13

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The room does this weird twisty thing, like those optical illusion videos where the hallway just keeps stretching and stretching. I’m snapped from the momentary daze of the bullet’s near miss, but then my eyes catch the play of physics and reality morphing. Jordan’s doing. The room suddenly becomes vast, the distances stretched so far that for a moment, the machinery, the criminals, even the broken desk that I had almost died under seem miles away.

A surge of adrenaline tingles in my fingertips, and I can feel my pupils dilating. My entire body feels fuzzy, like it’s tingling with electricity, like I’m licking a battery.

In the newly enlarged space, it’s like everyone’s been flung into different time zones. Mudslide looks like a tiny, angry dot on a distant hill. Mr. Polygraph seems minuscule too, lost in the vast space of the room, and I can tell by his distant, tiny swearing and animated hand gestures that Jordan’s play with space messed with his temper again. His anger, an ever-present ticking bomb, ready to explode at any given moment.

But I shouldn’t be focusing on that, right? Focus, Sam. The feeling of the cold metal on my socks reminds me that my shoe is still off of me, mere feet away, and I take the fastest ten seconds in my entire life to shove it back on. It’s weird how in situations like this, when everything’s gone topsy-turvy, it’s the little things, like the lost shoe, that can pull you back. If I knew Jordan could’ve made the Walgreens this big when we fought, I would’ve probably been a little more intimidated.

I don’t hesitate, twisting on my heel and making a beeline away from where I remember Mr. Nothing standing, though I can’t see him anymore among rows of fake machinery, replicated by Jordan’s powers. I spot a rusted machine that looks like it was once used for textile weaving, and I dive behind it, using the time to catch my breath. Heart pounding, I try to hear over its drumming in my ears. The room’s vastness makes every sound echo, the drip of water somewhere distant, the low hum of the old machinery, like it’s still active and alive.

And then there’s a sound—something heavy being dragged. Metal on metal. I focus my gaze, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. Stay sharp. Stay alive. I keep reminding myself of that, even though every fiber of my being is alive with sensations, with hyper-awareness, like I haven’t been living for the first fourteen years and a couple of months of my life and just now I’m discovering real sensations.

If you had told me a few years ago that I’d be in this situation, heart racing, senses on edge, playing hide and seek with men who would kill me without a second thought, I’d have looked at you funny. I lean against one of the machines for a moment, feeling for my ankle – it’ll be bruised, or sprained, or fucked up in some way when I go to the doctor tomorrow.

Tomorrow. That’s good. I definitely want to see that: tomorrow.

There’s a crunch of shattered wood somewhere, and my ears tune into it. Someone’s approaching, though with the room’s newfound vastness, it’s hard to judge exactly how close. Every movement echoes in the red-brick cavern. I press myself further behind the machine, my heart in my throat. One step at a time. One breath. One moment.

Suddenly, there’s a burst of laughter, echoing in the cavernous space. Mudslide. I can tell it’s him even before I hear the distinct squelch of his powers at work, the sound of bricks and concrete suddenly turning into quicksand. I watch the ground around me sporadically shift in texture as it liquefies, one patch at a time, before re-solidifying. Mudslide testing for me, poking around.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are, Bitchhound,” his voice taunts, sounding like it’s coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. I’m not able to pinpoint a source, just the echoing noise of his baritone and the soft squish of his powers, like mud being pressed through someone’s fingers. I move behind one of the machines slowly, sidling along its perimeter, and I catch a whiff of blood in the air. “I’ve got a present for you! I’m gonna bury you like you tried to bury me!”

I know immediately that the blood is Jordan’s by the shape of their vascular system, and take a moment to assess my readout. It’s soaking into the cloth wrapped around their face, but I can’t tell if their nosebleed is from getting injured or some kind of overexertion from spreading the space this wide. It truly is cavernous, to the point where I can barely see the walls in any direction, wooden support structures dividing it into a neat grid beneath a suddenly oversized, too-wide ceiling.

Either way, I know where they are now, and start making my way towards them, keeping it still and slow. Sure, running would get me there faster, but it would also immediately get me caught by someone whose powers would halt all forward progress. I hear the echo of distant gunshots, and keep my focus on Jordan’s body, watching for a sudden burst of blood that never comes.

Good. The less they get shot, the better. The ideal amount of bullets either one of us will take today is zero.

