The first week of my recovery is a haze of pain, medication, and fitful sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back outside the courthouse, reliving the chaos and horror of that day. Deathgirl’s snarling face, the mutated civilians, and the blood – so much blood – haunt my dreams. It’s like my brain is a broken record, skipping and repeating the worst moments on an endless loop.
Mom and Dad take turns staying with me, making sure I’m as comfortable as possible. They fuss over me, adjusting my pillows, bringing me snacks, and chattering about anything and everything to keep my mind occupied. Dad tells me about the latest zoning proposals he’s working on, his eyes lighting up as he describes his plans for a new park in the heart of the city. Mom shares gossip from the library, her voice hushed and conspiratorial as she reveals which patrons have been causing trouble.
“And then,” she says, leaning in close, “Mrs. Goldstein had the nerve to complain about the noise! As if she wasn’t the one who started the whole ruckus in the first place!”
I try to laugh, but it comes out as more of a pained grunt. Mom’s face softens, and she brushes a stray hair from my forehead – finally long enough to have bangs. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you with all this nonsense.”
“No, it’s okay,” I assure her. “I like hearing about normal stuff. I’d rather hear about that.”
She nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I know, sweetie. We’re just so worried about you.”
Pop-pop visits every day, armed with containers of homemade chicken soup and stacks of his favorite superhero comics. He settles into the chair beside my bed, his weathered hands gentle as he tucks the blankets around me.
“You know, Sam,” he says, his voice soft and scratchy, “when I was a kid, I used to dream about being a superhero. I’d tie a towel around my neck and run around the neighborhood, pretending I was flying off to save the day.”
I smile, trying to picture Pop-pop as a little boy, his face bright with excitement. “I bet you were adorable.”
He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I was a handful, that’s for sure. But I always knew, deep down, that I wasn’t cut out for that life. Not like you, Sam. You’re the real deal.”
I feel a lump forming in my throat, and I blink back tears. “I don’t feel very heroic right now, Pop-pop. I feel… broken.”
He takes my hand, his skin soft and papery against mine. “You’re not broken, Sam. You’re healing. And that takes time and strength, just like any battle. You’ll get through this, bubbeleh. I know you will.”
Two weeks after the attack, I’m finally able to move around the house without pain, limping on the leg with a hole on it.. It’s a small victory, but after being cooped up in bed for so long, it feels like a major milestone. Jordan and Connor come over to celebrate, armed with a stack of comic books and a bag of my favorite gummy worms.
“Well, well, well,” Jordan says, a smirk playing at the corners of their mouth. “Look who’s up and about. And here I thought we’d have to stage a jailbreak to get you out of bed.”
I roll my eyes, hobbling over to the couch and plopping down with a grunt. “Ha ha, very funny. You try being stuck in bed for two weeks and see how you like it.”
Connor chuckles, folding his lanky frame into the armchair across from us. “No thanks. I’ve seen your bed head, Sam. It’s not a pretty sight.”
I chuck a pillow at him, but he deflects it easily, his reflexes lightning-fast. “Watch it, string bean,” I warn, narrowing my eyes. “I may be down, but I’m not out.”
Jordan clears their throat, holding up the stack of comics like a peace offering. “Okay, okay, enough squabbling. We brought you some reading material to help pass the time.” they pause, grimacing over their words.
“And it’s all in chrono– chrono-logic– uh, chronolo–,” Connor tries to say.
“Chronological order,” Jordan supplies with a cheesy grin.
Connor scowls playfully. “Thank you, Professor Westwood. Anyway, we figured you could use a distraction.”
I grab the top comic, a vintage issue of some Japanese comic I’ve never read. “Did you raid my grandpa’s stash?” I ask incredulously, flipping through the pages – Nep Egg? Pirates?
Jordan looks offended. “What? No! It’s an omnibus of One Piece. What makes you think I, like, need to read about superheroes? I already am one. There’s nothing interesting under the sun there.”
I laugh, suddenly and breathlessly. “You’re a superhero, now?”
