The stolen mobile vet van smells like antiseptic and wet fur and whatever coffee Harcourt managed to find in the break room before strong-arming them out the door. The engine hum is constant, a white-noise blanket under the bicker. Metal cabinets rattle in time with potholes. A roll of gauze does slow laps up on a wire shelf, bumping the sides with a soft, irritating thup... thup... thup.

Economos hunches over the wheel like he's doing surgery on the road. Harcourt rides shotgun, elbow braced against the window, eyes flicking between the side mirror and the map she doesn't need. In the back, two hard benches face each other. Adrian and Scottie are shoulder to shoulder on one side, backs to the wall; Chris and Adebayo mirror them on the other, Eagly wedged at Chris's boots like an opinionated throw pillow, splint and all.

Outside, the world unspools in winter browns and gray fence lines. Inside, the air is thick with things no one is ready to say.

Adebayo breaks first, voice careful, "I know I'm the last person that you want to hear from right now, Chris, and I--"

Chris makes a long, wet fart noise with his mouth.

Adebayo blinks, jaw clenching, "I can't apologize enough for--"

Frrrrt.

Adrian barks a laugh he tries to smother. It escapes anyway, delighted and unhelpful.

"I know that you're mad, but from the bottom of my heart--"

FrrrT. Adrian, emboldened, adds his own tiny trumpet, peep, and giggles, shoulders jouncing.

Harcourt rubs her eyes with thumb and forefinger. Economos mutters something at the windshield about adults.

"I really am sorry, I'm just trying to--"

FRRT. peep.

Chris cocks his head, all innocent, "What were you gonna say?"

"I was saying--"

frrt peep

"I am just trying to apologize!" Adebayo snaps, patience finally breaking open.

"And I just thought you were my fucking friend!" Chris fires back, sitting forward, forearms on knees, "Set me up to take the fall and then you try to send me to prison, and you think 'I'm sorry' is gonna cut it?"

Adrian, because he cannot help himself: "Cut it!" frrrrt.

"Dude, we're off it," Chris says without looking at him.

"We are?" Adrian asks, wounded, like someone took away his favorite rattle.

"I am getting so many moral judgments from people who regularly kill people," Adebayo says, throwing both hands up.

"I don't kill people for nothing, all right?" Chris snaps, "When my brother died, I made a vow... Anyone I'd kill, I'd kill for peace." He exhales through his nose, eyes gone somewhere no one can follow. "So, unlike Keith, no one would ever die for no reason again."

The van bumps. Scottie shifts, posture tightening. That name lands like a stone thrown into her ribs. She looks at the floor seam between their boots because it's safer than looking at Chris when he talks about vows and dead boys and reason. Her throat throbs; the ice pack in her lap sweats a cold circle through her jeans.

"Well, that's fucking stupid!" Adebayo says, too honest for her own safety, "So you're gonna make it so that death isn't meaningless anymore?"

"Go fuck yourself," Chris spits.

"I read your file, Chris," She pushes on, softer, "It was an accident. You were a child. Don't forgive me, fine. But stop letting that shit define who you are."

Silence gets dense. The van hums. The gauze roll thup thups. Eagly rustles, offended by the tone, then resettles, beak tucked.

Adrian scoffs, spreads his hands like a game-show host introducing chaos, "Are you guys serious right now? We just had a really sick time murdering Peacemaker's dad, then all these hilarious fart jokes, just, like, an all-time classic run, with my best friend, my second-best friend, Scottie, my third-best friend, Eagly, my fifth-best friend, Adebayo, and now you guys are ruining it."

Harcourt's mouth twitches like she's deciding whether to shoot him or promote him.

Scottie angles forward to speak, "Why," a raw whisper, and a sharp inhale cuts it off. Pain lances her bruised windpipe. She presses the heel of her hand to her throat and winces.

Chris sits up, palm out, "No talking."

Scottie slides him a look that could sand paint.

"Not like that!" He stammers, "I didn't mean it like that!"

"Like what?" Adrian asks, instantly invested.

"She's looking at me like I told her to make me a sandwich."

Adrian turns to Scottie, dead earnest, "Are you taking lunch orders?"

