The twilit calm of the Tacony Music Hall's 'lounge' feels surreal, a slice of normality amidst the uproar of the outside world. Jordan's scavenged couch--plucked from a curb on bulk trash day--sports a stylish constellation of burn holes and mysterious stains, but to us, it's as good as any throne in a supervillain's lair, minus the sinister plotting, plus a bag of stale tortilla chips. Jordan slouches in one corner, their boots kicked up on a coffee table that has seen better eras, scrolling through their phone with an attention born of pure avoidance. They're trying not to look at the stack of unopened mail on the counter. Bills. Reminders of responsibilities neither of us wants to deal with.

I'm curled up at the other end of the couch, my arm thrown over my eyes, trying to silence the whispers of restlessness clawing at my insides. Recovery is a caged marathon I never signed up for, a test of patience I'm already failing.

My phone's ping slices through the lull, a staccato note that triggers an all-too-familiar itch. I'm on it before the sound fully fades, all frayed nerves and eagerness. The Young Defenders group chat bubbles into life--new message, urgent alert.

"Another villain?" Jordan intones, their voice lacking even the enthusiasm for curiosity.

"Mmmhm," I mumble, eyes scanning the text. It's Maxwell, his words curt as he paints the picture--supervillain, my neighborhood, escalating chaos. I feel a jolt, a jumpstart to my systems that I haven't felt in weeks. An ember of purpose flares, struggling against the damp of mandated downtime.

The follow-up messages roll in, terse instructions, and it's like they're written in someone else's story: Stay away, Bloodhound. We've got Crossroads and Playback on it.

"Figures they wouldn't want you jumping back in headfirst. You're supposed to be on the mend, Sam," Jordan says, an echo of our previous dozen debates on the subject.

"Yeah, but…" I trace the edge of the couch, my nerves thrumming. I can't just sit here. "People could be in danger, J."

Jordan sighs, long and weary, and finally abandons the phone with a flick of disdain. "And you think strapping on a cape and playing hero is going to help? While you're still down bottles of pain meds?"

I ignore the jab, but it lingers, a muffled drumbeat in my chest. My fingers twitch, an innate signal flaring from the shark-fueled parts of me hungry for action. "I just… I have to do something. If I can help--"

"But the Defenders have it covered." Jordan's voice is softer now, reasoning, almost coaxing. "Remember last time? You barely got out of there and we were dealing with just some small-time robbers."

My hand pauses mid-tap, images unspooling--shouts, chaos, pain. They're right; my body's a collage of half-healed stories, each scar a word in the diary of a daredevil. Yet the rest of the messages blink up at me, and the impulse is unquenched. Risk whispers my name, as intoxicating as it is foolish.

Jordan watches, a silent sentinel to my internal tug-of-war. "Sam, I…" Their concern is a tangible presence, pushing against my bravado. "I can't endorse this. 'Supervillain' is too vague. Don't know if there's another Chernobyl situation."

A moment's silence balloons between us, fraught with unspoken pleas. But I've never been good at surrender, even to common sense. The muscles of my jaw clench. "Then I go alone." My thumb hovers, then plunges into the thicket of text, as I type a single line--a commitment, an apology, a divergence. "Don't worry. I'll stay back. I just need to… to go watch, in case they need me. And his name's Illya, by the way. Not Chernobyl."

Bravery or stupidity? Maybe they're just two words for the same wild, reckless heartbeat.

The glow from my phone throws shadows across the scattered vigilante paraphernalia that populates the "lounge"--an unofficial museum of the Auditors' escapades, each object an anchor in the tempest of our double lives. Jordan's eyes drill into mine, conflict etched in their brow as they wrestle with an internal adversary tougher than any street thug.

A beat drags by, ponderous, heavy with the weight of countless arguments we've left dangling in the precarious balance between recklessness and righteousness.

"Fine," Jordan exhales, the word more surrender than permission. They lean forward, elbows on knees, the lines of their face hardening with resolve. "But listen, Sam, you're not invincible. If we're doing this, you're on recon only. Stay back. Stay hidden. Use that dog nose of yours or whatever."

My pulse thrums a frenetic rhythm, buoyed by the reluctant benediction. There's a lick of satisfaction, sure, but it's tempered by Jordan's stern gaze--sharp, protective, and piercing enough to fillet my ego if I get too big for my britches.

