The air is full of a dull ringing, like the sound you hear in movies when a bomb goes off next to someone's head, except I'm not sure if it's actual noise or if it's just in my ears. Either way, I don't like it - I can feel the bruises already forming in my chest, and a pressure building around my head.

"What the fuck, PB?" Gossamer shouts, hands clasped over her ears.

"Wasn't me!" He shouts back, while Deathgirl stares at her hands. For a moment, I see them - two mouths, or things that look like mouths, having formed inside her palms, tongueless and buzzing. That's where the noise is coming from.

Car alarms blare out. Patches claps Deathgirl on the shoulder. "'Atta girl. You go bust up the rest of the street while I take care of them, okay, honey?"

"She's a power copier!" I point out, barely able to hear my own voice. Everything feels muffled, even the piercing wail of nearby car alarms. Broken glass and rubble are scattered all along the street, and the air feels thick, clogged, like it's congested.

"Gale, cut her off, but stay loose," Crossroads barks.

Gale opens her arms up, her upgraded costume's underarm wings billowing out to catch her own wind. She flaps once, twice, and then takes off upwards, while Deathgirl turns around and starts running, silencing car alarms as she goes.

Patches charges at us. Rampart steps in front of me, and there's a sickening crack as Patches swings as hard as she possibly can at Rampart's stomach, her wrist and knuckles shattering on impact. Dust kicks up from Rampart's feet. She hops back, shaking her wrist out with a cat-like yowl of pain while it repairs itself, and the rest of her lackeys take the opportunity to join in.

In the fleeting moments of chaos, Rampart and I exchange a glance Just charge. My feet dig into the ground, pushing me forward, side by side with Rampart.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Pumice making a move, grabbing the broken car and dragging it across the asphalt like a broom. He grinds it into the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris that quickly swells up into a thick, choking billow in the dry October air. My teeth clench as the dust cloud envelops me. It's thick, scratching at my eyes and throat, but it's not enough. Not like what happened on the boat. Not like the burning, scalding steam of Mr. Tyrannosaur.

That's real chaos. This is just an inconvenience.

From somewhere in the swirling brown-gray, I hear Puppeteer's voice. Frustration is evident as she commands her strings, but the dust disrupts her precision. I imagine the invisible tendrils seeking out Pumice, reaching, grasping, but finding nothing.

Above the haze, a shadowed figure rises — Gale, soaring, catching the wind under her costume's wings. She's going for Deathgirl. Chrysalis, that bug girl, joins the aerial dance, catching the currents and launching herself towards Gale. It's a showdown I'd pay to watch on any other day, but right now, my focus is on the ground.

Deathgirl's eerie silencing is gone, replaced by the echoing sounds of conflict. Every punch, every shout, every thud resonates. My own breath feels loud in my ears, each gasp a testament to the intensity of the fight.

I catch sight of Patches pounding at Rampart's chest, mere feet away, and tackle her into the nearest surface with a running start. Her own blood betrays her - even in this dust cloud, I can catch her just fine, in the moments where her skin rips open, and the two of us go sailing into the nearest car as I shoulder-ram her out of the way. Behind me, I hear a monstrously heavy sound, what I can only assume is a car being flipped over like a plastic table, trying to crush Rampart underneath it.

The car bounces and crumples at our impact, forming a dent as Patches's head bounces off the window just hard enough to crack it, spiderwebs forming in the glass. Her hair is disheveled, caked with a thin layer of dust, and she lets out a wordless scream as I slam my knee into her crotch. While she's reeling, I wrap my arms around her, pinning her arms to the side, and crak my head into hers, sending her bouncing into the window again. It shatters this time, breaking into dozens of shards of glass.

There's a loud crack as I feel her shoulders dislocating under me. Before I have the time to really parse it, overwhelmed with the noise and the sudden flow of blood I can smell above me, from Gale, her arms are wrapped around mine, and her knee comes screaming into my pelvis, an eye for an eye. She rears back and smacks her head against mine, before shoving my arms aside so I go stumbling backwards. In the distance, another BOOM! sends a shockwave of noise, followed by the just-so-slightly delayed sounds of shattering glass. Then, the shockwave hits the two of us, kicking up the dust cloud into spinning, swirling eddies, giving me just the second I need to sidestep Patches' unpracticed charge.

