The streets are a mess, blood and debris everywhere. Sirens wailing, people screaming. It’s like a warzone out here, and we’re standing right in the middle of it. I’m stuffing a piece of my torn costume up my nose, trying to stop the bleeding. Burst a vessel stealing all that sound earlier. Hurts like hell, but no time to worry about that now.
Pumice emerges from the smoke like some kinda horror movie monster, cracking his knuckles and grinning like he just won the lottery. “Well, well, if it isn’t the traitor and the wannabe hero,” he sneers, his eyes fixed on Spindle. “Guess it’s my lucky day. I get to teach both of you a lesson.”
I glance at Spindle, and he looks back at me. We don’t need words to know what we gotta do. “Hey, Pumice!” I call out, trying to draw his attention. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to crash a party without an invitation?”
Pumice snorts. “Invitation? I’m here to shut this party down, permanently.”
I focus, reaching out with my power, and snatch the sound of a nearby car alarm. Then, with a flick of my mind, I play it back behind Pumice, hoping to spook him.
But Pumice just laughs. “You think a little noise is gonna scare me? I’m made of stone, nigga. And I got bigger fish to fry.” He turns, scanning the street, and I realize with a sinking feeling what he’s looking for. “Body count competition. No time for car alarms.”
Hell no. Not on my watch.
I concentrate, gathering up all the crowd noise I stole earlier. It’s a jumble of screams, cries, and panicked shouts. I compress it, shaping it into a single, focused burst of sound, like pulling drawstrings together in my mind. It feels like tugging on a cat by the tail. Then, I unleash it right in Pumice’s ears.
The effect is immediate. Pumice staggers, clutching at his head. It’s loud, painfully so, and for a moment, I think it might actually take him down.
But he recovers quickly, shaking his head like a dog shedding water. “That all you got?” he growls, turning back to us.
Spindle moves, his body contorting in ways that make my joints ache just looking at him. He’s on Pumice in a heartbeat, wrapping his long limbs around the stone man’s arm, locking it in place.
For a second, it looks like it might work. But Pumice just reaches over with his free hand, grabs Spindle by the scruff of his neck, and tosses him away like a rag doll.
I wince as Spindle slams into a parked car, but the flexible freak just twists in midair, absorbing the impact. He’s back on his feet in an instant, ready for more.
“Hey, rock head!” I shout, trying to buy Spindle some time. “Bet you can’t hit me with those slow-ass swings of yours!”
Pumice snarls, his attention snapping back to me. “Oh, I’m gonna enjoy shutting your mouth, you little pest.”
And that’s my cue. I charge in, baton out, aiming for Pumice’s knees and elbows. I’m hoping to find a weak spot, something to bring this walking statue down.
But it’s like hitting a brick wall. Pumice swings at me, a massive fist whistling through the air. I barely manage to duck under it, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle my hat.
I dart around him, striking at his back, his sides, anywhere I can reach. But it’s like trying to chip away at a mountain with a toothpick. My baton feels like it’s denting itself more than it’s putting any dents in him.
Spindle’s back in the fight, leaping onto Pumice’s back like a deranged monkey. He wraps his arms around the big man’s mouth, squeezing for all he’s worth, cramming his fingers down his throat like a bullimic.
For a moment, it seems to be working. Pumice gags, his stone hands scrabbling at Spindle’s arms. But then he gets a grip, and with a roar, he reaches back, seizes Spindle by the head, and hurls him over his shoulder.
Spindle hits the pavement hard, and I swear I hear something crack. But he’s up again in a second, rolling to his feet with a pained grimace.
“This brother’s tougher than a two-dollar steak,” I mutter, circling around for another pass.
“Yeah, and about as smart as one, too,” Spindle quips back, his voice strained.
“Don’t underestimate him,” I warn. “You don’t know him like I do, newbie.”
We regroup, panting, watching Pumice warily.
I try a few more hit-and-run tactics, using my speed to dart in, land a blow, and then dance away before Pumice can retaliate. But it’s like trying to wear down a glacier with a hair dryer. Spindle’s not having much luck either. His contortionist tricks are keeping him out of Pumice’s grasp, but his strikes seem to be having about as much effect as mine.
“Come on, nigga. I’ll turn your ass into a fucking chopped cheese, just stand still for a sec and I’ll make it quick,” Pumice taunts, cracking his knuckles and rolling his neck until it pops with a sound like cherry bombs going off.
“We need a new plan,” I hiss to Spindle as we circle around Pumice, looking for an opening.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Spindle grunts back, narrowly avoiding another swipe from Pumice’s stone fists.
