Coffee, Corpses, and a One-Way Ticket to Shadow Town (Spoiler: No Souvenirs)
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Author Note: Buckle up, buttercups! Things are about to get a whole lot less scenic and a whole lot more "run for your life." We're diving headfirst into Bonny's past, and let's just say it's not filled with sunshine and rainbows. Prepare for ghosts, grudges, and maybe just a little bit of existential dread. You've been warned!
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He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The weight of the question was in the stillness between his words, in the edge of suspicion just beneath his calm exterior.
"You summoned me back here with the kind of haste that usually means the sky is falling, or about to."
Joe nodded slowly, as if he'd been expecting that question from the moment he sent the message. His lips tightened just enough to show that what he was about to say wasn't going to be easy.
"Indeed, I did," he said finally. His voice was low, careful, and entirely devoid of its earlier playfulness.
There was a gravity to his words now, like the weight of something not yet spoken had already started to settle in the air between them. Something had changed—and Bonny knew it.
The caffeine wouldn't be enough to keep him steady through this one.
The two men stood side by side, and at a glance, they looked like they belonged to entirely different worlds—living testaments to contrast itself. Bonny, towering and broad-shouldered, bore the marks of a life shaped by physical exertion and danger. His body was the result of years spent navigating chaos—trained muscles taut beneath his worn leather jacket, posture loose but never careless, like a man who never truly let his guard down. Every movement he made, from the way he shifted his weight to the way his eyes swept the area, was measured, born of experience. He looked like someone who'd seen too much, fought too hard, and learned to carry it all like a second skin.
His presence was weighty, like a storm that hadn't broken yet. You could feel it in the air around him—that restless, simmering energy of a man who had survived too many things others wouldn't dare imagine. There were calluses on his palms, faint scars along his forearms, and a permanent furrow just between his brows. Each mark told a story he didn't care to explain.
And beside him stood Joe—a man cut from an entirely different cloth. Slightly shorter, leaner, almost fragile by comparison, he didn't command the same immediate attention as Bonny. But where Bonny was blunt force and instinct, Joe was subtlety and precision. His pale skin almost glowed beneath the fading sunlight, framed by long, dark hair that had a casual, unkempt grace. His face held a quiet symmetry—delicate features, high cheekbones, and a sharp jawline softened by an air of elegance.
But it was his eyes that set him apart most—cloudy and milk-white, like marbled stone. There was no hiding the fact that Joe was blind. His white cane, held lightly in one hand, completed the picture. And yet, despite that apparent vulnerability, he didn't come across as fragile. Not really.
Joe stood with a posture that radiated intention. He didn't slouch, didn't waver—he existed in space with purpose. There was an alertness to him, a refined awareness. His head would tilt slightly as he listened, the subtle twitch of his jaw revealing how he processed the sounds around him. The blindness, while obvious, never felt like a weakness. If anything, it felt like a test he had long since mastered.
He was dressed in a crisp, immaculately tailored black suit that looked untouched by the wind or dust around them. The jacket hugged his slim frame, the lapels sharp, his gray tie perfectly symmetrical beneath his collar. His shoes gleamed with the kind of polish that spoke of discipline and habit, not vanity. If Bonny was the raw and unpredictable wilderness, Joe was the razor-sharp stillness of a courtroom or a negotiation table—calm, composed, and always three moves ahead.
Even here, standing on the outskirts of a dusty, chaotic city, Joe carried himself like he was about to walk into a boardroom or meet a foreign ambassador. That precision, that pride in his appearance, wasn't about ego. It was survival. Control. A man who could not see made certain he could be seen—on his terms.
And Bonny, who lived and breathed by instinct, respected that more than he would ever say out loud.
"As much as I would relish the opportunity to hear the detailed accounts of your recent exploits," Joe began, his voice suddenly shifting into something heavier, more deliberate—tinged with a quiet gravity that left no room for misinterpretation, "I'm afraid this isn't merely a social call… not just a casual exchange of pleasantries between old acquaintances."
He paused for a moment, not just to catch his breath, but to let the weight of his words linger in the space between them—undisturbed and unchallenged. It was the kind of silence that didn't just demand attention—it earned it.
Bonny's eyes narrowed slightly. He shifted his weight, the comfortable tension in his shoulders fading. His brow furrowed, lips tightening around the rim of his coffee cup as he brought it slowly to his mouth. The lighthearted tone that had once colored their exchange was gone now, replaced by something colder—more urgent. He didn't say anything immediately. Instead, he watched Joe, noting the subtle rigidity in his posture, the way his expression held steady, unreadable beneath that calm exterior.
