"Just so you know, my parents said, no, they insisted that next time we hang out it be at my place. You know, so you can meet them, so they can make sure they approve of you and all that," I say, glancing in the full-body mirror that Jordan got from… somewhere, out in our Base of Operations, where nobody can see me. I stopped asking questions a while ago about where exactly Jordan sourced all the small improvements to our little cavern of schemes. The air is clean and dust-free, and there's even a fold-out couch bed now, for proper sleep.
Jordan snorts, smearing a dash of foundation onto a makeup sponge. "Oh, are we now at the 'meet the parents' stage of our supervillain-superhero relationship? How quaint."
I grimace as I pull a stubborn lock of my newly-dyed hair back into place. It's a darker hue than usual, aimed to make me look older, more mysterious, but right now I just feel like a kid playing dress-up. I was never meant to have blue streaks in my hair, even if those blue streaks would wash out with a shower. "Hey, they're worried. Can't blame them for wanting to make sure their daughter isn't hanging out with bad influences. Plus, it's not a superhero-supervillain thing, it's a friend thing."
"Bad influences, hm? Should I be offended?" Jordan steps toward me, makeup sponge in hand, and arches an eyebrow.
I shrug. "If the shoe fits. Or, in your case, if the spiky combat boot with six redundant buckles fits."
Jordan chuckles as they start dabbing the foundation onto my face. "Sit still, you twitchy little pooch. Let's make you look like you weren't just in high school yesterday."
I sigh, willing myself to relax under their ministrations. My newly-dyed hair cascades around my shoulders, and my eyes focus on the collection of bottles and makeup products scattered on the coffee table, while their phone flashlight shines in my face. We have lamps, but given that our sole sources of energy are battery packs and small solar panels designed to charge battery packs, light is a little bit at a premium here. The idea of infiltrating this bar almost makes me sweat as much as the light does, especially since, no matter how much makeup you put on me, I still look like a teenager.
"The key to a good cover is to blend in but not stand out. You have the young and innocent vibe going too strong, so we need to add some layers," Jordan says, moving on to eye shadow, carefully selecting a palette that screams 'nightlife' but not 'trying too hard'.
I chuckle nervously. "Layers, like an onion."
"Plus, this bar actually does allow… sixteen-year-olds inside. You'll get a stamp on the back of your hand that says 'no alcohol'. I simply need to present my driver's license," Jordan continues, giving a final swipe of the eyeshadow brush and ignoring my onion comment. "There. Open your eyes."
I blink my eyes open and meet my reflection. I look… different. Older, grimier, with edge. You could almost say "attractive," but I've never found my own features particularly enticing.
"Wow," is all I can manage.
"See? I told you. Makeup's like a superhero mask for civilians," Jordan says, capping the eyeshadow and moving on to the eyeliner. "Hold still. I swear, if you twitch and make me mess up, I'm blaming you once this inevitably goes tits-up and we need to make an escape guns blazing."
Holding my breath, I sit as still as a statue while Jordan works on the eyeliner, their hand steady despite their jesting threat. "You really think something will go wrong?"
"Absolutely. The worse I think it will be, the better it ends up. I am expecting the on-site nuclear warhead to get detonated, so anything below that is a success in my eyes," they reply, finishing the curling of the liner around my eyes. "There. Now you look like someone old enough to go to a nightclub. Just don't open your mouth and, like, say anything, you squeaky little hamster."
I laugh, puncturing the tension in the room with a needle. "How many mammals can Samantha Small be compared to in a single night? Let's count the ways."
"Okay, capybara," Jordan teases, taking some time to silently finish their own makeup, which is much more understated than mine. Except for the huge raccoon-like dark circles around their eyes, of course. We're dressed in nice clothes for once, by a given definition of nice, rather than in vigilante costumes or our school uniforms. Seeing Jordan in something other than Tacony Charter High's uniform feels… weird. Weirdly intimate. Like they've exposed themselves to me on some level, now that I'm seeing the way they dress outside of the spaces I know them.
