I look around at this strange little group - a teenage superhero(?), an ex-supervillain turned good(ish), the smartest girl I knew in middle school, my confused mentee, and, well, me. It's not exactly the Young Defenders, whatever that means now, but we're the ones who are here, right now, in this moment. And suddenly, that feels incredibly important.

I raise my voice a tiny bit. "I know we're tired, and I know we're scared. But this is our city. Our home. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna let Zero or Patriot or Officer Ridley or anyone else try to take that sense of security away from us with thugs in macho masks."

I point at them each in turn. "You all said it. We stay alert, we stay smart, we stay together. And we don't let them scare us out of doing what's right. Not the Phreaks, not the Pals, not the cops or the politicians in their pockets. No one. I'm tired - sorry, Rampart - I'm tired of being told to stand down and think. Look what good that's gotten us. I mean. Look where that's gotten us. Words."

I look at Jordan, meeting their eyes steadily. "I'm in. Whatever it takes. We started this, let's finish it. Let's burn the whole house down. I know I can't do it by myself."

There's a beat of silence. Tasha's the first to react, a slow, fierce grin spreading across her face. "Well alright then, white bread," she says. "Now you're talking."

Spindle nods, his jaw set. "I'm in too. These assholes have had it coming for a long time."

Maggie steps forward, chin lifted high. "If Bloodhound's in, Flashpoint's in," she says firmly. "Excellent speech, Sir."

I raise an eyebrow at her but don't say anything else.

All eyes turn to Jordan, who's just staring at me with an unreadable expression on their face. For a second, I'm worried I've gone too far, pushed too hard.

They crack their knuckles, the sound loud in the sudden quiet. "Okay, gang," they say, "let's get to work. We've got a lot of planning to do and a lot of long nights ahead of us. But first things first…"

They turn to Maggie, looking her up and down. "Welcome to the team, Maggie," they say, and I don't have to see their face to know that they're smiling, even with the anxiety and resignation and panic lacing the outside of their words. "Let's get you some proper protective equipment, and then we can start figuring out how to dismantle the police state. Sound good?"

Maggie blinks, taken aback. "I already have elbow pads and knee pads. And a helmet."

"Do you own any kevlar?" Jordan asks, and Maggie's brow furrows. "Right, like I said, some proper protective equipment."

And just like that, it's like all the tension goes out of the room. We're still scared, still uncertain, still dealing with a whole host of feelings none of us are particularly equipped for. But goddamn, for the first time in a long time, I feel what I felt in the early days - hopeful and thrilled and reckless. Like the whole world is laid open and even with its cruelties and its pains, we can make a little spot in it for us if we fight hard enough. And apparently, we're ready to fight.

Jordan claps their hands, the crack of impact echoing through the hall. "Alright, my beloved criminal element," they say, "enough standing around with our thumbs up our asses. Time to start being annoying."

They turn to me, eyes glinting. "Sam, you think you can reach out to anyone, get some extra eyes on the street? We could use all the intel we can get."

My phone is already out - I know who to text.

"And me?" Maggie pipes up, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "What can I do?"

Jordan considers her for a moment, then nods decisively. "For now? Soak it all in and keep training with Sam. This whole shitshow's gonna escalate, and escalate quickly. I want you as prepared as possible before we put you in the field again."

Maggie looks a little disappointed at being benched, but nods in understanding. "Got it, boss."

Jordan grins at that, fierce and bright. "Boss, huh? I could get used to that." They turn back to the rest of us, rubbing their hands together. "Alright, time to start stealing garbage."

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

I'm starving.

There's a certain kind of hunger that comes from not eating for a full day, a gnawing, all-consuming emptiness that seems to radiate from your very bones. As the sun sets on Yom Kippur, marking the end of the fast, that's all I can think about - the hollow ache in my stomach, the sandpaper dryness of my throat, the faint pounding behind my eyes that might be hunger or might be exhaustion or might be the stress of the past few days finally catching up with me.

I'm sprawled on my Pop Pop Moe's old plaid couch in Ventnor, watching my parents and Moe bustle around the kitchen, the rich smells of Mom's Moroccan fish and Dad's homemade challah drifting through the air. It's a familiar scene, one that usually fills me with a sense of warmth and belonging, but tonight, my mind is a million miles away.

Or, more accurately, about seventy miles away, back in Philadelphia, where Jordan and the rest of our little vigilante crew have been working around the clock to dig up dirt on Pattinson's Pals. It's been a whirlwind of late nights and clandestine meetings, of hushed conversations over burner phones and encrypted messaging apps, of combing through police records and financial statements and anything else we could get our hands on.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The very cat burglar Jordan is, they didn't find a whole lot.

And okay, maybe some of those methods have been a little less than legal, but honestly, I'm past the point of caring. If Patriot and his goons aren't going to play fair, then neither am I. And if Jordan's skills for lifting wallets and smuggling cigarettes can at least uncover a hint of what these guys are up to and how we can dismantle them, I'm all here for that.

Schlemiel, Moe's newcomer cat, wobbles up to me, his gait unsteady and his eyes slightly unfocused. He's got cerebellar hypoplasia, Moe told me, some kind of brain thing that makes him all clumsy and uncoordinated. But he's a sweet little guy, all soft silver fur and curious paws, and as he clambers awkwardly into my lap, I can't help but smile.

"Hey there, Schlem," I murmur, scratching him behind the ears. "You're just living your best life, huh? No big worries, just cuddles and cat food."

