…Meanwhile, in Dimension 8109…

“It’s in your hands again, June,” a voice echoed. “You know the consequences of failure.”

June Fiddler, in uniform as Blackthorn, dashed breathlessly through ankle-deep water. The sky above was speckled with thousands of splintering stars while prunus spinosa, which covered the towering walls of the maze, stretched outward toward her. Fiddler collided with the corner of a sudden turn in the labyrinth before finding her feet and continuing to dash through the amorphous landscape. She glanced over her shoulder as a colossal two-story Hercules beetle stormed into view—crawling along the cavernous wall and snapping its claws while it pursued her.

Fiddler tripped over her foot, landing hard on the ground with a splash. Thinking quickly, she used her powers to manifest three javelins from shadow and hurled them at the beetle as it lunged for her. The weapons plunged themselves into the behemoth’s exoskeleton—prompting the creature to crumble to the ground with a wounded roar. With another agonizing wail, the beetle skittered forward toward Blackthorn. She kicked out with her leg, sending a shadowy boot directly at her target. Striking its horn, the behemoth lurched sideways as Fiddler flicked her fingers and pinned the insect to the wall with a dozen more jagged spears.

Blackthorn caught her breath as she climbed to her feet and doubled over. She began to examine the carcass of the Hercules beetle, hemolymph oozing down the wall, before her heart skipped a beat. Something trudged through the water behind her. 

“Oh, what now?” Fiddler muttered, enveloping her hands in shadowed gauntlets.

“June?” her mother’s voice called out.

“Juno. Wake up, honey,” Brianna Fiddler exclaimed from the doorway to her daughter’s room. June bolted upward in bed in a cold sweat. “Breakfast in five.”

“…Ok…I’ll be down in a sec,” June replied, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Brianna nodded with a smile before leaving. June exhaled, her gaze wandering over the purple walls and the few movie posters that adorned them. A desk opposite her bed was blanketed with a scattered pile of old flashcards from the school year, a loaded pen holder, and a swinging arm lamp. Next to the desk, a bookcase harbored a collection of snow globes from various cities and tourist destinations, while a half dozen gymnastic trophies were displayed atop the piece of furniture. The remainder of the small room was neatly organized with the morning sunlight streaming warmly onto the carpeted floor through the blinds of her lone window. June climbed out of bed and got dressed for the day before heading out into the kitchen.

“Morning, sweetie,” Brianna smiled, plunging two pieces of bread into the toaster.

“Morning,” June grumpily acknowledged, grabbing a cup from the cupboard before raiding their refrigerator for a carton of milk.

“Sleep ok?” Brianna asked.

“Ehh,” June shrugged, pouring herself a glass before placing the carton back in the fridge and closing the door.

“Another nightmare?” Brianna assumed, concernedly.   

“…It’s nothing,” June responded dismissively, taking a swig of milk as she walked over toward their small table and sat down.

“Hmm,” Brianna pressed her lips together. “We should bring that up to Dr. Park during your annual next month.”

“I will,” June promised a few moments before the toaster sprang up its contents with a shrill beep.

“Maybe start documenting how many times a week you have them so we can show it to her,” Brianna advised as June’s brother, Sam, walked into the kitchen.

“Hey, guys,” Sam waved.

“Morning, hon,” Brianna smiled. “Give any more thought to what Mr. Rivers suggested?”

“…Yeah,” Sam reluctantly grumbled. “It sounds like Summer school to me.”

“Well…” Brianna paused, contemplating her next words. “It may be beneficial in the long run—especially with college coming up.”

“Yeah, but…” Sam reasoned. “It’s more school.”

“And it’s one month, then you’re done,” Brianna argued, plating the toast and walking it over to the table, where she placed it in front of her daughter. “Hey, while I have you both here, I need you to do me a huge favor.”

“Sure thing, Mom,” Sam asserted. “What’s up?”

“Kyle called me early this morning,” Brianna explained. “He got pulled into a bunch of meetings today and won’t be able to pick Trent up from Bashford. He asked me to pick him up and drop him off back home once he’s done his treatment.”

