Chum

I let out a long, painful breath as Jordan helps me to my feet. "Okay, I'm officially ready to get out of here. My skin has stitched itself back together and I'm only ten steps from passing out dizzy instead of two."

"That's the spirit, kid," Jordan says, their tone mockingly cheerful as they pick up the bag full of loot—money, drugs, and other sundries taken from the Coyotes' den. We stalk about ten minutes along the side of the Delaware, mostly in the dark, until we reach somewhere where we're certain that we'd see the Coyotes coming if they tried to catch us, plus, giving me more time to handle the worst of my injuries. My shoulder hurts the most but also feels like it's healing the fastest, relatively speaking, while the burnt parts of my skin and eyelids have already started to slough and flake a little bit.

I watch as Jordan picks through baggies and bundles of stuff I've only ever dreamed of seeing, the sort of drugs one sees only in police procedurals, not in real life. I guess… not in the real life that I live, in the nicer rowhomes, with extracurriculars and parents that love me (in their own special way). I readjust my thoughts, remind myself that this is real life - just a real life for other people, who have it worse. Jordan takes each baggie, ties them together with a hair tie from their pocket, and then uses some gauze from the first aid kit to wrap them to a nearby cinderblock before hurling them into the Delaware the best they can.

It does not go very far, but it does roll down the shores and vanish under the black murk of the night. Jordan gives it a quick salute. "Some fish are about to have a really good or a really bad night."

"I do not think anything is alive in the Delaware River at this point, I'm gonna be honest." I wheeze, itching at my skin where it's the most burnt. Already, the material packed against my shoulder feels a little tight, so I slowly work it out, trying not to look and trying not to pay attention to the wet feeling, and toss that into the Delaware too. It floats on the surface, clumped into an off-red lump, and Jordan takes a second to fix my dressing for me. "I also am not sure that we should be, like, putting material inside a stab wound."

"That was just there to soak the blood, I didn't put anything, like, in it in it," Jordan elaborates. I shrug my shoulders, and wince. "But it's all scabbed up now, like, 100%. Looks gnarly."

"Please don't describe my stab wound to me," I ask politely. Jordan waves their hands around.

"I won't! Jeez."

With all the worst of the drugs and such discarded, we begin our trek, my body ravenously itchy. That's the thing they didn't tell me about regeneration powers - the itch. One might think it's bad when they skin their knee and there's some little dinky scabs that they just need to pry off with their nails? Try full body first degree burns coming off in real time, my brain screaming at me to just scrape them off. That's the bad stuff.

We slowly navigate by map app and by landmark, stopping in an alleyway to change clothes at the dead drop that Jordan had prepared for us. I have to fit into some of Jordan's clothes, which, surprisingly, are the exact same size as me, but I don't look too beaten up with my costume stuffed into a ratty backpack. In the darkness, it just looks like I have a skin condition, swathes of skin on my arms and face and belly all pinkish and new like a baby mouse. Weird.

The taxi ride back to the abandoned music hall is uneventful. Jordan calls up the local taxi company with their phone, and they arrive in a nice yellow car for us. Jordan makes small talk while I stare out the window, their body thankfully bruise and injury free, for the most part, while I get the comfortable sensation of my skin healing out underneath me. By the time we get back to the music hall, I've received a text from my mom - phone with Jordan, rather than me, since it would've gotten smashed in the fight - and I shoot her back a selfie on the sidewalks, as if to say "yes, we're still alive".

She accepts that as an answer.

The abandoned music hall is a dark, decaying, decrepit monument to better times—times when people cared about music and art. Now it's a dilapidated building filled with peeling paint, rotting wood, and a dismal sense of emptiness. It's also the perfect cover for teenagers playing superheroes and supervillains, given that nobody else seems to give a damn about the place.

We enter through the front door, Jordan fumbling our keys, and make our way to the room we've designated as our planning and debriefing area. They dump the bag on the table and begin sorting its contents. The money, the weed, and then the first-aid kit, still with the rubbing alcohol scent clinging to it. They eye the money and the baggies with a clinical detachment, as if evaluating the spoils of war, the floorboards, uncared for, creaking underneath us with every motion like screaming ghosts.

"So," Jordan begins, hesitating for a moment. "We’ve got… let's count these stacks. Guesstimating that each one is a half inch and they look like stacks of twenties, that's one, two, three, four, five, ten thousand dollars and then some assorted mixed bills that you can take," Jordan says, more to themselves than to me, rummaging through one of the cabinets they have situated about to find a small kitchen scale. "And this is… nine ounces of weed, or a little more than half a pound. Good haul. You need any?"

