Several minutes later,
The crew glided silently through the misty streets of Neo-London. Ghost guided the vehicle beneath the looming shadows of Canary Wharf's towering spires. The air was thick with the salty tang of the Thames, mixed with the ever-present hum of distant machinery.
Sliding into an abandoned maintenance bay nestled beneath the east docks, Ghost brought the car to a smooth halt. The bay smelled of rust and old oil, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you'd left.
The crew spilled out of the car with the easy, ragged relief of people who'd just outrun death.
"Right then," Bucky muttered, reaching up to peel off his mask. The fabric came away with a soft sound, revealing a slightly aged face with lines around pale blue eyes. "That's us home safe, lads."
Bull was next, his mask revealing a square jaw covered in reddish stubble. "Bloody hell, Ghost," he said, voice still shaking slightly. "That jump... I thought we were done for."
