52

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Consciousness nudges at me, a slow, creeping awareness. My head feels heavy, like it’s stuffed with cotton, and there’s a throbbing pain right at the base of my skull. I try to move, but something’s holding me back. Ropes, maybe? I can feel them biting into my wrists, rough and unyielding. My eyes flutter open, but it’s an effort. Everything’s blurry, shapes and shadows dancing in my vision.

I’m in a room, I think. It’s dim, the kind of dimness that comes from one flickering light bulb struggling to stay alive. There are sounds, voices. They’re muffled, like I’m hearing them underwater. I try to focus, try to make sense of the words, but it’s hard.

“…don’t get it, Aaron,” one voice says. It’s deep, but with a hint of youth. Pumice, maybe? “The Sixers had it. They were leading and then just… poof. Gone. Like they forgot how to play.”

Aaron’s voice is unmistakable. It’s rough, edged with that cocky arrogance that I’ve come to loathe. “You think too much about it, man. It’s just a game. Besides, they’ve been slacking all season. No discipline.”

I try to lift my head, but it’s like lifting a ten-pound weight with my neck. Everything hurts. I blink, trying to clear the fog in my head. The room swims into slightly clearer focus. There’s a table, cluttered with… stuff. I can’t make it out. I’m still in a t-shirt and boxers. My entire body screams in pain. They bandaged up my hand, which was… nice of them?

Pumice laughs, a short, barking sound. “No discipline? Man, you sound like my old coach. They’ve got talent. Just need the right direction.”

Aaron snorts. “Direction, right. What they need is a good kick in the ass. Wake ’em up.”

I squint, trying to locate them. My vision is still blurry, but I can make out two figures. One’s leaning against a wall, arms crossed. Aaron, probably. The other’s sitting on what looks like a crate, animatedly gesturing. Pumice.

“Their defense is all over the place,” Pumice continues. “You see that game last Thursday? It was like watching kids chase a ball in the park.”

Aaron’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Oh, enlighten me, coach. What would you have done differently?”

There’s a clinking sound, metal on metal. I try to turn my head, curious despite the situation. It’s painful, a sharp stab that shoots through my neck, but I catch a glimpse of something. Tools, maybe? It sends a shiver down my spine.

Pumice seems unfazed by Aaron’s tone. “For starters, I wouldn’t have benched Simmons in the last quarter. Guy was on fire.”

Aaron laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “Simmons? Please. Guy’s overrated. All flash, no substance.”

I try to focus on their conversation, but it’s hard. My mind feels sluggish, thoughts drifting like leaves in a stream. I’m vaguely aware that they’re talking about basketball, but it feels distant, unimportant.

“What they need is a new coach,” Pumice says, adamant. “Someone who actually understands the game.”

Aaron’s reply is scornful. “And you think you’re that someone, huh? You barely out of diapers and already think you know everything.”

There’s a tension in the room, palpable even through my dazed state. I can sense the animosity between them, a thread of hostility that runs beneath the banter.

I try to shift, to ease the discomfort, but the ropes dig in deeper. It’s futile. I’m stuck here, at the mercy of these… people. My captors.

Pumice’s voice rises, defensive. “Hey, I know enough. More than some street thug who thinks he’s a big shot.”

Aaron’s laugh is cold. “Street thug, huh? Look who’s talking. Mr. Rock-for-Brains.”

I close my eyes, trying to block them out. It’s too much, the pain, the voices, the cold seeping into my bones. I just want to sleep, to escape this nightmare.

But sleep is elusive, a distant dream that I can’t quite reach. The voices continue, a constant, nagging presence in the background of my consciousness.

“You’re just pissed because the Sixers are doing better than your precious Flyers,” Pumice shoots back.

Aaron’s reply is a growl. “Don’t you dare bring hockey into this. You don’t know shit about it.”

I try to speak, but my throat’s dry, and it comes out as a rasp. “You two done comparing sports teams, or should I come back later?” I regret it instantly, my head throbbing in protest, but I can’t help it. Mouthy, that’s me.

