I’m running. My feet slap against the icy, snow-covered pavement, each step a jolt of pain shooting through my battered body. I can barely feel my legs; they move on instinct, fueled by pure adrenaline and fear. My breath comes out in ragged gasps, misting in the cold night air. My throat burns from screaming, my voice now just a hoarse whisper. I don’t even know if I’m making any noise anymore.
The night is dark, the streetlights casting long, ominous shadows on the snow. It’s like running through a nightmare. Every shadow looks like Aaron, every sound makes me jump. I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see him there, with that crowbar, that insane look in his eyes. But there’s nothing. Just the empty streets and the sound of my own frantic breath.
My t-shirt is in tatters, barely clinging to my body, soaked in blood. My boxers are the same, and I can feel the cold seeping into my bones. I’m shivering uncontrollably, but I can’t stop. I have to keep moving, have to get away, have to find help.
Every step is agony. My body is a map of pain – the stab wounds, the broken bones, the raw, bloody stumps where my nails used to be. I try not to think about it, try not to remember the feel of the claw hammer tearing them out, one by one. But it’s all I can think about. The pain, the fear, the helplessness. The ecstasy of victory. The misery of agony. All of it blending together, vacillating back and forth like a jackhammer until it starts to ache somewhere deep in my consciousness.
I can see my breath in front of me, a white cloud in the darkness. It’s getting harder to breathe. My lungs feel like they’re on fire, my ribs screaming with every inhale. I’m dizzy, lightheaded. I know I’m losing blood, too much blood. But I can’t stop. I can’t let him catch me.
I pass by houses, windows dark and lifeless. No one’s awake, no one’s around to help. I’m alone in this, just like I’ve always been. Alone and running and scared.
But then, up ahead, I see lights. Movement. People. My heart leaps in my chest. Salvation. I push myself harder, ignoring the pain, ignoring the weakness that’s creeping into my limbs. I’m so close, so close to safety.
I reach the edge of the neighborhood, houses lining the street, cars parked along the curb. There’s a couple walking their dog, a man taking out the trash. They stop and stare as I stumble into the light, a bloody, broken mess. I try to call out, try to ask for help, but my voice is gone. All I can do is reach out, my hand shaking, my vision blurring.
And then, just as the couple starts to move towards me, just as I see the concern on their faces, everything goes black. I feel myself falling, the ground rushing up to meet me. And then nothing. Just darkness and silence and the end.
The world swims back into focus slowly, painfully. I’m lying on a couch I don’t recognize, my body aches at every movement. My head is pounding, and there’s a dull throb in my hands that I can’t ignore. I’m bandaged up, crudely, with strips of gauze and band-aids that look like they’ve been scavenged from a dozen different first aid kits. I’m wearing someone else’s clothes—a shirt that’s too big, fresh boxers, and sweatpants. The thought that someone undressed me while I was out cold makes my stomach churn.
There are people around me, a small crowd all sticking their necks out on the line for no reward. Faces I don’t recognize, all wearing expressions of concern and confusion. They’re talking, their voices a low murmur, but I can’t make out the words. It’s like I’m underwater, everything distant and muffled.
One of them, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and dark skin, wearing a sweater covered in cat hair, notices I’m awake. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she breathes. “Sweetheart, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”
My throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper when I try to speak. “No,” I manage, my voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper. “Where…?”
“You’re in our living room,” a man adds. He’s tall, with a gentle face and a baseball cap turned backward. “We found you outside, you just… collapsed. We’ve called an ambulance, they should be here soon, but with the blizzard…”
Blizzard? I try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forces me back down. That’s when I see them — the teeth protruding from the back of my hands. I try to push them back in, to hide them, or push them out, but my muscles refuse to cooperate either way. They’re just… there, a grotesque reminder of everything that’s happened. Everyone else seems to have made their peace with it. They don’t comment. I think assuming a girl covered in puncture wounds probably just developed superpowers is a good assumption to carry with you.
The woman gives him a look, kind of a mix of exasperation and amusement. “‘Our living room’, like that helps,” she chides gently. “Honey, you’re in Philadelphia, Tenth and Porter. We heard someone screaming for help and then found you in the snow. You were… well, you were just soaked in blood.”
