Boom Goes the Dynamite (and Our Sanity), a Necklace with a Mind of Its Own, and Sawyer's Spectacularly Unplanned Exit Strategy
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Author Note: Just when you thought things couldn't get any more explosive, BAM! Sawyer's jewelry decides to throw a rave (a very forceful rave). Get ready for unexpected saviors, lingering questions, and the dawning realization that maybe, just maybe, our favorite goth isn't entirely ordinary.
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This wasn't the first time Sawyer had been caught in the radius of such raw, unrelenting devastation. In truth, it was the third time he'd stood this close to an explosion—each one marking him in ways that didn't fully heal. But this detonation… this one was different.
It wasn't just the force or the scale. It was the feeling—a visceral, unnatural sensation that burrowed under his skin and settled deep into his bones. There was something wrong in the way the light expanded, in how the sound didn't just reach his ears but invaded his mind. The moment branded itself into his memory with a searing clarity that felt cruel, as though the universe had chosen this one instance to etch into his soul, never to fade.
There was no time to react—no flinch, no ducking for cover, no raising his arms to shield his face from the burst. His reflexes, honed from past trauma, didn't even get the chance to trigger. The eruption was instant. A sharp, merciless bloom of sound and light that swallowed everything.
And then… silence.
Or something like it.
Time seemed to falter around him. His consciousness didn't black out but fractured, as if peeling away from the body that had always obeyed him. Everything slowed—too much. He could see the world splinter. The pressure wave moved like a phantom, a rippling distortion of air that bent the very structure of reality as it tore through it. Debris danced in midair like broken feathers. The colors lost their meaning. The sky dimmed without warning.
And then his body lifted.
Not heroically. Not with grace. But violently, cruelly—dragged and hurled by the blast as if he weighed nothing at all. One moment, he was upright. The next, he was a limp figure in the hands of a storm, tumbling through the air like a discarded puppet.
He couldn't scream. Couldn't think. Only observe.
The pain was delayed, and that made it worse. At first, it was like a muffled echo—something happening to someone else. But gradually, insidiously, it began to reach him. It crept along his spine, threaded through his joints, and unfurled like smoke under his skin. His chest burned. His legs throbbed with sharp bursts of agony. Somewhere behind his eyes, something throbbed—deep and hot and wrong.
Still, his mind struggled to catch up. His brain, rattled and spinning, couldn't grasp the full breadth of what was happening. Everything was too fast and too slow. The sensory overload clashed against his need to understand, to survive, and left him stranded in a liminal space between pain and paralysis.
This wasn't just destruction. It was erasure—an event so abrupt and feral that it seemed to want to erase him, too.
But amidst the chaos—the roaring sound, the pulse of heat, the rising agony clawing through his limbs—another sensation abruptly seized Sawyer's attention. It was sharper than pain. More immediate than the explosion. It cut through the overwhelming noise and confusion like a blade of ice: the necklace.
The familiar chain, usually a comforting weight against his skin, now burned cold. Not just cool to the touch—but unnaturally cold. The temperature wasn't just dropping—it was plummeting with frightening speed, as though the very essence of warmth was being sucked from the pendant, leaving behind something ancient and chilling. It bit into his chest with a punishing intensity, as though it were fusing into his skin with frost rather than fire. He gasped, the breath catching in his throat—not from pain, but from the sheer wrongness of it.
And then—something impossible happened.
A light.
It began as a soft, barely visible flicker, a trembling shimmer of blue at the center of the necklace. But it grew. Rapidly. Vividly. A halo of glowing sapphire energy flared outward, surrounding the pendant in an ethereal cocoon that pulsed like a living thing. The color was rich and electric, like liquid lightning—but with a calmness beneath its intensity, like a heartbeat pushing against chaos.
The glow expanded. It wasn't just reacting to the explosion—it was resisting it. Fighting it. Defying it. The blue energy pushed outward, its wave of force slamming into the oncoming blaze of destruction like two titanic wills clashing in midair. Where fire and magic sought to devour, this light created a shield. A boundary. A breath of safety in a storm that refused mercy.
