Stacy hurried up a ladder, shoving the metal manhole cover out of her way at its top. "Are you sure Decay is still alive?" she demanded.

"Yes!" exclaimed William, who was flying up below her. "He's weakened, but alive, and even worse, he's dug himself out. I can feel him moving around the surface."

"Then where's Tracy and the others? Did they run? Shouldn't we head further down the sewer and come out in a different street?"

William didn't answer.

"Seriously! Where are..."

She froze as her head emerged out onto the street, then said a few words that had no business escaping the lips of a fourteen-year-old child.

"Oh..." said William as he flew out of the hole and took in the scene around him.

The street was in ruins, building facades cracked and windows shattered from the force of the initial explosion. A deep crater in the pavement was flooded with water, more still fountaining into the air from the burst main, and the building behind it—thankfully empty, because the girls had put some care into picking their ambush site—had partially collapsed. That much was to be expected, given the explosion the girls had deliberately set off.

What hadn't been part of the plan was the way Natasha was hanging from a lamppost, tied there by a single black ribbon around an ankle. Her left arm was missing completely, blood still trickling from the wound. Her transformation had broken, and she hung limply, showing no signs of consciousness. Only her slow, shallow breathing gave any indication she was still alive.

Tracy was in an even worse state, laying in a pool of blood on the pavement, her skin as pale as snow. It was enough that it would be a surprise if any blood was left on the inside, and there was no visible sign of her breathing.

Finally, there was Mary. In a way, she was doing best out of the three, lacking any serious injuries. Her transformation still held, but Decay stood over her, inflicting small cuts one at a time. Despite the apparent torture, he didn't seem to be revelling in it, snarling with anger rather than laughing. Mary was just whimpering, not resisting or even reacting as Decay cut her over and over. Despite physically being in the best condition of the three, mentally, there didn't seem to be much of her left. Her eyes were vacant, and she was neither screaming nor begging for mercy.

Perhaps it would be better to say that Mary was physically in the best condition of the four, rather than the three, since Decay was seriously injured, too. The fire had cauterised his wounds, but his remaining chitin plates were cracked and his flesh was black, through a combination of burns and the stains of his black blood.

"What do you want to do?" asked William quietly. "Escape, or try to save them. I won't think any less of you either way."

"Are they all alive?" asked Stacy in turn, knowing William should be able to sense them. "Is my sister alive?"

"Yes," answered William. "She's weak and fading fast, but for now, she's alive."

Stacy climbed the rest of the way into the open air, then took a deep breath.

"We surrender!" she yelled.

Decay paused in his torment of the blue magical girl, a claw frozen in a downward swipe, held against Mary's skin. His neck spun a hundred and eighty degrees, letting him stare at Stacy while holding his claw in place. Stacy held up her hands. "We surrender," she repeated. "You've won. I swear we'll never attack you again, on condition all four of us live."

"Oh? And here I was, thinking you had won," replied Decay, one corner of his mouth twisting in a way that may have been the very beginning of a sneer.

"Huh?" asked Stacy, wondering how on earth the Bane had come to that conclusion. "I think we're pretty thoroughly beaten here..."

At that, Decay unfolded, rising from his position over Mary and ascending to his full height. And then he laughed.

Great peals of mad laughter echoed around the shattered street.

"Oh, I see," said William. "He's right... Given what you tried to do, and that you've proven yourselves an actual danger to him, he's likely justified in employing lethal force against you now, but it no longer matters. He's so badly injured that there's no way he can heal it just by sipping at the energy of willing victims. He needs more. Much more. Either he dies of his wounds, or he survives by breaking his protection."

The laughter cut out, "Indeed," flatly stated Decay. "So I'm afraid your surrender is not accepted. Go, be with your friends in their final moments, then come for me when the mass murders start. Kill me, cry at their funerals, and spend the rest of your life asking yourself, 'was it worth it?'"

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"Drain me, then," said Stacy.

"What?" asked Decay, the mix of amusement and anger on his burnt face warping into a blank confusion.

"I said, drain me. If you take energy from someone willing, it won't break your protection, right?"

"You do realise this is nothing like my deal with the blue one, right? As much energy as you living weapons of Earth possess, the amount I need to heal myself is... extensive."

"I guessed as much," shrugged Stacy. "I'm not stupid."

"Then why? Why go that far?"

"You're the one that told me to ask myself if it was worth it. I don't need to, though, because the answer is obvious: it isn't. If I can save my family and my friends, I will. The cost is irrelevant."

"You would turn this victory into a defeat? And you would allow this, Will of the World?"

"I will enforce this oath," answered William. "You shall no longer be considered an invader, and the power of the Earth will not be turned against you for as long as these four live."

"They'll die of old age eventually," grumbled Decay, the momentary flicker of surprise erased as he spotted the loophole. Or rather, loopholes, plural. "Fine. Doubtless something else will go wrong in the next fifty years that renders the end of your promise irrelevant, but I do insist you add a clause about indirect attacks, harassment or any other problematic behaviour."

