For a moment, we just stand there, glaring at each other, the air between us crackling with tension. Then, Patriot speaks, his voice low and dangerous.

"You want to play with the big boys, Bloodhound? Fine. Let's play. But don't think for a second that your little dead man's switch or your fancy gadgets are going to save you. You're in way over your head here."

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze defiantly. "Maybe. But at least I'm not drowning in my own bullshit. I'm going to expose you, Patriot. You and Egalitarian and this whole rotten system you've built. The people deserve to know the truth."

Something shifts in Patriot's eyes then, a cold, calculating look replacing the raw fury. "No," he says quietly. "You're not."

I barely have time to react before his fist is hurtling towards my face, a blur of red, white and blue. Instinct takes over, my body moving on autopilot as I duck beneath the blow, using my smaller size to my advantage. I feel the rush of displaced air as his punch whistles past my ear, missing me by mere inches.

But I don't have time to savor the dodge. I'm already striking back, my own fist lashing out like a viper, aiming for Patriot's solar plexus. I feel the impact reverberate up my arm as my knuckles connect with solid muscle, driving the air from his lungs in a surprised grunt.

For a split second, I think I've got him. That I've managed to catch him off guard, to level the playing field just a bit. But Patriot is too stable to let a single blow take him down. He stumbles back a step, his eyes widening in surprise, but he recovers almost instantly, his body falling into a defensive stance.

I don't give him a chance to regain his footing. I reach for the remote killswitch at my belt, my fingers finding the button and pressing down hard. Instantly, the warehouse is plunged into darkness, the dim glow of the streetlights outside snuffed out like candles.

Thanks, Tasha.

I hear Patriot curse under his breath, his eyes straining to pierce the sudden gloom. But I know he's not helpless - his senses are too sharp, too finely honed for that. I can practically feel him tracking my movements in the dark, his ears pricked for the slightest sound, his nose twitching as he tries to catch my scent.

But two can play at that game. I retrieve another tool from my belt - a small vial of pig's blood attached to a spray bottle nozzle. I point towards where his silhouette intersects towards the moonlight, depress, and pray.

PFSHHT

I feel the disturbance in the air a split second before Patriot's foot lashes out in a powerful kick, aimed straight at my wrist, knocking my blood spray out of my hand and snapping against my palm. I can't stop myself from taking a deep, pained breath - but the pig blood coats his foot, and now I can see him. The second kick is easy - I'm already moving, pivoting to the side and reaching out to grab his ankle with both hands. I channel all my momentum into a sharp twist, using an aikido technique Rampart drilled into me to redirect Patriot's attack.

I feel a grim sense of satisfaction as I hear him grunt in surprise, his body flailing as he's thrown off balance. I don't have much hope that he'll stay down - he's too good for that - but it buys me a precious second or two to catch my breath, to keep him on the carefully planned line I've set out for him. He goes head over ass and rolls against the ground, smashing into the wall with his own momentum.

But Patriot is already recovering, his body coiling like a spring as he launches himself back to his feet. I can practically feel the rage radiating off of him, the fury at being caught off guard, at being made to look like a fool by some punk kid in a mask.

He comes at me like a freight train, his fists flying in a blur of motion. It's all I can do to stay ahead of him, my body weaving and dodging on pure instinct, relying on my blood sense to track his movements in the dark. I feel the rush of air as his punches whistle past my face, my chest, my gut, each one coming closer and closer to connecting.

But I'm not just playing defense. Every chance I get, I lash out with my own attacks, my gloved fists striking at Patriot's arms, his hands, trying to cut open his costume and spill something more. I feel the satisfying crunch of cartilage as one of my punches connects with his nose, the warm gush of blood spattering across my knuckles - and then I can see him.

Patriot grunts in pain, one hand coming up to clutch at his face. But he doesn't falter, doesn't slow down. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on, to feed the rage boiling inside of him.

He changes tactics, using the environment to his advantage. I hear the scrape of metal against concrete as he grabs hold of a loose pipe, ripping it free from the wall in a shower of dust and debris. He swings it in a wide arc, the heavy length of metal whistling through the air like a baseball bat.

I drop to the ground, feeling the rush of air as the pipe scythes through the empty space where my head was, and let the fear of death slide off me like oil off a pan. I let my momentum carry me into a low sweep, my leg lashing out to catch Patriot behind the knees. I feel a surge of triumph as I connect, feeling his legs buckle beneath him, sending him stumbling off balance.

But my victory is short-lived. Patriot is too well-trained, too experienced to be taken down by such a simple trick. He rolls with the impact, using his own momentum to carry him back to his feet in one smooth motion. His hand shoots out, faster than I can blink, latching onto my wrist in an iron grip.

Pain lances up my arm as he wrenches it behind my back, the bones grinding together in their sockets. But I don't hesitate, don't even think. I just act, letting my body take over as I twist violently to the side, feeling the sickening pop as my shoulder dislocates from the force of the movement.

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Patriot grunts in surprise, his grip loosening just a fraction as he tries to process what just happened. But that split second of hesitation is all I need. I rear back, slamming my helmeted forehead into his face with all the force I can muster. I feel the crunch of bone as his nose shatters under the impact, blood gushing down his face in a hot, sticky torrent.

He reels back, one hand clutching at his ruined nose, his eyes watering from the pain. But even through the haze of agony, he can still work through his training, an impossible machine. His other hand lashes out, catching me in the ribs with a blow that feels like a sledgehammer to the chest.

I feel my ribs crack under the impact, the pain exploding through my body like a supernova. But even as I gasp for breath, even as my vision swims with black spots, I can feel my healing factor kicking in, trying to hold my ribs together in a desperate attempt to keep me fighting.