Sawyer could only stare, wide-eyed and numb, as the explosion that had moments ago seemed inescapable was halted—no, pushed back. The necklace's energy didn't just hold the line; it began to reverse the direction of the blast, pressing it away like a tide turned by some unseen moon.
Then came the second wave.
The energy surged again—brighter, stronger—unleashing a blast of its own. Not of fire or flame, but of pure force. Sawyer felt his body lift—then launch. He was airborne before his mind could register it, flying backward, limbs flailing as gravity lost its grip on him. Bonny, too, was thrown, the blue light swallowing them both as it hurled them beyond the radius of the explosion.
The ground hit hard. Or maybe it was his body hitting the ground—he couldn't tell. Everything was spinning. Everything hurt. His vision blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into each other like oil in water. But even through the haze, he could still see it—the explosion, still growing, still alive in the distance.
But it was no longer chasing them.
It had been halted, its hunger stalled by the radiant energy of the necklace. Within the blast zone, the horrors they had been fighting—the undead figures that had clawed and screamed and bled out malice—were disintegrating. Their rotten, unnatural forms began to collapse, the magic holding them together unraveling. Dust. Ash. Faint silhouettes crumbling into the wind, until only smoke remained—twisting, rising, and vanishing into the blood-orange sky.
Sawyer lay there, chest heaving, the necklace now glowing faintly against his skin—no longer cold, but warm. Almost… comforting.
He didn't know what had just saved them.
But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him deeper than the frost ever could, that it hadn't been him.
His vision flickered, drifting in and out of clarity like a faulty projector reel. The world around him had lost its definition—reduced to a hazy mosaic of smoke, ash, and shattered remnants of whatever stood before the blast. The air was thick with heat and grit, the acrid sting of burning metal and scorched earth clinging to every breath he struggled to take.
Each inhale burned. Not figuratively. Not a metaphor. It burned—like he was inhaling fire itself. His lungs constricted violently, rebelling against the toxic air, coughing and spasming until his chest began to throb. A sharp, unbearable ache carved into his ribcage. Panic swelled like rising water in a sealed room.
With instinct overriding thought, he rolled onto his back, his movements sluggish and disjointed. His hands flew to his chest, pounding with frantic desperation—anything to kickstart the stalled rhythm of life. He choked on nothing. He couldn't find his voice. Couldn't scream. Couldn't breathe.
And then it came.
The blue light.
Soft at first—just a shimmer on the edge of his ruined vision. Then it grew, stronger, gentler. It wasn't blinding like the blast had been. It soothed. A wave of it washed over him from head to toe, wrapping around his broken body like warm silk dipped in moonlight. It wasn't just a visual phenomenon; it was a feeling—an undeniable shift from panic to calm, like the hand of something greater than pain had reached out and taken hold of him.
The light coalesced directly above his chest. His limbs trembled as he forced his head up, neck muscles screaming in protest. There, just over his necklace, a small sphere of light hovered—blue, pulsating softly, like a heartbeat not quite his own. It hovered with purpose, as if sensing the damage and taking command.
He let out a groan—more breath than voice—a ragged note that trembled with the weight of both pain and relief. He could feel it. Not just the ache, but something deeper. Change. The light wasn't just energy. It was doing something—repairing. Wherever it passed, the burning subsided. The raw ache in his ribs dulled. The searing in his lungs lessened, just enough for him to draw a shaky, almost clean breath. Something inside him shifted—like broken glass pulling itself back into shape.
Somewhere in the distance—no, not distance, just far away from his awareness—Bonny's voice broke through the ringing in his ears. It was muffled and faint, like shouting underwater, but it was there. Calling his name. Urgently. Frantically.
Sawyer tried to answer, but nothing came out.
His voice was locked behind trembling lips. His throat moved, strained. He wanted to speak—to scream, to cry, to say something. But all that escaped was silence. It wasn't fear this time. It wasn't even pain. It was like the world had turned down the volume on him, leaving him trapped in a body slowly waking up.
But the light was still there. And for the first time in minutes—maybe hours, maybe longer—Sawyer felt like he might live.