I try to sit up a bit more, panic starting to well up inside me. “Did you see who…?”
“No, dear,” she says quickly, putting a hand on my shoulder to gently push me back down. “We didn’t see anyone else. Just you.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t know if they chased me and gave up, or never bothered, but the last thing I need is to drag some civilians into my bullshit.
Lying there, I let my gaze wander around the room, taking in the details of the house I’ve found sanctuary in. The walls are painted a soothing shade of pale blue, dotted with framed photographs of smiling people, places I don’t recognize. A large, well-worn couch, the one I’m lying on, faces a modest TV, surrounded by shelves crammed with books and knick-knacks. It feels lived-in, cozy.
A small, cluttered coffee table is right in front of me, stacked with magazines, remote controls, and a couple of half-finished puzzles. Beyond that, I can see into the kitchen, where a round wooden table is covered with a cheerful, flower-patterned tablecloth, surrounded by mismatched chairs. Pots of herbs sit on the windowsill, their leaves brushing against the frosted glass.
It gives the distinct impression of a house lived in by retirees. The room is spinning slightly, and I can feel cold sweat on my forehead. “How long… how long was I out?”
“About fifteen minutes,” the man says, checking his watch. “The ambulance should be here any minute now. You just hang in there.”
I nod, or at least I try to. Everything hurts. The woman, who I overhear someone call ‘Marge,’ moves closer, her brow furrowed in worry. “You’re safe here, dear. Just rest. What’s your name?”
“Sam,” I reply, my gaze fixed on my hands. The teeth feel foreign, like they don’t belong to me.
“Sam,” she repeats softly. “Well, Sam, I’m Marge, and this is Bill,” she gestures to the man with the cap. “You gave us quite a scare.”
A younger woman, maybe in her twenties, with a streak of purple in her hair, hands me a glass of water. “You lost a lot of blood,” she says. “You need to stay hydrated.”
I take the glass with shaky hands, grateful for the kindness of these strangers, these neighbors who didn’t hesitate to help a bleeding girl on their doorstep.
Bill kneels down beside the couch, his expression serious. “Do you remember what happened to you, Sam? Who did this?”
I shake my head, not wanting to drag them into my nightmare. “I… can’t remember.”
“We’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” Marge assures me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “The paramedics will be here soon.”
I nod, feeling the tears well up in my eyes. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming sense of gratitude. These people, they don’t know me, but they’re here, taking care of me in the middle of a blizzard. It’s more than I could have asked for.
I untense my hands, looking at my brutalized fingertips. Every one has been gently bandaged with bandaids, double-wrapped to avoid exposing the raw nailbed to the open air. I shift around a bit and feel the sloshing of antibiotic gel, the rough sensation of gauze on skin.
I try to take stock of my injuries. My skin is still pink and blistered in some places, which I think the group of saviors missed. I am definitely, without a doubt, concussed, and my left hand feels like all the bones have been turned into jelly. My left hand, the hand that I stabbed through to get Aaron’s knife away, and the one that Daisy went crazy with a hammer on, has already completely closed up. It left behind only an angry red line right through the middle on both sides, front and back, with the skin heavily inflamed. I feel scabs everywhere, itching and ready to fall off.
Most of my bandages are soaked in red and already starting to turn brown, but the stray blood has been wiped off, and I can still detect the faint after-stings of hydrogen peroxide, which my Mom informed me recently is actually not great for a cut. But the thought is still nice. It’s good to have a clean face, at least, even if I can smell every heartbeat I have. I can’t even count how many broken bones I probably have. Probably most of them.
A lot of my skin that isn’t angry infected red is angry broken bone purple, and the bits that aren’t are bruised and turning gross yellow. I’m a patchwork of angry colors and what I can already tell are extra teeth forming inside of my skin.
Outside, the wind howls, the snow falling in thick, heavy flakes. I’m safe, for now, surrounded by the warmth of strangers who’ve become my temporary guardians. The chatter of concerned neighbors turns into a soft mush, and I close my eyes again as the last dregs of adrenaline dump out of me, vanishing into exhaustion.