“Ok,” Sam nodded while June wordlessly bit into her toast.

“I’m not going to be able to do that,” Brianna admitted. “There’s no way I can juggle the daycare and pick Trent up at the same time—I need you two to do it.”

“Mom!” June protested, feigning outrage.

“Don’t give me that, young lady!” Brianna snapped with an angered tone in her voice. “It’ll only be a few hours. I know it’s the first week of Summer vacation, but you have plenty of time to do whatever you want—starting tomorrow!”

 “Let us manage the day care,” June offered. “That way you’re free and clear! He’s going to be your step-son! You don’t think he takes priority over everything?” Brianna huffed.

“Of course he does!” she insisted. “Don’t twist what I’m saying! I’m not letting the daycare ‘take priority’.”

“But you are,” June argued. “You did virtually the same thing with Sam last week, and it—”

 “What happened last week?” Brianna interrupted.

“You asked me to be your eyes and ears during Sam’s meeting with Mr. Rivers,” June explained.

“I did not! I asked you to make sure Sam remembered he had a meeting with Mr. Rivers. That’s it!” Brianna excused.

“And you didn’t think you needed to sit in on that meeting?” June questioned.

“No!” Brianna replied. “Sam is perfectly capable of handling it himself!”

“Yes, of course he can, Mom! But that’s not my point!” June protested. “You don’t attend Sam’s soccer games or my gym meets. And do you have any inkling of Trent’s life other than he has cancer?”

 “You make it sound like I do it maliciously!” Brianna snapped bitterly. “You haven’t invited me to one of your gym meets in years.”

 “Because I know you’d rather be doing anything else.” June countered. Her mother bristled.

“That’s enough!” Brianna sternly rebuked. “Just go over, keep Trent company, and take him back home after. I see this as an opportunity to bond with him, you know, treat him like you and Sam treat each other!”

“I know.” June countered. “But maybe it would be good for you to spend some time with him? He’s going to start thinking you don’t care about him.” Brianna closed her eyes, a disappointed frown creasing her lips.

“W-we’ll go, Mom,” Sam interjected before his mother could reply. “You’re right, it’ll—it’ll be good for all of us…” Cutting the conversation short, the Fiddlers’ house phone began to ring. Brianna walked over and answered it.

“Hello,” she stated, before her facial expression brightened. “Oh! Hey! How did the interview go? Oh, nothing, just getting the kids ready for the day, how’s Pat?…”

“It must be Bonnie,” June hypothesized to Sam as their mother walked out of the room. Sam bit his lip in silence.

“I don’t like it when you two fight,” he confessed. June’s stare lowered down at her plate and partially eaten toast.

“Me neither,” she admitted. “But I don’t like how you and Trent are afterthoughts to her.”

“We’re not,” Sam rebuked.

“She wants to ship you off to summer school, Sam! And she’s going out of her way to avoid interacting with Trent!” June argued. “Am I the only one who sees that? Or what?”

“Juno, the…” Sam hesitated as he searched for the right words. “The ‘summer school’ is for people like me—it helps with dyslexia. And Trent…I’m not sure she knows how to talk to him yet.”

“That’s what I’m getting at, Sam,” June insisted. “It feels like she’s trying to hide under a rock from you guys!” Sam shifted his shoulders deflatingly.

“Even if you’re right,” he introspectively commented. “I don’t think throwing that in her face solves anything.”

June sighed. “I just don’t…” she stammered. “I don’t know how to bring it up to her before it’s too late.”

“Let me try to talk to her,” Sam volunteered. “I can do it more…diplomatically.” June blinked, giving her brother a deadpan stare.

“…Wow,” she bleated.

“I’m just saying,” Sam chided. “It’s like watching a nature documentary sometimes with the way you and Mom go at it.”

“Sam?” June asked.

“What?” Sam responded.

“Stop talking,” June dryly ordered.

“What? I’m just doing what you did to Mom a second ago,” Sam defended himself, prompting his sister to grit her teeth in deep thought.

“You ready to go?” June asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah, I just need to grab my phone,” Sam answered. “Maybe a couple of other things to bide the time.”

