80

---

The May sun beats down on the back of my neck as I make my way through the winding streets of Tacony, the heavy fabric of my Bloodhound costume sticking to my skin in uncomfortable places. I tug at the collar, trying to get some air flow, but it’s a losing battle. Superhero costumes, as it turns out, are not designed with breathability in mind.

Beside me, Derek trudges along in my old gear, ripped apart and re-stitched together presumably by his own occasionally-padded hand. He insisted on wearing it, claiming it was his “Fenrir” persona, but I think he just didn’t want to be the only one not in costume. A kevlar vest underneath denim, as opposed to his usual leather, cuts a… very interesting silhouette. Jordan, resplendent in their gothy Safeguard getup, complete with their usual spray-painted motorcycle helmet and a billowing black cloak, keeps shooting him amused glances.

Spinelli, of course, looks like he just stepped out of a comic book in his sleek, professional Young Defenders uniform. Mine, too. I mean, neither of our costumes are, like, professional professional, but compared to Derek and Jordan it’s a huge step up.

We turn a corner and find ourselves standing in front of a nondescript garage, the kind you’d drive past a thousand times without ever noticing. But according to Sundial’s instructions, this is the place – the secret headquarters of the Tacony Titans.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. It’s not every day you get to team up with another group of superheroes, especially ones as respected locally as the Titans. I want to make a good impression.

Sundial is waiting for us at the entrance, her form fitting karate gi fluttering in the breeze. I feel my cheeks heat up as I look at her. I quickly look away, hoping no one noticed my moment of weakness. I’m here to fight crime, not ogle pretty girls.

As we step inside, I’m immediately struck by the organized chaos of the Titans’ headquarters. Every available surface is covered in gadgets, gizmos, and half-finished projects, the detritus of a thousand battles and stakeouts. In one corner, a workbench overflows with soldering irons, circuit boards, and tangles of multicolored wires. In another, a pegboard displays an arsenal of non-lethal weapons – tasers, pepper spray, collapsible batons.

But what really catches my eye is the massive corkboard that dominates the far wall. It’s a spider web of string and pushpins, connecting newspaper clippings, blurry surveillance photos, and hastily scribbled notes. I step closer, my eyes scanning the headlines.

“Jump Dealer Arrested in University City”

“New Designer Drug Hits Streets, Causes Superpowered Chaos”

“How to Talk to Your Teens About ‘Jump’”

“NSRA Warns of Increasing Jump-Related Incidents”

And far too many others for me to really pick out beofre I notice that people are watching me and start to get self-conscious. It’s a tapestry of the Titans’ investigation, a physical representation of the tangled web we’re trying to unravel. I feel a surge of excitement, a thrill of purpose. This is what being a hero is all about.

The rest of the Titans are gathered around a large table in the center of the room, their utilitarian costumes a stark contrast to the flashy, skin-tight numbers favored by most superheroes. Bandanas with holes ripped in them mark every eye socket, while layers of padded clothing and heavy boots provide protection without sacrificing mobility. Two of them sport what look like swimming goggles, and a little more padding than everyone else. I guess those are their heavy hitters?

I can’t help but feel a little self-conscious in my premier gear, made by the most talented seamstress in the USA. But then I catch Sundial’s eye, and she gives me a small, approving nod. Suddenly, my costume doesn’t seem so overwrought anymore.

As we gather around the table, I take in the maps and surveillance photos scattered across its surface. Red circles and hastily drawn arrows mark key locations, while scribbled notes detail patterns and theories. It’s clear the Titans have been at this for a while, piecing together the puzzle of the Jump drug trade one clue at a time.

Sundial clears her throat, and the room falls silent. All eyes turn to her, waiting for her to speak. She has that kind of presence, the kind that commands attention without even trying.

“Thank you all for coming,” she begins, her voice calm and measured. “I know we don’t usually work with outside groups, but the Jump situation has escalated beyond what any one team can handle. If we’re going to take down this drug ring, we need to pool our resources and work together.”

I feel a flicker of pride at her words, a sense of validation. The Auditors may be new to the game, but we’ve taken down Chernobyl, even if nobody knows. And Jordan and I have been on the scene fighting the scumbags of the Northeast. And now, we have a chance to make a real difference, to do something other than beating the bad people up and reclaiming their money. I’m sure Crossroads would be pissed, or maybe just disappointed in me, if he knew that I was going around his back to do superheroing. And I’m sure he won’t be happy that Spinelli is enabling it.