A squealing sound rips through the air as Chrysalis goes sailing into Patches like a human missile, knocking her aside. I recognize the indents in her skin and wings immediately, with Puppeteer having hooked all ten strings around the bug-girl, stopping her from interrupting Gale's interception of Deathgirl.

The titanic noise of fists colliding with each other fills the center of the street, as the majestic show in the middle of it all plays unimpeded. Rampart and Pumice are locked in a stand-off in the middle of the street, seemingly balanced, a human-shaped boulder against an unmovable object. It's almost comedic, like two stubborn kids in a playground. Just as I think that Rampart has the upper hand, Spindle leaps out of nowhere, wrapping his long, sinewy arms around Rampart's neck. Spindle’s spider-like limbs cling to Rampart's back, choking the life out of him. I can't help but think of how, in another life, Spindle might've made an excellent professional wrestler. This isn't a fair fight, but who said street fights were fair?

"Rampart!" I shout, trying to be heard over the din. Projectiles shoot overhead - marbles? Ball bearings? Either way, whatever Blink threw zooms past me at enough speed to render them almost invisible, striking Rampart's back, and by extension, Spindle, like buckshot.

Playback's shoes skid along the dusty ground, and as Patches gets up, ready to swing at me again, he swings for her head like a baseball batter with a collapsible baton instead of a baseball bat. If I didn't know she'd heal from it, I'd have thought that was an instant concussion. Blood sprays from her lips as her head flicks with the force.

I don't have time to eyeball everything. Chrysalis, dusted off and angry, swats at me with outstretched claws, each one looking more like a dog's claw than some sort of bug's claw. Do bugs even have claws? File that one away for later. She scratches me across the face, mostly bouncing off my mask, but her thumb and index finger catch across my lips, and the taste of blood fills my mouth, followed by a painful burning sensation.

Oh. She's venomous.

I hear Playback's taunting, but among the chaotic din, I don't actually interpret any of it. It goes in, and then bounces right back out. I'm too focused on trying to duck out of the way of Chrysalis's swipes and kicks, just like dodging blows from Rampart, except slower. Her first claw caught me by surprise, and my lip feels swollen already. She won't get a second opportunity.

"I don't want to knock you out," I shout over the increasing noise of howling wind.

"Just try!" Chrysalis titters back, her voice high pitched, almost fairy-like. I put up my dukes and jab twice, catching her on the chin, followed by the chin again. She's slower than the sandbag, if anything. She might have dangerous powers, but I've got dangerous limbs. I bring my shin up and swing through her, and she crumples. Whatever she's got in her circulatory system, it doesn't register, but I do see it leaking out of her sides, staining her clothes with a greenish-white stain.

What happens next only really registers a second or two after it hits me. I've noticed the wind picking up, but I assumed that was just Gale working her magic, up until my blood sense feels Gale's silhouette sailing over me. While I'm busy processing that, something sharp and heavy catches me from the side like a bullet, slamming me through my undersuit, right where my guts were torn out the first time. Sharp, white-hot pain hits me like fire, then like ice, as the bruise forms. Even regeneration can only give me so much pain resistance.

It's only after I have a second to catch up to the present that I realize that a parking meter was thrown at me. Spinning like a shuriken, the second one catches me on the other side, ripping open my shoulder. I try to warn Playback to get down as a third one, without spin, sails straight for my chestplate.

I grit my teeth as it hits, feeling much like I'd imagine a bell feels when it gets rung. I feel plates crack underneath my armor, things that will require replacement, and my immediate impulse is a feeling of bleak discomfort at the cost, followed by a slight relief that I am not dead, and not impaled by a parking meter. Everyone besides Pumice and I have taken some sort of squat, and it's not long before I'm forced to my knees by a powerful downdraft. Debris streaks around me, like I'm in the eye of a tornado.

