D struggled in the backseat, sweat slicking the cuffs.
He had to get out.
He had to survive.
The cuffs keeping his hands firmly behind his back were soaked with sweat from his panicked struggle. He could do nothing but think of the best way to plead for his life—should he fall to his knees and beg, or maybe tell her about his powers? Maybe if he can get his contacts out, she'll leave him alone. He figured it was his best bet, given he doubted he'd ever get out of the restraints.
This is how I die.
He tried to calm his breath. He closed his eyes, feeling tears begin to form.
This is how I die? Like a tied pig for Christmas dinner? No fucking way, what a joke.
His mind went blank as he prepared to meet death's embrace.
The car door opened, and the outside noise of the city filled the vehicle. D expected to feel cold steel push into his skin, but instead, he heard her voice for the first time.
"Step out of the vehicle, Mr. Cross."
Slowly, he opened his eyes at the firm command and saw her standing just outside the open door. He stared at her—wide-eyed, his face slightly wet, his pants a little soiled.
She sighed. "Please, do not make me repeat myself."
"L-look, whatever it is you want, I SWEAR I don't have it, and I didn't see anything! I'm not a snitch, I swear!"
She didn't respond, only stared at him—her expression flat, just like the one she had given the cop before his head was separated from his body.
"Alright, suit yourself." She reached into a pocket on her outfit, tossed a small pellet into the car, and closed the door with a sadistic smile that lacked any warmth.
D's heart skipped a beat. Finally remembering he had legs, his body launched toward the open door—but it slammed shut in his face. Fear quickly turned into frustration. He started bashing against the door, momentarily forgetting his fear.
"WHAT'S THE BIG IDEA?" he yelled into the glass. "Are you trying to kill me, save me, or torment me?!"
Before he could throw out another question, the pellet she tossed exploded into a mass of purple gas. D smelled it as it invaded his nose—utterly putrid. He tried holding his breath, knowing it was futile.
He heard the car door creak open again. This time, he bolted for it, pushing out of the door and landing face-first on the pavement, arms still behind him.
"Glad to see you changed your mind," the woman said, looming over him.
He slowly pushed himself off the ground and attempted to get to his feet.
"Let me guess—you didn't want to make a bloody pincushion of me inside your new police car, so you made me come out here."
She scoffed. "Oh, is that what you think?"
He grunted, finally getting onto his knees. "Yeah, and I hate to break it to ya, but there's already plenty of dried blood inside your new ride."
Before he could rise to his feet, she grabbed him by his dreads and held him there, walking behind him.
"And I suppose you think this has something to do with your father?" She looked down at him.
"Wouldn't exactly be the biggest surprise of the night, lady."
"It's Spire."
"…What?" he asked while trying to struggle against her grip.
Her grip tightened on his scalp as if she planned to rip his head off.
"My name's not 'lady' it's Spire."
Her tone made it clear: get her name right or join Officer Headless over there.
"Alright… Spire. Sorry about your ride,"
he tried to sound as sincere as he could in this situation.
"Now, if you could let go of me, I've got bingo at 9 at the old folks' home, and Mabel hates it when I'm late."
He swore he heard her let out a small chuckle at his sly comment.
"Ever the jokester, Mr. Cross," she said.
He heard the sound of something mechanical growing louder above them.
"Ma always said I had the makings of a comedian," he continued, slipping back into his friendly act.
"But enough about me—it's your lucky day. You've got a slightly used police cruiser. Have fun with your new ride." He forced a smile.
"I don't think we'll have to worry about that, Mr. Cross. That will be our ride." She pulled his head back by his hair, forcing him to look upward.
What he saw made his stomach drop—a black vehicle that looked like a cross between a jet and a helicopter, resting atop a nearby building. The blades whirred loudly enough to be heard, but not as loudly as a typical helicopter.
That's when it hit him—she had said 'our' ride.
He struggled against her grip, trying to twist his head to look at her.
"WAIT A MINUTE!" he tried with all his might to stand. "The fuck do you mean OUR ride!?" Fighting against her was like wrestling a bear trap.
"How little you know…it's…Shameful in a way," was the last thing he heard before the grip of her rapier struck the back of his neck, and the world went black.