Snow continues to fall, blanketing the world in silence and white. It's cold, so cold, but I barely feel it. My fingers are numb, gripping Liberty Belle's hand like it's the only thing anchoring me to reality. She's gone, and with her, a part of me I'll never get back. I can't cry anymore, can't even think. I'm just sitting there, lost in a sea of grief and shock, the world around me fading into nothingness.
Time loses meaning until I hear footsteps crunching through the snow. I don't look up, don't move. Nothing matters anymore, not even the approaching figure. But then a familiar voice breaks through the numbness.
"Bloodhound? Sam? Samantha?" It's Multiplex, or one of his duplicates. His usual gruff exterior is gone, replaced with something softer, gentler. I hear him crouch beside me, but I can't make myself look at him, can't face the reality his presence confirms.
"Sam, talk to me," he says, his voice laced with concern.
I don't respond. Words feel like they're a million miles away. He sighs, and there's a rustle as he pulls out his phone.
"Dispatch, this is Multiplex at the refinery site. We need EMTs here, now. And get a message to Councilman Davis and Clara Parker. It's… it's Liberty Belle. She's… she's gone. Bloodhound's here, too. She's in shock, might be hypothermic. We need help immediately."
His words hang heavy in the air, a stark, brutal truth that I can't escape. Liberty Belle is dead. I'm here, holding her, lost in a world that no longer makes sense.
Multiplex continues, his voice steady but filled with an underlying sadness. "Yeah, it's bad. I don't know the full situation, but it looks like they took on Chernobyl. Just… hurry, okay?"
He ends the call and turns his attention back to me. "Sam, we need to get you warm. You can't stay out here like this."
But I can't move. I can't leave her. Not yet. Not while the world is still reeling, while the snow still falls, covering us in a shroud of white. It's like time has stopped, and all that's left is the cold, the silence, and the overwhelming weight of loss. His jacket covers me - I know, if this isn't the real Multiplex, that it'll disappear as soon as he does. But that doesn't make it not a real jacket. I'm sure when I wake up from this nightmare I'll remember to thank him.
In the distance, I hear the faint sound of sirens, a distant call back to a world that's moved on without us.
The refinery site transforms from a solitary, silent gravesite to a scene bustling with superheroes in short order, each arrival adding to the chaotic atmosphere. But for me, Sam, sitting in the snow, holding Belle, it's like I'm in a bubble of grief, the world outside muffled and distant.
Gossamer arrives first, her usually vibrant demeanor muted by the somber reality before her. Rampart follows, his stoic tone unable to mask the shock in his voice. Playback is next, his normally animated gestures stilled by the gravity of the moment, and Gale hovers in on a cold winter breeze, touching my shoulders, squeezing me from behind. They're talking, saying words meant to comfort or express disbelief, but to me, it's all just a noiseless sludge, their voices blending into the background hum of my shock.
Fury Forge comes next, her heavy steps crunching in the snow. Puppeteer and Blink arrive together, their faces etched with grief and confusion. Then comes Bulwark, his large frame casting a long shadow over the snowy ground. Crossroads, my leader, arrives last. Each of them adds their voice to the growing din, a chorus of sorrow and disbelief that I can't bring myself to join. Nothing they say sounds like it's being spoken in English. Everything feels like it's in third person, like I'm not in my body anymore.
They form a loose circle around us, a guard of honor for a fallen hero. They're talking, maybe to each other, maybe to me, but I can't focus on their words. It's like I'm underwater, everything distant and distorted. More voices join, and some heroes I recognize, dimly, in some part of my brain, make themselves known. Peregrine, Stylus, Catalyst. People who only existed on the quietest edges of my periphery, mentioned in offhand conversations with my compatriots.
More members of this world.
The arrival of the EMTs breaks through the fog in my mind. They move with practiced efficiency, draping a thermal blanket over my shoulders, on top of Multiplex's jacket. Their hands are gentle, their voices kind, but even they seem like they're speaking from far away. They check on me, asking questions I can't seem to answer.
I feel someone gently trying to pry Belle's hand from mine, but I can't let go. Not yet. The EMTs understand, or maybe they don't, but they don't force it. They just work around us, checking vital signs, providing medical attention where they can. The superheroes around me are a blur, their individual forms lost in the sea of my grief. They're talking, planning, deciding what to do next, but I'm not a part of it.
The heroes around me move with a somber grace, their actions imbued with a deep respect for Liberty Belle. The EMTs, with gentle hands and quiet words, prepare to transport her. They lift her onto a stretcher as if she's merely sleeping, as if at any moment she might wake up and brush off the snow from her costume. But she doesn't. She remains still, a hero fallen, her battle finally over.
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I watch, numb, as they secure her onto the stretcher, her body draped in a blanket that's too clean, too pristine for the refinery’s grimy backdrop. There's a reverence in their movements, a silent acknowledgement of her sacrifice. Even in death, she commands respect, her legacy evident in the careful way they handle her.
