The zip ties click shut around my wrists. Cheap plastic, tight enough to bite into my skin but not enough to cut off circulation. I don't fight it. No use pretending I can't break out whenever I want. Better to let Turbo Jett think she's won.

"Let's get it over with," I mutter, letting her shove me toward the growing pile of bodies.

Most of them are groaning, some are out cold, a couple are still coughing from whatever Soot hit them with. The air still stinks of burnt chemicals and sweat, but the worst of the smoke is clearing, thinning out over the marina. I take a deep breath, testing my ribs. Bruised, maybe cracked, but nothing new. I've had worse.

Turbo Jett doesn't even look at me. She's already turning back to the main event. "Okay, now for you," she growls, practically vibrating with energy.

She plants her feet, throws her arms back, and shouts loud enough to shake the docks: "GEAR THREE!"

The air around her shimmers like heat off asphalt. Her whole body flexes, veins bulging, steam rolling off her in waves. She's burning so hot I can feel it from where I'm standing.

Then she lunges--straight for Monkey Business.

Or, at least, she tries to.

She moves fast, too fast for any normal person to dodge, but before her fist can connect, her entire body twists mid-air. Not like she stumbled or mistimed her punch--her whole trajectory just shifts, like someone grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her sideways.

Instead of slamming her fist into Monkey Business's smarmy face, she plows into Birthday Suit.

And Birthday Suit doesn't budge. Well, that's not true, she maybe budges backwards an eighth an inch, and I watch the air press out from her teeth in a slight grimace. Her domino mask wrinkles a little bit while she flares her nostrils. But - to use a word I've adopted from Jordan - it's a no sell. Birthday Suit just doesn't move.

Turbo Jett stumbles back, blinking like she's trying to process what just happened. "Oh, come on."

Monkey Business, completely unbothered, is standing at the helm of a motorboat, methodically flipping switches. "She can't help it," he calls over his shoulder, voice bright and amused. "She just loves the attention."

Birthday Suit rolls her shoulders, flexing her knuckles. "Try again, sweetheart."

Turbo Jett does. She snarls and rushes forward, aiming even lower this time, putting her full weight behind the punch--

And her fist jerks again, veering off course at the last second. Like a magnet yanking a compass needle sideways.

She punches Birthday Suit in the gut. Again.

Birthday Suit still doesn't care. It's almost comedic.

Monkey Business sighs dramatically as he pulls the throttle. The boat starts moving, water foaming up behind it. "Well, ladies, it's been fun, but we've got a schedule to keep--"

Okay, that's my cue.

I roll my wrists and let my teeth grow in. My body adjusts automatically, new bone pushing through skin, long and sharp as boxcutter blades. I flex, twist--

And snap.

The zip ties shred like paper.

Turbo Jett doesn't notice. She's too busy throwing another punch, screaming in frustration when it again redirects into Birthday Suit's stomach.

Birthday Suit, exasperated now, finally retaliates--grabbing Jett mid-swing and pivoting into a perfect Jiu-Jitsu redirect. Against someone slower than Turbo Jett, it probably would've worked, too, but Jett just flips around her neck like she's turned into a human scarf, wrapping her legs around and trying to do the most complicated throwing maneuver I have ever seen in my life. It's almost exactly like that thing in that one video game anime movie that Jordan showed me that I absolutely did not absorb. No, wait, I have a better frame of reference - it's a perfect headscissor takedown.

And it simply does not work, because Birthday Suit is probably 300 pounds even without the body armor, but points for trying. Even with whatever sort of crazy strength Jett's power is giving her, it just doesn't work against raw leverage and center of mass advantages. Or maybe it's Birthday Suit's power. Hard to tell, given that I have no idea what either one of them can do besides some educated guesses.

I shake out my hands, letting the teeth retract back into my skin. That's one problem solved.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Now for the other.

I scan the dock. The brawl's almost over--Monkey Business's goons are down, the dealers who haven't been zip-tied are long gone, and the cops--both plainclothes and uniformed--are swarming in, boxing the whole area in.

And standing between me and my escape is Patriot.

He's finishing off the last of the zombified dealers, moving like he's been dropped into a training exercise, systematic and efficient. One last guy takes a swing at him, but Patriot ducks, weaves, and puts him down hard with a single blow to the gut.

The guy collapses, gasping. Patriot straightens, breathing steady, barely winded. His shoulders square as he turns, scanning for the next target--

And then his eyes land on me. I feel it in my bones before it even fully registers. That moment of recognition. He knows exactly who I am. And I know exactly who he is. My nose aches sympathetically.

Neither of us move.

For half a second, the chaos around us fades. The sirens, the shouting, the sounds of fighting--it all goes muffled, like someone just dunked my head underwater.

Then, a voice--somewhere behind me, groaning, weak--

"Help."

