The meeting chamber is a cavernous, echoing space, the vast expanse of the training gym’s polished hardwood floors ringed by row upon row of metal folding chairs. By the time I slip through the reinforced double doors, the entire area is already packed to bursting, a seething sea of costumed figures and worried murmurs.
Familiar faces abound – the varied ensemble of the Delaware Valley Defenders, the distinctive uniforms of my fellow Young Defenders, and a smattering of other heroes and functionaries I recognize from various patrols and events over the years. Crossroads’ imposing silhouette stands out amidst the crowd, the young man’s features set in a mask of grim concentration as he exchanges terse words with a pair of unmasked technicians.
A hush falls over the room as I make my way towards the back, where the rest of my team is gathered. Blink shoots me an anxious look, the younger girl’s features pinched with open concern, while Rampart offers a weary nod, his bulky frame swathed in bandages and trauma dressings.
“Glad you could make it, Bee,” he rumbles, the words emerging through gritted teeth.
Playback nudges me in the shoulder, drawing a wince. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Thanks, dickhead,” I shoot back, managing a faint, lopsided grin.
My gaze tracks across the room towards the center, where a loose semicircle of chairs has been arranged around the main projector screen, the hushed silence and air of tension betraying its significance. The entirety of the Defender’s core leadership team is arrayed there, faces alike with grim resolution.
Councilman Jamal Davis, the ostensible administrator of the entire program, flanked by Multiplex and Bulwark, with Fury Forge and Clara Parker sitting further to the sides. Liberty Belle’s seat remains conspicuously vacant, a silent void that seems to radiate an almost palpable weight.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Multiplex begins, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that effortlessly commands the attention of the room. “I know many of you have pressing concerns and duties that have been put on the backburner to be here, and I want to commend you all for your exemplary dedication to the cause.”
When he continues, there’s a subtle undercurrent of gravity to his words. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, the last twenty-four hours have seen no less than four separate incidents involving the abuse of the drug known as Jump – a synthetic compound that appears to bestow temporary superpowers on its users at the cost of the recipient’s autonomy and sanity.”
He pauses for a moment to let that sink in, dark eyes flicking towards the screen for the briefest of heartbeats, an array of photographs, aerial and amateur alike, smacked across it like splattered paint. When he resumes, his voice has taken on an edge, the cadences of a man grappling with the full severity of the situation laid bare before him.
“As of 0300 hours this morning, we have confirmed reports of no less than four separate Jump-involved incidents occurring within the Greater Philadelphia area over the course of the past eighteen hours. Each of them was marked by extreme mutations, catastrophic power expressions, and an unacceptable degree of collateral damage to civilian life and property.”
Another pause, this one punctuated by a sweeping gesture that seems to encompass the entire room. “You were all present on the ground as these horrors unfolded, be it in the heart of Center City or the furthest extremities of the outer boroughs. You all witnessed firsthand the devastation wrought, the lives irrevocably changed in the span of mere heartbeats…”
My eyes flick towards Rampart at that, taking in the thick swathes of bandages now swaddling his torso beneath the hastily donned sweats. He catches my gaze and offers a wry shrug, features hardening into a scowl of grim resolution as Jamal continues.
“The incident with Mr. Adam Wallace at LOVE Park proved to be merely the final straw in a steadily escalating crisis that we can no longer afford to ignore or downplay.” Jamal chimes in, letting his gaze sweep across the assembled heroes once more, seeming to meet each of our eyes in turn. “The truth is, we’re still largely in the dark as to what precise forces or phenomena lie at the heart of these activation events. But while the cause remains opaque, the pattern behind their occurrence has grown increasingly impossible to deny or ignore.”
He pauses to share a grim look with his counterparts, lips pressed into a tight line as he seems to consider his next words carefully. “Each of the events was preceded by the presence of at least one individual suspected of being associated with a metahuman splinter group operating out of Upper Northeast Philly. A group that, until recently, had largely confined their operations to petty theft, survival crimes, and juvenile delinquency within a localized radius.”
A fresh surge of murmuring rises at that, a susurrus of dismay and incredulity rippling through the crowd. I can’t help but tense at the revelation, the first icy tendrils of premonition slithering through my thoughts. My gaze finds Blink’s once more, silently confirming the thing we’ve both been dreading.