The last coherent thought that flickered across Sawyer's consciousness was not fear or pain—it was wonder. A strange, disjointed observation about the sky lingered on the edge of his fading awareness. It wasn't the familiar blue of midday or the soft dimming tones of approaching twilight. What he saw—what his mind barely managed to register—was something impossibly wrong.
The sky had torn open.
A jagged, gaping wound split the heavens above him, raw and unnatural, like reality itself had been pierced by some invisible spear. Through the tear, he didn't see stars or clouds—only endless black, swirling and flickering like a storm trapped inside the seams of the universe. It was terrifying and beautiful in the way certain nightmares are—a surreal final image stamped behind his eyes just before the void claimed him. Then, everything went black, the last threads of his consciousness unraveling into silence.
Bonny was already in motion.
His muscles, stiff with shock moments before, now surged with mechanical precision—reflexes honed by years of experience overriding fear. He dropped to one knee beside Sawyer's body, his eyes immediately assessing the damage. Cuts. Bruising. A nasty burn along one shoulder. But then he felt it—a hum. A soft, steady thrum of magical energy coursing through the boy's body like a second heartbeat.
It wasn't chaotic like uncontrolled magic. It was focused. Intentional. Something—or someone—was healing Sawyer from the inside out. Torn muscle tissue twitched and reformed under the skin. Blood vessels knitted together. Even bone fractures began to close, aligning with silent, invisible guidance. Bonny's breath caught in his throat. He had seen a lot in his life—but this?
This was something else.
Reluctant gratitude bloomed in his chest. He had barely made it out alive himself. If not for the sudden eruption of blue energy from the boy's necklace—magic he hadn't expected, hadn't planned for—they would both be dead. Whatever that power was, it had saved them both. And now it was keeping Sawyer alive.
Bonny stood up fast, his instincts screaming for a scan of the area. He pivoted, hand flying to the hilt of his blade, eyes darting for any sign of Melinda. But she was gone.
So were the undead.
The monsters that had filled the tunnel with their rotten stench and relentless hunger had vanished like smoke. Not even a trace remained—no blood, no bones, no dragging footprints in the dust. Just silence. Heavy and oppressive. The kind of silence that comes after destruction, not before it.
Turning in a slow, methodical circle, Bonny kept his blade drawn, every sense on high alert. The debris-strewn street above was eerily quiet. No movement. No sound. No threat. It was as if the magical storm had wiped the slate clean. Still, the calm did nothing to ease his unease.
With a grunt, he crouched again and hoisted Sawyer over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. The boy was lighter than expected—his body limp, breathing shallow, skin cool from the lingering magic still knitting him together. Bonny adjusted his grip and began to jog, his boots crunching through broken tile and dust, toward the emergency stairwell at the far end of the ruined subway tunnel.
Above them, the world hummed.
It was faint at first, like a distant engine warming up. But with every step upward, the sound of traffic and life grew louder—steadier. Normal. A strange contrast to the war zone they were leaving behind. The stairwell opened up into a wide alley behind an old municipal building, where daylight filtered through thick clouds of dust and smoke.
Bonny looked up.
The tear in the sky was still visible—but it was closing.
He watched as the jagged edges of the wound in the atmosphere drew together, not with speed, but with certainty. It looked like the sky was stitching itself back together, as if some cosmic tailor were pulling the thread tight. It was both awe-inspiring and deeply disturbing. Reality was healing—but what had torn it in the first place?
They were out.
The realization struck him harder than expected. They had exited the Mundus Fictus. The illusion. The nightmare. Whatever that twisted space had been, it was behind them now. Relief surged through Bonny's chest, so overwhelming it made his knees briefly buckle. He caught himself, tightening his hold on Sawyer.
They were alive.
But questions—thousands of them—raced through his mind like wildfire. Who was this boy, really? What kind of power did he carry? What connection did he have to the Bone Witch, and how had he opened a portal out of that cursed realm?
Bonny knew those questions would have to wait.
Right now, survival came first.
He veered into the nearest alley, the narrow walls offering a degree of cover. Once hidden from the main road, he lowered Sawyer gently to the ground. The boy moaned faintly, caught in the throes of unconscious recovery, but showed no signs of waking. Bonny crouched beside him, eyes scanning the street again before reaching to his belt.
