The airlock hisses open, welcoming me into my home-away-from-home, or in this case, my home-away-from-my-secondary-temporary-home, as it were. The Delaware Valley Defenders HQ exists as it was, unbesieged by villains, untouched by the outside world, pretending to be one of Philadelphia’s many abandoned, shuttered warehouses.
Two of the civilian workers – David and Jessica, our connection to 911’s dispatch and a private investigator that works with the team, respectively – give me an approving glance and nod as I walk by, my medical boot clacking on the floor. Lily – Blink, now, is right behind me, scooting around me and already en route to her locker.
We got the call in earlier today in the group chat, and after school, Blink’s parents drove us to about four blocks away. The thought of my parents knowing the approximate location of where I train, hang out with other young superheroes, and experience goo-goo ga-ga eyes over several of them, makes me want to hurl, so I have no idea how exactly Blink accomplishes it. I try not to think about the gossipy yenta inside my head wondering who Blink has eyes for, if anyone. Is it one of her fellow heroes? Or just someone at her school?
The lockers clank open and shut, echoing off the metallic surfaces of the room. A motley crew of uniforms and spandex-clad teens adorn the walls, each marking their unique identities. The chatter starts low, slowly picking up as the room fills with Young Defenders.
“Hey, still hobbling around in that?” Gale’s voice, always soothing, comes from behind me. Her dark eyes travel down to my boot with a playful smirk.
“Just for a little bit longer,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “I have a check-up later today. Hopefully, I can ditch this clunky thing.” I knock on the boot for emphasis. It’s hard to feel like a hero when you’re sporting something that looks straight out of an orthopedic catalog.
“Can’t have our Bloodhound limping now, can we?” she winks, leaning against the locker next to mine.
“You know what they do to limping dogs, right, Bee?” Playback calls from one of the couches. Puppeteer, sitting on the couch’s arm, flares her nostrils, and I can just tell in her heart she’s trying to resist the urge to dope slap him or swat him on the shoulder or something of the sort.
I do the next best thing, turning to him, hands on my hips. “Yeah? What’s that?” I ask, attempting to catch him off-guard.
“You know it’s horses, right?” Multiplex says, his presence immediately eating the room as he enters from the hallway. He’s dressed in civvies, but I didn’t see him come in, so I assume he went in through another entrance or something.
Playback does not seem to notice very much. “When you have a limping dog you take it to the vet to get everything fixed up. Whadda fuck are you psychos thinking I’m trying to say?”
It earns him small chuckles. I raise an eyebrow at him and he withers somewhat.
Multiplex retrieves his costume from his locker and then vanishes back out the hallway without putting it on. Crossroads enters behind us, followed shortly by Rampart a couple of seconds later. I fiddle with my locker’s lock, grabbing my most professional and most up-to-date form of my costume. It looks like Gossamer updated it a ton based on my feedback, which is good.
Armor plates stack in an untidy pile as people rummage and converse around me. I head to the bathroom so that I can slip out of my boot and peel my socks off, admiring the way my foot is a little bruised, purple, and weird looking. But it looks mostly like a foot now, instead of a pile of flesh, disregarding the large, painful lump on the top side of it.
The moment I pull out the new Bloodhound costume, I’m hit with an odd sensation of pride and apprehension. Gone are the days of haphazardly piecing together sports and police surplus for protection. With the Kingdom in the picture, we’ve been given a little more resources by the municipality to deal with matters, which means that Gossamer has been getting new toys to play with. Updated toys.
I hold the new suit in front of me, taking in the expertly designed armor plates. The chestplate, a mix of kevlar and something that feels like just straight up dinner plates, feels both sturdy and heavy. It feels like I could get hit by a truck and walk away fine. Its tan color contrasts sharply with the underlying dark brown-black bodysuit, giving it a tactical yet stylish appearance. The armor extends over my shoulders, with more plating over my shins and forearms, each plate designed for maximum protection without compromising mobility.
The joints, my elbows, knees, hips, and the knuckles of my gloves, have been given their own fresh coat of armor. Still sports gear surplus, but sports gear surplus that’s has extra schmutz metaphorically stapled to it, protecting the vulnerable parts of my body.
I then pick up the mask, the iconic wolf design still very much present. But it’s different now – streamlined and more menacing. The yellow eyecaps remain, piercing as ever, but the lower jaw portion is gone, revealing a space for my own mouth and teeth, amplifying the natural weapon I now possess. A small strap around my chin keeps the mask anchored to me, and lets some small points of articulation move about as I move my jaw, letting it deform with my face should I take a haymaker to the cheeks. There’s even some small sockets along the side in case I feel like strapping a fake wolf jaw to the lower half, for old time’s sake.
