I glance at Fenrir, at the blood matting his fur and the pain etched into every line of his face. We're running out of time, running out of options. If we don't end this soon, we might not make it out of here at all. The air is already getting scratchy again, and I don't really know if the water actually did anything. But we can't give up. Not now. Not when we're so close. We've come too far, sacrificed too much to let this bastard win.

I run.

Fenrir runs.

Sparkplug makes a last-second decision, waving his knife around like a magic wand. The tip of it glows, for a second, like something that's not hot so much as it's burning the air around it. Which I guess is a pretty accurate depiction of lightning.

I begin to panic, because, as much as I'd like to say and believe I'm doing fine, I've never before felt so debilitated by sheer, raw pain, and I think if I got hit by a lightning bolt on top of that I might actually bite it. For a second, I think about Jamila, and get scared. I get so scared.

I clench my teeth.

The arc sails through the air towards Fenrir. It rips through his fur and I'm not sure if it comes out, but it snaps like a thousand twigs breaking, and Fenrir goes flying backwards into the couch.

Wrong choice.

Sparkplug's eyes widen as he realizes his mistake, but it's too late. While he tries to bring his knife to bear towards me, and recharge what electricity he has access to, I'm already moving, my body reacting on pure instinct. I scramble across the carpet, across the tile, forward, forward, forward, my heart pounding in my ears, my focus narrowed to a single point. To the exposed skin of his chest, the vulnerability he's unwittingly revealed in his gauche bathrobe.

I press my palm against his flesh, the contact sending a jolt through my arm. For a moment, I'm frozen, my muscles locked in place as the electricity flows through me. It's a sensation unlike anything I've ever felt before, a burning, searing pain that threatens to consume me whole.

But I don't let it. I grit my teeth, my jaw clenched so tight I fear my teeth might shatter. They lock in with each other, just like Derek's. With my free hand, I slap my forearm, the impact jarring the gadget to life. There's a momentary hiss, a feeling of something cold and sharp pressing against my skin, and then a THUNK as the injector goes off, leaving two very small puncture wounds in Sparkplug's chest.

One puts in the Xylazine. The other puts in the Ketamine. My entire body clenches up just enough to finish delivering the dose, and then I rack my free hand forward, pulling the small lever that ejects both syringes out the side like spent bullet casings.

Sparkplug's eyes go wide, his mouth falling open in a silent scream. He staggers back, his hand clutching at his chest, the knife falling from his grasp. I can see the realization dawning on his face, the horror and disbelief as he comprehends what's just happened.

"What did you do?" he gasps, his voice a ragged whisper. "What the fuck did you just do to me? What did you do to me?"

I wrench myself free - or maybe he wrenches himself away from me - and the pain stops. I fumble with my belt, feeling extremely thankful that he didn't hit me with anything high voltage enough to break my backup syringes. "What's the matter, Baldie? I thought you liked drugs."

Sparkplug heaves desperately, punching himself in the stomach like it's going to make him vomit up an intramuscular injection. His knife sits on the floor, discarded, forgotten. Sparkplug's face screws up as he fights for consciousness, like grabbing hold of smoke. Electricity arcs off of him, towards the studs in the wall, and I see his bedroom behind him, and, for a moment, another bathroom attached.

But Sparkplug's not going down without a fight. Even as the drug courses through his system, he lunges at me, his hands outstretched like claws. His skin crackles against my jaw as his nails reach out for me, but my padded knee comes up to meet him in the stomach and I push him away. With one last spiteful gasp, he opens his mouth, and the world goes dark again. For a split second, I think I've been blinded by a flash of electricity, but really, it's just the pain, my eyelids clenching shut against my will.

I stumble back, my vision blurring, my head spinning. Sparkplug presses his advantage, his fists raining down on me in a flurry of blows. Each impact feels like a sledgehammer, driving the air from my lungs and the strength from my limbs.

But it's a losing battle, and Sparkplug knows it. I can feel it in each punch, the dawning realization that he's been beaten. That all his power, all his fury, wasn't enough to save him. His movements grow weaker, his blows more desperate, until finally, he collapses to the ground, his chest heaving, his eyes fluttering closed.

I slump to the ground and try to catch my breath, my entire body shaking. I try to collect myself - I've definitely been burnt in several spots, my muscles keep twitching and squeezing without me asking them to, my heart feels extra weird, and all that combined is making it extremely difficult to load the second dose of tranquilizers. Fenrir had a little gadget built for him just in case, somehow, it didn't get fried, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the receiver for it is, indeed, fried.

I turn my head towards the looming shadow.

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Fenrir stands over me, his fur matted with blood, his sides rising and falling with each ragged breath. For a moment, he looks as though he might finish it, might tear out Sparkplug's throat and end it once and for all. Or maybe mine. I trust Derek, which is a sentence I never thought I'd have ever said when I first met him, but I don't trust his werewolf side, and I strongly doubt it trusts me either.

Either way, it's definitely eaten more than his fair share of blows. Riddled with gashes and cuts, the fur singed right off in places, exposing the patchy, strained, red skin beneath. His entire body is twitching, too, but far more violently than mine, claws unintentionally digging into his paws enough to rip them, just a bit. Fenrir opens his mouth to breathe, and pant, some of his teeth visibly cracked and chipped from clenching so hard.

"Hey there, buddy, easy now..." I murmur, both hands up, trying to make myself look as harmless as possible. Derek impressed upon us one thing above all - the unpredictability and the violence of his other side, and I can see it in his pupilless eyes. There's nothing there but animal thoughts and murder and fighting. And winning.