“I’ve got nothin,” I admit, ducking back from another fist.
“Swing back, nigga! I’ll grate you like parmesan!” Pumice roars, beating his chest like a gorilla. “Pussy bitch.”
“You mouth off to the ladies like this too, or am I special?” I ask, scooting backwards, close to a bollard on the road.
He grabs a chunk of rock from the road and flings it at me hard enough that I can barely see it coming. I raise my arms to cover my face and it bounces off, probably fracturing a bone or two even through my armguards. I grit my teeth. I’m not like Sam.
“You know I keep it special for you, D-dog. Just for you.”
The stench of blood and smoke hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the acrid tang of fear. It’s a familiar scent, one I’ve come to associate with the worst days on the job. And today? It’s shaping up to be a contender for the top spot.
I try a new trick, focusing on Pumice himself. I mark every sound he makes – his heavy footsteps, the grinding of his stone joints, even the rasp of his breath – and steal them all, leaving him in a bubble of eerie silence.
It works, sort of. Pumice’s movements become erratic, his punches wilder. Without the auditory feedback, combined with his already numbed sense of touch, he can’t seem to judge his own strength or aim.
I know you, Joseph. We’re familiar with each other.
“What’s the matter, nigga?” I taunt, my voice sounding strangely flat in the absence of Pumice’s noise. “Feeling a little off-balance?”
Spindle looks at me with a scrunched up face like he just tasted a lemon. “White guilt talk later, man. Priorities” I tell him, and his face unscrunches. This is why I keep that shit on lockdown, damnit.
“Right, sorry,” he mumbles, squaring up behind me.
Pumice snarls, his lips moving, but no sound emerges. It’s like watching a silent movie, except the monster is very, very real.
Spindle seizes the opportunity, contorting around Pumice’s flailing fists. He tries some tai chi bullshit that looks like he’s trying to strike at pressure points, but it’s like pissing in the wind for all the good it does this wildfire. It’s like trying to perform acupuncture on a boulder. Pumice’s skin is just too tough, too dense. Spindle’s knuckles fold up on him like a cartoon character.
And then, disaster. Pumice’s wild swing connects, a boulder of a fist slamming into Spindle’s chest. He goes flying, his body twisting in a way that would make a pretzel wince. He crashes into a nearby tree, his flexible form wrapping around the trunk like a rubber band.
The sound of the impact is sickening, even without Pumice’s audio. I can feel it in my bones, a dull, meaty thud that promises bruises and broken ribs.
“Spindle!” I yell, my voice raw with fear and fury. I charge at Pumice, leaping onto his back like a monkey hopped up on pixie sticks. I wrap my baton around his throat, trying to choke him out.
But it’s like trying to strangle a statue. Pumice’s neck is as unyielding as the rest of him, a pillar of solid rock. He reaches back, his stone fingers scrabbling at my collar. He gets a grip, and suddenly, the world is upside down.
I have a brief, dizzying impression of the sky, the ground, the sky again – and then I’m slammed into the pavement with enough force to rattle my teeth. Stars explode across my vision, and for a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but lie there and gasp like a fish on dry land.
Spindle untangles himself from the tree, his movements pained and slow. But he’s still in the fight, still pushing forward. He limps over to Pumice, grabbing the big man’s arm, trying to hyperextend the elbow. Good man. Rampart’s been training you well. He’d be proud of you.
It’s a good move, one that would snap a normal person’s arm like a twig. But Pumice isn’t normal. He just swings his arm, using Spindle’s own grip against him. Spindle goes flying, a lanky projectile in a fluttering quarter-cape. He smashes into one of the saplings along the road with a sickening crunch, the spry young tree snapping in half and not doing anything besides sending him spinning.
I stagger to my feet, my head ringing like a church bell on Sunday. Spindle limps over to me, his breath coming in short, pained gasps. We exchange a desperate look, a silent conversation in the language of the utterly screwed.
I use the last of my stored noises, just whatever voice clips I have left in the library, to sound like someone talking – not the panicked cries of a crowd. A “Hey, you!” from an unfamiliar face. I play them behind Pumice, a wall of sound that makes him turn, distracted for just a moment.
Spindle and I dive behind a car for cover, the metal cool against my sweat-soaked skin. And that’s when I see it.
A fallen riot cop, his chest torn open by some unseen force. Blood pools around him, a growing sea of crimson that laps at the soles of my boots. Whatever happened to him caused his ribs to come out from the inside, like teeth. I have to wonder if he was one of the guys they fed Jump to or the victim of one. Or maybe someone just did this. Maybe that Elias dude. I have to look away, bile rising in my throat. I hate these guys, with their batons and their tear gas and their casual brutality. But this… no one deserves this.
