The smell of antiseptic mixed with sweat hangs over the Young Defenders' headquarters like a banner -- a strange, medicinal welcome-back after the mess we went through two days ago. The locker room is a cacophony of metallic clangs and the murmur of voices, some teasing, some serious. It's a haven from the chaos of the world outside, the locker doors slamming shut like punctuation marks at the end of our ordeal.

I slide my locker open, wincing a bit from the aches that haven't fully faded, despite my superpowered regeneration. The others are already changing, slipping out of costumes stained with the residue of heroism and into the mundane camouflage of teenage normalcy. Yeah, surprise, surprise, Ricochet was uncontrollably sending kinetic energy through my guts like a jackhammer, and boy does that hurt. It's not even the good kind of ache.

I wish Gale was here to hug me about it. But she's off with family business, and that's more important, probably.

Playback is animatedly recounting a play-by-play of the day's events to anyone who'll listen, his voice bouncing off the walls with the excitement of a kid who just got away with something spectacular. His hands move as wildly as his mouth, conjuring invisible sound waves that only he can see.

Gossamer giggles as she reties her hair, the dark locks slipping like silk through her fingers. "You should have seen your face, Sam, when that fish... what did you call it, Playback?" She tosses me a sly smile, referencing something from aeons ago that I can barely remember now. Just making idle conversation, trying to burn minutes.

"A 'kinetic confetti bomb'," Playback supplies, grinning broadly as he pats his beanie into place on his head.

"Yeah, that. You looked like you were going to fight it," Gossamer continues, her laughter light and infectious.

Across the room, Spindle is somehow contorting himself into his street clothes, a feat that draws a few bewildered glances but is otherwise taken in stride. We've seen weirder. His long limbs snake into jeans and he shrugs on a shirt that's all too small, followed by another shirt that actually covers his belly. I feel kind of bad for him - most clothes aren't made for someone with his frame, especially since his torso is extra-long compared to your normal tall person that just has big legs.

Rampart is quieter, methodically peeling off pieces of his gear like it's an extension of his skin he's reluctant to shed. His focus is inward, a silent sentinel even now, protective layers coming down only in the safety of the lockers.

Blink is busy peeling off her inlines, the heavy wheels clattering on the tile floor as she does, skidding a couple of inches away. I'm the only person who hasn't recently come back from some sort of outing in the past hour, but I'm still around for the all-hands-on-deck - my hands are part of 'all hands'!

Even without the overt tension of the mission's aftermath, there's an undercurrent of unrest, a shared unease that passes between us with every glance. We're trying to ignore the reports of criminals with new, explosive powers like a ticking bomb in the corner of the room, but it's there--a shadow just out of sight.

"Hey Spindle, you ever think about maybe, I dunno, inventing your own clothes?" Playback throws a teased glance over at the lanky figure of Spindle, who's attempting a one-armed shrug, the other stuck halfway through a sleeve. "Or at least find a tailor who isn't scared of needles bending around your body."

Spindle grins, the expression twisting oddly around his stretched-out neck. "Thought about it," he drawls. "But then I figured, where's the fun in that? Every day is a new puzzle. 'Can Connor fit into a normal-sized T-shirt?' Spoiler: The answer is a stretch."

Gossamer shakes her head, covering her eyes with one hand.

"Aw, come on, Goss," Playback chides. "Let the man enjoy his... natural elasticity."

I chuckle, shaking my head, careful not to snag my hair on a locker edge. "Natural elasticity, sure, but I'm betting Spindle would kill for a shirt that doesn't ride up every time he raises his arms."

"Natural elasticity sounds like we're talking about a condom brand," Puppeteer mumbles under her breath.

"True," Spindle admits with a mock sigh, finally freeing his other arm. "The dream is a shirt that stays put. Maybe I'll go back to being a supervillain so I can force clothing manufacturers to make extra-long tees."

Blink laughs, the sound light and bubbly. "Forget world domination. It's all about the fashion empire for you, huh?"

"Yeah, Bloodhound, what's your take? Superhero chic? Sharkskin, maybe?" Playback teases, nudging me with his elbow. I roll my eyes and don't respond.

"Yeah, world domination is passé," Puppeteer pipes up from her corner, her tone laced with mock seriousness. "It's all about the lifestyle brand now. You could call it... 'Spindle's Threads'. Get it?"

A collective groan fills the room, but it's good-natured. Even in the gravity of our profession, there's always room for fucking around. I can't help but smile; Puppeteer's humor has always been on the nose, but it's kind of her charm.

Playback tosses a towel over his shoulder, smirking. "I'd buy it. Make sure you've got beanies in the lineup, though. Can't neglect the headgear market."

