"Don't try to act tough," Volt snapped, narrowing his eyes. "And stop wasting our time. You can't harm us unless you wanted to end your life here and now too. So, for the last time, what are YOU doing here?"
Scotch—opened his mouth to retort, but the thumping sound from earlier restarted. The heavy, rhythmic bam-bam-bam echoed through the cargo hold, cutting off whatever snide remark he had planned. He raised an eyebrow, clearly reevaluating his approach.
"Leave here," Scotch said suddenly, his tone sharp and commanding. "I'm taking over this mission. It's above your paygrade."
"Why?" Volt's voice rose, his usual swagger replaced with outright fury.
Ghost and she exchanged puzzled glances, both caught off guard by Volt's uncharacteristic hostility.
"Who is he?" she asked quietly, her grip on her sword tightening.
Volt exhaled through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. "Scotch," he spat. "An S-Class agent. One of only two in our entire organization."
Her eyes widened. S-Class? She'd heard whispers about them—operatives so skilled they were practically untouchable. Her mind wandered to Q3 and his ted talk when she had first joined the organisation. It's seems forever ago, but in earth days it has been less than an year. His talk had prepared her for the mystery of these agents but seeing one in action—and watching Volt visibly seethe—was a whole different experience.
Volt took a deliberate step toward Scotch, his fists clenched like he was ready to throw a punch. But halfway through his stride, he stopped, muttered something under his breath, and turned sharply, striding toward the exit.
Ghost raised an eyebrow and gave her a subtle shrug before following Volt. She lingered for a moment, still trying to process the sudden shift in control, before deciding to follow suit. With a flick, her sword retracted to her hand as a bracelet.
---
The tense silence stretched completely drenched in uncomfortable silence as they made their way back to the extraction point. Volt walked ahead, his fists clenched at his sides. He didn't look back, and neither she nor Ghost dared to break the quiet. Volt's usual sharp remarks were replaced by tense quiet, his entire demeanour rigid and closed off.
She glanced at Ghost, raising a questioning eyebrow, but he only shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "I mean, I get it. Volt's mad that we didn't get to wrap up the mission ourselves. Not every day the big bad S-Class swoops in and steals the show." He said in a low voice to her.
For once, she didn't feel like replying, though the weight of unspoken questions pressed against her. Ghost, however, had removed all such reservations.
"Yikes," he said, glancing between the two of them. "Somebody's mad they weren't allowed to finish the case. Volt, buddy, need me to steal your thunder next time?"
Volt didn't respond immediately, his steps steady and deliberate. Finally, without turning back, he said, "No. The mission was finished. Our task was only to subdue the pirates. And we did."
His tone was clipped, final, like he didn't want to discuss it further.
"Right," Ghost said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "If you say so, boss."
Her eyes flicked between them, sensing there was more to Volt's frustration than he was letting on. But his demeanour was impenetrable, and Ghost seemed to have decided not to push further.
She frowned, sensing there was more to it than that, so she exchanged another puzzled glance with Ghost and let the conversation drop. The storm brewing in Volt's expression warned her that now wasn't the time to ask questions.
For once, she chose to stay silent.
---
Back on the ship, Scotch stood near the subdued pirates, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. He remained behind, leaning casually against the railing as the extraction team loaded the subdued pirates onto a separate transport vessel. His usual smirk had softened into something more introspective, his sharp gaze scanning the aftermath.
He surveyed the scene with a calculating expression, his gaze briefly flicking over the captured men and women.
It was remarkable, really, that some of them had even survived the operation. That thought lingered for a moment before his attention shifted.
As the pirates were hauled past him, Scotch stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. His boots clicked softly against the metal deck as he approached the corner where several unconscious pirates had been restrained.
One pirate lay slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow but steady. His cybernetic arm was severed clean at the joint, the metal edges of the break gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. Scotch crouched beside the man, his fingers brushing the jagged edge of the wound.
A sword mark.
"A sword, huh?" he murmured to himself, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Scotch's fingers flexed unconsciously, as if tracing the memory of her blade's movements in the air.
Straightening up, Scotch's eyes drifted across the deck, his mind replaying the fight he hadn't witnessed but could clearly envision. He thought of her—the agent with the nanotech blade. The way she flicked her sword and restored it to nanobots bracelet surprised him. He didn't let it show ofcourse.
He turned back to the pirate, tilting his head as if the unconscious man could provide answers. "She's got some skill," he said to no one in particular, his voice carrying a strange mix of curiosity and approval.
"All that speed, skill and a deadly weapon and still alive enemies."
He chuckled under his breath, his amusement dark and layered with something unspoken. "Interesting."
The faint hum of the ship's engines filled the silence as Scotch took a step back, his smile lingering. His mind churned with possibilities, the image of her swordplay vivid and sharp.
"A sword," he repeated, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. "Haven't seen that in a while. I will have to see this when I am back. I wonder what name…"
As the ship pulled away from the coast, Scotch leaned against the railing, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His smile deepened, and his fingers flexed unconsciously at his side, as though itching for a chance to meet that blade head-on.