The Delaware Valley Defenders HQ computer room is buzzing with the noise of humming machines and the clicking of keyboards. It's way too early in the morning for this. Like, there's no sun up. Liberty Belle greets me with a smile and a box of Dunkin Donuts. There's coffee too. I grab a Boston cream and take a cautious sip of the coffee. I immediately regret the decision, and put it back on the table. Then, I feel guilty and just throw it out instead.

"You ready for this, Bloodhound?" she asks, setting her own cup down and motioning toward a couple of computer screens that look more high-tech than anything I've ever touched. I know it's detective training day, but the setup makes me feel like I'm in some sort of spy movie. Which is cool, but also way intimidating.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I tell her. I do this weird thing where I'm shifting from foot to foot because I can't decide if I'm excited or nervous. Maybe I'm both. I sit down in the chair next to her and try not to wince at the sound of it squeaking against the tiles.

"Today is all about information--acquiring it, analyzing it, and acting on it. In our line of work, knowledge is power." Liberty Belle starts off, her eyes locked onto mine like she's trying to drill this lesson into my soul or something. "Sometimes, it's not about how hard you can hit, but how smart you can play. You know. Like I've been telling you the past…" she stops to count on her fingers, "three days."

Makes sense. Still, I can't help but wish this involved a little more action and a little less… whatever this is. But Diane's talking again. "There's legal ways to do it, and then there's… let's call them 'gray areas.' Both are tools. It's your choice when to use them, but remember, if the tool breaks something, it's on you."

"Gray areas," I echo, my eyes drifting over to the donut box. I'm wondering what she means by that. Does she mean breaking into places? I already have like, an image of me in a skintight catsuit sneaking through laser alarms. Which would be cool, but also definitely illegal. My mind flits to Jordan. What Jordan and I do? Definitely a gray area. Or maybe a black area, if there's such a thing?

"We're going to start simple. Imagine you're tailing someone--how would you avoid being seen? What are the best practices for stakeouts? What tools might you use?" She taps on the keyboard and a window pops up, showing a map of the city with blinking dots representing D.V.D. members in the field. Everyone's pagers, all lit up right here, with a small icon that indicates who's where.

"Uhm, well, I'd try to blend in? Like, wear normal clothes, try not to look suspicious?" I hazard a guess. "Hoodies?" I shoot, aiming for whatever Jordan would be wearing.

"Correct. Blending in is essential. Also, invest in good binoculars, learn to read lips, and for heaven's sake, don't pick a spot that's too close but also not so far you lose them." She clicks another button and a list of equipment appears. Some are stuff I recognize, like binoculars and earpieces. Others look like props from a spy movie. Bugs, tiny cameras, lockpicks? What the hell is a… parabolic microphone? "All tools in the trade," she says, noticing where my eyes drift. "But be careful -- especially with wiretaps and bugs. Illegal unless you've got a warrant. And even if you use them, anything you gather can't be used in court. It's spoiled."

"Spoiled?" I feel the word out, rolling it in my mouth like a bad taste.

"Yes, like fruit. Spoiled evidence is inadmissible. You're doing this to stop crimes, so it's best if the evidence can actually be used to put someone away." She gives me this knowing look, like she's saying 'don't get clever, kid'. "Pennsylvania is a two-party consent state, while NJ is a one-party consent state. If you need to do this sort of surveillance it's better to do so across the bridge, if at all possible. That's why most of the organized crime isn't across the bridge nowadays. Among other reasons."

"So what if you need to… dig through someone's trash? That's public property, right? Not like breaking and entering?" I remember something about this from a movie or a book or something.

She smiles, which is weird on her, because it's this really proud look but also like she's laughing at an inside joke. "Ah, dumpster diving--the bread and butter of any self-respecting detective. Yes, it's mostly legal. Once someone throws something away, they generally lose their expectation of privacy over it. But remember, context matters. If a dumpster is on someone's private property, that could complicate things."

"Alright, so, stay smart, stay legal -- mostly -- and dig through other people's garbage. Got it." I sum it up, doing that thing where I'm biting my lip because it helps me think. Kind of.

