BA.1

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The tail end of the briefing is winding down, Elijah’s gruff tones fading into distracted mumbles as I find my focus drifting inexorably away from the details of court procedures and legal jargon. Don’t get me wrong, making sure Sam and the rest of those kids come through Chernobyl’s sham trial relatively unscathed is important – it’s just not the kind of problem my mind was built to grapple with, you know?

Nah, left to my own devices, my thoughts inevitably turn to the more tangible, visceral minutiae that scratch that particular itch in my skull. Gear specs, material stresses, power consumption ratios – the comforting cadences of the engineer’s aria, lulling and familiar. I’m only half-listening as Elijah dismisses us with a curt nod, already mentally drafting blueprints for some fresh new toys to add to the kit.

A heavy hand claps down on my shoulder, pulling me back to the present with a jarring thud of impact. I glance up to find Kwame’s warm smile beaming down at me, his fierce, sun-carved features softened by an undercurrent of paternal fondness as he regards me.

“You were distant again, Bianca,” he rumbles in that rich baritone, the subtle lilt of his Ghanaian accent rolling through the syllables like a lazy summer breeze. “Jamal asked if there were any other–”

“Oh, uh… no, no other concerns from me, big guy,” I hastily interrupt, offering up my best sheepish grin as I shrug out from under his mammoth paw. “Just, you know… got my brain spinning in like twelve different gearhead directions, as usual.”

That earns a low, indulgent chuckle from the big man, the faintest glimmer of exasperated amusement flickering across those striking obsidian features. “Of course, of course. Forgive me for disturbing your thoughts.”

He gives my shoulder one final, good-natured jostle before turning to regard the rest of the team now milling about and gradually dispersing. The gentle giant tilts his head to one side, a pensive frown furrowing his craggy brow.

“This business with Samantha and the trial… it weighs heavily, does it not?” His eyes find mine, dark wells of grave sincerity. “I cannot imagine the burdens that poor child must carry.”

I snort inelegantly at that, flashing the big lug a wry smirk. “A little melodramatic there, Kwame. Come on, Sam’s no shrinking violet – that kid has ice water in her veins when the chips are down.”

Still, I can’t quite banish the echo of Kwame’s words from bouncing around my skull, a tiny discordant note plucked amidst the churning machinery of my thoughts. Because as much as I might brush it off, he’s not wrong – even with everything that kid has endured this past year, the thought of her squaring off against a legal buzzsaw like Caldwell on the stand is enough to make my molars grind right the hell down to powder.

I mean, sure, I’ve got faith in the frosty little badass. Sam is about as resilient as they come, all things considered. But we’re talking about a system that has been historically allergic to doling out anything resembling accountability when it comes to powered fuckheads like Chernobyl. Hell, Illya’s entire bullshit defense stratagem is probably banking on milking the jury for all the superpowered sympathy it can muster. Oh, it’s not like he can control it, I can hear Caldwell’s voice in my head. That means he had no option but to kill people.

“I hope you are right, Bianca,” Kwame’s sonorous tones break into my rapidly spiraling train of thought. “For all our sakes, as well as young Samuel’s.”

His eyes drift across the room towards where Elijah is engaged in a hushed sidebar with Jamal, all grim expressions and terse gesticulations. The big man shakes his head slowly, the furrows in his brow etching themselves deeper into that craggy, sun-baked visage.

“I do not envy the decisions that will need to be made, regardless of what transpires in that courtroom,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Nor do I spare much thought for those who will be tasked with making them.”

I arch an inquisitive eyebrow at that, but before I can think to press the issue, I feel another presence materialize at my side – Clara, looking as crisp and unflappable as a woman who definitely has not spent the past three hours poring over the most arid legalese known to humankind.

“Everything okay over here?” she inquires, offering up that perfectly measured smile that seems to come pre-programmed into every born attorney. Her cool hazel eyes flit between Kwame and I, catching my bemused expression. “Don’t tell me you two are getting into some sort of existential brooding session without me.”

Kwame lets out a rumbling chuckle at that, a welcome crack in his inscrutable facade. “Hardly existential, my friend. Although I will allow that Bianca and I may have been indulging in idle speculation regarding our young protege’s upcoming… challenges.”

