The ancient TV in the Music Hall flickers to life, its picture grainy and occasionally distorted by static. We're all gathered around it like it's some kind of modern-day campfire, our faces illuminated by its blue-white glow. Jordan's sprawled out on the couch, their legs dangling over the armrest. Connor's perched on a rickety recliner that Jordan has since amateurishly reupholstered, his lanky frame folded up like some kind of human pretzel. Tasha's on the floor, leaning against my legs as I sit cross-legged on top of an old milk crate with a pillow on top of it.

The news anchor's voice fills the room, a constant drone of numbers and percentages that make my head spin. I try to focus, to make sense of the flood of information, but it's like trying to drink from a fire hose.

"And we're projecting that Democratic incumbent Samuel Rodriguez will win Pennsylvania," the newscaster's voice cuts through my thoughts, drawing my attention back to the present. "This puts Rodriguez over the top, securing his re-election as President of the United States."

A cheer goes up from our little group, though it feels somewhat hollow given our failure on the local front. Still, it's something to celebrate, I suppose.

"At least we don't have to worry about President Dipshit for another four years," Jordan mutters, their voice a mixture of relief and lingering frustration. "Take that, you stupid Republican bastards!"

Connor rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of a smile on his face. "You know, not all Republicans are evil, Jordan."

"Name one that isn't," Jordan retorts.

"Arnold Schwarzenegger?"

"Are you sure you're not thinking of someone else? That's the guy that played the Terminator," Jordan replies, flicking Connor in the head. "He doesn't do politics."

I tune out their bickering, focusing back on the TV. The anchor's moved on to the congressional results now.

"…in a surprising turn of events, it appears the Democrats will retain control of the Senate, possibly even expanding their majority by one seat. However, the House of Representatives is projected to flip to Republican control…"

A collective groan goes up from our group. "Great," Jordan mutters. "Two years of gridlock and endless investigations. Just what the country needs."

I feel a knot form in my stomach. It's not the worst-case scenario, but it's not great either. I think about all the people who might be affected by this change - the families struggling to make ends meet, the kids who rely on social programs, the environment that's already hanging by a thread. It makes me feel small and helpless, like no matter how hard we try, we can't really change anything.

"Hey," Tasha says softly, nudging my leg. "You okay?"

I force a smile, nodding. "Yeah, just… thinking."

She gives me a knowing look but doesn't press the issue. On the TV, they're talking about the factors that influenced the election.

"…analysts are pointing to several key events that shaped this election cycle. The series of terrorist attacks by the so-called 'Philly Phreaks' in August certainly played a role, as did the aftermath of the highly publicized Chernobyl trial. But perhaps most significant has been the rise of 'Fly'-powered criminals across the country, bringing suburban anxieties about crime to the forefront of many voters' minds."

I feel a pang of guilt at that. We tried so hard to stop the spread of Fly, but it feels like we barely made a dent. And now it's affecting national politics? It's almost too much to wrap my head around.

"However," the anchor continues, and something in her tone makes us all lean in closer, "a last-minute development may have prevented a total Republican sweep. I'm speaking, of course, about the now-infamous 'Homecoming Video'."

My breath catches in my throat. On the screen, grainy cell phone footage starts to play. I recognize it immediately - it's me, at the school dance, facing off against Patriot. I watch, feeling oddly detached, as he throws me across the room, as I get back up, as we trade blows that would have killed a normal person. Well, as he trades blows to me for free, and I get, like, one hit off.

"The video, which shows known vigilante 'Patriot' viciously attacking a teenager at Tacony Charter Academy High School's homecoming dance, went viral just days before the election. This, combined with the revelations from an anonymous Philadelphia whistleblower site, caused a significant shift in public opinion."

Jordan reaches over, squeezing my hand. I squeeze back, grateful for the support.

"The impact was further amplified by the sudden disappearance of Richard Johnson, the man believed to be behind the 'Patriot' mask. Other members of his organization, known as 'Pattinson's Pals', have refused to comment, citing legal advice. The entire movement seems to have deflated overnight, leaving many to speculate about what might have caused such a dramatic downfall."

