I am officially losing my mind.

I am sprawled out on my bed, back against the wall, laptop balanced on my stomach, watching the emergency city council session like it’s some kind of slow-motion train wreck. The room feels smaller than usual, like the walls are creeping in by millimeters, like my suspension is physically altering the space around me. I can’t leave. I can’t do anything. I am stuck. And outside of this room, people who don’t know what they’re doing are about to make decisions that are going to screw everything up even worse.

On-screen, the council chamber is packed, and everybody looks exactly like I feel—exhausted, wired, vaguely nauseous. There’s a long wooden table, arranged with perfect, fussy symmetry, nameplates, water bottles, microphones, all meticulously placed so that everything looks just right for the cameras. There are fourteen council members total, which is too many people for a table like this, so a couple of them are visibly craning their necks to stay in the frame. They don’t matter. Only three of them are going to say anything worth listening to.

Councilman Ward starts. He looks like he was drawn from memory based on the words "senior law enforcement official," the kind of guy who probably uses the phrase "law and order" unironically. He clears his throat into the mic, folds his hands together, and leans forward like he’s about to deliver a eulogy.

"This council has always prioritized public safety. What we saw yesterday was an attack—on our city, on our institutions, and on the people we are sworn to protect. The use of the emergency alert system to spread terror is unprecedented. The infiltration of our communications infrastructure is a violation of every principle we stand for." He lets that sit for a second, like it’s the kind of thing that could stand on its own without being backed up by literally any specifics.

Then he exhales, shaking his head just enough to be visible. "I want to be absolutely clear. We will not allow fear to dictate our actions. We will not be intimidated. We are in control of this city, and we will act decisively to ensure nothing like this ever happens again."

I roll onto my side and press my forehead into my pillow for exactly two seconds before forcing myself back up. I already knew it was going to be like this, but hearing it out loud is making my ribs ache again.

Davis is next - the one I like, the adult in the room. He has to sound responsible. Measured. Ready to handle the superhuman situation. That's his job, after all.

"We owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to the first responders who acted quickly to ensure the public's safety. I also want to acknowledge the civilian eyewitnesses who provided crucial information, ensuring law enforcement could act effectively. This city has always been resilient, but we cannot afford to be complacent. The presence of metahuman organizations operating outside the law presents an ongoing security concern, and yesterday’s events illustrate the importance of continued coordination between registered heroes and law enforcement."

He pauses, his expression shifting just slightly, like he’s trying to find the next set of words without accidentally revealing what he actually thinks. "That said, while we must remain vigilant, we must also remember that not all metahumans are our enemies. Rogue Wave does not represent the hero community. It does not represent the future of this city. But if we do not act with clarity and purpose, we risk allowing others to define that future for us."

Jordan would have a field day with this. The careful threading of the needle. The unspoken but obvious suggestion that some metahumans might be a problem. The studied neutrality of it all. He’s trying not to tip the scales too hard, because if he does, the press will be on him like vultures.

Then, finally, Maya Richardson.

She’s been sitting still this whole time, not reacting, not shifting, just waiting for the other two to get their words in before she takes over. And when she does, it’s like the energy in the room changes, not because she’s loud—she’s not—but because she knows how to make people listen.

"What we saw yesterday was not simply a disruption. It was a declaration of war." She says it evenly, like it’s just a fact, something as simple and obvious as it’s raining outside. "Rogue Wave is not a gang. They are not criminals in the way we have traditionally understood them. They are an insurgency. They are organized, they are ideological, and they have just demonstrated that they are willing to use any means necessary to push their agenda. This is not a problem that can be addressed with conventional enforcement methods alone. If we are to meet this threat, we must be prepared to think differently. To act differently."

She pauses. Just long enough for the weight of it to settle.

"I will not stand here and pretend that we can solve this problem overnight. But I can promise that we will not sit idly by while our city is threatened. This afternoon, we will be holding a press conference to introduce a new initiative, one designed to meet this challenge head-on. We will not wait for the next attack. We will not allow criminal organizations to dictate the terms of engagement. This city belongs to its people. And we will take it back."

My fingers curl tight into the blanket. Here it comes. The Kingdom fights back through her.

Ward leans back in his seat, nodding sagely, like she just confirmed something he already knew. "We’ll now open the floor to questions from the press," he announces, gesturing broadly at the rows of reporters packed into the chamber. Immediately, hands shoot up.

"Councilwoman Richardson—" A woman in the front row speaks first, her voice crisp, professional. "You said this initiative will involve acting preemptively against criminal organizations. Does this mean we’ll see an escalation of law enforcement activity against suspected Rogue Wave operatives?"

"Law enforcement will continue to do its job," Richardson replies smoothly. "But it is clear that we need a broader approach—one that does not rely solely on reactive policing."

A man in the second row cuts in, voice sharp. "Can you confirm reports that Rogue Wave has infiltrated local security firms or the police department?"

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

Richardson doesn’t blink. "We are investigating all possibilities. At this time, we have found no conclusive evidence to suggest large-scale infiltration. However, we are not dismissing the possibility."

Another journalist, younger, leans forward. "There are concerns about the legality of any preemptive measures. Will these actions involve extrajudicial force?"

Davis is the one who answers this time, his voice measured. "We are committed to upholding the law. Any initiative we introduce will be fully compliant with all applicable regulations and oversight mechanisms."

Jordan would be dying laughing right now. Fully compliant. Like that means anything.

A fourth reporter stands. "Can you confirm the identities of the individuals involved in the Rogue Wave transmission? Are they still in custody?"

Ward clears his throat. "The individuals used in the broadcast were identified as two low-level drug offenders with no prior violent history. They were subjected to coercion and did not act of their own free will. Both individuals are currently in custody, and negotiations are ongoing regarding their legal status."