I turn to face the pile of zip-tied people around me. Drug dealers. Ne'er-do-wells. Even that guy - mouths to feed guy, and he even signed one of those deals. A bunch of Monkey Business's zombies are still trying to capture Patriot even as their bodies are just not capable of it. They're all a mess. Some are barely conscious, bruised and beaten, others are twisted up on the ground, bleeding from who-knows-what injuries. I count at least an easy dozen, but given that everyone is in a big pile, it's hard to tell.

You know, at least a dozen. Drug dealers.

That's what they are. I know that. I should leave.

I should.

Patriot straightens, rolling his shoulders like he's about to lecture a kid for stepping out of line. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but there's something in his stance--something rigid, like he's already decided how this is going to go.

"You're not stupid, Bloodhound." His voice is level, almost patient. "Walk away. I'll let you go."

I flex my fingers. He clocks the movement, eyes narrowing just slightly.

"You want to be a hero?" he continues. "Be a good sport. You did your best. But this is done." He glances at the pile of battered dealers. "They made their choices. You don't have to make it your problem."

He doesn't get it. It's already my problem.

I take a breath. Grow the teeth in my fingertips, sharp and jagged like broken glass. They split through the skin, fresh and raw. Just like taking a shit. Push it out. There we go.

"I'm not walking away," I tell him. "I have a duty to save civilians. You know that."

Patriot exhales, disappointed. "Alright, then."

Then he moves. I barely brace myself before he closes the distance, lunging straight at me--

CRACK.

His head jerks sideways, a blur of red and white. He staggers a step, blinking, jaw tight, and spits out blood. I feel his entire body - so far unmarred - bloom to life, bright red, and I can see him. Then his hand snaps up to his cheek. He touches his face. Looks at his fingers. Examines the split-open skin, the rapidly developing bruise.

Then, he and I both look at the source at the same time.

I don't need to check my earpiece to know who it was.

"Oh, I got him!" Blink's voice crackles through. "Holy shit, I got him! I almost knocked a tooth loose!"

Patriot's expression barely changes. He breathes out through his nose, straightens, and tilts his head up slightly, scanning.

Blink doesn't let him think.

THWACK. Another shot, this one bouncing off his shoulder. Then another, and another--small, high-speed marbles raining down from above, slamming into him like tiny, furious hailstones. From her sniper's nest up high - apparently, commandeering a random civilian's apartment, judging from the way she's peeked out the window - she can handle hurling all sorts of hellfire his way.

He lifts his arm to block, pivoting slightly. He's still standing, still solid, but I see the slight wince, the faint tension in his jaw. No, none of this will kill him. But it's hurting him, and distracting him, and I bet he needs it to stop.

It's enough of an opening. I move. Drop down, grab the nearest set of zip ties, yank them apart with my claws, just let my momentum carry me through. The guy underneath them groans, half-conscious, but his eyes flicker open in recognition. I haul him up to sitting, trying not to bite into his shoulders.

"Run," I order.

He doesn't hesitate. Next. Another zip tie. Another person. Another moment of brief, sluggish eye contact before they stumble to their feet. They're not going to make it. Not all of them. I know that. Turbo Jett is still out here, and once she's done playing Wrestlemania with Birthday Suit, she'll be back here. And she likes rounding people up. But I can't do nothing.

I don't know why I'm doing this. These people are all drug dealers. Or people who want to be drug dealers. What's wrong with me? Why can't I just shut off my empathy engine? Is it because I saw Patriot, and now I'm pissed? Am I just reacting to him - like I've gotta put myself on whatever side is opposite to him?

Jump has caused so much pain and suffering. I really should not be helping.

I tell myself that I'd rather they run out into the police cordon than get pounded into the dirt again by Patriot. Whatever he's up to here, and whoever this new girl is he's recruited to his Pals, I don't want him to be the one meting out mob justice. I know how that goes.

Someone gasps as I slice through their bindings. Someone mutters something slurred, something like why are you-- but I don't stop. A few of them are starting to get it now. The ones I've freed are scrambling, pushing, half-stumbling toward whatever gaps they can find in the chaos. It's a long shot. But it's a shot.

Then I hear it. A rustle of fabric. A shift of weight. A grunt of effort. I look up.

Patriot has someone. Grabbed by the back of the neck, hoisted up with one hand like this tiny little drug dealer is a ragdoll. Patriot's standing straight, blood drying against his jaw, one of the zip-tied dealers held upright in front of him like a human shield, right between him and Blink.

The guy in his grip makes a choked sound, weakly twisting, trying to pull away. Patriot doesn't let him. He barely even looks at him. His gaze is still locked on the apartment window that Blink is peeking out over top of.

My earpiece crackles.

"...Okay." Blink's voice, low and sharp. "Okay. Time to go."

I breathe in. Hold it. Is that guy - mouths to feed guy - is he safe? I look around. I don't see him.

Alright. This is fine. I'm cool with this.

I run.