Chum

A momentary silence fills the room before I hear the door's mechanism release a soft click, signaling its opening. What follows is the gentle, synchronized cadence of footsteps. I can picture them, even without looking, striding down the hallway with a purpose, bound for this room.

One by one, they make their entrance. The room, dimly illuminated by the ambient glow of various screens, now bears the weight of their collective presence. These are the Delaware Valley Defenders. Even in the subdued lighting, the authority and experience they exude is undeniable.

I've encountered each of them at different points, during brief moments in the headquarters or during some incidental meetings. The recognition in their eyes, the slight nod, the casual greetings--they've become somewhat of a ritual. And yet, now, as they gather together in this room, it feels vastly different. It's not just one or two of them--it's the whole squad. A feeling akin to awe settles in the pit of my stomach.

Every new arrival to the dispatch room catches my attention, making me shift a little in my seat. The realization hits me: I've never actually been in the presence of all these adult heroes simultaneously. The gravity of the situation and their collective attention leaves me feeling slightly out of place, but there's also an undeniable thrill. Like being a smaller fish suddenly introduced to a school of larger, more experienced ones, ready to take notes on… the things fish do. Swallowing water. Avoiding hooks.

There's this unmistakable heaviness in the room, an imposing sense of solidity that seems to just gravitate everything toward the center, and it isn't long before the reason becomes clear. Bulwark strides in. He's built like an old-timey circus strongman; it's the kind of physique that makes you think of a wall that decided to stand up and take a walk. His skin is such a deep shade of brown that it almost hints at blue under certain light. At 6'7", he's an absolute giant, and his sheer physical presence can be somewhat overwhelming, not because it's intimidating - although it certainly could be if he wanted - but because of the sheer magnitude of it. You can't help but feel like you're being drawn into his gravitational pull.

Bulwark's uniform looks like someone took the essence of a construction site and distilled it into a superhero costume. He dons a high-vis vest over an orange athletic tee that strains just a bit over his muscle-fat. Black slacks wrap around his legs, and the armored boots he wears look like they could crush concrete if he so chose. Hanging around his waist, a utility belt jingles lightly, packed with tools that would give any hardware store a run for its money.

I'm always slightly taken aback by the gentleness in Bulwark's demeanor, given the mountainous stature he holds. His nod to me is tender, and it's as though, with just that one gesture, he can communicate a universe of empathy. It's this strange juxtaposition, a man who could easily be mistaken for a walking fortress showing such profound softness.

Multiplex is not far behind, muscling in maybe half a second afterwards. There's an undeniable physicality to him, one that reminds me of a seasoned boxer who's seen a good many rounds. If I had to guess from his costume, that might've been what he did, but we've never had the opportunity to really chat about backstories. Instead of boxing shorts and gloves, he's now clad in modern light body armor. The armor snugly fits over a skintight black top, punctuated with streaks of white and orange, giving off a subdued but effective contrast that makes him almost glow in the darkness of the dispatch room.

As his eyes sweep the room, I can't help but feel they're silently interrogating each of us. It's not an aggressive gaze, but it's searching, probing. I think of the way a scientist might look at something under a microscope, trying to discern the smallest details. His gaze is seeking answers, evaluating potential allies and threats, all while trying to piece together the situation he's just walked into. His face is graced by a soft, light stubble, patches of red-brown standing out on his dark skin, and in a second, there's another Multiplex, sort of just phasing out of him, trudging around the back of the room.

That's what he does. Obviously. Before long, there's a Multiplex per corner, making sure to keep an angle on everything at once.

The next one in is the one I like the most. We've only met twice, Fury Forge and I, but I can tell she likes firefighting just as much as I like sports, which is a sort of attitude I can resonate with. I don't like it when someone seems boring, when they don't have a passion for anything. It doesn't even have to be something I like - G-d knows I've already sat through one lecture from her on how foam-based fire extinguishers work - but it means there's something she cares about.

Her outfit is a testament to her past and present: the fusion of a firefighter's gear with a superhero flair. The zipped-open, bright orange jacket reveals a sleek black leotard beneath, contrasting against her tanned skin, decorated with faint scars--reminders of battles with fire. It's a look of strength and resilience. She looks like the kind of person who'd easily hoist you over her shoulder and march through smoke and flames without a second thought, something I've thought about a couple of times for no particular reason.

