Wildcard sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the puddle of spit on the floor.
It glistened under the dim light, clear, unremarkable—until he poked it with a scrap of cloth.
The fabric stiffened instantly, like it had been dunked in glue and left to dry.
He grunted. "Well, that’s disgusting."
Rolling his tongue in his mouth, he considered the practical uses of his new ability.
Spitting in someone’s drink? Too slow.
Spitting directly on them? Unreliable.
Spitting into his own hand and slapping someone? Comically stupid.
None of it seemed useful. His old intimidation ability had made people listen. This? It just made things gross.
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He sighed, tilting his head back against the cold metal wall.
"This is officially the dumbest power I’ve ever had."
A knock at the door.
Before he could answer, Isla stepped in, arms crossed. She took one look at the spit-covered rag and made a face.
"Do I even wanna ask?"
Wildcard gestured vaguely. "Just conducting very important scientific research."
"Uh-huh."
She kicked the rag toward him with the tip of her boot. "And? Any groundbreaking discoveries?"
"It’s sticky, and it messes people up if they touch it. That’s about it."
Isla smirked. "So, you’re a walking slug now. Congrats."
Wildcard sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up."
She leaned against the doorframe. "Look, Cortez hasn’t given us anything new yet, so unless you wanna sit here playing with yourself all night—"
"—Phrasing," Wildcard muttered.
She ignored him. "—I’m heading to the Pit. You in?"
The Pit. A makeshift fighting ring down in one of the old factories. Mostly just an excuse for the Dominos and other gangs to burn off steam. Bets, brawls, and broken bones.
Wildcard looked at the rag on the floor, then at Isla.
A distraction sounded good.
"Yeah," he said, standing up. "Why not?"
He stepped over the spit puddle and followed her out into the night.