Maggie's house is the most Irish place in the world.

  I'm not saying that like she is the most Irish person in the world--there are people with like, stronger accents or whatever--but her house? The house itself is fundamentally Irish. You walk in, and it's like stepping into a distilled essence of Ireland that's been lovingly applied to every single available surface. Wood-paneled walls? Check. Celtic knots on like, everything? Check. A picture of JFK in the dining room like he's a long-lost uncle? Also, unfortunately, check.

  The living room smells like beef stew and generational trauma, and the second you step inside, somebody's dad is yelling at the TV. It's not her dad--he's at work--it's her uncle. Maggie has an unreasonable number of uncles. There are always one to three uncles present in this house, like a rotating stock.

  Today, Uncle Brian is the one on duty, which means we get a squint from the couch and a barely-audible "girls" in acknowledgment before he goes back to being furious about a Sixers game from five years ago that they're replaying on ESPN Classic.

  "Hey, Brian," Maggie calls, already halfway up the stairs. "Don't get up."

  "Wasn't gonna," he replies, eyes glued to the screen.

  Amelia lingers in the doorway for half a second too long, like she's trying to process the energy of this house. This is her first time at Maggie's, and she's looking at everything like she's collecting evidence. She barely even nods at Brian, which is a mistake, because now he's squinting at her harder.

  "Who's this?"

  "That's Amelia," I say, dragging Amelia inside before she dies on the threshold like a vampire. "She's with me."

  Brian grunts and goes back to the game.

  Amelia, wisely, chooses not to engage further.

  Maggie's already upstairs, so I take the steps two at a time, letting Amelia catch up at her own pace. The second floor is much quieter, which is good, because the downstairs was borderline uninhabitable for anyone who isn't used to perpetual background noise.

  Maggie's room is exactly what you'd expect.

  Sports posters, random trophies from when she actually gave a shit about school sports, laundry on every available surface, a desk covered in notebooks and disassembled hardware, and a twin-sized bed that looks like it has never, ever been properly made.

  She's already flopped across it, spread-eagle, dramatically sighing at the ceiling.

  "I'm gonna die in this house," she declares. "This is my tomb."

  "Wow," Amelia says, stepping carefully over a pile of mismatched sneakers, "you weren't kidding about the dramatics."

  "She's been like this for a week," I say, shoving some probably-clean laundry off a chair so I can sit down. "I assume she's been laying there for that entire time, unmoving."

  Maggie doesn't deny it.

  Instead, she rolls over onto her stomach, chin propped up on her hands, and squints at us. "Tell me something cool. Something exciting. Anything. I've been in this house so long, I'm losing my sense of self."

  Amelia raises an eyebrow. "You went to school."

  "Did I?" Maggie says. "Or was that just an elaborate punishment simulation designed to break my will?"

  I shrug. "School's school. Same as ever."

  Maggie groans into her arms.

  "Okay, but real talk," she says, voice muffled. "Did they throw a parade for you, or...?"

  I make a face. Returning to school after a one-week suspension was an event. It wasn't a parade, but it felt like one, which was arguably worse.

  The second I walked back into the building, it was like I had single-handedly won a war. I was getting high-fives from freshmen I don't even know. Some kid in the cafeteria yelled "Smalls in the building!" like I was a WWE wrestler making my entrance.

  Which, in theory, sounds cool.

  The attention was too much, but at the same time, it wasn't even the right kind of attention. They weren't excited about me, they were excited about the story. About the idea of "Sam Small, Slayer of Security Guards." They didn't care about what actually happened, or how close things got to going really, really bad. They just liked that it was loud.

  It got even worse when I got to detention. Because Jordan was there, and Jordan does not like not making a scene. So, obviously, they were there first, set up in the back of the room, and waited for me to walk in just so they could throw their arms out like an asshole and yell "Ah, my fellow war criminal!" in front of the whole room.

  I almost turned around and walked out on instinct. Why the teacher babysitting us didn't intervene, I have no idea.