I reach up with a shaking hand, close the cop’s eyes. They’re already glazing over, staring sightlessly at the smoke-choked sky. I mutter a quick prayer, the words tasting like ashes on my tongue.
Then, I grab his rubber bullet launcher, a sleek, black thing that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie. I mute it with my power, the click of the safety echoing in the sudden silence. I toss it to Spindle.
Spindle nods, his face grim. He understands the plan without a word. He pops up from behind the car, the launcher braced against his shoulder. He fires, and I don’t see nor hear the end result until it hits.
The rubber bullets slam into Pumice, staggering him. Chips of stone fly off his body, the craters left behind oozing a strange, grey dust. But he keeps coming, his fists swinging like wrecking balls.
Spindle and I dodge and weave, trying to stay out of reach. The air is full of the thud of rubber bullets impacting but without the sound of their launch, the muted roar of blood in my ears. Pumice isn’t even trying for technique anymore, just bringing his fists down, trying to crush us like bugs.
But the barrage is taking its toll. Pumice stumbles, off balance for just a second. I seize the chance, leaping at him with my baton. I aim for his head, hoping to rattle whatever passes for his brain.
Pumice gets an arm up, blocking the blow. The impact jars my arms, sends shockwaves of pain racing up my shoulders. But I grit my teeth, push through it.
I grab a riot shield from the fallen cop, the weight of it unfamiliar in my hands. I whip it at Pumice’s face with all my strength, a desperate, last-ditch attack.
It connects with a satisfying thunk, the sound muffled by my power. But Pumice barely seems to feel it, his stone features set in a mask of rage.
But it’s enough of a distraction. Spindle dives in, his body contorting into impossible shapes. He wraps himself around Pumice’s legs like a human python, his grip tight enough to make stone creak.
Pumice roars, the sound a physical force that slams into my chest. He grabs at Spindle, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick material of Spindle’s costume.
Spindle’s grip is slipping, his face contorted with effort. “Playback!” he yells, his voice tight with desperation.
I’m already moving, the shield raised high. I slam it into Pumice’s face again and again, a relentless rhythm of metal and whatever that plastic shit they make riot shields out of on stone. It’s not doing much damage, but it’s buying Spindle time.
Time for what, I don’t know. But we’re running out of options, and fast. If we don’t come up with something soon, we’re gonna end up like that poor cop.
Just another couple of stains on the pavement, our blood mixing with the dirt and the debris of this godforsaken city. I can feel the weight of it pressing down on me, the knowledge that we’re all that stands between Pumice and a body count too high to contemplate.
Pumice, enraged, finally rips Spindle off and tosses him aside like a used napkin. Spindle hits the ground hard, rolling and tumbling across the pavement. I can hear the air rush out of his lungs, even over the chaos of the battle.
Pumice turns his attention to me, his eyes burning with a fury that’s all too familiar. I’ve seen that look before, back when we were still running together. It’s the look he gets when he’s done playing around. No more Allen Iverson quips left in the chamber. Only kill.
The blows begin coming in earnest, each one hitting my riot shield like a sledgehammer. I grit my teeth, my arms aching with the effort of holding the shield steady. I can feel my ankles creaking, threatening to give out under the onslaught.
I don’t have a choice. I drop my baton, gripping the shield with both hands. It’s the only thing keeping me from becoming a smear on the pavement, and it’s beginning to crack and dent and bend in all the ways I’ve never expected myself seeing a riot shield cracking and denting and bending. Definitely not from this side of it, too.
Spindle, battered and bruised, tries to come to my aid. He’s a tough kid, I’ll give him that. But Pumice is ready for him. He intercepts Spindle with a crushing backhand, sending him sprawling like a ragdoll, without even looking.
I’m alone now, backed up against a wall. Pumice looms over me, his stone fists raised for a final, devastating blow. I brace myself, my mind racing. Is this it? Is this how it ends?
The sound of the impact is gut-wrenching, a sickening CRACK that echoes through the streets.
Pumice goes flying, his body smashing into a nearby lamppost. The metal crumples around him, bending and twisting like it’s made of play-doh and he’s one of those extruders.
I stare, my jaw hanging open. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The newcomer, clad in biker leathers and a full-face motorcycle helmet, lands beside me with a grace that seems impossible for someone who just headbutted a living statue.
Spindle staggers over, his eyes wide. “Who the hell is that?” he asks, his voice a mix of awe and confusion.
But I know.
