The rental space is an exercise in plausible deniability. One of those sterile coworking spots you can book online with a credit card and a made-up name. No cameras, no curious staff hanging around. Just a key code, some mismatched office furniture, and the kind of fluorescent lighting that makes me wonder if the architect hated human beings.

I get there early, as always. Not because I have to--hell, I could walk in last like I own the place and they'd wait--but because it gives me time to set the stage. Bottled water lines up like little soldiers on a folding table, a smattering of snacks in a plastic tray to make it feel less like an interrogation room. A whiteboard at the front with "OUR MISSION" scrawled across it in my best attempt at neutral handwriting. Clean, simple, professional enough to put them at ease, but not so polished that they'll think I'm trying too hard.

The chairs are mismatched. I like that. A little imperfection helps people open up, even if they don't realize it.

I'm straightening the last chair when the door buzzes. Right on time. I adjust my blazer, put on my best "trust me, I'm the reasonable one here" face, and open the door.

Patriot is first, as I expect. He looks exactly like he always does--like a white dude who just walked out of a military recruitment ad. Bald head shinier than polished china, jaw clenched like he's physically restraining himself from saluting me. Off-brand Captain America costume clinging to his tits like crazy.

"Maya," he says, nodding stiffly as he steps inside.

"Councilwoman Richardson works fine," I reply, keeping my tone breezy as I shut the door behind him. "You're early."

"Early is on time," he says, scanning the room like he's assessing it for hidden threats. His lip curls slightly when his gaze lands on the whiteboard. "This doesn't exactly scream professional."

"It's private," I counter, "and neutral. Nobody's watching, nobody's listening. I figured you'd appreciate that."

He doesn't answer, but his expression says, We'll see. He picks one of the sturdier chairs and sits down, positioning himself so he can see the door and the rest of the room at the same time. Predictable.

The next one comes ten minutes late. The faint smell of rot hits me before the door even opens.

Miasma shuffles in, head down, his hazmat suit hissing faintly with each step. The patches on his suit are worn, some fraying at the edges, and the mask is the old kind--the kind that makes him look more like a walking corpse than he already does.

"Miasma," I greet, giving him a nod. "Glad you could make it."

"Didn't have much choice, did I?" he replies, his voice muffled by the mask. He doesn't bother shaking my hand or even looking at me as he makes his way to a chair as far from Patriot as possible. He sits down heavily, the faint hiss of his suit filling the awkward silence.

Patriot doesn't hide his reaction. He wrinkles his nose, leaning back slightly like the smell might reach him if he gets too close. "Charming."

"I'm not here to charm you," Miasma says flatly. "I'm here because I have no better options. Same as you."

"Let's hold off on assumptions," I say smoothly, stepping between them before Patriot can fire back. "We're not here to bicker. We're here to get results."

The door buzzes again, cutting off whatever Patriot is about to say. I open it to find Turbo Jett leaning against the frame, her hair a wild mess of neon streaks, her leather jacket hanging loose over a bright blue bodysuit. She grins as soon as she sees me, popping her gum obnoxiously.

"Nice digs," she says, sauntering past me and immediately making a beeline for the snack table. "Very 'startup that's about to go under.' You should've sprung for the beanbags."

"Beanbags didn't fit the budget," I reply, letting the door close. "Help yourself."

"Oh, don't mind if I do," she says, already tearing into a bag of pretzels. She spins on her heel, scanning the room as she chews. "Okay, so which one of you is the narc?"

Patriot stiffens, his jaw clenching visibly. Miasma doesn't even react, which I can tell throws her off a little.

"Turbo," I say, giving her a pointed look. "Play nice."

"What?" she says innocently, popping another pretzel in her mouth. "I'm just saying, we've got Hazmat Harry over there, and then Captain America's racist cousin--"

"That's enough," I say, sharp enough to cut her off without raising my voice. Her grin fades, and she backs off, flopping into the nearest chair with an exaggerated sigh.

"Fine, fine. I'll behave. For now."

The last one shows up late. Fifteen minutes late, to be exact. The door buzzes again, and I open it to find Captain Jersey Devil--Captain Devil for short--standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Maya," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "This better not be a waste of my time."

"Come in and find out," I reply, stepping aside to let him in. He moves slowly, his eyes darting around the room like he expects an ambush. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with a dark red scarf wrapped around his neck and a duster that gives him a vaguely Hellboy-esque silhouette. Fitting.

He doesn't bother greeting anyone else as he takes a seat, slouching in a way that makes him look simultaneously bored and dangerous. Turbo Jett gives him a once-over, her eyebrows raising slightly, but she doesn't say anything. Patriot and Miasma just watch him, each in their own way--one stiff and judgmental, the other detached and calculating.

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With everyone seated, I step to the front of the room, positioning myself near the whiteboard. Four pairs of eyes turn to me, each carrying its own flavor of suspicion, skepticism, and barely restrained ego. This is going to be fun.

"All right," I begin, clapping my hands together lightly. "Let's get started. First off, I'm glad you all came. I know you don't exactly trust me--or each other, for that matter--but we're here because we have a common goal."

"Do we?" Patriot asks, folding his arms. "Because right now, it looks like we're here because you think you can manipulate us."

I smile, not bothering to deny it. "Call it what you want. The fact is, the streets are crawling with Jump, and none of us are happy about it. I have the means to fix that. You have the skills."

Turbo Jett snorts. "Oh, great. A team-up. What's next, matching uniforms?"

