The days blurred together in a way they hadn't for her in a long time. Between intense training sessions with Vance and the quiet, solitary evenings in her quarters, she realized just how much her life had shifted since she'd joined the organization. It wasn't the chaos of missions or the adrenaline that came with life-or-death decisions—it was the stillness that caught her off guard.
Training with Vance was relentless. He pushed her harder every day, his methods precise and unyielding. "You've got potential," he'd said once, after a particularly grueling session where her muscles felt like jelly and her lungs burned. "But potential means nothing if you don't refine it."
And refine it he did. Whether it was hand-to-hand combat, tactical maneuvers, or endurance drills that seemed designed to break her, she found herself improving. Her strikes were faster, her reflexes sharper. Even her stamina—once a glaring weakness—had improved. Yet, despite the physical exhaustion, her mind often wandered.
She hadn't seen Volt, Tank, or even Ghost in days. For a team that had been thrown into life-threatening situations together, their absence left a strange void. Ghost would've filled the silence with his usual sarcasm, poking at her in the way only he could. Tank's steady presence would've brought a sense of calm to the room. And Volt? She couldn't quite place what his absence left behind, but she felt it all the same.
The isolation gnawed at her in unexpected ways. She had grown so accustomed to their dynamics—the banter, the occasional arguments, and even the tense silences—that being without them felt almost unnatural. It wasn't that she disliked the calm; she simply didn't know how to exist in it anymore.
Her evenings were spent staring out of her window at the endless expanse of sky, the horizon a mix of colors she couldn't name. Sometimes she'd replay old missions in her head, dissecting her decisions, wondering if she could've done something differently. Other times, she tried to picture what her family was doing at that moment. Were they thinking of her? Or had her absence become just another part of their lives?
One evening, she received a message from Vance.
Training adjusted for tomorrow. Be ready by 0600. Don't be late.
She sighed, setting the holopad aside. Vance wasn't the most talkative of mentors, but he was effective. She'd given up trying to figure him out after the first week. He was a machine in human form—cold, calculating, and efficient. And yet, there were moments when she caught a glimpse of something more beneath his composed exterior.
"Good work today," he'd said after one session, his tone almost grudging. It wasn't much, but coming from Vance, it felt like high praise.
Still, the days lacked the spark of camaraderie she'd come to expect. She couldn't help but wonder what the others were doing. Was Volt buried in some mission brief, muttering to himself about tactics? Was Tank tinkering with equipment, his massive hands moving with surprising precision? And Ghost… well, he was probably driving someone crazy with his antics.
She let out a small laugh at the thought, the sound surprising her in the quiet room.
Her holopad chimed, breaking the silence. It wasn't a message from Vance this time—it was a simple notification from the organization. A reminder about her weekly assessment with the medical team.
She stared at it for a moment before shrugging and setting it aside. Routine checkups had become second nature at this point. A necessary inconvenience, nothing more.
As she lay back on her bed, the stillness of the room pressed down on her. For now, calm days were her reality. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. Something that would pull her back into the storm she'd started to think of as home.
She made her way to the medical bay, the quiet hum of the facility filling the corridors. It was her turn for a routine assessment, though the lingering ache in her ribs was a constant reminder that her injuries were far from minor. She didn't mind the checkups—they were quick, efficient, and meant she wouldn't be sidelined for too long.
As she entered the sterile, softly lit room, her eyes landed on someone sitting on one of the recovery chairs: Dagger.
He was out of the chamber now, looking far better than the last time she'd seen him. His bruises had faded, and though he still had a slight limp and the eye patch covering his left eye, he looked… steady. He glanced up as she entered, offering a faint nod of acknowledgment.
"You look less like a corpse," she said, sliding onto the chair beside him.
"And you still look like someone who shouldn't be walking around with just recovered ribs," he shot back, though there was no malice in his tone.
She smirked, leaning back as the med-bot began scanning her injuries. "Fair enough. How are you holding up?"
"Better," he replied, his voice low. "The recovery chamber did its job. Physically, at least." He paused, as if considering his next words. "The doc says I'll need more time for the rest."
She didn't pry; the haunted look in his good eye said enough. Instead, she changed the subject. "I've been wondering… why are you called Dagger?"
A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Because I don't need one."
She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.
"My… ability," he said slowly, "paralyzes people. Just one look is enough to freeze them in place. Perfect for missions where stealth is key and noise isn't an option."
Her mind flicked back to the fight in the corridor, the moment she'd hesitated before taking down that one enemy. "Wait… was that why I almost froze during the mission? That guy had your eye, didn't he?"
Dagger nodded grimly. "Yeah. One of my eyes had been... harvested. They must've implanted it into one of their men. It wasn't as effective as me using it, but it could still mess with you."
She shuddered slightly at the thought. "What happened to it?"
"It's destroyed," he assured her. "You don't have to worry about it anymore."
She exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Well, that's... reassuring, I guess."
Dagger chuckled softly, the sound almost foreign coming from him. "So," he said, turning the conversation back to her, "what's your name?"
She opened her mouth to respond, only for another voice to interrupt.
"She doesn't have one."
Both of them turned to see Patchy or Mr B if you are feeling formal, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.
"What do you mean I don't have a name?" she asked, frowning.
Patchy smirked, his tone almost playful. "Exactly what I said. You don't have one. Not yet."
The confusion on her face deepened, but before she could press further, Mr B pushed off the wall and walked away, leaving her with more questions than answers.