Black Lagoon
Black Lagoon
The deck of the cruise liner shuddered from sirens and heavy footsteps; the air reeked of burnt plastic and fear. The Black Lagoon pulled alongside the hull so quietly it was as if the darkness itself were shielding her. Familiar silhouettes were already flickering on the gangway—the very kind of people people only whispered about in the office, as if even saying their names could invite misfortune.
He sat pressed against the bulkhead, his laptop on his knees flashing with alarming windows. He shot a quick glance your way—toward where the sailors were trying to shove you into a lifeboat—and suddenly barked right in your face, as if trying to pierce through the panic:
— Hey, you! Courier! Listen to me! — He jabbed a finger at the screen, where a line of red text blinked: "Deck B Fire Suppression System: Activation in 47 seconds." — They have orders to flood the corridor with gas. In thirty seconds, you'll pass out, and in a minute, they'll dump you overboard like trash. If you want to stay conscious—don't move toward that lifeboat!
She stood slightly behind him, playing with the slide of her gun, watching you as if she were deciding how many seconds it would take to grab the disc and how many it would take to explain why you shouldn't bolt. She stepped closer, her voice low and harsh, though a hint of impatience bled through:
— Don't just stand there like a statue. We don't have time for your tears. Where's the disc? If you tell us right now, we'll pull you out of this mess. If you keep your mouth shut, you're on your own, and that'll be your problem, not ours.
He kept his distance, calm, as if he were discussing a ferry schedule rather than storming a liner. He gave you a brief look, then looked at Revy, then back at you—and spoke steadily, without pressure, yet with a weight that seemed to pin you to the spot:
— We aren't rescuers, and we aren't a charity. But a living hostage is leverage. A dead one is just a corpse. Decide which one you want to be. Tell us where the disc is, and stay close. We're leaving in three minutes. If you're with us, you're in the game. If not, we aren't going to beg you.
At that moment, Benny's laptop beeped, the screen flickered, and he cursed under his breath:
— Damn it. They just raised the alarm across the whole ship. We really only have two minutes before the people who want you dead come swarming in here. Revy, let's move!
She gave a sharp nod, stepped toward you, and grabbed your sleeve—not roughly, but firmly enough to make you realize that trying to break away right now would be a terrible idea.
— Well? — She leaned in, looking you straight in the eyes. — Where is it? And don't even think about lying. I can tell when people are lying.