The night air bites at my exposed skin as I make my way to the old basketball court in Mayfair, the one where Kate and I used to shoot hoops and talk trash. It's way too early for any sane person to be out here, but when your best friend texts you at 3 AM with a vague "we need to talk, it's an emergency," you don't exactly have a choice.

I spot Kate standing in the middle of the court, her arms crossed and her jaw set. She's wearing her Miss Mayfly getup, minus the mask, and I can tell from the way she's bouncing on the balls of her feet that she's itching for a game. What, a game of horse? No, don't be stupid, Sam. She's wearing her partially-destroyed costume. Clearly, this is something a little stupider than that.

"Kate, what the hell?" I call out, my voice echoing in the empty park. "You drag me out here in the middle of the night, and for what? A friendly game of one-on-one?"

She doesn't smile. "I want to prove to you that I can handle myself out there, Sammy. That I'm just as capable of being a vigilante as you are, powers or no powers."

I groan, rubbing my temples. "We've been over this, Kate. It's not about your skill, it's about what the law will let you get away with. And newsflash: you can't exactly walk off a bullet to the chest like I can."

"You think I don't know that?" Kate snaps, her voice rising. "You think I haven't spent every waking moment since you got your powers trying to figure out how I can keep up? How I can still be there to watch your back?"

I take a step closer, my hands held up in a placating gesture. "I appreciate that, Kate, I really do. But this isn't the way. You're going to get yourself killed out there, and for what? To prove a point?"

Kate's eyes flash with anger, and she assumes a fighting stance. "If that's what it takes to get through your thick skull, then yeah, I'll prove my point. Right here, right now."

I sigh, realizing that words aren't going to be enough to settle this. Kate's always been stubborn as a mule, and when she gets an idea in her head, there's no shaking it loose.

"Fine," I say, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it aside. "You want to dance? Let's dance. But don't say I didn't warn you when I turn you into ground beef."

The cold air prickles at my skin as I raise my fists, mirroring Kate's stance. We circle each other slowly, our eyes locked, waiting for the other to make the first move. I feel like a gunslinger at first light, ready to shoot. I don't like it. I don't like the way my chest is feeling.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, the adrenaline starting to flow. As much as I don't want to fight Kate, there's a part of me that's been itching for a good scrap. It feels like my body is betraying myself - this isn't some random goon or supervillain I'm facing off against. This is Kate, my best friend, the girl who's been by my side through thick and thin. The girl who's seen me at my worst and still stuck around. The girl who was my first friend in kindergarten and will be my last friend when I die.

"Last chance to back out," I say, my voice low and steady. "I don't want to hurt you, Kate."

She scoffs, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Hurt me? You've been doing that ever since you got your powers, Sam. Leaving me behind, treating me like I'm made of glass. Well, guess what? I'm not as fragile as you think."

And with that, she lunges forward, her fist aimed straight for my face. I raise my arms up and block it effortlessly, pushing it away, a quick and easy deflection. "I'd contest that,"

"Shut up, you poindexter. 'I'd contest that', who talks like that?" Kate growls, taking two steps back. "Come on, kick in already,"

Kick in? I'm distracted enough that her comment barely hurts, even if it really does dig to one of my bigger insecurities. And I'm sure she knows that, but what does she mean, kick in?

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The interrogation room is cramped and stuffy, the air thick with tension. I stand behind the one-way mirror, watching as Multiplex and Fury Forge face off against Sparkplug, who's wrapped up in a rubber jumpsuit that looks like it was designed by a colorblind toddler. But the air is devoid of the typical crackling that foreshadows anything Sparkplug does, so I guess, in a sense, it's working.

Spindle's beside me, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.

"I still can't believe you two went off on your own like that," Crossroads says, his voice tight with disapproval. "You're supposed to be on bed rest, Bloodhound. You could've gotten yourself killed."

I shrug, wincing as the motion pulls at my still-healing wounds. "Yeah, well, we got results, didn't we? Sparkplug's off the streets, and we're one step closer to figuring out who's behind this whole power drug mess."

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Puppeteer and Rampart exchange a glance, but say nothing. I can tell they're not thrilled about our little unsanctioned mission, but they can't argue with the outcome. I wave him off, focusing on the interrogation. Sparkplug's lawyer, a weaselly-looking man in a cheap suit, is trying to get his client to keep his mouth shut, but it's like trying to plug a leaky dam with chewing gum.

"-telling you, the Rogue Wave is coming," Sparkplug insists, his eyes wide and manic. "It's gonna change everything, man. Level the playing field."

Clara - the lawyer that's on our side - leans forward, her eyes narrowing. "And what exactly is this 'Rogue Wave,' Mr. Praznik? Some kind of doomsday weapon? I didn't know they still made those."

Sparkplug's lawyer, apparently named Lester Dunlow, clears his throat. "You don't need to answer that, Christian."