Jordan can’t see me, so I have to hope they know I’m coming. I keep hearing the sickening squish of Mudslide’s powers activating all around me, with zero finesse, zero control. He’s trying to catch me off guard, just randomly spamming his powers like a newbie fisherman just flinging his lure all around.

Not today. Not this time.

My heart jumps when I finally spot Jordan not a minute later, leaning against a post of one of the dilapidated looms, looking disheveled with blood staining their cloth mask, eyes a little bit glassy. “Knew you’d find me,” they say, voice breathy and eyes glazed with fatigue. I rush to their side, trying to control my limp. Their facial expression is hidden underneath their mask, but I can see the sweat drenching the un-red sides of their mask, and they pull the visor of their motorcycle helmet back down.

Jordan grins weakly at me, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “Smashed my face on that machine over there on purpose, you know. Figured it’d be a neon sign for you.”

“You… What?” I whisper incredulously. I can tell Jordan is smirking, from the way the corners of their mask curl upwards. I huff out a half-laugh. “You’re fucking insane.” We share a brief moment, a quick, intense glance, expressing the urgency in silence. But time is running out. Every passing second is closing in on us like a prowling tiger, with two armed criminals actively looking for us, and one extremely mad petty criminal who nonetheless could kill us very quickly. I start tugging on Jordan’s arm. “We need to go.”

The sheer size of this place gives us the advantage of space, but it’s only a matter of time before that advantage runs out. Add that to my own limping leg, and we’re two sitting ducks just waiting to be roasted. So we stumble and hobble, me limping along, pain shooting through my ankle the more weight I put on it. We turn corners, sidestep machines, always moving, always alert.

I think we’re safe for a moment, even dare to hope that we’ll make it out, but then it comes — a low rumble, the floor quaking beneath us. And then that wet, squishy sound. Without a word, I push Jordan behind one of the larger machines, an old thing made of rusty iron with cogs larger than my head. My heart beats out a frantic rhythm, one that surely must give our location away. And maybe it does, because a second later, a viscous wave of liquefied brick and concrete surges around our hiding place, nearly knocking us off our feet, forming a dense puddle.

The hideous, sadistic laughter of Mudslide resonates, deafening in this massive space. “Gotcha!” he declares triumphantly, almost like a child who’s just found his playmate in a game of hide-and-seek. “Over here, fellas!” He shouts, trying to draw the attention of the two people with guns. Jordan hauls themself onto the machine, keeping their feet off the ground, while I tug myself upwards, following their lead.

“Don’t gloat, dumbass,” Jordan shouts.

Mudslide’s booming laughter reverberates throughout the space, the walls sending back reflections of his twisted joy. I can feel the malevolence behind every pulse of his powers as the ground grows softer, then practically turns to soup beneath us. There’s a real hunger in his intent – a true desire to punish, to cause pain. I’d love to believe he’s doing this because he’s scared of me, or even Jordan, but no – this is revenge, pure and simple. The ground feels as if it’s attempting to swallow us, just as hungry for vengeance as he is.

“No more running, Mutt!” Mudslide gloats, drawing out every syllable as if he’s tasting each one. The surrounding ground transforms further, taking on a consistency thicker than water but not quite as solid as mud, drawing us in. It’s cold, eerily so, and wraps around my ankles like shackles. The pull is immediate and strong, an unrelenting grip trying to drag me under, drown me in his constructed quagmire.

The room grows eerily quiet save for the consistent, wet noise of Mudslide’s powers, making the impending doom feel all the more present. Every now and then, the laughter breaks through, cold and maniacal. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the room itself was laughing at us, while he keeps his hands clenched and shaking, each pulse up and down turning more and more of the ground into quicksand. The surrounding machines start dissolving into ash, interacted with too much to remain stable within the expanded space of Jordan’s powers.

Jordan reaches down. We clasp hands, and they yank me free, both shoes miraculously remaining on my feet as I grab hold of the indeterminate machine – a loom, maybe – with the other hand. Suddenly, with the rapidity of a heartbeat, the space lurches, and the sensation is stomach-turning. I instinctively reach out, grabbing onto one of the machine’s iron arms to stabilize myself. The ground – and the ensnaring muddy grip of Mudslide’s powers – shifts beneath us. In the span of a blink, it feels as though we’re riding an elevator shooting upwards at an impossible speed, the ground receding rapidly. What was once horizontal becomes the vertical, the axis of Jordan’s powers shifting.