But oh well.

“Alright, let’s get the introductions out of the way,” Sundial says, her eyes sweeping the room. “I know some of you have worked together before, but for the sake of the newbies, let’s go around the table and share our names and powers. I’ll start. I’m Sundial, and I can perceive and manipulate time in limited ways.”

She nods to her left, where Bubble sits, her brown curls bouncing as she leans forward eagerly. I remember her. “Hi everyone! I’m Bubble, and I can create force fields. They’re pretty handy for protection and containment.”

Next to her, the be-goggled girl number one clears her throat. “Compass. I can sense and manipulate magnetic fields. Basically, I’m a human GPS.”

Moonshot adjusts her goggles, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Moonshot here. I control gravity. Walking on walls, making things float, that sort of thing.”

Sandman yawns, his head resting on his folded arms. “Sandman. I can control people and animals while they’re sleeping. Including myself.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Derek realizes it’s his turn. He sits up straighter, puffing out his chest. “I’m Fenrir. I’m a werewolf. Enhanced senses, super strength, the whole package.”

I can’t help but snort. “But only after sundown.”

Derek shoots me a glare. “Yes. Only after sundown.”

“And what can you do otherwise?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Share for the class.”

“I’m… good at smelling things. I keep the nose,” Derek says, looking defeated at the admission. For a moment, I see a sort of why-am-I-hanging-around-all-these-teenagers look cross his face, and then the moment passes. “You’ll meet the werewolf eventually. Just dangerous right now. Saving it for the right moment.”

The room fills with metaphorical crickets.

Spinelli clears his throat loudly, cutting off our bickering. “Anyway… I’m Spindle. I can fit my body into any hole my head can fit into, basically.”

“Gross!” Bubble exclaims, but in a way that makes it clear she approves.

Jordan, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet this whole time, finally speaks up. “I go by Safeguard. I can expand and contract enclosed spaces. Like buildings. I’m sort of useless outdoors.”

All eyes turn to me, and I feel a flicker of self-consciousness. “Um, I’m Bloodhound. I have shark powers. Enhanced bite force, regeneration, the ability to sense and track blood. Oh, and I can grow teeth pretty much anywhere on my body, which is both cool and deeply disturbing.”

Bubble’s eyes widen. “Wait, anywhere? Like, even on your-“

“Yes,” I cut her off quickly, feeling my face heat up beneath my mask. “including my fists.”

I squeeze my hands to demonstrate, a single tooth emerging from my middle knuckle on each hand, through the gaps in my gloves. It’s no Wolverine, to whom I’ve been compared to like five dozen times by now, but they’re still sharp enough to cut paper with some effort. And puncture skin.

Sundial claps her hands, drawing our attention back to the matter at hand. “Great, now that we all know each other, let’s get down to business. We’ve been tracking various Jump and Fly dealers for the past week, and we think we’ve finally got a lead on Squeal’s next meeting with Sparkplug. I do believe you all have bumped into our man as well.”

She taps a location on the map, and my heart sinks. The Dobson Mills warehouse. I glance at Jordan, and I watch their helmet tilt towards me in recognition – the place where we first got involved with the Kingdom. Where our lives got substantially weirder. “This is where we think the deal is going down. Our plan is to stake it out, wait for Squeal and Sparkplug to show, and then take them down hard and fast. Or, at the very least, record them doing something incriminating. Either will work.”

I lean forward, studying the map intently. “What kind of opposition are we expecting?”

Sundial shrugs. “Hard to say. Squeal’s got his sonic scream, and Sparkplug is no slouch in the power department either. He’s like a bad guy version of Professor Franklin. Plus, they’ll probably have some muscle with them. Jump-heads looking to score some free product. Paid muscle. No guarantee that any of them will or won’t have powers, so we’re going in blind and deaf to an unknown amount of assailants and looking to come out with a superpowered drug dealer in cuffs.”

Derek cracks his knuckles. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

“You make it sound so easy, Sunny D,” Sandman cracks.

Moonshot nods in agreement. “Between all of us, we should be able to take them down no problem. The tricky part will be making sure they don’t escape with the Jump.”

