Sitting in the dimly lit interior of the abandoned Tacony Music Hall, the makeshift headquarters for our little band of misfits, I try to shake off the chill of the outside world. It’s still winter break, the kind of quiet where you can hear your own thoughts too loudly, with the new year looming overhead.
Woohoo, 2024.
Jordan lounges across a creaky recliner, the air carrying with it that quiet antiseptic scent that indicated they’ve been cleaning recently. Spindle, or Connor as he’s trying to get us to call him now, sits opposite, nervously tapping his foot, still riding the high of being a ‘provisionary member’ of the Young Defenders.
“So, Sam, you’ve been like, super MIA at school,” Jordan starts, their tone casual but their eyes concerned. “I mean, I get it, winter break and all, but you seemed out of it even before that. You… good? Alive? Possessed by an alien parasite?”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, not meeting Jordan’s gaze. “Yeah, it’s been… a lot. Just a lot of stuff to think about, you know?”
Jordan nods, their expression softening. “I get it. Just worried, is all. You kinda vanished off the face of the Earth.”
I manage a half-smile. “Yeah, it’s been complicated. Watching my… Watching Liberty Belle…”
Jordan reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t finish that sentence, idiot, you’re about to start crying.”
I suck up the forming snot wad back into my sinuses and let out a loud, shaky exhale. “Yeah. True.”
Spindle, ever the bundle of energy, interjects, “Hey, did I mention how jazzed I am about this whole Young Defenders thing? I mean, it’s provisional, but still!” His excitement is palpable, his eyes practically sparkling. “Whatever provisional, means.”
Jordan chuckles and leans over to give him a peck on the cheek. “Proud of you, Conny,” they say, a genuine warmth in their voice.
I blink, a bit taken aback. “Wait, when did this happen?” I ask, pointing between the two of them.
Jordan grins, a teasing glint in their eye. “Oh, it happened offscreen,” they joke, eliciting a laugh from Spindle. “You know, Sam, people do exist outside your point of view.”
“You and Spindle?” I ask, switching my hand back and forth, pointing at one, then the other.
“You’re not the only one that gets to hook up with superheroes!” Spindle replies, letting his head loll back almost all the way as he laughs. He wraps one long, gangly arm over Jordan’s shoulder and pulls them in close.
I roll my eyes but can’t help but smile. “Alright, alright. Point taken. So, wanna hear about my meeting with Jamal?”
Jordan and Spindle lean in, curiosity etched on their faces.
“It was intense,” I begin, the memory fresh in my mind. “I showed him the footage from Belle’s notes, the stuff about Chernobyl and the government. And get this – he had no clue. He was as shocked as I was.”
Spindle whistles lowly. “That’s… big. What did he say?”
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, but the weight of the conversation still presses down on me. “He admitted we’re in a tight spot. The government’s covering up their tracks, and now they’re interested in Belle’s notes. The ones I have.”
Jordan’s expression darkens. “That’s messed up. So, what’s the plan?”
“Well, Jamal can’t do anything officially. Everything the Delaware Valley Defenders do is logged and public, thanks to FOIA requests,” I explain, recalling Jamal’s words. “So, he wants us to do some digging. Off the books.”
Spindle leans forward, his eyes wide. “Us? As in, the three of us?”
I nod. “Yeah. He’s calling it ‘Young Defenders Dark.’ Unofficially, of course. We’re going to look into the NSRA and figure out what’s really going on with Chernobyl.”
Jordan lets out a low whistle. “That’s a shitty name.”
Spindle grins, practically bouncing in his seat. “Are you kidding? This is exactly what I signed up for! To make a difference, you know? Instead of picking locks and shit.”
“I mean, you’ll probably have to pick some locks. And yeah, it is a shitty name. We’ll come up with a better one.” I can’t help but feel a surge of adrenaline at his enthusiasm, nonetheless. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. And Jamal said he’d try to get some government surplus funneled to Jordan, you know, to help with… resources.”
Jordan raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “That sounds super illegal.”
“That’s what I said!” I reply, shaking my hands, gesticulating as I talk.
The conversation drifts into planning and speculating, the three of us throwing around ideas and theories. It feels good, in a way, to have a direction, a purpose. Even if it’s shrouded in secrecy and danger. It’s something to focus on, a way to channel all the confusion and anger I’ve been feeling.
