The med-bay greets me with its usual sterile scent, softened by the faint aroma of antiseptics. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead is familiar, almost comforting in its own weird way. Stacks upon stacks of medical supplies occupy the shelves, a chaotic organization that, against all odds, seems to make sense. I can't help but notice the handprints on the greenish walls, in white paint, uncomplicated. To the right, a lone computer rests on a wooden desk, the monitor's soft glow casting a dim light, waiting for someone to pull up patient records.

The exam table, draped in a light pink, is positioned at the center, as if it's the stage for a play only medics would appreciate. Sturdy metallic cabinets house more gear, their dull orange-red sheen standing out amidst the otherwise muted colors. The exit door stands like a sentinel, and for a moment, I'm reminded of how many times I've walked through it, but never in this context. Taking a deep breath, I step further in, feeling the weight of every visit I've ever made to this place. All the times I've torn a muscle training, or ripped something open, or took a hit from Rampart or Playback a little too hard.

Nurse Sylvia stands out in her pristine white coat that contrasts sharply with her elegant dark green dress. Around her neck, a pendant catches the light, adding a touch of character to her ensemble. Her hair is a silvery hue, meticulously gathered into a neat bun at the back of her head. Her golden-brown eyes, framed by her round spectacles, observe everything with precision. Every part of her seems purposeful and refined, from the poised tilt of her chin to the comfortable yet professional shoes she wears.

"So, you're last in line, huh?" She says, getting out a roll of gauze and a couple of sterilized pads.

"Yeah, regenerators get back-of-the-line privileges," I chuckle, but then wince 'cause it feels like a spear through my jaw. "Oh right, broken jaw. Ouch."

"You're lucky you can still laugh about it. Let's start with cleaning some of these wounds." She gently dabs at the bruises and claw marks on my upper torso.

"Wow, that… actually feels a bit better. Do you have powers?" I joke, feeling the itching and burning sensation dissipate wherever her fingers touch. I intend for it to just be that - a joke. The soothing sensation is just what I associate with, like, medication.

"You caught me," she smiles. "I can make people feel less pain when I touch them. It's topical anesthesia of sorts. Nothing flashy. I'm not cut out for the hero stuff."

"Huh?" I ask, mouth hanging open a little. I don't know if my jaw is broken per se, but it's definitely fucked up somehow. Not nearly as bad as it was in the moment, even with the adrenaline racing through me, but every word hurts. Anyway, huh? "You're a superhero? How'd you even get a power like… that?"

I try to avoid the question of what sort of life-or-death situation would require "mild anasthesia". Maybe it's major anaesthesia and she just downplays it?

She shakes her head and smiles at me. "No, doll, I'm just a nurse. And it's a long story."

"But you could be a superhero. Like, if you wanted to, right?" I ask, blinking at her a couple of times, trying not to wince as she handles me like a fragile instrument.

She laughs, "Nah, I like it here. The hero life isn't for everyone. Now hold still, you've got some nasty cuts." Her hand hovers over the slashes and cuts across my lip, and I feel the worst of the inflammation subside. Among other things which will go unexamined. "This looks like it's healing fast."

"Yeah, about that. My healing is like, eight times faster than normal. At least, that’s what they told me last time I ended up in a hospital. 'Eight Ex'" I say out loud.

"Eight times? That's impressive. Though, to be honest, some of these cuts look like they’re recovering even faster." Sylvia comments, finishing up with my upper torso. I try to not hold onto my modesty too tight. This wouldn't be the first time Sylvia has seen my chest, but most of the time she's not poking it, and our checkups rarely require this much, you know, prodding. I'm generally not that scraped up. Ice packs work fine. "I'd guess 12x from how they're progressing, maybe 15x. You sure it's 8?"

"That's what the doctors said. Maybe it’s getting faster. Wouldn’t that be cool," I muse, imagining what sort of impossible injuries I might survive in the future.

"Or scary. Regeneration can be a double-edged sword. Quick to heal but often leaves people reckless," Sylvia says, unwrapping a new bandage roll. Her hands move to the rest of my face, lightly brushing away the swollen scratches near my chin, my jawline, my cheeks.

