I shove the door open and almost trip over the guard because he's already thrashing, his head jerking side to side, trying to breathe through the gag. His eyes are wide, darting around like he's expecting a firing squad to march in any second. The air in here's a little clearer, but the chlorine's creeping in--just enough to set off every alarm bell in his head, even if it's not lethal yet.

Good. He's got survival instincts.

I don't slow down. My hands are already flexing, something shifting under my skin, and I barely feel it as my fingernails peel back and new teeth shove their way up through my fingertips, curving out into short, jagged claws. Not pretty. Not clean. But sharp enough.

I crouch next to him, grab the zip tie around his wrists, and slice through it in one pull. Plastic snaps, and his arms jerk forward like he wasn't expecting to get loose that fast.

"Listen," I say, moving straight to the tie around his ankles. "I don't care if you rat me out to the cops, press charges, or try to get me arrested tomorrow. That's a problem for Future Me. But just because you work--intentionally or not--for the Kingdom, does not mean I'm letting you die in a chemical explosion."

I yank the gag out of his mouth.

"A what?" he croaks.

I rip the last tie and stand, ejecting my teeth-claws like shotgun shells, the same way I always do. My face scrunches behind my helmet. "This place is extremely likely to go up in smoke in seconds. You want to live? Jump."

He stares at me like I just suggested self-immolation.

I don't have time for disbelief. I tap the side of my helmet, flicking the comms back on.

"Safe, Flash--if you're outside, I'm gonna need some cushioning from the security office. There's a Nazi and trench warfare going on beneath us. Only way out is through the window."

I hear the deep crunch of something heavy hitting metal outside, followed by a distant voice cursing in what sounds like Turbo Jett's exaggerated Jersey accent.

Jordan's voice crackles back through my earpiece, tense but clipped. "On it. Get ready to drop."

The guard's still frozen, his brain probably trying to process how his night shift turned into a Mission: Impossible stunt sequence. I don't give him time to argue. I grab him by the front of his shirt and haul him toward the window. I stare at it, the glass smudged and dusty but still intact, and then push a tooth out of my wrist.

It's slow--slower than the fingers--but I don't need speed, just something hard enough. It pushes through the skin in a dull, grinding ache, curling out sideways like a malformed spike. My wrist protests hard as I flex my fingers, the bone shifting in ways that bones aren't supposed to, but I shove that aside.

I pull my arm back and slam the tooth into the glass.

CRACK.

The whole pane fractures, spiderwebbing out from the impact. My wrist flares with pain, sharp and electric, but I ignore it and keep swinging. Again. Again. The tooth's too strong to break--but my wrist isn't. Every hit sends a shock up my arm, rattling my bones. My vision pulses black at the edges.

By the third hammer blow, the cracks give way, and jagged panels start collapsing outward, tumbling into the alley below.

I shake out my hand, blinking past the sting in my knuckles, and just barely catch the sound of a moped's tiny, angry engine roaring around the corner outside. I glance down and immediately get a slight wave of vertigo.

Jordan's already there, yanking their fireproof cloak off, the reinforced fabric unfurling like a tarp as Blink hops off the moped. She skates into position, grabbing one end while Jordan grips the other. They stretch it out between them, arms tense, feet braced, a makeshift landing pad.

I turn to the security guard, yanking him forward by his sleeve. "You got one shot. Move, or I'm moving you."

For a second, he just stares at me like I've told him to throw himself off a building for fun. That's when the first BANG goes off.

Not a full explosion--not yet--but something metallic and deep, like a drum popping under heat, followed by a rumble rolling through the warehouse. The air shudders, and I can feel the heat prickling at the back of my neck.

I don't wait for his hesitation to catch up. I shove him forward.

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"GO!"

He stumbles, hesitates for one last, dumb second, then jumps.

I see his arms flail midair, but Blink and Jordan catch him clean, the cloak dipping with the weight before snapping back just enough to soften the landing. He rolls out of it, dazed but alive, hitting the ground with a grunt before scrambling away. He doesn't look at us, doesn't pull out his phone to call the cops or anything, he just runs.

I don't watch where he goes, because I don't care, and because I feel the heat starting to rise behind me. Or something else, a sort of not-heat. Air. Not fire--not yet--but pressure, like the whole building just exhaled hot air behind me.

The BANGS are getting louder. Faster. Cascading into each other like a row of dominoes punching out drums of chemicals one by one.

I punch out the rest of the window with my wrist, feeling my arm scream in protest, but it doesn't matter. I need to give myself a little more space. Unlike the security guard, I don't have someone to shove me.

