84

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The plan had seemed simple, in theory. Get the fob, get into the building, sniff out Sparkplug. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, right? Well, as it turned out, simple didn’t always mean easy. Especially when you were dealing with a bunch of teenagers trying to take down a drug-dealing thunder god.

First up had been Jordan’s grand plan to pickpocket a key fob from some unsuspecting Dorchester resident. I mean, it had sounded like a foolproof idea, right? Just bump into someone, slip your hand into their pocket, and boom, you’ve got yourself a ticket to the top-secret villain lair. Except, as it turned out, pickpocketing was a lot harder than it looked in the movies.

Jordan had spent hours practicing their technique, using Spindle as a reluctant guinea pig. They had tried every trick in the book – the “accidental” bump, the distraction method, even the old “pretend to tie your shoelace while swiping the goods” routine. But every time, Spindle had caught them in the act, giving them a reproachful look that said, “Really, Jordan? Is this what we’ve come to?”

After a few days of fruitless attempts, Jordan had finally managed to snag a fob from a distracted businessman outside the Dorchester. They had come strutting back to the hideout, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Piece of cake,” they had declared, tossing the fob in the air and catching it with a flourish.

But their victory had been short-lived. When they had tried to clone the fob, they discovered that it had some sort of built-in security feature that prevented duplication. Apparently, the Dorchester took their residents’ privacy very seriously. Who knew? We had needed to spend another couple of hundred dollars getting an actual RFID cloner instead of just trying to plug it into a card reader on Jordan’s computer. Or something like that. I hadn’t really understood what was going on, but I had let it move over and through me regardless.

Finally, after what had felt like an eternity, they cracked the code. The fob was cloned, and we were one step closer to our goal. But the victory had felt hollow, somehow. Like we were just delaying the inevitable.

Next up had been Derek’s turn to shine. With the cloned fob in hand, he had infiltrated the Dorchester, ready to put his super sniffer to the test. But as it turned out, tracking down one specific scent in a building full of people was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. A really smelly, sweaty haystack.

Derek had wandered the halls, his nose twitching like a bloodhound on the hunt. He had gotten a few odd looks from the residents, but he just flashed them a charming smile and kept on sniffing. It was kind of impressive, actually, the way he could turn on the charm when he needed to. I had assumed he was just 100% curmudgeon 24/7 but he can at least turn it off long enough to evade suspicion, it seemed. Once you were in the building enough days in a row, people just started assuming you lived there. Even if he couldn’t wear his leather coat inside.

But even with his enhanced senses, Derek struggled to pinpoint Sparkplug’s exact location. The building was a maze of scents and sounds, and every time he thought he had a lead, it turned out to be a false alarm. A particularly pungent trash chute, a chain-smoker’s apartment, even a room where someone was clearly cooking with an obscene amount of garlic. But no Sparkplug.

It turned out, having to sniff every hallway of 32 floors without being noticed was kind of hard.

As the days dragged on, we had started to get restless. We knew we couldn’t risk intercepting any of the Jump or Fly shipments leaving Sparkplug’s place. If he got even a whiff of us sniffing around his operation, he’d clam up tighter than Fort Knox. And that was the best-case scenario. Worst case, he’d start involving other criminals, or worse, putting civilians in danger. We had to be smart about this, had to find a way to catch him off guard.

That’s when Jenna came up with the idea of focusing our surveillance efforts on the top floors of the building. It made sense – a guy like Sparkplug, with his fancy car and designer suits, wasn’t going to be slumming it in some middle-floor studio apartment. No, he’d be living it up in the penthouses, the cream of the crop.

So we had adjusted our strategy, sending Derek to scope out the top floors while the rest of us kept watch from a distance. We took turns staking out the building, hiding in plain sight as delivery drivers, maintenance workers, even a lost tourist or two. Anything to get a closer look without raising suspicions.

And then, finally, we caught a break. Derek picked up a scent, faint but unmistakable, wafting from one of the penthouse units – 3028. The smell of ozone and burnt rubber, the telltale sign of Sparkplug’s powers. That, plus his actual BO. Which, according to Derek, also smelled like ozone.

We had our target. We had our plan. Now all we needed was a moment.

