Chapter 9: Issue No. 2 - Chapter 3
The desert wind near Primm, Nevada howled through the prison yard like an angered spirit, kicking up swirls of dust that stung the inmates’ eyes and coated their tongues with grit. Christian Grimm squinted against the onslaught, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the cracked concrete. Somewhere beyond these walls, the Soul Ruby waited—and with it, the chance to drag Hanz back from the grave.
Vasquez jabbed the barrel of his high-tech stun-rifle between Christian’s shoulder blades. “Keep moving, Hulk Hogan. Our window to safely get you to processing is almost up, and I ain’t looking forward to carrying your steroid-ass.”
Holmes chuckled, adjusting his grip on his own weapon. “Cut him some slack, Vasquez. Dude lost his brother.”
Christian’s jaw tightened, but he only murmured. "Straight to prison? Whatever happened to due process?"
Vasquez answered Christian's question with another jab of the barrel. "You're an escape prisoner, convict, so your due process means jack. Even have your old cell cleaned and ready. So, don't expect this to end like a Robot Chicken sketch."
Christian's eyes flickered with rage, but he held it in. He was more intrigued by the sight of Vincent Galvani. The man carried himself with an easy confidence that didn't match the orange jumpsuit.
Vincent caught his stare and gave a slow, knowing nod—the kind shared between men who'd seen real combat.
"New meat," Coven muttered, his voices layered with disdain. "Another has-been hero turned convict? How original."
Vincent exhaled through his nose. "He's no hero." His eyes followed Christian as he walked across the yard, a callback to a more civilized time in villany.
Coven's many voices dripped with amusement. "Oh? Then what is he?"
Vincent's fingers tapped a silent rhythm against his thigh. "A man with nothing left to lose. Dangerous company."
Coven leaned in, his voices a poisonous whisper. "Aren't we all?"
The yard buzzed back to life around them—inmates trading contraband, guards turning blind eyes. Another dawn in paradise.
Vincent exhaled, counting the hours until sunrise.
Coven's chorus of voices pressed closer, the scent of burnt ozone clinging to him like cheap cologne. "So, Galvanized," the overlapping whispers slithered into Vincent's ear, "are you gonna stare at the fresh catch all day, or we finally discussing our little arrangement?" His tattooed fingers drummed against the power-dampening bracelets, each tap sending faint blue sparks skittering across the concrete.
Vincent didn't flinch. He kept watching the new fish get processed through intake, Christian's massive shoulders barely fitting through the scanner. "Patience, Coven," he muttered, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. "I'm assessing the situation." The lie came easy - he'd already memorized every guard rotation, every blind spot in the automated security. But letting Coven think he held all the cards? That kept the bastard talking.
A dry chuckle slithered from Coven's throat, three different pitches harmonizing into something that made the nearest inmates shuffle away. "Assessment?" The word dripped with mock concern. "Or hesitation? Don't tell me the great Galvanized's getting cold feet now." His shadow stretched unnaturally long in the afternoon sun, fingers twitching like a spider testing its web.
Vincent finally turned, meeting those mismatched eyes. "I don't get cold feet." He leaned in just enough to smell the sulfur on Coven's breath. "I analyze risks. And right now?" A quick glance toward the watchtower where Vasquez was lighting a cigarette. "Getting caught's got higher odds than your last exorcism."
Coven's bracelets flared red for half a heartbeat before dimming. "Equipment's in place," he hissed, voices dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Timing's perfect. What more you need, a signed invitation?" Behind them, some poor schmuck in Block C started screaming about cockroaches in his mattress.
Vincent waited for the commotion to die down before answering. "Assurance." His knuckles cracked as he flexed them. "That this isn't some game. That you're not planning to ditch me the second we're past the fences and the forcefields." The unspoken threat hung between them - Vincent might be locked up, but he'd built his first plasma cannon at sixteen. Prison workshops had better tools than his old garage.
Coven's smile showed too many teeth. "Trust's for suckers, tin man." One voice purred while another snarled. "But our interests align. For now." His shadow stretched toward Vincent's boots. "Your escape? My entertainment."
Vincent snorted. "Entertainment? Thought you wanted out same as me."
The air around Coven shimmered like asphalt in July heat. "Oh, I do." All his voices dropped to a lover's whisper. "But another dance with the young witch who put me in here?" A shiver ran through the yard, unnatural and sudden. "That's the real prize."
For half a second, Vincent considered driving his fist through Coven's smug face. Instead, he wiped sweat from his brow. "The plan. Run it again." Every syllable tight. "Every detail."
Coven obliged, voices layering over each other like snakes mating. "Laundry room vent - third panel's loose. Sector Four's camera glitches every 47 seconds." His tongue darted out, black and forked. "Force field frequency? 467.3 megahertz. Sweet spot's by the south wall where the wiring's frayed."
