There's something in the air tonight - a palpable sense of unease that seems to permeate every brick and concrete surface, every shadowed alleyway and darkened storefront. A preternatural hush hangs over the city streets, the usual cacophony of urban white noise muted to an uneasy murmur, like the world itself is holding its breath in anticipation. South Philly has never felt so weirdly quiet.
I shiver despite the relative warmth of the late summer evening, hunching my shoulders deeper into the worn fabric of my hoodie as Jordan and I make our way down the deserted sidewalk. Ahead of us, a flickering neon sign casts sickly crimson light across the cracked pavement, its garish glow giving the whole scene an almost otherworldly, fever-dream sort of quality.
"You feel that?" I murmur, keeping my voice low and hushed as we approach our destination. "Like the whole city's just... I don't know. Tense?"
Jordan shoots me a sidelong glance, eyes hidden behind the brim of their battered Phillies cap. "It's Friday the 13th," they remind me in an equally hushed tone. "Of course everything feels like it's two seconds away from going completely tits-up."
I snort at that, unable to completely repress the tiny bubble of mirth that burbles up in my chest. Trust Jordan to cut through the ominous ambiance with one of their trademark witty quips.
"You don't really believe in that superstitious crap, do you?" I tease, bumping them lightly with my shoulder. Up ahead, the flickering neon resolves itself into a pair of blocky, soot-stained words - PATTY'S BAR, promising a night of cheap beer and even cheaper thrills.
Jordan arches one slim eyebrow, their lips twitching with just the barest hint of a smirk. "Let's just say I've learned not to take any chances where cosmic misfortune is concerned," they retort, gesturing for me to take the lead. "Especially not after becoming a teenage superhero."
"Don't you mean vigilante?" I ask, popping an eyebrow.
Jordan glowers at me, lips drawn tighter than hoodie strings.
Squaring my shoulders, I draw in a deep, steadying breath and push through the battered wooden door, steeling myself for... well, honestly, I'm not even sure anymore.
What I am sure of, though, is the sudden blast of noise and stale, smoke-tinged air that hits me full in the face as soon as I cross the threshold. Raucous laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the tinny whine of a dozen different TV sets all blend together into a sonic wall of chaotic revelry.
It's like stepping through the looking glass into another world entirely - one where the rules of polite society have been suspended in favor of pure, unrestrained revelry. My gaze darts this way and that, struggling to take it all in as Jordan slips in behind me, their slight frame barely registering against the crush of bulky, barrel-chested figures packed around the bar.
Most of the patrons seem to be cops or security guards, decked out in various shades of blue and black with the occasional splotch of neon yellow disrupting the monochrome palette. But there are plenty of civilians mixed in as well - hard-bitten men and women nursing drinks and sneaking furtive glances our way as we make our way towards the nearest unoccupied booth.
"You weren't kidding about this place, huh?" I mutter, sliding into the cracked vinyl seat and doing my best to avoid eye contact with any of the hard stares being leveled our way. The interior decor seems to be going for a kind of "crusty dive bar" aesthetic, all peeling wallpaper and flickering neon signs advertising off-brand domestic lagers.
Across from me, Jordan simply shrugs as they settle in, seemingly unbothered by the open hostility radiating from our new surroundings. "What'd you expect?" they counter, threading their fingers together and resting their chin atop their knuckles. "Fancy cocktails and white tablecloths? This is a cop hangout through and through. You ever been to a cop bar?"
I snort at that, shaking my head as I allow my gaze to drift across the crowded bar once more. "I can't say I've been to any bars, besides that one time," I murmur. Jordan's right, of course - the signs are everywhere, stamped into every gruff demeanor and curled lip. Patches, pins, and tattoos advertising various law enforcement agencies and unions. The slightly menacing undercurrent of machismo that permeates every interaction, every sidelong glance and murmured aside.
"That was a club, ditz," Jordan replies.
And then, like a lightbulb flicking on in a dark room, realization hits me in one blinding flash of clarity. Because there, scattered among the off-duty beat cops and rent-a-muscle security types, are more than a few very familiar faces indeed.
Ridley is easy to spot, of course - that shitty combover and flushed, almost tomato red complexion unmistakable even in the dim, smoky atmosphere. He's holding court near the bar itself, one meaty hand wrapped around a thick glass as he trades insults and barks of laughter with a group of similarly built colleagues.
But it's not just him. No, the more I look, the more members of Tacony's newly expanded security force I'm able to pick out from the crowd. There's Nguyen, that thick bun looking almost unhinged, splayed out with sweat, as she knocks back a shot with a grimace. Zielinski, Carstairs, Jeffries - they're all here, mingling and carousing with the very same cops who are supposed to be keeping the peace out on the city streets.
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, an icy trickle of premonition sliding down my spine as snippets of overheard conversation begin filtering through the din. Jordan frowns, leaning in closer to get a better look. Their head tilts to the side, brow furrowing in concentration as they try to make out snippets of conversation over the background noise.
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"...telling you, mayor's out of her goddamn mind," Ridley is saying, his words slightly slurred from what I can only assume is a long night of hard drinking. "All these bleeding-heart protesters and their whining about 'rights' and 'oversight.' Buncha snot-nosed punks, you ask me."
Next to him, one of the off-duty cops snorts out a harsh bark of laughter. "You're preaching to the choir, Rid," he says, clapping the other man on the shoulder. "Most of those brats wouldn't know a hard day's work if it bit 'em on the ass. Somebody's gotta put 'em in their place."
"Watkins doesn't have the stones to see it through," Nguyen adds darkly, her face twisting into a sneer. "Too worried about bad press and hurt feelings. Me? I say kick the chair out and let 'em swing."
