MM.1

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The streets of Northeast Philadelphia are like arteries after dark, veins pulsing with the low-thrum lifeblood of the city–petty crimes breeding in the shadowed corners. The big-name capes don’t swoop in here; they’re off chasing the limelight, battling monsters that could level city blocks. Philadelphia doesn’t have Supermen. Not anymore. No fun rights to wrong.

Here? It’s the kind of wrong that’s as quiet as it is persistent–gritty trouble that festers unchallenged, like a moldy wound.

Whispers flit through the alleys and back lots, rumors of a fresh face that’s been daring to stand against the tide of trouble. They say there’s a new hero in town, not forged in radioactive fires or gifted by some cosmic coincidence. No, this one’s homegrown–spurred by the kind of slow-burning, streetwise bravery that’s born from years of scraping by, not a thunderbolt from the blue.

I tuck into the dim-lit alley behind Tom’s, my dad’s favorite pub, the shush of traffic on Frankford Ave a murmuring backdrop. The walls are a mosaic of worn bricks and peeling gig posters–a timeline in layers. I’ve got a duffel bag with me, nondescript and scuffed, its contents more valuable than gold to a girl like me.

I pull the zipper with a jagged motion and suit up. The gear feels like a second skin now: taser glove clicking into place with a near-silent promise of pain, a pepper spray dispenser that hugs my wrist just so, and a set of battered goggles that cling to my temples. This is the armor of Miss Mayfly, more tech scavenged than store-bought, each piece a triumph against long odds.

My friends, the not-so-merry band I’ve come to rely on, they’re the real geniuses behind the kit. There’s something about the way Mite can jury-rig a busted TV remote into a gadget worth its weight in brass. And Ant’s schemes? They’re the kind of brainwork that could’ve landed them in any high-end prep school, pulling straight A’s instead of planning heists on the crooked. We’re a hodgepodge crew of nobodies, really, each one sticking to the other like we’re the only thing that matters–because maybe we are.

I palm a mini-drone from the bag and let it skitter to life between my fingers, its camera lens winking a cyclopean hello. “You good, Mite?” My voice rasps into the comms, the sort of throaty call sign whisper that I’ve practiced in the mirror more times than I’ll ever admit. There’s comfort in the anonymity it grants me, the handle becoming something close to a war cry.

“Miss Mayfly, we’re golden,” Mite’s tinny voice comes through, somewhere between laughter and focus. “You’ve got eyes in the sky, and Ant’s itching to tag some delinquents. Go kick some ass, but, you know, be safe and stuff.”

A grin slashes across my face, invisible beneath the mask. These are the moments that matter–the minutes before I step out and do something so small yet so huge. With a last glance at the assortment of cobbled together safety gear lining the belt at my waist, I push off the wall. The night awaits, a canvas wide open with the possibility of good deeds and bruised knuckles. I stride out of the alley, eyes scanning for the first sign of trouble to stamp out.

After all, this isn’t just a game we’re playing. It’s a statement. I might not have the kind of firepower Sam’s rocking, but Miss Mayfly has her own kind of buzz. Let the whole damn city hear it.

My earpiece crackles, and Ant’s voice pours in like the soundtrack to the night’s caper–part command, part conspiratorial whisper. “Fly, you’re on the clock. T-minus ten to intercept. Perps are small-time crooks, but they’re racking up a serious score card. We need eyes on the prize before they strike again.”

My footsteps are soft against the pavement, my form just another patch of shadow in the city’s blind spots. You learn to love the dark when you’re made of meat and bones–no glow-in-the-dark genes to give you away. Every puddle is a potential alarm bell, every crumpled chip bag a landmine. I steer clear, my gait easy, my mood light–strange, considering the task at hand.

Moth’s giggle sneaks in through the comms, tinny and mischievous. “Make sure you’re not spotted, Fly. It’s hard to be incognito when you’re caught on someone’s forum post.”