I exchange glances with Jordan and Connor. We know exactly what happened, of course. The memory of that night in the warehouse, of the fight with Patriot, is still fresh in my mind. The sound of his bones cracking under my fists, the look of defeat in his eyes when he finally yielded… it's not something I'll forget anytime soon.

It's something I think about every day. On purpose. Because it felt great.

"Some pundits are speculating that this counter-backlash may have been the only thing that prevented a total Republican victory on the national stage. The footage of a grown man attacking a teenage girl seems to have struck a chord with many voters, particularly in suburban areas where concerns about violent crime were already high. The recent 'Halloween Tapes' and the Californian alligator incident may have also contributed to blunting what seemed like overwhelming Republican momentum on the local level."

Connor lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Sam. You might have just saved democracy."

I snort, shaking my head. "Yeah, by getting my ass kicked on camera. Not exactly how I planned to change the world."

"Hey, whatever works," Jordan shrugs. "Maybe next time we need to swing an election, we can just arrange for you to get punched by increasingly ridiculous supervillains. 'Local Teen Defeats Man Made of Bees, Film at 11'."

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

That gets a laugh out of all of us, easing some of the tension that's been building all night. But it doesn't last long. The anchor's voice draws our attention back to the screen.

"And now, turning to local results…"

I feel my stomach clench. This is it. The moment we've been dreading all night.

"In the special election for Philadelphia's vacant City Council seat, the results are in. With 100% of precincts reporting, Maya Richardson has secured a decisive victory, winning approximately 81% of the vote."

The room goes silent. I feel like I've been punched in the gut. We knew this was coming, we knew our efforts probably wouldn't make a difference, but hearing it confirmed… it hurts.

"Despite some last-minute rumors about her business dealings, Richardson's campaign message of community investment and urban renewal seems to have resonated strongly with voters. Her opponent, Richard Duvall, conceded the race earlier this evening, citing what he called 'insurmountable differences in vision for the city'."

Jordan snorts. "Yeah, his vision of turning Philly into some kind of fascist police state didn't quite catch on. Who'd have thought?"

I nod absently, still processing the news. Maya Richardson, supervillain and probable crime lord, is now an elected official. She has power, legitimacy. And we couldn't stop it.

"Well," Connor says after a long moment of silence, "I guess that's that. What do we do now?"

I look around at my friends, these amazing people who've stood by me through all of this. Who've risked their lives, their freedom, their futures, all because they believed in what we were doing. Because they believed in me.

"We keep fighting," I say, surprised by the firmness in my voice. "Richardson might have won this battle, but the war's not over. We know who she is, what she's capable of. We'll keep watching, keep digging. And when she slips up - because she will slip up eventually - I'll be there."

Tasha nods, her expression determined. "Damn straight. She might think she's untouchable now, but we'll prove her wrong."

"Hell yeah," Jordan adds, raising an imaginary glass. "To the Auditors. May we always be a thorn in the side of corrupt politicians and supervillains everywhere."

We all laugh at that, the tension breaking a little. But as the laughter dies down, I feel the weight of everything settling back onto my shoulders. It's been such a long, exhausting few days. Weeks, really. Months. Sometimes it feels like my whole life has been leading up to this moment, and now that it's here… I don't know. I just feel tired.

I look over at Jordan, who's watching me with a knowing expression. "Hey, J?" I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, Smalls?"

"Remember that deal we made? About what would happen if we didn't find anything by election night?"

Jordan's eyebrows shoot up. "Haha, alright, man. It's your funeral, Smalls."

I nod. "Yeah. I think… I think I need to not think for a while, you know?"

Jordan studies me for a long moment, then nods. They reach into their pocket, pulling out a small glass bowl and a baggie of what I assume is weed, or oregano. "Alright, but we're doing this right. Outside, fresh air. And you take it slow, okay? I don't want to be responsible for Shark Girl getting the munchies and eating half of Philly."

I manage a weak laugh at that. "Deal."

As we head for the door, Connor and Tasha exchange glances. "Uh, should we…" Connor starts.

"You guys can come if you want," Jordan says over their shoulder. "It's legal now, you know. They put that on the ballot, like, two years ago."

They nod, understanding. As Jordan and I step out into the cool night air, I hear the TV still droning on inside, more election results, more analysis, more noise.

