Saturday rolls around with the kind of lazy morning sunlight that you'd want to bottle up for darker days. Except I'm not soaking it up in bed, or sprawled on the sofa with cartoons chattering in the background like the soundtrack to a simpler life. Instead, I find myself pacing the familiar mats of the Delaware Valley Defenders HQ gym, a space that's more metal and padding than coziness.

There's a gleam of determination today, something about the softness of those leisurely rays hardening into something resolute. This is where I start taking back pieces of myself, the muscle memory and the reflexes dulled by hospital stays and convalescence - that's the big word for 'the time you spend recovering from an illness'. Or in my case, being punched by a nuclear reactor.

I'm eyeing the array of boxing gear spread out on a bench—headgear, gloves, and all—when Gossamer swoops in. "So they're finally letting you hit things again, huh?" she quips, her hands fluttering over the setup, arranging things that don't need arranging. A woven band keeps her hair out of her face, and I spy the callouses on her fingers. Signs of a life crafting, not brawling.

"It's about time," I answer, matching her brightness. "And who better to ease me into it than the team's silk-slinging seamstress?"

That draws out a laugh, bright and false as fool's gold. "Hey, you know they say it's the weak ones you've gotta watch out for." She winks theatrically, but even her levity is laced with an edge I've come to expect from a girl whose smiles are as cutting as her scissors.

"Please, you and I both know if Rampart sneezed too hard in our direction, we'd be across the state," I shoot back, only half-joking. Rampart's idea of a gentle pat could bruise steel.

She rolls her eyes, "You're telling me. But don't worry, I'll be nice. I only punch above my weight, not below it."

I can't help the smirk. "So, the bar's pretty low, then?"

Gossamer shrugs, a mock-offended arch in her eyebrow. "Low enough that even a dog could meet it."

The quips are like a tennis match of thinly veiled jabs, but there's a camaraderie in it. A shared understanding that we're not the front line, not the first charge—our strengths lie elsewhere. But today we're equals, paired up in this gym with a single, shared purpose—to get better, one punch at a time.

Her grin spreads wider, sharp as a needle, as she helps me strap on the headgear. It's all padding and promise. "Ready to dance, Bee?"

I nod, even if inside I'm a whole playlist of nervous energy. "As long as you lead, Goss."

The gym's air is thick with the scent of rubber and exertion. I bounce on the balls of my feet, trying to remember everything Rampart ever showed me about being rooted to the ground, even as I'm facing off against Gossamer whose feet barely seem to touch it.

"Keep your guard up, Bee," Gossamer commands, her voice both velvet and steel. She flicks a jab at me, deceptively light but quick as a blink. "Like you're shielding but ready to snap, yeah?"

My hands, encased in gloves that feel like they could double as personal flotation devices, raise higher. It's a more disciplined posture than I'm used to, elbows in, fists by my jaw. I'm itching to just wail on something—anything—but her gloves flicker out, rapping me on the headgear whenever my focus drifts.

"You're telegraphing. Stop showing me every thought that crosses your mind," Gossamer scolds gently, with a swift one-two that taps my gloves but reminds me she's got a reach advantage, gymnast build be damned.

"But thoughts are, like, lightning quick," I protest, bobbing to the side. "Aren't they?"

"Not when your left tells me where it's going five seconds before it does," she retorts with a click of her tongue.

Alright, Sam, get it together. I launch into a forward press, a flurry of punches that might have more in common with a windmill than boxing, but it's something. My left hook goes wide, not the piercing strike I envisioned.

Gossamer doesn’t smack it away so much as guide it past her, leaving me off-balance. "Precision over power," she says, illustrating the point with a jab to my side that doesn't hurt but certainly tells.

"Okay, Rampart," I verbally jab. How much have I heard the same thing from him? Is every single fighting technique I learn going to have to rely on me being precise? I hate being precise.

It's a rhythm, I realize—a different kind of fight from the frantic scuffles I’m used to. The punches aren't just wild swings; they're a language. And Gossamer, she's fluent. Her footwork is a delicate dance, giving and closing distance in smooth strides while she carries on with her boxing sermon.

