The rain slams against every roof, every car, and every square inch of concrete, falling so densely and thickly that it's a flood of white haze in my vision. Visibility is near zero. It looks like the rain in movies, when something really sad is happening, just an absolutely drenching downpour as the air gives up all of its hard-earned water. The raindrops form a staccato rhythm that quickly blurs into a solid wall of sound, occasionally punctuated by the wailing sirens of emergency services, a couple of roads down, waiting for the all-clear.

Bulwark turns away as Mr. T-Rex stumbles backwards and falls, a plume of boiling steam pouring out of his body as he reverts to his more nimble human form. It seems like he can't create steam clouds without changing shapes - he'd have done so on several occasions if he could've. This time, though, there's no charging, just Mr. T-Rex swiping his hand through the fog, clearing it up, rain turning his green overcoat several shades darker.

"Are you hurt? Does anywhere need bracing?" Bulwark asks, bending down to come close to eye-level with me. I can just barely see his eyes through narrow slits in his armor, same with his nostrils and mouth, tiny vulnerabilities in otherwise impenetrable layers of stone.

"He stepped on my foot. Other than that, nothing I won't walk off," I say, looking past Bulwark, watching Mr. T-Rex roll his shoulders, test his ankle, ensure he's minimally damaged. Bulwark reaches down, and as he touches my leg, wrapping his fingers gingerly around my shin and foot, it becomes encased in a solid layer of stone. The stone feels light as air, but I can tell from the way it's dragging against the ground that it weighs exactly as much as that much rock should weigh, Bulwark's ability is simply compensating for the load.

I rest my foot on the ground, and it feels much better, having the stable structure supporting it. "It takes him a couple of seconds to transform. Every time he does, he throws off one of those steam clouds. I'm also pretty sure he can think just fine in dino mode," I tell Bulwark, taking a couple of steps back.

Bulwark turns towards Mr. T-Rex. He claps his hands together, and a third layer of armor forms, giving him another half inch or so of thick, dense rock around himself. "I have about fifteen minutes of armor. Every layer cuts my time in half. That brace of yours will last an hour. All we need to do is survive, young one. Stand clear."

Everything Bulwark says is simple matter-of-fact. It's a tone that brooks no argument, but in a gentle way, not in a forceful way.

I stand clear. Bulwark grabs the bumper of one of the cars that Mr. T-Rex damaged and yanks it off the ground like it's a paperweight. With some effort, he bends it into a better shape, squeezing the lower-middle of it into a handle, rolling the tip into a ball. A solid layer of granite forms over it, turning it from bent, distorted metal into a mace.

Mr. T-Rex clenches his hands, and then unclenches them, leather creaking. Or at least, I imagine if I could hear anything over the rain, the leather'd be creaking.

I decide now would be a good time to try and scavenge from the wreckage.

Slowly dragging myself to the side, I watch Mr. T-Rex's eyes flicker from Bulwark to me and back again. Assessing threats, the way a predatory animal might. Is this kill worth the trouble?

He decides "yes". His grunting and snarling is audible over the storm, and I get the lovely sight of watching the foam pour out from between his chimpanzee-like grimace-grin, pooling at the corners of his mouth, while steam emits from his skin in jets. "He's transforming!" I shout out to Bulwark, who was already moving before I even said anything.

I've never seen two adult superhumans fight before, I'll be honest. Like, yes, Multiplex has sparred with Bulwark and Belle and, on occasion, himself, as demonstration for us kiddos. And of course I've seen videos of cape fights, from knock-out brawls that are basically just your everyday street fight to the spectacular performances of the heroes in New York City and Chicago. But I've never seen a cape fight up close like this. I've never been the one being defended.

Bulwark takes about six paces forward and swings, his makeshift mace ripping through the air and CRAKing against a half-formed Tyrannosaurus skull, sending the partially-transformed Mr. Tyrannosaur reeling sideways. It was only a glancing blow against his snout, aimed blindly in the steam-fog, but Bulwark's enhanced strength inside his own armor combined with the enhanced weight of something he was swinging around like a wooden dowel combine to turn that glancing blow into something tremendous. Not enough to break bone, but enough to send reeling.

