92

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Playback’s words seem to detonate in the stillness like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile tension that had coalesced around us. A pile of murmurs and muted exclamations ripples through the assembled ranks as the full gravity of Jamal’s pronouncement begins to sink in.

“Well… I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” Rampart rumbles after a beat, his deep baritone somehow managing to cut through the rising hubbub. There’s an undercurrent of wistfulness to his tone, leavened with the faintest hints of apprehension.

Blink lets out a nervous little giggle at that, flashing Rampart a tremulous smile. “Hey, who knows?” She ventures with a forced lightness. “Maybe they’ll let us have a going-away party or something? You could totally make it a prom theme!”

“I’m sure Gossamer would be thrilled to design our graduation dresses,” I deadpan, allowing myself a wry half-grin as I join the banter.

The smaller girl’s eyes light up at that, an eager grin blooming across her features. “Ooh, you know what would be super cute? If we all coordinated in, like, a gradient theme! I’m picturing, like, a soft lavender shading into a deep royal purple across the ensemble–“

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Sparkles,” Playback cuts in with a shake of his head, lips quirked in a teasing smirk. “I don’t know about y’all, but I ain’t exactly feeling confident enough in my girlish figure to be rocking no evening gown anytime soon. I’ll take a dope tux and call it a day.”

That draws a peal of laughter from Blink, her body seeming to relax ever so slightly as the easy camaraderie flows between us. Even Puppeteer allows herself a faint, lopsided grin, dark eyes glittering with a hint of genuine amusement.

“Speaking of which…” Crossroads ventures after a moment, the young man’s rich baritone cutting through the lighthearted chatter like a scalpel. There’s an undercurrent of brooding gravity to his voice, all hints of mirth and levity banished in the wake of Jamal’s sobering announcement. “I think it goes without saying that this… changes things for the team in a fairly significant way.”

An uncomfortable lull falls over our little gathering at that, the brief respite of laughter and playful jabs giving way to a resurgence of apprehensive uncertainty. Rampart shifts almost imperceptibly beside me, his massive shoulders stiffening beneath the weight of Crossroads’ implication. Playback’s expression sobers, eyes flicking towards Puppeteer as if silently seeking guidance or reassurance.

“I mean… we all knew this day was coming sooner or later, didn’t we?” I venture after a heartbeat’s pause, keeping my tone deliberately light and casual. “We can’t exactly stay Young Defenders forever, can we?”

“You make it sound so easy, High School Freshman,” Playback quips after a couple of seconds of rotting silence.

My attempt at levity falls flat, the words seeming to hang in the air like a damp towel draped over the room. Blink worries at her lower lip, fidgeting in her seat, while Gossamer’s expression takes on a pensive, almost troubled cast. Crossroads simply watches us impassively, hands steepled before him in an unspoken plea for composure.

“I suppose you’re right,” Puppeteer murmurs after a long moment, her soft lilt slicing through the tension like a keen-edged knife. “We all knew from the beginning that the Young Defenders were intended as little more than a stepping stone, an interim phase for newly activated metahumans to refine their abilities and gain experience under supervision.” She inclines her head towards Crossroads, seeming to defer to his leadership in that unspoken way of hers. “The only question that remains is… who , precisely, will be making that transition to the senior teams come graduation. Is this going to be a competition for one spot?”

A fresh murmur of hushed conversation ripples through our little cluster at that, speculation and apprehension alike swirling through the suddenly charged air. Puppeteer’s gaze sweeps across the assembled teammates, her dark eyes glittering with hints of unspoken intent.

Jamal rubs his chin. “It depends. We have to see what other metahuman resources will be available for us to make up the gaps left by Franklin and Belle.”

Beside her, Blink shifts anxiously from foot to foot, fingers worrying at the hem of her costume. “But… that would mean the team’s going to get split up, right?” Her cheeks are pinched with naked apprehension. “Because whoever gets picked is going to have to leave and join the Defenders full-time?”

A chorus of murmured assent rises at that, the other younger members exchanging uncertain glances. Even Rampart seems subdued, shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly as the reality of the situation settles over us.

Crossroads is the first to respond, leaning back in his chair with an inscrutable look. “Well, it’s not exactly like it would be goodbye forever, you know,” he points out in that familiar, measured cadence. “We’d still be around, still part of the same larger team – just operating at a different level of responsibility is all.”

