As my mission control each takes up a different drone, I can feel the shift over the comms. The jokes have dried up, the banter has dwindled. We're like kids playing at being grown-up, only now the game's got teeth, and they're bared.
Wasp's voice cracks through the quiet, softer now, barely there. "You got this, Fly. Just another night for Miss Mayfly."
"Yeah," I breathe, my heart thudding a rhythm against my ribs, my eyes never leaving the figures at the shutters. "Ready when you are, HQ."
This is us, teetering on the edge. The street's gone still, the world holding its breath. The comms are silent now, a held note waiting for release.
This is what we trained for, scavenged parts for, planned out through whispered calls and scribbled diagrams on napkins. This is our slice of the night, a crusade tucked inside the span of a heartbeat.
And just like that, I can feel it--the swell, the rising tide inside my chest. From the safety of darkness, just beyond the crooks' senses, Miss Mayfly waits, a ghost in the machine, the quiet before the storm. Ready to bring the thunder.
"Alright, bring the motherfucking ruckus," I declare, tweaking the earpieces nestled in my mask just so--the fabric muffling enough to dull the impending cacophony. I'm a pale imitation of a rap star, but the moment demands its soundtrack.
From the HQ, Mite's voice comes laced with dry amusement, tinged with the kind of exasperation only a team leader can muster. "You are way too white to be dropping Wu-Tang lines, Fly." I can almost see his eyes roll heavenward as he asserts, with a hint of delight, "Deploying ruckus."
The line still crackles with his suppressed laughter when the drones make their swooping entrances. The criminals, just heaving the shutters open, are thrown into disarray as the noisemakers whirl into life, emitting a dizzying, disorientating blare. They twist and dodge like shadowy dancers in a pit of confusion, crowbars clattering to the concrete as hands swipe at the buzzing menaces around their heads.
Their so-called lookout pivots, eyes darting, scanning the alleys for the source of this aerial harassment. It's the moment I've been waiting for--the cue to hit the stench switch. I'm armed for this, face obscured behind the gas mask that turns my breaths into mechanical ghosts.
I press the remote, releasing a fetid miasma that could wake the dead and offend the living ten blocks over. Military-grade misery in the form of stink bombs plummets into the fracas, and I move, already picturing the sour faces, the watering eyes.
They're reeling, chaos incarnate, and it's glorious. In a matter of seconds, the late-night quiet breaks, yielding to the bedlam we've orchestrated. The pungent fog of the stink bombs engulfs them, and retching fills the cool night air, a soundtrack that warms my vigilante's heart.
I have mere moments now, seconds granted by the capricious winds and the gut-churning potency of my arsenal. The countdown to zero begins, and adrenaline courses through my veins like a live wire.
This is it--go time.
The shift in my muscles, the balance of weight as I push away from the wall, it's all second nature now. My form is a silhouette against the night, a blur moving with purpose and precision.
I use the confusion, the cover of stink and sound, to my advantage as I glide into action. The darkness is an old friend, the alleys and fire escapes my playground. My steps are swift, my grip on the taser glove sure.
As the mini-drones execute their part with chaotic finesse, zipping like relentless insects, I close the distance. One by one, I will neutralize the threat, reclaim the quiet of the night, and leave our mark.
And somewhere in that torrent of sensation--between the stench and the shock and the all-encompassing noise--the realization hits home: Miss Mayfly is no mere wannabe hero. She's the ruckus in the dark, the unsung hymn of the streets--and for one wild, heart-thumping minute, she's utterly, perfectly untouchable.
"Sixty seconds, Fly. Make them count," Ant's voice cuts through the bedlam, a calm amidst the storm of groans and shouts that now fill the alleyway. The counter starts, ticking down our slim window of opportunity.
