61

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The abandoned subway tunnel feels colder now, almost like the air itself is watching me. My blood sense tells me that Mudslide and Mr. ESP are making their way out, tunnelling through the concrete like it’s butter. But I don’t care about them anymore. They’re just… gone, irrelevant. My focus is on the giant in front of me, Illya, his suit emitting a low hum, each of his lights individually enough to fill this space.

The metal pillars in the tunnel each act like mirrors, bouncing the light around. I’m illuminated from every angle. I feel especially pale in the light.

Illya’s voice, filtered through the suit, is surprisingly calm, almost gentle. “What is your name?” he asks. I’m taken aback by his politeness. “How old are you? You should not be here, especially with that gunshot wound.”

I square my shoulders, feeling the sting of the bullet hole in my belly. “I’m Sam, and I’m fourteen. And I’m not leaving,” I reply, trying to sound braver than I feel. His massive helmet tilts slightly, as if he’s studying me, trying to understand why a kid like me is standing up to him.

“You remind me of someone,” he says after a moment. His voice is tinged with something I can’t quite place — is it sadness? Regret? I don’t have time to ponder it.

“I’m here to stop you, Illya. I can’t let you keep hurting people.” My voice is firm, but inside, I’m a whirlwind of nerves and fear. This is it, the moment I’ve been preparing for, and I can’t mess it up.

Illya doesn’t move, but I can feel his gaze weighing on me, heavy and searching. “Very silly,” he says, rolling his shoulders back, taking a step away from me. “I will not fight a child. ‘Junior superheroes’, a madman’s conception of justice. I will not fight you.”

Anger flares within me, a burning tide that refuses to be condescended to. “I’m not just some puppet, Illya! You killed people — Liberty Belle, Professor Franklin… How many others? I’m not just some kid you can shrug off!” I shout, my voice echoing off the tunnel walls.

My fists, armed with sharp teeth, swing with all the might my adrenaline-fueled body can muster. They slam into his suit’s chestplate, each hit with force, leaving dents in the metal. The sound of metal bending under my strikes is oddly satisfying. The suit may be strong, but I’m relentless. Each slam of my fists leaves dents in the chestplate; I can hurt him.

“You’ve taken lives, Illya! People who mattered!” I yell between punches, each word punctuated with a strike. “How can you just stand there and act like that’s okay? How can you live with yourself?”

Illya’s voice remains calm, almost detached, even as I batter his suit. “Your notion of ‘justice’ is naïve, young one. You are being used as a pawn in a war you do not understand. Adults have filled your head with ideals, using you as a soldier in their fight against those they deem ‘undesirables’.”

“I’m not anyone’s weapon,” I snap back, swinging with all my might. “I’m here because it’s right. Because people like you need to answer for what they’ve done!”

His suit creaks with every blow, and he continues to scoot and step backwards, but his suit lacks the agility to really get out of the way. I feel an unwarranted surge of confidence. If I keep hitting him, I will break through.

Illya sighs, a sound almost lost in the mechanical hum of his suit. “And what of the lives I’ve saved? The people I’ve protected? Do they not count in your ledger of justice? My powers have kept the lights on in hospitals. I’ve given your cities light. People sleep softly on the street with their sidewalks lit by the lights your government extracts from me. When I kill, it is to survive – when I save, it is easily discarded. Have you forgotten your American notion of self-defense?”

I can’t come up with a response fast enough, so I just swing. He’ll feel me through my fists.

Illya raises his armored hand, catching my strikes with a power that feels like hitting a wall. His mechanical movements are precise, designed to block and deflect, not to harm, yet. “The Maccabees, the slaves led by Moses — my people have always fought for our survival,” he says, his voice echoing from the suit.

I try to find an opening, slipping past his defenses. “But our people weren’t chosen to lead through violence, Illya. We were chosen to use our power responsibly, to be a light, not to cast shadows.”

His response is immediate, a slow but powerful swing aimed to push me back. “History is written by survivors, Sam. Sometimes survival demands harsh actions,” he argues. I dodge, feeling the rush of air as his hand passes by, feeling it shove my hair in every direction.

