Over the course of the next week, the Tacony Music Hall becomes the central hub of our investigation into the power drugs flooding the streets of Philadelphia. The once-quiet space now hums with a constant undercurrent of activity as we work tirelessly to unravel the tangled web of the drug trade. The old theater seats become impromptu workstations, the stage a makeshift briefing room, as we pool our resources and share what little information we've managed to gather.

Derek, our very own lone wolf, disappears into the depths of Kensington, all bad attitude and unfriendly snarl. He meets with his old contact, a grizzled ex-member of the Irish mob, in a dingy bar that reeks of stale beer and desperation. I like to imagine the two men talking in hushed tones, their heads bent close together as Derek tries to glean any information he can about the Fly. The ex-mobster is cagey at first, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for hidden listeners, but eventually, he starts to open up. He tells Derek about whispers on the street, about a new player in town who's been flooding the market with a new kind of high.

A couple of days later, rumors begin to circulate through the drug dens of Kensington about a werewolf stalking the streets, a creature with glowing eyes and a thirst for blood. They call him the Big Bad Wolf of Kensington (not to be confused with the Big Bad Wolf of Tacony - mine came first), a name that brings a wry smile to Derek's face when he hears me tell him it over a TV dinner. He knows that the fear he inspires is a powerful tool, one that he can use to his advantage as he continues his investigation. He leans into the myth, letting the whispers spread, knowing that they will only make his job easier in the long run.

Spindle, meanwhile, reaches out to his old criminal contacts, the ones who will still take his calls after his defection to the side of the angels. He meets them in back alleys and seedy diners, his elastic limbs allowing him to contort himself into unobtrusive shapes as he listens in on whispered conversations. Some of his old associates are suspicious at first, their eyes narrowing as they take in his new superhero persona, but Spindle knows how to talk to them. He falls back into old patterns, old rhythms, slipping back into the skin of the man he used to be.

Sometimes he has to help them break into a 7-11. I tell him to try and not do that if he can avoid it, but I guess old habits die hard. It makes my skin crawl, but this is more important.

He comes back with bits and pieces of information, tantalizing clues that he carefully hoards, refusing to reveal his sources even to his closest allies. He knows that the trust he's built up over years of criminal activity is a fragile thing, easily shattered by a careless word or a misplaced confidence. So he keeps his secrets close to his chest, doling out information in carefully measured doses, always keeping something back for himself.

Jordan, still the one of the two of us that knows how to actually talk to people, takes a different approach. They spend long hours hunched over their computer, their fingers flying over the keyboard as they dig deep into public records and social media profiles. They pore over arrest reports and court documents, looking for any mention of Fly or their distributors. They cross-reference known associates and past offenders, building a web of connections that stretches across the city.

When they're not in the music hall, they're out on the streets, staking out known drug hotspots and watching for any sign of Fly in action. They blend into the shadows, their dark clothing and quick movements making them all but invisible to the untrained eye. They watch and they wait, their patience rewarded by fleeting glimpses of glowing laser eyes and sudden bursts of superhuman speed. They take careful notes, logging each sighting and interaction, slowly building a profile of the average Fly user.

As for me, I reach out to my contacts in the superhero community, calling in favors and trading information with my fellow members of the Young Defenders. I meet with Agent Miguel Torres, who owes me more than a few favors, in quiet coffee shops and deserted parking garages. He's reluctant to get involved at first, his eyes shadowed by the weight of the secrets he carries, but eventually, he agrees to help. He provides me with what little information he can, his hands tied by the red tape of bureaucracy and the constant threat of reprisal from his superiors.

But the real goldmine of information comes from my fellow Young Defenders. They've been out on the streets, fighting the good fight, and they've seen things that even the NSRA hasn't caught wind of yet. They tell me about new players in the drug trade, about secret labs and hidden stash houses. They share their theories and their suspicions, their insights born of long hours spent in the trenches of the war on crime. Together, we start to piece together a bigger picture, a sense of the true scope of the problem we're facing.

My most valuable asset in this investigation, however, is my blood sense. The Fly injections leave their users with a telltale fluorescent orange tint to their blood, a beacon that I can sense from blocks away. Over the course of the week, I catch two users in the act, tracking them through the city streets like a shark on the scent of blood. The first is a scrawny kid, barely out of his teens, his eyes wide and panicked as he realizes he's being followed. I tail him through the winding alleys of South Philly, watching from the rooftops as he makes his way to a decrepit row house on a forgotten street corner.

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The second is an older man, his face lined with years of hard living. He moves with a purposeful stride, his shoulders hunched against the cold as he navigates the bustling streets of Center City. I follow him to a nondescript office building, watching from across the street as he disappears inside. I don't engage them directly, but I do take careful note of their movements, their habits, the places they frequent. I know that every scrap of information, no matter how small, could be the key to cracking this case wide open. I watch them through the walls. They can't get away from my senses.

