The day after the confrontation with Mrs. Westwood, the streets of Tacony are a sludgey, slushy mess as I trudge through them. Jordan’s next to me, silent, their thoughts probably miles away. We’re both just walking automatons, replaying the recent events in our heads. The cold bites at my cheeks, but I barely notice it. Everything feels a bit numb after yesterday.
As we reach the Tacony Music Hall, the building looms over us, a silent behemoth that’s become our refuge. Climbing the stairs feels more arduous than usual, every step heavy with the weight of what’s happened.
We finally reach the main room on the second floor. It’s quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that screams in your ears. I collapse onto my favorite rickety chair, its familiar creaks a small comfort. Jordan flops down onto the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Any luck, Spinelli?” I ask, my voice echoing slightly in the vast space. We had tasked him with trying to contact the owner of this place, hoping we could get permission to stay here legally.
Spinelli looks up from a pile of papers and an old laptop that’s seen better days. His face is a mix of frustration and helplessness. “Nope, nada. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack, except the needle might not even exist,” he says, pushing his hair back.
I sigh, leaning back in the chair. It’s not surprising, but it’s still disappointing. The whole situation feels like a ticking time bomb, and we’re just waiting for it to go off.
Jordan finally sits up, rubbing their face with their hands. “We can’t give up. There has to be someone, some record of who owns this place,” they say, determination lacing their voice.
“Yeah, but where do we even start? It’s not like the owner’s going to just waltz in and introduce themselves,” Spinelli replies, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
I glance around the room, at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming through the cracked windows. This place, for all its dilapidation, has become a home of sorts. Losing it now would be another blow, one I’m not sure I can take. Like, emotionally.
“We keep looking. We have to,” I state firmly, more to convince myself than them. “We’ve been through worse. We can handle this.”
Spinelli nods, though I can tell his heart’s not in it. Jordan just stares at the floor, lost in thought.
Jordan pulls out a wad of mixed bills, counting methodically. “We’ve got about thirteen grand from our… night jobs. Should cover a couple of months’ rent, if we find the owner.”
The idea of actually paying for this place feels weirdly formal, but necessary. It’s a sign we’re trying to do things right, despite the… the sticky situation we’re in. I’m under no illusions that we’ve actually managed to stop Mrs. Westwood. I’m sure she’s going to try to keep making our lives hell, even if she does it from the sidelines.
“I’ve been thinking,” I start, surprising myself with the words that follow. “Maybe we don’t need to contact the owner. Squatter’s rights in Philly are a thing, right?”
Jordan looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Sam, going rogue? I’m rubbing off on you.”
I shrug, feeling a mix of uncertainty and defiance. “Maybe. But it’s practical, right? We need a base, and we’re making this place better than it was.”
“Legality versus necessity, huh?” Jordan muses, leaning back against the wall, their gaze distant. “Never thought we’d be debating squatter’s rights in our superhero gig.”
I fiddle with a loose thread on the couch, my thoughts jumbled. “It’s not ideal, but what choice do we have? It’s not like we can just waltz into an apartment complex and sign a lease.”
Spinelli pipes up from his spot on the floor, his voice tinged with a simple honesty. “Why not? We got money, we got IDs. Can’t be that hard, right?”
Jordan chuckles dryly. “Spinelli, my man, ever heard of credit checks? Rental history? Plus, we’re minors.”
I nod, feeling a mix of frustration and amusement at Spinelli’s straightforward view. “Jordan’s right. And there’s also the fact that we’re, you know, vigilantes. Not exactly the sort of tenants landlords dream of.”
“So, what, we just claim squatter’s rights and hope for the best?” Jordan asks, skepticism clear in their voice.
“Well, it’s either that or keep moving from one abandoned building to another,” I point out. “At least here, we’ve made it… livable.”
Spinelli looks between us, his expression earnest. “I like it here. Feels like a superhero base, you know? Like in the comics.”
Jordan sighs, running a hand through their hair. “I get it. It’s just… this isn’t exactly how I pictured living the vigilante life. Hiding in a rundown music hall, dodging the law. I’d rather just find the guy and know whether or not I can stay here. I don’t like… transitory states.”