Setting the gear down, I quickly start to strip off my school clothes, wincing slightly as I notice the reflection in the mirror. My once slight frame has changed considerably since I started training with Rampart. The added muscle mass, while surprising, isn’t unwelcome. My shoulders and arms show a defined musculature, and my abdomen sports the beginnings of a six-pack, or maybe a four-pack. I remember when I used to be a scrawny teenager, built for kicking soccer balls and not much else, but all that changed after relentless workouts and beating my hands up against a sandbag.
I first slip into the bodysuit, the fabric clinging snugly to my form, moving with me like a second skin. I carefully adjust the chestplate, ensuring it sits comfortably against my torso, and then proceed with the forearm guards, each of them clicking into place with a satisfying snap. The shinguards take a moment, especially with my injured foot to consider. Despite its sturdiness, the costume allows for a lot of flexibility, something I’ll undoubtedly appreciate in a fight.
When I get to my injured foot, I gingerly place the medical boot over it, adjusting the straps. The clash between the advanced suit and the bulky boot isn’t lost on me, but it’s temporary. Soon, I’ll be back in action, fully suited up and better than ever.
Taking one last look in the mirror, I see Bloodhound, the newer, fiercer version, staring back at me. The transformation isn’t just external; inside, the fires of determination and confidence burn even brighter. Whatever challenges come my way, I’m ready. The world washes over in a slight orange haze as the eyecaps of my mask slip over my eyes, mostly hiding where I’m looking. I check my utility belt, with a small array of currently-unutilized gadgets – first aid equipment, a faceplate for my mask, a couple of various sprays made in collaboration with Fury Forge, you know, adhesives, expanding foam, stuff like that, emergency flares, an emergency flashbang, and a small utility knife in the central compartment.
As I limp out of the bathroom, Playback takes a look at me with a wry grin. “You know, costumes are not mandatory during meetings, right?”
“Bite me,” I reply.
“Ain’t that your thing, girl?” He challenges. I roll my eyes at him, giving him the easy win.
“Would you be wearing your costume in meetings if I made it mandatory?” Crossroads cuts in.
Playback rubs his chin in thought as Gossamer gingerly pokes her head through the airlock. “No,”
“No?” She asks. “What are we saying no to?”
“Crossroads wants us to be in costume for every meeting,” Playback answers.
Gossamer grins. “Good! My costume rocks and everyone should see it.”
“That’s not what he said,” Rampart corrects.
“Aww,” Gossamer replies, putting on an exaggerated pout.
“Hey, Sam,” Blink chimes in, zipping over in a blur before coming to a sudden stop beside me. Her eyes quickly scan me up and down, focusing on my boot. “Is that, like, a fashion statement or something?” She asks, her lips pulling into a playful smirk.
I chuckle, shifting my weight slightly. “Oh yeah, latest fashion trend, didn’t you know? It’s called ‘post-combat chic.’”
Blink snickers, her short, staccato laughter ringing out. “Honestly, I thought about adding a matching boot to my costume just for the fun of it. Maybe we can be boot buddies?”
I smirk. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m counting the hours till I can ditch this thing.” Just the thought of getting rid of the boot fills me with anticipation. I can’t wait to feel the ground underneath my feet again, to run without any impediments. The boot is a constant reminder of my vulnerability, of a time when I wasn’t fast enough, strong enough. “This afternoon, if all goes well.”
Blink nods sympathetically. “Must be annoying. But hey, at least you’re still up and about!”
Playback interjects, feigning deep thought. “You know, if you think about it, a boot like that might actually come in handy during fights. Provides extra protection, doesn’t it? And it’s hard enough to hurt.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you suggesting I make it a permanent addition?”
He chuckles. “Nah, just thinking out loud. But you’d look badass kicking someone with that thing.”
I laugh, appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood. “True. But once this thing’s off, it’s staying off.”
Gale, who had been listening quietly, walks over and places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be back to your usual self soon, Sam. Just take it one day at a time.”
I give her a grateful smile, trying not to flinch at the hand on me. “Like I said, this afternoon. Then, I’m probably home free until the next time I get my foot stomped on by a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”
As our banter continues, I spot some familiar faces among the crowd of heroes. The civilian staff — each of them a regular presence in the base, though usually seen one at a time and not all together. There’s Ben, the IT guy, always tapping away at keyboards and dealing with our tech issues. Beside him, Sylvia, the nurse who’s been helpful with my minor training injuries before, and a couple of others whose names escape me for the moment. They’re all here, which is unusual.