I stare at the cash and then at Jordan. "Are you seriously asking how to split illegal substances and dirty money?"

Jordan shrugs, a grin sneaking across their face. "Everything sounds bad when you describe it like that. I assume you're not interested in the weed?"

"I don't smoke," I reply, folding my arms over my chest as I settle into one of the distressingly comfortable couches, despite its rattiness.

"I didn't ask if you smoked, I asked if you wanted any. I don't care what you do with it. Sell it, give it to someone, make edibles with it. Honestly, you did most of the hard work, I'd give you 75% if you wanted," Jordan says, kind of not getting the problem here.

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "That's not… I'm good. It's all yours. But what about the dirty money, won't people like… trace that?"

"Oh, you've never laundered money before?" Jordan asks, raising an eyebrow to me. I gawk at them, about to start yelling, and they begin to cackle. "I'm kidding. Of course you haven't. Like I said, five thousand of this I can spread across local charities, food banks, stuff like that. Two point five thousand goes to me and I'm going to reinvest it in this little hidey-hole of ours. Two point five thousand goes to you to… I don't know, buy vintage soccer balls?"

"No, hold on, how exactly does one launder money? How do you expect a fourteen year old girl to launder money, Jordan Westwood?" I ask, folding my arms up a little tighter. "Answer that one before I tell you what I plan on doing with it."

Jordan smirks at my indignation, like they're thoroughly entertained by the naive little web I've spun around myself. "Whoa, whoa, hold up. Who said anything about needing an intricate plan? You're overthinking this, Sam."

"You were the one who brought up laundering money!" I exclaim, my voice taking on that indignant pitch that's more befitting of a teenage squabble than two semi-vigilantes debating on the ethics of dirty money.

"Yeah, as a joke. Relax," Jordan says, leaning back on their couch, old leather cushions clearly raked across by what are either dog claws or the claws of the largest cat I've ever seen. They scan the room, their eyes falling on a worn copy of 'The Art of War' that lies on a coffee table. "Look, here's the thing. Neither of us are Fortune 500 CEOs or middle-aged men evading taxes. We're teenagers, for God's sake. What do you think the IRS is gonna do? Audit your allowance?"

"That sounds like something a supervillain would say before they're exposed in some grand money-laundering scheme," I retort, worried in fact about that very concept.

"Very funny," Jordan drawls. "But in all seriousness, the most either of us is doing financially is maybe a part-time job, right? We're not exactly in a position where someone's scrutinizing our finances. We don't file tax returns. The IRS isn't going to catch a fourteen year old money laundering. Maybe me if I had a part time job, but I don't, so… we're golden."

My brain is doing somersaults trying to pick apart the logic here. "So what, we just… keep the money and use it like it's pocket change? Isn't that risky?"

"No," Jordan leans forward, their face earnest but their eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "Look, we're not going to be flashy about it. We won't buy yachts or designer clothes or whatever. Small transactions, Sam. Think about it. You want a snack from Wawa? Use the money. Need to pay for a cab? Use the money. It's not like we're depositing stacks into a bank. This stuff is untraceable if you're smart about how you use it. Who knows where a teenager is getting money from."

The suggestion lands on me like a novel concept, both unsettling and enticing. "So… stash it under my bed and pull out a bill when I want to buy a soda or something?"

Jordan laughs, leaning back and smiling a genuine smile. "Exactly. Treat it as your personal emergency fund. Unless you're planning on buying a private island, I don't think anyone's going to notice."

"I'm not sure I can buy a private island for three thousand dollars. Maybe a private barrel to float around the Jersey Shore in," I reply.

"Exactly, this isn't even that much money in the grand scheme of things. Yes, technically we stole it - from drug dealers - but, like, your parents do not put your allowance money in deductions in their taxes."

"Actually, I--" I begin, about to correct Jordan for something that my parents definitely did do.

"Shut up, they do fucking not. Anyway. Nobody's going to scrutinize a teenager spending forty dollars a week in cash. Just don't be stupid. Don't overcomplicate it," Jordan cuts me off, swiping a hand across the air like they're cutting it in half.

For a moment, I sit there contemplating the weight of our conversation. "You make crime sound so simple."

