Four seconds. Three. And then everything happens, all at once, very fast. My muscles are fine-tuned to the strange, yawning sensation that Jordan’s powers produce – but Mr. ESP’s are faster, trained by years of gunplay and shooting ranges, I suspect. The space snaps closed between me and them, and a bullet sails into a suddenly-closer metal pillar, sparks lighting up the dimly lit corridors of the abandoned subway station. My feet are too embedded in the ground to move, and I’m not close enough to Mr. ESP, even from this angle, to do anything.
But Jordan isn’t. Two seconds. Jordan’s hand slips out of their pocket and the sharp glint of a pocketknife lights up in Spinelli’s flashlight beam. “Kill it!” I shout, and the light goes out, vanishing Spinelli from my view. Jordan’s lunge makes contact with the barrel of Mr. ESP’s pistol, the tactical flashlight attachment blaring in Jordan’s face, and with a thrust and a swish, the gun goes flick, scattering down to the ground where its beam of light slides under the nearby rails.
Then, space retracts.
Jordan’s move leaves us a window of opportunity, and we don’t waste it. We wriggle and pull, slipping out of our boots and leaving them, trapped and useless, in the liquefied concrete. We don’t need words to be on the same page – get out of the mud, or die. The chill of the wet ground seeps through my socks, and I writhe with discomfort, quickly shedding them to go barefoot. Freedom, at least for the moment, feels like ice and dampness against skin, and the absence of light is our ally.
By the time Mr. ESP has his gun back, and his light, we’re gone.
Jordan and I exchange a glance, a silent agreement, and we meld into the shadows of the tunnels. Our steps are cautious, calculated — a quiet dance of escape. There’s no time for hesitation, no room for second-guessing. With each silent stride, we distance ourselves from the immediate danger, but the threat of what lurks in the dark looms as heavy as the air we breathe. I watch over Jordan’s shoulder as Spinelli vanishes too, cradling his flashlight with him like a lifeline.
I grope along the cool, rough surface of the tunnel wall, my fingers seeking something—anything—that can turn my blood into an advantage. The darkness here is almost tangible, pressing against me from all sides, smothering me. It’s a desperate kind of darkness, one that feels like it could swallow you whole if you’re not careful. And then, my hand brushes against something sharp, something promising. I wrap my fingers around the shard of glass, its jagged edges biting into my palm. I don’t hesitate; the pain is a small price to pay for what I need.
The glass slices into my skin, and a warm rush of blood follows. It’s a familiar sting, one I’ve felt before, but never with this much desperation behind it. My blood drips down the wall, and I press my hand against the concrete, leaving a crimson mark that only I can track. In my mind’s eye, the world shifts. The blood stains glow a vivid red against the backdrop of my blood sense, forming a map that paints the contours of my surroundings in harsh relief. I drag my open wound up against the concrete, smearing it into the ground, along every contour I can find, getting a blind view of my surroundings.
I can’t afford to lose my way now, not when every second counts. I leave a trail of bloody breadcrumbs behind me, like some sort of fucked up Hansel-and-Gretal story. The pain in my hand pulses with my heartbeat, twitch, twitch, twitching away. I clench my teeth against the pain, turning it into focus, into determination.
The command slices through the dark, a harsh whisper from Jordan, “Spread.” It’s the only strategy left to us—disperse, become shadows in the tunnel. I watch as Mr. ESP’s flashlight sweeps the area, hunting for any sign of movement. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, betraying my position to my own senses more than to his. I feel nauseous, on the verge of passing out, and not from blood loss – my hand is already stitching itself back together.
As I tuck myself behind a pillar, Mudslide’s voice echoes through the tunnels, “Come out, come out, wherever you are, little bitch…” His taunt is met with Mr. ESP’s sharp retort.
“Control yourself. This is not a game,” Mr. ESP snaps, a hint of strain in his unusually cool tone.
“Ha! Easy for you to say,” Mudslide fires back, “You’re not the one itching for a rematch.”
Their voices fade as I edge further into the shadows, trying to keep my breathing silent. The throbbing pain in my hand is a constant reminder of why I’m here. I need to be smart, I need to be silent. I need to be the predator, not the prey. I clench my fingers, squeeze my hands, and feel the uncomfortable sensation of teeth emerging from my knuckles. I think no matter how hard I try, I will never quite get used to it, but they’re sharp, and hard enough to chip rock, as my fight with Pumice evidenced – they’ll do fine.
In the suffocating darkness of the tunnel, the sound of slicing, almost imperceptible, whispers through the air. Jordan, with a deliberate motion, cuts their palm with their pocketknife. I’m not sure what Spinelli is cutting himself with, but his is much more modest, a tiny mark on his thumb, just to give me sight of his vascular system. I know instantly: they’re marking themselves, painting themselves in blood for me to sense. It’s a silent agreement, a way to weave a safety net in the pitch black.
