Chum

It doesn't take a genius to see which person is being shouted at - the one with a bandana wrapped around their face, having just cut their way through the Rita's line. "My purse!" The same voice shouts, shrill and yelping like a kicked dog. I'm at my feet in an instant, but Gale's reaction is faster.

She doesn't even get up, twisting the swirling gyre of air she's carrying over her head like a prepared lasso and almost hurling it, guiding it with her fingers. The almost-successful purse snatcher suddenly finds themselves faced with an insurmountable headwind, only getting faster the further they try to press into it. For a second, my nightmare vision activates when I see pale skin and a flash of black hair, and I worry that this is one of Jordan's schemes, but then the bandana is peeled away by the wind, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Exciting little diversion." I quip to Gale as she stands to her feet, turning the singularly-aimed breeze into a miniature tornado, whipping up dust and small rocks on the street into a whirling dance. The purse snatcher covers their face, presumably to both hide their identity and protect from the wind, while the crowd stands back, watching in awe.

I fish around in my belt for a zip tie. Gale and I communicate wordlessly, a form of non-psychic telepathy born from zip tie drills performed together after our first encounter with Mudslide and Safeguard. The wind drops, and when the thief attempts to dive out of it, they meet me instead of empty sidewalk, tackling me to the ground.

I let out a puff of exertion as my spine and the back of my head meet concrete, relaxing the rest of my body and lifting my neck to minimize the impact, rolling into a backwards somersault. For once in my life, I do feel like I'm about to do cool superhero shit. "Geroff me!" The - male - thief yells.

While I tangle my arms around him in as firm a bear hug as I can manage. I finish the somersault and land on top of him, trying to avoid the very present urge to bite or punch and instead grabbing for his wrists, getting one in the zip tie. Gale lifts the two of us an inch off the ground, and I manage to wrestle his squirming arm into the zip tie before pulling it shut. "Alright, now let go of the nice lady's purse before this starts getting-" I start, trying to sound cool, before a loogie meets the side of my mask.

"Fuck off, you can't detain me. This is a kidnapping." He barks, like I haven't been told what to say in this exact situation.

"This is a citizen's arrest, and we have the right to hold you here until the proper authorities arrive," I repeat, just like I had been taught. Gale twirls a strong enough wind to rip the purse free, at the expense of a couple of receipts and coupons. "Now are you going to sit still or am I going to have to put on my scary face?" I say, putting on my best snarl and baring my mouth full of sharp, glinting teeth.

The color all peels off the man's face instantly. Gale lowers us to the ground, and for good measure, I zip tie the guy's ankles, but not very tight. Tight enough, but, you know, I don't want to cut his blood flow off or anything. Stealing a purse is not a hand chop off tier crime. Or a foot chop off one, for that matter. I notice someone recording with their phone and flash them a peace sign, along with the least threatening smile I can muster.

"Can you at least get off me before you start gloating, you fascist?" The thief shouts.

"Fine," I answer, rolling off of him and standing up to my feet. There's a sore spot on my tailbone, on my back, and just a little bit at the back of my head, mostly cushioned by my hair and good falling technique.

"You just tried to steal money from a civvie, I don't think you have a stone to throw in this glass house. At least be cool and try to steal from a bank next time, Robin Hood," Gale quips, tugging me back with a little burst of wind. The crowd meanders its way back into its original position, like this is just another day in Philly. Well... I guess it probably is. The lady that almost got purse snatched approaches us with a peaceable look on her wrinkly face, almost serene, her dark skin buffeted by a layer of steel wool hair.

"A thousand little thanks, you two, God bless, God bless you." She says, bowing a little at the waist with every recitation. I sit back down on the bench, grabbing the thief by the shoulders and hoisting him up so he's not lying unceremoniously on the sidewalk, and can at least put his head up on the bench.

"I got 911," Gale tells me, her phone already pulled out and dialing. She steps away, shoving herself a foot into the air and a foot backwards, sound eaten by the swirl of wind around her. I hand the purse back to the lady, along with her coupons, and she squeezes me into a surprisingly strong hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Just in a day's work, ma'am." I try very hard not to stammer, blushing.

"I'm sure it is, darling. And you, the nerve of trying to steal from an old lady, your momma should have put the fear of God into you!" she says, turning from me to the thief, while I haul them up onto the bench entirely. Their previous position looked uncomfortable.

"Just leave me on the ground, man, I'm already getting lectured by an old lady." He says from behind a stream of elderly invective. "Already gonna be the worst day of my life."

"Come on, I'll give you a little more dignity than that." I reply, trying to give him some kindness.