Jordan scowls at me. “No.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon reading comics and swapping stories about our favorite heroes. It’s a welcome escape from reality, a chance to lose myself in a world where the good guys always win and the bad guys always get their comeuppance. I like when the rubber guy punches the fish guy in the face. But as the sun starts to set and Jordan and Connor get ready to leave, the weight of everything comes crashing back.
“Listen, Sam,” Jordan says, their voice uncharacteristically somber. “About what happened at the courthouse…”
I feel my stomach twist, the gummy worms I’d been happily munching on turning to lead in my gut. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say quickly, my grip tightening on my crutches.
“I know, but–“
“Please, Jordan. Now’s not the time.”
They sigh, running a hand through their dark, spiky hair. “Okay. I get it. But when you’re ready, I’m here. We all are. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
I nod, swallowing past the sudden tightness in my throat. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Connor reaches over, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Anytime, Sam. We’ve got your back, no matter what.”
The trial continues, and I watch the news coverage with a growing sense of dread. The city feels different now, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the next disaster to strike. There are more police on the streets, more heroes patrolling the skies. The courthouse has become a fortress, surrounded by barricades and armed guards.
I try to focus on my recovery, on getting stronger every day. Rampart comes over a few times to help with my physical therapy, guiding me through the exercises with his usual calm, steady presence.
“Okay, Sam, let’s try another set,” he says, his large hands gently supporting my leg as I struggle to bend my knee. “Remember, slow and steady. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
I grit my teeth, sweat beading on my forehead as I fight through the pain. “I… I can’t,” I gasp, my leg trembling with the effort. “It hurts too much.”
Rampart nods, carefully lowering my leg back down onto the bed. “That’s okay. You’re doing great, Sam. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you’re making progress.”
I flop back against the pillows, frustrated tears stinging my eyes. “It doesn’t feel like progress. I wish I could just break my own nose to make the rest of my regeneration factor.”
“Don’t do that,” he says, matter-of-factly, browsing through his phone.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, his expression thoughtful. “You know, when I first got my powers, I thought I was invincible. I thought I could take on anything and anyone. But then I got hurt, bad. Took me months to recover, and even then, I wasn’t the same. I had to learn to adapt, to work with my new limitations.”
I blink up at him, surprised. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t know you could get injured.”
He shows me pictures on his phone – a full arm cast, going all the way from the top of his upper arm down to his palm, eating his wrist like a big worm. “Yeah. And I can’t heal like you can. But, you know, it happens. We grow and evolve. And when you’re ready we can start turning your shins into lethal weapons again.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Alright, weirdo. What’s next on the agenda?”
The newsroom is abuzz with activity, the anchors’ faces grave as they deliver the latest updates on the Chernobyl trial. I sit on the couch, my injured leg propped up on a pillow, watching the coverage with a mix of anticipation and dread. My mind races with thoughts of my own testimony, the weight of my words hanging heavy in the air.
“Breaking news,” the anchor announces, her voice cutting through the chatter. “The jury has reached a verdict in the trial of Illya Fedorov, also known by the nom-de-crime of Chernobyl. After weeks of testimony and deliberation, Mr. Fedorov has been found guilty on multiple counts, including manslaughter, theft, property damage, and the illegal generation and release of hazardous materials.”
I feel a jolt of surprise at the word “manslaughter.” I knew Fedorov’s lawyers were arguing self-defense, but I didn’t think the jury would actually buy it. The anchors seem just as shocked, their normally polished facades slipping for a moment.
“It’s important to note,” the legal analyst chimes in, “that while Mr. Fedorov was initially charged with two counts of second-degree murder in relation to the deaths of Professor Franklin and Liberty Belle, the jury ultimately found him guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter. This suggests that they believed he acted in self-defense, at least to some degree.”
I can’t help but wonder if my own testimony played a role in that decision. I think back to the video footage I provided, the raw, unfiltered look at the confrontation between Fedorov and Liberty Belle. Did my perspective, my words, sway the jury towards leniency? That certainly wasn’t the intention, but I can’t help feel a certain weird amount of peace at the idea.
