The alarm vibrates on the metal nightstand, and for a moment, I mistake it for the hum of my powers warming up. I blink, rubbing the grit from my eyes as the motel room around me comes into focus. Thin curtains let in just enough light from the streetlamps outside to make me aware of how awful 2:30 AM feels.

I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The familiar tingle of electromagnetic energy dances along my skin, faint but constant. It's a comfort, even at this hour. I stretch my arms over my head, rolling my shoulders until I hear the satisfying pop that says I'll make it through another long shift.

The phone buzzes with a text from Cryptid: On-site already. Journalists swarming. You're up, Sunshine.

"Sunshine," I mutter with a tired grin. If I had a dollar for every nickname Cryptid's thrown my way, I'd own the motel I'm currently regretting.

A quick splash of water on my face in the cramped bathroom is enough to shake off the worst of the grogginess. My uniform is laid out on the chair by the window, freshly cleaned and pressed. It's a small thing, but keeping it pristine feels like a promise--to myself and to everyone else who looks to Captain Plasma for... something. Hope, I guess.

By 2:45, I'm out the door and in the rental car, driving toward the Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center. The roads are quiet, just the occasional truck rumbling past, its lights reflecting off the rain-slick asphalt. The city looks different at this hour--emptier, lonelier. It's a reminder of why I do this, even when the odds feel impossible. Someone has to hold the line.

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The PICC looms ahead, its gray concrete walls and tall fences lit up like a stage. Floodlights sweep over the perimeter, cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. A handful of news vans are parked just outside the main gate, their antennas pointed skyward like a flock of mechanical birds.

As soon as I step out of the car, the cameras swivel toward me. I feel the eyes on me even before the first reporter calls out.

"Captain Plasma! Over here!"

"Rodney!" another voice shouts, less formal. It's someone I recognize--Janine from the Philadelphia Inquirer. She's a good reporter, but she doesn't let up.

I hold up a hand, smiling as politely as I can manage. "Morning, folks. Early one, huh?"

They close in like moths to a flame, notebooks and microphones at the ready. I keep moving, heading for the gate with purpose. "Sorry, no interviews right now. You know how it is."

"Come on, Cap," Janine presses, falling into step beside me. "This isn't just a regular transfer, is it? Why the extra security? The blackout?"

"Classified," I say, keeping my tone light but firm. "You know the drill, Janine. I'm not at liberty to discuss operational details."

"And the Kingdom of Keys?" she pushes. "Are they involved?"

I stop just long enough to meet her gaze. "We're prepared for any eventuality," I say, then glance at the rest of the crowd. "That's all I can say for now. Thanks for understanding."

I'm through the gate before they can ask more, nodding at the guard who waves me in. He's young--too young, really--but his posture is straight and his eyes are sharp. "Welcome, sir," he says, his voice steady despite the chaos outside.

"Thanks," I reply, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're doing good work."

The transport yard is a hive of activity. Vehicles line up in careful formation, their black paint gleaming under the floodlights. The armored prison transport sits at the center, flanked by SUVs and decoys, their engines idling. Teams of officers move with practiced efficiency, checking equipment and finalizing routes. The air buzzes with the tension of something about to happen.

I spot Cryptid near the command center, their lean frame unmistakable even in the crowd. He's leaning against one of the SUVs, arms crossed, watching everything with the kind of intensity that makes people nervous.

"You're late," he says as I approach, though there's no heat in it.

"You're early," I counter, grinning. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Couldn't trust," he replies, his tone flat. "Not with all this noise."

I nod, glancing around. "You think the journalists are just noise?"

Cryptid shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I'm not taking chances."

Before I can respond, a third voice cuts in. "You two done bonding?"

Agent "Basilisk" steps out of the shadows. Her voice is dry, clipped, but not unkind, and her professional outfit makes her stand out among us men-and-women-in-tights here. The lights glint off her dark skin and buzz cut, like it's not welcome to forming her outline. Still never got her name. I get a feeling she'll never tell me. "We're wheels up in ten. You ready?"

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"Born ready," I say, though it's mostly for show. Inside, I feel the familiar knot of nerves tightening in my chest. Transfers like this are high-risk, even without the added pressure of a public leak.

Basilisk doesn't respond, just nods and disappears back into the crowd. Cryptid watches her go, then turns back to me. "So what's the plan, Sunshine?"

"Stick to the script," I say. "Nothing flashy. Just get them from point A to point B without any surprises."

Cryptid snorts. "Yeah, because that always works."

We both know they're right, but I don't say it. Instead, I clap them on the back. "Come on. Let's get to our truck."

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Our private armored truck is parked near the rear of the convoy, unmarked and nondescript. Peregrine is already inside, perched on one of the bench seats like she's waiting for a flight to board. She looks up as we climb in, her sharp eyes scanning us like she's taking inventory.

"Morning," she says, her tone brisk but warm. "Everyone ready?"

"Ready as we'll ever be," I reply, settling into my seat. The hum of the truck's engine vibrates through my body, almost in sync with the electromagnetic pulse I can feel under my skin. It's a strange kind of comfort--a reminder that I'm connected to something bigger than myself.