Vincent's mind raced - calculating distances, timing the patrols. The plan was solid. Too solid. Which meant Coven had been planning this long before he'd ever mentioned it. That realization sat like a lead weight in his gut.
"What about the guards?" Vincent cut in, eyes tracking Holmes flirting with a telekinetic woman from Block D. "Vasquez isn't dumb, and Holmes may play nice, but he's got reflexes like a cat."
Coven's laughter echoed off the concrete walls. "Vasquez takes his coffee black with two sugars at 3:15 sharp." A wink that made Vincent's skin crawl. "Holmes? Let's just say he's got... distractions lined up."
The warning bell rang - five minutes to lockdown. Vincent stared at Coven, at the madness swirling behind those eyes. Every instinct screamed this was a trap. But Gale was out there somewhere... And despite everything, he trusted her.
Vincent turned to Coven. "Alright, demon spawn." Then sighed as Coven spat on the ground between them. "Just... be ready."
***
The interrogation room smelled like stale coffee and desperation. Amanda shifted in the metal chair, acutely aware of the broken bra strap digging into her shoulder. The flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead like an angry wasp.
Detective Walsh dropped a file on the table with a thud that made her jump. "So, Ms. Smart," he said, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard. "You wanna explain why a college student was playing superhero at the museum?"
Across the table, Amanda crossed her arms—then quickly uncrossed them when she remembered her current wardrobe situation. "I was just trying to help," she muttered, glaring at the two-way mirror where she knew other cops were watching.
Walsh sighed, popping the lid off his coffee. "Help? You nearly got yourself killed by a two-hundred-pound wrestler with a metal arm." He took a sip, wincing at the temperature. "Cripes, this tastes like battery acid."
Amanda's fingers tapped against the table. "I held my own, didn't I?"
"That's not the point, kid." Walsh leaned forward, his trench coat rustling. "You're not trained. Not equipped." His eyes flicked to her torn sports bra before quickly looking away. "And frankly, not dressed for the job."
A blonde female officer walked in. Her gaze held on Amanda's endowments before turning her attention to Walsh. "I just received word. Grimm's been processed at Primm."
Walsh nodded at the female officer, who winked at Amanda before leaving.
Walsh shook his head then waited until the door clicked shut again. "Look, I get it. You've got powers. That's... new." He rubbed his temples. "But Christian Grimm? That's pro-level villainy. What were you thinking?"
"That someone had to stop him!" Amanda's voice cracked. "He was going to steal that ruby to—"
"To what?" Walsh's pen hovered over his notepad. "This is the part I actually care about. Why'd Grimm want the Scarab Heart so bad?" He asked, nodding to one of the two rubies in a cellophane evidence bag.
Amanda hesitated. The ankh around her neck pulsed warm against her skin. "He... he thought it could bring his brother back."
The detective's pen froze. "Hanz Grimm? That's not possible." But his eyes said he'd seen stranger things.
Dr. Douglas's ghostly form materialized beside Amanda, visible only to her. "Tell him about the ruby's properties," he urged. "The resurrection myths."
Walsh frowned at Amanda's sudden distraction. "You getting psychic radio signals or something?"
"Or something," Amanda muttered. She took a deep breath. "The Ruby Scarab Heart isn't just a gem. It's... a vessel. According to ancient texts, it can hold a soul. Maybe even transfer one."
The room went quiet except for the hum of the AC unit. Walsh's coffee sat forgotten, a dark ring staining the file folder.
Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Well, shoot." He grabbed the evidence bag before leaning back. The chair creaked under his weight as her stared at the two rubies inside. "That explains why Grimm's been hitting every occult museum from here to Vegas."
Amanda nodded. "He's desperate. Grieving." She thought of Christian's hands around her throat, the raw pain in his voice. "But that doesn't make him any less dangerous."
Walsh studied her for a long moment as he put his hands in his trench coat pockets. "You're not wrong." He sat up and tapped the folder. "I'm gonna cut you loose. But—" He held up a finger when she started to smile. "No more vigilante crap. At least not without backup."
Amanda opened her mouth to argue. But she paused when Walsh stood and took off his coat. "And please consider something more combat ready next time." He covered her with the trench coat. "Don't worry. I have a whole closet of them."
Amanda gratefully accepted the trench coat, wrapping the oversized fabric around her like a makeshift shield against the world. The wool smelled like stale coffee and gunpowder, with just a hint of pine-scented aftershave. "Thanks, Detective," she muttered, tightening the belt with a tug that sent dust motes swirling. "I appreciate it. But I'm not making any promises about the vigilante thing." Her fingers brushed against something lumpy in the pocket - probably spare change or receipts.
