I'm crouched behind a stack of crates, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to steady my breathing. The warehouse is dark at 3 AM, but my blood sense paints a vivid picture of the scene unfolding before me. I can already smell Sparkplug through all the tick marks in his inner elbows. I can feel the anticipation rolling off my teammates in waves, their pulses quickening as we wait, watching, recording.

But everything goes amok. I hear the hiss of gas escaping, and the acrid stench of Miss Mayfly's stink bombs fills my nostrils, making my eyes water. The smoke is thick, a pungent haze that obscures everything in sight, escaping from every bit of the warehouse's orifices. I remember, with a sense of eerie trepidation, the masked figures milling about during our surveillance. I assumed they were working for the enemy.

I assumed wrong.

For a moment, my normal senses are overwhelmed by the chaos, the usually clear lines and shapes blurring into a confusing jumble, although thankfully my mask is tight enough on my face that I can't gulp down the smoke so readily. I blink rapidly, trying to regain my focus, but it's like trying to see through the world's smelliest house fire. The stink gas and the smoke bombs all congeal together into a noxious haze, like the world's most amateur chemical weapons. I hear something wet splattering and splashing, but since my blood sense doesn't smell anything new, I have to assume it's one of Miss Mayfly's various gadgets going off.

Around me, I hear the sounds of coughing and gasping as the belligerents (meaning - the fighters, myself included) react to the sudden onslaught. Some curse loudly, their voices muffled by the smoke, while others stumble and crash into obstacles, disoriented by the lack of visibility. There's a veritable choir of "Fucks" passed around like so much Thanksgiving stuffing.

I take a deep breath, the stink bomb's pungent odor burning my lungs, and force myself to concentrate. I plug my nose, and prepare to wade into the depths. Just as I'm starting to regain my bearings, a figure lunges at me through the smoke, the glint of a knife catching my eye. Instinctively, I raise my arms to block, the blade skidding off my arm guards while I clench my fists hard enough to force teeth up and through.

He cusses and gives another swing. The goon's knife clangs against my arm guards, the impact sending shockwaves up into my wrists. The one downside to the teeth growth thing - the way it punches right on my nerves anytime anything touches them. I grit my teeth (my actual teeth, not the ones on my knuckles) and push back, using my enhanced strength to force the goon's arm away, catching his knife on the backswing, rotating my hips outward. Just like Rampart taught me. I grab at the wrist with my dagger-like fingertips, and pinch hard enough that he can't help but let go.

The knife clatters to the ground and I donkey-kick it behind me.

Seizing the opening, I counter with a swift punch aimed at the goon's jaw. My knuckle-teeth sink into his flesh, and I push in, and then down. It's been a couple of weeks of training with Gossamer, and I've learned how to make myself a little… less lethal. How to push out teeth that are duller than normal - not by much, but it's something within my control - and how to push them out only just enough that they impact by centimeters, millimeters even. Less tiny knives strapped to my punches like I'm blading a newbie wrestler and more extensions of my knuckles, to give them a little extra oomph.

Just like the noise he makes as he spins down like a Punch-Out fighter. I can almost hear the sound effects in my head.

I don't give him a chance to recover. Surging forward, I plant my foot squarely in his midsection, putting all my weight behind the kick. The goon's breath leaves him in a whoosh, and he crumples to the ground, gasping for air.

As I stand over the fallen goon, I can't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. But there's no time to celebrate. Just as I'm starting to find my rhythm, a piercing sonic scream cuts through the chaos like a knife. I recognize it instantly as Squeal's doing, and I can't help but wince at the sound, feeling it rocket into me like a punch, a gust of wind that cuts through all the smoke and sends it spiralling into a whirlpool by everyone's feet.

I clap my hands over my ears, trying to block out the overwhelming noise, but it's like trying to stop a tidal wave with a paper cup. The scream seems to resonate in my skull, bouncing around like a pinball and making it hard to think straight. I can feel my teeth vibrating in my gums, and for a moment, I'm afraid they might actually shake loose.

"Gah, make it stop!" I hear someone yell, their voice barely audible over the din. I think it's Compass, but I can't be sure. The scream is too loud, too disorienting. The longer it goes on, the louder it gets, the more it hurts - a physical, painful impact that rattles my bones in the most literal sense.

Taking advantage of my momentary distraction, one of Sparkplug's guys, I can tell from the suit, appears out of nowhere and lands a heavy blow to my ribs. I feel a sharp crack, and a searing pain shoots through my side. Almost certainly a fracture. 100% a bruise.

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I stumble back, gasping for air as the pain threatens to overwhelm me. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and for a moment, I'm afraid I might pass out. I cuss at myself mentally. I've literally been cooked alive by a human microwave and this is what threatens to KO me - a wallop by someone without any actual super strength?