"There you go, now, twist more with your punches. You've got power in those wolf muscles," she says, encouraging even as her gloved hands pat the air like she’s putting a puzzle together, one that I can't quite solve.

And yet, despite the metaphoric chess match, there’s something freeing about it. The structure, the dance of it. I let out a puff of breath, smiling under the headgear. "Who knew getting punched by a friend could feel this good?"

She chuckles, a punch-pull back as light as her namesake. "Friend? Let’s see if you still say that after a few more rounds, Bee."

The alarm on Gossamer's phone sounds, a starting pistol for the dance of knuckles and sweat. Our gloves are up, eyes locked, the world shrinking to just this—Gossamer and me, the space between us.

I feint left, a diversion of footwork while my right glove whips forward aiming for Gossamer's guard. She parries, reading my intent like a headline. I throw a left hook, but she’s not there, sidestepping with a grace that’s infuriatingly balletic.

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Our shadows on the floor tangle as I pivot, following her lead. I drive in with a series of calculated strikes, each breath-synced with motion. Jab to the body. Cross to the head. Her defenses are iron-clad, gloves up, deflecting, yet she’s always moving, light on those feet that never fully plant.

I cut the distance, aggressive, hungry for the hit that will give me a sliver of edge. My gloves are hammers seeking a nail. Left to her body, but she rolls with it, a fluid dip of her shoulder redirecting my power into the empty air. Right hook sails towards her head; she ducks, coils, then counters with a sharp jab that snaps my head back, a clear point scored on the invisible tally.

Determination calcifies in my veins as I reset, feet shuffling on the mat, seeking leverage. An uppercut, but she’s swift, angling away, turning my momentum against me. The world is a storm of leather and potential energy, every move a cast die.

A one-two combo from Gossamer forces me back, but I’m learning, anticipating. Our gloves graze, parry, strike—a symphony of impact that sings in the fibers of my muscles. Her counter lands on my ribs, a thud absorbed by layers of padding and will.

I'm undeterred, pressuring forward, each step calculated and reactive. Another feint—a dance step in this brutal ballet—a setup for the real play. My straight right cuts through the air, an arrow shot towards a moving target. Impact, a satisfying thud as glove connects with guard, and I follow through, the energy coursing up my arm.

She's unfazed, but I'm adapting, hungry for more—more contact, more challenge, more proof that I'm still here, still capable. An overhand right thrown with intention, a whisper of danger as it sails over her ducked form. Adrenaline and focus, sharper than any tooth, guide me.

Back and forth we weave, a chess match in punches thrown and dodged. Jab, cross, slip, counter—a cascade of movements all answered in the split-second language of fighters. Each hit absorbed is a note in our song, and I'm writing the melody with every swing of my arm.

The claps of gloves meeting gloves resound through the gym, a staccato rhythm underlining our duel. My senses narrow until there's nothing but Gossamer's motions in my vision—every feint, every pivot, every arching sweep of her arms as she parries my onslaught. I ignore the mounting fatigue in my limbs, the way my lungs clamor for air, even as my feet keep their insistent shuffle.

I launch another jab, quick as a striking snake, but Gossamer's evasion is slick as water. She returns with a hook, ducking under my wilder swing. My cheek stings with the kiss of her glove, a brush too close. The immediacy of combat, a hunger to land just one more clean hit, propels me. I can't let up.

Determination is a pulsing drumbeat in my veins, driving me to throw a combination—a one-two that’s blocked, a three-four sidestepped. But I’m learning her dance now, anticipation honed to a fine point. I wait for her advance, and when it comes, I’m ready with a counter that glances off her side. A minor victory in the grand melee.

We're two storms colliding, force against finesse, and for a time, we exist in a bubble of effort and exertion, the world beyond the mats an inconsequential blur.

And then, the shrill beep of the timer cuts through the air, a ceasefire in our unspoken war. Gloves drop, hands on knees, and we gasp for air like fish on land. My head swims with the vestiges of combat—the surge of blood in my ears, the juddery thrill of having held my own. It's a potent reminder of life, pulsing under my skin.

