48

---

Illya Myronovych Fedorov.

That’s his name. That’s the name of the man who killed Liberty Belle.

Christmas passes without fanfare. Lily doesn’t celebrate it, neither do I, and the winter break is giving me two weeks to distract myself from my flagging grades.

The notebook feels heavier than it should as I flip it open, its pages dense with Liberty Belle’s meticulous notes. Her handwriting is sharp, precise, like her. I start with the first page dedicated to Fedorov. It’s filled with basic info — birth date, place, a few sparse details about his early life. It’s like reading someone’s biography, except this one’s about a guy who is also a walking nuclear reactor.

“Born in Kyiv, Ukraine, 1985,” I read under my breath. “Son of a school teacher and a librarian.” Normal stuff, really. Nothing screams ‘future supervillain here.’ But then, I guess nobody really plans on going down that route. I feel a little weird about our shared commonality – the librarian mothers, the Jewish upbringing. But I push the feeling down.

The next pages detail his education. ‘Graduated from Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv, major in Mechanical Engineering.’ Belle even included a photocopy of his graduation picture. He looks normal, smiling, hopeful, almost handsome, with black salt-and-pepper hair that curls like an ocean wave over the side of his head, and big, broad shoulders. He looks just like any other grad. It’s hard to reconcile this image with the monster that gave Liberty Belle the fight of her life. The man who killed Professor Franklin.

Her notes get more intense as they go. ‘Masters in Nuclear Engineering from Kyiv Polytechnic.’ That’s when things start to get interesting. Belle noted his shift to the Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant, and that’s where the normalcy ends. ‘Accident. Details redacted.’ The word ‘redacted’ is underlined twice.

I flip to another section, where Belle pieced together info about his life post-accident. There are newspaper clippings, interview transcripts, even some sketches that look like they’re from a surveillance op. She really dug deep. ‘Manifestation of powers during reactor malfunction.’ I pause, imagining the chaos, the fear. What would it be like, to suddenly find yourself with powers like that, in the middle of a disaster?

The notes on his family are brief but poignant. ‘Wife, Olena. Daughter, Yulia, born 2008.’ There’s a family photo clipped to the page. They look happy. Normal. A high school science teacher, and a girl almost exactly my age, although the only pictures Liberty Belle has are of her as a 7 year old. Does his daughter know what her dad turned into? Does she ever see him, or is he too dangerous now? Her hair is the same kind of wavy as mine.

Belle’s notes on his psychology are the most chilling. ‘Displays signs of PTSD. Increasingly paranoid.’ No kidding. I guess having your whole life explode — literally — does that to you. Pages of assessments, files I couldn’t even imagine how she got access to, emails sent under the guise of a concerned colleague or fake family member to ex-professors, ex-teachers, ex-coworkers.

The last part of the notebook, after the biography, the interviews, the pictures that seem to have been taken by Belle herself in Ukraine, leaves me with one final note. ‘Nom-de-crime “Chernobyl” bestowed by US govt. Illya does not respond well to it. No shit.’

And for some reason, that catches me by surprise. He didn’t name himself? Then, I second-guess myself – of course he didn’t. Why would a Ukranian name themselves after the worst nuclear disaster of their country’s history? Knowing that it was our government that gave him that name makes me feel a lump rising in my throat. It feels… disrespectful? Should I be feeling angry right now? Should I be offended on his behalf?

I need to keep reading. There’s so much here, and I’ve barely scratched the surface. But every page, every word, feels like a step closer to understanding the man who killed my mentor. And maybe, just maybe, a step closer to finding out how to stop him.

I turn the page. There’s only one word. I flip through the rest of the notebook, finding nothing. Hours digging into an autobiography of a walking nuclear disaster, and it ends with the word ‘Porcelain?’ underlined in red ink, bleeding through the page. What? Porcelain? What does that have to do with anything?

I shut the notebook, my eyes bleary, the world having skipped past without me. Already, the sun is starting to set, but I barely remember waking up this morning on the futon. Lily is out, her parents are at work – it’s just me in the house, now.

It’s just me until there’s a knock on the door.

It’s sharp, urgent, and loud. Shave and a haircut – two bits. I freeze, the notebook still in my hand. Who could that be? Lily’s parents wouldn’t knock, and Lily would just barge in like she owned the place – which, technically, she sort of does.

