"Maybe you should just stay down, Breakout," Shrike taunts, taking a deliberate step closer. His face might be covered, but I can sense the satisfaction radiating from him. "You look a little unsteady. Go back to playing with petty criminals, and leave the dirty work to the real artisans."

My muscles tense as I spot him subtly altering his stance — fingers twitching as he prepares to summon another thorn. Carefully honed instincts scream at me to move, but where? Every direction is a deathtrap.

Suddenly, a figure looms behind Shrike. It's only a flicker in my peripheral vision, but my enhanced senses seize it as if it were a spotlight. Shrike is so engrossed in his little game that he fails to notice the man silently inching closer. "Now, if you promise to play nice--" He begins.

A quick, barely perceptible motion, and ZAP! Electricity courses through the air, its acrid smell filling the room. Professor Franklin's fingertips make contact with Shrike's neck, and the villain collapses, convulsing, onto the floor. Fingerless gloves provide open access to skin, to channel it, while the white labcoat conceals a light layer of professional, up-to-date kevlar. Round glasses glint in the dim, flickering lights.

"I suggest you retract those spikes, son," Professor Franklin says, his tone that of a stern parent disciplining a misbehaving child. "You can do it now, maintain some semblance of dignity, and be taken quietly to the authorities. Or," he pauses, letting his threat hang in the air, "you can see how much voltage a human body can take before they pass out, and I'll deliver you to them myself. Your choice."

The villain whimpers, an unexpected sound that strips away the menacing façade he's been hiding behind. For all his posturing and calculated cruelty, he's as vulnerable as any of us when faced with a true threat.

Shrinking into a fetal position, he withdraws his spikes. The walls, floor, and ceiling, all bristling with deadly thorns a moment ago, suddenly become mundane surfaces again. It's as if an oppressive atmosphere has been lifted, leaving behind the mundane reality of a home, left in tatters from a sadistic thief and my own strategic missteps.

"I thought so," Franklin says, not a trace of triumph in his voice. There's only the heavy fatigue of a man who's been in this fight for far too long.

I apply pressure to my bleeding calf, finally able to divert attention to my own needs. My senses serve me well once again, guiding my hands with unerring accuracy to minimize the damage. But as I do so, my thoughts drift to the hostages. They're visibly relieved but still trembling, as if expecting the walls to sprout new horrors.

Shrike's whimpering continues as he lies on the floor, thoroughly subdued. The sound, paradoxically, instills a wave of disgust in me. Here is a man who enjoyed the power of instilling fear, but when confronted with his own vulnerability, crumbles. He can dish it out, but he can't take it. Occasionally, he twitches, presumably the remains of Professor Franklin's electricity coursing through him.

As Franklin deals with the subdued Shrike, I take a moment to address my own injury. My super-proprioception allows me to gauge the depth and angle of the spike wound in my calf with unsettling clarity. I can almost visualize the contours of the puncture as I reach for my utility belt, fingers deftly selecting the disinfectant spray and gauze from their respective pockets. I apply the disinfectant first — my brain registering the chemical composition even as my flesh screams at the stinging sensation. My hands, guided by the unwavering precision of my senses, then secure the gauze around the wound, efficiently but not hastily. Blood seeps into the white fabric, staining it a deep red, and I'm aware of the cells in my body rushing to coagulate, to heal. I grit my teeth and refuse the urge to scream. No screaming. I learned that lesson first.

With my injury temporarily managed, I stand, carefully redistributing my weight to minimize strain on my wounded leg. I can already feel my body adapting to the pain, tucking it away into a mental compartment for later scrutiny. There's work to be done.

I turn to the hostages. They're black, like me, like almost everyone in this neighborhood, and the significance doesn't escape my thoughts. This could have been my family if fate had dealt me different cards, if I had been born just a little bit further north. My eyes meet the mother's. There's an understanding there, a mutual recognition of what's at stake when lives are reduced to game pieces in the mad schemes of men like Shrike. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Walking over to them, I assess their injuries. Superficial scrapes and cuts, no impalements, thankfully. My hands reach for another set of antiseptics and bandages. "I'm going to clean these wounds now. It may sting a bit," I say, a statement that serves as both a warning and an invitation for trust. As I begin the first aid, my heightened sense of body awareness allows me to apply just the right amount of pressure, to be both efficient and gentle. In their eyes, I see a glimmer of relief, like shafts of sunlight breaking through cloud cover.

Franklin gives me a nod as he secures zip ties around Shrike's wrists. "I've got him. The police cruiser should be here soon."

"This isn't over," Shrike whimpers, trying to sound threatening.

