Chum

Navigating the labyrinthine streets of Philadelphia, I find a sense of solemn responsibility settle over me. It's not just a matter of protecting people; it's about safeguarding the soul of this city, my new home, one that I've come to think of as my own. My hands, gloved in reinforced leather, grasp the wheel of my armored SUV, feeling the vibration of the engine — a comforting, consistent hum.

The attire I've pieced together for this nocturnal endeavor consists of multiple layers of Kevlar vests beneath a black tactical jacket. Shin guards and forearm braces, reinforced with ceramic plates, encase my limbs, offering the sort of protection my super strength can't provide for my skin. A modified paintball helmet hugs my skull, its visor as dark as the night, protection from sharp glares, intentionally limiting my vision.

My super-proprioception grants me a heightened awareness that is both a gift and a burden. Each pebble underneath the car, the slight list to the right of the vehicle due to a slow-leaking tire, even the irregular rhythm of my own breathing — they all announce themselves to me with crystalline clarity. This sense permeates my existence so thoroughly that it's hard to remember what life was like before my abilities manifested. Before...

I can feel, more than see, the tension in the people I pass. Even at this late hour, folks are out, their postures telegraphing a myriad of human conditions: desperation, hope, fear, anxiety. I absorb this ambient emotion, filing it away as a mental note. The night's work is cut out for me, and this city's restlessness only sharpens my resolve.

My awareness of my environment extends beyond immediate sensory input. Each intersection I pass seems to carry the weight of decisions made and not made. A turn to the left leads toward the neighborhood where I first made a name for myself, right where a different set of challenges await. But tonight, there's something specific I'm looking for. A disturbance in the otherwise chaotic equilibrium of this urban ecosystem.

I tune into my makeshift dashboard setup, where a police scanner jitters with the city's nervous system. With one ear always cocked toward the ether, I'm waiting for the voice, the call, the situation that demands not just a response, but an intervention. And as if on cue, the scanner erupts into a cacophony of urgency, pulling my thoughts back to the here and now. It's time to move, and my body — armor-clad and senses heightened — responds before my mind even formulates the command. The SUV accelerates, and I lean into the dark labyrinth ahead.

The crackling chatter of the police scanner fills the interior of my SUV, each dispatch offering a fragmented glimpse into the city's ceaseless struggles. I've customized this vehicle myself, reinforcing its plating and tuning its engine for speed and reliability. It's my cocoon of safety, my Breakoutmobile, a stark contrast yet complement to my own innate capabilities. The radio feeds me information I cannot sense, while my body, finely attuned to the world around me, interprets every vibration of the chassis, every minute shift in the vehicle's velocity.

It's a marriage of machine and intuition, an alliance I've nurtured over the years. I turn the dial on the scanner, fine-tuning the frequency to listen in on calls of higher urgency. My hand rests on the gear shift, each contour familiar to the touch. My enhanced senses grant me this familiarity, an intimate understanding of how my body interacts with the objects around it. It is more than just knowing where my limbs are; it's a heightened awareness that filters into my strategies, making me mindful of my environment, of every potential weapon, every possible cover. More than anything else, this car is an extension of me. I am the world's best parallel parker.

"Unit 35, this is dispatch. We have multiple violent incidents reported in the Strawberry Mansion area. Priority 1. We're getting calls for registered capes. Ambulances and paramedics are on standby."

I narrow my focus, tuning out the other scanner channels. Priority 1, violent incidents, and registered capes — a volatile cocktail that doesn't bode well. A litany of past encounters with violence plays in the back of my mind, each one a lesson, each one a scar. My fingers drum against the steering wheel, the interplay of muscle and bone a practiced ballet. My years in Baltimore, my struggles there, flash before my eyes. A stark reminder of what's at stake.

"Unit 35, did you copy? We have flash information verified — attacks are being linked to a super named Shrike. No available backup. Supervisors notified."

