The Tacony Music Hall, with its rugged charm of peeling paint and mismatched furniture, feels more like a superhero hideout now than the first time I stepped in. It's got a lived-in quality, beds replacing mattresses and a makeshift kitchen in one corner. Jordan's done a good job here, making something out of an abandoned building. Spindle's lounging on one of the beds, scrolling through his phone, while Jordan's fiddling with some gadget at a table. It's weirdly cozy.

Then there's Miasma, looming like a storm cloud in the middle of it all. His presence is heavy, the air almost tangibly tense around him. He's pacing, his steps echoing in the vast space of the hall, as he lays out his plan against the NSRA and Chernobyl. The plan's bold, alright; break into an NSRA facility to dig up dirt on Chernobyl. It sounds more like a movie plot than something we'd actually do.

It sounds insane, frankly. I don't like it the second it comes out of his mouth.

Miasma's demeanor is all business, his words sharp and to the point. He's clearly been thinking about this for a while, each detail meticulously planned. There's an intensity to him that's both admirable and slightly terrifying. He talks about bypassing security systems, hacking into databases - stuff that's way over my head.

Jordan's leaning in, soaking up every word. There's this light in their eyes, the kind that shows up when they're really into something. They've always been about action, and this is right up their alley. But there's a part of me that wonders if they're considering the risks, or if the thrill of the challenge is all they're seeing.

Spindle, meanwhile, is more reserved. He's listening, sure, but there's a skepticism in his posture, a wariness that wasn't there a moment ago. I can't blame him; this plan sounds ballistic. Raiding a government office? Even thinking about it is enough to send anxious shivers down my spine.

And me? I'm torn. Part of me wants to jump in, to take the fight to them, to do something about Chernobyl and the NSRA. They came to my residence and threatened me to my face. But another part, maybe the sensible part, is screaming that this is a bad idea. It's not just the legal risks; it's the danger, the possibility of things going horribly wrong.

Miasma finishes his spiel and looks at each of us, probably gauging our reactions. I can feel his gaze linger on me, expecting, maybe even challenging. I shift uncomfortably under the weight of that stare. This is a lot, even for someone used to dealing with the craziness of superhero life.

Jordan breaks the silence first. "I'm in," they say, their voice firm. "This is our chance to hit back, to get some real answers." Their determination is clear, but it's the kind of determination that can either forge paths or burn bridges.

Spindle finally speaks up, his voice cutting through the tension. "Are we seriously considering this? Breaking into an NSRA facility is next-level. It's not just about getting caught; it's about what happens if we do." He's right, of course. The consequences of a plan like this could be disastrous. "WHEN we do. I can't even shoplift from a Target, man."

Miasma turns to him, a slight smirk on his face. "You got a better idea, kid?" His tone is condescending, dismissive even. It rubs me the wrong way, but I bite back the retort that's sitting on the tip of my tongue.

The room's filled with a heavy silence, each of us lost in our thoughts, weighing the risks against the rewards. My mind's racing, scenarios and consequences playing out in a loop. Miasma's plan is bold, maybe too bold, but it's also the kind of bold that might just work. Or it could be the kind that gets us all in deep trouble.

I look at Jordan, then at Spindle, and finally back at Miasma. "We need to think this through," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "We can't just rush into something like this."

Jordan frowns, but there's understanding in their eyes. Spindle nods, relieved that I'm not jumping on board without considering the risks. And Miasma, well, he looks like he expected nothing less.

Miasma's leaning over Jordan's makeshift table, his eyes flickering over a mess of maps and notes. "So, the plan's simple," he begins, his voice steady and sure. "We hit the NSRA office downtown. I've got the layout, the security schedules, everything. We get in, grab whatever intel we can on Chernobyl, and get out. No fighting. No crazy business. Steal a couple of computers, smash up any security cameras, and leave."

Jordan's nodding along, their excitement palpable. They've always been one for action, the more daring the better. But as Miasma keeps talking, laying out his plan with a kind of casual confidence, I feel my stomach twist. This isn't a game. This is serious, and it's dangerous. More dangerous than the knife fights I've been getting into. Those have consequences that are skin-deep.

