𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 | 𝐣𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

Her breath was hot and heavy as she turned down another cold, metallic hallway that narrowed into a deadend. She released a slur of creative curses under her breath as she momentarily stopped to catch her breath. The mercenary lifted her hands above her head and gasped for fresh air, only to be half-satisfied by the stale taste of the recycled air.

"I hate small spaces," she muttered under her breath, straightening her back while lowering her hands to the satchel that crossed her chest. She reached down and lifted the flap of the bag to reveal the cream, glistening surface of the stolen treasure.

"Didn't you spend three weeks hidden in a crate aboard a cargo ship?"

Rogue jumped, and placed a hand to still her chest as the small, shifty pickpocket stepped out of the shadows beside her.

"Fleetfoot!" Rogue hissed under her breath, chastising her partner before pinching the bridge of her nose with a sigh. "I'll have you know it wasn't by choice. Most employers don't like when their soldiers swap sides simply because the pay is better."

Fleetfoot scoffed. "As if they wouldn't switch for the right price."

"Honestly, I can't believe I wasn't invited to the party." The mechanic twirled the wrench in his hand before inserting it into the available slot along his tool belt as he walked around the corner. "I'm feeling a little left out."

"Aw, is your FOMO acting up again, Callaway?" Fleetfoot asked with mock sympathy.

"Dalton—"

"I'm not your mother, Callaway," Rogue interrupted before he could finish his complaint. "Did you take care of your side?"

Callaway scoffed, brushing his fingers through his hair, failing to realize the grease that coated the top layer of his head defeated the point of the gesture meant to inflate his ego. "Is that even a question?"

Rogue sucked in a breath of air, turning away so she wouldn't have to physically answer the question. Fleetfoot failed to hold her laughter back a second longer, snickering as she clicked her tongue while shooting a pair of finger guns. "Looking good there, Slick."

Looking down at the machine oil on his hands, Callaway made a sloppy attempt at fixing his hair. Rogue rolled her eyes and finally released the breath of air she'd inhaled before.

"We don't have long now," Rogue reminded the pair. "Witty now, petty later. You'll have all the time in the world to fight once we get off this floating maze."

An amused smirk flashed across Callaway's face as he pointed toward the next hall over. As if pure silver, his tongue quipped with unmatched speed, "And if you look to your left, we have a lovely pair of escape pods prepared to launch our tour of the Pacific Ocean."

"Can you take anything seriously?" Rogue questioned, harshly pushing past the mechanic before tossing her bag into the unlocked pod.

"I don't see the big deal," Callaway laughed, defensively raising his hands before following. "We'll be miles away before they discover we're gone, not to mention all the richer for it."

A beat of silence was all it took for fate to play its tune of cruel irony. The emergency lights in the hallway overhead flashed a vibrant red hue as a shrill alarm echoed through the speaker system.

Fleetfoot and Rogue glanced toward one another with a similar expression before the short pickpocket crossed her arms and directed her attention to the mechanic. "Miles away?"

"I'm a mechanic not a horologist," Callaway muttered, hunkering down into the escape pod so that his head wouldn't smack against the ceiling.

Fleetfoot scoffed. "Pfft, okay. The moans from your bedroom the other night say otherwise."