No, no way.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I try to hunt for something to cling on to. Everyone is getting slashed up, sans maybe two or three people, but in the chaos, with so many unfamiliar silhouettes, I can't keep track of anyone not named Jordan. And Spindle's silhouette is, thankfully, not part of the tussle yet. Not that I don't trust his fighting ability, but he is a little fragile. I try to look back towards the man that just assaulted me, but either someone else dealt with him or he's retreated back into the chaotic abyss to go bother someone else.

It hurts to breathe, but I force myself to take shallow, steady breaths. I can't let the pain slow me down. But there's no time to catch my breath. The air around me crackles with electricity, and I can feel the hair on my arms standing on end. Sparkplug. "Like an evil version of Professor Franklin," and while I can't say I'm familiar with Professor Franklin's powers, I do know what getting zapped by my science teacher feels like during a class activity.

It's like that. But worse.

I barely have time to react before an electric blast sizzles past my head, singeing the tips of my buzz cut. The smell of burnt hair fills my nostrils, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. It's not a pleasant scent, but it's better than the alternative, of taking a direct hit and probably having an immediate heart attack. Or getting burnt again. I'm actually not sure what electrocution does to the human body and I'm not really interested in finding out.

I press my back against one of the abandoned machines that I've stumbled into, and with a loud POP, it begins pouring more smoke out into the battlefield, a constant flow of visual interruptions. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I can taste blood in my mouth. I'm not sure from what, but I am. As I crouch behind the machine, trying to reassess the situation, my blood sense picks up on something nearby. It's Sundial, and she's bleeding. Badly.

I feel a surge of panic rising in my chest, but I force it down. I can't afford to lose my cool. Not now. A teammate… a friend? Needs me. It's hard to pull my lever from KILL form into LIVE form, but I do it anyway, feeling the gear change in my head like a truck turning onto a highway.

Without hesitation, I sprint towards her, my senses guiding me through the haze and chaos. I can hear Bubble's muffled sobs as she clings to Sundial, her force fields flickering weakly around them. She looks so small, so vulnerable. It breaks my heart.

Just as I reach them, one of Squeal's guys appears out of the smoke, his fist raised to strike at Sundial's prone form. I lunge forward, intercepting the blow with my forearm. Pain explodes up my arm, but I grit my teeth and maintain my defensive stance. Bubble's cries get louder as a skin of force appears around the man's head - trapping him with the smoke from the smoke bombs, and the stink from the stink bombs.

Have I mentioned how hard it is to avoid vomiting? Just… remember, keep in mind, that this is all running through that, too.

Bubble's wails get louder as she stacks more and more bubbles, each one, I assume, making it harder and harder to breathe. Even as the guy claws at his head, she just keeps forming more bubbles around his fingertips, around his wrists, stacking them on top and around each other to keep him sealed in with the noxious smog that's consumed the battlefield.

"It's okay," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I've got you."

I reach into my utility belt, feeling very smug at having the first opportunity in seemingly forever, maybe ever, to actually use it. And I'm very glad that Gossamer not only taught me how to throw fists but also how to gauze someone very fast. "I knew you would help," Sundial says with a calm, almost unnaturally serene smile. Clearly, I'm doing something right if someone like her is accepting of my shoddy first aid job.

"Yeah, yeah, precog. Do we make it or not?" I ask, partially as a joke, and partially trying to reclaim a sense of confidence. I'm bleeding from my face, although I'm not exactly sure where - but it's smearing down my mask and into my mouth.

Sundial's smile dims a little bit. "Powers don't work like that, Bloodhound. But stay focused. Bubble's guy is about to swing back. Get her out of here."

Sundial's words are terse, efficient. Not made to be minced. Bubble looks exhausted, her body visibly sagging, and it seems like she's out of gas, just not enough to KO the guy as he rips himself free and sucks in a big lungful of clear air. Well, clearer air, judging by the way he's sagging, sputtering, and coughing.

With a quick sweep of my leg, I knock the goon's feet out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He lands hard, the air rushing out of his lungs in a whoosh.

Fishing a zip tie out of my pocket, I quickly secure his wrist to his belt, immobilizing him for the time being. It's not a perfect solution, but it'll do for now. His body is seized up with coughing and hacking.

"Stay put," I growl, giving the zip tie a final tug. "I'm not done with you yet. Bubble! Get out of here."

"But," the young girl responds, her eyes welling up with tears. I look at her, and see myself almost a year ago.

It's crazy how young she looks. It makes me feel… uncomfortable.

"You're out of gas," I reply, trying to stay focused on the world around me. "And Sundial said so. Go!"

"Bubbs, I would not have brought you here if I thought it was going to get this dangerous. You did what you can. Go and get the police, that's your job now," Sundial orders, in a way that brooks no argument.

Bubble looks at her, lip quivering, and runs.

"You need to get out of here too, Sun," I say.

"Can't. I saw the future too far, and now I can't leave the area. Causality stuff. Don't worry about me. I'll live," Sundial says, grimacing, rubbing her arm. She scoots behind one of the abandoned machines, and ducks under. "Do what you do best, Big Bad Wolf."

"What's that?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"From the stories I've heard; violence," she replies, her eyes turning steely, her face almost smug.