Playback snorts at that, one hand coming up to toy with the tassels of his beanie. “Uh-huh, sure… because that’s totally the same as still being part of this merry little band, isn’t it?” His tone is light, almost flippant, but I can detect an undercurrent of something else lurking beneath the sarcasm – a vein of genuine disquiet that he’s clearly trying to mask.

“Hey now, nobody said anything about abandoning the squad just yet,” Rampart cuts in, looking up from where he’s been studying the table with an uncharacteristic intensity. His lips are set in a grim line, mouth pulled into a thin grimace. “Way I see it, any of us that do end up getting the call-up are just gonna have to work twice as hard to keep those ties intact. No way in hell I’m letting a little thing like a promotion come between me and my team.”

A smattering of murmurs greets that, the undercurrent of tension in the room seeming to ease fractionally. I find myself nodding slowly in agreement, unable to deny the simple, steadfast certainty in Rampart’s voice.

Puppeteer’s expression remains carefully neutral, not so much as a flicker of acknowledgment rippling across her elegantly sculpted face. “Perhaps,” she allows at length, the word emerging precise and measured, although what exactly she’s ‘perhaps’ing eludes me. “Although as we all know, simple seniority and leadership experience alone are seldom sufficient qualifications for ascension to the senior ranks.”

Her dark eyes slide towards Crossroads once more, silently deferring the leadership of the discussion back towards him in that effortless, almost unconscious way she seems to have. The tall youth lets out a weary sigh, shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly beneath the weight of her implicit summons.

“You’re right, of course,” he rumbles after a moment, fingers lacing together atop the tabletop in an unconscious mimicry of pensive contemplation. “Mere age and experience alone aren’t enough to guarantee a smooth transition upwards. There are other factors that must also be weighed and accounted for.”

Clara chimes in then. “I’ve been doing a lot of research lately about team compositions, and what my findings have suggested is that having multiple older team members who don’t think of each other competitively can be a deciding factor in how well a team like the Defenders syncs up. If you imagine your incoming promotion from the Young Defenders as an open audition…”

Puppeteer and Rampart exchange looks, raising their eyebrows. Gossamer is staring at Clara wide-eyed, hanging on her every word. The overall vibe of the room seems positive towards Clara’s speech, and she takes the opportunity to continue with an analogy that she must think makes her look smart.

“If the Young Defenders were a… little league baseball team, let’s say, and we were looking to select one or two players from it to join our major league team, the Defenders, our… scouts would not simply look at batting averages or wins. They would look at the player’s ability to coexist with the other players, and whether or not that particular player’s personality would gel with the existing group.”

“You’re right,” Crossroads chimes in. “Picking between the three of us based on resume alone wouldn’t be the right move. We have to figure out which combination of people would make for the most functional and effective team.”

Jamal clears his throat again and stands. “Indeed. And that is precisely what we will all endeavor to determine, but the process will not be as simple or as clear-cut as merely looking at your dossiers.” His gaze sweeps across the assembled Young Defenders once more, seeming to linger meaningfully on each of them in turn.

“The road ahead will be long, fraught with challenges that will test the very limits of your skills, your resolve, your commitment to the calling we have all sworn ourselves to uphold.” Jaw tightening fractionally, the older man straightens to his full height, gaze hardening with a mask of unyielding determination.

“But I have no doubt that you will all prove equal to the task, as you have time and again in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. The days grow darker with each passing hour, the trials ever more arduous.” His eyes blaze with the intensity of a man utterly convinced in the righteousness of his cause.

“But that is why we train, why we sacrifice, why we dedicate every waking breath to the mantle of service and protection that has been bestowed upon us. Hold fast to that conviction, those unbreakable bonds of fellowship and trust that make you stronger together than the sum of your individual parts.” A muscle twitches in Jamal’s jaw, the words seeming to resonate from somewhere deep within his core.

“For in the end, it may very well be all that stands between us and the onset of oblivion itself.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Okay, dude. Damn,” Playback cracks.

A tense silence hangs in the air in the wake of Jamal’s impassioned words, the weight of his pronouncement seeming to settle over the assembled Young Defenders like a shroud. For a long moment, nobody seems willing or able to give voice to the maelstrom of thoughts and misgivings swirling unspoken between us.

Then, as if a dam has burst, the room erupts into a surge of hushed conversation, opinions and objections spilling forth in a disjointed chorus. Beside me, Blink fidgets anxiously in her seat, lips pursing with the clear desire to speak her mind.

