Chum

The leader's knife glints in the dim light of the construction site. He's got a red bandana tied around his neck, which strikes me as a little on-the-nose, but whatever. The other two guys – one with a gaudy gold watch, the other wearing a ratty Phillies cap – fan out, trying to flank us. The Jumphead, with his nervous energy and twitchy movements, hangs back, his eyes darting around like he's not sure where he is.

Rampart doesn't waste any time. He charges straight at Red Bandana, moving faster than you'd expect for a guy his size. Red Bandana slashes with his knife, but Rampart's already inside his guard. There's a dull thud as Rampart's fist connects with the guy's solar plexus. Red Bandana doubles over, gasping for air.

I sidestep to avoid Gold Watch's wild haymaker. It's sloppy, telegraphed from a mile away. He's trying to wind up, tried, anyway, like that'll make him hit harder. I grab his arm as it passes, using his momentum to throw him off balance. He stumbles, crashing into a pile of construction materials. The clatter of falling pipes and tools is almost comical.

Phillies Cap comes at me with a length of rebar. He swings it like a baseball bat, but his grip is all wrong. I duck under the swing, popping up inside his reach. My palm strike to his sternum snaps his head back. He staggers, dazed, like I've just shoved alcohol into his veins.

It's all happening so fast, but at the same time, it feels... slow. Predictable. Like I've done this a thousand times before. Which, I guess, I kind of have. These guys might think they're tough, but Jordan and I have beat up a great many ordinary street thugs, and I have more confidence in myself than they do in themselves... theirself? Whatever. Point is, being able to heal from getting stabbed means you're not afraid of getting stabbed. It's hard to overcome the psychological advantage, even if I am an (extremely well-built, but only) 15 and a half year old girl.

Red Bandana's recovered enough to take another swing at Rampart. The knife blade connects with Rampart's arm, but it might as well be hitting concrete. The knife skitters off, leaving only a tear in Rampart's sleeve. Red Bandana's eyes go wide with shock.

He almost manages to get out the first syllable of a word. Something with an Fr - freak?

Rampart grabs the guy's wrist, twisting until the knife clatters to the ground. A quick knee to the gut, and Red Bandana's down for the count, reeling down and doubled over.

Gold Watch is back on his feet, brandishing a piece of plywood like a shield. He charges at me, probably hoping to use his size to his advantage, but not able to see past the plank. I sidestep at the last second, sticking out my foot. He trips, momentum carrying him face-first into a stack of sandbags. He doesn't get up, groaning in pain and embarassment. It's almost slapstick.

Phillies Cap's smart enough to realize he's outmatched. He turns to run, but Rampart's there, blocking his path. Phillies Cap throws a desperate punch. Rampart doesn't even try to dodge. The punch lands square on his jaw, and I swear I hear bones crack – but not Rampart's. Phillies Cap howls in pain, clutching his hand.

A flicker of movement catches my eye. The Jumphead's finally decided to join the fight. He blinks out of existence, reappearing right behind Rampart. But his timing's off – he materializes a foot too high, falling awkwardly to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, looking green around the gills.

I feel a little sorry for him. That adjustment period is killer.

Rampart's dealing with Phillies Cap, so I turn my attention to Jumphead. He sees me coming and tries to teleport again. This time he appears to my left, stumbling as he rematerializes. I don't even break stride, just pivot and keep moving towards him.

He panics, blinking in and out of existence rapid-fire. It's like watching a strobe light, flashes of a terrified face appearing and disappearing around me. But each time he reappears, he looks more disoriented, more sick.

Finally, he pops into existence right in front of me, doubled over and retching. I almost feel bad for him as I grab his arm, twisting it behind his back in a standard hold. He doesn't even try to resist.

I look around, assessing the situation. Red Bandana and Gold Watch are both down for the count. Rampart's got Phillies Cap pinned against a wall. The whole thing's taken maybe two minutes, tops.

And I'm... bored. Like, really bored. My heart's barely even racing. Is this what it's come to? Street thugs don't even register as a threat anymore? Nobody here is older than eighteen, I bet - stubbly high school drop outs with maybe half a wrinkle between the four of them, looking to get rich on some other druggie's stolen supply.

Jumphead makes a weak attempt to teleport out of my hold, but he only manages to shift about a foot to the left without clipping me, so I grab his other arm and pin him once more. The sudden movement makes him gag again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," I tell him, not unkindly. "You're just making yourself sick."

He mumbles something that might be agreement, or might just be more retching.

Rampart's got Phillies Cap subdued, tied up with zip ties that I imagine he always has on his person. Red Bandana and Gold Watch are starting to stir, groaning and clutching various body parts.

"Sam," Rampart calls out. "You good?"

"Yeah," I reply, surprised at how calm I sound. "No problem here."

And that's when Gold Watch, apparently not as out of it as I thought, launches himself at me from behind. His piece of plywood catches me in the back of the head, sending me stumbling forward. Stars explode in my vision, and for a moment, everything goes fuzzy.

Now this is more like it.

My heart beats twice, hard.

The world snaps back into focus, sharper than before. I can feel my pulse quickening, adrenaline flooding my system, and possibly another concussion that I'll shake off in a couple of hours. Maybe. I've been hit in the head much harder. I spin around on my heel and try to smash my arm through his piece of plywood, but it ends up being thicker than I expect, and I bounce off of it. We both reel back like two halves of a cymbal, and he recovers just a little faster than I do.

I duck under his swing, pivoting on my heel. My elbow comes up, catching him under the chin. His head snaps back, and he crumples to the ground.

