together and then haul him like a bag of garbage over to one of the public restrooms, dumping him down on the ground. I''m sure one of his criminal buddies will rescue him at some point, but judging by the chaos around me, I don''t have the time to dwell, to frog-march him to the police sirens I hear in the distance.
I glance down at my hands, frowning at the blood left on my gloves. I hate the mess these things make, but there''s no time to think about it now. I flex my fingers, pushing the leftover teeth all the way out like empty bullet casings. They hit the snow with a soft thud, leaving me with nothing but the dull ache in my knuckles and the buzzing in the back of my head from all the adrenaline.
But then I feel it--the air shifts, like someone''s moving behind me. It''s fast, faster than I expect, and for a second, I don''t react. I can''t feel him. No heartbeat, no blood trail lighting him up in my mind''s eye. He''s not bleeding. I barely have time to register that before I feel his arm snake around my throat from behind, squeezing hard.
I gasp, clawing at his arm, but he''s strong. Stronger than I expected. He yanks me backward, my boots slipping on the icy ground. His grip tightens, cutting off my air, and the world starts to tilt sideways.
"Dumb bitch," he growls, his breath hot on the back of my neck. "I''m gonna--"
He doesn''t get to finish.
A figure crashes into him from the side, the impact sending both of us sprawling into the snow. I gasp for air, rolling to my knees, coughing as I try to catch my breath. When I look up, I see Multiplex, one of them, standing over the guy who grabbed me. His fists are clenched, his expression hard. I don''t even see the moment he gets zip tied into uselessness. It''s all over too fast to catch - I only hear the clicking noise.
"You alright?" he asks, not looking at me, his eyes still locked on the thug groaning in the snow.
I nod, even though my throat feels raw and my chest is still tight. "Yeah. Thanks."
Multiplex glances down at the guy for a second, then back at me, his jaw tight. "You shouldn''t even be here."
I bristle, pulling myself to my feet, even though my legs feel shaky. "I''m fine. You don''t need to--"
"You disobeyed orders," he snaps, cutting me off. His voice is low, but there''s a sharp edge to it. "You were told to leave this to the adults. To us."
"I''m not a kid," I shoot back, wiping the snow off my gloves. "I knew what I was doing."
"This isn''t a game, Bloodhound!" he hisses, stepping toward me, his eyes blazing. "This is serious. You''re going to get yourself killed. Don''t you hear the gunfire?"
I bite back the immediate anger rising in my throat. "So ground me, then."
For a second, I think he''s going to yell at me again, but then he just lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "Later," he mutters, turning away. "We''ll talk about this later."
"Where are the others?" I ask him, trying to center myself, scanning the chaos for any sign of backup, watching people scatter in the distance. I know the Delaware Valley Defenders are on their way, but we need them now. We need them ten minutes ago. We need them yesterday. This isn''t just a fight anymore. This is a full-blown disaster.
"Two minutes," Multiplex says, a fresh duplicate casually checking his phone before running off to who-knows-where to handle more of the crowd.
Two minutes. We just need to hold out for two minutes.
Easier said than done.
"Kid!" comes a voice from behind me, getting closer with loud, heavy footfalls.
"Mack!" I shout, turning back to him. "You need to get out of here. Get as many people as you can to safety."
"I''m not leaving you here," he snaps, shaking his head. "I''m not--"
"I''m fine," I say, my voice firmer than I feel. "But you need to go. You''re not going to be able to fight these guys off with pepper spray. You need to get people out of here."
He hesitates, glancing around at the chaos, but finally, he nods. "Alright. But you better be right behind me, kid."
"I will," I lie, turning away before he can argue. I watch him run toward the fleeing crowd, his broad shoulders cutting through the panic, guiding people toward the exits. He''ll be fine.
I turn back to the fight, my heart pounding. The zoo is a war zone. Mr. T-Rex is still rampaging, his massive form crashing through fences and barriers, while the goons swarm the paths, grabbing anyone they can. I see a Multiplex going toe-to-toe with two thugs at once, but even he''s struggling to keep up. There''s only so many of him to go around
I spot another group of hostiles heading toward the kiddie playground, where a group of kids are huddled with their parents. There''s no way I''m letting them get anywhere near those kids. I sprint toward them, my boots slipping in the snow, but I don''t slow down.
One of the goons sees me coming and raises his gun, but before he can fire, I slide under him, my legs taking out his balance. He crashes to the ground, and I''m back on my feet in a second, swinging my elbow into the second guy''s face. He goes down, clutching his nose, blood pouring between his fingers.
The third guy pulls a knife, but I''m ready for him. I duck under his swing and grab his wrist, twisting it until the knife falls into the snow. He yelps in pain, and I shove him backward, sending him sprawling.
I don''t have time to catch my breath. More are coming. Always more.
There''s a sound a bit like cannonfire, something loud enough that it makes all of us jump at once. I catch a glimpse of Mr. T-Rex over the tree-line, and then I see the source of the noise, as Captain Plasma accelerates past the sound barrier and slams into Mr. T-Rex hard enough to send him completely on his side.
I hear an engine roar behind me, an ATV cramming its way through the emptied, snow-wet pathways, Fury Forge and Crossroads in tow.
Finally. I can breathe.
Chapter 134.1
The zoo isn''t supposed to feel like this. Zoos are noisy, sure -- animals, kids running around, the weird sounds you hear that you can never quite place. But not like this. This is the wrong kind of noise. It''s like there''s a filter over everything, and all the usual sounds -- the rustling of trees, the hum of people talking, the occasional animal call -- have been replaced with something much darker. Screams. Shouts. And the worst kind of silence. The kind that makes you realize you''re not hearing the things you should.
I dart across an open patch of snow, keeping low behind one of the enclosures, and press myself up against the cold stone. It''s slick, icy, but I''m not feeling it through my costume. My focus is scattered, like trying to look at ten different things through one narrow tunnel. All I can really see right now are the hostages. Civilians. The ones the goons are keeping corralled near the snack stands. They''re not moving, and neither are the goons. That should be a good thing, right? They''re not hurting anyone. Not right now. But that''s what''s setting me off.
I peek around the edge of the stone, my breath catching as I spot the guy in front. A thick coat, dirty from the snow, and he''s got a gun hanging loosely in one hand, his eyes locked on the group of civilians. They''re huddled together, quiet, scared, waiting. It''s always like this. They wait for you to break. They wait for you to give them a reason. But the thing is-he doesn''t look like he''s waiting for that at all. He''s... still. His shoulders are tense, but his eyes are dead calm, like he''s been told to just stand there and hold position. I watch him for a second longer, then shift my gaze to the others.
I duck behind an enclosure wall-the one for the bears-and press my back up against the cold concrete, my breath coming out in short, sharp gasps. The air smells like snow and exhaust, and maybe a little bit like blood, but I''m hoping that''s just my imagination. My gloves are soaked from the melting snow, my fingers all stiff inside them, but I can''t worry about that now. There are too many things going on, and I''m trying to process everything all at once, but my brain is doing that thing where it skips from one thought to another like a broken DVD. Bears, okay, no, not bears, focus on the problem. Hostages.
I peek around the edge of the enclosure. There''s a guy -- two guys, no, wait, three -- holding some civilians at gunpoint near the snack stand, and one of them is definitely chewing on a pill. Great. Jumpheads - expected, but unwelcome. The worst part isn''t even the fact that they''re hopped up on Jump, it''s that they don''t seem like they''re paying attention to anything except... holding the line? That''s weird. Normally, they''re more erratic, more chaotic, but these guys are stationed. Standing firm like they''re waiting for orders. And orders mean someone else is in charge. Someone bigger.
It feels wrong.
I pull back, pressing my gloved hands against the rough stone, forcing myself to breathe slower. The air stings in my throat, sharp and cold, and there''s this weird heaviness in the back of my mouth. My heart''s hammering, but that''s not new. It''s the usual mix of adrenaline and fear, only now it''s laced with something worse, this creeping sense of dread, like I''m standing in the eye of the storm and the other side is about to hit me all at once.
I glance over my shoulder, searching for a familiar face. Multiplex is closest. His duplicates are everywhere, guiding civilians out, pushing them toward the gates. I can see him, one of him, near the big fountain, his voice cutting through the air, directing zoo staff with this sharp, no-nonsense tone that he always uses. I try to catch his eye, but he''s already moving, too busy with everything else. He''s managing the evacuation. He''s doing what he''s supposed to do. But me? I don''t know what I''m supposed to do.
I clench my jaw, biting down hard enough that I can feel my shark teeth scrape together. That horrible grinding noise in the back of my head. It''s worse because I can''t see the real danger yet. I can hear Captain Plasma off in the distance. The sky keeps flashing like a thunderstorm, and the ground shakes every so often as Mr. Tyrannosaur stomps around, trying to crush anything in his path. There''s no mistaking the sound of Captain Plasma going toe-to-toe with him. The crackling, that weird hum in the air, the sonic booms, he''s the only one powerful enough to keep a literal dinosaur from turning civilians into pavement stains. But that''s not what''s setting off my alarms. It''s not the huge, obvious fight happening on the other side of the zoo. It''s this. Right here. Right now.
Why aren''t they doing anything?
I push myself away from the wall and start moving again, ducking low as I make my way toward the path where Multiplex is. My feet crunch through the snow, too loud in my ears, too sharp. I''m moving too slow. Or too fast. I don''t know. Everything feels wrong, and I can''t get my mind to stop running in circles long enough to figure it out. The civilians are still huddled near the snack stands, the Jumpheads still standing guard, and every time I glance at them, the feeling gets worse. They''re just holding position. Why?
By the time I reach Multiplex, I''m almost out of breath, my heart slamming in my chest. It''s not the running. It''s the frustration, the feeling that I''m the only one seeing this for what it is. Everyone''s focused on the obvious. Captain Plasma is dealing with Mr. Tyrannosaur, Fury Forge is repurposing her firefighting gadgets to keep the Jumpheads down: smoke grenades, expanding foam, anything that can slow them down without putting civilians at risk. Bulwark is pushing his way through the fence near the bear enclosure, his stone armor crackling as he moves like a human steamroller. They''re all busy. All doing their jobs.
But I''m watching the cracks in the plan, the things that aren''t adding up, and it''s making my skin itch.
"Hey!" I call out, waving to get Multiplex''s attention. He''s mid-conversation with a zoo worker, but one of his duplicates breaks away to come over to me, forming out of him like a cell dividing - a green glob sort of peeling off of him. His expression is tight, focused, but there''s this edge of annoyance in his eyes when he stops in front of me.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
"What''s up, kid?" He''s still scanning the area, already halfway back into his evacuation routine, like I''m just another piece of the chaos to deal with.
"I think something''s wrong," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "The bad guys. They''re not pushing forward. They''re not retreating out the fence. They''re just standing there, like they''re waiting for something."
Multiplex frowns, glancing past me toward the group of hostages. He watches for a second, his brow furrowing like maybe he sees it, maybe he understands, but when he looks back at me, his expression hardens again.
"Look, we''ve got bigger problems right now," he says, his tone clipped, flicking his head towards Captain Plasma shooting through the air like a human missile. "Trying to keep this from becoming Jurassic Park. Just focus on getting the civilians out. We''ll handle it."
I bite back the frustration that''s crawling up my throat, my hands balling into fists. "But they''re waiting for something. It doesn''t make sense. They should be doing more by now. This-"
"Bloodhound," Multiplex interrupts, his voice sharper this time. "I said we''ll handle it. Go help with the evacuation."
I stare at him, my mind racing, trying to find the words to make him listen, but they won''t come. Everything''s stuck, a mess of thoughts and feelings that I can''t untangle fast enough. I know I''m right. I know something''s wrong. But he''s already looking away, already moving on to the next thing. To him, I''m just another distraction in a sea of distractions. And that makes the knot in my stomach twist even tighter.
"Fine," I mutter under my breath, turning away from him and biting down so hard on my lip I can taste blood. Fine. If no one''s going to listen to me, I''ll figure it out myself. I don''t need permission. I don''t need anyone to believe me. I just need to follow my gut.
I take a few steps back, into the cover of a crumbling wall near the bird enclosure, letting myself fade into the background for a minute. I can hear the battle raging on around me. Mr. Tyrannosaur''s roar shakes the ground again, and somewhere across the zoo, there''s another massive crash as Captain Plasma throws him into something solid. The air buzzes, thick and heavy with energy, like the atmosphere''s been twisted inside out. The static charge prickles over my skin, sending goosebumps racing up my arms.
I turn and watch as more heroes start to pour in, reinforcing the fight. Bulwark''s a walking fortress, with chunks of stone armor shifting and cracking around him as he barrels into a group of baddies, scattering them like bowling pins. His laugh echoes over the chaos, loud and booming, like this is just another brawl to him. Another day at work. A little farther down the path, Fury Forge is dealing with her own batch of problems, using something that strikes me as the world''s most complicated fire extinguisher to glue people in place with foam.
I watch faces I''ve never seen before filtering in one at a time - someone flying in on brown and white bird wings, some dude charging in on a motorcycle with a baseball bat - all to the defense of the zoo. People I''ve never met. People who my message reached.
I swallow hard, taking it all in. It feels good, but it feels bad too. Bittersweet. They don''t need me. Not here. Not for this.
The cavalry has arrived in full force, and it''s not just them. I can see Sundial in the distance, a blur of movement as she moves through the battlefield like she''s walking on air, reading seconds into the future and dodging every hit before it even lands. Every kick, every punch, it''s like she''s already seen it happen. She''s handling her side of things, no problem.
I even see Razor and Bulldozer - for a second. Charging in. Getting in the fray. Saving lives.
And then there''s Multiplex, with his duplicates everywhere, guiding the evacuation efforts like clockwork. Civilians are being funneled out through the main gate, past the zebra exhibit, and every duplicate is barking orders, keeping people moving, keeping the chaos under control. They''ve got this covered. They''re in control.
So why am I still standing here, feeling like my skin is crawling?
I watch for another few seconds, feeling the weight of it pressing down on my chest. It''s not that I''m scared, though, okay, fine, maybe I''m a little scared. But this? This isn''t the fear I know. It''s not the same kind of fear I had when I first went up against these guys or when I realized just how powerful Mr. Tyrannosaur actually is. This is something else. Something deeper. My stomach churns, and I can''t shake the feeling that the longer I stand here, the more I''m missing.
I don''t need to be here. They''ve got the big threats handled. The hostages, the fights, the destruction-it''s all being taken care of. My heart pounds harder, my mind racing. There''s something else, something I can''t shake, like the answer''s been right in front of me this whole time, but I''ve been too caught up in everything to see it.
I don''t need to fight the main battle.
I need to figure out what''s really going on.
The thought settles in, cold and clear, like the snow that''s sticking to my boots. I take a breath, a deep one, and then slowly let it out. The others can handle the big stuff, the stuff everyone''s focused on. But I know better.
If I were trying to steal something, why would I do it where everyone can see it?
No. It''s too sloppy. For an operation so slick and sleek that they''ve been running the city underneath everyone''s nose - to the point where one of them is now in city council - this whole thing is an anomaly.
This whole thing? The siege, the destruction, the panic...
It''s all a smokescreen.
I know it.
My eyes drift across the chaos again, but now it''s different. I''m not looking for the obvious. I''m looking for the gaps. The things that should be there but aren''t. I let my gaze follow the winding paths, the snow-covered trees, the open spaces that are still too quiet despite the battle happening all around. And then I see it-off to the side, away from the main conflict.
The Reptile and Amphibian House.
It''s dark. No lights on inside. No civilians. No guards. No baddies. Just... nothing.
My heart skips a beat, and before I can even think about it, I''m moving. My feet hit the snow in quick, light steps, slipping between the fighting, dodging where I can. I keep my head down, trying not to attract attention, trying to keep myself small. It''s not hard. Everyone''s too busy fighting the obvious threats to notice me. There''s smoke everywhere, from heroes I''ve never met, streaming in. I see, just for a second, Razor - that''s a face I wasn''t expecting - charging into the fray with a loud, boisterous laugh. They''re focused on the noise, on the big problems.
I don''t know why. I don''t even know what I''m looking for. All I know is that the bad guys are herding their hostages away from the reptile house, towards everywhere else, towards the rhinoceroses.
As I move farther away from the main battle, the noise starts to fade, replaced by a strange, eerie quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your ears buzz. I stop for a second, glancing around, expecting to see something, but there''s no one here. Not even the regular zoo staff. Everyone''s gone, except for the noises in the distance.
That''s wrong. That''s so wrong.
I start moving again, faster now. The reptile house is looming in front of me, dark and cold, like it''s waiting for something. Like it''s been waiting for me.
I stop in front of the door, my breath fogging up in the cold air, and press my hand against the handle.
Chapter 134.2
The door to the Reptile and Amphibian House groans as I push it open, the sound louder than it should be in the suffocating silence. I freeze for a second, my breath catching in my throat. No alarms, no shouts. Just the cold air rushing in from behind me, swirling in and mixing with the strange warmth of the building. I step inside, letting the door fall shut quietly, and stand still, listening. The snow that had clung to my boots melts almost instantly against the polished floors, leaving little wet spots in my wake.
It''s quiet. Too quiet.
Sorry.
Everything feels wrong, like I''m walking into a place that doesn''t want to be disturbed. The air is humid, thick, carrying the scent of wet stone and the faint, almost earthy tang of reptile enclosures. My eyes adjust to the dim light, greenish hues glowing faintly from the overhead bulbs, reflecting off the glass tanks that line the walls. The tanks are filled with thick plants, branches, rocks, and small pools of water, designed to mimic the habitats of the reptiles and amphibians inside. But right now, none of the animals are moving. Not that I can see.
The center of the room is dominated by the massive cobra statue, towering over the exhibits like some kind of ancient guardian, its eyes gleaming faintly in the artificial light. For a moment, the quiet hum of the heating lamps and the soft trickle of water in some of the exhibits almost makes me forget why I''m here.
Almost.
But... this place should be packed with civilians. Even with all the chaos outside, there should be people in here, trying to escape the cold. There should be staff, zoo workers running around, trying to keep the animals safe. There should be something. But there isn''t. No one''s here. Not even any bad guys, hiding out from the heroes. Nobody.
The knot in my stomach tightens, twisting itself into something sharper, more urgent. This place was deliberately emptied. That''s what''s wrong. The hostages, the civilians, they''ve all been herded away from here. No one''s watching the Reptile House because they didn''t think anyone would be stupid enough to wander away from the main group.
I swallow, my mouth dry despite the humidity, and crouch down behind one of the exhibits. The glass is cool under my hand as I press my back against the frame, peeking around the edge. The whole building has this eerie, unnatural calm, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl. It''s the kind of quiet that happens right before something bad -- really bad -- goes down.
I take another step forward, keeping my body low, my footsteps light. The Reptile House isn''t huge, but its layout is weird-kind of like two figure eights stacked on top of each other at the middle, looping and winding around, with tanks in every corner. Or I guess like a four-leaf clover. It''s not hard to imagine why someone would think it''s a good spot to hide something-or someone. I move through the narrow paths, weaving between the tanks, and my eyes flick to the exhibits as I go. Two gigantic crocodiles, bigger than I assumed crocodiles could ever get, stare up at me from within a murky pool of water. Another tank is filled with thick vines, a snake coiled lazily around one of the branches, watching me with half-lidded eyes.
I move deeper into the building, the weight in my chest growing heavier with every step. And that''s when I hear it.
A soft crack, followed by a low rumble, like something heavy breaking apart.
I freeze, pressing myself tighter against the wall, my heart pounding in my ears. The sound is coming from the back, near the farthest enclosures. I can''t see anything from here, but I know better than to charge in blind. I duck low, moving silently along the path, hugging the stone pillars that divide the exhibits. The floor is smooth under my boots, but I''ve had enough practice staying quiet to avoid making any noise as I creep forward.
Another sound, this time the unmistakable splash of water. It''s followed by a deep, gruff voice. One that I recognize, unfortunately.
"Move it, M," the voice says, sharp and commanding. "We don''t have time for this."
Mr. Nothing. My blood runs cold, but I don''t stop. I move closer, my body pressed flat against the wall, peeking around the corner of the stone pillar. The room opens up into a wider area, where the largest tanks are kept, and that''s when I see them.
Mudslide is hunched over one of the tanks, his hands pressed against the glass, his muscles straining as he liquefies the thick barrier between him and the frogs. The glass ripples and warps, melting heatlessly into a pool of sludge at his feet, exposing the habitat inside. The frogs, each one a tiny, vibrant, lethal dart, sit on the branches and leaves inside, unaware of the danger that''s unfolding around them.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
The frogs.
The poison dart frogs!?
Standing next to him is Mr. Nothing, tall, calm, and utterly unbothered by the chaos outside. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, and his dark eyes are locked on the tank, watching as Mudslide finishes his work. And then there''s Mrs. Heartstopper, standing off to the side, her expression unreadable, as she holds a zookeeper by the arm, although not particularly tightly. The poor guy looks like he''s barely keeping it together-his face pale, his hands shaking as he points toward another tank.
"That one," the zookeeper stammers, his voice weak. "He''s wild-caught. And, uh, that one, and that one. The other ones are captive-bred."
Her other hand hovers over a small, brightly colored frog, her bare fingers brushing against its back. It barely has time to react before its tiny body goes gently slack, like it just fell asleep. Then, she gently scoops it up and places it in a small container next to her, completely unfazed.
Mr. Nothing taps notes on his phone with audible clacks. "If only X was here to explain to us why this was important," he mutters dryly, not bothering to look up from his screen.
"If only," Mudslide grunts sarcastically. "Hurry it up, Heartbeat. We don''t have all day."
Wait, Heartbeat? Okay, adjusting my mental captions. Mrs. Heartbeat doesn''t say anything. She just nods once, her hand tightening slightly on the man''s arm as she leads him toward the next exhibit. Her movements are smooth, controlled, like she''s done this a thousand times before. There''s no hesitation, no second-guessing. She''s just doing her job. The guy flinches but obeys, pointing out another frog that''s perched on a leaf. "That one too. Wild-caught."
I can feel my hands start to shake, my breath coming in shallow bursts as I watch them. This is it. This is the real heist. The rhino? The hostages? It was all a distraction. A show. They''re after the frogs. The poison dart frogs.
Mr. Nothing glances up from his phone, giving Heartbeat a nod of approval. "X says to keep the wild ones separate. And make sure you don''t touch them without gloves," he says, his voice sharp, controlled. "We don''t need any accidents. They don''t have antivenom for this stuff."
"Really? Not even with V?" She asks softly.
"Yeah, not even her," Mr. Nothing confirms.
Mrs. Heartbeat''s all business, her movements efficient as she herds the wild-caught frogs into a larger container, careful not to let her bare hands touch their brightly colored bodies. I can feel the tension radiating off her, like she''s in complete control of the situation but doesn''t want to waste a single second. Or that she really doesn''t want to touch a poison dart frog with her bare hands, even for a split second.
I duck back behind the pillar, my heart slamming against my ribs. I need to tell someone. I fumble for my phone, my fingers numb from the cold and the adrenaline. I type out a quick message: "Reptile House. Frogs. It''s the frogs. Frog heist," and hit send, praying that someone, anyone, sees it in time. But as soon as the message goes through, I glance at my phone and realize what I''m up against. The heroes are all busy, dealing with the massive hostage situation and trying to keep Mr. Tyrannosaur from leveling the entire zoo. They don''t have time for this.
I''m alone. It''s up to me.
I bite my lip, forcing myself to think. I can''t just charge in there. Not without a plan. Not when it''s three against one, and I don''t even know what they''re capable of beyond what I''ve seen before. And there''s highly venomous animals around. Or are they poisonous? Meanwhile, Mudslide is still working on the tanks, his hands sinking into the glass, liquefying it into a puddle of sludge that drips down the sides of the exhibit. He''s grumbling under his breath, clearly annoyed by how long it''s taking. "This is a pain in the ass," he growls, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. "If I''d known I''d be doing this today, I wouldn''t''ve shown up."
Mr. Nothing barely glances at him. "Just do your job, Mudslide."
Mudslide scowls, his thick, calloused hands digging into the next tank, and I watch as the glass turns to liquid under his touch, sliding down like melted plastic. His power is as messy as his attitude. He doesn''t care about finesse-he just wants to get it done.
I need to do something. But what?
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The air is thick, almost suffocating, the humidity pressing in on me from all sides. My eyes flick back to the frogs, their tiny bodies still motionless in the tanks. Their bright colors seem to glow in the low light, so small, so fragile. And yet, they''re the key to whatever the Kingdom has planned. I can''t let them get away with this. I won''t.
But I can''t just charge in blind. Not with Mr. Nothing here. He''d shut me down before I even got close. I have to be smart about this.
Another deep breath. Focus.
I hold my breath, fingers itching for a plan, any plan, but I''m drawing blanks. My pulse is loud in my ears as I glance around the room again. Mr. Nothing is calm, unflinching as he taps notes into his phone, glancing up occasionally to make sure Heartbeat''s handling the frogs carefully. Heartbeat herself is still moving between tanks, her hand brushing over the frogs, sending them into a sluggish, docile state as she gently herds them into containers. Mudslide''s still grumbling, his powers working slower than he''d like, but he''s making progress, liquefying the glass on the tanks one by one. They''re running out of time-I''m running out of time, to stop them.
I clench up my hand in my gloves, slipping a couple of teeth out from the knuckles, so I can get to stabbing - I''m not here to take prisoners, I''m here to stop them. They press against my skin, sharp and ready, a little insurance policy for when I get close enough to make my move. I can''t wait for backup, I realize, my heart sinking. No one''s coming. They''re all busy outside, and by the time anyone does show up, it''ll be too late. I''m on my own.
I creep closer, pressing myself low to the ground, inching forward between the tanks. The room is humid, heavy, making every movement feel like I''m swimming through syrup. I glance at the frogs again-small, delicate, and utterly lethal.
I''m almost close enough to strike when-
BZZZZZZT.
My heart stops. No.
BZZZZZZT.
Chapter 134.3
The unmistakable notification vibration of my phone echoes through the silent Reptile House like a gunshot. My stomach drops, my fingers instinctively scrambling to silence it, but the damage is already done.
I forgot to silence it.
Before I can even react, I feel eyes on me. I glance up, and Mr. Nothing''s gaze is locked onto mine, calm, indifferent, like he''s been expecting this the whole time. He doesn''t rush. He doesn''t panic. He just moves.
In one swift motion, he closes the distance between us, and before I can even blink, his hand shoots out and grabs me, right by the chin, the only part of me that''s exposed. My powers flicker out instantly, like a switch being flipped. One second, I''m all tension and preparation, my body ready to pounce, teeth at the ready-and the next, it''s all gone.
I can''t smell blood. My muscles ache, sore in a way I haven''t felt in months, and my teeth suddenly feel even more uncomfortable, painful even, in my knuckles. The sharpness I''ve grown used to, the constant awareness of my surroundings, all of it vanishes in a heartbeat. I''m just... Sam. Tired, sore, and vulnerable. I try to twist away, to break his grip, but the pistol in his other hand-pointed right at my knee-makes me stop cold.
"Don''t even think about it," he says, his voice low and calm. He presses the gun harder against my kneecap, the pressure uncomfortable against the padding of my costume, the kneepad''s hard surface pressing into my bones. His eyes are cold, unfeeling, and I know he''s not bluffing. "I know how fast you heal, Sam. But I also know how much it''s going to hurt when I make sure you can''t run anymore."
I freeze. He''s right. I can''t move. Not without losing my kneecaps. The thought sends a cold, sick wave of panic rolling through me, but I try to shove it down, clenching my jaw. I can''t let him see how scared I am. I won''t.
I hear Mudslide laughing, cackling like he''s having the time of his life. Suddenly, this whole mission became worth his while, but he doesn''t come over to taunt me. I guess they''ve taught him some discipline.
"I''ve been told," Mr. Nothing continues, his grip tightening just enough to make me wince, "that ''upper management'' doesn''t want you dead. Not yet. But they''re fine with hurting you extremely badly."
The gun presses harder against my knee, and my heart starts pounding in my chest, louder than before. I''ve fought plenty of villains before, some worse than him. But this is different. This isn''t a fight. This is cold, methodical violence, and I''m powerless against it. I''m staring down a gun, and I can''t do anything. Not a thing.
"I know you think you''re tough," Mr. Nothing says, his voice almost conversational now, like we''re just discussing the weather. "I know you think you can handle a few bruises. I know that once I let go of you, you''ll start growing back just fine. But here''s the thing-there''s a difference between bouncing back and living with pain. And I can make sure you''re in a lot of pain for a long time. Do you want to take the gamble that your regeneration will work right if I shoot you while it''s turned off?"
I want to move. I want to fight. But I can''t. Not without him pulling that trigger. And for the first time since all this started, I feel powerless. Truly powerless. No amount of recklessness will get me out of this. Sure, I could tackle him, but he''s right - I don''t know if my knee would heal right if it got shot out with my regeneration off. Would that fuck me up forever? Am I willing to gamble that?
Maybe later in my life I might be more willing. But right now, all I can do is try not to feel the tears pricking my eyelids.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Heartbeat still working methodically, moving from tank to tank as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. She''s calm, focused, her fingers brushing over the frogs as she puts the next batch into a container. The captive-bred ones, the ones she can handle easily. The zookeeper''s pointing them out, his hand trembling as he indicates another frog. She doesn''t need to drag him around by the arm anymore. She''s cowed him enough.
It''s a strange contrast. The calmness of her work, the gentle way she lowers the frogs'' heart rates, slipping them into that sedated state before she moves them, while I''m standing here, my heart racing out of control, powerless, and at the mercy of a man with a gun. The frogs don''t even know what''s happening to them. They''re just... asleep. Unbothered. Oblivious to the danger.
And that''s when I realize: this is how they win. This is how the Kingdom does it. Not with big flashy fights, but with quiet, calculated control. With someone like Mr. Nothing keeping you right where they want you, making you feel like you can''t do a damn thing to stop them.
Mr. Nothing''s grip on my chin tightens slightly, his thumb pressing into my jaw. "Now," he says softly, "we could keep this quiet. You sit here, don''t move, don''t make a sound, and I won''t have to do anything drastic. We walk out with our fucking frogs, and you walk out with your legs intact. Or..." He lets the word hang in the air, the weight of it heavy in my chest.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. My teeth are still tucked into my knuckles, but without my powers, they''re just that-teeth. Bone. Not enough to get me out of this.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
And then, just as Mr. Nothing leans closer, his finger twitching on the trigger, there''s a sound. A faint whistle, like something flying through the air, sharp and fast.
THWACK.
A sudden, jarring impact. Mr. Nothing''s head snaps to the side, his body lurching as something - a baseball!? - hits him square in the temple. He staggers, his grip on me loosening just enough for me to rip myself free. I don''t wait -- I scramble backward, dropping low and skidding behind a nearby tank. My heart is hammering in my chest, adrenaline flooding my veins.
I glance back just in time to see Mr. Nothing clutching his head, momentarily dazed. There''s a flash of red, a blur of something. And I realize someone else is here. Someone who just threw a fastball straight at his skull.
Maggie.
She''s hovering just inches above the ground, her arms at the ready, hands full of whatever she''s been stockpiling to throw-rocks, debris, pieces of rubble. Her posture screams tension, like a tightly coiled spring waiting to snap. The look on her face is hard to read under her helmet and goggles, but I don''t need to see it to know what she''s thinking. She shoots me a quick glance, just long enough for our eyes to meet, before turning her attention back to Mr. Nothing, who''s still recovering from the fastball to the head.
"Flashpoint," I growl, spitting her name out with a mixture of relief and anger. "I told you to stay out of this!"
Her only response is a sharp breath, then, cool as ever: "It''s what you would''ve done."
God damnit.
With a flick of her wrist, Maggie launches a small, flat stone straight at Mr. Nothing''s gun, while he''s still recovering from what has almost certainly given him a concussion. There''s a sharp crack as the projectile slams into the weapon, knocking it from his hand. The gun skitters across the floor, and Mr. Nothing swears under his breath, his calm demeanor cracking just a little. He''s shouting now, his voice cold and commanding. "Heartbeat! Mudslide! Get the hell out of here with the boxes!"
Mrs. Heartbeat doesn''t need to be told twice. She''s already scooping up as many containers as she can carry, her expression unreadable, her movements as smooth and precise as ever. She turns to the zookeeper, her voice low, dangerous. "If you follow me, I will kill you."
The zookeeper stiffens, fear flashing across his face as he nods quickly. He looks around, panicked, and then climbs into the opened up frog enclosure before ducking under some leaves and making himself as small as possible. Heartbeat doesn''t wait for a response. She''s already moving, gliding past the tanks and out the door, the boxes of frogs clutched tightly in her hands. I start moving to follow her, before my foot sticks fast in the ground.
Mudslide? He''s not going anywhere.
"I''M NOT GIVING UP ON THE ONLY PEOPLE I HAVE LEFT!" Mudslide roars, his voice echoing through the Reptile House. There''s something raw in his words, something almost admirable in the way he says it.
The floor ripples like quicksand, swallowing my feet before I can leap away, locking me in place. I struggle, trying to pull myself free, but the more I move, the deeper I sink.
"Blood, MOVE!" Maggie''s voice is sharp, cutting through the chaos. She''s skating around the room now, her foot fields allowing her to zip across the sticky quicksand floor without touching it. Mudslide''s quicksand can''t catch her. She''s not touching the ground, and he can''t exactly reach up to get her.
Mudslide, meanwhile, is scrambling for a hammer, grabbing it from his belt and slamming it into one of the tanks. The glass shatters with a loud crash, and he dips his hands into the mess of broken shards, liquefying the glass into a thick, gooey substance. He scoops up a handful of the slop and, with a grunt, hurls it at Maggie. As soon as it leaves his hands, it solidifies mid-air, sharp, jagged shards flying straight at her.
I strain against my own boots. The re-solidifying ground begins churning them out, but it''s not instantaneous, and by the time I''ve slipped out of them and into my socks, his scattershot is loose.
Maggie twists mid-dodge, her foot fields carrying her just out of range, but she''s not fast enough to avoid all of it. A few shards cut into her side, the sharp edges slicing through her jacket, and she lets out a sharp gasp. Blood splatters onto the floor, dark against the polished stone. She grits her teeth, powering through it, but I can see the pain in her eyes. She''s wearing sports padding, not a real costume. It''s not enough.
"Flash!" I shout, watching Mudslide bend down to put one hand back on the ground. I... I can''t play floor is lava with him. In an instant, the reptile house is sludge again, and my besocked feet are trapped. Mr. Nothing strains through the sludge, reaching for the gun between us with nothing but murder in his eyes, visible through his broken sunglasses.
If he grabs me again, it''s over. I won''t give him the chance.
As Maggie skates around the room, dodging Mudslide''s projectiles, chunks of liquefied floor, liquefied glass, even a chunk of wood, I see Mr. Nothing start to move toward his gun, the one Maggie knocked away earlier.
I''m not going to let him.
With a growl, I pull my hand free from the quicksand and slam my fist into the ground, shark teeth bursting from my fingertips. I drag them through the liquefied floor, using the sharp edges to pull myself out of the muck, grabbing for purchase like I''m using ice picks. The muscles in my legs and fingers burn from the effort, but I manage to wrench myself free, stumbling forward just as Mr. Nothing reaches for the gun.
"No, you don''t," I snarl, lunging at him.
He turns just in time, his hand inches from the weapon, but I''m faster. I slam into him, knocking him back before he can grab it. For a second, I think I''ve got the upper hand, but then a peal of glass flies into me from the side, ripping several gashes into my costume. One of the shards slinks through my upper arm, cutting a neat, tidy slice into it, and pain screams through me as my arm clenches without my permission.
"I''m NOT leaving him behind!" Mudslide roars, his voice ragged, almost pleading. With a loud grunt of effort, he rips his hand towards the right, and I watch in horror as the sludge shifts and flows like a river of molasses. Taking the gun with it.
Then, a sharp pain rips through my gut. I see it in my mind''s eye before I see it with my normal eyes - the gush of blood leaking out from my hip, over the switchblade''s bright, beautiful metal. Mr. Nothing''s hand pulls out, and the blood comes with it. I can''t pay attention to all these things happening at once. Maggie launches a handful of pebbles like buckshot and they scatter over me, ricocheting in a stippling spray across Mudslide''s face - I can feel every new welt and the fifteen small bloody pockmarks forming across his face and chest.
I clench my hand up and swing it into Mr. Nothing''s face, feeling his jaw crack under me with a sense of grim satisfaction.
BANG!
Chapter 135.1
I don''t register it at first. My brain feels scrambled -- like it''s lagging, like my HIRC chats when I have bad cell reception, trying to keep up with the chaos happening around me. One second, I''m turning, trying to warn Maggie, and the next--
BANG! BANG!
--two more gunshots slam into her chest. The first one didn''t stop her, so he doubled down, firing two in rapid succession. I see Maggie jerk back, her body twisting, her face scrunching up in pain, but my ears... nothing. No sound. Just this dull, high-pitched ring filling every inch of my skull like someone jammed cotton into my head and turned the volume to zero.
Everything goes quiet.
It''s like the world decided to take a break, to go on mute. But there''s no relief. The silence is overwhelming, worse than any of the gunfire, worse than the impact of the shots. My heart pounds in my chest, too loud, too fast, but that''s all I can hear. The echo of my own pulse, thrumming through my veins, thick and nauseating. I try to call out to Maggie, but I can''t hear my own voice. Nothing. My mouth moves, but it''s swallowed by the void in my ears.
I can''t hear anything.
She''s wearing a bulletproof vest. Where did she get a bulletproof vest from? I only have time to think about that for a moment, running over the possibilities in the span of a third of a second. The flashes of brown underneath her cracked red athletic gear.
It''s my bulletproof vest. She must have taken it from one of my old costumes in the music hall.
I see Maggie stagger, her arms trying to raise, but they look shaky, unsteady. She''s holding on, but barely. Her body crumples forward a little, and I catch sight of her chest--the vest is doing its job, but damn, it''s not invincible. Even from here, I can see the bruising already forming under her shirt. She''s bleeding on the inside. Her ribs are broken. The way she''s moving, the sharp, shallow breaths--she''s in agony, and it''s a miracle she''s not already out for the count.
Before I can even think to move toward her, the world jerks back into sharp focus.
I feel it first before I see it - a sudden, searing pain in my shoulder.
The switchblade.
Mr. Nothing.
He''s fast. Faster than I gave him credit for. While I was trying to check on Maggie, he went in for the kill. I don''t need to hear the sound of the blade scraping bone to feel it, and G-d, do I feel it. A deep, gut-wrenching pain as the knife digs into my shoulder, bouncing off the bone with a sickening grind. I jerk, trying to pull away, but he''s not done. Not even close.
The knife slides back, not because he''s retreating but because he''s digging around, trying to wedge the blade in the wound and push past the armored fabric of my suit. He wants contact. He wants skin. He''s trying to turn me off, trying to find any shred of exposed flesh where he can touch me and shut down my powers.
He''s not slick. I know exactly what he''s doing.
I grit my teeth, biting back the scream that''s rising in my throat. My blood''s already starting to clot around the wound, my regeneration kicking in, but it doesn''t stop the pain. And it doesn''t stop him from digging deeper.
"Not a chance," I growl, shoving back against him, although I''m sure he doesn''t hear me. It''s like trying to move a brick wall. He''s got size on me, way more size, way more mass, and he''s using it. Grabbing hold of me, trying to reach a slit or a cut in my costume, and keeping me grounded with his weight. If I want to stand up from over top of him, he''s going to make me have to carry him up with him.
I swing my arm, shark teeth slipping from my knuckles, aiming for his wrist. He jerks back just in time to avoid a full hit, but I graze him, just enough to make him flinch. His grip on the knife loosens for half a second, and I use that split second to roll away, scrambling to put distance between us as the ground seems to be having trouble deciding whether or not it wants to be mud.
The silence is still crushing, but I can feel everything happening behind me. The impact of projectiles: chunks of glass, bits of rock, slamming into the walls, the floor, the tanks. Maggie''s repulsion fields are still going strong, but she''s slowing down. Every time she dodges a hit, I see the strain on her face. Mudslide''s not letting up, and she''s bleeding on the inside. Bruises, broken ribs, internal damage, whatever else that bulletproof vest couldn''t protect her from. All the energy dispersed into her.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
But I can''t focus on that right now.
I''ve got my own problem to deal with.
Mr. Nothing''s on me again in seconds, and this time, he''s not bothering with the knife. He tackles me, slamming me into the liquefying-and-resolidifying floor, pinning my back against the hard surface. The ground under us ripples, shifting between solid and sludge as Mudslide alternates between trying to help Mr. Nothing and trying to keep Maggie away, but Mr. Nothing doesn''t care. He''s focused. His fist comes down hard, aiming for my jaw, but I block it with my forearm, feeling the shockwave of the impact reverberate through my bones.
I swing back, my fist colliding with his ribs. It''s a solid hit, and I feel something crack under my knuckles - maybe a tooth, maybe his bones - but it doesn''t slow him down. If anything, it makes him madder.
He''s bigger than me. Stronger. Older. He''s got years of experience, and he''s not playing fair. I can see it in his eyes. Unlike every other time we''ve met, he''s playing for keeps, because he knows that he''s surrounded by superheroes on all sides, and if he doesn''t kill me and get away with it, he doesn''t walk out of this reptile house a free man. He''s not here to toy with me. He''s here to win, to neutralize me the best way he knows how.
But I''m not giving up that easy.
I twist my body, using the momentum to throw him off balance, just enough to get my feet under me. I lunge, aiming low, trying to knock him off his feet, but he catches me by the arm, his grip like a vice. He slams me back down, hard, his knee pressing into my stomach, forcing the air out of my lungs. My vision goes white for a second as the pain flares up, but I push through it, my hands clawing at his arms, at anything I can grab. My claws sink into the fabric of his sleeve, tearing it apart, trying to slice skin, but it''s not enough.
He pulls the switchblade back out, and I see his eyes flicker to the exposed skin near my neck. I twist my body to keep it away from him, but he''s faster, and the blade comes down again, this time slicing across my forearm. The pain is sharp, immediate, but I don''t have time to process it. I need to get him off me. Now.
I shove my knee into his side, right where I''d hit him earlier, and he grunts, momentarily loosening his grip. I use that moment to slam my elbow into his face, the sharp point of my bone meeting his jaw with a sickening crack. He stumbles back, his hand flying to his mouth, and I see blood dripping from his split lip.
I don''t stop.
I can''t stop.
I charge at him again, my fists flying, each punch aimed with precision. I hit him in the ribs, the stomach, the face--anywhere I can reach. He blocks some, but not all. My shark teeth graze his skin, trying to punch holes in his padded clothing, leaving red lines in their wake, but he doesn''t slow down. Neither of us does.
It''s a brutal, desperate fight. His strength versus my regeneration, his experience versus my instincts. Every punch, every hit, every scrape feels like it''s dragging me deeper into this chaotic, animalistic rage, but I can''t let myself get lost in it. I need to stay focused, stay in control, or he''ll win. It feels good again, to fight someone who can fight back, is what I think when his fist slams into my skull at top speed, rattling my brain around in my helmet.
The fuzziness clears out of the corners of my eyes like I''ve been crying for the past fifteen minutes and just now, getting punched in the face, they''ve cleared it up. My hearing still hasn''t returned all the way, but that''s okay. I punch him in the jaw back and drag my teeth down. Every time they make contact with his body, I feel the pulse - my powers turning off for a split second, making my entire body ache, turning the teeth in my knuckles into sharp pinpricks of pain where they connect to the bone.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Maggie--she''s still fighting, still dodging Mudslide''s attacks, but her movements are slower, more strained. She''s hurt bad, and I don''t know how much longer she can keep this up. I want to help her, but Mr. Nothing''s not giving me any room to breathe.
He lunges at me again, his fist connecting with the side of my head, and stars explode in my vision. My body jerks to the side, my balance thrown off, but I catch myself before I hit the ground. I''m breathing hard now, every inhale sharp and painful, but I don''t back down.
I swing at him again, but he catches my wrist, twisting my arm behind my back. The pain shoots up my shoulder, but I grit my teeth and push through it, using the momentum to throw my weight into him, slamming us both into the ground. I can hear it - just barely - a muffled thump beneath the buzzing in my ears.
The floor ripples under us, shifting like quicksand, but I don''t let go. I pin him down, my knee pressing into his chest, and for the first time, I see something flicker in his eyes. Not fear--he''s too controlled for that--but something close. Like maybe he''s realizing he''s not going to walk away from this as easily as he thought. I slam my knee into his balls and his entire body goes stiff. I could smack him in the head, but I''ve heard too many horror stories of people getting concussions, getting hit in the head a second time, and instantly dying.
Really, really don''t need that on my conscience.
He thrashes under me, trying to break free, but I''ve got the upper hand now. I grab his arms, pinning them to the floor, and with one quick motion, I pull out the zip ties from my belt, looping them around his wrists. He struggles, but it''s too late. I''ve got him.
With a sharp yank, I get his wrists tight together, stuck above his head. He''s still straining, trying to kick me off, so I knee him in the balls again and get a second pair of zipties around his forearms, before pressing down on his shoulders with my knees until he lets go of his switchblade. I''m not going to give him that opportunity.
I smack it away, sending it skipping across the ground.
Slowly, the sound starts coming back, and all I can hear is Maggie screaming at the top of her lungs like a berserker.
Chapter 135.2
She''s a blur of wild motion, her body moving almost too fast for me to track, especially with my head still spinning from my fight with Mr. Nothing. The bruises and broken ribs should''ve put her down, but she''s fighting like someone who doesn''t even notice the pain--like she''s running on pure instinct, adrenaline numbing everything else.
I watch as she slams Mudslide into the wall with a bone-shaking thud, his back impacting it first, a little to the side. The sound reverberates in the room, even though the ringing in my ears still hasn''t faded. His back hits the concrete, and for a second, he just hangs there, mouth gaping open, swallowing for air like a fish, but his eyes still seem alert and conscious.
Maggie doesn''t stop. She''s not even slowing down.
She skates across the ground, hovering an inch or two above the slush and debris, her eyes locked on Mudslide with a look like empty glass, like there''s a bonfire in her pupils, light glinting off pure blackness. She closes in, hands out, and that''s when I see it. Her repulsion fields. The space between her palms and his head starts to shimmer, barely visible. But I know what''s happening.
Mudslide lets out a low groan, his arms flailing weakly, but it''s no use. Maggie''s got him. She brings her hands closer, her fingers curling like she''s gripping something invisible between them. Mudslide''s head jerks forward, then to the side, his face turning light red as he punches at her, his fingers clenching up into fists that beat on her stomach with all the force he can muster. A small peal of blood sprays out of Maggie''s mouth with the last impact of his fist into her stomach, past her mouthguard, onto his face. He doesn''t seem to notice.
"Flash!" I try to shout, but my voice feels like it''s lost in the deafening report of the past three bullets, our eardrums still ringing. The bullets, the pain, the exhaustion--all of it has collapsed into this one moment of brutal clarity. All she sees is him.
Her hands are moving closer. The space between her fingers and his head is almost nonexistent now, the pressure pushing his face into a grotesque contortion, the shredded paper bag wrapped around his head beginning to spin and churn like it''s caught in some vortex.
"Flash!" I try again, louder this time, pushing through the pain in my shoulder. I stagger to my feet, my body screaming at me to just stop, but I have to stop her before she maims someone. I don''t know. It''s not like I haven''t done anything worse, but it feels like a threshold you can''t come back from.
Two hundred Newtons on each side of his head. I try desperately to recall medical numbers in my brain - does that mean anything? How many Newtons does it take to break a bone? At least four thousand for a femur, but for the thin, delicate skull? A trickle of blood, not the violent spray I was expecting, leaks out of Mudslide''s bumpy nose. "Maggie!" I yell.
She''s not hearing me. She''s not hearing anything.
I lunge forward, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her back with all the strength I can muster. It''s not much, not in my condition, but it''s enough to jolt her. Her eyes widen, like she''s coming back to herself, like she''s seeing the room for the first time in minutes. The shimmer between her hands fades, and Mudslide slumps to the ground, gasping for air, his face swollen and bright red.
I don''t let go of her arm, keeping her grounded, even as her body trembles with exhaustion. Her breaths are ragged, her chest heaving with the effort of staying upright. The adrenaline that''s kept her going is starting to fade, and I can see the pain creeping in, the realization of just how hurt she really is.
"I¡ I¡" Maggie stammers, her voice weak, barely above a whisper. Her hand shakes, and for a moment, I think she''s going to collapse. But she doesn''t. Not yet.
"I''ve got it from here," I say, my voice rough, as I gently push her toward the corner of the room. "Go sit down. I''ll finish him."
Mudslide is still gasping for air, his whole body quaking as the repulsion fields'' effects start to wear off. He sees me, his eyes bloodshot, and swings at me in desperation. No powers. Just a fist. I catch it with one hand and quickly twist his wrist so hard that he jerks forward, leaning into me, with a wordless grunt of pain.
I don''t have time to feel sorry for him.
I drop to my knees beside him, yanking out a pair of zip ties from my belt, and quickly bind his wrists together behind his back. He barely struggles, too weak and dazed to resist as I cinch them tight. He starts mumbling again, and I can''t deal with whatever he''s ranting about right now, so I rip a scrap of fabric from my torn costume and shove it into his mouth, gagging him.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
"Shut up," I mutter, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. My shoulder throbs where Mr. Nothing''s switchblade dug into me, but I grit my teeth and push through it. There''s no time to fall apart.
By the time the cavalry arrives, the Reptile House is an absolute wreck. Tanks are shattered, glass litters the floor, water pools around the debris, and the air is thick with the humid smell of the amphibians that were lucky enough to escape their enclosures. But for now, it''s over.
Mr. Nothing and Mudslide are cuffed and being dragged out by the authorities, looking more like ragdolls than the dangerous enforcers they were half an hour ago. Mudslide is still muttering, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused, while Mr. Nothing''s jaw is set, his eyes darting from side to side, no doubt trying to calculate his next move. But it''s too late. They''re done.
The hostages are being led out by the cops, and paramedics have swarmed the area, treating the civilians and the injured heroes. I collapse onto a bench, my whole body finally letting go of the tension I''ve been holding onto for what feels like hours. The adrenaline''s wearing off, and now all I feel is pain. My shoulder burns, the stab wound still bleeding sluggishly, and my muscles are screaming from the exertion. I''ve got bruises, cuts, and who knows what else, but I''m alive. That''s what matters.
One of the paramedics spots me from across the wreckage, waving me over as she jogs closer with a trauma kit slung over her shoulder. I know her--can''t remember her name, but I''ve definitely been patched up by her before. She kneels down in front of me, giving me a quick once-over with sharp eyes that somehow manage to look both exhausted and amused at the same time.
"Alright, Bloodhound," she says, snapping on a pair of gloves. "How bad are we looking this time?"
I shrug, then wince as the motion pulls at the stab wound in my shoulder. "Could be worse. Got stabbed, bruised¡ the usual. Nothing I can''t walk off."
She raises an eyebrow but doesn''t argue. Instead, she presses a bandage over the wound, the pressure sending a jolt of pain through my arm. "Uh-huh. I swear, every time I see you, you''ve managed to get yourself even more torn up. You need to stop making a habit of this."
"Tell that to the bad guys," I mutter through gritted teeth.
She chuckles, but her hands are quick and methodical, cleaning out the gash in my shoulder as best she can before wrapping it tightly. "You know the drill--this should hold you until your¡ thing," she says, gesturing vaguely, "kicks in. But you''ve got to stop testing it. Even regeneration can''t save you from getting stabbed in the wrong place."
"I''ll keep that in mind." I say, but my mind''s not fully on the wound. I glance over to where Maggie''s being treated. She''s still sitting up, but just barely. Her paramedic has her shirt lifted, inspecting the damage to her ribs, his face a mix of concern and professionalism. I can see the bruises spreading like dark clouds under her skin, a vicious purplish-red across her chest and stomach. Three bullets--three freaking bullets--and she''s still breathing. It''s a miracle, honestly. The vest took most of the impact, but there''s no stopping broken ribs, internal bleeding, and God knows what else.
The paramedic with her leans in, fingers probing her ribs gently, and she winces hard. "Yeah, you''ve definitely got a couple fractures in there. Looks like those ribs took a serious beating."
"Uh-huh," Maggie mumbles, her voice strained. She''s trying to smile, but it''s more of a grimace.
I catch her eye, and she gives me a weak smile. It''s lopsided, a little strained, but it''s there. Relief washes over me, and I feel the tightness in my chest loosen just a little.
"You okay?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
She laughs--well, it''s more of a wheeze. "Define ''okay.''" She winces again as the paramedic presses a little too hard on her ribs, testing for more fractures. "I''m¡ not dead. So, yeah. I''m okay."
"Internal bleeding, though," her paramedic cuts in, his voice neutral but firm. "That vest saved your life, but you''re going to need to be monitored. We''re talking possible damage to your organs. You''ll be feeling this one for a while."
Maggie''s face tightens, but she nods. "Great. Just what I needed. Hospital time"
I let out a breath I didn''t know I was holding. "I don''t want to have to explain to your parents why you got shot three times."
Maggie grins, though it''s weaker now. "I''ll just tell them the T-Rex threw something heavy at me while I was rescuing civilians."
I snort. "You think they''ll buy that?"
Maggie grins a little wider, although it''s shaky. "No,"
My own paramedic finishes with my shoulder and moves on to inspecting the rest of me, lightly pressing at a few of the deeper bruises on my ribs and abdomen. I hiss as she hits a particularly sore spot. "Yup, bruised all over," she says matter-of-factly. "Anything feel broken?"
"Just my pride," I joke, but it falls flat. My whole body aches from head to toe--bruises, lacerations, that constant burning throb in my shoulder where Mr. Nothing''s switchblade dug in. It''s like my body is slowly taking inventory of all the pain now that the adrenaline is draining out of my system.
The paramedic isn''t having any of it. "You''re lucky nothing''s broken," she says, handing me a bottle of water. "But you''ve got some nasty cuts and bruises. I don''t care how fast you heal, you need to take it easy."
I nod, even though we both know I won''t. "Thanks."
Maggie groans as she''s helped into the back of the same ambulance. Her paramedic is wrapping her chest with an elastic bandage, trying to keep the broken ribs stabilized. I can see the tension in Maggie''s face, the way she''s holding herself so rigidly, like she''s barely keeping it together. She''s winded, hurting bad, but she still manages to give me a thumbs-up.
Chapter 135.3
"Look at us," I say, trying to keep the mood light as I climb in after her. "Just a couple of badasses, right?"
Maggie laughs--or tries to. It comes out as more of a strangled cough. "Yeah¡ badasses who are probably gonna pass out in the next five minutes."
As the paramedics work on her, I watch the chaos around us. There''s blood, debris, and more injuries than I can count, but no one''s dead. Somehow, we made it through. The hostages are shaken, but alive. The zoo staff is already scrambling to contain the animals that got out--one of the crocodiles is loose somewhere, somehow, its enclosure damaged in the chaos, but at least the poison dart frogs are still here. Well, most of them.
I catch a glimpse of Crossroads being helped into an ambulance, clutching his side where a makeshift bandage is wrapped tight. He''s banged up, pale and shaky, but not dead. Fury Forge isn''t far behind, her arm in a sling, the broken bone already being set by the paramedics. She''s giving the paramedics hell about something, arguing with them while they try to get her to stay still. They''re both alive, too.
I lean back against the bench, closing my eyes for just a second. My body aches, my mind is buzzing, and there''s a part of me that just wants to let it all go--to just stop for a minute. But I can''t. Not yet. The fight''s over, but it''s not really over, is it? The Kingdom got away with part of their plan. They still took some of the poison dart frogs, and even though we stopped them from taking all of them, it''s not a clean win.
Maggie''s still clutching her side, her face pale and tight with pain, but she''s up, a little bit, and that''s a good sign. The paramedic hands her an oxygen mask, urging her to take a few slow, deep breaths.
"You''re not bulletproof, you know," I say softly, eyeing the dark bruises spreading across her belly.
Maggie pulls the mask away for a second, giving me a half-hearted smirk. "Neither are you. Not without your vest."
I chuckle, though it hurts more than it should. "Touch¨¦."
The paramedics are still working on Maggie, and she''s mostly quiet now, her face pale and lined with pain, but she''s holding herself together. The adrenaline that kept her going through the fight has finally drained, and now it''s just pain. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment as the paramedics finish binding her ribs, but she doesn''t say much. I glance over at her, my body heavy with exhaustion, and I can''t help but feel a mix of relief and frustration. She made it. We both did. But I''m still angry at her for getting involved.
Before I can say anything, though, Multiplex walks over, flanked by a limping Crossroads, who''s nursing a stab wound. It looks nasty, but not fatal. Crossroads gives me a nod - no words, just acknowledgment, as usual. He''s a man of few words, and after the chaos we just went through, I don''t blame him.
Multiplex, though, looks more tired than I''ve ever seen him. His usual confident, almost commanding air is muted now, replaced with something more¡ human. He steps up beside me, his eyes scanning the scene, taking in the wreckage of the zoo, the injured civilians, the shattered tanks. His shoulders sag a little, like the weight of it all is pressing down on him. I start clenching my body up, preparing for the lecture. The life lesson. The moral hammer.
He doesn''t say anything at first, just stands there, watching the paramedics move around us. Then he glances at me, and for the first time today, there''s no frustration in his eyes. No lecture. Just eye shine and exhaustion.
"You did the right thing, Bloodhound," he says quietly, crossing his arms. "Without you, we would''ve missed the real heist. The frogs. They might''ve gotten away clean with all of them."
It''s weird hearing him say it. I''ve spent so much time feeling like I''m always just one step behind, like no one ever takes me seriously. But now, in this quiet moment after the storm, he''s actually thanking me.
He''s validating me.
I nod, my throat tight. "Thanks, but¡" I hesitate, glancing over at Maggie again. "It didn''t feel like enough. We didn''t stop them from getting some of the frogs. We didn''t catch them all."
Multiplex exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, we didn''t. But we caught two key members of the Kingdom. That''s not nothing. And you''re right--we put a dent in their plans today. You made that happen."
"Just the two?" I ask. I want to feel proud of that, and part of me does. But there''s still that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one that tells me this isn''t over. It never is.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
"Mr. Tyrannosaur got six lackeys to trade themselves for him to cover his escape. All with the same batch of Jump. They knocked out Captain Plasma and he got the hell out of dodge with his prepared escape ride," Multiplex says, his face going a little tight. He notices my stare and puts a hand up. "Plasma is fine. It''ll take more than that to put him down. We''re going to be booking a lot of small fries today, too. Cleaning up the streets that much more."
Crossroads shifts beside him, his face a little paler than usual, but he meets my gaze with that same quiet intensity he always has. "You did good, Sam," he says, his voice low but firm. "I would say that you can''t keep running off alone, but it worked out this time. And I know that no matter what I tell you, you''ll do it anyway."
"Yeah," I laugh.
Multiplex sighs, his eyes flicking back to the chaos around us, the wreckage of the day. "Listen," he starts, rubbing his temples. "Earlier¡ when I brushed you off, it wasn''t because I didn''t think you had a point. It''s just¡ when you''re in the middle of something like this, the first priority is protecting civilians. Keeping the body count at zero. Sometimes that means making decisions that feel wrong in the moment."
There''s a pause, and for a second, I see something flicker in his expression. Doubt. It''s subtle, but it''s there, and it feels like a crack in the armor. "I can''t say there''s anything I would''ve done different. For me, civilian lives are always the first priority. I just don''t want to be the sort of Footloose bureaucrat constantly getting in your way and giving you nothing for it."
I don''t know how to respond, so I just sit there, letting his words sink in. The validation feels warm in my chest, but not quite as good as I''d like it to taste. Not sweet enough.
Crossroads speaks next. "On one hand, I think they counted on someone - if not you, someone - discovering their plans. If you or Playback hadn''t, I''m sure they would''ve leaked it themselves. Once there was enough of a tizzy on the outrageous rhinocerous heist, nobody would notice the smaller heist happening at the same time until it was too late to have done anything about it. You - we - played right into their hands that way,"
I wince a little bit, but he''s not wrong. It''s not even much of a ''we'' thing. I think he''s just saying that to make me feel better. "Do you think they counted on me seeing their map?"
"No, I don''t think so. That was long enough ago that I''m of the opinion they worked you into their nascent plans as they were gestating. You know, still figuring out what exactly their heist plan was. But maybe they did count on you. They do have an ESPer, after all," Crossroads says, sighing, running his hand through his hair with a shaky palm. "We''ll just have to see what comes out of the interrogation room."
Multiplex shakes his head, his mouth set in a tight line. "We''ll have to rethink some things. But for now¡ just take care of yourself. Both of you." He glances at Maggie, who''s still slumped on the bench, her breathing shallow but steady. "I haven''t met you yet, but I can tell from the ramshackle costume and the life-threatening injuries that you''re a student of the Bloodhound school of superheroism."
It comes out almost brutally honest, and then he corrects himself when neither one of us laughs. "The Diane school," he says, and that gets a wry little smile out of me. "Keep up the good work. You can put me into contact with your parents if you need a good excuse as to why you were out here."
"That''d be good, thanks," Maggie croaks, her throat audibly dry.
As Multiplex and Crossroads head off, probably to coordinate the cleanup and deal with the police, I slump back against the inside of the ambulance, letting out a long, shaky breath. The adrenaline''s gone, replaced by this deep, bone-weary exhaustion that seeps into every inch of my body. The paramedics are still around, working on the injured civilians, but the worst is over.
I glance over at Maggie again. She''s quiet, her eyes half-closed, but she''s not asleep. The paramedics are finishing up, gently strapping her into a portable stretcher, just to make sure they can move her without causing more damage to her ribs. I can see her wincing with every slight movement, but she''s putting on a brave face. She always does.
"You''re gonna be sore for days," I say, trying to keep my voice light, but it comes out more tired than I meant it to.
Maggie cracks a weak grin, though it looks more like a grimace. "You think? Feels like someone ran over me with a truck."
"Yeah, well, that''s what happens when you get shot."
She lets out a wheezy laugh, but then immediately regrets it, clutching her side with a groan. "Ow. Okay, no more jokes. I''ll¡ be quiet now."
I smirk, but it''s half-hearted. The truth is, I''m still mad at her. I''m mad that she got involved, mad that she didn''t listen when I told her to stay out of it. But at the same time¡ I can''t really blame her. She did exactly what I would''ve done.
Is that what Diane would''ve done?
And I know I haven''t even met him - but is that what Professor Franklin would''ve done?
What about his mentor?
The paramedics lift her all the way now into the ambulance, probably to head towards CHOP, and I push myself up to follow. My whole body aches, every step a reminder of the fight we just went through. But I''m still standing. Still walking. And that''s more than I can say for some of the others.
As the sun sets over the zoo, casting long shadows across the wreckage, I can''t help but feel the weight of the day settle over me. Two Kingdom members are captured, but two of the biggest threats got away. And they still managed to steal some of the poison dart frogs, even if we stopped them from taking all of them. And we still have no idea what they''re even using them for.
We won, but it doesn''t feel like much of a victory. Not yet.
Maggie glances over at me as they load her into the ambulance, her eyes tired but still sharp. "We did good, right?" she asks, her voice soft, like she''s not sure of the answer.
I nod, though the uncertainty still lingers. "Yeah," I say quietly. "We did good."
End of Arc 8: Big
WORLD OF CHUM: Minions & Goons (1)
"The Goon Economy: Why People Choose to Work for Supervillains"
Leslie Lester, for Psychology Today, October 2022
When asked why anyone would choose to work for supervillains, most people imagine costumed henchmen cackling maniacally while fighting Spider-Man. The reality is far more mundane - and more economically fascinating.
"It''s just a job," says Former Employee X under the condition of anonymity, who worked security for a major East Coast villain organization. "Better benefits than Netsphere, better pay than private security, and yeah, higher risk, but you''ve got clear procedures for hero encounters. Most guys never even see a cape."
The numbers support this pragmatic view. While exact figures are difficult to obtain, conservative estimates suggest supervillain organizations employ hundreds of thousands of workers across the U.S., from direct muscle to legitimate business employees. The total economic impact likely rivals major corporations.
But why choose such high-risk employment? Dr. Sarah Chen, economist at MIT, suggests three key factors:
- Economic Pressure "In cities with active supervillain presence, these organizations often control major employment sectors - construction, shipping, waste management. Sometimes working for them isn''t really a choice."
- Risk vs. Reward The average "muscle" for a villain organization makes 1.5-2 times standard security work, with comprehensive health coverage and legal protection. "When you''re living paycheck to paycheck," Chen notes, "guaranteed medical care becomes very attractive."
- Systemic Integration Many workers start through legitimate businesses, becoming gradually involved in illegal activities. "It''s rarely a conscious choice to ''become a minion,''" Chen explains. "It''s more like finding out your company has mob ties - but you''ve got a mortgage and kids in school."
The psychology is equally complex. Dr. James Morrison of Harvard explains: "These organizations offer what many legitimate employers don''t: clear advancement paths, protection from both heroes and rivals, and often a sense of belonging. They''re filling gaps in our social safety net."
The rise of powers-based crime has only increased this trend. "Supervillain organizations have better protocols for superhuman encounters than most legitimate businesses," Morrison notes. "If you''re working in a city where hero-villain battles are common, that matters."
Consider the "Infinite Copse", a major West Coast criminal organization that arose in the power vacuum left after the Big Raid. They operate legitimate tech companies, control unions, and invest in community centers. An employee might start in their cybersecurity division, never knowing they''re working for "supervillains" until they''re already enmeshed in the system.
"The question isn''t ''Why would someone work for villains?''" Chen concludes. "It''s ''Why wouldn''t they?'' In many urban areas, they''re offering better jobs, better security, and better futures than legitimate alternatives. Until that changes, the goon economy will continue to grow."A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
The numbers are staggering. A typical "street-level employee" in a major villain organization earns $45,000-65,000 annually, compared to the $35,000-45,000 for comparable private security work. Health insurance coverage averages $12,000 per employee annually - nearly double standard corporate plans, reflecting the hazard rates, and specialized doctors willing to work off the books provide thousands of dollars of additional value that goes unseen.
"Legal retainers alone cost these organizations billions," notes Chen. "The Infinite Copse maintains a $50 million annual fund just for employee legal defense. That''s actually good business - it ensures employee loyalty and reduces turnover."
The economic footprint extends far beyond direct employment. In cities with major villain presence, these organizations often control:
- 30-40% of port labor
- 25-35% of construction contracts
- 40-50% of waste management
- 15-20% of local small businesses (through protection rackets)
Traditional organized crime generates an estimated $150 billion annually in North America. Powers-based organizations like the Copse have integrated this existing infrastructure while expanding into new territories. Conservative estimates suggest they''ve increased traditional criminal revenue streams by 60-80%.
"In Los Angeles alone, you''re looking at probably 60,000 people who depend directly on Copse-controlled businesses for employment," Chen explains. "Add indirect employment and family dependents, and you''re approaching 300,000 people economically tied to a single villain organization. That''s why law enforcement can''t just ''shut them down'' - they''re too integrated into the local economy."
Risk factors are surprisingly moderate. Annual fatality rates for "muscle" positions average 0.8% - higher than construction (0.1%) but lower than what most assume. "Most villain organizations are pragmatic," Morrison notes. "Dead employees are bad for business. They have protocols to minimize hero-minion confrontations."
The implications are sobering. With an estimated 200,000 to 300,000 Americans directly employed by supervillain organizations, and perhaps five times that number economically dependent on their operations, we''re looking at an economic force comparable to major industrial sectors. In cities like Philadelphia or Baltimore, villain organizations often represent the third or fourth largest "employer" when counting both direct and indirect employment.
"We need to stop thinking about this as a law enforcement problem," Chen concludes. "When a villain organization can offer $75,000 starting salary with full benefits to people who''d otherwise make $35,000 with no healthcare, that''s not just a crime issue - it''s a systemic economic reality. The question isn''t why people work for villains. The question is why legitimate businesses aren''t competing for these workers."
Until that fundamental economic imbalance is addressed, the goon economy will continue to thrive. As Former Employee X puts it: "Nobody dreams of being a henchman. But nobody dreams of being unable to pay their kid''s medical bills either. And when you''re working, you know, ''security'', and your boss says "hey, we just need you to watch these civilians for an hour, let them know if they move bad things will happen, and we''ll handle any legal problems"... you don''t want to lose that income telling him no, you know? It''s real easy to just... slip into it. You barely even notice, and it puts food on the table."
In a world where powers fall randomly from the sky, perhaps it''s time to examine the very human economics that drive ordinary people into extraordinary crime. The real superpower, it seems, might just be a living wage.
LTN.2.1
The quiet is uncomfortable.
New York is a void this early on a Sunday morning. The street looks like a documentary I saw once on a depopulated island - a place that should hum with noise and people, now unsettlingly empty. I shift on the cold pavement, noting the skyscraper in front of me as I weigh its structural features against the preconceptions I''d built about New York City. Of all the places to summon me, Mr. Antithesis, in his wisdom, has chosen the heart of the business district--a choice that''s both textbook and, unfortunately, daunting.
"Lena, I''m serious. Are you comfortable leaving Scylla with me?" Zenith breaks the silence, and it takes me a moment to register that she''s used my first name. Not ''Mrs. Xenograft'' or even the clinical ''Dr. Trinh-Norwood''--but Lena.
I consider her question as her words unfold, calculating the angle: a personal reach disguised as professionalism. My gaze shifts to Scylla, standing tensely at my side. Her amber eyes stay on me, the way she does when she senses something unusual, a ripple of anticipation beneath her taut posture. Scylla was not made to be left with others; she was made to stay by me, vigilant, with her bulked-out, chimerized shell as strong and sturdy as the best steel.
The question stirs a bit of aggravation, though I don''t let it show. Her use of my first name is a friendly gesture, I suppose, but it implies a kind of intimacy we don''t share. Scylla, standing at my side with her sleek, greyhound-lobster fusion body and faintly iridescent carapace, is the only one I''d allow such familiarity. And even then, I know what I am to her--provider, not friend.
"No," I reply, with no intention of softening the blunt refusal. I glance back up at Mrs. Zenith, assessing her reaction with the same neutral scrutiny I''d apply to a hissing cat--she has that look, the subtle calculation behind her expression, each action carefully tailored, no detail left to chance.
She exhales with a faint sigh that reads almost parental. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
"Lena," she says again, slower this time. "If Scylla''s¡ enhanced by your powers, I have a strong feeling bad things will happen if she meets Upper Management. I don''t want anything bad to happen to her--or you." There''s something tired in her voice. Her words are persuasive but with an edge, a degree of insistence that falls like a gentle prod in my side.
"Scylla wasn''t created with my powers," I correct, because the distinction is important. "She was born the normal way, from two perfectly ordinary greyhounds." A pause, an inhale, then, "I merely chimerized a dead lobster into her so that she would live forever."
Scylla, on cue, gives a soft whine, as if to verify the statement. I give her a cursory scratch behind the ear, focusing on the familiar click of her hardened plates shifting beneath my hand.
"Right," Zenith murmurs, gaze drifting to Scylla''s formidable shell, but she doesn''t press the point. For a moment, she watches me, as if weighing her next move, and I don''t miss the slight downturn of her lips. She''s far too still for comfort. I stay quiet, hoping my silence will signal the futility of trying to convince me otherwise. She stares back, patient. If I didn''t know better, I''d think she was trying to understand me.
And then, something shifts. She sighs again, softer this time, almost a gesture of capitulation. "Fine. Scylla, stay with the friendly boss-lady."
At this, Scylla tilts her head, her amber eyes fixed firmly on mine, a skeptical edge to her gaze. I reach down, giving her a reassuring scratch, though it feels like nothing of the sort. Part of me resents this--having to leave her, being made to walk into a meeting with a man I''ve never seen without her protective shadow.
Still, orders are orders, and if I want to continue my research--unhampered by the mundane interruptions of academia--I know what''s required of me.
As Scylla settles reluctantly beside Mrs. Zenith, I turn to the elevator, giving its polished doors a wary glance. Zenith''s gaze flicks to the black sample case in my hand, her curiosity unmistakable. She gestures to it with a raised eyebrow.
"So¡ are you still calling it ''anomalous compound J-237''?" she asks, her tone light but laced with expectation.
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. "Of course not. I spent an entire month brainstorming."
Her brow arches, clearly doubtful. "Really? You? Alright then, what did you settle on?"
The name sits proudly in my mind, like a perfectly formed thought finally given shape. I clear my throat, knowing how much she''ll appreciate it, and say, "Hypeman."
For a split second, Zenith''s face is as still as the empty street outside. Then she bursts into laughter--a bright, unrestrained sound that only seems to grow louder as I maintain my unflinching gaze.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
"That¡ no, Lena, no," she manages between breaths. "That name sucks so bad."
I blink. "What''s wrong with it? It fits."
She''s still laughing, shaking her head as she holds the elevator door open. "We''re going to have to workshop that one."
I don''t reply. I step into the elevator and allow the doors to close just as her laughter fades. The silence that follows is sudden, thick with an almost pleasant quiet. I can''t resist the faintest grin as I press the button for the top floor, and let the polished mirror-slick doors close in on me, trapping me with nobody but myself.
As the elevator doors slide open, I''m struck first by the stillness of the place, a near-sterile calm that feels unnatural. Every surface of the office gleams, from the mahogany desk, polished to such a degree I can nearly see myself in it, to the floors, so spotless they reflect the cold fluorescent light above. The air smells faintly of sanitizer, clean in a way that feels less like hygiene and more like compulsion.
My eyes catch on the large, industrial-sized tub of hand sanitizer placed squarely on the desk, angled like an invitation--or a mandate. A metal wastebasket sits beside the desk, and within it, I see the mangled remains of countless stress balls, shredded beyond recognition. Their rubber shreds stick out at odd angles like splayed, twisted limbs, caught mid-scream.
The man himself sits at the desk. I try to discern his face through the sterile, uncompromising atmosphere, but his eyes are still. Clinical. He assesses me with a directness that makes the small hairs on the back of my neck prickle. He''s not one for superfluities, that much is obvious.
"Mrs. Xenograft," he says, his tone level.
My spine stiffens, and the correction escapes before I can stop it. "Dr. Xenograft."
His response is immediate, and cold: "No."
A beat of silence passes as I process the flat refusal. I can''t tell if it''s some strange attempt at humor, and against my better judgment, I press. "Is... is that supposed to be a joke?"
He meets my gaze without a hint of amusement, his face an impassive wall. "I don''t make jokes." He shifts, making it clear he''s finished with the matter. "In my organization, all senior members hold the titles of Mr. or Mrs. It''s not a form of disrespect. It''s a requirement."
A curious rule, but curiosity isn''t enough to make me push further. Still, I can''t resist a final prod, dryly phrased: "And, er, what about transgender individuals?"
There''s the slightest flicker of consideration in his eyes before he answers, cool as a clam, "We''ll figure that out when we get one."
The hint of humor almost brings a smile to my face, but his demeanor silences it before it has a chance to emerge. He stands, motions for me to sit in a chair facing him, and gestures briefly to the bottle of hand sanitizer on his desk. "Before we begin."
I hesitate, then give a perfunctory pump of the gel, the antiseptic scent sharp as it clings to my skin. He gives a slight nod, one that suggests I''ve done something necessary rather than welcome, and I take the seat opposite him.
He''s... handsome, in a traditional sense. His eyes are almost the exact same shade of amber as Scylla, a brown so light that it looks orange in the setting four o''clock or so sun. Black hair, verging on stress-grey, individual strands of white and silver running through, slightly coiffed at the top so as to curl over his head almost like a cowlick with depression, although his sides are shorn down. Not a hint of stubble, but with that sort of dry sheen that suggests he''d shaved today, rather than being a babyface.
"I understand you''ve been working on something substantial," he begins, his tone inflectionless. "Something that warrants the loss of two of our operatives."
The tension in his voice is almost imperceptible, but it''s enough to remind me why I''m here. Steeling myself, I hold up the case with my sample, opening it to reveal a small vial containing an orange-hued substance, thick and viscous.
"Yes," I reply, my voice steady, clinical. "This is the latest sample of Jump, or rather, its base, Compound A. Or, well, Compound J-237, which is a form of Compound A."
He leans forward, studying the vial with an intensity that borders on uncomfortable, his gaze unreadable. "Explain."
I take a deep breath, finding solace in the scientific explanation. "Compound A is¡ unique. It can transmit powers to another organism, but in its raw form, it''s unstable. Whoever is designing Jump either is or knows someone with a lot of knowledge in pharmacokinetics. If you just swallowed this with Compound B - the one that sort of categorizes the powers - it would spread unevenly, first to your organs, and then blood vessels, then muscles, skin, and finally, your brain. If you got super strength, you''d fold in on yourself. Most of Jump is just normal binders, fillers, and prodrugs, so to stabilize and synthesize Compound A for distribution, I had to create a controlled biological vessel. The frog-bee hybrids."
I can feel the faint tug of interest in his otherwise still face, but his eyes remain fixed on the vial. I continue.
"Frogs, particularly poison dart frogs, have natural adaptations for handling toxins and strange metabolites, compounds similar in action to what we need for Compound A. They can store and sequester alkaloids that target nerve and muscle cells. But frogs alone can''t provide the necessary stability or production volume we need. I needed the poison dart frogs as a base because normal local frogs weren''t cutting it."
He listens without interrupting, his gaze still focused on the vial. I feel a strange sense of relief; at least he''s letting me explain. "So I hybridized them with honeybees," I go on. "Honeybees have venom systems that allow them to process and store certain substances. By integrating the honey stomach from bees, the hybrids can safely store Compound A within their systems. There are chemical compounds in a bee''s body that help stabilize, and the honey stomach acts as a sort of bioreactor, refining Compound A to make it safer and reproducible without access to whoever is making the pills for Rogue Wave."
I lean back slightly, watching his face for any reaction, any sign that he finds this useful or satisfactory. His eyes shift briefly from the vial to me, and he gestures for me to continue.
LTN.2.2
"With this setup, the frog-bees can reproduce and process Compound A reliably, allowing us to harvest it in stable, large quantities. And the bonus is that their biochemistry produces byproducts that could have lucrative secondary uses."
"Such as?" he prompts, his tone as even as the number two, though I sense the interest buried somewhere beneath it.
"Epibatidine, for example. It''s a painkiller based on a natural alkaloid, altered to reduce its toxicity - there''s been a lot of hubbub about Epibatidine as a painkiller, but nobody has been able to synthesize a version with a wide enough gulf between "effective" and "lethal". Nobody besides me, of course. Then there''s Epi-Melittin, a compound of frog toxins and bee venom. It has both analgesic and cell-penetrating properties, making it exceptionally fast-acting. Finally, we have Pumilio-Apamin, a combination of pumiliotoxins and apamin, a neurotoxin. At low doses, it heightens reflexes and sensory perception; higher doses could induce psychoactive effects--useful for various¡ applications. Like, drug applications. Street drugs."
I meet his gaze, letting the words settle. "Each of these byproducts offers a range of possibilities, not only in their original forms but potentially as combinations. Their effects could be controlled, dosed, and tailored for anything from high-grade analgesics to stimulants, enhancers, or parties. But those samples are still at the lab. This is just Compound J-237. I have some cultured cells from Daisy Zhen that I''ve been able to isolate a sort of¡ analogous form of Compound B from via the same bioreactor process as Compound A. Just taking the "power enhancing" part of her powers without any of the¡ other stuff."
Mr. Antithesis studies the vial for a few more seconds before setting it down, his fingers almost meticulously adjusting its position on the desk. "Impressive," he says at last, his tone still measured. "And these side products--how do you propose we utilize them, Mrs. Xenograft?"
The faintest twinge runs through me at the title, but I suppress it, reminding myself of where I am and who I''m speaking to. "Controlled release. We can tailor products for specific effects, from refined enhancements for our own operatives to street-market versions for revenue. Hypeman alone--if properly branded and distributed--could corner a unique market as a power amplifier, creating demand from high-value targets."
His eyes shift up to meet mine. "Hypeman?"
I pause, sensing that he''s not entirely pleased with the name. "A working title," I say briskly, almost defensively. "The name is¡ negotiable."
Mr. Antithesis raises an eyebrow, looking almost amused. "That''s alright. We''ll workshop it."
The office''s air has become sharper, somehow even more clinical, as Mr. Antithesis leans forward, resting his hands on the desk, fingers steepled.
"Now¡ walk me through the operation, Mrs. Xenograft. Why did it go wrong?" His tone is chillingly even, without the faintest suggestion of irritation or disappointment, a scalpel poised for incision.
I take a breath, knowing he''ll accept only precise, surgical answers. "Operation Ivory was planned with specific objectives, including acquiring a breeding population of poison dart frogs for further bioproduct development. We accounted for the existing zoo security, and our personnel were to execute swiftly. But¡ variables emerged."
"Variables." His eyebrow raises slightly, unblinking. "Go on."
"Our team encountered a previously unknown superhero, a young one with some sort of super strength or propulsive power. Samantha Small was there, too, but she was accounted for." I allow myself to sound clinical, to avoid any hint of defensiveness, though there''s a chill down my spine. "This other individual was not on the radar of known operatives in the area. She disrupted the final phases of the extraction, resulting in the capture of Mr. Nothing and Mr. Mudslide."
He considers this, his gaze a touch distant as he processes. "Unexpected resistance. But that doesn''t explain your accountability in this. How did you assess and assign the risk?"
My fingers itch to adjust my glasses, though I resist the impulse, keeping my hands still on the desk. "I was responsible for oversight on the operation and planned its technical aspects," I reply, voice calm. "The personnel selection was based on skill fit for the targets. Mr. Nothing''s infiltration abilities and Mudslide''s ability to break through the zoo''s defenses without sounding an alarm were necessary components. Under normal circumstances, they would''ve handled any anticipated opposition."
Mr. Antithesis''s silence stretches, and I catch my reflection in his polished desk. Finally, he speaks.
"And yet, here we are," he remarks, voice softer now, almost contemplative. "It appears your selection wasn''t quite as precise as it should''ve been."
I meet his gaze, and this time, the flinch is real. I steady myself quickly. "Yes, sir. I take responsibility for the results. There were blind spots in our intelligence, and I''ll ensure resources are reallocated for both immediate and long-term contingencies. I''ll also be personally addressing their legal fees, as well as contingency planning for retrieval if necessary."
He leans back slightly, his face giving nothing away, though his hands are still precisely positioned. I know he''s testing my resolve, waiting for me to deflect or equivocate. I remain silent.
"Accountability," he says, almost musing, "is critical to this operation''s success. Which brings us to Hypeman." He gestures towards the vial of compound on his desk. "Is this viable, Mrs. Xenograft? Financially, chemically, what am I looking at in terms of returns?"If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.
"Viable, sir, and profitable," I respond, tone clipped, knowing he won''t accept anything less than conviction. "Hypeman production costs are low, particularly since the frog-bee hybrids are sustainable, and the culture of Daisy Zhen''s cells requires only basic culture upkeep. I''d estimate a husbandry setup to be cheaper than your typical clandestine drug lab. The frogs themselves require minimal upkeep -- small enclosures, basic insect feed, moisture control."
"And can we expect a competitive profit margin?"
"Absolutely," I reply. "In fact, one of Hypeman''s most¡ favorable qualities is its incompatibility with Jump. Any user attempting to combine the two will experience a, uh¡ Well, remember when I mentioned that Jump would make you fold yourself in half without the pharmacokinetic bits?"
His lips curl into a barely-there smile. "Explosive failure?"
I nod, allowing a slight smile myself. "Exactly. While Jump may appeal to a general clientele, Hypeman will attract a different echelon of users - one with existing powers. It amplifies natural abilities, increasing their effectiveness across physical and cognitive domains."
He''s silent again, his gaze fixed on the vial. "This makes it a specialty product," he says, more to himself than to me, before lifting his eyes to meet mine. "Specialties come with risks. And returns."
I choose my next words carefully. "Hypeman''s effects are potent enough to entice high-value clients, even given the risks. Moreover, due to its formulation, only those with suitable experience can administer it effectively. We control access by controlling its distribution, preventing any careless combinations with Jump. As it stands, I am the only human being alive capable of producing the required precursors for Hypeman. It''s totally unable to be duplicated."
He nods, then shifts slightly forward, and for the first time, I notice the raw skin on his hands, the slight traces of red, almost rubbed raw. He''s tense, perhaps more than he allows himself to appear.
"And production oversight? I trust you''ll be managing this."
"Yes," I answer, knowing full well he''ll take nothing less than complete ownership. "I''ll be setting up the husbandry and handling quality control personally. Frogs are sensitive, but with the right balance of humidity and nutrients, we can maintain consistency in each batch. My degrees in Zoology aren''t for nothing."
He raises a hand. "Understood. And I presume you''ll be responsible for any operational hiccups?"
"Absolutely," I respond without hesitation, sensing his gaze sharpen in approval. "If any personnel become liabilities, I''ll address it immediately. This is my project, and I''ll shoulder the results."
His eyes linger on me for a moment longer. "Good. That''s exactly the level of dedication I expect. I don''t tolerate flippant handoffs or scapegoating here, Mrs. Xenograft. Results are what matter."
He seems to be watching me, waiting for something, a flicker of hesitation or fear, perhaps. But I know better. As he studies me, I remind myself that this is business. He has no interest in theatrics.
"You seem nervous, Mrs. Xenograft," he remarks, noticing the slight twitch in my left hand.
I force myself to meet his gaze. "I''m fully prepared to accept responsibility for my part in Operation Ivory''s outcome, sir."
To my surprise, he nods, his expression softening a touch. "I''m not interested in making an example out of you, Mrs. Xenograft. I''m not some comic book supervillain. Your research and your skills are valuable to the Kingdom. Punishing you would be counterproductive."
He lets that word settle, letting its clinical neutrality reassure me. "Do you have anything else you''d like me to know?"
I think for a moment. "I believe that covers it all," I say, after twenty extremely stressful seconds.
"Good," he replies. He glances pointedly at the large tub of hand sanitizer on his desk, his gaze intent and unwavering. "Please sanitize once more before we shake."
It''s not a request.
I hesitate only for a moment, scanning his desk and catching sight of the faint redness marring the skin on his knuckles, as if he''s scrubbed them raw, over and over. Keeping my face impassive, I press the dispenser, letting the cool, clinical-smelling gel pool in my hands before rubbing it over my fingers and palms.
"Thank you," he says, though his tone is detached. This isn''t so much a pleasantry as it is a procedural step, a final formality in the conclusion of our meeting. Something more ritual than anything else.
He extends his hand, and I take it, our handshake brisk and functional, yet somehow carrying a weight that feels almost ceremonial, a tacit acknowledgment that I am indeed here on his terms. This is no longer an arrangement for grant money or academic funds. No, this is a contract, one bound as much by money as by trust and authority.
When he releases my hand, his expression shifts into what might pass for satisfaction, or at least a form of approval.
"I''ve reviewed your project and the reports you filed on the hybrids'' development," he says. "This level of initiative is exactly what we value. So you''ll be seeing a raise for your work, along with a share of Hypeman''s gross sales, in addition to your regular operating budget."
For a moment, I''m stunned. A reward. Not just any raise, but a substantial cut of Hypeman''s revenue. I could expand the lab, even improve the habitats for the hybrids with minimal oversight. It''s a thrill I usually reserve for scientific breakthrough, but now I feel it at the prospect of resources, pure and unhindered. Despite myself, I feel a slight warmth unfurling.
But his next words cool it just as quickly.
"However, Mrs. Xenograft," he says, each word razor-sharp, "I expect this to be your only slip-up in our operations. Any further issues or oversights in judgment will directly impact your continuing employment here."
I''m accustomed to stiff, corporate language from grant panels, but in his mouth, "continuing employment" feels far less like an offer to reconsider and far more like a door slamming shut. A finality looms in it, the reminder that while the Kingdom may not deal in comic book punishments, the stakes remain incredibly high.
I force myself to nod, businesslike. "Understood, sir."
"Good. It''s only fair that since this venture was your own brainchild, you have a substantial share in its returns," he adds. "But remember, that also means you bear responsibility for its failures. I hope that''s clear."
Crystal clear. It''s the worst parts of arguing for research grants combined with something colder, something uncompromising. But compared to the other institutions I''ve dealt with, I remind myself, this might even be¡ tolerable.
With a curt nod, he turns his attention to the neat array of documents on his desk. Our meeting, it seems, is over.
I step back, smoothing down my coat, feeling the quiet weight of his words settle on me. This isn''t academia. It''s something more severe, something less forgiving. And yet, for the first time, I feel as though the resources are truly mine to shape, free of the bureaucratic mess I''ve always loathed. I turn toward the door, and as I do, I catch a glimpse of the city skyline from his window, Manhattan sprawling out into the crisp Sunday afternoon.
Maybe I''ll even take a cab around the city before I leave.
I turn around and head back for the elevator, wiping my hands on my pants to get the last traces of hand sanitizer off.
WORLD OF CHUM: Minions & Goons (2)
"Doctor of Villains": The Anonymous Physician Who Treated Chicago''s Most Dangerous Employees
By Dana Smith, The Chicago Review
March 2024
In a quiet suburb on the edge of Chicago, one man hides in plain sight. Once, he was an upstanding doctor with a small private practice, a family, and dreams of making a difference in his community. Today, he''s an ex-"villain doctor," formerly entangled with one of Chicago''s most infamous powers-based criminal organizations, the Lakefront Syndicate, one of the few lucky survivors of the Big Raid. In an exclusive interview, he opens up for the first time about the dangerous world he left behind, a life shaped by unexpected choices and moral compromise.
"You Treat One Guy, and That''s How It Starts"
The doctor--who we''ll call Dr. X--speaks softly, a man clearly worn down by years of anxiety, secrecy, and ethical conflict. His story began innocuously enough. "It started with one patient," he recalls. "I had this guy come in, asking for care outside office hours. Friendly enough, quiet. Said he''d pay in cash, and I figured he was just one of those guys who prefers to avoid hospitals."
The man, as it turned out, was a "contractor" for the Lakefront Syndicate, a well-organized villain group with legitimate businesses that doubled as fronts for their real work. Initially, Dr. X thought nothing of it--he was just providing medical care, not asking questions. But soon, that patient told his friends and colleagues, who told others. More people started showing up with unexplained bruises, lacerations, and chemical burns, all with stories that didn''t add up.
"By the time I realized who they all worked for, it was already too late," Dr. X explains. "My clinic was filling up with guys who didn''t exactly make eye contact and paid well to keep things off the books. My regular patients started to feel the tension, too. They stopped coming, which only made me more dependent on my new clientele."
Ethics in the Gray Zone
For Dr. X, the ethical dilemma was immediate and heavy. In medical school, he''d been trained to treat every patient with dignity and confidentiality, to care without judgment. But here he found himself bound to a new clientele whose actions he increasingly found repugnant.
"At first, I tried to rationalize it. I wasn''t helping them commit crimes; I was just treating their injuries. But when you''re patching up someone you know is going back out there to hurt others or reinforce a protection racket, it starts to eat at you."
As more members of the Syndicate came to him for care, Dr. X found himself facing requests that blurred ethical lines further. Falsify a medical report here, administer painkillers without documentation there. Occasionally, he''d be called to private residences, where he''d treat higher-ups with wounds sustained in "hero encounters"--a euphemism for battles with vigilantes or even known superheroes.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!
"You start to see the damage these people do, and yet you''re treating them like anyone else," he says. "But they''re not like anyone else. They''re hurting the city, hurting innocent people. It didn''t feel like medicine anymore--it felt like complicity."
Held Hostage by Dependency
Over time, Dr. X found it impossible to leave. The money was good, far better than he could have made in his small practice, but it came with invisible shackles. As he became the Syndicate''s trusted doctor, attempts to disengage were met with reminders of how much he owed them--financially and, in their words, "for his own safety."
"They never threatened me directly. But the implication was always there, like a shadow over everything I did," he says. "And by the time I realized it, I didn''t know how to leave. I''d gone from being a doctor with a good reputation to someone whose entire practice was people who''d sooner hurt me than let me walk away."
The emotional toll was immense. Isolated from colleagues, working in secrecy, and constantly on edge, Dr. X began to feel he was a prisoner in his own life. His family, unaware of the full extent of his involvement, worried for his health as he withdrew into a private shell. "It was like I was under siege," he says. "Constantly looking over my shoulder, second-guessing every decision, wondering if I''d be called in for something I couldn''t ethically handle."
Escape and Release
In an unusual twist, Dr. X was eventually given permission to leave. After nearly a decade as their physician, he approached a high-ranking member of the Lakefront Syndicate and explained, carefully, that he needed to walk away for the sake of his health and family. Remarkably, they allowed him to leave on the condition of silence.
"They let me go," he says with an almost disbelieving tone. "I''d been so tied up in this world that I didn''t think I''d ever get out. But they respected that I''d served them loyally for so long. I think, for them, loyalty runs both ways. They had new doctors - I wasn''t their old reliable anymore."
With his departure came conditions. He couldn''t speak about his experience openly, especially not to law enforcement, and he was advised--gently but firmly--to keep a low profile. Returning to a traditional medical practice was impossible; his reputation had shifted too drastically. Today, he works in telemedicine, helping patients remotely while staying under the Syndicate''s radar.
"It feels surreal to be free," he says. "There''s guilt, sure. But more than anything, there''s relief. I wish I could say I''d made the right choices from the beginning, but once you''re in that world, right and wrong blur together."
The Aftermath and Reflections
Dr. X reflects on the gradual entrapment that pulled him into the underworld. "One patient turns into two, then into an entire clientele," he says. "Before you know it, you''re the doctor for the Syndicate, and there''s no way out."
When asked what advice he would give to medical professionals facing similar situations, Dr. X pauses. "The best thing you can do is set boundaries early and stick to them. You think you''re just helping one person, doing a quick favor, but once you''re in, that world is hard to leave. No matter the money, no matter the loyalty, there''s no replacement for the peace of mind that comes from ethical practice."
Today, Dr. X lives quietly, a man haunted by a world he once served but ultimately escaped. He may be free, but the shadows of the Lakefront Syndicate linger in every cautious step, every guarded answer. For now, he says, that''s enough.
VB.1.1
Victor trails slightly behind his mother as they enter the zoo, a world that smells of animal fur, damp earth, and sharp, clear water. His mother is in front, smiling and glancing back at him, expecting excitement, maybe even a few questions about the zoo''s paths or the animals themselves. But Victor doesn''t have questions about the place. Instead, he''s already calculating how long it will take to see everything here-and how much time they might spend with each animal.
"Look, Victor!" she says, tapping the glass of the map. "See here? We''ve got...oh, almost a hundred animals to see!"
Victor squints at the tiny, winding paths and the words that spiral around them. "That''s a lot of walking," he says, like he''s tallying miles in his head.
She laughs, her eyes softening. "Maybe it is, but I''ll bet we can see at least half of them. You think?"
He considers it, then nods, more to satisfy her than himself. "Half''s probably a good number."
As they make their way toward the first exhibit, his mother nudges him toward a group of colorful birds. Their voices grate against each other, a high-pitched tangle of chirps and squawks, and he winces slightly, averting his gaze. The birds are bright, almost too bright, and they keep darting to and fro, too fast for him to take in all the details. The sign says "Macaw" and has a little map of South America underneath it. But to Victor, the birds'' movement is more confusing than interesting. He tries to watch, but his eyes dart to other, quieter corners of the exhibit.
A woman beside them sighs happily, looking at the birds. "Aren''t they beautiful?" she says, not particularly to anyone.
Victor stares at her, then at the birds, clearly trying to connect the word "beautiful" with the shrieking, jittery movements. "They''re very loud," he says finally, as though that should say it all.
The woman gives a surprised smile. "I guess they are. You know, they call them a flock, not just one bird. Flock means they have to work together."
Victor nods slowly, processing. "They don''t look like they''re working together. More just flying in the same direction."
His mother stifles a smile and looks at the woman. "He''s... direct," she says, patting Victor''s shoulder.
The woman chuckles, but Victor doesn''t notice; his focus is already drifting away from the birds as he waits for them to move to the next exhibit.
"Did you know they live in the jungle?" his mother says, reading the sign as though it might help him appreciate it more. Victor nods because he knows the answer is yes, and because he doesn''t want her to feel like she failed. She''s making that expression, the one that looks like a smile, but not all the way. He follows her as she moves on to the next exhibit, which has some sort of large, sleek creature prowling back and forth.
Victor catches the word "Panther" on the sign, and while he watches it walk, he finds the movement steady, easier to follow. There''s a rhythm to it-a step, a flick of the tail, the turn, and then the step again. There''s something satisfying in its pace, but he can tell his mother wants him to say something about it, something that shows he''s paying attention the way she wants him to. But he doesn''t have anything to say about this one either.
"What do you think of this one?" his mother asks, bending down beside him, going for the prompt.
Victor keeps his eyes on the panther, barely blinking. "He''s on a path," he says. "I think he always knows where he''s going. I like him."
His mother raises her brows. "You think so? He goes back and forth a lot. I''d think he was maybe a little confused."
Victor shakes his head slightly, still watching. "No, he knows. He''s just going back to where he started. Like a... like a train track."
She considers this and tilts her head, studying the panther a little more closely. "I never thought of it like that. That''s interesting."
He decides instead to simply follow her lead. If they keep moving, he can just wait until the part he knows will be interesting. "Which way to the monkeys?" he asks, though he knows they''re coming soon. His mother laughs, and she''s genuinely smiling now.
"They''re not far, I promise," she says. "But look, the elephants are just here!"The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
The elephants don''t grab him either; they''re too large, moving slowly, as if each step is a massive chore. They have big, curious eyes, and he wonders briefly if they think anything about the crowd watching them.
"Look how long it is!" his mother exclaims, smiling wide. "Imagine if you had one. You''d be able to reach right over my head."
Victor squints, watching the trunk curl and uncurl as it grasps the branch. "It looks like an arm that doesn''t know it''s supposed to be an arm," he mutters. "Like, it forgot its own shape."
A boy nearby snorts at Victor''s comment, muttering to his own father. "What a weird way to say it. It''s just a trunk."
Victor''s mother catches the boy''s comment and looks to her son, her smile warm but slightly bracing. "I think it''s an interesting way to say it," she says, patting Victor''s shoulder again. "That''s how you see things, Victor."
Victor looks up at her, searching her face for something like confirmation. "It just moves weird. Not like it''s sure it should be moving at all."
She nods. "I know. It''s all right to see it that way."
But they don''t have that spark, that snap of attention, that focus he''s been looking for without really being able to name it. He can see the intelligence in their eyes, but not the... something else. Something that he can''t name. He knows elephants stampede when they are scared. These elephants will never stampede. They''re never scared.
Finally, after what feels like hours to him but has probably been ten minutes, they reach the primate house. He doesn''t wait for his mother to catch up this time and walks up to the first enclosure, where the glass separates him from the dense, dark eyes of a chimpanzee.
Victor''s pulse quickens. The chimpanzee doesn''t move with the same rhythm as the panther, but there''s something sharper in the way it watches him back. It tilts its head, dark eyes unblinking, and he feels something that, for once, doesn''t have a name. A strange understanding passes between them, something that feels like a thread he can''t fully grasp.
"You like them, don''t you?" she asks, folding her hands together, content to let him take his time.
He nods, glancing over his shoulder. "They look at me," he says simply. "Not like animals, but like people."
A zookeeper passes by, overhearing the comment. "Well, they''re pretty close to us, you know. Share almost all the same genes," he says, adjusting his cap. "Some say they might even be able to talk one day."
Victor''s face softens, considering this. "Talk how?"
"Well, with their hands. They''re smart, those chimps."
Victor turns back to the chimpanzee, his own hands pressed to the glass. He raises one hand slowly, as though offering a silent greeting. The chimp studies him, its head tilted slightly, and then stretches its hand along the same line, mirroring him.
He holds his breath, feeling an odd, prickling warmth in his chest. "He knows I''m here," he whispers, almost to himself.
His mother watches, her expression tender as she listens. "He does. It''s like you both see each other, isn''t it?"
Victor nods slowly. "Like he''s thinking. Not like the others, but really thinking. And he doesn''t mind that I''m here."
She laughs softly, running her hand over his hair. "I think he likes you, Victor. Imagine that."
As they move through the primate exhibits, his mother finally seems to relax too. She stands back, letting him wander from one enclosure to the next at his own pace. At the gorilla habitat, he stops dead in his tracks. The silverback sits on a rock, surrounded by a group of smaller apes, holding court without moving a muscle. Victor''s drawn to it instantly.
The gorilla turns its head slowly, its heavy gaze settling on him. It watches him, unmoving, calm but with a quiet power that doesn''t need any noise to make itself known. Victor''s chest feels tight, and he realizes he hasn''t breathed for a moment. There''s something about the gorilla''s silence that he understands-its authority doesn''t come from loud sounds or fast motions. It just is.
His mother moves beside him, her voice soft now. "He''s the leader of the group, you know? All he has to do is sit there, and the others know who''s in charge."
Victor nods, eyes still on the gorilla. "It''s because he doesn''t need to do anything to be strong," he says, not realizing he''s spoken out loud.
His mother blinks, looking at him with a kind of soft surprise, the smile on her face a little different this time. "Yes," she says slowly. "Yes, I think you''re right."
"He doesn''t move a lot," he murmurs.
"No," his mother says, watching him closely. "But he doesn''t have to, does he?"
Victor shakes his head. "No."
His mother looks from the gorilla back to her son, her hand resting on his shoulder. "Some people are like that too, you know. They don''t need to make a fuss."
Victor glances at her, his mouth a straight line. "But they do anyway."
She chuckles. "True. But not you." She watches him quietly, then adds, "You see things, Victor. Things I miss sometimes."
Victor turns his gaze back to the silverback. "The gorilla wouldn''t be loud, though. He doesn''t need to be. He can be, but he doesn''t."
They stand there for a long time, Victor watching the gorilla in silence while his mother lets him be, feeling like she''s learned something about him that maybe she wasn''t looking for but wanted all the same.
They stay at the gorilla enclosure longer than anywhere else, and Victor notices his mother glancing at him, but this time she doesn''t seem to mind that he''s quiet. She''s just watching him as he watches the gorilla, as if maybe she''s seeing something new in him she hadn''t noticed before.
As they leave, she buys him a small gorilla figurine at the gift shop. He turns it over in his hand, feeling the smooth, heavy plastic, and tucks it into his pocket. She tucks the figurine into his hand, pressing her fingers gently over his. "Now you have your gorilla. Maybe he''ll remind you of today."
Victor closes his fingers around it, nodding. "I think he will."
And they walk out of the zoo, mother and son, with Victor feeling a quiet warmth he doesn''t have a word for but decides to keep with him. He feels the feeling.
VB.1.2
Victor sits in a straight-backed chair, his hands resting on his knees. His knuckles are bruised, red and swelling, and he absently flexes his fingers as though testing them. His father is beside him, leaning back with crossed arms, eyes sharp and unyielding. Across the desk, the principal''s mouth is set in a line so tight it looks more like a scar than a mouth.
"Victor," the principal says, drawing out his name as though he''s chewing it over, "do you understand why you''re here?"
Victor glances up, his expression flat. "Because they wanted me to react," he says, his voice measured, almost as though it''s an answer he''s memorized.
The principal sighs. "No, Victor. You''re here because you broke another student''s nose."
Victor tilts his head, eyes narrowing. "I broke a student''s nose, because he pushed me. "Another student''s nose" means that I''ve done this before. I haven''t."
The principal sighs, likely deciding not to point out the many nosebleeds that Victor has handed out recently. His history of backhanding other pupils. Victor knows that he knows this. He wonders why the principal isn''t correcting him. His father would''ve corrected him.
"Yes, but there are... there are better ways to handle these things than violence. You could''ve just walked away. Told a teacher." The principal''s face softens slightly, like he''s trying to coax Victor to see reason. "We don''t solve things with fists here."
Victor stares back, puzzled. Why do adults always say "better" without telling him what "better" means? Better to who? His face remains blank. "That way doesn''t work. They wanted me to react."
Victor''s father shifts in his seat, scoffing softly, all sharp edges and stubble. "Didn''t seem like a fist was the start of things, though, did it?" His voice is low and hard, like gravel under a boot. "The other kid laid hands on him first, right?"
The principal clears his throat, his gaze flickering to Victor''s father before returning to Victor. "That doesn''t give him a free pass to hit back. The school has rules for a reason, Mr. Blanc, and we can''t just ignore them because your son decided to break someone''s nose."
Victor''s father raises a brow. "Sounds like a pretty good reason to me. Kid didn''t wanna get hit, shouldn''t have started something he couldn''t finish. Don''t bring the fire if you''re not ready for the smoke."
Victor''s eyes drift between the two of them, not really following the meaning behind their words, more focused on the pauses, the tension between the sentences. He feels like he''s missed something they''re both supposed to understand. Like there''s clearly some rule here that he violated, and he''s trying to figure out what that is.
"He wanted me to react," Victor says again, matter-of-factly. "I did what he wanted. It turns out he didn''t know what he was asking for, plus I got him to stop. I think this is a good solution."
The principal''s eyes narrow. "But do you think that''s the only way to make someone stop? Hurting them?"
Victor thinks for a moment, his eyes fixed on a spot just above the principal''s head. "No. But it''s the way that works fastest. When I ask them to stop they make faces and mimic my voice like a macaw. I''m not a zoo animal."
He said that without totally believing it.
"I finished what they started," Victor finishes.
His father nods approvingly. "There you go. Kid knows what he''s about."
The principal lets out a heavy sigh, his hand pressing to his forehead like he''s trying to rub away a headache. "Mr. Blanc," he says, looking at Victor''s father, "we need to address this as a disciplinary matter. If you don''t agree with the school''s approach, you''re welcome to take this up with the board. But as it stands, Victor will need to face the consequences for his actions here."
Victor''s father leans forward, his face hardening. "Consequences? For - for - for what, standing up for himself? I don''t see the point in punishing him for that."
"He can''t just lash out, Mr. Blanc," the principal says, clearly holding his patience by a thread. "School is meant to teach children that there are better ways to handle these situations. We''re here to help Victor learn that violence isn''t always the answer."
Victor''s father leans back again, crossing his arms and huffing a short laugh. His clothes crinkle up around him, a size too big. Victor always wondered why his dad wore clothes that were a size too big. Did he think it made him look bigger? "Ain''t much here that sounds like help, if you ask me."If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Victor''s gaze drifts down to his hands, to the bruises that line his knuckles like badges, some dark purple and others faintly yellow from older hits. He flexes his fingers, feeling the raw pull of the skin over bone.
He tries to explain, his voice quiet but sure. "He laughed when he pushed me. Like he thought it''d be funny."
The principal glances at Victor''s father, then back to Victor. "But it wasn''t funny to you."
Victor shakes his head, brow furrowing. "No. I told him to stop, but he didn''t listen. He just went, ''stop, stop''. Then he called me a ''spastic dago''."
Victor''s dad actually gasped, which wasn''t a noise he was used to hearing. Less a gasp, no, that was too feminine, gasping was something his mom did. Victor''s dad seethed. He sucked air in through his teeth.
The principal sits back, nodding slowly. "Okay. So maybe next time you can find another way to handle it - like telling a teacher."
Victor blinks, tilting his head. "The teacher wasn''t there."
"Right," the principal says, struggling to keep his tone gentle. "But maybe you could''ve found a teacher afterward, or just ignored him. When you ignore them, they go away once they realize they''re not getting the reaction they want out of you."
Victor''s eyes narrow again, his face blank. "Why would I ignore him? He wanted me to do something."
The principal hesitates, looking to Victor''s father with an exasperated expression. "I think... What do you think, Mr. Blanc? Do you think you can explain it a little better?"
His father smirks, shaking his head. "Vic just did what he had to. Didn''t start a thing but sure knew how to end it. That''s how we did it back in the war, and that''s how I taught him to stand up for himself. You need to keep these other kids on a tighter leash, calling him shit like that."
"Language, please, Mr. Blanc," the principal mutters.
"Sorry. Old habits," his father replies, not sounding sorry.
Victor studies his father, sensing the approval in his voice even if he doesn''t entirely understand why. He isn''t used to feeling approval from people, much less his dad, and he doesn''t know what to make of it, except that it feels a little like what he imagines that gorilla felt - the silverback that just sat there, watching, completely certain of itself.
"Look," the principal says, a little more forcefully, "this kind of behavior can''t continue. There''s a reason we have rules, and everyone has to follow them. You''re not special, Victor. You can''t act outside the rules."
Victor''s father scoffs again, this time louder. "Special? Nobody''s saying he''s special. But he''s sure not gonna sit back and be somebody''s punching bag. Not while I''m around."
The principal''s jaw tightens. "Mr. Blanc, if you want him to learn that lesson, there are better ways."
Victor''s father shrugs, almost smirking. "Better ways, huh? Well, I''ll take care of that at home." His tone is cold, almost final, like he''s closing a door on the conversation.
The principal''s face goes a little white, and then flushes with color. "Victor, if you can make it through the rest of the term without breaking another pupil''s nose - or without getting into a fight - I believe we could make it worth your while. Is that a reasonable offer?"
Victor stares at the principal, who looks uncomfortable, his eyes darting to Victor''s hands again. His knuckles are lined with pale, raised scars, flecked with newer cuts-hands that look more like a man''s than a boy''s. The principal takes a deep breath, folding his hands in front of him as though he''s not sure how to move forward.
"I''ll think about it," Victor says. Then, he clears his throat. "I don''t want you to worry about me. I didn''t like doing it. I didn''t feel bad but I didn''t like it either. I''m not like one of those Brooks'' boys that tortures caterpillars on the playground. It was just the way to get it to stop fastest."
The principal stares at him, and Victor gets the sense that something in that sentence was wrong. But he''s not sure what. His mouth is hanging open a little, and Victor suppresses a tiny his-father-shaped-voice in the back of his head that is yelling at the principal to pick his jaw up or he''ll yank it off.
Finally, he clears his throat. "All right. Here''s what we''re going to do. Victor, you''ll be excused from recess this week, and I''m going to inform your teachers to keep an eye on you a little closer. So you don''t feel tempted to hit your peers next time. Alright?"
Victor nods once, not really understanding what this means for him, except that he won''t be outside. That suits him well enough - he doesn''t really like being on the playground with everyone else, anyway.
His father stands, gripping Victor''s shoulder. "Fine. We''ll leave it at that."
The principal watches them go, his expression somewhere between frustration and resignation. Victor glances back just once, noting the way the principal''s eyes linger on his father with that mix of respect and wariness he''s come to recognize. The way everyone looks at his father once he starts talking. They recognize him and his eyes. The eyes of someone who''s done time in Europe, plucked some of those poor Jews from the camps with his own two hands. Everyone respects his father.
Outside, as they walk to the car, Victor''s father speaks, low and firm. "You don''t start fights. But you finish them. That''s how things are done," he says, before pausing for a second like he''s second-guessing himself. It looks weird on his face. It''s not something Victor is used to. "That''s how things are done," he reaffirms. "Don''t forget that. You''re my kid, not some sissy like that principal or those other cream puffs. We didn''t get those krauts with mean words."
Victor nods, replaying his father''s words in his head.
His father glances at him, brow raised. "You got something on your mind?"
Victor shakes his head, though inside he feels a sense of calm, a reassurance he can''t quite name. He doesn''t need to say anything, just like the gorilla. As they walk, he keeps his gaze forward, feeling the weight of his father''s approval as steady as the ground beneath his feet.
Chapter 136.1
Begin Arc 9: Sheol
It''s been weeks since the zoo siege, and I still feel like I''m walking around with my fists clenched, waiting for something to swing at. I keep telling myself it''s just the adrenaline left over from that night, the kind that sticks to your bones long after it''s supposed to be gone. But here I am, restless as ever, pacing around in the Tacony Music Hall, flipping a tooth over and over in my hand like a poker chip, or a copper-y coin.
Every day feels the same now--school, train, patrol, sleep, repeat. And with Maggie stuck at home recovering, it''s mostly been just me out there. Sometimes with Jordan. Sometimes with Derek in the morning. Sometimes with Connor in the evening. Tasha likes to fly drones out. I catch glimpses of everything, sure, but it''s like everyone''s starting to drift. It feels like everyone''s got a "next step" but me.
It''s a Saturday afternoon, and I''m lounging in one of the beat-up armchairs in the Music Hall, flipping through my phone. The sunlight''s streaming through the dusty stained-glass windows, casting these weird, distorted patches of color all over the floor. Jordan''s pacing back and forth, waving their arms around as they talk. They''ve been going on about MIT for the past ten minutes, and honestly, it''s hard to keep up with their excitement.
"...and they''re giving me a full ride!" Jordan''s practically bouncing as they say it, eyes shining. "Do you know how rare that is? Like, statistically?"
I glance up, raising an eyebrow. "I don''t even know what ''statistically'' means half the time, so... no."
Jordan snorts. "Well, it''s rare. This is MIT, Sam. They don''t just hand out full rides for fun. It''s because they see something in me."
They flop down onto the couch across from me, grinning. I want to be as excited as they are, but something about it feels like a reminder, like an invisible line''s being drawn that I''m on the wrong side of. Instead, I manage a smile. "So you''re really going for it, huh?"
Jordan hesitates for a second, then nods, looking at me almost apologetically. "I mean... yeah, it''s a huge opportunity. Plus, they''ve got this whole lab just for researching new tech for superhuman stuff. Maybe I could actually do something useful for us, you know? From, like... the other side of things, if the computer stuff works out."
"Yeah, sure." I force myself to keep smiling, nodding along. "That''s... that''s awesome, Jordan."
"Hey." Jordan leans forward, giving me this look like they''re trying to read my mind. "You know this doesn''t mean I''m abandoning you or anything, right? We''re still... you know, the Auditors."
I shrug, trying to play it off. "Yeah, of course. It''s just... you''re moving on to bigger and better things, and I''m... well, I''m still here, I guess."
Jordan''s face softens. They reach over and give my arm a nudge. "You''re doing important stuff, Sam. Don''t act like you''re dead or something. You''re, like, out there every night keeping this neighborhood from falling apart the best you can."
I roll my eyes, but there''s a flicker of pride in my chest, even if I don''t want to admit it. "Yeah, I guess. Just feels like everyone''s moving on, and I''m... still punching the same people in the same alleys."
They laugh, and for a second, it''s like nothing''s changed. But the moment doesn''t last. Jordan''s phone buzzes, and they''re up in an instant, lost in a flurry of texts and plans, leaving me alone with my thoughts again.
Later that week, I''m at Maggie''s house, sprawled on her bedroom floor while she sits propped up against a pile of pillows on her bed. She''s still moving slow, holding her side whenever she laughs too hard or shifts too quickly, and it drives her nuts. It''s almost funny watching her try to be patient. Almost.
"So," she says, huffing as she adjusts the pillows behind her. "I heard you were patrolling alone again."
I shrug, keeping my eyes on the ceiling. "It''s not like there''s a line of people waiting to jump in. Jordan''s busy, Connor''s... Connor, Derek is a werewolf 50% of the day and it''s winter, and you''re still out of commission. What am I supposed to do, sit at home?"
She narrows her eyes at me, like she''s trying to read between the lines. "You know you don''t have to do everything yourself, right? We''re supposed to be a team."
"Yeah, well, hard to be a team when the team''s scattered all over the place," I mutter, feeling a little sharper than I mean to.
Maggie sighs, wincing as she shifts again. "I''ll be back out there soon. My ribs are healing, just... slower than I''d like. And besides, maybe you need the practice, huh? Might teach you a thing or two about patience."The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
I snort. "Patience? Me? You''re hilarious, Maggie."
She grins, but there''s something softer in her expression, almost like pity, which makes me want to crawl out of my skin. "I''m serious, Sam. You''ve been carrying this whole thing on your shoulders for way too long. You don''t always have to be the one holding everything together."
I don''t respond. Instead, I roll over onto my stomach, picking at the carpet fibers and trying not to think too hard about what she''s saying. It''s easy for her to say, sitting there with her busted ribs and her supportive parents and her house that doesn''t feel like it''s gonna collapse any second. But me? I don''t know what I''d do if I didn''t have this. I can''t even go back to soccer.
The following weekend, I''m back at the Music Hall, catching up with Connor, who''s filling me in on the latest in his adoption saga. He''s practically vibrating with excitement, his lanky frame stretched out across the couch as he talks about his soon-to-be "real family."
"They''ve got this huge backyard!" he says, eyes wide. "Like, big enough for a trampoline and a fire pit and... and maybe even a treehouse or something. I mean, how cool is that?"
I try to smile, but the whole thing feels surreal. "That''s, yeah, that''s cool, Connor."
He doesn''t notice the edge in my voice. Or maybe he does, but he''s too excited to care. "And they''ve got a dog. His name''s Max, and he''s, like, this big fluffy mutt. He''s probably the only thing there as hyper as me."
I chuckle, trying to imagine Connor with a dog. It''s not hard. "Guess you''re trading in the vigilante life for suburban bliss?" I ask, trying not to make it sound weird.
Connor looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, I''m not gonna stop, like, completely. Just, you know, maybe ease up a little. They''re not exactly jazzed about the whole ''spandex and saving people'' thing, so I gotta keep it low-key for now."
"Right. Makes sense," I say, nodding along, even though the words feel like cotton in my mouth.
Connor gives me a worried look, and his voice softens. "You know, Sam, you don''t always have to do this, either. You could I don''t know, maybe take a break? Let someone else handle it for once."
I force a smile. "Yeah, I''ll take a break when Philly runs out of people who need saving."
He laughs, but I can tell he''s not convinced. And, honestly, neither am I.
I don''t mention any of this to my parents, of course. They''d probably just tell me I''m overthinking things or that it''s "part of growing up" or some other clich¨¦. But it''s hard not to feel the gap widening, not just between me and my friends, but between me and... I don''t know. Normal life, I guess. Every night I go out on patrol, it''s like I''m digging myself deeper into something I can''t just walk away from, even if I wanted to.
There''s this restlessness in my chest, this constant itch to be out there, doing something, anything, that makes a difference. School feels like a formality at this point, just an obstacle between me and what I really need to be doing. But everyone around me is looking forward, making plans, talking about the future, while I''m... still here.
The Kingdom of Keys has been quiet. Too quiet. It''s like Philly''s holding its breath, waiting for something to go off. I''ve been in this gig long enough to know that villains don''t just disappear, not unless they''re planning something. And with all the chaos lately, it feels like the whole city''s a stack of powder kegs waiting for a single spark.
Take Jump, for instance. The stuff''s everywhere now, like the city''s been painted with it. Police are cracking down harder than ever, but it''s not stopping anything. I heard a couple guys on the corner near Frankford Ave. talking about someone who went nuts, full-on attack mode, just because somebody asked where they got it from. People know about Rogue Wave now, and their curiosity is getting them killed. We already have people that have gotten choked out from this.
Hopefully the gyre of proper investigations will uncover some dirt?
Ha ha.
And then there''s the frogs. The poison dart frogs the Kingdom took from the zoo--no one knows what they''re planning with them, barely anyone even knows they took them, and the not-knowing is driving me nuts. A dozen dangerous frogs missing from the zoo, the Kingdom lying low, Jump everywhere, and rumors of Rogue Wave''s name making people lose their minds. I can feel something heavy in the air, this kind of prickly sensation crawling up the back of my neck every time I''m out on patrol. Philly''s tense, and it feels like I''m the only one who cares enough to notice.
With all that simmering in the background, I''ve been taking out my frustration the only way I know how: training until I can''t feel my muscles anymore.
Today, it''s just me in the Music Hall''s old practice space. Jordan and Connor are off doing... whatever it is people with futures do. Maggie''s at home, still healing up. Derek''s chained up in his own basement. Tasha is here but sleeping on the couch. So here I am, alone in the cold, hitting an ancient punching bag until my knuckles are raw and every inch of me feels wrung out and sore.
I''ve set up a makeshift obstacle course in the hall, jumping over crates and sliding under beams that Jordan rigged up with some old chains and scrap wood. It''s not the most high-tech setup, but it works. Keeps my mind focused, keeps me sharp. Plus, there''s a nice satisfaction in the raw, physical work. I punch, jump, roll, hit the bag again, throw myself into a corner, jump again, climb up on a ledge--it''s endless. Over and over, until the sweat''s pouring down my face, my arms are trembling, and my head feels blissfully, finally, empty.
But it doesn''t last. It never does. As soon as I slow down, catch my breath, that empty space fills up with everything I''ve been avoiding: the quiet of the Kingdom, the creeping danger of Jump, the thought of everyone moving on while I''m just... here. I slam my fist into the punching bag again, harder than I meant to, and it swings wildly, threatening to snap the old chain holding it up.
"Get it together, Sam," I mutter, glaring at the bag like it''s the problem.
I''ve been telling myself that a lot lately. I''m not sure it''s working.
Chapter 136.2
After a couple weeks of letting Maggie "recover" (as much as she''ll let herself), I figure it''s about time to check in. She''s still supposed to be taking it easy, but that''s about as likely as snow in August. So, I stop by her place one evening, in between her parents getting home and her sneaking out for one of her "walks."
I knock on her window, and Maggie''s face pops into view, just barely visible under the collar of her fuzzy pink sweater. She opens the window, and I slide in, trying not to track too much street grime onto her floor.
"Nice sweater," I say, smirking.
She rolls her eyes. "You''re just jealous you don''t have one." She pulls the sweater''s collar up to her chin. "Warmest thing I own, and honestly, kind of stylish, right?"
"Very ''mall trip with your mom'' stylish," I say, grinning as I flop down onto her bed.
She shoves me a bit as she sits down beside me, pulling her legs up and wincing. "Shut up. This is fashion, and you just don''t get it."
I laugh, but it''s a little forced. I hate seeing her still wincing, still hurting. I hate it even more that she''s trying so hard to hide it.
"So... how''s the recovery?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
Maggie shrugs, trying to look casual. "It''s fine. Just a couple broken ribs. Nothing I can''t handle."
"Mags, you''re still supposed to be resting." I give her a look, raising an eyebrow. "You''re not going out on patrols, are you?"
She hesitates, which is answer enough.
"I''m not doing anything serious," she says quickly. "Just walking around the neighborhood. Keeping an eye out. Not like I''m out there fighting crime." She pauses, glancing at me. "Not like you."
I swallow, feeling that familiar pang of frustration. "Maggie, it''s not the same. I... I can take risks, you know? I mean, I heal. You don''t. You''re not..." I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence without sounding like a total jerk.
"Not indestructible?" she says, her voice softer now. She''s not mad; she''s just... resigned, I guess.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Not indestructible."
We both sit there for a minute, the silence settling over us like a heavy blanket. It''s not like I don''t know Maggie can handle herself, but knowing that doesn''t make it any easier. Especially when I can see the bruises still peeking out under her sleeves, the way she''s holding herself a little too carefully.
I''ve been keeping an eye on the news about Mr. Nothing. Or trying to, anyway. So far, the police haven''t gotten a word out of him. There''s footage of him being led into an interrogation room, stone-faced and dead silent, and apparently he''s refusing to answer any questions. He just sits there, hands clasped on the table, staring straight ahead like he''s made of granite. They tried to question him on the Kingdom,
"Lawyer."
on the zoo heist,
"Lawyer."
on the frogs,
"Lawyer."
Nothing.
I''m not surprised, but it still makes my skin crawl a little, like he''s somehow still out there even though he''s locked up tight. I can only imagine what''s going on in his head, what plans he''s running through as he sits there, silent and smug. If he''s as careful as he seems, he''s probably three steps ahead of anyone trying to get information out of him.
But I can''t shake the image of those frogs. Like, what are they planning? It''s not like they need frogs to start a crime spree or whatever. And it''s not like they''re hard to get if you just want them for... frog reasons. It''s like they''re setting something up, but for what, I have no clue.
Maggie sighs, breaking the silence in her room, pulling me out of my thoughts. "I get it, you know," she says, her voice softer. "You''re worried. But... I can''t just sit around doing nothing. And it''s not like I''m totally helpless. I''ve got my powers, too."
"Yeah, but it''s not the same," I say, looking down. "You don''t heal like I do, Mags. You can''t just bounce back from stuff like... like bullets."
She gives me a look, half-amused, half-annoyed. "Sam, you''re acting like I go looking for bullets." She pauses, glancing down at her hands. "But... I know what you mean. It''s just... hard, you know? Sitting around while everyone else is out there."
I nod. I get it, more than she probably realizes. "Yeah, it''s hard. But that''s kind of... the thing, right? We have to be smart about this. I don''t want you to end up hurt."
Maggie snorts, rolling her eyes. "You know, for someone who throws herself into danger on a regular basis, you sound pretty overprotective right now."Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"Yeah, well, that''s kind of my thing," I say, grinning a little. "Overprotective shark-girl with a martyr complex."
She laughs, and it''s genuine, which makes me feel a little better. But then her smile fades, and she looks at me, really looks at me, like she''s trying to see past all the jokes and bravado.
"You know," she says, her voice softer now, "I don''t... expect you to protect me all the time. I chose this, too. I chose to go out there, to help people. It''s not just about you."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. She''s right, of course. But that doesn''t make it any easier.
"Besides," she says, trying to lighten the mood, "if I didn''t go out there, who would make sure you didn''t do anything stupid?"
I laugh, but it''s a little hollow. "I think you overestimate my ability to be stopped by reason."
"Oh, trust me, I know you''re unstoppable," she says, smirking. "But someone''s gotta try."
I''m about to reply, to make some sarcastic comment, when her mom''s voice calls from the kitchen.
"Girls! Mac and cheese is ready!"
We both sit there for a second, the tension lingering between us, and then Maggie grins, rolling her eyes. "Dinner calls."
I follow her out, feeling a little better, but the worry''s still there, like a stone in my chest.
Shabbat at Pop-Pop Moe''s place in Ventnor means two things: first, that we''re actually getting out of Philly for a minute, and second, we''re getting Schlemiel. He''s a kitten still, but a big one--big eyes, a little too skinny, and constantly tripping over himself. But he''s Pop-Pop''s pride and joy now. Now it''s him, Schlemiel, and probably the most complete collection of classic sci-fi books outside a university archive.
When we walk in the door, Schlemiel wobbles over to us, like he''s doing his best impression of a toddler learning how to impersonate two penguins taped together.
"Sam, look at him--he''s trying to be social," my dad says, bending down to give Schlemiel a scratch on the head, even though the cat immediately stumbles over onto his side and just stays there, purring like a little motorboat.
Pop-Pop shuffles over, grinning ear to ear. "That''s right, Schlemiel. Show ''em how you welcome guests. In my day, they just threw cats outside, you know. Now look, this one, he''s practically running the house. If he could hold a fork, he''d be in charge of the chicken."
"Trust me, Moe, he''d try," my mom says, smiling and stepping forward to hug him. She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before squeezing his arm. "You look good. I don''t think I''ve seen you this tan in a while."
"Thank the patio," Pop-Pop says, gesturing out the back window, which shows the Jersey coastline in the distance, very far past More Houses. "And Costco''s SPF 80. Only the best."
The entryway smells like it always does here--like old books and a little bit like the sea, and I already feel some of the week''s weight melting off. And I do feel lucky to be here, not just because I get to spend time with Pop-Pop, but because it''s just... normal. Or as normal as it can get. I mean, it''s been a while since I could do Shabbat without any looming "incidents" or last-minute calls pulling me out the door. Even the pressure that''s been building in Philly these past few weeks feels like it''s on pause tonight.
Pop-Pop pulls out a chair for my mom at the dining table, which is already set up with challah, a couple of non-dairy sides (in small deli containers, courtesy of the kosher market), a half-eaten rotisserie chicken, and one fancy-looking bottle of wine, already open.
"Wine''s from Trader Joe''s," he announces proudly, like this is something special. "It''s kosher and five dollars. G-d loves a bargain, I tell you."
"Then I''ll take grape juice," Mom says, reaching for the big plastic jug on the table.
Pop-Pop raises an eyebrow. "You sure? What, you''re swearing off wine now?"
"Just a bit less," Mom says, pouring herself a small cup of grape juice instead. "It''s not even the wine, really. I just... think it''ll make me feel better. Just trying it out. Could be a phase."
"Yeah, she''s in her grape juice context," I mutter, making Pop-Pop chuckle and Mom roll her eyes, but she''s grinning a little too.
Dad sits down next to her and reaches for the challah. "Alright, ready to do this? Sam, you want to do the honors?" He nods toward the wine, the grape juice, and then the candle. "It''s been too long since you were here for this."
We go through the blessings together, one for each thing, and it''s kind of nice--hearing our voices mixing together. Pop-Pop gets louder with each one, and by the end, he''s practically belting it out. Schlemiel''s ears flatten a little, like he''s annoyed by the noise, but he doesn''t leave his spot on the floor. Just keeps purring away.
Once we finish, Pop-Pop raises his glass and nods to me. "Alright, now we can eat. Sam, you said you got news about your ''friends'' in the hero world?"
I grin, glancing at Mom and Dad before I start. They know about the zoo, about the whole... well, most of it. They know about my ''extracurriculars,'' as they call them, but not that I was there for the whole thing. I figure, this time, I can actually talk about it with them. Or at least, as much as I can tell them without it becoming a whole interrogation.
"Okay, so," I start, scooping a bit of potato salad onto my plate. "There was this big heist a couple months back, at the zoo--like, everyone knows about it by now. They made a huge show out of it, with rhinos and the whole Jurassic Park treatment. That one''s public knowledge. Mr. Tyrannosaur himself was there, remember?"
Pop-Pop''s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, I remember, alright. How could I forget? That no-goodnik wrecked your house, didn''t he? They had helicopters on him for, what, three hours?"
"I don''t even know how he got away," Dad mumbles.
I nod. "Yeah, that''s the one. But here''s the thing: that whole thing with the rhinos? That was basically just a distraction. They didn''t want the rhinos at all. They were actually after... a bunch of poison dart frogs. Like, hundreds of them."
There''s a pause as everyone at the table blinks at me.
"Frogs?" Pop-Pop says, sounding almost disappointed. "What, they didn''t want something cooler? They made a mess of an entire zoo for frogs?"
I can''t help but laugh at his expression. "Hey, frogs are cool! Besides, they''re poison dart frogs, which means they''re highly toxic. But, yeah, I know--big animal rampage, Kingdom guys crawling all over, and they left with... frogs."
Dad groans, reaching for a drumstick. "Oh, G-d, what do they even need frogs for? And more importantly, how the heck did they pull that off without getting busted on the way out? Like, what, did they have an armored terrarium waiting for them outside?"
Mom shakes her head, obviously still trying to wrap her head around it. "Maybe it''s easier to steal frogs than rhinos. And if they''re poison, maybe they''re--"
"A biological weapon," Pop-Pop finishes, his voice dropping in mock seriousness as he lifts his hands, like he''s about to cast a spell. "Imagine, a rain of frogs falling down on the city. Toadpocalypse!" He pauses, then shakes his head, chuckling. "But really, poison dart frogs? That''s some serious business. Seems like they''re aiming to make trouble in a... creative way."
"Sounds like Passover," Dad jokes, his face a little clenched up.
Chapter 136.3
"Could be," I say, trying to keep my tone light, but it''s hard not to feel the weight of it, knowing the Kingdom might be planning something even bigger. "The weirdest thing is how quiet they''ve been since the heist. Almost too quiet, you know?"
Mom sighs, reaching for her grape juice. "It''s like they''re laying low, getting ready for something else. And I''m not sure I like what that ''something'' might be."
"It''s the Kingdom, so anything''s on the table," I say, shrugging. "But yeah, the heroes didn''t want word getting out. You know, keeping things under wraps, avoid copycats and all that. But it''s hard to keep stuff quiet these days. And, anyway, it''s kinda freaky, thinking about what they might do with those frogs."
Pop-Pop leans back, giving me a thoughtful look. "You mentioned this Kingdom group before, haven''t you? They''re the ones with that... what do you call her? The animal lady?"
Mom nods, setting down her cup of grape juice. "Mrs. Xenograft, right? You told me about her. You ran into her at the zoo with Tasha, didn''t you?"
I freeze for a split second, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth. I had told Mom about the trip, and the weird, borderline rant Mrs. Xenograft gave about dolphins and other "evil animals." It was not exactly a comforting conversation. Still, I keep my cool, setting my fork down before answering.
"Yeah, that''s her. And... well, you guys remember that animal attack on the house, right? With the weird hybrids going after us?" I glance at Dad, who visibly shudders, shaking his head like he''s trying to erase the memory.
"Don''t remind me," he mutters, reaching for the potato kugel. "That deer-thing with... And those teeth?" He visibly shivers, muttering under his breath, thinking about flowers. "No, I don''t want to think about that again very much."
I nod, trying to suppress a grin at his reaction. "Yeah, that was her doing. She can mix animals together, splice them up however she wants. So, if anyone''s got a reason to make a grab for poison dart frogs... I mean, there''s a solid chance they''re planning for some, uh, creative recombination."
Mom raises her eyebrows, clearly not thrilled by the idea. "Frogs combined with who knows what else, roaming around the city? Wonderful."
Pop-Pop lets out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. "So, we''re talking potential hybrid monsters with a poison upgrade? G-d, these villains just keep getting more imaginative. But if they wanted poison frogs, why not just head down to the Amazon? Easier to get ''em from the zoo, I guess?"
"Yeah, probably fewer logistics involved. Plus, no dealing with customs," I say, chuckling. "But, I don''t know. It''s just... unsettling. Like, they went through all this trouble just for frogs? And since then, they''ve been completely quiet. It''s like they''re up to something big, but nobody knows what."
Mom and Dad exchange a look, that shared worried glance that always makes me feel like I''m fifteen again, like I''m somehow a kid getting scolded for staying out too late.
Dad clears his throat. "Well, I guess if they''re keeping quiet, it''s for a reason. But doesn''t it worry you a little, Sam? I mean, you''re out there, you''re... involved in all this. And these people, they''re not playing around."
Pop-Pop scoffs, waving his fork dismissively. "Ben, she''s tougher than you give her credit for. She''s got shark powers, for G-d''s sake. She could probably bite their arms off if they get too close." He turns to me, raising an eyebrow. "And you wouldn''t let them get too close, right, Sammy?"
I nod, smiling despite myself. "Don''t worry, Pop-Pop. I keep my distance when it counts."
Schlemiel has managed to climb onto the table now, pawing gently at a small piece of challah near the edge. Pop-Pop doesn''t even notice; he just lets him go for it. He doesn''t chew on the bread, he just sort of starts licking it.
"So," Mom says, breaking the momentary silence, "you''re telling me these villains somehow think poison dart frogs are a good idea. And the heroes, what, they''re just letting it go?"
"Well," I say, trying to choose my words carefully. "They''re... investigating, I think. But they haven''t found much. And, honestly, I don''t think they even know what the Kingdom''s planning. We''re two steps behind everyone. Always reacting."
Pop-Pop snorts, leaning back with a smirk. "Sounds about right. Villains these days, always with the elaborate plans. Used to be simpler back in the old days, when your parents were young. Rob a bank, steal some jewels, easy stuff. No crazy plans."
Mom laughs, shaking her head. "Oh, yes, because robbing banks was so straightforward."
"You laugh, but I bet a lot fewer people got hurt back then," Pop-Pop says, waving his fork around like he''s making a point. "Nowadays, it''s all biological weapons and weird animal splicing. Like something out of a Crichton novel. What''s next, frogs that shoot lasers?"The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
"Who''s Crichton?" I ask, but they sort of talk over and around me. I find my arms folded over my chest.
Dad chuckles, but he still has that serious look in his eyes, glancing over at me. "Just... if they do something, these guys, they already destroyed our house once. Let''s not make it round two, okay?"
I sigh. "Don''t worry. I''m letting the adults handle them," I lie.
He nods in approval. "That''s my girl. Just remember, villains are like bad deli meat--you deal with ''em once, but they keep coming back."
"That sounds like something I''d say!" Pop-Pop laughs.
The sidewalk is crowded with kids all streaming out of the Tacony Charter Academy gates, everyone heading their separate ways. Alex is flapping his arms like he''s trying to fly off the pavement, and Jordan''s laughing at him in their usual, dry, affectionate way. They''re going back and forth about some new anime they started, and I''m only half-listening, mostly because the more they talk, the less sense it all makes.
"I''m telling you," Alex says, his voice raised enough that a couple of freshmen glance over, probably wondering if they should recognize him, "they could''ve stopped the whole coup if Hoshi''s stardust cannon didn''t conveniently lose all its energy right at that moment! Like, they had just enough to beat the Emperor, but nooo, it had to happen right then. Lazy writing."
Jordan makes this dramatic sigh, pushing up their glasses. "I don''t get you, dude. The point is Hoshi''s struggling with her powers. They''re on the edge of collapsing under the weight of her own, like, cosmic existential despair. She''s not a stardust machine. She''s a person. And she''s depressed!"
I smirk, glancing sideways at Jordan. "So, she''s just a giant space laser, but make it... sad? Why do you guys even watch this stuff?"
Alex rolls his eyes, nudging me in the shoulder with his elbow. "It''s more than that! It''s about her journey, Sam. Imagine if you had powers but they came from, I don''t know, like some weird celestial destiny you never asked for and--oh, oh, and then you''re trying to fight off this massive organization that wants to capture and use you. Kind of like you!"
I snort, shoving his arm off. "Great, so I''m ''cosmic sad laser girl.'' I''m flattered."
Jordan grins. "You should be. Hoshi''s pretty iconic. Anyway, it''s not just her; the whole cast is like these mythic heroes--only, like, super modernized and messy. They''re all kinda disasters, which makes it better."
Alex pipes up, "Exactly! Like Ryoma, with his whole dark matter angst thing. But even if Hoshi''s my favorite, that finale left me drained. I needed three whole glasses of--"
Jordan cuts him off. "If you say ''fizzy berry juice,'' I''m walking away right now."
Alex just smirks. "I was gonna say grape-pom tea, actually, thank you very much."
The banter keeps going, little jabs and inside jokes flying around, and I''m actually getting into it, even if I have no idea who Hoshi or Ryoma are, or why anyone would drink grape-pom tea on purpose. I''m still not sold on this "existential crisis but with lasers" genre they''re into, but it''s kind of fun listening to them. And for a minute, I forget all the other stuff. No Kingdom, no Kingdom-related nightmares. Just us, being normal, weird teenagers.
Then we round the corner, and everything sort of slams back into reality.
Ahead, there''s this crowd of kids, maybe a dozen or so, just... standing around, staring. And in the middle of them, there''s a garbage can burning bright red, flames shooting up in this wild, furious color, way too bright, like someone dropped a road flare in there. The fire looks almost... wrong, like it''s too vivid, too artificial. It''s giving off this intense red glow that''s stretching across the street, turning all the shadows on the ground into deep, flickering scarlet.
Jordan stops mid-sentence, mouth open like they''re about to say something. But nothing comes out. They''re just staring, their eyes fixed on the flames. Alex goes quiet too, his face scrunched up in that kind of confused, squinting way, like he''s trying to figure out a riddle he didn''t even know he was supposed to solve.
It''s not that there''s anything especially hypnotic about the fire. It''s a fire, sure, but it''s just... there. Sitting in the middle of a trash can right on the street, flames licking up in this intense, bright-red blaze, way too vivid for something so small. We''re all standing around it like it''s some kind of installation piece, something people are supposed to stop and look at, and I feel this weird discomfort rippling through the crowd. Like everyone''s baffled by the sheer strangeness of it being there at all, right outside the school gates.
A couple of kids from Tacony High I vaguely recognize are standing off to the side, muttering to each other, probably wondering the same things we all are. Who did this? Why here? And why does it look so... wrong?
My fingers start tapping against my thigh. I don''t even notice I''m doing it at first, but I feel this electric, jittery energy creeping through me, like my body''s just realizing it''s supposed to be on high alert. I tell myself it''s nothing--just some dumb kids messing around, trying to look cool or edgy or whatever--but my chest tightens up anyway, and suddenly it feels like there''s not enough air around. I can''t even explain it, but there''s this hot, clawing anxiety rising up inside, like I''m on the edge of... something. My heart''s hammering, and I feel this sick twist in my stomach.
It''s just a fire, I tell myself, and for a second, I almost believe it. But it doesn''t feel right, not even close.
"Is it... supposed to be that color?" Alex finally says, his voice shaky, like he''s not even sure if he should be asking. "I mean, that''s not, like, normal, is it? It looks like it''s... I dunno, too bright?"
Jordan shakes their head slowly, not looking away from the flames. "That''s what road flares look like," they murmur, like they''re talking more to themselves than anyone else. "I saw it in a movie once. Or, maybe... whatever. But it''s just a garbage can, so... who set it off?"
The more they talk, the worse I feel. Every little observation, every stupid question, it all just feeds into this gnawing dread clawing its way up my throat. I don''t know why I''m reacting this way, but it''s like my body''s on autopilot, revving up for a threat that my brain just can''t see.
I start breathing faster, trying to shake it off. My eyes dart around, scanning the crowd, the street, the parked cars. Everything''s too loud, too bright, too... close, and suddenly it''s like I can feel every molecule of air around me pressing in, making it harder and harder to breathe.
I can''t take it. I don''t know what''s happening, and I don''t know why, but I can''t stand here anymore. My chest is tight, my head''s spinning, and there''s this overwhelming need to just get away, to be anywhere but here.
"Hey, are you--" Alex starts, but I don''t let him finish.
I turn on my heel and bolt, pushing through the crowd of kids around me.
WORLD OF CHUM: Superpower Analysis (5)
The Girl with the Quantum Mirage: How One Teen''s Superpower Could Change Physics Forever
By Talia Morgan, Science Weekly - January 2025
Meet Sarah Lopez, a 16-year-old with an extraordinary gift--and a magnetic personality that''s captured the curiosity of scientists and science fans alike. Sarah''s power? Laser vision. Not just heat rays, but actual lasers that emit from the surface of her eyes, reaching into the infrared and red spectrums. As strange as it sounds, Sarah has joined a rare group of individuals whose abilities have caught the attention of the scientific community. But there''s something even more curious going on here, and it''s led to a groundbreaking new experiment that may change how we understand the very nature of matter.
Last month, a team of researchers announced results from a study involving Sarah''s powers that offers us our first glimpse into what scientists are now calling the Quantum Mirage Hypothesis. Their findings? Sarah''s laser vision seems to break some fundamental rules of quantum physics--specifically around a phenomenon known as entanglement.
What''s Entanglement?
To understand what''s so unusual about Sarah''s laser vision, we need to get a handle on entanglement--what Albert Einstein famously called "spooky action at a distance." Normally, when two particles become entangled, their properties are mysteriously linked, even if separated by vast distances. Measuring one particle will instantly affect the other. It''s one of quantum physics'' strangest and most confirmed phenomena.
In Sarah''s case, the researchers wanted to know if her laser vision, which is technically a form of "Anomalously Originated Material" or AOM, had any unusual quantum properties. AOM is a type of matter that seems to appear out of nowhere, which some superhumans can create. But no one''s been quite sure how AOM works--until now.
The Experiment
To study her lasers, scientists created a duplicate laser that matched Sarah''s unique output in wavelength and intensity. They placed her AOM laser next to their duplicate laser in a carefully controlled lab experiment, observing how the two beams interacted. What they found was astonishing: Sarah''s laser wasn''t just shining like a normal laser--it was "borrowing" quantum properties from nearby particles.
This was evident in a series of entanglement tests. Normally, when you measure a laser''s entangled photons, they should have stable, consistent properties. But Sarah''s laser didn''t seem to hold entanglement in the way a normal laser would. Instead, it was pulling entangled states from nearby particles--essentially "leeching" off of similar particles in its environment. And the closer those particles were to her laser, the stronger the entanglement effects became.
What This Means: The Quantum Mirage Hypothesis
The researchers believe they''ve stumbled upon a new quantum behavior. AOM, it turns out, might not be fully stable matter--but it''s more stable than initially thought. Sarah''s laser doesn''t lose stability if there are no nearby particles; rather, it seems to pull quantum properties from a broader range, potentially even from distant particles across the universe. However, when similar particles are nearby, the AOM laser "prefers" to borrow from them, forming stronger local entanglements.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Dr. Karen Liu, lead scientist on the project, explains: "It''s as if Sarah''s laser has a ''preference'' for nearby particles, but in the absence of anything close, it''s able to stabilize by reaching out to entangled particles further away. This behavior suggests that AOM can hold its form by drawing from its environment, both locally and distantly, adapting as necessary."
A New Chapter in Physics
This discovery has led to what scientists are now calling the Quantum Mirage Hypothesis. The hypothesis suggests that AOM, like Sarah''s laser, is a "quasi-material" that only holds its structure through continuous quantum borrowing. Think of it as a high-speed borrowing network, where particles in AOM continually swap properties with their neighbors, giving the illusion of solid matter.
To further test this, scientists arranged a grid of laser pointers at varying distances from Sarah''s AOM laser. Their findings? The closest lasers showed the strongest entanglement patterns with Sarah''s laser, with the strength of entanglement dropping off as the distance increased. This confirmed that AOM "wants" to stabilize itself by borrowing from the closest available particles.
While they''ve only tested this behavior in Sarah''s laser, scientists are now eager to see if other types of AOM show the same quantum mirage effect. Could this be a universal property of superhuman-generated materials? And could it eventually help us understand the bigger mystery--how superhuman abilities work in the first place?
Sarah''s Role as a Science Micro-Celebrity
For her part, Sarah has taken her role in stride, becoming a minor scientific celebrity. She''s joked that "getting paid to shoot lasers at stuff isn''t a bad gig" and recently shared on social media that she''s learning a lot about physics, thanks to "all these lab nerds." Her candid posts and humorous takes have made her popular among young fans who see her as both down-to-earth and, well, kind of a superhero in her own right.
Beyond the celebrity, though, Sarah''s willingness to work with scientists has sparked an exciting wave of research and a renewed public interest in quantum physics. Her involvement has even led to an increased budget for AOM studies, with teams now planning to study other superhumans who might produce AOM in different forms--everything from shields to tools to entire energy constructs.
What''s Next?
While we still don''t understand the full scope of AOM''s properties, scientists hope that continued experiments will allow them to probe deeper into the quantum nature of reality. The Quantum Mirage Hypothesis could be a window into how improbable phenomena stabilize in our world, challenging the idea of what we consider "real" matter.
For now, one thing is certain: Sarah''s laser vision has shown us that there''s more to reality than meets the eye. It''s rare for a single individual''s unique power to lead to new physics, but Sarah''s quantum mirage might just do that--giving us a tantalizing hint of a hidden structure to the universe and showing that, sometimes, the real magic is just science we haven''t understood yet.
Chapter 137.1
I''m running east on Princeton and I can''t stop. My feet keep moving even though my brain is screaming at them to slow down, to think about this rationally, to process what just happened, but the rest of my body isn''t listening. The cold February air burns in my lungs with every gasp and my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. My actual teeth, not the ones I can grow - those are quiet right now, thank G-d, because the last thing I need is to start sprouting defensive dentition while having whatever this is.
Panic attack? Is this what a panic attack feels like?
My lithium is back at the Music Hall, which might as well be on the moon right now because I''m not stopping, can''t stop, have to keep moving.
The fingers on my right hand are killing me. The tips of my fingers, where the claws usually come out when I grow teeth from them, hurt backwards, like everything''s moving the wrong direction, like someone''s jabbing needles up through my nailbed. For a second, I get this deep, miserable fear that my powers are going haywire and I''m about to explode like a bag of teeth. My heart feels like it''s about to burst out of me like a chestburster. It feels bad.
I flex my hand as I run past the Wawa (three cars at the gas pumps, old guy smoking where he shouldn''t be, teenage cashier looking bored through the window), past O''Neill''s with its neon Coors sign that''s only half lit (even though it''s barely four PM), past Marinucci''s Auto Repair with its perpetual pile of tires out front (seventeen of them, stacked in three crooked columns). The ache doesn''t change or shift or get better or worse, it''s just there, constant, like it''s trying to tell me something but I don''t know what. My fingers look fine, and I''m not growing teeth anywhere weird where they shouldn''t be.
So why do I feel like I''m getting attacked by something?
My vision keeps trying to tunnel down to a pinpoint and I have to force myself to look around, to stay present, to not spiral completely out of control. The sidewalk is cracked and uneven under my feet (I count three major cracks, two spots where tree roots have pushed up the concrete, one section that''s been patched with asphalt instead of cement), and focusing on these details helps a little, gives me something concrete to latch onto besides the memory of that bright red fire and the way it made something in my hindbrain just shut down completely. I feel like a lizard afraid of a person, like I''m about to get stepped on.
It wasn''t even that big of a fire - just a garbage can, probably some kid''s idea of after-school entertainment - but something about it was wrong. Yellow fire I can handle, that''s expected. Orange fire, sure, that''s normal. Even a blue fire is just a really hot one, right? But that particular shade of red, like a road flare or a signal light, it triggered something in me that I didn''t even know was there to trigger. It made me think about that last scene in The Thing, where neither one of them can tell which one is the alien imposter, so they just resign themselves to dying in the snow.
There''s no snow here, just slush, sluicing around my shoes. It feels bad. I drag my heels through and the liquid part of it seeps into my socks, and once it seeps into my socks it starts wicking up my legs like wax up a candle wick. Immediately, it gets in my sweatpants, or maybe that''s just my running causing the slush to spray upwards. It snowed a ton on Valentine''s Day two days ago and now it''s all just melting into road-grey sludge like vomit. Damnit, I didn''t even get any chocolates. Why do I care about that now? RUN! Run, Sam, Run! Something''s chasing you! Scream!
I avoid screaming - barely. Mostly because I''m too busy panting like a dog. Not out of exhaustion, because I''m in basically as good a shape an almost-16-year-old can be, maybe even better than that, but from something more animal than that.
The Tacony Library looms ahead, red brick and white trim against the grey February sky, and my feet carry me around to the loading dock on the Knorr Street side without any conscious input from my brain. Mom doesn''t work here anymore - she''s over at Northeast Regional now - but this building still feels safe in a way I couldn''t explain if someone asked me to. There''s this little alcove behind the emergency exit where the dumpsters create a sort of private corner, blocked from street view on three sides, like a nuclear bunker made of garbage.
The concrete platform is freezing through my sweats when I sit down, and I pull my knees up to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. A delivery truck rumbles past on Torresdale (I can tell it''s a delivery truck from the particular rhythm of the engine, the way it downshifts at the intersection, and from seeing the side that says exactly what company it''s delivering for - Coca Cola), and I press my back against the cold brick wall, counting the individual blocks I can feel through my hoodie. One, two, three, four - my fingernails throb in time with my heartbeat - five, six, seven - someone''s car alarm goes off in the distance and I basically almost shit myself - eight, nine...
The back door creaks open and I nearly jump out of my skin, but it''s just Mrs. Chen taking out some recycling. She doesn''t see me, thank G-d, because I really don''t want to explain to anyone why I''m hiding behind the library having some kind of meltdown. The door clicks shut again and I try to get my breathing under control. Four counts in (my right hand won''t stop shaking), hold for seven (the brick is rough against my palm when I press it flat against the wall), eight counts out (I can smell old paper and car exhaust and someone''s cigarette smoke drifting over from Torresdale). None of it helps. Every time I close my eyes I see that red light again, feel that instinctive wave of wrong-wrong-wrong that sent me running in the first place.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
What''s wrong with me? It''s not even like any of the supervillains or petty criminals I''ve fought before. I''ve only had a couple of fire guys, and only a couple of red guys, and none of them crossed over with each other. Most of them weren''t even interesting. Most of them were Jumpheads. Nobody who could make a road flare fire like that. But something about the way it just ate all the other light by being so much brighter than it, I don''t know.
It''s like it hacked my brain. No, now I''m scared of some mind control villain. Didn''t Fury Forge mention that? Or someone in the DVD. There''s mind controllers. Be afraid of them. Boo!
I hear footsteps approaching - boots on concrete, the specific click-clack rhythm that could only be Jordan in those ridiculous platforms - and tense up anyway until they round the corner, looking way too graceful for someone who just jogged six blocks in what are basically small stilts. They''re not even breathing hard, which is completely unfair.
"Found you," they say, holding up their phone. "Your location sharing is still on. You okay? Because you kind of bolted back there and I''m pretty sure I saw Alex try to follow you for about ten feet before he remembered he''s not actually in shape." I try to answer but my throat closes up, so I just shake my head. Jordan sits down next to me, close enough that I can smell their stupidly expensive cologne (the one they definitely shoplifted from Macy''s) but not so close that we''re touching.
"Need anything? Water? Meds? An elaborate heist to distract you from whatever this is?" Jordan asks.
"Lithium," I croak, throat burning with painful dryness.
Jordan props me up with one arm as we walk down Princeton, keeping just enough space between us to let me breathe without making it feel like they''re holding my hand. They keep glancing sideways at me like they''re waiting for me to keel over, and I know they''re just being careful, but it makes me feel pathetic. I take a deep breath, try to walk a little taller, or at least steady myself enough to keep from swaying.
"You still look like you could use a little more stability," Jordan mutters, adjusting the bag slung across their shoulder. I can''t tell if they''re actually serious or just trying to make me feel better by pointing out how obvious my freakout was. The fingernail pain is still there but it''s dulled to a throb instead of a stab, which is something. I''m not sure if that''s progress or if my brain just got tired of processing it.
"Yeah, thanks," I say, rolling my eyes even though the cold air is biting at them. "I''m fully aware."
"Hey, just making sure we''re on the same page," they reply, hands shoved deep into their hoodie pockets. They do a quick sidestep around some black ice that''s spread across the sidewalk like a trap. I almost trip over it, but they nudge my shoulder just enough to keep me balanced. "Also, you probably shouldn''t take more than, like, the exact dose of your meds when we get back."
"Can you overdose on lithium?" I ask, half-joking, but mostly because my brain''s too rattled to remember.
They give me this look, like I''ve just asked the most basic question in the world. What are they, a pharmacist now? I thought you were a computer nerd, Jordan, not a psychiatrist. "Yes. Absolutely. Do not chug the whole bottle, please."
