37

---

The basement of the Lonesome Dove smells like sweat and cheap beer, like how I imagine most basements of dive bars would. It’s all narrow and cramped, with concrete walls that feel like they’re closing in, and a ceiling that’d scrape someone’s head if they were six feet tall or taller. Probably not a great place for a concert, but the energy was insane. Demon Core’s just wrapped up their set, and the members are breaking down their stuff, rolling up cables, packing away guitars.

Ahmed’s busy disassembling his guitar, meticulous, every movement precise, pulling cords from an amp the size of my torso. You’d think he was defusing a bomb or something, the way he’s focused. Tariq is busy chatting with some fans near what you could generously call the ‘stage’, selling them on merchandise, telling them to go see Nadia upstairs. Someone throws a pair of panties at him. I grimace, because that’s disgusting. He dodges it like it’s the twentieth time it’s happened and they fall onto the stage. Nasir is busy wiping sweat off his drumset, and I notice that it’s got, like, three hammers attached to the bass drum.

Nasir, Uncle Nasir, Jamila called him earlier, catches my eye as I stare at his drumset. There’s like a million pieces to it and it’s like a circle around him. He’s big, so it’s a big circle, but it’s so filled with stuff that I can’t imagine he’d even fit if it were smaller. There’s so many different parts, and I think I see a cowbell. Does he really need a cowbell? “You like my set?” he asks, and I suddenly realize I’ve been staring for a while.

“Yeah,” I say, “it’s just… how do you even play that fast? Like, it doesn’t make sense. There’s no way you have enough arms for that.” I’m pretty sure my jaw is hanging open, which is not the most dignified look, so I force it closed. Jamila giggles at my side and I look at her. “What? I’m serious. It’s impossible.”

Uncle Nasir laughs, a deep belly sound that makes me think of Santa Claus if Santa Claus were a Palestinian drummer in a metal band. “You’re talking about the blast beats, right?” he asks.

I nod, because ‘blast beats’ sound awesome, even if I don’t know what they are. “Sure. Blast beats.”

His eyes light up, like someone just asked a geek to explain their favorite anime. “Alright, sit down,” he gestures to a stool near the drum set. It’s covered in, like, five different band stickers. I sit. He points to the double pedals below the bass drum. “See these? Foot pedals. That’s how you get that speed. One foot hits one pedal, other foot hits the other, back and forth real fast. It’s like…drumming with your feet. Mix that in with the snare and you get a blast beat. You’re basically using all four limbs at once.”

I look down at the pedals and then back up at Nasir. “Four limbs? That’s like… octopus-level multitasking. I can barely control two at a time.”

“Basically, yeah!” he says, sounding way too happy about it.

Jamila leans in, grinning. “I never knew you were so interested in drumming, Sam. Planning on a career switch?”

I roll my eyes. “Please, I can barely keep rhythm by tapping my foot. I just thought it was cool, okay?” My fingers drum against my thigh. “I don’t even know if sharks like music.”

“Maybe you’re the first,” Nasir suggests, still wiping down his drumset, not questioning the shark quip. “I think you’d have a killer beat.”

Jamila snorts at the pun and I can’t help but join her. “You’re hilarious,” I say, but I mean it. There’s something warm and inviting about Nasir, and I think he’d be fun to hang around, even if I can’t understand half the things he’s talking about when it comes to drums.

“Yeah,” I finally say, looking back at the drum set with newfound appreciation. “Killer beat. Got it.”

“See?” Nasir grins, showing off a gold tooth. “You’re getting it. Music’s not just noise, it’s like a conversation between instruments. You just have to know how to listen.”

I smile, because that’s kinda beautiful in its own way. Maybe someday I’ll understand the language. For now, I’m just glad someone could translate a little bit of it for me.

Jamila nudges me and gestures toward Ibrahim, who’s already busy breaking down his elaborate setup, coiling wires into neat loops. “Ready to meet the maestro?” she asks, her voice muffled through pinched fingers.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” I reply, rolling my shoulders. My senses still feel hyper-aware from the earlier fight; I can practically hear each rustle of fabric as band members shove instruments into worn-out cases. There’s a strange contrast between the heavy music that was just pounding through the air and the now-mundane sounds of a room settling back into its usual, dank atmosphere. I don’t even know what this basement is used for otherwise.