The world is a blur, a muffled cacophony of sounds and sensations that barely register in my foggy brain. I’m vaguely aware of being moved, hands gently but firmly guiding me onto a stretcher, the cold bite of the winter air replaced by the sterile warmth of an ambulance. I drift in and out, catching snippets of conversation that sound distant, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel.
“…severe trauma… multiple contusions… to stabilize her first…” The voices are calm, professional, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency that even my muddled mind can pick up.
I feel the ambulance moving, the sirens a faint wail in the background. My body is a map of pain, every jolt of the vehicle amplifying the agony. I want to scream, to tell them to stop, to be gentle, but I can’t find my voice. It’s lost, just like I am, in this sea of hurt and confusion.
In the haze, I catch glimpses of faces leaning over me, their features blurred. Someone is pressing something against my skin, bandages, maybe. There’s the sharp sting of a needle, sharp pressure against the back of my hand, and then a cool wave of relief as whatever they’ve given me starts to work.
At the hospital, I’m a passive observer in my own rescue. I hear snippets of conversation as they wheel me through the corridors.
“…never seen anything like it… teeth in her knuckles…”
“…radiologist… teeth… immediate surgery…” The conversations continue, a litany of my injuries cataloged with clinical detachment. Broken bones, stab wounds, concussions… It’s a list of traumas, a testament to my recent hell. But there’s a sense of wonder, too, disbelief.
I try to process their words, but they slip away from me, elusive and fragmented. It’s all too much, too overwhelming. I’m drowning in a sea of pain and incomprehension.
Then there’s a new sensation, a drowsy heaviness that pulls me down into darkness. I welcome it, eager to escape from the nightmare my life has become. The voices fade, the pain recedes, and I surrender to the oblivion, praying for a respite from the hellish reality waiting for me when I wake up.
I’m standing in the bathroom of Lily’s house, staring at my reflection in the mirror. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m supposed to be getting ready for the party. But all I can do is look at myself, at the marks and scars that map out the past few days on my body. I’m still muscular, yeah, but now I’m also pockmarked with stab wounds, stitches where they had to remove teeth from my bones, slashes, cuts, and bruises that are turning yellow. It’s like looking at a stranger, again, and again, and again.
I gingerly touch the gauze wrapped around my left hand, protecting the tender stab wound. It’s weird, feeling the bandages instead of my skin. And then there’s my right hand, gloved to cover the missing nails. The doctors were confused about the whole teeth thing, but I managed to explain it away. My powers make healing faster, but they don’t do anything for growing back nails. That’s a slow and strangely painful process.
I turn my hand over, looking at the splints, braces, and bandages that cover my arms. There’s also a soft neck brace, something I’ll have to hide under a turtleneck because of the concussion and the severe neck injuries I was told I sustained. Now, there’s just patchworks, stitches and stitches all over my body where they had to cut teeth out before they caused more inflammation, more trauma.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and there’s a party with the Young Defenders. I should be excited, but it’s hard to feel anything other than a dull ache, both physically and emotionally.
I reach for the clothes I’ve laid out. Something nice, but not too fancy. It’s a party, but I’m not really in a party mood. I slip into the clothes, a soft shirt that’s gentle against my bruised skin, and pants that are comfortable but still look good. The turtleneck is next, carefully pulled over my head to hide the neck brace. It’s a bit of a struggle, but I manage it.
Looking in the mirror again, I see a version of myself that’s ready to face the world, or at least a New Year’s Eve party. The bruises and cuts are hidden, the bandages and splints barely noticeable. But they’re still there, underneath. Just like the fear, the pain, and the uncertainty.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. It’s just a party. I’m just going to be with my friends, my team. People who care about me, who’ve been there for me. I shouldn’t be afraid, but I am. Afraid of breaking down, of showing just how not okay I am.
I take one last look in the mirror, trying to find the strength that I know is in there somewhere. The strength that got me through the last few days, that’s kept me going through everything. It’s there, under the surface, waiting for me to tap into it.
I turn off the bathroom light and step out into the hallway. Lily is there, waiting for me. She looks at me, a mix of concern and something else in her eyes. Maybe pride, maybe just friendship.
“You ready to go?” she asks, her voice gentle.
I nod, even though a part of me wants to just crawl into bed and forget the world exists. “Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s order a taxi.”
