Jenna's eyes catch mine. They're like fireworks, bursting with mischief and a glittering sort of anticipation. She raises her hand. "I wanna try my luck against the beer goddess over here," she declares. The irony is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

A wave of laughter sweeps through the assembled crowd, a sound that sears this moment into the fabric of adolescent memory. It's a collective chuckle, one that nails down the good vibes hovering over this party like a cloud of confetti. It feels good. It feels... right?

Compared to getting stabbed, this is proving to be an almost enjoyable Saturday night.

"I accept your challenge," I say, tilting my head back for theatrical effect. Someone nearby pours beer into the cups as if filling the Holy Grail itself, a couple of times over.

Time slinks by. The night is long, and though my winning streak is a mile wide, it's about as satisfying as a paper cut. My bladder feels like it's training for the Olympics, and every swig of beer I take is a reminder of why I hate it. It's bitter, foul, a liquid punchline that's getting old real fast. Even not accounting for the fact that I'm not getting drunk at all, my mouth is a noxious mixture of sticky and sore, like the liquid itself is eroding at my gums. It feels bad!

I catch Jordan's eyes. They're glazed, lost in a fog that's more than likely a mix of THC and sheer boredom. They're standing by the sidelines, seemingly disengaged from the entire beer pong circus taking place. I mentally bookmark a reminder to talk to Jordan, ASAP.

Having put Jenna and another would-be champion in their respective places, I finally step back. The applause that trickles in behind me is like a soft jazz outro, validating yet understated. I weave my way through the bodies and faces, a blur of colors and scents, until I reach Jordan.

Jordan greets me in the most Jordan way possible, with a fragrant plume of weed smoke, so dense it could challenge a fog bank. It envelops me as I walk closer. It's almost like stepping into another atmosphere, one that's a bit more relaxed and a lot more hazy, with all sorts of people in half-effort Halloween costumes a month early joining Jordan in the smoking.

"Miss me?" I ask, my words relaxed and a little sticky in my mouth. I lean against the porch railing beside them, feeling the cool wood press against my arm through my robe's sleeve.

Jordan takes a slow, deliberate exhale, expelling a stream of smoke that dissipates into the night air. They finally turn to look at me, their eyes a bit glassy but focused. "You're looking remarkably sober for someone who's just put away enough beer to float a boat," they remark.

I can't help but laugh at that. "That's because I am sober. Shockingly sober, actually. Turns out, I think my regeneration counts alcohol as 'a thing that can injure me', just like a bullet. Or at least that's my guess. Really, the worst thing is just the beer taste."

"Yeah, it tastes like piss," they reply, staring out into the Philadelphia night. They chuckle, a low, throaty sound that gets swallowed by the cacophony of the party behind us. Then their gaze drifts back out to the dark expanse of the lawn, momentarily illuminated by the occasional flash of someone's phone camera. "Some days, Sam, I find myself envying the simple nature of your life."

"Simple?" I arch an eyebrow, unable to determine if I'm surprised or offended.

Jordan shakes their head, a wistful smile crossing their lips. "Okay, fair point, not simple. But straightforward. Linear, even. You're like an arrow, flying straight at whatever target you've picked. Or a laser beam."

I ponder their words, staring at the chipped paint on the railing. "Or maybe I'm just a dart," I muse, "always gunning for the bullseye. Wobbly. Uh... often thrown by other people?"

Their laughter resumes, lighter this time. "Well, you'd be the first dart I've ever encountered that possesses the ability to bite clean through metal."

The night air feels a little cooler now, like the atmosphere itself is absorbing the warmth of our conversation. We both stand there, our shoulders almost touching, wrapped up in a bubble of genuine friendship amid a sea of superficial interactions. For all the noise, all the laughter and the music pumping from the speakers, this brief moment feels like the only slice of reality in a night built on pretenses.

And I can't even get drunk to forget it.

