"Delivery for Mr. Ellison," Derek says, his tone carefully neutral. As un-gruff as he could make it. "I need a signature."

There was a moment of silence, then a gruff, familiar voice replies, "I didn't order anything. You've got the wrong apartment."

"Are you sure? It says right here, Unit 3028, Mr. Ellison. I can't leave until you sign for it."

I hold my breath, waiting for Sparkplug's response. This was the moment of truth, the point where our carefully laid plan could either succeed or blow up in our faces.

"I said, you've got the wrong apartment," Sparkplug growls, his voice laced with irritation. "Now beat it before I call the cops."

I hear Derek take a deep breath and check Moonshot's watch. Then, I glance at the sky. The sun lowers further and further down, almost invisible below the horizon. Beside me, Moonshot hefts her hammer, the nail welded - glued? - welded? to the end glinting in the fading light. She begins to tap at the window, each strike precise and measured, weakening the glass without shattering it. I look into his apartment, its many rooms, its chambers - a living room, a bedroom, some other sections I can't see, and for a moment, notice some small grey dots along the wall. Weird aesthetic choice.

"Hey! What sort of funny business are you trying to pull?" Derek shouts, giving Moonshot just enough room to swing just a little harder. She swings backwards and hits a corner, and I can feel her weight shifting - gravity pulling her sideways, giving at least 9.8 m/s^2 extra force to her swing. Probably more. With a quiet tink, cracks spiderweb across the glass from the corner. She lowers herself a bit, aims again, and cracks the opposite corner. The shards connect.

My heart is racing now, adrenaline surging through my veins like liquid fire. I can feel every nerve in my body tingling with anticipation, every muscle tensed and ready for action.

I'm... Happy.

I'm happy.

And then, with a final, gravity-enhanced swing, Moonshot shatters the window and throws me into the room.

I brace myself as I leap through the now-open window, the air pressure differential slamming into me like a physical force. Shards of glass bounce off my costume, tinkling to the floor like a discordant symphony. I hit the ground rolling, the impact jarring my bones, but I push through the pain, springing to my feet in one fluid motion, grabbing hold of the carpet to drag myself up before the gust can shove me out of a now-open window.

Sparkplug spins around, his eyes wide with shock and fury, his hands already crackling with electricity. His bathrobe stands on end, every fuzzy piece of thread charged with static electricity, and before I can even move, the air fills with a loud CRACK like snapping fingers, something on his coffee table jostling as he bumps into it and discharges.

Then, he gets angry.

I narrowly avoid a bolt of lightning that scorches a small metal stud in the wall behind me, the heat of it singing through the air like an opera singer, the noise deafening. I bet ten bucks the neighbors heard this one. I notice the rest of the apartment, with metal studs spread throughout the walls like a deranged grid, like a piercer piercing a house. He's modified his own apartment to make it easier for him to aim. Good for him. He expected a home invasion.

Gritting my teeth, I close the distance between us, my fists raised and ready to strike. Static electricity prickles along my skin, raising goosebumps beneath my costume. The air tastes of ozone and danger, sharp and biting on my tongue.

A deafening roar fills the condo as Derek - Fenrir, he'd insisted - bursts through the doorway, a terrifying sight in his werewolf form. He's all teeth and claws and rippling muscle, a predator unleashed. The transformation is seamless, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it shift from man to beast, his clothes... Actually, I don't know where they went. He's got pants on, thank G-d.

Sparkplug turns to face the new threat, fear and disbelief warring in his eyes as he takes in the hulking creature before him. It's the look of a man who's suddenly realized he may be in over his head, a look I know all too well. I recognize it, and, for a moment, feel a sort of kinship.

Fenrir lunges at Sparkplug, a blur of fur and fury, his powerful jaws snapping mere inches from the villain's face. The rank odor of singed fur and burnt flesh mingles with the tang of ozone, a nauseating cocktail that makes my stomach churn. Sparkplug makes contact with him, and the air is filled with a symphony of crackles like a live wire going off, repeated static jolts ripping through his fur and sending him squealing towards the wall.