Lily smiles and pulls out her phone, tapping away to get us a ride. I stand there, in the hallway, feeling like I’m on the edge of a cliff.
The Delaware Valley Defenders HQ is buzzing with a mix of laughter and music as I step inside with Blink. I feel a cocktail of emotions swirling inside me – excitement, nervousness, a bit of dread. It’s like stepping into a different world, one where the shadows of Chernobyl and Aaron and the Kingdom don’t loom over us.
As we walk in, the smell of air freshener hits me, masking the usual scent of sweat and metal that lingers in the training room. Someone, probably Crossroads, has gone all out cleaning the place. It’s a nice touch, makes the HQ feel less like a battleground and more like a place to unwind.
The locker room and the computer/meeting room have been transformed. Colorful lights dance across the walls, and party stuff is scattered about, giving the place a festive vibe. At the center of it all is Playback, who’s managed to lug in some gigantic apparatus to play Super Smash Brothers Melee, with Gamecube controllers plugged into some 3d-printed doohickey that’s plugged into the cart port of the computer. A few team members are already engrossed in the game, their cheers and groans filling the room.
I spot Jamila first. She’s wearing her favorite bomber jacket, the one with the intricate designs on the back, and she’s laughing at something Puppeteer is saying. Puppeteer, decked out in a glittery top that catches the light as she moves, seems to be in her element, her laughter infectious.
Crossroads is busy chatting with Rampart near the makeshift bar. Crossroads is in some laid-back attire, jeans and a tee, as opposed to Rampart’s more formal look with a button down and slacks. I can’t help but smile; even off duty, Rampart looks like he could bench press a truck.
Gossamer flutters around the room, her immaculately designed outfit shimmering with every step, making her look like a living, breathing piece of art. She’s talking animatedly with Lily, who’s got this wide-eyed look, like she’s seeing everything for the first time.
Then there’s Spindle. He’s standing a bit awkwardly to the side, still finding his footing among us. Jordan is with him, their arm looped through his. I’m a little surprised to see Jordan here, given their known animosity for the “super-cops”, but I guess getting to see their boyfriend(?) and their best friend(?) in one place sort of overrides that.
As I make my way through the crowd, the team greets me with various degrees of enthusiasm. Crossroads gives me a nod and a smile, Puppeteer waves excitedly, and Rampart offers a respectful nod. Playback pauses his game to say hi, and Gossamer tip-taps over to give me a gentle hug.
I find myself gravitating towards Jamila. She looks up as I approach, her smile softening. “Hey, Bee,” she says, her voice just above the music. “Glad you could make it.”
I nod, trying to push back the jumble of thoughts. “Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, but my voice sounds a bit strained even to my own ears.
As I weave through the party, I spot Spindle and Jordan, leaning against the wall, their heads close together, chatting. I sidle up to them, catching the tail end of their conversation.
“…and then I just crashed in the corner over there,” Spindle says, gesturing towards a shadowed alcove near the back of the room, a sheepish grin on his face. “Hey, when you’re trying to balance superhero life with, well, just trying to survive, you find the weirdest places to catch some Z’s.”
Jordan chuckles, shaking their head with a mix of amusement and sympathy. “You’re a piece of work, Connor. But hey, at least you’ve got a roof over your head now, even if it’s our locker room.”
I join in the laughter, feeling a pang of empathy for Spindle. “Gotta say, you’re handling the superhero gig pretty well, all things considered.”
Spindle shrugs, the corners of his mouth turning up in a modest smile. “Thanks, Bee. It’s definitely better than the alternative. And hanging out with you guys? That’s a bonus.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a genuine warmth at Spindle’s inclusion. It’s weird, thinking about how things were just a couple of weeks… was it weeks? Weeks ago. Now here he is, part of the team, part of this weird family we’ve cobbled together. The family I still exist on the periphery of.
Jordan smirks, their eyes sparkling with mischief. “Don’t get too comfy. This lot is a handful, especially this one.” They nudge me playfully. It’s nice, seeing Jordan like this, relaxed and almost happy, even among people they wouldn’t be caught dead with otherwise.
