At first, it's just a breeze, a gentle stirring of the debris and dust. But then it builds, growing stronger and stronger until it's a full-blown gale force wind. I can feel it tugging at my clothes, whipping at my face.

Gale directs the wind like a conductor, guiding it with her hands. Pieces of rubble, shards of glass, even the rubber bullets from the fallen cop's launcher - well, from various launchers - all of it gets caught up in the maelstrom, swirling around us in a deadly vortex.

And then, with a flick of her wrist, Gale sends it all hurtling towards Pumice, one at a time, channeling her volume of air into a deadly cannon barrel.

The impact is incredible. The debris slams into Pumice like a series of shotgun blasts, peppering his stone skin with a dozen painful impacts. Cracks spiderweb out from each one, spreading and connecting until it looks like Pumice is about to shatter into a million pieces. Bam. Bam. Bam.

But he keeps coming, his momentum barely slowed. He swings at Gale with a fist the size of a cinder block, but she's already moving, ducking and weaving with a grace that seems impossible in that bulky biker gear.

I charge forward, scooping up my fallen baton as I run. I activate my power, stealing the sound of my own footsteps, rendering myself utterly silent as I flank Pumice from the side.

Spindle goes high, leaping onto a nearby car and using it as a springboard to launch himself at Pumice's back. He latches on like a spider monkey, his long limbs wrapping around Pumice's torso, squeezing with all his might.

Pumice roars, trying to shake Spindle off, but the kid's grip is unbreakable. I take advantage of the distraction, darting in and striking at the back of Pumice's knee with my baton.

The blow connects with a satisfying crunch, and I feel a jolt of hope. Maybe we can do this. Maybe we can actually bring this bastard down.

But Pumice is tougher than I gave him credit for. He barely seems to register the blow, his attention still focused on trying to pry Spindle off his back, even as another rubber bullet slams into his nose, ripping a small chunk of stone off of him.

Gale sees our struggle and redoubles her efforts. She sweeps her hands in a wide arc, and the wind responds, snatching up a nearby manhole cover like it weighs nothing at all. She spins, building momentum, and then hurls the heavy metal disc at Pumice with all the force of a hurricane behind it.

The manhole cover slams into Pumice's chest with a deafening clang, sending him staggering backward. Spindle takes the opportunity to unwrap himself, dropping to the ground and rolling clear.

I press the advantage, striking at Pumice's other knee, then his elbow, his wrist, all spots already cracked from previous strikes. Each blow chips away at his stone skin, leaving behind a puff of dust and gravel.

But it's not enough. Pumice is still standing, still fighting. And he's getting angrier by the second.

He lashes out with a wild swing, catching me across the ribs. I feel something give way inside me, a sickening snap that steals the breath from my lungs. I stumble, my vision graying at the edges.

Spindle is there in an instant, catching me before I fall. He pulls me back, out of reach of Pumice's flailing fists.

Gale steps forward, placing herself between us and the raging golem. The wind whips around her, tearing at her clothes, pulling at her helmet. But she stands firm, unmoving, unafraid. Like she was born to do this.

"Is that all you got, you overgrown cinderblock?" she taunts, her voice raw and ragged with the effort of controlling the wind.

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"Let's find out," Pumice rumbles, not just words but actual sound, sub-bass coming out from his whole body in a way that makes my teeth vibrate in my head. And then he launches himself at her like a torpedo.

Gale doesn't back down. She reaches out, her fingers splayed wide, and the wind responds. It slams into Pumice like a solid wall, stopping him dead in his tracks. He grinds against the ground, visibly straining to push past Gale, while she's visibly straining to push him. Her body is so tense that she looks like a rubber band.

It stops, and he stumbles forward.

And then the wind kicks up again, even stronger this time, and sends him flying backwards like a rag doll. He crashes through the window of a nearby storefront, disappearing in a shower of broken glass and twisted metal.

Spindle lets out a low whistle, his eyes wide. "Damn," he mutters, shaking his head. "That was some X-Men shit."

"Come on," Gale says, already moving towards the shattered storefront. "He's not finished yet, are you, big boy?"

She's right. Even as we watch, the rubble starts to shift and tumble, pushed aside by a pair of massive stone hands. Pumice emerges from the wreckage like a golem from a horror movie, his body covered in a spiderweb of cracks, his eyes burning with an inhuman rage.

He charges at us again, his footsteps like thunder, his fists raised to strike. But this time, we're ready for him.

Gale catches Spindle with her wind, and he picks up a riot shield - the one that got ripped out of my hands - to use like a sail. A couple rounds of twirling, and he goes hurtling towards Pumice like a living cannonball, accelerated to sickening highway velocities by Gale's horizontal column of air.

The air is filled with the loud CRUNCH of shattering plastic or plexiglass or whatever it is that the riot shields are made off of. For a second, I fear the worst, as Spindle slams into Pumice's head and wraps himself tight around, fingers laced together in front of his mouth, legs locked around his nose.

Pumice scrabbles for purchase, trying to get Spindle off of his face. But with the disorientation of what is probably a concussion combined with his rapidly dwindling air supply, there's simply not much left - especially not with the visible vortex of whipping, debris-filled wind surrounding him.

Pumice goes down, his leg giving out from under him, and manages to rip Spindle away one last time. He falls to his hands and knees, his head bowed, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as Spindle bounces aside, cushioned by Gale's wind.

"Let's finish this, shall we?" Gale says, her voice cold and hard, a discarded riot cop baton floating into her fingers as she hovers so hard towards him you can see the onomatopoeia floating out.

She raises the baton above her head, ready to bring it down in a final, crushing blow. But before she can strike, Pumice's hand shoots out, quick as a snake, and grabs her by the ankle.

"You first," he growls, and yanks.

Gale goes down hard, her head bouncing off the pavement with a sickening thud. The baton clatters from her hand, rolling away across the blood-slick street.

Pumice staggers to his feet, looming over Gale's prone form. "You think you can beat me?" he rasps, his voice like gravel in a blender. "You think you can stop me?"

He raises his fist high, ready to bring it down with all his remaining strength. I can see the madness in his eyes, the desperate, last-ditch rage of a cornered animal.

But then Spindle is there, wrapping himself around Pumice's ankles and knees, yanking the big man's legs out from under him. Pumice topples, his arms windmilling comically as he tries to keep his balance.

I'm moving before I even realize it, scooping up the fallen baton as I go. I pour all my strength into a single mighty swing, feeling the fresh weapon hum in my hands as it cuts through the air.

The baton hits Pumice square in the forehead with a sound like a church bell being struck. Well, more like a rock being split in half. For a moment, he just stands there, swaying gently, a look of almost cartoonish surprise on his craggy features.

And then his eyes roll back in his head, and he collapses like a puppet with his strings cut, hitting the ground with a crash that shakes the windows and rattles my teeth.

We stand there for a moment, panting, staring down at Pumice's motionless form. Spindle unwraps himself from Pumice's legs, his movements slow and stiff. Gale staggers to her feet, one hand pressed to her helmet.

"Is he...?" Spindle asks, his voice shaking.

I nudge Pumice with my foot. He doesn't move. "Out cold," I say, feeling a rush of relief so strong it makes my knees weak. "We did it."

Gale nods, wincing as the motion aggravates her bruised head. "Good work, boys," she says, her voice still muffled by her helmet. "Let's get this bastard secured before he wakes up."

And just like that, it's over. The battle is won, the day is saved. Just another Tuesday in Philadelphia.

Except it's not. Because as we bind Pumice's wrists and ankles with zip ties, we can't help but look around at us and see the chaos and devastation firsthand.

Job's not done yet.