From a worn leather pouch, he pulled out an old radio. It was beaten to hell—its antenna bent at an awkward angle, its surface pockmarked with years of abuse—but it still worked. Probably. Hopefully.
He flicked the power switch, listening to the burst of static.
A wry, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I can't believe the legendary Bonny is reduced to asking for help," he muttered under his breath. His voice was dry, bitter, but tinged with a strange sense of humor. Survival could make a man laugh at anything.
He turned the dial slowly, tuning through channels filled with noise and chaos until one clicked into clarity.
"Joe?" he said, the name sharp in the stillness. "Joe, you there?"
No answer—just more static.
Bonny tried again, this time louder. "Joe? It's Bonny. Come in, damn it."
There was no response yet. But he didn't give up. He kept his hand on the dial, ready to twist again. Because he had to reach someone. Because this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
⁕
The coordinates Bonny received led him to a place he barely remembered existed.
According to the encrypted message on his outdated comm device, the extraction point was an old warehouse—one of many forgotten relics scattered a few miles outside the city's steel heart. Once used for storing cargo or forgotten military supplies, it had long since surrendered to dust and disrepair. But it was perfect—hidden from the eyes of the curious, close enough for a fast exit, but far enough to avoid questions. That kind of place didn't need to be clean or welcoming. It just had to be convenient.
He chose the public train over a private ride, despite the risk. The anonymity of the crowd gave him a thin veil of safety, and blending in was far more valuable than speed right now. Carrying an unconscious boy over his shoulder, however, was bound to raise eyebrows. And it did.
A few passengers on the late-evening train gave them sidelong glances—half-curious, half-concerned. Bonny was ready for it. He tightened his grip on Sawyer's legs, adjusted the boy's head against his shoulder, and offered a tight, sheepish smile to anyone who stared for too long.
"Too much to drink," he muttered to a woman in a nurse's uniform who had opened her mouth to speak. "Birthday. Got a little out of hand."
She gave him a knowing look, half amusement, half pity, and turned back to her phone. The others followed her lead, uninterested in pushing further. Most people in the city were too exhausted to involve themselves in anyone else's business.
That worked for Bonny just fine.
A few more stops. The rhythmic lurch of the train. The soft chatter of strangers. The subtle thrum of magic still pulsing from Sawyer's skin against his back—it all blended into a strange lull. Bonny found himself staring blankly at the floor, his thoughts spiraling.
What was this kid? And what the hell had they stumbled into?
When the train finally shuddered to a stop, a soft automated voice echoed through the carriage, announcing their arrival at the edge of the city's suburban limits. Bonny rose carefully, shifting Sawyer's weight and slinging him higher onto his back with practiced ease. No one followed them off the train.
Outside, the station was quiet.
Too quiet.
The streets were wide and cracked, the lamps flickering to life as the last rays of sunlight dipped beneath the skyline. A few houses sat nestled in the distance, their windows glowing with the warmth of dinners and families Bonny had long stopped imagining for himself.
He kept his eyes forward and followed the path into the industrial outskirts.
The warehouse loomed into view ten minutes later—a hulking metal skeleton silhouetted against the dusk, its jagged roofline cutting into the sky. Broken windows stared down like blind eyes. Ivy and rust warred for dominance on the walls. It looked abandoned, and maybe it was—but only to those without clearance.
Bonny approached slowly, boots crunching over loose gravel and broken glass. The main door was half-hinged, hanging crooked like a mouth agape in silent warning. He took a breath and pushed it open.
The groan of metal echoed through the cavernous space, loud and ghostly.
Inside, everything shifted.
Where he had expected rot and silence, there was structure—activity. A team was already waiting for him. Six individuals moved with crisp, deliberate purpose, dressed in matte black suits and fitted boots that made no sound as they stepped. They were lean, clean, and deadly in that efficient, quiet way that said military, even if they didn't wear badges.
One of them nodded at Bonny, recognizing him immediately. No words were exchanged.
Their attention was focused on the centerpiece of the room—a strange machine dominating the far end of the warehouse floor. It looked like a portal torn from the pages of a high-budget sci-fi movie: a massive metal ring, almost ten feet in diameter, anchored to a platform of smooth black stone. But instead of glass or circuitry, its center shimmered with a pale, opalescent light.