“That’s where Bubble and I come in,” Compass says. “We’ll be on containment duty. Anyone tries to run, they’ll have to go through us.”

Spinelli raises his hand. “What about surveillance? We need eyes on the inside.”

Jordan grins. “Leave that to me and my trusty sidekick here,” they say, clapping me on the shoulder. “We’ll infiltrate the warehouse beforehand, set up some cameras and listening devices. If anything goes down, we’ll be the first to know.”

“Plus, we’ve already got Squeal’s apartment surrounded. Between Bloodhound and I, we should be able to cover any lowlives on the way to or from the warehouse with our sensory powers,” Derek chimes in. I raise an eyebrow, but make no comment. I think Derek wanted to be a superhero more than he lets on.

Sundial nods approvingly. “Good thinking. Sandman, you’re on lookout duty. Use your powers to keep watch without being seen.”

Sandman gives a lazy salute. “Aye aye, captain.”

“The rest of us will be the strike team. Once Squeal and Sparkplug are in position, we move in hard and fast. Take them down before they even know what hit them.”

I feel a thrill of excitement at her words, a rush of adrenaline. This is what I live for, the chance to make a real difference. To put my powers to good use.

But beneath the excitement, there’s a flicker of unease. A sense that something isn’t quite right. I glance around the room, trying to put my finger on it. And then I see it. A flash of movement outside the window, a glint of metal in the sun. I blink, and it’s gone. But the feeling remains, a nagging whisper in the back of my mind. The sense that we’re being watched.

“Did anyone else see that?” I ask, my eyes still fixed on the window. “That flash of light outside?”

The others turn to look, but the alley outside the garage is empty, still and silent in the afternoon sun.

“I didn’t see anything,” Bubble says, shrugging. “Maybe it was just a reflection or something.”

“Yeah, probably,” I mutter, but I can’t shake the unease that’s settled in my gut. “Just nerves, I guess.”

Sundial clears her throat, drawing our attention back to the map. “Alright, so we’re all clear on the plan? Any questions or concerns?”

Spinelli raises his hand. “What about comms? How are we going to stay in touch during the operation?”

Compass grins, reaching under the table and pulling out a case. She flips it open, revealing a set of sleek, high-tech earpieces. “Already got that covered. These babies have encrypted channels and a range of up to five miles. We’ll be able to coordinate without anyone else listening in.”

Derek whistles, impressed. “Fancy. Where’d you get those?”

Compass winks. “Let’s just say I have my sources.”

Jordan snorts. “More like you dumpster-dived behind the NSRA building and got lucky.”

Compass gasps in mock offense. “How dare you! I’ll have you know that I only use the finest garbage in my tech.”

The tension in the room breaks as everyone laughs, and I feel some of my unease start to dissipate. These guys may be a ragtag bunch, but they know what they’re doing. We’ve got this.

Sundial waits for the laughter to die down before speaking again. “Alright, if there are no other questions, let’s start getting ready. Bloodhound, Safeguard, you two head out and set up surveillance at the warehouse. The rest of us will take up our positions around Squeal’s apartment and wait for him to make a move.”

I nod, already mentally running through my checklist of equipment. Cameras, microphones, motion sensors – Jordan and I have gotten pretty good at this whole covert ops thing.

As everyone starts to disperse, gathering their gear and checking their weapons, I catch Derek’s eye across the table. He gives me a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of the task ahead.

I nod back, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. This is what we’ve been working towards, the chance to strike a real blow against the Jump trade. To make a difference.

I just hope we’re ready for whatever comes next.

As Jordan and I make our way out of the garage, I can’t resist one last jab at Derek. “Try not to chase any cars while we’re gone, okay? We need you in one piece for this.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Hilarious. You know, you could stand to be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to risk his life fighting crime with you.”

I grin, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I thought you big bad wolves were supposed to be tough.”

“Oh, I’ll show you tough,” Derek growls, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Just wait until the moon comes out. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“Looking forward to it,” I shoot back, before turning to follow Jordan out into the alley.

As we step out into the sun, I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. The nerves are still there, fluttering in my stomach like a swarm of butterflies, but there’s excitement too. Anticipation.

This is what being a hero is all about. The rush of adrenaline, the thrill of the hunt. The knowledge that you’re making a difference, that you’re fighting for something bigger than yourself.