The Phreaks.
I chance a look towards the Defenders’ delegation, noting the way their expressions have hardened into matching masks of grave intensity. Kwame’s jaw is set in a rictus of simmering outrage, every muscle in his thick neck standing out in harsh cords of tension.
Jamal, however, simply raises one hand in a subtly placating gesture, the motion cutting through the swelling undercurrent of rumor and unease like a scythe through wheat. “As some of you may have gathered already, judging from the muttering, we indeed have strong evidence indicating the direct involvement of the Philly Phreaks in the distribution and manipulation of these drugs.” He shakes his head, a weary sigh escaping him.
A ripple of murmurs and grim mutterings sweeps through the assembled heroes at that, the underlying tension in the air ratcheting up several notches. Beside me, I can feel Rampart tensing, his features hardening into a rictus of naked fury.
Multiplex raises a hand, silencing the whispers with a subtle gesture. “While the situation is certainly dire, we’re not about to sit back and let these people run roughshod over our city,” he rumbles, the words like a thunderclap in the sudden stillness. “We’ve already got investigation teams combing the city for any leads on their operations. We’d just like to make you all aware that we will be pulling all available resources to bear so that we can cut this off before it begins knocking down high rises. We’ve already had our hands full dealing with normal Jump-enhanced criminal elements.”
Fury Forge clears her throat, stepping forward to take the podium. Her heavily muscled frame is practically vibrating with tightly coiled tension, the gruff ex-firefighter’s features set in a grim mask of cold determination.
“Alright, listen up – we’re only gonna go through this once, so you’d better have your ears on, people.” Her voice is a gruff, no-nonsense bark, brooking no argument. “As Councilman Davis and Multiplex have laid out, we’re dealing with an escalating crisis that has grown far beyond our ability to contain through traditional means.” She levels a stern glare around the room, gaze raking across each and every hero present. “Over the past eighteen hours, we’ve documented no less than four separate incidents involving civilians who had gained access to the drug known as ‘Jump’ and subsequently lost control of the powers it granted them. Total haywire.”
Lifting one hand, she begins ticking off the incidents on her fingers, voice clipped and efficient. “The first occurred at around 1900 hours last night, in the Manayunk neighborhood. A young woman, Dakota Lyons, approximately 23 years old, began manifesting a suite of pyrokinetic abilities after exposure to the drug. She proceeded to rip through several city blocks before several of our own, yours truly included, were able to establish a perimeter and achieve a resolution.”
Fury pauses, lips pressing into a tight line for a moment as she collects her thoughts. “The second event took place just an hour later, this time in the Fishtown district. A 27-year-old male, one John Allen, previous criminal record for possession and petty larceny, somehow gained the ability to generate and control high-pressure streams of pressurized water through numerous new orifices uncontrollably appearing on his person. The resulting damage to infrastructure and flooding was immense, and it took a full squad of first responders over an hour to bring him into containment.”
Another finger twitches upwards. “The third case was in West Philly, where a 19-year-old college student, Kendra Bullock, developed what we can only describe as ‘explosive body’ syndrome. Any physical contact or trauma caused them to detonate in a series of violent concussive blasts.” She shakes her head, a flicker of something like anguish crossing her features. “Despite our best efforts, both the victim and one civilian were lost.”
She takes a second to compose herself.
“And finally, the incident at LOVE Park involving Adam Wallace, which I’m sure you’re all familiar with from the news coverage. But I’ll run it back anyway – he developed the ‘ability’ to uncontrollably generate, and launch, random metal objects at anything moving nearby.” Fury pauses, leveling a pointed glare across the assembled heroes. “In each and every one of these cases, we have confirmed the presence of at least one or more individuals associated with the Philly Phreaks youth gang – primarily Deathgirl, Chrysalis, and Pumice, but possibly a fourth and slash or fifth unidentified individual – actively observing and interfering with attempts to subdue the affected civilians.”
I open my mouth to respond, some knee-jerk first-thought already bubbling up to the surface. But the words catch in my throat, a sudden surge of epiphany sweeping through me with the force of a freight train. My vision swims, the room tilting around me as a simmering lattice of connections snaps into sudden, crystalline focus.
