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coimbrabertone · 10 months ago

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NASCAR Numerology: How NASCAR's Current Teams Got Their Numbers: Part Four.

Welcome everybody to the mission creep blog! We've done Trackhouse, Penske, Wood Brothers, RCR, SHR, Hendrick, RFK, and Spire, which means we've cleared the first ten numbers!

Today we're going to talk about:

Joe Gibbs Racing, who runs the #11, the #19, the #20, and the #54 this year.

Kaulig Racing, who runs the #13, the #16, and the #31.

Rick Ware Racing, who run the #15 and the #51,

and 23XI Racing, who run the #23, the #45, and sometimes the #50.

So, starting with Joe Gibbs Racing...and their story starts with none of their current numbers! Rather, it starts with the #18 in 1992.

Why the #18? Once again, it was a story of lowest available number, as 1-12 were taken, the #13 was being used by a part time time along with various superstitions around it, and #14, #15, #16, and #17 were taken as well. Thus, JGR debuted in 1992 with Dale Jarrett in the Interstate Batteries Chevrolet. This partnership won the Daytona 500 in 1993 and won at the fall Charlotte race in 1994, but for 1995, Dale Jarrett would leave. He moved to Yates Racing to take over the #28, subbing for the injured Ernie Irvan, and when Irvan returned to the #28 in 1996, Jarrett moved to a second Yates car, the #88.

Thus, JGR had to make their own story with Bobby Labonte, who impressed immediately by winning the 1995 Coke 600 and sweeping Charlotte.

1997 would bring only one win, at Atlanta, so for 1997, JGR switched to Pontiac. This era of JGR, with Bobby Labonte running the Interstate Batteries #18 Pontiac, is when the team really broke into the top of NASCAR.

Bobby would finish second to Dale Jarrett in 1999, but in 2000, Bobby Labonte would win the championship for JGR.

This was also the time that JGR became a two car team for the first time, but more on that in a moment.

For now, Labonte continued in JGR through the end of the 2005 season, with his last three years in a Chevrolet as GM began phasing out the Pontiac brand in NASCAR. Upon his retirement, he was replaced by JGR development driver JJ Yeley, but Yeley would only last two winless seasons.

He would be shuffled off to Hall of Fame Racing for 2008.

This is when JGR experienced its biggest change in history when, feeling like they were second or even third fiddle at Chevrolet, they switched to Toyota for the 2008 season. Toyota looked downright bad in 2007, but with a year of experience and JGR making the switch, there was hope.

Another reason to hope was that Kyle Busch, the hotheaded but fast kid from Hendrick Motorsports, made the switch, with JGR signing M&Ms as a sponsor over from Yates.

Thus, one of the most recognizable partnerships in modern NASCAR began, with Kyle Busch, Toyota, and M&Ms - they won the 2015 and 2019 championships together, took countless wins, and along with Kevin Harvick of SHR and Martin Truex Jr., Kyle formed part of the "Big Three" drivers that dominated the late Gen 6 era of NASCAR, particularly 2017-2019.

However, during the 2022 season, Mars Inc., parent company of M&Ms, announced that they were ending their NASCAR sponsorship. Kyle Busch was forced to move to the #8 car at RCR, while Joe Gibbs announced that his grandson, Ty Gibbs, would move up to the NASCAR Cup Series.

Rather than the #18, he would continue in his Xfinity number, driving the #54.

Ironically enough, the #54 originates with Kyle Busch, as Kyle Busch Motorsports has long run the #51 (a tribute to Days of Thunder antagonist Rowdy Burns, who Kyle has nicknamed himself after) and the #4 in trucks. When KBM moved up to the second-tier Nationwide series in 2012 neither number was available, so they ran the #54 instead.

Kyle and Kurt Busch split the season, with Kurt taking its only win at Richmond.

For 2013, KBM's Nationwide team was sold to Joe Gibbs Racing, where, in 2022, Ty Gibbs ran the #54 to the Xfinity series championship (for those who don't know, Busch, Nationwide, and Xfinity are all the second-tier NASCAR series, it just doesn't have a proper name so it has always been known by its title sponsor, which has changed a few times).

So, the #18 became the #54.

Meanwhile, Joe Gibbs' second number was the #20, introduced in 1999. Why the #20? Because the #19 was taken by a part-time team at the time, so the #20 was the next available number after #18. This number was initially ran by Tony Stewart with immediate success, winning the championship in 2002 with Pontiac and 2005 with Chevrolet. The Home Depot #20 was one of the iconic cars of NASCAR's boom era, and Tony Stewart was its superstar driver. In 2008, however, JGR switched to Toyota, while Tony was an all-American GM guy to his core.