“We’ll head over once Mom’s done,” June decided with a nod. “I don’t want to keep Trent waiting alone for long.”

 “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “…Did, did you two know each other before we all met for dinner that one night?”

 “Err, oh no!” June lied, a flash of panic crossing her eyes. “Why?”

“It seemed like you two recognized each other,” Sam explained. “I don’t know, maybe I misread it.”

“Yeah, maybe,” June fretted. “I did think I knew him from somewhere—gymnastics or something, but I think I was conflating him with someone else.”

“Gotcha!” Sam nodded as June subtly breathed a sigh of relief. Brianna walked back into the kitchen.

“I’m meeting Bonnie for lunch on Saturday,” she announced.

“Ok. Was Trent’s appointment still at ten?” June asked.

“I believe so, yes,” Brianna replied. June nodded.

“We’re going to start to head over,” she informed her mother.

“All right,” Brianna acknowledged. “Be careful.”

“Will do,” Sam exclaimed.

“Love you, Mom,” June waved.

“Love you, too,” Brianna responded.

…

Sam and June climbed the stairs and emerged from a subway station entrance, across the street from the Bashford Cancer Center. The bright sun gleamed down on a brick-veneer building, with sprawling windows and a circular tower looming large over the left side. A small stone plaza with a few occupied benches sat in front of them, while a bronze statue of Dr. Lane Bashford stood in front of the door. Waiting momentarily for the pedestrian stoplight, the siblings watched the walking figurine flash onto the screen and ventured over the crosswalk.

They passed under the gaze of Dr. Bashford and pushed through the revolving glass door into the lobby. Four large pillars towered overhead as rays of sunlight shimmered through the plethora of skylights. Rows of chairs lined the right side of the room over the vinyl flooring, while a long check-in counter stretched over the left side. Modern lamps along the walls further bathed the room in a warm light as patients gathered, waiting with family and friends for their appointments. Speaking to a receptionist on the far end of the check-in counter, Trent Pruitt hid under his wool cap. His shoulders were slumped with exhaustion.

 “All right, you’re checked in,” the receptionist exclaimed. “Nicole will be out in a sec to bring you back!”

 “Thanks!” Pruitt softly nodded.

 “Shouldn’t you be out there helping people, Mr. I Run Fast?” the computer monitor in front of the receptionist sneered.

“I got people out of an apartment fire early this morning. What more do you want?” Pruitt snapped under his breath with venom in his voice.

“What was that?” the receptionist asked.

“Oh, nothing!” Pruitt excused himself with a cough. “Just talking to myself. Have a good day!”

“You too!” the receptionist smiled as Pruitt started to turn.

“There he is,” Sam noted as he and his sister began walking toward him.

“Loser,” the computer monitor taunted.

“What have you done with your life?” Pruitt spat.

“Trent!” Sam shouted before the monitor could respond. With recognition ushering his depression away, Pruitt swiveled his head at the sound of his name and blinked. His lip twitched ever so slightly as his eyes became a bit teary.

“What are you guys doing here?” the speedster croaked with a raspy voice, giving Sam and then June a hug.

“We’re here to save you,” Sam joked. “You and Juno make a break for the door, I’ll tackle the security guy.”

“We’re here to keep you company,” June corrected, playfully slapping Sam on the shoulder. “Why is your voice like that?”

“Side effect,” Pruitt sheepishly coughed before June looked over at the check-in counter.

“Your Dad just dropped you off?” she asked.

“Yeah. I wanted to check in my own—figured it was good practice,” Pruitt explained as the three walked over to the waiting area and took their seats near one of the pillars.

“You guys want to grab lunch or something later?” Sam asked, fishing his phone from his pocket.

“I’m not sure how hungry I’ll be,” Pruitt admitted.

“Are you nauseous?” June inquired. The speedster shrugged.

“I’m fine,” he answered.

“That’s not a ‘no,’ Trent,” protested June.

“Yeah, man,” Sam agreed. “If you’re not feeling well, tell someone about it!”

