The journey to the Delaware Valley Defenders' HQ is a relatively quiet one, with only my thoughts for company, and the gentle bump of the taxi against Philly's varying potholes and uneven roads. The cold, sharp wind, which nips at my cheeks from the open window, is a far cry from the sterile environment of the hospital. But it's a welcome change, a touch of the real world. I finally feel free.

Philadelphia's skyline looms over me like the tallest trees as we pass through the roads, and I ask the taxi driver to drop me off somewhere close, but not exactly, where the headquarters is. The low murmur of distant chatter follows me as I near our base, blending seamlessly with the ambient noise of the city into a fly-like buzz at the back of my head. As I step closer to the building, the noise shifts. It's almost like entering another world, everything falling away as I get closer to the edge of civilization, where developers and zoning conflicts have prevented any reconstruction, leaving brick walls slaked with graffiti and dirt.

From the outside, the headquarters could be mistaken for any other warehouse in this part of town. The chipped paint, aging brickwork, and scuffed up loading dock give it a well-worn appearance. But the moment I push the entrance open, at least after wrestling with the key, the illusion shatters. No abandoned warehouse has such a sparkling clean airlock. The front door takes a moment to seal behind me, and I press my phone up against the digital lock, where it registers the signal with a quiet chime.

The inside feels more like a gym than a secret superhero base. Low ceilings are illuminated by overhead fluorescent lights that cast a bright, white glow over everything. The familiar hum of those lights acts like a homey welcome. The small lobby, and its surrounding hallways and side-offices, is mostly empty, but I can hear the distant thud of fists against bags, soft chatter, and the clang of weights being set back into place.

I make my way to the locker room, where I find Playback, lounging on a couch, earbuds in, looking uncharacteristically relaxed in the midst of a training session. His lean form is sprawled out, one leg kicked up on the couch, while the other dangles down. He's lost in whatever tune is filling his ears, his head nodding along to the rhythm. For a second, I consider just turning around, not wanting to disturb the calmness. But I need the team. I need to share.

I reach over to pull out one of his earbuds, I speak, "Hey, Play. Can we call a team meeting?"

Playback looks up at me, a single eyebrow raised, his easygoing demeanor morphing into one of slight concern. "You good, Pup? You look like you've been hit by a train," he says, glancing first at the large gauze pad across my nose, the boot around my ankle, and the bandages wrapped around my leg and arm. Then, he probably notices that I'm still wearing hospital pyjamas under my t-shirt.

Yeah, I came straight from the hospital, and yes, I should be in school. I was already in the neighborhood, and, I don't know, I didn't want to risk getting intercepted. I already cleared it with my parents, and they were cool with it, since it wasn't like I was going to go get into another fight. I was turning the footage over to the proper authorities, just like they told me to do. "Did you get hit by a train, girl?"

"No," I answer without following up. "Oh, I can regenerate, too. Found that out."

"Cool," Playback replies quietly. I've never exactly been the chatty one, but I get the impression from his gaze that something about my specific kind of quietness today is freaking him out. He steps up to the intercom against the wall, thumps his chest twice, and clears some phlegm before clicking it on. "Uh, all Young Defenders active, please come to the locker room. Bee has something extremely important for us. Thanks," he speaks as professionally and matter-of-factly as I think his body can physically manage.

The locker room has always been a sanctuary, a space of sweaty gear and playful banter, but today its walls seem to vibrate with a palpable energy. There's a blend of concern and curiosity that fills the air as the Young Defenders assemble, each casting their own aura upon the mix. I can feel them -- their spirit, their hesitations -- even before my eyes confirm their arrival. Thankfully, nobody's bleeding, and this is just from me hearing their footsteps.

Gossamer, every inch the graceful spirit she's named for, sweeps into the room. Her dark hair cascades down her back, neatly bound in a tight ponytail. She stops momentarily, letting her gaze drift over me, and there's a playful glint in her eyes that I've grown fond of. "Bee," she starts, trying and failing to hide her grin, "Blue and white? Very much not your colors. Did they run out of brown and black at the hospital?"

"Something like that," I shrug, but before I can expand, I'm interrupted.