Before I can even process what’s happening, we’re standing atop an elevated platform. The cold, damp mud remains below, now far beneath us, swirling in futile patterns. It laps at the base of our newfound high ground, trying to reclaim its hold on us but falling short.

This is the true advantage of Jordan’s powers, I consider. Jordan will always have the spatial advantage in any fight. And Mudslide knows it.

“What the fuck—?!” he roars, his voice echoing with a combination of surprise and rage. He’s thrown off, clearly not expecting this maneuver. I can almost picture the look of dumbfounded rage behind the brown paper bag he wears as a pathetic mask.

Still, it’s not all roses. Jordan’s shifting powers collapsed the space along the horizontal plane back to its norm, and while I can watch Mr. Nothing and Mr. Polygraph with a bit of dim satisfaction as they both go stumbling into machinery, slammed down onto the ground, the fact of the matter is that we’re trapped up here and they have guns.

“Fucking shoot them already!” Mudslide roars, as Mr. Nothing stumbles back to a standing position.

“Don’t order me around,” Mr. Nothing coolly replies, just barely audible from the height we’re at. He takes aim, and with another loud, ear-splitting bang, a bullet whizzes past us, exploding through the ceiling of the abandoned factory.

“Are you two fucking insane? We can’t kill an informant with a wire on them, they already know we’re here! We need to fucking go!” Mr. Polygraph screams, slamming his hand against the tower of machinery that Jordan and I are so perilously sitting upon.

“We’ll be fine. Just shoot the fucking toddler already.” Mr. Nothing replies, still ice cold. Mr. Polygraph lets out an anguished grunt of rage, points his gun up, and just starts unloading. The air is filled with the echoing of bullets busting through the air, and a searing pain rips through my upper right arm, followed by the thigh of my already-injured leg. Jordan’s trying to keep the platform bouncing up and down erratically, even as Mr. Polygraph unloads his entire clip at us.

It takes me a couple seconds to register that I’ve been shot. I reach over to grab my upper arm, feeling for a bullet hole and breathing the world’s shakiest sigh of relief when I can feel that it’s only a graze – but still, a graze that’s ripped a huge gash in my arm. My thigh is just as lucky, which I think makes me the luckiest person alive, a huge cut torn in my flesh like I lost a fight with an angry chef that’s two feet tall. “Ow,” I breathe out, suddenly able to smell my entire vascular system, while these hardened criminals argue below me.

“There! Out of bullets. We’re going,” Mr. Polygraph shouts, tugging his feet out of the wet earth.

“Are you okay? I’m going to stretch it sideways to put some distance between us,” Jordan says, quietly whispering, clearly having noticed the blooming wounds across my limbs. “It’s gonna make the tower collapse down. Be ready to move.”

“I’m fine,” I whisper back, clutching my arm, feeling wet stickness blooming into my fingers. My breathing is ragged, and I feel my pupils dilating further, my vision going hazy, then perilously, dangerously sharp. “We’re not running.”

“Sam. You’ve been shot,” Jordan hisses, while Mr. Nothing criticizes Mr. Polygraph’s sloppy marksmanship below us. “You need medical attention.”

I bend down and wrap my mouth around a piece of the iron beneath me. I bite down, and feel the metal buckle, and I pull my neck back like I’m reeling in a fish, ripping it free with my jaw. Putting the newly-broken piece of iron in between my teeth, I bite down on one edge, and then the other, turning it into a makeshift spear before spitting down two teeth and several chunks of metal onto Mr. Nothing’s head.

He looks up at us and sighs. “Can’t you make this thing come down any faster, Mr. Mudslide?”

Mudslide looks visibly wet with sweat on his exposed areas of skin, his pallid skin red with fury. “I can only sink it as much as there’s ground below to. You fucking get the idea! Just take like ten steps back, aim for their heads, and shoot them!”

“You aim for center mass, Mr. Mudslide. You have a lot to learn,” Mr. Nothing replies. “Girls, if you come down right now, I promise I will shoot you in the least painful place possible. It will be an instant and extremely pleasant death. Total oblivion.”

I hand the piece of sharpened metal to Jordan and bend down to bite off another one. “I’m not a girl!” Jordan yells from on high, while Mudslide starts to grab and rock the machinery from below. It begins to dissolve into ash clouds, like all other things Jordan replicates, which leads me to believe that the version of the loom we’re directly on top of has to be the real one.