Without hesitation, she commands the room, "Alright, spill it." Her voice, impatient and demanding, reminds me of a fire truck's blaring siren--urgent and impossible to ignore.

"Wait for the other two," Multiplex interrupts her, raising a hand up. She visibly deflates and pops down into a squat, staring at the paused screen.

I try to refocus on the meeting at hand, but it's difficult with her right there. Her gaze, piercing and intense, rests on the paused screen, her mind undoubtedly racing at a hundred miles per hour. I wonder what it's like inside her head, with ideas igniting like sparks, waiting to be fanned into full-blown inventions. I've heard stories about her late-night projects, crafting innovations in firefighting technology, with the orange hue of welding sparks dancing on her features. My train of thought is derailed when she looks my way. I shuffle uncomfortably and try to pay attention to the doorway again.

A hush settles over the room as the door opens, and in strides Clara. Clarissa "Clara" Parker, the legal backbone retained by the Defenders. I've always found it slightly amusing that among a team of superheroes, she's the one that commands a unique sort of respect, the kind that even Playback doesn't like to joke around with. It's not the kind that comes from awe of supernatural abilities, but from sheer trust in her expertise. You can tell she's been through the legal wringer countless times; her short curly hair, touched with streaks of gray, probably bore witness to many courtroom dramas.

She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, the light reflecting off them momentarily before settling on us. Those sharp, observant eyes sweep the room, missing nothing, analyzing everything. Clara might not be able to shoot lasers from her eyes, but in many ways, her gaze is just as penetrating. I imagine it's a trait honed from years of cross-examinations and carefully picking apart testimonies.

"Before you start," she says smoothly, her voice dripping with authority yet maintaining an even tone, "remember to choose your words carefully. We're in legal territory." The weight of her words is palpable, and I'm reminded once again of the importance of having someone like Clara on our side. Not all battles are fought with fists and powers; some are waged with words, laws, and precise strategy.

The door opens one final time - well, it doesn't even shut all the way, just interrupting itself - and in walks Councilman Jamal Davis. There's an immediate shift in the room's energy, as if the air itself has decided to lean into his presence. He emanates a gentle charisma that's palpable, almost like a soft, reassuring hum in the background. Every step he takes is measured and purposeful, showcasing his natural authority. His bald head catches the soft overhead lighting, giving it a gentle sheen, and you could almost believe it's an intentional style choice meant to add to his aura.

When his eyes scan the room, they lock onto each of us in turn, just for a fraction of a second. Those eyes, full of wisdom and warmth, reassure without words. There's a certain gravity in his gaze, but not the oppressive kind. It's the gravity that pulls people toward him, the kind that makes them listen, trust, and follow. And though he's not shaking hands now - circumstances being what they are - I remember the steadiness of his grip, the firm yet friendly handshake that was always his signature greeting.

His professional attire, crisp and meticulously chosen, sets him apart from the rest of us, highlighting his role in the room and the organization at large. It's a subtle reminder of his position, both in the Delaware Valley Defenders and in the city's council. But beneath that facade of formality, there's a genuine, approachable human being.

"Hello, Bloodhound," he greets with a nod, addressing me directly. "Et all. Puppeteer, you have something we need to see?" The earnestness in his voice, the genuine concern, further solidifies why he's seen as a natural leader, even if he's not the one calling the shots behind the scenes.

The room feels heavy. There's an unmistakable weight in the air that holds everyone's attention. Puppeteer, as if sensing the gravity of the moment, stands tall and decisive. With a nod, she gestures towards the paused footage on the screen. "This," she says in her characteristically clear voice, "was captured by a civilian drone. The event it documents is a crime - murder. It's quite graphic, involving a supervillain named Mudslide." It's like she's giving a briefing, always concise and direct. There's no beating around the bush with Puppeteer; she's all about getting to the point.

Without further ado, she drags the marker on the video player back to the beginning and presses play. The dimly lit room is momentarily replaced by the vivid display of the crime, projected onto the wall. As the video plays, I can feel the mood shift further, suffocating the group. I don't bother looking at the footage, because I think if I see this event happen again I'm going to have a conniption (which I'm not sure what it is, but I think I'm using it right from the context of how my parents use it). Gossamer locks eyes at me, and we have a little staring contest, each one of us trying not to look towards the screen. I hear a slight squeak on the floor as Fury Forge angrily tenses her body up, having to visibly restrain herself from shouting.

