Chum

The airlock hisses open, welcoming me into my home-away-from-home, or in this case, my home-away-from-my-secondary-temporary-home, as it were. The Delaware Valley Defenders HQ exists as it was, unbesieged by villains, untouched by the outside world, pretending to be one of Philadelphia's many abandoned, shuttered warehouses.

Two of the civilian workers - David and Jessica, our connection to 911's dispatch and a private investigator that works with the team, respectively - give me an approving glance and nod as I walk by, my medical boot clacking on the floor. Lily - Blink, now, is right behind me, scooting around me and already en route to her locker.

We got the call in earlier today in the group chat, and after school, Blink's parents drove us to about four blocks away. The thought of my parents knowing the approximate location of where I train, hang out with other young superheroes, and experience goo-goo ga-ga eyes over several of them, makes me want to hurl, so I have no idea how exactly Blink accomplishes it. I try not to think about the gossipy yenta inside my head wondering who Blink has eyes for, if anyone. Is it one of her fellow heroes? Or just someone at her school?

The lockers clank open and shut, echoing off the metallic surfaces of the room. A motley crew of uniforms and spandex-clad teens adorn the walls, each marking their unique identities. The chatter starts low, slowly picking up as the room fills with Young Defenders.

"Hey, still hobbling around in that?" Gale's voice, always soothing, comes from behind me. Her dark eyes travel down to my boot with a playful smirk.

"Just for a little bit longer," I reply, rolling my eyes. "I have a check-up later today. Hopefully, I can ditch this clunky thing." I knock on the boot for emphasis. It’s hard to feel like a hero when you're sporting something that looks straight out of an orthopedic catalog.

"Can't have our Bloodhound limping now, can we?" she winks, leaning against the locker next to mine.

"You know what they do to limping dogs, right, Bee?" Playback calls from one of the couches. Puppeteer, sitting on the couch's arm, flares her nostrils, and I can just tell in her heart she's trying to resist the urge to dope slap him or swat him on the shoulder or something of the sort.

I do the next best thing, turning to him, hands on my hips. "Yeah? What's that?" I ask, attempting to catch him off-guard.

"You know it's horses, right?" Multiplex says, his presence immediately eating the room as he enters from the hallway. He's dressed in civvies, but I didn't see him come in, so I assume he went in through another entrance or something.

Playback does not seem to notice very much. "When you have a limping dog you take it to the vet to get everything fixed up. Whadda fuck are you psychos thinking I'm trying to say?"

It earns him small chuckles. I raise an eyebrow at him and he withers somewhat.

Multiplex retrieves his costume from his locker and then vanishes back out the hallway without putting it on. Crossroads enters behind us, followed shortly by Rampart a couple of seconds later. I fiddle with my locker's lock, grabbing my most professional and most up-to-date form of my costume. It looks like Gossamer updated it a ton based on my feedback, which is good.

Armor plates stack in an untidy pile as people rummage and converse around me. I head to the bathroom so that I can slip out of my boot and peel my socks off, admiring the way my foot is a little bruised, purple, and weird looking. But it looks mostly like a foot now, instead of a pile of flesh, disregarding the large, painful lump on the top side of it.

The moment I pull out the new Bloodhound costume, I'm hit with an odd sensation of pride and apprehension. Gone are the days of haphazardly piecing together sports and police surplus for protection. With the Kingdom in the picture, we've been given a little more resources by the municipality to deal with matters, which means that Gossamer has been getting new toys to play with. Updated toys.

I hold the new suit in front of me, taking in the expertly designed armor plates. The chestplate, a mix of kevlar and something that feels like just straight up dinner plates, feels both sturdy and heavy. It feels like I could get hit by a truck and walk away fine. Its tan color contrasts sharply with the underlying dark brown-black bodysuit, giving it a tactical yet stylish appearance. The armor extends over my shoulders, with more plating over my shins and forearms, each plate designed for maximum protection without compromising mobility.

The joints, my elbows, knees, hips, and the knuckles of my gloves, have been given their own fresh coat of armor. Still sports gear surplus, but sports gear surplus that's has extra schmutz metaphorically stapled to it, protecting the vulnerable parts of my body.

