The first day of the stakeout is a test of patience and endurance. We take turns, rotating in and out, our eyes glued to the screens and our ears tuned to the crackle of the comms. It's tedious work, watching the grainy footage of Squeal's apartment block through a phone app, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

But nothing does. The hours drag by, the sun crawling across the sky, and the most exciting thing we see is a stray cat darting across the street. Jordan and I take turns napping in another commandeered garage, courtesy of the Titans, this one closer to Kensington than our home base.

It's during one of these lulls, as I'm struggling to focus on my homework, that I start to notice the drones. At first, I think I'm imagining things, my tired mind playing tricks on me. But then I see it again - a flicker of movement in the corner of the screen, a tiny, whirring shape darting through the sky. Seeing drones every so often isn't exactly weird in this day and age, but seeing this many - definitely weird.

I sit up straighter, my textbook forgotten. "Hey, guys? Are you seeing this?"

The others crowd around the screen, squinting at the grainy footage. "Is that… a drone?" Derek asks, his brow furrowed.

I nod, my eyes tracking the tiny shape as it zips between buildings. "Yeah. And it's not the first one I've seen today."

Spindle leans in closer, his nose practically touching the screen. "What do you think they're doing?"

I shake my head, a feeling of unease settling in my gut. "I don't know. But I don't like it."

We keep an eye out for the drones after that, noting their movements and patterns. They seem to be focused on the same area as us, circling Squeal's apartment block like tiny, mechanical vultures. But every time we try to chase them, send someone out to examine, they vanish like ghosts. I can't imagine who's got the time and energy.

But we can't afford to get distracted. We have a job to do, and we're going to see it through.

Occasionally, we get a ping at the warehouse. People in masks, people wrapped up in bandanas, passing and going. Individual actors in this jockeying for position between Sparkplug and Squeal that we're going to get our hands dirty between. I see a person there, leaving a gift behind in the machinery. I alert the others, and we make a mental note to stay away from that one. I see a person here, digging in the compacted dirt around the abandoned warehouse, leaving things behind. The list of potential traps grows larger.

I fight the urge to sit there in wait, to force myself to experience action. Instead, I stay, like a dog sitting at attention, and I don't put myself out there. It'd be so easy to fight one of these henchmen, but I can't risk destabilizing the operation.

As the days drag on, the stakeout starts to take its toll. I find myself nodding off in class, my grades slipping as I struggle to keep up with the demands of the investigation. My teachers shoot me concerned looks, and I can feel the weight of their disappointment every time I hand in a half-finished assignment.

But I can't bring myself to care. Not when the stakes are this high, not when the fate of the city hangs in the balance. Plus, it's my freshman year of high school and I dragged myself through the rest of it with high Cs.

Finals end with a splat. More high Cs. I pass. The investigation continues.

School feels so useless nowadays.

We fall into a routine, the days blurring together in a haze of caffeine and takeout food. We trade off shifts, catching a few hours of sleep when we can, always keeping one eye on the screens. It's exhausting work, but we push through, driven by the knowledge that we're doing something important, something that matters.

And then, on the seventh day, just as we're starting to lose hope, we finally catch a break.

It's Sandman who spots it first, his sharp eyes catching the flicker of movement on the screen. "Guys, heads up. Squeal's on the move."

We all snap to attention, fatigue forgotten as we crowd around the monitor. Sure enough, there's Squeal, emerging from his apartment building with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks nervous, his eyes darting back and forth as he hurries down the street. He's been in and out to go to the local bodega, but that's not exactly a place we can ambush him at. Even Spinelli and I, with our slightly more official backing, still don't have the carte blanche - the free pass - to just drop in on a guy in the middle of a store.

"Maybe he's meeting with Sparkplug?" Spindle suggests, leaning in closer to the screen. "Could be making a deal."

I nod, my mind already racing with possibilities. "We need to tail him, see where he's going."

The team springs into action, adrenaline surging through our veins as we scramble to our positions. I can feel the anticipation thrumming in the air, the sense that something big is about to happen. We have the likely path already charted out, members of our combined supergroup scattered around for interception

Moonshot takes to the skies, her gravity-defying leaps carrying her from rooftop to rooftop as she tracks Squeal's movements. "He's heading north, towards the suburbs," she reports over the comms, her voice crackling with static. "Looks like he's trying to shake any tails. Keeps rounding corners"

Together, we move out, our footsteps echoing in the empty streets. The city feels different at this hour, the usual bustle and noise replaced by an eerie stillness. It's like we're the only ones awake, the only ones who know the true face of the darkness that lurks beneath the surface. Derek's out of commission, chained up at home - it's an inconvenient time for this.

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"He's flagging down a taxi," she reports, her tone urgent. "Looks like he's heading somewhere in a hurry. Hopefully, to our secondary location."

"Hi, everyone! Moonshot is flying me!" Bubble's voice crackles through our earpieces.

Then, its our turn to flag down taxis. Sandman stays behind in the garage to manage operations, while the rest of us head in groups, towards Dobson Mills. It's a 40 minute run from Kensington, 30 minutes if you really hoof it, 25 if you don't mind cutting illegally through people's yards. In a taxi, it's 10 minutes. Normally, I'd say I need the exercise, but time's a wasting. It's 3 AM, and the world feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

We're scattered around the blocks surrounding Dobson Mills, each of us finding our own vantage point. Sandman's voice crackles in my ear, directing us from his perch back at the garage HQ. "Compass, you're on the north side. Bubble, take the east. Moonshot, you've got eyes from above. Bloodhound, Spindle, you're on the ground, ready to move in if things go south."

I acknowledge the orders with a quiet "Copy," my eyes never leaving the street. Beside me, Spindle shifts his weight from foot to foot, his nerves palpable in the close confines of our hiding spot.

