"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.

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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.

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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.