“Nice five dollar word. Studying for your SATs?” I let out a small laugh, despite the situation. “Welcome to the glamorous life of a superhero, right? Fighting crime by night, discussing property law by day.”
“Yeah, I am, actually. School’s like my one out for this. You know how much they pay vigilantes? Bupkis,” Jordan teases, flicking the air in a clearly telegraphed threat to flick my nose or my forehead again.
Our discussion is suddenly interrupted by a sharp knock on the front door, the sound echoing through the hollow halls of the music hall. We all freeze for a moment, the air going icy. Jordan’s the first to break the stillness, pushing themselves up from their slouched position.
“I’ll get it,” Jordan says, their voice carrying a hint of forced casualness. They stride purposefully towards the stairs, each step echoing with a mix of apprehension and determination. The rest of us exchange wary glances, the unexpected visitor stirring a sense of unease. Who could it be at this hour, especially after the events of the past few days?
I mean, it’s probably the agents with a warrant. I’m not stupid.
Jordan’s shout from downstairs pierces the quiet hum of our makeshift living room. “It’s one of the agents from yesterday,” they call up, tension tightening their voice. My heart skips a beat. Yesterday’s encounter with Mrs. Westwood and the NSRA agents still hangs over us like a dark cloud. “Just one!”
Spinelli and I exchange a look, a silent agreement passing between us. We can’t ignore this; there’s no running from what might be on the other side of that door. We make our way down the creaky stairs, each step echoing with age and fear.
Peering through the peephole, muscling Jordan aside, I see him — Agent Torres, standing alone, his expression unreadable. I look around, trying to see the other one – Agent Jennings – or even sort of half-expecting to see Mr. Polygraph and “Agent Evans”, but, no. It’s just Agent Torres.
“Should we let him in?” Jordan’s voice is laced with caution, their hand hovering over the door handle.
I nod, despite the unease twisting in my stomach. We need to face whatever this is, head-on. Jordan opens the door, and Torres steps inside, his eyes scanning the entryway quickly, likely a professional habit. As Agent Torres steps into the dimly lit room, he quickly flicks his gaze to each of our faces in turn, each of us wary and uncertain. He clears his throat, breaking the silence that had settled over us like snowfall.
“I’m here on my own accord, off the record” he begins, his voice steady but tinged with a sense of urgency. “What happened yesterday… it didn’t sit right with me. My partner let personal pride get in the way of national security. That’s… not great.”
Jordan, arms crossed, leans against the bannister, skepticism written all over their face. “So, what? You’re here to apologize?”
Torres shakes his head. “It’s more than that. I’m not comfortable with how Jennings handled things. But,” he adds quickly, “this doesn’t mean I’m backing down from the legal issues regarding Diane’s will.”
I grip the edge of the stair’s railings, my knuckles turning white. “So, what does it mean, then?”
He reaches into his coat, producing a sealed manila envelope. “This is about something bigger.” He hands me the envelope, and I feel the weight of it in my hands — it’s more than just paper. I mean that literally – there’s more than paper in it.
“This contains files on Chernobyl and security footage from Miasma’s raid,” Torres explains. “Consider it a gesture of goodwill. Or a mutual understanding. I’m not exactly a fan of Mr. Pleasants, given his history in handling sensitive operations, but I don’t believe he killed those men.”
I cautiously open the envelope, revealing its contents. Documents, photographs, and a USB cart lie inside. It’s a treasure trove of information, stuff Diane… had mostly already figured out. The photographs are new, though, and the cart of, presumably, footage, is welcome information.
“Yoink, I’ll take that,” Jordan quips, snatching the cart out of my hands while I look it over. “I’m not letting this run unsandboxed.”
Whatever that means.
“Mr. Torres,” Spinelli starts, “you do realize this could get you into serious trouble? Right?”
Torres nods, a grim expression on his face. “I’m aware. But sometimes, doing the right thing isn’t about following orders. It’s about making the hard choices. When I became an agent of the NSRA, I swore an oath to this country, and I’m doing what I think is best for her future.”
