Mr. Retribution's massive silhouette casts a long shadow across Lardner's Point Park, darkening the already dim grass beneath the streetlights. His arrival doesn't surprise me – it's exactly what I've been expecting, what we've been planning for – but my heart still lurches painfully against my ribs. One wrong move, one slip in my performance, and everything falls apart.

  "This is a private discussion," Mouthwash calls out, frost still spreading across her metal rail. Her posture shifts – defensive, territorial, like a predator sensing competition. "Find your own vigilante to terrorize."

  Powerwash steps forward, positioning herself at the front of their little formation. The move seems almost instinctual, the muscle putting herself between potential threats and her team. Smart. Professional, even. These three might dress like B-movie villains, but they're not playing around.

  "We've been tracking this one for weeks," Mr. Retribution replies, his tone conversational despite the obvious tension. He gestures toward me with one massive hand. "Caused a lot of problems for some friends of ours. We'd appreciate a moment of her time."

  "Appreciate it somewhere else," Powerwash growls, reaching down to pick up a chunk of broken concrete from the ground. She hefts it casually, tossing it from hand to hand like it weighs nothing. The concrete looks like it must weigh thirty pounds, easy. "We found her first."

  Mr. Nothing steps forward, his long coat swaying slightly in the breeze off the river. Even with sunglasses on at night, there's something unsettling about the way he carries himself – fluid but precise, like a mantis. "This isn't a playground, kids. 'Finders keepers' doesn't apply when you're playing with the grown-ups."

  "Playing?" Brainwash's mechanical voice modulator does little to hide his indignation. "Do you have any idea who we are?"

  Mrs. Quiet sighs audibly – the first sound I've heard from her – and draws her gun with smooth efficiency. The metallic click of the safety seems unnaturally loud in the night air.

  "We don't care," she says simply.

  I strain against the invisible bonds holding me in place, my muscles aching with the effort. The smoke around me thins slightly as my concentration wavers. This standoff wasn't part of the plan – at least, not exactly like this.

  Brainwash turns toward me, the spiral pattern on his mask seeming to warp and distort in the dim light. "You!" he commands, his voice taking on that strange resonance again. "Aim at these losers, and then stand still!"

  My arms jerk up involuntarily, hands outstretched toward the Kingdom operatives, fingers splayed wide, like I'm being jerked around by invisible strings, no control over my own muscles.

  "If you don't let us get our revenge," Brainwash continues, "we'll get this loser to gas you all out. Wind direction's bad for you."

  Mr. Retribution glances at the smoke leaking from my hands, then at the gentle breeze blowing from the river toward the street, directly at them. He licks his finger, and then tests the air for windspeed, direction. His expression doesn't change, but there's a slight shift in his posture, a new awareness of the tactical situation.

  "You want revenge?" Mr. Polygraph speaks up, his voice raspy and tired. "What exactly did our smoky friend here do to earn your ire?"

  "Stole a bunch of our product," Mouthwash says, ice crackling around her fingers. "Jump, pills, cash. And put Hogwash in the hospital while she was at it."

  Mr. Retribution's eyebrows rise, and a deep chuckle escapes him. "You guys have a member named Hogwash on your crew?"

  Powerwash hurls the concrete chunk to the ground and it bounces off before landing in the water with a splash. "He was a good soldier," she snarls, advancing a step. "Just because we have a theme doesn't mean it's a joke."

  "Think the Daly City Defense Squad doesn't get grief for their alliteration?" Brainwash adds. "At least our names mean something."

  I want to roll my eyes so badly it physically hurts to restrain myself. Are they seriously arguing about their dumbass nomenclature right now? This is why Kate always worked alone. These "teams" are nothing but drama factories with superpowers.

  Mrs. Quiet raises her gun higher, aiming directly at Brainwash's head. "We don't have time for this," she says, her voice flat and disinterested. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to step aside, we're going to have a brief discussion with Soot, and then we'll be on our way."

  "Or what?" Mouthwash challenges, frost creeping up her arms.

  Mr. Nothing sighs, adjusting his sunglasses. "Or we'll take her from you. It's really that simple."

  Brainwash and Mouthwash exchange glances, and even through their masks, I can read the silent communication passing between them. They're weighing their options, calculating risk versus reward. Powerwash's hands clench into fists, her entire body tensing like a coiled spring.

  "How about a compromise?" Mr. Retribution suggests, his voice reasonable despite the escalating tensions. He reaches into his coat pocket, producing a thick envelope. "We need to interrogate this little twit. So we'll give you two thousand dollars, right now, if you let us do so."

