In the dimness of the alley, we quickly strip out of our civilian clothes, donning our respective costumes with practiced ease. As I pull on my padded body armor, feeling the familiar weight settle across my shoulders, I can't help but steal a glance at Maggie as she changes.

She's a shock of color, even in the autumn gloom, her costume a mishmash of bright red sports equipment - shin guards, elbow pads, a battered bike helmet. Her eyes gleam behind thick goggles, her face obscured by a black cloth facemask. She looks like a cross between a roller derby player and a post-apocalyptic road warrior, and I feel a sudden rush of pride at the thought that she's my partner, my trainee.

I try not to stare as she wriggles into her costume, my cheeks flushing beneath my own wolf-shaped helmet. I don't sit on the feeling. We are going to proceed to shove that way down and forget about it.

"Looking good, Bloodpuppy," she says with a grin, flashing me a cheeky salute. I try not to wince at the same nickname I've heard from dozens of petty criminals and a handful of supervillains. "Ready to go kick some ass?"

"You know it, Flashpoint," I reply, using her newly-minted hero name. "But let's take it slow tonight, yeah? This is your first real patrol, and I don't want you biting off more than you can chew."

Maggie rolls her eyes, but I can see the excitement practically vibrating off her. "Yes, Mom," she snarks, her voice muffled slightly by the mask. "I'll be a good little hero, I promise."

I chuckle, reaching out to give her shoulder a friendly punch. "Hey, I'm serious. Being a hero isn't all fun and games. It's dangerous work, and I don't want you getting hurt on my watch."

Her expression softens, her eyes meeting mine through the lenses of our masks. "I know, Sam. I'll be careful. I promise. But you gotta promise me the same thing, yeah? No stupid risks, no playing the lone wolf. We're a team, right?"

I feel a sudden lump in my throat, my chest tightening with emotion. "Yeah, Mags. We're a team. Always." I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay, rookie. Let's hit the streets. Keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you. If you see anything suspicious, you let me know. Don't engage unless I give the word, got it?"

Maggie nods, her body practically thrumming with eagerness. "Got it, boss. Lead the way."

As we step out of the alley and onto the darkened streets, I can't help but feel a sense of trepidation mixing with the usual pre-patrol adrenaline. The city feels different tonight, charged with a strange energy that prickles at the back of my neck. Maybe it's just the news about Maya Richardson's impending election, the thought of a known criminal gaining legitimate power. Or maybe it's something else, something deeper - a sense that the game is changing.

Maggie, on the other hand, seems to be completely tuned in to all the little oddities and rarities around us. In the early November light, kids are all out, constantly adjusting their jackets or holding bits of their costumes from last night, with Maggie pointing out the occasional kid in a recognizable costume from some show or another, but I have to confess that I don't really recognize any of them. Our cultural touchstones are different, but she doesn't seem to mind filling me in.

"So did you ever read Johnny the Homicidal Maniac as a kid?" She asks at some point over the course of our walk. I can't say that I have.

"Oh, man, it's wild. Super violent, but it's this whole metaphor for intrusive thoughts, isolation, and the search for meaning by its writer. It was the first really mature thing I ever read when I was little - made me realize maybe stories could be more than just good guys and bad guys and violence."

"That's pretty cool," I say, nodding, not wanting to rock her boat. "I mostly just read Baby-Sitters Club and, like, comic books. My grandpa's comic books. And textbooks."

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed that." She says as we turn a corner, making our way further into Mayfair. "You seem more au courant than that. Don't take offense, Sam, but you don't really strike me as a follower. I get leader vibes off you."

"I don't really get what energy you're talking about." I say, matter-of-factly. Half a block ahead, a gaggle of kids, all wearing jackets clearly fished out of a bin at the local thrift store, get in some kind of scrape; one of the kids gets shoved and falls off the curb onto the street, then immediately jumps up and starts chasing the giggling kid responsible.

"I mean that in a good way. I feel like people probably follow you around a lot. Like Jordan, or... Not me, really, but you know what I mean. It's magnetic and stuff." Maggie clarifies. It doesn't really help me get her point.

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"Well, now there's the Auditors, and you, and like the Young Defenders... But most of the time it's a loose social group. More of a, uh, kibbutz than a hierarchy. Besides, Jordan's always down to tell me how much of a pain in the ass I'm being."

"'Kibbutz'? Is that Hebrew?" Maggie asks, raising an eyebrow. I catch a whiff of something at a crosswalk while I put my hand out to stop her as we wait for a car to pass - something rank, sour, but kind of musty at the same time. I'm not sure what it is. Maybe sulfur?

"Yeah. Little socialist farming communes. I'm told they were, to quote my Pop-Pop, 'way cool'," I answer.