It pulsed softly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat.
Bonny couldn't help but stare.
The air around it buzzed faintly, the kind of quiet energy you felt more than heard—like standing too close to power lines in the rain. It was beautiful and unnatural, a thing meant to exist in theories and secrets, not in abandoned warehouses.
He stepped forward slowly, carefully adjusting Sawyer's body on his back, but no one stopped him.
They were waiting for him.
And the gateway… was waiting too.
Two members of the extraction team moved toward Bonny the moment he crossed the threshold, their steps brisk but measured, like soldiers trained not just for combat, but for moments like this—when speed and delicacy mattered in equal measure.
Neither spoke as they reached him, but their eyes said enough. They had seen things like this before. Broken men carrying broken children, clawing their way out of a reality that didn't quite belong.
With a silent nod, Bonny leaned forward slightly, allowing them to take Sawyer's limp body from his shoulders. Their hands were steady, careful—professionally detached, but not unkind. One of them—a tall man with dark skin and a tattoo that peeked from beneath his sleeve—slid an arm beneath Sawyer's legs while the other cradled his shoulders. Together, they moved with the kind of fluid coordination that only came from repetition and training. But even then, Bonny noticed the slight furrow in one of their brows, the subtle pause as they registered the faint pulse of magical energy still vibrating from Sawyer's unconscious frame.
He followed closely as they carried the boy across the vast warehouse space, weaving through stacks of old crates and equipment until they reached the rear sector. There, nestled beneath a low-hanging set of industrial lights, stood a makeshift medical station. Despite the surrounding decay, the space had been scrubbed clean—sterile white drapes hung from portable partitions, enclosing an area where efficiency met compassion.
A team of medics waited there, dressed in soft-blue scrubs and latex gloves, their expressions a mix of anticipation and focused urgency. They did not rush, but every movement was purposeful. A woman with silver-rimmed glasses and an air of authority gestured to one of the cots, directing the team to lay Sawyer down gently.
Bonny stood a few paces behind, catching his breath, the stiffness in his shoulders finally beginning to unravel. His body ached, the adrenaline slowly burning off like morning fog, and for the first time in hours, he allowed himself to notice the sting of a scrape on his elbow, the stiffness in his knee, and the sweat-soaked weight of his shirt clinging to his back.
Before he could say anything, a voice cut through the ambient hum of equipment and murmured instructions.
"This is an emergency transit portal," a young woman called out, her voice rising above the controlled chaos with practiced clarity.
Bonny turned to find her approaching him from the opposite side of the room, a clipboard in one hand, a diagnostic scanner in the other. She moved with purpose but wore a faint, reassuring smile that softened her professional tone.
Her appearance was striking—neatly braided auburn hair tucked behind slightly elongated ears, and a set of delicate, bioluminescent antennae protruding gently from her scalp. They twitched and swayed as she spoke, giving her an almost insectoid grace, though her uniform was perfectly human: a striped white-and-blue shirt tucked into well-fitted gray pants, the attire of someone who balanced function with an eye for precision.
"We need to conduct a preliminary scan," she continued, stepping closer to Bonny. "To check for any magical contamination, deficiency, or residual interference. Protocols are especially strict following portal emergence, and even more so after contact with an unstable realm like the one you just left."
Bonny raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He knew better. Rules like these weren't there for convenience—they were written in blood and desperation. He simply gave a short nod and followed her to the examination cot she pointed at.
She offered the scanner—sleek, silver, and humming with power—then gestured for him to lie back. "It won't take long," she said, her tone softening just a little. "Just stay still and try to relax."
Bonny eased himself onto the gurney with a soft grunt, the metal cold beneath his back. The scanner lit up in her hand, its surface inscribed with softly glowing runes that adjusted based on her grip and angle.
As the scan began, he found himself staring up at the rafters, the ceiling crisscrossed with old beams and newer cables. The faint buzz of magic around him, the quiet beeping of machines, and the faraway sound of Sawyer's vitals being checked—it all began to fade into a strange, surreal quiet.