My clothes aren't particularly flashy — a light tan sort of floral or filigree-ish lace pattern lies atop layers and layers of black and brown lace, almost looking like tiny slivers of skin running across me. Or, at least, it would if I were three or four shades darker than I am. While it's technically one piece of clothing, it's split into a skirt and shorts that sit right at my knees, and then a short-sleeve top that reveals most of my steadily developing arm muscles, connected at the middle with a small ring of unpleasant straps. My belly is just barely visible, which suits me just fine because, frankly, the more visible it is, the less comfortable I am.
And I'm wearing sneakers, because I've tried walking in high heels. Could not do it. Wasn't gonna work.
Jordan, on the other hand, dresses in a style that my friends would call "butch." In this elaborate hypothetical, I would gently push back on it because I have no idea if Jordan is allowed to call themselves butch or not, but they're certainly putting in a very good effort. A plaid, black-and-grey button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and black dress pants. Even in these far-less-baggy clothes, I am still not even an inch closer to determining what exactly Jordan's situation is, which is somehow something I haven't thought about in two weeks. Let's reset the clock, people, roll that "days since last contemplated Jordan's gender" counter back to zero.
Jordan grins, their eyes meeting mine in the reflection. I realize, perhaps too late, that I've been staring. "You good?" they ask, jabbing me in the forehead, their dress shoes squeaking on the floorboards.
"Ready as I'll ever be," I say, grabbing my purse. It has both of our phones and a couple of other fun surprises that Gossamer has made for us in the past few days. I fully expect it to make it through the bouncers.
"Alright! Let's go make some bad decisions," Jordan cheers, clapping me on the back.
----------------------------------------
The rusty hinges of the car doors protest with a drawn-out creak as Jordan and I close them behind us. I find myself instinctively clutching the handle, feeling the faux-leather material yield beneath my grip. My eyes scan the interior of the car. Maxwell — or Crossroads, depending on how you know him — is the captain of a vehicular relic as much as he is the captain of the Young Defenders, at least this month. This is no modern, slick ride but rather a sedan dating back to the '90s, with a paint job so thoroughly tinged with rust that it looks like a smear of autumn leaves. At first glance, I can't even tell it's supposed to be paint.
The first thing that hits me is the scent. It's the kind of smell that wraps around you like a weighted blanket, both familiar and off-putting at the same time. The musky aroma of upholstery that has absorbed years of life layers with a musty undercurrent of stale cigarette smoke. It smells like someone's old, forgotten man cave; like a den that has seen better days but still clings to its last vestiges of macho charm.
Its curves are soft and rounded, as though weathered by years of touch. The seats sag in that inviting way well-loved cushions do, offering a comforting dip for a tired body. I notice patches of upholstery—textured, faded, and scarred with burn holes. I get the distinct impression that this car is the family car, something older than Maxwell. Either that, or a new used car purchase, but my money is on old family car.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Jordan shuffles into the seat next to me, their posture going rigid for a moment as their eyes register the upholstery's advanced state of decomposition. "Wow, Crossroads, this car should probably be in a museum, not on the road," they comment, sounding half-impressed and half-concerned. "You sure it's not going to explode on us like a Pinto?"
Maxwell's lips curl into a brief chuckle, but his eyes remain fixated on the expanse of asphalt before him, uncompromisingly focused. "Given the state of your 'headquarters,' I don't think you have room to talk," he retorts with a wry edge. "And I didn't know you talk cars."
"I don't. I just like stuff that blows up," Jordan answers, concerningly.
The car's engine gives a raspy grunt as Maxwell shifts gears, steering us away from the timeworn facade of the old music hall that Jordan and I have repurposed into something resembling a base of operations. We ease onto Tacony's ramshackle streets, their surfaces marred by potholes and time like the craggy face of a boxer past his prime. As the car trundles along, I feel the wheels jostle and bounce in those ruts, each dip and rise a tactile affirmation of the neighborhood's long-neglected state.