  The envelope lands on the ground between the two groups with a soft thud.

  Mouthwash tilts her head, considering. "Two thousand? For ten minutes of your time with her?"

  "That's two hundred dollars a minute," Mr. Retribution points out. "Better hourly rate than most folks in this city make in a week."

  "We don't need your money," Powerwash growls, but there's a hesitation in her voice.

  "Hold on," Mouthwash says, placing a hand on Powerwash's arm. "Let's think about this. We get paid, they do the hard work of breaking her down, and then we still get to finish the job."

  "Are you serious?" Powerwash hisses. "After what she did to Hogwash?"

  Brainwash steps closer to them, lowering his voice even further. "Powerwash, the mission-"

  "I know the mission," she snaps back. "But this feels wrong."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The whole routine is impressively convincing - I almost believe they're actual criminals arguing instead of play-actors. My shoulders are starting to ache from holding this position, muscles trembling with the strain, but the little bits of support prevent it from being pure torture.

  Finally, Mouthwash steps forward, bending to retrieve the envelope. She counts the cash inside with deliberate slowness, frost forming on the edges of each bill.

  "Fine," she announces, tucking the money away. "Ten minutes. But she's our dead meat after that. Don't you dare kill her before we get our revenge."

  Mr. Retribution nods, satisfaction evident in his posture. "Understood. This isn't personal for us – just business."

  "Business," comes out of my mask, the word bitter, filtered, brittle. "Always business with you Kingdom types."

  Mrs. Quiet approaches me, her gun still drawn but now pointed at the ground. "Roughing up okay?" she asks Mouthwash, her tone casual, as if inquiring about a restaurant preference.

  Mouthwash walks up, keeping the Kingdom operatives at bay with one hand leaking cold vapor, the other still gripping the frozen metal rail. "Be our guest," she says. "Just leave enough of her conscious to feel what comes next."

  She pulls back the metal rail, and I know what's coming. I clench every muscle in my jaw and shoulders as hard as I can, bracing for impact. The human instinct is to go loose when hit, but that'll let me rattle around, give me a concussion. I've taken enough blows to the head to know that.

  Tense. Tense.

  The metal connects with the side of my head with a sickening crack, ringing against my mask. Despite my preparation, stars explode across my vision, the world tilting dangerously. Only the instructions keeping me upright, and my inner tension, prevent me from collapsing. The pain is sharp, immediate, radiating through my skull like lightning. I taste iron.

  I'm jostled only slightly, held rigid by Brainwash's "command." If I hadn't clenched my jaw, that blow might have knocked me out completely. As it is, I'm seeing double, my eyes refocusing. Not concussed. Good. Just stunned and in pain. I can deal with that.

  Brainwash gestures - "On your knees, hands above your head," and my body responds against my will, dropping to my knees, arms folding over my head in a position of complete submission.

  "Alright," he says, stepping back. "Now you can have your turn."

  Mr. Nothing approaches first, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He crouches in front of me, his sunglasses reflecting my masked face back at me. Then, with unexpected gentleness, he reaches out and takes hold of my exposed fingers where they poke through my fingerless gloves.

  The effect is instantaneous. A pressure I hadn't even been conscious of suddenly lifts, like coming up for air after being underwater too long. But in its place, a crushing headache blooms, the almost-concussion I'd narrowly avoided now pounding against my temples with renewed vigor. The clenching helped, but not enough.

  "There we go," Mr. Nothing says, his voice oddly gentle. "No more tricks."

  Mr. Polygraph steps forward next, cracking his knuckles with methodical precision before bending down to eye level with my gas mask. His face is worn, tired, the lines around his eyes and mouth etched deep by years of stress and strain. He studies me for a long moment, his gaze intense enough that I have to resist the urge to look away.

  "Let's make this simple," he says, his raspy voice low enough that only I can hear. "You answer my questions truthfully, and this doesn't have to get unpleasant. Mr. Nothing here will keep your little smoke show offline, and Mrs. Quiet is very good at making people talk when they don't want to. Understand?"

  I nod, the motion sending fresh waves of pain through my skull. The world spins momentarily, and I have to fight to maintain focus.

  "Good," Mr. Polygraph continues. "First question: How did you know about the warehouse on Trenton Avenue?"

  It's all muffled, coming from my mask, mixed with the churning noise of my CPAP doohickey running and running and running; "Met with someone. Monkey Business contractor."

  Mr. Polygraph's eyebrows lift slightly. "Rogue Wave? You're working with them now?"