Clara’s alabaster features settle into a look of grave concern, perfectly sculpted lips pursing into a thin line. “Ah, yes… I’ll be the first to admit, the deck certainly seems stacked against us on this particular legal battlefield.” A bitter note creeps into her tone, smoothing away that personable veneer she so habitually wears. “I have my reservations about Mr. Caldwell’s true motivations, to put it mildly. The man has a… complicated history when it comes to advocating for metahuman affairs.”

It’s not difficult to decode the thinly veiled contempt dripping from her every syllable. Clara might do her damnedest to maintain that carefully cultivated facade of aloof professionalism, but there are certain issues that have an undeniable way of chipping away at those meticulously constructed barriers. And anything even tangentially involving the federal courts is clearly one of her rawest nerves.

“You do not approve of Mister Caldwell’s… jurisprudence?” Kwame ventures, arching one inquisitive eyebrow ridge. There’s no judgment in his tone, simply an earnest query.

Clara’s nostrils flare slightly, and I can’t quite suppress a tiny smirk at the sight of her so visibly ruffled. Don’t get me wrong, the woman’s one of the sharpest legal blades I’ve ever had the pleasure of crossing, and her commitment to justice is second to none. But that East Coast WASP rigidity she wears like an environmental suit can get a little grating sometimes – it’s always a treat to see her human side peek through those hairline fractures.

“Let’s just say I have… concerns about his commitment to the higher principles of the law,” Clara manages at length, her tone carefully measured once more. Though the tautness around her eyes betrays the effort it takes to maintain that composure. “He has a troubling tendency to elevate metahuman affairs over more fundamental questions of innocence or guilt. Almost a… religious zeal for superpowered ideology, if you’ll permit me a bit of embellishment.”

She pauses, offering Kwame a faint, rueful smile. “I know you and I don’t always see eye-to-eye on certain particulars, my friend. But I think we can both agree that a justice system dictated by the whims of those in power, rather than objective truth, is fundamentally incompatible with its highest tenets.”

A terse nod is Kwame’s only reply, but I know the big lug well enough to parse the ghost of grim resolution flickering in those coal black eyes. Yeah, you don’t get to emigrate from an oppressive military dictatorship without developing a certain bone-deep reverence for the sanctity and objectivity of the law, no matter how ugly the particulars might get.

Clara seems to accept his wordless affirmation with a curt nod of her own before straightening up, squaring those diminutive shoulders like a woman preparing for the next arduous front in this endless war of principles. “Well, I don’t mean to get mired in the muck just yet. We still have plenty of preparations to attend to before the circus truly begins in earnest.”

She smooths an errant strand of silver-gold hair back into place, presenting us with another tight, mirthless smile that doesn’t reach those hawkish hazel eyes. “But rest assured, I’ll be keeping a razor-sharp eye trained on Mister Caldwell’s antics during these proceedings. After all…” Her gaze drifts across the room to where Elijah and Jamal are still locked in heated discussion, a humorless gleam entering her expression. “I’ve dealt with his sort before. The fanatics are always the most… challenging adversaries to face across the aisle.”

A solemn pall settles over our little confab at those grim words, each of us attuned enough to the finer nuances of legality and ideology to grasp the severity of Clara’s terse assessment. We’re sailing into the teeth of a true storm here. Chernobyl is the tip of the iceberg, a churning riptide of Meta policy and philosophical rifts lurking beneath the still waters, waiting to ensnare us when we least expect it.

My jaw clenches unconsciously, tendons tightening with the sudden flare of fresh determination burning through me. Damn it, this is exactly the kind of tangled, high-level headache I joined the team to avoid in the first place – the schmoozing and grandstanding, the bureaucratic dick-measuring that always seems to take precedence over, you know, actually helping people.

Well, not this time, buster. Not on my watch.

If Clara and the rest of these big brain galactics want to spend the next few months getting mired in all the messy political theater, chasing jurisdictional windmills or whatever, fine by me. Let them carve out the battlefield and gameplan every angle to their glassy-eyed hearts’ content.

Because when the time finally comes to throw hands, to dispense a little concrete frontier justice, yours truly will be standing ready with the biggest goddamn sledgehammer this side of the Alleghenies. And if any of Caldwell’s mewling cadre of supervillain-sympathizers think they can leverage their powers to tip the scales, well… that’s exactly the kind of multi-front shitstorm I was literally built to handle.

Jamal’s low, authoritative tones cut through my rapidly churning thoughts like a well-honed blade. “All right people, looks like that’s a wrap for today’s debrief. I know tensions are running high, but we need to keep our eyes on the prize here.”