When we finally get back to the Music Hall, I practically collapse on one of the old sofas once we''re up the stairs, fumbling through my bag for the meds. I don''t find it, not until I go hunting and find it on top of the filing cabinet, where I probably left it, but do not remember leaving it. I dump two pills into my hand, then look over at Jordan, who''s standing with their arms crossed, eyebrow raised.
"What?" I say, holding the pills in my open palm like I''m waiting for them to disappear.
"Just... thinking," they say. "Maybe we should NetSphere if you can double up safely."
I huff, rolling my eyes as I toss back both pills with a quick swig of water from my bottle. "If I get liver damage, I''ll heal from it. Chill."
"That is not a very good way of thinking about the world, Sam," they reply, but their mouth twists a little. "Okay, so, alternative coping mechanisms," Jordan says, watching me carefully as I swallow just double my usual dose instead of the whole bottle. "We could rob a pharmacy. No, hear me out - not for drugs, just like, maybe some fancy hand cream or something. Very low stakes crimes only." I give them a look and they hold up their hands defensively. "Or we could hack into the school''s grading system and give everyone straight C''s. Maximum chaos, minimal harm."
I groan, pressing my palms into my eyes. "Jordan, please. I''m begging you to be a little bit helpful. And straight C''s would ruin people''s lives. And I don''t think you even know how to hack like that. And that''s still a crime," I point out, getting up from the couch so that I can instead be sinking into the beanbag chair that I''m pretty sure they stole from someone''s curb on bulk pickup day. It exhales a small cloud of static-charged foam pellets. "Besides, aren''t you still dealing with that whole whistleblower site thing?"
Jordan''s face does that thing where they''re trying not to look annoyed but failing completely. "Don''t even get me started. The ISP guys basically told me ''stop being cheeky if they''re willing to file an injunction and a judge was willing to grant it.'' Like, sure, let''s just let the school keep covering up their racist bullshit because someone has more lawyers than we do." They start typing again, probably working on whatever complicated tech thing they''re always doing. "I could probably get around it if I really wanted to, but then we''re looking at actual criminal charges instead of just civil stuff, and-" They stop, looking at me. "You''re doing the thing where you ask about my problems to avoid talking about yours."
"Is it working?"
"No. Want to tell me what actually happened back there? Because I''ve seen you handle way worse than some random trash fire." Jordan''s voice is carefully neutral, which means they''re actually worried. "Did you recognize someone? Spot something suspicious?"
I shake my head, trying to find words for the wrongness of that red light. "It wasn''t... I don''t know. It wasn''t normal fire. It was too red. Like a road flare or something. And my hand started hurting, and..." I flex my fingers again, still feeling that deep ache under the nails. "I think I need to go on patrol."
"Yeah, no." Jordan spins their chair back around, pulling up something on one of their monitors. "That''s exactly what I would do, which means it''s probably the worst possible response. You know what we should do instead? Actual normal teenager stuff. When''s the last time you had a real sleepover?"
"Jordan, I sleep here like half the time anyway," I again point out.
"No, I mean an actual sleepover. With, like, stupid movies and junk food and painting our nails and stuff. Normal people things." They pause. "Well, as normal as we get, anyway. Come on, when''s the last time you did something that wasn''t either school or super stuff?"
Chapter 137.2
"No, I mean an actual sleepover. With, like, stupid movies and junk food and painting our nails and stuff. Normal people things." They pause. "Well, as normal as we get, anyway. Come on, when''s the last time you did something that wasn''t either school or super stuff?"
"I went to the movies last week," I protest, but Jordan''s already shaking their head before I finish the sentence.
"You went to stake out the movie theater because you thought the Kingdom might be using it as a front," they say, typing something else that makes one of their screens light up blue. "That''s not the same thing as actually watching a movie. When''s the last time you just¡ watched something? Without looking for suspicious activity or tracking blood trails or whatever?"
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again because they''re right and I hate it. The beanbag chair makes a sad wheezing noise as I sink deeper into it. "Fine. But I''m not painting my nails. They''re already sore enough." My right hand throbs helpfully, like it''s trying to prove my point. "What did you have in mind?"
"Well, first, you should probably text your parents that you''re staying over. And then we can order a pizza, and I can show you this absolutely batshit anime about-"
"If you try to make me watch Evangelion again, I''m leaving."
"It''s not- okay, first of all, you''re missing out on a classic, and second, it''s something completely different. Promise." They''re already pulling up some delivery app on their phone. "Also, we have those mini-sodas left from when Connor brought them over last week, and I think there''s still some of that weird Korean candy Tasha gave me¡"
After ordering the pizza, Jordan settles into their computer chair, spinning it around a few times before leaning over and setting up some kind of complex display on the biggest monitor. They¡¯ve got this whole setup at the Music Hall, with screens for every purpose, including one entirely dedicated to running shows and movies they¡¯ve torrented. Everything¡¯s organized and obsessively tagged, and they¡¯re scrolling through a folder labeled ¡°Psychological Stuff (Not Evangelion)¡± while muttering to themselves.
¡°Okay, so I¡¯m thinking either ¡®Perfect Blue,¡¯ because it¡¯s a masterpiece and you¡¯re missing out, or something a little lighter if you don¡¯t want your mind blown in a bad way.¡± They pause, then flash me a mischievous grin. ¡°There¡¯s also ¡®Nausica?,¡¯ which is way underrated. It¡¯s got giant bugs and this cool post-apocalyptic world, but in a chill way. You ever seen it?¡±
I shrug. ¡°I mean, I know of it. It sounds familiar. But I¡¯m down for bugs. And anything that¡¯s not ¡®Evangelion'', because the more you tell me about it the less I want to watch it.¡±
Jordan snickers. ¡°That¡¯s pigs. Nausica? it is. You¡¯re gonna love it.¡±
They start the movie, and we settle in, leaning against the couch with a bowl of stale popcorn they find from somewhere, and that odd Korean candy Tasha left. I try to get into the movie, but there¡¯s this restlessness sitting just below my skin. The colors and music are beautiful, sure, but I keep glancing out the corner of my eye at the pizza tracker on their phone. It¡¯s not that I¡¯m dying for pizza; I just need some kind of event to look forward to. The thought of just sitting here without doing anything¡ªwithout moving or checking over my shoulder¡ªfeels unnatural, like I¡¯m waiting for some signal to jump up and go.
Still, Nausica? is¡ kind of cool, actually. There¡¯s this bit where she¡¯s walking over a field of weird spores, and Jordan practically gasps, clutching the edge of their seat.
¡°This part,¡± they whisper like it¡¯s a holy event, ¡°is amazing. Look at the detail in the spores. No rotoscoping, no shortcuts. Hand-drawn. Every frame a piece of art.¡±
¡°I get it, I get it,¡± I say, nudging them. ¡°You¡¯re gonna start tearing up or something.¡±The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
¡°Just appreciating the craft, okay?¡± they say, but their tone is playful. ¡°And, okay, you might actually like this movie if you pay attention for two seconds. I swear, it¡¯s got¡ Sam vibes.¡±
I narrow my eyes. ¡°What exactly does that mean? And don¡¯t say ¡®giant bugs,¡¯ or I¡¯m leaving.¡±
¡°No, it¡¯s more the attitude,¡± they say, pushing the bowl of popcorn toward me. ¡°You and her, you¡¯ve got this thing where you¡¯re trying to fix everything, even though the whole world is messed up and it¡¯s kind of a pointless quest. But it¡¯s the principle that counts, right? And that¡¯s Nausica?. She¡¯s trying to make it better, even if it¡¯s hopeless.¡±
"You saying my quest is a hopeless one?" I chew on a piece of popcorn, thinking that over. ¡°Rude. So she¡¯s stubborn. So what?¡±
¡°Stubborn, yes. Determined, also yes. And unlike you, she actually likes bugs, so maybe you could take a note or two.¡± They nudge me with their elbow. ¡°Who knows, might expand your horizons.¡±
¡°Bugs are not horizons, Jordan,¡± I say, smirking. ¡°But whatever, keep selling it.¡±
They go back to the screen, absolutely glued to it, and for a few minutes, I let myself get lost in the movie, in the weirdly beautiful scenery and the calming background music. There¡¯s something oddly comforting about the way Jordan keeps giving me these little tidbits of info, talking over the movie like a really excitable encyclopedia page. It¡¯s¡ nice, somehow, and I don¡¯t realize how much time¡¯s passed until the doorbell buzzes, and they practically leap to get the pizza.
¡°Food¡¯s here!¡± they announce, carrying the box over like it¡¯s the Ark of the Covenant. ¡°Pepperoni and extra cheese, as the universe intended.¡±
¡°Finally,¡± I say, grabbing a slice and sinking into the beanbag chair again, feeling some of that earlier tension slip away. "That took way too long," I mumble.
"It''s, like, 1 AM," Jordan says, as if that makes it feel any less¡ I don''t know, not frustrating, it''s not important enough to be frustrating. Mildly annoying.
We devour the pizza while Nausica? ends, and Jordan immediately queues up something else, rambling excitedly about some cyberpunk anime from the 80s that¡¯s ¡°honestly underrated and criminally overlooked. They was going to be a sequel show in the early 2000s, but then the funding ran out, and¡¡± Half of what they say goes over my head, but I let them go on, occasionally nodding and making little noises to show I¡¯m listening.
After a while, I let my eyes close, just for a second, while they start explaining the plot of some other show. Or is it the same show? ¡°So, basically, it¡¯s this detective story, but with androids, and they¡¯ve got this intense backstory about a rogue AI, and¡ªhey, you falling asleep on me already?¡±
I sit up quickly, rubbing my eyes. ¡°No, no. Just¡ resting them. I¡¯m awake, promise.¡±
They give me a side-eye. ¡°You¡¯re such a liar. Don¡¯t worry, I get it. Long day and all. Just glad you¡¯re finally chilling out a little.¡±
I nod, not entirely sure what to say. ¡°Thanks for¡ I don¡¯t know. For this. For making me stop.¡±
¡°Hey, don¡¯t thank me yet. We¡¯re still going through ¡®Ghost Blade¡¯ if you¡¯re not dead by morning,¡± they say, tossing me another piece of popcorn.
¡°Why are you so obsessed with all this weird old anime anyway?¡± I ask, genuinely curious. ¡°Like, what¡¯s so great about this weird stuff from Japan that American cartoons don''t have?¡±
Jordan gives me a look like I¡¯ve just asked the world¡¯s most obvious question, leaning forward with that glint in their eye they always get when they¡¯re about to go off on a monologue. ¡°Okay, first of all, it¡¯s not ¡®weird stuff from Japan¡¯¡ªit¡¯s anime. And there¡¯s so much more to it than just cartoons. It¡¯s¡ an art form. And they do stuff with stories that¡¯s, like, way beyond what American animation even tries to do.¡±
¡°Right, because ¡®Ghost Blade¡¯ is, what, a deep philosophical treatise?¡± I smirk, but I¡¯m only half-joking. I¡¯ve never actually seen Jordan get so serious about anything.
¡°Yes, actually!¡± they say, grabbing another slice of pizza and gesturing with it like a professor making a point. ¡°They¡¯re not afraid to get messy, or dark, or, like, seriously intense. ¡®Ghost Blade¡¯ has layers. It¡¯s not just about the action; it¡¯s about exploring human nature, survival, betrayal, loyalty¡ªlike, it digs deep, man. And it¡¯s gritty, but in a good way, you know?¡±
I give them a skeptical look, leaning back against the beanbag chair. ¡°Yeah, but don¡¯t you ever get tired of reading subtitles? It¡¯s like¡ I dunno, extra work. And half of the time, they¡¯re just yelling things like, ¡®I¡¯ll destroy you!¡¯ or whatever.¡±
Jordan just shakes their head, looking almost offended. ¡°Sam. Subtitles are a vibe. They force you to focus. You actually pay attention. Plus, you get to hear the actual voices, which are usually way better, honestly. And it¡¯s like¡ pure imagination. No limits. They go places American cartoons just¡ wouldn¡¯t.¡±
They settle back, pulling the bowl of popcorn onto their lap. ¡°It¡¯s like, these creators had a vision, and they just went for it. They weren¡¯t worried about, like, making it family-friendly or whatever. They made what they wanted to make. And that¡¯s¡ rare.¡±
I chew on a piece of popcorn, mulling that over. ¡°I guess I get it. Kind of.¡± I nudge their arm, smirking. ¡°But ¡®Ghost Blade¡¯ better be the ¡®deepest¡¯ thing I¡¯ve ever seen, or I¡¯m going back to ¡®Blubberpals¡¯ or something.¡±
They burst out laughing. ¡°You¡¯re seriously comparing ¡®Blubberpals¡¯ to ¡®Ghost Blade¡¯? I can¡¯t believe this. I''m losing to a fifth grader''s TV show about whales. I¡¯m trying to expand your mind here, Sam.¡±
I shrug, still smirking. ¡°Hey, I¡¯m just saying, at least that show doesn¡¯t require subtitles.¡±
They roll their eyes, throwing a popcorn kernel at me. ¡°Illiterate.¡±
We both dissolve into laughter, and for a moment, it¡¯s just us and the stupid movie playing in the background, the weird Japanese animation Jordan loves and the popcorn that¡¯s somehow getting staler by the second. And as much as I pretend not to get it, there¡¯s something¡ nice about being here, hearing them ramble on about anime plots and ideas I barely understand. It¡¯s like their enthusiasm pulls me along, makes me want to get into it, even if just a little.
Around two in the morning, they¡¯re starting to nod off, mid-rant about why ¡°Ghost Blade¡± is a game-changer and way better than American cartoons. I¡¯m still wired, probably from everything that happened today, so I turn down the volume, letting the movie hum in the background. They¡¯re half-asleep next to me, slouched in that weird chair with the beanbag stuffed underneath it, balanced in a way only Jordan could manage.
That means I can actually get out now.
Chapter 137.3
I''ve been pretending to doze off myself, counting Jordan''s breaths, watching the way their head dips lower and lower, finally settling into that awkward slouch that only someone as sleep-deprived as Jordan could pull off. It''s just me and the hum of synth music, some scene from the movie flashing on the screen, but I barely even register it. I''m too busy waiting for the right moment to slip away.
My fingers twitch with that leftover itch from earlier, the faint, irritating throb under my nails reminding me of the panic that had me bolting down the street. The red light feels seared into the back of my mind, some primal wrongness I can''t scrub out. I flex my hand, trying to calm myself down. There''s no way I''m getting any actual sleep tonight, so I figure I might as well do something with the restless energy humming through me.
I stand up slowly, watching to make sure Jordan doesn''t stir. Then I step carefully around the creaky spots in the old wood flooring, making my way toward the corner where I keep my stuff. Getting into costume is second nature by now, but doing it in almost complete darkness has me fumbling a little, especially when my stupid right hand twinges again, like it''s punishing me for trying to use it. My gloved fingers feel clumsy, my movements rougher than usual. I take a slow breath, trying to ignore it, focusing on the comforting feeling of my gear.
As I tug on my helmet, I look around to make sure everything''s exactly where I left it. Jordan is out cold, the screen in front of them still flickering with the anime''s surreal colors, their face slack and peaceful. I take a step back, my eyes adjusting to the shadows of the Music Hall, noting every corner and shift of light. It feels good to move, to focus on something so specific, even if it''s just leaving without waking Jordan.
There''s a brief moment of panic as I slip outside, right at the edge of the Music Hall''s sidewalk, where a red traffic signal glows against the wet, gray night. For a second, I freeze, thinking it''s that same wrong red from earlier. But it''s just a light, steady and predictable, blinking at the intersection up the block. My heart slows a little, and I let myself relax.
The night is cold, the February chill creeping through the seams in my jacket. There''s still some slush on the sidewalks from the last snowfall, gritty and gray from all the foot traffic and car exhaust, just melting into gross puddles. Every few steps, I feel it glunching around my boots, cold and squishy, reminding me I probably should''ve planned this better. But there''s something grounding about the discomfort, something real that keeps me from drifting back into that spiral of fear.
I start walking a slow loop around Tacony, keeping an eye out for anything that might need my attention. There''s not a lot going on -- just a couple of stray cats slinking between parked cars, the occasional muffled laugh or shout from a late-night straggler heading home. I push myself to keep going, making my circle wider each time, feeling like if I keep moving, maybe I can outrun that awful feeling that''s still sticking in my chest.
When I don''t find any actual trouble, I start kicking at random trash along the sidewalk, trying to make it feel purposeful, like I''m doing some kind of unofficial community service. A crumpled-up wrapper, an old newspaper soaked through with slush, some plastic cups that got stomped flat by a bootprint. I bend down, picking each piece up, stuffing them into a crinkled grocery bag I found wedged under a car tire. It''s not much, but it''s something, and for a minute, it almost feels like I''m in control of the night.
Three beer cans, seven wrappers, one soggy magazine cover. I sort each piece by type, keeping a little mental tally as I go, even though I''m pretty sure it''s pointless. There''s no one here to see, no one who''s gonna be impressed by me cleaning up a couple of sidewalks in the dead of night. But it gives me something to focus on, something that''s mine to control. My hands are freezing, and I feel the ache of cold against my knuckles, but my right hand is still throbbing with that weird, backward pain, like it''s trying to tell me something I don''t know how to understand.
My mind drifts back to the past couple of weeks, to all the little scrapes and brawls I''ve been in. A couple of low-level Jumpheads hanging around the park, some wannabe gang members tagging storefronts--nothing major, nothing that made me feel like I was actually doing anything. I''ve taken on the kinds of guys who barely even register as villains, mostly just dumbasses looking for trouble or trying to score a quick buck. And yet, nothing to my hand. Nothing that would last this long, even if my regeneration is breaking down, which is itself kind of a terrifying prospect.
Sure hope it isn''t!
I try to shake the thought off, focusing instead on another piece of trash--an empty soda can, kicked halfway under a parked car. I crouch down to fish it out, tucking it into the bag with the rest. Three cans, eight wrappers, two cigarette packs. My fingers are getting numb through my gloves, but I keep going, bending down over and over until my knees start to ache. I try to make it feel like a mission, like I''m actually accomplishing something.
But the more I pick up, the more ridiculous it starts to feel, like I''m just shoving random garbage into a bag because I don''t know what else to do. My right hand keeps throbbing, my fingers stiff and uncooperative, and I can''t shake the feeling that I''m just grasping at straws, trying to fix something that''s way beyond me.
By the time I''ve filled three grocery bags with trash, my hands are so cold that they''ve gone stiff, my knuckles aching from the damp and the cold. I look down at the bags, at the mess I''ve collected, and feel this weird mix of satisfaction and frustration. I''ve done something, technically, but it doesn''t feel like it matters. It doesn''t feel like I''ve actually changed anything.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
I kick at a puddle of slush, sending little icy droplets flying, and watch as they scatter across the pavement. The streetlights cast this weird, yellowish glow on the wet ground, making everything look sickly and washed-out. I glance down at my fingers again, flexing them slowly, watching the way my gloves stretch and pull. The pain is still there, sharp and insistent, and I feel like if I could just understand what it means, maybe I could figure out what''s really going on.
I''m not stupid, just so that''s clear. I know that a year ago, plus or minus some change, someone named Aaron McKinley pried my fingernails off with a claw hammer. But his fire wasn''t red, so what the fuck?
There''s nothing. Just the sound of cars in the distance, the hum of streetlights, and the faint drip of melting snow from the rooftops. I clutch the bags of trash in both hands, letting out a long breath that fogs up the air in front of me.
I keep moving through the slushy streets for what feels like hours, the plastic bags cutting into my fingers as they fill up. I''m gathering litter on autopilot, shoving pieces into an old grocery bag, trying to organize them just to keep my brain focused. Three cans, two cigarette packs, one broken plastic spoon. By the time I''ve made it through a couple blocks surrounding the Music Hall, I''ve filled two bags. I''m grabbing stray bits almost automatically now, like my brain''s gone half-offline.
The streetlights start dimming, the faintest gray light spreading from the east. It must be around 5 a.m. now, maybe later. I glance down at my hands--the ache under my nails now a dull, pulsing throb--and notice my gloves are soaked through from hours in the slush. My fingers feel stiff and unresponsive, and I flex them as best as I can, slowly making my way back to the Music Hall. The bags dangle from my hands, weighing me down.
When I get back to the Music Hall, it''s mostly dark, but there''s a faint glow coming from the second-story window. I enter quietly, my footsteps echoing in the empty space, my muscles exhausted but my mind still wired. As I step up the stairs, I hear the soft tapping of keys from the room where Jordan has their computer set up.
When I push open the door, I see Jordan, hunched over the keyboard, their face illuminated by the monitor''s bluish light. They glance up as I walk in, eyebrows shooting up when they see me, soaked and carrying bags of trash.
"Did you at least find something worth punching?" they ask, voice low, like they''re careful not to disturb the stillness of early morning.
I drop the bags with a thud, flexing my sore fingers. "No. Just trash."
Jordan lets out a long breath, rolling their eyes but not looking away. "Just trash. You didn''t think to mention you were leaving? Maybe let me know what you''re doing at 3 a.m.?"
There''s a bite to their words, a frustration I can feel, but it''s mixed with something else--concern, a little too obvious to be ignored. Guilt flickers through me, but I push it down. I''m too tired to fully deal with it.
"I didn''t... I just needed to get out," I say, looking at the bags like they somehow justify my night. "And you were asleep."
Jordan snorts, swiveling their chair to face me. "I was asleep because we were supposed to be having a ''normal'' night, remember? Look, if you needed to go out, fine. Just tell me next time. I could''ve at least monitored police scanners or something. Been ready to back you up if it got messy."
I cross my arms, feeling the chill finally settling in, mixing with this tightness in my chest. "It wasn''t anything. Just... I don''t know. I felt weird, okay?"
They''re quiet for a second, looking at me like they''re trying to figure me out. "You know, I''d get it if you really felt like you needed to go on patrol. But the way you just bolted? Like you had to handle something, and I wasn''t supposed to know about it--come on, Sam."
"It wasn''t like that," I say, even though I know how it must''ve looked. "It''s just--I couldn''t stop thinking about that fire. The way it... felt."
Jordan narrows their eyes, studying my face. "And you thought you''d get over it by running yourself ragged in the cold, cleaning up garbage?"
I shrug, too tired to argue or even really defend myself. "Maybe. Maybe I thought I''d actually run into something. Do something that mattered."
Jordan leans back in their chair, crossing their arms. "Is that what this is about? Things not ''mattering''? You''re just gonna keep doing this forever, hoping it''ll somehow feel different?"
The question hits harder than I expect, and I fall quiet, staring at the wall to avoid their eyes.
"Look," Jordan says, softer now. "I know you like... the superhero thing. But is this just... who you''re gonna be now? Running around with no plan, hoping to punch a solution out of thin air?"
The words hang in the air, heavier than I want them to be. I shift, feeling defensive, not even sure why. "What, you think I should just quit?"
"That''s not what I''m saying." They look away, and their expression softens. "But... do you even know what you want? After this year''s over, are you just going to keep doing this? You''re sixteen in a couple of months, Sam. You ever think about... something else?"
Something else. The words echo in my mind, hitting a part of me I haven''t let myself think about in... months? Years, maybe. I let out a long breath, rubbing my fingers together, feeling the cold ache settling in.
"Something else," I repeat quietly, like it''s in a foreign language. "Like what?"
"I don''t know. Literally anything. What about that art class? You said you liked that, didn''t you? Or... going back to soccer?" They lean forward, watching me for any sign of agreement. "Just... something that''s actually for you."
I shake my head slowly. "Soccer''s... a different life. Feels like it happened to someone else. And the art thing..." I trail off, looking down at my hands, the way they feel stiff and foreign after a night spent cleaning up other people''s messes. "I don''t know. None of that stuff feels like it fits anymore. And they don''t let people like me play sports normally, anyway."
"So you''re just gonna... do this?" Jordan gestures around the room, at the bags of trash, my costume, at the whole rundown mess of the Music Hall. "Forever?"
I don''t answer them. I just get the trash bags in the actual garbage bin.
"Sam, what are you?" they ask, and I''m so jarred by the question that I blink at them like an owl.
"What?" comes out.
Jordan''s face scrunches up in sympathy. "Outside of your mask. What are you? Take off the helmet,"
I do, setting it down on a countertop. I blink at them like an owl again. "Helmet off,"
"Right. Who are you now?" Jordan asks.
I don''t have an answer. I slump down onto the couch, sigh, and fall over like a corpse, drained dry. Sleep comes easy after that.
Chapter 138.1
I wake up to the tap-tap-tapping of keys--quick, relentless typing that drills straight through the hazy cloud of sleep I''m barely clawing my way out of. I open one eye, and there''s Jordan, hunched over their laptop with the world''s worst posture, surrounded by a graveyard of empty energy drink cans and one very suspiciously orange bag of "high-caffeine snack wafers."
I don''t even have to ask. The tabs open on their screen pretty much tell the whole story: "Pyrophobia and Trauma," "PTSD Symptom Checklist," "How to Identify a Trigger," and--most concerning--"How to Cure Fire Phobia (Guaranteed)." I sit up, rubbing the spot on my temple that''s throbbing the hardest. "Uh, good morning, WebDoc. How''s the diagnostic practice?"
Jordan looks up, blinking at me with caffeine-glazed eyes. "Good, you''re up. So I''ve been researching--and it turns out that the whole ''fire-panic-attack'' thing is an actual Thing. And there''s this whole debate around PTSD and specific phobias. Apparently, some people get super freaked out by anything vaguely resembling their trauma, even if it''s not literally the same thing, you know?"
"Oh, fantastic," I mumble, pushing myself off the couch. My right hand throbs at the memory of last night''s trash fire, my fingers curling involuntarily. "This feels a lot like the preamble to a really questionable experiment."
"Correction," Jordan says, raising a finger. "This is the preamble to some controlled and very responsible science. Speaking of which..." They reach into their bag, and I see the telltale glint of a metal lighter.
I narrow my eyes. "Are you seriously about to light something in here? This place is a fire hazard waiting to happen. One spark, and the whole Music Hall goes up faster than a bag of popcorn on high."
"Relax, Sam." Jordan clicks the lighter open, but they don''t light it yet. "It''s just a test. And anyway, we''ll take it slow. This is all about helping you face your fears. Baby steps, see?"
"Baby steps," I echo, not even slightly convinced. But they hold the lighter at arm''s length, eyebrows raised in a silent question, and I brace myself, gripping the armrest of the couch so hard my knuckles turn white. The lighter clicks again, sparking a tiny blue flame.
And immediately, my chest tightens, my pulse spiking as I stare at the flame. My right hand starts to ache, that sharp pain under the fingernails flaring up again, like something''s pushing up from under them. My mouth goes dry, and I feel like I''m drowning on dry land, like my whole body is screaming at me to get out, to run, because there''s a fire inside this place.
I swallow hard, gripping the couch tighter and hearing the fabric strain. "You--uh, Jordan, you''re not gonna... I mean, this place is old," I mumble, stumbling over my words, my eyes glued to the flickering light. "And, um, all this wood--it''s pretty much asking for trouble. You know, the whole thing could just... go up."
Jordan watches me with this intense, bug-eyed stare, like I''m about to go feral at any second, which isn''t that far off. "So?"
"So... yeah, I''m fine," I lie, heart still hammering, my gaze flicking back and forth from the flame to the walls. "Just... a little paranoid about, you know, all the dry, flammable wood around us and... stuff." My fingers are throbbing now, and I fight the urge to pull my hand back, forcing myself to look away from the lighter, my breathing shallow.
Jordan''s still watching me, not entirely convinced, but I nod and force a thin smile, willing my heart rate to slow down. "I''m fine. Totally fine," I say, not even fooling myself.
Just then, we hear a soft knock at the door, followed by Tasha''s voice drifting in. "Hey, is it safe for me to come in, or are we playing with fireworks in here?"
Jordan smirks and flicks the lighter shut. "For now, you''re good. But you might want to grab some goggles or something because we''re conducting some groundbreaking research." They turn to me, wagging their eyebrows like they''re about to say something absolutely brilliant. "Experimental stuff. For science."
I sigh. "Please. No more experiments until I''ve had, like, a full gallon of water and a breakfast sandwich."
Tasha steps in, lugging a bag with a big red cross on it, plus an actual stack of borrowed nursing books. "Research, huh? I bet this is totally medically approved. But, hey, that''s what I''m here for." She holds up the books like she''s presenting me with the secrets of the universe. "Field medicine, patch-up techniques, trauma responses... and, y''know, some random stuff I thought might help."
We settle in, with Tasha flipping through pages and taking over "Research Lead" duties because, as she puts it, "Jordan''s a computer person, not a trauma nurse." They roll their eyes but don''t argue, just snickering while Tasha explains the concept of isolation of variables to them. She pulls out a notebook and starts jotting down details, like which settings might impact my reactions. There''s a solid twenty minutes where they''re both going back and forth about "trigger nuances" and "environmental variables," using words I''m pretty sure they learned yesterday.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
They start with the lighter again. It''s small, controlled, and Jordan holds it low enough that it''s more of a suggestion of fire than anything serious. I watch the flickering light and feel my shoulders tense, but it''s manageable. I''m fine, and I''m not about to piss myself on the couch. Jordan tilts their head and raises the lighter a bit higher, eyeing me.
"How about here? Same thing?"
"Jordan, stop holding it like you''re about to audition for the world''s worst horror movie," Tasha sighs, taking the lighter from them. She clicks it off and pulls out a sparkler from her bag. "Okay, we''re gonna try something small first. But, Sam, the idea is to let us know exactly what feels wrong about it, okay?"
They light the sparkler. I brace, half-expecting to feel that intense dread again, but there''s nothing interesting. Just a little fizz and crackle of light as the sparks spray out in harmless little trails. I flinch whenever they make contact with the coffee table, but that''s about it. It''s almost... underwhelming. I''m so focused on how not-panic-inducing it is that I almost forget to respond until Tasha nudges me.
"No reaction?" she asks, eyebrows raised.
"Just... looks like the Fourth of July, honestly," I shrug, trying to play it cool. But I can feel the difference. It''s not triggering anything at all. "Guess it''s not just any fire that gets me."
Jordan gives me a half-grin, like they''ve cracked some cosmic secret. "Okay, but what if we add a little something? Hold on."
They dash off to the supply closet, coming back with a flashlight wrapped in some cheap red cellophane, looking very pleased with themselves. They flick it on, pointing the red light toward the sparkler. "How about now? Anything?"
I stare at the absurd setup and can''t help but laugh. "That''s... that''s not even remotely the same thing, Jordan. It''s literally just a flashlight with plastic on it."
"Oh, come on," they say, sounding a little disappointed. "It was worth a shot. You said the color was part of it, so--"
"Not like that!" I protest. "I meant... well, I don''t even know what I meant. Just that yesterday''s fire was weirdly red and... bright. Different. I don''t know, the traffic light just made me jump last night because it startled me. The fire isn''t startling, it''s upsetting."
Tasha cuts in, frowning. "We need to keep it basic, Jordan. Let''s stick to real flames, and only in spots Sam''s comfortable with. If it was about specific locations, maybe it''s tied to places she feels safe. Like here, or anywhere familiar."
They both look at me, waiting for confirmation, and I nod slowly, not entirely sure myself. "What, you think I know any better? I didn''t even know I had, what''s it called, pyrophobia until like an hour ago."
"Noted." Tasha jots that down, looking thoughtful. She pulls out another sparkler, this time without the theatrics, and lights it in a corner of the room. I watch carefully, noticing that while I''m still a little tense, there''s none of that gut-wrenching panic from before.
"Let''s take it outside," Jordan suggests, waving me toward the back door. "Maybe it''s the enclosed space."
Out in the parking lot next to the Music Hall, Tasha sets up another sparkler, while Jordan watches me closely, waiting for the slightest sign of discomfort. The sparkler flares to life, red and yellow sparks dancing in the winter air, and while I''m still tense, it''s nothing like last night. No nail pain, no adrenaline rush--just the normal wariness anyone would feel standing near open flames in a semi-abandoned parking lot.
"Still nothing?" Jordan sounds almost disappointed, like they were hoping for some breakthrough reaction.
I shake my head. "Nope. Just... kinda pretty, actually."
Tasha taps her pen against her notebook, her brow furrowing. "So, it''s not about the color or the setting. Maybe it''s... the size? Like, actual big fires versus little ones?"
Jordan clicks the lighter again, holding it up for another test. This time, they add a bit of red paper they had leftover from something (no one asks what), holding it up like they''re performing some kind of weird science experiment with medieval alchemy. I roll my eyes, but Tasha just takes notes, muttering under her breath about control groups and variable isolation.
It makes me flinch. I don''t like looking at it! It makes me uncomfortable and it makes my hand hurt.
At one point, Jordan suggests testing out different flammable materials to see if the smoke or smell might have triggered something. Tasha shoots them down immediately, reminding them that "controlled" doesn''t mean "absolutely insane."
They argue over "variable integrity" for a good five minutes, while I stand there shivering, the red sparkler still fizzing harmlessly on the floor. This whole thing feels surreal, like we''re all just pretending we know what we''re doing, grasping at straws because none of us have the slightest clue what''s actually going on in my head. And maybe that''s what''s bugging me the most--that I don''t know either.
Eventually, they run out of creative ideas, and Tasha puts away the last sparkler with a sigh. "Okay, I think we''ve officially exhausted our supply of home remedies. Maybe it''s just... whatever happened yesterday was an isolated thing. Could''ve just been a fluke."
I nod slowly, though something inside me still doesn''t feel right. There''s this lingering itch of unease, this sense that whatever triggered me yesterday isn''t something I can just brush off. But for now, I keep that to myself, glancing between my friends, who both look ready to drop from exhaustion.
"Fine, let''s call it," I say, forcing a grin. "But Jordan, if you even think about lighting another sparkler indoors, I''m reporting you to the fire marshal."
Jordan grins back, flashing me a peace sign as they snatch the last empty energy drink can. "Noted. Although, technically, I think the fire marshal would just be impressed with our rigorous experimentation."
Tasha sighs, rolling her eyes. "Please don''t let the fire marshal hear about any of this."
I stop. "Hold on. Jordan, use your lighter again."
Jordan stops mid-stride to do just that, turning around on their heels to present their blue-yellow flame to me. I can feel my skin crawl and my hand ache, and the closer they wave it to the brick facade of the Music Hall, the more I can feel myself start to sweat.
Tasha looks at me, and then back at Jordan. Then, she steals the thoughts from my brain. "What if it''s the place?"
Chapter 138.2
Tasha and Jordan set up the tests in different spots around the Music Hall first, keeping everything small and controlled. Jordan starts with a match-a single match-held out as far as possible from me, like they''re offering me some kind of sacrificial torch. The flame is tiny, flickering in the wind, barely even big enough to light a candle, let alone trigger anything serious. And yet, my pulse jumps a little. Not fear, exactly, but there''s this unsettled, crawling feeling just under my skin.
I take a deep breath, shoving my hands deeper into my hoodie pockets. "I''m good. Fine. No big deal," I say, unconvincingly.
Jordan raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "Mhm. Sure." They snuff the match, tossing it into a metal tin they brought along specifically for that purpose. "Okay, so that''s the Music Hall baseline. Moving on."
We head down to the corner store where I usually stop for snacks after school, the place with the faded Pepsi sign and the clerk who always gives me side-eye for loitering. Jordan lights up another match, watching me closely as the tiny flame springs to life. It''s the same little flicker as before, barely there, but my fingers start to tingle, the ache creeping back up my right hand like it''s waking up from a nap. I clench my fist, trying to keep it steady.
Tasha notices immediately. "You''re tensing up more here than you were back at the Music Hall. Any particular reason?"
I shrug, keeping my voice as nonchalant as possible. "I don''t know, maybe I just... associate this place with fire now. Like, in some roundabout way."
Jordan grins, looking like they''re enjoying this way too much. "Hey, if this turns into some primal territory thing, that''s at least ten points for me on calling it early."
I roll my eyes. "You''re not getting any points, Jordan. I''m not some wild animal defending its den."
"Actually..." Tasha starts, and I can feel the gears turning in her head, the same way they do when she''s about to launch into one of her mini-lectures. "Humans do have similar instinct patterns to animals when it comes to territory. It''s just-"
"Not helping," Jordan cuts in, holding up their hands in a peace offering before I can retort.
We make our way to the alley behind the school next, the same spot where we''d seen the trash fire yesterday. My heart rate''s already picking up as we turn the corner, even before Jordan lights anything. This place... it feels tainted somehow, like the smell of smoke has seeped into the bricks and asphalt, and I can almost see that angry red flame from yesterday, bright and uncomfortably intense. My fingertips start to ache, harder this time, like a bad bruise right under the nail.
Jordan clicks the lighter on, and it''s just a small flame again, barely bigger than a candle, but that familiar, gnawing dread starts creeping up my spine. The pain in my nails sharpens, as if the fire is pulling something out of me, like a magnet. I clench my right hand, pressing my fingers into my palm until they hurt for a different reason.
Jordan extinguishes the lighter and frowns. "Alright, so this is obviously worse for you than the other places. Looks like we''ve got a strong reaction here. Any ideas why?"
I shake my head, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. "I don''t know. It just... feels wrong. Like I''m being pushed out of my own space, somehow."
Tasha scribbles something in her notebook, nodding to herself. "Interesting. The closer we get to areas you consider familiar, the stronger the reaction seems to be. But the size of the flame matters too."
"So it''s not just fire, it''s fire invading... places that feel like mine." I chew on that thought, not sure if I like where it''s leading. It feels primitive, instinctive, like something that would make sense in a nature documentary but doesn''t fit with, you know, regular human logic.
Jordan shrugs. "Hey, territorial instinct is a thing, even if it''s not exactly flattering. I mean, maybe it''s your brain''s way of dealing with whatever set you off yesterday. Trying to defend your turf or something."
I wrinkle my nose. "I don''t have ''turf.'' I''m not a mob boss."
"Yeah, but it''s not about that," Tasha jumps in, ever the science-minded one. "It''s just your brain categorizing familiar places as ''safe,'' and anything dangerous showing up here... violates that safety, even if it''s just a trash can fire."Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
"Great. I''m a caveman," I mutter, shoving my hands back into my pockets. The pain in my fingers has dulled, but it''s still there, a reminder that whatever set me off yesterday wasn''t just in my head.
We test a few more places, moving further out and lighting little fires here and there. Some random stretch of sidewalk a few blocks away? No reaction. The middle of an empty parking lot? Mild nerves, but nothing close to what I felt behind the school. Tasha takes copious notes the entire time, murmuring to herself in that way she does when she''s deep in thought. Jordan''s just enjoying the process, goading me on with sarcastic commentary that would be funny if I wasn''t so keyed up.
Finally, they light another match back in the alley by the school, this time directly over the same spot where yesterday''s trash fire had been. My fingers throb again, the ache in my nails so intense that I have to grit my teeth to keep from wincing. The memory of that vivid red flame burns in my mind, brighter than it should be, and I can feel my pulse spiking, my breathing picking up like I''m about to run again.
"Okay, that''s it," Tasha says, snuffing the match out. "It''s definitely related to territory. The more familiar the place, the stronger your reaction to any kind of fire here. And the color thing... that was a red herring." She smirks a little at her own pun, but Jordan just groans.
"So what are we saying here?" I ask, still flexing my hand to work out the lingering pain. "That I''m some kind of... territorial shark now? I thought this power set was weird enough without adding a caveman brain to the mix."
Jordan shrugs, flicking the lighter a few more times just to watch me roll my eyes. "I mean, it makes sense if you think about it. You''re kind of a shark on land already. Why not add a little territorial flair?"
I give them a look that could probably peel paint. "Not funny."
"Hey, just saying." Jordan holds their hands up, grinning. "And besides, now we know that whatever happened yesterday was probably more about you feeling like your space was being... I dunno, invaded? It''s like fire showing up in ''your'' spaces messes with your head."
I chew on that thought, feeling uneasy. It doesn''t exactly make me feel better to know that my brain has apparently added "protect my turf" to the list of things it thinks are important. It feels... animalistic. Primal. And I don''t like the idea that some part of me might be operating on a level that basic.
"Alright, we''ve got a pattern," Tasha says, snapping her notebook shut. "Familiar spaces plus fire equals bad. Which means... we just avoid lighting fires around places that feel like home to you. Simple solution."
"Great," I say dryly. "So I''ll just stick to patrols in totally random places where nothing means anything to me. Should be fine."
Jordan grins, clapping me on the back. "Look at it this way, Bee-at least now we know what makes you tick. Mostly. Sort of."
"Mostly sort of," I repeat, shaking my head as we start heading back toward the Music Hall. "What''s wrong with me?"
"You have severe PTSD from almost two years of fighting supervillains as a teenager, and pyrophobia in addition to that?" Tasha summarizes.
"When you put it like that, it almost sounds simple," I reply, sighing as melodramatically as I can. "Plus, all I can smell now is smoke. You guys have ruined my nostrils,"
"Huh?" Tasha asks, but I''m not sure what exactly what she''s "huh"-ing at.
That is, of course, when the fire engine horn screams to life three blocks down, scaring me pissless.
The moment that horn splits the air, my stomach does a full somersault, like it''s trying to drop out through my shoes. There''s no time to think-my body''s already moving before my brain fully catches up. Jordan''s right behind me, and I can tell from the urgency in their footsteps that they''re as rattled as I am, but trying not to show it.
We round the corner at the same time, our favorite coffee spot - this tiny little place, Amy''s, you can''t miss it - looming up ahead. The acrid smell of smoke hits me full force, unmistakable and sharp, and I realize I hadn''t been imagining it after all. The building''s front windows are fogged with smoke, and I catch flashes of movement inside-people pushing and stumbling toward the back, trying to get away from whatever''s on fire.
"Travel suits?" Jordan whispers, pulling a spray-painted motorcycle helmet out of their backpack and tugging it down over their head. It gives them this bug-eyed, almost alien look, almost like a Power Ranger, but it''ll do. I tug shit out of my backpack while I stumble through the slush, a padded jacket over top of my existing winterwear, and my own travel mask clipped out over my short hair. Then a facemask, strapped to my ears, since I have a sinking feeling this is gonna get a little smoky.
We both take off down the street at a sprint, dodging pedestrians who barely glance at us, too busy fleeing from the fire, while Tasha watches from a safe distance. It''s not a secret that things go weird around here sometimes, and no one wants to get involved.
By the time we skid to a halt in front of Amy''s, my pulse is pounding in my ears, and my chest feels tight, but I can''t tell if it''s from running or if it''s that same choking dread as before. The coffee shop''s main entrance is blocked, thick smoke seeping out around the edges of the door like it''s being pushed out by something inside. Even from here, I can catch the smell-something acrid and wrong, like burning rubber mixed with a hint of... garlic? My stomach twists again. That combination can''t be safe.
"Let''s get in there before the whole place goes up," I mutter, grabbing a handful of the slushy snow piled up against the curb. I scoop it over my pants, wiping it down my arms too, because this might be stupid, but I''d rather be a little stupid than a lot burned. Jordan''s watching me, half-amused, but they don''t comment as they pull up the zipper of their padded jacket.
Chapter 138.3
The front door''s hot to the touch, even through the slush, and I brace myself before shoving through, its hinges groaning loudly in molten protest. The second I step inside, the heat slams into me like a wall, heavy and suffocating. I grit my teeth and push forward, trying not to breathe too deeply as I scan the room. The smoke is everywhere, swirling around like thick fog, and there''s this weird red light glowing in patches across the walls and floors-the same color as yesterday''s trash fire. I don''t even know where to start looking for the source, but it feels like the whole room is bleeding heat from some central point, radiating out.
Jordan steps in behind me, eyes narrowed as they take in the scene. They stretch out a hand, and I know they''re using their power to expand the space, giving everyone a little more room to move. The ceiling lifts, stretching upward until it feels like we''re in some surreal cathedral of smoke, with columns of white billowing up toward the roof. People are stumbling toward the back door, but there''s too many of them, pushing and jostling each other in a panic. I can hear someone crying, a couple of people coughing, and the general clamor of too many people and not enough air.
Everyone''s panicking, pushing toward the back door in a frantic cluster, clearly seconds away from trampling each other in a bid to escape. I catch glimpses of faces through the haze, wide-eyed and coughing, some of them with tiny scrapes and cuts from where they''ve probably stumbled into tables or each other. There''s blood-small amounts, but enough to trigger my blood sense, pinging like tiny radar blips all around the room.
The ceiling rises, expanding upward, the walls pulling back like the room itself is taking a deep breath. The space widens, giving everyone more room to breathe, less chance of being crushed in the crush.
The crowd starts to calm down a bit, some of them realizing there''s more room now, that they don''t have to shove and push. Jordan''s still concentrating, beads of sweat starting to form at their temple. Their power isn''t effortless, and I doubt doing it with a room full of fire is easier than normal.
"Go!" they yell over the noise, gesturing toward the back door. "There''s space! Take it slow, one at a time!"
I turn to the closest group of people, waving them toward the back. "Alright, everybody, single file if you can manage it. Just follow the person in front of you and keep moving!" I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the roaring in my ears.
The heat''s worse as I make my way deeper into the room, closer to the core of the fire. My fingers ache, and I can feel the throbbing under my nails, a reminder that whatever''s going on here is worse than it looks. I sweep my gaze around, relying on my blood sense to pick up any traces of injuries more serious than the scrapes and bruises everyone else has.
It''s so hard to focus. It''s just so red in here, that it feels hard to differentiate from my blood sense. That''s... a complication I didn''t ever think could happen. Still, when I shut my eyes, I can see them - someone in bad shape.
The smoke stings my eyes, but I follow the faint trail of red in my mind, weaving through the scattered tables and chairs. There''s a woman slumped against one of the back booths, half-hidden by a tipped-over table and the billowing white smoke that smells like rotten garlic. Blood is trickling from her forehead, painting a dark streak down her cheek, and her eyes are closed, her face pale under the mask of soot and sweat.
"Hey, you with me?" I crouch down next to her, keeping my voice low and steady. I can hear her breathing, shallow but there, and I reach out, carefully shaking her shoulder. She doesn''t respond, and my heart rate kicks up a notch as I try to gauge how bad it is.
"Jordan!" I shout over my shoulder, but they''re already busy directing the last of the crowd toward the exit, their hands raised to keep the walls stretched outward. I don''t want to pull them away when they''re handling things so well, but I need to get this woman out of here, and she''s dead weight in my arms.
The fires are spreading, little pockets of orange flaring up along the edges of the red. The air''s getting thicker, harder to breathe, and every breath I take feels like it''s coated in some bitter chemical residue. The metallic smell from the red flames is stronger up close, and it reminds me of blood in a way that makes my stomach churn.
I brace myself and lift the woman, heaving her onto my shoulder as gently as I can. She''s not light, but adrenaline''s working in my favor, and I''m able to carry her toward the door without too much trouble. Jordan meets me halfway, their gaze flicking from the woman''s bleeding head to my face, and there''s a question there, but I shake my head.
They nod, taking her from me and guiding her toward the exit, their power still holding the space around us wide and open. I can see the strain on their face, the effort it''s taking to keep everything stretched out like this, but they don''t let up, even as the flames creep closer.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
The sprinklers overhead are silent, and that feels wrong in a way I can''t explain. I glance up, squinting through the smoke, and spot the broken nozzles, smashed or melted-it''s hard to tell through the haze. Whoever set this up wanted to make sure there''d be no chance of putting the fire out easily, which means they''re either an idiot or someone who really wanted this place to burn.
Jordan''s voice snaps me back to the present. "Bee, we''re running out of time. I can''t hold this forever."
"I know." I grit my teeth, scanning the room one last time. Most of the people have made it out, but there''s still a few stragglers-some huddling by the windows, others just staring blankly at the flames, too shocked or scared to move. I shout at them, urging them toward the back door, and finally they start to stumble forward, their faces pale and dazed.
The red fires are spreading, lapping at the edges of tables and chairs, turning the polished wood to charred splinters. I can feel the heat biting at my skin, even through the slush and my jacket, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to get out, to get away from the fire that''s closing in around us.
But there''s still one last person in here, bleeding and unconscious, and I can''t leave them.
Jordan winds out through the kitchen with the last group of civilians, the walls slowly snapping back to their usual cramped dimensions as they keep their power steady, guiding everyone out. But the second Jordan steps past the door, the flames leap up behind the counter, catching like kindling and spreading fast. I watch the walls snap back around me, every inch of space shrinking, tightening, until it feels like the room is trying to squeeze me out.
I''m alone. And the fire''s spreading.
The girl I just rescued is slumped against the wall, and I know if I don''t get us both out in the next few seconds, I''ll be as good as toasted. The air''s so thick it feels like I''m breathing in syrup, and every gasping breath is getting harder, burning with every inhale. My winter coat is close to smoldering; I can smell the synthetic fibers searing, that acrid scent threading through the thick smoke.
In a dazed, half-panicked kind of calm, I drop to my knees and gingerly lay her on the ground. I can feel my fingers tingling, that same familiar pain spiking beneath my nails, but I shove it down, focusing on what I need to do next.
One more tooth, I think. I push down on my elbow, and my teeth shift under the skin, growing sharper, harder, until I feel the bite of bone slicing through flesh, right at the elbow. A sharp, curved tooth juts out, ready to use like a tool, and I grit my teeth against the wave of pain that follows. No time for nerves. This is the only way out that won''t lead straight through a wall of fire.
I angle the tooth against the front window of the coffee shop, eyeing the warped glass. Heat''s already taken a toll on it, softened it, but it''s thick, Philadelphia-grade impact-resistant glass-designed to handle anything from a stray baseball to a full-force fistfight outside. Breaking through this is going to take everything I''ve got.
I raise my elbow and slam the tooth against the glass. The impact reverberates up my arm, rattling every bone and sending a shock of pain straight to my shoulder. The first hit leaves nothing. Just a faint smear where the tooth struck. I bite down, tasting blood as I brace myself, ignoring the blaze roaring closer, licking at my heels.
The second hit connects, and a single white crack blooms, a tiny hairline fracture that spiders out for just an inch. But it''s something. My arm''s shaking with the effort, and I barely feel my fingers anymore, the tooth digging in too deep, but I wind up one more time.
The third hit causes a spiderweb of cracks to stretch across the glass, each line fracturing outward in tiny jagged patterns, weakening the whole pane. Just one more, I tell myself, choking on the bitter air. I can feel the heat getting worse, licking at my jacket, and the smell of melting rubber fills my head. I don''t have the time to think.
The fourth hit shatters the window. Glass splinters outward in a sharp, crystalline rain, leaving a hole just big enough for us to crawl through. The fresh rush of air makes the flames leap higher, a hungry blaze that roars up as though someone threw fuel on it. The fire rages up toward the ceiling, hotter, angrier, more alive, like it''s trying to block me from getting out.
Fat chance.
I grit my teeth, ignoring the blood on my sleeve, and carefully lift the girl into my arms again, cradling her as best I can. There''s no diving through the opening like they do in movies-just a slow, careful step over the broken glass, keeping her close and tight against me to shield her from the jagged edges. Each step out into the open feels like I''m wading through molasses, my lungs burning, my head pounding, but the rush of cold February air on the other side is a relief so sharp it almost hurts.
The fire engine pulls up just as I stumble out, lights flashing, sirens blaring, and the firefighters are already leaping out, moving toward me with focused, efficient motions. One of them reaches out, and I hand over the girl without a word, watching them carry her toward safety, away from the flames that are still raging behind me.
And then I just... collapse. Right there on the wet sidewalk, gasping for air, trying to cough out the taste of smoke and chemicals that''s still coating the back of my throat. The cold concrete presses against me, grounding me, reminding me that I''m out, that I made it, even if it feels like every nerve in my body is still screaming.
The firefighters are too busy with the blaze to notice me, sprawled out and coughing, and I take that as a small mercy. I can feel the ache in my bones, the sting in my throat, and the steady throb of pain beneath my fingernails, like a reminder of every terrible thing that just happened.
I close my eyes, letting the chill of the pavement seep into me as I try to calm my racing pulse, the noise of the fire and sirens fading into the background.
Chapter 139.1
The oxygen mask smells like rubber and antiseptic, and it''s clinging to my face like it''s got something to prove. Every breath feels like I''m drinking the world''s flattest soda, all fizz and no flavor, but at least it''s doing its job. I try to sit still while the paramedic--a gruff-looking guy in his forties with a beard so patchy it looks like he''s growing it out for a dare--checks my elbow. He''s got a flashlight, a penlight, and a level of patience I can only aspire to.
"You''re lucky," he says, dabbing something that smells like rubbing alcohol onto the scrape I barely even noticed. "That glass could''ve done a lot worse. Take a deep breath, this is for the smoke inhalation."
Buddy, I''ve been taking a deep breath.
"Yeah, well, luck''s my middle name," I mumble, watching the firefighters through the gaps in the crowd. The coffee shop''s still smoking, the flames mostly gone but leaving behind the kind of destruction you only see on insurance commercials. The whole front of the building looks like it''s been chewed on by something big and angry, and the smell... it''s acrid and metallic, like someone set a scrapyard on fire and decided it was art.
"Luck, huh?" The paramedic smirks. "Guess you didn''t need my help with that window, then."
"I mean, I had it under control," I say, which is technically true. My elbow''s throbbing in time with my pulse, the joint stiff and swollen, but it''s already knitting itself back together--I can feel the dull, itchy tug of my body doing its thing. The paramedic doesn''t know that, of course. He''s got this calm, no-nonsense expression, like this is just another Saturday and not one of the weirdest days of his week. "But, uh, thanks for patching me up. Appreciate it. You wanna peek at my elbow real quick?"
He bends down and frowns at the reddened skin, the small, bloodless hole where the tooth emerged, already shrinking, his fingers brushing over it in a way that makes the sharp pain flare for a second before subsiding. I''ve broken bones before, though. Definitely not broken. "Doesn''t look broken. Maybe a mild sprain. I''ll wrap it, but you should see a doctor if the swelling doesn''t go down."
I nod, not bothering to tell him that the swelling will probably be gone before I even get home. That''s the fun thing about being me--nobody''s long-term medical advice applies.
Jordan''s sitting a few feet away, their oxygen mask dangling around their neck as they poke at the phone in their lap. The reflective bug-eye visor of their motorcycle helmet is shoved up, and they''ve got the kind of expression that says they''re about one snarky comment away from making this paramedic''s day a lot more interesting. They''ve got a different paramedic fussing over them, but they keep glancing over at me, their eyebrows raised in a way that clearly says, Are you good?
"This isn''t exactly how I pictured our Saturday going," they say, mid-glance. "I was thinking maybe coffee, maybe watching some terrible anime, not playing firefighter. But, hey, life''s full of surprises."
"You''re welcome, by the way," I reply, giving them the flattest look I can muster through the mask. "For, you know, saving your favorite coffee spot."
Jordan snorts. "Yeah, saving it from, like, half burning down. Great job, team. Truly heroic. I''m done, bee tee dubs," Jordan says to the paramedic, sitting up straight again and waving the guy off. "Seriously, you can go save a life or something. I just need some water and maybe a therapist."
"Stay put," their paramedic replies, clearly unimpressed. He''s already turning away, muttering something into his radio as he moves toward the next cluster of people.
My paramedic gives us a look like he''s debating whether or not to intervene, but thankfully he doesn''t say anything. Instead, he finishes wrapping my elbow with the kind of efficiency that comes from treating people way worse off than me and waves me off like he''s dismissing a particularly annoying fly. "You''re good to go, but keep that clean. Smoke inhalation might hit you harder later, so don''t ignore it if you feel off, alright?"
I nod, pulling the mask down and letting the cold February air sting my lungs again. It''s not pleasant, but it''s better than feeling like I''m suffocating under all that rubber and antiseptic.
The firefighters are still working on the building, hoses blasting arcs of water into the smoke-blackened windows. Amy''s is mostly gone now--burnt out in this skeletal, half-collapsed way that makes my stomach twist. The sign above the entrance is charred and unreadable, and the front wall looks like it''s about one solid push away from crumbling into the street. The fire started in the doorway, and the firefighters have it under control now, but at least 60% of the structure is just gone. Even from this distance, the air is heavy with the smell of wet ash and something sharper, metallic, like a hot iron left on too long.
The firefighters start spraying down the last stubborn patches of flame while a few of them pick through the rubble near the entrance. One of them--this stocky guy with a mustache that belongs in an ''80s action movie--waves over the fire chief, who''s been standing near the truck with her arms crossed and an expression that could shatter glass.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
"That''s Amy, right?" Jordan nudges me, nodding toward a woman standing near the firefighters. She''s in her fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a ponytail and an apron that''s seen better days. The front of it is smeared with soot, and her hands are shaking just enough to make me feel bad for even noticing.
"Yeah, that''s her." I push myself up, ignoring the paramedic''s half-hearted attempt to tell me to sit back down, and make my way over. Amy''s talking to the fire chief--who looks exactly like someone named Chief Patterson should look: square-jawed, all business, and probably able to bench press a refrigerator--and they both turn as I approach.
"I don''t know," she''s saying as I walk up, oxygen mask dangling loosely around my neck. "I wasn''t here when it started. I had a bad feeling yesterday, you know? Like, one of those gut instincts that tells you something''s off. But what am I supposed to do? Close up shop because of a vibe?"
"Any idea what caused the fire yet?" Patterson asks, hands folded up in front of her arms almost defensively.
Amy wrings her hands, her gaze flicking between me and Patterson. "I don''t know... it just happened so fast. One second I was at the counter, and the next..." She gestures helplessly toward the smoldering remains of her shop. "The sprinklers didn''t even go off. I thought those were supposed to kick in automatically."
"When was the last time they were inspected?" Patterson asks, matter-of-factly.
Amy rubs the back of her neck, looking embarrassed. "Last year? Maybe the year before. They''ve been fine so far, so I didn''t think... I mean, they should''ve worked. They''ve gone off before. It''s a coffee shop, we have a kitchen in the back, fires happen."
I clear my throat, stepping closer. Both of them glance at me, the fire chief raising an eyebrow. "Uh, sorry to interrupt," I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets. "But I noticed something weird inside. The sprinklers? They didn''t just not go off--they were... broken. Or melted. I couldn''t really tell, but it looked deliberate."
"Bloodhound, right?" Patterson''s voice is clipped, like she''s got better things to do than make small talk with costumed vigilantes. "Not to get off topic, but you did a good job in there."
"Thanks," I say, trying not to sound too awkward. Compliments from authority figures always feel like they come with invisible strings.
"You said it looked deliberate?" Patterson asks.
"Very," I reply, curtly, professionally.
Amy''s eyes widen, and she looks back at the fire chief, her voice sharp. "Like... Like someone sabotaged them?"
"It''s a possibility," the fire chief says, his expression shifting into something grimmer. "But we won''t know for sure until we''ve had a closer look. Right now, we''re just focused on making sure the fire''s completely out."
Amy''s face crumples, guilt written all over it. "I should''ve known something was wrong. Yesterday, there was this guy... I don''t know, he just gave me a bad feeling. He was sitting by the window, didn''t order anything, just kept... staring."
"Staring at what?" Jordan pipes up, appearing at my side like they''ve been there the whole time. They''ve got their helmet visor down again, so it''s impossible to tell if they''re actually interested or just messing with her.
Amy hesitates, glancing at the fire chief like she''s looking for permission. "At the doorway, mostly. And the counters. I thought he was just... I don''t know, weird. But now..." She trails off, wringing her hands harder.
"What about the cameras?" I ask, glancing at Amy. "Do you have security footage?"
She sighs, rubbing her temples. "No. They stopped working yesterday, some time between close and open this morning. I should''ve closed up shop, gotten it checked out..." There''s guilt in her voice, and it''s the kind that settles deep, the kind that''ll stick with her even though it''s not really her fault.
The fire chief scribbles something on his clipboard and turns back to Amy. "We''ll do a full investigation once everything''s cooled down. In the meantime, you''ll want to get in touch with your insurance company. This kind of damage is... substantial."
Amy nods, her shoulders sagging. "Yeah. Thanks. And, uh, thank you, too," she adds, glancing at me. "For... you know. Getting people out."
"Just doing my job," I mumble, looking down at the ground. The pavement''s wet and slick with soot, reflecting the orange glow of the fire engines'' lights.
Patterson lets out a low sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "If there''s anything else you or your partner have for us, Bloodhound, you can let us know or send a report to the station. Otherwise, we''ve got damage control to--"
"The fires were red," I cut in, surprising even myself. My mouth''s moving before my brain can catch up, the details tumbling out in a rush. "Like, road flare red. And they smelled... metallic. Not like regular fire. You noticed that, right?"
Patterson narrows her eyes, but she doesn''t brush me off. "Yeah. Strange signature on the burn patterns, too. Could be a chemical accelerant, but I''ve never seen anything like it."
"Road flare," Jordan mutters, and I can tell they''re filing that away in their mental Rolodex. "So, what, some guy walked in here with a pocket full of flares and a grudge?"
"It''s not impossible," Patterson admits, her expression softening just enough to suggest she''s as frustrated as we are. "But fires don''t start themselves. Someone did this, and they knew exactly what they were doing."
Amy lets out a shaky breath, her eyes darting toward the firefighters still picking through the rubble. "Do you think... was this some kind of--?"
"Superhuman arson?" Jordan finishes for her, their tone halfway between sarcastic and serious. "Probably. I mean, fires don''t usually sabotage sprinkler systems and smell like the inside of a battery."
"Not helping," I mutter, elbowing them in the ribs. "Look, Chief, if there''s anything we can do--"
Patterson cuts me off with a sharp wave of her hand. "We''ll handle it. You''ve done enough for one day. Let us do our jobs. Take a break."
It sounds dismissive, but I think that''s just what this person is like. I nod, stepping back but keeping my gaze fixed on the smoldering wreckage. My fingers twitch at my sides, my right hand painful.
Chapter 139.2
The coffee shop employees are clustered together on the sidewalk, wrapped in mismatched coats and emergency blankets. One of them--a young guy with a buzzcut and an apron that''s more soot than fabric--keeps glancing back at the wreckage like it might spring back to life if he looks away. His hands are shaking, and the paper cup of water he''s holding is spilling all over his boots, but he doesn''t seem to notice.
I approach slowly, hands in my jacket pockets, trying not to come off as intimidating. Bloodhound might not be the scariest name in the city, but there''s a vibe people expect, and I''m trying not to give it off too hard. "Hey," I start, keeping my voice low. "You good to answer a few questions?"
Buzzcut doesn''t answer right away. One of the other employees, a barista with bright green hair pulled into twin buns, nudges him. "He''s fine," she says, her voice sharp. "Just a little freaked out."
"I can tell," I say, glancing at the coffee-soaked boots. "Sorry, but anything you remember about what happened could really help. Did you see how it started?"
Buzzcut blinks a few times before finally looking up. "I... I don''t know," he says, his voice shaky. "It was normal, you know? Like, people were coming and going, and then... there was this weird light."
"Weird how?" I ask, leaning forward just enough to keep him talking.
He hesitates, chewing on his lip. "It was... red. Like, really red. Not like fire. It was brighter, almost like... like one of those emergency strobes? It was coming from the front, near the door. And then there was smoke, and everything just... went nuts."
"Red light first, then smoke?" I repeat, trying to piece it together. He nods, clutching the cup tighter. I glance at Green Buns, who''s listening but not saying much. "What about you? Did you see anything?"
She shrugs, but her eyes dart toward the wreckage. "I was in the back, stacking cups. Didn''t see the light, but I smelled something. Metallic. Like burning wires, you know? I thought it was the espresso machine overheating or something. Next thing I know, everyone''s shouting, and the smoke''s pouring in."
I chew on that, trying to line it up with what I saw. "And the fire? Did it start with the smoke, or--?"
"Before," she says quickly. "The smoke was first. The fire came after."
That''s weird. Fires usually come first. Smoke follows. Not the other way around. "What about evacuation?" I ask, pulling my focus back. "Did you see anything on the way out? Anyone suspicious?"
Buzzcut snorts, bitter. "Too busy trying not to die to take anything in. People were pushing, yelling, trying to get out through the back. Sprinklers didn''t work, alarms barely made a sound... it was chaos."
Green Buns nods. "We tried to keep it calm, but..." She gestures toward the crowd of evacuees, her face tight. "Not everyone listens when they''re panicked, you know? Some girl fell, hit her head. Is she okay?"
My pulse ticks up, and then back down. "I got her covered, don''t worry."
Green Buns points toward the paramedics clustered near the fire engines. "Over there. She was at the front, closest to the door. Might''ve seen more."
"Thanks," I say, stepping back. "You did good getting everyone out. Seriously."
Green Buns gives a small nod, but Buzzcut just stares at his boots again, muttering something I don''t catch. I leave them to their blankets and water and head toward the paramedics.
The girl they mentioned is sitting on the edge of the open ambulance, a bandage wrapped around her forehead and an ice pack pressed to her temple. She''s young, maybe early twenties, with dark curls and sharp, hazel eyes that narrow as she spots me. "Bloodhound, right?" she asks, her voice a little slurred but still steady.
"That''s me," I say, stopping a few feet away. She squints at me like she''s trying to figure out what''s under the mask, and I can''t tell if it''s curiosity or suspicion.
"You''re shorter than I thought," she says, and I bite back a groan.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
"Yeah, well, cameras add height," I reply, trying not to sound too defensive. "How''s your head?"
She lifts the ice pack, showing off the bandage with a wry smile. "Doc says I''ll live. Just a bump, nothing serious."
"That''s good to hear," I say, shifting my weight awkwardly. "Are you good to talk?"
She nods at me, her eyes twinkling a little bit.
"Can you walk me through what happened? Anything you saw before or during the fire?" I ask.
She frowns, leaning forward a little. "I was sitting near the front, working on this essay--well, procrastinating on this essay, if I''m being honest--and there was this... I don''t know, this flash? Like, bright red, out of nowhere. And then the smoke started pouring in. Or maybe the smoke came first, it was hard to tell, but it was really close together. It was so fast, like someone flipped a switch. I barely had time to grab my stuff before everyone was screaming and shoving toward the back."
"What about the fire?" I ask. "Did you see it start?"
"Not exactly," she says, shaking her head. "The smoke was so thick, I couldn''t see much of anything. But there was this... smell. Metallic, kind of sharp. Like burning coins or something."
That tracks with what the others said. I nod, filing it away. "Anything else? Anyone acting weird beforehand?"
She hesitates, her eyes darting to the ground. "There was this guy by the window. He wasn''t doing anything, just sitting there, but he kept staring at the door. Like... really staring. It was creepy, but I figured he was just waiting for someone."
"And after the fire started?" I prompt.
"Gone," she says, shrugging. "Didn''t see him after that. He must''ve bolted like everyone else."
I glance toward the wreckage, my thoughts racing. Staring at the door. Smoke before fire. Metallic smell. None of this adds up to anything good.
"Hey," she says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Thanks for pulling me out of there. Seriously. You saved my ass."
"Just doing my job," I say, but she shakes her head.
"No, really. You don''t have to do the stuff you do, but you do anyway. That takes a lot, you know?"
Her tone shifts, a little too warm, and I can feel the awkwardness creeping in. "Uh, thanks," I mumble, taking a step back.
She grins, clearly amused by my sudden discomfort. "You single, or is Bloodhound off the market?"
I nearly choke, my brain short-circuiting. "Uh, not really the time," I manage, and she laughs, waving me off. I can tell that she''s college-aged, and for a second I''m almost ready to get seriously pissed off, and then I remember that I''m wearing a mask and that she probably can''t tell my age under all the bulk.
"Fair enough. But seriously, thanks. I owe you one."
I nod quickly, mumbling something about staying safe, and make a beeline for the other side of the lot before she can say anything else. Jordan''s there, leaning against the fire engine with their phone in hand, their visor tilted down just enough to hide their expression.
"Make a new friend?" they ask without looking up, their voice dripping with amusement.
"Shut up," I mutter, crossing my arms. "What''re you looking at?"
Jordan tilts their phone toward me, the screen glowing with a news alert. "Another garbage fire. A couple blocks from here. Same weird red light, same metallic smell."
My stomach drops. "You think it''s connected?"
"Yeah," they say, scrolling through the report. "And so does everyone else. Forums are already lighting up--pun intended--with theories. People are freaking out, Bee. They think it''s a serial arsonist, maybe even a super."
I glance back at the coffee shop, the charred remains still smoldering in the cold February air. My hand aches, the pain sharp and insistent, and I can''t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning.
"I have my theories," I say, already pinning a name to the top of my internal list. "Let''s skedaddle?"
Jordan nods, their grip tightening on the phone. "Yeah. Let''s."
The Music Hall feels colder than usual when we trudge up the stairs, each step creaking under our weight like it''s groaning at the sheer effort we''ve put into the day. My clothes reek of smoke--so does Jordan''s--and every inhale reminds me of the burning coffee shop, the metallic tang of the air, and the heat crawling up my skin. My elbow throbs faintly as I shrug out of my jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair in the common area. It''s fine now, just the residual pain leaking out.
Jordan tosses their helmet onto the couch with a little more force than necessary, then flops into their chair at the computer setup, their fingers already dancing over the keyboard. "I swear," they mutter, pulling up what looks like five tabs of local news and forums, "if this turns out to be some Jumphead with a flamethrower, I''m gonna lose my mind."
"Flamethrower would''ve been easier to spot," I mumble, yanking off my gloves and draping them over a radiator that doesn''t really work but might dry them faster than leaving them. The helmet comes last, the familiar weight leaving my head and neck feeling weirdly light. I set it on the counter next to Jordan''s helmet and glance around the room. The hall''s emptier than it usually feels, the air heavy in a way that isn''t just the smell of burning fabric.
"You still smell like fire," Jordan calls over their shoulder, not looking up from their screens.
"So do you," I shoot back, grabbing one of the extra hoodies from a hook on the wall and pulling it over my head. It smells faintly of mothballs, but it''s better than the lingering scent of ash. I drop onto the couch, pulling my knees up and scrolling through my phone as Jordan starts muttering to themselves. The Tacony HIRC is already buzzing, post after post about the coffee shop fire, speculation running rampant. A few people mention the weird red light; others talk about seeing smoke rising from alleys or dumpsters in the neighborhood.
"I hate this," I mutter, throwing my phone onto the cushion next to me. "Everyone''s panicking, and we don''t even have a clue who or what''s behind it."
Jordan swivels in their chair, one eyebrow raised. "Well, lucky for you, I''ve been getting a suspect list going. Wanna play detective?"
Chapter 139.3
"Hit me," I say, stretching my legs out and pretending my hand doesn''t ache from earlier. "Who''s our first contestant?"
Jordan spins back to their monitors, pulling up a profile that looks like it was ripped from some low-budget crime database. "First up: Hotwire. Electricity-based powers, sparks fires by overloading circuits. We caught them once about six months ago trying to light up a warehouse."
I shake my head. "Hotwire needs direct contact. They can''t just light things on fire from a distance."
"True," Jordan admits, clicking to the next tab. "Okay, how about Johnny Matchstick? Pyrokinetic, pretty small-time. He''s got that whole ''firefighter turned arsonist'' backstory. Classic villain stuff."
"Can''t generate fire," I point out. "He can only manipulate it. Unless someone handed him a pocket full of flares, he''s out."
Jordan groans, rubbing their temples dramatically. "Fuck, right, I remember that. Will o'' Wisp?"
"The floating flame lady?" I ask, sitting up straighter. "Isn''t she usually blue?"
"Always blue," Jordan confirms, scratching that name off the virtual list. "Damn it, Bee, you''re making this hard."
"Not my fault your suspects are terrible," I reply, smirking despite myself. "What else you got?"
Jordan flips through a few more tabs, pulling up names and faces I don''t recognize. There''s T-4, who turned out to be a Jumphead, so they''re out of the running entirely. Torch Tongue, whose name makes me cringe, but they''re currently locked up in a facility outside Pittsburgh. Every option feels like a dead end, and the longer the list gets, the more frustrated I feel.
"This isn''t going anywhere," I mutter, standing up and pacing the room. "We''re missing something. Someone."
"Or something," Jordan says, spinning their chair to face me. "What if it''s not a person? Could be some kind of malfunctioning tech. A bot or something."
"Robots aren''t real, Jordan. And they don''t sabotage sprinklers," I snap, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. Jordan raises their hands in mock surrender, but I can see the tension in their jaw. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "Sorry. It''s just... this doesn''t feel random. The coffee shop, the dumpsters, the garbage fire by the school--it''s all too... specific."
Jordan narrows their eyes, leaning back in their chair. "Specific how?"
I stop pacing, turning to face them. "It''s places I go. Or... places I''ve been. The coffee shop''s where we stop after school. The dumpsters were behind that corner store I hit last week. The school... obviously. It''s like they''re targeting my territory."
Jordan''s eyebrows shoot up. "Your territory? You''re not a mob boss, Sam. You said so yourself."
"You''re not helping," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "I''m just saying, what if this isn''t random? What if it''s about me?"
Jordan''s quiet for a moment, their gaze flicking back to their monitors. "You''re saying someone''s tracking you. Targeting places you''ve been."
"Maybe," I say, my voice hesitant. "Or maybe it''s just a coincidence, but... it doesn''t feel like one."
Jordan nods slowly, their fingers drumming on the arm of their chair. "Alright. Let''s work with that. If it''s someone targeting you, who''d have the motive? Anyone we''ve pissed off recently? I mean, besides the guys already named?"
I snort. "That list''s longer than your suspect list."
"Fair," Jordan says, smirking. "But seriously, who''s got the means and the grudge? Maybe it''s another Kingdom agent we''re not aware of? They''ve got a bunch, I wouldn''t put it past them to have a Mrs.... Uh... Mrs. Fire. Or Mr. Prometheus - no, that wouldn''t work... Mr... Roadflare, or something. With that whole alphabet thing going on."
"Alphabet thing?" I ask, incredulously. "What?"
"You haven''t noticed?" Jordan asks back.
"What are you talking about?" I ask back, back.
"None of the guys we''ve met had overlapping names. They have, like, a name scheme. Mr. or Mrs. X-Y-Z. Mrs. Zenith, Mr. T-Rex, Mr. Polygraph, Mr. Nothing, Mrs. Heartstopper, Mrs. Xenograft, Mr. ESP... See? No overlaps. You really haven''t noticed?"
I stop to think about it for a second. "What the fuck? That''s..."
"Right? They have an alphabet thing going on," Jordan sums up.
"Mr. ESP, if you''re listening, I think your organization''s alphabet thing is clown shoes," I shout out to nobody in particular. "Oh my god, the Kingdom of Keys. Like on a keyboard,"
"FUCK!" Jordan shouts. "That''s so fucking stupid. How did I miss that."
I flop back onto the couch, my mind racing through the past year of encounters. Small-time villains, rogue Jumpheads, angry civilians who thought vigilantes were a menace--it could be anyone. And yet, nothing about this lines up with anyone I''ve faced. No one with this sort of power. "It definitely could be a Kingdom person."
Jordan''s fingers fly over the keyboard, pulling up a map of Tacony with little red dots marking the fires. "Alright, let''s look at the pattern. Dumpster fire here, coffee shop here, school here..." They trail off, frowning at the screen. "It''s like they''re drawing a... I don''t know, a weirdly specific circle."
"A circle around what?" I ask, leaning over to look at the map.
"Good question," Jordan says, zooming out to reveal more of the city. "But if this keeps up, we''re gonna find out the hard way."
Jordan swivels in their chair, pulling up another map on the screen. This one''s not just the fires we already knew about--there are new markers now, little red dots scattered along streets and alleys, connected by faint lines like constellations. I sit up straighter, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling as I realize where this is going.
"Alright," Jordan says, their voice too casual for the intensity of the screen in front of them. "So, I cross-referenced the new reports with your usual patrol routes, and guess what? They line up. It''s not a perfect fit, but, uh, I think you might be getting stalked."
I shake my head, pushing off the couch to pace again. "It''s just a coincidence. Tacony''s not that big. The fires are bound to overlap with places I''ve been."This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Jordan raises an eyebrow, spinning the chair to face me fully. "Sure, because garbage fires spontaneously appear in nice little patterns wherever you''ve happened to show up recently. Totally normal."
I glare at them, but it doesn''t stick. The tension in my chest is back, that creeping sense of dread that''s been building since the coffee shop. My right hand twitches at my side, the faint throb in my fingers like a distant alarm I''m trying to ignore. "Even if they are following my routes, that doesn''t mean they''re targeting me."
Jordan leans forward, their tone softening. "Sam... come on. You''re smarter than this. Someone''s doing this on purpose, and it''s not just some random pyromaniac."
I bite my lip, my mind racing through possibilities I don''t want to consider. I know his name, but I don''t say it. I don''t want to be the one to say it first. "Alright, fine. Let''s say it''s not random. What''s the pattern? What''s the goal?"
Jordan turns back to the screen, tracing the lines between the red dots with a fingertip. "It''s not just about where you''ve been. Look at this." They zoom in, highlighting the cluster around my school, sweeping their mouse around to emphasize the point. "It''s forming a circle. A slow, deliberate, block-by-block circle. And guess what''s smack dab in the middle?"
The school. My school. Tacony Charter Academy High School.
My heart sinks, and my hand aches worse now, the pain spreading up my arm like it''s trying to tell me something I already know but don''t want to hear. I shake my head again, more to myself than to Jordan. "That doesn''t make any sense. Why the school? Why now?"
Jordan hesitates, their fingers still on the keyboard. When they finally speak, their voice is cautious, like they''re trying to disarm a bomb. "What if it''s Aaron?"
"No," I snap, the word coming out sharper than I intend. My pulse spikes, the ache in my hand flaring as I turn to glare at them. "It''s not him."
Jordan doesn''t flinch, but they don''t back off either. "You don''t know that."
"Yes, I do," I insist, pacing faster now. "Aaron''s fire is yellow, remember? It smells like rotten eggs. This isn''t him. These fires are red. They smell like... like road flares. And that smoke? Totally different. It''s not him. He doesn''t make big plumes of white smoke like that."
Jordan tilts their head, watching me with that annoyingly patient expression they get when they know I''m lying to myself. "You should know yourself that people can discover more aspects of their powers, Mrs. "Grows-Teeth-Wolverine-Claws". And you said it yourself--these fires feel intentional, like someone''s planning them. He''s got plenty of reason to plan."
I scoff, crossing my arms. "Aaron? Plan? The guy who couldn''t even pull off a simple drug run without screwing it up? He''s not smart enough for this."
Jordan doesn''t argue that point, which almost makes it worse. They just keep watching me, their gaze steady, like they''re waiting for me to run out of excuses. I stop pacing, my hands curling into fists at my sides. My nails dig into my palms, the pain grounding me just enough to stop my voice from shaking when I speak again.
"He''s not here anymore," I say firmly. "Not Philly. He ran away, remember? He''s gone. End of story. I haven''t seen him since. Surely he would''ve tried to hit me earlier if he was here."
Jordan sighs, leaning back in their chair. "You want me to say you''re right? Fine. Maybe it''s not him. But you''ve gotta admit, he''s a good match."
"He''s not a match," I snap, but my voice wavers this time, betraying the knot of fear tightening in my chest. "He''s not... he''s not here."
They don''t press further, but the silence that follows is worse than anything they could''ve said. I can feel their eyes on me, can feel the weight of their unspoken thoughts pressing down like a stone on my chest. My hand throbs again, sharp and insistent, like it''s trying to force me to acknowledge something I''m not ready to face.
Jordan breaks the silence first, their tone gentle but firm. "Sam, if it is him, we need to be ready. I''m not saying it is, but we can''t ignore the possibility."
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath that does nothing to steady the storm in my head. "It''s not him," I mutter, more to myself than to Jordan. But the words feel hollow, like I''m trying to convince myself of something I stopped believing the moment they said his name.
Jordan doesn''t argue. They just nod, turning back to the monitors and pulling up another map, their fingers moving with practiced precision. "Alright. Then let''s figure out who it really is."
I sink back onto the couch, my hands trembling in my lap. The pain in my right hand is still there, dull and constant, like a warning I can''t quite decode. My mind keeps circling back to the same thoughts, the same memories I''ve been trying to bury since the last time I saw Aaron McKinley.
Jordan''s typing slows, the staccato rhythm of the keys fading into a tense silence. I glance up from where I''m hunched on the couch, rubbing my aching hand as if that''ll somehow make the throbbing stop. Their screen glows faintly in the dim room, and I can see the reflection of their helmet visor pushed up, revealing a pinched expression that sends a jolt of unease through me.
"What?" I ask, sharper than I mean to. The ache in my hand feels sharper now, like a warning bell.
Jordan tilts the screen slightly toward me. "There''s something you need to see."
I get up slowly, the weight in their voice dragging at my movements. Crossing the room, I perch on the arm of their chair, leaning in to see the map they''ve pulled up. It''s not Tacony this time--it''s a broader view, stretching northward into Bucks County. Little markers dot the map, pinned to reports that Jordan has somehow dug up from who knows where.
"These are arson reports from the past year," Jordan says, their voice flat but loaded with implication. They hover the cursor over one of the markers, clicking it to pull up a brief blurb. "Red fires, like the ones we''ve been seeing. And blue fires. Yellow, too."
I blink, staring at the list of incidents popping up on the screen. A car fire outside a shopping center in Langhorne. A residential blaze in Bensalem. A trash can fire--red, like a road flare, specifically noted in the report--in Village Shires.
"Invisible fire," I murmur, squinting at the words in one of the reports. "What the hell does that even mean?"
Jordan shrugs, pulling up another file. "Witnesses said they couldn''t see the flames, but they could feel the heat and smell something burning. And that the fire "just started out of nowhere". Shady guy in a hoodie. Sounds familiar, doesn''t it?"
My stomach tightens, and I step back, shaking my head. "No. It''s just... it''s a coincidence. There''s no way Aaron could... he wouldn''t know how to do that."
I take a step closer, my hands curling into fists at my sides. My nails dig into my palms, the ache in my right hand flaring again as I stare at the screen. The words blur together, the weight of them pressing down on my chest like a physical thing. "Aaron''s power doesn''t work like that," I say, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. "He sets stuff on fire. It''s yellow, it smells like sulfur. This... this isn''t him."
Jordan gives me a look, their expression carefully neutral. "Are you sure? Because it kinda seems like his power might be more complicated than we thought. Like, half of these are his yellow fire, smells like rotten eggs. And they''re all earlier. Time goes on, fewer of the reports are yellow, the more are red and blue."
"Powers don''t evolve," I snap, pacing again to shake off the crawling feeling under my skin. "That''s not how it works. You don''t just wake up one day with new abilities. It''s static. I said that already! It''s static! What you get when you Activate is what you''ve got for life."
"Sure," Jordan says, leaning forward with their elbows on their knees. "Remember what I said like two minutes ago? What if it''s not about evolution? What if Aaron''s power was always capable of this, but he didn''t know it? Or he didn''t know how to use it."
No. I refuse to believe it. "He''s not that smart," I say, more to myself than to Jordan. "He wouldn''t even know where to start. Powers don''t change like that!"
Jordan doesn''t argue, but their silence says enough. They look at me like I''m a kicked puppy and it makes me want to start yelling. My mind races, memories of Aaron flashing behind my eyes like a bad slideshow, my head suddenly throbbing right where a crowbar hit it a year ago.
The sound of a notification ping cuts through the room, and Jordan swivels back to their monitors. "Oh, great," they mutter, pulling up a new HIRC thread. "Looks like we''ve got another one."
I step closer, peering over their shoulder as the screen fills with a string of messages. The chat thread reads: Weird Red Fire Near Torresdale--WTF Is Going On? My stomach sinks as I skim the posts, each one describing the same thing: a garbage fire, burning bright red, with that same metallic smell. "Anyone see this?" "WTF?" "Smells like shit", and it''s close. Too close.
"Torresdale," I whisper, my chest tightening. "That''s... that''s right near here."
Jordan nods, their jaw set. "Yeah. Like, a block away."
The ache in my right hand spikes, sharp and sudden, like a warning bell. The pattern isn''t just closing in--it''s tightening around us. Around me. I feel it in my bones, in the pit of my stomach, in the way every nerve in my body is screaming at me to move, to act, to do something before it''s too late.
This is a warning shot. And I''m the one being warned.
Chapter 140.1
The Music Hall feels like it''s holding its breath. The usual creaks and groans of the old building have faded into a tense silence that matches the weight pressing down on my chest. Jordan''s still glued to their monitors, fingers flying over the keyboard in bursts of motion that almost look frantic if you don''t know them. I do, though. This is what they do when they''re trying to stay calm: work themselves into a fugue state of data and pixels so they don''t have to think about what''s happening outside.
I''m not much better. My hand hasn''t stopped aching since the coffee shop fire, a dull, persistent throb under my nails that makes it impossible to sit still. I''ve been pacing for what feels like hours, my boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor with every step. Every so often, I glance at my phone, like the notification for some magical solution is just waiting to pop up.
Nothing. Just HIRC updates about more garbage fires, each one closer to home.
"They''re not answering," I say, breaking the quiet for the third time in as many minutes. The Young Defenders group chat sits open on my phone, the little read receipts staring back at me like taunts. Jason saw my message but hasn''t responded. Amelia sent a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else. Spindle, predictably, is MIA - handling things with his new family. I try not to feel resentful and sour grapes about it. "Why aren''t they answering?"
"Because it''s Saturday," Jordan replies without looking up, their voice clipped. "Normal people are doing normal things, not tracking some psycho arsonist through Tacony."
"Yeah, well, we''re not normal," I snap, pacing faster. "And neither is Aaron. If this is him--"
"They don''t know it''s him," Jordan cuts in, their fingers pausing on the keyboard just long enough to give me a pointed look. "And until we do, freaking out isn''t gonna help. Sit down or something, you''re gonna wear a hole in the floor."
I glare at them but drop onto the couch anyway, my legs bouncing with restless energy. "What if it is him? What if he''s--"
Jordan holds up a hand, stopping me mid-spiral. "Okay, let''s think about this rationally. If it''s Aaron, what''s his endgame? He''s not exactly the ''big plan'' type, so why would he be setting fires in your backyard?"
"To piss me off," I mutter, crossing my arms. "Or to send a message. He''s done it before."
Jordan tilts their head, conceding the point with a small shrug. "Fair. But he''s not the only one who could''ve done this. We''ve pissed off plenty of people in the last year. Maybe it''s someone new."
I open my mouth to argue but close it again when my phone buzzes. For half a second, hope flares in my chest, only to fizzle out when I see the notification: a new HIRC post about another fire. This one''s barely two blocks from the Music Hall. My heart sinks as I skim the details--same red light, same metallic smell, same ominous lack of witnesses.
"Jordan," I say, holding up the phone. "It''s getting closer."
They don''t respond, their attention locked on their screen. I lean over to see what they''re looking at, but it''s just a tangle of maps and spreadsheets, the kind of chaos only Jordan can make sense of.
"Can''t the DVD handle this?" I ask, half to myself. "It''s their job, right? Superhuman arsonist in their territory, they should be all over it."
Jordan snorts, shaking their head. "Yeah, because the Delaware Valley Defenders are totally on top of things."
I grimace. "It''s their job. I''m calling them anyway," I say, pulling up the hotline number.
"Knock yourself out," Jordan mutters, their focus already back on the monitor.
"The Defenders are currently handling an active situation in West Philadelphia," the dispatcher says, their tone clipped and efficient. "If this is an emergency requiring immediate assistance, we recommend contacting local law enforcement."
"This is local law enforcement," I snap back, pacing again. "It''s Bloodhound. I''ve met you in person, Jean. They''re already dealing with the fires. I''m just saying, if someone can spare five minutes--"
"Please leave a detailed message, and we''ll follow up as soon as possible," they interrupt. "I''m sorry, Bee. I don''t want to seem callous. We''re just stretched so thin right now,"
I grunt and hang up on her mid-sentence.
"Great," I say, forcing a smile she can''t see. "Thanks for nothing."
I hang up and toss my phone onto the couch, resisting the urge to throw it harder. Jordan glances over, one eyebrow raised. "How''d that go?"
"About as well as you''d expect," I mutter. "They''re busy. Big surprise."
Jordan hums in acknowledgment, their fingers flying across the keyboard. "So, what''s the plan? Sit here and hope someone else takes care of it, or...?"
I glare at them, but the frustration bubbling in my chest isn''t aimed at Jordan. They''re just the only person here. I dangle my phone in my hand, staring at text messages that all say the same thing. "I don''t know, okay? Everyone''s either busy or ignoring me. Jason''s out of town visiting NYC, Amelia''s useless in a fight, Lily hasn''t answered yet, and Connor--" I break off, shaking my head. "He''s probably doing family stuff. I don''t want to drag him into this."This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"And tall, dark, and handsome?" Jordan asks, referring to Crossroads. "You still have his phone number, even though he graduated, right?"
"Yeah. He said ''don''t worry about it''," I say, worrying about it.
Jordan smirks, but it''s fleeting. The tension in the room feels like it''s about to snap, and I don''t know how to fix it. My hand aches, my chest feels too tight, and all I can think about is how close that last fire was. Too close.
My phone buzzes again, and this time it''s a text from Lily. Sorry, can''t make it tonight. Family emergency. Be safe, okay?
"Great," I mutter, tossing the phone aside again. "Just great."
Jordan leans back in their chair, spinning it in a slow circle as they watch me. "You know, we could just... not do anything. Let the fires burn themselves out. See what happens."
I whip around to glare at them, my hand curling into a fist at my side. "Are you serious?"
"No," Jordan says, rolling their eyes. "But you need to calm down before you do something stupid. Running out there without a plan isn''t gonna solve anything."
"And sitting here is?" I shoot back, my voice rising. "People are scared, Jordan. They''re counting on us to do something."
Jordan doesn''t respond right away, their gaze flicking back to the monitors. When they finally speak, their voice is quiet but firm. "They''re counting on you to not get yourself killed."
The words hit harder than I want to admit. I sink back onto the couch, my head in my hands as I try to pull myself together. The ache in my hand is worse now, sharp and insistent, like it''s trying to tell me something I don''t want to hear.
"We''ll figure this out," Jordan says, their tone softer. "But you''ve gotta stop acting like it''s all on you. It''s not."
I nod at Jordan''s words, my jaw tight as I pick up my phone again. I scroll through my contacts, my thumb hesitating over Akilah''s name. Then, lacking other options, I decide.
She''s nearby, and she''s got experience, and will probably be available. I exhale sharply, more a huff of frustration than an actual sigh, and hit call.
She picks up on the second ring. "Bee," she says, voice sharp and familiar. "What''s going on?"
"Hi, Akilah. Aaron might be back," I say, not bothering with pleasantries. "Or someone like him. Fires, weird patterns, targeting my routes. It''s getting bad, and Jordan and I can''t handle this alone."
There''s a pause, just long enough for me to hear the faint sound of traffic on her end. "And you''re calling me because...?"
"Because you''re in the area," I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "I don''t need you to do anything huge, just... keep watch. Help cover us at night. I can''t make myself investigate right now. I''ll do something stupid."
Another pause, then a sigh. "I''m not interested in going door-to-door looking for an arsonist, if that''s what you''re angling for."
"I''m not," I say quickly. "I just need someone who knows what they''re doing. Someone who can--"
"Someone who can watch your back," she interrupts. "Got it. I''m not far. I''ll swing by."
She hangs up before I can respond, leaving me staring at my phone like it might give me a follow-up explanation. It doesn''t.
"She''s coming," I tell Jordan, who doesn''t even look up from their monitors.
"Great," they mutter, the sarcasm barely there this time. "Puppeteer to the rescue. Bet she''ll be a real ray of sunshine, that girl who choked you out because she was mad that you upstaged her."
"It''s Marionette now, and you also dragged my entire skull through a row of canned soup. People change," I shoot back.
"Meh," Jordan replies.
True to her word, Akilah arrives less than twenty minutes later. The Music Hall''s back door creaks as it opens, and she steps inside like she owns the place. She''s in costume - black and purple and brick browns designed to blend into the old streets of North Philadelphia. Her dark eyes sweep the room, taking in the monitors, the cluttered workbench, and finally me and Jordan.
"Cozy," she says, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "Looks a little less like shit every time I come in here,"
Jordan raises an eyebrow but doesn''t bother with a retort, just gestures vaguely at the couch. "Feel free to sit wherever. Or don''t. Whatever."
Akilah turns her attention to me, her expression unreadable. "What''s the plan?"
"Not much of one yet," I admit. "Just... stay here tonight. Keep an eye on things. Maybe patrol the area if you''re up for it."
"Patrol''s easy," she says, crossing her arms. "What about during the day? You expecting this guy to keep to a schedule?"
"Not exactly," I say, glancing at Jordan, who''s still glued to their screen. "But the fires have been mostly at night so far. That''s when we''re vulnerable."
Akilah nods slowly, then tilts her head toward the monitors. "What''s the latest?"
Jordan fills her in with a quick, efficient summary, their tone neutral but not unfriendly. Akilah listens without interrupting, her sharp gaze flicking between the screens and Jordan''s face like she''s sizing them up.
When Jordan finishes, she turns back to me. "And you think it''s Aaron?"
"I don''t know," I say, my voice tighter than I want it to be. "Could be. Might not be. But he''s the best guess I''ve got."
Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn''t push. "Alright. I''ll keep watch. You''ve got my number if anything happens."
"Thanks," I mutter, though the word feels awkward coming out.
Akilah shrugs like it''s nothing and turns her attention to the room. "How''s Devonte?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can think better of it.
Her shoulders stiffen slightly, but she doesn''t look at me. "Still adjusting. The implant surgery''s scheduled for next month. Until then, he''s... managing."
"That''s good," I say, and I mean it. What happened to him wasn''t fair, but fairness doesn''t mean much in our line of work.
Akilah doesn''t respond, just nods curtly and steps toward the nearest window, her posture straight and purposeful as she scans the street below.
"Alright, that''s enough brooding," Jordan declares, spinning their chair around to face me. "You, couch. We''re watching something stupid."
"What?" I blink at them, caught off guard.
"Anime night," they say, grabbing a remote and gesturing for me to sit. "You''re doing a Girls and They''s Night, and I''m not letting you leave this hall until you chill the fuck out."
I glance at Akilah, who raises an eyebrow but doesn''t comment. "You''re serious?"
"Dead serious," Jordan replies, already scrolling through their streaming queue. "Pick your poison: space ninjas or giant robots?"
I sigh, dropping onto the couch with a groan. "Fine. Giant robots."
Jordan grins triumphantly and hits play. The screen lights up with an overly dramatic intro sequence, all flashing lights and power chords, and for the first time all day, I feel a flicker of something resembling normalcy.
Akilah stays by the window, silent but watchful. Every so often, she glances back at us, her expression unreadable. I can''t tell if she''s judging us or just keeping her distance, but I decide not to push it.
Chapter 140.2
The morning--or technically afternoon--slips in quietly, with sunlight spilling through the dusty Music Hall windows in thin, reluctant streaks. It''s a dim kind of brightness, the kind that comes with February mornings where the cold still clings to everything, and the gray skies don''t seem to want to clear.
I groan, blinking blearily at the room around me. The couch is predictably uncomfortable, my neck stiff from sleeping at a weird angle. Jordan''s sprawled on the other side, a blanket half-slipped off their shoulders, and the TV is still on, though it''s paused on some ridiculous frame from the robot anime they picked. Giant mechas are mid-pose, frozen in a dramatic battle against whatever monster-of-the-week they were fighting when we crashed.
I glance toward the window, and there''s no sign of Akilah. My stomach sinks a little--not because I expected her to hang around all day, but because her presence last night had been¡ grounding. The knowing kind of grounding, like when someone competent is around and you can just let yourself breathe for a second.
Jordan stirs as I stretch, their face half-buried in the couch cushions. "Ugh¡ what time is it?" they mumble, voice muffled and thick with sleep.
"Almost noon," I reply, rubbing at the back of my neck. "Guess we''re officially night owls now."
"You''re welcome," they grumble, pulling the blanket over their head. "Akilah still here?"
"Nope," I say, nodding toward the spot she''d been keeping watch by the window. There''s a note stuck to the edge of the windowsill, its corners weighed down with a pair of batteries. I get up to grab it, the stiffness in my legs protesting the movement.
The handwriting is precise and no-nonsense--exactly what I''d expect from her:
"Patrolled until 11 AM. No sign of anything unusual. Lucky I''m not counting this as billable hours. Stay sharp."
I roll my eyes but can''t help the faint smile tugging at my lips. Typical Akilah. Always acting like she''s all business, but the fact that she stuck around as long as she did says otherwise.
"Let me guess," Jordan says, sitting up enough to squint at me. "She left some snarky note about how she''s too good for us?"
"Basically," I say, tossing the note onto the coffee table. "But she patrolled all night. So, you know. She cares."
"Shocking," Jordan mutters, running a hand through their bedhead. "Guess we''re lucky she didn''t charge us. Not like she needs the cash, though. Isn''t her family loaded or something?"
"Something like that," I lie, heading toward the kitchenette to rummage for coffee. Truth be told, I don''t know a lot about her. I know that she used to be a gymnast, I know all the stuff she told me at the inpatient facility, but other than that, she''s just sort of a ghost - a person lingering on the edge of my life. My muscles protest every step, sore from yesterday''s chaos and whatever weird positions I slept in. "You want anything?"
"Coffee," they say immediately, their voice perking up like the word itself is a spell. "And whatever snacks we''ve got left. I need fuel if we''re gonna keep figuring this out."
"On it," I say, digging through the meager supplies we keep in the Music Hall''s kitchenette. It''s not much--instant coffee, some granola bars, and a half-empty bag of trail mix--but it''s enough to get us moving.
The coffee machine groans as it starts up, and Jordan shuffles over to join me, leaning heavily against the counter. "So, what''s the plan?" they ask, their tone still halfway between groggy and sarcastic.
"Figure out what''s next," I say, pouring two mugs of steaming, questionably brown coffee and handing one to them. "Keep an eye on the HIRC, see if there are more fires. Maybe call Akilah later and see if she--"
Jordan snorts into their mug. "Oh, yeah, she''ll love that. ''Hey, Akilah, can you babysit us again?'' She''ll probably send us an invoice just to mess with you."
"Maybe," I admit, sipping at the bitter coffee and wincing. "But it''s not like we''ve got a lot of options. She''s better at this than we are, and she knows it."
Jordan doesn''t argue, just sips their coffee and nods. The silence stretches for a moment, broken only by the faint hum of the coffee machine and the creaks of the old building settling around us.
"Alright," Jordan says finally, setting their mug down with a decisive clink. "Let''s get to work. If this thing''s not gonna solve itself, we might as well hit the ground running."
"What, you mean going out?" I ask, already reaching for my actual costume, not just the lightweight travel version.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
"Obviously," they scoff.
The Music Hall''s front door squeals like a dying accordion as I shove it open, letting the cold February air slap me in the face. Jordan trails behind, dressed in their usual non-costume layers of dark hoodie, jeans, and a puffy jacket. Their only concession to stealth is the baseball cap pulled low over their messy curls. Meanwhile, I''m fully suited up as Bloodhound, hood drawn and mask pulled tight. It''s more than a costume--it''s armor. And right now, I feel like I need it.
"Are you sure about this?" Jordan asks, hands shoved deep into their pockets. They''re carrying the portable police-scanner-hijacker they cobbled together last year, a weird Frankenstein of plastic casing and salvaged tech that looks more like a 90s camcorder than any actual piece of surveillance equipment.
"Nope," I reply, stepping over a puddle of something that''s probably not water. "But we''re doing it anyway."
Jordan makes a small, skeptical noise but doesn''t argue. The streets of Tacony are quiet in the way neighborhoods get after something big happens, like the collective anxiety has sucked all the sound out of the air. The coffee shop fire is only a few blocks away, and as we round the corner, the quiet is replaced by the unmistakable buzz of a media frenzy.
News vans line the street, their satellite dishes pointed skyward like a flock of metallic vultures. Reporters with microphones and cameras mill around, some trying to interview locals, others rehearsing their lines in overly dramatic tones. The police have set up a cordon around the burned-out husk of the coffee shop, the charred remains of the building still smoldering faintly in the cold air. Fire investigators in heavy jackets are poking through the wreckage, their faces grim.
"Great," Jordan mutters, stopping just short of the cordon. "It''s a circus."
The media circus is almost palpable--bright lights, booming voices, and the clatter of camera equipment competing with the lingering smell of smoke. It makes my teeth itch, in that specific way everything does when there are too many people and too much noise to focus on one thing. Jordan hangs back by a lamppost, half-hidden in the shadow of a defunct mailbox, while I tug my hood lower and stride toward the chaos.
"I don''t like this," Jordan mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. "Too many cops, too many cameras. We''re begging to get made."
"We won''t," I say, more to convince myself than them. "Nobody''d do anything with this many cops around."
Jordan doesn''t reply, but I can feel their skepticism like a hand on my shoulder. I push forward anyway, weaving between clusters of reporters and locals who''ve stopped to gawk at the scene. The cops are doing their best to look like they''re in control, but it''s all for show--they''ve roped off the area, stationed a few patrol cars strategically, and called it a day. Their real job is managing the reporters, not solving anything.
One officer stands near the edge of the cordon, her gloved hands raised to ward off a particularly persistent journalist. "No comment!" she barks, but her voice carries that tired, exasperated note of someone who''s repeated the phrase a hundred times too many. The journalist just steps back far enough to make it look like they''re respecting boundaries, their mic still held high, ready to pounce on the next soundbite.
I keep my head down and scan the crowd, looking for something useful. Anything that isn''t the endless cycle of "tragic community loss" talking points the news crews are eating up. Then I see her - Sundial, standing near the burned-out shell of the coffee shop, just inside the cordon.
She''s in full gear, her tattered white gi and padded armor making her look like a martial artist who wandered out of a time travel movie. The small visor-mask thing she wears covers her eyes and part of her nose, but her posture--straight-backed and confident--makes her unmistakable. Her hands are raised, not in surrender but in focus, her fingers splayed like she''s feeling the air for something invisible. The slight tilt of her head and the way she shifts her weight tell me she''s doing her thing, "reading" the site''s timeline.
"She''s here," I mutter, angling myself toward her.
Jordan follows my gaze and snorts. "Of course, she is. She gets invited to this stuff."
"Yeah, because she''s good at it."
"And we''re not?" Jordan quips, though it lacks their usual edge.
"It''s her wheelhouse," I sort of half-ask. "Right?"
"Iunno,"
I shoot them a look but don''t bother answering. Sundial''s in her element, moving slowly through the wreckage like she''s walking through an invisible movie of what happened. I watch her pause near the remains of a table, crouching to run her fingers over the charred edge. She doesn''t touch it directly--smart--but the way her head tilts tells me she''s picking up something. Her lips press into a thin line.
I step closer to the cordon, trying to catch her eye. She''s not looking at anyone, though, her focus entirely on the space around her.
"What''s she doing?" Jordan asks, their voice low.
"Time thing," I say, my eyes still on Sundial. "She can rewind, basically. See what happened up to a day ago."
"That''s¡ creepy."
"It''s useful," I counter, watching as Sundial stands and brushes ash from her gloves. A police officer says something to her, probably asking if she''s done. She shakes her head, curt but polite, and moves to another part of the wreckage.
Jordan''s voice drops even lower. "Think she knows it''s not one of the usuals?"
I grimace. "She probably thinks it''s Hotwire or Johnny Matchstick. Or maybe someone new."
"Not Aaron?"
"Doubt she''s even heard of him," I admit. "He''s sort of a very personal nemesis."
"I thought you barely even thought of the guy. Now he''s your nemesis?" Jordan asks, quirking an eyebrow.
"He pried off all the nails from my right hand with a claw hammer. You don''t really forget stuff like that," I mutter. "That being said, if we''re going by sheer volume, it''s gotta be Mudslide."
"What a maroon," Jordan sighs. "That guy''s an embarrassment, through and through."
Sundial finally looks up, her gaze scanning the crowd until her eyes -- at least, I think they''re her eyes under the visor -- land on me. Her head tilts slightly, a question in the gesture, but she doesn''t approach. Instead, she motions subtly toward the edge of the cordon, away from the press and most of the cops.
"She wants to talk," I murmur to Jordan, already moving.
"Good luck with that," they mutter, sinking further into the shadows.
Chapter 140.3
I slip around the side of the crowd, keeping my head down until I reach the spot Sundial indicated. She''s waiting, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable.
"Bloodhound," she says, her voice calm but firm. "Didn''t expect to see you here."
"Didn''t expect to be here," I reply, my tone equally neutral. "What''d you find?"
Her lips twitch, almost a smirk, but she doesn''t answer right away. Instead, she glances past me, her gaze briefly catching on Jordan''s distant silhouette. "Jordan staying back?"
"They''re¡ observing," I say. "This isn''t their scene."
She nods like she understands, though I''m not sure she does. "The fire was deliberate," she says after a moment. "Very specific, very targeted, very superpowered. Whoever did this wanted it to burn hot and fast."
"Any guesses?" I ask, though I already know what she''s going to say.
Sundial''s eyes narrow slightly. "Not yet. But it doesn''t feel random. This isn''t a ''bored pyro'' situation."
I nod, my jaw tight. "We''ve been keeping an eye on the pattern. It''s¡ escalating."
Her brow furrows. "And you think it''s someone specific?"
I hesitate, then shrug. "Could be. Just trying to figure out who before it gets worse."
Sundial studies me for a long moment, her gaze sharp. "You''ve got something you''re not saying."
"Maybe," I admit, glancing toward the burned-out coffee shop. "But I''m not sure yet. And I don''t want to waste your time chasing a maybe."
"Come with me," Sundial says, grabbing me by the wrist. My heart does a weird flutter as she drags me - very easily - over to one of the police officers.
"Good to see you, Bloodhound. I heard about what you did yesterday," the officer says, driving more of a blush out of me. "You need something, Sundial?"
"Pen and paper, please," Sundial insists, her tone clipped but polite. The officer hesitates for only a second before nodding and pulling a small notebook and pen from her jacket pocket, handing them over without a word. Sundial doesn''t thank her--she''s already moving, dragging me toward the edge of the cordon where the coffee shop''s charred frame looms against the gray February sky.
She flips the notebook open and clicks the pen, her movements brisk and efficient. "Stay here," she tells me, gesturing for me to hang back while she steps closer to the wreckage. "I need to concentrate."
I hover near the cordon, my hands jammed into my pockets to keep them from fidgeting. The cold bites at my exposed eyes, but it''s nothing compared to the nausea. Sundial''s doing her thing now--her head tilts, her shoulders square, and her entire body radiates focus as she stares at the blackened ruins. It''s like she''s watching something invisible unfold in front of her, her gaze darting from one piece of rubble to another.
My mouth is dry. I know what she''s going to find--I know it--but I can''t say it out loud. Not yet.
"Accelerants," Sundial murmurs, her voice distant, like she''s talking to herself. "High heat, quick burn. Methodical placement. This wasn''t random. Kindling taped to the bottom of tables, bottom of chairs, where it wouldn''t be found."
I force myself to speak, my voice raspier than I''d like. "Can you¡ see who did it?"
"Give me a minute," she replies without looking at me. Her hand moves, sketching lines and shapes on the notebook''s page, but her eyes stay fixed on the ruins.
Her movements slow, her head tilting further as she steps toward the scorched remains of what was once a doorway. She crouches, her fingers hovering over the ground, not quite touching the ash. "Male," she says finally, her voice sharper now. "Mid to late twenties, maybe thirty. White. Five foot¡ eight, maybe nine. Well-built. A little cheek fat. Tattoos--tribal, partial, not full sleeves. They peeked out of his hoodie."
The knot in my stomach tightens. A little cheek fat? It doesn''t really match the thin, lanky man who almost beat me to death with a crowbar - but everything else does. I swallow hard, my hands curling into fists inside my pockets. "What else?"
She stands, her pen scratching across the notebook in quick strokes. "Undercut," she continues, her tone clinical. "Two long braids. Casual clothes. Not trying to disguise himself, but his hood was up. He moved¡ methodically. Not panicked or rushed. Like he knew exactly what he was doing."
I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears as the pieces slot into place, one by one. The description is too specific, too familiar. My chest feels stiff and crunchy, like the cold air has frozen my lungs.
Sundial moves again, tracing an invisible path through the wreckage. "He stood here," she says, pointing to the doorway. "Just¡ staring. Not moving. Then the doorframe caught fire. It wasn''t immediate--more like a buildup--but it happened right where he was looking."
I''m not breathing. My heart is hammering against my ribs as I force out the words. "What did he do after that?"
"Looked surprised," she says, turning to me with a faint frown. "Like he didn''t expect it to catch, or maybe he didn''t expect it to catch the way it did. He moved inside, but the fire followed him. Someone knocked over a chair, and it hit his leg. That''s when it got weird."
"Weird how?" I ask, trying to keep myself from yelling or yelping.
"The smoke," she says, her gaze shifting back to the ruins. "Went from making fire to making smoke. White, thick, almost like¡ like it was coming from him. It started tracking wherever he looked."
She wrinkles her nose.
I swallow again, my throat dry and tight. My mind is racing, screaming Aaron''s name over and over, but I can''t say it. Not yet.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"He stayed there, didn''t flee the scene, not yet," Sundial continues, her tone matter-of-fact, her eyes looking somewhere far away, sort of past me. "Blended into the crowd. If I skip forward¡" She pauses, her head tilting again, her expression tightening. "There. He was here during the rescue. Right next to you."
My stomach drops, the ground feeling like it''s tilting under my feet. "What?" The word comes out more as a squeak than anything else.
"He was there," she repeats, her voice steady. "Standing with the others, looking as panicked as everyone else. Didn''t do anything to stand out. He just¡ left."
I dig my nails into the palms of my gloves, fighting the nausea rising in my throat. My head feels light, like I''m not getting enough air. "Why didn''t he¡ why didn''t he attack me? Or Safeguard?"
Sundial glances at me, her expression unreadable. "Could be a lot of reasons," she says. "Maybe he didn''t want to draw attention. Maybe he wasn''t ready. Maybe he doesn''t even know who you are."
"That doesn''t make sense," I mutter, my voice shaking. "He''s--he--" I cut myself off, shaking my head. I can''t explain Aaron without spilling everything, and Sundial doesn''t need to know. Not yet.
"Doesn''t matter why," Sundial says, her tone firm. "What matters is figuring out how to stop him."
I nod, though it feels more like a reflex than a decision. My brain is stuck on the image of Aaron standing in the middle of the chaos, watching everything burn.
"What about the sprinklers?" I ask, desperate to focus on something else. "Did he¡ did he mess with them?"
Sundial frowns, stepping toward the edge of the ruins again. "They were already damaged when he got here," she says after a moment. "Twisted out of place, but not melted. There''s gum in the valves, clogging them."
"Sabotage," I say, feeling a hair calmer about it, for reasons I can''t explain.
Sundial nods. "Deliberate. Whoever did this wanted it to burn."
My legs feel shaky, and I force myself to stand still, clenching my fists until my nails bite into my palms through the cloth of my gloves. "Okay," I say, my voice tight. "Thanks. That¡ that helps."
Sundial studies me for a moment, her gaze sharp again. "You''ve got a name in mind, don''t you?"
"His name''s Aaron McKinley. He used to run this small time gang of losers, the Tacony Coyotes," I say, folding my arms over my chest in a very bad attempt at keeping myself still and sane. "Familiar?"
"Vaguely. Someone bumped off all four of them about a year and a half ago, always thought it was a random drive-by," she answers. That makes my brain feel like it''s clenching up. Firstly, Sundial, there were five of them, and also, what the fuck? The other four are dead? Someone shot them? But I don''t say that out loud. I just think it very hard.
I chew on my lip as I rephrase. "There were five of them. Aaron was the only one with any powers, and we have¡ a complicated history,"
"That''s what people say when they hook up with someone. Consider rephrasing," she suggests humorlessly.
I bite down an exaggerated gag. "No, he has like¡ a weird psycho murder boner for me. I guess I was the first person to not bow down and kiss his boots right or whatever. I don''t know what his problem is. But he''s definitely here to try and get back at me."
"I see," Sundial responds.
"Can you get that sketch to the police? Like¡ I want to know if we can see this guy before he burns my bedroom down while I''m sleeping. It''s been kind of a rough week," I ask, trying to sound less meek than I feel.
"Why do you think I was making a sketch? Nothing I see with my psychometry is admissable as evidence but the police like to call me down to see if I can get sketches of local criminals anyway. Among other reasons," she says, trailing off into a slightly shy sounding mumble. She sees the question before I''m about to start asking it and waves her free hand over my face. "Don''t worry about it. The legal stuff is a conversation for later."
The air crackles faintly, the faint static of a neighborhood too tense for its own good, as Sundial flips her notebook closed and tucks it under her arm. Before I can ask what she''s planning, the distant sound of whirring catches my attention. I glance up just in time to see Moonshot descending in a slow, deliberate arc - I guess the rest of the Titans are flowing in, now.
Moonshot straightens, adjusting her flight goggles before gently, steplessly sliding along the ground towards Sundial. "Heard you might need backup," she says, her voice cool and professional. "Bloodhound."
"Moonshot," I reply, equally curt.
A few beats later, Compass rounds the corner on foot, her hood up against the biting wind. Her long strides eat up the distance quickly, and she stops just short of the group, her sharp eyes flicking between Sundial, Moonshot, and me.
"I was nearby," she says simply, her tone a weird mixture of flat and eager. "What''s the situation?"
Sundial gestures toward the smoldering wreckage. "Arson. Deliberate. Suspect''s methodical, probably local. Bloodhound has some context."
I bite back a groan. Context. Sure, let''s call it that.
Moonshot''s gaze sharpens. "Do we think this is the same pattern as those other fires in the area?"
"Looks like it," Sundial says, her tone calm but clipped. "But the target''s changed. It''s getting more¡ specific."
I feel the weight of three sets of eyes landing on me, and my shoulders stiffen instinctively. "Yeah, okay, fine," I say, folding my arms again over my chest. "I think it''s about me. He''s been circling my patrols, my school, my routes."
Compass''s brow furrows. "Territorial behavior. Makes sense. This kind of escalation usually leads to a confrontation."
"Which is what I want to avoid," I snap, the words coming out sharper than I mean. "I don''t need this guy showing up on my doorstep."
Sundial holds up a hand, her expression measured. "No one''s saying you should. I''m going to get Sandman to keep watch on your block until this boils over."
I blink, caught off guard by the offer. "Seriously? You know where I live?"
"Seriously," Sundial replies. "I meant more you and Safeguard, but sure, we can guard your parents, too."
"That''s not," I start, before sighing and throwing my hands up. "Fine. I appreciate it, sorry."
"Don''t worry about it. We keep us safe," Compass says, slapping a hand on my shoulder that makes me jump.
Back at the Music Hall, the tension hasn''t faded--it''s just changed shape, settling into an anxious buzz that fills every corner of the room. Jordan''s at the monitors, Maggie''s curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over her shoulders, and Tasha is leaning against the kitchenette counter, nursing a mug of hot cocoa like it''s a lifeline.
Maggie glances up as I walk in, her face lighting up with a smile that only makes me feel guiltier. "Hey, Sam. Heard you needed some moral support."
I shoot a look at Jordan, who shrugs unapologetically. "Figured you could use it," they say, not bothering to look away from the screen.
Maggie pats the couch next to her, and I drop into the seat with a sigh. "Thanks for coming," I mutter, my voice tight. "But you''re not patrolling. Not with that rib."
"I know," she says, her tone patient. "I''m just here to hang out."
Tasha snorts softly. "Maggie, you''re the only person I know who can make ''hang out'' sound like a battlefield strategy."
"It''s a gift," Maggie replies with a grin, but her voice is quiet. The blanket shifts slightly, and I catch a glimpse of the brace still wrapped around her midsection. My chest tightens.
The TV hums faintly in the background, tuned to the local news. A reporter stands in front of the burned-out coffee shop, the smoke and rubble making for a grim backdrop. "Authorities have yet to identify the individual responsible for this string of fires, but eyewitness accounts suggest--"
My breath catches as the screen cuts to a sketch. Sundial''s sketch.
It''s him. Aaron. The undercut, the braids, the tattoos. Even through the static-y resolution of the broadcast, it''s unmistakable. Talking about how the fires have "suddenly stopped" - yeah right, he just knows the pressure is on. Why would you start a fire when there''s fifteen news vans down the block?
"Sam," Jordan says quietly, their voice pulling me back. "You okay?"
I tear my eyes away from the screen, my stomach twisting. "Yeah," I lie. "Just¡ tired."
Jordan doesn''t look convinced, but they don''t push. The conversation shifts around me, Maggie and Tasha talking softly about school, Jordan muttering something about logistics, but it all feels distant. My thoughts are stuck on that sketch, on the way the newscaster''s voice had described him:
methodical,
dangerous,
rapidly escalating.
WORLD OF CHUM: Tech (5)
The Promise Protocol: A Decentralized Computational Marketplace
Dr. Elena Carver, Prof. Julian M. Patel, and Dr. Li Zhang
Institute for Decentralized Systems Research (IDSR), 2006
Abstract
This paper proposes a system for managing distributed computation through cryptographically verifiable tokens, termed Promises. Each Promise serves as a voucher for computational work, backed by verifiable output. Promises are transferable, traceable to their source machine, and cryptographically secure. By aligning computational demand with idle resources in a decentralized manner, the Promise Protocol establishes a scalable, trustless marketplace for distributed computation. This approach democratizes access to computational infrastructure while incentivizing participation through tangible, tradeable rewards.
1. Introduction
The demand for computational power has risen exponentially with advancements in data processing, machine learning, and scientific simulation. Centralized solutions such as corporate-owned data centers or commercial cloud computing services introduce single points of failure, scalability bottlenecks, and high operational costs.
Simultaneously, advances in distributed computing platforms (e.g., SETI@home, Folding@home) have demonstrated the potential of harnessing idle consumer hardware for large-scale computation. However, such systems rely on altruistic participation and lack mechanisms to ensure fairness, accountability, or reward.
The Promise Protocol addresses these challenges by introducing a market for distributed computation. Promises act as cryptographically verifiable tokens tied to specific computational outputs. This system incentivizes participation, ensures trust through decentralized verification, and introduces a reputation mechanism that enhances long-term reliability.
2. System Design
The Promise Protocol is built on four core components: Promises, Verification, Reputation, and Transferability.
2.1 Promises
A Promise is a cryptographic token representing either:
- Unfulfilled Promises: Commitments to perform specific computations.
- Fulfilled Promises: Verified proof of completed computational work.
Each Promise contains:
- A Task Descriptor: The computation to be performed, expressed in a standardized format.
- A Verification Hash: Parameters for validating the output.
- A Source Signature: The unique hardware identifier of the originating machine.
- A Timestamp: Issuance or completion date.
- A Transfer Ledger: Record of ownership.
Promises are issued by computational buyers (e.g., corporations, researchers) and distributed through the network.
2.2 Verification
Completed computations are validated through a multi-node verification system, ensuring trust without central authority:
- Each computational task is divided into discrete units.
- Units are distributed redundantly to multiple nodes.
- Nodes return results to the network for cross-verification.
- Consistency across results certifies task completion and triggers Promise fulfillment.
This decentralized verification process mitigates fraud and ensures computational integrity.
2.3 Reputation
Reputation is an emergent property of fulfilled Promises:
- Machines accrue reputation through a history of successful, verified computations.
- Reputation enhances the value of future unfulfilled Promises issued by the machine.
- Reputation data is cryptographically linked to machine identifiers, fostering transparency and reliability.
Reputation incentivizes long-term participation and ensures a high-quality pool of computational resources.
2.4 Transferability
Promises are transferable, enabling secondary markets:
- Unfulfilled Promises represent futures contracts for computation.
- Fulfilled Promises function as a tradeable currency backed by verified computational output.
The ledger system ensures traceability while preserving pseudo-anonymity. Machines can transfer Promises without compromising their reputation history.
3. Economic Model
The Promise Protocol integrates computation into a market economy by linking supply (idle hardware) and demand (computational tasks).This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
3.1 Value of Promises
Promise value derives from:
- The computational difficulty of the task.
- Demand for specific types of computation (e.g., GPU-heavy vs. CPU-heavy tasks).
- Reputation of the issuing machine.
- Market conditions for transferable Promises.
3.2 Market Dynamics
Promise trading occurs in decentralized markets, resembling financial futures exchanges:
- Buyers issue Promises for tasks requiring computation.
- Sellers (nodes) fulfill tasks to earn Promises.
- Promises can be traded on secondary markets, with value influenced by origin and market demand.
This system fosters competition, efficiency, and scalability.
4. Security and Scalability
The Promise Protocol leverages existing cryptographic standards and distributed systems to ensure robustness against both conventional and technopath-specific threats.
4.1 Hardware Identification
Each machine participating in the network is identified through cryptographic signatures linked to hardware characteristics. These signatures, derived from tamper-resistant hardware modules (e.g., Trusted Platform Modules or similar technology), mitigate the risk of identity spoofing. This defense is particularly critical in a world where technopaths could manipulate or forge digital identities at the hardware level.
4.2 Resilience Against Technopathic Threats
The decentralized nature of the Promise Protocol provides intrinsic resilience to technopath interference by:
- Distributed Verification: Tasks are redundantly distributed across multiple nodes, requiring consensus for validation. A technopath would need to compromise a majority of nodes participating in a given computation¡ªa challenge in a widely decentralized system.
- Encrypted Communication: All task assignments and result verifications occur over end-to-end encrypted channels, ensuring that even intercepted data cannot be tampered with or exploited.
- Hardware-Level Trust Anchors: Technopaths targeting software or network layers are thwarted by cryptographic signatures tied directly to physical hardware, ensuring that only verified devices can participate in the network.
- Dynamic Task Assignment: Computational tasks are dynamically assigned to nodes without centralized control, making it difficult for technopaths to predict or target specific machines in the network.
4.3 Scalability
Tasks are modular, allowing dynamic scaling across millions of nodes. The protocol incentivizes participation from both high-end hardware farms and individual consumer devices, with additional emphasis on:
- Task Obfuscation: To protect sensitive computations from technopaths, tasks can be fragmented into smaller, encrypted units that are incomprehensible unless verified and assembled by the network.
- Redundant Cross-Validation: Even if a technopath compromises one node, redundant task distribution ensures that the true result is verified by honest participants.
5. Applications
The Promise Protocol enables diverse use cases across industries:
- Scientific Research: Accelerating simulations, genomic analyses, and climate modeling.
- Corporate Computation: Outsourcing rendering, data analysis, and AI training.
- Personal Projects: Democratizing access to distributed computational resources for individuals.
6. Limitations and Future Work
The Promise Protocol introduces significant benefits but also faces challenges:
- Energy Consumption: Large-scale participation increases global electricity demand.
- Economic Inequity: Access to high-performance hardware may create disparities.
- Fraud Resistance: Ensuring security against sophisticated attacks requires ongoing refinement.
Future research will focus on:
- Enhancing verification protocols.
- Reducing environmental impact through energy-efficient hardware.
- Expanding secondary markets for Promises.
7. Conclusion
The Promise Protocol represents a paradigm shift in distributed computing, merging cryptographic trust with economic incentives. By aligning idle computational resources with global demand, this system fosters innovation, decentralization, and accessibility. Promises establish a scalable, equitable marketplace for computational work, transforming how humanity leverages its collective processing power.
References
- Carver, E. "Cryptographic Signatures for Distributed Trust," Journal of Decentralized Computing, 2005.
- Patel, J. M., & Zhang, L. "Reputation Metrics in Distributed Systems," Proceedings of the International Symposium on Networked Economies, 2004.
- Lang, R., & Nguyen, T. H. "Market Dynamics in Tokenized Economies," Computational Economics Review, 2006.
- Morrison, A. "Energy Costs in Distributed Computing Systems," Green Tech Journal, 2005.
WORLD OF CHUM: Sports & Hyperball (1)
Breaking the Game: The Ban on Superhumans in Professional Sports Sparks Outrage
Miranda Holcomb, Sports Correspondent for the New York Times
May 12, 2008
What began as whispers in locker rooms and hushed boardroom meetings has exploded into a full-blown reckoning for the world of professional sports. Yesterday, the International Athletic Federation (IAF), alongside major governing bodies for basketball, soccer, and baseball, announced sweeping rules effectively banning superhuman athletes from competition. This landmark decision has thrown sports into turmoil, igniting fierce debates across dinner tables, newsrooms, and social media feeds.
The ban comes in the wake of the now-infamous Marko Varga Incident, in which the Croatian basketball phenom, revealed to possess superhuman strength and enhanced reflexes, shattered scoring records during the 2006 European Basketball League (EBL) finals. Varga''s abilities made headlines not just for his seemingly supernatural performance on the court, but for the ethical and logistical chaos his presence unleashed. After the EBL revoked his MVP award and struck his team''s victory from the record books, the controversy rippled outward, drawing sharp lines in the sand between supporters and detractors of superhuman inclusion in sports.
Now, with the ban officially codified, the conversation has shifted from "if" to "what next."
A Sudden and Sweeping Decision
The new rules, backed unanimously by the IAF and adopted rapidly by organizations like FIFA, the NBA, and Major League Baseball, explicitly prohibit athletes with "physiological advantages derived from superhuman abilities" from competing in traditional leagues. This includes enhanced strength, speed, reflexes, or other "non-normative traits."
IAF President Lucas Baines, in a statement issued yesterday, framed the decision as one of fairness: "Sports must be about skill, dedication, and the human spirit. Superhuman abilities undermine these core principles, creating an uneven playing field incompatible with the essence of athletic competition."
The decision followed mounting pressure from sponsors, broadcasters, and rival players after leaked reports suggested other professional athletes were quietly undergoing ¡°enhancement screenings¡± to identify latent powers. The rapid rollout, however, has drawn sharp criticism from both within and outside the sporting world. Emma Nwoko, the star striker of Arsenal FC and vocal advocate for inclusion, described the move as "a tragedy for sports. This is about fear and prejudice, not fairness."
The Backlash
The backlash has been swift and impassioned. A coalition of athletes, including several current and former pros, has formed to challenge the decision. Their argument: superhuman athletes deserve the same chance to showcase their skills and pursue their dreams as anyone else.
"I''ve played with superhumans," said veteran baseball pitcher Jose Calderon in a televised interview. "It doesn''t make the game easier. If anything, it''s harder. They push you to be better, and that''s what sports are supposed to be about."
Outside stadiums in cities like New York, Madrid, and Tokyo, protests have erupted, with fans demanding the reinstatement of players who have been banned overnight. Superhuman advocacy groups, long fighting against systemic bias in employment and healthcare, see the ban as yet another form of discrimination.
One group, the International Superhuman Athletes Coalition (ISAC), has already filed an injunction against the IAF, citing violations of anti-discrimination laws in several countries. ¡°This is a moral failure,¡± said ISAC spokesperson Dr. Rhea Voss. ¡°It sends a message that being extraordinary is something to be ashamed of.¡±
The Institutional Purge
The new rules don¡¯t just ban current players¡ªthey also implement rigorous protocols to screen out superhumans during recruitment and draft processes. Starting this season, athletes across most major leagues will be required to undergo comprehensive genetic testing and performance evaluations to identify ¡°superhuman markers.¡± Contracts now include clauses mandating immediate withdrawal should latent abilities manifest in the future.
For high school and collegiate athletes, the implications are dire. Dr. Lana Orlov, a leading sports ethicist, warns, ¡°These measures will trickle down, creating barriers for young athletes who may not even know they have powers yet. We¡¯re setting a precedent that talent is suspect if it doesn¡¯t fit neatly into human norms.¡±
Retroactive audits have also swept through professional leagues, voiding contracts, titles, and even merchandise deals tied to superhuman athletes. The suddenness of these measures has left teams scrambling to distance themselves from implicated players, often at the expense of public goodwill.
Social Responses: The Divide
The public is sharply divided. A poll conducted by Global Sports Review found that 62% of respondents support the ban, citing fairness and integrity as key reasons. However, 35% opposed it, emphasizing that superhumans bring excitement and diversity to the game.
In the wider superhuman community, the bans are seen as a grim echo of past discrimination. "We''ve been shut out of workplaces, schools, and now even entertainment," said Shawn Malik, a former track star whose career ended after being revealed as a superhuman. "It''s not about fairness. It''s about fear."
Meanwhile, some sports purists welcome the decision, citing the chaos of the Varga Incident as proof that superhumans "don''t belong." Online forums and call-in radio shows have been flooded with debates over whether superhumans have "ruined" sports or whether their exclusion is a necessary step.
The Rise of Superhuman Sports
For all the controversy, the bans have inadvertently created new opportunities. Superhuman-focused leagues, once seen as niche or experimental, are poised for explosive growth. The Professional Hyperball League (PHL), founded in 2008, has already reported a 40% increase in ticket sales since the IAF announcement. Other leagues, like the nascent Superhuman Combat Circuit, are vying for attention, hoping to turn outrage into opportunity.
"This could be the beginning of something incredible," said Adrian Wang, PHL commissioner. "Sports are evolving. We''re building a space where superhumans don''t just belong--they thrive."
What''s Next?
The long-term consequences of these bans remain unclear. Will traditional sports lose their luster without the dynamism that superhuman athletes brought? Will superhuman leagues carve out their own niche in the cultural landscape, or will they forever be seen as secondary? For now, one thing is certain: the playing field, for better or worse, will never look the same.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Inside the Chaos: A First Look at the 2010 Hyperball Championship
Michael Harridan, ESPN Senior Writer
June 18, 2010
The first thing you notice about a Hyperball match isn¡¯t the players, the goals, or even the pulsating roar of the crowd¡ªit¡¯s the balls. They¡¯re everywhere. Hurtling across the field like unruly fireworks, each one different: some spinning furiously, others ricocheting unpredictably, one wobbling lazily in a defiance of physics that feels almost comedic until it smashes into the ground with a resounding thud.
I¡¯m sitting in a plastic stadium seat in Miami¡¯s freshly christened Vanguard Arena, a venue as futuristic as the sport it¡¯s hosting. This is the Professional Hyperball League¡¯s (PHL) crowning event: the 2010 Hyperball Championship. The finalists, the Phoenix Steamrollers and the Stockholm Vikings, are locked in what the announcer breathlessly describes as ¡°a clash of speed and strategy!¡± To me, it looks more like chaos, albeit chaos with rules that everyone but me seems to understand.
Hyperball: Sport or Spectacle?
Let¡¯s back up a moment. If you¡¯re not familiar with Hyperball, don¡¯t worry. Until last week, my understanding of it was limited to blurry highlight reels and late-night talk show jokes. The sport, created less than a decade ago, is the answer to a question the world¡¯s major leagues have been wrestling with for years: What happens when you let superhumans play?
Here, the answer is apparently: everything.
Hyperball is played on a field divided into three zones: two End Zones, where teams defend their goals, and the Middle Zone, where most of the action happens. Seven players on each team use their powers to pass, shoot, or kick a selection of pre-drafted balls into their opponent¡¯s goal. The balls are as much a character in the match as the players themselves: some bounce erratically, some are near-impossible to catch, and others weigh enough to dent steel if you¡¯re not careful. Powers are allowed¡ªencouraged, even¡ªbut only to manipulate the ball or move oneself. No physical contact, no hitting your opponent with a telekinetic wave.
Today¡¯s match is showcasing the full absurdity and genius of this setup. I watch as Phoenix¡¯s Riko Amara, a telekinetic with a penchant for the unpredictable, sends the Silicone Octahedron careening towards the Vikings¡¯ goal. It bounces off the goalkeeper¡¯s forcefield (a dazzling display of bioluminescent energy) before spinning wildly into the hands of another Viking, who flings it back with all the precision of a quarterback on game day.
A League of Their Own
The PHL, founded in 2008, bills itself as ¡°the next evolution of sports,¡± a home for athletes whose abilities were banned from traditional leagues. Its players are a mix of former stars¡ªmany sidelined by superhuman bans¡ªand up-and-coming talent who never had a chance at the old world of professional sports.
¡°I couldn¡¯t sit back and let my career end just because of something I was born with,¡± says Julia Reyes, captain of the Steamrollers and a former collegiate volleyball star who can leap five stories in a single bound. ¡°Hyperball saved me. It gave me back the thrill of the game.¡±
Reyes isn¡¯t alone in her sentiment. Among the fans I spoke with in the concourse¡ªmost of whom sport jerseys emblazoned with team logos and player nicknames like ¡°Shockwave¡± and ¡°The Blur¡±¡ªthere¡¯s a palpable sense of pride. Many see Hyperball as more than a sport. It¡¯s a rebellion against exclusion, a celebration of what the world¡¯s traditional leagues rejected.
But pride alone doesn¡¯t guarantee longevity.
The Business of Hyperball
PHL Commissioner Adrian Wang, the charismatic mastermind behind the league, is well aware of the challenges ahead. Over coffee in the VIP lounge (which, despite its upscale branding, smells faintly of popcorn and spilled soda), Wang is candid about the league¡¯s ambitions.
¡°Look, we¡¯re not here to replace basketball or soccer,¡± he says, gesturing emphatically. ¡°Hyperball is its own thing. It¡¯s chaotic, it¡¯s unpredictable, and yeah, it¡¯s weird. But people are drawn to that. They want to see the extraordinary.¡±
The numbers, so far, support him. Ticket sales for the championship sold out in under an hour, and the league¡¯s merchandise¡ªparticularly its signature ¡°ball packs¡± for backyard play¡ªhas been flying off shelves. But critics argue that Hyperball¡¯s reliance on spectacle could limit its appeal.
¡°Sports thrive on narrative,¡± says sports analyst Dana Marcotte. ¡°Rivalries, dynasties, underdog stories. Hyperball has energy, sure, but can it build history? Can it hold an audience after the novelty wears off?¡±
A Glimpse of the Future
Back on the field, the Phoenix Steamrollers are surging. Julia Reyes, their captain, is leading the charge, leaping high above the chaos to snatch the Giant Plastic Ball from midair. With a thunderous kick that seems to defy physics, she sends it soaring toward the Vikings¡¯ goal. The ball wobbles like a wayward planet caught in orbit before slipping past the bioluminescent forcefield of Stockholm¡¯s goalkeeper, landing squarely in the goal. The crowd erupts, and the scoreboard lights up: Phoenix 9, Stockholm 7.
For the next five minutes, the Vikings fight to regain control. Their captain, Magnus ¡°Stormrider¡± Karlsson, channels the icy calm that earned him his nickname. Using precise air currents, he deftly maneuvers the Regulation Leather Ball toward the Steamrollers¡¯ goal. It slams in, and the next ball bounces onto the field, then the next, and the next. His teammate, a towering defender named Ana Linde, picks up the Vulcanized Rubber Ball¡ªa behemoth of a sphere that demands strength and strategy¡ªand launches it with a two-handed toss. It careens toward the goal, only to be deflected by a well-timed telekinetic shove from Amara.
This back-and-forth struggle is what defines Hyperball: no moment of safety, no time to rest. The players are everywhere¡ªrunning, leaping, diving¡ªpowers augmenting, but never replacing, their raw athletic skill. The crowd feels this, their cheers building to a deafening crescendo as the timer ticks down.
With less than a minute on the clock, the Steamrollers are clinging to a narrow lead. Reyes signals to her team, and they shift into a defensive formation, spreading out to cover the field. The Vikings, sensing their moment slipping away, go all-in. Karlsson launches the Flat Disc, a precision projectile, across the field. It zips through the air, arcing toward the goal at an impossible angle.
But Reyes is ready. With a midair twist that seems straight out of an action movie, she intercepts the disc with her bare hands, landing smoothly before sprinting to the Middle Zone. As the seconds tick away, she tosses the disc to Amara, who flings it high into the air¡ªtoo high for the Vikings to reach. The buzzer sounds. Game over.
The Steamrollers¡¯ Victory
Phoenix 11, Stockholm 8. The Steamrollers are crowned the 2010 Hyperball Champions.
The field erupts into celebration. Reyes and her team collapse into a pile of hugs and cheers, while the Vikings, though visibly disappointed, graciously shake hands with their rivals. The trophy¡ªa sleek, modern design that looks more like an art installation than a sports award¡ªis presented to Reyes, who lifts it high above her head to thunderous applause.
The postgame ceremony feels like a testament to what Hyperball is striving to be: not just a sport, but a spectacle. Fireworks light up the Miami sky as fans chant the Steamrollers¡¯ name. Children in oversized jerseys wave team flags, and the PA system blares an energetic mix of pop and rock anthems. Even skeptics like me can¡¯t help but get caught up in the energy.
What Comes Next?
Watching the players celebrate, their powers blending seamlessly with raw athleticism, it¡¯s hard not to be impressed. The skill is real, the stakes are high, and for the fans in the stands, this is every bit as exhilarating as a World Cup final or a Game 7.
Yet, questions remain. Hyperball, for all its excitement, is still finding its footing. Will the league build the kind of long-term rivalries and traditions that sustain sports fandom, or will it burn bright and fade fast, another victim of short attention spans and overexposure? The players are extraordinary, but can the sport itself weather the pressures of an increasingly competitive entertainment landscape?
Walking out of Vanguard Arena into the humid Miami night, I find myself both skeptical and hopeful. For now, Hyperball has captured something rare¡ªa spark of the extraordinary, wrapped in raw human emotion. Whether that spark becomes a lasting flame is a story still waiting to be told.
Chapter 141.1
I haven''t slept. Or, I guess I''ve barely slept, but that''s not the same thing. Barely sleeping is its own kind of punishment--like teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, but every time I''m about to fall in, something jerks me awake. A creak in the Music Hall. The hum of Jordan''s computer. My own thoughts chewing through the same cycle of worries over and over again, like a dryer that won''t turn off no matter how many times you hit the button.
By the time Jordan pries me off the couch this morning, I''m not just tired. I''m a walking dead girl, complete with zombie shuffle and the subtle but distinct sensation that my body has started eating itself.
Jordan hands me a granola bar on the way out the door, which I guess is thoughtful, but it doesn''t do much to fix the fact that my stomach feels like it''s full of wet cement. The February cold hits me like a slap as soon as we step outside, sharp and cutting, but it still isn''t enough to make me feel fully awake. Jordan trudges along beside me, one hand jammed deep into their coat pocket, the other balancing their coffee like it''s a religious artifact. They don''t say much. Neither do I.
Tacony feels quieter than usual this morning, the streets carrying that weird, hollow silence that only happens after something bad. A lot of the neighbors are staying inside if they can help it, but the ones we do pass don''t look much better than me--tired eyes, quick steps, muttered conversations. The news vans are gone, but their presence still lingers in that subtle way you can always tell a neighborhood''s been in the spotlight.
I keep glancing at windows. At rooftops. At street corners. I don''t know what I''m looking for exactly, but I can''t stop myself. My brain keeps running through worst-case scenarios, which is just what happens when you know someone might be out to get you. My backpack feels heavier than usual. My legs feel slower. The whole walk to school is just a haze of paranoia and exhaustion, until finally, finally, we reach the gates.
If I have to describe the vibe inside Tacony Charter Academy today, I''d probably go with "powder keg." The hallways are filled with whispers, the kind of low, buzzing chatter that never quite lets up because every group is having the same conversation. I hear snippets of it everywhere I go.
"...fires..."
"...right by where my uncle lives..."
"...think it''s one of those supervillains..."
I pull my hood tighter over my head and try to look as invisible as possible, which isn''t exactly easy when you''re me. People tend to notice you when you''re the girl who got into a public fistfight with a racist superhero at homecoming. They definitely notice you when you''ve got eye bags the size of dinner plates and keep flinching every time someone closes a locker too loudly.
Jordan peels off to head toward their first-period class, leaving me alone to face the gauntlet. I don''t know why I think that would make things easier. If anything, it just makes the whole day feel ten times longer
By second period, my brain has settled into a pattern:
- Walk into class.
- Scan the room for exits.
- Try to focus on the lesson.
- Fail miserably.
- Stare at the windows, wondering how fast I could get out of here if something happens.
Repeat.
It''s not just paranoia, though that''s definitely part of it. My nerves are stretched so thin I can practically feel them buzzing under my skin, like electric wires just waiting to snap. Every sound feels too loud. Every movement feels like a threat. I don''t know how to explain it to anyone, so I don''t. Not even to Jordan, although I''m sure they can get it.
The teachers are too nice about it, which somehow makes everything worse. Mrs. Patel gives me one of those concerned looks when I walk into English class, the kind that says she''s absolutely about to ask if I''m okay, only to think better of it at the last second. Mr. Banner in history just straight-up lets me sit in the back and zone out, which is probably for the best because I couldn''t answer a question even if I wanted to.
But the worst part is lunch.
It''s not like I have a ton of friends of my own these days--most people just know me as That Girl Who Got Suspended For Judo-Throwing a Security Guard. Jordan''s group doesn''t mind, though, the usual people that I hang on the edge of like a caterpillar''s cocoon dangling off the edge of a branch.
Today, though, I can''t follow a single word. My brain won''t let me relax enough to join in, even a little - at this point, everyone expects me to be the one asking questions so they can launch into long-winded infodumps about their favorite anime. Not today. I pick at my lunch without eating, my gaze darting around the cafeteria like I''m expecting someone to jump out at me. It''s not subtle.
"Sam?"
I look up, startled, and realize someone is standing next to me. Melissa. A person whom I recognize exists within the same school and the same context as me, but otherwise is just sort of purely on the periphery.
Melissa''s the kind of person who exists quietly on the edges of things. She''s not part of Jordan''s group, but she knows them well enough to say hi in the hallways. She''s in my gym class, too, this year, which is probably why she looks vaguely concerned as she stares down at me.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound normal and definitely failing. "What''s up?"
"You okay?" she asks, frowning. "You look... I don''t know. Jumpy?"
"I''m fine," I say automatically, which is probably the least convincing lie I''ve told all day.
Melissa doesn''t buy it. She shifts her weight, glancing between me and Jordan''s group, then back again. "Look, I know things are kind of... weird right now," she says. "With the fires and everything. But if you want to talk--"
"I''m good," I interrupt, my voice sharper than I mean. "Really."
She doesn''t flinch, but her expression softens. "Okay. Just... thought I''d offer."
I stare at her without blinking, at least until my eyes start to feel weird and the blink forces itself upon me.
She lingers for a second longer, then takes a step back, hesitating. "Actually, wait. There''s, um... something you might be interested in. If you''re, like, worried about what''s going on."
I raise an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Some of us have been doing these, like... community defense walks," she says. "Since November, I mean. After all that stuff happened last semester. We just walk around in groups, keeping an eye out for anything sketchy. It''s not, like, official or anything, but we''ve got the cops and some of the local heroes on speed dial, so..."
She trails off, looking uncertain, then adds, "There''s a meeting tonight. After school. If you want to come."
I blink at her, caught off guard. "You''re inviting me?"
"Well... yeah," she says. "You''re kind of, like... famous? For standing up to that security guard? And the hero thing? People remember stuff like that. You''re, like, one of the good ones."
I feel my face heat up, which is stupid because it''s not even a compliment, not really. "Uh... sure," I mumble. "I''ll think about it."
Melissa smiles faintly and hands me a scrap of paper with an address scribbled on it. "It''s just a couple blocks from here. Around six. No pressure, though."
She leaves before I can say anything else, disappearing into the crowd of students milling around the cafeteria. I stare at the paper in my hand for a long moment, then stuff it in my pocket.
By the time the last bell rings, I''m half-convinced I''ve hallucinated the whole conversation. But when I pull the paper out of my pocket and see the address again, the reality of it hits me.
I tell Jordan I''m going to check it out. They give me a look like I''ve just announced I''m joining the circus, but they don''t argue. "Just don''t get yourself into trouble," they say, which feels a little rich coming from them, but I let it slide.
The address isn''t far, like Melissa said. Just a few blocks from the school, tucked away in a quiet part of the neighborhood where the houses all have barred windows and the streetlights are spaced too far apart. When I get there, I find a small group of people already gathered outside--a mix of teenagers and adults, some holding flashlights, others carrying first-aid kits or walkie-talkies.
Melissa spots me right away and waves me over. "Hey! You made it."
"Yeah," I say, feeling awkward as I shuffle into the group. "So, uh... how does this work?"
Melissa grins. "It''s pretty simple. We split up into pairs or small groups, walk around the neighborhood for a couple hours, and keep our eyes open. If we see anything weird, we call it in."
"That''s it?" I ask, trying not to sound skeptical. I know I''m here voluntarily, but the whole idea sounds like something you''d pitch at a community center meeting, not something that actually works in real life.
"Well, we also talk to people," Melissa says. "Like, shop owners, neighbors, anyone who''s out and about. Just to let them know we''re here. It helps people feel safer."
Before I can ask anything else, a voice interrupts us. "Melissa. You want to introduce your friend?"
I turn toward the voice and feel my stomach drop. Two women are standing a few feet away, looking very much in charge of the whole operation. The one who spoke has short brown hair and an easy smile that doesn''t quite reach her eyes. The other one--oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
Short black hair. Lean, muscular frame. That cold, no-nonsense look I recognize anywhere.
It''s her.
Egalitarian.
I feel my breath hitch, and I clench my fists so hard my nails dig into my palms. She''s not in costume--not wearing the black and white dazzle gear she had that night--but I''d know her anywhere. And I can tell from the way her eyes narrow when she looks at me that she recognizes me, too.
Melissa doesn''t seem to notice my sudden shift in mood. She waves me over, oblivious. "This is Sam," she says. "She''s, uh... one of the good ones. You remember that thing at Homecoming? She''s the one who stood up to that racist superhero guy."
"Oh, I remember," Egalitarian says, her tone smooth but cool. Her gaze locks on me, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. Does Melissa not remember that she was there too? That she was helping him?
The brown-haired woman steps forward, offering her hand. "I''m Parabellum," she says, all business. Her handshake is firm, and her voice is clipped, military-esque. She''s decked out in full body armor--heavy tactical vest, reinforced kneepads, combat boots. She looks like she just walked out of a military recruitment poster. "Glad to have you with us tonight."
I force myself to nod, though my throat feels tight. "Thanks," I manage, my voice stiff.
Melissa looks between us, oblivious to the tension. "Parabellum and Egalitarian are the ones who''ve been organizing these walks. They''ve been rotating around Philly for the last couple of months, helping neighborhoods set up their own patrols. It''s been super effective so far."
"Happy to help," Parabellum says, her tone neutral but professional. "We''re just here to give you the tools you need to keep your own community safe. Tonight, we''ll split into two groups to cover as much ground as possible. I''ll take one group, and Egalitarian will take the other."
Melissa nods enthusiastically. "Great! Sam, you can come with me and Parabellum."
Oh, great. Wonderful. Just what I needed.
I glance at Egalitarian, who''s still watching me with that cold, unreadable expression, and feel a wave of nausea rise in my chest. I don''t want to be anywhere near her, but the idea of being stuck with Parabellum and her bootlicker energy isn''t much better.
But what choice do I have? Melissa is looking at me like this is the greatest idea in the world, and if I make a scene, I''m just going to draw attention to myself. And the last thing I need right now is attention.
"Sure," I say, forcing the word out through gritted teeth. "Sounds good."
Chapter 141.2
Parabellum claps her hands together, the sound sharp and commanding enough to make a few people around us flinch. "Alright, everyone. Let''s get moving. Andres, you''ve got the flashlight, right? John, you''re on watch duty. Eyes open, ears sharp. If you see or hear anything, you let me know immediately. Got it?"
I nod stiffly, not trusting myself to speak. I want to point out that I don''t exactly need instructions for something as basic as "keep your eyes open," but I''m too busy swallowing the knot of unease in my throat. My brain is already buzzing with the sheer awkward horror of this situation. Of all the nights, of all the neighborhoods, of all the people organizing these walks--it has to be them.
The group splits into two smaller teams, as planned, and we head out into the cold, dark streets of Tacony. Parabellum leads our trio with a sense of purpose that feels almost cartoonishly intense, like she''s trying to make the act of walking feel tactical. Every step she takes is deliberate, every movement crisp and precise, like she''s marching through some imaginary battlefield instead of a quiet Philly neighborhood. Even her gear--loaded down with body armor, pouches, and a radio clipped to her vest--gives off this vibe that she''s prepared for war, not a casual evening stroll.
Melissa, bless her oblivious heart, doesn''t seem fazed. She walks a little behind Parabellum, chatting brightly and asking questions like she''s shadowing someone for a school project. "So, what''s the first thing you look for on a patrol?" she asks.
Parabellum glances over her shoulder, her expression stoic. "Anomalies," she says, her voice low and serious. "Anything that stands out. Broken locks, busted windows, unfamiliar cars parked too long in the wrong spots. People loitering where they shouldn''t be."
Melissa nods, her flashlight bobbing with the motion. "Got it. Like, sketchy people hanging around?"
"Not just people," Parabellum replies. "Anything out of the ordinary. The point is to establish a baseline. When you know your neighborhood--every street, every building, every alley--you can tell when something doesn''t fit."
I keep my mouth shut and my eyes forward, letting their conversation wash over me. My brain latches onto the phrase "sketchy people" like it''s a hook, though, and my stomach twists. I know exactly what kind of people they mean. Or at least, I think I do.
We walk in silence for a while after that, the only sounds coming from the occasional crunch of our boots on salt-strewn sidewalks or the distant hum of traffic. The air feels heavy, like the neighborhood is exhausted, just as exhausted as I am. Most of the windows we pass are dark, curtains drawn tight against the cold and the fear that''s been gripping Tacony lately. A few shops are still open, their neon signs flickering in the gloom, but the streets feel almost deserted.
"It''s eerie, isn''t it?" Melissa says after a while, her voice quieter now. "Like, you can tell people are scared. Nobody wants to be out after dark anymore."
"Can you blame them?" Parabellum asks, her tone flat. "With everything that''s been happening? The fires, the break-ins... People are right to be cautious."
Melissa nods, and then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, "I just wish the cops would do more, you know? It feels like they''re not even trying."
Parabellum snorts, a short, sharp sound. "The cops are overwhelmed. They always are. That''s why groups like this exist. If you want something done, you have to do it yourself."
Her words hang in the air like smoke, and I feel my chest tighten. There''s something in the way she says it--matter-of-fact, almost cold--that makes my skin crawl. I can''t tell if it''s the statement itself or the conviction behind it. Maybe both.
We stop at a corner shop, where a man in his sixties is locking up for the night. He looks up as we approach, his eyes darting between us. Parabellum steps forward with her hands raised in what I think is supposed to be a reassuring gesture, though her body armor kind of ruins the effect.
"Evening," she says. "We''re just doing a community patrol. Have you noticed anything unusual around here lately? Anyone hanging around who shouldn''t be?"
The man hesitates, his gaze lingering on her vest and gear. "Uh... no. Nothing like that," he says. "It''s been quiet. Too quiet, honestly."
Alright, man. We get it, life has turned into a movie. Don''t lay it on thick.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Parabellum nods, her expression neutral. "Good. If you see anything, don''t hesitate to call it in. We''ve got people watching out for the neighborhood."
The man nods back, though he still looks uneasy, and we move on.
As we walk, the conversation starts to drift. Melissa keeps asking questions, and Parabellum keeps answering, her tone somewhere between "grizzled soldier" and "frustrated teacher." They talk about everything from situational awareness to how to de-escalate a potential conflict (Melissa: "So you don''t just, like, tackle them?" Parabellum: "Only if they''re an immediate threat."). It''s all very practical, very reasonable on the surface. But every so often, Parabellum''s words take on a sharper edge.
"Most of the time, people like that aren''t looking for a fight," she says at one point. "They''re cowards. They''ll run as soon as they see you''re not afraid of them."
Melissa nods, wide-eyed. "What about, like... superpowered people? Do you think there''s one of them behind the fires?"
"It''s possible," Parabellum admits, her voice dropping slightly. "Lots of other superpowered individuals are dangerous, especially if they''re unstable. That''s why it''s important to be vigilant. If you see something that doesn''t feel right, don''t second-guess yourself. Trust your instincts."
"It''s not like you can know in advance, what with all the Jump going around," I say, trying to at least get a little bit of ideological diversity in this crowd of concerned civilians. "How do you tell the good supers from the bad ones?"
Parabellum turns her head to smile at me, sharp, owlish, like a contented cat, eyes taking in everything about me in an instant. I feel seen through, like my skin has just suddenly converted into glass, and she can see all the little organs and veins inside of me. "Good supers are the ones that either stop crime or don''t get in our way. Bad supers commit crimes or get in our way."
"Our way?" I ask, trying to get an elaboration. Our way? Our way? Every permutation of the sentence feels like bitter licorice in my brain.
"Yes," she non-answers.
I keep my head down, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. The air feels colder now, or maybe it''s just me. Every word out of Parabellum''s mouth feels like a needle, poking at something raw inside me. I know she''s not talking about me, not directly. But it still feels like she is. Like she''s warning Melissa about people like me.
We pass a small group of teenagers hanging out near a corner store, their laughter echoing down the street. Parabellum slows, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watches them. "See that?" she murmurs to Melissa. "They''re not doing anything wrong, but they''re out here when most people are staying inside. That''s the kind of thing you keep an eye on. Patterns. Anomalies."
Melissa nods like she''s being let in on some great wisdom. She even tilts her flashlight in the group''s direction, the beam sweeping across them for just a second before flicking back to the ground. "So, like... they could be casing the place or something?"
"Exactly," Parabellum replies, her tone warm, almost approving. "It''s about being aware. People don''t just stand around for no reason. There''s always a context, a motive."
The teenagers, oblivious or maybe just used to this kind of scrutiny, start to move off. They melt into the shadows of the side streets, their laughter gone. I don''t miss the way one of them glances back over their shoulder, a brief, wary look that makes something in my chest clench.
"They''re just kids," I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.
Parabellum turns her head toward me, her expression perfectly neutral. "Maybe. Or maybe they''re the lookout for something bigger. You can''t assume innocence when the stakes are this high."
My jaw tightens. I don''t know what to say to that. Melissa, for her part, nods along like she''s taking mental notes. "Yeah, I guess it''s better to be safe than sorry."
