The world outside the courtroom is a cacophony of chaos, a discordant symphony of screams and shattering glass, punctuated by the staccato pop of gunfire and the thudding bass of distant explosions. It's a familiar refrain, one I've heard echoing through the streets of countless cities over the years, though never quite so close, never with such visceral immediacy.

I sit motionless within the confines of my containment suit, the heavy ceramic plating and lead-lined joints creaking softly with each measured breath. The suit is as much a part of me now as my own skin, a second exoskeleton that simultaneously protects and imprisons. It's a strange dichotomy, one I've long since grown accustomed to--the way it shields the world from the lethal energies that pour unceasingly from my body, even as it isolates me from any semblance of human connection.

The courtroom has become a makeshift bunker, a fragile bastion against the madness raging just beyond the walls. Witnesses and observers huddle together in small, fearful clusters, their eyes wide and haunted in the flickering emergency lighting. Even the judge, normally an imposing figure of authority perched high on his bench, seems diminished somehow, his robes hanging loosely from stooped shoulders as he confers in hushed tones with the bailiffs.

Mrs. Gibson and Mr. Caldwell, the attorneys who have been so doggedly arguing my case, now stand side by side, united in their shared concern for the safety of those under their charge. They move among the frightened civilians, offering words of reassurance and directing the court officers in erecting improvised barricades.

But it's the young man in the corner who draws my attention, the one they call Crossroads. He sits cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed in concentration, a silver dollar dancing across the knuckles of his right hand in a blur of motion. Every 15 seconds or so, he flips the coin and catches it, his eyes snap open, pupils blown wide as he stares into some unseen distance. Then, just as quickly, they flutter shut again, the coin never ceasing its mesmerizing dance.

A sudden thought strikes me, a jagged bolt of worry that pierces through the fog of my own introspection. I lean forward, the servos in my suit whirring softly with the motion, and raise my voice to be heard over the din.

"Is Miss Bloodhound out there?" I ask, my words precise and measured, betraying none of the anxiety churning in my gut. "The girl. Is she fighting?"

Crossroads' eyes snap open, locking onto mine with an intensity that borders on the unsettling. He gives a single, curt nod. "She is."

Something twists inside me, a knot of emotions I can't quite untangle. Worry, certainly, for the safety of this brave, idealistic child who somehow sees more in me than the monster I've become. A touch of guilt, perhaps, that she's out there risking her life while I sit here, safe and protected. And underneath it all, a flicker of something I haven't allowed myself to feel in a long, long time. Hope.

I'm on my feet before I even fully register the decision, my suit hydraulics hissing as they propel me upward. Heads turn my way, eyes widening in surprise and no small amount of fear. I can't blame them, really. Even here, in a room filled with those who have seen the darkest depths of human (and superhuman) nature, I am an outsider. A specter of death and destruction, wrapped in layers of metal and ceramic.

"I have to help," I say, my voice sounding hollow and metallic even to my own ears. "I cannot sit idly by while others suffer. Not anymore."

Crossroads is already shaking his head, a look of pained understanding etched across his youthful features. He rises to his feet in one smooth motion, the coin finally stilling in his grasp.

"You can't," he says softly, his words heavy with a sorrowful certainty. "The girl leading the attack, Daisy Zhen. Her power allows her to duplicate the abilities of whoever she's angriest at."

He takes a step closer, his gaze boring into the opaque faceplate of my helmet. "If you go out there, if you try to fight, she will copy your powers and multiply them, with no containment suit. I can see it already. She will become a walking nuclear meltdown in the heart of the city. Everyone will die."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

A murmur ripples through the assembled civilians, a susurrus of fear and dawning horror. I can feel their eyes upon me, feel the weight of their terrified realization. I am not just a threat to myself, but to everyone around me. My very presence is a danger, a ticking time bomb waiting to unleash unimaginable devastation.

"Everyone present?" I ask.

"Everyone in Philadelphia," he says, and my blood runs cold. "Whatever happens, we cannot let you and Daisy come into contact. Ever."