“Survival doesn’t justify harming innocents. There’s a line between surviving and living at others’ expense,” I retort, trying to strike back. He catches my fist and squeezes, and the pain is sharp and immediate. Then, he lets go. I shake my hand out. “‘Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor’, my Pop-Pop told me.”

“You’re part of the tribe, as well?” He asks, stepping back, shaking his head.

I wipe blood from my face, shaking out the other hand. It hurts, but it’s not broken. “How else would I have gotten these brassy undertones?” I crack, trying to maintain momentum. I feel a little more pale with every passing second, as blood ebbs from my body. The adrenaline is flowing back, though, and that makes it feel better – dulls the pain.

“Be serious, child,” Illya responds. “You should know very well then the story of the Dybbuk–“

“Yeah, yeah, I heard when you told it to Diane. Before you killed her,” I interrupt, my right knee starting to buckle. I grunt with exertion, forcing it back up. I put my fists in front of my face.

Illya’s towering presence looms over me as he speaks, his words heavy with the weight of experience. “You are possessed, Sam. Not by one, but by two spirits thirsting for vengeance. They cloud your judgment, fuel your anger. They seek my blood through your hands, but my cause is purely that of survival. Can you not see the nobility in that? What makes their cause more worthwhile?”

My fists fly in response, striking against the hard metal of his suit with little effect. Each punch to his fists and forearms sends pain shooting up my wrists, each shin strike against the unyielding armor feeling futile. “Nuclear engineers believe in ghost stories now?” I quip, trying to mask the growing pain and fatigue. My voice is laced with sarcasm, a defense mechanism against the overwhelming odds.

He shakes his head slowly, his movements deliberate in the suit. “It is a metaphor, child. You carry with you the desires and grudges of those who can no longer fight. You are their vessel, driven not by your own will, but by theirs. How did you know I was a nuclear engineer?”

I stagger back, feeling the sting of his words. Is he right? Am I just a pawn in a larger game, manipulated by the memories of the fallen? The thought sends a chill down my spine, but I push it away. “I’m fighting for what’s right, not for revenge,” I insist, though my voice lacks its earlier conviction. “And it was a lucky guess.”

Illya’s voice softens, a hint of sympathy breaking through. “Very specific guess. What do you know?”

“Enough,” I reply, lowering my head and ducking under his wingspan. I slam my skull into his chestplate, rattling a deep breath out of me, and then punch, and punch, aiming for the dents my knuckles left before, each jab and hook deepening them, slowly chipping away at this mountain of eternity. “Enough to know you can’t justify what you’ve done.”

“And they taught you that in superhero school? The life story of the enemy, should you meet him in a dark tunnel one day?” he replies, almost casually grabbing me by the collar of my coat and flicking me away like he’s flicking gum out a window. I curl up, protecting my neck as I roll over incomplete subway rails, thumping against each rotten wood plank until I skid to a halt inches from a wet puddle.

Regaining my footing, I brush off the dust and face Illya again, my anger simmering. “Yeah, strange, isn’t it? How I guessed the nuclear man in the giant robot suit was a nuclear engineer,” I say with heavy sarcasm. He seems amused, or at least as amused as someone can be in a suit like that.

“If you must know,” I continue, “Liberty Belle left all her notes and detective equipment to me. So yeah, I know a thing or two about you.” The revelation seems to catch Illya off guard. For a moment, there’s a pause, a silence that’s almost tangible.

He chuckles, the sound resonating through his suit. “So, I’m fighting the inheritor of Diane’s will. How poetic.” The condescension in his tone is palpable. “But if you’re trying to convince me of the righteousness of your cause, young Samantha, you’re doing a very poor job of it.”

I clench my fists, my claws digging into my palms. “I don’t need to convince you of anything,” I snap back. “Your actions speak for themselves. You can’t hide behind excuses forever.”

Illya sighs, his suit shifting slightly. “You’re young, Sam. You see the world in black and white. But life… life is a spectrum of grays. One day, you’ll understand that.”

I shake my head, feeling a mix of frustration and determination. “Maybe, but today’s not that day. And today, I stop you.” My resolve is firmer now, buoyed by my anger. I don’t need to prove myself to him. Right?