Suddenly, the sound of clinking glass echoes through the room, and we all turn to see Crossroads standing on a chair, a bottle of sparkling cider in one hand and a glass in the other. “Attention, everyone! I think it’s time we did the whole cheesy toast thing. You know, New Year’s and all.”
There’s a collective groan from the team, but it’s good-natured. We gather around, glasses being passed around, some filled with cider, others with just water. I take one, the cool glass feeling odd in my bandaged hand.
Crossroads clears his throat, waiting for quiet. “I know this year has been… a lot,” he starts, his voice steady. “We’ve seen some tough times, lost people we cared about,” he glances at me, and I feel my heart tighten, “but we’ve also seen what we’re capable of when we work together. We’re more than just a team; we’re a family. And families stick together, no matter what.”
He raises his glass. “To those we’ve lost, to those we’ve found, and to the battles we’ll face together. Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year,” we all echo, the clink of glasses mingling with our voices. For a moment, there’s a sense of unity, of shared purpose. People drink. I drink. It’s just water, despite the momentary thrill in my heart that it might’ve been alcohol. Sure, it wouldn’t have done anything, and it would’ve tasted like gasoline, but it would’ve given me an opportunity to show off a cool party trick.
Then, the moment passes, and the party resumes.
Playback cranks up the music again, and Puppeteer drags Gossamer onto an impromptu dance floor. They move with a grace and energy that’s infectious, and soon others join in, mostly laughing, Rampart doing the Macarena to every single song.
I hang back, watching them. Jamila comes over, nudging me gently. “You should dance,” she says, her eyes bright.
I shake my head. “Not really in the dancing mood,” I admit.
She nods back at me.
Instead, we find a quieter corner, just observing the party. Playback is trying to breakdance, much to everyone’s amusement. Rampart and Lily are engaged in a deep conversation, their heads close together. And Jordan and Spindle, they’re just enjoying the moment, being together.
I lean back against the wall, feeling the thrum of the music through my body. There’s a lot going on in my head, a lot I still need to figure out.
“You’re… injured,” Jamila observes, quietly running her fingers across my bandaged left hand. “Bad.”
“No big deal. Just got into a little spat,” I reply, trying to downplay it, staring at the ceiling.
Jamila frowns at me, out of the corner of my eye. “I know how much it takes to hurt you, Sam. What happened?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I repeat, trying to get her to drop it without saying as such out loud. I know I should be working with the team but I just can’t drag them into this on what’s supposed to be a nice day like this. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Jamila says, sighing. She leans her head on my shoulder. It feels weirdly sterile, like a hug made out of iodine. Her skin is cold, and her hijab is bunching up against my sweater’s neck. “I’m worried about you. Ever since… Ever since Liberty Belle died,”
“Please,” I cough through grit teeth. “It’s all good.”
“I haven’t seen you in two weeks, Sam,” Jamila mutters.
I look at her, trying and failing to hide my surprise. Is that how long it’s been? Time has sort of lost its meaning. She could be lying to my face and I would believe her, because the days have all blurred together, and the concussion I’m nursing certainly isn’t helping matters.
“Yeah,” I finally say, my voice barely above the music. “I guess it has been. Sorry.”
Jamila shifts, her gaze searching mine. “Is this… us, Sam? Is this what we are now? You disappearing into your… triple life and me just waiting?”
I wince, feeling a pang of guilt. “J, it’s not like that. It’s just been… hectic. You know, with everything going on.”
“But that’s just it,” she insists, her voice tinged with frustration. “It’s always something. The team, the fights, the injuries… When do we get to be just… us?”
I don’t have an answer to that. The truth is, I don’t know. Between being Bloodhound and just trying to keep my head above water, I haven’t had time to think about ‘us’. Already, I feel like the distinction between Bloodhound and Samantha Small is blurring together. I’m getting attacked in the street. My house got destroyed by a supervillain.
“Jamila, I…” I start, but the words don’t come. How do I explain what I don’t fully understand myself? “I don’t know if there is a me. I don’t know if I can draw a line.”
She sighs, pulling back slightly. “I just miss you, Sam. I know we have our duties and all that, but just try to make some time for the rest of your life too, okay? I like going to concerts with you.”
