We're all squeezed into the Faraday cage room, its walls shimmering with aluminum foil under the dim light. The cramped space is the one spot where we're certain we're not being monitored. Jordan's laptop is open, displaying a flurry of news articles and forum discussions about the NSRA incident, carefully compiled before we entered our makeshift haven. Spindle, ever the restless one, paces like a lion in a too-small cage, his hands twisting together anxiously.

The atmosphere is thick with tension.

"This is a disaster," I murmur, my eyes glued to the laptop screen. "Miasma's reputation is being shredded, and it's dragging the whole superhero community down with it."

Jordan flicks through the threads on local imageboards, a hard edge to their usually playful demeanor. "It's us they're blaming, indirectly. They've even roped Belle into this mess. It's not right, not fair."

Halting his pacing, Spindle turns to us, his expression fraught. "But what can we do? We can't just let them smear us without a fight."

I lean back, feeling the aluminum crinkle behind me, thoughtful. "We need to unearth the truth. Find concrete evidence that Miasma was innocent."

Jordan scoffs. "And how, exactly? March into the NSRA headquarters and demand security footage? 'Hi, I know you think I'm unworthy of my mentor's legacy, but could you help clear their best friend?' Get real, Sam."

Frustration flashes in my eyes. "We need a smarter approach. We start by mining public sources. Someone out there saw something that night."

Spindle's expression brightens slightly. "A lead, at least. We keep an eye on the media for any new information, too."

Jordan snaps their laptop shut, a determined look on their face. "You're both thinking too narrowly. We're superhumans. There's more we can do than just wait and watch."

I feel Jordan's unspoken frustration, a gnawing sense of powerlessness. It's a familiar ache.

Standing up, I meet Jordan's eyes. "We need a foolproof plan. A strategy that doesn't risk us getting caught, especially after Miasma's fall."

Jordan leans in, their gaze intense. "I can infiltrate the NSRA office. My abilities are perfect for tight spaces. I'll be in and out, unnoticed."

Frowning, I shake my head. "Did you miss the part about not risking exposure? We can't afford to storm the NSRA, not after Miasma."

Jordan rolls their eyes. "So, we do nothing? I'm the least known among us. I could pull it off…"

"No," I cut in sharply. "That's exactly what they'd expect. They manipulated a seasoned hero like Miasma. You think they can't do the same to you?"

Jordan's face softens, but their eyes still hold a reckless glint. "But they wouldn't expect an immediate follow-up, would they? We can't just sit here—"

Spindle, his voice edged with concern, jumps in. "Jordan, listen to Sam. It's too risky. We need another way, one that doesn't involve breaking into high-security buildings."

Jordan sighs, slumping against the wall. "Alright, so what's the plan?"

Pacing, I think out loud. "We analyze all the news, social media, anything for clues. We're looking for inconsistencies in the official narrative."

"And maybe talk to folks near the NSRA office, as regular people," Spindle suggests. "See if anyone noticed something odd that night."

Jordan nods, slowly coming around. "Okay, I can get behind that. But we need to tread lightly. If the NSRA or the Kingdom is involved, they're watching for snoopers."

Halting my pacing, an idea begins to form. "Then we'll be subtle. Not as heroes, but as concerned citizens seeking the truth."

Jordan's eyes narrow in thought. "And our identities stay hidden. No costumes, no powers. Just plain detective work."

Spindle looks visibly relieved. "Sounds like a plan. No crazy risks."

The room falls into a heavy silence, the only sound the faint crinkle of the aluminum foil lining the walls. I can see the sweat on Jordan's forehead, the way Spindle shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The air feels thick, charged with the weight of our dilemma. We're a team of superheroes, yet here we are, confined in this stifling Faraday cage, grappling with a situation that seems to have no easy way out.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the stickiness against my scalp. The more I think about it, the more I realize the complexity of our predicament. We're not just dealing with a public relations nightmare; we're up against an enemy that has already outmaneuvered one of the best among us. The room feels smaller, the air denser, as the gravity of our situation sinks in.

My mind races, trying to piece together a plan from the chaos of ideas. We can't just charge in; that's what they'd expect. But what if that's exactly what we need to do? Not in the way they'd anticipate, though. A sense of clarity begins to form amidst the mental fog.

Jordan's expression shifts from frustration to confusion. "But earlier, you were suggesting—"

"I know," I interrupt, the gears in my mind whirring. "But it's dawned on me. They're expecting us. Expecting me. If they're keeping watch on the NSRA office, they'll be on the lookout for any of us."

The room falls into a tense silence, each of us ensnared in our own labyrinth of thoughts. It's a high-stakes game of cat and mouse, a dance of shadows and deceptions. They know that we know. And they know that we know they know. And we know… You know. It's making me dizzy just trying to think about it. I linger on the phrase. They know we know I know you know. I taste it on my tongue. Where have I heard this sort of bullshit before?