Either way, Mudslide lets out a grunt, kicks the machine, and stumbles back as it explodes into dust flakes. The burning sensation in my limbs fades to a white-hot background noise, compartmentalized out somewhere in my head where it won’t distract me as I cut another spear into shape with my teeth. I grab it with my not-shot side, the left one, the one with my hand covered in blood, and I grit my teeth together.

“This is a fucking embarassment! How are you getting played by a fucking child?!” Mr. Polygraph yells.

“Like this!” I shout back, jumping off the tower, putting all my faith in Jordan.

The space contracts back to normal under me, and I accelerate, falling faster than gravity would normally allow for. I feel metal hitting leather, followed by meat, followed by bone, as my handmade (mouthmade?) spear grazes into Mr. Nothing’s boot, planting into the ground and ripping a cut into his shin and foot. Mr. Nothing jerks his foot back and immediately fires at the space I was at a second ago, stumbling backwards.

The tower of machines falls, Jordan diving into the cloud of ash that Mudslide made. I watch their motion through my blood sense, as they swipe and jab like they’ve been practicing with a quarterstaff, driving Mr. Polygraph backwards and making several sharp, shallow cuts across his pants.

For a moment, I feel a surge of triumph, and then my injured leg buckles under me.

I don’t even get a second to process the pain in my leg, because the world explodes around me in a series of movements and sounds. My vision blurs momentarily, but the blood thrumming through my veins, the intoxicating cocktail of danger and adrenaline, sharpens everything in its raw clarity.

As my leg buckles, Mr. Nothing lunges towards me, his fist balled, aiming for my face. It’s almost like one of those slow-motion movie moments. I can see the pores of his skin, the raw power in his posture. But the floor beneath him trembles, shifting and turning into that cold, treacherous semi-solid. It’s Mudslide’s doing, that much is clear. But in his efforts to catch me, he’s inadvertently sabotaging his own teammate. Mr. Nothing’s foot sinks a little, throwing him off balance, his punch veering wildly off its target. It grazes my shoulder instead, still enough to jolt me, but not the direct hit he intended.

“Dammit, Mudslide!” Mr. Nothing curses, trying to pull his leg free. I get my wits about me enough to scramble backward, feeling the slight give of the muddy ground beneath my hands. “Control your powers!”

Just a few feet away, a scuffle breaks out between Jordan and Mr. Polygraph. The latter is bigger, heavier, and clearly more experienced in hand-to-hand combat, but Jordan’s unpredictable spatial abilities, and my little makeshift javelin, give them the edge. As Mr. Polygraph lunges, Jordan stretches the space, making him miss. But it’s a constant tug of war. Mr. Polygraph uses his longer armspan, attempting to grapple Jordan, throw them off balance. Several times, I catch glimpses of Jordan trying to jab their makeshift spear into him, but he’s just too fast, too agile. Yet, for every move he makes, Jordan’s counter is just as quick.

Clearly, Jordan’s been training since our first fight. I feel the weirdest tingle of pride.

The ashen cloud, the residue of Jordan’s powers breaking down on contact, is a tangible entity around us, concealing our movements and masking our intentions. With each heartbeat and echo of pain from my fresh wounds, I can sense the flow of blood around us, from every source. It’s a surreal experience, feeling the pulse of the two criminals, understanding their positions, their approaching movements. But it’s not enough to give me a full upper hand. Being able to see the two of them, to sense them, doesn’t mean my reactions are fast enough to avoid them.

Mudslide seems to be getting desperate, or maybe just more enraged. His powers act without precision. One moment the ground solidifies, and the next, it’s a viscous trap. But it’s not just me who’s affected. Mr. Nothing struggles, cursing with every misstep, until he lets out a delightfully loud “Fuck!” and yanks his boots and socks off.

Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, I rush him, or at least try to. My injured leg doesn’t carry my weight as it should, causing me to stagger more than run. Still, I manage to get close, biting down on his arm. The taste of iron and salt fills my mouth in an instant and I feel my nostrils flare. He lets out a scream, trying to pull away, but my teeth sink in deeper. I try to bite down harder, to reach bone and break it, feeling instinct driving my actions.

I am not a monkey. I am not an ape. I am a shark, devouring.