He sweeps his gaze across the assembled team, steady and unflinching. “Illya Federov will face justice, one way or another. That’s not just a promise, it’s a solemn vow – to the victims, to this city, and to the ideals we all swore to uphold when we took up this mantle.”

The big man pauses to let those words resonate, allowing the weight of that proclamation to settle over us all like a ceremonial cloak. When he continues, it’s with that same calm, unhurried cadence that’s made him such an effective leader through the years. “I won’t lie to any of you – the road ahead is sure to be a brutal slog through the thickest legal quagmire this city has ever seen.”

His piercing stare finds me again, jaw set in a firm line of resolution. “Which is why, when the time comes for direct action, I need to know I can count on each and every one of you to have my back. No hesitation, no reservations – just an unshakable commitment to seeing justice served, no matter how high the cost.”

I meet the big man’s intense gaze head-on, feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline pounding through my veins. This is the kind of crystalline moment of clarity I live for, the chest-thumping call to arms that transforms bureaucratic theatrics into the kind of visceral struggle I can really sink my teeth into.

A feral grin slowly spreads across my face as I give Jamal a single, emphatic nod of acknowledgment. Elijah and the others echo the sentiment in their own ways – the big man with a curt dip of his chin, Clara with a simple, crisp “Aye”, Kwame with the subtle clenching of his precisely sculpted jaw.

It’s all the response our fearless leader needs. With a final sweeping glance, Jamal allows the faintest ghost of a smile to crease his wizened features.

“Good. Then we’ve already won half the battle.” His gaze lingers on me a fraction longer than the others, lips quirking ever so slightly. “Though something tells me the flashier half is still to come, Fury.”

I can’t resist letting out a rasping chuckle at that, flexing my heavily inked forearms as I crack my knuckles with a resonant pop. “You know me, big guy – I do love me a good light show to seal the deal.”

Jamal shakes his head with a soft snort, but I can see the fleeting spark of amusement dancing in those sunken, inscrutable eyes. He gives a short wave to signal our dismissal, already turning his attention back to the mountain of details still awaiting his attention.

The others begin filtering out, each attending to their own pre-battle rituals and mental preparations. But I linger for a moment, watching Jamal as he bends studiously over the table of briefs and case files, shoulders already hunched under that familiar, self-imposed burden.

It’s a strange dichotomy, I find myself musing as I observe the big man from across the room. On one hand, having a non-powered municipal suit jockey calling the shots still rubs me the wrong way sometimes, an artifact of my old stubborn streak. But on the other, there’s no denying the steadying influence Jamal’s brand of grounded, by-the-book leadership has brought to this fractious bunch of two-fisted heroes over the years.

I shake my head slowly, a reluctant half-smile ghosting across my lips. Ol’ Professor Franklin really did know what he was doing when he laid the groundwork for this little passion project of his, bless his genius soul.

“Oh, before I forget…” My voice cuts through the gradually dispersing clatter, pitched to carry across the room. A few heads swivel in my direction, brows arching in silent inquiry. I offer them a wicked grin. “You guys are never gonna believe who showed up bawling on my doorstep last night.”

That gets their attention. Elijah pauses mid-stride, fixing me with one of those patent skeptical glares that only a man capable of curating twelve separate expressions of disdain could properly cultivate. “Do I even want to ask?”

“Sam Small,” I announce with a theatrical flourish, relishing the way their eyes collectively widen in surprise. “As in Bloodhound herself, dripping mascara and snot everywhere while clutching a bottle of Hi-Pop like a torn-open jugular vein.”

A beat of stunned silence greets my proclamation – then Clara lets out an inelegant snort of laughter, swiftly muffling the burst of mirth behind one perfectly manicured hand. “Oh my… you can’t be serious.”

I flash her a toothy smirk, propping my hands on my hips in a practiced stance of cocksure nonchalance. “Hey, I’m just reporting the facts, Clarence. Kid showed up on my stoop around eleven, looking like a drowned rat that got hit by a trash truck on its way to oblivion. Good thing my kids were already asleep.”

“She knows where you live?” The words are halfway out of Kwame’s mouth before the dawning realization seems to strike him, one granite slab of a brow arching skyward. “Ah… I see now. That would indeed explain the unannounced visitation. She’s taken more than a bit from her mentor, has she?”