I glance at Jordan and Spindle, my partners in this unconventional endeavor, and there’s a tangible sense of unity. We’re all in this crazy ride together, whatever it throws at us.
As we talk, my thoughts keep circling back to the gravity of my meeting with Jamal, the weight of the truth we’re about to uncover, and the scale of justice we’re trying to balance. But then, another looming worry nudges its way into my brain.
“Ugh, and then there’s the power testing with Dr. Harris tomorrow,” I grumble, sinking deeper into my chair. “I can’t shake the feeling I’m gonna get a bad grade in superpowers.”
Jordan lets out a light laugh, their eyes crinkling in amusement. “Sam, it’s not school. It’s just you, doing your thing. Plus, you might discover something new, something cool.”
“Yeah, discovering the ‘cool’ part of nearly drowning,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
Spindle jumps in, his voice bubbling with excitement. “But, hey, it’s a chance to really see what you can do, right? Like, how strong those shark teeth are, or the range of your blood sense. That’s kind of awesome.”
I sigh, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve. “Or I’ll get a bad grade in superhero. And then my parents will find out. Mom will yell at me, and Dad will say ‘I’m not upset but I am disappointed in you’,” I say, trying to mimick my dad’s deep voice the best I can.
Jordan snorts, leaning over to flick my forehead with a surprising quickness, using their powers to bring me within flicking range before pushing me back so I can’t retaliate. “Yeah, right. Like they don’t already know you’re extraordinary in every way.”
I flinch, half-grinning at the gesture. “Ow, hey!”
“And seriously, Sam, you’re Bloodhound. You’ve pulled off stuff that’s way more impressive than any lab test,” Spindle adds, his enthusiasm unwavering.
Their words manage to lighten my mood, lifting the corners of my mouth into a reluctant smile. “Alright, alright. I’ll go and do the superhero version of a talent show. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Jordan says dryly, giving Spindle’s hair a playful ruffle. “But can we please talk about that name? ‘Young Defenders Dark?’ I am not signing up for anything that sounds like a rejected superhero team from a low-budget TV show.”
Spindle chuckles, smoothing down his ruffled hair. “Yeah, we definitely need something cooler. How about… ‘The Shadow Squad’ or ‘The Night Guardians’?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “We’ll work on it. For now, let’s just stick with ‘the team that does stuff Jamal can’t.’”
Jordan grins, a spark of mischief in their eyes. “Perfect. The ‘Can’t-Do-This-Officially-So-We’re-Doing-It-Unofficially Team’. Catchy.”
We wrap up our conversation, finalizing a few more details about our plans as Young Defenders Dark, rename pending. There’s a sense of camaraderie that wasn’t there before, a new shared purpose that binds us together. As I leave the music hall for the night to walk back home to Lily’s, I feel a mix of apprehension and excitement about what lies ahead, both with the testing and our new mission.
In the gym of the Delaware Valley Defenders HQ, the air feels different today, like it’s charged with anticipation or maybe just nervousness. That’s probably all me. The place has been transformed into a makeshift lab, with equipment I don’t recognize and screens showing graphs and numbers that make about as much sense to me as ancient Greek.
Dr. Harris looks exactly like what you’d expect a superpowers nerd to look like, if that nerd had been marinating in science labs long enough to become a full-blown scientist. He’s got this round, jolly kind of face that makes you think of Santa Claus, if Santa traded in his red suit for a lab coat and had a mild obsession with bite force measurements.
His glasses are these chunky things that magnify his eyes, and they sit perched on a nose that looks like it’s been squished into his face from years of squinting at data screens. He’s kinda balding, with tufts of hair that are more gray than not, and they stick out around the sides like he’s been pulling at them in frustration – or maybe just deep thought.
His lab coat’s a little too big for him, hanging off his shoulders and swishing around his legs as he moves, which is a lot. He’s not a tall guy, kinda short and stout, but there’s this energy about him that fills the room way more than his height ever could. And he’s got this tie, a weird shade of green that looks like it was chosen by someone who spends way too much time staring at fluorescent lab markers.
Gale’s here too, standing off to the side. She gives me a small wave and a reassuring smile as I walk in. As I get closer, she leans in and plants a quick, chaste kiss on my cheek. “Good luck,” she whispers. It’s a simple gesture, but it makes me feel a little more grounded. I don’t see anyone else around, so I have to assume they’re out on patrol or… you know, being teens, like me, doing other things with their lives.
