Chum

When the EMT placed me on the stretcher, I must’ve blacked out completely, because the next thing I know, I’m staring at an impossibly dull ceiling. There’s a taste of metal in my mouth, no doubt a mix of blood and whatever they gave me to manage the pain. Hospitals always smell the same. A blend of chemicals, over-sanitized rooms, and a tinge of anxiety in the air, although knowing who’s bleeding in the adjacent rooms adds a new little kick to proceedings.

To be clear, I’m not saying I get, like, hospitalized hospitalized a lot. But I am in them probably more than most girls my age, because being into soccer and sports means you eat shit on a frequent basis. Before today, I’d managed to avoid any interesting injuries beyond breaking my arm once.

Between the warehouse and here, everything’s gone. I know, obviously, that they took my costume off – it’s washed and folded neatly on the drawer next to me. It’s funny, I know immediately where I am. The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. I’m a frequent guest of their Sports Medicine and Performance Center, but I guess it makes sense to me that they have a ward for young superhumans. Or maybe I was transferred after I was operated on? Everything that happened in the past couple of hours, or however long it’s been since passing out, is a sheer wall of impenetrable black. I remember nothing.

I begin cataloging the feelings in my body. Left leg – throbbing. Right arm – a sharp sting. My face feels like it’s gone through a blender, pulsating pain reminding me of the mess Mudslide and Mr. Polygraph made of me. My chest aches, but for someone who probably cracked a couple of ribs, it feels surprisingly acceptable. I chalk it up to painkillers and begin to move on with my self-assessment.

The soft rustle of fabric interrupts my thoughts. I turn my head (or at least, try to through the haze of pain and sedation) to see Jordan, unmistakably them, even though they’ve traded their usual attire for a hospital gown and pajamas. Their face has a swollen quality, the blue-black hint of a developing bruise under one eye. There’s a soft neck brace around their throat, and I can see the hint of stitches peeking out from beneath the messy hairline.

“Hey,” Jordan croaks, and I can hear the pain laced through that single word. They’re clutching something in their hand. It’s a stuffed dog, the kind that kids get after tonsil surgeries. “Figured you’d need a guard dog in here,” they mumble, offering a weak grin.

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice sounding distant, even to my own ears. “You look like shit.”

Jordan snorts. “You should see the other guy.”

There’s a momentary silence, the kind that’s heavy with unsaid words. I can see the weight of the evening pressing down on Jordan’s shoulders, their fingers twitching at the hem of the hospital gown. We both share quiet, pained chuckles, as I think about the incredible sight of watching Jordan punch a hole through a grown man with their hands and judicious application of rusty metal.

“You okay?” It’s all I can think of to ask. Jordan just shrugs.

“Not shot. So that’s a win,” they shoot back. I try and fail to smile.

“The Kingdom,” I say, wincing at the pain in my side. “What did we get into?”

Jordan sighs heavily, pushing themselves onto my hospital bed. “Bigger than we thought. But we have something they want. Or rather, Alex does.”

I’m about to respond when the door pushes open slowly. There’s Alex, eyes darting around nervously, brown hair scattered greasy and damp across tan skin. His anxiety is palpable, and I don’t need super-senses to pick up on that. He’s clutching his phone to his chest like it’s a lifeline, hiding the faces of the characters of something labeled “Neon Genesis Evangelion”.

“Hey,” Alex mumbles, not meeting my eyes. “Jordan texted, said you’d want to see this.” He holds up a small memory cart.

“The footage?” I ask, and Alex nods.

“Yeah, but just a minute. I was afraid, you know? What if they saw? What if—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupt. “We’ll make sure nobody can trace this back to you. Thank you, Alex.”

Jordan sits up straighter. “Show us,” they sort-of order.

Swallowing hard, Alex plugs the cart into their phone and cues up the video. The screen fills with pixelated images. It’s from a distance, grainy, poor quality, coated in a thick layer of night vision green, but still, the silhouettes are unmistakable. Mr. Nothing, Mr. Polygraph, and Mudslide, in some sort of clandestine discussion. Their forms move, gesticulating, the shape of their mouths shifting in conversation. The audio is crystal clear, but we keep the volume low to avoid bothering other people in the hospital.

The sound of Mudslide sucking the man down into the suffocating dark is unmistakable, even if the moment itself isn't captured, the drone tilted towards other things. A noise like the earth itself swallowing, wet and thick. It goes up until the point where Mr. Nothing catches sight of the drone and shoots it down, ending the transmission.