Better to be safe than sorry. That phrase rolls around in my head, bitter and sharp. Safe for who? Sorry to who? I stare at the pavement as we walk, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling into something too obvious.
Parabellum''s steps remain steady, deliberate. She doesn''t look back at me again, but her presence feels inescapable, like a weight pressing down on the entire block. She watches them go, her expression unreadable.
"It''s not about being paranoid," she says after a moment. "It''s about being prepared."
I don''t respond.
By the time we loop back toward the meeting point, my entire body feels like it''s buzzing with tension. Every word, every glance, every step of this patrol has felt like walking a tightrope. The whole thing is surreal--this mix of well-meaning community effort and barely-hidden paranoia, all wrapped up in a package that feels way too close to something dangerous.
When we finally reach the others, I spot Egalitarian standing at the edge of the group, her arms crossed and her expression as cold and unreadable as ever. She looks up as we approach, her gaze locking on mine for just a second before flicking away.
"So," she says, her voice sharp and clear. "How''d it go?"
Parabellum gives her a quick rundown of our route, her tone brisk and professional. Melissa chimes in with her usual enthusiasm, talking about how much she''s learned tonight and how safe she feels knowing people like Parabellum and Egalitarian are around.
I stay quiet, my eyes fixed on the ground.
Egalitarian listens, nodding occasionally, but her gaze keeps flicking toward me. It''s subtle, but I can feel it, like a weight pressing down on my shoulders. I don''t know if she''s waiting for me to say something or if she''s just trying to remind me that she knows who I am. Either way, it''s working.
When Parabellum finishes, Egalitarian nods once. "Good. Sounds like a productive night."
Her eyes linger on me for just a moment longer, and then she turns away.
I exhale a breath I hadn''t realized I was holding.
Chapter 141.3
The walk back to Mayfair feels like it takes forever, even though it''s just a few blocks. Parabellum insists on leading the group all the way to each person''s door, her boots crunching against the pavement with the same deliberate, military precision as before. Egalitarian hangs back, trailing the group like a shadow, her sharp eyes scanning every street corner and alleyway as we go.
Melissa chatters the whole way, of course. She''s practically vibrating with excitement, like this is the most thrilling thing she''s ever done. "This was so cool," she says, her breath puffing in the cold air. "I feel like we actually made a difference, you know? Like, we''re really out here, keeping people safe."
"Mm-hmm," I murmur, my hands stuffed deep into my coat pockets. My legs feel like they''re made of lead, and every step toward home just makes the knot in my stomach tighter. I don''t have the energy to match Melissa''s enthusiasm, not with Parabellum and Egalitarian looming so close. Not with the weight of everything that''s happened tonight pressing down on me.
The rowhouses of Mayfair come into view, their stoops lined with chipped flowerpots and forgotten snow shovels. The streets are quiet, the kind of quiet that only happens in neighborhoods like this after dark. A few porch lights are still on, casting pale yellow pools of light onto the sidewalks, but most of the houses are dark, their windows shuttered against the cold.
Parabellum halts abruptly at the corner, her head swiveling like she''s listening for something. Melissa almost walks into her and lets out a sheepish laugh. "Sorry."
Parabellum waves it off and motions for the group to continue. "Stay alert," she says, her voice low and clipped. "We''re almost done."
I exchange a quick glance with Melissa, who just shrugs and keeps walking. Egalitarian lingers a few paces behind, her hands tucked into her jacket pockets, her gaze darting toward every parked car and shadowed doorway. I can''t decide if it''s comforting or unnerving. Probably both.
By the time we reach my street, my chest feels like it''s tied in a knot. The warm glow of my rowhouse''s porch light is just a few steps away, but the weight of the night still clings to me. Parabellum stops in front of my house and gestures for me to go ahead.
"This you?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say, my voice quieter than I''d like. "Thanks for... you know. Walking me back."
"Of course," she says, her tone brisk but not unkind. "Get inside safe."
Melissa waves at me, her smile as bright as ever. "See you tomorrow, Sam!"
I nod, forcing a small wave in return. "Yeah. See you."
They wait until I''ve climbed the front steps and pulled my keys out of my pocket. I can feel their eyes on me, their presence heavy and watchful, and I fumble with the lock for a moment before pushing the door open just far enough to drop my bag inside. The door clicks shut behind me, but I don''t step all the way inside.
Instead, I glance down the street, where a figure is huddled against the side of a building, wrapped in a ratty blanket. The dim light from a nearby streetlamp casts long shadows across the sidewalk, but even from here, I can see the outline of a scruffy beard and a weathered hat pulled low over the figure''s face.
A homeless guy. Not exactly unusual in Tacony, especially in winter.
I hesitate, my keys still clutched in one hand. The group is starting to move again, Parabellum leading the way toward their next destination. Before I can overthink it, I step off the stoop and head down the street, my boots crunching against the frozen slush on the pavement. "Hey," I say softly, stopping a few feet away. "You okay? Need anything?"
The figure shifts slightly, and the blanket slips just enough to reveal a familiar face under the scraggly fake beard - dark skin but with the pallor of someone who gets out absolutely none, and floppy dreadlocks tucked under a beanie. My stomach does a weird little flip.
"Hey, kid," Sandman says, his voice low enough that it doesn''t carry. "Fancy seeing you here."
"What the--" I lower my voice to a whisper, glancing around to make sure no one''s watching. "What are you doing? Are you... are you pretending to be homeless?"
He grins, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. "It''s called ''blending in.'' You should try it sometime," he says casually. "You know, surveillance stuff. It''s more convincing than standing on a rooftop with binoculars."
I gape at him, my brain struggling to keep up. "You''re supposed to be watching my block, right? Sundial said--"
"Exactly," he says, nodding like this is the most reasonable thing in the world. "And what better way to keep an eye on things than being right here? Besides..." He pulls a battered old phone out of his pocket and waves it at me. "I''ve got food, a battery pack, and about fifteen different documentaries to catch up on. I''m good."
I blink at him, unsure whether to laugh or yell. "You''re insane."
"Maybe," he says, shrugging. "But it works. And hey, you''re safe, aren''t you?"
I glance back toward the group. They''re almost out of sight now, their voices fading into the cold night air. "You''re totally nuts," I mutter.
"I''ve done this like thirty times. Nobody ever expects the sleeping guy with their eyes shut to be listening to every footstep. Don''t worry about it," he answers to my unspoken question. His grin widens. "Now go get some sleep. You look like you need it."Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
"Yeah, okay," I say, taking a step back. "Just... don''t freeze to death out here, alright?"
"Wouldn''t dream of it," he says, tipping an imaginary hat. "I''ve got a serial arsonist to look out for. So you don''t burn to death either, aiight?"
My face clenches up for a second. He cracks an eye open towards me and grimaces. "I''ll try my best," I reply, unconvincingly.
I can feel sort of in his eyes that he wants to apologize for the off-color joke, but, unlike me in similar situations, he keeps the apology to himself. He eats it and swallows it. Instead, he just smiles a little bit wider. "Goodnight, Sam."
"Goodnight," I mumble, turning back toward the house. The porch light feels brighter now, warmer, and I climb the steps with a little less hesitation.
When I finally step inside and shut the door behind me, the warmth of the house hits me like a wave, and for a moment, everything feels almost normal. The familiar creak of the floorboards, the faint hum of the heater, the smell of whatever my mom cooked for dinner--it''s all so mundane, so comforting, that I almost forget about the chaos outside.
"Sam?" My mom''s voice drifts in from the living room, and I can hear the concern in it even before I see her. She''s sitting on the couch with my dad, a blanket draped over her lap and a mug of tea in her hands. "You''re home late."
"Yeah," I say, kicking off my boots and dropping my jacket onto the nearest chair. "I was out with Melissa, from school. Some... community thing."
My dad raises an eyebrow. "Community thing?"
"Yeah," I say again, not meeting his eyes. "Just, like... a neighborhood walk. Nothing big."
"I heard about those," Dad says, folding his arms, looking thoughtful. "Some local superheroes organizing neighborhood watches. I think there''s the seed of a good idea there,"
"Maybe. But don''t put yourself in any more danger than... than you normally do, okay, Samantha, darling?" Mom asks. I feel my stomach do a weird lurch, because being called by my full name is the danger zone indicator - that she''s been up all night worrying about me. I don''t know if she''s doing it on purpose as some sort of signal to let me know that she''s been worrying, but she''s been worrying. She doesn''t use my full name unless she''s worrying. Or if she''s mad, but if she''s mad, I''d know.
"I''m staying safe. No heroics," I say, running my hand through my hair. I decline to mention the fire I jumped into. I''m sure they saw me on the news, or heard from someone who heard from someone that Bloodhound and Safeguard rescued civilians from a burning coffee shop. I''m sure they''ve heard, directly or indirectly, about the suspected arsonist in North Philly.
Have they connected the dots? My mom and I make eye contact, until it becomes painful two seconds later, and I look above her head and a little bit to the left. "Alright," she says quietly. "There''s food in the fridge if you''re hungry."
"Thanks," I respond, already heading for the stairs, not hungry. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, sweetheart," she calls after me.
I collapse onto my bed without even bothering to change out of my clothes. My body feels heavy, like the weight of the day is pressing me into the mattress. My mind is still buzzing, replaying every awkward moment, every tense word, every glance from Egalitarian, every pereson wearing a hoodie that we passed by. But the exhaustion is stronger.
Upstairs, my room feels almost untouched by the chaos of the day. The posters on the walls, the cluttered desk, the unmade bed--it''s all so familiar, so ordinary, that it feels out of place in the rest of my life. I''m sleeping here only half the time, like I''m already a foot in one world, a foot in the other, like Persephone. I''ve eaten the superhero''s pomegranates. Do I get to come back for the summer?
I close my eyes, and for the first time all day, I let myself stop thinking. The hum of the heater, the distant sound of cars outside, the faint creak of the house settling--it all fades into the background as sleep pulls me under.
And for a few hours, at least, the world goes quiet.
Morning comes too fast, as always. I wake up tangled in my sheets, my alarm blaring like it''s trying to shake me out of the half-dream I''ve been stuck in all night. My heart pounds as I reach over to silence it, and for a moment, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor and trying to remember how to breathe.
Just another day. Just school. Just people. Nothing I haven''t done a thousand times before.
I drag myself through the morning routine. Teeth brushed without looking at my face in the mirror, face washed, hair pulled into a ponytail, adjusted to the center of the back of my head. I throw on my hoodie and jeans, grab my bag, and head downstairs. Breakfast is a granola bar wolfed down on the way to the door, my parents'' usual morning chatter barely registering as I mutter something about needing to leave early.
The walk to school with Jordan is quieter than usual. They''ve got their headphones in, scrolling through something on their phone, and I''m too lost in my own head to ask what. The cold air bites at my face, but I barely notice it. My thoughts are spinning, caught somewhere between the patrol last night and the memory of Sandman''s grin under that ridiculous fake beard. Everything feels heavier than it should, like the weight of the day is pressing down on my shoulders before it''s even started.
By the time I reach my locker, I''ve already gone through the mental checklist of everything I need for the day three times. It''s a habit, a way to keep my brain from spiraling. Math homework? Check. English notes? Check. Gym clothes? Check. Nothing missing, nothing out of place.
I open the locker door and start arranging my books, the motions automatic. It''s almost comforting, the normalcy of it. Then something slips out and flutters to the ground, landing by my feet.
I freeze, staring down at it. A plain white envelope. Unremarkable. No markings, no name, no address. Just a rectangle of paper, sitting there like it''s been waiting for me.
My throat tightens as I pick it up, my hands trembling. It''s light, barely weighing anything at all, but it feels heavier than it should. I glance around the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest. Nobody''s paying attention to me. Just kids talking, laughing, rushing to class like it''s any other morning. Nobody''s watching.
With a shaky breath, I tear the envelope open. Inside is a gift card, the kind you''d get at any random corner store. "Happy Nails & Spa" is printed across the front in cheerful pink letters, complete with a little cartoon nail polish bottle. My brain stutters, trying to process it.
A gift card? For a nail salon?
No. No, no no. No. No. Stop. No, no. No. I don''t want this.
My stomach twists, and my hands feel clammy as I flip the card over. On the other side, a sticker - cartoonish, brightly colored.
A small, round sticker of a hammer, the kind you''d get from a kid''s craft kit.
My vision tunnels. My breathing turns shallow, each inhale sharp and stinging in my chest. The hallway feels like it''s tilting under my feet, like the walls are closing in. I can''t think. I can''t move. All I can do is stare at that stupid sticker, my fingers digging into the edges of the card like it''s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
My heart is racing, my chest tightening until it feels like I''m suffocating. The sounds of the hallway blur into a distant hum, the laughter and chatter distorted and meaningless. My body feels frozen, every muscle locked in place as my brain screams at me to run, to hide, to do something.
The card trembles in my hand, the hammer sticker taunting me with its cheerful simplicity. I swallow hard, my throat dry and tight, and shove the card back into the envelope, cramming it into my pocket like that will somehow make it disappear.
The bell rings, sharp and jarring, snapping me out of my stupor.
Class. Gotta get to class.
Gotta shove it down.
Everything''s fine.
Chapter 142.1
Skipping class isn''t exactly my style. I don''t like the attention it brings, the whispers that follow when I show up later like nothing happened. But today? Today''s a little different.
My heart''s pounding in my chest like it''s trying to break out, and my hands are clenched so tight I''m half-worried I''ll crack my knuckles open. My brain is running loops of pure static, and if I don''t figure out who put that damn letter in my locker, I''m going to explode. Not figuratively. Literally. I''m going to explode, and the janitors will have to scrape me off the ceiling.
I try not to stomp as I make my way down the hall, but it''s not exactly working. My boots hit the floor like gunshots, and everyone within a five-foot radius seems to sense the storm brewing. Kids pull their backpacks in tighter as I pass. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Even the security guards--the ones who usually strut around like they own the place--seem content to stay out of my way. They''re watching me, though, I can feel it. Probably remembering that one time I judo-threw one of their coworkers.
Not my proudest moment. But useful now, apparently.
By the time I reach Principal Heckerman''s office, I''m so wound up that I barely register the secretary''s polite attempt at stopping me. Something about waiting my turn, about how Mr. Heckerman might be busy right now. She might as well be speaking Greek. I mutter something that sounds vaguely like "urgent," push past her, and shove the door open.
Heckerman looks up from his desk, startled but not exactly surprised. "Samantha," he says, setting his pen down and folding his hands neatly in front of him. "To what do I owe this... visit?"
I don''t answer right away. My chest is still heaving, and I feel like I might actually vibrate out of my skin. Without thinking, I pull the letter from my pocket and slap it onto his desk. It lands with a pathetic little flutter. Not exactly the dramatic effect I was going for.
"I need security footage," I blurt out.
He blinks at me, then at the letter. "Excuse me?"
"Security footage," I repeat, louder this time. My voice is shaking, but I ignore it. "From the lockers. Yesterday. I need to see who put that in my locker."
His eyes flicker to the envelope, his expression unreadable. He doesn''t reach for it. Instead, he leans back in his chair, studying me with that calm, measured look that all administrators seem to master at some point. "Miss Small," he says, his tone carefully even, "I''m going to need you to take a deep breath and explain what this is about."
I don''t want to explain. Explaining takes time, and every second that ticks by feels like another second closer to... something. Something bad. But I can see it in his face--he''s not budging until I give him something.
I try to keep my voice steady. "Someone left this in my locker. I don''t know who. I need to find out."
He tilts his head slightly, like he''s trying to read between the lines of what I''m not saying. "And why is that, exactly? Is this... a threat?"
"It''s personal," I snap. Too sharp. I see him flinch slightly, and I force myself to take a breath. "It''s not a threat. I mean, it is, but... Not exactly. But I need to know who''s behind it."
He leans forward now, his elbows resting on the desk. He doesn''t look annoyed. He looks... concerned. Which is almost worse. "Miss Small, if you believe someone is targeting you, this is something that needs to be reported to the authorities. That''s not something we can handle internally--"
"I don''t want the police involved," I interrupt, my voice rising. "They can''t help me with this. You can. You have cameras. I just need to see them."
He lets out a slow, measured sigh, like he''s trying to defuse a bomb without touching it. "Sam," he says gently, which makes my stomach churn - I don''t need his sympathy - "I understand that you''re upset. But this is a school. There are protocols for these things. If someone is harassing you--"
"They''re not harassing me," I cut in, almost shouting now. "It''s not like that. I just--" I stop myself, my throat tight. My hands are shaking, and I shove them into my pockets to hide it. "I just need to know who it was. That''s all. Please."
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze flicking between my face and the letter on the desk. "Alright," he says finally. "Let''s take a step back. Can you tell me when this happened? A specific time would make this a lot easier."
"I don''t know," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "Sometime yesterday, I think. Maybe during second period? Or lunch? I don''t know. Between last time I opened my locker and now. Maybe it was just the end of the day."
"That''s a lot of footage to sift through," he says, his tone careful. "It''s going to take time."
I can feel the frustration bubbling up again, hot and sharp in my chest. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "If you don''t give me the footage, I''m going to--" I stop, swallowing the rest of the sentence. What, Sam? Start roughing people up? Great plan. Really productive.
I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. When I open them, Heckerman is still watching me, his expression unreadable but... softer, somehow. Like he''s waiting for me to say something that makes sense.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
I don''t.
Instead, I sit down. Not because I want to, but because my legs feel like they might give out if I don''t. I press my palms against my knees and stare at the floor, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. My throat feels tight, like there''s a fist wrapped around it.
Heckerman doesn''t say anything right away. I hear the sound of a drawer opening, then the faint rattle of something plastic. When I finally look up, he''s holding out a small bowl of M&Ms. "Take one," he says, his voice oddly gentle. "It helps. Trust me."
I stare at him like he''s grown a second head. "What?"
"It''s a psychological thing," he says with a faint shrug. "A little sugar can help calm you down. Try it."
I don''t want M&Ms. I want answers. But the way he''s looking at me--like I''m a fragile, spooked animal that might bolt at any second--makes it hard to argue. Reluctantly, I reach out and grab one. Red. It tastes like waxy chocolate and shame.
He leans back in his chair, folding his hands again. "Now," he says, his tone calm but firm, "let''s start over. I need you to tell me exactly what''s going on. Why is this so important?"
I don''t answer right away. My eyes are locked on the bowl of M&Ms, my thoughts racing. I could lie. Make up something vague enough to get him to give me what I need. But the truth is stuck in my throat, heavy and impossible to swallow.
"I just..." I force the words out, my voice cracking. "I just need to know who it was. That''s all."
He leans back in his chair again, letting out a deep sigh that feels like it''s been sitting in his chest since the first day of school. His fingers lace together as he watches me, his expression softening but still measured.
"Look, Samantha," he says, and I know I''m in deep water because he''s breaking out my full name. "Everyone my age has seen Ferris Bueller''s Day Off. I''m not a cartoon principal you get to boss around nor a pointy-haired bureaucrat getting in your way. I don''t want to be one of those adults you''ll end up talking about on the news when you''re twenty-five and famous--God willing, of course--and saying, ''No one listened to me.'' I don''t want to obstruct you, but there are processes, rules. You''re my pupil, and as much as I appreciate the work you''ve done for this city, you''re under my tutelage while you''re in this school. It''s my responsibility to protect you. And I don''t need to know exactly what this..." He gestures vaguely at the envelope on his desk. "Nail salon gift card means to you. But I can tell it''s unpleasant."
I stay silent, trying not to look at the card. The edges of the sticker still poke out like a sick joke.
He sighs again, softer this time. "If there''s a real threat to you--one that puts the rest of the school at risk--I need to know so we can handle it the right way. What exactly are we dealing with here?"
My first instinct is to lie. To keep the details vague and manageable, just enough to get him to give me what I need. But he''s staring at me like he can already see the truth bubbling under my skin, like he knows I''ll break if he waits long enough.
So I say it. Flat, direct, because sugarcoating it makes me feel stupid.
"A serial arsonist is trying to kill me. Or scare me into killing myself. Whichever comes first."
I watch the words sink in. His face doesn''t change much, but there''s a slight twitch in his jaw, the kind of subtle reaction you only notice when you''re looking for it. He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. "I see," he says evenly. "And this is related to that coffee shop incident from the news?"
"Yup," I say, popping the p like it''s the only bit of power I have in this room.
He leans back, processing. "Right. Well," he says slowly, "in that case, I''ll email a copy of the footage to the local law enforcement and--"
"No," I cut in, sharper than I mean to. "No law enforcement. I need it. For me. I need to know if he broke into my locker or if he just got a patsy to do it. That''s it, nothing else. I don''t need to make this a big, huge deal. I don''t want to get more people in the line of fire."
I don''t feel rational. I feel like an animal in a corner. Surely the cops could help. If Aaron broke into our school, I bet the cops would want to know about that.
His lips press into a thin line, not angry, just... firm. "Samantha, you can''t do this alone. You''re not an island. There are people who can help you with this--professionals. If you really need to, you can lie about why I''m sending it. It''ll come from my secretary with only the bare minimum information required, as requested by an acting member of the Young Defenders, for an investigation. You walk in with your mask on and get what you need. Everyone''s happy."
I shake my head, my pulse spiking again. "Nobody needs to put themselves at risk except me."
He unfolds his hands, steepling them thoughtfully under his chin. "Sam," he says, like he''s trying to talk me off a ledge. "I understand that this is personal, but we can''t just hand out security footage like candy. There are laws - data privacy laws, protocols - especially when it comes to footage involving other people''s children. You''re not the only student here. Your life may feel more dramatic than others, but they all have lives too. Not only the legal risk, but the very physical risk of danger. If what you are saying is true, and I do believe you, let me just say, then it puts the safety of the entire school at risk. I''ll have to get the sprinklers checked by the fire department and so on and so forth."
I feel myself bristle at that but bite my tongue. Barely.
He leans forward slightly, his tone softening again. "After school," he says. "Come back to my office, and we''ll look through the footage together. I''ll help you find what you''re looking for. And I don''t want to set you off, but I will need to alert the authorities, especially if this man broke into the school to leave a threat in your locker. I can keep it separate from you - an anonymous student tip - but an arsonist is a big deal. We will have to deal with this like we''d handle a potential bomb threat, or some other act of - presumably superhuman - terrorism. This isn''t the first public school threatened by supervillains and it won''t be the last, but I''m not going to let it put the other students in danger."
I chew the inside of my cheek, torn between frustration and reluctant relief. It''s not what I want, but it''s better than nothing.
"Fine," I mutter. "After school. Do you want a nail salon gift card while we''re at it?"
For the first time since I barged into his office, he smiles. It''s small, almost imperceptible, but it''s there. "Sure," he says lightly. "I''ll take the gift card, you take some more M&Ms?"
It''s stupid. It''s dumb. But I can''t help it--I laugh. Just a little. Just enough to let some of the tension drain from my chest. I grab another red M&M from the bowl and pop it into my mouth before standing. I look at him and I can tell he''s putting on just as much of a brave face as I am. Something about the sweat along his widow''s peak, the creases in his very slightly livermarked skin. I''m sure I''m scaring him just as much as I''m scaring myself.
"See you after school," I say, shoving the envelope back into my pocket.
"See you then," he replies, his tone steady. "And Sam?"
I pause in the doorway, glancing back.
"Stay safe," he says quietly.
Chapter 142.2
Principal Heckerman''s office feels heavier after school, the muted tones of the wood-paneled walls and the faint hum of the overhead lights pressing down on me as I sit across from his desk. The bowl of M&Ms is back in its rightful place, and Heckerman himself is hunched over his computer, clicking through tabs with the kind of deliberation that makes me think he might be a little too used to taking his time.
"Alright, Miss Small," he says, leaning back slightly and cracking his knuckles, and then wincing. "Where should we start?"
I glance at the monitor, my nerves coiled tight. "Uh, halfway through yesterday?" I suggest. "Then we can work backward or forward depending on what we find. It''s like a binary search--Jordan taught me this--where you start in the middle and--"
He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. "Miss Small, I''m sixty years old. I know what a binary search is."
I blink. "Oh, alright."
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk with a faint, amused smile. "I didn''t spend my formative years overseeing temperamental VCRs and fighting with floppy disks for nothing, young lady. I''ve done my fair share of searching for needles in haystacks."
"Right," I mutter, my face warming slightly. "Sorry."
"No need to apologize," he says, his tone even. "Just let me handle the technology."
He navigates to the school''s security system with the practiced ease of someone who''s done this a hundred times. The footage pops up, grainy and monochrome, and he rewinds to just before the end of the school day. "Here we are. Yesterday afternoon. Let''s see what we''ve got."
The screen flickers, and the camera feed from my locker''s hallway fills the monitor. Students mill about, moving in and out of frame, their movements jerky and sped up as Heckerman scrubs through the footage. My stomach tightens with every second, my eyes locked on the screen.
"Patience," Heckerman murmurs, not looking at me. "This isn''t exactly CSI, Miss Small."
"I know," I say, my voice sharper than I intend. "I just--"
"There," he says suddenly, pausing the footage. He clicks to slow it down, and the image smooths out. The timestamp reads 3:27 PM. A figure steps into frame, walking toward my locker with casual confidence.
It''s Melissa.
She''s not even trying to hide it. She''s got the envelope in her hand, out in the open, like she''s delivering a flyer for the bake sale. She glances around once, slips the envelope into my locker, and walks away without so much as a backward glance.
"Well," Heckerman says, sitting back in his chair, arms folded over his chest in triumph. "There''s your culprit. Mrs. Marshall seems to have left our little note."
"That''s Melissa?" I say, my voice caught between disbelief and a strange, hollow betrayal. "Melissa Marshall? That''s her last name?"
Heckerman snorts softly, a sound that seems to surprise even him. "What''s funny?" I ask, my tone sharper than I mean.
"Nothing," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "You''re friends with her and you don''t know her last name yet? It''s a very nice name, I''ll give her that. Something earnest about it. Very ''Peter Parker''."
"Earnest," I repeat flatly, trying so hard to resist the urge to roll my eyes.
"Not the point," he concedes, gesturing toward the screen. "Let''s focus. That''s your friend, yes?"
"She''s not my friend," I mutter. "She''s... someone I know. You know, a classmate. She... exists in my orbit."
"Ah," Heckerman says, nodding slightly. "I understand that well enough."
I cross my arms, glaring at the screen. "Why would she do this? Is she working for him? Is he paying her? Did he threaten her?"
"Let''s not jump to conclusions," Heckerman says, his voice measured. "When you''ve been in this business as long as I have, you see a lot of notes dropped into lockers. Most of the time, it''s something harmless. Sometimes it''s a favor. Sometimes it''s a dare. Sometimes it''s for money. But rarely, if ever, does the messenger know the full story of what they''re delivering."
I clench my jaw as Heckerman goes on about favors and dares. Does he not get how serious this is? That people like Aaron don''t just stop? Everything he''s saying makes sense--fine, I''ll give him that--but it doesn''t make me feel any less like I''m falling behind, like I''m already losing this fight.
I shake my head, my frustration bubbling over. "You''re saying she might not even know what she''s doing?"
"I''m saying it''s possible," he says. "Look, she doesn''t seem to be stressed out at all. You''d think someone working for an alleged serial arsonist would be a bit more nervous about it. Wouldn''t you?"
"Nothing alleged about it," I mumble. The thought of her being manipulated or paid off doesn''t make me feel any better. If anything, it makes me feel worse. My anger fizzles into something duller, heavier, sitting in my chest like a weight I can''t shake.
Heckerman leans back, his gaze steady but not unkind. "This is why we take a step back and assess the situation before we act. Rushing in with assumptions only makes things messier."This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
I glance at the monitor again, at the frozen image of Melissa walking away from my locker. "She didn''t even try to hide it," I say quietly. "Like it wasn''t a big deal."
Heckerman nods. "Like I said, if she thought it was something sinister, she probably wouldn''t have been so casual about it."
"Or she''s just stupid," I mutter.
"That''s another possibility," he says dryly. "But I find it''s usually more productive to assume ignorance before malice. They call that "Hanlon''s Razor", you know."
I don''t respond, my eyes still locked on the screen. The longer I stare at it, the more the image blurs, Melissa''s figure melting into the grainy static, like when you look up at the night sky and all you can see are those individual photons, every shade and color of black poking at your eye nerves.
Heckerman clears his throat, pulling my attention back. "Miss Small," he says, his tone firm but not unkind. "I know this feels personal. I can see that. But if there''s one thing I''ve learned in my years of dealing with teenagers--and I''ve dealt with more than my fair share--it''s that people are rarely as malicious as they seem. Sometimes they''re just... caught in the middle of something bigger than they can handle."
I swallow hard, my throat tight. "Yeah," I say quietly. "Maybe."
He leans forward slightly, his expression softening. "You''ll figure this out. But you don''t have to do it alone."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and unspoken. I don''t know what to say, so I just nod.
"After all," he adds, his tone lighter, "you''re not the only person in this school with problems, though yours might be the most exciting at the moment."
I let out a faint, humorless laugh. "Thanks, I guess."
He smiles faintly, reaching for the mouse to close out the footage. "Now, if you''ll excuse me, I have a very important meeting with the fire department about the state of our sprinklers. And you, Miss Small, have a neighborhood to tend to. Or at least, a school to navigate without causing any more scenes."
I stand, slipping the envelope back into my pocket. "Thanks," I mutter. "For, you know. Helping."
"Anytime," he says, his tone warm but steady. "Take care of yourself. Go get some ice cream. I''d give you money for the truck, but I''m not allowed to give money to students, and it''s February."
"I''ve seen the ice cream truck in February," I mutter, mostly to myself, on my way out the door. I don''t give him a second glance back - already, I''m trying to put him and his little bowl of M&Ms behind me.
I trudge through the streets, my feet dragging against the uneven pavement as I try to shake off the day. The bundle of blankets where Sandman had been huddled last night is gone, leaving just a faint impression in the slush-covered sidewalk. Probably still around, just smarter than I am about keeping out of the cold. Or maybe not--maybe he decided my block wasn''t worth his time anymore. Who could blame him?
The air is sharp, biting at my cheeks and ears. Even bundled in my hoodie and jacket, I feel exposed, like the cold is slicing straight through to my bones. Tacony''s streets are quieter than usual--quieter than I like. The kind of quiet that doesn''t just settle; it crawls into your skin and sits there.
By the time I make it to my block, my jaw is clenched so tight I almost don''t notice the flickering blue glow of the TV through the living room window. I step inside, the familiar warmth of the house rushing to meet me. My mom''s voice drifts in from the kitchen, steady and soothing as she talks to my dad about some coworker drama.
"Sam!" my mom calls as I kick off my boots by the door. "Dinner''s almost ready. Go wash up."
I grunt something resembling acknowledgment, shuffle to the bathroom, and splash cold water on my face. It does nothing to clear the fog in my head. By the time I join my parents at the table, the smell of my mom''s chicken stir-fry has filled the room, warm and comforting in a way that feels almost mocking.
"How was school?" my dad asks as I slide into my usual seat.
"Fine," I mutter, poking at my food. My appetite feels like it got left on the sidewalk somewhere.
Mom exchanges a glance with Dad, the kind of glance that says they''re both trying to figure out how much to push. "You look tired, sweetheart," she says gently. "Are you sleeping okay?"
I stab a piece of broccoli with my fork, wishing I could sink into the chair and disappear. "Yeah. Just... school stuff. You know."
Dad clears his throat, shifting in his seat. "Well, if you need to talk about anything--"
"I''m fine," I cut in, sharper than I mean to. "Really."
The awkward silence that follows is almost worse than the conversation. I shove a bite of chicken into my mouth, chewing mechanically as the TV in the living room drones on in the background.
"...marking the end of the third day of the blockade at the Penn Medicine facility. Professor Poppet, the notorious supervillain known for his autonomous creations, has reportedly surrendered after extensive negotiations with the Delaware Valley Defenders..."
The newscaster''s voice grates against my nerves, every word digging a little deeper. Seriously? That''s what they''ve been dealing with? Three days of babysitting some unhinged inventor while we have an arsonist tearing through Tacony? My jaw tightens as I swallow the bite of chicken, the bitterness of my own thoughts mixing with the taste.
"...no injuries reported, and authorities are praising the Defenders for their nonviolent resolution of the crisis..."
"Great," I mutter under my breath. My mom looks up, frowning slightly, but I wave it off. "Nothing. Just... tired."
She doesn''t push, just nods and goes back to her plate. Dad makes a quiet comment about the news, something about how it''s nice that nobody got hurt. I tune it out, my focus drifting back to my food, the flavors muted and distant. Every bite feels like a chore, but I force it down anyway. I can''t deal with the concerned looks my parents give me when I don''t eat.
After dinner, I mumble something about homework and head upstairs before they can corner me with any more questions. My room feels colder than usual, the air heavy with the kind of stillness that presses against your ears. I close the door behind me and drop onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling.
The envelope is still in my pocket, minus one gift card, its weight digging into my hip like a stone. I pull it out and toss it onto my desk without looking at it, the motion sharp and angry. It lands on top of a pile of notebooks after doing about two and a half flips.
I don''t want to think about it. I don''t want to think about Melissa, or Aaron, or Heckerman, or any of it. I just want to stop feeling like my skin is too tight and the world is too small.
My laptop sits on the desk, dark and unassuming. I open it and start pulling up old soccer highlights, the familiar sound of commentary filling the room like white noise. It drowns out the silence without demanding anything from me. No stakes. No expectations.
I curl up on my bed, pulling the blanket over me as the highlights play on. The screen flickers with images of players weaving through defenders, the crowd roaring in the background. It''s so far removed from everything I''m dealing with that it almost feels like stepping into another life.
My thoughts keep circling back, no matter how hard I try to focus on the game. Melissa''s face, frozen on the security footage. The hammer sticker. The newscaster''s voice, praising the Defenders for their heroics. Sandman''s stupid grin under that fake beard.
I close my eyes, willing my brain to shut up, to just let me rest for once. The commentary fades into a dull hum, blending with the faint creaks of the house settling around me. I don''t know when I finally fall asleep, but when I do, it''s restless, the kind of sleep that leaves you more tired when you wake up.
Chapter 142.3
Wednesday. The air in Tacony Charter feels heavier than usual, the kind of weight that makes it hard to breathe. The fire department has set up camp, double-checking every sprinkler, fire extinguisher, and alarm system in the building. Bright yellow jackets fill the hallways, accompanied by ladders, toolboxes, and a palpable sense of unease.
I spot Fury Forge among them, and try not to stare at her face, and then not at her arms, either. She''s in full gear, a sleek black and red suit with faint scorch marks along the edges, a huge backpack full of, I''m sure, the most advanced firefighting gadgets and gizmos the world has ever seen before or since. She''s talking to one of the fire marshals, her tone calm but authoritative.
I feel... Dull relief. Like a sense that I''m being taken seriously, finally, if only by proxy.
Nobody''s tied any of this to me. Not yet. The tension in the school isn''t about me--it''s about the fires, the arsonist, the sketch on the news. Aaron''s sketch. I haven''t slept much since it aired, but it looks like he has. The fires have stopped, and he''s laying low, waiting. Watching. I can feel it.
The whole morning feels claustrophobic, the usual din of student chatter muted by nervous glances and hushed whispers. Teachers try to act normal, but I catch the way they''re glancing at the fire marshals out of the corners of their eyes. It''s like everyone''s holding their breath, waiting for the next spark.
I''m not waiting. I''m hunting.
Lunch rolls around, and I don''t waste time. Melissa Marshall--earnest, oblivious Melissa--is sitting with her usual group near the back of the cafeteria. They''re laughing about something, but I can''t hear what over the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears. I grab my tray, steel myself, and make a beeline for her table.
She looks up when I sit down, her smile faltering for half a second before settling into something polite but wary. "Hey, Sam," she says. "What''s up?"
I set my tray down and lean forward, keeping my voice as calm as I can manage. "Why did you put a letter in my locker yesterday?"
Melissa blinks, tilting her head slightly. "Oh," she says, like I''ve asked her where she bought her shoes. "John from my math class asked me to."
I stare at her, waiting for more. She blinks again, like she doesn''t understand why I''m still staring. "He was like, ''Oh, you know Sam Small, right?'' And I was like, ''Yeah, I''m in classes with her.'' And he said some guy paid him forty bucks to put it in your locker, but he didn''t know which one was yours. So I was like, ''Well, if you give me ten of that, I''ll do it.''" She shrugs, taking a bite of her sandwich. "Why? It was a love note, right?"
I don''t answer. I''m too busy trying to process the sheer ridiculousness of what she''s just said. Ten dollars. She did it for ten dollars.
Melissa keeps chewing, waiting for me to say something. When I don''t, she swallows and adds, "Was it not a love note?"
"No," I say finally, my voice flat. "It was not a love note."
Her face scrunches up in confusion. "Oh. Sorry?"
I can''t tell if she''s lying, but she doesn''t seem nervous. She doesn''t seem anything. Just earnest, like Heckerman said. Earnest and completely, bafflingly oblivious. If she had a cut on her, or if she was on her period, I could read her heartbeat, and see if this conversation was stirring anything. But somehow, even without my bloodsense, I can tell she is being totally honest.
No, Sam, don''t be mean. She''s being polite and friendly, she has no way of knowing, and you''re sure she''s perfectly adequate in terms of education and literacy. You need to calm down. You''re lashing out in your head.
Thanks, the small version of my therapist that lives inside my brainstem. I needed that.
I take a slow breath, trying to steady myself. "Okay," I say, forcing the words out. "You tell John from your math class, or whatever, that I need to talk to him. Today."The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Melissa nods, like I''ve asked her to pass a note in class. "Sure thing. He''s probably in the library right now."
"Thanks," I mutter, standing up. "Enjoy your sandwich."
I walk away before she can respond, my thoughts racing. It''s not that I feel betrayed--how could I? Melissa clearly doesn''t understand what she''s done. No, what I feel is... offended. Like the whole situation is some kind of cosmic joke at my expense.
Forty dollars. Just to fuck with me.
I''m walking to class when a kid I''ve never seen before steps into my path, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, a slacker''s hoodie and patchy facial hair that is not doing him any favors. Maybe in another life he could''ve been a linebacker, but right now anything interesting about him is buried under a gentle weed perfume. "Uh, hey," he says, his voice low. "Melissa said you wanted to talk to me?"
I stop, narrowing my eyes. "You''re John?"
"Yeah," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "Uh, look, if it''s about the envelope thing, I don''t really know much about it. Some dude gave it to my dealer, who gave it to me. Said to put it in your locker, that''s all."
I blink. "Wait. Your dealer?"
John shrugs. "Yeah, you know. Just this guy I buy weed from sometimes. He was like, ''Hey, some dude paid me to get this envelope into Tacony Charter. Some girl''s locker. I know some of you guys go there.'' And I guess I was the lucky winner. I think he thought it was some trap girl thing."
"You''re telling me," I say slowly, my voice tight, "that some random guy handed an envelope to your weed dealer, who handed it to you, and you just... went with it?"
He nods, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "He gave me forty bucks. What was I supposed to do, say no? Do you know how much weed forty bucks can buy?"
I stare at him, my brain short-circuiting. "Are you kidding me? You didn''t think that was at all suspicious?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Why would I? It''s not like he asked me to blow up the school or something. It was just an envelope."
"You didn''t ask what was in the envelope?" My voice is rising, and I have to force myself to take a step back, to unclench my fists. "You didn''t think, ''Hey, maybe this is sketchy as hell and I shouldn''t get involved?''"
John looks at me like I''m the one who''s being unreasonable. "I mean, it''s not like I opened it or anything. The guy who gave it to my dealer said it was just a message for someone. I figured it was, like, a love letter or something."
"A love letter?" I repeat, my voice cracking slightly with disbelief. Why does everyone think it''s a fucking love letter? Why does nobody think it might''ve been a bomb, or anthrax?
The more reasonable part of my brain tries pulling the brakes. People generally do not set bombs for individual, unremarkable teenage girls. Sam, you are an exception, not the rule, and there is no way for this poor kid to know that. Nobody is anthraxing Samantha Small, Unremarkable Athlete.
He shrugs again. "I don''t know, man. I was just like, well, what''s the harm? It''s not like they can fit a bomb into a letter, you know?"
I''m so mad I can''t even think straight. My nails are digging into my palms, and there''s a sharp, biting heat rising in my chest. I open my mouth to yell at him, but the sheer absurdity of it all hits me like a brick. My anger collapses into something bitter and tired, and I let out a humorless laugh instead.
"Unbelievable," I mutter, more to myself than to him. "Do you know the guy your dealer got the envelope from? Do you have any idea who he might''ve been?"
"Nope," John says cheerfully, like this conversation is just a mild inconvenience in his otherwise perfect day. "Didn''t see him. My dealer just said it was some dude. Didn''t really ask for details."
I throw my hands up in frustration. "You know there''s a sketch of him on the news, right? He''s the arsonist they''re looking for. You just played middleman for a serial arsonist."
John''s expression falters, his mouth opening slightly. "Oh. Uh... I don''t really watch the news. My parents don''t let me."
I can''t do this. I can''t talk to this kid for one more second without my head exploding. "Okay, man," I say, my voice dripping with exasperation. "Go to class. Forget I exist. I. Alright. Just go about your day. Enjoy your forty bucks."
"Cool," he says, clearly relieved. He shuffles off, disappearing into the crowd of students like a cockroach under a spotlight.
I watch him go, shaking my head. The worst part isn''t even how ridiculous this all is. The worst part is how little it matters. Aaron didn''t have to show up in person. He didn''t have to put himself at risk. He spent forty bucks, passed an envelope through three lazy hands, and managed to rattle me so hard I can barely think straight.
Sent me on a wild goose chase to find the world''s least interesting patsies, almost made me start crying in the hallway... what, for a lark? He didn''t even have to show up. Was it just to show me that he could hurt me from this far away?
It''s so petty it''s almost funny. Almost.
But I''m done fucking around. If he wanted to scare me, this stupid dipshit stunt backfired, because I''ve gone from just being scared to being scared and angry.
I stare at the clock, watching it tick by, knowing that as soon as I''m done school, I''m going to go grab Fury Forge by the ear, steal one of her axes, and go hunting for coyotes.
Chapter 143.1
The school auditorium feels alien after hours. The rows of chairs, usually filled with restless teenagers, sit empty, their shadows stretched long across the polished floor. A makeshift command center dominates the stage, cluttered with fire department equipment, scattered binders, and a large foldout map of the city pinned to an easel. I hesitate at the entrance, feeling like an intruder in a space that''s both familiar and completely foreign.
Fury Forge spots me before I have a chance to announce myself. She''s crouched by a crate of what looks like fire suppression gear, her muscular frame seeming even more imposing in the dim light. She straightens up, wiping her hands on her flame-resistant jumpsuit. Her red-and-black uniform has a few new scorch marks since the last time I saw her, and the faint smell of burnt rubber lingers around her.
"Mrs. Forge!" I call out, waving, pretending to not be aware of the fact that we are, in a sense, teammates.
"Girlie," she calls back, her voice carrying easily across the empty seats. "Didn''t expect to see any students in here. Thought you''d all be off doing algebra or whatever it is teenagers pretend to care about these days."
I manage a half-smile as I navigate between the rows. "I finished algebra last year. We''re into geometry now. Big leagues."
She snorts, folding her arms over her chest. "Geometry, huh? Useful stuff. You know, firefighting''s all about angles. Sometimes you''ve got to figure out just the right trajectory to knock down a door or get a hose line where it needs to be."
"Yeah," I say, though my heart''s not in it. My eyes are drawn to the map on the easel, where little red pins dot the city in an uneven pattern. Each one represents a fire, I realize. Each one represents... Aaron? No way. These are all over Philly - how would he have had the time?
Fury Forge follows my gaze, her expression hardening. "Got your message from the dispatcher," she says quietly, then raises her voice back to normal volume as a technician passes behind us. "Wish I could''ve been here sooner. Professor Poppet kept us busy longer than we''d planned. And even with him in custody, it''s not exactly quiet out there."
"How so?" I ask, though I already know the answer from the map.
She lets out a slow, annoyed breath. "Copycat arsons. At least, that''s what we''re calling them for now. No way to tell yet if it''s connected to the Tacony guy or just opportunists seeing a big, flashy story and deciding to get creative."
My stomach twists. "Copycats? How many?"
"Too many," she says grimly. "All over the metro area. Mostly small stuff--trash cans, abandoned buildings--but we''ve had some close calls. A convenience store near Drexel, a bathroom fire in a Starbucks in South Philly. We''ve been putting them out as fast as they pop up, but it''s like playing Whac-A-Mole. And every time one of these fires hits the news..." She trails off, shaking her head.
"It just eggs on the next idiot," I finish. My mouth goes dry as the weight of it settles over me. Copycats. Fires spreading like a virus. And it''s not just fires--it''s me. It''s Aaron. It''s all of this. If I''d never been at Tacony Charter, if I''d never crossed paths with him...
"Girlie?" Fury Forge''s voice cuts through my spiral. "You still with me?"
I blink, nodding quickly. "Yeah. Sorry. Just... processing."
She gives me a long look, her sharp eyes taking in more than I''d like. "Look, I''m not saying these are your responsibility. If anything, this kind of stuff happens every time a big-name villain pulls something flashy. We had the same thing after that whole debacle with Emberstrike in 2018. Some people just see chaos and think it''s an invitation."
"Do you think it''s him?" I ask, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. "Emberstrike?" I add, trying to fish for information without being obvious. "Or someone else?"
She exhales sharply, rubbing the back of her neck. "Honestly? No clue. Could be him, could be copycats, could be someone selling cheap Jump strains that mimic his powers. We''re trying to keep it quiet for now, asking for a voluntary moratorium on the news coverage. Whenever a fire gets reported on, two more pop up."
I chew the inside of my cheek, studying the pattern of pins. "Right. Makes sense. Do you think it''s important that they started in Tacony?" I venture. "D''you think whoever''s started this is, I don''t know, targeting something or someone in particular?"
For a moment, there''s nothing but the faint hum of the overhead lights and the muffled sounds of voices from somewhere backstage. When Fury Forge breaks the silence, her tone is softer than before. "I think if someone is targeting someone else, that someone else should be concerned with staying around friends and letting the big guys handle it."Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
I stare sort of past her eyes, my face going flat.
Her lips twitch, almost like she wants to smile but doesn''t quite let herself.
Instead, she turns to the crate she was digging through earlier, pulling out a handful of items. "Speaking of staying alive, I do think there is some direct assistance I can proffer to you and, uh, the rest of your school. Think of it as a beta test for our new student emergency preparedness initiative. The latest shit I''ve been working on."
I raise an eyebrow as she hands me a compact bundle wrapped in bright orange fabric. "What''s this?"
"Fire blanket," she says. "Lightweight, heat-resistant, and small enough to carry around without looking like a total dweeb. You ever get caught in a fire, wrap this around yourself and get out. It won''t stop you from breathing smoke, but it''ll keep you from turning into barbecue."
"Thanks," I say, unfolding it slightly to inspect the material. It''s softer than I expected, almost like a heavy-duty scarf.
She holds up a small canister next, about the size of a travel deodorant. "Foam capsules. Pop the cap, aim, and squeeze. Expands on contact to smother flames. Good for putting out small fires or creating a barrier between you and the heat."
I take it from her, turning it over in my hands. "This is... cool. Like, really cool."
"And last but not least," she says, producing a sleek black mask with an almost futuristic design. "Foldable smoke mask. Filters out most airborne toxins, including carbon monoxide. You''ll still want to get to fresh air as fast as you can, but this''ll make sure you pass out from the heat before you pass out from the smoke. Fits in your pocket, or on a necklace."
I stare at the mask, my throat tightening. It''s not just gear. It''s acknowledgment. Someone taking me seriously enough to arm me against the kind of danger that''s been shadowing me for weeks. "Thank you," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
Fury Forge shrugs, her tone casual. "Like I said, beta test. I''ll want feedback. Let me know if the straps pinch or if the capsules explode in your bag. I''m still working out the kinks."
I can''t help but smile, just a little. "Will do."
She leans back against the stage, crossing her arms again. "Listen, Girlie. You know what the first rule of firefighting is? You can''t save anyone if you''re dead. Sometimes the smartest thing to do is wait for backup, secure your position, make sure you''ve got all your equipment in order."
I hesitate, my grip tightening on the fire blanket. "And if backup isn''t coming?"
Her expression hardens. "Then you''d better make damn sure you know what you''re walking into before you open that door. Fire''s not like other threats. It''s patient. It''s methodical. And it only needs one mistake."
"I understand," I say quietly.
"Good," she replies, turning back to her map. "Now get out of here. Go study geometry or whatever it is you''re supposed to be doing."
I leave the auditorium with the package tucked under my arm, turning her words over in my head. Wait for backup. Know what you''re walking into. But Aaron isn''t going to wait, and backup isn''t coming.
Which means I need to open that door.
The walk home feels heavier than usual, the world pressing in from all sides. Fury Forge''s gear sits at the bottom of my bag, its compact weight both comforting and suffocating. I''m not in costume--won''t be today, at least--but just knowing it''s there makes me feel like I''m walking a line between normal and... not.
I drag my shoes through the slush toward my front door. Sandman is on my block again, pretending to be asleep. Or maybe he actually is asleep but somehow still conscious? I know his powers involve sleep but the details escape me. Either way, I nod at him, and he cracks an eye open to nod back.
When I step inside, the warm smell of dinner hits me, and for a moment I''m back in a world that feels too small for all the chaos in my head. My mom''s voice floats in from the kitchen, steady and familiar.
"Sam, is that you? Dinner''s almost ready."
"Yeah," I call back, kicking off my boots and setting my bag by the door. I don''t even make it halfway to the stairs before my dad emerges from the living room, his expression balanced between relief and wariness.
"Hey, kiddo," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "You doing okay?"
I shrug, aiming for casual. "Yeah. Long day."
He nods, his eyes lingering longer than I''d like. "We were just watching a news report about that arsonist. The one in Mayfair? You hear anything about it at school?"
"Not really," I lie, brushing past him toward the stairs. "Everyone''s just nervous with the fire department everywhere."
"Good, I heard," he says, his voice a little too loud, trying too hard. "Just... be careful, okay? Stay close to your teachers."
"I''m not five, Dad," I mutter, but there''s no real bite to it. I can''t blame him for worrying.
"Hey, Ben, let her go," my mom calls from the kitchen. "She just got home."
I glance back, offering a faint smile. "I''m fine, really. Just tired."
He sighs, stepping back. "Alright. Dinner in ten, though."
I retreat to my room, closing the door with a quiet click. The house feels so normal, so insulated from everything outside, that it''s almost surreal. My parents don''t know--can''t know--that the arsonist isn''t just some random guy terrorizing Mayfair. They don''t know it''s Aaron. They don''t know it''s my fault.
I pull the envelope from my bag, turning it over in my hands. The hammer sticker stares back at me, bright and cartoonish, like it''s mocking me. I run my fingers along the edges, feeling the cheap paper give slightly. There''s nothing special about it--nothing that screams, This is the work of a serial arsonist! But I know better.
A crime lab could dust it for fingerprints, maybe pull something useful. But even if Aaron''s prints are on it, what good would that do? I know he''s out there. I know what he''s capable of. The envelope''s been passed through too many hands--John, Melissa, John''s dealer, and who knows who else. It''s a dead end. A loose thread with no hope of being tied up.
I toss it onto my desk, leaning back with a frustrated sigh. My mind churns, replaying the past few days in an endless loop. The fires. The envelope. Fury Forge''s map. Aaron''s face, burned into my memory like a scar. I can only see everything in retrospect - the shape the fires take, their position on a map, but I can''t trace it backwards.
Can I?
I sit up, my gaze snapping back to the envelope. My fingers drum against the desk as the thought takes shape, slow and uncertain at first, but gaining momentum. The chain of custody is messy, sure. But it''s still a chain. A trail.
Just not a trail a normal person could follow.
Chapter 143.2
I don''t feel great about skipping school, but after the week I''ve had, it''s not like I''m going to get much out of classes. Instead, I''m sitting on the cold, uneven floor of what used to be a Tacony thrift store, waiting for Derek to show up. The building''s been condemned for years, but the city''s slow crawl toward demolition means it''s still standing--barely. The roof leaks, the windows are boarded up, and the air smells faintly of mildew and old fabric softener. It''s perfect.
I sent Derek a message at midnight. I knew he wouldn''t see it until morning--because, well, wolf stuff--but I still felt guilty when the reply came through at dawn, short and to the point:
"You better have a good reason for this. I hate being in North Philly."
The sound of boots crunching over broken glass pulls me from my thoughts. Derek steps into view, his orange hair catching the weak sunlight filtering through the boards. He looks annoyed, which is pretty much his default expression, but his scowl deepens when he sees me sitting cross-legged on the floor.
"This better be important," he says, voice low and gravelly. He''s wearing his usual uniform: battle jacket covered in patches, jeans, hoodie underneath for the February chill. An unlit cigarette dangles from his mouth.
I stand, brushing off my jeans. "It is. Thanks for coming."
He snorts, crossing his arms. "Yeah, well, you''re lucky I didn''t have plans. What''s so urgent it couldn''t wait until school let out?"
I hold up the envelope. The hammer sticker catches the dim light. "I need you to smell this."
Derek stares at me, unblinking. "You''ve got to be kidding."
"I''m not," I say firmly, stepping closer. "It''s from a serial arsonist who''s targeting me direc-- haven''t you been following the group chat, man?"
"No," he answers flatly.
I sigh. "He left it in my locker. I need to figure out where it came from."
He takes a half-step back, holding up his hand. "First of all, I don''t care who it''s from. That''s disgusting. Second, what am I, your personal bloodhound?"
"Ha, ha," I cross my arms, meeting his glare. "Come on, don''t make me fight you for it. You''re the only person I know who can do this."
Derek groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Why me?" he mutters, but he doesn''t leave. Instead, he flicks the unlit cigarette into a corner and snatches the envelope from my hand. "Fine. But if this smells like gym socks, I''m out."
I bite back a smile as he lifts the envelope to his nose, his face scrunching in concentration. After a moment, he lowers it, brow furrowed.
"There''s a lot here," he says, tone begrudgingly serious. "Paper, ink, cheap adhesive... and something chemical. Like nail polish remover."
"Nail polish remover?" I echo, pulse quickening.
"Yeah." He sniffs again, then hands it back. "It''s faint, but it''s there. You said this guy''s an arsonist? Could be accelerant residue. Or he just got lazy with his mom''s office supplies."
I tuck the envelope into my bag, mind racing. "Either way, it''s a lead. Thanks."
Derek narrows his eyes. "You''re not going after this guy alone, are you?"
"Of course not," I lie. "I just need to figure out where he''s been."
He doesn''t look convinced but doesn''t push it. Instead, he jerks his thumb toward the door. "Let''s get this over with. Where are we headed?"
"Happy Nails & Spa," I say, pulling up my hood. "I think it''s the last place he hit before the envelope made its way to me. The gift card was the letter, I mean."
Derek raises an eyebrow. "You think he left a scent trail? And why''d he send you a gift card? Thought this guy was trying to kill you."
"Long story," I say, feeling a flicker of hope. "He''s never met you. I doubt he''d wear enough cologne to fool a tracking hound."
"Yeah, well, don''t get excited," Derek says, pulling up his own hood. "If he''s as careful as you say, he probably covered his tracks."
"Maybe," I admit, stepping outside. "But if he didn''t, he''s screwed."
The walk to Happy Nails & Spa is quiet, but tension squeezes the air from my lungs. Derek keeps pace beside me, hands in pockets, eyes scanning the street like he''s expecting an ambush. Our cloth masks make conversation awkward, but I don''t mind the silence. It gives me time to think.
Aaron messed up. He thinks he''s untouchable, that he can play his little games without consequences. But he doesn''t know about Derek. He doesn''t know that I''m not just scared anymore - I''m angry. And when I''m angry, I don''t stop.
We''re half a block from the spa when Derek stiffens, head tilting slightly. I follow his gaze, heart pounding.
"What is it?" I whisper.
He doesn''t answer immediately, eyes narrowing as he sniffs the air. Then he exhales sharply, shoulders relaxing.
"Nothing," he mutters. "Thought I smelled something, but it''s gone now."
I nod, forcing myself to stay calm. "Let''s keep moving."
We round the corner to Happy Nails & Spa, its neon sign flickering in the gray afternoon light. The place hums with its usual activity--chairs full of women leaning back for manicures, feet soaking in warm water, the chemical tang of acetone hanging in the air. The workers move with practiced precision, filing nails, scrubbing feet, applying polish.
Derek sniffs the air as we step inside. A small bell jingles overhead, and I''m hit with a wall of warmth and overlapping conversations.
"Busy," Derek mutters.
"Yeah," I say, pulling out the envelope and the printed sketch of Aaron. My heart picks up as I glance around. Everything feels normal--totally normal--and that''s almost worse than the alternative.
The woman at the counter looks up as we approach, polite but curious. She''s young, maybe early twenties, with straight black hair in a low ponytail. Her nails are painted coral, matching the salon''s tidy decor.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
"Hi," I say, sliding the envelope and sketch across the counter. "Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask about something."
She glances at the sketch, eyebrows pulling together. "What''s this about?"
"It''s complicated," I say, keeping my voice steady. "This guy--he''s been causing trouble. I think he might''ve been through here recently."
Her frown deepens, but then her eyes flick to me, widening slightly. "Wait--Ms. Small?"
I blink. "Uh, yeah?"
"You used to come here with your mom, right?" A small smile tugs at her lips. "It''s been a while, but I remember your eyes."
"Oh," I say, caught off guard. "Yeah. Few years now."
"I always remember the regulars. Even the ones who only came five or six times."
"Guess I made an impression," I say awkwardly, glancing at Derek. He''s still sniffing the envelope, muttering something about chemicals.
The woman looks back at the sketch, her smile fading. "He does look familiar. Think he was here last week. Got a manicure, bought a gift card on his way out."
My stomach drops. "You''re sure?"
She nods. "Pretty sure. Just another customer at the time. But if he''s dangerous..."
"He''s on the news," I say carefully. "Have you seen?"
"Ah... I don''t think I have. I would''ve reported him if I did," she says, jaw tightening. "He was here about a week ago. He didn''t do anything weird. Just got his nails done, paid cash, left."
"That would be before the news report, so that makes sense," I mutter. I glance at Derek, who''s still sniffing the air, face scrunched in concentration. "Anything?"
"Envelope matches," he mutters. "Nail polish remover, acetone, dude smell, marijuana. But there''s something else--faint, but it''s here."
"What kind of ''something else''?"
Derek shakes his head. "Don''t know yet. Could be cologne, could be accelerant. Need to keep following it. Metallic, though. Smoky."
The woman watches us, concerned. "Is he dangerous?"
"Very," I say bluntly. "But we''re trying to stop him before he does anything worse."
She nods slowly, fingers tapping the counter. "I''ll ask if anyone remembers anything else, but he didn''t stand out much."
"That''s already a huge help," I say, managing a small smile. "Thanks."
Derek straightens. "We should go. Burning sunlight."
"Right," I say, giving the woman a quick nod. "Thanks again."
"Be careful," she calls as we step back into the cold.
We step back out into the cold, the warmth of the salon fading as the door closes behind us. Derek sniffs the envelope again, his eyes narrowing as he catches something.
"This way," he mutters, jerking his head toward the main street. "It''s old, but it''s there."
The next few hours blur together as we follow Aaron''s trail through Tacony. Derek moves methodically, stopping at corners to reorient himself, explaining what he''s picking up as we go. The scent is distinctive--something chemical underneath the human smell, sharp and artificial.
"Road flares," Derek says around noon, after we''ve covered maybe half of Tacony. "That''s what I couldn''t place before. He smells like road flares and sweat."
I pull my hoodie tighter against the chill and follow him. The streets are quiet, amplifying every sound--passing cars, distant shouts, gravel crunching under our feet. Derek moves with purpose, but he''s careful, taking time at each new location to build a picture of Aaron''s movements.
"So what''s the verdict?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "Are we actually tracking him?"
"Yeah," Derek says, checking his phone. Almost two o''clock now. "But it''s complicated. He''s been all over, different times of day. The fresher the smell, the more recent the visit."
I chew the inside of my cheek, my mind racing. The idea that Aaron had been methodically mapping my neighborhood makes my stomach churn. I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from trembling.
We cross another street, and Derek slows, tilting his head. "Strong here," he mutters. "Really strong. Recent too--maybe yesterday. But he didn''t stick around long."
The afternoon wears on as Derek weaves us through back alleys and side streets. The further we go, the more the pieces start to fall into place. Aaron''s trail snakes past my school, looping around to the side entrances and staff parking lot. Derek stops in front of one of the gates, his expression grim.
"Heavy concentration here," he says, voice low. "Multiple visits. Some old, some fresh. He''s been coming back."
My chest tightens. "You think he was watching the school?"
Derek shrugs, but there''s no mistaking the tension in his shoulders. "Maybe. Probably. You think it''s a coincidence?"
"It''s not," I cut in, my voice sharper than intended. "He''s been watching me. He knows where I go. What I do."
Derek doesn''t argue. Just turns and starts walking again, his nose leading us further along the trail. We pass by the park where Jordan and I sometimes hang out, the corner deli where I grab snacks, even the Music Hall. Each stop feels like a punch to the gut, a reminder of how thoroughly Aaron has mapped out my life.
"He doubled back here," Derek says, stopping in front of the Music Hall. The sun''s getting low now--we''ve maybe got two hours before he needs to head home. "More than once. Most recent was yesterday."
I glance at the building, its familiar silhouette suddenly feeling foreign and exposed. "He was looking for me," I say quietly.
"Probably," Derek says, tone clipped. "Checking if you were inside. When he couldn''t tell, he''d leave and come back later. You should probably let Jordan know."
The idea of Aaron circling the Music Hall, trying to figure out if I was inside, makes me want to yank my skin off. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to focus. "Where''s the trail leading now?"
Derek sniffs the air again, then starts moving with renewed purpose. "It''s stronger this way. Heading east. And fresher--maybe just a few hours old. He''s been moving while we''ve been tracking."
We follow the scent toward the Delaware, the streets growing quieter as we leave the busier parts of Tacony behind. The trail thickens as we approach the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, the air colder and sharper near the water. The winter sun hangs low, painting everything in long shadows.
"He spends a lot of time around here," Derek says, stopping at the edge of an overgrown lot. "The scent''s layered. Old and new, like he keeps coming back. Most recent is..." He sniffs again. "Today. This morning, maybe."
I stare at the bridge in the distance, its steel beams cutting against the darkening sky. "Why here?" I ask, more to myself than to Derek.
"Could be a hideout," Derek says, checking his phone again. We''re running out of time before he needs to go to his cage. "Could be nothing. But the trail''s fresh, and it leads right here."
"Let''s check it out," I say, my voice steady despite the knot in my stomach. "You''ve got time for one more stop before sunset?"
Derek hesitates, but nods. His jaw sets as he starts walking again, the trail pulling us toward the bridge and whatever waits beneath it.
The trail leads us down Levick Street, under the looming shadow of the Tacony-Palmyra bridge. The winter sun is getting dangerously low, painting long shadows across the construction site that stretches out before us. Chain-link fences line the perimeter, topped with rusted barbed wire, but there are gaps where the metal has pulled away from the posts.
Derek stops abruptly, his whole body going rigid. "He''s here," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Right now. The scent''s fresh--minutes old, not hours."
I scan the area, taking in the scattered construction equipment, the piles of gravel and concrete barriers, the bridge utility station squatting beneath the massive steel spans overhead. My heart pounds against my ribs as I realize Aaron could be watching us right this second.
"Where exactly?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
Derek''s eyes narrow as he scents the air. "Under the bridge. Near that utility building. And..." He hesitates, checking his phone. "Sam, I''ve got maybe forty minutes before I need to start heading back."
I nod, mind racing. Aaron''s been living here, using the bridge as cover. Probably sleeping in his car, maybe breaking into the utility station for warmth. It''s perfect--hidden from view but with clear sightlines to watch anyone approach. Just like an underpass. Just like last time.
"You think he can see us?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Almost definitely." Derek''s shoulders are tense, his eyes constantly moving. He turns to me, jaw set. "We should take care of this now."
I blink, surprised. "What? But you just said--"
"Yeah, I know what time it is," he cuts me off. "But think about it. He''s seen us. If we leave now, he''ll just find somewhere else to hide, and we''ll have to start all over. Plus..." He grins, showing too many teeth. My brain inserts the word "Glaswegian" but I couldn''t tell you why, or even what that means. "Two on one. Better odds than you usually get."
He has a point. Aaron''s not exactly known for standing his ground when the odds aren''t in his favor. And if we leave now...
I catch movement in my peripheral vision--just a flash, maybe nothing. But it confirms what I already knew: Aaron''s watching. And now he knows that we''re hunting him.
"Okay," I say quietly, squaring my shoulders. "Let''s end this."
Derek''s grin widens as he checks his phone one last time. "Forty minutes," he says. "Better make them count."
Chapter 143.3
Derek and I walk in tense silence as we approach the stretch of cars parked haphazardly along the edge of the construction site. The smell of diesel and rust clings to the air, mingling with the distant sound of traffic overhead. The sun dips lower, the shadows stretching long and jagged, cutting sharp angles across the ground. My heart feels like it''s going to hammer its way through my ribs. Aaron is here. I can feel it, like a static charge building under my skin.
Derek''s shoulders are hunched, his movements deliberate as he scans the rows of vehicles. His nose twitches faintly, and he slows to a stop just short of a faded red Camry. "Pretend we''re checking car by car," he mutters under his breath, barely audible over the rush of my own thoughts. "But it''s this one. Red Camry."
I nod, clenching my fists at my sides as we move toward the nearest vehicle. I tap lightly on the driver''s side window, peering inside like I''m looking for something, anything. Derek does the same, his movements exaggerated as he knocks against the next car, then the next, working his way toward the Camry.
We reach it after what feels like an eternity, each second drawing tighter around me like a noose. Derek stands beside the driver''s side door, his gaze fixed on the tinted window. Without a word, he bends down, picks up a loose brick from the ground, and starts tapping it lightly against the glass. The sound is hollow, rhythmic, almost casual.
"What are you doing?" I hiss, glancing nervously around.
"Getting his attention," Derek says, his voice low and even. He taps the brick harder, the sound turning sharper. "We don''t have time to screw around."
Before I can respond, the Camry''s interior begins to fill with smoke--thick, gray billows that swell rapidly, completely obscuring the inside. The windows crack open, and the smoke pours out, rolling toward us in dense waves that burn my eyes and throat. I stumble back, coughing, my heart racing as I try to make sense of what''s happening.
"Stay back!" Derek barks, raising the brick. His muscles coil as he swings it forward, shattering the windshield with a single, sickening crunch. The glass spiderwebs and collapses inward, shards cascading onto the dashboard. Derek''s arm snaps forward, and the brick strikes something solid with a dull thud.
The smoke shifts just enough for a pair of eyes to flash through--a glimpse of pale, cold intensity--before they vanish into the swirling gray. Derek stumbles back with a startled curse, batting at his arm as yellow flames lick up his sleeve.
"Shit!" he growls, frantically patting the fire down with his other hand.
"Derek!" I shout, moving toward him, but before I can reach him, the driver''s side door whips open. It slams into me with bone-rattling force, sending me sprawling into the side of a nearby truck. My head cracks against the metal, and for a moment, the world tilts and blurs. Pain radiates down my shoulder and side, but I grit my teeth and force myself to move, rolling onto my hands and knees.
Aaron''s already in motion. Through the haze of smoke, I see him lean into the car, his movements quick and precise. Derek surges forward, raising his arms to strike, but the car lurches forward suddenly, engine growling as the tires screech against the asphalt.
"Get back!" Derek yells, and I barely scramble out of the way as the Camry veers forward. For a split second, I think Aaron''s trying to run us down--but then I see it: the brick Derek had thrown is jammed against the accelerator, pinning it down. The car jerks forward, slamming into another parked vehicle with a sickening crunch. The metal groans, buckling under the impact, but the engine keeps roaring, trying to push the wreckage further.
The moment Aaron dives out of the car, there''s no hesitation. No pause to size up his odds, no calculating his escape. He barrels straight for me like a missile, tackling me to the ground before I can so much as breathe. My back hits the pavement with a sickening thud, knocking the air from my lungs. Before I can register what''s happening, his fists are raining down on me.
My instincts kick in before my brain catches up. I twist, raising my arms to block, his blows glancing off my forearms and shoulders instead of my face. Pain shoots through me with each impact, but I keep moving, turning my head away from his fists. One of them glances off my cheekbone, hard enough to send stars flashing in my vision. My body screams at me to get away, but he''s on top of me, his weight pinning me to the ground.
I can hear Derek shouting something, but it''s lost in the roar of my own heartbeat and the ragged sound of Aaron''s breathing. He''s relentless, his fists hammering down like he''s trying to crack me open. My muscle memory takes over, my training keeping me alive--barely. I block, I twist, I push against him, but it''s not enough to dislodge him.
Suddenly, Aaron''s weight shifts, and there''s a loud thud as Derek''s boot connects with his ribs. Aaron is yanked off me with a growl, landing a few feet away. Derek''s sleeve is still smoldering, but the flames are out, his jacket scorched and torn.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
"You okay?" Derek barks, his eyes darting between me and Aaron.
"Fine," I gasp, rolling to my knees. My arms throb where they blocked Aaron''s hits, but I shove the pain aside, adrenaline taking over. I charge headfirst towards Aaron and shoulder ram him into the nearest car, feeling something go crack in between me and him. Even if I get nothing else, I''m gonna make sure he leaves with an injury or two.
He buckles beneath me, and then goes limp, before slamming his forehead into mine. I stumble back, and so does he, or, well, he stumbles sideways.
Aaron scrambles to his feet, his eyes locking on mine. There''s no taunting, no smug grin--just raw, unfiltered hatred. He doesn''t speak until his gaze sharpens, and the air between us shimmers with heat. Fire explodes between us in a wall of brilliant red, so bright it burns afterimages into my vision. The heat is intense, oppressive, nothing like the yellow flames I remember from our last encounter. This is different. Hotter. More focused.
"Small." Aaron''s voice carries over the roar of the flames, dripping with a kind of deranged glee that makes my skin crawl. "I''m so *happy* to see you. Burn."
The world erupts in red. I dive forward, rolling under the first wave of fire as it passes over my head. The heat is incredible, like being inches from a blast furnace. My jacket starts to smolder, and I tear it off, throwing it aside as I come up in a crouch.
Derek charges through the flames, his clothes singed but his momentum carrying him forward. Aaron''s gaze snaps to him, and another burst of crimson fire erupts, forcing Derek to dive sideways. The fire follows his movement, tracing bright lines through the air like road flares.
I reach for the fire blanket Fury Forge gave me, yanking it from my bag. "Derek!" I shout, throwing it to him as Aaron''s gaze swings back toward me. The red fire comes in a concentrated beam this time, and I barely manage to duck behind a concrete barrier. The edge of the barrier hums cherry-red where the flames hit it.
Derek catches the blanket, using it to shield himself as he moves closer to me. Aaron''s laugh echoes across the construction site, high and manic. More fire rains down, but Derek holds the blanket up, creating a barrier between us and the flames.
"Pass it here!" I call out. Derek tosses the blanket to me just as Aaron unleashes another barrage. I catch it and sweep it up in front of me, feeling the heat press against the other side. Through the shimmer of superheated air, I see Aaron''s expression change--confusion flickering across his face as his flames fail to penetrate.
He snarls, his eyes blazing with intensity as he focuses his gaze. But something''s wrong. Instead of the brilliant red fire, thick white smoke begins pouring from the points where his gaze lands. It billows outward rapidly, the same dense smoke from the Camry, quickly filling the space between us.
"What the hell?" Derek coughs, stumbling back as the smoke engulfs us. It''s acrid, burning my eyes and throat. I can barely see three feet in front of me.
Aaron''s silhouette moves through the smoke like a ghost, his yellow flames now cutting through the haze in brief, angry bursts, like lightning bolts in a storm cloud. Do his powers only work when he has clear line of sight? That makes sense.
That doesn''t stop a small gash in the smoke from forming with a wave of Aaron''s hand, and, following that, a spray of yellow fire across Derek''s chest.
"Derek!" I try to move toward the sound, but another blast of yellow fire forces me back. The smoke is everywhere now, thick and choking. My lungs burn with each breath, and my eyes water so badly I can barely keep them open.
Through the haze, I hear Derek''s coughing turn to retching. He''s going to pass out if this keeps up. My hands fumble in my bag, searching desperately until they close around the oxygen mask Fury Forge gave me. I pull it out, expanding it with shaking fingers.
"Hold on!" I shout, following the sound of Derek''s coughing. I find him on his hands and knees, barely conscious. Without hesitation, I press the mask over his face, holding it there as he takes deep, desperate breaths.
Another burst of yellow flame cuts through the smoke nearby, but it''s weaker now, less focused, and I can see just in the edge of my stinging vision Aaron making a break for it as far as his shitty orange sneakers will carry him.
Derek pushes himself to his feet, still holding the mask to his face. His other hand finds my shoulder, and we support each other as we stumble away from the construction site. The sun has dipped even lower, painting the sky in deep purples and reds that seem to mock the fire we just escaped.
I grab Derek''s arm, dragging him toward the edge of the construction site. Every step feels like a battle, the smoke clinging to me like it''s alive. My head spins, my lungs screaming for oxygen, but I force myself forward, one step at a time.
Finally, we break free, stumbling into the cold evening air. I drop to my knees, coughing violently, every breath feeling like fire in my chest. Derek collapses beside me, the oxygen mask still pressed to his face, his breathing ragged but steady.
For a moment, we just sit there, the world spinning around us, the distant sound of traffic the only reminder that life continues outside this nightmare.
"He got away," Derek rasps, his voice muffled by the mask.
"We need to get you home," I say, my voice raw from the smoke. "Before--"
"Don''t worry about it. I''ve got twenty minutes before the danger zone," he wheezes. "I''ll call a taxi."
We make it about half a block before having to stop, leaning against a wall as we catch our breath. My whole body aches, and I can feel bruises forming where Aaron''s fists connected.
"His fire changed," I say, more to myself than to Derek. "From red to white to yellow. Like he couldn''t control it."
Derek pulls the mask away from his face long enough to speak. "That guy''s fucking crazy. Who hits someone with a car door? Psycho."
"Hey, man, I''m... I don''t know. At least I maybe broke one of his ribs. And we know for sure that he''s here. And fucked his car. I doubt he can get far now," I say, trying to scramble for silver linings.
"Hey. Worry about silver linings later," Derek pulls the thought from my head. "Let''s get me home before I rip you in half, and then you can get yourself patched up, kid."
"Sure," I say, watching Derek''s burnt arm shakily stumble through the taxi app menu. "Let''s."
WORLD OF CHUM: Sports & Hyperball (2)
Blood, Money, and Powers: Inside Trenton''s Underground Fight Scene
by David Chen for The New Republic
March 2022 Edition
The diner coffee tastes like it was brewed during the Reagan administration. That''s fine - I didn''t come to this fluorescent-lit slice of midnight New Jersey for the coffee. I''m here to meet someone we''ll call Marcus, a man who makes his living organizing what he euphemistically terms "alternative athletic entertainment."
"Twenty years in the business," Marcus says, absently stirring creamer into his own cup. He''s a big man, probably handsome once, with the kind of face that''s been rearranged a few times. His knuckles tell stories his words won''t. "Started with regular fights. Boxing, mostly. Some mixed martial arts when that got big. But powers?" He shakes his head. "That changed everything."
The waitress refills our cups without asking. If she recognizes Marcus, she doesn''t show it. In Trenton, knowing too much is bad for your health.
"First powered fight I ever saw?" Marcus leans back, eyes distant. "2009. Strength type versus strength type. Simple match, you''d think. Right up until one of them picked up my ring and threw it through the wall. That''s when I learned lesson one: you need the right venue."
These days, Marcus operates out of abandoned factories, defunct warehouses, anywhere property damage can be written off or ignored. "You get creative," he says. "Old basement speakeasies from prohibition, those are gold. Already soundproofed, usually got good ventilation. Perfect for the pyros." He grins. "Though sometimes they still melt the pipes."
The finances are more complex than the venues. "Betting''s where the real money is," Marcus explains. "But you can''t just run it like regular fights. Powers change everything. You got to understand not just fighting styles, but power interactions. Plus you got to keep it fair enough that people keep betting, brutal enough that they keep watching, and controlled enough that nobody dies. Dead fighters are bad for business."
I ask about the unwritten rules that keep the circuit running. Marcus ticks them off on scarred fingers: "No cameras. No real names. No cops, no capes. You break those rules, you''re done. Not just with me - with everyone. And trust me, you don''t want to be the guy who brought heat on this scene."
He pauses as a truck rumbles past outside, his eyes tracking the headlights across the window. When he''s satisfied it''s moving on, he continues. "Medical care''s crucial. We got doctors who don''t ask questions, healers who need cash. Good ones, too - you''d be surprised how many licensed professionals got gambling debts. But mainly you prevent problems by making smart matches. You don''t put a pyrokinetic against someone who can only generate force fields unless you want a snuff film."
The clientele is as varied as the powers themselves. "You got your rich thrill-seekers," Marcus says, "guys in suits who want to feel dangerous for a night. They bet big, drink expensive scotch, and never get their hands dirty. Then you got the real players - crime families sizing up talent, powered folks looking to prove themselves, underground bookies building their networks."If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
He won''t talk specific numbers, but his slight smile when I mention six-figure bets tells its own story. "Look, people love violence. They always have. But powered fighting? That''s something else. That''s spectacle. You haven''t lived until you''ve seen a guy who can manipulate metal go three rounds with someone who can generate magnetic fields. The whole ring becomes a weapon. Had to replace every screw and nail in the place after that one. Though nothing beats the outdoor matches - had this one guy who could turn into a fucking dinosaur, if you can believe it. Real deal T-Rex, bigger than a house. Put him against one of our top strength types out in the woods. Crowd went absolutely nuts. Rex Rampage, they called him. That''s the kind of show you don''t forget."
The betting system has evolved its own complex language. "We got power classes, like weight classes but for abilities. Categories, combinations, histories. You learn what powers match up well, what makes a good show. Strength versus strength is classic, sure. But put someone who can teleport against someone with enhanced reflexes? Now that''s art. Though sometimes you got to get creative with the venues - can''t exactly put a dinosaur fight in a warehouse, you know what I mean?"
Some powers are banned entirely. "No mind control," Marcus says firmly. "No probability manipulation. Nothing that could affect the betting. And nothing that leaves lasting damage - we had a guy once who could rot things he touched. That''s not fighting, that''s just ugly. But big, flashy powers? Transformation stuff? That''s gold. People want to see the impossible."
The hierarchy of the circuit is as rigid as any professional sport. Up-and-comers start in the small venues, building their reputations. The best fighters develop their own followings, known by code names and abilities rather than their real identities. "Slice, Rex Rampage, the Ghoul - it''s like pro wrestling, but we''re all real, no bullshit. Who wants to watch the Undertaker pretend to be a zombie when we''ve got a real zombie here?"
Marcus''s phone buzzes - an ancient flip phone, the kind drug dealers used to favor. He checks it, nods once. "Business," he explains. "Never stops. You know what the hardest part is? Not the cops. Not the heroes. It''s keeping people from getting greedy. Everyone wants to be the next big thing, build their own circuit. But this only works because we keep it controlled. Professional."
He tells me about the next generation of fighters coming up. Kids who grew up with powers, who learned to fight in back alleys and school yards. "They''re different," he says. "More control, more technique. Used to be powered fighting was all raw ability. Now they''re developing styles, combinations. Had a kid last week who could generate ice - used it like a boxer uses footwork, changing the terrain, controlling space. Beautiful to watch."
The diner''s starting to fill up with the pre-dawn crowd - truckers, nurses ending their shifts, other people who live in the hours normal folks pretend don''t exist. Marcus glances at them, then back to me. "Last thing I''ll say is this: everybody thinks powered fighting is about the powers. It''s not. It''s about the fighters. Powers just make it interesting. But at the end of the day, it''s still just two people in a ring, trying to prove something to themselves or the world. That part hasn''t changed since the first caveman threw a punch."
He stands, drops a fifty on the table. "Coffee''s on me," he says, then pauses. "You know what the real difference is between my fights and the ''legitimate'' ones they show on TV? Honesty. We might be breaking the law, but at least we''re not pretending we''re something we''re not. People want to see powered people fight. We just give them what they want."
With that, he''s gone, leaving me with cold coffee and a notebook full of glimpses into a world most people pretend doesn''t exist. Somewhere in Trenton tonight, in a basement or abandoned factory, powers will flare and bets will be placed. The fights go on, as they always have, just with higher stakes and brighter fireworks.
Chapter 144.1
I stand by the curb, my arms crossed against the cold as the taxi''s taillights disappear into the swirling winter night. The driver hadn''t seemed thrilled about the idea of ferrying someone with singed clothes and a raw, hacking cough, but Derek had shoved cash into his hand before the guy could say a word. Now, it''s just me, the faint sting of smoke in my throat, and the dull throb in my head reminding me that I''ve taken more hits today than I care to regularly handle.
Derek''s out of commission for the night, but he''ll be fine after he goes wolf mode and back. Me? I''ll be fine. Probably. My vision swims slightly as I turn toward the Music Hall, but I shake it off, blinking hard. Smoke inhalation, a slight concussion, and what feels like a thousand bruises--nothing I haven''t handled before. Nothing that won''t knit itself back together overnight. The last time I got a mild concussion, the doctor even said, you know, Sam, normally we''d be very worried, but it looks like your skull is just... Fine.
I''m fine! I''m fine.
The walk to the Music Hall feels longer than usual, the streets unusually quiet. Or maybe I''m just hyperaware of every sound, every shadow, every pair of headlights cutting through the dark. My thoughts chase each other in circles, spinning out endless possibilities: Aaron limping away into some hole to lick his wounds, or doubling back, ready to finish what he started. I know which one is more likely. He''s not the retreating type. He''s going to try again. He has to.
By the time I reach the Hall, my lungs burn from the cold, and the faint smell of mildew and wood polish feels almost comforting. The familiar creak of the door echoes as I push it open, stepping into the dimly lit interior, up the rotting stairs, past what looks like a fire blanket draped over the Bannister. Jordan''s voice carries from the main hall, a low murmur punctuated by Tasha''s sharper tones.
"You look like hell," Jordan greets me, glancing up from a battered laptop perched on a makeshift table. Their black hoodie is pulled low over their face, but the sharp glint of their eyeliner cuts through the shadows.
"Thanks," I mutter, dropping my bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. "Nice to see you too."
"You okay?" Tasha asks, her voice laced with concern. She''s sitting cross-legged on the floor, a notebook in her lap, pen poised as if she''s about to jot down an observation about my coughing fit.
"I''m fine," I lie, sinking onto one of the mismatched chairs lining the wall. The room spins slightly as I sit, and I grip the armrests until it steadies. "Derek''s on his way home. He''ll be out of commission until morning."
Jordan shuts the laptop with a quiet snap, leaning forward. "And you?"
I wave them off. "Nothing major. Just smoke and a bump to the head. I''m good."
They don''t look convinced, but they let it slide. Instead, they gesture to the map spread across the table, dotted with sticky notes and thumbtacks. "We''ve been trying to figure out where he''ll go next. Tasha''s pulling up fire department reports, but it''s a mess out there."
Tasha nods, flipping a page in her notebook. "There''s been chatter about copycats, but Aaron''s pattern doesn''t match most of the new incidents. If anything, he''s been moving more erratically. Either he''s lost his usual hideouts, or he''s trying to throw us off."
"Or he''s desperate," I say, leaning forward to study the map. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "He''s injured, no car, and no resources. He''ll either run or retaliate."
Jordan snorts. "Knowing him, I''m guessing the latter. Wait, injured?" Jordan raises an eyebrow, their posture stiffening. "How do you know that? Did you see him?"
I realize I''ve skipped a step. My mouth opens, then closes, as I try to decide how much to say. But this is Jordan and Tasha. They''re here for the whole thing. It''s not like I can brush it off with a casual "don''t worry about it."
"Uh, yeah," I say, scratching the back of my neck. "So...Derek and I found him. Earlier. Like, under the bridge. He, uh, may have tried to hit me with a car door. Among other things."
Jordan''s tablet clatters onto the table as they gape at me. "You what?"
Tasha''s head snaps up from her notes, her eyes wide. "You went after him? Sam, are you serious?"
I raise my hands defensively. "Okay, first of all, he went after me! We just followed the trail to see if we could figure out where he was hiding. It''s not like I invited him to ambush us. And anyway, I''m fine. Derek''s fine. Mostly."
"Mostly," Jordan repeats, deadpan. "You''re telling me you went shark-jaws-first into a fight with Aaron and dragged Derek into it, and now you''re sitting here acting like that''s just...a normal Thursday?"
I wince. "When you put it like that--"
"Because it''s insane," Tasha interjects. Her voice isn''t angry, but there''s a tightness to it that makes me feel worse than if she''d shouted. "Sam, what were you thinking? You could''ve gotten yourself killed. Or Derek."
"I was thinking," I insist, though it comes out more defensive than I intended. "I was thinking that Aaron is out there, and every second we don''t do something about it is another second he''s planning something worse. I couldn''t just sit around and wait for him to light up half the city!"If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Jordan exhales sharply, running a hand through their hair. "Okay, I get it. But maybe you could''ve looped us in before diving headfirst into the arsonist''s den."
I cross my arms, looking between them. "You''re right. I probably should''ve. But I didn''t, and now we know where he''s been and what he''s capable of. And, for what it''s worth, I did give him a few good hits. Pretty sure he''s nursing a broken rib or two."
Tasha shakes her head, muttering something about "self-destructive tendencies" as she goes back to her notes. Jordan, however, doesn''t look away. Their gaze is sharp, scrutinizing me like they''re trying to figure out what makes me tick.
Jordan lets out a breath, leaning back in their chair. Their fingers drum against the table as they glance at the map, then back to me. "So, what''s the plan, Fearless Leader? Because if you''re going to keep poking the bear, we might as well be ready for when it pokes back."
Tasha raises an eyebrow at Jordan''s tone but doesn''t comment. Instead, she flips a page in her notebook. "Sam''s right about one thing--Aaron''s running out of options. If he''s desperate, that makes him more dangerous. We can''t just wait around for him to make a move."
I nod, grateful for the shift in focus. "Agreed. We don''t have time to play defense forever. He knows where we operate. He knows us."
Jordan tilts their head, smirking faintly. "Yeah, well, he doesn''t know me half as well as he thinks he does. We''ve got the upper hand here if we''re smart about it."
"Exactly," I say, straightening. My voice feels steadier now, like I''ve got a grip on the chaos swirling around us. I glance at the scattered sticky notes and thumbtacks dotting the map. "Look, he''s like a cornered animal. Running doesn''t come naturally to him. He''s going to lash out. And he knows where to find us."
"He knows where to find us?" Tasha asks, incredulously. "What?"
"Derek smelled him doubling around the Music Hall. He definitely suspects I''m here frequently, even if he doesn''t know for sure. And I don''t think he''s the kind of person that confirms these things," I explain. Tasha makes a face and starts looking around for a fire extinguisher.
"Surveillance," Jordan says immediately. "We''ve got the advantage now. He''s stuck in our territory, and we know his moves. If we keep eyes on the key spots, we''ll see him coming before he gets close."
"And if he does get close?" Tasha asks, raising an eyebrow.
"We deal with it," I say firmly. "He''s on the defensive now. We just need to stay one step ahead."
Jordan''s gaze sharpens, their tone turning skeptical. "You''re really leaning into this whole ''hunt him down'' thing, huh?"
I meet their eyes, my jaw tightening. "You saw what he did at the coffee shop. He''s not stopping unless we make him."
For a moment, they hold my gaze, their expression unreadable. Then they lean back in their chair, folding their arms. "Fine. But if this goes sideways, don''t say I didn''t warn you."
"It won''t," I say, the words more for myself than for them.
"I''ll take the first watch," Jordan offers, their voice still tinged with reluctance. "You need rest, Sam. You look like you''re about to keel over."
"I''m fine," I insist, though the room feels too warm, the edges of my vision a little too soft. "But thanks."
Jordan doesn''t argue, which is somehow worse than if they had. Instead, they stand, brushing past me to grab their coat. "Go sleep or something. You''re no use to us if you pass out in the middle of a fight."
The night stretches long, the kind that feels like it''s wrapping around you, heavy and close. The Music Hall is quiet, save for the low hum of the space heater in the corner and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors. Jordan and Tasha are huddled on the couch, an anime playing on Jordan''s laptop. The volume is low, barely more than a whisper of sound, the characters moving in exaggerated expressions of panic or joy. I don''t recognize the show--something with robots or space, probably--but none of us are paying attention anyway. It''s just noise to fill the space between the waiting.
I''m by the window, leaning against the sill, my fingers drumming a soft, restless rhythm on the cold brick. The street below is still, save for the occasional passing car. The air smells faintly of snow that hasn''t fallen yet, sharp and clean. My breath fogs the glass as I peer out, scanning for movement. My body aches from earlier--every joint, every bruise, a reminder of how close things came to going sideways under the bridge.
"You''ve been staring out that window for an hour," Jordan says, not looking up from their laptop. Their voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, but there''s no real bite to it. Just the kind of weary sarcasm that settles in when you''re running on fumes.
"I''m fine," I say, though my back aches and my head is still buzzing from earlier. I can''t sit down. Not yet. "Someone''s gotta watch."
"Tasha''s turn in ten," Jordan replies, flipping a hand toward the couch. "You''re not doing anyone any favors by staying up all night and keeling over in the morning, you know."
Tasha glances at me, her eyes soft with concern, but she doesn''t say anything. She knows better than to push.
"I said I''m fine," I repeat, more to myself than to them.
The minutes crawl by. Shadows stretch long across the floor, cast by the dim lamp on the table. The Music Hall feels too big, the corners too dark, like there are spaces that weren''t there before. Every sound feels sharp, amplified--the ticking of the clock, the rustle of a page in Tasha''s notebook, the distant hum of the city outside. My fingers keep drumming on the sill, a nervous, relentless rhythm.
Then I hear it. A sound so faint I almost miss it. A metallic scrape, somewhere out back. I freeze, my breath catching. It comes again--faint, deliberate. The rattling of something against the back entrance, near the dumpsters.
"Shh." I hold up a hand, and both Jordan and Tasha go still, their heads snapping up to look at me. The anime on Jordan''s laptop continues to play, oblivious, a character yelling something about honor or betrayal.
"What?" Jordan whispers, their eyes narrowing as they follow my gaze toward the back of the building.
"Listen," I murmur, my voice barely audible.
Another sound. A quiet thud, followed by a softer scrape, like someone testing the door. My stomach tightens.
"Someone''s out there," I say, stepping away from the window. My hand brushes the edge of the table, instinctively searching for anything I can use as a weapon.
Tasha rises slowly, her notebook forgotten. "You''re sure?"
"Yeah," I say, keeping my voice low. "Back entrance."
Jordan''s already on their feet, their movements quick and precise as they shut the laptop and grab a baseball bat from the supply corner. "Stay here," they say, glancing at Tasha.
"Like hell I''m staying," I whisper back, my pulse quickening. "It''s my fight."
Jordan doesn''t argue. They just nod, their expression grim, and motion for me to follow.
The three of us move toward the back of the building, the air heavy with tension. Every step feels loud, every creak of the floorboards like a shout in the silence. The shadows seem deeper here, the dim light from the hallway barely enough to guide us.
We stop just before the door to the back entrance, our breaths shallow and quiet. The rattling comes again, louder this time. My heart pounds in my chest as I press my ear to the door, straining to catch any other sound.
SLAM!
Chapter 144.2
The rattling turns into a sharp metallic crack just as Jordan tightens their grip on the bat, mouthing a quick "Stay back" to Tasha. Before I can fully register what''s happening, the back door creaks open, and Aaron shoves his way inside.
Greasy, definitely not as skinny as he was when we first met. He looks well fed, not in a fat way, but in a "recovering from anorexia" way, like he''s been on a vacation all this time, his skin tan and smooth. Even in the winter, he''s not wearing nearly enough, a ripped-open wifebeater exposing those tattoos I''m sure he thinks are so cool.
But Jordan doesn''t hesitate. They swing the bat in a clean arc, catching him square in the stomach with a satisfying thud. Aaron doubles over with a gasp, but before Jordan can follow through, he recovers, staggering back with wild eyes and a manic grin. His hand snaps upward, fingers curling as a sharp, angry burst of yellow flame erupts from the floor. There''s no distance to cross - his fire is instantaneous when he needs it to be.
The fire splashes against the metal doorframe, spitting embers into the hallway. The air fills with the acrid stench of burning paint and singed wood, and for a split second, everything is chaos.
"Get it!" Tasha shouts, already fumbling for the fire extinguisher in her hands. I hear, don''t see, the sound of spraying foam, belching out just like it sounds on the TV.
The flames sputter and crawl along the walls as Aaron stumbles back through the door, clutching his side. The scorch marks around the metal door tell the story--he couldn''t burn his way through, not with brick and steel standing in his way. This was desperation, a last-ditch effort.
"He''s mine," I say, already moving.
Jordan''s about to protest, but I cut them off. "Stay here. Help Tasha with the fire. He''s not getting far."
I don''t wait for a response. The cold night air hits me like a slap as I burst through the back door, my eyes locking on Aaron''s retreating figure. He''s moving fast, but his gait is uneven, favoring one side where Derek and I probably cracked a rib or two earlier. He glances back once, just enough for me to catch the wild panic in his expression.
"Don''t run!" I shout, even though I know he won''t listen. "We were just getting started!"
He bolts, and I take off after him.
The streets of Tacony blur around me as I push myself forward, my sneakers pounding against the pavement. Aaron''s ahead, weaving through parked cars and slipping into alleys, his breath visible in the frigid air. He''s fast--faster than I expected for someone so banged up--but I''m faster. My legs burn with the effort, every stride bringing me closer.
He glances back again, his face twisted in frustration. I see the flicker of yellow in his eyes as he twists his head, his arm snapping up. A quick burst of flame shoots out, wild and unfocused, and I dart to the side, feeling the heat as it splashes against a parked car. The air smells of melted plastic and scorched metal.
"What''s the matter, Aaron," I call out, my voice carrying over the sound of our footfalls. "Scared of a little girl?"
Aaron doesn''t answer. He doesn''t even look back this time. His focus is entirely on the path ahead, darting through the maze of Tacony''s narrow streets. I''m gaining on him, my breaths coming hard and fast, but I can feel the adrenaline surging, drowning out the ache in my muscles and the lingering sting of smoke in my lungs.
We cut through a side alley, our shadows stretching long and jagged against the brick walls. Aaron stumbles, catching his foot on a discarded crate, and I almost reach him, my fingers brushing the back of his jacket before he surges forward again. He turns his head, just enough to let out another flare of yellow fire, forcing me to drop back as the flames burst against a dumpster.
He''s slowing down, though. I can see it in the way he moves, the way he clutches his side. He''s running out of steam.
So am I.
The chase spills out onto a wider street, the orange glow of streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement. Aaron veers left, heading toward a small park, its skeletal trees casting spidery shadows across the grass. I follow, my shoes slipping slightly on the damp ground as I close the gap between us.
"Give up!" I shout, my voice raw. "You can''t outrun me!"
Aaron spins suddenly, his feet skidding in the mud. His eyes lock on mine, and for a moment, I think he''s about to surrender. But then something changes. His gaze sharpens, his body tensing like a spring about to snap.
And then the world goes white.
It''s not fire--not like the yellow flares he''s been throwing. This is something else entirely. The light is blinding, a searing, unnatural brilliance that makes me throw up my arms to shield my eyes. The heat is immediate, oppressive, like standing in front of an open oven, and I can feel it scorching the air around me. It''s hard to express just how much brighter and hotter it is than any other fire he''s given me, anything else I''ve seen. Even this tiny flare lights up the park like a spotlight.
"What the hell?" I stumble back, blinking against the afterimages burned into my vision.
Aaron doesn''t wait, but for a moment, I can see it in him, too - he''s just as surprised as I am. He takes off again, leaving a trail of smoldering grass and singed leaves in his wake. The white fire sputters out quickly, far faster than the usual fires, but its impact lingers, the ground around it scorched black and smoking.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
I force myself to move, my legs heavy, my lungs burning. The chase isn''t over--not yet. But Aaron''s gaining ground now, his desperation giving him a second wind. He''s leaving small fires in his wake, little flashes of white and yellow that lick at the edges of trash cans and street signs.
"Dammit," I mutter, pushing myself harder. He''s slipping away, and I can''t let him. Not after everything.
But then he rounds a corner, disappearing into the night, and when I follow, he''s gone.
The street is empty, save for the faint, acrid smell of - what, ammonia? - and the lingering heat in the air. I slow to a stop, my hands on my knees as I gulp in lungfuls of icy air. My chest heaves, my heart hammering against my ribs as I scan the shadows, my ears straining for any sound.
Nothing. He''s gone.
FUCK!
The walk back to the Music Hall feels like trudging through molasses. My legs are heavy, my lungs still ache from the magnesium smoke, and my thoughts are a scattered mess of frustration and exhaustion. Aaron got away again. Every time I think I''ve got him cornered, he finds a new trick, a new way to slip through my fingers. And now, I''m dragging myself back to a building that almost burned down, because of him.
The smell of charred wood and chemical extinguishers greets me as I push through the back door. The fire''s out, but the air inside still feels thick and heavy. Jordan and Tasha are huddled in the main room, Tasha perched on a crate with her phone in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other. Jordan is pacing, their face set in a tight scowl, an unlit cigarette twitching between their fingers.
"Welcome back," Jordan says dryly, not bothering to look at me. "Guessing you didn''t catch him?"
"No," I mutter, slumping against the nearest wall. My legs buckle, and I slide to the floor, the cold of the brick seeping into my back. "He got away."
"Shocker," Jordan deadpans, tossing the cigarette onto the table. "Meanwhile, we were here, saving your sorry ass from living in a pile of ashes."
I glance around, taking in the blackened walls near the back entrance and the faint scorch marks creeping up the beams. It could''ve been worse--probably should''ve been worse--but they kept it contained.
"How bad was it?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
"Bad enough." Jordan gestures to the ceiling, where faint wisps of smoke still linger. "The flames started licking at the electrical wiring. If Tasha hadn''t grabbed the extinguisher when she did, we''d be calling the fire department right now. This piece-of-shit building''s older than anyone here. It''s practically begging to go up in flames."
Tasha nods, her expression tired but resolute. "The wood''s so dry, it might as well be kindling. We got lucky."
I let out a slow breath, guilt gnawing at my edges. "Thanks," I say quietly. "For...you know. Saving the base."
Jordan finally stops pacing, their sharp eyes settling on me. "We''ve got this covered, Small. You don''t have to keep pushing yourself like this."
"He''s not coming back tonight," Tasha adds, her voice gentle but firm. "Go home. Get some sleep. We''ll regroup tomorrow."
I want to argue, but the weight of the night presses down on me, dragging my body toward the floor. They''re right. Aaron''s not coming back--not tonight, anyway. And if I''m going to face him again, I need to be ready. Rested.
"Fine," I mumble, hauling myself to my feet. "But call me if anything happens."
Jordan smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Don''t worry, mom. We''ll be fine."
I shoot them a tired glare, but it''s half-hearted at best. The warmth in their sarcasm is still there, beneath the frustration, and it''s enough to push me out the door with a little less guilt.
The sky is starting to brighten by the time I trudge through my front door. The faint glow of dawn seeps through the windows, casting everything in a soft, sleepy haze. My mom is already up, standing by the kitchen counter with a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her work uniform is crisp and neat, her hair pulled back into a bun that looks more functional than fashionable.
"Sam?" she asks, blinking at me in surprise. "What are you doing up this early?"
"Late night," I say vaguely, kicking off my sneakers and shuffling toward the couch. "Just...couldn''t sleep."
She frowns but doesn''t press the issue. "You should get some rest. You''ve got school in a couple of hours."
I mumble something incoherent, collapsing onto the couch with my bag still slung over one shoulder. The last thing I hear before sleep claims me is the soft clink of her coffee mug against the counter.
I wake up to the smell of eggs and toast, my body protesting every movement as I sit up. The living room is awash in pale morning light, and the clock on the wall reads just past seven. My mom is at the stove, humming softly to herself as she flips a pancake.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she says over her shoulder. "You''ve got about thirty minutes to get ready."
"Yeah," I croak, rubbing at my eyes. "I''m up."
She slides a plate onto the table, the toast perfectly golden and the eggs arranged like a smiley face. I sink into a chair, the warmth of the food and the familiarity of the moment settling something fragile inside me.
As I pick at my breakfast, Mom sits across from me, her own plate untouched. "Did you hear about the library?" she asks, her tone too casual.
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. "What about it?"
"There was a fire last night, near the dumpsters around the back," she says, laughing nervously. "Can you believe that? The Tacony Library, of all places. Thankfully, everyone''s been getting their sprinklers and fire alarms checked recently, so I don''t think there was any real damage. Good thing I don''t work there anymore, huh?"
Her words hit me like a kick in the pelvis. Of course. Aaron. I don''t even need to guess - I know it''s him. He''s lashing out, trying to hit me where it hurts. And... I don''t know if he watched me freak out behind the library, or if he''s been spying on my parents, or what, but he''s trying to shoot closer and closer.
"I guess so," I say, forcing a weak smile. My appetite disappears, but I keep picking at my food, trying to act normal.
"People are getting crazier every day," Mom mutters, shaking her head. "I hope they catch whoever did it. That crazy guy on the news, I bet."
"Yeah," I murmur, my voice hollow. "I hope they catch him too."
I should tell her. Warn her. But the words stick in my throat, heavy and unformed.
The clock ticks closer to 7:30, and I shove the rest of the toast into my mouth, forcing myself to move. "Gotta get ready," I say, already backing toward the stairs.
Mom watches me with a faint frown but doesn''t stop me. "Alright. Don''t forget your lunch."
"Thanks," I call over my shoulder. "And, Mom?"
"Yes, pumpkin?" She asks.
"Do you think you could stay a little overtime at work today? And tell Dad to, too? Call it, uh, an. Extracurricular hunch," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
She looks at me a couple of times, her eyes widening, and then narrowing, in a sort of pained recognition. "Do you think we need to go to Moe''s for the weekend?"
I swallow hard and it hurts. "Might be a good idea to give him a call over lunch."
She nods. She breathes, and I keep up the stairs to take a shower. To rinse the ash off.
Chapter 144.3
The morning at Tacony Charter Academy High starts the same way it always does, with the slow shuffle through the metal detectors and the low murmur of half-awake conversations. My backpack feels heavier than usual, probably because I''m carrying around the weight of the entire city in it--or at least that''s how it feels. My lungs hurt, my head is pounding, and every part of me is screaming to crawl back under a blanket and disappear for a week.
But I''m here, because it''s Friday, and skipping school two days in a row would raise questions I don''t want to answer.
In homeroom, I slump into my usual seat by the window, trying to focus on the announcements. Mr. Calhoun drones on about next week''s science fair, a bake sale for the soccer team, and a reminder that cell phones should remain off and out of sight during class. None of it sticks in my brain. My head''s too foggy from exhaustion and smoke inhalation to make sense of anything more complicated than "sit down" and "don''t look suspicious."
"Hey, Sam," Melissa whispers from the desk behind me, tapping my shoulder with her pencil. "Did you hear about the playground?"
I blink, forcing myself to turn around. Melissa''s grinning, clearly eager to share whatever juicy piece of gossip she''s picked up. "What about it?" I ask, my voice raspier than I''d like.
"Someone said there was, like, a superhero chase there last night. At Dorsey. My brother swears he saw, like, a flare or something. He said it lit up the whole sky for, like, two seconds."
I stiffen, gripping the edge of my desk. "Really? What time?"
"Midnight or something," she says, twirling her pencil. "I don''t know. He''s always making stuff up, but my mom said there was a weird smell in the air this morning when she went for her jog. Like... cat litter?"
"Probably just fireworks," I say, forcing a shrug. My throat tightens as I turn back around, my brain racing. Of course people noticed the fire, the chase. It was impossible to miss. But if Melissa''s brother saw the chase, that means Aaron''s antics are bleeding into places I can''t control.
"Maybe," Melissa muses. "But, like, what if it was that Big Bad Wolf lady? People are saying they''ve been around Tacony more, right? Doing a lot of patrols."
"What if," I unrespond, keeping my eyes fixed on the front of the room. The last thing I need is for Melissa or anyone else to connect those dots.
The rest of the day drags on in a haze of monotony and rising tension. Classes blur together, the steady rhythm of lectures and note-taking clashing against the constant hum of worry in the back of my mind. I manage to answer a few questions in history and scribble something coherent enough to pass for an essay in English, but my heart isn''t in it. My thoughts keep drifting back to the Music Hall, to the library, to Aaron.
At lunch, the cafeteria is its usual chaotic mess of overlapping conversations and clattering trays. I pick at a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, my appetite nonexistent. Across the table, Alex and Jordan are deep in a heated debate about some anime I''ve never watched, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm that feels more like background noise than actual dialogue.
"Sam, back me up here," Alex says suddenly, jabbing his fork in my direction. "Jordan''s shown you Nausica?, right? You think she could take out a Chevalier?"
"Huh?" I blink, dragging myself back into the moment. "Uh, sure. Why not?"
Jordan snorts, rolling their eyes. "That''s not an answer."
"It''s the answer you''re getting," I say, managing a weak smile. "Sorry. My brain''s fried today."The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"Big mood," Alex says, leaning back in his chair. "You okay? You look like you pulled an all-nighter."
"Just tired," I lie, shoving the rest of my sandwich into my mouth to avoid further questions. Jordan glances at me but doesn''t say anything.
By the time the second-to-last bell rings, I''m ready to collapse. The weight of the day has settled into my bones, dragging down every step as I shuffle toward the front doors. The hallway buzzes with the usual end-of-day energy, students laughing and shouting as they push their way to their last classes. For a moment, it feels almost normal--like nothing''s wrong, like the city isn''t burning one block at a time.
But then I catch snippets of conversation--someone mentioning the library fire, another kid talking about a "weird explosion" they heard near the river. The threads of the day start pulling together, tightening around me like a noose. Aaron''s not just after me anymore. He''s leaving a trail of chaos in his wake, and people are noticing.
I grip the straps of my backpack, forcing myself to keep moving. There''s nothing I can do about it here, not with so many eyes and ears around. All I can do is keep my head down, blend in, and hope the rest of the day passes without incident.
The day is finally winding down, and I''m just starting to think I might make it through without any major catastrophes. My desk feels harder than usual, and my notebook is full of half-scribbled notes from a math class I barely registered. I''m zoning out, staring at the clock ticking down the last five minutes of the school day, when it happens.
The fire alarm goes off.
It''s not a polite little chime or a low whoop. It''s a full-on assault of sound, blaring and shrieking through the halls like it''s personally offended by the idea of peace and quiet. The first burst makes me jump so hard my knees hit the underside of my desk, sending my pencil clattering to the floor. Several people around me yelp or curse, their reactions blending with the deafening noise.
"Holy--!" someone shouts, but it''s swallowed up in the cacophony.
The teacher, Mr. Calhoun, raises his hands, shouting over the alarm. "Alright, everyone! Calmly and quietly--let''s go! You know the drill."
Except it''s not a drill. Everyone knows that immediately. There''s no warning beforehand, no calm announcement over the intercom about a scheduled safety exercise (not that there usually is one). This is real. Or at least, it''s supposed to be.
I grab my bag and follow the flow of students heading toward the door, my heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the noise. There''s no smoke, no smell of fire--nothing to suggest an actual emergency. My gut twists. This isn''t random. It can''t be. Not today. Firefighters keeping us on our toes? They wouldn''t, right?
"Keep moving!" Mr. Calhoun calls, ushering us into the hallway. The other classrooms are emptying out too, kids and teachers filing toward the exits in what''s supposed to be a calm, orderly line. It''s more like controlled chaos, everyone jostling and muttering as the alarm continues to scream overhead.
I force myself to move with the crowd, my feet dragging a little more than they should. Part of me wants to break away, to run and check every corner of the school for signs of Aaron or whatever disaster is brewing. But I know the rules. Once we''re outside, they''ll take attendance. Anyone missing will stick out like a sore thumb. And if I try to slip away, I''ll only make things worse.
So I shuffle along, clutching my bag like it''s a lifeline, my ears ringing from the alarm. The noise feels like it''s drilling into my skull, each pulse ratcheting up the tension in my chest. My breathing''s too shallow, too quick, but I can''t stop to calm down. I can only keep moving, step by step, down the hall and toward the main doors.
Outside, the cold air hits me like a slap, cutting through the lingering fog of the alarm. Students and teachers gather in clusters on the grass, their voices rising in confused murmurs. I spot my homeroom group near the flagpole and head that way, trying to blend in.
No one''s panicking. There''s no smoke, no fire trucks yet--just the blaring alarm and a whole lot of speculation. I scan the crowd, my eyes darting toward the building, toward the parking lot, toward every possible angle Aaron could use. Nothing. Not yet, anyway.
A group of firefighters arrives a few minutes later, stepping out of their truck with practiced efficiency. They don''t look rushed, which means they''re not seeing smoke either. One of them carries a toolkit instead of a hose, heading straight for the fire panel near the entrance.
"Just a malfunction, maybe," someone says nearby, but I don''t believe it. Not for a second.
The teachers start taking headcounts, calling out names and marking clipboards. I respond when Mr. Calhoun calls mine, keeping my voice steady despite the growing knot in my stomach. My hands are stuffed into my jacket pockets, fists clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms.
Then, my sleeve bursts into flames.
Chapter 145.1
The fire is instantaneous, as if the air itself decides to combust. One moment I''m standing there, waiting for attendance to finish, and the next, my right sleeve is a burst of red fire, searing heat licking up my arm. The world slows down, sound and sight merging into one overwhelming, incomprehensible blur. It takes a second--just one stupid second--for my brain to catch up to what''s happening.
Then it hits.
Pain. Pain like nothing else, raw and sharp and all-consuming, the kind of pain that turns your thoughts to static. My breath catches, my lungs seize, and I can''t think, can''t process, can''t even scream. But instinct kicks in where logic fails--I yank at my jacket, trying to tear it off, my body moving on autopilot.
Around me, chaos explodes. The alarm''s blaring mixes with the rising shrieks of students and the shouts of teachers trying desperately to regain control. Kids scatter, some running, others frozen in place, their faces masks of terror. Somewhere to my left, someone yells, "Oh my God, she''s on fire!" as if I need the reminder.
My sleeve burns hotter, the flames devouring fabric and licking at skin. The pain sharpens, white-hot and almost unbearable, and I know, somewhere deep down, that this isn''t normal fire - the thought seems almost funny. Of course it isn''t. It''s blood red, it''s so much hotter than every bonfire I''ve ever seen in my life. I grit my tooth caps together, almost breaking them in an attempt to not scream. As if my day would be even better if everyone saw my crazy shark teeth.
I drop to my knees, slamming my arm into the wet grass, trying to smother the flames. The ground is slick with half-melted frost, but the fire doesn''t care--it clings stubbornly to my sleeve, refusing to die. I can feel it now, eating through the fabric, searing into my skin, my body screaming in protest.
"Get it off!" someone shouts, and suddenly, hands are on me, rough and panicked. A teacher, I think--Mr. Calhoun?--tries to rip my jacket away, but it''s fused to my arm now, the edges curling and blackened. The fire''s spread to the hem of my shirt, creeping toward my shoulder, and I bite back a scream as the cold air hits raw, blistering skin.
A burst of white foam sprays over me, dousing the flames with a loud hiss. The chemical stench fills my nose, making me gag, but the fire finally sputters out, leaving behind charred fabric and angry red burns. My arm feels like it''s been dipped in acid, the pain radiating up to my shoulder and down to my fingers. I clutch it instinctively, my breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
Around me, the chaos continues. More flames erupt, scattered across the crowd, licking at the edges of jackets and backpacks. A girl near the front of the line lets out a piercing scream, her ponytail catching fire before a teacher throws his coat over her head, smothering the flames. Students shove and trip over each other, trying to get away from the invisible threat. Some run back toward the building, others bolt for the parking lot, their fear turning the evacuation into a stampede.
The firefighters move in quickly, their shouts cutting through the noise like a blade. "Stay calm! Form a line! Move toward the sidewalk--now!" They work with practiced efficiency, hoses and extinguishers spraying foam across the scattered fires. The air fills with smoke and chemical mist, the acrid taste clinging to my tongue.
"Let me see," someone says, their voice firm but gentle. A firefighter crouches in front of me, his gloved hands reaching for my arm. I flinch instinctively, pulling back, but he holds steady, his expression calm and focused. "You''re okay. We''ve got you."
I nod, swallowing hard, my throat raw from the smoke. My arm feels like it''s been flayed open, every movement sending fresh waves of pain shooting through me. The firefighter cuts away the remaining fabric with a pair of scissors, his touch careful but brisk. The cold air stings as it hits the burns, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from crying out.
"Second-degree," he mutters, his brow furrowing as he examines the damage. "You''re lucky--it could''ve been worse."
Lucky. Sure. If this is luck, I''d hate to see what unlucky feels like.
Another firefighter steps in, spraying more foam over the remnants of the fire on my arm. The sensation is cold and shocking, like being hit with a bucket of ice water. It clings to my skin, soaking into the burns and making the pain flare briefly before it starts to dull, the chemicals doing their job. My teeth chatter as the rest of the foam settles over me, the wet fabric of my clothes sticking to my skin.
I glance around, trying to pinpoint where Aaron is. He has to be here, watching. His fire doesn''t leave tracers--no smoke trail, no glowing ember to follow. Just heat and destruction, coming from nowhere. I scan the parking lot, the rows of cars, the clusters of students and teachers huddling together for safety. Anywhere with a line of sight could be a firing point. Anywhere. He could be in the crowd. On the roof. Across the street.
I can''t see him.
"Sam!" Melissa''s voice cuts through the fog, high and frantic. She''s running toward me, her face pale and stricken. "Oh my God, are you okay? What happened?"
I open my mouth to answer, but my voice catches, the words sticking in my throat. I can''t tell her. Not here. Not now. "I''m fine," I manage, though my arm feels like it''s on fire all over again, even with the foam. "I''m fine."
She doesn''t look convinced, but the firefighter steps in, raising a hand to keep her back. "Miss, we need to get her to the ambulance. Please stay with your class."
"Wait--" I start to protest, but the firefighter''s already helping me to my feet, his grip firm and steady. The world tilts slightly as I stand, the pain and adrenaline making my head swim. My arm hangs limp at my side, wrapped in a loose layer of gauze that doesn''t do much to hide the angry red burns beneath.
"Come on," the firefighter says, guiding me toward the edge of the parking lot. The ambulance is parked there, its doors open and waiting. I can hear the faint murmur of a radio, the crackle of static as someone relays instructions.
The crowd parts as we move, their eyes following me with a mix of fear and curiosity. Whispers ripple through the students, fragments of questions and speculation carried on the cold wind. "Did you see her arm?" "How did it start?" "Is she gonna be okay?"Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
I keep my head down, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Every step feels like a struggle, my body weighed down by exhaustion and the lingering sting of the burns. The cold bites at my skin, the wet foam making it worse, but I grit my teeth and keep moving.
As we reach the ambulance, the firefighter helps me up onto the edge of the open door, his hands steadying me as I sit. The paramedic inside glances at me, her eyes sharp and assessing. "Burns?" she asks, already pulling on a pair of gloves.
"Right arm and shoulder. Second-degree," the firefighter replies, his tone clipped. "Clothes caught fire during the evacuation."
The paramedic nods, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she unwraps the gauze. I bite back a hiss as the cool air hits my skin again, the raw flesh exposed to the elements. She doesn''t say much, just murmurs instructions and reassurances as she applies a soothing gel to the burns, her touch light but deliberate.
The pain dulls slightly, the gel working its magic, but my mind is still racing. Aaron''s out there. Somewhere. Watching. Planning his next move. And I can''t do a damn thing about it while I''m stuck here, playing the role of the helpless victim.
"Hang tight," the paramedic says, wrapping my arm in fresh gauze. "We''ll get you to the hospital to check for infection, but you''re stable for now."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My throat feels tight, the weight of everything pressing down on me like a vice. The world outside the ambulance blurs slightly, the voices of the crowd fading into background noise. All I can think about is Aaron--where he is, what he''s planning, and how I''m going to stop him.
The ride to the hospital is every bit as miserable as I expect. The ambulance bumps along the uneven roads, jostling me just enough to send fresh waves of pain radiating from my arm. The paramedic sitting beside me adjusts the straps on the gurney, her expression a perfect mask of professional detachment. I can tell she''s trying to keep me calm, but I''m not sure if she knows how irritating that makes her.
"How''s the pain, sweetheart?" she asks, her voice saccharine enough to make my teeth ache.
"Fantastic," I mutter, wincing as we hit another pothole. "Ten out of ten. Would recommend."
Her lips twitch like she''s trying not to smile. "We''ll have you on some better pain meds as soon as we get to the hospital. Just hang tight."
I roll my eyes but don''t say anything else. My arm feels like it''s still on fire, the burns raw and throbbing under the layers of gauze. The gel helps, but only just. Every time the ambulance lurches, the pain flares, sharp and insistent. I clench my jaw, trying to focus on anything else.
The paramedic across from me, a guy with tired eyes and a five o''clock shadow, fiddles with his clipboard, jotting down notes. "Alright, Samantha, we''ve got second-degree burns on the right arm and shoulder, no loss of consciousness, no head trauma. Anything else we should know? Any other injuries?"
"Nope," I say, forcing the word out through gritted teeth. "Just the arm."
He glances at me over the clipboard, his expression skeptical. "You sure? You took a pretty big hit."
"I''m fine," I insist, more forcefully than I mean to. The last thing I need is for them to dig deeper. "It''s just the arm."
The paramedic shrugs, going back to his notes. "Alright. We''ll let the doctors take a closer look, just to be safe."
"Great," I say, slumping back against the gurney. "Looking forward to it."
The woman beside me chuckles softly, shaking her head. "You''ve got a mouth on you, don''t you?"
"I spontaneously ignited," I mutter, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Sorry if it''s making me a little testy,"
The fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting uneven shadows that dance across the cramped space. I try to focus on the rhythm of the bumps and turns, anything to keep my mind off the pain.
The siren wails above us, cutting through the usual noise of the city. I can only imagine the scene we left behind--students scattered across the lawn, firefighters trying to calm the chaos, the lingering smell of smoke and extinguished flames. And somewhere out there, Aaron is probably watching it all unfold with that smug grin on his face.
Not for long. Not if I can help it.
The hospital is as chaotic as I expected. The paramedics wheel me through a maze of hallways, fluorescent lights glaring down at me from every angle. Nurses and doctors move with practiced efficiency, their voices blending into a steady hum of medical jargon and clipped instructions.
I''m ushered into a small room with a curtain separating me from the rest of the ER. A nurse with short-cropped hair and a no-nonsense expression sets to work unwrapping the gauze from my arm, her movements brisk but careful. The gel clings to the burns, and every touch feels like sandpaper against raw skin.
"You''re lucky," she says, her voice neutral. "Could''ve been a lot worse."
"Yeah," I mumble, wincing as she applies a fresh layer of gel. "That''s what they keep telling me."
She doesn''t respond, just keeps working. I glance around the room, my eyes landing on a clipboard hanging from the edge of the bed. It''s filled with notes and diagrams, documenting the extent of my injuries in painstaking detail. Second-degree burns, partial thickness, covering approximately 30% of the right arm and shoulder. I can already see how this is going to complicate things later. Hospitals love paper trails, and mine''s growing by the second.
The curtain pulls back suddenly, and a man steps into the room. He''s wearing a police uniform, his badge catching the harsh light. His face is lined, his expression unreadable as he takes in the scene.
"Samantha Small?" he asks, his voice low and steady.
"That''s me," I say, trying to keep my tone casual.
He pulls out a small notepad, flipping it open with a practiced motion. He''s not someone I recognize. I don''t know, intuitively, if he knows about my other persona. Best play it safe for now. "Officer Harper, 15th District. I need to ask you a few questions about what happened at the school."
I glance at the nurse, who''s still working on my arm. She doesn''t seem fazed by the intrusion, her focus entirely on her task. I turn back to the officer, nodding slightly. "Sure. What do you need to know?"
"For starters, can you tell me exactly what happened? From the beginning."
"I was outside with the rest of my class," I say, carefully. "We were doing the fire drill, and then...I don''t know. My sleeve just...caught fire. Out of nowhere."
"Out of nowhere," he repeats, his pen poised above the notepad.
"Yeah," I say, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I didn''t see anything. No one near me. It just...happened. It was bright red like that coffee shop fire."
He frowns slightly, jotting something down. "And you didn''t notice anyone acting suspicious? Anyone out of place?"
"No," I say quickly. Too quickly. "I mean, there were a lot of people around. It was chaotic. But nobody that looked like they could set me on fire remotely."
He nods slowly, his pen scratching against the paper. "Alright. We''ve got officers on scene interviewing other students and staff. If anything comes to mind, you let us know."
"Of course," I say, plastering on a weak smile.
He closes his notepad, tucking it back into his pocket. "We''ll be in touch. Take care of yourself."
As he steps out, I exhale slowly, my shoulders slumping. The nurse glances at me, her expression unreadable. "Anything you want to tell me?" she asks, her tone light but pointed.
"Nope," I say, shaking my head. "Worse things have happened to me this week,"
She snorts softly, finishing her work and stepping back. "Alright, you''re good for now. The doctor will be in to check on you shortly."
"Great," I mutter, leaning back against the bed. The gel numbs the worst of the pain, but the throbbing ache in my arm is still impossible to ignore. At least in here, it''s safe. Nobody''s going to come and light me on fire again while I''m sitting in a hospital cot. They''ve got security guards.
That''s what I''m telling myself, at least.
Chapter 145.2
The curtain rustles, and three figures step into the tiny hospital room. Even before my eyes adjust to the movement, I know who it is. Multiplex, Crossroads, and Captain Plasma. The Delaware Valley Defenders, walking into my life like they own it.
Multiplex is in the lead, his suit crisp and spotless despite the chaos I know he''s been dealing with all day. He''s got that same unflinching, focused expression he always wears, like he''s already analyzed every possible move I could make in this conversation and decided which one he wants me to take.
Crossroads follows close behind, his eyes scanning the room with that sharp, detached intensity that always makes me feel like I''m being dissected under a microscope. He doesn''t say anything, or look like he''s about to. He just looks at me - through me - calculating possibilities in the air.
And then there''s Captain Plasma, towering over the others, still as blonde-haired and blue-eyed as ever. He gives me a small wave, like we''re old friends catching up, not heroes about to grill a sixteen-year-old in a hospital bed.
"Miss Small," Multiplex says, his tone clipped and professional. He doesn''t sit, just stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed. "How are you feeling?"
"Peachy," I mutter, shifting slightly to make room for my heavily bandaged arm. "Nothing like a surprise barbecue to brighten up a school day."
Captain Plasma chuckles softly, though the concern in his eyes doesn''t waver. "Glad to see you''re keeping your sense of humor."
I force a tight smile, but it doesn''t reach my eyes. "Yeah, well, what''s the alternative?"
Multiplex''s gaze sharpens, and I immediately regret the quip. He doesn''t respond, instead pulling out a slim tablet from the inside of his jacket. The screen glows faintly as he flips through what I assume are notes from the scene.
"We''re here because the situation at the school escalated beyond local jurisdiction," he says, not looking up from the tablet, pretending like we don''t know each other already in case there''s doctors or nurses eavesdropping. "This attack fits the pattern of a known superhuman arsonist operating in Tacony. Based on your proximity to the incident and previous encounters, we need to ask a few questions."
"Of course you do," I say, trying to keep my tone light.
Captain Plasma winces slightly. Crossroads, unsurprisingly, says nothing. Multiplex just keeps scrolling, his expression unreadable.
"You''ve encountered this individual before," Multiplex continues, his tone not so much accusatory as it is definitive. "Crossroads briefed us on your... altercation with him last year."
My stomach twists, but I keep my face carefully neutral. "Yeah," I say slowly. "When he pulled my fingernails off and smacked me in the head with a crowbar. Among other things."
"And now it''s escalated," Captain Plasma says, stepping forward slightly. His voice is warm, almost gentle, but there''s an edge of urgency beneath it. "This is no longer a one-off incident. He''s repeatedly attacking public spaces, endangering lives. Today''s attack could have been catastrophic. Six other students were injured."
"I know," I say quietly, my fingers curling into the scratchy hospital blanket. "I was there."
Crossroads finally speaks, his voice low and measured. "We''re not here to assign blame, Sam. But if there''s anything you can tell us about where he''s hiding or where he attacked you from, we need to know. We''re dealing with someone who''s clearly escalating, and we need to stop him before this happens again."
I meet his gaze, and for a moment, I see the faintest flicker of sympathy in his expression. It doesn''t last long, but it''s enough to make me hesitate.
They''re right. He''s dangerous. He''s hurt people--kids, even--and he''ll keep doing it unless someone stops him. But handing him over to them, letting them sweep him up into their system and lock him away in some super-prison? That''s not enough. Not after everything he''s done to me. Done to everyone else.
"I wish I could point him out for you," I say finally, forcing the words out. "But I didn''t see him today. I didn''t even know he was there until... you know."
Multiplex narrows his eyes slightly, his fingers tapping against the tablet. "You''re certain?"
"Positive," I say, meeting his gaze with what I hope is enough conviction to sell it. "If I had seen him, I would''ve said something. I don''t exactly have a soft spot for guys who torture me."
Captain Plasma nods, his expression thoughtful. "Fair enough. But if you do know anything, you need to tell us. We''re coordinating with the police and other teams to track him down, but every detail helps."
"Of course," I say, nodding earnestly. "I''ll let you know if he comes to finish the job. Can I talk to Crossroads privately?"
Multiplex studies me for a moment longer, then nods curtly. "Sure. We''ll be in touch."
He and Captain Plasma both turn around and leave. Crossroads stays. He flips a coin in his hand, only checking it every so often, fidgeting.
"Are you scoping out the rest of the conversation you''re about to have?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Cheating to get information from the future?"
He smiles, tight-lipped. "We need to know about Aaron if we''re going to stop him. So I need you to tell me everything he''s capable of,"
Ping! Thwp. Ping! Thwp. Crossroads and I stare at each other. A small trickle of blood leaks out his nose, and suddenly his vascular system lights up. He''s using his powers overtime, that''s the only reason he gets nosebleeds like that.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
"Here, let''s save my oxygen. Heads, I''ll tell you. Tails, I won''t. Does that polarize it enough?" I say, pre-committing to the course of action. Thinking about what I''d tell him. The different fires, how he used to only be able to do the smelly yellow fire, but now he''s got a whole rainbow - red, blue, yellow, white, and that blinding, noxious smoke. How I beat him up, stole his drugs, broke his shoulder, and ruined his life, and now he needs to get back to me. His crazy sociopath lecture on how getting beat by his dad taught him the value of pain.
His smile widens a little bit - it''s a weird expression to see on him - and he flips his coin again. It smacks into his palm, and he turns it over onto the back of his hand. "Tails. But that''s okay. You''ve told me as much as we need to know. "
"Your power is such a fucking cheat, dude," I crack, smiling with him, hoping that the alternate-future-me he''s interrogated doesn''t reveal anything about getting out on the streets and beating Aaron bloody.
For the first time in what seems like forever, Crossroads''s face breaks out into a grin. He lingers for half a second as the others turn to leave, his eyes flicking over me like he''s trying to pull the truth out of my head by sheer force of will. I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, until he finally nods and follows the others out of the room.
The curtain swishes shut behind them, and I let out a long, shaky breath, my shoulders slumping against the pillows. My arm throbs dully under the bandages, but it''s nothing compared to the knot of tension coiled in my chest.
The next person to walk through the curtain isn''t a superhero or a cop, but a doctor in scrubs, clipboard in hand and a look of tired efficiency on her face. She doesn''t bother with pleasantries, just nods briskly and pulls up a stool next to the bed.
"I''m Dr. Patel," she says, scanning the chart clipped to her board. "Samantha Small. Sixteen. Female. Second-degree burns on the right arm, shoulder, and hand." She pauses, glancing up at me. "How''s the pain?"
"Manageable," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. The pain is less sharp now, dulled by the gel and whatever they''ve been feeding into the IV, but it''s still a constant, hot throb that makes it impossible to forget.
Dr. Patel raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "On a scale of one to ten?"
"Seven," I say after a moment''s thought. Not so bad that I can''t function, but bad enough to make me want to crawl out of my skin. "Maybe six if I don''t move it."
She nods, making a note on the chart. "We''ll get you a prescription for something stronger before you go home, but I''d like to avoid anything too heavy if we can. You''ll need to stay on top of the pain management, though--burns like this can get worse if they''re not treated properly."
"Right," I say, not bothering to correct her assumption that I''ll be sticking around long enough for prescriptions and pain management to matter. My body heals on its own schedule, and it doesn''t include month-long recoveries. By tomorrow, this''ll be a dull ache. By Monday, it''ll just be a bad memory.
She pulls on a pair of gloves and carefully unwraps the bandages covering my arm. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to flinch as the cool air hits the raw, exposed skin. The burns are angry and red, blistering in places where the fire lingered too long. It looks worse than it feels, and that''s saying something.
"You''re lucky," Dr. Patel says, her tone clinical. "The burns are deep, but they didn''t penetrate the full thickness of the dermis. No permanent damage to the muscles or tendons, as far as we can tell."
"Great," I say, though the word tastes bitter in my mouth. I know she means it as reassurance, but it''s hard to feel lucky when you''ve just been set on fire in front of your entire school.
She leans in closer, inspecting the burns with a critical eye. "The healing process will take time. You''ll need to keep the area clean and covered, change the dressings daily, and apply the prescribed ointments. Physical therapy may be necessary to regain full mobility in the hand and shoulder. I''d estimate three to four months for full recovery, assuming there are no complications."
"Three to four months?" I echo, forcing a laugh that sounds hollow even to me. "Guess I''d better clear my schedule."
I run the calculations in my head. It usually takes me about 16 hours to recover from a moderate concussion, minutes for small cuts, baseline of - what, four times? That means about 3-4 weeks at worst. Best case, probably something closer to 4-5 days. That''s fast, but I don''t have time to lose and worry about it. I''ll just have to push through.
Dr. Patel doesn''t laugh. She just sets down the clipboard and starts applying a fresh layer of gel, her movements brisk but gentle. "Burns are serious injuries, Samantha. Even with proper treatment, the skin will take time to regenerate. And there''s a high risk of infection if you''re not careful."
"I''ll be careful," I lie automatically, wincing. Careful doesn''t exactly fit into the plan forming in the back of my mind. Not when Aaron''s still out there, planning his next move.
She doesn''t respond, just finishes wrapping the bandages and straightens up, peeling off her gloves. "We''ll be keeping you overnight for observation just to make sure you don''t acquire any immediate secondary infections by tomorrow. If everything looks good and not filled with pus, we''ll have the nurses bring you the discharge papers. We''ve already gone ahead and let your parents know. In the meantime, do you have any questions?"
I shake my head, my gaze fixed on the floor, trying not to think about my parents. "No. Thanks."
She studies me for a moment, her expression softening just slightly. "If you''re feeling overwhelmed, that''s normal. A traumatic event like this can take a toll, both physically and emotionally. We have counselors available if you''d like to talk."
"I''m fine," I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended. "Really."
Dr. Patel doesn''t push, just nods and leaves the room, the curtain swishing shut behind her.
The silence that follows is hungry, swallowing me. I stare at the neatly wrapped bandages on my arm, my thoughts spiraling in a dozen different directions. Three to four months. That''s how long a normal person would take to heal from this. That''s how long I''m supposed to be out of commission, stuck at home or in physical therapy, pretending like everything''s fine while Aaron keeps lighting up the city.
But I''m not normal. I can feel it already, the faint buzz beneath the pain that tells me my body is working overtime to patch itself up. By tomorrow, the blisters will shrink. By the weekend, the skin will start knitting back together. By the time anyone realizes I''m not following the recovery timeline, I''ll be gone--out there, hunting him.
I can''t wait for the system to catch up. I can''t wait for justice to crawl its way through red tape and bureaucracy. Aaron made this personal, and he''s not going to stop until someone stops him.
My fingers curl into the blanket, the coarse fabric scratching against my skin. The throbbing pain in my arm is just background noise now, swallowed by the fire building in my chest. This isn''t about revenge. It''s about making sure he can''t do this to anyone else. It''s about protecting the people he''s hurt, the people he''ll hurt if I don''t act.
The nurse comes in with some extra medication, her smile warm but distant. She goes over things with the same rehearsed script I''ve heard a dozen times before--rest, hydration, follow-up appointments, prescriptions. I nod and smile in all the right places, but my mind is already elsewhere, mapping out the next steps. How to slip away without raising suspicion. How to track Aaron before the Defenders or the police get to him.
They''re hunting him. A full-scale manhunt, with the weight of the Defenders and the police behind it. He''ll be caught. It''s inevitable.
But not yet. Not before I finish what he started.
Chapter 145.3
The phone feels heavier in my hand than it has any right to. I swipe to dial Mom''s number, my thumb hesitating for a fraction of a second before pressing the button. The dial tone rings loud in my ear, and for a moment, I hope it''ll go to voicemail, that I won''t have to face whatever mixture of concern and anger she''s brewing.
But of course, that''s not how this works. She picks up after two rings.
"Sam!" Her voice is sharp, teetering between relief and panic. "Oh my G-d, are you alright? The doctors called--they said you were attacked? At school?"
I wince, pulling the phone slightly away from my ear. "Yeah, uh, I''m fine. It''s not as bad as they made it sound."
"Not as bad?" she echoes, her voice rising. "Your arm is burned, Sam! They said second-degree!"
"It''s just a little crispy," I say, forcing a chuckle that falls flat. "They''ve got me wrapped up like a mummy. I''ll be good as new in no time. You already know how fast I heal."
There''s a pause on the other end, filled with the faint clatter of dishes and the low hum of Pop-Pop Moe''s voice in the background. He''s singing, something Hebrew I don''t quite catch, the cadence warm and familiar.
"Sam," Mom says, her tone softening but no less insistent. "This is serious. Your father and I are terrified. We were talking about driving up--"
"You don''t have to do that," I cut in quickly. "Seriously. The hospital''s got me covered, and, uh, some of the local heroes are keeping an eye on things. I''m perfectly safe here. And I need you to be perfectly safe in Ventnor, or I''ll make myself sick just worrying about you guys."
"Heroes?" she asks, her voice tinged with skepticism. "Like who?"
"Multiplex," I say, hoping the name will carry enough weight to ease her worry. "Captain Plasma. Crossroads was here, too. They''re on it."
There''s a faint rustle as she shifts the phone, probably turning to relay the information to Dad. His voice murmurs something in the background, low and steady. I hear - faintly - a joke - "who''s protecting who here?". Pop-Pop''s singing continues, accompanied by the rhythmic chop of a knife against a cutting board.
"Okay," Mom says finally, though her tone suggests she''s far from convinced. "If the Defenders are involved, that''s something. But I still don''t like the idea of you being there alone."This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
"I''m not alone," I say, leaning back against the stiff hospital pillows. "There are nurses, security guards, a whole SWAT team of superheroes combing Mayfair. I''m basically in Fort Knox."
"Fort Knox," she repeats, her voice flat. "And you''re okay? Really okay?"
"I promise," I say, my voice softening. "I''m okay, Mom. And I''m staying put. They won''t let me leave even if I wanted to."
"That''s not exactly reassuring," she mutters, but the tension in her voice eases slightly. "Alright. But if anything changes--anything--you call us. Do you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," I say, forcing a smile she can''t see. "How''s Pop-Pop? Is he... chopping onions?"
"Onions, parsley, potatoes. He''s making latkes," she says, the faintest hint of a smile creeping into her voice. "He says you''re missing out."
"I''ll make it up to him," I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Tell him I''ll be there next week to eat him out of house and home."
"Better keep that promise," she says, her voice soft but firm. "We love you, Sam."
"I love you, too," I say, the words catching slightly as I force them out.
We hang up, and the room feels unbearably quiet in the absence of her voice. I stare at the phone for a moment before setting it on the bedside table, my hand lingering over the screen.
The TV flickers in the corner, the sound low and tinny as a cartoon character screeches something incomprehensible. I''ve left it on for appearances, a distraction in case anyone walks in, but the bright colors and rapid movement only make my head ache.
Outside the window, the city is painted in streaks of orange and pink as the sun dips below the horizon. I can see the faint silhouettes of heroes patrolling in the distance, their movements purposeful but relaxed. They''re not expecting anything to happen tonight. Not with the hospital locked down tighter than a drum.
I shift in the bed, my bandaged arm brushing against the blanket. The dull throb of pain is a constant reminder of what''s waiting for me out there. Aaron''s not going to stop. Not until someone makes him.
I glance toward the door, listening for the faint hum of voices or footsteps in the hallway. The protection detail is thorough, but they''re human. They''ll get distracted, pulled away by something more urgent than a bandaged teenager in a hospital bed.
I slide my feet over the edge of the bed, wincing as the motion pulls at my shoulder. My clothes are folded neatly on the chair by the door, and I reach for them, moving as quietly as I can. Every rustle of fabric feels deafening in the stillness.
The hospital gown slips to the floor, replaced by the familiar weight of my hoodie and jeans. The movement tugs at the bandages, but I grit my teeth and keep going, my focus sharp and unwavering. I lace up my sneakers, the knot trembling slightly under my fingers.
The bathroom excuse is ready in my head, rehearsed and simple. If anyone stops me, I''ll play the part of the tired, slightly disoriented patient looking for the restroom. Most people won''t question it.
I watch. I listen. I wait. At some point near midnight, or maybe 1 AM, there''s a perfect moment, a car accident or something like that, that has people rushing out and focusing on anything other than me. Squeaky hospital bed wheels scraping along the linoleum floor. Rushed voices barking orders. All eyes off me.
I step toward the door, my heart hammering in my chest. The faint glow of the hallway light spills through the gap at the bottom, shadows shifting as someone passes by. I wait, my breath caught in my throat, until the shadows move on. Then, with a deep, steadying breath, I slip out into the night.
WORLD OF CHUM: Power Laws (5)
Going Dark: Inside America''s Powered Underground
The Atlantic | March 2022
By Rebecca Solnit
The house fire that changed Sarah''s life started in her family''s kitchen. A faulty wire, the fire marshal would later determine. But what happened next wasn''t in any official report.
"I remember the heat," says Sarah, now 17, her voice barely above a whisper. "The smoke was everywhere. I couldn''t breathe. And then suddenly..." She trails off, gesturing vaguely. "The flames just... moved. Away from us. Like they were listening to me."
We''re sitting in what her "handler" - we''ll call him Michael - terms a "waystation," one of countless anonymous apartments across America where unregistered powered individuals find temporary shelter. The furniture is sparse: a folding table, some chairs, a mattress on the floor. The windows are covered with heavy curtains. Sarah''s family isn''t here; they haven''t seen her in eight months.
"It was safer this way," Michael explains. A former social worker, he''s been helping unregistered powered individuals navigate life off the grid for nearly a decade. "Her parents are undocumented. Registering for LUMA would have put the whole family at risk."
The License to Utilize Metahuman Abilities (LUMA) system, implemented under the Stewart administration, requires all powered individuals to register their abilities with the government. The fees are modest - $40 for initial registration and $20 for biennial renewal. But for many, the real cost isn''t measured in dollars.
"People think it''s about the money," says Dr. Elena Rossi, a civil rights attorney who provides legal counsel to unregistered powered individuals. "But for most of my clients, forty dollars isn''t the barrier. It''s what comes with registration - the scrutiny, the surveillance, the way your entire life becomes subject to government oversight."
Sarah''s story is far from unique. Across America, an estimated 30,000 powered individuals live outside the LUMA system. They form a hidden community connected by whispered referrals, encrypted chat rooms, and people like Michael - the self-styled "handlers" who help them navigate an increasingly hostile landscape.
These networks operate through a loose coalition of safe houses, healthcare providers, and employment contacts. Communication happens primarily through ancient IRC channels and private forums, with constantly changing servers and strict security protocols. "You learn to be careful," Michael says. "One slip-up could expose dozens of people."
Dr. Maya Rodriguez works at what she calls a "shadow clinic" in Seattle, providing medical care to unregistered powered individuals. "Many of these abilities have physical side effects," she explains. "The Bracing Effect can cause vascular problems. Power use can lead to exhaustion, muscle strain, even neurological issues. Without access to regular healthcare, people suffer needlessly."
The network also provides power control training - crucial for individuals who might otherwise struggle to manage their abilities. "It''s not just about keeping them hidden," says Rebecca Torres, a powered individual who runs training sessions in Los Angeles. "It''s about preventing accidents, helping people live normal lives. The government acts like registration is the only way to ensure public safety. We prove otherwise every day."If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
Not everyone in the underground stays there forever. Some emerge when their circumstances change, paying the registration fees and entering the LUMA system. Others remain perpetually off-grid, building entire lives in the shadows. The reasons for avoiding registration are as varied as the powers themselves.
"I couldn''t risk them knowing what I can do," says Marcus (not his real name), a former military contractor whose abilities allow him to access other people''s memories. "They''d either lock me up or put me to work. Neither option appealed." He now works as a handyman, paid in cash, moving between cities every few months.
Another underground resident, who asks to be called Jenny, manifested the ability to manipulate electronic systems during a car accident. "I looked at the LUMA requirements, saw how they classify different power types. Someone like me? I''d be flagged as a potential security risk. Limited job options, travel restrictions, constant monitoring. That''s not a life."
The network includes numerous former government employees who became disillusioned with the system they once served. "Maria" worked as a LUMA registration officer for three years before leaving to join the underground. "I watched them classify a twelve-year-old as a potential weapon of mass destruction because she could influence plant growth. Preparing to ship her off to Aurora Springs. That was my breaking point. She was twelve."
The legal community remains divided on the underground network''s activities. While some lawyers work openly to reform the LUMA system, others secretly provide assistance to the underground. "We''re operating in a grey area," admits one attorney who requested anonymity. "Technically, what we''re doing violates a litany of laws, oversights, regulations. But so was helping escaped slaves. Sometimes the law is wrong."
Back at the waystation, Sarah is preparing to move to her next location. She can now control her pyrokinetic abilities well enough to prevent accidental fires, thanks to training from the underground network. She dreams of someday becoming a firefighter but knows that''s impossible without registration.
"The best part of my week is Sunday dinner," Sarah says, carefully folding a hand-knitted sweater into her backpack. The underground network arranges regular family meetings at rotating safe locations - restaurants, parks, sometimes even rented cabins outside the city. "Mom still makes her enchiladas. Dad tells the same jokes. My little brother''s getting so tall." Her smile is genuine, unguarded. "It''s not perfect, but we make it work. The network helps us stay a family."
Michael explains that maintaining family bonds is a priority for the underground, especially with younger powered individuals. "Isolation breeds desperation. We learned early on that keeping families connected, even if they can''t live together, is crucial. Happy people are careful people."
Michael will drive her to the next safehouse tonight, another link in a chain that stretches across the country. As we leave, he shares a final thought: "Everyone focuses on the powers, but this isn''t about that. It''s about human dignity. It''s about the right to exist without having to justify yourself to a system that sees you as a threat first and a person second."
The underground network continues to grow, adapting to increased surveillance and evolving registration requirements. Its members see themselves not as criminals but as resistors, part of an American tradition of civil disobedience in the face of unjust laws.
For Sarah and thousands like her, the choice between registration and life underground isn''t really a choice at all. It''s a question of survival, of maintaining basic human dignity in a world that increasingly views powers as something to be controlled rather than protected.
Chapter 146.1
The thing about hospitals is, they''re full of people who aren''t supposed to be paying attention to you, but somehow they always are. It''s not because they care, necessarily--although I''m sure they''d claim they do--but because hospitals are built around the idea that you''ll stay put and follow their plan. Their plan isn''t my plan, though, and I''ve got somewhere to be.
Right now, the universe is being polite to me. There''s been some kind of car accident nearby, and every nurse, doctor, and security guard in this place has decided that the guy with a steering wheel-shaped bruise on his chest is more pressing than the bandaged teenager trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I''ve got my hoodie on, my sneakers laced, and my backpack slung over one shoulder. The only thing still tying me to this room is the stupid hospital bracelet on my wrist, which I''ll deal with once I''m outside.
Step one: get out of here without someone deciding I look suspicious. Step two: don''t think about step two yet, because step one is hard enough.
I peek out into the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The air smells like antiseptic and a hint of overcooked cafeteria soup. Voices echo from the nurses'' station down the hall, sharp and purposeful, but no one''s heading my way yet. Perfect.
I''m halfway to the elevator when it happens.
"Excuse me?"
The voice freezes me mid-step. It''s light, polite, but there''s an edge of authority that makes my stomach twist. A nurse. Late twenties, maybe, with auburn hair pulled into a tight bun and a badge that says "M. Larson, RN." She steps into my path, her expression caught somewhere between friendly concern and professional suspicion.
"Can I help you?" she asks, her eyes flicking over me, from the hoodie pulled low over my face to the hospital bracelet glaring like a neon sign on my wrist.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet her gaze. My mind races. What would a regular patient say? What would a regular patient do?
"Uh, yeah," I say, scratching at the back of my neck in what I hope passes for casual embarrassment. "I was just--bathroom. Couldn''t find anyone to ask, so I figured I''d look for it myself."
Her eyes pull over me, examining me, deciding whether or not I need an escort. Looking at my bandaged arm. My fingers twitch instinctively, curling into my sleeve to hide it.
"The bathrooms are just around the corner," she says after a moment, her voice cautious. "But you really shouldn''t be wandering around. Let me find someone to escort you back to your room."
"Thanks," I say quickly, too quickly. "But I''ve got it from here. Seriously. I''ll head right back after." I flash what I hope is a convincing smile, but it feels more like a monkey''s grimace.
She hesitates, her eyes searching mine for something I can''t name. For a second, I''m sure she''s going to call for backup, demand my name, ask which room I came from. Shoot me in the face, maybe.
Then, mercifully, she steps aside. "Don''t wander too far, alright, darling?"
"Of course," I say, nodding earnestly. "Thank you."
I turn the corner before she can say anything else, my heart pounding in my ears. The adrenaline buzzes through me, sharp and electric, and I force myself to keep walking, to resist the urge to break into a run. Running would draw attention. Running would scream guilty.
The elevator is out of the question--too exposed, too risky. I don''t want to get stopped on it by someone who knows I shouldn''t be just leaving. I head for the stairs instead, slipping through the door and into the dimly lit stairwell. It smells like old concrete and cleaning supplies, the faint echoes of distant footsteps bouncing off the walls.
Down. Just keep going down.
The hospital is a maze, but it''s a maze I know well. I''ve been here enough times--too many times--to not have it memorized.
I push through the doors, stepping out into the crisp night air. The sky above Philadelphia is a murky mix of orange and gray, the city lights reflecting off low-hanging clouds. It''s not raining, but the air feels damp, heavy with the promise of bad weather. Perfect for sneaking around.
The parking lot is mostly empty, just a few scattered cars and an ambulance idling near the entrance. I pull my hood up tighter, tilting my head down as I walk past the EMTs loading a burn victim onto a stretcher. The air around him smells faintly of smoke, sharp and acrid, and I catch a glimpse of his arm--charred and blistered, the skin blackened in places. My stomach twists, but I keep moving. Can''t think about him. Can''t think about any of them. Not yet.
I make it to the sidewalk and take a deep breath, ripping the hospital bracelet off my wrist and stuffing it into my pocket. The plastic digs into my fingers as I crush it into a tiny, crumpled ball. It''s not much, but it feels like shedding a layer of control, like the first step toward being myself again.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Jefferson Frankford sits on a stretch of road that feels like it''s trying to be suburban but can''t quite commit. The buildings are a mix of old brick rowhouses and ugly concrete blocks, with the occasional chain restaurant or gas station thrown in for good measure. I pick a direction--northeast, towards Mayfair--and start walking, keeping to the shadows where the streetlights don''t quite reach.
The hoodie is a shield, the backpack slung over my shoulder a feeble attempt at blending in. I keep my head down, my pace steady but unhurried, as I move away from the hospital. Each step, I''m waiting for someone to rush out and stop me. I''m sure once they notice I''m not in my bed, they''ll start calling my parents, and that''ll be a problem.
I''ll deal with that when it becomes a problem.
The streets are alive with movement, the hum of the city amplified by the tension that clings to the air. Philadelphia isn''t at war--not yet--but you can feel the edges fraying, the cracks spreading. They''ve been spreading for months now, but it''s only been getting worse. Sirens wail in the distance. A group of kids loiters on a corner, their voices rising in bursts of laughter. A patrol car idles by the curb, its lights flashing lazily as the officers inside talk into their radios.
Nobody notices me. Nobody cares. I''m invisible.
The chill seeps through my clothes, the fabric of my hoodie clinging to my skin with all the sweat. My arm throbs beneath the bandages, a dull, persistent ache that refuses to be ignored. I clench my teeth against it, pushing the pain to the back of my mind. It doesn''t matter. I''m fine.
I cut through an alley, the narrow space hemmed in by graffiti-covered walls. The scent of garbage and damp concrete fills my nose, but it''s quieter here, the city''s noise muffled by the buildings on either side. A stray cat darts across my path, its eyes flashing briefly in the dim light before it disappears into the shadows.
Mayfair isn''t far. I can feel it, the pull of familiarity guiding me forward. My steps quicken slightly, the weight of the hospital fading with each block I put between us.
The thing about walking alone at night is, every sound feels like it''s meant for you. A car door slams two blocks over, and my heart skips. A dog barks somewhere in the distance, and my muscles tighten, just for a second. Even the wind, rustling through the brittle remains of leaves, feels like it''s whispering something I don''t want to hear.
I tug my hood lower, adjusting the strap of my backpack as I move through the city. The streets are alive, but not in the way I''m used to. Philadelphia''s always had its rhythms--the sharp percussion of car horns, the steady hum of distant traffic--but tonight, everything''s offbeat. Sirens wail intermittently, weaving in and out of the background noise like a sinister melody. The air tastes like smoke, even when there''s none in sight.
I cut through another alley, stepping over a broken beer bottle that glints faintly in the dim light. The graffiti here is newer than I remember--angry black text that shouts "I FUCKING LOVE JUMP"... is that - scorched into the wall? The implication makes my nose scrunch. Or maybe the smell of charcoal.
I shake it off and keep moving.
As I emerge from the alley, the city stretches out before me, its edges blurred by the haze of light and smoke and slush and cold. Mayfair''s still a ways off--at least another thirty minutes if I don''t get distracted--but the path ahead feels like a gauntlet. The streets are more crowded here, even this late, but not with the kind of people you''d expect. The usual crowds of bar-goers and late-night wanderers have been replaced by something else entirely.
A group of civilians stands on the corner, their reflective vests catching the glow of a nearby streetlight. They''ve got a mishmash of gear--helmets, heavy boots, and what looks like borrowed firefighter jackets. One of them holds a flashlight, the beam slicing through the gloom as they scan the area. Their voices are low, tense, as they talk amongst themselves. A name slips through the conversation, carried by the wind: Aaron McKinley.
I haven''t been watching the news. I guess the manhunt has, uh, intensified a bit.
I duck my head and keep walking, my pulse quickening. They don''t notice me, too focused on their patrol, but the tension in the air presses down like a vice. These aren''t heroes, not in the official sense, but they''re trying. It''s hard not to feel for them, even if I know they''re just making things messier.
As I pass a corner store, a squad car roars by, its lights painting the street in harsh flashes of red and blue. The officer in the passenger seat leans out the window, shouting something into a megaphone--words I can''t quite make out over the blaring sirens. They''re not slowing down, though. Whatever''s happening, it''s not here.
The world feels like it''s unraveling. Smoke rises in thin tendrils from a building a few blocks away, its shape barely visible against the dark sky. It could be a copycat arson or just another accident, but the distinction doesn''t matter to the people scrambling to contain it, the glow of an orange-green fire licking up the bricks. A firetruck idles near the scene, its hoses snaking across the pavement, while firefighters shout instructions to each other. Civilians cluster nearby, watching helplessly.
I pick up my pace, slipping past the scene without drawing attention. The smell of smoke grows stronger the closer I get, sticking to the back of my throat like a bad memory. I force myself to breathe through my nose, shallow and quick, trying to ignore the way it makes my chest tighten.
Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot rings out--sharp, definitive, and too close for comfort. The sound freezes me in place for half a heartbeat, my ears straining for anything that might follow. Nothing. Just the faint echo of the shot, swallowed by the city''s noise. I don''t wait to see if it repeats. My feet move on autopilot, carrying me further away.
The streets blur together as I weave through the city, each block a mixture of loud and soft. There''s no pattern to it, no logic. One moment, I''m passing a block so deserted it feels like a ghost town; the next, I''m dodging a group of teenagers getting into fistfights. On one block, someone seems to be testing some kind of pyrokinesis - I recognize that curious stare, Maggie-style. The way they watch the fire dance between their fingers. I don''t stop them, or stop for them.
I pass another patrol--this one smaller, just two guys in hoodies holding baseball bats. They''re not wearing badges or uniforms, but their posture is unmistakable. They''re looking for someone, and it''s not hard to guess who. Everyone''s looking for him. Everyone wants to be the one to bring him in.
As I approach Tacony, the city shifts again. The streets grow narrower, the buildings closer together, their windows dark and watchful while the roofs...rooves? squat down, lower than Center City. I stop under a streetlight, the faint hum of the bulb the only sound, buzzing like a mosquito. My breath puffs out in small, uneven clouds, the cold finally sinking through the adrenaline. I pull my hood tighter and take one last look around.
Mayfair''s just ahead. Tacony''s at my feet. And Aaron is waiting for me, somewhere.
