The female agent smiles, immediately making me nervous, while she keeps her nose clamped shut with one hand, the other holstering her gun. "I'm afraid that's not correct, Mr. Pleasants. We were very willing to do things the easy way and not assert authority. But now…"

Miasma is unimpressed. "Now that you've been caught in a lie, you're going to try to strong-arm us?"

"If that's how you want to phrase it, yeah, sure," the male agent says.

As the male agent asserts their intention to strong-arm the situation, Miasma stands his ground, unflinching in the face of their bluster. "Really? That's your play? After being caught in a lie?"

The female agent, still pinching her nose, tries to regain some semblance of authority. "The nature of the information in those notes could very well classify them as government property. It's not a matter of personal inheritance when national security is at stake."

Miasma scoffs. "National security? These are personal notes on local supervillains and cold cases. Not exactly the stuff of top-secret government files."

"But if they were gathered by a government agent…" the male agent begins.

"Outside of work hours and without using classified government resources," Miasma interrupts. "That makes them personal property. And unless you have a warrant, you have no right to seize them."

The agents falter, their confidence wavering. They exchange a look, clearly not prepared for this level of resistance.

Miasma stands tall, his presence dominating the room despite the agents' attempts at authority. "Furthermore," he says, his voice firm, "there's no evidence to suggest these notes are classified. You're operating on assumptions and overstepping your boundaries."

The female agent, her nose still pinched, tries to maintain her composure. "The information was gathered by a government agent. That in itself could classify it as sensitive."

Miasma chuckles, a raspy sound muffled by his mask. "Gathered outside of working hours and not from classified government sources. That makes it personal property, not state secrets."

The male agent interjects, "But the very nature of her position--"

"--Doesn't automatically make everything she touches government property," Miasma cuts him off. "She was a superhero, not a spy. Her investigations into local supervillains and unresolved cases were her own initiative."

During this exchange, I take my chance. Quietly, I reach under the futon and retrieve a couple of flash drives, slipping them into my pockets discreetly. My heart pounds in my chest, but the agents are too caught up in the argument to notice. I hear things from the corner of my ears - something about a warrant, and fourth amendment rights, but I'm too busy trying to not scream and/or vomit to pay close enough attention.

Miasma leans in, his stance unyielding, while I catch the tail end of his sentence. "--notes stay with Ms. Small. You can't just barge in and claim rightfully bequeathed property based on flimsy suspicions. There are legal procedures for a reason."

The male agent, frustration evident in his voice, tries to assert his authority. "This is about national security. We have protocols to--"

"--Protocols that don't include harassing a teenage girl based on a hunch," Miasma interrupts. "You're not dealing with an enemy of the state here, just a kid trying to make sense of her mentor's legacy. And you don't have the power to barge in on a will that was properly arranged by the estate on the flimsy claim that it might be of national security importance, just because the woman in question worked for the government."

The male agent tries to take a deep breath and winces. Miasma smirks. "I know Belle. She couldn't have gotten clearance if her life depended on it."

Realizing they're at a stalemate and lacking the legal upper hand, the agents exchange a glance, defeat and anger written in their eyes. The female agent, conceding, says, "This isn't over. We'll be in touch after we've done our due diligence."

"Good luck with that," Miasma replies, a hint of triumph in his voice. "Until you have concrete evidence or a legal warrant, Ms. Small's property remains her own."

The agents, defeated, turn to leave. They walk out, trying to salvage their dignity, but the smell of victory is in the air - and it's not just Miasma.

Miasma watches them leave, a satisfied smirk on his face. Once they're gone, Miasma zips up his hazmat suit and clasps a sealed mask around his grotesque face. The stench begins to slowly - slowly - fade. He turns to me, a muffled chuckle escaping his mask. "That should keep them off your back for a while. Always a pleasure to put overzealous feds in their place."

I shoot him a weary, nauseous smile, and crack a thumbs up. "Uh, thanks. Do I need to bleach this place now?"

"A little Febreeze should do the trick," he jokes, pulling his hood a little closer to his face to hide more of his features.

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

Two hours later, I find myself in a place that feels worlds away from the cozy confines of Lily's home. I'm with Miasma at his temporary base of operations, an abandoned concrete pier near the Betsy Ross bridge. The setting sun casts long shadows over the derelict structures, painting the scene in hues of orange and purple.

Miasma, now in his fully sealed hazmat suit, sits across from me. The putrid stench that once defined him is almost unnoticeable now. "I'm from Boston, really. They say I'm Boston's Batman, if you care about shit like that. I've just been in town for the will and the funeral. Crossroads and I met after the burial," he says. "We exchanged contacts, and then he gave me a heads-up about you being in trouble today."

I'm surprised to hear Crossroads's name. He and I are friends, but I hadn't expected him to be the "little birdie" Miasma mentioned. "Crossroads saw this in a vision?" I ask, still trying to piece everything together.

"Yeah," Miasma nods. "Not sure why he picked me over other local heroes, though. Maybe because I was close by, here at this pier."