Spinelli’s movements are quieter still, but the faintest brush of his skin against the cold metal of the pillar betrays his climb. He ascends like a shadow, his lanky form stretching and contorting to fit into the narrow spaces above us. In my blood sense’s eye, I picture him, almost spider-like, finding refuge in the crevices of the ceiling, preparing for an ambush.
The tunnel becomes a canvas of warmth in my senses, a network of living signatures pulsating in the dark. Jordan’s blood leaves a trail across the concrete, a map written in red lines and dark black. Spinelli, suspended above, becomes a lurking threat, a silent predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I see the contours, like one of those illusion pictures where they don’t have a donut, only the curved lines giving the appearance of a donut. Particle by particle, blood cell by blood cell, I develop my strategic advantage.
I press myself harder against the cold pillar, feeling its rough texture against my back. I force my breaths to come slower, quieter, even as my heart races in my chest. Around me, the darkness feels alive, a breathing entity with a heartbeat of its own. My teeth finish emerging from my knuckles, sharp and ready, and I watch for Mr. ESP’s flashlight in the dark.
Mr. ESP’s flashlight pierces it, a beam of artificial day sweeping dangerously close to where I’m hiding. I press my back against the cold pillar, my heart hammering in my chest. I can hear Mr. ESP and Mudslide conversing, their voices a low murmur that echoes off the tunnel walls.
“Yeah, they’re slippery, these kids,” Mr. ESP says, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Like trying to catch smoke.”
“Smoke doesn’t bleed,” Mudslide replies gruffly. “When we find them, they’ll regret coming down here.”
It’s now or never. As Mr. ESP’s light sweeps past, I dive out from behind the pillar, aiming for his face. My teeth graze his chin, a fleeting touch that’s just enough. I feel a rush of warmth as my blood sense activates, painting a vivid picture of his vascular system in my mind.
Mr. ESP reacts instantly, the sound of his gun a deafening bang in the enclosed space. The bullet sparks off metal, missing me by inches as I roll away. I can hear his curse, a sharp exhale of frustration, as I scramble to put distance between us. My heart is racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins, but I can’t help but feel a flicker of triumph. I’ve drawn first blood. Now, I can see him.
The tension in the tunnel ratchets up. I’m running, but Mudslide’s powers throw a wrench in my plans. The ground beneath me turns to sludge, a trap I narrowly avoid falling into. Behind me, Mr. ESP is cursing under his breath, applying a makeshift bandage to his chin. “Damn it, she’s got my blood now,” he mutters, annoyance clear in his voice. “Not that I was trying to hide.”
So he knows about my powers. Great. When did that happen?
Mudslide, ever the pragmatist, chides him. “Should’ve taken another shot, not whine about it.”
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to keep quiet as my knee slams into the ground. The pain is sharp, a spike driving through my leg, but I can’t yell, can’t give away my position. I crawl towards solid ground, every movement a battle against the pain and the urge to cry out. The darkness feels even more suffocating now, a tangible barrier that I’m fighting against with every strained breath through clenched teeth.
From my vantage point, I watch through my blood sense as Spinelli makes his move. He descends from above, a dark silhouette against the dim backdrop of the tunnel, aiming his heavy-duty flashlight at Mudslide. The intended target is his head, but in the chaos, he misjudges and the flashlight comes down hard on Mudslide’s shoulder instead. It’s a solid hit, but not crippling.
“Jesus!” Mudslide shouts, giving Mr. ESP a start, as the other member of the Kingdom whirls on his foot and shoots without hesitating.
The sound of the bullet firing echoes, echoes, echoes, bouncing in the cavernous halls. But it misses clean, sailing over Spinelli’s head as he twists himself 180 degrees in all the ways human bodies aren’t meant to move.
That’s three bullets. He looked to be using just a normal handgun, which means he’s carrying at least 14 or 15 bullets in one magazine, or clip, or whatever. I’m erring on the side of 15 but trying to keep count. It is so fucking loud.
Pain shooting through my knee, I drag myself towards a nearby puddle. I let my blood flow into it, a small crimson stream that fans out into the water. This isn’t just about leaving a trail; it’s about creating a sensor web, a way to track their footsteps if they come close.
“You’re gonna blow my eardrums out, fucker!” Mudslide complains, rubbing a pinky in his ear.
“Then make some distance. But stay in my sightlines. They’re ambushing us,” Mr. ESP responds, sweeping his gun left to right, using his feet to gauge distances, sticking close to walls and raised surfaces. “I can hear her breathing, just not from where. She’s hurt.”
