I head back to the children's section with a new spring in my step, the prospect of escaping to a dusty archive room making the remaining hours of my shift almost bearable. I even manage to smile at the kid who returns three books with suspicious stains on the pages.

  The rest of the afternoon crawls by with the usual library drama - helping a fifth-grader find resources for a solar system project, explaining to an elderly gentleman that no, we don't have VHS tapes anymore, and wiping down tables that somehow accumulate mysterious sticky patches despite the "No Food or Drink" signs posted every three feet. I am so tired of the texture of Sticky. I wish it would vanish from existence.

  By closing time, my feet ache and I've got a paper cut on my index finger that stings like I dipped it in lemon juice. But unlike most days, I don't immediately head for the door when my shift ends. Instead, I hover near the circulation desk, waiting for Mom to finish her closing procedures.

  "Ready?" she asks, appearing beside me with a ring of keys. "The archive room is downstairs."

  I follow her through the staff area to a door I've never noticed before, tucked between the break room and a supply closet. Mom unlocks it, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into darkness. She flips a switch, and fluorescent lights flicker to life, illuminating concrete steps worn smooth by decades of use.

  "Careful," she warns. "The stairs are old."

  The basement smells like all library basements probably do - a combination of dust, old paper, and that distinctive mustiness that accumulates in spaces that rarely see sunlight. The main area is filled with metal shelving units holding boxes of administrative records and surplus books awaiting the next sale. But Mom leads me past all this to a heavy door at the far end with a brass plaque that reads "Special Collections."

  Another key, another lock, and we step into a room that's noticeably cooler and drier than the rest of the basement. Climate control, I realize - to preserve the materials, if I had to take a shot in the dark. Unlike the cluttered main basement, this room is organized with meticulous precision. Metal shelving units hold uniform archival boxes, each labeled with neat handwriting. A large table occupies the center of the room, with a scanner setup at one end.

  "The Morrison Collection," Mom says, gesturing to the rows of boxes. "Forty years of superhuman history in Philadelphia."

  "How many boxes are there?" I ask, trying to count the uniform white containers.

  "Seventy-three," Mom replies. "We've digitized eleven so far."

  Great. Only sixty-two boxes of dusty papers to go. This might be more tedious than I anticipated.

  Mom must read my expression because she adds, "You don't have to do all of them. Even completing a few more boxes would help with the grant requirements."

  She approaches one of the shelving units and carefully removes a box, placing it on the table with the reverence usually reserved for ancient artifacts or newborn babies. The label reads "Early Manifestations - Genesis Births Philadelphia Region (1982-1985)."

  "Dr. Morrison was one of the first academics to recognize the historical significance of powered individuals," Mom explains, lifting the lid. "While most people were still debating whether powers were real or elaborate hoaxes, he was already documenting every reported case. A lot of people thought he was a nutter."

  Inside the box are dozens of clear plastic sleeves containing yellowed newspaper clippings, organized chronologically. Mom carefully removes one, placing it on the table.

  "The first recorded Genesis Birth in Philadelphia," she says.

  I lean closer, examining the faded newsprint. "LOCAL WOMAN GIVES BIRTH TO 'MIRACLE BABY'" declares the headline from the Philadelphia Inquirer, dated March 18, 1982. The article describes a woman who, during a complicated delivery, manifested "inexplicable healing abilities" that saved both her life and her infant's when medical intervention failed.

  "They didn't even have terminology for it yet," I note, skimming the article. "They keep putting 'powers' and 'abilities' in quotation marks like they're not real."

  "People struggle to accept what they don't understand," Mom says, carefully returning the clipping to its sleeve. "The Genesis Births were initially dismissed as medical anomalies or media sensationalism. It wasn't until the Cedar Mills Incident in '89 that the government began taking powers seriously."

  She pulls out another box labeled "Early Classifications and Research (1985-1990)" and opens it to reveal several small, bound books with plastic library covers.

  "These are particularly valuable," she explains. "Early attempts to classify and understand powers, mostly self-published by researchers who couldn't get mainstream academic support. Most copies were lost or destroyed once official classifications were established."

  I pick up a thin volume titled "Phenomenological Taxonomy of Extranormal Abilities" by Dr. E. Carter. The cover shows crude hand-drawn diagrams, circles and flow charts, trying to wrap things up in a tidy little lasso. Ineffectually. I whistle quietly.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Mom gives me a look as if whistling too loud is going to hurt the paper, and then turns back towards the collection. "Dr. Morrison organized everything chronologically and thematically. Early manifestations, research, media coverage, legal developments, and so on."

  She moves to the scanner setup at the end of the table. "The digitization process is straightforward but requires attention to detail. Each item needs to be scanned at the correct resolution, named according to our file convention, and tagged with appropriate metadata."

  For the next twenty minutes, Mom walks me through the scanning procedure, explaining the settings for different types of materials, the file naming system (a byzantine combination of dates, collection codes, and item numbers), and the metadata requirements for the grant. It's the kind of detailed, procedural information that would normally make my eyes glaze over, but I find myself genuinely interested in getting it right. These materials matter - not just for some abstract historical value, but because they're part of a legacy I'm now connected to.