It’s rare to see all of them bustling around at once. Typically, it’s just Ben fixing some computer glitch or helping with security systems. Their collective presence, the air of seriousness they carry, puts an off scent in the air, metaphorically speaking. Something’s happening. They’re never all here at once. The feeling is akin to walking into a classroom and noticing all the teachers huddled together, whispering. It gives off an instinctual alert that things aren’t business as usual.
As Gale walks away, the chime of the intercom breaks the conversational hum of the room, making everyone go silent. The voice of Councilman Davis booms, slightly distorted by the PA system, “Young Defenders, please proceed to the computer room immediately.”
I sigh and rise from the chair, every movement a reminder of my aching foot, sealed within the confines of the boot. It’s only been a few days, but it feels like I’ve been wearing this thing for an eternity. It’s not just the physical discomfort of the boot; it’s the weight of what it represents—my vulnerability, my limitations.
Following closely behind the others, I shuffle down the hallway, my boot making a soft thud against the cold floor with each step. My eyes wander, scanning the faces of my teammates. Most of them look focused, ready for whatever the briefing holds. But others, like Puppeteer, have an air of apprehension, which makes me wonder if they’re picking up on the same uneasiness I feel.
My gaze momentarily locks with Playback’s, and he gives a quick nod, a gesture of encouragement.
The door to the computer room slides open with a soft hiss, and as we file in, I spot Bulwark, looking like a guardian statue placed at the entrance, and he spots me back. His usually warm eyes seem clouded with concern. He whispers quietly to me as I pass by – “It is good to see you safe, young one,” and I flash him a thumbs up.
While everyone’s taking their seats or standing in clusters, my fingers unknowingly dance along the edge of the table. My anxiety shows in subtle ways. My eyes flit towards my boot, and a pang of self-consciousness surges within. I find myself wondering if others are taking pitying glances at me or if they’re silently judging my readiness to be in the field. My thumb fidgets, folding and unfolding beneath my palm as these thoughts race.
The murmurs die down when Multiplex’s main copy steps forward, signaling the start of the briefing. He doesn’t say anything, merely waiting for the room’s undivided attention, a silent gesture of authority. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I straighten my back, ready to take in whatever the briefing holds, my fingers still tapa-tapa-tapping on the table’s surface. The low hum of anticipation fills the room, setting the stage for what’s to come.
Without further delay, Councilman Jamal Davis stands up from his seat at the head of the table, his composed visage an immediate contrast to his usually jovial demeanor. Gone is the friendly councilman who occasionally cracks a joke to lighten the mood. Today, his dark eyes radiate gravity and urgency. I’ve never seen this look on his face before, but besides Gale, nobody else looks surprised. I wonder if this isn’t their first crisis. As he motions for everyone to gather closer, I feel my heartbeat quicken, echoing a mix of nervous anticipation and dread.
Beside him, Clara Parker, her grey-streaked hair neatly pulled back into a tight bun, clutches a sleek minicomputer with both hands. She stands tall, exuding professionalism. The sharp creases of her charcoal-gray suit, her pearl earrings, and her intent, almost analytical gaze underline her role. Clara’s not just here to provide legal advice — she’s an operational backbone for the Delaware Valley Defenders, making sure all our actions are above board and in line with the law. The seriousness she brings to the table is palpable, her posture rigid and her attention undivided.
“Thank you for gathering promptly,” Jamal begins, his deep voice reverberating through the room. “Firstly, it’s heartening to see all the Young Defenders together again. As I understand it, there was a scuffle regarding the status of Liberty Belle that escalated into a fight between teammates. I’m glad to see that we’ve managed to put it behind us all – This unity is what will make the difference in the challenges we face.” He pauses, seemingly searching for the right words. In that brief silence, I catch a flicker of something I hadn’t expected in his eyes: pride. Despite the circumstances, there’s a silent affirmation that we’re up to the task. It’s a brief, fleeting moment, but one that helps ground me, helping push back some of the unease.
He continues, “We’re here to discuss a rising threat — The Philly Freaks.” The name fails to ring a bell, and Gale and I both look slightly confused, glancing at everyone else, and then each other. The way Jamal says it though, every syllable dripping with concern, it’s clear this isn’t just another minor street gang. “They used to be on the periphery of our radar, involved in small-scale hustles to get by. However, their recent activities suggest a shift in intent. Their aggression, the risks they’re taking, it doesn’t align with their known behavior.”
Playback’s eyes flit with recognition, but my knowledge is fragmented at best, gathered from context clues. A gang, maybe a big one? Otherwise, why involve us teens at all? Playback pulls into a concerned, serious frown.