Spindle, sitting on the edge of one of the beds, raises an eyebrow. "You do realize we're talking about breaking into a government office, right? Honey bunches of oats?" His voice is calm, but there's an undercurrent of disbelief. "This is way past 'not smart.' It's insane."

Miasma scoffs, dismissing Spindle with a wave of his hand. "Risk comes with the territory. You want to make an omelet, you've got to break some eggs."

I frown, crossing my arms. "But these are people's lives we're messing with, not eggs. We can't just storm in there. There are consequences to think about."

Jordan's eyes flick to me, then back to Miasma. "Sam's got a point. We need to be smart about this."

I almost want to yell. No, we don't need to be smart about this - we need to not do it.

Miasma turns to me, his gaze sharp. "And what do you suggest, Sam? We sit back and do nothing? Let the NSRA and Chernobyl keep doing whatever they're doing?"

I shake my head. "No, that's not what I'm saying. I just… There's got to be a better way. Something less… extreme. Can't we shake someone down on the streets?"

Miasma's lips twist into a wry smile. "Sometimes, extreme is the only way to get things done. You've got to be willing to push the boundaries if you want to make a real difference."

The room falls silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air. I can feel the tension rising, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. The air thickens like tapioca.

Miasma's frustration is almost tangible, his words sharp as knives. "You're not seeing the big picture, Sam. This is about the greater good. A few risks, a few injuries, it's all part of the process."

I feel a chill run down my spine at his words. "Injuries? We're supposed to protect people, not put them in danger. How can you just… just write off lives like that?"

Jordan steps in, trying to mediate. "Maybe there's a middle ground. We can do this without hurting anyone, right?"

Miasma scoffs. "Middle ground? There's no middle ground in a war, kid. You're either in or you're out. And this is a war, whether you like it or not."

Spindle looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "But we're minors, Miasma. We can't just go breaking into government buildings. That's serious stuff. We get caught, it's not just a slap on the wrist."

Miasma turns to him, his eyes cold. "Then don't get caught. You think this is a game? This is how change happens. By taking risks. By doing what needs to be done. Liberty Belle took risks."

"Look where it got her," Jordan mumbles, and I see red, for a moment, squeezing my hands together.

I shake my head, my fists clenching at my sides. "There has to be another way. We can't just become what we're fighting against. We can't lose our humanity in the process."

"It's easy for you to say, Sam," Miasma snaps back. "You haven't seen what I've seen. You haven't had to make the hard choices. Sometimes, the end does justify the means. But fine. We'll do it your way. I was planning on going at night anyway, but just so we're clear - we're going at night. Obviously, breaking in when it's full of civvies is idiotic. Too much risk of getting caught."

Jordan's mouth is agape, and their stance pulls them back. A minute ago, two minutes, they were leaning in, all-in on the plan, but now they look horrified. "That's your concern?"

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Miasma laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Listen. Look at me, you idealistic little pigs. This isn't about individuals. It's about making a difference in the broad scale. And sometimes, making a difference requires sacrifice."

The word 'sacrifice' hangs heavy in the air, a dark cloud over us all. I can feel the tension mounting, the gap in our ideologies growing wider and wider.

"And what about the security guards?" I challenge him. "The people just doing their jobs? What about them?"

Miasma shrugs, his expression unyielding. "Collateral damage. They're part of the system. If they get in the way, that's on them. If they don't get in the way, that's great. We don't have to hurt anyone, but hurting others can't be the thing that makes you stop."

I stare at him, disbelief and anger swirling inside me. "How can you be so callous? They're people, Miasma. People with families, with lives. You can't just… You can't just write them off."

He meets my gaze, unflinching. "Sometimes, that's the cost of change, Sam. You're either willing to pay it, or you're not."

I feel a deep, unsettling unease settle in my stomach. This isn't what I signed up for. This isn't what being a superhero is about. It's about saving lives, not sacrificing them for some abstract greater good.

Jordan's looking at Miasma, their expression hard to read. Spindle is visibly uncomfortable, his eyes darting between us.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. "I can't be a part of this, Miasma. Not if it means crossing that line."

