The crackling sound of electricity cuts through the chaos, followed by the telltale thud of a body hitting the ground. I turn just in time to see a goon convulsing on the floor, his muscles spasming uncontrollably as the electricity courses through his body - either Sparkplug got one of Squeal's guys, or someone else here has surprise electricity powers. I'm about to put my money on the former, until -

"One down!" Miss Mayfly shouts, her voice triumphant. Her glove clicks with a hiss, ejecting something from it like a bullet casing. She pumps a fist, and for a moment, I match her victory.

But her victory is short-lived. She reaches for a replacement cartridge off her belt, and another enemy, taking advantage of Miss Mayfly's exposed position, lunges at her from the side. I watch in horror as he slams into her, sending her crashing into the ground with a sickening sound of plastic snapping, old sports equipment designed for the impact of schoolground activities cracking at the assault of a full-grown adult male. I don't know if she's broken anything, but that was a good old-fashioned shoulder ram to the torso. And she's almost certainly my age. Broken ribs, most likely.

"No!" I scream, starting to move towards her. But before I can take more than a step, another attacker intercepts me, his fists flying towards my face. In the distance, past the swirling smog, I see the main assault group - Compass & Moonshot - tangoing with Sparkplug, while Jordan keeps them from getting fried. Good. I look past the muscle and catch sight of Spindle not fighting so much as harrying Squeal, preventing him from leaving. Also good.

Good to know things are handled.

I duck and weave, trying to avoid his blows while still keeping an eye on Miss Mayfly. She's crumpled on the ground, her body twisted at an unnatural angle. I can't tell if she's breathing, but I can tell that she's bleeding, at least from the nose.

"Mayfly!" I shout, my voice raw with panic. "Somebody help her!"

There's no time for me to intercede. The attacker keeps coming, his fists relentless. I can feel my own injuries slowing me down, making it harder to dodge his blows. I count three more shapes moving through the slowly dispersing gas, most of them smeared with rainbow blobs of paint mixing together into an ugly brown, mostly across their face. Jordan, distracted by their very important job preventing two of the Titans from getting fried, doesn't have time to notice the kiss of death approaching.

"I'm fine," Miss Mayfly wheezes, just loud enough to be heard. "Just sprained,"

Rampart, Gossamer, Playback, Puppeteer, Diane, everyone I've trained with has always impressed upon me one important lesson.

Guns can never be involved. You have not achieved victory until every gun has been disarmed.

"Jordan, look out!" I scream, trying to make it past the wall that is this man. I only have so much time, so much space, so much speed. I can't… I can't move fast enough.

That is, until his head is wrapped with a fine layer of dozens of sight-blocking bubbles. I juke past him, glancing sideways and up at Bubble on the second floor, hiding on the catwalks, and shoot her a glare that is a mixture of about two dozen emotions. She catches sight of me and runs in the other direction, into the rooms on the upper floors. Hopefully, towards fleeing. Hopefully, not busting shit through rotten wood and falling like I did so long ago.

This all happens in like half a second. The remaining half a second takes forever. I watch as the wannabee gunman stumbles for equipment, his hands locked up in layers of bubble that he has to gnaw off to be able to pass the magazine from one hand into the the one holding the gun. That last gift from Bubble buys me the precious seconds necessary to save Jordan's life.

I rake my claws across the goon's back, ripping through his layers of clothes, raking deep, bleeding lines into his skin. I keep my knuckles dull. I make no such assurances for my fingertips. He howls in pain, fumbling the gun out of his hands as red blood seeps upwards into his undershirt. Nothing deep, nothing some gauze and maybe stitches won't heal, but enough to keep him from being able to use his gun. For precious seconds.

So, that was maybe the most panic-inducing three seconds of my life.

Jordan, hearing my warning, spins around just in time. With a swift kick, they send the gun skidding across the warehouse floor, far out of reach, in Sundial's vague direction.

"Thanks, Blood," they say, flashing me a grateful smile. "That was a close one."

I'm barely listening, though. Instead, I have my claws to this man's throat. No matter how big and mesmerizingly bald he is, all grown men turn into whimpering bitches when you threaten to slit their jugular. He stands mercifully still as Jordan retrieves zip ties from under their cloak and cuffs him - better his freedom than his life, I assume. I notice a small satchel of bright green Jump pills sticking out of his pocket and kick them to crush them with my boot. Would be better to take them in for evidence, but, better to take them out of play for now.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

My ears are ringing from Squeal's continuous screaming, but Spindle has been doing a good job playing keep-away. As it turns out, it looks like his powers are really, really directional. Without being directly in front of him, it's just loud, but the physical impact doesn't seem to do much against Spindle, who lacks the surface area for it to properly impact, given that he is a human twig. Even when he does hit him, Spindle just shakes it off, putting his Young Defender training to work.

And the guy that almost punched my lights out earlier is on the ground. Good.

The air reeks of fart gas and ozone and frankly, I'm surprised that nothing's blown up. Fingers crossed.

