89

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The past couple of days have been a swirling maelstrom of misery and self-pity, one indistinguishable hour bleeding listlessly into the next. I’ve spent more time curled up in the fetal position amidst my rumpled bedsheets than I care to dwell on, cycling between paroxysms (definition: a sort of fit, like having a spasm) of muffled sobbing and that horrible, soul-hollowing blankness that comes from having simply run out of tears to shed.

At some point – maybe it was yesterday? Maybe the day before? – I gave up on even trying to keep track. My bedroom became a pitch-dark cocoon, the curtains drawn tight against the mocking vibrancy of the world outside. It’s a beautiful late July to get broken up with! Only the most tenacious rays of sunshine manage to slip through the cracks, dusty beams that seem to take on an almost confrontational quality as they play across the wreckage of my personal space.

Empty pints of ice cream litter the immediate vicinity of my nest, along with an assortment of discarded utensils, crumpled tissues, and various other detritus accumulated over the course of my…what, 36-hour pity party? I think there might even be a wadded-up t-shirt or two in the mix, though my memory is a bit hazy on the details. The cumulative effect is one of abject squalor, like the den of some feral, subterranean creature that has retreated into its lair to lick its wounds after a brutal mauling.

Not that the metaphor feels too far off the mark these days. The dull ache of heartbreak hasn’t faded even slightly, just evolved into this bone-deep weariness that seeps into my veins, weighing me down like an inexorable undertow. Every so often a fresh surge of misery rips through me, as sudden and visceral as an unexpected blow to the solar plexus. In those moments, all I can do is curl in on myself and ride out the cresting tide of agony until it inevitably subsides, leaving me hollowed out and dry heaving in its wake.

Man. This sucks.

At some point during this waking purgatory, the door creaks open to admit the concerned, perpetually fretful presence of my mother. Her voice drifts to me in soothing murmurs, gentle platitudes meant to soothe and console that instead trigger an almost feral surge of irritation in my gut.

“Go away,” I growl through gritted teeth, burrowing deeper beneath the safety of my comforter’s downy embrace. “M’fine, just leave me ‘lone…”

Undeterred, she presses on in that infuriatingly placating tone that sets my nerves screeching like nails on a chalkboard. “Sweetheart, you haven’t eaten anything in over a day. At least let me bring you something, maybe some soup or –”

” Leave me alone! ” The words explode from my lips in a guttural rasp, reverberating through the cramped space like a thunderclap. Needles of ice prick at the corners of my eyes, heralding the telltale burn of fresh tears threatening to spill forth.

There’s a beat of stunned, wounded silence from the doorway. Then my mother’s footsteps retreat in a hushed cadence of defeat, the hinges creaking softly as the entrance swings shut in her wake. A small, rational part of me recognizes that I’m being a stupid little piss baby. The emotional part demands more ice cream. I satisfy neither of them.

Instead I let the tears come freely, burying my face in the pillows to muffle the wordless noises. I don’t know how long I lay there, body convulsing with each ragged exhalation, throat savaged from the violence of my anguished cries… but eventually, blessedly, the storm passes. Or at least plateaus into something a bit more manageable, leaving me drained and hollow.

At some point, my dad’s softer cadences intrude on my grief-induced stupor. Unlike my mother, he doesn’t try to cajole or placate – his approach is gentler, more passive. An offering of company and support without any strings attached, laid out for me to accept or reject as I see fit.

For a while I wallow in stubborn, adolescent petulance, pointedly ignoring his efforts. But inevitably my natural temperament for attachment asserts itself, and I find myself allowing him into my bedroom. We don’t talk much – he understands a little better than Mom in that regard. Instead, he simply settles on the edge of the bed and pulls out his PDA, a silent bulwark of patient understanding as I proceed through whatever strange convulsions my emotions bring me.

It’s this gradual erosion of my already tenuous fortitude that eventually drives me to seek an escape, any escape from the confines of this grief-sodden bunker. So one night, perhaps around one or two in the morning, I find myself creeping through the back alleys and shadowed corridors of Rhawnhurst on dreadfully familiar roads.

The faint traces of her shampoo still clinging to my pillowcase, now growing staler with each passing hour. The sweater she’d forgotten draped over the back of my desk chair, a forgotten token of intimacy now turned into a painful reminder that I’d have to return it to her one day. Little talismans and relics of happier times forcefully intertwined with the fresh, raw ache of our breakup.

UGH. I’m so melodramatic.

