33

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The air is full of a dull ringing, like the sound you hear in movies when a bomb goes off next to someone’s head, except I’m not sure if it’s actual noise or if it’s just in my ears. Either way, I don’t like it – I can feel the bruises already forming in my chest, and a pressure building around my head.

“What the fuck, PB?” Gossamer shouts, hands clasped over her ears.

“Wasn’t me!” He shouts back, while Deathgirl stares at her hands. For a moment, I see them – two mouths, or things that look like mouths, having formed inside her palms, tongueless and buzzing. That’s where the noise is coming from.

Car alarms blare out. Patches claps Deathgirl on the shoulder. “‘Atta girl. You go bust up the rest of the street while I take care of them, okay, honey?”

“She’s a power copier!” I point out, barely able to hear my own voice. Everything feels muffled, even the piercing wail of nearby car alarms. Broken glass and rubble are scattered all along the street, and the air feels thick, clogged, like it’s congested.

“Gale, cut her off, but stay loose,” Crossroads barks.

Gale opens her arms up, her upgraded costume’s underarm wings billowing out to catch her own wind. She flaps once, twice, and then takes off upwards, while Deathgirl turns around and starts running, silencing car alarms as she goes.

Patches charges at us. Rampart steps in front of me, and there’s a sickening crack as Patches swings as hard as she possibly can at Rampart’s stomach, her wrist and knuckles shattering on impact. Dust kicks up from Rampart’s feet. She hops back, shaking her wrist out with a cat-like yowl of pain while it repairs itself, and the rest of her lackeys take the opportunity to join in.

In the fleeting moments of chaos, Rampart and I exchange a glance Just charge. My feet dig into the ground, pushing me forward, side by side with Rampart.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Pumice making a move, grabbing the broken car and dragging it across the asphalt like a broom. He grinds it into the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris that quickly swells up into a thick, choking billow in the dry October air. My teeth clench as the dust cloud envelops me. It’s thick, scratching at my eyes and throat, but it’s not enough. Not like what happened on the boat. Not like the burning, scalding steam of Mr. Tyrannosaur.

That’s real chaos. This is just an inconvenience.

From somewhere in the swirling brown-gray, I hear Puppeteer’s voice. Frustration is evident as she commands her strings, but the dust disrupts her precision. I imagine the invisible tendrils seeking out Pumice, reaching, grasping, but finding nothing.

Above the haze, a shadowed figure rises — Gale, soaring, catching the wind under her costume’s wings. She’s going for Deathgirl. Chrysalis, that bug girl, joins the aerial dance, catching the currents and launching herself towards Gale. It’s a showdown I’d pay to watch on any other day, but right now, my focus is on the ground.

Deathgirl’s eerie silencing is gone, replaced by the echoing sounds of conflict. Every punch, every shout, every thud resonates. My own breath feels loud in my ears, each gasp a testament to the intensity of the fight.

I catch sight of Patches pounding at Rampart’s chest, mere feet away, and tackle her into the nearest surface with a running start. Her own blood betrays her – even in this dust cloud, I can catch her just fine, in the moments where her skin rips open, and the two of us go sailing into the nearest car as I shoulder-ram her out of the way. Behind me, I hear a monstrously heavy sound, what I can only assume is a car being flipped over like a plastic table, trying to crush Rampart underneath it.

The car bounces and crumples at our impact, forming a dent as Patches’s head bounces off the window just hard enough to crack it, spiderwebs forming in the glass. Her hair is disheveled, caked with a thin layer of dust, and she lets out a wordless scream as I slam my knee into her crotch. While she’s reeling, I wrap my arms around her, pinning her arms to the side, and crak my head into hers, sending her bouncing into the window again. It shatters this time, breaking into dozens of shards of glass.

There’s a loud crack as I feel her shoulders dislocating under me. Before I have the time to really parse it, overwhelmed with the noise and the sudden flow of blood I can smell above me, from Gale, her arms are wrapped around mine, and her knee comes screaming into my pelvis, an eye for an eye. She rears back and smacks her head against mine, before shoving my arms aside so I go stumbling backwards. In the distance, another BOOM! sends a shockwave of noise, followed by the just-so-slightly delayed sounds of shattering glass. Then, the shockwave hits the two of us, kicking up the dust cloud into spinning, swirling eddies, giving me just the second I need to sidestep Patches’ unpracticed charge.

