Chum

As the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of twilight, Jordan and I make our way towards the Tacony-Palmyra bridge. We navigate through the labyrinthine streets, the tension mounting with each step we take. We're dressed in our respective costumes, masks securely in place, identities hidden yet laid bare by the intentions we carry. My jawpiece clacks when I take a particularly firm step, while the shadows wrap around Jordan like an old friend, hiding their figure in the gloom.

We reach the abandoned road that once connected Route 73 to the bridge, a relic of urban neglect, its only occupants now the delinquent Coyotes. The atmosphere is thick with the stench of gasoline and the polluted Delaware River, a testament to the decline this area has seen over the years. The underpass looms ahead like a dark cavern, its mouth spray-painted with a kaleidoscope of graffiti-tags, crude drawings, and coded messages that serve as territorial markers. Messages, symbols, and abstract shapes dominate the space, each layer a testament to a subculture that has declared its existence here, in this urban blind spot.

We pause at the edge of this forgotten space, hidden in the gathering darkness. This is the point of no return; stepping forward means we're committing, for better or worse. We step into the underpass, each footfall echoing as we descend into the Coyotes' den, ready to teach them that some territories aren't theirs to claim. Our footsteps crunch against the gravel and debris scattered on the ground, blending with the ambient sounds of distant traffic and the lapping of the Delaware River's murky waters against its banks. It's a symphony of urban decay, the broken asphalt and concrete creating a harsh backdrop to the natural river that once nourished this land.

As we inch closer, I notice a circle of light emanating from beneath the underpass. We spot them -- five figures clustered around a cheap plastic poker table, like moths to a flickering flame. The table is awash with cards, some face up, some face down, and a scattering of crumpled bills and loose coins and plastic bags. Each of them is absorbed in their own world -- some engrossed in the poker game, others flicking through their phones with detached interest.

The one who catches my eye most vividly is a man who seems like he's straddling multiple worlds at once. His skin is a pale canvas covered in ink; tattoos wind their way up his arms and neck, disappearing into the cornrows that sit atop his head, incongruous against his light skin. His chest, displayed prominently through an open track jacket, features a tapestry of more tattoos, with names and imagery intermixed at seemingly random. Plus, I'm too far away to really read them right now. The getup is completed by soccer shorts and glaringly orange sneakers. As he leans back in his chair, the wind chime earrings that adorn his earlobes catch what little light there is, creating a small glimmer, a spark of light like a fire.

The four others around the table are a mix of varying skin tones and features. One has curly hair and an oily, visibly greasy skin tone alight with olive and tan, lazily flipping a pocketknife in one hand. Another, with lighter skin and freckles, seems engrossed in a mobile game, his thumbs dancing across the screen. The third is bronze-skinned with striking cheekbones, scrolling endlessly through social media, while the last, darker-skinned with a sharp nose and tight cornrows, seems to be the dealer, distributing cards with a bored expertise. Their attire mirrors each other loosely - black top, black bottom, and bright, orange (the fruit) orange (the color) shoes, garish and violent and flame-like.

All five are united in their oblivion, eyes glued to their poker game or phones, unaware that the boundaries of their reclaimed kingdom are about to be contested.

"That's Aaron," Jordan whispers, gesturing towards the one with the wind-chime earrings. "He's what passes for a leader for these sad sacks."

I nod silently.

"Ready?" Jordan asks.

I nod again.

We halt at the fringe of their territory, hidden by the encroaching night. A silent exchange of glances with Jordan affirms our mutual resolution. We are intruders here, certainly, but perhaps also catalysts, ushering in a change that this stagnant corner of the city might just need. With a final, measured breath, we step fully into the underpass, letting our footfalls announce our entry into the Coyotes' den. And so begins our gambit, an interplay of fear, respect, and the audacious hope that we can redefine the rules of this forsaken place.

Our footsteps are loud, announced, unhidden now. I'm not sure if the gravel they set out was an intentional choice or not, but it certainly makes for an effective anti-stealth coating - I can't fathom a way anyone who's groundbound could approach this place without being noticed. I puff my chest up a little, flattened under my armor padding. I tighten my fists. I steel my resolve.

