Me, I'm thinking flicks and buzz, monster movies on late-night cable, when men got turned into nightmares and screamed through mouths that weren't meant for screamin'. Without a beat, I'm off the blocks and rattling on. "Oh, man, you talkin' bout that one with the scientist and the pods? Classic! The way he--"

But I get cut off, slapped silent by Mr. P's snappy finger, and I swear that twitch in his mug's trying to beat Morse code.

Mrs. X, with all the self-control of an overheating nuclear reactor, somehow manages not to weigh in about the multifaceted eyes and wing patterns. You can practically hear her brain shoving entomological factoids back down her throat.

But it's Mrs. Z who doesn't play tag with the topic. Her face clouds over like she's seen this storm before and remembers the wreckage it rained down last time. "You seem like you already have an answer in mind," she starts, her voice low and steady like the hum of power lines, "so why don't *you* tell us?" She throws the words back with all the quiet strength of a fortress wall.

Mr. P doesn't budge, but there's a crackle to the air now, a charge that's itching to spark. I set my drink down, reach across and snag a handful of pretzels from the dispenser, all ears and eyes and barely-breathed munchin'. Mr. P's voice is raw, like gravel on asphalt. "Someone is dealing wonder-pills on our turf. I just got served a deluxe combo of fists and boots by a couple of gutter punks from the Liberties. They've got powers, no activation, no NDE crap--straight from a damn capsule." His hands shake, half with rage, half with pain, fists balled tight enough to squeak. "Powers in pill form. This is *bad*."

A goon, some wispy kid barely out of acne's grip, clutches his bucket hat like a lifeline, eyes as big as the wheels on Mr. T's Caddy. He's swallowing, hard and often, making each gulp count. I don't think he expected a break room eavesdrop on anything important in his life.

Mrs. X is practically vibrating, all her scientific curiosity colliding head-on with the black market madness of it. "Powers without the event? Impossible." But there's a gleam in her eye that's part disbelief, part raw fascination--like she's a cat staring down a mouse with wings. "Bullshit,"

"And profitable," I point out through a mouthful of salt and starch. "If it's real, every Tom, Dick, and Harry'll wanna grab the brass ring without the circus."

Mrs. Z's forehead pinches in concern, though her poise never falters. "If someone's cutting in on our action with this, it's not just bad for business," she says, "it's chaos. If every wannabe low-life starts popping powers like tic-tacs, the feds will rain down on us harder than--"

But she doesn't need to finish the thought. We all hear the unsaid storm sirens.

"Wh-What are we gonna do?" wisps the hat-clutching kid, his voice a decibel away from being a squeak.

The glare Mrs. Z spears him with could've curdled milk. "What are *you* doing here?" she snarls, jerking her head towards the exit. "Scram. Adults time."

Stumbling back, his face all I-don't-want-no-trouble, the kid tips back into the shadow he slid out of, running for cover faster than if we'd lit his pants on fire. He's been dismissed, fade-to-black quick.

Mr. P grimaces, his jaw working side to side as if he's chewing the info like it's tough gristle. "This ain't just stepping on our shoes--this is dumping garbage on our lawn and lighting it. We need to find out who's handing out the candy, and we need to stop it. Yesterday."

"Or," I throw in, with a smirk that feels wrong but sits so damn right, "we find the recipe and cook it up ourselves. Serve it on our own silver platter."

There's a moment's silence, our communal thought bubble swelling like it's cartoonish, then Mrs. Z breaks it with the snap of her neck cracking side to side. "First, we find out *who*," she says, eyes scanning the room like a battlefield. "Then we decide whether we bury 'em or recruit 'em. For now, keep your heads down and your eyes open. If these pills are out there, they won't stay hidden for long."

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The plot thickens like a pea-soup fog over all of us, breaths held tight. Mrs. Z has gone ice-queen calm, hands clasped behind her, all military bearing without the uniform. "The feds and capes will swarm us," she mutters, half to herself, half a prophecy. "And the public won't sit idle once powers come without death dodgin'."

I chip in, "Great, then we got some bright-eyed hero wannabes throwin' their lot with the leagues, too? Fan-friggin-tastic. We gotta make sure this shit doesn't even get in the hands of anyone with that heroic spark. Last thing we need is more heat."