I glance over at Jordan, seeing the same determination in the set of their shoulders, the confident stride of their steps. They feel it too, I can tell. That sense of purpose, of rightness.

Together, we set off towards the warehouse, ready to do our part. Ready to be heroes.

---

The taxi ride to Dobson Mills is a quiet one, the weight of memories hanging heavy in the air between us. Jordan stares out the window, their helmet resting in their lap, fingers tracing idle patterns on the smooth surface. I try to focus on the mission ahead, running through the plan in my mind, but my thoughts keep drifting back to that night almost a year ago.

The night that changed everything.

As the warehouse comes into view, I feel a chill run down my spine. It looks exactly the same as it did that night, a looming behemoth of rusted metal and crumbling concrete. The taxi drops us off a block away, and we make our way towards the building on foot, sticking to the shadows.

Jordan breaks the silence first. “Feels weird, being back here,” they murmur, their voice muffled by the helmet. “Like nothing’s changed.”

I nod, my eyes scanning the alleyways for any sign of trouble. “Yeah. Hard to believe it’s been almost a year.”

We reach the warehouse, and I pause at the entrance, my hand resting on the heavy metal door. There are still bloodstains on the concrete, dark and rust-colored against the gray. I remember the feel of it, slick and warm beneath my fingers as I tried to stem the bleeding from my wounds, the taste of it in my mouth as I bit and tore at our attackers.

Jordan notices my hesitation, and places a hand on my shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

I take a deep breath, pushing the memories aside. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Let’s do this.”

We slip inside, the door creaking on its hinges. The interior of the warehouse is just as I remember it, a cavernous space filled with old machinery and stacked crates. They made clothes here, once. Now there’s a corpse buried thirty feet below the concrete, just… lingering there. Dead. Or maybe they dug him up, but I don’t see any scuff marks. Dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight that filter through the high windows, and the air is thick with the scent of rust and decay.

As we make our way deeper into the building, I can’t help but scan for signs of our previous battle. There, in the middle of the room, that blood splatter is where I got pistol whipped in the face. And over there, by the old conveyor belt that’s long since dissolved to nothing, that’s where spent bullet casings from Mr. Polygraph’s enraged firing ended up. And the ground still has the telltale swirling smears of Mudslide’s powers.

I look to the wall, to the bricks. There’s still a vaguely human-shaped pertubation (that means a disruption) in their pattern, where Mudslide opened a gap and closed it up to help his new bosses escape. It’s been so long, and there’s still so much I don’t know. How did he end up getting out of his prison sentence? How did the Kingdom find him? What are they up to? There hasn’t been any news of them since my hospitalization, and I don’t know if that’s because they aren’t doing something, or if the adults aren’t telling me.

A bullet grazed me here.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the image. We won that fight, if only barely. We’re still here, still fighting.

But sometimes, in the dark of night, I wonder how close we came to a different ending.

Jordan’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Alright, where do you want to set up the cameras?”

I blink, forcing myself back to the present. “Right. Cameras.” I pull out the bag of equipment, handing Jordan a few of the small, wireless devices. “Let’s start with the main entrance and work our way back. I want eyes on every possible angle.”

We work quickly and efficiently, falling into the familiar rhythm of the task. Jordan takes the high ground, using their powers to slice the space down, so that they can reach the rafters and catwalks, angles no human could reach without flight or several ladders stacked on top of each other. I stick to the ground level, finding hidden nooks and crannies to tuck the cameras into.

As I’m finishing up the last of the motion sensors, I hear Jordan let out a low whistle. “Damn. This place really hasn’t changed a bit, has it?”

I glance up, seeing them perched on a nearby ledge, their legs dangling over the edge. “Yeah. It’s eerie, right? Like walking into a memory.”

Jordan nods, their gaze distant. “I still have nightmares, you know. About that night.”

I’m quiet for a moment, the admission hanging in the air between us. “Me too,” I say softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way Mudslide laughed. First time I’ve ever had an adult express… a real lust for murder. Towards me. But also, in general.”

Jordan’s quiet for a long moment, and then they let out a soft laugh. “Look at us. A couple of traumatized teens, sitting in the dark and reliving our worst memories.”

I can’t help but smile at that. “Yeah, well. That’s the glamorous life of a superhero, right? All PTSD, all the time.”

