Chum

Our phones buzz in sync, the familiar bzzt-bzzt cutting through the night air, yanking me back from a pleasant daze. Jamila's head snaps up, the smile vanishing from her lips as if somebody just hit the mute button on a laugh track. We both know that this specific buzz — a triple vibration, followed by silence, followed by a triple vibration — means it's something from the Young Defenders. Or, well, anyone else that can trigger the emergency alert, such as a government broadcast. But it isn't those.

"Priority alert," she mutters, swiping her phone to life.

I do the same, barely catching a glimpse of the clock—11:17 PM—before unlocking my phone and opening the Young Defenders' HIRC chat. It's a message from Crossroads. Just a text, but with a priority flag that's a technological slap in the face, impossible to ignore, guaranteed to send a notification rudely past any settings in my phone.

"Emergency meeting at HQ. Urgent. No call." Crossroads doesn't usually use the word 'urgent'. I can feel something in his text tone that feels off. Not in the way that a trap does, but in the way that panic does.

"Damn. We have to go," I say, already missing the lightness of the evening. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the facade of a normal night cracks, and the superhero gig rears its urgent head. So much for good times.

Jamila's thumb flies across her screen. "Yeah, I'm just letting my mom know we're needed somewhere else. That we're safe but busy." She locks her phone with a decisive click. "Done. What's the fastest way to HQ?"

I pull up a taxi app. "We can't exactly fly there in our street clothes. And my outfit's back at Lily's place. And my backup is at school. And my backup backup--"

"I get it," Jamila interrupts, frowning. "I'd need to swing by my place for my gear, too. But there's no time. We can make do without costumes for now. I've got a fan, you've got teeth."

"Taxi's the fastest way, then. I'll have them drop us a few blocks away. Can't risk being too obvious, even if it's late." My fingers dance over the phone, typing in the destination, and within a few seconds, it's confirmed. A taxi will be here in five minutes. I take a deep breath. It's going to be a long night.

The moment hangs heavy in the air, like we're suspended in some kind of alternate reality where time slows down, and everything feels more significant. We're just two teenagers standing in front of a closed dive bar, but it feels like so much more. The Lonesome Dove's neon sign is flickering, casting erratic bursts of light that illuminate the cracks in the pavement. My feet feel rooted to the ground, as if the asphalt has gripped my shoes.

I look out towards the Delaware River, its surface reflecting the night sky, stars mingling with the distant city lights. The water seems so calm, a stark contrast to the turbulence I feel inside. Across the river, Philadelphia looms like a sleeping giant, its skyline a jagged horizon of steel and glass that gleams under the moonlight. It's beautiful, and a little intimidating.

I hear Jamila exhale softly next to me, and I wonder what she's thinking. Is she feeling the same mix of awe and dread that's got a grip on me? She's still holding her phone, the screen's glow casting a bluish tint on her face. It makes her look ethereal, almost otherworldly. I want to reach out and touch her hand, reassure myself that she's real, but I don't. Instead, I clutch my phone a little tighter.

The night air is cool, laced with the scent of the river and the distant, ever-present aroma of city life — a blend of car exhaust, street food, and something indefinably human. It's a scent I've come to associate with heroics, a constant background to rooftop chases and back-alley confrontations. But tonight, it smells like uncertainty.

There's minimal traffic on the road, just the occasional car zooming past, its headlights blinding for a split second before plunging us back into semi-darkness. The sound of rubber on asphalt fades quickly, swallowed by the night.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, its sound echoing like a lonely cry for attention. A couple of crickets are chirping, filling the silence with their nocturnal song. And then, in stark contrast to the natural sounds, my phone buzzes again. A one-minute warning from the taxi app. The taxi is almost here.

Jamila looks up, her eyes meeting mine. No words are exchanged, but her gaze says enough. It's a mix of love and fear. At least, that's what it feels like to me.

The taxi's headlights finally appear down the street, a pair of glowing orbs that grow larger as they approach. It's time to go.

"We should—" I start, but Jamila interrupts.

"I know," she says softly. "Let's go save the world. Or Center City or whatever."