I feel my throat tighten. “I miss that too,” I admit, the words barely audible over the noise of the party. “But I don’t know how to… I can’t just stop being Bloodhound. Belle…”
I don’t talk about the journals. I wish I could, but my throat locks up. What if the NSRA or the Kingdom come for Jamila next, too?
Jamila nods, her expression softening. “I know. And I’m proud of you, for everything you do. It’s just… I don’t know, it’s so easy for me to split these things in two. Is there room for Jamila in there, superheroine?”
“There is,” I say quickly, too quickly. “There’s always room for you.”
But even as I say it, I wonder if that’s true. The doubt must show on my face because Jamila gives me a sad smile.
“Let’s just enjoy tonight, okay?” she says, leaning in to kiss me. It’s a soft, sweet kiss, but it feels like a band-aid over a wound that’s still bleeding. I kiss her back, my eyes slipping shut for a moment.
When she pulls away, she doesn’t say anything more. She just turns and heads back into the party, leaving me standing there, feeling more lost than ever. I watch her go, her laughter mingling with the others’, and I wonder if this is just how it’s going to be. Me, always on the outside, looking in.
As the party continues, I can feel myself starting to unwind, just a bit. The music, the laughter, the casual chatter – it’s all helping to loosen the knots in my shoulders, the tension that’s been coiling tighter and tighter since… well, since everything happened.
It’s around 11 PM, three hours into the party, when Rampart finally decides to address the elephant in the room – my bandages and splints. We’re all lounging on some beanbags and couches thrown together in a makeshift lounge area when he turns to me, his brow creased with concern.
“Sam,” he begins, his voice gentle but firm, “we all know you’re tough as nails, but those bandages… That’s not normal, even for you. What happened?”
I feel a knot form in my stomach. I’ve been dreading this question all night, knowing it would come up eventually. I glance around the room, seeing the expectant faces of my teammates – my friends. I sigh quietly, and fold inward.
“I… got into a bit of trouble,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper. “With the Phreaks.”
The name seems to echo in the room, a ripple of tension passing through the group. Spindle, who had been fiddling with a controller, suddenly goes rigid, his eyes snapping to me.
“The Phreaks?” he blurts out, louder than he probably intends. “You tangled with them?”
I nod, feeling a flush of heat rise to my cheeks. “Yeah, it was… messy.”
Spindle’s face is a mix of shock and anger. “Why didn’t you tell me? And… why you?”
I know it’s not intended to be a joke, but the way he cocks his head is almost funny. Like, why you, Sam? You’re such a small fry.
I look at him, my throat tight. “I didn’t want to drag you back into that world, Spindle. It was my fight.”
“But we’re a team,” he insists, his voice rising. “We should be there for each other, no matter what. Right?”
He looks to Rampart and Puppeteer for approval. Rampart shoots him a very lackluster thumbs up, as if this was part of some sort of lesson he was trying to teach him.
Spindle looks back at me. “Fam sticks together, you know?”
I can see the others looking at us now, the room’s energy shifting from relaxed to tense. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts.
“It’s not just the Phreaks,” I continue, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. “There’s this guy, Aaron McKinley. He’s… well, he’s a gangster, a tough guy. He can set things on fire with his eyes. He tried to beat me with a crowbar. You know, to death. Failed, obviously.”
There are murmurs around the room, a mix of disbelief and concern. I can see the questions in their eyes, the unspoken worries. Then, the spoken ones.
Puppeteer leans forward, concern etched on their face. “Sam, why didn’t you tell us? And how come the hospital didn’t inform any of us? I mean, they should’ve at least notified someone from the team.”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of their stares. “I… I asked them not to. Told them to keep it under wraps. You know, after I gave them my LUMA number,” I say, reciting it in my head – 438-057-63 – “they just… they followed my lead. I think I’ve been in the hospital more times than any of you guys. Did you know they’re allowed to not tell people you’ve been hospitalized, if you have a JLUMA and you beg and plead for them not to enough? They just… accepted ‘I am being chased by a gangster who assaulted me in public and tried to set me on fire, and he will go after my parents and friends if he knows who they are’ as an excuse. I didn’t know that would work!”
