Subway to Hell (Express, No Stops), a Cryptic Cowboy, and Sawyer's Surprisingly Useful Lack of Self-Awareness.
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Author Note: Well, diplomacy clearly went out the window faster than a motorcycle down a flight of stairs. Now it's all about survival, cryptic pronouncements, and hoping Sawyer figures out he's more than just zombie bait. Hold onto your hats, folks, because this train's about to go off the rails!
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No sense of Humor Sawyer thought as he stared at the gleaning old man.
"True," Bonny replied, his voice low but sharp, a hard edge creeping into her tone that hadn't been there before. His knuckles were pale against the steering wheel, tendons pulled tight like wire beneath his skin. The realization hit him like a weight dropped into his chest—diplomacy wasn't going to work anymore. This wasn't a negotiation, not even a standoff. It was survival in its rawest, most brutal form.
"We just have to force her to tell us," he added, her words not just a suggestion, but a declaration—a thread of desperation woven through his voice. His gaze darkened with grim resolve, jaw tightening as though he was physically bracing for the weight of what he'd just committed himself to.
"Force her?" Sawyer repeated, his voice rising an octave, disbelief punching through his panic. His body jolted as Bonny suddenly stepped his foot down on the brake pedal. The tires shrieked in protest, a brutal, earsplitting sound as rubber met asphalt in a furious struggle against momentum.
The motocycle lurched forward violently, and Sawyer was thrown hard against his seat slamming his body against Bonny's, the pressure bruising as his ribs ached from the impact. He gasped, momentarily stunned, eyes wide as the world outside the windshield seemed to freeze—framed by headlights, an unyielding brick wall loomed just meters ahead.
"Shit!" Bonny hissed through clenched teeth, a flicker of panic cracking through his typically unshakable facade. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. The wall stretched upward, cold and solid, a silent declaration that their road had just run out.
Without time to think, only instinct, Bonny yanked the motorcycle to the right, his entire upper body twisting with the motion. The motocycle groaned under the sudden shift, tires screaming as they scraped against the edge of the curb, the back end fishtailing slightly as it swung around.
Everything happened in seconds, but it felt like slow motion.
His eyes, wide and searching, caught sight of a descending concrete stairwell just to the right—an old subway entrance, partially obscured by shadows and overgrown vines. It wasn't a road. It wasn't even a reasonable option.
But it was the only one they had.
With a surge of determination and reckless abandon, he pressed his foot back on the accelerator. The engine roared in response, tires spitting gravel as the motorcycle launched toward the stairs like a mad animal breaking free of its leash.
"Hold on!" He shouted, not bothering to check if Sawyer had heard him. His entire focus was now on making the impossible—surviving this descent—possible.
The front wheels hit the top step with a gut-wrenching jolt, and the whole vehicle pitched downward, metal grinding against concrete, the undercarriage shrieking like a wounded beast. The subway swallowed them whole, darkness pressing in from all sides as the car bounced and scraped down the narrow stairwell.
Neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the roaring engine, the tortured metal, and their breathing—shallow, fast, and terrified.
The motorcycle—a heavy, beast-like machine built more for strength than grace—roared beneath them, its guttural snarl echoing off the stone walls as Bonny gritted his teeth and guided it toward the subway entrance. The stairs loomed ahead like a concrete waterfall, steep and unforgiving, yet he didn't hesitate. He couldn't. Not with death—literal, magical death—racing just seconds behind them.
He leaned forward, his weight guiding the bike's balance as it nosed downward. The front wheel dipped and caught, then the whole vehicle plunged down the incline in a bone-rattling descent. Gravity pulled them faster than the engine could handle, the rear wheel bouncing wildly behind them as it struggled to grip the worn steps.
Sawyer, perched behind him, let out an involuntary grunt as the sudden drop threw him backward. Instinctively, he reached forward and clutched the back of Bonny's jacket with trembling hands. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, each bounce and skid making him feel like he was seconds away from flying off into the air.
His knuckles turned pale as he gripped the seat beneath him with all the strength he had, the worn leather cool and slick under his fingertips. The air around them grew heavier with each meter, thick with dust and the lingering smell of oil, rust, and age. Shadows swallowed the stairwell, their descent lit only by the single, flickering headlamp mounted on the bike's front. It cast long, trembling beams across the tunnel walls that twisted the darkness into grotesque shapes.
Behind them, the air pulsed—hot, thick, and red.
Melinda's magic was catching up.
A crimson glow bloomed at the top of the stairwell, sharp and unnatural. It shimmered like a wildfire behind glass, a terrible, malevolent light that didn't flicker or fade. It grew stronger with every second, gaining on them, hungry and unforgiving.
