The living room feels like it's shrinking with each passing minute, the walls closing in as we all huddle around the TV like it's some kind of modern-day oracle. Mom's perched on the edge of the couch, her fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on her knee. Dad's pacing back and forth behind us, his footsteps a steady counterpoint to the low hum of pre-news chatter from the screen.

And then there's Maggie - Flashpoint - wedged into the armchair next to me, trying (and failing) to look like this is just a normal Saturday afternoon hang-out session. I'd introduced her to my parents as "a friend from school," which isn't exactly a lie.

Actually, that's not true. It's totally a lie. But this isn't the first time I've lied to my parents for their own peace of mind and I don't think it'll be the last time by a long shot.

"When's this thing supposed to start?" Dad asks for what feels like the millionth time, pausing his endless circuit of the living room to squint at his watch.

Mom sighs, reaching up to pat his arm without taking her eyes off the TV. "Any minute now, Ben. They said six o'clock."

I glance at the clock on my phone. 5:58 PM. Two more minutes of this suffocating anticipation. Great.

As we wait, my mind drifts back to earlier today, before all... this. Before the weight of impending justice (or injustice, depending on how things go) settled over everything like a heavy blanket.

----------------------------------------

"Come on, Maggie! You've got this!" I called out, watching as my newly-minted protégé wobbled unsteadily through the air, her face a mask of intense concentration.

We were in an abandoned lot a few blocks from my house, the kind of place that's all overgrown weeds and broken concrete – perfect for superhero training sessions that you don't want the neighbors asking questions about. I don't think these days a lot of people would think twice about watching someone hover and I'm giving anyone that passes by the stink-eye anyway.

Maggie's powers are... interesting, to say the least. She can generate these weird repulsive fields from her hands and feet, each one packing about as much oomph as a really determined toddler trying to push over a bookshelf. It lets her hover a few inches off the ground, which sounds cool in theory but in practice looks more like someone trying to rollerskate for the first time while extremely drunk. She called them "semispherical". I called her a nerd.

"I don't got this!" Maggie yelped, arms pinwheeling as she struggled to maintain her balance. "I'm gonna fall and break my stupid face and then you'll have to explain to my mom why her daughter looks like she got into a fight with a brick wall and the brick wall won!"

I couldn't help but laugh at that, even as I moved closer in case I needed to catch her. "You're not gonna fall," I assured her. "And even if you do, that's what the padding is for. Besides, I heal fast, remember? I'd just let you headbutt me instead of the ground."

Maggie shot me a look that was equal parts gratitude and exasperation. "My hero," she deadpanned, before promptly losing her concentration and dropping like a sack of potatoes.

I lunged forward, managing to catch her before she face-planted into the cracked asphalt. "See?" I grinned, helping her back to her feet. "Told you I wouldn't let you fall."

As Maggie dusted herself off, grumbling good-naturedly about the indignities of superhero training, I felt that now-familiar twinge of... something in my chest. It wasn't quite pride, wasn't quite anxiety. More like a weird cocktail of both, with a dash of something else I couldn't quite put my finger on. Like the kind of feeling I got as a child, playing with toys.

I knew the Delaware Valley Defenders had their eyes on Maggie now, from Rampart's report. Multiplex had made some not-so-subtle hints about wanting to bring her into the Young Defenders program. And I got it, I really did. Maggie's powers were unique, with a ton of potential. Plus, she was smart, determined, and had a good heart. She'd make a great addition to any team.

So why did the thought of her joining the Young Defenders make my stomach twist into knots? Am I losing faith, or is there something else here?

"Earth to Sam," Maggie's voice broke through my reverie, accompanied by a gentle poke to my forehead. "You in there? Or did all that dog-brain finally take over?"

I blinked, shaking off the cobwebs of my internal monologue. "Sorry, just... thinking."

Maggie raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Uh oh, that sounds dangerous. Should I call for backup?"

I rolled my eyes, giving her a playful shove. "Ha ha, very funny. For your information, I was thinking about important superhero stuff."