A squealing sound rips through the air as Chrysalis goes sailing into Patches like a human missile, knocking her aside. I recognize the indents in her skin and wings immediately, with Puppeteer having hooked all ten strings around the bug-girl, stopping her from interrupting Gale’s interception of Deathgirl.

The titanic noise of fists colliding with each other fills the center of the street, as the majestic show in the middle of it all plays unimpeded. Rampart and Pumice are locked in a stand-off in the middle of the street, seemingly balanced, a human-shaped boulder against an unmovable object. It’s almost comedic, like two stubborn kids in a playground. Just as I think that Rampart has the upper hand, Spindle leaps out of nowhere, wrapping his long, sinewy arms around Rampart’s neck. Spindle’s spider-like limbs cling to Rampart’s back, choking the life out of him. I can’t help but think of how, in another life, Spindle might’ve made an excellent professional wrestler. This isn’t a fair fight, but who said street fights were fair?

“Rampart!” I shout, trying to be heard over the din. Projectiles shoot overhead – marbles? Ball bearings? Either way, whatever Blink threw zooms past me at enough speed to render them almost invisible, striking Rampart’s back, and by extension, Spindle, like buckshot.

Playback’s shoes skid along the dusty ground, and as Patches gets up, ready to swing at me again, he swings for her head like a baseball batter with a collapsible baton instead of a baseball bat. If I didn’t know she’d heal from it, I’d have thought that was an instant concussion. Blood sprays from her lips as her head flicks with the force.

I don’t have time to eyeball everything. Chrysalis, dusted off and angry, swats at me with outstretched claws, each one looking more like a dog’s claw than some sort of bug’s claw. Do bugs even have claws? File that one away for later. She scratches me across the face, mostly bouncing off my mask, but her thumb and index finger catch across my lips, and the taste of blood fills my mouth, followed by a painful burning sensation.

Oh. She’s venomous.

I hear Playback’s taunting, but among the chaotic din, I don’t actually interpret any of it. It goes in, and then bounces right back out. I’m too focused on trying to duck out of the way of Chrysalis’s swipes and kicks, just like dodging blows from Rampart, except slower. Her first claw caught me by surprise, and my lip feels swollen already. She won’t get a second opportunity.

“I don’t want to knock you out,” I shout over the increasing noise of howling wind.

“Just try!” Chrysalis titters back, her voice high pitched, almost fairy-like. I put up my dukes and jab twice, catching her on the chin, followed by the chin again. She’s slower than the sandbag, if anything. She might have dangerous powers, but I’ve got dangerous limbs. I bring my shin up and swing through her, and she crumples. Whatever she’s got in her circulatory system, it doesn’t register, but I do see it leaking out of her sides, staining her clothes with a greenish-white stain.

What happens next only really registers a second or two after it hits me. I’ve noticed the wind picking up, but I assumed that was just Gale working her magic, up until my blood sense feels Gale’s silhouette sailing over me. While I’m busy processing that, something sharp and heavy catches me from the side like a bullet, slamming me through my undersuit, right where my guts were torn out the first time. Sharp, white-hot pain hits me like fire, then like ice, as the bruise forms. Even regeneration can only give me so much pain resistance.

It’s only after I have a second to catch up to the present that I realize that a parking meter was thrown at me. Spinning like a shuriken, the second one catches me on the other side, ripping open my shoulder. I try to warn Playback to get down as a third one, without spin, sails straight for my chestplate.

I grit my teeth as it hits, feeling much like I’d imagine a bell feels when it gets rung. I feel plates crack underneath my armor, things that will require replacement, and my immediate impulse is a feeling of bleak discomfort at the cost, followed by a slight relief that I am not dead, and not impaled by a parking meter. Everyone besides Pumice and I have taken some sort of squat, and it’s not long before I’m forced to my knees by a powerful downdraft. Debris streaks around me, like I’m in the eye of a tornado.

Deathgirl floats above us, no longer with mouths inside her hands. No, now she’s the epicenter of a massive windstorm, her hair whipping every which way out of her hoodie, glaring down Gale. “Goss!” I scream over the din. “First aid!”

I watch Deathgirl strain, grunt, and contort as she uses Gale’s power to rip a loose car door off a broken car. I try to stand up, even with the burning, throbbing pain throughout my entire body. I put myself between Deathgirl and Gale. The car door goes flying like a frisbee.

I brace for impact.