Pumice chuckles, a sound like gravel rolling down a hill. “She’s got spirit, Aaron. Gotta give her that.”

Aaron doesn’t look amused. He walks over, looming over me. The closeness is suffocating. “Spirit’s gonna be the death of you, kid.”

I want to retort, but my brain’s still playing catch-up, every thought sluggish and painful. Instead, I focus on the room, trying to piece together where I am, how I got here. It’s all hazy, memories slipping through my fingers like water.

Pumice stands, stretching, his movements sending tiny flecks of stone skittering across the floor. “Look, we gonna talk Sixers all day or we gonna get to why we’re here?”

Aaron’s eyes narrow, and he turns his attention back to Pumice. “We’ll get there. Just waiting on the others.” He says it casually, like we’re waiting for guests at a party.

I try to shift, but I’m tied up too tight, my wrists bound perfectly tight to the cold metal of a fold-out chair. Panic flares up, sharp and bitter. I test the ropes discreetly, but there’s no give. Their conversation fades into the background as I assess my situation. The ropes are rough against my skin, every twist and pull sending stinging sensations up my arms. The chair’s unforgiving, every edge and surface pressing into me, reminding me of my helplessness.

The door creaks open, drawing Aaron and Pumice’s attention away from their banter. Chrysalis steps in, her insect-like features casting eerie shadows across the room. She’s followed closely by Deathgirl, who’s practically vibrating with a mix of excitement and pent-up energy. Chrysalis’ movements are deliberate, almost dainty. Deathgirl, on the other hand, exudes a wild aura, shaking with excitement. This is the first time I’m seeing her smiling, instead of scowling.

Aaron straightens up, a smirk playing on his lips. “Finally, the party’s complete,” he says, his voice dripping with a false cheerfulness that doesn’t reach his eyes. He takes a couple of steps back, and shuts the door.

Chrysalis responds with a dismissive glance, her voice laced with contempt. “Let’s just get this over with, Aaron. I have better things to do than watch you play tough guy.”

Deathgirl grins with a mouth full of slightly crooked teeth, and I realize that her eyes are covered in a black blindfold. Do her powers ever turn off? She doesn’t look like Chrysalis, Pumice, or me, so she must be on Aaron mode right now.

Aaron takes a step forward, assuming the role of the leader, his gaze fixed on me. “Alright, let’s start the fun,” he says, his tone clearly intended to intimidate.

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut.

Aaron reaches over to the table, and his hands linger over a claw hammer. Aaron picks up the claw hammer, his grip tight, eyes locked on mine. There’s a glint in his eye, a kind of manic glee that sends shivers down my spine. I try to swallow, but my throat’s too dry, fear knotting it tight.

“You know, Sam,” he starts, his voice low and menacing, “my Papa taught me a lot about respect.” He taps the hammer against his palm, a rhythmic thudding that echoes in the cramped room. “He believed in the old ways. Belt leather and hard lessons.”

He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. The room’s already stifling, but with him so close, it feels like I’m suffocating. “Papa used to say that the world’s all about power. Who’s got it, who doesn’t.”

He leans down, his breath hot against my face, and I can see his eyes. They’re red. Brick red. “And power, Sammy, power’s all about pain.” The hammer’s still in his hand, and he runs his thumb along its edge, almost lovingly. “People listen to Johnny Law not ’cause they respect him, but ’cause they fear the pain he can bring.”

Pumice shifts uncomfortably, his stone body scraping against the floor. Even he seems disturbed by Aaron’s intensity. Chrysalis looks away, her bug-eyes flickering with unease. Only Deathgirl seems unfazed, her grin widening as she listens to the scene unfold.

Aaron’s eyes never leave mine. “Papa ruled with his belt. But now, Papa’s dead, and I’m the one with the hammer.” He lifts it, letting the light catch the metal. “And right now, I’ve got all the power.”

The hammer hovers above my hand, and my heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. In my knuckles. “So, what’s it gonna be, Sam? Gonna keep that spirit? Or are you gonna beg?”