I glance around the room, seeing a mix of understanding and frustration. Rampart nods – he’s been with me to the ER on the two occasions so far that I’ve broken my wrist on a sandbag – but Puppeteer’s face just goes sour like she sucked on a lemon. I can tell they wished they knew earlier. That they could’ve prepared for it and been here to support me.
Crossroads just looks at me and purses his lips. I don’t meet his gaze. He probably knew.
But they all have their hands full enough. This is my problem. I laugh nervously. I cut the silence with my butter knife words.
“Still here, guys! He’s teamed up with the Phreaks to take revenge on me,” I add. “For helping put Patches away. But I think there’s more to it. I can’t put my finger on it, but it doesn’t seem like simple revenge. I don’t think he’d give a shit about them otherwise. He set Daisy on fire.”
The room is silent now, everyone processing what I’ve said. I can feel their support, their readiness to stand with me, but also their concern. Spindle is looking at me in mute horror, not even capable of processing something silly and impulsive to say. Jordan is trying extremely hard to avoid crushing their red solo cup in their hand out of anger. Gale doesn’t look me in the eye. She looks elsewhere.
“He… what?” Spindle asks, after what feels like an eternity of quiet.
“So, I was tied up in a basement, and I taunted Daisy until she took my powers to try and get her to cut the ropes. I guess Aaron knew that wouldn’t be good, so he lit her hair on fire to get her to take his powers instead. And it took, like, a solid three minutes of Mean Girls insults before she switched off of his power in the first place. I don’t think he gives a shit about Patches, or the Phreaks, outside of using them to try and get to me,” I say, not looking at anyone. Instead, I stare at my sneakers.
Nobody is saying a word. They’re all just looking at me. I suck in air between my teeth. “By the way, just while we’re clearing the air, Liberty Belle left me all her investigation notes and detective equipment and now the NSRA is chasing me because they think I’m a threat to national security. So, apologies if I haven’t been all too here the past couple weeks. It’s been pretty crazy.”
It all comes out before I really have an opportunity to stop myself. I try not to get passive aggressive at Gale too much, but I can tell without needing to look, just from the way she flinches in my periphery, that I hurt her. It doesn’t feel good. The music playing in the background is almost so incoherent with the mood that it makes me want to laugh.
“Oh, and, by the way, I’m a freak of nature. You know, more than your usual superhero. Found that out a couple days ago, too. How do you think I escaped four supervillains, each with powers, who all wanted me dead, and had me tied up in a chair?” I ask, glancing around the room. “Any guesses? Seriously, anyone?”
“You… are a werewolf?” Playback asks, trying to crack a grin. It doesn’t really work, but I laugh anyway.
“Close!” I reply, trying not to shout. So, instead, I just squeeze my hand. And I squeeze, and I squeeze, and I squeeze, clenching up like I’m taking a shit, sorry Mom, until I feel something small and hard emerge from the tips of my pointer finger. And it keeps emerging, and it keeps emerging, until the shark tooth is fully extended, pearly white, and glistening in the rainbow lights in the party. “Ta-da! I’m literally full of teeth.”
The room falls silent as I reveal the shark tooth emerging from my finger, a tangible symbol of the freakish new reality I’m grappling with. The tension is palpable, a mix of shock, concern, and a strange kind of fascination among my teammates.
Playback tries to lighten the mood with a weak joke, but it falls flat. “So, uh, do you floss all of them, or…?” he asks, trying to smile. It’s a lame attempt, but I appreciate the effort to break the ice.
Rampart is already thinking ahead. “This could be an asset in the field,” he muses, his tone analytical. “We need to consider how this changes our approach in operations,” he says, and I can tell he’s trying to pull things back to systems normal. Not for his sake, but for mine.
Gossamer looks at me with a mixture of worry and curiosity. “Sam, your costume… will it need any alterations to accommodate… um, this?” She gestures towards my hand.
I… retract the tooth, something I’ve been practicing at, and feels exactly like shitting in reverse. It is not a sensation I would wish anyone else has to feel. I feel the tooth returning to its little space under my finger, and wince. I think if I get to use this, I’ll just… eject them. That’s easier. “I… I haven’t thought that far ahead yet,” I admit, my voice barely above the music.