Scottie smacks his bicep with the back of her hand. It's not hard; it's very clear. Ow! he yelps anyway, clutching the spot like he's been shot, "Not in a sexist way, maybe you're just a really good cook!"

Chris boots him in the shin with brotherly accuracy.

"Ow! Why is this family so abusive?" Adrian demands, rubbing both the injury and his ego.

"Because it's a family," Harcourt says without turning around.

"Also because you're you," Economos adds, signaling into a turn lane on an empty road. He does it anyway; he's that kind of person.

Scottie lets the bickering skim by. Her head tips back against the metal wall, the vibration traveling through skull to thought to places she tries not to go. Auggie's gauntlet on her throat is still there in her muscles even if it isn't in the room. The world is too bright around the edges; the corners of her vision pulse when the van hits a rut.

Adrian notices, not because he's good at feelings, but because he's good at her. He nudges his knee gently against hers, a question without letters. She answers by sliding the half-melted ice pack into his hand. He refolds it, presses it back to the column of bruises with a reverence that would be embarrassing if it wasn't so steady. His eyes flick to hers for permission; she gives a tiny nod. He breaths out, a little triumphant, then remembers to look tough about it.

Eagly hops awkwardly off Chris's boots and onto the slanted well between benches, edging one step closer to Scottie like he's also taking lunch orders and they're please be okay. He pokes her boot with his beak. She twitches a toe in response. He pretends that's enough.

The van hits a longer stretch of straightaway. The engine smooths into something less like a complaint. Outside, a flock of starlings does a sudden, synchronized swerve, murmuration in cheap grayscale. Scottie watches the wave of them tilt and bunch and slick through the air like one animal wearing many skins. For a second, her chest opens. For a second, she lets herself feel the weird, awful, clean space where Auggie isn't.

Chris catches her watching nothing and everything. His mouth softens. He leans forward, forearms on knees, big hands hanging, glove peeled back from knuckles scabbed and raw.

"Hey," He says, low, so it's only for this bench, this moment, "You okay?"

Scottie answers the only way that doesn't cost pain; she turns her palm up on her thigh. He drops a hand into it, heavy and warm. It's a kid's handclasp, palms hot, fingers lax. They hold for three breaths, four, then he lets go like he didn't and sits back hard, rubbing at his face like he's mad at it.

Adrian peeks over the back doors to the little porthole window. Pines blur. A pasture flashes by with a horse who looks like he knows gossip. Adrian sits back, solemn for a half beat, then leans toward Scottie as if to whisper, then remembers the ultimatum and whispers anyway.

"When this is over," He says, like he's planning a heist, "I'm making you soup. Not sexist soup. Empowering soup."

Scottie's laugh comes out a scrape of sound, but it's a laugh. She mouths ow and bumps his knee with hers in thanks.

"See?" Adrian says, turning to the room at large like he won a debate no one watched, "We have morale."

"Morale is not the word for whatever you two have," Harcourt says dryly.

"It's the word I'm using," He returns, proud.

The van tilts through a curve. A wind farm sprouts up on the horizon like a field of alien daisies, white arms turning slow, slicing the morning into manageable pieces. The sky is a hard, pale blue; the sun finally owns it.

"Okay," Harcourt says, flipping the safety on her weapon, then off again, needing the feel, "Once we hit the ranch road, everything scales. Fewer jokes. More not dying."

"Unclear I can comply," Adrian says, raising his hand like a student, "But I'll try."

"Trying is new for you," Economos says.

"Yeah," Adrian says, and for a sliver he's not a bit; he's a person, "It is."

Chris watches that sliver pass and clamps his jaw. He looks at Scottie again without trying to. She's got her head turned, gazing out the little slit window, the sunlight catching in the healed parts of her eyes. He wants to say a thing he doesn't have words for. He settles for reaching down and nudging Eagly's tail feathers with the toe of his boot; Eagly makes a cranky sound and scoots his heavy body so half of him rests on Scottie's boot like he's sharing guard duty.

"Hey," Adrian says suddenly, snapping his fingers once, gentle, "If we're doing confessions? I once ate a whole bag of owl-shaped crackers and then cried because they weren't real owls."

Harcourt sighs, "That is not--"

"And," He barrels on, "I'm really glad Scottie didn't die."