At one point, in a fit of spiraling self-pity and desperation, I even turn to Jordan for their usual brand of delinquent level-headedness. An impulse-purchase tin surreptitiously hand-delivered to my bedroom window late one afternoon – a fragrant emerald parcel of chemically-derived escapism, ostensibly my ticket to blissful, mindless respite from the ceaseless, haunting refrain of memory looping through my consciousness.

It doesn’t really work, though. I figured that would happen but the worst that I get is, like, ten minutes of fuzziness, and then it goes away. So instead, I go walking, sort of trusting my instincts to take me somewhere useful.

The tiny two-bedroom flat looms ahead like a promised oasis, all yellowed windows and battered brickface accented by peeling paint and cracked asphalt. A normal person might take one look at the place’s ramshackle exterior and dismiss it as an abandoned hovel, uninhabitable and frankly unsafe.

But I’m no normal person anymore, am I? So I stride up to the scarred wooden door with a sort of dogged purpose, raising my hand to deliver a single sharp rap against its aged, pockmarked surface.

A heavy tread answers my summons almost immediately, the booming cadence of Bianca Agnelli’s unmistakable basso tread rattling the floorboards beneath my feet. There’s a pregnant pause as she no doubt checks the peephole, then twin locks clatter and the door swings wide to reveal the brawny, tatted firefighter in all her gruff, effortless charisma, at about one in the morning.

For a beat, she regards me through narrowed eyes, irises gleaming with reflected streetlight as her gaze sweeps over my clearly disheveled appearance. Then understanding seems to dawn across her craggy features, a rueful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Aw hell, kiddo…” she rumbles, already stepping aside to usher me over the threshold. “Get your scrawny ass inside before you wake the whole damn neighborhood up. Then you’re gonna tell me who hurt you and how much ass I have to whoop.”

---

So that’s how I end up here, all bravado and crumpled indignity, tentatively edging my way through the domineering oak doors of the Delaware Valley Defenders’ downtown HQ in the dead of night. One final, desperate bid for reprieve, for some fleeting taste of normalcy to reinvigorate my listless soul.

At first, it seems to be working. The familiar industrial bustle of ops washes over me like a healing balm as I pass through the bustling antechamber, nodding terse greetings to the smattering of personnel keeping the midnight vigil. With each echoing footfall along the polished floors of the main corridor, I can feel the weight of the past few days sloughing off bit by bit, allowing me to haltingly reassume that bulletproof veneer of the ever-stalwart Bloodhound that’s become such an intrinsic part of my identity.

Of course, it’s all a fragile facade, paper-thin and liable to come fluttering apart at the slightest provocation. But for now, at least, in the humming heart of the city’s superhuman security apparatus, it’s enough – enough to sustain me for a little while longer.

The training gym is blessedly empty when I arrive, the cavernous facility accented with a smattering of state-of-the-art weight and aerobic equipment. But I barely spare the gleaming chrome and rubber a passing glance, instead making a beeline for the reassuring familiarity of the mats, the sandbags, and the speedbags.

For a few blissful minutes, it’s just me and the coarse fabric anchoring the ring, pummeling the heavy bag with fists, knees and elbows until a sheen of sweat emerges on my brow and the cloying phantoms of memory fade to a dull murmur. The steady thumpa-thumpa-thumpa of impacts becomes my mantra, lulling me into a trance-like state of serene emptiness where nothing exists but the singular, elemental dance of flesh and violence.

I try my best to avoid those instincts to clench my hands so hard that the teeth come out, mostly because I already popped a sandbag and I don’t need Rampart getting mad at me for popping another one. I almost feel complete like this, like I’m back to some sort of baseline that I used to be before I decided to kiss 10 Grays of radiation, but these measures always feel so frighteningly un-useful. I can never remember what my face looked like a week ago, much less the bodily state of half-a-year-ago of my previous self. It’s all just a body and I’m just living inside of it.

Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa-thumpa-thumpa it goes, rattling against my knuckles until they start to ache and split. The stinging feels great. Feels like something I could be using right about now. Keeps me sharp.

Of course, it can’t last – these rare moments of transcendence, however fleeting, never really do.

“Pardon me… Bloodhound?”

The clipped, overly formal intonation shatters my reverie like a fragile soap bubble pricked with a needle. I spin with fists already rising in a defensive guard, heart thundering in my ears for one terrifying, adrenaline-laced instant –

Until my vision clears enough to make out Rampart’s imperturbable features regarding me with a blend of polite concern and faint amusement, hands raised in an exaggerated placating gesture.

“Whoa there, Bucky,” he rumbles, the edges of his mouth tugging upward in the faintest ghost of a smile. “It’s just us, remember? No need to go all Aikido on my seven-foot ass unprovoked.”