Deathgirl floats above us, no longer with mouths inside her hands. No, now she's the epicenter of a massive windstorm, her hair whipping every which way out of her hoodie, glaring down Gale. "Goss!" I scream over the din. "First aid!"

I watch Deathgirl strain, grunt, and contort as she uses Gale's power to rip a loose car door off a broken car. I try to stand up, even with the burning, throbbing pain throughout my entire body. I put myself between Deathgirl and Gale. The car door goes flying like a frisbee.

I brace for impact.

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It flips mid-spin, going from horizontal to flat, like a sail catching the wind. It smashes into my face, and the world goes white. I know, instinctively, that I've been knocked out. Maybe my nose was broken, too, given I just got a car door thrown at me.

The world tilts. Everything becomes a haze of colors, shapes, and noise. For a moment, darkness claims me, and it feels almost peaceful, like the silence of a submerged pool. But that doesn't last. A rush of adrenaline, maybe the effect of my regeneration, jolts me back to consciousness. My head throbs as I push myself back to my feet, every inch of my body screaming in protest.

Just a nap, huh? Not your best idea, Sam.

Barely on my feet again, I sense fresh blood - not just mine, but Gale's too. It's faint, a grazed wound, perhaps. But it's enough to guide me to her silhouette. She and Gossamer are now behind the very car Chrysalis was rammed into.

I take a step, aiming to direct Gossamer to attend to Chrysalis, but the ground seems to sway beneath me. Trying to be as non-verbal as possible, I gesture at Chrysalis and then at Gossamer, hoping she understands. She gives me a puzzled look. The weight of the situation weighs on me. Damn it, just do it!

The tornado of dust and debris continues to swirl around us, making vision almost impossible. But within its vortex, I can sense the echoes of conflict. Playback and Patches seem to be caught within it, their forms struggling against the tumultuous winds. I can hear Playback's defiant shouts, intermingled with Patches' frustrated screams. It's a desperate dance between sound and silence, and I can't help but marvel at the chaos of it all.

Yet even in this mayhem, Pumice stands tall. He's far heavier than Rampart, which makes the difference in the gusty whirlwind. His rocky form seems to brush off the winds like they're nothing, and he's taking advantage of the situation. The repeated thuds and grunts tell me Rampart's not having a good time. The ground vibrates with each of Pumice’s blows.

Then, there's Spindle. Where did he go? His elongated form was a perfect target, but he's vanished. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Did he fold himself away somewhere? Is he okay? Or is he just avoiding the fray? I try to focus on him but it's impossible, he's not bleeding and he’s too hidden.

Crossroads - I can faintly sense him, the adrenaline in his system making his blood flow a little faster. He's managed to bypass the chaos and is chasing Deathgirl. He’s sneaking through a side alley, trying to get around the tornado. But where are Blink and Puppeteer? My heart races faster. They're out of sight, and neither of them is injured enough for me to sense. I pray they're okay, maybe they've managed to find some cover. Or maybe they're formulating a plan. I can only hope.

Everyone's accounted for. I catch, for a second, Fury Forge's bomb-detecting robot being caught up in the windstorm. It smashes against the ground, grinding against it like a kid trying to give themselves rugburn.

Blood leaks from my nose and into my mouth.

I watch as a small rock sails into Deathgirl hard enough to send her spinning through the air. When she looks towards its source, she sees Crossroads, begins to adapt - and immediately plummets out of the sky, her legs caught by invisible strings. Guess they went as a group. I only get to watch for a second as Crossroads and Daisy stare each other down, locked in some kind of… Psychic battle? Then, Crossroads becomes even more visible in my mind's eye as blood bursts from his nose, followed by the same thing happening to Daisy. His eyes flicker, and my legs sweep out from under me.

Barely a second after thinking about everyone's positions, I'm slammed to the ground. The air escapes my lungs in a whoosh, and my vision's filled with the glint of Patches' eyes, burning with wild anger. The weight of her body pins me, and I can feel the vibrations of her growl in my chest.