"Only because people make it complicated," Jordan says, tossing a bundle of cash lightly in the air before catching it. "So, we good?"

"We're good," I concede, my eyes lingering on the money before meeting Jordan's gaze. "But if I end up behind bars because of this, I'm blaming you."

"Don't worry, that won't happen unless we really pull a Robin Hood, and that can't happen these days anyway. Nobody cares if you mug your local gangster. Like I said, Tacony, this place? It's abandoned by the pigs. No Strawberry Mansion but, like… we're not gonna get 911 called on us," Jordan says, staring at the ceiling, continuing to toss about their ill-gotten goods. "They'd have to tell the police where they got the money from, and I'm sure the police know who the Coyotes are."

"Wait, roll that back a little bit," I say, winding my finger through the air in a tight little spiral. "What's this about not being able to Robin Hood these days?"

Jordan turns their head towards me as they cut the air open with their powers, dragging a blanket over to them from the other side of the spacious main hall. "What, like the dark ages? Steal from the rich, give to the poor? Nah, it doesn't work like that anymore, Sam. What are you gonna steal?"

"Their… money?" I ask, incredulously. Jordan laughs a bitter, spiteful laugh.

Jordan flicks a hand towards me to get my attention, and then makes uncomfortable eye contact. When they start speaking, I turn around, lying down myself, trying not to itch my shoulder. "First off, you've got to understand, most of the super-rich? Their wealth isn't in these paper bills or even in some Scrooge McDuck vault full of gold coins. Nah, it's in stocks, properties, assets you can't just grab and run off with. How are you gonna steal a factory or siphon off someone's Toroid shares? It's not like they have billions just lying around in a bank account. Hell, if they did, it'd probably be in some tax haven halfway across the world. There's no physical money anymore."

Picking up a handful of the money from the table, Jordan lets it fall slowly back into the pile, the bills fluttering down like defeated soldiers. "But let's say, hypothetically, you somehow managed to steal something big, something that actually makes a dent. Maybe you broke into their mansion and got some valuable paintings or whatever. Well, good luck with that, 'cause the law isn't exactly a neutral referee here. You're going up against people who practically own the lawmakers, the courts, and God knows what else. Hell, they might own the prisons you'll get sent to. And you want to fence that painting you stole? Good luck with that. It's all over the news. Nobody's gonna buy it, and you can't even cash in what you just took."

"Fencing? Like… the sword sport?" I ask, trying to mask my confusion and put on an air of confidence - but that doesn't make sense with the sentence Jordan just said.

"Fencing means 'selling stolen goods'. Anyway," Leaning back in their spot in the couch, constantly shifting, Jordan sighs. Then, they grin at me, a bit sadly, a bittersweet emotion. "You could argue that's why these white-collar criminals get slaps on the wrist, while people like us—doing petty stuff compared to, say, tax evasion or market manipulation—get hit with the book. It's not just about having a good lawyer, Sam. It's about owning the entire damn narrative. We stole ten thousand dollars, big whoop. They make that much money taking a piss. It's a nice fairy tale, but in the real world, it's more like trying to drain the ocean with a teaspoon while someone's pointing a gun at your head."

"That's kinda sad," I reply, trying not to think about it too much. "Can you toss me a blanket?"

"Yeah, sure. Don't get too worked up over it. The world is just like that sometimes," Jordan says, throwing the blanket they were using over to my couch and then snatching another one with their powers. "Do you need music or something to fall asleep to?"

"No," I lie, trying not to let loose the repeat soccer matches I listen to when I need to fall asleep, a playlist of all the world's World Cups on repeat on my computer at night.

I don't like lying down with my own thoughts. It's not a nice place to be in - my own head, swirling like that.

"Sick. Catch you tomorrow."

"Night," I reply, pulling the blanket up over my shoulders as the conversation comes to a somewhat abrupt close. I consider, for a moment, trying to start it back up - maybe talk about boys or girls or sports or something, but within minutes, Jordan is snoring quietly, and, frankly, I'm feeling it too.

I'm asleep before I can even see it coming.

The days unfurl into each other like a scroll of moments, one scene indistinct from the next, with only a few marks to tell them apart. One of these marks is the pattern of bruises that increasingly mar my skin, a stark contrast to the paleness of my forearms, the dots of freckles across me. Each new bruise tells a story of another lesson learned, another scrape survived. Pinkish skin from cuts, burns, all sorts of injuries forms over the course of each day and night. The mounting stack of school assignments that I've neglected piles up but is managed, each one a stark reminder that I'm straddling two worlds, and each demands its own form of dedication.