Detective Walsh shrugged, the fluorescent lights catching the silver in his scruffy beard as a tired smile crept across his face. "Didn't think you would." He jangled his keys absently before fishing out a peppermint from another pocket. "There's a car waiting outside. It'll take you wherever you need to go." The candy crunched between his teeth. "Even the Nevada state line if you're feeling adventurous."
Amanda arched one eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared under her pink bangs. "Really?" She crossed her arms, making the oversized sleeves flap like wings. "That's awfully generous for someone who was just about to book me for grand theft." The ankh around her neck pulsed warmly against her collarbone, as if laughing at the situation.
Walsh chuckled, the sound like gravel in a tin can. "Let's just say I've got a soft spot for people with good intentions." He leaned in conspiratorially, the scent of peppermint and Old Spice suddenly thick between them. "And a healthy dose of powers." Straightening up, he added with a wink that made crow's feet appear at his eyes, "Besides, I'd rather have you out there keeping an eye on Grimm than sitting in a cell."
As Amanda pushed through the station's heavy doors, Dr. Douglas materialized mid-stride, his golden form casting no shadows across the pavement. The streetlights made his translucent mustache gleam as he frowned. "A car to the Nevada state line?" His voice had that particular disapproving tone that reminded her of her philosophy professor. "That's awfully convenient, Amanda. I don't trust it."
Amanda rolled her eyes so hard she nearly tripped over a sidewalk crack. "I know, I know." The night air smelled faintly of tacos and exhaust as she adjusted the trench coat's collar. "But I'm not exactly in a position to refuse." Through the parking lot gate, she spotted the waiting sedan - black, of course - its windows tinted darker than her freshman year goth phase. "Besides, maybe I can find out what Grimm's planning."
The driver's door opened with a hardly-audible pneumatic hiss as Amanda approached. The woman behind the wheel couldn't have looked more like a clichéd government agent if she tried - sharp bob haircut, aviators despite it being midnight, lips pursed in permanent disapproval. She nodded once, the motion barely visible in the dim light, then tapped something on her wristwatch.
Amanda hesitated, her fingers twitching toward the ankh as she glanced back at the glowing police station windows. Her ribs still ached from Christian's metal fist, and she suddenly wished she'd asked Walsh for aspirin. "Well," she whispered to no one in particular, tasting blood where she'd bitten her lip earlier, "here goes nothing." The leather seats sighed as she slid in, the scent of new car and gun oil assaulting her nose.
Before the door had even fully closed, Dr. Douglas phased through the headrest like a very judgmental ghost. "Now," he began in that lecturing tone that made Amanda's eye twitch, "about that outfit, young lady..." His translucent finger wagged pointedly at her yoga pants, which now sported several new rips from broken glass encounters.
"Oh for -" Amanda pinched the bridge of her nose, the trench coat's oversized sleeves flopping dramatically. "Doc, please." The car purred to life, nearly silent but for the faintest electric hum. "Not now."
Douglas remained stubbornly unfazed, floating cross-legged mid-air as the sedan merged onto the highway. "But Amanda," he insisted, gesturing with both hands now, "you can't go around fighting supervillains in a sports bra and yoga pants!" Streetlights strobed across his see-through face as they passed under overpasses. "It's impractical, it's dangerous, and frankly," he added with a very pointed cough, "it's a little bit... revealing."
Heat rushed to Amanda's cheeks as she pulled the trench coat tighter. "I'm working on it, okay?" The words came out sharper than intended, hanging between them like an accusation. Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of color. "Besides," she muttered, jabbing a finger into the seat's memory foam, "it's comfortable." The ankh pulsed again, warmer this time. "What do you want me to wear, a combat leotard?"
"Well, yes, actually," Dr. Douglas replied without missing a beat, his golden hands already sketching designs in the air. "Something with armor plating, energy shielding," his mustache quivered with excitement, "maybe even a built-in jetpack..."
Amanda cut him off with a sharp bark of laughter that made the driver's shoulders tense. "Doc, you've been watching too many supernatural documentaries." She sank deeper into the seat, the leather cool against her neck. "I'm not Jonas Richmond, okay?" The city limits sign flashed by in a blur of reflective green. "I'm just a college student trying to do the right thing."
As the sedan accelerated onto the open highway, Amanda absently shoved her hands into the trench coat's pockets - and froze. Her fingers brushed against something decidedly not lint. Slowly, carefully, she extracted a clear plastic evidence bag containing two familiar blood-red gems. The streetlights made the rubies glitter mockingly, their facets catching every passing headlight.
"Well," Amanda breathed, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears, "shit."