"Niles, you've killed four people and a police officer. This is as over as it gets. All it took was one tactical misstep," Professor Franklin replies, gently guiding him to his feet. Shrike's eyes widen in recognition of what I have to assume is his first name. "Let's go,"

I acknowledge Franklin with a tilt of my head, a subtle gesture that holds volumes in the language of those who've faced too many nights like this one. The weight of the moment settles in around me, adding yet another layer to the emotional tapestry that forms the backdrop of my life. It's a complex weave of victories and losses, of lives saved and lives failed. And it's in moments like this, tending to innocent lives caught in the machinations of the malicious, that I find something akin to solace — a reaffirming of the oath I took to protect, no matter the personal cost.

As Franklin takes Shrike out of the room, and I finish wrapping a bandage around the young girl's arm, I know this is but one night in an unending sequence. But it's one more night where I've made a difference, even if acting as a distraction, one more story for the tapestry. And in the grand, chaotic design of this life, that has to be enough.

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The tension in my muscles slowly eases, yet a residual buzz of adrenaline courses through my veins, as if my body hasn't quite come to terms with the fight's end. My calf throbs, a stinging reminder of Shrike's ferocity, but the makeshift bandage holds. For now. I stand on the fringes of the police perimeter, taking in the frenetic activity around me. Officers are bustling, paramedics attending to the family Shrike had held hostage. Their faces, etched with lingering terror and relief, gnaw at me. Could I have subdued him sooner? Reduced their trauma? I resolve to get medical attention only after they're dealt with and safe.

My sensory bouquet, often a subtle undertone, is acutely pronounced now. I sense Professor Franklin before I see him — his steady, unhurried gait cutting through the surrounding chaos, his energy a calm counterpoint to my own simmering restlessness. My body automatically adjusts its stance to face him, aligning itself with a precision that only I can fully appreciate. It's as though the universe momentarily clicks into sharper focus.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Breakout," he greets, his eyes taking in my injured calf without a hint of judgment. "Good work out there."

I nod, but his compliment sits heavy on my shoulders. "Thank you, Professor. Though I can't help but think I could've resolved it more cleanly."

His gaze meets mine, steady and analytical. "There's always room for improvement," he says, a gentle reprimand and a challenge rolled into one. "But we'll discuss that. We should."

The wisdom in his voice reverberates through me, settling deep within my bones. Each word isn't just heard; it's felt, its implications stretching out to the very edges of my awareness. And in this moment, on this tumultuous sidewalk, it becomes abundantly clear that the path to being a better hero is long and fraught—but it's a path I'm willing, even eager, to traverse.

The air shifts slightly, and I detect the officer's approach before I hear him. A distinct, regulated pattern of footsteps marks him as trained, accustomed to carrying the weight of a badge and gun. His uniform is strained with the day's work, but he manages to look authoritative nonetheless.

"Breakout, Professor," he tips his hat towards both of us. "Can't thank you enough. Shrike is in the cruiser and headed to the containment facility as we speak. I expect Daedalus once this goes to trial, but don't take my word for it."

"Good," Professor Franklin nods. "You know how I feel about that place, but it's a necessary evil."

I give the officer a respectful nod as well, "Thank you for the update, officer. Ensuring he faces justice is the final piece in today's endeavor."

The officer smiles, a weary but genuine curve on his lips. "He's headed where he can't do any harm, thanks to you both."

As he retreats back into the fray, I find my attention returning to Franklin, who has remained quietly observant beside me. The world around us — paramedics treating hostages, officers securing the scene — falls away for a moment. I focus inward, my advanced senses zeroing in on my immediate reality. A reality in which Franklin's words about improvement hover, punctuating the air between us like unspoken challenges.

"I'm ready for that discussion, Professor," I finally say, my voice steady but tinged with an emotion I can't quite name. "I think it's high time we had it. Today. Now."

Franklin adjusts his glasses, a subtle action that speaks volumes. "Very well, Breakout. First, allow me to commend you on your tenacity. You held Shrike's attention long enough for me to incapacitate him. That's not an insignificant feat. I think a less experienced hero would've gotten turned into a shish-kabob."

"Hey, it's part of the game, right?" I counter, a grin pulling at my lips despite the tightness in my calf muscle. My body alerts me to the disparity — how my injury pulls just so when I shift weight to my other leg. "Keep the bad guy busy, make an opening, let the brainy types finish the job. All in a day's work."

Franklin sighs. "While your... spontaneity has its merits, there's much more to be gained from strategy. We're not playing a game, we're dealing with lives. Real people."

I feel a jab, like he's pricked my ego just a bit. I find my posture instinctively squaring, not out of aggression, but perhaps a reflexive defense. My senses, finely tuned, tell me how each muscle fiber adjusts, how my jaw sets. I'm a coil of defensive energy and it's not lost on me. "Look, Professor, I get it. I'm not just some bruiser, okay? But when the situation gets hot, you gotta adapt. Improvise."

"Improvisation is a tool, not a strategy in itself," he returns, each word precise and measured. "You have considerable physical prowess, but one must know when to strike, not merely how. Consider all the ways you could've approached the situation. Did you run in face-first, get in a standoff, and then aim for an incapacitating strike?"