I shuffle to the door, my heart hammering in my chest. Peeking through the peephole, I see two stern-looking people in suits. One’s a tall woman with a no-nonsense haircut, the other’s a broad-shouldered man with a face that looks like it’s never heard a joke it liked. My threat assessment instincts, still being tuned by practice and training, kick in nonetheless. There’s a car behind them, probably theirs. They each have a gun, comfortably but noticably holstered on their hips. They could, theoretically shoot me.

Play along time.

The woman steps forward. “Are you Samantha Elisabeth Small, known by the vigilante alias of ‘Bloodhound’?” Her voice is firm, almost accusatory.

I nod slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yeah, that’s me. Can I help you?”

The woman steps forward, flashing a badge briefly. It’s too quick for me to actually read anything, but I guess that’s the point. “We’re from the National Superhuman Response Agency,” she says. Her voice is firm, like she’s used to giving orders and having them followed. “We need to talk to you about some items you’ve recently come into possession of.”

I frown, my grip tightening on the notebook. “If you mean Liberty Belle’s stuff, then yeah, I have it. It was left to me. What about it?”

The man, who’s been silent till now, speaks up. “It’s a matter of national security, Ms. Small. Some of the contents in those notes and drives could be… sensitive. Regarding particular terrorist threats.”

My heart starts to race, but I force a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t really gone through everything yet.”

The woman’s gaze sharpens, and I can tell she doesn’t buy it. “We believe it’s in everyone’s best interest if those items are turned over to the NSRA for proper examination and handling.”

I shake my head, stepping back slightly. “I can’t do that. They were left to me, for me. Belle wanted me to have them.”

The man’s voice is stern and unyielding. “Ms. Small, this isn’t just a request. We’ve already been in contact with Laura Zhang, and she’s given us permission to retrieve Liberty Belle’s belongings. We need your cooperation.”

My stomach knots. They’re lying. They have to be. Laura wouldn’t just hand over Belle’s life’s work to the feds, would she? But what can I do? Arguing seems pointless and dangerous.

I nod, trying to appear compliant while my brain screams for a solution. “Okay, I understand. The stuff, it’s just upstairs. Can I go grab it?”

The woman’s eyes narrow slightly, but she gives a curt nod. “Make it quick. We don’t have all day.”

I turn, my feet heavy as I trudge upstairs, each step echoing in my head like a death knell. In Lily’s room, surrounded by her vibrant posters and stuffed animals, I feel a stark contrast to the cold dread filling me. I’m supposed to be smart, resourceful — a superhero. But right now, I feel anything but.

I pace the room, my mind racing but getting nowhere. The box is right there, under the futon, just a thin layer of wood and fabric away from those agents. I can’t let them have it. But what can I do? My powers are no match for the NSRA. I think of Clara, of her quick thinking and legal know-how. But she’s not here. It’s just me.

Minutes pass in agonizing silence. I have to go back down, have to face them with something. Anything. I take a deep breath and head back downstairs, my plan forming as I descend. It’s flimsy, at best, but it’s all I’ve got.

I step into the living room, where the agents wait impatiently. My heart hammers in my chest, threatening to leap out of my throat.

“I… I can’t find it,” I stammer, hoping my panic looks genuine. “I must’ve misplaced it, or maybe someone moved it. I don’t know.”

The man’s expression darkens, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Ms. Small, this isn’t a game. Those items are critical to national security. If you don’t produce them now, we’ll have to search the house ourselves. You understand, of course, the penalties for lying to a federal agent?”

I swallow hard, my mind screaming for a way out. But there’s nothing. No backup plan, no hidden ace. Just me, two federal agents, and a box full of secrets lying just feet away.

The panic claws at me, a wild animal trapped in a cage, as I stand there, frozen. I’m about to lose it, to scream, to let out all the fear and frustration, when suddenly, the air is filled with a horrifying stench. It’s like death warmed over, a putrid smell of rotting flesh, so strong I almost gag. My blood sense tingles, alerting me to the presence of someone… or something.

I see him in my mind’s eye before I actually see him sprinting around the street corner, high-visibility buttons flashing, glinting in the streetlights. There’s something wrong with his blood. It’s moving, it’s flowing, but his heart is barely pumping, and his blood is thick, like jelly. He’s covered in open wounds that are still wet and fresh, giving me an easy sight into his rotten arteries, but aren’t leaking or dripping. And instantly, I understand what the smell is from.

