"Rampart, you're on point!" I bark over the creature's anguished howls, fingers flying to the comm unit nestled in the ears of my helmet. Sure, I can hear and see him just fine, but it can't hurt if we were to get separated. "Focus on nullifying those projectiles - I'll handle civilian evac and see if I can get through to...to him somehow."

Rampart responds with a terse nod, already planting his feet and bracing himself as another fusillade of razor-edged shrapnel explodes outward in a deadly cone. With an almost contemptuous twist of his ankles, Rampart grounds himself in the grass, each blade and bolt and screw less bouncing off of him and more going dead as soon as it hits his skin, leaving only the tiniest nicks and scrapes in his armor. The dirt fills with a rhythmic thumping noise, faint, almost inaudible, with every parried projectile, the sound of the force channeling downward into his feet.

Leaving him to weather that metallic storm, I pivot on my heel and race towards the nearest cluster of cowering civilians huddled behind an overturned park bench. My blood sense is already spiking, a ghostly overlay shimmering in my mind's eye with flower blooms of red. The unmistakable spectral trails of the injured and bleeding blaze into vibrant crimson relief, somewhere behind my temples.

"You three, with me!" I snap, gesturing for the small knot of terrified youths to follow as I break into a flat sprint towards the park's west entrance. "Stay low and move quickly - we're getting you out of the line of fire!"

To their credit, the kids don't hesitate or question my directives. With wide, haunted eyes, they simply scurry along in my wake, heads down and limbs pumping as we make a beeline for the relative safety of the street beyond. Behind us, I can hear the thunderous cadence of Rampart bellowing out a fresh salvo of commands, his voice a resonant anchor of stability amidst the shrieking chaos.

We make it about halfway across the open killing ground before a fresh spasm of agony rips through the man, sending a hail of wicked shrapnel whickering through the air in a deafening fusillade. I hiss a warning and throw myself into a forward dive, tucking into a tight roll that allows the lethal barrage to whistle mere inches overhead. The civilians instinctively follow suit, flinging themselves prone as the storm of razors clatters off the concrete all around us in a hellish percussive frenzy.

"Keep moving!" I snarl through gritted teeth, popping back upright in a low crouch and beckoning them onward. "We're almost -"

The words die in my throat as a fresh spasm of agony ripples through the man's contorting form, accompanied by a noise like a dozen car crashes happening all at once. With a sound like a thunderclap, a whirring buzzsaw of flung metal, maybe a literal buzzsaw, maybe not, explodes outward in a horizontal plane, shearing through the air directly towards my semi-protected flank.

I have just enough time to whip my head around and lock eyes on the spinning, serrated wheel of death hurtling my way. Then, with absolutely zero time to spare, I hinge forward at the waist and fling myself into a desperate backward handspring, tucking my legs up and over in a blind aerial as the makeshift sawblade shrieks past within a hair's breadth of removing my lower torso entirely, only instead ripping a fresh slice in my side. Not the deepest cut I've ever received, but I feel my muscles clenching up in a misguided attempt to deaden the impact, and it hurts.

The impact of my landing is jarring, reverberating up through my ankles and knees in a burst of fiery agony. But I bite down on the flare of pain, already whirling to survey the fresh wave of destruction with a mounting sense of desperation.

The disk of metal has carved a deep, jagged furrow in the concrete where I'd been standing mere moments ago, shearing clean through the bench the civilians had been cowering behind. Splinters of wood and pulverized masonry fill the air, mingling with the acrid tang of ozone and the coppery reek of fresh blood.

Blood that now stains the shredded clothes of one of the fleeing youths, a teenage boy lying crumpled and motionless several yards away from the rest of his cohort. A ragged shard of shrapnel shaped distressingly like a steak knife sans handle protrudes from his abdomen at an unnatural angle, the fabric of his jacket already soaked through with slowly pooling crimson.

"No..." The denial tears itself free on a breathless rasp, every protective instinct blazing into scorching overdrive. I surge to my feet and break into a flat sprint towards the downed civilian, fingers already scrabbling at the medical kit secured to my belt.

They teach you a lot about rescuing civilians. It's basically superhero 101. But up until now, I have had vanishingly few times in which I've had to actually do it on someone.

It's a lot different than punching someone in the face, I'll tell you what.

Peripherally, I register Rampart unleashing a savage bellow of exertion, trying to swat more projectiles, a seemingly endless flow of metallic objects of varying sizes, shapes, angles, and velocity, like a goalie deflecting balls. But I can't afford to get bogged down in the chaos of that particular maelstrom, not with a life quite literally bleeding out right in front of me.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

I slide to my knees beside the injured teen, shrugging off my jacket with one hand while the other darts out to find a pulse point. His skin is clammy and pale, eyelids already fluttering as shock begins to set in.

"Hey, hey - eyes on me, kiddo," I bark, giving his cheek a firm pat as I tear into the first aid equipment on my belt with my free hand. "You're gonna be just fine, you hear me? Just keep breathing nice and steady, in and out..."

The kid's gaze finds mine, wide and terrified but still conscious. Good, that's good - as long as he stays awake and focused, the odds will remain in our favor. With a few deft motions, I've got a thick trauma pad pressed against the ragged puncture, applying firm pressure to staunch the bleeding while I get some gauze and tape to wrap it around his torso.

