Enraged by Squeal's defeat and the fact that every single goon he brought along with him is KO'd or captured or both, Sparkplug unleashes a massive electric burst that engulfs the warehouse. It's very hard to explain what exactly it looks like - really, it doesn't look so much as it feels. There's a massive burst of light, and heat, and pain, raw and unyielding, and smell, something far more odious than the fading stink bomb scent. Bits of paint, splattered across Sparkplug's eyes, crack and burn off of him.

This feels almost exactly like what I'd imagine getting hit by lightning feels like. But it lasts forever. The exposed skin of my chin, cheeks, lips, and jaw burns as the electric current sears my flesh. I grit my teeth against the pain, trying to stay focused on the battle at hand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Miss Mayfly take a glancing hit, her body twisting and wrenching away like it's trying to escape, to hide, to get anywhere else. Not a direct enough hit to melt her costume to slag, but enough that the taser in her glove visibly fizzles and fries. The canister of pepper spray on her other hand pops like a balloon, ripping a gash in her skin (but muffled by the layers) and sending a cloud of aerosolized pepper spray around her.

"Mayfly!" I scream, my voice raw with desperation.

Compass and Moonshot are blown back by the force of the blast, their bodies slamming into the walls with sickening thuds. Spindle narrowly avoids the brunt of the attack by contorting his body, twisting and bending in ways that shouldn't be possible. But even he isn't unscathed, his skin singed and smoking from the electric currents.

Jordan, Derek, and Sandman also take a hit, but it's glancing, too. Derek, still groggy from the tranquilizers, staggers and shakes his head, trying to clear the fog from his mind. This is bad. If he fully wakes up, there's no telling what he might do in his feral state.

"Sandman!" I yell, my voice hoarse from the smoke and the screaming. "Get Mayfly out of danger!"

But Sandman shakes his head, his face grim. "She's not unconscious," he replies, his voice strained. "I can't control her movements."

I curse under my breath, my mind racing as I try to come up with a plan. We need to end this, and fast, before anyone else gets hurt. Or worse.

The air is thick with the acrid stench of burned hair and singed flesh, mixed with the lingering odor of the stink bombs. I blink away tears, my eyes stinging from the smoke and the pepper spray that surrounds Miss Mayfly like a noxious cloud.

I look around, assessing the damage. All the goons are out of commission, either unconscious or writhing in pain on the ground. Sparkplug stands alone, panting heavily, his chest heaving with each labored breath. Broken pieces of mini-drones litter the ground around him, most of them knocked out of the sky by his massive electric blast.

But there are two mini-drones left, miraculously unscathed. I watch in amazement as they zip towards Sparkplug, their tiny rotors whirring with determination. It's like watching a pair of hummingbirds taking on a grizzly bear.

"What the hell is she doing?" Jordan mutters, their voice equal parts awe and confusion.

I shake my head, my eyes never leaving the drones. "Buying us time."

And it works. Sparkplug is so focused on the drones, swatting at them with crackling fingers, that he doesn't even notice us regrouping. Sundial limps over to join us, her face pale and drawn with pain. Spindle helps support Compass and Moonshot, who are both unsteady on their feet.

I turn to Derek and Sandman, my heart hammering in my chest. "We need to get Derek out of here," I say, my voice low and urgent. "If he wakes up fully…"

Sandman nods, his face grim. "I know. But we can't just leave. Not with Sparkplug still standing. And not without her."

I bite my lip, torn between the need to protect my friends and the desire to finish this fight. But before I can make a decision, a sizzling sound draws my attention back to Sparkplug.

He stands there, electricity arcing off his body like a Tesla coil, the mini-drones nothing more than smoking husks at his feet. His eyes are wild, his face contorted with rage. He looks at Miss Mayfly, then to Sundial, and finally, to the rest of us, surrounding him.

"You think you've won?" he snarls, his voice crackling with barely contained fury. "You think you can take me down? I'm fucking invincible."

He takes a step towards Miss Mayfly, his movements slow and deliberate. She tries to back away, but he's too fast. He grabs her by the ponytail, hoisting her up like a rag doll. She cries out in pain, her hands scrabbling uselessly at his grip.

"Let her go!" I shout, taking a step forward. But Sparkplug just laughs, a harsh, grating sound that sends shivers down my spine.

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"Not a chance, girls," he says, his eyes locking with mine. "Here's how it's going to go. I'm going to reclaim whatever of my product that I can from this little horrorshow. Then, I'm going to get into my car and drive away. And you won't stop me. If you do, well…"

He gives Miss Mayfly's hair a sharp tug, eliciting another cry of pain. "Let's just say your little friend here will be in for a real shock."

I can tell from the smug grin on his face that he thinks he's being hilarious - baring every tooth, ear-to-shit-eating-ear, a chimpanzee grimacing before it kills someone. I grit my teeth, my mind racing. We can't let him leave, not with Squeal, not with the drugs. But we can't risk Miss Mayfly's life either. I look at her, trying to gauge her condition. The lenses of her gas mask are cracked, revealing a sliver of skin and a pair of wide, terrified eyes.

Eyes that I recognize. From somewhere. But where?

