The Argus Corps training room is underground, reinforced with steel and concrete, designed to withstand the kind of damage only metahumans can dish out. It smells like sweat and ozone and something else I can't quite place - probably the lingering scent of Miasma's decay, leaking through his hazmat suit. It's not big, it's not roomy, and it's probably the closest thing our benevolent sponsor could've scrounged up on the moment's notice she made our organization with. But it works.

  I push through the double doors, finding them scattered around the space like kids at recess. Jett's running sprints on the treadmill, a red-blue blur leaving afterimages on my retinas. Devil's in the corner, methodically knocking around a reinforced punching bag with his invisible claws, clearly trying not to puncture it. Miasma sits cross-legged on a weight bench, reading something on a tablet.

  None of them snap to attention when I enter. That's not how we operate. We're not the military, much as I might prefer that level of discipline sometimes.

  "Team meeting," I announce, voice pitched to carry without shouting. "Five minutes."

  Jett downshifts from her sprint, slowing to human speed in stages. Always showing off. Devil gives the bag one last slash, his eyes never leaving me. Miasma simply sets his tablet aside, expression unreadable behind that skull half-mask of his. The rest of his skin is too... you know, Miasma-y to tell what his eyes are doing. Sunken. Sallow. Rotting?

  We gather around the situation table at the center of the room. No chairs - standing meetings are more efficient.

  "Registration bill tour is confirmed," I begin. "Three cities, five days. Security protocols are set. We'll be splitting duties - two on-site, two back here monitoring Philadelphia."

  "Rotation schedule?" Miasma asks, his voice that unsettling mix of rasp and echo.

  "First leg will be me and Jett in Harrisburg. Devil and you hold down home base. Then we swap for Pittsburgh."

  Jett bounces on her toes, burning off excess energy. She's never still, not even at gear zero. "I call shotgun on the drive up."

  I ignore this. "Richardson wants to add a community forum component. More citizen engagement."

  "More people yelling at us, you mean," Devil rumbles, his deep voice seeming to come from somewhere below the floor. "Forums are just shouting matches."

  "Maybe," I concede. "But public support matters. Appearances matter."

  Miasma tilts his head, studying me. "Something else on your mind, Patriot? You seem... preoccupied."

  The question catches me off-guard. Am I that transparent? The answer should be no, always no, but Miasma has always been unnervingly perceptive.

  "McNulty came to see me this morning," I say after a beat. "Had some interesting things to share."

  "Bulldozer?" Jett asks, suddenly paying attention. "Haven't seen that brick wall in months. How's South Philly's favorite mountain?"

  "Fine," I say flatly. "But he's been talking to Bloodhound."

  The mood shifts instantly. Jett's fidgeting stops. Devil crosses his massive arms. Miasma goes completely still, which somehow makes the constant subtle movement beneath his skin more noticeable.

  "What did our favorite dog girl want with him?" Jett asks, a dangerous edge creeping into her voice. She's been itching for a good opportunity to get in a fight with Small. I haven't told her yet that one of those girls at the marina was her - not sure if Jett's put two and two together yet.

  "She's spreading rumors," I answer carefully. "About Richardson."

  "What kind of rumors?" Devil asks.

  "The kind that could undermine everything we're doing." I meet each of their eyes in turn. "She's claiming Richardson is connected to the Kingdom of Keys."

  The reactions are immediate and varied. Jett barks out a laugh. Devil's brow furrows in confusion. Miasma... doesn't react at all, which is a reaction in itself.

  "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Jett declares. "She's a councilwoman. Ex-cape. Straight arrow."

  "She's ambitious," Devil counters quietly. "Lots of people with ambition find... shortcuts."

  "You can't seriously be entertaining this," Jett scoffs.

  "I'm not entertaining anything," I clarify. "I'm reporting relevant intelligence. Bloodhound is gaining traction with her conspiracy theories. First McNulty, now who knows who else."

  "And what does Richardson say about this?" Miasma asks, his tone carefully neutral.

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  "She dismisses it. Says she's a troubled kid lashing out at getting made illegal."

  "Which she is," Jett points out.

  "Maybe," I allow. "But she's not stupid. And she's got a following."

  "So what's the play?" Devil asks.

  I straighten slightly, decision made. "I'm going to confront her. Publicly. Shut this down before it spreads."

  "Great idea," Jett says, flashing that feral grin of hers. "Want backup? I can have her zip-tied to a flagpole before she finishes whatever smartass comment she's got locked and loaded."

  "No," I say firmly. "This needs to be handled delicately. A conversation, not a takedown."

  "Since when do you do delicate?" Devil murmurs, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

  I ignore the jab. "Jett, any progress on that background research I asked for? Tremont and Fairfax?"

  She shakes her head. "Nothing concrete. They're a big firm, handle thousands of cases. Some pro bono work, including the McKinley case, but nothing obviously suspicious."

  "Keep digging," I instruct. "There could be something there."

  "You think there's actually merit to Bloodhound's accusations?" Miasma asks, something unidentifiable in his tone. Yeah, yeah, I know you and her are like that. She's your dead BFF's diversity hire. Yawn.

  "I think we need to be thorough," I reply carefully. "If there's nothing to find, we can say that definitively. If there is something..." I let the implication hang.