My fingers clench for a fraction of a second before relaxing, my body's heightened awareness catching the instinct before it's fully formed. "Yeah. But I worked with what I had."

"And you've done well," he concedes, "But think what you could do with a bit more foresight. Your next opponent might not give you the luxury of improvisation. You could've circled, or approached from above. We live in a multidimensional world in more ways than one, and you may have to consider the consequences of your head-first approach."

I absorb his words, each syllable sinking in, feeling oddly heavy against my innate understanding of myself — my positioning in this world, in this moment, in this conversation. My youth flashes before me, a cascade of choices, some brash, some wise, but always reactionary. For the first time, I consider the substance of his critique.

"Point taken, Professor," I say, my voice less defensive, more contemplative now. "So, where do we go from here?"

"A more critical approach," Franklin replies, eyes unwavering behind his glasses. "I've fought more battles than I care to count, and I've paid for my recklessness. I've lost allies because I didn't plan ahead, because I thought speed and strength were all I needed. I can shoot lightning, sister. Sometimes, it isn't enough."

His words resonate in me like a gong, and I can feel the impact, almost literally. I imagine the losses he speaks of settling on my shoulders like weighty stones, each one fine-tuning my posture. "I've never been much for regret, but I get what you're saying. Me, though, I'm a girl of action. Lives are at stake."

"And yet, regret is an excellent teacher. Even if you don't feel it, learn from it. Our powers give us an advantage, but they also put us under scrutiny. A single mistake can affect public perception, endanger lives, even end careers. What happens when, not if, your speedy approach leads to a disaster that could've been avoided?" He lectures. I sense a subtle shift in the air, a change in Franklin's body language that my heightened senses pick up — a slight hunch, perhaps an old injury acting up or the years weighing on him for just a moment. The vulnerability surprises me.

"Afraid of becoming a PR nightmare, Professor?" I quip, but the jest falls flat, even to my own ears. It's like hearing a discordant note in an otherwise harmonious song, my senses picking up on the misstep before my brain fully processes it.

"Public perception dictates policy," he counters, ignoring my ill-timed humor. "Policy affects resources, registration, legislation. Our very freedom to operate hinges on how we are perceived. One wrong move and it's not just you who suffers. It's not just the immediate civilians, either. We all have a complex interplay of factors that we must take into account."

He's right, and the realization rolls through me, adjusting my stance as if aligning me to a new north. I've always fought, always survived, but survival is no longer the bar. "What you're saying is, I can't afford not to think ahead."

"Exactly," he says. "It's not just about power; it's about responsibility, the choices we make. We are shaping the future with each decision, and the repercussions can last a lifetime. Getting into brawls is all well and good, but just physically fighting the villains is often not enough."

I hum to myself thoughtfully, resisting the urge to rub my chin. My time spent here has been spent in small scale disasters. Rescuing civilians from fires, not superhumans. Fighting gang members, not villains. Keeping an eye on the streets.

"Breakout?" Franklin smirks, but it's not dismissive — more like the knowing smile of a chess master watching a novice make an unexpected move. He catches my attention, and breaks me from my reverie. "It's a powerful name. Aggressive. But what does it represent? You're stronger than just a battering ram, more complex than a symbol of destruction. Right?"

His words nudge something within me. I feel it as surely as I feel the balanced distribution of my body weight, heel to toe. "So you're saying I might need a rebranding?"

"It's worth considering," he says, his tone turning light. "Names have weight. They tell people what to expect from us before we ever take action. They can be a legacy, a mission statement, and a promise all rolled into one."

I take a moment to process this, the air thickening between us as if laden with the gravity of our conversation. Franklin doesn't interrupt my contemplation; he's patient, like a man used to waiting for seeds to sprout and grow. I half-expect he was a teacher in a past life. He always has that air.

Finally, I break the silence. "I picked 'Breakout' because it resonated with who I thought I needed to be — someone who broke barriers. Broke bricks. It's what I do. I break things to save the day."

"And have you considered that saving the day requires more than breaking things? Sometimes it's about building something better," Franklin replies, his words infused with a certainty that almost makes me envy him. "You tended to their wounds admirably. I see you've taken my suggestion to learn first aid into account."

"Yeah. I'm a certified lifeguard now, too, you know, in case it ends up mattering. Never been in a pool before. Was pretty boss," I respond, trying to avoid answering his question directly, folding my arms over my chest. He adjusts his glasses and gives me a nudge on the shoulder. I feel a tingle where he touches, lingering voltage from his ability just barely brushing into my nervous system.

"'By failing to prepare, you're preparing to fail'. A wise quote from a wise man. You'd do well to remember it, Breakout." Franklin muses, fixing the shoulders of his labcoat, clearly preparing to end the conversation. "But you did well today. Your bravery, at the least, is commendable. Carry it with you."

"Let me guess, Ben Franklin?" I ask, sarcastically attempting to source the quote.

Professor Franklin smiles at me, knowing and playful, and doesn't answer.