It flips mid-spin, going from horizontal to flat, like a sail catching the wind. It smashes into my face, and the world goes white. I know, instinctively, that I’ve been knocked out. Maybe my nose was broken, too, given I just got a car door thrown at me.

The world tilts. Everything becomes a haze of colors, shapes, and noise. For a moment, darkness claims me, and it feels almost peaceful, like the silence of a submerged pool. But that doesn’t last. A rush of adrenaline, maybe the effect of my regeneration, jolts me back to consciousness. My head throbs as I push myself back to my feet, every inch of my body screaming in protest.

Just a nap, huh? Not your best idea, Sam.

Barely on my feet again, I sense fresh blood – not just mine, but Gale’s too. It’s faint, a grazed wound, perhaps. But it’s enough to guide me to her silhouette. She and Gossamer are now behind the very car Chrysalis was rammed into.

I take a step, aiming to direct Gossamer to attend to Chrysalis, but the ground seems to sway beneath me. Trying to be as non-verbal as possible, I gesture at Chrysalis and then at Gossamer, hoping she understands. She gives me a puzzled look. The weight of the situation weighs on me. Damn it, just do it!

The tornado of dust and debris continues to swirl around us, making vision almost impossible. But within its vortex, I can sense the echoes of conflict. Playback and Patches seem to be caught within it, their forms struggling against the tumultuous winds. I can hear Playback’s defiant shouts, intermingled with Patches’ frustrated screams. It’s a desperate dance between sound and silence, and I can’t help but marvel at the chaos of it all.

Yet even in this mayhem, Pumice stands tall. He’s far heavier than Rampart, which makes the difference in the gusty whirlwind. His rocky form seems to brush off the winds like they’re nothing, and he’s taking advantage of the situation. The repeated thuds and grunts tell me Rampart’s not having a good time. The ground vibrates with each of Pumice’s blows.

Then, there’s Spindle. Where did he go? His elongated form was a perfect target, but he’s vanished. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Did he fold himself away somewhere? Is he okay? Or is he just avoiding the fray? I try to focus on him but it’s impossible, he’s not bleeding and he’s too hidden.

Crossroads – I can faintly sense him, the adrenaline in his system making his blood flow a little faster. He’s managed to bypass the chaos and is chasing Deathgirl. He’s sneaking through a side alley, trying to get around the tornado. But where are Blink and Puppeteer? My heart races faster. They’re out of sight, and neither of them is injured enough for me to sense. I pray they’re okay, maybe they’ve managed to find some cover. Or maybe they’re formulating a plan. I can only hope.

Everyone’s accounted for. I catch, for a second, Fury Forge’s bomb-detecting robot being caught up in the windstorm. It smashes against the ground, grinding against it like a kid trying to give themselves rugburn.

Blood leaks from my nose and into my mouth.

I watch as a small rock sails into Deathgirl hard enough to send her spinning through the air. When she looks towards its source, she sees Crossroads, begins to adapt – and immediately plummets out of the sky, her legs caught by invisible strings. Guess they went as a group. I only get to watch for a second as Crossroads and Daisy stare each other down, locked in some kind of… Psychic battle? Then, Crossroads becomes even more visible in my mind’s eye as blood bursts from his nose, followed by the same thing happening to Daisy. His eyes flicker, and my legs sweep out from under me.

Barely a second after thinking about everyone’s positions, I’m slammed to the ground. The air escapes my lungs in a whoosh, and my vision’s filled with the glint of Patches’ eyes, burning with wild anger. The weight of her body pins me, and I can feel the vibrations of her growl in my chest.

“Thought you were done with me?” she sneers, saliva flecking from her lips. One of her hands is on my throat, fingers digging in, the other trying to restrain my flailing arm. I’m clawing at her, but she’s strong, and those regenerative powers make it almost impossible to get a grip. Each twist and turn I try only makes her grip tighter, her resolve firmer.

“Get… off… me,” I manage to hiss out between gasps for breath, biting at her fingers. I can taste the metallic tang of her blood, making her recoil momentarily. It’s the opening I need. Using my legs, I kick up, putting all my weight and momentum into it, sending her flying a couple of feet away from me.

But she’s back in an instant, lunging again. This time I’m ready. I duck to the side, trying to keep her off-balance. Every time she comes at me, I use her own momentum against her, making her miss her target or stumble. But she’s relentless, and every time I dodge, she’s immediately back on me.