"I know, I know. Recon." I mimic locking my lips and tossing the key, but the grin that follows doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Jordan's disapproval hangs between us, a fog that doesn't quite conceal their deep-set concern. It's a rare moment; they're not big on the whole touchy-feely pep talk thing. "But seriously, Sam," Jordan adds, their voice threaded with a hint of steel, "our neighborhood doesn't need another hole punched through it. If you've gotta act, make it count, and for God's sake--"

"Don't get hurt," I finish for them, nodding. My heart gives a leap, like a shark eyeing a seagull--too tantalizing, even if the thing's got wings and I shouldn't even be jumping.

Jordan snorts. "I was gonna say don't do anything I wouldn't do, but yeah. That too."

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The cool cloak of the evening does little to dampen the chaos unfolding in front of the warehouse--a carnival of debris, light, and sound that beckons to every fiber of my hero-self. Pockets of darkness cling to the edges of the building like spectators, bearing silent witness to the spectacle of ruin yawning wide at the front entrance. The supervillain had turned a simple doorway into a blast site, mockery in every shattered beam and bent metal sheet.

I approach with the stealth afforded by shadow and caution, padded armor snug against me. With extra padding, from Gossamer. Everyone's been treating me with the kid gloves recently. There's no need to strain my ears for the scuffle within; the air vibrates with the rhythm of combat, waves of force emanating from the villain's location with a certainty that bypasses sound.

I catch sight of Playback, silhouette dynamic against the flicker of emergency lights, ducking and weaving like a dancer spun wild by his own stolen beats. Crossroads is a pillar amidst the maelstrom, poised and pivotal, the silent fulcrum around which futures hinge.

They're caught in an intricate ballet of engagement, trying to confine a foe who wears force like a cloak of rubber skin, repelling their advances with gleeful abandon. For each punch thrown, a backlash awaits, vibrations eager to find new purpose against attacker rather than the attacked. I watch the air vibrate and distort, lensing like that one movie with the black hole in it, like the air is wrapping around this guy's hands.

He's got this whole 'imp' thing going on, with a chesire grin mask under a red-and-teal hoodie, black sweats, sneakers, fingerless gloves. Nothing interesting outside of a hint of padding, elbows and knees, someone prepared for action. Crossroads swings for a right hook and the guy chuckles as it smacks him uselessly in the face, just making the air around him wobble.

Playback is a spring, potential energy in human form, noise sucked into the vacuum of his talent only to be redirected, a soundscape sculpted to disorient and disable. But silence is no barrier when force itself is the weapon, and he tumbles back with a grace born of practice rather than preference, air blasted from lungs without a sound, a vacuum the only testament to his strike.

I inch closer, every muscle coiled with the urge to dive in. But Jordan's words tether me--a silent pledge bound by worry and the stubbornness of a partner unwilling to watch another dive headlong into the jaws of injury.

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The tang of ozone and dust scratches at the back of my throat, sharp reminders of the maelstrom I orbit. My presence is a shadow, a ghost audience to the two-halves of a battle waged with fists and possibilities.

For now, I watch--eyes sharp, pulse thrumming to the beat of danger's drum. My teeth are a secret snarl under the mask, a predator's patience tested by the scent of an unseen threat. A villain with the audacity to turn my neighborhood into their personal bouncing castle, flipping the switch on physics like a game.

Amid the discordant symphony of shattering concrete and warped air, the would-be thief holds his ground, a haphazard emcee to this unwelcome rave. The guy - the imp, not yet named but stamped with the surefire swagger of the newly empowered, slinks between baton swings and repurposed reverberations. The squall of fumbled bravado and heavy breaths is a solo that hasn't quite found its beat.

Playback zips, a smirk woven into his mask, spinning a mockery as deft as his escrima batons, "Come on, Tigger, can't you stick to one spot for a sec?"

Tigger's reply tumbles out, hasty and indignant, "Maybe if you'd quit flipping around like an acrobat on fast forward, we could-- Oomph!"

The warehouse is a broken-beat dance floor, our villains in an unlikely pas de deux, albeit with more clatter and less grace than the term implies. Tigger's movements lack polish, his words lagging just behind his actions--a telltale mismatch that reveals the rush of adrenaline in someone unaccustomed to multitasking threats and quips.

