Before I can even process what's happening, Jackie launches himself at me with inhuman speed and strength. His hands are outstretched, thumbs aimed directly at my eyes. There's no trace of the scared, conflicted guy from moments ago. His face is a mask of pure, murderous intent.

I manage to get my arms up just in time to block his initial lunge, but the force of it sends me stumbling backward. I trip over a piece of debris and go down hard, Jackie on top of me.

For a moment, all I can focus on is keeping his hands away from my face. His strength is unreal - it's like trying to hold back a freight train with my bare hands. I can feel my arms trembling with the effort, muscles screaming in protest.

"Rampart!" I yell, my voice strained. "A little help here!"

I hear a scuffle, then Rampart's there, grabbing Jackie and trying to pull him off me. But it's like Jackie doesn't even notice. His eyes are fixed on me, his entire being focused on one goal: my destruction.

I manage to get a knee up between us, creating some space. With a burst of strength, I shove Jackie back, scrambling to my feet while Rampart gets the yoink. Rampart grabs Jackie by the wrists, trying to restrain him. But Jackie's so focused on me that he doesn't even seem to register Rampart's presence. He keeps struggling, trying to get at me with single-minded determination.

"What the hell?" I gasp, while Rampart tries to maneuver him into a bear hug without letting him get a swipe at me. "It's like he's possessed or something!"

The other guys are freaking out, shouting and trying to back away. Jumphead looks like he's about to pass out from sheer terror. I know how he feels. I've been in creepier situations than this, but this is definitely up there.

Rampart's wiggled Jackie into a bear hug now, keeping him pinned easily with his powers, but Jackie's still trying to claw his way out, taking advantage of even the tiniest gap in Rampart's squeeze. "Bee," he grunts, "get the others out of here!"

I nod, quickly moving to untie Red Bandana and Gold Watch. "Go," I tell them, my voice urgent. "Get out of here, now!"

They don't need to be told twice. As soon as they're free, they're scrambling to their feet and running like the devil himself is after them. I turn to Jumphead, who's still on the ground, looking shell-shocked. I grab his arm, half lifting him to his feet, and I practically smell the vomit on his breath. Bile and stomach acid. Gross.

"Come on," I say, pushing him towards the exit. "You need to go. Now!"

He stumbles forward, looking back at Jackie with wide, terrified eyes. "What… what's happening to him?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. But you need to get out of here. Go!"

Finally, he turns and runs, following the others into the maze of construction, towards Master Street.

I turn back to Rampart and Jackie. Rampart's got him pinned to the ground now, but Jackie's still struggling, his eyes fixed on me with murderous intent. It's like he doesn't even notice Rampart, like he's not even there.

"What do we do?" I ask, my voice shaky. "We can't call the police, we're not supposed to be here. We're not supposed to be doing this."

Rampart's face is grim, his jaw clenched with light effort. "We might not have a choice. Whatever's happened to him, it's beyond our ability to handle."

I bite my lip, weighing our options. Calling the Delaware Valley Defenders would mean admitting we've been doing unsanctioned hero work. We'd be in so much trouble - not legally, but, like, you know, with our authority figures. Our Role Models, TM. But looking at Jackie, at the inhuman strength and focus he's displaying, his skin beginning to tear at the force of his writhing, I'm not sure we have any other choice.

Before I can make a decision, Rampart takes a deep breath. His face contorts with a mixture of determination and regret. Then, in one swift motion, he clamps his hand over Jackie's mouth and nose.

For a moment, nothing changes. Jackie continues to struggle, his body straining against Rampart's hold. But slowly, gradually, his movements become less frantic. His eyes start to lose focus, the murderous intent fading into confusion, then a gentle frustration.

And then, finally, unconsciousness.

Jackie goes limp in Rampart's arms, his body sagging like a puppet with its strings cut. Rampart holds on for a few seconds longer, making sure Jackie's really out, before gently lowering him to the ground.

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We both stand there for a moment, breathing heavily, staring at Jackie's unconscious form. The sudden silence is deafening.

"What…" I start, then have to clear my throat and try again. "What the hell was that?"

Rampart shakes his head, looking as shaken as I feel. "I don't know. I've never seen anything like it."

I take a step closer, peering at Jackie. His face is peaceful now, no trace of the murderous rage from moments ago. "It was like… like he was a different person."

"Yeah," Rampart agrees, his voice grim. "Whatever it was, it wasn't natural. And it wasn't Jump, either. This was something else."

I nod, worrying my lower lip between my teeth. "Rogue Wave," I murmur. "That's what set him off. When I mentioned Rogue Wave."

Rampart looks at me sharply. "What do you think?"

"You don't remember?" I say, thinking back. "Sparkplug mentioned it, back when we busted him. He was ranting about it, but I didn't think much of it at the time."

