The scent of varnish still lingers as I push open the heavy doors of the Tacony Music Hall, the old timbers groaning like they're waking from a long nap. The familiar decay that used to hang in the air like a musty coat is now replaced with something… different. Like change. Like effort.

Jordan is there, perched on an improvised counter that looks like it could've been a bar in a past life--scrubbed down and repainted with enthusiasm if not skill. They're all edges and angles, draped in black that's somehow both sullen and sassy, a stark contrast to the motley DIY tapestry of the hall around them.

"Hey, Sam," they greet, a rare softness edging their usual snark. "Glad you could make it." They slide off the counter and there's that familiar smirk, the one that spells trouble in the best way.

"It's… different," I say, taking it all in--the string lights that drape from the rafters, casting gentle shadows across the new fixtures, a patchwork of chairs and tables that have the eclectic charm of a 'found and rescued' operation.

"Yeah, figured we needed an upgrade. Functional chic, or whatever they call it," Jordan replies, gesturing at their handiwork.

We wander deeper, past the old stage that's now sporting a fresh coat of paint and a repurposed curtain that might've once been someone's attempt at a quilt. There's charm here, in the way it's all been cobbled together with determination and Jordan's particular brand of defiant care.

The tour meanders to what I can only describe as a wannabe clinic, nestled in the wings where the echoes of past performances still linger. Shelves lined with medical supplies, most still in their wrappers, look out of place against the faded glamour of the hall.

"So, no x-ray machine, but…" Jordan motions to the room, a bit self-conscious but proud, "we got antiseptics, bandages, even some pain meds--and yes, all legally obtained before you ask."

"Very… MacGyver of you," I chuckle, poking at a stethoscope that seems almost vintage. "This the new superhero hangout or a field hospital?"

"Bit of both, I guess," Jordan shoots back with a wink. "Figured you might appreciate the sentiment, if not the aesthetics."

There's a warmth in the air, or maybe it's just the sense of solidarity that seeps through the walls now--the idea that this place isn't just a base, it's a haven. For healing. For planning. For us.

We don't linger too long among the gauze and tongue depressors. There's an energy building, a shared anticipation for what comes next. The walls are lined with charts and scribbles that I'm sure make perfect sense to Jordan, diagrams that map out their vision of this new world we're stepping into.

"Just so you know, every criminal we knock out is another pack of band-aids for the stash," Jordan quips as we circle back to the main hall.

I nod, knowing the weight of responsibility those band-aids represent, the unspoken promise of backup and care amidst the chaos of our lives. "Just so long as we're not the ones needing them too often, right?"

"Right," Jordan agrees, and there's an unspoken 'together' that hangs in the air between us.

The hall's makeover isn't just surface deep--it's security savvy too. Every door has been fitted with a new lock, the metal glinting under the lights, a clear shout-out to safety. I think about a video I saw a couple weeks ago, and mentally repeat 'shout out to safety' to myself in the same intonation, earning a chuckle from nothing. As we delve deeper into the Tacony Music Hall's labyrinthine heart, it's clear Jordan has been busy.

"We went full Fort Knox," Jordan says, a note of pride in their voice as they rattle a heavy-duty padlock for emphasis. "Courtesy of some friendly neighborhood locksmith who owed me a favor. Apparently, they're big on vigilante discounts."

"That sounds like a euphemism," I quip.

"It's not," Jordan replies, not making me feel any better.

The heavy doors swing open with a theatrical creak, revealing the gem of Jordan's handiwork: a room wrapped in actual wire mesh, a makeshift Faraday cage that glints under the patchy light like a conspiracy theorist's dream.

"This," they announce, gesturing expansively, "is our new Faraday room."

I can't help but snort at the sight, but the ingenuity of it is not lost on me. It's resourcefulness born of necessity, the kind of thing you'd expect from people who lead lives as tangled as ours.

"Looks like the inside of a…," I quip, eyes roving over the silvery expanse. "Zoo cage."

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Jordan chuckles. "It's an improvement from the aluminum foil."

"Is it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"It certainly looks more professional. Can never be too sure when one of our bad guys has ESP," Jordan retorts.

Beyond the Faraday cage, we step into an area I can only describe as the closest this place has ever gotten to feeling like home. There's a TV now--old, the screen blooming with the soft fuzziness of technology that's seen better days. But it's not the picture quality that catches my attention; it's the gentle hum of electricity that powers it.

"We've got actual electricity now," Jordan announces, flicking a switch to illustrate, bathing us in the warm glow of overhead lights. "The owner finally hooked us up, so we don't have to play solar panel roulette anymore."

The revelation hangs in the air, crackling with possibility. It's a touch of the mundane, a lifeline to a world that doesn't revolve around heists and heroics. To think of a TV as a symbol of progress feels strangely grounding.