The breeze picked up softly around them, carrying the scent of exhaust, dust, and distant fires—reminders of the world beyond their conversation. Bonny didn't like the change in atmosphere. It was too sudden. Too familiar.
Joe finally spoke again, each word delivered with the measured precision of a surgeon making the first incision. "I've been tasked with sending you to Rivervale."
He didn't say it like a suggestion. He said it like a sentence. A decision already made by forces larger than the both of them.
Bonny's grip tightened around his cup, the heat from the coffee now a minor discomfort compared to the slow-burning tension rising inside him. He raised an eyebrow, his voice quieter now, grounded in disbelief. "Rivervale?" he echoed, the name dragging old memories to the surface—some unpleasant, others worse than that. There was a faint tremor beneath his tone, not of fear, but of caution. The name alone was enough to unsettle him.
Joe gave a short, subtle nod. His face betrayed nothing, but his hand—tightened slightly around the handle of his cane. "Yes. Rivervale," he confirmed, his voice low and steady, unwavering despite the tension in the air. "We've managed to track down Melinda."
The name struck Bonny like a steel shard to the ribs. For a second, he simply stood there, the breeze now unnoticed, his surroundings fading into a blur of static noise. The bitter taste of the coffee no longer grounded him. Melinda. That name hadn't been spoken in a long time. Not in front of him. Not by him. And hearing it now—wrapped in the context of a mission—pulled something taut inside him.
He didn't respond right away. There were too many thoughts crashing against each other inside his skull, all clamoring for space. Memories. Regrets. Questions.
And at the center of it all, the quiet, painful echo of a woman's name he thought he had buried.
"The Dead Queen?" Bonny asked, his voice falling into a low, almost incredulous whisper. The words lingered on his tongue like a ghost he hadn't meant to summon. A shiver ran down his spine, subtle but undeniable, as the weight of that name settled on his shoulders. It wasn't just surprise that stirred inside him—it was something colder, darker. Apprehension, threaded with memories he'd never completely buried. That name carried blood. It carried scars.
Joe didn't flinch. His posture remained unmoved, his face composed like a man reading the sentence of someone already condemned. "Yes," he confirmed, his voice steady and resolute. "That Melinda."
The unspoken history between them lay thick in the air now, like humidity before a storm.
"She's in Rivervale," Joe continued, his voice low but not hushed, as though saying it too loud might summon her. "Why she's there is something we've yet to fully understand. But make no mistake—this is the most promising opportunity we've had in years. Maybe the only real chance we'll ever get to eliminate her."
Bonny's eyes drifted past Joe, toward the glinting outline of the city's skyline in the distance. He wasn't really seeing it, though. Not the towers or the dust or the orange burn of dusk. He was seeing something else—Rivervale as it had been. A place soaked in old ghosts, betrayal, and shadowed alleys that still echoed with screams.
"Rivervale," he muttered, almost to himself. There was disbelief in his tone, and something else too—an edge of memory he hadn't meant to revisit. "Of all places…"
"Don't finish that thought," Joe said quickly, his voice slicing through the air like a knife. He didn't raise his voice, but it carried the kind of force that made people stop mid-step. "Yes," he added after a pause, answering the question Bonny hadn't dared to voice. "That's where it all started. That's where she left her mark."
Bonny clenched his jaw, feeling the tension press behind his eyes. There was more than danger buried in Rivervale. There were pieces of himself there—ones he didn't want to recover.
"We've lost track of her exact location," Joe went on, folding his arms tightly across his chest. "But our best sources confirm she's still within city limits. She's hiding, but not running. Which means… whatever Melinda is doing there—whatever reason she had for breaking her own silence—it must be important. Critically so. Enough that she's risking exposure."
Bonny turned his face to the sky. The clouds were rolling in—slow, gray, indifferent. Everything about this felt wrong, but also inevitable.
The name. The city. The history. The mission.
It was all circling back.
And the Dead Queen was waiting.
"So," Bonny began, his voice a careful blend of resignation and grim determination, "do I get the luxury of backup for this little suicide mission?"
He asked it knowing the answer, but the words slipped out anyway—part sarcasm, part desperate hope. Maybe, just maybe, someone upstairs had grown a conscience. Maybe someone would finally send in more than one man to face a nightmare.
But deep down, he already knew better.
Joe didn't hesitate. "No," he said flatly, his tone as unyielding as steel. There was no room for debate in that single syllable.
Bonny didn't flinch. He stared straight ahead, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. Of course not.
"It's far too risky," Joe continued, his voice calm but resolute. "Sending a team in would light a beacon over Rivervale. A heavy magical presence would attract attention—too much attention. And not just from Melinda or her ilk. The kind of entities that watch from the cracks, the ones that feed on conflict… they'd swarm the city like moths to flame."
