The Delaware Valley Defenders HQ is buzzing with a mix of laughter and music as I step inside with Blink. I feel a cocktail of emotions swirling inside me – excitement, nervousness, a bit of dread. It's like stepping into a different world, one where the shadows of Chernobyl and Aaron and the Kingdom don't loom over us.

As we walk in, the smell of air freshener hits me, masking the usual scent of sweat and metal that lingers in the training room. Someone, probably Crossroads, has gone all out cleaning the place. It's a nice touch, makes the HQ feel less like a battleground and more like a place to unwind.

The locker room and the computer/meeting room have been transformed. Colorful lights dance across the walls, and party stuff is scattered about, giving the place a festive vibe. At the center of it all is Playback, who's managed to lug in some gigantic apparatus to play Super Smash Brothers Melee, with Gamecube controllers plugged into some 3d-printed doohickey that's plugged into the cart port of the computer. A few team members are already engrossed in the game, their cheers and groans filling the room.

I spot Jamila first. She's wearing her favorite bomber jacket, the one with the intricate designs on the back, and she's laughing at something Puppeteer is saying. Puppeteer, decked out in a glittery top that catches the light as she moves, seems to be in her element, her laughter infectious.

Crossroads is busy chatting with Rampart near the makeshift bar. Crossroads is in some laid-back attire, jeans and a tee, as opposed to Rampart's more formal look with a button down and slacks. I can't help but smile; even off duty, Rampart looks like he could bench press a truck.

Gossamer flutters around the room, her immaculately designed outfit shimmering with every step, making her look like a living, breathing piece of art. She’s talking animatedly with Lily, who's got this wide-eyed look, like she's seeing everything for the first time.

Then there’s Spindle. He’s standing a bit awkwardly to the side, still finding his footing among us. Jordan is with him, their arm looped through his. I'm a little surprised to see Jordan here, given their known animosity for the "super-cops", but I guess getting to see their boyfriend(?) and their best friend(?) in one place sort of overrides that.

As I make my way through the crowd, the team greets me with various degrees of enthusiasm. Crossroads gives me a nod and a smile, Puppeteer waves excitedly, and Rampart offers a respectful nod. Playback pauses his game to say hi, and Gossamer tip-taps over to give me a gentle hug.

I find myself gravitating towards Jamila. She looks up as I approach, her smile softening. "Hey, Bee," she says, her voice just above the music. "Glad you could make it."

I nod, trying to push back the jumble of thoughts. "Wouldn't miss it," I reply, but my voice sounds a bit strained even to my own ears.

As I weave through the party, I spot Spindle and Jordan, leaning against the wall, their heads close together, chatting. I sidle up to them, catching the tail end of their conversation.

"…and then I just crashed in the corner over there," Spindle says, gesturing towards a shadowed alcove near the back of the room, a sheepish grin on his face. "Hey, when you're trying to balance superhero life with, well, just trying to survive, you find the weirdest places to catch some Z's."

Jordan chuckles, shaking their head with a mix of amusement and sympathy. "You're a piece of work, Connor. But hey, at least you've got a roof over your head now, even if it's our locker room."

I join in the laughter, feeling a pang of empathy for Spindle. "Gotta say, you're handling the superhero gig pretty well, all things considered."

Spindle shrugs, the corners of his mouth turning up in a modest smile. "Thanks, Bee. It's definitely better than the alternative. And hanging out with you guys? That's a bonus."

"Thanks," I say, feeling a genuine warmth at Spindle's inclusion. It's weird, thinking about how things were just a couple of weeks… was it weeks? Weeks ago. Now here he is, part of the team, part of this weird family we've cobbled together. The family I still exist on the periphery of.

Jordan smirks, their eyes sparkling with mischief. "Don't get too comfy. This lot is a handful, especially this one." They nudge me playfully. It's nice, seeing Jordan like this, relaxed and almost happy, even among people they wouldn't be caught dead with otherwise.