“I will,” Pruitt promised, sitting back in his chair as a TV mounted to the pillar overhead blared on:

“…Salem Nash is due back in court today, facing a litany of new charges, including domestic terrorism and murder, stemming from his prison escape over a week ago. In a surprising turn, sources claim that prosecutors plan on asking the court to consider extraditing Nash to the United States, adhering to the indictments of federal prosecutors relating to the terror attacks in the New York Metropolitan area. Nash’s defense attorney, Ken Myers, called the report ‘ethically wrong’ in a recent statement, going on to say:

‘Ed Lazzrin is playing a dangerous game. And what’s worse is he’s abusing his power as the Crown attorney. He, like all of us, knows the courts can’t unilaterally throw out the law. We can debate the virtue of the death penalty until we’re blue in the face, but as it stands, Canada does not allow for capital punishment! It doesn’t matter what my client has or hasn’t done; he’s still entitled to a fair trial. The mere suggestion by Lazzrin to move this to the States in a blatant attempt to circumvent Canada’s law and bring the death penalty into play should terrify us all, if only because it’s a slippery slope.’

A spokesperson for the Crown Council’s office dismissed the claim, telling our Sandra Timmons that it is ‘patently unsubstantiated’ and ‘absurd’.”   

Ensuring Sam was preoccupied with his phone, Sprint and Blackthorn subtly exchanged concerned glances as they listened to the television.

“Are you kidding me?” Pruitt mouthed to June. Blackthorn only shook her head in disbelief.

“Can they even do that?” she mouthed back.

“If you’re up for it, Trent,” Sam interjected. “There’s an Italian joint close by—I heard they have some good soup if you don’t want to eat anything super heavy.”

“Err, sure,” Pruitt reluctantly agreed. “I’m not sure if I’ll have anything, but I’ll definitely sit with you guys!”

“Trent?” A voice called out from the center of the room. Pruitt spun around in his chair.

“Hey, Nicole,” he softly smiled, standing up and walking over toward the waiting nurse. Sam and June hesitantly followed.

“You ready to get started?” Nicole Reed asked, holding a clipboard in her hand.

“…As ready as I’ll ever be,” Pruitt grumbled.

“I’m sorry!” Reed sympathized, looking over his shoulder at Sam and June. “Are these your friends?”

“Err. Kind of…” Pruitt stammered. “Their Mom is dating my Dad.”

“Ahh, I see,” Reed replied.

“They’re here for, for moral support,” Pruitt added.

“Gotcha!” Reed smiled, extending her hand for a handshake. “I’m Nicole, nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” June reciprocated, shaking the nurse’s hand. “I’m June, this is Sam.”

“Hi!” Sam nodded, mirroring his sister’s actions.

“Ready?” Reed asked, turning toward Pruitt.

“…Yeah,” Pruitt sighed. The nurse began to lead the trio down a white, sterile corridor.

“Do you know where the bathroom is?” Sam asked.

“It’s down the hall to the right,” Reed informed, pointing to her left as they neared a junction. Further down the adjacent hallway, two doors stood beneath a bathroom sign. “We’ll be all the way down at the end of the hallway when you’re done—Room 115.”

“All right, I’ll be back,” Sam nodded, turning left and striding toward the bathroom. Reed, meanwhile, continued to their intended destination.

“Kind of?” Fiddler asked, repeating what Pruitt had just said a moment ago as she and Pruitt slowly followed the nurse out of earshot. “You don’t consider us friends?”

“No, I do…” Pruitt corrected, reservedly.  “…But you and Sam are also the closest thing to a brother and sister I’ll ever have. It’s…” A sad smile crept across Fiddler’s face as she and Pruitt slowly followed Reed down the corridor.

“Complicated?” she volunteered.

“No…something I just have to adjust to,” Pruitt corrected. “Thanks for being here. It means a lot.”

“Anytime,” Fiddler nodded. “…I’m worried about Salem. Won’t that stunt jeopardize the whole case?”

“Not for all the other crud he’s done—I don’t think. Who knows?” Pruitt complained in exasperation. “I know Ed Lazzrin’s a hotshot, but that’s next-level crazy.”