“Thanks, Moth, hadn’t considered that with all the capes and cowls in my wardrobe,” I retort, the sarcasm sitting easy on my tongue like it’s second nature.

Wasp chimes in, a tease woven into every syllable. “Maybe if you did less brooding in alleys and more running on rooftops, we’d have more than just petty thieves to chat about.”

“Ah, come on now, I leave the brooding to the bats and bird-themed heroes,” I counter. “I prefer my two feet firmly on the ground. More room to dance when things get hairy.”

“Alright, lovebirds, let’s not forget there’s a job to do,” Ant’s voice is the rap of a ruler on a desk, back to business in a beat. “Marcus, you got her?”

Mite’s voice, a blend of nerves and excitement, fills my ear. “Miss Mayfly is armed and fabulous. GPS is locked in. I’ve got your six, twelve, three, and nine. You’re like a human dart headed for the bullseye. Only, you know, slower.”

“Much appreciated, Mite. I’m getting quite the visual with all that navigation chit-chat,” I say, a smirk curling unseen under my mask. It’s true, though; the chatter steadies the heartbeat, keeps the chill from gnawing at my spine as I step past the cones of yellowed light spilling from the streetlamps.

And just like that, we slip into the easy banter of teenage life–of lockers and lunch bells, of tests we’ve blown off and crushes we won’t admit to. It’s strange how natural it feels, weaving in and out of pedestrian worries as the GPS hums in my ear, as my friends guide me through the darkened arteries of Philly like some kind of strolling smart-bomb with a wicked right hook.

This isn’t just any mission–it’s ours, built on shared secrets and a stubborn refusal to let the big-shots handle everything. And as I pass by the silhouettes of trash cans and the steel whisper of chain-link fences, I can almost feel the simmering electric promise of what’s to come. Tonight, we’re not just a band of high school nobodies. We’re hunters in the quiet, waiting for our moment to leap.

“You sure you’ve got everything, Fly?” Mite’s voice is laced with mock concern, the kind that means he’s about to launch into a wind-up.

“Oh, absolutely,” I shoot back, playing along. “Got my sturdy shoes for ass-kicking, got my wits sharpened to a point–wouldn’t want to disappoint our dear tactician.”

From her end, Ant chuckles, the sound of someone laying a winning card on the table. “Wits are debatable. Remember that pop quiz in trig?”

I snort. “Yeah, your stealth tactics with the crib notes were brilliant right up until Teach caught the glint off your wristwatch. Smooth, Ant, real smooth.”

Laughter bursts through the line, and even I have to admit defeat with a grin. “Okay, okay, I’ll give you that one. But I’d like to see you try cramming formulas when you’ve got a crime wave to quell.”

Moth’s voice flutters through next, teasing and airy. “We all have our crosses to bear, Fly. But I trust you won’t get distracted by trigonometry mid-sneak.”

“As if,” I scoff. “The only angles I’m interested in are the ones between a crook’s face and my fist.”

Wasp’s voice, ever the voice of reason, cuts in. “Just keep your guard up, Fly. Don’t let the swagger turn into a trip wire.”

“No danger there,” I respond, the clack of my boots punctuating my resolve. “Got my game face on–well, if I had a face, that is. Under the mask, I’m all steely-eyed determination, promise.”

Beneath the cloak of night, it’s easy to forget there’s an edge of sincerity in every barb, a thrum of real concern that tightens with each step I take deeper into the urban labyrinth.

“Hey, Fly,” Mite interjects, a hint of a grin in his voice, “you ever think about getting a cape? You know, for the dramatic flair when you make your heroic entrance?”

I roll my eyes, even though none of them can see it. “Capes are a tripping hazard. Besides, who needs flair when you’ve got functional fashion? This isn’t a runway, it’s a rumble.”

“And there’s the Fly motto,” Ant quips, her tone proud and warm. “You’ll find it emblazoned on T-shirts someday: ‘Not a runway, it’s a rumble.’”