I seize the opportunity, darting forward and aiming a punch at Sparkplug's ribs. The impact is jarring, the crunch of bone beneath my fist both satisfying and sickening. This isn't a fight to hog tie him or handcuff him - although I have handcuffs, just in case - I just need one good shot with the doohickey and it's as good as over.

But Sparkplug is far from beaten. He staggers back, his attention divided between Fenrir and me, lashing out with whips of electricity that sizzle through the air, over our heads. We're saved by the fact that, even with his modified apartment, electricity isn't a ruly animal. It wants to touch the metal much more than it wants to touch us. I was told by Diane, plenty of times, that Professor Franklin never used his lightning bolts for that reason. The taser touch was enough. The electricity screams over our head like a tesla coil.

"Get out! Get out!" Sparkplug screams as he thrusts his hand forward, a blinding bolt of electricity surging towards Fenrir. The air crackles with energy, the hair on my arms standing on end. For a moment, the world is nothing but light and sound, a cacophony of raw power. Fenrir's howl of agony pierces through the din, his body convulsing as the electricity courses through him. I can see the pain etched into every line of his face, his fur standing on end like he's been rubbing balloons over it. I don't exactly know what causes his electricity to burn versus electrocute, but I don't exactly want to get hit by it enough to find out.

Stolen story; please report.

He stumbles back, his limbs jerking uncontrollably, a puppet with its strings cut. He collapses against the wall, his chest heaving, his eyes rolling back in his head. For a moment, I fear the worst, but then I see the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He's alive, but out of the fight, at least for now.

Sparkplug turns his attention back to me, a sinister grin spreading across his face. There's a manic gleam in his eyes, a hunger for violence that sends a chill down my spine. His fingers flex, sparks dancing between them, ready to unleash another blast of electricity. "I could turn you into burnt dog and sell you at the wet market... but I think I'd rather see you spasm."

I'm facing Sparkplug alone, a man who can fry me with a touch, who's turned his own home into a weapon. The weight of the gadget on my hand is a reminder of what's at stake, a promise and a curse all rolled into one. It's worth more than I am. I can't let him melt it.

"Hit me with your best shot, baldie," I taunt. Fear claws at my throat, threatening to overwhelm me, but I force it down. I can't afford to hesitate, can't afford to let the doubts creep in.

"There's so many ways, did you know?" He asks, and I feel all the hair on my body threatening to leave my follicles. It's only then do I tune back into my earpiece, moments before, with a loud squeal of dying electronics, it snaps dead. All the dust and debris is floating unnaturally towards him, clinging to his bathrobe like cat hair, swirling in his current before coming to rest on his hands. "I could turn up the amperage and stop your heart. I could turn up the voltage and turn you into slag. Or maybe I can do both and hit you with a lightning bolt, and you'll explode like a pine tree! I gave you your opportunity to run, but you had to stick your nose back in my business, didn't you? Dumb bitch."

"Does the Fly make you monologue too, or is that au naturale?" I bite back, cracking my knuckles. I squeeze one hand tight, and the teeth come out. "Also, did it make your face look like that, or was that the Botox?"

"MY SKIN IS FINE!" He screams, very rapidly, very suddenly, and I know to duck as soon as the first syllable comes out. Or maybe even a second beforehand. The air turns white and all the sound vanishes again as a bolt of lightning sails over my head. I look towards the busted window and see nary a Moonshot to be found. I look around towards the now-wrecked living room, small smolders forming, scorch marks across the fine leather couch. And I look at Fenrir, watching him rise up behind Sparkplug with a feral grin. With all of his electricity discharged, the air feels... less prickly.

I pray to G-d that he needs to reload, because I think if he can sustain a current like that, he might pop me like a pine tree.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

There's a werewolf in the room, too.

A snarl echoes through the condo as Fenrir leaps back into the fray, his eyes blazing with fury. Despite the pain, despite the lingering effects of the electricity coursing through his body, he's not ready to give up. Not yet. Not when there's still a chance to take this bastard down.

