The aftermath of Agent Shaw's explosive testimony hits the city of Philadelphia like a tsunami. The world outside the courtroom has gone completely mad.

As I descend the steps of the courthouse, flanked on all sides by a phalanx of stone-faced officers and my fellow superheroes - there to watch testimony, and for some of them, testify - the first thing that hits me is the noise. It's like a physical force, a wall of sound that slams into me with almost palpable impact, nearly driving me back a step. Raised voices, angry chants, the dull roar of a thousand throats crying out in unison - it all blends together into a cacophonous din that drowns out all other thought, all other sensation.

I've seen protests before, my parents talk about them frequently. But this... this is something else entirely. The crowd seems to stretch out forever in all directions, a seething mass of humanity that churns and roils like storm-tossed waters. Signs bob and weave above the throng, a patchwork quilt of hastily-thrown together slogans and invective - "JUSTICE FOR LIBERTY BELLE", "CHERNOBYL MUST PAY", "WHAT IS THE NSRA HIDING?"

It's a scene straight out of some apocalyptic fever dream, a waking nightmare made manifest. A woman I don't recognize - dark skin, nondescript black peacoat, and newsboy cap - stands atop a quick pile of milk crates and dreams, shouting to the crowd. But there's no mistaking the fire in her eyes, the righteous fury radiating from every line of her body as she raises her fists to the sky.

"They lied to us!" she bellows, her voice clear and strong above the fever pitch of the mob. "They violated their oaths, their sworn duty as agents of order and justice! They made a deal with the devil in exchange for power and control, and now we're all left to pay the price!"

The crowd roars its approval, a wordless shout of rage and pain and fear that echoes off the marble and glass and limestone like the voice of G-d Himself. They're afraid. They're not just angry, they're afraid. A teeming mass of humanity stretching all the way from here down to City Hall, spilling out of the streets, the alleyways, the apartments.

I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as I try to process the sheer, overwhelming insanity of it all. This is what it's come to, then. The pillars of society, the very institutions we've been taught to trust and believe in, all crumbling to dust before our eyes. And in their place... what? Anarchy? Chaos? Or something worse still, something I can't even begin to wrap my head around?

For one brief, dizzying moment, I'm seized by the sudden, irrational urge to wade out into that churning sea of humanity. To raise my own voice in outrage and defiance, to join the clarion call for justice and accountability. And all to the tune of sirens. Ones coming closer. It almost sounds like screaming. Maybe it is. Every few moments I can hear a fresh round of explosive discharges. Pop, pop, pop - like popcorn cooking in the microwave.

It's the wail of not-so-distant sirens, oddly discordant as they cut through the frigid winter day, that snaps me back to reality. All of a sudden everything snaps into focus with an almost nauseating clarity, the fog of uncertainty and confusion burned away like morning mist before the rising sun.

The crisis response units are nowhere to be found - there's just too many protesters to cover - are they saving all their control for the end of the trial? That's not good for a thousand different reasons. The roar of the crowd only seems to be building in intensity, their chants taking on a frenzied, almost manic quality. All this violence - it's not civil disobedience. That's what I keep hearing from the growing guard of riot police around me. Violence. Violence. Violence.

Before I can move more than a single step, though, a strong hand closes around my arm, yanking me roughly to the side even as another body moves to block my path. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up, to process the familiar faces staring back at me with grim, unyielding determination.

The Delaware Valley Defenders. My team.

No, not my team. The adult team.

Multiplex is the first to speak, his voice low and urgent as he leans in close, dark eyes flashing with barely-contained intensity. "We need to get this situation under control," he growls, his grip on my arm tightening almost imperceptibly. "The Young Defenders, too. We're being called in by the NSRA to help maintain order, keep things from spiraling out of hand."

I feel my stomach lurch at his words, a wave of nausea rising up in the back of my throat. The NSRA. The same organization that had just been exposed as corrupt, as complicit in Chernobyl's crimes. And now they wanted us to help "maintain order". It was almost laughable. Almost.

Before I can open my mouth to respond, though, another voice cuts through the din - sharp, insistent, laced with an undercurrent of barely-controlled fury.

"Maintain order?" Playback spits, shouldering his way forward to stand at my side. "Are you fucking kidding me? These people have every right to be angry, every right to demand answers. And you want us to what, put them down like rabid dogs?"

Multiplex's jaw clenches, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he visibly struggles to keep his composure. "It's not about 'putting them down'," he grits out, each word sharp and clipped. "It's about preventing this situation from escalating into full-blown riots. About keeping innocent people from getting caught in the crossfire."

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But Playback isn't backing down, his eyes blazing with righteous indignation as he jabs an accusing finger at the older hero's chest. "Bullshit," he snarls, his voice dripping with contempt. "This is about control, plain and simple. About the powers-that-be trying to silence anyone who dares question their authority."

I can feel the tension crackling in the air like static electricity, the two men squaring off like prizefighters in a ring. The Young Defenders around me shift nervously, conflicting emotions playing out across their faces - fear, uncertainty, anger.

And then, almost without conscious thought, I find myself stepping forward, placing a restraining hand on Playback's arm even as I turn to face Multiplex head-on.

