Chapter Twenty-Two : Lucky Callout
A roaring headache pulled Clay from the depths of sleep, accompanied by the relentless chiming of his phone on the nightstand. Groaning, he rolled over, only to realize he'd somehow managed to fall asleep in his hero costume.
The events of the previous day began to trickle back, each memory adding to the pit of despair forming in his stomach. He reached for his phone, muttering, "Skipper, why didn't you sto—ah!" His hand recoiled as sharp teeth sank into his finger, and he shoved it into his mouth with a wince.
"Point taken…" he mumbled around his finger, his eyes squinting against the sun creeping in through the blinds.
Sitting next to his phone was Skipper, his tiny form radiating indignation. The rat's beady eyes locked onto Clay's, and his expression—remarkably expressive for a rodent—seemed to say, There isn't a definition of the word 'idiot' you wouldn't satisfy.
Clay grabbed his phone, his eyes still half-lidded with exhaustion, and swiped at the screen. A notification from the group chat lit up:
Sero: So... cowboy [COWBOY EMOJI, 'tough like Tsu,' huh? Care to elaborate? Or are you busy auditioning for Love Island: Hero Edition?
Clay's head thunked back against the pillow, a muffled groan escaping him as he scrubbed a hand down his face. "They're never gonna let me live this down…"
Skipper let out a sharp squeak of agreement, his tiny paws crossed in what could only be described as judgmental disapproval.
Another notification buzzed.
Kirishima: Man, I didn't think anyone could outshine Bakugo's rant from last week, but here we are. Respect, though.
Yet another.
Kaminari: What'd Tsu say? She must like the fact you talk enough for the two of you.
Clay blinked a few times. "Okay, wanna dance? We'll dance."
Clay: I'll make this short. Kaminari: you ain't slick, and Jiro knows that you're simping for her. Kirishima: you ain't slick, Mina knows you're simping for her. Sero, I can't think of anything to say, so I'm sending Skipper to take a dump on your pillow.
Kaminari: Wait… WAIT. WHAT DID YOU TELL JIRO?! CLAY. ANSWER ME.
Kirishima: Bro, you're deflecting hard. What did Tsu actually say?
Clay: I'll let you know when she says something boys.
Clay set his phone back on the nightstand, giving Skipper a wary glance before sitting up. His eyes drifted to the empty pizza box on his desk, the sight of two used paper plates triggering a faint memory.
"That's right… Thirteen even ate with me…" he muttered, the words half-formed as the events of the previous night came into focus.
The moment of clarity was short-lived. His blood ran cold at the sound of his phone's ribbit ringtone. There was only one person that could be.
"And there it is…" Clay said, his voice carrying the resigned tone of a man facing judgment.
Skipper, perched on the nightstand, glared up at him with an expression that could only mean, You earned it.
Clay hesitated before picking up his phone, dread pooling in his gut like lead. Sure enough, the screen lit up with Tsuyu's name. He couldn't decide if the ribbit ringtone was mocking him or simply punctuating his inevitable fate.
Taking a deep breath, he swiped to answer. "Mornin', Tsu," he said, his voice casual, but his shoulders tensed like a man walking into an ambush.
"Mornin', Clay," Tsuyu replied evenly, her calm tone offering no clues to her mood. "Ribbit."
Clay waited for her to say more, the seconds stretching uncomfortably long. When the silence continued, he ventured cautiously, "Everything okay? The seal guy treatin' you alright?"
"He is. I just wanted to say thank you again for carrying my bag," she replied, her voice smooth as always, though the very act of bringing up something that happened a full three nights ago betraying some emotion. But then, there was a pause—a deliberate one. "And for telling the press I'm tough."
"Ah, I figured you'd have somethin' to say about that."
There was a brief pause on the line, and Clay could almost imagine the faintest hint of a smile on Tsuyu's face.
"You know I have two younger siblings, ribbit?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"My parents traveled a lot for work, so I took care of them while going to school and training for the entrance exam," she said, her tone even, with just a trace of reflection. "Nobody ever called me tough, but it didn't matter. I just did what needed to be done."