The awkward partnership only lasted for one year before Tony left JGR to start his own team with Gene Haas, forming SHR.

Joey Logano replaced Tony in the #20, showing flashes of brilliance, but with only two wins in four seasons, Logano was replaced with Matt Kenseth for 2013. Logano would move to Penske, with much more success there than he had at JGR.

Matt Kenseth, meanwhile, saw the #20 switch from Home Depot sponsorship to running a Dollar General primary. Nevertheless, Kenseth showed immediate success, taking seven wins and falling just nineteen points off championship leader Jimmie Johnson.

Two years later in 2015, Kenseth was on for another championship contending season before being spun out from the lead at Kansas by none other than Joey Logano. Getting caught up in a wreck at the next race at Talladega saw Matt Kenseth get eliminated in the round of 12, while Logano won his third race in a row at Talladega to sweep the round of 12.

In retribution, at Martinsville two weeks later - the first race of the round of eight - Matt Kenseth wrecked Joey Logano as the crowd cheered. Kenseth was suspended for two races, but getting wrecked at Martinsville, a tyre problem at Texas, and failing to win Phoenix meant that Joey Logano didn't advance either.

A historic feud between drivers of the #20.

Kenseth would leave JGR after 2017, handing the #20 over to Erik Jones for three seasons, before it ended up in the hands of current driver Christopher Bell in 2021.

Bell has made the championship four in both 2022 and 2023, but finished fourth in the standings both years.

JGR's third car was the #11, co-owned by JD Gibbs and running the #11, which was the number JD used in college football at William & Mary. The #11 debuted in 2004, running various drivers such as JJ Yeley, Jason Leffler, Ricky Craven, and even Terry Labonte before settling on Denny Hamlin at the end of 2005. Hamlin went full time for 2006.

The team, with primary sponsorship from FedEx, has run ever since.

Denny Hamlin and the #11 team have won three Daytona 500s, fifty-four races, and have basically done everything in NASCAR besides winning a championship. Truly the Chicago Cubs of the stock car racing world.

Last on the list for JGR is the #19, which Joe Gibbs was finally able to secure in 2015. They had already poached Matt Kenseth from Roush for the #20, so Gibbs decided to do it again and nabbed Carl Edwards for the #19, a partnership that lasted two years before Carl abruptly retired at the end of the 2016 season for reasons NASCAR fans still speculate about to this day.

In the words of Carl Edwards himself...he had taken too many knocks to the head over the years and with him then starting a young family with a neurosurgeon wife, he decided to retire.

Daniel Suárez replaced Edwards for 2017 and 2018, before the other leading Toyota team in the form of Furniture Row Racing collapsed, giving JGR the chance to pick up 2017 champion Martin Truex Jr. for the 2019 season. Truex brought sponsors Bass Pro Shops and Auto Owners Insurance over with him.

2024, however, will be Truex's last season. Chase Briscoe will take over the #19 for 2025.

One team down.

Kaulig Racing has two full time cars, the #16 and the #31, as well as a part-time #13. The #31 is driven by Daniel Hemric, the #16 by AJ Allmendinger, Shane van Gisbergen, Josh Williams, Derek Kraus, and Ty Dillon, and the #13 has been used by Allmendinger in races where both he and SVG were running, such as COTA and Chicago.

Kaulig took #16 since it was available in 2021 (their usual Xfinity numbers, #10 and #11, were both taken), the #31 was chosen for their chartered entry for 2022 since RCR had vacated it after 2019, and the #13 because one: it was vacated, and two: it's the inverse of the #13. Yeah, not much story there, Kaulig is a new team and their numbers don't have much historic meaning behind them.

I mean, Roush ran the #16 for a long time, most successfully with Greg Biffle, but there's no link between that and Kaulig.

Kaulig does have two wins - Indianapolis Road Course 2021 and Charlotte Roval 2023 - with AJ Allmendinger, which is the most success the #16 has had since Biffle, for whatever that's worth.

Now onto Rick Ware Racing.

Rick Ware Racing has built up their history as a start-and-park team running the #51, and initially their numbering scheme was built on that, running numbers such as #52, #53, and the #54 as well. This is also the number that Rick Ware uses on its co-entries in other series, such as its alliance with Dale Coyne Racing in Indycar - where the #51 is currently run by a slew of drivers, of which Katherine Legge is expected to finish out the season - and IMSA LMP3 racing, where Rick Ware runs his son Cody.

Cody Ware was arrested in 2023 for assaulting and strangling his then girlfriend, so that's the first and only time I will mention him on this blog.

