23

---

I pull up to Lilly’s new residence just past eight, the last day of September, and I’m immediately struck by the stark contrast between this home and the familiar landscape of my own upbringing. I spent my childhood navigating the compact rowhouses of Mayfair; this place, nestled in the eastern part of Oxford Circle, is practically a slice of suburban nirvana.

Instead of being squeezed between two identical buildings, this house stands apart, with a driveway that could comfortably fit two cars side by side, and an actual garage. The lawn, too, is an expanse of meticulously manicured green, at least ten or eleven people shoulder to shoulder, as opposed to the approximately three or four that my rowhouse occupies. Lilly had mentioned relocating at the dawn of September, but I had no idea she’d transitioned into a setting so ritzy (that’s a word that means, like, lavish, bougie).

“Lilly definitely moved up in the world,” I find myself mumbling under my breath, my thumb pressing down on the doorbell’s smooth, cold surface.

The passage of a few heartbeats feels drawn out in the quiet evening air. Finally, the front door swings open with a well-oiled ease. Revealed in the doorway is Lilly’s older sister, Emily, dressed in a rather flashy, if not somewhat risqué, witch costume, draped off of her like a fallen curtain. Towering over me — just as her parents do, and as we’ve all predicted Lilly will in a few years’ time — Emily possesses an imposing figure that makes me flush with some implacable emotion. Faced with the awkward predicament of her chest looming practically at my eye-level, I quickly avert my gaze, shifting it to the right as a temporary sanctuary.

“Sam! Wow, you’ve grown!” Emily’s voice rings out in a cheerful crescendo, pulling me into a hug that squeezes the breath out of my lungs. She’s a ball of exuberance, and right now, that energy is like sandpaper on my skin. I don’t like it. No, let’s be honest: I can’t stand it. For a number of reasons.

“I, uh, could say the same,” I reply, shifting from foot to foot. Awkwardness clings to me like a second skin. I’m in a simple Halloween costume, not something ripped out of the pages of a cosplay imageboard. It’s a long red cloak with the hood drawn up, shrouding most of my face. I’ve got this dinky little straw basket hanging off my arm, just in case anyone asks. I can say I’m Little Red Riding Hood. It’s perfect for anonymity, and can be quickly abandoned if Bloodhound needs to make a sudden, dramatic entrance. Marcus, Lilly, Jenna, Kate, Tasha—they all know I’ve got a hero gig, but Marcus is the only one who knows the full scope. That I’m the Big Bad Wolf.

Emily steps back, her arms sweeping open in a grand gesture as if she’s unveiling a masterpiece. “Come on, everyone’s in the living room. Lilly’s gonna lose her mind when she sees you.”

I step through the threshold and find myself plunging into immediate sensory overload. The living room is a buzzing hive of teenaged activity. People I don’t recognize — students from Lilly & Emily’s new school, no doubt — mingle like they’ve known each other for years. Conversations overlap in a cacophonous blend of laughter and chatter. The scent of some fruity cocktail permeates the air, which I spot in… a plastic tub? An entire plastic tub, sitting on a table, filled with an unidentifiable mixture of fruits, juices, fruit juices, and alcohol. A guy dressed as a pirate, awkward as they come, is trying to balance a plastic cup on his hooked hand.

Tasha is off to the side, snickering at his failed attempts, while Marcus seems to be deep in a conversation about something with Kate, who visibly couldn’t care less. Jenna is nowhere to be seen, but I imagine she’s off somewhere. Lilly, our host and the soul of the party, dances between groups, her curly brown hair bouncing with each step. Her eyes are alight with the thrill of social interaction, her face radiant. This room, it’s vibrant, loud, full of life — a life that I haven’t been a part of for what feels like forever.

Just like Emily predicted, Lilly spots me. And the reaction is instant. “SAM! OH MY GOD!”

Before I can brace for impact, she’s airborne, launching herself across the room like a human missile. She crashes into me, nearly sending both of us tumbling backward. But I catch myself just in time, all the weeks of training giving me a grip like no other, and I hold tight on the floor. I’m surprised, yes, but it’s a welcome surprise. Something real in a room full of uncertainties.

“It’s been too long!” she exclaims, pulling away from our hug. But her hands stay on my shoulders, gripping them like she’s afraid I might vanish. Her eyes roam my face, taking in every detail. “You look—”

“Tired?” I suggest. The joke falls flat, even to my own ears, but she doesn’t seem worried about it, although I don’t know if that’s her happy-go-luckiness or the slight smell of sugar and booze on her breath. Her birthday came early – she’s already 15, the eldest of our group by far.

