81

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I’m crouched behind a stack of crates, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to steady my breathing. The warehouse is dark at 3 AM, but my blood sense paints a vivid picture of the scene unfolding before me. I can already smell Sparkplug through all the tick marks in his inner elbows. I can feel the anticipation rolling off my teammates in waves, their pulses quickening as we wait, watching, recording.

But everything goes amok. I hear the hiss of gas escaping, and the acrid stench of Miss Mayfly’s stink bombs fills my nostrils, making my eyes water. The smoke is thick, a pungent haze that obscures everything in sight, escaping from every bit of the warehouse’s orifices. I remember, with a sense of eerie trepidation, the masked figures milling about during our surveillance. I assumed they were working for the enemy.

I assumed wrong.

For a moment, my normal senses are overwhelmed by the chaos, the usually clear lines and shapes blurring into a confusing jumble, although thankfully my mask is tight enough on my face that I can’t gulp down the smoke so readily. I blink rapidly, trying to regain my focus, but it’s like trying to see through the world’s smelliest house fire. The stink gas and the smoke bombs all congeal together into a noxious haze, like the world’s most amateur chemical weapons. I hear something wet splattering and splashing, but since my blood sense doesn’t smell anything new, I have to assume it’s one of Miss Mayfly’s various gadgets going off.

Around me, I hear the sounds of coughing and gasping as the belligerents (meaning – the fighters, myself included) react to the sudden onslaught. Some curse loudly, their voices muffled by the smoke, while others stumble and crash into obstacles, disoriented by the lack of visibility. There’s a veritable choir of “Fucks” passed around like so much Thanksgiving stuffing.

I take a deep breath, the stink bomb’s pungent odor burning my lungs, and force myself to concentrate. I plug my nose, and prepare to wade into the depths. Just as I’m starting to regain my bearings, a figure lunges at me through the smoke, the glint of a knife catching my eye. Instinctively, I raise my arms to block, the blade skidding off my arm guards while I clench my fists hard enough to force teeth up and through.

He cusses and gives another swing. The goon’s knife clangs against my arm guards, the impact sending shockwaves up into my wrists. The one downside to the teeth growth thing – the way it punches right on my nerves anytime anything touches them. I grit my teeth (my actual teeth, not the ones on my knuckles) and push back, using my enhanced strength to force the goon’s arm away, catching his knife on the backswing, rotating my hips outward. Just like Rampart taught me. I grab at the wrist with my dagger-like fingertips, and pinch hard enough that he can’t help but let go.

The knife clatters to the ground and I donkey-kick it behind me.

Seizing the opening, I counter with a swift punch aimed at the goon’s jaw. My knuckle-teeth sink into his flesh, and I push in, and then down. It’s been a couple of weeks of training with Gossamer, and I’ve learned how to make myself a little… less lethal. How to push out teeth that are duller than normal – not by much, but it’s something within my control – and how to push them out only just enough that they impact by centimeters, millimeters even. Less tiny knives strapped to my punches like I’m blading a newbie wrestler and more extensions of my knuckles, to give them a little extra oomph.

Just like the noise he makes as he spins down like a Punch-Out fighter. I can almost hear the sound effects in my head.

I don’t give him a chance to recover. Surging forward, I plant my foot squarely in his midsection, putting all my weight behind the kick. The goon’s breath leaves him in a whoosh, and he crumples to the ground, gasping for air.

As I stand over the fallen goon, I can’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. But there’s no time to celebrate. Just as I’m starting to find my rhythm, a piercing sonic scream cuts through the chaos like a knife. I recognize it instantly as Squeal’s doing, and I can’t help but wince at the sound, feeling it rocket into me like a punch, a gust of wind that cuts through all the smoke and sends it spiralling into a whirlpool by everyone’s feet.

I clap my hands over my ears, trying to block out the overwhelming noise, but it’s like trying to stop a tidal wave with a paper cup. The scream seems to resonate in my skull, bouncing around like a pinball and making it hard to think straight. I can feel my teeth vibrating in my gums, and for a moment, I’m afraid they might actually shake loose.

“Gah, make it stop!” I hear someone yell, their voice barely audible over the din. I think it’s Compass, but I can’t be sure. The scream is too loud, too disorienting. The longer it goes on, the louder it gets, the more it hurts – a physical, painful impact that rattles my bones in the most literal sense.