Through the window, I see a figure vaulting over the agents’ car with an eerie grace. The smell is overwhelming now, and I realize it’s coming from him. His blood is like pudding, unctuous and coagulated, moving through his veins like molasses if at all. He’s like a zombie, straight out of a horror movie. His head is wrapped in what looks like the tattered remains of a winter jacket, the hood and buttons forming a makeshift cloak around his shoulders. It gives him a bizarre, almost wizard-like appearance. I don’t know his name, but there’s something unmistakably familiar about him.

As he strides into view, confidence oozing in his every step despite the macabre aura he carries, I recognize him from Liberty Belle’s funeral. He was the one in the hazmat suit, the first to speak, but now his suit is missing its headpiece, allowing the nauseating scent to escape freely.

The agents whirl around, hands instinctively going towards their weapons, as the smell hits them. They’re visibly repulsed, their faces contorting in disgust. For a moment, everyone is frozen, caught in a painting of shock and confusion. Me too, to be honest. I’m having to resist the urge to vomit from sheer revulsion.

“Who the hell are you?” the female agent demands, trying to mask her revulsion with authority.

The man doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks straight at me, his eyes piercing through the cloud of decay. There’s a message in his gaze, a silent communication that speaks of urgency and understanding. He’s not wearing a mask, the skin of his face instead mummified around the skull, his lips missing – his nose missing. There’s no blood visible, only a thick, black fluid that’s smeared like warpaint across him. For a moment, I’m frozen in awe and horror, as I realise that the black stuff is his blood.

His sclera, the white part of his eyes, and his colored iris are almost the same color, an eerie off-pink-grey that reminds me of meat that’s been left out a little too long. His pupils look like pinpricks. His eyes glint out from under his hood.

Then, he turns his attention to the agents, his voice calm and steady. “You might want to put those away. I’m not here to fight. I’m here to talk with Ms. Small.”

His presence seems to fill the front room from all the way over here, despite the agents’ attempts to distance themselves from the overwhelming stench, taking steps back on the sidewalk. “Name’s Miasma,” he says, his voice deep and reedy, like gravel being dragged across rough concrete. “Heard from a little birdie that some feds were giving an innocent young girl a hard time. Couldn’t just walk by, you know?”

His eyes, sharp and calculating, flick from me to the agents, who are now visibly struggling to maintain their composure. The female agent’s face is pinched in discomfort, her hand subtly covering her nose.

Miasma steps closer, the agents instinctively stepping back. “So, are you bothering this upstanding young citizen?” he asks, his tone casual but edged with something darker. Meaner. Something extremely different from anything I’ve seen before – closer to the people I’ve seen from the Kingdom than anyone else. “Got any warrants for this… investigation of yours?”

The agents exchange a glance, their confidence wavering under Miasma’s scrutiny. “We have authorization to confiscate the items in question,” the man says, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction.

Miasma chuckles, a sound that’s more a raspy wheeze than anything. I watch the cloth of his cloak ripple around his throat, the air seeming to escape where it shouldn’t. “Authorization, huh? Properly contested the will and all that?”

I am about to ask how he knows about the will, and then I remember. Miasma. Joshua Pleasants. He got Belle’s lockbox.

The woman nods, a bit too quickly. “Yes, from Laura Zhang. She’s given us the green light.”

“Oh, is that so?” Miasma leans in, his eyes narrowing. No, not quite – the skin around his eyes scrunches up, but his eyelids look… not right. Without a clear view, I can’t tell if they’re really there or not. “Well, then, why don’t we just give her a call to confirm? Clear all this up. If all is as you say it is, then I’ll get out of your hair and we can all be on our merry way.”

The agents hesitate. “The office is closed,” the woman says quickly. “It’s Saturday, after hours.”

Miasma’s smile is all teeth, a predator amused by its prey. A chimpanzee grimacing. A look I’ve seen before. “That’s alright. I have her personal number.”

The air falls silent, the pressure thick in the air, enough that I can taste it. Or maybe that’s just Miasma’s… aroma. The agents look at each other, clearly not prepared for this turn of events. He pulls out a phone, its screen cracked but functional. He dials with deliberate slowness, each beep echoing in the suddenly quiet room. The agents stand frozen, their authority crumbling.