"Thought you were done with me?" she sneers, saliva flecking from her lips. One of her hands is on my throat, fingers digging in, the other trying to restrain my flailing arm. I'm clawing at her, but she's strong, and those regenerative powers make it almost impossible to get a grip. Each twist and turn I try only makes her grip tighter, her resolve firmer.

"Get… off… me," I manage to hiss out between gasps for breath, biting at her fingers. I can taste the metallic tang of her blood, making her recoil momentarily. It's the opening I need. Using my legs, I kick up, putting all my weight and momentum into it, sending her flying a couple of feet away from me.

But she's back in an instant, lunging again. This time I'm ready. I duck to the side, trying to keep her off-balance. Every time she comes at me, I use her own momentum against her, making her miss her target or stumble. But she's relentless, and every time I dodge, she's immediately back on me.

Crossroads' voice slices through the chaos. "Bee! Left, duck! Now, right!"

Trusting his advice, I move as he dictates, the moves keeping me just out of Patches' grasp. I can't keep up this game forever, though. I need to end it, but I can barely see straight, let alone plan a counter-attack. He has to manage everyone else, too - I just happened to key in on my own name.

Suddenly, a blur comes into view and vanishes again, near the edge of the street. The sound of blows connecting at an alarming speed fills the air. The high-pitched, frustrated screams of Deathgirl indicate that she's in the thick of it with Blink. I can only tune in to Blink when she lands, her power more useful for jumping when it comes to her own transportation, but Deathgirl is nearly invisible, a blur of moving greys and blacks. The air is filled with a sound like loud pop rocks as they exchange projectiles.

Suddenly, Patches grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling me in. I snap my jaw at her, but she dodges just in time. She's learning. Our struggle is a desperate dance on the ground, with neither of us giving an inch. I elbow her in the ribs, and she responds by headbutting me. Spots dance in front of my eyes, and I groan in pain.

My teeth clench. I bite down on her wrist, tasting the rush of blood again. She shrieks in pain, and I use the distraction to push her off me, rolling away and scrambling to my feet. She's right on my heels, though, coming at me with wild, flailing punches.

I'm fighting on instinct now, each block and counter coming from pure muscle memory. I catch her arm mid-swing and twist, hearing her yelp as her shoulder pops. But she breaks free, using her other hand to clock me in the jaw. The world tilts, and I'm on the ground again. I watch as her entire body rearranges itself to supply fresh blood to each new wound I inject into her with my teeth, veins forming, twisting, and then dying in fractions of seconds.

I belt out a shrieking bellow and swing the biggest haymaker of my life towards her face. I feel something in my knuckles pop, from me clenching my fist so hard it feels like it's about to break, and I feel the blood spill out from her cheeks as I make contact. She spins backwards like a boxer almost knocked out, a gash torn in her face that's immediately stitching itself back closed.

I feel blood in my knuckles, and glance down at my gloves. Did I just… break my knuckles on her face? I see only a single hole, between my middle and ring finger on my right hand, a tiny, almost unnoticable gap in the threads, soaking with fresh blood. I don't have time to dwell on it any more than that, as Patches swings at me right back.

The wind around us stops immediately as Spindle's gangly form materializes from the sewer, lunging for Gale. She tries to blow him away, his fingers stretching towards her, but she deftly avoids his reach. He's quick, though. With a sneaky grin, he rips her belt fan free, letting the blowing wind catch his lithe form and send him sailing backwards. Gale lets out a grunt of frustration.

I swing towards Patches, catching her with a left hook. She reels, and then swings back, and I duck out of the way. I know Rampart wanted me to learn aikido, but this feels so much better.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of color — Chrysalis, those vibrant bug-like wings catching my attention for just a second. Her injured side is hastily bandaged, and I glance towards Gossamer, looking thoroughly disgruntled, with a purplish scratch on her cheek. Okay. Maybe not my best compassionate decision.

Suddenly, there's a yell, and Patches is yanked back. Playback, wielding his baton, gets her in a chokehold. "Count sheep, bitch!" he shouts, straining to keep her in check, the baton's length pressed up against her windpipe.

