Sitting in the dimly lit interior of the abandoned Tacony Music Hall, the makeshift headquarters for our little band of misfits, I try to shake off the chill of the outside world. It's still winter break, the kind of quiet where you can hear your own thoughts too loudly, with the new year looming overhead.

Woohoo, 2024.

Jordan lounges across a creaky recliner, the air carrying with it that quiet antiseptic scent that indicated they've been cleaning recently. Spindle, or Connor as he's trying to get us to call him now, sits opposite, nervously tapping his foot, still riding the high of being a 'provisionary member' of the Young Defenders.

"So, Sam, you've been like, super MIA at school," Jordan starts, their tone casual but their eyes concerned. "I mean, I get it, winter break and all, but you seemed out of it even before that. You… good? Alive? Possessed by an alien parasite?"

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, not meeting Jordan's gaze. "Yeah, it's been… a lot. Just a lot of stuff to think about, you know?"

Jordan nods, their expression softening. "I get it. Just worried, is all. You kinda vanished off the face of the Earth."

I manage a half-smile. "Yeah, it's been complicated. Watching my… Watching Liberty Belle…"

Jordan reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. "Don't finish that sentence, idiot, you're about to start crying."

I suck up the forming snot wad back into my sinuses and let out a loud, shaky exhale. "Yeah. True."

Spindle, ever the bundle of energy, interjects, "Hey, did I mention how jazzed I am about this whole Young Defenders thing? I mean, it's provisional, but still!" His excitement is palpable, his eyes practically sparkling. "Whatever provisional, means."

Jordan chuckles and leans over to give him a peck on the cheek. "Proud of you, Conny," they say, a genuine warmth in their voice.

I blink, a bit taken aback. "Wait, when did this happen?" I ask, pointing between the two of them.

Jordan grins, a teasing glint in their eye. "Oh, it happened offscreen," they joke, eliciting a laugh from Spindle. "You know, Sam, people do exist outside your point of view."

"You and Spindle?" I ask, switching my hand back and forth, pointing at one, then the other.

"You're not the only one that gets to hook up with superheroes!" Spindle replies, letting his head loll back almost all the way as he laughs. He wraps one long, gangly arm over Jordan's shoulder and pulls them in close.

I roll my eyes but can't help but smile. "Alright, alright. Point taken. So, wanna hear about my meeting with Jamal?"

Jordan and Spindle lean in, curiosity etched on their faces.

"It was intense," I begin, the memory fresh in my mind. "I showed him the footage from Belle's notes, the stuff about Chernobyl and the government. And get this – he had no clue. He was as shocked as I was."

Spindle whistles lowly. "That's… big. What did he say?"

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, but the weight of the conversation still presses down on me. "He admitted we're in a tight spot. The government's covering up their tracks, and now they're interested in Belle's notes. The ones I have."

Jordan's expression darkens. "That's messed up. So, what's the plan?"

"Well, Jamal can't do anything officially. Everything the Delaware Valley Defenders do is logged and public, thanks to FOIA requests," I explain, recalling Jamal's words. "So, he wants us to do some digging. Off the books."

Spindle leans forward, his eyes wide. "Us? As in, the three of us?"

I nod. "Yeah. He's calling it 'Young Defenders Dark.' Unofficially, of course. We're going to look into the NSRA and figure out what's really going on with Chernobyl."

Jordan lets out a low whistle. "That's a shitty name."

Spindle grins, practically bouncing in his seat. "Are you kidding? This is exactly what I signed up for! To make a difference, you know? Instead of picking locks and shit."

"I mean, you'll probably have to pick some locks. And yeah, it is a shitty name. We'll come up with a better one." I can't help but feel a surge of adrenaline at his enthusiasm, nonetheless. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us. And Jamal said he'd try to get some government surplus funneled to Jordan, you know, to help with… resources."

Jordan raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "That sounds super illegal."

"That's what I said!" I reply, shaking my hands, gesticulating as I talk.

The conversation drifts into planning and speculating, the three of us throwing around ideas and theories. It feels good, in a way, to have a direction, a purpose. Even if it's shrouded in secrecy and danger. It's something to focus on, a way to channel all the confusion and anger I've been feeling.