The ringing of the phone feels like a countdown, each tone a tick of a clock, leading to something inevitable. On the third ring, Laura Zhang’s voice comes through the speaker, clear and authoritative. “Yes, Mr. Pleasants? Is there an emergency?”

Miasma doesn’t miss a beat. “Ms. Zhang, it’s about the contestment of Liberty Belle’s will. There are a couple of agents here claiming they have your authorization to confiscate her notes and drives from Ms. Samantha Small.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence on the other end before Zhang responds, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Contestment? I only received the paperwork this morning. How could they possibly think it’s been processed already?”

Miasma turns to the agents, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Well, Mr. Lawman, Mrs. Lawwoman? Did you think she had it done already?”

The agents are flustered, their previous authority crumbling under the weight of their exposed deceit. They stumble over their words, trying to formulate a response, but Zhang cuts them off sharply.

“This is unacceptable,” she says, her voice cold. “I expect better from NSRA agents. You do not have my authorization, nor will you until the legal process is completed. I want this handled properly.”

The female agent tries to interject, but Zhang is having none of it. “No, I don’t want to hear it. You will leave Ms. Small and her property alone until further notice. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the male agent says, holstering his gun.

“Good. Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Pleasants,” Zhang replies from the other end of the line.

“It’s my pleasure,” Miasma says, ending the call with a flourish, clapping his flip-phone shut. He turns to me, the predatory grin still playing on his lips. “Well, looks like you’re in the clear for now, Ms. Small.”

The female agent smiles, immediately making me nervous, while she keeps her nose clamped shut with one hand, the other holstering her gun. “I’m afraid that’s not correct, Mr. Pleasants. We were very willing to do things the easy way and not assert authority. But now…”

Miasma is unimpressed. “Now that you’ve been caught in a lie, you’re going to try to strong-arm us?”

“If that’s how you want to phrase it, yeah, sure,” the male agent says.

As the male agent asserts their intention to strong-arm the situation, Miasma stands his ground, unflinching in the face of their bluster. “Really? That’s your play? After being caught in a lie?”

The female agent, still pinching her nose, tries to regain some semblance of authority. “The nature of the information in those notes could very well classify them as government property. It’s not a matter of personal inheritance when national security is at stake.”

Miasma scoffs. “National security? These are personal notes on local supervillains and cold cases. Not exactly the stuff of top-secret government files.”

“But if they were gathered by a government agent…” the male agent begins.

“Outside of work hours and without using classified government resources,” Miasma interrupts. “That makes them personal property. And unless you have a warrant, you have no right to seize them.”

The agents falter, their confidence wavering. They exchange a look, clearly not prepared for this level of resistance.

Miasma stands tall, his presence dominating the room despite the agents’ attempts at authority. “Furthermore,” he says, his voice firm, “there’s no evidence to suggest these notes are classified. You’re operating on assumptions and overstepping your boundaries.”

The female agent, her nose still pinched, tries to maintain her composure. “The information was gathered by a government agent. That in itself could classify it as sensitive.”

Miasma chuckles, a raspy sound muffled by his mask. “Gathered outside of working hours and not from classified government sources. That makes it personal property, not state secrets.”

The male agent interjects, “But the very nature of her position–“

“–Doesn’t automatically make everything she touches government property,” Miasma cuts him off. “She was a superhero, not a spy. Her investigations into local supervillains and unresolved cases were her own initiative.”

During this exchange, I take my chance. Quietly, I reach under the futon and retrieve a couple of flash drives, slipping them into my pockets discreetly. My heart pounds in my chest, but the agents are too caught up in the argument to notice. I hear things from the corner of my ears – something about a warrant, and fourth amendment rights, but I’m too busy trying to not scream and/or vomit to pay close enough attention.

Miasma leans in, his stance unyielding, while I catch the tail end of his sentence. “–notes stay with Ms. Small. You can’t just barge in and claim rightfully bequeathed property based on flimsy suspicions. There are legal procedures for a reason.”

The male agent, frustration evident in his voice, tries to assert his authority. “This is about national security. We have protocols to–“

“–Protocols that don’t include harassing a teenage girl based on a hunch,” Miasma interrupts. “You’re not dealing with an enemy of the state here, just a kid trying to make sense of her mentor’s legacy. And you don’t have the power to barge in on a will that was properly arranged by the estate on the flimsy claim that it might be of national security importance, just because the woman in question worked for the government.”