Jamal’s voice pulls me back from my thoughts. “There’s reason to believe that their current actions are being influenced, possibly by the Kingdom, if not another group of higher-tier criminals. Their recent behavior is extremely uncharacteristic of their prior behavior patterns. They have never been a group to be anything other than a minor nuisance committing survival crimes, but in the past couple of days they have escalated in severity and publicity – smash and grabs, public shows of force, muggings, and the like. We have reason to believe they’re being compensated or coerced into acting this way.”
A weighty silence follows his words. The room is thick with contemplation, the collective minds of the Young Defenders working to piece together this puzzle. I can almost hear the gears turning in Playback’s head, while Crossroads’ brow furrows in thought.
I raise my hand nervously. Jamal points to me. “Yes, Bloodhound?”
“I don’t want to sound like too much of a greenhorn, but I’m not sure who the Philly Freaks are. Sir,” I answer, trying to avoid eye contact.
He smiles in a way that’s probably supposed to be fatherly and comforting. It just makes me feel that much more insecure, with my lack of knowledge. “The Philly Phreaks, with a PH, are a gang consisting exclusively of Visually-Apparent or Complex-Condition Metahumans that operate primarily out of South Philly. That means that they’ve all been mutated or disfigured by their powers, as their gang name indicates. While there are support systems in place for individuals like them, most of them, for various reasons good and bad, don’t trust authority figures to have their best interests in mind.”
I raise my hand again. Jamal nods at me.
“I’m sorry for the quick digression, but am I a Visually-Apparent Metahuman?” I ask, smiling nervously, my teeth interlocked.
“Yes. It’s a good thing that Liberty Belle found you before you fell into a crowd like this, that’s for sure,” Jamal replies bluntly. “Clara and Jessica have put together this presentation. It’ll get everyone up to speed.”
I nod, feeling an unfamiliar sensation of vulnerability. My teeth, the most immediate and visceral manifestation of my powers, aren’t something I can hide. They can’t be masked by clothing or concealed with makeup. It’s a part of me, on full display, whenever I smile or talk or laugh. Knowing that there’s an entire gang made up of individuals like me, those who wear their powers so openly, is both comforting and deeply unsettling. Comforting because it means I’m not alone in this, and unsettling because of what they’ve resorted to. If circumstances had been different, could I have found myself with them, roaming South Street, lured in by the promise of belonging?
Clara Parker steps forward, remote in hand, to begin her part of the presentation. The monitor brightens as a slideshow begins. Each slide is filled with images, actionable intel, security camera footage of crimes in progress. “Let me give you a clearer picture,” she says.
The first slide showcases the heart of South Street on a sunny day. The next few slides, however, tell a far darker story. Shops with shattered windows, overturned cars, and frightened pedestrians are in stark contrast to the otherwise vibrant neighborhood. As Clara clicks through, she speaks. “As you’ve been told, this sudden escalation in behavior is uncharacteristic of them. Their leader, who we’ll get to in a minute, has always been aggressive, but she had never gone out of her way before now to target civilians or stores. Any major thefts were always done after closing hours, to avoid heat, attention. As far as we know, there hasn’t been any changes in membership that would have lead to this change in strategy.”
She clears her throat. “Normally, when a gang goes from benign to malignant like this, it’s because of a change of leadership. If there’s no change in leadership, then it’s a change in membership bringing more aggressive elements into the fold. And if there’s no change in membership, then we have to assume outside factors.”
Councilman Jamal Davis stands up, drawing everyone’s attention. “We’ve recently acquired new intelligence that we believe adds more weight to our hypotheses.” He gestures to Clara, and she moves to the next slide. A hushed voice fills the room from PowerPoint’s audio player, tinged with a palpable edge of anxiety.
“I can’t… I can’t go along with what she’s planning. South Street. Saturday at high noon. It’s going to be bad. Make sure you’re ready for her secret weapon. I don’t even know what she’s thinking anymore. You’ll need all hands on deck.” The message cuts off with a shaky exhale.
A heavy silence envelops the room. The implications of the ‘Secret Weapon’ hang in the air, a looming question mark, or maybe an interrobang. “A natural conclusion to draw,” Clara continues, “is that whatever this secret weapon is, it’s emboldened them to take higher risks. But then you run into the obvious questions. What is it, where did they find it? Are they being supplied?”
Next slide. South Street’s sidewalks covered in jewelry, discarded food, dollar bills. “This isn’t a gang that plays with their food like a cat. All of them are impoverished, yet they haven’t actually taken anything from their recent crimes. Almost all of the stolen merchandise that hasn’t been ruined has been accounted for and returned. It has more in common with your average terror campaign than a bunch of young kids stealing to survive.”