Silence again, but the good kind, the kind that says same without making anyone pay for saying it.

She slides the melting ice pack off, sets it on the bench, and rolls her shoulders once, testing what still hurts and what will have to hurt later. She tugs her leather jacket tighter. The bruise necklace at her throat is a livid banner. She doesn't hide it.

Chris watches the nod, the set of her jaw. He wants to wrap her in bubble wrap and bad jokes. He wants to hand her a gun and a map and say I trust you. Both things sit in him at once and grind.

He leans forward, elbows to knees.

"Hey," He says again, and this time it's shaped like I love you without the letters, "No talking."

Scottie's eyes spark. She tips her head and, with mock-solemn gravity, flips him off. The van hits a rut and everyone jolts in a way that eats up the moment; maybe that's good. Maybe it's not.

Eagly lifts his head, takes the room's temperature, and decides to hoot like an owl because he is an eagle and does what he wants. Adrian lights up like a bad idea and hoots back.

They roll the last half-mile in a shared quiet that isn't empty. Ahead, the barn shoulders up out of the pasture like a problem waiting to be solved. The windmills turn. The day sharpens. No one says be careful. No one says don't die. They have a job, and for once, that is bigger than the mess they are.

Scottie presses her palm flat to the bench to feel the vibration of the engine, the earth, the world that keeps moving. She still hasn't told Chris about Lamar. The confession lodges like a coin in her throat, the bruise above it purpled and tender. Not now, she thinks. After. If there's an after. She glances sideways at Adrian. He's watching the door, jaw set, eyes bright, one hand hovering near her thigh without touching.

She nudges his pinky with hers. He looks down, startled, then grins like a secret. He doesn't say a word. For once, he doesn't have to.

Economos noses the mobile vet van off the county road and into a stand of pines. Needles whisper along the roof. Branches paint slow, black bars across the windshield. When he kills the engine, the quiet is big enough to hear everyone breathe.

Adebayo's already got her phone out, walking a slow circle like she's trying to get better reception or courage.

"Mom, there are way more Butterflies than we thought and the whole team is injured," She says, low but urgent, "So, I was thinking, like, maybe you could call in the Justice Gang? No, I'm not kidding."

Economos steps down from the driver's seat and stretches his back, wincing. He angles toward Chris and mutters, "Can you believe Amanda Waller is her fucking mother?"

"Yes," Chris says, dead flat. He's already scanning the fence line, jaw set, helmet tucked under one arm.

Adebayo presses a palm to one ear. "Do we have time to wait for backup?"

Harcourt, crouched behind a fallen log with binos up, doesn't look away from the barn's silhouette at the far edge of the pasture. "No. They're teleporting the creature out of here."

"Mom, they're teleporting the creature out of here," Adebayo repeats, pacing faster, "This is our only chance to stop them. Then we're back to square one. All right. All right, I will tell her. Fine." She drops her hand, face a complicated knot, "My mom says you're in charge, and Economos and I should stay back in case anything goes wrong. Copy, Mom. Yes, ma'am."

She hangs up and sighs out a whole life. Then she sets to work.

—

A few minutes later, they've got a little woodland altar going: four helmets lined along a mossy log like chrome skulls. Chris taps each one with a finger as he briefs, a grim forest show-and-tell.

The helmet twitches like it heard its name and then floats up, easy as a balloon slipping a toddler's grip. It rises past eye level, past branch level, wobbling serenely into the lattice of pine needles overhead.

Chris picks up the Sonic Boom helmet and turns to the eagle, who is preening like his wing isn't taped.

"That's right. Good. Okay. I need you to take that helmet and drop it on top of that barn."

He points, very clearly, at the roof in the distance.

"No way can an eagle understand what you're saying," Harcourt says, unimpressed, though her mouth is trying not to smile.

"Oh, Eagly's no ordinary eagle," Chris says, solemn as a pastor. He sets the helmet in front of the bird, "No, Eagly, take it."

Eagly screeches.

"No, Eagly, just, take..."

Scree.

"Take the helmet. Take it! Take it."

Eagly sidesteps to look Harcourt dead in the eyes and lets out a scolding, gargled bark.

