The streets are a mess, blood and debris everywhere. Sirens wailing, people screaming. It's like a warzone out here, and we're standing right in the middle of it. I'm stuffing a piece of my torn costume up my nose, trying to stop the bleeding. Burst a vessel stealing all that sound earlier. Hurts like hell, but no time to worry about that now.

Pumice emerges from the smoke like some kinda horror movie monster, cracking his knuckles and grinning like he just won the lottery. "Well, well, if it isn't the traitor and the wannabe hero," he sneers, his eyes fixed on Spindle. "Guess it's my lucky day. I get to teach both of you a lesson."

I glance at Spindle, and he looks back at me. We don't need words to know what we gotta do. "Hey, Pumice!" I call out, trying to draw his attention. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to crash a party without an invitation?"

Pumice snorts. "Invitation? I'm here to shut this party down, permanently."

I focus, reaching out with my power, and snatch the sound of a nearby car alarm. Then, with a flick of my mind, I play it back behind Pumice, hoping to spook him.

But Pumice just laughs. "You think a little noise is gonna scare me? I'm made of stone, nigga. And I got bigger fish to fry." He turns, scanning the street, and I realize with a sinking feeling what he's looking for. "Body count competition. No time for car alarms."

Hell no. Not on my watch.

I concentrate, gathering up all the crowd noise I stole earlier. It's a jumble of screams, cries, and panicked shouts. I compress it, shaping it into a single, focused burst of sound, like pulling drawstrings together in my mind. It feels like tugging on a cat by the tail. Then, I unleash it right in Pumice's ears.

The effect is immediate. Pumice staggers, clutching at his head. It's loud, painfully so, and for a moment, I think it might actually take him down.

But he recovers quickly, shaking his head like a dog shedding water. "That all you got?" he growls, turning back to us.

Spindle moves, his body contorting in ways that make my joints ache just looking at him. He's on Pumice in a heartbeat, wrapping his long limbs around the stone man's arm, locking it in place.

For a second, it looks like it might work. But Pumice just reaches over with his free hand, grabs Spindle by the scruff of his neck, and tosses him away like a rag doll.

I wince as Spindle slams into a parked car, but the flexible freak just twists in midair, absorbing the impact. He's back on his feet in an instant, ready for more.

"Hey, rock head!" I shout, trying to buy Spindle some time. "Bet you can't hit me with those slow-ass swings of yours!"

Pumice snarls, his attention snapping back to me. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy shutting your mouth, you little pest."

And that's my cue. I charge in, baton out, aiming for Pumice's knees and elbows. I'm hoping to find a weak spot, something to bring this walking statue down.

But it's like hitting a brick wall. Pumice swings at me, a massive fist whistling through the air. I barely manage to duck under it, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle my hat.

I dart around him, striking at his back, his sides, anywhere I can reach. But it's like trying to chip away at a mountain with a toothpick. My baton feels like it's denting itself more than it's putting any dents in him.

Spindle's back in the fight, leaping onto Pumice's back like a deranged monkey. He wraps his arms around the big man's mouth, squeezing for all he's worth, cramming his fingers down his throat like a bullimic.

For a moment, it seems to be working. Pumice gags, his stone hands scrabbling at Spindle's arms. But then he gets a grip, and with a roar, he reaches back, seizes Spindle by the head, and hurls him over his shoulder.

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Spindle hits the pavement hard, and I swear I hear something crack. But he's up again in a second, rolling to his feet with a pained grimace.

"This brother's tougher than a two-dollar steak," I mutter, circling around for another pass.

"Yeah, and about as smart as one, too," Spindle quips back, his voice strained.

"Don't underestimate him," I warn. "You don't know him like I do, newbie."

We regroup, panting, watching Pumice warily.

I try a few more hit-and-run tactics, using my speed to dart in, land a blow, and then dance away before Pumice can retaliate. But it's like trying to wear down a glacier with a hair dryer. Spindle's not having much luck either. His contortionist tricks are keeping him out of Pumice's grasp, but his strikes seem to be having about as much effect as mine.