Playback, ever eager to divert attention to himself, lifts a leg, showcasing a pristine sneaker. "All this fuss over Bloodhound and no one even notices my new kicks!" He feigns hurt, clutching his heart dramatically. "I thought we were a team."

Puppeteer, not missing a beat, replies with a smirk, "Maybe if they had a 'kick me' sign, Play, they'd get the attention they deserve."

Gossamer chuckles, sidling up to him. "Maybe they're just too quiet. Not your usual style, right? Going for the stealth approach now?"

Playback tosses his head back in mock offense. "Hey, just because I have the loudest powers doesn't mean I can't appreciate the subtleties of a good sneaker."

Crossroads is the last to enter, remaining distant from the playful exchange. But even he can't completely hide a twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. The tension in the room lightens for a moment, the banter offering a brief respite from the storm that no doubt awaits us.

Playback, already making himself comfortable, reclines on a bench, his lanky form stretched out, with his arms casually folded behind his head. He has that mischievous glint in his eyes that always precedes one of his jests. "Hey Bee," he calls out, the sarcasm palpable in his tone, "I can't believe you're trying to one-up us all. Next time you're thinking of getting shot or stabbed, can you schedule it for your days off? Some of us want you in one piece here."

Gossamer snorts at that, interjecting with a playful prod, "You're just jealous she's getting more action than you lately."

Playback throws his hands up in mock defense. "Hey, I get plenty of action. It's just more of tha fun kind," he says, before swatting his ear and flinching in pain as Puppeteer yanks on it, like a grandmother trying to discipline their child.

Puppeteer, who's been silently observing the exchanges, clears her throat, stepping in as the voice of reason and wisdom among the ragtag group. "Alright, enough with the comedy routine, you two. Let's remember why we're here." With a hint of concern evident in her eyes, she turns to me. "Seriously, Bee, are you okay?"

I nod, appreciating her genuine concern amidst all the playful ribbing. "Been through the wringer, but I'll pull through. Thanks, Pup. Where are the other three?"

"Out on patrol," Playback and Gossamer say at the same time, with nearly the same cadence, as Puppeteer's mouth opens in preparation of answering. She turns around, cheeks puffed out, hands on her hips, and glowers at them.

Crossroads' posture is subtly defensive as he leans against the locker room doorway, his expression hidden behind a mask of stoicism. The others may chat and jest, but he always seems several steps ahead, or perhaps several steps apart. His dark eyes sweep the room, moving from face to face, processing more than any of us realize. It's unsettling. He just gives me a nod of acknowledgment, and moves on, tracing out silhouettes that don't exist yet, looking people in the eye where they will be five seconds from now, rather than where they are now.

Playback, seemingly undeterred by the weight of the moment, nudges Gossamer with his elbow. "You think Bee's suit would look good with a patchwork theme?" he asks, his eyes dancing with mischief.

Gossamer chuckles, giving him a playful shove. "Don't give me ideas, Play. I've got enough work as it is. But, Bee," she says, turning to me with a sly grin, "You do seem to have a knack for… standing out."

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Puppeteer sighs at their antics, no smiles, only a flat neutrality. "Cut it out. Bloodhound is in hospital jawns and called a meeting. This is serious."

"Is there a place that accepts computer carts?" I say, holding up the small little USB-C chit with a single hand, clutching it between my fingertips.

"Yeah, the dispatch room. Follow," Puppeteer says, snapping her fingers twice to get everyone's attention. Crossroads is already ahead of us, opening the door and scooting first down the halls, while I follow the other three, limping slightly behind. Not because I'm hurt - it feels fine - but just because that's kind of the only way you can walk with an ankle boot on.

We transition from the cozy confinement of the locker room to the expansive space of the dispatch room. Here, a sprawling array of state-of-the-art computers gives the room a luminescent, almost otherworldly feel. The light from the screens casts a cerulean tint over everything, contrasting the natural light that tries to filter in. Puppeteer, already in command mode, gracefully takes a seat at the central console, her fingers dancing with anticipation above the keys. They're old fashioned - sleek plastic, the kind you'd buy maybe in the early 2010s, with rounded white edges and an aluminum casing in between the keys.

