"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 narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

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.