“The day we print merch is the day I hang up the gloves,” I vow, the hint of a chuckle threatening the edge of my words.

I keep moving, just a shadow with a smile etched underneath her mask, surrounded by the chatter of friends who could be just as easily discussing weekend plans as the machinations of vigilante justice. It’s in these moments, tucked between bursts of laughter and the thrill of the chase, that I know–no matter how dark the street or dire the situation–Miss Mayfly never really flies alone.

I move out, pieces moving on the unseen chessboard of the North Philadelphia streets. It’s game time, and every move counts. My fingers drum against the cold metal of the dumpster I’m using as cover–steel walls to shield me from prying eyes as I make my final preparations.

“Mite, report.” My voice is low, more felt in the throat than heard, even though the risk of eavesdroppers is slim.

His response is immediate, a live wire through the silence. “One bogey in the air, buzzing the scene. You’re as blind as a… well, a fly without a window, without me. Consider yourself sighted, Miss Mayfly.”

I nod to myself, cracking a half-smile at his enthusiasm. Above me, the drone buzzes–a mechanical insect on a mission, sending back feeds that only our eyes will see.

“Thanks for the visuals, Mite. Keep it hovering. I need all the eyes I can get.” I launch a second drone into the night, a silent ascent. Together, they’re the perfect recon team, twin sentinels in the darkness.

The comms light up again as Ant’s voice breaks in, keeping our spirits fortified even as the tension mounts. “Fly, you’re in position. All channels clear, ears open, and remember: no solo heroics.”

I can hear her half-eaten sandwich, the telltale sign of late-night operations. “Copy that, Ant. Keeping it cool. Operation No-Solo-Heroics is a go.”

Tucking against the cold metal, my view sliced into slivers by the gaps between dumpster and brick wall, I’m a gargoyle in repose, a waiting specter in the night’s story. My breathing is a soft hush, steady and controlled. Patience isn’t just a virtue–it’s a weapon. Especially for someone like me, without the laser eyes or steel skin to fall back on.

“I’ve got some activity,” Mite’s voice filters through, sharper now, the weight of the moment creeping into his usual levity. “Northeast corner, Fly. Looks like our friends are itching for their next smash-and-grab.”

“On it,” I reply, a whisper barely there, as I inch closer to the corner of my hideaway. Peering out, I spot the shapes of our targets, their forms stitched together from whispers and half-shadows by the drone feeds. Just another group of lock-breakers, looking for a quick score, unaware they’re the prey tonight.

One deep breath in, out, steady as she goes. I’m the trigger pulled back, the arrow nocked. Miss Mayfly doesn’t just fly–she lurks, she waits. And when it’s time, she strikes.

“Eyes up, ears sharp, everyone,” I mutter into the comms, a silent promise shared in the darkness. “Let’s show them what happens when the little guys bite back.”

In the black belly of the alley, I’m nothing more than a specter–a ghost garbed in the grit and grime of urban camouflage. My get-up melts into the backdrop of dumpsters and drainage pipes, just another patch in the shadow-quilt stitched across the city’s underbelly.

The only parts of me that are alive in this sea of stillness are my eyes. They’re alive, alright–sharp as shattered glass, peering through the eyepieces of my mask. They flick from corner to corner, shadow to shadow, as the hooded figures emerge like actors onto the stage of their ill-intended performance.

“Ant, talk to me,” I murmur, the words practically crawling across my lips. “We crashing a party or a wake over here?”

The feed in my earpiece hums low, the background soundtrack to the strategizing at HQ. “Fly, it’s the credit union–small-time enough to stay off the big heroes’ radar but flush enough for a fat haul. These guys are out to make withdrawals the old fashioned way–no account needed.”

Laughter spills across the line, and I can picture Mite’s knowing smirk through the static. “Heist crew’s rolling cosplay-level dedication tonight. We’ve got the Faux-vengers on site.”