Suddenly, the sound of clinking glass echoes through the room, and we all turn to see Crossroads standing on a chair, a bottle of sparkling cider in one hand and a glass in the other. "Attention, everyone! I think it's time we did the whole cheesy toast thing. You know, New Year's and all."

There's a collective groan from the team, but it's good-natured. We gather around, glasses being passed around, some filled with cider, others with just water. I take one, the cool glass feeling odd in my bandaged hand.

Crossroads clears his throat, waiting for quiet. "I know this year has been… a lot," he starts, his voice steady. "We've seen some tough times, lost people we cared about," he glances at me, and I feel my heart tighten, "but we've also seen what we're capable of when we work together. We're more than just a team; we're a family. And families stick together, no matter what."

He raises his glass. "To those we've lost, to those we've found, and to the battles we'll face together. Happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year," we all echo, the clink of glasses mingling with our voices. For a moment, there's a sense of unity, of shared purpose. People drink. I drink. It's just water, despite the momentary thrill in my heart that it might've been alcohol. Sure, it wouldn't have done anything, and it would've tasted like gasoline, but it would've given me an opportunity to show off a cool party trick.

Then, the moment passes, and the party resumes.

Playback cranks up the music again, and Puppeteer drags Gossamer onto an impromptu dance floor. They move with a grace and energy that's infectious, and soon others join in, mostly laughing, Rampart doing the Macarena to every single song.

I hang back, watching them. Jamila comes over, nudging me gently. "You should dance," she says, her eyes bright.

I shake my head. "Not really in the dancing mood," I admit.

She nods back at me.

Instead, we find a quieter corner, just observing the party. Playback is trying to breakdance, much to everyone's amusement. Rampart and Lily are engaged in a deep conversation, their heads close together. And Jordan and Spindle, they're just enjoying the moment, being together.

I lean back against the wall, feeling the thrum of the music through my body. There's a lot going on in my head, a lot I still need to figure out.

"You're… injured," Jamila observes, quietly running her fingers across my bandaged left hand. "Bad."

"No big deal. Just got into a little spat," I reply, trying to downplay it, staring at the ceiling.

Jamila frowns at me, out of the corner of my eye. "I know how much it takes to hurt you, Sam. What happened?"

"It's not a big deal," I repeat, trying to get her to drop it without saying as such out loud. I know I should be working with the team but I just can't drag them into this on what's supposed to be a nice day like this. "It's fine."

"It's not fine," Jamila says, sighing. She leans her head on my shoulder. It feels weirdly sterile, like a hug made out of iodine. Her skin is cold, and her hijab is bunching up against my sweater's neck. "I'm worried about you. Ever since… Ever since Liberty Belle died,"

"Please," I cough through grit teeth. "It's all good."

"I haven't seen you in two weeks, Sam," Jamila mutters.

I look at her, trying and failing to hide my surprise. Is that how long it's been? Time has sort of lost its meaning. She could be lying to my face and I would believe her, because the days have all blurred together, and the concussion I'm nursing certainly isn't helping matters.

"Yeah," I finally say, my voice barely above the music. "I guess it has been. Sorry."

Jamila shifts, her gaze searching mine. "Is this… us, Sam? Is this what we are now? You disappearing into your… triple life and me just waiting?"

I wince, feeling a pang of guilt. "J, it's not like that. It's just been… hectic. You know, with everything going on."

"But that's just it," she insists, her voice tinged with frustration. "It's always something. The team, the fights, the injuries… When do we get to be just… us?"

I don't have an answer to that. The truth is, I don't know. Between being Bloodhound and just trying to keep my head above water, I haven't had time to think about 'us'. Already, I feel like the distinction between Bloodhound and Samantha Small is blurring together. I'm getting attacked in the street. My house got destroyed by a supervillain.

"Jamila, I…" I start, but the words don't come. How do I explain what I don't fully understand myself? "I don't know if there is a me. I don't know if I can draw a line."

She sighs, pulling back slightly. "I just miss you, Sam. I know we have our duties and all that, but just try to make some time for the rest of your life too, okay? I like going to concerts with you."