Taking advantage of my momentary distraction, one of Sparkplug’s guys, I can tell from the suit, appears out of nowhere and lands a heavy blow to my ribs. I feel a sharp crack, and a searing pain shoots through my side. Almost certainly a fracture. 100% a bruise.

I stumble back, gasping for air as the pain threatens to overwhelm me. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and for a moment, I’m afraid I might pass out. I cuss at myself mentally. I’ve literally been cooked alive by a human microwave and this is what threatens to KO me – a wallop by someone without any actual super strength?

No, no way.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I try to hunt for something to cling on to. Everyone is getting slashed up, sans maybe two or three people, but in the chaos, with so many unfamiliar silhouettes, I can’t keep track of anyone not named Jordan. And Spindle’s silhouette is, thankfully, not part of the tussle yet. Not that I don’t trust his fighting ability, but he is a little fragile. I try to look back towards the man that just assaulted me, but either someone else dealt with him or he’s retreated back into the chaotic abyss to go bother someone else.

It hurts to breathe, but I force myself to take shallow, steady breaths. I can’t let the pain slow me down. But there’s no time to catch my breath. The air around me crackles with electricity, and I can feel the hair on my arms standing on end. Sparkplug. “Like an evil version of Professor Franklin,” and while I can’t say I’m familiar with Professor Franklin’s powers, I do know what getting zapped by my science teacher feels like during a class activity.

It’s like that. But worse.

I barely have time to react before an electric blast sizzles past my head, singeing the tips of my buzz cut. The smell of burnt hair fills my nostrils, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. It’s not a pleasant scent, but it’s better than the alternative, of taking a direct hit and probably having an immediate heart attack. Or getting burnt again. I’m actually not sure what electrocution does to the human body and I’m not really interested in finding out.

I press my back against one of the abandoned machines that I’ve stumbled into, and with a loud POP, it begins pouring more smoke out into the battlefield, a constant flow of visual interruptions. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I can taste blood in my mouth. I’m not sure from what, but I am. As I crouch behind the machine, trying to reassess the situation, my blood sense picks up on something nearby. It’s Sundial, and she’s bleeding. Badly.

I feel a surge of panic rising in my chest, but I force it down. I can’t afford to lose my cool. Not now. A teammate… a friend? Needs me. It’s hard to pull my lever from KILL form into LIVE form, but I do it anyway, feeling the gear change in my head like a truck turning onto a highway.

Without hesitation, I sprint towards her, my senses guiding me through the haze and chaos. I can hear Bubble’s muffled sobs as she clings to Sundial, her force fields flickering weakly around them. She looks so small, so vulnerable. It breaks my heart.

Just as I reach them, one of Squeal’s guys appears out of the smoke, his fist raised to strike at Sundial’s prone form. I lunge forward, intercepting the blow with my forearm. Pain explodes up my arm, but I grit my teeth and maintain my defensive stance. Bubble’s cries get louder as a skin of force appears around the man’s head – trapping him with the smoke from the smoke bombs, and the stink from the stink bombs.

Have I mentioned how hard it is to avoid vomiting? Just… remember, keep in mind, that this is all running through that, too.

Bubble’s wails get louder as she stacks more and more bubbles, each one, I assume, making it harder and harder to breathe. Even as the guy claws at his head, she just keeps forming more bubbles around his fingertips, around his wrists, stacking them on top and around each other to keep him sealed in with the noxious smog that’s consumed the battlefield.

“It’s okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve got you.”

I reach into my utility belt, feeling very smug at having the first opportunity in seemingly forever, maybe ever, to actually use it. And I’m very glad that Gossamer not only taught me how to throw fists but also how to gauze someone very fast. “I knew you would help,” Sundial says with a calm, almost unnaturally serene smile. Clearly, I’m doing something right if someone like her is accepting of my shoddy first aid job.

“Yeah, yeah, precog. Do we make it or not?” I ask, partially as a joke, and partially trying to reclaim a sense of confidence. I’m bleeding from my face, although I’m not exactly sure where – but it’s smearing down my mask and into my mouth.

Sundial’s smile dims a little bit. “Powers don’t work like that, Bloodhound. But stay focused. Bubble’s guy is about to swing back. Get her out of here.”

Sundial’s words are terse, efficient. Not made to be minced. Bubble looks exhausted, her body visibly sagging, and it seems like she’s out of gas, just not enough to KO the guy as he rips himself free and sucks in a big lungful of clear air. Well, clearer air, judging by the way he’s sagging, sputtering, and coughing.