Elias. The creature at LOVE Park – Adam.
Slowly, I turn to face Crossroads, meeting the young man’s solemn gaze with growing trepidation. “It… it was them, wasn’t it?” I murmur, the words emerging barely above a whisper. “The Phreaks… they were creating them. Do you think they’re forcing people to take it?”
Crossroads’ eyes widen fractionally at my words, a flicker of dawning comprehension lighting his features. He looks at me, and he shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” he starts. But before he can respond in more detail, Jamal’s voice cuts through the rising murmurs like a gunshot.
“Bloodhound?” The Councilman’s tone is deceptively mild, but I can hear the undercurrent of snark in his words. “Do you have something you’d like to share with the rest of the class?”
I look past him, trading a silent glance with Blink and the rest of my teammates. Then, with a slow exhalation, I rise to my feet and turn to address the assembled throng.
“I think I might have some insight into who this fourth figure is,” I begin, fighting to keep my voice steady and even. “And I have a theory about what’s really going on here with the Phreaks and all these tainted Jump doses.”
Multiplex leans forward at that, brow furrowing beneath the sweep of his eyebrows. “Tainted? I think that’s already making some big deductive leaps… but hit us anyway. Walk us through what you know.”
The words tumble out in a rush, my thoughts racing faster than my tongue can keep up. “I think the fourth figure you’re looking for is someone I encountered a few months back, right around the time the Fly and Jump drugs first started showing up on the streets.” I pause, taking a steadying breath as I feel the weight of every eye in the room settling on me.
“His name is Elias, and he calls himself ‘Chimera’. He’s not one of the Phreaks, not really, but he seems to have some kind of… connection with them.” I hazard a glance towards Crossroads, noting the subtle shift of acknowledgment in his stance.
“From what I’ve been able to piece together, Elias is some kind of… I don’t know, amalgamation. He can take the physical traits and abilities of animals and mix-and-match them into his own body.” I see Gossamer’s eyes widen at that, while I keep my eyes on my fellow youngins to avoid freaking it in front of a crowd.
“The Phreaks, they’re working with him somehow. Or maybe he’s working with them – I’m not entirely sure. But what I do know is that they’ve got some kind of stake in these tainted Jump doses causing all this mayhem.” I shrug, a wince of pain rippling through my shoulders as the motion reminds me of my own injuries. “I think Elias is providing them with some kind of avenue to distribute these amped-up Jump variants, while the Phreaks are helping him… I don’t know, sow chaos or something? Either way, it seems like the two groups have some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement going on.”
I pause, letting my words hang in the air for a heartbeat before continuing. “And then there’s this other thing Pumice said to Rampart, about how the Phreaks losing their ‘one person with a leash on them’ is why they’re getting so bold now. I think he was talking about Patches – you know, the old leader of the Phreaks who we got locked up? I don’t know, almost a year ago?”
Across the room, I see Multiplex’s brow furrowing, the man’s lips pursing in a tight frown. “That… tracks, unfortunately,” he rumbles, the words like distant thunder. “We’ve been monitoring Patches’ status in the system, and her transfer to a more secure facility was expedited about two months back, around the same time this Fly drug first hit the streets. She’s currently in Daedalus.”
I see Crossroads and Puppeteer’s faces both twitch in some sort of disappointment.
Jamal nods, the motion weary and resigned. “Which means that Deathgirl and the rest of the Phreaks are now operating without the stabilizing influence of their former leader. And with this new… alliance with this Chimera character you’ve described, they seem to have both the motivation and the resources to take their operations to a truly catastrophic level.”
The room erupts into a fresh wave of hushed murmuring, the tension in the air ratcheting up several notches. Beside me, I can feel Rampart tense, his jaw working in a silent grind of frustration. Gossamer fidgets nervously, one hand worrying the hem of her costume, while Puppeteer’s features have settled into a mask of grim determination. I reach my hand out on instinct, expecting to find Gale’s hand for me. It’s not there. She’s on the other side of the jumble of Young Defenders.
Crossroads, however, simply shakes his head. “That still doesn’t explain why , though,” he murmurs, the words barely audible over the swell of voices. “Why are the Phreaks willing to work with Elias, or get into the drug trade at all? What’s their endgame here?”
