Playback's presence is a notable absence from the chastisement, his attention far afield as he converses with the EMTs, their voices a distant murmur over the intermittent echo of Ricochet's vitals being monitored. The quiet pulse of beeping machines belies the turmoil that had consumed this space just minutes before.
Crossroads continues, his words meticulously chosen, each one a piece in the puzzle of his comprehensive reprimand. "Every action in the field has consequences," he lectures, his voice steady, an unwavering metronome of disapproval. "Engaging without strategic coordination endangers not just yourself, but the entire team. Insofar as you have a team, and aren't just a random civilian looking to get involved in things the professionals have handled."
Miss Mayfly's posture stiffens, a silent retort bristling in her stance. "I saw an opening," she insists, the words filtered through her mask's distorted timbre. "My drones provided the distraction necessary to apply the cuffs."
"Your stink bombs and pepper spray drastically complicated the initial approach," Crossroads counters sharply, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture that manages to convey both authority and restraint. "Chaos may work on its own, but Playback and I don't come equipped with nose plugs. Keep those tactics for your own outings."
From the edges of the confrontation, Sundial's voice slices through the tension. "So what was your plan, then?" she asks, her tone dancing on the edge of respect and reproach. "Wait for him to power down? Let him leave?"
Crossroads' eyes narrow, a flicker of frustration betraying his composure. "My plan," he articulates with a touch of steel, "was to hold him steady while Playback silently applied handcuffs. If you will notice, that is essentially what ended up happening."
He begins idly palming his coin, doing small tricks with it in his hand - flip, catch, flip, catch. I know what he's doing, but I don't know how much of these… others do. His eyes narrow and he stares towards Miss Mayfly, and then at me.
"You're not the boss of me, Cross," Sundial says, arms folded over her chest, kung fu robes gently drooping down in the wind.
"Your strategic assistance is… appreciated, Sundial. I'm mostly talking about Bloodhound and… the civilian," Crossroads says, casting a worrying look towards Miss Mayfly. The warehouse, once a cacophony of conflict, now serves as an arena for a different kind of confrontation. The air brims with tension, electric and charged, as Sundial aligns herself with Crossroads, their united front a bulwark against Miss Mayfly's assertions.
"You're out of your league, Mosquito" Sundial asserts, her voice a cold lance aimed unerringly at the heart of the matter. "This isn't child's play. It's dangerous."
Miss Mayfly's retort is swift, her voice unyielding despite the distortion of her mask. "I'm just as capable as any of you," she declares, her hand reaching to gently cradle the damaged drone, tucking it into her suit like a wounded bird sheltered under a wing. "I have just as much right to be here."
Crossroads, less a soldier now and more a weird therapist, regards her with an implacable gaze. "Rights don't equate to readiness," he says, his tone measured, yet laced with an underlying current of concern. "You're not… insulated against the things we face."
I stand on the periphery, a silent observer to the unfolding drama. I want to be kept in the loop, sure, but this isn't my argument—I'm just caught in the crossfire of their collision.
"You don't get it," Miss Mayfly insists, her defiance a flare in the dim. "This isn't about powers or abilities. It's about doing what's right, standing up against what's wrong. That's what makes a hero."
Sundial's stance softens, a touch, her features etched with something akin to sympathy. "We're not saying you don't help," she concedes. "But there's a line. When you step over it, when you put yourself and others in harm's way, that's not heroism. It's recklessness."
Crossroads nods, his agreement silent but emphatic. He doesn't need to speak—his presence alone is an echo of Sundial's sentiment, his countenance a mirror of shared concern.
Their gazes, twin sentinels of experience, lock onto Miss Mayfly. It's a plea made without words, a silent urging for her to recognize the precipice upon which she teeters. Miss Mayfly, for all her bravado, seems to shrink beneath the weight of their collective gaze.
"Sorry for ignoring your instructions, sir," I say, small and deferential to Crossroads' particular anger.
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's okay. I would be more surprised if you didn't. And please don't call me sir."
For some reason, that hurts a little bit - the existing expectation that I'll be the one to hop in past my limits. But I also can't exactly say that he's wrong.
Miss Mayfly looks at me like I have five heads. "Kiss-ass," they murmur, arms furled inward, body twisting around. "Whatever. You guys can get mad at me all you want, but I'm still going to keep helping."
"You've helped enough, little mayfly. Go home and play video games or whatever it is kids like you do," Sundial says, maybe a little too abrasively.
Stolen novel; please report.
"Kid? I'm just as old as she is!" Miss Mayfly says, flicking a hand out to me. That's a surprise, given how much of a beanpole they are - they're the same age as me? Wait, how would they know how old I am? I'm wearing a mask and a costume and it hides most of my identity. Is it just my girlish charm? It must be. "I--"
"Enough," Crossroads cuts in, putting his metaphorical and physical foot down. "This is a stupid discussion. You two, go home. Sundial, get Moonshot and go back on patrol, we're done here. Playback and I will handle cleaning up after Ricochet and I'll keep you two looped in with whatever we can find out about the drugs he took."
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Defeat is a shadow that clings to me, its weight tangible in my slouch as I peel away from the scene. My insides are still reverberating from Ricochet's brutal symphony, each step a reminder of the unyielding vibrations that pummeled me. Miss Mayfly's exit is more dramatic, her silhouette rigid with indignation as she disappears into the urban jungle, without an opportunity for small talk, for me to get the new hero alone for a moment to introduce myself.