I step up onto the ledge. Something hits the door behind me. The whole security office shakes like someone just drove a car into the wall, and I feel the door crumple inward, ripped off its hinges, folding like tinfoil.

I jump.

For half a second, I feel nothing. Just air, the streetlights blurring below me, the alley stretching wider--, and then, the impact. The cloak catches, bends, stretches, and then--just a little bit--tears. I hit hard, rolling into it, tucking my limbs, trying not to land directly on my crushed ankle, but failing, because the second my foot takes weight again, something in my leg goes white-hot with pain and I almost black out right then and there.

I'm on my back, sucking air through my teeth, blinking up at Jordan and Blink, who are already talking.

"The cab's a block away," Blink says, shaking her arms out, looking zero percent winded. "We don't have time."

"Goss's with it," Jordan adds, pulling the cloak in, examining the slight tear near the middle. Their mouth presses into a thin line.

Blink turns, eyes flicking to me. "Blood, you ever drive a moped?"

I blink. "No?"

She looks at Jordan. "You drive."

No room for argument. No time for argument. Jordan just grabs the handlebars and kicks the engine up. Blink taps the moped's rear with her palm, and it lurches forward as she skates alongside it, trailing behind. For a moment, I consider asking where Jordan learned to drive a moped, but then reconsider as a question better suited for a later time.

We don't even give the security guard the time of day, because we are leaving. Argus Corps? Bash and Lenny? The other two security guards? I hope they're out of there, because I'm going to feel really bad if anyone dies today. The smoke is billowing out of the warehouse now, rolling in fat, ugly plumes, and I can still feel the heat inside.

Maggie, Tasha, and Gossamer are waiting at the end of the alley, with a bright, bumblebee-yellow taxicab, looking shiny and freshly washed. Gossamer reclaims the moped, helping me into the back of the cab with a firm hand so I don't lean too hard on my bad leg. Tasha's already in. Gossamer yanks her helmet on, throws a leg over the moped, and grabs Tasha's wrist.

"Hold tight," she says, kicking off.

Jordan, Blink, and Maggie pile into the cab behind me, squeezing in, knees bumping. Man, I really fuck this ankle up a lot, huh?

The driver--a slightly bewildered Indian guy who has probably seen some weird shit driving this late but not this weird--gives me a look in the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised.

I point a finger forward.

"Anywhere but here."

We pull off just as the windows of the warehouse burst outward, glass raining down, the whole structure shuddering like it's about to collapse inward on itself.

Then, as we round the corner, leaving the warehouse behind--

We hear it.

BBBOOMMM.

Not a single blast, not a mushroom cloud, not a single fireball, but a chain reaction, one after the other, rapid fire, a rolling thunder of chemical ignitions, each setting off the next.

The street lights up behind us, shadows flickering against the cab windows as the heat chases our tail. The taxi driver looks like he's about to shit himself. Jordan laughs, and I feel it too, bubbling up from inside me like nervous vomit. It doesn't take more than a couple of seconds before the four of us are laughing crazy, even the taxi driver nervously chuckling along, clearly unsure whether or not he just got made the accessory to a crime.

"Alright, buddy," Jordan starts between giggles. "I'll tip you extra if you're willing to take us to Collingswood, wait like twenty minutes with us, and then drive us back. No, wait, no bridge. You got a favorite cheesesteak spot in South?"

The driver, thickly accented, stares at Jordan in the rear-view mirror. "It's two AM, sir. Nothing's open that isn't a convenience store."

"Yeah, that's fine. Just take us to South Street, wait twenty minutes, and then you can drive us back. Like I said, I'll tip you a ton. Like, here, here's forty bucks right now," Jordan answers, shaky hands reaching under their re-asserted cloak and pulling out two crisp, slightly wrinkly twenty dollar bills. They pass it through the little taxi window thing while Philadelphia becomes a slow blur around us.

The driver, just as shaky if not moreso, grabs the bills and tucks them into his cupholder. Finally, I let out the breath I've been holding, and the pain in my ankle rushes back to me. "You've got it, boss," he says, rounding the corner at a streetlight. For a second, I can swear that I see Soot on a nearby rooftop, staring down at us - but I blink, and she's gone. Already, I hear fire engine screams, ambulances, police sirens, headed their way towards this chemical explosion in North Philly.

I slump my shoulders. We win.

End of Arc 10: Plume

END OF YEAR TWO

End of Prologue

"So who's in charge in here

Barking out loud so clear?

'Cause I'd really like to meet him"