With a quick sweep of my leg, I knock the goon’s feet out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He lands hard, the air rushing out of his lungs in a whoosh.

Fishing a zip tie out of my pocket, I quickly secure his wrist to his belt, immobilizing him for the time being. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’ll do for now. His body is seized up with coughing and hacking.

“Stay put,” I growl, giving the zip tie a final tug. “I’m not done with you yet. Bubble! Get out of here.”

“But,” the young girl responds, her eyes welling up with tears. I look at her, and see myself almost a year ago.

It’s crazy how young she looks. It makes me feel… uncomfortable.

“You’re out of gas,” I reply, trying to stay focused on the world around me. “And Sundial said so. Go!”

“Bubbs, I would not have brought you here if I thought it was going to get this dangerous. You did what you can. Go and get the police, that’s your job now,” Sundial orders, in a way that brooks no argument.

Bubble looks at her, lip quivering, and runs.

“You need to get out of here too, Sun,” I say.

“Can’t. I saw the future too far, and now I can’t leave the area. Causality stuff. Don’t worry about me. I’ll live,” Sundial says, grimacing, rubbing her arm. She scoots behind one of the abandoned machines, and ducks under. “Do what you do best, Big Bad Wolf.”

“What’s that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“From the stories I’ve heard; violence,” she replies, her eyes turning steely, her face almost smug.

The crackling sound of electricity cuts through the chaos, followed by the telltale thud of a body hitting the ground. I turn just in time to see a goon convulsing on the floor, his muscles spasming uncontrollably as the electricity courses through his body – either Sparkplug got one of Squeal’s guys, or someone else here has surprise electricity powers. I’m about to put my money on the former, until –

“One down!” Miss Mayfly shouts, her voice triumphant. Her glove clicks with a hiss, ejecting something from it like a bullet casing. She pumps a fist, and for a moment, I match her victory.

But her victory is short-lived. She reaches for a replacement cartridge off her belt, and another enemy, taking advantage of Miss Mayfly’s exposed position, lunges at her from the side. I watch in horror as he slams into her, sending her crashing into the ground with a sickening sound of plastic snapping, old sports equipment designed for the impact of schoolground activities cracking at the assault of a full-grown adult male. I don’t know if she’s broken anything, but that was a good old-fashioned shoulder ram to the torso. And she’s almost certainly my age. Broken ribs, most likely.

“No!” I scream, starting to move towards her. But before I can take more than a step, another attacker intercepts me, his fists flying towards my face. In the distance, past the swirling smog, I see the main assault group – Compass & Moonshot – tangoing with Sparkplug, while Jordan keeps them from getting fried. Good. I look past the muscle and catch sight of Spindle not fighting so much as harrying Squeal, preventing him from leaving. Also good.

Good to know things are handled.

I duck and weave, trying to avoid his blows while still keeping an eye on Miss Mayfly. She’s crumpled on the ground, her body twisted at an unnatural angle. I can’t tell if she’s breathing, but I can tell that she’s bleeding, at least from the nose.

“Mayfly!” I shout, my voice raw with panic. “Somebody help her!”

There’s no time for me to intercede. The attacker keeps coming, his fists relentless. I can feel my own injuries slowing me down, making it harder to dodge his blows. I count three more shapes moving through the slowly dispersing gas, most of them smeared with rainbow blobs of paint mixing together into an ugly brown, mostly across their face. Jordan, distracted by their very important job preventing two of the Titans from getting fried, doesn’t have time to notice the kiss of death approaching.

“I’m fine,” Miss Mayfly wheezes, just loud enough to be heard. “Just sprained,”

Rampart, Gossamer, Playback, Puppeteer, Diane, everyone I’ve trained with has always impressed upon me one important lesson.

Guns can never be involved. You have not achieved victory until every gun has been disarmed.

“Jordan, look out!” I scream, trying to make it past the wall that is this man. I only have so much time, so much space, so much speed. I can’t… I can’t move fast enough.

That is, until his head is wrapped with a fine layer of dozens of sight-blocking bubbles. I juke past him, glancing sideways and up at Bubble on the second floor, hiding on the catwalks, and shoot her a glare that is a mixture of about two dozen emotions. She catches sight of me and runs in the other direction, into the rooms on the upper floors. Hopefully, towards fleeing. Hopefully, not busting shit through rotten wood and falling like I did so long ago.