I then pick up the mask, the iconic wolf design still very much present. But it's different now - streamlined and more menacing. The yellow eyecaps remain, piercing as ever, but the lower jaw portion is gone, revealing a space for my own mouth and teeth, amplifying the natural weapon I now possess. A small strap around my chin keeps the mask anchored to me, and lets some small points of articulation move about as I move my jaw, letting it deform with my face should I take a haymaker to the cheeks. There's even some small sockets along the side in case I feel like strapping a fake wolf jaw to the lower half, for old time's sake.

Setting the gear down, I quickly start to strip off my school clothes, wincing slightly as I notice the reflection in the mirror. My once slight frame has changed considerably since I started training with Rampart. The added muscle mass, while surprising, isn't unwelcome. My shoulders and arms show a defined musculature, and my abdomen sports the beginnings of a six-pack, or maybe a four-pack. I remember when I used to be a scrawny teenager, built for kicking soccer balls and not much else, but all that changed after relentless workouts and beating my hands up against a sandbag.

I first slip into the bodysuit, the fabric clinging snugly to my form, moving with me like a second skin. I carefully adjust the chestplate, ensuring it sits comfortably against my torso, and then proceed with the forearm guards, each of them clicking into place with a satisfying snap. The shinguards take a moment, especially with my injured foot to consider. Despite its sturdiness, the costume allows for a lot of flexibility, something I'll undoubtedly appreciate in a fight.

When I get to my injured foot, I gingerly place the medical boot over it, adjusting the straps. The clash between the advanced suit and the bulky boot isn't lost on me, but it's temporary. Soon, I'll be back in action, fully suited up and better than ever.

Taking one last look in the mirror, I see Bloodhound, the newer, fiercer version, staring back at me. The transformation isn't just external; inside, the fires of determination and confidence burn even brighter. Whatever challenges come my way, I'm ready. The world washes over in a slight orange haze as the eyecaps of my mask slip over my eyes, mostly hiding where I'm looking. I check my utility belt, with a small array of currently-unutilized gadgets - first aid equipment, a faceplate for my mask, a couple of various sprays made in collaboration with Fury Forge, you know, adhesives, expanding foam, stuff like that, emergency flares, an emergency flashbang, and a small utility knife in the central compartment.

As I limp out of the bathroom, Playback takes a look at me with a wry grin. "You know, costumes are not mandatory during meetings, right?"

"Bite me," I reply.

"Ain't that your thing, girl?" He challenges. I roll my eyes at him, giving him the easy win.

"Would you be wearing your costume in meetings if I made it mandatory?" Crossroads cuts in.

Playback rubs his chin in thought as Gossamer gingerly pokes her head through the airlock. "No,"

"No?" She asks. "What are we saying no to?"

"Crossroads wants us to be in costume for every meeting," Playback answers.

Gossamer grins. "Good! My costume rocks and everyone should see it."

"That's not what he said," Rampart corrects.

"Aww," Gossamer replies, putting on an exaggerated pout.

"Hey, Sam," Blink chimes in, zipping over in a blur before coming to a sudden stop beside me. Her eyes quickly scan me up and down, focusing on my boot. "Is that, like, a fashion statement or something?" She asks, her lips pulling into a playful smirk.

I chuckle, shifting my weight slightly. "Oh yeah, latest fashion trend, didn't you know? It's called 'post-combat chic.'"

Blink snickers, her short, staccato laughter ringing out. "Honestly, I thought about adding a matching boot to my costume just for the fun of it. Maybe we can be boot buddies?"

I smirk. "As much as I appreciate the offer, I'm counting the hours till I can ditch this thing." Just the thought of getting rid of the boot fills me with anticipation. I can't wait to feel the ground underneath my feet again, to run without any impediments. The boot is a constant reminder of my vulnerability, of a time when I wasn't fast enough, strong enough. "This afternoon, if all goes well."

Blink nods sympathetically. "Must be annoying. But hey, at least you're still up and about!"

Playback interjects, feigning deep thought. "You know, if you think about it, a boot like that might actually come in handy during fights. Provides extra protection, doesn't it? And it's hard enough to hurt."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Are you suggesting I make it a permanent addition?"