I feel my throat tighten. "I miss that too," I admit, the words barely audible over the noise of the party. "But I don't know how to… I can't just stop being Bloodhound. Belle…"

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

I don't talk about the journals. I wish I could, but my throat locks up. What if the NSRA or the Kingdom come for Jamila next, too?

Jamila nods, her expression softening. "I know. And I'm proud of you, for everything you do. It's just… I don't know, it's so easy for me to split these things in two. Is there room for Jamila in there, superheroine?"

"There is," I say quickly, too quickly. "There's always room for you."

But even as I say it, I wonder if that's true. The doubt must show on my face because Jamila gives me a sad smile.

"Let's just enjoy tonight, okay?" she says, leaning in to kiss me. It's a soft, sweet kiss, but it feels like a band-aid over a wound that's still bleeding. I kiss her back, my eyes slipping shut for a moment.

When she pulls away, she doesn't say anything more. She just turns and heads back into the party, leaving me standing there, feeling more lost than ever. I watch her go, her laughter mingling with the others', and I wonder if this is just how it's going to be. Me, always on the outside, looking in.

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As the party continues, I can feel myself starting to unwind, just a bit. The music, the laughter, the casual chatter – it's all helping to loosen the knots in my shoulders, the tension that's been coiling tighter and tighter since… well, since everything happened.

It's around 11 PM, three hours into the party, when Rampart finally decides to address the elephant in the room – my bandages and splints. We're all lounging on some beanbags and couches thrown together in a makeshift lounge area when he turns to me, his brow creased with concern.

"Sam," he begins, his voice gentle but firm, "we all know you're tough as nails, but those bandages… That's not normal, even for you. What happened?"

I feel a knot form in my stomach. I've been dreading this question all night, knowing it would come up eventually. I glance around the room, seeing the expectant faces of my teammates – my friends. I sigh quietly, and fold inward.

"I… got into a bit of trouble," I start, my voice barely above a whisper. "With the Phreaks."

The name seems to echo in the room, a ripple of tension passing through the group. Spindle, who had been fiddling with a controller, suddenly goes rigid, his eyes snapping to me.

"The Phreaks?" he blurts out, louder than he probably intends. "You tangled with them?"

I nod, feeling a flush of heat rise to my cheeks. "Yeah, it was… messy."

Spindle's face is a mix of shock and anger. "Why didn't you tell me? And… why you?"

I know it's not intended to be a joke, but the way he cocks his head is almost funny. Like, why you, Sam? You're such a small fry.

I look at him, my throat tight. "I didn't want to drag you back into that world, Spindle. It was my fight."

"But we're a team," he insists, his voice rising. "We should be there for each other, no matter what. Right?"

He looks to Rampart and Puppeteer for approval. Rampart shoots him a very lackluster thumbs up, as if this was part of some sort of lesson he was trying to teach him.

Spindle looks back at me. "Fam sticks together, you know?"

I can see the others looking at us now, the room's energy shifting from relaxed to tense. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts.

"It's not just the Phreaks," I continue, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. "There's this guy, Aaron McKinley. He's… well, he's a gangster, a tough guy. He can set things on fire with his eyes. He tried to beat me with a crowbar. You know, to death. Failed, obviously."

There are murmurs around the room, a mix of disbelief and concern. I can see the questions in their eyes, the unspoken worries. Then, the spoken ones.

Puppeteer leans forward, concern etched on their face. "Sam, why didn't you tell us? And how come the hospital didn't inform any of us? I mean, they should've at least notified someone from the team."

I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of their stares. "I... I asked them not to. Told them to keep it under wraps. You know, after I gave them my LUMA number," I say, reciting it in my head - 438-057-63 - "they just... they followed my lead. I think I've been in the hospital more times than any of you guys. Did you know they're allowed to not tell people you've been hospitalized, if you have a JLUMA and you beg and plead for them not to enough? They just... accepted 'I am being chased by a gangster who assaulted me in public and tried to set me on fire, and he will go after my parents and friends if he knows who they are' as an excuse. I didn't know that would work!"

