Chum

I tense my hands, grunt like I'm about to take a shit - sorry - and feel claws pop out of my fingertips like ice picks. I cram my hands against the bark of the tree, and make it one hand up, two hands up, before the bark peels off and I fall onto my ass, helmet thumping against the sidewalk. "Ow."

"You alright down there?" Maggie asks, looming over me. "Do you have brain damage?"

"I'm fine. Change of plans," I mumble, embarassed. "I need you to use your repulsion fields, very gently, to kind of... rattle the branch a little. Not enough to knock the cat off, just enough to make it want to come down on its own."

Maggie nods, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Got it. One kitty-coaxing vibration, coming right up."

I feel the air around us begin to hum, a subtle vibration that seems to emanate from Maggie's outstretched hands. The branches begin to tremble slightly, the leaves rustling as if caught in a gentle breeze, and then, with a spike of force, the entire tree rattles.

The cat, already on edge, lets out a startled yowl, its claws digging into the bark. But as the vibration continues, I can sense its tiny body relaxing, its fear giving way to curiosity.

"That's it," I murmur, my hand still outstretched. "Just a little more..."

And then, with a final, cautious meow, the cat begins to descend, picking its way gingerly down the trunk of the tree. As soon as it's within reach, I scoop it up into my arms, feeling its tiny heart hammering against my chest, small holes in my fingertips already filling up. Discarded teeth litter the concrete around my feet like spent bullet casings. Yeouch!

"Well, would you look at that," a creaky voice says from behind us. "Superheroes rescuing cats from trees. Now I've seen everything."

I turn to see an old man standing on the sidewalk, leaning heavily on a cane. He's got a bushy white beard and a twinkle in his eye, and he's looking at us with a mix of amusement and gratitude.

"Thanks for your help, young ladies," he says, shuffling forward to take the cat from my arms. "I've been trying to get this little rascal down all day. Thought I was gonna have to call the fire department."

"It was no trouble," I say, feeling a sudden rush of warmth in my chest. "We're just happy we could help."

The old man nods, tucking the cat under his arm. "Well, I appreciate it. You two take care now, you hear?"

And with that, he's off, shuffling down the sidewalk with the cat purring contentedly against his side.

Maggie turns to me, a grin spreading across her face. "Okay, I take it back. That was pretty cool. I like old men."

I blink at her a couple of times, staring through the small holes in my helmet.

Maggie puts her hands up defensively. "Not like that! Gross! Ew! Shut up!"

I chuckle, shaking my head, pulling the conversation back in like a fish on a f--like getting a dog's attention with treats. "I don't know about that. I mean, it's not the first time I've gotten a cat out of a tree. Rampart and I used to do it all the time when I was just starting out. He always said it was like a rite of passage for young heroes. A symbolic passing of the torch."

"Or maybe..." Maggie says, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "maybe it's not symbolic at all. We're real people, Sam, we don't have symbolism."

I laugh. "Real people experience signs and symbols all the time. Any person's life, if you study it enough, will have, uh, semiotic signifiers. That's what my mom says, at least."

I try very hard to remember what a semiotic is.

Maggie raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Do you expect me to know what the word 'semiotic' means, poindexter?"

I laugh out loud at that, the sound echoing off the quiet streets. "Not my fault I've got both brains and muscles. Better get back to work on your schoolwork when you get home. It's the study of signs and symbols, and how you interpret them. That's what my Mom says, at least."

"The study of whatnow?" Maggie asks, her voice playfully incredulous. "Sam, I swear, you've got the weirdest brain of anyone I know sometimes. One second you're all punching and attitude, the next you're dropping ten dollar words like 'semiotics'."

"I contain multitudes," I cough through a sharp grin.

After a while, we come across a group of older boys, teenagers really, gathered on a street corner. They're arguing about something, their voices rising and falling in sharp, staccato bursts. I tense up, ready to intervene if things get out of hand.

"What do you think?" Maggie murmurs, her eyes fixed on the group. "Should we do something?"

I hesitate, weighing our options. "Let's just keep an eye on them for now. See if we can defuse the situation without resorting to powers."

We approach the group slowly, hands held out in a placating gesture. "Hey there," I call out, keeping my voice calm and even. "Everything okay over here?"

The boys turn to look at us, their faces a mix of surprise and wariness. "Who the hell are you?" one of them asks, his voice tight with barely-contained aggression. "This ain't none of your business."

"Maybe not," I say, nodding agreeably. "But we couldn't help but overhear you guys getting a little heated. Thought maybe we could lend an ear, see if we can help sort things out."

