The Philadelphia Free Library on Lehigh Avenue isn't where I'd usually spend a summer afternoon, except for "if my Mom is there and she needs me to help her with something", but here we are, Tasha and I hunched over a microfiche reader like we're in some 1970s detective movie. The lights buzz overhead, the air conditioning barely cutting through the sticky July heat. My shirt clings to my back as I squint at yet another grainy property record.
"This is absolutely thrilling," Tasha mutters, flipping to the next document. "Real superhero stuff."
"It's called investigation," I reply without looking up. "Belle spent like half her time doing exactly this."
"And the other half punching people in the face," Tasha points out.
"Well, we're working up to that part. If there's anyone to punch."
The property records for the Longshore Sunoco are... interesting. The station officially closed eight months ago when the franchise owner filed for bankruptcy. But here's where it gets weird: the property was immediately purchased by something called "Horizon Development Group LLC," which according to their corporate filing, specializes in "urban renewal and commercial redevelopment." Except they haven't renewed or redeveloped anything. The station sits empty, officially, but still has active electric and water accounts.
"That's definitely suspicious," Tasha says, leaning closer to the screen. "Who pays utilities on an abandoned gas station?"
"Someone who's using it," I say, jotting notes in my notebook. The old-fashioned way. On paper. With a pen. Like a caveman. "But they're not renovating it, so what are they using it for?"
"Drug distribution point would fit," Tasha concedes.
I flip through more documents. Horizon Development Group has the thinnest paper trail I've ever seen. Incorporated in Delaware (of course), with a registered agent company that represents thousands of businesses. The kind of setup designed to hide ownership.
As I scroll through yet another corporate filing, my head starts to throb. Not withdrawal, just regular eye strain from staring at tiny text on microfilm for two hours. Still, it's enough to make me restless.
"Need a break," I mutter, standing up. "Stretch my legs."
Tasha raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment as I head toward the exit. Outside, the humidity hits me like a warm, wet blanket. I lean against the library wall, away from the entrance, and find myself reflexively reaching for the pack of cigarettes I bummed from Tasha yesterday. I pause with my hand in my pocket.
When did this become a thing I do? When did Samantha Small, shark girl extraordinaire, become a person who smokes?
I pull out the pack anyway, feeling like I'm watching myself from outside my body. There are three left. I tap one out, light it with the cheap plastic lighter that came with the pack, and inhale. The nicotine buzz hits almost immediately, a subtle lightening of pressure behind my eyes.
"Didn't peg you for a smoker."
I nearly drop the cigarette as I spin around. A guy in his thirties with a red windbreaker stands a few feet away - not one of the patrol guys from last night, but the jacket is identical. Great. More neighborhood watch types.
"I'm not," I say automatically, then grimace at the obvious lie. I take another drag instead of elaborating.
"You look familiar," he says, studying my face. "You live around Tacony?"
"Mayfair," I correct, keeping my expression neutral. "Just using the library."
He nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer. "You should be careful walking around alone these days. Things are getting weird out there."
"So everyone keeps saying." I take another drag, using the cigarette as an excuse not to say more. If I keep talking, I'll inevitably say something sarcastic that'll piss him off, and I'm supposed to be staying under the radar.
"You know there's a curfew for minors now, right? City ordinance."
News to me. "I thought that was just for... you know, the powered kids."
He shakes his head. "Started that way, but they expanded it last week. Under eighteen, off the streets by 11 PM unless with an adult." He taps his windbreaker. "We're helping enforce it."
"You with the same group that patrols around Torresdale?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Tacony Community Safety Coalition," he says with a touch of pride. "We've got chapters in six neighborhoods now. Trying to keep things stable until the police get their act together."
This is actually useful intel. "Must be rough out there if you need six chapters."
He launches into what sounds like a rehearsed spiel. "Crime's up 30% since January. Drug activity, especially that Jump stuff, showing up in neighborhoods that never had problems before. And the police are stretched thin dealing with all the super-crime. Regular folks have to step up. We've got drug dealers in the gas stations and wannabe supervillains hitting up bodegas. Everything's fucked up."
Drug dealers in the gas stations, huh? If I wasn't already pulling that thread, I'd tug harder there. But best not to look too interested.
"What about the other groups?" I ask casually. "I've seen different patrols around."
His expression sours. "Bunch of wannabe vigilantes. No coordination, no training, just guys with baseball bats looking for trouble." He straightens his jacket. "We're different. We have protocols, communication systems, coordination with other chapters. Some of us even have security backgrounds."
"Sounds... organized," I say, struggling to keep my tone neutral. This is feeling less like concerned citizens and more like a paramilitary group by the second.
"Have to be these days." He glances at my cigarette. "You really shouldn't smoke. Bad for you."
"Thanks, Dad," I mutter, immediately regretting the sass.
But he just chuckles. "Stay safe, kid." He walks away, continuing his patrol along the block.
