Illya's grip on me is like iron, his massive hand encasing my torso and trapping one of my arms against my body. His other hand slams into the concrete, ripping some loose, while my feet dangle helplessly. His voice booms from the suit as he talks; "Leave her name out of your mouth!" he roars, his voice resonating with rage and pain. I'm held fast, one arm pinned to my side, the other flailing helplessly, seeking leverage that isn't there.

"Yulia wouldn't want this, Illya," I gasp out, the words barely a whisper. "Do you think Yulia Federov would be proud to know her father is a murderer?"

His reaction is immediate and furious. He begins to shake me around, his movements fueled by anger and hurt, rattling me like an action figure being played with too roughly. As I'm hurled through the air like a doll in a tempest, Illya's voice cuts through the chaos, "You know nothing of my sacrifices! To provide for them, to ensure their safety, I've dealt with devils! No bank would touch me, no service would aid me. I've watched her grow from afar, missing every moment of her life. Yulia Illyinichna Fedorova is my daughter, and she is untouched by the shame of Chernobyl!"

Then, he throws me. I go sailing through the air, and I can tell before that he was holding back. I only have a second or two to regret it before I go crashing into the ground, splashing through puddles and ripping my skin against the concrete and metal and rotten wood. Gunfire spits out over top of me, above the ground. I can't sense Jordan or Spinelli or Mr. ESP or Mudslide at all anymore. I can feel dying men above me, faintly, through the layers of stone and ground. I wonder - will I be joining them soon? The pain is intense, my body screaming for relief, as I nurse a broken ankle, bruises, abrasions, scrapes, my skin oozing blood, weeping.

I get back up. Chernobyl, fueled by rage, crushes through the tunnels, moving towards me far faster than anything that big should be allowed to move.

He looms over me. "Speak your last, Sam. I have changed my mind regarding gentleness."

"I know how you feel!" I scream, my voice raw with emotion. Illya halts, his massive suit mere inches from me, a looming threat that could crush me in an instant. "I'm sorry for bringing her into this," I gasp, trying to catch my breath.

Illya's voice is laced with skepticism. "You apologize now because you fear death. You seek mercy, but you will find none here."

I shake my head, dismissing his accusation. "It's not about mercy. You can kill me if you want. I just want you to know, I understand your sacrifice."

"How could a child possibly comprehend what I have sacrificed for my family?" Illya's tone is bitter, tinged with incredulity.

I gather my strength, pushing myself up despite the pain. "Because I've sacrificed just as much for mine," I say, my voice steadying. "Those bad guys that wanted you to do their dirty work? They wrecked my home in Mayfair with a fucking Tyrannosaurus rex. The home my parents scrimped and saved for, pouring every bit of their effort into it. And now? I haven't seen them in months, because I need to keep them safe. Because the bad guys showed up at my home and threatened me in front of them."

I take a breath, leaning on one of the support pillars holding up the subway tunnels.

"I missed Halloween. I missed Hannukah. I missed New Year's with them. I'll probably miss Valentine's Day. I'll probably miss Passover. I'll probably miss my birthday. I live in fear, in an abandoned building, because being near me puts them in danger. By the way, I'm squatting in that building, and they're trying to evict me. The NSRA wants to take Liberty Belle's notes from me and they're threatening me about it, like, legitimately threatening me. My girlfriend is mad at me because I've been so busy investigating this - investigating you and the Kingdom - that I haven't been on a good date with her in what feels like forever. It's tearing me apart, but I can't just stand by and do nothing. I can't live in a world where I could do the right thing and choose not to."

My rant pours out, a flood of words and emotions that leaves me breathless. Illya stands motionless, his suit a silent sentinel as he processes my words.

"I know what you've been through," I hiss, taking a step forward. I roll my shoulders until they crack. "I know about your exile. I know what you have to do to survive. I recorded your admission to Diane, and I've just been sitting on it ever since."

"You know," he repeats, almost silently, despite the digital amplification.

I grab one of his steam lines and rip it in half, on his hip. He takes a step back, but his legs need a second to recalibrate, and he ends up nearly stumbling, almost falling. "I know that your wife and daughter miss you!"

I throw my fist forward until it collides with a slow-moving palm. Then, I reach inside with my other hand, and rip loose another steam line, bringing some wires with it. "I know you're just doing what you can!"

I pull myself forward, ripping the joints loose from one of his fingers - and it falls off, revealing the servos inside, all the parts and metal. Steam and fluid pours out until valves clamp shut and redirect the pressure towards somewhere else. He pushes his arm against my entire body, and I rip out another finger.

"And because I know," another finger.

"That's why," another finger.

"I can't let you keep going!" I scream, disarming his left hand with a shriek as I rip his suit's thumb off. This hideous strength reaches out from somewhere deep inside me, somewhere I've never seen before. My fingers are covered in teeth of all shapes and sizes - short, long, round, square, but all jagged, all sharp. I don't even remember summoning them. I rip loose another metal plate, and the teeth fall out, leaving red, angry pockmarks along my hands, claws torn out just like my still-regrowing fingernails.