I nod, and together we step toward the approaching taxi, and away from this moment of stillness. But even as we do, I can't help but feel like a part of me is staying behind, frozen in this snapshot of time, forever lingering in front of a dive bar by the Camden riverfront with the girl I—

Our phones buzz again. This time, it's the taxi confirming its arrival. There's no turning back now.

We arrive at HQ, a… mid-tech superhero launch pad pretending to be a run-down warehouse, and don't even bother changing out of our civvies. It feels like we wasted so much time just getting there.

There's the airlock, sterilizing air swooshing around us for just a moment before we're allowed further in. We pass the locker rooms, doors open but nobody in sight. Empty hallways flash by. There's a tension in the air, like everyone's holding their breath and waiting for something terrible to happen. Kind of like during a horror movie when you know the monster's about to jump out, but you don't know when.

We finally get to the computer and briefing room. It's a place that's starting to become uncomfortably familiar. Like, you ever hang out in someone's room enough that it starts to feel like it's not theirs anymore? Kinda like that. Except this room has more screens and more secret world-saving stuff than any friend's room I've been in.

We're the last ones in, and my gut squirms because I don't like being late. Not that anyone's saying anything. But still. It's there. That nagging voice that tells me we should've been quicker. Could've been quicker.

Everyone's here, dressed in their civvies, except for Liberty Belle. She stands in her costume at the front of the room, her freshly buzzed hair giving away the gravity of her condition. Our eyes briefly meet as we walk in. Something about her gaze feels heavy, like she's carrying a weight that's about to be dropped on all of us. My phone buzzes. I ignore it.

I scan the room. Councilman Jamal Davis sits at the center table, eyes focused and unyielding. He's the glue that holds this framework together, bound by law and necessity. Beside him is Clarissa Parker, ever the professional even at this ungodly hour, her eyes skimming through a stack of legal documents. Her pen dances over the paper as she adds her annotations.

Bulwark leans against a wall. Even in casual wear, his presence feels as solid as the stone armor he conjures. His eyes, though, hold a hint of concern, masked by a layer of stoic reserve. Multiplex, or at least one of him, occupies a side chair, the rest presumably doing recon or strategic planning elsewhere. He's tapping his foot rhythmically, a metronome of nervous energy. Then there's Fury Forge, pacing the floor near the back, her eyes aflame with an urgency that says she'd rather be out there doing something than be here talking about it.

Among the Young Defenders, Puppeteer sits with her arms crossed, her eyes softer, tempered by medication. Blink is next to her, quietly tossing a small marble back and forth between her fingers, doing little dextrous finger-tricks while trying to pay attention to Belle. Crossroads sits ramrod straight, his eyes flitting through the room as if he's already seen how this plays out but isn't letting on. Gossamer keeps to herself in a corner, perhaps mentally cataloging improvements to our gear. Playback, on the other hand, seems out of sync with everyone, his gaze a little distant but his pupils focused. Rampart sits with a hand on his chin, looking thoughtful but also somehow critical, as if measuring us all up.

Gale looks at me. We take our seats.

Liberty Belle clears her throat and the room goes dead quiet. "Thank you for coming on such short notice," she begins. "We have a situation." Liberty Belle's eyes scan the room one more time before she speaks, her gaze lingering just a moment longer on my fellow Young Defenders, as if mentally preparing them - preparing us - for the revelation to come. "As most of you in this room are aware," she begins, her voice tempered with gravity, "we lost Professor Franklin six years ago. He was more than a mentor to me; he was a beacon for all of Philadelphia. He was the embodiment of our hopes, our aspirations, the man who made us all believe we could be heroes. He was our Superman."

She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes a moment to collect herself. "The circumstances of his death have been… suppressed, for reasons that will become clear. Professor Franklin didn't just fall; he was taken down by a villain, a man whose name has been kept out of public discourse for the sake of safety and national security."

Her eyes meet those of Councilman Davis and Clarissa Parker, who both nod in silent affirmation. She continues, "The Delaware Valley Defenders have known this truth for some time, but it's time our younger associates were brought into the loop."