Shrike. The name triggers a mental note, snippets of rumors and whispers in the super community. I haven't crossed paths with him yet, but every rumor paints him as a rising threat. Durable and armed with the power to manipulate his environment in deadly ways. Yet another name to add to my ever-growing list of concerns.

My thoughts settle as I speed toward Strawberry Mansion. The bitterness creeps in, recalling the police’s newfound reticence. Ever since Tesla two years ago, their hesitation has become incrasingly palpable. A combination of fear and policy leaves them waiting for capes like me to clean up. Tonight, I refuse to sit on the sidelines. It’s as if the city’s own sense of urgency, its demand for justice, resonates with my bones. I'll do the dirty work they're too cowardly to do.

"Breakout, en route," I whisper to myself. No dispatcher to acknowledge my words, but the city hears. I can feel it.

At the next red light, I take a moment to run through an inventory check, methodically inspecting each piece of equipment within my tactical jacket and on my utility belt. First aid kit — intact. The ceramic plates sewn into the jacket's lining — a precaution against bullets and sharp objects. Each item carries with it the weight of prior deliberations, of decisions made through years of combat experience.

As the light turns green, my foot presses on the accelerator, injecting a renewed sense of purpose into the SUV's engine. The police scanner continues its monotonous chatter, but my mind has filtered it down to the essentials: the location, the nature of the attacks, and the moniker that continues to gnaw at me — Shrike. The thorn-impaling bird. Tonight, I will encounter this new malefactor. For him, and for the city that I have in some ways adopted as my own, I am fully committed to the night's mission. I drive faster now, propelled by the gravity of my responsibilities.

As I pull up to the designated area, my grip on the steering wheel loosens, and I exhale a slow, measured breath. No longer navigating through the labyrinthine streets of Philadelphia, my focus shifts. My enhanced senses activate instinctively, widening my perception like ripples in a pond. I can sense the layout of the battered rowhomes ahead, their geometry imprinted on my awareness down to the unevenly laid bricks and rotting wooden frames. What strikes me first, however, are the spikes. Jet-black, metallic protrusions jutting out of the buildings like thorns on a rose stem. Each one gleams ominously under the sparse flickering streetlights, exuding menace.

The environment reads like a fortress, deliberately engineered to keep intruders at bay. Not far from this barricade, I notice the blue and red flashing lights of police cars, halted at an almost respectful distance, their stillness resonating like a deafening silence. Nearby, ambulances wait in anticipation. Their reluctance to engage with a superhuman threat is sensible, if not disheartening.

The sight evokes a complex cocktail of emotions within me. It's a mix of frustration at the system's limitations and an acknowledgment of the gravity of my role here. It also reminds me of my early years in Baltimore — neighborhoods where law enforcement hesitated to tread, places left to their own devices. But unlike those times, tonight I have the means to intervene, to bend the trajectory of events. I have agency.

And so I step out of my SUV, each motion meticulously calculated, from the unlatching of the seatbelt to the twist of the door handle. I'm aware of the exact angles my joints make, the precise tension in my muscles, and the way my boots hit the asphalt. This heightened awareness isn't just an extension of my senses; it's a reaffirmation of my place in this ecosystem, somewhere between the cautious police and the daring villain. I adjust my tactical jacket and take another grounding breath, the fibers of my Kevlar vest pressing against me. This is where I belong: on the razor's edge of chaos and order, a solitary figure prepared to dive into the abyss.

The air is crisp as I step out of my SUV, the scanner's chatter still buzzing in my ear. My tactical boots hit the asphalt with calculated force, their weight distributed evenly to minimize noise. I glance down the block, my eyes catching the aberrations in the otherwise mundane streetscape of Strawberry Mansion — shattered windows and broken doors, metal spikes protruding from dilapidated rowhomes like grotesque sculptures. My proprioceptive senses hum in recognition of the altered environment, allowing me to plot a mental map that overlays my immediate surroundings.