"Shit, a red light!" Sawyer suddenly cried, his voice bouncing off the concrete like a gunshot. His eyes widened as he saw it—just ahead in the tunnel, a harsh traffic signal mounted on a rusted pole, its blazing red glare slicing through the darkness like a warning straight from hell.
Bonny's eyes locked on the light for a split second. He opened his mouth to shout something, maybe a command, maybe a prayer, but before she could—
A crack of thunderous energy exploded to their left.
The blast came without warning, a horizontal beam of searing crimson magic that slammed into the side of the motorcycle. The force of it was immediate and devastating, hitting like a train.
Sawyer didn't have time to scream.
He felt the heat first—an unbearable, flash-furnace wave of heat—and then the motion, his body yanked off the bike by invisible hands. He was airborne, weightless, turning in the air like a discarded doll. His ears rang with the sound of rushing wind and pulsing blood.
Then he hit.
A cold, brutal surface met him mid-spin—a thick subway pillar wrapped in layers of graffiti and grime. The impact knocked the air from his lungs in a silent scream, and pain bloomed through his torso in a bright, disorienting burst. He dropped limply to the tunnel floor, gravel and broken tiles digging into his skin. His limbs screamed in protest, every nerve alight with agony.
He gasped, but the air felt thick and distant, like trying to breathe underwater.
Somewhere behind him, the motorcycle clattered into metal rails and silence.
And the red light still glared ahead, pulsing like the heartbeat of something watching.
His consciousness teetered on the brink, flickering like a dying candle in the wind. The world around him was swimming—edges distorted, colors bleeding, sound muffled. A thick fog of confusion and pain threatened to drag him under, into the terrifying void of unconsciousness.
This is the worst possible place to pass out, Sawyer thought, panic rising in his chest like a flood. The oppressive darkness of the tunnel, the threat of Melinda's crimson energy, the monsters likely still lurking nearby—if he lost himself now, he might not wake up again.
Desperate to stay grounded, he bit down hard on his lower lip. The sharp jolt of pain was raw and immediate, coppery blood filling his mouth. But it worked. The agony acted like a lifeline, tethering him to the present, keeping the shadows at bay just a little longer.
He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze from his eyes. Everything hurt—his ribs ached with every breath, his shoulder throbbed from where he'd landed, and his legs felt like lead. But through the blur, a shape emerged. Moving. Alive.
Bonny.
He spotted the older man a few feet away, hunched and struggling to rise. Relief poured through him like a sudden rain after heat. But that relief was short-lived—immediately replaced by a fresh jolt of dread. Bonny's posture was all wrong. One leg was twisted beneath him, bent at an unnatural angle that made Sawyer's stomach turn. The way Bonny leaned heavily on one side, grimacing with each shift of weight, left no doubt. His leg was broken.
"Are you okay, kid?" Bonny asked, his voice tight with pain, but still carrying that signature edge of calm. There was something unexpectedly gentle in it too, a flicker of concern that made Sawyer pause. Even hurt, even in danger, Bonny still reached out—offering a hand, a moment of connection in the chaos.
Sawyer reached up, his arm shaking as he accepted the help. Bonny's grip was strong, despite the pain written across his face. As Sawyer pulled himself upright, fire shot through his limbs. His muscles screamed in protest, his joints ached, and his spine felt like it had been folded and stretched in the worst way.
But he didn't complain.
Because Melinda was still out there. And the red light still pulsed behind them, a reminder that time was not their friend.
"I'm... I'm okay," Sawyer managed, though the words came out strained. He forced himself to stay on his feet, despite the trembling in his legs. Pain could be dealt with later. Survival came first.
Bonny's eyes locked onto him, sharp and searching. There was no trace of the sarcastic bravado he'd worn earlier. Something about the situation—about Sawyer—had stripped it away. What remained was cautious, unsure. Curious.
"Who exactly are you?" he asked, voice low. Not accusing, not demanding. But wondering.
Sawyer opened his mouth, then closed it again. The question hit harder than he expected. Because he wasn't sure of the answer anymore.
When Sawyer finally opened his mouth to speak, his voice wavered.
"Um… is that a rhetorical question, or are you actually asking?"
There was no sarcasm in his tone—only uncertainty. His words came out shaky, touched by the raw edge of lingering pain and a sincere confusion that painted his voice with vulnerability. Bonny's sudden pivot from running for their lives to questioning Sawyer's identity had taken him completely off guard. The danger hadn't passed—far from it—and yet Bonny was staring at him like he was the only thing that made sense to investigate in a world that was rapidly falling apart.
Bonny didn't answer right away. His expression was hard to read—caught somewhere between disbelief and a growing realization that made Sawyer's skin crawl. There was something intense, something deeply unnerving about the way Bonny was looking at him. It wasn't suspicion or fear. It was something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or reverence. Like he'd just seen Sawyer do something impossible.
