Chum

There's something oddly satisfying about the way my knuckles crunch into a punching bag. It's not quite the same as the real thing – and by the real thing, I mean, like, punching a person, which, I guess isn't actually that satisfying, but you know what I mean – but it's close enough. The heavy bag swings back and forth, a steady rhythm that I can follow with my fists. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each impact sends a jolt up my arm, but it's not painful. It's more like a reminder that I'm alive, that I'm here, that I'm doing something.

I'm in the Delaware Valley Defenders' HQ gymnasium, still just a big room filled with government surplus equipment. It's not exactly state-of-the-art, but it gets the job done. The walls are a dull gray, and the floor is covered in those interlocking rubber mats that always smell like sweat and disinfectant. There's a bunch of weights in one corner, some treadmills and bikes in another, and in the middle, where I am, there's a bunch of punching bags and sparring equipment.

Rampart is holding the bag steady for me. He's a big guy, all muscle and solid frame, and he barely moves even when I'm putting my full strength into each punch. "Good form, Sam," he says, his voice gruff but encouraging. "You're really getting your weight behind those hits."

I grunt in response, too focused on my rhythm to form words. Left jab, right cross, left hook. Repeat. My fists are wrapped in tape, but I can still feel the impact of each punch. It's a good feeling, like I'm actually accomplishing something. Which is more than I can say for the rest of my superhero career lately.

"You know," Rampart continues, seemingly unfazed by my silence, "your strength is really impressive. It's like you're back in peak form after... well, you know."

I stop punching for a moment, my fists still raised. "After Illya nuked me, you mean," I say, my voice flat. I've started correcting people a little more actively about it. Mrs. Gibson has kept me loosely updated - he's been settling in peacefully with no fight in Aurora Springs, and he's serving his time to society. The least I can do is respect that.

Rampart winces slightly. "Right. Sorry. Illya."

I shake my head and start punching again, harder this time. "It's fine. I just... I don't want to give him any more credit than he deserves, you know?" is what I say instead of all that other shit.

"I get it," Rampart says, nodding. "And you're right. He's just a person, like any of us. But that doesn't make what happened to you any less significant."

I grunt again, putting extra force into my next punch. The bag rattles wildly on its hard plastic base, and even Rampart has to take a step back to steady it. "Yeah, well, what good is being in 'peak form' if we're not allowed to do anything with it?"

That's the crux of the issue, really. Ever since the whole mess with Patriot, the government has put the Young Defenders on ice - every superhero team on ice, basically, all the big important official ones and their satellites (like us). We're basically just an after-school club now, all our official hero work suspended until further notice.

Rampart lets out a heavy sigh. "I know it's frustrating, Sam. Trust me, I feel it too. But we have to play by their rules for now. It's the only way we'll ever get back to doing real hero work."

I stop punching and step back, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, delicately not mentioning the work I'm doing with the Auditors on the side. "I know, I know. It's just... it feels like we're letting people down, you know? Like we're not living up to our potential."

"I get it," Rampart says, patting the punching bag. "But sometimes being a hero means knowing when to hold back. We can't help anyone if we're shut down completely."

I nod, not entirely convinced but too tired to argue. "Yeah, I guess. So, what's next? More bag work?"

Rampart grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Actually, I was thinking we could do some sparring. You up for it?"

I can't help but grin back. Sparring with Rampart is always a challenge, but it's also one of my favorite parts of training. "Oh, you're on, big guy."

We move to the sparring mat, a big blue square in the middle of the room. Rampart takes up a defensive stance, his arms raised and his feet planted firmly. I circle him, looking for an opening. Even though he's way bigger than me, I know I can hold my own.

I feint with my left, then come in with a quick right jab. Rampart blocks it easily, but I'm already following up with a low kick to his knee. He shifts his weight, absorbing the impact without budging an inch.

We trade blows back and forth, neither of us really trying to hurt the other but both pushing our limits. It's a dance of sorts, a physical conversation where we can work out our frustrations without words. Every now and then, someone else will poke their head in, watching us for a moment before moving on.

"Looking good, kids!" Captain Plasma calls out as he passes by, his voice cheerful. "Just don't break anything – or each other!"

I roll my eyes, but I can't help smiling. It's nice to know that even with all the restrictions, the older heroes still support us. Even if they can't do much to change our situation.

As we continue sparring, I can feel the tension slowly draining from my body. There's something cathartic about physical exertion, about pushing your body to its limits. It's like all the anger and frustration I've been feeling is being sweated out, leaving me tired but clearer-headed.

After what feels like hours but is probably only about forty-five minutes, Rampart calls a halt. We're both breathing heavily, covered in sweat. "Good work, Sam," he says, offering me a fist bump. "You're definitely not pulling your punches anymore."

I return the fist bump, grinning despite my exhaustion. "Well, I figured if I can't use my powers to fight bad guys, I might as well use them to give you a workout."

Rampart chuckles, shaking his head. "Trust me, you're doing that alright. I think my arms are going to be sore for a week."

We head over to the water fountain, gulping down water like we've been wandering in the desert for days. As I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, I notice Rampart looking at me thoughtfully.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. "Do I have something on my face?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, I was just thinking... you've come a long way, you know that? I remember when you first joined the team, you could barely throw a punch without hurting yourself. And then once you learned the form, you got nuked. Now you've got both."