Ibrahim pauses what he’s doing, like he senses us watching him. He looks up and locks eyes with me, and suddenly it feels like the room’s a bit less dank, a bit less dark. “You two alright?” he asks, standing up fully. His gaze is sharp, discerning, like he’s taking the measure of us and finding something he approves of. “You handled that guy well.”

I meet his gaze and nod, still feeling a little weird about the whole thing.

“You look like you could use some bandages,” Ibrahim says, turning his attention to a makeshift table that’s really just a plank of wood set on some cinderblocks. The table’s crowded with cables, set lists, and water bottles. He reaches under it and pulls out a first aid kit. As he walks over to us, he pops it open to reveal a neat array of bandages, antiseptics, and painkillers.

I glance over at Jamila. She’s holding her nose and her free hand is stained red. But she waves him off. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “Just a nosebleed. Occupational hazard, you know?”

Ibrahim’s eyes flick to the first aid kit, then back to us. “You sure you don’t want a band-aid or something? I mean, with all the… bleeding.” His voice has this tired note to it, like he’s done offering but would feel guilty if he didn’t triple-check.

Jamila gives a little shake of her head. “Nah, we’re okay. Just a little roughhousing, you know how concerts get.”

Ibrahim turns his gaze toward me, “And you? Sure you’re alright?”

I glance at my hands, still sticky from Jamila’s blood. They’d scraped up from the fight, but there’s no real injury anymore—just blood, my own and not, stuck under my nails. I might get a nosebleed later, but even that’s starting to clot. “I’m good, really. Don’t worry ’bout it.”

“Alright, if you say so.” Ibrahim’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing, then soften as he looks away, busying himself with a roll of cables. “Can’t be too careful, you know? Especially after what you two did out there with that crowdkiller.”

God, that word again. Crowdkiller. Makes me feel like I’m stuck in a video game with boss fights. Except the bosses are, what, neo-Nazis? I swallow, and it’s like trying to gulp down a whole lemon, pulp and all.

“So, you two come to metal gigs often?” Ibrahim finally asks, breaking the awkward silence that was just starting to cling to the air like humidity.

“Jamila’s the fan,” I say, nodding toward her. “I’m more of an accidental groupie.”

Jamila laughs, eyes lighting up, but I can tell she’s still a little tense. “Sam’s selling herself short. She was right there in the pit with the rest of us.”

“Yeah, well, when in Rome,” I reply, shrugging. It’s not like I had much of a choice, following her into the crowd.

Ibrahim looks us over, the corners of his mouth tilting up. “Well, Rome appreciates the assist.”

As we talk, we help them with their equipment, lifting amplifiers into their cases and coiling instrument cables. Tariq and Ahmed are busy on the other side of the ‘backstage’, disassembling the drum set with Uncle Nasir. The atmosphere is weirdly homey for a place that smells like stale booze and wet dog.

“So, you two are in school together?” Ibrahim finally asks. “Jamila talks about you all the time. Says you’re her best friend from school.”

That catches me a bit off-guard. I mean, we’re teammates, sorta mentors to each other in a weird superhero student-teacher swap, but school friends? I suppose it works as well as any other.

“Yeah, yeah we are,” I say, opting not to correct the implication that I’m the same age as Jamila. No need to spill all the beans, right?

Ibrahim grins, but it’s more in his eyes than his lips. “Well, it’s good to know my sister’s hanging around with good people.”

We finish up with the gear, and there’s a sense of finality as the last amplifier clicks shut. And for a second, I’m glad that for all the weird, tense, anxious moments, I’m here.

It’s good to feel human, just a teenager in a basement of misfit toys, even if it’s all built on a fragile web of half-truths and unspoken secrets. Because sometimes the lies you tell to keep the peace are better than the truths that could break it. And as I look at Jamila, her smile tired but genuine, I think maybe this — whatever this is — is worth preserving. Even if it’s just for a little while longer.

Please.

---

It’s gotten darker outside, streetlights flickering to life as the sky takes on the deep blue of evening. The Lonesome Dove’s neon sign casts a buzz-filled glow on the mostly empty parking lot. Most of the crowd is gone now, headed off to wherever metalheads go after their souls have been sufficiently shredded. Just us, Jamila, and Demon Core are left, barring nameless stragglers, working to get their gear loaded into a van that looks like it’s seen better days.