We exchange glances, each of us processing this unexpected alliance. Jordan steps forward, a newfound respect in their eyes, but skepticism in their eyebrows. “Thanks, I guess. For trusting us with this.”
Torres gives a slight nod, his gaze lingering on the envelope in my hands. “Just remember, we’re not exactly on the same side. But for now, our interests align.” He looks at us, his gaze lingering a moment longer on me. “I could be fired for this, or worse,” he admits, a hint of seriousness in his tone. “But I believe it’s the right thing to do. May I come in?”
With a wary mix of begrudgingness and acceptance, the four of us trod our way up the freshly carpeted stairs, Agent Torres’ dress shoes clacking against the surfaces. We lead him into the main room, our base of operations, still cluttered with our haphazard attempts at making it a home. He takes it all in, his expression a mix of surprise and something like respect. “Impressive,” he comments, a hint of genuine admiration in his voice. It feels weird, receiving praise from an NSRA agent, but I’ll take it.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to a chair. We nod, and he sits, his posture still maintaining that professional edge. “This is quite exceptional work given the resources I’m assuming you’re working with. Don’t tell me about any illicit funding, I’m not sure I’m allowed to hear it.”
Jordan and I share a glance. I decide not to mention Councilman Jamal illicitly feeding us his scraps. “Okay, I won’t,” Jordan says, earning a small, un-sincere sounding chuckle from Agent Torres.
Jordan stands in front of the corkboard, a physical map of our investigation into the Kingdom. Pushpins and strings connect various names and locations. “This is what we’ve been working on,” Jordan begins, pointing to a photograph pinned at the center. “The Kingdom has been operating through shell companies like Harbinger Holdings and Eclipse Enterprises. We’ve tracked their activities, but it’s a deep rabbit hole.”
Torres steps closer, his eyes scanning the board. “Impressive work. I recognize some of these connections. You’ve dug up a few leads we haven’t.“
“We cross-referenced public records, news articles, anything we could get our hands on,” Jordan continues, tracing a line of string to another section of the board. “Here, we linked a series of warehouse leases to one of their fronts. And this,” Jordan taps a picture of a nondescript building, “is where we hit pay dirt on Halloween night.”
Torres raises his eyebrows. “What happened there?”
“We caught them red-handed,” I chime in, feeling a mix of pride and apprehension. “Jordan recorded it.”
Jordan nods, pulling up the video on their laptop. “This might be hard to watch, but it’s crucial you see it.”
It’s gritty, shaky footage, but the content is explosive. Mr. Polygraph, commanding the room, his threats and instructions crystal clear. The Kingdom’s interest in Chernobyl is particularly alarming. Torres watches intently, his expression growing more grave by the second.
The video ends, and the room falls silent. Torres finally speaks, “This is… significant. Their interest in Chernobyl, that was known information from our leads with the Delaware Valley Defenders, but having it captured on video, this is great grist for the investigation. The hardest part is always catching them, and you just have… You just have them talking about it. Admitting to several crimes, violating federal anti-superhuman-conspiracy statutes… This is really great stuff.”
Jordan leans back, a mix of pride and anxiety on their face. “We’re not just playing dress-up here, Agent Torres.”
“Clearly,” he replies, glancing around the room.
Spinelli, usually the one to lighten the mood, remains quiet, his gaze fixed on Torres. The seriousness of the situation seems to weigh on him more than usual.
I look at Torres, trying to read his thoughts. “So, what now?” I ask, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside me.
Torres takes a deep breath, his duty as an agent warring with the revelations he’s just seen. “When I joined the NSRA, I swore to protect this country,” he starts, his voice firm. “And right now, that means working with you to stop whatever the Kingdom is planning.”
Spinelli, suddenly inspired, scrambles for his phone. “Wait, wait, check this out,” he says, swiping through his gallery. He holds up the screen to Torres. It’s the picture of Mr. Polygraph and someone we were told was “Agent Evans” at the NSRA office – the picture I took. I feel a thrill of fear and pride run through me at once. It’s a weird combination of emotions.
Torres squints at the image. “That’s… the same man from the video.”
“Mr. Polygraph,” I clarify. “They’re all Mr. and Mrs. whatever. I think it’s their weird supervillain gimmick.”