Jordan snorts. “PTSD? Really?”

“That’s what my therapist says,” I tell them.

Jordan laughs again. “Wouldn’t trade it for the world, baby.”

“Me neither,” I agree, and I’m surprised to find that I mean it. Despite the nightmares, despite the scars both physical and mental, I wouldn’t give this up for anything. The chance to make a difference, to help people – it’s worth every sleepless night and aching muscle.

We finish setting up the rest of the equipment in comfortable silence, the weight of shared experience settling over us like a well-worn blanket. As we step back out into the fading sunlight, I take one last look at the warehouse, at the place that almost broke us.

---

The first day of the stakeout is a test of patience and endurance. We take turns, rotating in and out, our eyes glued to the screens and our ears tuned to the crackle of the comms. It’s tedious work, watching the grainy footage of Squeal’s apartment block through a phone app, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

But nothing does. The hours drag by, the sun crawling across the sky, and the most exciting thing we see is a stray cat darting across the street. Jordan and I take turns napping in another commandeered garage, courtesy of the Titans, this one closer to Kensington than our home base.

It’s during one of these lulls, as I’m struggling to focus on my homework, that I start to notice the drones. At first, I think I’m imagining things, my tired mind playing tricks on me. But then I see it again – a flicker of movement in the corner of the screen, a tiny, whirring shape darting through the sky. Seeing drones every so often isn’t exactly weird in this day and age, but seeing this many – definitely weird.

I sit up straighter, my textbook forgotten. “Hey, guys? Are you seeing this?”

The others crowd around the screen, squinting at the grainy footage. “Is that… a drone?” Derek asks, his brow furrowed.

I nod, my eyes tracking the tiny shape as it zips between buildings. “Yeah. And it’s not the first one I’ve seen today.”

Spindle leans in closer, his nose practically touching the screen. “What do you think they’re doing?”

I shake my head, a feeling of unease settling in my gut. “I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

We keep an eye out for the drones after that, noting their movements and patterns. They seem to be focused on the same area as us, circling Squeal’s apartment block like tiny, mechanical vultures. But every time we try to chase them, send someone out to examine, they vanish like ghosts. I can’t imagine who’s got the time and energy.

But we can’t afford to get distracted. We have a job to do, and we’re going to see it through.

Occasionally, we get a ping at the warehouse. People in masks, people wrapped up in bandanas, passing and going. Individual actors in this jockeying for position between Sparkplug and Squeal that we’re going to get our hands dirty between. I see a person there, leaving a gift behind in the machinery. I alert the others, and we make a mental note to stay away from that one. I see a person here, digging in the compacted dirt around the abandoned warehouse, leaving things behind. The list of potential traps grows larger.

I fight the urge to sit there in wait, to force myself to experience action. Instead, I stay, like a dog sitting at attention, and I don’t put myself out there. It’d be so easy to fight one of these henchmen, but I can’t risk destabilizing the operation.

As the days drag on, the stakeout starts to take its toll. I find myself nodding off in class, my grades slipping as I struggle to keep up with the demands of the investigation. My teachers shoot me concerned looks, and I can feel the weight of their disappointment every time I hand in a half-finished assignment.

But I can’t bring myself to care. Not when the stakes are this high, not when the fate of the city hangs in the balance. Plus, it’s my freshman year of high school and I dragged myself through the rest of it with high Cs.

Finals end with a splat. More high Cs. I pass. The investigation continues.

School feels so useless nowadays.

We fall into a routine, the days blurring together in a haze of caffeine and takeout food. We trade off shifts, catching a few hours of sleep when we can, always keeping one eye on the screens. It’s exhausting work, but we push through, driven by the knowledge that we’re doing something important, something that matters.

And then, on the seventh day, just as we’re starting to lose hope, we finally catch a break.

It’s Sandman who spots it first, his sharp eyes catching the flicker of movement on the screen. “Guys, heads up. Squeal’s on the move.”

We all snap to attention, fatigue forgotten as we crowd around the monitor. Sure enough, there’s Squeal, emerging from his apartment building with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks nervous, his eyes darting back and forth as he hurries down the street. He’s been in and out to go to the local bodega, but that’s not exactly a place we can ambush him at. Even Spinelli and I, with our slightly more official backing, still don’t have the carte blanche – the free pass – to just drop in on a guy in the middle of a store.