I can’t quite suppress the low chuckle that rumbles up from my chest at the big man’s mild understatement, shaking my head in exaggerated ruefulness. “Yeah, let’s just say little Miss Samwise has inherited a bit more of Diane’s bullheaded tendencies than any of us would like.”

My gaze slides over to where Elijah and Jamal are sharing a silent look of muted consternation, the former’s mouth settling into that unmistakable downturn of irritable chagrin. I shrug, letting my own expression settle into one of carefully cultivated obliviousness.

“What? You’d think by now you’d all have come to expect random invasions of personal privacy when it comes to that particular crew of baby bats,” I point out with a rakish wink. “Not like any of ’em have ever heard of this radical new concept called ‘boundaries’.”

“Be that as it may…” Jamal rumbles, leveling me with one of his patented scrutinizing stares from beneath those heavy brows. “The question still remains – what prompted Miss Small to seek you out specifically? I was under the impression her support structure primarily consisted of friends and teammates her own age.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Elijah gets there first with a grunt of begrudging acknowledgment. “The orientation factor, most likely.” He catches my arched look and shrugs those broad, corded shoulders in a sharp, dismissive jerk. “What? You’re the only out queer affiliate within the girl’s immediate orbit. Stands to reason she’d feel most comfortable approaching you under… delicate circumstances.”

Jamal lets out a soft hum of consideration, seeming to weigh Elijah’s assessment before nodding slowly. “A fair point, I suppose. Though I have to wonder how exactly our young friend even ascertained that particular… proclivity.”

I bark out a laugh at that, thumping my fist against the meat of my bicep with a dull thud. “Oh please, did you see the googly-eyed look she was sporting around me back during that Hedge Hog dust-up last month?” Another rakish grin splits my features as I glance around the circle of my teammates. “Kid was thirstier than a damn cactus lost in the Sonoran, you really think anything less than psychic gaydar could’ve picked up on those horny little infrared pings she was beaming my way?”

Clara snorts again, though this time her amusement carries an unmistakable tinge of exasperation. “Is objectifying underage girls towards the top of your list of prospective ice-breakers these days, Agnelli? Because if so, I’d very much like to revise that particular section of your conduct manual.”

“Hey now, no objectifying was had!” I counter with a barking laugh, spreading my hands in an artfully exaggerated pantomime of innocence. “I’m merely pointing out the obvious, Clarence – when you got it, you got it, and that kid was comin’ in hot with the goo-goo bedroom eyes to beat the band. Probably thought I was gonna be her wise, butch auntie mentor passing out all the tips.”

I punctuate the quip by tossing a roguish wink in Kwame’s direction, chuckling at the way the big man’s brow furrows in apparent consternation. Whether it’s at my flippant irreverence or the mere thought of teenage Sam harboring some kind of proximally unrequited crush, I can’t quite tell. Probably both, knowing the big lug.

Elijah’s weary sigh cuts through the banter, deflating the moment’s mirth like a pin jabbed into an overinflated balloon. “Charming as this little vignette about our understudy’s puppy crush is, I fail to see how it pertains to our larger objectives here. Unless Miss Small’s personal romantic ventures suddenly bear relevance to the coming trial and its attendant ramifications?”

Jamal clears his throat, the subtle shift in his bearing enough to restore a semblance of order and dignity to the conversation. “No, you’re quite right, Elijah – this is hardly pertinent to the matters at hand.” His eyes find mine, one brow arched in a silent cue for me to carry on. “Though I confess, I am curious as to what prompted the young lady’s visit in the first place. Perhaps you could indulge us?”

I don’t miss the slight emphasis on that last part, the unmistakable paternal edge bleeding into Jamal’s typically unflappable timbre. Yeah, the big man might affect that stony political poker face for the cameras, but after all these years I know better than most just how fiercely protective he gets when it comes to those kids.

Sobering slightly in the face of his tacitly stern regard, I let my shoulders slump into a loose, affectedly nonchalant shrug. “Hey, you got me – I was just bustin’ balls over here, Jer-bear. Kid rolled up in a mess, yeah, but it wasn’t any More You Know dramatics or anything.”

I pause, letting my expression settle into a more sober look as I sift through the still somewhat jumbled recollections of the previous evening’s unexpected house call. “Near as I can figure, she and Beanie Baby hit a bit of a rocky patch lately. Made things official last night, if you catch my drift.”

A hushed breath of dismay ripples through our little confab.