"Superhero stuff, huh?" Maggie grinned, dropping into an exaggerated thinking pose, complete with hand on chin, hovering on her heels unsteadily. "Lay it on me, oh wise sensei. What pearls of wisdom do you have for your humble student today? As a tiny baby of only fifteen years of age, I haven't quite developed my own moral code yet, and I am looking for a larger, more well-trained duck to imprint upon. Or goose."

I hesitated for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. How do you explain something as heavy as moral responsibility to someone who, just a few weeks ago, was living a totally normal life? I could've just said "I wasn't thinking about that kind of superhero stuff," but Maggie's expectant glare makes me feel like I'm being looked through. Like I'm made of glass.

"Okay, look," I began, aiming for sage and probably landing somewhere closer to 'pushy older sister.' "Having powers... it's not just about being able to do cool stuff, you know? It's about... it's about using what you've got to help people. To save lives."

Maggie nodded slowly, her expression growing more serious. "Yeah, I get that. That's why I want to be a hero, right? To help people like you helped me."

"Exactly," I agreed, warming to my theme. "But it's more than just wanting to help. It's... it's a responsibility. Like, if you have the power to save someone's life, and you don't use it, then... then that's on you, you know?"

Stolen story; please report.

I could see Maggie mulling this over, her brow furrowed in concentration. One of her hands drops back behind her to give herself more pushing force, steadier on two trunks instead of three. "I don't think I want to be on call 24/7. That sounds a little extreme."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. Then I opened and closed it a couple more times, my balloon popped like a toddler just walked into it with a kitchen knife. But still, I pressed on. "I'm not saying you can never rest or have a life outside of hero work. Just that... when it comes down to it, if there's a chance to save a life, you should take it if you can."

Maggie looked skeptical. "Okay, but where do you draw the line? Like, what if saving one person means putting yourself at risk? Or other people? How do you decide whose life is worth more?"

I faltered at that, my certainty wavering. "I think you just have to do the best you can in the moment and justify it afterwards."

Maggie nodded, but I could tell she wasn't entirely convinced. And honestly? Neither was I. But before I could dive deeper into this philosophical quagmire, Maggie changed the subject.

"Hey, watch this," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. She held out her hand, palm down, and visibly squeezed her face shut. A small chunk of concrete popped out of the ground like it had been shoved, and she snatched it out of the air like catching a falling spoon.

"Neat trick," I said, genuinely impressed. "But what are you gonna do with—"

Before I could finish my sentence, Maggie's face scrunched up in concentration. She put both of her hands together like a video game character. There was a sudden 'whoosh', and the rock shot straight up into the air like it was just punted out of a cannon.

"Holy shi—" I started to say, but Maggie was already in motion. She pushed off the ground, her repulsion fields kicking in to give her a wobbly boost. For a moment, she hovered there, arms outstretched, looking like a drunk Superman. Then, with a determined grunt, she leaned forward, and the perpendicular motion shot her body up and out into an unimpressive arc a couple inches off the ground. She snatched the falling chunk of rock out of the air, did a very flailing somersault onto the ground, and stood back to her feet, a floating, violently vibrating piece of rock suspended in mid air between her hands.

"Ta-da!" she exclaimed, holding up the slightly bruised apple like a hard-won trophy. "Magdalene O'Brien, ladies and gentlemen! She can fly, she can juggle, she can make you question your entire moral framework!"

I couldn't help but laugh, equal parts impressed and exasperated. "Okay, okay, I'll admit it – that was pretty cool. I wouldn't exactly call it 'flying' though. More like a... squirt? You didn't get that high."

Maggie grinned, pressing her hands closer together, making the rock vibrate even harder like it was trying to rattle itself apart. "What, you mean the Kamahamehadouken?" she paused, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "I bet I could do some real damage if I used something heavier than an apple. Like a bowling ball. Or a watermelon!"

I groaned, already imagining the chaos that would ensue if Maggie started chucking produce at supervillains. "Let's maybe hold off on the fruit artillery for now, okay? We should probably work on your landings before we start weaponizing the farmer's market. And your throwings. Can you hit that trash can at the back of the parking lot?"