Ahmed is carefully stowing away his guitar, each movement methodical, as if he’s solving a complex puzzle. Tariq is on his phone, probably posting on social media about the gig. Ibrahim is dealing with the sound equipment, coiling wires with a practiced hand. And Uncle Nasir? He’s sitting on a makeshift stool, chugging water like he’s just run a marathon.

“Could you hand me that amp?” Ahmed asks, nodding towards a bulky piece of equipment near my feet.

I crouch down to pick it up, conscious of the way my muscles contract and relax as I do. Even after all these weeks, the changes in my body still feel new, exciting, and a little scary. I hand it to him.

“Thanks,” he says, slotting it into the van with a satisfying thud.

Jamila comes over, her nosebleed finally stopped, but the dark stain remains on her tunic. She’s holding a bundle of black fabric—t-shirts, hoodies, band merch.

“They said we could take some as a thank-you,” she says. She hands me a t-shirt that has the band’s name, Demon Core, in an unintelligible scrawl, and a logo of a screwdriver cracking a skull open. I’m sure my mom would love it.

“Nice,” I say, unfolding the shirt. It’s an XL, probably could double as a dress on me. “A little big, though.”

“Band sizes,” Jamila grins. “They always overestimate.”

“XLs are all we have left at the end of the night, usually,” Tariq calls out from the front of the van, kicking something on the dashboard.

Warm and damp, her fingers brush against mine as she gives me the shirt. The touch is quick, casual, but it sends a shiver down my spine. Is it wrong to read into that? To hope?

“Hey, you two need stickers?” Uncle Nasir asks, walking over. He’s holding a roll of band stickers, each one a miniature of their logo.

“Sure,” Jamila and I say in unison, and then laugh. It’s a comfortable moment, free of any of the night’s earlier tension.

Uncle Nasir peels off a couple and hands them to us. “Stick ’em wherever you want. Spread the word, you know?”

I take mine and look at it, holding it up to the dim light. I can see putting this on my laptop, or maybe the back of my phone. Somewhere it’ll be seen, somewhere it’ll matter. Jamila sticks hers on the water bottle she’s carrying, smoothing it down with a satisfied nod.

Ahmed and Tariq join us, Ahmed carrying a guitar case and Tariq still engrossed in his phone. Before we can continue the conversation, Uncle Nasir comes over with a playful grin and slaps a third sticker onto my forehead.

“Consider yourself branded,” he chuckles.

I scrunch my face up at him and peel the sticker off. On a strange impulse to be funny—or maybe just memorable—I toss it into my mouth and chew it to bits. As the adhesive fills my mouth, I instantly regret the decision, and not just from the taste.

“Oh, man, you actually ate it!” Uncle Nasir laughs, clearly amused.

I give him a sheepish grin, accidentally showing off more of my teeth than I intended. It’s Ahmed who notices first.

“Whoa, those are some wicked chompers you got there,” he says, eyes widening a bit.

“Yeah, got into a bit of an accident when I was younger. Near-death experience and all that,” I say, hesitating for a moment. “It left me with these teeth. And that’s it!”

I feel a pang of guilt for bending the truth. I’m not lying about the near-death part, but the rest feels like a disservice to both sides of me—the everyday Sam and the one that’s Bloodhound. But right now, in this moment, I’m just Sam.

“Man, nature gave you quite the dental plan,” Uncle Nasir adds, visibly impressed but not suspicious. “That’s pretty hardcore.”

“Metal,” Ibrahim mutters from a distance. I close my mouth, curling my lips back into place.

Jamila shoots me a knowing look. She’s one of the few people who understands the whole story, who knows the weight of the teeth I just so casually displayed. She smiles at me — a slight, quick thing — but it’s enough. Enough to say that it’s okay, that this small deceit is a drop in the bucket of things we keep hidden.

“Thanks for helping us out,” Ahmed finally says, breaking the moment but not the mood. “It’s not every day we get fans who are also roadies.”

The slight awkwardness dissipates as the subject changes, but the atmosphere remains easygoing. My teeth are soon forgotten as the conversation shifts back to the more mundane, back to the pleasantries that make up everyday interaction. Still, the little moment of honesty and deception lingers in my mind, a reminder of the double life I lead.

“We’re versatile,” I reply, grinning.

“We should head out,” Tariq says, pocketing his phone. “Long drive ahead. We’re headed to Trenton next!”

“Exciting,” Jamila snarks. “I’ve always wanted to go to Philadelphia 3.”