He paused, letting the weight of his reasoning land between them like a final verdict.
"This requires precision. A surgical approach. A single hand striking from the shadows—not a parade."
Bonny exhaled slowly through his nose, the air catching in his throat like gravel. He didn't argue. What would be the point? Logic was logic, no matter how much it felt like a death sentence.
"So just me then," he murmured, more to himself than Joe. His voice held no surprise anymore, just the quiet acceptance of someone who had spent too many years being volunteered for hellish assignments.
Joe gave a short nod. "Sadly, yes."
There was a flicker of something in his voice—regret, maybe, or a muted apology that he didn't have the right to speak aloud. He wasn't heartless. But in this line of work, empathy was a luxury, not a weapon.
Bonny turned away, letting his gaze wander to the fading horizon. The coffee in his hand had cooled, but he didn't drink. His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, the warmth now just a memory.
"I'm going to die, aren't I?" he asked, not with fear, but with a dark, sardonic smile that barely touched his eyes.
It was the kind of humor a man used when he'd already made peace with his demons. The kind of humor that kept the panic at bay.
Joe didn't answer right away. He didn't have to. The silence stretched long enough to speak for him.
Bonny's smile faded slowly, replaced by a stillness that seemed to settle into his bones.
He had stared death in the face before. Had danced with it, dodged it, even spat in its eye once or twice. But this time felt different. This time, something cold and unspoken stirred in his chest.
He didn't fear death.
He feared what Melinda might make of him before it came.
"Probably," Joe admitted, his voice stripped of any pretense, offering no comforting lies or empty promises. There was no room for sugarcoating—not between the two of them. Bonny deserved honesty, brutal as it might be.
"But if you do die," Joe continued, his tone growing colder, more deliberate, "make damn sure you leave something behind. A bullet, a blade, or better yet—something far worse—buried deep in Melinda's skull before you take your final breath."
He paused, letting the silence between them stretch, heavy and unflinching.
"Make it count, Bonny. Make her pay—for every scream, every vanished face, every drop of innocent blood she's spilled."
The air shifted. The quiet intensity of Joe's words settled around them like a storm cloud, one that neither thundered nor broke—but promised ruin all the same.
Bonny didn't flinch.
"Got it," he said, his voice steady, almost too calm. There was no bravado now, only a kind of sharp focus, like a soldier who had learned long ago to carry fear and duty in the same pocket.
His eyes locked on Joe's pale, unreadable expression. There was steel behind them—an unrelenting resolve that had been forged in fire and tempered by pain.
He drained the last of his coffee in one smooth motion. The bitter taste clung to his tongue, grounding him. He welcomed it. That bitterness had always been a part of the job.
The cup clinked softly against the ground as he set it down, a quiet farewell to the moment of stillness they had shared.
"Man, I truly love this job," he muttered with a sardonic grin, the edges of his mouth curling upward without ever touching his eyes. The laughter wasn't joy—it was armor. A dark, jagged humor meant to keep the fear from clawing its way to the surface.
Joe didn't smile. He merely nodded, the ghost of a salute in his posture. They both knew what lay ahead.
Bonny turned and walked toward his motorcycle, each step unhurried but firm, like a man walking into fire not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
"See you later, Joe," he called over his shoulder, his voice carrying a casual defiance that masked the weight pressing down on him. "Time for a little witch hunting."
He swung a leg over the bike and settled into the seat like it was second skin. The engine roared to life, its deep growl slicing through the stillness of the early night. The sound was raw and alive—like a war drum, a promise, a threat.
The wind hit his face as he pulled out, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and blue around him. Traffic, neon signs, and smog became a moving canvas he barely noticed.
Bonny didn't look back.
There was no room for hesitation now—not with a name like Melinda waiting in the shadows.
And not with death riding just behind him, patient and quiet, ready to see how far he could go before it claimed him for good.
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"Are you absolutely certain he can handle this?"
The voice came quietly from the shadows, soft yet edged with concern, like silk brushing against steel. It belonged to a woman—calm on the surface, but beneath that calm was a ripple of anxiety that trembled in her words. Her tone wasn't accusatory, nor was it doubtful; it was worried. It carried the weight of someone who had seen enough loss to recognize when a mission smelled like death.
From the darkness beyond the dull outline of parked, nondescript vehicles, she emerged.
"We have no choice but to hope he finds her before she finds him," Joe replied. His voice was lower than before, the gravel in his throat more pronounced. For a moment, his usual calm faltered, revealing a crack in the carefully composed mask he wore. That brief flicker of unease betrayed the truth he wasn't voicing aloud: he was sending Bonny into the lion's den—and the lion wore a crown of bones.
