Oaths Are for the Obedient

[Fab]

Serrano:
“Euphemisms for execution, Mr. ‘Dagger’? You’ll have to queue behind the others. I wake up to those threats more often than my alarm clock.”

Serrano reached for a napkin, casually dabbing the grease off his fingers. It gave him time to break eye contact -- just long enough to shift the dynamic.

Serrano:
“You’re just doing your job. Guardian of the Republic, keeper of the peace. A clean conscience wrapped in red tape.”

He rotated the terminal back toward himself with deliberate calm. A flash of green confirmed the thumbprint -- one layer of security in a life lined with tripwires. Without ceremony, he hit the confirmation key.

Serrano:
“Signed. Sealed. The intel’s yours.”

His fingers danced briefly across the keyboard. A faint click -- the recessed data drive hissed free. Serrano removed it between two fingers and placed it neatly on the table, like a playing card in a quiet gamble.

Serrano:
“Every second we waste, the trail goes cold. Riegel isn’t the type to leave footprints.”

He powered the machine down. A soft whir, a final blink of light. Serrano folded the terminal shut, clicked the travel handle into place, and set it beside him.

Serrano:
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my meal. Might be my last chance to enjoy something that isn’t served cold in a metal box.”

Without further pause, he unwrapped the towering burger, eyes briefly flicking to Dagger-2 with something between defiance and exhaustion. He took a deliberate bite -- calm, measured. Waiting.

Serrano didn’t flinch when the threat landed. Not because it didn’t scare him -- he was already scared, in ways Dagger-2 couldn’t begin to understand. But threats like that? That was a kind of comfort now. It meant the game was still in play. The moment no one threatened him, that’s when he should start running.

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