Chum

The side room Ms. Katz ushers me into is one of the ones we dolled up a little less. Just sort of a chair room Heavy curtains cloak the windows, leaving the space's sole illumination the soft pools of lamplight radiating from a lamp sitting on top of a folding chair. With a brief, curt gesture, my unexpected interrogator indicates that I should make myself comfortable in one of the overstuffed armchairs arranged before the desk.

Sinking into the proffered seating, I can't quite suppress the sensation of being ushered into the principal's office or something equally forbidding. The expectant silence stretching between Ms. Katz and I as she settles herself behind the desk only amplifies the feeling of impending judgment descending. Offering up what I hope is a relaxed, open expression, I force myself to meet her shrewd gaze steadily.

"So, Ms. Small…" she begins at length. "I imagine you're well aware by now that you and your compatriots aren't fooling anyone with these rather transparent attempts at obfuscation."

Well, so much for any lingering hope of preserving plausible deniability. Swallowing hard, I simply nod in solemn acknowledgment.

"I appreciate you aren't able to be fully transparent about the circumstances here," Ms. Katz continues with a small, scrutinizing frown. "But I do need to get an accurate sense of Connor's daily life and social environment if I'm to ensure this adoption proceeds smoothly. So I have to ask - what is the true nature of your relationship with him? And what sort of activities does his association with your extracurricular pursuits entail, exactly?"

My palms turn clammy as I falter momentarily under her piercing gaze, wondering just how to even begin unpacking that loaded line of questioning. Tell her the whole, unvarnished truth about the Young Defenders? The extent of Connor's heroic activities? My own alter ego as Bloodhound?

For a brief, wild moment, the thought of outright lying even crosses my mind, conjuring up some feeble cover story that paints our situation in a more innocent light. But just as quickly, I discard the notion with a weary, internal sigh. No, this woman is too perceptive, too adept at cutting through the bullshit, for that to have any hope of working. She clearly knows more than she's letting on already.

"You might as well know the truth," I mumble at last, sitting up a bit straighter in my chair. "The fact is, Connor and I are both members of the Young Defenders superhero team active in the city. Under the codenames Spindle and Bloodhound, respectively. We, uh, we try to use our powers to help people, take down criminals, that kind of thing. But mostly boy scout stuff. Cats in trees, helping little old ladies across the street, stuff like that."

Ms. Katz's expression remains infuriatingly impassive as she regards me steadily. For a long moment, the room remains utterly silent save for the gentle ticking of an old-fashioned wall clock.

"I see," she murmurs at long last, letting out a slow, measured breath. "Well, I certainly can't say I'm terribly surprised by that revelation, Ms. Small. Like I said earlier, we're well aware of Connor's activities."

Suddenly, it all clicks into place. The probing questions about living situations, activities, relationships - Ms. Katz's intent was never to catch us off guard about our secret identities. She came into this already fully aware of our unique circumstances.

"Then, why put us through all this?" I blurt out, feeling distinctly off-kilter and more than a little sheepish. "Why all the secrecy and evasiveness on your part if you knew the full situation already?"

She raises an eyebrow. "I'm not quite sure what you mean, Miss Small," she says, genuinely confused. "You're the ones who have been evasive and secretive to me."

I feel a familiar sense of shame radiating through my face, turning it tomato red.

Ms. Katz continues unabated. "My role is to help Connor find a safe, stable home environment that caters to his best interests and needs - not only physically, but psychologically. During these last interview stages, I was hoping to get a sense of the kind of environment you provide, given as you all are key figures in his life, even in an unofficial capacity. Metahuman abilities or not, you seem to have filled an important mentorship role for a young man who, if we're being frank, has lacked such stabilizing presences for most of his life."

All the air slowly leaks out of me, thoroughly abashed, as I realize how defensive and paranoid we've all been acting this entire time. Of course this woman wasn't here to throw any of us in jail or blow our secret identities wide open to the world - from the sound of it, she simply wanted to assess whether our unorthodox group dynamic was ultimately a positive or negative influence in Connor's life moving forward. A reasonable line of inquiry, really.

"I…" I trail off briefly, struggling to find the right words. "I suppose we let our imaginations get the better of us. We're used to having to be so guarded about certain aspects of our lives that it just became second nature to be evasive, even when there was no real need."

Ms. Katz regards me for a long moment, seemingly digesting my words. Then, something subtle shifts in her expression, the faintest traces of warmth and understanding creeping into her demeanor.

"You know, part of my job is to read between the lines and get a sense of the full truth beyond what's merely on the surface," she remarks in a slightly gentler tone. "All the secrecy, the half-truths, the code-switching between your civilian and superhero personas - it all speaks to a level of compartmentalization in your lives that most adults would find incredibly stressful and psychologically taxing, let alone teenagers."

