I use the last of my stored noises, just whatever voice clips I have left in the library, to sound like someone talking - not the panicked cries of a crowd. A "Hey, you!" from an unfamiliar face. I play them behind Pumice, a wall of sound that makes him turn, distracted for just a moment.

Spindle and I dive behind a car for cover, the metal cool against my sweat-soaked skin. And that's when I see it.

A fallen riot cop, his chest torn open by some unseen force. Blood pools around him, a growing sea of crimson that laps at the soles of my boots. Whatever happened to him caused his ribs to come out from the inside, like teeth. I have to wonder if he was one of the guys they fed Jump to or the victim of one. Or maybe someone just did this. Maybe that Elias dude. I have to look away, bile rising in my throat. I hate these guys, with their batons and their tear gas and their casual brutality. But this... no one deserves this.

I reach up with a shaking hand, close the cop's eyes. They're already glazing over, staring sightlessly at the smoke-choked sky. I mutter a quick prayer, the words tasting like ashes on my tongue.

Then, I grab his rubber bullet launcher, a sleek, black thing that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie. I mute it with my power, the click of the safety echoing in the sudden silence. I toss it to Spindle.

Spindle nods, his face grim. He understands the plan without a word. He pops up from behind the car, the launcher braced against his shoulder. He fires, and I don't see nor hear the end result until it hits.

The rubber bullets slam into Pumice, staggering him. Chips of stone fly off his body, the craters left behind oozing a strange, grey dust. But he keeps coming, his fists swinging like wrecking balls.

Spindle and I dodge and weave, trying to stay out of reach. The air is full of the thud of rubber bullets impacting but without the sound of their launch, the muted roar of blood in my ears. Pumice isn't even trying for technique anymore, just bringing his fists down, trying to crush us like bugs.

But the barrage is taking its toll. Pumice stumbles, off balance for just a second. I seize the chance, leaping at him with my baton. I aim for his head, hoping to rattle whatever passes for his brain.

Pumice gets an arm up, blocking the blow. The impact jars my arms, sends shockwaves of pain racing up my shoulders. But I grit my teeth, push through it.

I grab a riot shield from the fallen cop, the weight of it unfamiliar in my hands. I whip it at Pumice's face with all my strength, a desperate, last-ditch attack.

It connects with a satisfying thunk, the sound muffled by my power. But Pumice barely seems to feel it, his stone features set in a mask of rage.

But it's enough of a distraction. Spindle dives in, his body contorting into impossible shapes. He wraps himself around Pumice's legs like a human python, his grip tight enough to make stone creak.

Pumice roars, the sound a physical force that slams into my chest. He grabs at Spindle, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick material of Spindle's costume.

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Spindle's grip is slipping, his face contorted with effort. "Playback!" he yells, his voice tight with desperation.

I'm already moving, the shield raised high. I slam it into Pumice's face again and again, a relentless rhythm of metal and whatever that plastic shit they make riot shields out of on stone. It's not doing much damage, but it's buying Spindle time.

Time for what, I don't know. But we're running out of options, and fast. If we don't come up with something soon, we're gonna end up like that poor cop.

Just another couple of stains on the pavement, our blood mixing with the dirt and the debris of this godforsaken city. I can feel the weight of it pressing down on me, the knowledge that we're all that stands between Pumice and a body count too high to contemplate.

Pumice, enraged, finally rips Spindle off and tosses him aside like a used napkin. Spindle hits the ground hard, rolling and tumbling across the pavement. I can hear the air rush out of his lungs, even over the chaos of the battle.

Pumice turns his attention to me, his eyes burning with a fury that's all too familiar. I've seen that look before, back when we were still running together. It's the look he gets when he's done playing around. No more Allen Iverson quips left in the chamber. Only kill.

The blows begin coming in earnest, each one hitting my riot shield like a sledgehammer. I grit my teeth, my arms aching with the effort of holding the shield steady. I can feel my ankles creaking, threatening to give out under the onslaught.

I don't have a choice. I drop my baton, gripping the shield with both hands. It's the only thing keeping me from becoming a smear on the pavement, and it's beginning to crack and dent and bend in all the ways I've never expected myself seeing a riot shield cracking and denting and bending. Definitely not from this side of it, too.

Spindle, battered and bruised, tries to come to my aid. He's a tough kid, I'll give him that. But Pumice is ready for him. He intercepts Spindle with a crushing backhand, sending him sprawling like a ragdoll, without even looking.

I'm alone now, backed up against a wall. Pumice looms over me, his stone fists raised for a final, devastating blow. I brace myself, my mind racing. Is this it? Is this how it ends?

The sound of the impact is gut-wrenching, a sickening CRACK that echoes through the streets.

Pumice goes flying, his body smashing into a nearby lamppost. The metal crumples around him, bending and twisting like it's made of play-doh and he's one of those extruders.

I stare, my jaw hanging open. I can't believe what I'm seeing. The newcomer, clad in biker leathers and a full-face motorcycle helmet, lands beside me with a grace that seems impossible for someone who just headbutted a living statue.

Spindle staggers over, his eyes wide. "Who the hell is that?" he asks, his voice a mix of awe and confusion.

But I know.

I'd recognize those moves anywhere. It's Gale, obviously, I want to say, grabbing Spindle and shaking him by the shoulders. She's come to help us, disguised in a getup that looks like she raided a Mad Max costume shop.

But I don't say anything like that.

I'm about to say something else, but Gale beats me to it. "You boys looked like you could use a hand," she says, her voice a poor imitation of a gruffer, older superhero, filtered through the opaque helmet. It's almost enough to make me laugh, despite the situation. I'm not sure what exactly she was holding when she slammed into him - some metal thing, maybe a trash can lid? - but it's totally gone, bent into a ball of its own.

She helps Spindle to his feet, checking him over for injuries. "You good to keep going?" she asks.

Spindle nods, still clearly trying to process what just happened. I glance over at Pumice, who's starting to stir, shaking off bits of broken metal and concrete.

"Might want to save the introductions for later, chica" I say, readying my shield. "This ain't over yet."

Gale nods, falling into a fighting stance beside me. Spindle, still looking a bit dazed, takes up position on my other side.

Pumice rises to his feet, his body covered in a spiderweb of cracks. But he's not done, not by a long shot. He roars, a sound of pure, unbridled rage, and charges at us like a runaway train, his footsteps shaking the ground. But Gale doesn't flinch. She steps forward, her hands outstretched, and the air around us starts to move.