The spikes provide the first substantial clue. Obsidian-dark and metal-shiny, they're unlike anything standard-issue weapons or tools could create. A visceral manifestation of the cape named Shrike. Even from this distance, I can tell they're a formidable barrier. I advance cautiously, my senses dissecting the space around me, navigating the uneven terrain with mechanical precision. Every step is a deliberate action, fueled by a keen understanding of my body's limits and capabilities.

As I approach one of the rowhomes that bears the brunt of these unnatural fortifications, I pause. The black metal spikes protrude from its facade like a porcupine's quills, casting eerie shadows in the dim light. The door has been burst open, splinters of wood scattered across the threshold. I consider my next move carefully, aware that I am about to infiltrate a lair designed to disorient and harm. My hand hovers momentarily over the doorknob before deciding it's a frivolous gesture. With a clenched fist, I punch through the remnants of the door, reducing it to mere shards.

Maybe I let someone know I'm here with that action, but it's better than wasting seconds.

I step inside cautiously, my body a coiled spring of potential energy. A vile tableau greets me: the walls of the living room punctured with spikes, an array of deadly intent. Shrike has made his mark, turning a family's haven into a chamber of horrors. The thought that someone could defile a home this way, to strip it of its safety, both physically and emotionally, wrenches my gut. Each spike is a violation, each twisted piece of metal an affront to the sanctity of these walls.

I sweep through the rooms, my senses hyper-aware of the altered environment. The air feels thick, almost viscous, as if laden with the residue of malintent. Despite the disarray, each room feels like a calculated mess, objects positioned to serve as launch points for more spikes. I recognize the complexity but also the pattern, my mind calculating paths and identifying safe zones. Every placement of a foot, every turn of a corner, is calculated down to the millimeter, guided by the invisible tendrils of my proprioception.

It's a labyrinth designed to ensnare, disorient, and ultimately incapacitate. But labyrinths have always been puzzles to solve, not barriers to hold me. With each dodged spike, each avoided trap, my confidence grows. Not arrogance, but the earned self-assurance of someone who has navigated worse mazes—ones made of social prejudice, economic hardship, and life's cruel twists. I am no Theseus, but this maze is far from my first.

Spikes emerge, almost, but not quite, grazing my feet, my arms. I expect any moment that one of them will go straight through my foot, but the moment never comes. Always away from me, angled towards me. I take note - this must be a limitation of Shrike's powers. I wonder if he knows I'm here, or if his abilities lash out on instinct, targeting any living signal in range.

And so I continue, room to room, trap to trap, my senses and my past experience guiding me through the twisted game of a violent man. I am close now; I can feel it in my bones. Each avoided trap is a step closer to ending this night's malice. Shrike will soon discover that he is not the hunter here, but the hunted. And I am very good at mazes.

I ascend the stairs. Our eyes meet in the bedroom hallway, the walls torn open as if by claws - he's stealing the copper, he's stealing the wiring. These people, who already have so little, and he's taking them for what else they have. He's well-dressed, an unsettling juxtaposition to the chaos he's wrought. His freckled, almost boyish face contorts into a sneer—like a predator confident in its imminent kill. His appearance is a veneer of civility stretched over a core of sadism, and I know instantly that his is a malevolence born of pleasure, not necessity.

Shrike. His blonde hair sticks upward in wild, forward-facing spikes, while a torn rag is tied around his face like a domino mask, soaked in blood, or maybe red paint, crusty and dry. I don't understand how someone could wear that without wanting to rip their skin off, but I also don't understand how someone could be a supervillain in the first place. Maybe it's not my place to understand.

My eyes dart to the side, where a family — father, mother, and a young girl — huddle together, entangled in an intricate lattice of spikes. The spikes, mere millimeters from their flesh, have turned them into unwilling marionettes, frozen in an agonizing display of fear. A whimper escapes the father's lips; it takes but a glance to see his eyes filled with a blend of terror and helplessness that cuts me to my core. He mouths, quietly. "Save us," and I nod.