He slaps both metallic hands against the chestplate of his suit, where my fists have left it peppered with tiny, almost infantile dents. So small as to be practically irrelevant. I’m losing more and more blood, but I’m only feeling better and better. My brain is humming, thrumming with fresh adrenaline. I can see his silhouette, along with where he nicked himself shaving, or repairing his suit, or whatever murderers do in their free time. When he moves, there’s a slight delay, like when Playback gave me the wireless controller during the New Years party. However long it takes for him to translate his movements into the suit’s movements.

Input lag. That’s what Playback called it.

I can use that.

The noise of his shield rattle snaps me out of my battle-planning reverie. “Come then, Samantha! Steel your resolve. Come, and break your swords against my armor.”

I wipe a little snot from my nose, and then I sniff the rest in. It’s cold down here.

“With pleasure,”

The battle intensifies as I shift from words to action. I’m like a relentless force, a combination of agility and ferocity that surprises even myself. Ducking and weaving around Illya’s slower movements, I exploit the slight delay in his reactions, using the platform as my stage. I climb onto it to evade his lumbering strikes, then drop down with calculated ferocity.

My attacks are a blur of motion. I unleash elbow drops from above, each one reinforced with teeth erupting from my skin, turning my body into a weapon. My axe kicks, powered by new fangs emerging from my heels and ripping through my skin, rain down on Illya’s armor. The sound of metal denting under my assault fills the tunnel, a cacophony of battle.

Illya’s attempts to hit back are thwarted by his own suit’s limitations. His powerful swings are intimidating, but the millisecond delay gives me just enough time to dodge. Each evasive maneuver feels instinctual, as if my body knows exactly where to be at every moment. It’s a dance of attack and retreat, a test of endurance and strategy.

With each strike, I feel more empowered, more determined. I’m not just fighting for myself; I’m fighting for justice, for those who can’t fight anymore. My breath comes in sharp gasps, and the pain from my wounds fades into the background, replaced by a singular focus: to stop Illya, to end this battle on my terms.

My body begins moving almost on its own, a symphony of strikes and evasion. Each punch and kick I land on Illya’s suit feels like a triumph, the sharp teeth emerging from my skin snapping into the metal, leaving behind more than just superficial marks.

I dart around him, using the narrow confines of the tunnel to my advantage. I climb the walls, pushing off with powerful jumps, launching myself at Illya from unexpected angles. My attacks are relentless, a barrage of teeth-enhanced blows that target the weak spots in his armor. I feel like I’m in one of those shows that Lily always is trying to get me to watch. The kind with the airheaded, brave protagonists that win through sheer guts, spirit, and willpower. That’s me. That’s how I’m going to win.

Illya’s responses are slow but powerful, his suit’s movements like the rumbling of a mountain. Each time he swings at me, I feel the air shift, a warning of the massive force behind his punches. But I’m too quick, too nimble. I slide under his arms, jumping back before he can adjust his trajectory.

My body is on fire, every muscle singing with the thrill of the fight. The pain from my wounds is there, but it’s distant, a background noise drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I’m aware of the danger, the risk of pushing myself too hard, but I can’t stop. Not now, not when I’m this close.

Illya’s suit begins to show signs of wear. Dents and scratches mar the surface, testament to the ferocity of our battle, but he hasn’t slowed down at all. The only noises are the hissing of steam and the clanging of bone on metal.

The battle reaches a critical juncture. Illya, growing weary of our relentless skirmish, decides to shift tactics. “Enough of these childish games,” he declares, his voice echoing through the suit. Suddenly, his suit vents out a blast of steam in every direction, a surprise attack that catches me off guard. The scalding heat engulfs me, searing every exposed inch of my skin. The irritation it causes on my gunshot wound is excruciating, sending waves of pain throughout my body.

As I double over, coughing and trying to soothe my burnt skin, Illya’s words pierce through the haze of pain. “Diane had strength and experience, yet she failed. You are just fourteen, a child. Even if you breach this armor, radiation will claim you. And if not, cancer awaits. You have so much life ahead, friends, loved ones who would mourn your loss. Why do you persist? Why risk so much?”

I try to speak, but all that comes out is a fit of coughing, my lungs struggling to cope with the hot, damp air. My face, hands, and feet itch unbearably, the skin red and raw from the steam. I double over, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through my body.