“The what?” I ask. “Never mind. Nerd joke”

I suppress a chuckle, though I can’t deny the absurdity of it. A gang of small-time crooks, kitted out in knock-off superhero masks from the Five and Dime, all New York’s finest–Peregrine, Captain Steel, Railgun, and Lady Justice. The masks are a cruel joke, a perverse mirror to the real heroes who stride the city streets hundreds of miles away.

Something isn’t adding up, though. There’s precision in their movements, a choreography to their checks and balances. They’re playing it close to the chest, their gear belying the threadbare masks they don. Crowbars and gadgets with an air of legitimacy–a stark contrast to their comic book facade.

“They’re sweeping, Mite,” I whisper into the mic, my eyes tracing the one who’s inching closer to my concealment, a tech device in hand, searching for any sign of life.

“Heads up, Fly. You’re up to bat, and the balls are getting closer to your court,” Mite warns, a note of urgency threading through his usual calm. His tech-savvy fingers are no doubt dancing over controls, keeping one eye on me and one on the ever-dynamic chess board.

I inch back, a silent retreat into the alcove of shadows. This is what separates the heroes from the characters on their masks–instinct, the cut-and-thrust of knowing when to hold back, when to leap forward.

The figure pauses just a beat away from discovering my hideout, but the alley gives up nothing. Not tonight. Not with Miss Mayfly on watch. The thug moves on, reassured by empty looks and a quiet that hangs a bit too heavy.

We’re on the razor’s edge, but I am the razor–a silent guardian cloaked in darkness, biding my time. The rolling shutter of the credit union stands oblivious to the unfolding drama–soon to be the fulcrum on which tonight’s justice will tip.

There’s a hush over the comms now, and the only sound I can hear is the metallic clink and clatter of lock-picks and levers against the shutters. The thugs are putting on a little play called ‘How to Crack Open a Credit Union 101,’ and I’ve got a front-row seat. Seems they’re savvy enough to replicate keys–gotta hand it to them for doing their homework. Still, the lock’s not giving way, and I can see them put some shoulder into it now, the desperate ballet of crooks determined not to leave empty-handed.

As the three lock artists jostle and shove, their watchful fourth shifts uneasily, sweeping his gaze like a searchlight across the alleys and side streets–looking for heroes or cops or whatever boogeymen these wannabes fear in the city’s belly. A shiver of anticipation zips through me. This is it, the wire stretching taut, the moment before the pitch. The calm before the stink.

Speaking of which, my fingers do a quick dance over my utility belt, my hands closing around the small, unpleasantly potent payloads. Military-grade stink bombs, the kind you’re definitely not supposed to get at my tender age–but then again, I’m not exactly following the teenage rulebook to the letter. I had to trade a lot of allowance money with some seniors for this stuff. And then Mite had to rig them with little remote operated needles to puncture them. I have no idea how he does half this shit.

I strap them to the tiny little velcro payload of my other two drones. All four in the sky now. “Recall on one and two?”

“You ready, Fly?” Moth’s voice is the tingle of adrenaline, a whisper in the dark that sets my pulse thrumming.

“One sec,” I murmur back. My little drone friends buzz down obediently, and I set to work strapping on the payloads. Mite’s been busy in his workshop; these noisemakers are his latest stroke of brilliance–a symphony of distraction waiting for my cue.

I can almost see his proud little grin as he explains the mechanism through the earpiece, all remote detonation and timed chaos. “Just one click, Fly. Those babies’ll wail like the world’s worst car alarm–you’ll have all the cover noise you can handle.”

“Here’s hoping for a symphony,” I whisper back, my movements precise as I arm the other two drones with the noisemakers. All it’ll take is a tap, and we’ll rain down our brand of chaos on these low-lifes.

As my mission control each takes up a different drone, I can feel the shift over the comms. The jokes have dried up, the banter has dwindled. We’re like kids playing at being grown-up, only now the game’s got teeth, and they’re bared.

Wasp’s voice cracks through the quiet, softer now, barely there. “You got this, Fly. Just another night for Miss Mayfly.”