I clench my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction. My mind races, trying to find some way out of this, but there’s nothing. Just me, tied to a chair, at the mercy of a madman. I clench my teeth together. I don’t even give him the satisfaction of an insult.

Aaron’s smile is cruel, triumphant. “No begging, huh? Alright then.” He positions the hammer just so, the claw edge of it pressed between my nailbed and the nail itself. He reaches down and grabs my hands like a manicurist. Gives the rope a little yank. He works the cold metal deeper and deeper, already making me grit my entire body together. I feel thick, dark pulses throughout my skin, like new, fresh heartbeats.

The handle is facing up. The wrong way for a hammer if you’re smacking something with it.

The right way for pulling out a screw. Or a nail.

The pain, when it comes, is blinding. I can’t hold back the scream, it rips from my throat, raw and ragged. Each nail feels like a new level of hell, pain stacking on pain until I can’t think, can’t breathe. My thumbnail goes first, cracking unevenly. A claw hammer isn’t made for extracting this. What Aaron is doing just breaks each nail in half. My blood oozes out onto the chair. Then, my index finger nail.

Through it all, Aaron keeps talking, his voice a constant drone in the background. “See, it’s all about pain, Sam. The person who can inflict the most pain, the most efficiently, they’re the ones who rule the world. That’s why the president’s got the nuclear football. That’s why I’ve got this hammer. Militaries have more guns than the average runt, but they don’t got nukes. President over the military over the police over the average man.”

His words blend together, a meaningless buzz against the backdrop of my agony. All I can focus on is the pain, and the desperate, clawing need to escape it. I thrash against my restraints, trying to wiggle out, but it’s useless.

“And that’s why you’re here, tied to a chair. Because right now, I’m the one inflicting the pain. And that makes me the king of this little world.”

The room spins, and I can feel myself slipping, consciousness fraying at the edges. My body twitches against my will. It doesn’t take long before every nail on my right hand has been removed forcefully, and my fingertips burn and screech and send every wrong signal to my brain.

Aaron steps back, admiring his handiwork. “Papa would be proud, don’t you think?” His laugh is cruel, echoing off the walls. “You want a go, P?”

“I’m good, chief. You do your serial killer shit,” Pumice says, waving a hand nonchalantly.

Aaron chuckles, stepping aside as Daisy bounds forward, her hoodie bobbing. Her glee is palpable, a stark contrast to the heavy air of torment that fills the room. “Alright, kiddo, show us what you’ve got,” he says, a mocking encouragement in his tone. Aaron’s twisted satisfaction is evident as he steps back, leaving me with my mangled right hand, each missing nail a throbbing reminder of the ordeal. I’m panting, trying to stay conscious, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Daisy’s excitement is palpable as she jumps at the chance to join in. Her blindfolded eyes don’t see me, but she’s grinning like it’s some twisted game. She clumsily grabs the hammer from Aaron, her small hands barely fitting around the handle.

“You’re gonna love this,” she says, almost singing. She raises the hammer high, her small frame trembling with the effort and anticipation. She swings the hammer towards my left hand, but without the finesse or cruel precision of Aaron. It’s just a wild, haphazard blow. Pain explodes in my hand, not the sharp, precise agony of nail removal, but a blunt, crushing pain. I hear something crack, feel the bones in my hand giving way under the impact.

Through the haze of pain, I hear Chrysalis’s voice, laced with a cold disdain. “Really, Daisy? That’s your idea of fun?” Her tone is sharp, dripping with contempt, not just for the act itself, but for the messy, unrefined way Daisy conducts it.

Pumice shifts again, his discomfort growing. Even in his laid-back demeanor, there’s a line he’s reluctant to cross. “Yo, this is messed up, man,” he mutters, his voice low but carrying a weight of unease.

Aaron watches, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. “This is what happens, Sam. You play with fire, you get burned. Or in your case, hammered.”

His eyes never leave my face. He’s studying me, looking for any sign of weakness, any crack in my resolve.

I can’t give him that. I can’t let him see how much he’s hurting me. So I bite down on my lip, taste blood, and focus on staying conscious, staying present.