Not that introducing myself is something I typically do, just… you know, if she's in the area, it would be prudent to make sure she doesn't interrupt any of Jordan and I's operations with a stink bomb again.
But she's gone before I have the chance.
The night air is cool against my skin, a small mercy as I slump onto the sidewalk, seeking a moment of stillness amidst the clamor. Above, the city's lights smear across the sky, a canvas of civilization that hums with life and indifference to the drama that unfolded in its shadows. The police arrive like the second act of a play, their tapes weaving webs to delineate the stage of our conflict, turning battleground into crime scene.
The paramedics, with choreographed precision, roll Ricochet away, his form lost amid the labyrinth of equipment and urgency. The sirens wail a lullaby of duty, their cries receding into the distance as they shepherd their charge to whatever care might await his chemically ravaged form.
The warehouse that was once a nexus of chaos is now a husk, hollowed by the departure of its combatants. I'm left to the mercy of my thoughts, the silence punctuated only by the distant murmur of conversation and the occasional crackle of police radios.
The hour slips by, unnoticed but for its healing passage, an incremental balm that soothes the cacophony within. Time is a gentle hand upon my turmoil, easing the pounding ache to a dull throb.
When Playback approaches, it's with the heavy tread of the weary but determined. His shadow falls over me, a temporary eclipse that signals company.
"Hey," he greets with a casual thump against my shoulder, a comrade's touch that speaks volumes in its simplicity. "Don't let Crossroads get you down."
I look up, my reply a hoarse whisper borne from a throat tight with the remnants of stress and exertion. "Yeah?" It's half question, half affirmation, a single word that carries the weight of the night's uncertainties.
"Yeah," he confirms, nodding as his gaze captures mine. "You showed up. That counts for something. You know, just in case." His words are a lifeline tossed into the tumult of my self-doubt.
It's not the absolution I might have hoped for, but it's an acknowledgment—a sign that, perhaps, my presence mattered, even if only as a contingency against a darker outcome.
"Thanks, Playback," I manage, the gratitude genuine despite the brevity. His words are a salve, a small patch on the larger wound of the night's follies. "I'm glad you get it."
He offers a grin, lopsided and as weary as I feel, before turning away to handle the aftermath with Crossroads. "No worries, Bee," he throws over his shoulder, a farewell as much as a promise. "We'll catch the next one."
And with that, he's gone, his silhouette blending into the tapestry of first responders and the night's embrace. I'm alone again, but the solitude feels a little less crushing than before. And, paradoxically, a little more crushing.
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The trek homeward is a study in contrasts—a city bustling with the indifferent rhythms of late-night life, and the solitary figure that moves through it, quiet in her own discomfort. The concrete beneath my feet seems unforgiving, each step a dull reminder of the body's capacity for pain, and its incredible ability to mend. With each block passed, the internal jackhammering subsides, ever so slightly, as my tissues and sinews labor invisibly, knitting the rawness back into wholeness. It's like the pain is unraveling, strand by strand, the twisted fibers of my body slowly realigning under the relentless work of my regenerative abilities.
I can feel the shift, the minute changes that signal healing's subtle progression. It's as though my blood is infused with a quiet determination, a sense of purpose that mirrors my own. Even as my steps carry an echo of the night's violence, my body is a testament to resilience, to the refusal of my cells to yield to overwhelming violence. I am the bigger hammer.
The city's heartbeat thrums around me, a constant ebb and flow that carries the sighs and secrets of its inhabitants. My blood sense hums softly, a background resonance that keeps me tethered to the life that courses through the veins of Philadelphia. It's not an intrusive sensation—rather, it's a reminder that beyond my own narrative, there are countless others, playing out in quiet dignity amidst the urban sprawl. People playing basketball. People with nosebleeds.
I pause at doorsteps where my sense alerts me to the copper tang of fresh injuries—the minor casualties of domestic life. A slip of a knife here, a broken glass there. With each knock, I offer aid, a vigilante healer extending a hand where it's least expected but quietly welcomed. Nobody wants to be caught out alone with a gash in their hand.
The gratitude of those I help is a balm, their surprised thanks a chord that vibrates pleasantly within. With each small act of care, each piece of gauze applied, I stitch together not only their wounds but the tattered edges of my own morale. Gossamer's teachings, once imparted in the context of grander crises, find new purpose in these intimate moments of community. There's a comfort in the routine, a familiar dance of disinfectant and adhesive strips that grounds me.
Mayfair draws nearer with each act of service, its familiar contours a beacon of normalcy against the night's earlier chaos. The ache in my muscles ebbs, a fading tide that leaves behind a sense of weariness but also contentment. I'm no grand savior, no mythic figure etched against the stars. I am, simply, here—able to offer a steady hand when it's needed, a quiet guardianship against the small perils of everyday life. It was a good thing I showed up today, for thirty minutes of violence and three hours of helping.
As the first light of the moon creaks up over the clouds, painting the sky with the gentlest of brushes, I make my way through the last stretch towards home. My mood has lifted, my spirit buoyed by the simple act of being present, of being the contingency for someone else's injury. It's a role I never anticipated, yet one that feels as fitting as the mask I wear.
The soft click of the door signals my return, both parents asleep on the couch, waiting for me. I don't wake them up.