Miasma's expression darkens. "You need to listen to me, you little swine," he says, standing up. I see his hand twitch, like it's about to reach for the zipper on his neon-yellow containment suit. But he stops himself. "Chernobyl is a county-scale threat. If he's allowed to roam free, he will continue pillaging, he will continue killing, and he will continue poisoning the land. And if we can't blow the lid off this, that's putting not just our lives, but the lives of future generations at stake. What you have, it lacks essential context. It lacks proof. No video by its lonesome is meaningful nowadays, especially not a month after Belle's death. We need supporting evidence. We need notes. We need proof, we need names, we need heads."

I stare at him, swallowing thickly. I try to think of a response, but my mouth is too dry for words.

"Otherwise, all those innocent office workers? Their lives are going to be at risk too. Sure, they won't get their heads politely coconutted by a vigilante, but the cancer, the disease - it'll all come out in the actuarial tables. Every day we let Chernobyl go uncontested is a day that someone's life, somewhere, is snuffed out ten years early," he finishes, taking a breath. "Shut up and calculate. Think about the numbers here."

I look him in the eye, not flinching, not moving.

He scoffs. "Don't worry about it, Sam. Sure, I'm doing this to help you, but you lack the subtlety we need anyway. Really, I'm here for--"

Then, out of nowhere, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK! The sound echoes through the Music Hall, sharp and insistent. Jordan's face goes white as a sheet. We all freeze, even Miasma, who looks like he's been slapped back to reality, through his deranged rant.

"JORDAN. ANISE. WESTWOOD!" The voice is muffled but unmistakable. It could only be one person.

"Your middle name is Anise?" Spindle asks, reaching out to Jordan - but they slap his hand away.

Jordan is freaking out, whispering, "She can't be here, she can't…" but it's too late. We can hear the sound of the lock being picked downstairs, each click and scrape a countdown to the inevitable explosion of Jordan's mom bursting in.

Miasma is the first to react, moving towards the door. His hand is already on his zipper, but there is no fucking way I am letting him gas my best friend's mom with corpse smell, and I reach out to grab him. "Cool your jets, skunk-man," I whisper.

The door to the stairwell slams open, and Mrs. Westwood's voice gets louder, angrier. "Jordan Anise Westwood, you have some explaining to do!" She's practically storming up the stairs, and I can hear the thump of her footsteps getting closer and closer.

Jordan is just standing there, looking like they want the floor to swallow them up. Spindle looks between Jordan and the stairwell, unsure of what to do or say. And Miasma, well, he's just watching, trying to pin himself into the wall, into the shadows.

Then she's there, in the doorway, breathing hard from her climb. Mrs. Westwood looks… well, she looks like a storm about to break. Her eyes land on Jordan, then dart around the room, taking in each of us – me, Spindle, and especially Miasma, who definitely stands out in his neon-yellow suit.

Jordan's mom - Mrs. Westwood, I assume - looks like an older, chestier, angrier version of Jordan. They have big, stretched earlobes that probably had gauges at some point but now hold dangly hoop earrings, and hair that's absolutely been fried into crackling, bleached nothingness, wispy like cotton candy. But their face is the worst part, contorted into something that wouldn't be out of place in a horror movie.

"Evening, ma'am," Miasma chirps, chuckling under his breath.

"Jordan Anise Westwood, where have you been?" Her voice is sharp, cutting through the tension already in the room, ignoring Miasma entirely.

Jordan looks like they want to sink into the floor. "Mom, what are you doing here?" There's a mix of embarrassment and annoyance in their voice. "How did you even find me?"

"It wasn't hard, Jordan," Mrs. Westwood snaps back. "I just had to ask around a few convenience stores to see who had seen you recently. A little detective work, that's all. Once I had you triangulated to a neighborhood, I just needed to ask that nice man next door that's been keeping an eye on you. You're not as clever as you think, running around with these… people." She waves a dismissive hand at us all. "Slumming around."

Miasma is just standing there, an amused smirk on his face, clearly finding the whole situation more entertaining than alarming.

I can't help but step in, "Mrs. Westwood, Jordan's been helping--"

She rounds on me, her voice rising. "I wasn't talking to you, young lady! This is between me and my child."

Despite myself, I feel everything withering out of me. I feel more cowed than that time a couple days ago when someone hit me with a crowbar. The fury in her face makes me believe she could rip my skin off and not even feel bad about it.

She turns back to Jordan, her eyes narrowing. "And what's all this?" She gestures at Jordan's new clothes and gadgets. "Selling drugs, are you? Is that how you're affording all this?"

