Chum

From my left, I notice Playback's hands ball into fists. His knuckles turn white from the tension. Rampart lets out a soft, restrained growl, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. I feel a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, my anxiety intensifying. Gale's fingers find mine under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. I try not to throw up from the sudden ball of tension in my chest, and then she lets go.

"So why is Weenie Hut Junior's being called in to work today? Ma'am," Playback asks, raising his hand only halfway through his sentence, knuckles still white.

Multiplex narrows his eyes at Playback, his body tense. "You should choose your words more wisely, Playback. This isn't child's play. The Philly Phreaks are dangerous, but sending in adult heroes like us to deal with them? Can you imagine the headlines? 'Grown Heroes Beat Up Underprivileged Mutant Teens'? That would be a PR nightmare." He pauses, letting the gravity of the situation settle in. "We need a team that can approach them, talk to them, even reason with them. And if it comes to a fight, well," he glances around the room, "you're more their age. The optics will be better."

I could almost visualize the tabloids and the newspapers. 'Delaware Valley Defenders Attack Vulnerable Youths'. My thumb finds its way under my palm, then outside again. I felt the tension in the room spike like a fever.

Playback, never one to back down so easily, narrows his eyes. "So, we're supposed to be the punching bags? Get kicked around for better press? How do we even know that this ain't some sort of trap?"

"No," Multiplex says tersely, holding his gaze. "You're supposed to handle this situation carefully, with compassion and understanding. But also with the awareness that they are dangerous."

"Quiet," Jamal says. A single word, stern and powerful like a fist to the gut. He doesn't raise his voice or yell or even sound particularly angry. It doesn't even have the chastising tone that Bulwark sometimes takes. Quiet. He asks, and the room listens, going dead silent. "I understand your concern, Playback. You may be aware that the municipal government has ways of tracking cell phones,"

Playback scoffs but says nothing.

Jamal continues. "We can confirm that this call is from one of the Phreaks' known phones, not a burner. And our photo evidence shows Spindle going out of his way to avoid the same crimes as the rest of them. Standing back, startling standers-by, and otherwise acting unobtrusive. So we have reason to believe that there's a weak link in the chain."

Playback nods, still scowling.

Crossroads, clearing his throat, is the first to break the silence. He stands up, casting a tall, slightly imposing figure, his posture radiating a mixture of authority and empathy. "Alright," he begins, adjusting the collar of his costume. "First off, let's not treat this like we're being sent into the lion's den for slaughter. Our mission is to engage and de-escalate. Violence is the last resort."

Puppeteer, sitting stiffly with her back straight and eyes forward, speaks up. Her face twists with effort as she considers each word thoughtfully. "The Kingdom's involvement, even if it's just suspected, complicates things. We need to watch out not just for the Philly Phreaks, but also for any outsiders they might bring in. Right, Bloodhound?"

Me? Oh. I'm being called on. I laugh nervously on impulse. "Right. The last thing we need is a secret weapon and a t-rex," I stutter out, my face going red under my mask.

Playback snorts. "Great. As if this wasn't already a mess." His usual sarcastic tone is there, but beneath it, there's a hint of genuine worry. "They've got the numbers, the unpredictability, and now maybe some Kingdom muscle. We have a bunch of teletubbies."

"You have a full hand of seven," Jamal says, sitting back down at the table. "To my knowledge, this is the first time Gale and Bloodhound are participating in any full-team operations. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Gale answers before I can, saluting stiffly.

"Your goal is to get in there, operate as a team, and disarm whatever secret weapon they have with the minimum violence possible. No self-deprecation. You're all talented, skilled individuals, otherwise you wouldn't be here today to be part of this operation. Bloodhound, I recall you have a foot injury, will that be healed by tomorrow? I don't want to have you sit out, but you can understand the time sensitivity here," Jamal says in a tone that brooks no argument, cutting Playback's snippy comments off at the root.

"I'll be fully healed by then, sir," I answer.

"Good. I'll leave the tactics in your hands, Crossroads," he concludes.

