For a very short moment, absolutely nothing happened. There came no great explosion of movement; no panic, no flail, no sudden rush for the door. The paneled ceiling lights stayed smooth and steady. The buttons failed to fizzle out or blink. Paul was astonished to find that even his heart–so wet and animal, so often prone to panic–had itself frozen into cold submission, and all he was capable of was wresting his eyes towards Mark’s coat pocket and slowly mouthing out the time. Five minutes, if he was lucky. Three, if he was realistic. Little time enough that when the world did finally stutter back into motion, his body felt as taut and strung-out as a hangman’s noose.

“Marky? What…what do we do?” He couldn't quite choke down the whimper in his voice, so he reached out, tried to grab at Mark’s sleeve. A little touch, a little grounding. The familiarity always–

Mark pulled away. “Why don’t you ask her, Paul?”

The insinuation burned, and words tumbled unbidden. “We are eight seconds away from a first-class trip through the basement, and you want to waste time on…drama?”

He knew the words were wrong the moment they left his mouth, but even if he hadn’t, the look in Mark’s eyes–the betrayal, the naked, wounded fury–would have clued him in pretty damn quick. “My best friend is out here getting chummy with my rapist,” he hissed. “And you have the fucking nerve to call it drama?””

“I–Mark, you know that’s not what’s going on.”

“Then what is going on, Paul?” he snapped. His arms were folded now, fingers gripping divots into tan flesh. The mischief in his eyes–the mischief Paul loved, the mischief Paul cherished–had burned away. Now they were dark; now they were demanding.

But Paul couldn’t give the explanation he wanted, and anything he could have said to cover it up would have made things worse. He never wanted to make things worse, he never wanted to be in this situation at all.  What Paul wanted was to be back in the apartment, tucked up on the ratty little couch, tossing chocolate squares into each other's mouths. What Paul wanted was spilled drinks and shitty ‘art’ projects, and the familiar frustration of having to take bleach to the floors for the third time that month. Paul wanted a lot of things, but all he could do was look at The Critic. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that she just shrugged. 

Paul's anger died on his tongue when the elevator jerked to a brief halt, then died again, when it repeated a moment later. A creak echoed all around them. Paul blinked in disbelief. Surely they weren't about to…

A snap. The clang of metal against metal. One of the cables? Surely not, Paul thought. Two minutes left. They still had time to get off at the next floor, bolt down the stairs, make a break for the car.

Too late. The walls groaned, fighting fruitlessly against some unseen mechanical hand. It held firm for a moment, but even the alarm could not mask the terrible grind of metal against metal. Paul’s heart stopped. Mark stared up at the ceiling. The Critic, quick as always, dropped to the floor and splayed out her limbs. Paul blinked, started to call out to Mark, the realization hitting him all too late. 

Then the creak, then the shudder, then the drop. A sudden storm of weightlessness. Paul screamed as they fell, while Mark pressed himself flat against the wall and held on to the handrails. A horrid black roar swarmed all round them as the metal was torn asunder by the shaft. Paul could feel the walls heating up. He screwed his eyes shut, as if that could help allay the terror. It didn’t. Not even the tiniest bit.

Four seconds. That’s all it took. Four seconds of freefall before his skull slammed into the floor, and the red light of agony burned behind his eyes. Everything burned–kneecaps, ribs, hands, ears. His heart was molten, and his mind glass. For one glorious moment, Paul Rengifo ceased being human, and became a living avatar of pain. A single, stretched, raw nerve. Then he tried to stand, and the world was hurt all over again.

He could only vaguely see Mark’s body through the haze of tears, but what he could see was bad. The right arm was bent at all the wrong angles, and blood seeped from lacerations where glass had shattered over him. Mark’s body was--almost ironically–a canvas of blood, the beauty of his features torn into unrecognizable grooves and canyons. 

It took too long for Mark to regain consciousness. He shook his head and slid his good arm under himself, propping himself up as best he could. Paul bent down, offering his hand, but Mark swatted it away. 