Sparkplug cries out in pain as Fenrir's claws rake across his arm, leaving deep, bloody gashes. The wounds are nasty, but not nearly as devastating as they could be. Sparkplug's body crackles with electricity, his face contorted in rage. The air around him hums with power, the static discharge making everyone's hair stand on end, except Sparkplug's, because he is lacking in that attribute.

Fenrir's body convulses as his instincts take over and send him skidding backwards, the static discharges not enough to harm, but enough to hurt. Enough to scare. He crashes into the wall, slumping to the floor in a heap of fur and muscle. But unlike last time, he's mad. He gets back up, teeth locked, and dives.

While Fenrir keeps Sparkplug busy, I crawl towards the bathroom, my mind racing. I need a plan, need something to give us an edge. The gadget on my hand feels heavier with each passing second - I just need a second to use it without him melting it to slag. If he melts it, this is all for nothing, and we have to do this the hard way - via concussion.

As I pass the shattered remnants of the front door, I catch a glimpse of movement in the hallway. Jordan and Sandman, hauling ass down the corridor. I don't know if they're running towards the fight or away from it, but I know one thing for sure: if the plan's gone sideways, it's time to evacuate the civilians. The last thing we need is Sparkplug lighting the whole place up like a Christmas tree. I see a sleeping man hauling ass after them - some dude in sweats but his eyes totally shut. Yeah. Good idea.

I make it to the bathroom, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Through my blood sense, I can see Fenrir and Sparkplug still locked in combat, a brutal dance of claws and electricity. Sparkplug has something in his hand, the shape of it indistinct but unmistakable from the way the veins in his hand tense. A knife. Well, it could be a baton, or something else like that, but I know my scumbag criminals. It's a knife.

And then it hits me. Sparkplug's weakness. If he's forced to keep discharging to maintain a defensive stance, he can't pull out any of his big moves. Can't save up the juice for a real heavy hitter. And with Fenrir on the offensive, he doesn't have a choice. It's discharge or die. He needs to put Fenrir back on the defensive so that he can regroup and charge his electricity back up.

And he can't. So I have time.

I consider my options, my eyes darting around the bathroom. I could smash the faucet off, try to douse Sparkplug with a blast of water. But I don't know if I have the arm strength for that. My muscles are still twitching and my nerves still feel like I'm surrounded by a nice, pleasant coat of needles. It's pretty bad.

From the living room, I hear Fenrir whining and squealing in pain, the sound making my blood run cold. Something's happening out there, something bad. I can sense new gashes opening up on Fenrir's body, the blood flowing freely. Sparkplug's knife, now electrified, or maybe heated up with the current, carving into him like a twisted scalpel.

I don't have time to think. I grab the toothbrush cup from the sink, heavy and porcelain, filling it with water. It's not much, but it's all I've got on short notice. I scramble back into the living room, my heart pounding in my chest.

Sparkplug and Fenrir are a tangle of limbs and fury, the air crackling with electricity and the stench of blood. I don't hesitate. I hurl the cup at Sparkplug, the water arcing through the air like a liquid missile. The porcelain hits him in the chest, and the water splatters up into his face, followed shortly afterwards by the toothbrushes.

For a split second, his guard is down, his focus broken. And that's all Fenrir needs.

With a roar of triumph, Fenrir swats Sparkplug with a massive paw, the force of the blow sending him flying into the next room. The wall buckles and cracks as he bounces off like a pinball, into the space where a sliding door sits neatly recessed into the wall, drywall raining down in a shower of dust and debris. Sparkplug hits the ground hard, his bathrobe ripped open in several places, revealing fresh blood. He takes his knife, lets out a loud scream of rage and desperation, and slams it sideways into the most concerning cut, the heat quickly cauterizing the wounds shut.

I almost want to look away. I can see it in his eyes, the manic gleam of a man who's got nothing left to lose. He staggers to his feet, his body wracked with pain but his spirit unbroken. And then he smiles, a cruel, twisted thing that makes my blood run cold.

"Is that all you've got?" he rasps, his voice like gravel. "I've taken shits that hit harder than that."