Spinelli didn’t stay put; he didn’t even bother running away. Instead, he grabbed hold of the nearby pillar again, wrapping his limbs around it like a spider, and crawled up back into the ceiling, disappearing into the shadows. I’m left there, half in the dark, half in my blood sense world, trying to catch my breath and steady my heart.
The two assailants – the bad guys – climb up to the higher part of the station, above the tracks, their movements cautious and calculated. As they press themselves against a wall, Mudslide’s feet unwittingly dip into the puddle tinged with my blood, giving me a fleeting glimpse of his footsteps in my blood sense. The trail he leaves is ephemeral, fading as the water dries, but it’s enough to track him for now.
Mr. ESP slows his sweeping flashlight, his movements becoming more deliberate as he checks each pillar methodically, hunting for any sign of us. Meanwhile, Mudslide retrieves his sack, filled with his makeshift arsenal. The sound of heavy objects clattering against concrete reverberates through the tunnel, a foreboding rhythm that sets my nerves on edge. He drags the sack up with him, preparing for what I can only assume is a more aggressive assault.
From my hiding spot, I watch them, taking note of their positions and movements. My mind races, trying to formulate a plan, while my body aches from the adrenaline pumping through it, making me feel dizzy. I’m getting that same kind of feeling that I got when I was fighting Aaron and the Phreaks in the street… am… I getting power high? I try to swat it away, remove the thought for later examination. It’s for later, Sam. It’s for later.
With the fluid grace of a practiced athlete, Mudslide retrieves a brick from his sack, answering my question as to what was actually in there, weighing it in his hand for a moment. He tosses it up and down, once, twice. He considers it from every angle. Then, with a motion that’s part shot put, part baseball pitch, he hurls the brick into the darkness – and as soon as it leaves his hand, it disintegrates into a swarm of jagged shards, scattering in a deadly arc through the air.
The sound of the brick shattering is like a gunshot, loud and startling. It’s a tactic to cover ground where Mr. ESP isn’t, to catch any of us trying to sneak up on them. I watch, frozen, as the shards whistle through the air, their trajectories unpredictable in the dim light.
Then, Jordan’s cry cuts through the air, sharp and sudden. It’s a sound that chills my blood, a sound of pain and shock. One of the brick shards has found its mark, embedding itself in Jordan’s shoulder. They stumble back, hand clamped over the wound, a muffled curse escaping their lips, as Mr. ESP’s flashlight snaps onto them with almost robotic precision.
“Gotcha,” he says. He takes a crucial second to steady his aim, and Mudslide plugs his ears.
BANG!
This close, the sound is deafening, like a firecracker going off in my brain. I hate it. I try to keep track – that’s the fourth shot, right? And then I remember – JORDAN!
Mr. ESP’s flashlight, a beam of harsh, unforgiving light, fixes on Jordan immediately after the shot. The narrow miss is evident, a testament to Jordan’s quick thinking and spatial manipulation. They had cut the space at an oblique angle, narrowly evading death by mere inches — a fact I confirm through my blood sense, which shows no new injuries on them.
But Mr. ESP, undeterred and precise, readjusts his aim. The anticipation in the air is palpable, a silent countdown to what feels like an inevitable conclusion. He fires again, the sound of the gunshot echoing through the tunnels like a clap of thunder. The bullet sparks off the metal column where Jordan was hiding just moments ago. His flashlight, now a beacon of dread, illuminates both sides of the column. Jordan is trapped, the light boxing them in, leaving no avenue for escape.
I spring into action, feeling the dampness of the ground under my bare feet as I charge towards Mudslide. Each step is a splash, a declaration of my presence, meant to draw attention. Mr. ESP’s flashlight remains fixed on Jordan, pinning them in its glaring beam – he’s unwilling to let them get away, which means that my approach can only be heard, not seen.
Good. I like not being shot.
As I run, I can sense Mudslide preparing to counter. The ground beneath me starts to change, becoming unstable, shifting. I’ve anticipated this; I know his tricks. With a burst of speed, I leap at the last moment, launching myself towards him through the air, throwing myself head-first into him.
The tackle is swift and brutal. We hit the ground hard, the impact sending a jolt through my body. I can feel Mudslide beneath me, struggling, caught off guard by my sudden assault while he skids against the wet concrete.
The struggle on the ground is fierce and desperate. Mudslide, larger and heavier, squirms under me, a brick raised high in his hand. But I’m faster, more agile, and my knuckles are ready. As he swings the brick down, I dip aside and roll, my fists finding his face, ripping through his suit, tearing into his flesh. His blood, warm and wet, splashes against my skin, and I can smell him now, a metallic tang in the air. He misses.
