I show her the basic step-drag movement that Multiplex drilled into me until my legs burned. Forward, back, left, right - always balanced, always ready to move again. It's harder than it looks, especially when you're trying to maintain your guard at the same time. Lily picks it up faster than the dodging, probably because it's more systematic. Step here, drag there, maintain this distance. Rules she can follow.

  "Hey Sam," Maggie calls over, now trying to show Tasha how to make a proper fist. "Why don't you ever bring that Multiplex guy around? I want to learn from an actual boxer."

  "Because he's busy running the Delaware Valley Defenders," I say, which is the easy answer. The harder answer involves explaining that he only agreed to train me because I won't stop doing this anyway and he figures someone should keep an eye on me, or at least that's what I assume - no, wait, he called it a panopticon. No assumption needed. He's definitely doing it to keep an eye on me. "Plus he doesn't really do the whole 'youth mentorship' thing. I'm special circumstances."

  "Because you were in the Young Defenders," Lily says, and there's something in her voice I can't quite place. "Which, you know, some of us were also in."

  "Yeah, but you two had the good sense to get out when it dissolved," I point out. "He probably thinks you've moved on to normal teenage stuff."

  Amelia makes a sound that might be a laugh. "Normal teenage stuff. Right."

  If Multiplex knew that Blink and Gossamer were still doing the vigilante thing, just under the table instead of above board, he'd probably have an aneurysm. Or lecture me about being a bad influence. Or both. Definitely both.

  "Also," I begin, already feeling phantom pains in my arms. "He'd make you do actual conditioning. You think this is hard? Try doing burpees until you puke."

  "Gross," Tasha comments. "Another reason I'm sticking to tech support."

  A few kids from the neighborhood have started gathering at the edge of the lot, watching with the kind of intense interest that makes me nervous. They're young - maybe ten or eleven - and I can see them mimicking our movements, throwing phantom punches at each other. Part of me wants to tell them to go home, to find something better to do with their Saturday morning than learning violence. The other part remembers being their age and feeling helpless, wishing someone would teach me how to be strong.

  "Should we..." Lily starts, gesturing toward the kids.

  "Let them watch," I decide. "Just... keep it basic, you know? Nothing that looks too real."

  Because that's the tightrope we're walking. Visible enough that the neighborhood knows we're here, knows we're trying to help, but not so visible that we attract the wrong kind of attention. It's exhausting, honestly. Sometimes I miss the early days when I could just throw on a makeshift costume and punch drug dealers without worrying about community relations and public perception.

  (Who am I kidding? I worried about that stuff then too. Just had Jordan to temper me out.)

  Mrs. Miller comes out of her house with a pitcher of something - lemonade, from the look of it - and starts setting up cups on her porch railing. "You girls look thirsty," she calls out. "Come get something to drink before you pass out in this heat."

  "We're okay, Mrs. Miller," I call back, but she's already pouring.

  "Wasn't a question, baby. You're out here keeping the neighborhood safe, least I can do is keep you hydrated."

  And there it is - the thing that makes all of this complicated. To Mrs. Miller, we're not just teenagers playing superhero. We're part of the community's defense system, filling a gap that the official authorities can't or won't address. Whether or not she knows I'm Bloodhound, she at least knows that I help rescue cats and chase off the wrong kinds of teen when they start getting rowdy and throwing beer bottles at houses. I do that in or out of costume.

  We break for water because Mrs. Miller will literally come over here and force-feed us lemonade if we don't, and honestly, I'm sweating enough that I need it. The kids scatter when we move toward the porch, like we're gonna tell them to stop watching or something. I want to tell them it's okay, but that feels weird too. Everything feels weird when you're trying to be a vigilante at sixteen. Everything feels weird when you're sixteen in general. At least, according to my Dad.

  "This is good," Maggie says, downing her second cup already. "Like, really good. What's in this?"

  "Secret ingredient is love," Mrs. Miller says, which makes Tasha snort lemonade out her nose. "And maybe a little extra sugar. You girls are working hard."

  Lily's still practicing footwork even while drinking, doing this little shuffle-step thing that's half boxing stance, half whatever she does with her rope darts.Less traditional, more... Lily-shaped. That's probably the best we're gonna get without actual weapons involved.

  "How's your mama doing, Sam?" Mrs. Miller asks, and I try not to wince.

  "She's... you know. Working a lot." Which is true. Also disapproving of my life choices a lot, but Mrs. Miller doesn't need to know that my parents think I'm one bad decision away from juvie. Not because of criminal reasons. I just think they don't think I can help myself about superheroics. Which is... probably right?

  "You tell her I said hi. And that she raised a good girl."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I mumble something that might be "thanks" and focus really hard on my lemonade.

  "We should probably get back to it," I say, because feelings are not on today's training schedule. "Still got combinations to work on."

  We head back to our makeshift training area, and I notice more people watching now. Not just the kids - some teenagers from a few blocks over, couple of adults pretending they're just happening to walk by really slowly. It's like a free show, except the show is four teenage girls learning how to violence properly.

  "Okay," I say, trying to project more confidence than I feel. "Let's work on combinations. Jab-cross is like the peanut butter and jelly of boxing. Basic, reliable, gets the job done."

  I demonstrate on the air, showing the twist of the hips, the extension of the arm. Lily tries to copy it and somehow makes it look like she's throwing an invisible rope dart. Maggie just winds up and throws haymakers. Tasha watches with the expression of someone mentally taking notes for a report she'll never write.

  "The power comes from your legs," I explain, remembering how Multiplex basically had to beat this into my head. "Plant, twist, extend. It's all connected."

  "Like a kinetic chain," Lily says, and okay, maybe she does understand some physics stuff. "Each part adds to the total force."