They climb into the van, each one settling into their designated spots like pieces of a well-played game. Tariq turns to us before he hops in.

“Thanks again,” he says. “You two ever want to see another show, hit us up. VIP treatment.”

“You don’t normally give your family members VIP treatment?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Have you met our dad yet?” He asks.

I don’t understand what he means by that, but I assume it makes sense, so I just nod my head. Jamila waves as the van’s engine sputters to life. It pulls out of the parking lot, leaving behind the scent of gasoline and the lingering notes of a night that felt out of the ordinary.

I turn to Jamila, who’s now scrolling through her phone, probably texting her mom to let her know we’re okay.

“Fun night?” I ask.

“The best,” she replies, not looking up. But I see her lips twitch into a smile.

Yeah, it was a good night. And as we start walking away from the Lonesome Dove, I can’t help but think how many more good nights there could be.

But that’s a thought for later.

Our phones go off at the same time.

Our phones buzz in sync, the familiar bzzt-bzzt cutting through the night air, yanking me back from a pleasant daze. Jamila’s head snaps up, the smile vanishing from her lips as if somebody just hit the mute button on a laugh track. We both know that this specific buzz — a triple vibration, followed by silence, followed by a triple vibration — means it’s something from the Young Defenders. Or, well, anyone else that can trigger the emergency alert, such as a government broadcast. But it isn’t those.

“Priority alert,” she mutters, swiping her phone to life.

I do the same, barely catching a glimpse of the clock—11:17 PM—before unlocking my phone and opening the Young Defenders’ HIRC chat. It’s a message from Crossroads. Just a text, but with a priority flag that’s a technological slap in the face, impossible to ignore, guaranteed to send a notification rudely past any settings in my phone.

“Emergency meeting at HQ. Urgent. No call.” Crossroads doesn’t usually use the word ‘urgent’. I can feel something in his text tone that feels off. Not in the way that a trap does, but in the way that panic does.

“Damn. We have to go,” I say, already missing the lightness of the evening. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the facade of a normal night cracks, and the superhero gig rears its urgent head. So much for good times.

Jamila’s thumb flies across her screen. “Yeah, I’m just letting my mom know we’re needed somewhere else. That we’re safe but busy.” She locks her phone with a decisive click. “Done. What’s the fastest way to HQ?”

I pull up a taxi app. “We can’t exactly fly there in our street clothes. And my outfit’s back at Lily’s place. And my backup is at school. And my backup backup–“

“I get it,” Jamila interrupts, frowning. “I’d need to swing by my place for my gear, too. But there’s no time. We can make do without costumes for now. I’ve got a fan, you’ve got teeth.”

“Taxi’s the fastest way, then. I’ll have them drop us a few blocks away. Can’t risk being too obvious, even if it’s late.” My fingers dance over the phone, typing in the destination, and within a few seconds, it’s confirmed. A taxi will be here in five minutes. I take a deep breath. It’s going to be a long night.

The moment hangs heavy in the air, like we’re suspended in some kind of alternate reality where time slows down, and everything feels more significant. We’re just two teenagers standing in front of a closed dive bar, but it feels like so much more. The Lonesome Dove’s neon sign is flickering, casting erratic bursts of light that illuminate the cracks in the pavement. My feet feel rooted to the ground, as if the asphalt has gripped my shoes.

I look out towards the Delaware River, its surface reflecting the night sky, stars mingling with the distant city lights. The water seems so calm, a stark contrast to the turbulence I feel inside. Across the river, Philadelphia looms like a sleeping giant, its skyline a jagged horizon of steel and glass that gleams under the moonlight. It’s beautiful, and a little intimidating.

I hear Jamila exhale softly next to me, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she feeling the same mix of awe and dread that’s got a grip on me? She’s still holding her phone, the screen’s glow casting a bluish tint on her face. It makes her look ethereal, almost otherworldly. I want to reach out and touch her hand, reassure myself that she’s real, but I don’t. Instead, I clutch my phone a little tighter.

The night air is cool, laced with the scent of the river and the distant, ever-present aroma of city life — a blend of car exhaust, street food, and something indefinably human. It’s a scent I’ve come to associate with heroics, a constant background to rooftop chases and back-alley confrontations. But tonight, it smells like uncertainty.