The anchor nods, shuffling her papers. “The sentencing hearing is scheduled for September 28th, and legal experts are already speculating about the potential outcome. Given Mr. Fedorov’s apparent cooperation throughout the trial and the jury’s decision to convict on manslaughter rather than murder, many believe he may receive a relatively lenient sentence, possibly in the range of 20 to 50 years in prison.”
“That’s outrageous!” a guest commentator interjects, his face flushed with indignation. “This man is a menace, a terrorist. He should be locked up for life, not given a slap on the wrist!”
“And what about the victims?” another adds, her voice trembling with emotion. “What about Professor Franklin and Liberty Belle? Don’t they deserve justice?”
I feel a wave of conflicting emotions wash over me. On one hand, I understand the anger, the desire for retribution. Fedorov’s actions have caused so much pain, so much destruction. But on the other hand, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s a victim too, in his own way.
I think about the desperation in his eyes when he talked about his family, the way his voice cracked with emotion. He’s not some heartless monster, not really. He’s just a man who got caught up in something bigger than himself, a pawn in a game he never asked to play.
The coverage switches to scenes of protests outside the courthouse, crowds of people waving signs and chanting slogans. “Justice for Franklin!” “Lock him up!” “No more secrets!” The anger and frustration are palpable, even through the screen.
But as the cameras pan over the sea of faces, I notice something else: signs demanding accountability from the NSRA, calling for transparency and reform. “NSRA LIES!” they read, and, “WHO WATCHES THE WATCHERS?” It’s clear that the revelations about the agency’s involvement with Fedorov have struck a nerve, and people are hungry for answers.
The anchor returns, her expression somber. “The Chernobyl trial may be coming to a close, but it seems to have opened a Pandora’s box of questions about the NSRA and its role in the superhuman community. In the wake of Agent Shaw’s testimony, more and more whistleblowers are coming forward with allegations of corruption, cover-ups, and abuse of power within the agency.”
I think back to my own interactions with the NSRA, the way they seemed more interested in controlling and manipulating superhumans – controlling and manipulating me – than actually protecting the public. I think about the fear and mistrust I’ve seen in the eyes of my fellow heroes, the way we’ve all been looking over our shoulders, wondering who we can trust.
The legal analyst nods, his brow furrowed. “This is just the tip of the iceberg, I’m afraid. The NSRA has operated with impunity for far too long, and now the cracks are starting to show. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see a full-scale investigation in the near future, possibly even congressional hearings.”
“In a surprising turn of events,” the anchor continues, “Mr. Fedorov’s defense team is arguing for him to serve his sentence at the Aurora Springs Residential Facility, rather than a traditional prison like Daedalus or Ixion.”
The guest commentator scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Aurora Springs? Isn’t that basically a luxury resort for supervillains? What’s next, a day spa and a five-star restaurant?”
“To be fair,” the legal analyst interjects, “Aurora Springs is designed to contain individuals with powers that make them a threat to public safety. It’s not exactly Club Med.”
But I can see the calculation in their eyes, the way they’re spinning the story to fit their narrative. They want people to be angry, to demand blood. They don’t care about the truth, about the shades of gray that make up this whole mess.
I think about Fedorov’s family, waiting for him back in Ukraine. I think about the desperation that must have driven him to make the choices he did, the impossible position he was put in. And I can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy, even as I know I shouldn’t.
As the news coverage continues, I find myself drifting in and out of focus, my mind spinning with the implications of it all. I absently rub my injured leg, wincing at the dull ache that still lingers beneath the surface. The doctors say I’m healing well, that my regeneration is doing its job, but the constant infections and setbacks are starting to take their toll. It’s just hard to pack a wound that deep and that big and keep it uninfected. It’s almost closed now, but it’s weeping and weird and, I don’t know… juicy? Gross. Sorry.
I think about the first day of sophomore year, looming just a few short weeks away. It feels strange to be worrying about something as mundane as school supplies and class schedules when the whole world seems to be falling apart around me. But as Mom keeps reminding me, life goes on, even in the midst of chaos.
I sigh, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV. I’ve had enough doom and gloom for one day. As the screen goes dark, I catch a glimpse of my reflection – tired eyes, messy hair, a face that looks older than my fifteen years. I try to smile and my teeth don’t read like a shark’s or a human’s or a dog’s. If anything, it reads like a grimace.