The significance didn't hit Clay at first. He paused, letting the silence stretch awkwardly between them. Then, as if on cue, Mina's imaginary voice chimed in his head: She's touched that you'd call her tough, dummy!
"Well," Clay said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of warmth, "I'd say that puts you in the runnin' for best older sister. Not everyone's that tough."
There was a soft croak-like sound from Tsuyu—her version of a chuckle. "Ribbit. Maybe I should let you do all my PR from now on. You seem to have plenty to say."
"Don't tempt me, Tsu," Clay replied, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. "Might start callin' you my froggy girlfriend in every interview if you're not careful."
Tsuyu's pause was brief but deliberate. "You already did, ribbit."
Clay froze, the weight of realization crashing down on him. "Wait, what?"
"In not so many words," Tsuyu added, her tone calm but unmistakably teasing. "But if you want to make it official in your next interview, I won't stop you."
Clay's face went redder than Kirishima's hair as he fumbled for a response. "I—uh—didn't mean to—uh…"
Tsuyu let out another soft croak of a laugh, the warmth in her voice unmistakable. "Relax, Clay. I'm just teasing, ribbit."
"Well, I walked right into that one," Clay muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, though the smile creeping back onto his face betrayed his embarrassment. "Guess I'll just have to keep my mouth shut next time the press shows up."
"Good luck with that, ratty boyfriend," Tsuyu replied lightly, her tone perfectly deadpan. "Ribbit."
As the call ended, Clay let out a long breath, flopping back onto his bed with a groan, barely feeling the energy or joy from what Tsuyu called him. Skipper perched on his shoulder, chittering softly as if to mock him.
"Don't start with me," Clay mumbled, giving the rat a halfhearted glare. "You're lucky I didn't call her Mrs. Rat Catcher."
Skipper squeaked indignantly, leaping from the nightstand to Clay's shoulder with a flick of his tail.
Clay dropped into his chair, dragging his discarded boots closer and lacing them up. For once, he silently thanked his exhausted, half-functioning self for having the sense to kick them off before collapsing into bed.
His phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from an unknown number.
The faint red flush of embarrassment still lingering on his face drained to white as he read the message.
Unknown: Good morning, Derreks! Training area five in thirty minutes. Don't be late—or I'll make you regret it. -Midnight [WINKING EMOJI]
Midnight: P.S. I heard from Thirteen about last night. Crying yourself to sleep because you missed your mama? That's just precious, cowboy.
Clay stared at the message, his jaw tightening as he reread the words. "You've gotta be kiddin' me…" he muttered.
Skipper, perched on his shoulder, let out an indignant squeak, his tiny paws gripping Clay's collar as if he could somehow protect him from the incoming humiliation.
A second buzz followed.
Midnight: Oh, and don't bother denying it. Direct quote from Thirteen: 'He was visibly emotional, whispering about his mother before he fell asleep. A touching display of vulnerability.'
Clay groaned, slumping back in his chair. "I didn't whisper nothin'," he grumbled, rubbing his temples. "And who writes that down?!"
Skipper let out a series of squeaks that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
"Don't you start," Clay grumbled, standing and tugging his hat down low over his face. "You're supposed to have my back."
The rat chittered again, hopping into the pocket of Clay's jacket, seemingly ready to tag along for the show.
With a groan, Clay grabbed his bandanna, tying it around his neck before moving for the door. "First Tsu, now Midnight… Everyone's got jokes today."
The walk to the training area was long but quiet, giving Clay plenty of time to piece things together. Thirteen had been something of a drunk wrangler—steering him to his room, making sure he ate pizza, talking about family, and then...
Clay rubbed the back of his neck, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. "Guess there's worse people out there to be... that way around," he muttered, half to himself.
He glanced down at Skipper, sat contentedly in his pocket. The rat nodded his little head in agreement, his whiskers twitching with silent agreement.