  "Sure, let's go with that."

  We drill combinations until my shoulders burn and Lily's actually hitting the air with something resembling proper form. Maggie's gotten marginally less wild, though she still telegraphs everything like she's advertising it in advance. Tasha has graduated from extremely reluctant participant to normally reluctant participant, throwing the occasional jab when Maggie gets too insistent.

  The sun's getting higher and hotter, and I can feel the sweat making my shirt stick to my back in gross ways. We've been at this for almost two hours, which is longer than I usually last even with Multiplex pushing me. But there's something about teaching that makes you want to keep going, to make sure they get it right.

  "Think we should call it?" Amelia suggests from her spot on the steps. She's barely broken a sweat, just sitting there looking put-together while the rest of us are varying degrees of disheveled. "Before someone gets heat stroke?"

  She's probably right. Lily's red-faced and breathing hard, Maggie's enthusiasm has downgraded to mere determination, and Tasha looks like she's about to revolt if we make her throw one more punch.

  "Yeah, okay," I agree, trying not to sound too relieved. "Good work today, everyone. We'll pick it up next week, same time?"

  "If I'm not dead from muscle soreness," Lily groans, rotating her shoulders. "Why does punching air hurt so much?"

  "Because you're using muscles you didn't know you had," I tell her. "It gets easier. Rampart and Crossroads and Belle were teaching you Aikido and shit. Judo. You know, throwing. Taking down larger opponents. This is... very different than that - but it gets easier."

  (That's a lie. It gets different, maybe, but Multiplex still finds new ways to make me hurt every week.)

  We're just starting to gather our water bottles when I notice someone watching us from the corner of the lot. Lucy - Sundial - leans against a telephone pole, arms crossed, wearing a loose tank top and basketball shorts rather than her usual Tacony Titans gear. The whole "I'm just a regular person not a superhero" outfit, which honestly she pulls off better than most of us. Her dark hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she's got sunglasses propped on top of her head.

  "Didn't know you were running a fight club," she calls over, pushing off the pole and walking toward us. "Thought I'd stop by and see how you're healing up."

  Something in my chest does a weird little flutter, not because it's Lucy specifically, but because another hero checking on me feels... I don't know, validating? Like I'm part of something bigger than just our little crew. The Titans aren't exactly the DVD, but they're established. They have their shit together.

  "Just stealing Multiplex's lessons and passing them off as my own," I say, suddenly conscious of how sweaty and gross I must look. "No official fight club. Not enough members for a proper tournament bracket."

  "You looked better last week when we were chasing down Marathon," Lucy says with a small grin. "Though maybe that was the adrenaline."

  "Nothing covers bruises like the fear of getting shot," I agree, touching my throat where Dead Drop's chains left their mark. The bruises have faded to a sickly yellow-green, but they're still visible if you know to look for them. "Thanks again for the assist with the psychometry. Couldn't have confirmed it was a Jump distribution point without you."

  "Anytime," she says, though her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. There's something tight around them that wasn't there at the Sunoco station. She looks tired, the kind of tired that comes from more than just physical exertion.

  "You guys been busy since then?" I ask.

  "Non-stop," she sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Crime doesn't take weekends off, apparently."

  "Tell me about it," Maggie interjects, bouncing on her toes. "That place was just the start! We're gonna track down all the Jump dealers in Tacony."

  Lucy raises an eyebrow at me. "Bold plan."

  "Theoretical plan," I correct, shooting Maggie a look. "We're still recovering from the last one."

  "Speak for yourself," Maggie says, throwing a quick combination into the air that's slightly less terrible than it was an hour ago. "I'm ready to go whenever. Just gotta bribe my uncle again. He's getting divorced so he's over at our place a lot so my parents are making him babys--"

  "Details, Mags?" Tasha interrupts, clearly trying to pay attention to Sundial.

  "Maybe work on that right cross first," Lucy suggests with the tact of someone who's had to mentor enthusiastic rookies before. "Keep your elbow in."

  Maggie immediately adjusts her form, clearly thrilled to get feedback from an established hero. "Like this?"

  "Better," Lucy nods, then turns back to me. "Actually, I was hoping to talk to you for a minute. Team business."

  There's something in her tone that makes my stomach clench. Whatever "team business" means, it's not good news. I glance at the others, who are all doing various terrible impressions of people who aren't obviously eavesdropping.

  "Give us a minute?" I ask them, and they reluctantly gather their stuff and move toward the Music Hall's back entrance, though not without Maggie throwing several extremely unsubtle looks over her shoulder.

  Once they're out of earshot, Lucy's posture shifts, just slightly - shoulders squaring, chin lifting. Hero stance. Official business stance.

  "What's up?" I ask, trying to sound casual and probably failing miserably.

  "Bubble got caught last night," she says without preamble. "Sneaking out for patrol."

  My stomach drops. "Shit. Is she okay?"

  "Physically, yes. Legally..." Lucy grimaces. "It wasn't good, Sam. They've got her on violating the ordinance. First offense, so just a warning, but they're keeping an eye on her now. Official 'person of interest' status."

  "Fuck," I mutter, finding myself holding back a wince. Younger than me, and definitely covered by Richardson's anti-vigilante legislation. "That's... that shouldn't be happening. None of this should be happening, but especially not to Bubble. I mean, like... I know we don't talk much but she doesn't even sneak out. I don't think. Does she?"

  Lucy shoots me a weird look. For a second I get the impression that Bubble snuck out because of me, somehow, but then I shake that away with a little twitch of my head, pretending to crack my neck. Just anxiety, Sam.

  "It gets worse," Lucy continues, lowering her voice even though there's no one around to hear us. "Did you see Patriot's announcement yesterday?"

  "What announcement?"