Jordan ducks, a yelp escaping them, a mix of fear and anger. In a panic, their powers kick in, instinctively, defensively. The room stretches, elongates impossibly. Suddenly, Mrs. Westwood and I are on one side of a now miles-long room, while Jordan and Spindle are on the other.

Mrs. Westwood's face is a picture of shock and horror. "What… what are you?" she stammers, looking at the vast space between her and Jordan.

Miasma, who'd been watching the scene unfold with a mix of irritation and amusement, now steps forward, a sneer on his face. "Some mother you are," he mocks. "Terrified of your own child."

But Mrs. Westwood isn't listening to him. She's fixated on Jordan, her expression one of abject fear and revulsion. "You're a freak," she whispers, backing away. "My own child, a… a monster."

I feel a rush of anger at her words, but before I can say anything, Miasma moves closer to her, his posture menacing. "You're the monster here," he hisses. "Rejecting your child because they're different. Because they're special."

Jordan's hands are still outstretched, maintaining the gap, their face pale, their eyes wide with shock at what they've done. "Mom, I didn't mean to…" they start, but their voice is lost in the vastness of the stretched room.

Miasma looks ready to pounce, the air crackling with his anger. "People like you," he growls, "you're the reason the world's so messed up. You and your narrow-minded fear."

Mrs. Westwood is backing away, her eyes darting around, looking for an escape. But there's nowhere to go, not with the room stretched out like this. "People like me?" She croaks, her body twitching. "People like you! This superhero, supervillain nonsense. I remember when the world was normal, before people like you corrupted it. Turned it into this Looney Tunes bullshit."

"Looney Tunes bullshit," he chuckles. "Wanna see if you can survive getting a piano dropped on your head? Just take two more steps back and I'll rot out the ceiling for you,"

"Enough, Miasma," I say firmly, stepping between him and Mrs. Westwood. "This isn't helping."

He glares at me, then at Mrs. Westwood. "She doesn't deserve your protection," he spits.

"Maybe not," I admit. "But we're not here to judge and punish. We're here to help. To protect."

Mrs. Westwood's gaze flicks to me, then back to Jordan. "Help? Protect?" she scoffs. "Look at what you've done to my child. Turned them into a… a freakshow. A cartoon."

I feel a surge of protectiveness for Jordan. "They're not a freak. They're a hero. And they're better off without someone like you in their life."

Jordan's voice finally reaches us, small and strained. "Mom, please. I just want to help people. I want to make a difference."

Mrs. Westwood shakes her head, her face twisted with a mixture of fear and disgust. "You're not my child. Not anymore."

The words hang in the air, heavy and final. Jordan's face crumples, and they look away, the gap in the room slowly closing as their control slips.

Miasma watches, a look of satisfaction on his face. "See? Better off without her."

But all I can see is the pain on Jordan's face, the hurt in their eyes. This is no victory. This is just another kind of loss. There's a moment of sheer pain in the air, and I'm at a loss for words, as everything turns back to its default state.

"Don't bother coming home," Mrs. Westwood hisses, turning around on her heel. "You're dead to me."

"Because I won't give you money?" Jordan almost whimpers, their face contorted with misery.

"You think it's just about the money? No, I get enough in child support. But sure, chipping in a little for your Mama's rent, for your Mama's cigs, yeah, maybe it would've been nice. I don't care how you got it. Maybe I'd have been nicer if I could taste a little bit of this high life you've been keeping from me," Mrs. Westwood snarls, backing herself into a corner. Even Spindle looks pissed, which is a weird expression on his perpetually worried-looking face. "You selfish little brat."

"Be quiet," Jordan whispers.

"No. I'm done being quiet. You and the counselor, that's all they want me to do, be quiet, be a good little housewife. Well I'm SICK OF IT! I'm sick of putting up with your flights of fancy, Avery," Mrs. Westwood spits the name out like it's vomit in her throat. "Do you have any idea how hard I've been working to keep food on the table for you? Tolerating your gender-neutral mannequin bullshit. I bought you fresh underwear and called you your 'preferred name' for years. What, was the name I gave you not good enough for you?"

"Stop it," Jordan whispers. My entire body is shaking. I feel blood rushing into my face, into my fists. I can feel the teeth itching underneath the surface of my skin, begging to get out.

"No, I won't stop. You're a petulant little brat. Your cousin was like this too, look where that landed her, in a jail cell in Hoboken. Playing with the supervillain bullshit. Maybe that's where you got your failure genes from. It's certainly not from my side of the family. You hate me so much? Go figure out where your dad lives, and go ruin his life instead. Maybe he'll 'respect your pronouns' and you won't have to go crying to CPS again," Mrs. Westwood snarls, reaching down to grab Jordan by the collar of their hoodie. "I should've let them take you. Why did I bother fighting so hard to keep a child that resents me like this?"

"Stop," Jordan's voice is almost nonexistent.

I can't take this anymore.

Mrs. Westwood lifts Jordan up like they're made of straw, like a light breeze will tear them apart.

I aim for the cheek.