“Okay, so… I know this is gonna sound bad, but…” She pauses, worrying at her lower lip as she seems to search for the right words. “Well, don’t you guys think Rampart might be a little… young to be considered for full Defender status just yet?”

The dude in question stiffens almost imperceptibly at that, shoulders squaring beneath the crimson padding of his costume. His expression, however, remains impassive – a carefully schooled mask of stoic detachment giving nothing away.

Predictably, Playback is the first to seize upon Blink’s tentative objection, pouncing on the opening like a jackal sighting a fresh carcass. “Y’know, she might just have a point there, big fella,” he drawls in that exaggerated, easy cadence of his. I can’t quite put a finger on the undercurrent of unease coiling beneath his words, but it’s there all the same. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, your power is crazy useful and all. But you did just hit legal adulthood not too long ago, right? The rest of the old heads have been in college for way longer already. You sure you’re ready for that next step?”

Puppeteer clears her throat, head tilting towards Crossroads in a clear deferral of authority. He doesn’t say anything, only closing his eyes. I think he has in him the idea that leaning one way or another would seem to be… a favoring, a deferral. Surely, he’s seen the future, hasn’t he? But he refuses to give us anything about it.

“I mean, does it matter that the Defenders have a defensive type like Bulwark on the roster?” Gossamer offers up, brow furrowed as she worries away at her lower lip. “No offense, Ramp,”

Rampart raises a hand, shutting his eyes in thought. “None taken. It’s important information.”

Blink nods slowly, seeming to seize upon the point with renewed vigor. “That’s what I was thinking, too,” she agrees, flashing her smaller teammate an encouraging look. “Like, we all know how much of a beast Rampart can be when it comes to tanking hits and locking things down. But in a team setting alongside Bulwark and the other powerhouses like Multiplex and Fury, doesn’t it maybe make more sense to pick someone with a different overall powerset to help round things out?”

Hushed agreement moves through us, punctuated by the occasional murmur of dissent. Rampart’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but beyond that muted expression, he doesn’t so much as twitch in the face of the growing torrent of speculation and debate surrounding his candidacy.

Unbidden, my gaze flicks towards Puppeteer, searching for any sign or tell in her customary composure, finding nothing.

There’s a brief lull then, as if the gathered teens are all instinctively looking towards Crossroads and the senior contingent for some manner of rebuttal or guidance. Multiplex shifts almost imperceptibly in his seat, expression darkening into a speculative frown as the weight of the mantle settles across his broad shoulders.

“…I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves here,” the seasoned hero ventures at length, that familiar rumble of authority underpinning his words. “Ultimately, the decision of precisely who among you will be invited to take the next step will not be made here and now, in the heat of the moment. There will be a process, a series of assessments undertaken by each of the candidates to help us better determine where you will be able to contribute most effectively as part of the wider Delaware Valley Defenders initiative. I would ask that you all simply keep an open mind, and hold your doubts and objections for a time. Today is not that day.”

But before Rampart can so much as part his lips in response, another voice rises to cut through the swelling tension. This one soft, tremulous – and all too familiar.

“Actually… I think this might be a good time for me to share something as well.”

The words emerge soft, almost inaudible, but they seem to detonate in the stillness of the room with the force of a thunderclap. I feel my breath catch in my chest, head whipping around almost of its own accord to find Gale regarding us all with an oddly pensive expression.

I look anywhere but her, and end up meeting gazes with Spindle, who has remained mostly quiet this whole meeting. He is the newest member of the team, so I don’t really blame him, but it feels weird to stare at him, so I stop.

“Sorry in advance,” She says. She takes a steadying breath, dark eyes flicking towards me for the barest instant before flickering away once more. “I… I’ve been giving my role on the team a lot of thought lately,” she begins, the words seeming to emerge with a palpable weight of reluctance. “Ever since the incident out near the Schuylkill, really. And… well, the truth is, I’m just not sure this is something I can keep doing anymore. Not with the way things have been escalating lately.”

A thick, leaden silence falls over the room, the weight of Gale’s confession seeming to drain the very air from the space around us. I feel my heart plummet into my stomach, a sudden, nauseating vertigo sweeping through me as her words seem to detonate against the inside of my skull.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I fight off the urge to be sick, dimly aware of the flurry of muted exclamations and hushed protests erupting in the wake of Gale’s bombshell revelation. Beside me, I can sense Blink tensing, body rigid with shock, while Gossamer seems poised on the verge of tears, lips trembling mutely.