We spent the next few days going over every detail, mapping out entry points and escape routes, rehearsing every possible scenario. Jordan and Spindle worked on modifying Kate’s glove according to my ideas, trying to bring my hair-brained scheme to reality. Tasha and Marcus pored over the building’s schematics, looking for any weaknesses we could exploit. Even Kate pitched in, using her Mayfly gear to do some last-minute recon with what remained of the drone fleet, and buying me a hammer for breaking windows with. How thoughtful.

As for me, I trained. I pushed myself harder than I ever had before, running drills and sparring with anyone who would stand still long enough. I knew I’d only have one shot at this, one chance to take Sparkplug down before he could light me up like a Christmas tree. I had to be ready, had to be at the top of my game.

Finally, the big day arrived. We gathered at the hideout one last time, going over the plan and checking our gear. There was a tension in the air, a sense of anticipation mixed with dread. We all knew the risks, Derek and I more than anyone else. But we also knew that we had to try, had to do something to stop Sparkplug, to cut off the rotten vein he was feeding into our city.

As the sun began to set on May 30th, we made our way to the Dorchester, each of us taking up our positions. Derek and I headed for the roof, while the others scattered around the perimeter, ready to provide backup if needed.

And that’s how I found myself slowly ascending the side of the building, draped in a blanket with Moonshot by my side, a drone buzzing above us to provide cover. It was a bizarre sight, I was sure, but it was the only way to get close without being spotted. Well. I’m sure some people will see a drone carrying a blanket and notice it, but that’s not exactly uncommon these days. I felt like a baby kangaroo. What are those called, Joeys?

As we rose higher and higher, the city sprawling out beneath us like a glittering jewel, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. It was like all the fears and doubts that had been plaguing me just melted away, replaced by a steely resolve. I glanced over at Moonshot, saw the determination in her eyes, and knew that whatever happened, we would face it together.

We reached the roof just as the last rays of sunlight were fading from the sky, the shadows lengthening and stretching across the concrete. I checked my watch – 8:20 PM, 2 minutes to sundown. 22 minutes until Derek would transform, until all hell would break loose.

I took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline beginning to pump through my veins. This was it. The moment of truth. The point of no return.

I looked out over the city, at the millions of lives that hung in the balance, and I knew that failure was not an option. We had to succeed, had to stop Sparkplug before he could do any more damage.

And with that thought burning in my mind, I turned to Moonshot and nodded. I could hear Derek’s voice through my earpiece, a low rumble that was almost drowned out by the pounding of my own heart. He was at Sparkplug’s door, ready to set the plan in motion. Less than two minutes to show time.

Back in the present.

“Delivery for Mr. Ellison,” Derek says, his tone carefully neutral. As un-gruff as he could make it. “I need a signature.”

There was a moment of silence, then a gruff, familiar voice replies, “I didn’t order anything. You’ve got the wrong apartment.”

“Are you sure? It says right here, Unit 3028, Mr. Ellison. I can’t leave until you sign for it.”

I hold my breath, waiting for Sparkplug’s response. This was the moment of truth, the point where our carefully laid plan could either succeed or blow up in our faces.

“I said, you’ve got the wrong apartment,” Sparkplug growls, his voice laced with irritation. “Now beat it before I call the cops.”

I hear Derek take a deep breath and check Moonshot’s watch. Then, I glance at the sky. The sun lowers further and further down, almost invisible below the horizon. Beside me, Moonshot hefts her hammer, the nail welded – glued? – welded? to the end glinting in the fading light. She begins to tap at the window, each strike precise and measured, weakening the glass without shattering it. I look into his apartment, its many rooms, its chambers – a living room, a bedroom, some other sections I can’t see, and for a moment, notice some small grey dots along the wall. Weird aesthetic choice.

“Hey! What sort of funny business are you trying to pull?” Derek shouts, giving Moonshot just enough room to swing just a little harder. She swings backwards and hits a corner, and I can feel her weight shifting – gravity pulling her sideways, giving at least 9.8 m/s^2 extra force to her swing. Probably more. With a quiet tink, cracks spiderweb across the glass from the corner. She lowers herself a bit, aims again, and cracks the opposite corner. The shards connect.

My heart is racing now, adrenaline surging through my veins like liquid fire. I can feel every nerve in my body tingling with anticipation, every muscle tensed and ready for action.

I’m… Happy.

I’m happy.