Mudslide yells for help, his voice a mix of pain and rage. “Help, damn it!”
But Mr. ESP, his voice cold and focused, responds from afar, “I’m busy.”
BANG!
What is that, six shots? Seven? One, two, three, four, five… No, I think it’s the fifth shot. It’s so hard to keep track.
In my blood sense’s eye, I watch Spinelli, leaping near-silently, stretching himself from pillar to pillar in ways circus clowns could only dream of. I stumble to my feet, fists raised, keeping an eye on Mr. ESP in case I suddenly need to duck. I want to charge him so bad, but there’s currently another circus clown in the way.
BANG!
That’s six. Jordan’s under fire. I watch a gash open up on their shoulder, and then focus back into the fight as a brick meets my face, smashing me backwards, bouncing me into the wall like a tennis ball.
The blood flows from my nose, and I redouble my efforts. I keep attacking, my punches fueled by a mix of fear and adrenaline. Mudslide tries to fend me off, but each swing of his brick is met with another strike from me. My knuckles, armed with shark-like teeth, leave deep gashes on his face, each one a victory in this dark, damp hell. But he swings back, and I feel my bones, my muscles buckling under the assault.
Despite the pain, Mudslide fights on, his determination as solid as the brick in his hand. But I can feel him weakening, the strength of his swings diminishing. I’m not going to let up. I can’t. Not now.
BANG!
Seven? Swing, duck, swing, bob, jab, duck, hook. Diane didn’t force me to only learn Aikido. She let me use a speedbag. My fists, improved by the discovery of this new aspect of my power, are drastically enhanced. With each jab, I punch a hole in Mudslide’s skin. With each hook, I tear his vest open, revealing the slash-resistant fabric within, and beneath, the bulletproof vest.
“Knock it off!” Mudslide roars, swinging the brick for my head. I get my dukes up, but not in time to avoid a crushing swing to the forearm. Something is sprained, I can tell immediately. I go stumbling sideways, and he flicks the brick out like he’s about to skip it across a lake.
I know what’s about to happen before it does. My body screams in pain as several dozen pieces of brick, pieces that liquefied and then re-solidified as soon as they stopped touching Mudslide’s hand, embed themselves in me like heavy needles, like rough knives. The ones that miss me scatter against the wall with dense whumpfs, breaking into smaller bits.
I grab one, rip it out of my forearm, and grit my teeth.
BANG! Eight. He must be halfway through his magazine by now.
In the midst of chaos, I catch a glimpse of Jordan, focused and determined. They cut across horizontally, compressing the tunnel vertically. The move is sudden, unexpected. Mudslide’s head slams against the concrete ceiling with a sickening thud. It’s a small window of opportunity, but it’s all we need.
Spinelli, still clinging to the ceiling like some kind of urban ninja, seizes the moment. He drops down – a couple inches now, at most – wrapping himself around Mudslide’s arm in a tangle of limbs. The struggle is brief; Spinelli wrestles the brick from Mudslide’s grasp. For a moment, there’s a sense of triumph, and then Spinelli tries to wrench the rest of the sack of bricks out and away from Mudslide. That… does not exactly work, but that’s alright.
I capitalize on the distraction, landing two quick jabs on Mudslide – POP POP – a visceral satisfaction in each hit. Then, I shout to Spinelli and Jordan, “Go!”. Spinelli heeds the call, disappearing back into the ceiling with a grace that belies his gangly form, while I grab a fistful of bloody water, fling it into Mudslide’s face, and pad past him, rolling down back onto the tracks and laying ramrod still as soon as I can.
Jordan tries to cut the space again, but it’s a risky move. Mr. ESP’s gunfire follows them relentlessly, nine, ten, each one getting closer to hitting something vital – a streak across Jordan’s arm, another across their thigh, as Mr. ESP constantly stalks forward and a little around, adjusting his aim. “I’m sort of having a situation here!” Jordan’s voice is laced with a mix of fear and frustration.
“Shoot her in the head, idiot!” Mudslide yells, dropping down to the ground to retrieve bandages and alcohol wipes from his pockets, dumping them out onto the wet floor, scrubbing his eyes with the backside of his sleeve.
“This gun isn’t high caliber enough to shoot through solid steel, Mr. Mudslide. Don’t worry. I have plenty of ammunition,” Mr. ESP replies, calmly, coolly, and definitely loud enough to be heard intentionally. BANG!, Eleven. I’m starting to grow used to the sound of gunfire echoing in this space, but my ears still hurt – it’s so much louder than they make you think it is in the movies. And even when you’ve heard it before, like I have, you’re never ready for just how loud it is.