Jordan pulls away with a disgusted scowl, meeting my eyes in a moment of shared revulsion. I feel the sour sting of bile rising at the back of my throat, my fingernails biting into the meat of my palms hard enough to sting. It's all just so... blatant. So casual, the way they talk about crushing the life out of an entire protest movement - out of people whose only real crime is demanding a better, more just world. "Watkins? The one who has this city under, like, martial law? She's too liberal for them?" Jordan mumbles, sounding almost dejected. Crushed, in a sense, like metal going through a trash compactor.
Jordan is watching me from across the table, their expression carefully neutral with only a hint of some sort of wobble as they take in my obvious discomfort, and I take in theirs. I swallow hard against the lump of unease forming in my throat, leaning in close to murmur under my breath.
"I don't like this," I admit, the words emerging in a taut hiss. "Like, at all. We need to be careful here, something feels... off about this whole setup."
But before Jordan can respond, before I can so much as blink, the entire atmosphere of the bar seems to shift on its axis - the tension that's been building like a gathering storm finally cresting as a hush descends over the raucous crowd.
I turn, following the myriad gazes of the assembled patrons, and feel my breath catch in my chest at the sight that greets me. Because striding through the doorway in the back corner, commanding the room's attention with their very presence, are two of the single most... the most individuals I've ever laid eyes upon.
The first is a towering figure of a man, chest puffed out and shoulders thrown back in a stance of pure, uncompromising arrogance. His costume is a riot of red, white, and blue - garish stars and stripes blending together in a swirling display of naked patriotism so on-the-nose it would be comical if it wasn't so... well, intimidating.
A shield, round and adorned with the same stars-and-stripes motif, is clutched in one meaty fist as he surveys the assembled bar patrons with an expression of utter disdain. Despite the obvious comic book influences, there's an undercurrent of something darker, something nastier woven through every line of this so-called "hero's" body language. Like he's waiting for someone to give him a good reason to start a fight. His costume is almost too bright to be real.
"Oh my god," Jordan breathes from across the table, their usual cocky bravado nowhere to be found. "Please tell me you're seeing this jackass too."
I can only nod, mute and dumbstruck, as the second figure steps up beside her companion - a woman, her face obscured behind a small black veil, her gymnast's suit dressed in what I immediately recognize from Pop-Pop Moe's comics as dazzle camo. It almost hurts to look at, but then she closes her black leather jacket and it all goes away.
Despite the stark differences in their aesthetics, though, the two of them move in perfect sync - the man swaggering like he owns the very ground he treads upon, his partner stalking at his side with the coiled, predatory grace of an annoyed lioness waiting for food to come back. As they make their way deeper into the bar, the assembled masses seem to part before them like the waters of Egypt, a bubble of silence and open space forming around the pair.
"That's... Patriot, and Egalitarian," Jordan supplies, their tone low and hushed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them stiffen almost imperceptibly, shoulders tensing beneath their oversized sweatshirt. "You know. Remember when I mentioned this place had its own hero team? That's them. And check out his Captain America cosplay..."
Something in their voice, some faint undercurrent of unease, has me shooting them a questioning look. But Jordan doesn't seem to notice, their eyes locked on the two costumed figures as they take up position near the bar and survey their domain with smug satisfaction. My brow furrows at that, pieces beginning to click into place despite the lingering cloud of disbelief still hovering at the edges of my awareness.
Of course. Of course these so-called heroes would feel right at home in a place like this, rubbing shoulders and trading war stories with the very same goons Ridley and his ilk took their marching orders from. Why am I even surprised at this point?
No, the surprise - the real gut-punch of bitter realization - comes a few moments later, as the rest of the room's inhabitants seem to snap out of their collective trance and return to their usual routines. Because it isn't just a show of respect, or even hero worship, being directed towards the newly-arrived pair.
It's outright deference, the same sort of deference a lord might receive from their most servile, fawning subjects. Heads duck and eyes avert as Patriot strides by, shoulders instinctively hunching inwards as if to avoid drawing too much notice. Egalitarian simply watches it all impassively, sitting down as someone nearby pays for her drink like she's earned it.
Jordan lets out a low, impressed whistle as the room's natural clamor slowly reasserts itself, the brief spell broken as patrons turn back to their drinks and hushed conversations.
"Not your usual cape scene, huh?" they muse, one dark eyebrow arching skyward as they regard me speculatively. "This all seems a little... I don't know, overt for a bunch of part-timers playing hero on the weekends. What do you think they're really up to?"
Before I can respond, however, another flicker of movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention - a gaggle of familiar faces sidling up to the bar, jostling for position near where Patriot and Egalitarian have taken up their silent vigil. Ridley, Nguyen, and half a dozen other members of Tacony Charter's security goon squad, crowding in close with the same sort of insectile slobbering shown by the rest of their kind.
My stomach churns, an ugly suspicion taking root as I lean in close across the rickety tabletop.
"I don't care what they're up to," I murmur, low and intense. "But whatever it is, I've got a feeling our boys in blue are right in the thick of it."
Jordan doesn't miss a beat, or even challenge me - they simply nod, slow and deliberate, their mouth a hard line as the beginnings of grim determination glint in their eyes.
"And who's Captain America?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Old superhero that they haven't published a comic for in twenty years. I mean, comic superhero. Not the real kind. Captain America is not a real person, but I bet this guy wishes he could be them. Like, same shield and everything," Jordan says, low and mocking. "Like, it's almost 1 to 1 if not for the fact that this guy isn't wearing a helmet."
"Gotcha," I mumble back.
The low murmur of voices carries easily across the smoke-stained interior of the dive bar, rising and falling in waves of conspiratorial whispers punctuated by the occasional bark of raucous laughter. Jordan and I keep our heads down, trying our best to blend into the cracked vinyl upholstery and sticky tabletops as we strain to make out the conversation unfolding at the bar.