My throat constricts with a sudden, visceral surge of emotion at her perceptive assessment, the weight of our situation laid so baldly bare. Unable to find adequate words, I simply nod mutely in acknowledgment.

"It's often all too easy for us adults to lose sight of those human factors when assessing cases like Connor's," Ms. Katz continues, her expression turning pensive. "We get so caught up in scrutinizing the surface details and checking criteria boxes, we forget to account for the less quantifiable elements at play - the moral guidance, the sense of purpose and identity you provide that aimless young man. Whether we agree with the means or not, those are invaluable stabilizing forces for someone in his position."

I find myself swallowing hard against the sudden lump swelling in my throat, taken aback by the compassion and insight lacing her words. Never could I have anticipated such a profound understanding from a stodgy government social worker, of all people. It's enough to make me thoroughly rethink all my preconceptions and prejudices walking into this situation.

"No one's going to take that away from Connor, I promise you," Ms. Katz assures me, correctly reading the silent fear lingering behind my eyes. "My goal here isn't to upend his whole life or support structure, just to ensure certain basic needs and safeguards are accounted for as we move into this next chapter. You have my word, I'll do everything in my power to facilitate your team's continued involvement in whatever capacity that relationship needs to take moving forward."

A shuddering exhalation escapes my lips as the knot of tension gripping my chest slowly loosens. "Thank you," I murmur, sincere gratitude bleeding into my voice. "That…that really does mean a lot to hear, Ms. Katz."

She nods somberly in response, clearly sensing the profound weight her words have lifted from my shoulders. Ordinarily, I'm not one to place too much stock in the promises of random authority figures, but something about this woman's earnest candor convinces me she's one of the good ones. An ally, not an antagonist. Or, at least, I hope.

"There's a lot of bad CPS agents out there," she says, looking out towards the window, not at me. "Or, well, incompetent. Inflexible. Particularly when dealing with metahuman youth cases, flexibility is utterly necessary. It's not unheard of to have young metahumans trafficked for their abilities, or have ill-intentioned foster families looking to 'adopt' a tool for economic gain. Or even just for the thrill of being able to train a child into their own personal superhero, one that they can live vicariously through."

She shoots me a meaningful look, and suddenly, I feel like glass. Like a window-pane. Like every part of me is see-through. My brain, inexplicably, tries to pull me back to Pop-Pop Moe and his dozens of conversations about superhero comics. I shake the thought away.

"Something the matter?" She asks, trying to read my expression.

"Just thinking a little too hard. Don't read into it," I ask, trying to project more confidence than I feel.

Our business seemingly concluded for the time being, Ms. Katz rises from her seat and smooths out the front of her blazer. "Well then, if that's everything for now, I'll leave you all to it," she says with a perfunctory air, already halfway to the door. "But I imagine this isn't the last we'll be seeing of one another, Ms. Small. Take care."

With that blunt parting remark hanging in the air, she sweeps out into the hallway, leaving me alone to stew over everything that was just said. My head is almost swimmy with the intensity of my ricocheting thought processes, still trying to fully internalize the enormity of our collective sigh of relief.

So many fears and preconceived notions upended in the span of less than an hour. Far from the jackbooted thug barging in to disrupt our operation, it seems Ms. Katz is actually an understanding, even compassionate advocate willing to preserve the unusual mentorship role we've assumed in Connor's life. At least, that's the impression she's left me with - but I suppose only time will tell if her empathy bears out in practice.

Rising wearily to my feet, I trudge back towards the upstairs hall with uncharacteristically heavy footfalls. Derek, Tasha and Maggie all look up expectantly from their various places of repose as I reenter, fixing me with questioning looks. Jordan sits amongst them, their expression unreadable except for the faintest lingering air of annoyance.

"I'll be in touch with the rest of you. Mist… hmm, Jordan, we'll be in touch in particular. Everyone else, you may or may not receive a request for additional interview at your places of residence. We'll be in touch," she says. After an uncomfortable three seconds, her face goes red. "Oh, dear, I think I said that three times. Well, you know what I mean."

She waves and descends the stairs at a reasonable pace. None of us dare meet her eyes as she leaves. None of us dare speak, either, for fear that she'll turn around and start asking more questions. I imagine that we've just used up our miracle for the whole year on this one very cordial visit from Protective Services, and we'd be pushing our luck to expect anything else.

Jordan's jaw is clenched like a vice until the front doors close - and man, they can hear that all the way in the back. A full two seconds pass. Three. Four. Five. Six. Then, Jordan starts breathing normally again. They reach into their pocket, which I know they shouldn't actually have anything in this particular pocket, and retrieves a blunt.

"Where the hell did you hide that?" Derek asks, as Jordan lights it with the deft flick of a match pulled from, again, nowhere.

"In my house," Jordan replies, their voice strained from how tightly they've got their teeth clenched around it. They pop out a lighter from the other pocket, spark up, take a deep drag, letting their head tilt so far back that their hair, medium-length and greasy and far too heavy to be defying gravity like that, swings behind their head. "Jeez Louise. I thought we were goners."