  At least Ridley got turbo-fired. One of the security guards told me that himself.

  "Dude," I tell Maggie, pulling myself back to the present, "it sucked. I mean, I'm not saying I expected a hero's welcome, but I also didn't expect every single sophomore to be acting like they're my number one fan."

  Maggie grins. "C'mon. You're a legend now. Gotta get used to it."

  "I don't gotta get used to it," I grumble. "I just gotta wait for them to get bored."

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Amelia snorts. "You could just go full antihero and start brooding on rooftops."

  "I'd rather die."

  Maggie sits up just enough to actually look at us, eyes narrowing. "So what's in the bag?"

  Right, that. The actual reason we're here. Let's get on with that - I pull the duffel onto my lap, unzipping it just enough to flash her the first layer of black fabric.

  "New costumes," Amelia says, leaning forward with way too much pride.

  Maggie lights up immediately, rolling onto her knees so she can snatch the bag and start rifling through it.

  "No way," she says, pulling out the first piece of gear--a black, high-collared jacket with reinforced padding along the shoulders and forearms. "No way."

  "Way," Amelia says.

  Maggie holds it up like it's the holy grail.

  "Dude," she says, turning it over in her hands. "This is so much better than my old one. My old one was, like, a clearance rack abomination."

  "Yeah," I say, "your old one was basically discount lacrosse gear."

  "I was doing my best!"

  Amelia leans back, arms crossed, smug. "I made them practical. Stealth colors. Reinforced in the places that matter. And lightweight, because somebody--" she gestures to Maggie, "--likes to launch herself at high speeds directly into things. And if you go loud, you can reverse some of it to get that abominable cherry red you like so much."

  Maggie looks appropriately guilty.

  "Anyway," Amelia continues, "we made you look like an actual hero."

  Maggie runs a hand over the fabric, her expression shifting just slightly. Like she's actually letting it hit her that this is hers, now. Not just stuff she threw together, not just borrowed sports gear.

  It's hers.

  She clears her throat, playing it off like it's not a big deal.

  "So, uh," she says, flipping the jacket over her shoulder. "How soon are we testing these out?"

  The Bloodhound stealth suit is sick as hell.

  I'm standing in the lobby of the music hall, rolling my shoulders, twisting at the waist, testing the range of motion. It's sleek, it's light, it's comfortable--a little less padded than my usual winter suit, a little less color, but so much easier to move in. The gloves are tighter, reinforced at the knuckles, and I can already feel the subtle texture differences in the material--where Amelia strengthened things, where she left some flex, where she knew exactly what I was going to do to this poor, undeserving fabric.

  The real showstopper, though? The helmet.

  Amelia holds it up, turning it slightly so the overhead lights catch the finish. It's black and white, sleeker than my usual one, with sharper angles and a longer snout. My old one looked like something a football player would wear if they lost a bet. This one? This one looks like a predator.

  "You look less like a dog and more like a wolf now," Amelia says, smirking a little. "Hero Support kinda people stick together. So I called in a favor from one of my friends who owns a resin printer."

  "A what? You printed this?" I ask, staring at her, mouth slightly agape.

  She tosses me the helmet, grinning and not answering. I catch it out of the air, flipping it over in my hands. It's light, but sturdy--I can tell it's been reinforced in all the right places. Black padding on the inside. Little... plates, I'm unsure if it's metal or kevlar, but something hard and reinforced under the soft bits.

  "All your measurements from last time were wrong, by the way," Amelia adds, very pointedly. "You've been growing like a weed. This is fitted for you right now, as a sixteen-year-old. Happy belated birthday."

  I pause, helmet halfway to my head. For a second, I don't really know what to say.

  She's not wrong--I have been growing. My old suit was starting to feel tight in all the wrong ways. But hearing her say it like that--so matter-of-fact, like a mom picking out school clothes for next year--it hits weirdly. Man. I should've had, like, a better birthday party, huh? ... Man, I've been superheroing for almost two years? I'm not sure how much I like that.

