The streetlights flicker to life one by one, casting long shadows across the quiet streets of South Philly as Rampart and I make our way through the neighborhood. It's a pretty chill evening, all things considered – the kind of night where you'd expect to see kids playing stickball in the street or old ladies gossiping on their stoops. Instead, there's just... nothing. Like the whole world's holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I glance over at Rampart, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the deepening twilight. He's been quieter than usual tonight, his jaw set in a way that makes me think he's chewing on something besides his customary wad of bubblegum. Time to poke the bear, I guess.

"So," I drawl, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "You ever hear of a group called Pattinson's Pals?"

Rampart's step falters for just a second, barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. But I'm always looking, aren't I? Curse of the job and all that.

"Why do you ask?" he responds, his voice carefully neutral. It's impressive, really – the guy could probably play poker with a demon and come out ahead.

I shrug, trying to match his nonchalance. "Oh, you know. Just heard some stuff through the grapevine. Thought you might know more, being all connected and whatnot."

He shoots me a sidelong glance, one eyebrow quirked in that way that always makes my stupid teenage heart do a little backflip. "Connected, huh? What am I, the superhero mafia now?"

I can't help but snort at that, the mental image of Rampart in a pinstripe suit and fedora too ridiculous to contain. "Nah, you're way too pretty to be a mobster. Maybe, like, an extremely jacked accountant or something."

"Wow, thanks," he deadpans, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Glad to know my career options are so varied."

We lapse into silence for a moment, the only sound the soft scuff of our boots against the cracked pavement. I'm about ready to change the subject, figuring I've pushed my luck as far as it'll go, when Rampart surprises me by speaking up.

"They're... alright, I guess," he says, his voice low and thoughtful. "Pattinson's Pals, I mean. They do a lot of community outreach stuff, you know? Help out with fundraisers for the police union, that kind of thing."

I nod, careful to keep my expression neutral even as my mind starts racing. "Yeah? That's cool. They sound like real stand-up citizens."

Rampart makes a noncommittal noise, his gaze fixed on some distant point down the street. "I mean, they're not perfect or anything. Nobody is, right? But they try to do good, I think."

"Uh-huh," I prompt, sensing there's more he wants to say but isn't quite sure how to get out. "But...?"

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that's pure awkward teenager despite the superhero getup. "Look, it's not a big deal or anything. Just... I heard some stuff about Patriot and Egalitarian getting a little rowdy at McGillin's after hours one night. Nothing illegal, just, you know. Blowing off some steam."

I raise an eyebrow at that, unable to keep the skepticism out of my voice. "Rowdy how, exactly? Like, starting a bar fight rowdy, or just singing karaoke badly rowdy?"

Rampart chuckles, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. "Nah, nothing that exciting. Just talking a little too loud, maybe knocking over a chair or two. Totally normal stuff, you know? We've all been there."

I decide not to point out that, as a fifteen-year-old who's never set foot in a bar, I most definitely have not 'been there', and neither should have he. Should have he... He shouldn't have either! Instead, I just nod sagely, like I'm some worldly sophisticate who spends her weekends barhopping instead of, you know, fighting crime and doing algebra homework.

"Sure, sure," I agree, my mind already spinning off in a dozen different directions. "Hey, speaking of bars, did you know McGillin's is the oldest continually operating tavern in Philly? It's been around since 1860. That's, like, older than my great-grandparents. Maybe even my great-great-grandparents. I wonder if they ever went there? I mean, not that I know for sure if my great-great-grandparents even lived in Philly, but it's possible, right? Oh man, what if they met there? That'd be wild. Like, imagine if the whole reason I exist is because my great-great-grandpa had one too many pints of whatever they drank back then and decided to hit on my great-great-grandma..."

I trail off, suddenly aware that I've been rambling for a solid minute without taking a breath. Rampart's staring at me with a mixture of amusement and concern, like he's not sure whether to laugh or call for backup.

"You good there, Bee?" he asks, his voice tinged with barely-suppressed laughter. "Or should I be worried that you've secretly been replaced by some kind of encyclopedia article come to life?"