"Oof, that one feels bad," I whine. Wherever Chrysalis or Deathgirl in Chrysalis's shape touched, the wound is swollen and puffy. Red and angry, in the way my wounds usually don't get unless they're infected by something.

"Yeah, it looks like you got stung by a bee. You get stung by a bee?" She asks, loosely bandaging the worst cuts and putting hydrocortisone around the rest of them.

"They have a bug girl. I assume bee… sting stuff is part of the powers," I reply.

She nods thoughtfully. "Apitoxin is the scientific word. I don't know how your powers affect toxin processing, so you can have a Benedryl or some other antihistamine if it bothers you."

Her hands move to my jaw, and I try not to make a noise even under her soothing touch Sylvia looks a bit concerned. "I'm not sure how to handle this one, a broken jaw usually needs more than bandages."

"I know it sounds crazy, but it'll be fine in a few hours. Just gotta avoid laughing or eating. Or talking. Which sucks because those are like, my top three favorite things to do," I half-mumble through my malfunctioning mouth. The bandages across my lips and chin feel weird and sticky.

"Fair enough," she says, beginning to wrap a bandage gently around my head to support the jaw. "You should really be talking less, but I get the feeling that'll be like trying to fight the rain with you, doll."

"Yes," I reply bluntly.

Sylvia finishes patching up my face and steps back to examine her work. "Alright, that should do for now. You might want to get some rest; let that eight-times-faster-than-normal healing do its work. I've noticed some bumps on your forehead that I assume are from you headbutting someone. Don't do that. But if it becomes a problem, use an ice pack."

"Will do, Sylvia. And thanks, you're kinda amazing," I mutter as Sylvia moves down to inspect my hands and arms, her gloved hands prodding gently. I look at the puncture wound between my middle and ring fingers on my right hand. "You wouldn't happen to know how to treat, like, mysterious stab wounds, would you?"

Sylvia quirks an eyebrow. "Mysterious stab wounds? You have an exciting life, don't you?" She moves her hands over the small hole, her powers numbing the area slightly. "I can clean and bandage it and that's what you get. The skin is sort of pushed outward a little, like an exit wound, but there's not a hole in your hand, so I've really got no idea. Talk to your GP if you're concerned."

"Oh, man, I haven't seen her in a while. Shit. I don't even think she knows I'm a superhero yet," I say, half to Sylvia, half to myself.

"Well, you should do that too," she lightly chides.

"Will do." I flex my fingers as she wraps a bandage around the tiny wound. The conversation takes a pause as Sylvia moves onto the other various cuts and nicks on my hands. There's something oddly calming about sitting here, just talking while getting patched up. Sylvia grabs a pair of tweezers and starts removing tiny fragments of glass or whatever it is from my skin. Debris. I feel instant relief as they leave my body, the skin trying to immediately pull itself shut.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Now for your midsection," Sylvia says, eyeing the claw marks and bruises. "More of that bee girl stuff, but I think you got the worst of it here. Way more swollen."

"Well, one of them can copy powers, but like, in a weird fucked up way. She copied the bug girl's powers. So I guess her venom is worse? Is it a venom or a toxin?" I ask, trying not to screw my face up too much as she cleans, disinfects, applies ointments, and generally takes care of me.

"I'm gonna be totally honest with you, doll, I have no idea. Just, you know. I'd avoid her in the future if possible, but that's just because I'm a nurse," Sylvia jokes, chuckling as she slaps some more bandages on me. I feel like a certified mummy.

"Yup, definitely not on my top ten list of fun encounters," I reply, wincing as she finishes up with the cuts and scrapes. "I got hit by parking meters today, by the way. That's a new low even for me."

Sylvia chuckles. "Parking meters? I didn't know they were so hostile."

"Only when they're used as weapons."

She smiles at me as she moves on to the general injuries, like the abrasion across my face and hands. "Some of these are more from friction than anything else. Were you dragged?"

