Playback looks down at his hands, his usual confidence replaced by a troubled frown. Even I'm feeling it—a gnawing sense of unease, like the ground is shifting beneath our feet.

Spindle finally breaks the silence, his voice quiet. "So what do we do now? If this stuff is out there, how do we stop it? How do we even start?"

My mind turns to Miss Mayfly, for reasons I don't fully understand. Is that why we've got new superheroes on the block? I look at Playback, and it's like a little psychic connection.

"Doesn't this mean we should be seeing an uptick in superheroes, too?" Blink's question slices through the heavy atmosphere, her voice tinged with a hesitant hope. It’s a fair point; if villains are popping up like dandelions, why not heroes? Her eyes flicker to mine, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing Playback and I are - she just got to say it out loud before us.

Blink's question hangs in the air, waiting for an answer none of us are quite sure of. Crossroads nods slightly, a thoughtful crease in his brow. "It's possible," he says with a careful neutrality. "Superpowers don't discriminate based on who you are or what you've done. But if we're seeing an uptick in criminal activity because of this, it stands to reason we might see the same in heroes... assuming the right people get their hands on Fly. Maybe not proportionate, but..."

Puppeteer shakes her head, her voice threading through the silence with a sharp edge. "Let's be realistic. The type of person seeking out artificial powers — paying to skip the 'near-death experience' queue — they're not looking to be heroes. They want power, and they don't particularly care about the responsibility that should come with it."

Playback snorts, pushing off the wall. "Come on, that's like saying anyone who's doing crime is just naturally a bad seed. People are more complicated than that. You don't think a single person is going to try and use this in the right ways, even if they do it misguided?"

Spindle stretches out a leg, watching the discourse. "I mean, I was a supervillain, sort of. And now look at me. I'm bending over backward—literally—to be one of the good guys." His attempt at a joke feels a bit forced, but his point is made. Nobody laughs, and he makes the same expression a cat that hasn't been fed for two hours makes. Exaggeratedly sad, but for reasons that are absolutely not exaggerated for him.

Puppeteer meets his gaze, unflinching. "That's not the same, and you know it. You had a genuine change of heart. Buying powers off the black market is a whole different ballgame."

Rampart's voice booms from his corner, steadying the growing tension. "Superpowers or not, people choose their paths. But the environment, opportunity, desperation—these things push people in different directions."

Gossamer chimes in, eyes fixed on her knotted shoelaces. "Maybe we should have faith in people. Some will make the wrong choices, but there's always hope, right?"

Playback nods, his eyes lighting up with a glint of his usual confidence. "Exactly. Give people a chance to do the right thing, and some of them will surprise you."

Blink looks at me and I can see in her eyes she wants me to say something, to weigh in. But I'm not sure what to say—my own powers are the result of an accident, a terrifying and painful one. Would I have willingly taken that syringe if it meant skipping the terror of almost dying? Would it feel the same, knowing I hadn't earned it like every bruised rib and tooth-mark scar on my skin says I have?

"Look," I finally say, my voice more tentative than I would like, "we can't paint everyone with the same brush. There's gotta be people out there who'd use powers for good, even if the way they got them is a bit... unconventional."

Puppeteer frowns, clearly unhappy with the direction of the conversation. "It's a nice thought, Sam, but we can't afford to be naive. We need to be prepared for the worst."

Playback crosses his arms, his casual posture belying the intensity of his gaze. "Being prepared doesn't mean we expect the worst of people. It means we're ready for it. Big difference."

Blink's expression softens as she listens, glancing around at each of us. "I guess time will tell, right? We'll just have to wait and see what happens with these new powers popping up."

Crossroads stands up, reclaiming the room's focus. "Playback's right about being prepared. We can debate the morality of this all day, but the fact is, we're going to be dealing with a lot more superpowered individuals soon—heroes and villains. Our job is to protect the city. No matter who deserves what, that's what we're going to do."

The bickering continues - mostly Playback and Puppeteer starting to get louder at each other. I only hear a couple of words, and I don't even process them, before Crossroads' voice slices through the escalating back-and-forth like a knife, clear and commanding.

