BEGIN YEAR TWO

Begin Arc 6: Sideshow

School's finally out, and I couldn't be more relieved. Don't get me wrong, I love learning and all that, but this year was just...a lot. Between recovering from getting my ass kicked by Kate, testifying against Sparkplug and his goons, and trying to keep up with my classes, I'm running on fumes.

Let's get it out of the way first - Sparkplug and Squeal are both turbofucked. Just in case anyone was worried they wouldn't be. They are.

The first few weeks are pure bliss. I sleep in until noon almost every day, binge trash TV with my mom, and spend way too much time dicking around on forums and stuff. Keeping track of who's keeping track of Bloodhound and the Big Bad Wolf of Tacony, not to be confused with the Big Bad Wolf of Kensington, who is Derek, who is somehow still around.

By the second week, I've settled into more of a routine. Early morning runs along the park trails, followed by breakfast with whoever's there to have breakfast with me. Sometimes it's Grandma Camilla. Sometimes it's Dad.

Jamila and I go on a bunch of dates, cheesy stuff like the movies or mini-golfing. We have this dumb competition to see who can get a bigger trophy at the Main Event by racking up tickets. I won, which surprised me given that being aerokinetic gives her a distinct advantage in dexterity games. But also I've thrown a baseball before and she hasn't. So... I guess it sort of evens out?

She's still pouting about it, though.

My grandpa comes over a lot too. He likes to take me and my mom out for Sunday breakfast at this old-school Jewish deli in Northeast Philly. We get identical orders - lox and bagel platters loaded up with all the fixings. Grandpa always jokes that I'm gonna turn into a lox one day with how much smoked fish I put away. Tells me I should consider becoming a salmon-themed superhero. The Slicemaster, he says, and he even drew a really bad little doodle of it. When I tried to protest he just started regaling me with salmon facts.

Kate... yeah, that's still a whole thing. We haven't really talked since our huge blowout fight. I check in with her dad every so often, make sure she's doing okay. From what I gather, she's just holed up in her room most days. I get it, the shame and embarrassment of what she did, what happened to her. I've been there. The hardest part is forgiving yourself. I haven't really talked with the rest of "Team Mayfly" either. I mean, Marcus and I keep in touch, and Tasha has been making herself known at the music hall to play with our computer equipment and try making gadgets for everyone, but Jenna and Lilly both feel like they're sort of drifting away in a bubble along with Kate.

Part of me wants to reach out, to try and mend things. But the other part of me is like, she needs space, right? Kate, I mean. This has to be her journey. If I try to insert myself, it'll just end up making things worse. She has to find her own way back from the edge. I haven't told any of the adults in the room about her taking Jump, and I'm not going to.

I'm not going to be that person that holds it above her head. That was her own decision. As long as she's not taking more and going out vigilante-ing at night, that's not my problem.

She's not. I check up on her.

Is that weird?

Anyway.

In the afternoons, I meet up with the rest of the Young Defenders for training sessions. Rampart has been putting us through the wringer, working on our hand-to-hand combat skills and teamwork exercises, while Crossroads has been spending more time than ever with the adults in the room. With the emergence of Jump and Fly, we've all had to step up our games.

The gang wars have been getting more intense. We do what we can where we can, but without Diane, it feels like it's all insurmountable. Cut off one head, and another two or three grow back, and unlike Hercules we don't have any flaming clubs. Spindle even heard that the Phreaks have been gathering - and not using - Jump and Fly in as massive of quantities as they can get, and that's been on my mind basically any time anything else isn't occupying that space.

I think about Deathgirl a lot. Honestly, out of people who aren't really in my life directly, I probably think about her the most. She must be thirteen now? I have no idea what happened to Patches, and for some reason, the idea of finding out makes my chest get weird and tight.

Tacony hasn't been spared from the fallout either. Just last week, a couple of Jump-heads tried to rob a convenience store down the block from our home base. I mean, the music hall, not the Young Defenders HQ. Thankfully, they were just a bunch of idiots trying to get easy money, but cleaning up all the slag with Bubble wasn't easy.

"The highs from Jump and Fly might be one thing," Crossroads tells us during one of our sessions, "but the side effects are something else entirely. Increased aggression, psychosis, delusions of grandeur - you'd better be prepared to talk down a manic god-king if you go toe-to-toe with someone hopped up on this garbage. And the formula has been getting more dilute - we've been seeing more people developing unpredictable secondary mutations, and we don't know why. We have to be prepared for anything."

As if we didn't have enough to worry about, right? Still, I try not to let it get me down too much. Summer is a time for fun and freedom, damn it, and I'm determined to enjoy myself.