The male agent tries to take a deep breath and winces. Miasma smirks. “I know Belle. She couldn’t have gotten clearance if her life depended on it.”

Realizing they’re at a stalemate and lacking the legal upper hand, the agents exchange a glance, defeat and anger written in their eyes. The female agent, conceding, says, “This isn’t over. We’ll be in touch after we’ve done our due diligence.”

“Good luck with that,” Miasma replies, a hint of triumph in his voice. “Until you have concrete evidence or a legal warrant, Ms. Small’s property remains her own.”

The agents, defeated, turn to leave. They walk out, trying to salvage their dignity, but the smell of victory is in the air – and it’s not just Miasma.

Miasma watches them leave, a satisfied smirk on his face. Once they’re gone, Miasma zips up his hazmat suit and clasps a sealed mask around his grotesque face. The stench begins to slowly – slowly – fade. He turns to me, a muffled chuckle escaping his mask. “That should keep them off your back for a while. Always a pleasure to put overzealous feds in their place.”

I shoot him a weary, nauseous smile, and crack a thumbs up. “Uh, thanks. Do I need to bleach this place now?”

“A little Febreeze should do the trick,” he jokes, pulling his hood a little closer to his face to hide more of his features.

---

Two hours later, I find myself in a place that feels worlds away from the cozy confines of Lily’s home. I’m with Miasma at his temporary base of operations, an abandoned concrete pier near the Betsy Ross bridge. The setting sun casts long shadows over the derelict structures, painting the scene in hues of orange and purple.

Miasma, now in his fully sealed hazmat suit, sits across from me. The putrid stench that once defined him is almost unnoticeable now. “I’m from Boston, really. They say I’m Boston’s Batman, if you care about shit like that. I’ve just been in town for the will and the funeral. Crossroads and I met after the burial,” he says. “We exchanged contacts, and then he gave me a heads-up about you being in trouble today.”

I’m surprised to hear Crossroads’s name. He and I are friends, but I hadn’t expected him to be the “little birdie” Miasma mentioned. “Crossroads saw this in a vision?” I ask, still trying to piece everything together.

“Yeah,” Miasma nods. “Not sure why he picked me over other local heroes, though. Maybe because I was close by, here at this pier.”

The pier is… low tech. I mean, Jordan and I have what could charitably be called a “shitty headquarters” but this really makes that look like a luxury hotel. It’s more reminiscent of a homeless camp than a hero’s hideout. Miasma’s setup is simple: a tent, a bedroll, and a shopping cart, all of which seem borrowed from the city’s vagrant scene. Yet, there’s a certain orderliness to it, a method to the madness. I don’t know if the oil drums and glass chemistry equipment is Miasma’s, or someone else’s. And I really don’t feel like asking.

Around us, the quiet lapping of the river against the concrete creates a soothing backdrop. Miasma has started a small fire with some twigs and a lighter, the flames casting a warm glow and dancing shadows around us. He reaches into his overturned shopping cart, retrieves a twinkie, and tosses it to me. “I only eat for pleasure these days. Haven’t digested anything in… seventeen years?” he muses, while I stare at the gift.

I take the Twinkie, my mind still reeling from the day’s events. As the evening settles around us, Miasma stands and approaches his tent. He fiddles with his hazmat suit, unsealing it just a touch, before slipping inside and zipping up the entrance. Through the thin fabric, I can see his silhouette moving with a peculiar, deliberate rhythm. Beside him, a strange device hums to life, a sound that I have to assume is some sort of motor whirring, its outline bizarre and otherworldly in the dim light.

From within the tent, Miasma’s voice emerges, muffled but clear. “I wouldn’t recommend coming in here, Sam,” he says. “I’m extracting all the corpse gas from my system to refine it into methane later. Trust me, it smells like a dead body. Also, you don’t want to get soaked with methane gas. Flammable.”

His laughter lacks even the slightest trace of bitterness. Pure, genuine sincerity.

I watch, fascinated despite myself, as the silhouette seems to be shoving pipes and tubes into his body – a surreal image straight out of a sci-fi movie.