The training area was much like the others Clay had seen: a wide, open expanse punctuated by clusters of buildings. Some were small and scattered, while others formed dense groups big enough to mimic an entire town. The ground beneath his boots was cold, unyielding concrete, and though the gray sky loomed overhead, the entire place felt enclosed, as if the world beyond didn't exist here. Perhaps Clay would have liked it more if he didn't feel like he was nursing a hangover.
Midnight was waiting for him, her signature whip draped lazily over her shoulder as she stood amidst an array of training dummies. Her lips curled into a playful smirk.
"Never pegged you as such a mama's boy!" she cooed, her tone teasing but sharp enough to cut.
Clay sighed, his shoulders already sagging in defeat. "Just miss my mom, that's all…" he muttered, his voice carrying a weight that even his usual stubbornness couldn't mask.
Midnight's smirk softened slightly, though her teasing tone remained. "Oh, sweetie, there's no shame in missing your mama. It's just adorable. All those big muscles, and deep down, you're just a soft-hearted cowboy."
Clay adjusted his hat, letting it dip forward to obscure his face. "Don't suppose we could skip this part and get to the trainin'?"
Midnight tapped her chin with a gloved finger, feigning deep thought. "Hmm… tempting, but no. This is way more fun." She stepped closer, her heels clicking on the training floor. "You know, Thirteen said you got all misty-eyed talkin' about her cookies. Something about peanut butter and chocolate chips?"
Clay groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "For cryin' out loud… How can this be better than Best Jeanist?"
Skipper, ever the loyal wingman, chirped indignantly, hopping from Clay's pocket to his shoulder. The little rat puffed himself up, letting out a series of sharp squeaks aimed squarely at Midnight.
"Aw, is the little guy defending you?" Midnight teased, her whip coiling around her arm like a snake. "Relax, Skipper, I'm just having a little fun."
Clay reached up to gently scratch behind Skipper's ears, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "He don't like bullies," he said, his tone dry. "Even the ones wearin' dominatrix getups."
Midnight let out a laugh, tossing her head back. "Touché, cowboy. But don't think that'll get you off the hook. You've got a lot of ground to cover today—especially if you want me to keep that little tidbit about your mom just between us."
"Whatever," Clay huffed, crossing his arms. "Just tell me what to do."
"That's just the way I like it," Midnight purred, a sly grin spreading across her face as she licked her lips.
"Sheesh…" Clay muttered, shaking his head. "I know I shouldn't be givin' you the reaction, but… my Lord, woman."
Midnight let out a low, melodic laugh, clearly enjoying every moment of Clay's exasperation. She gestured toward the array of practice dummies scattered across the training area. Some were propped up on wires to simulate standing figures, while others were slumped against the walls, some with their arms bound with wire.
"Alright, cowboy," she began, her voice shifting to a more instructive tone, though it still carried her signature playful edge. "Here's the setup: hostage rescue. These dummies represent civilians in a dangerous situation, and it's your job to get them out. But—" She flicked her whip toward a stack of thick rubber disks marked with hazard symbols. "—there are 'hostile elements' between you and them. Whenever I throw one at you, you read it, and you do what it says. This is all about reaction time and quick thinking."
"Okay…" Clay murmured, his tone cautious. He knew there had to be more. "That actually... makes sense. What's the catch?"
"Smart boy," Midnight purred, her grin widening. "I'm the catch. Every time you're too slow, I get to add another restraint to—"
Clay groaned, throwing his arms up in frustration and tugging at his hair. "You've gotta be kiddin' me! You know there's people out there that'll pay you for that? You don't gotta be doin' that to me!"
Midnight burst into laughter, doubling over as her whip coiled loosely in her hand. "Oh, cowboy, you are way too easy to tease," she said, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye. "But no, I'm not kidding. I am the catch, and yes, every time you mess up or are too slow, I'll be—"
The buzz of a communicator broke through the air, sharp and insistent. Clay recognized the sound immediately, his ears perking up.
Saved by the bell, he thought, his hopes rising. That was, of course, provided the emergency was the kind Midnight would want to respond to.