My fist connects with possibly the most satisfying slap of knuckle on skin that I've heard in my life. I'm in prime shape for a fourteen year old, I've got muscles to spare, and my bones have gotten rock hard from months of training - plus, I know how to swing. I feel the way her entire body warps and buckles under my fist, the way blood rips loose from the interior of her cheek as her own teeth bite and knock into it, and how the blood vessels burst in her nose from the impact. I feel the way her entire body crumples sideways like a car being demolished, and her hands let go of Jordan, which was really the only thing I cared about in that moment.

She hurtles into the nearby couch, landing safely on the cushions with enough force to scoot the furniture back a centimeter or two. She stares up at me, blood trickling out from her nose, and spits on the ground, dazed.

"Now you look here, lady. I don't know who the fuck you think you are, coming into Jordan's home and treating them like garbage, but the only freak I see here is you, and the person standing next to you is literally a rotting corpse. You're not a mother, you're a bully. You're no better than the thugs I beat up underneath the I-95, and you smell like one of them too. Ever hear of a toothbrush, asshole?" I half-shout, half-bark, the words coming out in a steady staccato stream. I don't even have control over them. They just happen. It's totally out of my hands.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"You hit me," she creaks, like a tree about to fall.

"Fuck yeah, I did. I couldn't put up with another second of your bullshit. And I'll hit you again, because you know what? We're not the Delaware Valley Defenders over here, lady. We're the mean kids. You know what I did a week ago? I got tortured by a gangster and that wasn't half as painful as listening to the shit you dribble out your mouth like so much fresh vomit. Here, look at my fucking nails, you troglodyte," I keep going, my voice rising in both volume and pitch. I yank the glove off my hand and fan my fingertips out, watching her eyes flick to them. "They ripped them out with a fucking claw hammer."

"You hit me," she repeats. "I…"

"Get over it. I didn't even put half my shoulder into it. You're not concussed and I didn't give you a stroke, otherwise I'd smell the blood leaking into that pile of rotting meat you call a brain. Jordan has more love and care in their pinky finger than you've ever had in your entire body, you old hag. When you die alone and unloved, wondering why you've never gotten a single visit in the retirement home, shitting in your doo-doo diapers, maybe you'll reflect on this moment and realize this is where it all went wrong," I scream, shaking now, my entire body vibrating.

I need to rip my skin off. I don't even realize that I'm crying until I feel the tears dropping off of my face and landing on the ground. "Parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally. Sure, I fight with my mom and dad, but they haven't seen me or hugged me in months because they're willing to make sacrifices for me, and right now, because I'm a superhero, I need them to be safe. That's sacrifice. That's what you're supposed to do. The bad guys knocked my house down but I bet they haven't even touched yours, because I think even they can tell you're worth less than dogshit to Jordan."

Mrs. Westwood's face is twitching almost uncontrollably. I don't know what expression they're trying to make, but everyone is giving the two of us a wide berth, letting me just lay into her.

"You're supposed to love your kid and be there for them no matter what, not shake them down for money. You know, maybe Jordan would've chipped you in if you bothered asking nicely, or, I don't know, having any sort of relationship with them? You have to love your kid! What is wrong with you that you don't?" I scream, my face snotty, my voice beginning to grate.

I don't have words left. Mrs. Westwood shakily gets to her feet, bobbling back and forth like a bobblehead. She looks at me, then Jordan, then me again.

"That nice man in the suit was right. He said I should've just watched. Said there were freaks coming and going," she mumbles, and my heart throbs in my chest hard enough to ache. "Don't worry, Jordan, I'll let you keep living out your fantasies."

"Go away," Jordan sniffles, curled into a ball.

"I could press charges. I could tell the police where you're squatting," she keeps mumbling, shambling towards the second floor door. Miasma and Spindle both watch, completely speechless but in opposite ways, as she shuffles. "But I won't. There's your charity. I could end these silly games in an instant. But I won't. See? I love them."

"Leave," I order.

Mrs. Westwood doesn't say anything else. We listen to her footsteps, shuffling down the hall, stomping down the stairs. She opens the front door, and she slams it shut.

The room is silent, outside of the quiet hum of the air purifiers, and Jordan's quiet humming.

"Well, that was eventful. Can we get back to planning, now?" Miasma chirps, breaking the air.

"You shut the fuck up too," I say, before I have a chance to stop myself and regret it. "You want our help with your batshit plan? Go leave for two hours and come back with Wawa and then we can talk about your batshit plan and how much of a stupid fucking idea it is. And then if Jordan wants to help, still, when they're feeling better, you talk about it then. Asshole."

Miasma looks at me, eyes narrowed. Then, his desiccated lips pull up into a narrow smile. My fists clench, and I get ready to swing again, but then he takes me off guard. "You're right. That was assholish."

My entire body relaxes. "Well. That's… cool of you to admit."

He sighs, a heaving, full-body sigh that looks distinctly unpleasant. "When I'm in a bad mood, I like to focus on the present, on pressing tasks. But I guess you kids are a more sensitive breed."

