Kymrik swiped casually at Lucky, long blades growing out from his fingers as he moved past her, toward the rubble pile, shouting something in German. She ducked aside and continued fencing with Gallows Ghost, aimed for that one solid hand with her staff only to see the weapon pass through him again.
    "Didn't you think I'd be prepeared for that?" he scoffed.
    "Kiss my ass," she snarled.
    "I'll shove this up it first if you don't mind. Bitch." He swung the truncheon.
    Midas, meanwhile, had pulled himself out of the water and seen the two of them duking it out through the fog that was Scott, muttered to himself in Greek. He waved his hand, and the air again turned to gold—molten this time. She could feel the heat as it closed in; a few drops spattered her skin and hurt like hell, a moment before the truncheon slammed into her throat. Her head snapped back, absorbing most of the force of the blow, but that one was going to leave a bruise.
    "Like I said, I have time," he smiled, circling.
    Lucky coughed and clutched her throat..
    "Bend over, we'll make it quick," he suggested crudely.
    The men with machine guns cut loose again, without any real effect. Scott took a chance and slammed his liquid form into Midas. Splashdown again.
    "Son of a bi— Oh, fuck it," the man muttered resignedly, hauled himself upright again, passed his ungloved hand across his body and turned himself to gold. He disappeared beneath the water.
    Promethean pushed himself a little faster, trying to wear his brother down, but Marcus was closing fast. Apparently enraged beyond rational thought, his brother was trying to punch him again, rather than using his powers—and did so. The plasma explosion came just after the moment of impact. Promethean rolled over in midair, barely kept control, arced back up before he could slam into the pavement below. He barely heard the screams of the people in the streets. Regaining some altitude, he saw no sign of Marcus' plasma trail. He had either ducked below building level, or was hiding. Ute headed out over the harbor, out of his brother's range, expecting that he had chosen a position from which to snipe at him.
    On the island, Kymrik had vanished, probably grown gills and swam away. Lucky backed away from Jack, watching him closely, gauging her moment. He had to be solid to swing at her, didn't he? He walked up, stepped through her, spun around and slammed the truncheon toward her kidney. She whirled the staff back over her shoulder; he realized what she was about to do and retreated swiftly as she pivoted to face him.
    "Oh yeah, keep breathing hard," he suggested with a lewd smile. "I like that."
    "I'll lop your fucking dick off, asshole."
    "Take your best shot. Come on," he taunted.
    Scott gauged the remaining opposition, and lashed out with two liquid limbs. The machine guns stopped their intermittent stutter.
    It seemed to take me forever to get to the hospital. I dropped the two on the roof for the paramedics to deal with and headed back out without slowing down. I could see two plasma trails arcing over the city as Ute and Marcus duked it out. What in the name of god was he doing? I paused and watched; a sudden roar of contained energy came from behind a nearby building as Marcus' plasma stream rocketed toward his brother, who sensed him coming and simply moved aside. Ute traced the attack to its source and closed in.
    I weighed the likelihood of a premature end as a small cinder at the bottom of the harbor if I got between those two, versus the fact that when I left the island my remaining teammates had appeared somewhat outgunned, and decided for the latter.
    So what happened tonight may be in part the result of that decision, but I refuse at this moment to indulge in what-ifs. Although I may have been able to stop it, what happened was not my fault.
    Promethean spiraled in to attack and hurled another bolt of plasma, destroying the chimney his brother hid behind. For a moment the plasma glare illuminated Marcus' expression, the dawning realization that there could be only one end to this battle. He blasted open the door to the roof of the building—it looked like an apartment building, some five stories high—and disappeared. Promethean flew down after him, a wall of plasma before him, through the tight confines of the stairwell.
    On the island, Lucky faced Jack and chuckled, sidestepped his blow and braced herself for the next attack. In her hands, the faintly glowing staff morphed into an axe as she swung. At the same time, Scott coiled himself and struck. The Ghost screamed as his hand separated from his insubstantial body; the robot struck the remaining stump an instant later.
    "Son of a bitch!"
    "Best kiss I ever had," she smiled.
    Blood spurted from the stump. Figuring that Lucky could deal with him going forward, Scott returned to gaseous state, searched the rubble for any sign of Kymrik's presence and found nothing. Lucky picked up the truncheon and kicked the severed hand into the ocean.
    Jack grew a new one.
    "Son of a bitch," she muttered.
    I closed in, saw the two of them facing off, Scott's fog enveloping the rubble, two unconscious thugs, and no sign of Midas or Kymrik. I scanned for the shapeshifter's aura and found nothing. Jack Ketch looked around at the three of us surrounding him and smiled at Lucky.
    "I'll be seeing you," he promised, and disappeared into the ground.
    As usual, I had apparently missed most of the fight. I took a few seconds to skin out of the constrictive scuba equipment while the others reassembled themselves.
    Over Boston, Promethean pursued his brother through an open window, only to find Marcus lying in wait below him with a prepared blast. It missed. Promethean turned a tight corner; his universe now consisted of that other human body, nothing more. Marcus took off in the opposite direction, clearly pushing himself, but nothing Promethean couldn't match. A blast of flame struck street level, and a gas station exploded. He was trying to catch his older brother in it, but his timing was off, and Ute continued his pursuit undeterred by the screaming civilians below.
    We saw it go up from the island. No time to debate or plan; I gathered up the rest of the group, including the two unconscious thugs, and headed for the mainland as fast as I could fly. Try doing the hundred-yard-dash with cinderblocks strapped to your feet and you'll have some idea of how hauling Scott's three-hundred-plus deadweight pounds felt. I was getting really tired from all this dashing around.
    All we could do was follow after and try to minimize the damage; I could never catch up to him. A billboard went up in flames farther along their trail, while Lucky cracked open a public works truck full of sand and dumped it over the gasoline blaze just as it began to burn out of control. I plucked people to safety as fast as I could without much regard for their comfort. Scott headed off along the trail of burning cars, doing all he could to help those injured along the way.
    Promethean continued to pursue his brother relentlessly, staying below him and firing up, nearly lost control of his plasma field and staggered for a moment, kept going and fired another blast. Marcus rolled out of the way and dove down nearly to street level, reversing their positions. His plasma trail was setting fires along their path now. He fired backwards wildly, hardly even looking; the blast missed by a foot or so. He was obviously rattled, losing control. Promethean sent another killing blast toward his brother only to see him dodge aside. Plasma shattered the street clear down to the sewer level.
    People were screaming at us and throwing things. We ignored them, united by grim purpose. I kept my focus narrow, not even trying to comprehend the magnitude of the disaster unfolding in front of us. Move people to safety, make sure they're not too badly hurt, ignore thrown rocks.
    The two brothers barrelled down Commonwealth Avenue at full speed, trading plasma blasts, never quite hitting each other hard enough to bring it to an end. Marcus dove past the massive Citgo sign at Kenmore Square and blasted out its supports, toppling it onto his brother—who rode a wall of plasma straight through it, while snapped electrical cables hissed and sparked and started yet another fire below them. Marcus glanced back with a fearful expression, realizing that his doom still followed close behind, and arced toward Fenway Park. Promethean fired off another blast.
    It connected, hard, at long last. Marcus lost control, slammed into the old wooden bleachers with a flare of light from his shield, and vanished in an avalanche of debris. Not to be deterred, Promethean hovered over the wreckage, sending precisely placed blasts into the wreckage, disintegrating the pile bit by bit, craving only evidence of his brother's death.

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