A swift bolt of blue lightning crackled past Shero as he gracefully swept his right leg across the plane that intersected Melt’s face. It connected, and Shero was able to maneuver his body out of the path of the electricity.
“Hey now, watch your aim, big boy. You rip a hole in this new dress, and there’ll be hell to pay!” Shero yelled, unaware that Melt was charging up another round of hellfire.
“Shero, look out!” Lightning Rod screamed at the top of his lungs.
Just in time, Shero glanced Melt’s way, saw the heatwave coming, and ducked to the side. He felt the heat like a too-long stay in a tanning bed. Shero became instantly covered in sweat.
“You’re lucky this dress is sleeveless, you whore!” Shero ran at Melt full speed. No one would have ever guessed a man in three-inch heels could burn pavement. He balled his OPI-polished nails into a fist and connected.
The sound was like a chubby kid sitting on a box of Cap’n Crunch.
In the blink of an eyelash, Shero had his katana out. Silver and chrome flashed like a smile on a toothpaste model. He held his blade perpendicular to the ground, pointed directly at Melt. Melt, in return, boiled up another ball of molten goo. The third point in the triad, Lightning Rod, arched his namesake from palm to palm.
In a silent, motionless moment, testosterone levels blew through the roof. Each man stared at the others. Two on one, and the one was sure he could take out the two. Before he could say Manolo Blahnik, Shero’s katana sliced through the thick air toward Melt. As the sword neared the abdomen of the VILE agent, to Shero’s astonishment, it melted away. In a wash of liquid metal, Shero was unarmed.