And for just a second, he let his eyes close.
He was tired—bone-deep, soul-level tired. But most of all, he was afraid. Not of the portal, not of this room full of medics and scanners and rules. But of what came next.
Because they had gotten out of that place.
But they hadn't left it behind.
Bonny gratefully complied, sinking onto the gurney like a man who had carried too much for too long. The moment his back touched the firm surface, his body screamed with the raw ache of exertion. Muscles stiffened with fatigue trembled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, and every nerve pulsed with dull, throbbing reminders of strain and battle. There was no grace in the way he lay down—only the weight of exhaustion dragging him toward stillness.
His eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep that clawed at him like a persistent tide. He blinked slowly, fighting it off, though a part of him longed to give in—just for a moment—to the lure of unconsciousness.
So this is what tangling with a Class A witch feels like, he mused bitterly, his thoughts sluggish but sharp enough to recall the moment Melinda's magic exploded around them. The raw, uncontrollable energy. The unbearable heat. The silence that came after destruction. Her face, aglow with a madness that was too powerful to be human.
The memory clenched his stomach into knots. He didn't like admitting it, not even in his own head, but the truth was as clear as daylight—he had come close to dying. More than once. The odds had not been in his favor tonight, and luck hadn't been the thing that pulled him through. No… it had been Sawyer. The kid had stepped in, taken the blow, and shielded him when it mattered most.
Bonny turned his head slowly, his eyes landing on the pale, motionless form beside him. There he was. Still as death, his face too young to wear that much silence. Bonny's jaw tightened. He hadn't just been fighting for his own life back there—he'd been fighting for Sawyer's too. The boy had become more than a mission. More than an objective.
He had become a burden. A responsibility. A human cost Bonny hadn't been prepared to carry. And it had slowed him down.
He hated that. Hated that it made him feel something like guilt.
"You're clear, sir," a voice interrupted, light and precise. It cut clean through his spiraling thoughts, bringing him back into the sterile present.
Bonny turned slightly, watching the young woman—Sully, her name tag read—as she studied the final readings on her scanner. Her antennae, which had twitched subtly during the scan, now fell still, a soft indicator that no trace of magical contamination remained in him.
"Thank you, Sully," Bonny murmured, his voice gravel-thick with fatigue. The formality didn't quite hide the weariness bleeding through every word.
She offered him a folded ash-gray t-shirt with a smile, and he accepted it with a nod. The fabric was soft and smelled faintly of sterilizer and fresh linen—mundane details that felt almost luxurious after the filth and blood he had waded through tonight. He peeled off his old shirt, revealing bruised ribs and small scrapes, then pulled the clean one over his head with a quiet grunt.
"And the kid?" he asked a moment later, his gaze drawn once more to the gurney beside him. Sawyer hadn't moved. Not even a twitch.
Bonny didn't like that.
His voice was calm, but the question sat heavy in the air. Not just because it mattered, but because Bonny rarely asked about others. His concern, though subtle, was unmistakable. And it hit him in that quiet second just how much the kid had gotten under his skin.
The knot in his chest tightened, heavy and unfamiliar.
Sully studied the scanner's glowing surface in silence, her eyes narrowing as data scrolled across the screen. A slight crease formed between her brows—a small, almost imperceptible sign that something was not quite right.
"He's really low on the charts, sir," she finally said, her voice quieter now, touched by the weight of concern. "His magical reserves are significantly depleted… dangerously so."
Bonny didn't flinch. He had expected as much. The moment Sawyer had collapsed, he'd suspected the kid had burned through everything just to keep them both alive.
Sully continued, adjusting a dial on her device. "We're administering a booster—just a calibrated dose. It's specifically tailored to stabilize him enough for the transit through the portal. It should keep him from crashing mid-jump and ensure he remains functional once you arrive at headquarters."
Her tone was confident, but Bonny could sense the undercurrent of urgency she tried to mask. This wasn't a casual patch-up. This was about survival.
He nodded silently, offering no protest. He understood the stakes better than most. Traveling through a portal—especially one as unstable and wide-aperture as this—required a delicate balance of physical and magical stability. Anything less, and the results were catastrophic.