"I know you don't like her," Chris says, earnest, "The mean, blonde woman has nothing to do with this. No, no. No. No. No. Eagly. Take the helmet. Take the helmet. Eagly, take the helmet. Eagly, take the helmet."

The eagle considers the helmet, considers the barn, considers the dignity of national symbols. Then he clamps the strap in his beak, hops twice, and launches. He beats for height, laboring under the chrome weight, then levels out toward the gray rectangle of the roof.

"Good, Eagly, good. Good boy. Go, Eagly. Go to the barn. Go to the barn."

Eagly veers, flaps, wobbles, then the strap slips. The helmet tumbles end over end, disappearing into a knot of trees with a leafy whump.

"I knew there was no way he knew what you were talking about," Harcourt says, cool as shade.

"Peacemaker is a great guy in almost every way," Adrian says, squinting toward the drop, "but his biggest flaw is that he commonly overestimates Eagly's abilities."

"Okay," Harcourt says, already moving, "They could be teleporting this cow at any minute. We need to fan out and look for the helmet."

—

The search tastes like sap and old mud. Chris and Scottie pick through bracken, eyes scanning for a glint. The barn squats in their peripheral vision like a held breath. Above, the anti-grav helmet floats higher, snagging needles as it goes like ornaments.

"Helmet!" Economos calls faintly from somewhere left.

"Not ours!" Adrian yells back, "It's just a bucket. False alarm!"

Scottie's boots whisper through last fall's leaves. Her fingers drag the underside of a rotting log. Nothing. She straightens and finds Chris staring at nothing like it's looking back.

His breath goes shallow; his eyes go bright with something that isn't here, "You thought you could lose me by killing me, boy?" he hears, clear as a radio inside his skull. Auggie steps from behind a tree that isn't big enough to hide him, suitless, face real and wrong, "I'm in your head. I'm the reason you kill and the reason you can't sleep at night. My body may be gone, but the rest of me is right here! And I ain't going nowhere! The fuck are you doing?"

Chris's hand goes to his belt automatically, past the gun, past the grenades, to the little bone tube he never gets to use, "Getting my poison blow gun, fucko."

"Well, why don't you just go for your piece, cum stain?" Auggie sneers.

"You're metaphorical, douche wad," Chris says through his teeth, loading a dart with muscle memory, "My gun is real. I don't want the Butterflies to hear."

"I almost tricked you, fuck nugget."

"You didn't trick shit, you ball sack-looking fuck. I immediately went for my blow gun. I didn't think for a second about going for my gun! How do you like that, huh?"

He raises the little tube, sighting down it at the ghost's forehead, and blows.

The dart hisses past Auggie's smug, nonexistent face, threads the gap between two pines, and thunks into bark, two inches from Scottie's temple as she steps into view, a chrome curve cradled in her arms.

She jerks back with a ragged gasp. Chris's world slams back into color and gravity, "Oh fuck--" He's already moving, hands out, "Scottie-girl, you okay?"

She flinches away from the hands, then catches herself and nods, palm coming up instinctively to the fire in her throat.

"What the fuck?" She rasps, voice sandpapered and small.

"I--" He has nothing that explains that and doesn't make it worse. His jaw works. He swallows the apology that wants to be a scream.

She holds up the helmet like a prize she went and won while the boys were arguing with air.

"Found it," She says, hoarse but steady.

Chris stares at the Sonic Boom halo in her hands, then at the tree with his dart shivering in it, then at her. He nods, hard, like a vow to pay attention to the things that are real.

—

Dark comes sudden and blue. They circle back to the van, the team thinner with distance and worry, and lay out the next bad idea. Chris hauls a uniform from a trash bag, shakes it out, and thrusts it at Economos.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Economos says, recoiling like it's a snake.

"The only way for us to get the helmet inside of the barn is by one of us going in undercover," Harcourt says. She gestures to the bruises at her temple and shoulder with an annoyed little tilt of her head, "They're gonna notice Adebayo and me with these injuries."

"Cool. I'll do it," Adrian offers instantly, hand up like he's volunteering for a magic trick.

"You can't do it, man," Chris says, "Goff knows what we look like."

"I'll wear a funny nose," Adrian says, entirely serious.

"John, you're the only one," Harcourt tells Economos, no soften, no sugar.