And then, with a final, gravity-enhanced swing, Moonshot shatters the window and throws me into the room.

I brace myself as I leap through the now-open window, the air pressure differential slamming into me like a physical force. Shards of glass bounce off my costume, tinkling to the floor like a discordant symphony. I hit the ground rolling, the impact jarring my bones, but I push through the pain, springing to my feet in one fluid motion, grabbing hold of the carpet to drag myself up before the gust can shove me out of a now-open window.

Sparkplug spins around, his eyes wide with shock and fury, his hands already crackling with electricity. His bathrobe stands on end, every fuzzy piece of thread charged with static electricity, and before I can even move, the air fills with a loud CRACK like snapping fingers, something on his coffee table jostling as he bumps into it and discharges.

Then, he gets angry.

I narrowly avoid a bolt of lightning that scorches a small metal stud in the wall behind me, the heat of it singing through the air like an opera singer, the noise deafening. I bet ten bucks the neighbors heard this one. I notice the rest of the apartment, with metal studs spread throughout the walls like a deranged grid, like a piercer piercing a house. He’s modified his own apartment to make it easier for him to aim. Good for him. He expected a home invasion.

Gritting my teeth, I close the distance between us, my fists raised and ready to strike. Static electricity prickles along my skin, raising goosebumps beneath my costume. The air tastes of ozone and danger, sharp and biting on my tongue.

A deafening roar fills the condo as Derek – Fenrir, he’d insisted – bursts through the doorway, a terrifying sight in his werewolf form. He’s all teeth and claws and rippling muscle, a predator unleashed. The transformation is seamless, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shift from man to beast, his clothes… Actually, I don’t know where they went. He’s got pants on, thank G-d.

Sparkplug turns to face the new threat, fear and disbelief warring in his eyes as he takes in the hulking creature before him. It’s the look of a man who’s suddenly realized he may be in over his head, a look I know all too well. I recognize it, and, for a moment, feel a sort of kinship.

Fenrir lunges at Sparkplug, a blur of fur and fury, his powerful jaws snapping mere inches from the villain’s face. The rank odor of singed fur and burnt flesh mingles with the tang of ozone, a nauseating cocktail that makes my stomach churn. Sparkplug makes contact with him, and the air is filled with a symphony of crackles like a live wire going off, repeated static jolts ripping through his fur and sending him squealing towards the wall.

I seize the opportunity, darting forward and aiming a punch at Sparkplug’s ribs. The impact is jarring, the crunch of bone beneath my fist both satisfying and sickening. This isn’t a fight to hog tie him or handcuff him – although I have handcuffs, just in case – I just need one good shot with the doohickey and it’s as good as over.

But Sparkplug is far from beaten. He staggers back, his attention divided between Fenrir and me, lashing out with whips of electricity that sizzle through the air, over our heads. We’re saved by the fact that, even with his modified apartment, electricity isn’t a ruly animal. It wants to touch the metal much more than it wants to touch us. I was told by Diane, plenty of times, that Professor Franklin never used his lightning bolts for that reason. The taser touch was enough. The electricity screams over our head like a tesla coil.

“Get out! Get out!” Sparkplug screams as he thrusts his hand forward, a blinding bolt of electricity surging towards Fenrir. The air crackles with energy, the hair on my arms standing on end. For a moment, the world is nothing but light and sound, a cacophony of raw power. Fenrir’s howl of agony pierces through the din, his body convulsing as the electricity courses through him. I can see the pain etched into every line of his face, his fur standing on end like he’s been rubbing balloons over it. I don’t exactly know what causes his electricity to burn versus electrocute, but I don’t exactly want to get hit by it enough to find out.

He stumbles back, his limbs jerking uncontrollably, a puppet with its strings cut. He collapses against the wall, his chest heaving, his eyes rolling back in his head. For a moment, I fear the worst, but then I see the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He’s alive, but out of the fight, at least for now.

Sparkplug turns his attention back to me, a sinister grin spreading across his face. There’s a manic gleam in his eyes, a hunger for violence that sends a chill down my spine. His fingers flex, sparks dancing between them, ready to unleash another blast of electricity. “I could turn you into burnt dog and sell you at the wet market… but I think I’d rather see you spasm.”