“Ah, Samantha! Excellent, you’re here,” Dr. Harris exclaims, spinning around so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t get dizzy. “We have quite a day ahead of us! I’m thrilled, absolutely thrilled, to be able to study your abilities. It’s not every day I get to work with someone with your… unique profile.”
I shift from foot to foot, trying to mirror his enthusiasm but feeling more like a lab rat than a superhero right now. “Yeah, it’s, uh, nice to meet you too, Dr. Harris. What do you mean by, uh, unique profile?”
“Please, call me Leonard! Now, let me give you the grand tour of our temporary setup here,” he says, gesturing grandly with his arms like he’s showing off a castle instead of a bunch of machines in a gym. “Oh, right, you have what we call ‘Buffet Style’ powers – your powerset seems to consist of a couple of what would be otherwise minor powers tied together, as opposed to most of your compatriots, who have ‘Entree Style’. I made those terms up, by the way. Entree Style is significantly more common, so like I said, it’s not every day!”
He seems incapable of taking a step without saying something. In a way, he sort of reminds me of me. I’m not sure whether or not that makes me more or less comfortable.
First, he leads me to what looks like a dentist’s nightmare – a contraption with a mouthpiece and a bunch of wires and sensors attached to it. “This beauty is for measuring your bite force. It’s quite sophisticated, if I do say so myself. We’ll be able to get an exact measurement in Newtons!” He says it like he’s telling me I’ve won the lottery. “You’ll have to bite it a lot, of course. And I’ll have to do some measurements to get PSI amounts… Oh, it’s a whole thing. I’m sure you’re not intersted in the bloody details.”
“Newtons, huh? Cool,” I reply, though I’m not entirely sure what a Newton feels like in terms of biting down on something. Or what a Newton is. “Like the fig bar?”
Dr. Harris shakes his head. “No!” He says, not elaborating as he walks me through a series of small partitions, like the kind you get to temporarily block off a place. Like, fold-out partitions. Screen door things. I peek past one of them to see a small vial of what I can immediately recognize as blood – but it’s totally sealed. I can’t smell it at all. “This is for your blood sense test. We’ll have different samples at various points, and you’ll have to locate them. It’s a bit like a game, really.”
“I like games,” I say, trying to keep the conversation flowing.
“Splendid!” He replies. We move on to a section with medical imaging equipment, which Leonard explains with words like ‘MRI’ and ‘ultrasound.’ He’s talking a mile a minute, and I catch maybe every third word. “We want to observe your regenerative capabilities in real-time. Fascinating stuff!”
I nod, trying to look like I understand more than I do. The truth is, all this science talk is making me feel out of my depth. I’m used to punching things, not being poked and prodded and scanned. And, I mean, as jocky as I am, I’m good at school, but this is all way beyond my pay grade. Or grade grades.
“And finally,” Leonard continues, leading me to a table with some vials and a weird-looking machine, “we have the saltwater and alcohol tolerance tests. We’ll monitor your vitals and see how your body reacts. It’s all very safe, I assure you.”
Gale, who’s been quietly following us around, gives my hand a quick squeeze. “You got this, Sam,” she says, her voice low but full of confidence.
I manage a half-smile. “Thanks, Gale. I guess it’s just… a lot.”
Leonard claps his hands together, oblivious to my growing apprehension. “Well, let’s not dilly-dally! Science waits for no one! We’ll start with the bite force test. Now, if you’ll just step over here…”
I take a deep breath and follow him, trying to shake off the feeling that I’m about to jump into the deep end of a pool with no idea how to swim. As Leonard fusses over his equipment, I glance back at Gale, who’s watching me with a look that’s part proud, part worried. I try to give her a reassuring nod, but I’m not sure it comes across as confident as I’d like. She gives me a somewhat apprehensive looking thumbs up.
Alright, Sam, let’s do this. For science.
Dr. Harris is practically vibrating with excitement as he ushers me over to the menacing-looking bite force meter. It’s a shiny piece of tech with a mouthpiece that looks like it’s seen better days, already equipped with dents that tell tales of previous superhero chomps.
