Billowing white foam bursts out like a science experiment, designed for smothering fires but just as effective in smothering small children. Eugh. She stumbles backwards, trying to scrape it off of her mouth as it begins to harden, but I keep the spray up. Her bone spikes give it plenty of surface area to anchor onto, to weigh her down. I twist the cap until it's locked again, slam the spray into my utility belt, and then grab for Deathgirl's wrist.
Deathgirl's rage-filled eyes dart to my utility belt, where the foam spray was, and she lunges at me, a berserker, moving faster than someone her size should. Her bone spikes scrape and chip on the concrete with every movement, producing an eerie chorus that sounds almost like teeth chattering. She's trying to predict my next move, but every punch, every swipe is wild, uncontrolled. There's pain in her face from the spikes tearing through her flesh, but she's pushing through it, driven by pure instinct and fury.
Crossroads' voice cuts through the cacophony of the ongoing skirmish. "Sam! Sidestep left! Puppeteer, pull back! Gale, provide wind cover now!"
I dodge left, narrowly missing a swipe from Deathgirl that would've left me impaled. She overextends, her momentum throwing her off balance. Puppeteer, taking the cue, shoots her strings, trying to wrap around the pre-teen terror. It works. For a moment. Deathgirl thrashes, her enhanced senses making her hyper-aware of every binding, every pull. With a scream that’s more animal than human, she retaliates by swiping those spikes all over, trying to cut through telekinetic strings that simply can't be cut. Puppeteer grunts in exertion, trying to maintain control.
I'm distracted by my discovery. My adhesive spray – gone. Who took it? Was it her? My mind races.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Playback's silhouette in my blood sense, and my heart lurches. Still. Not moving. That's bad.
Before I can process that further, there's a rush of wind, a shadow, and I'm slammed to the ground, the unmistakable weight of Patches on top of me. I gasp for air, feeling ribs creak under the impact. The taste of blood fills my mouth as I feel the repeated blunt force of her fists connecting with my face. Her grip on me is iron-tight, her intent clear. She's aiming to end me. I feel my head rattle around like a speedbag.
Blink is quick, reacting to my plight. The air's filled with the sharp pinging sound of accelerated marbles striking Patches. The first few strike her without much effect, but the barrage becomes relentless, causing her to flinch and momentarily ease her grip on me. It’s enough. I channel every bit of energy and leverage, twisting my hips and slamming my pelvis upwards, trying to whip her off of me. She stumbles, and I scramble back on my elbows and feet.
But I'm not free yet. Before I can get back up to my feet, she's back, barreling towards me like a freight train. The marbles are just minor annoyances to her. I need an escape, and fast. Just as the thought crosses my mind, a gust of wind envelops us, strong enough to push Patches away. As furious as Patches is, with Gale on the ground, she can't push past all the force.
A thought skitters across my brain. You never quite appreciate how painful it is to get sand in your eyes until a mini tornado is whipping around you. I stumble back, coughing, trying to get clear of the gusts and debris. There’s a sharp sting as something clips my cheek, but I ignore it, trying to put distance between me and Patches. But everything's a haze, a maelstrom of wind and dust and the cries of pain from my teammates.
Crossroads is still shouting instructions, but the wind distorts his words, making them almost incomprehensible. Still, I catch a few, like "Rampart, left!" and "Blink, get her off Sam!" I don't know what the situation with the others is, but right now, my world is reduced to the immediate threat in front of me.
I go up, my hair caught in a rough grip. I feel a couple of the strands snapping, and somehow that fills me with a deeper pain than any of the blows, despite me having lost several teeth at this point. Plus, my jaw might be broken. Pumice's hands are just like his namesake, and he flings me into Patches like a bowling ball.
Deathgirl strains for purchase against Puppeteer's strings, and I only hear, not see, Puppeteer crying out in pain at something. The shape that the new wounds form in my mind's eye, in her shoulders, indicates sharp and pointy. I have to assume Chrysalis's claws.
Where's Spindle?
Grit. Everywhere. It's in my eyes, in my mouth, on my skin. Every movement of Pumice grinds against my nerves, each hit feeling like I'm being scraped against the roughest sandpaper. He's solid, compact, and unforgiving. There's no give in his form, no blood to smell, no heat to sense. It's like fighting a statue, only with more friction burns. My teeth? They might be sharp, but what good are they against stone? None. No good at all.
The ground beneath us vibrates with the impact of our movements. Pumice tries to corner me, his arms coming down in arcing, grinding blows. I have to get close to land any blows on him, but the closer I get, the more I risk skinning myself raw against his stone form. Every time I think I have a gap, he's there, blocking it.