“No, you look…” Lilly’s voice stalls in mid-air, a soft hesitation that seems almost out of place coming from her. It’s like I’m watching the gears in her mind whirl into action behind her expressive eyes. Underneath the festive glow of orange and purple lights hanging from the ceiling, I catch the sight of my own dark circles reflecting back at me, almost camouflaging seamlessly into the Halloween decor. “You look strong. Like you’ve changed. You feel strong, too. Damn girl, have you been working out?” She says this last part as her hands find my arms, gripping the muscle there with a mixture of awe and curiosity.

In the grand tapestry of my day-to-day life, each morning is familiar and routine. To me, the person who exists and lives in my body, I can sense no difference from one waking-up to the next, but there’s undoubtedly a difference to everyone else. My bones denser, my muscles more defined, my senses sharper. When I flex my arms for Lilly’s benefit, the awe manifests in her eyes like emoji-vision, sharp stars spinning around in her pupils metaphorically, or maybe pink hearts. “A little bit,” I manage to utter, shrugging nonchalantly, as if my burgeoning strength was just a byproduct of casual gym visits.

Just then, my eyes catch a glimmer of recognition, pulling me momentarily out of this intimate orbit.

It’s Crossroads.

Leaning against the far corner wall, attired incongruously in a Superman costume. Our eyes lock for the briefest of seconds, a muted conversation, before his gaze redirects itself, almost awkwardly. I’m still processing the oddity of his presence when Marcus materializes at my elbow, his voice full of relieved enthusiasm. “Hey, you made it.”

“Yeah,” I answer, the word tinged with an indefinable weight. I can feel the room swelling around me—the laughter, the conversations, the youthfulness—it’s like an echo chamber of all the mundane aspects of life I’ve had to sideline. “Yeah, I did.”

For one liberating moment, the mantle of Bloodhound lifts off my shoulders. The looming threats of the Kingdom, the grime and danger of Philadelphia’s underbelly, everything just fades away. It’s just me, Sam, trying to rediscover the way to wade through a room teeming with nothing but the chaos of adolescence. It’s terrifying, but in a different way, like I’m standing on the precipice of normality, looking in. Lilly has already vanished into the crowd, mostly people I don’t recognize, and I catch Kate out of the corner of my eye, dressed as some action movie badass I don’t know, stealing a beer from the fridge.

Drawing in a lungful of air, which carries with it the faint aroma of popcorn and body spray, I steel myself for the inevitable – having to talk to other people. Marcus gives me an encouraging slap on the back, his hand landing with a familial thud. “I’m going to go continue attempting to socialize, aiight?”

“Go for it,” I say, my posture remaining rigid, like a statue.

There’s this persistent gnawing undercurrent. It’s like an itch at the back of my skull, an intuition that flat-out refuses to be ignored. Risking a sidelong glance through the animated crowd of party-goers, my eyes lock with Crossroads’. His gaze is attentive, but it doesn’t have that creepy, invasive vibe. Instead, it’s more like a vigilant kind of scrutiny, the kind of look you’d give when you’re safeguarding a treasure. Or a person. A face I’m familiar with: assessing threats.

Emily sidles up beside me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. The sharp scent of alcohol wafts up from her, making the air between us feel like it’s soaked in wine. I squint, trying to look past people’s heads, beyond the laughing faces and flirtatious conversations, toward the glistening glass windows — or wait, no, they’re actually sliding glass doors — that lead to the backyard. A backyard? With a porch, and a fire pit? The concept seems alien to my cramped rowhome life.

“Max?” I mumble, my gaze momentarily meeting Crossroads’ – no, Max’s – again.

“Max. He’s my cousin. My parents always rope him into babysitting us whenever they want to act like they’re in their 20s again,” Emily blabbers, clarifying nothing at all. Crossroads is related to Lilly? When did that happen?

“First cousin?” I feign confusion, drawing it out like I’m totally ignorant in an effort to fish for more information. Man, I sure wish I had been told so I wasn’t blindsided like this!

Emily breaks into laughter, her whole body swaying as if she’s a tree in a gusty wind. “Nah, he’s my… um, my cousin’s… like, my mom’s cousin’s… son, so I think that’s…” She pauses, counting family branches using her black-painted fingernails. “Second cousin, yeah.” She leans in, her voice hushed, borderline conspiratorial. “He’s a little bit of a buzzkill. Knows his first aid and CPR. And lifeguarding… and how to drive. So he’s good to have around.”

