"September 1st, 1939."
The voice was deep, masculine, and serious; the audio equivalent of a handshake trying to sell you a high-interest 401(k).
Black-and-white footage came to life on the massive Jumbotron. Old-timey tanks rolled over Polish borders, kicking up mud and razor wire while smoke billowed from burning roofs to cover the sky.
"While the world held its breath and darkness spread across Europe," the narrator continued, the bass rattling the teeth of forty thousand people, "America was silent. Or so they thought."
The footage shifted. The grainy filter cleared, replaced by high-definition reenactments. Scientists in white coats huddled around a bubbling vat where a man strapped to a table screamed, his veins glowing a radioactive blue.
"In the shadows, the P.I.T. was born. The Powered Individual Taskforce. We didn't just build weapons. We became them."
A montage of violence played out to soaring, manipulative orchestral strings. A man in a star-spangled trench coat, General Glory, punched a Panzer tank until the turret spun off like a bottle cap. The Blue Bullet sprinted across the Atlantic Ocean, leaving a wake of sonic booms that shattered windows in London. Mrs. USA descended from the clouds, incinerating a German bunker with a dismissive wave of her hand.
"We won the war. We saved the world. We protected freedom."
The music swelled to an obnoxiously patriotic crescendo. The screen cut to a sweating, condensation-slicked glass bottle fizzing against a backdrop of the American flag.
"And that is why America drinks VALORCOLA. Taste the Freedom. 0% Sugar. 100% Justice."
The image froze on the bottle.
"BOOO! GET OFF THE FIELD, YOU BUM!"
The roar of the crowd drowned out the fading jingle. The war documentary shrank until it was just pixels looming over Citizens Bank Park. The Phillies were scrambling to salvage the top of the ninth, and the Philadelphia crowd was out for blood.
"He's winding up!" David screamed, a cup of overpriced domestic beer sloshing over the rim. He was shirtless, his chest painted with a sloppy red "P", radiating the specific, kinetic energy of a twenty-one-year-old man who desperately wanted to punch drywall. "Throw the fastball, baby! Throw the heater!"
Beside him, Kelvin sat like a statue, a fresh beer already open in his hand. He took a long, mechanical sip. "He's gonna walk him," Kelvin said, his voice flat.
"Shut up, Kelvin! Don't jinx the defense!" David yelled, slapping Kelvin's shoulder hard enough to leave a handprint.
Jude shrank into his seat, trying to make himself small enough to disappear. The two-decade-old plastic dug into his spine, and the humid air was thick with the scent of stale pretzels and the specific, musty stench of South Philly.
He checked his watch. 9:45 PM.
"You check that watch one more time, Jude, and I'm gonna shove it up your ass."
Greta was slouched in the seat to his left, her boots propped up on the empty chair in front of her. She looked like she had dressed for a street fight rather than a baseball game; denim jacket, ripped black jeans, and a scowl that would make most babies cry.
"Just checking the time," Jude mumbled, pulling his hoodie sleeve down over his wrist.
"You always do this," Greta snapped, aggressively chewing on a plastic straw. "You sit there, moping around, acting like you're being held hostage. If you hate us that much, just say it."
"I don't hate you," Jude said, keeping his eyes on the field to avoid eye contact.
"Could have fooled me. You're killing the mood. You're like a black hole for anything enjoyable."
"Greta, be nice," Emily squeaked from two seats down. She was curled into a ball, clutching a bag of cotton candy like a safety blanket, flinching every time the crowd roared.
"I am being nice," Greta said, spitting the chewed-up straw onto the concrete. "I'm trying to get him to participate in real life."
"Strike two!" the announcer roared. The stadium shook.
On Jude's right, Ollie jumped up, high-fiving strangers in the row behind them. "Did you see that curveball? That defied logic! That was disgusting!" Ollie grabbed Jude by the shoulders and shook him. "Jude! You seeing this?"
"Yeah," Jude said, his head rattling. "Crazy."
It was too loud. The screaming, the organ music, the thumping bass of the ads; it felt like the air pressure was rising, pressing in on his eardrums until they were ready to pop. He needed five minutes of silence. Just five minutes where nobody expected him to cheer, smile, or be a person.