“I see… that’s certainly a difficult matter, particularly considering the present circumstances weighing upon our youngest members.” He pauses, features tightening almost imperceptibly before he reluctantly presses on. “And Sam, she was… understandably distraught at the news, I take it?”

“That’s putting it pretty damn lightly,” I grunt, flashing the big man a look that silently conveys the reality of just how friggin’ “distraught” our girl had been upon showing up on my stoop in the middle of the night. “Kid was a wreck, plain and simple. Wide-eyed and shaking, puffy as a blowfish and stinking like she’d been robbing a dispensary. Can regenerators even get high like that?”

“Depends. Sam in particular, no,” Elijah chimes in. “Crossroads told me a couple months ago. No booze, no weed.”

“Damn,” Clara replies, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No wonder she gets like that in a fight. I would too if I couldn’t drink it away.”

I rake a hand through my hair, grimacing at the still vivid memories of just how badly Sam had been slipping into an emotional tailspin last time I’d laid eyes on her. “Honestly, if she’d been any other rando off the street, I probably woulda just turfed her raggedy ass to the curb and told her to sleep it off. But… well, you know. I gave her the spare room for the night, let her crash and recoup for a bit,” I continue after a beat. “But… yeah, not gonna lie, seeing one of those kids that messed up sets off all sortsa alarm bells in my lizard brain. Just nonstop ma-bear instincts on red alert 24/7, you know?”

A snort of bemused frustration slips free before I can quite bite it back, copper-toned features contorting into a rueful smirk. “But in this particular instance, I’m the lucky duck that kid decided to emotionally imprint on like one of those baby ducklings following around a goddamn garden gnome.”

The words are barely out of my mouth before Elijah lets out a grunt of unvarnished derision, heavy brows knitting in a palpable scowl. “Somehow I very much doubt that child is in any genuine distress beyond the momentary heartache of young love’s folly,” he growls, contempt fairly radiating off of him in waves. “And even if she were, that hardly justifies this incessant invasion of personal boundaries that has become all too characteristic of her coterie of late.”

I bristle at his bald dismissiveness, jaw clenching involuntarily. “Oh what, you saying the kid doesn’t have a right to be messed up over this?” I bite out before I can stop myself, voice laden with caustic sarcasm. “Forgive me for not recognizing how trivial the loss of your first real romantic relationship is from the lofty, unfeeling heights of your ivory tower there, Professor Dickbiscuit.”

The big man whips around with blistering swiftness, mustard eyes flashing as his mouth curls in a venomous snarl. For an instant, I can see his hands tremble with that barely-leashed impulse to channel one of his trademark dupes into existence, raw and unfiltered rage roiling just beneath the surface like a primordial tsunami held back only by the thinnest veneer of restraint. Then, he stops, beginning to repeatedly unfurl and refurl his hands, eyes shutting, nostrils flaring. “Sorry. Temper.”

Christ, it’s easy to forget sometimes just how volatile this asshole can be when you manage to scratch that rarefied ego of his just right. Not for the first time, I find myself entertaining fantasies of clocking him with a well-placed flying dropkick, if only to wipe that perpetually punchable expression off his smug mug.

“That’s enough, both of you.” The words cut through the rising static charge like an arc of lightning from a clear blue sky, snapping my attention back to Jamal. He regards us both with a look of utter inscrutability, eyes harder than polished obsidian as they bore into each of us in turn.

“We’re all operating under an immense amount of external stress right now, it’s true,” he continues after a beat, tone resolute and unyielding. “But at the end of the day, we are still a team. A family, even, strange and dysfunctional as that notion may sometimes seem. And families rally around each other in times of crisis and upheaval, not rip each other apart with petty squabbles and juvenile sniping.”

His eyes find mine again, and suddenly I’m transported back two decades to those first fateful days under Franklin’s tutelage, a newly minted initiate absorbing the gospel of the Professor’s philosophies. I feel about three feet tall beneath that quietly withering look, ego and bravado collapsing in on themselves like a dying star.

“Bianca is right to express concern over Sam’s well-being, Elijah,” Jamal presses on, his tone softening ever so slightly as he splits his stare between us. “Just as you aren’t wrong to voice apprehension over this team’s flagging cohesion and boundaries of late.” A muscle twitches in his jaw, rippling beneath the heavy basalt slabs of his jowls as he grits out the next words through clenched molars. “But for God’s sake, you two need to find a way to communicate that doesn’t involve pissing contests.”