I feel my cheeks flush, and it's not just from the exertion. "Yeah, well, I had a good teacher," I mumble, not meeting his eyes.

Rampart grins, reaching out to ruffle my hair. I duck away, but not before he manages to mess it up even more than the sparring did. "Hey, don't sell yourself short, kid. You've put in the work. You should be proud of yourself."

I shrug, still not entirely comfortable with praise. "I guess. I just wish I could do more, you know?"

Rampart's expression turns serious. "I know. We all do. But for now, we've got to focus on what we can do. Speaking of which..." He trails off, heading over to a corner of the gym. When he returns, he's carrying a large canvas bag that clinks ominously when he sets it down.

"What's that?" I ask, eyeing the bag suspiciously.

"This," Rampart says with a grin, "is our new bone conditioning equipment."

I groan, rolling my eyes. "Seriously? More bone conditioning?"

Rampart nods, his grin widening. "Yep. But this time, we're stepping it up a notch. Instead of rice, we've got..." He opens the bag, revealing a pile of small, round stones. "Gravel!"

I stare at him, then at the gravel, then back at him. "Where did you even get that much gravel?" I'm not sure if I should be impressed or concerned.

He shrugs, looking a bit sheepish. "Let's just say I know a guy who knows a guy who works in construction. Don't worry, it's all above board."

I raise an eyebrow, not entirely convinced, but decide not to push it. Instead, I sigh dramatically and hold out my arms. "Alright, let's get this over with."

Rampart nods approvingly and starts filling smaller bags with the gravel. Once he's got a few ready, he hands me a pair and takes a pair for himself. "Okay, we'll start with light taps. Just get a feel for the weight and texture."

I nod, taking a deep breath before starting to tap the gravel bags against my forearms. It's... not pleasant. The individual pieces of gravel shift and grind against each other, creating an uneven surface that's much harder than the rice bags we usually use. And it's spiky, even through the canvas. But I grit my teeth and keep going, reminding myself that this is all part of the training.

As we work, Rampart keeps up a steady stream of encouragement and advice. "Good, Sam. Remember to breathe. Keep your muscles relaxed – tension will just make the impacts hurt more. That's it, nice and steady."

Gradually, we increase the intensity, moving from light taps to more solid strikes. It's uncomfortable, bordering on miserable, a new kind of pain. But I feel the adrenaline hit my brain and all that fades away. It starts feeling great.

"You're doing great," Rampart says after a particularly grueling set. "Your body's really responding well to the training. I bet you could take a hit from a car now and barely feel it."

I laugh, shaking out my arms. "Let's not test that theory, okay? I've had enough near-death experiences for one lifetime."

Rampart chuckles, but there's a hint of concern in his eyes. "Yeah, let's avoid those if we can. But seriously, Sam, you should be proud of how far you've come. Not just physically, but mentally too. You've been through a lot, and you're still standing. That's not nothing."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. It's true, I have been through a lot. Sometimes it feels like too much. But then I remember all the people I've helped, all the friends I've made, and I know it's worth it. Even if we're sidelined right now, even if it feels like we're not doing enough, we're still making a difference. We're still heroes.

We continue with the bone conditioning for a while longer, alternating between arms, shins, and even (carefully) our torsos. By the time we're done, I feel like I've been put through a meat grinder, but in a good way. It's the kind of soreness that comes from a really good workout, the kind that lets you know you've pushed yourself to your limits and come out stronger.

As we're putting away the equipment, Rampart turns to me with a casual air that immediately makes me suspicious. "Hey, Sam," he says, his tone far too innocent. "You want to go get Wawa?"

I narrow my eyes at him. We both know that "going to Wawa" is code for "going on an unofficial patrol". It's not exactly against the rules – we're allowed to go out in public, after all – but it's definitely skirting the line.

For a moment, I hesitate. Part of me, the responsible part that's been trying so hard to play by the rules, wants to say no. But another part, the part that's been itching for action, that's been feeling caged and restless, is practically screaming yes.

I look at Rampart, seeing the same conflict in his eyes. He's supposed to be the responsible one, the team leader. But he's feeling it too, the need to do something, to be out there making a difference.

Finally, I nod. "Yeah," I say, trying to keep my voice casual. "A hoagie sounds pretty good right about now."

Rampart grins, a mix of relief and excitement in his expression. "Great. Let's get changed and head out."

We quickly change into street clothes, opting for hoodies and jeans – inconspicuous, but easy to move in if we need to. No costumes, of course. That would be too obvious. As we're heading out, we run into Captain Plasma in the hallway.

"Hey, kids," he says, his eyebrows raising slightly as he takes in our attire. "Where are you two off to?"

"Just grabbing some food," Rampart says smoothly. "All that training works up an appetite, you know?"

Captain Plasma looks at us for a long moment, and I'm sure he knows exactly what we're up to. But instead of calling us out, he just nods. "Alright. Be careful out there. And bring me back a turkey sub, would you?"

"A hoagie," I correct him. He laughs gently, like tinkling windchimes.

We both nod, trying not to look too relieved.