Her voice has this odd, wobbly quality, almost like her words are floating on the ocean. It’s impossible to decipher whether she’s hinting at his abilities or if she’s just really drunk. Before I can untangle the nuances of her phrasing, and whether or not the Rodriguez family knows about Max’s powers, Max — no, Crossroads — is right there, up in my personal space.

“Maxwell Martinez. It’s a pleasure,” he greets, extending a hand. Our palms meet, and I’m struck by the familiarity. It’s a grip I’ve felt before, sparring and training with him. Even if he was wearing a full mask, I’d recognize it.

“Oh, I’m just Sam. Uh, Samantha Small, but you can call me Sam,” I manage, angling my body as Emily detaches herself and floats off into the crowd like a leaf on the wind. “What are you doing here?” The words barely escape my lips, a harsh whisper that’s almost drowned out by an overzealous hypersoul remix of Monster Mash thumping through unseen speakers.

“Keeping an eye out for dumb mistakes and bad decisions,” he returns in a hushed tone, probably the longest string of words I’ve ever heard him string together. “What are you doing here?”

“Partying. Gonna snitch if I sip a beer?” I retort, my face probably screaming ‘guilty’ in neon letters as I fail to make eye contact and instead stare down at his feet.

A laugh rumbles out of him, a sound I’ve never heard in person but have been told about many times in the group chat. “Given what Pup is dealing with, I think a beer or two won’t hurt. Just don’t do anything stupid, Sam.”

I throw him a playful salute. “Aye-aye, captain.”

The front door opens again with a small ringing chime from the doorbell, and in walks my plus one – Jordan, as ambiguous as ever. I have no idea what they’re dressed up as, if anything, but they seem to have put so much more effort into it than anyone else that it’s almost disquieting. Their black hair is slicked downwards in a mop of spikes and their face is extra-super pale, wearing a full body of all-black military attire that’s just absolutely covered in pockets, straps, and buckles. In one hand they carry what looks like some sort of futuristic imitation of a gun, a blocky, boxy thing glowing with red LEDs.

I wave politely at Jordan, and they step inside, immediately power-walking to my side and ignoring the introductions of Emily, who scowls at the back of their head. “Hey, Sam. Nice party. Nice costume,” Jordan says, looking nervous as could be.

“Thanks. What are, uh… What are you dressed as?” I ask, trying to place Jordan’s attire literally anywhere.

“Um, it’s, it’s ‘Killy’, from Blam. That’s B-L-A-M-E, with an exclamation point, but it’s pronounced Blam like a gunshot. It’s… my favorite manga,” Jordan says, glancing around uncomfortably.

Maxwell’s eyes narrow. “That’s the one by Tsutomu Nihei, right? I read it just a couple weeks ago. Very striking.”

Huh? I didn’t know Crossroads was into mangAH SHIT. Ah fuck. I rack my brain as fast as possible – have I ever mentioned the origins of the name ‘Safeguard’ to the Young Defenders? I can’t remember. Fuck me running, I can’t remember.

Jordan just seems happy to be recognized, completely oblivious to the bear trap they just stepped into. “I’m glad someone recognizes me. Jordan,”

Maxwell reaches out to shake their hand. “Maxwell,” He says, squeezing their hand hard enough to draw a wince.

“I’m going to go, uh, steal some food, yeah?” Jordan says, glancing between Maxwell and I.

“Go for it,” I say, as if giving them permission. Jordan, not wearing platforms for once, vanishes into the crowd.

Maxwell looks at me and his face scrunches up. “Your friend has something they should tell you,” he says, and I know we’ve been caught. “But later. Ask them about it later. Enjoy the party, Bee.”

---

I’m sorry if there’s any telepaths listening in on my thoughts that are going to be disappointed in me, but I’m going to drink tonight. Sorry!

I step out onto Lilly’s porch and soak in the sight of it. Her parents really outdid themselves with the new house. There’s enough space on this porch alone to set up two beer pong tables with room to spare. Late September air dances around me, and the nip in the wind is a perfect counterpoint to the warmth spilling out of the house behind me. Low chatter and the thud of ping-pong balls against red Solo cups fill the atmosphere.

Jenna and Tasha are slightly off to one side of the yard, locked in a heated debate over the virtues of some obscure indie band that I’ve never heard of. They’re immersed in a world of musical jargon and band lore, completely detached from the party’s happenings. Meanwhile, it’s Kate who catches sight of me first and flags me down.