"Enough," he says, and it's enough; the room falls silent. He stands, folding chair forgotten as his gaze sweeps over us. "This isn't about what could happen with these new powers out in the world—it's about what is happening, right now. We're seeing an influx of superpowered individuals, and yes, that includes would-be heroes. But we can't ignore the psychoactive aftereffects of Fly. It's making people dangerous—not just to us, but to themselves and everyone around them. Even those with the best intentions can become threats under its influence for a minimum of a couple of hours."

The group shifts uncomfortably, the harsh reality of our leader's words settling over us. I think about the guy in the snake mask that Blink was telling me about earlier - throwing things like the world's best shot putter, but totally incoherent, just obsessed with grabbing the nearest object and throwing it at whoever was nearby, trying to kill them. I shift around in my seat. It doesn't feel comfortable, all of a sudden.

Crossroads continues, his voice tinged with a gravity we've seldom heard from him. "We have to be realistic. This is about more than individual choices. This is about a crime wave the likes of which we've never seen."

The locker room is a chamber of solemn nods and furrowed brows. Gossamer's fingers are laced tight, the color drained from Blink's face, and even Playback's usual levity has guttered out like a candle in a storm.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

"If Fly is being mass-produced, and we have reason to believe it is, then we're going to see an unprecedented number of supervillains," Crossroads states bluntly. "There's reports from New York, too. DC. Baltimore. The Northeast is on the verge of chaos, and we—The Young Defenders—we have to be part of the line that's holding. Every single one of us has tangled with Jump and Fly-empowered criminals this week. It's only going to get worse."

He pauses for effect, letting his words sink in. I feel a tension in my shoulders, the same kind I get before I jump into a fight.

"The focus isn't on if some might use these abilities for good. Right now, Fly is being handed out to people who want nothing more than to make a quick buck, intimidate rivals, or dominate their neighborhoods. And that's what we need to be prepared for."

His eyes lock with each of ours, ensuring he has our undivided attention. "We also have a bigger mission: find the source of Fly. Wherever it's coming from, we need to cut it off. Any information we can gather, we need to pass it to the Delaware Valley Defenders. They have the resources to help, but we have the agility. We can move faster, dig in where they can't. So that's what we're going to do."

Puppeteer straightens up, her eyes sharpening as strategy begins to replace her earlier skepticism. "Agreed. We need to track this back to the source. If we can find where Fly is coming from, we can stop it at its root."

Playback, the ever-present smirk returning, albeit subdued, nods. "Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us then. Time to hit the streets and see what the word is."

Rampart gives a firm nod, the resolute set of his jaw conveying his readiness. "Let's use our strengths. We're a team, and we can cover more ground together."

Blink meets my gaze, and I can see the determination there. She's scared, we all are, but she's not backing down. "Let's do it. Let's be the ones who stop this. For everyone's sake."

And there it is, that spark of defiance I know so well in my teammates, fanned into a flame by Crossroads' words. This isn't just a mission—it's a declaration. We're The Young Defenders, and we're stepping up to the challenge.

As for me, Sam Small, the girl who got her powers from almost being fish food—I feel the weight of my own responsibility settle on my shoulders. It's not just about throwing punches or biting through metal anymore. Or investigating adults way above my pay grade. I feel fear, of course I do, but I'm also feeling... what is it, excitement? Yeah. Street criminals. That's something a lot less intimidating than the supervillain mafia.

Crossroads looks at each of us, his expression softening just a fraction. "We're the first line of defense," he says. "Let's make sure it's a strong one."

Way easier than the Kingdom.

Right?

---

It’s the little things, sometimes, that keep you grounded. The walk home from Center City to Mayfair is my time—a forty-minute stretch where the city changes block by block, from the upscale storefronts to the row homes packed tight together like books on a shelf. There’s a certain rhythm to the streets, the pulse of Philly life that beats stronger as the evening crowds swell. Today, I'm walking in the soothing amber of a slowly lowering sun, grateful that daylight savings has kicked the worst of the dark winter evenings down the road a few months.