He slams a rocky palm towards me. My instincts kick in. I duck, feeling the swish of air above my head, and attempt a low leg sweep, trying to topple him. It's like trying to kick down a tree. He doesn't budge, and my shin screams in protest. Gritting my teeth – the ones I still have, anyway – I barely roll away from another of his downward strikes. I can't keep this up. I need an opening, some way to get him off his feet. But how do you knock down a mountain?
Crossroads, out of the blue, is dancing. I say dancing because it's the only way I can describe what I'm witnessing. The usually calm and composed strategist is a whirling dervish of action against Patches. Every move she throws at him is perfectly anticipated. He ducks, swerves, and counters with surgical precision. It's almost beautiful to watch, even in the thick of a fight. Patches lunges, and he sidesteps, sending her crashing into a nearby stand with a well-placed kick. It's clear the nosebleed he's sporting isn't slowing him down one bit. If anything, it's like it's invigorating him. Like a computer being overclocked. He kicks through her ribs and she clenches up.
In the midst of this chaos, I hear Rampart shout something, a warning maybe, but it's lost in the noise. My attention's jerked back to Pumice as he lands a stinging blow to my side. I hiss, pain flaring, but force myself to stand my ground. I need to be smarter. I need a plan.
There's a sharp cry and I turn my attention to Puppeteer and Deathgirl. The atmosphere between them is electric, chaotic, and dangerous. The air is practically alive with invisible strings. Everywhere Puppeteer moves a string, Deathgirl sends ten more flying from her wild, floating hair. It’s a literal string-off. Puppeteer's usual grace seems hampered. How do you fight someone with your own power, only more? How do you out-think yourself? And it's all amplified. Puppeteer tries to ensnare Deathgirl, but she just… dodges, responding with a barrage of her own strings. They dart around, seeking their target with deadly precision.
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Puppeteer gets one string per finger. Deathgirl gets one per strand of hair. How is that fair?
Pumice tries to move through the dense web, but his own form is too big, too bulky. Deathgirl erratically swings around by her own hair like the world's most fucked up octopus, and suddenly nobody can move, the entire battlefield brought to a standstill. There's no wrapping, unlike Puppeteer's strings, at least none that I can detect through the slight haze that marks the air where they are. Deathgirl doesn't have the finesse to wrap, lasso, and pull. She can only grab. She's too light to pull things to her.
As the air settles, I recognize the only sound audible. Gale, choking, straining. Deathgirl's bangs point directly towards her, smothering her. Gale's mouth is pulled open, tongue out - oh my G-d, she's literally smothering her. I grab hold of Deathgirl's strands, trying to pull myself on an invisible jungle gym, like a fly trying to climb into the center of the spider's web. Winds whip weakly around Gale as consciousness fades from her body. I keep my mouth clenched shut, feeling the invisible wires trying to pull my lips open, trying to do the same thing to me.
"PB! Now!"
Playback, lying sprawled on the ground, has been slowly and quietly siphoning the cacophony of our skirmish. I can't see his face but I know he's been waiting for a golden moment - and it comes when Crossroads shouts. From his position, he releases an explosive roar of sound, directed right at Deathgirl, centered on her. Unlike her, he can't make a physical force with his sound, but having however many decibels of a hundred different noises instantly playing in your eardrums can't be pleasant.
It's enough time for her to shift her power from Puppeteer to Playback, and the battlefield seems silent for a brief moment. Then, she falls, gravity remembering that it should be acting on her without her strings to hold her up. Chrysalis leaps out from the sidelines to catch her mid-fall, cradling her to her chest as she skids across the asphalt.
I shoot a brief glance at Crossroads. His moves, once a ballet of precision, have become tired, delayed shuffles. Blood, thicker than before, trails from his nostrils. He's flagging, and I wish I could help, but Pumice is still on me, still trying to land a decisive hit. I can't fight him back, but I can distract him. Just long enough to feel Rampart's footsteps behind me - I throw myself down to the ground and let the big boys handle each other, slamming together like sumo wrestlers.
Chrysalis, with an intense gaze, screams out to Deathgirl, probably a desperate attempt to change the tide. To my horror, it works. With a grotesque transformation, Deathgirl morphs, her limbs elongating, her skin hardening, and wings sprouting from her back, turning into a more menacing version of Chrysalis. A second set of arms rips out of her hoodie, followed by another set of large, billowing wings, and thick chitin rips out of her skin like an Animorphs novel scene. "Get her!" Chrysalis shrieks, urging Deathgirl towards Puppeteer.
Deathgirl is all too happy to oblige her violent instincts, a perpetual motion machine of fury in only the way a child can be. She charges.
A brief moment of eye contact between Chrysalis and me sends a shiver down my spine. I can see a flicker in her compound eyes, a flicker of something. Regret? I don't have time to dwell on it.