“I don’t even know what we can do,” Fiddler quipped.

“Nothing,” strategized Pruitt. “If we’re asked about it, just say something like: ‘We don’t want to comment on an active court case’ or something like that.”

“Right, right,” Fiddler agreed. “I need to get better at that.”

“You’re doing fine,” Pruitt comforted.

“Ehh,” Fiddler grimaced. “I get nervous in front of the cameras. It’s going to come back and haunt me one of these days.”

“Don’t let yourself become your own worst enemy,” Pruitt suggested.

“Easier said than done, Trent,” Fiddler grumbled, Nash’s pending trial weighing on her mind. “…Why do I feel like we’re just waiting around for them to screw this up?”

“It’s no different than any other day,” Pruitt grimly joked, with a huff.

“And Lazzrin’s the anti-vigilante type, right? I don’t want to intervene and get on his bad side!” Fiddler continued worriedly.

“We won’t,” Pruitt promised, with a knowing smile. “Just focus on the stuff we can control.”

“Working on it,” Fiddler assuaged as they neared Room 115. Reed stopped at the doorway, glancing down briefly at the piece of paper attached to her clipboard.

“All right, Mr. Pruitt,” she commented. “Let’s get you hooked up.”

On the other side of the door was a large room with a long row of leather recliners stationed next to a wall of windows looking out over Toronto’s skyline. IV pumps stood stoically adjacent to the chairs, while luxury vinyl flooring and deep blue walls tried to make the morose space as welcoming as possible. Recess lighting shone down onto exposed wood accents as a mounted TV droned on in the background. Pruitt sank back into one of the patient chairs, and Reed took his temperature with a digital thermometer. Fiddler dragged an unoccupied chair by the door closer to where the nurse was administering Sprint’s chemotherapy and sat down. She stared up at the TV as Reed inserted an IV catheter into Pruitt’s arm.

“Breaking news at this hour,” a news anchor reported. “Crown Attorney Ed Lazzrin was hospitalized this morning after ingesting what witnesses claim to be a ‘poison’ at a coffee shop on University Avenue up the street from the courthouse. Police arrested twenty-nine-year-old barista Pete Friesen at the scene. Lazzrin remains in critical, but stable condition, and we’ll bring you the latest updates when they become available to us. Lazzrin, born and raised in Oshawa, was appointed early last year by Minister of Justice Anderson amid a rise in crime. With a history of high-profile court cases and a reputation for aggressive prosecutorial tactics, Lazzrin helped secure convictions for Salem Nash and Zane Wilder and helped curtail organized crime across Toronto through the Esposito Trials…”

“Crud,” Fiddler blurted.

“That’s awful,” Reed added, looking over her shoulder as she finished connecting Pruitt’s IV tubing. “I’ll check on you in a bit. Give me a holler if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Nicole,” Pruitt acknowledged.

“I should probably go over,” Fiddler quietly planned, nodding over toward the television screen.

“I’ll go with you,” Pruitt volunteered.

“Ahh, no,” Fiddler answered emphatically. “You are going to sit in that chair and get your chemo.”

“Your sister strikes me as someone you don’t want to mess with,” the IV tower commented. Sprint elected to ignore the machine.

“Then we’ll go over together when I’m done,” Pruitt reasoned. “We can’t do anything to help Ed, and T.P.S. already has their person of interest.”

“What do you want to tell Sam?” Fiddler asked.

“Tell me what?” June’s brother asked, walking up behind her.

“Could I have a rain check on that Italian place?” Pruitt asked, thinking quickly. “I’m not feeling too good, and that’s before this round of chemo.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam exclaimed with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

“Thanks, Sam,” Pruitt smiled. “Sorry.”

“No problem, man!” Sam replied, grabbing his own chair and hauling it over next to his sister.

“We could go over the weekend?” Pruitt suggested. “Saturday? I won’t have anything going on.”

“Sure!” Sam answered. “Juno?”

“If I have to,” June answered with a chuckle. Sam reached into his pocket and brought out a deck of cards.

“Up for a game?” he asked.

“Sure,” June nodded.

“Deal me in,” Pruitt smiled.