I reach into my pocket, feeling the hard plastic of the memory card. The small memory card rests heavy in my hand, its physical weight seemingly disproportionate to its actual mass. As I turn it over, catching the gleam of the metallic contacts, I'm reminded that it holds more than just data. It's a crystallized moment, a fragment of time. My body takes a deep, steadying breath without me, the gravity of the situation pressing down on my lungs. Slowly, I extend my hand, offering it up to Puppeteer. "Here," I whisper, my voice barely audible even to myself, "I think you guys need to see this." She receives the card with a certain grace, her movements calculated and delicate. Not a single word passes her lips, but her intense, dark eyes convey volumes. They're locked onto the card, seeing past its immediate exterior, undoubtedly pondering the repercussions of its contents.

Puppeteer looks at me, her normally confident gaze carrying a hint of something I can't quite place - pity? Concern? Maybe both. She gives me a small, reassuring nod before sliding the card into the computer. The machine hums briefly before the screen blinks to life, ready to display my nightmare.

The room, once filled with the gentle hum of chatter and playful teasing, falls silent. The weight of the situation seems to press down on us, making the air dense. Playback, usually the one to crack a joke or lighten the mood, simply leans against a desk. His brow furrowed, he keeps shooting glances between the screen and me. Gossamer pulls up a chair beside Puppeteer. Her usually deft fingers play absent-mindedly with a stray thread on her meticulously crafted costume. "Never thought Bee'd be getting into the spotlight so soon," she comments, attempting to bring a hint of levity. "Just wish it wasn't like this."

Playback snorts, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Spotlight or not, we're here for her. Even if she insists on getting all Hollywood on us with her dramatics."

"I am literally in this room with you," I remind them, curling up the hem of my shirt into my fists. Normally, I appreciate the lighthearted taunting, but right now it feels… I don't know, not exactly cruel, but there's something wrong about it.

Puppeteer shoots them both a silencing look, but there's no real heat behind it. "Focus," she murmurs. But it's Crossroads who truly unsettles me. He's always been the quiet one, the one who seems miles away even when he's right in front of you. Now, though, he's just staring, blankly forward, watching the footage before we're even playing it.

As the atmosphere grows thick with anticipation, Playback, unable to resist his comedic inclinations, breaks the tension. He sidles up beside Puppeteer, playfully craning his neck to get a closer look at the computer setup before us. "Is that a Windows 98?" He teases with feigned shock, shooting me a conspiratorial wink. "C'mon, Pup. Maybe something from this decade next time?"

Puppeteer, ever the picture of composure, barely reacts to Playback's jest. Instead, she raises a perfectly arched eyebrow and flicks the cart in her hand like a well-played card in a high-stakes game. Her voice, dripping with playful sarcasm, responds, "Think you could track down a more secure, unhackable system than this vintage beauty?" A hint of a smirk plays at the corner of her lips, challenging him. I think it's actually Windows 7.

Without waiting for another jest from Playback, Puppeteer carefully slides the memory card into a designated slot on the computer, one of about a dozen USB-C jacks. The machine, despite its archaic appearance, all smooth angles and white plastic, hums softly in anticipation, like it's spooling up, ready to unload. As she initiates the playback, the room's ambient lights dim, either by design or some subconscious consensus among the team. The screen becomes our sole focus, casting an ethereal green glow across the faces of the gathered. I glance backwards to see Crossroads at the light switches.

Okay, that answers that.

The footage begins to roll, and the gritty details of the Dobson Mills incident become all too real on the screen, the room's atmosphere grows even more oppressive. It's as if we're all collectively holding our breath, waiting for the inevitable fallout. The weight of everything in the footage, the drone zipping through the air, followed by it slowing down to quiet its rotors and slipping in through a broken window, feels oppressive. It weighs down on my chest. It's grainy, distorted at the edges, and bathed in an eerie night vision green. The figures move like phantoms across the screen, their identities hidden behind the spectral glow, yet still somewhat discernible. The center of the scene captures Mudslide, the green hue making him seem even more otherworldly and menacing than I remember.

My pulse quickens, each beat echoing loudly in my own ears. I knew what was coming, having lived through the trauma once. Yet, watching it unfold again, especially knowing that my comrades' eyes were on it too, felt like a blade twisting in my stomach. Their reactions, silent but palpable, intensified the experience.

