She found Patchy in one of the training arenas, leaning casually against a wall like he had all the time in the world, in his hand, a cup. His omnipresent smirk told her he already knew she was coming.
"Mr. B," she called out, her tone sharp and to the point, "we need to talk."
"Patchy," he corrected lazily, not even glancing up from his cup. "If you're going to insist on disturbing my rare moment of peace, at least call me by the name you've so affectionately given me."
"Patchy," she called out, her tone clipped, "we need to talk."
"Ah, speedy," he said, his grin widening as he tilted his head lazily toward her. "What can I do for you today? Another mystery to solve, or just here to brighten my day with your shining personality?"
She ignored his jabs, a little startled at how much he was talking today, and marched right up to him. "What did you mean back in the med bay? About me not having a name? Because I've been here for months, and this is the first I'm hearing of it."
Mr B gave a dramatic sigh, pushing off the wall and standing to his full height. "Straight to the point. I appreciate that. Alright, let's have the 'name talk.' Walk with me."
Without waiting for her agreement, he began strolling toward the observation deck, hands casually tucked into his pockets. She followed, trying to keep her frustration in check.
"First of all," Mr B began, "real names are off-limits. It's one of our cardinal rules. Too dangerous. Keeps families, friends, and whatever's left of your past lives safe. Use your real name, and all it takes is one leak, one slip-up, and suddenly Black Sun or someone worse is at your mom's doorstep, asking her what she knows about her little operative child. You get the idea. You think Black Sun would've stopped at Dagger's eye if they had his actual identity? They'd have gone for his family, his neighbors, probably his childhood pet just to make a point."
She blinked, the weight of his words sinking in. "That's… dark." She felt slight anger boiling thinking why only now she was being told all of this. That reminded her of her first mission, that senior agent's immediate reaction on her trying to introduce herself. That Black Beast. Urgh.
"Welcome to the world you signed up for," Mr B said, glancing back at her. "Using real names is like painting a big, shiny target on everyone you've ever cared about. So, instead, we give you names. Names that can't be traced back. Like me, for instance."
"Patchy. Very creative," she deadpanned.
He chuckled. "Mr B used to have a meaning. But now no one cares. And I don't care about the names anyway. Too old."
She blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. "Okay… but you forgot one thing.I don't have family anymore."
"Only in a data sense of things. We did declare you dead. But that's a standard procedure and everyone knows that," Mr. B said, setting his cup down with a soft clink. "Doesn't matter, anyway. Real names are a risk, plain and simple. That's why agents get code names. Keeps things clean, keeps things safe."
"And I don't have one because…?"
"Because names are earned," he replied, leaning back in his chair. "Or assigned, if you take too long to earn one. Council does it, or if you're lucky, someone like me steps in."
Her brow furrowed. "So what are you waiting for? You've had months."
"Oh, I've had names lined up for you," he said, his grin growing. "But none of them felt right. I heard Speedy Gonzales in one of the missions, that felt a little right. Maybe you should start wearing a Sombrero."
She groaned audibly. "You're kidding."
"Why not?" Mr. B gestured broadly. "You're fast, aren't you? Blisteringly fast. The kind of fast that makes cameras cry. Plus, you don't strike me as a 'Tank' or a 'Dagger.' So why not Speedy?"
"Because it's ridiculous!"
"Ridiculous, but accurate," he countered, smirking. "Don't knock it until you've tried it. Names evolve. You might be Speedy today and something else tomorrow. Just the nature of the beast." he replied, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "Look, names are meant to define you in some way. Tank's a wall of muscle who could probably bench press a small car. Volt? All sparks and electricity, obviously. Dagger's a walking silent weapon. And you? You're fast. Fast enough to trip a camera rotation, dodge a blade, and get yourself into trouble."
"Wow," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'm so honored to be named after a cartoon mouse."
Patchy laughed. "Hey, it could be worse. I once met a guy named 'Whiskers.' Don't ask."
She shook her head, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "So that's it? I don't get a say in this?"
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to stay calm. "So, I just have to wait for you to grace me with something better?"
"Or impress the council," Mr. B said casually. "Your call. You do something big, something that sticks, and your name will come to you."
"And if I don't?"
"Well," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "then I get to keep calling you Speedy Gonzales."
Her glare could've melted steel. "You're impossible."
"And yet here I am, running this madhouse," he replied, raising his cup in mock toast.
She leaned against the railing beside him, her frustration giving way to curiosity. "What about your real name? Do you even remember it?"
Mr B's smirk faltered for just a second before returning, softer this time. "I remember it. But it doesn't mean much anymore. The person I was before this? He's long gone. Same goes for everyone here."
"What about your agent name?"
"Ah, my agent name," he said, his grin turning nostalgic. "Believe it or not, it was 'Bypass.' Stealth missions, infiltration, getting through places no one else could. I was good at it, too. The Mr B thing came later. And even later came Patchy. An unfortunate nickname, courtesy of an equally unfortunate scar."
She tilted her head, squinting. "So why not keep Bypass? It's way cooler than Mr B." No way you got called Bypass because of stealth missions but she kept that thought to herself. This was probably the most important thing she learnt in her time here. Keeping shut.
"Cool doesn't get you respect," he said with a shrug. "But a face like this?" He tapped the scar running along his temple. "Memorable. And in this line of work, memorable is everything. Now, unless you have another existential crisis to throw at me, I've got paperwork to ignore."
There was a beat of silence between them, the weight of his words hanging in the air.
Finally, she broke it with a sigh. "Alright, fine. But Speedy Gonzales? Come on, Patchy. You're better than that."
He tapped his chin, pretending to think. "Alright, I'll make you a deal. Do something truly memorable on your next mission, and I'll reconsider."
"Memorable like what?"
"Oh, I don't know. Save the day, blow something up, make Volt laugh—anything that makes me think, 'Wow, maybe she's not just fast.'"
As she walked away, Patchy called out after her, "Don't forget, Speedy! Your destiny awaits! Oh, and try not to break any more ribs next time. I'm running out of sarcastic ways to say 'be careful.'"
She didn't bother looking back, flipping him a half-hearted wave instead. But despite herself, she couldn't help but feel a little lighter. Maybe the name thing wasn't so bad after all. At least for now.