School lunch always feels like it exists in a completely different universe from the rest of my life. The fluorescent lights are a little too bright, the noise is constant, and nothing about it feels high stakes - just a room full of teenagers who are either half-asleep, half-starving, or halfway through a hyperfixation rant about their latest special interest. It's the one place where nobody cares what I've been up to, because whatever I've been up to is automatically less interesting than someone's latest speedrun attempt or the school's latest TikTok drama.

Jordan is midway through a story about MIT admissions, gesturing wildly with one hand while picking at a container of sushi with the other. Alex, on the other hand, is listening with the patience of someone who has heard this exact story five times already.

I stab my fork into my pasta. "Wait, why are you even at school today? I thought you finished all your assignments early."

Jordan waves a hand. "Oh, I did. I am completely done with high school. Academically, legally, and spiritually. But, you know, I like hanging out with you guys, and it gives me something to do all day."

Alex raises an eyebrow. "There's a billion things to do in this city."

"Yeah, but most of them involve money or effort."

I roll my eyes. "So, what, you're just gonna keep showing up to school every day even though you don't have to?"

"Hey, the way I see it, this is free entertainment. I get to loiter, annoy my favorite people, and watch teenagers struggle through the American education system in real-time. It's fascinating."

One of the goths - Spencer? Steve? I have no idea - adjusts their fishnet gloves and sighs dramatically. "I mean, if you have all this free time, you could at least, like, go get a job."

Jordan makes a face. "Ew. No."

Alex smirks. "You don't need to get a job when you can just commit minor fraud with your superpowers."

Jordan brightens. "Exactly. This man gets it."

I squint at them. "You don't actually, though, right? That's behind you, right?"

Jordan just grins.

I squint harder. "Jordan,"

Alex leans forward. "Okay, so, real talk - when do you actually leave for MIT? Like, do we get a couple more months of this, or are you disappearing soon?"

Jordan twirls their chopsticks between their fingers, thinking. "July? Maybe August? Depends on housing stuff. I already have my full ride, but I wanna see if I can finesse an even better deal before I fully commit."

The goth on my left - Milo? Max? - perks up. "Wait, better than a full ride?"

Jordan gestures vaguely. "I want a paid dorm. Food stipend. A research position within the first month. They're not gonna get rid of me, so they might as well just give me free money to exist there."

Alex laughs. "You are the most annoying person alive."

Jordan grins, still way too pleased with themselves. "And yet, you'd all be devastated if I left right now."

Alex snorts. "That's a strong word."

I open my mouth to add something - probably something about how MIT doesn't know what's about to hit them - when the first phone buzzes.

It's loud, but nobody really reacts at first, because it's just one phone, and a phone buzzing isn't a weird thing in a cafeteria.

Then another one goes off.

Then another.

Then a whole cluster of them, a discordant, harsh buzz that's way too aggressive for a normal notification.

People start shifting, pulling out their phones, frowning. The sound keeps spreading, more and more students getting hit with the same thing, the cafeteria filling with that horrible, grating alarm tone -

The Amber Alert sound. That's when the mood shifts - now it's not just one person's emergency. It's everyone's emergency.

I stiffen, already feeling my stomach drop as I reach for my own phone, my ribs protesting the movement. The screen is already lighting up, and I barely have to glance at it before I read the message: "ATTN ALL PHILADELPHIANS. TURN ON NBC10 NOW. WEB CAST OR TELEVISION. THIS IS NOT A DRILL."

Jordan's still holding their chopsticks midair, their expression frozen somewhere between mild interest and deep concern.

Alex lowers his fork, frowning at his screen. Around us, the cafeteria noise dips, the usual low-level chatter and clatter of trays giving way to a growing unease. More people check their phones. The alert sound keeps rippling outward, a slow cascade of realization spreading through the room.

A few teachers get up from their seats at the far end of the cafeteria, pulling out their own phones, checking the same message. I see Mr. Nunez, the chemistry teacher, mutter something under his breath before turning toward the staff lounge, probably heading for the TV in there.

The Amber Alert sound is still going. Someone at the next table laughs, nervously, like maybe this is some weird government mistake.

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But it keeps going. And it keeps going. And nobody knows what the hell is happening. For a long, long moment, the cafeteria is just buzzing phones and held breaths.

Then, finally, the noise cuts out - not all at once, but in waves, like whatever system pushed the alert is finally finishing its job. But the silence that follows is somehow worse.

Jordan, who has been completely still for the last thirty seconds, finally blinks. Looks at me. Looks at their phone. Looks at Alex. "Well, that's not good."

The cafeteria isn't loud anymore. It's wrong. The usual mix of shouting, laughing, scraping chairs, and people loudly complaining about how bad the fries are today has been replaced with something worse - a muffled, panicked hush.

Some phones are still buzzing, but it diminishes, one after another, first ones to start are the first ones to leave. Some people are fumbling with their phones, trying to unlock their screens with shaking hands, while others just stare at their laps, frozen, like maybe if they don't acknowledge the alert, it'll go away.

A few students have started crying, not loudly, but enough that I feel it before I hear it. Someone nearby is hyperventilating, breaths coming fast and shallow, the kind of breathing that makes your whole body lock up.

I get it. Are we about to get hit with a nuclear bomb? Do I have time to call my parents? I take a deep breath - if we are about to get nuked, there's nothing I can do about it. Breathe, Sam. I shift in my seat, ribs still sore, but that's not what's bothering me.