I blink owlishly, arms slowly lowering as reality reasserts itself and that fleeting surge of fight-or-flight chemicals ebbs away. “Oh… Rampart, hey. Shit, my bad…” I rasp, somehow managing a self-conscious chuckle around the thundering pulse still sounding in my ears. My tongue darts out, dabbing at the thin sheen of perspiration beading along my top lip. My hair itches where the pixie cut curls into the back side of my ear. “Guess I got a little, uh… tunnel vision there for a sec, huh?”

Rampart offers me an easy-going smirk and a wink, nodding in the direction of the heavy bag still swaying and creaking behind me. “Clearly. What’s the deal there, slugger – looking to put a third hole in that thing to match the pair of craters your fists already served up?”

I glance back at the battered cylindrical slab of vinyl nylon, unable to stifle the flicker of chagrin that surges through me at the sight of the two fist-sized divots cratering its side. Yeesh, guess I was really going to town there for a minute. No wonder the big guy thought I was mid-meltdown or something. Not like I’d know anything about melting down recently. Who, me? Nah. I’m perfectly stable.

“Heh. Yeah, good thing the canvas is rated to take a hell of a beating,” I offer by way of droll remark, brushing fresh trickles of sweat from my brow with the back of one hand. “Wouldn’t want OSHA to come down on us too hard for endangering gym equipment, after all.”

“Indeed,” Rampart agrees with an amicable chuckle, sloping off his towering stance to lean casually against the ring ropes. “Though I do have to ask – you planning on monopolizing the mats all night there, Annie Oakley? Or are you maybe feeling generous enough to let the rest of us weekend warriors get in a few licks before curfew?”

“I don’t know who that is,” I mumble just loud enough to be heard. He waves it away politely.

I eye Rampart for a momentary beat, considering his casual invitation. A spar could be just what I need to shake off these lingering tendrils of self-pity and misery – nothing clears the mind quite like a solid ass-kicking, after all.

“You know what, big guy?” I drawl at last, tossing him a cocky half-smirk as I peel off my sweat-damp tank top. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer. Feel like knocking a few teeth loose before curfew?”

Rampart snorts, already stooping into a loose fighting crouch as he advances onto the mats. “Them’s big words from such a little shrimp, Smallfry. You sure you don’t wanna just stick to gymnastics with Gossamer before somebody gets their feelings hurt?”

I let the barb roll off me with an airy shrug, slipping into my own stance with an effortless, muscle-memory fluidity. Dancing on the balls of my bare feet, I rock back and forth for a few experimental bobs, feeling the familiar thrum of adrenaline beginning to course through my limbs. For the first time in days, I feel that heady rush of clarity and single-minded purpose, all extraneous baggage and emotional static fading into blessed white noise.

“Aww, how cute – he thinks he’s people,” I snipe back with a toothy grin, slipping a bit of Jersey tang into my cadence. “We’ll see if you’re still talking shit after I stomp those lil’ raisins you call fists right down your gullet, Gumby.”

Rampart barks a laugh at that, shaking his head slowly. “Hey now, let’s try to keep things at least PG-rated here. I know your pottymouth’s been getting a workout lately but there’s no need to take it out on –”

I don’t let him finish. Maybe it’s the perceived slight against my dignity, or just the pure catharsis of being able to move without overthinking every little twitch. Either way, something inside me snaps into crisp, primal focus, and I’m exploding into action before the thought even fully crystallizes.

My legs coil like springs and I’m hurtling forward in a blistering surge of momentum, both arms already lancing out in a vicious series of sledgehammer blows directed squarely at Rampart’s iron-clad jaw. I don’t pull them, not even a little – with the tiniest fraction of my power suppressed, every impact carries enough concussive force to level a city block. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like.

To his credit, the big guy reacts with the speed and technique you’d expect from a seasoned combatant. His forearms snap up in a deft cross-guard, drawing my wild haymakers onto the solid bastion of his anchored defenses with a teeth-rattling thunk. For a fraction of a second I sense the shock of impact shivering through his defensive stance, lending me a split-second window for a ruthless pivot and snap-kick aimed squarely at his sides. Normally, kicks are not exactly a part of my repertoire, but Gossamer has been teaching me and I’ve been re-conditioning my shins. It hits nice.

But Rampart is already flowing into the next phase of his counter, dropping into an abrupt hunch that turns my thunderous shin-strike into a mere glancing blow across his shoulder. Before I can reset my balance he’s barreling upright again, snatching my offending ankle in a grip of iron and using the momentum of his abrupt lurch to hurl me off my feet.