Chapter 146.2
Philadelphia''s skies are rarely empty. Tonight, they''re crowded.
As I move through the narrowing streets, I catch glimpses of familiar figures cutting through the air or prowling the sidewalks. Above, Moonshot soars low, her dark hoodie flapping against her back as she glides between rooftops. She keeps close to the ground, her trajectory purposeful but erratic, scanning for anything out of place. Moonshot doesn''t fly like Captain Plasma--there''s no flashy trail of light, no confident arcs through the sky.
I stick to the ground, keeping my pace steady and unassuming. No sudden movements. No eye contact.
Further ahead, I spot one of Multiplex''s duplicates near a police cruiser, taking notes as a cop talks animatedly with him. The cop gestures toward a hand-drawn map spread across the hood of the car, his flashlight illuminating patches of red and yellow scribbled across it. Multiplex doesn''t react, just nods and writes something down, his face impassive. Another duplicate stands nearby, talking into a radio. Watching him is like looking at a chessboard mid-game--every piece precisely placed, every move calculated.
Even knowing how many versions of him there are, I can''t help but wonder: does he ever sleep?
The streets of Mayfair are different from Tacony. The rowhouses here feel tighter, their brick walls lined up like teeth. The glow of the city feels dimmer, more comfortable. Home. It''s less chaotic, more accustomed to people, not businesses. It''s quiet in the way that makes you listen harder, waiting for a sound - any sound.
And then my phone buzzes.
The sound makes me jump. It''s faint - buried under my hoodie - but in the stillness of the street, it feels as loud as a siren. I fumble it out of my pocket, glancing at the screen. Dad. My stomach twists.
"Hey," I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I answer. The wind carries my words away as soon as they leave my mouth, but I know he''s heard them.
"Hey?" His voice is sharp, cutting through the weak signal. "Sam, the hospital just called. What the hell are you doing? Where are you?"
I wince, pulling the phone closer to my ear. "Dad, calm down-"
"Calm down?" he snaps. "You''re supposed to be in a hospital bed, recovering, and instead I get a call saying you''ve vanished? What were you thinking?"
"I''m fine," I say quickly, forcing as much conviction into the words as I can muster. "I''m fine, Dad. Really. I just... I needed to get out of there."
"You needed-" He cuts himself off, and I hear him take a deep, shaky breath. When he speaks again, his voice is tighter, quieter. "Sam, this isn''t a joke. You were lit on fire. You''re hurt. You need to be somewhere safe."
"I am somewhere safe," I lie. "I''m with a friend. A superhero friend. You know, one of the good ones."
"Which one?" he demands, and for a second, I''m thrown. He never asks for details like this. He never digs. But tonight, he''s not playing along.
"Um," I stall, my brain scrambling for a name. "S-Sputnik."
He exhales sharply. "Sam, I don''t care if you''re with Sputnik or Superman himself. I need to know where you are."
I hesitate, my breath catching. "I''m in West Philly," I say finally. "Far away from Mayfair. Far away from him."
There''s a beat of silence, filled only by the faint crackle of static. "You''re lying," he says, audibly clenched. "I can hear it in your voice. You''re lying to me, Sam."
"I''m not-"
"Don''t," he interrupts, his voice breaking slightly. "Don''t lie to me. I can''t - I can''t do this. Not tonight."
The crack in his voice makes my chest ache. I can picture him now, pacing the living room, one hand gripping his phone and the other clenched into a fist. He''s scared. Scared in a way I don''t know how to fix.
"Dad," I say softly, my steps slowing as I round another corner. "I''m okay. I promise. I''m not doing anything reckless. I just... I needed to get out of the hospital. There are so many people coming in. I didn''t want to take up a bed when someone else might need it more."
"That''s not your call to make!" he says, his voice rising again. "You''re sixteen! You don''t have to be a hero, Sam. You don''t have to do this."
I stop walking, my hand tightening around the phone. "I''m not trying to be a hero," I say, the words coming out softer than I intended. "I just need to handle this my way."
"What does that mean?" he asks, his tone equal parts frustration and desperation. "What way, Sam? Running away? Putting yourself in danger again?"If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
"No," I say firmly. "It means being smart. Being careful. It means making sure I''m okay and that I''m hidden."
He doesn''t respond right away, but I can hear him breathing--shallow, uneven, like he''s trying not to cry. "You don''t have to prove anything to anyone," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "You''re enough, Sam. You''ve always been enough. I don''t care what Pop-Pop has been telling you about powers and responsibility and saving people. You don''t have to carry that."
The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, but I force the words out anyway. "I know," I say. "And I love you. Both of you."
There''s a pause, then a quiet, broken laugh. "You''re lucky your mother''s not on the phone right now," he says, and the faintest hint of a smile creeps into his voice. "She''d have my head for letting you talk your way out of this. And Moe--he''d probably tell me to let you do whatever you want. Says it''s your ''duty.'' I''m just stuck in the middle here."
"She''d let you off the hook," I say, smiling despite myself. "Eventually."
"Maybe," he concedes. "But Sam, you need to promise me something. Call the hospital back. Tell them you''re safe. Let them know you''re not just... missing. For G-d''s sake, they probably think you were abducted by a supervillain!"
I hesitate, my fingers tightening on the phone. "Can you call them?" I ask, my voice soft. "Just so it''s... official? If it''s coming from me, they might not believe me."
For a moment, I think he''s going to argue, but then he exhales sharply, the sound more tired than frustrated. "Fine. I''ll call them. But you''d better answer your phone if they ask for a follow-up."
"I will," I say quickly, the weight in my chest lifting just enough to breathe again. "And I''ll call you in a few hours. Promise."
"You''d better," he says. "Stay safe, Sam."
"You too, Dad," I say softly, and the call ends with a click.
I stand there for a moment, the phone still pressed to my ear, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement.
The street ahead is quieter than I expected. Even in Mayfair, where the houses huddle close, there''s usually some sign of life this late--a dog barking, a window lit up with the glow of a TV, the faint bass of music from a party someone didn''t invite me to. Tonight, though, there''s none of that. Just the distant hum of the city, muffled by the rowhouses like they''re trying to keep it out.
I tug my hood a little lower and glance up and down the street. I''m almost home. Just a few more steps, a few more houses. The temptation to run is real, but I keep my pace steady. Blending in means acting like I belong here, even though every part of me feels like it''s buzzing with static.
"Bloodhound,"
The voice is low, familiar, and just behind me. I whirl around, fists up before I can think better of it. Sandman, raises both hands in mock surrender. For the first time I think in ever, his smile shows teeth.
"Whoa there, champ," he says, his tone amused but careful. "I come in peace. Mostly."
"Jesus, Sand," I hiss, lowering my fists but not my guard. "What the hell are you doing?"
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, toward a spot on the sidewalk where a rumpled blanket and a battered backpack sit abandoned. "Keeping watch, as per royal decree. Until the Aaron situation gets resolved, the other Titans don''t want me being burnt to death. So, I get to babysit your street, because we all know he''s gunning after you."
"You''ve been sleeping on the sidewalk? I thought you were just going home or, I don''t know, finding someplace more comfy than my street corner," I half-joke, rubbing the back of my head.
"Sleep is a strong word," he says, stretching exaggeratedly. "Mostly, I''ve been watching. Thinking. Freezing my ass off. Hurting my tailbone. Thanks for that, by the way. My PT bills are going to be astronomical."
"Get a better chair next time," I mutter, crossing my arms. The burn in my shoulder protests, but I ignore it. "Have you seen him?"
His smirk fades, replaced by something sharper and more focused. He steps closer, his eyes scanning my face like he''s looking for something he doesn''t like. "Aaron? No. But if I had, you''d be the first to know. You do know how bait works, right? You don''t dangle it in front of the shark and then dive in after it."
"Not funny," I snap, though the irony isn''t lost on me.
"Not meant to be," he says, his tone hardening. "What are you even doing out here, Sam? Shouldn''t you be at the hospital, letting the professionals handle this?"
I laugh, short and sharp. "Yeah, because the ''professionals'' have been doing such a bang-up job. Aaron''s been tearing up Tacony for a week, and they haven''t even come close to catching him. You think I''m gonna sit on my hands while he burns the neighborhood down, and his copycats get the rest of the city?"
"You''re not exactly in fighting shape," he points out, nodding toward my arm. "And last I checked, you''re not invincible."
"No," I say, my voice dropping. "But I''m not going to let him keep hurting people. He needs to be stopped."
"Stopped," Sandman echoes, his eyes narrowing. "Or punished?"
I don''t flinch. "That''s a strange question,"
He sighs, running a hand through his short dreadlocks. "The difference, Sam, is whether you''re doing this for them or for you. If you''re trying to protect people, that''s one thing. But if this is just about payback--"
"It''s not," I cut in, my voice sharp. "This isn''t about revenge."
"Really?" he says, his tone skeptical. "Because the way I see it, you''re not exactly thinking clearly right now. You''re pissed off, and you''re scared, and those are not the emotions you want driving you into a fight with someone like Aaron."
"I''m not scared," I lie, the words coming out too quickly. "I''m--"
"You''re terrified," he interrupts. "And that''s okay. Hell, it''d be weird if you weren''t. But you can''t let that fear make your decisions for you. Not when the stakes are this high."
I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. "I don''t have a choice."
"There''s always a choice," he says, stepping closer. His voice softens, just enough to take the edge off. "You don''t have to do this alone, Sam. That''s why we''re here. The Titans, the Defenders, the cops--hell, even the wannabe vigilantes with their baseball bats. We''re all trying to stop him. You don''t have to carry this weight by yourself."
"It''s not about the weight," I say, my voice breaking slightly despite my best efforts. "It''s about making sure he can''t come back. Can''t do this to anyone else. Knowing what the consequences are for starting a fight he can''t finish."
"And you think beating him to a pulp is the only way to do that?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.
I look him in the eye, feeling my resolve harden. "He needs to know that he can''t fuck with me."
"Sam," he says, his voice soft but insistent. "This isn''t you."
"You don''t know me," I snap, the words out before I can stop them. "Not really. You don''t know what he''s done. What he''s capable of."
"Maybe not," he admits. "But I know what you''re capable of. And I know you''re better than this."
Instead of responding, I turn away, my eyes fixed on the darkened windows of my house just a few steps ahead.
Chapter 146.3
Sandman exhales through his nose, his gaze steady on mine. His posture doesn''t change--still relaxed, leaning slightly to one side like he doesn''t have a care in the world--but his eyes tell a different story. They''re sharp, calculating, scanning my face like he''s trying to peel away the layers and get to whatever truth I''m not saying out loud.
"And you think breaking him is the solution?" he asks, his voice calm but firm. "That''s what makes him stop?"
"I don''t think," I snap, "I know. He''s not afraid of the cops. He''s not afraid of the Delaware Valley Defenders or the Tacony Titans or the Auditors or anyone else in a cape. But he''s afraid of me."
Sandman tilts his head slightly, considering me. "And what happens if you''re wrong?"
"I''m not."
The certainty in my voice surprises even me, but it doesn''t shake him. He crosses his arms, the motion slow and deliberate. "You don''t know that, Sam. You can''t. People like Aaron don''t scare easy. Pain doesn''t teach them lessons. It just makes them worse."
"That''s bullshit," I say, the words bursting out before I can stop them. "You think he''s going to stop just because someone slaps cuffs on him and locks him in a box? He''s not afraid of the system, Sand. He doesn''t give a damn about consequences. The only thing he understands is power."
"And you think you showing him yours is going to change that?" His tone sharpens just enough to sting. "He''s a rabid dog, Sam. You don''t tame that. You don''t fix it. You put it down."
My breath catches in my throat, and for a second, I can''t respond. His words hang in the air, heavy and cold, and I feel the sting of them settle deep in my chest. "I''m not a killer," I say finally, my voice low and tight.
"I know you''re not," he says, softer now, almost apologetic. "But you''re talking like one."
That stings more than I want to admit. "I''m talking like someone who''s tired of letting people like him run the board," I say, my voice rising despite myself. "He ripped my nails off with a fucking hammer, Sandman. Today, he lit me on fire. In broad daylight. In front of my entire school, along with like six other students. And why? Because he knows I care about the people he''s hurting. That''s it. That''s the only reason. He''s not some nihilistic lunatic trying to watch the world burn. He''s doing this to fuck with me."
Sandman doesn''t flinch, doesn''t interrupt. He lets me talk, his expression steady and unreadable, but the silence only pushes me further.
"If he stayed in the underworld, dealing with people who expect violence, I could almost let it slide. Let the cops, the Defenders, whoever deal with it. But he''s not. He''s burning down family businesses. Schools. Neighborhoods. He''s dragging innocent people into his bullshit, just to get at me. And I can''t let that happen. I can''t let him keep thinking he can hurt people to get what he wants."
"And you think beating him to a pulp sends the message you''re hoping for?" Joshua''s tone is still calm, but there''s a new edge to it--frustration, maybe, or something close to it.
"Yes," I say, my voice firm. "Because if he''s not scared of me, he''s never going to stop."
Sandman sighs, long and slow, and rubs a hand over his face. "Sam, you''re not going to scare him straight. He''s not going to have some epiphany where he realizes he''s been wrong all along and decides to turn his life around."
"I don''t need him to turn his life around," I snap. "I just need him to stop coming after mine."
We stare at each other, the air between us taut like a wire stretched too thin. I can feel the weight of his judgment pressing down on me, but I don''t back down.
"You''re not going to let this go, are you?" he asks finally, his voice resigned.
"No," I say, the word coming out more softly than I intended. "I can''t."
For a moment, I think he''s going to argue again, to try one more time to talk me out of it. But instead, he just exhales sharply and shakes his head. "You''re a stubborn little shit, you know that?"The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
"Takes one to know one," I shoot back, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite everything.
He chuckles, but it''s humorless. "Fine. Do what you''ve got to do. But don''t come crying to me when it all blows up in your face."
"It won''t," I say, though the words sound hollow even to me.
"Sure," he says, his smirk returning.
I don''t respond. There''s nothing left to say, not really. He steps back, his hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket as he studies me for a moment longer. "Don''t be an idiot, Sam."
My gaze hardens. "I won''t be."
"Good," he says, turning away and heading back toward his makeshift camp. "Because if you get yourself killed, I''m not explaining it to your parents."
I watch him go, his figure disappearing into the shadows, before turning back toward my house. The street is quiet again, but the tension in the air hasn''t lifted. If anything, it feels heavier now, pressing down on my shoulders like a weight I can''t shake.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and start walking. There''s still so much to do.
The house is dark when I step inside, making the space feel bigger than it is. I kick off my sneakers by the door, the rubber soles squeaking faintly against the tile, and shrug off my hoodie. The chill clings to me for a moment before the warmth of the house takes over, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket.
I don''t bother turning on the lights. It''s better this way--less inviting, less noticeable. The glow from the streetlights outside filters through the blinds, painting faint patterns on the walls. It''s enough to see by.
The stairs creak faintly under my weight as I make my way up to my room. The familiarity of it all--the way the floorboards groan, the faint smell of pine cleaner lingering in the air--feels almost surreal. Like I''ve stepped into a memory instead of reality.
Once I''m upstairs, I head straight for my closet. The duffel bag is right where I left it, tucked in the back corner beneath a pile of old soccer jerseys and mismatched shoes. I pull it out and unzip it, the sound sharp and satisfying in the quiet room.
Inside, everything is exactly as I packed it: Fury Forge''s firefighting gadgets neatly arranged in their compartments. The pellets sit in their reinforced case, tiny spheres of concentrated suppressant foam. The smoke mask rests beside them, its filter pristine and ready. And the fire blanket, folded tightly, feels heavier in my hands than it should. Along that is the remains of Miss Mayfair''s gear, but I doubt I''ll need to inject anyone with fake poison or fly a drone into Aaron''s face. Maybe next time.
I set everything out on the bed, arranging it with the precision of a mortician. My fingers move automatically, checking each item, running through the mental checklist that''s become second nature by now.
Bandages next. I sit on the edge of the bed and unwrap the ones from the hospital, wincing as the cool air hits the burns. The gel they gave me has dulled the pain, but the skin is still raw and tender, every movement sending little jolts of discomfort up my arm. I get my first aid kit and re-wrap new, fresh gauze around my arm. Good as new.
My stomach growls, breaking the silence, and I realize I haven''t eaten since... I can''t even remember. The fridge downstairs is probably full of leftovers. Mom''s tendency to overprepare for every culinary contingency means there''s always something waiting, even when they''re not here.
Mom and Dad. My chest tightens at the thought of them, safe in Ventnor with Pop-Pop Moe, exactly where they should be. I told them to stay there, convinced them it was for their own safety, but the weight of that decision sits heavy on me now. If Aaron is willing to light me up in broad daylight, he''d go after them in a heartbeat.
They''re better off far away from this. From me.
I head downstairs, the faint glow of the fridge lighting up the dark kitchen as I rummage through it. Leftover chicken, some roasted vegetables, and a bowl of rice. Can''t go vigilante on some guy''s ass on an empty stomach. I pile it onto a plate and pop it in the microwave, the hum filling the silence as I lean against the counter.
When it''s done, I eat standing at the counter, one hand holding the plate while the other peels back the bottom half of my mask. The fabric settles around my neck, loose and familiar. It''s strange, eating like this--half in costume, half out--but it feels right. Like I need to be ready at a moment''s notice.
The food tastes bland, the flavors muted by the thoughts swirling in my head. Plans, contingencies, routes through the city--it''s all jumbled together, a chaotic mess that I can''t quite untangle. I force myself to finish anyway, scraping the last bit of rice onto my fork before setting the plate in the sink.
As I start to rinse it, something catches my attention. A faint smell, sharp and acrid, curling around the edges of the room. Smoke.
I freeze, my hand hovering over the faucet. Did my mom leave something in the oven? Did I leave something in the microwave? I glance around the kitchen, my eyes scanning for anything out of place, but everything looks normal. The faint glow from the streetlights filters through the blinds, soft and steady.
Then I see it.
A flicker of light, faint and orange, through the front window. My heart skips, and I move to the door, my footsteps quick and quiet against the tile. The cool night air hits me as I step onto the porch, and the smell of smoke is stronger now, unmistakable.
I look around, my gaze sweeping the quiet street. Everything seems normal at first--the rows of parked cars, the dark windows of sleeping houses--but then I see it. Around the corner, on the row behind this street. A place I know by heart, by distance, even if I haven''t been over in two years.
Kate Smith''s house is on fire.
Chapter 147.1
The smell of smoke is sharper than I expect. It''s not like campfire smoke or the damp, sticky haze of burnt leaves. It''s chemical and bitter, curling into my throat and lungs even from blocks away. My stomach twists as I pick up speed, sprinting toward the alley that cuts through the row of homes. The dark brick walls blur on either side of me, but my focus stays locked ahead.
Kate''s house is on fire.
I knew things were bad--fires cropping up across the city, a chaos of sirens and screaming--but this is different. This isn''t random. Aaron knows. Somehow, he knows.
The street where her house sits feels impossibly still compared to the buzz of adrenaline in my chest. I cut down the alley, my sneakers scraping against uneven pavement. The buildings crowd me on either side, their brick facades radiating residual heat from the fire up ahead. I can feel it now, a furnace glow against my skin even before I make the turn.
When I do, the sight stops me cold.
Kate''s house is a rowhome like the others, but the fire is already claiming it. The flames pour out through the second-story windows, bright and hungry against the cold night. It''s a traditional fire--yellow-orange tongues curling out into the air, with none of Aaron''s signature colors. That doesn''t make it less terrifying. If anything, it feels worse, because it blends in. Ordinary. A fire you could explain away as accidental.
Except it''s not.
"How?" I mutter under my breath, barely aware of the words. "How could he know?"
I shake it off, my mind snapping back to the present as I pull out my phone and hit the number for Crossroads. My thumb hovers as I glance toward the distant sound of sirens, nowhere close enough.
The line picks up on the second ring. "Sam?" Crossroads''s voice is sharp, tight with the kind of urgency that makes me feel like he''s been waiting for this call.
"House fire in Mayfair," I say, my words coming out too fast, too clipped. "It''s bad. Kate Smith''s house. I''m here, but I need backup. Please--dispatch the DVD. Anyone."
"On it," he says, and I can hear the rapid clack of keys on a laptop. "Where exactly?"
"Revere and Longshore," I say, forcing my voice to steady. "I''m going in. I''ll keep you updated."
"Wait--" he starts, but I hang up. There''s no time to wait for his reassurances, no time for anything but moving forward.
The fire hasn''t spread to the neighboring homes yet--not visibly, at least--but that won''t last long. Rowhomes are basically matchboxes when a fire gets going, as my father taught me once when I accidentally set the oven ablaze trying to make brownies. Kate''s house is the epicenter, its second story engulfed while the first simmers with flickering light behind the windows. The outside walls hold, their brick stained with soot but unyielding. That''s the thing about these old homes--they''re stubborn, even when they''re dying.
My mask slides into place with a sharp tug, the filter locking into position as I activate the oxygen supply. The air flows in cool and clean, and I take a deep breath, centering myself. Limited resources. No backup yet. High likelihood of collapse if I screw this up.
The tactical side of my brain kicks in automatically.
The fire looks like it started inside, probably one of the upstairs bedrooms based on the flames bursting from those windows first. It''s spread fast--faster than it should have--but not impossibly so. The old wood framing under the plaster walls would''ve lit up like a Christmas tree once the fire breached the surface. And judging by the way the smoke billows, thick and choking, something synthetic--carpet, upholstery--is fueling it now. The acrid edge cuts through even the mask''s filter, stinging my eyes.
"Hello?" A voice snaps me out of my assessment. A man stumbles into view, his silhouette wavering against the hellish backdrop of the flames. "Help! My--my daughter, she''s--"
Kate''s dad.
He''s barefoot, dressed in sweatpants and a stained T-shirt that clings to his chest. His face is streaked with soot, his hair matted and wild. He stares at the house like he''s seeing the fire for the first time, his body trembling as if it''s not sure whether to move toward it or collapse.
"She''s still inside," he says, his voice cracking. His hands are raw, red, clearly burnt and blistered, but he barely seems to notice. "Upstairs. Bedroom. I tried--I couldn''t get her--"
The words hit me like a fist to the chest. Kate. Inside. Upstairs.
"Stay here," I say, my voice firm but not unkind. He doesn''t seem to register the words, his eyes glued to the flames, his breathing shallow and erratic. I step closer, putting myself directly in his line of sight. "Hey! Look at me!"
His eyes snap to mine, wide and glassy.
"I''m going to get her," I say. "I need you to stay here. I need you to..."
I consult my thoughts. I look around, and I think. If Kate''s upstairs...
"Get a blanket from a neighbor. Get the neighbors," I say, watching as people begin to flow out of their homes like water, trickling in an even stream out onto the street.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
He nods, a jerky, disjointed motion that makes me doubt he even heard me. But there''s no time to double-check. The fire isn''t slowing down, and Kate''s upstairs.
I glance back at the house, my mind running through the checklist of tools in my bag. Oxygen mask, check. Fire blanket, check. Extinguisher pellets--six of them, no more. Each one can clear a patch of fire for maybe thirty seconds before it reignites. Enough for a small room, not a burning house.
The front door is a no-go. The flames pouring from the windows have already weakened the frame, and the heat coming off the wood is enough to make me step back even from the sidewalk. The side alley between the homes is tight--so tight I have to turn sideways to squeeze through--but the rear kitchen window might give me an opening.
I move quickly, my shoulder brushing against the brick as I navigate the narrow path. The sound of the fire is deafening up close--a constant roar, punctuated by sharp cracks as the wood gives way. Every step is measured, deliberate, the soles of my shoes crunching against shattered glass and charred debris.
The kitchen window is shattered, jagged edges glinting in the firelight. Smoke pours out in heavy waves, but I can see inside--a cluttered countertop, a fridge scorched but still standing, the faint outline of the back stairs leading up.
I squeeze one of the foam pellets and aim for the center of the window frame before I pitch. The pellet bursts on impact, spraying a fine mist of suppressant foam that clings to the edges of the fire like wet snow. It won''t last long, but it''s enough to buy me a path inside.
The heat hits me like a wall as I climb through the window, the oxygen mask straining to keep the air breathable. Every surface inside is charred, blackened with soot, and the firelight dances wildly off the reflective edges of broken appliances. The stairs are just ahead, but the fire''s already licking at their base, orange and yellow flames consuming the wood like a living thing.
I can still hear the crackle of the fire, the low groans of the house as it begins to weaken under the heat. Upstairs feels impossibly far away, but I force myself to move. One step at a time. One breath at a time.
I can do this.
The heat hits me the second I climb through the shattered kitchen window. Even with the oxygen mask filtering out most of the smoke, the oppressive warmth is everywhere, clinging to my skin, soaking through my hoodie. I stay low, crouching on the scorched tile floor, the rough texture scraping against my knees. The air smells of burnt plastic and chemicals, every breath carrying a sting that makes my eyes water.
The kitchen feels wrong. The familiar space--a place I used to sneak cookies and tease Kate about her overly organized fridge--is alien now, transformed by fire. The countertops are warped, their laminate surfaces peeling back like burnt paper. The fridge hums faintly, the sound discordant against the constant crackle of flames licking at the walls. The cabinets have been blackened, their edges crumbling into ash that floats on the hot air like snowflakes.
Everything here used to make sense. Now it''s a maze, every step forward unsure, every surface too hot to trust.
I inch toward the back stairs, staying as low as I can. The fire is hungry, its flames devouring the base of the wooden steps. The heat radiates outward, forcing me to pause, to reassess. Every instinct tells me to charge forward, but I know better. Fire doesn''t care about urgency. It doesn''t care about me. It eats, and it eats, and it keeps eating until there''s nothing left.
The extinguisher pellets are my only real weapon here, and even those feel pitiful against the scope of this hell. I pitch another one, aiming carefully at the base of the stairs. The pellet bursts with a hiss, a fine mist of suppressant foam spraying over the flames. The fire recoils, shrinking back for a moment, and I use the window of time to move.
The stairs groan under my weight as I climb, the wood splintering slightly beneath my shoes. I keep one hand on the railing--what''s left of it--and my head low. The oxygen mask is working overtime, but the smoke is relentless, seeping into every gap, clinging to my clothes and skin. My burns throb under the layers of bandages, a sharp reminder of how close I came to worse. I force the pain to the back of my mind, focusing on the task ahead.
Upstairs.
I need to get to Kate.
The second floor is a nightmare. The smoke is thicker here, a choking blanket that makes it hard to see more than a foot in front of me. The floorboards creak ominously under my weight, their stability a question I don''t want to test. The hallway stretches out ahead of me, familiar and wrong all at once. I used to race Kate down this hall, our laughter echoing off the walls. Now it''s unrecognizable, the wallpaper curling away in blackened ribbons, the once-bright carpet reduced to smoldering threads.
I move carefully, my hands brushing against the walls to guide me. The heat is worse here, the fire eating its way through the rooms around me. The crackle of flames is a constant backdrop, punctuated by sharp pops as the wood buckles under pressure. Somewhere behind me, a loud crash echoes--something collapsing downstairs. I don''t look back.
I reach out with my blood sense, letting the familiar pulse guide me. The world shifts as it always does when I focus on it, the ambient noise of life narrowing to a single point, all the color draining in my mind''s eye and turning into red-on-black. Kate''s blood is close--too close. I feel it before I see her, a rhythm weaker than it should be, scattered like drops from a broken faucet.
My chest tightens. She''s bleeding.
I round the corner, my blood sense leading me to her room. The door is slightly ajar, hanging crookedly on its hinges. I push it open with my shoulder, the movement sending a plume of smoke into the hallway. The room is worse than I expected. The fire hasn''t fully consumed it yet, but the air is thick with heat and smoke, and the ceiling above groans ominously.
Kate is on the floor, slumped against the far wall. Her arms are limp, streaked with blood from jagged cuts that run lengthwise. I recognize them instantly, the pattern too deliberate to be anything but intentional. My stomach churns, a sharp ache that I don''t have time to process. She''s unconscious, her chest barely rising and falling with shallow breaths.
I cross the room in three strides, kneeling beside her. "Kate," I say, my voice muffled by the mask. "Kate, can you hear me?"
She doesn''t respond. Her skin is pale, her lips tinged with blue. Smoke inhalation. She needs air, now.
I pull off my oxygen mask, the straps snapping free with a sharp tug. The smoke rushes into my lungs immediately, hot and acrid, but I ignore it. I press the mask to her face, adjusting it to form a seal over her nose and mouth. The oxygen flow hisses to life, and after a moment, her chest rises more steadily.
"Come on," I mutter, my fingers brushing against her wrist to check her pulse. It''s weak, but it''s there. I tighten the straps of the mask, making sure it stays in place. The fresh air will buy her time, but it leaves me with nothing. I cough, the smoke scratching at my throat, but I don''t let go of her.
The fire''s roar is louder now, closer. I glance back toward the hallway. The flames are licking at the edges of the doorway, their light casting frantic shadows across the walls. The stairs are already lost--I can feel it in the way the house groans, the way the floor beneath me trembles with the shifting weight.
Then I hear it.
A crack, sharp and definitive, followed by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The stairs collapse in on themselves, the sound echoing through the house like a death knell. My exit is gone.
Chapter 147.2
"Shit," I hiss, my voice hoarse. I look back at Kate, her unconscious form cradled against me. The oxygen mask hisses softly, a cruel reminder of the air I no longer have.
Think, Sam. Think.
I scan the room, my eyes darting to the window. The glass is cracked but intact, the firelight reflecting off its surface. Outside, the air is dark and cool, the kind of air I desperately need. It''s a long drop to the ground, but there''s no other choice.
The fire''s closing in, the heat pressing against my back like a living thing. I shift Kate carefully, wrapping one arm under her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. Her body feels too light, too fragile, as I lift her. The burns on my arm scream in protest, but I grit my teeth and push through it.
We''re getting out of here. One way or another.
The floor shifts under me, groaning like it''s alive, the sound reverberating up through my shoes. The heat is unbearable, radiating through the soles of my sneakers as if the fire itself is trying to pull me down. I adjust my grip on Kate, the effort making my already labored breathing even worse. My lungs feel raw, each breath a mix of scorching air and whatever scraps of oxygen are left.
The fire isn''t waiting. It doesn''t care about timing or plans. It''s clawing at the edges of the room now, creeping along the walls and ceiling, consuming everything in its path. I glance at the doorway, where the flames are licking closer, the smoke pouring in like a flood. The fire suppressant pellets I''ve got left aren''t enough to kill it, but they might buy me some time.
I shift Kate''s weight carefully, setting her down on the floor near the window. Her body is limp, the oxygen mask still clinging to her face, hissing faintly. Her pulse is steady but weak, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. She''s alive. That''s all I can focus on right now.
I reach for the fire blanket tucked into the back of my costume, my fingers fumbling slightly as the heat and exhaustion dull my movements. The blanket feels heavier than it should as I unfold it, the metallic surface reflecting the dancing flames. I drape it over both of us, the edges brushing the floor, and immediately feel a small but noticeable difference in the heat. It won''t stop the fire, but it''ll keep us from roasting alive for a little while longer.
The window looms ahead, cracked and streaked with soot. The glass is a barrier and an escape route all at once, a thin line between this burning hell and the cold air outside. I crawl toward it, keeping Kate close, the fire blanket shielding us as best it can. Each movement feels sluggish, my muscles weighed down by the heat, the smoke, and the sheer effort of staying conscious.
Outside, the sounds of shouting and movement reach me through the chaos. Neighbors, civilians--Kate''s dad. I can just make out his voice over the crackling flames, frantic and desperate. "Kate! Kate, are you in there?"
I force myself to the window, gripping the edge of the frame with trembling hands. "Hey!" My voice is hoarse, barely audible over the noise. I pound on the glass with the side of my fist, the sharp sound cutting through the chaos outside. "Hey! Up here!"
Faces turn toward me, a mix of neighbors and strangers drawn by the flames. Kate''s dad is in the front yard, his face pale and streaked with soot, his eyes wide with terror. He spots me--well, Bloodhound--and freezes for a moment before his expression shifts to something halfway between hope and panic.
"She''s here!" I shout, coughing through the words. My throat feels like sandpaper. "She''s alive, but she''s out cold! I need your help!"
He doesn''t hesitate, rushing closer to the house. "What do you need? Tell me what to do!"
I glance down at the yard, at the group of neighbors huddled near the curb, some of them clutching blankets and phones. "Get everyone you can! Remember when I yelled for a blanket? We need something to catch her!"
"What--" His voice falters, his eyes darting to the second-story window, then back to me. He realizes what I mean. "You''re going to--?"
"There''s no other way!" I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intend. "Get the blanket ready! Now!"
He turns, shouting orders to the others. They scatter, rushing toward their houses and cars, grabbing anything that might help. I pull back from the window, coughing into my sleeve, the movement sending a fresh wave of heat washing over me. The fire is closer now, the edges of the room blurring in the flickering orange light.
The building groans again, the sound a low, ominous rumble that makes my stomach lurch. I don''t have time for this. The floor won''t hold much longer, and I can''t risk waiting for the fire department or the Defenders to show up. It''s now or never.
I glance at Kate, still unconscious under the fire blanket. Her arms are bloodied, her breathing shallow, but she''s alive. She has to stay that way. "Okay," I mutter, more to myself than to her. "Okay, Kate. We''re getting out of here."If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
I grab one of the suppressant pellets from my utility pouch, the small sphere cool and smooth against my fingers. I lob it at the base of the doorway, aiming for the flames creeping closer. The pellet bursts on impact, releasing a cloud of suppressant foam that clings to the wood, the fire recoiling slightly. It''s not enough to put it out, but it''ll slow it down.
I throw the second pellet near the corner of the room where the flames are crawling up the walls. It lands with a soft thud, the foam spreading out in a thin layer, smothering some of the smaller flames. It buys me a precious minute, maybe two. I was hoping to save these for beating Aaron''s ass, but, well... more important duties call.
I turn back to the window, the fire blanket still draped over me like a makeshift shield. The air is hotter now, each breath searing my lungs despite the protection. My head feels light, the edges of my vision blurring slightly. The heat is exhausting, pulling at me like quicksand. Every second I spend in this house is a second closer to collapse.
"Are you ready?" I shout down to the crowd below, my voice raw and strained. Kate''s dad looks up at me, his hands clutching the edges of a thick quilt stretched out between him and three neighbors. Others are scrambling to add more blankets underneath, layering them for extra cushioning.
"We''re ready!" he yells back, his voice shaky but determined. "Do it!"
I nod, swallowing hard. My hands shake as I lift Kate, her body limp and unresponsive. The fire blanket slips off her shoulders as I adjust my grip, her weight pressing down on my arms like an anchor. My burns scream in protest, the raw skin beneath the bandages flaring with pain, but I don''t let go.
"I''m sorry," I whisper, more to myself than to her. "I''m so, so sorry."
I edge closer to the window, the smoke swirling around me in thick, choking plumes. My hands tremble as I brace Kate''s body against the frame, angling her toward the makeshift catch system below. Every instinct in me screams not to do this, not to throw an unconscious girl out of a second-story window, but there''s no other choice. The stairs are gone. The fire is closing in. This is the only way.
"Hold tight!" I shout down to the group below. "She''s coming down!"
I close my eyes for a moment, forcing myself to focus. My breath is shallow, my chest tight, the heat pressing down on me like a physical weight. I picture the trajectory in my head, the angle, the fall, the impact. It has to work. It has to.
"Three... two... one!"
I push her forward, the movement deliberate and careful, releasing her into the air. The moment she leaves my hands, time slows, every detail burned into my memory: the way her body arcs downward, the quilt stretching taut beneath her, the gasps from the crowd as they brace for impact. She hits the blankets with a muffled thud, the fabric billowing around her like a parachute.
"She''s down!" someone shouts. "She''s okay!"
Relief washes over me, brief and fleeting, as I see Kate''s dad kneel beside her, checking her pulse. She''s alive. She''s safe. But I''m not out yet.
The fire surges behind me, the heat unbearable now, the smoke choking every breath. I look back at the room, at the flames consuming everything in their path, and realize my time is up. The floor trembles beneath me, the wood groaning in protest, ready to give way.
I don''t think. I just move.
I climb onto the windowsill, the fire blanket clutched tightly in one hand, and leap.
The fall isn''t like any I''ve taken before. Two stories isn''t skyscraper-level, but it''s no small leap either, and for all the training I''ve had with the Young Defenders--gymnastics, parkour drills, controlled drops--it still feels like the ground rushes up at me faster than it should. The fire blanket clutched in my hand flaps wildly, offering no comfort. My legs and core scream at me to control the descent, but it''s all happening too fast.
I hit the blanket below with a force that snaps through my body like a coiled spring let loose. My shoulder takes most of it, and for a split second, I''m sure I''ve dislocated it. The air is forced from my lungs, a guttural sound escaping my throat as I bounce slightly and tumble sideways onto the grass. The world goes black.
It''s only for a second, maybe two. When I come to, I''m gasping for air, the acrid taste of smoke still clawing at the back of my throat. My head pounds in time with my heartbeat, my vision swimming as I try to focus on the blurry shapes moving around me. Someone''s shouting my name--or rather, my moniker.
"Bloodhound! Hey, Bloodhound, are you okay?"
I force myself upright, the movement sharp and disorienting, my body protesting every inch. My shoulder feels like it''s been wrenched out of alignment, and my burns throb angrily beneath the fresh bandages. None of it matters. I scramble to my feet, the fire blanket still clutched tightly in one hand, and turn toward Kate.
She''s been placed on a quilt near the edge of the yard, a small crowd of neighbors and onlookers gathered around her. Her dad is kneeling beside her, his face pale and streaked with soot, his hands shaking as he holds one of hers. Her body is limp, her skin ghostly beneath the layer of soot and ash that clings to her like a second skin. The oxygen mask is still strapped to her face, but even from here, I can see that her chest is barely moving.
"Move!" I shout, the command ripping out of me with more force than I intend. The crowd parts instinctively, a ripple of shocked faces as I drop to my knees beside her.
Her dad looks up at me, his eyes wide with desperation. "She''s not--she''s not--"
"She''s breathing," I say, cutting him off, though I''m not entirely sure. "Barely. I need space."
I press two fingers to the side of her neck, searching for her pulse. It''s faint--weak and thready, like a whisper against my skin--but it''s there. Her chest rises and falls, but the motion is shallow, uneven. Each breath is accompanied by a faint wheezing sound, like her throat is trying to close off completely.
She''s fading.
I don''t think. There''s no room for hesitation, no space for doubt. I yank the oxygen mask off her face and tilt her head back, pinching her nose shut as I seal my mouth over hers. The first breath goes in, but her chest barely rises. The second meets the same resistance, the wheezing sound growing louder, more strained.
"Shit," I mutter, pulling back. Her airway is swelling shut. The smoke and heat have scorched her throat and lungs, making it nearly impossible for her to take in air. My mind races, replaying every first aid lesson Gossamer drilled into us during our training sessions. The basics. Focus on the basics.
"Come on, Kate," I whisper, my hands shaking as I interlock them over her sternum. "Stay with me."
Chapter 147.3
I start compressions, pressing down hard and fast, counting under my breath. The motion is rhythmic, almost mechanical, but every push sends a jolt of determination through me. Her chest rises slightly with each compression, but it''s not enough. Her pulse is weaker now, her breaths shallower, her body trembling faintly with the effort of staying alive.
"Is she--?" her dad starts, his voice breaking.
"She''s going to make it," I snap, though the words feel more like a plea than a promise. "But I need quiet. If any of you have hoses, start spraying down the neighbors before the fire eats the entire row."
He nods, stepping back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The neighbors are still gathered nearby, their faces a mix of horror and helplessness. One of them--a middle-aged woman with a scarf wrapped tightly around her face--steps forward, holding out a water bottle. "Do you need--?"
"No," I say sharply, not looking up. "Just give us space."
Kate''s dad claps his hands together, loudly, his voice taking on a raw, almost angry sort of edge to it. "Hoses, everyone!"
Alright, Mr. Smith. Get it covered.
I switch back to rescue breaths, tilting Kate''s head back again and trying to force air into her lungs. It''s like blowing into a clogged pipe, the air meeting resistance and refusing to go where it''s needed. I can hear the wheezing now, louder and more urgent, each breath sounding like it could be her last.
My mind reels, grasping at every piece of training I''ve ever had, every scrap of knowledge that might make a difference. The swelling in her throat is the biggest problem, cutting off her airway entirely. If this were a hospital, they''d intubate her--force a tube down her throat to open the airway--but out here, I don''t have the tools or the time.
"Crossroads, where the hell are you?" I mutter under my breath, my fingers trembling as I check her pulse again. It''s weaker now, barely there, and my chest tightens with a mix of fear and frustration.
I go back to compressions, the rhythm pounding through my head like a drumbeat. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Thirty compressions, two breaths. My arms ache, the burns on my right arm flaring with every motion, but I don''t stop. I can''t stop.
Around me, the world blurs into a haze of noise and motion. The crackling of the fire, the faint wail of distant sirens, the murmurs of the crowd--it all fades into the background, eclipsed by the sound of Kate''s wheezing breaths and the frantic pounding of my own heart.
I glance up briefly, my eyes scanning the street for any sign of help. Nothing. No ambulances, no fire trucks, no Defenders. Just the faint glow of the fire reflecting off the surrounding buildings and the thin layer of smoke hanging in the air like a shroud.
"Come on," I whisper again, my voice cracking. "Don''t you dare give up on me."
I switch back to rescue breaths, the oxygen mask abandoned beside me. Her chest still isn''t rising properly, the swelling in her airway acting like a dam. My thoughts spiral, racing through every possible solution, every desperate idea.
Tracheotomy. The word leaps to the front of my mind, unbidden and terrifying. It''s a last resort--a procedure that involves cutting into the throat to create a new airway--but it''s something I''ve only read about in training manuals. I don''t have the tools. I don''t have the expertise. And if I screw it up, I could kill her.
"No," I mutter, shaking my head. "Not an option."
I go back to compressions, my arms trembling with the effort. The world tilts slightly, my vision swimming as the heat and exhaustion press down on me like a weight. My own lungs feel raw, each breath a struggle, but I push through it. Kate''s still alive. She has to stay that way.
The minutes drag on, each one feeling like an eternity. The neighbors are restless, their murmurs growing louder, but I block them out. I focus on Kate, on the steady rhythm of compressions, on the faint pulse beneath my fingers.
And then, finally, I hear it.
The distant roar of an engine, growing louder with each passing second. Headlights sweep across the street, cutting through the smoke and darkness, and a familiar figure steps out of the vehicle, his movements sharp and purposeful. Behind him, the bright lights of an ambulance bathe the street in harsh, clinical clarity.
"Bloodhound!" Crossroads'' voice cuts through the chaos like a lifeline. He''s running toward me, paramedics close on his heels. His coin flips idly between his fingers as he assesses the situation, his sharp gaze darting between me and Kate.
"About time," I rasp, my voice barely audible. "She''s crashing."Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!
He nods, stepping back as the paramedics move in, their movements quick and practiced. One of them, a woman with short-cropped hair and a no-nonsense expression, drops to her knees beside Kate, taking over the chest compressions with an efficiency that makes my arms sag with relief. Another paramedic sets up an oxygen tank, the hiss of compressed air mingling with the chaos around us.
"Get her airway secured," the first paramedic says sharply, her hands never stopping as she keeps the compressions steady. "And prep for transport."
I sit back on my heels, my chest heaving as I gulp in air, the acrid taste of smoke burning in my throat. My head feels light, the edges of my vision blurring, but I fight it, clenching my fists until my nails dig into my palms. My regeneration is working overtime to keep me conscious, but it doesn''t stop the pain--the deep, itching ache in my lungs that feels like it''s clawing its way out.
"Hey, kid," the second paramedic says, his voice cutting through the haze. He''s kneeling beside me now, his hands on my shoulders as he guides me down to sit. "You need to stay still. You''re not looking great."
"I''m fine," I say, though the words come out slurred. My body feels heavy, my limbs sluggish, but I force myself to stay upright. "Just... focus on her."
"We''re doing everything we can," he says, his tone calm but firm. "Let us handle it."
I nod weakly, my gaze fixed on Kate as the paramedics work around her. Her chest rises faintly as they get the oxygen flowing again, and for the first time since I pulled her out of the house, I feel a flicker of hope.
Somewhere behind me, I hear the distant wail of sirens--fire trucks, closing in fast. Help is here. Finally.
The adrenaline rush from the fire hasn''t worn off, and my head feels like it''s swimming in a fog of smoke, exhaustion, and raw emotion. The sight of the paramedics working on Kate should give me some kind of relief--should make me feel like I''ve done my job, like I''ve protected someone. But all I can think about is how close it was. How thin the line is between saving someone and losing them entirely.
And how Aaron is still out there, probably watching.
I turn to Crossroads, who''s standing a few feet away, watching the scene unfold with the quiet, deliberate calm he always wears. His coin flips between his fingers in a rhythm that grates against my nerves, and I feel something snap.
"Where is he?" My voice is hoarse, raw from smoke and shouting, but I push through it. "You can see up to two hours into the future, right? Just tell me where he''s going to be."
Crossroads blinks, his expression unreadable. The coin pauses mid-flip, catching the light before he pockets it. "Sam--"
"Don''t ''Sam'' me," I snap, cutting him off. "You know he started this fire. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. So why are we standing here instead of hunting him down?"
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "It''s not that simple."
"It is that simple!" My voice cracks, but I don''t care. The words tumble out like they''ve been building for hours, and I can''t stop them. "You''ve got powers that can literally pinpoint where he''s going to be. So use them! Flip that stupid coin as many times as it takes until you narrow down the street he''s hiding on."
"It doesn''t work that way," he says, his tone even but laced with frustration. "I can see inflection points. Decisions. Outcomes. But I can''t just... pluck an address out of thin air."
"Then flip the coin!" I shout, stepping closer, my fists clenched at my sides. "You''re always flipping that damn thing anyway. Just flip it! Heads, he''s in Tacony. Tails, he''s in Mayfair. Heads, he''s east. Tails, he''s west. Keep going until you narrow it down to the fucking house!"
"Sam," Crossroads says, his voice low but firm. "You''re asking me to use my powers to surveil someone without probable cause. You know I can''t do that."
"Don''t give me that legal bullshit," I hiss. "He lit a fucking house on fire! He''s a terrorist. What more probable cause do you need?"
"It doesn''t matter if he''s guilty," Crossroads says, his expression hardening. "The law still applies. If I use my powers to find him and it gets out, the case against him gets thrown out. Everything he''s done, every person he''s hurt--it all goes away because we didn''t follow the rules. You want that?"
I stare at him, the words bouncing around in my head like they don''t belong. "He''s out there burning down houses," I say, my voice trembling. "He tried to kill me. He tried to kill my friend. And you''re worried about rules?"
"I''m worried about doing this the right way," Crossroads says, his voice quiet but unyielding. "Because if we don''t, he wins."
It''s like a punch to the gut, but I can''t let it sink in. Not now. My hand moves before I even realize it, and the crack of the slap echoes in the smoky air. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn''t flinch, doesn''t step back. He just stands there, his cheek reddening where my palm landed, his eyes fixed on the ground.
"Do you even care?" I whisper, the words barely audible.
His eyes flick up to meet mine, and for a moment, I see something break through his stoic mask. Something raw and human and painful. "Of course I care," he says softly. "But caring doesn''t give me the right to break the law."
I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes, but I blink them away. "He''s going to kill someone," I say, my voice cracking. "You know he is. He won''t stop until someone stops him. And you''re just standing here, flipping your coin, acting like you''re above it all."
"I''m not above anything," Crossroads says, his voice calm but tired. "But if we start cutting corners, if we start using our powers the way he uses his--then we''re no better than he is."
"Don''t compare me to him," I snap, my fists trembling. "Don''t you dare."
"I''m not," he says, holding up his hands. "But you need to think about what you''re asking me to do. If we do this the wrong way, we lose. You know that."
A paramedic steps toward us, probably drawn by the escalating tension and the soot on my costume, but the glare I shoot them sends them right back to Kate''s side. Crossroads doesn''t even acknowledge them, his focus still locked on me.
I take a deep breath, my chest aching from the smoke and the shouting and the sheer weight of everything. "Fine," I say finally, my voice low and steady. "I''ll go and I''ll smash everyone''s doors down until I find him hiding in someone''s basement. Would you rather I do that?"
Crossroads doesn''t respond right away. His eyes search mine, and for a moment, I think he''s going to argue again. But then he nods, slowly, and pulls the coin from his pocket.
"I''ll do what I can," he says quietly. "But if this backfires, it''s on you."
"I''ll take the blame," I say, my voice firm. "Just find him."
He flips the coin, the motion fluid and practiced, and the faint glint of metal catches the firelight.
Chapter 148.1
The roar of the fire engine fades into the distance as I follow Crossroads through Mayfair--my own personal ghost town. My throat burns raw with every breath, a dry, scraping ache I can''t ignore. My ankle protests each step, the lingering pain spiking up through my leg like glass splinters every time I land too hard. But I don''t stop. I don''t even slow down.
Aaron did this.
He set Kate''s house on fire. He knew exactly where to hit me. He picked her because he knew she mattered, and that thought keeps ringing in my head louder than anything else.
Crossroads walks a few steps ahead, his coin flipping endlessly in his hand--the steady ping-thwp, ping-thwp grinding against my nerves like nails on glass. His jaw is tight, his movements purposeful, but he''s slower than I want him to be.
"We''re wasting time," I say, my voice hoarse. The words scrape like sandpaper up my throat, and I wince. I''m sweating through my hoodie, the heat from the fire still clinging to me like some ghost I can''t shake.
Crossroads doesn''t stop walking. "We''re not wasting time. We''re being smart about this."
"You don''t get it," I snap, almost stumbling as my ankle twinges hard enough to send stars sparking behind my eyes. "He''s probably packing up his little campfire right now while we stroll through the neighborhood playing Sherlock Holmes."
"And what''s your plan, Bee?" he says, spinning on his heel to face me. The coin stops midair, pinched between two fingers. "Kick down every door in Mayfair? Scare the hell out of families who have nothing to do with this? I''m trying to keep you from doing something you''ll regret."
"You think I''ll regret it?" I laugh, short and humorless. "The only thing I''ll regret is not catching him."
His expression doesn''t change, but his voice softens. "No. You''ll regret where this takes you."
I don''t respond to that. I can''t. He''s wrong. He has to be.
Crossroads sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath. He flips the coin again, and the familiar ping-thwp pulls my focus back. "Fine. You''re not going to listen to me. So let''s do this your way."
"Finally," I mutter.
He holds up the coin, staring at me like he''s measuring something I can''t see. "But you need to understand what we''re doing here. I can''t just see Aaron sitting in a condemned house and wave you over to him. That''s not how this works."
"Then how does it work?" I ask. I''m trying to sound sharp, but my voice comes out ragged.
"You precommit," he says. "You pick a street, or a block, or a corner, one per side of the coin. And I look ahead to see if you find anything. If the answer''s no, we eliminate it and try again. If a street gives us something, we note it down and keep going."
"Great. That doesn''t sound hard," I say, clenching my fists to stop my hands from shaking.
Crossroads doesn''t smile. "It is. It''s a massive Fourth Amendment violation, and you''re lucky I don''t care as much about legal gray areas as Multiplex does. You realize that if this ever got out, it''d be a public storm the likes of which you''ve never seen before. Heads will roll."
"I don''t care," I say, too quickly. "If we''re caught, I''ll take the blame. I''m the one kicking down doors, remember? Not you."
His eyes narrow, searching me for something I don''t want to show him. After a long moment, he flips the coin again and catches it without looking. "Pick a street."
I glance around, my vision swimming for half a second. I blink hard and force my brain to focus. Pine? No. Too obvious. "Revere. Start with Revere. That''s heads. Pine on Tails."
Crossroads tilts his head, the coin glinting as he flips it again. "You''re sure?"
"Yeah," I say, pressing my teeth together as another jolt of pain shoots through my neck. "Let''s go."
He doesn''t move. Instead, he flips the coin again. Ping-thwp. It feels like a heartbeat now, steady and sickening. "No. Revere''s clean. Pine''s clean. New set."
"You''re sure?" I ask, my voice a little sharper than I mean it to be.
"That''s the point, Bee. I''m sure," he says flatly. "Pick again."
We keep moving like that, block by block, street by street. Revere''s clean. Hawthorne''s a dead end. Unruh--nothing there. I pick. Crossroads flips. And the world slowly narrows around me, squeezing tighter and tighter until every street starts to look the same. I''m limping now, my ankle throbbing so hard it makes my vision blur. My neck feels stiff, the muscles locking up every time I turn my head too quickly.
"Magee," I say finally, pointing toward the dark stretch of rowhomes up ahead. The streetlights flicker, and I feel the prickle of static in the air.
Crossroads flips the coin. Ping-thwp. He pauses, holding it in his hand, his brow furrowing. "Something happens here."
"What?" I ask, already moving toward the street.
"Not here," he says quickly, falling into step beside me. "Nearby. People saying they''ve seen a ratty looking guy lurking around at night. Unruh Street."
He doesn''t finish. He flips the coin again, and his nose starts to bleed. Just a little, a trickle of red that he wipes away without comment.
"Charles," I reply, folding my arms over my chest, and then unfolding when it hurts too much. "Heads, Charles. Tails, Wells."
He flips his coin, eyelid twitching against his will. He stares at the result in his hand. He doesn''t say anything.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
"What happens?" I press.
He stops walking and looks at me, his eyes suddenly very, very tired. "Vogt Park."
The words hit me like a fist to the gut. Vogt Park. A stone''s throw from where I live, no more than a 10 minute walk, a ten minute jog. Close enough that he could''ve been watching the fire the whole time.
I swallow hard and nod, my pulse thundering in my ears. "Then that''s where we go."
Crossroads''s face hardens, and for the first time, he steps directly in my path. "No. Not we. You''re not going alone."
"Yes, I am," I say, my voice calm and steady despite the chaos in my head.
"Bee, don''t be an idiot," he snaps. "You''re hurt. You can barely walk, let alone fight."
"I''ll manage," I say, pushing past him. "I can heal. You can''t. You''re more valuable to soc--"
"That''s not the point!" he says, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. The pain shoots through my shoulder like a hot knife, and I jerk away, gritting my teeth against the scream that tries to claw its way out of my throat.
"It is the point," I bite out. "I know what I''m doing, Crossroads. This isn''t your fight."
"You think that matters to me?" he says, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "You think I''m just going to let you walk into this alone? You''re my friend. And my teammate, even if I graduated."
"Yes," I say simply. "Because you don''t belong in this hole with me."
He stares at me for a long moment, his coin stilling in his hand. Finally, he exhales and shakes his head. "Fine. You want to be stupid? I can''t stop you. But I''m not walking away completely."
"What does that mean?" I ask warily.
"It means you get an hour," he says. "One hour, Sam. I''ll call dispatch, get a cop car and paramedics to Vogt Park. You do what you have to do, but when that hour''s up, I''m coming back with everything we''ve got."
"Deal," I say immediately, because I know I don''t need an hour. This will be over in five minutes.
He doesn''t look happy about it, but he flips the coin one last time and walks away, pulling his radio from his belt.
I can''t have him in this fight with me. I don''t want him witnessing what I want to do to Aaron.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the dark line of Vogt Park up ahead, the trees shifting in the cold wind like shadows come to life. My neck aches, my ankle throbs, and every breath burns like fire in my chest.
None of it matters.
I start walking.
Aaron''s waiting.
The front door is barely a door at all. I shove through it, the damp, moldy wood scraping against the frame as it splinters apart, bits of rotten plank crumbling under my fingers. It creaks like it doesn''t want me here, and I don''t blame it. The whole house looks like it should''ve been torn down a decade ago--condemned, graffitied, and sinking in on itself like it''s tired of standing. My feet stick to something wet and grimy as I step inside, and I resist the urge to gag.
"What is it with you and abandoned houses?" I call out, my voice echoing off cracked walls and water-stained ceilings. I pause, listening for movement. Nothing yet. Just the faint creak of wood settling around me. "Don''t have enough money to rent a place? You could hit a Motel 6 for, like, forty bucks."
Silence.
I take another step, my boots squelching in something I don''t want to identify. It''s dark--so dark I can''t see more than a few feet in front of me. The only light comes from what little spills in through gaps in the boards covering the windows. Shadows crowd the corners of the room like they''re alive, twitching with every slight movement I make.
"C''mon, Aaron," I say, my voice steady even though my throat still itches like I swallowed glass. "You''re not even gonna say hello? I know you''re here."
Nothing.
But the house *feels* occupied. It''s a pressure in the air, like the walls are holding their breath. I step forward into what used to be a living room--a crumbling couch shoved against one wall, an overturned coffee table in the center, and a damp carpet that squelches underfoot. The smell of mildew and old smoke is so thick it coats the back of my tongue.
And then--finally--a voice.
"Didn''t take you long."
I stop cold, every nerve in my body snapping to attention. His voice isn''t coming from a single direction. It''s muffled, distorted, like it''s seeping through the walls.
"That''s a good nose you got there, Sammy." His tone is light, almost conversational, but there''s a sharpness to it, a casual menace that makes my skin crawl. "Sniffed me out all the way from Mayfair, huh?"
"Yeah," I say, forcing my voice to stay level. "You''re not subtle."
The floor creaks above me. Or maybe below me. My head snaps toward the sound, every muscle tense, but I don''t see anything. The whole house feels alive with him--his voice, his presence, like he''s everywhere at once.
"What''s wrong?" Aaron taunts, his voice still drifting through the rotting plaster. "Lost your sense of direction? Or maybe you''re just scared."
"Scared?" I scoff, stepping carefully around a hole in the floor. "You''re the one hiding in the walls, Aaron. What''s the matter? Don''t want me to see your face?"
"Oh, I think you''ve seen enough of my face," he replies, his tone almost smug. "I mean, you''re the one who rearranged it for me, right? Gave me that brand new nose. Three stitches on my face. I look better than ever."
"You earned that."
He chuckles, the sound low and hollow. "Maybe I did. And you know what? You were right."
I freeze. "What?"
"You were right to put me in the dirt," Aaron says, his voice softening, almost thoughtful. "Because it''s the only place I could grow. You ever hear that, Sammy? How pressure makes diamonds? How steel gets forged in fire?"
I grit my teeth, every word crawling under my skin. He''s stalling. Keeping me talking.
"I went to therapy after you fucked me up," he continues. "Sat there, week after week, learning all about my issues. Anger. Control. Boundaries." His voice twists, mocking the words. "And you know what I realized? They weren''t problems. They were gifts. I just needed to learn how to use them."
"And burning down people''s houses is you using them?" I snap, my eyes scanning every shadow, every crack in the boarded-up walls. "You think this makes you better?"
Another creak--below me this time. I turn sharply, my gaze locking onto the edge of a doorway leading to the basement. I try the knob - slowly, carefully, but it doesn''t budge. Locked from the inside.
"Better?" Aaron echoes, like he''s considering the word. "I am better. I know what I''m capable of now. Turns out, there''s more to me than anger. You wouldn''t believe what I can do when I''m not just pissed off."
"You sound like you want me to be proud of you."
"No, Sam," he says, his voice lowering into something darker, heavier. "I just want you to know. Everything I am is your fault. I couldn''t have gotten this good without you."
"You were already like this," I snap. "Don''t pin that on me."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" he sneers, and for a second, I swear his voice is right behind me. I whirl, fists clenched, but there''s nothing there. Just empty space and damp walls. "That this isn''t your fault? That you didn''t start this? We both know that''s bullshit."
"You''re delusional," I growl. "This isn''t about me."
"Of course it''s about you." His voice drips through the ceiling now, directly above me. "Everything I do is about you. You think I''d still be here if you hadn''t put me in the ground? You gave me a reason to get back up. I should thank you."
The whole house feels like it''s listening to us. The walls, the floor, the ceilings--all of it soaked in him. And something else hits me: the dampness. The whole place is wet, every surface I touch clammy and slick. He soaked this place down, didn''t he? Watered it like a garden so he wouldn''t accidentally burn it to the ground with himself inside.
"Where are you?" I demand, my voice hard and sharp. "You don''t have line of sight to me, Aaron. If you did, I''d already be on fire."
"Smart girl," he replies, and now there''s laughter in his voice--low and mocking. "Go on, then. Take a guess. You''re the detective, right? Go play superhero. Find me."
I stare at the basement door, trying to see through it - a chair on the other side, wedged under the door. It''s obvious now. He''s down there, under me, trying to find an angle. Trying to find line of sight through the holes in the wood. I''m already standing on the edge of a deathtrap.
"Are you stalling for time?" I say, narrowing my eyes at the door. "Waiting for something?"
"No," he says softly. "I just want you to know how much you mean to me."
BWOOMF!
Chapter 148.2
The stairs groan under my weight as I take them two at a time, each step a jarring reminder of how much my ankle hates me right now. The whole house feels like it''s holding its breath, the damp air thick with mildew, smoke, and something sharper--an acrid tang I can''t quite place.
Bursts of red fire flare to life around me, BWOOMF, BWOOMF, BWOOMF, each one threatening to catch me alight again all over. They cascade over my jacket, hitting my fur lining and starting it smoldering. For a second, I think about how mad Gossamer is going to be at me, and then stop worrying about it.
"There''s nothing up there for you, Sammy!" he taunts. I ignore him.
My blood pounds in my ears as I hit the landing. The ache in my ankle spikes with each step, but I push through it. My lungs are burning, my throat''s raw, and my ribs feel like someone''s trying to twist them into a pretzel. None of it matters. This ends now.
I reach the spot I''m aiming for, and test the second floor''s floor, feeling it rapidly begin to creak inward at all the fire being thrown around. Great. That''s just what I wanted. I pull off my jacket, bundle it around my arms, and then wrap the fire blanket around my good shoulder.
"There''s height, asshole!" I yell.
Then I throw myself backward, leading with my elbow, and let gravity do the rest.
The floorboards crack like a gunshot as I hit them, my weight driving down with every ounce of force I can muster. The wood groans, splinters, and gives in one smooth motion, sending me plummeting into the darkness below. The fire blanket is wrapped tightly around me, shielding me from the worst of the debris as I crash through in a shower of rotten planks and splintered beams.
The landing isn''t graceful. I hit the ground shoulder-first, the impact sending a shockwave of pain through my already-battered body. The air rushes out of my lungs, leaving me gasping and coughing as I roll to my side.
The fire blanket falls away as I scramble to my feet, the darkness of the basement swallowing me whole. The air is lousy with smoke, choking and blinding, and every breath feels like sandpaper scraping down my throat. Where''s my oxygen mask? Did I leave it with Kate? Fuck. I might''ve. No, it''s in my jacket - I snatch it out, pull aside the bottom part of my helmet, and clamp it on. It''ll muffle my voice a little bit, but oh well.
"Well, that''s one way to make an entrance," Aaron says, his tone unimpressed.
I can''t see him, but I don''t need to. My hand darts to my palm, a quick, practiced motion cutting the soft flesh against the tooth I''ve grown there. The sharp sting of pain is followed by the familiar rush of clarity as my blood sense kicks in. That''s one of us - now I can see myself. "You can make this easier if you just give up now. We''re already getting this place surrounded."
"If I''m going to jail for life, I might as well make it worth my while!" Aaron shouts, making his intentions clear. A tiny shaft of moonlight lights up his glinting, perfect teeth. Did he get dental work done? Crazy.
Before I can respond, a flash of light erupts in the darkness, blinding white that sears through my closed eyelids. I stagger back, my arms instinctively shielding my face as the heat washes over me, the fire blanket eating enough of the heat that I can feel it. He comes through the flare swinging, something thin and hard smacking into my stomach and forcing bile out and up my tongue.
If I was feeling cocky, I''d say that was the wrong move. Now I know where he is.
I lunge forward, aiming low. My shin connects with his leg, and I feel the impact ripple through both of us. He grunts, stumbling back, but he recovers faster than I expect, swinging what I imagine is a pipe towards me. I duck just in time, feeling the whoosh over my head.
"Missed me," I snap, my voice raw and hoarse, teeth sliding cleanly through from the slots in my gloves.
"You won''t be saying that for long," he growls, the fire in his voice burning hotter.
I close the gap, driving my knuckles into his forearm and punching, drawing first blood. The thin, sharp lines register instantly through my blood sense--a high cut, shallow but enough to track him. He roars in pain, yanking his arm back, but it''s too late. He''s pinpointed.
His retaliation is immediate. He charges, slamming into me like a freight train, and I don''t have time to dodge. The impact drives me into the damp, crumbling basement wall, the back of my head slamming against the plaster hard enough to make stars explode behind my eyes.
He grabs my collar, lifting me just enough that my feet barely scrape the ground. "You really don''t know when to quit, do you?" he sneers, his breath hot and sour against my face.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
"Why Kate?" I rasp, clawing at his grip. "Why her?"
He smirks, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. "You think I remember every match I''ve lit? C''mon, Sammy. Surely you of all people understand what complete life destruction means."
He pulls the bottom half of my helmet off and tosses it away. I''ll need to replace that, if I survive. I grit my teeth and spit blood into his face, the sharp tang hitting my tongue as I aim for his eyes. He flinches, just for a second, but it''s enough to weaken his grip on my costume, and I jerk myself free with a harsh twist.
There. A headbutt. I lower myself down and slam my shoulder into his belly, sending us both hurtling to the ground.
The fall knocks the wind out of me, but I roll to my feet as quickly as I can. Aaron''s already grabbing for something--a loose pipe from the debris--and he swings it wide, the metal cracking against the side of my helmet with a sickening clang.
The world spins, my vision swimming as I stumble back. My head feels like it''s been split open, but I force myself to focus, my blood sense keeping him locked in my mind''s eye.
"Get up," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "I''m not done with you yet."
"Likewise," I mutter, blinking away the dizziness. I can almost feel something delicious coursing in my brain, like the world''s best soup. Sure, it''s another on an increasingly large stack of concussions (very worrying), but it feels so good. Like I can finally breathe.
He charges again, swinging the pipe in a wide arc, but I duck low, driving my elbow into his ribs. He grunts, the air rushing out of him as I follow up with a quick strike to his jaw.
For a moment, I think I''ve got the upper hand. But Aaron''s bigger, stronger, and he knows it. He grabs me by the arm, twisting hard enough to make my shoulder scream in protest, and slams me into the ground.
Pain explodes through my ribs as his weight presses down on me, pinning my arms with his knees.
"You should''ve stayed down," he says, his hand reaching for my helmet.
"No thanks," I mutter, and with a sharp twist, I buck upward, slamming my forehead into his nose.
He yells, reeling back as blood gushes from his face. The pressure on my arms eases, and I drive my elbow into his side, forcing him off me.
I scramble to my feet, panting and clutching my ribs. Aaron''s already getting up, his face twisted in fury, but I don''t wait for him to recover.
Aaron staggers back, clutching his nose, blood pouring between his fingers. For a moment, the dim light of the growing fire makes the whole scene look like something out of a nightmare. The squalor of the basement stretches before me--an old, grimy mattress shoved against the wall, stacks of prepackaged food covered in dust, the hum of a cheap dehumidifier fighting a losing battle against the damp air. Canisters, piles of Duraflame firestarters, the kind for people who are bad at campfires. It reeks of mold, sweat, and something sharper.
Then my eyes land back on the canisters.
Fuck.
It''s gasoline.
His eyes flick to the closest one, the barest hint of a smile curling his lips. I see the glint too late. His fingers twitch, and a sickly yellow flame bursts to life, snaking toward the canister.
"Shit!" I yell, throwing myself backward.
The explosion rocks the basement, a deafening roar that leaves my ears ringing. The gasoline ignites with a blinding flash, liquid fire spraying across the floor and up the walls. The heat slams into me like a wave, so intense I can feel it through my mask. Flaming debris rains down around us, the chaos swallowing everything. Smoke curls thick and black, coiling into my lungs even as my oxygen mask fights to keep me breathing.
The flames paint the basement in hellish shades of orange and red. Aaron is still moving, his shadow flickering in the firelight, but I''ve got the edge. My blood sense keeps me locked on him, tracking every twitch and stumble through the chaos.
I stay low, weaving through the inferno. The smoke clings to me, thick and suffocating, but I keep moving. He tries to follow, his eyes scanning the flames for movement, but he''s slow. He doesn''t have my blood sense. He doesn''t know where I''ll come from next.
I grab a loose plank from the wreckage, the wood splintering in my grip, and swing hard. It connects with the side of his head, the crack of impact cutting through the roar of the fire. He stumbles, cursing, but retaliates instantly. A burst of red flame arcs toward me, too fast to dodge. The heat sears through my costume, forcing me to drop the plank as the fabric smolders.
The fight shifts, chaotic and primal. We collide again, grappling like animals. His size gives him an advantage, but I''m faster. I drive my knee into his stomach, the teeth I''ve grown into my shin cutting deep. He howls, his voice raw and furious, and swings wildly. His fist catches my ribs, sending me sprawling into the debris. Pain blossoms sharp and bright, but I force myself back up, the adrenaline numbing just enough to keep me moving.
"You''re just like me, you know that?" Aaron says, his voice hoarse but triumphant. "You need me, Sammy. You need this fight."
"I need you like a fish needs a bicycle," I snap. My voice is a rasp, raw and broken, but I make sure he hears every word. "I''ve already got a nemesis, and there''s no room for second fiddles."
His smile falters. For a second, there''s something else in his eyes--doubt, fear--but then it''s gone. He''s still bleeding, his arms, his face, his sides, but he doesn''t stop. He doesn''t back down. Good.
I feint left, my movements quick and erratic, drawing his focus. His eyes track me, narrowing as he anticipates my next move. But I''m faster. I lunge right, slamming into him with all the force I can muster. We hit the burning wall together, the impact sending a cascade of sparks flying around us. The fire roars louder, licking at the edges of my vision, but I don''t stop.
Aaron gasps, the air rushing out of him, and I seize the opening. My hand darts to my belt, fumbling for one of the fire suppressant pellets. My fingers close around it, and I yank it free, smashing it into his face. The pellet bursts, a thick foam spraying out in a chaotic explosion.
He screams, clawing at his face as the foam blinds him, covering his eyes and cutting off his ability to see. The firelight catches on the wet sheen of the suppressant, the chemical smell overwhelming even through the smoke.
I stagger back, panting, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. The heat presses down on me, the flames closing in, but I don''t care. Aaron is disoriented, flailing wildly, and for the first time, I see the cracks in his confidence. He''s bleeding. He''s blind. And he''s not invincible.
Chapter 148.3
Aaron reels, the fire suppressant foam clinging to his face, obscuring his vision and dampening the flames he usually wields so effortlessly. He bends low, groping blindly through the wreckage until his hand closes around something solid--a claw hammer. His breathing is ragged, panicked, but his swings are wild and powerful, each one a deadly arc through the smoky air.
I duck, the hammer''s edge whistling past my head, close enough that I can feel the disturbed air against my cheek. He swings again, and I weave to the side, my blood sense keeping me one step ahead of his blind strikes. Each missed blow throws him further off-balance, his frustration building like the heat around us.
I go low, pivoting on my good leg and driving a kick into his knee. The impact lands with a sickening crunch, and Aaron collapses forward with a guttural roar. Before he can recover, I step into him, bringing my elbow down hard into his ribs, the jagged teeth I''ve grown there tearing into his flesh. He howls in pain, the sound raw and animalistic, but he doesn''t fall. Not yet.
His massive arm lashes out blindly, catching me in the side with enough force to send me sprawling into a smoldering corner of the basement. The heat bites through my costume, scorching the fabric and searing my skin. I bite back a scream, rolling away from the fire before it can catch. My ribs protest every movement, sharp pain stabbing with each shallow breath.
I can''t take much more of this.
Aaron''s voice cuts through the chaos, raw and venomous. He''s shouting loud enough that I have no doubt the neighbors will here. "You think we''re done? I''ll crawl out of this fire just to light you up again, Sam! You can''t stop me. I''ll burn all those cops to a cinder and walk out of here a free man."
I wipe blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, my glare cutting through the smoke like a blade. "You''re delusional," I rasp. "It''s over."
He swings the hammer again, but this time I''m ready. I duck under the wild arc and charge him, my shoulder slamming into his chest with everything I have left. The impact drives him backward, his feet skidding across the wet, flaming floor. He crashes into the dehumidifier, the machine toppling over with a metallic clang. Water spills across the floor in a sudden rush, hissing and steaming as it meets the fire. Aaron slips, his footing lost, and he goes down hard.
I don''t give him a chance to recover. I throw myself onto him, my fists lined with teeth as I give him everything my arms will offer. I feel bones creak and pop, ribs, shoulders, his nose, his jaw, my knuckledusters carving pockmarks into his skin through his clothes. The jacket of my costume rips free in the convection current, fluttering behind me in a burning halo.
Aaron catches my wrist mid-swing, his grip like iron, halting my momentum. His strength is staggering, and he twists hard, forcing my arm behind my back. Pain explodes through my shoulder as he wrenches my body sideways, nearly dislocating the joint. A gasp escapes me, but I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream.
I pivot, using the force of his hold to my advantage. My head snaps forward, my helmet cracking against his nose with a bone-jarring crunch. He yells, releasing me as blood gushes from his already mangled face.
We''re both panting now, the smoke and heat draining every ounce of energy we have left. The flames lick higher around us, the air suffocating, but I can''t stop. Not yet. Not until this is finished.
Aaron reels back, blood pouring freely down his face as he clutches at his nose. His breathing is a wet, ragged rasp now, and his eyes--though wild--flicker with something closer to desperation than malice. The heat presses down on us like a living thing, the flames dancing across the walls and floor, closing in with every second.
His hand gropes blindly for the hammer, but it''s just out of reach. He curses, the words choked and guttural, and turns his gaze back to me. Even blinded by blood and foam, his movements still have weight, still radiate danger. But now, for the first time, there''s hesitation.
"You''re running out of tricks, Aaron," I say, my voice low and hoarse, every word scraped raw by the smoke. My ribs scream with each breath, but I square my stance, teeth glinting faintly from the cracks in my gloves. "And I''ve got nowhere to be but here."
"Shut up," he spits, lurching forward in a clumsy attempt to tackle me.
I sidestep, my blood sense mapping his staggered movement before it even fully registers. His weight throws him off-balance, and I capitalize, slamming my knee into his gut, the serrated edges of my shin ripping into him like a sawblade. He doubles over with a strangled gasp, and I drive a hammerfist into the back of his head, sending him sprawling face-first onto the smoldering floor.
The heat radiates upward, curling my costume and filling the air with the acrid stench of burnt fabric and flesh. Aaron groans, his hands scrabbling weakly against the debris, but I don''t let up. My adrenaline surges like a tidal wave, drowning out the pain and exhaustion.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"You think this is about you," I rasp, my words barely audible over the roar of the fire. "But you''re just a parasite. You''re nothing."
He rolls onto his back, his chest heaving as he glares up at me through blood-matted hair. "I''m a survivor," he growls, his voice shaking.
I cut him off with a sharp kick to his side, the impact drawing a wet, rattling cough from his lungs. "Parasites survive. You can live off my shit the rest of your life if you want."
Aaron lashes out suddenly, his hand closing around a jagged piece of debris. He swings it upward, aiming for my face, but I twist aside, the shard scraping harmlessly against my helmet. His movements are slower now, weaker, the fight draining out of him with every labored breath.
I grab his wrist, twisting it sharply until the makeshift weapon clatters to the ground. His scream is raw and guttural, echoing off the basement walls. I yank him up by the collar, forcing him to meet my gaze.
I''m reaching my limit.
There''s nothing more in me to give.
But there''s just one thing left I have to do before I pass out and burn to death.
Aaron coughs, the sound wet and ragged, his body trembling as he struggles to keep himself upright in the pool of water spreading across the basement floor. The flames lick higher around us, snapping and hissing like they''re alive, closing the circle with every passing second. Smoke curls thick and dark, coiling around his battered form as he tilts his head back to look at me.
His smirk is faint, bloodied, and weak, but it''s still there. "You can''t do it," he rasps, his voice cracking. "You need me. We''re Mr. Orange and Mr. White. You''re the Batman to my Joker. You''ll never kill, you don''t have the balls. You can''t exist without me. Admit it."
I stare down at him, my breath coming in shallow, painful gasps. Every inch of me aches--my ribs scream with every movement, my ankle feels like it''s on fire, and my throat feels like it''s been scraped raw from the inside out. And yet, there''s a clarity in his words that cuts through the haze of pain and exhaustion. Is that what this is about? Could this all have been avoided?
No. I don''t think so.
"I don''t need anyone," I say, my voice low and cold. The words aren''t loud--they don''t need to be. They cut through the smoke and the fire like a blade.
I step forward, planting my boot squarely on his shoulder, the one I tore into almost two years ago. His smirk falters as I press down, slowly, deliberately, until I feel the joint creak and pop beneath my weight. There''s a sickening crack, and his grunt of pain is loud and guttural, echoing off the crumbling walls.
He doesn''t scream, though. I''ll give him that much.
I lean down, grabbing his wrist with one hand and twisting until something gives in his elbow. It''s not a break--not quite--but the sharp snap of a dislocation sends his arm hanging limp and useless at his side. His face twists in agony, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts as he fights not to cry out.
It''s more mercy than he deserves. And he knows it.
"Don''t bring the fire if you''re not ready for the smoke," I say, feeling the words bubble up from inside me like boiling acid. I let his wrist go, his arm falling uselessly into the water, and straighten up.
The flames are everywhere now, consuming the walls, the ceiling, the floor. The heat presses down on me, suffocating and relentless, but it''s not enough to drown out the raw satisfaction thrumming through my veins.
I limp toward the remains of the stairs, barely more than charred wood and ash. "Crossroads will be here soon. Enjoy your last stand."
Behind me, Aaron sputters something--another taunt, another empty boast--but I don''t bother listening. He''s finished. Whatever fire he had is gone, snuffed out by his own hubris and the weight of his defeat.
I haul myself up the broken stairs, each step a battle against the screaming protests of my body. The firefighters'' hoses spray water down through the gaps in the house, the sudden rush of steam hissing and boiling as it meets the inferno below. The air is thick with mist and smoke, but I push through, my hand gripping the charred banister as I drag myself forward.
The moment I emerge into the open air, the night slams into me like a wave. Cool, damp, and alive with the sounds of chaos--shouting voices, the wail of sirens, the crackle of fire being extinguished. The world blurs around me, my vision swimming, but I manage to raise one arm in a gesture of surrender as I stumble forward.
"Bloodhound!" Crossroads'' voice cuts through the noise, sharp and urgent. He''s running toward me, his figure outlined by the flashing lights of the police cars and fire trucks surrounding the scene.
"I''m fine," I croak, though the words are barely audible. I''m not fine. My lungs are burning, my ribs are screaming, and every step feels like it might be my last. But I''m standing. That''s enough.
Crossroads catches me before I collapse, his arms steady and firm as he helps me to the paramedics waiting nearby. "You look like hell," he mutters, his tone half-joking, half-concerned.
The obvious response eludes me. "I don''t believe in Hell, sorry," is what I end up saying instead.
The paramedics pull me onto a stretcher, their hands gentle but efficient as they begin treating my burns and checking my oxygen levels, one of them pulling the oxygen mask off of me, replacing it with a more professional one, something designed to keep my lungs alive. I don''t fight them. I don''t have the energy. My eyes flicker over to the house, still smoldering, as the firefighters work to douse the last of the flames.
It doesn''t take long for them to drag Aaron out.
He''s cuffed before he even hits the ground, his arm immobilized in a makeshift sling, his face a mask of defeat and scabs and red. The firelight glints off his bloodied features as the officers shove him toward the back of a squad car. He doesn''t look at me. Not once.
I watch from the ambulance, silent and still, as they haul him away. The paramedics are talking to me, asking questions, but I barely hear them, and I definitely don''t respond. My focus is on Aaron, on the slump of his shoulders and the flicker of fear in his eyes as the car door slams shut behind him.
END OF ARC 9: SHEOL
MM.3
Jefferson Frankford Hospital ¨C Admission Report
Patient Name: Kaitlyn Smith
MRN: 489125
Date of Admission: Saturday, February 22, 2025
Time of Admission: 2:12 AM
Admitting Facility: Jefferson Frankford Hospital, Emergency Department
Attending Physician: Dr. Michael Abernathy, MD
Chief Complaint
Unconscious following rescue from a residential fire. Presenting with severe respiratory distress, suspected carbon monoxide poisoning, and thermal exposure.
History of Present Illness (HPI)
Patient was rescued from a second-story bedroom during an active house fire. Prolonged exposure to smoke and heat is suspected, as patient was unresponsive at the time of rescue and required immediate oxygen supplementation. Initial responders reported shallow breathing and cyanosis. Lacerations to the forearms were noted but described as superficial.
Patient is currently intubated and sedated for airway protection and oxygenation. Observations indicate that the level of particulate matter in the patient¡¯s lungs appears disproportionately low relative to the severity of the fire and her respiratory symptoms.
Past Medical History (PMH)
-
Previous lightning strike injury (recovered), with residual Lichtenberg scarring and minor cardiovascular irregularities noted at prior evaluations.
-
No known chronic illnesses.
-
No known allergies.
Physical Examination
General Appearance:
Unresponsive, pale, with soot-streaked skin and visible thermal damage. Oxygen mask replaced with endotracheal intubation for respiratory support. Peripheral cyanosis noted on extremities.
Vitals:
-
Heart Rate: 126 bpm (elevated, likely stress and hypoxia-induced).
-
Respiratory Rate: 18 breaths/min (mechanically ventilated).
-
Blood Pressure: 110/72 mmHg (normal range, stable).
-
Oxygen Saturation: 89% on mechanical ventilation with FiO2 of 60%.
-
Temperature: 98.4¡ãF.
Respiratory:
-
Intubated and ventilated.
-
Coarse breath sounds bilaterally.
-
Minor wheezing in upper airways, indicative of irritation or swelling from smoke inhalation.
-
No visible burns to external airway; however, inflammation of the oropharynx is consistent with inhalation of hot gases.
Skin:
-
First-degree burns to face, neck, and forearms. Erythematous areas without blistering.
-
Lichtenberg scarring from prior injury visible on left flank, upper torso, left shoulder, and lower back. No new electrical burns.
-
Superficial, linear lacerations on forearms, consistent with sharp object injury. Clean and non-infected.
Cardiovascular:
-
Tachycardic but with regular rhythm.
-
Peripheral cyanosis suggests ongoing hypoxia.
-
Capillary refill delayed (4 seconds).
Neurological:
-
Glasgow Coma Scale (GCS): 3T (intubated, unresponsive).
-
Pupils equal, round, and reactive to light.
Musculoskeletal:
-
No deformities or fractures noted.
-
Generalized muscle rigidity, likely secondary to prolonged hypoxia.
Diagnostic Tests Ordered
Imaging:
-
Chest X-ray: Moderate bilateral opacities consistent with smoke inhalation and pulmonary inflammation. No evidence of pneumothorax or foreign bodies.
-
CT Scan (Head): Normal, no acute intracranial hemorrhage or edema.
Laboratory:
-
Carboxyhemoglobin Level: 24% (critical, consistent with carbon monoxide poisoning).
-
Arterial Blood Gas (ABG):
-
pH: 7.28 (acidotic).
-
PaCO2: 55 mmHg (elevated).
-
PaO2: 58 mmHg (low).
-
HCO3-: 22 mEq/L (normal).
-
CBC:
-
Hemoglobin: 11.2 g/dL (slightly low, likely hemodilutional).
-
WBC: 14.6 ¡Á 10^9/L (elevated, stress response).
-
Electrolytes:
-
Sodium: 140 mEq/L (normal).
-
Potassium: 3.8 mEq/L (normal).
-
Creatinine: 0.9 mg/dL (normal).
Diagnosis
-
Acute respiratory distress secondary to smoke inhalation:
-
Hypoxia.
-
Upper airway irritation.
-
Carbon monoxide poisoning.
-
First-degree burns (face, neck, forearms).
-
Superficial forearm lacerations.
-
Carbon monoxide poisoning with critical carboxyhemoglobin levels (24%).
-
Mild metabolic acidosis secondary to hypoxia.
Plan
Respiratory Management:
-
Continue mechanical ventilation with high FiO2 to maintain oxygen saturation >92%.
-
Administer hyperbaric oxygen therapy to expedite CO elimination and reduce carboxyhemoglobin levels.
-
Monitor for signs of airway swelling or respiratory failure; prepare for potential bronchoscopy if obstruction or soot is suspected in the airways.
Burn Care:
-
Cleanse affected areas with saline and apply silver sulfadiazine cream to prevent infection.
-
Non-adherent dressings applied to burned areas.
-
Monitor for secondary infection or progression of burn severity.
Carbon Monoxide Poisoning:
-
Initiate hyperbaric oxygen therapy immediately.
-
Monitor serial carboxyhemoglobin levels every 4-6 hours until levels fall below 5%.
Lacerations:
-
Clean and suture as needed under sterile conditions.
-
Apply topical antibiotic ointment.
Neurological Monitoring:
-
Frequent neurological checks to assess for improvement in consciousness and oxygenation status.
-
Monitor for signs of hypoxic brain injury or delayed neurotoxicity.
Observation and Long-Term Care:
-
Admit to ICU for close monitoring of respiratory and neurological status.
-
Daily labs to monitor oxygenation, CO levels, and inflammatory markers.
-
Evaluate for long-term respiratory rehabilitation needs once stabilized.
Prognosis
Patient¡¯s carboxyhemoglobin levels are critically high, placing her at risk for delayed neurocognitive effects and further respiratory compromise. While intubation and hyperbaric oxygen therapy provide immediate stabilization, long-term recovery will depend on the extent of hypoxia-induced tissue damage.
Burn injuries and superficial lacerations are expected to heal without complications. Neurological outcomes remain guarded until hypoxia resolves and consciousness is regained.
Physician Notes:
Patient¡¯s apparent ¡°low particulate burden¡± relative to the severity of the fire warrants further investigation. It is unclear whether this reflects physiological variability or a unique, unidentified factor in the patient¡¯s condition. Continued observation and documentation are advised.
Prepared by:
Dr. Michael Abernathy, MD
Jefferson Frankford Hospital ¨C Admission Report
Patient Name: "Bloodhound" (legal name redacted per LBMH Privacy Act)
MRN: 7c-7321
Date of Admission: Saturday, February 22, 2025
Time of Admission: 4:17 AM
Admitting Facility: Jefferson Frankford Hospital, Emergency Department
Attending Physician: Dr. Elena Marques, MD
Chief Complaint
Severe injuries sustained during firefighting and apprehension of superpowered criminal, including burns, blunt force trauma, inhalation injury, and pre-existing conditions.
History of Present Illness (HPI)
Patient is a regenerator with a 4x baseline healing factor who self-reports as able to "drink seawater without issue" and "immune to alcohol intoxication but capable of being anesthetized." Patient was brought to the emergency department by paramedics following a house fire and associated combat injuries sustained during vigilante activities.
Injuries include:
-
Burns (second-degree and superficial) exacerbated by prolonged exposure to fire and heat.
-
Blunt force trauma, including suspected rib fractures, shoulder strain/dislocation, and a head injury.
-
Smoke inhalation, resulting in respiratory compromise.
-
Exacerbation of pre-existing injuries, specifically second-degree burns to the right arm and shoulder from prior incidents.
Patient arrived in-costume and lucid, providing a detailed account of injuries and baseline healing abilities.
Past Medical History (PMH)
-
Healing factor (self-reported 4x baseline healing rate).
-
Chronic exposure to injury as a result of vigilante activities.
-
Second-degree burns to the right arm sustained <48 hours prior to admission.
-
Multiple prior head injuries (history of concussions).
-
Ankle sprain (right).
-
Hypertrophic laceration scarring noted along the right flank, consistent with prior deep soft tissue injury.
-
Scattered minor hypertrophic laceration scarring (<3 cm in size each) across body, primarily upper back, upper arms, and hands.
Physical Examination
General Appearance:
Alert but visibly fatigued, sitting upright on stretcher. Burned clothing in multiple areas; minor soot staining on exposed skin.
Vitals:
-
Heart Rate: 112 bpm (elevated, likely due to pain).
-
Respiratory Rate: 24 breaths/min (tachypneic).
-
Blood Pressure: 135/92 mmHg (slightly elevated, pain-related).
-
Oxygen Saturation: 94% on ambient air.
-
Temperature: 99.1¡ãF (normal).
Respiratory:
-
Persistent dry cough, hoarseness, and raw throat.
-
Mild stridor auscultated in the upper airway (indicative of inhalation injury).
-
Lung sounds diminished bilaterally at bases, with scattered rhonchi.
Skin:
-
Second-degree burns:
-
Right arm (posterior and lateral surfaces): Blistered, erythematous, with evidence of worsening damage from exposure to heat during this incident.
-
Superficial burns across shoulders, upper back, and sides of neck: Erythema with occasional blistering.
-
No signs of infection or excessive fluid loss at this time.
-
Scattered abrasions on hands and forearms (minor, no significant bleeding).
-
Ecchymosis across extremities and lower torso consistent with repeated blunt force trauma.
Cardiovascular:
-
Tachycardic but regular rhythm. No murmurs or signs of cardiac stress.
Musculoskeletal:
-
Right shoulder: Palpable tenderness with limited range of motion; possible partial dislocation or ligamentous strain.
-
Ribs: Point tenderness over the right lateral ribcage; likely fracture(s).
-
Right ankle: Swelling, ecchymosis, and instability consistent with sprain.
-
Generalized muscle fatigue and soreness.
Neurological:Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
-
Glasgow Coma Scale (GCS): 15 (normal, fully alert).
-
Reports dizziness, headache, and nausea consistent with mild concussion.
-
No focal neurological deficits noted during initial exam.
Diagnostic Tests Ordered
Imaging:
-
X-ray (Chest): Confirms at least two fractured ribs (6th and 7th, right side), with no evidence of pneumothorax.
-
X-ray (Right Shoulder): Possible AC joint strain without dislocation.
-
X-ray (Right Ankle): No fracture; soft tissue swelling noted.
-
CT Head: No acute intracranial hemorrhage or swelling.
Laboratory:
-
CBC: Mildly elevated WBC (12.5 ¡Á 10?/L) consistent with stress response.
-
ABG: Mild respiratory acidosis (pH 7.32, pCO2 49 mmHg) likely due to smoke inhalation.
-
Carboxyhemoglobin Level: 7% (elevated but not critical).
-
Electrolytes/Renal Panel: Normal, unremarkable.
Diagnosis
-
Second-degree burns (right arm, shoulders, upper back).
-
Smoke inhalation injury with mild respiratory compromise.
-
Fractured ribs (right lateral, 6th and 7th).
-
Partial dislocation or strain of right shoulder joint.
-
Right ankle sprain (exacerbation of chronic injury).
-
Mild concussion with headache and dizziness.
Plan
Burn Management:
-
Clean burns with saline and apply silver sulfadiazine cream to prevent infection.
-
Cover with non-adherent dressing.
-
Pain management with IV ketamine (preferred due to patient history).
Respiratory Care:
-
Provide humidified oxygen via mask (5 L/min).
-
Monitor for signs of airway edema or worsening respiratory distress.
Musculoskeletal Injuries:
-
Immobilize right shoulder with sling; schedule follow-up with orthopedics for MRI to rule out ligament tears.
-
Apply compression wrap to right ankle; elevate and ice to reduce swelling.
-
Prescribe physical therapy referral for ankle and shoulder rehabilitation.
Rib Fractures:
-
Encourage incentive spirometry to prevent atelectasis.
-
Pain management with ketamine and adjunct acetaminophen.
-
Avoid binding or tight bandages (to prevent hypoventilation).
Concussion:
-
Recommend rest and monitoring for worsening symptoms (e.g., vomiting, confusion).
Observation and Discharge:
-
Admit to short-term observation unit to monitor burns and respiratory function.
-
Discharge plan to include:
-
Topical burn care supplies.
-
Physical therapy referral.
-
Pain management plan with ketamine or alternative based on tolerability.
Prognosis
Patient¡¯s 4x baseline healing factor is expected to significantly reduce recovery time for burns, musculoskeletal injuries, and rib fractures. Full recovery anticipated within 3-4 weeks for most injuries, with ongoing therapy for ankle instability.
Physician Notes:
Patient¡¯s unique physiology necessitates adjustment in medication dosing, particularly pain management and sedatives. Future admissions should prioritize direct-acting anesthetics or IV administration routes for efficacy. Patient¡¯s self-reported seawater tolerance and alcohol immunity align with hyper-efficient hepatic and renal function, warranting careful drug selection.
Prepared by:
Dr. Elena Marquez, MD
Jefferson Frankford Hospital ¨C Admission Report
Patient Name: Aaron McKinley
MRN: 512487
Date of Admission: Saturday, February 22, 2025
Time of Admission: 5:45 AM
Admitting Facility: Jefferson Frankford Hospital, Emergency Department
Attending Physician: Dr. Clara Nguyen, MD
Security Detail: Officer John Martinez (Philadelphia PD)
Chief Complaint
Severe blunt force trauma and musculoskeletal injuries sustained during apprehension following alleged arson and violent altercation. Patient is conscious but uncooperative. Presented with multiple acute injuries exacerbating prior poorly healed fractures.
History of Present Illness (HPI)
Patient was apprehended at the scene of a violent altercation and transported to the emergency department under heavy law enforcement security. Blindfolded to prevent suspected use of gaze-based pyrogenetic abilities. Law enforcement reports significant blunt force trauma during the altercation, primarily to the shoulder, ribs, and head. Patient has an extensive history of injuries due to prior violent encounters, including poorly healed fractures managed by non-professional medical care.
Patient is conscious but hostile, non-compliant with questioning, and restrained (handcuffed to stretcher). Requires frequent redirection and monitoring for agitation. Additionally, patient exhibits signs of chronic lung damage likely related to prolonged inhalation of particulate matter from his own pyrogenetic activity, compounded by acute smoke inhalation from the recent fire.
Past Medical History (PMH)
-
Prior musculoskeletal injuries (poorly healed):
-
Right knee fracture (misaligned healing noted on imaging).
-
Nasal fracture with cosmetic deviation.
-
Left elbow joint sprain (ligamentous damage visible on prior imaging).
-
Right shoulder fracture (suspected improper healing; secondary fractures noted).
-
Multiple rib fractures (evidence of previous injury to 5th and 6th ribs on imaging).
-
Sprained right ankle (chronic instability).
-
Chronic soft tissue damage, scars, and minor untreated injuries.
-
Lung damage: History of impaired pulmonary function attributed to chronic inhalation of smoke and particulates from pyrogenetic activities, presenting as early-onset emphysema-like symptoms during prior evaluations.
Physical Examination
General Appearance:
-
Agitated and restrained, blindfolded per law enforcement request. Conscious, poorly groomed, with visible signs of prior and current trauma. Cooperative only under duress.
Vitals:
-
Heart Rate: 98 bpm (mildly elevated).
-
Respiratory Rate: 20 breaths/min.
-
Blood Pressure: 136/88 mmHg.
-
Oxygen Saturation: 97% on room air.
-
Temperature: 98.9¡ãF.
Respiratory:
-
Persistent dry cough and mild wheezing noted.
-
Evidence of chronic pulmonary damage:
-
Reduced breath sounds at lung bases bilaterally.
-
Diminished pulmonary function consistent with chronic exposure to particulate matter.
-
Acute findings:
-
Coarse breath sounds and scattered rhonchi, indicative of acute smoke inhalation injury.
-
No stridor or immediate airway compromise.
-
Chest X-ray shows bilateral patchy opacities consistent with acute pulmonary irritation and possible early pneumonitis.
Skin:
-
Extensive bruising over torso, arms, and legs, with visible lacerations on forearms and face.
-
Superficial abrasions across knuckles, likely from altercation.
-
Scattered scars on extremities and torso, consistent with history of violent trauma.
Cardiovascular:
-
Tachycardic but with a regular rhythm. Capillary refill within normal limits.
Musculoskeletal:
-
Right shoulder: Severe pain, limited range of motion, and swelling. Palpable deformity suggests acute fracture exacerbating prior malunion.
-
Right elbow: Significant tenderness and swelling; likely ligament sprain and possible exacerbation of prior injury.
-
Right knee: Mild swelling and tenderness; no acute deformity but misalignment noted on prior fracture.
-
Ribs: Pain and crepitus over 4th¨C7th ribs on the right side. Imaging confirms new fractures with signs of poorly healed prior injuries.
-
Ankle: Mild swelling of right ankle; chronic instability noted.
-
Generalized soft tissue tenderness with significant ecchymosis over back and flanks.
Neurological:
-
Alert and oriented x3 but uncooperative. No focal deficits noted.
-
Reports headache and dizziness; likely mild concussion.
Diagnostic Tests Ordered
Imaging:
-
X-ray (Chest): Acute fractures of right 4th, 5th, and 6th ribs with evidence of prior malunion. Patchy opacities consistent with acute smoke inhalation injury. No pneumothorax.
-
X-ray (Right Shoulder): Acute comminuted fracture of the proximal humerus with prior malunion evident.
-
X-ray (Right Elbow): Ligamentous injury suspected; no acute fractures.
-
CT Scan (Head): No intracranial hemorrhage or swelling; mild concussion suspected.
-
X-ray (Right Knee): Evidence of prior fracture with mild malalignment; no acute changes.
-
X-ray (Right Ankle): Chronic instability; no acute fractures.
Laboratory:
-
CBC: Mildly elevated WBC (11.8 ¡Á 10^9/L) consistent with stress response.
-
Electrolytes: Within normal limits.
-
Carboxyhemoglobin Level: 6% (elevated but not critical, reflecting partial exposure to smoke).
-
Arterial Blood Gas (ABG): Mild hypoxemia with pO2 at 65 mmHg.
Diagnosis
-
Acute comminuted fracture of the right proximal humerus (exacerbation of prior malunion).
-
Rib fractures (right 4th¨C7th ribs) with prior poorly healed fractures.
-
Right elbow ligament sprain (exacerbation of prior injury).
-
Chronic musculoskeletal injuries (right knee, right ankle, nasal fracture).
-
Soft tissue trauma and bruising (extensive).
-
Mild concussion with headache and dizziness.
-
Chronic pulmonary damage consistent with prolonged inhalation of particulate matter.
-
Acute smoke inhalation injury with early signs of pneumonitis.
Plan
Orthopedic Management:
-
Immobilize right shoulder with sling; consult orthopedics for surgical evaluation due to comminuted fracture and prior malunion.
-
Apply compression wrap to right elbow; follow-up with MRI for ligament evaluation.
-
Encourage physical therapy upon stabilization for chronic knee and ankle instability.
Pain Management:
-
Administer IV ketamine for pain (to avoid respiratory depression and manage agitation).
-
Supplement with acetaminophen.
-
Avoid opioids unless absolutely necessary due to incarceration risk.
Respiratory Care:
-
Provide humidified oxygen to maintain oxygen saturation >92%.
-
Incentive spirometry to prevent atelectasis from rib fractures.
-
Monitor for worsening pulmonary symptoms or development of pneumonitis.
-
Follow-up chest X-ray to evaluate progression of inflammation or complications.
Neurological Monitoring:
-
Observe for worsening concussion symptoms (e.g., vomiting, confusion).
Security and Legal Notes:
-
Maintain restraints as ordered by law enforcement.
-
Secure medical clearance for transport to correctional facility upon stabilization.
-
Document all findings meticulously for potential legal proceedings.
Observation and Discharge:
-
Admit to secure observation unit with police detail.
-
Prepare discharge plan for coordination with correctional medical services.
Prognosis
Patient¡¯s injuries are severe but not life-threatening. Chronic musculoskeletal damage will complicate healing and require long-term management. Without surgical intervention, right shoulder function may be permanently impaired. Pulmonary function is expected to further decline without strict avoidance of particulate exposure. Patient is stable for transfer to correctional facility upon completion of medical care.
Physician Notes:
Patient¡¯s history of prior injuries reflects poor-quality care and likely contributes to recurrent complications. Law enforcement protocols have been observed throughout evaluation. Chronic lung damage from pyrogenetic activity is noted as a significant risk factor for long-term pulmonary decline. Close monitoring required due to patient¡¯s pyrogenetic abilities and uncooperative behavior.
Prepared by:
Dr. Clara Nguyen, MD
RS.2.1
The house feels impossibly small with this many people crammed into it. It''s early--too early for most of them--but Liam is already at the kitchen table, poring over the same pile of paperwork I''ve seen him with every morning this week. He''s wearing his reading glasses, the ones Kate got him for Father''s Day two years ago, and the lines on his forehead seem deeper today. There''s a cup of coffee by his elbow, half-empty, probably cold by now.
I grab my own mug from the cabinet, careful to keep quiet. The kids are still asleep--well, most of them. Sam''s room is packed, and I don''t know how they managed it. Maggie, Jordan, Tasha, and Kate all stayed over last night, and I''d swear it felt like a clown car in there. Sam on the bed, Jordan on the floor, Tasha on the tiny inflatable mattress we dragged out of the basement, and Kate on her own setup next to the wall.
I half expected them to revolt after one night like that, but they seemed fine. Teenagers can tolerate a lot, apparently.
"Coffee''s still fresh," Liam says, glancing up. He looks like he hasn''t slept much, but I know better than to ask. I''ve had those sleepless nights too.
"Thanks." I pour myself a cup and settle across from him at the table. Papers are spread out everywhere--insurance forms, bank statements, some official-looking correspondence I don''t want to think too hard about. "Any progress?"
He lets out a low sigh, running a hand over his short-cropped hair. "Not really. They''ve got a certified fire investigator looking into it, which is... good, I guess. But until they make a ruling on whether it was a supervillain attack, the payout''s frozen. I don''t know, I guess I didn''t worry enough about supervillains to get specific insurance against them. I was more concerned with regular old fire."
"Supervillain attack," I echo, bitterness creeping into my voice. "Because that''s such an easy thing to define."
Liam huffs a quiet laugh, more air than sound. "Yeah. Apparently, they need to determine if Aaron McKinley''s actions were deliberate or incidental. If the fire was just collateral damage, it might qualify as... ordinary arson."
"Ordinary," I say, shaking my head. "Like that makes it any better."
He shrugs, and for a moment, I see the exhaustion weighing on him. "It is what it is. At least we''ve got the emergency housing funds. That''s something."
"Not enough," I mutter. I don''t mean it to sound harsh, but the words come out anyway. Liam doesn''t flinch, though; we''ve known each other too long for him to take it personally.
We lapse into silence for a moment, sipping our coffees. Outside, the sun is just starting to rise, casting a faint glow through the blinds. The house creaks faintly, its old bones protesting the chill morning air.
"Kate seems..." I start, then hesitate. Liam looks up, waiting. "She seems okay. Considering everything."
He nods, but his mouth twists like he''s not sure he believes it. "She''s tough. Always has been."
"She gets that from you," I say, and he lets out a small laugh.
"I don''t know about that," he says. "She''s a lot tougher than I ever was."
The sound of feet thumping down the stairs breaks the quiet. Sam appears in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, her hair sticking out at odd angles. Her eyes flick between us, landing briefly on the stack of papers before she turns toward the fridge.
When did she get her ears pierced? I take a mental note to ask her about that some other time. Two circular black studs, one per ear. I didn''t even know she could do that. I figured her... healing would squeeze them out.
"Morning," she mumbles.
"Morning," I say, watching as she rummages for a yogurt. "The others still asleep?"
"Maggie''s up," she says, voice muffled by the fridge door. "She''s hogging the bathroom."
"Of course she is," Liam says dryly, and Sam cracks a small smile.
She grabs a yogurt and leans against the counter, eating silently. I try not to stare, but it''s hard not to notice the way she holds her right arm close to her body, the stiffness in her movements. Even with the oversized hoodie, I can see the outline of the bandages underneath. The burns are healing, slowly but surely, but they''re still a painful reminder of everything she''s been through. Yeah, she''ll be better physically way faster than any of us would''ve been... but will she be better, you know, mentally? Emotionally?This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I can''t imagine being set on fire is very fun.
I sip my coffee and glance at Liam, who''s watching her too, his brow furrowed. "You ready to waterproof that before we head out?" I ask Sam gently.
She nods, pushing off the counter. "Yeah. I''ll grab the stuff."
She disappears down the hall, and Liam leans back in his chair with a sigh. "She''s a lot tougher than she lets on."
"She gets that from you," I say again, and this time it earns a quiet laugh from both of us.
By the time the rest of the house stirs to life, the kitchen is full of people and noise. Maggie comes in first, still toweling off her wet hair, followed by Jordan and Tasha in matching sweats. Kate appears last, quieter than a mouse, clutching her inhaler like a talisman.
The kitchen table becomes a battlefield of toast, cereal boxes, and stray mugs. Ben joins us at some point, yawning and blinking like an owl as he pours himself a cup of coffee. There''s a rhythm to it, a strange kind of choreography as we navigate around each other in the cramped space.
"Who''s riding with who?" Maggie asks, already halfway through a bowl of Lucky Charms.
"Sam, Jordan, and Maggie with me and Ben," I say, wiping crumbs off the counter. "Liam, you''ve got Kate and Tasha."
Maggie groans. "Why can''t I ride with Kate? She''s more fun."
Kate raises an eyebrow but doesn''t say anything. Sam matches her almost simultaneously. It''s Liam who speaks, his tone light but firm. "Because I don''t trust you to navigate without getting us lost."
"You have a GPS!" Maggie protests.
"And yet," Liam says, smiling faintly as he sips his coffee.
Sam doesn''t join the banter. She''s sitting on the couch, fiddling with the zipper on her hoodie. I can see her watching Kate out of the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable. I don''t know what happened between them--I just know that something did. They''ve been distant since the fire, their conversations stilted and awkward in a way that doesn''t make sense to me. They were best friends once, inseparable for years.
I wonder if Kate notices the way Sam glances at her. If she feels the same gulf that I do.
It takes longer than it should to get everyone out the door. Liam checks the straps on the roof rack twice before loading up his car. Ben insists on rearranging the bags in the trunk for maximum efficiency, which earns him an exasperated look from Sam. Maggie argues with Jordan about who gets shotgun before Ben shuts them both down (he is not sitting in the back squeezed between two teenagers, he argues successfully), and Tasha quietly slides into the backseat of Liam''s car with her headphones already in place.
By the time we pull out onto I-95, the sun is fully up, the faint haze of morning giving way to a bright, clear day. The highway stretches out ahead of us, and for a moment, it feels like we''re leaving the weight of the week - the month, the year, the life - behind.
In the car, Maggie is humming along to the radio, her voice light and carefree. Jordan is scrolling through their phone, occasionally chiming in with sarcastic commentary. Sam leans against the window, her head resting on the glass, her eyes half-closed.
I glance at her in the rearview mirror, my chest tightening. She looks so tired, and I know it''s not just from lack of sleep. She carries so much more than she should have to, more than any sixteen-year-old should.
"Everyone okay back there?" I ask, more to fill the silence than anything else.
"We''re fine," Maggie says brightly, kicking Sam''s foot lightly. "Right, Sam?"
"Yeah," Sam mutters without opening her eyes.
I keep my eyes on the road, the hum of the tires steady beneath us. It''s a long drive to the Poconos, but maybe that''s a good thing. Maybe the distance will give us all a chance to breathe.
The hum of the highway fills the car, a steady backdrop to the faint sounds of the radio. Maggie has commandeered the station, flipping between pop hits and 90s throwbacks with the persistence of someone who can''t sit still for long. Jordan sits quietly beside her, one arm draped lazily over the window, occasionally rolling their eyes at Maggie''s choices. Sam leans against the window in the backseat, her face turned toward the blur of trees and overpasses. She hasn''t said much since we left, but I catch glimpses of her in the rearview mirror--eyes half-closed, almost peaceful.
The drive feels timeless, the kind of quiet that settles deep in your chest. Ben and I switched half an hour ago - I felt myself getting highway hypnosis and didn''t want to let it become a problem. He has one hand on the wheel and the other on the armrest, his fingers drumming idly in time with the music. Every so often, he mutters something under his breath about the way other people drive, and I smile faintly, letting his voice ground me.
We pass a sign for a Wawa at the next exit, and Ben flicks his turn signal. "We''ll meet them here," he says, mostly to himself. Liam''s car is a little behind us, and the stop feels like a natural point to regroup. Maggie cheers from the back seat, already proclaiming her need for snacks.
When we pull into the lot, Liam''s car isn''t far behind. He parks two spaces over, and I watch as Tasha unfolds herself from the backseat, her headphones still perched over her ears. Kate slides out of the passenger side, her movements careful and deliberate. She lingers near the car, stretching as Liam heads toward the store with a nod in our direction.
The air is brisk but not biting, the kind of cool that wakes you up after a long stretch of highway. Sam steps out slowly, favoring her left side, but she doesn''t complain. Maggie bounds out after her, spinning on her heel to look at Jordan.
"Coffee run," Maggie declares. "You in?"
Jordan smirks, unfolding themselves from the passenger seat. "If it gets me through another hour of your playlist, sure."
I glance at Ben, who shrugs and follows them. "I''ll grab us something too," he says, his hand brushing my arm lightly before he heads inside.
For a moment, it''s just me and Liam in the lot. He looks tired, but his smile is easy, the kind you wear when you''re trying not to think too hard about everything else.
"Making good time," he says, nodding toward the cars.
"Not bad," I reply, watching as Sam and Kate exchange a few quiet words by the curb. There''s a strange distance between them, but it''s hard to tell if it''s the moment or something deeper.
Liam follows my gaze, but he doesn''t comment. Instead, he lets out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as Tasha joins the others in the store. "Feels nice to get out of the city," he says.
RS.2.2
The parking lot is already crowded when we pull into Kalahari, families unloading carfuls of kids and bags with the same harried energy we''ve been juggling all morning. Ben barely manages to wedge our car into a spot, and even then, it takes some creative maneuvering to get everyone and everything out without bumping into the car beside us.
"Everyone grab your stuff," I say, juggling my tote bag and trying to keep an eye on Maggie, who is bouncing on the balls of her feet like she''s already had three sodas. "We''re not leaving anything behind."
"Shotgun that towel bin," Maggie declares to Sam, pointing toward a group of kids heading toward the entrance. Sam shakes her head but trudges after her with Jordan close behind.
Liam pulls into a spot a few rows down, and Kate and Tasha climb out, their motions more subdued but efficient. Tasha has her headphones tucked around her neck now, looking up at the sprawling entrance with something like quiet awe. Kate, on the other hand, looks like she''s bracing herself for battle, her face set and unreadable.
"Let''s get this over with," Liam mutters as he joins us, hefting a bag onto his shoulder. "I swear, these places are designed to be as chaotic as possible."
"You mean you don''t love the dulcet tones of screaming children?" Ben quips, falling into step beside him.
Inside, the lobby is a whirlwind of color and noise. Brightly painted walls, water-themed d¨¦cor, and the ever-present sound of splashing water spill into the space. A line snakes toward the check-in desk, parents corralling kids who are already whining about when they''ll get to swim.
"Stay together," I say, raising my voice above the noise. It feels futile--Maggie is already pointing out something to Jordan, and Sam is shifting her bag awkwardly, her good arm taking the brunt of the weight. I resist the urge to take it from her. She hates when I fuss, but watching her struggle sends a pang through my chest.
We eventually reach the desk, where an overly cheerful employee checks us in, rattling off a series of rules and procedures I only half hear. I catch Liam''s eye as he tries to juggle their key cards and a waiver form, his exasperated expression mirroring mine.
"Finally," Maggie says as we''re handed our wristbands. She snaps hers on with a flourish and heads toward the locker area, dragging Sam and Jordan along in her wake.
"Stay with them," I call after her, and Jordan gives me a thumbs-up without looking back.
The locker rooms are crowded and humid, the air thick with the smell of chlorine and the sound of flip-flops slapping against tile. I stake out a corner near one of the benches, rummaging through my bag for my minicomputer while Ben helps Liam figure out the locker system.
Sam is the last to change, waiting until the others have scattered to nearby stalls. I watch her carefully, trying not to hover but unable to stop myself from keeping an eye on her. She pulls her hoodie off first, revealing the tank top underneath, and I catch the faint wince she tries to hide as she moves her right arm. Her torso is still a mosaic of scars and burns, the angry red of the newer ones standing out against the older, paler marks that crisscross her arms and back.
I''ve seen them before--when we were wrapping her arm this morning, or when I catch her changing out of the corner of my eye--but seeing them here, in the harsh fluorescent light of the locker room, feels different. They''re raw and undeniable. Everything she''s been through, all at once.
Sam catches me looking and tenses, her good hand gripping the hem of her tank top. "It''s fine," she says quietly, her tone sharp but not unkind.
I force myself to nod, swallowing the protective instincts that rise unbidden in my chest. "Just make sure your wraps stay on in the water, okay?"
"Okay," she says, and her voice softens just slightly.
She finishes changing quickly, pulling on the wetsuit she insisted on bringing for extra coverage. It''s not subtle--the thick material and extra waterproofing layers make her look like she''s gearing up for deep-sea diving--but it does the job. She tugs the sleeves down carefully, and for a moment, I think I see her relax.
The water park itself is obvious sensory overload. The massive indoor space stretches as far as the eye can see, a cacophony of water slides, wave pools, and neon-colored play areas. The air is warm and damp, the faint tang of chlorine clinging to every surface. Kids dart around in every direction, their shouts and laughter echoing off the high ceilings.
We find a spot near one of the quieter pool areas to set up our "base camp." Ben spreads out towels on a couple of lounge chairs while Liam and I arrange the bags and snacks we brought along. There are tables nearby for parents to sit and supervise, though most of the adults are either chasing toddlers or trying to wrangle overly excited tweens.
Maggie and Jordan are already racing toward the wave pool, Maggie dragging Sam behind her with single-minded determination. Sam doesn''t protest--at least, not visibly--but I notice the way she hesitates at the edge of the water, her hand brushing the edge of her wetsuit. She glances back at Kate, who is lingering near the chairs, her inhaler clutched tightly in one hand.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
"Go on," Liam says gently, giving Kate an encouraging nudge. "You don''t have to do much. Just dip your feet in if you want."
Kate doesn''t look convinced, but she nods and moves toward the water, her movements careful and deliberate. Tasha follows quietly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, leaving her headphones with us.
I settle into one of the lounge chairs, pulling out my tablet and adjusting the brightness to compensate for the overhead lights. Ben sits beside me, flipping through his phone, while Liam heads off to grab drinks from a nearby stand. The kids are already scattered across the park--Maggie is climbing the stairs to one of the slides with Jordan, Sam is floating cautiously in the wave pool, and Kate and Tasha are sitting on the edge, their feet dangling in the water.
It''s a strange kind of peace, watching them from here. The noise of the park fades into the background as I open the library app on my minicomputer, scrolling through the latest articles on collection development and outreach programs. It feels good to focus on something concrete, something manageable, even if only for a little while.
"Quiet moment?" Liam asks as he returns, setting a drink down on the small table between us.
"For now," I say, glancing toward the wave pool where Maggie is splashing Jordan with unbridled glee. "Give it fifteen minutes."
He chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "You''re probably right."
Ben looks up from his phone, raising an eyebrow. "Are we taking bets on who falls first? Because my money''s on Maggie."
"Bold choice," Liam says. "I was going to go with Tasha. She''s too quiet--she''ll get dragged into something, mark my words."
I smile faintly, letting their banter wash over me. The kids are happy, for now. That''s enough for me.
The minutes stretch into an hour, the rhythm of the park settling into something almost soothing. The kids flit between the wave pool, the slides, and the lazy river, their laughter and shouts blending into the ambient noise. I keep one eye on Sam, noting the way she moves carefully, avoiding the faster-paced attractions in favor of floating or wading near the edge. She''s cautious, but she''s smiling--small, fleeting smiles that feel like victories.
"Looks like she''s having fun," Liam says, following my gaze.
"She needs it," I reply quietly. "They all do."
Liam nods, his expression thoughtful. "You think they''ll talk?"
It takes me a moment to realize he''s talking about Sam and Kate. I glance toward the pool, where Sam is standing near the edge, her gaze flicking briefly toward Kate before shifting away. Kate is laughing at something Tasha said, her usual guarded expression momentarily replaced by something softer.
"I hope so," I reply.
The air around the pool is warm and humid, a constant haze of chlorine and echoing laughter. The kids have scattered again, off to explore the slides and lazy river, leaving the adults at the table. Ben and Liam are locked in a surprisingly passionate debate about the merits of various grilling techniques - such a stereotypically fatherly thing it makes me question, for a moment, who I married - but their voices fade into the background as Sam approaches.
She moves carefully, as she always does these days, her steps measured and deliberate. Her wetsuit clings awkwardly to her frame, bulkier than anything else around her, but she doesn''t seem to care. Or maybe she does, and she''s just good at pretending.
"Hey, Mom," she says, stopping just short of the table.
I look up from my minicomputer, setting it aside. "Hey, sweetheart. Done swimming already?"
"Taking a break," she says, glancing toward the water. Maggie and Jordan are racing each other across the wave pool, their laughter cutting through the noise. "Can I... can I talk to you? Alone?"
My chest tightens at the request, but I keep my face neutral. "Of course. Let''s find somewhere quieter."
We end up at the edge of the park near the snack bar, where the noise is muffled and the smell of nachos and popcorn hangs in the air. Sam sits on the edge of a low wall, her hands folded in her lap, her posture tense.
I don''t press her to start. I''ve learned to wait, to let her find the words when she''s ready.
"It''s about... something that happened last week," she says finally, her voice low. "Something with, um, a bad guy."
I don''t say anything, just nod for her to continue.
She hesitates, fiddling with the edge of her wetsuit. "You saw the news, right? About the fire? The one at Kate''s house?"
"I did," I say carefully. "I also saw you on the news," I continue. Her head snaps up, eyes wide, but I press on before she can say anything. "I figured it was you. And I figured that fire wasn''t random. It was Aaron McKinley, wasn''t it? The arsonist."
Sam''s silence is answer enough.
"And I figured," I continue, my voice steady, "it probably wasn''t just about Kate. He came after her because of you, didn''t he?"
Sam exhales sharply, like a balloon deflating. "I told you to go stay with Pop-Pop for the weekend," she says quietly.
"I figured it was personal," I say, reaching out, covering her hand with mine. "I''m not mad at you for protecting us, Sam. I''m just trying to understand what happened."
Her gaze drops to her lap. "He tried to kill me," she says, the words blunt and unvarnished. "And... he almost did. He set Kate''s house on fire. She wouldn''t have made it out if I hadn''t gotten there."
I nod, my stomach twisting. "And what happened to him?"
Her jaw tightens. "I stopped him," she says, and there''s an edge to her voice, something raw and defensive. "I--" She stops, shakes her head, and tries again. "I broke his shoulder. And his elbow. He couldn''t fight back after that. He was already on the ground, and I just wanted to make sure he understood that I... you know, I don''t know, that I meant business. That his actions had consequences. But, I mean... Did I need to do that? The police were already there. He was in a corner."
I stay quiet, letting her find her way through it.
"I found out yesterday," she continues, her voice barely above a whisper. "Through the grapevine. The surgery didn''t go well. They put pins in his shoulder and elbow, but... it wasn''t enough. He''ll never be able to use that arm the same way again."
She finally looks up, her eyes searching mine. "I feel... bad. I expected it to feel good, you know? Like justice or something. And it did, at the time. It felt satisfying in this... gross, animal way. Like what a cat probably feels when they catch a bird. But now I just feel awful. Like I ruined his life. He was already going to get arrested, why did I make it worse?"
RS.2.3
"You didn''t ruin his life," I say after a moment, my voice firm. "He ruined his own life."
Sam looks away, her brow furrowed. "But I didn''t have to do it. He was already cornered, Mom. The cops were there, he couldn''t go anywhere, and I still--" Her voice falters. "I still broke him. That wasn''t self-defense. That was... extra."
Her words hang between us, heavy and uncomfortable, and for a moment, I don''t know what to say. Because she''s right. It wasn''t self-defense. It wasn''t about survival. And no amount of parental wisdom or platitudes is going to change that.
"Why did I do it?" she asks quietly, almost to herself. "Why did I feel like that was the right thing to do in the moment? It''s not like it made anything better. He was already done."
I exhale slowly, leaning back against the low wall. "I don''t know, Sam," I admit. "But I think... sometimes, in the heat of the moment, we do things we don''t fully understand. Because we''re angry, or scared, or because part of us thinks it''ll make the pain stop. Or because we want to prove something--to ourselves, or to them."
Her eyes flick up to mine, searching. "Prove what?"
"That we''re stronger," I say quietly. "That they can''t hurt us anymore. That we''re not afraid of them."
She doesn''t say anything, but the way her jaw tightens tells me I''ve hit close to the mark.
Victor never needed a reason to hurt people; it came to him as naturally as breathing. He wasn''t some cackling villain twirling his mustache--he was just a man who saw violence as the solution to every problem. The first solution. The easiest one.
I wonder, sometimes, if someone had stopped him earlier--if someone stronger, meaner, had taken him down the way Sam took down McKinley--would it have made a difference? Would it have spared my mother, or me, or his other children? Or would it just have been another act of violence in a long, endless chain? What if someone had stopped his father? What if someone had stopped his father?
I hate that I don''t have an answer.
"You''re not him, Sam," I say suddenly, my voice sharper than I intended.
Sam blinks, startled. "Who?"
"McKinley," I say, a little too fast. "Or... anyone like him. You''re not the kind of person who hurts people just because you can. I know that about you."
Her expression softens, but only slightly. "Then why did it feel so... satisfying?" she asks. "In the moment, it felt like--like I had to do it. Like if I didn''t, he''d think he could keep getting away with it."
I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. "Because you''re human. And humans have instincts. We want to protect ourselves, our people, our homes. And sometimes those instincts are messy, or ugly, or hard to reconcile with who we think we are."
Sam frowns, her gaze dropping to her hands. "So what? I''m supposed to just... chalk it up to instincts and move on?"
"No," I say firmly. "You''re supposed to think about it. To ask yourself why you did it, and whether you''d do it again, and if that''s who you want to be."
She looks up, her eyes wary. "And what if I don''t like the answers?"
"Then you change them," I say simply. "You''re not an automaton. You have free will. Or do you?"
The silence stretches between us again, and I wonder if I''ve said too much or not enough. I wish I could give her a clear answer, a neat little box to put this in, but life doesn''t work that way. It never has. Everything goes quiet, for a couple of minutes.
"Hey, Mom?" she says after a particularly harsh inhale.
"Yeah?"
She looks up at me, her expression tentative. "Thanks. For, you know... not yelling at me. Or saying I''m a bad person."
I smile faintly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "You''re my daughter, Sam. I''m always going to love you. Even when you mess up. Especially then."
The smell of fried food and sugary drinks greets us as we gather at one of the park''s larger food courts for a late lunch. The kids are red-cheeked and damp-haired, their towels draped haphazardly over their shoulders. Maggie is animatedly recounting a near-miss on one of the tallest slides, waving her hands in a way that makes her fries wobble precariously on the tray.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Sam listens with a faint smile, nodding at all the right moments but staying quieter than usual. Her wetsuit has been swapped for a baggy hoodie and sweatpants, and she looks more relaxed than I''ve seen her in weeks, slumped into her chair like she doesn''t have to hold herself upright for anyone.
Kate picks at her food, occasionally chiming in when Maggie''s exaggerations demand correction. Tasha eats with quiet efficiency, her eyes scanning the bustling food court as though taking mental notes. Jordan alternates between teasing Maggie and sharing knowing looks with Sam, their easy banter filling the gaps in conversation.
Liam sits beside me, nursing a soda while the kids chatter. Ben''s returned to his familiar role as snack-distribution manager, divvying up napkins and sauces like he''s running a small cafeteria. He even intercepts one of Maggie''s wild hand gestures, catching a nearly airborne fry before it hits the floor.
"Did you ever imagine it like this?" Liam asks suddenly, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
I glance at him, noting the tired set of his shoulders, the way his eyes linger on Kate. "Like what?"
"Parenthood," he says, gesturing subtly at the scene before us. "A pack of damp teenagers taking over a water park while we sit here wondering how we got old."
I laugh softly, though it''s not as lighthearted as I''d like. "No," I admit. "I didn''t imagine it would be like this."
Liam nods, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sometimes I think... maybe I wasn''t cut out for this. For being the dad of someone who''s been through what Kate''s been through."
"Me too," I say quietly, watching Sam as she reaches for another fry. "I mean... I love her more than anything, but sometimes I wish..." I stop, shaking my head. "Never mind."
He doesn''t press, just waits until I find the words.
"Sometimes I wish it wasn''t her," I say finally. "That someone else had to... I mean, you saw what happened on the news. At her school. But then I think about how every parent probably feels the same way. How no one wants it to be their kid."
I remind myself, for a second, that Sam probably wouldn''t want me spilling her superheroic secrets to her best friend''s dad.
Liam hums in agreement. "At least one set of parents somewhere in the world is gonna be disappointed," he says, echoing my thoughts. "Guess we''re just the unlucky ones."
"Maybe," I say, though my voice lacks conviction. "Luck, fate, who knows?"
Liam doesn''t respond right away, his gaze fixed on Kate. "She''ll be okay," he says eventually. "Sam too. They''re tougher than we give them credit for."
The day winds down slowly, the energy of the park fading into a kind of comfortable weariness. The kids gather their things, wet towels and stray flip-flops stuffed haphazardly into bags. Ben supervises the packing process with the same efficiency he brings to unloading the dishwasher, while Liam handles the logistics of locker returns. I take a moment to check that nothing''s been forgotten, circling back to grab one of Kate''s inhalers that''s rolled under a chair.
By the time we make it to the parking lot, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows across the rows of cars. The kids are quieter now, their earlier energy dimmed but not extinguished. Maggie yawns loudly as she climbs into the backseat of our car, followed by Jordan and Sam.
The drive home is calmer, the noise of the park replaced by the steady hum of the highway. Maggie dozes off almost immediately, her head lolling against Jordan''s shoulder. Jordan scrolls through their phone, the glow of the screen illuminating their face in the dim light. Sam leans against the window, her eyes half-closed, her breath slow and even.
Ben hums softly along to the radio, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. I rest my head against the seat, letting the rhythm of the tires and the faint scent of chlorine lull me into a peaceful daze.
My thoughts drift, circling back to the conversation I had with Sam earlier. I think about the superheroes I see on the news--the ones who fight monsters and save cities and carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. They''re all so young. Most of them in their twenties or thirties. When was it - 1981? 82? That''s when the first ones started being born. The oldest ones are only 40-some years old.
I wonder if their parents feel the same way I do. If they wish it had been anyone but their child.
At least one set of parents, somewhere in the world, has to carry that disappointment. Pigeonhole principle and all that, right, Ben?
I glance back at her in the rearview mirror, her head resting against the window, her face softened in sleep. She looks so young in moments like this, so vulnerable, and I wonder how long she can keep walking this path before it takes more from her than she can give.
But then I think about the way she smiled at lunch, the way her shoulders relaxed in the water, the quiet determination in her voice when she said she''d try to do better. And I let myself believe that she''s doing the right thing. That''s what Moe says. Maybe I should trust him.
By the time we pull into the driveway, the sky is dark, the neighborhood quiet. Liam''s car parks behind us, and I can see Kate and Tasha yawning as they gather their bags.
"Home sweet home," Ben murmurs, stretching as he steps out of the car.
I nudge Sam gently, her eyes fluttering open as she stirs. "We''re here, sweetheart," I say softly.
She blinks groggily, her movements slow as she gathers her things. Ben carries most of the bags inside, while I linger by the door, watching as the kids shuffle sleepily into the house.
The warmth of home wraps around me as I step inside, the familiar smell of fresh paint mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from this morning. The house feels full but peaceful, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, satisfying day.
Sam disappears upstairs with a murmured goodnight, and I hear the faint creak of her bed as she settles in. I pause in the hallway, my hand resting on the banister, and let out a slow, deep breath.
Chapter 149.1
The room smells like leather and hand sanitizer, which is weird, because I thought those two smells couldn''t exist in the same universe. But apparently, that''s the vibe we''re going for in this lawyer''s office. The chairs are all stiff and oversized, like they''re trying to make me feel smaller than I already am. They''re winning.
I''m sitting in one of those chairs, still in my costume--mask on, teeth hidden, everything buttoned up except my brain, which is busy screaming. My right arm feels heavy and awkward with all the bandages wrapped around it, even though the burns underneath are mostly scabbing over already.
It''s not like the people here haven''t been briefed on my powers, I assume. I just need to pretend for school, and I haven''t really had time to change out of my bandages and gauze.
Across from me, Assistant District Attorney Patel is flipping through a thick folder with all the enthusiasm of someone reading a tax code. Her bangs are perfectly straight and cut just above her eyebrows, not a single strand out of place. I wonder if she cuts them herself or pays someone. It feels like something you''d have to do yourself to get them that precise.
"So, just to go over the basics again," Patel says without looking up, "you''re here to provide testimony regarding Aaron McKinley''s apprehension. The defense will ask questions; you''ll answer honestly and to the best of your ability. If you don''t know something, say you don''t know. And if you''re unsure about answering something, look at me. I''ll jump in if needed."
"Got it," I say, trying to sound confident and failing spectacularly. My voice comes out flat and raspy, like I swallowed a mouthful of pool water two days ago and it still hasn''t fully left my throat. Which, okay, maybe I did. But still.
Patel finally looks up, her dark eyes locking onto mine--or where she thinks mine are, behind the lenses of my mask. "This won''t be like Chernobyl''s trial," she says. "The defense attorney here is Katherine Huang. She''s sharp, thorough, and experienced. She''s not going to throw you softballs."
I nod, because what else can I do? My tongue feels like it''s glued to the roof of my mouth. The only thing I can manage is a quiet, unnoticed "Illya, not Chernobyl."
Patel closes the folder with a soft thwap and stands, smoothing out the sleeves of her blazer. "Let''s go. They''re ready for us."
My legs don''t really feel like cooperating, but I stand anyway, my boots squeaking against the polished hardwood floor. Patel leads the way out of the small meeting room we were in and down a narrow hallway lined with paintings that all scream, I am expensive art for lawyers. They''re just big squares of color, none of them particularly exciting. One''s entirely beige. I''m guessing that one''s meant to inspire confidence in someone who really likes oatmeal.
When we reach the door to the deposition room, Patel stops and turns to me. "You''ll be fine," she says, her tone clipped but not unkind. "Just remember: Answer only the question you''re asked. Don''t offer more than necessary."
I nod again, swallowing hard. My hands are clammy inside my gloves. It feels gross, and I want to peel them off, but there''s no way I''m showing up barehanded to this. Bloodhound keeps her gloves on. Bloodhound doesn''t fidget. Bloodhound... needs to pull it together.
Patel opens the door, and we step inside.
The room is exactly what I imagined: wood-paneled walls, a long conference table that looks like it could double as a dining table for a very fancy Thanksgiving dinner, and a little nest of recording equipment set up at one end. There''s a woman sitting at the table, her posture so straight it makes my spine hurt just looking at her. She''s got dark hair pulled into a sleek bun, a tailored black blazer that looks like it could cut glass, and glasses perched on her nose that somehow make her seem both intimidating and approachable. Like a teacher who gives you extra credit but won''t let you retake a test if you bomb it.
"Bloodhound," she says, standing and extending a hand toward me. "Katherine Huang. I''ll be representing Aaron McKinley."
Her handshake is firm but not crushing, the kind of handshake that says, I mean business, but I''m not here to break your fingers. I try to match it, but my bandaged arm feels like dead weight at my side, throwing off my balance. My left hand does its best to compensate.
"Hi," I say, my voice coming out way too quiet. I clear my throat and try again. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," Huang says, her eyes flicking over my costume, taking in every detail without lingering on any one thing. It''s like she''s filing away observations in some mental database. "I appreciate you taking the time to participate in this deposition."
She says it like it''s a polite formality, but there''s an edge underneath, like a scalpel hidden in a velvet case. I can already tell she''s not going to let me skate through this.
Patel sits at the table, motioning for me to do the same. I lower myself into one of the chairs, which is just as stiff as it looked, and fold my hands in my lap to keep from picking at the edges of my gloves. The room feels too quiet, even with the faint hum of the recording equipment. My heartbeat thrums in my ears.
Huang sits across from me, adjusting a stack of papers in front of her. "Before we begin, I''d like to clarify a few things," she says. "You''re aware that this deposition is being recorded, both audio and video?"
"Yes," I say, keeping my voice steady.
"And you''ve agreed to provide testimony voluntarily, correct?"Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
"Yes."
Her eyes narrow just slightly, like she''s testing the waters before diving in. "And for the record, your real identity is protected under the terms of this deposition. I''ll refer to you only as Bloodhound. Does that work for you?"
"Yes," I say again, though my stomach twists at the reminder of how thin that layer of protection really is.
Huang nods, making a note on one of the papers in front of her. "Good. Let''s get started."
The DA shifts slightly in her seat, and I catch a brief glance between her and Huang. There''s something there--mutual respect, maybe, or just mutual acknowledgment of how difficult this is going to be. Either way, it doesn''t make me feel any better.
Huang looks back at me, her pen poised over her notepad. "Bloodhound, before we discuss the events leading up to Aaron McKinley''s arrest, can you confirm how you first became aware of his whereabouts?"
My breath catches in my throat. Here we go.
Huang leans forward slightly, her pen hovering above her notepad. "Let''s start at the beginning. Can you confirm that you were present at the fire at Liam Smith''s house on February 21st?"
"Yes," I say. My voice is steady, but inside, I''m bracing for the next question.
"And what brought you there?"
I glance at Patel again, and she gives me the faintest nod, like she''s reminding me of what we practiced. Keep it simple. Keep it truthful--mostly.
"I was patrolling the area," I say. "I noticed the fire and went to help."
Huang doesn''t write that down. Instead, she fixes me with a look that''s way too calm for my liking. "Patrolling the area. Is that a usual part of your activities?"
"Sometimes," I say. "If I hear about something suspicious going on, or if there''s been trouble in a neighborhood, I check it out."
"Trouble like what?"
"Gang activity, mostly," I say, shrugging with my good shoulder. "Drugs, fights, stuff like that. It''s not exactly quiet out there."
Huang finally makes a note. "So, you arrived at the fire. What happened next?"
"I saw smoke and flames coming from the house," I say, careful to keep my tone matter-of-fact. "There were people still inside. I went in to get them out."
"And you succeeded?"
"Yes."
Huang looks up at me again, her pen still for a moment. "Was Aaron McKinley one of the people you found inside?"
"No," I say. "He wasn''t there. I didn''t see him until later."
"Later, when?"
"A couple hours later," I say, shifting slightly in my chair. "When I found him near Vogt Park."
Her pen scratches across the notepad, the sound almost louder than her voice. "Let''s talk about how you found him. You''ve publicly stated that you used your powers to track him down. Can you elaborate on that?"
This part we rehearsed. I take a deep breath, letting my hands relax just a little in my lap. "My powers include something called ''blood sense,''" I say. "I can pick up on traces of blood in the air. If someone''s bleeding, I can track them."
"And Aaron McKinley was bleeding?"
"Yes," I say. "Just a little, but it was enough. He had cuts on his arms."
Her eyebrows raise slightly. "Do people have unique blood signatures, then? Like fingerprints?"
I nod. "Sort of. It''s hard to explain, but yeah--different people''s blood smells or... feels different, I guess. Once I''ve picked up on someone''s signature, I can recognize it again."
Huang tilts her head, watching me like she''s trying to spot a crack in the plaster. "You''d encountered Aaron McKinley before, hadn''t you?"
"Yes," I say. "We''d crossed paths a few times."
"Meaning you''d fought him."
"Yeah," I admit. "I fought him."
"And during those fights, did you use your powers to detect his blood?"
"Yes."
"So you recognized his ''signature'' on February 22nd?"
"Yes."
She jots something down, then looks back at me. "But that''s not all you relied on, is it? You''ve also mentioned that you suspected he was hiding in abandoned houses near Vogt Park. Why there?"
I sit up a little straighter, trying to sound like I have my act together. "Because I know the neighborhood. I grew up there. There are certain places that get used for hiding out--abandoned houses, old factories, that kind of thing. McKinley has a pattern. He used places like that before."
"And you searched them methodically?"
"Yes."
Huang''s pen pauses again, and she taps it lightly against the notepad. "How many locations did you search before you found him?"
"Five or six," I say. "It wasn''t random. I focused on the ones I thought he''d go for--abandoned, out of the way, easy to get in and out of."
Her expression doesn''t change, but I can feel the weight of her skepticism settling on my shoulders. "And you did this alone?"
"Yes," I say, without hesitation.
"No assistance from anyone else?"
"No," I lie, keeping my face as neutral as I can. "Since the Young Defenders were put on ice a couple of months ago, I''ve been working solo."
"Interesting," she says, her tone still maddeningly calm. "Because the timeline here is... tight. You responded to the fire at Kate Smith''s house on the 21st, sustained significant injuries, and yet within four hours, you not only identified McKinley''s general location but also tracked him down in a specific building. That''s impressive work."
I swallow hard, feeling the sweat start to build under my gloves again. "Thanks," I say, like this is a compliment and not a trap.
Huang leans back slightly, her eyes still fixed on me. "Did you notify the police immediately after locating him?"
"Yes," I say. "As soon as I confirmed he was there. I relayed the information to one of my old teammates, who called it in. I knew he would be able to get backup faster than me. He''s an adult now, not a minor. So, yeah, I confirmed he was there and then... called."
"How did you confirm it?"
"I picked up his blood signature," I say. "When someone''s actively bleeding, I can see their entire vascular system. So if someone''s inside a house and they''re bleeding, I can see that a person is there. So, I knew where he was."
"And you didn''t go in yourself?"
I hesitate, just for a fraction of a second. "Not for a bit. I called it in, but... I didn''t want to risk him getting away before they showed up."
"So you entered the building."
"Yes."
Huang makes another note, her pen moving in small, deliberate strokes. "We''ll come back to that. For now, let''s focus on the search. You mentioned using your powers to detect his blood. Can you describe how that works? What it feels like?"
I pause, not because I don''t know the answer but because I''m not sure how much to say. "It''s... hard to describe," I start slowly. "When I pick up on blood, it''s like everything else fades out. In my head, it''s just red and black. Blood is red; everything else is black. I can follow the red."
Her pen pauses again, and this time she looks directly at me. "That sounds... precise. Almost clinical."
I shrug. "It''s not perfect. It works best when the blood is fresh, and even then, I have to be close enough to pick up the scent. A couple blocks on a good day."
"And you were close enough near Vogt Park."
"Yes."
Her pen taps against the notepad, a rhythmic little click-click-click that makes my skin crawl. "So, to summarize: You suspected Aaron McKinley would be hiding in an abandoned building near Vogt Park based on your knowledge of his patterns and the neighborhood. You methodically searched several locations using your blood sense to narrow down his exact position. Once you confirmed he was there, you called the police and entered the building to ensure he didn''t escape. Is that correct?"
"Yes," I say, the word sticking in my throat like a splinter.
Huang leans back, her expression unreadable. "Thank you, Bloodhound. I think we''re ready to move on."
Chapter 149.2
The critical moment comes, like a thundercloud rolling in. Katherine Huang''s eyes flick down to her notes and back up at me, and I know what''s coming next.
"Let''s discuss the apprehension itself," she says, her voice smooth and measured. "You''ve testified that you located Aaron McKinley in an abandoned building near Vogt Park on the morning of February 22nd. Could you describe what happened after you entered the building?"
I grip my gloves tighter under the table. "He attacked first," I say, my voice steady. That part''s the truth, at least. "He started using his powers quickly."
"And his power is...?" Huang prompts, tilting her head slightly.
"He can ignite things by staring at them," I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. "When we met for the first time, it was just a yellow fire with a weird smell and a weird light. But recently, it became bright red and metallic."
"Did you feel that your life was in immediate danger?"
"Yes," I say, without hesitation. "He''d already set a house fire earlier that day that almost killed a teenager. I knew what he was capable of."
Huang leans forward slightly, her pen hovering over the notepad. "How did you proceed?"
I take a breath, keeping my answers short. "I tried to close the distance. I needed to neutralize him before the fire spread."
She nods, making a note. "Neutralize him. Could you elaborate on what that entailed?"
I force myself to stay calm. "I disarmed him," I say carefully, ignoring the spike of guilt at the word. "He had set up a sniper''s nest in the basement, so I broke through to close the distance. Then, he came at me, and there was... combat in the process of lawful apprehension."
"A sniper''s nest?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.
"A fortified position. Where he had line of sight on me for his powers, but I couldn''t see him," I answer. "No, uh, no guns were involved, to my knowledge."
Huang doesn''t look up, her pen scratching lightly across the page. "And in the process, you broke his shoulder and elbow. Correct?"
"Yes," I say, my jaw tightening. "But that wasn''t intentional. It was... incidental. He was struggling, and I didn''t have a lot of options."
She finally meets my eyes--or where she thinks they are behind my mask. "So, to be clear: You''re testifying that Aaron McKinley sustained those injuries during the course of his active resistance?"
"Yes," I say again. "I didn''t go in planning to hurt him. I just wanted to stop him."
Her pen pauses, the silence stretching like an over-tightened rubber band. Then she nods once, writing something down. "Understood. And after you subdued him?"
"I knew the paramedics were outside at that point, and the house was rapidly going up in smoke," I say. "I didn''t stick around. He had set booby traps in the house with... gasoline, and I didn''t want to stick around to let him get a last shot at me. So I left before my injuries became too severe."
Huang raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of your injuries, the hospital report lists second-degree burns across your right shoulder, arm, and hand, along with multiple fractures. Would you agree that those injuries are consistent with what you described--being attacked with McKinley''s power?"
"Yes," I say, my voice firm. "He was aiming for me, and he got me."
She scribbles another note before closing her folder with a quiet snap. "Thank you, Bloodhound. That concludes my questions."
Patel straightens in her chair, her lips pressing into a thin line. "The deposition is adjourned, then."
The recording equipment clicks off with a faint whir, and the room seems to exhale. Huang gathers her papers with methodical precision, not sparing me another glance. Patel, on the other hand, gives me a tight nod. "Good work," she says quietly.
I nod back, but the knot in my stomach doesn''t loosen. My hands feel clammy inside my gloves, and I can''t tell if it''s from the heat of the room or something else entirely.
In the hallway, the low hum of distant conversations filters through the wood-paneled walls. Patel is already on her phone, pacing a few steps away, and I lean against the wall, letting myself breathe for the first time in what feels like hours.
That''s when I hear Huang''s voice, calm and clipped, coming from just around the corner.
"I still don''t understand why Tremont & Fairfax is involved in this," a man says, his voice low and tense. "You''re a senior partner. This case is small-time."
"It''s a favor for a long-time client," Huang replies smoothly. "You know how this works."
"And the funding?" he presses. "''Concerned citizens for due process''? That doesn''t strike you as odd?"
"It''s not my job to question who foots the bill," Huang says, her tone sharpening. "My job is to ensure that Mr. McKinley receives fair representation. If you have an issue with that, I suggest you take it up with the partners'' board."
There''s a pause, heavy with unspoken tension. I can picture the man shaking his head. "This isn''t just about due process, is it?"
Huang doesn''t answer right away. Then, with a faint note of finality, she says, "Everything I do is about due process. Now, if you''ll excuse me, I have another meeting."This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
The sound of footsteps approaches, and I step away from the wall just as Huang rounds the corner. She stops when she sees me, her expression unreadable but not exactly surprised.
"Bloodhound," she says with a polite nod. "Can I help you with something?"
I hesitate, glancing over her shoulder at the man she was talking to. He ducks into a side room without another word, leaving the two of us alone.
"Yeah," I say, swallowing hard. "Off the record... Can you make sure Aaron doesn''t say my real name on the stand? He knows who I am, and I don''t trust him not to use that against me."
Huang''s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn''t look surprised. "I''ll keep it in mind," she says. "But I''d recommend speaking to the assistant DA about that. A gag order would be up to the judge."
"I will," I say quickly. "But you know him, I''d assume. You know he''ll do whatever he can to screw with me."
Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, I think she''s going to argue. But then she nods. "I''ll see what I can do."
"Thanks," I mutter, even though it doesn''t feel like enough.
Huang doesn''t reply, just gives me another polite nod before striding down the hallway. I watch her go, the knot in my stomach tightening again. I try to un-knot it - it doesn''t work.
When I get home, the first thing I notice is how quiet it is. It''s not the comfortable kind of quiet, like when everyone''s off in their own corners doing their own thing. This is heavier, like the house is holding its breath.
I kick off my boots by the door, careful not to make too much noise, and hang my jacket on the hook. The smell of coffee lingers faintly in the air, mixed with the sharper, cleaner scent of lemon disinfectant. My mom''s handiwork, probably. She''s been on a cleaning spree ever since Kate and Liam moved in, like scrubbing the counters will somehow make the situation less awkward.
The faint shuffle of papers draws me toward the kitchen, where I find Kate sitting alone at the table. She''s hunched over a workbook, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, a pencil tapping rhythmically against the edge of the table. There''s a tall glass of water next to her, along with a small plastic device that looks like a weird cross between a whistle and a thermometer. She''s been using it pretty religiously since the fire - something supposed to help rebuild her lung capacity.
She doesn''t look up when I walk in, which is probably for the best. Our conversations have been... weird. Not hostile, exactly, but strained in a way that makes every word feel like it''s teetering on the edge of something sharp.
"Hey," I say, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water.
Kate glances up briefly, then back down at her workbook. "Hey."
I lean against the counter, sipping my water and trying to think of something to say that doesn''t sound forced. The tension between us feels like a rubber band stretched too tight, ready to snap at the slightest tug.
"You working on homework?" I ask finally, nodding toward the table.
"Yeah," she says, her voice flat. "Geometry. I''m still catching up."
I take another sip, stalling for time. "Need any help?"
She shrugs, which isn''t a no but also isn''t exactly a yes. I set my glass down and slide into the chair across from her, glancing at the workbook. It''s the same curriculum we use at Tacony Charter - I think it''s standardized across the state - but she''s about two weeks behind. That''s not bad, considering everything she''s been through.
"Let me see," I say, pulling the workbook a little closer. The page is filled with diagrams of triangles and theorems, the kind of stuff that feels more like a puzzle than actual math. "What''re you stuck on?"
Kate sits back a little, crossing her arms over her chest. "This one," she says, pointing to a problem about calculating the area of a triangle using Heron''s formula.
I skim the problem, trying to push past the awkwardness settling in my chest. "Okay, so Heron''s formula is all about the semi-perimeter," I say, picking up her pencil. "You take the lengths of the sides, add them up, divide by two to get the semi-perimeter, and then plug it into the formula."
Kate watches as I write out the steps, her expression unreadable. She doesn''t say anything, but she doesn''t stop me, either.
"See?" I say, pushing the workbook back toward her. "You just follow the formula from there."
She nods slowly, picking up the pencil and tracing over my work. "Thanks," she mutters.
"No problem." I sit back, letting the silence settle again. It''s not comfortable, but it''s better than nothing.
For a while, the only sounds are the scratch of Kate''s pencil and the occasional shuffle of paper. I tap my fingers lightly against the edge of the table, the rhythm uneven and restless. My eyes drift to the doohickey sitting next to her water glass.
"You been keeping up with that thing?" I ask, nodding toward it.
Kate glances at it, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Yeah. Three times a day."
"Good," I say, and then immediately regret how patronizing that sounds. "I mean, it''s important. Keeps your lungs strong."
She doesn''t respond right away, just picks up the doohickey and turns it over in her hands. "It''s annoying," she says finally. "Feels like I''m trying to blow up a balloon that never inflates."
I can''t help but snort a little at that. "Yeah, but at least it''s not, like, actual surgery or something."
Kate gives me a look that''s equal parts tired and annoyed. "I think I''d take surgery over this. At least with surgery, it''s over quick. This is just... every day."
I don''t know what to say to that, so I just watch as she raises the thingamabob to her lips and takes a slow, deep breath. The little ball inside the tube wobbles upward, hovering for a moment before dropping back down. She sets the device down with a sigh, her shoulders slumping.
"You''re doing good," I say, and this time I mean it.
Kate shrugs again, her fingers picking at the edge of the workbook. "Not good enough. I still can''t run without feeling like my chest is gonna explode. It''ll be a while before I can play basketball again."
"You''ll get there," I say, trying to sound reassuring. "It takes time."
Her gaze flicks up to meet mine, and for a moment, there''s something angry and unguarded in her expression, like an angry lion, or maybe an alligator. "You didn''t die in that fire, Sam. I did."
"You mean almost die, right?" I ask, before I can think about what I said.
Kate looks away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the workbook. "I thought I was done for," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "When it got too hard to breathe and I blacked out, I was sure that was it."
I swallow hard, the weight of her words settling heavily on my chest. "But it wasn''t," I say. "You made it out."
"Barely," she mutters, her tone bitter. "And only because of you."
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I don''t know how to respond, so I reach for her workbook again, flipping to the next problem. "Let''s try another one," I say, my voice a little too bright. I feel... fake. Bad.
Kate doesn''t argue, but the tension in her shoulders doesn''t ease. She picks up her pencil and starts working through the problem, her movements slow and deliberate. I watch her for a moment, the way her brow furrows in concentration, and I can''t help but wonder how much of this is her pushing through the pain.
When she finishes the problem, she sets the pencil down and leans back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest again. "There," she says. "Happy?"
I glance at the workbook, checking her answer. It''s right, of course. "Yeah," I say, giving her a small smile. "Nice work."
Kate doesn''t smile back, but there''s a flicker of something in her eyes--maybe not quite gratitude, but something close enough. She picks up the thingamabob again, and I watch as she takes another slow, measured breath. The little ball rises, wobbles, and falls, just like before. It spins and spins like a death roll.
"Keep at it," I say, standing and grabbing my glass from the table. "You''ll get there."
Kate doesn''t respond, just sets the doohickey down and picks up her pencil again. As I head toward the sink, I hear the faint scratch of graphite on paper, steady and relentless.
Chapter 149.3
The Music Hall feels warmer than usual, the air thick with the scent of dust and something faintly metallic, like the old radiator in the corner is working overtime. Maggie''s stretched out on the couch, legs thrown over one of the cushions, while Jordan is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, sorting through a bag of microwave popcorn like it''s a treasure hoard. The TV is muted, stuck on a commercial for some kind of vitamin supplement that promises to fix all your problems if you take it twice a day.
I sit down on the couch next to Maggie, my burn-dressed arm resting awkwardly on my lap. My shoulder still feels stiff, but at least it doesn''t hurt as much anymore. "So," I start, grabbing one of the popcorn bags Jordan has abandoned, "Patel told me some interesting stuff after the deposition today."
Jordan glances up, their eyebrows raised. "Oh yeah? How''d that go?"
I shrug with my good shoulder. "About as well as it could. Aaron''s lawyer is sharp. Like, ''reads the Constitution for fun'' sharp. She was asking all these questions about how I found him, how I handled it... It''s like she''s building this whole case about excessive force or something."
Maggie snorts from her spot on the couch. "Of course she is. It''s her job to make you look bad."
"I''m not exactly going to say I approve of cop-oid justification," Jordan groans.
I shoot them a glare. "Yeah? I''m waiting for the ''but'',"
"You won''t find me ever saying that Aaron doesn''t deserve to get knocked down a peg. I''m not exactly a live-and-let-live type," Jordan shoots back. "Just don''t want you accidentally giving supercops precedent for breaking arms willy nilly."
"Yeah, well, I''m sure she''ll make me look as bad as possible," I mutter, grabbing a handful of popcorn, just to confirm that I still don''t like it. It fits weird between my sharp teeth, and the kernels do not produce satisfying sensations when I lack proper molars to grind them between. Yep. Don''t like it, still. "Anyway, after it was done, Patel was saying that pretrial motions for Mr. Nothing and Mudslide are almost wrapped up. She wanted to give me a heads-up since, you know..." I trail off, gesturing vaguely. "The zoo."
Jordan''s face darkens, and they sit back on their heels. "I''m guessing they''re still in PICC?"
"For now," I say. "But Patel said they''re probably being moved soon. Somewhere more secure."
Maggie perks up, her eyes narrowing. "Why? I thought the superhuman wing was, like, top-tier lockdown behind one of the Hells."
"Apparently not," I say, reaching for a single delicate gummy worm from a small bowl instead of the popcorn, which is much more palatable. "They''re worried the Kingdom might try something. Patel didn''t give me details, but it sounds like they''re prepping for a worst-case scenario."
Jordan exhales sharply, their fingers drumming against the coffee table. "Mr. Nothing is a game-changer. I''m sure they aren''t going to leave him to rot."
Maggie raises an eyebrow. "Do we not care about Mudslide? He was there, too."
"I never really got the impression they cared about Mudslide," Jordan replies. "Like... he''s a gap-filler person. A step higher than a patsy on the ladder."
"He did almost kill me a couple of times. And almost got Maggie," I remind Jordan.
She rolls her eyes, throwing a piece of popcorn at me. "Yeah, yeah, ''you could''ve gotten hurt, Maggie.'' Newsflash: I did get hurt, and I still saved your butt, so you''re welcome."
Jordan smiles faintly, but their eyes stay on the TV. "You think it''s gonna be on the news?"
They don''t wait for an answer. They grab the remote and flip the TV off mute, and then start sliding through channels. I''m honestly not even sure how Jordan managed to get cable in here, I''m going to be totally honest. The familiar voice of the local news anchor fills the room, accompanied by a stock photo of the Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center''s imposing concrete walls.
"Sources close to the case have confirmed that Darnell Hayes, known by the nom-de-crime of Mr. Nothing, and Evan Williams, known by the nom-de-crime of Mr. Mudslide, are being relocated to a high-security facility following concerns about their safety and the integrity of the Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center," the anchor says, their voice ramrod still, designed to tickle your eardrums and get you to suddenly twist your attention to the screen. "Court filings regarding the move remain sealed, but an anonymous source suggests the decision was influenced by their ties to the Kingdom of Keys, a well-known superhuman criminal organization."Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Jordan freezes, their hand hovering over the remote. "Well. That''s not great."