"Come on, nigga. I'll turn your ass into a fucking chopped cheese, just stand still for a sec and I'll make it quick," Pumice taunts, cracking his knuckles and rolling his neck until it pops with a sound like cherry bombs going off.

"We need a new plan," I hiss to Spindle as we circle around Pumice, looking for an opening.

"I'm open to suggestions," Spindle grunts back, narrowly avoiding another swipe from Pumice's stone fists.

"I've got nothin," I admit, ducking back from another fist.

"Swing back, nigga! I'll grate you like parmesan!" Pumice roars, beating his chest like a gorilla. "Pussy bitch."

"You mouth off to the ladies like this too, or am I special?" I ask, scooting backwards, close to a bollard on the road.

He grabs a chunk of rock from the road and flings it at me hard enough that I can barely see it coming. I raise my arms to cover my face and it bounces off, probably fracturing a bone or two even through my armguards. I grit my teeth. I'm not like Sam.

"You know I keep it special for you, D-dog. Just for you."

The stench of blood and smoke hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the acrid tang of fear. It's a familiar scent, one I've come to associate with the worst days on the job. And today? It's shaping up to be a contender for the top spot.

I try a new trick, focusing on Pumice himself. I mark every sound he makes - his heavy footsteps, the grinding of his stone joints, even the rasp of his breath - and steal them all, leaving him in a bubble of eerie silence.

It works, sort of. Pumice's movements become erratic, his punches wilder. Without the auditory feedback, combined with his already numbed sense of touch, he can't seem to judge his own strength or aim.

I know you, Joseph. We're familiar with each other.

"What's the matter, nigga?" I taunt, my voice sounding strangely flat in the absence of Pumice's noise. "Feeling a little off-balance?"

Spindle looks at me with a scrunched up face like he just tasted a lemon. "White guilt talk later, man. Priorities" I tell him, and his face unscrunches. This is why I keep that shit on lockdown, damnit.

"Right, sorry," he mumbles, squaring up behind me.

Pumice snarls, his lips moving, but no sound emerges. It's like watching a silent movie, except the monster is very, very real.

Spindle seizes the opportunity, contorting around Pumice's flailing fists. He tries some tai chi bullshit that looks like he's trying to strike at pressure points, but it's like pissing in the wind for all the good it does this wildfire. It's like trying to perform acupuncture on a boulder. Pumice's skin is just too tough, too dense. Spindle's knuckles fold up on him like a cartoon character.

And then, disaster. Pumice's wild swing connects, a boulder of a fist slamming into Spindle's chest. He goes flying, his body twisting in a way that would make a pretzel wince. He crashes into a nearby tree, his flexible form wrapping around the trunk like a rubber band.

The sound of the impact is sickening, even without Pumice's audio. I can feel it in my bones, a dull, meaty thud that promises bruises and broken ribs.

"Spindle!" I yell, my voice raw with fear and fury. I charge at Pumice, leaping onto his back like a monkey hopped up on pixie sticks. I wrap my baton around his throat, trying to choke him out.

But it's like trying to strangle a statue. Pumice's neck is as unyielding as the rest of him, a pillar of solid rock. He reaches back, his stone fingers scrabbling at my collar. He gets a grip, and suddenly, the world is upside down.

I have a brief, dizzying impression of the sky, the ground, the sky again - and then I'm slammed into the pavement with enough force to rattle my teeth. Stars explode across my vision, and for a moment, I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but lie there and gasp like a fish on dry land.

Spindle untangles himself from the tree, his movements pained and slow. But he's still in the fight, still pushing forward. He limps over to Pumice, grabbing the big man's arm, trying to hyperextend the elbow. Good man. Rampart's been training you well. He'd be proud of you.

It's a good move, one that would snap a normal person's arm like a twig. But Pumice isn't normal. He just swings his arm, using Spindle's own grip against him. Spindle goes flying, a lanky projectile in a fluttering quarter-cape. He smashes into one of the saplings along the road with a sickening crunch, the spry young tree snapping in half and not doing anything besides sending him spinning.

I stagger to my feet, my head ringing like a church bell on Sunday. Spindle limps over to me, his breath coming in short, pained gasps. We exchange a desperate look, a silent conversation in the language of the utterly screwed.