I pant for air like a dog chasing its tail for too long. I'm running out. My adrenaline can only carry me too long, before I succumb to my gunshot wounds and pass out. I feel sharp streaks of radiation beginning to leak into the air - narrow, yes, but existant, sharp enough to cut and burn at my skin when they pass over me. I glance sidelong to check for blisters, but whatever pain I'm feeling seems to only be on my insides. And that's fine with me.

Fueled by a combination of desperation and resolve, I charge at Illya with the last of my energy, keenly aware that this might be my final stand. His suit, already showing signs of damage from my previous onslaught, becomes my sole focus. I target his hydraulic lines, steam tubes, and wires, abandoning my earlier tactic of denting his armor. Instead, I summon new claws, letting them sprout from my fingertips, turning my hands into shredding tools.

I'm a whirlwind of motion, darting around his massive form. Each slash of my claws severs another line, each tear rips through more of his suit's support systems. The more damage I inflict, the slower and more cumbersome his movements become. It's a race against time and my own waning strength.

Illya attempts to fend me off, but his suit's reactions are becoming increasingly delayed. The symphony of hissing steam and the clank of metal grows more frantic as he struggles to keep up with my relentless assault. My goal is clear to me now – to force him out of his armored shell, to bring him down to my level, where we can confront each other without barriers.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

With each passing second, his suit becomes less of a fortress and more of a prison. His once formidable defenses are now riddled with gaps and weaknesses, which I exploit ruthlessly. I can see the frustration and shock in his movements, the realization that his armor, his safety net, is failing him. The lag between his movements and his suit's response is only growing more and more, like the latency of his controller is increasing.

As I tear away another hydraulic line, a spurt of fluid hits my face, stinging my eyes. I blink through the pain, pushing forward. This is more than just a physical battle now; it's a clash of wills, of philosophies. I'm communicating through my actions, telling him that if he wants to win this battle, he can't hide any longer. He needs to face me, face the truth, without the protection of his suit.

Illya's movements grow sluggish, the once formidable suit struggling under the barrage of my relentless assault. The sound of tearing metal and hissing steam fills the tunnel, a testament to the intensity of the battle. I can see the frustration in Illya's attempts to retaliate, his once swift responses now lagging behind my speed.

I make one final push, channeling the last of my strength into a series of swift, precise strikes. Illya's suit, now barely functioning, emits a series of desperate whirs and clicks. I stand back, panting heavily, watching as the giant before me teeters, the reality of his vulnerability finally setting in. I feel each searing streak of radiation as it's exposed from the joints and fissures and seams. There's nothing he can do. He's stuck now.

Then, he laughs.

"I understand now. Truly, Diane could not have picked a more appropriate successor," he says, but I'm not sure that it's a compliment. I can almost feel his realization through his mechanical exterior. "You're serious about this," he finally says, a note of wonder in his voice. "You're really ready to die for what you believe is right."

"Yeah, pretty much," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady despite the pain. "I'm a superhero, after all. We don't really do the whole 'long life expectancy' thing. So come on, Illya. Let's drop the suits and the metal. Fight me, man to girl. See if you're really as tough as you think you are."

There's a long pause, filled with the sounds of our ragged breathing and the distant echoes of the battle above. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, Illya begins to move. The heavy thuds of his suit are like the beating of a heart, each step resonating through the tunnel.

"You understand the consequences," he says, his voice low. "If I come out, the radiation… it will kill you. And even if it doesn't, the long-term effects…"

"I get it," I interrupt, pushing myself up to a sitting position. "I know the risks. But this… this is about more than just surviving. It's about doing what's right, no matter the cost. Didn't you hear my rant? So come on, Illya. Let's end this. Just let another human see your face for the first time in however long."

For a moment, there's silence. Then, with a hiss of releasing locks and the grinding of metal, Illya's suit begins to open.

He's… almost handsome. A classical square jaw, with greying hair that curls over his face sideways, short chopped, maybe an inch long. A buzz cut that's been left to fester. His face is peppered with small cuts, razor burn across his smooth cheeks. That answers that. And his eyes are glowing, no pupils visible, no eye visible, just glowing, pale orange, with a vertical scar across his left eye.

Already, I feel the pain, the searing sensation that I have to assume is what it feels like to be microwaved. Or, like, x-rayed too hard. But I grit my teeth and bear it, the thing I'm best at. The chestplate hisses weakly, trying to pry itself open across all the damaged components, and he pushes through. He's big. His clothes are… minimal, a yellow robe that might've been part of hazmat equipment at some point, heavy gloves, heavy boots. His entire body is caked in dust, in scars, his shoulders broad. He's only a little bit taller than me. Maybe 5'8". Maybe 5'9".