Sitting outside the tent, I unwrap the Twinkie he offered me earlier and take a polite bite. Its sweetness is a stark contrast to the grim task Miasma is undertaking inside his tent. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I call out, doing my best to sound casual. The surrealism of the moment isn’t lost on me – here I am, eating a Twinkie at dusk, while a superhero in a hazmat suit extracts gases from his own decaying body just a few feet away.

I chew, and chew, thinking. “I think I know why Crossroads called you, actually.”

“Yeah?” Miasma rasps from inside the tent.

I pull my phone out, open up the files, and open up the video that’s still the first file. No new pictures, no new memories, have overlapped it or pushed it down in order. “How much do you know about Ch… About Illya?”

“I know that he killed Liberty Belle and that he killed Professor Franklin. And I know that killing Professor Franklin basically drove Belle batshit. So, you could say I resent him a little bit, but I’m not exactly in a hurry to give this ol’ body of mine radiation poisoning to see how that interacts with my powers. Why do you ask?” Miasma replies, his head turning towards me. Or at least, that’s what I assume the motion of his silhouette is doing.

“Well, I’ve long since come to the conclusion that keeping secrets around Crossroads isn’t really possible. So I assume he… knows this already? I don’t really know how good he is at long term planning but I trust his… what’s the difference between tactics and strategy, again?” I start responding, immediately getting sidetracked by my own sentences.

“Tactics are individual steps, strategies are the long term goal you want to accomplish,” he answers.

“Yeah, I trust his tactical decision making. Anyway, the point is… well, just listen to this,” I reply, playing the video and putting it on the concrete, in front of the tent. Volume up.

For the millionth time, I am frustrated by my decision to not press record ten seconds earlier. The voices come out, the same way as they did weeks ago.

“I am many things, Diane, but a liar is not one of them. You have been given orders to stand down, to let me have everything I want and leave in peace. Evacuate the area, so as to avoid witnesses. Yet I have killed your lover, and so many besides. I should be locked up for my crimes. For my monstrosity. But I remain a free man, and I am content to allow this arrangement to continue.”

“You’re trying to manipulate me. To make me doubt. I won’t fall for it.”

“I am not your enemy, Diane. I never was. The real enemy is the system that uses us both, that pits us against each other for their own ends. They’d want to sequester me in their ‘residential facility’, but I value my freedom, to live, to do what I want with these hands of iron. Your government could work with me and allow me to roam free on a permanent basis, rather than perpetuate this stage-play whenever I am to rear my ugly head. You could convince them, and avoid this bloodshed. You would not need to commit suicide against my steel. End the manhunt. Can I offer you that much?”

I press pause before he can enter into his soliloquy. The silence is painful and deafening. I hate watching this clip.

Miasma’s voice comes through clearly clenched teeth. “Ms. Small, I have an idea, but I’m going to need you to explain in plain language what this recording is trying to tell me. Just so I can make sure I’m on the same page as you before I start getting angry. Angrier.”

I take a deep breath, steadying myself before I speak. “That’s a recording from Belle’s last fight,” I explain, my voice trembling slightly. “Chernobyl admits that the government has been letting him roam free. They want to use him, use his powers for… I don’t know, energy generation, maybe more. They let him do whatever he wants, as long as he stays out of the spotlight.”

Miasma’s silhouette remains still for a moment, processing the information. “So, the government is in bed with a known murderer and super-powered criminal. They’re protecting him, giving him free rein in exchange for… services.”

“Yeah,” I say, a mix of anger and helplessness in my voice. “Belle’s notes had no idea. And I don’t have the direct admission, only the aftermath. I can tell you what he said because I was there, and I watched her die. And I’m left with this mess.”

Miasma’s figure shifts slightly inside the tent, the shadowy outline conveying a sense of deep contemplation. “This is… This is big, Ms. Small. Bigger than just a rogue superhuman on the loose. We’re talking about a government conspiracy, a cover-up at the highest levels.”

I nod, the weight of the situation pressing down on me like a physical force. “Yeah, and I’m just a kid who happens to have shark powers. I’m way out of my league here. But I can’t just sit back and do nothing.”

Miasma’s voice is resolute, yet there’s an undercurrent of something else–anger, perhaps, or determination. “You’re not alone in this, Sam. You’ve got me, for starters. And we need to think strategically. We can’t just rush in headfirst.”

I sit back, the cold concrete of the pier seeping through my clothes. The fire crackles, casting flickering light across the tent. “So, what do we do? Expose them? How do we even begin to take on something like this?”