Jude stood up, the seat folding with a plastic clack.
"Bathroom," he mumbled to no one in particular.
He tried to shuffle past the row, but a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Soft skin. Perfect grip.
Natalia.
She was sitting at the end of the aisle, looking like she existed under a personal spotlight while everyone else looked sweaty and gross. She wore a cropped jersey, her phone open to one of her many social media pages. She looked up at him, batting her eyelashes just enough to be dangerous.
"Hey," she said, her voice cutting through the noise like a schoolbell. "Since you're getting up..."
She smiled. It was the smile she used to get free drinks at bars. The smile she used to get extensions on papers.
"Get me a pretzel? Please? I'm starving."
She knew he wasn't going to say no. She knew exactly where he stood in the pecking order.
Jude looked at her, then at the long line of stairs leading up to the concourse. He wanted to say get it yourself. He wanted to say I'm not your errand boy.
"Yeah," Jude said. "Sure. Salt or cinnamon?"
"Salt. Obviously." She squeezed his hand, holding it for a second longer than necessary, then let go. "You're the best, Jude."
She turned back to her phone before he had even stepped past her.
The concourse was a sensory assault. The smell of frying grease fought with the stench of spilled beer, and the air was thick enough to slice. Jude kept his head down, weaving through the jersey-clad mob while the heroes watched from above.
Screens that weren't showing the game were showing them.
A digital poster for Sentinel Security featured Ironclad standing with his arms crossed in front of a suburban home, his steel-skin polished to a sheen. "Your home is your castle. Fortify it."
Next to the restroom, a life-sized cardboard cutout of Mindbulb was holding a pregnancy test. "Predict the future. Plan your life. ClearBlue."
Jude didn't even blink. He didn't scoff. It was just wallpaper. The heroes were as much a part of the city's infrastructure as the potholes and the trash on the sidewalk; trademarks with heartbeats.
He waited in line for ten minutes, paid twelve dollars for a pretzel that looked like it had been sitting under the heat lamp since the Kennedy administration, and grabbed a lemonade because he knew Natalia would complain about being thirsty the moment she finished the pretzel.
When he got back to the seats, the stadium was vibrating.
"Bottom of the ninth! Two outs! Full count!" Ollie was screaming, gripping the railing like he was trying to rip it out of the concrete.
Jude passed the food down the row. Natalia took the pretzel and the lemonade without looking at him, her eyes glued to the field.
"You're a lifesaver," she murmured, the words lost in the rising screams of forty thousand people.
Smack.
"STRIKE THREE! BALLGAME!"
The explosion of noise was physical, hitting Jude in the chest like a shockwave. Ollie vaulted over the seat back, tackling David in a hug. Kelvin, no longer stoic, actually raised his beer in a salute, a rare smile cracking his face. Even Greta stood up, clapping slowly, though she looked like she was doing it ironically.
"Play the song!" David screamed, ripping his shirt off completely now and spinning it over his head. "Play the damn song!"
Some generic pop anthem blasted over the speakers. The city of Philadelphia, for one brief, shining moment on a Friday night, was actually happy.
Jude stood there, holding his own empty hands, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He felt like an alien observer studying a species he didn't understand. They were so happy. Why couldn't he just be happy?
The high lasted all the way out of the stadium. The crowd was a river of red pinstripes flowing toward the exits, chanting, high-fiving, and drunkenly stumbling.
"We are not going home," David announced as they hit the cool night air on Pattison Avenue. He was sweating, shirtless, and looked ready to fight a homeless person or buy everyone a shot. "We are going to stick a flag in this night. We're going to the bar."
"O'Neals?" Ollie suggested, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"O'Neals," Kelvin agreed, lighting a cigarette with a flick of a lighter he'd seemingly conjured from thin air.
"I'm down," Natalia said, checking her reflection in her phone screen. "I need a real drink. That lemonade was pure sugar."
Jude flinched slightly.
"What about you, Jude?" Emily asked. She was walking close to Greta, looking like she was afraid of getting trampled by the mob.
Jude stopped. The subway station entrance was just ahead, glowing like a beacon leading into safety.
"I think I'm gonna pass," Jude said, stepping slightly away from the group. "I'm tired. Long week."