"Don't get too excited," Midnight said with a huff, letting the end of her whip drop lazily to the ground. Her expression was somewhere between amused and annoyed. "Someone called in sick for a routine convict transport, and guess who's first on the backup list…"
Clay blinked, his shoulders sagging slightly in relief.
Midnight tapped her chin thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing in displeasure. "Don't think you're off the hook, cowboy. Convict transport or not, you owe me this drill later." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "And I'm going to make it twice as hard."
"You only got me for two more days," Clay muttered as he followed her, leaving the carefully placed dummies behind without a second glance. "That's a lot less than three."
Midnight led the way to her vehicle, a sleek, unassuming SUV that Clay couldn't help but think was far too practical for someone like her. As she unlocked the doors with a chirp of the fob, she cast a sidelong glance at him, her smirk sharp. "Two days is plenty of time to leave a lasting impression, cowboy. Don't get too comfortable."
Clay climbed into the passenger seat with a grunt. He was sore from something, but he didn't know what. "Comfortable ain't exactly the word I'd use for this week, ma'am."
Skipper scurried from Clay's pocket to perch on the dashboard, sniffing at the air vents as the SUV hummed to life. Midnight chuckled, adjusting her seatbelt. She somehow looked like a mom giving their kid a ride to football practice, and that made Clay a new kind of uncomfortable. "Looks like your partner's settling in just fine. You could take a lesson from him."
The drive to the staging area was quiet but tense. Midnight kept the conversation light, occasionally throwing a teasing comment in Clay's direction, while he focused on shaking off the lingering exhaustion from the day before. The vehicle navigated the winding streets with ease, the city slowly giving way to an industrial district.
When they pulled up to the staging area, Clay spotted several vehicles already parked in a loose semicircle. The scene was bustling with activity—heroes and support personnel moving with purpose as they prepared for the transport. The towering form of a security van stood at the center of it all, its reinforced doors and armored exterior exuding an air of imposing efficiency.
"Looks like we're not the only ones late to the party," Clay muttered, scanning the group. His eyes landed on a familiar figure—Sero—leaning casually against the side of a van. The other hero with him, a man in a sleek black suit with a silver tie and a glinting metallic mask, was none other than Edgeshot.
"Well, well," Midnight purred as she stepped out of the SUV, her whip draped over one shoulder. "Looks like we've got some big names here. Try not to embarrass yourself, Derreks."
Clay groaned under his breath, climbing out of the vehicle and tipping his hat back as he approached the group. Sero caught sight of him and broke into a wide grin, pushing off the van with his usual laid-back energy.
"Hey, cowboy!" Sero called, giving a mock salute. "Didn't think I'd see you here. Midnight dragging you along?"
"Somethin' like that," Clay replied, his tone dry as he adjusted his bandanna. "What about you? Edgeshot's got you doin' convict duty?"
Edgeshot inclined his head slightly, his calm presence a stark contrast to Sero's energy. "Part of hero work is ensuring every detail is handled professionally. I trust Hanta to assist me in that."
Sero gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, what he said. This is what I've been doing all week. It's really not that bad, lots of waiting," he said, pulling out a deck of cards. "We usually have to wait at the gates for an hour or two."
"Doesn't sound bad at all," Clay said, running a hand through his beard thoughtfully. "Won't have to worry about the press, and I can go back to flyin' under the radar."
Sero snickered, nudging him lightly with an elbow. "Too late for that, cowboy. The whole class saw your froggy girlfriend interview."
Clay stiffened, his face darkening as a sharp squeak erupted from Skipper, perched indignantly on the brim of Clay's hat.
Midnight raised an eyebrow, a sly smile tugging at her lips as she clearly enjoyed the exchange. "Well," she quipped, her tone dripping with mock seriousness, "if the cameras show up again, maybe Skipper can handle the PR. He seems more qualified."
"I seem to recall Thirteen yellin' at him for attackin' a reporter," Clay muttered.