I glance at Jordan and Spindle, my partners in this unconventional endeavor, and there's a tangible sense of unity. We're all in this crazy ride together, whatever it throws at us.

As we talk, my thoughts keep circling back to the gravity of my meeting with Jamal, the weight of the truth we're about to uncover, and the scale of justice we're trying to balance. But then, another looming worry nudges its way into my brain.

"Ugh, and then there's the power testing with Dr. Harris tomorrow," I grumble, sinking deeper into my chair. "I can't shake the feeling I'm gonna get a bad grade in superpowers."

Jordan lets out a light laugh, their eyes crinkling in amusement. "Sam, it's not school. It’s just you, doing your thing. Plus, you might discover something new, something cool."

"Yeah, discovering the 'cool' part of nearly drowning," I mutter, rolling my eyes.

Spindle jumps in, his voice bubbling with excitement. "But, hey, it's a chance to really see what you can do, right? Like, how strong those shark teeth are, or the range of your blood sense. That's kind of awesome."

I sigh, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve. "Or I'll get a bad grade in superhero. And then my parents will find out. Mom will yell at me, and Dad will say 'I'm not upset but I am disappointed in you'," I say, trying to mimick my dad's deep voice the best I can.

Jordan snorts, leaning over to flick my forehead with a surprising quickness, using their powers to bring me within flicking range before pushing me back so I can't retaliate. "Yeah, right. Like they don't already know you're extraordinary in every way."

I flinch, half-grinning at the gesture. "Ow, hey!"

"And seriously, Sam, you’re Bloodhound. You’ve pulled off stuff that’s way more impressive than any lab test," Spindle adds, his enthusiasm unwavering.

Their words manage to lighten my mood, lifting the corners of my mouth into a reluctant smile. "Alright, alright. I'll go and do the superhero version of a talent show. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Jordan says dryly, giving Spindle's hair a playful ruffle. "But can we please talk about that name? 'Young Defenders Dark?' I am not signing up for anything that sounds like a rejected superhero team from a low-budget TV show."

Spindle chuckles, smoothing down his ruffled hair. "Yeah, we definitely need something cooler. How about… 'The Shadow Squad' or 'The Night Guardians'?"

I laugh, shaking my head. "We'll work on it. For now, let's just stick with 'the team that does stuff Jamal can't.'"

Jordan grins, a spark of mischief in their eyes. "Perfect. The 'Can't-Do-This-Officially-So-We're-Doing-It-Unofficially Team'. Catchy."

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

We wrap up our conversation, finalizing a few more details about our plans as Young Defenders Dark, rename pending. There's a sense of camaraderie that wasn't there before, a new shared purpose that binds us together. As I leave the music hall for the night to walk back home to Lily's, I feel a mix of apprehension and excitement about what lies ahead, both with the testing and our new mission.

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In the gym of the Delaware Valley Defenders HQ, the air feels different today, like it's charged with anticipation or maybe just nervousness. That's probably all me. The place has been transformed into a makeshift lab, with equipment I don't recognize and screens showing graphs and numbers that make about as much sense to me as ancient Greek.

Dr. Harris looks exactly like what you'd expect a superpowers nerd to look like, if that nerd had been marinating in science labs long enough to become a full-blown scientist. He's got this round, jolly kind of face that makes you think of Santa Claus, if Santa traded in his red suit for a lab coat and had a mild obsession with bite force measurements.

His glasses are these chunky things that magnify his eyes, and they sit perched on a nose that looks like it's been squished into his face from years of squinting at data screens. He's kinda balding, with tufts of hair that are more gray than not, and they stick out around the sides like he's been pulling at them in frustration - or maybe just deep thought.

His lab coat's a little too big for him, hanging off his shoulders and swishing around his legs as he moves, which is a lot. He's not a tall guy, kinda short and stout, but there's this energy about him that fills the room way more than his height ever could. And he's got this tie, a weird shade of green that looks like it was chosen by someone who spends way too much time staring at fluorescent lab markers.

Gale's here too, standing off to the side. She gives me a small wave and a reassuring smile as I walk in. As I get closer, she leans in and plants a quick, chaste kiss on my cheek. "Good luck," she whispers. It's a simple gesture, but it makes me feel a little more grounded. I don't see anyone else around, so I have to assume they're out on patrol or… you know, being teens, like me, doing other things with their lives.