Crossroads’ voice slices through the chaos. “Bee! Left, duck! Now, right!”

Trusting his advice, I move as he dictates, the moves keeping me just out of Patches’ grasp. I can’t keep up this game forever, though. I need to end it, but I can barely see straight, let alone plan a counter-attack. He has to manage everyone else, too – I just happened to key in on my own name.

Suddenly, a blur comes into view and vanishes again, near the edge of the street. The sound of blows connecting at an alarming speed fills the air. The high-pitched, frustrated screams of Deathgirl indicate that she’s in the thick of it with Blink. I can only tune in to Blink when she lands, her power more useful for jumping when it comes to her own transportation, but Deathgirl is nearly invisible, a blur of moving greys and blacks. The air is filled with a sound like loud pop rocks as they exchange projectiles.

Suddenly, Patches grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling me in. I snap my jaw at her, but she dodges just in time. She’s learning. Our struggle is a desperate dance on the ground, with neither of us giving an inch. I elbow her in the ribs, and she responds by headbutting me. Spots dance in front of my eyes, and I groan in pain.

My teeth clench. I bite down on her wrist, tasting the rush of blood again. She shrieks in pain, and I use the distraction to push her off me, rolling away and scrambling to my feet. She’s right on my heels, though, coming at me with wild, flailing punches.

I’m fighting on instinct now, each block and counter coming from pure muscle memory. I catch her arm mid-swing and twist, hearing her yelp as her shoulder pops. But she breaks free, using her other hand to clock me in the jaw. The world tilts, and I’m on the ground again. I watch as her entire body rearranges itself to supply fresh blood to each new wound I inject into her with my teeth, veins forming, twisting, and then dying in fractions of seconds.

I belt out a shrieking bellow and swing the biggest haymaker of my life towards her face. I feel something in my knuckles pop, from me clenching my fist so hard it feels like it’s about to break, and I feel the blood spill out from her cheeks as I make contact. She spins backwards like a boxer almost knocked out, a gash torn in her face that’s immediately stitching itself back closed.

I feel blood in my knuckles, and glance down at my gloves. Did I just… break my knuckles on her face? I see only a single hole, between my middle and ring finger on my right hand, a tiny, almost unnoticable gap in the threads, soaking with fresh blood. I don’t have time to dwell on it any more than that, as Patches swings at me right back.

The wind around us stops immediately as Spindle’s gangly form materializes from the sewer, lunging for Gale. She tries to blow him away, his fingers stretching towards her, but she deftly avoids his reach. He’s quick, though. With a sneaky grin, he rips her belt fan free, letting the blowing wind catch his lithe form and send him sailing backwards. Gale lets out a grunt of frustration.

I swing towards Patches, catching her with a left hook. She reels, and then swings back, and I duck out of the way. I know Rampart wanted me to learn aikido, but this feels so much better.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of color — Chrysalis, those vibrant bug-like wings catching my attention for just a second. Her injured side is hastily bandaged, and I glance towards Gossamer, looking thoroughly disgruntled, with a purplish scratch on her cheek. Okay. Maybe not my best compassionate decision.

Suddenly, there’s a yell, and Patches is yanked back. Playback, wielding his baton, gets her in a chokehold. “Count sheep, bitch!” he shouts, straining to keep her in check, the baton’s length pressed up against her windpipe.

My head’s throbbing, the pain from my injuries making it hard to focus. Every movement feels like it’s pushing my limits. I have to trust the others to do their part. Out of nowhere, there’s a thud nearby, Blink skidding across the sidewalk, her skin riddled with tiny bruises and pockmarks and cuts from high velocity projectiles. Crossroads’ voice rings out loud and clear. “Gossamer, get Blink! Move!”

I turn down the road, feeling the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Deathgirl. She’s looking right at me, and there’s a manic fire in her eyes.

She’s pissed.

Her hoodie ripples as sharp, pointed bone spikes tear through the fabric. It’s almost mesmerizing, how horrifying it is to watch her body rearrange itself. Her mouth hangs open like a hungry snake, filled with rows, and rows, and rows of razor sharp teeth, jutting out at awkward angles. There’s no elegance. They don’t fit together like mine. Just a human buzzsaw. If she clamps down and yanks her head, there’s no neat little chunks – just an industrial grinder on someone’s skin.

Every instinct screams at me to move, but I can’t decide where. Left, right, forward, back. Too many choices. Blink, no, not Blink, she’s on the ground — shit, Crossroads? I don’t remember who taught me what. Commit. Commit.