We find a quiet spot on the roof, away from prying eyes. The city stretches out before us, a sea of twinkling lights and shadowy buildings. Somewhere out there, Maya Richardson is probably celebrating her victory. Planning her next move. But right now, in this moment, I can't bring myself to care.

Jordan hands me the bowl, already packed and ready. "You sure about this, Sam? No judgment if you change your mind."

I take it, turning it over in my hands. "Yeah, I'm sure. Just… walk me through it, okay?"

They nod, pulling out a lighter. "Okay, so you put your mouth here, like this. When I light it, you inhale slowly. Not too deep at first, just a little. Hold it for a few seconds, then let it out. Easy peasy."

I follow their instructions, the smoke burning my throat as I inhale. I cough a little as I exhale, but it's not as bad as I expected.

"How do you feel?" Jordan asks, watching me carefully.

I shrug. "I don't know. The same, I guess?"

Jordan grins. "Yeah, that's about right. Want another hit?"

I nod, and we pass the pipe back and forth a few times. The city below us starts to blur, the lights smearing into streaks of color. I lean back, looking up at the stars. They seem brighter somehow, more alive.

"You know," I say after a while, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears, "I always thought I'd feel different after my first time smoking weed. Like, I don't know, more rebellious or something. But I just feel… tired. Really, really tired."

Jordan nods, their eyes a little glassy. "That's the indica for you. Good for relaxing, not so much for fighting crime."

I snort out a laugh. "Indica-girl…"

"I'm pretty sure that's an actual hero in Cali. I'll have to get back to you on that,"

We both dissolve into giggles at that, the absurdity of it all hitting us at once. When we finally catch our breath, I find myself staring out at the city again.

"Do you think we made a difference?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. "With all of this, I mean. The investigation, the whistleblower site, everything. Did it matter at all?"

Jordan is quiet for a long moment. "I don't know, Sam. Maybe not in the way we wanted it to. But look at what happened with Patriot. Look at how many people saw that video, how many minds it might have changed. That's something, right?"

I nod slowly. "Yeah, I guess it is. It's just… I wanted to save the city, you know? To be the hero. And instead, I'm sitting on a roof getting high while a supervillain celebrates her election victory. It feels like I failed."

Jordan reaches over, squeezing my hand. "You didn't fail, Sam. You fought. You're still fighting. That's what matters. The rest… we'll figure it out as we go. We always do."

I squeeze back, feeling a rush of affection for my friend. "Thanks, J. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably get into a lot less trouble," they say with a grin.

We lapse into comfortable silence after that, passing the pipe back and forth a few more times. The night stretches on, the sounds of the city fading into a distant hum. I feel myself drifting, my thoughts becoming loose and disconnected.

I think about Maya Richardson, wonder what she's doing right now. Is she celebrating with champagne in some fancy penthouse? Or is she already in a dark room somewhere, plotting her next move? I think about Patriot, wonder where he disappeared to. Did he really give up, or is he just biding his time? I think about all the people who voted today, all the lives that will be affected by these decisions.

And then, unbidden, I think about Liberty Belle. About the video of her final confrontation with Chernobyl, the one that ended up being so crucial in his trial - one way or another. I wonder what she would think of all this. Would she be proud of us for trying? Disappointed that we couldn't stop Richardson? I wish I could ask her, could get her advice one more time.

"Hey, Jordan?" I say, my voice sounding thick and slow.

"Mmm?"

"Do you think Liberty Belle would be disappointed in me? For… for this?" I gesture vaguely at the pipe, at the city, at everything.

Jordan is quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if they've fallen asleep. But then they speak, their voice soft and serious.

"I think… I think she'd understand, Sam. I think she'd see how hard you've been trying, how much you've been carrying. And I think she'd tell you that it's okay to take a break sometimes. To be human."

I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, and I blink them away furiously. "Yeah," I whisper. "I hope."

We fall silent again after that, lost in our own thoughts. The night wears on, the sky gradually lightening as dawn approaches. I know we should go back inside, that we have school tomorrow (today?), that there's still so much to do. But for now, I'm content to sit here, surrounded by the city I've sworn to protect, with one of my best friends by my side.

Then, we run out of weed. The sun starts coming up, slowly peeking over the horizon.

"Come on," I say, nudging them gently. "Let's go inside. We've got work to do."