“See, Samantha,” he starts, adjusting his glasses with a finger, “the debate between Newtons and PSI is quite fascinating. Newtons measure force, while PSI measures pressure – force per unit area, to be precise. It’s a common misconception to use them interchangeably, particularly in the realm of bite force.”
I’m half-listening, half-staring at the contraption like it might bite back. But Dr. Harris’s enthusiasm is contagious, in a geeky sort of way, so I find myself actually curious about what he’s rambling on.
“Your jaw shape,” he continues, now looking at me with the fervor of a kid in a candy store, “it’s quite exceptional. Most capes with strength-based powers focus on the arms, the legs, the big muscles. But teeth!” He claps his hands together with glee. “Teeth are often overlooked, and yet here you are, a prime example of the power of the mandible!”
I can’t help but grin, showing off the very tools we’re about to test. “Yeah, they’ve come in handy,” I say, trying to sound modest.
“Oh, but they’re so much more than handy!” He’s practically bouncing on his heels now. “Tooth length, tooth shape, jaw muscle density, all these factors contribute to bite efficiency. And let’s not forget the motivation of the animal – or person, in this case – to bite.”
He leads me to the machine, and I notice a set of various materials lined up next to it – rubber, wood, and a couple of metals. “Each substrate will test the durability of your teeth and the maximum force you can exert. We’ll start with something soft and work our way up.”
As he straps the mouthpiece to the machine, he goes on, “And let’s not forget the importance of pressure in a bite. It’s one thing to have the force, but the pressure – that’s where the real damage happens.”
He’s got a point, I think to myself. I mean, I’ve never really thought about the science of my bite. It’s just something I do when I’m fighting the bad guys or need to make a point… forcefully.
“Now, your canines,” Dr. Harris gestures to my mouth as if it’s a display in a museum, “will likely show a higher PSI due to their shape – more conducive for puncturing, you see. While your molars…” He trails off, looking at me expectantly.
I nod, getting into position. “So I’m biting this thing like I’m trying to make an impression?” I ask, half-joking.
“Precisely!” he exclaims. “But let’s start with a baseline measurement. Just bite down normally, as if you’re biting into an apple.”
I do as instructed, feeling the odd pressure of the mouthpiece against my teeth. It’s weird, biting something without the intention of actually biting through it.
After a few rounds of normal bites, Dr. Harris’s eyes are wide as he examines the readings. “Astounding! Even your normal bite is off the charts compared to the average human. Now, let’s see what you can do when you really put some effort into it.”
That’s my cue. I start with the rubber, and it feels like child’s play. Then wood, a bit tougher but still no match for me. The metals are where I can really feel the resistance, and I channel every bit of frustration, every bad guy I’ve wanted to chomp down on into my jaw. I imagine, for a moment, biting down through Chernobyl’s armor. I feel the metal buckle underneath me as I puncture it with the tips of my teeth.
Dr. Harris is cheering me on, rattling off numbers and exclamations like we’re at a sports event. “Incredible! The readings are through the roof!”
By the time we reach the hardest metal, I’m in the zone, biting down as hard as I can, feeling the strain in my jaw but also a strange sense of pride.
“And there you have it, Samantha!” Dr. Harris is nearly breathless with excitement. “I’ll spare you the exact numbers but you’re easily reaching over 3600 Newtons and more than 1600 PSI at the sharpest points. And yet, you don’t have the jaw musculature required for such a bite, which means you’re one of those lucky metahumans with anomalous muscle strength. You’ve got all the jaw of a polar bear packed into a fourteen-year-old human’s skull! In other words, you’re almost exactly ten times as bite-y as a normal adult human being. No wonder you broke all my gauges!”
And he doesn’t even sound upset about it!
I release the mouthpiece and can’t help but feel a surge of pride. “A polar bear, huh? That’s pretty cool,” I say, and I mean it. It’s one thing to know you’re strong, but another to see it quantified, to see it compared to the powerful jaws of an animal known for its ability to ruin things with its bite.
Dr. Harris is scribbling down notes like there’s no tomorrow, and I can’t help but think that somewhere in all those numbers and data, there’s a piece of me – a piece of what makes me, well, me. It’s a weird feeling, being measured and studied, but if it helps me understand my powers better, helps me be a better hero, then I’m all for it.
“Thank you, Samantha,” Dr. Harris says, his voice full of genuine gratitude. “This has been most enlightening. Shall we continue?”