Puppeteer is the first to find her voice, the regal tones of her measured baritone cutting through the swelling tumult like a razor’s edge. “Gale… please, help us to understand,” she murmurs, dark eyes shimmering with naked concern. “Does this mean you intend to leave the Young Defenders altogether? Or merely take a step back from active duty for a time?”

Gale crunches her face up, visibly struggling to maintain her composure as every eye in the room turns towards her. There’s a palpable aura of fragility surrounding her, as if the slightest errant breath might shatter her into a thousand irreparable pieces.

“I… I’m not sure, to be honest,” she admits at last, words emerging in a breathless rush. “I just… after everything that happened, all the destruction and… and violence , I can’t seem to get it out of my head, you know?” Her gaze flicks towards me again, dark eyes haunted by a bone-deep weariness I’ve only ever glimpsed in fleeting flashes before. “I talked to Sam about it, too. I just…”

Everyone glances at me, and I feel like I need to explode and also die. I look at the floor.

Blink lets out a soft, strangled sound at that, while Playback shifts uncomfortably in his seat, lips pressed into an uncharacteristically grim line. I can feel the weight of their collective gazes settling on me, a thousand unspoken questions and silent pleas for intervention swirling through the air.

But the words won’t come. My tongue feels like lead, the air thick and stagnant in my lungs. All I can do is stare at the floor.

“Gale… I know things have been… intense , to say the least, these past few months,” he begins, voice pitched low and soothing as one might use to gentle a spooked animal. “After everything we saw out there, everything we had to deal with… well, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t shake me up too, you know?”

He pauses, grimacing faintly as his eyes flick towards the bandages still swathing his torso. “To be honest, I’m not even sure I’d be here right now if it weren’t for all of you – my team, my family – keeping me grounded and reminding me why we signed up for this gig in the first place.” Reaching out, he rests one massive hand atop Gale’s in a gesture of quiet reassurance, the gesture almost grandfatherlike.

“So I get it, kid. I really do. And whatever you decide to do from here, just know that none of us are gonna judge you for it, alright? We’re here for you, one hundred percent of the way. No matter what.” His gaze sweeps across the rest of us, dark eyes shining with a quiet, unshakable conviction. “Ain’t that right, y’all?”

A ragged chorus of murmured assent rises from the assembled Young Defenders, punctuated by a few emphatic nods and tight smiles. Gale manages a tremulous half-grin of her own, the expression almost painfully fragile as she ducks her head in a mute show of gratitude.

“I… thank you, Rampart,” she whispers, voice barely audible over the sudden swell of hushed chatter. “And all of you, really. Just… just know that I’m not making this decision lightly, okay? I love all of you, and being a part of this team has been one of the greatest experiences of my life so far. But… well, there’s a difference between being brave and being reckless , you know? And… I’m scared. I don’t want…”

I know what’s coming next, but the end of the sentence doesn’t show up.

“You don’t want to die,” Puppeteer finishes the thought for her, as if plucking it from her head.

Gale’s words seem to hang in the air like a leaden weight, the unspoken truth behind her halting confession sending a palpable chill rippling through the room. For a long, breathless moment, nobody seems willing or able to give voice to the unspoken implications swirling in that fragile silence.

Then, with a quiet exhalation, Puppeteer straightens almost imperceptibly in her seat, dark eyes glittering with a strange, haunted light. “You’re right, Gale,” she murmurs, the familiar cadences of her rich alto seeming to resonate with a profound, bone-deep weariness. “None of us signed up for this path expecting it to be a leisurely stroll through the park. We all knew the risks, the stakes, the sheer gravity of the responsibility we were shouldering from the moment we first donned these somewhat tacky costumes.”

“Hey!” Gossamer shouts, but it’s clearly in jest. I think.

Her gaze sweeps across the assembled ranks, drinking in each of us in turn with a solemn, inscrutable intensity. “But that doesn’t make the realities of what we face out there any less harrowing, any less… visceral when the chips are down and we’re staring oblivion in the face.” She pauses, lips tightening almost imperceptibly, as if steeling herself against some unspoken onslaught.

“So if any of you feel the need to step away, to take a break and recenter yourselves… well, I can promise you that nobody here will think any less of you for it.” Her lips quirk in a faint, rueful smile, the expression somehow laden with a profound, haunting melancholy. “After all, what good are we to the people we’ve sworn to protect if we lose ourselves in the process, hmm?”