The way Bulwark's explained it to me is that he never has any trouble lifting anything his powers enhance. And if he's armoring a person, that specific person won't feel the weight of their armor, and nothing else. But to everyone else, everything weighs as much as it would if it really was covered in a half-inch thick layer of granite. I'm so bad at math, but that's gotta be at least… what, 20, 30 extra pounds on that fender? I'll have to ask my math teacher later. The momentum carries the mace rightwards, and then the wind rips through Mr. T-Rex's steam cloud, dispersing it into swirling ribbons.

Mr. T-Rex looks disgusting when not done transforming, a halfway point between man and monster. His human skin has shredded open, swallowing his clothes entirely, bubbling like a baking soda volcano. He doesn't look solid, like he's made of goopy foam, the texture of bubble gum. Strands of sinew occasionally peek out from the gaps in his skin as it rapidly regrows over itself, forming layers just like Bulwark, layers that turn quickly into scales, then quills. It only takes another second or two before his stretched out face breaks into the typical T-Rex snarl that I've grown uncomfortably accustomed to.

Have you ever read Animorphs? My mom tried to get me to read it about a year ago. I bounced off of it, but I should get back to it. Anyway, it's kind of like that.

I slowly drag myself behind the stairs that lead up to what used to be my house, eyes protected from the rain by my mask's lenses. I'm extremely cold, and I just know I'm gonna get sick from being just rained on like this, but there's stuff I have to get - stuff I have to make sure is still there, still unbroken. Mementos and important objects.

I hide behind the stairs, getting in close to what remains of one of the brick walls, trying to get some shelter from the rain.

Mr. T-Rex, now fully transformed, lunges forward, his feet skidding along the ground while his mouth snaps down. He's not playing anymore - this has gone from demolition to attempted murder. I have no doubt that if he catches Bulwark in between those monstrous, banana-sized teeth, Bulwark's losing a limb, or worse. His mouth snaps shut with enough force that I can hear it, and Bulwark slides backwards on the ground, arms raised defensively. He's taking a sort of modified boxing stance, mace-wielding arm curled horizontally around his face, other hand lifted vertically to block his jaw.

Mr. T-Rex's teeth snap shut inches from Bulwark's face. Bulwark turns into his hips and swings, slamming the bumper against Mr. T-Rex's lower jaw hard enough to send a gigantic dinosaur tooth flying out from his mouth, lodging into the window of a nearby car. A couple of seconds later, it starts dissolving, turning red and ashy before just… falling apart into sludge, into jelly, washed away by the rain.

Weird.

Mr. T-Rex roars, head swinging through with the arc of Bulwark's swing. Taking advantage of the momentary lull, he swings back, using his head like a mace again and sending Bulwark skidding into a nearby car on the other side of the road. Bulwark plants his feet and barely dents the thing, more of a love-tap than anything else. I can just feel him gritting his teeth from here.

I look away for a moment to scramble in the debris, looking, looking, dredging my hands through bricks and dust and destroyed drywall. Somehow, I find it fast - my cell phone, and I take a second to build a small pyramid of, I don't know, stuff to guard it from the rain. It's already wet, and there's no way I can dry it off with my soaked t-shirt, but I can hope it's still functional. And if all else fails, I can salvage my SIM card.

It makes sense to me to find my phone, so I hope nobody judges me for it. I'll need a way to stay in contact with my parents when they return, and Jordan. Last thing I want is them coming home to the wreckage and assuming I got turned into a pink smear on the floor. I mean, I still might be turned into a pink smear, but here's hoping.

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I turn around to keep my eye on the fight. I have a feeling not looking at this for too long is bad for my life expectancy, a feeling that is vindicated when Mr. T-Rex's latest lunge sends him ripping through a nearby rowhouse's front door. One of my neighbors, and I can see them wincing and totally freezing up through the windows. Bulwark grabs the door frame, and a layer of stones sprouts from the air - followed by another, and another, and another, forming a tight vice around Mr. T-Rex's mouth that locks him in place.

Mr. T-Rex's tail swipes left and right impotently, as Bulwark takes the opportunity to land what I think any reasonable person would consider some "cheap blows". He aims right for the eyes, swinging his improvised mace with enough force that even the dinosaur seems in pain from it, entire body shaking and shuddering in agony. A second blow lands across Mr. T-Rex's facial ridge, and then Bulwark lifts up for a third, bringing it vertically down on empty space as Mr. T-Rex manages to yank their face free from the doorway. The granite remains in piles, while Bulwark notices the lack of a third hit and immediately jumps out of the way of a tail swing that misses.