"Secretly?" I raise an eyebrow at him, elbowing him harmlessly in the ribs. The cool night air brushes up against my exposed chin and lower lip, still warm with the faint traces of summer even as it officially ends and begins to make its way back into fall. "I thought we were better friends than that."

Rampart's expression softens, and he reaches out to give my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It's actually kind of impressive how much random shit you know, Lemony Snicket. What, was your dad an encyclopedia salesman?"

I'm about to make some quip about how it's my mom, actually, that is the encyclopedia saleswoman (in a sense), when a sudden commotion from above catches both our attention.

"Look out below!" a voice calls out, equal parts excited and panicked. "New superhero coming through!"

We both look up just in time to see a figure in a mishmash of athletic gear and Halloween costume pieces come careening towards us, hovering about three inches off the ground and looking for all the world like someone trying to roller skate for the first time while extremely drunk. Her arms cartwheel around their sockets in her shoulders, and just before she falls to the ground, she manages to do something that looks almost entirely like a pushup that propels her back into a mostly-standing position.

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Then, she starts sliding again.

Rampart, bless his immovable heart, doesn't even flinch as the newcomer pinballs between us before finally coming to a stop against a conveniently placed mailbox. I, on the other hand, have to bite back a yelp of surprise, my hands automatically snapping into a boxing stance and my knuckles clenching up preemptively before I register that this is probably not, in fact, some kind of extremely clumsy supervillain attack.

"Ta-da!" the figure announces, throwing their arms wide in a gesture that would be a lot more impressive if they weren't still half-slumped against the mailbox. "Flashpoint has arrived!"

I blink, taking in the hodgepodge of protective gear and the motorcycle helmet that's clearly a size too big for its wearer. There's something oddly familiar about the whole getup, like looking at a funhouse mirror version of my own costume from when I first started out. Or Jordan's. Or both of ours, although they're definitely lacking Jordan's style. Her athletic gear and helmet is all bright red, almost the exact same shade as my own helmet, with the underlying clothes the same shade of white-tan as my own.

...Has she been stalking me?

"Uh, hi there... Flashpoint," I manage, shooting Rampart a quick 'what the hell?' look. He just shrugs, looking almost relieved at the interruption. "You, uh... you new around here?"

The newcomer – Flashpoint, apparently – nods so enthusiastically that her oversized helmet nearly topples off. "Brand spanking new!" she confirms, her voice muffled but still unmistakably excited. "Just got my powers last month. It was wild, I was at this thing downtown and there was this guy who started going all... blorpy? Like, melting but also growing? And I thought I was gonna die but then I didn't and now I can fly! Well, sort of. I'm still working on the landing part. There was a lot of bad stuff happening there."

As she rambles on, something clicks in my brain. Last month... downtown... I remember now – a girl trapped under a car, bleeding out, barely conscious. I'd sensed her blood, pointed her out to the paramedics before collapsing myself.

"Wait," I interrupt, holding up a hand. "You were there? At the courthouse?"

Flashpoint nods again, her enthusiasm dimming slightly as she recalls the chaos of that day. "Yeah. It was... pretty scary. But I saw you! You were so cool, going up against that scary hoodie lady even though you were, like, super beat up. That's actually kind of why I decided to become a hero too. I figured, if you could do it..."

I feel a lump forming in my throat, a mixture of pride and guilt and a dozen other emotions I can't quite name. "I'm glad you're okay," I manage, my voice a little rougher than usual. "And, uh, welcome to the team, I guess?"

"In an informal sense. I'm unsure if the Young Defenders are looking for new recruits yet, but we'll keep an eye out," Rampart says, after clearing his throat, reminding me that he's still here and probably feeling a little left out of this impromptu reunion. "So, Flashpoint," he says, all business now. "You're from around here, right? South Philly?"

"Born and raised!" she confirms with obvious pride. "Go Eagles!"

I can practically feel Rampart's approval radiating off him in waves. Figures he'd warm up to anyone who shares his borderline religious devotion to Philly sports.

"Good to have another local on board," he says with a nod. "How's your school handling all this... excitement lately?"

Flashpoint tilts her head, confusion evident even through the tinted visor of her helmet. "You mean like, with the whole website thing? It's pretty wild, honestly. Everyone's talking about it, even the teachers. Some kids are saying we should start our own, but I dunno..."