I glance around the room, seeing a mix of understanding and frustration. Rampart nods - he's been with me to the ER on the two occasions so far that I've broken my wrist on a sandbag - but Puppeteer's face just goes sour like she sucked on a lemon. I can tell they wished they knew earlier. That they could've prepared for it and been here to support me.

Crossroads just looks at me and purses his lips. I don't meet his gaze. He probably knew.

But they all have their hands full enough. This is my problem. I laugh nervously. I cut the silence with my butter knife words.

"Still here, guys! He's teamed up with the Phreaks to take revenge on me," I add. "For helping put Patches away. But I think there's more to it. I can't put my finger on it, but it doesn't seem like simple revenge. I don't think he'd give a shit about them otherwise. He set Daisy on fire."

The room is silent now, everyone processing what I've said. I can feel their support, their readiness to stand with me, but also their... not terror. Disgust? Spindle is looking at me in mute horror, not even capable of processing something silly and impulsive to say. Jordan is trying extremely hard to avoid crushing their red solo cup in their hand out of anger. Gale doesn't look me in the eye. She looks elsewhere.

"He… what?" Spindle asks, after what feels like an eternity of quiet.

"So, I was tied up in a basement, and I taunted Daisy until she took my powers to try and get her to cut the ropes. I guess Aaron knew that wouldn't be good, so he lit her hair on fire to get her to take his powers instead. And it took, like, a solid three minutes of Mean Girls insults before she switched off of his power in the first place. I don't think he gives a shit about Patches, or the Phreaks, outside of using them to try and get to me," I say, not looking at anyone. Instead, I stare at my sneakers.

Nobody is saying a word. They're all just looking at me. I suck in air between my teeth. "By the way, just while we're clearing the air, Liberty Belle left me all her investigation notes and detective equipment and now the NSRA is chasing me because they think I'm a threat to national security. So, apologies if I haven't been all too here the past couple weeks. It's been pretty crazy."

It all comes out before I really have an opportunity to stop myself. I try not to get passive aggressive at Gale too much, but I can tell without needing to look, just from the way she flinches in my periphery, that I hurt her. It doesn't feel good. The music playing in the background is almost so incoherent with the mood that it makes me want to laugh.

"Oh, and, by the way, I'm a freak of nature. You know, more than your usual superhero. Found that out a couple days ago, too. How do you think I escaped four supervillains, each with powers, who all wanted me dead, and had me tied up in a chair?" I ask, glancing around the room. "Any guesses? Seriously, anyone?"

"You… are a werewolf?" Playback asks, trying to crack a grin. It doesn't really work, but I laugh anyway.

"Close!" I reply, trying not to shout. So, instead, I just squeeze my hand. And I squeeze, and I squeeze, and I squeeze, clenching up like I'm taking a shit, sorry Mom, until I feel something small and hard emerge from the tips of my pointer finger. And it keeps emerging, and it keeps emerging, until the shark tooth is fully extended, pearly white, and glistening in the rainbow lights in the party. "Ta-da! I'm literally full of teeth."

The room falls silent as I reveal the shark tooth emerging from my finger, a tangible symbol of the freakish new reality I'm grappling with. The tension is palpable, a mix of shock, concern, and a strange kind of fascination among my teammates.

Playback tries to lighten the mood with a weak joke, but it falls flat. "So, uh, do you floss all of them, or…?" he asks, trying to smile. It's a lame attempt, but I appreciate the effort to break the ice.

Rampart is already thinking ahead. "This could be an asset in the field," he muses, his tone analytical. "We need to consider how this changes our approach in operations," he says, and I can tell he's trying to pull things back to systems normal. Not for his sake, but for mine.

Gossamer looks at me with a mixture of worry and curiosity. "Sam, your costume… will it need any alterations to accommodate… um, this?" She gestures towards my hand.

I… retract the tooth, something I've been practicing at, and feels exactly like shitting in reverse. It is not a sensation I would wish anyone else has to feel. I feel the tooth returning to its little space under my finger, and wince. I think if I get to use this, I'll just… eject them. That's easier. "I… I haven't thought that far ahead yet," I admit, my voice barely above the music.