The tail annihilates the railing in front of the rowhome, turning it instantly into a heap of bent, broken metal. Mr. T-Rex is left squinting, either blinded in one eye or at the very least bruised. That plus the rain has to make this a miserable slog for the two combatants - it's a miserable slog for me, and I'm not even fighting anymore.

I can feel my bones slowly, slowly shifting in my foot. It's painful and uncomfortable, but the support of the impromptu brace at least makes walking on it less miserable. I have to move gingerly, sliding across the wet carpet, not putting any weight on my broken foot, but it's better than walking on it in my shoes. Normally, I'd be objecting to being rained on this much, but all the adrenaline pumping through me is making it much easier to ignore.

It turns out, complaining about how wet socks are the worst feeling in the world seems like it takes a little bit of a backseat when you are trying to avoid being killed by a fucking dinosaur.

Mr. T-Rex swings around again, trying to use his tail to knock into Bulwark - but even with all six feet six inches of him available to hit, Bulwark is just too nimble for something so telegraphed. Bulwark ducks under it, watching for Mr. T-Rex to slow down his swipe, and then jumps. He grabs the narrow end of Mr. T-Rex's tail and hangs on for dear life, holding his mace in the other hand, like trying to get on a the back of a bucking snake. Mr. T-Rex roars, dragging his tail back and forth, while Bulwark collects layers and layers and layers of stone on the bumper, turning it into an anchor that Mr. T-Rex is visibly struggling to pull.

Bulwark lifts it up and slams down. The mace aims true at the narrow tip of Mr. T-Rex's tail, smashing it hard enough that I'm almost certain something broke, and then the stone falls apart, its time limit consumed. At the same time as Bulwark swings, he rips up with his other hand, tearing out a chunk of feathers just to rub it in.

Mr. T-Rex does not like any of these things, evidently. As soon as he has the opportunity, he turns around on his heel, and then again, and then flings Bulwark into the nearest car, flicking his tail out like a bullwhip. The car crumples inward entirely from the impact, demolished. Bulwark gets back up, dusting off his shoulders. If he's rattled at all, I certainly can't tell.

Mr. T-Rex lowers his head to the ground and snorts, his nostrils blowing the fog into tiny vortices (that means, like, a whirlpool). He charges forward, and Bulwark rolls under, letting Mr. T-Rex grind his face into the car's wreckage, just turning it into iron shavings, smushing it with his snout. Bulwark jams his fingers into the middle of the street, visibly exerts himself, and then yanks a manhole cover free, hefting it over his head.

I hide behind the corner of the ruined front wall of my home. I've already stuffed as many family photos as I can find into the same pyramid that my cell phone is hidden under. I get a better idea, and grab a tupperware container from the floor, one that was scattered about by all the destruction, and shove everything into that instead.

Then, I turn back to watch the tail end of what I have to assume was a fantastic shot put. As Bulwark spins around on both feet like a ballerina, the manhole cover takes on consecutive, growing layers of stone, turning it into a massive disk. Already, Bulwark must be pretty damn strong just to lift a manhole cover out the ground at all - I tried pulling at one of those things before and it barely budged. He's holding it with all the ease of a frisbee, and I don't know if that's his natural strength or the enhancement he gets from having the armor on.

Either way, he lets go. His aim is true, flicking it towards Mr. T-Rex's injured side, where his eyesight is worse.

The armored-up manhole cover careens through the air, cutting a path through the rain, which, thankfully, has begun to let up slightly. I barely even see it at the speeds its moving at, and when it strikes Mr. T-Rex on the side, it makes a tremendous sound almost like a dull thunderclap, bouncing off and up, its armor breaking off and crumbling into small pebbles. Mr. T-Rex stumbles back, a visible dent in his side, and steam begins to pour from his mouth and skin.

I grab some Hannukkah candles and shove them in the tupperware. I don't know. In case I need candles for some reason. I grab a knife. That one I also might need. I hide behind the bricks and debris, trying to make myself as small as possible, so Mr. T-Rex doesn't notice that I'm still around.

I can smell both of them, but it's hard to tell in the rain, constantly trying to wash away the blood and constantly distracting me, playing havoc on my sensory system. Bulwark is bruised up, and bleeding from the nose, coughing up blood, and Mr. T-Rex still has the cuts I inflicted on him, plus a few new bruises from Bulwark. I just keep myself small.