"And we'll be watching!" Fury Forge blurts out, clearly struggling to have contained herself for that long. "We got one of those bomb-disposal robots so I wired some cameras to them. And one of my extinguishers. Two of them, actually. You know, if you need it."

Multiplex puts a hand on Fury Forge's shoulder, and she visibly deflates. "What she means to say is that you aren't on your own, but this is on your shoulders. We expect great things from you all. Or at least… decent things."

From anyone else, that would've sounded snippy, maybe even cruel, but out of the mouth of the fussy Multiplex, it sounds much more like a genuine compliment.

The cold October air kisses my cheeks, painting them pinkish-red underneath my mask. Even though the sun blazes brightly overhead at high noon, its warmth is limited, doing little to combat the chilly draft that sweeps through South Street. Buildings cast long, stretching shadows across the empty road, making it look eerier than I remember. A stark contrast to its usually bustling state, now devoid of pedestrians, shopkeepers, or even the occasional busker. The entirety of South Street, at least west past Broad Street til the bridges leading to West Philly, stands evacuated and cordoned off. I can't see a single civilian, just the distant blue and red flashing of police lights.

With each step, I feel a surge of relief. My foot no longer encased in that cumbersome boot, free and able to move as I want. The last doctor's visit went smoother than I anticipated, one more rogue tooth removed from my foot, and now, I'm fully operational. The texture of the road feels familiar underfoot. It's good to be walking on two healthy feet again.

We walk in a semi-tight formation, led by Crossroads. He has this characteristic way of talking - straight to the point and focused on the task at hand, barely wasting a breath between his words. "Bloodhound, Rampart," he says, "You're our frontline. We have reason to believe Patches and Pumice will be the most confrontational. Be prepared to hold them off."

Rampart nods, his stern expression revealing nothing of his internal thoughts.

Next, Crossroads shifts his gaze to Puppeteer and Blink. "Your role will be crucial. You two are in charge of area control and denial. If the situation escalates, use whatever means necessary to contain it."

Puppeteer's eyes narrow in determination, and Blink simply offers a goofy thumbs-up.

"Playback," Crossroads continues, casting a sidelong glance, "Feel free to run your mouth as much as you like. If it'll get under their skin, do it. But remember, we're counting on you for audio control. Don't get too caught up in your banter. Gale, you're on harrying duty. If there's projectiles, intercept them. If someone tries to flee the coop, make sure they don't get far."

Playback offers a mischievous grin. "Oh, trust me, boss man. I've got some choice tunes for today."

Gale salutes Crossroads, her body stiffening.

Gossamer, probably predicting her role would be sidelined, chimes in proactively, "Anything I can assist with?"

Crossroads, without missing a beat, questions, "Still keeping up with your first aid training?"

She nods, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Always."

"Then you're our medic for today. Stay close, but not too close. We need you safe," he advises.

Gossamer's face lights up. It's clear how much she values having a tangible role in this operation. "Understood," she replies with newfound confidence.

We continue to walk, the tension palpable in the air. Buildings on either side stand silent, like mute spectators awaiting the showdown. Every now and then, I catch sight of the odd graffiti or closed shutter – South Street looks more like a ghost town from a dystopian novel than a central hub of Philly.

I break away from my observations when a sharp, electronic whir draws closer. A small robot, kitted out with cameras and gadgets, trundles past us, spins around, and then backs away back into the asphalt. Its treads make soft clinking noises on the asphalt.

"That's Fury Forge's toy," Puppeteer remarks, matter-of-factly, with a hint of amusement.

Blink giggles, "Does it also do latte deliveries?"

"Focus," Crossroads urges. But even he has a smirk tugging at his lips.

The robot serves as a stark reminder. The senior Defenders may not be physically present, but their eyes are on us. They're watching, analyzing, and probably judging. But that's okay. We've trained for this. It's our time to step up.