Mark screamed as he placed one knee on the elevator floor, using it to shift his weight back onto his heels. He slipped his other foot out from underneath his body and leaned his head against the wall. Heavy breaths, frantic, an animal caught in a metal cage. A crumpled shard of metal as thick as Paul’s arm protruded from Mark’s right leg.  It served to cripple Mark and stymie most of the blood flow, preventing him from bleeding out for the time being.

Paul fought back the urge to vomit. There was blood. So much blood. So much of Mark’s blood. It seeped out from the edges around the metal shard. The tiny waterfalls grew larger when Mark moved. They collected in miniature lakes around Mark’s body. 

But what really struck Paul in the heart was Mark’s breathing. It was painful, laborious. It sounded like the very thought of inhaling was exhausting. How much longer could Mark really last like this? How much time did they have now? Two minutes, give or take, hope and pray? Could they take a hero in a fight if—

The Critic’s guttural roar broke Paul’s train of thought. Her roar turned into a wail as she pushed herself off the ground onto all fours. She retched once before puking. Her hands trembled, her eyes widened, darting from her hands to the door, to Paul, then to Mark. She pushed herself backward, away from the bile, gulping for air. She attempted to speak but retched again. The veins in her head thudded beneath her skin, threatening to burst as she fought to keep it all down. She wiped bile from her mouth and whimpered after she'd failed.

A gnarled gash above the Critic’s left eyebrow bled a steady stream. The culprit, no doubt, was the twisted metal pole that could formerly be described as a handrail. A loose flap of skin hung from one end. With tender hands, the Critic reached for the skin, plucking it from its resting place. Her eyes laser focused on the skin as she brought a hand to her head, caressing the wound. Red fingers in seconds. Water filled her eyes. She swallowed hard.

The Critic’s mouth moved, but she produced no noise. She reached for her throat, pounded on her chest. A cough, that's all she produced. She tried again to speak, and again, and again, gaining no ground. 

The sigh that escaped her lips was raspy, laden with frustration. She planted one foot on the ground and leaned on her knee. Her leg shook, and she grunted as she put more weight on it. She wobbled, off balance and uncertain, like an infant learning to walk. The Critic leaned against the wall of the elevator and put her hand on her chest. Heavy breaths escaped her mouth. Her body whimpered and cried, but the Critic willed it to move. Mark. She was going for Mark.

Her eyes were bloodshot, painful, much like Mark’s own. Survival, co-operation. No room for arrogance, no room for drama. Paul was almost grateful for the distraction. Mark took the Critic’s hand when she offered it. 

Escape. How much time did they have now? A minute, fifty seconds, maybe. Surely the heroes were on their way by now. The cops too. Tartarus loomed in the future, tormenting Paul. 

He shook the thought of his imminent imprisonment from his head. That word, escape, became Paul’s point of focus. They were on the first floor now, the basement at worst, if this place even had one. The ceiling was too high, they’d have to stand on one another’s shoulders to reach the emergency exit up there. Impossible with the injuries. Then, where?

The door? An obvious choice. It was broken off the tracks, a tantalizing crack, too small for anyone to fit through. Still, there was a chance. There was enough space to widen that crack if he could get the doors in place. He gripped the edge of one door, calling on the meagre fractions of strength left in his muscles. Paul’s body fought him. It screamed, his very muscle fibers spasming under the stress. It hurts, no, burns. Doesn’t matter, can’t get caught. One more time. 

The door didn’t budge.

Despair paved the way for the pain to catch up with Paul’s brain. Resistance left his body, replaced with anchors that weighed him down. Paul crumpled on the floor. He buried his head in his hands, too weak to stop the tears from flowing.

He heard it before he saw it. The Critic had Mark’s arm pulled over her shoulders, her own arms wrapped around Mark’s torso. Mark gritted his teeth, groaning with each breath. He hopped on his good leg, following the Critic’s lead. She brought them to the door, the same immovable barrier keeping them trapped in this cage.

Mark motioned for Paul to stand up. Or, was there more to it than that? Was he allowed to stand by him again? No, it wasn’t that. Mark pointed at the door, then grabbed the edge with a reversed grip, leaning backward. Paul nodded, grabbing the edge above Mark, but below the Critic.

Scream. Ragged and weathered screams, barely human. That was all they could do as they pulled on the door. Scream. Paul’s body was starting to go numb, the pain overbearing. 