He raises his hands defensively when he notices Spindle and I both scowling at him. "I don't mean that as an insult. Clearly, the three of you are blessed with boundless empathy that I lack. Sure, I think it makes you a little squishy and ineffectual, but it's not a bad--"

"With all due respect, Mr. Miasma dude, I think you need to stop talking," Spindle says, arms folded over his chest.

Miasma looks at us, the three of us, and I can see something turning in his head. Like something in his brain just snapped, and he remembered that we're teenagers, and not soldiers. His entire body visibly deflates. "Fine. Sorry. I'm…"

"If you're thinking about trying to bring anything about the plan back up, save it, man," Spindle says just as Miasma's body revs up a little for another sentence.

"I'm gonna go get some nosh," Miasma concedes, adjusting his hood. "My treat. Don't worry about it. You tend to Jordan."

Spindle sits down behind Jordan and silently wraps his arms around them, while Miasma turns around and walks to the door. I sigh and sit down too. Miasma looks at us, throws a half-hearted salute, and vanishes out the door, his footsteps lighter than air.

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

Two hours have slipped by like shadows in the night, and we've been huddled up in the Tacony Music Hall, a trio of lost souls trying to find comfort in each other's company. Jordan's still a mess, but Spindle and I, we've been doing our best to keep the spirits up. We've laughed a little, cried a little – it's been a rollercoaster.

"I still can't believe she called you 'Jordan Anise Westwood' like you were in trouble at school or something," Spindle says, breaking a silence that had settled over us. Jordan cracks a smile, the first genuine one I've seen in what feels like forever.

"And I didn't know you were named after licorice flavor," I joke, ruffling Jordan's hair.

"Yeah, she always does that when she's mad," Jordan says, wiping their eyes. "And hey, not to change the subject or anything, but we really need a better name than 'Young Defenders Dark.' It's so… cringey."

"How about 'The Watchmen'?" Spindle suggests, scrolling through his phone.

Jordan snorts, wiping their nose. "That's taken, and there's only one man in this room anyway."

I chuckle, despite the day's events. "We need something that says we're investigating the investigators, you know? Something… investigator-y."

We throw around a few names, nothing really sticking. "The Inquisitors?" I offer, but Spindle shakes his head.

"Too medieval torture-y," he says.

"The Oversight Squad?" Jordan tries, but we all agree it sounds too… long-winded.

We're still tossing ideas around when Miasma comes back, a plastic bag from Wawa in hand. He drops it in the middle of our circle with a small smile. "Food's here. Hope you like hoagies."

We dig in, grateful for the distraction. For a moment, we're just a bunch of teenagers eating sandwiches and chips, not superheroes dealing with government conspiracies and family drama.

As we eat, Miasma watches us, his expression thoughtful. "You know," he starts, "you need a name that reflects what you do. You're auditing the auditors. Keeping the keepers in check."

"The Auditors," I repeat, the name rolling off my tongue. "I kinda like it."

"It's not too bad," Jordan admits, a small smile playing on their lips. "The Auditors. Temporary name, but it could work."

Spindle nods in agreement, mouth full of hoagie. "The Auditors. It's got a ring to it."

Miasma nods, looking satisfied with his contribution. "I'm glad we can get that squared away so we can get back to the proper business. Oh, and before I forget, I tailed your mom for a little bit. She went right home. And cried. But yes, back to the planning."

I sigh to myself, trying not to get too angry with Miasma. I've been angry too much today already. Too much in too compressed a quantity. "Look, Miasma, we--"

He holds a hand up. "I'll do it alone. You kids," he says, looking at the blood stain on the couch where Mrs. Westwood's face leaked out onto the cushion. "You kids have too much to lose. Not that you talked me out of anything. I just had to spend some time to think about it calmly. You'd just drag me down, anyway. More moving parts gives more room for failure."

"Aw, we love you too, big guy," Jordan teases, snapping him closer so that they can poke him in the shoulder, and then putting the space back before he can reply. "Knew you were a big softy."

Miasma rolls his eyes. "Believe me, it's nothing to do with any softness. I just think you kids have too many fetters. Too many scruples. You'd be ankle weights on me. I'll infiltrate the office myself and if anything happens, I'll--"

I cut him off. "Nothing will happen, because you're going to go in the middle of the night, and you are going to not attack any security guards. If I find out from the news or whatever that this is anything other than a perfectly quiet heist I'm going to be so fucking mad."

Miasma's face clenches up like he's sucking on a lemon. "Yes. I'll do it your way for now, even if it would make my life so much harder. But don't take this as any sort of endorsement of your values, you squeamish little babies," he says, but I know he doesn't mean it like he meant it earlier. The edge is gone from his voice. Not the rasp, just the edge. "I'm doing this because Diane decided that this one," he continues, pointing to me, "is the designated inheritor of her legacy. I'm doing this for Diane. Not for you three."

"Whatever you say, hot shot. Come eat a meatball sub, loser," Jordan snarks, biting down on an Italian hoagie.