Multiplex, a strong presence in the room, doesn't waste time after the footage stops. "And the legality of this footage?" he questions, looking as though he's trying to process everything. His query hangs in the air like it's a physical thing, waiting to be answered.

Clara takes a moment. Pushing her glasses snugly against her face, she pauses, and clears her throat. Then, she starts, "If it's acquired by a civilian, without trespassing on someone's private space and without any criminal intent, it may just stand in court." She looks around the room, gauging reactions, "Especially if it's recording a crime unfolding. But who captured it? How did it end up here? Where is it located?"

Taking a deep breath, I step into the center. "Alex Garcia, he's the one with the drone. He's a civilian." I quickly add, hoping to stave off more questions, "He's a friend." But in my head, I'm wrestling with the details I'm leaving out. Like how it was Jordan, or as the Young Defenders know him, Safeguard -- my so-called archenemy -- who was instrumental in getting this footage. "Dobson Mills, the abandoned textile factory. Is that… owned by someone?"

Clara leans back, a pen tapping rhythmically against her notepad, as if it helps her think. "Technically, yes, but I can get in contact with the property owners. Drone footage, huh? It's a burgeoning field in legal terms, especially with evidence admissibility. Generally speaking," she muses, "for such footage to be seen as evidence, it has to be both reliable and relevant. Above all, it must not violate any foundational laws, such as the Fourth Amendment, which safeguards us from unreasonable searches."

Everything seems so much more complicated than it needs to be. At least, that's how it feels when I'm in a room with a bunch of people discussing legalities. My mind starts to drift, and my knee rocks up and down, but I snap myself back into the present, focusing on Clara. "This is all a gross oversimplification, of course. I'm not going to bother you all with the precise lawyer talk, just the stuff you need to know as heroes." Her emphasis on 'you' almost feels like it's directed at me. It must be - I'm sure everyone else has heard this talk before.

Councilman Davis, always eager to get the finer details, leans forward slightly, his face lined with concern. "And did this Alex have permission to fly over that area?" His question hangs in the air, like a floating bubble, ready to pop.

Clara quietly shrugs. "We'd have to check the FAA guidelines, but that area isn't near an airport, and he wasn't flying it at a prohibited altitude." Her response is factual, stripped of any embellishments. Like reading a list of ingredients. "If the drone was flying in accordance with FAA regulations and the footage wasn't obtained illegally, chances are good that we'll be able to work with this."

A chance to work with it? I must be making a face, because Clara looks at me, tilts her head a fraction of a degree, and smiles. "Don't worry, Bloodhound. Even if it ends up being not admissible in court, there are ways we can use this information productively."

That doesn't make me feel any better.

Before the room can spiral back into legal jargon, Fury Forge, always impatient, interrupts the flow. "Alright, but let's focus on the bigger picture. This 'Kingdom' - that must be the Kingdom of Keys, right? And they're actively recruiting, Mudslide, that's your catch, right, Bloodhound?" Her impatience reminds me of when I need to get something done, and there are too many steps in the process. It's like wanting to watch a movie but having to sit through a bunch of trailers first. It takes me a couple of seconds to process that Fury Forge is talking to me directly, and I do anything but look at her.

"Yeah. How did you know that? And what's the Kingdom of Keys?" I ask, looking towards the frozen screen, paused at the last frame before the bullet came out.

"What, you think I don't pay attention to my proteges?" Fury Forge asks rhetorically. I feel my face heating up, like I'm about to burst into flame myself - her whats? I'm her protege? She smiles at me and I turn around, faking a cough while she finishes her thoughts. "It's a bunch of scumbags that have been weaseling into the holes that the DEA and the FBI popped in the drug trade. This is… well, we haven't had very many leads on them. Did you get their names? Mudslide, Mr. Nothing, what's the other guy?"

I do not like the fact that the entire room seems to have paused for our little side-conversation. I feel like I just got caught talking by the teacher. "Mr. Polygraph. Mr. Nothing can nullify your powers if he touches you, and Mr. Polygraph can tell if you're lying to him. Mudslide can, well… You saw. That's about the extent of it."