I shrug again, hissing out a soft breath as the movement aggravates the raw wounds crisscrossing my back and sides. “I wish I knew,” I admit, offering him an apologetic half-smile. “But if I had to take a guess… I’d say spite, plain and simple. Elias is looking to make the insurance companies that kept screwing him over pay, and the Phreaks…” I trail off, letting my gaze sweep across the room.
Spindle looks at me and nods.
“They’re kids, man. Kids who’ve been dealt a bad hand and are pissed off about it. And now they’ve got this Daisy girl calling the shots, someone who’s probably even more angry and unbalanced than the rest of them put together.” I shake my head, teeth worrying at my lower lip as I fight to find the right words. “I think they’re just looking to create as much chaos and havoc as they possibly can, to tear the whole rotten system down around our ears.”
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the quiet murmur of conversation, every hero and functionary present seeming to wrestle with the sheer weight and implications of my words. Jamal sighs, fingers massaging the bridge of his nose.
“Well… that certainly paints a rather grim picture,” he mutters, the words laced with weariness. “And I’m afraid your assessment aligns rather disturbingly with what our own intelligence teams have been able to uncover.” He levels a pointed look in my direction. “Which begs the question – how precisely did you come by this information, Bloodhound?”
I feel my cheeks heat up at the implication, a sheepish grimace creasing my features. “Uh… well, you see, the thing is…” I trail off, one hand coming up to rub at the nape of my neck in a nervous gesture. “A few months back, I may have… gotten a little too involved in trying to track down the source of this new Fly drug that was popping up. And in the process, I… kind of ended up tangling with this Elias guy?”
This is the best explanation I’m willing to give them.
The silence that follows is palpable, a thousand unsaid recriminations hanging in the air. I brace myself for the inevitable storm, already wincing in anticipation of Jamal’s exasperated tirade or Multiplex’s scathing rebuke or Bulwark’s warm dressing-down. But to my surprise, the older man simply sighs, shoulders slumping ever so slightly.
“Well, at least your tendency for reckless heroics has proven useful this time, I suppose,” he mutters, the words accompanied by a rueful shake of his head. “Still, I can’t say I’m thrilled to hear you’ve been running around the streets playing vigilante. We’ve had enough trouble on our hands without you adding to the chaos.”
“I know, I know,” I mumble, casting a sheepish glance around the room. “But in my defense, I wasn’t exactly expecting to get caught up in a supervillain conspiracy when I started looking into Fly. Cut me a little slack here.”
“I would be surprised if there was not a supervillain conspiracy,” Bulwark mumbles, just loud enough to draw a peal of chuckles from the crowd.
“If I can add,” Spindle says, raising one long, bony hand to the heavens. The room turns to him, and he goes beet red. “Hi, Spindle here. Uh, I used to work with the Phreaks. You know, in a past life, is that what they say? And uh… Daisy is fucking bonkers. Am I allowed to say that?”
Fury Forge stifles a laugh.
Spindle seems to take that as encouragement. “I would… I would not at all be surprised if this was fueled by spite. There’s a lot of built up bad blood there. That’s why I left. Um. That’s all.”
Multiplex clears his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a gunshot. “Thank you very much, Spindle. And, Bloodhound, your information has also proven invaluable. And in light of the severity of this situation…” He pauses, fixing me with a considering look. “I think it’s high time you shared the rest of what you know.”
I blink, stunned momentarily by the unexpected absence of condemnation. “Uh… well, to be honest, that’s pretty much the gist of it!” I admit, shrugging gingerly. “I mean, I’ve got a few more details here and there, but nothing too concrete or actionable, you know? Just a lot of speculation and half-baked theories.”
Jamal nods, the motion slow and thoughtful. “Be that as it may, any insight you can provide would be most appreciated. We’re going to need every advantage we can get if we’re to have any hope of nipping this crisis in the bud before it spirals completely out of control.”
I hesitate, glancing around at the assembled heroes. Rampart offers me an encouraging nod, his features softening into a faint, lopsided grin. Blink reaches out, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze. With a steadying breath, I turn back to face the Defenders’ leadership.