"He's right," Mr. Caldwell chimes in, his voice calm and steady despite the tightness around his eyes. "We can't afford to escalate the situation. The risks are too high."

Beside him, Mrs. Gibson nods grimly. "The authorities have been notified. Reinforcements are on the way. We just need to hold out until they arrive." She glances my way, her expression unreadable. "We'll need you, Illya. But not how you think. The people in here are going to need someone with your... capabilities, if things go south."

I understand the unspoken implication, the grim practicality of his words. If the worst comes to pass, if the fragile sanctuary of this courtroom is breached... my suit, my powers, may be the only thing standing between these people and a swift, brutal end.

Slowly, ponderously, I lower myself back into my seat, the metal frame groaning under the weight of my suit. Crossroads watches me, his expression a mix of sympathy and steely resolve.

"She's strong," he says quietly. "Stronger than she knows. She'll make it through this." He doesn't say the words, but I can hear them echoing in the silence nonetheless. She has to.

Strangely, that's what it took to bring me crashing back to reality, for the true horror of the moment to hit me.

Samantha Small is out there, a child, fighting for her life. For the lives of all these people huddled within this room. For a city that's descending into the mouth of Hell itself.

In a sort of calm, methodical way, I want to scream. I want to howl my rage at the indifferent stars until my reinforced voicebox buckles and shorts out in an arc of electrodes and burnt plastic.

I was supposed to be better than this. I was supposed to be different. I can feel Samantha's wide, earnest eyes locked on my own even now, months ago on a battlefield, days ago in a courtroom, boring through layer and layer and layer of lead and loneliness and piercing, unerringly, into the seared black void that pretends at being my soul.

There is no fear in that gaze. Perhaps there never was.

I was a desperate man once, desperate to survive, to return to his family. Then I was a man without hope, a shambling husk animated only by animal desperation and a savage will-to-live. And now, now I sit, pondering. Weighing the frail promise of forgiveness and peace against the screaming chaos just beyond the courtroom walls, the chaos this tired frail thing that once called itself Illya Feodorov would make so much worse.

My head bows. I can almost smell the ozone washing off my own body under the thick layers of my suit, taste the cancer on my tongue every time I breathe through an unfiltered mouth. The world is awash with color in my mind's eye, a riot of deadly spectra - gamma and visible glaring teal and pink off surfaces, infrared pulsing murky orange from the breathing, living things around me, an ocean of invisible radiation shimmering in my mind's eye. X-ray shows only the faintest bones behind the lead that lines my viewport, ultraviolet is choked off in a courtroom with no windows. But there is something new there, in all the death I breathe in and out.

A solitary speck of cobalt blue light before my unseeing eyes, as harsh and crystalline and pure as the driven snow... or perhaps a schoolgirl's conscience. It begins to move and I realize - it's a coin, flipping slowly through the air before me, tracing a lazy arc to land in the slender hand of Crossroads. He shoots me a grim smile. A spark of trust in tired eyes.

And I understand. Without another word. The only language that holds meaning here is the grit of bodies on a flagstone floor, teeth gritting and pulses pounding, breath held tight in throats and young children with wicked scars bracing themselves for the end. I add what comfort I can. This fortress is not under siege. One half of the two that keep it so sits right here. Here is hope and purpose and plan.

My right hand unclenches and rises out to a perfect ninety-degree angle before my body - as if reaching for something beyond the horizon. I clasp my hands in silence, letting my suit's servos do the work my emaciated muscles will not. I claw for memories of what I learned for my daughter, of the words I whispered in the candlelight of a shadowed room a world away, while riot gas foams between the flagstones outside.

Softly, my synthesizers hiss and spit and struggle to produce the faintest ghost of a whisper, unable to pick up on such subtle vocalizations.

"Hashkiveinu Adonai Eloheinu, l'shalom v'ha'amideinu malkeinu l'khayim tovim ul'shalom uf'ros aleinu sukat sh'lomekha v'takneinu b'eitzah tovah milfane'kha v'hoshi'einu m'heirah l'ma'an sh'mekha."

And protect our daughter tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight.

Stay safe, child. Stay safe out there in the dark.