We round a corner, and South Street stretches out before us. It looks abandoned, quiet. But then there's a rustling noise, and suddenly, the silence of the street feels oppressive. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears, too loud, too fast. Every tiny noise is magnified. The soft flutter of wings, the scrape of stone against asphalt. Everything feels heightened.

And then I see them.

Four figures, chilling atop an old rusty car, its bright blue paint peeling away to expose the rust underneath. A of Dunkin' Donuts box, pillaged from nearby, forms a centrepiece for their lunchtime feast. Patches takes a large bite out of a chocolate doughnut, her eyes never leaving us. Even from a distance, I can see the scars, like uneven stitches sewn haphazardly across her body. She smirks, cream filling smeared on her lip. "You actually fuckin' showed up," she spits out, her voice dripping with disdain. "Didn’t think you had the guts."

Pumice, perched atop an abandoned car's hood, munches on another donut, his stone-like fingers surprisingly delicate. I can't help but stare at his jersey, all black, number 3. "Nice jersey," I blurt out, in an attempt to find some common ground, "I used to watch his games with my dad."

Pumice looks momentarily taken aback, then cracks a half-smile, revealing stony molars. "Respect for recognizing the legend," he responds with a nod. "'m still gonna beat you up though."

In stark contrast to the others, Chrysalis stands out like a misplaced fairy tale character, if fairy tales were about post-apocalyptic bug-hybrids. She's adorned in jean shorts and a vest, but it's hard to make out any semblance of humanity in her, her limbs blackened and insectoid and armored, her face a tableau of green scales, her eyes turned bright red and compound, two antennae hanging from her scalp in front of her. A pair of minimal elytra (the beetle wing shield thing) cover her much, much larger wings, which flutter erratically behind her.

Then there’s Spindle, who’s leaning against the wall, observing silently. His tall, wiry frame gives him an air of detachment. He avoids direct eye contact, but I can sense unease simmering beneath the surface. His entire posture screams of someone caught in a place they’d rather not be, his entire body metaphorically, not literally, folding into his purple hoodie.

Despite their varying appearances, a single thread binds them – survival.

"Who gave you the tip-off, huh?" Patches growls. Her voice is like sandpaper, rough and abrasive. "Came running at the first sign of trouble, did ya?"

I shoot a sidelong glance at Pumice, remembering the voice that had left the tip. "Let's just say we have friends in unexpected places," I say, looking anywhere but Pumice's eyes.

I know it. He was the rat.

Pumice smiles at me. I don't feel reassured. He chuckles, not offended. "You sure you kids are ready for what comes next?"

Playback smirks. "Kids? Aren't we all, like, the same age? D-listers for d-listers. Don't pretend y'all some big-ass threat."

Pumice's brow, as stony as the rest of him, furrows in thought. "Hey, where's the big guy? Multiplex? I was kinda hoping to go one on twelve with him."

Patches rolls her eyes, a cruel smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Dissapointed that daddy didn't show up to spank you?"

My fingers twitch involuntarily, the gnawing feeling in my gut intensifying. There's something off about this entire situation, and it's not just Patches' fondness for vulgarities.

"Don't need the adults to handle playground bullies," Crossroads says, stepping forward, muscles tensing.

Patches leans forward, her sardonic smile widening. "Oh? Think you're all grown up now? Which one of you is the big, bad wolf then?" she taunts, her voice dripping with mockery. "Who's the strongest? Come on, I want to know who to thank when I rip them apart."

I twitch again. The big bad wolf - that's me, but I keep my mouth shut. The air is wrong. It's wrong.

Gale glances at me. I glance back at her. Can she feel it too?

Playback steps forward, popping his knuckles with exaggerated flair, "Well, if we're comparing sizes, I'm the biggest, baddest wolf around."

Playback's bravado is either very impressive or very stupid, I haven't decided yet.

Patches lets out a raucous laugh, her voice echoing in the desolate street, making the unsettling silence that follows all the more palpable. "You?!" She wipes a tear of mirth from her eye, still chuckling. "Dude, the white guy next to you has like a foot on you. And a half."