The slideshow shifts to an image of a young woman with patchwork skin, stitches running crisscross over her. What skin isn’t scarred, either scarred red or scarred white, is an even tan, like somewhere between Gale’s skin and Crossroads’ skin. About half of whatever other bits of skin are exposed are wrapped in bandages like a mummy, flecked with spots of blood of varying sizes, leaving her shoulders, belly, fingertips, and face exposed. She’s not looking at the camera, but you can tell from the angle she’s nothing but scowls and bad attitude, wavy black hair limply hanging over her face and shrouding one eye.
“This is Amira Irshad, also known as Patches,” Clara states. “She’s been the ringleader of the Phreaks for at least three years, and possesses some of the strongest regeneration on record. She’s been known to damage herself, even removing her own limbs, as an intimidation tactic, only to just put them back on. Aside from her clear resilience, she’s cunning and seems to have a tight grip over her crew, even as members rotate in and out of the lineup.”
The slide changes to a girl, partially obscured by large, insect-like wings sprouting from her back, her skin green and chitinous. “Chrysalis, or at least, that’s the name we’ve heard in connection to this individual. Civilians have reported seeing her fly, though we’re yet to confirm the full extent of her flight capabilities. Aerial threats are always a challenge, so if she’s genuinely airborne, it’s something we need to be ready for.”
Next is an image of a stone-like teenage boy, dressed up in what I immediately recognize as an Allen Iverson jersey, his entire body covered in dark grey rock. “Pumice. He’s been reported to have enhanced strength, outside of being another stone-based metahuman, although we’re not sure if it’s armor like Bulwark’s or his morphology – we’re assuming the latter at the moment.”
The last image shows a tall, almost skeletal young man, bending in ways that should be impossible for a human spine. Or really any human limbs. Out of all of them, he looks the most normal, with fair skin and black hair. I’d almost call him cute if his face wasn’t stretched just a little too thin. “Finally, this is Spindle. Not much is known about the full scope of his abilities. Witnesses have reported seeing him squeeze through narrow spaces and contort his body in ways that are impossible for anyone else.”
Clara pauses for a moment, giving everyone a moment to process. “This gang, as you can see, is diverse in their capabilities. But their unpredictability and the limited data we have on them make them a significant challenge. Every interaction, every piece of intel we gather, it’s crucial in building a comprehensive understanding.”
Gossamer leans in, whispering, “They’re like a twisted version of the X-Men.”
I gently shush her with a finger to my lips.
From my left, I notice Playback’s hands ball into fists. His knuckles turn white from the tension. Rampart lets out a soft, restrained growl, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. I feel a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, my anxiety intensifying. Gale’s fingers find mine under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. I try not to throw up from the sudden ball of tension in my chest, and then she lets go.
“So why is Weenie Hut Junior’s being called in to work today? Ma’am,” Playback asks, raising his hand only halfway through his sentence, knuckles still white.
Multiplex narrows his eyes at Playback, his body tense. “You should choose your words more wisely, Playback. This isn’t child’s play. The Philly Phreaks are dangerous, but sending in adult heroes like us to deal with them? Can you imagine the headlines? ‘Grown Heroes Beat Up Underprivileged Mutant Teens’? That would be a PR nightmare.” He pauses, letting the gravity of the situation settle in. “We need a team that can approach them, talk to them, even reason with them. And if it comes to a fight, well,” he glances around the room, “you’re more their age. The optics will be better.”
I could almost visualize the tabloids and the newspapers. ‘Delaware Valley Defenders Attack Vulnerable Youths’. My thumb finds its way under my palm, then outside again. I felt the tension in the room spike like a fever.
Playback, never one to back down so easily, narrows his eyes. “So, we’re supposed to be the punching bags? Get kicked around for better press? How do we even know that this ain’t some sort of trap?”
“No,” Multiplex says tersely, holding his gaze. “You’re supposed to handle this situation carefully, with compassion and understanding. But also with the awareness that they are dangerous.”
“Quiet,” Jamal says. A single word, stern and powerful like a fist to the gut. He doesn’t raise his voice or yell or even sound particularly angry. It doesn’t even have the chastising tone that Bulwark sometimes takes. Quiet. He asks, and the room listens, going dead silent. “I understand your concern, Playback. You may be aware that the municipal government has ways of tracking cell phones,”
Playback scoffs but says nothing.
Jamal continues. “We can confirm that this call is from one of the Phreaks’ known phones, not a burner. And our photo evidence shows Spindle going out of his way to avoid the same crimes as the rest of them. Standing back, startling standers-by, and otherwise acting unobtrusive. So we have reason to believe that there’s a weak link in the chain.”
Playback nods, still scowling.