Fury Forge slaps a fist into her open palm, grinning. "Well, that's that! We've got names, let's start squeezing people down for names."

Bulwark, the team's rock, always knows when to intervene. Placing a gentle hand on Forge's shoulder, his voice is both comforting and stern, "We will, Forge. But right now, we need to ensure that when we bring him to justice, he stays there." He then shifts his gaze to the rest of us, adding, "We will need to ensure the safety of this Alex Garcia. If he's the one behind this footage, he might be in danger."

I see heads nodding in agreement. Multiplex, ever the rule follower, adds his two cents, "Clarissa and Bulwark are right. We need to make sure every step we take is as by the book as we can manage. These guys have been eating the black market for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past two years, so we need to make sure when we hit them they don't have a chance to get back up."

The room has this omnipresent hum - a mix of the soft rustling of papers, the nearly inaudible whispers of side conversations, and the gentle hum of technology in the background. When Playback speaks up, the suddenness of his voice feels like someone dropped a stone in a still pond.

"Let's just give all the evidence to the police," he suggests, and I see him gesture towards the frozen screen, the highlighted data evident. His stance is as firm as a brick wall, but there's something in his young face - a twitch at the corner of his eyes, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It's like he's stepped onto a wobbly bridge for the first time, uncertain if it'll hold his weight. "Isn't it their job to handle big-time crimes?"

Puppeteer, however, isn't one for uncertainty. She turns sharply toward Playback, her gaze piercing. "While it sounds like a straightforward solution, we've dealt with the Kingdom before. I mean, the Delaware Valley Defenders have," she begins. I'm reminded of how she approaches problems - like a puzzle she's determined to solve, piece by piece.

Bulwark finishes her sentence for her. "They're cunning and elusive. Until now, we did not even know any of their operatives had names. Just possessing this knowledge… It is a very effective cipher key. It will pay great dividends."

Councilman Davis nods thoughtfully. "It's true," he concedes, exasperation coloring his voice. "I've tried pushing this through the bureaucratic channels. But it feels like every step forward is met with resistance, as if trying to make headway through thick molasses. It's exhausting. We need more."

Bulwark's every word is distinct and deliberate. It reminds me of someone cautiously tasting a new dish, experiencing each flavor independently, part by part. "The police have been overwhelmed, especially when it comes to these superpowered threats," he says. "They offer great support, but we can't simply hand this over and wish for the best. Many of them refuse to get involved with superpowered threats, even street criminals."

"'Protect and Serve' my ass," Playback mutters. Several people in the room shoot him a withering glare, and he backs away, squeaking an impotent "sorry" out.

A subtle movement catches my attention. It's Crossroads. He doesn't speak often, but when he does, it's important. However, instead of vocalizing his thoughts, he merely points towards one of the Multiplexes. I squint a little, trying to figure out if this one's the original, to no avail.

Multiplex, the one Crossroads pointed at, stands a bit taller, maybe assuming a natural leadership role amongst his duplicates. Folding his arms in front of his chest, he shoots a quick look at the other duplicates. I catch them nudging Puppeteer to the side, subtly, as they take control of the computer system. As the screen dims and the huge main dispatch screen fades out, my focus is divided. On one hand, I try to catch a glimpse of what the Multiplex duplicates are up to, with the smaller screen's UI making me think they're sending an email to someone.

But Puppeteer, now free from the computer, turns to face the group, her attention riveted on what the primary Multiplex is about to say. "I say we set up surveillance on known Kingdom hotspots," he starts, very authoritative and deliberate. "We watch, we wait, and then when the time's right, we have enough evidence to make sure they go down, and they stay down."

Nodding in agreement, Puppeteer adds her perspective to the mix like a student backing up the teacher's lecture, "We might also need more intel. Informants, previous encounters, anything that can give us an edge." Her words make sense, but a cynical little voice in the back of my head can't help but snark, Ass-kisser.

Throughout the heated discussion, I felt this slow build of impatience in me, like a pot about to boil over. My thoughts seemed to race, and I bounce my knee harder and harder. I tried my best to hold back, to wait for the right moment, but the pressure inside me grew with each passing second, while everyone else was content to discuss 'tactics' and 'strategy'. When I couldn't contain it anymore, I burst out, "We need to investigate further!" I yelled. As I did, I unconsciously squeezed my hands tight. It was strange, I could feel something hard just beneath the skin of my fingertips. "We can't just sit back, not after what I saw," I declared, feeling buried thirty feet under myself, choking on my own voice.