I nod. "Pulled by the hair, actually. Lifted right off the ground. It's not a fun experience. And one of them is real rough, like sandpaper, and he just punched me and his skin, you know, he's got the rock skin. Scraped me up good."

"That sounds… extremely painful," Sylvia admits, finishing up with a final swath of antiseptic.

"Thanks," I say as Sylvia starts peeling off her gloves. "For, you know, fixing me up."

She smiles, disposing of her gloves and medical waste. "It's what I do. Besides, not everyone needs to wear a cape to be a hero. Or, you know, deal with parking meters and venomous villains on a daily basis."

I chuckle. "Yeah, I guess so. But where's the fun in that?"

Sylvia laughs, her eyes twinkling as she cleans up her supplies. "You got me there."

As Sylvia wraps up, I can't help but glance at the mirror across the room. My face is a battlefield of cuts, bruises, and scratches. I look unfamiliar. Like I don't recognize the person in the mirror, with a more defined jaw, with muscles, with abs. Covered in bloody bandages. With a broken jaw pulling itself together.

I don't really know who that person is, looking back at me. Someone new?

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I’m sitting on a squishy chair in front of the one-way mirror, and all I can think about is how one-way mirrors work, you know, with the lighting and all. But then I remember why we're here. The other Young Defenders are around, but I think we're all just lost in our own thoughts. Or maybe it’s just me. We're all watching as Clara Parker, Fury Forge, Multiplex, and Puppeteer take their places in the interrogation room where Spinelli's already seated. My fingers drum rhythmlessly on the armrest. Tapa-tapa-tap.

Spinelli looks… I don't know, like he’s swallowed something really bitter but has decided to keep it down. He's fidgeting in his chair, and I get it, dude. These chairs aren't meant for comfort.

"You know, we have a public defender en route. You don't need to talk to us alone, Spinelli." Clara is the one who starts. No smiles, straight to business, giving him a little opportunity. "The gravity of your situation is… heavy. I would wait for the other lawyer to arrive."

"No. No, I'm good. You're getting everything. I get it. Prison, juvie, whatever," Spinelli shrugs. He’s fumbling with his fingers like they’re some sort of puzzle he can’t solve. "Honestly, three meals and a place to sleep sounds better than where I was. I don't want to be this kind of person anymore."

Clara leans in, flipping through some papers. "I hope you understand the legal implications here. You're not just facing minor charges. Property damage at the scale your friends committed is a serious offense, and you're part of that. Daisy did a number on several blocks. You're looking at juvenile detention, at the least - I assume whatever fines you'd have to pay as restitution are probably impossible for you to pay."

Fury Forge pipes up, leaning toward Spinelli. "That’s not even touching on the assault. Your team attacked the Young Defenders. We're under no illusions that whatever footage we can acquire will include you as part of that?"

Spinelli's fingers tangle with each other as he speaks, folding over each other in strange, intricate ways. "Yeah. I know, okay? Amira's becoming too much. I don't want to be a part of whatever she's planning, especially now that she's got those guys whispering in her ear. Throw the book at me. I'm pleading guilty."

Okay, so maybe Amira is the bad apple here? My thumb folds under my palm, then out again. Still can't decide where it's comfy. This whole thing doesn't seem fair - he turned himself in and helped us last minute. He saved our lives, and now he's gonna tell all. And they're going to throw the book at him?

I can see Clara's nostrils flare, for a moment. I get the feeling she's feeling the same sort of thing I am, a little bit.

"Explain," says Multiplex, his voice hitting each syllable like a punching bag. One-two.

Spinelli inhales deeply. "Look, we were going to go after some adult heroes, right? That was the plan. Pumice left that bunk phone call. We just got Daisy, and Amira wanted to grab a hero with real property damge potential with her. Then, a bunch of kids our age showed up."

Puppeteer picks up her notepad, the tip of her pen hovering. "Why did you turn on your team? You didn't have to help us."

