BEGIN ARC 9: SHEOL
It's been weeks since the zoo siege, and I still feel like I'm walking around with my fists clenched, waiting for something to swing at. I keep telling myself it's just the adrenaline left over from that night, the kind that sticks to your bones long after it's supposed to be gone. But here I am, restless as ever, pacing around in the Tacony Music Hall, flipping a tooth over and over in my hand like a poker chip, or a copper-y coin.
Every day feels the same now--school, train, patrol, sleep, repeat. And with Maggie stuck at home recovering, it's mostly been just me out there. Sometimes with Jordan. Sometimes with Derek in the morning. Sometimes with Connor in the evening. Tasha likes to fly drones out. I catch glimpses of everything, sure, but it's like everyone's starting to drift. It feels like everyone's got a "next step" but me.
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It's a Saturday afternoon, and I'm lounging in one of the beat-up armchairs in the Music Hall, flipping through my phone. The sunlight's streaming through the dusty stained-glass windows, casting these weird, distorted patches of color all over the floor. Jordan's pacing back and forth, waving their arms around as they talk. They've been going on about MIT for the past ten minutes, and honestly, it's hard to keep up with their excitement.
"...and they're giving me a full ride!" Jordan's practically bouncing as they say it, eyes shining. "Do you know how rare that is? Like, statistically?"
I glance up, raising an eyebrow. "I don't even know what 'statistically' means half the time, so... no."
Jordan snorts. "Well, it's rare. This is MIT, Sam. They don't just hand out full rides for fun. It's because they see something in me."
They flop down onto the couch across from me, grinning. I want to be as excited as they are, but something about it feels like a reminder, like an invisible line's being drawn that I'm on the wrong side of. Instead, I manage a smile. "So you're really going for it, huh?"
Jordan hesitates for a second, then nods, looking at me almost apologetically. "I mean... yeah, it's a huge opportunity. Plus, they've got this whole lab just for researching new tech for superhuman stuff. Maybe I could actually do something useful for us, you know? From, like... the other side of things, if the computer stuff works out."
"Yeah, sure." I force myself to keep smiling, nodding along. "That's... that's awesome, Jordan."
"Hey." Jordan leans forward, giving me this look like they're trying to read my mind. "You know this doesn't mean I'm abandoning you or anything, right? We're still... you know, the Auditors."
I shrug, trying to play it off. "Yeah, of course. It's just... you're moving on to bigger and better things, and I'm... well, I'm still here, I guess."
Jordan's face softens. They reach over and give my arm a nudge. "You're doing important stuff, Sam. Don't act like you're dead or something. You're, like, out there every night keeping this neighborhood from falling apart the best you can."
I roll my eyes, but there's a flicker of pride in my chest, even if I don't want to admit it. "Yeah, I guess. Just feels like everyone's moving on, and I'm... still punching the same people in the same alleys."
They laugh, and for a second, it's like nothing's changed. But the moment doesn't last. Jordan's phone buzzes, and they're up in an instant, lost in a flurry of texts and plans, leaving me alone with my thoughts again.
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Later that week, I'm at Maggie's house, sprawled on her bedroom floor while she sits propped up against a pile of pillows on her bed. She's still moving slow, holding her side whenever she laughs too hard or shifts too quickly, and it drives her nuts. It's almost funny watching her try to be patient. Almost.
"So," she says, huffing as she adjusts the pillows behind her. "I heard you were patrolling alone again."
I shrug, keeping my eyes on the ceiling. "It's not like there's a line of people waiting to jump in. Jordan's busy, Connor's... Connor, Derek is a werewolf 50% of the day and it's winter, and you're still out of commission. What am I supposed to do, sit at home?"
She narrows her eyes at me, like she's trying to read between the lines. "You know you don't have to do everything yourself, right? We're supposed to be a team."
"Yeah, well, hard to be a team when the team's scattered all over the place," I mutter, feeling a little sharper than I mean to.
Maggie sighs, wincing as she shifts again. "I'll be back out there soon. My ribs are healing, just... slower than I'd like. And besides, maybe you need the practice, huh? Might teach you a thing or two about patience."
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
I snort. "Patience? Me? You're hilarious, Maggie."
She grins, but there's something softer in her expression, almost like pity, which makes me want to crawl out of my skin. "I'm serious, Sam. You've been carrying this whole thing on your shoulders for way too long. You don't always have to be the one holding everything together."
I don't respond. Instead, I roll over onto my stomach, picking at the carpet fibers and trying not to think too hard about what she's saying. It's easy for her to say, sitting there with her busted ribs and her supportive parents and her house that doesn't feel like it's gonna collapse any second. But me? I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have this. I can't even go back to soccer.