Fury Forge was the first to respond, looking directly at me, her piercing eyes locking onto mine. Even with all my attitude, something inside made me divert my gaze. "Look, kid," she began with a tone that suggested both annoyance and concern, "You did good getting us this intel, but understand this isn't some regular petty theft. You're dealing with the big leagues here, and you're just fourteen. Four. Teen. On top of that, you're hurt."

To the side, Clara jumped in, as if to offer a softer perspective, "And don't forget, you've got school. Training. Responsibilities. These are the very things preparing you so that, in a few years, you can take on challenges like this."

Feeling cornered, I responded, maybe too quickly, "I can regenerate. I'll be fine." My words came out dripping with a mix of confidence and what I can honestly say was probably recklessness.

Crossroads, who had been quiet until now, suddenly swiveled toward me, his expression one of muted surprise. "You what?"

"I regenerate," I reiterated, my voice maintaining its firmness but a touch of defiance crept in. "I cracked six ribs, broke my nose and my ankle, and got shot. Twice," I say, yanking the gauze pad off my nose, reaching down to unstrap the boot from around my foot and kicking it off. A little sore, yeah, but perfectly fine. I stand up on it and do some jumping jacks. "See?"

Gossamer's eyes widened in surprise, "That's new," she quietly mumbles, while Playback just smirks at me. Did he know, somehow?

Still, Fury Forge wasn't convinced, she waved her hand dismissively, "That's all fine and good, but you're still only fourteen. Not only does your brain have growing to do, but no matter how fit you are, you're just not going to be able to beat these grown men and women in a fight, and your use in an investigation is legally shaky."

Bulwark, who had always given me the air of an overprotective mother hen the few times we had talked, reached out and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. But my emotions were all over the place and I jerked away. His words were soft, but firm, "We appreciate everything you've done. Truly. But now, it's out of your hands."

Playback scoffs, rolling his eyes as the conversation trails off. "Isn't it just convenient that Liberty Belle isn't here? Right when this Kingdom nonsense starts kicking up?" His voice has a different kind of edge to it than the usual wisecracks, but I can tell that it's from frustration, not trying to bother people. Just when things are kicking up, where's the leader? I don't agree, but I understand it.

Gossamer, busy with some crochet she had pulled out to steady her nerves (a habit of hers I'm familiar with), flicks a quick look in his direction, one eyebrow raised. She doesn't say anything, but her expression speaks volumes. What are you implying? I can hear her saying.

Crossroads, not one to speak up often, shifts uncomfortably, his gaze darting from Playback to the others. When he does speak, his voice is soft, almost drowned out by the buzzing hum of machinery and monitors in the room. "Maybe she has her reasons," he suggests. I know his future sight doesn't extend far enough to know the answer of where she is - plus, it's for his point of view only. He just has that much confidence in her.

But it's Puppeteer who bites back, her usual cool leadership clearly rattled. "Liberty Belle has done more for this team than any of us," she retorts sharply, the defensive tone in her voice unmistakable. "She's probably out there right now, looking into the Kingdom, trying to find answers. She doesn't need to report every move she makes to us. That's why she's the leader."

Playback raises both hands in a mock gesture of surrender, shooting a teasing grin at her. "Alright, alright! Jeez, can't a guy have a little wonder on every now and then?" He says, trying to play it down, but I can tell it's not appreciated. Ever since a little bit ago, when Liberty Belle and I had a chat in front of Puppeteer, I could feel some sort of chip on her shoulder about it, like she's overcompensating for not knowing about… not knowing that Liberty Belle is dying.

I have my guesses. But they're mine. Feeling the weight of the room's collective gravity, I slouch back into my chair, a mixture of frustration and defeat clouding my mind. Playback comes up to me, waving his hand in front of his nose, as everyone else breaks the tension into smaller, bite-sized conversations. "Yo, I don't like the air in here. Let's bounce. Wanna hit the double-wa?"

I choke back something - I'm not sure what - and smile jaggedly at him, getting up from my chair. "Yeah. Sure."