Whatever happens with the NSRA, with the Chernobyl trial, with the city’s descent into paranoia and fear, I know one thing for sure. I’m a hero, and I’ll keep fighting for what’s right, no matter the cost. Because that’s what heroes do.
With a groan, I haul myself up from the couch, grabbing my crutches and hobbling towards the kitchen. Mom’s making lasagna for dinner, and the smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce is enough to make my stomach rumble. For now, at least, the world can wait. I’ve got a date with some comfort food and a much-needed break from the madness outside.
But tomorrow? Tomorrow, it’s back to the grind.
The sun beats down on my back as I help unload boxes of supplies from the back of a van. It’s been almost a month since the attack, and the city is still reeling. But slowly, surely, we’re starting to pick up the pieces. It’s not like the criminals stopped showing up after the Phreaks’ attack – if anything, it just emboldened people, now more capable of seeing the sort of widespread destruction that Jump is capable of.
And Chimera is still on the run. Still spreading the Phreaks’ tainted brand of pills.
It’s pretty bad out here, man.
“Thanks for your help, Bloodhound,” the shelter coordinator says, wiping sweat from her brow. “We really appreciate you taking the time to volunteer.”
I shrug, trying to play it off as no big deal. “It’s the least I can do. We’re all in this together, right?”
She nods, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Right. It means a lot to the people here, seeing heroes like you stepping up and getting involved. It reminds them that they’re not alone.”
I think about the faces I’ve seen today – the tired eyes, the weary smiles, the flickers of hope amidst the grief and pain. It’s a humbling thing, to be a symbol of strength and resilience for people who have lost so much.
As I continue to help with the unloading, I catch snippets of conversation from the other volunteers – talk of the trial, of the protests, of the uncertain future that lies ahead. It’s a reminder that the world keeps turning, even when it feels like everything has changed.
Later that week, I find myself sitting across from a reporter in a bustling coffee shop, my hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. She leans forward, her eyes bright with curiosity.
“So, Bloodhound,” she begins, “what do you think is the most important thing for the public to understand right now, in the wake of everything that’s happened?”
I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. “I think… I think it’s important to remember that we’re all in this together,” I say, echoing the shelter coordinator’s words from earlier. “Heroes, civilians, even some of the bad guys, everyone. We all want the same thing – to feel safe, to have justice, to build a better world for ourselves and each other. We all get up and put pants on one leg at a time.”
The reporter nods, scribbling in her notebook, her expression totally unreadable. “And what about the divisions that have emerged? The anger towards the NSRA, the protests in the streets?”
I feel a flicker of frustration, but I push it down. “It’s understandable,” I say slowly. “People are hurt, and scared, and they want someone to blame. But we can’t let that tear us apart. We have to find a way to come together, to have tough conversations and make real changes. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s the only way forward.”
I give the diplomatic answers, not the real ones. Well practiced. Words directly out of Bulwark’s mouth, drilled into us in the aftermath of the attack.
Nobody wants to hear the real answers right now.
The interview continues, and I do my best to navigate the delicate balance between honesty and diplomacy. It’s a strange feeling, being a mouthpiece for an entire community of heroes. But if my words can help bridge the gap, even a little bit, then it’s worth the discomfort.
As the days turn into weeks, I find myself falling into a new routine – volunteering, training, giving interviews when asked. It’s exhausting, but it feels good to be doing something, to be working towards a greater purpose.
But there’s one thing that continues to gnaw at me, a persistent ache that I can’t quite shake. Jamila.
I find myself walking past her apartment complex more often than I care to admit, my heart racing every time I catch a glimpse of movement in the windows. I tell myself I’m just checking in, making sure she’s okay. But deep down, I know it’s more than that.
One day, as I’m making my usual rounds, I stop short. There’s a moving van parked outside the complex, and a group of men carrying furniture and boxes down the front steps. My stomach twists, a sinking feeling settling in my gut.
I watch from across the street, my mind racing with possibilities. Is she moving because of me? Because of what happened between us? Or was this planned all along, and she just didn’t tell me?