He’s like a shadow, moving with an eerie calmness that belies the chaos around us. I’m doing my best to stay hidden, crouched in the dampness of the tunnel, but a misstep betrays me. My foot splashes into a puddle, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent tension of the underground. It’s all the cue Mr. ESP needs.
He pivots with a speed that’s almost inhuman, his gun raised in a fluid motion. The flashlight attached to it pierces the darkness, and I freeze, a deer in headlights. The twelfth shot fires, a loud BANG! that resonates in my bones. I feel the bullet graze my shoulder, a line of fire that sends a shockwave of pain through my body. I grit my teeth, the pain sharp and immediate.
In the momentary chaos, Jordan seizes the chance to flee. They dart into the dark, a mere shadow among shadows, evading the deadly precision of Mr. ESP’s aim. The thirteenth shot misses its mark, the bullet embedding into the concrete with a dull thud.
I scramble behind a pillar, pressing my back against the cold, rough surface. The flashlight beam sweeps past me, and I hold my breath, trying to blend into the shadows. My shoulder throbs with pain, a constant reminder of my vulnerability. I’m pinned down, Mr. ESP’s suppressive fire keeping me in place. I can hear his footsteps, measured and deliberate, as he moves closer. I’m trapped, and every second feels like an eternity as I wait for his next move. “Two left,” he calls out, and I take a breath. At least I will have died with my shot counts accurate.
“Don’t tell them that!” Mudslide chides, his face freshly patched up with a latticework of band-aids, gauze and padding sloppily wrapped around and stuffed up his torso.
I feel Spinelli, close enough that I could reach out and touch his fingertips, but too far away to do anything about. I swallow hard, and prepare for gunfire, trying to control my breathing. “What, like it’s going to matter? If they wouldn’t run around so much, I could get off a clean shot and it’d be all over fast. You hear me, kids?” Mr. ESP taunts, while I clench my body up, pushing new teeth out of the tips of my fingers, like claws on a cat. Turning my hands into morningstars. “You’re just making it hurt more!”
“Gargle my balls!” Spinelli shouts from beneath Mr. ESP, having squeezed himself into the space around the rails.
In the pulsing heart of darkness, Spinelli becomes our savior. His flashlight becomes a beacon of hope just as much as it’s a weapon. From his hidden vantage point beneath the tracks, he flicks it on, the beam cutting through the darkness and aimed straight at Mr. ESP’s eyes from beneath. The surprise is evident, even in the dim light; Mr. ESP stumbles, the sudden burst of light blinding him through his sunglasses.
His balance falters, his feet tangling with the railing. It’s all the opening Spinelli needs. With a swift motion, he smacks Mr. ESP’s ankles with a brick, sending him toppling over. Mr. ESP flails, arms windmilling in a desperate attempt to regain balance, but it’s futile. He curls up instinctively, trying to protect his head and neck as he crashes to the ground, his gun once again clattering out of his hands. I expect it to go off, but it doesn’t.
Pain shoots through my shoulder as I hustle out of the now-darkened pillar, onto the next one. I keep my hands out in front of me, smearing blood where I can to mark my location, my feet splashing through puddles, running further into the tunnel. Each step takes me deeper into the unknown, away from civilization, away from help. The darkness envelops me, a wet, cold blanket that clings to my skin, as my 3d map develops.
Spinelli strobes the flashlight for a moment or two, just to disrupt and reset Mr. ESP and Mudslide’s night vision – at least, that’s what I assume he’s doing. He might just be futzing with the battery, but either way – it’s a clever trick, one that buys us precious seconds. In the ensuing confusion, Spinelli scatters as well, disappearing once more into the shadows after clicking his flashlight off.
We’re deeper in now, further away from the exit, further away from any semblance of safety. The darkness feels heavier here, pressing down on me with an almost physical weight. My shoulder throbs in time with my heartbeat, a constant drumming that keeps me anchored to the present. We’re in uncharted territory now, in more ways than one.
Amidst the unforgiving darkness, I feel the raw energy of my regeneration working overtime. The burning sensation on my side ebbs and flows with overwhelming adrenaline, starting to pull itself together, scab up, scar over, slowly but surely. I clench my teeth, tasting the iron tang of blood in my mouth, my senses heightened. I need to keep moving, to find Jordan and Spinelli, to make sure they’re okay.
Using my blood sense, I track down Jordan, following the faint trail of their blood. The bullet cuts across their body paint a vivid picture in my mind. I reach out, my hand finding the fabric of their sleeve. “Come with me,” I whisper urgently, pulling them along. We need to stick together, now more than ever.
Next, it’s Spinelli. I find him by tracking the tiny cut on his thumb, a small beacon in the overwhelming dark. I can feel the tension in his frame, his body coiled and ready for action despite the fear I know he must be feeling. “I need to handle Mr. ESP,” I say, my voice low but firm. “I can survive a gunshot, you two can’t. Can I trust you to handle Mudslide?”