Crossroads, clearing his throat, is the first to break the silence. He stands up, casting a tall, slightly imposing figure, his posture radiating a mixture of authority and empathy. “Alright,” he begins, adjusting the collar of his costume. “First off, let’s not treat this like we’re being sent into the lion’s den for slaughter. Our mission is to engage and de-escalate. Violence is the last resort.”
Puppeteer, sitting stiffly with her back straight and eyes forward, speaks up. Her face twists with effort as she considers each word thoughtfully. “The Kingdom’s involvement, even if it’s just suspected, complicates things. We need to watch out not just for the Philly Phreaks, but also for any outsiders they might bring in. Right, Bloodhound?”
Me? Oh. I’m being called on. I laugh nervously on impulse. “Right. The last thing we need is a secret weapon and a t-rex,” I stutter out, my face going red under my mask.
Playback snorts. “Great. As if this wasn’t already a mess.” His usual sarcastic tone is there, but beneath it, there’s a hint of genuine worry. “They’ve got the numbers, the unpredictability, and now maybe some Kingdom muscle. We have a bunch of teletubbies.”
“You have a full hand of seven,” Jamal says, sitting back down at the table. “To my knowledge, this is the first time Gale and Bloodhound are participating in any full-team operations. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Gale answers before I can, saluting stiffly.
“Your goal is to get in there, operate as a team, and disarm whatever secret weapon they have with the minimum violence possible. No self-deprecation. You’re all talented, skilled individuals, otherwise you wouldn’t be here today to be part of this operation. Bloodhound, I recall you have a foot injury, will that be healed by tomorrow? I don’t want to have you sit out, but you can understand the time sensitivity here,” Jamal says in a tone that brooks no argument, cutting Playback’s snippy comments off at the root.
“I’ll be fully healed by then, sir,” I answer.
“Good. I’ll leave the tactics in your hands, Crossroads,” he concludes.
“And we’ll be watching!” Fury Forge blurts out, clearly struggling to have contained herself for that long. “We got one of those bomb-disposal robots so I wired some cameras to them. And one of my extinguishers. Two of them, actually. You know, if you need it.”
Multiplex puts a hand on Fury Forge’s shoulder, and she visibly deflates. “What she means to say is that you aren’t on your own, but this is on your shoulders. We expect great things from you all. Or at least… decent things.”
From anyone else, that would’ve sounded snippy, maybe even cruel, but out of the mouth of the fussy Multiplex, it sounds much more like a genuine compliment.
The cold October air kisses my cheeks, painting them pinkish-red underneath my mask. Even though the sun blazes brightly overhead at high noon, its warmth is limited, doing little to combat the chilly draft that sweeps through South Street. Buildings cast long, stretching shadows across the empty road, making it look eerier than I remember. A stark contrast to its usually bustling state, now devoid of pedestrians, shopkeepers, or even the occasional busker. The entirety of South Street, at least west past Broad Street til the bridges leading to West Philly, stands evacuated and cordoned off. I can’t see a single civilian, just the distant blue and red flashing of police lights.
With each step, I feel a surge of relief. My foot no longer encased in that cumbersome boot, free and able to move as I want. The last doctor’s visit went smoother than I anticipated, one more rogue tooth removed from my foot, and now, I’m fully operational. The texture of the road feels familiar underfoot. It’s good to be walking on two healthy feet again.
We walk in a semi-tight formation, led by Crossroads. He has this characteristic way of talking – straight to the point and focused on the task at hand, barely wasting a breath between his words. “Bloodhound, Rampart,” he says, “You’re our frontline. We have reason to believe Patches and Pumice will be the most confrontational. Be prepared to hold them off.”
Rampart nods, his stern expression revealing nothing of his internal thoughts.
Next, Crossroads shifts his gaze to Puppeteer and Blink. “Your role will be crucial. You two are in charge of area control and denial. If the situation escalates, use whatever means necessary to contain it.”
Puppeteer’s eyes narrow in determination, and Blink simply offers a goofy thumbs-up.
“Playback,” Crossroads continues, casting a sidelong glance, “Feel free to run your mouth as much as you like. If it’ll get under their skin, do it. But remember, we’re counting on you for audio control. Don’t get too caught up in your banter. Gale, you’re on harrying duty. If there’s projectiles, intercept them. If someone tries to flee the coop, make sure they don’t get far.”
Playback offers a mischievous grin. “Oh, trust me, boss man. I’ve got some choice tunes for today.”
Gale salutes Crossroads, her body stiffening.
Gossamer, probably predicting her role would be sidelined, chimes in proactively, “Anything I can assist with?”
Crossroads, without missing a beat, questions, “Still keeping up with your first aid training?”
She nods, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Always.”
“Then you’re our medic for today. Stay close, but not too close. We need you safe,” he advises.