"Exactly. Also, one more thing -- always, always, always have a way to record your findings. Voice memo on your phone, a physical notebook, whatever. Just make sure you have a way to keep track of everything. I'm sure you know how easy it is to forget details." She says this and I want to feel offended, but she's right. I know she's right. I do forget stuff a lot.

"Okay, I can do that." I say, already planning to stash a notebook in my utility belt. Maybe even two, just in case.

"Good. Now, go ahead and pick out what you need from this list. Consider it your detective starter pack," Liberty Belle motions to the list on the screen again. "Once you've made your selections, we'll move on to some fieldwork. Time to put theory into practice."

"Into practice?" I mirror like a parrot.

Liberty Belle grins. "I want you to pick someone -- anyone -- from this screen and tail them. Without them telling me they saw. By the end of the week, I want you to know where they live."

She notices my eyes bugging out of my head, and claps me on the back, sending a jolt of pain through me. I grit my teeth together and grin nervously back. "Okay, you just need to know where they get groceries."

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The next day, when school's a done deal and I've mentally checked out of geometry, I head over to headquarters. Belle's set up this plastic table in the locker room, the kind that could collapse if you look at it funny. The surface is covered in green felt, and she's got a deck of cards, poker chips, and two empty chairs. I feel an involuntary smirk creep up on me; she's going for the full James Bond villain aesthetic, isn't she?

"Ever played poker, Bloodhound?" Belle asks, shuffling the cards with practiced ease.

"Once or twice, with middle schoolers. While I was also in middle school," I admit, sliding into one of the flimsy chairs.

She chuckles. "Well, there's more to poker than meets the eye. Sit down, girl, I'll teach you."

The cards are smooth under my fingers as I shuffle and deal. The plastic table between us isn't really big enough to be a proper poker table, but we're making it work. Belle's eyes flick up to mine every time I look at my cards. It's like she's got a sixth sense, but really, she's just been doing this hero thing -- and this poker thing, presumably -- way longer than I have.

"So, three of a kind beats two pairs, right?" I ask, my voice a pitch higher than I'd like. I know the rules, but it's been a while since I've played. Belle chuckles, her cards resting face-down in front of her.

"Yes, Bloodhound, three of a kind beats two pairs. Though at the rate you're going, I'd be worried about even getting a single pair," she says. The smirk on her face is infuriating and endearing all at once. She's like the cool aunt who kicks your butt but then takes you out for ice cream afterward.

Spinelli, lounging on the couch, flips through a magazine but I can tell he's listening. "Lady, if you keep squinting at your cards like that, you'll need glasses before the next mission," he remarks, not even looking up. I let out an exasperated sigh. I suck at this, and they're not letting me forget it.

I decide to change the subject, throwing in a curveball. "Hey, Belle, you're really good at controlling your heartbeat, you know that?"

Her eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. "Not many people would notice that. That's something you can use against anyone who's not me."

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Her vascular system is totally open to me - the blood is in her breath now, in every exhale, which I try not to think about. But even with that advantage, I can get nothing from her. Her expression is totally flat and her body is completely relaxed and calm.

That's when I get my next hand, and it's… well, it's not terrible. Two aces and three completely random cards. I try to keep my face neutral, but it's like trying to keep water in a sieve. My eyes must twinkle or something because Belle calls me on it instantly. I trade in my random cards and receive three random cards in return. Belle trades in two.

"Got something good, huh?" She asks, sarcastically.

I shake my head, trying to play it cool. "Nah, just thinking about something else." But my voice gives me away, and we both know it.

Belle lays her cards on the table: a straight flush. I didn't even know people got those in real life. I show my aces, defeated.

"See, the thing about poker, it's not just a game of cards," Belle starts, stacking her ever-growing pile of chips. "It's a game of deception, of understanding your opponent. You have to get into their head, figure out their tells, control your own."

I don't need to be a genius to realize where she's going with this. This isn't just about poker; it's a lesson. "So you're saying, being a superhero is like playing poker?"

She nods. "Exactly. You've got to know when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to walk away, and when to run."

I chuckle, and even Spinelli cracks a smile from his perch on the couch. "Quoting Kenny Rogers now, are we?" He quips.

"Hey, it's a classic for a reason," she says, shuffling the cards for another round. "Ready to lose again?"