Cryptid takes the seat opposite me, his expression unreadable as always. Peregrine leans back, crossing her arms. "Basilisk on comms?"

"Always," Cryptid says. "She'll be our shadow."

I glance out the small window, watching the convoy begin to move. The gates open slowly, the vehicles rolling out one by one into the dark, empty streets. The city feels different at this hour--quiet, vulnerable.

"We'll get them there," I say softly, more to myself than anyone else.

Peregrine smiles faintly. "Of course we will. We're superheroes, remember?"

Cryptid doesn't smile, but he nods. "Let's hope the Kingdom of Keys remembers that too."

The truck lurches forward, and we're on our way.

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The hum of the truck's engine is a low, constant vibration under my boots, like a heartbeat. It's soothing in its own way--white noise against the tension crackling in the air. Basilisk sits next to me, one hand resting lightly on my forearm. Her touch is barely there, but it's enough to send a faint pulse of warmth through my skin, like static electricity. Cryptid sits across from us, his arms crossed, the faint scrape of his gloves against his sleeves filling the gaps in the silence.

"This is cozy," Cryptid mutters, his voice low and dry. He leans his head back against the wall, his sharp features cast in shadow by the dim overhead light. "Just three friends crammed into a metal box. Nothing like bonding over a potential ambush."

I smirk. "Could be worse. At least we're on the inside. Remember the Anaheim riot? I spent six hours sitting on top of an APC. In the rain."

Cryptid grunts. "That was your own fault. Who told you to make yourself a lightning rod?"

"Hey," I say, holding up a finger. "It worked, didn't it?"

Basilisk snorts softly, the sound almost lost under the rumble of the truck. "Barely. You were half-fried by the time we got to you."

"I prefer 'well-done,'" I say, grinning.

Cryptid rolls his eyes but doesn't press the point. He shifts slightly, his boots scraping against the metal floor. "How's the field feel?" he asks Basilisk, his tone more serious now.

"Stable," she replies, her voice quiet but steady. "No interference yet. But if anyone's trying to ping us, they're wasting their time."

Her fingers tighten slightly on my arm, and I can feel the faint hum of her power like a second pulse. It's not intrusive--just there, a constant reminder that we're moving through this city as ghosts. Undetectable. Invisible to the ESPers who might be watching.

"Must be nice," Cryptid says, his tone neutral. "Being the one person in the room who always knows when someone's looking at you."

Basilisk tilts her head, her expression unreadable. "It's not as comforting as you think. Knowing doesn't mean you can stop it."

I glance between them, sensing the edge in her words. "Well, for what it's worth," I say, keeping my tone light, "I appreciate the anti-creep shield. Makes it a lot easier to focus."

"Don't get used to it," she says, though there's a hint of warmth in her voice now. "I'm not exactly portable."

"Shame," Cryptid says, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "You'd make a great accessory. Anti-ESP charm bracelet."

"Careful," Basilisk says, arching an eyebrow. "I might decide you're too much trouble to keep around."

Cryptid chuckles, low and rough. It's a rare sound, but it carries more weight than most people's laughter. It's the sound of someone who doesn't waste breath on things that don't matter.

The truck rocks slightly as we hit a bump, and I brace my hand against the wall to steady myself. "Twenty minutes in," I say, checking the time on my watch. "We're exiting Center City."

Peregrine nods from the other end of the truck, already standing. Her metal wings are folded neatly against her back, their polished surfaces catching the dim light. She adjusts the straps securing them, her movements quick and practiced.

"Guess that's my cue," she says, her tone brisk but warm. She glances at me, her sharp eyes sparkling with a mix of excitement and focus. "Keep the seats warm for me, will you?"

"You sure you don't want to stick around?" I ask, grinning. "We're having such a great time in here."

She laughs, the sound bright and easy. "Tempting, but I think I'll take the scenic route."

The truck slows just enough for her to hit the release on the back hatch. The door drops open, letting in a rush of cool night air and the distant glow of the city. Peregrine steps to the edge, her movements fluid and confident, and with a single leap, she's airborne.

Her wings spread wide, catching the air with a faint metallic whisper. They're not functional, just decoration, but the way she moves makes them seem alive. Within seconds, she's a shadow against the city lights, her silhouette shrinking as she climbs higher.

"She's something, huh?" I say, watching her disappear into the night.

Cryptid shrugs. "She's fast, I'll give her that."

"Fast doesn't cover it," I say, leaning back against the wall. "She's been doing this longer than most of us. Seen more, too. And she still manages to smile."

"Doesn't mean she's not tired," Cryptid says, his voice low. "Everyone gets tired eventually."

Basilisk doesn't say anything, but I can feel her eyes on me. It's not a judgmental look--more like she's waiting to see how I'll respond.

I let out a slow breath, the tension in my chest easing slightly. "We all get tired," I say quietly. "But that doesn't mean we stop. Not when people are counting on us."

Cryptid leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what happens when we can't keep going? What happens when we're not enough?"

I meet his gaze, my expression steady. "We don't have to be enough. We just have to be here."

I peek out the back, watching Peregrine's silhouette streak out through the sky, thinking about all the other heroes packed in the decoy convoys. Hopefully, tonight is quiet.