“Yeah,” I breathe, my heart thudding a rhythm against my ribs, my eyes never leaving the figures at the shutters. “Ready when you are, HQ.”

This is us, teetering on the edge. The street’s gone still, the world holding its breath. The comms are silent now, a held note waiting for release.

This is what we trained for, scavenged parts for, planned out through whispered calls and scribbled diagrams on napkins. This is our slice of the night, a crusade tucked inside the span of a heartbeat.

And just like that, I can feel it–the swell, the rising tide inside my chest. From the safety of darkness, just beyond the crooks’ senses, Miss Mayfly waits, a ghost in the machine, the quiet before the storm. Ready to bring the thunder.

“Alright, bring the motherfucking ruckus,” I declare, tweaking the earpieces nestled in my mask just so–the fabric muffling enough to dull the impending cacophony. I’m a pale imitation of a rap star, but the moment demands its soundtrack.

From the HQ, Mite’s voice comes laced with dry amusement, tinged with the kind of exasperation only a team leader can muster. “You are way too white to be dropping Wu-Tang lines, Fly.” I can almost see his eyes roll heavenward as he asserts, with a hint of delight, “Deploying ruckus.”

The line still crackles with his suppressed laughter when the drones make their swooping entrances. The criminals, just heaving the shutters open, are thrown into disarray as the noisemakers whirl into life, emitting a dizzying, disorientating blare. They twist and dodge like shadowy dancers in a pit of confusion, crowbars clattering to the concrete as hands swipe at the buzzing menaces around their heads.

Their so-called lookout pivots, eyes darting, scanning the alleys for the source of this aerial harassment. It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for–the cue to hit the stench switch. I’m armed for this, face obscured behind the gas mask that turns my breaths into mechanical ghosts.

I press the remote, releasing a fetid miasma that could wake the dead and offend the living ten blocks over. Military-grade misery in the form of stink bombs plummets into the fracas, and I move, already picturing the sour faces, the watering eyes.

They’re reeling, chaos incarnate, and it’s glorious. In a matter of seconds, the late-night quiet breaks, yielding to the bedlam we’ve orchestrated. The pungent fog of the stink bombs engulfs them, and retching fills the cool night air, a soundtrack that warms my vigilante’s heart.

I have mere moments now, seconds granted by the capricious winds and the gut-churning potency of my arsenal. The countdown to zero begins, and adrenaline courses through my veins like a live wire.

This is it–go time.

The shift in my muscles, the balance of weight as I push away from the wall, it’s all second nature now. My form is a silhouette against the night, a blur moving with purpose and precision.

I use the confusion, the cover of stink and sound, to my advantage as I glide into action. The darkness is an old friend, the alleys and fire escapes my playground. My steps are swift, my grip on the taser glove sure.

As the mini-drones execute their part with chaotic finesse, zipping like relentless insects, I close the distance. One by one, I will neutralize the threat, reclaim the quiet of the night, and leave our mark.

And somewhere in that torrent of sensation–between the stench and the shock and the all-encompassing noise–the realization hits home: Miss Mayfly is no mere wannabe hero. She’s the ruckus in the dark, the unsung hymn of the streets–and for one wild, heart-thumping minute, she’s utterly, perfectly untouchable.

“Sixty seconds, Fly. Make them count,” Ant’s voice cuts through the bedlam, a calm amidst the storm of groans and shouts that now fill the alleyway. The counter starts, ticking down our slim window of opportunity.

My heart is a drum, my moves a dance of vicious necessity. Every second pulses with the promise of mayhem, my body coursing through the darkness–a sliver of retribution armed with righteous fury. Wasp’s voice serves as a backdrop to the action, snippets of her call for cavalry floating over the comms. “Yeah, hello? I’m seeing some guys trying to break in to a bank – no, I’m hiding in the bushes. Like, all the way down the street, I just hear them. Address? Yeah, um… one sec…”

“Fifty seconds,” Ant intones, and I’m swinging–a specter in the strobe lights, I am David armed with more than just a sling. Precision matters, each strike calculated to incapacitate, to bring the pain.