"He's right," I say softly, my voice barely audible above the roar of the crowd. "This isn't... it's not right. Using force to shut down legitimate protests, to smother the voices of the people... that's not what we stand for. It's not what heroes stand for."

Multiplex's head snaps around, his eyes boring into me with laser-like intensity. For a moment, he simply stares, his expression unreadable, inscrutable. And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders slump, a bone-deep weariness seeping into his features like water into cracked pavement.

"I understand your reservations," he says at last, each word heavy and deliberate. "Believe me, I do. But this... this is bigger than any one person's principles. If we don't act now, if we don't restore some semblance of order... there's no telling how bad things could get."

It's like trying to catch water in my cupped hands - every time I think I've grabbed a hold of something, it slips right through my grasp. My eyes dart across the crowd - flickering lights dance through the sky like sparrows, a beautiful dusk of screams and bellowed invective rise in pitch and tenor like so much breaking glass. A riot officer stumbles backwards at the force of a thrown plastic bottle, and dozens more riot officers descend upon the thrower like a horde of piranhas.

"Multiplex is right, young ones" Bulwark chimes in, his deep, rumbling baritone cutting through the rising tension like a knife, and then lodging itself further in our backs. "We have a duty to protect the innocent, to keep them from coming to harm no matter the cost. That includes protecting them from themselves."

Behind me, I hear Playback let out a sharp, disbelieving bark of laughter. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he demands, shouldering his way forward to stand at my side. "You're really going to stand there and lecture us about 'duty' and 'protecting the innocent' when the people we're supposed to trust have been in bed with a goddamn walking nuclear meltdown?"

I can see Bulwark bristle at that, his massive frame seeming to swell with outrage. But before he can open his mouth to retort, Multiplex is already stepping forward, one hand raised in a placating gesture.

"Enough," he snaps, his voice cracking like a whip. "This isn't up for debate. The NSRA has given us our orders, and we will follow them. End of discussion."

Something inside me rebels at that, a white-hot surge of defiance and righteous anger that threatens to consume me entirely. I've never been one for blind obedience, never been able to simply switch off my brain and follow commands like a good little soldier. But this... this feels like a bridge too far, a line I can't cross no matter the consequences.

"No," I say quietly, the word hanging in the air like a death sentence. "No, I won't do it. I won't be a part of this."

Multiplex rounds on me, his eyes flashing with something dark and dangerous. "Think very carefully about what you're saying, Bloodhound," he warns, each word dripping with menace. "This is bigger than you, bigger than any of us. There's too much at stake to let personal feelings get in the way."

Fury Forge looks at me for a second, almost disappointed. She sighs, not breaking eye contact. "Getting really tired of this edgy teen horseshit," she grumbles. "Is your ideology worth more than actually protecting people? Is this the hill you want to literally die on?"

Gossamer steps forward, her expression torn. "Sam, I get where you're coming from, but... we have a responsibility to keep people safe. Even if it means making tough choices."

Rampart nods in agreement, his massive frame tense with anticipation. "We can't just stand by and let this city tear itself apart. We have to act, one way or another."

But Playback isn't having it. "Personal feelings?" He scoffs. "You mean like basic human decency? The right to free speech and peaceful assembly? Or are those just pretty words you throw around when the cameras are rolling?"

Spindle stares, his eyes flicking back and forth between his friends and his heroes. "Auh," is the only thing that comes out of his mouth.

Crossroads, silent until now, speaks up. "Spindle's right. Or he will be in ten minutes. Fighting amongst ourselves isn't going to solve anything. We need to find a middle ground, a way to keep the peace without trampling on people's rights."

But Multiplex is unmoved. "This isn't a debate club," he snaps, his patience clearly wearing thin. "We have our orders, and we will follow them. Anyone who can't get on board with that needs to step aside, now."

This whole situation feels like a nightmare, an endless spiral of escalating tension and fraying tempers. The roar of the crowd is like a physical thing now, a pounding drumbeat that seems to rattle my very bones. And standing here, caught between the immovable object of the DVDs and the unstoppable force of my own conscience... I feel like I'm being torn in two, ripped apart at the seams by conflicting loyalties and impossible choices. The sun is high in the sky, bearing down on us. I'm sweating like a whore in a church.

I meet Playback's gaze for the briefest of moments, a silent acknowledgement passing between us that feels almost like a pact, a vow written in blood and heartache. There's no turning back now, no way to un-ring this particular bell. And for better or worse, our path is set.

The team fragments like glass. Rampart and Gossamer step away towards Multiplex, their faces a mixture of heartbreak and righteous determination. Crossroads merely glances between the two groups, taking half a step towards Multiplex before shaking his head and simply walking away, climbing the courthouse steps and disappearing behind the huge oak doors. I don't see Blink or Puppeteer - they must have been with the crisis response teams that are studiously absent. Spindle lets out another undignified noise and sprints after Crossroads.

"So that's it, then," Playback says softly, his voice barely audible above the rising tide of chaos. "You're really going to side with the jackboots, keep the proles in line like a good little fascists."

Bulwark looks like he's about to physically explode, his face twisted into a mask of apoplectic rage. But before he can do more than draw in a deep, shuddering breath, the world around us erupts in a cacophony of shattering glass and terrified screams.

The world explodes.