Chum

I use Patriot's moment of shock to my advantage, wrenching myself free from his slackened grip with a desperate burst of strength. I stagger back, putting some distance between us, my hand fumbling at my belt for a syringe. I yank it free, holding it out in front of me like a talisman, like a shield against the fury I can see building in Patriot's eyes, and then load it into my gauntlet.

"You know what this is?" I rasp, my voice raw and broken from his chokehold. "A little gift from one of my vigilante friends. A nasty poison, cooked up special just for assholes like you."

Patriot's eyes narrow, his gaze flicking from the gauntlet to my face and back again. I can see the wheels turning in his head, see him trying to calculate the odds, trying to decide if I'm bluffing or not. I can also see him clocking who I am, my true identity. Knowing now that the person he beat to all hell weeks earlier lies underneath this mask. And I see that knowledge harden his resolve, see it turn his anger from hot to cold.

"You think that little toy scares me, Small?" he growls, spitting my name like a curse. "You think anything scares me anymore? I've seen things, done things that would make your skin crawl. You're just another obstacle in my way, another threat to be eliminated." I see the slightest of twitches run through one of his shoulder muscles, sense the blood flowing through him, a tell so subtle I almost miss it. He's about to lunge.

And lunge he does. The pain seems to only amplify the rage in his blue eyes as he propels himself forward with a brutal, animalistic roar, a guttural sound that seems to reverberate through my very bones. His fists are up, ready to pummel, to crush, to destroy.

I meet his charge head-on, my own battered body screaming in protest as I throw myself forward. I take a glancing blow to the side of my head, feeling my ear explode with pain, but I push through it, letting my momentum carry me inside his guard. My shoulder, the one I dislocated earlier, slams into his chest, and I feel the joint pop out of its socket once again, the pain so intense it feels like my vision whitens out for a second.

But it's worth it, because now I'm close, now I'm inside his reach, and he can't bring his full strength to bear. And now, the gauntlet is pressed against his bleeding shoulder, the needles poised over the open wound like the fangs of a snake.

"You fought well, even if you're still just a puppy," Patriot snarls, his face so close to mine I can feel his breath, hot and coppery with blood. "But it's over now. You're finished."

"Funny," I hiss through gritted teeth. "I was just about to say that,"

KASHUNK!

The sound seems to echo through the warehouse as I trigger the gauntlet, the twin syringes slamming into Patriot's flesh, the plungers depressing and flooding his wound with the liquid.

Patriot's eyes go wide, his mouth falling open in a shocked 'O'. For a moment he just stands there, his body rigid, his face slack with disbelief. And then he starts to laugh, a harsh, broken sound that's almost more terrifying than his roars of rage.

"You stupid little bitch," he chuckles, shaking his head as if chiding a naughty child. "You think that'll stop me? You think anything can stop me?"

"No," I say, my voice surprisingly calm despite the hammering of my heart. "But it'll sure as hell slow you down. And now that you're poisoned, you're going to have to come to the negotiating table if you want the antidote. Or your crusade will end as quickly as it started."

For a long moment we just stand there, both of us battered and bleeding, both of us barely able to stay on our feet. The rage in Patriot's eyes has dimmed to a smolder, replaced by a cold, calculating look that somehow scares me even more. He takes two steps back, then another two.

"Alright," he says at last, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, like an elephant's infrasound. "Tell me what you want. And I'll tell you if you get to leave here in one piece or not."

I nod, taking a step back, my hands held out in a placating gesture. "First things first. You're going to stand down. Call off your dogs, wind down these protests. And you're going to leave Jordan Westwood alone. They're not a threat to you or your precious order. You stick to South Philly, and we won't have any problems."

Patriot barks out a harsh, humorless laugh. "You think you can dictate terms to me? After everything that's happened? You've got balls, kid, I'll give you that. But you're in no position to make demands. You think I'll get tricked by some water in a syringe? I've got better things to do. This is a mercy - I'll throw you a single bone, but that's it."

My heart drops, but I try my best not to let it show.

"Actually, I am. In a position, I mean," I counter, my voice hardening. "See, I've got more than just poison in my arsenal. I've got proof of Egalitarian's drug use. Photos, videos, the works. How do you think that'll play with your adoring public? Their great hero, nothing more than a filthy junkie?"

Patriot's jaw clenches, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Not this shit again. You think they'll care? You think I'm buying your little poison lie?"

"Are you willing to take that chance?" I ask. "You should know by now I don't fight fair. If you didn't buy it, you wouldn't have stopped attacking me. That pepper spray must've tasted good, huh?"

He's silent for a long moment, his red, watery eyes boring into mine, searching for any sign of weakness, any hint of something that can be retaliated against. But I meet his gaze unflinchingly, my resolve unshakable. At any moment, I know if he doesn't buy what I'm selling, this could all be over. There's simply no way I can win a protracted fight, even with all my prep time, even with all my guerilla tactics and unfair fighting.

My heart beats once.

Twice.

A third time.

Finally, he nods, a single, curt jerk of his head, and I try not to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Fine," he grits out, the word sounding like it's being dragged out of him against his will. "We'll do it your way. For now. But this isn't over, Small. Not by a long shot."