In their eyes, I see more than just their current predicament; I see the violation of their sanctuary, a place where they should be able to lock away the harsh realities of the world outside. The mother's face is tight with restrained panic, her arms subtly angled to shield her daughter, who clings to her, eyes wide in incomprehension but not innocent of dread.

With every breath they take, I can sense the precarious nature of their position; a twitch, a sneeze, and they could be impaled. My senses turn this information into a cacophony of urgent signals, a loud dissonance against the otherwise coherent tapestry of spatial awareness. For a moment, it feels as if I'm bearing the weight of the spikes myself, the burden of their peril adding gravity to the situation.

"Breakout, isn't it?" His voice drips with condescension, every syllable a calculated jab. "I've heard of you. The uniform is... distinctive. Here to ruin my fun?"

"I'm here to stop you," I respond, my voice firm, a resonance of my intent. I ignore his verbal sparring and slide my heel back, arms raised in front of my face.

The tension escalates like the slow climb of a roller coaster, every second ticking away in agonizing anticipation of the plunge. My hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening even as I sense my own musculature tighten, ready to propel me into action. My senses extend outwards, painting a mental map of the room — the spikes, their relative positions, and the man responsible for them. As I lock eyes with Shrike, matching his malevolent sneer with a look of unyielding resolve, the lessons of yesterday coalesce into a singular truth for today. I need to stop him.

"You know, Breakout, most heroes don't last long when they interrupt my 'renovations,'" Shrike's eyes dart around the room, smirking as if the deadly stakes he's set are artistic installations. "You could simply leave them be for a couple of hours. I'm sure they'll be fine."

"Maybe they didn't have the right interior design sense," I retort, keeping my gaze locked onto his. We begin to circle each other, a slow and deliberate dance. The thorny spikes embedded in the walls whisper a warning with each step I take. My senses map them out in the back of my mind: obstacles and hazards, certainly, but also potential weapons if need be. He's not summoning more spikes. He's too busy with the verbal spar.

"I admire your bravado. It's amusing," he says, his voice tinged with mockery. "But you're out of your league."

I tighten my jaw, squaring my shoulders. "You underestimate me, Shrike. That's a mistake."

He chuckles darkly, savoring the word. "Mistake? I live for them. They make life interesting. What about you?"

"I fix mistakes like you," I answer, my voice unwavering. "It's why I'm here."

He pauses, considering this, then his eyes narrow. "Oh, I'm sure you'll try. But let's face it—you're a brawler, a brute. This" — he gestures to his bethorned masterpiece — "is a game of finesse."

"That's where you're wrong," I say, recalling my mentor Professor Franklin's counsel about the duality of strength. It's not just about raw power; it's also about how you apply it. "This isn't a game," I say, my voice low but brimming with a controlled ferocity that makes even Shrike pause for a fraction of a second.

The tension between us hits a breaking point, like a brittle stick bent too far. Shrike's sneer finally erupts into a full-fledged snarl, and I can almost hear the air around us crackle with impending violence.

The frightened faces of the hostage family in the corner become sharp points in my spatial awareness, tethering my responsibilities in real-time.

"As much as I love an audience, Breakout, this performance is about to get a lot more violent," Shrike sneers, momentarily taking his focus off the hostages to meet my gaze.

Every fraction of a second counts. A brief visualization surfaces in my mind, born from countless encounters: criminal, innocent, obstacle, ally. I dart towards him, fist cocked back to strike, but he's quick, too. A gleaming spike of that mysterious, durable metal erupts from the wooden floor between us.

I react in the only way my body knows how — full force. My fist collides with the spike, altering its angle of emergence but failing to break it, to even bend it. It's not just durable; it's nearly unyielding. His derisive laugh cuts through the tension.

"See? Can't lay a finger on me."

I circle him cautiously, keeping an eye on the family, my heightened senses processing the room's layout — every piece of furniture, every probable spike point — as potential assets and liabilities. I can't let him lead me into a corner, or worse, near the hostages.