The thought of my friends, my family, the people who care about me, fills my mind. Illya’s right — what am I doing? Why am I risking everything for this? The doubt creeps in, a shadow over my resolve. But then, a spark of defiance ignites within me. I’m here because it’s right, because someone has to stand up to him.

I raise my head, meeting Illya’s gaze through the steam. “Because it’s the right thing to do,” I manage to say, my voice hoarse. “Because if I don’t, who will?” The words are more for me than for him. To keep myself moving. The pain just motivates me more.

“You still have a life ahead of you, Sam,” he replies, almost pleading with me. “You are a willful, stubborn child. I don’t want to kill you.”

“You seem a decent fellow. I’d hate to die,” I joke, hacking and coughing until I spit up phlegm into the nearest puddle. My entire body is shrieking, combined heat and cold, itch and numb, pain and soreness, wet and dry. Everything, every sensation, every form of pain short of electrocution, and frankly, I don’t trust that he doesn’t have a taser somewhere in that suit of his.

We clash once more, but either I’ve gotten slower or he’s gotten much faster. I see my skin coming off, peeling in flakes, with every motion, and every time my fists aim for his chest they only catch his palms or forearms. He reminds me of a sumo wrestler, stanced wide, unmovable. Nothing I can throw at him even causes him to nudge an inch backwards. “Hit me back!” I yell, my teeth glinting against the lights of his suit.

“I won’t!” He yells back, with the first hint of genuine emotion in his voice, transmitted through those speakers of his. But it surprises me when I hear it. I expect anger, or sorrow, or maybe some more condescension, but really, what I feel most is fear. Not that he’s afraid of me, but he’s afraid of something else I don’t know about. My fists collide again with his palms. If he really wanted me dead, all he’d need to do is grab me by anything and use the piledrivers I know are in his arms. But he won’t. He won’t!

“Do I look too much like your daughter, is that it?” I ask, and he stops stone cold.

My knuckles cut through a steam line, sending both ends of it whipping around wildly before I hear a thunk and it stops.

Then, he grabs me by the chest, and lifts me above the ground.

Illya’s grip on me is like iron, his massive hand encasing my torso and trapping one of my arms against my body. His other hand slams into the concrete, ripping some loose, while my feet dangle helplessly. His voice booms from the suit as he talks; “Leave her name out of your mouth!” he roars, his voice resonating with rage and pain. I’m held fast, one arm pinned to my side, the other flailing helplessly, seeking leverage that isn’t there.

“Yulia wouldn’t want this, Illya,” I gasp out, the words barely a whisper. “Do you think Yulia Federov would be proud to know her father is a murderer?”

His reaction is immediate and furious. He begins to shake me around, his movements fueled by anger and hurt, rattling me like an action figure being played with too roughly. As I’m hurled through the air like a doll in a tempest, Illya’s voice cuts through the chaos, “You know nothing of my sacrifices! To provide for them, to ensure their safety, I’ve dealt with devils! No bank would touch me, no service would aid me. I’ve watched her grow from afar, missing every moment of her life. Yulia Illyinichna Fedorova is my daughter, and she is untouched by the shame of Chernobyl!”

Then, he throws me. I go sailing through the air, and I can tell before that he was holding back. I only have a second or two to regret it before I go crashing into the ground, splashing through puddles and ripping my skin against the concrete and metal and rotten wood. Gunfire spits out over top of me, above the ground. I can’t sense Jordan or Spinelli or Mr. ESP or Mudslide at all anymore. I can feel dying men above me, faintly, through the layers of stone and ground. I wonder – will I be joining them soon? The pain is intense, my body screaming for relief, as I nurse a broken ankle, bruises, abrasions, scrapes, my skin oozing blood, weeping.

I get back up. Chernobyl, fueled by rage, crushes through the tunnels, moving towards me far faster than anything that big should be allowed to move.

He looms over me. “Speak your last, Sam. I have changed my mind regarding gentleness.”

“I know how you feel!” I scream, my voice raw with emotion. Illya halts, his massive suit mere inches from me, a looming threat that could crush me in an instant. “I’m sorry for bringing her into this,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath.

Illya’s voice is laced with skepticism. “You apologize now because you fear death. You seek mercy, but you will find none here.”

I shake my head, dismissing his accusation. “It’s not about mercy. You can kill me if you want. I just want you to know, I understand your sacrifice.”