"Alright, just stop it, yeah? Just--wait!" Tigger gasps, his hands thrown out in exaggerated frustration as a baton swings perilously close. He huffs, a mask-muted snort, "What do you want, a dramatic monologue while I'm at it? A discourse on the sociopolitical implications of my ill-fated life of crime?"

Playback, all twirls and lightning taps, doesn't miss a beat, chipping away at Tigger's clumsy exterior. "Socio-what? Buddy, you tripped into the wrong comic book."

I'm a statue, a study in shadow, positioned just out of sight--an apex predator waiting, baiting. My gaze cuts to Crossroads. Our eyes lock--a silent conversation, a nod to the inevitability of intervention. His displeasure is a tableau of tight muscle and keen eyes; an unspoken resignation to the Bloodhound's willfulness.

Tigger continues his stumbling tirade, a defense wound with anxiety and bluster, "Look, you overzealous vigilantes--I don't want to hurt nobody. Just let me grab what's owed and skedaddle. Call it a day."

Playback laughs, a note of disbelief in his glee, "Owed? What, did the world promise you a tiara, Spirit Halloween?"

Tigger's mask contorts, miming a roll of the eyes. He kicks a stray piece of debris with petulance, watching it bounce off a wall harmlessly, "A tiara would be nice. But no. I have… expenditures. And it's Ricochet! That's my name now!"

The circling continues, playback orchestrating his adversary towards my hidden vantage. Like a maestro leading a recalcitrant orchestra member back to their chair. My limbs twitch, prepared for the lunge, to wrap silence around his breaths as surely as ink cloaks night.

But it's a waiting game--a heartbeat measured in feints and jeers, two fronts closing the gap on an unwitting target. Each jest, a parry; each retort, a thrust. And amidst the thrust and parry of a mock gladiatorial banter, we wait for the pause that says "now", the sigh of space that invites calamity. Playback's batons swing and swing, and Ricochet steps back, back, backer, avoiding hits as much as his powers seem to let him take them. Every second, he gets closer, and closer, and closer.

I know how to deal with invulnerable types, I've sparred with Rampart enough. Sure, he seems like he can just bounce anything Playback throws at him, but that doesn't mean he can bounce lack of air.

I can almost taste the moment, briny anticipation a palpable scent on the stagnant air. Ricochet might be laughing, might be spinning that yarn, all snark and sass, but soon enough it'll be a gurgle of surprise that--

Tension coils, an anticipation so tangible it hums through the dilapidated warehouse. My muscles prime for pounce, a panther in patient savagery, but that's when the whirr of tiny rotors pierces the balletic discord, drawing all eyes skyward. A palm-sized drone, a hovering harbinger of new variables, bobbles in with the merry chime of a puppet show introduction. Beneath it, a foil pouch sways with pregnant implication.

Time slows to a crawl, the drone an interloper in our staged serendipity. Crossroads moves with a preternatural sense - an instinct born of a leader's foresight. He pinches his nose closed just as the bag bursts, its contents a silent explosion that mushrooms into an acrid cloud of unseen revulsion.

"Stink bomb," he mouths, low and preemptive.

Into this olfactory assault slips a new player, swathed in anonymity and gear, a silhouette against the backdrop of industrial bleakness. "Heard you guys could use some backup," quips gas mask's digitized monotone, an artificial edge overlaying what might be amusement.

Gas mask's baton extends with a threatening whisper of metal, the hilt nestled firmly in their grasp as they wade into the fray.

Playback's grace deteriorates into scrabbling retreat; he chokes back a gag, his body language voicing his horror, "Aw, come on! That's cheating!"

Even as he cackles and bellows, struggling to maintain his comedic performance between half-retching gasps. The gag may be his primary role, but this punchline has affected the jester as much as his audience.

Ricochet - our unasked-for jest of a villain - feeds off the opportunity, his cartoonish facade belying newfound tactical instinct. A boon of energy falls into his lap with Gas Mask's entry and swing at his head. The baton hits his hoodie with a dull thump, only causing his mask to rattle, and the air around him bulges and ripples. Now I understand - Playback was thrusting, poking, prodding, but avoiding outright swings. I think he understood going in. I don't think this new person does.