I’d recognize those moves anywhere. It’s Gale, obviously, I want to say, grabbing Spindle and shaking him by the shoulders. She’s come to help us, disguised in a getup that looks like she raided a Mad Max costume shop.
But I don’t say anything like that.
I’m about to say something else, but Gale beats me to it. “You boys looked like you could use a hand,” she says, her voice a poor imitation of a gruffer, older superhero, filtered through the opaque helmet. It’s almost enough to make me laugh, despite the situation. I’m not sure what exactly she was holding when she slammed into him – some metal thing, maybe a trash can lid? – but it’s totally gone, bent into a ball of its own.
She helps Spindle to his feet, checking him over for injuries. “You good to keep going?” she asks.
Spindle nods, still clearly trying to process what just happened. I glance over at Pumice, who’s starting to stir, shaking off bits of broken metal and concrete.
“Might want to save the introductions for later, chica” I say, readying my shield. “This ain’t over yet.”
Gale nods, falling into a fighting stance beside me. Spindle, still looking a bit dazed, takes up position on my other side.
Pumice rises to his feet, his body covered in a spiderweb of cracks. But he’s not done, not by a long shot. He roars, a sound of pure, unbridled rage, and charges at us like a runaway train, his footsteps shaking the ground. But Gale doesn’t flinch. She steps forward, her hands outstretched, and the air around us starts to move.
At first, it’s just a breeze, a gentle stirring of the debris and dust. But then it builds, growing stronger and stronger until it’s a full-blown gale force wind. I can feel it tugging at my clothes, whipping at my face.
Gale directs the wind like a conductor, guiding it with her hands. Pieces of rubble, shards of glass, even the rubber bullets from the fallen cop’s launcher – well, from various launchers – all of it gets caught up in the maelstrom, swirling around us in a deadly vortex.
And then, with a flick of her wrist, Gale sends it all hurtling towards Pumice, one at a time, channeling her volume of air into a deadly cannon barrel.
The impact is incredible. The debris slams into Pumice like a series of shotgun blasts, peppering his stone skin with a dozen painful impacts. Cracks spiderweb out from each one, spreading and connecting until it looks like Pumice is about to shatter into a million pieces. Bam. Bam. Bam.
But he keeps coming, his momentum barely slowed. He swings at Gale with a fist the size of a cinder block, but she’s already moving, ducking and weaving with a grace that seems impossible in that bulky biker gear.
I charge forward, scooping up my fallen baton as I run. I activate my power, stealing the sound of my own footsteps, rendering myself utterly silent as I flank Pumice from the side.
Spindle goes high, leaping onto a nearby car and using it as a springboard to launch himself at Pumice’s back. He latches on like a spider monkey, his long limbs wrapping around Pumice’s torso, squeezing with all his might.
Pumice roars, trying to shake Spindle off, but the kid’s grip is unbreakable. I take advantage of the distraction, darting in and striking at the back of Pumice’s knee with my baton.
The blow connects with a satisfying crunch, and I feel a jolt of hope. Maybe we can do this. Maybe we can actually bring this bastard down.
But Pumice is tougher than I gave him credit for. He barely seems to register the blow, his attention still focused on trying to pry Spindle off his back, even as another rubber bullet slams into his nose, ripping a small chunk of stone off of him.
Gale sees our struggle and redoubles her efforts. She sweeps her hands in a wide arc, and the wind responds, snatching up a nearby manhole cover like it weighs nothing at all. She spins, building momentum, and then hurls the heavy metal disc at Pumice with all the force of a hurricane behind it.
The manhole cover slams into Pumice’s chest with a deafening clang, sending him staggering backward. Spindle takes the opportunity to unwrap himself, dropping to the ground and rolling clear.
I press the advantage, striking at Pumice’s other knee, then his elbow, his wrist, all spots already cracked from previous strikes. Each blow chips away at his stone skin, leaving behind a puff of dust and gravel.
But it’s not enough. Pumice is still standing, still fighting. And he’s getting angrier by the second.
He lashes out with a wild swing, catching me across the ribs. I feel something give way inside me, a sickening snap that steals the breath from my lungs. I stumble, my vision graying at the edges.
Spindle is there in an instant, catching me before I fall. He pulls me back, out of reach of Pumice’s flailing fists.
Gale steps forward, placing herself between us and the raging golem. The wind whips around her, tearing at her clothes, pulling at her helmet. But she stands firm, unmoving, unafraid. Like she was born to do this.
“Is that all you got, you overgrown cinderblock?” she taunts, her voice raw and ragged with the effort of controlling the wind.