The silence that follows is stifling, laden with layers upon layers of history and unspoken baggage between us all, tangled roots reaching back decades. I find myself squirming slightly beneath the weight of Jamal’s vaguely paternal chastisement, the faint ghost of shame prickling at the back of my skull.

Because as much as I might chafe against the manifold Rules and Regulations that govern our work, at the core of it all, the man is absolutely right – we are a family here. Maybe not the most functional bunch in the cosmos, sure, but a family all the same, bound by thicker ties than most could ever fathom.

Of course, just like any other family, that also means stoking the occasional roiling bonfire of resentments and petty rivalries, forever threatening to immolate everything in its path if left untended for too long. Elijah and I might be teammates united under a common cause, but we’ve also been circling each other’s orbits long enough to amass a significant gravitational wake of grievances and interpersonal grating.

I mean, the guy’s a spectacular prick on his best days, but even I have to admit there’s a grudging respect there too. His methods might be overbearing and high-handed, but he gets results. Lord knows the rest of us would’ve capsized this leaky frigate of ideals ages ago if not for his gruff, uncompromising stewardship keeping us on course all these years.

Maybe there’s something to be said for that, I find myself pondering as Jamal’s words still linger in the hush. Some shred of integrity worth clinging to, even when the rest of our lives seem to whirlwind into chaos and madness around us.

It’s Kwame who finally breaks the heavy silence, the big man offering up a soft rumble pitched low and mollifying. “I understand the concern, truly. But if I may…?”

There’s a brief pause as he waits for Jamal’s wordless nod of assent before gently pressing on, hands spread in an artfully placating gesture.

“It seems unwise for us to speculate too fervently regarding young Samantha’s private affairs, particularly in her current… delicate state.” His eyes slide towards Elijah, one obsidian ridge raised in a look that brooks no argument. “Suffice to say, whatever distress she may have sought succor from does not diminish the gravity of the challenges yet to come. We would all do well to brace ourselves accordingly, no?”

Something in the big man’s words seems to sink in for the rest of us, lancing that roiling undercurrent of tension still simmering just beneath the surface. I shoot him a grateful nod, falling back into myself with a vaguely self-conscious huff of laughter.

“Yeah… yeah, you’re probably right there, big fella,” I manage around a watery chuckle, rolling my shoulders in an exaggerated bid to dispel the lingering static charge between Elijah and I. “Trust me, you don’t want any of us butting into the nitty gritty of teenage heartbreak drama, believe you me.”

I offer Elijah a sidelong glance and an irreverent smirk, daring him to call me on my bluff even as a tiny part of me silently prays for his tacit acceptance of the olive branch being extended. Because let’s face it, heaven and earth could sooner find themselves in simultaneous alignment than this mismatched posse of ours lasting more than one day without some little spark flaring up to reignite the usual banter and sniping.

Sure enough, Elijah’s only response is to heave a long-suffering sigh, throwing up his hands in a gesture of melodramatic surrender as a muscle twitches in his bulldog jowls. “Very well, very well – I suppose I should simply count my blessings that our latest breach of institutional integrity and jurisdictional protocol didn’t involve any further property damage this time.”

A rumbling chuckle cascades around the room at that, breaking the last of the lingering tension as we all allow ourselves a moment to simply revel in the sheer absurdity of these chaotic lives we’ve somehow landed ourselves in. Yeah, we might squabble and bicker like the most dysfunctional nuclear clan in all of recorded history, but at the end of the mulch-strewn day, there’s a bond between us all that transcends such petty grievances.

I catch Clara’s eye from across the dimly lit room, her own stoic features cracked ever so slightly by a wry grin of commiseration. A tiny shrug of my broad shoulders is all the acknowledgment I need to offer – she knows the score, same as the rest of us grizzled vets Lucky enough to find ourselves inexorably bound to this madcap cadre of two-fisted lunatics and lost causes.

“Alright people, one final order of business before we all scatter to the winds again.” Jamal’s gruff tones cut across the steadily thinning room like a booming clarion call, prompting the three of us to pause midst shrugging on jackets and gathering our various civilian accoutrements.

At his subtle hand gesture, we congregate around the man in a loose semicircle, postures instinctively stiffening into crisp parade rests out of long habit and muscle memory. Jamal regards each of us in turn for a beat, seemingly weighing his next words with painstaking deliberation.