Speaking of which, the Small family Shabbat game has been strong as ever. My mom has this weird new obsession with making these intricate, over-the-top challah loaves every week. Last month it was a sandworm from Beetlejuice. This week was Baby Yoda choking on a frog. Don't ask me how she does it, I have no clue. My dad just watches in bemused silence as the rest of us fawn over whatever carbalicious masterpiece she's whipped up.

Oh, and Moe got a new cat! Well, new-ish. It's been a few weeks. This scruffy little gray furball he's named Schlemiel. Apparently it's a Yiddish word for someone who's a bit of a klutz or an oaf. Which is the perfect name, because this cat is just a disaster on four legs. He's always knocking things over, getting stuck in weird places, just generally being a goofball. Apparently he's got something wrong with his skull that means he can't coordinate right, so he's flopping all over the place all the time.

Then, of course, once things start happening they all start happening quite fast, as they tend to do. Not quite as fast as I'm used to, but, well, fast.

The last week of June, I get a call from a prosecutor named Anne-Marie Gibson. The prosecutor assigned to Illya's case.

First, of course, my parents have to coach me through it. I've testified in court before, but, you know, this is a little more complicated than Mudslide and Sparkplug. And they know about this guy. And they know about me. Dad made his famous kugel (famous perhaps only to a few, but famous nonetheless), a sweet noodle casserole dish that's basically pasta pudding. I'm already on my second helping when Mom brings it up.

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"Sam, honey, we need to discuss your meeting with the prosecutor," she says, setting her fork down. "There are some things we want you to keep in mind."

I pause mid-bite, noodles dangling from my lips. "Uh oh, is this the part where you tell me not to say anything without a lawyer present?"

Dad chuckles, shaking his head. "No, no, nothing like that. Although that's not bad advice in general." He takes a sip of his wine. "We just want to make sure you're prepared for what's to come."

The change in his tone makes me sit up a little straighter. This is serious dad mode, not goofy dad mode. I swallow my mouthful and lean back in my chair. "Okay, I'm listening."

Mom takes over. "First and foremost, you need to be completely honest with this prosecutor. Don't hold anything back, don't try to spin things in a certain way. Just tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

That makes me frown. "You really think I'd lie about something like this?" I say, fully preparing to lie should it become necessary.

"Of course not, bubbeleh," she reassures me. "But we want to make sure you understand the gravity of the situation. This isn't just some random interview - your testimony could make or break the case against Chernobyl and his associates."

His associates - like he has any. The thought makes bile rise in my throat, but I don't entertain it. I think my parents are operating under the same assumption as the rest of the world, which is to say, that Illya is an unhinged terrorist who went around killing people for fun.

Sorry, Mrs. Gibson. I don't plan on giving the people what they want.

Dad nods in agreement. "Your mother's right. These people are dangerous, Sam. They won't hesitate to try and discredit you or poke holes in your story if they can. You need to be prepared for that."

I can feel my pulse starting to quicken, but I force myself to stay calm. "Okay, got it. No embellishments, no holding back. Just the facts, ma'am."

"Exactly." Mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "We're not trying to scare you, sweetie. We just want you to be ready."

There's a brief silence as we all take a few more bites of our food. Then Dad speaks up again.

"There's one other thing we wanted to discuss." He exchanges a look with Mom before continuing. "We think it might be a good idea for you to wear a disguise of some sort when you testify. A wig, maybe, or a mask like the one you wear when you're out on patrol. You know, I think a lot of people know that Chernobyl has radiation powers, and, like, a non-zero amount of people know that there was a girl in the hospital with severe radiation poisoning at around that time. I think we have to be prepared for people to put two and two together, and a wig makes you look like you have all your hair back. So the girl who lost all her hair wasn't you. That makes sense, right?"

Mom nods at him. "That makes sense."

I blink in surprise. "You want me to hide my identity? But won't that just make me look suspicious?"

"Not at all," Dad counters. "In fact, it's pretty standard procedure for witnesses in high-profile cases like this. It's for your own protection, Sam. We don't want anyone who might be watching the proceedings to be able to identify you. Bad guys, good guys, paparazzi, you know, your identity should be on a need-to-know basis. You're just 15, after all."

"Okay, yeah, I can do that," I agree. "A wig and a mask shouldn't be too hard to pull off."

Mom nods, looking relieved. "Good, I'm glad you understand. We're not trying to be overbearing, we just want to make sure you stay safe."

"I know, Mom. I appreciate it, really." I offer her a small smile, then turn to Dad. "So, any other pearls of wisdom for me? What else should I expect from this prosecutor lady?"

Dad strokes his beard thoughtfully. "Well, for starters, be prepared for her to be...let's say, less than pleasant. Prosecutors can be a bit brusque and impatient at times. Don't take it personally if she seems rude or dismissive."