I feel a surge of panic as I watch Sparkplug drag Miss Mayfly towards Squeal, his hand, his body, still crackling with electricity. He's moving slowly, deliberately, like a predator savoring the fear of his prey. I wrack my brain, trying to come up with a plan, any plan, to stop him.

"He's running out of juice," Spindle mutters beside me, his voice strained. "Look at the way his power's flickering. He's got maybe a minute, tops, before he's drained. He's been running steady for the past, like, four minutes."

Has that really been only four minutes? It feels like it's been forever. An eternity of combat. I nod, my eyes never leaving Sparkplug. Spindle's right. The arcs of electricity around Sparkplug's body are growing weaker, more erratic. Thinner. Less bright. But even a single spark could be deadly at this range, especially with Miss Mayfly in his grasp.

"We can't risk it," I say, my voice tight. "We can't gamble with her life."

Sparkplug reaches Squeal's prone form and kicks him viciously in the dick, eliciting a high-pitched yelp of pain. He reaches down and rummages through Squeal's pockets, pulling out a handful of little green pills, arranged in neat, tidy baggies. He shoves them into his own coat. "Good boy," he says, only responded to with Squeal's pained moaning through Spindle's impromptu gag.

"You kids have no idea what you've stumbled into," Sparkplug says, his voice dripping with condescension. "This is the adult world, little ones. A place so far beyond your ken, you can't even begin to comprehend it. Go home. Go play… sports. Don't interfere in the affairs of gods like us."

He continues dragging Miss Mayfly towards his car, a sleek black Mercedes Benz sitting in front of the warehouse, having been idling the entire time. I can hear her whimpering in pain, her feet scrabbling uselessly against the ground.

"Let her go, Sparkplug," I call out, my voice echoing in the sudden silence. "It's over. You've lost."

Sparkplug just laughs, a harsh, grating sound that sets my teeth on edge. "Lost? You don't even know what winning looks like. I'm getting away scot free, my least trustworthy lieutenant is about to get a lesson in loyalty, and I got to humiliate some turd-eating children. This looks like a victory to me."

He reaches Squeal's car - a junker, a total piece of shit - and places his hand on the door handle. There's a bright flash of electricity, and the car's alarm starts blaring, the headlights flashing erratically. Sparkplug grins, a cruel, triumphant expression. He tenses his knuckles, and the car clunks, totally dead. Shorting out the battery just to be an asshole. "You see? I always have an ace up my sleeve. Now, be good little children and stay put while I make my exit."

He yanks open the door of his own car, the back seat door, and starts to shove Miss Mayfly inside. But before he can, there's a click, loud and unmistakable in the sudden quiet.

I whirl around, my heart in my throat. Jordan stands atop a stack of junk machines, the pile extended upwards by their power for a better vantage point - and, presumably, to keep out of Sparkplug's range. They have a gun aimed directly at Sparkplug, their hands steady and unwavering, the discarded gun from earlier. It's almost poetic.

"Let her go," Jordan says, their voice distorted by the helmet's voice changer. "Or I'll put a bullet right between your eyes."

Sparkplug freezes, his hand still tangled in Miss Mayfly's hair. But if he could fry Jordan from this distance, he would've. So… clearly not. "You wouldn't dare," he says, but there's a flicker of uncertainty in his voice. "You might hit the girl."

Jordan tilts their head, the gesture almost casual. "I don't give a shit," they say, their voice cold and flat, filtered into a shimmering reveberation by the voice changer in their helmet. "Do I look like a good guy? I'll shoot Bloodhound in the foot if it lets you know I mean business. I have no loyalty to this girl, and taking you off the streets will do more good for the world than killing a teenager with no major connections in their life. No career. No family. Frankly, it'd be a mercy."

For a long, tense moment, nobody moves. I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my ears. Will Sparkplug call Jordan's bluff? Will Jordan actually shoot?

But then, miraculously, Sparkplug releases his grip on Miss Mayfly's hair. He shoves her away from him, sending her sprawling to the ground in a heap. She groans and whimpers in pain, curling up into a small, fetal ball. I can hear, just barely, Jordan's "Good,", emphasized with a second syllable, a real overpronunciation on the 'd'.

"Fine," he spits, his voice filled with venom. "Keep the little bitch. I'll be on my merry way now. If you follow, I will explode you with lightning bolts until all the water boils out of your cells."

He slides into his car and slams the door, the engine roaring to life. The tires squeal as he peels out of the warehouse, leaving a trail of burnt rubber in his wake. And he doesn't even have a license plate.

I rush to Miss Mayfly's side, my heart in my throat. She's lying face down on the ground, her body twitching and convulsing from the electricity still coursing through her. I roll her over gently, cradling her head in my lap.

Her gas mask is shattered, the lenses nothing more than jagged shards. I pull her into my lap, and the magnetism becomes clear. More than the pain of, well, pain, there's a pain of something else shining through her eyes. The pain of discovery. Of fear.

The pain of knowing that I know. And knowing that she fucked up.

The pain of being Kaitlyn Smith, my best friend.

"Are you alright?" I ask, my voice cracking. I try not to reveal anything important. Like her name. Or the fact that I know her.

"First aid," Kate wheezes, giving me a weak thumbs up. "I'll be fine,"

I squeeze her close and let out a scream.