And eventually their efforts yielded fruit. The door, stubborn as it was, moved. The crack widened. The cage was open. A soft chuckle was all Paul could manage. He stepped through first, into the heat. His eyes burned from something, but he couldn’t tell what. He shelved the worry, turning to offer a hand to Mark. The Critic followed, once again taking her place supporting Mark. 

The heat. It was so god damn hot. What the hell was—

Fire. Raging infernos. The GSA headquarters had turned into kindling for the flames that consumed it. It swept across the floor in great arcs, dashing through the air as if to strike at some invisible foe. Civilians were panicking, running every which way they could to avoid the flames, to avoid the chains that would drag them off into unseen areas. Yet, despite all of the chaos, there was a sprinkle of order. Somewhere near the emergency exits, people were walking, unbothered by the outside world. Some of the walkers were on fire, others missing limbs, organs trailing behind them with each step. Some held on to the remains of others, dragging entire bodies with them. 

Paul heard it, what was calling them. Heard Her. The voice. It beckoned him. Wanted him to come home. Home, Paul Rengifo, with your mother. With your fath—

The Critic grabbed Paul by his shirt and pulled him, just barely avoiding a swollen geyser of fire. Paul blinked, unsure of where he was. He’d heard something just then, coming from over that way. He looked where the walkers were, but there was nothing there. Paul ducked, avoiding the fire as it rolled over him. 

The flames, Paul realized, were being controlled by someone. He ran through the list of hero-aligned Exploiters he knew with pyrokinesis, all two of them. Of the two, Paul hoped that it was the one who wasn’t known for killing criminals.

Glancing over cover left Paul with a lingering feeling of dread.

Kozar. Of fucking course it was Kozar. The villain-killer. The traumatizer, in some circles. It was hard enough to get good PR when your Exploit let you control something inherently viewed as dangerous, even harder if you use said Exploit to emulsify thirty something people at once. Kozar had wavy hair that billowed in the wind the streams of fire he shot out of his hands created. His costume was a dark brown, skin tight leotard with yellow and orange flames sewn in. It opened wide in the front, from the middle of Kozar’s shoulders down to just above his belly button. Probably for the first time, Paul realized how shredded Kozar was. 

Still, all the muscles in the world were not enough to shield Kozar from the thousand cuts his opponent inflicted on him. He was bleeding in a hundred places, not cut deep enough to be lethal in their own right, but in conjunction they posed a much greater threat. The crimson shone against his skin, reflecting the light of the fires that surrounded him.

As for Kozar’s opponent… 

Paul scanned the battlefield, looking for the opposition. A clink, followed by something lashing out at Kozar from within the flames. Kozar dodged, just barely, the thing grazing his chest as it retracted. Kozar raised his hands towards the ceiling, and a wall of flame followed. It stayed in place only for a moment before it shot forward, absorbing the lesser flames with it as it travelled. The flame hit a wall, dispersing. 

Paul coughed, but at least he could see a little better now. If only he could spot who Kozar was fighting, maybe they could lend a hand or, or run. Know how to run, what to do to avoid them. Who was it?

Heavy boots stomped on the ground, their sound distinct among the raging fires. A whistled tune. The figure stepped out of the fires, into the open. It was a massive monstrosity, arms the size of Paul’s entire body, supported by legs that seemed too small to carry its hulking frame. It walked forward on enormous knuckles, its gait gorilla-like. It wore a denim jacket with the sleeves torn off, a black fishnet shirt underneath, and dark skinny jeans that looked like they were about to burst from the muscle that lay barely contained within. In each hand, it wielded long metal chains like whips. The creature—no, the Exploiter—lurched forward, baring a massive white grin. 

Mr. Chains was here. The Harvest was in New Glasford.

Paul’s heart nearly stopped. 

Kozar waved his hands in great, sweeping arcs around himself. The flames followed his fingertips as they swam through the air, flowing viciously along an invisible current. Mr. Chains brought one of his meaty arms up to his face. He'd wrapped the chain around himself, forming a spiral of metal that ran from his hand to his elbow. Kozar directed the fire current toward Mr

 Chains an instant before he'd put his hand up to block it.