I’m facing Sparkplug alone, a man who can fry me with a touch, who’s turned his own home into a weapon. The weight of the gadget on my hand is a reminder of what’s at stake, a promise and a curse all rolled into one. It’s worth more than I am. I can’t let him melt it.

“Hit me with your best shot, baldie,” I taunt. Fear claws at my throat, threatening to overwhelm me, but I force it down. I can’t afford to hesitate, can’t afford to let the doubts creep in.

“There’s so many ways, did you know?” He asks, and I feel all the hair on my body threatening to leave my follicles. It’s only then do I tune back into my earpiece, moments before, with a loud squeal of dying electronics, it snaps dead. All the dust and debris is floating unnaturally towards him, clinging to his bathrobe like cat hair, swirling in his current before coming to rest on his hands. “I could turn up the amperage and stop your heart. I could turn up the voltage and turn you into slag. Or maybe I can do both and hit you with a lightning bolt, and you’ll explode like a pine tree! I gave you your opportunity to run, but you had to stick your nose back in my business, didn’t you? Dumb bitch.”

“Does the Fly make you monologue too, or is that au naturale?” I bite back, cracking my knuckles. I squeeze one hand tight, and the teeth come out. “Also, did it make your face look like that, or was that the Botox?”

“MY SKIN IS FINE!” He screams, very rapidly, very suddenly, and I know to duck as soon as the first syllable comes out. Or maybe even a second beforehand. The air turns white and all the sound vanishes again as a bolt of lightning sails over my head. I look towards the busted window and see nary a Moonshot to be found. I look around towards the now-wrecked living room, small smolders forming, scorch marks across the fine leather couch. And I look at Fenrir, watching him rise up behind Sparkplug with a feral grin. With all of his electricity discharged, the air feels… less prickly.

I pray to G-d that he needs to reload, because I think if he can sustain a current like that, he might pop me like a pine tree.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

There’s a werewolf in the room, too.

A snarl echoes through the condo as Fenrir leaps back into the fray, his eyes blazing with fury. Despite the pain, despite the lingering effects of the electricity coursing through his body, he’s not ready to give up. Not yet. Not when there’s still a chance to take this bastard down.

Sparkplug cries out in pain as Fenrir’s claws rake across his arm, leaving deep, bloody gashes. The wounds are nasty, but not nearly as devastating as they could be. Sparkplug’s body crackles with electricity, his face contorted in rage. The air around him hums with power, the static discharge making everyone’s hair stand on end, except Sparkplug’s, because he is lacking in that attribute.

Fenrir’s body convulses as his instincts take over and send him skidding backwards, the static discharges not enough to harm, but enough to hurt. Enough to scare. He crashes into the wall, slumping to the floor in a heap of fur and muscle. But unlike last time, he’s mad. He gets back up, teeth locked, and dives.

While Fenrir keeps Sparkplug busy, I crawl towards the bathroom, my mind racing. I need a plan, need something to give us an edge. The gadget on my hand feels heavier with each passing second – I just need a second to use it without him melting it to slag. If he melts it, this is all for nothing, and we have to do this the hard way – via concussion.

As I pass the shattered remnants of the front door, I catch a glimpse of movement in the hallway. Jordan and Sandman, hauling ass down the corridor. I don’t know if they’re running towards the fight or away from it, but I know one thing for sure: if the plan’s gone sideways, it’s time to evacuate the civilians. The last thing we need is Sparkplug lighting the whole place up like a Christmas tree. I see a sleeping man hauling ass after them – some dude in sweats but his eyes totally shut. Yeah. Good idea.

I make it to the bathroom, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Through my blood sense, I can see Fenrir and Sparkplug still locked in combat, a brutal dance of claws and electricity. Sparkplug has something in his hand, the shape of it indistinct but unmistakable from the way the veins in his hand tense. A knife. Well, it could be a baton, or something else like that, but I know my scumbag criminals. It’s a knife.

And then it hits me. Sparkplug’s weakness. If he’s forced to keep discharging to maintain a defensive stance, he can’t pull out any of his big moves. Can’t save up the juice for a real heavy hitter. And with Fenrir on the offensive, he doesn’t have a choice. It’s discharge or die. He needs to put Fenrir back on the defensive so that he can regroup and charge his electricity back up.

And he can’t. So I have time.

