Sprite shut the hatch, unnecessarily keeping her head low in the hall. The place was an old museum, rundown and closed several years. It had once been a functioning submarine from the old days. Days well before even Sprite’s time.

This crew had been calling this home for seven or eight weeks now, many of the rooms currently only housing backup equips as hacks and aces were notoriously a nomadic bunch.

Sprite passed the infirmary, glancing in. Scotty was drugged and on the mend, his wounds patched. Someone had already placed some equipment within reach for when Scotty woke up.