"That''s an understatement," I mumble, a sinking feeling in my gut.
Maggie sits up straighter, her hands gripping the edge of the couch. "Wait, they''re seriously moving them? Isn''t that just, like, handing the Kingdom a roadmap?"
"Not necessarily," Jordan says, though their tone is uncertain. "The details are sealed for a reason. If the Kingdom doesn''t know when or where the transfer''s happening, they can''t plan an ambush. The Hells are the most secure supervillain supermaxes, and the most infamous, but there''s a handful of small facilities out there, like, specifically for this. Modular. Like mini-Daedaluses. Daedali?"
"Mini-Daedaluses," I repeat, testing the word on my tongue. "Doesn''t exactly inspire confidence."
Jordan shrugs, their focus still on the TV as the anchor drones on about "anonymous sources" and "heightened security concerns." "They''re supposed to be designed for short-term holding. Modular means they can''t be in one place for too long--makes it harder for anyone to track them down. But... yeah, it''s not foolproof."
Maggie grabs the gummy worm bowl, now half-empty, and munches on one as she frowns. "I don''t know, guys. This whole thing feels off. Like, if the Kingdom wanted to make a statement, they couldn''t ask for a better opportunity than a high-profile transport."
"Yeah, but that''s what makes it risky for them, too," I say. "They''d need to be fast, precise, and ready to go up against whatever escort the authorities have planned. The DA''s office isn''t just gonna let them walk out of there."
Jordan gives me a sharp look. "You think the Kingdom cares about risk? These are the same people who brought a literal T. Rex to a zoo robbery."
"The T-Rex wasn''t even the important part. That was just a distraction for the frogs," I reply, exhaling slowly, leaning back against the couch. My arm brushes against the edge of the cushion, sending a dull ache through my shoulder. It''s not bad enough to make me wince, but it''s a reminder that I''m not exactly in peak condition right now. None of us are. "And we still don''t even know what they stole a bunch of frogs for."
"What if they don''t wait for the transport?" Maggie says suddenly, her tone thoughtful. "What if they hit the PICC before the move happens?"
Jordan raises an eyebrow. "You think they''d go after a heavily fortified superhuman wing, with all the guards and countermeasures in place, just to avoid taking a risk on the road?"
"I don''t know," Maggie admits, chewing on her lip. "But if I were them, I''d be thinking about all the ways this could go sideways. Maybe they figure the element of surprise is worth the gamble."
Jordan leans back against the couch, staring at the TV like it holds the answers to all the questions spinning through their head. "If the Kingdom tries something, it''s going to get ugly. They don''t half-ass anything."
"Yeah, that''s what I''m worried about," I say, rubbing my thumb along the edge of the gummy worm bowl. "It''s not like the Kingdom''s gonna let two of their heavy hitters rot in prison without putting up a fight. And Patel made it sound like the DA''s office is bracing for something big. The sealed filings, the relocation... they know something we don''t."
Maggie swings her legs down from the couch and leans forward, her elbows on her knees. "So, what do we do? Just sit here and wait for the fireworks?"
"Pretty much," I say, my voice tinged with frustration. "I mean. Like... Neither of you are built to take hits. And there''s only so much my regeneration can compensate for, especially when I''m already injured. And they''re not gonna let two unregistered, untrustable vigilantes and a Bloodhound randomly show up and help with the security detail. We''d get in the way."
Maggie makes a face, like the idea physically pains her. "Blech."
The news cuts to a commercial break, and the room falls into an uneasy silence. Jordan fidgets with the remote, flipping through channels without really paying attention, while Maggie slumps back against the couch, her expression stormy. I stare down at the bowl of gummy worms, my thoughts racing uncomfortably fast, uncomfortably... uncontrollably.
I push myself up from the couch, wincing slightly as my shoulder protests the movement. "I need to get some air," I say, grabbing my jacket from the back of a chair. "You coming, Maggie?"
She blinks up at me, her expression shifting from frustration to curiosity. "Where?"
"The lot," I say, nodding toward the back of the Music Hall. "Thought we could play some catch. Shake off the nerves."
Maggie''s face lights up, and she springs to her feet, grabbing her own jacket. "Now you''re talking. I''ll grab the ball."
Jordan raises an eyebrow as Maggie bounds toward the kitchenette, rummaging through a drawer for the slightly scuffed baseball we''ve been using for months. "You sure this is a good idea?" they ask, their tone cautious.
"It''s just catch," I say, shrugging with my good shoulder. "Nothing flashy. Nothing illegal."
Jordan doesn''t look convinced, but they don''t argue. "Just don''t overdo it," they say, settling back into the couch. "And keep an eye out. The last thing we need is more attention."
"Got it," I say, already heading for the door. Maggie follows close behind, clutching the baseball like it''s her ticket to freedom.
The lot behind the Music Hall is dimly lit, the streetlights casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. It''s quiet, the kind of quiet that feels almost eerie after the buzz of the city. Maggie tosses the ball into the air, catching it with an audible smack against her palm.
"Ready?" she asks, her grin wide and infectious.
"Yeah," I say, stepping back a few paces and holding up my good hand. "Take it easy on me, though. I''m still a little... crispy."
Maggie snorts, winding up for a throw. "No promises."
The ball arcs through the air, and I catch it easily, the leather cool against my palm. I throw it back, my movements careful and deliberate. Maggie catches it with a flick of her wrist, her repulsion fields snapping into place just long enough to deflect the ball back toward me.
We fall into an easy rhythm, the ball bouncing between us in a steady, satisfying cadence.
"Think the Kingdom''s really gonna try something?" Maggie asks after a particularly sharp throw, her tone more serious now.
"Probably," I say, catching the ball and rolling it between my fingers. "They''ve got too much invested in those two to just let them sit there. And if they do try something..."
Concept Art (3)
| Samantha Small, age 16 |
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Bloodhound, as of Arc 9 |
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| Aaron McKinley (updated art) |
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Victor Blanc. Trucker. Grew up in a stable but emotionally vacuous and physically dangerous home, raised by a WW2 vet and a housewife. Found solace in the draft, where Vietnam provided him the structure - and bodies - he craved. Passed violence down to his daughter. It remains to be seen if she passed it to her daughter. Loves gorillas. |
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| Harlan & Eleanor Blanc (Samantha Small''s great-grandparents, Victor Blanc''s parents) |
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Maya Richardson, AKA "Mrs. Zenith". Ex-superhero. Acting boss of the Kingdom of Keys'' Philadelphia Branch. City Councilwoman |
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| Jacob Hastings, AKA "Mr. Keys". The acting boss of the Washington, DC branch of the Kingdom of Keys, his powers allow him to telekinetically lock and unlock physical key mechanisms and tumblers. Used to be a librarian, sometimes regrets leaving library science behind. |
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Lucas "Mr. Polygraph" Donovan, the head negotiator and consigliere of the Philadelphia branch of the Kingdom of Keys. His superpowers cause a small itch inside of his skull whenever someone lies (or believes they are lying) to him. Works best on direct questions. Power does not function based on an objective truth. |
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| Darnell "Mr. Nothing" Hayes. One of those people who deliberately presents themselves as "not really into anything" so that nobody tries to talk to them. Loves Megadeth. Has successfully killed four superheroes, but doesn''t brag about it, because he has self-preservation skills. |
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Evan "Mr. Mudslide" Williams. Wears a paper bag "to remind him of his working class roots". Two-bit thief. Sore loser. Hates rich people (perhaps his only admirable quality), but not for any good reasons. |
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| "Mr. Antithesis", real name unknown, powers unknown. The "shadowy leader" of the Kingdom of Keys. Insists on operating his supervillain organization like a business, insists on meeting all subordinates one-on-one only, and insists on hand sanitizer before every handshake. Every single one. |
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Nolan Ramirez, AKA "Mr. Yellowjacket". Certified Prettyboy?? and community theatre manager. Also, acting boss of the Kingdom of Keys'' Baltimore branch. His power allows him to fire bursts of compressed air from his fingers with fingerguns and the word "BANG!". Loves Shakespeare. Terrible at being a mobster. |
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| Wesley "Mr. ESP" Chen. Wakes up with a new form of extrasensory perception every day - not guaranteed to be unique or useful. Wears sunglasses indoors because he thinks it makes him look distinctive and intimidating. |
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Dr. Lena "Mrs. Xenograft" Trinh-Norwood. Formerly "Dr. Xenograft", changed at the behest of her new employer. Only part of a criminal supervillain organization because it pays better than PhD veterinary science research. Funnels her money towards PhD veterinary science research. Extremely, extremely autistic. |
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| Mariana Valdez, AKA "Mrs. Heartbeat". An ex-nurse with the power to control heartbeats with a touch, Mariana sticks with the Kingdom of Keys because their gender-affirming care policy is surprisingly robust compared to that of the local hospitals. Addicted to Bejeweled ripoffs. |
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Blake "Mr. Tyrannosaur" Matthews. The Kingdom''s lead enforcer and muscle, at least for the Philadelphia branch. His superpower lets him turn into a paleontologically accurate Tyrannosaurus Rex. He did not realize he had feathers until someone pointed it out to him (he was very confused). Loves b-movies. Ambivalent about Jurassic Park. |
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| Thomas "Mr. Bomb" Abrams. Could turn any object into a rule-activated bomb - the more complex and hard-to-trigger the rules, the stronger the explosion. Corrupt lawyer. Former member of the Kingdom of Keys. Killed in action. |
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Vincent Rose, AKA "Mr. Xerox". KIA October 2021 during a fight with the superhero Cryptid. Possessed the ability to create functional duplicates of inanimate objects, typically used this to save on ammunition costs and cheat at poker. |
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| Finn Taylor, ex-member of the Irish Mob. Previously specialized in armed robbery and "odd jobs". High tolerance for squeamishwork. |
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Stolen story; please report.
Chapter 150.1
The car smells like hand sanitizer and fabric softener, which is a weirdly sterile combination for my mom¡¯s beat-up Toyota. She¡¯s been trying to keep it cleaner lately, probably because Kate and her dad ride with us now. It¡¯s the kind of effort that would be sweet if it weren¡¯t so obviously about distracting herself from the fact that we¡¯re cramming two families into a house that already felt too small.
Kate¡¯s in the passenger seat, hunched over her breathing apparatus - the incentive spirometer, I think - like it¡¯s some kind of sacred relic. She¡¯s wearing her hoodie, but I can see the straps of the ventilator harness peeking out around her shoulders, and every so often she lifts the little plastic tube to her lips and takes a deep, deliberate breath. The ball inside the tube wobbles up, then sinks back down, over and over again. It¡¯s almost hypnotic.
I¡¯m in the backseat, squished up against the door with my burn-wrapped arm resting awkwardly on my lap. The pressure of the bandages is supposed to be "therapeutic," but mostly it¡¯s just annoying. I can¡¯t exactly argue with the results, though; the skin underneath has gone from looking like melted wax to something resembling a scabbed-over sunburn. Progress, I guess.
Mom glances at Kate as we hit a red light, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. ¡°How¡¯s the breathing thing going, Kate?¡± she asks, her voice way too chipper for this early in the morning.
Kate doesn¡¯t look up from the tube. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she says, her voice muffled but clear enough. She¡¯s gotten better at hiding the wheeze lately, but I¡¯ve still got a good ear for it. It¡¯s there, lurking at the edge of her words like a snake at the edge of the grass.
¡°Good,¡± Mom says, nodding like that¡¯s the end of the conversation. But of course, it¡¯s not. ¡°Your dad mentioned you¡¯ve been using it more often. That¡¯s great! The more you practice, the stronger your lungs will get.¡±
Kate nods without saying anything, lifting the tube to her lips again. The little ball wobbles. Up. Down. Up. Down. It¡¯s like she¡¯s trying to tune us out entirely. Honestly, I don¡¯t blame her.
Mom switches gears, probably hoping for an easier target. ¡°Sam, how¡¯s your arm feeling today?¡±
¡°Fine,¡± I say automatically, which is a lie. It¡¯s stiff and itchy and feels like someone¡¯s stapled a layer of plastic wrap to my skin, but ¡°fine¡± is easier than explaining all that.
She glances at me in the rearview mirror, her eyebrows pulling together. ¡°You¡¯re not pushing yourself too hard, are you?¡±
¡°Nope,¡± I say, popping the ¡°p¡± for emphasis. ¡°Being a model patient.¡±
Kate snorts quietly but doesn¡¯t look up. I shoot her a quick glare, but she doesn¡¯t notice, or maybe she just doesn¡¯t care.
The light turns green, and Mom focuses back on the road. For a while, the only sounds are the hum of the engine, the faint whoosh of passing cars, and the rhythmic wobble of Kate¡¯s breathing tube. I tap my fingers against my knee, trying to fill the silence, but it¡¯s like throwing pebbles into a bottomless well. The quiet just swallows everything up.
After a couple more tries at conversation that go absolutely nowhere, Mom finally gives up. She turns on the radio, and the tinny sounds of a pop station fill the car. It¡¯s not great, but it¡¯s better than nothing.
I glance out the window, watching the neighborhood blur past. The bare trees look like skeletons against the gray sky, their branches swaying gently in the wind. It¡¯s not quite warm enough to feel like spring, but the snow is mostly gone, leaving behind soggy lawns and piles of dirty slush.
The therapist¡¯s office is in one of those buildings that¡¯s trying way too hard to look fancy but just ends up looking like a dentist¡¯s waiting room. There¡¯s a big glass door with gold lettering, a little patch of landscaping with half-dead bushes, and a parking lot that¡¯s always way too full. Mom pulls into a spot near the entrance and turns off the engine.
"Okay," Mom says, putting the car in park. "Sam, you¡¯re with Miss Friedman today, right? And Kate, you¡¯re with Dr. Alvarez?"
¡°Got it,¡± I say, opening my door. The cold air hits me like a slap, and I pull my jacket tighter around myself as I climb out. Kate follows suit, clutching her breathing apparatus like it¡¯s a lifeline. For all I know, maybe it is. Kate grabs her backpack, sliding out of the car without a word. I unbuckle my seatbelt and start to follow her, but Mom stops me with a hand on my arm.
"Hey," she says, her voice low. "Be nice, okay?"
I frown at her, confused. "I am being nice."
She gives me a look, the kind that says she knows I¡¯m full of it. "Just... try a little harder," she says. "She¡¯s going through a lot."
I bite back the urge to say that I¡¯m going through a lot too and just nod. "Okay," I mutter, slipping out of the car before she can lecture me any further.
Kate¡¯s already halfway to the building, her bag slung over one shoulder and her breathing thing clutched in her hand. I hurry to catch up, falling into step beside her. She doesn¡¯t say anything, and I don¡¯t either. The sound of her measured breaths fills the space between us, steady and deliberate, like she¡¯s counting each one.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Mom watches us as we head toward the building, her expression unreadable. I can feel her eyes on my back, but I don¡¯t turn around. I know what she¡¯s thinking. She¡¯s wondering how we ended up here, how everything got so tangled and messy. She¡¯s wondering if there¡¯s anything she could¡¯ve done differently.
I¡¯m sitting on the edge of a padded table, rolling my good shoulder while trying not to jostle my right arm too much. Miss Friedman is across the room, checking something on her clipboard.
"How¡¯s the range of motion today?" she asks without looking up.
"Better," I say, which is true. Kind of. I can move my arm more than I could last week, but it still feels stiff, like there¡¯s a rubber band wrapped around my shoulder, pulling everything tight.
She glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "Better how? Be specific."
I sigh, rolling my good shoulder again to buy myself a second. "I can lift it higher, but not for long," I admit. "And it still feels weird when I try to rotate it."
She nods, jotting something down. "Weird how?"
"Like... tight," I say, fumbling for the right words. "And kind of... sharp? Not all the time, just if I push too far."
"Got it," she says, setting the clipboard aside. "Okay, let¡¯s start with some basic stretches. Same as last time. And remember, no pushing past a six on the pain scale."
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, grabbing the resistance band she hands me. "I know the drill."
The stretches are slow and deliberate, each movement designed to pull me just to the edge of discomfort without tipping over into pain. My right arm feels heavy and awkward, like it doesn¡¯t quite belong to me. The burn scars make the skin feel tight and stiff, and every time I reach for something, it¡¯s like my body is reminding me not to overdo it.
Miss Friedman watches me like a hawk, stepping in to adjust my posture or correct my grip when I get sloppy. "You¡¯re compensating with your left side again," she says, tapping my shoulder lightly. "Keep it balanced."
"I¡¯m trying," I say through gritted teeth. The resistance band stretches and contracts, the tension just enough to make my muscles ache in a way that¡¯s more annoying than painful.
After a few sets, she takes the band away and hands me a small foam ball. "Let¡¯s work on your grip strength," she says. "Squeeze it slowly, ten reps."
I do as I¡¯m told, but halfway through, she starts talking about my recovery timeline, and I can feel my frustration bubbling up before she even finishes her sentence.
"With your healing factor, you¡¯re making great progress," she says, her tone light, quiet, but firm. "But you still need to be cautious. The scar tissue is delicate, and if you push too hard, you could set yourself back."
I stop mid-squeeze, my jaw tightening. "How long are we talking?"
"It depends," she says, crossing her arms. "If you¡¯re careful and stick to the plan, you could regain full range of motion in maybe five, six weeks. But if you reinjure yourself..."
"Six weeks?" I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. "I¡¯m already healing faster than normal. Why is it taking so long?"
She gives me a look, the kind that says she¡¯s heard this argument a hundred times before. "Because faster doesn¡¯t mean invincible," she says, her tone patient but firm. "Your body is doing a lot of work right now, and if you don¡¯t let it finish the process, you¡¯re just going to make things worse."
I bite back a retort and focus on the foam ball, squeezing it until my hand starts to cramp. Six weeks. It feels like forever, even though I know it¡¯s not. I just can''t promise I won''t do something stupid in that time.
A door opens across the room, and Kate walks in, her breathing thing in one hand and a water bottle in the other. She looks a little tired, but there¡¯s a determination in her step that I haven¡¯t seen in a while. Her therapist, a tall guy with a friendly smile, follows behind her, carrying a clipboard.
"Ready for the obstacle course?" he asks, his tone teasing.
Kate rolls her eyes but doesn¡¯t argue. "Yeah, let¡¯s get it over with," she says, setting her stuff down on a nearby bench.
I watch as they set up a series of cones and hurdles, each one spaced just far enough apart to make it challenging. Kate stretches her arms and legs, moving with a kind of deliberate precision that makes me feel like I¡¯m slouching just by existing.
"You want to race?" I ask before I can stop myself.
Kate looks at me, her eyebrows raised. "You¡¯re kidding, right?"
"Why not?" I say, standing up and flexing my good arm. "I can still move. And it¡¯s not like you¡¯re running a marathon."
She smirks, her eyes narrowing. "Alright," she says. "But don¡¯t cry when I leave you in the dust."
"Please," I say, already moving toward the starting line. "I¡¯m basically part shark. You don¡¯t stand a chance."
Miss Friedman gives me a warning look but doesn¡¯t stop me, probably because she knows I¡¯m stubborn enough to do it anyway. Kate¡¯s therapist counts us off, and we¡¯re off.
The first cone comes up fast, and I weave around it without too much trouble. My shoulder protests a little, but I ignore it, focusing on the next hurdle. Kate¡¯s ahead of me, her movements smooth and efficient, but I manage to keep pace, my competitive streak kicking in.
By the time we reach the last cone, I¡¯m out of breath and my shoulder is screaming, but I push through anyway, crossing the finish line just a step behind Kate.
"Not bad," she says, panting a little as she leans against a nearby bench. "For someone who¡¯s half-bandaged."
"Not bad yourself," I say, trying to catch my breath. "For someone who... almost died."
Her smile falters for a second, but she recovers quickly, giving me a playful shove. "Next time, I¡¯m leaving you in the dust."
"Next time," I agree, sitting down on the bench and letting my head fall back against the wall.
Miss Friedman appears a moment later, her expression half-annoyed, half-amused. "That wasn¡¯t exactly part of the plan," she says, crossing her arms.
"Yeah, well," I say, waving a hand. "Plans are overrated."
She shakes her head but doesn¡¯t push the issue. Kate¡¯s therapist gives her a thumbs-up, and she heads back to her breathing exercises, leaving me to stretch out my arm and pretend I¡¯m not completely wiped.
By the time we''re done, Mom¡¯s car is already waiting in the parking lot, the engine idling as she scrolls through her phone.
Kate and I climb into the backseat, both of us too tired to say much. She leans her head against the window, her breathing thing resting on her lap, while I stretch out as much as my sling will allow.
"How¡¯d it go?" Mom asks, glancing at us in the rearview mirror.
"Fine," I say, my voice muffled as I adjust my position. "Same as usual."
"Kate?"
"Good," Kate says, her tone clipped. "Better than last time."
Mom nods, her eyes flicking between us for a moment before she pulls out of the lot. The car is quiet again, the only sounds the faint hum of the engine and the soft tapping of Kate¡¯s fingers against her water bottle.
Chapter 150.2
The Music Hall feels quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that''s not quite lonely, but close. I''m sprawled out on the worn couch, scrolling through my phone with my unbandaged hand. My shoulder aches, but it''s a dull, manageable pain now, the kind I can almost ignore if I focus on something else. Maggie''s somewhere upstairs--probably taking a nap--and I''m left alone with my thoughts and the faint hum of the heater.
Kate''s at home with her dad, and I figured she could use some time without me hovering around. It''s not like I mean to hover--it just happens. Maybe it''s the whole hero thing. You save someone''s life, and suddenly you feel responsible for their emotional state too. Not that Kate would ever admit she needs space, but I''ve been friends with her long enough to know when to back off.
The knock on the door is loud enough to make me jump. I sit up, wincing as my shoulder protests the sudden movement. "It''s open!" I call, not really bothering to check who it is.
The door creaks open, and Jordan steps in, carrying a box that looks way heavier than it probably is. They''re grinning, their scarf trailing behind them like they just came back from a particularly brisk walk.
"Guess what I''ve got," they say, kicking the door shut behind them.
"Hopefully something edible," I reply, eyeing the box with mock suspicion. "But knowing you, it''s probably something nerdy."
Jordan snorts, dropping the box onto the coffee table with a thud. "Not nerdy. Tactical," they say, their voice dripping with mock seriousness. "This, my friend, is the future of crime-fighting."
I raise an eyebrow, leaning forward to get a better look. The box is plain, with only a small logo in the corner: SignalTrack Pro XT-5000. The name doesn''t ring any bells, but the packaging screams "expensive gadget."
"What is it?" I ask, poking at the edge of the box. "A drone? Some kind of laser thing?"
Jordan grins, sliding onto the floor to sit cross-legged in front of the coffee table. "Better. It''s a police scanner. High-end. Trunking style."
I blink. "You spent money on a police scanner?"
"Not just any police scanner," they say, their tone mock-offended. "This baby can decode trunked radio systems, which means we can listen in on all kinds of emergency communications without getting lost in a sea of static."
They open the box with the kind of reverence most people reserve for opening presents on Christmas morning. Inside is a sleek black device with a digital display, a small antenna, and a mess of cords and manuals.
I whistle low. "Looks fancy. How much did that set you back?"
Jordan shrugs, their grin widening. "I''ve been saving up. This thing''s been on my wishlist for months, and I finally decided to bite the bullet. It''s got digital decoding, multi-band coverage, and the ability to lock onto encrypted channels--well, sort of. It can pick up the signal, but it can''t actually decrypt anything, because, you know, legal stuff."
"Legal stuff," I echo, crossing my arms. "Isn''t owning one of these... borderline illegal?"
Jordan waves a hand dismissively. "Not if you know what you''re doing. The tricky part is how you use it. Listening isn''t the problem. Acting on what you hear--that''s where it gets dicey."
"Dicey how?" I ask, leaning back against the couch.
"Well," Jordan says, pulling out the manual and flipping through it, "there was that case a few years back--what was it called? Oh, right. Collins v. New York. Some superhero was using a scanner to intercept police communications during a high-speed chase, and they ended up causing more damage than the actual criminal they were trying to stop. The court ruled that accessing those channels without proper authorization violated state wiretapping laws, even though they weren''t technically recording anything."
I frown. "So just listening is okay, but acting on it isn''t?"
"Basically," Jordan says, nodding. "There''s also People v. Radford. Some vigilante--probably not unlike us--used a scanner to set up an ambush for a gang deal. It worked, but the gang''s lawyer argued that their Fourth Amendment rights were violated because the vigilante wasn''t a cop and didn''t have the authority to use police intel. The court agreed, and the whole thing got thrown out."
"So... where does that leave us?" I ask, gesturing to the shiny new scanner.
Jordan smirks. "In a gray area, as usual. But as long as we''re careful--like, only using it to monitor things and not intervening based solely on what we hear--we should be fine. Besides, it''s not like we''re the only ones doing this. Plenty of journalists and hobbyists use these things to keep tabs on public safety."
I pick up the scanner, turning it over in my hands. It''s lighter than I expected, with buttons and dials that look like they belong in a spaceship cockpit. "And how does this help us, exactly?"Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
"Information is power," Jordan says, their tone serious now. "This thing can pick up fire department, EMS, and even some federal bands if we''re lucky. It''s all about staying ahead of the curve. Knowing where the action is before it hits the news."
I nod slowly, setting the scanner back on the table. "Okay, but what about encrypted channels? You said it can''t decrypt them, right?"
"Not legally," Jordan says, their grin returning. "But that''s what makes it interesting. Most police departments use a combination of trunking systems and encryption to keep their communications secure, but there are still gaps. If we''re smart about it, we can figure out patterns without breaking any laws."
"Patterns," I repeat, smirking. "You mean you''re going to play detective with a scanner?"
"Exactly," Jordan says, their eyes lighting up. "And if we pick up anything interesting, we can use it to plan ahead. Like, say there''s a fire in a known Kingdom hotspot--"
"--we can be there before they even know what hit them," I finish, nodding. "Okay, I see the appeal."
Jordan leans back, looking smug. "I knew you''d come around."
I pick up the manual, flipping through it idly. The pages are filled with diagrams and technical jargon that might as well be in another language. "So, how long until you figure out how to use this thing?"
Jordan shrugs. "Give me a day or two. It''s not my first rodeo."
I raise an eyebrow. "You''ve used one of these before?"
"Sort of," they admit. "Not this model, but I''ve played around with similar stuff. It''s all about understanding the frequencies and knowing what to listen for. Besides, this one''s got a programmable interface, so I can set it up to scan specific bands automatically."
"Fancy," I say, leaning back against the couch. "So what''s the plan? Just sit here and listen to static until something interesting comes up?"
"Pretty much," Jordan says, grinning. "Welcome to the exciting world of vigilante surveillance."
Jordan leans back against the coffee table, the glow from the scanner''s display reflecting in their eyes. Their fingers flick across the buttons, adjusting frequencies and tweaking settings like they were born to do it. The hum of static fills the room, occasionally broken by bursts of garbled speech or a faint beep.
It''s kind of mesmerizing, watching them work. Jordan''s always had this way of diving into technical stuff that makes it look effortless. They''ve been like this as long as I''ve known them--sharp, focused, and weirdly good at making complex things seem manageable. Like they''re in control, even when everything else is chaos.
"So," Jordan says, their voice breaking the comfortable silence. "This is pretty sweet, huh?"
"Yeah," I say, leaning forward to watch as they program in another frequency. "You''ve outdone yourself."
"Damn right I have," they say with a smirk, but there''s something behind it--something softer, more thoughtful. They pause, their fingers hovering over the buttons, and glance up at me. "You know, it''s kind of wild."
"What is?" I ask, grabbing a gummy worm from the bag on the couch and chewing it absently.
"This," they say, gesturing at the scanner. "All of this. Us, sitting here, setting up a police scanner like it''s just another Tuesday. A couple years ago, I never would''ve thought I''d be doing something like this. And now... I can''t imagine not doing it."
"Because it''s awesome," I say, grinning. "And because you like being the smart one."
Jordan laughs, shaking their head. "Okay, yeah, maybe. But that''s not what I mean. I mean... this whole thing. The Auditors, the vigilante stuff. I never planned on being... this."
I raise an eyebrow. "What, a hero?"
Jordan snorts. "Hero. That''s a strong word. But yeah, I guess. A better person, maybe. And that''s, like, 90% your fault, just so we''re clear."
I throw the gummy worm bag at them, and they catch it easily, laughing. "You''re welcome," I say. "I think you''ve always been a good person at heart, even when you slammed my head through a row of soup cans. You just... needed direction. Somewhere to focus yourself. How many petty crimes have you done?"
"Direction," they repeat, like they''re tasting the word. "Fewer than I''d like, I''ll admit. You think I''m a good person even if I shoplift and steal from drug dealers?"
I laugh again. "You''re like Robin Hood, man."
They look back at the scanner, their expression unreadable. "That''s why it''s so hard to think about leaving."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, even though I''ve known this was coming for months. My stomach drops out from under me and I immediately feel all the blood drain from my face. It shouldn''t hurt - I should be happy - but it does. A wave of nausea washes over me.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I guess it would be."
Jordan glances at me, their eyes searching mine. "Don''t get me wrong, I''m excited. I mean, MIT? That''s, like, the dream. And I can''t wait to dive into all the cool tech stuff and, you know, become a big shot software engineer or whatever. But... it''s also terrifying. Leaving this city, leaving all of you... it feels like I''m leaving a part of who I am."
"You''re not leaving us," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "You''re just... taking a break. Expanding your horizons. Or whatever people say."
They smile faintly, but it doesn''t reach their eyes. "Yeah, maybe. But you know as well as I do that I can''t do this forever. None of us can. We have to be more than superheroes, some day. June''s coming up fast."
The knot in my stomach tightens. I don''t want to think about what that means--about what it''ll be like when Jordan''s not here, when it''s just me and Maggie and... whoever''s left. Derek? Will Connor even still be here? The thought makes my chest ache.
Jordan reaches over and nudges my good shoulder lightly. "Hey, don''t look so sad. You''re Bloodhound. You''re gonna be fine."
"Easy for you to say," I mutter, picking at the edge of the couch cushion. "You''re the one who gets to go off and live your dream. I''m the one who has to stick around and pick up the pieces."
"That''s not fair," they say, their voice quiet but firm. "I''m not abandoning you, Sam. I''m just... I need to... continue my life. This isn''t a living. And yeah, it''s gonna be hard, but that doesn''t mean I don''t care. I do. More than you know."
I glance at them, surprised by their extremely unusual honesty.
"I''m glad you''re my friend," they say, their voice soft. "You''ve made me better, Sam. And that''s not something I say lightly. In fact, this is the first and only time you''ll ever get to hear it, so enjoy it while it lasts."
I can''t help but smile, even as my chest tightens with barely contained misery. It''s hard to believe this dipshit was the first real shit supervillain I ever fought. Weird things happen, huh? "I''m gonna hold you to that," I say, my voice a little shaky. "No take-backs."
"Deal," they say, grinning. "Now, can we stop being all sappy and get back to work? This scanner''s not gonna set itself up."
Chapter 150.3
The scanner crackles again, cutting through the quiet hum of the Music Hall. The voice on the other end is clipped and professional, just enough static to make me lean closer.
"Unit 432, responding to reports of noxious smoke at the intersection of Longshore and Marsden. Repeat, noxious smoke reported, suspected arson."
The words noxious smoke send a chill down my spine, and my focus locks in like a laser. I sit up, staring at the scanner like I can force it to spit out more details.
"...thick black smoke, limited visibility. No active flames reported at this time," the voice continues. "FD notified. Units en route."
Jordan glances at me, their eyebrow raised. "Sam."
"I know," I say, my voice tight with tension. "But it''s arson."
"It''s suspected arson," Jordan corrects, pulling the scanner closer to study the display. "All they''re saying is smoke. Nobody''s even seen a fire."
"That doesn''t mean there isn''t one," I argue, already moving to grab the bag I keep stashed under the couch. My hand shakes just a little as I unzip it, adrenaline kicking in hard and fast.
"Jordan, this is like... three blocks from here," I say, standing and yanking out the lightweight undersuit that makes up the base of my costume. "We can''t just sit here and wait for the police to handle it."
"You mean you can''t just sit here," Jordan corrects, crossing their arms. "I can. Very easily, in fact. It''s one of my best skills."
"Ha ha," I say, pulling the bag open and yanking out the first piece of my suit. "You know I have to check this out. Arson doesn''t just happen randomly, especially not here."
"And what exactly are you planning to do when you get there?" they ask, their voice heavy with skepticism. "Stare menacingly at the flames until they go out? Your arm''s still healing, Sam. You''re not exactly in top shape for firefighting."
I glare at them, pulling on the lightweight undersuit that makes up the base of my costume. "I''m not going to fight the fire. I just want to see what''s going on. And if someone''s responsible for this, I want to know who."
Jordan sighs, running a hand through their hair. "You''re not going to let this go, are you?"
"Not a chance," I say, grabbing the vest and fastening it over my torso. It''s a little snug with the bandages, but it''ll do.
They shake their head, muttering something under their breath. "Fine. But I''m coming with you."
"You don''t have to--"
"Yeah, I do," they say firmly. "If you''re going to throw yourself into a potential inferno, someone''s gotta make sure you don''t end up crispy again. And besides, it''s not like I''m gonna let you have all the fun."
I grin despite myself, the tension in my chest easing just a little. "Fair enough. But you better keep up."
Jordan rolls their eyes, standing and heading for the storage cabinet where they keep their gear. "Please. I was born to keep up."
As I finish adjusting my pads and guards, I can hear the sound of Jordan unzipping their cloak and pulling out the modified lining. Fury Forge''s experimental fire blanket is stitched into the inside, a gleaming silver material that looks like it could double as a space-age cape. It''s not exactly subtle, but it''s better than nothing.
"You know," Jordan says, fastening the cloak around their shoulders, "we could always, I don''t know, wait for backup. Let the professionals handle this."
"Yeah, and miss out on all the excitement?" I say, pulling on my gloves. "Where''s the fun in that?"
They snort, grabbing their helmet and slipping it over their head. "You''re impossible, you know that?"
The walk down Longshore feels longer than it should, even though it''s just a few blocks. Jordan keeps pace beside me, their cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze. The streets feel colder than usual, but the snow''s been gone for weeks.
"You know," Jordan says, their tone almost conversational, "if there''s no fire, I''m going to be a little annoyed. All that prep about fireproof cloaks and your lightweight, breathable outfit? For nothing."
I glance at them, my lips twitching toward a smile. "Don''t jinx it."
"Please," Jordan says, throwing their arms wide. "Look at this place. Not a flicker in sight. Bet the smoke''s just some idiot burning tires or--"
Their words cut off abruptly as we round the corner onto Marsden. The scene in front of us is... not what I expected. No flames, no roaring inferno, but a thick, black haze hangs low in the air, curling like a living thing. It smells acrid, sharp, the kind of smell that makes your lungs tighten and your eyes water.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"Okay," Jordan says slowly, pulling their cloak up to cover their nose and mouth. "So, maybe not tires."
I take a cautious sniff, and the scent hits me like a slap. Underneath the thick, charred smell is something else, something familiar. My nose stings, my throat burns, and my eyes immediately start to water. I jerk back, coughing.
Jordan gives me a look, one eyebrow raised. "What was that?"
"Pepper spray," I manage, waving a hand in front of my face like it''ll help. It doesn''t. "Mixed with the smoke. That''s what it is."
Jordan stares at me like I''ve grown a second head. "And how exactly do you know what pepper spray smells like?"
"Part of my training," I say quickly, not meeting their gaze. "Don''t worry about it."
"Sure," they say, their tone dripping with skepticism. "Definitely not something I''ll be circling back to later."
We''re close enough now to see the crowd gathered at the corner of Longshore and Marsden. A handful of people stand in clusters on the sidewalk, watching something ahead but keeping a careful distance. Some of them are holding their sleeves to their faces, trying to block out the acrid smoke still drifting lazily through the air.
"There," I say, pointing toward the boarded-up house at the center of the commotion.
The house is a classic Tacony special--a squat, ugly thing with peeling paint and warped boards nailed haphazardly over the windows. Everyone knows what it is: a dump where squatters and low-level dealers crash. Nobody calls the cops unless things get really bad.
Jordan tilts their head, surveying the scene. "Looks like the usual--except for, you know, the part where everyone''s coughing up a lung."
We push closer, slipping through the crowd until we''re at the edge of the commotion. A couple of guys are sprawled out on the sidewalk, one on his back, the other on his hands and knees, hacking like his lungs are about to revolt. There are more of them, too--three, maybe four, no, three, slumped against the wall or curled up on the pavement, their faces pale and slick with sweat.
Pocket knives, switchblades, and cheap knockoff multitools litter the ground around them, gleaming faintly in the streetlights. The weapons look pathetic, almost laughable, but there''s something chilling about the way they''ve been left scattered, like someone made a point of taking these guys apart without leaving them any options.
Jordan whistles softly. "Well, someone had a busy night."
I scan the scene, my blood sense flickering faintly with the pulse of the people around me. Nobody''s bleeding out--thank God--but some of these guys don''t look great. I clip my oxygen mask into place and adjust the straps, the familiar weight settling over my face.
"Keep the crowd back," I say, pulling a small first-aid kit from my bag. "I''m gonna check on them."
Jordan nods, stepping up onto the curb and spreading their arms. "Alright, folks, you''ve had your show. Let''s give the lady some space to work her magic, yeah?"
The onlookers shuffle back reluctantly, murmuring to each other but keeping their distance. I crouch beside the first guy on the ground, a skinny teenager who can''t be older than eighteen. His breathing is shallow, his face streaked with tears and soot, and his hands are clutching at his throat like he''s trying to keep something inside.
"It''s okay," I say, my voice muffled by the mask. "You''re gonna be fine. Just take slow breaths."
He doesn''t respond, but his eyes flick toward me, glassy and red-rimmed. I open the kit and pull out a bottle of saline, flushing his face gently to clear away some of the residue.
The second guy isn''t much older--early twenties, maybe--with a patchy beard and a busted lip. He''s coughing so hard it sounds like he might crack a rib, but at least he''s conscious. I hand him a damp cloth and tell him to hold it to his face while I check for any more serious injuries.
Jordan calls out behind me, their tone light but firm. "Anybody know what happened here? Or are we all just enjoying the ambiance?"
"Smoke," someone mutters from the crowd. "Came out of nowhere. Thought the place was on fire."
"But it wasn''t," Jordan says, glancing at the house. "No flames, no damage. Just... pepper spray smoke. Right?"
A few people nod, but nobody volunteers any more information.
I move to the next guy, who''s slumped against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest. He''s coughing less than the others, but his eyes are swollen shut, and his hands are trembling. I check his pulse--steady, if a little fast--and tilt his head back slightly to help him breathe.
"Who did this?" I ask quietly, more to myself than anyone else.
"They got Gracie," the guy mumbles, spit spilling out over his lower lip. "They got my dealer, man..."
Jordan answers anyway, their voice low and dry. "Somebody who really doesn''t like sharing air, apparently."
I stand slowly, my eyes sweeping over the scene again, filing information out for later. The smoke is thinner now, but the smell lingers, sharp and biting. Whoever did this didn''t just show up to scare these guys--they wanted to make a statement. Where''s this Gracie? That''s a girl''s name - I don''t see any girls, but I don''t see or smell any blood, either. Did someone get abducted? Scared off?
"Vigilante?" Jordan guesses, watching me carefully.
"Maybe," I say, though the word feels heavy in my mouth. "Or someone who wants it to look like one."
Jordan tilts their head, their expression thoughtful. "You''re thinking... what? New player? Or old player with a new playbook?"
"I don''t know yet," I admit, my gaze lingering on the house. "But this doesn''t feel random. Somebody wanted these guys out of commission. And they didn''t stick around to take credit."
Jordan nods slowly, their cloak rustling softly as they shift their weight. "Which means they either don''t care about the credit... or they''ve got bigger plans."
"Exactly."
I glance back at the first guy I helped. His breathing is steadier now, his eyes half-closed as he leans against the curb. The others are in similar shape--shaken, miserable, but alive. "Took all the stuff, man," he mumbles, clearly more upset about the drugs than anything else. I make a note to myself to check for this ''Gracie''. Local dealer, I''m assuming.
Jordan steps closer, their voice low. "You thinking what I''m thinking?"
"Probably," I say, though I''m not ready to say it out loud. Not yet.
We stay like that for a moment, the weight of the scene settling over us like the smoke still clinging to the air. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint wail of sirens, getting closer.
"Time to go," Jordan says, their tone brisk.
I nod, stepping back and slipping my first-aid kit into my bag. The crowd is starting to disperse, their curiosity replaced by the instinct to avoid answering any awkward questions when the cops show up.
Whoever did this wasn''t just cleaning house--they were sending a message.
WORLD OF CHUM: Power Laws (6)
Powers and Precedent: A Conversation with Jennifer Martinez
ABA Journal, November 2022
Jennifer Martinez has built one of the nation''s most respected practices defending powered individuals, but she didn''t set out to specialize in superhuman law. A former public defender in Philadelphia, Martinez found herself increasingly drawn to the complex intersection of traditional criminal defense and emerging powers legislation. Today, her firm Martinez & Associates handles some of the most challenging powered defense cases in the country. We sat down with her to discuss the evolving landscape of powered criminal defense.
ABA Journal: How did you transition from traditional criminal defense to powered cases?
Martinez: It wasn''t a planned transition. In 2012, I was assigned a case involving a defendant who activated during a convenience store robbery. The prosecution wanted to classify his enhanced strength as a weapon under Davis, which would have significantly increased his sentence. That case forced me to really dig into the implications of Davis and how it intersects with traditional criminal law. After that, powered cases just kept coming my way.
ABA Journal: How has U.S. v. Davis shaped your approach to powered defense?
Martinez: Davis created this framework where powers can be classified as weapons, but it''s not automatic. The prosecution has to demonstrate that the power was used in furtherance of a crime. This creates interesting opportunities for the defense. For example, I recently handled a case where my client''s electromagnetic abilities accidentally disabled security cameras during a trespassing incident. The prosecution wanted to enhance the charges under Davis, but we successfully argued that the power activation was involuntary and therefore couldn''t constitute weapon use.
ABA Journal: What are the unique challenges in jury selection for powered cases?
Martinez: Voir dire becomes incredibly complex when powers are involved. You''re dealing with both explicit and implicit biases against powered individuals, plus the challenge of finding jurors who can truly separate the existence of powers from the elements of the crime. We''ve developed specific voir dire protocols focused on identifying jurors who may harbor anti-power prejudices while being careful not to create appellate issues by excluding jurors solely based on their views on powered individuals.
ABA Journal: How does LUMA registration status affect defense strategy?
Martinez: LUMA status is often central to these cases. An unregistered defendant faces additional challenges, but the prosecution''s focus on registration status can sometimes work in our favor. We''ve successfully argued in several cases that the prosecution was inappropriately focusing on LUMA violations to prejudice the jury against our clients regarding the underlying charges. Courts are increasingly receptive to separating LUMA compliance from other criminal allegations.
ABA Journal: How do you approach cases involving powers that are inherently dangerous or difficult to control?
Martinez: These cases require carefully structured defense strategies. The prosecution often tries to argue that merely possessing certain powers constitutes reckless endangerment or criminal negligence. We''ve had success countering this by bringing in experts to testify about power control development and the Bracing Effect. In one recent case involving a client with pyrokinetic abilities, we demonstrated that his level of control was actually above average for his time since activation, which helped contextualize the incident in question.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
ABA Journal: What special considerations come into play regarding evidence in powered cases?
Martinez: Chain of custody becomes extraordinarily complex when powers are involved. For example, how do you maintain evidence integrity when dealing with objects affected by matter manipulation powers? We recently handled a case where the prosecution''s evidence had been collected from a crime scene affected by temporal manipulation. We successfully argued that without establishing a baseline temporal reference, they couldn''t prove the evidence reflected the scene at the time of the alleged crime.
ABA Journal: How has the emergence of the "goon economy" affected powered defense work?
Martinez: The organized nature of powered crime has created new legal challenges. We''re seeing more RICO cases involving powered individuals, which requires expertise in both traditional organized crime defense and powers legislation. The courts are still working out how to handle cases where traditional criminal enterprise laws intersect with power-specific regulations. It''s crucial to stay current with these evolving interpretations.
ABA Journal: What''s your approach to handling the media attention these cases often attract?
Martinez: Media management has become a crucial part of powered defense work. We have to balance our ethical obligations to our clients with public safety concerns and media interest. I''ve found it''s essential to maintain strict policies about media engagement and to work closely with court information officers to ensure accurate reporting of power-related legal issues. This helps prevent sensationalism from affecting jury pools or creating security issues.
ABA Journal: How do you handle cases involving multiple powered defendants?
Martinez: Joint defense agreements become particularly complex in powered cases. Beyond traditional conflict considerations, you have to account for power interactions and potential amplification effects. We''ve developed specific protocols for cases involving multiple powered defendants, especially when their abilities might interact in ways that affect criminal liability. This often requires bringing in power interaction experts early in the case planning process.
ABA Journal: What do you see as the next major legal battleground in powered defense?
Martinez: I think we''re going to see significant litigation around privacy rights for powered individuals and vice versa, particularly regarding individuals with "detection" powers. There are already cases working through the system challenging whether powers that operate as passive detection via forms of extrasensory perception constitute a search under the Fourth Amendment. We''re also seeing interesting questions about whether certain powers should be protected under attorney-client privilege ¨C for instance, if a client''s powers give them perfect recall of conversations with counsel.
ABA Journal: Your firm''s New York office has become particularly notable for handling complex powered cases. What unique challenges does practicing in New York present?
Martinez: New York presents fascinating jurisdictional challenges due to the density of powered activity. We often deal with cases that cross multiple precincts and districts, sometimes involving both state and federal charges. The Southern District of New York has developed some of the most comprehensive powered case law in the country, which creates both opportunities and challenges for the defense.
The concentration of corporate interests in New York also adds complexity to powered defense work. We frequently handle cases involving powered individuals accused of corporate espionage or securities violations, which requires expertise in both powered defense and white-collar criminal law. The intersection of powers and financial crimes is becoming an increasingly significant part of our practice.
ABA Journal: Any final advice for attorneys considering powered criminal defense?
Martinez: First, invest in understanding the science. The Bracing Effect, power classification systems, activation theory ¨C these aren''t just academic concepts. They have real implications for defense strategy. Second, build a strong network of expert witnesses and power specialists. And finally, remember that despite all the complexity powers add to criminal defense, our fundamental obligation remains the same: ensuring every defendant, powered or not, receives a fair trial and zealous defense under the law.
Jennifer Martinez is the founding partner of Martinez & Associates, with offices in New York and Philadelphia. She teaches Advanced Powers Legislation at Columbia Law School and serves on the ABA''s Task Force on Powered Individual Rights.
Chapter 151.1
The coffee''s my doing--I found the ancient pot buried in a corner and decided it was worth resurrecting. The stack of freshly printed documents on the table? Also mine. Jordan may have bought the printer, but they''d probably explode if they admitted it was for me.
Jordan''s sprawled across one of the mismatched chairs, their laptop balanced precariously on their knees, while the police scanner hums faintly in the background. On the other end of the table, my own laptop chugs along with its usual wheeze, the ancient fan working overtime to keep up with the tabs I''ve got open.
The TV''s muted, but the closed captions roll across the bottom of the screen. Some talking head is droning about local crime statistics and city ordinances, their face frozen in an expression that''s somehow both smug and concerned.
"Okay," Jordan says, dragging their finger across the trackpad and squinting at the screen. "I''ve got something on Tremont & Fairfax''s pro bono history. These guys love a good underdog story. Look at this--''assisting displaced tenants in South Boston,'' ''defending small business owners from corporate buyouts,'' and, oh, here''s a gem: ''securing the release of a wrongly convicted man who spent twenty years in prison.''"
I glance over the rim of my coffee mug. "So they''re the good guys?"
Jordan snorts, their scarf slipping off one shoulder as they adjust their chair. "Not exactly. They''ve got a weird split personality. Sure, they do a ton of charity work--like, a ridiculous amount--but dig a little deeper, and you find their real bread and butter: corporate law and hedge fund management. They''re representing billion-dollar companies on one side and handing out free legal advice on the other."
"That doesn''t scream shady to you?" I ask, flipping through one of the printouts. "I mean, who funds a legal arm that big just to be nice?"
Jordan tilts their head, considering. "It''s not totally unheard of. Big firms like this use pro bono work to boost their image or recruit talent. But Tremont & Fairfax feels... different. Look at this." They turn the laptop toward me, the screen filled with a dizzying array of case summaries. "A lot of their pro bono cases? Supervillain defense. Not the big names, but mid-tier players, up-and-comers, people you''d never hear about unless you were paying attention."
I set my mug down, leaning in to get a better look. "And they win these cases?"
"More often than they should," Jordan says, their voice low. "But it''s not just about winning. It''s the patterns. They pick cases that seem random, but there''s a thread connecting them. Like they''re testing the waters or setting something up."
I frown, tapping the edge of the table with my good hand. "Like what? Building a network? Creating debts?"
"Maybe both," Jordan says, scrolling through more files. "Or maybe they''re just keeping certain people out of jail. The kind of people who might be useful down the line."
I lean back in my chair, letting out a slow breath. The printer whirs to life again, spitting out another stack of papers. Jordan reaches over to grab them, sorting them into piles with the kind of precision that makes me feel like a chaotic mess in comparison. My own method is... less organized. I''ve got sticky notes stuck to the edges of my laptop, scribbled reminders in the margins of printouts, and a mental map of connections that only makes sense to me.
"Here," I say, sliding one of my sticky notes across the table. "This guy--Martin Calloway. He''s listed as a junior partner at Tremont & Fairfax, but I found an article linking him to a shell company that used to own a warehouse in Kensington. That warehouse? Burned down six months ago in what was officially called an accident but smelled a lot like arson."
Jordan raises an eyebrow. "Kensington. Isn''t that Rogue Wave turf?"
"Exactly," I say, a hint of satisfaction creeping into my voice. "And guess who was seen hanging around the ruins a week later? Some Kingdom of Keys lackeys. No arrests, of course, but it''s a little too convenient to ignore."
Jordan''s grin is sharp and approving. "You might actually be onto something, Bloodhound."
I shrug, trying to play it cool. "It''s just a lead."
"Just a lead," Jordan echoes, their tone dripping with mock humility. "Says the person who''s probably going to crack this case wide open with their gut instinct and questionable NetSphere searches."
"Hey, my NetSphere searches are very questionably good," I shoot back, smirking.
Jordan laughs, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases. It''s been like this a lot lately--these moments where we work together, our methods clashing and complementing each other in equal measure. Jordan''s the brains, the one who dives into data and comes up with theories that make my head spin. I''m... not that. But I''ve got instincts, and sometimes that''s enough.
"Alright," Jordan says, tapping their laptop like it''s a magic lamp. "Let''s focus. Tremont & Fairfax''s supervillain cases. Who''ve they defended that might be connected to the Kingdom?"
I glance at the printouts, my eyes scanning the names. None of them jump out at me--not like the big players I''m used to dealing with. But that''s the thing about the Kingdom. They''re not about flashy names or big headlines. They''re about staying under the radar, building power quietly, and hitting hard when no one''s expecting it.
"I don''t recognize anyone," I admit, leaning back in my chair. "But that doesn''t mean they''re not connected. What about Huang? Does she have a pattern?"
Jordan nods, flipping to another tab. "She''s mostly worked on cases involving due process violations--stuff like illegal searches, excessive force, procedural errors. It''s not a bad angle, honestly. A lot of supervillains get caught because they screw up their rights, not because they''re guilty."
"Which explains why she''s defending Aaron," I say, my stomach twisting a little at the thought of him. "But who''s paying her? There''s no way McKinley can afford someone like her."
"That," Jordan says, pointing dramatically at me, "is the question. And I think the answer might be hiding in Tremont & Fairfax''s client list. If we can figure out who''s bankrolling her, we''ll have a better idea of what''s really going on."If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
I nod, my mind racing. There''s something here--I can feel it. We just have to dig deep enough to find it.
The TV cuts to a bright red BREAKING NEWS banner, and both of us turn toward the screen. The muted audio gives way to a reporter standing in front of City Hall, their breath visible in the cold air, a crowd behind them.
"...announcement expected regarding a controversial new ordinance set to impact Philadelphia''s superhuman community," the reporter says, their tone carefully neutral. "Details remain scarce, but sources suggest the proposal could have significant implications for vigilantes and registered superheroes alike..."
The livestream blares from the old TV, the bright graphic of BREAKING NEWS lingering in the corner of the screen like a warning flare. Councilman Ward stands at a podium on the steps of City Hall, his dark suit and blue tie immaculate against the gray stone backdrop. Beside him, the Philadelphia flag flaps lazily in the wind, its yellow and blue stripes vivid against the overcast sky.
"Good morning," Ward begins, his voice clear and authoritative. "Today, we take a significant step toward restoring order and safety in our city. The chaos caused by unchecked superhuman activity cannot be ignored any longer. That''s why I am proud to announce the proposed Superhuman Activity Regulation Act, a bipartisan effort to bring structure to a situation that has spiraled out of control."
Behind him, a small group of other councilmembers and aides stand in a neat formation, their faces solemn. One figure steps forward--Maya Richardson, dressed in a sharp maroon blazer that practically radiates confidence. She takes her place beside Ward, giving him a quick nod before addressing the crowd.
"This is not about stifling heroism," Maya says, her voice smooth and measured. "This is about ensuring that heroism doesn''t come at the cost of our neighborhoods, our families, or our future. The Superhuman Activity Regulation Act aims to provide clear guidelines for superhuman involvement, especially among our younger citizens."
Jordan leans forward, their hand frozen on the stack of notes they were sorting. "Oh, this is gonna be bad," they mutter, their eyes locked on the screen.
I don''t respond, my attention fixed on Maya as she continues. "Under this ordinance, individuals under the age of 18 will no longer be permitted to engage in vigilante activities, even with a LUMA. Instead, minors will be encouraged to channel their abilities into structured programs--education, training, and community service. For adults, the act will enforce stricter oversight and accountability for all LUMA-approved activities."
Ward picks up where she leaves off, his tone a little too polished. "We understand the concerns this may raise, but let''s be clear--this is not about targeting heroes. This is about targeting chaos. Criminals don''t have LUMAs. Superpowered gangs don''t have LUMAs. Jumpheads especially don''t have LUMAs. This legislation gives our law enforcement and registered superhuman entities the tools they need to bring these offenders to justice."
My stomach knots as I listen. It''s not hard to read between the lines.
Jordan sits back, their hands folded behind their head. "Well, there it is. The ''Jumpheads are ruining everything'' speech, wrapped up in a shiny bipartisan package."
On the TV, a reporter''s voice cuts in, summarizing the ordinance with bullet points as the screen flashes a list of proposed regulations.
- No vigilante activities for individuals under 18, regardless of LUMA status.
- Increased oversight and accountability for adult LUMA holders.
- Expansion of the Registered Superhuman Entity program to include greater civilian enforcement powers.
Jordan tilts their head, their expression dark. "You know what this is, right?"
I nod slowly, my mind catastrophizing all the billions of ways I''m about to get turbo-arrested. "She''s making us illegal."
"Exactly," Jordan says. "Maya''s smart. She knows how to frame this so it looks like a public safety measure. And Ward? He''s just here to make it look bipartisan."
Maya steps forward again, her expression perfectly calibrated to convey authority and concern. "We cannot allow this epidemic of superpowered street violence to continue unchecked. Philadelphia has suffered enough. We are no longer allowing rogue pyrogenetics to burn down significant swathes of Northeast Philadelphia unchecked, or crazed scientists looking to hold entire hospitals hostage for days at a time. This legislation is not about limiting opportunities--it''s about protecting them."
My hands clench into fists, the paper I was holding crumpling slightly. Protecting opportunities? For who?
Jordan glances at me, their sharp gaze softening slightly. "You okay, Sam?"
"No," I admit, barely able to tear my eyes away from the screen. "She''s not even trying to hide it. This is about us. Me. Maggie. Maybe even you, by association."
They nod, their expression grim. "It''s personal, alright. She''s using Ward to make it look like this isn''t about targeting specific people, but you know she''s got your name circled in red on some internal memo."
I grab one of the printed documents from the table and flip it over, the blank side staring back at me like a challenge. Grabbing a pen, I start jotting down numbers, counting on my fingers as I go. "Okay," I mumble, more to myself than to Jordan. "Let''s do some math."
Jordan watches me with raised eyebrows, clearly amused. "Math? From you? This should be good."
"Shut up," I snap, though there''s no heat behind it. "Look, the average law firm of this size handles, what, twelve or thirteen supervillain-related cases a year? That''s defense, prosecution, corporate stuff, whatever. But Tremont & Fairfax averages nineteen. That''s... that''s a big gap, right?"
Jordan leans over to glance at my notes, their expression shifting from amused to impressed. "Okay, that''s actually a good point. But you''re just looking at raw case numbers. What about per-lawyer? A bigger firm could naturally handle more cases just because they''ve got more people."
I pause, the pen hovering over the paper. "How many lawyers do they have?"
Jordan pulls their laptop back into their lap, typing furiously. "Let''s see... Their website lists 76 attorneys across all their branches. That''s a little on the high side for a firm like this, but not by much."
"Okay," I say, scribbling furiously. "So if we divide the number of cases by the number of lawyers--"
"Now you''re inventing statistical analysis from scratch," Jordan interrupts, grinning. "Sam, are you sure you''re not secretly a math prodigy?"
"I''m not even taking Stats," I mutter, shoving the paper toward them. "Here. You do the number-crunching."
Jordan takes the notes, their grin widening. "You''re not bad at this, you know. Just a little... rough around the edges. Like, you''re building a calculator out of duct tape and vibes, but it works."
I roll my eyes, leaning back against the couch. "Whatever. Just tell me if I''m onto something."
Jordan''s still muttering to themselves about "statistical significance" and "standard deviations" when my phone buzzes against the table. I pick it up, my stomach dropping when I see the notification: Young Defenders HIRC Priority Ping.
It''s been months since anything important popped up in the group chat--ever since we were unofficially grounded. I swipe the notification, opening the message.
Councilman Davis: "Young Defenders, your presence is requested at City Hall ASAP. This is a critical matter. Please confirm receipt."
I glance at Jordan, who''s too absorbed in their number crunching to notice the change in my expression. "Hey," I say, my voice tight. "I need to step out for a bit."
Jordan looks up, their brow furrowed. "What''s up?"
"Councilman Davis wants to meet. Something about the ordinance, I think." I stand, shoving my phone into my pocket. "I''ll be back soon."
Jordan''s eyes narrow slightly, but they don''t argue. "Be careful, Sam. This thing? It''s bigger than it looks."
"Yeah," I say, grabbing my jacket. "I know."
As I head for the door, the TV continues to blare in the background, Maya''s voice ringing out like a warning bell. "This is not the end of heroism," she says, her tone firm. "It''s the beginning of something better."
Chapter 151.2
The gym at the DVD headquarters is colder than it has any right to be. The floor is polished concrete, the kind that always looks damp even when it''s dry, and the overhead lights buzz faintly, their white glare casting long shadows across the room. The place is bare. Functional. A space for action, not conversation. There''s a small cluster of chairs set up in the middle, though, and that''s where we''ve been directed to gather.
It''s not a cozy setup.
I''m sitting cross-legged on the floor, my burn-wrapped arm resting in my lap, while Rampart leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Blink''s pacing back and forth, her sneakers squeaking on the floor with every step, and Gossamer is perched on one of the folding chairs, her hands fidgeting with a scrap of fabric she pulled from her pocket.
Connor''s sitting on the floor near me, his long legs sprawled out like he''s got nowhere better to be, but there''s a tension in his shoulders that makes it clear he''s as wound up as the rest of us.
At the center of the room, Councilman Davis stands beside Clara, who''s got a thick folder tucked under one arm and an expression like she''s bracing for impact.
"This isn''t a surprise," Davis starts, his voice calm but firm, the kind of tone you''d use to explain bad news to a kid without sugarcoating it. "We knew this was coming."
"Did we?" Rampart cuts in, his deep voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. "Because I don''t remember anyone telling us we were about to get legislated into nonexistence."
Davis sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jason, we''ve talked about this. The city''s been under pressure for months--between the property damage, the gang fights, the arsons--"
"Property values," Gossamer says softly, not looking up from her fabric. Her voice is almost drowned out by the hum of the lights.
"What was that?" Davis asks, turning to her.
"I said, ''property values,''" Gossamer repeats, louder this time. "That''s what this is really about, isn''t it? All those neighborhoods getting trashed? It''s not the fires or the fights that bother them--it''s the fact that they''re making rich people nervous."
Davis opens his mouth, but Clara steps in before he can respond. "It''s not just about property values," she says, her tone measured. "This is about public safety. The council''s framing this as a way to curb the violence and chaos caused by unregulated superhuman activity. They''re playing on fear."
"And it''s working," Connor mutters, stretching his legs out further. "My foster dad''s been watching the news nonstop. Every time they show a burning building or a gang fight, he gives me this look. Like he''s waiting for me to say, ''Surprise! That was me.''"
"It''s not just the news," Blink says, finally stopping her pacing to face the group. "You see the way people look at us? Even when we''re in costume, doing good? It''s like they''re waiting for us to snap."
"That''s the point," Davis says, spreading his hands. "They''re painting a picture of unchecked superhuman violence, and this ordinance is their solution. They''re saying, ''Look, we''re not against heroes. We''re just against the ones who aren''t following the rules.''"
"And the rules," Rampart says, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "just happen to make it impossible for people like us to operate. Convenient."
Davis doesn''t argue, which is almost worse than if he had. Instead, he looks at Clara, who steps forward, her folder clasped tightly in both hands.
"If this ordinance passes--and it will--there''s no way to continue as we are now," Clara says. "The Young Defenders will have to dissolve."
The words land like a punch to the gut. My stomach twists, and I glance around the room, trying to gauge everyone''s reactions. Blink looks like she''s been slapped, her face pale and her hands clenched into fists. Rampart''s jaw tightens, but he doesn''t say anything. Connor doesn''t even flinch; he just stares at the floor, his expression unreadable.
Gossamer finally looks up, her fingers still fidgeting with the fabric. "Good," she says quietly.
Everyone turns to stare at her.
"What?" Blink asks, her voice sharp. "How is that good?"
Gossamer shrugs, her gaze steady. "I don''t want to do this forever. I''m not like you guys--I don''t want to fight people and burn myself out trying to save a city that doesn''t even want us. I just want to... make things. Be a costumier. Is that so bad?"
"No," Connor says, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "It''s not bad. It''s smart."
Blink glares at him. "You too? What, you''re just gonna walk away?"
Connor shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Probably. My foster dad''s been on me about getting my GED, about staying out of trouble. And... he''s right. I''m not a genius or a fighter or whatever. I''m just a guy who can fold himself into a pretzel. Maybe it''s time I stop pretending I''m more than that."This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
The room falls into an uneasy silence. Even Rampart, who''s usually the loudest voice in any argument, doesn''t say anything. I feel like I should speak up, defend us, but my throat feels tight, and my head''s spinning.
"We can''t all do this forever," Clara says softly, her gaze sweeping over the group. "And that''s okay. But for those of you who want to keep going, there''s a path forward. You can register as RSEs. Davis and I will do everything we can to fast-track you."
"What about me?" I blurt out before I can stop myself. My voice comes out sharper than I intended, and everyone turns to look at me.
Clara hesitates, her expression softening. "You''re not 18, Sam. You can''t register as an RSE."
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I knew it already, of course. But hearing it out loud, in this room, surrounded by my team--it makes it real in a way it wasn''t before.
"So what am I supposed to do?" I ask, my voice shaking. "Just... quit?"
Davis steps forward, his expression carefully neutral. "We''ll figure something out, Sam. But for now--"
"For now," I interrupt, "you''re saying I''m screwed."
"No one''s saying that," Clara says quickly, but the look on her face tells me she doesn''t really believe it.
Blink is the first to break the silence, her voice sharp as she turns to Clara.
"So that''s it?" she asks, throwing her arms wide. "We all just go our separate ways and pretend this never happened?"
"No one''s saying that," Clara replies, her voice calm but firm. "But the reality is, the Young Defenders as you know it can''t continue. Not with this ordinance."
"What if we don''t care about the ordinance?" Blink shoots back. "What if we just keep going, ordinance or no ordinance?"
"You''d be criminals," Clara says bluntly. "Unregistered superhumans operating in violation of city law. And the consequences wouldn''t just fall on you--it would affect everyone you work with, everyone you care about."
"Then I guess I''m a criminal," Blink snaps, crossing her arms. "Because I''m not going anywhere."
"Same," I say before anyone else can speak. The word comes out before I''ve even thought about it, but once it''s out, it feels solid. Final. "I''m not quitting. I couldn''t stop even if I wanted to."
Blink shoots me a grateful look, her stance relaxing slightly. "Where Bloodhound goes, I go."
Rampart lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. "You''re not thinking this through, Lily. Neither of you are."
"And you are?" Blink fires back. "You''re just gonna let them shut us down?"
"I''m not letting anything happen," Rampart says, his voice steady but tinged with frustration. "I''m stepping up. Joining the DVDs. It''s the only way to keep doing this without getting arrested."
"That''s not fair," Blink says, her voice rising. "You''re just leaving us to fend for ourselves?"
"I''m trying to set an example," Rampart snaps, his patience clearly wearing thin. "If we work within the system, maybe we can change it. But if we go rogue, we lose everything."
"Change it from the inside," Gossamer murmurs, her tone skeptical. "That always works."
Rampart turns to her, his expression softening slightly. "What''s your plan, Amelia? Sit on the sidelines and wait for someone else to fix it?"
Gossamer''s cheeks flush, but she doesn''t back down. "My plan is to figure out what I actually want, instead of diving headfirst into a fight I can''t win, Jason."
"And you think we can''t win this?" Blink challenges, her voice full of defiance.
"I think..." Gossamer hesitates, her fingers tightening around the scrap of fabric in her hands. "I think that I''m not sure what to do. And I don''t know what I can do about this. And I don''t have a good answer for anyone."
Connor shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flicking between Gossamer and Blink. "She''s not wrong," he says quietly. "I just think it''s over. For me, at least. It was fun. I... appreciate you guys..." he stops to search for the word. "Rescuing me,"
"Connor," Blink says, her voice softer now. "You''re really leaving?"
He nods, looking down at his hands. "Yeah. I''ve got my GED to focus on, and... I''m not like you guys. I''m not a leader or a fighter or whatever. I''m just a guy who got lucky enough to tag along for a while. But it''s time for me to move on. Legu... Luh... Legitimize. And my, uh, partner is moving away anyway. I think it''s time to keep my life moving. Keep rolling, rolling, rolling, et cetera."
Blink looks like she''s about to argue, but I put a hand on her arm, shaking my head slightly. "Let him," I say quietly. "If that''s what he wants."
Connor gives me a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Sam."
Rampart crosses his arms again, his expression unreadable. "So that''s it. Connor''s out, Gossamer''s on the fence, and the rest of you want to go rogue?"
"I didn''t say that," Gossamer says, her tone defensive. "I just... don''t know yet. I need time to think."
"And what about you, Sam?" Rampart asks, his gaze locking onto mine. "What''s your plan?"
I straighten my shoulders, even though the weight of the question feels like it''s pressing me down. "I''m not quitting," I say firmly. "But I''m not joining the DVDs, either. I can''t. Not even legally."
"That doesn''t leave you many options," Clara says gently. "Whatever you do, you better be smart about it. And careful."
That''s not exactly not an endorsement.
"I''ll figure it out," I say, my voice steady. "I always do."
The room falls into a tense silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us. Blink''s pacing again, her sneakers squeaking against the floor, while Gossamer stares at the fabric in her hands like it holds all the answers. Connor''s gaze is fixed on the ground, his shoulders slumped, and Rampart''s still standing like a statue, arms crossed and jaw tight.
Davis clears his throat, stepping forward. "Look," he says, his tone measured. "I know this isn''t what any of you wanted to hear. But this ordinance is happening, whether we like it or not. And we need to decide how we''re going to respond."
"We''ve already decided," Blink says, her voice sharp. "Sam and I aren''t quitting."
"And I''m stepping up," Rampart says. "Joining the DVDs. It''s the only way I can keep doing this."
"I need time," Gossamer says quietly.
"I''m out," Connor says, his voice steady but soft.
Davis nods, his expression unreadable. "Okay," he says. "That''s where we stand, then. But whatever happens, I want you all to remember one thing: You''re a team. You''ve been through a lot together, and that doesn''t just go away because things are changing."
"We''ll see," Blink mutters, but there''s a hint of uncertainty in her voice now.
Clara steps forward, her gaze sweeping over all of us. "No matter what you decide, you''re not alone. We''re here to support you, whatever path you choose. But you need to be smart about this. The city isn''t playing games, and neither can you. Until the ordinance passes, we''ll cram whatever support we can legally give you down your throats, and after that... We''ll... see what we can do within the law. Okay?"
For maybe the last time as a team, we''re in sync; "Okay,"
Chapter 151.3
Jordan''s new printer hums softly from the corner, its little green light blinking like it''s mocking me. Half the coffee table is covered in printouts and Jordan''s laptop, the rest taken up by empty snack wrappers and half-full cups. Blink sits cross-legged on the couch, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea I found in the cupboard but never drink. She''s still in her casual clothes, the DVD logo visible on the strap of her free merch bag, which she tossed onto the couch as soon as we got back.
We walked home together, catching up in the low, rhythmic beats of a conversation about everything that wasn''t life-or-death. It was good. Easy. I asked Connor if he wanted to come too, but he just shook his head and muttered something about not being able to talk to Jordan right now. "Trouble in paradise?" I''d joked, but he hadn''t laughed. File that away for later.
Now, Jordan''s pacing in front of us, their cloak half-draped over one shoulder like they''re a theater kid who wandered into a lecture by mistake. "Alright," they say, holding up one of the freshly printed sheets. "Here''s what I''ve got."
Blink glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "Should I be scared?"
"Probably," I say. "But mostly confused."
Jordan''s pacing has settled into a rhythm, punctuated by the occasional slap of a freshly printed sheet landing on the coffee table. Blink leans forward on the couch, her mug of tea cradled in her hands as she watches Jordan with a mix of curiosity and confusion. I''m sitting cross-legged on the other end, poking at the pages like they''re going to rearrange themselves into something I can understand.
"Alright," Jordan says, holding up one of the printouts, "let''s talk stats. This," they tap the top of the page, "is the distribution of superhuman criminal defense cases handled by the nation''s twenty biggest law firms over the last ten years."
They point to a column of numbers that means absolutely nothing to me. Blink glances at me, and I shrug.
"What you''re looking at," Jordan continues, "is the mean proportion of superhuman cases to total criminal cases. Across the board, it''s about 11.8 percent with a standard deviation of 2.3 percent. Most of these firms cluster pretty tightly around that average."
"Okay," Blink says slowly. "So where does Tremont & Fairfax fit in?"
Jordan''s grin widens as they slap down another sheet, this one with a line graph that looks suspiciously like a heart monitor. "T&F is an outlier. They''re at 19.2 percent, which puts them about three standard deviations above the mean."
Blink raises an eyebrow. "And that''s bad, right?"
"It''s weird," Jordan corrects, tapping the graph for emphasis. "Three standard deviations is rare--like, less than 0.3 percent rare, statistically speaking. But here''s the kicker: They''re not alone."
They shuffle through the pile and pull out another sheet, this one covered in bar charts. "Four other firms--Halverson-Levine, Pritchard-Bowen, Perkins-Clyne, and Atwood-Brandt--are all between two and three standard deviations above the mean. T&F''s on the high end, sure, but they''re not unique."
I frown, trying to piece it together. "So what you''re saying is... they''re doing something unusual, but it''s not just them?"
"Exactly," Jordan says, tossing the paper onto the pile. "If it were just T&F, we could argue they''re deliberately targeting powered clients. But with four other firms showing similar patterns, it starts to look more like a trend in the industry."
Blink leans back, her mug resting on her knee. "A trend, or a cover?"
"That''s the million-dollar question," Jordan says, their expression sharp. "Are these firms independently skewed, or is there some underlying factor tying them together? Because right now, we''ve got correlation but no causation."
I pick up a printout with yet another graph, this one with lines crisscrossing like spaghetti. "Could it be that they just have more resources? Like, maybe bigger firms are more likely to take these cases because they can afford the risk?"A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
"Good question," Jordan says, looking genuinely impressed. "You''re thinking about confounding variables, which is great. And yeah, T&F is one of the largest firms in the country, so their case volume is higher across the board. But even when you adjust for size--cases per lawyer instead of total cases--they''re still an outlier. They''re averaging 2.1 superhuman cases per lawyer per year, compared to a mean of 1.4 with a standard deviation of 0.5."
Blink whistles. "So they''re still way above average."
"Way above," Jordan agrees. "But again, so are the other four. That''s the frustrating part. We''ve found a pattern, but it''s too broad to pin anything on T&F specifically."
I slump back against the couch, frustration bubbling in my chest. "Great. So we''ve got a bunch of maybe-suspicious law firms but no actual proof that they''re up to something shady. Awesome."
Blink''s brow furrows. "Could we dig deeper? Look at individual cases, see if there''s a common thread?"
"We''d need access to sealed records," Jordan says, their tone grim. "Internal communications, client lists--the kind of stuff we can''t just NetSphere. Right now, all we''ve got is what''s publicly available, and even that''s limited."
The room falls quiet for a moment, the weight of the dead end settling over us. Blink - Lily - sips her tea, her gaze drifting around the room, face framed by short purple hair. "You know," she says, breaking the silence, "I''ve never been here before. It''s pretty convenient. Close to home."
Jordan snorts. "Yeah, yeah, we know. It''s a prime location for all your totally legal, definitely-not-vigilante activities."
She grins, nudging me with her elbow. "You gonna give me the grand tour?"
I shrug. "Sure, but it''s not that exciting. Just a big, empty building with a bunch of old junk we keep around for nostalgia."
"Don''t let her undersell it," Jordan says, grabbing another stack of papers. "The Music Hall is basically the Batcave, if the Batcave was designed by a bunch of broke teenagers with no aesthetic sense."
Lily laughs, the sound cutting through the tension in the room. "Sounds perfect. Guess I''ll be spending a lot more time here, huh?"
Jordan raises an eyebrow. "Oh, definitely. But don''t get too comfortable. We''ve got a whole initiation ritual and everything. You ever been branded before?"
The sound of the TV jolts us out of our conversation. The familiar breaking news alert flashes across the screen, and the anchor''s voice cuts through the low hum of the police scanner.
"We have just received breaking news regarding the Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center. Details of an upcoming transfer of high-profile inmates have been leaked online. The leaked documents include specific information about transfer routes, timing, and security measures. Officials have yet to comment, but sources say the inmates being moved include individuals linked to superhuman criminal activity."
I exchange a look with Jordan, my stomach already tying itself into knots. Lily sets her mug down carefully, her brow furrowed. "That''s... not good."
Jordan grabs the remote and turns up the volume as the anchor continues. "The leak appears to have been coordinated, with multiple news outlets receiving the documents simultaneously. Law enforcement sources are calling the breach a significant security risk, raising questions about who might have orchestrated it--and why."
"Coordinated," Jordan mutters, their eyes narrowing. They lean forward, typing furiously on their laptop. "This isn''t just someone getting lucky. This is surgical."
Lily sits up straighter, her focus locked on the screen. "Surgical like... the Kingdom?"
Jordan doesn''t answer immediately, their attention on the document that''s just popped up on their screen. "Got it," they say, pulling up a series of maps and tables. "This is the leaked schedule."
The three of us crowd around the laptop, scanning the data. The document is a masterpiece of detail--every route mapped, every checkpoint listed, every security measure cataloged down to the number of guards and their shifts. It''s the kind of thing that shouldn''t exist outside of an internal briefing.
"This is bad," Jordan says, their voice low. "Like, really bad. Whoever put this together didn''t just steal the information--they polished it. Look at these annotations. They''re pointing out weak spots in the plan."
Lily leans in closer, her expression grim. "So, what? This is bait? A trap?"
"Maybe," Jordan says, scrolling through the document. "Or it''s a flex. A way of showing whoever''s in charge that they''re vulnerable."
I cross my arms, my jaw tight. "Or it''s both. They could be setting up for an ambush and letting everyone know they''re in control."
Jordan nods slowly, their fingers drumming against the edge of the laptop. "And if it''s the Kingdom, they''ll make it loud. They''ll want everyone to see."
Lily glances at me, her eyes sharp. "What do we do?"
Before I can answer, the TV flashes to a live feed from outside the PICC. A line of police vehicles is parked at the entrance, their lights cutting through the dusk. Reporters swarm the scene, microphones out, cameras rolling.
"This is a power play," Jordan says quietly, their eyes never leaving the screen. "The question is... whose?"
The camera zooms in on a police officer speaking into a megaphone, his voice muffled by the distance. Behind him, the dark shape of the correctional center looms like a warning.
I feel a shiver run down my spine as the anchor''s voice cuts back in. "Authorities are urging the public to avoid the area as tensions rise. Stay tuned for updates."
RG.1.1
The alarm vibrates on the metal nightstand, and for a moment, I mistake it for the hum of my powers warming up. I blink, rubbing the grit from my eyes as the motel room around me comes into focus. Thin curtains let in just enough light from the streetlamps outside to make me aware of how awful 2:30 AM feels.
I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The familiar tingle of electromagnetic energy dances along my skin, faint but constant. It''s a comfort, even at this hour. I stretch my arms over my head, rolling my shoulders until I hear the satisfying pop that says I''ll make it through another long shift.
The phone buzzes with a text from Cryptid: On-site already. Journalists swarming. You''re up, Sunshine.
"Sunshine," I mutter with a tired grin. If I had a dollar for every nickname Cryptid''s thrown my way, I''d own the motel I''m currently regretting.
A quick splash of water on my face in the cramped bathroom is enough to shake off the worst of the grogginess. My uniform is laid out on the chair by the window, freshly cleaned and pressed. It''s a small thing, but keeping it pristine feels like a promise--to myself and to everyone else who looks to Captain Plasma for... something. Hope, I guess.
By 2:45, I''m out the door and in the rental car, driving toward the Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center. The roads are quiet, just the occasional truck rumbling past, its lights reflecting off the rain-slick asphalt. The city looks different at this hour--emptier, lonelier. It''s a reminder of why I do this, even when the odds feel impossible. Someone has to hold the line.
The PICC looms ahead, its gray concrete walls and tall fences lit up like a stage. Floodlights sweep over the perimeter, cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. A handful of news vans are parked just outside the main gate, their antennas pointed skyward like a flock of mechanical birds.
As soon as I step out of the car, the cameras swivel toward me. I feel the eyes on me even before the first reporter calls out.
"Captain Plasma! Over here!"
"Rodney!" another voice shouts, less formal. It''s someone I recognize--Janine from the Philadelphia Inquirer. She''s a good reporter, but she doesn''t let up.
I hold up a hand, smiling as politely as I can manage. "Morning, folks. Early one, huh?"
They close in like moths to a flame, notebooks and microphones at the ready. I keep moving, heading for the gate with purpose. "Sorry, no interviews right now. You know how it is."
"Come on, Cap," Janine presses, falling into step beside me. "This isn''t just a regular transfer, is it? Why the extra security? The blackout?"
"Classified," I say, keeping my tone light but firm. "You know the drill, Janine. I''m not at liberty to discuss operational details."
"And the Kingdom of Keys?" she pushes. "Are they involved?"
I stop just long enough to meet her gaze. "We''re prepared for any eventuality," I say, then glance at the rest of the crowd. "That''s all I can say for now. Thanks for understanding."
I''m through the gate before they can ask more, nodding at the guard who waves me in. He''s young--too young, really--but his posture is straight and his eyes are sharp. "Welcome, sir," he says, his voice steady despite the chaos outside.
"Thanks," I reply, clapping him on the shoulder. "You''re doing good work."
The transport yard is a hive of activity. Vehicles line up in careful formation, their black paint gleaming under the floodlights. The armored prison transport sits at the center, flanked by SUVs and decoys, their engines idling. Teams of officers move with practiced efficiency, checking equipment and finalizing routes. The air buzzes with the tension of something about to happen.
I spot Cryptid near the command center, their lean frame unmistakable even in the crowd. He''s leaning against one of the SUVs, arms crossed, watching everything with the kind of intensity that makes people nervous.
"You''re late," he says as I approach, though there''s no heat in it.
"You''re early," I counter, grinning. "Couldn''t sleep?"
"Couldn''t trust," he replies, his tone flat. "Not with all this noise."
I nod, glancing around. "You think the journalists are just noise?"
Cryptid shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I''m not taking chances."
Before I can respond, a third voice cuts in. "You two done bonding?"
Agent "Basilisk" steps out of the shadows. Her voice is dry, clipped, but not unkind, and her professional outfit makes her stand out among us men-and-women-in-tights here. The lights glint off her dark skin and buzz cut, like it''s not welcome to forming her outline. Still never got her name. I get a feeling she''ll never tell me. "We''re wheels up in ten. You ready?"The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
"Born ready," I say, though it''s mostly for show. Inside, I feel the familiar knot of nerves tightening in my chest. Transfers like this are high-risk, even without the added pressure of a public leak.
Basilisk doesn''t respond, just nods and disappears back into the crowd. Cryptid watches her go, then turns back to me. "So what''s the plan, Sunshine?"
"Stick to the script," I say. "Nothing flashy. Just get them from point A to point B without any surprises."
Cryptid snorts. "Yeah, because that always works."
We both know they''re right, but I don''t say it. Instead, I clap them on the back. "Come on. Let''s get to our truck."
Our private armored truck is parked near the rear of the convoy, unmarked and nondescript. Peregrine is already inside, perched on one of the bench seats like she''s waiting for a flight to board. She looks up as we climb in, her sharp eyes scanning us like she''s taking inventory.
"Morning," she says, her tone brisk but warm. "Everyone ready?"
"Ready as we''ll ever be," I reply, settling into my seat. The hum of the truck''s engine vibrates through my body, almost in sync with the electromagnetic pulse I can feel under my skin. It''s a strange kind of comfort--a reminder that I''m connected to something bigger than myself.
Cryptid takes the seat opposite me, his expression unreadable as always. Peregrine leans back, crossing her arms. "Basilisk on comms?"
"Always," Cryptid says. "She''ll be our shadow."
I glance out the small window, watching the convoy begin to move. The gates open slowly, the vehicles rolling out one by one into the dark, empty streets. The city feels different at this hour--quiet, vulnerable.
"We''ll get them there," I say softly, more to myself than anyone else.
Peregrine smiles faintly. "Of course we will. We''re superheroes, remember?"
Cryptid doesn''t smile, but he nods. "Let''s hope the Kingdom of Keys remembers that too."
The truck lurches forward, and we''re on our way.
The hum of the truck''s engine is a low, constant vibration under my boots, like a heartbeat. It''s soothing in its own way--white noise against the tension crackling in the air. Basilisk sits next to me, one hand resting lightly on my forearm. Her touch is barely there, but it''s enough to send a faint pulse of warmth through my skin, like static electricity. Cryptid sits across from us, his arms crossed, the faint scrape of his gloves against his sleeves filling the gaps in the silence.
"This is cozy," Cryptid mutters, his voice low and dry. He leans his head back against the wall, his sharp features cast in shadow by the dim overhead light. "Just three friends crammed into a metal box. Nothing like bonding over a potential ambush."
I smirk. "Could be worse. At least we''re on the inside. Remember the Anaheim riot? I spent six hours sitting on top of an APC. In the rain."
Cryptid grunts. "That was your own fault. Who told you to make yourself a lightning rod?"
"Hey," I say, holding up a finger. "It worked, didn''t it?"
Basilisk snorts softly, the sound almost lost under the rumble of the truck. "Barely. You were half-fried by the time we got to you."
"I prefer ''well-done,''" I say, grinning.
Cryptid rolls his eyes but doesn''t press the point. He shifts slightly, his boots scraping against the metal floor. "How''s the field feel?" he asks Basilisk, his tone more serious now.
"Stable," she replies, her voice quiet but steady. "No interference yet. But if anyone''s trying to ping us, they''re wasting their time."
Her fingers tighten slightly on my arm, and I can feel the faint hum of her power like a second pulse. It''s not intrusive--just there, a constant reminder that we''re moving through this city as ghosts. Undetectable. Invisible to the ESPers who might be watching.
"Must be nice," Cryptid says, his tone neutral. "Being the one person in the room who always knows when someone''s looking at you."
Basilisk tilts her head, her expression unreadable. "It''s not as comforting as you think. Knowing doesn''t mean you can stop it."
I glance between them, sensing the edge in her words. "Well, for what it''s worth," I say, keeping my tone light, "I appreciate the anti-creep shield. Makes it a lot easier to focus."
"Don''t get used to it," she says, though there''s a hint of warmth in her voice now. "I''m not exactly portable."
"Shame," Cryptid says, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "You''d make a great accessory. Anti-ESP charm bracelet."
"Careful," Basilisk says, arching an eyebrow. "I might decide you''re too much trouble to keep around."
Cryptid chuckles, low and rough. It''s a rare sound, but it carries more weight than most people''s laughter. It''s the sound of someone who doesn''t waste breath on things that don''t matter.
The truck rocks slightly as we hit a bump, and I brace my hand against the wall to steady myself. "Twenty minutes in," I say, checking the time on my watch. "We''re exiting Center City."
Peregrine nods from the other end of the truck, already standing. Her metal wings are folded neatly against her back, their polished surfaces catching the dim light. She adjusts the straps securing them, her movements quick and practiced.
"Guess that''s my cue," she says, her tone brisk but warm. She glances at me, her sharp eyes sparkling with a mix of excitement and focus. "Keep the seats warm for me, will you?"
"You sure you don''t want to stick around?" I ask, grinning. "We''re having such a great time in here."
She laughs, the sound bright and easy. "Tempting, but I think I''ll take the scenic route."
The truck slows just enough for her to hit the release on the back hatch. The door drops open, letting in a rush of cool night air and the distant glow of the city. Peregrine steps to the edge, her movements fluid and confident, and with a single leap, she''s airborne.
Her wings spread wide, catching the air with a faint metallic whisper. They''re not functional, just decoration, but the way she moves makes them seem alive. Within seconds, she''s a shadow against the city lights, her silhouette shrinking as she climbs higher.
"She''s something, huh?" I say, watching her disappear into the night.
Cryptid shrugs. "She''s fast, I''ll give her that."
"Fast doesn''t cover it," I say, leaning back against the wall. "She''s been doing this longer than most of us. Seen more, too. And she still manages to smile."
"Doesn''t mean she''s not tired," Cryptid says, his voice low. "Everyone gets tired eventually."
Basilisk doesn''t say anything, but I can feel her eyes on me. It''s not a judgmental look--more like she''s waiting to see how I''ll respond.
I let out a slow breath, the tension in my chest easing slightly. "We all get tired," I say quietly. "But that doesn''t mean we stop. Not when people are counting on us."
Cryptid leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what happens when we can''t keep going? What happens when we''re not enough?"
I meet his gaze, my expression steady. "We don''t have to be enough. We just have to be here."
I peek out the back, watching Peregrine''s silhouette streak out through the sky, thinking about all the other heroes packed in the decoy convoys. Hopefully, tonight is quiet.
RG.1.2
The Pennsylvania Turnpike stretches out ahead, a dark ribbon of asphalt lit by the faint glow of the convoy''s headlights. It''s quiet, but not the peaceful kind of quiet--more like the silence right before a storm. My nerves buzz, not just from the constant hum of electromagnetic energy under my skin, but from the tension coiling tighter with each passing mile.
Thirty-five minutes out, everything still seems fine. The convoy moves in perfect rhythm, each vehicle keeping its distance but staying close enough to cover the others. The outposts and watchers along the route have been radioing in, nothing but routine updates.
Forty minutes.
I glance at Cryptid, who''s leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, his face calm but watchful. Basilisk sits next to him, her hand resting lightly on the truck''s inner wall, her focus elsewhere. She''s extending her field outward, keeping us invisible to anyone trying to track us psychically.
Forty-three.
BANG!
The noise doesn''t build. There''s no warning. One second it''s quiet, and the next, the world turns inside out.
The first explosion shakes the truck, followed by a metallic screech as the convoy vehicle ahead of us swerves, tires fighting for grip on the now-shattered asphalt. I throw myself against the wall, bracing against the lurching truck as Cryptid growls, "What the hell was that?"
"Trouble," I mutter, forcing the back hatch open.
The scene outside is chaos. Rubble and debris fly as chunks of the road erupt into the air, hurled by bursts of invisible force. I spot one of the SUVs spiraling off the shoulder, its lights flickering. A second later, another explosion punches into the asphalt, ripping apart the path ahead. It''s not random. Someone is targeting the convoy vehicles, forcing them to scatter like panicked animals.
And then I see them: a black woman in a bright pink business suit, small and round, but with a confident posture that makes her look twice her size. Her hands grip the wheel of one of the hijacked convoy trucks, its reinforced body now a weapon in her control.
Behind her, a man on a motorcycle weaves in and out of the chaos. His finger--literally his finger--aims at the back tires of another convoy vehicle. When he "fires,", his arm kicking back like it''s feeling real recoil, the vehicle shudders, skidding wildly as the tire bursts into shredded rubber. The man''s face is wrapped up in a helmet, but even I can hear his screamed "BANG!" over the whipping wind.
The truck jerks again as Basilisk''s voice cuts through the chaos, her tone sharp and steady. "They''ve hijacked one of ours."
"No kidding," Cryptid snaps, pulling himself upright and reaching for his tactical gear, starting to unpack and assemble the biggest gun I''ve ever seen in my life.
Before I can reply, the side of the hijacked truck peels away, a near-perfect rectangle of reinforced metal tearing loose like it''s made of cardboard. I don''t have time to think about how they managed it -- who brings a welding torch to a convoy hijacking? -- my instincts take over, and I''m already in the air, the truck''s back hatch swinging shut behind me.
The wind hits me like a wall as I accelerate, the charge in my body syncing with the faint magnetic pulse of the Earth below. My vision narrows, locking onto the chaos unfolding ahead.
BOOM.
A sound like thunder roars from the road as I breach the sound barrier, and I see it--a towering figure emerging from the highway, from a strategically stopped car, ripping it open from the inside. Even in the dim light, there''s no mistaking the hulking frame, the massive tail swishing with enough force to shatter guardrails.
Ugh. Of course.
The last time I saw Mr. Tyrannosaur, he was tearing through the zoo, taking a beating from yours truly before vanishing into the sunset in a way I still don''t understand. One minute he was there, and the next, he was gone, not even a footstep to be heard. And I have pretty good hearing. His leathery skin gleams in the headlights, but this time, it''s reinforced with crude but effective kevlar plates strapped across his skull and belly. Clever.
But clever won''t save him.
The convoy panics. Officers open fire, small-arms rounds ricocheting off his armored hide. The roar of gunfire mixes with the guttural bellow of the T-rex, his massive jaws snapping at the nearest SUV. He''s blocking the road, forcing the convoy to slow just as the explosions pick off the stragglers.
I push harder, my electromagnetic field wrapping around me like a cocoon. The wind screams in my ears as I barrel toward the oversized lizard, my fists crackling with energy.
"Rodney, wait!" Basilisk''s voice buzzes in my earpiece. "Don''t engage yet!"
"Not an option!" I shout back, dodging a chunk of debris as it sails past. The convoy can''t afford to stop--not with Mr. Nothing and Mudslide onboard. If they''re delayed even for a second, this whole operation falls apart.
I angle myself toward Mr. Tyrannosaur, aiming for his exposed flank. He''s too focused on the convoy to notice me, so when I collide with his flank with the force of a human cannonball, he goes rearing back, his massive feet skidding into the ground, ripping up asphalt and kicking a cloud of dust around himself.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
"Nice try, big guy," I mutter, landing on the roof of a nearby SUV. My boots skid against the metal, and I crouch low, my eyes scanning for an opening.
Behind me, the pink-suited woman maneuvers the hijacked truck like it''s a battering ram, slamming it into one of the escort vehicles. Sparks fly as metal crunches against metal, and the convoy scatters further. I try to aim another punch, hearing something about "anti-materiel rifles" in my earpiece, but something fast, invisible, bulletesque slams into my side. My entire body pulses as my electromagnetic fields dampen the worst of the impact, but it still stings, and I still need a second to catch my balance.
Motorcycle guy. "Peregrine, can you take out motorcycle guy?" I chatter between grit teeth, pushing myself a couple of inches off the surface of the vehicle, no longer tethered to its forward velocity. I squeeze my face shut, focusing back on Mr. Tyrannosaur. The kevlar plates make him tougher, sure, but they also slow him down. If I can keep him occupied long enough for the convoy to regroup, we might still have a chance.
"Rodney, what''s your play?" Cryptid''s voice cuts in, steady but urgent.
"Keep the big guy busy," I say, charging forward. "You and Basilisk handle the hijackers. I''ll clear the road."
"You better," Cryptid growls. "We''re not losing this cargo."
The truck rocks again as the convoy barrels forward, the rumble of engines mixing with the sharp staccato of gunfire. I don''t have time to process everything--every second counts, and every delay inches us closer to disaster.
Ahead, Mr. Tyrannosaur roars, his armored frame gleaming in the flickering lights. Behind us, the Motorcycle Guy, who I''ve decided I hate the most, zigzags across the road, his invisible airburst attacks punctuating the chaos like a percussion line.
From my perch on a convoy SUV, I catch sight of him lining up another shot with his makeshift "finger gun." The air around his hand distorts, a ripple of compressed force spiraling toward the rear tires of a trailing escort vehicle. The tire explodes in a shower of shredded rubber, and the SUV skids violently, the driver barely managing to pull it back under control.
"Motorcycle Guy is on me," Peregrine''s voice crackles through the comms, cutting sharply over the din. "I''ll flush him out."
I glance up just in time to see her dive from above, wings folding close to her body as she rockets toward Motorcycle Guy. The convoy vehicles blur beneath her as she closes the distance in seconds, her agility unmatched even at this speed.
He doesn''t flinch. He pivots sharply, using his... fingergun powers to slam his bike into a tight turn that sends him skimming dangerously close to the highway barrier. Peregrine is hot on his heels, weaving effortlessly between vehicles, her body a blur of motion.
I force myself to focus forward. Tyrannosaur is the bigger threat--literally--and the convoy can''t afford to slow down. He''s holding his ground ahead, his massive tail sweeping across the road like a wrecking ball, scattering debris and forcing the convoy into tighter formations.
"Rodney, I need a clear shot!" Cryptid''s voice cuts through the comms. "Get out of the way!"
"Working on it!" I shout, launching myself into the air again.
My trajectory is clean, a straight line toward Tyrannosaur''s exposed side. My fists crackle with energy as I close the gap, aiming for the weak points between the kevlar plates strapped across his hide. He doesn''t see me coming until it''s too late.
The impact sends him skidding, his massive feet gouging the asphalt as he struggles to regain balance. I press the advantage, driving him toward the shoulder of the highway. My muscles scream with effort as I push against his sheer weight, the electromagnetic charge in my body amplifying every ounce of force. I need to keep his flank open. Expose his belly. His head.
"Cryptid, now!" I yell.
From the escort vehicle, Cryptid snaps the bolt on his high-powered sniper rifle into place. The weapon looks almost absurdly oversized, like something out of a military sci-fi movie, but I know better than to underestimate it. I really need to ask, one of these days, what exactly that gun is.
The first shot rings out, a deafening crack that echoes across the highway. The impact punches through Tyrannosaur''s armored plating, leaving a bloody gouge in his leathery skin. He roars in pain, swinging his head wildly as another shot follows, carving deeper into his side.
SWAT snipers join the assault, their rounds hammering into Tyrannosaur''s frame with brutal precision. He staggers, his movements slower now, his roars laced with desperation.
Behind me, Peregrine makes her move against Motorcycle Guy. She dives low, her metal baton flashing as it catches the faint light. Motorcycle Guy tries to swerve, firing an airburst that grazes her wing, but she''s faster. The baton connects with his motorcycle''s engine, sending sparks flying as the bike lurches and skids. It flips over, and then hits a horizontal pose, screeching across the ground and nearly slamming into the space underneath a vehicle before everyone''s combined momentum carries him away.
We careen past him, and he vanishes into the darkness.
Peregrine pulls up sharply, catching her breath as the disabled motorcycle smokes in the center of the road.
"He''s grounded," she reports, her voice breathless but steady. "He''s on foot."
"Let him go," Cryptid barks. "Focus on the convoy."
Mr. Tyrannosaur, realizing the tide has turned against him, lets out another deafening roar. His tail swings one last time, narrowly missing a convoy truck, before he rears back and unleashes a massive cloud of steam. The temperature spikes, the air around me suddenly thick and scalding. It hurts - it really stings in a way that most things don''t, and for a minute, I''m flying totally blind, just maintaining speed.
"Rodney, what''s happening?" Basilisk''s voice is sharp in my earpiece.
"Steam," I cough, squinting through the haze. "He''s... transforming again."
The steam clears just in time for me to see the faint silhouette of Tyrannosaur''s human form whoosh past me, into the distance. He''s already out of reach, blending into the chaos of the highway like a ghost. Just like last time. Damnit!
We careen past him, and he vanishes into the darkness.
I hover for a moment, my fists still crackling, before forcing myself to return to the convoy. The vehicles are regrouping, the drivers steering back into formation with practiced precision. Peregrine lands lightly on one of the trucks, her wings folding neatly behind her as she surveys the scene.
"Is he gone?" she asks, her voice tinged with relief.
"For now," I say, landing beside her. "But he''ll be back. They''re testing us."
Cryptid climbs out of the escort vehicle, his sniper rifle slung across his back. His face is grim, his eyes scanning the road ahead. At some point, the hijacked convoy hit an exit - are they going to rejoin us? I bet so. "They''re not done," he says flatly. "This was just the opening act."
Basilisk emerges next, her movements quick but methodical as she reloads her sidearms. She glances at me, her expression unreadable. "Field''s still holding," she says. "If someone''s trying to scry us, I''m not getting any pings."
"Good," I say, taking a deep breath to steady myself. "We need to stay sharp. They''ve already got the drop on us once. It won''t happen again. Peregrine, can you scout the next onramp? We need eyes on that hijacked truck."
She nods, takes a minute to crack her shoulders, and jumps.
We careen past her, and she vanishes into the darkness.
RG.1.3
The convoy is barely holding together. Vehicles realign into a staggered formation, drivers barking orders over the comms as they recover from the chaos. I hover above the road, scanning the highway ahead for signs of another ambush, but my gut tells me I don''t need to look far. They''re coming back. Of course they''re coming back.
A sharp crack splits the air--gunfire. Peregrine dives low, her wings cutting through the air as she tracks the stolen convoy truck. The jagged hole in its side flashes like a beacon under the headlights, a clean-edged rectangle that tells me someone planned for this. Inside, I catch a glimpse of Pink Suit--small, round, and terrifyingly calm--shouting orders from the driver''s seat. Beside her, the SWAT passenger leans out of the window, rifle in hand, lining up a shot.
"Taking fire!" Peregrine snaps over the comms. "Passenger seat of the stolen truck--someone''s got a rifle!"
"Focus on dodging," Cryptid growls. "We''ll handle it."
"I''m fine," Peregrine retorts, but there''s tension in her voice. She banks sharply to avoid another shot, the bullet whizzing past her wingtip.
The stolen truck swerves violently, and for a moment, my eyes are drawn to the gaping hole in its side. A lithe figure crouches just inside, her dark hair whipping in the wind. She reaches out, her fingertips brushing the frame of a nearby convoy SUV.
The SUV jerks as if yanked by an invisible hand, its rear wheels lifting off the ground. Time slows as it tips, its weight shifting unnaturally before it flips completely, hurtling through the air like a toy. The headlights spin wildly, and the world tilts with it.
I''m already moving, the charge in my body surging as I push myself faster. My arms lock around the airborne SUV, the electromagnetic field snapping into place as I brace against the momentum. The weight is staggering--a ton of metal and glass hurtling at freeway speeds--but I grind my teeth, forcing it to stop. The impact radiates through me like a shockwave, but I hold firm, easing the SUV to the ground as carefully as I can.
"Rodney, another one!" Basilisk''s voice cuts through the comms, sharp with urgency.
I glance up just in time to see the figure--Ballerina, I decide--reaching out again. Her fingertips graze another SUV, and it flips just as violently, its center of gravity shifting like a puppet on strings. I catch sight of her slipping back inside the truck, disappearing into the shadows as if nothing had happened.
The convoy erupts into chaos.
Headlights flood the highway as a swarm of stolen vehicles emerges from the darkness. Cars and trucks barrel toward us, their drivers aiming straight for the convoy like battering rams. Sporadic gunfire cracks through the air, low-caliber rounds sparking off the reinforced convoy trucks. A heavy-duty pickup roars into the fray, its front bumper reinforced with a crude metal plow. It slams into the side of an escort vehicle, sending it skidding off the road.
"Hold formation!" Cryptid barks, his voice sharp over the comms. "Focus on the rammers!"
I dive again, intercepting a speeding sedan before it can slam into the rear truck. My fists crackle with energy as I hit the hood, shoving it off-course and sending it skidding into the guardrail. The driver barely has time to react before the car crams itself against the metal, and his airbag deploys. Phew.
Inside the stolen truck, Pink Suit jerks the wheel, maneuvering the vehicle like a battering ram of her own. It cuts dangerously close to the convoy, forcing two SWAT vehicles to swerve. The rogue SWAT passenger takes another shot, this time aiming at Peregrine. The shot misses, but just barely.
"Take her out!" I shout into the comms, my voice taut with urgency.
"Working on it!" Peregrine snaps, darting between vehicles as she tries to close the gap. Her focus is split--dodging bullets and keeping pace with the stolen truck. "Watch it! Friendly fire!"
The convoy vehicles scramble to avoid collisions, and I spot the rogue SWAT passenger leaning out again, rifle raised. Basilisk''s voice buzzes in my ear. "Rodney, we''re losing control. Focus!"
"I''m trying!" I snap back, my muscles straining as I catch another flipped vehicle, this time a police cruiser, and shove it back into a stable position. The driver inside gives me a shaky thumbs-up before accelerating to rejoin the convoy.
Ahead, Pink Suit glances into her side mirror, her face set with cold determination. Beside her, the SWAT passenger barks something I can''t hear, their voice lost in the chaos. The hole in the truck''s side flashes again, and Ballerina emerges just enough to press her hand to the frame of another escort vehicle. The truck flips, its front axle snapping as it tumbles onto its side, blocking half the highway.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
"Basilisk, can you deal with her?" I shout, frustration bleeding into my voice.
"Not unless she comes outside," Basilisk replies, her tone clipped. "She''s using the hole as cover."
Cryptid''s voice cuts in, steady but urgent. "Basilisk, focus on the field. Rodney, keep the convoy moving. I''ll get her through the walls."
"Got it," I reply, gritting my teeth. I don''t want to think about what an anti-materiel round will do to a human body like that, but I also don''t want to think about the mayhem Mr. Nothing and Mr. Mudslide will cause if they get out. The stolen truck veers closer, its driver weaving through the chaos with terrifying precision. Every time I move to intercept, they slip just out of reach. This isn''t random. It''s surgical.
Behind me, gunfire erupts again as the criminal horde closes in. Stolen vehicles slam into the convoy like battering rams, the impact rippling through the formation. I spot a delivery van weaving erratically, its driver aiming for the rear truck. My fists crackle with energy as I intercept it, slamming the van off-course and sending it skidding into the median.
The convoy is falling apart.
Vehicles swerve and skid, the scattered headlights painting streaks of light across the asphalt. Ballerina doesn''t just aim for our trucks anymore--she''s taking down her own side too, flipping stolen cars like she''s rearranging chess pieces. One slams into the convoy''s lead SUV, forcing it into a sharp turn that nearly topples it. Another careens toward me mid-air.
Is she insane? She''s going to hurt someone! On her own side, too!
I twist, the electromagnetic field humming around me as I brace for impact. The flipped car crashes into my outstretched arms, the force rattling through my body like a gong. I catch it, but the effort leaves me open, and a second vehicle slams into my side.
"Clear the path, Plasma!" Cryptid''s voice roars in my ear, sharp and commanding. "We''ll handle the stragglers!"
I shove the wreckage away, sending it spinning off to the side before lowering the first car to the ground. My vision blurs for a second, and I force myself to focus. Basilisk''s field is still holding, keeping us off ESP grids, but it''s not enough. There are too many moving pieces, too many threats closing in.
Ahead, Ballerina''s stolen truck zigzags between the chaos, the hole in its side flashing like a warning. Cryptid takes aim from the armored truck''s roof, the anti-materiel rifle braced against his body and set to the ground. The first shot tears through the stolen vehicle''s rear quarter-panel, the impact throwing sparks into the air, and Cryptid''s body visibly clenches up with recoil - so too, for that matter, does the car, gently swaying back and forth before the driver compensates.
"Direct hit," Cryptid mutters, already lining up another shot.
CRAK!
The rifle thunders again, and the round punches a hole clean through the truck''s side. But it''s not enough. The other vehicle swerves, the driver--the SWAT imposter--adjusting effortlessly to keep it moving, spinning the wheel like mad and laughing like a maniac. Mind control? Must be. Ballerina reappears in the gap, reaching out to flip another SUV with terrifying precision.
"They''re not stopping!" Peregrine shouts over the comms. "What''s the play?"
I glance back, my mind racing. If we keep this up, the convoy will be completely overrun. We''re losing trucks, losing cohesion. I grit my teeth, making a decision.
"Pull back!" I yell. "Regroup and protect the cargo. I''ll clear the path."
"You can''t do this alone," Cryptid snaps, his voice as sharp as the crack of his rifle.
"I don''t have a choice!" I shoot back, diving toward another flipped vehicle. My arms lock around its chassis, the electromagnetic charge surging as I haul it out of the convoy''s path. "Get the others out of here!"
The comms erupt in arguments, but I don''t have time to sort them out. Another wave of flipped cars barrels toward the convoy, forcing me into a desperate rhythm of intercept, catch, and redirect. My muscles burn, the electromagnetic hum in my body growing erratic as I push myself harder than ever before.
And then I feel it--a shift in the air, a faint ripple against my skin. Something''s wrong.
Before I can react, something wet and heavy slams into my back. It engulfs me, wrapping around my torso and neck with a sickening, gelatinous squelch. I stumble mid-air, the charge in my body flickering as the substance invades every inch of my senses.
"What the--?" My words choke off as the goo forces its way into my throat, cutting off my air. I claw at it, my fingers slipping uselessly against its slimy surface. My enhanced strength means nothing--it''s like trying to punch water.
"Rodney?" Basilisk''s voice crackles in my ear, distant and distorted. "What''s happening?"
I can''t answer. My lungs burn as the gelatinous mass tightens around me, every movement drawing it deeper into my throat. My vision blurs, dark spots blooming at the edges as I struggle to stay conscious.
I crash into the highway shoulder, the impact sending a shockwave through my body. My electromagnetic field dampens most of it, but the goo doesn''t loosen its grip. It pulses, shifting like it''s alive, and my mind races, piecing together the only explanation.
The rogue SWAT. They took over driving. That means this must be Pink Suit.
I almost feel proud of myself, for a moment, for the deductive reasoning. Then, reality meets me facefirst.
I slam my fist into the ground, trying to push myself upright, but my strength is fading. The air grows thinner, the world dimming around me. The convoy noise fades into the distance, replaced by the sickening squelch of the gelatin tightening its hold.
Somewhere in the haze, I feel the goo shift. It peels away, retreating like a predator satisfied with its kill. My lungs heave as I gasp for air, the cold night air searing against my throat. My vision clears just enough to see the blob-like mass slither away, disappearing into the chaos.
The last thing I hear before the darkness claims me is the rumble of engines, the sound of the convoy moving further and further out of reach.
BM.2.1
It''s a plumbing van, or at least that''s what the slapdash lettering on the side says. "Ace Flow Solutions," or something equally generic. The Kingdom spares no expense on disguises, except they do, and this piece of junk rattles like it''s held together with duct tape and prayers. I shift in my seat, grimacing as the movement tugs at the gash on my side.
Kevlar''s good for a lot of things. Anti-material rounds ain''t one of ''em.
"You''re gonna rip it open worse," Jellyjam says, perched in the front seat like a queen on her throne. She''s angled toward me, one hand on the headrest, her pink suit looking almost clean despite the chaos we just crawled out of. "Sit still, Blake."
"It''s already open worse," I grunt, peeling the blood-soaked edge of my undershirt back from the wound. There''s a shard of something metal lodged in there, glinting under the van''s dim overhead light. "Not like I can make it worse-worse."
Mudslide chuckles from the corner, his paper bag mask crinkling with the motion. "Man''s got a point. Besides, he likes this stuff. Probably makes him feel like a real action hero."
"Yeah, because action heroes patch themselves up in busted vans," I mutter, digging a pair of tweezers out of the first aid kit. The kit''s a joke--like someone packed it for a high school field trip instead of a supervillain team. "Real glamorous."
"You wanna glamor, you join the movies," Mudslide says. "We''re in crime, baby."
"Sure feels like it," I say, pinching the shard of metal with the tweezers and giving it a good yank. Pain lances through my side, sharp and hot, but the metal comes free with a wet squelch. "This, uh..." I hold up the shard, squinting at it in the low light. "This looks like it''s from one of those anti-material rounds."
"Anti-materiel," Mrs. Laceration corrects from across the van. She''s sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharpening one of her knives like we''re not all jammed into the same sardine can. "With an E. It''s French."
"What''s French about it?" I ask, glancing at her.
"The spelling," she says without looking up. "Materiel means equipment. Material means, like, raw stuff. Different words."
"That''s the dumbest thing I''ve ever heard," Mudslide says. "Why not just say anti-equipment rounds, then?"
"Because it sounds stupid," Laceration says, picking dirt and blood and metal shavings out from under her nails. "And this isn''t stupid. It''s precise."
"Precise," I repeat, dabbing at the wound with alcohol-soaked gauze. "Yeah, nothing says precise like shooting a dinosaur with a cannon."
"That cannon shredded your fancy armor," Yellowjacket chimes in from the back, his long blond hair falling over his shoulder as he stretches. "So maybe they''re onto something."
"Fancy?" I snort, glancing at the torn remains of the kevlar plates piled in the corner. "That stuff''s about as fancy as you, pal."
Yellowjacket grins, leaning back against the van wall. "It''s all about the illusion, baby."
Jellyjam rolls her eyes. "You''re all ridiculous."
"We''re also alive," Doppelganger says, her voice soft and clipped. She''s sitting near the back door, her legs crossed primly at the ankles, even with all the blood and grit on the floor. Her bandaged face is unreadable, as always. "Which is more than I expected after that mess."
"You expected us to fail?" Fulcrum asks, her tone sharp. She''s perched on a toolbox, one leg bouncing with barely contained energy.
"No," Doppelganger says calmly. "But I don''t make assumptions. Keeps me alive."
"Smart," I say, tossing the bloody gauze into an old takeout bag. "But you''re forgetting one thing."
"And what''s that?" Doppelganger asks, tilting her head.
I grin, sharp and toothy. "We''re the Kingdom. We don''t fail."
For a second, the van goes quiet, except for the hum of the engine and the soft scrape of Laceration''s nail kit. Then Mudslide laughs again, loud and raspy. "Man, you really believe that, don''t you?"
"Course I do," I say, leaning back against the van wall. "We just yanked two of ours out from under their noses. And now we''re getting steak on Zenith''s dime. That''s a win."This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
"Yeah, about that," Jellyjam says, turning to face the rest of us. "We''re laying low in Lancaster for the night. Upper Management''s orders. No phones, no contact. Just steak and silence."
"Lancaster?" Yellowjacket groans, throwing his head back dramatically. "What are we, Amish?"
"You''re whatever Zenith says you are," Jellyjam snaps. "And right now, you''re hungry and quiet."
Yellowjacket mimes zipping his lips, but his grin doesn''t fade. Fulcrum rolls her eyes at him, muttering something under her breath about "drama queens."
I glance at the others--Laceration with her nails, Doppelganger with her unsettling calm, Mudslide fiddling with his bag mask, Yellowjacket being, well, Yellowjacket. Then there''s me, still bleeding, still grinning.
"We''re fugitives now, you know," I say, breaking the silence.
"More than usual?" Mudslide asks.
"Way more," I say. "This wasn''t just a heist. We kicked the hornet''s nest."
"Good thing we''re good at swatting," Laceration says, testing the edge of her lacquered nails with her thumb.
"Yeah," I say, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. "Good thing."
"You''re sure about the steak, right?" Yellowjacket pipes up, pulling a rubber band from his wrist and twisting it around his long hair. "I''m not wasting a night in Lancaster for some greasy burger."
"Steakhouse," Jellyjam confirms, her voice clipped. "Zenith said it''s one of ours. Nobody''s gonna ask why a bunch of bruised-up weirdos are eating filet mignon at two in the morning."
"Filet mignon," Yellowjacket repeats, stretching the words like they''re magic. "Now we''re talking."
"Not for you, though," Fulcrum snaps, shooting him a look. "You look like a flank steak guy. Overcooked and covered in ketchup."
Mudslide cackles, his whole body shaking with the sound. "She got you there, Jacket."
Yellowjacket waves her off, grinning. "Say what you want, but I''m getting the biggest steak they''ve got. Medium rare. Maybe a lobster tail on the side."
"Lobster?" I groan, shifting in my seat. "Christ, you''ve got expensive taste for a guy who probably rides a bike with a gas leak."
"Hey," Yellowjacket shoots back, mock-offended. "First off, that''s custom tuning. Second, we just risked our asses to pull this job. If I''m getting a bonus, I''m eating like a king."
"Kings don''t eat steak in Lancaster," Doppelganger mutters, her voice cutting through the banter like a scalpel. She adjusts her tie--perfectly straight, of course--and leans back against the door. "They eat it in Paris. Or Tokyo. Somewhere civilized."
"We''re not kings," Mudslide says, folding his arms and slumping against the van wall. "We''re working men and women. Well, some of us." He throws a pointed look at Fulcrum and Yellowjacket.
"You calling me lazy, baghead?" Fulcrum snaps, but there''s no heat in it.
Mudslide smirks, lifting his hands. "Nah, just saying some of us got the scars to prove we''re here for the work."
That earns a low whistle from Laceration, who hasn''t looked up from her hands once. "Speaking of scars," she says, flicking her eyes toward Mudslide. "What''s with the bag, anyway? You ever gonna tell us why you hide your face?"
The van goes quiet. Even Yellowjacket, who usually can''t shut up, leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. Mudslide stiffens for a second, glancing around like he''s weighing his options.
"I don''t hide my face," he says finally. "It''s a uniform."
"A bag," Fulcrum says, deadpan. "Is a uniform."
"Exactly," Mudslide replies, nodding like that clears everything up.
"You gotta explain that one, buddy," I say, leaning forward despite the pain in my side. "What kind of uniform is a paper bag? You some kind of mascot?"
"No," he says, his tone sharpening. "It''s a statement."
"About what?" Jellyjam asks, turning halfway around in her seat to look at him. "You''re not exactly marching in a union protest, Muddy."
"About us," he says, jabbing a finger toward the rest of us. "About people like us. We''re not the rich guys, or the geniuses, or the ones with fancy tech or perfect teeth. We''re the ones who scrape by. The ones who make do with what we''ve got. And you know what? That''s enough. The bag says, ''Yeah, I''m just a guy. But I''m still here. And I''ll still kick your ass.''"
For a second, nobody says anything. Mudslide leans back, crossing his arms like he''s proud of his little speech.
"Okay," Yellowjacket says, breaking the silence. "But it''s still a bag, dude."
Mudslide groans, throwing his hands up. "You don''t get it."
"No, no," I say, holding up a hand. "I get it. It''s, uh... symbolic. Like when people wear those pins for causes. Only yours is recyclable."
Mudslide glares at me, but there''s a hint of a smirk hiding under it. "Yeah, laugh it up. You''re just mad ''cause your whole thing is a suit and bad cigars."
"Hey," I snap, pointing at him with the bloodied tweezers. "These cigars are imported."
"From Newark?" Fulcrum quips, and I feel Jellyjam shaking with silent laughter up front.
"And the suit is everyone''s thing," Jellyjam reminds us.
"At least my uniform doesn''t get soggy when it rains," I shoot back, leaning against the van wall again.
Mudslide rolls his eyes, but there''s no real malice in it. "Whatever. I''ll get a new bag when we stop. And when I do, you''ll all remember why it works."
"Sure," Laceration says, testing her nail against her thumb. "I don''t get it, man, you''re too pretty to hide your face. Could''ve been a movie star. You''ve got, like, that mafioso face. Very dignified," she says, making a fake camera rectangle with her pointer fingers and thumbs, framing him in it.
"Been there, done that," Yellowjacket quips.
"You work community theater, hoss, that is not the same thing," Laceration retorts.
The van erupts into low, tired laughter, the kind that comes after too many close calls and not enough rest. Even Doppelganger cracks a small smile, though it''s gone as quick as it came.
"Hey, at least we''re alive," I say, pulling my jacket tighter over the gash in my side. The wound''s still bleeding, but it''s slowed, and the shard''s out. I can deal with the rest later. "And we''re getting steak. I''ll call that a win."
"For now," Jellyjam mutters, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "Just hope the cops aren''t hungry too."
BM.2.2
The restaurant looks like every other mom-and-pop steakhouse you''d find in a small town: low-hanging wooden beams, red-checkered tablecloths, and walls plastered with photos of smiling families and outdated Americana. The kind of place you''d bring your grandparents for a Sunday dinner, not an elite team of criminals licking their wounds from a federal ambush.
But this isn''t just any steakhouse. It''s our steakhouse--or more accurately, the Kingdom''s. Owned, staffed, and operated by people who know better than to ask questions when a bunch of bloodied strangers show up at 6 AM, demanding steak and silence.
Lancaster''s waking up slowly, the sky just starting to lose its deep blue, but the place feels like it''s in another world--quiet and tucked away from all the chaos we just barely escaped.
"Why do we own a steakhouse in Lancaster?" Fulcrum asks, stepping out of the van with her arms stretched above her head. She squints at the building, her energy as sharp as ever despite the long night. "I mean, really? Who''s sitting around thinking, ''You know what the Kingdom needs? A fine dining establishment in Amish country.''"
Yellowjacket''s the first to respond, naturally. He tosses his long hair over his shoulder like he''s starring in a shampoo commercial. "Money laundering, obviously. Gotta wash the cash somehow, sweetheart."
Fulcrum gives him a deadpan look. "So why not a car wash? Or a laundromat? You know, places that make sense?"
Yellowjacket grins as he opens the door to the steakhouse, holding it theatrically wide for the rest of us. "Because steak is classy. And classy sells."
Mudslide groans as he drags himself out of the van, adjusting the paper bag on his head. "Classy sells? You can''t even spell classy."
"I can spell steak," Yellowjacket shoots back, his grin unfazed. "And besides, it''s not just about classy. Restaurants are cash-heavy businesses. Easy to fudge the numbers. You say you sold 500 steaks, but really you sold 50. Who''s gonna check? Nobody, that''s who."
Fulcrum rolls her eyes. "Yeah, until the IRS shows up asking questions."
"They don''t ask questions here," Jellyjam cuts in, stepping out of the passenger seat and adjusting her pink blazer. "It''s Lancaster. They don''t even have phones."
"See?" Yellowjacket says, pointing at her like she''s just proven his point. "This is why I''m in management. I understand these things."
"You''re the only one who''s even met Upper Management," Laceration points out, hopping down from the van with an easy grace. She adjusts her belt and glances at him, her tone casual but curious. "What''s he like?"
The mood shifts a little, a subtle tension rolling through the group as everyone looks at Yellowjacket. He scratches his chin, genuinely thoughtful for once. "Intense," he finally says, his usual smirk replaced by something more serious. "Just... intense."
"That''s it?" I grunt, following the group into the restaurant. My side still aches, the gash throbbing under my jacket, but I''ll deal with that soon enough. "You can''t give us more than that?"
Yellowjacket shrugs, leading the way into the dimly lit dining room. The place smells like wood smoke and garlic, the kind of smell that makes your stomach growl no matter how tired or beat up you are. "What do you want me to say, Blake? He told me to wear gloves and to speak at a low volume. He''s got hair. He made me use hand sanitizer twice. You want something more interesting than that?"
"That''s comforting," I mutter, sliding into one of the leather booths. The seat creaks under my weight, and I shift a little, trying not to tear the upholstery with my bulk. The rest of the crew filters in around me, filling the booth and the adjacent table. It''s a tight squeeze, but we''ve had worse.
Jellyjam, ever the queen bee, takes charge. She claps her hands once, sharply, and the kitchen door swings open as if on cue. A server--a burly guy with a thick neck and the kind of expression that says he''s seen too much--emerges with a tray of glasses filled with water. "Steaks are already on the grill," he says gruffly, setting the glasses down in front of us. "How do you want ''em?"
"Medium rare," Yellowjacket says immediately, leaning back in his seat with a self-satisfied grin. "And bring me a lobster tail while you''re at it."
The server gives him a flat look but doesn''t comment. "No. Anyone else?"
"Same for me," Fulcrum says, glancing at Yellowjacket with mock disdain. "Minus the lobster. I''m not that pretentious."
"Rare," Laceration says, her tone clipped. "And don''t over-season it."
Jellyjam rolls her eyes. "Medium well. I don''t trust any of you."
"Medium rare, please and thank you," Doppelganger says, a little too quietly.
I nod toward the server, trying not to wince as the movement pulls at my side. "Medium. And make it big."
Mudslide doesn''t even look up from the menu he''s pretending to read. "Whatever''s cheapest. I''m not picky."
"Cheapest?" Jellyjam echoes, raising an eyebrow. "Muddy, we just pulled off one of the riskiest operations in our life, and you''re going cheap?"
"I''m a man of principle," Mudslide replies, deadpan. "And my principle is not spending more than I have to."
"You''re not even spending it," Jellyjam sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.
The banter continues as the server heads back to the kitchen, and I lean back in the booth, closing my eyes for a moment. The adrenaline''s finally wearing off, leaving me feeling every bruise, cut, and scrape from the night''s chaos.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
"So what''s the bonus for this job, anyway?" Fulcrum asks, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. "We risked our necks for those two," she nods toward Mudslide and Nothing, who''ve been mostly silent since we arrived. "I assume we''re getting more than just a steak dinner out of it."
"Zenith said something about hazard pay," Jellyjam replies, swirling her glass of water. "And a vacation fund."
"Vacation fund," I repeat, snorting. "Where are we gonna go? We''re on every wanted list from here to DC."
"Somewhere quiet," Jellyjam says, her tone sharp. "And somewhere far away. Maybe the Bahamas. Or Iceland."
"Yeah, because nothing says ''lay low'' like a bunch of supervillains hanging out in Iceland," Fulcrum says, rolling her eyes.
"We could go to Paris," Yellowjacket offers, grinning. "I hear the steak''s better there."
"Kings eat steak in Paris," Mudslide mutters, his voice low but audible. "We eat it in Lancaster."
That earns a chuckle from the table, and for a moment, the tension eases. The sound of sizzling meat drifts in from the kitchen, and the smell of smoke and spices fills the air.
Nothing doesn''t say anything. He stares at the table, blinking a couple of times behind his sunglasses. You almost forget he''s there. And tonight, I don''t feel like provoking him.
"Think they''ll come after us?" I ask, breaking the lull in conversation.
"They always come after us," Doppelganger replies, her voice calm and steady. "The question is, how long before they do? And how close to they get?"
"Long enough for us to enjoy this steak," Yellowjacket says, raising his glass in a mock toast. "To surviving."
"To surviving," I echo, clinking my glass against his.
The steaks arrive not long after, sizzling on cast iron plates that hiss and pop as they''re set down in front of us. They''re big, thick cuts of meat, cooked perfectly, with sides of roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables. For a moment, the table goes quiet as everyone digs in, the sound of forks and knives replacing the usual chatter.
It''s good. Better than good, actually. The kind of meal that makes you forget, just for a second, that you''re a wanted fugitive eating in a steakhouse owned by a criminal syndicate.
"Not bad," I say around a mouthful of steak, glancing at Yellowjacket. "You might''ve been onto something with this whole ''classy sells'' thing."
"See?" he says, pointing at me with his fork. "I told you. Trust the process."
Fulcrum snorts. "The process of turning crime into fine dining. Yeah, real classy."
"Hey," Jellyjam cuts in, her tone sharp but playful. "Less talking, more eating. We''ve got a long day ahead."
"Why?" Mudslide asks, glancing up from his plate. "Aren''t we laying low?"
"We are," she replies, her eyes flicking toward the window. "But laying low doesn''t mean sitting around. We''ve got cleanup to do. Loose ends to tie up."
"And by ''we,'' you mean us," I mutter, taking another bite of steak. "You''re just here for the lobster."
"Allergic to shellfish, buddy," Jellyjam replies.
"Where''d you even get ''Jellyjam'' from, anyway? Did Upper Management pick that one for you?" I ask, trying not to talk with my mouth full. I ignore the pointed glance Yellowjacket and Jellyjam share with each other - the two Baltimoreys. A sort of not-this-fucking-question-again look.
"It''s from a Goosebumps book," she says at last, her tone casual but clipped, like she''s daring me to question her. "I read it when I was a kid."
Mudslide blinks from behind his paper bag. "Wait, isn''t Goosebumps for kids?"
Jellyjam sighs deeply, dragging a hand across her face. "Yes, dipshit, that''s why I said I read it as a kid. Were you paying attention?"
"Hang on," Fulcrum interjects, leaning forward on her elbows. "Which Goosebumps book are we talking about? Wasn''t that the series by the guy who got in a car accident? What was his name--Stephen King?"
"No, no, Stephen King''s the one who died in that airplane crash," Yellowjacket says with absolute confidence, leaning back in his chair like he''s just dropped some profound literary knowledge.
"Stephen King didn''t die in a plane crash," Laceration cuts in, finally looking up from her plate. "He''s alive. He''s still writing."
"Then who am I thinking of?" Yellowjacket muses, scratching his chin.
"I think you''re mixing him up with someone else," Fulcrum says, picking at her steak. "Maybe John Grisham?"
"Says here Stephen King got in a plane crash, it just didn''t kill him," Yellowjacket notes, pointing on his phone but not showing anyone. I think he''s too stupid to lie to people, but I don''t say that out loud.
Mudslide''s voice cuts through, muffled but firm. "John Grisham didn''t write Goosebumps. Come on, you idiots. That was R.L. Stine."
"Thank you!" Jellyjam exclaims, throwing her hands up. "Finally, someone who knows how to use their brain."
"What''s the book about, then?" I ask, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "The one you got your name from."
"It''s called The Monster at Camp Jellyjam," she says, her voice dropping into the kind of ominous tone you''d hear on a campfire ghost story. "It''s about an evil summer camp blob monster. I was told when I joined I needed a J name, and it came to me. You''d love my original, what''s the word, nom du crime?"
Mudslide leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "So... your supervillain name is based on a kids'' horror book about a blob monster?"
"Nom de crime," Fulcrum corrects, in accurate sounding Italian.
"Yeah," Jellyjam says, unapologetic. "What of it?"
Mudslide shrugs. "Just saying. Kind of a weird choice for a name."
"Better than ''Mudslide,''" Fulcrum quips, smirking. "What are you, a natural disaster or a dessert?"
"Hey!" Mudslide snaps, pointing a finger at her. "My name''s symbolic. We went over this in the van! I didn''t even have to change it, you guys had M open."
Nothing snorts quietly.
"Yeah, yeah, the whole ''scrappy underdog'' thing," Laceration says, waving him off. "Can we get back to the money laundering? I was actually interested in that. I don''t want to hear about children''s horror novels."
"Not even a novel. Like, 150 pages tops," Fulcrum snipes.
Yellowjacket perks up immediately, ready to slide back into the spotlight. "Ah, yes. Money laundering. Where was I?"
"You said restaurants are good for fudging numbers," Laceration says, cutting into her steak with precise, surgical strokes. "Keep going."
"Right," Yellowjacket says, sitting up straighter. "So here''s the thing about cash-heavy businesses like this one. You take the dirty money from, say, a heist or some other job, and you mix it in with the clean money from the legit sales. You claim you sold more steaks than you actually did, and boom--your dirty cash is now clean."
"And nobody notices?" Fulcrum asks skeptically, her fork poised mid-air.
"Well," Yellowjacket admits, "it''s not foolproof. You gotta keep your numbers realistic, or the tax people start asking questions. But with a good accountant--someone on the inside--you can make it work."
Laceration nods, her expression thoughtful. "Huh. Makes sense. And that''s why we own this place?"
"Exactly," Yellowjacket says, flashing his signature grin. "It''s all about diversifying. You got your drug trade, your weapons deals, your extortion rackets--and then you''ve got your steakhouses. Keeps the feds on their toes."
"Sounds like a lot of work," I say, leaning back in my seat. "Why not just stash the cash in a safe and call it a day?"
"Because," Yellowjacket says, leaning forward like he''s explaining to a child, "if you don''t launder the money, you can''t spend it without raising red flags. Try buying a house with a duffel bag full of unmarked bills and see how far that gets you."
"I''d just buy a house with cash," I say with a shrug.
"You would," Jellyjam mutters, shaking her head. "And then you''d wonder why the IRS is banging down your door."
"I''d eat ''em," I retort, grinning as I bite into another piece of steak. "Problem solved."
Yellowjacket rolls his eyes. "God, you''re such a dinosaur."
Scattered chuckles around the room.
Chapter 152.1
I''m hunched over the police scanner Jordan set up, my notebook open to a fresh page, scribbles and half-written codes filling the earlier ones. A reference book sits next to me, dog-eared and marked up from hours of cross-referencing. My bad arm rests in my lap, the bandages itching under the sling, but I ignore it. I need to keep listening.
I''ve been at this for weeks now, trying to teach myself the language of the scanner. Ten codes, signals, dispatch jargon--it''s a lot, but it feels like progress. It feels like something I can do. Something I can control.
Most of what comes through is routine: noise complaints, traffic stops, the occasional stolen car. The kind of stuff that makes you wonder how cops stay awake on night shifts. Every so often, there''s a burst of excitement--a foot chase, a burglary in progress--but nothing major. Nothing that feels like it''s worth waking Jordan or Maggie for.
Jordan''s asleep in the next room. I can hear their faint snoring, just barely, over the low hum of the scanner. It''s comforting in a weird way, knowing someone else is here, even if they''re unconscious. The Music Hall feels bigger at night, emptier, the shadows stretching long and heavy across the walls. The air smells faintly of old wood and stale coffee, and the only light comes from the desk lamp I''ve propped up next to the scanner.
"Unit 214, report to a possible 10-16 in progress," the scanner crackles. "4200 block of Richmond Street. Caller advises they hear yelling and breaking glass."
I jot it down out of habit, even though it''s not the kind of thing I care about right now. Domestic disturbances aren''t exactly my area of expertise.
Another call comes through--a reckless driver on the Roosevelt Boulevard--and then the chatter dies down again. I sip at the lukewarm coffee I poured an hour ago, grimacing at the bitter taste, and flip through the reference book. Half these codes are outdated or only used in specific districts, which makes piecing things together a nightmare. But I''m learning. Slowly.
Then, something shifts. A burst of static crackles through the scanner, followed by a voice that''s lower, calmer than the usual dispatchers. "Unit 601, confirm encrypted activation on Channel 7-Alpha. Transport protocols engaged."
I sit up straighter, my pen hovering over the page. That''s not routine.
Another voice cuts in, this one sharper, more urgent. "Confirmed. Westbound I-78, mile marker 49. All units switch to encrypted channel. 601, secure comms."
The scanner goes silent for a beat, and I feel the weight of it settle in my chest. Encrypted channels don''t go active for routine calls. Something''s happening. Something big.
I flip to the back of the reference book, scanning for anything about Channel 7-Alpha. Nothing. It''s not listed. I write it down anyway, underlining it twice.
The silence breaks with another burst of static, then a clipped voice, almost too fast to catch. "Transport Bravo reporting escalation. Code 10-33, repeat, 10-33. Officer needs assistance, westbound I-78 near Allentown. Multiple suspects. Units en route."
A 10-33. Officer in immediate danger. My pulse picks up, and I grip the pen tighter, scribbling down everything I can catch.
"Central to all units, priority response requested. Maintain perimeter integrity. Additional assets mobilizing. Over."
More static, then another voice, this one panting, frantic. "601 to Central, we need backup now. There''s a fucking dinosaur,"
My pen stops mid-word and my stomach suddenly is sitting where the shit comes out.
I lean closer to the scanner, my heart hammering against my ribs. The voices overlap now, urgent and chaotic, and I can barely keep up.
"Multiple hostiles on approach! We''ve got a--what the hell is that?"
"10-97 at designated checkpoints. Unit 345, deploy spike strips at--"
"They''re inside the convoy! Repeat, suspects have breached--"
The static cuts out again, leaving only silence, and I can feel the isolation pressing in on me like a vice. I''m too far away. I can''t see what''s happening. I can''t help.
I check the clock. 3:52 AM. The seconds tick by, each one louder than the last, and I want to do something--call someone, jump on my bike, anything--but there''s nothing I can do. I don''t have a car. I don''t even know where they''re headed, beyond "westbound." I''m just stuck here, alone, listening to the chaos unfold dozens if not hundreds of miles away.
Another burst of static. "Transport Alpha compromised. Requesting immediate backup from all available units. Repeat; Transport--"
The voice cuts out mid-sentence, replaced by a long, shrill tone that makes my stomach turn. I''ve heard it before. It''s the sound of an emergency beacon, activated when a unit goes dark.
My hands shake as I write it down, the letters coming out jagged and uneven. Emergency beacon. Westbound I-78. Near Allentown.
The scanner crackles one last time, then goes silent. Completely silent. Even the routine chatter is gone now, replaced by an eerie, oppressive quiet that makes my skin crawl. Then, the chatter returns, but I''m barely listening. Backup from anyone available. Philly cops en route - but I already know what they probably already know. Philly to the I-88? They''ll be long gone by the time any backup arrives.
Dawn creeps in slowly, bleeding through the blinds in streaks of pale orange and gray. The Music Hall feels heavier now, like the silence of the early morning has turned into something thicker, harder to shake. I sit cross-legged on the couch, clutching my coffee mug like it''s the only thing anchoring me to reality. The TV is on, muted, the live helicopter footage playing over a banner that screams Breaking News in bold red letters.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
The aerial shots make my stomach twist. Burned-out cars are scattered across the westbound lanes of I-78 like someone dumped them out of a toy chest. Chunks of asphalt are missing, creating craters that swallow whole sections of the road. A pickup truck is flipped on its side, twisted open like a crushed soda can. Smoke still rises from parts of the highway, but it''s thinner now, more like a memory than an active threat.
I turn the volume up, just enough to catch the reporter''s voice over the hum of the coffee maker in the kitchen.
"Authorities are still piecing together the details of what occurred early this morning on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. While initial reports indicate a coordinated attack during the transport of two high-profile inmates, officials have yet to confirm the identities of those responsible. Witnesses describe chaotic scenes involving large explosions, overturned vehicles, and what some are calling a ''dinosaur''--though authorities have declined to comment on these claims."
The footage cuts to shaky cellphone video, the kind you''d expect from someone hiding under an overpass. The angle is bad, but you can clearly see Mr. Tyrannosaur towering, just for a moment, rearing back, and then the loud snap of gunfire. The clip ends abruptly, replaced by more helicopter footage.
I grab my phone, opening the HIRC chatroom for "Philadelphia Superhuman Affairs". It''s chaos. Messages are flying by so fast I can barely read them, but the overall sentiment is clear: What the hell just happened?
Screenshots of news articles and forum threads dominate the feed. Someone posts a zoomed-in frame of Mr. Tyrannosaur from the cellphone video, followed by a list of known Kingdom operatives who match witness descriptions.
"Has anyone confirmed who was in the transport?" someone asks.
"Mr. Nothing and Mr. Mudslide, apparently," comes the reply. "Remember the leaked prison transport stuff? This was that."
The TV cuts to a press conference. A Philadelphia Police Department spokesperson stands behind a podium, flanked by a few stern-looking officers. Her voice is calm but firm, the kind of tone designed to project control even when everything''s falling apart.
"While we cannot comment on the specifics of the operation or the identities of the perpetrators, we can confirm that multiple officers were injured in the line of duty. Their bravery and quick action prevented what could have been an even greater tragedy."
I switch back to the chatroom, scrolling through the flood of messages. Someone posts a link to a news story confirming that all the heroes involved in the transport are alive, though Captain Plasma is recovering from pneumonia due to inhaling smoke during the fight. Twenty-four officers were injured, along with several FBI agents and SWAT team members. Casualties are listed as "minor," but the details are vague. No names, no numbers.
I set my phone down and rub my face with my good hand, the bandages on the other crinkling faintly. The helplessness is suffocating. I hate sitting here, watching everything unfold like a bad movie I can''t turn off. I want to do something, but what? I''m just a teenager in a sling, stuck in a city hours away from where this all went down.
The coffee maker beeps, and I pour myself another cup, letting the routine steady me. The first sip is too hot, burning my tongue, but I barely notice. My mind''s already racing ahead.
The phone in my pocket buzzes, and for a second, I think it''s another update from the group chat. But when I check, it''s just the time: 7:02 AM. Before I can second-guess myself, I''m dialing Councilman Davis''s number.
He picks up on the second ring. "Sam?" His voice is clear, not groggy at all. "Why are you calling me at seven in the morning? Shouldn''t you be asleep?"
"Shouldn''t you be asleep?" I counter, pacing the length of the room.
"Touch¨¦," he says, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice. "What''s on your mind?"
I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "The Kingdom," I start. "This whole... thing on the Turnpike. Why can''t we just--why can''t someone go after them? Don''t we know their names? Their faces? Why can''t we seize their assets or freeze their accounts? They have accounts, right?"
Davis sighs, and I can already tell this is going to be a long conversation. "Sam, I get it. Believe me, I get it. I''ve spent nights thinking the same thing. But it''s not that simple. The Kingdom doesn''t operate like a street gang. They''re a network. Layers of shell companies, cash businesses, offshore accounts. You''ve heard of RICO laws, right?"
"Uh... sure?" I frown, stopping in place. "That''s, like, for organized crime?"
"Exactly. It lets us go after whole organizations by proving they''re part of a criminal enterprise. But even with RICO, the burden of proof is huge. We can''t just point and say, ''They''re the bad guys, arrest them.'' Every account we freeze, every asset we seize has to be tied to specific crimes, or they''ll argue it wasn''t theirs. And most of the time, they''re three steps ahead, moving their money faster than we can track it."
"But we know who Mr. Tyrannosaur is," I insist, throwing up a hand. "Can''t we just... arrest him? Doesn''t he have a house somewhere? A hideout? Something?"
"Probably," Davis says, his voice calm but weighted now. "On paper, he might have an address. But guys like him don''t settle down with a mortgage and a neighborhood watch. They move constantly. Safehouses, underground bunkers, who knows what else. And even if we find him? Look, you know as well as I do what happens if we rush it. He''s a guy who turns into a dinosaur, Sam. Do you think he''s just going to sit quietly while we read him his Miranda rights?"
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I hate that he''s making sense.
He sighs again, softer this time, like he''s choosing his words carefully. "You know, part of me wants to charge in, too. Make it stop. Make them pay. But we can''t. The law''s only as precise as we build it, and if we start bending it--justifying shortcuts because we''re on the right side--it''ll snap back. People like The Kingdom can afford to fight back in court. They''ll weaponize every misstep we make. And if we make it easier to take them down, what happens when the wrong people get that power? What happens when bad cops, or worse, the bad guys themselves, use it against us?"
I chew on that for a moment, the frustration boiling just under the surface. "So what? We just let them get away with it? Every time? It still feels like we''re playing catch-up while they wreck everything."
"It feels like that because sometimes it''s true," he admits, his voice tightening with restrained frustration. "But it''s not hopeless. Every piece of evidence we gather, every shell company we connect to their network--that''s progress. It''s slow, but it''s how we take them down for good. If we cut corners, if we get sloppy, all we do is hand them a way out. And that''s worse than doing nothing."
I slump back against the couch, staring at the floor. "It just feels like they''re untouchable."
"They''re not," Davis says firmly, the steadiness back in his voice. "They''re just persistent. And yeah, we''ll keep getting knocked down, but that doesn''t mean we stop standing back up. You know this, Sam."
I nod, even though he can''t see me. "Thanks," I say quietly. "For explaining all this."
I don''t feel very thankful.
"Anytime," Davis replies, his tone softening. "But listen, Sam--try to get some rest, okay? This fight takes time, and burning yourself out won''t help anyone."
"Yeah," I say, though I don''t mean it. "I''ll try."
We hang up, and I stare at the phone in my hand for a long moment before setting it down. The sun''s fully up now, the light streaming through the windows and making the room feel a little less empty. The TV is still on, the news anchor rattling off updates I''ve already heard.
I glance at the clock. 7:30 AM. Time to get ready for school.
Chapter 152.2
The announcement for the assembly crackles through the school''s intercom during seventh period, and a collective groan ripples through the classroom. Assemblies are the universal signal for wasted time, and nobody''s particularly excited about spending the end of the day crammed into the auditorium instead of zoning out during study hall.
For me, though, the timing feels like a punch in the gut. The helicopter footage from this morning is still looping in my head, and the idea of sitting through a dog-and-pony show from whoever''s on stage makes my skin crawl. I close my notebook with a snap and shove it into my bag, trying not to let my annoyance show. The last thing I need is someone asking why I look like I''m about to explode.
The hallway is a slow-moving stampede as students shuffle toward the auditorium, a mix of apathy and mild curiosity hanging in the air. I spot Jordan leaning against a locker near the science wing, and they catch my eye, jerking their head toward the crowd.
"Guess we''re doing this," they say, falling into step beside me.
"Guess so," I mutter, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag.
The auditorium is already half-full when we get there, the usual chaos of teenagers trying to find their friends and claim the best seats. Jordan and I slip into an empty row near the back, and I slouch into the uncomfortable plastic chair, pulling my hoodie tighter around me. The hum of chatter dims as the stage lights come on, and a line of city officials files onto the platform, their polished shoes clicking against the wood.
And there she is. Maya Richardson, perfectly composed in a tailored blazer that probably costs more than my mom''s car. She stands front and center, flanked by a few other council members and a man I recognize as the principal of one of the other high schools in our district. The audience quiets, and Maya steps up to the podium, her expression one of calm authority.
"Good afternoon, students," she begins, her voice carrying easily across the room. "I want to thank you all for taking the time to be here today. I know assemblies aren''t always your favorite way to spend an afternoon, but what we''re here to talk about is important--not just for you, but for the future of our city."
Jordan leans over slightly, whispering, "She''s good. I''ll give her that."
I nod stiffly, my eyes locked on Maya. Good isn''t the half of it. She''s a master at this--at walking the line between approachable and commanding, at making you feel like she''s on your side even as she''s twisting the knife.
"As many of you have probably heard, early this morning there was an incident on the Pennsylvania Turnpike involving the transport of two dangerous criminals," Maya continues, her tone grave but measured. "Thanks to the brave efforts of law enforcement and registered heroes, the situation was contained, but it serves as a stark reminder of the challenges we face in ensuring the safety of our community."
She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle over the room. The students around me are mostly quiet, a few shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Jordan glances at me, their expression unreadable, and I clench my jaw, forcing myself to stay still.
"These individuals," Maya says, her voice rising slightly, "were not LUMA-approved heroes. They were criminals. And the attack this morning was carried out by other unregistered superhumans, operating outside the law. This is exactly why we need legislation like the Superhuman Activity Regulation Act. To bring order to chaos. To ensure that those who wield power are held accountable, and that those who wish to help are properly trained and supported."
She''s so calm, so reasonable. It makes me want to scream.
"And let me be clear," she says, her gaze sweeping over the audience. "This legislation is not about punishment. It''s about protection. Protection for our neighborhoods, for our families--and for you."
Her tone softens as she shifts gears, and I can feel the mood in the room change with her. She''s good at this. Too good.
"Imagine," she says, her voice almost gentle now, "being a young person with powers, feeling the weight of responsibility to do something good, but not knowing how. Imagine going out there, trying to help, and finding yourself face-to-face with someone like the man described this morning--a man who can turn into a Tyrannosaurus rex. Can you imagine a child in that situation?"
A ripple of murmurs spreads through the room, and I glance around, watching as Maya''s words land. She''s not just talking to the students. She''s talking through us--to the parents who''ll hear about this later, to the voters who''ll tune in to the local news tonight.
"This legislation," she continues, "is about giving young people the time and resources they need to grow into their abilities safely. To focus on their education, their training, and their futures--not on putting themselves in harm''s way."
She steps back slightly, giving the audience a moment to absorb her words. The principal takes the mic next, saying something about how proud he is to have Councilwoman Richardson as a representative for our district, but I barely hear him. My thoughts are spinning too fast.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"She knew," I whisper, barely moving my lips. Jordan hears me anyway.
"Of course she did," they whisper back, their voice tight. "She''s part of the Kingdom. She probably planned it."
It''s not just that she knew. It''s that she''s using it. Spinning the whole thing into a perfectly crafted argument for her legislation. None of those criminals had LUMAs. None of those officers were kids. But here she is, painting a picture of chaos and danger, making it sound like anyone who isn''t on her side must be rooting for anarchy.
The students around us clap politely, not because they care, but because clapping means the assembly''s one step closer to being over. For most of them, this is just another boring speech they''ll forget by the time the buses pull out of the parking lot.
But for me, it''s personal. And for Maya, it''s deliberate. She''s laying the groundwork, planting seeds. She knows how this works. Kids go home and tell their parents what they heard. Parents talk about it at the dinner table, at work, at church. The narrative grows, spreads, takes root.
"She''s smart," Jordan mutters, their arms crossed tightly over their chest. "I hate how smart she is."
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay quiet. It''s not just smart. It''s calculated. She''s not even trying to convince us, the kids in this room. We''re not her audience. We''re just the delivery system.
"And let''s not forget," Maya adds, stepping forward again, "that this isn''t hypothetical. Some of you were at the homecoming dance earlier this year. Some of you saw firsthand what happens when vigilantes act without restraint."
My stomach twists, and I can feel Jordan tense beside me. She''s talking about me. About Patriot. About the night he beat me to a pulp in front of half the school.
The crowd murmurs again, and I force myself to keep my face neutral, to look forward like none of this is getting to me. But it is. God, it is.
"How could you not be for this?" Maya asks, her voice ringing with conviction. "How could anyone not want to make our city safer, our heroes stronger, our future brighter?"
The students clap again, a little louder this time, and Maya steps back from the podium, smiling like she''s just won an award. She hasn''t even finished yet, but it already feels like she''s scored her victory.
The principal announces a Q&A session, and a line begins to form at the microphones stationed in the aisles. Maya steps forward again, her expression calm and welcoming, like she''s ready to field any question with grace and authority.
Jordan leans over to me, their voice low. "You think anyone''s actually gonna ask her something real?"
I shake my head. "Doubt it. But if they do, she''ll spin it. She''s too good at this."
I fold my arms tighter, trying to keep my hands from shaking. The line to the microphone is crawling forward, one student at a time, each asking questions so dull it makes me want to scream.
"How does the legislation account for superhumans with, like, disabilities or impairments?" one girl from the debate team asks.
"That''s an excellent question," Maya Richardson replies, her voice smooth as polished glass. She''s sitting at the edge of the stage now, leaning forward just enough to make it look like she actually cares. "The registration system allows for a comprehensive assessment of every superhuman''s unique abilities and needs, ensuring no one is left behind. It''s about fairness."
The girl nods, satisfied. Some kids clap politely. Jordan, slouched in their seat next to me, mutters, "Fairness, my ass."
I want to laugh, but my throat feels too tight. I glance down at my lap, my fingers curling into fists. My notebook is still in my bag, but I don''t need it. The words are already burning a hole in my chest.
"Sam," Jordan whispers, their voice low and sharp. I glance sideways, and they''re staring at me like they already know what I''m about to do. "Don''t."
"Don''t what?" I mutter back, my voice a little too innocent.
Jordan narrows their eyes. "You''re thinking something stupid. I can feel it."
"Relax," I say, but I can hear the tremor in my own voice. I stand as the line shifts forward again, stepping into place behind a kid from the robotics club. "Remember what you told me when we first met?"
"Yeah?" Jordan asks, trying to grab for my wrist.
"I''m being the thing that happens to someone," I say, moving out of their reach.
The kid in front of me drones on about something technical--"Will the registration program incorporate superhuman-friendly STEM pathways?"--and I tune out, my pulse hammering in my ears. I don''t even hear Maya''s response this time. All I can think about is her smile. That perfect, calculated smile that''s been plastered on her face since this whole circus started.
That, and the way she spun my moment. The Homecoming incident. Me.
It''s one thing to use a nameless hypothetical to sell her agenda, but she named the exact event. My humiliation, my pain. She used it like a tool, a shiny little prop to hold up in front of the room, and she barely even flinched when she said it.
Except she will flinch. I''ll make her.
I step forward when it''s my turn, the microphone cool and steady in my hand. The room is quiet, polite, expectant. I can feel the weight of their eyes on me--the students, the teachers, the city officials scattered along the edges of the auditorium. A couple of kids near the front whisper to each other, pointing.
They recognize me. Of course they do.
"Hi," I start, my voice clear and steady, even though I can feel my heart pounding against my ribs. "Sam Small, sophomore."
Maya''s head tilts slightly, her smile freezing for just a fraction of a second. She knows who I am too. Good.
"Earlier this year," I continue, my fingers tightening around the mic, "a vigilante beat me to a pulp at Homecoming."
The room shifts, murmurs rippling through the crowd. A few kids lean forward in their seats, suddenly more interested than they''ve been all day. Maya doesn''t move.
"Anyway," I say, my tone almost conversational, "I heard the incident you mentioned from this morning was carried out by the Kingdom of Keys. Aren''t those the same supervillains who assassinated your political rival, Richard Duvall, a couple weeks after you got elected and framed it as a heart attack? I heard they have someone who can stop people''s hearts by touching them. Any comment?"
For the first time, Maya Richardson looks rattled.
I can swear that I can see the sweat droplets on her forehead. The twitch in her cheek. But maybe I''m just imagining that. I''m not imagining the silence.
The murmuring swells louder. A couple of students laugh nervously, and someone from the back of the room actually whistles. The adults in the room are already moving, stepping toward the stage, toward me. But I''m not nervous.
This isn''t nerves.
This is a fistfight.
I love fistfights.
The mic cuts off with a sharp click, leaving my last word hanging in the air like a thunderclap.
Chapter 152.3
Maya recovers fast¡ªfaster than I expected. She straightens in her chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap, and her smile creeps back into place like armor. She glances toward the adults rushing to the stage, holding up a hand to stop them.
"It¡¯s unfortunate," she says finally, her voice perfectly calm again, "that such a reckless and baseless rumor has spread. And even more unfortunate that some people choose to repeat it."
She pauses, just for a moment, but it¡¯s too long. The murmuring grows louder again, and the shadow of her hesitation lingers in the air.
"But let me be clear," she continues, her tone firmer now. "The Kingdom of Keys is a dangerous and ruthless organization. I understand the frustration and fear they inspire¡ªbelieve me, I share it. That¡¯s why legislation like the Superhuman Activity Regulation Act is so important. It¡¯s about giving our law enforcement the tools they need to protect us. To protect you."
The murmuring dies down, and the students clap politely, but the energy in the room is different now. Less focused. Fractured.
Maya¡¯s still talking, spinning her narrative with her usual precision, but I¡¯m not listening anymore. I step back from the microphone, the adults ushering me firmly away, and return to my seat next to Jordan. Something about waiting for official news conversation. I don''t care. I''ve thrown my punch.
They¡¯re staring at me like I¡¯ve just set the auditorium on fire. They reach a hand out for a below-the-belt high five, which I, of course, return.
"Where the fuck did that come from?" Jordan hisses.
"What, you didn''t know about Duvall? It was all over the news, like, for two days after it happened. Don''t you remember Mrs. Heartstopper or whatever?" I respond, just as quietly.
Jordan shakes their head, laughing under their breath. "He died of an embolism, dude. Not a heart attack or cardiac arrest. I was paying attention."
"Oh, was it an embolism? Oops," I reply, grinning.
The bell rings right after the assembly ends, and the auditorium erupts into chaos as students shuffle toward the exits. There¡¯s an electric buzz in the air, like someone lit a fuse but everyone¡¯s waiting to see how long it¡¯ll take to explode. I catch snippets of whispers as I shoulder my way out into the hallway:
"Did she actually just say that?"
"Who the hell is Richard Duvall?"
"Wait, was that Sam Small?"
Phones are out everywhere, faces lit up by glowing screens. It doesn¡¯t take a genius to guess what they¡¯re searching. I can already picture it¡ª"Richard Duvall + death + Kingdom of Keys." Half the student body probably just learned what an embolism is. The other half is probably trying to figure out who Maya Richardson even is.
Jordan keeps pace with me, their grin practically splitting their face. "You¡¯re a menace, you know that, right?"
"I¡¯ve been told," I say, deadpan. I can feel people staring as I walk past, but it¡¯s not new. I¡¯ve always been "that girl"¡ªthe one who judo-threw a security guard, the one who got her ass kicked by Patriot, the one who punches first and thinks later. But this? This is different. The stares feel sharper, like people are waiting to see if I¡¯ll combust right in front of them.
We turn a corner toward our lockers, and Alex Garcia materializes out of nowhere, almost tripping over his own feet in his rush to catch up. His phone¡¯s in his hand, an article already pulled up.