----------------------------------------

While most eyes at the party are on red plastic cups or Instagram-perfect moments, I can't help but notice Maxwell moving through the crowd like a guardian angel with a hidden agenda. At first glance, he's just another teen at a high-school party, but the way he's operating is too calculated to be casual. Every so often, he'll hone in on someone, eyes narrowing as if he's reading the trajectory of their night in a heartbeat. Then, with the grace of a choreographed dancer, he slips in, diverting them into a conversation, a game of pool, or even just outside for a breath of fresh air. It's like he's defusing social landmines before they even know they're about to go off. The guy might as well have a neon sign above his head that says, "I see your future, and it involves puking and regret."

It's hard not to be intrigued, especially when those keen eyes of his keep flicking over to Jordan more and more as the night wears on. Maxwell isn't subtle when he grips my elbow and guides me into a spare bedroom, dragging me over from the porch once I've lost sight of Jordan, flicking the lights on with purpose. "Close the door," he mutters. I oblige. It clicks shut, sealing us off from the laughter and music in the other room. My heart's hammering a mile a minute, and I'm aware of everything.

Thankfully, I haven't had to put my blood-sense to use tonight. Nobody's cut themselves on anything. But I can still feel every vein inside of me, just from the cardiac pressure.

"Sam, we need to talk," Maxwell says, his voice slicing through the distant hum of the party like a fine blade.

I cut him off, not even bothering to mask my irritation. "Look, if this is about me not getting wasted out there, trust me, it's not from lack of trying." I can practically hear his eyes rolling, even if I can't see it in the dim room. Or maybe it's just because I can't look him in the face.

Maxwell exhales sharply, a sound of frustration that turns my attention back to him. "No, Sam. That's not what this is about." He pauses, as if contemplating how to say what comes next. "It's about Jordan. Safeguard. They're the same person."

The air turns thick and heavy. My heart skips a beat. I freeze, my eyes locking onto his. For a moment, it's like he can see the future, see the words forming on my lips before I've even spoken them. I feel his disappointment even before I decide to speak. "Yeah," I admit, my voice carrying an undercurrent of sheepishness and shame. "Yeah, I know."

For a fraction of a second, Maxwell's eyes narrow, sharpening like a hawk spotting its prey. But then there's a flicker there, understanding? acceptance, maybe? It softens his gaze. "You knew," he echoes, and it doesn't come out as a question.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, an uneasy dance. "Yeah," I confirm, letting the word hang in the air between us. "Known for a bit now."

Maxwell's arms cross over his chest, the sleeves of his Superman costume, twenty bucks at the Spirit Halloween, straining against his biceps. "And you didn't think it was important to tell anyone?" His voice edges towards incredulity, tinged with a dash of disappointment that I didn't expect. I feel like I just disappointed my dad, which is always the worst feeling.

I swallow hard, the guilt knotting itself up in my stomach. "I didn't think it was my place," I offer up hesitantly, picking at the bandage on my knuckle. It's a lame excuse, and I know it, but it's the only thing my frazzled mind can produce.

Maxwell uncrosses his arms, his hands falling to his sides as if letting go of some invisible weight. "Sam, this is not just about keeping secrets. It's about trust. You think you can handle it all by yourself, but that's not how this works," he pauses, letting the words sink in. His gaze is steady, but his voice carries an edge that suggests he's struggling to keep his emotions in check.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I wince at his words, my eyes dropping to the floor. My shoe nudges an old LEGO piece - who it belongs to I have no idea, since Lilly is the youngest and I know she doesn't like LEGOs. For a brief moment, it serves as a distraction, pulling me away from the miserable conversation I'm currently stuck in. "Look, Max, I've been out there with them, as the Big Bad Wolf. Safeguard's not all bad," I say, forcing myself to lift my eyes back to his. "We've been cleaning up the streets together, doing good, I swear. I promise."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Sam."

"Max," I reply, turning away from him.

"I'm not going to haul you in for questioning, Sam. I know you're scared that you're breaking the rules," he says, sighing and sitting on a fresh, new, smelly couch, glancing out the window into the backyard porch. He pulls a coin out from somewhere in his pockets and holds it out to me. "I know this because I'm cheating and reading the conversation in advance. I keep a coin with me just for that."

"I'm not..." I start, not sure what I'm objecting to. I hear the ping of a coin being flipped and caught.