"No," I agree, a mirthless smile tugging at my split lips. "But it's a start."

"Now fix me," he growls in response.

I hit the switch on my belt again, the lights flickering back to life, casting the warehouse in a harsh, unforgiving glare. Patriot and I stand there for a moment, sizing each other up, taking stock of our wounds, our weaknesses. We're both barely standing, both just a hair's breadth away from collapse.

"Let's be clear," I say, breaking the tense silence. "This is a mutual non-aggression pact. You stay out of my way, I stay out of yours. But if you slip up, if you step out of line even an inch, I will come for you. And I will bring the full weight of everything I have down on your head. You may have me beat in public, when I have to be a defenseless little princess, but I can make your life a nightmare in the shallows."

Patriot's eyes flash with barbarian fury, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. I can see the battle raging within him, the desire for revenge warring with his instinct for self-preservation. In the end, pragmatism wins out, but only just.

"Understood," he says, the word sounding like it's being pulled through broken glass. "But don't think this means you've won, Small. Don't think for a second that you've beaten me."

I almost laugh at that, the absurdity of it all hitting me like a slap in the face. "Beaten you? No, Patriot. That was never my goal. My goal was to stop you, to protect the people I care about from your ridiculous crusade. And I've done that. Whatever happens next… that's up to you."

I reach down to my belt, fumbling for the spare syringe of saline I've prepared, intending to reload the gauntlet as a show of good faith. But before I can even draw it out all the way, Patriot's hand lashes out like a striking snake, snatching the syringe from my grasp.

For a moment I think he's going to use it as a weapon, to try to turn the tables on me one last time. But instead, he brings it to his own shoulder, jamming the needle into his flesh just above my previous injections. Saline on top of saline. Total nothing.

There was never any poison, but I won't tell him that.

"There," he snarls, tossing the empty syringe aside. "Now we're even."

I just shake my head, too exhausted, too wrung out to even try to untangle his twisted logic. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Patriot. But remember our deal. Remember what's at stake."

"What about your precious sidekick?" he shoots back, his voice dripping with venom. "You think I'll just let her slide, after everything she's done? After the chaos she's caused?"

"Jordan is my responsibility," I say, my voice hard and unyielding. "You focus on your own rabble-rousers. If Egalitarian steps out of line, if she so much as jaywalks, I will personally hand her over to District Attorney Alvarez. You know Carla, right? Mr. South Philly Hero. Well, she and I had a lovely chat after that congressional hearing. Now, I'm proud to call her a friend of mine - and she's been just itching for a chance to make inroads on this Fly situation."

I've never even met Alvarez, let alone considered her a friend. But Patriot doesn't need to know that. All he needs to know is that I have the power to destroy everything he's built, to bring his whole world crashing down around his ears. Mutually assured destruction for the cold war remnant he seems to be.

For a moment, I think he might call my lie, might lash out in one final, desperate act of defiance. But then I see it, the tiniest flicker of doubt in his eyes, the barest hint of fear. He knows I'm not messing around. Knows that I hold all the cards, even if they're really just post-its.

And so we stand there in silence, two battered warriors at the end of a long and brutal fight. Patriot's face is a mask of blood and bruises, his costume torn and stained. My own body feels like one giant wound, every breath sending fresh waves of agony coursing through me. Like this, our differences seem almost inconsequential - we are simply two damaged figures, united in our capacity to destroy one another.

I watch as Patriot slowly, painfully lowers himself to the ground, his movements stiff and halting. For a moment I think he might be preparing for one last attack, but then I realize he's simply trying to catch his breath, to gather his strength for the long journey back to wherever he calls home.

And then, on impulse, I reach down to my belt one last time. Not for a weapon, not for a trick or a trap, but for the small first aid kit I always carry with me, just in case. I toss it to the ground at Patriot's feet, the plastic clattering against the concrete.

"Here," I say, my voice flat and emotionless. "Patch yourself up. I know you can't regenerate like I can, and sepsis is an ugly way to die. Consider it a parting gift. One you sure as hell don't deserve."

Patriot looks up at me, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. For a moment I think he might refuse, might spit on my offer of aid as one final act of defiance. But then he reaches out, his fingers closing around the little white box.

"I don't need your charity," he growls.

"It's not charity," I reply, turning to leave. "It's mercy."

And with that, I hit the switch on my belt one last time, plunging the warehouse back into darkness. I can hear Patriot fumbling with the first aid kit, hear the rasp of his breath as he starts to patch himself up.

But I don't stick around to watch. I simply melt into the shadows, letting the night swallow me up, leaving Patriot alone with his wounds and his pride.

It's over. At least for now. But as I limp my way back out into the city, my body screaming with every step, I know that this is far from the end. We're not done with each other. Not by a long shot. There will be other fights, other confrontations. He'll be back. My bluffs will only hold him for so long. The dam will spill.

For tonight, for this one brief moment… I've won. I've evened the score. I've shown him I'm not just some kid he can abuse as he pleases. Will I still be victorious tomorrow?

We'll have to see.

But I'm hopeful.

End of Arc 7: Security