Alex’s face is pale, their fingers trembling ever so slightly as they clutch the phone. The weight of holding onto potentially life-threatening footage is clear in their tightened eyes and furrowed brow. “I couldn’t get everything,” they murmur apologetically.

I can’t blame them. No, not at all. “This is more than enough, Alex. Truly.” I assure, trying to offer comfort through my eyes since I can’t move much else without groaning in pain. “Enough to start an investigation at least, I bet.”

Jordan, ever the pragmatist, rubs their chin thoughtfully. “Look, I don’t love the super-cops any more than the next nonconformist, but we’re way out of our league here.” They fix their gaze on me, then at Alex. “We’ll make sure this footage needs to get to the right people. Professionals.”

I nod, fully agreeing. “We’ll ensure this gets to the authorities. Proper ones. And no one, I mean no one, will know where it came from. That’s a promise.”

Alex draws a shaky breath of relief. “Thanks. Um… do you guys need anything while I’m here? Oh, uh, hi, Sam, I’m Alex. Jordan’s friend.”

I try to assess my bodily needs, but if I’m hungry or thirsty, I can’t detect it. I wonder idly if the IV attached to me is keeping me fed. I don’t really know how IVs work. “Hi, Alex. I’m Sam. Some people call me Bloodhound. And I think I’m good for now.”

“Go get me a burger, yowie boy,” Jordan jokes, miming a swat with a baseball bat, or a cricket bat, or something. Frankly, I have no idea what they’re referencing. Alex gets up, standing up straight, but Jordan waves him down. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll try to make sure that the super-nerds have eyes on your place in case anyone tries to mess with you, alright?”

Alex’s shoulders visibly sag with another, newer form of relief. “Alright. Um, thanks,” they say, and quietly back out of the room, shutting the door as quietly as possible. I look to Jordan for an explanation, and they grin, providing me with nothing.

The sun has barely begun its ascent, casting a feeble orange hue against the soft, blue curtains of my hospital room. It’s been hours since Jordan and I were rescued from the warehouse, and it feels like an eternity. The hands of the clock on the wall are my only indication of time, moving so slowly that it’s almost torturous. The soft hum of the machines around me is intermittently broken by the sound of hushed voices outside the room. I’m a jumble of aches, twinges, and the itching sensation of bandages against my skin.

The hum of machines becomes my not-so-welcome lullaby. They beep, whir, and do all sorts of weird mechanical things that I can’t even begin to understand. Every so often, their consistent sounds are interrupted by the muffled voices outside, probably discussing me or some other patient down the hall.

Nurses come in and out like clockwork. Some offer water, while others fiddle with the machines or check the bandages that itch at my skin. They try to be reassuring, whispering comforting words, their eyes filled with a mix of pity and professionalism. But, truth be told, their kindness only goes skin-deep for me. There’s this whole other layer of anxiety that they can’t touch.

My parents. The thought of them weighs heavy on my heart. All I’ve got is the memory of that panicked call I made using Jordan’s phone. Their voices, filled with so much worry, play over and over in my head like a song stuck on repeat. I picture them, in the car, maybe arguing about the fastest route to the hospital, their faces pale with fear. And, bluntly – I fear consequences. Am I going to be grounded for life? Are they going to take away my computer or my phone? My parents aren’t one for punishment but it’s not like I’m a stranger for it. And if anything is punishment-worthy, sneaking out at night and getting shot at is.

Before I can dwell on it any longer, the door to the room creaks open. My heart skips a beat.

It’s my dad.

His face looks haggard and sunken, his eyes dark pits that are wet with tears. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. His usually neat hair is unkempt, and there’s a lost, distant look in his eyes. I can see the sheen of tears he’s desperately holding back, and it makes me want to cry.

“Sam,” he manages to utter. His voice, usually filled with notes of assurance, quavers with emotion. Saying my name aloud seems to drain the color from his face. I’ve never seen him this vulnerable before, not in any moment in my mind. He moves slowly, each step weighed down by the gravity of the moment. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes my hand. It’s cold, probably from the chilly hospital hallway, but his grip is warm. It trembles like it’s about to fall off his wrist, leaving behind only a bloody stump. “I… I keep trying to understand why, Sam. Why would you take such risks?”

The words seem to choke him. It’s as if they’re thick thorns in his throat, and he’s forcing them out one by one. “Dad,” I begin, my voice coarse from the medications and tubes. I want to explain, to ease his pain, but the words seem to get stuck, creating a lump in my throat.