The fires licked his face and singed his clothes, but Mr. Chains smiled through it all. He rolled, grabbed a low-hanging light fixture. It warped and folded under the influence of his Exploit, rearranging itself into a chain-whip of equal length to the original shape. Mr. Chains swung it around his arm until the whip was a blur. Then, faster than Paul’s eyes could track, he struck out at Kozar.

Kozar leaned to the right, barely dodging the whip. Mr. Chains flexed his finger, pulling the length of the whip with his Exploit. Slow, deliberate. Intentional? 

Kozar was on him again. A flaming hand connected with Mr. Chains’ jaw, then Kozar used the momentum to sidestep around Mr. Chains’ blind spot. Kozar’s heel connected with the back of Mr. Chains’ knee, dropping the lumbering man to the ground. Both hands gripped the sides of Mr. Chains’ head, then Kozar screamed. They vanished, swallowed by fire.

Paul’s eyes burned. A hand grabbed him, yanked him forward. Words. Talking, maybe. Talking to him? What were you saying? Move. Move wher—forward? Forward, away from the fires. He rubbed the soot out of his eyes and tried to get a look at who was guiding him.

Santa Scarlata was leading them, her tender hand creating a trail for the rest of Paul’s body to follow. The Critic latched onto Paul’s shoulder, tugging Mark behind her. The same Santa Scarlata that was classified as a Conduit, one who could control blood or something like that. She was good, very good. And she hadn’t recognized Paul, Mark, or the Critic. There was still time for them to get out of this yet. If Scarlata and Kozar kept Mr. Chains at bay… yeah that might just work. 

Scarlata didn't take her eyes off Kozar and Mr. Chains as she led them through the battlefield. Mr. Chains had shaken off the brunt of Kozar’s last attack and was whipping at him now, most strikes missing Kozar and connecting with the ground or walls. Kozar gripped his left wrist with his right hand and forced an eruption of flame to burst from his palms. The flame arced and billowed as it cut through the air, coming dangerously close to Paul, Mark, the Critic and Scarlata.

Paul shut his eyes. The burn never came. When he opened them again, he saw that Scarlata had erected an aegis of coagulated blood between them. The wall absorbed most of the impact, only being broken through in a couple of places. Hot blood splattered on Paul’s face. 

He fought the urge to scream.

Close to the exit now. Less than ten steps away. Then, a crash. A support beam cutting through the ceiling directly in front of Scarlata. She swore. A blood wall rose between them and the debris. Thousands of tiny metal shards collided with it, slowed by the density until they were non-lethal or out of momentum. Paul cringed and touched the wounds on his face where debris had broken through and struck him. The blood was moving from his fingers into the air in thin lines.

Scarlata looked at Mark, Paul, and the Critic, her eyes wide but focused. She pointed past the elevator shaft, toward another emergency exit a little ways away from it. 

“On the count of three, you will run for that exit. Get as far away from here as you can, someone from the GSA will find you and help you.” Scarlata explained, ducking as a flame roared near them and broke against a nearby wall.

“We’ll never make it!” The Critic protested.

Scarlata smiled, “I will cover you.”

“But—” Paul tried to argue, but Scarlata held a finger up to her lips, shushing him.

The gesture brought his world to a standstill. Then, in that moment, when Scarlata’s eyes were locked with Paul’s, he felt a wave of certainty crest over him. He curled his fingers into fists and blinked, fighting back the tears. For the briefest of moments, Paul felt like he was a child again, waiting to be rescued by a superhero.

He remembered the first time he’d seen a superhero look calm in the face of danger like Scarlata did now. Black Star tried to take over the world, hadn’t he? Paul was only five or six then, barely aware of Exploiters at all, let alone Wonders. The thought that the bad guys he saw on T.V. were real frightened him.

Black Star had come to New Glasford and razed it to the ground. There was hardly anything left in his wake. The local heroes tried to fight him but their efforts were in vain. The streets were so empty back then. So cold. Lonely. Where were his parents? Paul searched for them everywhere, in every overturned building and blown up gas station. He had to find them, or at least find what was left of them. They had to be here somewhere.