My head's throbbing, the pain from my injuries making it hard to focus. Every movement feels like it's pushing my limits. I have to trust the others to do their part. Out of nowhere, there's a thud nearby, Blink skidding across the sidewalk, her skin riddled with tiny bruises and pockmarks and cuts from high velocity projectiles. Crossroads’ voice rings out loud and clear. “Gossamer, get Blink! Move!”

I turn down the road, feeling the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Deathgirl. She's looking right at me, and there's a manic fire in her eyes.

She's pissed.

Her hoodie ripples as sharp, pointed bone spikes tear through the fabric. It’s almost mesmerizing, how horrifying it is to watch her body rearrange itself. Her mouth hangs open like a hungry snake, filled with rows, and rows, and rows of razor sharp teeth, jutting out at awkward angles. There's no elegance. They don't fit together like mine. Just a human buzzsaw. If she clamps down and yanks her head, there's no neat little chunks - just an industrial grinder on someone's skin.

Every instinct screams at me to move, but I can't decide where. Left, right, forward, back. Too many choices. Blink, no, not Blink, she’s on the ground — shit, Crossroads? I don't remember who taught me what. Commit. Commit.

I charge headfirst towards her.

I duck down, trying to dodge the whirlwind of spikes and teeth that is Deathgirl. Each spike isn't just a weapon – it's a bleeding wound, pumping out the evidence of her self-inflicted violence, dark trails painting the air with every motion. That sensory overload from her newfound abilities is working in my favor. Her attacks are wild, uncontrolled, more desperate than precise. She swipes with all the aim of a blind goose hunting for frozen peas.

The concrete of the street scrapes against my palms and knees as I narrowly avoid a vicious chomp from her. She has the teeth, but she doesn't understand them, doesn't have the finesse of knowing when to bite, how to angle the jaw, where to apply pressure. They're all just random weapons, each scarier than the last.

Jordan's voice resonates in my head. "Being a superhuman isn’t about being strong, fast, or durable. It’s about being clever. No matter how strong your powers make you, and I bet they make you pretty strong, you’ll lose every time to someone who’s mastered every facet of their powers."

The image of our first confrontation, back when we were enemies, plays in the back of my mind. I remember how gracefully they maneuvered around me, how embarassed I was to have my face ground into the carpet, my head slammed against soup cans, my body stepped upon. They didn't overpower me, they outsmarted me. They focused on what they could do, and what I couldn't do, testing me, prodding me, hunting for limitations.

What's her limitation?

Too much. Too many teeth. Too many senses. Overwhelm.

Deathgirl comes at me again, her mouth gaping open to take another bite. Instead of dodging, I punch her in the mouth, feeling immediate guilt at having punched a small child in the mouth. Her teeth catch my knuckles and rip my fingers open, but it's all surface level. I fling blood in her eyes.

My own blood sense is only overwhelming in crowds. But given the scale of her own mutation, how every version of our powers just seemed to be amped up to 11 in her tiny little frame, I can only imagine what it feels like to her.

"Is this what you want?" I gasp, voice hoarse and raw. "To be a monster? Because you're sure acting like one!"

With a frustrated yell, she pushes off, a few more teeth left embedded in her own tongue. She spits them out, and immediately, her tongue starts reforming, almost at Patches speed. It makes me freeze, for the tiniest second, and she slashes at my face, catching my upper lip with her new claws, spikes of bone emerging from her fingertips. Every noise she makes is filtered through layers of teeth, a thick, bloody rasp.

I spit at her face, keeping her attention on me. I spray blood out into the air. I can't rely on physical strength alone here. I take a step back, trying to buy time, trying to think. Around us, the street's chaos is a blurry, indistinct mess of color and motion. But every time someone bleeds, I get a clearer picture. My world's slowly becoming a canvas of a bright red painting. Like a Rothko. All in shades.

I rip the expanding foam spray out from my utility belt and spray it into Deathgirl's mouth.