"I don't even want to be here," Economos complains to the sky. He pinches the fabric suspiciously, "And why are these wet?"

"I washed them in the creek," Chris says, like that's obviously helpful.

"Why?"

"One of the things us warriors seldom talk about," Chris intones, holding court, "is how often people shit themselves when they die. It's a touch of gray in the white cloud of kicking ass."

"So now you want me to risk my life while wearing diarrhea pants?" Economos asks, despair climbing a ladder.

"Hey, nobody said anything about diarrhea," Chris says, offended, "I said it was shit."

"Was it diarrhea?"

Chris sighs, "Yes, it was."

Adebayo steps in, palms up, "John, you can do this. Just act like they act. Don't show any expression."

"Yeah, like Harcourt," Chris says.

Harcourt cuts him a look sharp enough to shave with, "Eat my dіck, Schwarze-never."

"They're aliens," Economos says, staring into the future where he dies badly, "Do they even speak English?"

"They retain the memories of the bodies they've taken over," Harcourt says, "So they seem to primarily use English when communicating."

"Fuck," Economos mutters. He blows out his cheeks, "Fine! Would you look away?"

"Happily," Adebayo says, and everyone turns their backs in a coordinated spin. Even Eagly swivels on his perch to face a different tree, which somehow makes it worse.

Fabric rustles. There's the distinct sound of a man doing squats he didn't plan on.

"These are cold," Economos complains to the forest, "And damp. Like betrayal."

"Belt's in the pocket," Chris says, helpful, "Knife is taped under the flap."

"Great," Economos says, voice strangled, "Nothing like Scotch tape between me and getting disemboweled."

"Think no thoughts," Harcourt says, "Be wallpaper."

"Be wallpaper," He repeats, "Right. Maybe I'll be shiplap. That's rustic."

A minute later he turns around in the ill-fitting coveralls, hair combed down, beard trying to be less noticeable and failing. The pants cling in ways pants should not.

Adrian claps quiet, "You look so brave."

"I look like I lost a bet at a truck stop," Economos says.

"You look like every rent-a-cop I've ever pretended to listen to," Adebayo says, which is, somehow, comfort.

Harcourt presses the Sonic Boom helmet into his hands, "Walk with purpose. Put this next to the grated intake on the barn's north face. Don't engage. Don't linger. Don't get seen."

"Right," He says, clutching it like a communion plate. He glances at Scottie, at the bruises, at the way she's not avoiding anyone's eyes, "If I die in these pants, I haunt everyone."

"You'll be fine," Scottie croaks, and it's almost a smile. He nods, visibly steadier for having been noticed.

Chris touches two fingers to the brim of his helmet and points them at Economos, "No diarrhea in, no diarrhea out."

"Not helping," Economos says, and lurches off into the shadows toward the barn, a man-shaped apology to better decisions.

They watch him go until the dark edits him out. Crickets lift their chorus. Somewhere out in the black, machinery hums, a deep, alien throb that does not sound like a barn.

The underground cavern beneath the barn smells of rot and alien musk, a humid soup of blood and amber fluid that clings to every breath. Economos stumbles down the creaky wooden stairs, his boots slipping in wet hay. He's muttering under his breath, his eyes wide.

Then he sees it.

The "cow."

The creature isn't a cow at all. It's a gargantuan, pulsating caterpillar-like beast, its translucent skin glowing faintly with veins of amber light. It towers higher than a three-story building, its massive body undulating as dozens of tubes suck fluid from its flesh and pump it into metallic vats.

Economos freezes halfway down the steps, his jaw unhinging.

"Uh-uh," He blurts, his voice cracking. He immediately backpedals, scrambling up the stairs. "Fuck it. No more kaijus. No more kaijus! Fuck this! Jesus fucking Christ!" He bursts back into the barn, sweat shining on his forehead, "What the fuck is that? The fuck is THAT? 'Cow', my ass. That's a motherfucking caterpillar the size of the Empire State Building!"

His voice echoes through the rafters. Everyone goes still, staring.

"Get ready," Economos pants, grabbing the rail, "We need to get the fuck out of here--"

But before he can move, a figure blocks his path: a butterfly in a human host, its calm, alien eyes glimmering.

