Jab. Jab. Cross. Hook. Uppercut. Body rip. Elbow. Cross.

Gabe repeated the combination over and over again, unleashing it upon the punching bag he'd recently installed into his room. The bag swayed with each strike, indentations visible where Gabe's knuckles had made contact with the leather. The teen hero was drenched with sweat; he'd been exercising non-stop since the sun broke through the horizon. He hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet.

Just as he was about to land a cross, a yellow light began flashing in his room, an alarm blaring along with it in synchronisation. [i]‘Finally. Some action!’[/i] thought Gabe as he rushed to put on his supersuit.

The bullet wound he’d received, courtesy of the deceased Bronze Tiger, had marginally improved since his man-date with Magnus. He could now move around without having to grimace in pain, and he was nowhere near as weak as before. But he was still vulnerable. Any hard hit delivered to him would surely see him down for the count.

When he was fully garbed in his costume, save for the helmet, Gabe walked out into the hallway. Both Magnus and Killian were there and dressed in their supersuits, and looked as if they had only just run into each other. Gabe approached them, holding his headgear in his right hand. 

“Trouble,” said Magnus, his tone indeterminable. 

“Yup. Yellow’s for Rebello. And aren’t we a fine-looking bunch today?” spoke Gabe, smiling at his own incredibly lame attempt at rhyming.