Philadelphia potholes are never exactly in good shape, but by G-d, Tacony has some of the worst.
The car rumbles beneath us as we leave the familiarity of Tacony behind. I find my gaze tracing the changing landscape outside the window. Rowhouses, the charming but timeworn dwellings that line the streets of our neighborhood, slowly give way to taller, sleeker structures. The metamorphosis feels like watching a scruffy caterpillar transform into a butterfly: gradual, yet fascinating. The old and battered face of Tacony peels away, replaced by the youthful energy of Center City’s skyscrapers and bustling avenues. The buildings seem to squeeze closer together, as if jostling for room, each one vying for a spot in the urban panorama.
I feel it. The pulse of the city, its heart thumping faster, its lungs breathing more vigorously.
Just as my thoughts drift to what kind of person Center City would be if it could walk and talk, Maxwell reaches into the glove box. The compartment creaks open, revealing an assortment of items. Among them, two tiny earpieces, tossed back at us. I catch mine easily - Jordan scrambles for theirs.
"These are your earpieces," he says, his voice thick with gravity, as if we're being spied on this very moment. "They go in your ears. Sam, hide yours under your hair. Jordan, yours has been gussied up to look like a hearing aid. The receivers can be hidden in your clothes."
I take the offered earpiece, and I'm immediately struck by its almost feather-like weight. I maneuver it into my ear and tuck it under a curtain of my hair, a sense of surprise washing over me as it coils snugly around my earlobe. It clings to me like a magnet clinging to someone's metal skull-plate, or like a snake wrapping around a branch, fitting just right - I have to imagine that Gossamer probably got my… ear measurements? At some point. I find a hidden inner pocket in my clothing, underneath the skirt, and discreetly hide the receiver, feeling its weight as each pothole makes it bounce along my thighs.
Jordan, in a smooth motion that carries along their casual demeanor, adjusts their own earpiece. It is, as mentioned, designed to look exactly like the hearing aids some people at my school wear. They deftly conceal the receiver into a secretive pocket stitched into the lining of their dress pants. Their hands navigate the fabric with ease, as if they've practiced this a thousand times in another life.
"Neat," they whisper, their eyes meeting mine. A grin cracks their usually stoic face, full of the thrill that comes from treading unknown waters. "Secret agent style."
"How often have you hidden shit in your pants?" I ask, trying to glance to see how many extra pockets Jordan has sewn on or into their clothes.
"A magician never gives away their secrets," Jordan replies, infuriatingly.
"Focus, you two," Maxwell chides, drumming his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel. He reaches across the dashboard, lowering the volume of the radio that has been softly serenading us with hits from the '70s and '80s. "The Kingdom is no small-time operation. Think of it like the traditional Mafia families it has eaten the lunch of after the Big Raid created a power vacuum. You've got the Boss, shrouded in mystery, sitting at the top. From there, you've got your underbosses, your capos, down to your soldiers and associates. It's your usual criminal empire hierarchy."
The upholstery feels sticky under my palms. My eyes shift to Jordan. Their posture has stiffened, mirroring the anticipation knotting up in my stomach.
"Okay, let's not turn this into a documentary," Jordan interjects, their tone laced with snark. "How about an English version for Sam, Einstein? She's still taking Mafioso 101. No habla italiano."
Maxwell chuckles softly before rephrasing, and I silently thank Jordan in my mind. "Alright, think of it like a tree. You've got one main guy at the roots, the Boss. He delegates responsibilities to his immediate subordinates, they, in turn, do the same for their own teams, and so on. The guys at the bottom - of the hierarchy, top of the tree - they're the street-level criminals, the ones you two have been busting up recently. It wouldn't surprise me if some of the operations you two have been gutting were operations that feed into the Kingdom's coffers."
Ah, a tree. That, I understand. With the metaphor taking root in my mind, I find my hands unconsciously clenching together. Each of Maxwell's words is making the assignment feel increasingly real; tension grows like static in the air.