A building, disheveled, abandoned even before Black Star destroyed the town. Maybe they were holding out there and just waiting for Paul to find them. He crawled under the fence, climbed through a window, and tripped over an old box. He stumbled through a support beam, and brought the whole second floor down on top of him. There, he lay for hours, scared and alone. He cried, but no one came to help him. It was dark. So very dark.

Then Tacheon and Adamantine freed him. They gave him that look that Scarlata was giving him right now. The good guys were real too. 

“Three…” Scarlata began.

But this was different than back then. He had been a child, shielded from the world, ignorant of its cruelty, ignorant of the Harvest. Superheroes weren’t the enemy, Mark’s art was less dark, and Paul still had his grandmother and her precious rug.

But now? Now he was stealing from the GSA. Now he was working with the Critic. Now he was lying to superheroes like Cool Gangstar and Santa Scarlata to save his own ass.

“Two…”

A crash. Kozar’s flames roared and the ground shook, throwing Paul off balance. The Critic caught Paul with her free hand and helped him right himself. He nodded at her, steeled his nerves. Paul’s heart drummed in his chest. He exhaled. He clenched his fists. He set one foot in front of the other. 

Scarlata grabbed Paul’s hand and squeezed it lightly. Her smile never left her. 

“One…”

The emergency exit. Ten, maybe fifteen running paces away. 

“Now!” Scarlata yelled, and the wall of blood dissipated. 

Paul took two steps before he stopped short. A metal chain shot out just in front of his face, centimeters away from his nose. 

Another direction then. Fast. Not left. Paul darted right, keeping low to the ground. Faster! Scarlata kept pace with him. Three more steps, then a stop. Duck, dodge the whip. Scarlata blocks with blood. It’s not enough. Faster, faster! Eight paces left.

Through the fire, Paul caught glimpses of the fight. Kozar was in rough shape; his costume was torn to ribbons and he favored one leg. The blood that seeped out of Kozar’s wounds was moving off his body, steadily drifting through the air. Mr. Chains stood tall and proud. He leaned back so that he could walk on his legs. His giant fists beat against his chest rhythmically, the chains dancing around his wrists. He walked Kozar down.

Kozar hobbled back, holding his hands out and spraying fire from his palms at Mr. Chains. Both arms came up to block, forming a solid wall of meat. The flames died down. Kozar seemingly had burnt out. Mr. Chains wound up his left arm and launched the chain at Kozar. 

CRACK. The noise could have stirred the dead. 

Kozar fell in slow motion. His neck was bent at a horrible angle, his jaw skewed even further in that same direction. The blood from his mouth spiraled through the air, accompanied by teeth. Kozar let out a weak wheeze as he dropped to the floor, twitching. Mr. Chains trotted to Kozar’s body and prodded him with his knuckles. When Kozar didn’t move, he smiled.

He faced them and shrugged.

“Anyone else want a turn?”

Scarlata stopped. Paul, Mark, and the Critic kept running for the exit. Paul got there first and tried the door. It wouldn’t budge. He fought with his body, burned through reserves of strength he didn’t have, and pushed again. He slammed into it with his shoulder. He kicked it. He swore at it when these things didn’t work. The door stood there, unyielding.

Paul turned and pressed his back against the door. There had to be another way out. Maybe one passed Mr. Chains. Paul scanned their movements. They were squaring off, walking in circles around each other. Mr. Chains’ whips lay relaxed in his curled fists as he walked, ready to strike unpredictably. Scarlata’s left hand was at her side, palm facing him, away from Mr. Chains. In her palm was a small collection of coagulated blood that she had shaped into what looked like pins or needles. Her right arm was in front of her.

Scarlata glanced at Paul, a single bead of sweat dripped from her temple. She swallowed.

“Where are the others?” Scarlata asked, her voice level.

Mr. Chains made a noise that could arguably be called a laugh. It was a cross between a goat’s cry and a dog’s growl, and it went on for far too long. He clutched his stomach saying in between breaths, “The Meteorologists? Don’t tell me you were counting on the Meteorologists!”

“And Steel Reserve? The Junior League?” Scarlata narrowed her eyes.

