The abandoned subway tunnel feels colder now, almost like the air itself is watching me. My blood sense tells me that Mudslide and Mr. ESP are making their way out, tunnelling through the concrete like it's butter. But I don't care about them anymore. They're just… gone, irrelevant. My focus is on the giant in front of me, Illya, his suit emitting a low hum, each of his lights individually enough to fill this space.

The metal pillars in the tunnel each act like mirrors, bouncing the light around. I'm illuminated from every angle. I feel especially pale in the light.

Illya's voice, filtered through the suit, is surprisingly calm, almost gentle. "What is your name?" he asks. I'm taken aback by his politeness. "How old are you? You should not be here, especially with that gunshot wound."

I square my shoulders, feeling the sting of the bullet hole in my belly. "I'm Sam, and I'm fourteen. And I'm not leaving," I reply, trying to sound braver than I feel. His massive helmet tilts slightly, as if he's studying me, trying to understand why a kid like me is standing up to him.

"You remind me of someone," he says after a moment. His voice is tinged with something I can't quite place — is it sadness? Regret? I don't have time to ponder it.

"I'm here to stop you, Illya. I can't let you keep hurting people." My voice is firm, but inside, I'm a whirlwind of nerves and fear. This is it, the moment I've been preparing for, and I can't mess it up.

Illya doesn't move, but I can feel his gaze weighing on me, heavy and searching. "Very silly," he says, rolling his shoulders back, taking a step away from me. "I will not fight a child. 'Junior superheroes', a madman's conception of justice. I will not fight you."

Anger flares within me, a burning tide that refuses to be condescended to. "I'm not just some puppet, Illya! You killed people — Liberty Belle, Professor Franklin… How many others? I'm not just some kid you can shrug off!" I shout, my voice echoing off the tunnel walls.

My fists, armed with sharp teeth, swing with all the might my adrenaline-fueled body can muster. They slam into his suit's chestplate, each hit with force, leaving dents in the metal. The sound of metal bending under my strikes is oddly satisfying. The suit may be strong, but I'm relentless. Each slam of my fists leaves dents in the chestplate; I can hurt him.

"You've taken lives, Illya! People who mattered!" I yell between punches, each word punctuated with a strike. "How can you just stand there and act like that's okay? How can you live with yourself?"

Illya's voice remains calm, almost detached, even as I batter his suit. "Your notion of 'justice' is naïve, young one. You are being used as a pawn in a war you do not understand. Adults have filled your head with ideals, using you as a soldier in their fight against those they deem 'undesirables'."

"I'm not anyone's weapon," I snap back, swinging with all my might. "I'm here because it's right. Because people like you need to answer for what they've done!"

His suit creaks with every blow, and he continues to scoot and step backwards, but his suit lacks the agility to really get out of the way. I feel an unwarranted surge of confidence. If I keep hitting him, I will break through.

Illya sighs, a sound almost lost in the mechanical hum of his suit. "And what of the lives I've saved? The people I've protected? Do they not count in your ledger of justice? My powers have kept the lights on in hospitals. I've given your cities light. People sleep softly on the street with their sidewalks lit by the lights your government extracts from me. When I kill, it is to survive - when I save, it is easily discarded. Have you forgotten your American notion of self-defense?"

I can't come up with a response fast enough, so I just swing. He'll feel me through my fists.

Illya raises his armored hand, catching my strikes with a power that feels like hitting a wall. His mechanical movements are precise, designed to block and deflect, not to harm, yet. "The Maccabees, the slaves led by Moses — my people have always fought for our survival," he says, his voice echoing from the suit.

I try to find an opening, slipping past his defenses. "But our people weren't chosen to lead through violence, Illya. We were chosen to use our power responsibly, to be a light, not to cast shadows."

His response is immediate, a slow but powerful swing aimed to push me back. "History is written by survivors, Sam. Sometimes survival demands harsh actions," he argues. I dodge, feeling the rush of air as his hand passes by, feeling it shove my hair in every direction.

"Survival doesn't justify harming innocents. There's a line between surviving and living at others' expense," I retort, trying to strike back. He catches my fist and squeezes, and the pain is sharp and immediate. Then, he lets go. I shake my hand out. "'Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor', my Pop-Pop told me."

"You're part of the tribe, as well?" He asks, stepping back, shaking his head.

I wipe blood from my face, shaking out the other hand. It hurts, but it's not broken. "How else would I have gotten these brassy undertones?" I crack, trying to maintain momentum. I feel a little more pale with every passing second, as blood ebbs from my body. The adrenaline is flowing back, though, and that makes it feel better - dulls the pain.

"Be serious, child," Illya responds. "You should know very well then the story of the Dybbuk--"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard when you told it to Diane. Before you killed her," I interrupt, my right knee starting to buckle. I grunt with exertion, forcing it back up. I put my fists in front of my face.

