The glow of my phone screen is probably burning my retinas or something, but I can't stop scrolling. Doombrowsing. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion – horrifying, but impossible to look away from. The local Philly forums and HIRC chats are blowing up with reports of Pattinson's Pals' increased activity. It's getting ugly out there.

It's really hard to think.

"PATRIOT SPOTTED LEADING MARCH DOWN BROAD STREET"

"Anyone else see those yellow-masked weirdos patrolling South Philly?"

"My neighbor just joined PP. Should I be worried?"

My thumb hovers over a video link, but before I can click, my phone buzzes with a text from Jordan:

"Check the news. It's getting worse."

Great. Just what I needed to hear. With a sigh, I reach for the remote and flick on the TV. The familiar jingle of the local news fills my room, but the images on the screen are anything but comforting.

Footage of Pattinson's Pals leading large groups through various Philadelphia neighborhoods flashes across the screen. I recognize Patriot at the front, his star-spangled costume gleaming in the afternoon sun. Behind him, a sea of people in yellow face masks and bandanas, many sporting eagle designs. It's like the world's most terrifying patriotic parade.

The news anchor's voice cuts through my thoughts: "...continuing our coverage of the recent surge in vigilante activity across Philadelphia. Pattinson's Pals, a local superhero group, has been organizing what they call 'neighborhood safety patrols' in response to rising concerns about metahuman crime..."

I switch off the TV, my stomach churning.

I've been thinking the same thought, constantly, ever since Rosh Hashanah dinner.

Maybe before then.

This is bad.

This is really, really bad.

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

The hallway is a mess of noise and bodies, everyone rushing to get to their next class. I'm trying to weave my way through when I overhear a conversation that makes me stop dead in my tracks.

"Finally, someone's doing something about these freaks!" a guy is saying, his voice full of enthusiasm. I recognize him vaguely – I think he's in my math class. "It's about time we took back our city."

"But they're just bullying people," another voice responds, sounding worried. "How is that helping? Isn't that, like, exactly what they're supposedly against?"

I sidle closer, pretending to be very interested in the contents of my locker. The first guy scoffs.

"It's not bullying if they deserve it," he says. "These supers think they can just do whatever they want, wreck our city, and we're supposed to just sit back and take it? Nah, man. Pattinson's Pals are heroes."

I can't help myself. I turn around, trying to keep my voice casual. "Hey, uh, what's this about Pattinson's Pals? I keep hearing about them, but I'm not really sure what's going on."

The enthusiastic guy's eyes light up. "Oh man, you haven't heard? They're this group of real heroes, not like those masked freaks. They're going around, making sure people are safe, keeping an eye out for any suspicious super activity. It's awesome! We're not gonna have any more attacks like the courthouse bombings."

"Yeah, if by 'awesome' you mean 'terrifying,'" the other kid mutters.

"Wasn't a bombing," someone else corrects, quietly.

I nod, trying to look interested and not like I'm about to throw up. "Huh. And, uh, how do they know who's... suspicious?"

The guy shrugs. "I dunno. I think one of them can tell? But it's not hard to know if someone has freaky superpowers. Like, if you can control fire... you're going to look like you're on fire."

He stares at me, and for the first time in a long time, I *feel* my teeth caps, clicked into place.

"Right," I say, my stomach churning. "Thanks for the info. I gotta get to class."

"Why do you ask? Gonna go beat up some superhuman bullies for us, Small?" He asks to my back - and I feel the stares of everyone else boring into me. I try to ignore it, pretending I didn't hear the question.

It wasn't that he was sarcastic, because he wasn't. The question was totally sincere.

This is even worse than I thought.

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

"We need to do something about the Pals," I say, slamming my lunch tray down on the table. Jordan looks up from their sad-looking turkey sandwich, raising an eyebrow.

"Wow, you must be really pissed. You just made your chocolate milk slosh out. Good going, Sam."

"Jordan, I'm serious," I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one's listening. "Did you see the news? It's getting out of control."

They nod, their expression grim. "Yeah, I saw. But what can we do? It's not like we can take them on directly. That would just prove their point about 'dangerous supers' or whatever bullshit they're spouting."

I stab at my mystery meat with more force than necessary. "I know, I know. But we can't just sit here and do nothing besides our pithy little website."

Jordan takes a thoughtful bite of their sandwich. "Okay, so let's think about this logically. What are our options?"

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

I lean in, lowering my voice. "Well, we could try to gather more evidence of their misconduct. You know, catch them in the act of harassing innocent people."

"Could work," Jordan nods. "But it might be dangerous. Plus, they'd probably just spin it as 'protecting the community' or some BS like that. I don't think the people they're working with *care*."

"True," I sigh. "What about trying to infiltrate their supporters? Get some inside info?"

Jordan snorts. "Yeah, because we totally look like the kind of people who'd join up with a bunch of flag-waving, super-hating douchebags."

I have to laugh at that. "Fair point. Okay, what about reaching out to other heroes for help? Maybe the Delaware Valley Defenders could do something?"

"Maybe," Jordan says, looking thoughtful. "But it could escalate things even more. Probably the best out of a bunch of shitty options."

I groan, dropping my head onto the table. "This sucks. I feel so helpless."

Jordan reaches over, patting my shoulder awkwardly. "Hey, at least we're doing something. Even if that something is just sitting here eating mystery meat and plotting. Plus, I've already been contacted by lawyers for the website, through my fake webmaster email. We're spinning up some crazy class action suits. And normal injury lawsuits. That's good, right?"

I lift my head, managing a small smile. "Yeah, I guess. So what's the plan? Keep monitoring and gathering info?"

"For now," Jordan nods. "And hey, maybe we'll stumble onto some brilliant solution between now and the next time Patriot decides to lead a parade of paranoia through Center City."