Playback, attempting to break the tension, or maybe to distance himself from the chilling reality, cracks a joke. "You'd think with all the tech these days, we'd get HD quality on this." His voice carries the familiar playful tone, but it's underscored by a nervous energy.

Unlike the footage, the audio quality is good. Uncomfortably good. "You have to kill him," "Ice the motherfucker," "Gimme a gun," "We don't have room for regular run-of-the-mill purse snatchers in the Kingdom," every sentence is captured in crystal clear quiet sound, muffled only by distance and orientation, and the gentle background noise of the drone's rotors beating.

Any semblance of levity evaporates when the footage shifts, tilting a little bit with adjustment to capture the captive's untimely demise, but missing the silhouette of Mudslide actually performing the deed. Gossamer gasps quietly and covers her mouth. "How about thirty feet deep, smartass?" Mudslide asks off-screen, and Gossamer looks away at the resulting sound - like mud being sucked down a vacuum hose. Her usually pale knuckles take on a ghostly hue, revealing the tension that courses through her, her entire body squeezing shut as she avoids looking directly at the crime in action.

Crossroads, as was often the case, appears lost in a different world. The usual distant expression on his face takes on a sharper focus. He doesn't move an inch, yet there's a palpable shift in his demeanor. His dark eyes, usually languid, now dart back and forth with alarming speed, flickering like a candle in a gusty wind. Each movement is quietly frantic, like he's trying to read a book none of us can see. Then, they calm down, and I have to wonder to myself what exactly he just saw.

An almost tangible pressure builds within the room. It feels constrictive, as if the very walls are moving inwards, aiming to press the life out of us. The screen casts a ghostly illumination, and the silence is, as they say, deafening, without any sounds of the captive's struggle left behind. It was a jarring switch from the playful banter of moments ago to the bleak reality unraveling before us.

Playback, ever the vocal one, finally interrupts the suffocating silence. His voice is uncharacteristically shaky, void of his usual humor. "I.. Damn."

Puppeteer's voice chimes in next, wavering slightly in a way I've rarely heard. "Mudslide. That's that amateur you managed to put away once, isn't it, Bloodhound? How'd he manage to evade jail again?"

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I reply with a murmur, feeling the weight of everyone's gaze on me. "I'll get around to explaining that."

Gossamer's reaction is subtle, her usually vibrant voice barely rising above the haunting sounds emanating from the computer. Her whisper struggles against the overwhelming cacophony of the audio, as if fighting to be heard. "This sucks," she murmurs, her fingers unconsciously fidgeting with a strand of her hair. "I don't like it."

My breath feels trapped in my chest, a tight knot of anxiety. I force myself to inhale, and as I exhale, my gaze drifts to each team member in turn. Playback, Crossroads, Puppeteer - each of their eyes holds its own ocean of emotion. But amidst the waves of shock and disbelief, I recognize something familiar in their depths: a reflection of my own horror and anger, mirrored back to me. It's a silent acknowledgment, a united front against the savagery on the screen.

Crossroads, often lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, breaks his typical silence. His voice carries a softness, yet there's an underlying urgency that's impossible to miss. "Grim," is all he says, but it's enough. The singular word holds the weight of a thousand, echoing the sentiment of the room.

Puppeteer, our unspoken leader, seems to take a moment longer than usual to process. Her dark eyes, which often dart around with calculated precision, linger on the paused screen, lost in its implications. Without a word, she reaches out, her fingers hesitating for just a second before pressing down on the pause button, moments before Mr. Nothing obliterates the drone with his gun.

The movement arrests the footage, but the room remains ensnared in its ambiance. The dim light casts eerie silhouettes against the walls, deepening the prevailing sense of unease. It feels as if the entire space is holding its breath, like a storm cloud pregnant with rain, threatening to burst any second. "I think the… adults are going to want to see this." The low hum of the room is interrupted as Puppeteer, with deft fingers, taps a series of keys, bringing the intercom to life. "Would the Delaware Valley Defenders present today please come to the conference room?" The precision in her voice is unwavering, but there's an underlying urgency I recognize.