“How could a child possibly comprehend what I have sacrificed for my family?” Illya’s tone is bitter, tinged with incredulity.

I gather my strength, pushing myself up despite the pain. “Because I’ve sacrificed just as much for mine,” I say, my voice steadying. “Those bad guys that wanted you to do their dirty work? They wrecked my home in Mayfair with a fucking Tyrannosaurus rex. The home my parents scrimped and saved for, pouring every bit of their effort into it. And now? I haven’t seen them in months, because I need to keep them safe. Because the bad guys showed up at my home and threatened me in front of them.”

I take a breath, leaning on one of the support pillars holding up the subway tunnels.

“I missed Halloween. I missed Hannukah. I missed New Year’s with them. I’ll probably miss Valentine’s Day. I’ll probably miss Passover. I’ll probably miss my birthday. I live in fear, in an abandoned building, because being near me puts them in danger. By the way, I’m squatting in that building, and they’re trying to evict me. The NSRA wants to take Liberty Belle’s notes from me and they’re threatening me about it, like, legitimately threatening me. My girlfriend is mad at me because I’ve been so busy investigating this – investigating you and the Kingdom – that I haven’t been on a good date with her in what feels like forever. It’s tearing me apart, but I can’t just stand by and do nothing. I can’t live in a world where I could do the right thing and choose not to.”

My rant pours out, a flood of words and emotions that leaves me breathless. Illya stands motionless, his suit a silent sentinel as he processes my words.

“I know what you’ve been through,” I hiss, taking a step forward. I roll my shoulders until they crack. “I know about your exile. I know what you have to do to survive. I recorded your admission to Diane, and I’ve just been sitting on it ever since.”

“You know,” he repeats, almost silently, despite the digital amplification.

I grab one of his steam lines and rip it in half, on his hip. He takes a step back, but his legs need a second to recalibrate, and he ends up nearly stumbling, almost falling. “I know that your wife and daughter miss you!”

I throw my fist forward until it collides with a slow-moving palm. Then, I reach inside with my other hand, and rip loose another steam line, bringing some wires with it. “I know you’re just doing what you can!”

I pull myself forward, ripping the joints loose from one of his fingers – and it falls off, revealing the servos inside, all the parts and metal. Steam and fluid pours out until valves clamp shut and redirect the pressure towards somewhere else. He pushes his arm against my entire body, and I rip out another finger.

“And because I know,” another finger.

“That’s why,” another finger.

“I can’t let you keep going!” I scream, disarming his left hand with a shriek as I rip his suit’s thumb off. This hideous strength reaches out from somewhere deep inside me, somewhere I’ve never seen before. My fingers are covered in teeth of all shapes and sizes – short, long, round, square, but all jagged, all sharp. I don’t even remember summoning them. I rip loose another metal plate, and the teeth fall out, leaving red, angry pockmarks along my hands, claws torn out just like my still-regrowing fingernails.

I pant for air like a dog chasing its tail for too long. I’m running out. My adrenaline can only carry me too long, before I succumb to my gunshot wounds and pass out. I feel sharp streaks of radiation beginning to leak into the air – narrow, yes, but existant, sharp enough to cut and burn at my skin when they pass over me. I glance sidelong to check for blisters, but whatever pain I’m feeling seems to only be on my insides. And that’s fine with me.

Fueled by a combination of desperation and resolve, I charge at Illya with the last of my energy, keenly aware that this might be my final stand. His suit, already showing signs of damage from my previous onslaught, becomes my sole focus. I target his hydraulic lines, steam tubes, and wires, abandoning my earlier tactic of denting his armor. Instead, I summon new claws, letting them sprout from my fingertips, turning my hands into shredding tools.

I’m a whirlwind of motion, darting around his massive form. Each slash of my claws severs another line, each tear rips through more of his suit’s support systems. The more damage I inflict, the slower and more cumbersome his movements become. It’s a race against time and my own waning strength.

Illya attempts to fend me off, but his suit’s reactions are becoming increasingly delayed. The symphony of hissing steam and the clank of metal grows more frantic as he struggles to keep up with my relentless assault. My goal is clear to me now – to force him out of his armored shell, to bring him down to my level, where we can confront each other without barriers.

