Shrike lunges, bringing the cabinet rail down in a vicious arc. I sidestep, but the moment my foot lifts, tiny black spikes erupt from the dirt beneath it. Big enough to impale me if I stepped down hard on them, and it throws my footwork off something crazy. I stumble, barely avoiding the rail as it whistles past my ear.

  "Dancing's harder when the floor fights back, isn't it?" Shrike taunts, already swinging again.

  I can see his whole circulatory system now, a glowing red map pulsing in my mind's eye. Every heartbeat, every vessel, every trickle of blood from his leaking nose and cut cheeks. I may not be able to move freely, but I can track him perfectly.

  He circles left, feinting with the rail. I shift my weight, careful not to lift my feet more than necessary. The ground beneath me ripples with tiny metal thorns that scrape against the rims of my boots. Every time I lift my foot up to step, a spike comes up to meet it, almost simultaneously. Was he lying when he used his hands earlier? Does it channel through his feet, too? I have to skid each step off the side of the new spikes, and then they vanish just as fast.

  "What happened to all that bravado?" He flexes his fingers, and the cabinet rail transforms. A black spike grows from its flat side, turning it into a makeshift pickaxe.

  I don't take the bait. Instead, I take one careful step forward, then another. The spikes underfoot grow larger with each advance, forcing me to place my feet with precision. Shrike watches, amused, like I'm a toddler learning to walk.

  "You're a lot of talk for a guy who spent fifteen years as someone's prison bitch," I retort.

  He doesn't take the bait - his grin is wide as ever, but he lunges anyway. The pickaxe swings wild, missing by inches. I duck under his extended arm and drive my fist into his ribs. He grunts, stumbling back, the spike retracting from his weapon.

  He stops his foot with a wall of spikes that gives him something to brace against, and launches back out towards me. The rail jabs forward like a staff, catching me in the solar plexus. Even through the kevlar, it knocks the wind from me. I stagger back, gasping, as he presses his advantage. He chokes up on the rail again and knocks my helmet upwards by the muzzle.

  Then, the pick. I cross both arms in front of me, and underneath the layer of padding, I squeeze out a layer of Instant Armor. His makeshift pickax is almost ponderously slow. It punctures clean through the first layer of plating, and then bounces off my armored forearms, just an inch enough for me to shuffle backwards.

  Shrike's eyes widen slightly at the sight of something white underneath the fresh hole in my clothes. "Interesting trick. Let's see how long you can keep it up."

  The spike retracts, and he shifts to quick, jabbing strikes with the blunt end of the rail, back to this fencing style. Each impact forces me back another step, navigating the increasingly treacherous ground. Small spikes catch at my boots, throwing off my timing. I stop lifting my feet up entirely, only shuffling in the grass and dust. Skid, skid, skid.

  This is what I'm sure of now. He can't put spikes through me. Only where there's open air.

  I aim my fist for where his next rail thrust is coming, and then flick my arm out sideways, using my Instant Armor to swing as hard as I can without hurting myself on metal. Shuffle in, one, two, jab, jab, cross. I catch him once in the chest, and whiff the other two. A sheet of spikes fans outward from my side like fronds on a tree, forming a dense lattice right in front of my face, just blocking visibility.

  Then, another rail thrust. No! Sloppy footwork. I see it coming with my blood sense, but it moves faster than I'm expecting and catches me in the solar plexus. I cough, tasting blood - my blood this time. Above us, the buzz of drones grows louder. One, then three, then a dozen hovering electronic eyes, their red recording lights glowing in the darkness.

  "We've got company," Lighthouse warns in my ear. "Multiple civilian drones. News van approaching from the north."

  "What did you do?" I rasp, glaring at Shrike as I circle away from another swing.

  He grins, still stalking me through his forest of spikes. "Sent out a press release. 'Nazi Serial Killer Challenges Jewish Superhero.' The media loves that kind of headline."

  "You're insane," I mutter, ducking another swing.

  "I'm an artist," he corrects, "and this is my masterpiece."

  As we circle each other, I notice movement at the perimeter, through obvious gaps in the metal woods. Not just curious onlookers - men with shaved heads, bomber jackets, military-style boots. They form a loose ring around the construction site, maintaining distance but clearly present. Fifteen, maybe twenty of them.

  He wants me to see.

  "You brought friends," I observe, buying time while I catch my breath. "I thought this was mano-a-mano?"

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  Shrike's smile widens. "You brought friends. It's only fair."

  "What?" I ask, trying to extract an answer. No I didn't? But he just swings again, a wide baseball bat swing that I have to step back from or catch a broken rib.

  "Lighthouse," I whisper, "are my parents--"

  "Still asleep," she confirms. "But your tracking bracelet--"

  "I know," I hiss, refocusing as Shrike charges again.

  This time his swing is a feint. As I move to dodge, the ground beneath my right foot erupts with a spike larger than the others. It catches my calf, slicing through the protective fabric and into flesh. I cry out, stumbling.

  He's on me in an instant, rail raised for a devastating blow. I grow more armor across my shoulder and upper arm, the teeth forming under my costume in a cascade of white plates. The rail crashes down, and though the armor prevents the worst, pain still lances through my shoulder.

  I roll away, feeling warm blood trickling down my leg. I taste chalk in my mouth. Dehydration. The calcium draw.

  "Now we're even," Shrike taunts. He wipes sweat from his brow, his breathing heavier. Despite his bravado, he's tiring too.

