Sundial clears her throat, drawing our attention back to the map. "Alright, so we're all clear on the plan? Any questions or concerns?"

Spinelli raises his hand. "What about comms? How are we going to stay in touch during the operation?"

Compass grins, reaching under the table and pulling out a case. She flips it open, revealing a set of sleek, high-tech earpieces. "Already got that covered. These babies have encrypted channels and a range of up to five miles. We'll be able to coordinate without anyone else listening in."

Derek whistles, impressed. "Fancy. Where'd you get those?"

Compass winks. "Let's just say I have my sources."

Jordan snorts. "More like you dumpster-dived behind the NSRA building and got lucky."

Compass gasps in mock offense. "How dare you! I'll have you know that I only use the finest garbage in my tech."

The tension in the room breaks as everyone laughs, and I feel some of my unease start to dissipate. These guys may be a ragtag bunch, but they know what they're doing. We've got this.

Sundial waits for the laughter to die down before speaking again. "Alright, if there are no other questions, let's start getting ready. Bloodhound, Safeguard, you two head out and set up surveillance at the warehouse. The rest of us will take up our positions around Squeal's apartment and wait for him to make a move."

I nod, already mentally running through my checklist of equipment. Cameras, microphones, motion sensors - Jordan and I have gotten pretty good at this whole covert ops thing.

As everyone starts to disperse, gathering their gear and checking their weapons, I catch Derek's eye across the table. He gives me a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of the task ahead.

I nod back, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. This is what we've been working towards, the chance to strike a real blow against the Jump trade. To make a difference.

I just hope we're ready for whatever comes next.

As Jordan and I make our way out of the garage, I can't resist one last jab at Derek. "Try not to chase any cars while we're gone, okay? We need you in one piece for this."

Derek rolls his eyes. "Hilarious. You know, you could stand to be a little nicer to the guy who's about to risk his life fighting crime with you."

I grin, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "Where's the fun in that? Besides, I thought you big bad wolves were supposed to be tough."

"Oh, I'll show you tough," Derek growls, but there's a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Just wait until the moon comes out. Then we'll see who's laughing."

"Looking forward to it," I shoot back, before turning to follow Jordan out into the alley.

As we step out into the sun, I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. The nerves are still there, fluttering in my stomach like a swarm of butterflies, but there's excitement too. Anticipation.

This is what being a hero is all about. The rush of adrenaline, the thrill of the hunt. The knowledge that you're making a difference, that you're fighting for something bigger than yourself.

I glance over at Jordan, seeing the same determination in the set of their shoulders, the confident stride of their steps. They feel it too, I can tell. That sense of purpose, of rightness.

Together, we set off towards the warehouse, ready to do our part. Ready to be heroes.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

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The taxi ride to Dobson Mills is a quiet one, the weight of memories hanging heavy in the air between us. Jordan stares out the window, their helmet resting in their lap, fingers tracing idle patterns on the smooth surface. I try to focus on the mission ahead, running through the plan in my mind, but my thoughts keep drifting back to that night almost a year ago.

The night that changed everything.

As the warehouse comes into view, I feel a chill run down my spine. It looks exactly the same as it did that night, a looming behemoth of rusted metal and crumbling concrete. The taxi drops us off a block away, and we make our way towards the building on foot, sticking to the shadows.

Jordan breaks the silence first. "Feels weird, being back here," they murmur, their voice muffled by the helmet. "Like nothing's changed."

I nod, my eyes scanning the alleyways for any sign of trouble. "Yeah. Hard to believe it's been almost a year."

We reach the warehouse, and I pause at the entrance, my hand resting on the heavy metal door. There are still bloodstains on the concrete, dark and rust-colored against the gray. I remember the feel of it, slick and warm beneath my fingers as I tried to stem the bleeding from my wounds, the taste of it in my mouth as I bit and tore at our attackers.

Jordan notices my hesitation, and places a hand on my shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"

I take a deep breath, pushing the memories aside. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Let's do this."

We slip inside, the door creaking on its hinges. The interior of the warehouse is just as I remember it, a cavernous space filled with old machinery and stacked crates. They made clothes here, once. Now there's a corpse buried thirty feet below the concrete, just… lingering there. Dead. Or maybe they dug him up, but I don't see any scuff marks. Dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight that filter through the high windows, and the air is thick with the scent of rust and decay.

As we make our way deeper into the building, I can't help but scan for signs of our previous battle. There, in the middle of the room, that blood splatter is where I got pistol whipped in the face. And over there, by the old conveyor belt that's long since dissolved to nothing, that's where spent bullet casings from Mr. Polygraph's enraged firing ended up. And the ground still has the telltale swirling smears of Mudslide's powers.

I look to the wall, to the bricks. There's still a vaguely human-shaped pertubation (that means a disruption) in their pattern, where Mudslide opened a gap and closed it up to help his new bosses escape. It's been so long, and there's still so much I don't know. How did he end up getting out of his prison sentence? How did the Kingdom find him? What are they up to? There hasn't been any news of them since my hospitalization, and I don't know if that's because they aren't doing something, or if the adults aren't telling me.

A bullet grazed me here.

I shake my head, trying to dispel the image. We won that fight, if only barely. We're still here, still fighting.

But sometimes, in the dark of night, I wonder how close we came to a different ending.

Jordan's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. "Alright, where do you want to set up the cameras?"

I blink, forcing myself back to the present. "Right. Cameras." I pull out the bag of equipment, handing Jordan a few of the small, wireless devices. "Let's start with the main entrance and work our way back. I want eyes on every possible angle."

We work quickly and efficiently, falling into the familiar rhythm of the task. Jordan takes the high ground, using their powers to slice the space down, so that they can reach the rafters and catwalks, angles no human could reach without flight or several ladders stacked on top of each other. I stick to the ground level, finding hidden nooks and crannies to tuck the cameras into.

As I'm finishing up the last of the motion sensors, I hear Jordan let out a low whistle. "Damn. This place really hasn't changed a bit, has it?"

I glance up, seeing them perched on a nearby ledge, their legs dangling over the edge. "Yeah. It's eerie, right? Like walking into a memory."

Jordan nods, their gaze distant. "I still have nightmares, you know. About that night."

I'm quiet for a moment, the admission hanging in the air between us. "Me too," I say softly. "I don't think I'll ever forget the way Mudslide laughed. First time I've ever had an adult express… a real lust for murder. Towards me. But also, in general."

Jordan's quiet for a long moment, and then they let out a soft laugh. "Look at us. A couple of traumatized teens, sitting in the dark and reliving our worst memories."

I can't help but smile at that. "Yeah, well. That's the glamorous life of a superhero, right? All PTSD, all the time."

Jordan snorts. "PTSD? Really?"

"That's what my therapist says," I tell them.

Jordan laughs again. "Wouldn't trade it for the world, baby."

"Me neither," I agree, and I'm surprised to find that I mean it. Despite the nightmares, despite the scars both physical and mental, I wouldn't give this up for anything. The chance to make a difference, to help people - it's worth every sleepless night and aching muscle.

We finish setting up the rest of the equipment in comfortable silence, the weight of shared experience settling over us like a well-worn blanket. As we step back out into the fading sunlight, I take one last look at the warehouse, at the place that almost broke us.