"God, I hope so," I mutter, turning back to my lunch. "Because if not, we might be in serious trouble."

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The Young Defenders HQ is buzzing with tension as we gather for the briefing. Rampart stands at the front of the room, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. He's got that pinched look on his face, the one he gets when he's trying to be diplomatic but really just wants to punch something.

"Alright, everyone," he says, his voice tight. "We've got a situation developing with Pattinson's Pals. Bloodhound, you want to fill us in?"

I stand up, feeling Jordan's reassuring presence beside me. They're in full Safeguard mode, silent under their motorcycle helmet and cloak - it feels odd. I haven't seen them wearing it in so long, it feels like. I take a deep breath and launch into it.

"So, basically, Pattinson's Pals have been ramping up their activities all over the city. They're leading these big groups through different neighborhoods, supposedly to 'protect' people from superhumans. But really, they're just intimidating anyone they think might be different."

Gossamer raises her hand like we're in class or something. "Are they even allowed to do this? I mean, isn't it, like, illegal or something?"

Rampart sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Technically, they're just concerned citizens exercising their right to assemble. They're not breaking any laws... yet."

"But they're clearly targeting people!" Blink protests. "How is that okay?"

"It's not," Rampart says, sounding frustrated. "But unless we can prove they're actually assaulting people or breaking laws, there's not much we can do officially."

"So what, we just sit back and watch while they terrorize the city?" I ask, feeling my anger rise.

Spindle, all seven feet of him somehow folded into a chair meant for normal-sized humans, chimes in. "Hey, maybe we could try talking to them? You know, superhero to superhero? They've got powers too, right?"

Blink nods enthusiastically. "Yeah! Maybe we could reason with them, make them see how hypocritical they're being."

I snort. "Yeah, because Patriot seems like such a reasonable guy. I'm sure he'd love to sit down for a nice chat over tea and crumpets."

"Bee," Rampart warns, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to smile.

"No, she's right," Jordan says, speaking up for the first time. "These guys aren't interested in reason. They're just using their powers as an excuse to bully people they don't like."

"But don't their followers have a problem with that?" Gossamer asks, looking confused. "I mean, if they hate superhumans so much..."

Blink shakes her head. "Apparently not. From what I've seen, they're 'deputizing' random civilians. Everyone's wearing masks or bandanas, lots of patriotic stuff. It's like a sea of red, white, and blue out there."

"With a side of yellow," I add. "They've got these weird eagle beak masks. It's like if Uncle Sam and a chicken had a baby, and that baby joined a cult."

"Bee," Rampart sighs, but I can see he's trying not to laugh.

"What? It's true! They look ridiculous. But also terrifying. Ridiculously terrifying. Terrifyingly ridiculous?" I mumble.

"Okay, okay," Rampart says, holding up his hands. "Let's focus. We need to figure out how to handle this situation without making things worse."

"Can't we just, I don't know, arrest them or something?" Gossamer asks. "I mean, we're superheroes, right? Isn't that what we do?"

Rampart shakes his head. "It's not that simple. Pattinson's Pals have been valuable protectors of their local neighborhoods in South Philly for years. We can't just go in guns blazing because we don't like what they're doing now. Plus, none of us are actual Registered Superhuman Entities - we don't have the authority to do anything besides a citizen's arrest, and they aren't doing enough to justify that."

"Even if what they're doing now is leading anti-superhuman mobs?" I ask, incredulous.

"I'm not saying it's right," Rampart says, his voice tight. "I'm just saying we need to be careful about how we approach this."

"But we can't just do nothing," Blink insists. "People are getting hurt. Or they will be, if this keeps up."

"I know!" Rampart shouts, running a hand through his hair and wincing at his own reaction. "Believe me, I know. But we have to be smart about this. If we go in too hard, we could end up proving their point about 'dangerous supers.'"

"So what, we just sit on our hands and hope they get bored?" I ask, unable to keep the frustration out of my voice.

"No," Rampart says firmly. "We keep monitoring the situation. We gather evidence. We try to protect people without escalating things. And we reach out to other heroes, see if we can get some backup."

"The Delaware Valley Defenders?" Spindle asks, perking up.

Rampart nods. "I'll be giving them a full report after this meeting. Maybe they can put some pressure on the city to do something through Councilman Davis."

"And in the meantime?" I press.

Rampart looks at each of us in turn, his expression serious. "In the meantime, we stay alert. We protect people where we can. And we do not, under any circumstances, engage directly with Pattinson's Pals unless absolutely necessary. Understood?"

There's a chorus of reluctant agreements. I bite my tongue, not trusting myself to speak without saying something I'll regret.

"Alright," Rampart says, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Meeting adjourned. Stay safe out there, everyone."

As we file out of the room, I catch Jordan's eye. They give me a small nod, and I know we're thinking the same thing.

I head home, my mind racing with possibilities and fears. The whole city feels like it's on edge, like we're all just waiting for the other shoe to drop. And when it does... well, I just hope we're ready for it.

As I walk through my front door, I'm hit with the smell of Mom's cooking – some kind of stew, I think. For a moment, everything feels normal. But then I see the worried look on Dad's face as he watches the news, and reality comes crashing back.

This is our city. Our home. And right now, it feels like it's slipping away from us, one patriotic parade at a time. The creeping, narrow, blade-edge of - what, fascism? Authoritarianism? I'm not smart enough at politics.

I head up to my room, flopping onto my bed and staring at the ceiling. My superhero costume gets hidden in the back of my closet, and for a second, I'm tempted to put it back on and just... go. Do something. Anything.

But I know I can't. Not yet, anyway. So instead, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through the local forums again. Whatever. It's something, right?