"Sam!" he half-shouts, his voice cracking just a little. "Did you know Duvall was, like, super corrupt? Like, he was in trouble for taking bribes and trying to rig zoning laws before he died. And you¡¯re saying the Kingdom killed him?"
"That¡¯s what I said, yeah," I reply, spinning the lock on my locker with one hand and yanking it open. My books spill out in a landslide, but I don¡¯t even flinch.
"That¡¯s insane," Alex says, his eyes wide. "I mean, it makes sense¡ªlike, why else would he just drop dead right after the election¡ªbut saying that out loud? In front of everyone? Dude, you¡¯re crazy."
Jordan leans against the locker next to mine, still grinning. "She¡¯s not crazy. She¡¯s a hero. Somebody had to say it."
I roll my eyes, stuffing books into my bag. "Can you two stop gawking and let me get to class?"
Alex doesn¡¯t budge, his thumbs flying across his phone screen. "You¡¯re trending on NetSphere, by the way. Somebody filmed the whole thing, and now there¡¯s a thread with, like, three hundred comments. People are arguing about whether you¡¯re a conspiracy nut or a badass."This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Let me guess," I say, slamming my locker shut. "You think I¡¯m both?"
"Obviously," Alex says, grinning. "You¡¯re, like, a real life Asu--."
"If you finish that sentence I''m punching you in the throat," Jordan interrupts him.
"Thanks," I chuckle, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Love the vote of confidence."
The rest of the day is a slow-motion train wreck. Everywhere I go, people are whispering, their eyes darting to me like I¡¯ve grown a second head. Teachers keep glancing at me, their expressions a mix of concern and that "please don¡¯t start anything" wariness they¡¯ve perfected over the years. Even Mr. Petrakis, who usually can¡¯t be bothered to care about anything, gives me a raised eyebrow when I walk into Chemistry.
At lunch, Jordan and Alex sit with me at our usual table, but the vibe is different. People keep passing by, pretending not to look at me while obviously looking at me. One girl actually trips over her own feet trying to get a better angle for a sneaky photo.
"Do I have something on my face, or is this just my life now?" I ask, stabbing at my mashed potatoes with way more aggression than necessary.
"Definitely your life now," Jordan says, stealing a fry off my tray. "You¡¯re the school¡¯s number-one hot topic. Enjoy your fifteen minutes."
Alex shoves his phone in my face again. "Oh my God, look at this comment. ¡®If that girl isn¡¯t careful, she¡¯s gonna end up like Duvall.¡¯ Dude, they¡¯re calling you out!"
I shove his phone away, not bothering to read it. "Let them. I don¡¯t care."
Jordan gives me a sidelong look. "You care."
"Okay, maybe a little," I admit. "But I¡¯m not backing down. If Maya can use me as her prop, I can throw it right back in her face."
Alex whistles. "You¡¯ve got guts. I¡¯d be hiding under a desk right now."
"I¡¯m not scared of her," I say, and it¡¯s not a lie. I¡¯m angry. Furious, even. But scared? No. Not yet.
Halfway through the afternoon, the inevitable happens: I get called to the principal¡¯s office. The announcement crackles over the PA during History, and the whole class goes quiet. I can feel everyone¡¯s eyes on me as I stand, grabbing my bag with a casualness I don¡¯t feel.
"Don¡¯t forget to grab a hall pass," Mr. Taylor says, his voice dripping with forced cheer. "Wouldn¡¯t want you getting into any more trouble, right?"
The walk to the office feels longer than usual, every step echoing in the empty hallway. By the time I get there, I¡¯m bracing for the worst. Principal Heckerman¡¯s door is open, and he gestures for me to come in without looking up from his desk. What''s the order of the day today - suspension? Expulsion?
"Mrs. Small," he says, folding his hands on the desk. "Do you have any idea how many emails I¡¯ve gotten today because of you?"
"I¡¯m guessing more than zero," I say, slouching in the chair.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You¡¯re not wrong. Listen, I get it. You¡¯re passionate. You care about... whatever it is you were trying to accomplish with that stunt in the assembly. And I understand your... situation," he says, gesturing to my burnt arm still wrapped up in a sling. "But you can¡¯t just go around accusing city officials of murder in front of the entire school."
"It wasn¡¯t an accusation," I say, crossing my arms. "It was a question."
Heckerman gives me a look. "Samantha, do you think I am an idiot?"
I bristle a little bit.
"Sam," he repeats.
"What?" I say, feigning innocence. "It¡¯s not my fault if people interpreted it that way. I¡¯m just curious."
He sighs again, rubbing his temples. "Look, I¡¯m not here to argue with you. I just need you to understand that there are consequences for this kind of behavior. You¡¯ve put the school in a very awkward position."
"Because I asked a question?" I shoot back.
Heckerman leans back in his chair, looking even more tired than usual. "Sam. I understand that you have... had a rough go of things the past couple of years. Believe it or not, I do care about my students, and I count you among that number. Just... consider that your actions might have consequences for the rest of the school."
He stares at me. I match his gaze. He pushes his bowl of M&Ms slightly towards me. Then again, until I take a handful and angrily stuff them into my mouth. I feel like an annoyed chipmunk.
"I''m semi-familiar with the McKinley case - that serial arsonist you mentioned, I did my research. I''m not going to blame you, because he''s clearly a nut, but we have to recognize the elephant in the room that several of your classmates got set on fire as collateral damage, presumably, to get to you. I don''t know what you and Mrs. Richardson know about each other, and I don''t want to know, but I''ll tell you what I told you last month; This isn¡¯t the first public school threatened by supervillains and it won¡¯t be the last, but I¡¯m not going to let it put the other students in danger."
I resist the urge to snark at him. My first impulse is to say "your point being?", but I shove it down with a swallow full of chocolate. "Okay," I say, trying to draw out the rest of his lecture.
"Just... don''t do it again, please, okay? I don''t think detention, suspension, or expulsion will really do anything to change your behavior. So this is me asking you as an adult in a very tough situation to please consider the safety of the other students before you accuse politicians of murder. Please?"
"Fine," I say, half through a breath. I''m not sure if I mean it or not - I feel bad pushing against his obvious sincerity, but, like... I can''t make any promises, John. Sorry!
"Thank you," he says, clearly relieved. "You can go back to class now."
By the time the final bell rings, the whispers have died down a little, but the looks haven¡¯t. People are still watching, still waiting for me to do something else stupid. But I¡¯m not giving them the satisfaction. Not today.
Jordan catches up with me at the lockers, their scarf trailing behind them like a superhero cape. "So, how was the principal¡¯s office?"
"Same as always," I say, slamming my locker shut. "He told me not to do it again, and I told him I wouldn¡¯t. End of story."
Jordan smirks. "And by ''end of story,'' you mean you¡¯re definitely doing it again."
"Well, hopefully the next politician that is also an evil supervillain won''t come directly knocking into my school. So I won''t have to," I say, grinning. "You know, next time."
Jordan shakes their head, laughing. "You¡¯re gonna get yourself killed one day, you know that?"
"Yeah," I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "But not today."
WORLD OF CHUM: Power Laws (7)
Following the Power Trail: How RICO Cases Adapt to Superhuman Crime
Corporate Counsel Quarterly, Fall 2023
When federal prosecutors successfully convicted members of the "Steel Circuit" criminal enterprise last month, the case hinged not on traditional financial records or witness testimony, but on an unlikely source: insurance claim patterns. Over three years, investigators traced a consistent signature of structural damage across properties in five states, all showing distinctive marks of enhanced-strength forced entry. Combined with a web of specialized equipment purchases and medical insurance claims, these patterns helped establish the organized nature of the enterprise.
"This represents the new face of RICO prosecution," says Elena Vasquez, former federal prosecutor and partner at Williams & Chang. "When traditional evidence becomes unreliable due to powered interference, we have to look for different kinds of patterns."
The Steel Circuit case exemplifies how the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act has evolved to address powered criminal enterprises. While RICO''s core purpose remains unchanged - targeting criminal organizations rather than individual actors - the methods of establishing organizational patterns have undergone significant transformation.
RICO, enacted in 1970 to combat organized crime, allows prosecutors to connect seemingly unrelated criminal acts into a single case by proving they''re part of an ongoing criminal enterprise. A crucial tool in dismantling traditional organized crime, the statute has become even more vital in an era where powers can make traditional evidence gathering nearly impossible.
New Patterns, New Problems
Traditional RICO cases relied heavily on following money trails and communication records. However, powered criminal enterprises often operate outside these traditional channels. Technopathic abilities can compromise digital records, while physical cash movement becomes harder to track when strength-enhanced individuals can transport large amounts without traditional banking systems.
"We''ve had to develop new frameworks for establishing criminal patterns," explains Marcus Thompson, who heads the Powered Crime Division of the U.S. Attorney''s Office in Chicago. "When you can''t trust the digital paper trail, you look for physical ones - power signatures at crime scenes, specialized equipment purchases, distinctive property damage patterns."
Insurance investigations have become particularly crucial in establishing these patterns. "Every powered incident leaves a distinctive insurance footprint," says Diana Chen, Senior Investigator at UltraShield Insurance''s Special Investigation Unit. "A strength-type breaking through a wall creates fundamentally different damage patterns than a pyrokinetic melting through it. When you see the same patterns across multiple claims in different jurisdictions, that''s often your first indicator of organized activity."
These insurance investigations frequently reveal broader criminal patterns that traditional law enforcement might miss. "Insurance companies maintain detailed databases of power-related claims," Thompson notes. "By collaborating with claims departments, we can identify clusters of similar incidents that suggest coordinated criminal enterprise rather than isolated powered crime. A single powered burglar might hit random targets, but an organization leaves patterns in claim types, timing, and geographic distribution that become evident when you analyze the aggregate data."Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
Corporate Complications
The integration of powered individuals into legitimate businesses has created additional challenges for RICO prosecution. Companies may legally employ powered individuals while simultaneously using their abilities for criminal enterprises, creating complex questions of authorized versus unauthorized power use.
"Corporate power use documentation has become crucial evidence," says Sarah Chen, corporate compliance attorney at Berkman LLP. "Companies need to maintain detailed records of authorized power use - not just to protect themselves, but to help distinguish legitimate business activities from criminal enterprise."
The LUMA Factor
The License to Utilize Metahuman Abilities (LUMA) system has become an increasingly valuable tool for RICO investigations. While originally implemented as a regulatory framework, LUMA''s documentation requirements create multiple advantages for law enforcement tracking organized powered crime.
"LUMA records help establish patterns of power distribution within organizations," explains Thompson. "When you see certain power types consistently appearing in particular geographic areas or organizational structures, it helps establish the non-random nature of these associations."
The system''s legal requirements also create additional leverage for prosecution. Using powers without a valid LUMA automatically enhances the degree of any criminal charges, providing prosecutors with significant bargaining power when building RICO cases. "An unregistered individual facing enhanced charges is more likely to cooperate with investigations into larger criminal enterprises," notes Jerome Williams, Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York.
LUMA registration histories can also help establish organizational hierarchies. "Criminal enterprises often pay for their powered members'' LUMA fees and renewals," says Chen. "These payment patterns, combined with timing and location data from registration records, help us map organizational structures."
The system''s renewal requirements create regular contact points that aid investigation. "Every two years, powered individuals must update their registration," Williams explains. "This creates a paper trail of addresses, employment information, and power development that can be invaluable for establishing long-term patterns of criminal enterprise activity."
These advantages extend to international investigations. LUMA''s standardized documentation makes it easier to track powered individuals across state lines and coordinate with international law enforcement agencies. "When we''re dealing with multi-jurisdiction RICO cases, LUMA records provide a common framework for establishing patterns of organized activity," Thompson notes.
"The LUMA system has essentially created a map of powered activity across the country," concludes Chen. "While individual criminals might operate outside it, organized enterprises nearly always leave traces in the system, even when trying to avoid it."
Looking Forward
As criminal enterprises continue to adapt, RICO prosecution methods will likely evolve further. Current trends suggest increased focus on:
- Physical evidence pattern analysis
- Resource acquisition tracking
- Insurance and damage claim analysis
- Corporate power use documentation
- Healthcare provision patterns
- Specialized equipment supply chains
"The fundamental principle of RICO hasn''t changed," Vasquez concludes. "We''re still proving organized criminal activity. We''ve just had to expand our definition of what constitutes evidence of organization."
Rachel Goldman is Legal Affairs Editor at Corporate Counsel Quarterly
Chapter 153.1
The common area of the Music Hall always feels like it''s stuck in time, like the world outside could be burning down and this place would still smell like coffee, marker fumes, and stale popcorn. It''s late afternoon, but the heavy curtains keep the light low and the mood heavier. The mismatched furniture--half thrift store finds, half dumpster rescues--has been rearranged again, probably by Jordan in another bout of obsessive tidying. Their desk is a battlefield of notebooks, pens, and a pile of flashcards they''ve been shuffling and restacking for the last hour.
I''m slouched on the couch, my legs stretched out, a chemistry textbook propped up on my lap for show. The HIRC channel is open on my phone, the constant stream of messages barely holding my attention. Every few minutes, I refresh, even though I know nothing''s going to change until the council announces the results of the vote. It doesn''t stop me from checking. Over and over.
Lily, curled up in the armchair across from me, is the picture of faux-relaxation. Her legs are tucked under her, and she''s flipping through a math workbook like it personally insulted her. Her fingers drum against the armrest in an arhythmic pattern, a little too fast, a little too loud.
"Can you not?" Maggie mutters from her spot on the floor. She''s sitting cross-legged with her back against the coffee table, a paper ball hovering a few inches above her palm. Every so often, she lets it drop, only to snap it back up with a flick of her fingers. It''s like a gravity-defying game of catch, except she''s the only player, and it''s not fun to watch after the first twenty minutes.
Lily shoots her a glare but stops drumming, only to pick up a pencil and start tapping it against her knee instead. Maggie rolls her eyes and goes back to her one-woman paper ball Olympics.
I glance over at Tasha, who''s sprawled out on the rug with her laptop open in front of her. She''s wearing her big noise-canceling headphones, the kind that make her look like she''s DJing a rave instead of pretending to do calculus homework. She hasn''t said much all afternoon, but her occasional sighs and the way she keeps flipping between tabs tell me she''s just as distracted as the rest of us.
The police scanner hums faintly in the background, a steady stream of white noise broken up by bursts of static and dispatch chatter. Jordan insisted on leaving it on, "just in case," even though nothing interesting ever comes through during the day. So far, we''ve heard about a shoplifting incident in Fishtown, a fender bender on I-95, and someone''s pet pig escaping in Kensington. Riveting stuff.
Jordan leans back in their chair, tossing the flashcards onto the desk with a frustrated huff. "Okay, I give up. How is it possible to know something''s going to happen and still feel completely unprepared for it?"
Maggie snorts. "Welcome to literally every test I''ve ever taken."
"Except this one determines whether we''re officially screwed or just regular screwed," Lily mutters, not looking up from her workbook.
I glance down at my textbook, the words blurring together into meaningless lines. "We already know how it''s going to go. Maya Richardson didn''t spend the last month making speeches just to lose."
"That''s not the point," Jordan says, their voice sharp. "The point is--ugh, I don''t know what the point is. I just hate waiting."
"We all do," Tasha says, her voice muffled by the headphones she''s pulled halfway off. "But unless one of us has a secret plan to infiltrate City Hall and swap out the ballots, we''re stuck waiting."
Maggie lets the paper ball drop to the floor and leans her head back against the table. "I vote we start brainstorming Sam''s next big public stunt. Maybe this time you can accuse Maya of being an actual lizard person."
"Don''t make lizard people jokes, please," I say, grimacing, remembering my mom''s long lectures the first time I made a crack like that.
"Sorry," Maggie crinkles, like tissue paper rolled up.
The scanner crackles to life again, a garbled voice cutting through the static. "Unit 427, 10-65 at Market and 12th. Suspect is male, mid-30s, wearing--uh, a pirate hat? Repeat, pirate hat. Approach with caution."
Tasha raises an eyebrow. "Did they just say pirate hat?"
"Yup," I say, popping the ''p.'' "Philly''s finest, ladies and gentlemen."
The moment of levity doesn''t last long. The room falls back into an uneasy quiet, the only sounds the occasional tap of Lily''s pencil, the hum of the scanner, and the soft click of Jordan''s pen as they absentmindedly disassemble and reassemble it.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
I pick up my phone again, refreshing the HIRC chat. Still nothing.
"Why are we even doing this?" Maggie asks, breaking the silence. She sounds tired, more tired than I''ve ever heard her. "Sitting around, pretending like this isn''t a complete waste of time."
"It''s not a waste," Jordan says, their voice firm. "If they vote yes, we need to be ready."
"Ready for what?" Maggie snaps. The paper ball hits the floor with a thud, rolling under the couch. "We''re already illegal. A vote doesn''t change that."
"No," I say quietly, my eyes still on my phone. "But it makes it official. And that''s when things get dangerous."
The room goes silent again, the weight of my words settling over us like a lead blanket. It''s not something any of us want to say out loud, but it''s the truth. This isn''t just about losing the Young Defenders or having to hang up our costumes. It''s about what happens when people like Maya get to decide who''s allowed to be a hero--and who isn''t.
The notification hits like a sucker punch: a single message from Councilman Davis in the group chat, delivered with devastating simplicity:
Councilman Davis: "It passed. 12-5."
I blink at my phone, rereading the message as if the numbers might rearrange themselves into something better. They don''t. My stomach twists. The room feels too quiet, the hum of the police scanner suddenly oppressive. Around me, the others blur into the background, their movements slowed to a crawl.
In the HIRC chat, the conversation starts immediately.
Rampart: "We knew this was coming."
I can practically see him, arms crossed, leaning back like he''s sitting at the head of some table that only exists in his head. The weight of authority in his tone is heavy, but there''s a sharpness to it--like he''s biting off the edges of his own frustration.
Connor: "Yeah, but it still sucks."
Connor''s voice is quieter in my mind, less certain. I picture him rubbing the back of his neck, like he does when he''s uncomfortable but trying to act like everything''s fine.
Blink: "What happens now?"
She''s right next to me, physically in the room, but even her words feel like they''re coming from somewhere far away. I don''t need to look to imagine the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers drum against the armrest of the chair.
Rampart: "Now we follow the law. B will have to wait two years and get registered. Anyone else, well, you know the options."
He sounds like someone rehearsing a script he doesn''t believe in. Stern. Frustrated. Pragmatic. Like a disappointed dad trying to explain why bedtime is non-negotiable.
Connor: "You mean you follow the law."
There''s no malice in it, just resignation. I see him shrugging, slouched against a doorframe, already half-checked out.
Gossamer: "Do we have to talk about this now?"
Her words come slow and deliberate, like she''s weighing every syllable before hitting send. I can imagine her sitting cross-legged on the floor, her gaze distant, fingers idly fidgeting with a piece of fabric she''s pulled from her sleeve.
Councilman Davis: "Yes."
Davis''s reply is sharp, cutting through the static. He''s not here, but his presence is heavy, like a shadow in the corner of the room. His voice is always calm but firm, the kind that makes you feel like you''re being lectured even when he''s not trying to.
Gossamer: "Fine. Then what''s the point? We''ve already been told we''re not allowed. This just makes it official."
Her tone in my head is quiet but tired. No anger, no fire, just a kind of resigned weight, like she''s been holding this in for too long.
Blink: "We''re not actually going to stop, right?"
I glance at her, her question floating in the air like smoke. She doesn''t look at me, just stares at her phone, her leg bouncing restlessly.
Rampart: "Some of us are."
Ouch. I hear the edge in his voice--pointed, cutting. I picture him looking straight at me when he says it, even though he''s not here.
Connor: "Guys, can we not?"
His voice is softer now, almost pleading. I see him stepping back, his shoulders hunched, the way he always does when the tension gets too thick.
Gossamer: "This isn''t helping."
She sounds... tired. Not just physically, but in that deep, bone-weary way that makes you want to close your eyes and shut out the world.
Councilman Davis: "We all need to take a breath. The ordinance is law now. That''s the reality. We can be upset, but we need to figure out our next steps carefully."
His words feel like a hand on the back of your neck, steady and unrelenting.
Blink: "What are the next steps, then? Do you even have a plan?"
There''s heat in her voice now, a kind of simmering frustration she''s barely keeping in check.
Rampart: "It doesn''t matter. The law is the law. This is the system we have to work through now."
I picture him standing tall, arms crossed, his voice like a gavel.
Blink: "Simple? Seriously? What about Sam? What about all of us who can''t follow your perfect little rulebook?!"
She''s sitting upright now, her fists clenched. Her voice is sharp, biting. I don''t hear it - all I hear are her fingernails clicking on her phone. But I hear it.
Connor: "I''m out."
It''s so quiet in my head that I almost miss it. But it''s there. Final.
Gossamer: "Spindle..."
Connor: "I''ve been out for a while. This just makes it official. Sorry."
The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, even in the imaginary space of the chat. I swallow hard, my throat tight.
Gossamer: "I''m outside. Can I come in?"
The message snaps me back to reality so fast it almost hurts. I blink at my phone, rereading the message like it''s written in another language. Outside? Private message?
I push off the couch, ignoring the questioning looks from Lily and Jordan. My feet move automatically, carrying me toward the heavy metal door at the back of the Music Hall. I crack it open just enough to peek outside, and there she is--Amelia, leaning against the wall, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket.
"Can I come in?" she asks, her voice soft.
Chapter 153.2
Gossamer steps inside, the sharp edges of the Music Hall''s cold air closing around her like a handshake. She takes a tentative step forward, scanning the room with an expression that''s halfway between skepticism and curiosity. Amelia''s not really the "kick back and relax" type--at least, not in any version of her I''ve gotten to know--but there''s something guarded about her now, like she''s already planning her exit route.
She''s not dressed to the nines for once in something pretty. Just bundled up for the cold postwinter weather, with a scarf around her face like a shield, her narrow eyes peeking out from over top of it like a cat.
Jordan, of course, steps into the gap immediately. They have this way of filling space, not physically - they''re built like a question mark made of spaghetti - but with their presence. They''re already moving toward her, hand outstretched in exaggerated welcome, their cloak flapping behind them like they''re auditioning for a Shakespeare in the Park production of Batman.
"Gossamer!" they say, dragging her name out like it''s the most exciting thing they''ve ever heard. "Welcome to the illustrious halls of the Auditors, where chaos reigns, snacks are communal, and the Wi-Fi is spotty at best."
Amelia raises an eyebrow but takes their hand anyway. "I''m not sure I''m joining anything yet," she says, her voice measured but not unfriendly.
"Pfft," Jordan waves off her hesitation like it''s a gnat. "Come on. Of course you are. Who wouldn''t want to join a team this dysfunctional?"
"I--"
"Exactly," they interrupt, clapping her on the shoulder. "Now, first things first. What''s your real name again? Can I call you something that''s not ''Goss''? Because, no offense, but it sounds like a brand of overpriced organic yogurt."
She blinks, startled, but then lets out a soft laugh. "Amelia. My name''s Amelia."
"Amelia," Jordan repeats, like they''re testing the taste of it. They nod, satisfied. "Great. Nice to meet you, Amelia. Welcome to the Auditors. Sometimes there''s an Irish Werewolf around. But not today."
Amelia looks at me, her lips twitching into a half-smile. "Is it always like this?"
"Always," I say, deadpan. "But don''t worry. You''ll get used to it."
Lily--Blink--leans back on the couch, crossing her arms with a theatrical frown. "Wait a second. Is that what the name is? Auditors? Did we get to vote on this? Because I don''t remember voting."
"You didn''t," Jordan says, spinning dramatically to face her. "This isn''t a democracy, Lily. It''s a benevolent dictatorship. And I''m the dictator."
"Benevolent?" Maggie pipes up from her spot by the window, where she''s still half-heartedly tossing a crumpled ball of paper into the air with her repulsion field. "That''s a stretch."
"Yeah, I''m with Maggie," Tasha adds from the corner, where she''s sprawled on a beanbag like a queen surveying her kingdom. "I''d say you''re more of an eccentric tyrant."
Jordan gasps, clutching their chest in mock offense. "Et tu, Tasha?"
"Whatever," Lily says, waving them off. "I just think if we''re gonna have a team name, we should at least get a say in it. Like... a vote or something."
"Too late," I chime in, flipping my notebook closed with a snap. "The name''s already on the Wi-Fi router. It''s legally binding now."
"It''s a cool name," Maggie says, tossing the paper ball a little higher. "Auditors. Makes us sound mysterious and official. Like we''re about to send someone an invoice for their crimes."
"That''s exactly what it is," Jordan says, pointing at her like she''s just won a prize. "We audit the chaos. We''re the checks and balances. The unsanctioned IRS of superhero nonsense."
Lily groans, dragging her hands down her face. "This is the worst."
"You''ll learn to love it," I say, grinning at her. "Just think of all the bad guys we can make panic by saying, ''You''re being audited.''"
Lily glares at me, but there''s a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "Fine. But only if we get team jackets."
"Oh, absolutely," Jordan says, already pulling up their phone. "Matching jackets. Maybe cloaks. Definitely badges."
Amelia watches the back-and-forth with an expression I can''t quite place--something between bemusement and disbelief. When the chatter finally dies down, she shifts her weight, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. "For the record," she says, her voice quieter now, "I''m not sure I''m going to be doing anything. Not if vigilantism''s outlawed."This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
The room goes still for a moment, the weight of her words settling over us like a low-hanging fog. Jordan opens their mouth, probably to launch into another speech, but Amelia cuts them off before they can start.
"But," she says, glancing at me and Lily, "I''ll stick around. With you two. Because I trust where you''re going. And I don''t trust Rampart''s judgment. Or Playback''s."
There''s a small silence, the kind that feels like everyone''s waiting for someone else to speak first. It''s Jordan, of course, who breaks it, their voice unusually soft but still carrying that undercurrent of humor.
"Well," they say, spreading their arms, "if you''re going to hang around, you might as well have a cool name to do it under."
Amelia snorts, but it''s the kind of sound that feels like a crack in the armor. She glances at the group, her expression softening just enough to let us see the person underneath.
"Fine," she says. "But I''m not promising anything."
Jordan grins, stepping back and gesturing grandly to the room. "That''s all we ask. Welcome to the chaos, Amelia."
She shakes her head, but there''s a faint smile on her lips as she leans against the arm of the couch. The tension in the room eases, just a little, and for a moment, it almost feels normal. Like we''re not standing on the edge of something huge and terrible.
Amelia''s stuff is piled precariously on the back of a faded red scooter parked just outside the Music Hall. The paint is chipped in a few places, and one of the mirrors is taped in place, but the thing has character. It''s also completely not what I expected her to show up with. I don''t know why, but I was under the impression she had walked here.
"You have a scooter?" I blurt out, standing in the doorway as she starts unstrapping a set of bungee cords.
"Obviously," Amelia replies, not looking up. She tosses a duffle bag onto the pavement with a thud. "What, did you think I was going to show up in a jetpack or something?"
"Well, I didn''t think that, but--" I gesture vaguely at the scooter. "When did you get a scooter? And why?"
She glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, my powers are great for transportation. Let me just summon my magical threads to carry me through the city while simultaneously hauling thirty pounds of gear. Oh wait--they don''t do that." She unclips another strap and hefts a plastic crate onto the sidewalk, her tone dripping with mock cheer. "This? This is reliable. It''s not flashy, but it gets me and my stuff where we need to go."
I cross my arms, watching as she unloads what seems like an infinite amount of bags, boxes, and random supplies. "What''s in all this?"
"Materials," she says, bending to pull a sewing machine case off the back of the scooter. "Needles, thread, fabric, adhesives, scissors, bandages, medical tape, gloves--basically everything you guys should already have but don''t."
I blink. "You''ve got first aid stuff in there?"
She straightens up, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, and gives me a look. "Sam, I''ve seen enough of your ''team dynamics'' to know that if anyone''s carrying a first aid kit, it''s probably two years out of date and buried under a pile of empty chip bags."
Jordan pokes their head out the door, scarf trailing behind them. "Hey, the chip bags are organized, thank you very much."
Amelia snorts, grabbing another bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "Sure they are. Now, where''s this ''workspace'' you keep bragging about? I need a corner to claim before I start unpacking."
It doesn''t take Amelia long to pick her spot--a disused chamber just off the Music Hall''s common floor, half-hidden behind a heavy curtain. The space is dusty and cluttered with random furniture and ancient-looking boxes, but she surveys it with the calculating eye of someone who sees potential in every mess.
"This''ll do," she says, dropping her bags in the center of the room. "Give me ten minutes."
Jordan leans against the doorway, arms crossed. "Ten minutes? To do what? Invent an entirely new aesthetic?"
"You''ll see," Amelia replies cryptically, already pulling supplies out of her duffle bag.
True to her word, the space transforms almost instantly. Within minutes, she''s cleared off a worktable, arranged rows of thread and fabric in neat, color-coded stacks, and set up a sewing machine that looks both ancient and indestructible. Another corner is dedicated to first aid supplies, with bandages and antiseptics laid out like a mini-clinic. It''s like watching a time-lapse video in real life--one second, it''s a storage room; the next, it''s a functional workshop.
Jordan whistles, genuinely impressed. "Okay, I take it back. This is kind of amazing."
Amelia doesn''t even look up. "Kind of?"
I step into the room, taking in the shelves of neatly organized supplies and the faint smell of antiseptic that now permeates the air. "This is... a lot."
"It''s called being prepared," Amelia says, turning to face us. "How many lives have you guys been saving from here? Or is this more of an excuse to beat people up and play Robin Hood?"
The words land harder than she probably meant them to. My face heats up, and I glance at the ground, shifting uncomfortably. I think about the bandages we''ve grabbed from Jordan''s bathroom in emergencies, the times I''ve wrapped someone''s injuries with ripped t-shirts or duct tape because we didn''t have anything better. Even with the first aid kit I carry with me, I deal with enough scrapes that it''s not always... replenished.
Auughaaauah. I don''t like this emotion!
"Right," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "Good point."
Amelia watches me for a moment, her expression softening. She doesn''t say anything else, just turns back to her worktable and starts sorting spools of thread.
The awkward silence is broken by the sharp crackle of the police scanner in the next room. I don''t even register the words at first--something about a breaking and entering--but then my brain catches up, and I''m already moving before my feet have registered anything. The nice part of Tacony. A couple of blocks away. Smoke spotted. The words sort of filter in through my... what, my limbic system? Without really being consciously perceived.
"Wait, what''s happening?" Lily calls after me, her voice tinged with alarm. Tasha scoots back out, examining Amelia''s new workspace, while Maggie is already up and following me - she''s been suited up.
"B&E," I shout over my shoulder, grabbing my travel mask from the hook by the door and slamming it on over my head. Can''t believe I have a travel mask. "Tacony. Couple blocks away. Come on!"
"Sam, wait--" Jordan starts, but I''m already halfway out the door, slamming the mask over my face as I go. I don''t wait for them to catch up. I don''t need to. This is what I do.
Chapter 153.3
Gossamer''s scooter is even more cramped than it looks, which is saying something because it already looks like the kind of thing built for one person with a personal bubble the size of a postage stamp. Amelia grudgingly hands me a helmet--safety first, I guess--before slipping on her own and swinging a leg over the seat. She adjusts her scarf to cover the lower part of her face, the edges of her costume peeking out from under her jacket.
"Are you sure this is necessary?" she asks, her tone hovering somewhere between resigned and annoyed.
"Yes," I say firmly, jamming the helmet onto my head. "We don''t have time to walk, and Jordan can''t drive. Besides, I need to guide you. Blink can keep up on her skates."
Blink, already fastening her inline skates, gives Amelia a thumbs-up. "I''ll be fine. I skitch shit on the reg."
Amelia mutters something under her breath that I''m pretty sure isn''t complimentary but revs the scooter''s engine anyway. It sputters like it''s about to give up, but then it roars to life. Well, maybe "roar" is too strong a word--it''s more of a determined wheeze.
"Fine," she says, gripping the handlebars tightly. "But if this thing breaks down because you overloaded it, you''re paying for repairs."
"Deal," I say, hopping onto the back and grabbing the sides of the seat for dear life. There''s no way I''m wrapping my arms around her waist. I have some dignity.
"Don''t scratch the paint," Amelia snaps as she kicks the scooter into gear. We lurch forward, and I immediately regret not holding on tighter because this thing moves faster than it looks. Blink skitches behind us, easily keeping pace as we zip down the quiet streets of Tacony, her wheels letting out a quiet sort of hissing crackle as she helps juice the engine with her powers.
The ride is... interesting. Amelia handles the scooter like a pro, weaving through side streets and alleys with an ease that makes me think she''s been doing this a lot longer than she let on. Blink, true to her word, glides effortlessly behind us, helping compensate for the weight of three almost fully grown women, her hands squeezing onto the seat for dear life.
We don''t have to guess where we''re going. Even from a couple of blocks away, the black plumes of smoke curling into the sky are impossible to miss. My stomach tightens at the sight of it, and I lean forward, tapping Amelia on the shoulder.
"There," I say, pointing toward the source of the smoke. "That''s the house."
Amelia slows the scooter as we approach, pulling up a block away to avoid drawing too much attention. The house is one of the nicer ones in this part of Tacony--two stories, clean white paint, a well-manicured lawn. Or at least it was. The front window has been smashed in, shards of glass glittering on the porch, and the faint smell of smoke hangs in the air. The front door is shut, but the smoke is clearly coming from inside.
Amelia cuts the engine and turns to me, her voice low. "I''ll stay out here. Someone''s gotta be the getaway driver."
"Good plan," I say, hopping off the scooter. "Stay ready. We might have to bolt fast if the cops show up."
Blink skids to a stop beside us, adjusting her gloves. "What''s the play?"
"We go in, figure out what''s going on, and deal with it before the cops get here," I say, already moving toward the house. "Stay behind me."
The faint wail of sirens in the distance spurs me forward. We''ve got maybe three minutes before this place is swarming with uniforms. Plenty of time if we''re quick.
The front door doesn''t budge when I try it, so I motion for Blink to follow me around the side of the house. The broken window gives us an easy way in, though climbing through it is less "graceful infiltration" and more "awkward scramble." The shards of glass still clinging to the frame catch on my jacket, but I manage to get inside without cutting myself.
Blink follows right behind me, landing lightly on the carpeted floor. The living room is a mess--couch cushions thrown everywhere, picture frames knocked over, drawers yanked open and emptied onto the floor. The air is thick with smoke, but there''s no sign of fire. I pull my mask tighter over my face and move toward the kitchen, motioning for Blink to stay close.
The source of the commotion isn''t hard to find. A figure in a hoodie, baggy clothes, and a gas mask is rifling through the kitchen drawers, tossing anything valuable into a backpack slung over one shoulder. A purse lies on the counter, already emptied of its contents.
Before I can say anything, the figure straightens up and turns to face us. The gas mask hides their face completely, the black lenses making it impossible to see their eyes, but their posture stiffens when they see me.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
"Bloodhound," they say, their voice muffled and distorted. "And... friend. Get out of here. I''ve got this scumbag."
It takes me a second to process what they just said. "Excuse me?"
The figure gestures vaguely around the kitchen. "This place. This guy. He''s a scumbag. I''m cleaning him out."
I blink, my brain scrambling to catch up. "Wait, you think we''re... what? On your side?"
The figure tilts their head slightly. "Aren''t you?"
"No," I say, taking a step forward. "We''re here to stop you. This isn''t your house, is it?"
They shrug, unbothered. "Doesn''t matter. The guy who lives here deserves it. He''s got money, he''s fine."
Blink shifts beside me, her voice sharp. "That''s not how this works."
The figure doesn''t respond, just starts rifling through another drawer like we''re not even here. My patience snaps.
"Hey!" I bark, stepping closer. "Put the bag down and step away from the counter. Now."
They freeze for a moment, their shoulders tensing, but then they turn back to face me, their posture more defensive now. "You don''t get it. People like him--people like this--they''re the reason--"
"I don''t care," I cut them off, my voice firm. "You don''t get to decide who deserves what. That''s not your job. Now put the bag down and step away."
For a moment, neither of us moves. The sirens are louder now, probably only a block or two away. Blink shifts her weight, ready to act, and I tighten my stance, preparing for whatever''s about to happen.
The figure''s shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh, their hands still half-raised. "You don''t know who lives here, do you?" their voice crackles, distorted through the gas mask. There''s something tired in their tone, like they''re explaining basic math to someone who just doesn''t get it. "What do you even know about Mayfair? About Gregory Winters?"
I open my mouth to respond, but they press on, their words tumbling out in a rush. "He''s a loan shark. He preys on desperate people. Single moms. Immigrants. Anyone too scared or too broke to go to a bank. And when they can''t pay him back? You don''t even want to know what happens then."
They pause, glancing at the window, the sirens growing louder by the second. "He''s tied up in his bedroom. Alive. I''m not going to hurt him any more than I already have, but someone had to stop him. Someone had to--" They gesture at the backpack on the counter. "--return some of his ill-gotten goods, turn his financials in to the authorities. You know how many lives this guy''s ruined?"
The words hang in the smoky air, thick and heavy. I glance at Blink, who''s watching the figure with narrowed eyes, her hands flexing at her sides like she''s ready to move. I know what she''s thinking because I''m thinking it too: this isn''t that different from what we do. Not really.
But the difference, the line, is that we don''t tie people up in their bedrooms and ransack their houses. We don''t decide who deserves what. And we definitely don''t fill a house with smoke and leave a mess for the cops to untangle. When Jordan and I rob bad guys, it''s in their hideouts, in the dark shadowy places, where we steal their drugs and dispose of them. That''s... different. It''s different. It''s different!
"I get it," I say, my voice quieter now but no less firm. "You think you''re doing the right thing. Maybe you even are. But you''re not the judge, jury, and executioner. That''s not how this works."
The figure tilts their head, and I swear I can feel the weight of their stare through the mask. "Isn''t it, though? You''ve got blood on your hands too, Bloodhound. Don''t act like you''re above this."
My stomach tightens. I''m trying to grab for a way to counter them, but really, wasn''t I just suggesting this to Davis? Can''t we just find out where they live and take the fight to them? But I don''t have time to argue the finer points of morality because Blink steps forward, her voice sharp and cutting through the tension like a knife.
"Yeah, okay, great speech," she says. "But here''s the thing--you''re still breaking into someone''s house. You''re still making a mess of things. And now you''re wasting our time."
The figure takes a step back, their hands lowering slightly. "I don''t want to fight you," they say, their voice calm but edged with something that feels like resignation. "But I will if I have to."
Blink doesn''t hesitate. "Yeah, you will," she snaps, reaching for one of the bolas clipped to her belt.
Before she can throw it, the figure raises their hands, palms facing us, and everything shifts. Smoke pours from their hands in thick, curling tendrils, but it''s not just smoke. The air is suddenly filled with a noxious mix of irritants--pepper spray, Febreze, something that smells like burning plastic. My eyes water instantly, my throat burning as I choke on the fumes.
Blink stumbles back, coughing violently, and I drop to one knee, pulling my mask tighter over my face. It barely helps. The air feels heavy and sharp, every breath a struggle.
"Stay down," the figure says, their voice muffled and distant through the haze. "You don''t want this."
I hear Blink''s bola whiz through the air, the sound cutting cleanly through the chaos, but there''s no telltale thwack of impact. Instead, there''s a loud crash--probably the bola hitting the wall or a cabinet--and then silence. When I manage to force my eyes open, blinking rapidly against the stinging smoke, the figure is gone.
Blink is on her hands and knees beside me, coughing so hard it sounds like she''s about to hack up a lung. I crawl toward her, my own chest heaving as I try to catch my breath.
"We... good?" I rasp, my voice barely audible.
Blink waves me off, wheezing but nodding. "Fine," she manages, her voice rough. "Totally... fine. Love this for us."
The distant wail of sirens pulls me back to reality. "Cops," I croak, grabbing Blink''s arm and pulling her to her feet. "We''ve gotta go."
We stumble back through the house, every step a struggle as the smoke clings to our clothes and skin. By the time we make it to the broken window, I can see the flashing red-and-blue lights reflecting off the nearby houses. We climb out as quickly as we can, coughing and stumbling toward the scooter where Amelia is waiting, her eyes wide behind her scarf.
"What the hell happened in there?" she demands as we collapse onto the pavement beside her.
"Later," I wheeze, waving her off. "Just--go. Now."
She doesn''t argue. The scooter sputters to life, and we''re off, speeding away from the house as the first police car pulls up to the curb, my costume covered in a fine layer of soot.
So.1.1
The room smells like stale beer, cheap weed, and a faint undercurrent of mildew that clings to everything, even the cracked linoleum underfoot. A radio in the corner is blaring something with a heavy bassline, drowning out the quieter conversations. A group of guys and one girl sit in a loose circle on mismatched chairs and a lumpy couch, all leaning in like they''ve got something real important to discuss. They don''t. Not really. Just the usual: where they''re going to move their next shipment, who''s fighting who on whose turf, which dealer got busted and who''s next in line to pick up the slack.
It''s late--past midnight--but the energy in the room is alive, vibrating with the restless hum of people who live their lives on the fringes. The kind of people who don''t set alarms because they don''t need to wake up for anything. A phone screen flickers in someone''s hand, casting pale light over the small table cluttered with empty beer cans and crumpled fast food wrappers.
"Man, I told you," one guy mutters, leaning forward, his voice low but urgent. "I can''t say where I got it from. You ask again, I''m out."
The others laugh, but it''s not the kind of laugh that says they think he''s joking. More like the kind that says they think he''s full of shit. The girl leans back, her arms draped over the couch like she owns it, her smirk razor-sharp.
"You can''t say," she drawls. "That''s cute. Like we don''t all know what that means."
"It means shut up," he snaps, his eyes darting to the door like he''s expecting someone to walk in any second. "You wanna talk about it in the open, fine. But don''t come crying to me when someone drops your name."
The room quiets for a beat, the bass from the radio filling the silence. It''s not hard to figure out what they''re talking about. The guy''s hand slips to his pocket, brushing over something with the nervous reverence of a kid hiding candy from their parents. Jump. No one says it out loud, but it''s there, hovering in the air between them.
"Alright, alright," one of the others says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "You''re the big man. Nobody''s asking questions."
Another nervous laugh ripples through the group, and the tension eases--just a little. Someone cracks open another can, the sharp hiss breaking the rhythm of the music. The girl on the couch starts scrolling through her phone, her nails clicking against the screen, and for a moment, it feels like everything''s going back to normal.
That''s when they notice me.
I''m standing in the corner, leaning against the peeling wall like I''ve been there the whole time. Maybe I have. It''s hard to say who spots me first. The guy with the Jump looks up, his eyes catching the faint glint of light bouncing off the black lenses of my mask, and he freezes. The girl with the phone is next, her hand stopping mid-scroll as she follows his gaze.
"Shit," someone breathes.
There''s a pause--just long enough for them to wonder if I''m a hallucination, some trick of the light. The mask makes it easy to play ghost. The hood pulled over my head, the loose black hoodie and cargo pants blending into the shadows. The only thing giving me away is that faint reflection off the lenses, and even that''s faint enough to make them second-guess themselves.
But then I step forward.
The guy with the Jump shoots up from his seat, his hand already halfway to his waistband. I don''t flinch. I just tilt my head slightly, the faint creak of my mask straps the only sound I make. He freezes again, his fingers twitching like they''re not sure if they want to grab the gun he probably has or just bolt for the door.
"Relax," I say, my voice muffled and flat through the filter of the mask. "I''m not here to make this a problem."
They don''t relax. Of course they don''t. The girl on the couch narrows her eyes, her phone still clutched in her hand like she''s debating whether to call someone or use it as a weapon. The other guys shift in their seats, their postures rigid, like a pack of feral dogs deciding whether to snarl or run.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" the Jump guy snaps, his voice sharp with fear he''s trying to hide. "You with somebody?"
I don''t answer right away. Instead, I drop my backpack onto the table, the thud of it making them all flinch. Slowly, deliberately, I unzip it, pulling the flap back to reveal the contents: pill bottles, baggies of powder, a couple of preloaded syringes. Nothing I''m planning on using myself, but the kind of stuff that makes people pay attention. I''m no druggie. But I can give these lowlives just enough rope to hang themselves with.
"I''m not with anyone," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I''m here to trade."
"Trade?" the girl echoes, her tone dripping with skepticism. "Trade what? What the hell is this?"
I gesture to the bag, then nod toward the guy with the Jump. "You''ve got something I want. And I''ve got a whole lot of things you might want. Fair deal, right?"Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
They don''t move. They''re still trying to figure out if this is a setup, if I''m here to sting them or rob them or worse. I can see it in the way their eyes dart between me and the bag, their brains working overtime to fill in the blanks.
The guy with the Jump steps closer, his hand still hovering near his waistband. "What do you want?"
I take a slow breath, the filter of the mask making it sound like a mechanical sigh. "Jump."
The word lands heavy, like a brick dropped into a still pond. The air in the room shifts, the tension thickening until it''s almost tangible. They''re looking at me like I''ve just grown a second head, their suspicion cranked up to eleven.
"Why the fuck would you want that?" the girl demands, her voice rising. "What are you, some kinda junkie?"
I shake my head. "Not for me. Just part of the program."
That throws them. They glance at each other, their confusion clear. The guy with the Jump narrows his eyes, his hand finally dropping from his waistband--not because he trusts me, but because he''s trying to figure out what kind of game I''m playing.
"What program?" he asks, his tone cautious.
"The one where you give me your Jump," I say, pulling the backpack open wider, "and I give you enough of this to keep your operation running for a while. No questions asked."
It''s a lie, of course. I don''t care about keeping their operation running. I care about getting the Jump off the streets, and if it costs me a few pills or powders to do it, that''s a price I''m willing to pay. But they don''t need to know that. All they need to know is that I''m serious.
The room goes quiet again, the music from the radio still pounding in the background. They''re weighing their options, trying to decide if this is worth the risk, if I''m worth trusting. I can see the doubt in their eyes, the way they keep glancing at the door like they''re expecting a SWAT team to bust in any second.
Finally, the guy with the Jump speaks. "You think we''re just gonna hand it over? Like that?"
I shrug. "Think about it. Jump''s hot right now. Cops are cracking down, everyone''s paranoid. You hang onto it, you''re just painting a target on your back. Give it to me, and you walk away with no heat. Seems like a win to me."
The girl snorts. "And what do you walk away with?"
"That''s not your problem," I say simply.
For a moment, no one says anything. They''re still wary, still trying to figure out if I''m bluffing or crazy or both. I don''t move, don''t flinch, just stand there like a statue, letting the silence work in my favor.
The guy''s fingers drum against the table, his eyes darting between the bag of drugs and me. "And you''re just gonna walk out of here after, huh? No funny business?"
"That''s the idea," I say. My voice stays calm, flat, even as my pulse quickens. I can feel the weight of their eyes on me, the air crackling with tension. I''ve been in rooms like this before--rooms where desperation stinks as much as the sweat-soaked walls. You learn how to read people fast. These ones? They''re nervous, sure, but they''re also weighing the odds. Trying to figure out if they can flip the script before I get what I want.
"Yeah, see, that''s a problem," the girl on the couch says, leaning forward with a sly grin. Her voice is sweet and sharp, like broken glass dipped in honey. "We don''t know you. You don''t just walk into someone''s house with a bag full of goodies and expect everyone to play nice. How do we know you''re not gonna screw us over?"
I reach up, flicking the small switch on the side of my mask. The CPAP kicks on with a low hum, the mechanical hiss filling the room as the pump starts to work. It''s a sound I''ve come to associate with control. For them, though, it might as well be the sound of a guillotine being sharpened. The air cycling through the mask makes my voice deeper, more distorted, when I speak again.
"You don''t," I say simply, my breath coming in steady mechanical bursts. Hooough... hufff... hooough..., just like Darth Vader "But you also don''t have a lot of choices. If you try anything, you''re not getting the Jump, and I''m sure as hell not leaving the drugs."
The guy with the Jump stiffens, his jaw tightening. "You think you can just come in here and make the rules?"
"I''ve already taken Jump before," I say, tilting my head slightly. My lenses glint again in the dim light, and I watch his grip on his waistband tighten. "It takes a few minutes to kick in, right? You know that, I''d hope. I can''t take it and get any powers without getting shot. You can''t take it and get any powers without me shooting you. We''re at an impasse. If you don''t like my offer, just say so, and I''ll leave and we can pretend this never happened."
The silence stretches, the air in the room feeling heavier by the second. They''re processing what I just said, turning it over in their heads, and I can see the cracks forming. Doubt is a beautiful thing. Once it''s there, it spreads like mold.
But then the guy does exactly what I was hoping he wouldn''t do.
He pulls his gun.
"No," he says, leveling it at me. His voice is steady, but his hand isn''t. "I don''t think there''s an impasse. I think you brought us a bag of free shit, and now you''re gonna drop it and walk out of here."
The others tense up, their eyes darting between me and the gun. The girl on the couch looks like she''s waiting for an excuse to lunge, and the guy closest to the door shifts his weight like he''s considering running. All of them are on edge, their instincts kicking into overdrive.
I raise my hands slowly, palms out, my body language screaming surrender. "Alright," I say, my voice calm but just a little louder now, cutting through the tension like a knife. "You''ve got me. No need to make this messy."
But it''s already messy. And it''s about to get worse.
Call a doctor - but not for me.
The tiniest hiss escapes from my hands as I start releasing the gas. Carbon monoxide, colorless, odorless, creeping into the room like a ghost. The hiss is quiet enough to go unnoticed, blending into the louder mechanical breathing of my mask. They don''t know what''s happening yet. They''re too busy trying to figure out if I''m about to pull something.
"Just keep your hands up," the guy says again, his grip on the gun tightening. I can see the tension in his arm, the way his knuckles whiten around the handle. "And back the hell away."
I take a couple of steps back, edging closer to the locked door. The guy closest to the door blinks a little too hard, his movements sluggish. The girl on the couch frowns, her hand going to her temple like she''s got a sudden headache. The room is too small - all the carbon monoxide is concentrating faster than it would if we were outside, and my powers are keeping me safe from hypoxia. I feel a little discomfort, but not what they''re feeling.
Next addition to the mask - oxygen supply. Just to keep myself from getting winded. Note to self.
So.1.2
"What the..." she mutters, her voice trailing off. She shifts in her seat, her smirk fading as her eyelids droop.
The guy with the gun doesn''t notice right away. He''s too focused on me, his finger twitching on the trigger. But then his arm wavers, just slightly, and his brow furrows in confusion.
"What the fuck is..." He blinks hard, like he''s trying to shake off a fog. His aim falters, the barrel of the gun dipping as his grip grows unsteady.
The others are worse off now. The guy by the door stumbles, catching himself on the wall, while another slumps forward in his chair, his head lolling. The girl on the couch tries to stand but ends up collapsing back into the cushions, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated.
"Hey!" the guy with the gun snaps, his voice cracking as he struggles to stay upright. He tries to raise the weapon again, but his hand shakes violently, and when he finally pulls the trigger, the shot goes wide, burying itself in the wall behind me with a dull thud. I try not to flinch - I''m still getting used to gunfire. He tries to pull the trigger again, but his fingers cramp up, or slip up off the trigger, or something - it doesn''t take.
"Shit!" he hisses, his knees buckling. The gun slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor.
One by one, they drop. Some slide out of their chairs, others slump where they sit, their bodies going limp as the gas takes hold. The girl on the couch tries to say something, her lips moving soundlessly before her head lolls to the side. The guy by the door crumples, his back against the wall, his eyes rolling back.
The last to go is the one with the Jump. He stares at me, his expression a mix of anger and confusion, before his legs give out and he collapses to the floor, the gun lying useless beside him.
I wait a moment, standing perfectly still as the room falls silent. My mask hisses softly, the sound almost soothing now. Then I step forward, crouching down to pick up the gun. I unload it, slipping the bullets into my pocket before tossing the empty weapon onto the couch.
I love carbon monoxide. Not the easiest to get, but easy to recycle.
"Shame," I mutter, more to myself than to them. My voice sounds hollow, almost bored, as I survey the scene. "Could''ve been easy."
I reach down, placing my hands on the floor, and start pulling the gas back into my body. The process is smooth, practiced, the faint hiss of the gas flowing back through my skin the only sound in the room. Within seconds, the air is clear again, the faint haze dissipating as if it were never there.
Once it''s done, I straighten up, dusting off my hands. Then I go to work.
The bag of Jump pills goes into my backpack first. Then the money--crumpled bills and loose change scattered across the table. Finally, the drugs they''d been guarding so carefully, now mine to do with as I please.
When I''m done, I take one last look at the room. The guy with the Jump is still breathing, his chest rising and falling faintly. They''ll wake up in a couple of hours, groggy and confused, but alive.
"Thanks for the donation," I say quietly, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. "Mayfair appreciates your charity."
Then I slip out the door, disappearing into the night like a spider in a corner.
The air is heavy with the smell of bleach and ammonia, a sharp, acrid tang that stings my nose even through the mask. I crouch in the corner of a crumbling warehouse near the waterfront¡ªone of the many skeletons of Northeast Philly¡¯s past industrial glory. It¡¯s a place nobody visits unless they¡¯re desperate or hiding something, which makes it perfect for me.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
The little aluminum pan in front of me crackles as the mix of cleaning chemicals bubbles and releases thin tendrils of smoke. I¡¯ve done this enough times to get the proportions right by instinct, even with my hands shaking from exhaustion. The fire beneath the pan is weak, fed by scavenged scraps of cardboard and broken wood, but it¡¯s enough. The faint wisps of vapor rise lazily into the air, and I breathe deep through my hands, my skin tingling as the chemical cocktail seeps into me.
There''s no high involved. This isn''t a drug - it''s a weapon. The smoke fills my chest with a dull warmth, a small reprieve from the constant ache of everything else. The cuts on my arms and legs throb in rhythm with my heartbeat, reminding me that they need attention. The warehouse is dark except for the small fire and the faint glow of a distant streetlamp filtering through a broken window. It¡¯s quiet, too, the kind of silence that feels almost sacred.
I lean back against the wall, pulling my mask off for the first time in hours. The air stings my face, cool and sharp against my skin. I run a hand over my short, damp hair, my fingers brushing against the edges of a shallow cut near my temple. The blood¡¯s dried by now, but it¡¯s still sticky, and I grimace as I reach for the small first aid kit in my backpack.
The kit is a joke¡ªa collection of dollar store bandages, antiseptic wipes, and gauze that barely holds together. But it¡¯s all I¡¯ve got, and it¡¯s better than nothing. I rip open a wipe with my teeth and press it to the cut, hissing as the antiseptic burns. The rest of my injuries get the same treatment: a jagged scrape on my forearm, a bruise blooming across my ribs, a gash on my knee that probably needed stitches an hour ago. I''ll tell my dad that I got scraped up doing some urban exploration. That''ll get the questions out of the way.
Most of these came from earlier in the week¡ªgetting thrown into a pile of broken pallets during a fight with a couple of drunk dealers who thought they could take me. One of them had a knife, but they didn¡¯t know how to use it. The others are older, faint lines and patches of scar tissue that map out the last couple of months of my life. Battle scars, I guess, if you want to call them that.
I slap a bandage over the worst of the cuts, then pull my hoodie back on, wincing as the fabric brushes against my sore ribs. My body feels like a patchwork quilt, barely held together with tape and stubbornness, but that¡¯s nothing new. Pain is a constant, like hunger or the sound of sirens in the distance.
The fire in front of me gutters, and I reach over to add more wood. It doesn¡¯t take much¡ªjust enough to keep the smoke coming. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and let the smoke pour over me like a blanket. It¡¯s comforting, in a way, even though I know it shouldn¡¯t be. Most people would choke on the fumes, their eyes burning and lungs screaming for air, but for me, it¡¯s like breathing in relief.
The chemicals swirl inside me, replenishing the reserves I¡¯ve burned through this week. Smoke and smog and other things. Cleaning supplies. Stuff that shouldn''t be mixed.
I glance at the pile of stuff I¡¯ve dumped from my backpack: cash, drugs, and Jump. A lot of Jump. The pills gleam faintly in the dim light, their green coating almost iridescent. I stare at them for a moment, my mind wandering to the last time I took one. The rush of power, the way the world seemed to sharpen and slow down at the same time. The feeling of invulnerability. But I know that it''s not for me - I know enough to know that stacking powers is a bad idea. I can''t go that route anymore, and I can''t guarantee the powers of any of these pills.
I''m going to have to figure out something to do with them.
I shove the thought away, burying it deep. This isn¡¯t for me. None of it is. The money¡¯s for Mr. Smith¡ªto keep the rent paid and the lights on. The drugs will get traded for more supplies, more money, or dumped if I can¡¯t find a safe way to offload them. The Jump¡ I don¡¯t know yet. Maybe I¡¯ll destroy it. Maybe I¡¯ll save it for when I really need it. Or maybe I¡¯ll find someone who can actually do something with it.
The sound of footsteps outside pulls me from my thoughts. My head snaps up, and I reach for the knife tucked into my boot, my heart pounding. The warehouse is supposed to be empty¡ªnobody comes here unless they¡¯re looking for trouble. I press myself against the wall, holding my breath as the footsteps draw closer.
They stop just outside the door, and for a moment, everything is silent again. Then, the door creaks open, the rusty hinges groaning loud enough to make my teeth clench. A figure steps inside, silhouetted against the faint light from outside. My grip tightens on the knife, and I stay perfectly still, waiting.
As they step closer, I catch a glimpse of their face¡ªor rather, their mask. The sharp lines of her red mask, the faint gleam of its edges in the dim light, the familiar shape that¡¯s haunted the edges of my thoughts for weeks now.
Bloodhound.
I don¡¯t move. Don¡¯t breathe. But I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears, a mix of anticipation and dread. I expected her to show up eventually¡ªI¡¯m not stupid¡ªbut I didn¡¯t think it would be this fast.
Her head tilts slightly, her stance relaxed but deliberate. She¡¯s not rushing in, not attacking, but there¡¯s an energy to her presence that sets my nerves on edge.
Of course she found me. She always does.
So.1.3
The moment Bloodhound steps into my makeshift sanctuary I feel my chest tighten. Not because I''m scared. That''s not it. It''s... something else. A mix of annoyance and an uncomfortable tug at the edges of my memories. There''s no mistaking her.
She''s got that same presence she''s always had. Reckless. Loud. Not loud in the way she talks (though she''s got a knack for that too), but in the way she takes up space, like she''s daring the universe to challenge her right to be here. She moves like she''s got something to prove--fast, headstrong, the kind of energy that could bowl you over if you''re not careful.
And, of course, she''s smiling. Not the friendly kind, though. This smile''s sharp, full of teeth. The kind of smile a predator gives when it''s cornered something it''s been stalking for a while.
"You''re hard to pin down, Soot," she says, hands on her hips. Her tone''s casual, like we''re two old friends bumping into each other at a coffee shop. But her eyes? They''re not casual. They''re digging into me, trying to pull me apart and figure out what makes me tick.
I don''t respond right away. I snap my mask into place instead, letting the filter muffle any hint of emotion that might''ve slipped into my voice. "That''s on purpose, Bloodhound."
She tilts her head, like she''s trying to decide if I just complimented her or insulted her. "Yeah, maybe. But you''re still a special case. You''re leaving care packages for people in Mayfair--cash, sweepstakes letters, all these weird little ways to drop money into their hands without them knowing where it came from. But then you turn around and rob convenience stores? Pick fights with dealers? You''re all over the place. What''s your angle?"
I shrug, leaning against the cracked concrete wall behind me. The rough surface digs into my shoulder, but I don''t care. "Maybe I just like keeping people guessing."
"Bullshit," she snaps, stepping closer. "Nobody does all that without a reason. I''ve been following your little trail for weeks now, and you don''t make sense. You act like you''re Robin Hood one second and the boogeyman the next. So what is it? Some kind of warped sense of justice? Or are you just bored?"
Her words land with more weight than I want them to. I don''t let it show. I cross my arms over my chest, keeping my voice even. "Why do you care? You''ve got bigger fish to fry, don''t you? Or are you that desperate for a mystery?"
That gets a reaction. Her jaw tightens, just for a split second, but it''s enough to tell me I hit a nerve. Good.
"This isn''t about me," she says, her tone dropping into something harder. "It''s about you running around my neighborhood, leaving chaos in your wake. If you''re trying to help people, you''re doing a shitty job of it."
"Your neighborhood?" I snort, the sound muffled by my mask. "Last I checked, Philadelphia didn''t belong to anyone. Not even you, princess."
Her eyes narrow, and for a second, I think she''s going to lose it. But then she does that thing she always does--pushes the anger down, channels it into something sharp and biting instead. "Funny. You don''t strike me as the type who cares about titles, so why keep calling yourself ''Soot''? What, did you run out of edgy names?"
"That''s rich," I fire back. "Coming from someone who named themselves after a dog."
She grins, sharp and humorless. "I''d rather be a dog than a pile of cinder."
"That''s the point," I say, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer to her. We''re almost the same height now--I didn''t used to be, but I''ve been having a growth spurt recently. We''re both probably 5''8" now. But I''ll probably keep growing, knowing what my mom and dad look like. Even with my mask on, I feel small under her gaze.
She doesn''t back down. Of course she doesn''t. Bloodhound''s never been the type to let things go. "You can''t keep dodging the question. What''s your endgame, Soot? You''re playing both sides--helping people and hurting them. Which is it?"
My heart''s hammering in my chest, and I hate that she''s getting to me. I hate that her words are digging under my skin, making me question things I''ve already decided are non-negotiable.
I glance at the faint orange glow of the embers still smoldering in the can I used earlier. The fire''s almost out, the smoke fading, but I can still taste the remnants of it in the back of my throat. That sharp, acrid taste that reminds me of who I am now. What I''ve become.
"You ever think the world doesn''t work in black and white?" I ask, my voice low. "That maybe some people don''t get the luxury of picking a side? Not everyone gets to be the hero, Bloodhound."
She crosses her arms, leaning slightly to the side as if to block my escape. "That sounds like a cop-out. You''re doing all this--whatever it is--for a reason. And I''m not leaving until I figure out what it is. You''re not with Rogue Wave. You''re not with the Kingdom. You''re making enemies on every side it''s possible to make enemies with. Do you have a death wish?"
The determination in her voice makes me want to laugh. It''s almost endearing, how she can''t seem to let this go. How she has to know the answer, like it''s a puzzle she''s been handed and can''t walk away from.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"Fine," I say, stepping closer. "You want answers? Let''s start with you. What gives you the right to play judge, jury, and executioner, huh? You think just because you''ve got a name and a mask, you get to decide who''s good and who''s bad?"
Her expression hardens. "I don''t ''decide'' anything. I follow the facts. I find the truth and protect people."
"Truth? Protection?" I laugh, and it''s a bitter, ugly sound. "High-minded ideals for people who have something to lose. Were you protecting people when you broke Aaron McKinley''s arm? Were you protecting people when you tried to stop me from reclaiming money from a loan shark? I kept people fed for weeks with that. You just want an adrenaline high."
Her face flickers, just for a moment. It''s there and gone so fast I almost miss it. But I know her well enough to recognize it for what it is: guilt. Doubt. Maybe even regret.
"I know the system''s broken," she says finally, her voice softer now. "But breaking more shit doesn''t fix it, Soot. And robbing convenience stores sure as hell isn''t justice."
"It''s survival," I snap. "And sometimes survival means getting your hands dirty. But I wouldn''t expect you to understand that, Bloodhound."
Bloodhound doesn''t flinch when I step closer. She doesn''t back down, either. Her jaw tightens, her hands flex at her sides. I can tell she''s ready for a fight if it comes to that.
I''m not in the mood to fight her. Not tonight.
"You don''t get it," I say, my voice low but sharp, like the edge of a broken bottle. "You think this is all just... action and reaction. You do good, and good things happen. You do bad, and the world slaps you on the wrist. That''s not how it works."
Her head tilts slightly, her grin turning into a grimace. "Enlighten me, Soot. How does it work, then?"
I glance at the ember-filled can near the wall, the faint smoke curling up in lazy spirals. My hands itch to light another fire, but I don''t. Instead, I look back at her, that smile of hers like a hook pulling at something raw in my chest.
"It''s about sin," I say finally, trying, struggling to articulate how I feel.
Her grin falters, just a little. "Sin," she repeats, the word rolling off her tongue like it''s something foreign. "You really believe in that? What, like heaven and hell, angels and demons?"
I shake my head, the motion making the mask straps creak faintly. "Not the cartoon version, no. But sin? That''s real. It''s not some invisible mark on your soul. It''s what you carry with you. The weight of the shit you''ve done, the harm you''ve caused. It piles up, and if you''re lucky, you pay it off before it crushes you."
"Sounds exhausting," she says, but her voice is softer now, less biting. "I don''t buy into that. Never did."
"Figures." I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. "You wouldn''t, would you? What did you grow up with? A neat little set of rules about right and wrong? A world where every bad thing gets weighed and measured, and if you''re sorry enough, you get a gold star?"
She doesn''t answer right away. Instead, she shifts her weight, watching me like she''s waiting for me to slip up. Finally, she says, "I didn''t grow up thinking about rewards or punishments. You do good because being a good person is its own reward. You do bad, and the punishment is that you did bad. There''s nothing waiting for you after. Just what you leave behind."
The words hit me harder than I expect. Not because I agree with her--because I don''t. But because I can hear the conviction in her voice, the way she actually believes it. She really thinks the world is that simple. That you can just... do good for its own sake and call it a day. It makes my chest ache.
"That''s a nice thought," I say, trying honestly not to sound sarcastic. "Must be comforting, thinking you can just be ''good'' and everything works out. But some of us don''t get that luxury, Bloodhound. Some of us have to get our hands dirty just to keep breathing."
Her body tightens again, and I know I''ve struck a nerve. Good.
"And that''s your excuse?" she asks, stepping closer. We''re nearly nose-to-nose now, her breath hot against my mask, my lenses fogging up. It would be so easy to punch her from this close. Or kiss her. No, that''s not allowed. "You steal. You hurt people. And you call it justice?"
"I call it paying my debt," I snap. "You wouldn''t understand survival."
She scoffs, crossing her arms. "Try me."
I take a step back, just enough to get some breathing room. My chest feels tight, like the weight of this conversation is pressing down on me, but I push through it. I glance at the small pile of tools and gear scattered across the floor of my makeshift sanctuary. Headquarters.
"My dad," I say finally, the words coming out sharper than I mean them to. "He''s a good man. Better than I''ll ever be. He works hard, keeps his head down, tries to do right. And what does he get for it? Bills he can''t pay, bosses who don''t care if he lives or dies, a world that chews him up and spits him out. He doesn''t deserve that."
Bloodhound''s expression shifts, something softer flickering in her eyes. Pity. It makes me want to knock her teeth out.
"So you''re what?" she asks. "Trying to make up for his suffering? Take it all on yourself so he doesn''t have to?"
"Something like that," I mutter, my voice tight. "Someone has to. Someone has to make sure he''s okay. Even if it means I burn for it afterwards. That''s fine by me, as long as his hands stay clean."
Bloodhound doesn''t move, doesn''t speak, just watches me with that sharp, searching gaze of hers. I hate how much she sees. How much she seems to understand, even if she doesn''t agree.
Finally, she says, "You don''t have to burn, Soot. There''s another--"
"Don''t," I snap, my voice harsher than I intend. "Don''t try to save me, Bloodhound. I don''t need saving."
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn''t argue. Instead, she steps back, giving me just enough space to breathe. "Fine. But don''t expect me to just stand by while you burn everything down around you."
I laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. "I don''t need your permission."
"I''ll stop you if it comes to that. There''s only so many tricks you can pull out before I figure you out," she replies, more of a promise than a threat. That''s how she''s always been, though. The tension between us is thick enough to choke on, but then I reach into my backpack and pull out a small, crumpled brown paper bag. It''s heavier than it looks, stuffed to the gills with little green pills.
I hold it out to her, my hand steady despite the tremor in my chest. "Here. Do what you want with it. Dispose of it, turn it in, snort it, I don''t care. Just leave me alone to handle my own business, okay, doggy?"
She stares at the bag for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she takes it, her fingers brushing against mine for just a second before she pulls back.
"I''m not your enemy, Soot," she says quietly. "You don''t have to do this alone."
I don''t respond. I just turn away, pulling my hood up and letting black smoke leak out from under my fingernails until it starts to swallow me. Bloodhound stands there for a moment longer, the weight of her gaze pressing against my back, before she finally leaves.
I''ve got work to do.
Chapter 154.1
The thing about living with your best friend who isn¡¯t your best friend anymore is that it feels a lot like living with a ghost. Except ghosts don¡¯t hog all the hot water or leave their stupid mugs all over the kitchen counter. I don¡¯t know why Kate even has a favorite mug. It¡¯s not like she drinks anything besides water these days.
But at least she and her dad are moving out sooner than we thought. Turns out someone¡ªa whole bunch of someones, according to the very polite but totally vague note they sent¡ªchipped in and paid off their debts. Cash in the mail. Like, actual physical bills, wrapped up with little notes about community and kindness and hope or whatever. Dad called it ¡°a miracle of neighborly goodwill,¡± and Mom cried about it in the pantry for twenty minutes. Me? I don¡¯t know what to think. Maybe I¡¯m just not built to believe in miracles. Or maybe I¡¯m too busy wondering if one of those ¡°concerned neighbors¡± smelled like smoke.
Either way, it¡¯s not my business. I mean, it is my business¡ªI¡¯m the one who dragged Kate out of that fire¡ªbut if I spend too much time trying to figure out who¡¯s behind all the weird little coincidences in my life, I¡¯ll end up like one of those conspiracy guys who thinks birds aren¡¯t real. It¡¯s better if I focus on what I can do.
Like patrol.
The Auditors, at least, are starting to feel like a real thing. We¡¯re not exactly the Avengers or anything¡ªmore like a bunch of scrappy kids trying to duct-tape a team together¡ªbut it¡¯s working. Kind of. Gossamer¡¯s become our unofficial chauffeur since she¡¯s the only one with a license. Her Vespa¡¯s basically the backbone of our entire transportation strategy, even though it can only carry one other person at a time. It¡¯s not glamorous, but it beats walking when we¡¯re trying to move fast and stay out of sight.
We¡¯re running night ops now, waiting for the police to clear out before we make our moves. It¡¯s not glamorous¡ªmostly breaking up fights between junkies or chasing down Jump dealers¡ªbut it¡¯s something. And Maggie¡¯s ribs are finally healed, so she¡¯s back in action, throwing up those repulsion fields like it¡¯s second nature. It¡¯s almost scary how fast she¡¯s picking it up. I think I¡¯ve only seen her faceplant, like, twice this week.
That¡¯s been the other big thing. The Jump problem¡¯s getting worse. No matter how much of it we take off the streets, there¡¯s always more. Less of it¡¯s going to other cities now, which means whoever¡¯s making it is clearly trying to flood Philadelphia with the stuff. A couple of the dealers we¡¯ve run into actually seemed relieved when we confiscated their stashes, like they knew the heat was coming and wanted out before it got worse. It¡¯s like watching a tidal wave roll in and knowing you¡¯re only holding a bucket.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
The cops are barely keeping up. Vigilantes like us are picking up the slack, even at risk of getting arrested. And then there are the ¡°community defense groups,¡± which is a fancy way of saying ¡°a bunch of pissed-off neighbors with baseball bats and nothing to lose.¡± I get it, but it makes me nervous. Nobody wants to see what happens when a bunch of regular people try to play hero and end up getting in over their heads.
Meanwhile, the Kingdom of Keys? Silent. Not even a whisper. Mr. Nothing, Mr. Mudslide, even Mr. Tyrannosaur¡ªgone. It¡¯s creepy. They don¡¯t seem like the kind of people who just... stop. It feels like the calm before the storm, and every instinct I have is screaming that it¡¯s going to be a bad one.
And then there¡¯s Soot.
I still don¡¯t know what to do about them. I know their name now, which feels like progress, but everything else? Dead ends. We¡¯ve crossed paths a couple of times¡ªnone of it productive. They¡¯re frustrating, like trying to play chess with someone who keeps flipping the board. And no matter what I do, they¡¯re always one step ahead, always disappearing into the smoke before I can figure them out. It¡¯s driving me insane.
Jordan thinks I¡¯m obsessed. Which... okay, fair. But it¡¯s not like I¡¯m camping outside Kate¡¯s door or anything. She¡¯s out of the house a lot these days, and I¡¯m trying to give her space. It¡¯s just... hard, you know? She¡¯s right there, but she¡¯s not. And I keep thinking about what she said in the warehouse, about sin and survival and how some people don¡¯t get to be heroes. It¡¯s been stuck in my head like a splinter I can¡¯t pull out.
At least school¡¯s back to normal. Sort of. Nobody asks about the bandages anymore, probably because they¡¯re gone. My arm healed weeks ago, but I kept it wrapped longer than I needed to, just to keep the questions at bay. It¡¯s funny¡ªpeople will look at you like you¡¯re a freak if you¡¯ve got shark teeth, but slap a couple of bandages on, and suddenly you¡¯re just another injured kid in the crowd.
Oh, and I think I might have actually dented Maya Richardson¡¯s approval rating. Nine points. That¡¯s not nothing, right? Or maybe it was the anti-vigilante ordinance. Either way, I¡¯ll take the win.
Aaron¡¯s trial, on the other hand, is going nowhere fast. Katherine Huang and her Tremont & Fairfax army of lawyers are dragging it out as much as possible. They¡¯re like the legal equivalent of molasses¡ªslow, sticky, and impossible to get rid of. Every time I think we¡¯re getting somewhere, there¡¯s another delay, another excuse. It¡¯s infuriating, but what else is new?
At least the fires are mostly over. The city¡¯s still scarred, though. There are places that still smell like ash and places that never will again, no matter how much bleach they use. Sometimes I catch a whiff of it on my way to school or patrol, and it feels like it¡¯s following me. Like it¡¯s in my clothes, in my skin. But that¡¯s just my imagination, right?
Chapter 154.2
It''s the smell that gets me first. Not the usual Kensington perfume of car exhaust, stale beer, and whatever''s rotting in the dumpsters--this is sharper, fresher. Blood.
I stop mid-step, grabbing Maggie''s arm to keep her from walking into me. She stumbles a little, giving me a look like, What gives? I don''t answer right away, sniffing the air like I''m one of those bomb dogs at the airport. I don''t actually need to sniff--the blood sense doesn''t work like that--but it helps me focus. There''s a faint tug, like a thread pulling me toward something. I see the outline in red, superimposed on all the blood particles that form an outline of the streets and the sidewalks, like a 3D map of the world around me.
"Someone''s bleeding," I whisper.
Maggie adjusts her gloves, the ones she likes to pretend are tactical but are really just bike gloves she bought online. "Fresh?"
"Yeah." I point toward an alley off to the right. The blood trail is faint, but it''s there, pulling me along like a fishhook. "This way."
It''s late, past midnight, so the streets are mostly dead. Not in the safe, everyone''s-sleeping kind of way, though. Kensington never really sleeps--it just pauses between bad decisions. The air feels heavy tonight, the kind of heavy that makes you check over your shoulder even when there''s nothing there. A dog barks somewhere, sharp and angry, and it echoes off the crumbling rowhouses.
Maggie follows close behind me, trying to step where I step, but she''s not great at quiet. Her sneakers scuff the sidewalk, and I wince. "Careful," I murmur.
She rolls her eyes. "Sorry, Sam."
I stop and glare at her. "Don''t call me that out here."
"Sorry, Bloodhound," she whispers back, dragging out my... appellation? like she''s five. She''s impossible, but I can''t exactly bench her for being annoying.
The blood scent gets stronger as we approach an intersection. It''s faint, not enough for someone to be bleeding out or anything, but enough to tell me there was a fight. Or maybe an accident. Either way, my stomach knots up because in this neighborhood, it''s never good.
We reach the corner and duck into the shadow of a boarded-up storefront. I press my back against the wall, peeking out around the edge. Maggie leans over my shoulder, and I swat her back a step because her mostly-uncovered but extremely pale face glows in the streetlights like a neon sign saying, HEY, WE''RE RIGHT HERE.
"What do you see?" she whispers.
"Shh." I wave her off, focusing on the scene in front of me.
There are two groups, maybe six or seven people total, spread out across the cracked asphalt. They''re not exactly subtle--there''s yelling, arm waving, and a lot of posturing. Two guys are front and center, facing off like it''s some kind of old-school showdown. One''s holding a crowbar, gesturing with it like he''s making a point. The other guy''s just standing there, arms crossed, calm as a freaking cucumber.
The guy with the crowbar is wiry and sharp-edged, like he''s been living off cigarettes and adrenaline for years. His voice carries, even though I can''t make out all the words. Something about "this is our turf" and "you don''t belong here." Typical territorial crap.
The calm guy, though? He''s built like a bulldozer, with hands that look like they could crush a basketball. He doesn''t shout back. He just stares the crowbar guy down, his shoulders squared like he knows he doesn''t have to try to be intimidating. It''s working, too--crowbar guy keeps glancing at his buddies like he''s checking to see if they''ve got his back. They don''t look thrilled.
"Big Hands," I whisper to Maggie. "That''s gotta be him. I''ve heard about him. You... keep an accounting of the local names when you''re on patrol enough."
"Who?" Maggie whispers back, squinting like that''ll help her see better.
"Small-time player. Keeps things calm until they''re not. Sells drugs."
"And the other guy?"
I shrug. "Not sure, but he''s got that vibe. Like, I want you to think I''m scarier than I actually am." I pause. "Crowbar''s not helping his case."
One of the guys in the background catches my attention. A woman, actually--she''s jittery, her hands twitching like she''s trying to shake something off. Every so often, her fingers flick toward the ground, and I notice little glints of light reflecting off... something. It takes me a second to put it together: metal. She''s got powers, and they''re already sparking.
Plus, there''s orange and yellow crust across cuts on her arms. That''s the killer feature.
"That one," I say, nudging Maggie. "She''s on Jump."
Maggie frowns. "How can you tell?"
"Look at her scabs. They''re yellow, not brown. Jump fucks your blood up and makes it turn orange, and your scabs scab up yellow." I point as a stray nail skitters across the ground, dragging itself toward her foot.
Maggie leans forward to get a better look, and I grab her hoodie to pull her back into the shadows. "Stop that," I hiss.
"What? I''m curious!"
"Curious gets you caught," I mutter, but my focus shifts to the other side of the group. There''s another big guy standing behind Big Hands--taller than him, even, and built like a concrete wall. He''s not moving, not yelling, not even blinking, just watching. It''s eerie.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
"That''s their muscle," I say softly. "See the big guy?"
Maggie nods. "What''s his deal?"
"No idea."
The two groups keep shouting, their voices overlapping now, and I catch bits and pieces of what they''re saying. It''s all about turf, supply, and respect. The usual gang stuff. But there''s an edge to it tonight, like they''re both trying harder than usual to prove something.
"What do we do?" Maggie asks, her voice barely a whisper.
I don''t answer right away. My eyes flick to the rowhouses nearby, where a few faces are pressed to the windows. There''s a homeless guy sitting on the curb, watching like it''s the evening news. A little farther down, I see a woman clutching a baby, half-hiding behind a trash bin. They''re all too close.
"We wait," I say finally. "If they break out the weapons, we step in."
Maggie frowns. "There''s already a crowbar."
"Something worse than that," I clarify. I feel my jaw tighten, the faint taste of blood prickling in the back of my throat. "This is gonna get messy."
She doesn''t argue, but I can tell she wants to. I can feel her energy buzzing behind me, like she''s ready to leap in at the first sign of trouble. I keep one hand on her arm, just in case.
The Jumphead girl flexes her fingers again, and a chunk of rebar pulls itself loose from the ground. She doesn''t swing it yet, but it floats in the air beside her, wobbling like she''s not entirely in control. Big Hands glances at her but doesn''t react. The guy''s a statue.
Crowbar guy keeps yelling, stepping closer, and I feel my stomach twist. This isn''t going to end with words. It never does.
"Maggie," I whisper. "Be ready."
"For what?"
"Anything."
Crowbar guy''s voice cuts through the night, sharp and biting. "You think you can roll up on my street, huh? You don''t belong here, you oversized piece of shit." He jabs the crowbar toward Big Hands like it''s a sword, though he''s holding it too loosely for it to look convincing.
Big Hands just stares at him, unbothered. "Your street? That''s cute." His voice is calm, almost soft, but it carries like a bass note through the air. "We both know you''re just renting space here. You don''t own shit, Slim."
I can almost hear Crowbar guy - Slim - grinding his teeth from where I''m crouched. "You don''t get to come in here and say that, not after what you pulled with Manny."
Big Hands shrugs. "Manny shouldn''t have made promises he couldn''t keep."
Whatever Slim''s reply is, it''s lost in the movement that follows. He lunges, swinging the crowbar in a wide arc that''s more desperation than skill. Big Hands doesn''t flinch. He sidesteps the swing like he''s done this a hundred times before, and Slim nearly overbalances, catching himself just before he faceplants.
Then Carla moves.
She''s been hanging back, jittery and waiting, but the second Slim stumbles, she steps forward. Her hand flicks toward the ground, and the chunk of rebar she''s been holding aloft whips toward the big guy like a striking snake. It whistles through the air, fast enough to make me flinch.
The big guy - Big Guy, I''ve named him in my head - doesn''t flinch. He lifts one massive arm, letting the rebar hit him dead-on. It bounces off with a dull clang, falling to the ground like a discarded toy. He doesn''t even look at it.
Powers. Okay.
"Try harder," he says, his voice low and even.
Carla growls--actually growls--and pulls more debris from the street. A rusted hubcap, a bent pipe, and a handful of nails rise around her, orbiting her like she''s the sun. Her breathing is heavy, her hands twitching as she struggles to keep everything in control.
Maggie shifts next to me, her hands flexing like she wants to jump in. "She''s gonna lose it," she whispers.
"I know," I murmur back. My pulse is pounding. This isn''t just a fight--it''s a bomb waiting to go off.
Slim''s yelling something at Carla now, his words fast and frantic. "Finish it, Carla! What are you waiting for? Take him down!"
Carla snarls, hurling the hubcap at the biggest guy. He ducks, the hubcap skimming over his head and slamming into the side of a parked car. The window shatters with an ear-splitting crack, and an alarm starts blaring. Lights flicker on in the rowhouses around us, faces appearing in windows.
"Shit," I hiss. Civilians. This just got worse.
"Sam?" Maggie''s voice is tight, anxious.
"Stay close," I tell her. "We keep them safe. That''s priority one."
She nods, and we move together, slipping out of the shadows and into the chaos. I feel every eye in the street snap toward us for half a second before returning to the fight. Carla''s throwing debris like a malfunctioning catapult, and Big Guy is absorbing it all like he''s made of granite. Slim''s pacing behind her, shouting directions she''s ignoring, and Big Hands is watching it all with this infuriating smirk on his face.
"Hey!" I yell, my voice cutting through the noise. "Stop! You''re gonna kill someone who isn''t even in this!"
Carla barely spares me a glance. Her eyes are wild, bloodshot, her face slick with sweat. She doesn''t care. Another chunk of metal flies toward Big Guy, and I have to lunge to grab a stray shard before it slices into a nearby tent. My hands sting as the rough edge bites into my palms, but I don''t let go. I toss it aside and keep moving.
Maggie''s right behind me, her hands glowing faintly with the telltale shimmer of her repulsion fields. She dives in front of a trash bin where a woman is crouched, shielding a baby in her arms. A shard of metal bounces off Maggie''s field, ricocheting harmlessly into the street. The woman looks up at her with wide, terrified eyes.
"Get out of here!" Maggie barks, her voice sharper than usual. "Now!"
The woman stumbles to her feet, clutching her baby, and runs for cover. Maggie turns back to me, panting. "How are we supposed to stop this?"
"I don''t know yet!" I snap, ducking as another piece of debris sails overhead. "Just keep them off the civvies!"
Slim notices us now, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell are you two supposed to be?" he sneers. "Girl Scouts?"
"Yeah," I shoot back, "and you''re about to lose your cookie privileges."
That gets a laugh from someone in Slim''s crew, but Slim isn''t amused. He takes a step toward me, his crowbar gripped tight, but Big Hands holds up a hand.
"Let them be," Big Hands says. "They''re not here for us."
Slim glares at him but doesn''t argue. He turns back to Carla, who''s starting to wobble under the weight of her own power. The debris around her is shaking now, spinning erratically. She looks like she''s about to collapse, but she keeps pushing, keeps hurling shards of metal at Big Guy with reckless abandon.
Big Guy finally moves. He steps forward, swatting away a piece of rebar like it''s a fly. His expression hasn''t changed--it''s still calm, still unnervingly focused. He grabs a loose pipe from the ground, hefting it like a baseball bat, and swings it at Carla.
The pipe connects with a deafening clang, hitting her makeshift shield of debris. Carla stumbles back, her powers faltering for a moment, but she recovers quickly, pulling the metal back into place.
It''s not enough. Big Guy steps closer, his sheer weight making the ground shudder under his feet. Slim''s shouting something at Carla again, but she''s not listening. Her focus is entirely on Big Guy, and it''s clear she''s losing. Her movements are sloppy now, her breathing ragged. The Jump is wearing off.
Big Guy notices. He pauses, watching her struggle, then reaches into his pocket.
My stomach drops when I see the autoinjector. It''s sleek and black, like an epipen but dangerous. Something manufactured. Moneyed.
"Don''t," I say, but my voice is too quiet, too far away. He doesn''t even hear me.
He presses the injector to his neck and clicks it.
Chapter 154.3
Big Hands sees the injector and his smirk twists into something sharper. "Fuck ''em up, Bash," he says, his voice low but carrying like a gunshot.
"Bash," I mutter under my breath, locking the name away in the mental catalog. Yeah. He sure looks like a guy who named himself Bash.
The autoinjector clicks, and Bash doesn''t move for a second. Then his body seems to shift, the weight of him settling deeper into the pavement, like the ground itself is straining to hold him up. He rolls his shoulders once, testing his movement, and when he steps forward, I swear the sidewalk cracks under his foot.
Carla doesn''t notice at first. She''s too busy pulling everything she can find into her orbit. A loose street sign wobbles and tears itself free with a screech, the metal twisting as it hurtles toward him. Bash doesn''t even try to dodge. It smashes against his chest, crumpling like foil, and falls to the ground.
Carla freezes, her breathing ragged. Her powers stutter for a moment, the debris in her orbit faltering before snapping back into place. "What the fuck?" she spits, her voice shaking. Another piece of rebar whips toward him, faster this time, but the result''s the same. It hits him dead-on, and he doesn''t even blink.
"Sam, what''s he on?" Maggie whispers. Her voice is tight, laced with panic.
"I don''t know," I say, my teeth gritting. "That''s not Fly."
Carla takes a shaky step back, her powers flaring again. A hubcap rises from the ground, wobbling in midair. She''s running out of steam, and Bash knows it. He steps forward, one deliberate, heavy footfall at a time, and it''s like the air in the street changes. Everything feels heavier, like we''re caught in some kind of gravity well. Even breathing feels harder. But I might just be having anxiety - hard to tell.
"Stay back!" Carla yells, but it''s hollow. She''s not yelling at Bash--she''s yelling at her fear, trying to shout it down. It''s not working.
She hurls the hubcap, and Bash lets it hit him square in the chest. It bounces off with a dull thunk, and before she can pull anything else, he closes the distance. His fist lashes out, slow enough to see but impossible to stop. It connects with her gut, and she folds around it like paper, her body flung backward like a ragdoll. She slams into the side of a parked car, the metal crumpling like aluminum foil under her weight, and the impact echoes through the street like a thunderclap.
"Shit," I hiss, my blood sense flaring. I can see the injuries bloom inside her--the cracked ribs, the burst blood vessels, the bruising spreading like ink under her skin. She''s alive, but that hit wasn''t clean. She''s teetering on the edge of real danger.
Maggie''s already moving, darting between pieces of debris to check on the civilians still lingering too close. A guy in a hoodie stumbles out of a doorway, his face pale as he stares at Bash, and Maggie pushes him back toward the alley with a sharp, "Move! Now!"
Bash doesn''t even glance at her. His focus is entirely on Carla, slumped against the wrecked car, barely conscious. She coughs weakly, a spray of orange blood staining her lips. The fight''s over--she''s done--but Bash doesn''t back off. He takes another step toward her, slow and deliberate.
I dart forward, putting myself between them. "Enough!" I shout, my voice cracking. "You won. She''s down. Just go!"
Bash stops, his eyes locking onto mine. They''re dark, unreadable, and there''s no hint of emotion in them--no anger, no satisfaction, nothing. Just weight.
For a second, I think he''s going to keep coming. My heart''s pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of my chest, but I don''t move. I can''t. If he decides to push through me, I''m toast, but if I back off, Carla''s done.
"Go," I repeat, my voice steadier this time. "She''s not a threat anymore."
Big Hands steps forward, his smirk replaced with something colder. "Listen to the girl, Bash," he says. "We made our point. Let''s not make this messier than it needs to be."
Bash stares at me for a moment longer, and I swear I feel the weight of him pressing down on my bones. Then he turns, his movements slow and deliberate, and walks away. The pavement groans under his feet, his steps leaving faint indentations in the cracked asphalt. Big Hands follows, throwing a glance back at Slim and his crew.
"See you around," he says, his tone casual, almost bored. Like they hadn''t just trashed half the street.
Slim mutters something under his breath, but he doesn''t argue. His crew''s already scattering, dragging Carla''s crumpled form away from the car. She''s still breathing, but her head lolls to the side, her body limp as they pull her onto a piece of plywood like a makeshift stretcher.
I kneel next to her, my hands hovering just above her chest. I can see everything--the jagged lines of her ribs, the angry red fractures spreading through her body. "She needs a hospital," I say, more to myself than anyone else. "Maggie, call an ambulance."
Maggie''s at my side in an instant, her phone already in hand. "On it."This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.
The street around us is clearing out now, the civilians retreating back into their homes and hiding spots. The car alarm finally cuts off, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its wake. I look down at Carla, her face pale and drawn, and I feel a knot of something ugly tighten in my stomach.
"What the hell was that?" Maggie asks nobody in particular, her voice barely a whisper.
"No, no, no," I mutter, stepping forward and crouching beside Carla. "Set her down--now. Gently."
Slim and his guys hesitate, their faces twitching with uncertainty. Bloodhound, the Big Bad Wolf of Tacony, throwing herself at Carla''s side like she''s about to save the day. I can almost hear the gears grinding in their heads, trying to figure out if this is some kind of setup.
"Now!" I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut through their doubt. They flinch and lower her onto the ground, the plywood thumping against the asphalt. It''s not gentle, but it''s not a drop either. Carla groans faintly, her head lolling to the side. Her pulse is weak, her breaths shallow.
I take a breath and focus. I''ve done this before, and I know what to look for: jagged breaths, irregular pulse, blood pooling under the surface. I unzip a pocket on my jacket, pulling out a roll of gauze and a compact pair of trauma shears. They pause when they see the gear, like they can''t believe it''s real. I ignore them.
"She needs to be stabilized," I mutter, mostly to myself, as I cut away the sleeve of Carla''s jacket. The blood vessels under her skin look wrong--bright yellow, glowing faintly orange in my blood sense, like fluorescent ink running through her veins. "Her blood vessels are dissolving from the inside out. Get her to lay off the Jump," I say, just loud enough to make sure Slim hears it.
Maggie kneels beside me, her phone still in hand. "Ambulance is coming," she says, her voice steady. Then she looks up at Slim. "We''ll trade questions for first aid, deal?"
A little rougher than I''d have expressed it but, yeah, okay, Maggie.
Slim shifts his weight, glancing at his crew like he''s hoping one of them will have a better idea. They don''t. "What kind of questions?" he asks, his voice wary.
"What the hell was in that syringe Bash used?" Maggie says, getting right to the point. "And who''s getting Carla''s Jump? From where?"
Slim stiffens. His jaw works like he''s chewing on his own words, and then his face starts to screw up.
Before Slim can answer, one of the other guys--a scrawny kid with a busted lip--pipes up, his voice high and shaky. "He can''t answer you, man! That''s the rules!"
Maggie catches it immediately, her eyes narrowing. "What rules?" she asks, trying to sound both polite and intimidating at the same time. "Who''s enforcing them?"
Slim raises his hands, palms out, like he''s trying to fend off a rabid dog. "I... can''t," he strains, like he''s taking the biggest shit of his life. His nose starts... bleeding? I can swear that a blood vessel in his face just pops. Is that his brain? Why is his brain bleeding? No, false alarm, that''s just a blood vessel near his skull, but still.
Maggie''s face scrunches up. "Bull and shit,"
"Stop, Flashpoint," I cut in, not looking up from Carla. "He can''t can''t." I pause, glancing up at Slim. "Am I right?"
Slim can''t even answer that. Any sort of acknowledgment is too much acknowledgment. "You gotta chill or he''s gonna lose it!" the scrawny kid desperately explains, trying to prevent some sort of boil-over.
Maggie adjusts her domino mask and folds her arms over her chest.
I turn back to Carla, pressing gauze against a cut on her shoulder to slow the bleeding. Her blood is sticky and too bright, drying yellow under my fingers. "Chronic Jump use messes you up," I say, addressing Slim even though I don''t really expect him to listen. "It makes your blood vessels weak. Like tissue paper. She''s bleeding way more than she should be for these injuries."
Slim''s face tightens, but he doesn''t say anything.
"She needs a hospital," I continue, my voice flat. "I can keep her stable for now, but if you care about her at all, you''ll make sure she gets real help. And maybe..." I pause, glancing at him, "...maybe use this as a wake-up call to reconsider your chosen career. Because if you keep going the way you''re going, you''re all gonna end up like her."
Slim doesn''t answer. His jaw works, his hands fidget, but he doesn''t argue. One of his crew mutters something under his breath, and Slim throws him a sharp look that shuts him up immediately. Good.
Maggie touches my shoulder. "Ambulance is here."
I look up and see the flashing red and blue lights cutting through the night. The paramedics pull up first, the cops right behind them. I hear the sirens die, the car doors slam, and the sound of boots on asphalt.
"Alright," I say softly, turning back to Carla. "You''re gonna be okay. Just hang on a little longer."
The paramedics rush over, their gear clattering as they drop to their knees beside me. I step back to give them room, my hands stained orange and red. One of them glances at me, her eyebrows raising when she notices my gear. "You did first aid?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say, standing up. "Rib fractures, damaged lungs, and a ton of bruising. She''s bleeding internally, and she''s a chronic Jump user. That''s all I have for you."
The paramedic nods, already turning back to Carla and taking her away into the dark night - or the early morning, time isn''t real. I step away, wiping my hands on a rag from my jacket pocket. The street feels quieter now, the crowd dispersed, but the weight in my chest hasn''t lifted.
Slim and his crew are gone. I''m not surprised. The second the sirens showed up, they bolted, leaving Carla behind. Good.
I glance at Maggie, who''s watching the paramedics work with a frown. "Ready to go?" I ask.
She nods. "Yeah. Let''s--"
"Stop right there!" a sharp voice barks, cutting her off. I turn to see two cops striding toward us, their hands resting on their belts. "Both of you--stay where you are."
My stomach sinks. "For what?" I ask, my voice tighter than I mean it to be.
The taller of the two officers looks us over, his gaze sharp and assessing. "Obstruction," he says. "Interfering with a crime scene. Endangering public safety."
"Seriously?" Maggie blurts, throwing up her hands. "We just stopped them from tearing each other apart!"
The second cop, a woman with a stiff expression, gives her a pointed look. "And now you''re interfering with our job. Turn around, hands behind your backs."
I grit my teeth, glancing at Maggie. Her face is flushed, her fists clenched like she''s ready to argue, but I shake my head. It''s not worth it. Fighting this here isn''t going to help.
"Fine," I mutter, raising my hands. The cold metal of the cuffs snaps around my wrists a second later, the weight of them settling like lead.
Maggie sighs and follows my lead, muttering under her breath as the female cop cuffs her too. "We just saved a life, and this is the thanks we get," she grumbles.
"Save it," the male cop says. "You can explain yourself at the station."
MR.4.1
The rental space is an exercise in plausible deniability. One of those sterile coworking spots you can book online with a credit card and a made-up name. No cameras, no curious staff hanging around. Just a key code, some mismatched office furniture, and the kind of fluorescent lighting that makes me wonder if the architect hated human beings.
I get there early, as always. Not because I have to--hell, I could walk in last like I own the place and they''d wait--but because it gives me time to set the stage. Bottled water lines up like little soldiers on a folding table, a smattering of snacks in a plastic tray to make it feel less like an interrogation room. A whiteboard at the front with "OUR MISSION" scrawled across it in my best attempt at neutral handwriting. Clean, simple, professional enough to put them at ease, but not so polished that they''ll think I''m trying too hard.
The chairs are mismatched. I like that. A little imperfection helps people open up, even if they don''t realize it.
I''m straightening the last chair when the door buzzes. Right on time. I adjust my blazer, put on my best "trust me, I''m the reasonable one here" face, and open the door.
Patriot is first, as I expect. He looks exactly like he always does--like a white dude who just walked out of a military recruitment ad. Bald head shinier than polished china, jaw clenched like he''s physically restraining himself from saluting me. Off-brand Captain America costume clinging to his tits like crazy.
"Maya," he says, nodding stiffly as he steps inside.
"Councilwoman Richardson works fine," I reply, keeping my tone breezy as I shut the door behind him. "You''re early."
"Early is on time," he says, scanning the room like he''s assessing it for hidden threats. His lip curls slightly when his gaze lands on the whiteboard. "This doesn''t exactly scream professional."
"It''s private," I counter, "and neutral. Nobody''s watching, nobody''s listening. I figured you''d appreciate that."
He doesn''t answer, but his expression says, We''ll see. He picks one of the sturdier chairs and sits down, positioning himself so he can see the door and the rest of the room at the same time. Predictable.
The next one comes ten minutes late. The faint smell of rot hits me before the door even opens.
Miasma shuffles in, head down, his hazmat suit hissing faintly with each step. The patches on his suit are worn, some fraying at the edges, and the mask is the old kind--the kind that makes him look more like a walking corpse than he already does.
"Miasma," I greet, giving him a nod. "Glad you could make it."
"Didn''t have much choice, did I?" he replies, his voice muffled by the mask. He doesn''t bother shaking my hand or even looking at me as he makes his way to a chair as far from Patriot as possible. He sits down heavily, the faint hiss of his suit filling the awkward silence.
Patriot doesn''t hide his reaction. He wrinkles his nose, leaning back slightly like the smell might reach him if he gets too close. "Charming."
"I''m not here to charm you," Miasma says flatly. "I''m here because I have no better options. Same as you."
"Let''s hold off on assumptions," I say smoothly, stepping between them before Patriot can fire back. "We''re not here to bicker. We''re here to get results."
The door buzzes again, cutting off whatever Patriot is about to say. I open it to find Turbo Jett leaning against the frame, her hair a wild mess of neon streaks, her leather jacket hanging loose over a bright blue bodysuit. She grins as soon as she sees me, popping her gum obnoxiously.
"Nice digs," she says, sauntering past me and immediately making a beeline for the snack table. "Very ''startup that''s about to go under.'' You should''ve sprung for the beanbags."
"Beanbags didn''t fit the budget," I reply, letting the door close. "Help yourself."
"Oh, don''t mind if I do," she says, already tearing into a bag of pretzels. She spins on her heel, scanning the room as she chews. "Okay, so which one of you is the narc?"
Patriot stiffens, his jaw clenching visibly. Miasma doesn''t even react, which I can tell throws her off a little.
"Turbo," I say, giving her a pointed look. "Play nice."
"What?" she says innocently, popping another pretzel in her mouth. "I''m just saying, we''ve got Hazmat Harry over there, and then Captain America''s racist cousin--"
"That''s enough," I say, sharp enough to cut her off without raising my voice. Her grin fades, and she backs off, flopping into the nearest chair with an exaggerated sigh.
"Fine, fine. I''ll behave. For now."
The last one shows up late. Fifteen minutes late, to be exact. The door buzzes again, and I open it to find Captain Jersey Devil--Captain Devil for short--standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he''d rather be anywhere else.
"Maya," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "This better not be a waste of my time."
"Come in and find out," I reply, stepping aside to let him in. He moves slowly, his eyes darting around the room like he expects an ambush. He''s tall and broad-shouldered, with a dark red scarf wrapped around his neck and a duster that gives him a vaguely Hellboy-esque silhouette. Fitting.
He doesn''t bother greeting anyone else as he takes a seat, slouching in a way that makes him look simultaneously bored and dangerous. Turbo Jett gives him a once-over, her eyebrows raising slightly, but she doesn''t say anything. Patriot and Miasma just watch him, each in their own way--one stiff and judgmental, the other detached and calculating.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
With everyone seated, I step to the front of the room, positioning myself near the whiteboard. Four pairs of eyes turn to me, each carrying its own flavor of suspicion, skepticism, and barely restrained ego. This is going to be fun.
"All right," I begin, clapping my hands together lightly. "Let''s get started. First off, I''m glad you all came. I know you don''t exactly trust me--or each other, for that matter--but we''re here because we have a common goal."
"Do we?" Patriot asks, folding his arms. "Because right now, it looks like we''re here because you think you can manipulate us."
I smile, not bothering to deny it. "Call it what you want. The fact is, the streets are crawling with Jump, and none of us are happy about it. I have the means to fix that. You have the skills."
Turbo Jett snorts. "Oh, great. A team-up. What''s next, matching uniforms?"
"If you''d prefer solo work, by all means, go ahead and try, with the new vigilantism bill in place," I say coolly. "But you''ll accomplish more together. And like it or not, you''re all in the same boat. Missteps. Tarnished reputations. Legal troubles that haven''t quite caught up with you yet."
That shuts her up.
Miasma leans forward slightly, his mask reflecting the fluorescent light. "And what''s in it for you?"
"Stability," I say simply. "I have my reasons, but let''s keep it simple for now. You get clean slates, financial backing, and the chance to do some actual good. In return, I get results. Everybody wins."
Captain Devil finally speaks, his voice a low rumble. "And if we don''t?"
I smile again, just enough to show teeth. "Then you walk out that door, and I find someone else. No hard feelings."
The room goes quiet, the weight of my words settling over them like a low-pressure system. I give them a moment to think it over, watching as their expressions shift--doubt, curiosity, calculation, resignation.
"Let''s get one thing straight," I say, my voice steady. "You don''t have to like me. You don''t have to trust me. But you want to fix this city? You want to clear your names? Then this is how we do it. Together."
I let the silence settle for a moment after my opening. You have to let them sit with it, let the gears turn. People don''t commit when they''re rushed--they commit when they convince themselves it''s their idea.
Patriot is the first to break the quiet, leaning forward in his chair like he''s ready to grill me. "You''ve got my attention," he says, his tone clipped. "But you haven''t convinced me yet. What''s the play?"
I smile, because of course he''d frame it like a mission briefing. He needs structure. Needs to feel like he''s in control, even when he isn''t.
"The play," I say, "is a Registered Superhuman Entity team. You''ll operate under my civilian oversight, fully legitimized and above board. No more dodging cops. No more worrying about the new vigilantism bill tying your hands. You''ll have resources, legal protection, and public support. But most importantly, you''ll have the chance to make a real difference."
Patriot crosses his arms, skeptical as ever. "And you''re the one overseeing this? A politician?"
"Yes," I say simply, letting the word land. "Because I''m the only one who can make this happen. I know how the system works--how to bend it without breaking it. You''ve been out there long enough to see how broken it is. Tell me, Patriot, how many times have you stopped a crime only to see the criminals back on the streets the next week? How many times have you felt like you were fighting a losing battle because the system doesn''t back you up?"
His jaw tightens. I can tell I''m hitting a nerve.
"This is your chance to fix that," I continue. "America needs heroes who aren''t afraid to stand for its values. And you can lead the charge. Show them why your methods work. Lead by example."
He doesn''t say anything, but the way he straightens in his chair tells me I''ve struck the right chord. Patriot wants to believe he''s the good guy, the one who can set things right. I can work with that.
I shift my gaze to Miasma. He hasn''t moved much since he sat down, his hazmat suit hissing softly. He''s harder to read, but I''ve done my homework. Pragmatists like him don''t need flattery--they need results.
"This is the best chance you''ll have to clean up Jump," I say, keeping my tone matter-of-fact. "You know it, I know it. We can''t trust anyone else to handle this as effectively as we can."
He tilts his head slightly, the only indication he''s listening.
"You''ve seen what it''s doing out there," I press. "Not just to the people taking it, but to the neighborhoods, the communities. It''s tearing this city apart. The cops can''t stop it. The Defenders won''t touch it. And you''re smart enough to know why."
"They don''t want to dirty their hands," Miasma says quietly.
"Exactly," I say, nodding. "But we can. We will. This team isn''t about being friends or holding hands--it''s about getting the job done. A necessary evil. And I think you can tolerate that, can''t you?"
He doesn''t answer, but I can see the wheels turning behind that mask. He isn''t sold, not yet, but he isn''t walking out either. Progress.
Turbo Jett is the easiest read in the room. She''s been fidgeting the whole time, tapping her fingers on the armrest, bouncing her leg, glancing at the door like she''s debating leaving just to see what I''d do. I turn my attention to her next, softening my tone.
"Jasmine," I say, and she blinks, startled that I''ve used her name. "You''re a street-level hero. You''ve always done what''s right, even when the system screwed you over."
She snorts, crossing her arms. "Yeah, and look where that got me."
"Exactly," I say, leaning forward slightly. "The system failed you. But this? This is your chance to prove to them--and to yourself--that you''re better than that. That you''re more than the mistakes they pinned on you."
Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn''t interrupt. Encouraging.
"You''re capable of so much more than they gave you credit for," I say. "Let me help you show them."
She rolls her eyes, but there''s a flicker of something in her expression--pride, maybe, or the ghost of it. She wants to believe me. She just doesn''t want to admit it yet.
Finally, I turn to Captain Devil. He''s been quiet, watching the whole exchange with the detached interest of someone who isn''t sure if he cares. But I know better. Andy doesn''t say much, but he feels everything. He wouldn''t be here if he didn''t care.
"Andy," I say, keeping my voice low and even. "You''re a hero, no matter what anyone says. You''ve made mistakes, sure, but who hasn''t? You wouldn''t be here if you didn''t want to set things right."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn''t look away.
"This team gives you the chance to remind people of who you are," I continue. "The real you. The one who doesn''t give up when things get hard. The one who still believes in doing the right thing, even when it''s messy. You have a choice. You can keep hiding, or you can step back into the light."
For a moment, I think he might say something, but he just nods, barely perceptible. That''s enough for now.
I let the room settle again, watching their faces. Each one of them is running the math in their heads, weighing the risks against the rewards. That''s how you win people over--you give them the pieces, let them put the puzzle together themselves.
"You don''t have to answer now," I say finally. "But think about this: the streets are changing. The world is changing. If we don''t adapt, we''ll get left behind. This team isn''t just about clearing your names or cleaning up Jump--it''s about shaping the future. Together."
I stand, smoothing out my blazer. "Take your time. I''ll be here when you''re ready to talk details."
And then I step back, letting them stew in the silence. The ball''s in their court now, and I know better than to rush a sale.
MR.4.2
The rental space is quiet, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. I dismissed everyone hours ago; no one else needs to be here for this. The air feels colder now, heavier, and I can''t tell if it''s the old building''s failing HVAC or my nerves finally catching up with me. The table in front of me is bare except for a folder and a small bottle of water--presentation matters, even if I have no idea what I''m walking into.
I don''t hear him come in. One second, I''m alone in the room; the next, he''s filling the doorway like a shadow come to life. Big. Looming. A dark military jacket stretches across his broad frame, combat boots heavy enough to crack the cheap laminate flooring with every step. His beard, thick and neatly braided, ends in a gold cap, like a bottle lid--or the finishing touch on some old-style Pharaoh.
"Porcelain," I say, keeping my voice steady as I stand. I make a point not to extend my hand; something tells me he isn''t the type to shake on things. "Welcome. Can I get you anything?"
He steps fully into the room, and it feels like the walls shrink in response. "I''m fine," he says, his voice low and deliberate, as if every word has been weighed before leaving his mouth. Accented. Middle-Eastern, although I can''t quite pin it down. Not Iraqi. Not Iranian. Jordanian...? He doesn''t sit, doesn''t move to the table. Just stands there, looking at me like he''s already calculating something.
I gesture to the chair opposite me, the only other one in the room. "Please. I''d prefer we didn''t stand the whole time."
Porcelain nods once, a slow, deliberate motion, and moves to sit. The chair creaks under his weight and visibly bows down but doesn''t give way. He places his hands on the table--calloused, scarred, and leathery. "Thank you for making time," he says, like this meeting is for my benefit, not his.
"I''m happy to," I reply, sitting down across from him. "Though I have to admit, I wasn''t expecting such a high-ranking member of... your organization to come in for little old me."
His mouth twitches--almost a smile, but not quite. "We don''t operate like the Kingdom. Your Upper Management is free to hide in his office all day with his secretary. I handle my own affairs."
Right. Because Red Calf doesn''t operate like the Kingdom. Or Rogue Wave. Or anyone else who plays this game. Not really a crime syndicate. Not really a supervillain team. Not really... anything. Just a coalition of the world''s best killers.
"I heard about the Mudslide and Nothing extractions," he says, leaning back in his chair so delicately that it looks like he''s trying not to snap it in half. "Efficient work. Clean. No collateral beyond injuries. That''s good. It means they won''t come after you as hard."
"That''s the goal," I say, watching him carefully. Compliments from someone like Porcelain aren''t compliments; they''re leverage, groundwork for whatever he''s about to ask. "But I doubt you''re here to talk about past successes."
"No," he says simply. "I''m here to talk about what comes next."
The air feels heavier. I fold my hands on the table, a picture of calm I don''t feel. "I''m listening."
Porcelain tilts his head slightly, as if weighing how much to say. "I need someone extracted from Daedalus."
I feel the noose tighten around my neck.
I keep my face neutral, but my thoughts are already racing. "That''s a tall order."
"You''ve proven you can handle tall orders," he says evenly.
I hold his gaze. "Why her?"
Porcelain''s expression doesn''t change. "She''s valuable."
"She was valuable," I correct, keeping my tone even. "The Kingdom got what it needed from her. She''s burned out. Dangerous, sure, but unpredictable. Unreliable. There''s no more return on investment. She''s a totaled car. A spent shell casing."
Porcelain leans forward slightly, just enough to make the room feel smaller. His fingertips rasp against one another audibly as they touch. "That''s not for you to decide."This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
The words aren''t a threat, but they carry weight. My jaw tightens. "I''m not questioning your priorities. I''m questioning the logistics. Breaking into Daedalus isn''t just risky; it''s catastrophic. Even if we got her out, there''s no way to do it without heat. It would make global news in minutes. And that''s if we succeed."
He doesn''t flinch. "You''re capable."
"And you''re asking me to risk everything I''ve built in Philadelphia for a single asset," I say, my voice sharper now. "That''s not strategy; that''s hubris."
Porcelain''s gaze doesn''t waver. "You''re thinking too small."
I want to snap back, to remind him of my bona fides, my long-term plans. But something in his tone stops me. He isn''t condescending. He isn''t even challenging me. He''s stating a fact, as if he genuinely believes I don''t see the bigger picture. That I''m incapable--and all I need is tutoring.
"Enlighten me," I say, leaning back in my chair.
"She''s not just an asset," he says. "She''s a demonstration. A weapon. There are men out there who could kill me. One of your own incapacitated Captain Plasma like she was stealing candy from a baby, it was so easy. I''d like to make sure my asset is in the right hands, learning the right things, being trained the right way."
"And whose hands are the ''right'' ones?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Porcelain''s mouth twitches again, that almost-smile. "Ours."
The simplicity of the answer makes it more unsettling. He isn''t trying to sell me on a vision or ideology. He isn''t even asking for my agreement. He''s just... stating it.
I take a breath, keeping my composure. "Let''s say I agree to this. What''s your plan for when the entire world notices we''ve cracked open Daedalus?"
"My organization will reward you with whatever necessary aid," he says. "In our usual way. If necessary."
I almost laugh. That means killing people. Killing many people. Even worse for business. "What if I say no to your help? I''d prefer not to turn this into an F-rank mission of Assassin 2."
Porcelain shrugs, a slow, deliberate motion. He doesn''t react to the video game reference. I imagine a guy like him is a little too busy destabilizing small countries to play video games in his free time. "Then you deal with the fallout. Are you not the best in the business? You''re a city councilwoman, Mrs. Zenith. You don''t become a politician without knowing how to handle a crisis."
The casualness of it makes my skin crawl. This isn''t a negotiation; it''s an order wrapped in a polite suggestion.
"I''ll need time," I say finally, choosing my words carefully. "To assess the risks. Plan accordingly. And consider the second-order effects. Work things into my plans."
"Of course," Porcelain says, standing. The chair groans in relief as he rises to his full, towering height. "Take all the time you need."
The implication is clear: as long as "all the time you need" doesn''t take too long.
He moves toward the door without another word, his footsteps heavy but unhurried. At the threshold, he pauses, turning back to me.
"You''ve built something impressive here, Zenith. Don''t let it go to waste."
The air seems to grow heavier as he lingers, like he''s not quite done yet. "I''ve also heard about your recent ventures," he adds, his tone measured. "Hypeman, was it? Efficient. Functional. The rollout''s been... impressive."
The compliment feels more like reconnaissance than praise, but I incline my head slightly. "We''ve had success," I say, keeping my tone even.
Porcelain''s dark eyes lock onto mine, assessing. "I''d like to make a purchase for my people. Field testing. Who handles your procurement?"
I pause, my mind already flipping through the logistics. This isn''t a small ask, but there''s no point in saying no. Not to him. "Hold on," I say, standing and moving to the small desk against the wall. I grab a blank legal pad and scrawl an address and a phone number in clean, deliberate letters. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just the cost of doing business.
Tearing the sheet free, I walk back to him, folding it once before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. I know trying to get him to grab a piece of paper would probably just result in it disintegrating. "This will get you in touch with the right people. They''ll handle everything from there."
Porcelain looks down briefly, the faintest hint of a nod acknowledging my gesture. "Thank you."
He doesn''t say more. His presence lingers in the room even as he turns and finally steps out. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound sharper than it should be, and suddenly the room feels larger. Or maybe I''m just smaller.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the closed door, letting the weight of the conversation settle over me. My fingers brush against the edge of the table, a small, grounding gesture as my mind races.
I''ve survived bigger risks than this. I''ve outmaneuvered people just as dangerous than Porcelain. But that doesn''t make him any less of a threat. The only reason he''s not getting her himself is because he''s trying to test me - to recruit me? Maybe. But I know he could just walk through Daedalus like it was made of cardboard. So I have to start considering his ulterior motive - but what? Why?
I exhale slowly, moving back to my seat. The legal pad is still on the desk, a single sheet missing but the imprint of my handwriting visible on the page beneath it.
The thing about power--real power--is that it''s never just yours. It''s borrowed, leveraged, pulled from everyone around you. Loaned, with interest.
I lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. My mind keeps circling back to his parting words: Don''t let it go to waste.
I reach for the water bottle on the table, twisting the cap off and taking a long sip. It''s lukewarm, flat, but it steadies me. Because tomorrow, the game continues. And I''m not about to lose.
WORLD OF CHUM: Private Superheroing (2)
Central Intelligence Agency: Special Activities Division (SAD)
CONFIDENTIAL
Subject: Operational Analysis of Private Military Contractor "Red Calf"
Compiled By: Special Activities Division, Counter-Terrorism Task Force (CTTF)
Date: September 2024
1. Overview of Red Calf
Official Name: Red Calf Incorporated
Classification: Private Military Contractor (PMC)
Headquarters: Suspected Zurich, Switzerland (Corporate Offices)
Operations Range: Global, with significant activity in Sub-Saharan Africa, Southeast Asia, Eastern Europe, and occasional operations in the Americas.
Operational Focus:
Red Calf positions itself as a premium PMC, offering high-end military and paramilitary services. It boasts a roster of elite operatives, including numerous superhuman contractors (referred to internally as "specialist personnel").
The organization''s clients include nation-states, multinational corporations, and private individuals seeking solutions to high-value military objectives. Red Calf has successfully positioned itself as a ¡°clean,¡± reliable alternative to less reputable contractors, maintaining an official stance of adhering to international law.
2. Public Mission Statement
"To provide effective, ethical, and innovative military solutions to governments and organizations committed to the pursuit of global security."
While the mission statement emphasizes ethical operations, independent investigations suggest that Red Calf frequently accepts contracts in "gray zones" of legality, including regime destabilization, counterinsurgency, and high-profile assassinations.
3. Organizational Structure
Red Calf is publicly structured like a modern corporation, with clearly delineated divisions and a hierarchical leadership model. The following outlines the known organizational structure based on intelligence reports:
Chief Executive Officer (CEO): Alexander Staedler
Swiss national. Former banking executive with no known combat experience. Staedler oversees contract negotiations and ensures compliance with international regulations to maintain Red Calf¡¯s legitimacy.
Chief Financial Officer (CFO): Dr. Emiliana Cardoso
Brazilian economist and former IMF strategist. Cardoso handles Red Calf¡¯s financial operations, ensuring payments and assets remain untouchable through offshore networks.
Director of Public Relations: Kevin Mahoney
American political strategist with ties to U.S. senators and major corporations. Mahoney crafts narratives to frame Red Calf as a legitimate global necessity.
Chief Legal Officer (CLO): Grace Yamaguchi
Japanese-American international lawyer specializing in war crimes and defense contracts. Yamaguchi handles Red Calf¡¯s legal defense, ensuring compliance with international laws while exploiting loopholes to shield the organization from accountability.
Head of Recruitment: Kasim Jafari
Pakistani recruiter with a background in controversial private security. Jafari draws talent from failed states, criminal networks, and disbanded militaries.
Chief Operations Officer (COO): Lt. Gen. Dominic Hartley (Ret.)
Former British SAS officer. Hartley directs all field operations, from strategic planning to tactical execution. Notable for aggressive recruitment practices, including the hiring of ex-supervillains and former law enforcement officers with checkered pasts.
Director of Tactical Training: Col. Ilya Dragunov (Ret.)
Russian Spetsnaz defector. Dragunov is responsible for developing the PMC¡¯s rigorous training regimens. His focus is on integrating conventional and superhuman combat techniques, ensuring Red Calf operatives are prepared for any scenario.
Quartermaster-General: Anders Falk
Former grey-market arms dealer from Norway. Falk manages Red Calf¡¯s supply chain, ensuring that operatives are equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry and custom gear. He¡¯s also responsible for procuring experimental equipment tailored to specific superhuman abilities.
4. Operational Highlights
Red Calf¡¯s success lies in its ability to blend conventional and superhuman warfare. Intelligence reports highlight the following characteristics of their operations:
A. Superhuman Integration
Red Calf employs a disproportionately high number of superhumans compared to other PMCs, with estimates suggesting they make up 30¨C40% of its active operatives. These individuals are often used for:
- Strategic assassinations.
- Disabling infrastructure.
- High-intensity combat missions requiring unique capabilities.
B. Notable Engagements
- "Operation Coldlight" (March 2021): Intelligence suggests Red Calf played a role in the destabilization of the Kravchenko regime in Eastern Europe, leading to a significant shift in regional power dynamics. Superhuman operatives were deployed for precision strikes on critical infrastructure.
- "The Cassava Crisis" (May 2024): Red Calf contractors were confirmed on the ground in Sub-Saharan Africa during a regional conflict tied to control of agricultural resources. Satellite imagery confirmed the use of advanced explosives and aerial reconnaissance likely conducted by superhuman assets.
C. Equipment and Tactics
Red Calf operatives use custom-designed equipment, often tailored to individual superhuman capabilities. This includes adaptive body armor, advanced sensor systems, and unconventional weaponry not widely available on global arms markets.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
5. Risk Assessment
While Red Calf is not officially designated as a terrorist organization, its activities in destabilizing regions and undermining democratic institutions present a clear and growing threat to U.S. interests. The organization''s willingness to operate in legal gray areas, coupled with its elite roster, makes it one of the most dangerous PMCs globally.
Known Risks Include:
- High-Level Contracts: Red Calf frequently takes on high-profile, high-risk operations, including the assassination of political figures and sabotage of critical infrastructure.
- Clientele: Red Calf''s willingness to work for both legitimate governments and private interests blurs ethical boundaries and complicates accountability.
- Superhuman Threats: The high concentration of superhuman operatives increases the lethality of their operations and poses unique challenges for counteraction.
6. Known Personnel of Interest
While Red Calf''s inner workings remain opaque, several high-profile operatives have been identified:
Chezki Espinosa ("Porcelain")
Known Affiliations: Former Mossad operative, current Red Calf contractor.
Operational Role: High-lethality field operative specializing in assassination and sabotage.
Capabilities: Espinosa¡¯s enhanced physiology (extreme durability and strength) makes him impervious to most small arms and able to neutralize armored threats in close combat. He is highly trained in unarmed combat, small arms, and demolitions. Espinosa is one of the few G10 rated superhumans on record (see attached PERKS assessment).
Operational History: Espinosa has been linked to assassinations of high-ranking officials in North Africa and the Middle East, as well as infrastructure sabotage missions targeting oil pipelines and military supply chains.
Assessment of Threat: Espinosa¡¯s abilities and tactical acumen make him one of the most dangerous individuals within Red Calf. His presence on a mission almost guarantees operational success.
Intelligence Gaps: Details on his command authority within Red Calf remain unknown, though he is suspected to report directly to senior leadership.
Recommendation: Priority surveillance target. Countermeasure development against his enhanced physiology is a critical need.
Jared Cross ("Tarbaby")
Known Affiliations: Former Royal Engineers (UK), now a high-profile saboteur within Red Calf.
Operational Role: Infrastructure sabotage expert and infiltration operative.
Capabilities: Proficient in demolitions, electrical systems, and mechanical engineering. Known for creating cascading failures in logistical networks and infrastructure.
Operational History: Cross has been tied to the catastrophic failure of a high-speed rail system in Southeast Asia and the disruption of naval operations in the Mediterranean through targeted supply chain attacks.
Assessment of Threat: Cross¡¯s expertise in infrastructure sabotage makes him a significant risk to critical national infrastructure. His use of subtle and delayed effects makes detection and attribution difficult.
Intelligence Gaps: Unclear how Red Calf deploys Cross or selects his targets. No confirmed sightings in the past 12 months.
Recommendation: Monitor international infrastructure failures for Cross¡¯s operational signature.
Samuel Royce ("Gallows")
Known Affiliations: Former U.S. Marine Corps scout sniper; dishonorably discharged following allegations of unlawful combat actions.
Operational Role: Precision marksman and overwatch specialist.
Capabilities: Royce¡¯s sniper proficiency includes confirmed hits from extreme ranges under adverse conditions. His stealth capabilities and knowledge of counter-sniper tactics make him a top-tier marksman.
Operational History: Linked to high-profile assassinations in Central Asia and the Caribbean, often targeting political leaders or military officials. Known to operate solo but capable of coordinating with small tactical units.
Assessment of Threat: Royce¡¯s precision and stealth make him a near-undetectable threat in open combat or assassination scenarios. His presence in operational zones indicates high-value targets are at risk.
Intelligence Gaps: Limited data on his support networks and operational methods.
Recommendation: Prioritize counter-sniper training for personnel in regions where Red Calf operates.
Anika Voss ("Lotus")
Known Affiliations: Former intelligence officer for the Slovak Information Service (SIS), defected under unknown circumstances in 2016.
Operational Role: Psychological operations specialist and undercover operative.
Capabilities: Voss excels in long-term infiltration and psychological manipulation, exploiting political, cultural, and military tensions to sow chaos. She is fluent in seven languages, including Russian, Arabic, and Mandarin, and demonstrates an exceptional ability to cultivate trust and access classified information.
Operational History: Believed to have orchestrated disinformation campaigns and political scandals in Eastern Europe, including destabilization efforts in Belarus and Georgia. Credited with exacerbating ethnic divisions during civil unrest in Central Africa, likely on behalf of Red Calf clients.
Assessment of Threat: Voss represents a significant strategic threat due to her capacity to destabilize regions covertly. Her operations are subtle and often only detectable through their long-term fallout.
Intelligence Gaps: Limited insight into her current role within Red Calf. Most recent confirmed activity suggests involvement in political unrest in a Southeast Asian nation.
Recommendation: Cross-reference her operational signature with political destabilization events and maintain HUMINT assets in high-risk zones where Voss may operate.
7. Strategic Recommendations
1. Continued Monitoring: Intelligence agencies must prioritize surveillance of Red Calf¡¯s operations, particularly its superhuman personnel.
2. Limit U.S. Contracts: Any engagement with Red Calf risks public exposure and backlash. While Red Calf remains an asset in certain operations, its long-term destabilizing effects outweigh its utility.
3. Counter-Superhuman Strategy: Enhanced training and equipment are necessary to counteract Red Calf¡¯s superhuman operatives in the field. Consider increased funding for domestic programs targeting superhuman integration into U.S. military units.
8. Conclusion
Red Calf represents a unique and growing threat in the private military sector. Its integration of superhuman capabilities, high-profile clientele, and willingness to operate outside legal boundaries position it as a critical target for continued intelligence efforts. While not yet labeled a terrorist organization, its activities warrant close scrutiny.
Chapter 155.1
The holding cell smells like stale coffee and some kind of industrial cleaning solution that definitely isn''t doing its job. The air''s cold enough to make me wish I''d worn an extra hoodie under the costume, but hindsight''s 20/20, right? At least the bench is wide enough for me to stretch out a little without feeling like I''m glued to Maggie''s side. Not that Maggie''s bothered by any of this. She''s sitting next to me, kicking her legs like we''re just hanging out at the park or something. Her foot keeps tapping the wall, like, thunk-thunk-thunk, and it''s driving me insane, but I don''t tell her to stop. Not yet, anyway.
"You know," Maggie says after a while, her voice cutting through the quiet, "this isn''t actually as bad as I thought it''d be. Like, on TV, it''s all bars and rats and scary guys screaming at each other, but this is just... kinda boring."
I glance at her. "That''s what you''re thinking about right now? The Yelp review for holding cells?"
She grins, wide and toothy. "I''m just saying. Three stars. Needs better seating, maybe a vending machine."
I snort, leaning back against the wall. My mask''s pulled down around my neck, which makes me feel weirdly exposed, but the cops made me take it off when they brought us in. Something about protocol. Maggie''s still got hers shoved up on her forehead like a headband, which is such a Maggie move it almost makes me laugh. Almost.
"You''re way too chill about this," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "We just got arrested, Maggie. Like, actual arrested. This is not a chill situation."
She shrugs, her shoulders bouncing like it''s no big deal. "I mean, yeah, it''s not great, but it''s not like they''re gonna throw us in juvie or anything. We''re minors, and there''s laws about this kind of thing."
"Laws," I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "You really think the law''s gonna save us? The same law that says we''re not allowed to do any of the stuff we just did?"
"Not that law," she says, rolling her eyes like I''m the one being ridiculous. "I''m talking about the SJSA. The Superhero Juvenile Safety Act?"
I blink at her. "What?"
"You don''t know about the SJSA?" She looks genuinely shocked, like I just told her I don''t know how to tie my shoes. "Sam, come on. How do you not know about this? It''s, like, the one good law for us out there."
"I don''t know," I say, throwing up my hands. "I didn''t even realize there was a law for that. What, do you go to the library or something?"
"You don''t?" Maggie replies, blinking at me.
I scrunch my face up under my mask.
Maggie shakes her head, looking way too smug for someone who''s currently in a holding cell. "Okay, fine. Let me educate you. The SJSA is this law they passed a while back that says cops can''t just unmask us or out our identities unless they''ve got, like, a really good reason. It''s supposed to protect minors with powers from getting targeted or exploited or whatever."
I squint at her. "So, what, they''re just gonna let us go because of some rule in a law book?"
"No," she says, dragging the word out like she''s explaining multiplication to a toddler. "But it means they can''t, like, ruin our lives over this. Worst case, they call our parents, give us a slap on the wrist, and tell us not to do it again."
I stare at her. "That''s your worst case? Getting ratted out to my parents is literally the worst thing I can think of right now."
"Oh, come on," Maggie says, nudging me with her elbow. "Your mom''s cool. She probably won''t even yell."
"She doesn''t yell," I say. "She just looks at you like you broke her heart, and then you feel like crap for a week. My dad, though? He''s gonna flip."
"Okay, fair," Maggie says, leaning back and propping her hands behind her head. "But still. Better than jail, right?"
"Sure," I mutter, even though I''m not entirely convinced. I''m trying not to think about what''s waiting for me at home. Or how much worse this is gonna get if word gets out. Bloodhound arrested. Great headline. Really inspiring stuff.
The door at the far end of the room creaks open, and we both snap our heads up. A cop steps inside, a middle-aged guy with a mustache that looks like it belongs in a different decade. He doesn''t say anything at first, just gives us that cop look--the one that makes you feel guilty even if you didn''t do anything. Which, okay, maybe I did do something, but still.
"Ladies," he says, his voice gruff but not exactly unfriendly. "You''re up next. Stay put. Someone''ll come get you in a minute."
"Cool," Maggie says, giving him a thumbs-up like this is all perfectly normal. He stares at her for a second before shaking his head and leaving.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
As soon as the door closes, I turn to her. "What the hell was that?"
"What?" she says, blinking at me.
"The thumbs-up," I say, mimicking her gesture. "What was that supposed to do?"
She shrugs again. "I don''t know. Seemed polite."
I bury my face in my hands. "We''re so screwed."
"Relax," Maggie says, patting my shoulder like she''s trying to calm a skittish cat. "Just be cool, answer their questions, and we''ll be out of here in no time."
"Yeah, no," I say, dropping my hands. "Rule number one: don''t talk to cops. You wait for a lawyer."
Maggie frowns. "Do we even get lawyers for this?"
"We''re supposed to," I say, even though I''m not entirely sure how that works. "That''s what they always say on TV, right? ''You have the right to an attorney'' and all that?"
"I guess," Maggie says, her frown deepening. "But we didn''t even get Miranda''d. Do they still do that?"
"I don''t know," I admit, the knot in my stomach tightening. "But I''m not saying anything without a lawyer. And you shouldn''t either."
Maggie looks like she wants to argue, but the door creaks open again before she can. This time, it''s a younger cop, maybe late twenties, with a clipboard in one hand and a bored expression on his face. He doesn''t even look at us as he says, "Small, O''Brien. Let''s go."
The room they take us to is cold. Like, not regular cold, but the kind of cold that feels deliberate. The kind of cold that says, You''re not welcome here. There''s a metal table bolted to the floor, and the chair creaks ominously when I sit down. Maggie''s across from me, fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie, and I can tell she''s trying really hard not to look as nervous as she feels. It''s not working.
The younger cop--the one with the clipboard from earlier--is sitting on the other side of the table, flipping through some paperwork like he''s trying to look busy. He hasn''t said a word since we walked in, which is somehow worse than if he''d started yelling at us. I cross my arms and lean back, trying to look unbothered. It''s harder than I want it to be.
"So," he says finally, without looking up. "Bloodhound and Flashpoint."
My stomach twists, but I keep my face neutral. Maggie, of course, pipes up immediately. "That''s us," she says, forcing a grin that''s way too big for the situation. "Hi."
He looks up at her, raising an eyebrow. "You think this is funny?"
Her grin falters. "No, sir. Just, uh... trying to be polite."
The corner of his mouth twitches like he''s trying not to laugh, but it''s gone in a second. "Polite," he repeats, leaning back in his chair. "You kids think you''re real polite, huh? Out there in the streets, smashing up property, sticking your noses where they don''t belong?"
"We weren''t smashing anything," I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. A smaller, more reasonable part of my head says STOP SAYING THINGS, STOP TALKING TO THE COPS, SHUT THE FUCK UP, but I''m too angry to listen. "We were helping. If we hadn''t shown up, someone could''ve died."
He turns his gaze to me, and it''s like staring down a spotlight. "And you think that makes it okay? Running around in masks, breaking the law, putting yourselves and everyone else at risk?"
I don''t flinch. "We didn''t break anything. We stopped a fight. We protected people. Isn''t that what you''re supposed to do?"
His jaw tightens, and I can tell I''ve hit a nerve. Good. But before he can say anything, the door opens, and a second cop walks in. This one''s older, with a face like he''s carved out of granite and a voice to match. "Enough," he says, and Clipboard immediately shuts up.
Granite Face takes a seat next to him, folding his hands on the table like he''s about to tell us a bedtime story. "Listen," he says, his tone calm but heavy. "We''re not here to ruin your lives, okay? You''re kids. We get that. But you need to understand something--you''re playing a dangerous game."
I glance at Maggie, and she''s staring at him like he''s a particularly intense teacher giving her a lecture. "We''re not playing anything," she says, her voice quiet but steady. "We''re trying to help."
Granite Face sighs. "Help. Right. You think you''re helping by putting yourselves in the middle of a gang war? You think those people out there care about your good intentions? They don''t. They''ll chew you up and spit you out without a second thought."
"We''re not scared of them," I say, even though the memory of Bash and his stupid syringe is still fresh in my mind. "We can handle ourselves."
"Oh, yeah?" He leans forward, his eyes narrowing. "And what happens when you can''t? What happens when one of you doesn''t come home? You think your parents are gonna be okay with that?"
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood. Maggie''s the one who answers, her voice softer now. "We''re careful," she says. "We don''t take unnecessary risks."
Granite Face snorts. "Unnecessary risks? You were in the middle of Kensington, breaking up a fight between two gangs armed to the teeth. If that''s not a risk, I don''t know what is."
I open my mouth to argue, but Maggie kicks me under the table. I glare at her, and she shakes her head slightly, like she''s telling me to drop it. I don''t want to, but... fine. For now.
"We''re not here to charge you," Granite Face says, leaning back in his chair. "Not this time. But you need to understand something--we''re watching you. And if you keep this up, if you keep putting yourselves in danger and making things worse, we''re not gonna look the other way. Got it?"
Neither of us says anything, but he takes our silence as agreement. Clipboard clears his throat, looking awkward. "Alright," he says, glancing at his watch. "Let''s get this over with. Names, fingerprints, and then you''re out of here."
The processing part is somehow worse than the lecture. They take our names, our fingerprints, even a photo. Maggie makes a joke about it being like a yearbook picture, but the cop taking the photo doesn''t laugh. Neither do I. The whole thing feels weird and... wrong. Like we''re being cataloged. It makes my skin crawl.
By the time we''re done, my hands feel sticky from the fingerprint ink, and I''m so ready to leave I could scream. But, of course, we can''t just walk out. They''ve called our parents. Because of course they have.
The waiting area is quieter than the holding cell, but it''s the bad kind of quiet. The kind where you know something''s coming, and it''s not gonna be good. Maggie sits next to me, tapping her foot against the floor, and I can tell she''s nervous now. The bravado from earlier is gone, replaced by that jittery energy she gets when she''s about to do something dumb. I nudge her with my elbow. "Relax," I mutter. "It''s not the end of the world."
"Easy for you to say," she whispers back. "Your mom''s cool. Mine''s gonna ground me for a year."
"Better than jail," I say, but it doesn''t make her look any less freaked out.
Chapter 155.2
The door to the waiting area creaks open, and I look up, half-hoping it''s someone else''s turn. Nope. It''s Mom, and she''s in full storm mode--cardigan slung over her arm, hair frizzed out from too much fidgeting. Dad''s right behind her, looking even worse. He''s wearing wrinkled pajamas that he clearly just pulled out of the laundry. He''s got that set to his jaw, the one that means nothing good is about to come out of his mouth.
It''s almost 3 AM. No one''s at their best.
"Samantha," Mom says sharply, her voice low but cutting through the quiet. She only calls me that when she''s so mad she can''t even think straight. "Let''s go."
I glance at Maggie, who''s shrinking into her seat like she''s hoping to disappear. "Uh... okay," I mumble, pushing myself up. My legs are stiff from sitting so long.
Dad waves off the officer behind the desk, who says something about "next steps" and "advice for the future." Mom doesn''t even acknowledge him, just turns on her heel and walks out the door. Dad follows, motioning for me to hurry up. I glance back at Maggie one last time, mouthing good luck before I jog to catch up.
Outside, the air is cool and damp, the kind of sticky Philadelphia spring night where the pavement smells like rain even though it hasn''t rained. Mom''s pacing in the parking lot, her cardigan still draped over her arm, and Dad''s leaning against the car with his arms crossed. Their faces are lit by the harsh glow of the streetlights, making them look even more tired than they probably feel.
"What were you thinking?" Mom snaps the second I step into the open. "No, don''t answer that--because clearly, you weren''t."
"I was--"
"Stop," Dad interrupts, holding up a hand. His voice is calm, but it''s that deadly kind of calm that''s way worse than yelling. "Before you even start: don''t. You''re not going to talk your way out of this."
I shut my mouth, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. This isn''t fair. I didn''t do anything wrong. Not really.
"We told you," Mom says, her voice trembling as she points a finger at me, "we told you to keep your head down. Do you have any idea what kind of risk you''re taking every time you go out there? And now this? Arrested? Fingerprinted?"
"They didn''t charge me," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "It''s fine."
"It''s not fine, Sam!" Mom practically yells, and I see her catch herself, glancing around the empty parking lot before lowering her voice. "You think just because they let you go, you''re in the clear? The police are not your friends. They''re not here to help you. They''re here to enforce the law, and right now, the law is against you."
"That''s not fair," I say, my chest tightening. "I''m trying to help people. I''m not a criminal."
"That doesn''t matter," Dad says sharply, pushing off the car to step closer. "You think they care about your intentions? About why you''re out there? All they see is another vigilante breaking the rules. And do you know what happens if you get arrested again? Or worse?"
I don''t answer, because I don''t know. And I don''t want to.
"You think this is a game, but it''s not," Dad continues, his voice rising just enough to make me flinch. "Every time you put that mask on, you''re painting a target on your back--not just from the criminals, but from the cops. And if they decide they''ve had enough? If they decide you''re more trouble than you''re worth? Do you think they''ll hesitate to unmask you? To ruin your life?"
I look down at the pavement, my jaw clenched. "I''m careful," I mutter, but it sounds weak even to me.
"Careful?" Mom throws up her hands, the cardigan slipping to the ground. "You call this careful? You''re sixteen, Samantha. Sixteen! You shouldn''t even be out that late, let alone doing... this!"
"It''s not like I was robbing a bank," I snap, my frustration boiling over. "I was stopping people from getting hurt. Isn''t that what you raised me to do? To help people?"
"We raised you to be smart," Dad says, his voice cold. "To know when the risks outweigh the rewards. This isn''t just about you, Sam. If something happens--if you get hurt, or arrested again, or worse--how do you think that affects us? How do you think we''re supposed to live with that?"The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
I don''t have an answer for that, so I don''t say anything. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, until another car pulls into the lot. Maggie''s parents.
Mr. O''Brien steps out first, slamming the door hard enough to make me jump. He''s a big guy, with a presence that practically fills the lot, and the look on his face is pure thunder. He''s got salt-and-pepper hair and a scowl that could melt steel Mrs. O''Brien is right behind him, her heels clicking against the pavement like a countdown to an explosion. She''s smaller, thin, almost mousey. They''re sort of opposites to my parents, in that way.
Maggie - who has been staring out the window - sort of slinks through the door towards them, looking like she''d rather crawl under a rock than face this. I''ve never seen her look this nervous before--not even when we''re out on patrol.
"Magdalene O''Brien," Mrs. O''Brien snaps, her voice like ice. "Get over here."
Maggie shuffles toward them, her head down. "Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad."
"Don''t you ''hi'' me," Mrs. O''Brien says, her hands on her hips. "What were you thinking? Out at this hour, doing God knows what--"
"We weren''t doing God knows what," Maggie mutters, barely loud enough to hear. "We were training."
"Training?" Mr. O''Brien cuts in, his voice sharp. "That''s what you call getting arrested? Training?"
"We didn''t get arrested," Maggie says quickly, glancing at me like I can somehow back her up. "Not really. They didn''t charge us."
"That doesn''t make it okay!" Mrs. O''Brien snaps, throwing her hands in the air. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? How irresponsible? You could''ve been hurt--or worse! Do you even think about what this does to us? To your family?"
"I was fine," Maggie says, her voice cracking just a little. "I wasn''t doing anything wrong--"
"Oh, don''t you dare," Mrs. O''Brien cuts her off, stepping forward like she''s about to grab Maggie by the shoulders and shake her. "You were out in the middle of the night, fighting God knows who, risking your life for what? For what? Some... some childish idea of heroism? Do you even realize what you''re putting us through? You think this is some kind of game?"
"It''s not a game!" Maggie shoots back, her hands balling into fists. "I know it''s dangerous. I know what I''m doing!"
"You clearly don''t," Mrs. O''Brien spits, her face red. "If you did, we wouldn''t be here right now, would we?"
"She wasn''t alone," Mom says suddenly, her voice cutting through the escalating tension. All eyes turn to her, and her tone is as sharp as broken glass. "Our daughter was with her. They''re both to blame for this."
Mrs. O''Brien''s eyes narrow, and I can feel the storm brewing before she even opens her mouth. "Oh, is that so? Well, maybe if your daughter hadn''t dragged mine into this ridiculous mess--"
"Dragged her into this?" Mom''s voice rises, the edge of fury creeping into her words. "Maybe you should take a closer look at your own daughter before you start pointing fingers. You think Sam has a monopoly on bad decisions? Maggie''s not exactly innocent in all this."
"Oh, don''t you try to turn this around," Mrs. O''Brien snaps, stepping closer, her arms crossed like she''s bracing for a fight. "We''ve been dealing with your daughter''s influence for months now. Maggie wouldn''t even think about pulling this kind of stunt if it weren''t for her."
"Influence?" Mom''s voice goes cold, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "Are you seriously blaming my daughter for your kid''s choices? Because let me tell you something--Sam didn''t force Maggie to put on a mask. She didn''t force her to go out there tonight. Your daughter made that decision all on her own."
"And where do you think she got the idea?" Mrs. O''Brien shoots back, her voice rising to match Mom''s. "Maggie didn''t even care about this stuff until Sam - until Sam dragged her into it. You think we don''t see what''s happening here?"
"She saved my life," Maggie almost whimpers, but I think it just gets lost in the crescendo. Which is true!
Man. It''s so much easier when it''s Jordan''s shithead mom.
"Excuse me?" Mom''s voice is like a whipcrack now, and even I flinch. "You don''t know the first thing about my daughter. She''s out there risking her life to help people because someone has to, and maybe if more parents raised their kids to care about the world around them--"
"Oh, don''t you dare lecture me about parenting," Mrs. O''Brien snaps, cutting her off. "Your daughter''s been playing superhero for what, two years now? And what has it gotten her? A trip to the ER every other month? A criminal record? You think that''s something to be proud of?"
"Okay," Dad says loudly, stepping between them before things can escalate any further. His voice is firm, his hands up in a gesture of calm. "That''s enough. We''re not doing this here."
He''s right. No one wants to be here--standing in a parking lot at 3 AM, arguing like idiots while the cops inside probably listen through the windows. Mrs. O''Brien huffs but doesn''t argue, grabbing Maggie by the arm and leading her to their car. Mr. O''Brien follows, his glare burning into me like he''s blaming me for all of this.
When they''re gone, Mom turns back to me, her face pale and tired. "We''re going home. Now."
The car ride is silent, but the kind of silence that presses down on you, heavy and suffocating. Mom''s staring out the window, her arms crossed, while Dad grips the wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. I sit in the back, staring at my hands and trying to ignore the fingerprint ink still stuck to my skin.
"You can''t keep doing this, Sam," Dad says finally, his voice quiet but firm. "One of these days, it''s not going to end with a warning. And when that happens..."
He doesn''t finish the sentence, but he doesn''t need to. I already know.
Chapter 155.3
The music hall is quieter than usual when I walk in, which makes sense--it''s the middle of the day, and none of us are supposed to be here. I had to promise my parents I''d keep my location tracker on and wouldn''t even think about putting on my mask, and they still almost didn''t let me come. Mom made me swear on Mom-Mom''s grave that I wouldn''t do anything "reckless" until further notice. Which, fine. I guess they deserve that much after last night. Doesn''t mean I have to like it.
The hall itself smells like wood polish and dust, like it''s trying to remember the days when it hosted actual music instead of a bunch of teenage vigilantes with bad sleep schedules and worse judgment. Tasha''s perched on one of the old couches with her laptop, headphones on, completely tuned out. Lily''s sprawled on the floor doing some kind of stretches that look like they''re one step away from yoga. Amelia''s leaning against the counter near the kitchenette, arms crossed and looking like she''s already over whatever''s about to happen.
And then there''s Jordan, sitting cross-legged on top of the ping-pong table, grinning like they''ve just won the lottery.
"Well, well, well," Jordan says, drawing the words out like they''re savoring them. "If it isn''t our fearless leader, fresh from her brush with the law."
I roll my eyes. "Don''t start."
"Oh, I''m starting," they say, hopping down from the table with an exaggerated bow. "Ladies and gentlemen--oh wait, it''s just us ladies and me--let''s all give a big round of applause to Samantha Small, defender of the innocent, breaker of minor ordinances, and recent graduate of Police Holding Cell 101!"
Lily claps enthusiastically from the floor. Amelia doesn''t bother, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, which is basically a standing ovation coming from her.
"Thanks," I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. "Really appreciate the support."
Maggie''s voice crackles from the phone in my pocket. "Hey, I''d clap too if I wasn''t stuck at home. Turbo grounded, remember?"
"Right," I say, pulling the phone out and putting it on speaker so she doesn''t feel completely left out. "Everyone say hi to Maggie."
"Hi, Maggie," they all say in unison, except Tasha, who just waves without looking up from her laptop.
"Hi, guys," Maggie chirps. "Hope you''re having fun without me."
"We''re not," I say quickly, glaring at Jordan when they open their mouth to argue. "Anyway, let''s get this over with. What''s the big deal?"
Jordan crosses their arms, looking way too pleased with themselves. "First of all, I''d like to announce that I am officially done with all my assignments and finals for the year."
"It''s April," I say flatly. "What the hell are you talking about?"
They shrug, their grin turning almost sheepish. Like they weren''t expecting anyone to actually question that. "I, uh, kind of... got permission to finish everything early?"
"You what?" Maggie yells through the phone, her voice distorted by the speaker. "How is that even possible?"
"Because you''re a huge nerd," I snipe. "And a teacher''s pet."
"J''accuse!" Jordan scoffs. "Moi?"
"That''s not how you use that," Tasha yells, just loud enough to be heard.
"Anyway, I told them that I had MIT stuff I needed to focus on, which is not a total lie," Jordan explains, not looking anyone in the eye.
Amelia snorts. "Of course you did."
"Anyway," Jordan says, waving off the teasing, "the point is, I''m free to focus on important stuff now. Like planning revenge, and keeping all of you out of jail."
"Wow, thanks," I say, pretending to be offended. "Really inspiring vote of confidence there."
"Do the rest of you guys even have time to do your homework?" Tasha asks.
"We manage," Maggie crackles.
"Oh, you''re welcome," Jordan shoots back to me. "So. How''d your little adventure go last night? I heard there was drugs involved?"
I groan, flopping onto the couch next to Tasha, who finally pulls off her headphones to join the conversation wholeheartedly. "Yeah, about that. Bash--this big guy who was definitely not on Jump--used some kind of drug mid-fight and basically turned into a walking tank. Like, went from "strong" to "crazy" instantly."
Jordan frowns, leaning forward. "What kind of syringe?"
"Black," I say, trying to remember the details. "Sleek, professional-looking. Like something you''d see in a hospital, not, you know, on the street."
"That doesn''t sound like Fly," Tasha says, typing something into her laptop. "Fly''s a mess. I think you get it out of a vial or out of like... scavenged, refilled epipens."
"Exactly," I say, nodding. "These were like... manufactured and shit. No label. Not that I got a good look at it, I think the police scooped the thing up."
"Any idea who they were working for?" Amelia asks, her tone skeptical.
"Not directly," I admit. "But it''s gotta be connected to the Kingdom somehow, or Rogue Wave. There''s no way something like that isn''t part of a bigger plan."Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Jordan rubs their chin, their eyes narrowing in thought. "Okay. So we''ve got a new drug--or enhancement, or whatever--that''s not Jump, but it''s showing up on the same streets. And the cops aren''t charging you, but they''re definitely keeping an eye on us. Anything else?"
"Yeah," I say, holding up my phone. "This. My parents made me promise to keep my location tracker on, and they''re watching it like hawks. No patrols for me anytime soon, or so they say."
"Lucky," Maggie mutters through the phone. "At least you got to leave the house."
"Barely," I shoot back. "You''re not missing much."
Jordan claps their hands together, breaking the tension. "Alright, so here''s the deal. First of all, Derek''s still out of commission for our purposes. Daytime''s a no-go because of the vigilante laws, and nighttime''s a no-go because werewolf. Not factoring him into our plans. while you were off playing cop last night, I was getting things in order. First of all, I''m transferring the lease on this place to you."
"What?" I blink, completely caught off guard. "Why?"
"Because I''m leaving in a couple of months," Jordan says simply. "I''m going to MIT, remember? And someone''s gotta take care of the music hall."
"But... you can''t just hand it over to me," I say, floundering. "I don''t know anything about managing a building."
"Relax," they say, waving a hand. "It''s not like I''ve been running a real business here. Just keep the lights on and don''t let it fall apart. The guy who owns the property will talk to you about it in like July. You''ll be fine."
I don''t have time to argue, because Maggie''s voice cuts in from the phone. "Wait, back up. MIT? Like, the UK?"
"No, the one in Nevada," Jordan says dryly. "Loser."
"Rude," Maggie mutters.
"Focus," I say, holding up a hand. "We''re not done talking about this. What''s the plan?"
Jordan''s grin turns sharp, and for the first time since I walked in, I feel a flicker of unease. "Funny you should ask," they say, pulling out a folded piece of paper from their jacket.
The music hall feels a little too quiet as Jordan unfolds the piece of paper they''ve been holding like it''s a map to buried treasure. Maggie''s still chirping through the phone on speaker, but even she quiets down as Jordan lays the paper on the ping-pong table. I step closer, my curiosity overpowering my lingering annoyance at how smug they''ve been acting.
"This," Jordan says, tapping the paper, "is our next move."
I glance at the paper. It''s a map of Philadelphia, one of those touristy ones with little drawings of landmarks. Jordan''s scribbled all over it with a black Sharpie--circles, arrows, and what I''m pretty sure is a crude doodle of a smoke cloud with an angry face.
"What are we looking at?" I ask, trying to make sense of it.
"A private marina in Pennsport," Jordan says, pointing to one of the circles. "It''s one of several spots where Jump is being funneled into the city. According to our source, next weekend, there''s going to be a major delivery. Like, a huge one. Think sweepstakes-level."
"Source?" Amelia cuts in, her arms crossed tightly. "What source?"
Jordan''s grin falters for a split second. "Soot."
The room goes dead quiet. Even Maggie, who''s still stuck at home, doesn''t say anything. I can feel the tension spike like someone just plugged the air into an electric socket.
"You''ve got to be kidding me," Amelia says finally, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You''re taking intel from Soot? The same Soot who--"
"Who has been more effective at gathering intel on this drug war than we have?" Jordan interrupts, their tone calm but firm. "Yeah. That Soot."
Amelia looks like she''s about to explode, but Jordan doesn''t give her the chance. "Before you start," they say quickly, "let me explain. Last night, while you and Lily were... hanging back--"
"Assuming you were fighting," Lily mutters.
"--I was talking to Soot. And, yes, they''re rough around the edges, but they''re not wrong about this. They showed me videos. Multiple dealers, multiple interrogations, all saying the same thing. Pennsport''s marina is going to be packed next weekend. Jump''s coming in like it''s Black Friday, and every dealer in the city is invited."
Amelia''s jaw tightens. "And how, exactly, did Soot get this information?"
Jordan hesitates, which is not a great sign. "Let''s just say... Soot has their methods."
"That''s not an answer," Amelia snaps.
"It''s not relevant," Jordan says sharply, their calm cracking for just a moment. "Look, I get it. Soot''s not exactly a paragon of virtue. But we''re not in a position to be picky about where our intel comes from. They''re right about this. I''m sure of it."
"How can you be sure?" I ask, though my voice is less accusatory and more curious. Jordan''s usually more careful about this kind of thing.
"They showed me the videos," Jordan says simply. "Different people, different times, all saying the same thing. Either Soot somehow managed to stage an elaborate conspiracy just to mess with us, or this is real. And I don''t think they''d go to that much trouble."
I glance at Amelia, whose expression has shifted from anger to something more cautious. She still doesn''t look convinced, but she''s not arguing anymore.
"Okay," I say, stepping in before things can derail again. "Let''s assume Soot''s right. What''s the plan?"
Jordan''s grin returns, but it''s not the smug one from earlier. This one''s sharper, more determined. "We''re going to the marina," they say. "While the cops are busy rounding up street-level guys, we''re going to slip in, stay out of sight, and see what we can find. Best-case scenario, we get some solid intel on who''s behind this whole operation, we finally get some fucking info on Rogue Wave. Worst-case scenario, we disrupt their plans enough to make a dent, maybe sink someone''s boat or two. Because fuck yachters."
"And by ''stay out of sight,'' you mean what, exactly?" Lily asks, tilting her head. "Because we''re not exactly subtle."
Jordan shrugs. "That''s what this week is for. We''ve got time to prep, fix up our costumes, work out the logistics. If we do this right, nobody even knows we were there."
"And if we do it wrong?" Amelia asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Then we improvise," Jordan says, like it''s the easiest thing in the world.
Maggie''s voice cuts through the tension. "I can''t believe I''m missing this."
"You''re grounded," I remind her.
"You''re grounded too!" she yells.
"Yes, but I''m better at lying to my parents," I say, only feeling a twinge of guilt. "Besides. A week is enough time for them to forgive me, I think."
"Stupid Irish Catholics," Maggie mumbles.