I twist into a mid-air rotation, flopping gracelessly to the mat. But rather than accept the throw, I convert the momentum into a tight shoulder-roll that allows me to spring immediately upright again, already leading with a stinging palm-strike to Rampart’s throat.

“Nice try, Bee, but you’re gonna have to hit a lot harder than that if you even wanna think about knocking me flat,” he rumbles, batting my feeble blow aside with a contemptuous flick of his wrist before slamming a straight-arm clothesline into my sternum.

The impact steals my breath in a ragged wheeze, driving me stumbling backward. But I refuse to allow any ground, bullying my way back into his space and unleashing a flurry of hooks and roundhouse kicks – no power behind them, just angles and positioning and relentless, merciless pressure.

Rampart weathers the maelstrom with a look of grim determination, never giving me an inch while he patiently parlays each of my telegraphed strikes into effortless deflections or glancing blocks. The steady pat-pat-pat of his counter strikes rapping off my ribs, arms and shoulder blades grows into a low, percussive cadence, only serving to feed the growling inferno in the pit of my gut.

Finally, his guard slips for the barest fraction of a second, just enough for me to slip a stinging jab through and catch him square in the bridge of the nose. I imagine a wet crunch of pulverized cartilage, a crimson blossoming across his vision, a blood-covered jaw, but what really happens is that my fist bounces off his impenetrable, perfect skin, and then the rest of them begin worrying his cheeks and jaw. Fist after fist after fist.

“Come on, Pillsbury!” I growl through gritted teeth, sweat pouring over my eyebrows. “You gonna let some squirt keep beatin’ on you all night, or you wanna at least try putting up a—”

The words choke off in a pained grunt as Rampart snarls and muscles his way through my barrage, seizing me by the shoulders and wrenching me skyward until my feet leave the mat entirely. Acting purely on instinct, I squirm, clamp my arms around his neck, and flex with every ounce of strength I can muster, feeling a savage surge of triumph as he hisses out a cough and staggers backward a step.

From there it’s like a runaway freight train, the two of us careening and colliding across the mats in a bruising, jaw-rattling display of force and technique. For long minutes we battle with a sort of savage, breathtaking intensity, painting the floor and each other in a patchwork canvas of rapidly-swelling contusions and freely-flowing rivulets of blood. I even manage to catch him by surprise and slice a clean line open on his cheek, which is I think the first time I’ve ever really made him bleed.

At one point, we find ourselves in a grinding, sweaty standlock, faces mere inches apart as we strain every sinew against each other. Rampart flashes me that wolf’s grin of his, gaze burning with the thrill of unbridled combat despite the mask of crimson darkening his features.

“Not bad, shrimpy,” he rumbles, sparing me another crunch to the ribs that very nearly buckles my stance. “You’ve been holding out on me in our lessons, haven’tcha?”

I reply by hawking a disgusting gobbet of phlegm onto the ground, earning myself a feral grunt of disgust and an elbow that very nearly turns my world concave. I’m dimly aware of my nose bleeding at some point, a profusion of fire blooming across my face to join the smoldering agony already radiating from what feels like a dozen other ignition points.

It’s sick and twisted and so, so necessary. A messy, glorious revel in the unchained madness of anarchic violence and unchecked brinksmanship – a communion of souls adrift in that savage, primal ether where nothing else matters beyond the singular focus of surviving the next biochemical onslaught. It takes my pain away, is what I’m saying.

Finally, after what feels like eons locked in this whirlwind of bone and gristle, there’s an audible lull in the chaos. Chests heaving, we stagger back a few respectful paces, each warring to catch our breath and regain some semblance of composure.

Rampart seems to get their legs beneath them first. Rather than press the advantage, though, he simply stand upright and extends an open palm in a gesture of respect and restraint.

“I think… we maybe call this one a draw, yeah?” he offers between ragged inhalations, the last traces of his wolfish mirth glinting beneath fresh blossoming bruises. “Don’t wanna end up having to carry your concussed ass back to Medbay in a wheelbarrow anytime soon.”

Some distant part of me sniffs indignantly at the unspoken implication – as if he could even dream of subduing me in a straight fight if we kept this up. But even through the intoxicating thrill of combat, I’m still instinctively in tune with the groaning protests of my body, the leaden weariness creeping through my limbs. Pushing any further would just be courting injury, or worse.

So instead, I simply disengage with a lopsided smirk and a rude gesture, ignoring the pained complaint of my protesting knuckles.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t flatter yourself,” I wheeze around a mouthful of coppery warmth. “I was just about to let you off the hook before you crapped out on me.”