Daisy’s swinging the hammer again, but it’s clumsy, lacking the cruel intentionality of Aaron’s actions. It’s just mindless violence, a child lashing out in a way she doesn’t understand.

I’m trying to keep track of the conversation, trying to find something I can use. Anything to give me an edge, a way out. But it’s hard to focus, hard to think past the pain. Aaron’s voice cuts through again, his lecture resuming. “See, pain’s a great teacher, Sam. It’s primal, it’s honest. It strips away all the bullshit and leaves you with nothing but the truth.”

The pain is all-consuming, and Daisy’s childish giggles only make it worse.

Aaron continues, his voice almost thoughtful now. “Papa used to say, ‘The world respects the man who holds the whip.’ And he was right.”

Daisy finishes with my left hand, stepping back to admire her work. My hands are a mess, bloodied and mangled, every movement sending sharp stabs of pain up my arms.

Aaron nods approvingly at Daisy, then turns his attention back to me. “So, Sam, what have you learned?”

I want to spit in his face, to tell him where he can shove his lessons, but I can barely think, let alone speak. The room is spinning, my vision blurring with pain and tears.

I feel the chair underneath me, its cold metal biting into my skin, every small movement a reminder of my helplessness. Aaron’s standing there, like he’s some sort of philosopher king, spouting off about pain and truth. I want to roll my eyes, but that takes more effort than I can manage right now.

My left hand throbs in time with my heartbeat, each pulse a fresh wave of agony. Daisy’s standing off to the side, her eyes wide with a mix of pride and something darker, something sadder. She’s just a kid, really, but one that’s been twisted and turned into something else.

Pumice is shuffling uncomfortably, his stone-like skin scraping against itself. He’s not enjoying this, I can tell. But he’s not stopping it either. Chrysalis is just watching, her bug eyes unblinking, her face a mask of disdain.

“You think this is bad, Daisy?” I grit through the pain, my voice a shaky taunt. “You’re just a kid playing with toys. A real villain would have finished me off by now.”

Daisy’s face goes flush with anger, and a small spray of blood spurts from her nose, but she tries to hide it. She’s just a kid, after all, a messed-up one. “Shut up, bitch,” she hisses, her voice cracking.

Pumice shifts uncomfortably, glancing between us. “Yo, Daisy, don’t listen to her. She’s just trying to get in your head.”

Chrysalis, her bug-eyes flickering with a mix of fear and fascination, adds, “Yeah, Daisy, she’s nothing. Just ignore her.”

I can’t help but laugh, a painful, bitter sound. “Ignore me? That’s the best you can do? Come on, Deathgirl, you can do better than that. Or did they only teach you how to throw tantrums in villain school?”

Daisy’s knuckles whiten as she grips the hammer. “I’m not a kid!” she screams, her voice breaking.

Aaron, smirking, steps closer, enjoying the show. “Let her talk, Daisy. Words are all she’s got left. You two, stay out of this.”

I spit out a mouthful of blood, still grinning. “Words? Oh, I’ve got plenty. Like how original ‘Deathgirl’ is. Did you come up with that all by yourself, or did your mommy and daddy help you? Oh, wait, I forgot they sold you off to a bunch of lowlife criminals. When was the last time you got hugged?”

I feel bad. Believe me, I do. I know that what’s happening is a tragedy, but pragmatism – my need to survive – is overwhelming my niceness circuits. I have a general vibe on how her power works.

Any second now, she’s going to switch to me, and then I can bust out of here and let them deal with the aftermath.

Daisy’s face reddens, a vein throbbing in her forehead. “Shut up!”

“And what’s with the hoodie? You trying to hide how scrawny you are? Or is it to cover up the fact that nobody loves you? Pull it tighter, it’ll hide those snaggleteeth. Gross,” I grin, hawking a bloody loogie and spitting it near her feet.

Pumice interjects, “Hey, kill it. If you don’t shut up, I’mma make you.”

