"I assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor."
– Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of Four
"Commander, incoming transmission from MR5. They're requesting docking clearance."
The bridge of the seaQuest thrummed with quiet intensity, every crew member absorbed in their tasks. Holographic displays and luminous interfaces filled the room with a cold, blue glow, reflecting streams of underwater topography, encrypted communications, and system diagnostics. Amid this controlled hum, the announcement regarding MR5 sliced through the tension, sending ripples of unease across the deck. Eyes flickered toward the source of the message, curiosity bubbling just beneath the surface.
Lieutenant Commander Hitchcock frowned, her expression tightening as she stepped toward the communication unit. "Why is that request coming directly to the bridge?" Her voice was sharp, as her gaze locked on the incoming feed. "That should've gone straight to the launch bay."
Lieutenant O'Neill glanced at her, his hands moving swiftly over the console. "I don't know. But it's legit. I spoke to Commander Ford myself."
Hitchcock folded her arms, her stance rigid, alert. Something felt off. Minding the seaQuest in Captain Bridger's absence was a responsibility she took seriously, and a misrouted message, especially one from Ford, raised her instincts. "Patch me through."
O'Neill gave a nod, his fingers flying over the controls. A moment later, Commander Jonathan Ford's voice crackled through the speakers.
"Everything okay, Jonathan?" Hitchcock kept her tone neutral, but she didn't miss the edge in Ford's reply.
"Yeah, all good," Ford said, though there was a tightness to his words, an unnatural lightness. "Just a mistake. Pressed the wrong button."
Hitchcock's brows knit together. "I'll redirect the clearance then."
"No need," Ford cut in quickly, his voice too smooth. "I'll handle it."
Her instincts flared. Ford was hiding something. "Understood." She motioned to O'Neill. "Notify the launch bay to receive MR5." She ended the transmission, the uneasy feeling growing in her chest.
"Chief," she called, gesturing to the security officer standing near the captain's chair.
Chief Crocker stepped forward, sensing her concern. Though the bridge remained outwardly calm, Hitchcock could feel the heightened awareness from the crew. They knew something wasn't right.
"Take a team down to the launch bay," she murmured. "Keep it discreet, but I want eyes on Ford and anyone stepping off that vessel."
Crocker's expression hardened as he nodded. "You expecting trouble, Commander?"
Hitchcock's lips thinned into a grim line. "I don't know. But let's be ready for anything."
Nathan Bridger blinked, the cold metal beneath him pulling him back to the present. He hadn't realized he'd moved from where they had shoved him, now seated on a bench in a dim, metallic cell. Across from him sat Andrea Dre, her posture stiff, her eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead.
Years had passed since their last encounter, but the anger in her gaze was familiar—the same fury he'd seen when he'd exposed her conspiracy. The same look she'd given him at the Summit during her trial. Her vendetta against him hadn't dimmed with time.
He could still hear her whispered threat in his mind: "I'll make you regret this." That promise, even after all these years, felt fresh.
Now here they sat, side by side, trapped in a cold, sterile cell that smelled of damp metal and stale air. The years between them hadn't softened the animosity. If anything, the distance only sharpened it.
"How did you get here, Dre?" Nathan asked, keeping his voice low, as if testing the tension between them.
She didn't respond immediately. Her fingers traced the outline of her chin absently. "Long story," she muttered, her voice dry, rough. Her eyes, once fierce and contemptuous, now looked hollow.
Nathan glanced around their prison. The cell was small, with two metal slabs serving as beds and a bucket in the corner. The stench clung to the walls.
Dre let out a tired scoff. "I was in UEO custody. Life sentence, as you know. Then came the raid—quick, professional. They took me. I suspect I was the real target."
"Why you?" Nathan's curiosity piqued, though he already had suspicions.
"Political leverage," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "They always need someone to pull the strings. You should know that by now."
Bridger exhaled slowly, processing. "They want to embarrass the UEO? Or more?"
"They want more than that. Casero offered me freedom—a position in his new regime—if I cooperate." She hesitated for the first time, uncertainty flickering across her face. "He's planning something much bigger than just a split from the UEO."
Nathan's eyes narrowed. "And you haven't accepted?"
Her gaze sharpened as she gave him a dry smile. "Do you think I'd still be rotting here if I had?"
Bridger leaned back, his mind racing. "I delivered your ransom today, Dre. But Casero clearly has no intention of letting you go. I don't think my being here is a coincidence either."
"Ransom?" Dre's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise flashing across her face. "I didn't know you were coming."
Nathan's eyes darkened. "That makes two of us."
Before he could continue, a loud clatter echoed from the hallway outside the cell. He exchanged a glance with Dre, who immediately straightened, her body tensing.
"I think we're about to find out exactly what they want," she muttered under her breath, her voice filled with grim resignation.
Lucas ran a hand through his hair, watching Darwin swim in slow circles beneath the surface of the moon pool. His mind was buzzing with all the new projects he'd been working on, but something felt off. He glanced over at Dr. Westphalen, who had been quietly listening to a private call on her PAL. As soon as she hung up, Lucas could see the concern etched into her features.
"Everything okay?" he asked, his voice tentative.
Kristin gave him a distracted nod. "I'm not sure. Stay here, Lucas. I need to check on something."
Lucas watched her hurry out of the room, the knot of unease tightening in his stomach. Whatever had Hitchcock said to her, it wasn't good.
Commander Ford's knuckles whitened as Casero's men finalized the docking procedures. The younger officer paced anxiously near the airlock, his fingers brushing the handle of the gun at his hip. He kept his composure, despite the mounting frustration gnawing at him. Casero held all the power here, and Ford could do little while the man controlled the situation. But he had managed to get word to the bridge—Hitchcock knew something was off.
Now, as Casero's men boarded the seaQuest, Ford braced himself.