He opens his mouth to breathe, and a peal of orange comes with it. My entire body feels like it's being lit on fire from the inside out.

"You've seen my face. And now, Samantha, you will likely die. Even if you surprise me, and slay me now, it will have been at the cost of your own life. Is that satisfactory to you. Are you willing to kill me in self defense? Are you willing to kill me to satisfy your ghosts?" he says, looking at me odd, like he's unused to seeing anyone outside of a camera view. "So small…"

I sigh, and it hurts to breathe. My stomach already rebels, and I feel bile dripping up my throat the wrong direction. I've been thinking about it this entire fight - what to do once I actually prised him from his turtle shell. Am I willing to kill him for revenge? For 'justice'? For 'the greater good'? I can't be the judge of that. I'm not a murderer. I'm not an executioner. That's not my job. Will the courts be fair to him? Will the world? Will I?

"No. I'm not."

"Excuse me?" he responds, visibly taken aback. "Are you insane?"

"Yes," I reply, bluntly. I cough, and hack, and I feel blood come up with it. I lurch forward, and he tries to walk back, stopped by his own suit clogging the railway. "Now shut up with your philosophizing, old man. Pretend I'm Yulia."

"What?" is all he manages to get out before I throw myself forward, putting my arms around him, squeezing him tight. He must be right. I am insane. To think that this care bear shit would have a snowball's chance in hell of making change. I think about the way my dad derisively talked about the hippies and their ineffectiveness. That 'make love, not war' falters in the face of missiles and bombs. Peace cannot prevail over nuclear aggression.

I wonder if my mom would call the symbolism 'on-the-nose'.

Illya stops, stunned, for a moment, and then puts his arms around me. Then, he shoves, and I go flailing backwards, my head splashing down into a puddle. "I won't. I won't," he says, his face paler than it was when I first saw it, all the blood drained from it. "I can't," he says - to me, or to himself, I wonder?

"I figured that wouldn't work," I say, wiping blood from my nose. A fresh flow, recently burst. Illya looks panicked, desperate, as he tries to pull his suit back around him, like a tortoise trying to retreat for the winter. My mom said they don't hibernate, they brumate. He's trying to do that - to brumate, to lock himself up, to make himself safe again. I put my fists back up, and squeeze, and the teeth feel so much easier gliding through my soft flesh. When they come out, for once, so too does a spurt of blood. "What if I just knocked you out and left you here? Can my conscience work with that?" I ask, half-expecting an answer. "Deal?"

But Illya doesn't respond. He's desperately pulling at controls as if I haven't severed every line of hydraulic fluid. His suit slowly creaks to life, working on its last vestiges. I see as he straps himself in, the tanks of water that begin boiling through mechanisms I'm probably two PhD degrees away from understanding. Steam pours itself through the redundant lines while his suit re-assembles, closes up, prepares for takeoff.

Is he… weeping?

"Yulia… Olena… I'm so sorry. Please forgive this failure of a man, this coward," he cries - he whimpers, slowly pulling his suit away from me, the helmet snapping back around his face. He tries to turn sideways in the tunnel, the metal scraping against the concrete, leaving showers of sparks - but he doesn't care. My body is burning up like a furnace.

"Hey! When you make it to the surface, do us both a favor and turn yourself in, alright, Illya?" I croak, feeling my body already beginning to give up. My head begins pounding, and the energy is draining out of me. No matter how much adrenaline I'm trying to muster, it's not enough. I don't know if I'm experiencing organ failure, but it sure feels like it - like my stomach is shutting down. My heartbeat is getting more and more erratic. "Illya!"

"What!?" He screams, his voice distorted, brickwalling, straining against the resolution that his speakers can provide, with his real voice just peeking out from between the cracks and crevices. As he screams, his entire suit whips around, limp arms smacking uncontrollably into the pillars holding up the subway station. "Bedevil me no longer, you wicked child!"

"When you get back to Ukraine… don't forget to send me a postcard!" I shout back down the tunnel, flashing him a thumbs up. "And be careful of the agents outside!"

What did I just do? I had the opportunity. I could've stabbed him in the throat. I could've ripped his shoulder out with my teeth. I look at my arms, and they're covered in blood, skin peeling off, misshapen new teeth bubbling up to the surface like my skin is boiling liquid. Why did I hug him? Why did I think that would work? Everything I've been working for since Liberty Belle's death feels like it's slipping between my fingers.

No. He's not a monster. He's just a sad old man. But he killed people. But he saved people. It's all so complicated.

I look down the tunnel at his darkening form, as the lights go out on his suit. I don't know if they're losing power, or if he's trying to hide himself in the murk.

I vomit. It's unceremonious. The little bits of food I've eaten today come out along with a gout of blood.

My last conscious moments are filled with doubt.

Did I do the right thing, Pop-Pop?

Am I a superhero yet?