Mr. Chains gestured to Kozar’s unconscious body, “Either looking a hell of a lot like that, or gone, missy. You think we picked today by accident? You sure you’re cut out for this superhero business? Back up ain’t coming.”

Mr. Chains winked. Paul felt goosebumps spread across his body.

“You will rot in Tartarus.” Scarlata spat. 

“Oh,” Mr. Chains said as he started to swing his whips around, “We both know that’s not going to happen.”

Silence. The whip cutting through the air and the fires burning as they consumed their fuel were the only sounds. Paul watched with bated breath. The whips became blurs. Scarlata flexed her fingers behind her back, and the small blood-needles hovered in the air, poised forward.She drew in more blood along the floor, collecting it around Mr. Chains’ feet. He took notice and bared his teeth.

His hand flew forward, the chain lashing out through the air like a cobra. At almost the same time the blood around Mr. Chains wrapped itself around his left foot and congealed. Then it moved to the right, throwing him off balance and causing the chain to whip past Scarlata and hit the wall behind her. Giant pieces of concrete flew in every direction upon impact.

Scarlata swung her left arm at Mr. Chains, sending the needles flying. Mr. Chains placed his left hand on the ground, catching himself. He held his other forearm in front of him, blocking the worst of the damage. The needles pierced his arm, his stomach and leg, drawing blood. Mr. Chains struck the congealed blood around his leg. It didn’t break. He struck it again. Then a third time. A fourth. A fifth.

He rolled out of the spot just as Scarlata sent another round of flying needles at him. He stood straight and reeled his right arm back. 

The chain slammed into the ceiling above Scarlata, forcing a cloud of debris down on and around her. She stepped back through the cloud, its opaqueness covered Mr. Chains as he moved laterally around it to come to Scarlata’s left side. She turned her head once she saw him, but by then he was already on her. He wrapped his chains around his hands and sent his fist rocketing into Scarlata’s face. 

She screamed, then spun to mitigate the damage. She used her Exploit to create a wave of blood and sent it sliding along the ground at Mr. Chains. He leapt out of the way, and sent a whip flying low. It wrapped around Scarlata’s leg tight. Another scream, then he pulled hard. Scarlata yelped as she hit the ground. 

As she scrambled to her feet, Mr. Chains whipped her with the other chain, striking her in the arm. The metal cut through her costume, ripping deep into her flesh and the meat of her arm. Paul could feel tears building in his eyes as he saw the tendons in Scarlata’s arm move as she flexed her muscles. She winced, locked eyes with Paul. Her eyes were big, pupils dilated. Then, she focused. She touched her wound with her opposite hand and pulled a stream of blood from it.

The blood followed her hand as she moved it through the air, compacting and swirling around her in a tight spiral. More blood. She pulled from the bodies that lay on the ground this time. It all flowed through the air toward her. It built upon itself exponentially until it surrounded her. One stream circled around Scarlata’s body, then another joined it, and another, and another. Soon there was a torrent of blood, her body barely visible through it. 

Mr. Chains stopped swinging the chains around his arms, his grin didn’t falter.

Thick tendrils shot forth from the torrent of blood with ferocity. They decimated the air, and anything they came into contact with. They were longer than Paul was tall, wider than he was too, faster than his eyes could track. Paul counted four of them, initially, but as Mr. Chains ducked, dodged, and parried, she created more. Mr. Chains kept up his defense. His arms became blurs, the chains invisible as they sliced through air, through blood that sprayed against the walls and floor.

“Pauly,” Mark said. His voice was shaky, and he was struggling to project over the fighting, “The eraser.”

Paul fought to take his eyes off Mr. Chains and Scarlata. Watching the carnage unfold brought him some measure of comfort. If Scarlata fell, he wasn’t going to last long after. It felt better knowing when that countdown started.

His heart thudded into overdrive while he scrambled to fish the eraser out of his pocket. Gotta work fast, he told himself. He tried to judge how the fight was going based on the sounds. Tried to ignore it when it sounded like Scarlata was losing. No time to waste. Erase it faster. Faster! Why is there so much god damn metal here? The friction burned his fingertips. 