The afternoon session is like a high-stakes game of hide and seek, except I’m it, and instead of people, I’m searching for blood. It sounds macabre when I think about it too hard, so I don’t. Dr. Harris has this look of boyish glee as he explains the setup, like he’s just set up the best scavenger hunt ever.
“So, Samantha, I’ve placed several containers of blood around the gym,” he announces, gesturing to various points around the room. “Some are open, allowing the scent, so to speak, to fill the air, and some are sealed, completely airtight.”
I nod, rolling my shoulders to release some tension. It’s weird, but I’m starting to get excited about this. It’s not every day you get to flex your superpowers in a controlled environment, with no one getting hurt.
Dr. Harris hands me a blindfold and a pair of noise-canceling headphones. “We’ll start with the open containers first. I want you to try and locate them using your blood sense.”
Blindfolded and deafened to the world, I focus inward, honing in on that primal, shark-like part of me that just knows where the blood is. I can’t exactly explain what it is, because it’s not quite smell and it’s not quite sight. It’s more a sort of vision that isn’t in my eyeballs, like a thermal camera or something like that, but in part of my brain instead. I’m not seeing red, but I’m thinking red, red-on-black. Black for no blood, red for blood. Stark contrasts.
I make short work of finding the rest of the open blood sources, each discovery a small victory that has Dr. Harris making excited little noises that I can just barely hear over the headphones.
“Now for the sealed containers,” he says once I’ve uncovered all the open ones. I can tell he’s trying to keep his voice neutral, but there’s an undercurrent of anticipation there.
I’m back in the darkness, the blindfold and headphones in place, but this time it’s different. I turn in circles, trying to get a bead on the blood, but there’s nothing. No pull, no tingle, no sense of direction. It’s like I’m searching for a ghost.
Dr. Harris waits a moment before he finally gives in to what I assume is a burning curiosity. With the slightest sound of a pinprick, one of the sealed bags is opened, and it’s like a switch is flipped inside me. Suddenly, there’s a clear line in my mind, pulling me towards the source. I can see it in my mind’s eye, a bright red glow, and I can tell where it is in relation to me. It’s instantaneous, and I follow the line without hesitation, reaching the bag in seconds.
The blindfold comes off, and Dr. Harris is scribbling notes at a mile a minute. “Remarkable! It seems your blood sense is activated by the presence of blood exposed to air. It’s a sensory response to airborne particulates, not just the scent!”
I can’t help but feel a mix of pride and weirdness. It’s one thing to know you have a cool superpower, it’s another to have it dissected and laid out in scientific terms.
“And the range!” Dr. Harris continues, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “Over eighty meters, easily. The only reason I can’t measure further is because we ran out of room, so I’m sure it may be even bigger! You have a sensory radius that would be the envy of any predator in the animal kingdom.”
That part makes me pause. Eighty meters. That’s… a lot. More than I thought, and it makes me wonder about the implications. What does it mean for my superhero work? For my everyday life?
Dr. Harris seems to read my thoughts. “Oh, the applications are endless, Samantha! Search and rescue, tracking, surveillance. With proper training, you could refine this ability to be one of your most powerful tools.”
“So, wait, someone… told me once that I have sort of, what’s it called, ESP? Not a literal new sense. But you said I was reacting to, uh, airborne particulates?” I ask, a little confused, adjusting the headphones as they linger around my neck. “Do I be smelling it or not?”
“That’s… Well, that’s a matter of a lot of debate. Short of prying open your brain, which I don’t plan on doing today – that’s a joke – the distinction is probably more academic than anything else. Suffice to say, your abilities are certainly anomalous, which is our big science word for ‘defies natural explanation’. Given you don’t seem to have any other advanced olfaction abilities, I’m inclined to agree with the view that it’s some sort of extrasensory perception,” he rambles, confusing me as to what side exactly he takes until the very end. “You do not be smelling it, per se, but it seems like your brain does need there to be airborne blood particles to trigger the effect.”
“Groovy,” I reply, sitting down on the floor. I glance at Gale, who looks up at me from her phone, and smiles, and waves, and my heart flutters a little bit.
The last round of tests feels like it’s tiptoeing into mad science territory, but Dr. Harris assures me it’s all standard for people with… unique talents. The thought doesn’t exactly soothe the jitters rattling my bones.