Shrike lunges suddenly, an overzealous swing aimed at my head. I duck, weaving out of his range and aim a low kick at his abdomen. Even as I make contact, another spike shoots up from the floor, narrowly missing my leg. That half-second of spike growth has never felt more like an eternity. My shin makes contact with his guts, knocking the wind free, and he goes sailing into the nearby wall, spikes retracting at his approach. He hits the drywall with an almost wet thump, bouncing off and landing on the floor. Spikes grab hold of his cuffs and drag him up, like he's puppeteering his own body.

He looks at me, spits blood, and chuckles. "How brutal of you, hero."

He's not simply goading. He's manipulating the battlefield, playing on my senses, trying to imbalance my spatial awareness with his creations. Even with all my experience, this villain's particular powerset presents a challenging dissonance — a constant recalibration of how I navigate my environment, which has always been my edge. He raises both hands like pulling on puppet strings, and spikes emerge in a wave, while my brain calculates angles and velocities. About half a meter in half a second, I dodge out of the way, rolling on the rickety wooden floor.

It's not just a battle of strength and agility; it's a conflict of environment control. Every movement he makes serves to set up another thorny barricade, each one closer to me than the last. His frail physique is misleading — like the false fragility of the spikes he conjures. He doesn't have to come near me to pose a threat. I must keep this in mind.

I scramble to my feet. I feint to the left, seeking to find an opening, but another jagged wall of spikes shoots up, effectively blocking my path. Retracting almost as swiftly as they appeared, they make way for another that rises to my right. My spatial map, a mental overlay born of keen proprioception, grows increasingly complex and cluttered. It's not just the walls and furniture anymore; it's a constantly morphing maze of sharp, deadly obstructions. I try to swat them away, shuffling, sweeping my feet like I've been taught. Boxing footwork can only get me so far when the ground is full of bear traps.

I make another attempt to close the distance, lunging forward as another wall dissolves, but Shrike's already a step ahead. A solitary spike, quicker than the rest, surges upwards and catches my calf. Pain flares up, radiating through my nervous system, and I stumble back involuntarily.

He smiles, sensing his incremental victory. "Closer and closer to the edge, Breakout. What's the matter? Losing your footing?"

My fist flies through the wall, leaving a small hole. I resist the urge to apologize, needing to save my breath. He slips out from under me as three spikes emerge at oblique angles around my wrist, locking it in place. I feel blood leaking out of my calf as the spike on the floor retracts, and he flicks me on the head on his way past, strolling while I struggle to remove myself from the wall.

His spikes don't survive me ripping the drywall down, dispersing into a small cloud of what looks like hovering iron filings. I rip a line into the wall and spin around on my heel, panting for breath, while he idly checks his watch, so full of confidence. It disgusts me. He turns back around. "Oh, that was faster than I expected."

It's only then that I realize my back is almost to the wall, the hostages to my immediate right, the other wall to my left. I've been herded, corralled into a corner without even noticing, my focus siphoned away by the constantly shifting, tactical landscape he's crafted. This villain has done something few have managed: he's turned my own sensory depth against me, making each heightened perception a trap in itself. He clenches his fists, and dozens of spikes emerge diagonally around me, suddenly trapping me in an iron maiden from every surface. Wall, floor, ceiling, side wall. The corner is where Shrike thrives.

"There. Now you can wait," he says, his voice drooling from his lips, "while I work." As Shrike's words hang in the air, each syllable a mockery, I can feel the walls closing in—both metaphorically and nearly literally. My super-senses, a power I've always relied upon, becomes my bane in this trap-laden terrain. I'm keenly aware of every square inch of my environment, and right now, that awareness is suffocating. A spike at my throat turns me into a marionette just like Shrike's hostages.

I glance at my injured calf, the blood spilling out more generously than I'd prefer. I need to apply pressure, but doing so would mean impaling myself somewhere else. My eyes flicker to the hostages—two adults and a child, huddled together in the corner, their eyes wide and terror-stricken. I've put them at further risk by allowing myself to be cornered. A rookie mistake.