“Get off!” He roars, pulling his arm back with such force that I’m thrown off balance, tearing out a small chunk of skin suited to fit in the mouth of a fourteen year old, my lip-span not big enough to reach bone from that angle, or really even rip open veins and arteries. My back hits the ground hard, driving the breath out of me. But I don’t have time to recover. He’s on me again, fist raised.

Jordan saves me. Or rather, the sudden expansion of space between Mr. Nothing and I does. He’s thrown off balance, his punch missing me by inches. The room distorts around us, going funhouse mirror mode again as Jordan stands over me protectively, while I spit out the gross cloth of Mr. Nothing’s jacket. I look towards him, trying to gauge the wound, only to be left disappointed at just how shallow my attack was, only leaving small puncture marks in his skin that are barely bleeding. Jordan reaches down, grabs me by the ponytail, and yanks me back to my feet. “Handle the one without bullets,” they breathe out, the cloud of dust beginning to settle.

“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!” Mudslide screeches, sinking me up to my knees in an instant. Thinking fast, I jam my spear into the nearest loom to prevent me from being sucked all the way down, my arms screaming as the ground threatens to swallow me. Mr. Polygraph rolls up his sleeves and starts advancing, with the sort of anger I’ve only before seen on old women spurned by a cashier when trying to cut coupons.

“Mudslide!” Mr. Nothing yells, taking aim with his pistol and firing a deafeningly loud bullet right by Jordan’s head, only narrowly missing from the need to duck backwards from an iron machine part about to take his head off. Jordan swings and swipes, and an ill-timed use of Mudslide’s power traps the wrong person’s ankle, giving them just enough leverage to smack Mr. Nothing’s pistol out of their hand. “Why did you waste all your bullets you fucking idiot!”

Mr. Polygraph swings for my head, and between the sinking ground and getting punched in the face by a forty year old man, I’ll take the ground. I let go of my spear and let Mudslide’s powers take me down to my hips before grabbing hold of Mr. Polygraph’s ankles. Out of the corner of my blood sense, I watch Jordan and Mr. Nothing jockeying for position, my heart pumping so crazy hard I feel like I’m going to pass out. Jordan lets out a cry of pain as Mudslide blindsides them with his shoulder, ramming them onto the ground next to me, and Mr. Nothing pulls himself free of the wet dirt, diving on top of them.

Instantly, any changes in space vanish. As Mr Nothing grabs for Jordan’s shoulders, I feel his fingers, the blood flow in every extremity, digging around their costume, and as soon as Mr. Nothing touches skin, the entire warehouse snaps back to normal.

Mr. Nothing.

Because he turns your powers off.

I get it now.

The world is still snapping back into focus, raw clarity coursing through me. I’m tired, so tired, my head thudding like a second heartbeat. I hear Jordan’s sharp breaths, their feet dancing on the ground as they move, every thud echoing with purpose and intent. It’s all swirling around me: the sour smell of sweat, the metallic tang of blood, and the dusty residue of Jordan’s spatial shifts. The wet slurping sound of mud being created, manipulated, and destroyed. The dirt, once hard and unforgiving, is now a swamp, threatening to drag us all under.

Mudslide, all rage and recklessness, can’t control his powers with any precision, not even an ounce of it. The ground liquifies and hardens intermittently, creating chaos on the battlefield. I feel my feet get sucked in just as I manage to pull myself out, the cold, damp earth curling around my ankles, trying to imprison me.

I hear the distinct sound of Mr. Polygraph’s shoes on the remaining patches of unaltered concrete, their soles making a soft squishing sound on the muddy ground, getting louder with every step he takes. I crane my neck, seeing him coming straight for me, his fists balled up. They’re big, veined, and calloused from countless fights, making my minimal combat training seem like a joke. And yet, there’s this burning defiance in me, pushing me to fight, to bite, to survive. I see Jordan struggling, really struggling, with Mr. Nothing, Mudslide cackling as he pulls the two of them down into the liquefied concrete.

Suddenly, a sharp pain pierces through my ribs, driving the wind out of me. Mr. Polygraph, faster than his bulky frame suggests, steps in on me and drives his knee into my side. The sharp, agonizing feeling makes me think that he might have broken a rib or two. I gasp, the world spinning as I’m thrown back, my back twisting as my hips try to escape the ground – I’m stuck, a boxing bag in a gym. Mr. Polygraph’s face looms over, his breath reeking of mints. In a quick motion, he grabs my hair and pulls my head up only to slam his knee into my face. I feel the cartilage in my nose snap, a hot rush of blood spewing out. My vision blurs with tears, and every breath feels like inhaling shards of glass.