Gossamer’s face lights up. It’s clear how much she values having a tangible role in this operation. “Understood,” she replies with newfound confidence.
We continue to walk, the tension palpable in the air. Buildings on either side stand silent, like mute spectators awaiting the showdown. Every now and then, I catch sight of the odd graffiti or closed shutter – South Street looks more like a ghost town from a dystopian novel than a central hub of Philly.
I break away from my observations when a sharp, electronic whir draws closer. A small robot, kitted out with cameras and gadgets, trundles past us, spins around, and then backs away back into the asphalt. Its treads make soft clinking noises on the asphalt.
“That’s Fury Forge’s toy,” Puppeteer remarks, matter-of-factly, with a hint of amusement.
Blink giggles, “Does it also do latte deliveries?”
“Focus,” Crossroads urges. But even he has a smirk tugging at his lips.
The robot serves as a stark reminder. The senior Defenders may not be physically present, but their eyes are on us. They’re watching, analyzing, and probably judging. But that’s okay. We’ve trained for this. It’s our time to step up.
We round a corner, and South Street stretches out before us. It looks abandoned, quiet. But then there’s a rustling noise, and suddenly, the silence of the street feels oppressive. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears, too loud, too fast. Every tiny noise is magnified. The soft flutter of wings, the scrape of stone against asphalt. Everything feels heightened.
And then I see them.
Four figures, chilling atop an old rusty car, its bright blue paint peeling away to expose the rust underneath. A of Dunkin’ Donuts box, pillaged from nearby, forms a centrepiece for their lunchtime feast. Patches takes a large bite out of a chocolate doughnut, her eyes never leaving us. Even from a distance, I can see the scars, like uneven stitches sewn haphazardly across her body. She smirks, cream filling smeared on her lip. “You actually fuckin’ showed up,” she spits out, her voice dripping with disdain. “Didn’t think you had the guts.”
Pumice, perched atop an abandoned car’s hood, munches on another donut, his stone-like fingers surprisingly delicate. I can’t help but stare at his jersey, all black, number 3. “Nice jersey,” I blurt out, in an attempt to find some common ground, “I used to watch his games with my dad.”
Pumice looks momentarily taken aback, then cracks a half-smile, revealing stony molars. “Respect for recognizing the legend,” he responds with a nod. “‘m still gonna beat you up though.”
In stark contrast to the others, Chrysalis stands out like a misplaced fairy tale character, if fairy tales were about post-apocalyptic bug-hybrids. She’s adorned in jean shorts and a vest, but it’s hard to make out any semblance of humanity in her, her limbs blackened and insectoid and armored, her face a tableau of green scales, her eyes turned bright red and compound, two antennae hanging from her scalp in front of her. A pair of minimal elytra (the beetle wing shield thing) cover her much, much larger wings, which flutter erratically behind her.
Then there’s Spindle, who’s leaning against the wall, observing silently. His tall, wiry frame gives him an air of detachment. He avoids direct eye contact, but I can sense unease simmering beneath the surface. His entire posture screams of someone caught in a place they’d rather not be, his entire body metaphorically, not literally, folding into his purple hoodie.
Despite their varying appearances, a single thread binds them – survival.
“Who gave you the tip-off, huh?” Patches growls. Her voice is like sandpaper, rough and abrasive. “Came running at the first sign of trouble, did ya?”
I shoot a sidelong glance at Pumice, remembering the voice that had left the tip. “Let’s just say we have friends in unexpected places,” I say, looking anywhere but Pumice’s eyes.
I know it. He was the rat.
Pumice smiles at me. I don’t feel reassured. He chuckles, not offended. “You sure you kids are ready for what comes next?”
Playback smirks. “Kids? Aren’t we all, like, the same age? D-listers for d-listers. Don’t pretend y’all some big-ass threat.”
Pumice’s brow, as stony as the rest of him, furrows in thought. “Hey, where’s the big guy? Multiplex? I was kinda hoping to go one on twelve with him.”
Patches rolls her eyes, a cruel smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Dissapointed that daddy didn’t show up to spank you?”
My fingers twitch involuntarily, the gnawing feeling in my gut intensifying. There’s something off about this entire situation, and it’s not just Patches’ fondness for vulgarities.
“Don’t need the adults to handle playground bullies,” Crossroads says, stepping forward, muscles tensing.
Patches leans forward, her sardonic smile widening. “Oh? Think you’re all grown up now? Which one of you is the big, bad wolf then?” she taunts, her voice dripping with mockery. “Who’s the strongest? Come on, I want to know who to thank when I rip them apart.”
I twitch again. The big bad wolf – that’s me, but I keep my mouth shut. The air is wrong. It’s wrong.