I reach out, fingers brushing against the set's grainy case, then turn to look at Jordan. "I guess it's time to catch up on all the terrible daytime shows I've missed, huh?"

Jordan grins, shrugging nonchalantly. "Only if you're ready to critique infomercial products and soap opera plot twists."

Our laughter echoes off the walls, rebounding in a space that's steadily transforming from a hideout into something that speaks of permanence and foresight--a place equipped not just for battles, but for the quieter moments in between.

We sink into mismatched office chairs that have seen better days, circling a salvaged coffee table that doesn't quite sit level on the uneven floor. The dull thrum of electricity is a quiet reminder that we're still connected to something normal, something routine.

"So," Jordan starts, leaning forward with their elbows on their knees, "tonight's patrol. We need to get you back in the swing of things."

"Swing," I echo. There's a playfulness to the word, a lightheartedness that seems almost out of place against the gravity of our conversation.

"Or bite," they retort with a slight grin. "But seriously, things have been a bit… off, since you've been, you know, out of commission."

A sour twinge flits across my stomach at the words 'out of commission.' "I don't know if I'm ready to go full chomp yet."

Jordan nods, the understanding clear in their eyes. "No one's expecting you to dive in head-first… or teeth-first. We take it slow, see how it feels."

"I just don't want to be dead weight," I murmur, my fingers worrying the frayed edge of the table. "But also, I'm really not sure how much stabbing my body is capable of handling right now. Given the radiation poisoning and everything," I say, flexing my weak little arm for emphasis. "Look at these puppies. All gone!"

"You, dead weight? Never," they scoff, a grin flickering over their face. "Look, let's just scope things out. We don't have to engage unless it's necessary."

"But what if 'necessary' has a different meaning now?" I ask, the question curling out into the space between us.

"We reassess," Jordan replies without missing a beat. "Maybe we've been playing it too fast and loose. Maybe… we need to rethink our M.O. Be more strategic."

"More sneaky, less smashy?" I suggest, drawing a laugh from them.

"Exactly. We're 'The Auditors,' not 'The Bulldozers.' Besides, you're 'Bloodhound.' Not 'Bloodbath.'"

Their play on words draws a reluctant smile to my lips, and a twitch to my right lower eyelid that I can't control. "Fine, more sniffing out, less biting off."

"That's the spirit," Jordan agrees, a glint of mischief in their eyes. "We stick to the shadows, gather intel. And if someone needs a superhero-sized nudge, we're there."

The conversation lulls for a moment, a comfortable silence settling over us. We're in sync, as always, thoughts tumbling over one another in an unspoken dance. I realize that in this fractured version of the world, there's comfort in strategizing, in plotting a path through the chaos.

"So, where's our first stop?" I ask, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

Jordan's lips quirk up, and they unfold a crinkled map from their pocket, smoothing it out on the table. Their finger taps a spot, right on the corner of uncertainty and hope.

"Here," they say. "Let's start with what we know. And then… we'll figure it out as we go."

"That's a plan?" I question, one brow arching up.

"It's a start," they reply.

We stand, and the scrape of our chairs is a signal, a call to action that has us both moving toward the gear that's seen better days. I can feel the weight of my costume in my hands, the texture more familiar than anything else these days.

"By the way," Jordan mentions offhandedly as they fasten a sturdy belt around their waist, "there's been talk on the street. New heroes."

"New heroes?" I echo, my voice a strange cocktail of intrigue and unease.

"Yeah, picking up the slack while you were, uh, vacationing." They shoot me a sidelong glance, and I can't help the smirk that responds to their jab.

I pull on my gloves, flexing my fingers inside the snug fabric. "Are we talking about well-meaning vigilantes, or…?"

"They've got powers," Jordan interjects. "Seem legit. Mostly community service type stuff, but it's clear they can handle themselves."

The suit fits like a second skin, though a little looser around the edges than I remember. I ponder the notion of other powered people out there, carving out their own piece of justice. "We could use more good guys," I admit, the thought intermingling with a protective instinct that nestles in my chest. I fit my cloak and hood over my chest, my scraped-up wolf mask, complete with jaw piece. Now that I don't need to bite people to cut them up, I feel that it would be a useful embodiment of my second persona - the Big Bad Wolf.

"That's what I was thinking," Jordan says as they get into their helmet. "Been watching them from a distance. We might run into them tonight."

The idea hangs there, swirling around us as we gear up. It's not just our streets anymore, and that's both a relief and a challenge. New allies or new complications--it's hard to tell from a distance.

"Might be worth getting in touch deliberately," Jordan adds, glancing at me for reaction.

"Could be helpful," I agree, the last pieces of my armor clicking into place, "or they could be a total circus."

Jordan laughs, a sound that bounces off the hall's walls, both hopeful and wary. "Well, then, welcome to the big top. We'll see how the new acts measure up."