I consider my options, my eyes darting around the bathroom. I could smash the faucet off, try to douse Sparkplug with a blast of water. But I don’t know if I have the arm strength for that. My muscles are still twitching and my nerves still feel like I’m surrounded by a nice, pleasant coat of needles. It’s pretty bad.

From the living room, I hear Fenrir whining and squealing in pain, the sound making my blood run cold. Something’s happening out there, something bad. I can sense new gashes opening up on Fenrir’s body, the blood flowing freely. Sparkplug’s knife, now electrified, or maybe heated up with the current, carving into him like a twisted scalpel.

I don’t have time to think. I grab the toothbrush cup from the sink, heavy and porcelain, filling it with water. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got on short notice. I scramble back into the living room, my heart pounding in my chest.

Sparkplug and Fenrir are a tangle of limbs and fury, the air crackling with electricity and the stench of blood. I don’t hesitate. I hurl the cup at Sparkplug, the water arcing through the air like a liquid missile. The porcelain hits him in the chest, and the water splatters up into his face, followed shortly afterwards by the toothbrushes.

For a split second, his guard is down, his focus broken. And that’s all Fenrir needs.

With a roar of triumph, Fenrir swats Sparkplug with a massive paw, the force of the blow sending him flying into the next room. The wall buckles and cracks as he bounces off like a pinball, into the space where a sliding door sits neatly recessed into the wall, drywall raining down in a shower of dust and debris. Sparkplug hits the ground hard, his bathrobe ripped open in several places, revealing fresh blood. He takes his knife, lets out a loud scream of rage and desperation, and slams it sideways into the most concerning cut, the heat quickly cauterizing the wounds shut.

I almost want to look away. I can see it in his eyes, the manic gleam of a man who’s got nothing left to lose. He staggers to his feet, his body wracked with pain but his spirit unbroken. And then he smiles, a cruel, twisted thing that makes my blood run cold.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he rasps, his voice like gravel. “I’ve taken shits that hit harder than that.”

I glance at Fenrir, at the blood matting his fur and the pain etched into every line of his face. We’re running out of time, running out of options. If we don’t end this soon, we might not make it out of here at all. The air is already getting scratchy again, and I don’t really know if the water actually did anything. But we can’t give up. Not now. Not when we’re so close. We’ve come too far, sacrificed too much to let this bastard win.

I run.

Fenrir runs.

Sparkplug makes a last-second decision, waving his knife around like a magic wand. The tip of it glows, for a second, like something that’s not hot so much as it’s burning the air around it. Which I guess is a pretty accurate depiction of lightning.

I begin to panic, because, as much as I’d like to say and believe I’m doing fine, I’ve never before felt so debilitated by sheer, raw pain, and I think if I got hit by a lightning bolt on top of that I might actually bite it. For a second, I think about Jamila, and get scared. I get so scared.

I clench my teeth.

The arc sails through the air towards Fenrir. It rips through his fur and I’m not sure if it comes out, but it snaps like a thousand twigs breaking, and Fenrir goes flying backwards into the couch.

Wrong choice.

Sparkplug’s eyes widen as he realizes his mistake, but it’s too late. While he tries to bring his knife to bear towards me, and recharge what electricity he has access to, I’m already moving, my body reacting on pure instinct. I scramble across the carpet, across the tile, forward, forward, forward, my heart pounding in my ears, my focus narrowed to a single point. To the exposed skin of his chest, the vulnerability he’s unwittingly revealed in his gauche bathrobe.

I press my palm against his flesh, the contact sending a jolt through my arm. For a moment, I’m frozen, my muscles locked in place as the electricity flows through me. It’s a sensation unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, a burning, searing pain that threatens to consume me whole.

But I don’t let it. I grit my teeth, my jaw clenched so tight I fear my teeth might shatter. They lock in with each other, just like Derek’s. With my free hand, I slap my forearm, the impact jarring the gadget to life. There’s a momentary hiss, a feeling of something cold and sharp pressing against my skin, and then a THUNK as the injector goes off, leaving two very small puncture wounds in Sparkplug’s chest.

One puts in the Xylazine. The other puts in the Ketamine. My entire body clenches up just enough to finish delivering the dose, and then I rack my free hand forward, pulling the small lever that ejects both syringes out the side like spent bullet casings.

Sparkplug’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open in a silent scream. He staggers back, his hand clutching at his chest, the knife falling from his grasp. I can see the realization dawning on his face, the horror and disbelief as he comprehends what’s just happened.