"And another thing-" I hear from the bepursed woman, while the thief spits at me again. I take a step back, avoiding it, and resist the bubbling, evil voice in my head that tells me counterviolence would be extremely justified at this point.

"Fuck you. Don't look down on me." He growls.

"Hard not to from up here. You alright, miss?" Gale jokes, gently floating back down to earth.

"The police will be here in, like, three minutes to ask some questions and wrap things up around here."

"Fascist." The thief repeats.

"Do you even know what that means?" Gale retorts.

"Yes." The thief says, refusing to elaborate. The old lady winds up like she's about to swat him on the head with her purse, but I lock eyes with her for a moment, and she lowers her hand.

"Well... I guess I'll just wait here until they come then, yes? Can I get you two anything?" She asks us.

Gale and I glance at each other, before I reach down, grabbing the thief's yellow bandana, and stuff it down their pocket. "No thank you, ma'am, we're just doing our job." I answer for the two of us.

Gale and I arrive back at base through the front door airlock, a whoosh of air-conditioning greeting us like the embrace of an old friend. We exchange a look, a nonverbal language born from weeks of partnership. We grab spare clothes, hit the showers, change out back into our civvies. We strip off our masks and costumes, revealing the teenagers beneath the metaphorical capes. I tuck my Bloodhound persona into a locker, watching as Gale does the same with her equipment.

"Man, I could use some of that tea they keep hidden in the break room," Gale mutters, more to herself than to me.

"Not a tea fan myself. Too bitter." I reply, probably too low to be heard.

The door behind us swings open, and Puppeteer strides in, wearing exertion on her skin. She surveys the room, her eyes fixing on me behind her domino mask, which she peels off slowly and deliberately.

"What's the matter, Puppeteer?" I ask, trying to read her face unsuccessfully. The only thing I can see is the same thing I saw in Rampart earlier - alienation, murder in her eyes.

"What aren't you telling us?" she fires back, cutting straight to the point. I flinch, like I've just been struck, trying not to look guilty.

Gale senses the brewing storm and floats over, like a referee entering the ring before a particularly brutal match. "Hey, let's not start something here--"

"Start something? Liberty Belle is out there, unaccounted for, and Bloodhound here seems to know something we don't." Puppeteer interrupts. Her tone has a serrated edge to it. "Wandering around abandoned factories, catching glimpses of criminal groups just by happenstance that we've been trying to track down for months. I don't think you're a turncoat, but you're hiding something. And you and Di-Belle, there's something you're not telling me. I'm not stupid."

"And what makes you think I'm the keeper of her secrets?" I snap back, my voice rising to meet hers. "Do I need to have a reason to be out at night? I didn't realize you were my mom. Do you want to put a tracker on my phone next, too, so you can keep watch while I'm taking a shit?"

Gale interjects, attempting to fill the room with a gust of cool air--metaphorically and literally. "Enough. We're all stressed. Let's just--"

"It's not about stress," Puppeteer interrupts again. "It's about trust. And right now, I don't trust you, Bloodhound. I have an ounce of respect for you, especially given your age, but I don't trust you. And it's making me not trust Belle, and I don't like that feeling."

"Then go talk to your shrink about it. Whatever beef you have, it's got nothing to do with me," I shout back, trying to keep the heat out of my face. My vision feels blurry and red at the edges, because I know she's right, but Liberty Belle trusts me with her secret. I can't betray that.

"Oh, it's got lots to do with you," She says, as I try to brush past her, over to my locker. She grabs me by the forearms with her strings and keeps them just taut enough that I can't move without pulling and squeezing.

"Pup, enough," Gale snarls, the wind whipping up in the room, sending a stack of papers twirling into the air like a halo around Puppeteer's head.

"You think you're so special, so above this. 14 years old, youngest inductee to the team. Even Gale's turning sixteen in a month. Your power is shit. Your entire body is designed to take lives. You have all the apprehension power of a bullet to the thigh. You're clumsy. You're not up to physical par. You still can't even complete a fucking baby-ass obstacle course. You can't even throw a punch. How come you get invited to the junior cape club? There's nothing special about you," Puppeteer lectures me, every word laced with weeks of built up venom and resentment. I can feel it in her throat, in her mouth, the way her strings are tightening around my skin, threatening to cut. "So how come you're here, all buddy buddy with Philly's Favorite-?"

"I said enough!" Gale shouts, thrusting her fists forward, then up, yanking Puppeteer into the air, nearly slamming her head against the ceiling. I go up with her, dangling with my feet centimeters from the ground. "Put her down or I'm going to make you wish you put her down," she threatens, the air pressure growing constricting around the two of us. I feel like I can't breathe, but I don't know if it's from Gale's powers, her howling winds pulling the breath from my throat, or from anxiety. I feel Puppeteer's strings relax around my arms until I slip out of them completely, dropping that one centimeter down, and I lurch out of the gyre, coming to a stumbling rest on one of the lockers.