Taking a shaky breath, he continues, “I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, dreading a phone call, or worse, that someone would come knocking… with news about you.” He closes his eyes, the pain evident. “I might’ve dabbled in some risky stuff in my time. You might find it hard to believe, but I’ve been in a scuffle or two. Fighting for what’s right. But this? Seeing my daughter in danger? It’s a different kind of fear, Sam. It’s… It’s different when it’s your daughter.”

Before the weight of his words can fully sink in, there’s movement at the door again.

It’s my mom.

Silently, she walks over, her heels clicking softly on the cold hospital tiles. She places a reassuring hand on dad’s shoulder, offering a semblance of support. I can see her eyes darting, assessing, ever the thinker, ever the planner. It’s clear that she’s already formulating a strategy, even in the face of the unexpected.

The weight of their eyes, one anxious and the other determined, both filled with a kind of terror I never thought I’d see from my parents, presses down on me like the walls of this sterile hospital room. My mom pulls a chair closer to the bed and lowers herself into it, taking a moment to steady herself, collecting her thoughts like she’s preparing for a speech.

“Sam,” she begins, her voice carrying that librarian authority I’ve heard her use a hundred times, the way she’d use it on disobedient children, or people causing a fuss. “Listen, I’ve been replaying everything in my head since the moment I got that call. The fear, the relief, the anger… it’s a lot.” She pauses, glancing at my dad before continuing. “And I’m mad. God, I’m so mad. But not just at you. I’m mad at myself, at the situation, at this… world where my baby girl feels the need to face down monsters in the dead of night.”

My eyes drift to the uncomfortable chair my dad’s parked himself in, watching his hands clenched tight, white-knuckled. As mom speaks, his head snaps up, eyes filled with that rare fire of disagreement. “Rachel, what are you—”

Mom raises her hand slightly, her lips thinning. “Ben, let me finish.” Taking a deep breath, she turns back to me, determination replacing the earlier softness. “What I’m trying to say is, while what you did was reckless, there was a purpose to it. You didn’t just pick a fight for the sake of it. You and your friend, you said you found something. Criminals. Real bad people. Villains. And while I don’t want you rushing headlong into danger, we can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”

There’s a pause. I can feel the tension between them. It’s palpable, like an electric charge in the room. I’ve been in the middle of their disagreements before, but this… this is different. It’s not about missed chores or school grades. This is about life and death. And while they’re both terrified for me, they’re coming at it from two entirely different angles. The air feels like it’s going to explode, like there’s a bomb about to detonate.

“You need a plan,” she continues, “You can’t just fly by the seat of your pants like a fucking… Sorry. Stay with the Young Defenders, patrol, train, learn. But save the dangerous investigations, the confronting of unknown threats, save that all for the adults in the room. The ones who have the gear, the backup, the… bulletproof vests.”

The air grows thicker with every word she speaks. My dad’s face twists in several different directions, like it’s trying to express every emotion besides happiness. “I just… I don’t want to lose you,” my dad murmurs, his voice breaking the charged silence. I’m left in the middle, trying to take it all in, trying to decide where I fit in this world and in their concerns for me.

The room fills with a heavy tension as my mom begins, “We spoke with the doctors outside, Sam.” She hesitates for a brief moment, choosing her words carefully, “You’re mostly healed up. They just want to keep an eye on you for now.” As she finishes, my dad sends a sharp look her way, his eyes silently accusing her of revealing too much, like she said something she wasn’t supposed to say.

“Huh?” is about all I can choke out. “I got shot. I broke ribs. I broke my ankle,” I sputter weakly, gesturing to the boot clamped firmly around my foot.

Dad interjects, hoping to bring some calm, gently motioning my mom to let him take over. “The doctors mentioned – confidentially, mind you – that by the time you were transported here, a lot of your injuries seemed to, you know, they were fixed already. They x-rayed you and there’s not really any fractures left, and this was last night.” His eyes search mine, a mixture of awe and worry. “I kind of had a hint of this, especially after you recovered so fast from… from being dis-em-boweled, you know? But now we know for sure. You’ve always been my little fighter.”

He starts crying for real, and I look away, not able to handle it. Seeing my dad cry is worse than any sad movie. It’s worse than the end of Click.