“Sam, really?” She coats her words with a layer of feigned annoyance, thick as acrylic paint. “You’re trying to ditch the party already? Please, take a seat. Be our guest.” She punctuates her sentence by flourishing her arm toward an empty chair by the beer pong table, a bit of a swagger to her movement. The chair is across from a face I don’t recognize. In her hand, Kate clutches an open beer can, and she’s already swaying—just a little—as she holds it.

“How many of those have you downed?” I ask, the question laced with a subtle undercurrent of concern, a tinge of responsible adult creeping into my tone.

Her lips curve into a mischievous grin. “Just two.”

“Promise? Because we don’t want this to turn into ‘that’ kind of high school party where we have to call 911,” I say, letting my hand land on her shoulder, grounding her for a moment.

She executes a flawless eye roll. “Promise, mom.”

I shrug, grinning as I ease into the offered chair. “Just looking out for you, Kate,” I reply. My eyes skim across the yard until they lock onto Lilly. She’s a few steps from the house, deftly playing the role of the gracious Little Sister of the Host as she chatters with a group of teenagers, some of whom are boldly lighting up cigarettes. Seeing me, her eyes brighten, and she throws me an enthusiastic thumbs-up, as if to say, “You’re doing great!” I find myself smiling back involuntarily, grateful for her encouragement.

Jordan is also in the mix, a bit apart from the others. They’re leaning against the railing at the edge of the porch, emanating a certain aloof comfort. A joint is smoldering between their fingers, its light haze swirling in the night air. I feel a twinge of guilt pulling at me. Should I go join them? My internal debate is interrupted as Kate places a Solo cup full of beer on the table in front of me, snapping me back to reality.

“So, are you in or what?” Kate demands, a playful challenge in her eyes.

I glance at the golden liquid in the cup, then back at her. “When in Rome,” I murmur, lifting the beer to my nose. The scent is strong and uninviting, reminiscent of stale urine. My tastebuds already object, but I tough it out.

“A new challenger has arrived!” A voice from across the table slices through the air like a comic book sound effect. The boy opposite me, an overeager jock-type in a football jersey, enthusiastically raises his red Solo cup. Beer sloshes out, some of it making a break for freedom down his wrist. He thunks the cup back onto the table, sending a tiny tidal wave of alcohol onto the plastic surface.

I assess him, a swift rundown that takes no more than a moment. He’s swaying in his seat, eyes glazed over like day-old doughnuts, and his cheeks are flushed a rosy pink. He’s already drunk. Easy pickings.

The atmosphere is electric as the first ping pong ball bounces on the table. The small white ball seems to hang in the air for a moment before diving into one of my opponent’s cups. There’s a collective “ooo” from the crowd. Jenna is off to the side, capturing the whole thing on her phone. Throwing ping pong balls is not exactly a difficult activity, and I have played softball before.

Jacob, my poor inebriated opponent, takes his turn. He aims, but his hand wavers, and the ball ends up careening off-course, bouncing harmlessly away from my cups. Tasha, leaning against the wall and sipping something non-alcoholic, murmurs a bug fact about the balls of a dung beetle to Marcus. He listens with amusement, entertained but unimpressed by her attempts to spook him. My ears pick up everything else around me, trying to decipher every individual word, almost more overwhelming than the alcohol itself.

I pick up another ping-pong ball, its texture suddenly becoming an object of interest. I focus, the world narrowing to this one moment. I let the ball fly. It soars through the air and lands with a soft splash, hitting dead center in a middle cup. Just like I’d planned. The crowd feels it too, their energy kicking up another level. They smell victory in the air, and they know who’s delivering it.

He takes his shot, practically swaying where he stands. The ball barely makes it halfway to the table this time, dropping onto the floor like a stone. He looks up, his face flushed and eyes glazed. “Oh man, this isn’t fair,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. It’s like he’s relieved to be losing.

My next shot is almost effortless. The ball leaves my hand, and I know it’s going where I want it to go. It drops into a cup toward the back. People are starting to get loud now. Even Marcus, who’s just joined the crowd, has a grin stretched across his face. No one can believe this girl is dominating the table like she is. They start chanting my name, and it feels weirdly good.

On the other side of the table, Jacob’s struggling. The poor guy’s concentration is faltering; he’s got that desperate glint in his eye. He aims and throws. The ball wobbles through the air and veers off course, dropping far away from any cup. A collective “Ooooh” emanates from the crowd, not in awe but in sympathy. It’s becoming a slaughter.

For my final shot, I decide to get fancy. I bounce the ball on the table first; it hops gracefully and then lands squarely in the last cup. Game over. Cheers erupt from the crowd, some already declaring me the new beer pong champ. Jacob stands there, looking like he’s questioning all his life choices.

