The main street was busy, filled with cars and trucks zooming by, the occasional honk and shout breaking over the din of rumbling motors. Though it wasn’t as busy as the sidewalk. 

It was impossible for Maren to take more than a step without bumping into someone: a businesswoman talking in a hurried voice, a wearied man tugging along a petulant child, an elderly couple moving at a quarter pace of everyone else. Thankfully Mav had volunteered to carry the cake, which he held over his head to keep from the crowd. 

Maren had thought he’d enjoy the extra exercise, yet his grimace suggested otherwise. 

“Don’t worry,” Maren said. “We’ll escape the crowd soon so you can put that down.” 

“What?” Mav asked. “Oh, no. This doesn’t bother me.” 

“Then what’s with the face?” 

“I really want to shoulder-press this.” Mav frowned. “But that might ruin the cake.” 

Maren was halfway through rolling her eyes when the back of a semi which was on the far side of the road exploded. 

The crowd shrieked, some leaping sideways. One man shoved Maren, pressing her against Mav’s firm body. She took a deep breath, failing to calm her suddenly hammering heart. 

The semi-truck was flipping over, its rear in the sky, awash in flames. People on the sidewalk across the street were lying on the ground, while those farther away from the blast stood back in shock. No two cars on the street moved the same way: some continued forward, as if their drivers hadn’t had time to react; others slammed on their breaks, forcing other vehicles to hit their rears; others accelerated and weaved through lanes, trying to escape the oncoming danger; two others, which had been behind the truck, caught fire. 

The semi’s top smashed into the street, the cars in front of the truck having driven to a safe distance. A smaller explosion ruptured another portion of the semi’s bottom. 

“Mav!” Maren shouted, but Mav was gone. “Mav?” 

He tore through the crowd toward her, arms barren. “Put the cake in a safe place.” 

“Priorities, Mav,” Maren said. “We have to–” 

A man rushed toward the burning truck, removing something from a coat pocket. “Death to Wilkins’! Destruction to the destroyers!” Then he threw a circular object. 

“Shit,” Maren breathed. 

But it wasn’t a grenade. It erupted twenty feet over the burning semi, displaying a symbol in fire like a prolonged firework: lines twisted together, interlocking to make it appear as one congruent edge. 

The man joined two others and they fled the scene. 

“Water can’t put out car fires,” Maren said. 

“I know,” Mav said, stepping forward, his shoulders igniting. “Give them hell.” 

Maren smirked, then charged toward the fleeing men. 

The streets were relatively safe to run through. No cars traveled on the near side, while a standstill kept the vehicles dormant on the far side. Maren kept her eyes on the escapees: the one who’d thrown the firework had close-cropped blond hair, one of his companions had ebony-dark skin, while the other had lighter brown skin with long, flowing dark brown hair. 

They ran onto a side street, creating a small gap in the crowd. Maren dashed through it, eyes never leaving the three. 

When she was ten feet away, she formed water-whips along her upper arms and thighs, her mouth drying. One of the three glanced behind and his eyes widened in shock and fear. 

Too late. Maren’s whips lashed, slapping the backs of two of their heads, the third in his right cheek. They stumbled, the one who’d turned falling. He rolled, pulling out a gun, but Maren’s water yanked the firearm to the side. 

Bang! 

The bullet sailed from the water, striking the side of a building and ricocheting down an alley. Maren pulled her water back, dragging the gun with it. 

The two other men turned, reaching inside their coats. Maren’s whips slapped them repeatedly. In that time, Maren lunged forward, her skin drying as she extended her palms. Violent geysers nailed them in the chest, sprawling them onto the ground. The one who’d lost his gun – the blond – charged Maren. Not a headlong rush of a seasoned fighter, but a desperate last-ditch attack of an amateur. 

Maren drove her knee upward, slapping his ankle with her thigh-whip. He tumbled, his descending face crashing directly into her rising knee. His nose crunched and he shouted, falling to the side. 

Maren stood over the men holding their various wounds. Her water held them still while she drank from her canteen, replenishing what she’d lost. 

While a small crowd stared at her in awe. 

“It’s not safe here,” Maren said, a small explosion sounding from the main street. “Get away before anyone else gets hurt.” 

“First the people,” Mav muttered, “then the fire.” 

The fire had spread to the semi’s car, in which two people hung upside down, unconscious. Mav spread his flames to his hands as he gripped the door. His fingers delved into the metal. Thankfully the truck flames weren’t too powerful, so his fire easily merged with the vehicle’s, which made it cool to the touch. Mav wrenched the door from its hinges and flung it down the street. 

A man and a woman, eyes closed, arms dangling, remained still. Mav leaped in, bumping into the man, then grabbed the holster for their seatbelts. 

“Controlled Blast!” 

The holsters melted and the seatbelts whipped away. Mav grabbed both as they fell, arms straining under their weight. 

A small explosion shook the car. Mav vaulted out the door, bumping both himself and his passengers. He darted to the street’s center, placing them down gently. Both had pieces of clothing on fire: the man’s pant leg and the lower right side of the woman’s shirt. 

A few quick yet sturdy pats later, the fires were out. Angry red skin lay beneath the burnt clothing, but the burns were in the first degree. So long as they didn’t inhale too much smoke or burn their lungs, they should be fine. 

Mav took off, surrounding himself with fire, and hopped back into the truck. A small, portable fire extinguisher was attached to the wall of the leg-space near the driver’s door. Mav grabbed it, then fled from the semi. If the flames reached the gas tank of the two other cars, a much larger eruption could injure the onlookers. 

“Get away!” Mav yelled. “The cars could still blow!” 

The car on the left was empty, its inhabitants shaken yet crawling away from the flames. The other, however, had a panicking woman stuck inside. Mav blasted a stream of foam upon the right car’s fire, dousing the portion nearest the driver’s door. 

Like with the semi, Mav melted the hinges and lock, then tore the door away. The woman inside was hyperventilating, fumbling with the seatbelt buckle. Mav leaned in, grabbed her hand with one of his, and undid the buckle with the other. Chest heaving, she still didn’t move. Mav cradled her like a child, then ran from the car. 

Boom! 

The blast shoved Mav forward, but he kept his footing. The fire from the far car had reached the fuel tank, blowing it up. Had the nearby car exploded, the woman might have been wounded in the blast. 

“It’s alright,” Mav said, lowering the woman who clung to Mav’s neck. “I need to work. But you’re fine now.” 

He pried her hands off him, then went back to the cars. He reached beneath the nearest car, blasting the foam at the engine from below. That, mixed with the dripping foam from above, extinguished the fire within the minute. 

The crowd gave the second, still burning, car a wide berth. The fuel tank had already blown, so the greatest danger had passed. None in the crowd were burned or injured from the blast, so Mav directed all his efforts into putting the fire out. A minute later, he turned his attention to the semi, but the extinguisher ran out of foam after a few more seconds. 

“Thanks for the help,” Mav said, tossing the emptied extinguisher aside. 

All that was left was to keep everyone away from the fire and watch over the injured until the fire department and paramedics arrived.  

“Sorry, Kenny. The cake might be a little later than expected.”