Jordan joins in. “They introduced themselves as Agent Parker and Agent Evans. But it’s the same guy from the warehouse, right?”
Torres nods slowly, processing this. “I can’t confirm agents by those names right now, but when I get back to the office, I can check our internal database. If they’re not listed, it’s a major violation. Impersonating an NSRA agent is no small crime.”
“Frankly, if they are listed, I think you guys have a bigger problem on your hands,” Jordan cracks. “Because then you have NSRA agents that are also members of a major criminal organization, that we’ve seen kill people.”
Agent Torres’ face blanches. “Yeah. I don’t think that’d be great,” he says, taking in the implication. “You saw him kill someone?”
I breathe out, a sudden wave of nausea overtaking me. My eyes clench shut. “Yeah,” I say.
Jordan leans in, a glint of grim satisfaction in their eyes. “So, what you’re saying is, we’ve got something that can put this guy away for good?”
Torres nods, his expression grave. “It could be a significant blow to their activities, at least in this area. But we need more than just this. We need concrete evidence, something undeniable. And something not caught illegally. We’ll need to do some parallel construction work…” he says, starting to mumble to himself.
“That’s where Chernobyl comes in,” I say, a plan forming in my mind. “If we can catch him, get him to testify against the Kingdom, it could be the break we’ve been looking for.”
Spinelli chimes in, his usual demeanor replaced by a dead serious tone. “And we need to do it fast. Who knows what kind of damage Chernobyl and the Kingdom can do if they’re left unchecked.”
Torres leans back in his chair, and then leans forward again, but just with his upper half, pressing his fingertips together. “Yeah. We’ve been leaving Chernobyl alone for now, since, as you might be able to guess, agitating someone that could turn Philadelphia into an exclusion zone for centuries is generally not on our to-do list. But if they’re trying to get to him first, to recruit him to their cause… well, Chernobyl isn’t exactly known for his fiscal responsibility.”
“He’s not?” I ask, feeling my heart drop. Is Torres about to lie to our face about how Chernobyl gets his funding, or is he simply uninformed? Or, another possibility arises in the back of my throat – was Chernobyl lying to Diane, making my phone footage worthless? I don’t really like either idea.
“We’re not exactly sure where he gets the funding to continue his criminal activities. You know, even just at the base level, how he gets food, drink, shelter. I–” Agent Torres begins, but I raise a hand to stop him.
“Agent Torres, are you willing to trust me?” I ask.
“No,” he replies, bluntly.
My face deflates. It was gonna be really cool! “Well… can I make a small request of you?”
“I can’t guarantee anything,” he replies.
“If you could prick your finger with a push-pin or something, then I could smell your heartbeat and it would let me see if you’re… telling lies or not. Just because we have some of our own intel on Chernobyl that doesn’t exactly sync up. I mean. That was my thought, anyway,” I explain, rubbing the back of my head with my hand.
“You can do that?” Spinelli asks, awed.
“Yes,” I lie. I mean, not a total lie. I can probably do that.
Agent Torres can’t help but smirk. “I appreciate your gusto. Part of my training, unfortunately, includes keeping my emotions calm under duress. Polygraphs, ha ha, are notoriously unreliable, and I’ve got my doubt that your powers would give you any particularly stronger insight,” he says, taking the wind out of my sails. My shoulders sag a little bit.
“Damnit,” I mumble.
“I mean, I’d do it anyway, if it’d help earn your trust. I just have my doubts about the efficacy of your technique,” he continues.
I wave him away. “No, no, it’s fine. You’re right. Wouldn’t give me anything useful, probably.”
There’s a couple of seconds of uncomfortable silence, something I’ve grown increasingly accustomed to.
Torres breaks it. “You mentioned you have different intel?”
“Just about his funding sources. Stuff in Diane’s notes. I figured the NSRA would know how he gets his money to, like, live,” I explain, not revealing my ace in the hole just yet.
“No,” he says, his expression souring. “As much as I’d love to strong-arm you into telling me what you know, I have a feeling that doing so wouldn’t be in either of our mutual interests,”
“Don’t even think about it, fed boy,” Jordan teases, making one of those camera viewfinder rectangle things with their fingers. Like, when you make an L with both hands, index and thumb, and then put them together so they make a rectangle.