…

…A Few Hours Later…

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Pete Friesen desperately asked, his hazel eyes growing wide as he nervously scratched at the back of his neck. “I didn’t poison the coffee!”

“Then who did?” the detective questioned. He sat opposite the barista in an unnervingly bright interrogation room with steely, barren walls and a one-way mirror

“I don’t know! He ordered a Cappuccino with extra cream and a pump of caramel! I made the coffee, and then moved on to the next person in line!” Friesen pleaded. “I don’t know who this guy is! Why would I throw my life away to try and kill him?”

“He’s a Crown prosecutor with a long list of enemies,” the detective informed. Friesen shrugged helplessly.

“O-ok, I don’t watch the news, I wouldn’t know. I don’t know what else to tell ya, Officer—Detective, sorry,” he admitted. “Never mind the fact that I don’t know a thing about poison, I’ve never met him before in my life!”

“No one offered you anything?” the detective persisted. “Or blackmailed you?”

“No!” Friesen answered adamantly. “I don’t know what happened to his coffee. We got a new shipment in today, but no one else has gotten sick…right?”

“Hmm,” the detective quietly murmured, leaning back into his chair as a knock sounded on the door.

“Cal?” another detective asked, poking his head past the door. He nodded over his shoulder.

“I’ll be back to get you,” the detective, Calvin Gannon, got up from his chair and left Friesen alone in the interrogation room with his thoughts.

“You find something?” Gannon asked, closing the door behind him and looking over at his colleague with his tired blue eyes.

“Well, err…” his colleague wavered, prompting Gannon to turn and notice Sprint and Blackthorn standing in full uniform toward the back of the room.

“Oh,” Gannon exasperatedly exclaimed.

“Sorry, we’re late,” Fiddler apologized from behind her violet domino mask. “What do you need from us?”

“You ignored protocol,” Gannon accused, turning to his colleague.

“Do you think he did it?” the detective defended himself.

“…No,” Gannon admitted with a sigh.

“You guys are back at square one,” Pruitt assumed. Gannon gave the speedster a quizzical glance.

“You sound hoarse,” he commented, squinting his eyes as if trying to pierce through the grey racing helmet adorning Pruitt’s head.

“Sore throat,” Sprint answered with a half-truth. Gannon nodded.

“Forensics matched the toxins in the coffee to a yellow-banded poison dart frog,” he asserted. “That’s about as far as we’ve gotten.”

“Does he have any connections with Dr. Wilder?” Pruitt asked, gesturing through the one-way window at Friesen.

“None,” Gannon responded.

“Zane was never one for revenge, anyway,” Fiddler speculated.

“Where else would the frog poison come from?” Pruitt asked. “Maybe it’s a trial run?” Gannon closed his eyes and huffed.

“Like we need the freaking fatalistic animal whisperer and his poisonous tree frogs…” he grumbled.

“I don’t think they’re classified as tree frogs—” the detective corrected. With a vexing scowl, Gannon stared daggers at his colleague.

“Go talk to someone at the zoo,” he bluntly ordered. “If they don’t know anything, call up some bio labs in and around Toronto. Everyone knows he’s hellbent on human extinction—somebody must have something we can work with.”

“Right away,” Gannon’s colleague acknowledged, departing the room. Someone wedged a foot in the door before it could close.

“What are you two planning on doing?” Gannon asked, turning toward Sprint and Blackthorn.

“Nothing!” a voice angrily interjected. Wearing a suit and tie similar to Gannon’s, Ed Lazzrin barged into the room. “They are not getting involved!”

“Councilor, with all due—” Gannon started.

“Is this the guy who poisoned me?” Lazzrin interrupted, pointing through the one-way mirror.

“We don’t believe so, no,” Gannon answered. “You were poisoned by a dart frog.”

“So…” Lazzrin mulled, clapping his hands together. “Wilder.”

“We don’t know for sure, yet,” Blackthorn cautioned. Lazzrin spun on his heel and glowered at Fiddler.

“I wasn’t asking you,” he snapped.

