The silence that follows Multiplex's pronouncement hangs heavy in the air, thick with anticipation and unspoken questions. For a long moment, nobody seems willing to be the first to break the stillness.

Then, as if a switch has been flipped, the room erupts into a cacophony of teenage banter and casual chatter.

"So, anybody catch the new Celldweller flick over the weekend?" Playback pipes up, idly tapping out a rhythm against the arm of his chair. "I heard it was a total mindfuck."

Gossamer lets out an excited little squeal, bouncing in her seat. "Oh my gosh, yes! The visuals were absolutely insane - I've never seen anything like Ren Shouko's nanopunk aesthetic brought to life like that before!"

Rampart snorts, favoring the shorter girl with a sidelong look. "What, you mean all those seizure-inducing lightshows and music video cutaways?" He shakes his head, lips quirking in a half-smirk. "Nah, way too much style over substance for my tastes."

"You're just saying that because you couldn't follow the overarching inugami-punk allegory they were going for," Gossamer shoots back with a lofty sniff.

"Ooh, big SAT words, you've been studying!" Playback jeers with a theatric gasp.

Gossamer bristles, whipping around to face the smirking boy with an indignant glare. "What did you just say?"

"Easy there, killer," Puppeteer cuts in with a weary sigh, raising one hand in a placating gesture. "Let's try and stay on task here, people?"

"What task?" Playback counters with a snort of derision. "All the old heads finished yakking, didn't they? We're just waitin' on them to give the next spiel."

Rampart leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his barrel chest. "You could try showing a little respect, you know," he rumbles, shooting Playback a hard look.

"For what?" He fires back with a dismissive shrug. "They ain't even started us in on the real deets yet. So what's the point in sittin' around with our thumbs up our-"

"Does anybody have any fun plans for their summer?" Blink interjects hastily, flashing the room a brilliant, disarming smile as she cuts across Playback's budding rant. "I'm thinking of maybe trying to pick up some landscaping gigs, earn a little cash before senior year starts up again."

Crossroads hums thoughtfully at that, head tilting to one side. "Not a bad idea, actually," he murmurs, favoring the younger girl with an appraising look. "Get a little part-time income flowing, maybe invest in some consumer-grade bodyarmor for when things inevitably get messy again..."

"I mean, I can get you that. And aren't you going into, like, your second year of college?" Gossamer challenges.

From there, the conversation seems to splinter off into a dozen different directions at once, a whirlwind of meandering topics and half-remembered anecdotes spoken over one another in a disjointed symphony of musing and witty banter. Gossamer latches onto Blink's thread, nattering on about some new textile line she's been playing around with that could make for the "most fashionable ballistic vests ever!"

Meanwhile, Rampart and Playback continue to snipe back and forth, their verbal jousting carrying the familiar cadence of a long-running faux rivalry fueled by equal parts mutual respect and perpetual exasperation. Every once in a while, one of them will toss out an anecdote relating to one misadventure or another, earning a chorus of snickers and rolled eyes from those not directly involved in the scuffle.

I hang back from the chaos, content to simply watch and listen as the easy camaraderie flows around me in cresting waves. It's been far too long since the last time I got to simply be around these people, absorbed in the simple routines and casual ribbing that once defined the bulk of my existence. A distant, forgotten part of me aches with a bone-deep weariness at the way the focus seems to continually shift from one dizzying tangent to the next. I look for Gale, and watch her conversation from afar without interacting. Then I do it from my periphery instead, because I don't want to stare at her.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Boy, it hurts.

But just as swiftly, that feeling is swept aside by a surge of unbridled affection, my lips curling in a faint, lopsided grin as I drink in the surrounding tumult. These people, this team, are more than just comrades or colleagues - they're friends, a second family bound together by shared struggle and unwavering trust.

"Hey, Earth to Bee? You still with us over there, kiddo?"

Rampart's voice jolts me from my reverie, eyes snapping back into focus as I blink owlishly. "Huh? Oh, uh... sorry, I was just spacing out for a second there," I stammer, offering the big man a sheepish half-grin. "You were saying?"