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The following weekend, I'm back at the Music Hall, catching up with Connor, who's filling me in on the latest in his adoption saga. He's practically vibrating with excitement, his lanky frame stretched out across the couch as he talks about his soon-to-be "real family."
"They've got this huge backyard!" he says, eyes wide. "Like, big enough for a trampoline and a fire pit and... and maybe even a treehouse or something. I mean, how cool is that?"
I try to smile, but the whole thing feels surreal. "That's, yeah, that's cool, Connor."
He doesn't notice the edge in my voice. Or maybe he does, but he's too excited to care. "And they've got a dog. His name's Max, and he's, like, this big fluffy mutt. He's probably the only thing there as hyper as me."
I chuckle, trying to imagine Connor with a dog. It's not hard. "Guess you're trading in the vigilante life for suburban bliss?" I ask, trying not to make it sound weird.
Connor looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, I'm not gonna stop, like, completely. Just, you know, maybe ease up a little. They're not exactly jazzed about the whole 'spandex and saving people' thing, so I gotta keep it low-key for now."
"Right. Makes sense," I say, nodding along, even though the words feel like cotton in my mouth.
Connor gives me a worried look, and his voice softens. "You know, Sam, you don't always have to do this, either. You could I don't know, maybe take a break? Let someone else handle it for once."
I force a smile. "Yeah, I'll take a break when Philly runs out of people who need saving."
He laughs, but I can tell he's not convinced. And, honestly, neither am I.
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I don't mention any of this to my parents, of course. They'd probably just tell me I'm overthinking things or that it's "part of growing up" or some other cliché. But it's hard not to feel the gap widening, not just between me and my friends, but between me and... I don't know. Normal life, I guess. Every night I go out on patrol, it's like I'm digging myself deeper into something I can't just walk away from, even if I wanted to.
There's this restlessness in my chest, this constant itch to be out there, doing something, anything, that makes a difference. School feels like a formality at this point, just an obstacle between me and what I really need to be doing. But everyone around me is looking forward, making plans, talking about the future, while I'm... still here.
The Kingdom of Keys has been quiet. Too quiet. It's like Philly's holding its breath, waiting for something to go off. I've been in this gig long enough to know that villains don't just disappear, not unless they're planning something. And with all the chaos lately, it feels like the whole city's a stack of powder kegs waiting for a single spark.
Take Jump, for instance. The stuff's everywhere now, like the city's been painted with it. Police are cracking down harder than ever, but it's not stopping anything. I heard a couple guys on the corner near Frankford Ave. talking about someone who went nuts, full-on attack mode, just because somebody asked where they got it from. People know about Rogue Wave now, and their curiosity is getting them killed. We already have people that have gotten choked out from this.
Hopefully the gyre of proper investigations will uncover some dirt?
Ha ha.
And then there's the frogs. The poison dart frogs the Kingdom took from the zoo--no one knows what they're planning with them, barely anyone even knows they took them, and the not-knowing is driving me nuts. A dozen dangerous frogs missing from the zoo, the Kingdom lying low, Jump everywhere, and rumors of Rogue Wave's name making people lose their minds. I can feel something heavy in the air, this kind of prickly sensation crawling up the back of my neck every time I'm out on patrol. Philly's tense, and it feels like I'm the only one who cares enough to notice.
With all that simmering in the background, I've been taking out my frustration the only way I know how: training until I can't feel my muscles anymore.
Today, it's just me in the Music Hall's old practice space. Jordan and Connor are off doing... whatever it is people with futures do. Maggie's at home, still healing up. Derek's chained up in his own basement. Tasha is here but sleeping on the couch. So here I am, alone in the cold, hitting an ancient punching bag until my knuckles are raw and every inch of me feels wrung out and sore.
I've set up a makeshift obstacle course in the hall, jumping over crates and sliding under beams that Jordan rigged up with some old chains and scrap wood. It's not the most high-tech setup, but it works. Keeps my mind focused, keeps me sharp. Plus, there's a nice satisfaction in the raw, physical work. I punch, jump, roll, hit the bag again, throw myself into a corner, jump again, climb up on a ledge--it's endless. Over and over, until the sweat's pouring down my face, my arms are trembling, and my head feels blissfully, finally, empty.
But it doesn't last. It never does. As soon as I slow down, catch my breath, that empty space fills up with everything I've been avoiding: the quiet of the Kingdom, the creeping danger of Jump, the thought of everyone moving on while I'm just... here. I slam my fist into the punching bag again, harder than I meant to, and it swings wildly, threatening to snap the old chain holding it up.
"Get it together, Sam," I mutter, glaring at the bag like it's the problem.
I've been telling myself that a lot lately. I'm not sure it's working.