Rampart snorts at that and mutters something about ‘little shits’ under his breath, but the gruff chuckle rumbling beneath the words betrays his tacit regard. We lapse into a momentary, companionable silence, savoring these final few echoes of satisfaction and adrenaline before they fade like the dissipating storm clouds.

“Hey,” Rampart ventures after a beat, feathering a bruised forearm across his sweaty brow. “Feel like blowing this pop stand for a bit, getting some fresh air? Call it a late night patrol. Maybe if we’re lucky you’ll find a purse snatcher to take out all that anger on.”

I consider his offer through the haze of mild euphoria and exhilaration still prickling through my veins. Truth be told, after that old school beat down, I’m feeling better than I have in days – lighter, somehow, clearer of mind and infinitely steadier of purpose. “I think beating up random people is probably not for the best, but in regards to the first half of that sentence,”

If nothing else, a bit of night air might be just what the doctor ordered to ride out this sudden resurgence of almost-normalcy before the darkness comes crashing back in to reclaim me.

“Lead the way, big guy,” I grunt through my split lip, rolling my shoulders in a bid to loosen up the knots already forming along my flanks and upper back.

---

The streets of Center City are all but deserted at this late hour, the usual bustling thoroughfares lying silent and still beneath a canopy of burnt orange streetlamps. Our footfalls ring out in a steady, almost mournful cadence against the empty asphalt as we patrol in amiable quiet, letting the cool night breeze wash over us.

“So, uh… looks like the big guy’s got himself a brand new costume on order, huh?” He swivels to flash me a self-deprecating smirk, lips quirking around the butterfly bandage now adorning his split cheek. “Courtesy of our very own Gossamer, no less. Girl’s really been putting in overtime at the ol’ sewing machine lately.”

I can’t resist cracking a grin of my own at that, imagining the diminutive sewing dynamo hunched over a needle and thread with her usual laserlike focus. “No kidding? I’ll have to remember to thank her for gussying you up real pretty whenever I get the chance.” I dart in and throw a playful elbow at his ribs, mindful not to put too much oomph behind the feint. “What’s the matter, Ramp – finally decide those spandex onesies were a little too tight in all the wrong places for you?”

Rampart huffs out a chuckle, fending off my gentle jab with a dismissive swat. “Laugh it up, funnygirl. Wait’ll you get a look at the bells and whistles she’s added before you start making jokes.” He pauses for dramatic effect, waggling his eyebrows with a self-satisfied air. “Three words: retro-reflective high visibility trimming. “

My brow furrows as I turn the unfamiliar phrase over in my mind, until something clicks. “That’s the stuff in highway paint, right? Retro-reflective – that means it reflects backwards. As my cursory understanding of Latin informs me. Right?”

“It means when light hits these yellow lines, I glow like a streetlight,” Rampart explains with a lopsided grin, slowing his pace so he can spread his arms demonstratively. “Idea is, they’ll make me stick out like a sore thumb in the field, so everyone’s focusing on the big guy instead of all the fragile teammates surrounding him.”

I arch an eyebrow, feeling a reluctant smirk of approval tugging at the corners of my mouth. “You calling me fragile?”

Rampart scoffs and shoots me a flat, unamused look, but there’s a telltale crinkle of amusement sparkling in his eyes. “You’re a real comedy act, you know that?” Rampart chuckles at himself, head swiveling briefly to sweep our surroundings with a casual once-over as we leave one darkened intersection behind. The silence stretches out for a few heartbeats before he speaks again, tone almost deceptively casual.

“It’s definitely futuristic,” I say, adjusting my helmet so it fits a little better around my eyes, pulling the ears back. A small brown wig tosses behind me, built into the helmet on my request. Just to make it look like my hair is suddenly long again. Or at least medium-length. I go quiet for a couple of heartbeats.

“Speaking of the future though, any thoughts on what’s next for you after all this?” His expression is carefully neutral as he poses the question, but I can detect the faint undercurrent of genuine interest layered beneath the words. “Like, after school and everything?”

I grimace at that, a sudden swell of frustrated resentment licking at the frayed edges of my psyche. So much for our nonchalant impersonal saunter managing to distract me from the yawning chasm of heartache currently subsuming my will to live.