“Next, we’ll assess your tolerance to different substances and check your liver and kidney functions. Quite standard, I assure you,” Dr. Harris explains, gesturing towards a tray that looks far too clinical for my liking. “I mean, standard for people who profess your particular abilities. Regeneration and saltwater tolerance isn’t an unheard-of combination.”
I eye the vials of saltwater and the alcohol, then the medical gear that’s going to map out the bits of me I can’t see. I’m okay with that part. It’s the needles that are going to be a problem.
I can feel my face drain of color as he lays out the blood test kits. “Ah, you seem apprehensive. Fear not! I am a trained phlebotomist among other things. Quite dexterous with a needle,” he says with a chuckle that’s meant to be reassuring.
Great, a jack-of-all-trades with a syringe. “Is it cool if I get Gale over here? Just to, uh, keep me company,” I say, my voice an octave higher than usual.
“Of course, of course! Whatever makes you comfortable,” he responds, busying himself with the vials, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort otherwise.
Gale’s by my side in an instant, her hand a warm anchor in mine. “You’re going to be okay, Sam,” she whispers, but her voice sounds like it’s underwater. Already, I’m swimming. Can you imagine? I can handle being stabbed with a knife no problem, but stab me with a needle and I’m about to pass out.
Dr. Harris preps my arm, swabbing with something cold and wet. I turn away, trying not to think about what’s coming. My hand tightens around Gale’s, probably too much, but she doesn’t complain.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I murmur, focusing on the numbers of prime numbers in my head. Two is fine, three is okay, five is good, seven is lucky, eleven is…
As I mentally tick through the prime numbers, trying to distract myself, Dr. Harris starts talking about what a phlebotomist is. “The term comes from the Greek words ‘phlebo-‘, meaning ‘pertaining to a blood vessel’, and ‘-tomist’, meaning ‘one who cuts’. Not that I’ll be doing any cutting, per se. It’s just a fancy term for someone trained to draw blood.”
I’m only half-listening, the words ‘cut’ and ‘blood’ doing nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. Thirteen, seventeen, nineteen…
“And there we are, all done!” Dr. Harris announces cheerfully.
I blink, my gaze shifting to him in surprise. “Really?” I ask, not quite believing it.
“Indeed. I told you, I’m quite adept with a needle,” he says, a touch of pride in his voice.
I chance a glance at the tray and immediately regret it. Eight full vials of blood, a deep red that’s too familiar. The sight hits me, and a wave of nausea quickly follows. I turn away and take the opportunity to put my face in Gale’s never mind, I changed my mind.
“Okay, let’s move on,” I say quickly, eager to put as much distance between me and those vials as possible.
Dr. Harris nods, jotting down notes, and then begins to strap me with equipment. Heartrate monitors, blood pressure cuffs, stuff like that. “Now, we’ll proceed with the tolerance tests. First, the saltwater.”
He hands me a cup with a measured amount of saltwater. “Please, drink this. We’ll monitor your reaction and measure how quickly your body processes the solution.”
The saltwater goes down with a grimace. It’s like gulping down ocean water by mistake – not pleasant but bearable. I drink far too much of it. He waits a couple of minutes, occasionally pumping up the cuff on my arm until it hurts, takes down measurements, and then continues.
The alcohol is next, and it’s weird because it smells slightly of booze but not quite. Almost like cleaning equipment. I take a sip, and the equipment beeps and whirs around me, taking note of how my body reacts.
My heart’s still racing from the blood draw, but I’m starting to feel a little like a science experiment superhero. It’s a strange badge of honor. He waits a couple of minutes, occasionally pumping up the cuff on my arm until it hurts, takes down measurements, and then continues.
The regeneration tests are less invasive, thankfully. Dr. Harris uses a dermatoscope to inspect my skin, looking for any signs of regeneration. There are a few scars, ones that never quite faded, and he hums thoughtfully as he examines them.
“You have a remarkable healing factor, Samantha. These scars, they’re quite old, I presume?”
“Yeah, had them for a while,” I say, feeling self-conscious under his gaze.
“Interesting. The body’s ability to heal itself is one of nature’s wonders, and you, my dear, are a prime example of this,” he muses, making me blush despite the clinical setting.