The pier is… low tech. I mean, Jordan and I have what could charitably be called a "shitty headquarters" but this really makes that look like a luxury hotel. It's more reminiscent of a homeless camp than a hero's hideout. Miasma's setup is simple: a tent, a bedroll, and a shopping cart, all of which seem borrowed from the city's vagrant scene. Yet, there's a certain orderliness to it, a method to the madness. I don't know if the oil drums and glass chemistry equipment is Miasma's, or someone else's. And I really don't feel like asking.

Around us, the quiet lapping of the river against the concrete creates a soothing backdrop. Miasma has started a small fire with some twigs and a lighter, the flames casting a warm glow and dancing shadows around us. He reaches into his overturned shopping cart, retrieves a twinkie, and tosses it to me. "I only eat for pleasure these days. Haven't digested anything in… seventeen years?" he muses, while I stare at the gift.

I take the Twinkie, my mind still reeling from the day's events. As the evening settles around us, Miasma stands and approaches his tent. He fiddles with his hazmat suit, unsealing it just a touch, before slipping inside and zipping up the entrance. Through the thin fabric, I can see his silhouette moving with a peculiar, deliberate rhythm. Beside him, a strange device hums to life, a sound that I have to assume is some sort of motor whirring, its outline bizarre and otherworldly in the dim light.

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From within the tent, Miasma's voice emerges, muffled but clear. "I wouldn't recommend coming in here, Sam," he says. "I'm extracting all the corpse gas from my system to refine it into methane later. Trust me, it smells like a dead body. Also, you don't want to get soaked with methane gas. Flammable."

His laughter lacks even the slightest trace of bitterness. Pure, genuine sincerity.

I watch, fascinated despite myself, as the silhouette seems to be shoving pipes and tubes into his body - a surreal image straight out of a sci-fi movie.

Sitting outside the tent, I unwrap the Twinkie he offered me earlier and take a polite bite. Its sweetness is a stark contrast to the grim task Miasma is undertaking inside his tent. "Thanks for the heads-up," I call out, doing my best to sound casual. The surrealism of the moment isn't lost on me - here I am, eating a Twinkie at dusk, while a superhero in a hazmat suit extracts gases from his own decaying body just a few feet away.

I chew, and chew, thinking. "I think I know why Crossroads called you, actually."

"Yeah?" Miasma rasps from inside the tent.

I pull my phone out, open up the files, and open up the video that's still the first file. No new pictures, no new memories, have overlapped it or pushed it down in order. "How much do you know about Ch… About Illya?"

"I know that he killed Liberty Belle and that he killed Professor Franklin. And I know that killing Professor Franklin basically drove Belle batshit. So, you could say I resent him a little bit, but I'm not exactly in a hurry to give this ol' body of mine radiation poisoning to see how that interacts with my powers. Why do you ask?" Miasma replies, his head turning towards me. Or at least, that's what I assume the motion of his silhouette is doing.

"Well, I've long since come to the conclusion that keeping secrets around Crossroads isn't really possible. So I assume he… knows this already? I don't really know how good he is at long term planning but I trust his… what's the difference between tactics and strategy, again?" I start responding, immediately getting sidetracked by my own sentences.

"Tactics are individual steps, strategies are the long term goal you want to accomplish," he answers.

"Yeah, I trust his tactical decision making. Anyway, the point is… well, just listen to this," I reply, playing the video and putting it on the concrete, in front of the tent. Volume up.

For the millionth time, I am frustrated by my decision to not press record ten seconds earlier. The voices come out, the same way as they did weeks ago.

"I am many things, Diane, but a liar is not one of them. You have been given orders to stand down, to let me have everything I want and leave in peace. Evacuate the area, so as to avoid witnesses. Yet I have killed your lover, and so many besides. I should be locked up for my crimes. For my monstrosity. But I remain a free man, and I am content to allow this arrangement to continue."

"You're trying to manipulate me. To make me doubt. I won't fall for it."

"I am not your enemy, Diane. I never was. The real enemy is the system that uses us both, that pits us against each other for their own ends. They'd want to sequester me in their 'residential facility', but I value my freedom, to live, to do what I want with these hands of iron. Your government could work with me and allow me to roam free on a permanent basis, rather than perpetuate this stage-play whenever I am to rear my ugly head. You could convince them, and avoid this bloodshed. You would not need to commit suicide against my steel. End the manhunt. Can I offer you that much?"

I press pause before he can enter into his soliloquy. The silence is painful and deafening. I hate watching this clip.

Miasma's voice comes through clearly clenched teeth. "Ms. Small, I have an idea, but I'm going to need you to explain in plain language what this recording is trying to tell me. Just so I can make sure I'm on the same page as you before I start getting angry. Angrier."

I take a deep breath, steadying myself before I speak. "That's a recording from Belle's last fight," I explain, my voice trembling slightly. "Chernobyl admits that the government has been letting him roam free. They want to use him, use his powers for… I don't know, energy generation, maybe more. They let him do whatever he wants, as long as he stays out of the spotlight."

Miasma's silhouette remains still for a moment, processing the information. "So, the government is in bed with a known murderer and super-powered criminal. They're protecting him, giving him free rein in exchange for… services."