The transition is gradual—Center City’s glass towers give way to the smaller, older buildings of North Philly, where every corner store and check-cashing place has a story. The sidewalks are cracked with the memory of a thousand footsteps, and I trace them, my own sneakers adding to the tally. It’s not just about getting home; it's about feeling every part of the city, watching the shadows stretch across the pavement, the way the light plays off the graffiti—each tag a shout into the void, looking for someone to listen.

I'm lost in this sensory experience when that familiar tingle races up my spine—the 'I'm being tailed' alarm that never fails me. I’m not afraid, not really, with teeth that can gnash metal and a fist that's never let me down, but caution is a habit hard to shake. I quicken my pace, duck around a corner, then another, doubling back to catch my follower off-guard.

It works better than I expect. There, panting in the mouth of an alley, is Derek from group therapy, his usual prickly demeanor twisted into something that looks uncomfortably close to panic. He's decked out in a hoodie and a cloth mask, the kind you'd grab in a hurry if you were sick, not the kind you'd wear with a cape. I'm on him before he can react, instincts honed from countless spars with the team kicking in. But I'd recognize his eyes, and the crop of shocking orange hair, anywhere.

There's a brief scuffle, more out of surprise than any real struggle, and then his hand slaps mine away with surprising force. He steps back. Not here to fight.

"You're a superhero, right, Sam?" Derek gasps out, and I freeze. That's not something he should know. It's not something anyone in group knows—can't know.

"Derek?" I ask, more surprised than angry. "What the hell?"

He shoves me off and scrambles up. "You're a superhero, right, Sam? I need your help," he says, and I can hear the desperation in his voice even through the mask.

I narrow my eyes at him, stepping back to put some distance between us. "No? What are you talking about?" I reply, the confusion thick in my own voice. Derek, the jerk who barely says two words unless they're dripping with contempt, needing my help? It doesn't add up.

He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Look, I don't have time for twenty questions, okay? It's serious. I—I need your help, okay? You gotta listen to me. You're a superhero, *right*?"

I cross my arms over my chest, not quite ready to drop my guard. "You're gonna have to give me a little more than that, Derek. You're not exactly the helping type, from what I've seen."

He hesitates, and there's something new in his eyes when he meets my gaze. Vulnerability? Fear? It's hard to tell with him.

"It's my friend," he says after a moment, his voice low. "They've... they're talking about going all in. Superpowers, mask, the whole deal. They want me in on it, too."

I frown, the pieces not quite fitting together yet. "Superpowers? But you're—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I've had mine for a while. Didn't talk about it in group 'cause it's nobody's business," he snaps, then takes a breath, trying to steady himself. "Point is, my friend just got powers out of nowhere, and they're talking about going full-on supervillain with them. And they want me to join them. You know, stealing shit from banks. Robbing people."

The weight of the revelation hits me, and for a second I'm stunned into silence. This is bad — Fly bad. The kind of bad that starts with a single choice and ripples out into chaos.

Derek's eyes are fixed on me, waiting for a response. I can see now the way his hands shake, the tension in his shoulders. He's scared, and that's not something I ever thought I'd see from him.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay," I say finally. "Okay, Derek. I'll help you. But we do this my way. No more secrets, no more attitude. You're going to tell me everything, and we're going to figure this out together."

He nods, once, sharply, and there's a flicker of relief in his eyes. "Fine. Your way. Just... just help me stop them before they do something stupid."

I crack my knuckles. "You look like you're going to say something else."

"Yeah. You've got..." he pulls out his phone to check. The sun frames the alleyway behind him, hanging behind his head like a halo. "About three hours and twelve minutes before I turn into a giant fucking werewolf. So let's get moving?"

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "You left early every time because--"

"Yeah, you don't need me to spell this out. Let's go, dude. I'll hail a taxi," Derek grunts, already pulling out the taxi app to do just that. For a second, for a split second, a worse part of me considers saying no. I could get hurt. Derek could get hurt. I'm supposed to be at rest. But then I consider the possibility of getting in a good scrap, and of helping someone, even if they'd never help me.

"Fine, let's roll."