He sighs, his tall frame slumping in the chair. "I told you, I don't want to be this kind of person anymore. I mean, I know you'd never let me be part of your crew, but, like… the stealing, the lying, the drug dealing. Sleeping in abandoned buildings. In tents. I had a bed, man, I had a family. Sure, they ditched me like wet garbage but I had something to lose. Patches wants to keep upping the stakes. She's got those guys in her ear and they're promising her all this shit, while threatening the rest of us. They 'gifted' us a fucking twelve year old, man."

My eyes widen, and then return to their original state. I glance sideways. Crossroads seems as contemplative as ever but Playback looks pissed - I'd guess at Amira, not at Spinelli.

"So you turned," Puppeteer summarizes, jotting down a couple of notes. "Because you don't like where things are heading?"

Spinelli nods. "Exactly. I can’t be part of what she’s planning. So, lock me up, or whatever. Just keep her away from me.”

Fury Forge glances at Clara, who just nods, a silent conversation happening there. They’ve heard enough, I guess. They get up, signaling the end of the talk. As they exit the room, Spinelli's shoulders slump even further, like he's just let go of a weight he didn't know he was carrying. "Hey. What's gonna happen to me?"

Clara turns around on her heel, half-facing Spinelli. "Well, you'll remain in detention here until your court case. We have a room with a bed and I can make sure someone can get you some prepared food. We'll have more questions for you later - those "guys" you mentioned, were they wearing suits?"

Spinelli nods. "Green suit with leopard print vest. Dude looked like a thumb. And a black guy in a more normal black suit, sunglasses, goatee. Why?"

Mr. T-Rex and Mr. Nothing. I'm sure of it.

Clara smiles. "I know you want your three hots and a cot, but I think if you're willing to talk more tomorrow, we could arrange some sort of deal for leniency. I'll get in contact with the DA and figure out your options. And get you a lawyer."

Spinelli slumps in his seat. "Aiight, man."

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

"Man, this stuff takes a while," I groan, throwing myself onto the couch in the locker room and wincing as my various injuries all get pressed into it. "Don't we have some paperwork to do or something like that? All the cop shows my dad watches have them always complaining about paperwork."

"Multiplex handles that," Puppeteer answers, swiping through her phone with her thumbs. "You know, since he can be in twelve places at once."

"Good for Multiplex, then," I say, relieved that I don't have to deal with the paper side of superheroism. "When do we get the briefing? It's not like the villains are gonna wait for us."

Just as I say that, Councilman Davis walks into the locker room. "Briefing's starting now, Young Defenders. Please make your way to the computer room."

We all scramble up, well, as fast as a bunch of tired and banged-up kids can scramble, and head into the computer room where the massive screen shows various maps and graphs I barely understand. Clara's there too, and the rest of the adults, and she nods at us. Formalities and all, I guess.

"Alright, sit down," Jamal starts, and we all find our places, settling into the high-tech, ergonomic — I assume — chairs. There's a minute or two of rummaging around, and someone's got a box of donuts sitting on the table that everyone starts picking at, but, like, each donut has been cut into quarters, which feels sacrilegious to me somehow. Free donuts are free donuts, though.

"As some of you have seen, Spinelli has been cooperative, and we've got some valuable intel—" Jamal starts, but before he can go any further, there's this… this feeling. My blood sense perks up like a dog smelling a steak. My entire body picks up, enough that Jamal pauses while I turn back towards the door. "Something the matter, Bloodhound?"

I'd know that stomach ulcer anywhere - sentences never before said in human history. "Liberty Belle is here," I say, matter-of-factly.

"Damn, you ruined my dramatic entrance," she replies, coyly, not really frustrated, as the door slides open at her approach. My heart sinks in my chest like a stone, while she strides forward, boots squeaking against the tile floor on her way to the spare chair we'd been leaving out for her. She looks haggard. Pallid. There's a thinness to her that she didn't have before, and her monumental muscles have been hollowed out, rendering her skin smoother, almost a little flabby looking.

Plus, she's totally, completely bald.

"What, did I interrupt a funeral or something? Keep going. I've been keeping up, we can talk about the hair once we're done," she says, crossing a leg over the other and leaning back in her chair until it squeals quietly.