He chirrups at me, butting his head against my hand, and for a moment, I'm almost jealous of his simplicity. Must be nice, not having to worry about secret identities and power-negating fascists and the crumbling state of superhuman-civilian relations in your city. "Do you ever wonder about lightning, Schlem? Like, what do you think happens during a thunderstorm?" I find myself asking, more to myself than anything else.

And to think, it was only a year ago and some change that my biggest concerns were PSSA's and getting ripped off for sushi at school.

The change comes fast.

"Starving, Sam?" Dad calls from the kitchen, his voice warm with amusement. "You look like you're about to start gnawing on the couch cushions."

"Leave the girl alone, Benjy," Mom chides, swatting him with a dish towel. "She's been fasting all day, she's allowed to be a little hungry."

I didn't go to synagogue this year, which is unusual for me, but I still observed the fast. Mom and Dad didn't question it, but I could feel Pop Pop Moe's eyes on me, thoughtful and knowing. He didn't say anything though, just nodded and patted my hand, and I was grateful for that.

The thing is, I'm not sure I could have sat through a whole service, not with everything that's been going on. Not with the anger and frustration buzzing under my skin like a live wire, the sense that the world is tilting on its axis and I'm scrambling to keep my footing. All I've ever been trying to do is do the right thing - at least, that's what it feels like, to me.

It used to be so much simpler, back when it was just me and Jordan and a few nondescript normal gangs. Back when my enemies were people like the Kingdom, with their petty greed and their straightforward, shoot-them-in-the-face-until-they-stop-getting-up tactics. Someone straightforwardly evil.

Someone like Mudslide, first using their powers by robbing a store like a good ol' bad guy. Or even the other guys who picked up after him - sure, their methods were more complex, more intelligent, but at least it was an understandable form of evil - money, money, money.

I don't understand this new shit at all.

Not these new supervillains, the ones who wrap themselves in the flag and call themselves heroes. The ones who have the public eating out of their hands, who twist the narrative until suddenly we're the bad guys, we're the dangerous ones, we're the menace to society.

The world is changing. Rapidly. And here I am, just fifteen years old, neck deep in it all.

"Penny for your thoughts, Sambina?" Pop Pop Moe says softly, settling down onto the couch beside me. Schlemiel immediately abandons my lap for his, the traitor, and Moe chuckles as he strokes the cat's back.

I sigh, leaning my head back against the cushions. "Just… thinking about how things have changed, I guess. About how much harder it is to tell the good guys from the bad guys these days."

Moe hums thoughtfully, his fingers finding that one spot behind Schlemiel's ears that makes him start to purr like a little motorboat. "You know," he says after a moment, "back in my day, we didn't have all these shades of gray, or so they said. The heroes were heroes, the villains were villains, and that was that, wasn't it?"

He gestures towards the old wooden bookshelf in the corner, stuffed to bursting with yellowed comics and dog-eared pulp novels. "Ah, here it is. Like this one - 'Green Lantern/Green Arrow: Hard Traveling Heroes'. It was groundbreaking stuff back in the day."

He leafs through it, almost silently. "It's a little clunky nowadays, but I think it'll be good for you."

I frown. "But how does that help when the bad guys are out there pretending to be good? When they've got everyone fooled?"

"That's exactly what this story tackled," Moe says, pulling out one of the bigger books on the shelves. "Green Arrow challenges Green Lantern to look beyond just fighting supervillains and confront real social issues. They deal with corruption, racism, abuse of power - sound familiar?"

He looks at me then, his eyes serious behind his glasses, and hands me the book. "These heroes had to question the very systems they were part of, Samantha. They learned that sometimes, doing the right thing means standing up to the people in charge, even when it's hard."

I swallow hard, feeling a sudden lump in my throat as I look down at the cover.

Moe continues softly, "You keep fighting. You keep shining a light into the darkness, even when it seems like no one's listening. You stay true to what you know is right, even when the whole world's telling you you're wrong."

He looks at me then, his eyes serious behind his glasses, and hands me the book, like he's expecting me to read it and digest it. "And you lean on your friends, your family, the people who know the real you. Because you can't do it alone, Samantha, darling. No one can. Truth is the ultimate disinfectant."

I swallow hard, feeling a sudden lump in my throat. I look down at the cover.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes with an incoming message. I glance down at the screen, seeing Jordan's name pop up.

hey sam, got some new intel from one of my sources. the pals have been getting some major funding from a shell corp, looks like private prison $$. meet tomorrow to go over details?

I take a deep breath, feeling a new sense of determination settle over me. This is it. This is how we fight back, how we start to turn the tide.

I tap out a quick reply. I'll be there. time to pull some threads and see what unravels.

I look up to find Moe watching me, a small smile playing around his lips. "Duty calls?" he asks quietly.

I nod, pocketing my phone and standing up. "Always," I say, trying for a smile. "Thanks for the talk, Pop Pop. I think… I think I needed to hear that. And thanks for the book, too. I'll read it."

He waves a hand, shooing me off. "Go on then, Sambina. Go save the world. But don't forget to grab some of your mom's fish on your way out, you're still a growing girl."

I laugh then, feeling lighter than I have in days. "I won't forget," I promise. "Got to keep my strength up if I'm gonna be punching grown men."

Moe grins, wide and bright. "Damn straight. And take some challah too, your dad's really outdone himself this year."