There’s minimal traffic on the road, just the occasional car zooming past, its headlights blinding for a split second before plunging us back into semi-darkness. The sound of rubber on asphalt fades quickly, swallowed by the night.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, its sound echoing like a lonely cry for attention. A couple of crickets are chirping, filling the silence with their nocturnal song. And then, in stark contrast to the natural sounds, my phone buzzes again. A one-minute warning from the taxi app. The taxi is almost here.

Jamila looks up, her eyes meeting mine. No words are exchanged, but her gaze says enough. It’s a mix of love and fear. At least, that’s what it feels like to me.

The taxi’s headlights finally appear down the street, a pair of glowing orbs that grow larger as they approach. It’s time to go.

“We should—” I start, but Jamila interrupts.

“I know,” she says softly. “Let’s go save the world. Or Center City or whatever.”

I nod, and together we step toward the approaching taxi, and away from this moment of stillness. But even as we do, I can’t help but feel like a part of me is staying behind, frozen in this snapshot of time, forever lingering in front of a dive bar by the Camden riverfront with the girl I—

Our phones buzz again. This time, it’s the taxi confirming its arrival. There’s no turning back now.

---

We arrive at HQ, a… mid-tech superhero launch pad pretending to be a run-down warehouse, and don’t even bother changing out of our civvies. It feels like we wasted so much time just getting there.

There’s the airlock, sterilizing air swooshing around us for just a moment before we’re allowed further in. We pass the locker rooms, doors open but nobody in sight. Empty hallways flash by. There’s a tension in the air, like everyone’s holding their breath and waiting for something terrible to happen. Kind of like during a horror movie when you know the monster’s about to jump out, but you don’t know when.

We finally get to the computer and briefing room. It’s a place that’s starting to become uncomfortably familiar. Like, you ever hang out in someone’s room enough that it starts to feel like it’s not theirs anymore? Kinda like that. Except this room has more screens and more secret world-saving stuff than any friend’s room I’ve been in.

We’re the last ones in, and my gut squirms because I don’t like being late. Not that anyone’s saying anything. But still. It’s there. That nagging voice that tells me we should’ve been quicker. Could’ve been quicker.

Everyone’s here, dressed in their civvies, except for Liberty Belle. She stands in her costume at the front of the room, her freshly buzzed hair giving away the gravity of her condition. Our eyes briefly meet as we walk in. Something about her gaze feels heavy, like she’s carrying a weight that’s about to be dropped on all of us. My phone buzzes. I ignore it.

I scan the room. Councilman Jamal Davis sits at the center table, eyes focused and unyielding. He’s the glue that holds this framework together, bound by law and necessity. Beside him is Clarissa Parker, ever the professional even at this ungodly hour, her eyes skimming through a stack of legal documents. Her pen dances over the paper as she adds her annotations.

Bulwark leans against a wall. Even in casual wear, his presence feels as solid as the stone armor he conjures. His eyes, though, hold a hint of concern, masked by a layer of stoic reserve. Multiplex, or at least one of him, occupies a side chair, the rest presumably doing recon or strategic planning elsewhere. He’s tapping his foot rhythmically, a metronome of nervous energy. Then there’s Fury Forge, pacing the floor near the back, her eyes aflame with an urgency that says she’d rather be out there doing something than be here talking about it.

Among the Young Defenders, Puppeteer sits with her arms crossed, her eyes softer, tempered by medication. Blink is next to her, quietly tossing a small marble back and forth between her fingers, doing little dextrous finger-tricks while trying to pay attention to Belle. Crossroads sits ramrod straight, his eyes flitting through the room as if he’s already seen how this plays out but isn’t letting on. Gossamer keeps to herself in a corner, perhaps mentally cataloging improvements to our gear. Playback, on the other hand, seems out of sync with everyone, his gaze a little distant but his pupils focused. Rampart sits with a hand on his chin, looking thoughtful but also somehow critical, as if measuring us all up.

Gale looks at me. We take our seats.

Liberty Belle clears her throat and the room goes dead quiet. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she begins. “We have a situation.” Liberty Belle’s eyes scan the room one more time before she speaks, her gaze lingering just a moment longer on my fellow Young Defenders, as if mentally preparing them – preparing us – for the revelation to come. “As most of you in this room are aware,” she begins, her voice tempered with gravity, “we lost Professor Franklin six years ago. He was more than a mentor to me; he was a beacon for all of Philadelphia. He was the embodiment of our hopes, our aspirations, the man who made us all believe we could be heroes. He was our Superman.”