He had seen it before.
A man, young and reckless, who insisted he was "fine" despite the warnings. Bonny had been on the receiving end of the aftermath—cleaning up what was left of the guy after the portal had torn him apart from the inside out, his atoms scattered like dust across a dimension they never even mapped. It wasn't a death Bonny would wish on anyone, especially not someone who had just saved his life.
With a slow exhale, Bonny reached over to the corner of the gurney where his jacket lay in a crumpled heap. The familiar rustle of fabric greeted his hand as he slid it into a worn inner pocket and retrieved a bent, half-empty pack of cigarettes.
He tapped one out, holding it between his fingers for a second longer than necessary—an unconscious hesitation. Then he placed it between his lips with the kind of practiced ease that only came from habit. Not addiction, not quite—but a ritual. A momentary illusion of control in a world that offered precious little of it.
The sterile air of the warehouse was abruptly broken by Sully's voice.
"No smoking!" she snapped, the friendly tone she'd used earlier vanishing without a trace.
Bonny blinked, startled by the sudden change. Before he could even react, Sully moved with precision. In one sharp, fluid motion, she raised the clipboard in her hand—an observation tablet, sleek and glowing—and brought it down with a decisive whack, knocking the cigarette clean from his mouth.
It hit the floor with a sad little bounce, rolling once before coming to a stop near the leg of the gurney.
"I can't go to all the trouble of patching you up," she scolded, voice rising slightly, "only for you to deliberately break yourself down again with that filthy habit!"
Her tone wasn't just disciplinary—it was personal. A rare blend of medical authority and genuine human concern, the kind of chastisement that came from someone who cared more than she probably should have.
Bonny stared at her, caught between amusement and mild irritation. He opened his mouth, maybe to offer a dry retort, but closed it again. He didn't need to say anything. Not this time.
Instead, he looked away and gave a small, barely-there nod of acknowledgment.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe he didn't need the smoke this time.
Just then, the privacy curtain rustled with a soft, metallic whisper as one of the tech support staff stepped through. The dim blue light from the active portal bathed his face in an eerie glow, casting shadows that made his otherwise plain features look more severe. His tablet beeped softly in his hand, confirming whatever data he'd been checking.
"Portal will be ready for transit in approximately five minutes," he announced, his tone professional, detached—almost clinical. It was the kind of voice someone used after doing the job a hundred times, indifferent to the people involved, focused only on the process.
Bonny barely turned his head to acknowledge him. "About time," he muttered, the words leaving his lips like a sigh rather than a complaint.
His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, and he rolled his shoulders back in an effort to stay grounded. His body still ached in places he hadn't even realized could hurt. But more than the fatigue, more than the bruises, what weighed on him now was the heaviness in his chest—the gnawing anxiety that hadn't left since the explosion.
He glanced over at Sawyer, who remained motionless on the gurney beside him, hooked up to IV drips and surrounded by the quiet hum of monitoring equipment. Bonny had seen men fall in combat before. He'd seen lives vanish in a blink. But watching Sawyer—this kid who had no reason to throw himself into danger for anyone—give everything just to keep Bonny alive… That was different.
He couldn't shake the guilt curling in his gut.
"I just want to get him out of here," Bonny murmured to himself, more to the silence than anyone in particular. "Get him somewhere safe… then maybe I'll figure out what the hell just happened."
But even as he spoke, he knew the night had only begun to unravel. There were questions piling up with no answers in sight. What had triggered Melinda's transformation? Why had the boy's powers responded so violently—and so instinctively—to her attack? And what kind of backup plan had the agency really put in place, if this had been allowed to happen at all?
Bonny pressed a hand briefly to his temple, trying to quiet the storm of thoughts spinning inside his skull.
For now, he reminded himself, the mission was simple: survive the jump, get to HQ, and make sure Sawyer lived through the night.
Everything else could wait.
******
Notes: The Riverdale Emergency Services would like to remind all citizens that while spontaneous bursts of blue energy may look cool, they are not a substitute for professional demolition services. Please maintain a safe distance from any unexplained luminescence and contact the appropriate authorities immediately. Also, avoid inhaling ash. It's bad for you.