A ragged murmur of agreement ripples through the gathered Young Defenders, punctuated by a few emphatic nods and tight smiles. Spindle, silent until now, straightens almost imperceptibly in his seat, features etched in a pensive frown.

“I don’t think anyone would blame you if you wanted to live like a normal person. I don’t think normal people are meant to be superheroes,” he says, his head pitching forward a bit. “Like, I think there’s something wrong with your brain when you get superpowers. I don’t think normal people want to do superheroics. Is that a thing?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Crossroads rumbles. “But I understand what you mean.”

Gale manages a weary smile at that, dark eyes glistening with a sheen of unshed tears. “Thank you, both of you,” she whispers, the words thick with a profound, almost palpable gratitude. “Just… thank you all , really. I can’t even begin to tell you how much this team, how much you’ve all come to mean to me over the months.”

A fresh swell of muted conversation rises at that, the undercurrent of tension in the room seeming to ease ever so slightly. Blink leans over to drape one slim arm across Gale’s shoulders in a gentle side-hug, while Gossamer bobs her head in a vigorous, almost comically emphatic nod of agreement.

For my part, all I can do is watch in silence, a roiling tempest of emotions churning just beneath the surface. Part of me aches to reach out, to offer some small measure of reassurance or comfort in the face of Gale’s naked vulnerability. But another, deeper part recoils at the very thought, a vast and yawning chasm of loss and bitter recrimination opening up to swallow me whole.

So I remain still and silent, an island of deathly calm amidst the swirling currents of camaraderie and shared catharsis. My gaze flicks towards Crossroads, searching for some hint or tell as to his inner thoughts on the matter.

But as ever, his expression remains an inscrutable mask, giving nothing away. He simply watches the proceedings unfold with that same pensive, brooding intensity, dark eyes glittering with unspoken calculation.

Another murmur of assent, this one louder and more emphatic. Multiplex stirs in his seat, shoulders squaring as he leans forward with clear intent to speak his mind. But before the words can emerge, Puppeteer barrels onward, raising one hand in a gentle, placating gesture.

“Well, since we’re all being so open and honest here…” She pauses, weighing her next words with immense care. “I suppose I should take this opportunity to disclose something as well, something that may very well impact my own candidacy for ascension to the senior Defender ranks.”

The words detonate in the stillness like one of those little crackle thingies you throw at the ground, shattering the brief interlude of shared vulnerability and drawing every eye towards her. Small, but explosive. Crossroads straightens almost imperceptibly, while beside me, I can feel Spindle tensing with a palpable aura of apprehension.

For my part, a sickly sense of dread begins to coil in the pit of my stomach, the implications of Puppeteer’s pronouncement blossoming into horrific clarity. I shoot Crossroads a sidelong glance, lips pressed into a grim line as his earlier words seem to echo through my mind with fresh, haunting resonance.

Does this mean you intend to leave the Young Defenders altogether? Or merely take a step back from active duty for a time?

Beside me, Blink stiffens almost imperceptibly, dark eyes flicking towards Crossroads in a silent exchange of meaningful glances. He regards us both with an inscrutable look. Playback, for once, does not seem inclined to open his mouth, keeping his lips very intently pursed with silence.

“As some of you may already be aware,” she begins, voice ringing clear and unwavering through the stillness, “I have been… struggling with certain personal issues for quite some time now. Issues of an… emotional and psychological nature that, ultimately, may preclude me from ever being considered for full Defender status as a Registered Superhuman Entity.”

The air is popped like a balloon, punctuated by a few hushed gasps and sharp inhalations. Rampart’s brow furrows, and he leans back in his chair as realization seems to dawn across his face. Playback, meanwhile, simply gapes at Puppeteer in open bewilderment, utterly at a loss.

Gossamer, however, seems to shrink in on herself, shoulders hunching inwards as she ducks her head in a clear display of discomfort and unease. I can’t help but shoot the smaller girl a sidelong glance, brow furrowing in silent concern as she seems to withdraw from the conversation entirely.

Spindle lets out a soft groan of confusion. “Can you maybe… I dunno, elaborate a little bit here?” he prompts, towering frame shifting almost imperceptibly.