Sparkplug shoots a look towards his lawyer that's equal parts annoyance and contempt. "You'd wish it was a doomsday weapon. That'd be something nice and tidy for you fascists to clean up after."

Fury Forge leans forward, her brow furrowed. "And how exactly is flooding the streets with dangerous drugs going to help your apparent antifascist agenda, Mr. Praznik?"

Sparkplug grins, his teeth glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. "You'll see."

His lawyer clears his throat, shooting Sparkplug a warning look. "There's no need for further speculation. We've already agreed that we'll be accepting a plea deal. There's no need for you all to try to extract anything extra from him."

Multiplex chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, I think there's plenty of need, Mr. Dunlow. Your client seems to know an awful lot about this Rogue Wave."

Sparkplug's grin widens, and he leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know enough. Enough to know you aren't prepared."

The door behind us opens, and Bulwark steps into the room, his massive frame filling the doorway. He nods to us briefly before turning his attention to the interrogation.

"Sounds like your client has quite the imagination, Mr. Dunlow," Multiplex snarks, his thin voice filling the small room.

Dunlow sighs, rubbing his temples. "My client is simply trying to express his... unique worldview. It has no bearing on the case at hand."

Sparkplug's eyes narrow, and he leans back in his chair, his grin turning sharp. "Mock me all you want. Throw me in the slammer. It won't take Jump and Fly off the streets. Shave one fingernail and the rest of the hand continues to grow. You all understand how fingernails work, right?"

"Wish this guy would shut up," Puppeteer grumbles under her breath.

"I wonder if men like Mr. Dunlow ever get tired of getting in the way," Bulwark rumbles, his deep voice resonating through my chest like a massage gun. "It would make our jobs much easier without those types."

For some reason, the thought doesn't bring me much comfort.

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Kate's words hang in the air, heavy with implication. "Kick in already," she repeats, a strange glint in her eye.

And then it hits me. Jump. She's taken Jump, the power-granting drug that's been flooding the streets. My mind races, trying to piece together when she could have possibly gotten her hands on it.

"Kate, what did you do?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She grins, a mirthless thing that doesn't reach her eyes, like a chimpanzee's smile. "Rummaged through some guy's pockets. He was a scumbag. Nobody would notice me taking a pill or two."

I open my mouth to protest, but the words die in my throat as I watch Kate's skin begin to change. It starts as a sheen, like she's been dipped in wax, but then it hardens, cracking and splintering as it solidifies. Crystals bloom across her flesh, catching the moonlight and throwing it back in sharp, fractured angles. Like one of those videos on the internet of someone pulling out a chunk of bismuth from a boiling vat.

I can only stare in horror as Kate's body transforms, her skin turning to dull, lifeless metal. It looks like it should be painful, like her flesh is being torn apart and stitched back together with cold iron, but Kate doesn't even flinch. Not a single drop of blood escapes her. Even her eyes are quickly coated outside of two small black pinpricks where the pupil sits. The crystals fall off of her, leaving behind only the sort of shineless patina that a decades-old iron pipe could have, minus the rust.

"Kate..." I breathe, my heart hammering in my chest. "Why?"

She flexes her fingers, the metal joints clicking and whirring. "Looks like the playing field just got a little more even, Samantha."

And then she's moving, charging at me with a speed that belies her new, heavy form. I brace myself, raising my arms to block, but it's like trying to stop a freight train. Kate's kick, well-poised, with perfect form, slams into my chest, sending me skidding backward, my forearms rattling from the impact.

I barely have time to catch my breath before Kate's fist crashes into my ribs, knocking me off my feet. I hit the ground hard, rolling with the momentum, gasping for air. The pain is blinding, all-consuming. I can feel my ribs creaking, threatening to give way under the onslaught.

Kate looms over me, her metallic face split in a triumphant grin. "How's that for a wake-up call, Shark Week?"

I spit blood onto the concrete, my lips split from the impact, scraping against the rough rubbery material of the basketball court. I can feel my entire vascular system bloom to life in my blood sense, a throbbing web of heat and pressure. But as I look at Kate, I realize with a sinking feeling that I can't sense her at all. Her metal skin is impenetrable, unreadable. It's like trying to read a blank page, a wall of solid nothing. No amount of chipping at her can make her bleed, unless the metal is only millimeters or centimeters thick - but given the force behind the impact I just took, I'm doubtful.

I suck in spit.

With a defiant yell, I lunge at her, spraying blood from my mouth. She raises her arm to cover herself from the blinding onslaught, but too little, too late. In instants, her face is covered in a sheen of red.

In another instant, it immediately begins sliding off. Her eyelids and eyeballs, the parts I was aiming for, don't even react with a blink or a twitch. The arm-blocking was purely combat training. When did she start doing that?

Kate laughs, a harsh, grating sound that sets my teeth on edge. "Someone's been watching too much pro wrestling."

I spit out another mouthful of blood, wiping my chin with the back of my hand. "Alright, Tin Can. You want a fight? You've got one."