The cold steel promise nestled under the blonde Amazon's jacket was more than a threat; it was the universe's way of reminding Dare Jackson that even cosmic curveballs came with IRS-level interest. Princess Olivia Van der Linde, impossibly radiant and looking at him like he'd sprouted a second head made of platinum, was suddenly blocked by the human equivalent of a brick wall topped with platinum-blonde fury. Sylvia, the name tag on her severe suit flashed under the weak Detroit sun. Sylvia's icy eyes scanned him like faulty merchandise, lingering on his tightly closed fist.
Dare's mind scrambled faster than a cornered roach. The humming coin felt like a stolen grenade. Explaining that to Officer Brick Wall? No way. Old Man Pete moaned softly nearby, a shivering heap of misery. Dare glanced at him, then back to Sylvia's steely gaze. Fuck it. Survival mode kicked in. Pure, unadulterated grift.
He plastered on his best 'dumb but harmless' grin, the kind perfected dodging security guards. He subtly turned his body, shielding his fist from Sylvia's direct view against his threadbare parka. "Easy now, officer! Ma'am!" he rasped, injecting layers of poorly feigned panic. "Just found this! Looked real weird! Thought it fell off your fancy ride!" He made a big show of starting to open his hand, offering the coin back. "Probably trash, right?"
Inside, he screamed: Please God, let her buy this! Let her be the kind of rich that thinks everything outside their bubble is garbage. The coin pulsed warmly against his palm, the faint hum a reminder of the terrifying power he'd just accidentally unleashed on Leroy. Could it make her believe this crap? Could he even control it if he tried?
Sylvia's frown deepened, unmoved. But in the back seat, Princess Olivia leaned forward further, those startling blue eyes burning with intensity. "What is it?" Her voice was softer than Sylvia's, curious. Not a demand, an invitation. Her gaze wasn't on Sylvia's gun bulge, but locked on the sliver of purple Dare couldn't quite conceal.
Invitation? Or intrusion? Dare thought wildly. This wasn't fear; it was fascination. Why? Because he looked funny? Because he was poor? Because he'd blurted out the world's lamest pick-up line? The coin hummed louder, a quiet thrum only he could feel. Sylvia saw Olivia's interest and tensed further. "Ma'am, window up." Her hand tightened on the grip.
The standoff stretched, brittle and cold. Sylvia's command hung in the air like a guillotine blade. Pete shivered violently. Dare's options crumbled: comply and get snatched or worse? Run and get tackled? His gaze flickered from Sylvia's ice to Olivia's unexpected fire. Fuck survival. Time for a stupid miracle.
He squeezed the coin tight. Just believe… believe that old man over there needs medical help. Urgently. He focused the desperate thought not at Sylvia, but past her, towards Olivia. Make HER believe it. Make her SEE Pete's misery like it matters. He put every ounce of his fear for Pete and fear of Sylvia into that silent command pushed towards the princess. The coin grew hot. Pressure built behind his eyes like a migraine bloom.
For a terrifying second, nothing happened. Sylvia's knuckles whitened on the unseen gun. Dare braced for impact.
Then Olivia gasped. A sharp, small sound that cut through the tension. "Oh!" Her eyes snapped from Dare's fist to Old Man Pete, crumpled and forgotten in the trash-strewn gutter. Her expression shifted—curiosity eclipsed by startlingly genuine horror. "Sylvia! That man! He looks dreadful!" Her voice held authentic alarm. "We must help him! Call someone! Now!"
Sylvia flinched, startled by her charge's sudden focus and intensity. Her professional glare flickered towards Pete. The old man did look terrible—shivering, pale, covered in grime. But seconds ago, the Princess hadn't seemed to register him. Now, it was her sole focus. Sylvia hesitated, torn between the potential threat (Dare) and the immediate, visible distress (Pete).
"I can… I can get him somewhere warm," Dare seized the moment, his voice rough but earnest, playing on Olivia's unexpected compassion. She actually cares? Or is that the coin? "Know a place nearby. Shelter." He kept his fist hidden. The pressure behind his eyes eased slightly. The coin cooled. It had worked. Somehow.
Sylvia assessed him, then Pete, then her Princess, whose face was etched with concern. Her hand eased off her hip slightly, though her suspicion remained razor sharp. "Fine," she clipped out, pulling out a sleek phone. "Get him out of here. Now. Both of you." She snapped a picture of Dare, then turned her attention back to Olivia. "Ma'am, we have security protocols. Window up." She pressed a button. The tinted window began its silent, remorseless ascent, slowly cutting Dare off from the impossible vision of the Princess who had actually looked at him.
Olivia didn't protest immediately. Just before the window sealed completely, her intense blue gaze locked onto Dare one last time. Not curious anymore. Not horrified about Pete. Something else. A flicker of… puzzlement? Recognition? It lasted a heartbeat, then the dark glass slid shut, transforming the expensive sedan back into an impenetrable fortress.