Jordan stands closely behind me, clicking their white helmet into place, the rest of their figure totally hidden underneath their cloak. How they manage to maneuver so elegantly in what must be two inch platform boots is a mystery to me, because the one time I tried wearing their shoes I fell over near instantly.

I shake my head to myself, trying to clear the distractions from my head. Shoes stacking on, Jordan is at least a head and a half taller than me, but I'm still my 5'6″ self, even in cleats. Not exactly the picture of intimidation, especially with my visible femininity.

I'm not stupid. I know what I look like.

"Cards down, boys, it looks like we have visitors," I can hear Aaron say, his voice a little nasal, a little rough. He picks up a lit cigarette from an ashtray and leans back in a plastic lawn chair, straining the legs while we let the light cast its way over us. I watch Jordan looking around.

"Try to get them between the overpass pillars," Jordan whispers. "My powers only need four contiguous surfaces. The pillars, the ground, the overpass bottom."

I don't visually acknowledge their instructions. Instead, I keep my hands by my sides, fingers balled up in tight little sushi rolls. Aaron stares at the end of his cigarette for a moment, puts it between his lips, takes a drag. All the other Coyotes turn their attention towards the two of us, in varying states of disbelief.

Then, the laughter comes. Aaron's cigarette nearly falls out his mouth, his ear jewelry rattling as he almost falls out of his chair with deep, throaty cackles. The other Coyotes join him near instantaneously, braying like hyenas. I try not to let it get to me. I try not to let it get to me. I try, and fail, not to let it get to me, feeling my cheeks go warm with embarrassment.

"Aren't you two kids a month and a half early for Halloween? This spot's taken. Go play in traffic," The greasy one says, flicking his knife at us and gesturing it towards the nearby bridge. I glance around without moving my face or head, trying to take stock of what's available to me. Wooden crates, milk crates, all stocked with flammables, and the charred remains of a dozen past fires. Outside the underpass, a single storage container, like the kind they put on ships doing international shipping, and a beaten up looking Ford F150 covered in amateurish hot rod flames clearly spray painted on. The backside looks beaten up, with chains and padlocks dangling off it, and the front isn't too hot either. I assess the Coyotes for guns, and breathe a sigh of relief when no stance appears to indicate one.

That, of course, does not mean that I'm not about to get shot. It just lowers the likelihood.

That's okay, though. I can handle getting shot anywhere but the head, I think.

I hope.

"Yeah, I see the storage container too," Jordan whispers, as if reading my thoughts, their voice distorted into a low buzz by their voice changer now that it's been switched on.

"What are y'all, deaf? Beat it. This isn't a place for girls in costumes," Aaron repeats, gesturing his cigarette towards us. I feel his piercing stare, and my body continues to heat up - I'm already getting uncomfortably sweaty in my costume.

"I mean, at least one girl. Too young for me though. Look, no tits at all on her," The greasy-skinned one chimes to his buddies, reaching underneath the table. There's a rustling of metal, and I feel my heart pulse a little harder as I see him withdrawing a pipe from below the table, covered in dark brown stains.

"Tits, tits, tits, that's all you think about, man. What about the ass? Turn around, mamacita, let's see what you're packing!" The dark-skinned one says, lazily shuffling his deck. He removes one hand to make a swirling motion with his fingers, like he's beckoning me to turn around. I stand still, trying not to let the goading get to me. Just waiting for my opportunity to get a word in edgewise.

"Hey, I don't think you can say that anymore, man. Like, packing. I'm pretty sure that's like... a gay thing or something." The only other white one - I'm guessing - besides Aaron says.

"Man, shut the fuck up," Aaron cuts in, backhanding him, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to draw a wince. I turn my head to the right, watching as the space between the two pillars Jordan and I are standing near starts to swell and stretch. "Look at her. She's like, twelve. Y'all wanna go beat up a twelve year old for me?"

"Hell no, dawg. That's a no from me," the dealer says, and I take two steps forward. I hear crunching behind me, one step from Jordan. It makes sense for them to hang back a little bit - their power is better at range, and I'm the stronger of the two of us, the one with more fighting acumen and athleticism. We've already talked this over. "Not gonna beat up anyone's ankle biter. Just light her on fire or something."