Kate’s laughing so hard she almost spills her drink. The red Solo cup she’s holding quivers in her hands as she claps, the joy on her face infectious. “That was epic, Sam!” she shouts over the roar of the crowd. I can’t help but grin.

Six cups in, and I’m convinced this is some kind of cosmic joke. I’m wondering which part of me is making it so this piss-flavored beverage is doing nothing to me – is it the regeneration, or whatever way my organs work that also lets me swallow seawater like it’s nothing? The alcohol doesn’t stand a chance. Jacob, meanwhile, is slumped over the table, his words melting into an unintelligible stew of slurring. Like, in the speech sense, slurred speech, not like… saying bad stuff. “Uncle, I’m done,” He mumbles. “Put a fork in me.”

Kate, whose cheeks have taken on the hue of her red Solo cup, is cackling like a hyena on nitrous oxide. She’s thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, and I smile sideways at her, happy that her third can of beer is taking some of the edge off that chip on her shoulder. The crowd that’s formed around our little game is now placing bets, shouting odds like we’re in some kind of underground fight club. If only they knew what I was actually capable of.

“So,” I say, laying the sarcasm on thick as I mimic the slurred speech patterns of my less fortunate friends. “Who’s next?”

Jenna’s eyes catch mine. They’re like fireworks, bursting with mischief and a glittering sort of anticipation. She raises her hand. “I wanna try my luck against the beer goddess over here,” she declares. The irony is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

A wave of laughter sweeps through the assembled crowd, a sound that sears this moment into the fabric of adolescent memory. It’s a collective chuckle, one that nails down the good vibes hovering over this party like a cloud of confetti. It feels good. It feels… right?

Compared to getting stabbed, this is proving to be an almost enjoyable Saturday night.

“I accept your challenge,” I say, tilting my head back for theatrical effect. Someone nearby pours beer into the cups as if filling the Holy Grail itself, a couple of times over.

Time slinks by. The night is long, and though my winning streak is a mile wide, it’s about as satisfying as a paper cut. My bladder feels like it’s training for the Olympics, and every swig of beer I take is a reminder of why I hate it. It’s bitter, foul, a liquid punchline that’s getting old real fast. Even not accounting for the fact that I’m not getting drunk at all, my mouth is a noxious mixture of sticky and sore, like the liquid itself is eroding at my gums. It feels bad!

I catch Jordan’s eyes. They’re glazed, lost in a fog that’s more than likely a mix of THC and sheer boredom. They’re standing by the sidelines, seemingly disengaged from the entire beer pong circus taking place. I mentally bookmark a reminder to talk to Jordan, ASAP.

Having put Jenna and another would-be champion in their respective places, I finally step back. The applause that trickles in behind me is like a soft jazz outro, validating yet understated. I weave my way through the bodies and faces, a blur of colors and scents, until I reach Jordan.

Jordan greets me in the most Jordan way possible, with a fragrant plume of weed smoke, so dense it could challenge a fog bank. It envelops me as I walk closer. It’s almost like stepping into another atmosphere, one that’s a bit more relaxed and a lot more hazy, with all sorts of people in half-effort Halloween costumes a month early joining Jordan in the smoking.

“Miss me?” I ask, my words relaxed and a little sticky in my mouth. I lean against the porch railing beside them, feeling the cool wood press against my arm through my robe’s sleeve.

Jordan takes a slow, deliberate exhale, expelling a stream of smoke that dissipates into the night air. They finally turn to look at me, their eyes a bit glassy but focused. “You’re looking remarkably sober for someone who’s just put away enough beer to float a boat,” they remark.

I can’t help but laugh at that. “That’s because I am sober. Shockingly sober, actually. Turns out, I think my regeneration counts alcohol as ‘a thing that can injure me’, just like a bullet. Or at least that’s my guess. Really, the worst thing is just the beer taste.”

“Yeah, it tastes like piss,” they reply, staring out into the Philadelphia night. They chuckle, a low, throaty sound that gets swallowed by the cacophony of the party behind us. Then their gaze drifts back out to the dark expanse of the lawn, momentarily illuminated by the occasional flash of someone’s phone camera. “Some days, Sam, I find myself envying the simple nature of your life.”

“Simple?” I arch an eyebrow, unable to determine if I’m surprised or offended.

Jordan shakes their head, a wistful smile crossing their lips. “Okay, fair point, not simple. But straightforward. Linear, even. You’re like an arrow, flying straight at whatever target you’ve picked. Or a laser beam.”