As the days wear on, we start to piece together a picture of the Fly trade in Philadelphia. It's a complex network, with tendrils that reach into every corner of the city, from the wealthy enclaves of Center City to the struggling neighborhoods of North and South Philly. We map out the key players, the distributors and the dealers, the muscle and the mules. We build a case, slowly but surely, our evidence mounting with each passing day.

But even as we make progress, the Young Defenders continue their work, their exploits splashed across the headlines and the evening news. Each time they go out on an operation, I receive an alert in the group chat, a gentle reminder that I am still on the sidelines, still recovering from my injuries. It's a bitter pill to swallow, watching my friends and teammates put their lives on the line while I am forced to sit back and wait. But I know that my time will come, that I will have my chance to make a difference.

And so I focus on the task at hand, pouring all of my energy and determination into the investigation. I spend long hours in the music hall, poring over maps and documents, chasing down leads and theories. I subsist on a steady diet of coffee and grit, my mind racing as I try to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Because I know that this is bigger than just me, bigger than just the Young Defenders. This is about the future of our city. Maybe even more than that.

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The Tacony Music Hall is filled with the aroma of pepperoni and the sound of lively discussion as we gather around the table, two large pizza boxes serving as the focal point of our informal strategy meeting. It's been nearly a week since we started our investigation into the power drugs, and the effects of long hours and sleepless nights are visible on everyone's faces.

Jordan is the first to speak, their mouth half-full of cheese and crust. "Alright, what have we got? Did anyone find anything useful, or have we just been chasing our tails for the past week?"

Derek leans back in his chair, his boots on the table. "I wouldn't say it was a total bust. My contacts in Kensington had some interesting intel about a new player in the drug scene, a guy named 'Sparkplug.'"

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "Sparkplug? Sounds like he's trying a little too hard."

Spindle chimes in, his lanky frame draped over his chair. "Yeah, I heard that name too. My old crew said he's been shaking things up, pushing some "new kind of high that's got everyone buzzing", end quote."

"You've… been talking to them?" I ask, glancing around a little nervously. "The Phreaks?"

"Just Deathgirl, why?" Spindle replies, while I wince at the memory of my fingernails being pried off.

Derek snorts. "Deathgirl."

"That's her name!" Spindle insists.

I just shush the two of them. "Jordan, what do you have?"

Jordan nods, their fingers dancing across their laptop keyboard. "I've been monitoring the chatter online, and there's definitely a lot of talk about these new drugs. They're calling them 'Jump' and 'Fly.' Apparently, Jump is a pill that gives you temporary powers for a few hours, while Fly is an injection that gives you permanent abilities."

"Knew about Fly. Jump is new. Do we have any other names?" I ask. I feel a shiver down my spine at the mention of Fly. I've witnessed firsthand the kind of destruction that drug can cause, the way it can distort a person's mind and body. "We need to find this Sparkplug guy, and fast. If he's the one distributing these drugs, he's our key to unraveling this whole operation."

"Yes, but they're all stupid. Like Clark. Cuz Clark Kent. Clark and Bruce. Someone's calling Fly 'fairy oil'. The Juice. I'll just… show you after." Jordan replies, their voice tailing off into mumbles.

Spindle nods, fingers folded under his chin. "Agreed about Sparkplug. Sounds like the kind of guy with lightning powers that messed up your friend, Derek. But we can't just rush in without a plan."

A mischievous glint appears in Derek's eye as he leans forward, grabbing another slice of pizza. "Actually, I might have an idea about that. I've been getting cozy with one of Sparkplug's dealers, a guy named 'Squeal.' He thinks I'm just another junkie looking for a fix. I bet I could set up a buy, get him to lead us straight to Sparkplug. God, what is it with you superhero types and shitty names?"

Jordan frowns, clearly uncertain. "I don't know, Derek. Setting up a sting operation on our own? That's risky."

Derek waves off their concerns, his expression nonchalant. "Relax, Jordan. I know what I'm doing. I've done this kind of thing before, back in my less scrupulous days. We threaten Squeal to set up a meeting with Sparkplug, then we follow him to the source. Easy."

Jordan looks up from their laptop, their expression thoughtful. "It could work. But we'd need to be careful. We don't want to tip them off that we're onto them. I'm glad to hear you have even fewer scruples than I do, though, it's nice to not be the most antiheroic person on a team."

"Poseur," Derek hisses. Jordan just rolls their eyes.

Spindle nods, his expression eager, clearly excited for An Operation, something outside the typical Young Defenders caseload of finding runaway dogs. "I could be the lookout, keep an eye out for any trouble."

I hesitate, weighing the risks and benefits in my mind. On the one hand, the thought of taking such a direct approach, of putting ourselves in the line of fire, makes me uneasy. But on the other hand, I know that every day we wait, more of these dangerous drugs flood the streets. And on my mysterious third hand… The possibility of a fuck up leading to a ginormous fight is oddly enticing.

I sigh, making my decision. "Let's fucking do it, boys."