By the time we make it back to the Music Hall, it's almost 3 AM. My wrists have been wrapped in clean gauze (courtesy of Gossamer's first aid kit), and we've all changed into civilian clothes in a sketchy alleyway three blocks from our headquarters. Well, almost all of us - I'm still wearing the lower half of my costume underneath sweatpants because it turns out that peeling off compression gear when you're sweaty is an Olympic sport I'm not qualified for.

  Tasha greets us at the door, her expression a mixture of relief and concern. She's been monitoring the police channels since we left the Sunoco, tracking patrol movements to make sure we weren't followed.

  "Nice of you all to finally show up," she says, stepping aside to let us in. "I was starting to think I'd have to file missing person reports."

  "We took the scenic route," Maggie quips, dumping her backpack on the nearest chair. It bulges oddly, and I catch a glimpse of something yellow inside - probably the family-sized mac and cheese she grabbed from Wawa on the way out. "Had to make sure we weren't followed."

  The main room of the Music Hall looks like a war room from some spy thriller. Tasha has set up multiple monitors displaying various feeds - police scanners, traffic cameras, news sites. G-d bless our local thrift store's "discarded tech" section. One screen is dedicated to a map of Northeast Philly with various points marked in red and blue - Jump distribution sites we've identified and police patrol routes, respectively.

  "So what did we get?" Tasha asks, turning to face us. "Besides bruises," she adds, eyeing the marks visible above the collar of my sweatshirt.

  I reach into my pocket and produce our prize - several small packages of Jump. In the light, I can see they're all the same color - the familiar lime green pills we've encountered before.

  "We thought these were color-coded from the product labels we saw - JMP-R, JMP-B, JMP-G," I say, placing them on the table. "But looks like that refers to something else. Maybe different power classifications? Hard to tell in the dark. Either way, that's about six hundred bucks of poison off the streets."

  "Not to mention all this," Maggie adds, pulling out her phone. She flips through a series of hastily taken photos - shots of the Sunoco's interior, the folding tables, the laptop, the inventory. Not great quality, but definitely evidence.

  "And the contacts," Gossamer reminds us, settling into a chair with a wince. Even she isn't immune to the post-adrenaline crash. "We've confirmed direct connections between local distributors and higher-level Rogue Wave operatives."

  "Speaking of which," Tasha says, typing rapidly at her keyboard. One of the monitors switches to a different display - a freeze-frame from the May broadcast we all watched in horror. "Take a look at this."

  The image shows the six figures from Rogue Wave's hijacked broadcast standing in that empty office space with its cheap carpet and harsh overhead lighting. The central figure - Monkey Business in his stupid monkey mask and perfectly tailored suit - dominates the frame, with Birthday Suit standing imposingly beside him.

  "Rogue Wave's broadcast from May," Tasha explains, though none of us need the reminder. "When they hijacked NBC 10 and made their big debut with that suicide bomber threat." She points to two figures on either side. "And look who else was there."

  My eyes widen as I recognize them - Rush Order in his red bomber jacket, beret, and those annoying orange-tinted glasses, and Dead Drop in her black unitard with skull pads and chains coiled around her like snakes.

  "That's them," I say, leaning closer to the screen. "Red Jacket Guy is Rush Order, and Drop is Dead Drop. They're actually part of the core team. They were there from the beginning."

  "So it's all one organization," Gossamer says, nodding slowly. "Marathon reports to Rush Order, who's part of the central Rogue Wave leadership."

  "And Dead Drop is their... what, troubleshooter?" Maggie suggests.

  "Enforcer," I correct, unconsciously touching my throat where the chains had dug in. "She said she was a professional. Cold as ice, too. Would have killed me without blinking if she thought it was necessary. And she's a lot smaller than I remembered - seeing her on screen, she can't be more than 5'1"."

  "So what does this tell us about their structure?" Gossamer asks, always the tactician.

  Tasha pulls up another image - this one a news photo of Maya Richardson at a press conference, with several suits behind her. "Compare them to the Kingdom," she says. "Richardson is the only one we've publicly attached a name and face to, and she maintains complete separation between her political and criminal activities. And you had to jump through an acre of hoops just to see Mr. Antithesis's name, and we don't know anything else about him besides 'he's white' and 'he's evil'."

  "Two different approaches," I verbalize what Tasha is saying. "Rogue Wave is decentralized, operates in cells, but their leaders aren't afraid to get their hands dirty. Kingdom is hierarchical, more like the mafia. The bosses stay hidden while the soldiers do the work."

  "Exactly," Tasha agrees. "With Rogue Wave, we're fighting the generals. With Kingdom, we're only ever fighting the lieutenants."

  "So what do we do with these?" Maggie asks, poking one of the Jump packages with a pencil.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  We all stare at the colorful pills like they might explode. It's a good question - one I hadn't really thought through when grabbing them. We can't just keep illegal drugs lying around our headquarters. But what's the alternative?

  "We could flush them," Blink suggests, arriving through the side door, grocery bags in hand. I hadn't even realized she was gone. "Sorry I'm late. Picked up some snacks and drinks. Figured we could all use the calories."

  "Can't flush them," Tasha says immediately. "They dissolve in water, sure, but then they're in the water system. What if they don't get filtered out? What if a fish eats them and gets superpowers?"

  "Super-fish?" Maggie snorts. "Now that's a movie I'd watch."

  "We can't burn them either," Gossamer points out. "We have no idea what toxic gases they might release."

  "What about turning them in to the police?" Blink suggests, unpacking energy drinks and protein bars onto the table.