"What about the cops?" I ask, focusing back on Jordan. "They''re going to be all over this. If we get caught..."
"We won''t," Jordan says firmly. "We''re not sticking around for the takedown. Our goal is information. Get in, get what we need, and get out before anyone even knows we were there."
Amelia still looks skeptical, but she doesn''t argue. Lily, meanwhile, looks almost excited, like she''s ready to jump into action right now. She''s practically vibrating.
"Alright," I say finally, my mind already racing with possibilities.
I do feel bad, part of me, for what I''m about to do. For worrying my parents like this. I feel like I''m letting them down. Lying to them. I feel guilt. I feel shame and upset. But I think about letting these guys get away with ruining this city and that makes me feel even worse.
I don''t think I could live with myself if I don''t do this. If Jordan goes on their own and something happens, or even just the team needs me and I''m not there. If I could fix something and I''m not there. If I could save a life. I want to stay in, accept my grounding, and not engage in all this slinking around... but I can''t not do anything.
I mean it. I can''t. I mean... I... can''t. I should stop myself, but I can''t. Even if I wanted to.
"Let''s do it," I breathe out, not realizing I was holding my breath.
"On three, kids; "Fuck Rogue Wave", ready?" Jordan starts, sticking a hand over the coffee table.
Chapter 156.1
The marina''s packed. Not just busy, but shoulder-to-shoulder, people-moving-in-herds packed. The whole place smells like saltwater, gasoline, and burnt weed, and there''s enough noise that my ears keep trying to tune out the wrong sounds--like the way some of the boats creak when they move in the current or the distant hum of a container ship''s horn.
This isn''t what I expected. I was bracing for something grimy, tense, maybe a little desperate--like one of those handshake deals in a back alley where nobody makes eye contact. But this? It''s got all the charm of a pop-up street market. Card tables and folding chairs are scattered across the dock, each station marked by a little handwritten sign in Sharpie.
FREE JUMP DISTRIBUTION
BECOME A VENDOR--SEE US FOR DETAILS
SAMPLES AVAILABLE--ASK NICELY
Rogue Wave''s guys are playing the part, too. They''re handing out boxes like they''re running a food drive, chatting up dealers like old friends, making sure nobody''s feeling rushed or stressed. I watch a guy in a puffer vest and sunglasses pass a pre-rolled joint to one of the handlers while they both chuckle over something I can''t hear. The whole thing is weirdly... organized. Polished.
It''s a business conference for drug dealers.
And I''m standing right in the middle of it.
I pull my hoodie down a little further and adjust my mask. It''s just a black fabric thing, cheap and nondescript. It makes me blend in about as well as I can, which isn''t much, considering I still look like a teenage girl walking solo through a marina full of grown men making felony deals. But nobody''s paying me much attention. There''s too much going on, too many other faces, and the general rule of places like this seems to be: if you don''t act like a problem, nobody makes you a problem.
In my ear, I catch a bit of static before Tasha''s voice kicks in. "Alright, I''m logged in. PPD chatter''s running normal so far, no mobilization. Looks like we still have time."
"Copy," I mutter under my breath.
Tasha''s back at the music hall, sitting in front of a secondhand police scanner and a laptop with five tabs open. She''s our early-warning system. If the cops decide to roll in before we''re ready, she''ll be the first to know.
Amelia''s hanging way back, somewhere near the entrance to the marina, parked by a stack of cargo crates like she''s waiting for someone to pick her up. She''s got a first-aid kit slung over one shoulder and a taser clipped to her belt. If something goes sideways, she''s our emergency exit.
Jordan and Lily are... busy. Their plan is secret, even from me, which makes me nervous as hell, but they swore up and down that it was foolproof, so fine. They better not get caught doing something stupid.
Which just leaves me. Unmasked. Alone. Posing as a dealer.
I keep moving, slow and casual, scanning faces as I go. Most of these people are nobodies. Street dealers, runners, middlemen. People trying to make a living, whether that means moving Jump or just staying in the game long enough to buy their way out. I don''t have the luxury of seeing them all as villains. I know better than that.
Still, some of them are dangerous. Some of them don''t see a difference between "getting by" and "burning everything down." And some of them, if they realized who I was, would have me in a chokehold before I could even think about fighting back.
So, you know. No pressure.
I pause by one of the tables and pretend to read the sign, mostly so I can keep listening. The guy behind it--some scruffy dude in an old Phillies hoodie--is chatting up a dealer who looks about my age, maybe a little older. She''s got a sleek black jacket, a Bluetooth earpiece, and that kind of tired, skeptical look that says she''s been in this game long enough to know when someone''s feeding her a line.
I don''t catch the first part of their conversation, but I do catch her response:
"--not stupid, dude. No such thing as free. What''s the catch?"
Phillies Hoodie laughs like she just asked him if water''s wet. "No catch. You take a box, you sell it, you keep the cash. If you like the business, you come back and sign up for regular shipments. You work on your own terms. That''s it."
She folds her arms. "And if I decide I don''t like the business?"Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
He shrugs. "Then you walk away. No hard feelings."
She doesn''t believe him. I don''t believe him either.
But she takes the box.
I start moving again before Phillies Hoodie decides to notice me standing around. I follow the dealer as she steps away, watching the way she tucks the box under her arm like she''s not sure if it''s about to bite her.
I don''t mean to talk to her. I really don''t. But before I can talk myself out of it, my mouth opens.
"That your first time?"
She glances up at me, startled, like she didn''t realize I was there. Then her eyes narrow. "What?"
"With Jump," I say, nodding at the box. "First time selling?"
She stares at me, weighing whether I''m a cop or just annoying. Finally, she exhales sharply. "First time selling this, yeah."
I nod like I knew that already, even though I didn''t. "It''s weird, right?"
She makes a face. "Weird how?"
I gesture vaguely at the whole scene. "All this. The setup. The ''free'' product. The little cardboard signs. It''s like, I dunno... a PTA fundraiser. But for super-drugs."
She snorts. "Yeah. You''re not wrong." She shifts her grip on the box, frowning down at it. "Honestly, I don''t even know if I wanna sell this shit. I just needed to see for myself."
"See what?"
"If it''s legit."
I tilt my head. "And?"
She exhales through her nose. "Looks legit. Which is worse, honestly. Means they''re serious. And when people get serious, people get hurt."
I don''t have an answer for that.
So I don''t try to give one. Instead, I just nod, let the silence sit for a second, and keep moving.
There''s too much to take in all at once, but I try. I weave through the crowd, head down, ears open, watching the way things run.
It''s methodical. That''s what makes it so weird.
People aren''t pushing, aren''t rushing to grab what they can. They''re waiting in loose, uneven lines, some making conversation, some quiet. The guys running the tables--goons, low-level but competent--are keeping things moving smoothly. There''s a system to it, even if it looks casual. A box gets handed off, a nod gets exchanged, and then the next person steps up. Like clockwork.
No shouting. No scrambling. No paranoia.
At least... not from the ones in charge.
I notice the outliers after a few minutes. The people hanging too far back, looking around too much, hands in pockets. Some of them are just nervous, unsure about all this. Others are watching like I''m watching--scoping things out, looking for angles. Could be cops. Could be other players seeing if this is worth muscling in on. Could just be people like me, looking for answers.
I slow down by another table, pretending to check my phone while I listen in. The guy manning it is maybe twenty, Hispanic, buzzed hair, wiry. He''s not handing out boxes--he''s standing just behind the action, leaning against a crate, scanning the crowd with the sharp, wary energy of someone who''s seen deals go south before.
I don''t know why I talk to him. Maybe because he looks like he knows what''s really going on here. Maybe because I need to talk to someone who isn''t part of my team, just to ground myself.
Or maybe because he looks about as skeptical as I feel.
"You buyin'' or sellin''?" he asks before I can even open my mouth. His voice is low, not unfriendly, just cautious.
"Neither," I say. "Just looking."
He snorts. "Everybody''s here for something."
I shrug. "Guess I haven''t figured out what yet."
He eyes me, like he''s trying to decide if I''m wasting his time or worth humoring. Then he tilts his head toward the distribution tables. "You ever seen anything like this before?"
I shake my head.
"Yeah," he mutters. "Me neither."
There''s a pause. We both watch a dealer in a gray hoodie walk off with a box, tucking it under his arm like it''s a carton of off-brand cigarettes. The guy next to me exhales sharply through his nose.
"They want us to think it''s easy," he says, mostly to himself. "That''s how they get you."
I glance at him. "You don''t buy the sales pitch?"
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "You kidding? It''s too smooth. Too friendly. That''s not how this works."
He shifts his weight, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles like a nervous tic. "I''ve been doing this since I was fifteen," he mutters. "Never seen an operation run this clean. Means one of two things: either they''re just that good, or they''re setting up something worse."
"Or both," I say.
His mouth quirks in something that''s not quite a smile. "Yeah. Or both."
Another pause.
I chew the inside of my cheek, then ask, "You ever deal Jump before?"
His face darkens, just a little. "Not really. Sold other shit, back when I needed to. But Jump? Nah. That''s a whole different thing." He nods toward the boxes.
I let that sit for a second. Then, I ask the question I probably shouldn''t.
"Why are you here, then?"
He hesitates. It''s the first time he looks at me fully, his eyes sharp, scanning like he''s trying to figure out exactly what my deal is.
Then he shrugs. "Same reason as you, I guess."
I raise an eyebrow. "And what''s that?"
He exhales through his nose again, glancing back toward the tables. "Trying to figure out if I''m better off walking away."
And for a second, I wonder--if I had been a different kind of kid, if I had made different choices, if I hadn''t been forced into this whole superhero thing--would I be standing where he is? Would I be looking at this setup, weighing the odds, trying to figure out if I could make this work for me?
It''s not a comfortable thought.
"Anyway," he says, pushing off the crate. "If you''re looking to get in, pick a table. If you''re looking to get out, you better do it before shit gets weird."
I glance at him. "You expecting it to?"
He gives me a flat look. "It''s drugs."
I nod, more to myself than to him, and pull my mask down for half a second to rub at my nose. The air''s thick with smoke--cigarettes, weed, whatever else people are burning--and it''s making my sinuses feel like they''ve been lined with sandpaper.
I barely get the fabric back up before I hear--
"Wait--"
I glance up.
The guy''s staring at me now, eyes narrowed, head tilted just slightly like he''s trying to line up a picture in his head. His nose twitches. His face scrunches
"...Ain''t you that girl who got stomped by a superhero at prom?"
I freeze.
Chapter 156.2
It''s like my brain trips over itself and forgets how to function for a full second. Every instinct is screaming at me to react--deny, deflect, bolt--but I shove it down, force my jaw to unlock, and say, "Homecoming."
The guy blinks. "Huh?"
"It was homecoming," I say, keeping my voice even. "Not prom."
He stares at me for a beat, then snorts. "Yeah, my bad. Thought I remembered a tiara or something."
"Not really my style." I tug at my hoodie, making a show of brushing off the topic like it doesn''t matter. Like it''s not a neon sign over my head screaming Recognized, Recognized, Recognized. "Anyway--yeah. That was me. Why do you care?"
The guy doesn''t answer right away. He shifts his weight, giving me another once-over, but it''s not the kind of stare I''m used to. It''s not suspicion. It''s something closer to... confusion?
"You''re in high school," he finally says. "And like from a nice high school, too. What the hell are you doing here?"
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. "Man, what the hell do you think I''m doing here?" I gesture vaguely at the makeshift drug expo around us. "Same as everyone else. Looking to take some control back."
His mouth quirks, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "Control, huh?"
"Yeah," I say, leaning against the crate again, mirroring his earlier stance. "I mean, you saw it, right? The video? The whole city did. Some dude named Patriot--fucking Patriot--decided I needed my ass kicked in front of everybody I know, and guess what? No consequences for him. Not even a slap on the wrist." I tilt my head. "Tell me that doesn''t sound familiar."
He doesn''t reply, but something shifts in his expression.
I press on. "I''m guessing you didn''t have a great time in school either. Let me take a wild guess--some jackass in a uniform decided you needed to be taught a lesson. Maybe you fought back, maybe you didn''t, but either way, it didn''t matter, ''cause they had all the power and you had jack shit. And when people with power decide to put you down, you either take it or you do something about it."
I keep my tone casual, like I''m just talking, just throwing ideas out there. But I can feel the words settling between us, taking shape.
He exhales, slow and measured. "So that''s what this is? Your big revenge plan? Gonna do something stupid in school?"
I shrug. "No, nothing stupid. Just having some pocket insurance in case someone tries to fuck with me again. Isn''t that what we''re here for?"
He doesn''t answer right away. He just studies me, like he''s trying to make up his mind about something. The din of the marina hums around us--laughing, shouting, the occasional hiss of a lighter sparking up--but for a second, it feels like we''re just two people at the edge of it all, weighing our options.
Finally, he nods. Just a little.
"Yeah," he says. "I get that."
I don''t know if I''m relieved that I sold the lie, or freaked out that it might not be a lie at all.
I tilt my head at him. "Alright, fair''s fair. You called me out, now I get to ask--what are you here for?"
He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. "I''m here to get Jump to sell."
"Obviously," I deadpan. "But you don''t exactly seem thrilled about it."
He snorts. "Because I ain''t thrilled about it." He gestures loosely toward the crowd. "Most of these guys? They''re here to pump their veins full and play superhero for three hours. Maybe get some heat off their backs, maybe start some heat just for fun. I''m here because I got mouths to feed. They''re here because they got greed to feed."
I pause at that. I give him another once-over, trying to gauge if that''s just a line or if there''s actual weight behind it. He doesn''t look like some overworked single dad--hell, he barely looks old enough to drink.
I gesture at his barely-there wispy mustache. "Mouths to feed? You look like you''re not even older than me."Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
That gets a real laugh out of him--short, rough, but real. He rubs at his upper lip like he''s suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. This shit ain''t exactly coming in thick yet." He shakes his head, still grinning. "Bad decisions in high school."
I raise an eyebrow. "Different kind of bad decision than me, I''m guessing."
"Yeah. Not the fun kind either." He exhales through his nose. "It is what it is."
I lean back against the crate, arms crossed. "So what''s the profit margin on this stuff, anyway?"
He gives me a wary look. "Why? You trying to get in on it?"
"Just curious," I say. "I hear about Jump everywhere, but nobody ever talks about the business side of it."
He shrugs. "Not a lot to say. Standard Jump runs thirty bucks a pill."
"Thirty bucks?" I echo. "For one?"
"Yep. Three hours, instant badass." He gestures vaguely. "That''s ten dollars an hour. Worth it for you?"
I purse my lips, thinking about it.
"Dunno," I admit. "What''s the return policy?"
That gets another laugh out of him, though this one''s quieter. "No refunds."
"Figures." I exhale, watching the flow of people around us. The tables are busier now, the crates a little emptier. Whatever this really is, the business part of it is moving along just fine.
The whole scene has a weird energy to it--like a block party hosted by people who are a little too friendly, a little too eager to make everyone feel comfortable. It''s not tense, exactly. More like... staged. Artificial.
Rogue Wave''s people are good at this, whatever this is.The goons running the tables are chatty, relaxed, like they''re handing out pamphlets instead of controlled substances. Some of them even have matching windbreakers, which feels so absurdly corporate that I almost want to laugh.
This isn''t some back-alley drug deal. This is a well-run operation. They''re having fun. Why are they having fun?
Tasha''s voice crackles in my earpiece, quiet and crisp. "No chatter on the scanner. If the cops are planning anything, they''re keeping it off the books."
I can''t respond--not without drawing attention--but I tuck that info away. Either the PPD is waiting for something, or they''re staying the hell away from this. Neither answer makes me feel any better.
"Status check on Jordan?" Tasha asks.
A beat. Then Jordan''s voice, smooth and casual. "I''m in place."
I resist the urge to sigh. I don''t really have any faith in their extremely silly plan but I''ve been shocked by stranger things before.
The crowd has thickened, a slow-moving current of dealers, users, and opportunists. I can''t tell who''s here to buy, who''s here to sell, and who''s just looking for trouble. The guy I was talking to earlier has already slipped away, probably toward one of the tables.
Then, right as I''m scanning the faces around me, a metallic clang splits the air.
It''s loud, sharp, and deliberate--enough to shut down most of the background noise.
Another clang. Then another.
I turn toward the source just as the crowd starts shifting, people craning their necks, conversations trailing off. Up near the docks, right by the edge of the boats, a man in a hard plastic monkey mask - the kind you get from dollar store Spirit Halloween is banging two metal pans together like a deranged school cafeteria worker.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
And then, in a voice way too clear for someone wearing a mask:
"HEY! HEY! UP HERE! EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR A SECOND!"
The murmuring stops. This man is trained in public speaking. He can project.
Even with the mask on, I can tell this guy is grinning.
He''s tall--probably six foot, maybe a little over. Limber. Thin as a wire. The kind of guy who looks like he''s constantly in motion, even when he''s standing still. He''s wearing a business suit that fits too well to be cheap, but there''s something off about it--like he picked it out just to be obnoxiously formal in a setting where everyone else is dressed like background characters in a crime drama. His suit''s just part of the costume.
Next to him?
The biggest woman I have ever seen. And I work with superheroes for a living. Six-six, easy. Broad shoulders, arms that I couldn''t wrap both hands around even if I tried. Full military kit--actual tactical gear, though I can see the scuffs on it, like she picked it up secondhand. No rifle, no sidearm, but her vest is loaded with pouches. Stuffed with somethings.
Her face looks extremely unamused. She''s wearing a plastic birthday hat. Like one of those cheap party store cone hats, the elastic strap tucked under her chin, the kind you get for small children or for fucking with your friends.
A domino mask covers her eyes, but I can feel the way she''s scanning the crowd. Sizing people up.
Monkey Mask Guy claps his hands together, rubbing them like he''s about to pitch a start-up idea to a bunch of investors.
"Amazing! Beautiful! I love a crowd that listens!" He throws his arms out wide, like he''s embracing all of us at once. "Now, I know what you''re thinking--who is this incredibly well-dressed man with impeccable showmanship, and why does he have a monkey mask on?"
He gestures to himself.
"Friends, my appellation is Monkey Business."
He throws a hand toward the woman next to him.
"This extremely intimidating woman beside me is my associate, Birthday Suit. You may note that despite her name, she is fully clothed and wearing body armor. I assure you, this is for your protection. She will not sleep with you. We don''t mix business and pleasure here, folks."
That gets a few scattered laughs. Nervous ones.
Monkey Business grins--or at least, I think he does. The mask is rigid plastic, no expression, but something about his whole presence makes it feel like he''s grinning hard. His mask''s mouth line is flat but I can swear I see the glinting of teeth.
"If you are law enforcement or vigilante personnel and you are here to apprehend us," he continues, "know that if you try, it will fail, and then she--" he gestures to Birthday Suit "--will shoot you in the face."
A ripple of unease moves through the crowd.
Monkey Business raises his hands in mock-reassurance. "I highly recommend you hear us out before doing anything rash."
I swallow hard.
Chapter 156.3
Monkey Business clasps his hands together and takes a slow, measured step forward, like he''s about to present a college lecture on the finer points of international crime. The suit moves with him, sharp creases and clean lines, making him look polished in a way that''s wrong for a guy in a plastic Halloween mask. This guy should be speaking in a boardroom meeting, not... here.
"If you are here for the free Jump," he announces, his voice crisp, professional, cheerful, "our associates on the left side of the marina are distributing as we speak. One box per person. Please, do not attempt to double dip, as that will result in immediate and deeply unpleasant consequences. The consequences are that we will immediately and unpleasantly shoot you in the face."
The way he says it--flat, simple, matter-of-fact--makes my stomach twist. A couple of scattered laughs, some of them nervous, some of them genuine, breach through the surface of the crowd like bubbles in boiling water.
He gestures grandly. "Now, if you would like to become a distributor, you will need to sign a contract." He pauses, lets the word sit in the air for a moment. "Before you get nervous--this is a very fair contract. Legally binding, yes. Psychologically and physiologically binding, also yes. But fair. I am going to be very clear and tell you that I am not using figurative language. The contract is psychologically and physiologically binding. That means it can affect your thoughts and actions. I cannot emphasize enough that this is not a joke, and you need to understand this before you sign, or it won''t work."
Some murmuring in the crowd. Someone laughs, like it''s a joke, but Monkey Business keeps going, ignoring the laugher.
"To save everyone time," he continues, "I will verbally go over the terms of the contract before you step up to sign. The paper will simply say that you agree to the verbal contract as expressed, as well as re-outlining the terms. This will qualify for activation of my powers, should you understand and agree to the terms." He presses a hand to his chest like he''s a game show host about to reveal the grand prize. "Because we care about transparency, and because it won''t work otherwise. We play fair here. My powers will not operate under individuals who are under duress or are doing the fingers crossed behind your back thing."
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to glance around. Nobody''s leaving. Nobody''s walking away. The smart move--the obvious move--would be to turn around, blend into the crowd, and put as much distance between myself and this freak as humanly possible.
Monkey Business tilts his head slightly, just enough for the rigid monkey mask to catch the dim marina lights, almost glittering with late April humidity. "Upon signing, your right eye will desync from your left for approximately five seconds. This is a minor but inimitable means of physiological control that acts as our indicator that you understand the terms of the contract. No lazy eye, no deal."
The murmuring in the crowd gets louder. More than a few people shift on their feet, uncomfortable now. Not nervous enough to leave--just uneasy. I''d be uneasy too if I felt like I was literally about to make a deal with the devil.
Who is this guy?
Monkey Business spreads his arms. "Here are the terms you will be agreeing to."
He raises a single gloved finger.
"One: You will provide your full legal name when signing this contract. No aliases, no cute nicknames. Our delivery guy needs your name to find you. If you do not give us your name, we will not be able to find you later. Don''t worry, we don''t comply with subpoenas or court orders."
A second finger joins the first.
"Two: You will receive at least two shipments of product from us per month. You are free to sell it or distribute it however you see fit. This includes giving it away. However, you will only be able to retain one out of every ten pills for personal use. The other nine per ten will have to go to someone else, somehow."
Third finger.
"Three: You will report all income from sales truthfully and fairly to us and pay a twenty-five percent cut of your net profits after shipment received. Net profits means all the money over and beyond what you spent for a sale. If you spend ten bucks on gas money to get to a crack house and sell 10 pills for two hundred and fifty dollars, you owe us twenty-five percent of the two hundred and forty dollar profit. We will bring calculators."
Someone in the crowd whistles. I have no idea if it''s admiration or alarm.
Monkey Business ignores it.
"Four: You will not disclose where or how you obtained your shipments, nor any operational details about the organization known as Rogue Wave."
Five fingers now, his hand wide and open.
"Five: If anyone questions you about Rogue Wave more than once, you will immediately attack them through whatever means possible until they are unconscious or out of your range of sight and hearing."
A ripple goes through the crowd--that one landed. Someone actually steps back.
And now I know. This is the guy.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
This is the guy.
Monkey Business does not stop. He raises the thumb on his other hand.
"Six: You will follow the orders of any agents of the mother cell of Rogue Wave as necessary. Birthday Suit and I are both designated agents of the mother cell of Rogue Wave. If you are a distributor, you may meet more. Only agents of the mother cell possess authority to add new individuals to your mental model of who is and isn''t an agent. No cop will be able to trick you in this way."
Then, just like that, he drops his hands to his sides.
"That is all."
The silence that follows is thick and ugly. It sits in my ears, presses against my skull.
Monkey Business waits, patient, almost relaxed. He wants the discomfort. He''s letting it breathe.
Then--without looking--he gestures to Birthday Suit.
She shifts, raises her chin slightly, and in a voice that carries over the stillness, she says:
"Si necesita un traductor, por favor, ac¨¦rquese despu¨¦s de que termine el discurso."
Then again, in Mandarin. Then in something that sounds like Russian. Then Arabic? I vaguely recognized that one. Something else? Another barked sentence, and another.
People are watching now. This isn''t some half-baked gang operation. This isn''t a bunch of street pushers trying to offload their supply. People start moving preemptively, lining up.
Monkey Business claps his hands together one more time. "Alright, now that we''ve established the ground rules, let''s get moving, shall we?"
And somewhere, in the back of the crowd, a nervous-looking guy with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder steps forward. I feel my heart drop as more than half the crowd goes to the right side - to become a distributor. I look to my left, to try and find the guy I was just talking to, but when I can''t see him, I do another scan of the crowd to see him already halfway down the line. Only a small handful of people are hanging back.
It''s quick. Efficient. People who didn''t understand the speech are talking with a handful of Rogue Wave guys by the boats, and I can clip out the scattered foreign words.
"One last thing! You can keep moving, just keep your ears open and listen, alright?" Monkey Business shouts above the din.
Monkey Business pivots smoothly, his energy still bright, still playful, but the edge of something sharp glints underneath now. He scans the crowd, like he''s picking out familiar faces in an audience, like he already knows the people here who shouldn''t be. And maybe he does.
"Now," he says, voice honey-smooth, "I''d like to take a moment to address some very special guests in our audience tonight."
Something shifts in the air. The wind starts blowing the Delaware''s funk towards us like an aura.
"This is, of course, a public event. We welcome all walks of life here. And some of you, I imagine, walked into this gathering with the best of intentions. Maybe you''re just curious. Maybe you were looking for an opportunity." He spreads his arms, inviting, benevolent. "Maybe you''re a journalist. Or an activist. Or a concerned citizen looking for answers. I love that. I encourage that. You can even walk out of here with some free Jump. Lucky you!"
His hands come together again, a slow, deliberate clap. "And maybe you''re a law enforcement officer who thought you were clever."
The silence sharpens. Monkey Business tilts his head. "I see you," he says, the words almost affectionate, like he''s speaking to a child. "I see all of you."
I swallow. People shift uneasily. Some in the crowd are nodding, like yeah, yeah, we knew some narcs were here, but others--others look like they just realized they are the narcs. Or at least, standing way too close to one.
Monkey Business keeps going, cheerful and insolent. "Now, I''m not a cruel man," he says, pacing slowly across the dock. "I understand hesitation. I understand second thoughts. Maybe you got here and realized this isn''t your scene. Maybe you''re starting to wonder if this is a bad idea. You''re about to get involved with the latest problem destroying society, after all."
His voice drops just slightly in pitch, but not in volume. This is a man who knows how to play a room. "If that''s you, then I highly encourage you to leave now. I''m so extremely serious I cannot express it to you enough. Nobody will bug you. You are under my protection. Birthday Suit and our guys will keep watch and you can make it past the obvious police cordon surrounding the area. I''m serious! Go! Leave!"
A few people shift like they''re considering it. Nobody moves.
Monkey Business claps his hands. "Because if you think you can wiggle out of this contract after you sign it--if you think you can just play along and figure out a loophole later--you are wrong." His mask scrunches up a bit with a plasticine crunch - is he grimacing? Or just smiling? "If you sign it, you are bound by it. I do not write loopholeable contracts. You just became the newest, most valuable mole in the Philadelphia Police Department, and I will own you, and if I ask you to shoot your friends on the force in the face you will do it because I asked. I don''t mean in a you will do it because we''re friends way, I mean your body will stop acting according to your own instructions and start acting because of mine. And I do not have compunctions about death."
A beat of silence. Then, Monkey Business raises his arms again.
"And, finally--while we''re here--"
His tone stays light, like bubblegum. But something in my stomach drops before the words even hit.
"If you are already a distributor," he says, "until you leave this area or an hour has passed, please find and restrain the nearest police officer or vigilante within this gathering through whatever means available to you. Collaboration is acceptable. That''s all for real, go have fun! It''s a beautiful night!"
The marina goes deathly still. There''s not even any music from anyone''s speakers. Just the wind and the sound of boats rocking back and forth in the Delaware.
And then--slowly, methodically--about a quarter of the crowd goes ramrod stiff. The same look in their face as the one random Jumpheads get when I ask them too much about Rogue Wave, and they go zombie mode. I feel my breath catch in my throat. I try to headcount. At least twenty people, before I lose track of who''s who in all the milling about. The line continues to shuffle forward, but there''s more of a nervous, ha ha what the fuck? energy to it.
They aren''t attacking. Not yet. They''re just standing there. Silent. Searching. Scanning the faces around them with cold, detached efficiency.
I barely have time to process what I''m seeing before someone in the right-side line, the growing line full of newly minted distributors, moves out of the way. Like he''s trying to casually slip out of the queue. Like he just realized--too late--what this actually is.
And I see him, really see him for the first time.
A guy in his forties. Cheap baseball cap. Nondescript windbreaker. Looks stunningly out of place in a crowd of twenty-something hustlers and street kids. You can even see the walkie stuffed under the edge of his pants. He''s wearing a belt. What drug dealer do you know wears a belt?
Plainclothes.
I barely get a breath in before two guys--two completely normal looking guys, guys I wouldn''t have picked out of the crowd five minutes ago--turn toward him in perfect, synchronized motion.
And they start walking. Not rushing. Not charging - Just approaching.
Like a decision has already been made.
Chapter 157.1
I see it happen before it happens.
The plainclothes cop--mid-forties, windbreaker, belt--takes half a step back, eyes wide, body tensing. A nervous tic, maybe. Or maybe just that deep, primal instinct people have when they realize they''re about to get swallowed whole.
And then the sleepers move.
It''s subtle at first--just the smallest shift in posture, the quick, synchronized flicker of twenty pairs of eyes locking onto him. But it''s enough. Enough to set off that awful, too-familiar lurch in my gut. Enough to make my hands itch for a fight before the first fist is even thrown.
The first one to move is a woman in an oversized hoodie, her face blank, eerily serene. Her fingers twitch, flex, curl into fists. And then she lunges.
The cop barely gets a yelp out before she''s on him, swinging wild. He stumbles back, trying to bring his hands up, but then the next one moves--a guy in a leather jacket, then another in a windbreaker, and then it''s a pile-on, limbs and bodies colliding in a mass of sudden, chaotic violence.
I don''t think. I don''t hesitate. I move.
My shoulder slams into the first goon hard enough to send him stumbling sideways. I get my hands between the next one and the cop, knocking an elbow away before it can land. My blood sense flares hot and sharp--someone''s lip splitting, someone''s knuckles scraping raw--but I can''t afford to focus on that right now.
I throw myself into the mess, twisting, blocking, redirecting, moving. A fist grazes my ribs, but I barely register it before I''m pivoting, planting a heel against someone''s shin hard enough to knock them off balance.
Then someone else moves.
Not a sleeper, not a cop, not a dealer--someone cutting through the crowd like a knife, their presence shifting the air itself. I feel it before I see him, that instant, awful lurch in the atmosphere, that split-second charge before the moment crashes down like a hammer.
Someone in the crowd spots him before I do.
"Oh, fuck, it''s Patriot!"
The effect is immediate. The tension in the air snaps like a rubber band. Every dealer, every runner, every nervous kid with a box of Jump under their arm suddenly seems to remember somewhere else they need to be.
And then the stampede starts.
The crowd surges in every direction at once, pushing, shoving, desperate to get out, to get away, to disappear into the night before the hammer drops. Someone shoulder-checks me in their scramble to escape, nearly knocking me off my feet. I catch myself against the edge of a crate and whirl, searching--
There.
Patriot moves through the chaos like a tank, utterly unbothered by the panic around him. He''s got the whole aesthetic going--patriotic blues and whites, a star on his shoulder, the kind of crisp, perfect costume that screams government funding.
His eyes sweep the crowd like he''s searching for something, someone.
And then--
"SHIFTING TO GEAR TWO!"
The voice comes out of nowhere, high and sharp and way too enthusiastic for the situation. A blur of red and blue explodes into the crowd like a missile, sending bodies sprawling.
What the hell--
And then I see her.
A girl--tan, brunette, athletic, decked out in a full-body leotard with hot rod flames running up the legs and a red jacket flaring behind her like a cape. She moves fast, way faster than she should be able to, zipping between people like a pinball, grabbing, twisting, moving.
She''s zip-tying people.
Randomly.
There''s no strategy to it, no method--just pure, chaotic, indiscriminate force. Someone flinches, she takes them down. Someone tries to run, she''s on them in a blink, flipping them onto their stomach and binding their wrists before they can even process what''s happening.
Someone throws a punch at her. She catches it, grins, and slams them into the pavement so hard they bounce.
Okay.
Alright.
This is happening.
I move.
A guy in a hoodie stumbles, nearly tripping over a toppled crate. I catch his shoulder, yank him back before he can get trampled.
Then someone else gets knocked down, and my blood sense flares.
I whip around--blood, fresh and sharp, oozing from a split lip, a busted nose, someone groaning through gritted teeth. It''s not a bad injury, but it''s enough. Enough to tell me that this is already spiraling. That people are getting hurt.
Patriot is moving through the chaos like an inevitability, unbothered, unflinching. People scramble out of his way without him even having to touch them. He''s got that kind of presence, the kind that makes people want to comply.
The girl--whoever she is--is not unbothered. She''s thrilled.
She grins, tosses someone into the dirt, and yells, "RESISTANCE IS FUTILE! YOU CAN''T OUTRUN TURBO JETT!"
Who the hell is this?Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
I don''t have time to figure it out.
Another movement--one of Monkey Business''s goons, the ones who clocked me helping the cop, turns on me. His eyes flash with something cold, something detached, something that knows.
Vigilante.
I''m a target now.
Fine.
I dodge the first punch, catch the second one on my forearm, twist under his arm and drive my elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him wheeze. He stumbles, tries to recover, but I''ve already moved, sweeping his leg out from under him and sending him crashing to the ground.
Then another one moves--this time with a crowbar, swinging high.
I duck.
The metal whooshes past my head, missing by inches.
I don''t wait for him to swing again.
I lunge, drive my shoulder into his gut, and feel the air whoosh out of his lungs as I force him back, away from the civilians, away from the mess.
And then--
Gunfire.
Not close. Not at me. Just--somewhere. Distant. Maybe a warning shot, maybe someone getting desperate, maybe just a bad call from one of the plainclothes officers trying to establish control.
Whatever the case, it immediately makes things worse.
The stampede surges again, people shoving, scrambling. Someone crashes into me from behind, knocking me forward. I catch myself against a crate, but it''s too late--
The dealers are turning.
And they do not like being told what to do.
A guy in a bomber jacket shouts something--angry, defiant, furious. Another one echoes him. A third picks up the crowbar my guy just dropped.
The undercover cops--there''s more than one, I realize, way more--try to pull badges, try to shout orders.
It doesn''t work.
It really doesn''t work.
A slingshot cracks through the night air.
The marble whistles past my ear, slicing through the chaos in a perfect arc--straight for Monkey Business.
And then, just as it''s about to land--
Thunk.
It redirects. Like it wants to hit something else. Like something in the air itself twists its trajectory.
It slams straight into Birthday Suit.
She absorbs it like a stone statue.
Her muscles flex under her tactical vest, but she doesn''t flinch. The marble bounces off her chest, hits the dock, rolls to a stop. She exhales through her nose.
And Blink doesn''t stop.
Another shot, another whistling crack of the slingshot--another thunk. Same result.
"I am literally hitting the guy," Blink snaps through the comms. "Why am I not hitting the guy?!"
She''s out of hiding now--perched on the marina''s scaffolding, barely visible under the sick yellow glow of the lights. She loads another marble, takes another shot. It veers, bends midair, redirects, slamming straight into Birthday Suit''s shoulder.
Birthday Suit rolls her shoulders like she''s shaking off a stiff breeze.
"I don''t like this," Blink growls. "I really, really don''t like this."
I barely have time to register why that''s happening before something else shifts in the air.
A chemical bite. Not blood. Something synthetic, something sharp. It threads through the marina, lacing through the smoke and salt and sweat, distinct enough to snap my attention toward the source--
There.
Of course Soot has to be here. Smoke is pouring from them, but they direct it like a conductor. Not with any sort of obvious telekinetic effect, but something gestural, sending it in ropes, in coils, towards specific people, aiming ten feet ahead of where they''re going to be in ten seconds. A deeper, blacker smoke, the scent of burning wood, pours out from the inside of their hoodie, blanketing them in darkness and rolling along the ground.
I see it happen in real time. A dealer mid-run breathes in, and rolls over, hacking and coughing until they throw up right then and there. Someone else screams about burning, an inarticulate garble of words, and they mash their hands over their eyes, trying to claw something out of them. Soot steps over them, gently kicking dirt in their faces, and then scans the crowd, visibly trying to pick out someone.
Soot isn''t attacking at random.
They''re picking specific people.
I shove a guy off me--one of Monkey Business''s goons, swinging wild and fast--and throw myself back into motion, my blood sense flaring as my boots skid against the dock. The crowd is a mess of fleeing bodies and violent outbursts, of scattered dealers and scattered cops and the few of us still standing in the middle of it all, trying to keep things from getting worse.
And then Turbo Jett yells.
"GEAR THREE!"
I whip around just in time to see her burn.
Not literally. Not yet. But her skin is steaming in the cold night air, waves of heat rolling off her in visible shimmers. Her grin is too big, too manic, eyes wide and wild and loving this.
And then she moves.
The dock shudders under the force of her leap, her whole body blurring with heat and motion as she slams into a group of fleeing dealers like a wrecking ball.
People go flying.
Someone crashes into a wooden crate hard enough to splinter it. Someone else gets caught in a headlock, yoinked into a zip-tie before they even register what''s happening.
"Tasha, we are out of time," I bark into the tiny little mic clipped on the inside of my hoodie. "Where''s our exit?"
Static crackles. Then: "Scanner just went nuts--they''re sending everyone down here. You have minutes, if that."
"We need Jordan," Blink snaps. "We need to get them out of there."
Jordan''s voice cuts in, calm, sharp. "No, you don''t."
"Jordan--"
"I''ll make my own exit," they interrupt. "I need to stay where I am. You need to go. Now."
I don''t like it. I hate it. But I don''t have time to argue.
I pivot, scanning the mess, tracking movements, prioritizing.
Civilians first.
Then us.
I shove some gauze into the hands of a guy on his knees, his hands still shaking, arms riddled with cuts. "Get up," I snap, yanking him to his feet. "Run. Patch yourself up."
"Where?" he chokes.
I grab his collar, yank him forward, shove him in the right direction. "That way. South end. Run till you hit a street."
He stumbles forward, his legs finally catching up with his body.
I spot another--someone doubled over, holding their ribs. I move, lift, push them toward Gossamer''s position. "Go!"
A swing--
I duck.
A fist whooshes past my head.
A second one follows.
I twist, catch the wrist mid-motion, yank the guy forward--he overbalances, stumbles--I kick his shin out from under him and keep moving.
The docks are a war zone.
Cops trying to pull authority they don''t have. Dealers hating them for it. Monkey Business''s goons locking in on targets like programmed machines. Every badge that flashes up causes a new wave of motion rippling through the sleepers.
And Turbo Jett--
Still shouting, still laughing, still escalating.
She''s grinning.
She loves this.
I hate her.
I throw another guy back, scan the crowd, track the movement--find the next one who needs help.
Move.
Move.
My blood sense spikes--someone takes a hit, someone drops. I move, grab, pull, push them toward Gossamer.
"You guys need to get out of there," Tasha hisses. "Like now."
"Still grabbing civvies," I mutter.
"You don''t have time," she snaps. "If you don''t go now, you will get boxed in."
I grit my teeth.
I don''t have a choice.
"Blink--"
"I know!" Blink barks. "I''m trying, but my hands aren''t working right!"
I see her--still perched on the scaffolding, still trying to hit Monkey Business, her aim perfect--but every shot keeps twisting, bending, slamming into Birthday Suit instead.
"I can''t hit him!" she growls. "It''s like he''s got-- I don''t know! My hands won''t work!"
"Because of Birthday Suit," I breathe. "She''s redirecting everything."
"I noticed!" Blink snaps.
I shove one last guy toward the south end. "We''re out of time. Blink, move. Jordan--"
"I told you," Jordan says, voice steady. "Don''t worry about me. Get out."*
I hate this.
But I move.
I break into a sprint, Blink dropping down beside me. "We''re coming back for Jordan," she mutters, her voice low and sharp.
"Obviously," I say. "Now run. I''ll handle Soot before they kill someone."
Chapter 157.2
I don''t have time to think.
Soot is fast. Not faster than me, but they don''t have to be. They fight like someone who''s been here before, who knows what happens next before it even starts. Every step they take is deliberate. Every movement is small, economical. No wasted energy. No wasted smoke.
The gas pours from them like smoke off dry ice, curling along the ground, rising in thin tendrils where they move. Not all of it goes where they want, but enough does. It spreads just ahead of them, cutting through the marina air, hitting dealers like a brick wall. I watch one guy take a breath, stumble, then go down hard, gagging like he''s drowning in something I can''t see.
I launch at Soot, aiming for a single-leg takedown, but they pivot at the last second, twisting their hips just enough to break my angle. Their knee comes up, fast and sharp--I barely block in time, my forearm taking the brunt of it.
It stings. I ignore it.
I don''t stop moving. I pivot right into a jab, testing their guard, then feint low and grab for their wrist--zip ties clutched in my other hand. I can feel the muscle shift under my fingers, but Soot reacts before I can lock the grip, twisting their arm out and wrenching mine into an awkward position.
Then they outgas again. Right at me.
The mask dampens the sound, but I still hear it--sharp and controlled, like a boxer exhaling with a punch. The gas stings before I can stop it. My eyes water, my throat burns. My grip falters for half a second.
Soot takes advantage.
They pull their arm free and go for a sweep, trying to knock my legs out from under me. I see it coming and hop back, breaking contact, clearing space. But I can already feel my lungs clenching up. Whatever they just hit me with, it''s not the same as the other guys. Less brutal, but still enough to make my head spin.
They''re holding back.
I cough, shaking it off, dragging in air that doesn''t hurt as much. Soot stays crouched low, feet planted, waiting. Their hoodie still leaks smoke, tendrils of it curling from their sleeves and the edges of their mask. Even now, their head keeps turning, scanning the chaos like they''re still looking for someone else.
They don''t want this fight.
That makes two of us.
I close the gap again, swinging high, aiming for a distraction more than a hit. Soot leans just out of range, but I catch the movement, use the momentum to drop into a low hook--real this time. My fist cracks into their ribs. I feel the hit sink in.
Soot grunts, stumbles half a step, then recovers. Their hand flicks out, fast as a snake, snapping a jab at my collarbone. It lands, but it''s not clean--more meant to keep me back than to hurt me.
"Stand down," I snap, still on the offensive, pushing into their space again.
"You first, Smalls," they breathe out.
I don''t know what I was expecting.
They exhale sharply and take a step back, dropping low again, shifting weight onto the balls of their feet. Ready to keep going.
One of the zombies--the controlled dealers--slams into us, their body jerking like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. I break away, barely ducking the wild swing aimed at Soot''s head. Soot spins, fluid and fast, twisting under the blow and catching the guy by the wrist. A sharp jerk, a shift of weight, and they send him sprawling face-first into the dock.
I don''t get a chance to react before another one comes at me from the side. A woman, face blank, hands reaching for my throat. I shove her back, but she doesn''t even hesitate--just keeps coming, silent and steady, like she doesn''t even know why she''s doing it.
It''s a mess. Soot and I aren''t the fight anymore--we''re the target.
Another one grabs for my arm, and I yank free, twisting into a hard elbow strike that sends him reeling. But they keep coming. I see Soot move in my peripheral vision, shifting, dodging, sweeping the legs out from another one, stepping over a third who just collapsed, gasping.
Monkey Business really did a number on these guys. I don''t have time to fix it.
A crack of movement from the other side of the marina pulls my focus for a split second--Turbo Jett? No, not yet. Not her. But another burst of energy, another blur of motion--
And then I see him. Patriot.
He''s still on the other side of the chaos, wading through the wreckage of a fight already half-won. He moves like a sledgehammer, methodical and heavy, each step forward a statement. People scatter when they see him, pushing past each other, trying to get out before he notices them.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
His eyes sweep the dock, taking in the damage, the fights still in motion. His jaw tightens.
Then he looks at me.
For a second--just one--everything else blurs.
Recognition.
I see it in the way he stops, in the way his stance shifts. His expression doesn''t change, but something in it goes sharp, focused. He knows who I am. He knows exactly who I am.
I force my breathing steady. My ribs ache. My throat still stings. The zip ties in my hand are digging into my palm.
I don''t move. Neither does he.
Then the moment snaps.
A guy tries to rush him--probably not one of Monkey Business''s, just some idiot thinking he can get a shot in while Patriot''s distracted. Patriot doesn''t even break eye contact with me as he catches the guy mid-swing, twists his arm behind his back, and shoves him to the ground.
Then, just like that, we''re cut apart by the movement of the fight.
I turn back toward Soot. They''re already watching me.
I step forward. They breathe in.
I throw myself at them.
Soot doesn''t hesitate. The moment I step forward, they move to meet me, weight shifting low, shoulders squared. I can''t see their expression through the mask, but I don''t need to. Their posture says everything. They''re not backing down.
I come in fast, leading with a jab to test their guard. They swat it away like they saw it coming a mile off. I feint, ducking low, trying to slip inside their range--but they pivot just as fast, keeping me at a distance. Their hands flick out in short, controlled motions, trying to bait me in while they keep shifting position. It''s frustrating. I need to get my hands on them, pin them down, but they won''t let me.
"You need to stand down," I say, circling with them. My throat still burns from earlier, but I keep my voice steady. "This isn''t gonna go how you want it to."
Soot exhales sharply through the mask, their head tilting just slightly. "You think you know what I want?"
I take my chance. I lunge forward, catching their wrist, twisting hard--but before I can lock my grip, they break free, twisting in the opposite direction. Their knee comes up, aiming for my ribs. I block, barely, but the impact still sends a jolt through my side.
Soot moves fast. I move faster.
They step back, trying to create space, but I close in again, hands grabbing for fabric, anything to get control. They breathe out hard, and I catch a lungful of something sharp and acrid--tear gas, maybe, something close to it. My vision blurs for half a second, my throat clenching, but I push through it. I will not go down like the rest of them.
Soot exhales another cloud between us. It rolls out like a tide, curling around us, thick and cloying. I ignore the sting in my lungs, focusing on their shape through the shifting darkness. They''re still holding back. I can tell. They could be hitting me harder. I don''t know why that pisses me off so much.
"You''re not on my list, lady," they say, their voice a low rasp through the mask. "Get out of here before you get hurt."
I shake off the creeping nausea, forcing my body forward again, my muscles protesting with every movement. "Not happening."
I roll out my shoulders, crack my neck, and get ready to swing.
I barely see the blur of motion before Turbo Jett slams into my side with a perfect spear, knocking the air from my lungs, her skull colliding with me like a cannonball. The hit sends me stumbling, nearly putting me on my knees. My ribs scream in protest. She''s fast--too fast. I recover just in time to see her pivot, lashing out at Soot with a spinning back kick. Soot barely dodges in time, rolling out of the way, vanishing into their own smoke.
Turbo Jett grins. "Oh, c''mon, don''t run now."
I groan, pushing myself up. "You," I hiss.
She turns to me, hands on her hips, beaming like we''re in the middle of a game instead of a three-way brawl. "Me! And you must be, uh..." Her head tilts, like she''s trying to remember. "Some girl. What, you''re a baby! Come on, don''t make me fight a baby."
She doesn''t wait for a response. She moves first.
I throw up my arms in time to block, but the impact sends me skidding back. My heels dig into the dock, and I barely stop myself from crashing into a toppled crate. I shake out the ache spreading through my arms, forcing my body upright again. I don''t know if she''s fractured my radius but it sure feels like it.
Turbo Jett flexes her fingers, still grinning. "You''re funny."
Soot shifts through the smoke, staying low, waiting. Turbo Jett''s got all her attention on me, which means she''s ignoring them entirely.
Soot moves first this time. They duck low, sweeping at Turbo Jett''s legs, trying to catch her off-balance. Turbo Jett barely reacts in time--she jumps back, but not before Soot lands a solid strike to her knee.
It doesn''t stop her. She shakes it off with a laugh, bouncing on her heels.
"Okay, ow," she says. "Now we''re talking."
Soot doesn''t respond, only dripping more smoke out from their exposed fingertips, pink nails shimmering in the light through their fingerless gloves. Pink nails? Okay, do I need to mentally amend my-- you know what, now''s not the time.
Somewhere in the background, I hear the last stragglers of the crowd still running, the fight thinning out as more and more of Monkey Business''s controlled goons go down. I hear Blink''s voice somewhere in my earpiece, shouting something about evacuating civilians. I don''t have time to focus on it. Not with Turbo Jett closing the distance again.
She lunges at Soot this time, a fast, brutal straight punch. Soot twists to the side, dodging, but she adjusts in real time, swinging her knee up and catching them square in the ribs. They stumble, sucking in a breath. I move without thinking, rushing in to intercept before she can follow up.
She whirls on me instead. I barely block the next hit, her fist slamming against my forearm. My bones rattle. I feel something crinkling, and a small, fine white dust drifts out of my hoodie. Huh? Okay, don''t think about that too much. Just go.
Soot is already moving again, ducking out of the way, slipping back into the smoke. Turbo Jett turns, but it''s too late. Soot takes their opening and lets out a final, thick burst of pitch-black soot, denser than anything they''ve put out before.
The docks disappear in an instant.
The smoke swallows everything, thick as tar, clogging the air, killing visibility in every direction. I can see the general shape of everything with my blood sense, but it''s hard to focus on that when I''m trying not to cough my lungs up.
Turbo Jett coughs, waving a hand in front of her face. "Oh, that''s cheap,"
stagger back, wiping my sleeve across my face, lungs burning. No good-- can''t fight like this. Can''t see, can''t breathe. My ''s already screaming the last few hits, and Turbo Jett''s still standing like this is just warm-up. need an out.
Turbo Jett groans, still swatting at the air. "Ugh, whatever. ''m over this." She pulls pair of zip ties her belt, snapping them taut with sharp grin. "C''mon, kid. Let''s wrap this up."
Chapter 157.3
The zip ties click shut around my wrists. Cheap plastic, tight enough to bite into my skin but not enough to cut off circulation. I don''t fight it. No use pretending I can''t break out whenever I want. Better to let Turbo Jett think she''s won.
"Let''s get it over with," I mutter, letting her shove me toward the growing pile of bodies.
Most of them are groaning, some are out cold, a couple are still coughing from whatever Soot hit them with. The air still stinks of burnt chemicals and sweat, but the worst of the smoke is clearing, thinning out over the marina. I take a deep breath, testing my ribs. Bruised, maybe cracked, but nothing new. I''ve had worse.
Turbo Jett doesn''t even look at me. She''s already turning back to the main event. "Okay, now for you," she growls, practically vibrating with energy.
She plants her feet, throws her arms back, and shouts loud enough to shake the docks: "GEAR THREE!"
The air around her shimmers like heat off asphalt. Her whole body flexes, veins bulging, steam rolling off her in waves. She''s burning so hot I can feel it from where I''m standing.
Then she lunges--straight for Monkey Business.
Or, at least, she tries to.
She moves fast, too fast for any normal person to dodge, but before her fist can connect, her entire body twists mid-air. Not like she stumbled or mistimed her punch--her whole trajectory just shifts, like someone grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her sideways.
Instead of slamming her fist into Monkey Business''s smarmy face, she plows into Birthday Suit.
And Birthday Suit doesn''t budge. Well, that''s not true, she maybe budges backwards an eighth an inch, and I watch the air press out from her teeth in a slight grimace. Her domino mask wrinkles a little bit while she flares her nostrils. But - to use a word I''ve adopted from Jordan - it''s a no sell. Birthday Suit just doesn''t move.
Turbo Jett stumbles back, blinking like she''s trying to process what just happened. "Oh, come on."
Monkey Business, completely unbothered, is standing at the helm of a motorboat, methodically flipping switches. "She can''t help it," he calls over his shoulder, voice bright and amused. "She just loves the attention."
Birthday Suit rolls her shoulders, flexing her knuckles. "Try again, sweetheart."
Turbo Jett does. She snarls and rushes forward, aiming even lower this time, putting her full weight behind the punch--
And her fist jerks again, veering off course at the last second. Like a magnet yanking a compass needle sideways.
She punches Birthday Suit in the gut. Again.
Birthday Suit still doesn''t care. It''s almost comedic.
Monkey Business sighs dramatically as he pulls the throttle. The boat starts moving, water foaming up behind it. "Well, ladies, it''s been fun, but we''ve got a schedule to keep--"
Okay, that''s my cue.
I roll my wrists and let my teeth grow in. My body adjusts automatically, new bone pushing through skin, long and sharp as boxcutter blades. I flex, twist--
And snap.
The zip ties shred like paper.
Turbo Jett doesn''t notice. She''s too busy throwing another punch, screaming in frustration when it again redirects into Birthday Suit''s stomach.
Birthday Suit, exasperated now, finally retaliates--grabbing Jett mid-swing and pivoting into a perfect Jiu-Jitsu redirect. Against someone slower than Turbo Jett, it probably would''ve worked, too, but Jett just flips around her neck like she''s turned into a human scarf, wrapping her legs around and trying to do the most complicated throwing maneuver I have ever seen in my life. It''s almost exactly like that thing in that one video game anime movie that Jordan showed me that I absolutely did not absorb. No, wait, I have a better frame of reference - it''s a perfect headscissor takedown.
And it simply does not work, because Birthday Suit is probably 300 pounds even without the body armor, but points for trying. Even with whatever sort of crazy strength Jett''s power is giving her, it just doesn''t work against raw leverage and center of mass advantages. Or maybe it''s Birthday Suit''s power. Hard to tell, given that I have no idea what either one of them can do besides some educated guesses.
I shake out my hands, letting the teeth retract back into my skin. That''s one problem solved.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
Now for the other.
I scan the dock. The brawl''s almost over--Monkey Business''s goons are down, the dealers who haven''t been zip-tied are long gone, and the cops--both plainclothes and uniformed--are swarming in, boxing the whole area in.
And standing between me and my escape is Patriot.
He''s finishing off the last of the zombified dealers, moving like he''s been dropped into a training exercise, systematic and efficient. One last guy takes a swing at him, but Patriot ducks, weaves, and puts him down hard with a single blow to the gut.
The guy collapses, gasping. Patriot straightens, breathing steady, barely winded. His shoulders square as he turns, scanning for the next target--
And then his eyes land on me. I feel it in my bones before it even fully registers. That moment of recognition. He knows exactly who I am. And I know exactly who he is. My nose aches sympathetically.
Neither of us move.
For half a second, the chaos around us fades. The sirens, the shouting, the sounds of fighting--it all goes muffled, like someone just dunked my head underwater.
Then, a voice--somewhere behind me, groaning, weak--
"Help."
I turn to face the pile of zip-tied people around me. Drug dealers. Ne''er-do-wells. Even that guy - mouths to feed guy, and he even signed one of those deals. A bunch of Monkey Business''s zombies are still trying to capture Patriot even as their bodies are just not capable of it. They''re all a mess. Some are barely conscious, bruised and beaten, others are twisted up on the ground, bleeding from who-knows-what injuries. I count at least an easy dozen, but given that everyone is in a big pile, it''s hard to tell.
You know, at least a dozen. Drug dealers.
That''s what they are. I know that. I should leave.
I should.
Patriot straightens, rolling his shoulders like he''s about to lecture a kid for stepping out of line. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but there''s something in his stance--something rigid, like he''s already decided how this is going to go.
"You''re not stupid, Bloodhound." His voice is level, almost patient. "Walk away. I''ll let you go."
I flex my fingers. He clocks the movement, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"You want to be a hero?" he continues. "Be a good sport. You did your best. But this is done." He glances at the pile of battered dealers. "They made their choices. You don''t have to make it your problem."
He doesn''t get it. It''s already my problem.
I take a breath. Grow the teeth in my fingertips, sharp and jagged like broken glass. They split through the skin, fresh and raw. Just like taking a shit. Push it out. There we go.
"I''m not walking away," I tell him. "I have a duty to save civilians. You know that."
Patriot exhales, disappointed. "Alright, then."
Then he moves. I barely brace myself before he closes the distance, lunging straight at me--
CRACK.
His head jerks sideways, a blur of red and white. He staggers a step, blinking, jaw tight, and spits out blood. I feel his entire body - so far unmarred - bloom to life, bright red, and I can see him. Then his hand snaps up to his cheek. He touches his face. Looks at his fingers. Examines the split-open skin, the rapidly developing bruise.
Then, he and I both look at the source at the same time.
I don''t need to check my earpiece to know who it was.
"Oh, I got him!" Blink''s voice crackles through. "Holy shit, I got him! I almost knocked a tooth loose!"
Patriot''s expression barely changes. He breathes out through his nose, straightens, and tilts his head up slightly, scanning.
Blink doesn''t let him think.
THWACK. Another shot, this one bouncing off his shoulder. Then another, and another--small, high-speed marbles raining down from above, slamming into him like tiny, furious hailstones. From her sniper''s nest up high - apparently, commandeering a random civilian''s apartment, judging from the way she''s peeked out the window - she can handle hurling all sorts of hellfire his way.
He lifts his arm to block, pivoting slightly. He''s still standing, still solid, but I see the slight wince, the faint tension in his jaw. No, none of this will kill him. But it''s hurting him, and distracting him, and I bet he needs it to stop.
It''s enough of an opening. I move. Drop down, grab the nearest set of zip ties, yank them apart with my claws, just let my momentum carry me through. The guy underneath them groans, half-conscious, but his eyes flicker open in recognition. I haul him up to sitting, trying not to bite into his shoulders.
"Run," I order.
He doesn''t hesitate. Next. Another zip tie. Another person. Another moment of brief, sluggish eye contact before they stumble to their feet. They''re not going to make it. Not all of them. I know that. Turbo Jett is still out here, and once she''s done playing Wrestlemania with Birthday Suit, she''ll be back here. And she likes rounding people up. But I can''t do nothing.
I don''t know why I''m doing this. These people are all drug dealers. Or people who want to be drug dealers. What''s wrong with me? Why can''t I just shut off my empathy engine? Is it because I saw Patriot, and now I''m pissed? Am I just reacting to him - like I''ve gotta put myself on whatever side is opposite to him?
Jump has caused so much pain and suffering. I really should not be helping.
I tell myself that I''d rather they run out into the police cordon than get pounded into the dirt again by Patriot. Whatever he''s up to here, and whoever this new girl is he''s recruited to his Pals, I don''t want him to be the one meting out mob justice. I know how that goes.
Someone gasps as I slice through their bindings. Someone mutters something slurred, something like why are you-- but I don''t stop. A few of them are starting to get it now. The ones I''ve freed are scrambling, pushing, half-stumbling toward whatever gaps they can find in the chaos. It''s a long shot. But it''s a shot.
Then I hear it. A rustle of fabric. A shift of weight. A grunt of effort. I look up.
Patriot has someone. Grabbed by the back of the neck, hoisted up with one hand like this tiny little drug dealer is a ragdoll. Patriot''s standing straight, blood drying against his jaw, one of the zip-tied dealers held upright in front of him like a human shield, right between him and Blink.
The guy in his grip makes a choked sound, weakly twisting, trying to pull away. Patriot doesn''t let him. He barely even looks at him. His gaze is still locked on the apartment window that Blink is peeking out over top of.
My earpiece crackles.
"...Okay." Blink''s voice, low and sharp. "Okay. Time to go."
I breathe in. Hold it. Is that guy - mouths to feed guy - is he safe? I look around. I don''t see him.
Alright. This is fine. I''m cool with this.
I run.
Chapter 158.1
Jordan slams the door open like they own the place, which, technically, they kind of do. Tacony Music Hall isn''t exactly theirs, but they live here, and they run the Auditors out of here, and they''re the one who rigged up the motion sensors and the reinforced locks, so if anyone has squatters'' rights, it''s them.
I don''t look up right away. I''ve got an ice pack pressed to my ribs, and if I move too fast, I''ll lose the exact angle that makes it less excruciating to breathe. My phone is propped up against my knee, cycling through news coverage. Everything is either about the marina or the anti-vigilante law. I''m about to read something about the marina - always interested to see how my work is interpreted - before Jordan''s arrival shakes me out of it.
Jordan kicks their backpack to the floor and throws themselves into the armchair like they just won the lottery. They look like they''ve been through hell, and they''re grinning. Clothes rumpled, hair a mess, a scrape on their cheek that wasn''t there before, but they look energized. Like they thrived on whatever fresh disaster they just crawled out of.
"Hey, team," they announce, sprawling dramatically. "Miss me?"
Lily stops sorting bandages long enough to give them a dead-eyed stare. Amelia doesn''t even look up, just keeps stacking gauze packets.
Tasha, from her seat at the desk, mutters, "This better be good."
I close my eyes. Take a breath. Feel the ache of my ribs complain about it. Then I open my eyes again and turn my full attention to Jordan, who is way too pleased with themselves for someone who was almost arrested yesterday.
"How did you get out?" I ask.
Jordan leans back, folds their hands behind their head. "Oh, that''s not important right now."
I stare at them.
Lily snorts. "Yeah, okay, but it''s kind of important."
"Like, it is the most important thing," Amelia adds. "Especially if it''s something we can actually use again."
"Or something we should never, ever, ever try again," Tasha mutters, still half-listening to police scanner chatter.
Jordan swings their legs over the arm of the chair like a kid about to tell a campfire story. They are so ready to milk this moment. "Alright, alright. You want to know? I''ll tell you. But first - "
They reach into their jacket pocket and pull out a crumpled candy bar. Unwraps it. Takes a slow, agonizing bite.
I sit up too fast and regret it immediately, my ribs protesting with sharp, unfriendly pain. "Jordan."
They hold up a hand. Chew. Swallow. Look so goddamn smug while doing it.
Then, finally, they say, "Okay, so you know how my power works, right?"
"Oh my god," Amelia groans.
"Of course we know how your power works," Lily says.
"Do you know how your power works?" I ask.
Jordan makes a pfft noise, like that''s a dumb question. Which, to be fair, it kind of is. If there''s one thing Jordan knows, it''s how to break their power in weird ways.
"So, here''s the thing," they continue. "Connor and I were talking a while back - "
"You mean before he retired?" Amelia cuts in.
"Yes, before he retired, thank you for that reminder of our tragic loss," Jordan says, placing a dramatic hand over their heart. "Anyway, we were brainstorming ways to use my power for smuggling, hypothetically speaking, and we came up with this."
They dig through their backpack, which they so casually chucked to the floor a minute ago, and pull out a beat-up old cardboard box. It''s... big, like the kind you''d have kept a chair in. Looks like it used to hold office supplies or something. They set it on the coffee table with way too much reverence for a piece of trash, unfolding it from its previous position folded into quarters.
I squint at it. "That''s your big escape plan? A box?"
Jordan grins. "Not just any box. The perfect box."
They flip it over. The bottom has been cut out and replaced with a false bottom, a thin layer of cardboard separating two compartments. There''s a tiny hole near the corner, barely big enough for a fingertip.
"So here''s the genius part," Jordan says, leaning in. "I get in the fetal position - "
"Oh my god," Amelia groans again.
" - inside the bottom part of the box, see? Then, I use one hand to expand the false bottom just enough to make myself comfortable. Not too much, because I don''t want the weight to feel wrong if someone picks it up."
Lily leans forward, grinning, like she knows where this is going. "And the top part - "
" - hey, don''t ruin my moment, gets filled with fake drugs and real money. But mostly fake drugs. Because if you recall," Jordan gestures grandly, "when I expand a space, my power duplicates objects inside it to make it look full. So I just stick my finger through this little hole here and, bam, endless supply of fake product."
There''s a beat of silence.
I tilt my head. "That was your master plan?"
Jordan beams. "And it worked!"
"You hid in a cardboard box and bet your life on the fact that nobody would look inside?"This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Pretty much, yeah."
I stare at them. Amelia looks like she''s reconsidering her entire life. Lily has the exact same expression she did when she tried to install a new lock last week and got it to work.
Jordan, undeterred, slaps a bunch of post-it notes on the table, grinning like they just won a war. "And this is what I got while I was in there." I pick one up. The writing is messy, but dense with information. Jordan crosses their arms, smug as hell. "You''re welcome."
Amelia rubs her temples. "I cannot believe that actually worked."
"Yeah, and you said I take too many risks," I mutter, flipping through the post-its. "Alright," I say, exhaling slowly. "Let''s see what we''ve got."
Jordan is thrilled with themselves. They''re vibrating in their seat, legs bouncing, eyes darting between all of us like they expect someone to declare them a genius. Amelia is carefully stacking the post-it notes into categories - known names, unknown names, locations, dates - trying to make sense of what we''ve got before Tasha even finishes running the first check. Lily is sitting on the couch, stretching out her arms like she''s psyching herself up for a marathon, even though she''s barely moved since Jordan got here.
And I''m sitting in the same damn spot, peeling back the edge of my bandages, very carefully not wincing as Amelia catches me and immediately glares.
"Don''t start," I mumble.
"I don''t have to," Amelia says, already reaching for the medical kit.
I sigh, lean back, and let her work. The skin around my ribs is bruised to hell, the swelling down but the ache persistent, a deep, dragging kind of pain that makes me feel heavy. My arms are still raw from last night, the scrapes and burns half-healed but not fully there yet, and I know if I say anything, Amelia will go into full nurse mode, so I just bite my tongue and let her swap out the bandages without complaint.
Jordan, meanwhile, is rambling.
"So here''s the thing, right - Monkey Business''s contracts? Completely unbreakable. Like, no wiggle room, no loopholes. If he says ''You''re under contract,'' you are under contract. Only way out is if he breaks it first. That''s why none of those dealers last night flipped on him. They couldn''t."
Tasha nods distractedly, still focused on her screen. "Not surprising. The guy''s whole brand is being an evil lawyer."
"Yeah, but here''s where it gets really interesting - there''s this guy named Jackpot who is somehow essential to Jump production. Like, the key ingredient."
"Human ingredient or chemical?" Lily asks, rubbing at her temples.
Jordan tilts their head. "Both? Neither? Not sure yet. But Rogue Wave is keeping tabs on superhumans with interesting powers. Like, actively tracking them. And get this - they have about a thousand signed contracts in Philly."
There''s a beat of silence.
Amelia stops mid-bandage swap. Lily lowers her arms. Tasha finally looks up from her screen.
"A thousand?" I repeat.
"Yeah. A thousand."
"That''s..." Amelia trails off.
Jordan grins. "Horrifying? Terrifying? Unbelievable? All of the above?"
Lily exhales. "That''s a small army."
"A loyal small army," I correct. "If the contracts are unbreakable."
"And the way they handle logistics is - honestly? Kind of genius," Jordan continues. "First delivery is free, right? But then they use a guy named Rush Order to deliver contracts directly to the users, and those contracts make the users come to Rogue Wave instead of the other way around. It''s a closed-loop system. You never meet your supplier until you''re already locked in."
Tasha clicks her tongue. "Explains why nobody''s been able to track their hubs. They don''t have hubs. They don''t need them."
"Right," Jordan says, still way too excited about this. "And here''s the kicker - they see the Kingdom as their number one enemy. Like, this is war. The new drug the Kingdom''s been pushing? The black syringes? Huge threat to them. But they''re not worried. They''re planning for a full-scale gang war. Like, inevitable, inevitable. And their big move?"
They pause, grinning, like they''re waiting for a drumroll.
"Jordan," Amelia says flatly.
"They''re gonna activate all their sleeper agents at once."
The room goes still.
Tasha''s fingers hover over her keyboard. Lily''s leg stops bouncing. Amelia''s hands, which were adjusting my bandage, go stiff.
I exhale. Slowly.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter.
Jordan spreads their arms like, Ta-da! "Philly''s about to turn into an actual war zone. Thoughts? Feelings? Concerns?"
"Do they have a timeline?" Tasha asks, already scanning her files for any possible red flags.
Jordan shakes their head. "Not that I saw. But if I had to guess? Soon. They''re waiting for something. I just don''t know what."
Lily shifts uncomfortably. "So what do we do about it?"
"Great question," Jordan says. "Lemme know when you figure it out."
I drop my head back against the couch. "You''re so goddamn helpful."
Jordan salutes. "I try."
Amelia mutters something under her breath, finishing my bandages. I roll my shoulders experimentally, wincing, but at least the fresh wrapping helps. My ribs still feel like garbage, though, and I know I should be resting, but resting doesn''t stop the fact that an entire gang war is about to explode, and we''re right in the middle of it.
My phone buzzes against my leg. I glance down.
Maggie:
I am grounded until I die. They might bury me in my room.
I snort, but my ribs protest, so I immediately regret it.
I text back:
Cool. I''ll send flowers.
Maggie responds immediately.
Don''t waste money. They''ll just take them from me. It''s a prison system in here. I have no rights.
I roll my eyes. Maggie is so dramatic.
Lily leans over. "Maggie?"
"Yeah. She''s suffering."
"Bad," Amelia mutters.
Jordan is still grinning like they love the fact that we''re staring down a full-scale superhuman war. Lily, on the other hand, looks genuinely nervous.
"You okay?" I ask her.
She shrugs, rubbing at her arm. "I dunno. This just... feels big. Like, too big. Kingdom and Rogue Wave tearing the city apart? What the hell are we supposed to do about that?"
"Stay alive," I say.
Jordan gestures vaguely. "And, you know. Probably pick a side at some point."
Amelia glares at them. "That''s not funny."
Jordan raises their hands. "Who said I was joking? At some point, we''ll be in a position to play kingmaker. All they need to find out in the end is which side we hate more."
Tasha makes a noise from the desk, something between a sigh and a scoff. "Speaking of positions¡ªanyone wanna hear how the news is spinning last night?"
Oh, right, I was reading that. "Yeah, gimme my phone back, I''ll read it for everyone," I say, making a gimme gimme motion with my hands. "When did you take my phone?"
"A magician never reveals her secrets," Tasha replies, as I stare down the headline like it owes me money.
THIRTY-FIVE ARRESTED IN MARINA RAID ¨C PPD, FEDERAL AGENTS SHUT DOWN ILLEGAL OPERATION
I read the first paragraph out loud. "Last night, Philadelphia police, in collaboration with federal agents, executed a successful sting operation against an unlicensed superhuman drug ring in Pennsport. Thirty-five individuals were taken into custody, including high-profile traffickers and multiple armed suspects. Officials credit swift police work and intelligence-gathering efforts for the operation''s success¡"
I stop. Blink at the screen. Turn it around like maybe the words will change if I look at them from another angle.
"Okay," I say. "So, just checking¡ªdo we count as federal agents now?"
Lily shifts in her seat. "No mention of powered individuals?"
"Nothing," I mutter, scrolling further. "No Monkey Business, no Birthday Suit, no Rogue Wave, no Patriot, no Turbo Jett - just thirty-five criminals taken down by good old-fashioned law enforcement."
"Of course," Amelia mutters.
"They don¡¯t want to admit there was an all-out brawl with metahumans. They want people to think it was just a normal gang bust, totally under control, nothing to worry about," Tasha says, gently combing her hair out while I sweep the page.
I exhale through my nose. My ribs ache, my skin still stings from the bandage swap, and now my brain is buzzing with irritation. Because it¡¯s not just about credit - it¡¯s about what this means. The second they admit superpowers were involved, they have to explain how and why. They¡¯d have to acknowledge the scale of this fight, and they don¡¯t want to do that.
Because if people knew what was actually happening? They¡¯d realize nobody¡¯s in control at all.
Chapter 158.2
School lunch always feels like it exists in a completely different universe from the rest of my life. The fluorescent lights are a little too bright, the noise is constant, and nothing about it feels high stakes - just a room full of teenagers who are either half-asleep, half-starving, or halfway through a hyperfixation rant about their latest special interest. It''s the one place where nobody cares what I''ve been up to, because whatever I''ve been up to is automatically less interesting than someone''s latest speedrun attempt or the school''s latest TikTok drama.
Jordan is midway through a story about MIT admissions, gesturing wildly with one hand while picking at a container of sushi with the other. Alex, on the other hand, is listening with the patience of someone who has heard this exact story five times already.
I stab my fork into my pasta. "Wait, why are you even at school today? I thought you finished all your assignments early."
Jordan waves a hand. "Oh, I did. I am completely done with high school. Academically, legally, and spiritually. But, you know, I like hanging out with you guys, and it gives me something to do all day."
Alex raises an eyebrow. "There''s a billion things to do in this city."
"Yeah, but most of them involve money or effort."
I roll my eyes. "So, what, you''re just gonna keep showing up to school every day even though you don''t have to?"
"Hey, the way I see it, this is free entertainment. I get to loiter, annoy my favorite people, and watch teenagers struggle through the American education system in real-time. It''s fascinating."
One of the goths - Spencer? Steve? I have no idea - adjusts their fishnet gloves and sighs dramatically. "I mean, if you have all this free time, you could at least, like, go get a job."
Jordan makes a face. "Ew. No."
Alex smirks. "You don''t need to get a job when you can just commit minor fraud with your superpowers."
Jordan brightens. "Exactly. This man gets it."
I squint at them. "You don''t actually, though, right? That''s behind you, right?"
Jordan just grins.
I squint harder. "Jordan,"
Alex leans forward. "Okay, so, real talk - when do you actually leave for MIT? Like, do we get a couple more months of this, or are you disappearing soon?"
Jordan twirls their chopsticks between their fingers, thinking. "July? Maybe August? Depends on housing stuff. I already have my full ride, but I wanna see if I can finesse an even better deal before I fully commit."
The goth on my left - Milo? Max? - perks up. "Wait, better than a full ride?"
Jordan gestures vaguely. "I want a paid dorm. Food stipend. A research position within the first month. They''re not gonna get rid of me, so they might as well just give me free money to exist there."
Alex laughs. "You are the most annoying person alive."
Jordan grins, still way too pleased with themselves. "And yet, you''d all be devastated if I left right now."
Alex snorts. "That''s a strong word."
I open my mouth to add something - probably something about how MIT doesn''t know what''s about to hit them - when the first phone buzzes.
It''s loud, but nobody really reacts at first, because it''s just one phone, and a phone buzzing isn''t a weird thing in a cafeteria.
Then another one goes off.
Then another.
Then a whole cluster of them, a discordant, harsh buzz that''s way too aggressive for a normal notification.
People start shifting, pulling out their phones, frowning. The sound keeps spreading, more and more students getting hit with the same thing, the cafeteria filling with that horrible, grating alarm tone -
The Amber Alert sound. That''s when the mood shifts - now it''s not just one person''s emergency. It''s everyone''s emergency.
I stiffen, already feeling my stomach drop as I reach for my own phone, my ribs protesting the movement. The screen is already lighting up, and I barely have to glance at it before I read the message: "ATTN ALL PHILADELPHIANS. TURN ON NBC10 NOW. WEB CAST OR TELEVISION. THIS IS NOT A DRILL."
Jordan''s still holding their chopsticks midair, their expression frozen somewhere between mild interest and deep concern.
Alex lowers his fork, frowning at his screen. Around us, the cafeteria noise dips, the usual low-level chatter and clatter of trays giving way to a growing unease. More people check their phones. The alert sound keeps rippling outward, a slow cascade of realization spreading through the room.
A few teachers get up from their seats at the far end of the cafeteria, pulling out their own phones, checking the same message. I see Mr. Nunez, the chemistry teacher, mutter something under his breath before turning toward the staff lounge, probably heading for the TV in there.
The Amber Alert sound is still going. Someone at the next table laughs, nervously, like maybe this is some weird government mistake.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
But it keeps going. And it keeps going. And nobody knows what the hell is happening. For a long, long moment, the cafeteria is just buzzing phones and held breaths.
Then, finally, the noise cuts out - not all at once, but in waves, like whatever system pushed the alert is finally finishing its job. But the silence that follows is somehow worse.
Jordan, who has been completely still for the last thirty seconds, finally blinks. Looks at me. Looks at their phone. Looks at Alex. "Well, that''s not good."
The cafeteria isn''t loud anymore. It''s wrong. The usual mix of shouting, laughing, scraping chairs, and people loudly complaining about how bad the fries are today has been replaced with something worse - a muffled, panicked hush.
Some phones are still buzzing, but it diminishes, one after another, first ones to start are the first ones to leave. Some people are fumbling with their phones, trying to unlock their screens with shaking hands, while others just stare at their laps, frozen, like maybe if they don''t acknowledge the alert, it''ll go away.
A few students have started crying, not loudly, but enough that I feel it before I hear it. Someone nearby is hyperventilating, breaths coming fast and shallow, the kind of breathing that makes your whole body lock up.
I get it. Are we about to get hit with a nuclear bomb? Do I have time to call my parents? I take a deep breath - if we are about to get nuked, there''s nothing I can do about it. Breathe, Sam. I shift in my seat, ribs still sore, but that''s not what''s bothering me.
My blood sense is going wild, and I can see a good statistical cutaway of the entire lunchroom It''s always uncomfortable in big crowds, especially when there are a lot of people with periods, open cuts, healing bruises - the stuff that leaks a little under the skin. Right now, it''s worse. Heart rates are spiking everywhere. I can feel it, a rising tide of panic, pulses hammering too fast, too hard, like a collective thrum of dread sitting under my ribs.
I swallow, push past it, focus.
Jordan is already pulling up the stream, their hands moving fast but deliberate. I can tell they''re keeping their own nerves in check, forcing themselves into problem-solving mode, but they''re just as rattled as the rest of us. Alex is still gripping his phone but hasn''t moved or blinked, like he''s waiting for the moment where he wakes up from this.
Across the room, teachers are scrambling, trying to get people to stay calm, but it''s not working. Someone yells something about going to the office, but nobody is moving. Nobody wants to miss what''s coming next.
The cafeteria isn''t a cafeteria anymore. It''s a waiting room for something terrible.
Jordan mutters, "Come on, come on, load faster, you piece of - " and then the stream kicks in, and the room collectively stops breathing. I hear the chime from about 20 other phones more or less at the same time. We don''t see the NBC10 newsroom. No desk, no anchors, no familiar background.
Instead, it''s a cleared-out office space, something generic and bland - cheap carpet, exposed wiring, overhead lights that make everything look a little too bright, too sterile. Six people stand in the center of the shot.
And I recognize two of them immediately.
Monkey Business, front and center, looking exactly like he did at the marina - his stupid monkey mask, his body stretched out into a perfectly tailored suit, sitting on top of a desk with a stack of papers next to him. And another stack of papers on the floor. Even more papers. More than that. Like, a stupid amount, at least ten reams. Birthday Suit beside him, arms crossed, silent, imposing, and impossible to ignore, domino mask barely hiding her disdain.
Jordan inhales sharply beside me. I try to look at the four behind Monkey Business, but he and Birthday Suit are just covering them up with their bulk. I can only see bits as they shuffle around awkwardly, red and white and green and black. I don''t even have time to process any of this before Monkey Business gestures to the camera with an easy, theatrical confidence, like he''s hosting a game show instead of hijacking a major news station.
"Philadelphia!" His voice is bright, chipper, like this is the best day of his life. "Good afternoon, and thank you for joining us. We know you didn''t exactly have a choice, but hey, sometimes the best surprises are the ones you weren''t expecting, right?"
He spreads his arms, stepping forward, and the camera adjusts smoothly, like they''ve actually thought about framing, like this is produced.
"You may have heard of us," he continues, grinning behind his mask. "We call ourselves Rogue Wave."
The group spreads out behind him, dramatically. Practiced and rehearsed. Come on.
"To my right, you''ve got Rush Order, the best deliveryman an operation of this complexity could ask for."
Rush Order tips his head, still grinning, tapping two fingers against his temple in a lazy little salute. Lean, tall, broad, just like Birthday Suit, but if there''s any muscle to him I can''t see it. Bright red bomber jacket with more red underneath, slacks, a beret cocked at a perfect angle, perfectly circular orange-tinted glasses that catch the overhead lights just enough to be annoying. His grin is too sharp, too eager - he''s thrilled to be here.
Jordan sucks in air through their nose. "What''s with the Flash cosplay?"
"To my left, we have Dr. Snake Oil, the man who makes this all possible. Don''t worry, unlike real snake oil, his drugs work,"
Snake Oil tilts his head, adjusting his glasses like he''s barely tolerating this introduction. Stocky, broad-shouldered, wearing a rubber snake mask that''s hiding the rest of his face. I think I recognize the exact mask from Spirit Halloween. White labcoat, teal shirt underneath, he looks exactly like the sort of person you''d expect to be trying to be a mad scientist.
Monkey Business keeps going, stepping between the last two. "Then we''ve got Dead Drop - tracker, hunter, master of staying unseen - "
Dead Drop doesn''t react, just shifts her weight slightly, like she''s calculating something, eyes invisible behind a domino mask. She''s tiny, barely, what, 5''1"? She''s wearing all black, looking all the world like Jordan''s kind of person, a long-sleeve unitard with a cropped hoodie sitting on top of it, skull elbow pads, skull kneepads, gigantic spiked boots, gigantic spiked collar. Chains gently hover around her, coiling around her wrists and her neck like snakes.
"And finally, Jackpot, the luckiest guy you''ll ever meet - if you''re on his good side."
Jackpot, standing with his hands in his pockets, his vest and bowtie too crisp, too clean, freshly laundered, smirking like an idiot. His skin''s tan and his hair is greased back, dressed up exactly like a casino dealer, bright red vest over a white button-down, crisp silk gloves, a thin, shitty little peach fuzz mustache that looks like he''s been trying for months to grow something more impressive. Middle of the road, probably as tall as I am. He winks at the camera. Dead Drop elbows him in the ribs, and he lets out a muffled little "ow,"
Monkey Business claps his hands together, the sound too loud in the dead silence of the cafeteria.
"Finally, my name is Monkey Business, and this hot piece of ass next to me is my bodyguard, Birthday Suit. Now, here''s the deal," He tilts his head, leaning slightly toward the camera. "We have hijacked this station with a suicide bomber carrying this very special VHS tape that you are now watching. This is a recording, not live."
My breath catches.
"If you don''t want him to blow up NBC10," he continues, tone light, playful, like he''s explaining the rules to a game, "then you''ll all stay watching. Because here''s the fun part - "
He wags a gloved finger.
"We''re watching the viewership numbers. And if they drop too much? A beloved Philadelphian institution goes up in flames. Boom!"
He snaps his fingers for emphasis. I hear someone let out a choked little sob. Monkey Business leans back, delighted, spreading his arms like he''s embracing the moment. "Now - let''s get started."
Chapter 158.3
Monkey Business shifts his stance, weight rolling lazily from one foot to the other like he''s got all the time in the world. His voice is smooth, casual, almost amused - like he''s explaining something simple, something obvious, something we should have figured out already.
"If you haven''t heard of us, that''s okay," He spreads his arms, slow, deliberate. "We''re here to make an impact."
The silence in the cafeteria isn''t just quiet anymore. It''s crushed. Pressurized. Like nobody wants to move, like shifting even a little might make something snap. I see people white-knuckling their phones, eyes locked on the screen, shoulders tight, breathing shallow. Someone near the front of the room lets out a tiny, panicked hiccup and immediately slaps a hand over their mouth.
Monkey Business keeps talking. "We have forced NBC10 to play this video, and used another operative to commandeer the emergency alert system. That''s why you''re all here with us right now. It''s a group activity. Our suicide bombers are under the effect of my power, which creates a psychologically and physiologically compelling contract between me and the guy on the other end. You can call it a "geas". Don''t feel too bad for them, they knew what they were signing up for."
I don''t move. I don''t blink. My blood sense is screaming, but it''s useless. I can feel the tension running through the cafeteria, the uneven rhythms of panicked heartbeats, but there''s no focus to it, no direction, just a mass of fear sitting like a stone in my chest.
The goth sitting next to Alex - Max, maybe? - makes a soft, strangled sound. Someone across the room whispers something frantic, voice trembling. A chair scrapes against the tile as one of the teachers - Mr. Nunez - steps forward, but he doesn''t say anything, doesn''t move toward the front of the room, just looks at his phone like he''s expecting it to give him an out that isn''t coming.
Jordan exhales through their nose, quiet, controlled. "Dude really knows how to work a room."
I glance at them. They aren''t smiling.
Monkey Business continues, voice calm, level, and completely detached from the chaos he''s causing. "You might find this to be needlessly brutal, but we believe our actions are in the best interest of a society that has become sclerotic, arthritic, unable to adapt to a world where the best and worst among us possess the ability to do miracles on a daily basis."
His head tilts just slightly, like he''s waiting for someone to argue with him. Nobody does.
Someone at the far end of the cafeteria is shaking too hard to hold their phone steady, their hand half-covering the screen, but they don''t look away. Nobody looks away.
Jordan shifts in their seat, lowering their voice. "He''s enjoying this too much."
I nod, barely.
Monkey Business steps back just enough to gesture grandly to the people behind him. "We reject this order of mediocrity. This is our manifesto - we will destroy society as it stands and ensure a true meritocracy, where all people have access to the superpowers they deserve, and the rules are made by those with the expertise and willpower to forge those rules into being. No more bureaucrats. No more paperwork. Only miracles and those that know what to do with them. This is our world."
A sharp inhale from someone a few tables over. A muttered curse. Someone else whispering what the hell does that even mean?
He keeps going.
"We currently have 30,000 contracted individuals in Philadelphia alone, as you can see from this huge stack of papers next to me. This doesn''t even account for our operatives in every other city in the eastern seaboard. Rogue Wave numbers 60,000 strong, with cells in every city and town from Maine to Florida."If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
Jordan doesn''t even hesitate. "Lie."
I exhale. "Obviously. But who''s it for? Us, or the cops?" I whisper, too quiet.
Jordan''s fingers tap a quick rhythm against their knee, too controlled to be nerves, more like calculating. "No way they have sixty thousand. Not even close. But he wants people to think they do."
"Scare tactic."
"Yeah, but a good one. Who''s gonna call your bluff when you have two remote suicide bombers set up?"
The cafeteria is so quiet, I can hear the sound of someone''s fingernails tapping against the back of their phone, fast, erratic, barely keeping still. Teachers are still frozen, still waiting, like they don''t know if trying to calm people down will just make it worse. People are whispering, just enough that I know they''re whispering, but not what they''re saying.
I glance back at the screen.
Monkey Business is still standing center frame, still completely at ease, still acting like he''s telling us something inevitable. My ribs ache. He claps his hands together again, his favorite motion in the world, the sound loud and sharp in the suffocating silence of the cafeteria. His voice is still bright, pleasant, almost casual, like he''s just giving a morning briefing at a tech startup.
"If you are one of those contracted individuals, you will now receive additional instructions."
The room shifts, subtle but unmistakable. People glance around, scanning faces, searching for some kind of reaction, but nobody moves. Nobody would. Not if they were smart. I hear someone mutter what the fuck?. I see people scrutinizing the faces of their friends. Do you have a contract? Do you?
"You will do your best to undermine the influence of the organization known as ''the Kingdom of Keys'' without revealing your nature as one of our contractors, through any means available to you."
A ripple of confusion across the room, barely audible - someone whispers holy shit, another person swears under their breath. My blood sense pulses uncomfortably, the cafeteria still a mess of elevated heart rates, rising tension, fear curling under people''s skin like it''s settling in for the long haul.
Jordan lets out a slow breath through their nose. "Oh, this is new. Well, that obviates one piece of intel."
"If an individual you trust expresses interest in Rogue Wave''s ideology," Monkey Business continues, voice smooth as ever, "get them to sign their legal name on a piece of paper and bring it with you the next time we are in touch. Rush Order will get in contact with them and welcome them to the fold."
I don''t like the way he says it. I grip my fork just a little too tight, the dull ache in my ribs grounding me. "Decentralized recruiting. How do you even handle this?" I ask Jordan, who stares at me with the most haunted look I''ve ever seen in their face. This isn''t fun anymore, not to them. A shiver rolls through me. My stomach turns.
Jordan mutters, "God, it''s that easy. Just a signature, and bam. New cult member."
I swallow. "They don''t even have to know what they''re signing up for."
Monkey Business spreads his arms, palms open, expression hidden but undeniably smug. "With your help, we can create a better, fairer world. One free of despots and tyrants, where the words ''Democrat'' and ''Republican'' have no meaning, and where we can use our miracles productively, to produce abundance for anyone willing to reach out and take it."
Nobody in the cafeteria moves.
A kid across the room is staring at the screen so hard it looks like he''s trying to disappear into his chair. A group near the back is huddled together, their phones held up at slightly different angles, the overlapping stream delay making an eerie echo of Monkey Business''s words.
Monkey Business gestures off-screen, rolling his shoulders like he''s wrapping things up. "Now, NBC10 guys and emergency alert system guys, our hostage will stand still and allow you to pull out the blue wire from their bomb, followed by the green wire, which will disable it. I may be a horrendous terrorist and threat to the social order, but one thing you''ll come to understand as we have more of these little chats is that I am not a liar."
There''s a pause. A beat where the entire cafeteria is still holding its breath.
"After you''ve disabled their bombs," he continues, grinning, "you can throw them to the cops or do whatever, I don''t give a shit. They''ll be paralyzed until the top of the hour anyway."
His gloved fingers snap together.
"Peace out."
And then the stream cuts to black.
The cafeteria doesn''t move. Nobody speaks, nobody breathes.
Phones stay lit up, glowing in the dimness, the silence so complete that I can hear the buzz of the cafeteria lights overhead, hear the slow, unsteady inhales of at least three people nearby. Then, somewhere to my left, a phone drops onto a tray, and everyone begins talking at once.
Chapter 159.1
I look around the chatter and try to pick out something interesting. Security guards try to remain as stone-faced and unaffected as possible. A lunchlady gives someone extra nuggets because they''re clearly having an anxiety attack. The world murmurs on around me.
Jordan grabs my sleeve and gives it a tug. "Sam, I''m about to do something extremely stupid. Can you physically back me up in case a fight breaks out?" they whisper.
"I''m really not supposed to be getting into fights anymore," I whisper back, trying to scrunch away. "Not at school, at least,"
"Pussy," Jordan mutters, and then they shake my sleeve again and yank me into eye contact. For the first time in what seems like ever, I see something besides confidence in Jordan''s eyes. Something a little rawer. A little shakier. I should probably tell them no. I should probably listen to my mom¡¯s voice in my head, reminding me how much worse this could get.
"Dude, I''m like on strike two and they''ll probably expel me if I start shit again unless there''s a damn good reason," I answer, feeling the phantom of my mom sitting on top of my brain stem. "I can''t... ruin my future over a stupid fight,"
"Great news, this is a very rational fight with a good reason to happen. Can you tell with your blood sense if anyone here is affected by the geas that just got announced?" Jordan asks.
I scrunch my face up. I can feel every drop of blood in here, but that doesn''t give me any useful information besides "almost everyone on their period is also panicking". "If they''ve got a thousand contractors across all of Philadelphia, that''s like, less than a 0.01% chance any given person has a contract," I think, doing some quick mental math, counting decimal places on my fingers. "Then you have to cross that with the amount of people bleeding in here - not a huge number - and I don''t think there''s any way to differentiate who''s freaking out because they''re scared and who''s freaking out because their contract just activated,"
Jordan sighs and squares me up. They grab me by the shoulders and spin me around on the uncomfortable plastic slash metal stools that all of us sit on for lunch all the time. "Samantha H. Small,"
"Not my middle name--"
"Whatever. Remember when we first met? And I told you that you have to stop reacting to things? You have to be the bullet?" Jordan says. I can tell from their breath - heavy, cloying, smelling like soy sauce, shaking - that they''re prepping themselves for something. Something stupid.
I scrunch my face up harder. "What about it?"
"Remember when our first plan together, the first ever scheme, was to fake a superhero supervillain fight for internet cred and news fame?" Jordan asks.
"Jordan," I say back, a little louder than a whisper. The goths, anime nerds, and Alex at the table all turn to look at Jordan.
"If there''s one thing I want you to burn into your brain from our entire friendship, it''s this; be the bullet, not the vest. Be the thing happening, remember?" they summate. Before I can grab Jordan''s sleeve and yank them down, Jordan grabs their lunch tray, grabs my lunch tray, climbs up onto the lunch table, and starts smacking them together. "Hey! Tacony Charter Academy High School Lunchroom! Everyone! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"
That starts getting people''s attention, but not all at once. A couple of people laugh like it''s a joke. Some dude near the snack machines yells "Shut up, bitch!" and keeps talking to his friends. Some of the goths start clapping along to Jordan smacking trays together like it''s a bit.
Jordan does not stop. They smack the trays together harder, sharper, rhythmically, like an animal marking its territory. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut. The fuck. Up."
The sound cuts through the room like a fight about to break out. The laughter dies down. The whispering slows. The security guards, across the room, start moving. My heart jumps up, and my palms start sweating.
"My name is Jordan Westwood, and you may remember when I fucked up homecoming this year because a bunch of police officers and a superhero came to arrest me. And then they beat the shit out of my friend in front of everyone, and it went super viral on the news and shit. Remember that? Hey! Shut the fuck up! I''m talking! Give me your undivided attention for two minutes!" Jordan yells, watching, measuring, and occasionally smacking their trays together a couple more times until everyone has, indeed, shut the fuck up.
I see Officers Ridley and Nguyen at the front of the security guard heap - good to know they''re still employed. But they''re getting closer, talking amongst themselves. What are they saying, I wonder? Who gets their pick of the troublemaker?
"They had a good reason for that! I''m a supervillain that has been working undercover for the Kingdom of Keys. I can create temporary duplicates of things so I make fake drugs to cheat people out of money. Check this out!" Jordan shouts, kicking their backpack onto the floor.
That''s not Jordan''s power. But everyone''s focused on the backpack - nobody''s watching the walls or ceiling. Jordan huffs with exertion, and the room pulls apart at an angle. Tables are lightly stretched with duplicate laminate woodplastic, but where there was once one backpack, now there is two.
"Now you know my bona fides are real! And I''m just going to say to any Rogue Wave bitches in here - if you think you''re going to stop us, think fucking again!" Jordan almost screams, their legs visibly shaking, almost buckling, although whether that''s from fear or just how hard it is to stand on a lunch table in platforms, I can''t tell. The Jordan I know isn''t someone that experiences fear. Not in a way they''d ever show me.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
I''m watching the crowd. Someone. Anyone. We all heard the order - "You will do your best to undermine the influence of the organization known as ¡®the Kingdom of Keys¡¯ without revealing your nature as one of our contractors, through any means available to you." - so who''s going to step up to stop them? I''m watching for students, and all the students are glancing at each other. Surely, someone else has made this connection. Monkey Business stated his terms in broad daylight.
So who''s going to stop them? Anyone here? The odds are low. 0.01% chance, if Rogue Wave''s numbers are real. 500 students at this school. Statistically, that''s... maybe one person? Maybe none? A fractional human. But contracts aren¡¯t spread evenly. And if Monkey Business isn''t lying¡ªif it''s 30,000 Philadelphians instead ¡ª then it''s not 0.01%, it''s closer to... what, 2%? That means ten students in this school. Maybe more.
The real answer is somewhere in the middle. Somewhere in this room.
A ripple moves through the cafeteria. Not a big one, but small things. A couple of kids look at each other too fast and then away. A girl near the back grips her phone like she¡¯s about to break it. A guy near the vending machine shifts in his seat, like he just realized he might need to run.
"Alright, Westwood, fifteen minutes of fame are over, let''s get you down from there," I hear from behind me. I whirl around to come face to face with Officer Ridley - he still has a job? Where''s the justice? - looking beet red and slightly grayer in the hair than when I first aikido threw him in Septemberish. "Out of the way, Small, we don''t want a repeat of last time,"
Jordan looks at me. I look at Jordan. I look at Officer Ridley. I sigh, and stick my leg out to trip him. He''s too focused on Jordan to notice, stumbles, and swipes at empty air with open handcuffs while Jordan takes a step back, accidentally stepping on Alex''s sandwich ("Hey!"). "Hey, Ridley, long time, no see. You still a part of Rogue Wave?" Jordan asks.
Knowing Officer Ridley as a racist idiot, I fully expect this to go nowhere - he just wants an excuse to handcuff a student for his jollies. I am... not exactly happy when his body goes stiff as a board and his eyelids start twitching. Really, happy is the least accurate emotion, but there is a twitch of some sort of vindication to it.
He swipes again for Jordan, and without thinking - or I guess, with a sort of instinctive thought - I switch seats and just put myself in his way. Passively. Not Aikido throwing him again. I know I''d get suspended if I did! He makes a sort of strangled noise and Jordan takes another step back, gently scraping sandwich off their boot.
"Hey, everyone, pull your jaws off the floor and watch me closely," Jordan shouts, exuberantly, terrified, literally shaking so hard that it''s starting to rattle the lunch table. "Ridley, you better tell me everything you can about your contract with Rogue Wave!"
Ridley''s face goes blank, pale, and drooping, like he''s just had a stroke. Officer Nguyen, among the others, immediately catch what''s wrong first, before anyone else does besides me. Ridley''s pupils dilate, and then shrink to a pinprick.
Then, he draws his taser. Before I can yell for Jordan to get down, two electrodes are spinning through the air, twirling, unfurling, almost bullet fast, ripping through Jordan''s hoodie and I assume embedding in the skin. I assume this because Jordan''s already shaky legs immediately cramp up and they go head-over-ass down towards the ground, off the lunch table.
"Catch them!" I find myself yelling, shoving Ridley out of the way while two of the goths - and a watcher from the next table over - jump loose to grab Jordan before their head cracks open on the tile of the cafeteria floor. Ridley isn''t focused on me, though - he''s focused entirely on Jordan, shoving Alex out of the way with a meaty, sausagine hand. Jordan clenches up, their body pulling up into a fetal position, twitching, convulsing, pained, wet grunts escaping their throat, while the students helping them down cluster protectively around their body. No thrashing, just twitching.
No more.
"Ridley! Stand down!" Nguyen shouts, but it''s about as effective as a fart in the wind. I''m already up and moving, but things are happening fast. Ridley draws a baton with his free hand and pulls the trigger again on his taser to give Jordan another shock. Ridley doesn''t even say anything, he just swings, and people duck out of his way. He pulls the trigger again. Jordan lets out a pained, wet gasp.
I cut off Officer Nguyen at the pass and pull myself up on Ridley''s back, hooking my legs around his waist, wrapping my arm all the way around his neck. Since my growth spurt it''s become way easier to put people in headlocks, but he''s still got a good two, three inches on me, plus all that pork muscle in his throat, so it''s hard to get my forearm all the way around under his chin. "Lift his head up! We gotta knock him out!" I shout to the other security guards. "Everyone else, scatter!"
But people aren''t scattering. People are trying to pull Ridley off of Jordan, while he climbs on top of them, knees to knees. I try to fit my arm under his chin but it''s just not working, and Jordan isn''t being given a moment''s rest before he pulls the trigger on the taser again. Someone - I don''t see who, probably another one of the security guards - yanks the taser out of Ridley''s hand and kicks it away.
Ridley isn''t thinking anymore. His body is on pure kill mode. The kind of hysterical strength moms get when their kids are trapped under cars or inside burning buildings, but laser-focused on his task of killing a high school student. With his now-free hand, he grabs Jordan by the hair, wrenches their face upwards, and uses the other hand to try and crush their throat with his baton.
"Get down, Small!" I hear from behind me - a woman, Nguyen? - and I duck my face down against Ridley''s shoulder before a baton goes sailing into the side of Ridley''s shoulder, dazing him just enough that another of the anonymous mass of hands surrounding me can grab him by the greasy hair and tug his head straight up. My forearm finds purchase in the curve of his neck, right up against the important arteries, my other arm starts levering my wrist, and the headlock goes in.
Come on. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
His state means that he barely even seems to notice the crowd around him. He''s leveraging all of his body weight, all two hundred fifty, three hundred some pounds of force against Jordan, bearing down on them, violently, violating. Blood trickles out of his nose and I see his heartbeat - perfectly even, uninterested in the situation. His carotid arteries pulse against my arms, and the world narrows to a sharp point. His pulse fights me, hammering too fast, too strong - his body''s in full kill mode, and the choke isn¡¯t dropping him as fast as I want.
Six Mississippi. Seven Mississippi. Come on! Pass out already!
Hands slip underneath his baton, trying to make space for Jordan''s throat to not get crushed. I can already smell the bruises forming across Jordan''s windpipe and neck. Drool puddles on the tile floor.
Nine Mississippi, and he starts weakening. Ten Mississippi, and all the hands grabbing for him start to pull, and jerk, and drag him away. Eleven Mississippi, and he goes totally slack, collapsing into the crowd and getting thrown off like a drunk guy on a bucking bull. I let go, and his body wheezes out from under me like a deflating balloon. Ridley slumps, a twitch running through his fingers like a dead fish in a shallow pond. His chest rises once, sharply, before settling into that eerie, boneless stillness, dragged away by the morass while Jordan slowly, shakily comes to their feet.
Chapter 159.2
The cafeteria holds its breath. Ridley''s body slumps against the tile floor, his chest rising and falling in shallow waves. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. The only sound is the soft hum of fluorescent lights and Jordan''s ragged breathing as they pull themselves up using the edge of the lunch table.
My arms ache. My blood sense is still screaming, still tracking too many elevated heart rates, too many people breathing too fast. I can''t tell who''s scared and who''s processing what they just saw. Who''s thinking about contracts. Who''s wondering if they''re next.
The security guards move first. Two of them drop down beside Ridley, checking his pulse, his breathing. Officer Nguyen stands between us and the crowd, her hand hovering near her belt, her eyes sharp and alert. She barks something to the others--"Get him stable, watch his head"--but she doesn''t take her eyes off us.
Jordan wobbles on their feet. Their hoodie is torn where the taser barbs hit, and their throat is already starting to bruise, a dark band forming where the baton pressed down. But they''re grinning. Because of course they are.
"Okay," they rasp, their voice rough and shaky. "That went about how I expected."
Nguyen''s eyes narrow. "Both of you. Principal''s office. Now."
Jordan raises a hand, still trembling. "Wait. One more thing."
The crowd shifts. Phones are out--some still recording, some texting frantically, some just held like lifelines. Whispers ripple through the room. I catch fragments: "Holy shit" and "Did you see--" and "Is he dead?"
Jordan clears their throat. Winces. Takes a breath.
"Just to clarify," they say, their voice gaining strength. "I''m not actually a criminal mastermind. That was a bit. Thanks for playing along."
A nervous laugh from somewhere in the crowd. Jordan''s grin widens, but there''s something sharp behind it now. Something serious.
"See, here''s the thing about those contracts Monkey Business was talking about," they continue. "They respond to exposure. If you ask the wrong question--" They gesture to Ridley''s prone form. "Well. You saw what happens."
The whispers die down. The phones lower. Everyone''s watching now.
"So if you signed something for Rogue Wave--maybe you thought it was a joke, or easy money, or even a good cause--you need to understand something." Jordan''s voice drops, deadly serious. "You are not in control anymore. You need to tell someone. Your parents, your teachers, the police--I don''t care who. But you need help."
Behind me, Ridley stirs. His eyes flutter open, unfocused, confused. The security guards help him sit up, but he doesn''t look at anyone. Doesn''t say a word. Just pushes himself to his feet and starts walking--not running, but moving fast, purposeful. Embarrassed. Caught. He knows he''s in deep shit, contract or no contract.
Jordan watches him go, their expression unreadable. Then they turn back to the crowd.
"And if you think someone else might be contracted? Don''t push them. Don''t try to trick them into admitting it. Don''t even hint at it. Because if you ask the wrong question--if you make them think about Rogue Wave for even a second--they will try to kill you." Their voice cracks on the last words. "They won''t have a choice."
The fluorescent lights buzz. Someone''s tray clatters against a table. A phone chimes, the sound sharp and sudden in the silence.
"That''s what this is about," Jordan says, softer now. "That''s what we''re dealing with. So be careful. Look out for each other. And if you''re one of them--if you signed something--get help before someone asks you the wrong question."
Officer Nguyen steps forward, her jaw tight. "Are you done?"
Jordan''s shoulders slump. The trembling in their hands is getting worse, but they manage one last grin. "Yeah. Yeah, I''m done. You can haul me off now."
Nguyen gestures to the door. "Let''s go."
As we follow her out, I catch fragments of conversation starting up behind us. Nervous laughter. Urgent whispers. The sound of chairs scraping against tile as people remember how to move again.
Jordan stumbles slightly. I catch their arm, steadying them.
"You okay?" I mutter.
They laugh, then wince. "Ask me again when the taser burns stop tingling."
"That was stupid," I tell them.
"Yeah." They grin, rubbing at their throat. "But it worked."
I can''t argue with that. So I just help them walk, trying not to think about what comes next. About suspensions or expulsions or whatever fresh hell we''ve just bought ourselves.
Behind us, the cafeteria erupts into noise--everyone talking at once, processing what they just saw, what it means. Trying to make sense of a world where asking the wrong question can get you killed.
I don''t look back. I just keep walking, keeping Jordan upright, following Nguyen down the hallway toward whatever consequences are waiting.
At least we gave them something to think about.
Principal Heckerman''s office feels smaller than usual. Maybe it''s because we''re all crammed in here--me, Jordan, my parents, Officer Nguyen by the door. Or maybe it''s just that Heckerman looks like he''s aged ten years since this morning, hunched over his desk like the weight of the whole school just landed on his shoulders.
Jordan''s still grinning, but they''re sitting weird, like their muscles haven''t quite figured out how to work right after the taser. Their throat is starting to bruise properly now, a dark band across their neck that makes me wince every time I look at it. My dad keeps glancing at it too, his jaw tightening each time.
My mom''s hand hasn''t left my shoulder since she got here. I can''t tell if she''s trying to comfort me or hold me in place.
Heckerman shuffles some papers on his desk. Probably trying to figure out which handbook section covers "student nearly gets murdered by mind-controlled security guard."
"This," he finally says, his voice tired and strained, "cannot keep happening."Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Nobody argues. Not even Jordan, which is probably a first.
"Ms. Small." Heckerman looks at me directly. "This is the third violent incident you''ve been involved in this year. The third time you''ve physically engaged with staff members. I understand there were extenuating circumstances--"
"Extenuating circumstances?" My dad cuts in, his voice sharp. "A security guard tried to kill a student!"
"Ben," my mom murmurs, squeezing my shoulder.
"No, Rachel, this is--" He stops, takes a breath. "My daughter just had to stop a man from committing murder in the cafeteria. That''s not ''extenuating circumstances,'' that''s--"
"Mr. Small," Heckerman interrupts, "I am well aware of the severity of what occurred. Officer Nguyen has provided a full account." He gestures to Nguyen, who''s standing by the door like a statue, her face carefully neutral. "But this is exactly my point. These incidents keep escalating. And your daughter keeps being at the center of them."
I shift in my chair. "So what was I supposed to do? Just let him kill Jordan?"
"Sam," my mom warns.
"No, really!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "Jordan exposed a sleeper agent in our school. Someone who could have hurt anyone here. Are we just supposed to ignore that because it''s inconvenient?"
"What you were supposed to do," Heckerman says, his voice getting that edge it gets when he''s trying very hard to stay calm, "was alert staff to any concerns about security personnel. What you were not supposed to do was deliberately provoke an incident--"
"I didn''t--"
"You switched seats to block Officer Ridley''s path," he continues. "You tripped him. You escalated the situation before it became violent."
"Because Jordan asked for help!" I protest. "Because they knew--"
"And you, Mr... Mrs... Mr. Westwood." Heckerman turns to Jordan, who''s still somehow maintaining their smirk despite looking like they might pass out. For once, Jordan does not correct the honorific, which... probably means nothing. "You deliberately created this situation. You publicly claimed to be working for a criminal organization. You incited panic in a crowded cafeteria. You directly challenged individuals you suspected of being compromised."
Jordan shrugs, then winces at the movement. "Worked, didn''t it?"
Heckerman''s expression could curdle milk. "That is not the point."
"It kind of is, though." Jordan''s voice is still raspy, but they lean forward slightly. "We proved there are sleeper agents in the school. We proved how dangerous they are. Doesn''t that matter more than whether we followed proper procedure?"
"What matters," Heckerman says, "is that I cannot allow students to repeatedly endanger themselves and others, regardless of their intentions."
He picks up a thick folder--my disciplinary file, probably--and lets it thump onto his desk. "Ms. Small, you were explicitly warned about further incidents. You were told that any more altercations would result in immediate expulsion."
My stomach drops. My mom''s hand tightens on my shoulder.
"By the letter of our policies," he continues, "by every zero-tolerance rule in this district, you should both be expelled. Immediately. No appeals."
Jordan starts to say something, but Heckerman holds up a hand.
"However," he breathes. "However," he repeats, "I am capable of understanding context. And Officer Nguyen''s report makes it clear that your actions, while reckless and unauthorized, likely prevented serious harm."
He leans back in his chair, looking suddenly very tired. "So. One week suspension. Both of you. And detention three times a week for the remainder of the school year."
Jordan perks up. "Wait, that''s it?"
"That''s not it," Heckerman says. "You''ll both be required to meet with the school counselor weekly. You''ll write formal apologies to the staff for disrupting school operations. And you will maintain perfect attendance in those detentions, or we will revisit the question of expulsion. Is that clear?"
My dad starts to say something - I''m not sure what - but my mom cuts him off. "That''s more than fair."
"Mom--"
"No, Sam." She squeezes my shoulder again. "You''re lucky. You know you''re lucky. Take the suspension."
Jordan shifts in their chair, wincing slightly. "So when you say suspension--"
"I mean suspension, Mr. Westwood. Not vacation. Not extra time to cause trouble. Your teachers will provide assignments. You will complete them. And you will not use this time to plan any more... demonstrations."
"But--"
"And you," my mom cuts in, "should be thinking very carefully about the target you just painted on yourself."
Jordan blinks. "What?"
"If this Rogue Wave organization is real--if they''re really as dangerous as you just proved they are--you just made yourself their enemy. Very publicly." She glances at the bruises on Jordan''s throat. "Maybe spending some time where there are actual security guards isn''t the worst idea."
"The non-mind-controlled kind," my dad mutters.
Heckerman ignores that. "As for you, Ms. Small." He fixes me with a look that could probably strip paint. "I cannot enforce this, but I strongly recommend that your parents keep you at home for the duration of your suspension. You shouldn''t be out there looking for trouble when trouble will almost certainly be looking for you."
"What?" I start to protest, but my parents are already nodding. "What about Jordan?"
"I am technically homeless," Jordan points out.
Heckerman does a double take, and then swallows it down. "We''ll talk about that later."
"Don''t worry about it," Jordan mutters, waving him away. "My adoptive parents are trying to get a word in edgewise," they mumble off into a silent ellipses, glancing towards my mom and dad.
"We''ve tried being understanding," my mom says. "We''ve tried to work with your... extracurricular activities. But this has to stop."
"I was helping--"
"You were lucky," my dad cuts in. "Again. But luck runs out, Sam. And I don''t care what''s happening in this city--you are not getting a felony on your record before you graduate high school. Once you''ve got your diploma, you can... I mean, I can''t promise anything. You should go to college. But if you want to register and make... this your full-time business, I won''t stop you."
"The detentions will limit your patrol time," my mom adds, her voice gentler but still firm. "Which, I mean, I-- I mean... Good! You shouldn''t be patrolling. Yes, you did the right thing today. But there were smarter ways to handle this. Ways that didn''t involve putting yourself or others at risk."
I slump in my chair. I want to argue. Want to point out that we exposed a serious threat, that we probably saved lives, that sometimes you have to act fast and deal with the consequences later.
But I look at Jordan, still trembling slightly from the taser, their throat marked with evidence of how wrong this could have gone. Look at my parents, their faces tight with worry. Look at Heckerman, who''s probably wondering if his school is full of sleeper agents ready to snap at any moment.
"Fine," I mutter. "House arrest. Whatever."
Jordan opens their mouth, probably to say something that''ll get us both in more trouble, but Heckerman cuts them off again.
"Against my better judgement, we will... utilize your methods, Westwood, to ensure that no compromised security guards are handling watching the two of you in detention," Heckerman says, and Jordan''s eyes light up like they just won the lottery.
"I will now accept literally any punishment you deign fit now, my liege," Jordan babbles, 110% sincere.
"And, Mr. and Mrs. Small, I will speak with the board to see what resources are available to ensure the security of your home. It''s not exactly the place of a school to be doing this, and I don''t want your daughter and her friend to think I am rewarding their behavior," Heckerman says flatly, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. "But. I did not make it forty years being a school principal in this God damn city''s public school system by being an idiot. Because the next incident--if there is a next incident--will result in immediate expulsion and transferal to another school. I don''t care if you''re fighting aliens or saving the president. Six students were lit on fire only a couple months ago. Including you, Samantha."
I want to protest. The words "that''s not my fault" form in my throat, but Heckerman''s glower pierces my skull like an acupuncture needle.
"Other students are beginning to withdraw from the school. Parents are informing us that, even with the increased security measures, they do not feel safe enrolling their children in the next school year. Every withdrawn student due to these superhuman incidents reduces our budget, which reduces the amount of security, and resources, and books, that we can provide to the rest of the student body. This is not a novel or a comic book. This is real life. There are second, and third, and fourth order effects to consider. Nothing happens in isolation, including your heroics."
I look down at my feet, unable to muster any sort of defiant response, or really a response at all. My mom squeezes my shoulder, but it feels placating, insincere.
"We''re done here," he says, cold but clearly not uncaring. "Go home. Both of you. Think about the consequences of your actions. And be very, very grateful that you''re getting a second chance."
He pauses, then adds, "Or in your case, Ms. Small, a fourth chance."
I can''t really argue with that either.
Chapter 159.3
I drop my backpack by the door and step inside like I''m crossing the threshold into a new, worse reality. Which, technically, I am. The reality where I''m grounded, suspended, and under house arrest because I choked out a security guard in the middle of the cafeteria.
I mean. Technically, I prevented a murder. But sure, let''s focus on the part where I put a grown man to sleep in front of half the school.
Mom doesn''t say anything when I walk in. Just points toward the stairs like she''s casting a curse, silent and efficient. I sigh dramatically--because if I''m getting sent to my room, I''m at least making it clear I''m suffering--and trudge upstairs, taking my time.
The second I shut my door, I exhale.
The room still feels like my room, but there''s little reminders that I''m not the only one living here. Kate''s fold-out desk in the corner, stacked with schoolwork. A small array of nail polishes lined up on the inflatable bed, sorted by shade like she spent actual time considering them. A faint smell of nail polish remover lingers in the air, mixing weirdly with the remnants of whatever deodorant I threw on this morning.
She''s not here right now, which isn''t weird. Kate is frequently not here - but I''m also frequently not here, and it occurs to me that I don''t actually know how often she''s gone.
I sit on my bed, pressing my hands into the mattress, feeling the weird, unsettling weight of having nowhere to be. My body is restless, still keyed up from everything that happened today, still running hot like there''s another fight coming.
Instead, I get to sit here and stare at my ceiling and think about the fact that Jordan is probably thrilled right now, because my suspension means I''m going to have more time to work with them. They definitely think this is a win. Except it isn''t, because my parents are enforcing a hard curfew. I''ve made them mad, sure. I''ve disappointed them. But this is different. I saw it in my mom''s face, the set of her jaw, the way her hands kept flexing like she wanted to hold onto something.
And I don''t know what to do with that.
I kick off my shoes, pull out my phone, and start scrolling mindlessly, letting the familiar, comfortable flow of useless information carry me for a while. I don''t even think about schoolwork. Schoolwork is a Future Sam Problem.
I don''t even hear Kate come home.
The door creaks open just slightly, enough that I catch movement from the corner of my eye. I glance up, and there she is--standing in the doorway like she''s just as surprised to see me as I am to see her, smelling faintly like laundry.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
"Oh," she says.
"You''re here for once," I say, tossing my phone onto my pillow.
Kate steps inside, kicking the door closed behind her, shrugging off her bag. "You haven''t moved out yet?" she shoots back, perfectly deadpan.
I huff. "Turns out my parents like me too much to let me be homeless."
Kate snorts, but it''s the kind of snort that means she''s actually amused, not just being polite. She drops onto her inflatable bed, and it groans under her weight like a dying whale. She ignores it, pulling off her hoodie and tossing it onto the floor.
I look at the little rows of nail polish lined up on her desk. "You getting into nails, or just stealing colors from other people?"
Kate stretches out, cracking her knuckles. "Nah, just bored. And I figured, if I''m stuck living here, I should at least have something to do besides exist in your space."
I watch her for a second. She looks tired. Like actually tired, not just bored.
"Still planning on moving out?" I ask.
Kate exhales through her nose. "Trying. But..." She makes a vague gesture, like she''s drawing an invisible question mark in the air. "Turns out the money my dad got wasn''t enough. Even though it was a lot."
Something unsettles in my chest. "I thought it was supposed to cover everything."
"So did we." Kate pulls one of her nails between her teeth, frowning. "We don''t know if we''re gonna get any more of those... anonymous benefactors."
I do not like the way she says that.
"You don''t know who paid you?"
"Nope. Neither does my dad."
"That''s... sketchy."
"Yeah, no shit."
I glance at her. She''s not looking at me.
Kate has always been hard to read, but this is something else. She''s thinking about something. Holding something back.
But before I can start poking at that, I remember the other, infinitely more insane thing that happened today.
"I got suspended from school," I announce.
Kate turns her head slightly, giving me the kind of look that says she''s debating whether or not to care.
"You wanna hear about it?"
There''s a beat of silence.
Then, Kate sighs and shifts, sitting up, crossing her legs. "Fine," she says. "Go ahead. Give me the highlight reel."
I lean back against the wall, stretching my arms overhead. "So. You know Jordan, right?"
Kate rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I know Jordan."
"Yeah, so Jordan decided they needed to single-handedly flush out any Rogue Wave sleeper agents in our school. And their plan was to fake being a supervillain in front of the entire cafeteria."
Kate actually looks interested now. "They what."
"Oh, yeah. Got up on a lunch table, started yelling about working for the Kingdom of Keys, did some flashy-ass power demonstration, then just stood there waiting to get murked."
Kate stares at me. "Are they, like. Okay?"
"No."
Kate snorts again. "And you got suspended because...?"
I wave a hand vaguely. "Oh, you know, just putting a security guard in a chokehold until he passed out."
Kate doesn''t react right away. Just blinks once. Slowly.
Then she laughs.
Not like a polite, that''s funny kind of laugh. A real laugh.
I narrow my eyes. "What?"
"You--" Kate shakes her head, still laughing. "You just can''t stop getting in fights, huh?"
Chapter 160.1
I am officially losing my mind.
I am sprawled out on my bed, back against the wall, laptop balanced on my stomach, watching the emergency city council session like it¡¯s some kind of slow-motion train wreck. The room feels smaller than usual, like the walls are creeping in by millimeters, like my suspension is physically altering the space around me. I can¡¯t leave. I can¡¯t do anything. I am stuck. And outside of this room, people who don¡¯t know what they¡¯re doing are about to make decisions that are going to screw everything up even worse.
On-screen, the council chamber is packed, and everybody looks exactly like I feel¡ªexhausted, wired, vaguely nauseous. There¡¯s a long wooden table, arranged with perfect, fussy symmetry, nameplates, water bottles, microphones, all meticulously placed so that everything looks just right for the cameras. There are fourteen council members total, which is too many people for a table like this, so a couple of them are visibly craning their necks to stay in the frame. They don¡¯t matter. Only three of them are going to say anything worth listening to.
Councilman Ward starts. He looks like he was drawn from memory based on the words "senior law enforcement official," the kind of guy who probably uses the phrase "law and order" unironically. He clears his throat into the mic, folds his hands together, and leans forward like he¡¯s about to deliver a eulogy.
"This council has always prioritized public safety. What we saw yesterday was an attack¡ªon our city, on our institutions, and on the people we are sworn to protect. The use of the emergency alert system to spread terror is unprecedented. The infiltration of our communications infrastructure is a violation of every principle we stand for." He lets that sit for a second, like it¡¯s the kind of thing that could stand on its own without being backed up by literally any specifics.
Then he exhales, shaking his head just enough to be visible. "I want to be absolutely clear. We will not allow fear to dictate our actions. We will not be intimidated. We are in control of this city, and we will act decisively to ensure nothing like this ever happens again."
I roll onto my side and press my forehead into my pillow for exactly two seconds before forcing myself back up. I already knew it was going to be like this, but hearing it out loud is making my ribs ache again.
Davis is next - the one I like, the adult in the room. He has to sound responsible. Measured. Ready to handle the superhuman situation. That''s his job, after all.
"We owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to the first responders who acted quickly to ensure the public''s safety. I also want to acknowledge the civilian eyewitnesses who provided crucial information, ensuring law enforcement could act effectively. This city has always been resilient, but we cannot afford to be complacent. The presence of metahuman organizations operating outside the law presents an ongoing security concern, and yesterday¡¯s events illustrate the importance of continued coordination between registered heroes and law enforcement."
He pauses, his expression shifting just slightly, like he¡¯s trying to find the next set of words without accidentally revealing what he actually thinks. "That said, while we must remain vigilant, we must also remember that not all metahumans are our enemies. Rogue Wave does not represent the hero community. It does not represent the future of this city. But if we do not act with clarity and purpose, we risk allowing others to define that future for us."
Jordan would have a field day with this. The careful threading of the needle. The unspoken but obvious suggestion that some metahumans might be a problem. The studied neutrality of it all. He¡¯s trying not to tip the scales too hard, because if he does, the press will be on him like vultures.
Then, finally, Maya Richardson.
She¡¯s been sitting still this whole time, not reacting, not shifting, just waiting for the other two to get their words in before she takes over. And when she does, it¡¯s like the energy in the room changes, not because she¡¯s loud¡ªshe¡¯s not¡ªbut because she knows how to make people listen.
"What we saw yesterday was not simply a disruption. It was a declaration of war." She says it evenly, like it¡¯s just a fact, something as simple and obvious as it¡¯s raining outside. "Rogue Wave is not a gang. They are not criminals in the way we have traditionally understood them. They are an insurgency. They are organized, they are ideological, and they have just demonstrated that they are willing to use any means necessary to push their agenda. This is not a problem that can be addressed with conventional enforcement methods alone. If we are to meet this threat, we must be prepared to think differently. To act differently."
She pauses. Just long enough for the weight of it to settle.
"I will not stand here and pretend that we can solve this problem overnight. But I can promise that we will not sit idly by while our city is threatened. This afternoon, we will be holding a press conference to introduce a new initiative, one designed to meet this challenge head-on. We will not wait for the next attack. We will not allow criminal organizations to dictate the terms of engagement. This city belongs to its people. And we will take it back."
My fingers curl tight into the blanket. Here it comes. The Kingdom fights back through her.
Ward leans back in his seat, nodding sagely, like she just confirmed something he already knew. "We¡¯ll now open the floor to questions from the press," he announces, gesturing broadly at the rows of reporters packed into the chamber. Immediately, hands shoot up.
"Councilwoman Richardson¡ª" A woman in the front row speaks first, her voice crisp, professional. "You said this initiative will involve acting preemptively against criminal organizations. Does this mean we¡¯ll see an escalation of law enforcement activity against suspected Rogue Wave operatives?"
"Law enforcement will continue to do its job," Richardson replies smoothly. "But it is clear that we need a broader approach¡ªone that does not rely solely on reactive policing."
A man in the second row cuts in, voice sharp. "Can you confirm reports that Rogue Wave has infiltrated local security firms or the police department?"Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Richardson doesn¡¯t blink. "We are investigating all possibilities. At this time, we have found no conclusive evidence to suggest large-scale infiltration. However, we are not dismissing the possibility."
Another journalist, younger, leans forward. "There are concerns about the legality of any preemptive measures. Will these actions involve extrajudicial force?"
Davis is the one who answers this time, his voice measured. "We are committed to upholding the law. Any initiative we introduce will be fully compliant with all applicable regulations and oversight mechanisms."
Jordan would be dying laughing right now. Fully compliant. Like that means anything.
A fourth reporter stands. "Can you confirm the identities of the individuals involved in the Rogue Wave transmission? Are they still in custody?"
Ward clears his throat. "The individuals used in the broadcast were identified as two low-level drug offenders with no prior violent history. They were subjected to coercion and did not act of their own free will. Both individuals are currently in custody, and negotiations are ongoing regarding their legal status."
"Negotiations," I mutter, closing my eyes. Meaning they haven¡¯t figured out whether they¡¯re going to prosecute the people who were literally used as puppets.
The questions keep coming. The answers keep being exactly what they were meant to be¡ªcalm, measured, saying nothing while sounding like they¡¯re saying everything. And I sit here, stuck in my room, my hands clenched into my blanket, feeling the world move without me.
This afternoon, Richardson¡¯s going to announce whatever this is. This afternoon, the city changes again.
I eat my grilled cheese while watching the press conference, and it¡¯s the worst grilled cheese I¡¯ve ever had, even though it¡¯s actually fine. Probably because it¡¯s accompanied by the slow, gut-churning realization that I am watching history happen, and I can¡¯t do a damn thing about it.
The screen is filled with carefully arranged optics. Richardson is at the podium, framed by the kind of government-seal backdrop that makes everything look official and inevitable. Behind her, four heroes stand like chess pieces¡ªPatriot, stiff as ever; Turbo Jett, practically vibrating out of her skin; Miasma, lurking at the edge of the stage, unreadable behind his hoodie and hazmat suit; and someone new.
He¡¯s big. Broad. Black. The kind of person whose sheer presence demands space, even though he doesn¡¯t seem to be doing much to take it. A long duster over slacks, domino mask, a hat pulled low over his face. And a scarf¡ªa big, red scarf that seems to just exist in a constant state of dramatic billowing, even though there¡¯s no wind. I don¡¯t know him, which immediately makes me nervous.
Miasma being here also makes me nervous, but in a different way. I¡¯d worked with him before, back when things were¡ well, not simpler, because things were never simple, but at least the lines felt clearer. And now he¡¯s standing behind Richardson like a soldier at attention.
Something about this doesn¡¯t sit right.
Richardson grips the edges of the podium like she¡¯s grounding herself, scanning the cameras and reporters in the crowd. She¡¯s good at this. She doesn¡¯t have a single hair out of place, her expression is perfectly controlled, and when she speaks, it¡¯s with the kind of deliberate weight that makes people lean in. "Philadelphia is under siege."
I swallow a too-hot bite of grilled cheese and immediately regret it.
"For too long, we have watched as criminal organizations have embedded themselves into the fabric of our city. We have watched the Jump epidemic spiral out of control. We have watched gang wars escalate. We have watched as superhuman violence has spilled into our schools, our streets, our neighborhoods." She pauses. Just long enough. "And we have watched our systems fail to stop it."
I feel a weird, crawling itch under my skin. She¡¯s not wrong. Not really. That¡¯s the problem. The best lies are built on something true.
"We have tried waiting," she continues. "We have tried asking. We have tried trusting the system to fix itself. But crime should not outpace justice."
Patriot doesn¡¯t move, doesn¡¯t react, just stands there like a marble statue while she says it. I wonder what¡¯s going through his head.
"We will not wait for another mass tragedy. We do not have time to wait for the bureaucracy to catch up to superhuman crime."
She¡¯s pacing herself, letting each sentence land. Setting up the pivot. "This is not just a policing matter. This is a war. And wars are not won by standing still."
She exhales, slow, measured, and then straightens, shoulders squared. "We need action. And that is why I am proud to introduce the next phase in Philadelphia¡¯s security¡ªArgus Corps."
I set my plate down too hard, rattling the laptop.
"Argus Corps is the answer to this crisis. A specialized, government-sanctioned task force dedicated to eliminating the infrastructure that allows these criminal networks to thrive. We do not wait. We do not ask permission. We go in, and we take what we need."
I close my eyes for half a second.
"We do not believe in being reactive. We believe in preemptive deterrence. That means identifying threats before they happen. That means using intelligence, not just force. That means ensuring that criminals have nowhere to hide."
Oh, they workshopped the hell out of that one. Nobody wants to say "extrajudicial force" out loud. Sounds bad when you say it out loud. So you dress it up, make it sound smart, reasonable, like the only logical choice.
Richardson gestures behind her. "The heroes standing with me today are among the first members of this initiative. Some of you already know them. Some of you will soon." She moves her hand slightly, indicating her four pet superheroes. "Patriot, Turbo Jett, Captain Devil, and Miasma. These are our founding members, but we will be looking to bolster our numbers soon."
Captain Devil. Sounds like a minor league baseball team mascot.
Turbo Jett visibly rocks on her heels, practically daring someone to ask her something so she can explode about it. Miasma doesn¡¯t move at all. I want to know what he¡¯s thinking.
Richardson presses forward. "Now, I want to be clear about what Argus Corps is, and what it is not."
This is the part where she heads off the pushback.
"We are not here to police the innocent. We are not here to register every powered individual, nor criminalize those who have done no wrong. We are here to eliminate the structures that allow crime to flourish. We are here to remove the barriers that prevent law enforcement from acting decisively. We are here to ensure that this city does not fall into the hands of those who would see it burn."
She lets that sit. Lets people imagine exactly what "those who would see it burn" means. Lets them fill in the blanks with whatever they¡¯re most afraid of.
"The people who sell Jump & Fly, Rogue Wave and the Kingdom of Keys, those who hide in the shadows¡ªthey are watching this broadcast too." Her voice dips, just slightly. "And they are afraid."
The camera zooms in just a little, like it knows this is the moment.
"If you are one of them, if you think you can hide¡ªyou can¡¯t. We see everything. And we are coming."
The screen holds for half a second before the Q&A starts, reporters launching into their questions. I hear many, many people shouting the name Patriot, not in a good way, before the crowd of journalists is hushed down into a polite, orderly silence. Maya nods to one of them, and I miss the question over the sound of crunching toasted bread, but not the response.
"While we''re aware of the allegations surrounding Patriot, you can rest assured that he is being kept on an extremely short leash. All of them are. The Argus Corps will be how they make amends and better their communities - all people deserve that much, if they''re willing to do good by society."
I shut my laptop and scream into my pillow.
It doesn¡¯t help.
Chapter 160.2
I''m back on my bed, but this time, I''m not watching the news. I''m holding a tiny, broken piece of mechanical pencil lead in my palm, staring at it like it holds the secrets of the universe.
This was supposed to be smart. This was supposed to be clever. I spent actual, valuable brain cells positioning it just so in the hinge of our bedroom door, wedged so delicately that even the slightest motion would snap it. It was supposed to tell me if Kate came home while I was asleep.
And now, staring at the tiny, pitifully broken fragment in my hand, I realize: I have learned absolutely nothing. Because, yes, obviously, Kate came home. I can see her. She is literally right there, asleep in bed, breathing in and out, completely unbothered by my incredible detective work and MacGuyvered spycraft. Wow. Amazing. Fantastic. What an absolutely crucial breakthrough.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and groan.
This is so stupid.
I keep doing this--coming up with these clever, convoluted little ways to outsmart reality, but when the dust settles, I''m left holding useless scraps of information that don''t actually help me. It''s like--like, I can assemble this massive conspiracy wall in my head, linking together all the little pieces of evidence, but I can''t get the damn thumbtacks to stay in the corkboard.
Because here''s what I do know.
-
Kate is always out. I don''t know where she goes, but she''s not here most nights. And she''s quiet about it. Not sneaky, exactly--just precise. A person who''s used to getting around unnoticed.
-
Kate has painted nails. Not shocking. But so does Soot. And they''re both white, lily white. Like, their skin, not their nails. Sure, Kate''s nails aren''t the same color as Soot''s last time I saw Soot, and Kate doesn''t have that shade of pink in her lineup, but couldn''t she just have painted over them?
-
Soot and Kate have never existed in the same place at the same time. And yes, okay, that''s the kind of logic that makes conspiracy theorists look stupid, but still. It''s a pattern.
-
Liam got money, a ton of money, from "anonymous benefactors in the community". I don''t know why. I don''t know from who. But it came exactly when Soot started working the city.
-
Kate nearly died in a house fire from smoke inhalation. And then a new vigilante, who controls smoke, appeared. Wow! Crazy.
It''s all right there. It''s been right there for weeks, but I''ve been too busy running at full sprint to actually sit down and process it. And now that I finally have time--now that I''m stuck in this room with nothing but my own thoughts--I can''t shake the feeling that I am so close to the answer, like a name on the tip of my tongue. I''m not stupid. I''m not oblivious.
I just need proof. I need one undeniable, concrete piece of evidence that I can confront her with and then I can move on with my life. Instead, I have... a piece of broken pencil lead. I let out another groan and flop onto my back. The ceiling stares back at me in judgment. I really thought that was going to work?
My phone buzzes next to me, shaking me out of my spiral. I glance at the screen:
Maggie:
You ever see Misery?
I frown and type back.
Me:
The book or the movie?
Maggie:
Either. You''re Annie Wilkes. The pencil lead thing is the taped hair on the door handle.
I scowl at my phone.
Me:
I''m not about to hobble Kate for going outside.
Maggie:
Just saying. I bet she''d hate that you''re doing this.
Me:
Then she should stop being suspicious.
Maggie:
LMAO okay. I''ll let her know.
I let my phone drop onto my chest, exhaling sharply. It''s not like I want to be doing this. It''s just--if Kate is Soot, and I don''t figure it out before things get worse, how am I supposed to live with that? This whole sequence of events is my fault. She wouldn''t have been Soot - if she is - if Aaron never came back for revenge.
I roll onto my side and scroll absently through my messages. Jordan, naturally, has sent ten different voice messages to the group chat in the last hour, none of which I am going to listen to. Instead, I just type:
Me:
I hate being on house arrest.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Jordan:
If I had a dollar for every time you texted me that, I''d have enough to bail you out of house arrest.
Me:
I tried a whole clever surveillance trick and got literally nothing.
Jordan:
Oh my god are you overcomplicating things again
Me:
Shut up.
Jordan:
Just set up your laptop camera.
I blink.
Me:
???
Jordan:
Point it at the door. Leave it running overnight.
Me:
G-d damnit.
Jordan:
You''re mad you didn''t think of it first.
I purse my lips. I refuse to admit this.
By the time I actually start setting up my laptop, I have fully committed.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, screwdriver in hand, carefully prying open the screen casing. I am thorough. I am not an amateur. I know that everything that records stuff has the little red light. I don''t need Kate getting suspicious about a weird little glowing dot in the dark. Once I manage to wedge a tiny square of electrical tape inside, I carefully snap the screen back into place and lean back, satisfied. No indicator light. No way to tell it''s recording.
This is the kind of stuff that makes my neurons do a happy little jig. I think Diane would be proud of me. I set the laptop up on my desk, angle the camera toward the door, and open the recording software. The preview window stares back at me--a grainy, low-light image of my room, the door just barely in frame.
I click record.
And then I get into bed, roll over, and sleep like a dumbass.
Thursday morning comes with an uninteresting shade of grey. I sit up, stretch, and reach for my laptop with entirely too much confidence.
Click. Open the file. That''s weird, why did it stop recording on its own? I press play.
For thirty solid minutes, my empty room stares back at me. Then--black screen.
I blink. Click around. The recording stops after half an hour exactly. I think in my heart I already know what happened, but I don''t want to think it too loud. Slowly, I go to my power settings.
Power saver mode: enabled. Auto-sleep after 30 minutes of inactivity.
I stare at it. I close my laptop. I bury my face in my hands.
I''m flipping between my homework and my actual work, which means I am getting neither done.
The spreadsheet on my laptop is half-filled with timestamps and location markers, cross-referenced with news alerts, group chat messages, and Mappo''s online GPS. I should be working on my math homework, but every time I try, I end up tabbing back to the spreadsheet.
It''s fine. It''s productive procrastination. At least I''m not just staring at the wall. I''m calculating the maximum range of travel time between our house and the last confirmed Soot sighting when I hear a knock on my door.
I stiffen instinctively, but force myself to exhale through my nose, keeping my expression neutral.
"Yeah?"
Dad steps inside, casual but deliberate, and without even glancing at the screen, I already know he clocked that I wasn''t actually doing homework. I also know he''s not here to call me on it. Not yet. He doesn''t sit at my desk or lean against the doorframe. Instead, he crosses the room and sits on my bed--next to me, not across from me, which means this isn''t going to be a lecture. He''s signaling something else.
I keep typing, keeping my attention locked on the screen. If I don''t look at him, maybe he''ll change his mind and leave. No such luck.
"You look busy," he says, voice even.
"Homework," I reply automatically.
There''s a pause. Not the judging kind--more like he''s giving me a chance to correct myself. I don''t.
"And how''s that going?"
"Same as always," I say, still not looking at him.
He doesn''t push. He doesn''t pry. He just waits, and I hate how effective it is. Finally, after way too long, he exhales and says, "You know, I was your age once."
I glance at him, skeptical, no longer typing. "No offense, but you were in school before smartphones, so."
He snorts. "Before superhumans, too," he says. I smirk a little, but the humor doesn''t stick, because when I look back at him, he isn''t smiling anymore. "Which means I had less to worry about," he says.
I set my laptop aside. "Okay. What''s this actually about?"
"It''s about how you''ve been acting," he says. "Not just lately. For a while now."
I sit cross-legged, watching him, already braced for whatever he thinks he''s figured out. I''m sure he''s got a perfect read on me - not. He sighs, rubbing his hands together, choosing his words carefully. "When I was your age, I thought adults had everything figured out. That there was some point where you wake up and just... know how to handle things. But you don''t. You fake it, and hope no one notices. Hell, I''m-- you know, I''m old, but I still feel like I''m 18 and just going through the motions. Once you reach a certain point that''s just you now."
I brace for impact while he glances at me. "The problem is, you don''t even try to fake it."
I frown. "What does that mean?"
He holds my gaze, voice steady. "It means you act like someone who doesn''t expect to be around long enough to have to figure it out."
Something tightens in my chest. I cross my arms. "I''m not planning to die, Dad."
"No," he agrees. "You just act like it wouldn''t be a problem if you did."
I exhale through my nose, annoyed. Frustrated. This is--it''s not like that. It''s not.
"I''m not throwing myself in front of bullets for fun," I snap. "I just--this stuff needs to get done. I can do it. So why wouldn''t I?"
"Because that''s not how you see other people," he says, his response immediate.
I blink. "What?"
Dad leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice calm but firm. "If Jordan got hurt like you did fighting Chernobyl, you''d be losing your mind. If I threw myself into traffic because someone had to do it, you''d be furious."
He doesn''t wait for me to respond--just keeps pushing, keeps pressing.
"But when it''s you? When you''re the one getting hurt? It''s just--next thing, next problem, move on."
I look away, fingers curling into the fabric of my sweatpants.
It''s not the same. Jordan--Dad--they''re not me. They don''t have this, the way I do. I can take it. I can handle it. "That''s different," I say.
"How?"
"Because I can come back," I snap.
Dad exhales through his nose. "That''s not an answer. You weren''t just in a coma," he says after a beat. "You missed months of your life."
I go rigid. I don''t want to talk about this.
"How much do you even remember from last year, February? The spring?" he asks, and it''s--he''s not asking it like a gotcha, like a trap. He''s asking it like he already knows what I''m going to say.
I set my jaw. "I was recovering."
"No," Dad says, quieter. "You were waiting."
Something in my stomach twists.
"You weren''t recovering. You weren''t healing. You were just waiting until you could get back in the fight." He hesitates, watching me, then says, "And I think that''s the part that scares me."
I cross my arms, bristling. I hate this. I hate how he''s framing it like I--like I don''t care. "So what," I mutter. "I''m supposed to just sit back and let other people take the hit? How is that fair?"
Dad''s quiet for a long moment. Then, voice low, he says; "You''re not supposed to pretend the hit doesn''t matter."
He doesn''t move. He doesn''t stand up, doesn''t act like this conversation is over. He''s still on my bed, still waiting for me to actually hear him. I pick at my sleeve, jaw tight. I want to tell him he''s wrong. I want to tell him this is stupid, that I know what I''m doing, that I''ve already thought about all of this and none of it changes anything.
Chapter 160.3
Dad doesn''t push me for an answer. He just lets the words hang between us, like he''s waiting to see if I''ll sit with them long enough to hear what he''s actually saying instead of what I want to argue with. I don''t. Not out loud, anyway.
I pull my knees up, arms looped around them, staring at the laptop screen like I can will myself back into caring more about triangulating Kate''s movements than whatever this is supposed to be. But it''s not working, because Dad''s still here, still sitting on my bed like he actually means it, like this isn''t just a speech he rehearsed with Mom before coming in here.
I don''t know what I was expecting. Maybe some version of the same old argument: Sam, you have to stop getting into fights, you''re going to get expelled, what do you think is going to happen when you graduate, blah blah blah, real life isn''t a comic book. But that''s not what this is. He''s not lecturing. He''s just looking at me, carefully, like he''s trying to make sure I''m still hearing him.
"You''re smart," he says, finally. "And you remind me a lot of your Pop-Pop."
That makes me look up, because that''s not usually how this conversation goes. Pop-Pop Moe is the one who lets me get away with things, who thinks my superheroics are fine, actually, because I''m good at them and I have a strong moral compass and someone has to do the hard things in this world, so why shouldn''t it be me?
Dad sighs, rubbing his hands together like he''s working out how to put something delicate into words. "Your Pop-Pop is the smartest man I''ve ever met. He designed things that hold back floods. He ran calculations in his head that would take other engineers hours. And he had to be right, every time. Because if he wasn''t, people died. Horvath-Small Ltd. is one of the best in the industry, and I don''t say that just because he''s my dad. He''s really, just very good at what he does, which is extremely complicated mathematics designed to withstand the worst conditions this planet can throw at it. And, in his lifetime, that also started including superhumans."
I don''t say anything. I know all this. I''ve heard the stories.
Dad leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So in his world, the answer was always obvious. If something''s broken, you fix it. If something''s wrong, you correct it. That''s how he thinks. That''s how he sees the world." He looks at me, eyes sharp. "And that''s how you see it too, isn''t it?"
I keep my face neutral, but I know he''s right.
The thing is, I do see the world that way. It''s how I''ve always seen it. The rules are just there to be sorted out, the problems just need a solution. That''s how you deal with things. That''s how you get from point A to point B. You don''t sit around talking about how complicated it all is, you don''t wait for permission--you just do it. When I played soccer, planning was for the other kids. I just hit the ball into the net when it was passed to me, and I was great at it.
"But people aren''t equations," Dad says, before I can come up with an argument. "You can''t just brute-force solutions with enough effort. You can''t just decide that the problem has to give way to your determination. That''s not how it works."
I scowl, shifting my weight, arms still locked around my legs. "So what? You''re saying I should just give up? Walk away?"
Dad shakes his head. "No. I''m saying you should stop seeing yourself as the one acceptable cost."
I hate how calm he sounds. Like he''s not just making a point, but stating a fact I should have already understood.
"You want to change things?" he says, voice steady. "Then live long enough to see it through."
I scoff under my breath, looking away. "That''s easier said than done."
"I know."
Something in his voice makes me look back at him. He doesn''t sound frustrated. He doesn''t sound like he''s trying to win an argument. He just sounds... tired.
"I know you, Sam," he says. "You don''t just want to fix things. You want to fix everything, and you want it fixed now. You''re not patient. You don''t wait. You see a problem, and you go after it, and I--" He exhales sharply. "I get it. I do. But if you keep pushing yourself like this, if you keep treating yourself like you don''t matter, then you''re not going to get there."You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
I grit my teeth. "I don''t care if it''s hard."
Dad nods, like he was expecting that. "I know. But do you care if it''s impossible?"
My fingers tighten on my sleeves, because I don''t have a good answer for that.
Dad exhales again, rubbing the back of his neck. He''s done pushing. He''s said what he wanted to say. But before he leaves me with it, he reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, voice quieter now, more careful.
"I don''t have all the answers. Neither does Pop-Pop. If you want to talk to him, go ahead. Get his perspective. I''m sure he''ll tell you something different. I expect him to. But just... think about it, Sam. If you really want to win, then don''t make yourself easier to break than you have to be."
I don''t say anything.
Dad lets out a breath, nods to himself, and stands. "I''ll let you get back to your homework."
I roll my eyes, but don''t argue.
He heads for the door, and I listen to his footsteps as he goes downstairs, the sound disappearing into the background hum of the house.
The house is quiet in the way only a house full of sleeping people can be. There''s a certain weight to it, a stillness pressing against my ears, making my own movements feel too loud no matter how careful I am. The tiny click of my laptop waking up sounds like a gunshot in my room. My heart is already hammering like I''m about to pull off a heist instead of just hitting "record" on a camera.
This time, I make sure everything is actually set up right. Power settings adjusted. Screen brightness turned all the way down. Hard drive space double-checked. No stupid mistakes. No wasted time.
I tell myself it''s just an experiment. A little test. Nothing major. But I can already feel it gnawing at me, that crawling anticipation, that something is about to happen feeling I get right before a fight.
It''s ridiculous. I''m just recording my own bedroom door. It''s not like I''m about to catch a supervillain breaking into my house.
Or maybe I am.
I shove that thought down before it can get its teeth in me.
Instead, I turn my focus to the group chat, watching messages roll in from Jordan and the rest of the Auditors. They''ve been monitoring Soot sightings all night, trying to track anything relevant. So far, it''s mostly scattered reports--nothing concrete yet.
Jordan: one confirmed sighting at 11:40pm in Germantown. Gone by 12:20. No repeat sightings yet.
Maggie: good god do any of you sleep
Jordan: says the girl texting at 1am
Maggie: i have insomnia it''s different
Sam: did anyone see them leave? Or just disappear?
Jordan: vanished. just like last time.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I don''t reply. Just like last time. Every report about Soot ends the same way. No dramatic escapes. No lingering evidence. They just... stop being there.
Which means they have somewhere to be. I glance toward Kate''s side of the room. Her bed is empty, the covers barely disturbed. I swallow, ignoring the weird twisting feeling in my stomach, and flip the laptop towards the door. It''s fine. I''ll know in the morning.
I wake up before my alarm.
The sky outside is still more black than blue, the kind of early morning where the world feels like it hasn''t rebooted properly yet. I stare at the ceiling for exactly three seconds before my brain catches up with my body, and then I''m sitting up, reaching for my laptop with the urgency of someone checking for a test score they already know they bombed.
The screen flickers to life, and my stomach is in knots before I even press play.
Hours of nothing. My closed bedroom door, the hallway light spilling under the crack, the occasional flicker of shadows passing by. I fast-forward through it, eyes flicking between the screen and the timestamp. Midnight. 1 AM. 2 AM.
Then--at 3:04 AM--movement.
I hit pause. Rewind. Play it back in real time.
Kate steps inside, shutting the door behind her. She doesn''t turn on the light. She moves like she''s done this a hundred times before--silent, precise, no wasted motion. Slips out of her jacket, kicks off her shoes, disappears into bed like nothing happened.
I press my fingers against my mouth, breathing hard through my nose.
I don''t need to rewatch it. I already know.
Kate came back at 3 AM. The last confirmed sighting of Soot was at 12:20. I start doing the math. It''s pretty easy deductive reasoning, all things considered. If Kate leaves the house at 11 PM, and Soot is sighted between 11:30 and 12:20, then Kate is out during the same window that Soot is active. If Kate returns home at 3 AM, and Soot hasn''t been seen since 12:30, then that means Soot stopped while Kate was still out.
It doesn''t prove anything. Not technically. But we''re bumping up against the Batman problem. Are Kate and Soot ever seen in the same area? I rub my hands over my face, trying to untangle the buzzing mess of thoughts in my head.
I have no smoking gun. No footage of Kate in the costume - she doesn''t come home in a hoodie and her clothes don''t smell like anything. I''d know. No firsthand witness statement. Just a timeline that lines up too neatly, the way a fake alibi starts to unravel when you look too close.
And that''s the problem.
What if Kate just sneaks out for something else? What if Soot is someone else entirely? What if I say something, and it blows up in my face, and I lose the only chance I have to actually figure this out? Or, probably more importantly - great prioritization, Small - what if I destroy what''s left of our friendship? The, like, extremely tattered, strained threads that are already a baby''s breath away from snapping.
I press my fingers against my temples, breathing slow.
No.
I need more.
I shut my laptop quietly, scrunch my face up, and go back to bed.
MR.5
CONFIDENTIAL - INTERNAL USE ONLY
Proposal for the Formation of ARGUS CORPS
Prepared by: Maya Richardson, Councilwoman
Legal Review by: Katherine Huang, Esq.
Submitted to: National Superhuman Response Agency (NSRA), Office of Municipal Superhuman Affairs
1. Executive Summary
In response to the escalating threat posed by organized superhuman crime, particularly the activities of Rogue Wave, the Kingdom of Keys, and the proliferation of unauthorized Jump/Fly distribution, the City of Philadelphia seeks authorization for the formation of a specialized municipal task force: Argus Corps.
Argus Corps will operate as a Registered Superhuman Entity Organization (RSO) under the oversight of the NSRA, functioning as a preemptive security and intervention force dedicated to dismantling the infrastructure of superhuman criminal networks. Unlike traditional law enforcement and existing municipal RSOs such as the Delaware Valley Defenders (DVD), which primarily operate in disaster response and post-crime intervention, Argus Corps will focus on proactive disruption of criminal enterprises before they can manifest significant threats.
This initiative is proposed under the legal framework of NSRA Special Directive 14-B, allowing for the creation of nontraditional security assets in response to emergent threats. The Corps will also be structured in compliance with Municipal & State Law Enforcement Partnership Program (M-LEPP) statutes, granting it limited detention powers under state and local jurisdiction.
2. Purpose and Justification
A. The Rising Threat of Superhuman Crime
Superhuman criminal enterprises are expanding at an unprecedented rate, posing a direct challenge to conventional law enforcement. Data from the NSRA indicates:
- A 54% increase in metahuman-involved violent crimes over the last two years.
- An unprecedented rise in the distribution of illicit metahuman-enhancing substances (Jump/Fly).
- A growing presence of paramilitary-style organizations such as Rogue Wave and the Kingdom of Keys, which actively oppose law enforcement efforts.
Existing response strategies have proven insufficient, as these organizations leverage mobility, anonymity, and decentralized command structures to avoid detection and counteraction.
B. The Need for Proactive Security
Unlike the DVD and traditional law enforcement, Argus Corps will not wait for criminal actions to escalate. Its mandate is to identify, track, and neutralize superhuman criminal threats before they endanger public safety. Argus Corps will accomplish this through:
- Intelligence-led operations targeting key nodes in illicit superhuman infrastructure.
- Specialized tactical deployment for rapid intervention in developing threats.
- Proactive deterrence, ensuring that known offenders face immediate and overwhelming consequences.
This initiative fills an existing gap in municipal security by combining tactical capability, investigative intelligence, and direct action to protect Philadelphia from superhuman criminal networks.
3. Legal and Operational Framework
A. Oversight and Accountability
Argus Corps will operate under the direct supervision of Councilwoman Maya Richardson, with oversight provided by a designated municipal review board. Quarterly reports will be submitted to the NSRA Office of Municipal Superhuman Affairs, and all operations will be subject to external audit to ensure compliance with existing laws and policies.
Key compliance measures include:
- Mandatory Ethics & Performance Reviews (quarterly) for all Corps members.
- Strict Use of Force Protocols, with body-camera footage required for all engagements.
- Civilian Oversight Panel, empowered to review and recommend disciplinary actions.
B. Legal Authority
Under Municipal & State Law Enforcement Partnership Program (M-LEPP) provisions, Argus Corps members will be deputized with detainment but not arrest authority, as per traditional RSO standards.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
They will be empowered to:
- Engage and subdue active threats during criminal investigations.
- Detain individuals involved in superhuman criminal activity until law enforcement can process them.
- Seize illicit superhuman-enhancing substances and technology under emergency public safety mandates.
All detainment actions will be logged and reviewed by NSRA-affiliated legal advisors.
4. Personnel and Structure
A. Core Membership
Initial members of Argus Corps will be drawn from veteran metahumans with prior enforcement experience, including those with prior LUMA suspensions who are now eligible for reinstatement under the LUMA Reformation Initiative.
Founding RSE Members:
- Richard ¡°Patriot¡± Johnson ¨C Former military asset with peak human enhancements.
- Jasmine ¡°Turbo Jett¡± Perez ¨C High-speed movement specialist with thermodynamic resistance.
- Joshua ¡°Miasma¡± Pleasants ¨C Regenerative strategist specializing in chemical warfare deterrence.
- Andrew ¡°Captain Devil¡± Mitchell ¨C Supernatural sensory enhancement and telekinetic combat applications.
These individuals will be reinstated with strict operational conditions under NSRA and municipal law.
B. Civilian Oversight & Support Personnel
Argus Corps will employ a dedicated civilian support staff to manage logistics, intelligence, legal affairs, and medical triage. This staff will be composed of:
- Legal consultants to oversee detainment and evidence handling.
- Data analysts for intelligence-gathering and strategic planning.
- Emergency medical personnel for field triage and post-mission assessment.
- Dedicated dispatchers & operations management for coordination of time-sensitive missions.
5. Projected Outcomes & Risk Mitigation
A. Expected Outcomes
Argus Corps aims to achieve the following within its first operational year:
- 50% reduction in active superhuman gang presence within Philadelphia.
- Major disruption of Jump/Fly distribution networks.
- Capture or neutralization of 10+ high-priority superhuman criminal figures.
- Successful integration with municipal law enforcement operations.
B. Risk Management & Controversy Mitigation
Given the controversial nature of this initiative, risk mitigation is a key component. To address concerns:
- Strict Operational Transparency: Regular press briefings and public Q&A sessions.
- Civilian Oversight Board: Independent review panel for misconduct allegations.
- Rehabilitation & Redemption Narrative: Public messaging campaign emphasizing the role of Argus Corps members as "heroes seeking redemption."
6. Conclusion
The establishment of Argus Corps represents a necessary evolution in the fight against superhuman crime. By leveraging intelligence, rapid-response tactics, and an aggressive preemptive strategy, Philadelphia will become a hostile environment for metahuman criminal enterprises.
With the support of the NSRA, municipal leaders, and the Philadelphia community, Argus Corps will serve as the sword to the DVD¡¯s shield, ensuring that superhuman justice is no longer reactionary¡ªbut proactive.
We request immediate approval for the Argus Corps initiative, along with the appropriate licensing and operational clearances under the NSRA Special Directive 14-B.