“Anyway, I think a financial incentive for Chernobyl would make it significantly easier for the Kingdom to convert him to their aims. And given Chernobyl’s personal history, I don’t doubt it would work, either. So, obviously, we have to cut this off at the head before it gets any further,” Torres continues, as if none of the preceding awkward conversation bits had happened.
I raise an eyebrow. “What does that mean, ‘given his personal history’?”
“Well, he’s an exile from his home country, but still has living family. He’s a fugitive, so the federal government would never allow him a legitimate passport or citizenship, but the Kingdom could very easily forge one for him, to return home and see his wife and daughter. I think for a man of his psychology, that would be a very tempting carrot on a stick. I think he’d do innumerable crimes for the opportunity to see his family again,” Agent Torres explains, and as the words come out, I find myself nodding in agreement. “Plus, having disposable income means he can send it back to Ukraine for them. His wife isn’t exactly in a lucrative profession. As a nuclear engineer, he was the primary breadwinner for the household.”
I can’t say I don’t understand. I’d ki… Well… I’d do a lot to make sure my family was safe. Even if they’re a little overbearing sometimes.
“He was a nuclear engineer?” Spinelli asks, leaning in, extremely interested. “That’s awesome.”
“An extremely intelligent one. He did build his entire suit himself. A multi-disciplinarian. Either way, a lot of people can be convinced to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do using their loved ones as leverage. I think it’s extremely important we move fast,” he says, getting up and adjusting his suit and tie. “Now, ideally.”
“Now?” Jordan and I ask in unison.
“Are you going to, like, raid the Kingdom’s base?” Jordan asks.
“Wait, do you even know where Chernobyl is? I thought he was hard to find,” I follow up.
Torres smiles, but it’s clearly forced. Fake. A sort of businessman’s smile. The kind of tight-lipped smile a businessman makes before they bite someone. “We know exactly where he is,” he breathes out.
My annoyance bubbles up, almost spilling over, but I force it down. Torres’s revelation that they’ve known Chernobyl’s location for weeks sets my teeth on edge. “So, you knew where he was and did nothing? Just let him roam free?” My voice is sharp, edged with disbelief and anger.
Torres maintains his composure, but I can tell he’s treading carefully. “Our policy was to avoid provoking him unless he posed a direct threat. The plan was to monitor his movements until he left the city. We didn’t want to risk a confrontation in a populated area.”
“That’s insane,” Jordan interjects, their voice tinged with frustration. “He’s a walking nuclear threat, and you just let him wander around?”
Torres nods solemnly. “I understand your concern, but he’s been discreet. Using the city’s old subway tunnels has kept him under the radar. There’s a network of abandoned tunnels and stations under Philly – it’s part of the city’s history.”
I cross my arms, trying to process this. “Thanks for the civics 101 class. So, where is he now?”
“He’s been using the old Arch Street Subway station under the 1300 block as a base between his… activities,” Torres reveals. “It’s abandoned, remote, and secure. Perfect for someone like him.”
Spinelli whistles lowly. “That’s right under our noses.”
The room falls into a tense silence as we all consider the implications. Chernobyl, the man at the center of all this chaos, has been hiding in plain sight.
“And you’re telling us this now because…?” I probe, my gaze fixed on Torres.
“The Kingdom’s involvement changes the game,” he replies, his tone serious. “We can’t risk them getting to him first. If they recruit Chernobyl, the consequences could be catastrophic.”
Jordan leans in, a mix of curiosity and skepticism in their eyes. “So, what’s the plan?” they ask, their tone indicating they’re not fully on board with just sitting back.
Agent Torres, still standing, turns to face Jordan. “The plan, is for you three to stay out of it. I appreciate your help, but we’re dealing with dangerous criminals. I’ll take some of this information back to the office,” he says, gesturing towards Jordan’s laptop.
Jordan hesitates but eventually nods, allowing Torres to copy the necessary files. “I don’t care about ‘National Security,’” Jordan mutters, “I just want to grind the Kingdom down to dust.”