With each passing second, his suit becomes less of a fortress and more of a prison. His once formidable defenses are now riddled with gaps and weaknesses, which I exploit ruthlessly. I can see the frustration and shock in his movements, the realization that his armor, his safety net, is failing him. The lag between his movements and his suit’s response is only growing more and more, like the latency of his controller is increasing.

As I tear away another hydraulic line, a spurt of fluid hits my face, stinging my eyes. I blink through the pain, pushing forward. This is more than just a physical battle now; it’s a clash of wills, of philosophies. I’m communicating through my actions, telling him that if he wants to win this battle, he can’t hide any longer. He needs to face me, face the truth, without the protection of his suit.

Illya’s movements grow sluggish, the once formidable suit struggling under the barrage of my relentless assault. The sound of tearing metal and hissing steam fills the tunnel, a testament to the intensity of the battle. I can see the frustration in Illya’s attempts to retaliate, his once swift responses now lagging behind my speed.

I make one final push, channeling the last of my strength into a series of swift, precise strikes. Illya’s suit, now barely functioning, emits a series of desperate whirs and clicks. I stand back, panting heavily, watching as the giant before me teeters, the reality of his vulnerability finally setting in. I feel each searing streak of radiation as it’s exposed from the joints and fissures and seams. There’s nothing he can do. He’s stuck now.

Then, he laughs.

“I understand now. Truly, Diane could not have picked a more appropriate successor,” he says, but I’m not sure that it’s a compliment. I can almost feel his realization through his mechanical exterior. “You’re serious about this,” he finally says, a note of wonder in his voice. “You’re really ready to die for what you believe is right.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady despite the pain. “I’m a superhero, after all. We don’t really do the whole ‘long life expectancy’ thing. So come on, Illya. Let’s drop the suits and the metal. Fight me, man to girl. See if you’re really as tough as you think you are.”

There’s a long pause, filled with the sounds of our ragged breathing and the distant echoes of the battle above. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, Illya begins to move. The heavy thuds of his suit are like the beating of a heart, each step resonating through the tunnel.

“You understand the consequences,” he says, his voice low. “If I come out, the radiation… it will kill you. And even if it doesn’t, the long-term effects…”

“I get it,” I interrupt, pushing myself up to a sitting position. “I know the risks. But this… this is about more than just surviving. It’s about doing what’s right, no matter the cost. Didn’t you hear my rant? So come on, Illya. Let’s end this. Just let another human see your face for the first time in however long.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, with a hiss of releasing locks and the grinding of metal, Illya’s suit begins to open.

He’s… almost handsome. A classical square jaw, with greying hair that curls over his face sideways, short chopped, maybe an inch long. A buzz cut that’s been left to fester. His face is peppered with small cuts, razor burn across his smooth cheeks. That answers that. And his eyes are glowing, no pupils visible, no eye visible, just glowing, pale orange, with a vertical scar across his left eye.

Already, I feel the pain, the searing sensation that I have to assume is what it feels like to be microwaved. Or, like, x-rayed too hard. But I grit my teeth and bear it, the thing I’m best at. The chestplate hisses weakly, trying to pry itself open across all the damaged components, and he pushes through. He’s big. His clothes are… minimal, a yellow robe that might’ve been part of hazmat equipment at some point, heavy gloves, heavy boots. His entire body is caked in dust, in scars, his shoulders broad. He’s only a little bit taller than me. Maybe 5’8″. Maybe 5’9″.

He opens his mouth to breathe, and a peal of orange comes with it. My entire body feels like it’s being lit on fire from the inside out.

“You’ve seen my face. And now, Samantha, you will likely die. Even if you surprise me, and slay me now, it will have been at the cost of your own life. Is that satisfactory to you. Are you willing to kill me in self defense? Are you willing to kill me to satisfy your ghosts?” he says, looking at me odd, like he’s unused to seeing anyone outside of a camera view. “So small…”

I sigh, and it hurts to breathe. My stomach already rebels, and I feel bile dripping up my throat the wrong direction. I’ve been thinking about it this entire fight – what to do once I actually prised him from his turtle shell. Am I willing to kill him for revenge? For ‘justice’? For ‘the greater good’? I can’t be the judge of that. I’m not a murderer. I’m not an executioner. That’s not my job. Will the courts be fair to him? Will the world? Will I?