My heart is a drum, my moves a dance of vicious necessity. Every second pulses with the promise of mayhem, my body coursing through the darkness--a sliver of retribution armed with righteous fury. Wasp's voice serves as a backdrop to the action, snippets of her call for cavalry floating over the comms. "Yeah, hello? I'm seeing some guys trying to break in to a bank - no, I'm hiding in the bushes. Like, all the way down the street, I just hear them. Address? Yeah, um… one sec…"
"Fifty seconds," Ant intones, and I'm swinging--a specter in the strobe lights, I am David armed with more than just a sling. Precision matters, each strike calculated to incapacitate, to bring the pain.
From my wrist dispenser, a vengeful spray of pepper spray finds its targets, attempting to slip in the crevices between their cracks. None of them go down to the point where I'd call them "clawing animals, frantic to escape", but the irritation is as clear as the villainy. Each burst is an exclamation point, a statement of intent from Miss Mayfly--this far, no further.
I'm a bullet train of elbows and knees, of hard-placed strikes to soft, vulnerable spots. It's a barrage, it's brutal--it's necessary. The flashlight, heavy and firm in my grip, pulses with a rhythmic strobe, a disorienting light show for the dazed criminal audience.
"Forty seconds," Ant updates, her voice the tick-tock of my adrenaline-fueled clock.
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The thugs, these pretenders to the throne of villainy, are all flailing limbs and panicked swings now--gestures rendered useless by their compromised senses and the inexorable march of seconds slipping away. I'm less a teenage beanpole now, more a whirlwind--movement, reaction, a symphony of righteous street justice.
"Thirty seconds," comes the warning, and it's as if the very night is holding its breath, the countdown resonating with the beat of the chaos.
Retreat isn't an option, surrender isn't a word in my vocabulary--I'm committed, boots on the ground, fists in the fight. The assault continues, punctuated by curses muffled by the rank air, cries cut short by the efficiency of my advance. A crowbar goes swinging over my head and I try not to think about what would happen if it hit. I knee someone in the balls.
Wasp, ever the voice of eerie calm, continues her distant chat with emergency services: "Yes, you heard me right, there's someone with a gas mask fighting them. No, I don't know who."
"Twenty seconds," Ant cuts in, her voice a string pulling me back to the ticking clock--my cue to wrap up the show.
The strobe light paints the alley in snapshots of chaos; a photographic stream where each frame is etched with violence and victory. A jab here, a side step there--I am fluid, unstoppable, a force fashioned from shadows and resolve.
In the last echoes of this dance of disparity, the struggle becomes clearer: This isn't just a fight--it's a statement. Miss Mayfly is no passive participant in this nocturnal theatre, no secondary character in a story of heroes and villains. God, I almost sound like Sam.
She is the crescendo in the final act, the embodiment of swift justice, the unseen specter--60 seconds of teenage wrath distilled into a maelstrom of precision and control. And with twenty seconds to spare, she becomes the legend whispered on the lips of the night--a legend born out of the corner of Fifteenth and Main.
The final countdown begins, each tick like the hammer of a gavel, marking the end of my reign of terror. I've got twenty seconds left on the clock, but the universe has a sense of humor--cracks it wide open with the sickening echo of a crowbar colliding with my side.
"Ten seconds," Ant whispers, but her voice is drowned out by the ringing in my ears and the throbbing in my ribs. Padding or not, the hit comes like a freight train, the impact a bloom of agony spreading fast and unyielding across my body. Breaths turn traitor, hitching and stalling as I stagger back, my fingers instinctively clutching my side.
Reflex demands retaliation, and I lash out, the flashlight swinging in a wide, vengeful arc. But pain is a veil, blurring vision and warping aim. It sweeps through air, hitting nothing but darkness and disappointment. They're not keeping track of time now - they're not cheering me on.
A voice somewhere in my head--gut instinct or maybe it's Moth's mantra--whispers, "discretion, the better part of valor." My brain screams fight, but my body's shouting loud and clear, this brawl's lost its charm.
So, with a panted curse, I backpedal. "I'm out," I hiss into the mic, teeth gritted, and in a fluid motion, my thumb depresses the dispenser, a wide mist of pepper spray fanning out, a burning curtain to veil my exit.