She looks directly at us, the Young Defenders, her gaze laden with an almost apologetic weight. "Two years ago, many of you know I was gravely injured and out of action for several months. What you didn't know is that the same man who killed Professor Franklin was responsible."

The room is devoid of gasps, but the atmosphere grows palpable with discomfort. Faces harden, brows furrow. You can almost hear the collective creak of people mentally bracing themselves for what comes next.

"The villain known by the name Chernobyl," she states, letting the name hang in the air like a dark cloud. "His real name is Illya Myronovych Fedorov. A Ukrainian national who has become, for all intents and purposes, a walking catastrophe."

She takes a deep breath before divulging the unnerving details. "His power is as dangerous as they come. His body constantly emits ionizing radiation. To contain this, he's built himself a suit of mechanical armor, cobbled together from industrial equipment he's stolen. But the armor is imperfect; it leaks."

Here, Liberty Belle hesitates, her voice tinged with a bitterness that she's kept hidden until now. I see something dark in her eyes. Something like a fire, something I've never seen before, burning in her pupils. "Professor Franklin tried to stop him. He didn't make it out. Two years ago, when he returned to Philadelphia, I tried to stop him. Not only did he beat me within an inch of my life, but every blow I landed just opened up more of his power to me. I couldn't finish the fight, and I paid the price."

As she finishes, her eyes meet mine briefly, then scan the faces of all the Young Defenders in the room. It's as if she's silently asking us to measure the weight of this new information, to really understand the depth of the threat we face.

"People like him - people who are too dangerous to be allowed to live in public - they have two options. Aurora Springs, or becoming a fugitive. The federal government is fully prepared to give him a cushy lifestyle, all the amenities and creature comforts he could want, regular visits from loved ones… but he prefers his freedom," she says, her face curling up, coiling, like a snake preparing to bite. She almost spits the word freedom, and it makes my gut ache. I don't know what Aurora Springs is, but it sounds euphemistic. I glance at Playback, knowing his feelings on… imprisonment.

He's already looking at me. He nods, brow furrowed.

"He's back," Liberty Belle says, squeezing the edge of the table hard enough that it begins to creak, dent, and buckle under the strain. "That's all. Davis?"

Councilman Jamal rises, nodding at Liberty Belle as he motions for her to take a seat. The room's heavy silence seems to welcome his steady, authoritative tone as he begins to speak.

"We've been monitoring a series of troubling incidents in North and Northeast Philadelphia over the past three weeks. Industrial equipment has been disappearing overnight," he reports, keeping his words precise and factual. "Security guards have been attacked—some left with concussions, others trapped in their booths, which have been collapsed around them. This isn't a run-of-the-mill burglary or sabotage."

He leans forward, placing his palms flat against the table. "We've detected trace amounts of a specific radioactive signature at these scenes. The analysis boys got back today - that's why we're calling you now. It matches what we know of Chernobyl's specific signature. So, let's be unequivocal about this: he's back."

Jamal pauses for a breath, but not for effect. He talks a lot.

"And it's not just random theft we're dealing with," he continues, shifting the slide to an image of a plundered office sitting above a factory floor, torn to shreds like it's been attacked by a wild dog. "Each site that has been targeted by our radioactive friend has been plundered days later. Copper wires, personal belongings from office desks, even sensitive documents detailing trade secrets—anything that could hold value is disappearing."

He takes a moment to let the information sink in. "We have a two-fold problem here. Not only is Chernobyl back, but we also have reason to believe that he is now working in tandem with the Kingdom. If Chernobyl's abilities are being weaponized for the Kingdom's more organized criminal activities, we're not just looking at a rogue threat. We're looking at a potential crisis where the entire city could be held hostage."

His expression tightens, the gravity of the situation visible in every line on his face. "We cannot afford to confront Chernobyl directly; we can't risk creating another exclusion zone. But we also can't ignore the Kingdom's involvement. They're exploiting his chaos for their own ends, and that needs to be stopped."