"Negotiations," I mutter, closing my eyes. Meaning they haven’t figured out whether they’re going to prosecute the people who were literally used as puppets.

The questions keep coming. The answers keep being exactly what they were meant to be—calm, measured, saying nothing while sounding like they’re saying everything. And I sit here, stuck in my room, my hands clenched into my blanket, feeling the world move without me.

This afternoon, Richardson’s going to announce whatever this is. This afternoon, the city changes again.

I eat my grilled cheese while watching the press conference, and it’s the worst grilled cheese I’ve ever had, even though it’s actually fine. Probably because it’s accompanied by the slow, gut-churning realization that I am watching history happen, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.

The screen is filled with carefully arranged optics. Richardson is at the podium, framed by the kind of government-seal backdrop that makes everything look official and inevitable. Behind her, four heroes stand like chess pieces—Patriot, stiff as ever; Turbo Jett, practically vibrating out of her skin; Miasma, lurking at the edge of the stage, unreadable behind his hoodie and hazmat suit; and someone new.

He’s big. Broad. Black. The kind of person whose sheer presence demands space, even though he doesn’t seem to be doing much to take it. A long duster over slacks, domino mask, a hat pulled low over his face. And a scarf—a big, red scarf that seems to just exist in a constant state of dramatic billowing, even though there’s no wind. I don’t know him, which immediately makes me nervous.

Miasma being here also makes me nervous, but in a different way. I’d worked with him before, back when things were… well, not simpler, because things were never simple, but at least the lines felt clearer. And now he’s standing behind Richardson like a soldier at attention.

Something about this doesn’t sit right.

Richardson grips the edges of the podium like she’s grounding herself, scanning the cameras and reporters in the crowd. She’s good at this. She doesn’t have a single hair out of place, her expression is perfectly controlled, and when she speaks, it’s with the kind of deliberate weight that makes people lean in. "Philadelphia is under siege."

I swallow a too-hot bite of grilled cheese and immediately regret it.

"For too long, we have watched as criminal organizations have embedded themselves into the fabric of our city. We have watched the Jump epidemic spiral out of control. We have watched gang wars escalate. We have watched as superhuman violence has spilled into our schools, our streets, our neighborhoods." She pauses. Just long enough. "And we have watched our systems fail to stop it."

I feel a weird, crawling itch under my skin. She’s not wrong. Not really. That’s the problem. The best lies are built on something true.

"We have tried waiting," she continues. "We have tried asking. We have tried trusting the system to fix itself. But crime should not outpace justice."

Patriot doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just stands there like a marble statue while she says it. I wonder what’s going through his head.

"We will not wait for another mass tragedy. We do not have time to wait for the bureaucracy to catch up to superhuman crime."

She’s pacing herself, letting each sentence land. Setting up the pivot. "This is not just a policing matter. This is a war. And wars are not won by standing still."

She exhales, slow, measured, and then straightens, shoulders squared. "We need action. And that is why I am proud to introduce the next phase in Philadelphia’s security—Argus Corps."

I set my plate down too hard, rattling the laptop.

"Argus Corps is the answer to this crisis. A specialized, government-sanctioned task force dedicated to eliminating the infrastructure that allows these criminal networks to thrive. We do not wait. We do not ask permission. We go in, and we take what we need."

I close my eyes for half a second.

"We do not believe in being reactive. We believe in preemptive deterrence. That means identifying threats before they happen. That means using intelligence, not just force. That means ensuring that criminals have nowhere to hide."

Oh, they workshopped the hell out of that one. Nobody wants to say "extrajudicial force" out loud. Sounds bad when you say it out loud. So you dress it up, make it sound smart, reasonable, like the only logical choice.

Richardson gestures behind her. "The heroes standing with me today are among the first members of this initiative. Some of you already know them. Some of you will soon." She moves her hand slightly, indicating her four pet superheroes. "Patriot, Turbo Jett, Captain Devil, and Miasma. These are our founding members, but we will be looking to bolster our numbers soon."

Captain Devil. Sounds like a minor league baseball team mascot.

Turbo Jett visibly rocks on her heels, practically daring someone to ask her something so she can explode about it. Miasma doesn’t move at all. I want to know what he’s thinking.

Richardson presses forward. "Now, I want to be clear about what Argus Corps is, and what it is not."

This is the part where she heads off the pushback.

"We are not here to police the innocent. We are not here to register every powered individual, nor criminalize those who have done no wrong. We are here to eliminate the structures that allow crime to flourish. We are here to remove the barriers that prevent law enforcement from acting decisively. We are here to ensure that this city does not fall into the hands of those who would see it burn."

She lets that sit. Lets people imagine exactly what "those who would see it burn" means. Lets them fill in the blanks with whatever they’re most afraid of.

"The people who sell Jump & Fly, Rogue Wave and the Kingdom of Keys, those who hide in the shadows—they are watching this broadcast too." Her voice dips, just slightly. "And they are afraid."

The camera zooms in just a little, like it knows this is the moment.

"If you are one of them, if you think you can hide—you can’t. We see everything. And we are coming."

The screen holds for half a second before the Q&A starts, reporters launching into their questions. I hear many, many people shouting the name Patriot, not in a good way, before the crowd of journalists is hushed down into a polite, orderly silence. Maya nods to one of them, and I miss the question over the sound of crunching toasted bread, but not the response.

"While we're aware of the allegations surrounding Patriot, you can rest assured that he is being kept on an extremely short leash. All of them are. The Argus Corps will be how they make amends and better their communities - all people deserve that much, if they're willing to do good by society."

I shut my laptop and scream into my pillow.

It doesn’t help.