From my wrist dispenser, a vengeful spray of pepper spray finds its targets, attempting to slip in the crevices between their cracks. None of them go down to the point where I’d call them “clawing animals, frantic to escape”, but the irritation is as clear as the villainy. Each burst is an exclamation point, a statement of intent from Miss Mayfly–this far, no further.

I’m a bullet train of elbows and knees, of hard-placed strikes to soft, vulnerable spots. It’s a barrage, it’s brutal–it’s necessary. The flashlight, heavy and firm in my grip, pulses with a rhythmic strobe, a disorienting light show for the dazed criminal audience.

“Forty seconds,” Ant updates, her voice the tick-tock of my adrenaline-fueled clock.

The thugs, these pretenders to the throne of villainy, are all flailing limbs and panicked swings now–gestures rendered useless by their compromised senses and the inexorable march of seconds slipping away. I’m less a teenage beanpole now, more a whirlwind–movement, reaction, a symphony of righteous street justice.

“Thirty seconds,” comes the warning, and it’s as if the very night is holding its breath, the countdown resonating with the beat of the chaos.

Retreat isn’t an option, surrender isn’t a word in my vocabulary–I’m committed, boots on the ground, fists in the fight. The assault continues, punctuated by curses muffled by the rank air, cries cut short by the efficiency of my advance. A crowbar goes swinging over my head and I try not to think about what would happen if it hit. I knee someone in the balls.

Wasp, ever the voice of eerie calm, continues her distant chat with emergency services: “Yes, you heard me right, there’s someone with a gas mask fighting them. No, I don’t know who.”

“Twenty seconds,” Ant cuts in, her voice a string pulling me back to the ticking clock–my cue to wrap up the show.

The strobe light paints the alley in snapshots of chaos; a photographic stream where each frame is etched with violence and victory. A jab here, a side step there–I am fluid, unstoppable, a force fashioned from shadows and resolve.

In the last echoes of this dance of disparity, the struggle becomes clearer: This isn’t just a fight–it’s a statement. Miss Mayfly is no passive participant in this nocturnal theatre, no secondary character in a story of heroes and villains. God, I almost sound like Sam.

She is the crescendo in the final act, the embodiment of swift justice, the unseen specter–60 seconds of teenage wrath distilled into a maelstrom of precision and control. And with twenty seconds to spare, she becomes the legend whispered on the lips of the night–a legend born out of the corner of Fifteenth and Main.

The final countdown begins, each tick like the hammer of a gavel, marking the end of my reign of terror. I’ve got twenty seconds left on the clock, but the universe has a sense of humor–cracks it wide open with the sickening echo of a crowbar colliding with my side.

“Ten seconds,” Ant whispers, but her voice is drowned out by the ringing in my ears and the throbbing in my ribs. Padding or not, the hit comes like a freight train, the impact a bloom of agony spreading fast and unyielding across my body. Breaths turn traitor, hitching and stalling as I stagger back, my fingers instinctively clutching my side.

Reflex demands retaliation, and I lash out, the flashlight swinging in a wide, vengeful arc. But pain is a veil, blurring vision and warping aim. It sweeps through air, hitting nothing but darkness and disappointment. They’re not keeping track of time now – they’re not cheering me on.

A voice somewhere in my head–gut instinct or maybe it’s Moth’s mantra–whispers, “discretion, the better part of valor.” My brain screams fight, but my body’s shouting loud and clear, this brawl’s lost its charm.

So, with a panted curse, I backpedal. “I’m out,” I hiss into the mic, teeth gritted, and in a fluid motion, my thumb depresses the dispenser, a wide mist of pepper spray fanning out, a burning curtain to veil my exit.

There’s a part of me, the smallest sliver, that aches to stay, to finish what I started, but the greater part–the part that wants to wake up tomorrow–is all survival instinct now, screaming at my legs to run. I’m not Sam. I can’t come back from a nuclear bomb going off on me. I only get to keep helping if I’m alive.

