I spring into action, feeling the dampness of the ground under my bare feet as I charge towards Mudslide. Each step is a splash, a declaration of my presence, meant to draw attention. Mr. ESP's flashlight remains fixed on Jordan, pinning them in its glaring beam - he's unwilling to let them get away, which means that my approach can only be heard, not seen.

Good. I like not being shot.

As I run, I can sense Mudslide preparing to counter. The ground beneath me starts to change, becoming unstable, shifting. I've anticipated this; I know his tricks. With a burst of speed, I leap at the last moment, launching myself towards him through the air, throwing myself head-first into him.

The tackle is swift and brutal. We hit the ground hard, the impact sending a jolt through my body. I can feel Mudslide beneath me, struggling, caught off guard by my sudden assault while he skids against the wet concrete.

The struggle on the ground is fierce and desperate. Mudslide, larger and heavier, squirms under me, a brick raised high in his hand. But I'm faster, more agile, and my knuckles are ready. As he swings the brick down, I dip aside and roll, my fists finding his face, ripping through his suit, tearing into his flesh. His blood, warm and wet, splashes against my skin, and I can smell him now, a metallic tang in the air. He misses.

Mudslide yells for help, his voice a mix of pain and rage. "Help, damn it!"

But Mr. ESP, his voice cold and focused, responds from afar, "I'm busy."

BANG!

What is that, six shots? Seven? One, two, three, four, five… No, I think it's the fifth shot. It's so hard to keep track.

In my blood sense's eye, I watch Spinelli, leaping near-silently, stretching himself from pillar to pillar in ways circus clowns could only dream of. I stumble to my feet, fists raised, keeping an eye on Mr. ESP in case I suddenly need to duck. I want to charge him so bad, but there's currently another circus clown in the way.

BANG!

That's six. Jordan's under fire. I watch a gash open up on their shoulder, and then focus back into the fight as a brick meets my face, smashing me backwards, bouncing me into the wall like a tennis ball.

The blood flows from my nose, and I redouble my efforts. I keep attacking, my punches fueled by a mix of fear and adrenaline. Mudslide tries to fend me off, but each swing of his brick is met with another strike from me. My knuckles, armed with shark-like teeth, leave deep gashes on his face, each one a victory in this dark, damp hell. But he swings back, and I feel my bones, my muscles buckling under the assault.

Despite the pain, Mudslide fights on, his determination as solid as the brick in his hand. But I can feel him weakening, the strength of his swings diminishing. I'm not going to let up. I can't. Not now.

BANG!

Seven? Swing, duck, swing, bob, jab, duck, hook. Diane didn't force me to only learn Aikido. She let me use a speedbag. My fists, improved by the discovery of this new aspect of my power, are drastically enhanced. With each jab, I punch a hole in Mudslide's skin. With each hook, I tear his vest open, revealing the slash-resistant fabric within, and beneath, the bulletproof vest.

"Knock it off!" Mudslide roars, swinging the brick for my head. I get my dukes up, but not in time to avoid a crushing swing to the forearm. Something is sprained, I can tell immediately. I go stumbling sideways, and he flicks the brick out like he's about to skip it across a lake.

I know what's about to happen before it does. My body screams in pain as several dozen pieces of brick, pieces that liquefied and then re-solidified as soon as they stopped touching Mudslide's hand, embed themselves in me like heavy needles, like rough knives. The ones that miss me scatter against the wall with dense whumpfs, breaking into smaller bits.

I grab one, rip it out of my forearm, and grit my teeth.

BANG! Eight. He must be halfway through his magazine by now.

In the midst of chaos, I catch a glimpse of Jordan, focused and determined. They cut across horizontally, compressing the tunnel vertically. The move is sudden, unexpected. Mudslide's head slams against the concrete ceiling with a sickening thud. It's a small window of opportunity, but it's all we need.

Spinelli, still clinging to the ceiling like some kind of urban ninja, seizes the moment. He drops down - a couple inches now, at most - wrapping himself around Mudslide's arm in a tangle of limbs. The struggle is brief; Spinelli wrestles the brick from Mudslide's grasp. For a moment, there's a sense of triumph, and then Spinelli tries to wrench the rest of the sack of bricks out and away from Mudslide. That… does not exactly work, but that's alright.