"Hey!," The butterfly tilts its head at Economos, "The man you've taken over... why did he do that to his beard?"

Economos blinks, "Do... what?"

"Why did he color it all strange like that?"

For a beat, everyone in the comms channel listens in silence. Even Chris pauses behind the brush, clutching his shield.

Economos exhales a shudder. He knows he's about to expose himself in more ways than one.

"He... thought it made him look younger. And, uh, more handsome," He says, voice wobbling, "He never had a girlfriend, so... he thought dyeing his beard might help. But he was also lazy. And busy with his job. He wouldn't touch up the roots regularly. And when he did, he used the cheapest brand 'cause he was incredibly underpaid."

The butterfly stares. Economos swallows.

"Mostly though... he never thought anybody noticed. Until recently. When... one guy said it to him all the time."

The butterfly tilts its head, almost pitying.

"Humans can be really pathetic," it says simply, then turns and walks away into the shadows.

Economos stares after it, stunned. Then he whispers into the comms, voice tight with embarrassment, "Yeah. Fine. I dye my beard, all right? We all know it. I guess I learned my lesson. L'Oréal probably is worth the extra few bucks."

Chris nearly chokes on his laughter, but before he can respond, another butterfly sprints up the stairs, yelling, "HEY! That guy just put THIS down here!"

Chris's voice explodes over the comms, "Do it, NOW! Do it!"

Adebayo fumbles for her walkie, panicking.

"Activate Sonic--" but the slick device slips from her sweaty hands and tumbles into the underbrush.

Chris's voice peaks with rage, "WHAT THE FUCK?! How did that even happen?"

"My hands are sweaty!" Adebayo shrieks, dropping to her knees as she claws through the leaves.

Scottie dives beside her, ignoring the stabbing pain in her throat. Her fingers close around the walkie and she jerks it up, shouting with her raw, hoarse voice, "Activate Sonic Boom!"

The response is immediate.
The barn detonates, a deafening wave of sound ripping outward as the Sonic Boom helmet activates.

Inside the barn, chaos erupts. Butterflies scatter, screeching through human mouths. Their inhuman shrieks echo like distorted music.

Harcourt, crouched behind cover, raises her binoculars.

"Wait..." She breathes. Then, sharp and clear: "Now!"

Scottie lifts the walkie again, throat blazing, and croaks out, "Activate Sonic Boom!"

BOOM.
The second blast shreds the advancing swarm, incinerating dozens of butterfly-controlled bodies. Black silhouettes crumple mid-sprint, limbs flying like ragdolls.

Adrian's jaw drops as he stares at Scottie, utterly enchanted.

"That was so fucking hot," He blurts, wide-eyed.

Chris twists his head around, "Bro."

"What?" Adrian shrugs helplessly, still staring at her like she just sprouted wings, "I'm honest!"

Economos vaults over the fence, clutching his ribs, muttering "Fuck, fuck, fuck" like a mantra.

Harcourt gestures urgently to Scottie, mouthing again. Scottie tries, really tries, but her throat collapses on the sound. She shoves the walkie into Adebayo's hands instead.

Adebayo lifts it and yells, "Activate Sonic Boom!"

The cave beneath the barn implodes like a sinkhole.
The monstrous "cow" bellows, a sound of pain and rage as rock and steel collapse inward. Smoke and alien fluid gush upward, painting the night orange.

"Activate Sonic Boom!" Adebayo tries again, frantic.

This time, only a tiny pop answers her. A final gasp of energy.

Chris swipes blood from his cheek and grabs his shield, "Yep. That's it for the charges."

Adebayo spins on him, "Look, I can help!"

Harcourt steps forward, stern, "We need you to stay here, Ads. If something happens to us, you're the only hope."

Economos throws up his arms, "The fuck am I?! A lawn gnome?!"

Scottie rasps, "This is sexist." Her voice is shredded, barely audible.

"How is it sexist if I'm going?" Harcourt snaps back.

"Because the other two women aren't!" Scottie coughs, glaring.

Harcourt folds her arms, "You can barely talk and you can't fight."

Scottie glares, stubborn to the last.

"Not true!"

She hesitates, then admits with a hoarse whisper, "Okay... half true."