As we continued our training session, alternating between serious discussions of heroic ethics and increasingly ridiculous power experiments (turns out, Maggie can't actually levitate fruit, but she can make a pretty impressive smoothie explosion), I found myself grappling with a weird mix of emotions.

On one hand, I was proud of Maggie. She was taking this whole superhero thing seriously, asking good questions, pushing herself to improve. But on the other hand... I couldn't shake this nagging feeling of unease. Like I was standing on the edge of something big and scary, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to take the plunge.

Was I being possessive? Trying to keep Maggie all to myself instead of letting her join a "real" team? Or was it something else? Some instinct warning me that the Young Defenders, for all their polish and prestige, might not be the best place for a new hero still finding her footing? Or a secret third thing I didn't even have the vocabulary to describe?

I didn't have answers to any of these questions. But as I watched Maggie wobble through the air, determination etched across her face, I made a silent promise to myself. Whatever happened, whatever choices we ended up making, I'd have her back. Because that's what heroes do, right? They look out for each other, even when the path forward isn't clear.

----------------------------------------

The sudden blare of the news theme song yanks me back to the present with all the subtlety of a freight train. Mom cranks up the volume, Dad finally stops pacing to perch on the arm of the couch, and Maggie leans forward so far she's in danger of toppling out of her chair.

On screen, the familiar face of Channel 6's top anchor fills the frame, her expression grave as she begins to speak.

"Good evening, Philadelphia. We're coming to you live from outside the federal courthouse, where tensions are running high as we await news of Illya Fedorov's sentencing."

The camera pans across the crowd gathered outside the courthouse steps. It's a sea of signs and banners, some calling for justice, others... well, let's just say there are somehow plenty of people who think Chernobyl was some kind of misunderstood anti-hero. Or that what the NSRA was doing, enabling him, was worse than the crimes he committed. Maybe it was.

I spot a few familiar faces among the security detail – members of Pattinson's Pals, working alongside the police to keep the peace. For a second, I think I see Rampart's broad shoulders in the background, maybe a Multiplex somewhere in the rooftops, but the camera moves on before I can be sure. They didn't want me out there tonight, just in case something happened and people got on my case for being a witness. Very reasonable, even if I objected anyway.

"Due to heightened security measures," the anchor continues, "we are unable to bring you live footage from inside the courtroom. However, our team of reporters will be providing updates as soon as they become available."

Dad makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Heightened security measures, my ass," he grumbles. "They just don't want the public to see what's really going on in there."

Mom shoots him a warning look, tilting her head slightly towards Maggie. "Ben, language," she admonishes softly. Then, louder, "I'm sure they're just being cautious. After everything that's happened..."

She trails off, but we all know what she means. The attack on the courthouse during Fedorov's trial is still fresh in everyone's minds, a wound that hasn't quite healed yet.

"It's crazy, isn't it?" Maggie pipes up, her voice a mix of awe and nervousness. "I mean, this is like... history happening right now. In our city."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Because yeah, it is history. But it's also personal. For me. For Liberty Belle. I'm sure for many, many other people.

"History happens all the time, it's just never apparent until afterwards, Maggie, darling," Mom says, sipping on a can of Dr. Pepper.

I want justice. For myself, for the other victims, for the whole damn city. But as I watch the crowds on TV, as I listen to the anchor's carefully neutral voice recapping the trial's highlights, I can't help but wonder: what does justice even look like in a case like this?

And more importantly, will we actually get it?

As the broadcast continues, diving into a detailed analysis of the case and its potential outcomes, everything I've already heard a billion and one times before, I feel the weight of everything – the responsibility, the doubt, the fear – settling onto my shoulders like a lead blanket. Part of me wants to run, to hide, to pretend none of this is happening.

The other part is glued to the screen, watching Patriot and Egalitarian and a couple other people whose names I don't know but whose costumes stand out, whipping people into a frenzy over a megaphone. I don't know what they're saying, the background noise muted over the chatter of news anchors. I have a feeling we're about to find out, though.