Clearly picking up on the sudden shift in my demeanor, Rampart presses on in a slightly hasty tumble of syllables, almost as if to gloss over the unintended provocation. “Not that your plans gotta change or anything! Just figured it couldn’t hurt to, you know, get a feel for where your headspace is at these days…”

I consider brushing him off, maybe with a snarky deflection about how my “headspace” currently amounts to a maelstrom of existential misery interspersed with the occasional intrusive suicidal ideation. But just as the reflex begins to form, I catch myself and rein it in. For all his often well-meaning clumsiness, Rampart is still one of the only people who can even begin to comprehend the madness constantly simmering beneath the surface of my thoughts lately. Shutting him out would be petty, and honestly more effort than it’s worth.

“I’m too young to be thinking about what’s going to happen the next day much less three years from now,” I admit at last, letting out a soft sigh as I glance up and away from the looming shadow of City Hall. “The past year, it’s just been one thing after the next, you know? I guess I always just kinda figured I’d stick with the superhero thing until it finally killed me. Finish college, go to Drexel, do… something. Superhero on the side. Never really saw the point in planning too far beyond that.”

Rampart makes a low, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, his expression carefully bland. We lapse into silence for a few moments after that, our footfalls ringing out in steady counterpoint to the gentle whisper of late night traffic in the distance.

Rampart seems to consider my response for a few beats, brow furrowed in contemplation. When he speaks again, his tone is measured, almost cautious – like he’s wading into uncertain conversational territory.

“I hear you, for sure. This whole lifestyle ain’t exactly conducive to long-term goal-setting or making five-year plans, you know?” He casts a sidelong glance my way, features inscrutable. “Still, you gotta admit the idea of just… riding this crazy train until it kills you is kinda messed up, right?”

I stiffen slightly at his words, shoulders instinctively squaring as I brace for another well-meaning lecture about self-preservation or quality of life beyond the mask. But Rampart simply shakes his head, pressing on in that same careful cadence.

“Not judging, Bee, I swear. If anything, I respect the hell out of that kind of dedication and single-mindedness.” His lips quirk in a rueful smirk. “Guess I’m just trying to wrap my head around how someone so young somehow managed to cultivate that level of… what, Zen detachment? Existential clarity? Whatever you wanna call it.”

He lapses into silence again, leaving me to mull over his musings. I can’t help but shrug a little, feeling oddly self-conscious under the weight of his regard.

“It’s not like some big philosophical outlook or anything,” I venture at length. “More like… I don’t know, basic pattern recognition?” A humorless chuckle slips free, and I shake my head. “Maybe I’m just weirdly pragmatic for a scrawny teenager, but it seems pretty self-evident that this whole costumed crimefighter thing doesn’t really allow for a whole lotta stability or forward planning, you know? Like, one of these days I’m gonna get my shit seriously rocked in a way my healing factor can’t just brush off. Might as well own that reality instead of trying to fight it.”

The words settle between us with a sort of leaden finality, and for a few pregnant moments the only sounds are our footsteps and the distant murmur of the city. Rampart’s features remain carefully impassive, betraying nothing of whatever he might be ruminating on.

“Fair enough, I suppose,” he rumbles at last with a slow nod. “Not like hanging up the spandex is much of an option for jaded adrenaline junkies like us anyway, right?” His mouth curves in a wry grin, the banter seemingly helping him find firmer footing. “Knew there was a reason I liked having you around beyond your sparkling wit and pint-sized swagger. Self-awareness is a rare commodity in our line of work.”

I can’t quite suppress the snort of laughter that bubbles up from my chest at that. “Oh, is that why you keep me around? Here I’d just assumed it was this rapier intellect and breathtaking beauty,” I drone, flashing him a cheeky grin.

Rampart lets out a bark of rumbling laughter, visibly grateful for the opportunity to shift the tone back toward more comfortable, familiar territory. “Yeah, yeah, don’t let all those teenage heartthrob pinups go to your head there, Smurfette. We both know you’re really just a tiny, semi-solid mass of teeth and angst wrapped in a reasonably formfitting set of body armor.”

I open my mouth to volley back a suitably scathing retort, but the sound of raised voices in the near distance brings me up short. I instinctively snap into high alert mode, muscles tensing as my senses radiate outward in sweeping arcs, hunting for the source of the disturbance.

“You hear that?” I murmur under my breath, every nerve alert. “Sounds like a domestic dispute or something up ahead.”

Rampart goes stone still for a beat, then nods once, all traces of his easygoing mirth evaporating in an instant as his features settle into that stoic, imperturbable mask that’s become his calling card. “Lead the way,” he growls, already settling into a low fighting crouch as he scans the enveloping shadows for threats. “I’ve got your six.”

I nod back, feeling that familiar surge of jittery exhilaration thrumming through every sinew, banishing any lingering melancholy as effortlessly as a switch flicked on. Without another word, I throw myself into a bounding lope in the direction of the disturbance, feet whispering across pavement as I give myself over to the hunt.