"Yeah," I say, a mix of anger and helplessness in my voice. "Belle's notes had no idea. And I don't have the direct admission, only the aftermath. I can tell you what he said because I was there, and I watched her die. And I'm left with this mess."

Miasma's figure shifts slightly inside the tent, the shadowy outline conveying a sense of deep contemplation. "This is… This is big, Ms. Small. Bigger than just a rogue superhuman on the loose. We're talking about a government conspiracy, a cover-up at the highest levels."

I nod, the weight of the situation pressing down on me like a physical force. "Yeah, and I'm just a kid who happens to have shark powers. I'm way out of my league here. But I can't just sit back and do nothing."

Miasma's voice is resolute, yet there's an undercurrent of something else--anger, perhaps, or determination. "You're not alone in this, Sam. You've got me, for starters. And we need to think strategically. We can't just rush in headfirst."

I sit back, the cold concrete of the pier seeping through my clothes. The fire crackles, casting flickering light across the tent. "So, what do we do? Expose them? How do we even begin to take on something like this?"

Miasma unzips the tent slightly, letting out a small puff of the contained stench, which he quickly zips back up. "First, we need more information. We need to know who in the government is involved, how deep this goes. Your mentor's notes are a start, but we need more."

I think about the flash drives in my pocket, the untapped wealth of information they might hold. "I've already dug through all her physical notes, and it's all cold cases. Nothing about this conspiracy. There might be something on the flash drives, but if… If the NSRA comes back…"

"They won't," Miasma interrupts. "Not if we're careful. And not if we have a plan. Crossroads saw you in trouble, and here I am. Maybe it's time we put together a team, get some more eyes on this. Zhang likes you, we can trust her."

The idea of assembling a team, of not facing this alone, brings a small spark of hope. "A team," I echo. "But who? I mean, other than Crossroads."

Miasma's silhouette nods. "We'll need people we can trust. People with the right skills, the right mindset. I have some contacts in Boston who might be willing to help. And you have your own connections, right?"

"Yeah, the Young Defenders. And maybe some others." My mind races, thinking of everyone I know who might be willing to stand against this kind of corruption. "I mean, I'd hope the other Delaware Valley Defenders, but…"

Miasma laughs. "Government stooges. There's a reason I never registered, kid. And I'd bet dollars to fucking donuts that Davis has his nose in all this business."

"Councilman Jamal Davis?" I ask for clarification, staring out over the slowly churning Delaware River.

"Yeah. That guy," Miasma snorts.

"That's a great idea, actually. Here, I'll DropPass you a copy of the video and then I can take my copy and go--" I start, only to get cut off by Miasma's face emerging from the tent with the deepest scowl.

"Absolutely not. You think you can't trust the government stooges, so you'll go to the governmentest, stoogiest of them all? The stooge at the top? Re…consider your idea," he lectures, shoving his face back in through the zipper while I recoil from the scent.

I reel back from the stench as Miasma disappears back into his tent, but his words don't deter me. His skepticism, his distrust of authority, it doesn't change what I know I have to do. "I'm not going to sit around and play it safe," I retort, my voice firm with resolve. "Belle didn't just leave me these notes to keep them hidden. She wanted me to find the truth. And if that means confronting people, then that's what I'll do."

Miasma's muffled voice filters through the tent fabric. "Kid, you're talking about poking a hornet's nest. Without proof, without a plan, it's just reckless."

I clutch the flash drives in my pocket, feeling their weight against my fingers. "I don't care. Councilman Davis, the NSRA, whoever's involved - they've been covering up for a murderer. Belle's dead because of their games. I can't just sit on this. I need to be brave. Braver. Belle is dead because of them, and because I stood by and didn't help until it was too late. I'm done being a coward."

Miasma lets out a heavy sigh, and I can almost see him shaking his head in the dark. "Bravery without a plan is just stupidity. You need to think this through, Sam. There are other ways to find the truth without putting yourself in the crosshairs."

I clench my fists, feeling the frustration boiling inside me. "I'm done thinking. I need to act. I can't just sit here and do nothing."

There's a long silence, and for a moment, I think Miasma isn't going to respond. Then his voice comes through again, resigned but firm. "Fine. Do what you think you have to. But I'll be there to pick up the pieces when this blows up in your face. And it will blow up, Sam. Just remember that."

I get up, brushing dust off my pants and off my arms. It's cold, but not as cold as the funeral. I'm mostly just sore, because it turns out, sitting on concrete isn't exactly pleasant. Sore and angry. I just spent the afternoon diving into my mentor's killer's life, then getting harassed by federal agents, and now being told that I'm stupid. "I'm not stupid," I say, partially to Miasma, partially to myself. "I can regenerate."

Miasma's laugh is deep, hacking, and this time, full of bitterness, like the taste of eating raw grass. "You know what? I'm all for this. That's exactly what Diane would've said."

For some reason, that makes my heart thump twice, really hard. It lights a spark. "Really?"

"Yeah. You and her? Same kind of stupid," Miasma coughs through a cackling mouthful of phlegm.

My teeth lock together. I feel my cheeks pulling up, but I'm not exactly sure if that's a smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Good," he says back. I can hear his grin, even if I can't see it. "It was."