"I could kick the two of you to the curb. Put me down, now," Puppeteer seethes, her voice ice cold. I try to catch my breath, still blurry, my ears ringing. The wind cuts out, and she drops to the floor, landing gracefully even in her boiling anger. I can't see her strings directly, but I can see the way all ten of them distort the air, hovering around her like snakes, getting ready to attack.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what's going on here?" Playback shouts, elbowing his way through the gymnasium door and then stopping when he sees the latticework of distortion in the air, inches from running into it. "What's all the fuckin' yelling about?"

I can see in his face the self-restraint required to not crack a joke about this. The rest of the team follows up, filling the other wall of the room.

"Oh, look, it's the cavalry. You're saved from having to explain yourself another day," Puppeteer snidely remarks, withdrawing her strings with the quiet whirr of a tape measure retracting times ten. "Just be young and naive enough to everyone around you and you'll never have to take accountability for anything."

"You're out of line, Puppeteer." Playback mutters.

"What's that? Speak up, you mutinous little shit. You gon' tell me I'm out of line on my team?" Puppeteer says, her voice completely even and cold.

"I said you're out of line! I don't know what bug's gotten up your stuffy ass the past month but you've been acting like a cunt to everyone." Playback replies, louder, more forcefully.

"Watch your mouth-" Rampart starts.

Playback whips around so hard his beanie falls off, revealing a shaved head of hair crisscrossed with white scar lines and bald spots. "Shut your ass up, fool. She just tried to chokeslam Bee. Your stupid fucking professionalism is gonna get someone hurt."

"Guys, stop," I try to mumble, but it barely comes out. Saliva floods my mouth.

"Hey, I know. Let's get the opinion of the guy who can literally see the future. Hey, Crossroads, am I as insane as everyone is making me sound, or is Bloodhound here hiding something from us?" Puppeteer says, her voice teetering between shouting and screeching and even-handed monotone. "I'm not fucking stupid. Unlike Bloodhound, I was trained in detective skills and deductive reasoning. I didn't have to luck my way into a scholarship because I have, what, blackmail material on Liberty Belle? Did you walk in on her fucking someone's husband?" Puppeteer's voice loses composure, and her strings whip into me, slamming me against the lockers.

My head whips back, slamming into cold metal, and my vision goes star-filled for a second. There's a tangle of unidentifiable voices all shouting at once, and I feel the wind picking up. "ANSWER ME!"

"I can't-" I choke. Rampart's armspan reaches out, getting between Playback and Gale and Puppeteer.

"Pup, this is way uncool," Gossamer whimpers, like a kicked puppy.

Puppeteer's eyes dart across the room, before locking in on Crossroads. "Say something," She orders. "Or do I need to polarize it more for you?"

Crossroads' eyes are glassy and slightly tear-filled. Puppeteer yanks a coin out of someone's purse - I don't know whose - sitting on one of the benches, and withdraws it into her hand. "Here. Heads, I kick her out unless she tells me. Tails, we all go home and sit on it for a day. Read it," She says, flipping the coin in the air before Crossroads can even attempt to protest.

His entire body is shaking. I know he knows. I know in some future I've probably given up the ghost, and he can see that, and he knows the secret. I can tell by the way he's staring at Puppeteer's feet, while the coin dangles in the air. Blink squeezes his arm and Gossamer steps back, terrified. Everyone is too stunned, too scared to speak. I feel the resistance in me dying.

"I'll tell you."

Playback steps out from under Rampart's arms, locking eyes with Puppeteer. She snatches the coin out the air and flicks it back into its purse without even looking at what the result was. "So, does everyone know what's going on here except me? Because last I checked, the leader is supposed to-"

"Shut the fuck up. I said I'll tell you," Playback says, not moving his gaze from her for a second. "Stop being so fucking snippy about it, first off. I know because I'm a nosy bitch and I heard shit I'm not supposed to. Everyone else here is as confused as you are. Except Bee, I guess."

Puppeteer's fists are shaking. When she turns to me, it's the first time I've seen her face in five minutes, and it's ugly, streaked with tears and smudges in her makeup, snot running from her nose. I didn't even realize she'd been crying. Her eyes are red and puffy. "Just tell me," She whispers.

Playback opens his mouth up and sounds come out like music from a record player. Coughing, then hacking, a wet belch. An annoyed grunt, and Liberty Belle's voice. "Playback, I know you're here. Stop stealing my voice. Playback!". Then, emesis. In between wet sounds that cut out like a skipping record, "Don't you -- to vom -- without hearing -", and then silence for an uncomfortable minute. "Promise? Stop that, I said, do you pr-".