Spinelli’s response is immediate, his voice a mixture of determination and fear. “Of course you can,” he says. I nod, even though he can’t see it in the dark. We have our roles to play, and now it’s time to act. With renewed resolve, I turn my focus back to the task at hand, watching for the tactical light on his gun to get back up and sweep back through the murk.
“I can see you two and I’ve marked the place up with my blood. Stay along this wall. Keep Mudslide busy. I’m watching until I’m dead,” I whisper, my voice harsh and quiet.
Jordan and Spinelli don’t respond – they just let go of my hands and climb onto the wet concrete, while I drop down into the… the part of the station where the rail is. Not the elevated part. It’s high up enough that I’d need to haul myself with my arms should the need arise, but that’s okay. I see Mr. ESP’s flashlight on the second rail, across the middle divider, and keep my bare feet as quiet as I can make them.
They’re working with incomplete information. I don’t think my power cares about bandaids if they’re not airtight.
My blood sense keeps me tuned into Jordan and Spinelli’s battle against Mudslide. The chaos unfolds in a symphony of grunts, yells, and the squelching sound of mud and concrete shifting under Mudslide’s powers. Amidst the cacophony, I hear the unmistakable sound of a brick turning into a lethal spray of buckshot as it’s hurled through the air.
But my focus sharpens when Mr. ESP’s gun shifts towards Jordan and Spinelli. Seizing the moment, I let out a yell, “Eyes up here!” and break cover, charging towards Mr. ESP. The element of surprise is on my side, but Mr. ESP reacts quickly. His gun barks twice in rapid succession. The first bullet grazes my upper arm, a hot line of pain that’s immediately forgotten as the second bullet slices through my upper shoulder, terrifyingly close to my neck.
Adrenaline surges through me, dulling the pain, as I shoulder ram Mr. ESP. The impact sends us both reeling, but I’m already moving, teeth bared, ready for the next strike. My mind is clear, focused solely on the fight, on taking down Mr. ESP before he can do more damage. “You’re out!”
“I lied,” he responds.
Pinning Mr. ESP against the ground uselessly, I brace for his retaliation. He’s quick, despite the chaos. Pressing his gun against my belly, he fires twice, each shot a thunderous explosion against my senses. “Seventeen round mags,” he quips casually, as if we’re just discussing the weather. “Just in case someone’s counting cards.”
The pain is immediate and overwhelming, a searing agony that eclipses everything I’ve ever felt. It’s not just a graze this time; I’ve been shot, truly shot. My body reacts instinctively, blocking out the pain, but the shock is still there, a cold realization that this is real, this is happening. I can feel the blood, warm and sticky, spreading across my skin, soaking into my clothes.
I try to move, to get away, but the pain is a weight, pinning me down. Mr. ESP’s face is a blur below me, his expression unreadable in the dim light, as he holds the flashlight to my face, trying to blind me. I’m vulnerable, exposed, and for a moment, I feel a wave of helplessness wash over me. But then, the adrenaline kicks in again.
“A moment, Mrs. Small?” He asks, like he’s asking a favor, as the magazine slides out of his pistol and clacks against the floor. He grabs a new one from his belt, loads it in, and the animal fear inside me reignites like a fire.
Lacking options, I punch him in the face. The teeth in my knuckles pop open his skin, raking against his flesh, opening pretty little holes, but the pain doesn’t seem to deter him from trying to bring his pistol back to bear against me.
As Mr. ESP and I grapple on the damp concrete floor, my mind races back to the aikido sessions with Rampart. I try to recall every hold, every pin he taught me, but it’s hard to focus with the pain screaming through my body. Mr. ESP is strong, his muscles straining against mine, but I rely on my agility and the sharp teeth emerging from my fingertips.
Our struggle is a brutal dance, a contest of technique against brute strength. My makeshift claws dig into his skin, tearing through fabric and flesh, trying desperately to gain the upper hand. We roll, each trying to overpower the other, our movements erratic and desperate.
In a fleeting moment, I see an opening. I shift my weight, trying to maneuver into a position where I can use my head to knock the gun from his grasp. It’s a risky move, but I have to try. My head snaps forward, aiming for his hand, but at the last second, he twists away, and the gun remains firmly in his grip. The struggle continues, each of us fighting for survival in the suffocating darkness of the abandoned subway.
Blood drips and ebbs out of the holes in my stomach, right where a boat tore my guts out what feels like a lifetime ago. I’m not concerned about my own survival. I’ve survived worse.