  I pull the helmet on, adjusting the fit. It's perfect. The visor snaps down smooth, and when I tilt my head side to side, it moves with me--no wobble, no lag. It clamps around my face like a facehugger and latches smoothly in the back. It's immediately sweaty. It's mine. And it looks sick as hell.

  But Amelia isn't done.

  "Now, for the pièce de résistance," she says, dramatically shifting gears, because she loves this shit. She steps back and reaches for something on the worktable.

  I already know what it is, and I already feel weirdly nervous.

  She holds up a gauntlet.

  It's ugly as sin. A Frankenstein of a thing. The casing is cobbled together from like five different sources, the seams are a little rough, and it's got all the aesthetic grace of a RadioShack clearance bin. But! It's mine. It's not the same gauntlet I inherited from Miss Mayfly. Scrapped for parts and wire and re-assembled into something with half the size and much more flexibility. New skin over old bones.

  I flex my fingers inside the reinforced knuckles. It's not perfect--it's a little bulky, a little stiff--but it works. And I can feel that it's been made for me.

  "I had to teach myself electrical engineering for this," Amelia says, like she's casually announcing she built a time machine. "It's not pretty, but the wiring is solid, and I did all the testing myself. Based on what you've told me about your prior fights, I loaded in the essentials."

  She taps the underside of the wrist. "Nozzles here. Left button sprays watered-down pig's blood for you to track and mark objects--so you stop licking things like a freak--"

  "My powers don't--"

  "--and the right button is pepper spray, because you fight like a rabid raccoon."

  Jordan snorts, and I shoot them a withering glare that they ignore.

  "Strategic slots for your teeth" Amelia continues, pretending to be normal about it, "and reinforced knuckles, just in case you need to make some direct contact."

  I turn my wrist, examining the seams. It's not smooth, but it's good. The wires are hidden, the buttons are placed just right, and I can tell--she put real effort into this. This wasn't just some side project. This was something she built because she knew I needed it. I don't know if I need it because it's useful, or if I need it because it connects me back to Kate. I hope she's alright. I know she's leaving at night, coming back late, and I just hope that if she's Soot she's not putting herself too much in harm's way.

  I exhale, rolling my shoulders again, adjusting to the weight of everything.

  And then--Amelia claps her hands together.

  "Right! Next!" she pivots, already grabbing the next piece of gear.

  Jordan steps forward, casual as ever, and catches the helmet she tosses them.

  "Your motorcycle helmet was fine," Amelia says, already moving on, "but this one has a slimmer form factor and a tinted visor. Same protection, but makes it harder to see your face. I understand what you're going for with the white making it hard to focus on your body, but we don't want anyone focusing on you at all. I'd recommend going without the cape cloak thing."

  Jordan tilts their head. "I like my fireproof cloak."

  "Keep it," Amelia says. "It fits over top. I'd just recommend against it for this particular mission. We're going into a warehouse, presumably there are valuable things in it, and I'm doubtful that fire will be a risk we'll be encountering."

  Jordan turns the helmet in their hands, eyebrow raised. "You know I don't fight, right?"

  "You still stick your head in places it doesn't belong," Amelia deadpans. "I'd rather not spend another afternoon plucking glass shards out of your scalp."

  Jordan mutters something rude, but doesn't argue.

  Then--Amelia turns to Lily, and she holds up the last set of gear.

  "Blink," she says, nodding. "You get your normal costume, inline skates included. But in black. All black everything."

  Lily blinks. Then--slowly, carefully, in a voice full of hard-earned skepticism--

  "You didn't take my measurements like you did with everyone else. Did you already have them?"

  Amelia grins. "I have known you for like four years. We're both done growing, buddy. I also got you a helmet. You really should be wearing one."

  Jordan bursts out laughing while I scrunch my face up, testing the way my skin contacts the padding on the inside of my helmet.

  The gear feels right.

  The team feels ready.

  Now, all we have to do is pull this off.