I think back to our last conversation, the hurt and confusion in her eyes. I wish there was something I could’ve said to change the outcome. But at this point, I feel like there’s nothing that would’ve made it any different.
As the moving men finish their work and drive away, I’m left standing there, staring up at the empty windows of what used to be Jamila’s home. I feel a surge of emotions – sadness, regret, anger at myself for letting things get so messed up.
I take a deep breath, tearing my eyes away from the building. I have other things to do.
The news is a constant buzz in the background these days, a never-ending stream of commentary and speculation. I try to tune it out, to focus on the things I can control. But it’s impossible to ignore completely, especially when my parents are keeping it on for their sake.
“In a stunning turn of events, Congress has introduced a sweeping new piece of legislation aimed at regulating superhuman activities and increasing oversight of agencies like the NSRA,” the anchor announces, her voice carrying a hint of excitement.
I feel a flicker of unease at the thought of more government oversight. Haven’t we had enough of that already, with the NSRA pulling the strings behind the scenes?
“Proponents of the bill argue that it is a necessary step towards rebuilding trust between the superhuman community and the public,” a guest commentator chimes in. “By increasing transparency and accountability, we can ensure that those with powers are using them responsibly and ethically.”
“But critics warn that the legislation goes too far,” another voice counters. “They argue that it infringes on the civil liberties of superhumans and could lead to discrimination and abuse of power. Some say it’s an attempt to re-introduce the controversial Superhuman Registration Act of the mid-2000s…”
A few days later, I receive an unexpected phone call. It’s from my congressperson’s office, inviting me to speak at a legislative session in mid-October. A person who has, so far, only existed as an abstract concept, a name my parents talk about every November, a face whose signs I see hammered into front lawns.
“We believe your perspective as a young superhero could be invaluable in shaping this legislation,” his assistant tells me. “Your experiences with the NSRA, the challenges you’ve faced… it’s important that those stories are heard.”
I’m taken aback by the request. Me, speaking in front of a room full of politicians and policymakers? It seems daunting, to say the least.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “I’ll do it,” I tell the assistant. “Just let me know what I need to prepare.”
The meeting room at the DVDs’ headquarters is buzzing with anticipation as the Young Defenders and Delaware Valley Defenders gather for a special announcement. I take my seat next to Spindle, my leg bouncing nervously under the table.
Councilman Davis clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “Thank you all for coming,” he begins, his voice grave. “As you know, the past month has been a time of great upheaval and change for our city and our community. We’ve faced challenges we never could have imagined, and we’ve had to adapt in ways we never thought possible.”
He pauses, letting his words sink in. “But through it all, we’ve remained committed to our mission – to protect the people of Philadelphia and to fight for justice and righteousness. And that’s why we’re here today.”
I glance around the room, taking in the serious expressions on everyone’s faces. Whatever this announcement is, it’s clear that it’s not going to be business as usual.
“First and foremost,” Councilman Davis continues, “I want to congratulate Crossroads on his graduation to the Delaware Valley Defenders. His leadership and strategic thinking have been invaluable to the Young Defenders, and we know he’ll continue to excel in his new role.”
There’s a round of applause as Crossroads stands up, a small smile on his face. I clap too, but it feels insincere for reasons I’m having difficulty placing. “Thank you,” he says simply, before sitting back down.
“With Crossroads moving up, we’ve made the decision to appoint Rampart as the new leader of the Young Defenders,” Councilman Davis says, nodding towards Rampart. “His strength, both physical and mental, and his dedication to his team make him the perfect choice for this position.”
Rampart nods, his expression solemn. “I’m honored,” he says, his voice deep and steady. “I’ll do everything in my power to lead this team with integrity and courage.”
“We also have some news from our allies in Los Angeles,” Multiplex chimes in. “Captain Plasma has agreed to relocate to Philadelphia in the short term to help shore up our ranks. His experience and unique abilities will be a valuable addition to the Delaware Valley Defenders.”
There are murmurs of approval from around the room. We all know how stretched thin the DVDs have been since Liberty Belle’s death, and any extra help is more than welcome.
But just as I’m starting to feel a glimmer of hope, Puppeteer and Playback stand up, their faces pleasantly neutral.