“Maybe he’s meeting with Sparkplug?” Spindle suggests, leaning in closer to the screen. “Could be making a deal.”

I nod, my mind already racing with possibilities. “We need to tail him, see where he’s going.”

The team springs into action, adrenaline surging through our veins as we scramble to our positions. I can feel the anticipation thrumming in the air, the sense that something big is about to happen. We have the likely path already charted out, members of our combined supergroup scattered around for interception

Moonshot takes to the skies, her gravity-defying leaps carrying her from rooftop to rooftop as she tracks Squeal’s movements. “He’s heading north, towards the suburbs,” she reports over the comms, her voice crackling with static. “Looks like he’s trying to shake any tails. Keeps rounding corners”

Together, we move out, our footsteps echoing in the empty streets. The city feels different at this hour, the usual bustle and noise replaced by an eerie stillness. It’s like we’re the only ones awake, the only ones who know the true face of the darkness that lurks beneath the surface. Derek’s out of commission, chained up at home – it’s an inconvenient time for this.

“He’s flagging down a taxi,” she reports, her tone urgent. “Looks like he’s heading somewhere in a hurry. Hopefully, to our secondary location.”

“Hi, everyone! Moonshot is flying me!” Bubble’s voice crackles through our earpieces.

Then, its our turn to flag down taxis. Sandman stays behind in the garage to manage operations, while the rest of us head in groups, towards Dobson Mills. It’s a 40 minute run from Kensington, 30 minutes if you really hoof it, 25 if you don’t mind cutting illegally through people’s yards. In a taxi, it’s 10 minutes. Normally, I’d say I need the exercise, but time’s a wasting. It’s 3 AM, and the world feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

We’re scattered around the blocks surrounding Dobson Mills, each of us finding our own vantage point. Sandman’s voice crackles in my ear, directing us from his perch back at the garage HQ. “Compass, you’re on the north side. Bubble, take the east. Moonshot, you’ve got eyes from above. Bloodhound, Spindle, you’re on the ground, ready to move in if things go south.”

I acknowledge the orders with a quiet “Copy,” my eyes never leaving the street. Beside me, Spindle shifts his weight from foot to foot, his nerves palpable in the close confines of our hiding spot.

“Where’s Derek?” he asks, his voice low. “Shouldn’t he be here?”

I shake my head, my lips pressing into a thin line. “Full moon. He’s turbo out of commission.”

Spindle nods, understanding dawning on his face. We all know the challenges that come with Derek’s unique abilities, the toll they take on him. Tonight, we’ll have to make do without him.

The minutes tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. I find myself holding my breath, straining my ears for any sound of approach. And then, finally, Moonshot’s voice crackles over the comms.

“I’ve got a visual. Taxi, approaching from the south-east.”

We all tense, ready to move at a moment’s notice. I watch as the taxi pulls up, my heart pounding in my chest as Squeal emerges, followed by three other men. They’re all carrying duffel bags, their eyes darting nervously as they make their way towards the warehouse. Well, Squeal is the most nervous. I recognize none of the others, all various kinds of muscle, each one looking violent. Ready to protect and serve their own way.

“Looks like he brought backup,” Spindle mutters, his eyes narrowing.

I nod, my mind racing with possibilities. If Squeal’s brought muscle, it means he’s expecting trouble. We’ll need to be cautious, play this smart.

Ten minutes pass, the tension growing with each passing second. And then, just as I’m starting to wonder if we’ve got it all wrong, another car pulls up. A sleek black Mercedes, its engine purring like a contented cat.

“It’s Sparkplug,” Sundial says, her voice tight with something I can’t quite place. For a moment, she looks distant, like she’s seeing something the rest of us can’t. But then it’s gone, and she’s back in the moment, her eyes sharp and focused.

I watch as the man himself emerges from the car, tall and bald and radiating an aura of menace. He’s flanked by his own contingent of goons, each one looking like they’d happily break your nose for a nickel.

Squeal and Sparkplug meet in the middle, their voices low and urgent. I strain to hear what they’re saying, but the words are lost in the distance. Still, I can see the tension in their postures, the way their hands hover near their waistbands, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. The entrance to the warehouse proper looms over them like a mouth, preparing to bite down.