I capitalize on the distraction, landing two quick jabs on Mudslide - POP POP - a visceral satisfaction in each hit. Then, I shout to Spinelli and Jordan, "Go!". Spinelli heeds the call, disappearing back into the ceiling with a grace that belies his gangly form, while I grab a fistful of bloody water, fling it into Mudslide's face, and pad past him, rolling down back onto the tracks and laying ramrod still as soon as I can.

Jordan tries to cut the space again, but it's a risky move. Mr. ESP's gunfire follows them relentlessly, nine, ten, each one getting closer to hitting something vital - a streak across Jordan's arm, another across their thigh, as Mr. ESP constantly stalks forward and a little around, adjusting his aim. "I'm sort of having a situation here!" Jordan's voice is laced with a mix of fear and frustration.

"Shoot her in the head, idiot!" Mudslide yells, dropping down to the ground to retrieve bandages and alcohol wipes from his pockets, dumping them out onto the wet floor, scrubbing his eyes with the backside of his sleeve.

"This gun isn't high caliber enough to shoot through solid steel, Mr. Mudslide. Don't worry. I have plenty of ammunition," Mr. ESP replies, calmly, coolly, and definitely loud enough to be heard intentionally. BANG!, Eleven. I'm starting to grow used to the sound of gunfire echoing in this space, but my ears still hurt - it's so much louder than they make you think it is in the movies. And even when you've heard it before, like I have, you're never ready for just how loud it is.

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He's like a shadow, moving with an eerie calmness that belies the chaos around us. I'm doing my best to stay hidden, crouched in the dampness of the tunnel, but a misstep betrays me. My foot splashes into a puddle, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent tension of the underground. It's all the cue Mr. ESP needs.

He pivots with a speed that's almost inhuman, his gun raised in a fluid motion. The flashlight attached to it pierces the darkness, and I freeze, a deer in headlights. The twelfth shot fires, a loud BANG! that resonates in my bones. I feel the bullet graze my shoulder, a line of fire that sends a shockwave of pain through my body. I grit my teeth, the pain sharp and immediate.

In the momentary chaos, Jordan seizes the chance to flee. They dart into the dark, a mere shadow among shadows, evading the deadly precision of Mr. ESP's aim. The thirteenth shot misses its mark, the bullet embedding into the concrete with a dull thud.

I scramble behind a pillar, pressing my back against the cold, rough surface. The flashlight beam sweeps past me, and I hold my breath, trying to blend into the shadows. My shoulder throbs with pain, a constant reminder of my vulnerability. I'm pinned down, Mr. ESP's suppressive fire keeping me in place. I can hear his footsteps, measured and deliberate, as he moves closer. I'm trapped, and every second feels like an eternity as I wait for his next move. "Two left," he calls out, and I take a breath. At least I will have died with my shot counts accurate.

"Don't tell them that!" Mudslide chides, his face freshly patched up with a latticework of band-aids, gauze and padding sloppily wrapped around and stuffed up his torso.

I feel Spinelli, close enough that I could reach out and touch his fingertips, but too far away to do anything about. I swallow hard, and prepare for gunfire, trying to control my breathing. "What, like it's going to matter? If they wouldn't run around so much, I could get off a clean shot and it'd be all over fast. You hear me, kids?" Mr. ESP taunts, while I clench my body up, pushing new teeth out of the tips of my fingers, like claws on a cat. Turning my hands into morningstars. "You're just making it hurt more!"

"Gargle my balls!" Spinelli shouts from beneath Mr. ESP, having squeezed himself into the space around the rails.

In the pulsing heart of darkness, Spinelli becomes our savior. His flashlight becomes a beacon of hope just as much as it's a weapon. From his hidden vantage point beneath the tracks, he flicks it on, the beam cutting through the darkness and aimed straight at Mr. ESP's eyes from beneath. The surprise is evident, even in the dim light; Mr. ESP stumbles, the sudden burst of light blinding him through his sunglasses.

His balance falters, his feet tangling with the railing. It's all the opening Spinelli needs. With a swift motion, he smacks Mr. ESP's ankles with a brick, sending him toppling over. Mr. ESP flails, arms windmilling in a desperate attempt to regain balance, but it's futile. He curls up instinctively, trying to protect his head and neck as he crashes to the ground, his gun once again clattering out of his hands. I expect it to go off, but it doesn't.