I groan, but inside, I'm thankful. I might be terrible at poker, but these lessons? They're priceless. Even if my ego's gonna be bruised for a week, it's worth it.

"You're terrible at this," Belle finally says, pushing the chips to one side. "But that's okay. This is a lesson in tradecraft. I don't care about card games that much."

"Tradecraft?" The word tastes foreign in my mouth, like I'm biting into an exotic fruit I've never heard of. It sounds cool and sophisticated, and I am none of those things. I recall it, vaguely, from earlier in the week, but days of harsh training and my every weakness as a superhero being picked apart has wiped it from my memory banks. "Remind me?"

"Tradecraft," she confirms. "The art of being a spy, of gathering intelligence, of -- well -- not showing your hand to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who challenges you. You know, like I told you earlier."

I stare at the cards, then back at her. "Okay, but how do I get better at it? I can't even fool you into thinking I have a pair of twos."

Belle starts collecting the cards, shuffling them back into a neat deck. "Practice, mostly. Paying attention. Understanding what makes people tick, and what they might be hiding behind their expressions--or lack thereof. It's a skill that you hone over time, just like your powers."

It's strange to think that even Belle, with her stoic demeanor and her super-strength, had to start somewhere. Had to learn these lessons one mistake at a time. Just like me. There's a comfort in that, knowing that this Herculean figure in front of me was once as green as I am. But she's not green anymore. She's, like, the complete spectrum of colors all rolled into one.

"So, what's the homework?" I ask, gathering up the chips. It's a formality; they're just colored pieces of plastic, and my crushing defeat doesn't actually cost me anything. But still. I've got this weird need to put things in order, even if the entire exercise was designed to show me how much I have to learn.

Belle smiles at me. "First, you need to beat me at poker. Second," she flourishes a royal flush with one hand, and then shuffles it back into the deck. Then, she scrapes off the top five cards from the deck with a wry grin. "You have to catch me cheating, red-handed."

She flips her hand around, revealing another royal flush.

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It's October 31st, after school. A Tuesday. The sun's dipping low, doing that thing where it's not quite dark but not bright either. I'm standing in front of this old, abandoned music hall--its name barely visible on the cracked signboard. A place filled with the ghosts of music long gone, where the only things that echo now are the sounds of rats scuttling or dripping water.

Jordan told me earlier today during lunch -- half-whispering as if this was some sort of spy movie -- that they had a 'great Halloween score' planned. "Feel free to bring your new girlfriend," they said, their lips curling into a smirk that was as close to a regular smile as Jordan ever gets. "We'll need all the firepower we can get."

So I'm here, waiting, sorta bouncing on my heels because who can stand still? Especially when it's chilly. My hands dive into the pockets of my hoodie, pulling it tight around me. It's been fifteen minutes -- fifteen whole minutes that I've been standing here like an idiot -- and I catch myself wondering what's taking so long. My backpack, feeling a full brick heavier from exhaustion, maybe two bricks, hangs off my shoulders like a Sisyphean boulder.

Then I see her. Jamila. She hovers into view, almost silently, the wind at her command wrapping her up like a cloak. She's wearing a scarf today, probably to hide her face a bit more than the hijab already does. She lands gently, her shoes barely making a sound on the gravel.

"Hey," she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling in what I think is a smile. It's hard to tell with all the fabric covering her.

"Hey," I respond, pulling my hands out of my hoodie and offering her a sorta awkward half-hug. "So, uh, this is it. The… illustrious base of the infamous Big Bad Wolf of the Northeast." She looks around, her eyes taking in the derelict surroundings. The peeling paint, the boarded-up windows that even squatters wouldn't bother breaking into. "It's, um, very… rustic?"

I snort. "I'm infamous?" I ask, glancing up at the wooden boards hastily hammered into a cage around the window air conditioning, hiding it from view, preventing the attention of all but the most dedicated squatters.

Jordan just uses their powers to convince them the place is haunted. That usually works.

She tucks a stray wisp of hair that's escaped her hijab back into place. "I would've thought the Big Bad Wolf would operate out of a more… imposing lair?"

I can't help but grin. "Well here I am, freezing my tail off outside an old music hall."

Jamila laughs, and the sound is like a warm drink on a cold day. "Well, it has character. And every good story needs that, doesn't it?"