Miasma unzips the tent slightly, letting out a small puff of the contained stench, which he quickly zips back up. “First, we need more information. We need to know who in the government is involved, how deep this goes. Your mentor’s notes are a start, but we need more.”

I think about the flash drives in my pocket, the untapped wealth of information they might hold. “I’ve already dug through all her physical notes, and it’s all cold cases. Nothing about this conspiracy. There might be something on the flash drives, but if… If the NSRA comes back…”

“They won’t,” Miasma interrupts. “Not if we’re careful. And not if we have a plan. Crossroads saw you in trouble, and here I am. Maybe it’s time we put together a team, get some more eyes on this. Zhang likes you, we can trust her.”

The idea of assembling a team, of not facing this alone, brings a small spark of hope. “A team,” I echo. “But who? I mean, other than Crossroads.”

Miasma’s silhouette nods. “We’ll need people we can trust. People with the right skills, the right mindset. I have some contacts in Boston who might be willing to help. And you have your own connections, right?”

“Yeah, the Young Defenders. And maybe some others.” My mind races, thinking of everyone I know who might be willing to stand against this kind of corruption. “I mean, I’d hope the other Delaware Valley Defenders, but…”

Miasma laughs. “Government stooges. There’s a reason I never registered, kid. And I’d bet dollars to fucking donuts that Davis has his nose in all this business.”

“Councilman Jamal Davis?” I ask for clarification, staring out over the slowly churning Delaware River.

“Yeah. That guy,” Miasma snorts.

“That’s a great idea, actually. Here, I’ll DropPass you a copy of the video and then I can take my copy and go–” I start, only to get cut off by Miasma’s face emerging from the tent with the deepest scowl.

“Absolutely not. You think you can’t trust the government stooges, so you’ll go to the governmentest, stoogiest of them all? The stooge at the top? Re…consider your idea,” he lectures, shoving his face back in through the zipper while I recoil from the scent.

I reel back from the stench as Miasma disappears back into his tent, but his words don’t deter me. His skepticism, his distrust of authority, it doesn’t change what I know I have to do. “I’m not going to sit around and play it safe,” I retort, my voice firm with resolve. “Belle didn’t just leave me these notes to keep them hidden. She wanted me to find the truth. And if that means confronting people, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Miasma’s muffled voice filters through the tent fabric. “Kid, you’re talking about poking a hornet’s nest. Without proof, without a plan, it’s just reckless.”

I clutch the flash drives in my pocket, feeling their weight against my fingers. “I don’t care. Councilman Davis, the NSRA, whoever’s involved – they’ve been covering up for a murderer. Belle’s dead because of their games. I can’t just sit on this. I need to be brave. Braver. Belle is dead because of them, and because I stood by and didn’t help until it was too late. I’m done being a coward.”

Miasma lets out a heavy sigh, and I can almost see him shaking his head in the dark. “Bravery without a plan is just stupidity. You need to think this through, Sam. There are other ways to find the truth without putting yourself in the crosshairs.”

I clench my fists, feeling the frustration boiling inside me. “I’m done thinking. I need to act. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

There’s a long silence, and for a moment, I think Miasma isn’t going to respond. Then his voice comes through again, resigned but firm. “Fine. Do what you think you have to. But I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when this blows up in your face. And it will blow up, Sam. Just remember that.”

I get up, brushing dust off my pants and off my arms. It’s cold, but not as cold as the funeral. I’m mostly just sore, because it turns out, sitting on concrete isn’t exactly pleasant. Sore and angry. I just spent the afternoon diving into my mentor’s killer’s life, then getting harassed by federal agents, and now being told that I’m stupid. “I’m not stupid,” I say, partially to Miasma, partially to myself. “I can regenerate.”

Miasma’s laugh is deep, hacking, and this time, full of bitterness, like the taste of eating raw grass. “You know what? I’m all for this. That’s exactly what Diane would’ve said.”

For some reason, that makes my heart thump twice, really hard. It lights a spark. “Really?”

“Yeah. You and her? Same kind of stupid,” Miasma coughs through a cackling mouthful of phlegm.

My teeth lock together. I feel my cheeks pulling up, but I’m not exactly sure if that’s a smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Good,” he says back. I can hear his grin, even if I can’t see it. “It was.”

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