The next day after our first outing — our encounter with the Kingdom weeks ago set aside as a dangerous anomaly — Jordan and I walk to school together. It's uneventful, and the trip is a little overlong but not arduous, more of a good early morning workout than anything else. I encourage Jordan to wear sneakers, though, just because I'm sure they don't want to be walking 40 minutes in platforms.

School happens around me, but its implications float in the periphery of my concerns. I should care, I should be worried, especially when the world outside keeps reminding me how much there is to lose. Yet, the traditional anxieties — grades, popularity, and societal norms — occupy a secondary space in my mind, as if pushed to the side by the more immediate concerns of survival and moral complexity. Where to put our "bounty money", growing in an increasing stack underneath my bed. How much pressure to apply with a bite. Whether what I'm doing is right or wrong.

The numerical representations of my academic abilities, my grades, hover in a range that causes neither alarm nor celebration: mainly C's and a few B's. The grading letters sit quietly on the online reports supplied to me afterschool, a secret pact between me and the educational system. They know I have other things on my plate, and for now, they're willing to look the other way, provided I don't stray too far into the realm of utter negligence.

Then there's track, the sport that holds a distant second place in my heart, filling the void left by the absence of soccer. I note the calendar tacked on my wall. It's a paper battlefield, with days crossed off like the vanquished foes I leave in my wake, and the circled date of the track season's start looming in November. The end of September looms overhead like a skyscraper, leaving me with a window, a buffer of weeks, a compartment of time that I can allocate to my nocturnal escapades. My lessons in combat outside what I'm learning with Rampart and the others - my tutoring in street justice, Jordan's taught real-world practicalities.

As the days spiral forward, each one almost indistinguishable from the last, this narrative plays out within me. I have time, it assures me, even as the nights grow longer and the stakes climb higher. I have time to be more than one version of Samantha Small. I have time to be Bloodhound, and a student, and exhausted.

On Friday, another one of our nighttime excursions takes us to a location that puts a knot in my stomach. We're infiltrating an underground dog fighting ring, buried deep in the darkest pockets of Wissinoming. The venue is a pungent cocktail of sweat, desperation, and the metallic scent of blood. The atmosphere is thick, practically a living entity itself, breathing in depravity and exhaling tension. It's not just the danger that makes this place unsettling — it's the moral rot that permeates the walls, the floor, the very air we breathe.

The faces I see as I step in are portraits of human souls lost to greed or violence. Menacing grins, eyes that have witnessed too much, and tattoos that announce violent allegiances all assault my gaze. I'm a kid in a nightmare, but I'm also Bloodhound, and I have work to do.

Safeguard is in their element here, thriving in confined spaces, and their use of power throws everyone but me off-balance. It's as if the room itself revolts against the activities it's been forced to host. Amid the ensuing chaos, I seize the opportunity to free every terrified dog we find. Their eyes, a mixture of confusion and cautious hope, meet mine as we release them from their chains, and they smell the solidarity of the beast as I bite their leashes apart. They scatter into the labyrinthine alleys, away from this hellhole, and while I know we can't save them all or find them forever homes, disrupting the operation feels like striking a blow for good.

We do what we can in the moment, and in that moment, it feels like enough. Like rescuing these animals - mostly pitbulls, the encyclopaedic part of my brain notes - has done something important for the world, even though it's just a tiny drop in the ocean of scum that is the Philadelphian underbelly.

While I'm focused on the dogs, Jordan has a knack for multitasking. Their eyes dart around, identifying potential threats and precious loot simultaneously. It's like having a second brain that excels in dodging pitfalls. Over time, we're getting better at this, our movements and decisions harmonizing like a well-composed duet. Jordan's pragmatic approach balances my idealism, and together, we're more effective, more in sync.

By the time we leave, we've also gathered a decent haul of "bounty cash" from the scene. It's not what you'd call clean money, but Jordan has a way of making it useful. Over the weeks, this semi-ill-gotten wealth has been anonymously donated to local food pantries, animal rescues, anything in our neck of the woods that's hurting for cash. It's our way of redistributing resources, our own little subversion of a world where the scales are tipped so blatantly in favor of the wicked. It's not a perfect system, but then again, neither are we. And so we keep doing what we can, night by night, learning and growing, and making the city a slightly better place one rescue, one operation at a time.