Illya's towering presence looms over me as he speaks, his words heavy with the weight of experience. "You are possessed, Sam. Not by one, but by two spirits thirsting for vengeance. They cloud your judgment, fuel your anger. They seek my blood through your hands, but my cause is purely that of survival. Can you not see the nobility in that? What makes their cause more worthwhile?"

My fists fly in response, striking against the hard metal of his suit with little effect. Each punch to his fists and forearms sends pain shooting up my wrists, each shin strike against the unyielding armor feeling futile. "Nuclear engineers believe in ghost stories now?" I quip, trying to mask the growing pain and fatigue. My voice is laced with sarcasm, a defense mechanism against the overwhelming odds.

He shakes his head slowly, his movements deliberate in the suit. "It is a metaphor, child. You carry with you the desires and grudges of those who can no longer fight. You are their vessel, driven not by your own will, but by theirs. How did you know I was a nuclear engineer?"

I stagger back, feeling the sting of his words. Is he right? Am I just a pawn in a larger game, manipulated by the memories of the fallen? The thought sends a chill down my spine, but I push it away. "I'm fighting for what's right, not for revenge," I insist, though my voice lacks its earlier conviction. "And it was a lucky guess."

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Illya's voice softens, a hint of sympathy breaking through. "Very specific guess. What do you know?"

"Enough," I reply, lowering my head and ducking under his wingspan. I slam my skull into his chestplate, rattling a deep breath out of me, and then punch, and punch, aiming for the dents my knuckles left before, each jab and hook deepening them, slowly chipping away at this mountain of eternity. "Enough to know you can't justify what you've done."

"And they taught you that in superhero school? The life story of the enemy, should you meet him in a dark tunnel one day?" he replies, almost casually grabbing me by the collar of my coat and flicking me away like he's flicking gum out a window. I curl up, protecting my neck as I roll over incomplete subway rails, thumping against each rotten wood plank until I skid to a halt inches from a wet puddle.

Regaining my footing, I brush off the dust and face Illya again, my anger simmering. "Yeah, strange, isn't it? How I guessed the nuclear man in the giant robot suit was a nuclear engineer," I say with heavy sarcasm. He seems amused, or at least as amused as someone can be in a suit like that.

"If you must know," I continue, "Liberty Belle left all her notes and detective equipment to me. So yeah, I know a thing or two about you." The revelation seems to catch Illya off guard. For a moment, there's a pause, a silence that's almost tangible.

He chuckles, the sound resonating through his suit. "So, I'm fighting the inheritor of Diane's will. How poetic." The condescension in his tone is palpable. "But if you're trying to convince me of the righteousness of your cause, young Samantha, you're doing a very poor job of it."

I clench my fists, my claws digging into my palms. "I don't need to convince you of anything," I snap back. "Your actions speak for themselves. You can't hide behind excuses forever."

Illya sighs, his suit shifting slightly. "You're young, Sam. You see the world in black and white. But life… life is a spectrum of grays. One day, you'll understand that."

I shake my head, feeling a mix of frustration and determination. "Maybe, but today's not that day. And today, I stop you." My resolve is firmer now, buoyed by my anger. I don't need to prove myself to him. Right?

He slaps both metallic hands against the chestplate of his suit, where my fists have left it peppered with tiny, almost infantile dents. So small as to be practically irrelevant. I'm losing more and more blood, but I'm only feeling better and better. My brain is humming, thrumming with fresh adrenaline. I can see his silhouette, along with where he nicked himself shaving, or repairing his suit, or whatever murderers do in their free time. When he moves, there's a slight delay, like when Playback gave me the wireless controller during the New Years party. However long it takes for him to translate his movements into the suit's movements.

Input lag. That's what Playback called it.

I can use that.

The noise of his shield rattle snaps me out of my battle-planning reverie. "Come then, Samantha! Steel your resolve. Come, and break your swords against my armor."

I wipe a little snot from my nose, and then I sniff the rest in. It's cold down here.

"With pleasure,"

The battle intensifies as I shift from words to action. I'm like a relentless force, a combination of agility and ferocity that surprises even myself. Ducking and weaving around Illya's slower movements, I exploit the slight delay in his reactions, using the platform as my stage. I climb onto it to evade his lumbering strikes, then drop down with calculated ferocity.

My attacks are a blur of motion. I unleash elbow drops from above, each one reinforced with teeth erupting from my skin, turning my body into a weapon. My axe kicks, powered by new fangs emerging from my heels and ripping through my skin, rain down on Illya's armor. The sound of metal denting under my assault fills the tunnel, a cacophony of battle.