The air temperature felt like it dropped ten degrees instantly.
Greta stopped walking. She turned slowly, her boots scraping against the pavement. "Of course you are," she spat. She crossed her arms, her snarl illuminated by the streetlights. "God forbid you actually celebrate with your friends, right? What, is this too low-brow for you? You'd rather go sit in your room and jerk off?"
"It's not that," Jude said, his voice quiet. "I'm just—"
"You're always just something," Greta interrupted, stepping into his personal space. She loomed over him, aggressive and sharp. "You act like you're doing us a favor by existing, Jude. It's exhausting."
"Greta, chill," Kelvin said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Let the man sleep if he wants to sleep."
"Nah, fuck that," David said, wrapping an arm around Jude's neck in a headlock that was meant to be friendly but felt suffocating. "Judey! Come on, man. One beer. Don't be a bitch."
"I really—"
"Jude."
Natalia's voice cut through the testosterone and the hostility. She stepped forward, tilting her head. She looked at him with those big, dark eyes; the ones that made him feel like he was the only person on the planet.
"Just come for one," she said softly. "It won't be fun if the whole group isn't there. Please?"
She pouted. It was a weaponized expression, the kind she used whenever reality threatened to inconvenience her.
Jude looked at the subway entrance. Freedom. Silence. His bed. Then he looked at Natalia.
"I..." Jude sighed, the fight draining out of him. "I don't have my ID on me. I left my wallet in my other pants when I changed for the game."
"You're twenty-one, you look forty," Greta muttered.
"They card at O'Neals," Jude said. "I have to go back to the apartment and grab it."
"Okay!" Natalia beamed, the pout vanishing instantly. "We'll save you a seat. Just be quick, okay?"
"Yeah," Jude lied. "I'll be quick."
"Don't flake, Jude!" Ollie called out as the group started moving again.
"I won't."
He watched them walk away. David was loud, shoving Kelvin. Greta was stomping along, probably complaining about Jude's lack of spine. Natalia was walking in the center, the queen bee leading the hive.
They disappeared into the crowd, and Jude stood alone on the corner. The wind picked up, blowing a discarded hot dog wrapper against his leg. He looked up at the Broad Street Line entrance. The orange subway light flickered, buzzing like a dead firefly.
He wasn't going to the bar. He was going to go home, turn off his phone, and stare at the ceiling until he passed out.
He descended the stairs into the subway.
The station was an underground purgatory tiled in grime, smelling of urine, gas, and old pretzels. Jude stood near the edge of the platform, keeping his hands shoved deep in his pockets. To his left, a man with no shoes slept on a bench wrapped in a colorless blanket; to his right, a woman with sores on her arms scratched at her skin, muttering something about spiders.
Directly above the woman's head was a pristine, backlit poster.
It showed The Aviator, hovering in the clouds, holding a bank card. "Chase Bank. Rise above the rest."
Jude stared at the ad. The Aviator's smile was blindingly white. The woman beneath him groaned, shifting on the cold tile. The irony was so thick it tasted like poison. The heroes were on the walls, on the screens, in the sky—and down here, the people were rotting.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Multiple, angry vibrations.
DAD (3 Missed Calls) DAD: Wells Fargo alert just hit my email. Overdraft again? DAD: I'm not funding this anymore, Jude. You're failing classes and burning cash. DAD: Pack your things. We need to talk about you coming home. Permanently.
Jude stared at the screen. The blue light illuminated the hollow bags under his eyes. Coming home. Quitting. Becoming exactly what they thought he was: a bad investment.
He didn't reply. He didn't feel a spike of panic. He just felt heavy, like somebody had dropped a 400-pound barbell on his back. He swiped left. Delete.
The train screeched into the station, a deafening metal-on-metal shriek that made the homeless man on the bench jolt awake. The doors hissed open.
Jude stepped onto the Broad Street Line. It was crowded, even at this hour. He squeezed into a plastic seat near the window. Across from him, a teenager was blasting music from his phone speakers. Two seats down, someone was weeping quietly into their hands.
Jude rested his forehead against the cold glass. The tunnel rushed by in a blur of black wires and concrete. He watched his own reflection in the window—a ghost overlaying the darkness.