The rain continues to pour. Bulwark's armor is chipped in places. I haven't been keeping track of the time, but I can guess he's got ten minutes left, maybe eight.

I hear the sound of collecting stone. Bulwark adds another layer on, and cuts his remaining time in half again. Mr. T-Rex chuckles, wiping frothy spit from the corner of his mouth against his sleeve. They lock eyes for a moment, and some sort of mutual understanding passes between them, the mutual understanding of combatants.

I think it's a kind of respect.

Mr. T-Rex grabs a chunk of concrete from the ground, tossing it up and down in his hands like he's weighing a baseball. He starts running, arm winding back, and pitches it at Bulwark, an 80 mile-per-hour fastball off the streets that cracks off his skull like a ping-pong ball, shattering into pieces. Bulwark doesn't even seem winded, only recoiling a fraction of a second, charging straight ahead into the developing cloud of steam.

A second later, Bulwark is thrown ten feet back, landing on his butt and sliding against the ground like a stone being skipped on the surface of a lake. Mr. T-Rex keeps charging, and I take a mental note that he doesn't have to stand still to transform, feeling a bit silly that I even assumed that in the first place. Bulwark grinds his palms into the ground, bringing himself to a halt and sending a small shower of sparks into the air. Bulwark ducks underneath Mr. T-Rex's body, nimbly squeezing between his legs, and Mr. T-Rex whips around again, pawing at the ground with one foot. Even his adorable little Tyrannosaur arms are visibly trying to clench, like he's squeezing his fists.

It's a tiny moment of levity. I'll take what I can get, cowering in the ruins of the ancestral Small home of fourteen years. Mr. Tyrannosaur lowers his head again, like a bull preparing to charge, and Bulwark, chipped pieces of granite flaking off of him, armors up one more layer.

If I'm doing my math right, he can't have more than two minutes left. Probably a minute and a half, maybe even less time. But does Mr. T-Rex know that?

Mr. T-Rex charges, zigging and zagging across the wet street, clearly trying to make himself less predictable.

Bulwark stands resolute, arms up, defending himself boxer style.

Mr. T-Rex's movements are more erratic, but still predictable - a zig-zag only goes one way. Bulwark winds back, grinds his feet into the ground, and takes Mr. T-Rex head-on, swinging his fist with every ounce of muster he has in him. The air is filled with a sound that sounds a lot like thunder as Bulwark's fist whips into Mr. T-Rex's damaged eye, and Mr. T-Rex's snout slams into Bulwark's torso. Cracks start forming in Bulwark's armor, starting at his fist and spreading throughout.

Mr. T-Rex and Bulwark both stand still, for a moment or two. A heartbeat passes, followed by another.

Mr. T-Rex lets loose an agonized roar, blood leaking from the corners of his damaged eye. His snout shakes away from Bulwark, and he rears his head back, howling in despair. He looks at me, nostrils flaring, making it clear that not only did he know where I was, but that this was far from over, and he begins to trod off. I notice his uncomfortable gait, taking a small amount of satisfaction in the damage I did to his ankles.

Bulwark's body heaves with exertion, and his armor plating dissolves off of him, decomposing into small bits of gravel that quickly turn into even smaller bits, then into dust, and then, nothing, leaving him in his construction-equipment-like costume. He smiles in my direction, panting, blood leaking from his nose around his mouth and into his beard.

He lifts his hands up to the sky, knuckles bruised and bloody. As if on queue, the rain, which had been steadily weakening, stops, and the clouds break open, casting a beam of light across Bulwark's entire body. The entire street begins to shimmer and sparkle with reflected sunlight, bouncing off the wet asphalt. In the distance, I hear the heaviest footsteps in the world, and then a characteristic burst of steam, a loud hiss like some sort of firecracker going off.

Two adult capes. No words, no lip, just one fighting to save my life and the other fighting to kill me.

Bulwark closes his fingers gingerly, bringing them down to his sides. "That was a close one, young one… I am sure we can leave the rest to the police, or other heroes in the area. I had let many of them know before I came here to stand by, so, hopefully, we should be able to catch him on the way out," he explains breathlessly, answering my unasked question.

I clutch my tupperware container full of odds and ends to my chest like a lifeline, and I drop the knife, glad that I didn't end up needing it. "Come along, young one. Let us get you some medical attention."

I swallow, thick and heavy, and nod.