A wall of blue and red lights cut through the city fog as an armored police convoy thundered down the main avenue. Sirens wailed. Engines roared.
Three blacked-out police cruisers formed a tight triangle, flanking a beast of a transport vehicle in the center, a reinforced mobile containment rig, twenty feet long, matte black, and built like a war tank on wheels.
This wasn't just any prisoner escort.
This was for Big Rick.
Inside the armored transport, the hum of containment systems buzzed beneath the low growl of tires on asphalt. The air was tense, tight.
Big Rick sat at the center of the containment cell, locked into a reinforced mag-harness. Chains coiled around his wrists and ankles, thick enough to tow military tanks. His breathing rasped through the mechanical muzzle strapped across his face, eyes like stormclouds fixed on the four armed officers seated across from him.
They were elite. SWAT, but sharper. Dressed in black Horizon-issue tactical armor, helmets sealed, visors down. Each held a high-caliber plasma rifle across their lap, not standard-issue. The kind used for things the average cop wouldn't live to describe.
Sergeant Bill Garcia leaned forward slightly, staring at Rick like a pit bull sizing up a chained lion.
"You're one mean, ugly motherfucker," Garcia muttered, voice hard and dripping with contempt.
The other three chuckled.
Rick didn't flinch. Just stared. Like a mountain daring the wind to try.
Garcia smirked, voice rising. "Not so big now, are you... Small Rick?"
"Only thing he's terrorizing now is the cockroach population at TheHole," said Jimmy Johns, the youngest of the team, with a cocky grin under his visor. "Maybe they'll name a cellblock after him. Block B-Rick."
More laughter.
Garcia continued, enjoying himself. "Big guy thought he was untouchable just 'cause he's large and loud."
"And ugly as fuck," added Dwayne Morris, shifting his grip on the gun. "Dude's got a 99.9% ugly rating. Good thing his strength doesn't match his face or we'd all be paste."
The laughter echoed again. Dark, smug, nervous underneath.
Big Rick let out a low grunt.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a warning.
Outside, the police cruisers kept pace like guard dogs. The lead car scanned for threats, the rear tailing with a drone overhead, feeding live surveillance to Horizon Command.
The destination: Manhattan Superhuman Detention Facility . "The Hole."
But everyone in the convoy knew the truth.
When you move someone like Big Rick… it's not a question of if something goes wrong.
Just when.
Inside the front cruiser, Sergeant Matthew Mayors sat behind the wheel, eyes scanning the foggy road ahead. Beside him, Officer Joey Smith leaned back, relaxed but alert.
"After this year's done," Matthew said, "I'm finally hanging it up. Maybe buy a little ranch in Texas. Abigail, the kids, quiet life. You know?"
Joey chuckled. "That'd suit you, Matt. You're fifty-two, man. About time you passed the torch. Let the young blood handle the crazy."
"I've put in my time," Matthew nodded. "Busted gangs, cleaned up streets, got medals and scars to prove it... but—"
"But them cockroaches keep coming," Joey said, finishing the thought.
"Exactly," Matthew sighed. "And the worst of 'em? Superhumans. You can't lock 'em up easy. Some days I wonder… what happens if one of them turns on us?"
Joey raised a brow. "Like when that Caitlin Night Show building blew up?"
"Yeah. No proof it was a superhuman, but… what if it was?" Matthew glanced sideways. "What if it was someone like Firepower?"
Joey frowned. "Come on, man. That's insane."
A beat of silence.
Then Matthew muttered, "Yeah… that's some crazy shit. Guy's saved the world like, what, eight times?"
"Too many to count," Joey said. "People like that… they're heroes.
"I just wanna get away from all this, man," Matthew said, sighing. "I just…"
Just then, a semi-truck blew through the fog from the opposite end of the intersection, headlights off, engine howling like a beast. It veered directly into their path, metal glinting in the chaos.
"Watch out!" Joey screamed, arm shooting forward.
Impact.
The collision was cataclysmic.
The police cruiser didn't just crash, it crumpled. Steel folded like paper as the truck slammed into the front-left fender, lifted the car into the air, and sent it skidding sideways in a spiral of sparks and shattered glass. The windshield exploded inward. The doors bent around the frame. Sirens died in a gurgle.
Matthew died instantly.
The steering column punched through his chest like a spear, pinning him to the seat. Blood soaked his shirt in a second flat. His eyes went glassy, still staring ahead at the quiet life he'd never reach.
Joey died twenty seconds later.
Crushed between twisted metal and the dashboard, he wheezed out a final breath through broken ribs and collapsed lungs, his hand twitching toward the radio that was no longer there.
The force of the collision sent shockwaves through the convoy.
The rear cruiser swerved hard to avoid the wreck, and clipped a streetlight. It flipped once, twice, and landed upside down, smoke and sparks spewing from its undercarriage. One officer was launched clean through the windshield, skidding across the pavement like a ragdoll in black armor.
The lead vehicle was gone.
The containment rig, now leaderless and unbalanced, jackknifed at the intersection. Its massive weight made it impossible to stop in time. Tires screeched. The rig slammed into a fire hydrant and then tipped. The back end lifted off the ground before the entire transport rolled, once, then again, like a downed beast.
Inside, chaos.
The four armed officers were tossed like dice. Helmets cracked. Guns clattered. One screamed, and then was silenced when his spine hit the bulkhead wall. Another was knocked out cold, visor shattered.
The containment systems flickered, then failed.
Alarms howled.
Red lights blinked. Chains disengaged.
Big Rick's mag-harness unlocked with a metallic hiss.
He slumped forward… then rose. Slow. Deliberate. Like a bear waking from hibernation, except now the cage was gone.
He pulled the muzzle from his face and let it drop with a clang.
The smoke. The blood. The chaos. It didn't faze him.
Bill Garcia opened his heavy eyelids.
Pain thundered through his skull. His head throbbed. Every limb screamed in protest as he tried to push himself off the floor of the overturned transport. The air reeked of smoke, metal, and blood.
Then....
A low grunt echoed above him.
Bill looked up.
Big Rick was standing there, towering over him, unmoving. Just staring. His muzzle was gone. His face, scarred, monstrous, still, looked carved from stone and rage.
Panic surged through Bill's chest. He needed a weapon. Now.
Fighting through the pain, he fumbled toward his leg, his fingers brushing over the familiar grip of a sidearm still strapped to his thigh. Thank God.
He yanked it out, flicked the safety, and aimed at the monster looming over him.
He fired.
The bullet hit Big Rick square in the face, and bounced off.
The round clinked to the floor, flattened, useless.
Bill's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat.
No. No, no, no…
He fired again. And again.
Trigger. Muzzle flash. Click. Nothing.
Empty.
He began to shake.
Then sob.
"I'm sorry..." Bill gasped, the words tumbling out. "Please… I have kids, man. Please don't....."
Big Rick stepped forward. Slow. Deliberate.
Like a hangman walking to the gallows.
And nothing, not the gun, not the begging, not the tears, was going to stop him.