"You are scared of being arrested," He says. Ping!

"You're scared of being rejected by me, and the rest of the Young Defenders," He says. Ping!

"You're scared of hurting other people," He says, catching the coin in his palms. "I respect the candor of all of your branches."

"That's so unfair," I mumble, folding my body up.

"It is. That's why I try not to use it. I can polarize almost any situation into something readable by my powers by just committing to a coin flip beforehand, and having that sort of access really fucks with your ability to socialize with people," He says, flipping the coin again. Ping! "Yes, that's why I don't talk a lot. I get it, Sam."

"What do you get?" I look completely away from him, towards the door.

"The urge. I have to stop myself every time I want to use my powers so casually, for personal enrichment. I was given this so that I could do something good, not so I could save-scum my life. And you get the urge too. The need to use your powers. Not a physiological urge or an addiction but the need to do something with what you're given. I get it."

I sigh. "You didn't even flip a coin that time."

"I didn't need to. You're extremely unsubtle," He says, stone-faced. "Look. I'm not going to make you do anything. You can be a vigilante. I won't even tell the other Young Defenders, because, Lord knows, I keep all their secrets, too."

"Did you know about Liberty Belle beforehand?" I ask, smashing the mood with a hammer. I see his face tilt down in the corner of my eye.

He sucks in air between his teeth. "...No. She kept it hidden extremely well. She has access to police resources, which means she's read my file, which means she knows how my power works. I don't know if she went out of her way to avoid it or if she's just that good, but I was as blindsided as everyone else was."

"You, blindsided?" I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckles, his voice low and slow. "I was blindsided 15 minutes before you and Puppeteer started fighting. Then, it was just a matter of holding it in."

My entire body feels a little heavy, and I realize to my immense displeasure that being immune to getting drunk I don't think renders me as immune to getting high. I'm talking too much. I shouldn't have given up the ghost so easily. I feel disappointed in myself. "Did you see this coming? Like, this conversation?"

"I can't see that far ahead. I can see about two hours into the future, but it's asymptotic, it's super blurry past the first fifteen minutes. And I can't chain my power into itself... so I'm really here to be a buzzkill like Emily said," he explains, staring at a ceiling fan, slowly rotating overhead. "Whenever Emily is about to have a party, I flip a coin and commit to going on heads. That way, I can prepare if there's any immediate emergencies. I can do other polarized outcomes, too, like left or right - basically anything that splits a decision between one of two possibilities. Coins are just really convenient."

"Neat. Thanks for the lecture," I say, sincerely.

He smiles at me. "You're welcome."

We stare in various directions, never at each other, in silence for another minute or two. "They're really not bad," I say, eventually. "Jordan, I mean. They have a good heart. They really were just testing their powers when we fought, it wasn't out of malice or death or whatever. They just don't respect superheroes and didn't realize that I was just fourteen. That's what they said, at least."

"Do you believe them?" Max asks me.

I think about it. "Yeah. They've saved me from death enough times that I can't not believe them. When we first encountered the Kingdom - oh, sorry, it was both of us, not just me alone - they stopped me from getting shot. They keep me from getting hit even though I can walk it off every time we're out and about. They're just... cynical. They don't like the way things are. They don't like superheroes that work for the cops. Work with the cops. And... they shoplift."

"Mother, Mary, and Joseph. Shoplifting, really? Crazy," Max replies, sarcastically.

"I was really bugging about it for a week or two! But now they just... take their cut of the money we take from the bad guys we beat up. Drug dealer money. And dog fighting money. Gangster money. And they haven't had to shoplift for a while, and I believe them," I say, dumping the words off my chest like they're breakfast coming back up. "Is that so bad?"

"I'm not the person to ask about morality, Sam. I can't judge you. Only God can. Or, you know, whatever you believe in," he tells me. I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. "Can I flip a coin?" He asks.

"Sure. I appreciate you asking this time," I joke, but he does look a little hurt by it, so I give him a thumbs up. "Kidding. It's fine. You were fine the other times, too."

Ping!