“The specifics are… not important, in this particular case,” she demurs, tone hardening slightly as she seems to steel her resolve. “Suffice to say, I have been diagnosed with a… condition that, according to the current bylaws and regulations governing registered superhuman operatives, would likely preclude me from ever being considered for advancement to the senior Defender ranks. Or any form of registry outside of a LUMA.”

“Wh–… but… how?” The words tumble from Gossamer’s lips in a breathless rush, dark eyes wide and glistening with the first hints of distressed tears. “How is that even possible? You’re like… you’re like the best of all of us! The strongest, the smartest, the–“

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, Sparkles,” Playback cuts in, raising his hands in a placating gesture as he seems to shake off his own stupor. “I’m sure a sister has her reasons. No need to get your threads all in a twist over it.”

Puppeteer offers the shorter girl a tight, grateful smile, the expression almost painfully fragile. “Playback is correct,” she affirms with a solemn nod. “While I appreciate the vote of confidence, the simple reality is that certain… conditions are considered potential risk factors or liabilities when it comes to registered superhuman operatives. It’s an unfortunate reality, but one we must all accept and adapt to accordingly.”

There’s a brief lull then, as if the weight of her words is finally sinking in for the rest of us. Rampart lets out a low, rumbling sigh, shaking his head slowly in a silent show of resignation.

For my part, I can only sit in stunned silence, thoughts whirling as the dust settles around Puppeteer’s revelation. Because as the truth sinks in, as the weight of her words resonates through the stillness, one inescapable conclusion begins to take shape.

An uncomfortable silence falls over the room then, broken only by the occasional muted sniffle or sharp intake of breath. Gale wrestles with some unspoken internal struggle formed into shoulder tension, while Gossamer dabs at the corners of her eyes with the hem of her costume.

Crossroads is the only one left.

The thought blossoms into quiet clarity, each piece of the puzzle clicking into place with a soft sort of inevitability. Puppeteer’s self-imposed withdrawal, Rampart’s age and the need for the Young Defenders to still have a leader… Who’s even the next oldest? Blink? Playback?

He is the only one.

Slowly, inevitably, my gaze is drawn towards the towering figure seated across from me, dark eyes locking with Crossroads’ own inscrutable obsidian stare. For a breathless heartbeat, a thousand unspoken words and silent pleas seem to hang suspended between us in the fragile stillness.

Then, with a weary exhalation, Gale seems to shrink in on herself once more, the brief flicker of determination in her expression guttering out like a candle in the wind. “Thank you all, really,” she whispers, the words barely audible over the hushed murmurs still swirling through the chamber. “I think… I think I need some time alone to process everything. If you’ll all excuse me…”

Rising shakily to her feet, she offers the rest of us a trembling, apologetic smile before turning to make her way towards the exit, shoulders hunched beneath an invisible weight. Nobody moves to stop her, the weight of too many revelations and hard truths hanging over us all like a suffocating smog.

Then, clearing his throat, Multiplex straightens in his seat and leans forward with grim intent.

“Well… I believe this has been a sufficiently illuminating discussion on the challenges and realities we all face as we look towards the future,” he rumbles, that familiar cadence of solemn authority ringing through the stillness. “And while I know emotions are running high in light of Puppeteer and Gale’s admissions, I would remind you all that no final decisions have been made as of yet. There is still a process to be undertaken, a series of assessments and evaluations that each of you will have the opportunity to…”

But even as the seasoned hero continues, his words seem to fade into a dull, indistinct murmur in the back of my mind. I don’t really think anyone is even listening to him.

The rest of the meeting drifts by in a blur, Multiplex’s measured words fading into a dull, indistinct murmur at the back of my mind. I can’t seem to focus on anything beyond the swirling maelstrom of thoughts and emotions churning within, each revelation and confession piling atop the other until I feel like I might just drown in the sheer weight of it all.

Beside me, Blink shifts almost imperceptibly, dark eyes flicking my way in a silent, concerned glance. I offer her a halfhearted, strained smile in response, doing my best to tamp down the roiling tide of anxiety and apprehension threatening to overwhelm me.

Then, as mopers do, we sit in silence for a little more.

It’s Playback’s voice that jolts me from my reverie, cutting through the muted haze like a razor’s edge. “Yo, Bee! You still with us over there, buddy?”

I nod mutely, not trusting my voice to remain steady as he slaps my back, drawing a wince. In truth, I’m barely holding it together as it is, the weight of Gale’s confession and Puppeteer’s revelation and also Gale breaking up with me and me getting the tar beaten out of me by pumice – STILL FULL OF HOLES BTW, JUST IN CASE ANYONE FORGOT – bearing down on me like a GIANT ROCK. But I can’t afford to let it show, not here, not in front of the others. I have to be strong.