I shake my head. “Unlike Daisy here, I don’t need to hide behind a stupid name or a baggy hoodie. I know who I am. Hit me all you like. At least I grew up with parents that loved me. Sorry you’re all taking out your daddy issues on the world. Have you considered therapy?”

Pain throbs through my hand, each beat like a drum in my skull, but I keep my focus. It’s all I have left. “You guys are a real piece of work, you know that? A real… what do they call it? A motley crew?” I say, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

Aaron leans in, his breath foul. “You think you’re funny, huh? Tough? You’re nothing but a brat.” He sneers, but I see it, the flicker of doubt in his eyes. I’m getting to him.

I chuckle, despite the pain. “Oh, I’m hilarious. And you, Aaron? You’re just a wannabe thug. How’s it feel to be playing second fiddle to a bunch of kids? Big bad gangster needs a toddler for backup because he can’t kill a 14 year old on his own even with a crowbar.”

He scowls, turning away. “Shut up.”

Pumice, the big guy made of stone, cracks his knuckles – or at least, it sounds like it. “Man, why we even listening to her? Let’s just finish this.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, boo-hoo. Did I hurt your feelings? Steal your lunch money? What’s next, you gonna give me a wedgie?”

Daisy, the little firecracker, glares at me. “You don’t get it. You ruined everything.”

“Ruined what? Your street cred? Please, you guys couldn’t scare a kitten.”

Aaron’s patience is wearing thin. He moves closer, a dangerous glint in his eye. “You know, I’ve had just about enough of your mouth.”

I lean back as far as the ropes allow. “Oh, I’m shaking. What are you gonna do, lecture me to death? Pry off another nail? Come on. Hit me.”

Daisy stomps her foot. “Why won’t you just shut up?”

“Because,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, “someone has to tell you how pathetic you all are. Hey, Daisy, let me know when you get your first period so I stop feeling bad every time I beat you up.”

“Quiet!” Daisy shouts, her body clenching up.

“Alright, that’s enough of her mouth,” Pumice says, winding up his fists. He rolls his neck. He reels back.

This is it.

“I talked to Patches in prison, by the way. She said she always hated you,” I lie.

“QUIET!” Daisy screams, bone spikes like pointed teeth bursting out from her skin, shoving into Pumice. I’m a little amazed at how much goading it took to get Daisy to shift powers, but that gives me its own valuable insights – I don’t think she likes Aaron very much.

The chaos escalates rapidly in the cramped, metallic room. Daisy, her body contorting unnaturally, her skin erupting with sharp, bone-like spikes, is a blur of motion and anger. She leaps onto the chair, her spikes glinting menacingly in the dim light, aiming for me. I can’t move much, but I twist as best as I can, trying to avoid the lethal points. My body, acting on its own weird instinct, tenses up at each jab, making it hard for Daisy’s spikes to penetrate deeply, but each contact is a burst of pain, a searing reminder of my vulnerability.

Daisy’s shriek pierces the air, her transformation into a human porcupine complete. Bone spikes jut out from her skin, sharp and menacing. She’s a hurricane of rage and bone, hurling herself at me, her face twisted in a mask of fury.

I’m trapped, tied to this chair, my hands useless and throbbing. The ropes dig into my skin, but that’s the least of my worries now. Daisy’s on me, her spikes inches from my face. I can feel her breath, hot and frantic.

Pumice is yelling, trying to pull her back, but Daisy’s lost in her fury. “Daisy, stop! You’re gonna cut her loose!” he shouts, his gravelly voice filled with panic.

But Daisy’s not listening. She’s all spikes and screams, her eyes wild.

Aaron’s barking orders, trying to regain control of the chaos. “Daisy, get off her! Pumice, grab her!”

The spikes are everywhere, slashing and stabbing. I feel fresh cuts, in places cuts shouldn’t be, my blood flowing out in endless streams. My body keeps clenching up without my permission. I keep trying to twist, to shift, to get one of the ropes in the way, but all she can do is fray them, not enough for me to rip clean.

