The M-TEAM, go misfits

The rusty double doors of the disused dockland warehouse didn’t just open—they were forcefully deleted from existence.

With a deafening CRUNCH, Ye Olde Large Lad hit the corrugated steel like a runaway freight train. He didn't bother using a breaching tool; he simply leaned his immense frame into the metal, taking the hinges, frame, and half the surrounding masonry with him.

He stepped over the wreckage, dusted off his high-vis jacket, and looked around the cavernous room with deep, unimpressed boredom.

"Door's open," Ye Olde Large Lad rumbled. "Mind the step."

Behind him, the matte-black, dented utility van—known affectionately as The Salty Dog—screeched to a halt at a 45-degree angle across the entrance.

In the driver’s seat, McFinleyyy kept the engine revving, his hands a blur as he slapped the steering wheel. "That’s three seconds faster than the dry run! Tell me someone timed that!"

"Focus, McFinleyyy!" Sarah snapped from the passenger side, leaning out the window with a pair of heavy-duty cable cutters and a megawatt tactical flashlight. "Susan, hand me the flashbangs—the good ones from the boot!"

"Already on it!" Susan called out from the back, balancing expertly against the portable tea station while tossing two tactical smoke canisters toward the central gangway. "And don't drop them this time, Sarah, my tea is steeping!"

In the middle of the warehouse, six syndicate goons stood frozen in absolute shock, their sidearms halfway out of their holsters. Tied to a wooden chair beneath a flickering overhead bulb was their target: a terrified local official who looked like he deeply regretted his life choices.

Down from the van’s passenger side stepped Sgt. Salty. He wore an unbuttoned tactical vest over an old fleece, holding a steaming mug of loose-leaf Barry’s Tea blended with Earl Grey in one hand. 

He took a slow, deliberate sip, adjusted his cap, and stared down the guards.

"Right then, lads," Sgt. Salty declared, his voice echoing off the rafters. "We can do this the hard way, or we can do this the ridiculously stupid way. And frankly, I didn't drink three cups of Earl Grey to negotiate."

ZRRRRR!

High above in the shadows of the rusted roof trusses, a frankensteined drone taped together with yellow electrical tape and a WhizzAir sticker buzzed into life.

"Air support online!" WhizzAir reported over the comms, ducking behind a stack of wooden pallets while maneuvering his controller with frantic thumb flicks. "Target locked! Standard baggage fees apply for rescue operations! I'm dropping the payload!"

The drone hovered directly over the primary guard and released a heavy, aerosol-can-fueled smoke bomb. Thick, purple smoke filled the aisle instantly.

"Go, go, go!" Sgt. Salty yelled.

Chaos erupted in second gear.

The goons opened fire into the smoke, but Ye Olde Large Lad simply stepped in front of the barrage like a human brick wall, casually disarming two guards by knocking their heads together with a sound like two bowling balls colliding.

Sarah vaulted over the van's hood, flashing the high-lumen light directly into the syndicate leader's eyes. "Hold still, you're in my shot!" she shouted, sweeping his legs out from under him with a textbook sweep.

Susan sprinted right past the firefight, sliced the hostage’s bonds in two clean swipes, and grabbed the official by his collar. "Up you get, sunshine! McFinleyyy’s on a meter!"

"Incoming from the loading bay!" WhizzAir shouted, making his drone buzz within an inch of a guard's ear, causing the man to drop his weapon and swat frantically at the air like he was being attacked by a mechanical wasp. "Two more hostiles! They look cross!"

"McFinleyyy, reverse maneuver!" Sgt. Salty ordered, taking another calm sip of tea as a stray bullet shattered a crate two feet to his left. "Give 'em the bumper!"

"Executing the Dublin Drift!" McFinleyyy howled, slamming the van into reverse, spinning the back end around, and sending a wall of empty tea tins and spare parts scattering across the floor to create an improvised obstacle field.

Ye Olde Large Lad scooped up the rescued official like a bag of laundry and tossed him through the open side door of the van, right next to Susan's tea setup.

"Everyone in!" Sgt. Salty barked, hopping into the front seat without spilling a drop.

Susan and Sarah dove through the side doors, Ye Olde Large Lad crammed his massive frame into the back, and WhizzAir landed his battered drone right through the open rear window onto a pile of blankets.

"Floor it, McFinleyyy!"

With tires howling against slick concrete and engine roaring, The Salty Dog shot backward out of the shattered entrance, spun a hard 180 into the alleyway, and vanished into the night—leaving behind six dazed syndicate guards, a cloud of purple smoke, and an empty wooden chair.

Sgt. Salty checked his watch, took a final sip, and nodded in quiet satisfaction.

"Two minutes flat. I love it when a completely reckless idea comes together."