"Where's Derek?" he asks, his voice low. "Shouldn't he be here?"

I shake my head, my lips pressing into a thin line. "Full moon. He's turbo out of commission."

Spindle nods, understanding dawning on his face. We all know the challenges that come with Derek's unique abilities, the toll they take on him. Tonight, we'll have to make do without him.

The minutes tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. I find myself holding my breath, straining my ears for any sound of approach. And then, finally, Moonshot's voice crackles over the comms.

"I've got a visual. Taxi, approaching from the south-east."

We all tense, ready to move at a moment's notice. I watch as the taxi pulls up, my heart pounding in my chest as Squeal emerges, followed by three other men. They're all carrying duffel bags, their eyes darting nervously as they make their way towards the warehouse. Well, Squeal is the most nervous. I recognize none of the others, all various kinds of muscle, each one looking violent. Ready to protect and serve their own way.

"Looks like he brought backup," Spindle mutters, his eyes narrowing.

I nod, my mind racing with possibilities. If Squeal's brought muscle, it means he's expecting trouble. We'll need to be cautious, play this smart.

Ten minutes pass, the tension growing with each passing second. And then, just as I'm starting to wonder if we've got it all wrong, another car pulls up. A sleek black Mercedes, its engine purring like a contented cat.

"It's Sparkplug," Sundial says, her voice tight with something I can't quite place. For a moment, she looks distant, like she's seeing something the rest of us can't. But then it's gone, and she's back in the moment, her eyes sharp and focused.

I watch as the man himself emerges from the car, tall and bald and radiating an aura of menace. He's flanked by his own contingent of goons, each one looking like they'd happily break your nose for a nickel.

Squeal and Sparkplug meet in the middle, their voices low and urgent. I strain to hear what they're saying, but the words are lost in the distance. Still, I can see the tension in their postures, the way their hands hover near their waistbands, ready to draw at a moment's notice. The entrance to the warehouse proper looms over them like a mouth, preparing to bite down.

"We've got eyes and ears on this," I murmur into the comm, my voice barely above a whisper. "Multiple angles. If they do anything illegal, we'll have the evidence we need. There's no need to force a fight we can't win,"

It's the most painful sentence I've said in weeks. There's a murmur of agreement from the others, a sense of anticipation thrumming through the group. This is what we've been waiting for, the chance to take these bastards down. But even as I say the words, I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. Sundial's look, the way she'd seemed to be seeing beyond the present moment… it nags at me, a splinter in my mind.

I force myself to focus, to push the doubts aside. We have a job to do. We can't afford to get distracted now.

As Squeal and Sparkplug's discussion grows more heated, their voices rising in anger, I fight the urge to move in. It would be so easy to charge in now, to take them all down in a flurry of fists and teeth. We've got the element of surprise, and every one of us has superpowers. They have a single-number advantage, eight to seven. With an unknown number of superpowers.

But I know better. We need to be smart about this. Rush in now, and we risk blowing the whole operation. Better to hang back, let the cameras do their work. If we can get evidence of a deal going down, of Jump or Fly changing hands, we'll have everything we need to put these scumbags away for good.

I'm just about to give the order to hold position when Compass's voice crackles over the comm, strained and urgent.

"Incoming!"

I snap my head up, my eyes widening as I see them. Four mini drones, descending from the sky like tiny little mechanical angels of death. They hover for a moment, their cameras whirring as they take in the scene below.

And then, chaos.

The drones drop their payload, and the air is suddenly filled with the most godawful stench I've ever encountered. It's like someone took a dumpster full of rotten eggs and set it on fire, then doused the flames with a tanker of raw sewage. I gag, my eyes watering as I try to breathe through my mouth.

But that's not the worst of it. Because in the next moment, the firecrackers start going off, a series of sharp cracks and pops that echo through the night air like gunshots. Smoke begins to pour from containers hidden among the rusted-out machinery, filling the air with an acrid haze.

I curse under my breath, trying to blink the tears from my eyes. This isn't part of the plan. Someone else is making a move, someone we hadn't accounted for.

And then I see her.

A figure, darting through the smoke like a wraith. She's clad in black from head to toe, a familiar silhouette that sends a chill down my spine. I've seen that costume before, those telltale gadgets and gizmos. Only once. It takes me a fraction of a second to recall, even as I forget my own advice, even as I start running.

Miss Mayfly.

Time seems to slow as she charges towards Squeal and Sparkplug, her baton extending with a snap. The two men reel back, their faces contorting with shock and rage as they reach for their weapons.

But Miss Mayfly is faster. She leaps, her baton whistling through the air as she brings it down in a vicious arc. I see Sparkplug's eyes widen, his mouth opening in a silent scream as the metal glints in the moonlight.

And then, just as the baton is about to connect, just as the first shot rings out, the world explodes into motion.

Shouts and curses fill the air, the sharp crack of gunfire mingling with the hiss and pop of the firecrackers. I see Squeal stumbling back, his hand clutching at his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. Sparkplug is screaming orders, his goons fanning out in a protective circle around him.

But my eyes are locked on Miss Mayfly, on the way she moves through the chaos like a dancer, her baton a blur of motion. She's a force of nature, unstoppable and unrelenting.

I'm moving before I even realize what I'm doing, my feet pounding against the pavement as I charge into the fray. Behind me, I hear the others shouting, hear the crackle of the comms as they try to coordinate a response.

But there's no time for plans, no time for strategy. Because in that moment, as I watch Miss Mayfly engage with the criminals, as I see the determination in her eyes and the grace in her movements, I realize something. Something very important.

Violence is inevitable.

Better make the most of it.