Torres nods, understanding. “That’s fine. I’m not going to court martial you for that.”
“But we can help,” I protest, feeling a mix of frustration and determination. “We’ve been tracking this for months.”
Torres shakes his head. “I know you want to help, but these are seasoned criminals. They won’t hesitate to harm you. I can’t let you put yourselves in danger, not in good conscience. You’re kids.”
I can’t help but interject, a faint murmur escaping my lips. “I think Chernobyl would hesitate,” but my voice lacks conviction.
Torres gives me a dismissive wave. “You might think so, but don’t bet on it. Leave this to the professionals. We’ll set up a perimeter and coordinate with local superhero teams to ensure that nobody gets in or out of the subway systems. Sorry to all the urban spelunkers.”
The room falls silent. It’s clear Torres isn’t going to budge on this. He treats the situation like it’s a ticking time bomb, too dangerous for us to be anywhere near.
He emphasizes his point as he finishes gathering the files, the documents, everything we’ve been working towards for months, “This is a delicate operation. I need you to promise me you’ll stand down. I’m here as a gesture of good will and cooperation with your team, but we’re not deputizing you. Don’t interfere.”
It’s painfully quiet, for a good five minutes, as he goes about his business. I feel… weird. I should be happy – our investigation is bearing fruit, and we’re getting it into the proper channels. As soon as they get their hands on Mr. Polygraph, he’s going away for good, for a good long while. I should feel great, really, knowing that things are going to be handled by adults.
But I don’t.
I don’t feel great at all.
Something unresolved clings at me, gnawing like a rat. Hanging over my shoulders. Weighing me down.
“Remember, stay safe and let the heroes handle this,” Torres says as he heads towards the door. “I’ll do what I can to redirect the heat away from Miasma, as a thank you for your cooperation. I believe Mrs. Westwood when she said she saw him here, but I’ll… take my time with the search warrant. I can tell he was here for a reason, and the so-called ‘agents’ showing up lead me to believe he’s been played.”
“Yeah,” I grumble. “That was our assumption,”
He tries to smile at me, but it doesn’t really take on his face. His jaw is a little too square and angular for it to work.
“Take care, you three,” he says, vanishing around the corner and then down the stairs.
As the door shuts behind him, a sense of helplessness settles over us. We’re back to square one, our hands tied by bureaucracy and red tape.
Jordan breaks the silence, their voice tinged with frustration. “So, that’s it? We just sit here and do nothing?”
“Are you kidding me?” I reply after waiting for the telltale sound of the front door shutting. “Get your boots on and stuff. We’re going right now.”
The ten minutes we wait feel like a year, me nervously peeking through the blinds every thirty seconds, checking, double-checking that Agent Torres isn’t coming back. Spinelli’s pacing, each step a thud against the old wooden floor, while Jordan just leans cool against the wall, all nonchalant, like we’re waiting for a pizza and not about to defy a federal agent’s direct order.
We step out into the chill, the cold gnawing through our clothes as we wait. The snow has turned to sludge beneath our feet, gray and uninviting, but we stamp our feet against it to keep warm. I watch our breath fog up in the air, mixing with the city smog. Our masks are shoved into Jordan’s backpack, along with the rest of our gear and equipment, while the basics of our costumes are layered underneath jackets and thermal pants.
The world is quiet in anticipation, or maybe that’s just in my head. Cars slide by, tires hissing against the wet road, and I find myself counting the seconds, the minutes, until our ride arrives.
Finally, headlights cut through the dreariness of the winter afternoon, and the Russian driver pulls up. His grin is immediate, a slash of confidence in an otherwise dreary day. “I get you there fast,” he repeats, and we believe him. We pile into the taxi, shoving the backpack under the seat, our gear secure, our hearts racing for what’s to come.
As soon as we’re in the taxi, it’s like the world outside transforms into a blur. The driver wasn’t kidding about fast. Buildings and cars turn into smears of color as we zip through the streets, the taxi’s engine growling like some caged beast finally let loose. Spinelli’s gripping the seat, knuckles white, while I’m trying to seem tough, not letting the speed faze me. But it’s Jordan who’s having the time of their life, laughing, whooping even, as if this mad dash through the city is the best rollercoaster ride ever.