“What did you do?” he gasps, his voice a ragged whisper. “What the fuck did you just do to me? What did you do to me?”

I wrench myself free – or maybe he wrenches himself away from me – and the pain stops. I fumble with my belt, feeling extremely thankful that he didn’t hit me with anything high voltage enough to break my backup syringes. “What’s the matter, Baldie? I thought you liked drugs.”

Sparkplug heaves desperately, punching himself in the stomach like it’s going to make him vomit up an intramuscular injection. His knife sits on the floor, discarded, forgotten. Sparkplug’s face screws up as he fights for consciousness, like grabbing hold of smoke. Electricity arcs off of him, towards the studs in the wall, and I see his bedroom behind him, and, for a moment, another bathroom attached.

But Sparkplug’s not going down without a fight. Even as the drug courses through his system, he lunges at me, his hands outstretched like claws. His skin crackles against my jaw as his nails reach out for me, but my padded knee comes up to meet him in the stomach and I push him away. With one last spiteful gasp, he opens his mouth, and the world goes dark again. For a split second, I think I’ve been blinded by a flash of electricity, but really, it’s just the pain, my eyelids clenching shut against my will.

I stumble back, my vision blurring, my head spinning. Sparkplug presses his advantage, his fists raining down on me in a flurry of blows. Each impact feels like a sledgehammer, driving the air from my lungs and the strength from my limbs.

But it’s a losing battle, and Sparkplug knows it. I can feel it in each punch, the dawning realization that he’s been beaten. That all his power, all his fury, wasn’t enough to save him. His movements grow weaker, his blows more desperate, until finally, he collapses to the ground, his chest heaving, his eyes fluttering closed.

I slump to the ground and try to catch my breath, my entire body shaking. I try to collect myself – I’ve definitely been burnt in several spots, my muscles keep twitching and squeezing without me asking them to, my heart feels extra weird, and all that combined is making it extremely difficult to load the second dose of tranquilizers. Fenrir had a little gadget built for him just in case, somehow, it didn’t get fried, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the receiver for it is, indeed, fried.

I turn my head towards the looming shadow.

Fenrir stands over me, his fur matted with blood, his sides rising and falling with each ragged breath. For a moment, he looks as though he might finish it, might tear out Sparkplug’s throat and end it once and for all. Or maybe mine. I trust Derek, which is a sentence I never thought I’d have ever said when I first met him, but I don’t trust his werewolf side, and I strongly doubt it trusts me either.

Either way, it’s definitely eaten more than his fair share of blows. Riddled with gashes and cuts, the fur singed right off in places, exposing the patchy, strained, red skin beneath. His entire body is twitching, too, but far more violently than mine, claws unintentionally digging into his paws enough to rip them, just a bit. Fenrir opens his mouth to breathe, and pant, some of his teeth visibly cracked and chipped from clenching so hard.

“Hey there, buddy, easy now…” I murmur, both hands up, trying to make myself look as harmless as possible. Derek impressed upon us one thing above all – the unpredictability and the violence of his other side, and I can see it in his pupilless eyes. There’s nothing there but animal thoughts and murder and fighting. And winning.

Fenrir lets out a gruff, thick growl in response. I watch his throat vibrate with the force of the noise. I put my hand against his chest.

“See? Nothing wrong,” I mumble, barely loud enough to be heard. I bring my other hand back up to my right wrist, and deploy the mechanism. “Just your usual bedtime meds. Just like normal.”

THUNK.

Fenrir stumbles a step back or two, and I stumble back four or five. I expect some kind of frenzy, a burst of violent motion left over just for me, but it never comes. He just gets sleepier, and sleepier, and sleepier, until he passes out.

That’s a good idea, actually.

I think I’ll do that now, too.

---

I don’t remember much after I passed out. It’s all a blur of disjointed images and sensations, like a half-remembered dream slipping away in the morning light. I vaguely recall strong arms lifting me, the feeling of weightlessness as I was carried out of Sparkplug’s condo. Moonshot, I think, using her gravity manipulation to make me lighter than air. Or making herself like 2x lighter than air so my weight is accounted for. Potato, potato.