“Okay, well… the way I see it, the Phreaks have kind of shifted gears, you know?” I begin, wincing as my rib cage protests the motion. “They started out small-time, just petty crimes and vandalism, right? But then they got a taste for…well, bigger things, I guess, when the Kingdom, remember those guys? Paid them off to cause chaos on South Street. And now, with Daisy calling the shots and Elias giving them access to these amped-up Jump variants, they’re looking to really turn the screws on the rest of the city.”
I pause, worrying at my lower lip as I search for the right words. “I think their end goal is just pure, unadulterated destruction, to be honest. Daisy and the rest of the Phreaks, they’re… well, they’re kids, man. Angry, disenfranchised kids who feel like the whole world’s stacked against them. And now they’ve got this thing with Elias, someone who’s also pissed off at the system, and they’re just looking to burn it all down.”
Jamal’s brow furrows at that, the older man’s features creasing in a pensive frown. “And these ‘tainted’ Jump variants…?” He prompts, tone deceptively mild.
I nod, wincing as the motion sends a fresh stab of pain lancing through my skull. “That’s where Elias comes in, I think. He’s the one providing the Phreaks with these souped-up Jump doses, doses that turn people into absolute nightmares.” I shudder, the memory of Adam Wallace’s agonized throes still etched into my mind’s eye. “I think he’s using the Phreaks as a distribution network, a way to get these mutated Jump variants out onto the streets and wreak as much havoc as possible.”
“Why, though?” Bulwark rumbles, the big man’s voice low and contemplative. “What does Elias get out of all this? Or the Phreaks?”
I shrug, immediately regretting the motion as my body screams in protest. “Beats me, big guy. Revenge, maybe? He seemed pretty pissed off at the insurance companies and healthcare system when I met him.” A humorless chuckle escapes me. “Maybe he figures if he can just create enough chaos, he can bring the whole rotten system crashing down around their ears?”
Multiplex nods slowly, dark eyes narrowing in contemplation. “It’s a concerning theory, to say the least,” he murmurs, the words heavy with grim implication. “And if even half of what you’ve surmised proves accurate, then we’re looking at a crisis that could very well spiral out of control in a matter of days, if not hours.”
He turns, fixing me with a look that’s equal parts concern and steely resolve. “Which is why I’m going to need you and the rest of the Young Defenders to work closely with our teams, to provide any and all intelligence you can on these players and their movements.” His gaze sweeps across the assembled heroes, features hardening into a mask of unwavering determination. “We can’t afford to hold anything back, not this time. The stakes are simply too high.”
Beside me, I can feel Rampart shifting, his frame practically thrumming with restless energy. “You got it, boss,” he rumbles.. “Just point us in the right direction and we’ll handle the rest.”
A chorus of murmured assent ripples through the room, the assembled heroes straightening with renewed purpose. Even Gossamer, usually the most timid and uncertain of the team, is eyeing the Defenders’ delegation with a steely glint of determination.
My own lips curl into a faint, lopsided grin as I look around at my teammates. “Guess that means no more freelancing for a while, huh?” I quip, earning a playful jab in the ribs from Playback.
Multiplex regards us for a long, silent moment, the weight of the world seeming to settle across his broad shoulders. Then, with a decisive nod, he rises to his feet. “We’d prefer you avoid it. But… if it works, I won’t complain.”
Clara grabs her small contribution to the conversation. “If you do anything criminal in the process of this investigation it’s probably for the best that you keep that to yourself. Ha ha.”
Everyone gets out an unwelcome chuckle at that.
Multiplex sits back down in his chair and raises his voice. “Alright, everyone. Let’s get to work. Time is of the essence, and we’ve got a city to save. Fifteen minute recess, and then I need everyone on their A-game. Young Defenders, you stay here. There’s more to discuss for us.”
The room erupts into a flurry of activity, heroes and support staff alike surging into motion as a fresh wave of purpose and determination sweeps through the assembled ranks. Jamal steps forward, already issuing a rapid-fire series of orders and directives.
I take a step back, watching the chaos unfold with a sense of quiet apprehension. The path ahead is clear, the threat laid bare before us. But the road will be long, and the battles to come will be fierce.