"Listen up," came the calm yet commanding voice of Edgeshot, instantly drawing the attention of the gathered heroes. They shifted into a loose semi-circle around the armored van, their expressions turning serious.
"We're transporting three villains today," Edgeshot continued, his sharp gaze sweeping over the group. "Intelligence suggests the League of Villains has connections to at least one of them. Don't get complacent."
A tense silence hung among the heroes, the weight of Edgeshot's words sinking in. The stillness was broken only by his next set of instructions, delivered with precise authority.
"Our formation will remain the same as usual," he began. "Two vans in front, two in the rear. Midnight will ride in the armored vehicle in the center. If there's any trouble, she'll put them to sleep."
His sharp gaze shifted to Clay. "Rat Catcher, you'll be in the van directly behind the armored one. Deploy a rat on each vehicle and keep watch for any signs of trouble. You're our early warning system."
"Clear as mud," Clay quipped, his tone sarcastic.
Edgeshot's brow twitched slightly, but before he could respond, Sero chimed in, already heading toward his assigned van. "It's an American idiom, sir," he explained, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
Clay took a moment to appraise the lineup of vans before spawning five of his more attentive rats: Alert, Cash, Lee, Rosie, and Buck.
"Okay, boys…" he began, only to pause as an indignant squeak cut him off. Rosie, standing upright on her hind legs with an unmistakably regal posture, glared at him with beady-eyed defiance.
"You know what I meant," Clay muttered, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress a small smile. "Everyone pick a van, and let me know if there's trouble."
The rats responded with stiff, synchronized nods before scrambling off to their assigned vehicles. The coordination was almost perfect—until Lee and Buck collided midway, engaging in a miniature wrestling match over the honor of riding on the armored van.
"Break it up, boys," Clay muttered, scooping up the squabbling pair with practiced ease. Skipper squeaked sharply from his perch on Clay's hat, as if scolding them for embarrassing the team. With a quick flick of his wrist, Clay tossed the two on separate vans, earning a final squeak of protest from Buck as the convoy prepared to roll out.
The sound of engines rumbled through the staging area, the vehicles lining up in formation. Edgeshot moved to the lead van, his voice cutting through the low hum of activity. "Stay in formation. No deviations unless absolutely necessary."
Clay meandered over to his assigned van, his boots scuffing softly against the concrete as he climbed in. From his seat, he had a clear view of the prisoners they'd be transporting as they were brought to the armored vehicle. Two of them were unremarkable—no names he recognized, faces that barely registered.
But the third?
Clay's jaw tightened as his eyes locked onto a familiar figure. The bird-faced villain from the U.S.J. Nomu.
The convoy rumbled out of the staging area, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on asphalt setting the tempo for what everyone hoped would be an uneventful journey. Clay leaned back against the seat of the van, his hat tilted low over his eyes, and let the gentle rocking of the van settle him into a rhythm as he peered through the eyes of his five sentries. "My boys are not picking anything up so far," he said into the comms.
The first leg of the trip passed in relative quiet. The occasional murmur from a hero and the faint hiss of static from the comms filled the space between the low hum of the engine. But as the convoy entered a stretch of old warehouses, things began to change.
The streetlights ahead flickered erratically, casting unsettling shadows that danced across the road. Clay sat up straighter, his gaze narrowing as he watched the convoy's formation waver slightly. The lead van slowed, its brake lights flashing in hesitation.
"Something's off," Midnight muttered, her voice conveying an unusual tone of seriousness.
Over the comms, Edgeshot's voice crackled. "We've lost synchronization with the traffic signals. Proceed with caution, but do not stop unless absolutely necessary."
The flickering grew worse as they continued, entire sections of the street plunging into darkness before blinking back to life. Traffic lights seemed to have a mind of their own, skipping straight from blue to red to yellow to blue again. Clay barely had the time to wonder why the Japanese used blue instead of green when the chaos started to set in. The convoy's pace grew uneven, the vans spreading out as drivers tried to navigate the chaos without losing sight of one another. It was an impossible tasks, with civilians weaving in and out of the convoy, also confused by the street lights going haywire.