My blood sense is going wild, and I can see a good statistical cutaway of the entire lunchroom It's always uncomfortable in big crowds, especially when there are a lot of people with periods, open cuts, healing bruises - the stuff that leaks a little under the skin. Right now, it's worse. Heart rates are spiking everywhere. I can feel it, a rising tide of panic, pulses hammering too fast, too hard, like a collective thrum of dread sitting under my ribs.

I swallow, push past it, focus.

Jordan is already pulling up the stream, their hands moving fast but deliberate. I can tell they're keeping their own nerves in check, forcing themselves into problem-solving mode, but they're just as rattled as the rest of us. Alex is still gripping his phone but hasn't moved or blinked, like he's waiting for the moment where he wakes up from this.

Across the room, teachers are scrambling, trying to get people to stay calm, but it's not working. Someone yells something about going to the office, but nobody is moving. Nobody wants to miss what's coming next.

The cafeteria isn't a cafeteria anymore. It's a waiting room for something terrible.

Jordan mutters, "Come on, come on, load faster, you piece of - " and then the stream kicks in, and the room collectively stops breathing. I hear the chime from about 20 other phones more or less at the same time. We don't see the NBC10 newsroom. No desk, no anchors, no familiar background.

Instead, it's a cleared-out office space, something generic and bland - cheap carpet, exposed wiring, overhead lights that make everything look a little too bright, too sterile. Six people stand in the center of the shot.

And I recognize two of them immediately.

Monkey Business, front and center, looking exactly like he did at the marina - his stupid monkey mask, his body stretched out into a perfectly tailored suit, sitting on top of a desk with a stack of papers next to him. And another stack of papers on the floor. Even more papers. More than that. Like, a stupid amount, at least ten reams. Birthday Suit beside him, arms crossed, silent, imposing, and impossible to ignore, domino mask barely hiding her disdain.

Jordan inhales sharply beside me. I try to look at the four behind Monkey Business, but he and Birthday Suit are just covering them up with their bulk. I can only see bits as they shuffle around awkwardly, red and white and green and black. I don't even have time to process any of this before Monkey Business gestures to the camera with an easy, theatrical confidence, like he's hosting a game show instead of hijacking a major news station.

"Philadelphia!" His voice is bright, chipper, like this is the best day of his life. "Good afternoon, and thank you for joining us. We know you didn't exactly have a choice, but hey, sometimes the best surprises are the ones you weren't expecting, right?"

He spreads his arms, stepping forward, and the camera adjusts smoothly, like they've actually thought about framing, like this is produced.

"You may have heard of us," he continues, grinning behind his mask. "We call ourselves Rogue Wave."

The group spreads out behind him, dramatically. Practiced and rehearsed. Come on.

"To my right, you've got Rush Order, the best deliveryman an operation of this complexity could ask for."

Rush Order tips his head, still grinning, tapping two fingers against his temple in a lazy little salute. Lean, tall, broad, just like Birthday Suit, but if there's any muscle to him I can't see it. Bright red bomber jacket with more red underneath, slacks, a beret cocked at a perfect angle, perfectly circular orange-tinted glasses that catch the overhead lights just enough to be annoying. His grin is too sharp, too eager - he's thrilled to be here.

Jordan sucks in air through their nose. "What's with the Flash cosplay?"

"To my left, we have Dr. Snake Oil, the man who makes this all possible. Don't worry, unlike real snake oil, his drugs work,"

Snake Oil tilts his head, adjusting his glasses like he's barely tolerating this introduction. Stocky, broad-shouldered, wearing a rubber snake mask that's hiding the rest of his face. I think I recognize the exact mask from Spirit Halloween. White labcoat, teal shirt underneath, he looks exactly like the sort of person you'd expect to be trying to be a mad scientist.

Monkey Business keeps going, stepping between the last two. "Then we've got Dead Drop - tracker, hunter, master of staying unseen - "

Dead Drop doesn't react, just shifts her weight slightly, like she's calculating something, eyes invisible behind a domino mask. She's tiny, barely, what, 5'1"? She's wearing all black, looking all the world like Jordan's kind of person, a long-sleeve unitard with a cropped hoodie sitting on top of it, skull elbow pads, skull kneepads, gigantic spiked boots, gigantic spiked collar. Chains gently hover around her, coiling around her wrists and her neck like snakes.

"And finally, Jackpot, the luckiest guy you'll ever meet - if you're on his good side."

Jackpot, standing with his hands in his pockets, his vest and bowtie too crisp, too clean, freshly laundered, smirking like an idiot. His skin's tan and his hair is greased back, dressed up exactly like a casino dealer, bright red vest over a white button-down, crisp silk gloves, a thin, shitty little peach fuzz mustache that looks like he's been trying for months to grow something more impressive. Middle of the road, probably as tall as I am. He winks at the camera. Dead Drop elbows him in the ribs, and he lets out a muffled little "ow,"

Monkey Business claps his hands together, the sound too loud in the dead silence of the cafeteria.

"Finally, my name is Monkey Business, and this hot piece of ass next to me is my bodyguard, Birthday Suit. Now, here's the deal," He tilts his head, leaning slightly toward the camera. "We have hijacked this station with a suicide bomber carrying this very special VHS tape that you are now watching. This is a recording, not live."

My breath catches.

"If you don't want him to blow up NBC10," he continues, tone light, playful, like he's explaining the rules to a game, "then you'll all stay watching. Because here's the fun part - "

He wags a gloved finger.

"We're watching the viewership numbers. And if they drop too much? A beloved Philadelphian institution goes up in flames. Boom!"

He snaps his fingers for emphasis. I hear someone let out a choked little sob. Monkey Business leans back, delighted, spreading his arms like he's embracing the moment. "Now - let's get started."