The whole sequence takes maybe two seconds, but it feels like an eternity. For those brief moments, I'm fully alive, every nerve singing with electricity.

And then it's over.

Gold Watch is down, this time for good. Jumphead's power seems to have fizzled out – he's on his hands and knees, body shuddering. Red Bandana and Phillies Cap are both secured.

Rampart looks at me, concern evident in his eyes. "You okay? That looked like a nasty hit."

I nod, already feeling the ache in my head fading, replaced with a comfortable, fuzzy buzz, like what I imagine being drunk is like. My regeneration's taking care of it. "I'm fine. Just caught me off guard."

He nods, but I can tell he's not entirely convinced. "Alright. Let's see what these guys can tell us about their operation."

As Rampart starts questioning Red Bandana, I find myself almost wishing for another fight. Something challenging, something that would make me feel... something. Anything other than this vague sense of disappointment. I turn my attention back to Jumphead, who's finally stopped dry heaving and is now just sitting on the ground, looking miserable. Time to see what he knows about this whole mess.

Rampart stands over the four subdued thugs, his imposing figure casting long shadows in the rapidly dimming light along 9th street. The air is thick with tension, the only sounds the ragged breathing of our would-be attackers and the distant hum of city traffic, skateboarders passing us by with a wide berth. It's not like fights don't break out here frequently enough. I can feel my pulse slowly returning to normal, the brief excitement from the fight already fading into a dull, familiar ache.

"Alright, gentlemen," Rampart says, his voice low and controlled. "Let's have a chat."

The effect is immediate. Red Bandana and Gold Watch start squirming, their eyes darting around like cornered animals. "Look, man," Red Bandana blurts out, his tough-guy act crumbling. "We don't want no trouble. We ain't said nothing to nobody."

Gold Watch nods frantically, wincing as the movement aggravates what's probably a nasty headache. "Yeah, yeah. We're just small-time, you know? We don't know nothing important."

Rampart holds up a hand, silencing their babbling. "Relax. We're not cops. Didn't you listen earlier?"

That gets their attention. They exchange wary glances, confusion written all over their faces. I can almost see the gears turning in their heads, trying to figure out who we are and what we want.

"Then what..." Gold Watch starts, but Rampart cuts him off.

"We just want information," he says, his tone making it clear this isn't a request. "Who's really dealing the Jump? Who's in charge of your operation?"

Red Bandana laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Operation? Man, you think we're some kind of big boys or something? We're just trying to make a buck, same as anyone."

I step forward, fixing them with a hard stare. "By pushing Jump? By roughing up other dealers?" My voice drips with disdain. "Yeah, real noble work you're doing."

Gold Watch at least has the decency to look ashamed. Red Bandana just shrugs, as much as he can while tied up. "It's a living."

"That's the life, man. You gotta rub out the competition," Gold Watch says, earning an elbow from his compatriot. "Hey!"

"We didn't kill nobody. Just roughin' up a couple guys on our turf. You know," Red Bandana clarifies.

Rampart sighs, rubbing his temples. "Look, we don't care about your petty deals. We're after the big fish. Give us something useful, and we'll let you walk."

That perks them up. Red Bandana and Gold Watch exchange another look, this one filled with hope and a hint of desperation. "For real?" Gold Watch asks. "You'll just let us go?"

Jumphead retches quietly.

Rampart nods. "As long as you give us something good. And maybe consider a career change."

They both nod eagerly. "Yeah, yeah, sure," Red Bandana says. "Whatever you say, man."

I can't help but roll my eyes. It's almost pathetic how quickly they're willing to sell out their bosses to save their own skins. But then again, honor among thieves has always been more of a myth than a reality.

"So?" I prompt. "Who's calling the shots?"

Red Bandana and Gold Watch look at each other, then at Jumphead, who's still looking too nauseous to contribute much to the conversation.

"Ask Jackie," Red Bandana says. "He's the one with the connections."

They turn to Phillies Cap - Jackie, apparently - who's been suspiciously quiet this whole time. He suddenly looks like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. His jaw is clenched tight, eyes wide with what looks like genuine fear.

Rampart crouches down in front of him. "Jackie? You want to tell us what's going on?"

Jackie shakes his head frantically, his whole body tensing up. It's like he's physically trying to open his mouth, and it's not working.

I frown, stepping closer. "Come on, Jackie. We're not here to hurt you. We just want to know who's behind all this."

The more we press, the more distressed Jackie becomes. His face is turning red with effort, veins bulging in his neck. It's like he's fighting some internal battle, and losing badly.

"What's wrong with him?" Gold Watch asks, sounding genuinely concerned. "Jackie, man, you okay?"

Jackie doesn't respond. He's trembling now, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes are darting around wildly, like he's looking for an escape that isn't there.

Rampart and I exchange a worried glance. This isn't normal. Something's very wrong here.

"Jackie," I say, trying to keep my voice calm and soothing. "It's okay. You're safe. Just take a deep breath and relax."

Jackie does not look like he's capable of taking a deep breath or relaxing even if he tried. I squat down on my heels, elbows on my knees. My brow furrows. I go for the kill shot. "Jackie, I'm going to need you to be honest with me," I say, getting ready to drop the motherlode. I know where it's coming from. I remember Sparkplug, and his insane ranting.

"Did you get it from Rogue Wave?"

The effect is instantaneous and terrifying. Jackie's eyes glaze over, all emotion draining from his face. For a split second, he's perfectly still.

Then, with a sound like a gunshot, the zip ties around his wrists snap.