I ponder their words, staring at the chipped paint on the railing. “Or maybe I’m just a dart,” I muse, “always gunning for the bullseye. Wobbly. Uh… often thrown by other people?”

Their laughter resumes, lighter this time. “Well, you’d be the first dart I’ve ever encountered that possesses the ability to bite clean through metal.”

The night air feels a little cooler now, like the atmosphere itself is absorbing the warmth of our conversation. We both stand there, our shoulders almost touching, wrapped up in a bubble of genuine friendship amid a sea of superficial interactions. For all the noise, all the laughter and the music pumping from the speakers, this brief moment feels like the only slice of reality in a night built on pretenses.

And I can’t even get drunk to forget it.

---

While most eyes at the party are on red plastic cups or Instagram-perfect moments, I can’t help but notice Maxwell moving through the crowd like a guardian angel with a hidden agenda. At first glance, he’s just another teen at a high-school party, but the way he’s operating is too calculated to be casual. Every so often, he’ll hone in on someone, eyes narrowing as if he’s reading the trajectory of their night in a heartbeat. Then, with the grace of a choreographed dancer, he slips in, diverting them into a conversation, a game of pool, or even just outside for a breath of fresh air. It’s like he’s defusing social landmines before they even know they’re about to go off. The guy might as well have a neon sign above his head that says, “I see your future, and it involves puking and regret.”

It’s hard not to be intrigued, especially when those keen eyes of his keep flicking over to Jordan more and more as the night wears on. Maxwell isn’t subtle when he grips my elbow and guides me into a spare bedroom, dragging me over from the porch once I’ve lost sight of Jordan, flicking the lights on with purpose. “Close the door,” he mutters. I oblige. It clicks shut, sealing us off from the laughter and music in the other room. My heart’s hammering a mile a minute, and I’m aware of everything.

Thankfully, I haven’t had to put my blood-sense to use tonight. Nobody’s cut themselves on anything. But I can still feel every vein inside of me, just from the cardiac pressure.

“Sam, we need to talk,” Maxwell says, his voice slicing through the distant hum of the party like a fine blade.

I cut him off, not even bothering to mask my irritation. “Look, if this is about me not getting wasted out there, trust me, it’s not from lack of trying.” I can practically hear his eyes rolling, even if I can’t see it in the dim room. Or maybe it’s just because I can’t look him in the face.

Maxwell exhales sharply, a sound of frustration that turns my attention back to him. “No, Sam. That’s not what this is about.” He pauses, as if contemplating how to say what comes next. “It’s about Jordan. Safeguard. They’re the same person.”

The air turns thick and heavy. My heart skips a beat. I freeze, my eyes locking onto his. For a moment, it’s like he can see the future, see the words forming on my lips before I’ve even spoken them. I feel his disappointment even before I decide to speak. “Yeah,” I admit, my voice carrying an undercurrent of sheepishness and shame. “Yeah, I know.”

For a fraction of a second, Maxwell’s eyes narrow, sharpening like a hawk spotting its prey. But then there’s a flicker there, understanding? acceptance, maybe? It softens his gaze. “You knew,” he echoes, and it doesn’t come out as a question.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, an uneasy dance. “Yeah,” I confirm, letting the word hang in the air between us. “Known for a bit now.”

Maxwell’s arms cross over his chest, the sleeves of his Superman costume, twenty bucks at the Spirit Halloween, straining against his biceps. “And you didn’t think it was important to tell anyone?” His voice edges towards incredulity, tinged with a dash of disappointment that I didn’t expect. I feel like I just disappointed my dad, which is always the worst feeling.

I swallow hard, the guilt knotting itself up in my stomach. “I didn’t think it was my place,” I offer up hesitantly, picking at the bandage on my knuckle. It’s a lame excuse, and I know it, but it’s the only thing my frazzled mind can produce.

Maxwell uncrosses his arms, his hands falling to his sides as if letting go of some invisible weight. “Sam, this is not just about keeping secrets. It’s about trust. You think you can handle it all by yourself, but that’s not how this works,” he pauses, letting the words sink in. His gaze is steady, but his voice carries an edge that suggests he’s struggling to keep his emotions in check.

I wince at his words, my eyes dropping to the floor. My shoe nudges an old LEGO piece – who it belongs to I have no idea, since Lilly is the youngest and I know she doesn’t like LEGOs. For a brief moment, it serves as a distraction, pulling me away from the miserable conversation I’m currently stuck in. “Look, Max, I’ve been out there with them, as the Big Bad Wolf. Safeguard’s not all bad,” I say, forcing myself to lift my eyes back to his. “We’ve been cleaning up the streets together, doing good, I swear. I promise.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sam.”