This all happens in like half a second. The remaining half a second takes forever. I watch as the wannabee gunman stumbles for equipment, his hands locked up in layers of bubble that he has to gnaw off to be able to pass the magazine from one hand into the the one holding the gun. That last gift from Bubble buys me the precious seconds necessary to save Jordan’s life.

I rake my claws across the goon’s back, ripping through his layers of clothes, raking deep, bleeding lines into his skin. I keep my knuckles dull. I make no such assurances for my fingertips. He howls in pain, fumbling the gun out of his hands as red blood seeps upwards into his undershirt. Nothing deep, nothing some gauze and maybe stitches won’t heal, but enough to keep him from being able to use his gun. For precious seconds.

So, that was maybe the most panic-inducing three seconds of my life.

Jordan, hearing my warning, spins around just in time. With a swift kick, they send the gun skidding across the warehouse floor, far out of reach, in Sundial’s vague direction.

“Thanks, Blood,” they say, flashing me a grateful smile. “That was a close one.”

I’m barely listening, though. Instead, I have my claws to this man’s throat. No matter how big and mesmerizingly bald he is, all grown men turn into whimpering bitches when you threaten to slit their jugular. He stands mercifully still as Jordan retrieves zip ties from under their cloak and cuffs him – better his freedom than his life, I assume. I notice a small satchel of bright green Jump pills sticking out of his pocket and kick them to crush them with my boot. Would be better to take them in for evidence, but, better to take them out of play for now.

My ears are ringing from Squeal’s continuous screaming, but Spindle has been doing a good job playing keep-away. As it turns out, it looks like his powers are really, really directional. Without being directly in front of him, it’s just loud, but the physical impact doesn’t seem to do much against Spindle, who lacks the surface area for it to properly impact, given that he is a human twig. Even when he does hit him, Spindle just shakes it off, putting his Young Defender training to work.

And the guy that almost punched my lights out earlier is on the ground. Good.

The air reeks of fart gas and ozone and frankly, I’m surprised that nothing’s blown up. Fingers crossed.

Just as I’m about to let out a sigh of relief, a figure emerges from the dissipating smog, his skin gleaming like polished metal. It’s one of Squeal’s goons, the last one standing, and judging from the stained wifebeater and the green pills scattered at his feet, he’s just popped a Jump.

“Aw, shit,” I mutter, bracing myself for the attack.

The iron goon charges towards me and Jordan, his fists raised to strike. I try to dodge, but my injuries slow me down, and I know I won’t be fast enough. Jordan cuts the space to make him overshoot, and I duck, just like good ol’ times, waiting for him to go flying over me. But then, something miraculous, and hilarious, happens.

Just as I’m about to brace for impact, a blur of fur and muscle drops from the catwalks above, slamming into the iron goon with the force of a freight train. The goon crumples beneath the weight of the newcomer, his metal skin denting and cracking from the impact.

It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing. It’s Derek, in his hulking werewolf form, with Sandman clinging to his back like a jockey. Bright red fur, a darker, more pure red-red as opposed to Derek’s orange-red hair, and a bulky, oversized upper body, and claws that make my little teeth-claws look like butter knives. But…

Derek should be locked up in his basement, tranquilized and safe from the full moon’s influence. He said as much earlier today, way earlier. “I am going to take a bunch of tranquilizers and pass out now. Good night,” he said, at like 5 PM.

“What the hell?” I blurt out, my eyes wide with shock.

Derek lets out a menacing hiss, his fangs bared as he pins the iron goon to the ground. Sandman, his eyes closed in concentration, seems to be guiding the werewolf’s movements, keeping him focused on the task at hand, wrapped around him like a cape made out of person. His dreads bounce with every movement, and it looks like he’s straight-up tied himself around Derek’s neck to hold himself in place, while Derek’s eyes are shut and his face is serene.

“Good boy,” Sandman mutters, patting Derek’s upper torso.

I exchange a glance with Jordan, who looks just as surprised as I feel. I can’t help but admire the clear viciousness of his werewolf form, the way it’s so obviously made to do nothing but rip people apart. I’m… glad he decided against showing us. Because I’m not sure I’d be able to beat him in a fight, worst come to worst.

“Uh, not that I’m not grateful for the assist,” I say, approaching Derek cautiously, “but aren’t you supposed to be, you know, not here?”

Derek’s only response is a low, rumbling growl, but Sandman raises an eyebrow, slowly cracks a single eye open, and gives me a wry smile.