“But, Sam,” my mom interjects, her voice firm yet shaking, “I feel… safer knowing that. But it doesn’t mean I’m still not apoplectic at you. We don’t know what the limit is. How much can you take? If that man – I’m assuming it was a man – had aimed just a little bit to the right, he could’ve taken your arm off, or god forbid, he could’ve… You know. Would you grow that back?” Her breath hitches, and she fights back the tears threatening to spill. “I need you to understand, you’re not invincible. And I bet you still feel the pain, and thinking about that, just… My little girl, in a heap in some warehouse in the dirt…”

It’s jarring to see her like this, so close to breaking. I’ve only seen her lose control a few times, and it was usually when she’d had too much to drink. This raw emotion, this sheer terror for me, it’s a lot to take in. She inhales, big, deep, and shakily. “Just… don’t do anything stupid. Can you promise me that?”

I look her in the eyes, and I reach out to hold her hand. “I promise,” I lie.

The dark room feels much larger than it really is. It’s eerily silent, a stark contrast from the chaos of the previous day, and it’s been silent all throughout, as I consider all the school I’m missing. The sound of the beeping from the heart monitor is now a comforting metronome, grounding me in the real. My parents texted me, told me that they informed the school, sent them a picture of me in the hospital with a bandage across my nose. I’ll get my homework tomorrow.

I lie back against the pillows, their starched covers scratchy against the nape of my neck. The fluorescent lights are off, but the city lights outside peek through the gap in the blinds. A pale, silvery glow illuminates the room, casting long, ghostly shadows. The drugs they’ve given me are doing their job, dulling the worst of the pain. But there’s still a deep-seated ache, a testament to the hell I went through. And then there’s the internal stuff, the weirdness that even the strongest painkiller can’t mask.

My hand absentmindedly goes to my side, where the bullet gash once was. There’s a bandage, but beneath it, the skin is white and scarry, a little bit raised but free of scabbing, free of blood, free of anything that indicates that it happened yesterday and not years ago. My arm, too, is the same way, fully scarred over like it was an injury from forever ago. My nose feels fine. My chest feels fine. My ankle feels fine.

Well, it all aches a little. But it certainly doesn’t feel broken.

Lost in thought, I recall my earlier confrontations, the way my heart would race, the way my palms would sweat, the unmistakable rush of adrenaline. Every time I got into a dangerous situation, it was like a shot of pure energy, electrifying every nerve in my body. It was addicting, the danger, the thrill, the knowledge that I was alive in a way that I had never been before. The realization that there might be something wrong with me, like, seriously wrong with me, not just ADHD, lingers like rotten egg smell in my skull.

My phone buzzes on the bedside table, interrupting my introspection. I grab it, unlocking the screen to see a message from Jordan. A picture of a dog, mouth open absurdly wide, with the top caption “Me when the”, followed by a bottom caption “when the food BOTTOM TEXT”. I smile. I haven’t told the others, the Young Defenders, anything yet. My hands grip at Alex’s cart, stuffed into the pockets of the hospital pajamas. This is something better handled in person.

I’m about to settle back into my train of thoughts when the door creaks open, casting a sliver of light into the dim room. A nurse steps in, a familiar one with kind eyes and a gentle demeanor. She’s carrying a small container.

“Hey there, Sam. Thought you might want these,” she says, placing the container on my bedside table. Inside, I can see a collection of tiny, sharp teeth, unmistakably mine. “The surgeon from the other hospital stopped by to give these to me, to give to you,” she continues, noticing my raised eyebrow. I don’t recall losing a lot of teeth, only the ones I spat out after biting metal, and I doubt they went back to the warehouse just to find them for me.

“Growing right off your bones. Never seen anything like it,” she says, and my heartbeat immediately picks up. She notices the beeping accelerate, and waves one hand. “Don’t – don’t worry, your privacy is protected by HIPAA. And all our servers are encrypted.”

I pick up the container, turning it around in my hands. The teeth inside rattle softly. “Thanks,” I tell her, not quite sure what else to say, and not sure how to reassure her that ‘people discovering my superpowers’ is not what I’m concerned about.

She nods, giving me a sympathetic smile. “Get some rest,” she murmurs, leaving as quietly as she came.

The silence envelops me again, but it’s no longer oppressive. I look at the teeth, then at my hands, thinking about the strange journey I’ve embarked upon. I shake the bottle up and down, feeling all the teeth rattle, and I flex my fingers, wondering what it could mean. The drugs – the soft ones, not the kind they use to put you completely in the black – pull at the edges of my consciousness, beckoning me to sleep. But before I surrender, one thought forms clear in my mind: I need answers.

End of Arc 1: Pup