Fenrir lets out a gruff, thick growl in response. I watch his throat vibrate with the force of the noise. I put my hand against his chest.

"See? Nothing wrong," I mumble, barely loud enough to be heard. I bring my other hand back up to my right wrist, and deploy the mechanism. "Just your usual bedtime meds. Just like normal."

THUNK.

Fenrir stumbles a step back or two, and I stumble back four or five. I expect some kind of frenzy, a burst of violent motion left over just for me, but it never comes. He just gets sleepier, and sleepier, and sleepier, until he passes out.

That's a good idea, actually.

I think I'll do that now, too.

----------------------------------------

I don't remember much after I passed out. It's all a blur of disjointed images and sensations, like a half-remembered dream slipping away in the morning light. I vaguely recall strong arms lifting me, the feeling of weightlessness as I was carried out of Sparkplug's condo. Moonshot, I think, using her gravity manipulation to make me lighter than air. Or making herself like 2x lighter than air so my weight is accounted for. Potato, potato.

There were voices, too, urgent and hushed, filtering through the haze of exhaustion and pain. I caught snippets of conversation, fragments of words that drifted in and out of my consciousness.

"...got to get them out of here..."

"...police will be here any minute..."

"...Sandman, help me with Fenrir..."

I don't know how long I drifted in that state, halfway between waking and dreaming. It could have been minutes, or hours, or days. Time seemed to lose all meaning, slipping away like sand through an hourglass. A familiar place, full of flowers and concrete and Diane. Well, with a single Diane. But full of flowers nonetheless.

Eventually, I started to surface, like a diver kicking up towards the light. The first thing I became aware of was the softness beneath me, the feeling of a mattress and pillows cradling my battered body. I was lying in a bed, somewhere safe and warm and quiet. I cracked my eyes open, wincing at the brightness that assaulted my vision. It took a moment for the world to come into focus, for the blurry shapes and colors to resolve into something recognizable.

I was in one of the spare rooms at the Tacony Music Hall. The room was small and spartan, with bare walls and a single window that let in a slice of pale morning light. Someone had removed my costume and dressed me in a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, the fabric gentle against my bruised skin.

As I blinked away the last vestiges of sleep, the events of the previous night came rushing back to me. The fight with Sparkplug, the crackle of electricity in the air, the feeling of the injector glove going off like a shotgun. The way his eyes had rolled back in his head as the drugs took hold, the boneless way he'd collapsed to the ground.

I sat up gingerly, my muscles protesting at the movement. Every inch of my body felt like it had been pummeled with a meat tenderizer, but I was alive. We all were, thanks to the efforts of my incredible team. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, taking a moment to steady myself before standing up. My bare feet padded softly against the old, decrepit, worn wooden floorboards as I made my way out of the room and down the hallway.

As I approached the main living area, I heard the murmur of voices and the clink of plastic. The smell of pizza wafted through the air, making my stomach growl with sudden hunger. I stepped into the room, blinking in the brighter light. The scene that greeted me was one of celebration and relief, my friends and allies gathered around the mismatched furniture, eating pizza and swapping stories of the night's events.

Jordan was the first to spot me, their face breaking into a grin as they bounded over to wrap me in a careful hug. "She lives!" they declared dramatically, spinning me around in a circle. "The conquering hero returns!"

I couldn't help but laugh, even as my ribs protested at the sudden movement. "Easy there, tiger," I said, extricating myself from their embrace. "I'm not exactly in fighting shape at the moment."

"Pfft, please," Spindle scoffed from his perch on the arm of the couch. "You took down Sparkplug singlehandedly. I think you've earned a little R&R."

"It was hardly singlehanded," I protested, making my way over to the pizza boxes and snagging a slice of pepperoni. "We all played our parts. Moonshot got me in there, Fenrir softened him up, and Jordan and Sandman made sure no civilians were caught in the crossfire. Plus, we couldn't have pulled the plan off without Team Mayfly's gadgets. It was a group effort."

"Speaking of Fenrir," Tasha chimed in, "has anyone heard from Derek? Is he okay?"

"He's fine," Moonshot assured her. "Just sleeping it off back at his place. We got him into the cage before he could do any more damage."

I felt a pang of guilt at that. Derek had put himself on the line for us, had let the beast within him run wild in order to give us a fighting chance. I made a mental note to check in on him later, to make sure he was coping with the aftermath.

"And Sparkplug?" I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Jordan's grin turned positively feral. "Delivered to the cops, tied up with a neat little bow. They were a bit confused, to say the least, but they're not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Sparkplug's going away for a long time."

I felt a sense of deep satisfaction at that. We'd done it. We'd taken down a major player in the city's drug trade, had struck a blow against the forces that sought to corrupt and destroy Philly, and, lest I forget, avenged Elias. I didn't forget!

At least, I assumed the "old lightning guy" is the same as Sparkplug.

But even as I basked in the glow of victory, I knew that our work was far from over. Sparkplug was just one head of the hydra, one tentacle of the vast criminal underworld that lay beneath Philly's surface. There would always be more battles to fight, more wrongs to right.

But for now, in this moment, surrounded by the people I loved and trusted most in the world, I allowed myself to simply be. To enjoy the warmth of friendship and the sweet taste of hard-earned triumph.

For once, a victory, delightfully un-pyrrhic.

And then I went back to sleep.