They're probably ordering shots right now, he thought.
He could almost hear Greta's voice. "Finally. The bitch is gone. Now we can actually breathe." David would laugh. Ollie would agree, just to fit in. And Natalia... she was probably at the bar, leaning over the counter, flashing that smile at some guy in an Eagles jersey. Maybe she was texting him right now. Maybe she'd forgotten he existed the moment he walked down the stairs.
It doesn't matter, the reflection seemed to say. You're meaningless to them anyway.
The train slowed. Cecil B. Moore.
Jude stood up and shuffled off the train, carried by the momentum of the crowd. He walked up the stairs, surfacing back onto the street. The campus nightlife was buzzing, but the edges were dark.
Bzzzt.
NATALIA: hey <3 since ur going back... can u stop at that gas station on 15th? need snacks. sour candy & maybe chips? ur the best xx
Jude stared at the text. He wasn't going back to get his ID. He was going home to rot. But his thumb moved automatically.
JUDE: Sure.
He hated himself for it. He was one of Pavlov's dogs, trained to salivate at the sound of a bell.
He turned left, heading toward the derelict gas station on the corner. It was a run-down place, the kind with bulletproof glass that was always cracked and flickering fluorescent lights that washed everything in a sickly shade of yellow.
He pushed the door open. The chime sounded weak, like it hadn't been fixed since the 90s.
Jude walked straight to the snack aisle. It was routine. Muscle memory. Grab the red bag. Grab the blue bag. Don't think.
"No! Please! I don't understand!"
The shout came from the front.
Jude froze, his hand hovering over a bag of spicy chips. He peered over the top of the chip rack.
Two men were at the counter wearing hoodies pulled tight, faces obscured by cheap ski masks. They both held pistols—cheap-looking, black chunks of metal leveled at the clerk.
The clerk was an older Asian man, maybe sixty. He was trembling, his hands raised high, stammering something in broken English.
"Open the register, old man! Now!" the taller robber screamed, slamming the butt of his gun onto the counter. The plexiglass cracked.
"Okay! Okay!" the clerk cried, fumbling with the keys. His hands were shaking so hard he dropped them.
"Stop dicking around!" The second robber leaned over and pistol-whipped the clerk across the face. The old man crumpled, blood spraying onto the lottery tickets.
Adrenaline dumped into Jude's system—cold, sharp, and sickening.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His brain screamed logical instructions: Duck. Hide. Stay behind the chips. Wait for the heroes. That's their job. That's what the ads say. Wait for Ironclad. Wait for Titan.
But nobody was coming. The ads were just pixels. The heroes were brands.
Jude looked at the clerk, cowering on the floor, bleeding. He looked at the robbers, laughing, high on adrenaline and power.
Something in Jude snapped. The cold, heavy emptiness in his chest suddenly inverted. It wasn't bravery. It wasn't heroism. It was a sheer, fatalistic rejection of the script.
Why not?
Jude didn't decide to move; his body simply rejected the logic of survival.
He lunged out of the aisle. He didn't have a plan. He didn't know how to fight. He swung his fist in a wild, desperate haymaker.
His knuckles connected with the side of the second robber's head.
It wasn't like the movies. There was no satisfying crunch. Knuckles met bone with a jarring shock that shot straight up his wrist, and the robber barely stumbled.
"The fuck?"
The robber turned, eyes wide behind the mask.
Jude tried to swing again, but the taller man was faster. A boot slammed into Jude's stomach, doubling him over. The air left his lungs in a wheeze.
"Fuckin' kid!"
Something hard slammed into the back of Jude's skull. He hit the linoleum floor hard, sliding into a display of candy bars. He tried to push himself up, gasping for air, but a heavy boot pinned his chest to the ground.
Jude looked up.
He was staring directly down the barrel of a cheap 9mm pistol. The serial number was scratched off haphazardly, some of the numbers still legible. The robber was shaking. His finger was tightening on the trigger.
Jude stopped struggling.
He didn't think about Greta. He didn't think about his dad. He didn't think about Natalia waiting for her snacks.
He just looked at the gun.
Is this it?
For a split second, he felt a strange, quiet relief.
BANG.