All I can do is steel myself, and hope that in the end, it will be enough.
The silence that follows Multiplex’s pronouncement hangs heavy in the air, thick with anticipation and unspoken questions. For a long moment, nobody seems willing to be the first to break the stillness.
Then, as if a switch has been flipped, the room erupts into a cacophony of teenage banter and casual chatter.
“So, anybody catch the new Celldweller flick over the weekend?” Playback pipes up, idly tapping out a rhythm against the arm of his chair. “I heard it was a total mindfuck.”
Gossamer lets out an excited little squeal, bouncing in her seat. “Oh my gosh, yes! The visuals were absolutely insane – I’ve never seen anything like Ren Shouko’s nanopunk aesthetic brought to life like that before!”
Rampart snorts, favoring the shorter girl with a sidelong look. “What, you mean all those seizure-inducing lightshows and music video cutaways?” He shakes his head, lips quirking in a half-smirk. “Nah, way too much style over substance for my tastes.”
“You’re just saying that because you couldn’t follow the overarching inugami-punk allegory they were going for,” Gossamer shoots back with a lofty sniff.
“Ooh, big SAT words, you’ve been studying!” Playback jeers with a theatric gasp.
Gossamer bristles, whipping around to face the smirking boy with an indignant glare. “What did you just say?”
“Easy there, killer,” Puppeteer cuts in with a weary sigh, raising one hand in a placating gesture. “Let’s try and stay on task here, people?”
“What task?” Playback counters with a snort of derision. “All the old heads finished yakking, didn’t they? We’re just waitin’ on them to give the next spiel.”
Rampart leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his barrel chest. “You could try showing a little respect, you know,” he rumbles, shooting Playback a hard look.
“For what?” He fires back with a dismissive shrug. “They ain’t even started us in on the real deets yet. So what’s the point in sittin’ around with our thumbs up our–“
“Does anybody have any fun plans for their summer?” Blink interjects hastily, flashing the room a brilliant, disarming smile as she cuts across Playback’s budding rant. “I’m thinking of maybe trying to pick up some landscaping gigs, earn a little cash before senior year starts up again.”
Crossroads hums thoughtfully at that, head tilting to one side. “Not a bad idea, actually,” he murmurs, favoring the younger girl with an appraising look. “Get a little part-time income flowing, maybe invest in some consumer-grade bodyarmor for when things inevitably get messy again…”
“I mean, I can get you that. And aren’t you going into, like, your second year of college?” Gossamer challenges.
From there, the conversation seems to splinter off into a dozen different directions at once, a whirlwind of meandering topics and half-remembered anecdotes spoken over one another in a disjointed symphony of musing and witty banter. Gossamer latches onto Blink’s thread, nattering on about some new textile line she’s been playing around with that could make for the “most fashionable ballistic vests ever!”
Meanwhile, Rampart and Playback continue to snipe back and forth, their verbal jousting carrying the familiar cadence of a long-running faux rivalry fueled by equal parts mutual respect and perpetual exasperation. Every once in a while, one of them will toss out an anecdote relating to one misadventure or another, earning a chorus of snickers and rolled eyes from those not directly involved in the scuffle.
I hang back from the chaos, content to simply watch and listen as the easy camaraderie flows around me in cresting waves. It’s been far too long since the last time I got to simply be around these people, absorbed in the simple routines and casual ribbing that once defined the bulk of my existence. A distant, forgotten part of me aches with a bone-deep weariness at the way the focus seems to continually shift from one dizzying tangent to the next. I look for Gale, and watch her conversation from afar without interacting. Then I do it from my periphery instead, because I don’t want to stare at her.
Boy, it hurts.
But just as swiftly, that feeling is swept aside by a surge of unbridled affection, my lips curling in a faint, lopsided grin as I drink in the surrounding tumult. These people, this team, are more than just comrades or colleagues – they’re friends, a second family bound together by shared struggle and unwavering trust.
“Hey, Earth to Bee? You still with us over there, kiddo?”
Rampart’s voice jolts me from my reverie, eyes snapping back into focus as I blink owlishly. “Huh? Oh, uh… sorry, I was just spacing out for a second there,” I stammer, offering the big man a sheepish half-grin. “You were saying?”