I charge headfirst towards her.

I duck down, trying to dodge the whirlwind of spikes and teeth that is Deathgirl. Each spike isn’t just a weapon – it’s a bleeding wound, pumping out the evidence of her self-inflicted violence, dark trails painting the air with every motion. That sensory overload from her newfound abilities is working in my favor. Her attacks are wild, uncontrolled, more desperate than precise. She swipes with all the aim of a blind goose hunting for frozen peas.

The concrete of the street scrapes against my palms and knees as I narrowly avoid a vicious chomp from her. She has the teeth, but she doesn’t understand them, doesn’t have the finesse of knowing when to bite, how to angle the jaw, where to apply pressure. They’re all just random weapons, each scarier than the last.

Jordan’s voice resonates in my head. “Being a superhuman isn’t about being strong, fast, or durable. It’s about being clever. No matter how strong your powers make you, and I bet they make you pretty strong, you’ll lose every time to someone who’s mastered every facet of their powers.”

The image of our first confrontation, back when we were enemies, plays in the back of my mind. I remember how gracefully they maneuvered around me, how embarassed I was to have my face ground into the carpet, my head slammed against soup cans, my body stepped upon. They didn’t overpower me, they outsmarted me. They focused on what they could do, and what I couldn’t do, testing me, prodding me, hunting for limitations.

What’s her limitation?

Too much. Too many teeth. Too many senses. Overwhelm.

Deathgirl comes at me again, her mouth gaping open to take another bite. Instead of dodging, I punch her in the mouth, feeling immediate guilt at having punched a small child in the mouth. Her teeth catch my knuckles and rip my fingers open, but it’s all surface level. I fling blood in her eyes.

My own blood sense is only overwhelming in crowds. But given the scale of her own mutation, how every version of our powers just seemed to be amped up to 11 in her tiny little frame, I can only imagine what it feels like to her.

“Is this what you want?” I gasp, voice hoarse and raw. “To be a monster? Because you’re sure acting like one!”

With a frustrated yell, she pushes off, a few more teeth left embedded in her own tongue. She spits them out, and immediately, her tongue starts reforming, almost at Patches speed. It makes me freeze, for the tiniest second, and she slashes at my face, catching my upper lip with her new claws, spikes of bone emerging from her fingertips. Every noise she makes is filtered through layers of teeth, a thick, bloody rasp.

I spit at her face, keeping her attention on me. I spray blood out into the air. I can’t rely on physical strength alone here. I take a step back, trying to buy time, trying to think. Around us, the street’s chaos is a blurry, indistinct mess of color and motion. But every time someone bleeds, I get a clearer picture. My world’s slowly becoming a canvas of a bright red painting. Like a Rothko. All in shades.

I rip the expanding foam spray out from my utility belt and spray it into Deathgirl’s mouth.

Billowing white foam bursts out like a science experiment, designed for smothering fires but just as effective in smothering small children. Eugh. She stumbles backwards, trying to scrape it off of her mouth as it begins to harden, but I keep the spray up. Her bone spikes give it plenty of surface area to anchor onto, to weigh her down. I twist the cap until it’s locked again, slam the spray into my utility belt, and then grab for Deathgirl’s wrist.

Deathgirl’s rage-filled eyes dart to my utility belt, where the foam spray was, and she lunges at me, a berserker, moving faster than someone her size should. Her bone spikes scrape and chip on the concrete with every movement, producing an eerie chorus that sounds almost like teeth chattering. She’s trying to predict my next move, but every punch, every swipe is wild, uncontrolled. There’s pain in her face from the spikes tearing through her flesh, but she’s pushing through it, driven by pure instinct and fury.

Crossroads’ voice cuts through the cacophony of the ongoing skirmish. “Sam! Sidestep left! Puppeteer, pull back! Gale, provide wind cover now!”

I dodge left, narrowly missing a swipe from Deathgirl that would’ve left me impaled. She overextends, her momentum throwing her off balance. Puppeteer, taking the cue, shoots her strings, trying to wrap around the pre-teen terror. It works. For a moment. Deathgirl thrashes, her enhanced senses making her hyper-aware of every binding, every pull. With a scream that’s more animal than human, she retaliates by swiping those spikes all over, trying to cut through telekinetic strings that simply can’t be cut. Puppeteer grunts in exertion, trying to maintain control.