“We’ve got eyes and ears on this,” I murmur into the comm, my voice barely above a whisper. “Multiple angles. If they do anything illegal, we’ll have the evidence we need. There’s no need to force a fight we can’t win,”

It’s the most painful sentence I’ve said in weeks. There’s a murmur of agreement from the others, a sense of anticipation thrumming through the group. This is what we’ve been waiting for, the chance to take these bastards down. But even as I say the words, I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. Sundial’s look, the way she’d seemed to be seeing beyond the present moment… it nags at me, a splinter in my mind.

I force myself to focus, to push the doubts aside. We have a job to do. We can’t afford to get distracted now.

As Squeal and Sparkplug’s discussion grows more heated, their voices rising in anger, I fight the urge to move in. It would be so easy to charge in now, to take them all down in a flurry of fists and teeth. We’ve got the element of surprise, and every one of us has superpowers. They have a single-number advantage, eight to seven. With an unknown number of superpowers.

But I know better. We need to be smart about this. Rush in now, and we risk blowing the whole operation. Better to hang back, let the cameras do their work. If we can get evidence of a deal going down, of Jump or Fly changing hands, we’ll have everything we need to put these scumbags away for good.

I’m just about to give the order to hold position when Compass’s voice crackles over the comm, strained and urgent.

“Incoming!”

I snap my head up, my eyes widening as I see them. Four mini drones, descending from the sky like tiny little mechanical angels of death. They hover for a moment, their cameras whirring as they take in the scene below.

And then, chaos.

The drones drop their payload, and the air is suddenly filled with the most godawful stench I’ve ever encountered. It’s like someone took a dumpster full of rotten eggs and set it on fire, then doused the flames with a tanker of raw sewage. I gag, my eyes watering as I try to breathe through my mouth.

But that’s not the worst of it. Because in the next moment, the firecrackers start going off, a series of sharp cracks and pops that echo through the night air like gunshots. Smoke begins to pour from containers hidden among the rusted-out machinery, filling the air with an acrid haze.

I curse under my breath, trying to blink the tears from my eyes. This isn’t part of the plan. Someone else is making a move, someone we hadn’t accounted for.

And then I see her.

A figure, darting through the smoke like a wraith. She’s clad in black from head to toe, a familiar silhouette that sends a chill down my spine. I’ve seen that costume before, those telltale gadgets and gizmos. Only once. It takes me a fraction of a second to recall, even as I forget my own advice, even as I start running.

Miss Mayfly.

Time seems to slow as she charges towards Squeal and Sparkplug, her baton extending with a snap. The two men reel back, their faces contorting with shock and rage as they reach for their weapons.

But Miss Mayfly is faster. She leaps, her baton whistling through the air as she brings it down in a vicious arc. I see Sparkplug’s eyes widen, his mouth opening in a silent scream as the metal glints in the moonlight.

And then, just as the baton is about to connect, just as the first shot rings out, the world explodes into motion.

Shouts and curses fill the air, the sharp crack of gunfire mingling with the hiss and pop of the firecrackers. I see Squeal stumbling back, his hand clutching at his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. Sparkplug is screaming orders, his goons fanning out in a protective circle around him.

But my eyes are locked on Miss Mayfly, on the way she moves through the chaos like a dancer, her baton a blur of motion. She’s a force of nature, unstoppable and unrelenting.

I’m moving before I even realize what I’m doing, my feet pounding against the pavement as I charge into the fray. Behind me, I hear the others shouting, hear the crackle of the comms as they try to coordinate a response.

But there’s no time for plans, no time for strategy. Because in that moment, as I watch Miss Mayfly engage with the criminals, as I see the determination in her eyes and the grace in her movements, I realize something. Something very important.

Violence is inevitable.

Better make the most of it.

---

←Previous

Next→

Enter your email and click the below “Subscribe” button to subscribe to updates.

Chum will update every Wednesday, with sporadic extra updates as I feel fit. To stay up to date with Chum, consider joining the Official Discord™️. If clicking that link is difficult, you can manually access it with the following invite: https://discord.gg/QHy8YM99vC

Comments, feedback, theorizing, speculation, questions, etc. are all greatly appreciated. Additionally, if you enjoy Chum and would like to offer your financial support, you can find my Patreon at https://patreon.com/bearsharktopus, or donate a one-time donation at https://paypal.me/bstdev.