He exhaled slowly, the breath catching faintly in his chest. He had faith in Bonny. But faith wasn't certainty, and it sure as hell wasn't a strategy.
"Well…"
The woman stepped into the dim glow of the flickering streetlamp, her presence both striking and disarming. She wore a lime-green crop top that clung to her frame, its color vivid against the gloom. Her short, torn denim jeans stopped high on her thighs, revealing toned legs that didn't quite match her youthful face. Her boots—tall, brown, and worn—added a rugged contrast, grounding her in practicality despite the carefree outfit.
Two sleek daggers were strapped to her back in an 'X' pattern. The hilts glinted faintly, catching the light as she moved, subtle but deadly, like everything about her.
She walked towards Joe slowly, the sound of her boots soft against the gravel. Each step was deliberate, almost lazy in its grace, but there was strength behind her poise—a quiet readiness for violence that simmered just beneath the surface.
Without a word, she reached for the coffee cup in Joe's hand—the one Bonny had left untouched. Her fingers brushed his lightly, and then she took it with a practiced ease, like they'd done this a hundred times before.
She brought it to her lips and sipped slowly, letting the heat and bitterness spread across her tongue. Her gaze never left the road, never wavered from the tiny silhouette of the motorcycle growing smaller in the distance.
The rumble of the bike had long faded, but the echo of it still hung in the air like a memory refusing to leave.
Her eyes narrowed, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
"He's not ready for what's out there," she murmured, though whether she was speaking to Joe or herself, it wasn't clear.
But Joe heard her. And he didn't argue.
Because she might be right.
And that made the silence between them all the louder.
"Oh, I love the coffee, by the way" she purred at last, finally breaking the long stretch of silence between them.
Her voice was low, sultry, and intimate in a way that didn't quite match the cold night around them. It slid into the air like silk across skin—soft, but carrying an edge, like a whisper that could cut if you listened too closely. The sound of it sent a faint shiver down Joe's spine, not just from the tone, but from what it implied—something buried deep beneath the surface, something that spoke not only of indulgence but of control.
A slow, almost lazy smile spread across her lips. It was the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes, a curve that suggested calculation more than amusement. There was something vaguely predatory in it, a knowing glint that shimmered behind her gaze like the flash of a blade catching moonlight.
She ran her tongue slowly across her lips, a subtle gesture that could easily be mistaken for casual flirtation. But Joe knew her too well to be fooled. That motion—it was instinctual, almost reptilian. A flicker. Quick. Barely noticeable. And yet, it betrayed something primal beneath her calm exterior. It was the kind of gesture that came not from habit, but from a deep-seated reflex. A reminder that no matter how soft her smile, there was something untamed beneath it. Something wild. Something dangerous.
The silence between them filled again, this time heavier. The moment was simple, but the meaning was dense. Her movements, her voice, her expression—none of them were as harmless as they appeared.
It was her way of saying she knew. Of acknowledging the unspoken truth that lingered in the air like smoke. That Bonny was riding headfirst into a nightmare. That the enemy wasn't just powerful—it was patient, ancient, and cruel.
"Indeed, you do," Joe said quietly, finally responding. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips, more a shadow of expression than a true one.
He watched her for a moment longer, studying the sharpness behind her elegance, the quiet edge to her presence. He recognized the shift in her energy, felt it like a change in pressure in the air before a storm. It wasn't the coffee she adored—it was the ritual, the moment, the way it allowed her to pause before the world turned violent again.
And he saw something else too.
She was scared.
Not obviously, not in a way that showed in her movements or posture, but in her eyes—the part of her that never lied. The concern was real, deep and barely restrained. It was there in the way she stared down the empty street where Bonny had disappeared, in the way she held the cup now between her hands like it was the only thing anchoring her.
But she was ready.
Joe knew that about her. She wasn't the kind to fall apart under pressure. She wouldn't break—not now, not when it counted. He could feel it in the way she stood, grounded but alert. If the situation demanded it, she would fight. And not just fight—she would tear through the dark with claws and steel if it meant keeping someone she cared about alive.
Bonny might've gone alone, but Joe knew he wasn't the only one walking into danger.
Because the girl standing beside him… she felt it too.
That slow-moving shadow creeping toward them. That dread lingering just beyond the horizon. That darkness wasn't distant. It was near. Nearer than either of them wanted to admit.
And when it came, they would both be ready.
Or die trying.
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Notes:Rivervale: Rated 1 out of 5 stars on most interdimensional travel sites. Common complaints include "excessive gloom," "unsettling whispers," and "a distinct lack of decent coffee shops." Visit at your own peril.