“Let’s find out,” Pumice rumbles, not just words but actual sound, sub-bass coming out from his whole body in a way that makes my teeth vibrate in my head. And then he launches himself at her like a torpedo.
Gale doesn’t back down. She reaches out, her fingers splayed wide, and the wind responds. It slams into Pumice like a solid wall, stopping him dead in his tracks. He grinds against the ground, visibly straining to push past Gale, while she’s visibly straining to push him. Her body is so tense that she looks like a rubber band.
It stops, and he stumbles forward.
And then the wind kicks up again, even stronger this time, and sends him flying backwards like a rag doll. He crashes through the window of a nearby storefront, disappearing in a shower of broken glass and twisted metal.
Spindle lets out a low whistle, his eyes wide. “Damn,” he mutters, shaking his head. “That was some X-Men shit.”
“Come on,” Gale says, already moving towards the shattered storefront. “He’s not finished yet, are you, big boy?”
She’s right. Even as we watch, the rubble starts to shift and tumble, pushed aside by a pair of massive stone hands. Pumice emerges from the wreckage like a golem from a horror movie, his body covered in a spiderweb of cracks, his eyes burning with an inhuman rage.
He charges at us again, his footsteps like thunder, his fists raised to strike. But this time, we’re ready for him.
Gale catches Spindle with her wind, and he picks up a riot shield – the one that got ripped out of my hands – to use like a sail. A couple rounds of twirling, and he goes hurtling towards Pumice like a living cannonball, accelerated to sickening highway velocities by Gale’s horizontal column of air.
The air is filled with the loud CRUNCH of shattering plastic or plexiglass or whatever it is that the riot shields are made off of. For a second, I fear the worst, as Spindle slams into Pumice’s head and wraps himself tight around, fingers laced together in front of his mouth, legs locked around his nose.
Pumice scrabbles for purchase, trying to get Spindle off of his face. But with the disorientation of what is probably a concussion combined with his rapidly dwindling air supply, there’s simply not much left – especially not with the visible vortex of whipping, debris-filled wind surrounding him.
Pumice goes down, his leg giving out from under him, and manages to rip Spindle away one last time. He falls to his hands and knees, his head bowed, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as Spindle bounces aside, cushioned by Gale’s wind.
“Let’s finish this, shall we?” Gale says, her voice cold and hard, a discarded riot cop baton floating into her fingers as she hovers so hard towards him you can see the onomatopoeia floating out.
She raises the baton above her head, ready to bring it down in a final, crushing blow. But before she can strike, Pumice’s hand shoots out, quick as a snake, and grabs her by the ankle.
“You first,” he growls, and yanks.
Gale goes down hard, her head bouncing off the pavement with a sickening thud. The baton clatters from her hand, rolling away across the blood-slick street.
Pumice staggers to his feet, looming over Gale’s prone form. “You think you can beat me?” he rasps, his voice like gravel in a blender. “You think you can stop me?”
He raises his fist high, ready to bring it down with all his remaining strength. I can see the madness in his eyes, the desperate, last-ditch rage of a cornered animal.
But then Spindle is there, wrapping himself around Pumice’s ankles and knees, yanking the big man’s legs out from under him. Pumice topples, his arms windmilling comically as he tries to keep his balance.
I’m moving before I even realize it, scooping up the fallen baton as I go. I pour all my strength into a single mighty swing, feeling the fresh weapon hum in my hands as it cuts through the air.
The baton hits Pumice square in the forehead with a sound like a church bell being struck. Well, more like a rock being split in half. For a moment, he just stands there, swaying gently, a look of almost cartoonish surprise on his craggy features.
And then his eyes roll back in his head, and he collapses like a puppet with his strings cut, hitting the ground with a crash that shakes the windows and rattles my teeth.
We stand there for a moment, panting, staring down at Pumice’s motionless form. Spindle unwraps himself from Pumice’s legs, his movements slow and stiff. Gale staggers to her feet, one hand pressed to her helmet.
“Is he…?” Spindle asks, his voice shaking.
I nudge Pumice with my foot. He doesn’t move. “Out cold,” I say, feeling a rush of relief so strong it makes my knees weak. “We did it.”
Gale nods, wincing as the motion aggravates her bruised head. “Good work, boys,” she says, her voice still muffled by her helmet. “Let’s get this bastard secured before he wakes up.”
And just like that, it’s over. The battle is won, the day is saved. Just another Tuesday in Philadelphia.
Except it’s not. Because as we bind Pumice’s wrists and ankles with zip ties, we can’t help but look around at us and see the chaos and devastation firsthand.
Job’s not done yet.
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