She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes a moment to collect herself. “The circumstances of his death have been… suppressed, for reasons that will become clear. Professor Franklin didn’t just fall; he was taken down by a villain, a man whose name has been kept out of public discourse for the sake of safety and national security.”

Her eyes meet those of Councilman Davis and Clarissa Parker, who both nod in silent affirmation. She continues, “The Delaware Valley Defenders have known this truth for some time, but it’s time our younger associates were brought into the loop.”

She looks directly at us, the Young Defenders, her gaze laden with an almost apologetic weight. “Two years ago, many of you know I was gravely injured and out of action for several months. What you didn’t know is that the same man who killed Professor Franklin was responsible.”

The room is devoid of gasps, but the atmosphere grows palpable with discomfort. Faces harden, brows furrow. You can almost hear the collective creak of people mentally bracing themselves for what comes next.

“The villain known by the name Chernobyl,” she states, letting the name hang in the air like a dark cloud. “His real name is Illya Myronovych Fedorov. A Ukrainian national who has become, for all intents and purposes, a walking catastrophe.”

She takes a deep breath before divulging the unnerving details. “His power is as dangerous as they come. His body constantly emits ionizing radiation. To contain this, he’s built himself a suit of mechanical armor, cobbled together from industrial equipment he’s stolen. But the armor is imperfect; it leaks.”

Here, Liberty Belle hesitates, her voice tinged with a bitterness that she’s kept hidden until now. I see something dark in her eyes. Something like a fire, something I’ve never seen before, burning in her pupils. “Professor Franklin tried to stop him. He didn’t make it out. Two years ago, when he returned to Philadelphia, I tried to stop him. Not only did he beat me within an inch of my life, but every blow I landed just opened up more of his power to me. I couldn’t finish the fight, and I paid the price.”

As she finishes, her eyes meet mine briefly, then scan the faces of all the Young Defenders in the room. It’s as if she’s silently asking us to measure the weight of this new information, to really understand the depth of the threat we face.

“People like him – people who are too dangerous to be allowed to live in public – they have two options. Aurora Springs, or becoming a fugitive. The federal government is fully prepared to give him a cushy lifestyle, all the amenities and creature comforts he could want, regular visits from loved ones… but he prefers his freedom,” she says, her face curling up, coiling, like a snake preparing to bite. She almost spits the word freedom, and it makes my gut ache. I don’t know what Aurora Springs is, but it sounds euphemistic. I glance at Playback, knowing his feelings on… imprisonment.

He’s already looking at me. He nods, brow furrowed.

“He’s back,” Liberty Belle says, squeezing the edge of the table hard enough that it begins to creak, dent, and buckle under the strain. “That’s all. Davis?”

Councilman Jamal rises, nodding at Liberty Belle as he motions for her to take a seat. The room’s heavy silence seems to welcome his steady, authoritative tone as he begins to speak.

“We’ve been monitoring a series of troubling incidents in North and Northeast Philadelphia over the past three weeks. Industrial equipment has been disappearing overnight,” he reports, keeping his words precise and factual. “Security guards have been attacked—some left with concussions, others trapped in their booths, which have been collapsed around them. This isn’t a run-of-the-mill burglary or sabotage.”

He leans forward, placing his palms flat against the table. “We’ve detected trace amounts of a specific radioactive signature at these scenes. The analysis boys got back today – that’s why we’re calling you now. It matches what we know of Chernobyl’s specific signature. So, let’s be unequivocal about this: he’s back.”

Jamal pauses for a breath, but not for effect. He talks a lot.

“And it’s not just random theft we’re dealing with,” he continues, shifting the slide to an image of a plundered office sitting above a factory floor, torn to shreds like it’s been attacked by a wild dog. “Each site that has been targeted by our radioactive friend has been plundered days later. Copper wires, personal belongings from office desks, even sensitive documents detailing trade secrets—anything that could hold value is disappearing.”

He takes a moment to let the information sink in. “We have a two-fold problem here. Not only is Chernobyl back, but we also have reason to believe that he is now working in tandem with the Kingdom. If Chernobyl’s abilities are being weaponized for the Kingdom’s more organized criminal activities, we’re not just looking at a rogue threat. We’re looking at a potential crisis where the entire city could be held hostage.”