Chrysalis makes a sound, a kind of chittering laugh, her compound eyes focusing intently on Playback, sizing him up. Spindle just shifts uneasily, looking more and more like he wants to be anywhere but here.

"You of all people should know that size isn't everything, Amira," Playback taunts.

Patches' hand balls into a fist and immediately smashes through the car window, breaking it, carving tiny cuts against her skin that vanish in between frames. They heal so fast I'm not even sure they happened at all. "Don't get cute, Devonte."

"You two know each other?" Gossamer squeaks from the back.

"Ancient history, baby. Pre-powers. But if you're looking for a round two…" Playback says, getting in front of Rampart and I, putting his arm out in front of him. He flips the group off, and then does a 'bring it' gesture with his middle finger alone. "You can ride this train all night long."

Patches' face twists into an unpleasant snarl as she rips more glass clear from the window, squeezing it into her hand. Blood drips down, and the immediate view of her sensory system, for the couple of seconds I get to see it, is overwhelming and distressing. Her veins are wrong, all assembled in the wrong locations, and there's too much of them. And then, I see the extras atrophy in a moment, and the entire vascular system squeezes itself back around into a normal configuration again, before vanishing from my field of view as the wound closes. "Fortunately, it's not my special day, otherwise I'd be fucking stoked. Oh, Daisy, Daisy darling?" She growls, before turning around, putting two fingers in her mouth, and whistling hard.

Patches' whistle pierces the air, echoing off the buildings on either side of South Street, momentarily drowning out every other noise. From around a corner, a small figure emerges, taking hesitant steps forward. At first, all I can make out is a slightly disheveled hood. And then she comes into full view, and an inexplicable dread seizes me. She's a kid. Just a kid. Maybe twelve years old, tops. Asian, with long, black hair spilling out of her hood. And her eyes… those dead, almost orange-tinted eyes that stare emptily at nothing.

"Everyone, meet my sweet, darling Deathgirl," Patches purrs, her voice dripping with a mock sweetness that doesn’t mask the cruelty underneath. Her arm slinks around the girl's shoulder, pulling her close. "Say hello, darling!"

Daisy - Deathgirl - doesn't reply. She doesn't even look at us. Instead, she stands there, almost like a puppet with cut strings. Dead to the world. I get this sudden urge to pull her away from Patches. To save her. But I can't move. Something's holding me back. Maybe it's fear. Maybe it's caution. Patches whispers, lips close to Deathgirl's ear, but I can't hear what she says, even as she points at Playback. Deathgirl's face contorts in anger at something she whispers back, something none of us can hear.

There's an air of expectancy, and the weight in my gut seems to grow heavier. I remember a dog my family used to own, for only a couple weeks before we had to send it back, how it would growl, deep in its throat, before it barked, and then before it bit. The whole street feels like that growl right now. Something bad is coming.

Patches' grin widens maliciously as she straightens up. "Miss Patches thinks that boy over there is just the worst. He works for those bad people that made your parents leave. The rest of them do too but he works the most with them."

"Huh?" Playback chokes out, swallowing hard, locking eyes with the kid. But she's not looking back. It's like he doesn't exist to her. But she can sense him. I can see it. She knows he's there, even as her thousand-yard stare looks past him. "Hey, kid, I've got nothing to--"

Deathgirl's eyes go white, and everything turns completely silent. I try to open my mouth. I speak, I can feel the vibrations in my vocal cords, but nothing happens. Patches' body rears back in laughter, while Pumice cracks his knuckles. Already, I've lost track of Chrysalis and Spindle - I can't hear any footsteps, and they're gone.

Playback, now is not the time to be fucking around, is what I want to say. No noise comes out, and Playback looks just as startled as the rest of us, taking a couple of quick steps backward to get behind Rampart. Crossroads slaps Rampart on the back, and everyone turns to face him.

Crossroads covers his ears. Everyone else covers their ears.

I cover my ears a second too late, as a sound like a bomb going off rips through the air, the shockwave punching me hard enough to throw me onto my ass and shatter every window on the block.