  "You know this doesn't end well for you," I say, rising carefully to my feet. "Even if you beat me, they'll hunt you down."

  He gestures toward his followers. "They'll remember me. The man who showed everyone the truth about their so-called heroes. All it takes is a spark. This sclerotic zeitgeist of pro-business charlatans and racist democr--"

  I charge during his speech, catching him mid-sentence. My fist connects with his jaw, sending him sprawling among his own spikes. He twists in midair, somehow avoiding impalement, and lands in a crouch.

  "Shut up," I growl.

  He spits blood, laughing. "Hit a nerve, did I?"

  We circle again, both wounded now, both wary. The spike field has grown more dense around us, creating a bizarre arena that shifts with each step. He's guiding me, but I only have enough presence of mind to stay focused on one thing at a time. It's just too much at once. The landscape is constantly shifting, and I have to keep reminding myself to not raise my feet up when I step. A trail of shredded grass follows my shuffling.

  He raises his rail up behind him like a golf club. Huh?

  It comes back down, and I miss the can of Raid way too late, still hissing quietly. It gets smacked towards me, soaring through like a hockey puck, and catches me on the helmet, exploding in a cloud of chemical spray as its weakened walls fail entirely.

  Too bad. If I wasn't wearing a filter, that would've probably been a huge problem.

  I step in when he expects me to step back, shutting my eyes entirely. I duck under his panicked, too-fast rail jab. LOW PUNCH! He doubles over, wind driven out of him, blood spurting out from his mouth, and I follow with an uppercut that snaps his head back. Blood sprays from his nose, splattering across my visor.

  He stumbles back, and waves a hand in a dizzy fury. Several spikes branch out like bullets, and my forward momentum can't get stopped in time to avoid getting caught on tangent lines. Cut, cut, cut, the world's worst piercer aiming for all the wrong spots on my body. Everywhere there isn't Kevlar, and not enough time to Instant Armor, either.

  I take two more steps forward, and a spike drives out diagonally from the ground, trying to stab me in the chest. I'm sure he hasn't updated his mental model of me enough to know what I'm going to do.

  I clench my teeth as it rips a fresh gash in my side, cutting through a couple of the important layers of skin. The lingering cloud of Raid burns like a motherfucker, but I bet the second hook to his jaw hurts even more.

  "Give up," I demand between strikes. "It's over."

  "It's never over," he gasps, blood bubbling from his grinning lips. "Even if you win... they saw... they all saw..."

  In the distance, sirens begin to wail. Red and blue lights flash on the horizon, growing brighter with each second.

  "Cops incoming," Lighthouse warns. "Lots of them. Paramedics."

  Shrike's eyes widen, then narrow with fury. "You called them," he snarls, blood spraying with each word. "You broke the rules."

  "I didn't--"

  "I told you what would happen, didn't I?" he gasps, blood bubbling between his teeth. His face transforms from pained to serene, eyes widening with renewed purpose. "BOYS! SHE BROKE THE RULES!"

  The skinheads at the perimeter begin to move with synchronized purpose, pulling objects from jackets, from backpacks.

  "Oh, fuck. Flash, Blink--" I start, not caring about covering my voice.

  "Already tracking targets," Blink replies. "Prioritize?"

  "Skinheads blocking the intersections," Lighthouse reports, tension straining her voice. "Police can't get through."

  My brain goes cold as I try to track multiple things at once - Shrike in my blood sense, Shrike in my eyeballs, the thought that making the deal with Rogue Wave was maybe wrong, honestly, right now I'm feeling like my entire life to this point was one long series of mistakes. In that moment of divided attention, I miss what's right in front of me.

  Well, what's behind me, really.

  Ha ha.

  Great one, Sam.

  Cold metal punches through my lower back.

  The spike drives in just below my ribs, missing vital organs and Kevlar but catching enough flesh to anchor me in place. My body registers the invasion before the pain hits.

  "Distracted, mongrel?" Shrike laughs, two black spikes erupting from the ground to hoist him upright like a marionette, catching him by his cufflinks. He leans against his cabinet rail, an old man with his cane. "Don't worry about your friends and family. Worry about everyone else."

  I drag myself off the spike, feeling muscle and skin tear as I pull free. Blood runs warm down my lower back.

  "You can only stop one of me. There's only one of you." he continues, voice stronger now that he's caught his breath. Fuck. If I want more protection, I'll need to make another deal. That's what he's saying, even if he doesn't know the context. "But I've got lots of friends. And they have friends. And they have friends."

  "You could've stood down," I manage, swallowing copper and calcium while my body burns trying to pull itself back together. "Now they'll put you back in Daedalus. Or worse. I expect the chair, at this point."

  He raises his voice, performing now for the hovering drones, the distant cameras. "I'm an invasive species, Bloodhound. And you're just a dog. Kill me if you want - my ideas have already spread." Blood and mucus drip from his nose as he grins. "The seed is planted. The embryo grows. Tonight is just the beginning."

  He breaks into laughter that dissolves into wet coughing. He spits a glob of blood onto the ground between us.

  My entire body throbs with exhaustion and pain - dozens of new cuts, a gash, a puncture wound, muscles burning, Instant Armor flaking off of me in chunks, torn Kevlar, a headache, probably dehydrated a little bit, a rolled ankle, maybe, self-doubt, self-loathing, and I still have to keep track of all these fucking spikes.

  But I can still end this here.

  Now.