Gale glances at me. I glance back at her. Can she feel it too?
Playback steps forward, popping his knuckles with exaggerated flair, “Well, if we’re comparing sizes, I’m the biggest, baddest wolf around.”
Playback’s bravado is either very impressive or very stupid, I haven’t decided yet.
Patches lets out a raucous laugh, her voice echoing in the desolate street, making the unsettling silence that follows all the more palpable. “You?!” She wipes a tear of mirth from her eye, still chuckling. “Dude, the white guy next to you has like a foot on you. And a half.”
Chrysalis makes a sound, a kind of chittering laugh, her compound eyes focusing intently on Playback, sizing him up. Spindle just shifts uneasily, looking more and more like he wants to be anywhere but here.
“You of all people should know that size isn’t everything, Amira,” Playback taunts.
Patches’ hand balls into a fist and immediately smashes through the car window, breaking it, carving tiny cuts against her skin that vanish in between frames. They heal so fast I’m not even sure they happened at all. “Don’t get cute, Devonte.”
“You two know each other?” Gossamer squeaks from the back.
“Ancient history, baby. Pre-powers. But if you’re looking for a round two…” Playback says, getting in front of Rampart and I, putting his arm out in front of him. He flips the group off, and then does a ‘bring it’ gesture with his middle finger alone. “You can ride this train all night long.”
Patches’ face twists into an unpleasant snarl as she rips more glass clear from the window, squeezing it into her hand. Blood drips down, and the immediate view of her sensory system, for the couple of seconds I get to see it, is overwhelming and distressing. Her veins are wrong, all assembled in the wrong locations, and there’s too much of them. And then, I see the extras atrophy in a moment, and the entire vascular system squeezes itself back around into a normal configuration again, before vanishing from my field of view as the wound closes. “Fortunately, it’s not my special day, otherwise I’d be fucking stoked. Oh, Daisy, Daisy darling?” She growls, before turning around, putting two fingers in her mouth, and whistling hard.
Patches’ whistle pierces the air, echoing off the buildings on either side of South Street, momentarily drowning out every other noise. From around a corner, a small figure emerges, taking hesitant steps forward. At first, all I can make out is a slightly disheveled hood. And then she comes into full view, and an inexplicable dread seizes me. She’s a kid. Just a kid. Maybe twelve years old, tops. Asian, with long, black hair spilling out of her hood. And her eyes… those dead, almost orange-tinted eyes that stare emptily at nothing.
“Everyone, meet my sweet, darling Deathgirl,” Patches purrs, her voice dripping with a mock sweetness that doesn’t mask the cruelty underneath. Her arm slinks around the girl’s shoulder, pulling her close. “Say hello, darling!”
Daisy – Deathgirl – doesn’t reply. She doesn’t even look at us. Instead, she stands there, almost like a puppet with cut strings. Dead to the world. I get this sudden urge to pull her away from Patches. To save her. But I can’t move. Something’s holding me back. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s caution. Patches whispers, lips close to Deathgirl’s ear, but I can’t hear what she says, even as she points at Playback. Deathgirl’s face contorts in anger at something she whispers back, something none of us can hear.
There’s an air of expectancy, and the weight in my gut seems to grow heavier. I remember a dog my family used to own, for only a couple weeks before we had to send it back, how it would growl, deep in its throat, before it barked, and then before it bit. The whole street feels like that growl right now. Something bad is coming.
Patches’ grin widens maliciously as she straightens up. “Miss Patches thinks that boy over there is just the worst. He works for those bad people that made your parents leave. The rest of them do too but he works the most with them.”
“Huh?” Playback chokes out, swallowing hard, locking eyes with the kid. But she’s not looking back. It’s like he doesn’t exist to her. But she can sense him. I can see it. She knows he’s there, even as her thousand-yard stare looks past him. “Hey, kid, I’ve got nothing to–“
Deathgirl’s eyes go white, and everything turns completely silent. I try to open my mouth. I speak, I can feel the vibrations in my vocal cords, but nothing happens. Patches’ body rears back in laughter, while Pumice cracks his knuckles. Already, I’ve lost track of Chrysalis and Spindle – I can’t hear any footsteps, and they’re gone.
Playback, now is not the time to be fucking around, is what I want to say. No noise comes out, and Playback looks just as startled as the rest of us, taking a couple of quick steps backward to get behind Rampart. Crossroads slaps Rampart on the back, and everyone turns to face him.
Crossroads covers his ears. Everyone else covers their ears.
I cover my ears a second too late, as a sound like a bomb going off rips through the air, the shockwave punching me hard enough to throw me onto my ass and shatter every window on the block.
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