In the heat of the grueling struggle, I channel every ounce of strength and focus into my body. My entire form tenses, the muscles in my arms and back coiling like springs. I concentrate, willing the sharp, tooth-like protrusions to emerge from my palms, right where they can inflict the most damage.
The teeth break through my skin, a familiar but never comfortable sensation, like needles piercing from within. They dig into Mr. ESP’s wrist, which I have firmly gripped. The pain must be intense for him, as his flesh gives way to the sharp points, blood welling up around the wounds. I can feel his grip on the gun weakening, his resolve faltering under the relentless assault of my new teeth.
Finally, with a pained gasp from Mr. ESP, the gun slips from his grasp. Wasting no time, I kick it away with all the strength I can muster, sending it skittering into the darkness of the tunnel. For a brief moment, there’s a sense of triumph, a small victory in this brutal encounter. Mr. ESP’s head reaches up to meet mine with a loud CRAK!, and I stumble back, reeling, dazed.
The gun is lost, light jostled off in the struggle, leaving the two of us in total darkness. Behind me (ahead of me?), further down the subway, Jordan and Spinelli jostle for position with Mudslide. Jordan keeps his mud traps away from anyone’s feet, while Spinelli is grappling and choking, attacking the way you’d expect any long-limbed monkey to attack.
“How’s it feel to get made a fool of by the same bunch of kids over and over again?” I ask, feeling safety in the dark, even as the blood oozes out of my wound.
“It’s not a huge deal. We’ve got more important irons in the fire. Frankly, we don’t think about these minor setbacks much at all.” Mr. ESP says, moving slowly, arms up. He’s getting defensive, physically. “There’s about a dozen men with guns aboveground on both ends of the subway. If the soldiers can’t finish you off, then it’s whatever. You’re not really our objective here, anyway.”
“Right, you’re here for… Illya,” I say, feeling awkward about the name all of a sudden. Weird time to feel awkward about it, but whatever, brain. I jab a fist out, just to test Mr. ESP’s defenses – and his night vision. Minimal. He can’t even see me coming to react in time, only brace himself once he feels the teeth cutting into his skin and his clothes.
Those cut-resistant suits are pretty nifty, though. The only really vulnerable spots on him are his wrists and his face – nowhere else is exposed enough that I can jab him open. But his forearms keep both of those things handled. And, bluntly, his injuries are much less severe than mine. I think there’s a pretty high likelihood I’m about to pass out if I don’t finish this in the next couple of minutes.
Mr. ESP and I both freeze, alerted by the ominous sound of something heavy approaching from down the tunnel. The air seems to thicken with anticipation, and I can almost feel the vibrations through the soles of my feet. My blood sense flares up, detecting the distinct signature of white-hot, bright white blood in the distance, a sure sign of Chernobyl’s approach. My heart pounds in my chest, a mixture of fear and resolve coursing through me.
I turn my attention to Jordan and Spinelli, only to find them limping and bloodied, their bodies bearing the marks of a losing battle. New wounds bleed profusely, and bruises begin to form under their skin, painting a grim picture of their encounter with Mudslide. While I was busy verbally sparring with Mr. ESP, Mudslide got one up on them.
And he’s coming. Chernobyl is coming.
I brace myself, every muscle tensed, ready for the confrontation. My mind races, trying to formulate a plan, but the options seem bleak. Mr. ESP, still reeling from our recent tussle, slowly gets to his feet, his expression one of wary anticipation. “Mr. Chernobyl!” He calls down the tunnel. “We’re here to discuss business.”
The heavy footsteps grow louder, closer, a steady, relentless march that echoes through the tunnel. My blood sense hones in on the approaching figure, a beacon of danger that I can’t ignore. The pain from my wounds throbs in time with my quickening pulse, but I push it to the back of my mind. It seems like Chernobyl, judging from the cuts I can smell on him, hasn’t been having a great day either, but it means so little in the face of such pure… presence. Lights – dozens of them – blink on at once, filling the subway station with glare like from a floodlight.
I step back, inching closer to my battered teammates, while Mudslide raises his fists defensively, like he’s getting ready for a fight. I climb up onto the platform, stumbling to my fellow Auditors, and grabbing them, letting them lean on me for support.
“Sorry, boss. Think I have a concussion,” Spinelli says, clearly dazed.
“You don’t have a concussion, darling,” Jordan hisses, squeezing close to my side. It’s as if we’ve stopped existing to the two operatives – which, well, I guess we might have. It’s not like we can stop them from making contact now.
“Stay out of this,” Mudslide growls at us, “and maybe I’ll consider letting you leave intact.”
That’s it. We lost.