Illya's attempts to hit back are thwarted by his own suit's limitations. His powerful swings are intimidating, but the millisecond delay gives me just enough time to dodge. Each evasive maneuver feels instinctual, as if my body knows exactly where to be at every moment. It's a dance of attack and retreat, a test of endurance and strategy.

With each strike, I feel more empowered, more determined. I'm not just fighting for myself; I'm fighting for justice, for those who can't fight anymore. My breath comes in sharp gasps, and the pain from my wounds fades into the background, replaced by a singular focus: to stop Illya, to end this battle on my terms.

My body begins moving almost on its own, a symphony of strikes and evasion. Each punch and kick I land on Illya's suit feels like a triumph, the sharp teeth emerging from my skin snapping into the metal, leaving behind more than just superficial marks.

I dart around him, using the narrow confines of the tunnel to my advantage. I climb the walls, pushing off with powerful jumps, launching myself at Illya from unexpected angles. My attacks are relentless, a barrage of teeth-enhanced blows that target the weak spots in his armor. I feel like I'm in one of those shows that Lily always is trying to get me to watch. The kind with the airheaded, brave protagonists that win through sheer guts, spirit, and willpower. That's me. That's how I'm going to win.

Illya's responses are slow but powerful, his suit's movements like the rumbling of a mountain. Each time he swings at me, I feel the air shift, a warning of the massive force behind his punches. But I'm too quick, too nimble. I slide under his arms, jumping back before he can adjust his trajectory.

My body is on fire, every muscle singing with the thrill of the fight. The pain from my wounds is there, but it's distant, a background noise drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I'm aware of the danger, the risk of pushing myself too hard, but I can't stop. Not now, not when I'm this close.

Illya's suit begins to show signs of wear. Dents and scratches mar the surface, testament to the ferocity of our battle, but he hasn't slowed down at all. The only noises are the hissing of steam and the clanging of bone on metal.

The battle reaches a critical juncture. Illya, growing weary of our relentless skirmish, decides to shift tactics. "Enough of these childish games," he declares, his voice echoing through the suit. Suddenly, his suit vents out a blast of steam in every direction, a surprise attack that catches me off guard. The scalding heat engulfs me, searing every exposed inch of my skin. The irritation it causes on my gunshot wound is excruciating, sending waves of pain throughout my body.

As I double over, coughing and trying to soothe my burnt skin, Illya's words pierce through the haze of pain. "Diane had strength and experience, yet she failed. You are just fourteen, a child. Even if you breach this armor, radiation will claim you. And if not, cancer awaits. You have so much life ahead, friends, loved ones who would mourn your loss. Why do you persist? Why risk so much?"

I try to speak, but all that comes out is a fit of coughing, my lungs struggling to cope with the hot, damp air. My face, hands, and feet itch unbearably, the skin red and raw from the steam. I double over, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through my body.

The thought of my friends, my family, the people who care about me, fills my mind. Illya's right — what am I doing? Why am I risking everything for this? The doubt creeps in, a shadow over my resolve. But then, a spark of defiance ignites within me. I'm here because it's right, because someone has to stand up to him.

I raise my head, meeting Illya's gaze through the steam. "Because it's the right thing to do," I manage to say, my voice hoarse. "Because if I don't, who will?" The words are more for me than for him. To keep myself moving. The pain just motivates me more.

"You still have a life ahead of you, Sam," he replies, almost pleading with me. "You are a willful, stubborn child. I don't want to kill you."

"You seem a decent fellow. I'd hate to die," I joke, hacking and coughing until I spit up phlegm into the nearest puddle. My entire body is shrieking, combined heat and cold, itch and numb, pain and soreness, wet and dry. Everything, every sensation, every form of pain short of electrocution, and frankly, I don't trust that he doesn't have a taser somewhere in that suit of his.

We clash once more, but either I've gotten slower or he's gotten much faster. I see my skin coming off, peeling in flakes, with every motion, and every time my fists aim for his chest they only catch his palms or forearms. He reminds me of a sumo wrestler, stanced wide, unmovable. Nothing I can throw at him even causes him to nudge an inch backwards. "Hit me back!" I yell, my teeth glinting against the lights of his suit.

"I won't!" He yells back, with the first hint of genuine emotion in his voice, transmitted through those speakers of his. But it surprises me when I hear it. I expect anger, or sorrow, or maybe some more condescension, but really, what I feel most is fear. Not that he's afraid of me, but he's afraid of something else I don't know about. My fists collide again with his palms. If he really wanted me dead, all he'd need to do is grab me by anything and use the piledrivers I know are in his arms. But he won't. He won't!

"Do I look too much like your daughter, is that it?" I ask, and he stops stone cold.

My knuckles cut through a steam line, sending both ends of it whipping around wildly before I hear a thunk and it stops.

Then, he grabs me by the chest, and lifts me above the ground.