He inhales through his nose and squints. "I'm Catholic, you're Jewish. We're having an extremely interesting and extremely off-topic discussion about our respective beliefs on morality and who can perform the act of judgment. I'd like to keep on-topic but feel free to come and actually have this discussion with me in real-time some other time," he rattles out, before opening his eyes back up.

"What the fuck."

"It's a cool party trick, huh?" he asks, trying to lighten the air. He leans a little bit further in on his seat, folding his fingers together. "Look. Like I said, it's not my place to judge. I think your intentions are pure and you are doing a good thing for the world - for your town, certainly. I wish, personally, that you would do so through official channels instead of picking fights with dangerous people, but you are your own person, and I cannot control you. That's not a path I want to go down."

His eyes flicker imperceptibly. I don't need superpowers to know that he's thinking about Puppeteer.

"More importantly, I believe you. And... I think we could use Jordan's help," He says, after another minute-long pause. I turn my entire body towards him, suddenly interested, suddenly a little angry for reasons I don't understand.

"In what?" I ask, trying not to sound upset.

He folds his fingers together a little further. "If what you're telling me is true - and I do believe you that it is - Jordan not only is familiar with the Kingdom, but has an extremely versatile power that is useful in keeping people alive in dangerous circumstances. Well, we have a lead, and we could use an unfamiliar face to help us investigate it. I have a feeling Jordan won't be interested in becoming 'one of us', but at the very least, we could ask them for aid in tracking down the Kingdom's operations in Philadelphia. And as the current acting leader of the Young Defenders, I'm willing to make this call."

"Wait, you're the leader right now?" I ask, my entire body freezing up at once. Oh my G-d. At any time he could very easily discipline me. Or kick me out. And he hasn't? Wait, he said a bunch of other shit - what else did he say? Jordan? Helping? "Sorry, not helpful--"

"I'm the oldest and most experienced out of the active members, and my power is most useful from a position on high. I was also the leader before Diane met Pup. I don't have any real compunctions about passing control down, but while Pup is indisposed, I am the leader, yes. But let's not get too off-topic - do you think you could reach out to Jordan? Do you trust them enough?" he explains, and then asks, standing up from the couch in a way that makes me feel like the conversation is coming to some sort of dramatic conclusion. His eyes bore into mine, and my heartbeat accelerates.

"Absolutely," I say without hesitation. "I trust Jordan with my life."

"Cool," Max replies, smirking at me. Ping! "You can come out now, Jordan. I know you're there."

"God fucking damnit fucking bullshit cheating stupid fucking precognition bullshit fucker cunt shit fuck," Jordan swears, stumbling out of a nearby closet and nearly falling onto the carpet. "You knew I was here the entire time."

"I was debating which empty room to have this conversation with Sam in, yes," Max says, trying to keep his composure - trying not to laugh.

Jordan's eyes are glazed, red, and puffy, and not just from weed. Clearly, they've been crying. "Samantha Small you are the nicest, dumbest, most naive, most optimistic, stupid dumb bastard I have ever met," they wheeze, leaning against the bedroom wall.

"I love you too," I say back, tousling their thoroughly gelled, spiky hair.

"It's hard to hear from inside a closet. Don't ask why I was in a closet. What was this about the Kingdom, and my powers being useful?" Jordan asks, stumbling to a standing position, cracking their knuckles. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not interested in working with cops, much less super-cops. But I am interested in getting payback on some smug cunts who tried to kill me. I'm not in this for your justice."

"That's fine. Do you like bars?" Max asks, folding his arms over his chest, looking particularly heroic.

"More than I like high schooler beer pong parties, that's for damn sure. Do I get to go to a bar if I play nice with some of your goody two-shoeses?" Jordan asks, fidgeting with their prop gun.

Max smiles, looking between the two of us. "Yes. Yes you do."

"Don't even give me more details. I'm in," Jordan says, putting a hand up in front of Max's face. "But what about shrimp here?"

"Sam, do you like bars?" Max asks, turning to face me.

I shrug. "I like danger, I think. Will there be danger at this bar?"

Max smiles, even wider. He grins, even, the first time I've ever seen that sort of expression on his face. "Danger and grenadine."