Behind him, a crash. Then a short cry. Paul dared to glance over his shoulder. Scarlata. Hanging from the ceiling, a chain wrapped tightly around her neck. She grabbed at it with her left hand, trying to force her fingers in-between the loops. She was red there, blisters forming, growing. Her face was changing colors. The veins in her neck were bulging, pulsating. Mr. Chains stepped back. Scarlata went up. She thrashed, her legs kicking. Both hands were clinging to the chain now, hunting for purchase. Her eyes strained, rivers of tears falling from them. 

Mr. Chains had both of his hands wrapped around the chain, one in front of the other. Paul snapped his focus back toward erasing the door hinges as Scarlata choked. He had to be faster than this. He willed for the door to give way.

It stood there, uncaring. It was an impenetrable, uncaring barrier that was going to get them all killed.

Mr. Chains shouted and Scarlata flew upward, crashing headfirst into the ceiling. Blood erupted out on impact. Her body went limp, the blood no longer disobeying the laws of gravity, no longer under the influence of her Exploit. The chains slacked and Scarlata fell to the ground in a crumpled wet pile. Her eyes were unfocused, glossed over. Two streams of blood leaked out of her nose, some of her teeth were missing. A bone must have broken in her neck, the way that piece jutted out at an angle. 

Paul couldn't take his eyes off her.

Mr. Chains chuckled, “Alright let’s wrap this up.” 

He started walking toward them.

Paul tried to take a step back and bumped into the door. This was it. Curtains closed. Game over. Paul started praying. He apologized for all the sins he thought he might have committed, the stuff he might have turned a blind eye to. He didn’t want to die. What would happen to the world after he was gone? What would it be like to not exist anymore? The thoughts terrified him.

What baffled him, though, was that he saw the Critic whispering something to Mark. Mark looked at her, his eyes wide. He shook his head. She leaned Mark against the wall next to Paul. Mark looked at her with tears in his eyes.

She backed away and faced Mr. Chains, raising her fists. 

Mr. Chains cocked his head sideways, “What are you doing? You lost, you’re mine now.” 

The Critic stood firm. She widened her legs a little and exhaled.

“You’re not really doing this right.”

“Fuck you.” The Critic said, her voice hoarse, the words scraping against her throat like sand paper.

Mr. Chains rubbed the back of his neck and tugged at his jacket collar, “Is it like a jealousy thing or…?”

He walked past the Critic. She swung at him, and he spun on his heels, catching her fist in his hand. He wagged his index finger in front of her face, shushing her all the while. With the ease that one might crush an aluminum can, Mr. Chains broke the Critic’s hand. An ocean of blood and bone marrow seeped through his fingers onto the floor. The Critic grabbed her broken hand and screamed.

Mr. Chains sat down next to Mark and Paul. He put his hands on his knees and looked at them both, his lips pressed into an even line. He exhaled deeply through his nose, his gaze landing on Paul.

“Cause, if it’s a jealousy thing we can take care of that right now.” He said, reaching for Paul’s head.

Paul didn’t have time to react before he was covered in darkness. There were fragments of light where the gaps in Mr. Chain’s hands were. It reeked in there; stunk of sweat and blood and death. 

Then he felt the space getting smaller. The light was dying out. One by one, each stream faded away, absorbed by inky blackness. It hurt. The pain was nightmarish.

God please. Anybody. Please. Let there be something. Please oh god let there be something. Fuck I’m sorry. I don’t want to not exist any mo—

“No!” The Critic yelled.

It stopped. The pain, the darkness. A glimmer of light. Red light. Had Paul been bleeding from his head?

Then, suddenly, air. Paul filled his lungs with the smoke filled shit. Didn’t fucking matter at that point, he was breathing. He was alive, he was still here. Someone grabbed him by his shoulders and helped him to his feet, groaning as he put weight on his bad leg. Paul’s head hurt. Who was this? He looked so familiar…

A giant said something, not to him, to… someone else. Who was he talking to? Who was here with them? 

A woman. The giant wrapped something around her neck. He pulled her. Who was she? She was so familiar. Where were they going?

Paul looked at his familiar stranger, perplexed as to why he had started to cry.