I’m distracted by my discovery. My adhesive spray – gone. Who took it? Was it her? My mind races.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Playback’s silhouette in my blood sense, and my heart lurches. Still. Not moving. That’s bad.

Before I can process that further, there’s a rush of wind, a shadow, and I’m slammed to the ground, the unmistakable weight of Patches on top of me. I gasp for air, feeling ribs creak under the impact. The taste of blood fills my mouth as I feel the repeated blunt force of her fists connecting with my face. Her grip on me is iron-tight, her intent clear. She’s aiming to end me. I feel my head rattle around like a speedbag.

Blink is quick, reacting to my plight. The air’s filled with the sharp pinging sound of accelerated marbles striking Patches. The first few strike her without much effect, but the barrage becomes relentless, causing her to flinch and momentarily ease her grip on me. It’s enough. I channel every bit of energy and leverage, twisting my hips and slamming my pelvis upwards, trying to whip her off of me. She stumbles, and I scramble back on my elbows and feet.

But I’m not free yet. Before I can get back up to my feet, she’s back, barreling towards me like a freight train. The marbles are just minor annoyances to her. I need an escape, and fast. Just as the thought crosses my mind, a gust of wind envelops us, strong enough to push Patches away. As furious as Patches is, with Gale on the ground, she can’t push past all the force.

A thought skitters across my brain. You never quite appreciate how painful it is to get sand in your eyes until a mini tornado is whipping around you. I stumble back, coughing, trying to get clear of the gusts and debris. There’s a sharp sting as something clips my cheek, but I ignore it, trying to put distance between me and Patches. But everything’s a haze, a maelstrom of wind and dust and the cries of pain from my teammates.

Crossroads is still shouting instructions, but the wind distorts his words, making them almost incomprehensible. Still, I catch a few, like “Rampart, left!” and “Blink, get her off Sam!” I don’t know what the situation with the others is, but right now, my world is reduced to the immediate threat in front of me.

I go up, my hair caught in a rough grip. I feel a couple of the strands snapping, and somehow that fills me with a deeper pain than any of the blows, despite me having lost several teeth at this point. Plus, my jaw might be broken. Pumice’s hands are just like his namesake, and he flings me into Patches like a bowling ball.

Deathgirl strains for purchase against Puppeteer’s strings, and I only hear, not see, Puppeteer crying out in pain at something. The shape that the new wounds form in my mind’s eye, in her shoulders, indicates sharp and pointy. I have to assume Chrysalis’s claws.

Where’s Spindle?

Grit. Everywhere. It’s in my eyes, in my mouth, on my skin. Every movement of Pumice grinds against my nerves, each hit feeling like I’m being scraped against the roughest sandpaper. He’s solid, compact, and unforgiving. There’s no give in his form, no blood to smell, no heat to sense. It’s like fighting a statue, only with more friction burns. My teeth? They might be sharp, but what good are they against stone? None. No good at all.

The ground beneath us vibrates with the impact of our movements. Pumice tries to corner me, his arms coming down in arcing, grinding blows. I have to get close to land any blows on him, but the closer I get, the more I risk skinning myself raw against his stone form. Every time I think I have a gap, he’s there, blocking it.

He slams a rocky palm towards me. My instincts kick in. I duck, feeling the swish of air above my head, and attempt a low leg sweep, trying to topple him. It’s like trying to kick down a tree. He doesn’t budge, and my shin screams in protest. Gritting my teeth – the ones I still have, anyway – I barely roll away from another of his downward strikes. I can’t keep this up. I need an opening, some way to get him off his feet. But how do you knock down a mountain?

Crossroads, out of the blue, is dancing. I say dancing because it’s the only way I can describe what I’m witnessing. The usually calm and composed strategist is a whirling dervish of action against Patches. Every move she throws at him is perfectly anticipated. He ducks, swerves, and counters with surgical precision. It’s almost beautiful to watch, even in the thick of a fight. Patches lunges, and he sidesteps, sending her crashing into a nearby stand with a well-placed kick. It’s clear the nosebleed he’s sporting isn’t slowing him down one bit. If anything, it’s like it’s invigorating him. Like a computer being overclocked. He kicks through her ribs and she clenches up.

In the midst of this chaos, I hear Rampart shout something, a warning maybe, but it’s lost in the noise. My attention’s jerked back to Pumice as he lands a stinging blow to my side. I hiss, pain flaring, but force myself to stand my ground. I need to be smarter. I need a plan.