I’m gritting my teeth, pain and determination mingling in a bitter cocktail. “Is that all you’ve got?” I spit out, despite the pain. “Come on, Deathgirl, show me what you can do!”

Daisy’s response is a guttural scream, her spikes pushing harder against my tensing muscles. Pumice’s hands are on her now, trying to pull her back, but she’s a wild animal. Her spines dig into my arms, into my mangled hands, into my chest. I feel a spine penetrate into my gut and hack up blood, right into Daisy’s blindfolded face, laughing. It hurts so fucking bad.

“Let go of me, Pumice! I’ll kill her!” Daisy screeches, her voice cracking under the strain.

Pumice’s struggling, his rocky form grinding against Daisy’s spikes. “Daisy, chill! You’re gonna ruin everything!”

Aaron’s losing his patience, his voice rising over the cacophony. “Enough! Daisy, back off!”

But it’s too late for words. Daisy’s in her own world, a world of anger and pain. The room is a blur of movement and noise, a symphony of chaos.

And then, Aaron does the unthinkable. In a desperate move to regain control, his gaze intensifies, and in a moment, Daisy’s hair on fire, bright yellow and reeking of rotten eggs. The flames catch quickly, lighting up her hoodie, the fire reflecting in her wide, terrified eyes.

Daisy screams, a high-pitched, ear-splitting sound that cuts through the chaos. She stumbles back, her hands flailing at her burning hair.

Pumice reacts instantly, trying to smother the flames with his hands, but it’s a frantic, clumsy effort. “Aaron, what the hell?!” he yells, his voice laced with shock and anger.

Chrysalis is frozen, her bug eyes wide with horror. “What did you do?!” she whispers, her voice barely audible over Daisy’s screams.

Pumice grabs a bucket of water from the table – clearly intended for me, for later, and tosses it over Daisy’s head unceremoniously. Her body twitches and jerks up and down, and she gapes for air, her hoodie freshly riddled with holes, her eyes glowing red and yellow behind her blindfold. “Shut ’em, Deathgirl,” Pumice whispers, in the tone of someone trying to soothe a rabid dog, his hand smoothing water into her smoldering hair.

I’m left gasping, my body a canvas of cuts and bruises and puncture marks. The pain from the spikes is intense, but it’s the throbbing in my hands, the pulsing of blood in my ears, that dominates my senses. I can feel the lumps in my body, third, fourth, fifth heartbeats, somewhere in my arms, everywhere I just got stabbed. I’m scared, not of the pain, but of what I’m becoming. I feel lumps inside of me.

Aaron, his face a mask of fury, turns his attention back to me. “You think you’re clever, huh? You think I didn’t know what you were doing?” His voice is cold, but there’s a tremor in it, a hint of uncertainty.

I meet his gaze, my own eyes defiant. “You’re the one who’s a mess, Aaron. Can’t even control your own crew.” My voice is weak, but I inject as much scorn into it as I can muster.

Pumice is holding Daisy now, her body still twitching with the remnants of her rage. Chrysalis is hovering nearby, her insect-like eyes darting around, taking in the scene with a detached curiosity.

“Chrysalis, get her out of here and get her an apple juice. Pumice, you’re here with me,” Aaron barks.

Pumice’s hold on Daisy tightens, his rocky fingers gently pressing into her smoldering hoodie. Chrysalis, with a reluctant sigh, steps forward, her insect-like limbs twitching nervously. Her voice is a soft murmur, barely audible over Daisy’s shivering whimpers. “Come on, let’s get you that juice.” She guides Daisy away, her gaze avoiding the unfolding brutality.

“You really thought you could play us, huh?” Aaron’s voice is deceptively calm, but I can see the storm brewing behind his eyes. He steps closer, and I can smell the buffalo chicken cheesesteak he had for lunch.

I try to muster a response, but my voice is a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t have to play you. You’re doing a great job messing up all on your own.”

Aaron’s fist connects with my stomach, and I can’t hold back a gasp of pain. It’s sharp, intense, but it’s just the start. He leans in, his voice a menacing whisper. “You’re going to wish you never crossed paths with me, Samantha Small.”