“Huh? Oh, uh… yeah, yeah, I’m good,” I stammer, offering the others a weak smile. “Just… a lot to take in, you know?”

Blink flashes me a sympathetic look, reaching out to give my hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Hey, you’re not the only one,” she murmurs, dark eyes shimmering with a shared understanding. “I mean, Puppeteer? And Gale too? That’s just… wow.”

Beside her, Gossamer nods emphatically, lips pulled into a troubled frown. “I know, right? It’s like… I dunno, it just feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under us, you know?” She pauses, worrying at her lower lip with a visible wince. “And now with the Chernobyl trial coming up, isn’t that your business? I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling right now.”

My breath catches in my throat at the mention of the impending trial, the weight of their collective gazes suddenly feeling like a thousand pounds pressing down on my shoulders. Swallowing hard, I offer the shorter girl a faint smile, the expression feeling painfully fragile on my lips.

“I, uh… I’m honestly not sure how I’m feeling, if I’m being totally honest,” I admit, gaze flicking towards Crossroads’ impassive features once more. “I mean, it’s all just… a lot to process, you know? With Gale stepping back, Puppeteer’s… condition , and now the trial, I just…” A shuddering sigh escapes me, shoulders sagging beneath the crushing burden of responsibility. “Expecting an ICBM next.”

“I’m scared ,” I confess, the words emerging in a breathless rush. “I’m scared that I’m not going to be able to do it, that I’m going to mess everything up and let Chernobyl walk free. And I’m scared that if I do manage to put him away, it’s just gonna make everything worse.” Swallowing hard, I offer the team a wary, self-deprecating grin. “Call me a coward if you want, but… the thought of being that important, of having that much power over someone’s life? It terrifies me.”

Rampart lets out a low, rumbling hum, the sound almost paternal in its gentleness. “Hey now, don’t you go beating yourself up over feeling that way, kid,” he murmurs, dark eyes shining with a quiet, steadfast reassurance. “Fact is, anyone with half a brain would be shitting bricks at the idea of being the key witness in a trial like that. It’s a hell of a lot of responsibility to be slapped with, and no one’s gonna hold it against you for being a little scared.”

Beside him, Puppeteer nods, the lines of her face softening ever so slightly. “Rampart is right, Bloodhound. What you’re feeling is both natural and necessary – it speaks to the gravity of the situation, and the high stakes at play. Fear is not weakness, but a tool , one that can keep us grounded and focused when the stakes are highest.”

Crossroads clears his throat then, drawing every eye in the room towards him. “Puppeteer speaks the truth,” he rumbles, the familiar cadences of his rich baritone seeming to reverberate through the stillness. “The road ahead will be long, and the challenges we face will test the very limits of our abilities. But you are not alone in this, Bloodhound. We are all in this together, and we will face whatever comes as a team.”

A ragged chorus of murmured assent rises at that, the tension in the room seeming to ease fractionally. Even Playback manages a lopsided grin, reaching across the distance to give my shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Ain’t nothin’ you gotta apologize for, Bee,” he murmurs, the familiar lilt of his voice somehow softer, more genuine than I can ever recall hearing it before. “We got your back, alright? All of us. So don’t you go tryin’ to shoulder this whole thing on your own, you dig?”

Blinking back a fresh surge of stinging tears, I offer him a tremulous smile, the expression wobbling precariously on my lips. “I… thank you, all of you,” I manage, the words emerging thick and choked with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.”

As the rest of the team rallies around me, offering words of encouragement and steadfast reassurance, I can’t help but feel a renewed sense of purpose coalescing within my chest. The path ahead may be shrouded in uncertainty, the challenges we face seemingly insurmountable. But in this moment, surrounded by the unyielding support of my friends, my family… I know that we will weather the storm, no matter what the future may hold.

As the meeting winds down and the rest of the team begins to filter out, I linger behind, watching as Jamal and Multiplex draw Crossroads, Puppeteer, and Rampart aside for a hushed, private discussion. A part of me wants to stay, to eavesdrop and glean whatever scraps of insight I can about the decisions that will shape our futures.

But in the end, I simply turn and follow the others out. I think we’ll probably go to Wawa.

---

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