His expression tightens, the gravity of the situation visible in every line on his face. “We cannot afford to confront Chernobyl directly; we can’t risk creating another exclusion zone. But we also can’t ignore the Kingdom’s involvement. They’re exploiting his chaos for their own ends, and that needs to be stopped.”

He closes the slide, casting his gaze across each person in the room. “We need to flush Chernobyl out, without engaging him in direct combat, while also setting up an operation to catch the Kingdom red-handed. This is a tactical operation of the highest degree of difficulty, and it requires the cooperation of every single person in this room.”

Councilman Jamal exhales, a long, drawn-out sigh that seems to echo the sentiments of everyone present. “We’ve been handed a crisis, but it’s also an opportunity—an opportunity to rid our city of two malignant forces at once. Let’s not waste it. Any questions?”

Playback raises his hand, a sly grin forming on his lips. “Yeah, I got one. You talk about flushin’ out Chernobyl without engaging. I’m curious. Are we usin’ civilians as bait? Is that the plan?”

Councilman Jamal shakes his head. “No, this is counterterrorism. The safety of the civilians is paramount.”

Playback’s face contorts into a rictus frown. “Counterterrorism? That’s a neat package to put it in.”

“Enough,” Liberty Belle cuts in, her voice sharp but a little weary. “Do you have any other questions that are actually constructive?”

I raise my hand, drawing the councilman’s gaze to me. “When is this happening? Do we need to be prepared tonight, or is this a long-term operation? And, um, what is Aurora Springs, Belle?”

“We anticipate it to be within the next two weeks,” Councilman Jamal responds. “After Chernobyl’s next attack. Everyone needs to be on call.”

“I’ll explain AS to you later, Bloodhound,” Belle cuts in, arms folding over her chest.

Gale raises her hand. “And what are we, the Young Defenders, supposed to do? We’re not exactly experts in nuclear science or tactical ops.”

“Your job will be disaster relief, quarantining, and keeping civilians out of the way,” Liberty Belle answers. “You’ll work in tandem with the adults but focus on those areas.”

Playback looks skeptical. “So, we’re babysitters? We have powers that can do a lot more than just hold hands and set up barriers.”

Fury Forge chimes in, “Kid, this isn’t about what you can do. It’s about what needs to be done. There are roles to play, and everyone’s got to do their part.”

Puppeteer shifts uncomfortably. “What’s the plan if things go south? If Chernobyl is as unpredictable as you say, how do we avoid a worst-case scenario?”

“That’s why this is a high-stakes operation. We have contingency plans and fail-safes. It’s a multi-layered strategy,” Jamal answers, annoying me intensely. That’s not an answer, Councilman!

Crossroads finally speaks, his voice tinged with hesitation. “Has the Kingdom shown any interest in similar crimes before? Could they be using Chernobyl for something other than what we’re assuming?”

“The Kingdom’s involvement is a new development. They’re opportunists, and it seems they’re capitalizing on Chernobyl’s actions. As for their motives—your guess is as good as ours. While we know their involvement is certain, we don’t know if they’ve made contact with Chernobyl or if they’re picking at his droppings like vultures,” Jamal explains.

“Our hope is the latter,” Belle says. “The Kingdom’s higher brass that we’ve all come into contact with – T-Rex, Heartstopper, Dr. Xenograft, not to mention the three that Bloodhound encountered – are all highly dangerous metahumans. The last thing we need is Chernobyl to be added to their ranks. If there’s a partnership, our best hope is that it’s informal at best.”

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I ignore it. There’s a pit in my stomach, a tangle of excitement and dread. This isn’t just another mission. This is something bigger, more dangerous.

“And what if it’s not?” I ask, after a moment of silence. Heads turn to look at me. “What if they get him and, you know, pull him in?”

“If they pull him in,” Jamal says, weighing his words carefully, “then we’re talking about an escalated crisis. Chernobyl’s powers are… beyond most of our capabilities to handle directly. And it’s exactly because he’s not usually a lethal threat that makes this situation delicate. He avoids civilians, avoids us. He’s a sort of eco-systemic hazard, not an assassin.”

Liberty Belle jumps in, “That’s the concern. If the Kingdom could find a way to weaponize him, to use his abilities for more traditional crimes or even terrorism — then we’re talking about something we’ve never faced before. We may need to call in Federal superheroes or even the ISC’s disaster response team. No one here, in this room, could contain a Chernobyl that’s intent on violence, except maybe me in my prime. And I’m not in my prime.”