And as if to punctuate my decision, my hand flings the last of my stink bomb gifts to the alley floor. The noxious cloud bursts into life, a second wave of olfactory assault to mask my withdrawal.

“Clear,” I manage to grind out, as the night swallows me whole, my sprint less superhero and more schoolgirl late for the bus. The alleyway blurs, the cacophony fades, and all that’s left is the rhythm of my flight, the thundering of my heart louder than any explosion, any drone, any crowbar.

In the concealment of the shadows, I’m just a shadow myself, fleeting and breathless. I don’t need to hear Ant to know that the sixty seconds are up. This is the end of tonight’s chapter for Miss Mayfly.

The distance I put between myself and the scene is filled in minutes with the wailing of sirens, the promise of blue and red salvation. It doesn’t feel good to leave it to them – God knows the Philly cops might just get something done today – but hopefully I’ve given them valuable minutes to catch these scumbags in the act.

Above, the drone lights flicker out, mission accomplished, signals going dark, and the streets of Philadelphia reclaim their silence, punctuated only by the distant cries of the wretched and the approaching call of the law.

As my home neighborhood looms up ahead, a refuge of brick and familiar streets, I slow, gasping, clutching at my side with the suspicion of broken bones singing sharp notes with each breath. But I’m alive, I’m unseen, and I’m still in one piece, more or less.

I’ll fight another day.

---

Back at HQ, the tech that lit up the room hours before now hums quietly in the background, a low anthem to the night’s efforts. Drones docked and screens dimmed, this sanctum breathes of secret triumphs and the solace of shadows turned to safety. I slump into a chair, the adrenaline hangover hitting hard, pain punctuating my every move.

Mite’s fingers dance across the controls, powering down systems that won’t be needed ’til the next call to arms. He’s the maestro of our electronic orchestra, the quiet architect of our nightly escapades. “Status on Fly?” he queries without turning, his attention fixed on the flickering displays.

“Fly’s grounded, but damage looks to be non-critical,” Moth reports from my side, her hands skilled and sure as she examines the epicenter of my aches. Through the fabric of my suit, her fingers probe, a dance of pressure and relief that charts the map of my injuries.

Ant’s voice cracks with pubescent deepening, the cool clarity of command now replaced with concern. “Good thing for the padding, or you’d be cocooning in the ER about now.”

A chuckle escapes me, wry and weary, as Moth confirms, “It’s just a sprain, with some impressive bruising. You’ll live.” Relief floods in, a gentle tide that carries away the worst of the fear, leaving behind the aches of a job well done. I really didn’t want to explain to my dad how I broke my ribs.

Wasp leans back from her own screen, a haven of reconnaissance and connection, still radiating the thrill of the chase. “We made quite the splash,” she remarks with a smirk. “Just wait ’til they hit the morning news.”

There’s a murmur of assent around the room, a shared sense of accomplishment that ties us together, binding stronger than the web of cables and cords that crisscross our haven. I take a moment to look at them all, this band of misfits turned crew, each a hero in their own right—even without capes or the glare of the spotlight.

“We’re a helluva team,” I admit softly, the truth of it sinking in through the soreness and the silence of the room. In this HQ—our fortress of solace and strategy—the weight of my lone endeavor lifts, replaced by the buoyancy of collective purpose.

As Moth secures a bandage around my tender ribs, her touch firm yet careful, the reality of it all settles in like dusk. No matter the pain, the fear, or the uncertainty of what we face on the streets, this—here, with them—is where Miss Mayfly truly takes flight.

In HQ, with its walls lined with the ingenuity and courage of my friends, I find strength far beyond the capability of any superpower. Together, we are more than a match for the perils that prowl the Philly nights. As I ease back, letting Moth finish her work, I realize that it doesn’t matter what the world sees or knows. This is my team, this is our fight, and together, we soar.

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