"We've recently had an interrogation session, led by an empath from the NSRA and a guy named Multiplex," Maxwell picks up the thread of the conversation again. "Real heavy stuff. Big boy stuff. We haven't managed to convince anyone to defect, but we did manage to yank some valuable information out of them. That led us up the chain a bit. Then we interrogate the next link. Problem is, nobody is spilling anything directly incriminating. And, as much as I'd like it to be otherwise, my precognitive abilities don't count as admissible evidence. Judges don't accept 'well, I had a vision about it' in a court of law."
The severity of our mission is suddenly feeling all the more palpable. It's one thing to beat up goons in an alley; it's another to contribute to a case that could cripple a criminal empire, one that has a palpable negative effect on the world I live in. Drug dealers, murderers, loan sharks, all sorts of scum that make the lives of my fellow humans worse. Is this what my Pop-pop meant by saving lives? Is this 'repairing the world'? Maybe not in the traditional sense, but it feels like it to me.
Maxwell's eyes find ours again in the rearview mirror, locking us in. I try very hard to look away, only managing to pry my eyes aside at the last minute. "That's where you two come in. We have confirmed that two key figures from the Kingdom, who go by the names 'Mrs. X' and 'Mrs. H,' will be at Crescent tonight. The place is a nightclub, but it’s also a money laundering front for their operations. We're going in with semi-complete information, but we hope that this move will allow us to leapfrog a couple of steps up their chain of command. All of us at the Young Defenders and DVD are too well-known; I'm sure they're on the lookout for familiar faces from major hero organizations. But Jordan's a total nobody—no offense—and you're just some neighborhood watch girl right now. I'd be very surprised if they recognized the two of you."
"Rude," Jordan sighs, puffing a lock of hair out of their face.
"It's true, sorry. Anyway, this is going to be an all-indoors mission—I'm told that sort of thing suits your repertoire, Jordan, so you're on eavesdropping duty. Your job is to identify who exactly these Mrs. X and Mrs. H are, and if you can get any useful information from them without starting a fight—without starting a fight—more's the better," Maxwell lectures, glancing at Jordan through the mirror. They harrumph, arms folded in front of their chest.
"Yes, mom," Jordan whines.
Maxwell ignores them, trucking onwards. "Sam, your job is to be Jordan's bodyguard. Out of the two of you, you're significantly more intimidating, stronger, and can hold your own better in a fight. We have no doubt that this place is teeming with soldiers and goons, and we'll have reinforcements standing by if things get hairy, but this is a nightclub with civilians, including teenagers. Getting information without alerting the Kingdom to the fact that they're being surveilled is our end goal, but man plans, and God laughs, so you're there for muscle."
"Aw, you really know how to butter a girl up," I tease, flexing my arms. My muscles pop a little bit, veins visibly running up and down my wrists. My nails are filed into points and painted black for the occasion—a trick Jordan thought up the other day, so I might be able to scratch someone open and activate my blood sense.
"You're too young for me, sorry," he says coolly, and I feel my entire body flush with embarrassment.
"That's NOT what I MEANT," I retort, my voice shooting up an octave. I press my forehead against the cold window, feeling sweat forming between my skin and the glass. Maxwell chuckles as he stops the car in front of Crescent. The line outside stretches around the block and then some. The weekend night sky hangs overhead like it's about to burst open, and the music is so loud it reverberates in my bones even from here. Already, my blood sense starts to tick on with so many people crowded together. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to block it out.
"I'll be around. Just need to park so I don't look weird. And have you ever tried to find parking on Walnut? It'll take a minute," Maxwell says, extending a fist toward the backseat. Jordan bumps it without hesitation, while my own fist bump comes out timid.
"In what world would I need to find parking in Philadelphia, Max? I'm fourteen. And a half," I shoot back. His laugh is less guarded this time as Jordan and I shimmy out onto the road and head to the back of the line.