Playback shuts his mouth. He wipes a little bit of saliva that was collecting at the corner of his lips. "She's sick, Pup. I'm sure Bloodhound could smell the blood in her," he says, solemnly. "I don't know what she's sick with. I'm sure Bloodhound knows more than I do. But you don't need to torture it out of us. This... This whole stunt really fucking sucks, man. This sucks. You suck."

Puppeteer laughs bitterly between sniffles. "Are you mad at me because I'm right? The two of you were hiding something from me, and now we know what it is. So she's sick, and the price she paid for Bloodhound keeping her secret was, what, a pity spot?"

"Stop it," I croak. "She came to me. She said I had a useful power, and didn't want me getting recruited by bad guys before I got older. That's it. I promise."

"I don't believe you," Puppeteer says, whipping back around to me. "But it's whatever. I have the gist now. And now you're all going to hate me because I seem like a psychopath. Even though I've been busting my balls, trying to keep this city handled while my sponsor decides to just vanish and everyone else is too busy investigating some two-bit gangsters while letting every other neighborhood go to shit, and she doesn't even give me the courtesy of telling me why. This is just rich. Like a kid getting mad at their parent because they got caught stealing cookies."

"Oh, are you going to punish us now, momma?" Playback retorts, folding his arms up defensively.

"Of course not. Positive and negative punishment both aren't effective for behavior control. Maybe if I was kept in the loop the first time, we wouldn't have had to have this big stupid fight, but it's its own punishment. I'm not going to kick you guys any more than I have," she replies, sighing. Gale's hand comes to rest on my shoulders supportively, pulling me off the locker I was leaning on. "Just... go out, keep picking trash and shaking hands with babies. I'll go and keep tying up muggers 'til four AM like I have been. You kids stay on easy street. Just pile it on me. That's fine."

"I caught a purse-snatcher today," I mumble.

"Hmm?" Puppeteer asks, wiping her face, smudging her makeup even more.

"Gale and I caught a purse-snatcher today. I did everything by the book. I even landed like you taught me when he tackled me. Otherwise I probably would've hit my head really hard on the sidewalk," I repeat, with a little more force.

"That's good. I'm proud of you," Puppeteer says, and despite the past ten minutes, I can tell she's sincere. She's not a hiding sort of person. She runs her hands through her hair. "Sorry I'm such a cunt."

"You should be," Playback says.

I can tell Puppeteer feels truly, really defeated, because she doesn't say anything in response. She grabs her mask with some strings, and winds it back around her face. "Yeah. I'm gonna go back out on patrol. Y'all enjoy your afternoon."

"No," Crossroads says, drawing everyone's attention. "Go take a nap."

Puppeteer looks at him, blinks a couple of times, and starts laughing. "Fine. Y'all better pick up my slack."

"We will," Crossroads says again. Puppeteer finds the nearest bench, crawls on it weakly like a sick dog, and shuts her eyes. Gale squeezes my shoulder a little bit. Within seconds, the air is filled with the quiet sounds of her snoring.

"I'm not going to press charges, dude," I repeat, towel over my shoulders like a blanket. Puppeteer is still a room or two away, down the hall, sleeping uncomfortably on a bench. The computer room makes for a useful getaway in times like these.

"Buh-- Wh--" Playback sputters, hands flying outward with wild gesticulations. "She assaulted you, man," he whispers, harsh and sharp, jabbing his finger towards me. "She could've seriously injured you. I'm not saying you gotta report her to the cops but you can't just... let her get away with it? Gotta do something."

Gale squeezes my shoulders, having remained mostly silent. She continues that streak. "Look, call me stupid, but--" I start.

"Stupid," Playback interrupts. "Sorry."

I wave a hand dismissively. "I appreciate that you're worried. And that you feel strongly about this. I plan on telling one of the adults, maybe Bulwark. Or, I don't know, Mr. Davis. And they can do whatever they feel is appropriate. I just... need a day or two to meditate on it. I don't feel right. She's clearly hurting, too." Each sentence comes out clipped, short, as I half-complete each thought. "She's not a criminal, man. The woman who hand-picked her is secretly dying and let the newbie know before her. I..."

I try to put myself in her shoes. It feels like a vice grip being squeezed around my temples. Would I be mad in this situation? I don't know.

"This whole situation is wack, dog. You're too forgiving. Shit like that's gonna get you killed one day," Playback replies, upset on my behalf, brow knit into an expression of pained concern.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," I reply, looking down at my shoes, weary.