"Rat Catcher, do your rats see anything?" Edgeshot's voice came through the radio, laced with faint static but still clear enough to carry his usual calm authority.
"Still nothin'," Clay muttered, leaning back in his seat as he watched his mental map update. "Just bad streetlights and confused motorists."
There was a pause, the radio crackling faintly before Edgeshot spoke again. "Everyone regroup at—"
The rest of the command was swallowed by a thunderous explosion. The blast was deafening, even inside the van, and the force of it rocked the entire vehicle. Clay winced as the sharp sound sent pain lancing through his ears, his hands instinctively gripping the edge of his seat as the van rattled violently.
"Here they come!" Midnight called.
Clay closed his eyes, focusing on the mental link with his rats. Through their eyes, the ambush came into sharp focus, as clear as day.
One of the lead vans lay overturned, its wheels still spinning uselessly in the air. The armored vehicle was intact for now, but Midnight was already stepping out, her whip in hand and a thick cloud of purple gas swirling around her like a living shadow.
It was not long after that when Clay had his own boots on the ground. It was hard to distinguish between civilians and people attacking them.
"Boss?" Clay muttered into his comm, his tone sharp as he ducked behind the rear door of the van. Skipper scurried onto his shoulder, squeaking anxiously.
Edgeshot's voice crackled faintly, distorted by interference. "Engage with caution. Confirm identities before taking action—do not assume all civilians are hostile."
"Roger that," Clay replied, spawning a fresh group of rats from his sleeves. "Alright, boys, keep your eyes peeled. Don't spook anyone unless you're sure they need spookin'."
The rats fanned out, weaving through the chaos with practiced precision. Their tiny forms darted under vehicles, around obstacles, and toward the overturned lead van. Clay winced as the mental feedback trickled in—burning rubber, sharp cries of fear, and the distinct tang of acrid smoke all painted a grim picture. All of the heroes looked okay, but they seemed just as confused as Clay was as to who was attacking them. Clay could only catch glimpses through the eyes of his rats, and what little focus he could maintain was broken when Skipper squeaked sharply into his ear.
His focus snapped back just in time to see the baseball bat flying to his face. It was an act of God's mercy that he was able to raise a hand quick enough to catch the bat just inches from his eyes. He wasn't sure what grabbed his attention first. The stinging, cutting pain on his palm and the feeling of warm blood running down his arm, or the clown fella wielding the bat.
Despite the searing pain shooting through his hand, Clay's grip on the bat remained ironclad. He could feel something cutting through his gloves, the sharp edges digging deep into his skin. Letting go would only make it worse—or so he told himself as he clenched his teeth against the throbbing ache.
The clown-like villain froze, his posture faltering in disbelief. He stared at Clay through his mask as if he'd just witnessed someone pull off a stunt straight out of an action movie—or the kind of feat a more competent hero might pull off catching a bullet mid-flight. Clay was stunned that he pulled it off too, but Clay was able to snap out of it first, delivering a steel-toed boot right to the clown's gut, who crumpled over as if he were made of paper.
The clown was down, sprawled across the pavement, leaving the bat in Clay's hand. A closer look revealed what he'd already felt—razor blades, sloppily glued to the weapon's surface. As much as his hand throbbed, he knew it would've been a lot worse if the thing had connected with his face.
"Hah… hah…" the clown muttered weakly, his voice barely loud enough to reach Clay's ears above the chaos.
"Not really all that funny," Clay muttered back, glancing at the bat before deciding to hold onto it. His grip remained the same, and without missing a beat, he swung his right arm, sending a rat flying toward another attacker—a woman with arms that seemed to be made out of electric eels.
The rat landed squarely on her face, earning a sharp yelp as she staggered back, the sudden chaos buying Clay just enough time to assess his next move as a sharp crack of a whip filled the air. Clay turned just in time to see a villain fall to the ground, a nasty gash on his back with Midnight looming over him. Despite his own injury, Clay winced. Getting hit with a bull whip like that is no joke.