Yet in this haze of pain and disorientation, there’s a peculiar focus. A sense of raw, animalistic need to survive. It’s almost like my body is acting on its own, separate from my thoughts. With Mr. Polygraph so close, I smell the metallic tinge of his own blood. His hand has a fistful of my hair, and his knee lowers down slowly. I feel his veins twisting with his movements, and predict him. I punch him in the balls. I punch him in the balls again. I punch him in the balls again. On my third attempt, I go for a grab and twist, trying to crush something, but he lets go of me, stumbling backwards, knees buckling.

I jam my hands into the loom and pull myself out, adrenaline giving me strength I didn’t realize existed inside of me. Blood is pouring out of my smashed mask, the clacking jaws broken like a twig by Mr. Polygraph’s knee, so I rip it off, breaking the strings, and hurl it at Mudslide. I don’t bother to look at him. I just lunge forward.

The satisfying crunch of breaking bone fills my ears as Mr. Polygraph screams out in pain. He pulls back, reeling from the force of my bite. The wound on his shoulder is open and gushing, and a part of me is repulsed by my own savagery. The other part is fiercely satisfied – now this is a bite, nothing like the weak little nibble I gave Mr. Nothing. Mr. Polygraph’s fist meets my stomach, and I let go, gasping in pain and stumbling back into the loom. I reach for my spear, but it’s already gone.

With swift precision, Jordan stabs Mr. Nothing in the gut, ramming it all the way through. They let out a furious animal yell, slamming their palm against the end of the rusted iron bar, jamming it through Mr. Nothing’s stomach and out the side. The shock on his face is palpable. As he falls backward, his grip on the powers around him falters. Without a solid grip on Jordan’s skin, he can’t nullify their powers, and both he and Mudslide go sailing away. I feel the blood pooling in Jordan’s neck, and know instantly that Mr. Nothing was strangling them – really strangling, the kind where he was trying to crush their windpipe with his thumbs.

My world, a swirling blur of pain and blood, spins crazily around me, but in its chaotic heart, the icy bite of adrenaline narrows everything to a pinpoint of ferocious clarity. It’s in this state of heightened awareness that I notice it – a hairline fracture in my focus. Jordan’s presence, their strength, wavers beside me. My heart, already racing, pounds harder as fear and protectiveness for my friend flood my senses.

Every gasp, every breath Jordan takes is ragged, the usual cadence of their heart rhythm distorted with pain and exhaustion. It feels as if they’re hanging on to consciousness by a mere thread. The expanded space wobbles and twitches in a way I’ve never seen it do before, twisting and rippling like a funhouse mirror. They’re losing their grip – on consciousness and their powers.

As space contracts around us once more, Mr. Nothing lunges with a look of pure professional hatred. I witness the embodiment of malice in his gaze. His punch, fast and determined, comes straight for Jordan’s face. But their helmet, their lifeline, takes the brunt of the blow. Even as I watch, I can feel the force of the impact reverberating through my friend’s body. I hear a distant ringing sound and realize it’s not just in my ears – it’s coming from Jordan’s helmet.

Yet, even as the force of the blow would’ve felled any normal person, Jordan stands their ground. Unfortunately, Mr. Nothing isn’t done, and he follows his jab with a vicious left hook. Time seems to stretch and squeeze around the scene, and I watch with mounting horror as Jordan’s body goes limp, sent hurtling towards me. Their body collides with mine, and the momentum sends us sprawling to the ground. It’s a tangle of limbs and pain, our breaths syncing in wheezing gasps, our bodies beginning to sink once more in the liquid concrete.

And then, as if my senses were not already overwhelmed, the stench of stale sweat and menace looms over us. Mr. Polygraph, grinning wickedly, stands tall, gun in hand. He looms over me, over us, the taste of victory evident in his eyes. The world takes on a metallic tinge as my broken nose registers the blow from the gun handle before my brain does. Pain, raw and blinding, floods my senses. I can taste blood, feel its warmth as it trickles from my nose. I gasp for air, and get lungfuls of fresh blood instead, stinging the inside of my throat.

As Jordan and I crumble into an ungainly heap, a certain kind of terror grabs me. The vulnerability, the realization that we’re at the mercy of these monsters, hits me, and tears flood my face, just as warm as the blood.