He returns the grin with a wry chuckle, shaking his head in that familiar Oh you kind of way. “Yeah, I could see those gears turning from across the room,” he rumbles with a fond roll of his eyes. “Figured we’d lost you for a hot minute again.”
“You know me,” I quip, allowing my features to settle into a more natural smirk. “Always overthinking everything.”
“That’s our Bee!” Playback cuts in with a theatrical flourish, leaning across the distance to rap his knuckles against the side of my chair.
The words are delivered with his typical devil-may-care swagger, all bravado and careless irreverence. But beneath the familiar facade, I catch the briefest flicker of genuine warmth flickering across his features, there and gone again before anyone else seems to notice.
The good-natured ribbing continues to flow, an easy current of banter and camaraderie that seems to lift the weight of responsibility from all our shoulders, at least for a few precious moments. Blink holds court in one corner, regaling Spindle and Gossamer with animated tales of her latest binge-watching exploits, while Puppeteer exchanges terse words with an attentive Crossroads nearby.
For a little while, at least, it almost feels like we’re just regular teenagers again. Like we’re just a bunch of overgrown kids killing time before the next class, swapping wild stories and inside jokes instead of war stories and battlefield triage tips.
But deep down, none of us are really fooled. We can laugh and joke and shoot the shit all we want, but the specter of duty, of responsibility , hangs over us all like shroud too heavy to simply shrug off.
Then, of course, everything happens quite fast, as it tends to do.
The illusion shatters completely when Jamal clears his throat, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot. All around me, I can feel the mood shifting, the weight of the world settling back down upon our collective shoulders. My teammates straighten almost in unison, a silent ripple passing through them as they refocus, faces settling into masks of grim determination and purpose once more.
Simultaneously, every hero in the room seems to tense almost imperceptibly, the easy cadence of our conversation sputtering to an abrupt halt. Chairs creak as bodies subtly shift, casual postures transitioning into something a bit more alert and coiled.
For a heartbeat, the silence stretches unbearable taut. Then, with heavy inevitability, the door at the far end of the chamber hisses open, and Councilman Davis strides through with a grim finality writ across his weathered features.
“Alright, people,” he announces, voice ringing out like a gunshot amidst the stillness. “Now, I realize you’ve all had quite the ordeal over the past twenty-four hours,” the older man begins, his voice carrying easily across the suddenly silent chamber. “And I want you all to know that your efforts, your sacrifices , have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated.” His gaze sweeps across our assembled ranks, dark eyes shining with a somber glint of profound respect.
“But unfortunately, the trials and tribulations we face as guardians of this city are never truly over – merely set aside for brief respites before the next challenge rears its head.” Jamal pauses for a moment, seeming to weigh the import of his next words carefully. Then, with a grim exhalation, he continues, tone hardening into the familiar cadences of command.
“Which brings us to the true purpose of why I’ve called this particular meeting, and the reason why the rest of the civilian and contractor roster has been dismissed. As you are all no doubt aware, the recent losses of both Professor Franklin and Liberty Belle have left the Delaware Valley Defenders stretched alarmingly thin when it comes to providing coverage over the entirety of the Greater Philadelphia Metro area…”
Beside me, I can feel the atmosphere shifting once more, a palpable weight of anticipation settling over the room like a lead shroud. My teammates trade fleeting, sidelong glances, the tension ratcheting up with every second of Jamal’s deliberate pause. They seem to know something I don’t. Crossroads, Rampart, and Puppeteer all look at each other. Silence reigns.
“And, as I’m sure you’ve all surmised by now – some of you are rapidly approaching an age where graduation to the senior team is not merely recommended, but expected, if you are to continue with your careers in government-sanctioned superheroics.”
The words hang in the air, weighty and charged with implication. Beside me, Rampart shifts, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Blink stiffen, spine straightening into a taut line of barely suppressed anxiety.
For a long heartbeat, no one speaks – an eternity of unspoken questions and half-formed apprehensions swirling through the air like a gathering storm.
Then, like a crack of lightning splitting the night, Playback’s voice shatters the stillness with its customary lack of restraint.
“Well, shit… looks like Prom is gonna have to wait until next year, I guess!”
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Chum 