“Shouldn’t you still be in the hospital?” Pruitt contended. The prosecutor fixed his stare at the speedster, his grey fire suit, and matching race helmet.

“What’s wrong with your voice, son?” Lazzrin asked disparagingly.

“Sore throat,” Gannon answered before Pruitt could reply. “And he has a point, Councilor.”

“It’s out of my system,” Lazzrin excused. “Let me talk to him.”

“I can’t let you do that, Councilor,” Gannon insisted. “He’s not our guy, and even if he were, you’d get him off on a technicality.”

“That’d be better than letting the two of them handle this,” Lazzrin countered, nodding over at Sprint and Blackthorn with disdain.

“We’re here to help you,” Fiddler bleated.

“I don’t need nor want it,” Lazzrin hissed. “As a matter of fact, if you weren’t so popular, I’d arrest you both for vigilantism right now!”

“That’s not why, and you know it,” Pruitt argued. “You need us.”

“Excuse me?” Lazzrin exclaimed.

“Salem Nash isn’t going to fight himself,” Pruitt reasoned. “Same with Dr. Wilder. And what happens if A.I.leen hijacks something like a nuclear power plant next time?”

“Right, because you two have done wonders trying to put a stop to them!” Lazzrin ridiculed.

“Crime is down,” Pruitt persisted. “You want to be an M.P. one day, don’t you? The only reason you aren’t arresting us is because it’d be politically inconvenient for you.”

“That’s a lie!” Lazzrin seethed, taken aback.

“Is it?” Pruitt pressed. Lazzrin scoffed.

“I don’t believe this!” he cried. “You want me to arrest you?”

“I would argue you should arrest us. You know the law, don’t let ‘popularity’ convince you to ignore it,” Pruitt argued. “We aren’t above the law, Mr. Lazzrin. We shouldn’t be worshipped—put on a pedestal or whatever. You don’t like us, we know. And that’s ok. But we have powers, and we both think it’d be irresponsible to just stand idly by and not use them. Take the win and let us do what we do.” Lazzrin gritted his teeth before turning to address Gannon.

“How did we get here?” he asked. “We’re delegating to superheroes!”

“We aren’t ‘heroes,’ either,” Fiddler corrected. “We just want to help. And that includes protecting people like you.” Lazzrin scowled.

“Let me know when you find someone I can charge,” he instructed Gannon.

“Will do, Councilor,”  the detective apprehensively agreed. “Take care of yourself.” Gannon walked back into the interrogation room to release Friesen.

“Let us walk you out,” Fiddler added.

“Why?” Lazzrin asked.

“If the press saw you leave the hospital, they’ll be outside waiting,” Fiddler reasoned. “We can give you a distraction…Besides, if we walk out together, it’ll be a not-so-subtle threat toward whoever poisoned you that if they go after you, they go after us.”

“Or they’d see me as ‘weak’ for hiding behind something they know I hate,” Lazzrin argued.

“Then we’ll walk out the front door, and you can sneak around back,” Fiddler strategized, folding her arms over her tactical vest. “Whatever your preference is.” The Crown prosecutor clenched his jaw.

“Didn’t you use to work alone?” he asked Sprint.

“Times and villains change, Mr. Lazzrin,” Pruitt confirmed. “In a thousand years, would you think that you’d be trying to extradite Salem to America to try and have him killed?”

“That’s not what’s happening.” Lazzrin defended himself.

“My point still stands,” Pruitt countered. “If your ego will allow it, let us help you.” Lazzrin grimaced with an irritated exhale. He gestured toward the door, prompting Sprint and Blackthorn to begin walking toward the exit.

“We have the police and fire department for a reason,” the prosecutor surly noted.

“When have they been able to corral Salem?” Pruitt questioned.

“He may not be a problem for much longer,” Lazzrin sharply countered.

“You’re ok with it?” Fiddler asked.

“What the media is reporting isn’t accurate, but even still, no prison can hold him,” Lazzrin explained. “He’s going to keep breaking out and killing people. You two talk about standing ‘idly by,’ well, I think it’s on me if I keep the status quo intact.”

“Yeah, but…” Fiddler hesitated, trailing off with her words.