Just as I'm about to let out a sigh of relief, a figure emerges from the dissipating smog, his skin gleaming like polished metal. It's one of Squeal's goons, the last one standing, and judging from the stained wifebeater and the green pills scattered at his feet, he's just popped a Jump.

"Aw, shit," I mutter, bracing myself for the attack.

The iron goon charges towards me and Jordan, his fists raised to strike. I try to dodge, but my injuries slow me down, and I know I won't be fast enough. Jordan cuts the space to make him overshoot, and I duck, just like good ol' times, waiting for him to go flying over me. But then, something miraculous, and hilarious, happens.

Just as I'm about to brace for impact, a blur of fur and muscle drops from the catwalks above, slamming into the iron goon with the force of a freight train. The goon crumples beneath the weight of the newcomer, his metal skin denting and cracking from the impact.

It takes me a moment to process what I'm seeing. It's Derek, in his hulking werewolf form, with Sandman clinging to his back like a jockey. Bright red fur, a darker, more pure red-red as opposed to Derek's orange-red hair, and a bulky, oversized upper body, and claws that make my little teeth-claws look like butter knives. But…

Derek should be locked up in his basement, tranquilized and safe from the full moon's influence. He said as much earlier today, way earlier. "I am going to take a bunch of tranquilizers and pass out now. Good night," he said, at like 5 PM.

"What the hell?" I blurt out, my eyes wide with shock.

Derek lets out a menacing hiss, his fangs bared as he pins the iron goon to the ground. Sandman, his eyes closed in concentration, seems to be guiding the werewolf's movements, keeping him focused on the task at hand, wrapped around him like a cape made out of person. His dreads bounce with every movement, and it looks like he's straight-up tied himself around Derek's neck to hold himself in place, while Derek's eyes are shut and his face is serene.

"Good boy," Sandman mutters, patting Derek's upper torso.

I exchange a glance with Jordan, who looks just as surprised as I feel. I can't help but admire the clear viciousness of his werewolf form, the way it's so obviously made to do nothing but rip people apart. I'm… glad he decided against showing us. Because I'm not sure I'd be able to beat him in a fight, worst come to worst.

"Uh, not that I'm not grateful for the assist," I say, approaching Derek cautiously, "but aren't you supposed to be, you know, not here?"

Derek's only response is a low, rumbling growl, but Sandman raises an eyebrow, slowly cracks a single eye open, and gives me a wry smile.

"Desperate times, Bloodhound," he says, his voice strained with the effort of controlling Derek's movements. "We figured you could use the backup. So Derek and I made an arrangement, like, a week ago, ish."

I nod, still trying to wrap my head around the situation. "Well, thanks. I guess. Just… be careful, okay?"

Sandman's smile turns grim. "Always am."

With that, he turns his attention back to the battle at hand. Squeal is still putting up a fight, his sonic screams echoing through the warehouse. Spindle is doing his best to keep him contained, but it's clear he can't hold out much longer.

"Sandman, can you and Derek take care of Squeal?" I ask, my mind already racing with possibilities.

Sandman nods, his face set in determination. "On it. You and the others focus on Sparkplug. We'll handle the screamer."

I give him a quick salute, then turn to Jordan. "You heard the man. Let's finish this."

Jordan grins, their eyes sparking with renewed energy. "Lead the way, Blood."

Sandman guides Derek to charge straight towards Squeal, who is preparing another sonic scream. Derek's powerful arms propel him forward, closing the distance rapidly, loping like a gorilla - his legs add to the bounding, but seem sort of secondary here. He's more throwing himself across the ground, like he's grabbing the concrete with his paws and ripping it out from underneath him, or at least, that's what the motion looks like. Spindle, seeing the opportunity, twists his body to wrap around Squeal's legs, tripping him up and disrupting his balance.

Just as Squeal unleashes his scream, Derek leaps to the side, evading the brunt of the attack, although it does rip into me in exchange. Whatever. I grimace and bear it, feeling the blood well up in my throat, my lungs, my heart, my ribs all rattling against each other. Derek throws himself diagonally again to get back in the way, and then,

"Nighty night, screamer," Spindle quips, as Derek raises a massive paw.

With a swift, precise strike, Derek slaps Squeal across the chest, his claws ripping into Squeal's clothes and the force sending him crashing into one of the abandoned machines. As if to add insult to injury, it crackles and pops around him. No smoke this time, just little tiny firecrackers, like the kind you throw at the floor. A miniature celebration.

Spindle quickly rips a scrap off his own costume (and I wince internally, thinking of Goss again) and ties it around Squeal's face before he can catch his bearings. Then, getting him in a grapple, he pins him and spins him around so that any screaming would go right into the ground.

"Nice teamwork, boys," Sandman says, giving Derek a playful punch on the shoulder. I allow myself a moment of relief, watching as Spindle and Sandman secure Squeal with zip ties.

But the moment is short-lived.