“We have an announcement to make as well,” Puppeteer says, her voice tight. “Playback and I have decided to resign from the Young Defenders, effective immediately.”
What? Huh?
“I know this comes as a surprise,” Puppeteer continues, her hands trembling slightly. “But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve realized that I need to make a change. I’ve enrolled in a paramedic training program, and I’ll be starting classes next month, on top of all the other stuff. I think it’s the best way for me to be useful to society in the future, given… you know.”
Playback nods, his usually playful expression serious for once. “And I’ve decided to go back to college,” he says. “I’ve been putting it off for too long, and with everything that’s happened… I don’t want to have any regrets.”
But I can read his eyes. I know there’s something deeper there, something almost bitter.
I know the courthouse changed something. But I don’t know what.
“We understand,” Councilman Davis says, his voice heavy with emotion. “And we support your decisions, even though it pains us to see you go. You will always be a part of this family, no matter where your paths may lead you.”
There are hugs and tearful goodbyes as Puppeteer and Playback make their rounds, saying their farewells to each of us in turn. When they get to me, I can barely speak past the tightness in my chest.
“I’m going to miss you guys so much,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “It won’t be the same without you.”
Puppeteer smiles, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “You’re going to be amazing, Sam,” she says, squeezing my hand. “You’ve grown so much already, and I know you’ll continue to do great things.”
Playback nods, pulling me into a tight hug. “Keep giving ’em hell, Bee,” he murmurs, “And keep in touch. Don’t trust these bitches,” he whispers.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As they walk away, I feel a sense of finality settling over me. Things are changing, faster than I ever could have imagined.
“With Puppeteer and Playback’s departures, the Young Defenders will be operating with a smaller team for the time being,” Councilman Davis says, breaking the somber silence. “Rampart, Gossamer, Blink, Spindle, and Bloodhound – you five will need to work together more closely than ever before.”
“There’s one more thing,” Fury Forge says, leaning forward in her seat. “With all the chaos and destruction of the past month, it’s likely that there have been several new natural activations in the city. We need to be on the lookout for potential recruits, before they fall into the wrong hands.”
“We’ll keep our eyes and ears open,” Rampart says, his voice firm. “And we’ll do everything we can to help any new activations find their way.”
As the meeting ends and we all start to disperse, I can’t shake the feeling that everything is changing. Changing, so fast, too fast. Like when the Phreaks did their attack, something broke. Or maybe it started earlier than that?
Everything feels wrong. Something’s wrong, and I don’t know what.
The first day of sophomore year feels surreal as I make my way through the crowded streets of Tacony. The air is crisp with the promise of fall, but the usual excitement of a new school year is tempered by the heavy presence of riot police on every corner.
Jordan walks beside me, their shoulders hunched against the early morning chill. “I can’t believe this is our new normal,” they mutter, eyeing a group of officers marching past us. “It’s like we’re living in a police state.”
I nod, adjusting my backpack on my shoulders. My leg twinges with every step, a constant reminder of how much has changed since last year. “I know,” I say, my voice low. “It’s like the whole city is holding its breath, waiting for the next shoe to drop.”
As we approach Tacony Charter Academy High School, I feel a sense of apprehension settling in my gut. The once-welcoming facade now looks imposing, with metal detectors flanking the front gates and stern-faced security guards checking bags and IDs.
“I feel like I’m walking into a prison,” I mutter, as we join the long line of students waiting to pass through the checkpoint.
Jordan snorts, but there’s no humor in it. “Maybe that’s the point,” they say, their voice bitter. “Keep us all in line, make sure we don’t step out of place.”
I think about the protests, the anger and frustration boiling over in the streets. The way the authorities have cracked down, with curfews and riot gear and a constant, looming threat of violence. Is this what they want? To scare us into submission?
As we pass through the metal detectors, I can’t help but feel a sense of violation. The guards rifle through my backpack, their hands rough and impersonal. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to pull away.
When they’re satisfied that I have nothing interesting on me, they let me free. I clench my teeth together and get ready for what’s going to be a long year.
End of Arc 6: Sideshow
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