There's a part of me, the smallest sliver, that aches to stay, to finish what I started, but the greater part--the part that wants to wake up tomorrow--is all survival instinct now, screaming at my legs to run. I'm not Sam. I can't come back from a nuclear bomb going off on me. I only get to keep helping if I'm alive.
And as if to punctuate my decision, my hand flings the last of my stink bomb gifts to the alley floor. The noxious cloud bursts into life, a second wave of olfactory assault to mask my withdrawal.
"Clear," I manage to grind out, as the night swallows me whole, my sprint less superhero and more schoolgirl late for the bus. The alleyway blurs, the cacophony fades, and all that's left is the rhythm of my flight, the thundering of my heart louder than any explosion, any drone, any crowbar.
In the concealment of the shadows, I'm just a shadow myself, fleeting and breathless. I don't need to hear Ant to know that the sixty seconds are up. This is the end of tonight's chapter for Miss Mayfly.
The distance I put between myself and the scene is filled in minutes with the wailing of sirens, the promise of blue and red salvation. It doesn't feel good to leave it to them - God knows the Philly cops might just get something done today - but hopefully I've given them valuable minutes to catch these scumbags in the act.
Above, the drone lights flicker out, mission accomplished, signals going dark, and the streets of Philadelphia reclaim their silence, punctuated only by the distant cries of the wretched and the approaching call of the law.
As my home neighborhood looms up ahead, a refuge of brick and familiar streets, I slow, gasping, clutching at my side with the suspicion of broken bones singing sharp notes with each breath. But I'm alive, I'm unseen, and I'm still in one piece, more or less.
I'll fight another day.
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Back at HQ, the tech that lit up the room hours before now hums quietly in the background, a low anthem to the night's efforts. Drones docked and screens dimmed, this sanctum breathes of secret triumphs and the solace of shadows turned to safety. I slump into a chair, the adrenaline hangover hitting hard, pain punctuating my every move.
Mite's fingers dance across the controls, powering down systems that won't be needed 'til the next call to arms. He’s the maestro of our electronic orchestra, the quiet architect of our nightly escapades. "Status on Fly?" he queries without turning, his attention fixed on the flickering displays.
"Fly's grounded, but damage looks to be non-critical," Moth reports from my side, her hands skilled and sure as she examines the epicenter of my aches. Through the fabric of my suit, her fingers probe, a dance of pressure and relief that charts the map of my injuries.
Ant's voice cracks with pubescent deepening, the cool clarity of command now replaced with concern. "Good thing for the padding, or you’d be cocooning in the ER about now."
A chuckle escapes me, wry and weary, as Moth confirms, "It's just a sprain, with some impressive bruising. You'll live." Relief floods in, a gentle tide that carries away the worst of the fear, leaving behind the aches of a job well done. I really didn't want to explain to my dad how I broke my ribs.
Wasp leans back from her own screen, a haven of reconnaissance and connection, still radiating the thrill of the chase. "We made quite the splash," she remarks with a smirk. "Just wait 'til they hit the morning news."
There's a murmur of assent around the room, a shared sense of accomplishment that ties us together, binding stronger than the web of cables and cords that crisscross our haven. I take a moment to look at them all, this band of misfits turned crew, each a hero in their own right—even without capes or the glare of the spotlight.
"We’re a helluva team," I admit softly, the truth of it sinking in through the soreness and the silence of the room. In this HQ—our fortress of solace and strategy—the weight of my lone endeavor lifts, replaced by the buoyancy of collective purpose.
As Moth secures a bandage around my tender ribs, her touch firm yet careful, the reality of it all settles in like dusk. No matter the pain, the fear, or the uncertainty of what we face on the streets, this—here, with them—is where Miss Mayfly truly takes flight.
In HQ, with its walls lined with the ingenuity and courage of my friends, I find strength far beyond the capability of any superpower. Together, we are more than a match for the perils that prowl the Philly nights. As I ease back, letting Moth finish her work, I realize that it doesn't matter what the world sees or knows. This is my team, this is our fight, and together, we soar.