My fist connects with his cheek with a solid thwack.

  There's a moment of perfect, suspended disbelief—his eyes widening, my knuckles feeling actual human skin instead of an invisible force field, the teeth I grew from my knuckles leaving a thin red line across his cheekbone. Not deep, just enough to draw a trickle of blood.

  Captain Plasma stumbles back a half-step, more from surprise than impact. He touches his cheek, looks at the small smear of red on his fingertips, and then—to my complete bewilderment—he bursts out laughing.

  "Well played," he says, shaking his head. "I should have seen that coming."

  Multiplex's lip twitches in what might actually be a smile. "Cheap supervillain trick, Small. But effective."

  I lower my fist, feeling weirdly triumphant and guilty at the same time. "Sorry about the..." I gesture vaguely at his face.

  "Don't be," Rodney says, still grinning. "It's been a while since anyone's actually managed to land a hit. Good reminder that I'm not invincible."

  "You take after Superman too much for your own good," Nurse Sylvia says, already crossing the mat with her first aid kit. "Always thinking the best of people."

  "Is that a bad thing?" he asks, genuinely curious.

  "It is when it gets you stabbed in the face," she mutters, pulling out an antiseptic wipe.

  "To be fair," I say, pushing the tooth all the way out of my forearm until it falls onto the ground with a gentle, tinkly noise, "it's not like I was trying to hurt him. Just prove a point."

  "And what point is that?" Multiplex asks, folding his arms.

  I shrug. "That sometimes you have to change the rules of engagement? That even someone operating at his level has weaknesses? That bleeding from the side is apparently very convincing?"

  "All valid," Rodney nods, wincing slightly as Sylvia dabs at the cut. "But there's another lesson here. The only reason that worked is because I trusted you. I powered down my field because I was concerned about your safety. I'll know better in the future."

  "So the lesson is... don't trust teenage girls?" I ask.

  "The lesson," Multiplex says, "is that every advantage can become a vulnerability. Captain Plasma's compassion made him lower his guard. Your determination made you willing to injure yourself to create an opening. Both are strengths that can be turned against you."

  "Guess that means I win?" I say hopefully.

  "It means you passed," Multiplex corrects. "For some reason, I didn't expect you to actually stab yourself. That one's on me."

  I wince as Sylvia's alcohol wipes get the worst of the blood. It really is a shallow cut - I remembered this viral clip that Jordan showed me a couple weeks ago of some big shot wrestler getting thrown under a table and someone's drone camera caught him blading in action, and it's like... yeah, you gotta pick a high blood target. High bleeding. It makes it look real.

  "Wait," Rodney says, looking between us. "You knew she was going to do this?"

  "Not exactly this," Multiplex shrugs. "But I knew she'd do something. The point was to see how she'd adapt to an impossible situation."

  I feel a surge of pride, quickly followed by suspicion. "Did you two plan this whole thing? The impossible spar, the lesson about adapting?"

  "Captain Plasma suggested a farewell training session," Multiplex says. "I suggested this particular exercise. The execution was all yours."

  Meanwhile, Sylvia is examining my self-inflicted cut with disapproval. "Was this really necessary? You already have enough scars."

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  "What's one more?" I say, then wince as she applies an antiseptic wipe with perhaps more force than strictly required, the kind that leaves a streak of weird yellow on my skin. "I don't even have that many scars."

  "You have a lot of scars, for a regenerator," she points out, taping fresh gauze to my belly.

  "Well," Rodney says, pressing a bandage to his cheek, "I'd say that was educational for everyone involved. And a decent sendoff before I leave for New York."

  "When do you head out?" I ask.

  "Tomorrow morning. Early flight." He extends his hand. "It was good to work with you, Sam. I'll try to be back in Philadelphia once we figure out the situation in New York. New info to act on. You know, I'm told Liberty Belle thought very highly of you. She had a lot to say."

  I shake his hand, trying not to show any particularly interesting emotion, like curiosity, or sadness. "Thanks for the lateral thinking puzzle."

  "Anytime," he grins. "Though maybe next time, less blood?"

  "From the Bloodhound?" I ask, rhetorically.