“Max,” I reply, turning away from him.

“I’m not going to haul you in for questioning, Sam. I know you’re scared that you’re breaking the rules,” he says, sighing and sitting on a fresh, new, smelly couch, glancing out the window into the backyard porch. He pulls a coin out from somewhere in his pockets and holds it out to me. “I know this because I’m cheating and reading the conversation in advance. I keep a coin with me just for that.”

“I’m not…” I start, not sure what I’m objecting to. I hear the ping of a coin being flipped and caught.

“You are scared of being arrested,” He says. Ping!

“You’re scared of being rejected by me, and the rest of the Young Defenders,” He says. Ping!

“You’re scared of hurting other people,” He says, catching the coin in his palms. “I respect the candor of all of your branches.”

“That’s so unfair,” I mumble, folding my body up.

“It is. That’s why I try not to use it. I can polarize almost any situation into something readable by my powers by just committing to a coin flip beforehand, and having that sort of access really fucks with your ability to socialize with people,” He says, flipping the coin again. Ping! “Yes, that’s why I don’t talk a lot. I get it, Sam.”

“What do you get?” I look completely away from him, towards the door.

“The urge. I have to stop myself every time I want to use my powers so casually, for personal enrichment. I was given this so that I could do something good, not so I could save-scum my life. And you get the urge too. The need to use your powers. Not a physiological urge or an addiction but the need to do something with what you’re given. I get it.”

I sigh. “You didn’t even flip a coin that time.”

“I didn’t need to. You’re extremely unsubtle,” He says, stone-faced. “Look. I’m not going to make you do anything. You can be a vigilante. I won’t even tell the other Young Defenders, because, Lord knows, I keep all their secrets, too.”

“Did you know about Liberty Belle beforehand?” I ask, smashing the mood with a hammer. I see his face tilt down in the corner of my eye.

He sucks in air between his teeth. “…No. She kept it hidden extremely well. She has access to police resources, which means she’s read my file, which means she knows how my power works. I don’t know if she went out of her way to avoid it or if she’s just that good, but I was as blindsided as everyone else was.”

“You, blindsided?” I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckles, his voice low and slow. “I was blindsided 15 minutes before you and Puppeteer started fighting. Then, it was just a matter of holding it in.”

My entire body feels a little heavy, and I realize to my immense displeasure that being immune to getting drunk I don’t think renders me as immune to getting high. I’m talking too much. I shouldn’t have given up the ghost so easily. I feel disappointed in myself. “Did you see this coming? Like, this conversation?”

“I can’t see that far ahead. I can see about two hours into the future, but it’s asymptotic, it’s super blurry past the first fifteen minutes. And I can’t chain my power into itself… so I’m really here to be a buzzkill like Emily said,” he explains, staring at a ceiling fan, slowly rotating overhead. “Whenever Emily is about to have a party, I flip a coin and commit to going on heads. That way, I can prepare if there’s any immediate emergencies. I can do other polarized outcomes, too, like left or right – basically anything that splits a decision between one of two possibilities. Coins are just really convenient.”

“Neat. Thanks for the lecture,” I say, sincerely.

He smiles at me. “You’re welcome.”

We stare in various directions, never at each other, in silence for another minute or two. “They’re really not bad,” I say, eventually. “Jordan, I mean. They have a good heart. They really were just testing their powers when we fought, it wasn’t out of malice or death or whatever. They just don’t respect superheroes and didn’t realize that I was just fourteen. That’s what they said, at least.”

“Do you believe them?” Max asks me.

I think about it. “Yeah. They’ve saved me from death enough times that I can’t not believe them. When we first encountered the Kingdom – oh, sorry, it was both of us, not just me alone – they stopped me from getting shot. They keep me from getting hit even though I can walk it off every time we’re out and about. They’re just… cynical. They don’t like the way things are. They don’t like superheroes that work for the cops. Work with the cops. And… they shoplift.”

“Mother, Mary, and Joseph. Shoplifting, really? Crazy,” Max replies, sarcastically.

“I was really bugging about it for a week or two! But now they just… take their cut of the money we take from the bad guys we beat up. Drug dealer money. And dog fighting money. Gangster money. And they haven’t had to shoplift for a while, and I believe them,” I say, dumping the words off my chest like they’re breakfast coming back up. “Is that so bad?”

“I’m not the person to ask about morality, Sam. I can’t judge you. Only God can. Or, you know, whatever you believe in,” he tells me. I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. “Can I flip a coin?” He asks.