“Desperate times, Bloodhound,” he says, his voice strained with the effort of controlling Derek’s movements. “We figured you could use the backup. So Derek and I made an arrangement, like, a week ago, ish.”

I nod, still trying to wrap my head around the situation. “Well, thanks. I guess. Just… be careful, okay?”

Sandman’s smile turns grim. “Always am.”

With that, he turns his attention back to the battle at hand. Squeal is still putting up a fight, his sonic screams echoing through the warehouse. Spindle is doing his best to keep him contained, but it’s clear he can’t hold out much longer.

“Sandman, can you and Derek take care of Squeal?” I ask, my mind already racing with possibilities.

Sandman nods, his face set in determination. “On it. You and the others focus on Sparkplug. We’ll handle the screamer.”

I give him a quick salute, then turn to Jordan. “You heard the man. Let’s finish this.”

Jordan grins, their eyes sparking with renewed energy. “Lead the way, Blood.”

Sandman guides Derek to charge straight towards Squeal, who is preparing another sonic scream. Derek’s powerful arms propel him forward, closing the distance rapidly, loping like a gorilla – his legs add to the bounding, but seem sort of secondary here. He’s more throwing himself across the ground, like he’s grabbing the concrete with his paws and ripping it out from underneath him, or at least, that’s what the motion looks like. Spindle, seeing the opportunity, twists his body to wrap around Squeal’s legs, tripping him up and disrupting his balance.

Just as Squeal unleashes his scream, Derek leaps to the side, evading the brunt of the attack, although it does rip into me in exchange. Whatever. I grimace and bear it, feeling the blood well up in my throat, my lungs, my heart, my ribs all rattling against each other. Derek throws himself diagonally again to get back in the way, and then,

“Nighty night, screamer,” Spindle quips, as Derek raises a massive paw.

With a swift, precise strike, Derek slaps Squeal across the chest, his claws ripping into Squeal’s clothes and the force sending him crashing into one of the abandoned machines. As if to add insult to injury, it crackles and pops around him. No smoke this time, just little tiny firecrackers, like the kind you throw at the floor. A miniature celebration.

Spindle quickly rips a scrap off his own costume (and I wince internally, thinking of Goss again) and ties it around Squeal’s face before he can catch his bearings. Then, getting him in a grapple, he pins him and spins him around so that any screaming would go right into the ground.

“Nice teamwork, boys,” Sandman says, giving Derek a playful punch on the shoulder. I allow myself a moment of relief, watching as Spindle and Sandman secure Squeal with zip ties.

But the moment is short-lived.

Enraged by Squeal’s defeat and the fact that every single goon he brought along with him is KO’d or captured or both, Sparkplug unleashes a massive electric burst that engulfs the warehouse. It’s very hard to explain what exactly it looks like – really, it doesn’t look so much as it feels. There’s a massive burst of light, and heat, and pain, raw and unyielding, and smell, something far more odious than the fading stink bomb scent. Bits of paint, splattered across Sparkplug’s eyes, crack and burn off of him.

This feels almost exactly like what I’d imagine getting hit by lightning feels like. But it lasts forever. The exposed skin of my chin, cheeks, lips, and jaw burns as the electric current sears my flesh. I grit my teeth against the pain, trying to stay focused on the battle at hand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Miss Mayfly take a glancing hit, her body twisting and wrenching away like it’s trying to escape, to hide, to get anywhere else. Not a direct enough hit to melt her costume to slag, but enough that the taser in her glove visibly fizzles and fries. The canister of pepper spray on her other hand pops like a balloon, ripping a gash in her skin (but muffled by the layers) and sending a cloud of aerosolized pepper spray around her.

“Mayfly!” I scream, my voice raw with desperation.

Compass and Moonshot are blown back by the force of the blast, their bodies slamming into the walls with sickening thuds. Spindle narrowly avoids the brunt of the attack by contorting his body, twisting and bending in ways that shouldn’t be possible. But even he isn’t unscathed, his skin singed and smoking from the electric currents.

Jordan, Derek, and Sandman also take a hit, but it’s glancing, too. Derek, still groggy from the tranquilizers, staggers and shakes his head, trying to clear the fog from his mind. This is bad. If he fully wakes up, there’s no telling what he might do in his feral state.

“Sandman!” I yell, my voice hoarse from the smoke and the screaming. “Get Mayfly out of danger!”