Then it's my turn. Hands guide me, help me stand, lead me towards the same ambulance. I'm moving, but I'm not really there. It's like I'm floating, detached from my body, from the reality of Belle lying on that stretcher. They sit me inside the ambulance, still clutching Belle's hand.
As the ambulance starts to move, the motion, the closeness of the space, everything combines and the grief that's been sitting heavy in my stomach starts to churn. I feel nauseous, the emotional toll overwhelming. It's too much, all of it, Belle's death, the fight, the cold. My body rebels, and suddenly I'm retching, throwing up onto the snow at my feet. It's violent, uncontrollable, and for a moment, I'm nothing but a vessel for this raw, physical reaction to everything that's happened.
The heroes express their concern, a blob of hands and voices, but they're distant, muted. I'm beyond their reach now, lost in a fog of guilt and grief. The world is a blur, the sounds and sights around me fading into insignificance. The doors shut with a soft thud, sealing us in a world apart from the refinery, from the snow, from the heroes we leave behind.
I'm sitting in the ambulance, the vehicle moving, taking us somewhere. I don't know where, don't care. I'm still holding Belle's hand, clinging to it like it's the only real thing left. My mentor, my guide, my hero, gone. And I'm left adrift, untethered from everything I thought I knew.
The motion of the ambulance, the sound of the siren, it's all just background noise to the void inside me. I'm alone with my grief, with the memory of Belle, and with the unspoken promise to carry on her legacy. But for now, all I can do is sit in the silence, lost in the aftermath of a battle that's changed everything, my body digesting itself.
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In the Delaware Valley Defenders HQ, the atmosphere is heavy, a mix of mourning and disbelief hanging in the air. Superheroes from across the East Coast have gathered, visitors from Atlantic City, Camden, Trenton, DC, and even one or two from New York City. They're breaking bread together, a somber congregation united by their shared loss. The room is filled with hushed conversations and quiet exchanges, a community coming together in the wake of tragedy.
In the midst of all this, I, am like a ghost, barely present. Wrapped in several spare blankets, I'm tucked away on a couch, a divider set up around me to provide a semblance of privacy in the crowded headquarters, hidden in the locker room. I'm grateful for the space, for the chance to be alone with my thoughts and my grief. The noise and activity around me are distant, a world apart from the bubble of sorrow I'm encased in.
I sit there, under the blankets, lost in a haze. The events of the evening play over and over in my mind, each replay bringing a fresh wave of pain and disbelief. Liberty Belle, my mentor, the Superwoman of Philadelphia, gone. And with her, a sense of stability and safety that I hadn't even realized I'd come to rely on. I keep second-guessing myself.
Would the same thing have happened if I didn't intervene? Did I do too much, or not enough? Would it have hurt so much if I never was there, if I left her to die alone? Or maybe my mere presence caused her to falter, to fail, once she knew there was something to lose. Should I have worked harder to convince her not to go? Should I have smashed her bugs and cameras? Should I have brought a gun? The possibilities swirl around me like a hurricane of needles, each one skimming my skin, bringing a fresh wave of burning pain to the surface.
The superheroes around me are trying to figure out what to do next, how to fill the void left by Belle's untimely departure. They're strategizing, planning, preparing for a future that's suddenly much more uncertain. But I'm not a part of those conversations. I can't be. Not yet. I'm still grappling with the reality of Belle's death, still trying to understand.
The blankets are a small comfort, their weight a grounding presence in the chaos of my thoughts. I curl up on the couch, letting the noise of the HQ wash over me, a distant, indistinct murmur. I'm alone in my grief, surrounded by people who understand but can't reach me, not while I'm adrift in this sea of loss and confusion.
Time passes slowly, each minute stretching out as I sit there, hidden away from the world.
The divider, my makeshift sanctuary in the Delaware Valley Defenders HQ, becomes less isolated as the evening stretches on. One by one, my teammates from the Young Defenders quietly file in, shedding their winter costumes and the personas that go with them. In this moment, they're not superheroes; we're just kids, trying to make sense of a world that's suddenly become much colder, much more real.
They don't say anything as they come in, knowing that I just need quiet and their presence. Gale is the first to come over, softly taking my hand and placing it on her lap to show she's there for me. Blink then settles in on my other side, leaning against me to offer comfort. The rest of the team squeezes into the small area - on the couch, the armrests, and even the floor. It's a tight fit, but it feels… the closest thing to good that I've felt in hours. Like we're all grieving together.
It's a moment of painful solidarity, a shared acknowledgment of the loss that's impacted each of us deeply. The warmth of my teammates around me is a stark contrast to the cold emptiness left by Belle's death. In this circle, there's an unspoken understanding, a shared pain that needs no words.
The night outside is cold, the world beyond our huddle full of uncertainties and challenges that we'll eventually have to face. But for now, we're here together, a pile of misery and mutual support. Gale's grip on my hand is steady, Blink's presence at my side is constant, and the quiet company of my teammates is a balm on the raw wound of my heart. Playback doesn't offer a quip. Rampart and Puppeteer don't give critiques. Crossroads doesn't even give a prediction. Just us and the silence.
And it hurts so fucking much.
End of Arc 3: Dybbuk