Clay let out a low whistle as he watched Midnight coil her whip with practiced ease, her movements smooth and deliberate. "That just seems… inhumane. You wouldn't be usin' that on me, would you?" he muttered. Warm blood seeped through the torn fabric of his glove, but he ignored it, his focus fixed on the chaos around him.
Midnight spared him a glance, her usual teasing smirk tempered by the seriousness of the situation. "You're doing fine, cowboy. Just try not to lose any fingers—those come in handy."
He glanced down to his hand, still gripping the bat. There was a lot of blood. He still couldn't steel himself to release his grip on it. His eyes darting back to the battlefield. His rats were still scattering and swarming, sowing confusion among the attackers. The clown on the ground groaned, struggling to push himself up, but Clay planted a boot squarely on his chest, keeping him down. "Stay put, Bozo. You're gonna miss the show."
The woman with eel arms recovered quickly, her electric limbs crackling with bright blue energy as she rounded on him. Clay hefted the razor-lined bat, his injured hand screaming in protest as he gripped it tightly. "Alright, Sparky," he muttered. "Let's see what you got."
Before she could lunge, Midnight's whip snapped again, striking the ground just inches from her feet. The sudden movement sent her stumbling back, her electric charge sputtering briefly. Midnight's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "You'd better hope the police get here before I do, sweetheart."
The woman hesitated, her crackling limbs twitching uncertainly as she weighed her options. Buck seized the moment, scurrying forth, he darted up her leg, forcing her to flail wildly, trying to dislodge it.
"Good work, Buck," Clay muttered under his breath, shifting his stance to block another figure rushing at him—a lanky man armed with what looked like sharpened gardening shears. Clay barely had time to block the attack with the wrong end of the bat, but doing so ripped it out of his hand. The pain was blinding, and a steady stream of blood was pouring at his feet. "I'm not a hedge!" Clay barked, swinging his free arm and dusting the man with a few rats, who got to work clawing and biting until he was on the ground.
"He he he…"
Clay looked to the ground, the clown was gone, and so was the bat.
Skipper squeaked urgently from Clay's shoulder, his tiny body bristling with agitation. The rat tugged at Clay's collar, pointing with his nose toward a narrow alleyway on the far side of the battlefield.
Clay followed the direction, his eyes narrowing as he caught a flash of movement—white, smeared with streaks of color. "Over there," he muttered, nodding toward the alley.
By the time the battle subsided, the scene was one of chaos. Rubble littered the area, mingling with the groans of the injured and the faint creak of overturned cars. Sero stood near one of the flipped vans, methodically securing a few dazed attackers to a nearby light pole with his tape. Nearby, Midnight was in quiet discussion with Edgeshot, her posture unusually serious.
Clay's eyes shifted to the armored vehicle—the one holding the prisoners. Somehow, it was untouched, almost as if it weren't even considered.
As the last of his rats began to despawn, Clay winced, barring his teeth as he peeled off his glove. Pain shot through his hand, but when he finally got the glove off, the extent of the damage hit him. His palm was torn up, streaks of blood crisscrossing his skin from where the razor-studded bat had dug in.
"Looks pretty bad, cowboy," Midnight remarked, stepping closer and placing an unwelcome hand on his wrist to examine the injury.
"Hurt myself worse shavin'," Clay muttered, his voice dry as he forced a weak grin.
Midnight arched an eyebrow. "You don't shave."
"Because I got tired of hurtin' myself…" he quipped, shrugging slightly despite the pain.
"Cellophane," Midnight barked, turning sharply toward Sero. "Wrap his hand up."
"No probl—whoa…" Sero's eyes widened as he stepped closer, taking in the jagged mess of Clay's palm. "You stick your hand in a shredder?" he asked, already pulling out tape and starting to wrap it carefully around the injury.
"Hurt myself worse shavin'," Clay muttered, his tone as dry as ever.
Sero paused, glancing up with a mix of confusion and amusement. "But… you don't shave…"