I catch glimpses of the river, the bridges, the expanse of the city stretching out, all while my heart’s hammering in my chest. We’re doing this. We’re really doing this. Going against what we were told, because it’s what we have to do. It’s what Diane would have done, I tell myself. She didn’t play by the rules, not when it mattered, and neither will we.
The Russian driver doesn’t disappoint. He gets us there in eleven minutes, a new record I’m sure, and as we tumble out of the cab, my legs are shaky, but there’s this fire inside me, burning bright and hot. We’re ready. Whatever comes next, we’re ready. We have to be.
The cab halts, and we spill out into the grey slush of Philly’s winter, the bustle of Reading Terminal Market a stark contrast to the quiet, tense bubble we’ve been living in. I draw in a deep breath, tasting the city—the mix of street food, exhaust, and that faint tang of fear that’s been clinging to the air since Miasma’s breakout.
“Okay, focus, Sam,” I mutter to myself, trying to tap into my blood sense in a way deeper than subconscious. I might’ve mentioned it once or twice, but in a busy city street like this, I have pretty much perfect spatial awareness, at least on the ground, because someone’s always spilled blood on the sidewalk at some point. And even if the street cleaners come up, they don’t cleanse it of every single particle, and over time, it becomes this… patina. A lacquer of blood that I can just reach out and feel with my brain.
And, when necessary, I can feel where it isn’t. Where people aren’t. Where nobody bleeds, even in the alleyways.
Jordan and Spinelli are a step behind me, silent, trusting me to lead. I’m doing my best bloodhound impression, minus the sniffing — just sort of extending my senses out, feeling for the patterns of life around us, the thrumming of hearts, the rush of traffic. And there, west of the market’s chaos, is a stillness. A gap in the pattern where people don’t go, haven’t been. That’s our in.
We slip through the crowds, dodging a street musician here, a cluster of tourists there, until the noise fades and the city’s pulse changes. It’s quieter here, the sounds of life muffled, like we’re walking into a different world.
And then we see it — a nondescript service door, half-hidden by an out-of-service transit sign. It’s so normal-looking that it’s almost invisible, which is probably the point. It’s locked, but Jordan’s got this little electronic gizmo they’ve been itching to try out. Not that the lock is electric – it’s an old padlock – but the electric thing’s got some wobbly metal part at the end. Jordan crams it into the key slot and presses a button, and it makes a loud CLANG before the padlock just falls off.
“I could’ve done that faster with a paperclip. And quieter,” Spinelli brags.
“Yes you could’ve, snookums. This thing is a piece of shit,” Jordan agrees, pushing the door open.
We slip inside, and the door closes with a heavy, final thud behind us. It’s dark, but not pitch-black. There are cracks and crevices where light sneaks in, painting lines on the concrete. The air smells like rust and old water, and it’s cold, colder than outside, like the chill’s been waiting for us.
I can hear our breathing, see our breath fog in the air. Spinelli’s already got a flashlight out, sweeping it around, revealing the graffiti-streaked walls of the tunnel. We’re in. Now we just need to find him.
“Keep quiet,” I whisper, “and stay close.” My heart’s pounding a rhythm of anticipation and fear. We’re here to find a monster, after all. But as we start to walk deeper into the tunnel, I can’t help but feel a thrill. We’re doing something. Finally. We’re moving.
And somewhere ahead, in the dark, I’m sure Chernobyl’s heart is beating, waiting for us.
We’ve been scouring the underground for what feels like hours, but it’s only been fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of trailing my fingers along cold, damp walls, my senses stretched out like cobwebs, trying to catch a whiff of something hot, something that doesn’t belong.
“There,” I breathe, pointing to a splotch only I can see. “Chernobyl’s been here. His blood’s all… white-hot in my senses.”
Spinelli’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head, but Jordan just nods, accepting my weirdness without question. I wish I could see more, tell more, but Chernobyl’s not here. Not now. His presence is just a ghost, haunting these tunnels with the threat of what he’s become.
“Do we… wait for him?” I ask, the doubt creeping into my voice.