His fists are relentless, a barrage of pain that blurs into one long, agonizing moment. Each hit feels like a hammer smashing into my flesh, my bones. My fingers, already mangled, feel like they’re being crushed under a mountain. I try to focus, try to find that inner calm, but the pain is overwhelming, all-consuming.

I think about Daisy, about her spikes. Why spikes? Why does she grow them when she copies my power? It’s a distraction, a way to keep my mind off the pain. Deathgirl’s powers are a twisted mirror of ours, but they don’t reflect what I’d expect. Not the biting, not the regeneration, not the blood sense. It’s something else, something deeper. Like she knows what I don’t. But she doesn’t even know.

Aaron’s kicks are like steel-toed boots, each one sending a jolt of agony through my body, his dress shoes stomping down on my bare feet. I can feel my ribs creaking under the assault, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, every new blow a new form of pain. But through it all, I keep thinking. Thinking about Daisy, about her powers, about what it means.

Maybe it’s not about the physical aspect of our powers. Maybe it’s something more. The essence of what we are, what we can do. Daisy doesn’t just copy powers; she distills them, intensifies them. She’s a living, breathing weapon, a tool of destruction. All she’s comprised of is pain and lethality. But why spikes?

Everything flashes in my mind’s eye. The pain continues, but it stops being interesting, it stops being new. My entire body rocks back and forth, and I breathe blood with every new blow, scattering over my hole-punched t-shirt. Aaron backhands me, and teeth fly out, clattering quietly on the concrete flooring. Everything blends together. I shut my eyes.

When I punched him, why did it rip his cheek open? And didn’t the same thing happen with Patches?

Why did I break Dr. Harris’s needle?

Why were there teeth growing on my broken bones?

What are these lumps I’m feeling?

Why spikes?

I know why. Because they’re not spikes.

They’re more teeth.

The pain is a constant companion now, a relentless tide washing over me, each wave stronger than the last. Aaron’s fists are unyielding, his rage palpable. I can feel my body rocking with each blow, the cold metal of the chair biting into my skin. My fingers, mangled and exposed, throb with a rhythm that syncs with my heartbeat. The room spins, a blur of gray and dull browns, and the stench of sweat and blood fills my nostrils.

I try to focus, to find that inner calm that Rampart always talks about, but it’s like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. It’s elusive, always just out of reach. Instead, there’s only pain, an endless expanse of it, with no beginning and no end.

But amidst the chaos of my senses, a thought breaks through. Daisy’s powers, the spikes, the way my body reacted to Dr. Harris’s needle. It’s all connected, pieces of a puzzle I didn’t even know I was solving.

Aaron pauses, his breath heavy, his shirt stained with my blood. He glares down at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of satisfaction and annoyance. “Still got that smart mouth, Samantha?” he sneers. I try to reply, but it’s just a gurgle, a pathetic sound that makes him laugh. “You’re not so tough now, are you?” he taunts.

But his words are just background noise now. My focus is inward, on the strange sensation in my arms, the lumps that pulse with a life of their own. It’s a feeling akin to pressure, a need to release, to expel something from within.

It’s like taking a shit. Sorry for the vulgar thought, Mom.

Then, with a sensation that’s unnervingly new yet deeply primal, teeth erupt from my wrists. They’re not the clean, surgical tools I might have hoped for. Instead, they’re raw, serrated, more suited for tearing than cutting.

I start sawing at the ropes, the movement awkward and painful. My wrists twist and turn, the teeth catching and snagging on the fibers. It’s not a swift process; the ropes resist, tough and unyielding. Each motion is a struggle, the serrated edges gradually fraying the bindings, but not without demanding their toll in pain and effort.

Aaron watches, his initial shock turning into amusement. “What’s this? A new trick? You really are a freak,” he taunts, his voice dripping with scorn. He thinks I’m just shaking, maybe trying to wriggle free in desperation. He doesn’t understand yet, doesn’t see the method to my madness.

