Each cry and grunt hit Oliver as though it were a blow to the solar plexus: A heavy, lead-fisted gouge to the abdomen, as if he were taking each hit himself. 
The chaos was physically paining him, and now he could feel it rising from his stomach and into his chest: A white-hot panic, a broiling scream edging ever higher, waiting to escape and shake this city to its foundations. 
Moments ago, his comrade had compared him to Superman, but now his team was suffering and he felt unworthy of being compared to even Clark Kent. 
[i]“They didn’t prepare me for this at the academy,”[/I] his inner monologue whispered and shouted all at once, [i]”What do I do? What would dad do? What would…”[/i]
His jaw tautened. 

He knew exactly what they’d say, as they confiscated his Initialiser and returned him speedily to civilian life.
[i]”Jack would’ve done it. Jack would’ve…[/i]
Jack. Jack. [b]Jack.[/b] [b][i]Jack.[/i][/b]
Oliver clenched his fist with a subconscious cue. His knuckles cracked audibly through the material of his gauntlets. 
He exhaled shakily, and narrowed his eyes.
No. Jack wouldn’t do anything. Because he would.
Oliver Baudwin would help rescue this mission. 

Slowly, surely, he straightened up, choking down that boiling fright and anger inside, and exhaling it fiercely through his nostrils. 
Beneath his visor, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, resolute.
His team was in trouble… but which would he save?

Michelle was incapacitated, she should be priority… but Malika was still in active danger, should [i]she[/i] be priority? 
 He made an uncertain gesture, sidestepping left, and then right, and clasping ineffectually at his sword’s hilt, the blade of which seemed to brighten and dim regularly, as if reflective of his internal struggle.
Then, as if he were being thrown a cosmic bone, his choice was made for him: A blur of radiant green, so very unnatural and bright so as to almost burn him as he gazed, rushed past, in its grasp, a familiar and cumbersome shield.
“Michelle,” he murmured, and hurried quickly to her side, as Cecilia hurtled to Malika’s aid. 

She was broken, just as he’d been, but fortune was on her side: It seemed the tendrils had left her be after they’d rendered her unconscious, motioning instead to join those who were crowding now around Malika.
Oliver knelt beside her, and rested his hand on her shoulder, dragging her up into a sitting position against him. 
Then- just as it had done twice before now- the connection exchanged a spark of energy between the two, and Michelle’s suit began its repairs. 
But Oliver felt the energy leaving him, and he knew now he was running short… there would be no second chances from here-on out.
 
Oliver shook Michelle gently, “Hey. Hey, wakeup,” he whispered, “We’ve got a virus to kill, no time for napping on the job.”

Upon mention of said virus, Oliver threw an almost involuntary glance towards his other team mates.
Cecilia was mounting the charge with her shield raised, coming in at an odd angle as tentacles of all shapes primed to take her down, too.
Then- suddenly- something pierced the protective wall’s metal, and suddenly Cecilia- and Marvin, who had hookshotted onto her shield- were flying through the air at one another, tugged suddenly together and throwing the tendrils into disarray in the process. 
As they collided, the tendrils rushed down, dropping Malika in the chaos but seizing the pair of them as they recovered.
Malika’s suit had been drained of almost all of its power, and now sparks were leaping from each gap in the armour. 

Oliver laid Michelle carefully against the wall with which she’d collided, and then hurriedly got to his feet, preparing the glowing edge of his blade before rushing tenaciously towards the rest of his team.
The virus was descending upon his Orange and Yellow Moderators, and it was doing so quickly.
“Get out of there!”, he cried, leaping into the air and bringing his blade down upon what was becoming a writhing mass: But for every limb he sliced, two more took their place, wriggling unnaturally as they engulfed his team.

Oliver pressed on, but the virus pressed back, and after a tedious few minutes, it simply shunted him away, his blade humming wearily as he was pushed a good ten feet back, and looked up just in time to see his comrades being drained of all the energy they had left to offer. 
“No!”, he snarled, pouncing forwards only to be swiftly rebuffed. But he kept trying, and trying, until bruises formed against any bare skin, and his voice was hoarse. 
“Let them go! [i]Let them go now, just let them go![/i] LET THEM-”
And then, they were gone.

In an instant, their forms decompressed into a series of glowing microdots, of small, luminescent blue cubes, which slowly rose from their entangled prison and hovered briefly in the air, before forming a series of vertical words in thick, glassy letters. 
[b]
L
O
G
G
I
N
G

O
U
T[/b]

“Logging out,” chimed the cool, authorative disembodied voices of their Initialisers, before those same pixels dispersed, and rushed rapidly into the atmosphere, before disappearing into the all-encompassing grid.

Oliver watched wide-mouthed with abject horror, body shaking and shoulders worn low.
His blade dropped to the ground with a metallic rattle, the blade fading into nonexistence like the lingering glow of a lamp upon the retina. 
He was so stupefied, he didn’t even notice the virus’ retreat, the limbs hurrying quickly back to the bay-side, and returning to the maelstrom from which they came, their lust for Moderator power satiated. 
A tepid tear ran down Oliver’s cheek, dripping from beneath his visor silently. 
“Oh,” he murmured, for that was all he could muster.
“Oh.”
[i]”Jack would have done it.”[/i]
He dropped limply to one knee.
"oh."