Jordan's face flushes with anger. "I'm not selling drugs, Mom. I'm doing something important here, something that matters."

I exchange a look with Spindle, both of us uneasy. This is way beyond awkward now; it's like watching a car crash in slow motion.

Miasma's still watching, a dark glint in his eyes. He hasn't said a word, but I can tell he's making his own judgments, sizing up Mrs. Westwood as another piece on his chessboard.

Mrs. Westwood laughs, a harsh, mocking sound. "Something important? With these… freaks? And that one," she points at Miasma, "looks like he crawled out of a toxic waste dump."

Jordan's standing tall, despite the onslaught. "Yes, something important. More important than anything you'd understand."

Mrs. Westwood's face twists with anger. "I understand more than you think. I understand that you're throwing your life away with these… these vigilantes. You could have been something, Jordan. You could have been normal."

"But I'm not normal, Mom," Jordan shoots back. "I never was. And I'm not throwing my life away. I'm using it for something good, something bigger than myself."

There's a moment of silence, a stand-off between mother and child. Mrs. Westwood's face softens, just for a second, but then hardens again. "You're in over your head, Jordan. You always were. Too stubborn to see sense."

Miasma finally speaks up, his voice dripping with disdain. "Oh, the melodrama. Are we done here? We have important work to do."

Mrs. Westwood rounds on him. "And who are you, supposed to be? Some kind of leader? Some kind of role model for these kids?"

Miasma doesn't flinch. "I'm exactly what's needed for the times we're in. More than I can say for you."

Jordan steps forward, putting themselves between Miasma and their mom. "Enough. This isn't helping anyone."

Mrs. Westwood looks at Jordan, then at all of us, her gaze lingering on Miasma. "You're in way over your head, all of you. Playing superhero, playing with lives. You don't know what you're dealing with."

Jordan's face goes from pale to red, anger flaring up. "This is my life now. These are my friends."

"Friends?" Mrs. Westwood scoffs, her eyes flicking to us and settling on Miasma with a mix of contempt and curiosity. "These people? And that one," she gestures at Miasma, "he looks like trouble."

Trying to break the tension, Spindle chimes in, "Well, you know, we're just a bunch of superheroes trying to save the world, one bad guy at a time."

His attempt at humor falls flat, crashing and burning in the thick, charged air. Miasma rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed.

Mrs. Westwood's voice rises, tinged with sarcasm. "And what about school, Jordan? What about your future?"

"I'm still going to school," Jordan retorts, though it sounds more defensive than convincing.

Miasma steps forward, irritation clear in his posture. "Can we get back to the matter at hand? We have bigger problems than a family squabble."

Mrs. Westwood whirls on him. "You stay out of this. This is between me and my child. And as for you," she turns back to Jordan, "I want my share. You're living it up here with all this," she gestures around the room, "and I'm scraping by. I deserve something for all the years I spent raising you."

"Your share?" Jordan's voice is a mix of disbelief and anger. "You think you deserve a share of what I have?"

Mrs. Westwood steps closer, her voice dripping with venom. "I'm your mother, Jordan. I raised you, fed you, clothed you. You owe me."

Miasma snorts. "Owe her? Sounds like she's just looking for a payday."

Mrs. Westwood rounds on him. "You don't know anything about us, about our life. Don't you dare judge me."

I can't take it anymore. "Mrs. Westwood," I start, reaching out, but she slaps my hand away.

She whirls on me, fury in her eyes. "STAY OUT OF IT!" she shrieks, bellowing in my face, her voice thick with the smell of cigarettes and weed.

Jordan steps between us, their expression hardening. "Stop it, Mom. Just stop. I'm not your cash cow, and I'm not going to be bullied into giving you anything."

Mrs. Westwood's face contorts with rage, her voice rising to a shout. "Bullied? I'm your mother, Jordan. You're supposed to take care of me, respect me."

"It's hard to respect someone who only shows up when they want something," Jordan shoots back, their voice steady but their eyes betraying a deep hurt.

Mrs. Westwood's anger turns physical as she reaches for Jordan, attempting to drag them out. "You're coming home with me, and you're selling all this stuff. Every last dime is mine," she snarls, grabbing at Jordan's hoodie.