"What did she ask you about? Because she kept pushing me on the foster parent thing and I told her that I'm technically Spindle's mentor. Like for superhero stuff. And how that's made it so we're close without, uh, making it weird. Although maybe I did make it weird anyway," I blurt out.

"She asked me about my living situation and I told her I'm emancipated," Jordan says, blowing smoke out through their nose.

"And she bought that?" Maggie asks, frowning.

"No," Jordan says, taking another drag.

"Then why did you say that?"

"Well, what was I supposed to say? 'Oh hey Mrs. Child Services agent, I'm a metahuman too also cohabitating (that means living with) a boy I'm dating without any parental supervision and also last year my mom burned down our house with me inside it so now I'm squatting in this building, haha, but anyway how's the weather?'"

"Your mom burnt down your house?" Tasha squeaks.

"No," Jordan says, not looking at anyone. "But it's close enough."

"She could've taken you away too!" I shout, arms crossed.

"Where? Foster Care? Like fuck am I going there. I'd rather chug an entire bottle of Draino. I am not becoming a 'foster child' again by a long shot!" Jordan shouts, coughing up smoke mid-word but carrying on like a state trooper. "And, like, what are they going to do, arrest me for property theft? I have an agreement with the property owner, even if I don't have a lease. I renovated this place for like, a tenth of what it would cost to hire someone. And out of pocket."

"She already knew you were a superhero too, there's no need to hide it. Like, she had all our files already," I point out.

"I know that!" Jordan says, gesticulating with the blunt, ember floating dangerously close to one of the curtains. "But she didn't know I was homeless. I need her to think I'm stable or she wouldn't think I'm fit to be near Connor. Like, that's a concern she'd have. Right? Maybe?"

Jordan looks to Derek for advice on this. Derek sighs, running his fingers through his bright orange hair that's starting to fade again. He shoots Jordan a Look, before shrugging.

"…No, you're probably right. If she finds out you're a supervillain and in a relationship with Connor, he's going to get split apart from you before he leaves. I saw it happen with some kids in my old neighborhood. Mom was a dealer and she had a 'close working relationship' with the kids and their uncle, and they split those kids up all over the state, made sure they wouldn't stay in contact," Derek says, an edge of dark memory in his voice.

"Your mom?" Tasha asks.

"No, the other kids' mom. I don't know my mom," Derek answers, bluntly.

"See?" Jordan says, gesturing again at Derek as if he proves their point, which he does.

"Well, it's all over now," Tasha sighs. "At least we aren't getting arrested or anything."

"Yeah. That's what matters. We did what we came here to do. Although, you know, it woulda been a bit easier if we actually had known everything she already knew going in," Derek grumbles.

"Everything except the homelessness," Jordan says, before taking another drag. They hold it inside, their chest puffing up, before blowing a thin smoke ring into the air.

"Ooh, I wanna try," Maggie says, and Jordan lightly shoves her away, before offering it to me. I shake my head.

"I'm good," is all I say. I'm trying to digest everything that just happened - not just what Mrs. Katz said to me, but also, just wondering about what this means for the future. Connor is getting adopted by actual adults who know what his needs are that we aren't able to provide. We're going to go back to being just… well, we're not just his friends, but we're stepping back from being his support network.

And Jordan won't have their boyfriend-slash-roommate anymore. Like, this is going to be a big change for everyone, even if it's a good thing that happened. Even if it's necessary. I should be happy about it, really - that Connor is getting a real family, a stable home, and a chance at a better life than what we could give him. But a tiny part of me feels a sting of sadness and loss as well.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I clear my throat and glance around at our assembled group of misfits and makeshift heroes. "Well, I dunno about you all, but I'd say we dodged a serious bullet today. How bout we order some victory pizza to celebrate our narrow escape from the clutches of the law?"

Derek snorts, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. "Careful, kiddo - don't want to speak too soon. For all we know, this was just the opening volley in a long campaign to make our lives difficult."

"Nah, I seriously doubt that," Jordan chimes in, waving Derek's paranoia aside with a lazy hand. "You heard the lady - she's on our side, or at least sympathetic to our whole deal. I don't think we have to worry bout seeing more government goons darkening our doorstep anytime soon."

Tasha purses her lips skeptically. "I dunno… never underestimate the tenacity of a dedicated social worker. They're like the Long Arm of the Law's extra-judgmental cousin."

The conversation gradually shifts to less pressing matters, like schoolwork and weekend plans. But the specter of Ms. Katz's visit still lingers in the back of all our minds, a reminder of just how precarious our situation really is. We may have dodged a bullet this time, but who knows what the future holds? All we can do is stick together and hope for the best. And maybe invest in some better hiding spots for Jordan's weed.