He chuckles. "Nah, just thinking out loud. But you'd look badass kicking someone with that thing."

I laugh, appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood. "True. But once this thing's off, it's staying off."

Gale, who had been listening quietly, walks over and places a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You'll be back to your usual self soon, Sam. Just take it one day at a time."

I give her a grateful smile, trying not to flinch at the hand on me. "Like I said, this afternoon. Then, I'm probably home free until the next time I get my foot stomped on by a Tyrannosaurus Rex."

As our banter continues, I spot some familiar faces among the crowd of heroes. The civilian staff — each of them a regular presence in the base, though usually seen one at a time and not all together. There's Ben, the IT guy, always tapping away at keyboards and dealing with our tech issues. Beside him, Sylvia, the nurse who's been helpful with my minor training injuries before, and a couple of others whose names escape me for the moment. They're all here, which is unusual.

It's rare to see all of them bustling around at once. Typically, it's just Ben fixing some computer glitch or helping with security systems. Their collective presence, the air of seriousness they carry, puts an off scent in the air, metaphorically speaking. Something's happening. They're never all here at once. The feeling is akin to walking into a classroom and noticing all the teachers huddled together, whispering. It gives off an instinctual alert that things aren't business as usual.

As Gale walks away, the chime of the intercom breaks the conversational hum of the room, making everyone go silent. The voice of Councilman Davis booms, slightly distorted by the PA system, "Young Defenders, please proceed to the computer room immediately."

I sigh and rise from the chair, every movement a reminder of my aching foot, sealed within the confines of the boot. It's only been a few days, but it feels like I've been wearing this thing for an eternity. It's not just the physical discomfort of the boot; it's the weight of what it represents—my vulnerability, my limitations.

Following closely behind the others, I shuffle down the hallway, my boot making a soft thud against the cold floor with each step. My eyes wander, scanning the faces of my teammates. Most of them look focused, ready for whatever the briefing holds. But others, like Puppeteer, have an air of apprehension, which makes me wonder if they're picking up on the same uneasiness I feel.

My gaze momentarily locks with Playback's, and he gives a quick nod, a gesture of encouragement.

The door to the computer room slides open with a soft hiss, and as we file in, I spot Bulwark, looking like a guardian statue placed at the entrance, and he spots me back. His usually warm eyes seem clouded with concern. He whispers quietly to me as I pass by - "It is good to see you safe, young one," and I flash him a thumbs up.

While everyone's taking their seats or standing in clusters, my fingers unknowingly dance along the edge of the table. My anxiety shows in subtle ways. My eyes flit towards my boot, and a pang of self-consciousness surges within. I find myself wondering if others are taking pitying glances at me or if they're silently judging my readiness to be in the field. My thumb fidgets, folding and unfolding beneath my palm as these thoughts race.

The murmurs die down when Multiplex's main copy steps forward, signaling the start of the briefing. He doesn't say anything, merely waiting for the room's undivided attention, a silent gesture of authority. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I straighten my back, ready to take in whatever the briefing holds, my fingers still tapa-tapa-tapping on the table's surface. The low hum of anticipation fills the room, setting the stage for what's to come.

Without further delay, Councilman Jamal Davis stands up from his seat at the head of the table, his composed visage an immediate contrast to his usually jovial demeanor. Gone is the friendly councilman who occasionally cracks a joke to lighten the mood. Today, his dark eyes radiate gravity and urgency. I've never seen this look on his face before, but besides Gale, nobody else looks surprised. I wonder if this isn't their first crisis. As he motions for everyone to gather closer, I feel my heartbeat quicken, echoing a mix of nervous anticipation and dread.

Beside him, Clara Parker, her grey-streaked hair neatly pulled back into a tight bun, clutches a sleek minicomputer with both hands. She stands tall, exuding professionalism. The sharp creases of her charcoal-gray suit, her pearl earrings, and her intent, almost analytical gaze underline her role. Clara's not just here to provide legal advice — she's an operational backbone for the Delaware Valley Defenders, making sure all our actions are above board and in line with the law. The seriousness she brings to the table is palpable, her posture rigid and her attention undivided.

