Quicksand

“Hey, don’t just stand there watching, stone face. If you’ve got a drop of
human blood in your veins, help me out here!” Pluto VIII shouted fervently.
His words must’ve done the trick because D grabbed a thin coil of rope off
the back of his saddle and dismounted. “If you screw this up, the rope’ll get
pulled down, too. So make your throw count,” the man squawked, and then
his eyes went wide. The gorgeous young man didn’t throw him the rope.
Keeping it in hand, he started to calmly walk into the quicksand. Pluto VIII
opened his mouth to howl some new curse at the youth, but it just hung
open—and for good reason.

The young man in black had started to stride elegantly over deadly jaws
that would wolf down any creature they could find. His black raiment
danced in the wind, the moonlight ricocheting off it as flecks of silver. He
almost looked like the Grim Reaper coming in the guise of aid, but ready to
wrap a black cord around the neck of those reaching out to him for succor.
The rope flew through the air. Excitedly grabbing hold of the end of it,
Pluto VIII tied it around his bike’s handlebars. The rest of the coiled rope
still in hand, D went back to solid ground and climbed onto his cyborg
horse without saying a word.

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