Then, it clicks. A scene from "The Princess Bride" flashes in my mind — the wine scene. There, both opponents sit, each aware of the other's cunning, trying to outthink the other in a life-or-death decision over poisoned wine. And in the end, it never mattered, because the one guy already had won before it even started.

"What if we can?" I say suddenly, my voice slicing through the tension. "What if we use this 'I know that you know' situation to our advantage?"

Jordan and Spindle look at me, a blend of intrigue and skepticism in their expressions. "The what?" Spindle asks, eyebrow raised.

"It's like that scene in 'The Princess Bride,' the battle of wits," I elaborate, the idea growing clearer and more solid in my mind as I talk. My mouth starts getting ahead of me, and it feels like the words just start emerging fully formed, like they're being pulled out of me. "In the movie, Westley challenges Vizzini, this Italian - no, Sicilian - dude, to guess which cup of wine is poisoned. Vizzini goes through this elaborate thought process, trying to outsmart Westley. He spends like ten minutes going 'well it has to be in this cup, no, it has to be in this cup, but you'd know I'd think that, so it has to be in this cup…'. But in the end, it turns out both cups were poisoned, and Westley had immunity to the poison. It was a bluff within a bluff. The knowledge didn't matter."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Spindle scrunches his brows, clearly not familiar with the reference. "I don't follow. What's 'The Princess Bride'?"

Jordan rolls their eyes playfully. "It's a classic, Spindle. We'll watch it after we sort this mess out. But I'm listening," they say, leaning in on the small plastic table contained within the Faraday room. "I assume we're not the dead Sicilian in this situation?"

I nod, feeling the excitement of the plan building. Already, I can feel my heart in my chest. Adrenaline again? "No, yeah, exactly. In our case, we pretend to investigate, making it obvious to whoever's watching. We lead them to believe they've outsmarted us. But really, we're setting our own trap. We make them overconfident, just like Westley did with Vizzini. In reality, nothing they do matters because we can win either way."

Jordan leans forward, the light of understanding in their eyes. "A deception wrapped in a deception. You are insane."

"This is… This is too complicated for me," Spindle sighs, rubbing his temples. "And it sounds… risky."

"We're not just throwing caution to the wind," I assure them. "We're using our enemy's expectations against them. It's a calculated move. We'll control the narrative, dictating the pace and direction of this confrontation."

"You are such a nerd," Jordan teases. "So many ten dollar words."

"I am not!" I protest, scrunching my face up. "No, just… Okay. We can't investigate as superheroes because that'd be suicidally stupid, to just go into an active crime scene and also a federal office. And we can't, well, we 'can't' investigate as civilians because it's clear whoever is tracking us knows our civilian identities. We could do nothing and let this blow over, but…"

Jordan shakes their head. "No, you're not backing out now, sicko. You got me looking forward to some good ol' fashioned subterfuge and now we're gonna get locked and loaded."

I feel the corners of my lips trying to pull up into something resembling a smile. I try to force it down. I look at Spindle, who looks like he's about to vomit out of anxiety, and then I look at Jordan, who looks like they're about to vomit out of excitement. "Either we get useful information about the NSRA's ground operations, and what Miasma was doing, and maybe find something to exonerate him… or we draw out the real foe and get an opportunity to catch them red-handed."

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

The cold Tacony streets glisten under the early morning light, fresh snowfall adding a deceptive sheen to the rundown buildings. The snow hasn't piled up; instead, it's turned to a gray, sludgy mess that covers the asphalt. I hate wearing boots, but today, they're a necessary evil.

I step outside the music hall with Jordan and Spindle, my breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. We're dressed in our civvies, trying to blend in, but there's a tension in our steps, a shared understanding of the task ahead. Jordan's carrying a thick stack of hundreds, prepared to pay off the taxi driver for the long ride to Hatboro. It's a hefty bribe, but necessary for a trip of that distance

The buildings around us are silent, almost solemn, their worn facades standing testament to years of neglect. Snow clings to window ledges and rooftops, adding a temporary purity to the otherwise grimy scenery. The streets are nearly deserted, save for the occasional car sloshing through the sludge.

We stand there, waiting for the taxi, the cold seeping through my boots and making me shift from foot to foot. The silence is only broken by the distant sound of a siren, a reminder of the city's relentless pulse. Jordan checks their phone, a frown forming as they note the taxi's delayed arrival. "Gonna be late," they chime.

Spindle fidgets with his backpack, packed with our investigatory gear - notebooks, recording devices, and other essentials. He's trying to act nonchalant, but I can see the nervous energy in his movements. We're all on edge, the weight of our mission pressing down on us. "First time doing real superhero stuff, huh, Connor?" I ask, trying to make him feel a little more comfortable.

Spindle looks at me. "Huh?"

"That's your name, right?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He laughs. "Yeah. I guess it is," he says, but I'm not sure which of my two questions he's responding to until he follows up. "Nobody's called me that in a while."