He closes the slide, casting his gaze across each person in the room. "We need to flush Chernobyl out, without engaging him in direct combat, while also setting up an operation to catch the Kingdom red-handed. This is a tactical operation of the highest degree of difficulty, and it requires the cooperation of every single person in this room."

Councilman Jamal exhales, a long, drawn-out sigh that seems to echo the sentiments of everyone present. "We've been handed a crisis, but it's also an opportunity—an opportunity to rid our city of two malignant forces at once. Let's not waste it. Any questions?"

Playback raises his hand, a sly grin forming on his lips. "Yeah, I got one. You talk about flushin' out Chernobyl without engaging. I'm curious. Are we usin' civilians as bait? Is that the plan?"

Councilman Jamal shakes his head. "No, this is counterterrorism. The safety of the civilians is paramount."

Playback's face contorts into a rictus frown. "Counterterrorism? That's a neat package to put it in."

"Enough," Liberty Belle cuts in, her voice sharp but a little weary. "Do you have any other questions that are actually constructive?"

I raise my hand, drawing the councilman's gaze to me. "When is this happening? Do we need to be prepared tonight, or is this a long-term operation? And, um, what is Aurora Springs, Belle?"

"We anticipate it to be within the next two weeks," Councilman Jamal responds. "After Chernobyl's next attack. Everyone needs to be on call."

"I'll explain AS to you later, Bloodhound," Belle cuts in, arms folding over her chest.

Gale raises her hand. "And what are we, the Young Defenders, supposed to do? We're not exactly experts in nuclear science or tactical ops."

"Your job will be disaster relief, quarantining, and keeping civilians out of the way," Liberty Belle answers. "You'll work in tandem with the adults but focus on those areas."

Playback looks skeptical. "So, we're babysitters? We have powers that can do a lot more than just hold hands and set up barriers."

Fury Forge chimes in, "Kid, this isn't about what you can do. It's about what needs to be done. There are roles to play, and everyone's got to do their part."

Puppeteer shifts uncomfortably. "What's the plan if things go south? If Chernobyl is as unpredictable as you say, how do we avoid a worst-case scenario?"

"That's why this is a high-stakes operation. We have contingency plans and fail-safes. It's a multi-layered strategy," Jamal answers, annoying me intensely. That's not an answer, Councilman!

Crossroads finally speaks, his voice tinged with hesitation. "Has the Kingdom shown any interest in similar crimes before? Could they be using Chernobyl for something other than what we're assuming?"

"The Kingdom's involvement is a new development. They're opportunists, and it seems they're capitalizing on Chernobyl's actions. As for their motives—your guess is as good as ours. While we know their involvement is certain, we don't know if they've made contact with Chernobyl or if they're picking at his droppings like vultures," Jamal explains.

"Our hope is the latter," Belle says. "The Kingdom's higher brass that we've all come into contact with - T-Rex, Heartstopper, Dr. Xenograft, not to mention the three that Bloodhound encountered - are all highly dangerous metahumans. The last thing we need is Chernobyl to be added to their ranks. If there's a partnership, our best hope is that it's informal at best."

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I ignore it. There's a pit in my stomach, a tangle of excitement and dread. This isn't just another mission. This is something bigger, more dangerous.

"And what if it's not?" I ask, after a moment of silence. Heads turn to look at me. "What if they get him and, you know, pull him in?"

"If they pull him in," Jamal says, weighing his words carefully, "then we're talking about an escalated crisis. Chernobyl's powers are… beyond most of our capabilities to handle directly. And it's exactly because he's not usually a lethal threat that makes this situation delicate. He avoids civilians, avoids us. He's a sort of eco-systemic hazard, not an assassin."

Liberty Belle jumps in, "That's the concern. If the Kingdom could find a way to weaponize him, to use his abilities for more traditional crimes or even terrorism — then we're talking about something we've never faced before. We may need to call in Federal superheroes or even the ISC's disaster response team. No one here, in this room, could contain a Chernobyl that's intent on violence, except maybe me in my prime. And I'm not in my prime."