There’s a sharp cry and I turn my attention to Puppeteer and Deathgirl. The atmosphere between them is electric, chaotic, and dangerous. The air is practically alive with invisible strings. Everywhere Puppeteer moves a string, Deathgirl sends ten more flying from her wild, floating hair. It’s a literal string-off. Puppeteer’s usual grace seems hampered. How do you fight someone with your own power, only more? How do you out-think yourself? And it’s all amplified. Puppeteer tries to ensnare Deathgirl, but she just… dodges, responding with a barrage of her own strings. They dart around, seeking their target with deadly precision.

Puppeteer gets one string per finger. Deathgirl gets one per strand of hair. How is that fair?

Pumice tries to move through the dense web, but his own form is too big, too bulky. Deathgirl erratically swings around by her own hair like the world’s most fucked up octopus, and suddenly nobody can move, the entire battlefield brought to a standstill. There’s no wrapping, unlike Puppeteer’s strings, at least none that I can detect through the slight haze that marks the air where they are. Deathgirl doesn’t have the finesse to wrap, lasso, and pull. She can only grab. She’s too light to pull things to her.

As the air settles, I recognize the only sound audible. Gale, choking, straining. Deathgirl’s bangs point directly towards her, smothering her. Gale’s mouth is pulled open, tongue out – oh my G-d, she’s literally smothering her. I grab hold of Deathgirl’s strands, trying to pull myself on an invisible jungle gym, like a fly trying to climb into the center of the spider’s web. Winds whip weakly around Gale as consciousness fades from her body. I keep my mouth clenched shut, feeling the invisible wires trying to pull my lips open, trying to do the same thing to me.

“PB! Now!”

Playback, lying sprawled on the ground, has been slowly and quietly siphoning the cacophony of our skirmish. I can’t see his face but I know he’s been waiting for a golden moment – and it comes when Crossroads shouts. From his position, he releases an explosive roar of sound, directed right at Deathgirl, centered on her. Unlike her, he can’t make a physical force with his sound, but having however many decibels of a hundred different noises instantly playing in your eardrums can’t be pleasant.

It’s enough time for her to shift her power from Puppeteer to Playback, and the battlefield seems silent for a brief moment. Then, she falls, gravity remembering that it should be acting on her without her strings to hold her up. Chrysalis leaps out from the sidelines to catch her mid-fall, cradling her to her chest as she skids across the asphalt.

I shoot a brief glance at Crossroads. His moves, once a ballet of precision, have become tired, delayed shuffles. Blood, thicker than before, trails from his nostrils. He’s flagging, and I wish I could help, but Pumice is still on me, still trying to land a decisive hit. I can’t fight him back, but I can distract him. Just long enough to feel Rampart’s footsteps behind me – I throw myself down to the ground and let the big boys handle each other, slamming together like sumo wrestlers.

Chrysalis, with an intense gaze, screams out to Deathgirl, probably a desperate attempt to change the tide. To my horror, it works. With a grotesque transformation, Deathgirl morphs, her limbs elongating, her skin hardening, and wings sprouting from her back, turning into a more menacing version of Chrysalis. A second set of arms rips out of her hoodie, followed by another set of large, billowing wings, and thick chitin rips out of her skin like an Animorphs novel scene. “Get her!” Chrysalis shrieks, urging Deathgirl towards Puppeteer.

Deathgirl is all too happy to oblige her violent instincts, a perpetual motion machine of fury in only the way a child can be. She charges.

A brief moment of eye contact between Chrysalis and me sends a shiver down my spine. I can see a flicker in her compound eyes, a flicker of something. Regret? I don’t have time to dwell on it.

In the middle of this mess, Gossamer appears out of nowhere, reaching Gale just in time. The wind manipulator’s face is pale, eyes fluttering weakly. With a determined tug, Gossamer starts dragging her away from the main skirmish, seeking a safer spot. Gale tries to say something, but her voice is raspy and weak, her consciousness flickering on and off. They disappear from my view as they find cover.

Crossroads’ fist meets Patches’ nose. Patches growls with desperate rage.

My fingers itch with anticipation as I pick up on Puppeteer’s current silhouette, her movements, and how they’re mismatched to Deathgirl’s newly terrifying form. “Pup!” I shout, throat raw, “Switch! Take Patches!” Even in this chaos, even with everything going wrong, we know to trust each other, to listen to those calls.