The 'imp' moves, shifts, begins to come into his own, his power ballooning with the ample harvest that Gas Mask has unwittingly provided. Pulse after pulse he hurls back; walls become drum skins to his percussive whims, stirring a rhythm that would be impressive if it wasn't so potentially lethal.

With alarming ease, a turbulent wave of force strikes out. Playback flies backward, a balletic pinwheel, forced to enact his own variation of flight, the superhero genre's perennial favorite. If his fall resembles grace, it's a trick of desperation and the lingering hangover of his inherent agility. "Thanks for the juice, dumbass," Ricochet announces, while Gas Mask swings and swings again, uselessly thumping their baton against Ricochet's head.

And the stench, gods, it is unbearable. I'm not the queasy type, but this vile concoction writhes into my nose, clawing up sinuses and behind eyes. Even tucked behind cardboard ramparts, the reek slips through unseen chinks in my improvised fortress. The banter curdles, sickening with the scent as the action escalates. This fight just went from manageable mischief to a brawling blender of oaths and odors. Gas Mask doesn't relent, another newcomer braving the miasma with only mild disgust twisting her body language.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the stink, every sensory receptor shrieking betrayal. This isn't quite the moment I was waiting for. But that's the rub with plans--they rarely survive first contact, even with the enemy as oddly buffoonish as Ricochet. Especially when there's someone tossing in variable stink bombs. Through watering eyes and a clenched jaw, I hunker down, mind racing for ways to reorient amid this reeking reshuffle. The game's changed, but so must the player. The battle continues, a dynamo of farce and ferocity, spinning madly on its clown nose of a fulcrum.

"Stop hitting him!" Playback's frustration crescendos as he twirls handcuffs around the tip of his batons--a would-be magician with an escape artist for a rabbit. His words ripple through the pungent haze, but Gas Mask's fury is a tempest of its own, teenage storm clouds boiling over into reckless action.

She's a gust of heated zeal, embodiment of rash confidence--until the room folds under an invisible wave, Ricochet's kinetic airburst flinging her through the stench-swirled air with brutal clarity. Her impact against a distant stack of crates is a punctuation, her presence truncated by sudden, blunt distance.

Now the space is ripe for disruption, the flavor of chaos begging for a dash of hound's bite. My wait ends, replaced by a primal sprint, an unexpected powerplay by a recovering hero. I tackle Ricochet mid-celebration, the art of surprise leaving no room for activated powers, the crunch beneath me both satisfying and essential.

His eyes, wild within the cheshire grin of his mask, meet mine, registering shock to find Bloodhound in place of easy targets. "Bloodhound!? I thought you were recovering!" Gas Mask's voice, tinny and hollow through her mask's filters, sparks amidst the tumult like an accusation borne of concern.

"Recovering," I grunt, eyes narrowed on Ricochet's surprised face, his body pinned to concrete coolness. My arm muscles dance with the pressure of a chokehold, my only reply the focused strain in my stance. All I need is him to black out, stop blasting, stop bouncing back every hit like it's a game of Super Smash Bros.

Ricochet's hands fumble, pressing against me--desperate spasms that soon find their rhythm. My gut knots against the thud of redirected force, over and over, a barrage of kinetic grievances making their protests felt through layers of padding. Involuntary oofs escape as the air in my lungs becomes a premium asset, economy of breath bargained away with each impact.

The flavor of vengeance is absent in my grip, just the cool calculation of necessity--a hound running her quarry to ground, adamantium will enforcing nature's most primitive directive. It's not fun, not like doing flips off a diving board into a deep pool. Every blast from Ricochet feels like I'm taking hits from Rampart when he's not holding back--bruising, deep, too much.

Playback barks out from his vantage, "Give it a rest, pinball wizard!" A taunt laced with desperation, knowing every thud is both fruitless resistance and pained endurance.

But for me, there's only the strain, the choke, and the silent hope that counts more than sheep--it's seconds, long enough for blackout, for peace, and for my teammates to pull themselves back from the edge. My jaws are clenched tight, resisting the urge to bite down on anything - this isn't the time, this isn't the way. Every sinew whispers the same chorus: hold on, Bloodhound, just a little longer. "Count sheep, count sheep, count sheep," I beg, trying to bring Ricochet to the point of passing out.

Then, he puts both hands next to my face.