"Thank you for gathering promptly," Jamal begins, his deep voice reverberating through the room. "Firstly, it's heartening to see all the Young Defenders together again. As I understand it, there was a scuffle regarding the status of Liberty Belle that escalated into a fight between teammates. I'm glad to see that we've managed to put it behind us all - This unity is what will make the difference in the challenges we face." He pauses, seemingly searching for the right words. In that brief silence, I catch a flicker of something I hadn't expected in his eyes: pride. Despite the circumstances, there’s a silent affirmation that we're up to the task. It's a brief, fleeting moment, but one that helps ground me, helping push back some of the unease.

He continues, "We're here to discuss a rising threat — The Philly Freaks." The name fails to ring a bell, and Gale and I both look slightly confused, glancing at everyone else, and then each other. The way Jamal says it though, every syllable dripping with concern, it's clear this isn't just another minor street gang. "They used to be on the periphery of our radar, involved in small-scale hustles to get by. However, their recent activities suggest a shift in intent. Their aggression, the risks they're taking, it doesn't align with their known behavior."

Playback's eyes flit with recognition, but my knowledge is fragmented at best, gathered from context clues. A gang, maybe a big one? Otherwise, why involve us teens at all? Playback pulls into a concerned, serious frown.

Jamal’s voice pulls me back from my thoughts. "There's reason to believe that their current actions are being influenced, possibly by the Kingdom, if not another group of higher-tier criminals. Their recent behavior is extremely odd, given their prior behavior patterns. They have never been a group to be anything other than a minor nuisance committing survival crimes, but in the past couple of days they have escalated in severity and publicity - smash and grabs, public shows of force, muggings, and the like. We have reason to believe they're being compensated or coerced into acting this way."

A weighty silence follows his words. The room is thick with contemplation, the collective minds of the Young Defenders working to piece together this puzzle. I can almost hear the gears turning in Playback's head, while Crossroads' brow furrows in thought.

I raise my hand nervously. Jamal points to me. "Yes, Bloodhound?"

"I don't want to sound like too much of a greenhorn, but I'm not sure who the Philly Freaks are. Sir," I answer, trying to avoid eye contact.

He smiles in a way that's probably supposed to be fatherly and comforting. It just makes me feel that much more insecure, with my lack of knowledge. "The Philly Phreaks, with a PH, are a gang consisting exclusively of Visually-Apparent or Complex-Condition Metahumans that operate primarily out of South Philly. That means that they've all been mutated or disfigured by their powers, as their gang name indicates. While there are support systems in place for individuals like them, most of them, for various reasons good and bad, don't trust authority figures to have their best interests in mind."

I raise my hand again. Jamal nods at me.

"I'm sorry for the quick digression, but am I a Visually-Apparent Metahuman?" I ask, smiling nervously, my teeth interlocked.

"Yes. It's a good thing that Liberty Belle found you before you fell into a crowd like this, that's for sure," Jamal replies bluntly. "Clara and Jessica have put together this presentation. It'll get everyone up to speed."

I nod, feeling an unfamiliar sensation of vulnerability. My teeth, the most immediate and visceral manifestation of my powers, aren't something I can hide. They can't be masked by clothing or concealed with makeup. It's a part of me, on full display, whenever I smile or talk or laugh. Knowing that there's an entire gang made up of individuals like me, those who wear their powers so openly, is both comforting and deeply unsettling. Comforting because it means I'm not alone in this, and unsettling because of what they've resorted to. If circumstances had been different, could I have found myself with them, roaming South Street, lured in by the promise of belonging?

Clara Parker steps forward, remote in hand, to begin her part of the presentation. The monitor brightens as a slideshow begins. Each slide is filled with images, actionable intel, security camera footage of crimes in progress. "Let me give you a clearer picture," she says.