Adrian raises his sword with a manic grin. "What's the plan, man?"

Chris slides his shield onto his arm, grim determination in his eyes, "Let's go kill a cow."

The three of them, Chris, Harcourt, Adrian, charge toward the wreckage, silhouettes framed by the burning barn. Behind them, Scottie, Economos, and Adebayo huddle in the darkness, waiting.

—

Harcourt is down, her body sprawled in the hay, blood pooling beneath her. Her breaths are shallow, eyes half-lidded. Chris screams her name, but she's unresponsive.

Adebayo grabs Scottie's hand, her grip fierce, "Let's go. You too, John!"

They break from cover and sprint into the battlefield.
For the first time, the team truly sees Scottie fight, and it's brutal.

Scottie moves like a storm, her punches sharp and efficient. She's not graceful like Harcourt, no fluid assassin's precision. She's raw, relentless survival. Elbows to throats, knees to ribs, teeth bared as she claws and swings. Years of pain and fury pour into every hit.

Adebayo, wide-eyed, fires her pistol awkwardly.

"Jesus CHRIST!" She yells, shooting wildly.

A butterfly tackles Harcourt, trying to force its way into her mouth. Adebayo screams, grabs the alien mid-air, and blasts it point-blank, its corpse collapsing in a twitching heap.

Adrian fights his way toward Scottie, only to trip over a fallen beam. A butterfly lunges for him, and Scottie intercepts, driving a knee into its skull and snapping its neck with one vicious twist.

Adrian blinks up at her from the ground, his voice trembling.

"In the name of honesty," He says reverently, "my underwear is a little wet right now. I didn't piss myself, though. You saving me was just... insanely hot."

Scottie hauls him to his feet, face flushed with exertion.

"Do you ever stop talking?" She rasps.

"No," Adrian answers immediately, grinning through blood.

Chris barrels past them, scooping Harcourt into his arms.

The team stumbles into the field, battered but alive. And then--
The sky splits with light. Justice Gang silhouettes descend: Mr. Terrific, Superman, Hawk Girl, Green Lantern, Supergirl. Majestic. Untouchable.

Chris doesn't even slow.

"You're late, you fucking dickheads!" He bellows as they stride past. Superman blinks, confused, but says nothing.

—

The ER is chaos incarnate. Fluorescent lights glare off blood-smeared faces and ruined armor. Harcourt is whisked onto a stretcher, nurses barking orders. Economos, his leg bent at a wrong angle, is rolled past her, cursing under his breath.

Chris catches Adrian swaying, "Dude, you're shot. You gotta be admitted."

Adrian waves him off, staggering, "I'm fine, seriously. All I need is a good nap."

He collapses instantly, face-first on the floor. Nurses rush in like sharks.

Chris swears, then turns to Scottie, who's clutching her bruised throat, "Go get your throat checked out."

"Chris--" She starts, hoarse.

"Now."

She glares but relents. "Whatever you say... dad." She limps toward triage.

The word dad detonates inside Chris's chest. His heart stutters, eyes burning. He stands frozen, staring after her as if the floor disappeared beneath him.

Adebayo sits beside him, both of them silent for a moment, listening to the ER noise.

Finally, Chris asks, low, "Did you hear all that stuff Goff said?"

"Yep," Adebayo says softly.

Chris stares at his hands, "Did I just... kill the world?"

"Maybe," Adebayo says, her voice gentle but firm, "Or maybe you just gave us a chance to make our own choices. Instead of our bug overlords." She studies him, "Why did you choose not to help them? Was it because of your proto-fascist libertarian idea of freedom?"

Chris shakes his head slowly, "Because I knew they'd hurt you. And the others. If I did."

Adebayo swallows hard, "Yeah," Her eyes shine with guilt, "I'm sorry I betrayed you."

Chris looks up at her, his expression softening, "I know."

She exhales. Then she stands.

"Where you going?" Chris asks, confused.

"To do the right thing," Adebayo says simply.

Chris watches her go, then calls out, "Ads. Don't tell V, but..." His voice cracks, "After Eagly... you're my BFF."

Adebayo pauses, smiles faintly, "What about Scottie?"

Chris's face lights up, soft and raw all at once, "Scottie-girl's always my number one."

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