"Ah, Samantha! Excellent, you're here," Dr. Harris exclaims, spinning around so fast I'm surprised he doesn't get dizzy. "We have quite a day ahead of us! I'm thrilled, absolutely thrilled, to be able to study your abilities. It's not every day I get to work with someone with your… unique profile."

I shift from foot to foot, trying to mirror his enthusiasm but feeling more like a lab rat than a superhero right now. "Yeah, it's, uh, nice to meet you too, Dr. Harris. What do you mean by, uh, unique profile?"

"Please, call me Leonard! Now, let me give you the grand tour of our temporary setup here," he says, gesturing grandly with his arms like he's showing off a castle instead of a bunch of machines in a gym. "Oh, right, you have what we call 'Buffet Style' powers - your powerset seems to consist of a couple of what would be otherwise minor powers tied together, as opposed to most of your compatriots, who have 'Entree Style'. I made those terms up, by the way. Entree Style is significantly more common, so like I said, it's not every day!"

He seems incapable of taking a step without saying something. In a way, he sort of reminds me of me. I'm not sure whether or not that makes me more or less comfortable.

First, he leads me to what looks like a dentist's nightmare – a contraption with a mouthpiece and a bunch of wires and sensors attached to it. "This beauty is for measuring your bite force. It's quite sophisticated, if I do say so myself. We'll be able to get an exact measurement in Newtons!" He says it like he's telling me I've won the lottery. "You'll have to bite it a lot, of course. And I'll have to do some measurements to get PSI amounts… Oh, it's a whole thing. I'm sure you're not intersted in the bloody details."

"Newtons, huh? Cool," I reply, though I'm not entirely sure what a Newton feels like in terms of biting down on something. Or what a Newton is. "Like the fig bar?"

Dr. Harris shakes his head. "No!" He says, not elaborating as he walks me through a series of small partitions, like the kind you get to temporarily block off a place. Like, fold-out partitions. Screen door things. I peek past one of them to see a small vial of what I can immediately recognize as blood - but it's totally sealed. I can't smell it at all. "This is for your blood sense test. We'll have different samples at various points, and you'll have to locate them. It's a bit like a game, really."

"I like games," I say, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

"Splendid!" He replies. We move on to a section with medical imaging equipment, which Leonard explains with words like 'MRI' and 'ultrasound.' He's talking a mile a minute, and I catch maybe every third word. "We want to observe your regenerative capabilities in real-time. Fascinating stuff!"

I nod, trying to look like I understand more than I do. The truth is, all this science talk is making me feel out of my depth. I'm used to punching things, not being poked and prodded and scanned. And, I mean, as jocky as I am, I'm good at school, but this is all way beyond my pay grade. Or grade grades.

"And finally," Leonard continues, leading me to a table with some vials and a weird-looking machine, "we have the saltwater and alcohol tolerance tests. We'll monitor your vitals and see how your body reacts. It's all very safe, I assure you."

Gale, who's been quietly following us around, gives my hand a quick squeeze. "You got this, Sam," she says, her voice low but full of confidence.

I manage a half-smile. "Thanks, Gale. I guess it's just… a lot."

Leonard claps his hands together, oblivious to my growing apprehension. "Well, let's not dilly-dally! Science waits for no one! We'll start with the bite force test. Now, if you'll just step over here…"

I take a deep breath and follow him, trying to shake off the feeling that I'm about to jump into the deep end of a pool with no idea how to swim. As Leonard fusses over his equipment, I glance back at Gale, who's watching me with a look that's part proud, part worried. I try to give her a reassuring nod, but I'm not sure it comes across as confident as I'd like. She gives me a somewhat apprehensive looking thumbs up.

Alright, Sam, let's do this. For science.

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Dr. Harris is practically vibrating with excitement as he ushers me over to the menacing-looking bite force meter. It's a shiny piece of tech with a mouthpiece that looks like it's seen better days, already equipped with dents that tell tales of previous superhero chomps.

