Sven leaned back against the couch in the private lounge, arms spread wide, a grin plastered across his face like a man who'd just stumbled onto buried treasure. The soft leather creaked beneath him as he kicked one boot over the other.
"Would you look at that," he muttered, eyes glinting with amusement. "The Phaser's got a bloody pedigree."
Takeshi stood across from him, unmoving as a stone. The faint hum of the air conditioner ruffled a strand of his hair, but his composure never cracked. Blindfold tight and posture straight, he looked more monk than mutant.
Sven chuckled, unable to resist. "Not even curious, eh? Man's been hiding a silver spoon in his mouth this whole time."
No response. Not even a twitch.
'He was never more than "the Phaser" to us,' Sven mused, eyes flicking to Isaac. The man sat calmly, chewing the last of his apple like nothing monumental had just been revealed. 'Now he's a mystery wrapped in a neat little suit. And apparently… a Fletcher. Who knew?'