But Sandman shakes his head, his face grim. “She’s not unconscious,” he replies, his voice strained. “I can’t control her movements.”

I curse under my breath, my mind racing as I try to come up with a plan. We need to end this, and fast, before anyone else gets hurt. Or worse.

The air is thick with the acrid stench of burned hair and singed flesh, mixed with the lingering odor of the stink bombs. I blink away tears, my eyes stinging from the smoke and the pepper spray that surrounds Miss Mayfly like a noxious cloud.

I look around, assessing the damage. All the goons are out of commission, either unconscious or writhing in pain on the ground. Sparkplug stands alone, panting heavily, his chest heaving with each labored breath. Broken pieces of mini-drones litter the ground around him, most of them knocked out of the sky by his massive electric blast.

But there are two mini-drones left, miraculously unscathed. I watch in amazement as they zip towards Sparkplug, their tiny rotors whirring with determination. It’s like watching a pair of hummingbirds taking on a grizzly bear.

“What the hell is she doing?” Jordan mutters, their voice equal parts awe and confusion.

I shake my head, my eyes never leaving the drones. “Buying us time.”

And it works. Sparkplug is so focused on the drones, swatting at them with crackling fingers, that he doesn’t even notice us regrouping. Sundial limps over to join us, her face pale and drawn with pain. Spindle helps support Compass and Moonshot, who are both unsteady on their feet.

I turn to Derek and Sandman, my heart hammering in my chest. “We need to get Derek out of here,” I say, my voice low and urgent. “If he wakes up fully…”

Sandman nods, his face grim. “I know. But we can’t just leave. Not with Sparkplug still standing. And not without her.”

I bite my lip, torn between the need to protect my friends and the desire to finish this fight. But before I can make a decision, a sizzling sound draws my attention back to Sparkplug.

He stands there, electricity arcing off his body like a Tesla coil, the mini-drones nothing more than smoking husks at his feet. His eyes are wild, his face contorted with rage. He looks at Miss Mayfly, then to Sundial, and finally, to the rest of us, surrounding him.

“You think you’ve won?” he snarls, his voice crackling with barely contained fury. “You think you can take me down? I’m fucking invincible.”

He takes a step towards Miss Mayfly, his movements slow and deliberate. She tries to back away, but he’s too fast. He grabs her by the ponytail, hoisting her up like a rag doll. She cries out in pain, her hands scrabbling uselessly at his grip.

“Let her go!” I shout, taking a step forward. But Sparkplug just laughs, a harsh, grating sound that sends shivers down my spine.

“Not a chance, girls,” he says, his eyes locking with mine. “Here’s how it’s going to go. I’m going to reclaim whatever of my product that I can from this little horrorshow. Then, I’m going to get into my car and drive away. And you won’t stop me. If you do, well…”

He gives Miss Mayfly’s hair a sharp tug, eliciting another cry of pain. “Let’s just say your little friend here will be in for a real shock.”

I can tell from the smug grin on his face that he thinks he’s being hilarious – baring every tooth, ear-to-shit-eating-ear, a chimpanzee grimacing before it kills someone. I grit my teeth, my mind racing. We can’t let him leave, not with Squeal, not with the drugs. But we can’t risk Miss Mayfly’s life either. I look at her, trying to gauge her condition. The lenses of her gas mask are cracked, revealing a sliver of skin and a pair of wide, terrified eyes.

Eyes that I recognize. From somewhere. But where?

I feel a surge of panic as I watch Sparkplug drag Miss Mayfly towards Squeal, his hand, his body, still crackling with electricity. He’s moving slowly, deliberately, like a predator savoring the fear of his prey. I wrack my brain, trying to come up with a plan, any plan, to stop him.

“He’s running out of juice,” Spindle mutters beside me, his voice strained. “Look at the way his power’s flickering. He’s got maybe a minute, tops, before he’s drained. He’s been running steady for the past, like, four minutes.”

Has that really been only four minutes? It feels like it’s been forever. An eternity of combat. I nod, my eyes never leaving Sparkplug. Spindle’s right. The arcs of electricity around Sparkplug’s body are growing weaker, more erratic. Thinner. Less bright. But even a single spark could be deadly at this range, especially with Miss Mayfly in his grasp.

“We can’t risk it,” I say, my voice tight. “We can’t gamble with her life.”