There were voices, too, urgent and hushed, filtering through the haze of exhaustion and pain. I caught snippets of conversation, fragments of words that drifted in and out of my consciousness.

“…got to get them out of here…”

“…police will be here any minute…”

“…Sandman, help me with Fenrir…”

I don’t know how long I drifted in that state, halfway between waking and dreaming. It could have been minutes, or hours, or days. Time seemed to lose all meaning, slipping away like sand through an hourglass. A familiar place, full of flowers and concrete and Diane. Well, with a single Diane. But full of flowers nonetheless.

Eventually, I started to surface, like a diver kicking up towards the light. The first thing I became aware of was the softness beneath me, the feeling of a mattress and pillows cradling my battered body. I was lying in a bed, somewhere safe and warm and quiet. I cracked my eyes open, wincing at the brightness that assaulted my vision. It took a moment for the world to come into focus, for the blurry shapes and colors to resolve into something recognizable.

I was in one of the spare rooms at the Tacony Music Hall. The room was small and spartan, with bare walls and a single window that let in a slice of pale morning light. Someone had removed my costume and dressed me in a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, the fabric gentle against my bruised skin.

As I blinked away the last vestiges of sleep, the events of the previous night came rushing back to me. The fight with Sparkplug, the crackle of electricity in the air, the feeling of the injector glove going off like a shotgun. The way his eyes had rolled back in his head as the drugs took hold, the boneless way he’d collapsed to the ground.

I sat up gingerly, my muscles protesting at the movement. Every inch of my body felt like it had been pummeled with a meat tenderizer, but I was alive. We all were, thanks to the efforts of my incredible team. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, taking a moment to steady myself before standing up. My bare feet padded softly against the old, decrepit, worn wooden floorboards as I made my way out of the room and down the hallway.

As I approached the main living area, I heard the murmur of voices and the clink of plastic. The smell of pizza wafted through the air, making my stomach growl with sudden hunger. I stepped into the room, blinking in the brighter light. The scene that greeted me was one of celebration and relief, my friends and allies gathered around the mismatched furniture, eating pizza and swapping stories of the night’s events.

Jordan was the first to spot me, their face breaking into a grin as they bounded over to wrap me in a careful hug. “She lives!” they declared dramatically, spinning me around in a circle. “The conquering hero returns!”

I couldn’t help but laugh, even as my ribs protested at the sudden movement. “Easy there, tiger,” I said, extricating myself from their embrace. “I’m not exactly in fighting shape at the moment.”

“Pfft, please,” Spindle scoffed from his perch on the arm of the couch. “You took down Sparkplug singlehandedly. I think you’ve earned a little R&R.”

“It was hardly singlehanded,” I protested, making my way over to the pizza boxes and snagging a slice of pepperoni. “We all played our parts. Moonshot got me in there, Fenrir softened him up, and Jordan and Sandman made sure no civilians were caught in the crossfire. Plus, we couldn’t have pulled the plan off without Team Mayfly’s gadgets. It was a group effort.”

“Speaking of Fenrir,” Tasha chimed in, “has anyone heard from Derek? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Moonshot assured her. “Just sleeping it off back at his place. We got him into the cage before he could do any more damage.”

I felt a pang of guilt at that. Derek had put himself on the line for us, had let the beast within him run wild in order to give us a fighting chance. I made a mental note to check in on him later, to make sure he was coping with the aftermath.

“And Sparkplug?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Jordan’s grin turned positively feral. “Delivered to the cops, tied up with a neat little bow. They were a bit confused, to say the least, but they’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Sparkplug’s going away for a long time.”

I felt a sense of deep satisfaction at that. We’d done it. We’d taken down a major player in the city’s drug trade, had struck a blow against the forces that sought to corrupt and destroy Philly, and, lest I forget, avenged Elias. I didn’t forget!

At least, I assumed the “old lightning guy” is the same as Sparkplug.

But even as I basked in the glow of victory, I knew that our work was far from over. Sparkplug was just one head of the hydra, one tentacle of the vast criminal underworld that lay beneath Philly’s surface. There would always be more battles to fight, more wrongs to right.

But for now, in this moment, surrounded by the people I loved and trusted most in the world, I allowed myself to simply be. To enjoy the warmth of friendship and the sweet taste of hard-earned triumph.

For once, a victory, delightfully un-pyrrhic.

And then I went back to sleep.

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