"Can't, makes it harder to get into small spaces. Me and hats don't agree," Spindle says, mussing up his hair as he starts packing things into his backpack. I'm glad he's fit in nicely here - it makes me feel... I don't know, good? Hopeful? People can reform and change? That's a good thing, I think.

Blink sets her skates aside and hops off the bench, now freed from her superhero boots. "What about me?" she chimes in, a smile playing at her lips. "I want a line of travel bags. 'Blink's Bags'. They'll get you where you need to go, fast!"

"Wouldn't that be false advertising?" Rampart asks, cracking a rare joke, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Gossamer is laughing as she slings her bag over one shoulder. "You guys are ridiculous. Next thing you know, we'll have 'Bloodhound's Bite-Size Snacks' or 'Playback's Silent Disco'."

"Hey, I actually like the sound of that!" Playback points at Gossamer with a nod of approval. "Silent Disco -- it's genius. I could totally pull that off."

I raise an eyebrow. "I don't think most people like eating metal."

Spindle stretches out, his bones making little popping sounds like bubble wrap being twisted. "Nah, they'd be like, those gummy dog candies. Licorice scottie dogs or whatever. 'Get a bite of the action!'"

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Please, no," I groan, leaning back against my locker. "Let's not base my entire identity around the chompers, okay?"

Rampart nudges me gently. "Too late for that, Bee. You're the team's official biter. Embrace it."

I roll my eyes, but I'm fighting a grin. "Fantastic. What a reputation to have."

"Could be worse," Puppeteer adds, closing her locker with a definitive click. "Could be 'Playback's Playlist: Now That's What I Call Silence!'"

Playback throws his hands up in the air, feigning shock. "I actually *have* a music taste, believe it or not."

Gossamer snickers, turning to me. "What do you think, Sam? What would be your dream endorsement deal?"

I chew on my lip, pretending to ponder the question deeply. "Hmm, maybe something practical. How about... 'Bloodhound's GPS: Never lose your way -- or the scent!'"

The playful banter continues, ricocheting back and forth, a game of verbal catch that we're all too eager to play. It's these moments, these exchanges of irreverent humor and camaraderie, that fortify us against the darkness we face beyond the walls of our sanctuary.

And then the door opens.

The laughter dries up as Crossroads steps into the locker room, the shift in the atmosphere tangible, like a cold front sweeping in. His costume looks like it's been painted onto his tall frame, and for once, the typically unflappable leader of our motley crew appears shaken. This isn't his usual sternness; it's laced with something else, a troubled edge that puts a halt to all conversation. In the brief moment the door remains ajar, glimpses of the AdultsTM and their polished, professional costumes can be seen before the door slides shut, sealing us in with our new reality.

Crossroads doesn't immediately speak. Instead, he sighs heavily, a sound that echoes with a weight we're not accustomed to hearing from him. It's a sound that speaks of burdens and revelations we're about to share. He drags a metal folding chair across the tile floor, the screeching of metal against tile like a siren call to attention. Each one of us watches, a silent plea in our eyes for this not to be as bad as we fear.

He sits, his movements deliberate, his eyes finding each of ours in turn. The air is heavy, thick with unspoken apprehension, and when he finally speaks, his voice is steady but there's an undertow of something more, something dark and turbulent.

"Ricochet is out of action," Crossroads says, and the finality of his words hits like a physical blow. "He... survived, but his condition is critical. Nearly every bone in his body is fractured, and his muscles are crushed up like tissue paper from the force of them tensing."

A collective breath is drawn in, held for a heartbeat, then released in a sigh of mingled relief and horror. He's alive -- that's something, isn't it? But at what cost?

The visual of Ricochet, broken and battered, lingers in my mind like a nightmare. I can still taste the chaos of the fight, the aftermath etched into my muscles, but this -- this is something else. This isn't the clear-cut triumph of superheroes and villains. Whatever Ricochet injected himself with, it basically destroyed him. I can only hope he can regenerate like I can.

Playback looks as if he's been struck silent, the ever-present twinkle in his eye dimmed by the gravity of Crossroads' news. Even Spindle has stilled, his usually animated features gone slack. Gossamer's hand has frozen halfway to her mouth, and Blink's eyes are wide, unseeing as she processes the grim bulletin.

Crossroads reaches into a pocket, retrieving a small evidence bag. There's a syringe inside - the few droplets of liquid inside catch the light, shimmering iridescent like a distilled rainbow, like the stuff on top of an oil slick but scraped off and distilled. The bag is passed around; each of us peers into the contents with a mix of curiosity and dread.