"Those who carry the power of the Earth will not be permitted to do anything that risks your personal safety, whether in ways that use their powers or otherwise, nor will they instigate others to do so on their behalf."

"Very well. I have concerns about your weasel wording, but we're on a time limit here, so that much will suffice."

He waved a hand, conjuring more solidified shadows which clamped themselves around the wounds of Tracy and Natasha, stemming the bleeding.

"Between that and their enhanced healing, they should survive long enough for help to arrive. Now, it's your turn."

Stacy closed her eyes and waited, wondering how long medical aid would be. The explosion had been some time ago, and yet there were no spectators, nor the sounds of approaching sirens. She had a horrible suspicion that the perception filter was acting against them, here. Still, in a strange way, she trusted Decay. He was too afraid of death to break the terms of their agreement. She knew all four of them would live.

And, as if in answer to that strangely placed trust, Decay thrust one of his black ribbons straight into her heart.

----------------------------------------

Natasha groaned as some semblance of consciousness did its best to wriggle its way into her life.

"Natasha? Nat!" yelled someone. "She's waking up! Nat!"

"Mum?" mumbled Natasha. "Why are you waking me up? I set my alarm properly."

"Oh, my gawd. You're okay! I've been so worried!"

"Huh?" asked Natasha as her burgeoning consciousness grew to the point that she could tell something was very, very wrong. "Where am I?"

"You're in hospital. You were... seriously injured."

"Hospital? But... What happened? I don't remember."

"You were in the wrong place at the wrong time... There was an explosion."

Natasha lay still as a few fragments of memory rebuilt themselves.

"Tracy!" she exclaimed suddenly. "How is Tracy?!"

"She's doing okay. Better than you, in fact. The doctors say she'll make a full recovery."

"Better than... me...?" repeated Natasha as her growing consciousness pointed out a few more incongruities. "I can't feel my arm..."

"Oh... Oh, my precious little girl," said her mother, her voice cracking as she tried to hold back her sudden tears, the elation of Natasha waking up erased by the reminder of her injuries.

"If you're awake enough to worry about others, perhaps you're awake enough to explain what you were doing out at that time of night?" asked another voice. "Or why you were in that part of town at any time?"

"Seriously, dear?" asked the first voice. "She's only just woken up. Give her a minute."

"Dad? You're here too?" asked Natasha.

"Yes, of course I'm here. How could I not be? And yes, seriously. I want to know which of you four had the stupid idea to take such a late outing, and why you went along with it!"

"Don't mind him. He's just looking for someone to blame."

"Damn right I am! The bloody police are claiming the explosion was an accident. An accident! How in the hells could it have been an accident?"

"Please calm down, dear, before you get kicked out of the hospital."

The irate man growled and stalked angrily around the room.

"Four?" asked Natasha, picking up on that titbit. "Were Stacy and Mary hurt, too?"

"Mary only has some cuts and bruises, but she's in shock," answered Natasha's mother. "Stacy is... very badly hurt."

"Can I see them?"

"I think you should rest a while first."

"No! I want to see them!"

"Then just turn your head," responded her father irately.

Natasha blinked, reminded that vision was a thing that she had. She was staring upward at a sterile white ceiling, covered in lights, sprinklers, PA speakers, smoke alarms, carbon monoxide alarms, and all the other things that meant that ceilings in public or corporate settings tended to contain only a small amount of actual ceiling.

Turning her head to the left revealed Mary, her own parents stood over her, her mother tightly clutching a hand. She was wrapped in bandages—the regular kind, thankfully, not Decay's shadowy ribbons—but her blue hair was unmistakable. Her eyes were open, but empty, simply staring at nothing.

Turning to the right revealed Tracy, with no obvious signs of injury, but her eyes were closed and a mask was tied over her mouth and nose, hissing as it provided her with above-ambient concentrations of oxygen to breathe. Unlike Natasha or Mary, she was alone, with no family by her side.

"Where's Stacy?" asked Natasha, not seeing anyone else around.

"The ICU," answered her mother. "She was the worst wounded out of all of you. A piece of shrapnel nicked her heart."

"The doctors say it's a miracle she's still alive," added her father. "They say it's a miracle you are. With that wound, they don't understand how you didn't bleed out before paramedics arrived, so please forgive me if I'm a little shirty."

"Just be thankful there was a miracle," said her mother.

"Wound?" asked Natasha, who'd once again forgotten about it, distracted by the fates of her friends. "Oh... My arm..."

"It'll be okay. You're safe, and that's the important thing."

Natasha remained silent, now awake enough to realise the likely cause of the 'miracle'. If she was still alive, the only possible reason was that Decay had decided it was advantageous to himself for her to live. For all of them to live. She'd watched Tracy get stabbed through her torso, and the fact she merely was on oxygen and not in intensive care herself was inexplicable otherwise.

"I guess we lost, then," she mumbled.