Death awaits.

Just as sheer despair threatens to pull me into the sweet allure of unconsciousness, there’s a sudden pressure on my stomach, and my eyes go wide. I gasp, choking on a mouthful of blood as Mudslide, ever the opportunist, uses our vulnerability to his advantage, pinning us beneath his weight. His foot on my abdomen forces out a choked gasp, blood bubbling in my throat. Every nerve is screaming, every sense is heightened, but my body just isn’t able to handle this sort of pain. It’s not moving. It’s stopped responding. I’m bluescreening.

Mudslide’s taunts are a series of muffled words, my ears still ringing from the sounds of our fight. The pressure of his knee grinding into my ribs is unbearable, the raw hurt making me gasp and gag. But, as he lifts his head slightly, eyes widening in realization, whatever has him distracted breaks into my consciousness, a sharp, loud piercing sound. The siren’s wail and whining cuts through everything else, a scalpel in my skin.

Mudslide, for all his bravado and raw power, is momentarily taken aback. It’s this momentary distraction, this tiny crack in his concentration, that I seize. With all the fear, adrenaline, and desperation I can possibly muster, I sink my teeth into his exposed shin. There’s a heady taste of blood, and his scream pierces the tumultuous noise around us. He’s momentarily thrown off-balance, kicking me away in his agony.

And then, Mr. Nothing, with the pipe still protruding grotesquely from his side, bellows an order that’s a mix of rage and desperation. “We’re done here,” he hisses out, staggering, blood dripping from his mouth and from his wound, his voice too calm to be real. I can see it on his face, enough to read his mind – if he had his gun, he would not be letting us leave alive, but it’s somewhere in the wet ground, hidden in the murk and the dark. He and I both know this essential truth. I am a dead girl walking.

Mudslide, still reeling from my bite, hisses through gritted teeth, “This ain’t over.” With a gesture, he liquefies part of the warehouse wall, creating an escape route. Mudslide, clutching his bleeding leg, hisses with a promise of vengeance, “This ain’t over, bitch.” His glare burns into me, and then flicks over to Jordan. “Both of you… you’re going to pay. Big time, cunt.”

He staggers to the nearest wall and presses his hand against it. The brick dissolves into a vaguely brick-colored sludge, leaving a gap just big enough for the three of them to shamble out to. As he passes by, the sludge reforms into twisted brick, leaving a distorted, door-shaped mark on the wall.

For a few moments, the cavernous warehouse is eerily silent, save for our wet, labored breaths and the distant wail of the sirens growing louder. The pain, the exhaustion, and the aftermath of the battle weigh down heavily. I feel Jordan’s fingers, weak and trembling, trying to grasp mine. The touch, though fleeting, is grounding, a reminder that amidst this chaos, we’re not alone. With difficulty, I manage to croak out, “Jordan… are you alive?”

Their response is weak, but defiant. “Still here… glad I called 911,” they rasp.

I drink the air like it’s water and I’ve been desertbound for weeks. The warmth of Jordan’s body is comforting underneath my own screaming, broken frame. I just… lie there, bleeding on top of them. “Status report?”

“Not shot, so I’m holding up better than you,” Jordan cracks, laughing weakly. “I think I have a concussion. Everything’s sparkly. How about you?”

My voice sounds hilariously stuffed through what is definitely a broken nose, some of the blood on my face starting to crust up at the edges, wet, sticky, and warm. “Two gun wounds. My nose is definitely broken. I’m pretty sure he cracked a rib, too,” I say, and as I note it, each injury flares to life. The last one, especially, sucks the hardest. I’m too dizzy to make heads or tails of what I’m seeing in my blood sense, as the departing criminals reach the edge of my range and vanish into what I can only assume is a car, judging by how they’re sitting.

The ground is solid now, but I can’t tell when it turned back into that. My entire body is wracked with pain, more pain than I’ve ever experienced in my entire life, and I can tell the blood is leaking out of me at a dangerously quick rate. The sirens get louder, and I see sweeping flashlights carve paths across the dark. “Well, don’t die on me yet. I’ll feel really bad about it,” Jordan groans, wrapping an arm around my midsection protectively.

“I can’t die now. Can you imagine how mad my parents would be?” I gurgle. I stare up at the ceiling as flashlight beams train on us, as screaming sirens overtake the air. “Fuck. My parents are going to be so mad.”

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