The light turns, we walk. I still smell it, even as we cross the street.

And then I look down, and Maggie's stepped in dogshit. Fresh, too, from the looks of it.

"Aw, beans," she mumbles.

---

As we make our way through the streets of Mayfair, I can't help but feel a strange mix of familiarity and unease. These are the same streets I've patrolled a hundred times before, the same rowhouses and corner stores I've passed by on countless evenings just like this one. But tonight, everything feels different somehow. Charged with a nervous energy that I can't quite put my finger on.

"You okay?" Maggie asks, her voice muffled slightly by her mask. "You seem kinda... I dunno, tense."

I glance over at her, trying to force a smile beneath my own helmet. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... thinking about everything that's been going on lately. With Richardson, and Patriot, and all the rest of it."

Maggie nods, her eyes sympathetic behind her goggles. "It's a lot to deal with, huh? I can't even imagine what it must be like for you, being in the thick of it all the time."

I shrug, trying to play it off. "It's not so bad. I mean, it's not like I'm doing this alone, you know? I've got the Delaware Valley Defenders, and the Young Defenders, and the Auditors..." But even as I say it, I can feel the weight of it all pressing down on me, making my shoulders sag. I guess Maggie can see it too, because I see her unimpressed, dubious expression even behind her mask and goggles.

"Anyway, I worked things out with Patriot," I say, trying to change the topic a little bit, using an extremely expansive definition of 'work things out'. "He won't be a problem any more, at least. We can just focus on the one thing."

Maggie's eyes widen behind her goggles, and then narrow. "You 'worked things out'? That sounds like a euphemism, Blood. Did you have a chat or did he beat the shit out of you again?"

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Well... it wasn't exactly a friendly chat. More like a knockdown, drag-out brawl. He wanted me to back off, to stop messing with his plans. I told him where he could stick it. Kicked his ass too."

Maggie's quiet for a moment, her gaze searching my face. "Sam... are you sure that's how it went down? Because I'm not gonna lie, those bruises on your jaw are telling a different story."

I feel a flush of shame creep up my neck, my hand unconsciously coming up to touch the tender spots where Patriot's fists had connected. "Okay, fine. Maybe it wasn't as one-sided as I made it sound. But I blew his shoulder open, maced him, and bluffed him into concessions. And broke his nose, I'm sure. I can come back from that, he'll be the one with a fucked up nose for the rest of his life."

She nods, her expression sympathetic. "I believe you, Sam. I know how tough you are. But you don't have to do this alone, you know? You've got people who care about you, who want to help. Like me. And Jordan and the others, if I'm too green for you."

I feel a sudden lump in my throat, my chest tightening with unforeseen misery. "Yeah, I know."

She reaches out to lay a hand on my shoulder. "I'm volunteering as your sidekick. Right?"

I can't help but laugh at that, the tension in my chest easing slightly. "Okay, okay. I guess I can't argue with that logic."

I could, but I don't want to. I'm just filled with a pervasive, all-consuming exhaustion. I wish I could have a vacation.

We continue on our patrol, winding our way through the quiet streets of Mayfair. I point out various landmarks as we go, sharing stories of minor incidents and events that have happened in each spot. The corner store where I once stopped a shoplifter, the alleyway where I helped a lost kid find his way home. Little things, but they all add up. They all matter.

"Y'know, for somebody who's probably gonna be a big hero someday, you sure spend a lot of time on the small stuff," Maggie muses as we turn down another side street. "Like, don't get me wrong, I think it's great. But most of the heroes I've read about in comics and stuff, they're always fighting these big, flashy battles against supervillains and monsters and stuff. You're out here giving out band-aids and walking little old ladies across the street. No offense."

I shrug, a small smile tugging at my lips. "None taken. Here's the thing, Mags: being a hero isn't just about the big fights and the flashy powers. It's about being there for people, in whatever way they need you. Sometimes that means taking down a supervillain, sure. But sometimes it just means lending a helping hand to someone who needs it. Supervillains are bad for your life expectancy. The world's first superhero spent - spends - all his time doing, like, climate change stuff in flood-prone areas. No supervillain fights at all. I try to keep an 80/20 time ratio of rescuing cats to fighting--"

As if on cue, a plaintive meow cuts through the evening air, drawing our attention to a nearby tree. There, perched precariously on a high branch, is a scrawny tabby cat, its yellow eyes wide with fear.

"Speak of the devil," I mutter, already moving towards the tree. "Come on, let's see if we can get this little guy down."

Maggie follows close behind, her head tilted quizzically. "Uh, Sam? Not to be a downer, but how exactly are we gonna do that? I don't know about you, but I left my climbing gear at home."

I grin, tapping the side of my helmet. "Don't need it. I've got a plan."