The room is still tense, but slowly, a sense of solidarity begins to seep in. Puppeteer leans forward, her expression serious. "Whatever you're going through, Sam, we're here for you. You're not alone in this. You saw me at my lowest, and we're here to see you at yours."

"That sounds weird," Playback quips, gently nudging Puppeteer's shoulder.

She rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."

Gale reaches out, her touch gentle on my arm. "We've got your back, Bee," she says softly, and I can hear the sincerity in her voice, and I feel better. For a moment. "We've seen you at your strongest, Sam. But we're here for you in your weakest moments too. You don't have to be the hero all the time."

My thoughts, for a moment, turn to Miasma. Whatever's happened with his powers, he's now constantly rotting, and I can't help but think that it might be me. Me in a year, or two, or ten. Will I become like Deathgirl? Will I just be teeth? Their words, though meant to be encouraging, only serve to remind me of how much I've changed, how much I've lost and gained in such a short time. Liberty Belle's death, the Phreaks, Aaron McKinley, my new powers, the NSRA – it's all a tangled mess in my head.

I glance around the room, at the faces of my teammates, my friends. They're all looking at me with something akin to admiration, but all I can see is the concern, the worry.

"I appreciate the help, guys," I murmur, my voice barely above the music. "I just… need some time to figure all this out."

"Don't you worry, Bee. I'll go tell Clara and we'll--" Puppeteer starts, and I see Crossroads wince before the anxiety even hits me. I consider the idea for a moment, and fear bubbles up inside of me like a pot of water flash boiling with a rocket fuel flame.

"NO!" I find myself shouting without any actual control over my lungs. Everyone flinches away from me like I just swung my arms in a killing arc. "Sorry. No. No, don't... make this their problem."

"You got... like, tortured, dude. They can't just do that," Playback murmurs, out of bravado, running on empty.

Gossamer steps forward out of the semicircle of concerned teammates and reaches for my wrist, but I yank it away, feeling the panic rising in my throat like so much stomach bile. "No, I think what Bee wants is for us to--"

"No, no, no, no, NO!" I shout, feeling pinned between their good intentions and the wall. My hands come out in front of me like I'm bracing for impact. I suck in air between my teeth and pant for breath. "No. Just. Forget about this. I don't want to be thinking about this right now. Just pretend it didn't come up, okay?"

Everyone looks at me like I have five heads and I just ruined their night, and it makes me want to rip my eyes out. To grab my head at the neck and pull upwards until it comes loose from my spine. I slowly lower my hands, feeling my entire body race with adrenaline. "Just, please... I just want to have a fun night where nothing happens. It's New Years. Can we table this? Please? No villains. No gangsters. No meddling. Just... leave it. Please."

The air is still outside of my pleas, and they hang like carbon monoxide in between all of us. People aren't sure where to look. Almost everyone glances at Crossroads and Puppeteer. Puppeteer is looking at Crossroads. Crossroads is looking at me.

He sighs. "You heard her. Sam, go take ten outside, okay? I think you could use some fresh air. We're tabling it."

Knowing what I know about him and his powers, I trust his decision implicitly. My body is still shaking, my veins throbbing inside of me, trying to escape. But he's probably seen this conversation dozens of times already. I trust him.

Then, I get up and step outside for some air. The airlocks click shut behind me. I keep an eye out for crowbars, expecting to be assaulted any second now, but in the cold snowy night, nothing happens.

I breathe, and it turns into smoke in front of me. I look at my fingertip. I squeeze.

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"Five… four… three… two… one…! Happy New Year!"

I squeeze Gale close on the couch, raising a small plastic cup full of sparkling cider, my other hand hooked around her waist, my lips on Gale's. Always told it was good luck to pass through the new year kissing someone, never had an opportunity to put it into practice. She pulls away with a smile in her eyes and leans her head down in my lap.

I'm trying to pretend nothing happened. I'm trying so hard.

I squeeze her side with my gloved hand, the one without nails anymore. It hurts.