The car pulled away, sleek and silent, leaving Dare standing in the biting wind beside a shivering Pete, the echo of Sylvia's threat and Olivia's unsettling gaze clinging to him. His relief was short-lived, immediately drowned by a wave of nausea so intense he doubled over, dry heaving onto the filthy sidewalk. The pressure behind his eyes became agony. What was the cost? He fumbled the coin into his pocket, its warmth now unsettling.
He got Pete to the rundown shelter nearby. The volunteer behind the plexiglass barely glanced at them. As Dare helped Pete onto a cot, the old man grabbed his arm with surprising strength. "That lady… that lady in the car?" Pete whispered, his eyes wide and glassy. "She had an… aura. Gold and… and purple sparks. Like your fist did when you yelled." He shuddered, collapsing back.
Dare froze. Pete saw the energy? The backlash headache pulsed harder. This coin wasn't just power. It was trouble with a capital T. Trouble that could get him killed… or noticed by things much worse than Sylvia's glares. Trouble that glittered with impossible platinum blonde hair.
Manhattan, three hours later. The penthouse apartment atop the Van der Linde Tower offered views of Central Park blanketed in pristine snow. It looked like a carefully curated dreamscape. Inside, the air hummed with quiet luxury.
Princess Olivia Van der Linde paced the plush Persian rug. Her cashmere wrap lay discarded, forgotten. The image burned behind her eyelids: the skinny Black guy, eyes wide with panic and something else… power? His strange purple artifact. Old Man Pete's raw suffering that had somehow pierced the layers of her privileged insulation. And that ludicrous, brilliant pick-up line: 'You come here often?' It hadn't been smooth. It had been… disturbingly honest? Raw?
Sylvia stood at attention by the panoramic window. "Security sweep completed, Ma'am. He's Darius Jackson, 26. Prior convictions: petty theft, trespassing, one misdemeanor possession. Serial drifter. No known affiliations. The coin artifact… uncataloged. Origin unknown." Her tone was clinical. The unspoken judgment was clear: gutter trash.
Olivia waved a dismissive hand, impatient. "I don't care about his record, Sylvia. I care about that man. Pete. Did he get help?"
Sylvia paused, thrown. "I… dispatched an anonymous alert to local outreach services, Ma'am. Standard procedure."
"Anonymous." Olivia stopped pacing, turning to face her protector. The steel that rarely surfaced in Olivia's public persona was evident now. "Standard procedure isn't enough. That old man mattered, Sylvia. Seeing him… it felt different."
"Ma'am, with respect," Sylvia persisted, voice tight. "This Jackson character. He's unpredictable. You felt something unusual? Near him? Could be drugs, residual fumes…" She trailed off, clearly referencing the inexplicable shift in Olivia's focus back on the street.
Olivia touched her temple. A faint, ghostly echo of pressure pulsed where Dare's pain had surged. "Not drugs," she murmured, more to herself. "Energy. Unfamiliar. Powerful." She looked out the window at the pristine, expensive snow far below. Her world felt sanitized, predictable… stifling. That morning, in the gritty Detroit street, she hadn't just seen desperation; she'd felt something real. And Darius Jackson, with his impossible coin and his terrible line, was the epicenter. She turned back to Sylvia, a glint of determined defiance in her pale blue eyes. "Find him, Sylvia. Not to intimidate. To talk. I want to understand… what happened today." The princess didn't ask. She ordered.
Later that evening, huddled in his drafty 'palace' within the auto plant ruin, Dare cradled the coin in the flickering light of a stolen emergency candle. Its purple and gold seemed to move in the flame.
His head still throbbed. The encounter replayed constantly. Sylvia's gun. Olivia's eyes. Pete's cryptic words: aura. Gold and purple sparks. Like your fist. It confirmed the terrifying reality. This wasn't luck. This was something else.
He pulled out the crumpled receipt he'd used as a drawing surface for a map to the shelter. On the back, in hurried, shaky lines, he'd sketched what Pete described: a thin figure with outstretched fist radiating jagged gold and purple energy bolts. Beneath it, he wrote:
Object: Dumpster Coin v1.0
Primary Function: Make shit happen? (See: Leroy's Foot // Princess Care Mode)
Side Effects: Migraine from hell. Vomiting potential. Old people seeing glow-shows?
Caution: Attracts Royal Pain & Gun-toting Blondes.
A sharp, unnatural tap-tap-tap echoed from the factory's rusted metal roof. Like pebbles, but too precise. Too rhythmic. Dare froze, candlelight dancing wildly as he blew it out instantly. Silence pressed in, thick and heavy. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. Rats? Detroit rats didn't tap. Wind? No wind inside the crumbling walls. Fear, colder than the Detroit winter, clamped onto his spine. Was it Sylvia? Paranoid rich folks sending clean-up crews? Or… was it something drawn by the coin's energy pulse back on the street? Something that made the human threats seem suddenly quaint?