Salty Service Chapter 4

The dust was still settling in the broken cabin of the Syndicate outpost when the team finalized their sweep. Inside a small, bolted room that Large Lad had generously 're-evaluated' with his boot, they found her. Lucy, looking a bit tired but unbroken, was tied to a chair.

Her eyes, however, widened with true shock when she saw who had broken in. It wasn't the regular police. It was a man with a beard and a uniform vest that just said 'SALTY' on a badge, and behind him, a ragtag collection of human misfits and a very determined St. Bernard.

"Sergeant Salty?" she asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and hope.

"The one and only, Lucy," Salty (the dog, but also the man) gave a curt, professional nod, before adding for the group, "Status: Objective acquired. Location: Secure... well, mostly. Next objective: Fuel."

"Fuel?" McFinleyyy (a younger, scruffier misfit in a leather vest) stepped forward, uncoiling a pair of wire cutters with a grin. He looked less like a rescuer and more like someone looking for trouble.

"Affirmative," Salty replied. "Salty-operative has entered a high-intensity fuel-critical state. We need chips. Stat."

"Chips?" Lucy asked, looking at McFinleyyy as he began to cut her bounds. "I thought you were special forces. You’re fixated on chips?"

"Lady, in this unit, chips are special forces," McFinleyyy chuckled as the last rope fell. He then paused, appraising her flight-suit-clad form. "Can you walk?"

"I think so, just—" Lucy started.

Before she could finish, McFinleyyy spun her around, ducked, and poof—she was 'thrown' over his back in a caveman-style carry.

"What are you doing? I can walk!" she yelped.

"Too slow," McFinleyyy grunted, walking with purpose toward the door. "And besides, this is much faster. Like a sack of potatoes, yeah? Only prettier."

Lucy made a face that was half-outraged eye-roll, half-'okay, this is ridiculous but also kind of efficient,' and her hand flew up to near his ear, holding her dog tags. A slight, faint blush crept onto her cheek. She was the pilot; she flew things that went Mach 2. She was currently being fireman-carried by a scruffy man who had just used a 'prettier than a sack of potatoes' line.

"Just get me to a vehicle, and no more potato analogies," she ordered, but a small smile was forming.

Salty, leading the way with a satisfied woof, was already calculating the most efficient route back to the red convertible and the nearest fish and chip shop. Large Lad, in the background, was walking backwards, giving a final thumbs-up to the destroyed cabin door. The Govna was still squinting at the complex map, muttering. 

The group was chaotic, inefficient, and bizarre. But they had the pilot. And most importantly, they were on their way to chips.