Mr. P's shadow ripples like hot tar, his anger a near-tangible stench. "Them superheroes," he says, spitting the word like it's poison. "After what Mr. E's screwup did to the Chernobyl job, I'm not keen on inviting more spandex-clad nonsense our way."

Mrs. Z lifts her palm, facing skyward, a stoic request for mercy. "Please," she drawls, "do not remind me."

Meanwhile, Mrs. X's hands skitter off, scientific mind buzzin', eyes alight with every wild hypothesis. But even she knows better than to get too close to a hurt dog. Instead, she shoves a fist into the vending machine, punches up some sustenance - not for her, but for her silent second shadow.

Scylla watches, anticipation humming along its strange, chimeric edges. Its eyes track her movements with that animal focus, till she tosses a strip of beef jerky. Snatching it from the air, there's a chuff that's half bark, half something that ain't no Earthly sound. Hell, it almost sounds grateful.

"Damn thing eats better than I do," I grumble, lips tweaking in a smile that dies just shy of reaching my eyes. "Jerky costs an arm and a leg here."

Mrs. X quips back, her words twisted around a grudging smile, "Scylla would probably settle for the arm, knowing his mama."

The room hums with sardonic harmony, our reluctant familiarity spinning out in jabs and jests, the way you do when staring down the barrel of something bigger than your pay grade.

Mrs. Z's brow lifts as she scans the murmurs, like she's counting heads or tallying spirits. "We'll need countermeasures. For the heroes, the feds, and whatever jokers are popping these pill-powered parlor tricks."

Pockets of nods follow her gaze, assurances unspoken that we'll lock step behind her, grumbles and all.

"Just so long as the plan's better than dealing with Fly, the movie sequel," I joke, pitching my voice loud enough to crack the solemnity. The room takes a breath, and the chuckle feels good on my tongue, better in the echoes. Nobody else laughs. But I do, which is the important part.

Silence nods off in the corner, the soft mutters returning, strategies blooming in conspiratorial clumps. I sit back, watching Mrs. X feed her patchwork pet another piece of jerky, Mr. P rubbing at a forming bruise, and Mrs. Z like a captain at the helm during a squall, charting a path through the treacherous what-ifs and maybes.

It's almost comforting, the way we turn worry into work, danger into determination. But beneath it all, we're gambling against fate, betting the house that we're the bigger bads in a city sick with shadows. And somewhere out there, there's a new player in town, with a hand that could shake the very ground we prowl on.

Mr. P hauls his beaten self to the corner, where a blue cross emblazoned machine squats like it's part of the decor. He smacks the button hard enough to rattle the meds inside, swiping ibuprofen and bandaids - emergency kit for the Kingdom's bruisers, gratis, of course. "That's it, boss. All I got for you."

"No cash?" Mrs. Z asks.

Mr. P looks at her like she's got three heads. "Fuck you think?"

She just sighs and pinches her nose. "I'll send you with M next time."

"Please, God, no. I'll just take a shotgun," he mumbles.

His busted-up look softens a tad when he pops the pills, sticking a bandaid on a split on his forehead. There's a small shift in the air, a wind down from the high-alert thrum; everybody's blood is cooling from boil to simmer.

Leaning against the doorframe, Mr. P eyes me up, a devilish twinkle making a nest in the bruise around his socket. "Hey, T," he says, voice barbed with equal parts pain and mischief, "how 'bout we brush off this doom 'n gloom with some smoke 'n babes, huh? I'm in dire need of a vice or three."

There ain't much that can yank a chuckle from me right now, but that does it. "Cigars and strippers?" I flash a roguish grin, shoulders shaking off the grim talk for something a tad less apocalyptic. I adjust the shoulders of my suit.

He grins back, and it looks damn painful, but honest. "That's my boy."

A twist of fate, that's all it is - good, bad, whatever - it all comes down to the spin, the land, and how you roll with it. Me, I roll out with a tilt of my chin, chucking a two-finger salute at the motley crew before stepping into the Philly twilight, where Mr. P's shiny old Cadillac awaits.