I keep working, ignoring his jibes, focusing on the task. My arms ache, and the bizarre sensation of teeth growing from places they shouldn’t is disorienting, almost nauseating. But I can’t afford to be distracted. The ropes start to give way, fibers loosening, but it’s taking too long. Every second feels like an eternity, each sawing motion a desperate bid for freedom.

Aaron’s laughter fills the room, a soundtrack to my struggle. “You’re really something, Sam. Even now, you’re entertaining,” he mocks, unaware of how close he is to losing his captive. He winds his leg back and kicks me in the crotch, temporarily interrupting my escape. The pain shoots up through me like the worst electricity, making my entire body clench up hard for a second. He turns around, panting with exertion, adjusting his clothes. “But I think the fun’s run out. I’m going to bash your fucking brains out now.”

I clench my fists up like they’re going to explode. I feel the tips of something new, something sharp, emerging from my knuckles – the ones in the back of my hand, and the ones on my fingers. I lurch forward, ripping free from the ropes. The sudden burst of motion sends a fresh wave of dizziness over me, but I can’t afford to hesitate. Aaron’s eyes widen in shock as I punch him squarely in the throat.

My new, pointed knuckles puncture his skin, creating neat, terrifying holes in his neck. He gasps for air, a tiny spray of blood streaking across my face, and suddenly everything in his body is known to me. He clutches at his throat and makes a noise a little bit like a balloon being deflated.

Before he can recover, I swing my other hand in a vicious right hook, just like Liberty Belle taught me. My knuckles are already rock hard from the bone conditioning, and with the added sharpness of my new teeth, I punch holes right into Aaron’s cheeks, his jaw, his gums, and I rip. I carve eight-ish jagged lines into his skin and he goes skidding like a rock on a lake, screaming in pain and fury.

Pumice moves to block me, his stone form a looming barrier. I hook him too, feeling the teeth on my right hand crack against his rocky skin. Chips of pumice fly, and for the first time probably in his post-Activation life, I see pain flash across his face. He reels back, stunned by the sensation.

I turn to the door, a rotten wood barrier that’s the only thing between me and freedom. My shoulder slams into it, sending splinters flying. I burst through, stumbling into the dim corridor beyond.

Every step is a battle against the pain and dizziness clouding my senses. My heart pounds in my ears, a desperate rhythm urging me onward. The building is a labyrinth, but my only thought is to put as much distance between me and them as possible. I hear Chrysalis shouting, trying to pull Daisy back into action. Behind me, I can hear the chaos I’ve left in my wake. Shouts and curses fill the air, a dissonant chorus of rage and confusion. But it’s all background noise, fading away with each step I take.

They didn’t expect me to escape. They never prepared for that eventuality.

I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know if I can make it. But I know I have to try. The alternative is too grim to consider. So I run, fueled by fear and adrenaline, a wounded animal desperate to escape the hunters.

My vision blurs, the corridor stretching into infinity. Every breath is a searing pain, every step a monumental effort. I can feel the blood running down my face, my hands, a warm, sticky reminder of the violence I’ve just committed. I turn my head just enough to see Daisy screaming after me, already reverting to her primal, bone-spiked form without me needing to throw a single insult at her. Chrysalis leaps and jumps through the air, throwing herself around with her claws like an astronaut in a space station.

But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when I’m so close.

I round a corner, nearly colliding with a wall. I push off, redirecting my momentum, barely keeping my balance. I can hear them behind me, their footsteps a relentless pursuit. But they’re slower, hampered by injuries and disbelief. Pumice’s footsteps rumble, and I hear the loud groaning and squealing of what is likely him busting through a wall. I smell sulfur filling the air.

The end of the corridor looms ahead, a faint light outlining a door. It’s my only chance. I gather the last remnants of my strength and sprint towards it. The door is my salvation, my escape from this nightmare. Old, useless wood, with the planks already pried off by crowbar.

As I reach it, I don’t slow down. I can’t. I crash into the door, bursting into the night beyond. The cold air hits me like a slap, but it’s the sweetest sensation I’ve ever felt.

Freedom.

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