The room is still tense, but slowly, a sense of solidarity begins to seep in. Puppeteer leans forward, her expression serious. “Whatever you’re going through, Sam, we’re here for you. You’re not alone in this. You saw me at my lowest, and we’re here to see you at yours.”
“That sounds weird,” Playback quips, gently nudging Puppeteer’s shoulder.
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Gale reaches out, her touch gentle on my arm. “We’ve got your back, Bee,” she says softly, and I can hear the sincerity in her voice, and I feel better. For a moment. “We’ve seen you at your strongest, Sam. But we’re here for you in your weakest moments too. You don’t have to be the hero all the time.”
I squeeze her hand, grateful for the support but still feeling like a freak show attraction. “Thanks, guys. It’s just a lot to process, you know? Being a superhero is one thing, but being… whatever I am now, it’s different.”
My thoughts, for a moment, turn to Miasma. Whatever’s happened with his powers, he’s now constantly rotting, and I can’t help but think that it might be me. Me in a year, or two, or ten. Will I become like Deathgirl? Will I just be teeth? Their words, though meant to be encouraging, only serve to remind me of how much I’ve changed, how much I’ve lost and gained in such a short time. Liberty Belle’s death, the Phreaks, Aaron McKinley, my new powers, the NSRA – it’s all a tangled mess in my head.
I glance around the room, at the faces of my teammates, my friends. They’re all looking at me with something akin to admiration, but all I can see is the concern, the worry.
“I appreciate the help, guys,” I murmur, my voice barely above the music. “I just… need some time to figure all this out.”
“Don’t you worry, Bee. I’ll go tell Clara and we’ll–” Puppeteer starts, and I see Crossroads wince before the anxiety even hits me. I consider the idea for a moment, and fear bubbles up inside of me like a pot of water flash boiling with a rocket fuel flame.
“NO!” I find myself shouting without any actual control over my lungs. Everyone flinches away from me like I just swung my arms in a killing arc. “Sorry. No. No, don’t… make this their problem.”
“You got… like, tortured, dude. They can’t just do that,” Playback murmurs, out of bravado, running on empty.
Gossamer steps forward out of the semicircle of concerned teammates and reaches for my wrist, but I yank it away, feeling the panic rising in my throat like so much stomach bile. “No, I think what Bee wants is for us to–“
“No, no, no, no, NO!” I shout, feeling pinned between their good intentions and the wall. My hands come out in front of me like I’m bracing for impact. I suck in air between my teeth and pant for breath. “No. Just. Forget about this. I don’t want to be thinking about this right now. Just pretend it didn’t come up, okay?”
Everyone looks at me like I have five heads and I just ruined their night, and it makes me want to rip my eyes out. To grab my head at the neck and pull upwards until it comes loose from my spine. I slowly lower my hands, feeling my entire body race with adrenaline. “Just, please… I just want to have a fun night where nothing happens. It’s New Years. Can we table this? Please? No villains. No gangsters. No meddling. Just… leave it. Please.”
The air is still outside of my pleas, and they hang like carbon monoxide in between all of us. People aren’t sure where to look. Almost everyone glances at Crossroads and Puppeteer. Puppeteer is looking at Crossroads. Crossroads is looking at me.
He sighs. “You heard her. Sam, go take ten outside, okay? I think you could use some fresh air. We’re tabling it.”
Knowing what I know about him and his powers, I trust his decision implicitly. My body is still shaking, my veins throbbing inside of me, trying to escape. But he’s probably seen this conversation dozens of times already. I trust him.
Then, I get up and step outside for some air. The airlocks click shut behind me. I keep an eye out for crowbars, expecting to be assaulted any second now, but in the cold snowy night, nothing happens.
I breathe, and it turns into smoke in front of me. I look at my fingertip. I squeeze.
“Five… four… three… two… one…! Happy New Year!”
I squeeze Gale close on the couch, raising a small plastic cup full of sparkling cider, my other hand hooked around her waist, my lips on Gale’s. Always told it was good luck to pass through the new year kissing someone, never had an opportunity to put it into practice. She pulls away with a smile in her eyes and leans her head down in my lap.
I’m trying to pretend nothing happened. I’m trying so hard.
I squeeze her side with my gloved hand, the one without nails anymore. It hurts.
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