“Sure. I appreciate you asking this time,” I joke, but he does look a little hurt by it, so I give him a thumbs up. “Kidding. It’s fine. You were fine the other times, too.”

Ping!

He inhales through his nose and squints. “I’m Catholic, you’re Jewish. We’re having an extremely interesting and extremely off-topic discussion about our respective beliefs on morality and who can perform the act of judgment. I’d like to keep on-topic but feel free to come and actually have this discussion with me in real-time some other time,” he rattles out, before opening his eyes back up.

“What the fuck.”

“It’s a cool party trick, huh?” he asks, trying to lighten the air. He leans a little bit further in on his seat, folding his fingers together. “Look. Like I said, it’s not my place to judge. I think your intentions are pure and you are doing a good thing for the world – for your town, certainly. I wish, personally, that you would do so through official channels instead of picking fights with dangerous people, but you are your own person, and I cannot control you. That’s not a path I want to go down.”

His eyes flicker imperceptibly. I don’t need superpowers to know that he’s thinking about Puppeteer.

“More importantly, I believe you. And… I think we could use Jordan’s help,” He says, after another minute-long pause. I turn my entire body towards him, suddenly interested, suddenly a little angry for reasons I don’t understand.

“In what?” I ask, trying not to sound upset.

He folds his fingers together a little further. “If what you’re telling me is true – and I do believe you that it is – Jordan not only is familiar with the Kingdom, but has an extremely versatile power that is useful in keeping people alive in dangerous circumstances. Well, we have a lead, and we could use an unfamiliar face to help us investigate it. I have a feeling Jordan won’t be interested in becoming ‘one of us’, but at the very least, we could ask them for aid in tracking down the Kingdom’s operations in Philadelphia. And as the current acting leader of the Young Defenders, I’m willing to make this call.”

“Wait, you’re the leader right now?” I ask, my entire body freezing up at once. Oh my G-d. At any time he could very easily discipline me. Or kick me out. And he hasn’t? Wait, he said a bunch of other shit – what else did he say? Jordan? Helping? “Sorry, not helpful–“

“I’m the oldest and most experienced out of the active members, and my power is most useful from a position on high. I was also the leader before Diane met Pup. I don’t have any real compunctions about passing control down, but while Pup is indisposed, I am the leader, yes. But let’s not get too off-topic – do you think you could reach out to Jordan? Do you trust them enough?” he explains, and then asks, standing up from the couch in a way that makes me feel like the conversation is coming to some sort of dramatic conclusion. His eyes bore into mine, and my heartbeat accelerates.

“Absolutely,” I say without hesitation. “I trust Jordan with my life.”

“Cool,” Max replies, smirking at me. Ping! “You can come out now, Jordan. I know you’re there.”

“God fucking damnit fucking bullshit cheating stupid fucking precognition bullshit fucker cunt shit fuck,” Jordan swears, stumbling out of a nearby closet and nearly falling onto the carpet. “You knew I was here the entire time.”

“I was debating which empty room to have this conversation with Sam in, yes,” Max says, trying to keep his composure – trying not to laugh.

Jordan’s eyes are glazed, red, and puffy, and not just from weed. Clearly, they’ve been crying. “Samantha Small you are the nicest, dumbest, most naive, most optimistic, stupid dumb bastard I have ever met,” they wheeze, leaning against the bedroom wall.

“I love you too,” I say back, tousling their thoroughly gelled, spiky hair.

“It’s hard to hear from inside a closet. Don’t ask why I was in a closet. What was this about the Kingdom, and my powers being useful?” Jordan asks, stumbling to a standing position, cracking their knuckles. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not interested in working with cops, much less super-cops. But I am interested in getting payback on some smug cunts who tried to kill me. I’m not in this for your justice.”

“That’s fine. Do you like bars?” Max asks, folding his arms over his chest, looking particularly heroic.

“More than I like high schooler beer pong parties, that’s for damn sure. Do I get to go to a bar if I play nice with some of your goody two-shoeses?” Jordan asks, fidgeting with their prop gun.

Max smiles, looking between the two of us. “Yes. Yes you do.”

“Don’t even give me more details. I’m in,” Jordan says, putting a hand up in front of Max’s face. “But what about shrimp here?”

“Sam, do you like bars?” Max asks, turning to face me.

I shrug. “I like danger, I think. Will there be danger at this bar?”

Max smiles, even wider. He grins, even, the first time I’ve ever seen that sort of expression on his face. “Danger and grenadine.”

---

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