Rampart's face pinches up. I don't think that's quite what he meant, but I'm certainly not going to correct her. "Oh yeah?" I say, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile. "That sounds... intense."

Rampart frowns, his earlier good mood evaporating like morning dew. "Those websites are nothing but trouble," he declares, his voice taking on that lecturing tone that always makes me want to roll my eyes. "They're just stirring up chaos and making it harder for the people in charge to do their jobs. You'd be smart to stay away from all that nonsense."

I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to argue. Now's not the time or place for that particular debate, especially not with a brand new hero in the mix.

Flashpoint, bless her, seems to pick up on the tension. "So, uh... you guys wanna see what I can do?" she asks, clearly eager to change the subject. "I mean, besides the whole hover-crashing thing."

Before either of us can respond, she's already zipping off towards a nearby tree, where a scrawny-looking cat is perched precariously on one of the higher branches.

"Here, kitty kitty!" she calls out, wobbling slightly as she tries to maintain her hover. "Don't worry, Flashpoint's here to save the day!"

What follows is a comedy of errors that would be hilarious if it weren't so nerve-wracking. Flashpoint bobs and weaves through the branches, alternating between cooing at the increasingly agitated cat and yelping as she narrowly avoids crashing into the trunk. Rampart and I watch with a mixture of fascination and horror, ready to jump in if things go completely sideways.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few minutes, Flashpoint emerges triumphant – one arm cradling the disgruntled feline, the other punching the air in victory.

"Mission accomplished!" she declares, hovering back down to street level with only minor wobbling. "Who's the best superhero? This gal!"

I can't help but laugh, both at her enthusiasm and the utterly unimpressed expression on the cat's face. "Nice work, rookie," I say, giving her a thumbs up. "Maybe we should team up sometime, show you the ropes a little more thoroughly?"

Flashpoint's whole body seems to vibrate with excitement at that. "Really? Oh man, that would be so cool! You're like, my hero's hero, you know? Is tomorrow good? Or tonight? I don't have school tomorrow so I can stay out late if you want!"

I hold up my hands, chuckling at her eagerness. "Whoa there, speedracer. Let's start with tomorrow afternoon, yeah? Meet me at the corner of Broad and Snyder around four. We'll do a little patrol, maybe grab some water ice after if you're good."

"Yes! Absolutely! I'll be there!" Flashpoint agrees, nodding so hard I'm worried her helmet might actually come flying off this time. "Oh man, this is gonna be awesome. Just wait 'til I tell my m-- I mean, uh, my loyal fanbase! They're gonna flip!"

With that, she takes off again, her flight path still erratic but marginally less crash-prone than before, skating on thin air. We watch her go, zigzagging between buildings until she disappears around a corner.

"Well," Rampart says after a moment of silence. "That was... something."

I snort, elbowing him gently in the ribs. "Aw, c'mon. Don't tell me you weren't that enthusiastic when you first started out, Mr. All-American Boy Scout."

He rolls his eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't let her excitement cloud your judgment, alright? There's a lot of stuff going on right now that's way above her pay grade. Or yours, for that matter."

I bristle a little at that, but force myself to let it go. "Yes, sir, Officer Rampart, sir," I drawl, throwing in an exaggerated salute for good measure. "I solemnly swear to uphold truth, justice, and the Philadelphian way. No fun allowed, cross my heart."

He laughs at that, reaching out to ruffle my hair in that way that always makes me feel like a little kid. "Smartass," he says, but there's fondness in his tone. "C'mon, let's finish up this patrol. I've got a date with a protein shake and about eight hours of sleep."

As we part ways, I can't help but feel a little lighter. Maybe it's the satisfaction of a patrol well done, or the excitement of taking Flashpoint - Maggie, as she let slip - under my wing. Or maybe it's just the relief of knowing that even in the midst of all this chaos and uncertainty, there are still moments of simple, uncomplicated heroism to be found.

But as I make my way home, the weight of everything else – the website, the escalating tensions at school, the looming threat of discovery – settles back onto my shoulders. I've got a feeling things are going to get a whole lot more complicated before they get better. I just hope I'm ready for whatever comes next.