“You’re all aware, of course, that our ranks are somewhat… diminished compared to years past,” he begins at last, gaze settling on some indistinct point off in the middle distance. “Franklin’s passing gutted us in ways that can’t be overstated, and Diane’s sacrifice this past winter only compounded those losses further still.”

A grim pall settles over the impromptu gathering, as dark and immutable as a total eclipse sweeping across the sun’s face. Of course we’re aware – how could any of us ever forget those twin tragedies, seared into our collective psyche like glowing brands scorched into living flesh?

I resist the urge to scoff bitterly at the oblique nod to our so-called “diminished” state. That’s putting things lightly to a fault – more accurate to say we’ve been utterly decimated in the harsh light of cruel reality.

Not that any of us would vocalize it, of course. This little melodrama is one of Jamal’s trademark “character building” dances around the elephant’s ever-looming presence in the room, a verbal exercise in stating what should be baldly obvious to any observer not actively trapped in the tar pits of willful delusion.

“Now, I’m not one to dwell in the mire of the past – we’ve all suffered enough sorrow and pain to fill oceans in that regard, I think,” the big man presses on, jaw tensing against another fresh wave of muted grief. “But facts are facts, and the reality we now face is a troubling one indeed. Our roster is thinner than it has been in decades, perhaps the leanest fighting trim since the old days of the Vanguard Initiative.”

He lets that ominous observation hang in the air for a moment, apparently content to let it steep amidst the churning undercurrents of our collective discomfort. Then, just as abruptly as it had descended, the solemn melancholy shatters like a pane of safety glass pulverizing under the force of a well-lobbed cinderblock.

“Which is why I wanted to broach the topic of recruitment with all of you,” Jamal declares, straightening up and squaring those broad shoulders into an unmistakable line of command. “We can ill afford to linger in this current diminished state, not with the… challenges looming on the horizon.”

A series of furtive looks are exchanged around the rough circle, punctuated by brittle nods of tacit agreement. Because of course Jamal’s not referring to Chernobyl’s trial, or the metahuman drug rings, or any of the other headline-grabbing calamities we’ve been clawing tooth and nail at for the past year now.

No, there lurks a far more pervasive sense of entropy nagging at the foundations of this entire operation, eating away at our structural integrity from within like a host of industrious termites. Sooner or later, we’ll have to take steps to reinforce those vulnerabilities… assuming there’s even a workable foundation left to fortify.

As ever, it’s Kwame who finally steps up to verbalize the beast gnawing at the edge of our collective apprehension.

“You believe it past time we open a new cycle of eligibility for the Young Defenders, then?” he rumbles, dark eyes glinting with a taciturn understanding as keen as a razor’s edge. “To… replenish our ranks from the next generation, so to speak.”

Jamal nods, slow and deliberate, seemingly savoring the weight of those words as Kwame utters them out into the open air. A muscle twitches in his jaw, the only visible tell of whatever internal deliberations and calculations are even now unspooling behind that inscrutable facade. “The thought has indeed crossed my mind more than once of late, yes. Those kids have proven themselves time and again – they’re more than ready to move up to the next tier, push themselves to an even higher plateau.”

Clara clears her throat, the sudden sharpness of the sound effortlessly severing through the ribbons of tension winding their way around the rest of us. “I hate to be the voice of obstruction, as per usual,” she sighs, mouth settling into a familiar moue of habitually sour reluctance. “But I do need to remind everyone that Puppeteer’s transition is… effectively a non-starter, given certain matters of record that are now set in legislative stone.”

A beat of weighty silence greets those words, each of us forced to confront that particular grim reality head-on. Puppeteer has been wrestling with more private demons than any of us are perhaps equipped to fully comprehend.

Thankfully, Elijah breaks the uncomfortable hush before it can stretch into open awkwardness. “Regardless, we have several other prime candidates to consider taking under our more… direct stewardship,” he acknowledges with a curt nod. “Martinez, Reynolds are available for immediate graduation, while Harris, Li, and Chen are close. All upstanding, disciplined assets with clear tactical acumen and dedication to the mission. Yes, even Harris.”

Jamal hums deep in his throat, brows knitting as he appears to mull over Elijah’s terse assessment. “You don’t think we should consider bringing in some outside blood as well?” he muses after a protracted moment, pinning the big man with a look whose depths belie its laid-back veneer. “This city is hardly lacking for talented unaffiliated operators crying out for support and structure – bringing in a few fresh faces could provide just the reinvigoration we require. Not to mention, they might be able to actually buy a beer at a corner store.”