I feel the room tighten. Federal superheroes? The International Superhuman Coalition? Even I know that acronym.

"And how do we know for sure that the Kingdom is involved?" Blink asks, after another damning moment of silence. "Like, what if it's someone else?"

Playback smiles. It feels smug. Almost unearned.

"Stolen goods - the kind that can be sold on the traditional markets of theft - have been flowing through fences known to be accessed by Kingdom assets. And the theft of robotic arms and conveyor belt parts doesn't exactly make the 9 o'clock news. The fact that whoever's performing these thefts shortly after Chernobyl's own means they're close on his tail, and they're operating in a group, which means organization. The secondary thefts aren't single incidents, pick, peck, pick, it's all at once, all overnight, taking advantage of the holes Chernobyl is making in their security," Belle rattles off, her face looking visibly annoyed. She takes a breath, and I watch her cooling off, imagining the thermometer going down in her head. "So either it's the Kingdom, or some other group of similar organization. Either way, it's a problem that needs handling. Any other questions?"

Blink shrinks down a little bit. I reach under the table and gently grab her hand, giving it a squeeze. She looks at me and smiles weakly.

The lack of sound swallows the room. I can feel all of Liberty Belle's blood, swishing around in her insides from her wounds, her ulcers, her cancer. The coffee grounds in her stomach. I watch her inhale. I watch her exhale.

Fury Forge, looking cowed for the first time in her life, or at least the first time I've ever seen her like that, reaches into a bag by her feet. She passes out several small devices, looking almost like candy bars made of plastic, with antennae sticking out the tops. A small red LED turns on each. They look made to clip onto belts. "Normally, we don't pass these out to juniors. Crossroads and Puppeteer already have them. Given the circumstances, though, we're activating the rest of you a little early. They're basically souped-up pagers that I made. There's a plug at the bottom to plug into your phone's cart port to sync it. They've got forever battery. And if there's an emergency, you know, if we gotta go now… they'll buzz from anywhere across the city. Keep them on your person at all times."

I grab one from the pile on the table while my teammates do the same. I slip it into my pocket.

"Does anyone have anything else for the table? I know we're all very tired, so if that's all, you're all dismissed," Jamal says, his body visibly tenting, getting ready to stand up.

Gale raises her hand.

"Yes, Gale?" Jamal asks.

"Um. I know this is not a great time. But. Bloodhound and I are dating now," she announces proudly to the table.

Playback mutters a 'Damnit' under the table and slips a twenty to Rampart - HEY! And the adults, well. The looks thrown at me are going to make me melt into sludge. I do not like a room full of adults looking this amused, especially when it's at me.

"Well, good not to end an all-hands-on-deck with dour news. Congratulations, you two. Don't let it compromise your performance," Multiplex says, the sole person at the table not looking at anyone else, only looking down at his notepad.

Jamal chuckles, finally standing up. "Well, I suppose that's as good a note as any to end on. As Multiplex said, just remember why you're here. Keep your personal lives and your hero work separate as much as possible."

As the adults shuffle papers and prepare to leave, Gale looks at me, her eyes meeting mine. It's a weirdly reassuring moment; it grounds me. Playback, meanwhile, is making a show of counting his money, while Rampart grins and pockets the twenty.

I start to push back my chair, but Liberty Belle's gaze catches mine. There's something there—concern, pride, a weird mix of both. She mouths, "We'll talk," before she leaves the room.

I nod, still processing everything. The pager in my pocket feels like it weighs a ton. It's a reminder of what's to come, of the responsibility, the uncertainty. It's a promise and a warning all in one.

Crossroads looks around at the rest of us, then gathers his notes. "Alright, Young Defenders. Let's regroup tomorrow for a tactical session. We've got a lot to cover, and time's not on our side."

We all nod, each of us in our own headspace. I reach for Gale's hand as we leave the room, trying to hold on to something certain in a world that's anything but. She laces her fingers through mine, grounding me once more, and they unlace as we walk out together, hand falling back to her side.

Still, as I leave the room, the words of Councilman Jamal echo in my ears.

An opportunity in a crisis.