  And, if I do this, and I do a good job at it, she'll probably take the tracker off my wrist and let me go do my thing again. Can't forget the extrinsic motivation. That's a term I learned recently.

  "The scanner itself is pretty intuitive," Mom says, demonstrating how to place items on the glass and adjust settings. "But you have to be careful with fragile materials. No pressing down, no forcing anything flat. If something's too delicate for the scanner, we note it for conservation instead."

  She pulls out a third box, this one labeled "Early Vigilantes and Heroes (1995-2000)." Inside are magazine clippings, photographs, and what look like fanzines dedicated to the first wave of vigilantes in Philadelphia.

  "By the mid-90s, the first Genesis Birth children were teenagers," Mom explains. "That's when we started seeing the first masked individuals."

  I carefully extract a glossy magazine page showing a group of teenagers in makeshift costumes. "The Saviors," reads the caption. "Philadelphia's answer to rising crime rates?"

  "They weren't actually called that," Mom says, a hint of amusement in her voice. "The media named them. They were just six powered teenagers who decided to patrol Center City on weekend nights."

  I study the grainy photo. The costumes are laughably amateur – hoodies with crude symbols, ski masks, even what looks like a repurposed Halloween costume cape. But there's something familiar in their defiant poses, the way they stand together against a graffitied wall.

  "What happened to them?" I ask.

  "Most grew out of it," Mom says. "One became a police officer. One was arrested for using her powers to rob a jewelry store. The others just... disappeared back into normal life. I'm sure most of them are still around."

  I'm struck by how easily these early pioneers were forgotten. No statues, no legacy heroes carrying on their names. Just kids who tried something dangerous and then moved on. It makes me wonder what will happen to the current generation of heroes and vigilantes. Will we be forgotten too, once we grow up? Will there be nothing left but faded photographs in some archive? Would it be better that way?

  I try to think about it. I mean, if some kid twenty years from now is learning about Bloodhound in a history book, it's either because I did something awesome or something really tragic happened to me. Or I did something bad. Or multiple of the above. I'm not really sure which of those array of options scares me more.

  "This is why digitization matters," Mom says, as if reading my thoughts. "These materials are deteriorating. In another decade, some of these papers will be too fragile to handle. Once they're digital, the information survives even if the physical objects don't."

  She closes the box carefully. "You'll start tomorrow. I've adjusted your schedule so you'll spend afternoons here instead of in the children's section. You'll need to document everything precisely - what you've scanned, what condition it's in, any notes about the content."

  "Got it," I say, already thinking about which boxes I want to explore first. The "Early Vigilantes" one definitely. Maybe there's information about Liberty Belle's predecessors?... Or Liberty Belle? Would it be too much to ask for something on the Kingdom or Rogue Wave, either?

  Nah. Not with my luck.

  "Sam," Mom says, her tone shifting slightly. "I know you're probably seeing this as a way to escape shelving books, but this project is important. These records document how our society reacted to powered individuals - often with fear, sometimes with violence. It's not just superhero stories."

  I look up, surprised by the intensity in her voice.

  "History belongs to everyone," she continues. "Even the parts some people would prefer to forget. Understanding where we've been helps us figure out where we should go."

  This philosophical side of Mom catches me off guard. Usually, she's all practical efficiency and rules, especially at work. But there's a passion in her voice now that reminds me of how she sounds when discussing the parents' coalition.

  "You really care about this stuff, don't you?" I ask.

  She hesitates, as if deciding how much to share. "I believe in preserving history, especially the parts that powerful people might prefer to forget. The Morrison Collection isn't just about colorful costumes and dramatic battles. It's about how we as a society respond to difference - sometimes with wonder, sometimes with legislation, sometimes with fear."

  She stares at me. I look back at her.

  She locks eyes with me. "I hope you don't think this is the first time people have tried to outlaw doing good in public?"

  My brows furrow. "Do I look stupid?"

  I regret it as soon as I say it, but she doesn't yell at me. She just sort of closes her eyes a little bit. "No, you do not, because I raised a very intelligent little girl. I'm not nearly as much of a... superhero enthusiast as your grandfather is, or maybe some of your friends, but this is the world we live in now. So I think it's a little important that we help make sure nobody forgets this..."

  She gestures with a sweeping hand. "Stuff."

  "Right," I reply, feeling sufficiently cowed even though I didn't really receive a lecture.

  Mom nods, seemingly satisfied that I understand the significance. "We should head home. Dad's making dinner, and you've got homework."

  As we leave the archive room, locking the door behind us, I find myself thinking about those forgotten teenage vigilantes from the 90s. The ones who patrolled Center City in homemade costumes before disappearing back into normal life.

  Were they terrified every time they put on those masks? Did they argue with their parents about curfews and safety? Did they lie awake at night wondering if they were making a difference or just playing at being heroes?

  And most importantly - what changed that made them stop?

  I glance at Mom as we climb the stairs back to the main library, wondering if she sees the parallel between those long-ago teenagers and me. If she's hoping that by showing me their forgotten legacy, I'll follow the same path - a brief superhero phase before growing up and choosing a normal life. Is she trying to teach me something? Probably not, right? I'm the one that volunteered to do this, she didn't ask me.

  Either way, if she's hoping I'll just quiet down... I think she's going to be disappointed.