A noncommittal grunt is Elijah’s only immediate response as he trades a brief, inscrutable look with Clara. The two of them share one of those weird telepathic hyper-link moments that always manages to make me feel weirdly isolated in times like this, despite all our shared history. Like I’m a guest in their private clubhouse, permanently barred from the sacred inner sanctum on some technicality or another.

Elijah shakes his head fractionally, the ghost of a frown tugging at the corners of his stony mask. Clara simply arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow a fraction higher in response before allowing her shoulders to sag with the barest hint of resignation.

“It may prove… prudent to at least sound out the possibilities,” she concedes after a heavy beat. “Though I think we both know the complications that come prepackaged with such overtures. Particularly given certain procedural bottlenecks that seem to flare up without fail whenever we try handling things ourselves.”

Translation: the byzantine government bureaucracy surrounding metahuman affairs and the endless miles of red tape that go along with it. A veritable bone of contention between this pair of hardliners and the rest of us more improvisational types – every time there’s so much as a whisper of opening new recruitment channels, Clara and Elijah are the first to trundle out the tedious legalese and policy reminders.

Hardly surprising, though, from the faction that lives and dies by the often suffocating letter of the Procedural Code. Why embrace a new dawn of superhuman coalition when you can just replicate the same overbearing institutional oppressiveness that’s kept everything on a choke chain for a generation and counting?

I don’t bother voicing any of those sentiments out loud, of course – not with my usual indelicate flair for the poetic barb, at least. Instead, I simply settle for a low grunt of acknowledgement as Kwame steps forward to weigh in again, a rumbling mountain to Elijah and Clara’s implacable stone monoliths.

“I believe Jamal raises a fair point regarding new asset acquisitions. While the next echelon of Young Defenders are certainly more than deserving of advancement, we would be wise to keep an open mind to other potentials out there.” He pauses, shooting me a brief sidelong look of knowing warmth before continuing. “As our dear friend Bianca would no doubt attest, untapped wellsprings of capability often flow through our midst, unnoticed until the time comes for them to take the stage.”

I answer his sly wink with a toothy smirk and a mocking scoff, unable to quite resist the urge to puncture the moment’s rising self-seriousness with a little levity. It’s one of those rare things Kwame and I have always seen eye-to-eye on throughout the years – if you start taking yourself too stone-cold seriously in this line of work, the existential dread will swallow you quicker than a razor-fanged Xenodon.

“Sure, go ahead and open those floodgates, big man,” I rasp around a throaty chuckle, adjusting the battered old windbreaker draped over my shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Me personally, I’m still holding out hope for that shy, unassuming display assistant who transforms into a mid-range thermobaric live munition when nobody’s looking.”

Kwame can’t quite suppress the rumbling guffaw that slips out of him, while Elijah and Clara simply exchange another one of their looks of resigned longsuffering exasperation. A tiny sliver of some indefinable tension bleeds out of the room as they begrudgingly accept that any further attempts to reify this dialogue will only serve to slide it further into the usual absurdist merriment.

As ever, it’s Jamal who has the final word, regarding each of us with what passes for an amused chuckle in his particular dialect of stoic rectitude. “All perspectives are welcome and will be given due consideration, as is tradition,” he pronounces, not bothering to hide the slightly sardonic edge glinting behind those heavy-lidded eyes as he nods at me specifically.

We all share a final, commiserating peal of laughter at that, any remaining embers of gravitas or rigidity thoroughly extinguished by the absurdist levity rapidly blooming in the wake of Jamal’s understated barb. Yeah, the future might still be churning off in the wings, all storm clouds and unspoken foreboding tucked away behind opaque curtains and unknowable horizons.

But for now, at least, we’re free to simply revel in the momentary illusion of control we’ve so painstakingly cultivated, no matter how ephemeral that conceit might prove to be in the end. I shake my head as I gather up my discarded parcel of street clothes, allowing myself to savor the faint, melancholy swell of affection I feel for this patchwork clan of rogues and lost causes.

God help the sorry bastards who get caught in our sights next, I can’t help but muse as I trail along behind the others, heading out into the sweltering summer evening to face whatever fresh conflagration of madness awaits us amid the teeming streets beyond.

---

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