Gossamer is huffing too, the strain etched in her face a mirror of my own exhaustion. We slump to the mat in unison, shedding our headgear like old skins. I can’t tell if I'm grinning or grimacing, the joy of exertion mingled with a dizziness that makes the room tilt. But it feels right, somehow. It feels earned.

"Good… fight, Bee," Gossamer manages between breaths, her usual chirpiness weighed down by the lead of fatigue.

"Y-yeah," I sputter, my tongue heavy. "Who knew… getting pummeled by a friend could be so… rejuvenating?"

Laughter bubbles up, two tired souls finding mirth in the shared ordeal. We sit there, gulping water and shaking out the tremors in our muscles, grounded by the presence of one another. The spin of the room eases, the simple reality of rest knitting back the edges frayed by our spar.

"That right hook," she begins, voice steadying with every word, "was almost passable."

I scoff, a vestige of our banter, but it's muffled by affection. "Passable is just another word for awesome, right?"

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An hour drifts by with the easy camaraderie of teammates patching up and packing away the tools of training. The afterglow of a good workout lingers, muscles humming their quiet symphony of aches. I’m on the bench, feet still pulsing to the ghost beat of our sparring session, when Gossamer sidles up to me with a medkit.

"So," she begins, flipping open the clasp with a practiced ease, "word is we're gonna bump your survival stats up."

I quirk an eyebrow, following her movements as she lays out bandages, gauze, and a rainbow of other supplies that look like they belong in a game of Operation rather than real life. "By turning me into a walking first-aid manual?"

Gossamer smiles wryly. "Can't hurt. Literally." She holds up two different types of bandages. "Can you tell me which one's for a sprain and which one's for a laceration?"

I squint at them. "The… less sticky-looking one for sprains? Because… wrapping?" I hazard a guess, but I’m shooting in the dark here.

"Bingo." Her approval rings with a hint of surprise. "And the other one's self-adhesive, stops bleeding. Keep the sticky side away from the wound though—rookie mistake."

I nod, filing the information away mentally as if it were tactical data rather than first aid trivia. The truth is, I've always been better at getting injuries than treating them. I can regenerate through a lot, but I'm sure it would make my parents less worried if I knew how to patch myself up instead of just relying on my superpowers to push through everything. "Did Crossroads mandate I take first aid?"

"Yes," she says, matter-of-factly. She demonstrates a roll of gauze, her fingers nimble as she wraps it around her own arm in an expert mockup of a dressing. "Your turn," she says, eyes expectant as she hands it over.

Taking the gauze, I mimic her movements, clumsy but determined, wrapping it around my wrist. It's like a strange sort of hand-to-hand combat with the gauze. "So I just… wrap it, snug but not, like, tourniquet-snug?"

"You got it, Bee. You want to avoid cutting off circulation, unless you actually need a tourniquet, which—let’s face it—is usually out of the, 'Oh crap,' handbook." Her chuckle is gentle, forgiving my fumbling.

The thought of turning battlefield triage into my next sparring session feels weirdly right. I complete the wrap job, inspecting my handiwork with the critical eye of a novice craftsman. "Okay, not too shabby," I admit, and Gossamer nods.

"Not bad for a first go. By the end of this, you’ll be patching up paper cuts and scrapes like a pro. And, who knows, maybe even tie a tourniquet without turning someone's limb blue," she teases, but there’s pride in her eyes.

I can't help but laugh at that. "Baby steps, Goss. Let’s start with me not panicking at the sight of a first-aid kit."

"Deal." She packs the medkit away, securing each item with the care of a librarian shelving books. "Next time, we’ll level up. How do you feel about CPR?"

I groan but there's a smile playing on my lips. "Doesn't that mean I get to practice on one of those creepy dummies with no legs?"

She nods, solemn as a judge. "We'll get you two introduced. It's a… breath-taking experience."

The groan I let out is twice as loud, but the eye roll can’t hide my smirk. "I'm going to hit you with a brick."