"If you'd prefer solo work, by all means, go ahead and try, with the new vigilantism bill in place," I say coolly. "But you'll accomplish more together. And like it or not, you're all in the same boat. Missteps. Tarnished reputations. Legal troubles that haven't quite caught up with you yet."

That shuts her up.

Miasma leans forward slightly, his mask reflecting the fluorescent light. "And what's in it for you?"

"Stability," I say simply. "I have my reasons, but let's keep it simple for now. You get clean slates, financial backing, and the chance to do some actual good. In return, I get results. Everybody wins."

Captain Devil finally speaks, his voice a low rumble. "And if we don't?"

I smile again, just enough to show teeth. "Then you walk out that door, and I find someone else. No hard feelings."

The room goes quiet, the weight of my words settling over them like a low-pressure system. I give them a moment to think it over, watching as their expressions shift--doubt, curiosity, calculation, resignation.

"Let's get one thing straight," I say, my voice steady. "You don't have to like me. You don't have to trust me. But you want to fix this city? You want to clear your names? Then this is how we do it. Together."

I let the silence settle for a moment after my opening. You have to let them sit with it, let the gears turn. People don't commit when they're rushed--they commit when they convince themselves it's their idea.

Patriot is the first to break the quiet, leaning forward in his chair like he's ready to grill me. "You've got my attention," he says, his tone clipped. "But you haven't convinced me yet. What's the play?"

I smile, because of course he'd frame it like a mission briefing. He needs structure. Needs to feel like he's in control, even when he isn't.

"The play," I say, "is a Registered Superhuman Entity team. You'll operate under my civilian oversight, fully legitimized and above board. No more dodging cops. No more worrying about the new vigilantism bill tying your hands. You'll have resources, legal protection, and public support. But most importantly, you'll have the chance to make a real difference."

Patriot crosses his arms, skeptical as ever. "And you're the one overseeing this? A politician?"

"Yes," I say simply, letting the word land. "Because I'm the only one who can make this happen. I know how the system works--how to bend it without breaking it. You've been out there long enough to see how broken it is. Tell me, Patriot, how many times have you stopped a crime only to see the criminals back on the streets the next week? How many times have you felt like you were fighting a losing battle because the system doesn't back you up?"

His jaw tightens. I can tell I'm hitting a nerve.

"This is your chance to fix that," I continue. "America needs heroes who aren't afraid to stand for its values. And you can lead the charge. Show them why your methods work. Lead by example."

He doesn't say anything, but the way he straightens in his chair tells me I've struck the right chord. Patriot wants to believe he's the good guy, the one who can set things right. I can work with that.

I shift my gaze to Miasma. He hasn't moved much since he sat down, his hazmat suit hissing softly. He's harder to read, but I've done my homework. Pragmatists like him don't need flattery--they need results.

"This is the best chance you'll have to clean up Jump," I say, keeping my tone matter-of-fact. "You know it, I know it. We can't trust anyone else to handle this as effectively as we can."

He tilts his head slightly, the only indication he's listening.

"You've seen what it's doing out there," I press. "Not just to the people taking it, but to the neighborhoods, the communities. It's tearing this city apart. The cops can't stop it. The Defenders won't touch it. And you're smart enough to know why."

"They don't want to dirty their hands," Miasma says quietly.

"Exactly," I say, nodding. "But we can. We will. This team isn't about being friends or holding hands--it's about getting the job done. A necessary evil. And I think you can tolerate that, can't you?"

He doesn't answer, but I can see the wheels turning behind that mask. He isn't sold, not yet, but he isn't walking out either. Progress.

Turbo Jett is the easiest read in the room. She's been fidgeting the whole time, tapping her fingers on the armrest, bouncing her leg, glancing at the door like she's debating leaving just to see what I'd do. I turn my attention to her next, softening my tone.

"Jasmine," I say, and she blinks, startled that I've used her name. "You're a street-level hero. You've always done what's right, even when the system screwed you over."

She snorts, crossing her arms. "Yeah, and look where that got me."

"Exactly," I say, leaning forward slightly. "The system failed you. But this? This is your chance to prove to them--and to yourself--that you're better than that. That you're more than the mistakes they pinned on you."

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn't interrupt. Encouraging.

"You're capable of so much more than they gave you credit for," I say. "Let me help you show them."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a flicker of something in her expression--pride, maybe, or the ghost of it. She wants to believe me. She just doesn't want to admit it yet.

Finally, I turn to Captain Devil. He's been quiet, watching the whole exchange with the detached interest of someone who isn't sure if he cares. But I know better. Andy doesn't say much, but he feels everything. He wouldn't be here if he didn't care.

"Andy," I say, keeping my voice low and even. "You're a hero, no matter what anyone says. You've made mistakes, sure, but who hasn't? You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to set things right."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away.

"This team gives you the chance to remind people of who you are," I continue. "The real you. The one who doesn't give up when things get hard. The one who still believes in doing the right thing, even when it's messy. You have a choice. You can keep hiding, or you can step back into the light."

For a moment, I think he might say something, but he just nods, barely perceptible. That's enough for now.

I let the room settle again, watching their faces. Each one of them is running the math in their heads, weighing the risks against the rewards. That's how you win people over--you give them the pieces, let them put the puzzle together themselves.

"You don't have to answer now," I say finally. "But think about this: the streets are changing. The world is changing. If we don't adapt, we'll get left behind. This team isn't just about clearing your names or cleaning up Jump--it's about shaping the future. Together."

I stand, smoothing out my blazer. "Take your time. I'll be here when you're ready to talk details."

And then I step back, letting them stew in the silence. The ball's in their court now, and I know better than to rush a sale.