Signed, Maya Richardson
Councilwoman, Philadelphia
Argus Corps Civilian Sponsor
Attachments:
- LUMA Reinstatement Petitions (Johnson, Perez, Pleasants, Mitchell)
- Projected Operational Budget & Staffing Plan
- NSRA Compliance & Oversight Framework Agreement
Chapter 161.1
Maggie is the first one to say it out loud.
"I''m losing my goddamn mind."
You said it first, sister. Just kidding. I said it first.
There''s a brief pause where I hear her mom yelling something in the background, and then a muffled, "Sorry, sorry--I''m losing my gosh darn mind," like that actually makes a difference.
"You''re turbo-grounded," I remind her, flopped sideways on my bed, phone balanced on my stomach, earphones in. "You''re not even supposed to be on HIRC right now. What, did you break into your router settings again?"
"I''m a political prisoner," Maggie declares, which is not an answer. "They''re denying me the right to free speech."
"They''re denying you the right to commit crimes," Jordan corrects, their voice scratchy over the mic. "Because, and I cannot stress this enough, you did get arrested."
"Was it a crime crime, though? Or was it just, like, a technicality?" Maggie argues, and I hear some rustling on her end. She''s probably on her bed, upside down, tossing a stress ball at the ceiling or something. "Like jaywalking. They only arrested me because they could."
"They arrested you because you violated city ordinance abolishing the idea of vigilantism," Jordan reminds her. "A fascist ordinance, but an ordinance nonetheless."
"Okay, but in my defense, that was--"
Lily cuts in before Maggie can get the rest out. "We can argue about this later, but right now, Argus Corps."
And just like that, the frustration that''s been simmering under my ribs all day ignites again.
"Yeah, let''s talk about Argus Corps," I say, pushing up on my elbows. "Let''s talk about how Maya Richardson somehow managed to rehabilitate Patriot''s image enough to shove him back onto a stage without the entire city throwing rotten fruit at him. Let''s talk about how she got Miasma standing next to him like we''re all just supposed to accept that now. I don''t give a shit about those other two but I''m sure I''ll hate them soon enough."
"That''s what''s really throwing me," Jordan says, and I can hear the frown in their voice. "Miasma''s not a sellout. He''s a paranoid wreck with a righteous streak a mile wide. And now he''s standing behind Maya Richardson?"
"And Patriot," I say again, just to make sure we''re all on the same page about how stupid this is.
There''s another silence. The kind that comes when everyone''s thinking the same thing but nobody really wants to be the first to say it. Eventually, Maggie exhales, long and frustrated.
"Okay, just--explain it to me," she says. "Like I''m a dumbass. I thought Miasma hated the NSRA. I thought he was all about tearing down the people who let Chernobyl off his leash. And now he''s taking orders from them?"
"He doesn''t just hate the NSRA," Jordan says, rubbing the bridge of their nose. "He''s got a whole universe of things he hates. Cops. The government. Capitalists. People who drink the wrong brand of bottled water. You name it, he''s got a conspiracy theory about it."
"Yeah, but his thing was anti-corruption," I say. "Like, aggressively. Like, went on an entire two-year campaign exposing coverups and cartel ties. He practically had a scoreboard. I don''t get how you go from ''I will personally tear down every institution with my bare hands'' to ''sign me up for the fascist goon squad'' in less than a year."
"Maybe he didn''t have a choice," Lily suggests. "What if they threatened him? Or blackmailed him? Maybe they''re holding something over his head."
"Like what?" I ask, because I cannot fathom a world where Joshua Pleasants, Miasma, would let himself get bullied into submission by anyone, let alone Patriot and Maya Richardson. "What do you even threaten a guy like that with? He lost everything already. He has no family, no money, no official identity. You can''t ruin his career because he doesn''t have one. He''s already a fugitive. His entire thing is burning bridges and never looking back."
Jordan hums like they''re considering it. "It''s weird, yeah," they admit. "Even after the NSRA thing. I mean, we know that was a setup, but the damage was real. They gutted his reputation. He can''t show his face anywhere without getting flagged. But if that was enough to break him, why now? Why suddenly pop up, perfectly rehabilitated, standing next to Patriot like nothing ever happened?"
"Maybe he actually believes in it," Maggie says, repeating Jordan''s earlier theory. "Maybe they just found a way to sell it to him in a way he could swallow. He''s all about prevention, right? About stopping bad things before they happen?"
The words sit heavy in the call.
I press my fingers into my temple, frustration bubbling under my ribs. "I swear to G-d," I mutter, "if they got him with the ''if you don''t, someone worse will'' speech, I''m gonna scream."
"That''s what''s scary about it, though," Jordan says, tone thoughtful. "Miasma''s not stupid. He''s actually really smart. And he''s careful. He doesn''t just get swept up in things. If he''s in, it''s because he wants to be in."This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
Lily makes a distressed noise. "But he knows what Patriot is! He knows what this looks like!"
"And maybe he doesn''t care," Jordan says. "Or maybe he does, but not in the way we expect."
I chew on my lip, watching the slow crawl of my laptop screen as I flip between tabs. My email inbox is still empty. No new responses. I have so many Freedom of Information requests pending and none of them are ever going to get approved.
"Whatever the reason," I say, "it''s still bad. Like, really bad. You heard the language Maya was using."
Maggie groans. "Yeah. ''Philadelphia is under siege,'' blah blah blah, ''we must take decisive action.'' I swear to Christ, every fascist on the planet reads from the same f--freakin'' playbook."
There''s a brief pause while her mom yells at her again for swearing, and then she comes back on, sounding only slightly winded.
"It''s not even subtle," I say. "They''re framing it like an invasion. Like the city''s been ''compromised'' and they have to ''take it back.''" I make air quotes with my fingers even though no one can see me. "It''s not about fighting crime, it''s about occupying territory."
"Which means they''re going to be looking for excuses," Jordan says, voice tight. "Maya''s got a very clear idea of what she thinks Philadelphia should look like."
"They''re gonna burn it out," I say, stomach twisting.
There''s another heavy silence.
"Okay," Lily says, voice small. "So what do we do?"
I look at my laptop screen again. At the empty inbox. At the paused press conference video, Maya''s face frozen mid-sentence. At Patriot, standing behind her, looking every inch the perfect soldier.
"Jordan," I say, because I need to get it out before I start overthinking it. "Jordan. I''m mad and I want to do something about it."
Jordan hums, unbothered, like this is a normal and expected statement from me. Which, okay, fair. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I say. "Isn''t there anything we can actually dig up about Argus Corps? This didn''t just come out of nowhere. They have, like... paperwork, right?"
"Of course they do," Jordan says, already typing. I can hear the clack clack clack of their keyboard over the voice chat. "Every registered superhuman team has public filings. It''s a government thing. They want accountability or whatever. You don''t even need to FOIA it."
I stare at my inbox, full of unopened Freedom of Information Act request responses, all politely informing me that my inquiries have been denied or are pending review for an indeterminate period of time.
"...Right," I say. "Totally knew that."
Jordan drops the link in chat.
"You''re kidding," I say.
"Nope," they say. "Maya actually filed this. She didn''t just wake up one day and decide she could start a superhuman black ops unit--she had to put it on paper."
I click the link immediately. It''s a municipal site, the kind of thing that looks like it hasn''t been updated since the early 2000s, complete with a broken header image and a sidebar that''s about fifty pixels too wide. But the PDF is real. It''s right there.
I open it.
I skim the first few paragraphs, already feeling my blood pressure rising. Proactive deterrence. Immediate and overwhelming consequences. Intelligence-led operations targeting key nodes in illicit superhuman infrastructure.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter.
"What?" Lily asks. I can hear the distant sound of a spoon clinking against a mug on her end.
"This is actually worse than I thought," I say. "Like, I knew it was going to be bad, but I didn''t know they were just gonna say the quiet part this loud."
"Give me the highlights," Maggie says. "I''m reading like, an elementary school speed right now."
Jordan beats me to it. "They''re not even pretending this is about anything but control. It''s not crime-fighting. It''s ''neutralizing'' and ''deterring'' anyone they think is a problem."
"Neutralizing?" Maggie repeats, voice going sharp. "Like... neutralizing-neutralizing?"
"They''re being very careful about their wording," Jordan says. "But yeah. They''re setting up something that exists to take out ''threats'' before they happen."
Lily lets out a long breath. "God."
Jordan keeps scrolling. "Oh, wow, look at this--controversy mitigation. They knew people were gonna freak out about this, so they put a whole PR strategy in the filing."
Maggie groans. "God, they workshopped the hell out of this. They couldn''t just say ''extrajudicial force'' so they put it in fancy corporate jargon."
"They even have a whole section about rehabilitation," Jordan says, and I can hear the disgust in their voice. "They''re selling this as Patriot''s redemption arc."
"Oh, come the fuck on," I say, shoving my hair out of my face. "I can''t believe they''re seriously trying to rehab him. After everything."
"It''s not just him," Jordan says. "They''re doing the same thing for all of them. Turbo Jett, Captain Devil, Miasma."
I chew my lip. Miasma still doesn''t make sense.
Lily hesitates. "Do you think maybe they''ve got something on him? Like, leverage?"
"Maybe," I say. "Or maybe they made him an offer he couldn''t refuse."
Nobody answers that.
Instead, we keep scrolling, picking out the most stomach-churning lines and throwing them back and forth. Strict Operational Transparency. Proactive deterrence ensures known offenders face immediate and overwhelming consequences. Civilian Oversight Panel.
It''s all carefully tailored to make something that is fundamentally horrifying sound reasonable.
I start to feel sick.
"We need to get eyes on their attached files," I say. "The stuff about their oversight. The reinstatement petitions. They didn''t put that in the public doc."
"Good luck with that," Jordan says. "They''d need to be FOIA''d, and that takes months. Even if they weren''t just gonna bury it."
I glare at my inbox, full of pending FOIA requests I am never going to get responses to.
Maggie sighs. "Great. So we just have to sit here and watch this happen."
"We could put something together," Lily says, hesitant. "A statement, maybe? A press thing?"
"Sure, we could get, like, two retweets," Maggie says. "Real effective."
Jordan makes a frustrated noise. "We need more than just being mad about it. This is big. Really big. But we need something we can act on. Some kind of angle."
I keep scrolling, rereading parts I already read. The words blur together--Registered Superhuman Entity Organization (RSO)... preemptive security... Office of Municipal Superhuman Affairs...
Then I stop.
I squint.
Scroll back up.
My fingers curl tight around my mouse.
"Wait," I say. "Hold on. Hold the fuck on."
"What?" Jordan asks.
I don''t answer immediately. I''m staring at a name, highlighted in my head like a neon sign.
Katherine Huang, Esq.
That''s Aaron''s lawyer. "That''s Aaron''s lawyer," I hear myself saying unconsciously, loud enough to be heard. I feel my pulse in my ears.
"Wait, hold on," Jordan says again. "Tremont & Fairfax. She works for Tremont & Fairfax. Why''s a New York lawyer filing out this random paperwork?"
Chapter 161.2
"Alright, so what''s the marching orders, boss?" Jordan asks, tone light but expectant.
"What do you mean?" I frown, adjusting my grip on my phone. The voice chat''s quiet now, like everyone else is waiting for me to answer something I don''t even understand.
"You''re the boss," Jordan says, like it''s obvious. "Where do we go from here?"
"No, I''m not?" I say immediately, because I''m not. That''s their job. The Auditors is their thing, their project, their squad. I just showed up and stuck around. "This is, like, your baby? I''m just here to punch things."
There''s a silence. The kind of silence that makes my skin prickle, like I just walked into a room where I''m the last to get the joke. I''m imagining everyone staring at their computer screen, and I don''t like it.
Jordan sighs. "Sam. C''mon. This little taco party is all you."
I blink. "What?"
"You heard me," Jordan says. "I mean, look at the roster. Maggie''s only got superpowers because you saved her life in the first place. You met Derek--wherever he is--at group therapy. Lily and Amelia are from the Young Defenders, so again, through you. Tasha''s your friend from middle school. The only person I dragged into this was Connor, and he''s retiring, and he was also in the Young Defenders. You''re the central nexus through which the Auditors revolve. The wheel spoke. The gyre."
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing actually comes out.
"Like father, like child," Jordan continues, because they know me too well to let me off the hook. I get the impression that this sentence is about to continue, and is not designed to reference my-- yep, Jordan''s talking again. "I''m leaving in a month. I''m gonna be a deadbeat dad and foist the Auditors off to you. Congrats, you''re inheriting my awful teenagers."
Maggie snorts. "I refuse to call you ''dad,'' Westwood."
"Please don''t," Jordan says. "But you get the point. You''re the one holding this together, Sam. I''m just the strategist. I''m just your sidekick. So. I''ll ask again--what''s the marching orders?"
I exhale, flopping onto my back and staring at the ceiling. My mind races through everything we just found, all the stray pieces of information clicking together in weird, imperfect ways.
We know Huang is involved. That much is obvious. Finding her professional details is easy, but that''s what makes it weird. She''s a legitimate legal partner at Tremont & Fairfax. She specializes in due process cases. That''s what her name is on. Not superhuman law. Not municipal contracts. Not the kind of paperwork that city council members typically file.
So why her?
I push up on my elbows, rubbing my temple. "Okay," I say. "Let''s think about this. Huang''s legit. She does business stuff, but all her pro bono work is due process and criminal defense. Which means her handling the paperwork for Argus Corps makes no goddamn sense."
Maggie makes a noise of agreement. "Right? Shouldn''t Maya have, like, a guy for this? She''s a city councilwoman."
"Exactly," I say, pointing even though she can''t see me. "If Maya was doing things above-board, she wouldn''t need an out-of-town megafirm to handle this. She''d have a local firm, a local attorney, someone specialized in superhuman law. Someone from Philadelphia - she might even tap Clara. Uh, the legal counsel for the Delaware Valley Defenders. That''s someone for whom this is their whole life. That''s what makes this weird - why Huang?"
"But it doesn''t tell us why it''s weird," Jordan says, picking up the thread. "Okay, let''s zoom out. Tremont & Fairfax is shady, but they''re not unique. Like I printed out, hold on, let me get my spreadsheets, there..." they continue, and the microphone is slapped with the awful, peaky sounds of rustling papers right against the speaker: "are four other firms that are similarly overinvolved in superhuman criminal defense--Halverson & Levine, Pritchard & Bowen, Perkins & Clyne, and Atwood & Brandt. All of them big names. Three in New York City, one in DC. No members in common. But all handling more superhuman cases than any firm should, statistically speaking. None of them are in Philly. They don''t even have satellite offices."
"They''ve got no connections between each other?" Lily asks.
"No obvious ones," Jordan says. "Which doesn''t mean nothing''s there. Just that we''d have to dig harder to find it."
I stare at the screen, tapping my fingers against the bedspread. "So, best case, they''re just an expensive firm that takes on weird cases. Worst case..."This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
"They''re a pipeline," Jordan says, voice flat. "A way to launder people in and out of legal trouble. A way to keep the right people out of jail and the wrong people in."
I chew the inside of my cheek. "Okay. Then we need to know what cases they''ve handled recently. What they''re doing right now."
Jordan hums. "Yeah. That''d help. Cases should be public, at least some of them."
"So can we pull them?" I ask, sitting up properly for the first time in this entire conversation. "Is there a way to look up what cases T&F has been involved in lately?"
There''s a pause. Then Lily, voice tentative, asks, "I mean--okay, but is there any possibility that this is, like, a weird misunderstanding?"
Maggie snorts. "Oh, yeah, sure, they just accidentally ended up working for both Maya Richardson and Aaron McKinley at the same time. Oopsie-daisy, total coincidence."
Lily makes an exasperated sound. "I''m just saying! We''re doing a lot of assuming here."
I rub my forehead, exhaling sharply. "Yeah, we are. But here''s the thing." I sit up properly, adjusting my headset. "We''re not cops."
Jordan cuts in immediately, completely flat: "Thank God."
Maggie, deadpan: "Hallelujah."
Lily: "I wasn''t saying we should be cops--"
"But we''re not," I push through, ignoring them. "That means we don''t have to operate through due process. We can go off hunches. We can connect dots without absolute certainty and see if the picture looks like something or if we''re just making shapes out of noise."
Maggie clicks her tongue. "Starting to sound a lot like Argus Corps there, boss."
I point at my laptop screen, jabbing the air for emphasis, even though nobody can see it. "No. See, that''s the difference. I''m not about to go terrorize Huang or raid her house or zip-tie her to a chair and start demanding answers. I''m not even looking at her. We''re looking at her employer. There''s a gap between ''following a lead'' and ''beating the shit out of people on live TV.''"
"Just a little gap," Jordan mutters.
I gesture broadly. "Argus Corps, as we literally just saw at the marina, uses their lack of oversight to concuss people, throw them in piles, cause crazy amounts of property damage, hold hostages, and zip-tie them so hard their wrists bleed. We''re using our lack of oversight to follow a pretty reasonable leap of logic and see if it gives us a direction to aim our investigation." I take a breath. "So that, if we do uncover something, we can actually turn it over to someone who gives a shit and won''t terrorize them."
Lily''s quiet for a second. "And if Huang''s innocent?"
"Then we''re not targeting her," I say, firm. "And we''re making sure that the people here aren''t getting buried in something they have no idea about. If this is a rot that starts at the head of Tremont & Fairfax, then the rest of the firm is just collateral. If we take this thread and find something real, then we''re saving them from going down with the ship when the cannon gets fired."
Jordan lets out a low whistle. "Sure hope she''s innocent, though."
Maggie snorts. "Sam, you cannot possibly think that this giant corporate lawyer from New York is secretly a good person."
"I don''t," I say. "I just--she didn''t strike me as corrupt."
"Ah, yes," Jordan says dryly. "The ''they seemed fine'' heuristic. Historically bulletproof."
"Stop interrupting me," I groan, throwing a pillow at my laptop screen on instinct, which bounces off and rolls over to my bed. "The point is, if Argus Corps was running this investigation, they''d already be storming the office, rounding up interns at gunpoint. We''re taking a step back and actually looking at what makes sense before we do something stupid."
Maggie clicks her tongue. "Bold of you to assume we won''t still do something stupid."
I roll my eyes. "Jordan. Can you do that search?"
Jordan doesn''t answer immediately, and I know them well enough to recognize that hum--the one that means they''ve been doing exactly what I just asked for this whole time. "I was typing during your entire little speech, don''t worry. I won''t bore you with the details, Sammy, but I have a script that lets me paste a comma-separated list of terms into this little box, and it runs a bunch of NetSphere searches automatically."
"A web scraper?" Lily asks.
Jordan freezes for half a second. "Yes?"
What the hell is a web scraper? Actually, you know what, I''m too afraid to ask. I don''t want to know. I just hear Lily delicately slurping tea on her end of the microphone.
"Anyway," Jordan says, recovering. "I have a bunch of scraped links now for every court case Tremont & Fairfax has been involved in that I can find public records on." They lean back in their chair, satisfied. "This and their partners. I can spend a weekend sifting through it."
I frown. "No. Hold on. I''m changing my mind."
Jordan raises an eyebrow verbally. "No?"
"I mean, I''m sure the court cases are interesting," I say, rubbing the back of my head, "but I don''t think they''re gonna give us anything actionable. Or at least, not anything actionable enough to do something with."
I can hear the rustle of Jordan''s hoodie as they tilt their head. "Go on."
"Superheroes and authorities get involved in court proceedings all the time. If anything weird was popping up there, the authorities would already be on it. If we want to find something they haven''t yet, we need to look somewhere they aren''t looking."
Jordan doesn''t necessarily agree--I can hear it in their silence--but they don''t argue. Instead, they just say after a five second pause, "Alright. You''re the boss."
I blink. "No, I''m not."
Jordan snorts. "Not doing this bit again."
I take a breath. "Okay anyway. Anyway. If Tremont & Fairfax is compromised, it''s not gonna show up in their legal work--it''s gonna show up in their business work."
Jordan snaps their fingers. "Now that, I can do."
I frown. "That fast?"
Jordan smirks. "Sammy. Do you know how much shit is legally required to be filed in the US? Publicly? The Pennsylvania Department of State has it all in a nice, neat little webpage for you. It''s even asynchronous, it doesn''t look like it was made in 1995, which is a rarity for government webpages."
Maggie laughs. "Oh, that explains why corruption never happens."
Jordan cracks their knuckles. "Give me, like, an hour. Go make yourself a sandwich."
Chapter 161.3
Jordan exhales sharply, rolling their shoulders back before cracking their knuckles. "Alright, kids. Time for some good old-fashioned digital archaeology."
Their screen-share flickers onto my laptop, a mess of open tabs, databases, and text files. A municipal website from the Pennsylvania Department of State sits in one window, its bland blue-and-white UI a far cry from anything that should look important. But it is. Somewhere in this absolute sludge of corporate filings is what we need.
"So, quick recap," Jordan says, already typing something into a search field. "We know that the Kingdom uses shell companies. We''ve tracked a bunch of them before--Tacony Metal Works, Harbinger Holdings, Eclipse Enterprises. But all the ones we''ve got on record? Filed for bankruptcy already. Meaning they''ve rolled over their assets somewhere else."
"And we''re assuming that ''somewhere else'' is through Tremont & Fairfax," Maggie says, sprawled on her bed in what I assume is a pile of homework she''s ignoring. "Because what, they''re handling all their legal shit?"
"That''s the theory," Jordan says. "If T&F is compromised, and they''ve been structuring businesses for Kingdom-adjacent projects, we just need to find one--one--new business entity that links back to them. Then we start pulling. Find a thread, unravel the whole sweater."
Lily hums, sipping from what is probably the same tea she''s been nursing for the last hour. "Wouldn''t they be careful about that? Like, wouldn''t they use different addresses?"
Jordan grins, leaning closer to their mic. "Oh, they definitely are. But that''s the thing. You can''t register a company in Pennsylvania without a business address. And some of these registration firms handle thousands of businesses, meaning they clump together. A lot of shell companies use the same handful of services, because setting up a bespoke LLC under a unique address for every operation? That''s too much work."
I rub my temple, thinking it through. "So what we''re looking for isn''t just a new company--it''s a company that shares a registration service with an old Kingdom shell?"
Jordan snaps their fingers. "Bingo. If we can pin an address overlap between a new business and an old Kingdom front, we can narrow it down. From there, we check when they were formed, who filed them, and whether any of the agents tie back to Tremont & Fairfax."
"How many businesses are we sifting through?" Maggie asks, stretching like a cat.
Jordan opens another window, dropping a search filter into a list. A number populates at the top. "For Pennsylvania? 14,982 new LLCs formed in the last year."
A long silence.
"Okay, so we narrow it down," I say, adjusting my seating. "T&F is a big-shot New York firm. Are they gonna bother with, like, a Pittsburgh car dealership?"
"Probably not," Jordan agrees. "We prioritize businesses registered in Philadelphia County first. That drops us down to 2,317. Already much better."
Maggie whistles. "Still a lot."
"We''re not done filtering yet," Jordan says, tapping at their keyboard. "We know Kingdom operations tend to deal with things that need high liquidity. Think real estate, logistics, pharmaceuticals. The businesses they hide behind tend to be money-moving entities, not, like, a barbershop. If they were funneling money through something small, we''d already know about it."
I tap my fingers against my laptop. "So we ignore anything that looks like a normal small business?"
"Yep," Jordan confirms. "That takes out another 800, because a ton of these are restaurants, boutiques, and bodegas. Now we''re at 1,517."
"Still too many to just randomly pull records for," Lily points out. "How much does that cost again?"
"Fifteen bucks per request," Jordan mutters, sounding personally offended. "Which means we gotta narrow this down a lot before I start emptying my savings account."
"And we do that by finding overlap," I say, chewing the thought over. "Okay. What addresses did Tacony Metal Works and the other fronts use?"
Jordan flips through a tab, then pins a separate note to the side of their screen. "Tacony used an address in Kensington that turned out to be a mail forwarding service. Harbinger Holdings used a virtual office service in Center City. Eclipse Enterprises was tied to a storage unit address that was also linked to four other sketchy LLCs."
"So we filter for companies using those same addresses," Maggie says, catching on. "If they recycled a registration site, we''ve got a match."
Jordan hums, typing something out. The search runs, filtering down again. Numbers blink and shift. It''s not really much of a search so much as Jordan doing some crazy tech shit I don''t understand - it looks like a CTRL-F but then all the other boxes, with the non-matching addresses, just sort of vanish from the page. No refresh.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
"Okay. That just axed us down to 74. Much better," Jordan says, exhaling. "Now, next step: check for agents. Businesses need a registered agent to handle official correspondence. These agents can be individuals or companies, and if we find one tied to known Kingdom work..."
"Then we''re golden," I finish.
"Exactly," Jordan says, grinning. "Give me a second."
The screen flickers, a series of data points scrolling by too fast for me to follow. Jordan mutters to themselves, occasionally adjusting a query. The chat is quiet, the kind of silence that feels like a held breath.
Then Jordan makes a noise. "Well, well, well. Look at this."
"What?" Lily asks, perking up.
Jordan leans back, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased. "You remember that warehouse? 4547 Trenton? The one we know for sure was a Kingdom front, because we saw someone get shot there? They had that whole stupid meeting. Mr. Polygraph. Halloween?"
"Yeah?" I say, pulse picking up.
Jordan clicks something. "Well, turns out someone else just registered a company right down the block. About three months ago. It''s brand new. That''s not abnormal, it''s a warehouse block, people use warehouses, most people use them for extremely legitimate reasons. Want to know the weird thing?"
We''re all staring at Jordan''s screen, watching the answer, but nobody says anything because it''s more fun to hear Jordan narrate. The stunned delay lasts a little too long, so Maggie breaks it. "What''s the weird thing?"
"I''m so glad you asked. Why is a biomed company - Stheno Pharmaceuticals, hosted in a random warehouse?" Jordan asks us.
That gets a longer silence. The kind where you can hear everyone thinking at once. Lily shifts on the other end of the line, and I can hear the faint clink of a spoon in a mug. Maggie says, "That is weird, right? I don''t know how - what, medicine? companies normally work, but that sounds weird."
"It''s weird," Jordan confirms, clicking through. "Most biomedical companies don''t operate out of North Philly warehouse blocks. And they sure as hell don''t incorporate in places like Trenton Avenue unless they''re running a skeleton crew, setting up a research skunkworks, or using it for storage."
I press my fingers into my temple, already feeling that familiar knot of tension forming. "Okay, okay. So we''ve got a name. Can we do anything with that?"
Jordan hums, already typing. "We can get business records. Costs money, though. Fifteen bucks per record."
"Ugh," Maggie groans. "That''s, like, my entire month''s allowance."
Jordan snorts. "Yeah, well, some of us don''t have allowances. But I do have an internet debit card, and since I''m about to vanish to MIT in a month, I might as well blow what''s left of my vigilante slush fund."
There''s a pause, and then Lily asks hesitantly, "Wait, why do you have a vigilante slush fund?"
"Good financial planning," Jordan says, as if that explains everything. Then they pause, turning off their screen share. "Okay, nobody watch me type in my card numbers."
I roll my eyes, stretching back against my pillows while we wait. I listen to Jordan mutter something about stupid government bureaucracy and thank god it''s all digitized now and if I have to fill out a robotest one more time I swear to Christ, and then--there''s a brief silence. Then, Jordan laughs.
"Oh, come the fuck on," they say.
"What? What?" I bolt upright, my laptop almost sliding off my stomach. "What''s so funny?"
Jordan flips the screen share back on, and there it is.
Filing information. Incorporation documents. Registered on January 7th, 2025. Standard stuff. All looks above board at first glance.
Except for the name in the incorporator field: Martin Calloway. I exhale hard through my nose.
Maggie''s voice gets a little louder as they get closer to the mic, and I can hear her squinting at the screen. "Okay, who''s Martin Calloway again? Do I know this guy?"
I rub a hand over my face. "Junior partner at T&F. Couple weeks ago, we found his name attached to a shell company in Kensington. A shell company that burned down under suspiciously arson-like circumstances."
Jordan grins. "And guess who was seen hanging around the ruins of that warehouse afterward? Kingdom goons. No arrests, no charges, but enough circumstantial evidence that it stinks."
I let out another held breath. "So now he''s registering a biomedical company, in a warehouse right next to the old Kingdom front, using the same law firm that''s handling Aaron''s defense and Argus Corps."
Jordan nods. "Bingo."
"Okay, but," Maggie starts, and I can hear the gears turning in her head, "if this Calloway guy is, like, a big-shot lawyer in New York, why would he even care? Like, wouldn''t this be beneath him?"
Jordan snaps their fingers. "That''s the thing--this is small-time for him. He doesn''t have to care. All he did was handle the incorporation. That''s it. And it makes it easier for people like him to claim plausible deniability when someone comes knocking."
"He doesn''t even have to know what he''s facilitating," I mutter. "He could just be a useful idiot, running paperwork without looking twice. There''s dozens, hundreds of extremely normal businesses along Trenton Avenue. It''s a major road in North Philadelphia - if you Mappo it I''m sure you wouldn''t get anything suspicious."
"Or," Jordan says, "he does know, but it doesn''t matter to him. One of hundreds of filings he handles in a year. One more shell company doesn''t mean shit to him."
I glance at the screen, tapping my laptop with restless fingers. "Still begs the question--why hire a junior partner at a prestigious NYC law firm to file your paperwork if you''re just some startup biomed company? That''s expensive as hell, isn''t it? I''m not sure what a junior partner is exactly, but it sounds expensive."
Jordan nods, eyes glinting. "They are expensive - and it''s not a real biomed company. Here, check out their website." Jordan clicks around. "Legit-looking. Paperwork all filed. Research into novel medical agents derived from--hold on, hold on, this is good--''lab-grown bioreactors designed for scalable compound synthesis.''" They pause, then add, "Which is a very fancy way of saying we make weird drugs with weird methods."
Maggie sits forward. "What kind of drugs?"
Jordan keeps scrolling. "Nothing specific. But they''re very interested in--hold on, gotta love corporate jargon--''proprietary methodologies for novel analgesics.''"
I put my head in my hands. "Oh, come on."
"They make new kinds of painkillers," Jordan translates for everyone else. "Kinds that aren''t already in the market. I''ll let you translate on your own time."
Silence again. Heavy. Hanging.
"So what''s the call?" Maggie asks.
I swallow. This is it. This is the thing. The moment.
One last mission.
I exhale, slow and measured. "We need to find out what''s inside that warehouse."
WORLD OF CHUM: Superhuman Entity Report: Lily "Blink" Chen
PERKS Assessment: Lily Chen (Blink)
Classified Level: Confidential
Date: April 2023
I. Power Classification
Adjust: Acceleration Manipulation
Code: A4/S/P/T
Rationale: Blink possesses the ability to double the acceleration vector of any object she is in contact with on a single axis per activation, occurring once per second per target. This ability is classified under Adjust, as it modifies an existing variable (acceleration) rather than creating or removing motion. Her power is self-targeting (S), physical in nature (P), and functions at touch range (T), requiring direct physical contact with an object for activation.
II. Power Ranking:
Power Ranking: 4/10
Blink''s ability significantly enhances movement, projectile usage, and can be used creatively for support purposes. However, the requirement for direct contact and the external forces limiting velocity buildup prevent this power from scaling indefinitely. While potent in tactical scenarios, the power''s reliance on continuous touch limits its applicability in large-scale engagements.
III. Control Rating
Control: 6/10
Blink exhibits strong control over the intentional activation of her ability, requiring a deliberate muscular action and conscious intent to engage it. She can direct the acceleration to any single vector upon touch, but the precision of her use is limited by her cognitive ability to process rapid motion, as well as her ability to perceive an object as a single unit.
IV. Hostility Rating:
Hostility: 0/10
Blink is an overtly altruistic individual with no documented hostile intent toward state actors or the public. She has expressed a strong personal moral code against lethal force, preferring to use her abilities for mobility, escape tactics, and non-lethal takedowns. While her power could theoretically be weaponized in dangerous ways, her personality and tactical use reflect restraint and situational awareness.
V. Collateral Damage Potential:
Collateral Damage: 4/10
Blink''s power is not inherently destructive but has theoretical potential for high-speed impacts and environmental hazards. Because her ability modifies acceleration, it can escalate dangerous conditions (e.g., doubling the collapse rate of a failing structure). However, her cautious nature and personal limitations on use mitigate large-scale risks.
VI. Overall Threat Level
Threat Level: 3/10
Blink is a low-threat, high-mobility asset with significant tactical applications in combat, pursuit evasion, and emergency response. Her ability to rapidly reposition herself and allies makes her a valuable superhuman, though her power''s reliance on touch and diminishing returns prevent it from being a large-scale hazard.
PERKS Assessment Comments for Lily Chen (Blink)
2021:
Officer''s Comments: Lily''s initial interview was a whirlwind. She is excessively energetic, enthusiastic, and deeply empathetic--a teenager who genuinely wants to help but doesn''t fully grasp the scope of her powers yet. I''m approving her JLUMA on a provisional basis with required monthly check-ins. I have also encouraged her to get in touch with the Young Defenders, to help train and make the best use of her powers.
--Officer M. Reynolds
2022:
Officer''s Comments: Blink continues to display strong moral reasoning but poor impulse control. She skates faster than most cars and doesn''t always think through high-speed maneuvering. However, joining the Young Defenders has provided a valuable outlet for her abilities and a place where she can train them unimpeded, among peers.
--Officer M. Reynolds
2023:
Officer''s Comments: At 17, Blink has gained significant experience but remains reckless. She still doesn''t fully grasp acceleration physics, but she has learned to use her power conservatively in populated areas. Notably, she has become a key mobility asset for her team. She expressed interest in "getting better at the numbers" behind her power, though I suspect that means asking her teammates to do it for her. Given her track record and commitment, I''m approving her LUMA transition upon turning 18. Additionally, based on information from the NSRA, we are changing her powers from H3/G2 to a single power of A4.
--Officer M. Reynolds
Interviewing Officer: Michael Reynolds
Date: April 12th, 2023
Civilian Clerk: Jennifer Lang
Date: April 12th, 2023
Confidential Report: Power Assessment of Lily Chen (Blink)
Assessment Agent: Dr. Leonard Harris
Date: June 30, 2023
I. Introduction:
This report provides a detailed analysis of the superhuman abilities of Lily Chen, known as Blink, a member of the Young Defenders. The focus is on the mechanics of her acceleration manipulation, its functional limitations, and its practical applications. Initial assessments categorized her power under Hopper or Gigant classifications due to her enhanced mobility, but further analysis determined that her ability is best classified under Adjust, as it modifies an existing variable rather than creating or nullifying motion.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
II. Power Overview:
Blink possesses the ability to double the acceleration vector of any object she is in physical contact with along a single axis per activation. This effect lasts for one second and does not inherently revert, meaning acceleration continues naturally unless countered by external forces such as friction, drag, or counterthrust. She can apply this effect once per second to a given object, allowing for successive stacking of acceleration.
III. Mechanics and Functionalities:
Vector-Based Acceleration: Blink¡¯s power does not add velocity directly but instead modifies the rate of change of velocity. This means that stationary objects do not suddenly gain motion unless they already possess an initial force acting upon them.
Environmental Resistance and Diminishing Returns: Air resistance and surface friction place practical limits on the acceleration stacking effect. Objects experiencing high velocities will encounter increasing drag, reducing the effectiveness of successive activations.
Perceptual Object Unity: Blink''s power functions based on her cognitive perception of an object as a single entity. This allows her to apply acceleration to objects like her inline skates or a meteor hammer as cohesive units, even though they are composed of multiple parts.
Duration of Acceleration Effect: Once an acceleration boost is applied, it remains until external forces act upon it. If an object is given a downward acceleration boost, it will fall faster than normal, but gravity will return to its default acceleration rate once the effect dissipates after one second.
IV. Limitations:
Touch Requirement: Blink must maintain physical contact with an object to apply her ability. This makes it ineffective for long-range applications and requires her to remain close to targets she wishes to influence.
Cognitive Load and Timing: Although her power is simple in principle, practical use requires precise timing, particularly when applying boosts to moving objects.
Reaction Time Constraints: Blink¡¯s own ability to perceive and respond to her increased acceleration imposes limits on her safe maximum velocity.
G-Force Tolerance and Biological Resilience: Unlike natural speedsters, Blink does not receive automatic protection from the physical strain of high-speed movement. Testing suggests that her body possesses an anomalous reinforcement that mitigates the effects of sudden acceleration shifts, allowing her to function under conditions that would incapacitate a normal human. However, this effect has limits, and extreme acceleration stacking may exceed her biological tolerance threshold.
V. Tactical Applications:
High-Speed Mobility: Blink''s primary use of her power is personal acceleration, allowing her to achieve significant speeds while skating.
Enhanced Striking Power: By applying acceleration boosts to objects mid-flight, Blink can significantly increase their impact force. She frequently employs this ability with thrown objects, slingshots, and other projectile weapons to disable opponents without lethal force.
Kinetic Disruption: By selectively boosting the acceleration of certain objects, Blink can manipulate the balance of adversaries, knocking them off course or disrupting movement.
Emergency Evasion: The ability to instantly alter her acceleration allows Blink to escape dangerous situations rapidly, particularly when combined with urban traversal techniques such as skitching onto vehicles or propelling herself off solid surfaces.
VI. Recommendations:
Kinematic Calculation Training: Improved understanding of acceleration physics would allow Blink to maximize her power¡¯s effectiveness and reduce unintended miscalculations. Further training in applied physics and projectile motion is recommended.
Situational Awareness Drills: Increased emphasis on spatial perception and reaction-based training would enhance her ability to process high-speed movement safely.
G-Force Tolerance Monitoring: Further analysis of her biological resilience to acceleration forces is necessary to determine long-term health impacts. If necessary, development of protective equipment to counteract high-G effects should be explored.
VII. Conclusion:
Lily Chen¡¯s acceleration-based ability offers significant tactical advantages, particularly in mobility and precision impact applications. While the power has inherent limits due to environmental physics and reaction time constraints, her ability to manipulate acceleration grants her a high degree of versatility in both combat and traversal scenarios. With continued refinement and strategic training, Blink is projected to be an invaluable member of the Young Defenders.
Dr. Leonard Harris
Specialist in Metahuman Power Assessment for the National Superhuman Response Agency
Chapter 162.1
Maggie¡¯s house is the most Irish place in the world.
I¡¯m not saying that like she is the most Irish person in the world¡ªthere are people with like, stronger accents or whatever¡ªbut her house? The house itself is fundamentally Irish. You walk in, and it¡¯s like stepping into a distilled essence of Ireland that¡¯s been lovingly applied to every single available surface. Wood-paneled walls? Check. Celtic knots on like, everything? Check. A picture of JFK in the dining room like he¡¯s a long-lost uncle? Also, unfortunately, check.
The living room smells like beef stew and generational trauma, and the second you step inside, somebody¡¯s dad is yelling at the TV. It¡¯s not her dad¡ªhe¡¯s at work¡ªit¡¯s her uncle. Maggie has an unreasonable number of uncles. There are always one to three uncles present in this house, like a rotating stock.
Today, Uncle Brian is the one on duty, which means we get a squint from the couch and a barely-audible ¡°girls¡± in acknowledgment before he goes back to being furious about a Sixers game from five years ago that they¡¯re replaying on ESPN Classic.
¡°Hey, Brian,¡± Maggie calls, already halfway up the stairs. ¡°Don¡¯t get up.¡±
¡°Wasn¡¯t gonna,¡± he replies, eyes glued to the screen.
Amelia lingers in the doorway for half a second too long, like she¡¯s trying to process the energy of this house. This is her first time at Maggie¡¯s, and she¡¯s looking at everything like she¡¯s collecting evidence. She barely even nods at Brian, which is a mistake, because now he¡¯s squinting at her harder.
¡°Who¡¯s this?¡±
¡°That¡¯s Gossamer,¡± I say, dragging Amelia inside before she dies on the threshold like a vampire. ¡°She¡¯s with me.¡±
Brian grunts and goes back to the game.
Amelia, wisely, chooses not to engage further.
Maggie¡¯s already upstairs, so I take the steps two at a time, letting Amelia catch up at her own pace. The second floor is much quieter, which is good, because the downstairs was borderline uninhabitable for anyone who isn¡¯t used to perpetual background noise.
Maggie¡¯s room is exactly what you¡¯d expect.
Sports posters, random trophies from when she actually gave a shit about school sports, laundry on every available surface, a desk covered in notebooks and disassembled hardware, and a twin-sized bed that looks like it has never, ever been properly made.
She¡¯s already flopped across it, spread-eagle, dramatically sighing at the ceiling.
¡°I¡¯m gonna die in this house,¡± she declares. ¡°This is my tomb.¡±
¡°Wow,¡± Amelia says, stepping carefully over a pile of mismatched sneakers, ¡°you weren¡¯t kidding about the dramatics.¡±
¡°She¡¯s been like this for a week,¡± I say, shoving some probably-clean laundry off a chair so I can sit down. ¡°I assume she¡¯s been laying there for that entire time, unmoving.¡±
Maggie doesn¡¯t deny it.
Instead, she rolls over onto her stomach, chin propped up on her hands, and squints at us. ¡°Tell me something cool. Something exciting. Anything. I¡¯ve been in this house so long, I¡¯m losing my sense of self.¡±
Amelia raises an eyebrow. ¡°You went to school.¡±
¡°Did I?¡± Maggie says. ¡°Or was that just an elaborate punishment simulation designed to break my will?¡±
I shrug. ¡°School¡¯s school. Same as ever.¡±
Maggie groans into her arms.
¡°Okay, but real talk,¡± she says, voice muffled. ¡°Did they throw a parade for you, or¡?¡±
I make a face. Returning to school after a one-week suspension was an event. It wasn¡¯t a parade, but it felt like one, which was arguably worse.
The second I walked back into the building, it was like I had single-handedly won a war. I was getting high-fives from freshmen I don¡¯t even know. Some kid in the cafeteria yelled ¡°Smalls in the building!¡± like I was a WWE wrestler making my entrance.
Which, in theory, sounds cool.
The attention was too much, but at the same time, it wasn¡¯t even the right kind of attention. They weren¡¯t excited about me, they were excited about the story. About the idea of ¡°Sam Small, Slayer of Security Guards.¡± They didn¡¯t care about what actually happened, or how close things got to going really, really bad. They just liked that it was loud.
It got even worse when I got to detention. Because Jordan was there, and Jordan does not like not making a scene. So, obviously, they were there first, set up in the back of the room, and waited for me to walk in just so they could throw their arms out like an asshole and yell ¡°Ah, my fellow war criminal!¡± in front of the whole room.
I almost turned around and walked out on instinct. Why the teacher babysitting us didn''t intervene, I have no idea.
At least Ridley got turbo-fired. One of the security guards told me that himself.
¡°Dude,¡± I tell Maggie, pulling myself back to the present, ¡°it sucked. I mean, I¡¯m not saying I expected a hero¡¯s welcome, but I also didn¡¯t expect every single sophomore to be acting like they¡¯re my number one fan.¡±
Maggie grins. ¡°C¡¯mon. You¡¯re a legend now. Gotta get used to it.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t gotta get used to it,¡± I grumble. ¡°I just gotta wait for them to get bored.¡±This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Amelia snorts. ¡°You could just go full antihero and start brooding on rooftops.¡±
¡°I¡¯d rather die.¡±
Maggie sits up just enough to actually look at us, eyes narrowing. ¡°So what¡¯s in the bag?¡±
Right, that. The actual reason we''re here. Let''s get on with that - I pull the duffel onto my lap, unzipping it just enough to flash her the first layer of black fabric.
¡°New costumes,¡± Amelia says, leaning forward with way too much pride.
Maggie lights up immediately, rolling onto her knees so she can snatch the bag and start rifling through it.
¡°No way,¡± she says, pulling out the first piece of gear¡ªa black, high-collared jacket with reinforced padding along the shoulders and forearms. ¡°No way.¡±
¡°Way,¡± Amelia says.
Maggie holds it up like it¡¯s the holy grail.
¡°Dude,¡± she says, turning it over in her hands. ¡°This is so much better than my old one. My old one was, like, a clearance rack abomination.¡±
¡°Yeah,¡± I say, ¡°your old one was basically discount lacrosse gear.¡±
¡°I was doing my best!¡±
Amelia leans back, arms crossed, smug. ¡°I made them practical. Stealth colors. Reinforced in the places that matter. And lightweight, because somebody¡ª¡± she gestures to Maggie, ¡°¡ªlikes to launch herself at high speeds directly into things. And if you go loud, you can reverse some of it to get that abominable cherry red you like so much.¡±
Maggie looks appropriately guilty.
¡°Anyway,¡± Amelia continues, ¡°we made you look like an actual hero.¡±
Maggie runs a hand over the fabric, her expression shifting just slightly. Like she¡¯s actually letting it hit her that this is hers, now. Not just stuff she threw together, not just borrowed sports gear.
It¡¯s hers.
She clears her throat, playing it off like it¡¯s not a big deal.
¡°So, uh,¡± she says, flipping the jacket over her shoulder. ¡°How soon are we testing these out?¡±
The Bloodhound stealth suit is sick as hell.
I¡¯m standing in the lobby of the music hall, rolling my shoulders, twisting at the waist, testing the range of motion. It¡¯s sleek, it¡¯s light, it¡¯s comfortable¡ªa little less padded than my usual winter suit, a little less color, but so much easier to move in. The gloves are tighter, reinforced at the knuckles, and I can already feel the subtle texture differences in the material¡ªwhere Amelia strengthened things, where she left some flex, where she knew exactly what I was going to do to this poor, undeserving fabric.
The real showstopper, though? The helmet.
Amelia holds it up, turning it slightly so the overhead lights catch the finish. It¡¯s black and white, sleeker than my usual one, with sharper angles and a longer snout. My old one looked like something a football player would wear if they lost a bet. This one? This one looks like a predator.
¡°You look less like a dog and more like a wolf now,¡± Amelia says, smirking a little. "Hero Support kinda people stick together. So I called in a favor from one of my friends who owns a resin printer."
"A what? You printed this?" I ask, staring at her, mouth slightly agape.
She tosses me the helmet, grinning and not answering. I catch it out of the air, flipping it over in my hands. It¡¯s light, but sturdy¡ªI can tell it¡¯s been reinforced in all the right places. Black padding on the inside. Little... plates, I''m unsure if it''s metal or kevlar, but something hard and reinforced under the soft bits.
¡°All your measurements from last time were wrong, by the way,¡± Amelia adds, very pointedly. ¡°You¡¯ve been growing like a weed. This is fitted for you right now, as a sixteen-year-old. Happy belated birthday.¡±
I pause, helmet halfway to my head. For a second, I don¡¯t really know what to say.
She¡¯s not wrong¡ªI have been growing. My old suit was starting to feel tight in all the wrong ways. But hearing her say it like that¡ªso matter-of-fact, like a mom picking out school clothes for next year¡ªit hits weirdly. Man. I should''ve had, like, a better birthday party, huh? ... Man, I''ve been superheroing for almost two years? I''m not sure how much I like that.
I pull the helmet on, adjusting the fit. It¡¯s perfect. The visor snaps down smooth, and when I tilt my head side to side, it moves with me¡ªno wobble, no lag. It clamps around my face like a facehugger and latches smoothly in the back. It''s immediately sweaty. It¡¯s mine. And it looks sick as hell.
But Amelia isn¡¯t done.
¡°Now, for the pi¨¨ce de r¨¦sistance,¡± she says, dramatically shifting gears, because she loves this shit. She steps back and reaches for something on the worktable.
I already know what it is, and I already feel weirdly nervous.
She holds up a gauntlet.
It¡¯s ugly as sin. A Frankenstein of a thing. The casing is cobbled together from like five different sources, the seams are a little rough, and it¡¯s got all the aesthetic grace of a RadioShack clearance bin. But! It''s mine. It¡¯s not the same gauntlet I inherited from Miss Mayfly. Scrapped for parts and wire and re-assembled into something with half the size and much more flexibility. New skin over old bones.
I flex my fingers inside the reinforced knuckles. It¡¯s not perfect¡ªit¡¯s a little bulky, a little stiff¡ªbut it works. And I can feel that it¡¯s been made for me.
¡°I had to teach myself electrical engineering for this,¡± Amelia says, like she¡¯s casually announcing she built a time machine. ¡°It¡¯s not pretty, but the wiring is solid, and I did all the testing myself. Based on what you¡¯ve told me about your prior fights, I loaded in the essentials.¡±
She taps the underside of the wrist. ¡°Nozzles here. Left button sprays watered-down pig¡¯s blood for you to track and mark objects¡ªso you stop licking things like a freak¡ª¡±
¡°My powers don''t¡ª¡±
¡°¡ªand the right button is pepper spray, because you fight like a rabid raccoon.¡±
Jordan snorts, and I shoot them a withering glare that they ignore.
¡°Strategic slots for your teeth¡± Amelia continues, pretending to be normal about it, ¡°and reinforced knuckles, just in case you need to make some direct contact.¡±
I turn my wrist, examining the seams. It¡¯s not smooth, but it¡¯s good. The wires are hidden, the buttons are placed just right, and I can tell¡ªshe put real effort into this. This wasn¡¯t just some side project. This was something she built because she knew I needed it. I don''t know if I need it because it''s useful, or if I need it because it connects me back to Kate. I hope she''s alright. I know she''s leaving at night, coming back late, and I just hope that if she''s Soot she''s not putting herself too much in harm''s way.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders again, adjusting to the weight of everything.
And then¡ªAmelia claps her hands together.
¡°Right! Next!¡± she pivots, already grabbing the next piece of gear.
Jordan steps forward, casual as ever, and catches the helmet she tosses them.
¡°Your motorcycle helmet was fine,¡± Amelia says, already moving on, ¡°but this one has a slimmer form factor and a tinted visor. Same protection, but makes it harder to see your face. I understand what you''re going for with the white making it hard to focus on your body, but we don''t want anyone focusing on you at all. I''d recommend going without the cape cloak thing.¡±
Jordan tilts their head. ¡°I like my fireproof cloak.¡±
¡°Keep it,¡± Amelia says. ¡°It fits over top. I''d just recommend against it for this particular mission. We''re going into a warehouse, presumably there are valuable things in it, and I''m doubtful that fire will be a risk we''ll be encountering.¡±
Jordan turns the helmet in their hands, eyebrow raised. ¡°You know I don¡¯t fight, right?¡±
¡°You still stick your head in places it doesn¡¯t belong,¡± Amelia deadpans. ¡°I¡¯d rather not spend another afternoon plucking glass shards out of your scalp.¡±
Jordan mutters something rude, but doesn¡¯t argue.
Then¡ªAmelia turns to Lily, and she holds up the last set of gear.
¡°Blink,¡± she says, nodding. ¡°You get your normal costume, inline skates included. But in black. All black everything.¡±
Lily blinks. Then¡ªslowly, carefully, in a voice full of hard-earned skepticism¡ª
¡°You didn''t take my measurements like you did with everyone else. Did you already have them?¡±
Amelia grins. ¡°I have known you for like four years. We''re both done growing, buddy. I also got you a helmet. You really should be wearing one.¡±
Jordan bursts out laughing while I scrunch my face up, testing the way my skin contacts the padding on the inside of my helmet.
The gear feels right.
The team feels ready.
Now, all we have to do is pull this off.
Chapter 162.2
Trenton Avenue at night is a whole different world. The kind of place where the streetlights aren''t bright enough to actually light anything up, just tint everything an ugly, sickly yellow. The kind of place where the city just sort of forgets to send maintenance crews, so there''s always trash clumped in the gutters, half-ripped posters stuck to telephone poles, and potholes deep enough to eat a bike tire whole.
It''s not abandoned--not like some parts of the city--but it''s quiet. The kind of quiet that''s only possible in places people pass through but don''t really live in. During the day, this stretch of warehouses and loading docks is busy as hell, trucks and forklifts and warehouse workers keeping the whole supply chain monster moving. At night, though? It''s different. It''s the lull between shifts. The hour where the people who work here have gone home, but the people who use places like this are just getting started.
Flashpoint and I are crammed into the narrow space between a dumpster and a loading dock, half-hidden in the shadow of a busted floodlight. The air is thick with the smell of hot asphalt, oil, and whatever''s rotting in the dumpster next to us. It''s gross, but it''s good cover. Nobody looks at dumpsters.
She shifts her weight slightly, balancing on the balls of her feet, adjusting her mask. "Cool uncle was watching sports," she mutters, half a conversation late. "He never tattles. As long as I don''t get arrested again, he doesn''t care what I do."
"Convenient," I whisper back.
"Yeah, well, my mom thinks I''m asleep, so let''s try not to screw this up," she says, rolling her shoulders.
I nod, focusing back on the warehouse entrance. People come and go in small groups, moving slow, casual. Nobody''s sprinting. Nobody''s acting like they''re doing anything illegal. They don''t have to. You don''t get cops out here unless someone''s already bleeding out on the sidewalk.
There''s a guy standing by the roll-up door, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone like this is just another shift. Could be Kingdom. Could be Rogue Wave. Could be one of the million other crews running things out here. The thing about North Philly is that crime isn''t a couple of big organizations fighting for turf--it''s a mess of little ones, tangled together like tree roots, with just enough structure to keep things from completely imploding. Some of these guys probably work for multiple factions. Some of them don''t even know who they''re actually working for.
It''s too much to track all at once. I try not to think about it too hard. Some of these warehouses are probably just like... normal warehouses. Like Jordan said - normal people work here.
The front door opens again, and a new pair steps out, talking just loud enough to carry in the still night air.
"...tell me why they need another shipment now. We just ran a batch three days ago."
"It''s not for them, it''s for new clients. I dunno, they don''t tell me that part. It''s moving fast, though."
I glance at Flashpoint. She glances back. New clients. That means distribution. That means something is moving through here. It doesn''t mean, exactly, that we''re right, but that it''s suspicious.
I press a finger to the comm in my ear. "Safeguard, we''ve got movement. They''re talking about shipments. My heart of hearts tells me that they are talking about drugs."
There''s a short pause before Jordan''s voice comes through, steady, almost bored, and whisper-light. "Copy that. Keep eyes on them. Don''t move yet. Also, it''s probably just normal Kensington stuff. Don''t go crazy if it''s not Jump or Cocaine or whatever that new thing is."
Flashpoint exhales through her nose, shifting slightly. "They better not have us squatting behind a dumpster all night."
"Patience, Flashy," Jordan says, the dry amusement in their voice barely masked. "Some of us have real jobs to do before we make our grand entrance."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Flashpoint just mutters, "Drama queen."
I go back to watching the warehouse, ignoring the itch of sweat under my helmet, the sticky heat of the city at midnight, the faint hum of distant traffic, the buzz of a streetlight flickering somewhere down the block.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Nothing''s happening yet. But it''s about to.
The door clicks, and a little electronic buzz hums through the quiet. It''s soft--so quiet I might have missed it if we weren''t already listening for it. The latch shifts, the side entrance nudging open just an inch, and then Jordan''s gloved fingers curl around the edge and ease it open the rest of the way.
They don''t say anything--just tilt their head slightly, the dim light from inside catching the edge of their visor. If their face was visible at all, I know they''d be grinning.
Flashpoint and I move fast. Silent. We''re inside in three seconds, door easing shut behind us. No alarm. No red lights flashing. Just still air and the faint hum of an industrial ventilation system, filtering out whatever fumes this place is constantly pumping into the air.
Jordan''s voice comes through the comm, barely a whisper. "Don''t get near strange cardboard boxes, kids."
I glance at them, raising an eyebrow behind my visor. "Seriously?"
They shrug. "Security guy got too close to the wrong crate. Keycard got cloned. Not my fault."
Flashpoint shakes her head, but she doesn''t say anything. We''re moving now, sticking close to the wall, eyes sweeping the aisles. The warehouse stretches out ahead of us, rows upon rows of metal racks stacked high with chemical drums, IBC totes, and crates marked with barcodes and manufacturer labels.
The air smells weird--not strong, not overwhelming, but a lingering chemical bite at the edge of my senses. It reminds me of science class. That sharp, plasticky scent of lab gloves and ethanol wipes. But it''s mixed with something else, something heavier. Industrial. The kind of smell that sticks in your nose even after you leave.
Flashpoint breathes out slow, turning her head slightly to look at me. "Are we gonna talk about the fact that we''re basically standing in the middle of a supervillain Costco right now?"
I don''t answer. I''m too busy reading the labels. Some of them are totally normal--solvents, adhesives, chemical compounds with long, complicated names that I only vaguely recognize from the time I tried to pay attention in chem. Others... others are more suspicious. Barrels marked with coded labels. Drums of unregistered compounds. A few crates marked Stheno Biopharma--Restricted Handling.
Flashpoint tilts her head slightly, staring up at the stacks. "Should we be, like... worried about breathing this in?"
"Ventilation''s running," Jordan says, calm as ever. "If there was anything airborne, you''d already be dead."
"Wow, thanks," Flashpoint mutters. "Super reassuring."
Jordan doesn''t react, already moving ahead, leading us into one of the aisles. Their voice stays low, steady. "Storage takes up most of the first floor. Chemicals, precursors, synthesis materials--some of this is probably legitimate industrial supply, but a lot of it isn''t. Far side of the building is the processing area. That''s where the good stuff happens. Manufacturing, mixing stations, whatever active synthesis they''ve got going."
I glance toward the back, where the rows start to thin out into open floor space. A few metal tables, workbenches covered in tubing and glassware. A chemical fume hood. A fridge with a biohazard sticker slapped onto it.
"And security?" I ask.
"Office is back right," Jordan says. "That''s where the cameras are. Maybe a safe. Maybe someone watching the feeds. Haven''t gotten a look inside yet."
"And upstairs?"
"Break room and a supervisor''s office," they say. "Second floor is small. Just a couple of rooms overlooking the floor. Could be someone in there, could be empty. Hard to tell without going loud."
I don''t like the unknowns. I don''t like how big this place is, how much space there is to cover, how much we don''t know yet. We''re not here to burn the place down. We''re not here to get into a fight. We''re here to find something--evidence, information, anything we can use to prove what this place really is--but the longer I look at the sheer amount of stuff in here, the more I realize how much harder that''s gonna be.
How do you find the one thing you need in a sea of everything?
Flashpoint nudges me. "We''re moving or what?"
I nod, pushing the thoughts back. No time to spiral. One step at a time.
We keep close to the shelves, ducking into the blind spots Jordan points out--places where the racks block the line of sight from the second-floor office, where the light doesn''t quite reach, where we won''t cast obvious shadows. We move slow. Controlled. Listening for footsteps.
Nothing, yet. Just the hum of machinery. The distant creak of a metal beam settling. The faint beep of a forklift backup alarm from outside.
Jordan pauses at the end of an aisle, glancing around the corner before motioning us forward. "Footsteps upstairs. One person, maybe two. Slow pacing."
I glance toward the upper level. The office window overlooks the storage floor, but the blinds are drawn. No movement behind the glass.
Flashpoint exhales through her nose. "You think they''re watching the cameras?"
"Probably," Jordan says. "Depends how lazy they are."
I don''t like it. If someone''s watching the security feed, that means we have a time limit. If they get up to stretch their legs and do a walkthrough, that time limit gets even shorter.
I tap my comm. "Blink, you picking up anything from outside?"
There''s a soft crackle before Lily''s voice comes through. "Nothing weird. Same rotation of people. Truck just left about five minutes ago."
"Good," I say. "Keep watching."
I glance at Jordan. "We need to get to the processing area. See what they''re actually making."
Jordan nods once. "I''ll keep an eye on the security office."
I exhale slowly, shifting my weight. The walls feel closer now, the ceiling lower. The air feels thicker.
Chapter 162.3
The cameras are everywhere.
Little black domes, perched in the corners where the shelves meet the ceiling, swiveling in that slow, deliberate arc, like they know we''re here and they''re just waiting to catch us. Most of them are standard--cheap, basic, but functional. But some of them? Some are the full 360-degree kind, their lenses constantly adjusting, covering every possible angle.
It makes my skin crawl.
But Jordan? Jordan''s loving it.
They''re crouched ahead of us, fingers pressed to the concrete floor, helmet tilted just enough that I know they''re grinning under there. The air around them warps slightly--a barely perceptible shimmer, like the heat rising off asphalt in summer. I watch as the space between us and the next camera starts to... stretch. The hallway, which was maybe twenty feet long a second ago, is now double that, the space cut cleanly by a parallelogram-ular prism. I don''t know the word for it. A diagonal cut.
The camera, now staring into an extended void, keeps sweeping back and forth, oblivious to the fact that it''s covering empty space that wasn''t there five seconds ago. Jordan glances back at us, voice low in my ear. "Alright, Bloodhound, Flashpoint--come on."
Flashpoint slides past me first, crouching low, hovering whisper-quiet over the concrete as she glides through the warped space. I follow close behind, my footsteps careful but quick, feeling a weird existential tremor run through me as I do so. It''s not physically different--the ground is still solid, the air still breathable--but my body knows something''s wrong. This is space that isn''t there. In a second, it will be gone, and the universe will have forgotten it.
We make it past the camera''s sweep, and then Jordan lets the space snap back into place. There''s a soft, almost infinitesimal pop in the air, and the hallway looks normal again. Just rows of metal shelves, concrete floor, chemical drums stacked high, labels with long chemical names I can''t pronounce.
"Smooth," Flashpoint whispers, glancing around. "You been practicing that?"
Jordan huffs. "You think this is the first building I''ve been in that I shouldn''t be?"
"Great grammar," Flashpoint needles.
I roll my eyes but don''t say anything. We''ve got work to do.
We start moving again, keeping low and using the shelves as cover. This place is huge--way bigger than it looked from the outside. The kind of warehouse that feels like it just keeps going, rows upon rows of industrial storage, all of it filled with chemicals and supplies that could be used for... well, a lot of things. Some of them perfectly legal. Some of them... less so.
We stop at one of the barrels near the edge of the storage floor. It''s massive--probably fifty gallons--marked with a simple white label: ACETIC ANHYDRIDE.
Flashpoint leans over, frowning. "This is... normal, right? Like, this is a real thing?"
"Depends," Jordan says. "It''s used in a lot of legitimate industrial processes. But it''s also used in drug synthesis."
I snap a picture of the label with my phone, making sure to get the serial number and any shipping info.
We keep moving.
More barrels, more labels. SODIUM HYDROXIDE. TOLUENE. ETHYL ACETATE. Some of them I recognize from high school chemistry. Others are totally alien. We take pictures of everything, careful not to touch or move anything that might look out of place.
Jordan guides us through the storage floor, pointing out more cameras as we go. They keep doing their thing--stretching space, creating blind spots, slipping us through without triggering anything. It''s almost hypnotic, the way they move, the ease with which they manipulate the space around us.
We hit the edge of the storage area and find ourselves staring at the processing section.
It''s different here--less industrial, more... lab-like. There are metal workbenches lined with glassware--beakers, flasks, tubing connecting everything in these weird looping systems. Chemical fume hoods line one wall, their fans humming quietly. There are mixing stations, too--big industrial tanks with pipes running overhead, valves and gauges monitoring pressure and temperature.
Flashpoint lets out a low whistle. "This is... intense."
I nod, moving closer to one of the workbenches. There''s a small tray with hypodermic needles scattered across it. None of them are black--the kind we''re looking for--but they''re still unsettling. I snap a picture.
Jordan''s voice cuts in. "No sign of the black syringes yet?"
"Nothing," I mutter, frustration creeping into my tone. "Just regular stuff. No injectors, no branding, nothing."
"We''re still early," Jordan says. "Keep looking."
We spread out, keeping within eyesight of each other but covering different workstations. I find a clipboard with a shipping manifest, the pages stained with something brown and sticky. I flip through them, trying to decipher the messy handwriting.
Most of it looks normal--chemical shipments, lab supplies, some heavy machinery parts--but there''s one entry that catches my eye.
Inbound: STN-BPH-456. Qty: 200 units.
I squint at it. "Jordan. Flashpoint. Got something."
They both move in, peering over my shoulder.
"STN-BPH?" Flashpoint reads aloud. "What''s that?"
"Could be shorthand for Stheno Biopharma," I suggest. "But it''s vague as hell."
Jordan taps the page. "Two hundred units. That could be syringes. Or it could be lab equipment. No way to tell."
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I snap pictures of the manifest, flipping through the other pages, but nothing else stands out.
"We need more," I say, frustrated.
Jordan nods. "Let''s hit the security office next. Might be some logs, invoices--something with clearer info."
We move carefully, sticking to the shadows as we approach the far side of the warehouse. The security office is a small room elevated above the main floor, accessible by a metal staircase. From here, the cameras could easily catch us--if Jordan wasn''t doing their thing.
They stretch the space again, pulling the staircase out of view of the cameras, and we slip up quickly, crouching low as we reach the top.
Jordan holds up a hand, signaling for us to wait.
I freeze, listening.
There''s a faint sound--someone inside the office, typing on a keyboard. A single guard, from the sound of it.
Jordan leans in close, voice a whisper in my ear. "I''ll handle this. Stay here."
Before I can respond, they pull a small bolt or pebble from their pocket--something they must''ve grabbed earlier--and toss it down the metal staircase with a soft clink. It bounces once, then again, loud enough in the silence to make the hairs on my arms stand up.
Inside the office, the typing stops.
I hold my breath as the guard''s chair scrapes back. A moment later, the door creaks open, and the guard steps out, squinting into the dimly lit warehouse. He moves toward the staircase, eyes scanning the shadows, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.
Jordan waits until he''s a few steps down, then slips past the open door and into the office without making a sound.
The guard mutters something under his breath, still focused on the noise he heard, before shaking his head and heading back up the stairs. But by the time he reaches the top again, the door is already closed and locked behind Jordan.
A few seconds pass, tense and tight, before the door cracks open.
"All clear," Jordan whispers.
We step inside.
The security office is small, cluttered with monitors showing various camera feeds. A desk in the corner holds stacks of papers, a couple of file folders, and a half-eaten sandwich. The guard is slumped in the far corner, zip-tied at the wrists, a gag over his mouth, eyes wide but unharmed.
Jordan glances at him briefly before turning to us. "He''ll be fine. No alarms tripped."
I exhale, tension easing out of my chest. Much better.
"Sorry, man. I promise we''re not here to hurt you," I say, crouching next to the guard. I start pulling stuff from his pockets--walkie-talkie, keycard, a set of jangly keys, and a taser--stacking them neatly in a little pile by his feet. "Play nice and I''ll untie you when we''re done. Don''t play nice, and... well, then we do it the concussion-y way. Sound fair?"
He nods, wide-eyed, probably hoping for the first option. I get moving.
Jordan''s already at the desk, flipping through files, their gloves moving quick and precise. I drift over to the monitors, eyes scanning the feeds. Most show the usual--dim aisles stacked with chemical drums, forklifts sitting idle, empty loading bays--but then one screen makes me pause.
"Hey," I say, pointing at the monitor. "I think I found something."
Flashpoint leans over my shoulder. "What is that? Those black cases? That could be it, right?"
At first glance, it looks promising. A separate room near the back of the warehouse, lined with shelves holding sleek, black units. Some have little green and red lights blinking on them, all uniform and neat. My brain immediately starts piecing together the worst-case scenario--rows of black injectors, ready to ship out.
But Jordan glances up and squints at the screen, then shakes their head. "That''s not it. That''s a server yard."
I blink, doing a double-take. Now that they''ve said it, I can see it--the blinking lights, the cabling, the faint haze from the cooling system. Servers, not injectors. For a second, I feel like an idiot.
"Camera angle threw me off," I mutter.
Jordan''s already back to flipping through files. "It makes sense. If this place is running shady operations, that''s where they''d keep the data. Probably the most secure spot in the building. We hit that last. I doubt my random security card keycard clone is gonna do anything but trip the alarms. That spot''s on lockdown, guarantee it."
I nod, even though my gut twists, itchy with the need to dig deeper. "Right. Servers last. In case anything trips."
We snap pictures of everything we can--shipping logs, manifests, inventory lists--but it''s all frustratingly mundane. Chemical orders, generic industrial supplies, invoices for equipment that looks above-board on paper. No mention of the black injectors. No smoking gun.
"Still nothing," I murmur, flipping through another folder. "Feels like we''re close, though."
Flashpoint crouches next to me, peeking at the papers. "Or they''re hiding the good stuff somewhere deeper."
Jordan doesn''t look up. "That''s why we''re still here."
I glance back at the server room on the monitor, its blinking lights almost taunting. The answers are there. We just have to get to them. Jordan pockets a USB drive from the desk, just taking everything not nailed down, and we head back down, slipping past the cameras again with the help of their space-warping.
We regroup near the center of the warehouse, hidden between two massive stacks of crates.
"We''re running out of time," I whisper. "If someone checks in on that guard--"
"They won''t," Jordan says, but I can tell they''re not totally confident.
Jordan pockets a USB drive from the desk--because when in doubt, steal everything that''s not nailed down--and we head back out, slipping past the cameras again as they pull at the edges of space, stretching hallways just long enough to make us invisible.
We regroup near the center of the warehouse, tucked into the shadows between two towering stacks of crates. It''s quieter here, the hum of machinery distant, the smell of chemicals thick in the air.
"We''re running out of time," I whisper, keeping my voice low. "If someone checks in on that guard--"
"They won''t," Jordan says immediately, but their voice has that edge--the kind where they''re trying to convince themselves as much as me.
Which is, of course, exactly when things go wrong.
I hear it first--the rapid scrape of boots on metal, the clatter of someone moving fast up above. Then voices--muffled at first, but growing louder.
"Shit," I hiss, pressing back against the crates.
We all freeze, listening. There''s a heavy thunk--someone slamming a door open--and then I spot the movement. Up on the second floor, a figure pushes out of the break room. Big. Towering.
It takes me a second to place him, but when I do, my stomach sinks. "That''s Bash," I whisper.
Maggie cranes her neck for a better look, then grimaces. "Oh, come on."
It''s definitely him--Bash, from Kensington. I remember his face from the marina fight. He had one of the black autoinjectors then, powering him up like some walking wrecking ball. And now he''s here, in a white tank top stretched across his wide chest, vaguely professional slacks, moving with that same unsettling ease. Not bulky, not muscular--he''s built like a powerlifter. Strong in a way that doesn''t need to show off.
"What''s he doing here?" Maggie mutters.
"Working security, maybe?" I say. "Getting his share."
Bash ambles across the upper floor, heading toward the observation deck, but something''s off. He stops, sniffs the air, and then cups his hands to his mouth.
"Lenny! We''ve got company!" His voice booms through the warehouse, echoing off the walls.
Lenny? Great. Another wildcard.
I pull back into the shadows, heart racing. But that''s when Jordan points, sharp and tense.
"Look."
I follow their finger, squinting through the dim lighting, and then I see it--curling tendrils of smoke, snaking through the gaps between shelves. It''s thick, heavy, and rising fast, but something''s wrong. There''s no smell. No heat. No crackling fire.
"Is that... smoke?" Maggie asks.
"Yeah," I say, voice tight. "But it''s not burning anything."
Jordan swears under their breath. "We didn''t trigger anything. Someone else is here."
The smoke drifts closer, spilling into the aisles. It looms above the racks, crawling along the ceiling like it''s alive, blanketing the security cameras'' view.
Bash doesn''t notice us. He''s heading down the stairs, following the trail of smoke, his massive frame cutting through the haze like it''s nothing. We press deeper into the shadows, staying low.
"Who the hell is Lenny?" I whisper.
"No idea," Jordan replies, eyes tracking Bash as he disappears into the fog.
The smoke keeps coming, thicker now, curling over the shelves, swallowing the rows in a dense gray haze. Something is happening in here--something way beyond our plan.
Soot.
Chapter 163.1
The smoke keeps curling in, thicker by the second, swallowing the edges of the warehouse until everything feels smaller, tighter. Like the air''s folding in on itself. I crouch lower, my back pressed against a stack of chemical drums, the metal cold even through my gloves. My breath feels loud inside my helmet, fogging the visor just enough to be annoying. Jordan''s a few feet ahead, peeking around the shelving, their body language calm, deliberate, like none of this is unexpected. But my mind''s moving way too fast.
I stare into the haze, trying to piece it together. Soot. It has to be Soot. Nobody else throws down a smoke screen like that--dense but controlled, creeping exactly where it needs to be, covering sightlines without choking the place out. It''s surgical. Like they planned this.
But why? Why here? Why now? How did they know to come here?
My stomach twists in that familiar way. If Soot really is Kate--and I don''t know that, I can''t know that, not for sure--but if they are, then this is my fault. All of it. She wouldn''t be here if I hadn''t dragged her into this world in the first place. She was normal before this. Well. Not normal, but she wasn''t this. Wasn''t sneaking into warehouses full of chemical drums and superpowered gangsters. Wasn''t throwing herself into danger.
I keep telling myself that people make their own choices. That Kate--if it''s her--knew what she was doing. But the guilt''s still there, sticky and sharp, gnawing at the edges of my brain. Every time I see Soot, that feeling doubles down. It''s like watching someone drown while holding the rope that could''ve pulled them out, but you threw it too late.
I glance at Jordan. They''re focused on the smoke, calculating angles, probably already working out the most efficient way to stretch space and get us closer to the server room. Efficient. Focused. No emotional baggage cluttering up their brain. Not like me.
The smoke thickens, and that''s when I see the second figure. Not Bash--he''s still lumbering through the fog like a wrecking ball--but someone else. Leaner. Twitchier. A white guy, probably in his late twenties, covered in tattoos that crawl up his neck and spill over the sides of his shaved head. He''s wearing a hoodie, jeans, hardly professional security attire, but the glowing blue veins, electric cyan pulsing up the sides of his face, tell me why a lout like him is in a place like this.
That''s gotta be Lenny.
He moves through the smoke like it''s not even there, eyes scanning sharp, like he knows exactly what he''s looking for. His hands twitch at his sides, like he''s waiting to punch someone out but doesn''t know where they are yet.
I swallow hard.
This is where it all clicks--the mission''s already loud. Soot forced it loud the second they showed up, and there''s no walking that back. Bash is hunting. Lenny''s here, veins glowing with something that''s definitely not legal. Security''s gonna close in fast, and Soot? Soot''s out there in the middle of it all, alone, probably already fending them off.
I shift in my crouch, glance at Jordan again. My mind''s racing, trying to justify what I already know I''m about to do. I can''t just sit here while Soot gets torn apart. Morally, ethically--none of this sits right. And even if I shove all that aside, it''s still the smart call. Soot''s the perfect distraction. They''re keeping security focused somewhere else, giving Jordan and Maggie the window they need to break into the server room and pull whatever files we can get before Argus Corps shows up.
But that''s not why I want to run out there.
I want to run out there because if Soot is Kate, I can''t let her get killed.
I tighten my grip on the edge of the shelving unit, the cool metal biting into my gloves as I turn to Jordan, trying to explain, to give them something, anything, that justifies what I''m about to do. "I''m gonna--"
But Jordan cuts me off with a sharp flick of their hand. "Sam. Go."
I blink. "Wait, I--"
"I get it," they say, voice low but steady. They don''t even turn to look at me, their focus still on the shifting smoke and the shadows moving through it. "Soot''s out there alone, and we both know you''re not gonna sit here and twiddle your thumbs while that happens. You''re the leader. You make the calls."
"I--" I start again, but it dies in my throat. My chest feels tight, words jamming up behind my ribs. I want to argue, to lay out my logic--that this is strategic, that Soot being alive is helpful, that this isn''t just about me being soft. But Jordan doesn''t need to hear any of that. They already know.
"I trust you," they add, finally turning to glance at me, helmet tilted just enough for me to feel the weight behind the words. "So stop wasting time."
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, something loosening in my chest. The sounds of chaos in the warehouse are getting louder--heavy footsteps pounding against the concrete, metal scraping as security teams reposition. Somewhere deeper in the smoke, I hear a dull thud, like someone''s body hitting a wall, followed by a sharp hiss of smoke twisting tighter. Soot''s holding their own. For now.
Jordan turns to Maggie, who''s been bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes darting between us and the rising smoke.
"Flashpoint," Jordan says, "your repulsion fields--do they go through objects, or do they stop at surfaces?"
Maggie squints, like she''s just now realizing she''s about to become a wrecking ball. "Uh... I think they go through? Like, walls don''t really stop them? But I haven''t exactly tried to break into a reinforced security door before."
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Jordan hums, already running a gloved hand over the rough metal surface of the door to the security room. "Doesn''t matter. We were gonna find someone with access, but this is faster. We don''t need the whole door gone--just the right parts."
"Like the hinges?" Maggie suggests, tilting her head.
"Maybe the keypad," Jordan suggests, gesturing to the panel next to the door. "If we fry the electronics, it might pop the lock, or if we just punch the keypad through we can reach in and disengage the lock manually."
Maggie squints at the door, then shakes her head. "You''d end up locking it down harder."
Jordan pauses, considering that, but Maggie steps forward, tapping the door near the handle. "If I slam the deadbolt against the strike plate, or maybe aim the other way around, I might be able to jimmy it out. But if it''s magnetically closed... No, we could just bust the strike plate out. Yeah. I can probably break the screws out."
Jordan blinks, turning to look at her properly. "Wait, how do you even know that?"
Maggie shrugs, a little too casual. "I help my uncle fix up houses sometimes. Learned some stuff."
Jordan chuckles, sounding genuinely impressed. "Well, look at you, Ms. DIY. Alright, let''s hit the strike plate."
Maggie grins wide under her mask, already pulling off her gloves to get better control over her fields. "I like this plan. Less people-punching, more door-punching."
Jordan chuckles, but then their helmet snaps back toward me. "And you--" they point, "--why are you still here?"
I hesitate, heart thudding loud in my ears, but then I hear it--the sharp sound of fists colliding with something hard, the echo of footsteps scrambling over metal, and the low growl of someone--probably Bash--somewhere deeper in the smoke.
I don''t wait any longer.
I bolt.
The sounds of Maggie and Jordan talking fade behind me as I weave through the shifting clouds, my heart racing and my stomach knotted tight. The smoke swirls thick around my legs, and I can already hear the scuffle ahead--grunts, gasps, the slap of shoes against concrete, the metallic clang of something heavy being thrown.
The smoke thickens fast, curling into dense pockets between the shelves, swallowing everything in a gray-blue haze. Somewhere deeper in the warehouse, there''s the heavy thud of boots against concrete, the low growl of Bash''s voice cutting through the fog. I can''t see him, but I can feel it -- the dull reverberation of something massive moving with way too much force for a normal human. Every step makes the metal shelving creak like it''s seconds away from folding in on itself.
But what catches my eye first isn''t Bash--it''s the sudden, sharp-edged glow slicing through the smoke. A wall. Bright cyan-blue, flat and gleaming, rising out of nowhere like someone just hit "spawn" in a game. Another one snaps into place perpendicular to it, boxing off a chunk of the smoke, forcing it to billow upwards and around the edges, cut off from the rest.
Soot''s trying to keep the fog spread out, but these new barriers are cutting it off, corralling it into useless corners.
Then I spot him--the guy behind the walls. Lanky, wiry, jeans sagging low and a loose hoodie that''s at least three sizes too big, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His skin''s pale, but the veins are what really get me--thin, jagged, glowing cyan, crawling up his forearms and branching across his neck like cracks in glass.
Lenny.
He snaps one hand through the air, and another wall slams down just inches from a fresh swirl of smoke, slicing through it like a guillotine. The vapor recoils, bouncing helplessly against the forcefield before curling upward, denied entry. The weirdest part? The smoke doesn''t burn off or get blown aside--it just hits the wall and dies.
With his other hand, he flicks his fingers sideways, tracing invisible lines, and more barriers snap into place--clean, sharp, simple slabs. He''s building a maze, penning Soot in tighter with every flick of his wrist.
But here''s the thing--he''s so focused on Soot, he''s not watching his own back.
I keep low, weaving through the thickest parts of the smoke. It curls around me, hiding my movements, and the uneven concrete scrapes against my gloves as I crawl forward. My knees slide across oily patches, but I keep going, hugging the shadows. One of Lenny''s walls juts out over my head, but I duck under it, sliding close enough now to hear him muttering--something about "damn smoke freaks" and "should''ve stayed home."
I lunge at him, my shoulder slamming into his back, square between his shoulder blades, catching him off guard. He stumbles forward, a strangled yelp breaking out, and I wrap an arm around his neck, dragging him down with me.
But before I can pin him properly, one of his existing barriers scrapes sideways--fast, like a glass door slamming shut--and clips me across the ribs. It''s not hard enough to break anything, but it knocks the air out of my lungs and sends me sprawling across the concrete. I roll with the impact, scrambling back to my feet.
Lenny spins to face me, wide-eyed, veins pulsing brighter now. "What the hell--who--"
I don''t let him finish. I''m already charging.
He tries to throw up another wall between us, but I''m faster. I duck low, sliding under the half-formed barrier before it solidifies, and slam my gauntlet into his side, right under the ribs. The reinforced knuckles hit hard--there''s a deep, meaty thud, and Lenny gasps, doubling over. It''s not enough to knock him out, but enough to break his focus.
A nearby forcefield flickers and collapses, letting a fresh wave of smoke pour through. Thick, white, curling in like a living thing. It''s heavier now--denser--and smells like fireworks. Soot must''ve popped a smoke bomb somewhere around the corner.
That''s when I hear it -- Thoom. Thoom.
Heavy steps, shaking the concrete beneath me, getting closer with each impact. I can''t see him through the smoke, but I know exactly who it is. Bash. His footsteps sound like someone''s slamming a wrecking ball into the ground, each one heavier than the last. He''s moving fast--too fast for someone his size.
I press against the nearest stack of crates, ducking low as the vibrations rattle through the metal shelves. I still can''t see him, but I hear the snarl, low and guttural, and the crash as something--probably one of Soot''s barriers--shatters under the weight of Bash''s charge.
He''s tunnel-visioned on Soot. I can hear it in the way he''s stomping, the focused, unrelenting direction of it. The sound of his boots slamming down, the crack of something metal bending under pressure. I risk a glance around the edge of the crates, but the smoke''s too thick--I can only make out vague silhouettes.
Then, through the haze, I spot Soot''s shape--further down the row, half-hidden behind a stack of barrels, smoke swirling thick around their legs. They flick their wrist and lob something--another smoke bomb--that bounces once before exploding into a dense cloud of white.
Bash coughs hard, his charge stalling for a second, but he barrels through anyway, the thick smoke clinging to him like oil. He doesn''t stop. He''s going straight for Soot.
Soot''s head turns slightly, almost like they''re expecting me. They don''t wave, don''t call out, but there''s this flicker--like they knew I''d be here.
I adjust my grip on the gauntlet, breathing through the haze. Lenny''s still scrambling to get up, his veins glowing brighter, his hands shaky as he starts to summon another barrier. The cyan light glints off the swirling smoke, outlining the maze he''s trying to rebuild.
I clench my jaw and raise my gauntlet.
"Hey, Soot!" I shout through the fog, voice rough. "Looks like you could use a hand!"
They don''t respond. Of course they don''t.
But they don''t tell me to leave either.
Which, coming from Soot, is basically an invitation.
Chapter 163.2
I don''t wait for an answer. No time. Lenny''s still scrambling to pull himself together, his glowing veins pulsing brighter as he throws up another angled barrier, boxing Soot in tighter. And Bash--Bash is still moving through the smoke like a wrecking ball, massive arms swinging wide, slicing through the fog, forcing Soot to duck and weave between industrial shelves and toppled crates. His footsteps hit the ground with deep, shuddering thuds, but I notice something weird.
He''s not going all out.
I clock it right as he barrels past a stack of chemical drums--huge metal cylinders with hazard symbols plastered across the sides--and instead of crashing through them, he swerves. Clumsy, but careful. His foot drags wide, throwing him off-balance for half a second, but he catches himself and keeps charging. It''s subtle, almost like instinct, but it''s there.
He''s holding back... Not because of me. Not because of Soot. Because of what''s in this warehouse. Whatever he''s juiced up on might make him dense as hell, but even Bash doesn''t want to be the guy who blows the whole place sky-high or throws acid on himself. Good. I can use that.
I dart forward, weaving through the swirling fog, staying low as Lenny snaps another barrier into place just above my head. His walls are sharp-edged, gleaming that same eerie cyan-blue, but I''m getting a rhythm now--there''s a half-second delay when he''s distracted, and that''s my opening.
I cut left, weaving my head down like a bobbing duck, and pop up right next to him.
"Shit--" Lenny whirls, trying to throw up another barrier between us, but I''m already too close. I slam my gauntlet into his ribs, hitting the left button. A thin spray of watered-down pig''s blood shoots out, turning into a cloud of particles that outlines his upper body as it clings to him like cling-wrap.
He stumbles backward, swiping at the blood. "What the--what the hell is this?!"
I ignore him, already pulling back, my blood sense kicking in. Lenny lights up in my mind now--a jagged outline, pulsing where the blood sticks to his skin. Through the fog, he''s crystal clear.
One down.
I pivot, dropping into a sprint, the gauntlet still slick with blood as I duck behind a stack of crates. Bash''s thudding footsteps echo nearby--closer than I want--and I catch a glimpse of his silhouette through the smoke. Still focused on Soot, still moving fast. Soot''s darting between shelves, hurling another fireworks smoke bomb into the open. It pops with a dull pfft, releasing thick white smoke that spills out, mingling with the gray haze.
Bash lunges forward, aiming a wide swing at Soot, but Soot ducks under a shelf, sneaking between rows, crawling across the floor in a practiced move. The swing misses, and Bash''s fist slams into a metal support beam instead, making the entire structure shudder.
I take my chance. I sprint forward, closing the distance. Bash''s back is massive, broad muscles flexing under his sweat-soaked tank top. I leap, grabbing onto his shoulder for leverage, and slam my gauntlet against his back, spraying more pig''s blood.
The blood splatters across his shirt in a thin mist, quickly soaking it red-brown, spilling out like tie-dye into the fabric.
Bash stiffens, and I barely have time to jump back before he spins around, knocking over a shelf of chemical canisters in the process. They clatter to the ground but don''t break--thank G-d--but now his eyes are on me, narrowed and burning.
"You again," he growls, his voice like gravel.
I backpedal, trying to keep distance, my gauntlet still raised. "Yeah, funny seeing you here. Didn''t peg you for the warehouse type."
His grin is sharp and mean, blood still dripping down his shoulder. "Was hoping some day I could see what you''d got. Annoying that it''s now."
"Maybe pick somewhere without flammable chemicals next time," I taunt.
Bash lunges forward, but I dart away, slipping behind another stack of crates. He follows, heavy footsteps echoing through the fog, but now I''ve got both of them tagged. My blood sense lights up Lenny and Bash like warning beacons in my head--two glowing outlines moving through the dense haze. "Soot--I''ve got eyes!" I bellow, hoping they''ll understand, that my reputation precedes me or that they just sort of get the picture.
There''s a beat, then the smoke shifts, like someone flipped a switch.
Soot dumps everything.
Thick, dark clouds pour out, so dense it almost feels solid. The smoke floods the entire area, rolling in waves, blanketing everything. I lose sight of the shelves, the crates, the scattered debris--it''s all just swirling gray now, smelling like burning cardboard, plastic, and paper, with only a hint of wood and leaves. Smoke leaks out from Soot''s fingertips and under their hoodie in deep, swirling plumes, wrenching control of the battlefield away from the terrible twosome. Now, nobody can see each other.
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But I can still see them.
Lenny panics first. "What the--? I can''t see--" His voice echoes somewhere to my left, barriers snapping up wildly, cutting through the smoke in jagged lines, but he''s swinging blind now.
Bash doesn''t flinch. He''s still coming for me, but slower now, more cautious, each step calculated. I grin under my helmet.
Now the fight''s on my terms.
The smoke swells around me--dense, heavy, thick enough that I can barely see my hand in front of my face. Even with Gossamer''s filters built into my helmet, tiny little things scrapped from cloth masks - how polite of her, it''s almost like she knew Soot was going to show up eventually - it''s a struggle to breathe. Every inhale feels like I''m sucking through a clogged straw, and the smoke stings my eyes even through the visor. Soot is going all in, pumping the space full of dense fog, making it a nightmare for everyone else.
Except them.
They move like they were born in it--silent, weightless, flowing with the smoke instead of fighting against it. I catch flashes of their silhouette as they duck behind a toppled metal shelf, their body wrapped in the swirling haze like it''s armor. The only reason I can keep track of anything is the blood sense. Thin, glowing traces stretch out in my mind, mapping the positions--Bash''s massive, dense form pulsing like a beacon, Lenny a jittery, spiky outline further back, both of them marked with the pig''s blood I sprayed.
Bash stomps forward, coughing hard as he swats at the smoke with his arms, trying to avoid turning this place into a bomb or pissing off his employers. But that sort of caution is working against him, and Soot knows it.
Soot flicks their wrist, releasing another burst of pepper spray into the cloud, adding a nasty bite to the air. I feel it sear into my throat, even through the filters, and I cough, hard, forcing it down. Bash? He gets the full brunt of it. His deep, raspy coughs echo through the smoke, followed by the sound of his boot smashing into a metal shelf in frustration.
"Goddamn--" he sputters, voice hoarse.
I duck behind a stack of crates, glancing up as a wave of the smoke starts to thin out--only to see one of Lenny''s forcefield panels sweeping through the fog like a giant, slow-moving fan. He''s using his barriers like air brooms, pushing the smoke away, trying to clear a pocket for Bash. I watch as the swirling haze parts in front of Bash, giving him a clear line of sight--at least until Soot lobs a smoke bomb right into the open space, refilling it with choking fog.
"Persistent little shits," Lenny mutters somewhere behind me, and I see another forcefield slide into place, cutting off part of the smoke again.
The fog thickens around me, swirling in these uneven, dense clumps, and I can hear the voices cutting through the static--Lenny''s panicked swearing, Bash''s hoarse coughs, and now... footsteps. Fast. Heavy. From the far end of the warehouse.
"Capes in the smoke--moving in now! Keep your mouth covered!" a voice crackles through Lenny''s walkie-talkie, and my stomach drops. Security. At least three by the sound of the centipedesque footsteps, close enough that I can hear the rubber soles squeaking against the concrete.
"Shit," I hiss under my breath, glancing at the shifting fog. I can still see Lenny and Bash through my blood sense--their glowing outlines like beacons in my mind--but the guards? I''m flying blind. I haven''t tagged them, haven''t even seen them yet, and I''m not about to spray more blood into the air - I''m not sure what will happen with the smoke. I''m not a physicist. Would it just get stuck? Would it drift out and give me a great view of everywhere? Now''s not the time to take that kind of risk. No experiments.
I duck lower behind the crates, heart pounding. Five-on-two. Not great odds, even with the smoke cover and the element of surprise. And I know Soot--they''re good at disappearing, at making chaos--but they can''t take on all of this alone. Neither can I.
I peek through a gap between the crates, spotting Bash''s hulking silhouette still staggering through the smoke, one arm shielding his face as he coughs violently. Good. He''s slowed down, distracted. Lenny''s forcefields are still cutting through the fog in sharp lines, trying to clear space, but he''s overextending--too many barriers at once, and they''re starting to flicker at the edges. His sixth barrier looks a lot thinner than the previous five.
I need to thin this out before the guards get here.
I slip out from behind the crates, moving low, fast, blood sense still pinging Lenny''s position like a radar. He''s crouched behind an overturned shelving unit, breathing hard, hands splayed out as he tries to hold up at least four barriers at once. Two of them are cutting into the smoke like giant fans, one''s hovering above his head as a shield, and the fourth--he''s aiming it toward Soot, trying to box them in completely.
"Hey, glowstick!" I yell, sprinting straight at him.
Lenny''s head snaps up, wide-eyed. "What the--"
I slam into his side before he can react, driving my shoulder into his ribs and knocking him sideways into one of his own forcefields. There''s a sharp, glassy crack as the barrier splinters on impact, collapsing into nothing as he hits the ground hard.
"Fuck!" he gasps, scrambling to his feet, but I''m already on him.
"Say ''Aahh'' and shut your eyes!" I instruct him, hitting him with just a light dose of the pepper spray. I feel a little bad - the coughing and hacking will absolutely make him inhale a lot of smoke, and I don''t want to give my enemies emphysema, but also, they''re trying to kill and/or detain us and are working for murderous criminals, so it sort of evens out. You get half a dose as a compromise. Okay, Lenny?
He screams, hands flying to his eyes, forcefields vanishing all at once. Taking notes - can only keep them up as long as you''re concentrating. Good to know! One down. At least for a minute, but the screaming gives me away. I take Lenny''s walkie, hurl it through the smoke, and scamper off him like a dog.
"Visual on one--moving in!" another guard yells, and I hear boots pounding toward me through the fog. I pivot, heart racing, and spot two figures cutting through the smoke--both in security uniforms, tasers out, cloth masks pulled up over their faces. They''re moving fast, using the thinning smoke Lenny cleared to zero in on me.
I dive behind another crate, breathing hard. "Soot! We''ve got company--security''s on us!"
No response, of course. Just more smoke pouring into the space, thinner than before. They must be running out. The guards'' footsteps echo closer, and I can hear their radios crackling.
"Capes confirmed--Bloodhound''s here. Orders?"
"Subdue if possible. Avoid lethal force, backup en route" another voice replies, but there''s hesitation there, like the person giving the order isn''t entirely sure they care if it goes sideways. And ''backup en route''. Great.
Figures.
Chapter 163.3
I push my back harder against the crate, trying to steady my breathing, but the smoke''s making it worse. It''s everywhere now, thick and cloying, worming its way past the filters in my helmet. My throat burns with each inhale, and I can already feel my lungs starting to tighten, like I''m breathing through a straw that someone keeps pinching closed.
The guards are closer now--two of them moving in fast, boots thudding against the concrete, cutting through the smoke with their flashlights. The beams sweep across the haze, but it''s too dense for them to get a clear view. I''m still invisible in here. Mostly.
I glance around the crate, tracking their outlines through the swirling gray. One of them''s got his taser raised, the prongs glinting in the flashlight beam, while the other''s covering him with what looks like a collapsible baton. Neither of them''s got proper gas masks--just the same cloth face coverings--but they''re pushing through the smoke anyway, eyes watering, shoulders tense.
Perfect.
I shift my weight forward, crouching low, and grab one of the metal rods that toppled over during the chaos. It''s bent at one end, probably from Bash''s earlier rampage, but it''ll work. I grip it tight, adjusting my stance, and wait for the right moment.
The first guard steps too close.
I swing the rod low, sweeping his legs out from under him. He goes down hard, his taser skidding across the floor with a clatter, and before he can recover, I''m already moving. I lunge forward, planting my knee on his chest, and slam the rod against his arm, knocking his baton away.
He thrashes beneath me, coughing through his mask, but I grab the gauntlet on my wrist and give him a quick spray of pig''s blood right across his face. It soaks into the cloth, dark and sticky, and I feel the outline light up in my blood sense--another one tagged.
"One down," I mutter, even though I know there are way too many left.
But I don''t have time to celebrate. The second guard''s already on me, swinging his baton down hard. I twist away, but the edge clips my shoulder, sending a sharp jolt of pain down my arm. I hiss, my balance thrown off, and roll backward, the baton swinging again, narrowly missing my ribs.
"Hands where I can see them!" he barks, but his voice is muffled by the mask, strained from breathing in the smoke.
I scramble to my feet, my back hitting a metal shelf, and raise my hands mockingly. "Like this?"
He charges.
I duck low, letting his momentum carry him forward, and slam my shoulder into his stomach. He stumbles but doesn''t go down. I grab his arm, twisting hard, and yank the baton from his grip before landing a solid elbow to the side of his head. He staggers, dazed, and I take the chance to spray him too--pig''s blood misting over his chest and neck.
Now I''ve got both of them glowing in my head, bright outlines moving through the haze. I back away, lungs burning, coughing hard as the smoke thickens again. My helmet''s filters are definitely starting to fail--the pepper spray, the onion fumes, the smoke itself--it''s all too much.
I slam my back against a support beam, breathing shallowly, and glance around. Through my blood sense, I see Bash still lumbering through the fog, slower now, but still moving. His massive form glows like a beacon in my head, each footstep sending tremors through the concrete. He''s not chasing me, though--still hunting for Soot.
I shout through my helmet, my voice coming out rough and strained. "Soot... they''re getting closer. You need to move!"
No response.
I glance toward the far end of the warehouse, where the guards are regrouping. One of them''s coughing violently, slumped against a crate, while the other is waving his flashlight through the fog, trying to get a visual. The smoke is everywhere now--so thick I can barely see my own hands. My helmet''s visor is fogging up from the inside, the filters hissing with each breath, struggling to keep up. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, my head starting to spin.
I need air.
I duck low, crawling along the floor where the smoke''s thinner, trying to find some clearer space, but even down here, it''s choking. I cough hard, my throat burning, vision blurring. My blood sense flickers for a moment, the outlines of the guards and Bash blinking in and out like a bad signal.
"Blood!" Jordan''s voice crackles through the comms, sharp and urgent. "Status?"
I choke down another cough. "Holding... barely. Soot''s still in here. Guards closing in."
"Sam, listen," Jordan says, their tone more serious now. "We got what we need. It''s time to go. Get Soot, if you can, but don''t die trying. Alarms are tripped and I''d bet cops are on the way. We''ve got two minutes, tops, before this goes totally out of our control."
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The words hit me hard. Two minutes. I scan the area again, my blood sense barely holding on. Soot''s flaring in my blood sense, bleeding into their hoodie, although I''m not sure from what injury. They''re running low on smoke--less of it is coming out now--but they''re still managing to stay ahead of Bash.
I push off the beam, trying to stand, but my legs are shaky, unsteady. My lungs feel like they''re filled with cement, each breath a struggle. I cough again, my throat raw, and force myself forward, stumbling through the fog.
A loud crash echoes nearby--Bash slamming into another stack of crates. Metal groans and bends under his weight, but I can tell he''s slowing down, too. The smoke''s getting to him, even with whatever drugs he''s juiced up on.
I take a shaky step forward, then another, following the glowing outlines in my head. The two guards I tagged are moving again, trying to regroup, but they''re slower now, more cautious. The smoke''s getting to them, too. One of them coughs hard, dropping to a knee, while the other stumbles blindly, flashlight beam flickering.
I duck behind another crate, my body screaming for air, and key the comms again. "Jordan... I don''t know if I can--" My voice cracks, another coughing fit cutting me off.
"You can," Jordan snaps. "You''ve got this. Just grab Soot and get out. We''re almost there."
I grit my teeth, forcing down the coughs, and push forward again. The smoke is suffocating now--my helmet''s filters are shot, barely keeping anything out. My vision swims, and I can feel my pulse pounding in my head.
I stumble into a clearer patch, coughing hard, and finally spot Soot''s silhouette through the haze, lining it up with where it sits in my blood sense. They''re crouched low, near a stack of chemical drums, still releasing smoke from their hands, but they''re moving slower now, too. I can see the exhaustion in the way their shoulders slump, the way they keep glancing over their shoulder at Bash.
"Soot!" I call out, my voice hoarse. "We need to go! Now!"
They don''t respond, but they turn slightly, their head tilting like they heard me. Then they flick their wrist, releasing another burst of smoke, but it''s thinner this time, more transparent. They''re running out.
I start toward them, forcing my legs to move, but then a loud crash echoes through the warehouse--Bash slamming into another shelf, sending crates flying. One of them clips my shoulder, knocking me sideways. I hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of me, and for a moment, everything blurs.
I cough violently, trying to suck in air, but it''s useless. The smoke is too thick. My lungs feel like they''re on fire, my head spinning.
"Sam!" Jordan''s voice cracks through the comms again. "Get out of there!"
I try to push myself up, my arms shaking, but my vision keeps blurring. I glance toward Soot--they''re still there, still crouched low, but now they''re looking at me, their face obscured by the smoke.
I force myself to my feet, swaying, and stagger toward them. "Soot! We need to go!"
But before I can reach them, a loud, metallic creak echoes through the warehouse, followed by a booming voice.
"GEAR THREE!"
The metallic creak grows louder, the shutter groaning under immense strain as it''s forced upward. Through the gaps in the rising door, I catch the flash of bright red gloves, fingers curled under the edge like hooks. The whole thing lifts slowly, the metal screaming in protest, dust and debris raining down from the warped hinges.
And there she is--Turbo Jett--grinning like she''s about to set a world record. Her red jacket glints in the warehouse''s flickering lights, flame decals swirling around her legs as she plants her feet and forces the shutter higher, muscles rippling with each pull. She huffs through her nose, then, with one last heave, slams it into its holding above her head.
Then she lets go.
The shutter slams down behind her with a deafening clang, sealing us all in, along with the silhouettes flanking her side.
A deeper voice chimes in from the haze, lazy and unimpressed. "Could''ve just ripped it open."
Captain Devil steps through the swirling smoke, massive and deliberate. His trench coat sways with each step, his red scarf fluttering behind him like a banner. His face is mostly hidden behind his domino mask, mouth set in a firm line, but even without seeing his eyes, I feel them. Like a weight pressing down on my chest. The wrongness creeps in, slow but steady, like ice water seeping into my veins.
My brain tries to logic through it, but something deeper--instinctual--pushes past all that. Fight or flight. Predator. I tense, hands shaking slightly, heart racing like it knows something I don''t. Every part of me is screaming to get away, even though he hasn''t done a damn thing yet.
Turbo Jett bounces on her heels, completely unfazed. "Come on, Cap! It''s way more fun this way," she says, flashing a grin at him over her shoulder.
"Fun," Captain Devil replies, flat and cold, without breaking stride.
And then the smell hits--sharp, acrid, something like rot and bleach mixed together. I cough hard, my lungs already burning, but this makes it worse. It seeps through the filters in my mask, wrapping around my throat like smoke that''s not smoke. Double smoke. Smoke squared. A figure steps through the doorway next, yellow hazmat suit practically glowing against the dark warehouse. Miasma. His skeletal mask stares straight ahead, the wide, grinning jaw molded into a permanent sneer.
He shuts his hazmat suit back up. "No loading bay ripping," Miasma says, voice hollow and distorted through the mask. He waves a gloved hand through the air, casual. "Job''s to avoid collateral damage, remember? We''re here to look good for Maya."
Turbo Jett laughs. "Pfft. You sound like a dad."
"Worse things to sound like," Miasma deadpans, the skeletal grin making it worse.
I cough harder, pressing a hand to my chest. The smoke around us is starting to thin--not because of any powers, but from the sheer displacement as these four push deeper inside.
And then the heavy boots hit the ground, each step deliberate, echoing through the space.
"As a wise man once said... ''I''m made of metal, my circuits gleam. I am perpetual, I keep the country clean.''"
Patriot enters, bald head gleaming under the warehouse lights, the eagle insignia on his chest practically shining. He carries his shield slung over his back, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every step feels calculated, like he''s done this a thousand times before and already knows how it ends.
He scans the warehouse once--just once--before barking out his order. "Detain the capes. Get the civvies out. Let''s roll."
Turbo Jett claps her hands together, giddy. "Finally!"
WORLD OF CHUM: Gadgeteering (2)
The Impossible Lab: Inside the Department of Applied Anomalous Sciences
By Rachel Lin, PopSci Weekly, April 5th 2025
On the outskirts of Baltimore, tucked between a disused industrial park and a suburban sprawl, sits a nondescript gray building with no signage. To the average passerby, it looks like an office complex that might house an insurance firm or maybe a tech startup that never quite made it. Inside, however, is one of the most ambitious¡ªand perplexing¡ªscientific institutions in the world: the Department of Applied Anomalous Sciences, or DAAS.
Founded in 2011, the Department of Applied Anomalous Sciences (DAAS) emerged in response to a growing reality that science could no longer ignore: Brain-type superhumans were breaking the laws of physics¡ªand doing so in ways that produced tangible, usable results. Unlike other superhumans whose abilities were mainly limited to their own bodies, Brain-types created gadgets and materials that defied known science, tools you could hold in your hand and use yourself.
The Brain-type category doesn¡¯t just include ESPers or people with telescopic vision¡ªit spans individuals with super-intelligence, hyper-accelerated sensory processing, and, most significantly, those with intuitive, hyper-specialized knowledge in specific fields. These superhumans were crafting devices that shouldn¡¯t function, forging materials that contradicted chemistry, and achieving results that traditional labs couldn¡¯t replicate.
DAAS was founded with a simple yet daunting mission: to understand the impossible.
A Lab for the Anomalous
Walking through DAAS feels like wandering into a science fiction novel mid-chapter. On one floor, a researcher in safety gear studies a sheet of textile that seems to ripple and twist on its own, as if caught in an invisible breeze. On another, a team is huddled around what looks like a medieval cannon, except this one apparently fires two projectiles from a single shell¡ªwithout breaking conservation of mass.
But the most fascinating part isn¡¯t the gadgets themselves¡ªit¡¯s the people who make them. DAAS employs some of the most specialized superhumans in the world, primarily Brain-types with a hyper-intuitive understanding of a single scientific field. There¡¯s Dr. Marisol Vega, who can design self-healing polymers in her sleep but struggles to explain how they work in conventional terms. Or Frankie Yoon, whose innate grasp of fluid dynamics allows him to create liquids with selective densities, yet he couldn¡¯t tell you the boiling point of water.
Alongside these hyper-specialized geniuses, DAAS also recruits a select number of Employ-types¡ªsuperhumans who can imbue objects, people, or locations with new properties¡ªand Create-types, who can conjure objects or substances from thin air. The materials produced by Create-types, known as Anomalously Originated Material (AOM), often defy traditional chemistry and physics. DAAS prioritizes recruiting Employ and Create-types with the most scientifically intriguing powers, hoping their abilities can help bridge the gap between impossible inventions and usable science.
¡°They¡¯re not omnidisciplinary geniuses,¡± says Dr. Alan Reeve, director of DAAS. ¡°They¡¯re savants in extremely narrow fields. One of our top researchers can create alloys that shouldn¡¯t exist, but he can¡¯t fix a leaky faucet.¡±
The "Microscope Breaker" Problem
The core issue DAAS grapples with is the so-called ¡°Microscope Breaker¡± phenomenon. Many of the materials and gadgets created by Brain-types exhibit properties that defy analysis. Put them under an electron microscope, and the readings come back scrambled¡ªor worse, entirely blank. Chemical assays often fail to register expected elements, and mass spectrometry data can loop endlessly, unable to process the sample.
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¡°It''s like trying to read a book written in a language you know, only every time you look at the page, the letters rearrange themselves,¡± says Reeve.
This makes traditional reverse-engineering impossible. Instead, DAAS relies on a hybrid approach: pairing superhuman researchers with baseline scientists who attempt to translate intuitive creations into functional, reproducible science. Sometimes, they get lucky. A Brain-type specializing in textiles might develop a self-repairing fabric, and while the exact mechanism remains elusive, baseline chemists can extract enough insight to create more durable materials for public use.
Other times, they hit dead ends. ¡°We have a device in storage that can teleport anything one inch due east seemingly instantaneously,¡± Reeve admits. ¡°We have no idea how it works, no idea how to shut it off, and it is currently busy eating dust particles, because the last time we tried to move it, something exploded, and we''re not quite sure how that happened either.¡±
Physics Collisions and Synthesis
One of DAAS¡¯s more experimental projects involves orchestrating pairs of superhumans from different specializations to see if their fields overlap in productive ways. The hope is that two conflicting anomalies might cancel each other out or, better yet, result in a stable, usable technology.
In one recent success, a Brain-type specializing in ceramic materials collaborated with a fluid dynamics expert. The result? A new form of non-Newtonian fluid that remains malleable under pressure but hardens instantly upon impact¡ªa breakthrough now being tested for next-generation body armor, and is cheaper to reproduce than comparable fluids, with more commonly available materials.
But such successes are rare. More often, these collaborations result in devices that behave unpredictably. There¡¯s an entire wing of DAAS known as the ¡°Zoo¡±, a containment area for unstable artifacts: a perpetual motion machine that only works when no one is observing it, a mirror that reflects objects that don¡¯t exist, and a vial of liquid that evaporates and recondenses elsewhere in the building at random.
Due to the properties of objects produced by superhumans, many of the devices in the Zoo degrade in functionality anywhere from hours to years after their production, never remaining functional forever, but cleaning this immense warehouse of the strange is a daunting task - you never know when that pair of boots might literally jump out and bite you.
The Bureaucracy of the Impossible
Running a place like DAAS isn¡¯t just a scientific challenge¡ªit¡¯s a bureaucratic nightmare. Every new creation has to go through rigorous safety testing, even if no one fully understands what the device does. There are entire teams dedicated to assessing the liability risks of gadgets that could implode, explode, or cause localized time distortions.
Legal issues abound as well. Who owns the rights to a device that can¡¯t be replicated? Can patents be filed for gadgets that defy known laws of physics? For now, most DAAS creations fall under a legal gray area, classified as ¡°non-replicable anomalous artifacts¡±, which shields them from standard intellectual property laws.
Why It Matters
Despite the chaos, DAAS has produced tangible benefits. Advances in materials science, energy efficiency, and even medical technology have emerged from partial understandings of Brain-created artifacts. While no fully reproducible ¡°impossible¡± technology has yet made it to market, the insights gained have rippled outward, inspiring new lines of research in more traditional fields.
Dr. Reeve remains optimistic. ¡°Science has always advanced by studying anomalies¡ªthings that didn¡¯t fit our models. DAAS is just doing that on a much bigger scale.¡±
For now, the impossible remains just that. But in the sterile, humming labs of DAAS, the boundary between known and unknown is thinner than anywhere else on Earth¡ªand if there¡¯s a place where the rules of reality might finally crack open, it¡¯s here.
Chapter 164.1
The smoke''s so thick I can''t see my own hand in front of my face. It curls and billows around me, swallowing the metal shelving and chemical drums, swallowing Soot, swallowing the sounds of footsteps that could be Bash, Lenny, or maybe just one of the guards tripping over a fallen crate. I''m crouched low, my back against a metal beam, lungs burning with every inhale. Even with Gossamer''s filters in my helmet, it''s too much--pepper spray, fireworks smoke, and whatever else Soot mixed in to make this place a literal death trap.
The earpiece crackles, and for a second I think it''s just interference, but then I hear Tasha''s voice, sharp and panicked: "Sam, Jordan, everyone--"
I press my hand to my ear, trying to tune out the dull thud of Bash''s footsteps in the distance. "Say again?" I whisper.
"Argus Corps just pulled up. No cop cars. No sirens. It''s them." Her voice wobbles, like even saying it out loud makes it worse.
I blink, my mind catching up a half-second too late. "Argus?" Maggie whispers, barely audible over the hissing smoke in my other ear.
"Yeah," I say, breath catching. "I''m staring at them right now."
There''s a beat of radio silence before Jordan cuts in, flat and sharp, "They sent Argus? No cops? No sirens?*"
"Nothing," Tasha confirms. "They came in a beat-up sedan. No markings. No lights."
"So this is off the books," Jordan mutters, and I can picture them running a hand over their helmet, thinking fast. "Okay. We''re burning the clock. Gossamer, order the cab. Maggie, prep for evac. Sam--get out of there. Now."
But before I can even move, I hear it--a deep, booming voice cutting through the smoke like it owns the place. No hesitation, no doubt.
"Argus Corps, lock it down."
I freeze for half a second, heart slamming in my chest. That''s Patriot. Of course it''s him.
His voice carries through the warehouse, sharp and commanding, every word landing like a punch. "Jett--Bash is yours. Keep him busy, don''t let him punch through anything explosive."
There''s a titter of laughter somewhere deeper in the warehouse--probably Turbo Jett kicking into another gear--and the sound of metal creaking as Bash starts moving faster, heavier. I can''t see them, only hear and feel them, rumbling transmitting through every metal strut and shelf.
"Captain Devil, on the smoke freak. Keep them cornered." That''d be Soot. Great. Like they didn''t have enough problems already.
I catch a glimpse through the haze--a shadow moving toward Soot, the smoke bending away in wide, clean arcs. Captain Devil. Even through the fog, it''s like he''s got a direct line to them.
"Miasma," Patriot''s voice cuts again, "that gray wolf''s yours."
It takes me a beat to realize he means me. Does he know that there''s not two wolf-themed... no, Derek, I mean... does... You know what? Never mind. I can''t tell if he''s being dismissive or if he genuinely thinks it''s not me. Either way, I''m not looking forward to fighting Miasma.
"I''ll mop up the trash," Patriot finishes, and I know exactly who he means. Lenny. The guards. The ones who aren''t worth his time. Because that''s how he works--heroes, villains, civilians--it''s all just a tactical problem for him to solve.
I press my back tighter against the metal beam, lungs burning. "Jordan?" I whisper into the comms, "I think we''ve got our matchups. They don''t know you or Flash are here."
"Copy that," Jordan replies, voice clipped. "New plan: stall, escape, survive."
I''m already trying, but there''s a shape moving through the smoke--tall, broad, and way too calm for the chaos around us. Captain Devil.
He moves like the smoke isn''t there. Not like Turbo Jett''s palm thrusts and wild kicks that blow it apart, but in smooth, sweeping arcs, the haze bending around him like someone took a massive invisible paintbrush and dragged it through the air, clearing wide, clean paths. His face--what little I can see--is half-shrouded under his scarf, but his head tilts like he''s watching me, even though I''m buried deep in the smoke.
I duck behind a stack of crates, holding my breath, but I swear I can still feel him closing in. No clue how--echolocation? Super smell? Something worse? I don''t know, and that''s the problem. He''s just... finding people.
"Sam?" Jordan''s still in my ear. "You moving?"
"I''m moving," I whisper, forcing my legs to keep going even though my lungs are practically clawing for air. "But I think Captain Devil''s tracking me. Not sure how, but the smoke isn''t slowing him down."
"We''re working on it," Jordan says, but there''s a tightness in their voice. They know we''re outclassed here. We all do.
I keep low, sliding between two rows of stacked chemical drums, trying to get to the edge of the smoke where I might have a chance to breathe. My heart''s racing, every nerve on edge.
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Then I hear it--crack-crack-crack--like concrete splitting. I turn just in time to see the smoke in front of me blow out in a straight line, like someone just fired a cannon through it.
Turbo Jett.
She zips into view, blurring at the edges, her goggles fogged but still locked onto me. "Found one!" she chirps, voice distorted through her cloth mask. "God, I love warehouses. So much junk to bounce off."
Her boots skid along the concrete as she stops, sliding into a crouch before kicking off again with a sudden boom. She''s barely even paying attention to me. I scramble backward, trying to find cover, but I''m moving slow compared to her. Real slow. She''s fast--faster than she should be--but there''s something else. Heat. The air around her shimmers, almost like a heatwave rippling off asphalt. Whatever she''s doing, it''s not just speed.
"Jordan?" I choke into the comms, ducking low. "I could really use some help here."
"On it," Jordan replies, and then I hear a loud snap--space compressing--and the shelving units on my right slam together, crushing into each other like a giant trash compactor. The sudden movement forces the smoke to swirl back in, cutting off Turbo Jett''s sightlines, but she slips out from between it before it can actually crush her.
"Move now," Jordan says.
I bolt through the gap, coughing hard as I duck between two collapsing shelves, the steel beams groaning and bending overhead. I don''t stop running until I''m behind a thicker wall of smoke, the sounds of Turbo Jett cursing fading behind me. "There''s more bogeys, or wolf girl has some space compression power!" I hear her yelling, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"You''re good?" Jordan asks.
"For now," I pant, pressing my back to the wall. "But Captain Devil''s still tracking me. He''s... different."
"We''re trying to pull him off. Maggie''s moving in. Blink''s got shots lined up if she can see an opening."
"And Soot?" I ask.
Silence. For a beat too long.
"We can''t save them all, Sam," Jordan says finally, but I can hear the edge in their voice.
I grit my teeth, ignoring the burning in my lungs. "I''m going for them."
"Sam--"
"No time," I cut in. "They''re about to get boxed in. Captain Devil''s pushing them hard."
I duck lower, feeling the weight of the comm go silent before Jordan mutters, "Fine. But get out fast."
The smoke shifts again--wide, clean arcs cutting through the haze, the edges curling like the air itself is being sliced. Captain Devil. Still moving closer. I crouch lower, trying to hold my breath, but it''s hard. The smoke stings worse now, and my helmet filters are already struggling. None of them are having any trouble because none of them are breathing the smoke. Patriot - I can glimpse his silhouette for a moment or two - is dancing around the edges, and Miasma, well, I''m not sure if he even needs to breathe.
Speaking of which, I round the corner and nearly slam into Miasma. He just stares at me, and then turns around, pretending he didn''t see me.
I stumble but push forward, heart hammering. "Not today," I mutter, more to myself than to him.
"Sam--Soot''s moving," Jordan says suddenly, their voice urgent. "Captain Devil''s off them now. We''ve got a window."
"Then I''m taking it."
I break into a sprint, pushing through the smoke, the arcs of cleared air still sweeping around me, but I stay low, weaving between the thicker clouds. Miasma still behind, but I don''t look back.
Ahead, I spot Soot--barely a silhouette in the swirling haze. They''re still moving, but slower now, like they''re running on fumes. Their hands flicker, thin streams of fog leaking out, but it''s weaker--barely enough to keep them hidden.
"Soot!" I call out, but they don''t turn. Of course they don''t.
I slide next to them, grabbing their arm. "We need to go."
They yank away but don''t bolt. There''s, what, something they need to do? "Safeguard''s got an exit lined up. We just need to--" I start.
The whole warehouse shudders as another of Jordan''s spatial compressions snaps through the space, slicing a section of shelving near the back diagonally. It snaps the labyrinth, changes the configuration. Nothing''s getting crushed, but it''s hard to move in zero visibility when the walls keep changing around you.
"That was me," Jordan confirms, breathing hard. "We''ve got a path. But you need to move--now."
I tighten my grip on Soot''s arm, pulling them along as the smoke thickens around us again. Captain Devil''s still behind, but Jordan''s compressions are forcing detours, slowing him down.
"Gossamer''s getting the cab out front," Tasha says over the comms. "And Blink''s lining up shots if anyone follows."
I try to respond, but all I can manage is a sharp cough. My lungs are burning--like, really burning now. Every breath feels like I''m sucking in glass shards, my helmet filters long since overwhelmed. The air is thick with whatever cocktail of smoke Soot mixed together--fireworks, pepper spray, maybe actual chemical fumes at this point--and I can''t tell what''s worse: breathing it in or holding my breath and feeling my vision blur from lack of oxygen.
I stumble, knees almost giving out, but catch myself against a metal shelf. The whole thing wobbles, and for a terrifying second, I think it''s about to tip over on top of us. But no--it stays upright. I blink hard, trying to focus, but my vision''s swimming at the edges, like the world is tilting sideways and spinning at the same time.
Somewhere deeper in the warehouse, I hear shouting--someone grunting, a loud thud as a body hits the floor, metal clattering against concrete. It echoes through the space in a way that makes it impossible to tell how far away it is. Jordan''s compressions aren''t helping--they''re saving our asses, yeah, but it''s disorienting as hell. Like being stuck in a maze where the walls keep moving and you can''t even see the next turn because there''s a literal fog of war clouding everything. I can barely keep track of my own body, let alone anyone else.
I cough again, harder this time, and I feel it--wet and sharp in my throat. My head''s swimming now, the edges of my vision going soft, and my legs feel shaky, like they might just fold underneath me.
And then, over all of it--the smoke, the coughing, the yelling--I hear something new.
Soot. Speaking.
Their voice cuts through the haze, low and muffled, but still clear enough to make my stomach drop. The gas mask makes them sound mechanical, distant, but the words come through anyway.
"Everyone needs to leave."
I freeze, blinking hard, trying to make sure I actually heard that. "Soot?" I choke out, still half-doubled over from coughing.
"Now," they say, more forceful this time. "I''ll handle this."
The words echo in my head, distorted through the mask and the comms, but there''s no mistaking the meaning. Soot isn''t planning to run.
"Wait, what? No--" I start, but my voice cracks from the smoke. I can barely get the words out.
"Just go," Soot snaps, yanking their arm out of my grip. Their body language is tense--determined, almost--but there''s something else there too. Like this was always their plan. Like this was what they came here for. "Unless you like chlorine gas."
No.
They''re going to nuke the whole warehouse.
Chapter 164.2
The smoke''s still thick, curling in dense sheets around us, but there''s a pocket of clearer air here--just enough to see Soot standing there, the swirling fog leaking from their gloves like steam from a broken pipe. They''re breathing heavy, gas mask hissing with each inhale, but their stance is steady. Like they''ve already made peace with what they''re about to do.
I cough hard, my lungs burning worse with every breath. "What... what the hell are you doing?" I manage, stumbling closer. "You can''t fill this place with chlorine. You''ll kill everyone."
Soot doesn''t even flinch. "I''ve got about eighty cubic feet stored up," they say, calm. Too calm. "Not enough to drown the whole warehouse, but enough to mix with the smoke. Make it impossible to avoid. They''ll have to respect it."
Jordan''s voice crackles over the comms, sharp and tense. "Wait--chlorine? Soot, are you out of your mind? This place is packed with chemicals." A pause, then, "I''m no chemist, but some of this stuff plus chlorine... that''s an exothermic reaction waiting to happen. You''ll cause a runaway. One barrel bursts, leaks into another, and boom--whole warehouse goes up."
I feel my stomach twist. The chemicals--the barrels we passed earlier--acetic anhydride, toluene, sodium hydroxide. I don''t know the exact science, but I know enough to realize this place is basically a powder keg.
I turn back to Soot, heart racing. "You can''t do this! You''ll kill everyone in here--Argus, the guards, Bash, Lenny--"
"They brought this on themselves," Soot snaps, voice flat through the mask.
"Argus, maybe!" I shoot back. "But what about the guards? The security guy we tied up upstairs? Bash and Lenny? They''re scumbags, yeah, but they don''t deserve to die for this!"
Soot scoffs, folding their arms. "You''re way too soft, Bloodhound. This place is a hub for bad guys. You got what you needed, didn''t you? Jordan has the data. So get out. Let this place burn."
BANG! Not like a gunshot, more like a body being thrown against shelves.
"We''re not executioners," I say, the words flying out before I can stop them. "This isn''t how we do things."
"''We?''" Soot tilts their head. "You''re not my team, Bloodhound."
That hits harder than I want it to, but I force it down. This isn''t about me. It''s about the dozen people in this warehouse--some bad, some worse, but none of them signed up to be poisoned and blown to bits.
Jordan''s still on the comms. "Blood, we''ve got maybe two minutes before Turbo Jett punches through a wall or--" There''s a loud BANG! in the distance, followed by the groaning creak of metal. "--or that. This place isn''t going to hold."
I press a hand to my helmet, breathing hard. "We can''t let this blow. Soot, come with us. We can still--"
"No," Soot cuts me off. "This is the only way to make sure this place doesn''t keep running. I''m not risking the Kingdom covering their tracks. Let the explosion happen--it''ll blow up millions of dollars'' worth of chemicals and ruin their plans for months. It''ll get people investigating Stheno Biopharma," they say, spitting the name, "and start drawing their own connections."
I glance around--the smoke, the towering shelves of chemicals, the spreading chaos--and my mind races. Would this actually fix things? I mean, this was the goal, right? Wreck the Kingdom''s operation, grab the evidence, screw up their whole supply chain. If the place goes up in flames, that''s millions in product gone, no chance for them to clean up the scene, and the smoke alone would draw half the city''s emergency services here in minutes. No chance they bury this.
And the security footage--if it hasn''t been wiped yet, the explosion would take care of that, too. No trace of us ever being here. Clean.
I swallow hard, the weight of it pressing in. "I get it," I say, voice low. "I really do. Burning this place to the ground... it would hit them where it hurts. But it''s not about the chemicals or the evidence. It''s about the people. Argus, Bash, Lenny, the guards--they''re still in here."
Soot scoffs, waving a hand through the smoke. "Eighty cubic feet of chlorine isn''t enough to fill even a fraction of this place, even if it was 100% pure. They''ll be fine--if they''re smart. But once it mixes with the smoke, it''ll turn the whole warehouse into a no-go zone. They''ll have to respect it. Get out or choke."
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I open my mouth to respond when--BANG! A deep metallic groan echoes through the warehouse, followed by the crack of collapsing shelves somewhere deeper inside. The whole floor shudders under my feet, and the smoke swirls in sudden, jagged eddies. I spot Miasma in between a crack in the shelves, just for a moment, grabbing Captain Devil''s wrist and tugging it smoke-ward before a giant pane of Lenny''s forcefields smacks into both of them, clipping them. I watch Bash''s silhouette fight for its life dozens of feet away through my blood sense.
And then my stomach drops.
The security guard upstairs. The one we zip tied. I feel the panic rush in, cold and sharp.
"Shit," I breathe, panic flooding in, sharp and cold. "The guard. He''s still tied up!"
Jordan and Maggie both look at me like someone just shot a dog in front of them. Soot turns away from the three of us - if there''s an expression behind their gas mask, I can''t read it, but their body stiffens up like a board. My fingers ache and the bridge of my nose feels like it''s been broken again. It''s too much thinking.
They''re waiting for me to make a call. All three of them.
That, of course, is when Patriot slides through the smoke like a phantom, nostrils closed - was he just holding his breath through it? He opens his face up, exhales, and inhales. "Smells like victory."
"Go!" I yell, turning on my heel and beginning my run towards the stairs.
I break into a dead sprint toward the back of the warehouse, lungs burning like someone''s taken sandpaper to them. The smoke thins a little as I move--less dense here--but it doesn''t help. My throat''s raw, each breath scraping deeper, every chemical Soot''s dumped into the air chewing at the inside of my lungs. Pepper spray, fireworks smoke, onion fumes--whatever''s next--it''s all mixing in my head, making my vision swim.
The metal stairs loom ahead, stretching up to the security office where the guard''s still tied up. I push harder, ignoring the dizziness clawing at the edges of my vision.
Then I hear it--boots hitting the ground. Heavy. Steady. Close. I don''t look back, but I know who it is. I hear him behind me, footsteps precise, measured--like this is just another drill to him. He''s not even rushing. Just... closing in.
There''s a beat--a sharp exhale through the comms--and then Jordan''s voice, tense but focused. "Flash, take the keycard--open the side door, now! Soot, start venting--"
I can hear them setting up the escape plan, moving into position, but the pounding in my ears makes it hard to focus. Jordan keeps talking, their voice cutting in and out as I sprint. "I''m gonna slice the warehouse across this line so you can disperse it directly into the cen--"
But then I hit the stairs--metal on metal, my boots clanging with every frantic step--and their voice gets drowned out in the noise. I risk a glance over my shoulder, and Patriot is gaining, rapidly. He''s not even struggling--just powering forward in that picture-perfect army sprint, arms pumping, legs moving like pistons. I''ve hit my growth spurt, sure, but he''s got the kind of stride that swallows distance in seconds. I push harder, lungs screaming, but he''s still gaining.
"Blood, you better know what you''re doing! We''re getting out of here!" Jordan''s voice crackles in my ear, but I don''t have the air to respond. The stairs creak under my weight as I throw myself up them, two steps at a time, heart hammering like it''s going to punch through my ribs.
I''m almost at the top--just a few more steps.
I feel his hand close around my ankle, hard--steel-trap fingers locking tight around the joint--and then he yanks and squeezes, and something very quickly goes pop that shouldn''t be. Pain shoots up my leg as I lose my footing, my body pitching forward. I slam down on the top stair, elbows scraping against the metal, air punched out of my lungs. Patriot''s grip tightens, and I feel it--the pressure around my ankle like he''s about to crush the bones into paste.
I should be panicking. I should be terrified. All rational parts of me should be firing at 100% fear. The only fear I feel? It''s not for me--it''s for the security guard. The one still tied up upstairs. The one who doesn''t get to fight back. The thing I''m feeling, funny enough, is a weird sense of giddiness, like I just got tickled. The corners of my mouth curl up and I don''t even have any conscious control over it.
I twist my torso hard, sucking in a shallow breath through gritted teeth, and plant my free foot against the metal stair. Then, with every ounce of strength I can muster, I snap my leg backward in a brutal donkey kick.
CRACK.
My heel slams straight into Patriot''s face. I hear the crunch--bone, cartilage, something giving way--but his grip doesn''t loosen. Not yet.
"C''mon!" I snarl, pushing through the searing pain in my ankle.
I swing my leg up and over, an axe kick aimed squarely at the top of his head. It connects with a solid thud, snapping his head forward--and that''s when his fingers slip, just for a second.
It''s enough.
I twist my other leg hard--too hard--and feel the sickening slide as my ankle fully dislocates, tendons stretching past where they''re supposed to. Pain tears through me, but I grit my teeth and pull free, scrambling forward onto the landing.
The second my foot clears his grip, there''s a sharp, deafening SNAP.
The entire warehouse shifts beneath me--space folding in on itself as Jordan compresses a massive chunk of the structure. The staircase splits--literally--right beneath me. The metal cleaves clean apart, a sharp, wide discontinuity running through the diagonal stairs like someone sliced the world with a giant knife.
I stumble, grabbing onto the railing, just as Patriot lunges upward again--momentum carrying him forward--but there''s nothing in front of him anymore. The stairs have been severed. He pitches forward, arms outstretched, trying to grab me again--but his reach comes up short. His body slides under me, past the broken edge, and then he falls almost unceremoniously, down the 12 feet, maybe more.
I don''t wait to see where he lands.
I shove myself to my feet--my dislocated ankle screaming in protest--and limp toward the security office, heart hammering, lungs burning, grin still on my face.
I love being a superhero.
Chapter 164.3
I shove the door open and almost trip over the guard because he''s already thrashing, his head jerking side to side, trying to breathe through the gag. His eyes are wide, darting around like he''s expecting a firing squad to march in any second. The air in here''s a little clearer, but the chlorine''s creeping in--just enough to set off every alarm bell in his head, even if it''s not lethal yet.
Good. He''s got survival instincts.
I don''t slow down. My hands are already flexing, something shifting under my skin, and I barely feel it as my fingernails peel back and new teeth shove their way up through my fingertips, curving out into short, jagged claws. Not pretty. Not clean. But sharp enough.
I crouch next to him, grab the zip tie around his wrists, and slice through it in one pull. Plastic snaps, and his arms jerk forward like he wasn''t expecting to get loose that fast.
"Listen," I say, moving straight to the tie around his ankles. "I don''t care if you rat me out to the cops, press charges, or try to get me arrested tomorrow. That''s a problem for Future Me. But just because you work--intentionally or not--for the Kingdom, does not mean I''m letting you die in a chemical explosion."
I yank the gag out of his mouth.
"A what?" he croaks.
I rip the last tie and stand, ejecting my teeth-claws like shotgun shells, the same way I always do. My face scrunches behind my helmet. "This place is extremely likely to go up in smoke in seconds. You want to live? Jump."
He stares at me like I just suggested self-immolation.
I don''t have time for disbelief. I tap the side of my helmet, flicking the comms back on.
"Safe, Flash--if you''re outside, I''m gonna need some cushioning from the security office. There''s a Nazi and trench warfare going on beneath us. Only way out is through the window."
I hear the deep crunch of something heavy hitting metal outside, followed by a distant voice cursing in what sounds like Turbo Jett''s exaggerated Jersey accent.
Jordan''s voice crackles back through my earpiece, tense but clipped. "On it. Get ready to drop."
The guard''s still frozen, his brain probably trying to process how his night shift turned into a Mission: Impossible stunt sequence. I don''t give him time to argue. I grab him by the front of his shirt and haul him toward the window. I stare at it, the glass smudged and dusty but still intact, and then push a tooth out of my wrist.
It''s slow--slower than the fingers--but I don''t need speed, just something hard enough. It pushes through the skin in a dull, grinding ache, curling out sideways like a malformed spike. My wrist protests hard as I flex my fingers, the bone shifting in ways that bones aren''t supposed to, but I shove that aside.
I pull my arm back and slam the tooth into the glass.
CRACK.
The whole pane fractures, spiderwebbing out from the impact. My wrist flares with pain, sharp and electric, but I ignore it and keep swinging. Again. Again. The tooth''s too strong to break--but my wrist isn''t. Every hit sends a shock up my arm, rattling my bones. My vision pulses black at the edges.
By the third hammer blow, the cracks give way, and jagged panels start collapsing outward, tumbling into the alley below.
I shake out my hand, blinking past the sting in my knuckles, and just barely catch the sound of a moped''s tiny, angry engine roaring around the corner outside. I glance down and immediately get a slight wave of vertigo.
Jordan''s already there, yanking their fireproof cloak off, the reinforced fabric unfurling like a tarp as Blink hops off the moped. She skates into position, grabbing one end while Jordan grips the other. They stretch it out between them, arms tense, feet braced, a makeshift landing pad.
I turn to the security guard, yanking him forward by his sleeve. "You got one shot. Move, or I''m moving you."
For a second, he just stares at me like I''ve told him to throw himself off a building for fun. That''s when the first BANG goes off.
Not a full explosion--not yet--but something metallic and deep, like a drum popping under heat, followed by a rumble rolling through the warehouse. The air shudders, and I can feel the heat prickling at the back of my neck.
I don''t wait for his hesitation to catch up. I shove him forward.
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"GO!"
He stumbles, hesitates for one last, dumb second, then jumps.
I see his arms flail midair, but Blink and Jordan catch him clean, the cloak dipping with the weight before snapping back just enough to soften the landing. He rolls out of it, dazed but alive, hitting the ground with a grunt before scrambling away. He doesn''t look at us, doesn''t pull out his phone to call the cops or anything, he just runs.
I don''t watch where he goes, because I don''t care, and because I feel the heat starting to rise behind me. Or something else, a sort of not-heat. Air. Not fire--not yet--but pressure, like the whole building just exhaled hot air behind me.
The BANGS are getting louder. Faster. Cascading into each other like a row of dominoes punching out drums of chemicals one by one.
I punch out the rest of the window with my wrist, feeling my arm scream in protest, but it doesn''t matter. I need to give myself a little more space. Unlike the security guard, I don''t have someone to shove me.
I step up onto the ledge. Something hits the door behind me. The whole security office shakes like someone just drove a car into the wall, and I feel the door crumple inward, ripped off its hinges, folding like tinfoil.
I jump.
For half a second, I feel nothing. Just air, the streetlights blurring below me, the alley stretching wider--, and then, the impact. The cloak catches, bends, stretches, and then--just a little bit--tears. I hit hard, rolling into it, tucking my limbs, trying not to land directly on my crushed ankle, but failing, because the second my foot takes weight again, something in my leg goes white-hot with pain and I almost black out right then and there.
I''m on my back, sucking air through my teeth, blinking up at Jordan and Blink, who are already talking.
"The cab''s a block away," Blink says, shaking her arms out, looking zero percent winded. "We don''t have time."
"Goss''s with it," Jordan adds, pulling the cloak in, examining the slight tear near the middle. Their mouth presses into a thin line.
Blink turns, eyes flicking to me. "Blood, you ever drive a moped?"
I blink. "No?"
She looks at Jordan. "You drive."
No room for argument. No time for argument. Jordan just grabs the handlebars and kicks the engine up. Blink taps the moped''s rear with her palm, and it lurches forward as she skates alongside it, trailing behind. For a moment, I consider asking where Jordan learned to drive a moped, but then reconsider as a question better suited for a later time.
We don''t even give the security guard the time of day, because we are leaving. Argus Corps? Bash and Lenny? The other two security guards? I hope they''re out of there, because I''m going to feel really bad if anyone dies today. The smoke is billowing out of the warehouse now, rolling in fat, ugly plumes, and I can still feel the heat inside.
Maggie, Tasha, and Gossamer are waiting at the end of the alley, with a bright, bumblebee-yellow taxicab, looking shiny and freshly washed. Gossamer reclaims the moped, helping me into the back of the cab with a firm hand so I don''t lean too hard on my bad leg. Tasha''s already in. Gossamer yanks her helmet on, throws a leg over the moped, and grabs Tasha''s wrist.
"Hold tight," she says, kicking off.
Jordan, Blink, and Maggie pile into the cab behind me, squeezing in, knees bumping. Man, I really fuck this ankle up a lot, huh?
The driver--a slightly bewildered Indian guy who has probably seen some weird shit driving this late but not this weird--gives me a look in the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised.
I point a finger forward.
"Anywhere but here."
We pull off just as the windows of the warehouse burst outward, glass raining down, the whole structure shuddering like it''s about to collapse inward on itself.
Then, as we round the corner, leaving the warehouse behind--
We hear it.
BBBOOMMM.
Not a single blast, not a mushroom cloud, not a single fireball, but a chain reaction, one after the other, rapid fire, a rolling thunder of chemical ignitions, each setting off the next.
The street lights up behind us, shadows flickering against the cab windows as the heat chases our tail. The taxi driver looks like he''s about to shit himself. Jordan laughs, and I feel it too, bubbling up from inside me like nervous vomit. It doesn''t take more than a couple of seconds before the four of us are laughing crazy, even the taxi driver nervously chuckling along, clearly unsure whether or not he just got made the accessory to a crime.
"Alright, buddy," Jordan starts between giggles. "I''ll tip you extra if you''re willing to take us to Collingswood, wait like twenty minutes with us, and then drive us back. No, wait, no bridge. You got a favorite cheesesteak spot in South?"
The driver, thickly accented, stares at Jordan in the rear-view mirror. "It''s two AM, sir. Nothing''s open that isn''t a convenience store."
"Yeah, that''s fine. Just take us to South Street, wait twenty minutes, and then you can drive us back. Like I said, I''ll tip you a ton. Like, here, here''s forty bucks right now," Jordan answers, shaky hands reaching under their re-asserted cloak and pulling out two crisp, slightly wrinkly twenty dollar bills. They pass it through the little taxi window thing while Philadelphia becomes a slow blur around us.
The driver, just as shaky if not moreso, grabs the bills and tucks them into his cupholder. Finally, I let out the breath I''ve been holding, and the pain in my ankle rushes back to me. "You''ve got it, boss," he says, rounding the corner at a streetlight. For a second, I can swear that I see Soot on a nearby rooftop, staring down at us - but I blink, and she''s gone. Already, I hear fire engine screams, ambulances, police sirens, headed their way towards this chemical explosion in North Philly.
I slump my shoulders. We win.
End of Arc 10: Plume
END OF YEAR TWO
End of Prologue
"So who''s in charge in here
Barking out loud so clear?
''Cause I''d really like to meet him"
EOA1 Q&A + The Genesis Of Chum
Hi! Let''s start with the Q&A, assembled from the Chumcord, the website, the comments here, and my private messages.
wow incredible first arc!!! I have several questions but I think the biggest is: does an activation event require physical harm? does something like, for instance, getting chased through the woods by wolves, where you absolutely will die if nothing changes, but there aren¡¯t currently any problems with you, does that count as a near death experience for the purpose of an activation event?
Yes, that counts as ¡°near death¡±, you dont need to be actively injured, just in a situation where if nothing changes you will die.
Question: Will we ever meet Daisy¡¯s parents or learn about them? I¡¯m very curious about who they are and how Daisy got her powers.
Yes. The Zhens are still alive and will be being introduced either in the next Daisy interlude or the one after that. They have been looking for their daughter for quite some time.
question: why would someone at the kingdom tell people not to kill Sam.
This is actually a question I think about often that I think has a good non-bullshit answer. Part of the reason why the state apparatus of violence allows the existence of "Youth Vigilantes" at all, a patently ridiculous category, is that, to be blunt, they are all sort of... hostages? Any sort of retaliatory action is allowable in response to learning that someone has killed a child or teenager, which allows adults to launder investigatory actions or even outright offensive ones through these young superheroes. This means that supervillains dealing with young vigilantes are at an extreme disadvantage because, well, if you know they are kids you can''t really do anything about it unless you''re willing to deal with the long arm of the law.
There¡¯s no rule against killing Sam because "villains don¡¯t kill kids"¡ªit¡¯s because the law has set up a perverse incentive structure where leaving her alone is actually the smarter move. It''s not an accident that until Maya''s ordinance, youth vigilantes have been allowed to exist and have gone relatively unmolested. I think strategically from her part what she did was quite smart because it begins a process of removing that grey zone to turn it back into shades of black - if an *illegal* youth vigilante gets KIA, you can at least make the argument that they were asking for it by picking fights with criminals in abandoned warehouses, wheras if you kill a sanctioned one that''s sort of publicly unforgivable.
At least, that''s how I see it. But, believe me, there are internal factions in the Kingdom and in the criminal world in general that do chafe against this (chiefly Mr. Nothing, as you''ve seen before - he was perfectly willing to shoot Playback in the face), and I think that it won''t be long before criminals start bringing genuine lethal force against youth vigilantes. The wheels have to come off eventually.
Question: Be honest, is Mudslide actually hot?
As a person who is attracted to men, I think Mudslide as a character design has a very classically attractive face. Working as a villain has hardened his features a little muscle wise but he''s broad-shouldered and has a classic mobster face, sharp jawline, dense eyebrows, nice hair. I would say for most people he would be considered "conventionally attractive".
Q: be honest, was the spoon and bird guy not at the zoo raid because they were taking on the main Kingdom force outside of the zoo?
Sure, that''s canon now.
Q: Does Kate have permanent damage from the drugs that gave her powers?
She only ever took a single pill of Jump. Any damage that she got from that has likely filtered out of her system by now - you only get the weird blood while the Jump is active and it only sticks around if you use it chronically. What''s more worrying about her in the long term is the
REDACTED REDACTED CENSORED CENSORED
;)
Is Soot Kate?
What do you think? Soot''s identity was never intended to be a huge major mystery. The intrigue comes from what Sam is going to do about it.
Are there really 26 members of the Kingdom of Keys because the alphabet has 26 letters?
Not at first there weren''t, but then I decided it would be funny, and then there were. Then, I just sort of built the idea around it - what sort of leader would feel the need to have such a silly theme for their extremely serious criminal enterprise? The answer is Mr. Antithesis, who you will get to know much more clearly in Act 2. He is the opposite of a silly person.
Where did the name "Chum" come from?
It''s a shark-themed rip on Worm.
Where did you get "Sam Small" from?
Classic comic book superhero name. Alliterative, heavy on the mouthy, powerful consonant sounds and a/e vowels. Peter Parker. Clark Kent. Samantha "Sam" Small. Fun fact! She was, in fact, originally supposed to get a shark-themed name and identity too, but I thought it''d be a fun first-episode twist that her teammates see the teeth, the blood smell, and the horrendous stubbornness and go "oh, okay, a wolf". She will be getting a proper shark-themed alter ego at some point.
Are Playback and Puppeteer okay?
They are currently apprenticing for a PI in North Philly. They will be re-entering the story reasonably soon. Marionette/Puppeteer is being tapped to take over the agency already when the guy running it retires, she just needs to be properly licensed first.
Who are the strongest characters we''ve met?
In no particular order per tier;
S-Tier: Mr. Antithesis, Daisy
A-Tier: Porcelain, Captain Plasma
B-Tier: Rampart, Patches, Mr. Tyrannosaur, Citizen Zero, Professor Franklin
Major cities like New York, Chicago, London, LA, Hong Kong, Tokyo, etc. have a lot more A-listers and are much closer in power scale to Worm or more traditional superhero comics. Philadelphia seems like a gritty Daredevil-esque street level thing because it''s a small pond, and A-listers have no real reason to be here.
Yet.
Does Sam have a rogue''s gallery yet?
Yes. I would consider (in no particular order) Patriot, Mudslide, Aaron McKinley, Mrs. Zenith, and Daisy to be very important and particular enemies. Illya sort of counts here but he was never really a villain villain. Soot is Sam''s Catwoman.
Will Elias ever come back?
Maybe! He was actually supposed to be part of the zoo raid sequence - he had apparently been shapeshifted into a rhinoceros the whole time and was hiding out there this whole time - but I determined that was both a: silly and b: added too much complexity to the entire sequence. I would definitely like him to come back - I never write a character intending to never use them again. If a character has shown up, they are fair game to return. I''m sure Derek is still looking for him, they''re very close in a possibly not heterosexual way (up to your interpretation).
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Why was that one interlude in third person?
To show the level of everyday dissociation that Victor Blanc goes through and grew up in. He is extremely detached from his own emotional processing, and has what I''d affectionately refer to as "turbo autism" (this does not make him any less reprehensible as a person, but it''s not because of the autism). You''ll meet him soon enough!
Is there a reason you keep bringing up monkey smiles and monkey grimaces or is that just an author tic?
Monkeys = unrestrained violence. It is an extremely intentional motif. Monkey Business is an intentional subversion of that motif (for now).
Let me tell you a little bit about Chum.
Chum was born as an idea when I was like... eight? Nine? Like many young autistic children I would invent elaborate fantasy scenarios in my head and then run around the room play-acting them out and throwing myself against every surface available. The seeds of what would eventually become Chum were this one particular idea-plex about an escaped government experiment named Twitchy Dan, whose power was being extremely fast, having super long, extremely sharp talons, and just generally being an unkillable murder machine. I was very into stick figure animations at the time, so I liked to imagine these long, elaborate fight scenes featuring Dan just bodying hundreds and hundreds of faceless mooks before a fight with a big red devil guy.
This Big Red Devil eventually evolved into the first antagonist of Chum''s prototype ideas - Harris Beelzle (very subtle). Harris had been sort of a recurring character through my fantasyscapes, always the BBEG, always part of a decades or centuries long conspiracy behind the setting''s settingness, and always with the appearance of a mild-mannered but red-skinned individual in formal businesswear who was secretly ripped as hell and had crazy super strength. Around this time I also started getting extremely into running quests on /tg/, back when I cared about 4chan - Harris, in one way or another, meandered his way into my quests, which never got anywhere because I had all the follow-through of your average 14-15 year old.
Around this time I also did my first of four NaNoWriMos. They all sucked and I don''t have any of the files for them anymore, but this one was about a young technopath in a post-post-apocalyptic (i.e everything had rebuilt normal now but people had superpowers) city. Harris, in this particular story, was the guy who set off the antimatter explosions that spread "exotic particles" through the atmosphere resulting in the birth of superhumans, and his big scheme was that he had the power to radar detect other people''s powers, and would capture, kill, dissect, and replicate the useful ones for industrial/capitalistic purposes. Brutal!
Also around this time, my fantasyscape had evolved significantly due to my growing interest in things like comic books and anime, giving me a broader range of stylistic sources to draw from. With like 8 years between Twitchy Dan''s first appearance and then, of course, there were many many evolutions, but now it was basically a generic superhero setting featuring a girl whose power was to get stronger the more injured she was - this was the prototype Sam Small. She also had many teammates, the only one that I can concretely remember being a guy who could control his own personal gravity and did so to fly - the power would get recycled in Moonshot (one of the Tacony Titans) but the guy himself has long since vanished into my idea ether. This nameless girl had two primary enemies - "The Berserker" (a very unimaginative supervillain name), a sort of hit the decks everyone''s fucked Jack Slash type whose power was that he got stronger for every bleeding person around him (and he could smell people''s blood loss), and used a big fuckoff waraxe as a weapon. The other was Porcelain, who... basically survived completely intact 13 years later throughout the ideation process, which is extremely rare for my ideas.
At some point, my questing experience - hold on, for the unfamiliar; Quests are basically reader driven stories where at the end of each chapter or post or whatever the Quest Master, or QM, polls the collective readership for what action the protagonist should take next, and then they write that. Okay. At some point, my questing experience had me starting a quest of which the name I can no longer remember, which was the true prototype for Chum, featuring Sam Small with shark powers in Philadelphia in a street-level, "realistic" superhero setting.
That lasted all of like a week before I got bored (I had an extremely bad habit of starting and never finishing quests because I have very poor follow through and really bad adhd). Sam Small was always the opposite of a typical superhero protagonist, with a big friend group, a loving family that was never intended to die, no interest in nerdy things, and being a sporty athlete type. She was never the underdog, except in the way she was thrown into the deep end. Harris Beelze was the main antagonist doing basically the same thing he was doing in the previous superhero story. Liberty Belle still had basically the same role in the story as the mentor who Sam smelt the stomach cancer on, but Sam did it at a public gathering instead of Liberty Belle approaching her due to serendipity. Chernobyl was named "Chernobyl Tank" for reasons I don''t recall, but was also otherwise the same in terms of like... everything else. And, finally, Miasma was intended to be Sam''s main mentor figure, and was a much less developed character philosophically. Porcelain was sort of intended to be introduced but it never really got far enough. Sam''s best friend was a guy named Sebastian, who was the Proto-Marcus and Proto-Kate - a nerdy guy with all the interest in superheroes and intelligence who sort of was Sam''s "guy at the desk", and who would eventually get superpowers and become villainous or antiheroic after a bad falling-out with Sam. The difference got split here.
Then, I finished college, got a job, moved away from my parents, and was in a stable, secure enough environment to think hey. What if I just wrote that again. But this time I had some actual follow through and just like... wrote it. Really wrote it. So then I did, and now we''re here.
There isn''t really an "original draft" of Chum and I write as I go along. I have the general idea of a beginning, middle, and end of the story, and points I''d like to hit along that journey, but when it comes to planning I usually plan one arc at a time. I enjoy the process of writing myself into, and then subsequently, out of a corner, and I find this facilitates my enjoyment most efficiently. Let me end this diatribe by giving you some trivia about things that did and didn''t happen.
-Kate was always going to become Sam''s Catwoman but the exact how was always very variable - I didn''t have her powers locked down at all until it came time to start planning Arc 9.
-The Kingdom of Keys was originally keys like for doors, not keyboards (and still probably is in-universe). Mr. Bomb was the original Mr. B, but I had another draft villain named "Black Velvet" who I thought would be better as Mr. A''s right hand woman so I switched them out, realized too late that referencing "Mrs. B" after "Mr. B" might be confusing, and then wrote it so that Mr. Bomb was fucking dead. Problem solved! This is also basically what happened in-universe, too - Black Velvet got recruited and became Mrs. Blue Velvet.
-Relatedly, I only made it an alphabet thing once I realized Mr. Polygraph, Mr. Nothing, and "Mr." Mudslide made MN
P and I was like hah. That''s funny. What if there was one for each letter of the alphabet.
-Rogue Wave was designed with four main members in mind - "The Alchemist", "The Businessman", "The Doctor", and "The Muscle". They were unnamed and undesigned until basically the chapter before it was time to introduce Monkey Business. The Alchemist, Businessman, and Doctor all had their powers already fully fleshed out, because The Businessman''s contract geas was extremely important to foreshadow, but The Muscle (who became Birthday Suit) was not fleshed out in the slightest. Rush Order and Dead Drop came after. I knew there had to be six members but the last two had to take some thinking and were not part of the original pitch, so to speak.
-Red Calf was originally called "The Group" and was otherwise unchanged. However, the Kingdom of Keys member Mrs. Venom (who you haven''t met yet and might not) was originally a member of proto-Red Calf during planning. I decided "The Group" as a name fucking sucked.
-The three main villain groups (The Kingdom, Rogue Wave, and Red Calf) are themed after the three Buddhist poisons - Greed, Delusion, and Violence. Not in-universe, just out of universe, and it''s pretty loose themeing. Don''t read into it too much.
-Moe was not part of the original story and sort of sprung to life in Chapter 2. He is loosely based on my own grandfather (extremely loosely). However, Sam and Sam''s Parents are not really based on me or anyone in my life in any way at all. Schlemiel is based off a good friend''s cat.
-The Young Defenders were more or less invented on the spot, and were not a part of the original outline - before, as in the prototype quest version, Sam was training directly under Liberty Belle more or less as her apprentice, and Liberty Belle operated solo (albeit with an agency behind her, like a talent agency for superheroes sort of thing).
-Jordan was always intended to be extremely divisive. I did not anticipate just how successful this would be. Hopefully if you''re this far in the story you have come to appreciate them a little bit.
-Jordan''s assigned gender at birth will literally never be revealed. Whatever you think it is, it''s probably the opposite of that.
-Aaron was never intended to return like in a real sense. As I mentioned before - I like to keep a well-stocked zoo of characters so I can reach in and grab one if the need arises, but he was sort of intended to be a one-shot filler villain to demonstrate Sam''s growing comfortableness with vigilantism, and then someone on the Discord mentioned, like, hey, if Aaron is a big time drug dealer, those aren''t his drugs that he''s selling - he''s selling for someone else and they aren''t going to be happy that he lost them. That put a spark in my brain of directly connecting him to the Kingdom, and one thing led to another, and then he''s burning Sam''s neighborhood down in revenge a year and a half later.
-Originally during their first fight, Aaron successfully lit Sam''s eyes on fire and she had to handle the rest of the fight using only her other senses and her blood sense. This version actually got posted, but I decided it was a little too cruel for 14 year old Sam (fair game now) and edited it quickly out.
Annnd I think that''s all the interesting information about the story!
The Future of Chum on Royal Road?
Hey everyone! As we move into Chum Act II, I¡¯ve been considering something that some manga and web serials do¡ªsplitting it into a separate story on Royal Road, effectively making Chum II its own distinct sequel.
Why?
- Easier for new readers ¨C A fresh entry point with a ¡°How We Got Here¡± summary, so people don¡¯t feel like they need to tackle a massive backlog just to get started.
- Manageable scope ¨C If Act II and Act III are the same size as Act I, which I anticipate they will be, Chum will be around 3, 3.5, 4 million words by the time its done. I think if anyone saw that on the sidebar in Royal Road, their eyes would bug out and they would go no thanks!
- A clear new phase ¨C The story is evolving, and this would mark that shift in a big way. Sam now is a different person than she was at the start - we''re starting with a clean, new slate. This effectively marks Chum II as a sequel-style continuation - and it will be starting with a bit of a time skip, which may be confusing if it''s all wrapped up in one big uberstory.
- Keeping the Followers Invested ¨C Chum right now has 900 followers. I am sure a nonzero amount of them no longer read Chum for one reason or another; this is very silly of me but I would hate to clog up their notifications, and this way we can keep things clean for the people who are truly following along into the next major phase of the story.
Would love to hear your thoughts¡ªwould you prefer everything to stay in one place, or does a Chum II sequel setup make sense? Let me know what you think! Vote now on your phones;
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
As a bonus for you - Chum II cover!