“As a gesture of good will, we’ve already prepared a fake ID, travel documents, and 200,000 hryvnia for your wife and daughter.” Mr. ESP shouts to the approaching goliath, who barely appears to notice him, each lumbering step dragging his bright lights closer and closer.
“God damn,” Jordan gasps, in a mixture of lost breath and awe at Chernobyl’s vast mechanical armor – all the dents and injuries left by Liberty Belle patched over and buffed out, like they never even happened.
“Is that…?” Spinelli mumbles, his face pressed into my shoulder.
Clumpf-HISS. Clumpf-HISS. Chernobyl, slowly, painfully, comes face to face with Mr. ESP, looming over him. Like the size difference between you and your labrador. “You’re not an easy man to track, Mr. Chernobyl. Apologies for the state of my dress and face – as you can see, we’ve had a run in with some… juvenile ruffians. But it’s handled now.”
“I’m aware,” he replies, his voice not modulated, but instead crystal clear, through upgraded speakers. It sounds more real than everyone else’s voice, more clear, more… present. Like he’s the only person really anchored to reality here, and everyone else is part of his dream. His helmet tilts slightly, like he’s examining Mr. ESP. “Tell me, do you think you are a funny man?”
“Anyone got a band-aid? I’ve been shot,” I mumble, trying to keep myself up despite the growing pain in my abdomen. As the adrenaline leaks out of me, so too does the pain resistance, and the fact that there is, like, one-and-a-half holes directly through my body is becoming increasingly apparent.
Jordan nudges me in the side, making me wince. “Should we bail? Mission over?”
“Hold on,” I whisper back.
“I didn’t say anything that was intended to be a joke, Mr. Cher-” Mr. ESP starts, only to be interrupted quite suddenly.
Chernobyl reaches out and grabs Mr. ESP by the head, all of his fingers wrapping around his skull like it’s a tomato, or an apple. My heart drops. I immediately think of the piledrivers in his palms – from this distance, on something as soft as a human skull, they’d almost certainly crack Mr. ESP open like a coconut dropped from a great height. Chernobyl lifts slightly, and Mr. ESP comes up with him, writhing like a worm attached to a hook.
“My name is Illya Myronovych Fedorov. If you must affect these false pleasantries, a ‘Mr. Fedorov’ would be appreciated. I do not respect, nor do I enjoy, your usage of this taunting name that your government has given me. ‘Chernobyl’. Chernobyl!” He says, visibly squeezing Mr. ESP’s head. “No, we do not have a deal. If I were Japanese, would they have named me Hiroshima? Would they name me Herr Three Mile should I be American? What a farce.”
His servos whirr, and before I can realize what’s happening, Mr. ESP goes sailing, smacking into the nearest concrete pillar. Not from the piledriver, but just the force built into those hydraulic muscles of his.
Then, he turns to me. “You. I recognize you. From where?”
I swallow harder than I ever have before in my life. “The day you killed Liberty Belle. I was there.”
I can feel his smile, as he bears down on me, staying on the rails – his suit too tall to fit on the platform. “I recognize you. I told you not to follow me. And yet, here you are. Why is that?”
Mudslide is standing there, agape, tending to Mr. ESP. I can’t tell if Mr. ESP is still even conscious, but I can tell ESP’s got a nasty head wound from that throw, and Mudslide is doing his best to patch it up. Audibly muttering to himself, having entirely forgotten his goals.
But I haven’t.
I shrug Jordan and Spinelli off of me, and turn to Jordan. They know what I’m going to say before I even need to say anything. Spinelli looks between the two of us, trying to detect the psychic communication.
“If you die, I’m going to be so mad at your funeral,” Jordan says, scooting backwards two steps, then three, wrapping Spinelli’s gangly arms around their waist. “Come on, love,”
“Huh? What’s going on?” Spinelli asks, as they shuffle further down the tunnel, further away from the entrance, further into the dark – where it’s safe.
“Sam’s about to do something stupid,” I hear, out of the corner of my ears, as I hop down from the platform, staring Chernobyl – staring Illya down. “Like a superhero. Let’s get you patched up, man,”
“Well, young one?” He asks, kneeling down to get closer to eye level with me.
“I’m here to bring you to justice,” I respond, trying to ignore the slowly-closing hole in my abdomen. I crack my knuckles, ignoring much more successfully how my teeth bite into my skin. I’ve cracked pumice stone with these new tools of mine. I can punch a hole in a jaw-strength-meter, even the really hard ones made of metal, so his armor should be no problem.
And sharks are immune to cancer. That’s what they say, anyway.
“Good,” he replies, standing back up to his full height, as the sound of gunfire begins to echo from above the tunnels. The shootout between the NSRA and the Kingdom, I’d imagine.
The cavalry’s arrived, but I won’t need it. This’ll be over before then.
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