I finish the cigarette, grinding it out under my heel and picking up the butt. No littering, even when questioning my life choices. I head back inside to Tasha, who looks up expectantly.
"Made a new friend?" she asks, having clearly watched the interaction through the window.
"Tacony Community Safety Coalition," I say, sitting back down. "Six chapters, protocols, coordination between neighborhoods. It's like the neighborhood watch industrial complex out there."
"Great," Tasha sighs. "Just what we need. More rent-a-cops with hero complexes."
"Found anything else?" I ask, gesturing to the screen.
"Maybe. Previous owner of the Sunoco filed an insurance claim three weeks before declaring bankruptcy. Fire damage to the storeroom. Not major, but enough to give him a payout before selling."
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"Convenient timing," I observe.
"Very. And get this - the claims adjuster was from UltraShield. Could be nothing," Tasha says, seeing my expression. "They handle regular claims too. They're the biggest superpower insurance agency around."
"Or could be something," I counter. "Add it to the board."
The next morning, Amelia reports back from her first drive-by reconnaissance. We gather around the kitchen table in the Music Hall, where she's laid out a series of polaroid photos.
"You took actual film photographs?" Maggie asks, picking one up. "That's so... retro."
"Untraceable," Amelia corrects. "No metadata, no digital footprint. Just chemistry."
The photos show different angles of the Sunoco station: the boarded-up main building, the empty lot where the pumps used to be, the surrounding businesses. Nothing obviously suspicious, but Amelia taps one image that shows the corner of the building.
"Security camera," she says. "Active, with power. See the little red light?"
I peer closer. She's right - a small black dome camera is mounted under the eaves, a tiny LED glowing red beside it.
"Why would an abandoned gas station need active security?" Lily asks.
"Exactly," Amelia says. "And there's more. I did three passes yesterday - morning, afternoon, and night. Morning was dead. Afternoon had some activity - couple guys hanging around the side entrance. But night is when it gets interesting."
She spreads out several night shots, grainier and darker but still discernible.
"Yellow jacket guy," she says triumphantly, pointing to a blurry figure by the side door. "Couldn't get a clear shot without being obvious, but that's definitely a yellow windbreaker or track jacket. And see these?" She indicates several cars parked on the street. "They come, stay for about five minutes, then leave. I timed three different vehicles."
"Quick transactions," I note. "Consistent with dealing."
"But not definitive," Tasha cautions. "Could be anything."
"Which is why we keep investigating," I say. "Lily, you still good to check out the businesses nearby today?"
She nods. "There's a corner store and a laundromat on the same block, plus a coffee shop across the street. I'll hit them all, see what people know."
"Be casual," I warn. "Just a curious customer, nothing specific about the Sunoco unless they bring it up."
"I know how to talk to people, Sam," Lily says with mild exasperation. "That's like, my whole thing."
"I thought it was being fast," Maggie replies.
"I can be friendly and fast," Lily responds.
"Right. Sorry." I turn to Maggie. "We'll do our walk-through tonight, around 8. Early enough that your parents won't freak, late enough to maybe catch some activity."
"If there even is any," Tasha mutters.
"The evidence is pointing that way," I say, gesturing to the photos and my library notes. "Abandoned property with active utilities, security cameras, yellow jacket guy, quick visits at night. And a corporate owner that's basically a ghost."
"Eighty percent there," Amelia agrees.
"Let's get to one hundred," I say, standing up. "And then we decide what to do about it."
The laundromat on Longshore Avenue smells like fabric softener and desperation. Lily and I feed quarters into a washing machine, pretending we have an actual reason to be here besides surveillance. The Sunoco station is visible through the large front windows, giving us the perfect vantage point without being obvious.
We'd altered our plan slightly - rather than Lily going alone, we decided two friends doing laundry would attract less attention than a solo woman asking too many questions. I'm pretending to be eighteen, which works because I'm tall for my age and have the kind of face that could be anywhere between sixteen and twenty-five, depending on makeup and lighting.
"So what did you find out yesterday?" I ask as we dump laundry detergent into the machine.
Lily grins. "The coffee shop was a goldmine. Barista is this chatty guy named Eric who's worked there two years. Says the Sunoco's been 'closed' for months but there's been steady traffic lately. People coming and going at weird hours."
"Did he mention yellow jacket guy?"
"Not by name, but he said there's this 'manager type' who shows up every evening around seven, leaves around midnight. Always wearing the same bright yellow windbreaker."
"That's our guy," I say, feeling a surge of satisfaction. This is how investigation is supposed to work - pulling threads, finding patterns, confirming details.
"There's more," Lily continues, leaning closer. "Mix of customers, according to Eric. But he mentioned something odd - said a lot of them seem to be from outside the neighborhood. Nice cars, not local plates."