Pain shoots through my shoulder as I hustle out of the now-darkened pillar, onto the next one. I keep my hands out in front of me, smearing blood where I can to mark my location, my feet splashing through puddles, running further into the tunnel. Each step takes me deeper into the unknown, away from civilization, away from help. The darkness envelops me, a wet, cold blanket that clings to my skin, as my 3d map develops.

Spinelli strobes the flashlight for a moment or two, just to disrupt and reset Mr. ESP and Mudslide's night vision - at least, that's what I assume he's doing. He might just be futzing with the battery, but either way - it's a clever trick, one that buys us precious seconds. In the ensuing confusion, Spinelli scatters as well, disappearing once more into the shadows after clicking his flashlight off.

We're deeper in now, further away from the exit, further away from any semblance of safety. The darkness feels heavier here, pressing down on me with an almost physical weight. My shoulder throbs in time with my heartbeat, a constant drumming that keeps me anchored to the present. We're in uncharted territory now, in more ways than one.

Amidst the unforgiving darkness, I feel the raw energy of my regeneration working overtime. The burning sensation on my side ebbs and flows with overwhelming adrenaline, starting to pull itself together, scab up, scar over, slowly but surely. I clench my teeth, tasting the iron tang of blood in my mouth, my senses heightened. I need to keep moving, to find Jordan and Spinelli, to make sure they're okay.

Using my blood sense, I track down Jordan, following the faint trail of their blood. The bullet cuts across their body paint a vivid picture in my mind. I reach out, my hand finding the fabric of their sleeve. "Come with me," I whisper urgently, pulling them along. We need to stick together, now more than ever.

Next, it's Spinelli. I find him by tracking the tiny cut on his thumb, a small beacon in the overwhelming dark. I can feel the tension in his frame, his body coiled and ready for action despite the fear I know he must be feeling. "I need to handle Mr. ESP," I say, my voice low but firm. "I can survive a gunshot, you two can't. Can I trust you to handle Mudslide?"

Spinelli's response is immediate, his voice a mixture of determination and fear. "Of course you can," he says. I nod, even though he can't see it in the dark. We have our roles to play, and now it's time to act. With renewed resolve, I turn my focus back to the task at hand, watching for the tactical light on his gun to get back up and sweep back through the murk.

"I can see you two and I've marked the place up with my blood. Stay along this wall. Keep Mudslide busy. I'm watching until I'm dead," I whisper, my voice harsh and quiet.

Jordan and Spinelli don't respond - they just let go of my hands and climb onto the wet concrete, while I drop down into the… the part of the station where the rail is. Not the elevated part. It's high up enough that I'd need to haul myself with my arms should the need arise, but that's okay. I see Mr. ESP's flashlight on the second rail, across the middle divider, and keep my bare feet as quiet as I can make them.

They're working with incomplete information. I don't think my power cares about bandaids if they're not airtight.

My blood sense keeps me tuned into Jordan and Spinelli's battle against Mudslide. The chaos unfolds in a symphony of grunts, yells, and the squelching sound of mud and concrete shifting under Mudslide's powers. Amidst the cacophony, I hear the unmistakable sound of a brick turning into a lethal spray of buckshot as it's hurled through the air.

But my focus sharpens when Mr. ESP's gun shifts towards Jordan and Spinelli. Seizing the moment, I let out a yell, "Eyes up here!" and break cover, charging towards Mr. ESP. The element of surprise is on my side, but Mr. ESP reacts quickly. His gun barks twice in rapid succession. The first bullet grazes my upper arm, a hot line of pain that's immediately forgotten as the second bullet slices through my upper shoulder, terrifyingly close to my neck.

Adrenaline surges through me, dulling the pain, as I shoulder ram Mr. ESP. The impact sends us both reeling, but I'm already moving, teeth bared, ready for the next strike. My mind is clear, focused solely on the fight, on taking down Mr. ESP before he can do more damage. "You're out!"

"I lied," he responds.

Pinning Mr. ESP against the ground uselessly, I brace for his retaliation. He's quick, despite the chaos. Pressing his gun against my belly, he fires twice, each shot a thunderous explosion against my senses. "Seventeen round mags," he quips casually, as if we're just discussing the weather. "Just in case someone's counting cards."