Puppeteer, her fingers already outstretched and weaving their intricate patterns, diverts her attention, nodding to me as she moves towards the crazed Patches, strings whizzing past my ear. My role now is clear: take on Deathgirl. The problem is, while her body is big and grotesque, her mind is still a child’s, erratic and unpredictable. And honestly? That’s a bit scarier.

Blink and Chrysalis are locked in their own fierce ballet. The sound of buzzing wings fills the air as Chrysalis attempts to land a blow, a single weary slash somewhere across Blink’s skin. Blink is a storm of motion, but she’s obviously tiring. With every jump and vault, her trajectory gets less and less accurate, and every time she lands, it’s less of a controlled fall and more of a desperate tumble. Every so often, she snags pieces of rubble, hurling them at Chrysalis with as much force as her waning strength allows.

Distracted by their dance in the sky, a jarring scream wrenches me back to my own situation. Deathgirl lunges, wings beating furiously, her extra limbs a blur. I brace, jaw set and teeth sharp. She’s not as fast as she was at the start, not filled with that kinetic energy of a tantruming child. And I am. Adrenaline courses through me, a burning, invigorating pain. Her claws rip through the exposed, non-armored parts of my costume in a dozen different places, and I feel the venom immediately hitting my system, making my entire body scream out in pain. Cuts aching to close themselves shut.

I grin and bear it, and swing for her jaw. There’s a satisfying crak as hemolymph spills out, and her chitinous body begins to reshape itself back into her crude imitation of my own powers. I reach for my belt, and she’s already backing away, scared. It buys me precious seconds.

Behind us, in the corner of my eyes, I barely make out the form of Pumice, trying to choke out Rampart. The big guy’s eyes are glazed, bloodshot – he may be immovable, but he still needs oxygen. Clearly, Pumice is taking inspiration from his teammate’s playbook.

Then, Spindle jumps on Pumice’s back. I turn on my heel, trying to keep Spindle, Pumice, and Deathgirl all in my vision, while Deathgirl summons up the courage, the self-hype, to charge at me again with her newly reformed bone spikes. The situation is rapidly degrading. Rampart’s body is going limp.

Spindle pulls out my adhesive spray, aims, and shoots it across Pumice’s eyes.

A solid two second spray, before leaping off and dancing to the ground. Blink crashes into Pumice from above, and newly blinded, he can’t brace himself for the impact – he goes stumbling down, trying to scrape it off of his face with a saliva-soaked hand.

I turn to Deathgirl. Her body begins stretching out like dough, and her face is nothing but pure fear, the kind of fear that you only get to see on fighting dogs. She catches me looking, and her expression hardens.

“Pumice! Daisy! Patches! We’re out!” Chrysalis shouts. Patches’ arms crack and groan as she tries escaping from Puppeteer’s deathgrip, while Crossroads, dizzy and swaying, leans against the nearest car to avoid passing out. Puppeteer looks on in horror as Patches’ arm breaks, twisting the wrong way around, and she grabs a hold of Puppeteer’s strings to hurl her close, sending the lighter girl swinging towards her.

But before Patches can bring her horrifying fighting style to bear against Puppeteer, Spindle’s arms are wrapped around her neck. In disbelief, I watch as Chrysalis and Pumice bolt down the street. I make a mental note to mention that later to the adults in the room. Patches tries to dislocate something, to find a weak spot she can slip out of, but Spindle’s hypermobile grip around her is too tight, like a fishing net. Puppeteer drags against the asphalt.

“Daisy,” I croak, my voice hoarse. “You…” I try to figure out what to say. You don’t have to keep fighting? You don’t have to be like this? But all I see in her face is a sort of stern horror. Her entire body turns into a pile of slender flesh, and she squeezes herself into the nearest storm drain.

“You fucking idiot! You’re going to ruin everything!” Patches wheezes, trying to catch her breath. I walk up to her, debris crunching underneath my boots. Spindle’s grip is tight, but his muscles are weak. He clenches, and squeezes, while Puppeteer tries to maintain a pin on her. I pull Patches into a tight bear hug, and finalize the lockdown.

She can’t move at all now. She can only squirm, and squirm, and squirm, like a worm caught on a hook.

The air is filled with curses. It takes another four, five, six agonizing seconds before she loses her grip on consciousness and goes slack, slumping to the ground.

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