That's interesting. Distribution point for a wider network, not just local dealing. I file that away as the washing machine lurches into its cycle.
An older woman enters the laundromat, pushing a cart filled with bedding. She eyes us suspiciously as she claims the machine farthest from us. The neighborhood patrol guy's words echo in my head - everyone's on edge these days, suspicious of strangers.
"I'm going to get some air," I tell Lily, suddenly feeling claustrophobic under the woman's stare. "Back in five."
Outside, I lean against the wall, watching the street. It's mid-afternoon, the summer heat shimmering off the pavement. The Sunoco sits quiet and seemingly abandoned across the street, its boarded windows and faded signs giving no hint of the activity we suspect happens inside.
Before I can decide whether to indulge, motion at the Sunoco catches my eye. A guy - not yellow jacket, someone else - emerges from the side door, quickly looks both ways, then hurries across the parking lot. He's carrying something, though I can't make out what from this distance.
The side door opens again, and there he is - yellow jacket guy in the flesh. He's younger than I expected, maybe mid-twenties, with close-cropped hair and the kind of generic handsome face that's hard to describe. The jacket is a bright canary yellow, impossible to miss. He's talking into a phone, gesturing with his free hand as he paces along the side of the building.
This is it. Confirmation of Darius's information. The yellow jacket guy exists, and he's operating out of the supposedly abandoned Sunoco station. Exactly as described.
Yellow jacket finishes his call and heads back inside, disappearing through the side door. I count to twenty, then casually cross the street, careful not to look directly at the Sunoco as I pass. Then, I circle back to the laundromat, where Lily is anxiously watching for me through the window.
"Did you see him?" she asks as soon as I'm inside.
"In living technicolor," I confirm.
"That's one more confirmation," Lily says. "What's next?"
"We finish our fake laundry, then report back to the others," I say, glancing at our washing machine as it shifts into its spin cycle. "After Maggie and I do our evening observation, we should have enough to make a decision."
"About whether to hit the place?" Lily asks.
I shake my head. "About whether to pester the Titans. If this is really a Jump distribution point for Rogue Wave, we're going to need backup."
By the time Maggie and I set up our observation post that evening, we've accumulated a substantial body of evidence. Amelia's photographs. Lily's intelligence from local businesses. The property records showing suspicious ownership and active utilities in an abandoned building. I've even caught a vascular system sparking to life out of nowhere - I have to assume someone inside taking Fly, because boy, is their blood orange. That should really be enough, but...
"That's the third one in twenty minutes," Maggie whispers, marking another tally in her notebook. We're sitting on a bench at the bus stop across from the Sunoco, pretending to be waiting for a bus while actually counting the number of people entering and leaving the side door. "Quick in and out, just like a drug deal."
"And always the same pattern," I add. "Knock on the door, yellow jacket guy checks them out, they go inside for less than five minutes, then leave with something in their pocket."
We're far enough away that we can't see exactly what's being exchanged, but the pattern is unmistakable. This is a distribution point, no question about it.
"I wish we could get closer," Maggie says, fidgeting with barely contained energy. "Maybe if I used a force field to--"
"No powers," I cut her off firmly. "We're just observing, remember? Besides, we've seen enough. This is definitely a Jump operation."
As if to punctuate my statement, the side door opens again, and yellow jacket guy steps out. This time, he's not alone - there's another man with him, older, wearing a bright red bomber jacket and the world's stupidest looking hat. Big round orange John Lennon glasses. My brain buzzes with recognition but I couldn't for the life of me tell you where from - a TV show? They appear to be arguing, with yellow jacket making placating gestures while Bomber Jacket looks with the sort of disapproving glare only a parent can muster.
"That looks intense," Maggie observes. "Think the boss is unhappy with sales?"
"Maybe," I murmur, straining to hear their conversation. We're too far away to catch specific words, but the body language tells the story. Bomber Jacket is unhappy about something. Yellow Jacket is folding inward on himself.
The conversation ends abruptly as a black SUV pulls into the parking lot. Both men immediately straighten up, their demeanor changing completely. The SUV's windows are tinted, making it impossible to see who's inside. Yellow Jacket hurries to the passenger side door as it opens.
Before we can see more, a city bus pulls up, blocking our view and stopping directly in front of us. The doors hiss open, and the driver gives us an expectant look.
"You getting on or what?" he asks.
Maggie and I exchange a glance. Our cover demands we board, even though we want to keep watching.
"Yeah, we're getting on," I say, standing up. Perfect timing, universe. Thanks.
As the bus pulls away, I catch one last glimpse of the Sunoco. The SUV is gone, and Yellow Jacket is back inside. I peek out for Bomber Jacket, but he's gone too - where'd he go? I didn't hear the SUV door shutting. Someone bumps into me - some goth girl wearing the sort of withered, wide-eyed scowl only a college student could muster - and I give her a polite 'scuse me' while she shoots me the stink-eye.