"See, Samantha," he starts, adjusting his glasses with a finger, "the debate between Newtons and PSI is quite fascinating. Newtons measure force, while PSI measures pressure - force per unit area, to be precise. It's a common misconception to use them interchangeably, particularly in the realm of bite force."

I'm half-listening, half-staring at the contraption like it might bite back. But Dr. Harris's enthusiasm is contagious, in a geeky sort of way, so I find myself actually curious about what he's rambling on.

"Your jaw shape," he continues, now looking at me with the fervor of a kid in a candy store, "it's quite exceptional. Most capes with strength-based powers focus on the arms, the legs, the big muscles. But teeth!" He claps his hands together with glee. "Teeth are often overlooked, and yet here you are, a prime example of the power of the mandible!"

I can't help but grin, showing off the very tools we're about to test. "Yeah, they've come in handy," I say, trying to sound modest.

"Oh, but they're so much more than handy!" He's practically bouncing on his heels now. "Tooth length, tooth shape, jaw muscle density, all these factors contribute to bite efficiency. And let's not forget the motivation of the animal – or person, in this case – to bite."

He leads me to the machine, and I notice a set of various materials lined up next to it – rubber, wood, and a couple of metals. "Each substrate will test the durability of your teeth and the maximum force you can exert. We'll start with something soft and work our way up."

As he straps the mouthpiece to the machine, he goes on, "And let's not forget the importance of pressure in a bite. It's one thing to have the force, but the pressure – that's where the real damage happens."

He's got a point, I think to myself. I mean, I've never really thought about the science of my bite. It's just something I do when I'm fighting the bad guys or need to make a point… forcefully.

"Now, your canines," Dr. Harris gestures to my mouth as if it's a display in a museum, "will likely show a higher PSI due to their shape – more conducive for puncturing, you see. While your molars…" He trails off, looking at me expectantly.

I nod, getting into position. "So I'm biting this thing like I'm trying to make an impression?" I ask, half-joking.

"Precisely!" he exclaims. "But let's start with a baseline measurement. Just bite down normally, as if you're biting into an apple."

I do as instructed, feeling the odd pressure of the mouthpiece against my teeth. It's weird, biting something without the intention of actually biting through it.

After a few rounds of normal bites, Dr. Harris's eyes are wide as he examines the readings. "Astounding! Even your normal bite is off the charts compared to the average human. Now, let's see what you can do when you really put some effort into it."

That's my cue. I start with the rubber, and it feels like child's play. Then wood, a bit tougher but still no match for me. The metals are where I can really feel the resistance, and I channel every bit of frustration, every bad guy I've wanted to chomp down on into my jaw. I imagine, for a moment, biting down through Chernobyl's armor. I feel the metal buckle underneath me as I puncture it with the tips of my teeth.

Dr. Harris is cheering me on, rattling off numbers and exclamations like we're at a sports event. "Incredible! The readings are through the roof!"

By the time we reach the hardest metal, I'm in the zone, biting down as hard as I can, feeling the strain in my jaw but also a strange sense of pride.

"And there you have it, Samantha!" Dr. Harris is nearly breathless with excitement. "I'll spare you the exact numbers but you're easily reaching over 3600 Newtons and more than 1600 PSI at the sharpest points. And yet, you don't have the jaw musculature required for such a bite, which means you're one of those lucky metahumans with anomalous muscle strength. You've got all the jaw of a polar bear packed into a fourteen-year-old human's skull! In other words, you're almost exactly ten times as bite-y as a normal adult human being. No wonder you broke all my gauges!"

And he doesn't even sound upset about it!

I release the mouthpiece and can't help but feel a surge of pride. "A polar bear, huh? That's pretty cool," I say, and I mean it. It's one thing to know you're strong, but another to see it quantified, to see it compared to the powerful jaws of an animal known for its ability to ruin things with its bite.

Dr. Harris is scribbling down notes like there's no tomorrow, and I can't help but think that somewhere in all those numbers and data, there's a piece of me – a piece of what makes me, well, me. It's a weird feeling, being measured and studied, but if it helps me understand my powers better, helps me be a better hero, then I'm all for it.

"Thank you, Samantha," Dr. Harris says, his voice full of genuine gratitude. "This has been most enlightening. Shall we continue?"