The cabin door slid open.
The warning from Locke's Sixth Sense arrived like a physical blow. Something was wrong! By now, the sky had transitioned from pitch black to the gray-blue pre-dawn light, but the deck of the Argo beneath their feet was disturbingly silent. There was no sign of life—not a crew member, not a passenger, not even a shadow.
Even with his heightened senses, Locke couldn't pick up the sound of a single human voice. Only the alarm bells ringing in his mind. The danger was here, on the Argo itself. In fact, the source of the threat seemed to be this luxury liner itself.
"Where is everyone?" Happy Hogan, the first one out, glanced around. He looked back at the group descending from the helicopter, his expression shifting from confusion to unease. "Strange. It feels like there's not a soul here."
"There's trouble," Locke stated flatly. He looked at the pilot who had just stepped down. "How long to refuel?"
The pilot blinked, glancing at Tony Stark for confirmation. After receiving a quick nod, he turned back to Locke. "Half an hour, minimum."
Locke hummed. He looked at the women. "This place isn't right. Get back into the helicopter. We refuel and leave immediately."
This wasn't a place to linger. Or rather, it was a place Locke could handle alone, but with others around, it was too inconvenient. He hadn't exposed his secrets during the capsizing of the Poseidon; he wasn't about to blow his cover here.
Locke turned to Dylan and Robert, then back to the pilot. "How do we fuel up? The three of us will help you."
The pilot pointed toward a refueling bay near the superstructure. "I need to get the keys from the Captain first."
Locke frowned, looking at Happy. "Even though you don't look much like a bodyguard, you claim to be one. I assume you're carrying?"
Happy nodded, then bristled. "Hey, I'm a six-figure salary bodygu—"
Countless elite soldiers, Rangers, Seals, and Marines had applied for the job of Tony Stark's private security, and he was the one who had won. 'What do you mean I don't look like a bodyguard?' he thought indignantly. He looked at Tony. "I'm your bodyguard, right?"
Tony's face remained expressionless. He was long since immune to Happy's lack of self-awareness.
Pepper's lip twitched, but Locke cut through the nonsense. "Do you have a gun?"
Happy looked at Locke warily. "You aren't trying to take my gun, are you? You're only sixteen."
"Seventeen."
Locke corrected him with a thin smile. "As long as you have a gun, stay here. Protect them. We'll go find the keys. If anything looks wrong, just shoot."
Happy: "..."
The ship was silent. Locke couldn't hear a single human heartbeat. The Argo was as quiet as deep space. Bringing everyone down into the ship would be suicide.
Tony spoke up immediately. "I'm coming too."
Locke looked at him and gave a short laugh. "Mr. Stark, you're more useful here than inside. You're the only engineer. If something goes wrong with the bird, you need to make sure what's left in the tank can get it off the ground. Stay with the flight."
If it were Iron Man Tony Stark, Locke would have welcomed the help. But Playboy Tony Stark was a liability—and a loud one at that.
"Let's go."
Locke, Dylan, Robert, and the pilot exchanged nods and headed for the stairs leading down from the helipad. Locke knew that if he didn't go with them, given the eerie state of the Argo, these three might never return. That would just be sending people to their deaths one by one, wasting time they didn't have.
Moving through the corridors, the silence was unscientific.
"Where is everyone?"
"I thought the Argo had over three thousand passengers?"
"Three thousand five hundred, actually. Traders from Paris, tourists heading for the States."
The four men lowered their voices as they approached the bridge. "So... where are they?"
The pilot was visibly shaking. "An hour and a half ago, when we left for the Poseidon, there was a massive party going on in the atrium. But look..."
They reached a balcony overlooking the central atrium. Below, the area was a disaster zone. Tables were overturned, chairs smashed, and expensive wine bottles lay shattered across the floor. It looked like a scene of pure, frantic panic.
"Terrorist attack?"
"No blood."
"Maritime disaster?"
"No bodies. And the hull looked fine when we landed."
Locke cut off their speculation. "Stop guessing. Find the keys, get the fuel, and get out."
The pilot pointed to a heavy door at the end of the hall. "The bridge."
Inside, it was just as empty. The consoles that should have been humming with life were dark. Screens were black. Locke walked to a desk and touched a coffee mug. He frowned at the residual warmth. "It's been cold for a while."
The pilot pushed into the Captain's private office and froze, staring at the wall. Dylan followed him in. "Find them?"
"No."
"What?"
The pilot pointed to the board where the backup master keys for the ship's systems were supposed to hang. "The keys are gone. All of them."
"And the refueling bay?"
"Locked. Can't open it without the key."
"It's fine," Locke said, stepping into the room. He didn't seem surprised. "Find some bolt cutters. We'll force it."
Robert grabbed a pair of heavy-duty cutters from a maintenance locker in the bridge. "Will this work?"
The pilot nodded hesitantly. "It'll get the hatch open, but the fuel pump won't activate without the override."
"Tony Stark is an engineer," Locke said flatly. "If he can't bypass a fuel pump, he doesn't deserve the name. Anything else?"
The pilot looked at the decisive seventeen-year-old and shook his head. "No."
"Then let's move!" Locke turned to head out.
As they stepped out of the bridge, Locke suddenly stopped.
"Someone's here."
"What? Where?"
"There."
Locke pointed to a door further down the hall. "What's that room?"
"The conference room," the pilot whispered.
Locke looked at the three men. "Go to the deck. Start the refueling. I'll check it out."
Dylan and Robert spoke at once. "We're coming with you."
"I'm better off alone." Locke's eyes were sharp. "When you get up there, if you hear anything, ignore it. Even if someone screams for help, don't stop. We leave the way we came. If you come with me, you'll just slow me down."
He walked toward the conference room without looking back.
Dylan and Robert shared a look. "Let's go,"
Dylan muttered. "I hate to admit it, but he's better at this than us."
Robert sighed. "I should have had a son."
Dylan gave him a strange look. "You think every sixteen-year-old is like Locke? He's one of a kind. Most kids his age are currently drowning in beer or bad decisions."
...
In the conference room, Locke stepped inside. His gaze locked onto a large bookshelf against the far wall. The sound he had picked up—the shallow, terrified breathing—was coming from behind it.
Locke stood in front of the shelf. The breathing hitched.
"Come out."
Silence.
"I'm going to start shooting if you don't show yourself."
"...Wait! Don't!"
The bookshelf was slowly pushed aside. A man with blond hair, appearing to be in his late twenties, crawled out. He looked harmless, his face a mask of pure terror. "Who are you?"
The man looked at Locke, then frantically scanned the room as if expecting something to leap out of the shadows. "Who are you?"
"I asked first."
"I'm a waiter... for the dining room."
"A waiter." Locke glanced at the white uniform. His expression was cold. "Where are the people?"
"Dead!" the man shrieked. "They're all dead! Everyone!"
He began to shake uncontrollably. He looked at Locke with desperate eyes. "How did you get here? Do you have a boat? A plane? We have to leave. Now!"
Locke remained unmoved. "What happened?"
The man continued to shake, then seemed to reach a decision. "I know where there are crates of gold on this ship. I'll give it to you. Everything. Just take me with you. I'll take you to them right now—"
*Phut!*
"Ugh..."
Locke's right hand had blurred. The Silver Dancer barked once, and a bullet slammed into the forehead of the man who was lunging forward to grab him.
The man's steps halted. His eyes rolled up as if trying to see the hole in his own skull. 'Why?' his fading gaze seemed to ask.
***
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