The first slide showcases the heart of South Street on a sunny day. The next few slides, however, tell a far darker story. Shops with shattered windows, overturned cars, and frightened pedestrians are in stark contrast to the otherwise vibrant neighborhood. As Clara clicks through, she speaks. "As you've been told, this sudden escalation in behavior is uncharacteristic of them. Their leader, who we'll get to in a minute, has always been aggressive, but she had never gone out of her way before now to target civilians or stores. Any major thefts were always done after closing hours, to avoid heat, attention. As far as we know, there hasn't been any changes in membership that would have lead to this change in strategy."

She clears her throat. "Normally, when a gang goes from benign to malignant like this, it's because of a change of leadership. If there's no change in leadership, then it's a change in membership bringing more aggressive elements into the fold. And if there's no change in membership, then we have to assume outside factors."

Councilman Jamal Davis stands up, drawing everyone's attention. "We've recently acquired new intelligence that we believe adds more weight to our hypotheses." He gestures to Clara, and she moves to the next slide. A hushed voice fills the room from PowerPoint's audio player, tinged with a palpable edge of anxiety.

"I can't… I can't go along with what she's planning. South Street. Saturday at high noon. It's going to be bad. Make sure you're ready for her secret weapon. I don't even know what she's thinking anymore. You'll need all hands on deck." The message cuts off with a shaky exhale.

A heavy silence envelops the room. The implications of the 'Secret Weapon' hang in the air, a looming question mark, or maybe an interrobang. "A natural conclusion to draw," Clara continues, "is that whatever this secret weapon is, it's emboldened them to take higher risks. But then you run into the obvious questions. What is it, where did they find it? Are they being supplied?"

Next slide. South Street's sidewalks covered in jewelry, discarded food, dollar bills. "This isn't a gang that plays with their food like a cat. All of them are impoverished, yet they haven't actually taken anything from their recent crimes. Almost all of the stolen merchandise that hasn't been ruined has been accounted for and returned. It has more in common with your average terror campaign than a bunch of young kids stealing to survive."

The slideshow shifts to an image of a young woman with patchwork skin, stitches running crisscross over her. What skin isn't scarred, either scarred red or scarred white, is an even tan, like somewhere between Gale's skin and Crossroads' skin. About half of whatever other bits of skin are exposed are wrapped in bandages like a mummy, flecked with spots of blood of varying sizes, leaving her shoulders, belly, fingertips, and face exposed. She's not looking at the camera, but you can tell from the angle she's nothing but scowls and bad attitude, wavy black hair limply hanging over her face and shrouding one eye.

"This is Amira Irshad, also known as Patches," Clara states. "She's been the ringleader of the Phreaks for at least three years, and possesses some of the strongest regeneration on record. She's been known to damage herself, even removing her own limbs, as an intimidation tactic, only to just put them back on. Aside from her clear resilience, she's cunning and seems to have a tight grip over her crew, even as members rotate in and out of the lineup."

The slide changes to a girl, partially obscured by large, insect-like wings sprouting from her back, her skin green and chitinous. "Chrysalis, or at least, that's the name we've heard in connection to this individual. Civilians have reported seeing her fly, though we're yet to confirm the full extent of her flight capabilities. Aerial threats are always a challenge, so if she's genuinely airborne, it's something we need to be ready for."

Next is an image of a stone-like teenage boy, dressed up in what I immediately recognize as an Allen Iverson jersey, his entire body covered in dark grey rock. "Pumice. He's been reported to have enhanced strength, outside of being another stone-based metahuman, although we're not sure if it's armor like Bulwark's or his morphology - we're assuming the latter at the moment."

The last image shows a tall, almost skeletal young man, bending in ways that should be impossible for a human spine. Or really any human limbs. Out of all of them, he looks the most normal, with fair skin and black hair. I'd almost call him cute if his face wasn't stretched just a little too thin. "Finally, this is Spindle. Not much is known about the full scope of his abilities. Witnesses have reported seeing him squeeze through narrow spaces and contort his body in ways that are impossible for anyone else."

Clara pauses for a moment, giving everyone a moment to process. "This gang, as you can see, is diverse in their capabilities. But their unpredictability and the limited data we have on them make them a significant challenge. Every interaction, every piece of intel we gather, it's crucial in building a comprehensive understanding."

Gossamer leans in, whispering, "They're like a twisted version of the X-Men."

I gently shush her with a finger to my lips.