"They're not exactly known for their bedside manner," Mom chimes in with a wry grin. "Although I suppose I'm not really one to talk. I've been known to be a bit combative when dealing with subpoenas myself."

That piques my interest. "Oh yeah? Do tell, oh wise mother of mine. What's the most hardcore thing you've done to avoid getting served?"

Mom opens her mouth, then seems to think better of it. She waves a hand dismissively. "Never mind, it's not important. Just know that I have a healthy disdain for the legal system and all its trappings."

Dad arches an eyebrow at her. "You can't just drop a tease like that and leave us hanging, Rach. Spill it."

"Yeah, c'mon Mom, I wanna hear!" I egg her on, leaning forward eagerly.

She shoots us both a look, then sighs in resignation. "Fine, fine. But just this once, and then we're getting back on topic, understand?"

We both nod vigorously, and Mom takes a sip of her wine, clearly savoring the moment. "Alright, well it was back when I was a fresh-faced librarian just starting out at the University City branch. This was... oh, probably 2001 or so?"

She pauses, lost in thought for a moment. Dad and I exchange a glance, silently urging her to continue.

"Right, so anyway, there was this little bookseller that used to set up shop right outside the library every weekend. Lovely older gentleman from Korea, sold all sorts of used and rare books. Well, one weekend he didn't show up, which was strange because he was more reliable than the mail carriers."

Mom's eyes take on a distant look, like she's replaying the memory in her mind. "After about a month went by with no sign of him, I started getting worried. So I did a bit of digging, asked around the neighborhood if anyone had seen him. That's when I found out he'd been picked up by INS for being an undocumented immigrant." She shakes her head in disgust. "Can you believe that? This sweet old man, living in our community for decades, and they just snatched him up like a common criminal."

Dad and I stay silent, letting her vent. This is clearly a sore subject for her.

"Anyway, I decided I couldn't just sit back and do nothing. So I started making some calls, pulling what few strings I had access to back then. And finally, I managed to get in touch with the INS agent handling his case." A wry smile crosses Mom's face. "Let's just say I gave that racist prick a piece of my mind. Laid it all out for him - how this man was a beloved part of our community, how he'd built a life here after fleeing oppression in his home country. I didn't mince words, either. Called him every nasty name in the book."

She pauses, taking another sip of wine. "Well, apparently my little tirade struck a nerve, because not two days later I had a process server showing up at my door with a subpoena. The agent was trying to intimidate me into keeping my mouth shut."

I lean forward, hanging on her every word. "What'd you do, Mom?"

A mischievous glint enters her eye. "What any self-respecting troublemaker would do, bubbeleh. I looked that process server dead in the eye... and then I punched him square in the nose before he could even get a word out."

Dad lets out a bark of shocked laughter, nearly spitting out his drink. I just gape at her, trying to reconcile this new punk rock version of my mother with the reality I know.

"You're kidding! You actually assaulted the guy?"

Mom shrugs unapologetically. "He was trespassing on my property." She cuts herself off, waving a dismissive hand. "But that's hardly the point. I handled the situation poorly, I'll admit. Although it did get that migrant-hunting son of a bitch reassigned, so I consider it a win."

There's a beat of silence as Dad and I try to process this new information. Finally, he leans across the table, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Rachel Esther Small, I thought I knew every side of you. But you're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Mom meets his gaze with a sly smile. "Oh, Benjamin, you have no idea. Now, where were we? Ah yes, preparing our daughter to testify against an unhinged communist super-terrorist..."

"I don't know if he's communist," I hear my dad mumbling, but I have something more pressing in mind, so I talk over him.

"No, hold on. How did you not get arrested?" I ask, putting my chin in my hands. "I need your tips."

"White woman magic, Sam. It's a skill you'll pick up as you grow older," she replies with a laugh.

I scrunch my face up. "I don't believe this story,"

"That's okay, you don't have to. All I know is that the issue was quietly dropped and they didn't bother me again, so I guess the powers that be considered the matter settled," she says, not looking me in the eye.

"I think you're telling a fib. Or maybe embellishing," I say, reaching for my grape juice.

"Embellishing! Big word, kiddo? What's it mean?" She challenges.

"Don't change the subject! But it means when you exaggerate or alter a story to make it seem more interesting!" I half-shout. She gives me a stern, no-raised-voices-indoors glare, and I feel myself shrinking down. "Sorry."

She smiles. "It's okay, darling. Maybe it is a little embellished. I may have just flashed the guy instead."

"Rachel!" My dad shouts, swatting her lightly, jokingly across the shoulder. She winks at me and I feel the uncomfortable heat rising in my gut like snakes trying to escape my mouth. "Do not teach our daughter-" he coughs between laughs and more coughs "to flash people as a way of getting out of problems!"

"I think I'd rather stick with punching," I mumble, jabbing my fork into more kugel.