"Dude," Aaron sighs, staring up at the bottom of the overpass, looming overhead. The electric lantern on the table flickers, just a little bit. "Okay, look, you understand that most people will see 'lighting someone on fire' as a much worse offense than, like, scaring them a little with a slap or two, right? Like, tell me you understand that. That the fire is worse. You get it, right?"

"Naw, man. Punching's worse," the dealer replies, nonchalantly.

"You light him on fire then. Her, whatever," Aaron challenges.

"Naw," the dealer replies. "Look, they aren't even going anywhere. They're just fuckin' staring at us. You really need to scare off some second graders? Let's just clean out their lunch money."

"Yo, ladies! You wanna play some fucking Texas Hold'em?" the greasy one says, gesturing his knife in our general direction.

"How you know that other one's a lady? It's just dressed like a fuckin' funeral, man. Could be a dude," the dark-skinned one cuts in. I take another two steps forward.

"Or just a fatty," the greasy one retorts. "Which'd be even better."

"Weirdo,"

"Or a ladydude," the other white one says, seeming a little too excited about the concept.

"Man, shut the fuck up," Aaron repeats, slapping him again, twice this time. "Fucking weirdo. Jesus. You need to stop looking at those fucking porn comics, dude. They're rotting your head."

"'ey, what's going on?" the bronze-skinned one finally says, looking up from his phone. "Oh, fuck, when did those guys get there?"

Aaron sighs, slumping into the poker table until his forehead makes contact with the plastic. "Yo! Lady one and two! Are you going to fuckin' say something or just stand there like a bunch'a fuckin spazoids?"

"Go play in traffic, kids," the greasy one repeats.

I hear Jordan sigh, stepping out in front of me. "Coyotes!" They yell, their voice electronically distorted into a thick rumble. They pronounce it with two syllables - coy yohts - which sounds a little off to me, but I'm certainly not gonna say anything about it. I realize, with a sharp twist of fear in my throat, that I'm about to lose the ability to talk these people down.

If that was even a possibility in the first place, of course.

"Coyotes, dumbass. Kai-yo-tees. Say it right," Aaron interrupts, pronouncing it the way I'm more familiar with.

"Coyotes," Jordan repeats. "You've been terrorizing this neighborhood for too long with your fuckin' antics. That stops today. No more graffiti-ing, no more catcalling, no more muggings. No more of your filth in this town's veins. You can either do the right thing and pack your shit up for some place that wants you more - maybe Camden - or we'll make you pack it up. Bridge is right there. That piece of shit junker car still works, right?"

I feel my entire body shaking. I can tell that Jordan's been practicing this speech - for what, days? Weeks? Months? Either way, I feel embarrassed by my freezing up. My having-nothing-to-say. I'm supposed to be the real superhero of the two of us, and Jordan's here making the cool speeches, not me.

I have totally lost the plan - the idea that we can talk these people down.

I blew it. I froze up.

I don't like the idea that some part of my body froze up on purpose. So I discard it, clenching myself all the way up, getting ready for a fight.

The Coyotes all turn to us now, unified in purpose, like a pack of starving dogs. All traces of good humor have been wiped from their face, replaced with only the sort of viscous malice that a spurned authority figure could wear. These people aren't used to anyone not just rolling over for them and showing their bellies. I can just smell it in the air. They're not used to being talked back to.

"Ay, can someone repeat that for me?" The bronze-skinned one says, standing up and slowly ambling over to their pick-up truck. They shout loud enough to be heard, as they pull chains loose, wrapping them around their fists, letting them dangle. "Because it sounds to me like some pissy little brats think they can roll in and play superhero in our neighborhood. In our turf! Surely that's not what they're saying, right?"

Aaron remains seated, flicking his head to the one with a pipe already prepared, the greasy one. He flashes a grin and gets up, thumping his pipe against the table, jostling a bunch of plastic chips around. "No, no, I think we heard them correctly. Why don't you two go and teach these little ladies a lesson in manners?" Aaron orders, holding his cigarette and lighting it up between his closed palms.

I step out in front of Jordan. I bare my teeth, sharp and bright in the unnatural light, and watch them recoil, a momentary flinch from all involved that gives me the tiniest bit of satisfaction. "I'm the Big Bad Wolf, and this neighborhood is under my protection. Get out before I bite your dicks off."