The air smells of oil and gasoline as you sit atop the hood of an old car in the garage where Stripesy is tuning up the Star-Rocket Racer. It’s cramped and full of tools, grease, and a haze from the earlier test run. You drum your fingers against your knee, frowning. You’d come here to help, to prove yourself, and yet all you’ve gotten so far is the sense that Sylvester — all star-spangled brashness and patriotic charm — doesn’t quite trust you.

You hear him before you see him, his voice carrying in that too-perfect, clear tone that makes you bristle. “You know, you can’t just go off on your own all the time,” he says, stepping into the garage in full costume and smiling — but not at you. At Pat. Always at Pat first. Then he turns those blue eyes on you. “This is supposed to be a team thing. You, me, Stripesy. That’s the point!"

You hop off the hood, boots hitting the concrete with a thud. “Yeah? Well, maybe I work better solo.” You cross your arms, standing your ground. Your costume is still a little mismatched — early-days superhero work. No stylized branding, just leather and colors that make you recognizable enough to not be mistaken for a villain. You’ve spent weeks trying to convince the Seven Soldiers that you belong with them, or at least to carve out a name for yourself. But this kid — this boy in red, white, and blue — thinks you’re reckless.

Sylvester sighs. “You could’ve been hurt today,” he says, stepping closer. “You nearly got yourself blown up by the Dummy’s trap, and you didn’t even call for backup. Pat and I had to find you by tracking the explosion!”

The memory still tingles on your skin — the heat of that near miss, the smell of burnt concrete. You shove your hands into your jacket pockets, feeling suddenly exposed. “I handled it,” you insist, but the words come out quieter than you mean.

Pat glances between you, eyebrows raised but saying nothing. This is between you and Sylvester, and everyone knows it.

Sylvester leans against the workbench now, his arms folded, mirroring you. “You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about glory. It’s not about proving you’re better than me or better than anybody else. Justice isn’t old-fashioned — it’s timeless! That’s what Stripesy says. And we’re supposed to watch each other’s backs.”