"Sure," I agree, "if by 'character,' you mean 'places for rats to hide.'"

We share another laugh, and it eases the last bit of tension from my shoulders. "Shall we?" I gesture towards the door, a sheet of wood so old it creaks when you look at it funny. I fish my paw-print key out from my pockets and fiddle with the surprisingly robust lock before it gives way.

It's been quite a bit since my last time here.

The air tastes cleaner.

The stairs creak under my shoes as we head up, my steps muffled only by the thick layer of dust that hasn't been swept up in what looks like forever. We round a bend in the hallway, and I get a whiff of something that's definitely cleaner than musty, rotten wood. Air freshener? Nah, Jordan's got more class than that. A candle, maybe.

We reach the main room, and I barely recognize the place. Jordan's done some work since I last dropped by. No more cardboard boxes of dubious origin stacked in corners, no more wires snaking across the floor like deranged electric spaghetti. It's still a mess, but it's a mess with a floor rug, a futon, and a coffee table that doesn't look like it was stolen from a garage sale. And less dust--way less dust. The dehumidifiers and air purifiers are silent, no longer necessary to fix the awful, stale air in here.

And there's Jordan, hovering over a dense corkboard, strewn about with papers, pins, strings, and is that a box of cell phones? I can't even begin to understand. They look up as we enter, and their eyes widen in a mix of surprise and -- what, indignation?

The room goes from zero to nuclear winter cold in two seconds flat.

"You're dating Gale?" Jordan blurts out, eyes dropping to Jamila's hijab-scarf combo and then to her feet, which are decidedly not touching the floor.

Jamila stiffens, her eyes narrowing as they lock onto Jordan's unmistakable boots. "Believe me, I'm not thrilled that her best friend is you, either," she shoots back. I think at this point everyone's been made aware of Jordan and I's… history, but this is the first time they and Jamila have been face to face since Walgreens, what feels like forever ago.

If the atmosphere were any more tense, I'd be able to bite through it.

My brain is doing cartwheels, backflips, and half-gainers in rapid succession as I try to figure out how to defuse this. Jordan's 'great Halloween score' is starting to look like a powder keg, and I'm holding the match. I glance at Jamila, her eyes still locked onto Jordan's, and then at Jordan, who's scowling like they just swallowed a lemon. Two people who mean the world to me, standing on opposite ends of a very, very thin line.

"So," I start, my voice a little too high and shaky. "Anyone want a snack? I think Jordan keeps a stash of those Japanese matcha things somewhere."

I know it's lame, but what else am I supposed to say? 'Hey, love of my life and super cool vigilante mentor, can you please not tear each other's throats out?'

My backpack sneezes.

Jordan raises an eyebrow, the edge of their scowl lifting in bemusement. "Did your backpack just sneeze?"

My whole body clenches, my jaw setting so hard I hear it creak. I set my backpack on the table and watch it twitch slightly on the glass surface. "Okay, whoever's in there, get out now, or you're getting bitten in half," I growl, the room reverberating with tension.

There's a rustle, followed by a cough, before Spinelli climbs his way out of my backpack like some bizarre version of a magician's rabbit. He nervously waves at the room, his eyes flitting between me, Jamila, and Jordan. "Uh, hey. Anybody got a phone charger? I've been stuck in Bloodhound's locker all day and I'm out of juice."

The silence that follows is so profound it's almost sacred.

Spinelli, completely missing the social cues of a room charged with more electricity than a substation, claps his hands together. He slowly unfolds himself to his full height, looming over everyone else in the rest of the room, body pulling itself clown-car style out of my fucking backpack. His shoes squeak against the old wood. "Cool, cool. So, uh, can I join your cape team or what?"

Jamila facepalms so hard I swear I hear the wind whoosh from her hand. "You have got to be kidding me."

Jordan starts to laugh, a sound that's half mockery and half disbelief, and the tension doesn't so much break as it shatters into jagged pieces. "Well, this is new," they say, surveying the room like it's a scene from a comedy they never expected to direct.

As for me, I'm torn between the impulse to shout, laugh, or maybe even cry. "End of the world or comedy show -- you decide," I mutter under my breath, to nobody in particular.