"First time doing real superhero stuff, huh, Spinelli?" I ask, giving him a slightly more polite, grim-cheeked smile. My teeth caps never feel 100% comfortable - after so long with shark teeth it's hard to deal with, like, normal incisors - but now they feel extra bad in my mouth. I'm not sure if it's the cold or the humidity or something else, but my smile feels extra fake.

"Yeah," he says, cracking an extremely unconfident smile back at me.

The city feels different today, almost unrecognizable. Overnight, it seems to have transformed in response to the manhunt for Miasma. The usual sounds of traffic and hustle are drowned out by the near-constant wail of police sirens screaming through the streets. Every corner seems to host an increased police presence, their vehicles' red and blue lights casting an ominous glow on the slush-covered roads.

The tire tracks in the snow form chaotic patterns, a visual testament to the frantic activity that has overtaken the city. It's as if a veil of fear and suspicion has been draped over the usual cityscape. In every direction, there are distant flickers of red and blue, a reminder of the relentless pursuit happening across the city. The traffic, usually just a part of city life, now feels like an obstacle – each car a potential barrier to the police, each honk a signal of growing impatience and tension.

I glance down the street, watching the slush-streaked cars pass by. The taxi's taking its time, and with each passing minute, the tension between us grows. We're standing too close and yet not close enough, an awkward shuffling dance as we try to keep warm. Jordan reaches out for Spindle's hand, and then, a second after making contact, retracts their fingers back into their pockets. "Sorry, love. Too cold."

The snow continues to fall, light flakes drifting down from a gray sky. The beginning of winter, the cold, the snow-drenched December, felt brittle and polite and lovely like a snowflake. But now in mid-January, it just feels like… like sludge. Like slush. There's nothing pretty about it anymore. It's just a reminder of how increasingly hostile everything is getting.

But that's okay. I work best in adversity.

Finally, after what seems like forever, the taxi pulls up, its yellow frame looking the world like a hazmat suit against the grey and slushy street. The driver, a tired-looking middle-aged man with tan skin, doesn't seem surprised to see three teenagers coming out from an old, abandoned music hall. Frankly, I wouldn't be either. Teenagers, as I'm discovering, get up to 'some shit', quote unquote.

We all climb into the taxi, with Jordan taking the front seat to handle the payment. The inside of the taxi is nice and warm, providing a relief from the freezing cold outside. The driver starts the meter and drives away from the curb, the car's tires making thick, dense squishing sounds as they go through the slush. I rub my hands together and blow into my palms, feeling tingles as feeling returns to my ungloved skin.

Inside the taxi, the atmosphere is tense and focused. Jordan passes a stack of hundreds to the driver and negotiates distances. The driver takes a single hundred dollar bill out of the stack and tersely explains that he won't take more. Jordan smiles, and I watch them slip a second hundred dollar bill underneath their front seat, to be discovered later. I am going to take credit for that, because I know Jordan would not have done something like that a couple months ago.

Spindle and I sit in the back, keeping our gear close to us. The car's movement is steady and almost soothing, but we can feel the weight of our mission hanging in the air, preventing any real conversation. I keep my forehead on the window and let the car's rocking back and forth bump and buzz against my skull.

I remember when I was a baby, apparently I used to slam my head on the crib a lot. It makes me think about… a lot, really. Mostly my parents. I hope they're doing okay, and that they're safe, and that nobody's bugged their house. My dad said that the city is fine with him doing most of his work remotely, given the circumstances. My mom has been working administrative stuff instead of helping people understand the Dewey Decimal System, and I bet that feels weird for her.

Note to self: check Pop-Pop Moe's house for bugs.

Outside the windows, the city rushes by in a blur of snow-covered buildings and bare trees. I wonder if Spindle is thinking about his parents. If Jordan is thinking about their mom. Maybe?

Suddenly, I'm struck by the urge to hug my parents. Sure, I've been surviving this weird superhero life with Lily, and, like… you know, my house is being rebuilt. I see it, I pass by it, the construction is constant and almost finished. But even once the house is done, what's stopping the Kingdom from throwing another Tyrannosaurus Rex at it? Will my parents ever be safe?

Will I?

No, that's a stupid question.

Of course not. I'm a superhero now.

It's about a half hour car ride from Tacony to Hatboro, and then, you know, another ten minutes past that to get to the NSRA office. The whole time, I'm just keeping my head against the window, occasionally thumping it when we hit a pothole, of which there are myriad (Pennsylvania roads, go figure). The city gives way to suburbs. The slush gives way to thicker, denser snow, snow that actually packed itself into a thin, white layer. Snow that looks pretty.

We pull up about two blocks away from the office, although blocks are a little shifty in a more suburban environment like this. Jordan thanks the taxi driver, tells him to keep the change, and stuffs the money in their backpack. The three of us exit the car together. Spindle looks around nervously, like this is his first time ever being outside the city. Actually, it might be. I've never asked.

I take a deep breath, and clench my fists up, shutting the taxi door behind me. Time to make some trouble.