"Did you see what you did at the last minute?" Bonny asked finally, his voice low and quiet, almost a whisper. But that whisper carried weight. It wasn't casual. It was deliberate—like he was trying not to spook him, or maybe not to admit something out loud. His eyes didn't leave Sawyer, locked on with a kind of stunned clarity.
Sawyer blinked. The words hung heavy between them, their meaning elusive but threatening.
"What did I do?" he asked, his brow furrowing. Every muscle in his body still ached from the fall, and a dull throb pulsed just behind his eyes. He was trying to focus, trying to dig back through the fog of adrenaline and pain for the answer Bonny was expecting. But the memory of those last few moments before the blast felt disjointed. Like a dream—fleeting and broken. Just flashes: red light, the screech of tires, Bonny's voice, then air, pain, darkness.
Bonny opened his mouth to explain. His body tensed as if he were about to unload something big, something Sawyer might not even be ready to hear. For a moment, it looked like he might say it anyway.
But then he stopped.
His mouth snapped shut mid-thought, his jaw clenching as his eyes dropped. Whatever revelation had been forming on his lips, he swallowed it. His shoulders stiffened, and a wall seemed to go up between them. He turned slightly, as though the moment had passed and he'd decided—not now.
Sawyer's pulse quickened. The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. It was thick, weighted with the gravity of something left unsaid.
"It'll be better if he explained it," Bonny said cryptically, his voice dropping low as his gaze shifted toward the far end of the tunnel.
There was something in the way he said it—an unease that hadn't been there before. His eyes didn't just look; they searched, as if expecting something—or someone—to emerge from the shadows. A subtle tension rippled through his frame, and despite the dim lighting, Sawyer caught the way Bonny's fingers twitched slightly, his body ready to react.
Sawyer's curiosity flared immediately, a dozen questions clawing at his mind, all demanding answers. Who was "he"? What did Bonny mean? What exactly had Sawyer done back there? But the moment didn't feel right. The air was too heavy. The world too silent, save for the faint, unmistakable sound growing steadily louder: groaning. Rhythmic. Unnatural.
The groans were followed by a dull thudding—measured, unrelenting. Footsteps. Not human. And not alone.
Sawyer tensed, his throat dry. The shadows were getting louder.
"What are our chances of surviving this?" he asked, barely more than a whisper. The words escaped without much thought, raw and honest. He didn't expect comfort, just truth. His eyes darted between Bonny—still wounded, still limping—and the encroaching blackness ahead.
Hopelessness coiled in his chest like a tightening vine. It was cold. Suffocating.
Bonny didn't get a chance to respond.
A new voice, sharp and venom-laced, sliced through the tension like a knife.
"Let me answer that for you."
Sawyer froze.
The voice didn't echo like the others. It cut—crisp and cold.
From the shadows stepped Melinda, descending with a terrifying elegance from the back of her mount—the largest and most grotesque Hound of them all. She landed softly, her body poised, her gown torn and soaked in grime, yet regal in its own corrupted way. Her left sleeve hung empty, a jagged reminder of the limb she'd lost, but the single hand she had gripped her wand like it was a part of her—an extension of her rage.
Her eyes locked onto Sawyer and Bonny, burning like coals beneath dark lashes, wild with fury and vindication.
"None!" she spat, the word cracking like a whip through the tunnel.
Her wand rose slowly, deliberately. The crimson tip sparked to life, casting an ominous glow that bled into the stone walls like fire on wet ink.
"Magic Law (I)—Sanguis Explodere!"
The words weren't just spoken—they were summoned. Reality seemed to shudder in response.
A sphere of dark red energy began to materialize, humming low, pulsing like a living heart. It hovered in the air, growing with unnatural speed, swallowing the light around it. The stench of iron filled the air. The shadows it cast weren't still—they moved, warped, twisted.
Sawyer's breath caught in his throat. The memory of the last blast came rushing back—pain, air, confusion, impact. His skin prickled, his legs felt rooted to the ground. The fear wasn't just in his body now—it was in his bones.
"Not again!" he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of raw fear.
His body turned before his mind caught up. He ducked instinctively, covering his head with his arms, every nerve screaming, every instinct bracing for the blast. But deep inside, where thoughts still whispered even in panic, he knew—they weren't going to survive another hit like the last one.
And Melinda knew it too.
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Notes: The Riverdale Metropolitan Transit Authority would like to remind all commuters that operating a motorcycle within subway tunnels is strictly prohibited and may result in serious injury, death, and/or attracting the unwanted attention of angry necromancers. Please use designated escalators and platforms.