Rampart's brow dips down. "Right. Whoever they are. Or whatever, whoever it is, you know… it's a great big blank."

I nod, but I can't help the knot of dread forming in my stomach. "We're going to be in so much trouble."

Rampart sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe. But this is too important to keep quiet. Whatever's going on here, it's dangerous. We can't handle it on our own."

I know he's right, but it doesn't make the prospect any more appealing. "So what do we do now?"

Rampart looks around, taking in the scattered debris and signs of our fight. "For now, we clean up what we can. Make Jackie comfortable. Then we head back to headquarters and report everything."

"Everything?" I ask, my voice small.

Rampart meets my eyes, his expression serious but kind. "Everything. No secrets, Sam. This is too big for that now."

I nod, resigned to the tongue-lashing I'm about to receive. "Okay. Let's do it."

We spend the next few minutes tidying up as best we can, making sure there's no obvious signs of a superhuman fight. Rampart moves Jackie to a more comfortable position, propped up against some sandbags. We can't just leave him here, but we can't take him with us either. It's an impossible situation, but we do our best.

Finally, we're ready to go. As we start walking back towards the Delaware Valley Defenders headquarters, the reality of what we've just experienced - and what we're about to do - starts to sink in.

"Hey," Rampart says, nudging my shoulder gently. "It'll be okay. We did the right thing."

I nod, trying to believe it. "Yeah. I guess so."

We walk in silence for a while, our footsteps falling into an unconscious rhythm. Heading south on 9th Street, I find myself fixating on the patterns in the cracked sidewalk. Every few squares, a faded hopscotch grid appears, barely visible ghosts of chalk long washed away.

As we cross Fairmount Avenue, my gaze drifts to the powerlines overhead. I count the shoes dangling from the wires - three pairs within two blocks. An old superstition flits through my mind, but I push it aside, focusing instead on the steady thrum of distant traffic.

Approaching Spring Garden Street, I notice how the architecture shifts. Older row homes give way to newer constructions, their facades a patchwork of styles and eras. A neon "OPEN" sign flickers erratically in a bodega window, its green light painting fleeting patterns on the pavement.

We turn right onto Callowhill, and I find myself cataloging the street signs we pass. 8th, 7th, 6th - each intersection a subtle reminder of our progress. The rumble of the El train vibrates through the soles of my shoes as we pass beneath it.

As we near Broad Street, I count fourteen pigeons pecking at a spilled bag of chips on the corner. Their cooing provides a strangely soothing backdrop to our silent march. We cross, leaving behind the relative bustle of the eastern half of Center City.

The quiet of the western district settles around us like a blanket. Here, my attention turns to the trees lining the streets, their leaves just beginning to show hints of autumn colors. I catalog each species as we pass - oak, maple, sycamore - a mental inventory to occupy my racing thoughts.

As we near the headquarters, Rampart suddenly stops. "Oh, crap," he says.

I look at him, confused. "What?"

He grins, but it's a tired, strained expression. "We forgot to get Captain Plasma his Wawa."

Despite everything, I can't help but laugh. It's a slightly hysterical sound, but it breaks the tension. "I guess we'll have to face him without a peace offering."

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The Delaware Valley Defenders headquarters feels different at night. The usual bustle of heroes, support staff, and the occasional civilian visitor is replaced by an eerie quiet, broken only by the hum of electronics and the distant whir of the building's HVAC system. As Rampart and I make our way through the corridors, our footsteps echo off the polished floors, each sound a reminder of the confrontation to come.

The meeting room door looms before us, its sleek metal surface reflecting our distorted images back at us. I catch a glimpse of myself - disheveled hair, a smudge of dirt on my cheek, eyes wide with a mixture of adrenaline and apprehension. Rampart looks equally worse for wear, his usually immaculate uniform rumpled and torn in places, although his annoyingly perfect skin is flawless as ever. We exchange a glance, a silent moment of solidarity before he reaches out and pushes the door open.

Rampart catches my eye, giving me a reassuring nod. "Ready?"

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. "As I'll ever be."

The door swings open, and I'm immediately hit by a wave of relief. The room isn't packed with disapproving faces like I'd feared. Instead, there are only two people waiting for us: Captain Plasma and Fury Forge. It's not ideal, but it could be worse. At least Multiplex isn't here - I don't think I could handle his particular brand of disappointment right now.

Captain Plasma is leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression is neutral, but there's a tension in his shoulders that betrays his unease. Fury Forge, on the other hand, is sitting at the table, her tattooed arms spread wide as she leans back in her chair. She looks… tired. Not angry, not disappointed, just exhausted. The lines around her eyes are more pronounced than usual, and for a moment, I'm struck by how old she looks. Not that she's ancient or anything, but in this moment, the weight of her responsibilities seems to have aged her a decade.