Running. I love running. It’s been so long since I’ve been running. I can’t even remember the last time I played soccer – has it all just been eaten by punching people? That’s almost kind of sad.

Something that sounds like your father telling you not to walk across the lawn because he just laid the sod. But he is saying it while stretched out flat on his back on his lawn, and being stepped on with the flat boot soles of at least three people. That’s what we hear.

I motion to Rampart, rolling my eyes back towards the sound as it moves off the corner and into a side street further away, a muffled roar and then scrambling footsteps. I tuck the wig into my helmet and pull up snug and tight. The footsteps are walking away from us, towards an alleyway. I start sprinting. Rampart is right behind me.

We round the corner at a dead sprint, boots pounding against the pavement as we barrel into the open expanse of Love Park. Even from this distance, the sounds of raw, animalistic agony reach my ears – a hoarse, rasping cacophony punctuated by wet, meaty impacts that send a shudder of primal revulsion slithering down my spine.

The scene that greets us is one of pure, visceral chaos. A loose semicircle of gawkers and late-night stragglers surrounds the central plaza, all of them frozen in postures of abject horror as they gape at whatever waking nightmare is unfolding in their midst. A few of the braver souls have their phones extended, no doubt recording the gruesome spectacle for the world’s morbid viewing pleasure, but most seem too transfixed by sheer, pants-wetting terror to even think of such things.

And then, through the forest of paralyzed bodies, I catch my first glimpse of the horror show’s main attraction.

It’s…well, was a man, I think – a huddled, twitching mass of shredded fabric and oozing orange blood thrashing in anguished spasms atop the park’s central walkway. But whatever semblance of humanity it might have once possessed is rapidly devolving into a waking fever dream of Cronenbergian body horror (thanks Jordan for that vocab word), flesh and bone contorting into grotesque new configurations with each fresh spasm of agony.

A wordless snarl tears itself free from my throat as I drink in the gruesome sight, every protective instinct blazing into scorching overdrive. Dimly, I’m aware of Rampart bellowing out stern commands to the assembled masses, his voice a thunderous cadence of authority that causes the nearest onlookers to flinch and scatter in blind panic.

“Everyone back! Back away to a safe distance, now! The DVD is here to handle things – you are all in a potentially hazardous area! For your own safety, clear the vicinity immediately! “

But I’m already moving, tearing across the open killing ground in a headlong rush borne of sheer desperation and the faint, dwindling hope that whatever fresh hell is unfolding here can somehow still be salvaged. Peripherally, I register the telltale tingle of my blood sense lighting up like a klaxon, the ghostly impression of a lurid, fizzing orange haze swirling through the air in tandem with each agonized convulsion of the…the person’s rapidly mutating form.

Jump. Definitely Jump, or something like it.

The realization hits me with the force of a sledgehammer, momentarily robbing me of breath. I’ve only encountered the accursed substance a handful of times, but even those fleeting brushes were more than enough to sear the memory of its cloying, sickly-sweet reek into the very marrow of my being. An alchemical abomination tailor-made for granting mere mortals a taste of the divine – for a price, of course. A price that grows steeper with each dose, each successive plunge into the seductive abyss of transcendent power.

But this… this is something else entirely, some fresh new horror born from the twisted imaginations of whoever is peddling that poison out on the streets. Because whatever is happening here, it’s clear the subject never stood a chance against the ravaging onslaught of the drug’s mutagenic effects.

The thing’s thrashing has intensified into a fever pitch, every spasm and twitch accompanied by a sickening crunch of bone and sinew reshaping itself into new, unnatural configurations. Jagged protrusions of what looks like sharpened metal are erupting from the man’s flanks and shoulders, the air filling with a metallic tang of blood and ozone as they burst forth. Shreds of tattered clothing flutter to the ground, sloughed off like so much dead skin as the man’s mass swells and contorts, limbs thickening into gnarled, slab-like protuberances, rivets emerging from each knuckle.

A scream rips itself free from the man’s weary mouth – a sound so primal it transcends any concept of mortal suffering. Instinctively, I flinch back a step, one arm reflexively whipping up to shield my face from the percussive onslaught.

I barely have time to react before one of those grotesquely elongated, bladed limbs is whipping towards me in a blinding arc, the curved edge glinting dully in the sickly glow of the streetlamps. On sheer instinct I hurl myself backward, tucking into a tight tuck-and-roll that allows the strike to whistle mere inches over my head with a sound like a razor parting silk.