It's not enough to make the pain go away - nothing could do that - but it's enough to keep me on my feet, enough to keep me in the fight. And right now, that's all that matters.

"Is that all you've got, old man?" I taunt, my voice ragged with pain but dripping with mocking laughter. "No wonder they put you out to pasture. You're losing your touch."

Patriot snarls like a wounded animal, his bloody face broken out into a violent snarl. "You don't know anything, girl."

"I know enough," I shoot back, my words cutting like knives. "I know you're just a glorified thug, a bully with a badge. You talk a big game about justice and order, but all you really care about is power. All you want is for people to bow down and kiss your shiny jackboots."

He lunges at me, his fists swinging in wild, haymaker arcs. There's less coordination, sure, but that doesn't make him less dangerous - he's throwing his entire body into scything blows that could probably snap my neck in half if he connected. But I can see in the dark, and he can't. I keep him going, backing him up, pulling him into my web.

I hear the twang of metal a split second before Patriot stumbles, his legs tangling in the near-invisible tripwire I've strung across the floor. He pitches forward, his arms windmilling as he tries to catch himself. But I'm already there, my fists lashing out in a flurry of blows, targeting his kidneys, his ribs, a knee with a single tooth at the end ramming into his stomach so hard he coughs up blood onto my kevlar.

He grunts and groans under the onslaught, his body jerking like a feral mole trying to rip out grass. But even caught off guard, even in pain, he's still a formidable opponent. One flailing arm catches me across the chest, sending me flying backwards into a stack of moldy wooden pallets. I hit the ground hard, my breath leaving me in a whoosh. But I force myself back to my feet, ignore the screaming protests of my body.

He's on the back foot. Before, he had the element of surprise. But now, we're in my element.

Patriot has already broken free of the tripwire, his face a mask of pure, unbridled fury. He comes at me like a runaway train, his huge fists clenched and ready to strike. I push my thumb into my exposed palm, the sliver opened up to the air through my gloves. I feel the sting of the cut, the hot gush of blood welling up in my cupped hand. And then I'm moving, whipping my arm forward and sending a spray of crimson droplets flying into Patriot's eyes.

He reels back, his hands coming up instinctively to claw at his face. But I'm not done yet. My other hand is already delving into my belt pouch, coming up with a small canister of pepper spray. I thumb off the safety and let loose a stream of the burning, blinding chemicals, aiming straight for Patriot's vulnerable eyes and nose.

He howls in agony, his hands scrabbling to wipe away the blood and the caustic spray. But I'm already closing in, my fists and feet lashing out in a relentless barrage of strikes. Kicks, punches, knees and elbows. "You fight like a pussy!" he screams, before receiving another palm strike to the face with my other hand.

But even blinded, even in agony, Patriot is far from helpless. Even with his eyes shut. One huge hand shoots out, grabbing me by the front of my costume and yanking me off my feet, while the other hand grabs for my wrist and squeezes it so hard that I can feel it creaking. He pulls me in close, so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my face, smell the coppery tang of his blood.

Crack. That's all it took - a second of overconfidence, and my wrist is broken. I can't stop the scream that comes out of me, at least for a second, but then I bite it back down, squirming in his grip.

And then he's spinning, whipping me around in a brutal arc and slamming me face-first into the warehouse wall. I feel something crack inside my helmet, feel the plastic splinter and give way under the force of the impact.

I'm stunned, disoriented, my head ringing like a bell. But I force myself to keep fighting, to keep struggling even as Patriot's hands close around my throat, squeezing with all the strength of a hydraulic press.

My helmet falls away in pieces, clattering to the floor in a rain of shattered plastic. I tense one hand enough to turn the prepared lights back on, blindingly bright. And suddenly, I'm staring up into Patriot's face, my features laid bare for him to see. His eyes widen in shock, in recognition, his grip on my neck loosening just a fraction.

"Small?" he whispers, his voice hoarse with disbelief and physical agony. "Small?"

A little louder this time, a little angrier. His mind is clearly racing as he tries to put the pieces together. But I don't give him the chance to process. I'm already moving, already taking advantage of his momentary distraction, the loosening of his hands.

I lash out with a brutal headbutt, feeling the bone crunch as my forehead collides with his already-broken nose. At the same time, my hand claws downward, scrabbling at Patriot's leg until my fingers close around the holster of… something. I don't know. I rip it free and slam it into his face, my other hand reaching back down into my belt. I kill the lights, and toss his toy into the daarkness.

Patriot howls like a scorched bear, one hand flying to his face to try to stem the tide of blood pouring from his ruined nose. But his other hand is back in action, locked again around my throat, still squeezing with enough force to make spots dance in front of my eyes.

He yanks me in close, his brutal face twisted with rage. I can smell the blood on his breath, feel the heat radiating off him like he's about to go nuclear.

"You've just made the biggest mistake of your life," he snarls. "I am going to--"

But whatever threat he was about to make is lost as my hand flashes up, teeth burying themselves in the side of his collarbone, ripping through the thinnest part of his costume, drawing blood. Patriot's eyes go wide with shock, with disbelief, with pain. His hand falls away from my throat as he stumbles backwards, his fingers scrabbling weakly at the carved ravine in his flesh.

I drop to the ground, gasping and retching. Every breath feels like spikes in my lungs, but I force myself to suck down air, force myself to stay focused. I look up at Patriot, see him swaying on his feet, blood pouring down his arm and face in crimson rivulets.

For a moment our eyes lock, brown on blue. In that instant, I see the man behind the mask, see the pain and the anger and the bitter, aching emptiness that drives him. I see the boy who became a soldier, the soldier who became a monster. I see the toll this life has taken on him, the pieces of himself he's sacrificed on the altar of his twisted ideals.

And I know in that moment that he needs to be put down like an animal.