  "We should be prepared for all contingencies," Miasma agrees, a little too readily. It makes me wonder what he knows that I don't.

  "What about Richardson's past?" Devil asks suddenly. "Before politics. When she was active as Stormrise."

  "What about it?" I counter.

  "Have we seen her file? The complete one, not the public summary."

  "That's classified," I say automatically.

  "We have clearance," he reminds me.

  "Not for that."

  "Might be worth requesting access," Miasma suggests. "Given the nature of these accusations."

  "You think there's something in her file that would corroborate this girl's wild theory?" I ask, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice.

  "I think information is tactical advantage," Miasma replies, echoing my own words back to me. "And gaps in information are tactical vulnerabilities."

  "I'll consider it," I say, which is neither a yes nor a no. "In the meantime, I want all of you on high alert. If there's even a shred of truth to what Bloodhound is suggesting, it could have serious implications."

  "For Richardson?" Devil asks.

  "For all of us." I scan their faces. "Argus Corps operates under Richardson's authority. If her credibility is compromised, so is ours. I don't like even the idea that we've been getting played, used as a weapon in some piss match between rival gangs. I like to imagine I'm better than that."

  "So we're protecting our own interests," Miasma observes.

  "We're protecting the mission," I correct. "The registration bill, the reporting initiative, maintaining order - it all depends on public trust."

  "And you're sure confronting Bloodhound is the right move?" Devil presses. "It could backfire. Give her more attention. Given your... history."

  "Not if I handle it correctly," I say with more confidence than I feel. "I'll make it clear that spreading unfounded accusations has consequences. But I'll do it her way. Babbling about truth, justice, and principles. Maybe go easy on the threats for once," I explain, although it doesn't feel very confident to me.

  "And if they're not unfounded?" Miasma asks quietly.

  The question hangs in the air between us, uncomfortable and unwelcome, like a dildo up the asshole.

  "Then we adjust accordingly," I say after a long moment. "We serve the public, not any individual. Even Richardson."

  Jett snorts. "Very inspiring, Captain. Now back in reality land, what's the actual plan if our boss turns out to be a supervillain?"

  "We're not there yet," I snap. "And we probably won't be. But if—" I emphasize the if, "—evidence emerges, we follow protocol. Report up the chain to NSRA."

  "Assuming NSRA isn't compromised too," Devil murmurs.

  "You're all getting way ahead of yourselves," I say sharply. "This started with an accusation from a teenage cape with a grudge. Let's not build conspiracy theories on top of conspiracy theories."

  "Agreed," Jett says, already losing interest. "So when are you planning to have your little chat with dog girl?"

  "Tomorrow," I decide. "I need to catch her off-guard, somewhere public but not too public. Witnesses, but not a crowd."

  "Summer camp?" Devil suggests.

  I shake my head. "Not that public. I don't need people making a-to-z's on me approaching a random civilian in costume. Either it's gotta be civvie to civvie or I have to catch her on one of those patrols that their crowd likes to think we haven't noticed, and we talk cape to cape. Nothing that looks premeditated. I just happened to be in Tacony. Following up about Acosta, you know, the Titans girl."

  "Want me on standby?" Jett asks. "I can be there in under thirty seconds if things go sideways."

  "That won't be necessary," I say firmly. "This is a conversation, not an operation."

  "Your call, boss," she says, clearly unconvinced.

  I glance at my watch. "That's all for now. Jett, keep on that research. Devil, finish the security protocols for the tour. Miasma, I want your assessment of potential protest hotspots for each stop. We reconvene at 0700 tomorrow."

  They disperse without further comment, returning to their previous activities. All except Miasma, who lingers at the table, his yellow eyes behind his mask fixed on me.

  "A word," he says quietly, once the others are out of earshot.

  I brace myself. Conversations with Miasma are never comfortable.

  "What is it?"

  "Be careful with Richardson," he says, voice low. "Power corrupts. So does fear."

  "Meaning what, exactly?"

  "Meaning even if she isn't Kingdom, she might not be who we think she is." He adjusts his mask slightly. "People in positions of authority often have... complex motivations. And if she thinks you're digging somewhere, she might put a landmine, even if you're digging in the wrong spot."

  "Speaking from experience?" I can't resist asking.

  "Yes," he admits without hesitation. "Which is why you should listen."

  I study him, trying to parse what he's really saying. Miasma never gives straight answers, always hiding behind riddles and philosophy. It's exhausting.

  "I'll keep my eyes open," I say finally. "But my primary concern is Small and the damage she could do with these accusations."

  "Of course," Miasma says, something like disappointment in his voice. "The mission comes first."

  With that cryptic statement, he walks away, leaving me with more questions than answers.

  I stand alone at the situation table, mentally reviewing the reactions. Jett's dismissal, Devil's quiet concern, Miasma's... whatever that was. None of them completely trustworthy. None of them fully aligned.

  This is the team I've built. The team I'm supposed to lead.

  And tomorrow, I confront Small.

  One way or another, I'm getting to the bottom of this. For the sake of the mission. For the stability of the system we're building. And because I'll be damned if I let a teenage girl get the fucking drop on me again.