“No. I’m not.”

“Excuse me?” he responds, visibly taken aback. “Are you insane?”

“Yes,” I reply, bluntly. I cough, and hack, and I feel blood come up with it. I lurch forward, and he tries to walk back, stopped by his own suit clogging the railway. “Now shut up with your philosophizing, old man. Pretend I’m Yulia.”

“What?” is all he manages to get out before I throw myself forward, putting my arms around him, squeezing him tight. He must be right. I am insane. To think that this care bear shit would have a snowball’s chance in hell of making change. I think about the way my dad derisively talked about the hippies and their ineffectiveness. That ‘make love, not war’ falters in the face of missiles and bombs. Peace cannot prevail over nuclear aggression.

I wonder if my mom would call the symbolism ‘on-the-nose’.

Illya stops, stunned, for a moment, and then puts his arms around me. Then, he shoves, and I go flailing backwards, my head splashing down into a puddle. “I won’t. I won’t,” he says, his face paler than it was when I first saw it, all the blood drained from it. “I can’t,” he says – to me, or to himself, I wonder?

“I figured that wouldn’t work,” I say, wiping blood from my nose. A fresh flow, recently burst. Illya looks panicked, desperate, as he tries to pull his suit back around him, like a tortoise trying to retreat for the winter. My mom said they don’t hibernate, they brumate. He’s trying to do that – to brumate, to lock himself up, to make himself safe again. I put my fists back up, and squeeze, and the teeth feel so much easier gliding through my soft flesh. When they come out, for once, so too does a spurt of blood. “What if I just knocked you out and left you here? Can my conscience work with that?” I ask, half-expecting an answer. “Deal?”

But Illya doesn’t respond. He’s desperately pulling at controls as if I haven’t severed every line of hydraulic fluid. His suit slowly creaks to life, working on its last vestiges. I see as he straps himself in, the tanks of water that begin boiling through mechanisms I’m probably two PhD degrees away from understanding. Steam pours itself through the redundant lines while his suit re-assembles, closes up, prepares for takeoff.

Is he… weeping?

“Yulia… Olena… I’m so sorry. Please forgive this failure of a man, this coward,” he cries – he whimpers, slowly pulling his suit away from me, the helmet snapping back around his face. He tries to turn sideways in the tunnel, the metal scraping against the concrete, leaving showers of sparks – but he doesn’t care. My body is burning up like a furnace.

“Hey! When you make it to the surface, do us both a favor and turn yourself in, alright, Illya?” I croak, feeling my body already beginning to give up. My head begins pounding, and the energy is draining out of me. No matter how much adrenaline I’m trying to muster, it’s not enough. I don’t know if I’m experiencing organ failure, but it sure feels like it – like my stomach is shutting down. My heartbeat is getting more and more erratic. “Illya!”

“What!?” He screams, his voice distorted, brickwalling, straining against the resolution that his speakers can provide, with his real voice just peeking out from between the cracks and crevices. As he screams, his entire suit whips around, limp arms smacking uncontrollably into the pillars holding up the subway station. “Bedevil me no longer, you wicked child!”

“When you get back to Ukraine… don’t forget to send me a postcard!” I shout back down the tunnel, flashing him a thumbs up. “And be careful of the agents outside!”

What did I just do? I had the opportunity. I could’ve stabbed him in the throat. I could’ve ripped his shoulder out with my teeth. I look at my arms, and they’re covered in blood, skin peeling off, misshapen new teeth bubbling up to the surface like my skin is boiling liquid. Why did I hug him? Why did I think that would work? Everything I’ve been working for since Liberty Belle’s death feels like it’s slipping between my fingers.

No. He’s not a monster. He’s just a sad old man. But he killed people. But he saved people. It’s all so complicated.

I look down the tunnel at his darkening form, as the lights go out on his suit. I don’t know if they’re losing power, or if he’s trying to hide himself in the murk.

I vomit. It’s unceremonious. The little bits of food I’ve eaten today come out along with a gout of blood.

My last conscious moments are filled with doubt.

Did I do the right thing, Pop-Pop?

Am I a superhero yet?

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