Before he was "Scotch," he was just a man with an ordinary name—one of those forgettable ones like Daniel or John. But names have a funny way of sticking to people, even if they don't quite choose them. And when it came to his name, he didn't get a choice either.
It happened on a mission just few years ago, not long before he earned his stripes as one of the elusive S-Class agents. Back then, he was just another operative, biologically modified yes, but still in nascent stages of adapting to his new body, trying to make his mark. The assignment had been deceptively simple on paper: neutralize a weapons cartel hiding out in a remote, barely inhabited town.
The town in question—Ravenridge—wasn't much to look at. A handful of dusty streets, a crooked church steeple, and a smattering of ramshackle buildings that leaned more on hope than structure. It was the kind of place where time seemed to hold its breath, where the past clung too tightly for the future to make room.
But beneath its dilapidated facade, the cartel had built a fortress. Their weapons cache wasn't just a pile of crates—it was an underground labyrinth, packed to the brim with enough firepower to light up the entire state.
---
The plan was supposed to be surgical. A stealth infiltration, neutralizing key targets, and securing the weapons. That was the plan.
But things never go as planned, do they?
They had just breached the outer perimeter when everything went to hell. One of the newer recruits—hotheaded and trigger-happy—got spooked by a guard and opened fire prematurely. The silence of the night shattered into chaos. Alarms blared, spotlights flickered on, and suddenly the entire town was awake.
Scotch remembered barking orders, trying to salvage the mission as gunfire erupted from every direction. He moved quickly, taking out guards with precise shots, but the cartel had the numbers, the firepower, and the home-field advantage.
Back then, Scotch wasn't the walking inferno he is now. Sure, he had fire powers—those came standard with the whole genetically enhanced super-agent gig—but "mastering" them was a generous way of describing how he used them. In reality, he was more of a walking hazard.
For instance, his flames didn't just burn what he wanted; they burned everything. Once, during training, he tried to light a dummy on fire and ended up torching half the obstacle course. Another time, he managed to set his own boots alight. It got so bad that the training officers made him carry around a fire extinguisher as part of his standard gear.
Which is why, on this particular mission, Scotch wasn't relying on his powers. He was still using a pair of pistols like some old-time cowboy, his fire abilities relegated to emergencies only—real emergencies. Not "oops, I accidentally melted the trigger again" emergencies.
And then someone—he never figured out who—shot something they shouldn't have.
---
The first explosion rocked the ground beneath him, sending a plume of fire and debris into the air. He barely had time to take cover before the second blast followed, louder and closer.
The cartel, realizing their cache was compromised, had decided to scorch the earth. They began detonating the entire arsenal, sacrificing everything to cover their tracks.
The fires spread fast. Buildings collapsed like card towers, their wooden frames no match for the inferno. Civilians fled in panic, their screams lost in the roar of the flames. Scotch and his team scrambled to evacuate the townsfolk, but the fire was merciless, consuming everything in its path.
---
In the middle of this chaos, Scotch found himself in the ruins of what used to be a saloon. It was one of the last standing buildings, flames licking at its edges.
Inside the burning saloon, he had tried to use his powers to clear a path through the flames. He concentrated, raising his hand like he'd seen in all the movies, willing the fire to bend to his will. Instead, the flames just got... angrier.
"Cool, cool, super helpful," he muttered, slapping at the edge of his jacket as it caught fire.
That's when he saw the bottle of scotch sitting on the bar, serene as could be amidst the chaos. It almost felt like it was mocking him.
A single bottle of scotch sat on the bar, untouched by the fire that devoured everything else around it. The amber liquid seemed to glow, reflecting the inferno outside.
Scotch stared at it for a moment, the absurdity of it cutting through the chaos. He could hear his team yelling for him over the comms, could feel the heat of the flames closing in.
"Figures," he grumbled, pulling out one of his pistols and aiming at a fallen beam blocking his way. He shot at it—because why wouldn't he?—but the wood didn't budge. So he tried shooting around it. That also didn't work, but he did manage to ricochet a bullet into a nearby mirror, which shattered spectacularly.
"Great," he said, coughing through the smoke. "Now I've got seven years of bad luck and third-degree burns."
Eventually, he just resorted to kicking the beam out of the way like some underpaid action star. By the time he reached the bottle, he was half-singed and thoroughly irritated.
And yet, he grabbed the bottle, and held it up like a prize. "Well, at least you survived," he said to the bottle.
It didn't respond, of course. It was a bottle. But in that moment, Scotch felt like they understood each other: both of them stubborn, a little rough around the edges, and entirely out of place in a situation that should've killed them.
Why did he do that? He didn't know. Maybe it was defiance—a tiny, pointless act of saving something when everything else was being destroyed. Or maybe he just thought, If I'm going down, I'm doing it with a drink in hand.
---
By the time he stumbled out of the saloon, the fire had consumed most of the town. He carried the bottle like a trophy, coughing from the smoke, his uniform scorched and his face streaked with soot.
His team stared at him, wide-eyed.
"You went back in—for that?" one of them yelled, pointing at the bottle.
He didn't answer. He just held it up, the label still intact, and gave a lopsided grin. "Damn good year," he said, before collapsing onto the ground.
One of his teammates looked at the bottle and deadpanned, "Oh, thank God, you saved the alcohol. Mission success."
"Priorities," Scotch wheezed, holding up the bottle in mock toast.
---
The mission was technically a failure. The cartel's weapons were destroyed, but so was Ravenridge. The town was wiped off the map, its name reduced to a footnote in classified reports.
But stories have a way of spreading, especially when they're ridiculous. By the time they returned to HQ, everyone had heard about the agent who braved a firestorm to save a bottle of scotch.
The nickname started as a joke. "Hey, Scotch, you bringing drinks to the debrief?" someone teased. But it stuck, as nicknames often do.
And in a strange way, it fit. Scotch wasn't just about the bottle—it was about surviving the fire, about walking out of an inferno with nothing but a drink and a grin.
---
Years later, when he was officially inducted as an S-Class agent, someone asked him if he wanted to change his codename to something more... imposing.
He just laughed. "Nah," he said, twirling the bottle he still kept as a memento. "Scotch works. Goes down smooth, burns like hell."
And so, Scotch he remained.