The stress response test is last. Dr. Harris explains that he’ll create a small scratch, nothing major, just enough to activate my healing. I brace myself, squeezing Gale’s hand again, but this time I’m ready for it. The scratch is nothing, just a flick of sensation, and then it’s over.
I watch, fascinated despite myself, as my skin knits back together like one of Gale’s crochet projects. It’s fast, almost too fast to see, and Dr. Harris is practically dancing with excitement.
“Remarkable! Truly remarkable!” he exclaims, and I can’t help but smile. It is kind of cool, in a freaky superhero kind of way. “Obviously, I don’t have permission to cut big gashes in you, nor do I have the desire or the stomach. I’ve already read your file and I’m afraid if we want better quantifiability on your regeneration factor, we’ll have to do some more invasive testing. And that’s something I’ll need your parents to sign off on. And other stuff. It’s a whole mess. We can avoid it for now.”
I crack a weary smile. “Thanks for not cutting me open, doc.”
“There’s a secondary factor as well,” he muses. He brandishes the needle, causing me to wince, and then smiles. “When I was trying to withdraw the needle, it broke. I’m unsure why, but I have a feeling that there may be elements to your powers that we haven’t even begun to discover yet. You’re a regular seafood buffet, Samantha.”
Gale giggles next to me, gently grabbing hold of my biceps.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, I think?” I reply, reaching for the inside of my elbow. I find it quickly – a small, pointy little chunk of syringe that’s caught in my skin, and pull it out with a grimace, gently depositing it on the nearby table. The puncture wound lasts only for a second or two before it closes itself up.
Groovy.
Trudging through the streets, the snow is light, a sort of gentle dusting that’s just enough to crunch under my boots. It’s a wet kind of snow, the kind that sticks to your hair and makes it a bit of a mess, but it’s not too bad. It’s just… peaceful. The sky is this purplish-blue hue, the kind that you only get in the evenings of winter, and the streetlights cast a warm, orange glow on the snow, turning it into a field of sparkling gold.
I just dropped Gale off at her place after a bit of flying with her. But now, I’m taking the long way home, stretching my legs and getting some exercise. After a whole day of being poked and prodded by Dr. Harris, I need it. All those tests, the bite thing, the blood sense stuff… it was weird, but in a cool, ‘I’m a superhero getting tested by a superpower nerd scientist’ kind of way.
I can still feel where the sensors were attached to my skin, little ghostly tingles that come and go. It’s funny how you can still feel something even after it’s gone. Like the band-aid they put on after taking blood samples, or the pressure of the bite meter. It’s a reminder of what I went through today, a sort of badge of honor that only I know about.
As I walk, my boots leave a steady trail of footprints behind me. The snow is just thick enough to hold the shape of my soles, a temporary mark on the world that’ll be gone by morning. It’s kind of poetic, in a way. Everything’s temporary, fleeting. Just like how I felt flying with Gale – up in the air, everything seems so small, so… manageable. Like you can just leave all your troubles on the ground and soar above them.
I pull my jacket closer around me, the cold starting to seep through. It’s not freezing, just a bit chilly. The kind of cold that wakes you up, keeps you alert. My breath comes out in little puffs of white, each one a small cloud that hangs in the air for a moment before disappearing.
As I walk, I think about the tests. Dr. Harris was so into it, his eyes practically lighting up with every measurement he took. It was kind of infectious, his enthusiasm. Made me feel like I was part of something important, something bigger than myself. I mean, I know I’m a superhero and all, but sometimes it just feels like I’m just a kid who got lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it.
But today, with all the machines and the numbers and the data… it made me feel real. Like my powers are real, tangible things that can be measured and understood. Not just some freak accident, but a part of who I am. It’s a weird feeling, being dissected like that, but also kind of validating.
I pass by the park, the benches covered in snow, the trees bare and stark against the darkening sky. It’s quiet, the usual hustle and bustle of the city muted by the snow. I like it, this silence. It’s rare, in a city like ours. Makes you appreciate the small moments of peace when you get them.
I remember what Dr. Harris said about my regeneration. How it’s not just about healing fast, but about how my cells rebuild themselves. Stronger, more resilient. It’s like every time I get hurt, I come back a little tougher. I guess that’s kind of like life, isn’t it? You get knocked down, you get back up, and you keep going. Stronger than before.
I take a deep breath. Halfway there.
I don’t notice the crowbar until it slams into my skull.
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