"This," Crossroads announces, his voice devoid of its usual commanding timbre, "is what they're calling 'Fly'."

The room is still, the only sound the faint rustling of the bag as it changes hands. Rampart's large fingers handle it with surprising gentleness. Puppeteer's eyes reflect the colors, a morbid fascination flickering within. Even her usual stoicism can't mask the unease that creases her brow.

The syringe is a sinister talisman, a harbinger of the unknown threats multiplying in our city. It's a small thing, so inconsequential in size, yet the implications of its existence are vast and terrifying. It feels as though, in this moment, we've crossed a threshold into something much more serious than a random robbery by a two-bit supervillain. A palpable sense of dread settles over me like a shroud. My heart starts beating harder, and I feel a distinct sense of discomfort situate itself in my skin, like I need to start shredding and clawing to get something inside out.

I hold the bag between thumb and forefinger, staring at the liquid, a mere residue of its former volume. In it, I see the distorted reflection of my own eyes, the curved lines of my face, and the fear in my eyes. I pass it to Playback.

Playback seems to have lost his voice, his usual jokes and quips locked away behind a mask of seriousness. This isn't the time for humor; this is the time for grasping the new, grim reality we've been handed. He stares at the syringe and then passes it back to me, clearly disgusted by what he saw.

"No one's seen anything like it before," Crossroads adds, his gaze finally settling on the near-empty container as it makes its way back to him. "The police, the Delaware Valley Defenders -- no one knows where it comes from or how it works. They showed me a memo from the NSRA, but I don't have clearance to share the exact document with you, so instead I'll just summarize. Fly gives people superpowers. Even if you never had them."

The moment Crossroads finishes his sentence, the air shifts from one of dread to active dissent. Puppeteer's hand shoots up, her expression etched with skepticism. "That's impossible," she asserts, her voice a blend of incredulity and scientific certainty. "Superpowers aren't... they're not something you can synthesize and distribute. That goes against everything we understand about how they work."

Rampart nods, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Exactly. For nearly half a century, the mechanics have been consistent: near-death experiences trigger the activation of latent superpowers. You can't just condense that into a pill or an injection." His voice is firm, the voice of someone used to standing their ground.

Playback looks between them, his face twisted into a mask of confusion. "Wait, so what are you saying? That someone figured out how to bottle up a near-death experience?" The sarcasm is there, but it's edged with genuine bewilderment.

Crossroads holds up a hand, a silent request for calm, his eyes dark with the gravity of the situation. "I know how it sounds," he says, and his tone holds a note of concession. "But that's exactly what's happening. The green pills that Ricochet took--they gave him temporary superpowers for three hours. The super strength, stacked on top of his other powers. But the injection--it's a permanent change."

Murmurs ripple through the group, a mix of disbelief and fear. Blink's face is pale, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words come out. Spindle is frowning, his lanky form tense as a bowstring.

"The injection he took before... it gave him his kinetic redirection, or at least that's what Multiplex's investigation showed," Crossroads continues, holding the room with his steady gaze. "And when he took a second one, his body couldn't handle it. There's psychoactive effects for an hour or two, and whatever he took, whether it was another dose of the same Fly or a new power he didn't get to use, it made him lose total control over the super strength. He crushed himself like a trash compactor. Even if we weren't there he would've folded up in minutes."

"But, that would mean..." Gossamer trails off, her eyes growing wide as the implications start to settle in. "All those incidents this weekend, the break-ins, the petty crimes by nobodies--"

"Z-listers," Playback chimes in, his voice unusually somber.

Crossroads nods slowly. "Yes. If you've been wondering about the surge in superpowered activities from previously unknown or insignificant individuals, this is the reason. Someone out there is manufacturing superpowers and they're selling them. This isn't limited to the criminal underbelly anymore--it's spreading. It's real, and it's happening."

A heavy silence falls, each of us processing the weight of his words. Puppeteer leans back against her locker, her eyes distant, flickering with the rapid pace of thoughts racing behind them. I can tell she's struggling, trying to fit this new, impossible piece into the puzzle of her worldview.

"But that--It can't be that simple," she argues, her voice losing some of its earlier conviction. "There's a reason superpowers are rare. There's a reason not everyone survives their activation events. You can't just..."

Her voice fades, the usual fire doused by the chilling reality that Crossroads has laid bare.

Crossroads lets out a long, slow breath. "I wish it weren't true," he admits, and there's a note of weariness in his voice that's new. "But it is. We've seen the evidence. This 'Fly'--it changes the game. It breaks the rules we thought were unbreakable. And that means we need to be ready for anything and from anyone."