  Multiplex steps forward. "Alright, Small. Back to rehab with Nurse Sylvia. Captain Plasma and I need to debrief. Dismissed."

  I start falling in line behind Sylvia, before something occurs to me, and I stop to turn around on my heel. My sneaker squeaks on the floor.

  "Wait, before you go," I ask, turning to glare Captain Plasma in the eye. "New York as in New York City?"

  He looks at me, knowingly. His smile is toothless and overly friendly, like a children's clown. Not even a hint of violence behind it. "Yeah."

  "This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with the Kingdom, would it?" I ask.

  He shows teeth, just a little bit. "That's classified."

  "So then I had to cut my side open," I explain, gesturing to the small bandage on my belly. "Just one tooth, right here. Enough to make it bleed convincingly."

  Tasha and Maggie stare at me from across the main room of the Music Hall, expressions hovering somewhere between horror and admiration.

  "That's..." Tasha starts.

  "Hardcore," Maggie finishes.

  "I was going to say 'completely insane,' but sure, we can go with hardcore." Tasha shakes her head. "And it worked? You actually hit him?"

  "Square in the face," I confirm, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. "Left a little cut and everything."

  "Captain Plasma," Maggie says, enunciating each syllable like she's trying to make sense of it. "The same Captain Plasma who stopped that runaway train in DC?"

  "The very same."

  "And Multiplex was impressed?" Tasha asks.

  "I think so? It's hard to tell with him. But he said I passed, which is about as close to 'good job' as you get from that man."

  The Music Hall has changed a lot in the past few weeks. Jordan's departure left a void, but we've been slowly adapting. The main room is cleaner now, that's for sure. The old pizza boxes and energy drink cans have been replaced with actual trash cans, and there's even a recycling bin. The monitors on the wall have been rearranged into a more organized display, showing news feeds, police scanner info, and one dedicated to tracking known Kingdom and Rogue Wave movements.

  The weird thing is how empty it feels without Jordan's mess spread everywhere. Their cloak isn't draped over the back of their chair. Their snack stash isn't overflowing from the cabinet. Their random doodles aren't taped to the walls. It's like someone scrubbed away half the personality of the place.

  "Hey, where's that drawer with the smashed phone?" Maggie asks, poking around the room.

  "Third cabinet on the left," I say. "We're keeping Jordan's organizational system, just... making it less chaotic."

  Tasha runs her hand along the now-clean workbench, looking thoughtful.

  "Speaking of which," Maggie says, "when do we get to the part where you teach us what you learned from Multiplex? You promised boxing lessons."

  I grin, standing up and moving to the center of the room. "That's why I called you here. Now that I've spent approximately ten thousand hours getting my ass kicked by Philadelphia's meanest superhero trainer, I figure I should pass on the wisdom."

  "Isn't that technically breaking some kind of student-teacher confidentiality?" Tasha asks.

  "No? You can't copyright martial arts lessons," I shrug. "And Multiplex isn't here, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, we're going to need every advantage we can get with everything that's coming."

  "You mean the anti-vigilante legislation?" Maggie asks.

  "Everything. That, plus whatever the Kingdom is cooking up, plus Rogue Wave's expansion, plus whatever the hell Richardson has planned with Argus Corps." I crack my knuckles. "We're outgunned, outmanned, and outlawed. Perfect time to learn how to throw a proper punch, don't you think?"

  "Even me?" Tasha asks, folding her arms over her chest.

  "Yes, even you," I say, channeling my inner Multiplex. "First lesson: stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, dominant foot slightly back..."

  As I start guiding them through the basics, I can't help but feel a strange sense of reversal. A few months ago, I was the one stumbling through these same movements while Multiplex barked corrections. Now I'm the one doing the correcting.

  "Keep your guard up," I say, tapping Maggie's elbow. "You're dropping your right, just like I used to."

  It's weird being on this side of the equation. Weird, but not bad. Maybe this is what growing up feels like—turning around and realizing you've become the person teaching instead of the one being taught.

  "Alright," I say, moving into the center of our makeshift training area. "Who's ready to learn how to pirate Multiplex's boxing lessons?"