Jordan shrugs, kicking at a stray pebble. “What’s the rush? You wanted to get here first, right? Mission accomplished.”
I hate it when they’re right. I wanted to be proactive, get ahead of the game. But now we’re here, and it’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down and realizing you forgot to pack the parachute.
“You’re here to avenge Liberty Belle, aren’t you? That’s the goal,” Jordan says, their voice echoing slightly in the emptiness.
I look down at my hands, thinking of Diane — of Liberty Belle. Her strength, her resolve, it all feels like a legend now, something out of reach. I flex my fingers, imagining them as weapons, as tools of justice. But then I remember — Chernobyl, no, Illya, he has a family, a wife, a daughter. What justice is there in ripping them apart? Would I just be continuing the cycle Diane fell to?
And that’s when it hits me — the doubt, the hesitation, like punching me in the stomach. I’ve been so sure, so full of fire and fury, but now… Can I really do this? Can I face Illya and come out the other side? Can I even, like, physically do it? Liberty Belle was stronger, braver, better than I could ever hope to be. If she couldn’t stop him, what chance do I have? What am I really here for?
Jordan thumps me on the back, breaking me out of my reverie. “Chin up. At the very least, we have our surveillance stuff, we can set it up, get some pictures, get some more data, you know? Stuff for the others to use. It’s not a total waste.”
Jordan’s thump on my back feels like an anchor, pulling me back to the here and now. “Yeah, you’re right,” I whisper back, trying to rally the bits of my resolve that haven’t scurried off into the shadows yet.
Suddenly, the air changes, thickens, as if charged with an ominous current. A voice, too familiar and unwelcome, slices through the tension. “Au contraire,” it says, a cruel sneer in its tone.
The click of a gun being cocked is like a thunderclap in the silence. Spinelli’s flashlight beam catches a glint of metal and the round sunglasses that seem to mock us with their gleam. It’s him – the man who called himself Agent Evans. His presence chokes the space, more threatening than the cold metal he points at us.
He’s not alone. Behind him, the lumbering form of Mr. Mudslide, his brown paper bag mask a grotesque caricature, casts a shadow that seems to absorb the light, absorbing our hope along with it. Mudslide thumps his fist into his open palm, a little too enthusiastically, and I can tell already he’s happy as a clam.
Agent Evans’s proper introduction comes with the air of a final act, a curtain call on our little play. “They call me Mr. ESP,” he states, as if we’re supposed to be impressed — or maybe he just wants it to be the last thing we ever hear. “Today I woke up with ‘remote listening’. This made spying on the three of you extremely easy. So, I offer you my deepest gratitude for making an NSRA agent feel so guilty with your petty squabbles that he helped lead us right to Chernobyl. Thanks,” he gloats. His thank you is a hiss, a serpent’s gratitude for leading him straight to its prey.
“Go to hell,” Jordan spits, trying to move. But it’s no use – with total silence, the concrete has swallowed up Jordan’s boots, all the way to the ankle. They struggle fruitlessly against the liquid, and I don’t bother looking down to assess my own feet. I know, just by twitching my ankles, that I’ve been caught too.
“I’ll give you each five seconds. I’ll start with the scrawny one. Pick your favorite god, and start praying,” Mr. ESP threatens, his gun pointed at Spinelli’s head. His ultimatum hangs in the air, a sentence waiting to be executed. But it’s the silence that follows that’s truly terrifying—the countdown to what feels inevitable. I don’t want to pray. I want to fight, run, do anything but stand here waiting for the end.
Jordan and I exchange glances. I can tell the gears are turning in their head, too, but I can’t tell what they’re planning. We aren’t telepaths. I don’t know if they’re going to pull me in close or push them away.
I’m just going to have to trust them, and get really, really brave.
I try to calculate distances. We’re not too far – I could pounce, but before getting shot? Not likely. I’ve never been shot directly before – I’ve been shot at, I’ve been skimmed, but never penetrated all the way through by a bullet. I have a feeling that’s going to have to change very soon. Five seconds, he said. It’s a lifetime and a blink, all at once. And as the first second ticks by, I realize I don’t want to spend it praying or pleading.
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