He returns the grin with a wry chuckle, shaking his head in that familiar Oh you kind of way. "Yeah, I could see those gears turning from across the room," he rumbles with a fond roll of his eyes. "Figured we'd lost you for a hot minute again."

"You know me," I quip, allowing my features to settle into a more natural smirk. "Always overthinking everything."

"That's our Bee!" Playback cuts in with a theatrical flourish, leaning across the distance to rap his knuckles against the side of my chair.

The words are delivered with his typical devil-may-care swagger, all bravado and careless irreverence. But beneath the familiar facade, I catch the briefest flicker of genuine warmth flickering across his features, there and gone again before anyone else seems to notice.

The good-natured ribbing continues to flow, an easy current of banter and camaraderie that seems to lift the weight of responsibility from all our shoulders, at least for a few precious moments. Blink holds court in one corner, regaling Spindle and Gossamer with animated tales of her latest binge-watching exploits, while Puppeteer exchanges terse words with an attentive Crossroads nearby.

For a little while, at least, it almost feels like we're just regular teenagers again. Like we're just a bunch of overgrown kids killing time before the next class, swapping wild stories and inside jokes instead of war stories and battlefield triage tips.

But deep down, none of us are really fooled. We can laugh and joke and shoot the shit all we want, but the specter of duty, of responsibility , hangs over us all like shroud too heavy to simply shrug off.

Then, of course, everything happens quite fast, as it tends to do.

The illusion shatters completely when Jamal clears his throat, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot. All around me, I can feel the mood shifting, the weight of the world settling back down upon our collective shoulders. My teammates straighten almost in unison, a silent ripple passing through them as they refocus, faces settling into masks of grim determination and purpose once more.

Simultaneously, every hero in the room seems to tense almost imperceptibly, the easy cadence of our conversation sputtering to an abrupt halt. Chairs creak as bodies subtly shift, casual postures transitioning into something a bit more alert and coiled.

For a heartbeat, the silence stretches unbearable taut. Then, with heavy inevitability, the door at the far end of the chamber hisses open, and Councilman Davis strides through with a grim finality writ across his weathered features.

"Alright, people," he announces, voice ringing out like a gunshot amidst the stillness. "Now, I realize you've all had quite the ordeal over the past twenty-four hours," the older man begins, his voice carrying easily across the suddenly silent chamber. "And I want you all to know that your efforts, your sacrifices , have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated." His gaze sweeps across our assembled ranks, dark eyes shining with a somber glint of profound respect.

"But unfortunately, the trials and tribulations we face as guardians of this city are never truly over - merely set aside for brief respites before the next challenge rears its head." Jamal pauses for a moment, seeming to weigh the import of his next words carefully. Then, with a grim exhalation, he continues, tone hardening into the familiar cadences of command.

"Which brings us to the true purpose of why I've called this particular meeting, and the reason why the rest of the civilian and contractor roster has been dismissed. As you are all no doubt aware, the recent losses of both Professor Franklin and Liberty Belle have left the Delaware Valley Defenders stretched alarmingly thin when it comes to providing coverage over the entirety of the Greater Philadelphia Metro area..."

Beside me, I can feel the atmosphere shifting once more, a palpable weight of anticipation settling over the room like a lead shroud. My teammates trade fleeting, sidelong glances, the tension ratcheting up with every second of Jamal's deliberate pause. They seem to know something I don't. Crossroads, Rampart, and Puppeteer all look at each other. Silence reigns.

"And, as I'm sure you've all surmised by now - some of you are rapidly approaching an age where graduation to the senior team is not merely recommended, but expected, if you are to continue with your careers in government-sanctioned superheroics."

The words hang in the air, weighty and charged with implication. Beside me, Rampart shifts, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Blink stiffen, spine straightening into a taut line of barely suppressed anxiety.

For a long heartbeat, no one speaks - an eternity of unspoken questions and half-formed apprehensions swirling through the air like a gathering storm.

Then, like a crack of lightning splitting the night, Playback's voice shatters the stillness with its customary lack of restraint.

"Well, shit... looks like Prom is gonna have to wait until next year, I guess!"