The boy scoffs, rolling his eyes. "What, you some kind of superheroes or something? Look, thanks for the offer, but we don't need a couple of girls meddling in our shit."

I feel a flash of anger at the dismissal, but I force myself to stay calm. "We're not here to meddle. We're here to listen. Sometimes just talking things out with a neutral party can help, you know?"

The boys exchange glances, their postures loosening slightly. "I mean... I guess it couldn't hurt," one of them mutters, running a hand through his hair. "It's just some dumb shit anyway. Not worth fighting over."

"So tell us about it," Maggie says, her voice gentle and coaxing. "What's got you guys so worked up?"

And so they do. They tell us about a girl, and a misunderstanding, and a whole tangled web of teenage drama and hurt feelings. Maggie and I listen, offering advice and perspective where we can, but mostly just letting them talk it out. By the time they are done talking, nobody really wants to fight anymore. I don't think we really helped in a material way. I just think being forced to talk about it to two random superheroes - random kids in costumes, lets be real - made the fighting not fun anymore. No dopamine hit.

In the end, there's no grand resolution. No big emotional breakthroughs or tearful reconciliations. But the tension has eased, the anger drained away like water through a sieve. The boys shake our hands, mumbling awkward thanks before shuffling off into the night.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," Maggie says as we watch them go. "I was kinda hoping for some big hero moment, you know? Like in the movies."

I laugh, bumping her shoulder with my own. "Welcome to the glamorous world of street-level heroics, kid. Ninety percent of the time, it's just talking to people. Listening to their problems and trying to help however you can."

Maggie sighs, but there's a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "And ten percent of the time?"

"Oh, don't worry," I say, grinning behind my mask. "That's when you get your ass kicked."

We make our way back towards my neighborhood, the streets growing more and more familiar with each passing block. We duck back into an alleyway, deposit our costumes in garbage bags hidden under other garbage bags, and turn ourselves back into normal humans again. As we approach my house, I see a figure standing on the front stoop, talking to another silhouetted figure through the screen door.

My heart skips a beat as I realize it's Maggie's mom, chatting away with my own mother like they're old friends. Which, I suppose, they kind of are now. It's still a little surreal, seeing the different parts of my life collide like this.

"Uh oh," Maggie mutters, echoing my thoughts. "Looks like the parental units have been conspiring in our absence."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Probably swapping embarrassing baby stories as we speak."

We say our goodbyes at the foot of the steps, Maggie's mom giving me a warm smile and a wave as I head inside. My own mom is waiting for me in the living room, her face a mix of worry and relief.

"How was your walk?" she asks, her eyes searching my face for any signs of distress. "Just a walk, right?"

"Yeah," I say, flopping down on the couch beside her. "Got a cat out of a tree but not, like, in a superhero way."

She nods, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Promise me no getting your friends involved with funny business?"

"Promise," I reply, fingers crossed in my pocket. "She's just a friend, not a sidekick."

My mom smiles, reaching out to ruffle my hair like she used to when I was little. "I'm proud of you, Sam. I know this life isn't easy, but you handle it with such grace and strength. Your dad and I... we couldn't be more proud of the woman you're becoming."

I accept the compliment by scrunching my face up like I just ate a lemon.

We sit there for a little while longer, just talking and decompressing from the day. But eventually, the dopamine starts to wear off, and I can feel the exhaustion setting in.

"I think I'm gonna head to bed," I say, stifling a yawn. "I've got... stuff to do tomorrow, you know?"

My mom nods, giving me a quick hug before sending me on my way. "Sleep tight, sweetheart. I love you. And stay safe."

"Love you too," I murmur, already halfway up the stairs.

In my room, I strip off my clothes and collapse onto the bed, feeling the familiar ache of the hours-long patrol route. But even as my body winds down, my mind can't seem to quiet.

I reach for my phone, scrolling through the messages that have piled up over the course of the evening. Most of them are from Jordan, their tone growing increasingly frantic as they fill me in on the latest developments in Maya Richardson's campaign.

"What the serious fuck, dude? Has this shit been going on the whole time we've been busy?"

"There's no way I'm letting some puppet politician ruin our shit, dude."

"When are we going to stop getting blindsided by this shit? It's like, every time we put out one fire, another one pops up."

"I'm going to kill myself. I'm going to run myself over with a road roller."

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. They're not wrong. It feels like we're constantly playing catch-up, reacting to the latest crisis instead of getting ahead of it. I type out a quick reply to Jordan, promising to fill them in on everything in the morning. Then I set my phone aside, letting my eyes drift shut as I sink into the welcoming embrace of sleep.