In the middle of this mess, Gossamer appears out of nowhere, reaching Gale just in time. The wind manipulator’s face is pale, eyes fluttering weakly. With a determined tug, Gossamer starts dragging her away from the main skirmish, seeking a safer spot. Gale tries to say something, but her voice is raspy and weak, her consciousness flickering on and off. They disappear from my view as they find cover.
Crossroads' fist meets Patches' nose. Patches growls with desperate rage.
My fingers itch with anticipation as I pick up on Puppeteer's current silhouette, her movements, and how they're mismatched to Deathgirl's newly terrifying form. "Pup!" I shout, throat raw, "Switch! Take Patches!" Even in this chaos, even with everything going wrong, we know to trust each other, to listen to those calls.
Puppeteer, her fingers already outstretched and weaving their intricate patterns, diverts her attention, nodding to me as she moves towards the crazed Patches, strings whizzing past my ear. My role now is clear: take on Deathgirl. The problem is, while her body is big and grotesque, her mind is still a child’s, erratic and unpredictable. And honestly? That's a bit scarier.
Blink and Chrysalis are locked in their own fierce ballet. The sound of buzzing wings fills the air as Chrysalis attempts to land a blow, a single weary slash somewhere across Blink's skin. Blink is a storm of motion, but she's obviously tiring. With every jump and vault, her trajectory gets less and less accurate, and every time she lands, it's less of a controlled fall and more of a desperate tumble. Every so often, she snags pieces of rubble, hurling them at Chrysalis with as much force as her waning strength allows.
Distracted by their dance in the sky, a jarring scream wrenches me back to my own situation. Deathgirl lunges, wings beating furiously, her extra limbs a blur. I brace, jaw set and teeth sharp. She's not as fast as she was at the start, not filled with that kinetic energy of a tantruming child. And I am. Adrenaline courses through me, a burning, invigorating pain. Her claws rip through the exposed, non-armored parts of my costume in a dozen different places, and I feel the venom immediately hitting my system, making my entire body scream out in pain. Cuts aching to close themselves shut.
I grin and bear it, and swing for her jaw. There's a satisfying crak as hemolymph spills out, and her chitinous body begins to reshape itself back into her crude imitation of my own powers. I reach for my belt, and she's already backing away, scared. It buys me precious seconds.
Behind us, in the corner of my eyes, I barely make out the form of Pumice, trying to choke out Rampart. The big guy’s eyes are glazed, bloodshot - he may be immovable, but he still needs oxygen. Clearly, Pumice is taking inspiration from his teammate's playbook.
Then, Spindle jumps on Pumice's back. I turn on my heel, trying to keep Spindle, Pumice, and Deathgirl all in my vision, while Deathgirl summons up the courage, the self-hype, to charge at me again with her newly reformed bone spikes. The situation is rapidly degrading. Rampart's body is going limp.
Spindle pulls out my adhesive spray, aims, and shoots it across Pumice's eyes.
A solid two second spray, before leaping off and dancing to the ground. Blink crashes into Pumice from above, and newly blinded, he can't brace himself for the impact - he goes stumbling down, trying to scrape it off of his face with a saliva-soaked hand.
I turn to Deathgirl. Her body begins stretching out like dough, and her face is nothing but pure fear, the kind of fear that you only get to see on fighting dogs. She catches me looking, and her expression hardens.
"Pumice! Daisy! Patches! We're out!" Chrysalis shouts. Patches' arms crack and groan as she tries escaping from Puppeteer's deathgrip, while Crossroads, dizzy and swaying, leans against the nearest car to avoid passing out. Puppeteer looks on in horror as Patches' arm breaks, twisting the wrong way around, and she grabs a hold of Puppeteer's strings to hurl her close, sending the lighter girl swinging towards her.
But before Patches can bring her horrifying fighting style to bear against Puppeteer, Spindle's arms are wrapped around her neck. In disbelief, I watch as Chrysalis and Pumice bolt down the street. I make a mental note to mention that later to the adults in the room. Patches tries to dislocate something, to find a weak spot she can slip out of, but Spindle's hypermobile grip around her is too tight, like a fishing net. Puppeteer drags against the asphalt.
"Daisy," I croak, my voice hoarse. "You…" I try to figure out what to say. You don't have to keep fighting? You don't have to be like this? But all I see in her face is a sort of stern horror. Her entire body turns into a pile of slender flesh, and she squeezes herself into the nearest storm drain.
"You fucking idiot! You're going to ruin everything!" Patches wheezes, trying to catch her breath. I walk up to her, debris crunching underneath my boots. Spindle's grip is tight, but his muscles are weak. He clenches, and squeezes, while Puppeteer tries to maintain a pin on her. I pull Patches into a tight bear hug, and finalize the lockdown.
She can't move at all now. She can only squirm, and squirm, and squirm, like a worm caught on a hook.
The air is filled with curses. It takes another four, five, six agonizing seconds before she loses her grip on consciousness and goes slack, slumping to the ground.