"What's your name, huh?" I ask, keeping my tone conversational and light as I work. "You a Philly native, or just visiting this hellhole we call home?"

The kid's lips move soundlessly for a moment, eyelids fluttering again. "...D-Dave," he manages at last, voice a ragged whisper. "My name's... oh shit, that hurts..."

"I hear you, Dave, I hear you," I murmur, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as I cinch the belt tight. "But you're doing great, kiddo - just keep those baby blues open for me, okay? We're gonna have you back on your feet before you know it."

A fresh spasm of agony rips through the man in LOVE Park, accompanied by a deafening sonic boom that makes my ears ring. I instinctively hunker down, shielding Dave's prone form with my own body as a fresh storm of shrapnel rakes across my back in a series of stinging impacts. Distantly, I can hear Rampart roaring out a warning, the strain in his voice palpable even over the cacophony.

"Bee, get clear!" he bellows, the words almost lost beneath the shrieking whine of shearing metal. "I can't keep this up forever!"

I chance a glance over my shoulder, stomach plummeting at the sight of the big man trembling with exertion, his stance beginning to buckle under the relentless onslaught. Shit, he's right - we're rapidly running out of time before this whole situation spirals completely out of control. I knew there was no limit on single impacts, I'm pretty sure Rampart could stop a train if he wanted to, but does each one take a little bit out of him? This guy - this mutant in the middle - is more like a gatling gun than a person.

Gritting my teeth, I haul Dave into a semi-upright position, draping his arm across my shoulders as I brace to make a break for the exit. "Hang on tight, kiddo," I growl, sparing one last glance towards the thrashing horror show at the park's center. "I'm getting you outta here, even if I have to drag your ass every inch of the way."

With that, I launch into a stumbling lope towards the street, half-carrying and half-dragging Dave's dead weight along in my wake. Every few strides, I chance a furtive glance over my shoulder, wincing as a fresh volley of shrapnel rakes across Rampart's beleaguered defenses in a hellstorm of screeching metal.

Somehow, through sheer force of will and bloody-minded determination, the big man manages to keep channeling the brunt of the onslaught away from us, buying me those precious few seconds I need to get Dave clear. My breath saws in and out in ragged exhalations, every muscle straining against the steadily mounting strain.

Just a little further, Sam, I tell myself, jaw clenched to the point of pain. Just a few more steps and you're home free...

Of course, nothing is ever that simple, is it?

Just as I'm about to cross that final threshold out of the line of fire, a fresh, shrieking song of metal whistles through the air. This time, however, the eruption takes on an entirely new dimension, a rippling shockwave of force that slams into me like the furious backblast of an artillery strike.

I have just enough time to register a sudden, blinding starburst of agony blossoming across my lower back. Then my world is inverting in a dizzying spiral, the concrete rushing up to meet me as an unseen force detonates against my spine in a single, apocalyptic crescendo of violence.

The impact steals my breath in a strangled wheeze, every nerve ending in my body flaring into searing wakefulness for one endless, suspended heartbeat. Distantly, I'm aware of Dave's limp form tumbling free of my grasp, striking the ground with a meaty thud several feet away.

Panic claws at my throat, a yawning chasm of visceral terror swallowing me whole as I find myself unable to move, to breathe, to do anything but lie there in stunned agony. I begin to drag myself back up with my arms, crawling by my fingertips across the asphalt towards Civilian Dave, looming over him like a blanket as a second whistling volley of shrapnel rains across me, totally unavoidable, death from above.

I feel each twisted shard of metal embed itself in my vest or crack a pad here or there. Most of them are absorbed by my costume, only leaving shallow cuts against my skin. But one of them lodges itself directly in my calf, and the other one in my side, embedding itself about an inch above the sawblade wound. I grunt, grit my teeth, and scoop myself back up, grabbing the shard in my side and ripping it loose.

Typical wisdom is to not remove puncturing objects from their respective wounds. Counterpoint: the pain is awakening. My heart thuds in my chest. "Dave, I am going to put you near a bush. This is probably the closest thing that will provide some protection. Okay, buddy?" I say, my hands shaking like I've been dunked in ice water, my entire body threatening to betray me.

Dave just nods weakly, uninjured by the hailstorm. I grab him and fireman carry him a couple of feet over, shoving him against the largest topiary I can find, turning my attention back towards the man in the middle of the park. Thankfully, it seems like most of the other civilians have the common sense to have cleared out, but the place is a nightmare, like that proposed nuclear architecture, blades and shrapnel dotting the patches of dirt and ripping a patchwork of scars across the concrete, several of them embedded in the fountain.

I hear a news chopter overhead. Sure. Whatever.

For a few breathless heartbeats, it almost seems like we might just manage to wrest some semblance of control over this fresh waking nightmare. Rampart is an absolute bastion, his indomitable form weathering the relentless metallic storm with a stoicism that borders on the supernatural. And while I'm still struggling to keep up, to shield the wounded and herd the civilians to safety, at least the chaos has settled into a sort of grim, grinding routine.

That's when the hooded figure emerges from the crowd.