  I grit my body up, trying not to get nauseous. "Not working with. Working against. I'm embedded. Using their resources."

  My heart hammers frantically against my ribs. I don't know if he's going to believe me. I know vaguely how his power works, but the exacts, in this exact situation... it's difficult to tell. And trying not to freak out is not helping matters. I'm exhausted. Mr. Nothing isn't helping.

  "You expect us to believe Monkey Business is letting you use his resources to hit Kingdom operations?" Mr. Retribution asks, skepticism heavy in his voice.

  When I talk, it's a whispered rasp that feels divorced from my own breathing. "He doesn't know. I feed him small stuff. Working on my real mission."

  "And what mission is that?" Mrs. Quiet asks, stepping closer.

  "Getting Jump off the streets," comes the reply, the mask's filters distorting the words just enough to sound harsh, righteous. "It's poison. Killing neighborhoods, turning streets into warzones."

  Mr. Retribution exchanges a look with Mr. Nothing, something unreadable passing between them. Then, surprisingly, he chuckles. "That's almost noble. Dangerous and stupid, but noble."

  Mr. Polygraph doesn't share his amusement. His eyes remain locked on mine, searching for tells, for micro-expressions visible even through the mask's lenses. "Names," he demands. "Who's your contact in Rogue Wave?"

  Is he buying it? I'm so tired of playing lying-games with people. It's exhausting, exhausting, exhausting. "Handler named Jackpot. Dresses like a loser. Dunno his powers."

  Everything relies on this silly little gamble. It wouldn't have if Mr. Polygraph wasn't around, but, well... Man plans, G-d laughs. That's what they say, isn't it?

  "Jackpot," Mr. Polygraph repeats, rolling the name around like he's tasting it. "And this Jackpot told you about our warehouse? Just handed you that information?"

  "Not directly," bubbles up through my mask. "Talking about Hypeman,"

  "Name checks out, bee-tee-dubs," Mrs. Quiet murmurs from behind them. I peek past her, trying not to stare Mr. Polygraph in the eye, in case he can see right through me, watching the Washes stare with barely contained disdain, fear, worry. What have they got to worry about? This is all going as expected. "There's a high ranking operative called Jackpot. That's actual."

  "But he was on that hijacked broadcast, that doesn't prove anything," Mr. Nothing says, squeezing my hand a little harder. His gun is just a little too far away to grab. And, I'd get shot by like five people for trying, but man, it's tempting. "Is she pinging you, P?"

  "No. She's being honest," Mr. Polygraph says, straightening slightly, eyes narrowing. That helps. That makes my happy. He can get tricked, we cheer for the small mercies. His attention sharpens, something in the answer having caught his interest. "Hypeman," he says, the word weighted with significance. "You know about that?"

  A pause hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Then: "Everyone knows. Rogue Wave knows. It's old news. They're mad."

  Mr. Nothing tightens his grip on my exposed fingers, the pressure bordering on painful. "And you thought destroying our production facility would accomplish what, exactly?"

  "Slow down,"

  "Noble indeed," Mr. Retribution murmurs, almost to himself. "And suicidal."

  Mr. Polygraph still hasn't taken his eyes off me, that penetrating gaze seeming to strip away layers of pretense. "One last question," he says, voice dropping even lower. "Where's your safehouse? Where do you store your gear, your chemicals?"

  Panic flutters in my chest. This is the critical moment, the trap we've laid. The address emerges from the mask, precise and confident: "Tulip and Keystone. Near the high school. Empty place with boards on the windows."

  Mr. Polygraph stands abruptly, turning to Mr. Retribution. Their eyes meet in silent communication before Mr. Retribution pulls out his phone, types something rapidly, and puts it away again.

  The distant wail of sirens breaks the standoff, drawing everyone's attention momentarily. Mr. Nothing glances toward the sound, his grip on my fingers loosening slightly.

  "That's actual, too. Matches our intelligence from the brat. Place was cleared out when R and I searched it earlier today," Mrs. Quiet informs the two of them.

  The words emerge unbidden from the mask, a final desperate plea: "I've told you everything I know. Please. I just want to help."

  Mrs. Quiet's smile is sharp, tight, controlled. She draws her gun, a weird looking little thing, more like a metal box - where would the bullet even come out of that? But it's still a pistol, and it's still pointed at my belly.

  "Wait," Mr. Polygraph stops, holding a hand up to prevent Mrs. Quiet from putting some extra lead in my belly. "Unmask her first. The pink nails match up, but that's easily faked. I wanna see her face as she goes. Make sure it's as blonde as we've been led to believe. You know. Just to be sure."