“You don’t agree?” Lazzrin questioned.

“It’s…it’s aggressive,” Pruitt commented. “I get the argument, and I get feeling responsible for what he does, but we have a ‘no kill’ rule—you should too.”

“Justice is my profession, Sprint,” Lazzrin explained. “And sometimes Justice needs a little help.”

“I’m just not sure killing him is the answer,” Fiddler admitted.

“That’s the thing, Blackthorn, I’m not,” Lazzrin compartmentalized, as they neared the precinct’s door leading back out to the street. “I want to leave it in the hands of a U.S. jury to decide. That’s it. Whatever will be, will be. But Salem Nash hasn’t just killed Canadians, and his convictions should reflect that.”

Lazzrin, Pruitt, and Fiddler pushed through the doors, where a small crowd of reporters waited along the short staircase on the other side. With a series of snaps, cameras flashed over the police station’s façade as the two superheroes and the Crown prosecutor made their way down to the sidewalk.

“Councilor, Councilor!” A reporter called out. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Lazzrin answered shortly.

“Any updates on who may have poisoned you?” Another reporter asked.

“Not at the moment,” Lazzrin replied in a diplomatic manner. “I have full faith in the Toronto Police Service to apprehend the person or persons responsible. I have no other comment at this time.”

“Will you prosecute the case yourself?” A third reporter asked. “Or will you recuse yourself?”

“I’ll have to get back to you,” Lazzrin offered, pushing past the crowd and climbing into a waiting car.

“Sprint! Do you or Blackthorn have any knowledge of who poisoned Councilor Lazzrin?” The same reporter turned to the superheroes as Lazzrin’s car drove off down the street.

“We’re looking into it,” Pruitt informed, with a cough.

“Are you ok?” a fourth reporter asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pruitt nodded. “Just a little sore throat.”

“Any ideas on who might have done it?” the first reporter questioned.

“Outside of the usual suspects? No,” Pruitt replied. “Blackthorn and I will work in tandem with the police to find whoever did it. Toronto’s still under our protection in the meantime.”

“Do you think this has anything to do with the rumors that Councilor Lazzrin will be asking the court to extradite Salem Nash to the United States?” the same reporter followed up. Pruitt softly sighed.

“I’m not sure,” Sprint admitted. “And I don’t want to speculate.” Satisfied with the response, the reporter turned to Pruitt’s teammate.

“Blackthorn,” he asked. “Same question.”

…

…Later That Evening…

“Like Sprint said, I don’t want to ‘speculate’ on an active investigation,” Blackthorn replied. “We’ll let you all know when we have something.”

“But do you feel personally that Councilor Lazzrin’s rumored court order led to the attack?” the reporter pressed. Blackthorn’s mouth twitched ever so slightly as she digested the question.  

“I think…” Fiddler hesitated. “I think it’s our job to lead by example.”

“Do you think the idea of extraditing Salem Nash to the States is too extreme?” the reporter continued. Fiddler pursed her lips as she struggled to respond.

“I don’t know. Mr. Lazzrin is uber-aggressive, and that’s a good thing and a bad thing. I’m not the one who will be making that decision. I think it’s important, I think it’s important that we don’t let our enemies redefine us—turn us into something we’re not. But at the same time, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result; it’s a vicious cycle,” Blackthorn answered. “I don’t know. It’s like watching a nature documentary.”

Sam Fiddler, sitting on the couch watching the news from his family’s townhouse, blinked. His stare drifted from the television to one of the family photos hanging on the warm green walls next to the hummingbird mosaic. Specifically, Fiddler’s attention focused on a picture of his sister at a birthday party. With recognition drowning any doubt and his eyes darting back and forth, June’s brother pieced together the similarities, finally noticing that Blackthorn and his sister had the same hair and eyes, and even sounded alike. Fiddler sat in silence as the news shifted its coverage to an accident on the Gardiner Expressway. He sank back into the couch and leaned on the armrest. Shaking his head and contorting his face in bewilderment, all Fiddler could do was mutter:

“There’s no way!”

 

Photo by Ian Murray on Unsplash