Sparkplug reaches Squeal’s prone form and kicks him viciously in the dick, eliciting a high-pitched yelp of pain. He reaches down and rummages through Squeal’s pockets, pulling out a handful of little green pills, arranged in neat, tidy baggies. He shoves them into his own coat. “Good boy,” he says, only responded to with Squeal’s pained moaning through Spindle’s impromptu gag.

“You kids have no idea what you’ve stumbled into,” Sparkplug says, his voice dripping with condescension. “This is the adult world, little ones. A place so far beyond your ken, you can’t even begin to comprehend it. Go home. Go play… sports. Don’t interfere in the affairs of gods like us.”

He continues dragging Miss Mayfly towards his car, a sleek black Mercedes Benz sitting in front of the warehouse, having been idling the entire time. I can hear her whimpering in pain, her feet scrabbling uselessly against the ground.

“Let her go, Sparkplug,” I call out, my voice echoing in the sudden silence. “It’s over. You’ve lost.”

Sparkplug just laughs, a harsh, grating sound that sets my teeth on edge. “Lost? You don’t even know what winning looks like. I’m getting away scot free, my least trustworthy lieutenant is about to get a lesson in loyalty, and I got to humiliate some turd-eating children. This looks like a victory to me.”

He reaches Squeal’s car – a junker, a total piece of shit – and places his hand on the door handle. There’s a bright flash of electricity, and the car’s alarm starts blaring, the headlights flashing erratically. Sparkplug grins, a cruel, triumphant expression. He tenses his knuckles, and the car clunks, totally dead. Shorting out the battery just to be an asshole. “You see? I always have an ace up my sleeve. Now, be good little children and stay put while I make my exit.”

He yanks open the door of his own car, the back seat door, and starts to shove Miss Mayfly inside. But before he can, there’s a click, loud and unmistakable in the sudden quiet.

I whirl around, my heart in my throat. Jordan stands atop a stack of junk machines, the pile extended upwards by their power for a better vantage point – and, presumably, to keep out of Sparkplug’s range. They have a gun aimed directly at Sparkplug, their hands steady and unwavering, the discarded gun from earlier. It’s almost poetic.

“Let her go,” Jordan says, their voice distorted by the helmet’s voice changer. “Or I’ll put a bullet right between your eyes.”

Sparkplug freezes, his hand still tangled in Miss Mayfly’s hair. But if he could fry Jordan from this distance, he would’ve. So… clearly not. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his voice. “You might hit the girl.”

Jordan tilts their head, the gesture almost casual. “I don’t give a shit,” they say, their voice cold and flat, filtered into a shimmering reveberation by the voice changer in their helmet. “Do I look like a good guy? I’ll shoot Bloodhound in the foot if it lets you know I mean business. I have no loyalty to this girl, and taking you off the streets will do more good for the world than killing a teenager with no major connections in their life. No career. No family. Frankly, it’d be a mercy.”

For a long, tense moment, nobody moves. I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my ears. Will Sparkplug call Jordan’s bluff? Will Jordan actually shoot?

But then, miraculously, Sparkplug releases his grip on Miss Mayfly’s hair. He shoves her away from him, sending her sprawling to the ground in a heap. She groans and whimpers in pain, curling up into a small, fetal ball. I can hear, just barely, Jordan’s “Good,”, emphasized with a second syllable, a real overpronunciation on the ‘d’.

“Fine,” he spits, his voice filled with venom. “Keep the little bitch. I’ll be on my merry way now. If you follow, I will explode you with lightning bolts until all the water boils out of your cells.”

He slides into his car and slams the door, the engine roaring to life. The tires squeal as he peels out of the warehouse, leaving a trail of burnt rubber in his wake. And he doesn’t even have a license plate.

I rush to Miss Mayfly’s side, my heart in my throat. She’s lying facedown on the ground, her body twitching and convulsing from the electricity still coursing through her. I roll her over gently, cradling her head in my lap.

Her gas mask is shattered, the lenses nothing more than jagged shards. I pull her into my lap, and the magnetism becomes clear. More than the pain of, well, pain, there’s a pain of something else shining through her eyes. The pain of discovery. Of fear.

The pain of knowing that I know. And knowing that she fucked up.

The pain of being Kaitlyn Smith, my best friend.

“Are you alright?” I ask, my voice cracking. I try not to reveal anything important. Like her name. Or the fact that I know her.

“First aid,” Kate wheezes, giving me a weak thumbs up. “I’ll be fine,”

I squeeze her close and let out a scream.

---

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