For a moment, I think she's going to keep fighting, keep struggling until one or both of us slips into unconsciousness. But then something shifts in her eyes, the manic light dimming as pain and blood loss take their toll. Her movements become erratic, uncoordinated, her limbs twitching and jerking like an undervolted baby's toy.

"Where's my Mama?" she whimpers, her voice small and lost. "Papa. Where are you? I'm so tired. I'm tired. Please. Just let me WIN!"

My heart clenches at the words, a sudden swell of pity rising up in my chest. In that moment, she doesn't look like a monster or a villain. She just looks like a child, small and frightened and alone.

But I push the feeling down, locking it away in the same place I keep all the other painful things I can't afford to dwell on. There will be time for sympathy later, time to unpack the tangled knot of emotions this fight has stirred up in me. But not now. Not yet. Right now, she's still a little psychopath who needs to be prevented from hurting other people. Right now, she needs to be stopped.

Because right now, I have a job to do.

With a final, herculean effort, I pin Deathgirl's thrashing form to the ground, using my greater size and weight to keep her immobilized. She bucks and writhes beneath me, but her strength is all but gone, sapped away by pain and exhaustion. Even if she's healing faster than me, it doesn't mean anything if she can't muster the willpower.

It's only then, as the adrenaline begins to fade and the world starts to come back into focus, that I realize just how much blood there is. It's everywhere, coating our skin, soaking into our clothes, pooling on the cracked concrete around us. The coppery scent of it fills my nostrils, so thick I can almost taste it on my tongue.

I'm drenched in it from head to toe, my costume a gory ruin of ripped fabric and torn kevlar. The only part of me that's even remotely clean is my face, protected by the now badly dented and scratched helmet, although my wig is torn into tatters and the lower half of my face is coated in blood.

Deathgirl is in even worse shape, her small body practically dyed crimson. It mats her hair, stains her teeth, seeps from a hundred different wounds. For a moment I'm amazed she's even still conscious, still drawing breath. Especially with those slams she's taken.

But even that is fading now, her struggles growing weaker and weaker with each passing second. Her eyes flutter closed, then open again, unfocused and glazed with pain.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice so faint I can barely hear it over the hammering of my own heartbeat. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

I don't know who she's apologizing to. Her parents, maybe. Or the people she's hurt, the lives she's ruined. Maybe even to me.

In the end, it doesn't matter.

Because as I kneel there amidst the wreckage of our battle, both of us broken and bleeding and utterly spent, I know one thing with absolute certainty - this fight is over.

And somehow, against all odds, I'm the one left standing.

I hold onto Deathgirl with the last of my fading strength, my arms wrapped around her small, battered form in an unbreakable embrace. She struggles limply against me, her movements weak and uncoordinated, little more than feeble twitches and jerks. But still, she fights on, even now, even with the both of us so far beyond our limits that every breath is agony.

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"Shh," I murmur, my voice a ragged whisper. "It's over, Daisy. It's over. You can rest now."

But she just whimpers in response, a small, broken sound that tears at my heart. "No, no, no," she mumbles, her words slurred and barely coherent. "I can't... I can't lose. Not again. Not again."

I hold her tighter, ignoring the way my muscles scream in protest, the way her spikes, duller and lesser in number with each second, keep trying to pry into me. Like a hedgehog being hugged. "You fought well," I tell her, and I mean it. "You fought so hard. But it's time to stop now. It's time to let go."

I don't put my forearm on her neck, although the desire is there. There's simply nothing left for her to use. Regeneration can only take you so far - I know that by heart.

Slowly, so slowly, I feel the tension begin to drain from her body. Her struggles grow weaker and weaker, until finally, they cease altogether. She goes limp in my arms, her head lolling against the floor, her eyes fluttering closed.

For a moment, I just kneel there, holding her, listening to the ragged sound of our breathing. The pain is a distant thing now, a dull, throbbing ache that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. I know I should move, should secure Deathgirl and go help the others. But I can't seem to make my body obey, can't seem to summon the strength to do anything but sit there and bleed.

It's only when I hear the crackle of a radio, the tinny sound of voices calling my name somewhere in my belt, that I finally force myself into action. With hands that shake from fatigue and blood loss, I reach into a pouch on my belt and pull out a set of heavy-duty zip ties.

I triple-tie Deathgirl's wrists and ankles, making sure the restraints are tight enough to hold even if she wakes up and starts struggling again. It's a difficult task, my fingers slick and clumsy with gore, but I grit my teeth and push through it, focusing on the simple, repetitive motions.

When it's done, I allow myself a moment to slump back against the shattered remains of the courthouse doors, my breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. Every part of me hurts, from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. But as I look down at Deathgirl's restrained form, I feel a flicker of something like triumph beneath the pain.

I did it. I won. Against all odds, against an opponent who was faster and stronger and more ruthless than me in every way, I came out on top.

But even as I think it, I know it's not the whole truth. Because if I'm being honest with myself, I know that it wasn't just my skills or my training that made the difference in this fight.

It was my armor, my helmet, my steadfast refusal to give in, even when every instinct was screaming at me to lay down and die. It was the simple, stubborn fact of my size, the weight and strength of my body, which could take blows that would have shattered Deathgirl's smaller form.

And in the end, perhaps most importantly, it was the fact that I had something to fight for beyond myself. I had people counting on me, people I loved, people I'd sworn to protect. Deathgirl... she had none of that. She was alone, lost in a maelstrom of pain and rage and bitter, desperate loneliness.

In a strange way, I almost pity her.

With a groan of effort, I force myself to my feet, swaying drunkenly as the world tilts and spins around me. My head is pounding, my vision blurry and doubled, but I grit my teeth and push through it, focusing on the task at hand.

I key my radio, my voice a ragged croak. "This is Bloodhound. Deathgirl is down and secured at the courthouse steps. I need a containment team here ASAP. I have to move on to support rescue efforts."

There's a crackle of static, then a voice I don't recognize responds. "Copy that, Bloodhound. Containment team is en route. ETA three minutes."

I let my hand fall from my ear, too tired to even acknowledge the response. Three minutes. That's how long I have to rest, to gather what little strength I have left.

It's not enough. It's not nearly enough. But it'll have to do.

Because as much as I want to collapse, to let the blessed darkness take me away from the pain and the exhaustion, I know I can't. Not yet. Not while there are still people out there who need my help.

So I take one last look at Deathgirl's unconscious form, making sure the restraints are secure. And then, with a supreme effort of will, I turn and limp across the blood-spattered steps of the courthouse, keeping myself hoisted by the handrail, moving deeper into the disaster.