The impact of my landing jars me a bit, but I’m already scrambling back to my feet in a low crouch, fists raised as I settle into a defensive stance. My heart thunders in my ears, every muscle tensed and quivering as the adrenaline blooms white-hot through my veins. Get a grip, Sam. You’ve dealt with worse before.

But even as the words echo through my consciousness, something niggling and uncertain worms its way to the forefront of my thoughts. Have I, though? Have I really encountered anything quite like the waking atrocity currently unfolding before me? When Ricochet clenched his body so hard he broke every bone in it, it was brutal, yeah, but nothing… nothing like this. The very fact that it exists at all, that some malign intelligence was able to dream it into reality, is a profound violation that sets my teeth on edge and my hackles rising in primal revulsion.

The man seems to sense my moment of hesitation, of existential disquiet. With a sound like a rusted engine turning over, he rears back onto his hind quarters, the bladed appendages fanning out in a deadly semicircle as it unleashes another of those yowls of torment. This time, however, the sound is punctuated by a fresh fusillade of razor-edged shrapnel exploding outward, a hailstorm of serrated metal shards that whistle through the air with unknown purpose.

I flinch again, hunching protectively as I brace for the inevitable sting of those wicked lacerations finding their mark. But the blow never lands – instead there’s a resounding clang of buckled alloy, followed by a grunt of exertion as Rampart’s towering silhouette interposes itself between me and the deadly fusillade.

“Stay frosty, Bee!” he barks over the creature’s fading shrieks, already settling into a defensive crouch with limbs splayed. “You’re not gonna believe this, but I’m pretty sure those are steak knives!”

“You don’t say,” I rasp back, forcing a weary smirk as I surge back to my feet. My gaze darts across the park, noting the few remaining stragglers cowering behind benches and planters in blind terror. “Think it’s safe to say this is officially out of the realm of a ‘routine patrol’, big guy.”

Rampart snorts humorlessly, flexing his shoulders as a few errant shards of shrapnel clatter to the ground around us. “No shit, Sherlock. What’s your move here – try and subdue this freak show, or call in the big guns before it turns this whole place into a slaughterhouse?”

Maybe it’s just hubris, or the lingering afterglow of my earlier adrenaline high talking. “We’re not running,” I growl, squaring my stance as I turn to face the thrashing beast head-on. “Not yet. If there’s even a chance we can pull this guy back from the brink… He’s on Jump. Or Fly.”

Rampart regards me for a long, considering moment, lips pressed into a grim line. Then, with a slow nod of tacit understanding, he turns to face the threat beside me, hands already curling into taut fists.

“You’re calling the shots, Bee,” he rumbles. “But we’re gonna need a new game plan if we wanna put this thing on the ropes without getting skewered like shish kebabs in the process.”

Even as the words leave his lips, the man unleashes a fresh spasm of convulsions, every twitch and shudder accompanied by a staccato crunch as sheets of metal peal off from his skin and then are crumpled and discarded. Rivets and studs emerge along joints, like his bones are being replaced with a Terminator endoskeleton from the 1800s.

And still the screams continue, a ceaseless wail of primal anguish that seems to reverberate in the very air itself. I can feel it resonating in my chest, a low droning cadence that sets my teeth on edge and raises every single hair along my nape. This man has not stopped screaming for a second.

“What in the everloving hell are we even dealing with here?” Rampart mutters, the first flickers of uncertainty creeping into his tone. “It’s like something out of a Tsukamoto film. I’ve never heard of anyone developing a complex condition power from Jump or Fly.

I shake my head slowly, never taking my eyes off the convulsing horror show for even an instant. “A what? Never mind, we’ll save the lesson for later,” I murmur, feeling the weight of the world settling across my shoulders like a mantle of lead. “But one thing’s for damn sure – I’m not letting that poor son of a bitch suffer like this a second longer than he has to.”

The words are out before I can second-guess them, an oath sworn on the blood-slick altar of my own grim determination. But even as I give voice to that vow, the creature seems to sense the shift in the air, the abrupt solidifying of my resolve into something tangible and immutable.

With a sound like a rusted hinge screaming in protest, its head whips around to bore his glassy eyes directly into mine. For an eternal, frozen heartbeat, we simply stare at each other across the gulf separating us. His mouth pulls together into a single syllable.

“Help,“

Then the moment shatters, and the beast rears back with a fresh bellow of anguish. He slashes a hand through the air, and more knife blades come loose, bolts and screws scattering like shrapnel to the wind.

I clench my teeth, and pull out the other half of my helmet. I clip it on, fasten it around the back, and prepare to dive into the hurricane.

---

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