  I shake my head. "And say what? 'Hi, Officer, we found these highly illegal superhuman drugs while doing our highly illegal vigilante activities'? We'd be arrested on the spot."

  "We could mail them anonymously," Maggie tries.

  "Through the post office? Then we're committing a federal crime by mailing controlled substances," Tasha counters.

  "This is ridiculous," I groan, leaning back in my chair. "How do normal people dispose of drugs?"

  "Normal people don't typically find baggies full of experimental superpowers," Gossamer points out dryly.

  "My mom's hospital has a hazardous waste disposal system," Tasha says after a moment's thought. "Medical waste gets incinerated at super high temperatures. I could... probably figure out a way to sneak these into that stream."

  "Or we could just drop it off anonymously to the police somehow?" I offer, trying to avoid thinking about the oncoming light migraine. I feel it in my fingers more than I feel it in my head.

  Tasha rubs her chin thoughtfully. "Let's leave them here for now, and I'll figure something out. I like solving problems with you guys."

  Aww.

  "Speaking of handling things," Maggie says, pulling out the giant container of Wawa mac and cheese, "I need to get this to my uncle before morning. He's my alibi - supposedly I was hanging out with him tonight watching horror movies."

  "And he's cool with lying to your parents?" Blink asks, cracking open an energy drink.

  "For family-sized Wawa mac and cheese? Absolutely. Plus he thinks my parents are too strict anyway." Maggie grins. "What about you guys? What's your cover story?"

  "My parents think I'm sleeping over at a friend's," Blink says with a shrug. "They don't check."

  "And mine think I'm here working on costume designs," Gossamer adds. "Which isn't entirely untrue."

  "Sam?" Maggie turns to me. "What about your folks? Didn't they go full lockdown after your last adventure?"

  I wince, both from the bruising and the reminder. "Yeah, about that..."

  I pull out my phone and check the messages. Two from Mom, one from Dad, all asking if I'm okay and reminding me of the curfew we had agreed on. The last one, sent about an hour ago, requests a photo to prove I'm safe at the Music Hall, or Maggie's, or Lily's, and not out "doing something dangerous."

  "I need to send a picture," I explain, "showing I'm safe and sound at the Music Hall, definitely not out fighting crime." I gesture to my neck, where the bruises from Drop's chains are darkening into an unmistakable pattern. "But this is kind of a giveaway."

  "Makeup," Gossamer says immediately, reaching for her bag. "I can fix that."

  Ten minutes later, I'm sitting in the bathroom while Gossamer attempts to cover the bruises with foundation and concealer. It's a strange feeling - I've never been much for makeup, and having someone else apply it is even weirder. When was the last time I wore makeup? The nightclub raid?

  "Hold still," she instructs, dabbing at my neck with a sponge. "Geez, Sam, these bruises are deep. She really did a number on you."

  "Could've been worse," I mutter, trying not to move. "How much longer? This stuff feels weird."

  "Beauty is pain," Gossamer says with a rare smirk. "And patience. Almost done."

  She steps back to examine her work, then nods in satisfaction. "Not perfect, but it'll photograph well enough. Just don't let your parents see you in person until those fade a bit."

  I check the mirror and have to admit she's done a good job. The bruises are still visible if you know what to look for, but in a photo, especially one taken in the dim light of the Music Hall, they should be invisible.

  I snap a quick selfie, making sure to get some of the main room in the background, and send it to my parents with a message: All good, just lost track of time working on stuff with Amelia. Will be home tomorrow morning.

  A reply comes almost immediately: Be careful walking home. Love you.

  This is part of the job. This is what it costs.

  When we return to the main room, Blink has arrived with breakfast burritos, and Tasha has switched one of the monitors to the morning news. A reporter stands in front of the Sunoco station, now cordoned off with police tape. I check the clock - when did it become 7 AM? When did the sun start rising?

  "...where police responded to reports of a disturbance shortly after 1 AM," she's saying. "Sources tell NBC 10 that this abandoned gas station was being used as a distribution point for illegal substances, possibly including the street drug known as 'Jump.'"

  The camera pans to show officers carrying evidence bags from the building.

  "While authorities have not confirmed any arrests, security footage from a nearby business captured what appears to be costumed individuals fleeing the scene." The feed switches to grainy, black-and-white footage showing shadowy figures running down an alley - us, making our escape. The image is blurry enough that our identities aren't clear, but there's no mistaking what we are: vigilantes.

  "Police have declined to comment on whether this incident is connected to the string of Jump-related crimes that have plagued Philadelphia in recent months," the reporter continues. "However, sources within the department suggest this may represent a significant break in their ongoing investigation."

  "Well," Maggie says around a mouthful of burrito, "at least they don't know it was us specifically."

  "Small mercies," I mutter, accepting the breakfast burrito Blink offers me. My stomach growls loudly - I hadn't realized how hungry I was until just now.

  The reporter on screen suddenly touches her earpiece, her expression changing. "I'm being told we have breaking news," she says, looking directly into the camera. "We're going to cut live to the studio."

  The feed switches to the NBC 10 anchor desk, where a serious-looking man in a blue suit sits, papers in hand.

  "We interrupt our regular broadcast with breaking news," he announces, his voice grave. "NBC 10 has received a communication from the organization known as Rogue Wave. We have been instructed to read the following statement on air, or, quote, 'face consequences similar to that last hostage situation,' end quote. After consultation with law enforcement, station management has decided to comply with this demand for public safety reasons."

  The anchor looks down at the paper in his hands, adjusts his glasses, and begins to read:

  "Citizens of Philadelphia, your attention please. This is Rogue Wave speaking. Have you ever wanted to become a mad scientist's assistant?"