I feel the room tighten. Federal superheroes? The International Superhuman Coalition? Even I know that acronym.

“And how do we know for sure that the Kingdom is involved?” Blink asks, after another damning moment of silence. “Like, what if it’s someone else?”

Playback smiles. It feels smug. Almost unearned.

“Stolen goods – the kind that can be sold on the traditional markets of theft – have been flowing through fences known to be accessed by Kingdom assets. And the theft of robotic arms and conveyor belt parts doesn’t exactly make the 9 o’clock news. The fact that whoever’s performing these thefts shortly after Chernobyl’s own means they’re close on his tail, and they’re operating in a group, which means organization. The secondary thefts aren’t single incidents, pick, peck, pick, it’s all at once, all overnight, taking advantage of the holes Chernobyl is making in their security,” Belle rattles off, her face looking visibly annoyed. She takes a breath, and I watch her cooling off, imagining the thermometer going down in her head. “So either it’s the Kingdom, or some other group of similar organization. Either way, it’s a problem that needs handling. Any other questions?”

Blink shrinks down a little bit. I reach under the table and gently grab her hand, giving it a squeeze. She looks at me and smiles weakly.

The lack of sound swallows the room. I can feel all of Liberty Belle’s blood, swishing around in her insides from her wounds, her ulcers, her cancer. The coffee grounds in her stomach. I watch her inhale. I watch her exhale.

Fury Forge, looking cowed for the first time in her life, or at least the first time I’ve ever seen her like that, reaches into a bag by her feet. She passes out several small devices, looking almost like candy bars made of plastic, with antennae sticking out the tops. A small red LED turns on each. They look made to clip onto belts. “Normally, we don’t pass these out to juniors. Crossroads and Puppeteer already have them. Given the circumstances, though, we’re activating the rest of you a little early. They’re basically souped-up pagers that I made. There’s a plug at the bottom to plug into your phone’s cart port to sync it. They’ve got forever battery. And if there’s an emergency, you know, if we gotta go now… they’ll buzz from anywhere across the city. Keep them on your person at all times.”

I grab one from the pile on the table while my teammates do the same. I slip it into my pocket.

“Does anyone have anything else for the table? I know we’re all very tired, so if that’s all, you’re all dismissed,” Jamal says, his body visibly tenting, getting ready to stand up.

Gale raises her hand.

“Yes, Gale?” Jamal asks.

“Um. I know this is not a great time. But. Bloodhound and I are dating now,” she announces proudly to the table.

Playback mutters a ‘Damnit’ under the table and slips a twenty to Rampart – HEY! And the adults, well. The looks thrown at me are going to make me melt into sludge. I do not like a room full of adults looking this amused, especially when it’s at me.

“Well, good not to end an all-hands-on-deck with dour news. Congratulations, you two. Don’t let it compromise your performance,” Multiplex says, the sole person at the table not looking at anyone else, only looking down at his notepad.

Jamal chuckles, finally standing up. “Well, I suppose that’s as good a note as any to end on. As Multiplex said, just remember why you’re here. Keep your personal lives and your hero work separate as much as possible.”

As the adults shuffle papers and prepare to leave, Gale looks at me, her eyes meeting mine. It’s a weirdly reassuring moment; it grounds me. Playback, meanwhile, is making a show of counting his money, while Rampart grins and pockets the twenty.

I start to push back my chair, but Liberty Belle’s gaze catches mine. There’s something there—concern, pride, a weird mix of both. She mouths, “We’ll talk,” before she leaves the room.

I nod, still processing everything. The pager in my pocket feels like it weighs a ton. It’s a reminder of what’s to come, of the responsibility, the uncertainty. It’s a promise and a warning all in one.

Crossroads looks around at the rest of us, then gathers his notes. “Alright, Young Defenders. Let’s regroup tomorrow for a tactical session. We’ve got a lot to cover, and time’s not on our side.”

We all nod, each of us in our own headspace. I reach for Gale’s hand as we leave the room, trying to hold on to something certain in a world that’s anything but. She laces her fingers through mine, grounding me once more, and they unlace as we walk out together, hand falling back to her side.

Still, as I leave the room, the words of Councilman Jamal echo in my ears.

An opportunity in a crisis.

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