Anyway, more recently Rick Ware Racing has started professionalizing its NASCAR efforts, with Justin Haley showing promise in the #51 car that he runs in alliance with RFK Racing. Their other car, the #15, is still somewhat of a revolving door of drivers, but it does appear to be improving.

So, that's the #11, the #13, the #15, and the #16. Roush has the #17, the #18 is currently vacant, JGR has the #19 and the #20, Wood Brothers has the #21, Penske the #22...that means 23XI is next.

23Xi Racing, a joint venture by Michael Jordan (the 23 part) and Denny Hamlin (the 11 part, or XI in Roman numerals) is another new NASCAR team, having entered NASCAR in 2021 in alliance with Joe Gibbs Racing.

The history of their numbers is quite simple, the #23 is Jordan's jersey number, and the #45 is the number he wore when he returned to the Chicago Bulls in 1995 after a brief sabbatical during which time he played for the White Sox's minor league affiliates.

Bubba Wallace has run the #23 since it was established in 2021, while Kurt Busch was the initial driver of the #45 before a career-ending crash at Pocono. Ty Gibbs was drafted in to replace Kurt, before 23Xi briefly switched Bubba into the #45 to compete for the owner points playoffs. Daniel Hemric and John Hunter Nemechek also had starts in 23XI cars in 2022.

For 2023 though, Tyler Reddick has been brought in to drive the #45, winning twice in 2023, and another two times so far in 2024.

Bubba, meanwhile, won Talladega 2021 in his #23, and Kansas 2022 while filling in in the #45.

23XI's third car was initially the #67 - get it, like 2,3,4,5,6,7? - but this year, in a promotion with sponsor Mobil 1, it has run as the #50 to celebrate their 50th anniversary.

Travis Pastrana, Kamui Kobayashi, and Corey Heim have all started in the #67/#50, while Juan Pablo Montoya is scheduled to run the #50 at the 2024 NASCAR Cup race at Watkins Glen.

So yeah, we started with a college football number in the #11, and we finish on a team named after basketball numbers with 23XI.

I believe tomorrow will be the end of this series, as Front Row Motorsports with the #34 and #38, Legacy Motor Club with the #42 and the #43, and JTG Daugherty with the #47 are the only remaining full-time teams.

Higher numbers are a bit sparse in NASCAR these days, huh?

#motorsports #racing #nascar cup #nascar #joe gibbs racing #Kaulig Racing #Rick Ware Racing #23xi racing

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 6 months ago

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Chapter 1: Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Summary: For five grueling years, Taskforce X was both your lifeline and your torment. Mission after mission, you faced impossible odds with the dangling promise of a reduced sentence. Now, at last, you’re free—no more Belle Reve, no more danger. You’ve put that chapter behind you, determined to leave it locked away in the recesses of your mind.

But Amanda Waller has other plans. When she appears back in your life, she brings a new mission—and a new team. This time, you’re working alongside Rick Flag Sr., the father of your former team leader, and the members of Taskforce M. As the stakes rise, so do unexpected emotions. Tensions give way to an undeniable connection between you and Rick, a bond that deepens with every mission and threatens to pull you back into a world you thought you’d left behind forever. Warning: Slow-Burn, Age Gap, Violence, Swearing, Smut. Pairings: Rick Flag Sr/Reader Masterlist

The heat of the midday sun bore down on you, relentless and oppressive, as if the universe itself wanted to smother you in its sweltering grasp. The streets buzzed with activity—passersby clutching their coffee cups, vendors hawking their wares, the rhythmic hum of distant traffic blending with snippets of conversation. You sat in a wobbly metal chair at a sidewalk café, its plastic seat sticking uncomfortably to the backs of your thighs. The tiny table in front of you barely held your laptop, a half-eaten croissant, and the Styrofoam cup dangling loosely from your fingers. You swirled the lukewarm liquid absently, watching the streaks of coffee residue paint the inside of the cup as the faint aroma of roasted beans and freshly baked bread wafted through the air. It should’ve been a peaceful moment, but your mind was far from it.

The screen of your laptop flickered to life, taunting you with yet another No Results Found. Your jaw tightened instinctively, the tension radiating down your neck. Shaking your head, you raised the coffee to your lips, letting the bitter liquid slide down your throat. Its warmth spread through your chest, a fleeting comfort against the cold frustration settling in your gut. Placing the cup down, you tapped your fingers against the cool glass of the table, trying to ground yourself in something tangible.

Same shit, different day. The thought curled in your mind, bitter as the coffee. You leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and cleared the search results. The action was mechanical now—type, search, fail, repeat. You knew what you were doing was a fool’s errand. People who didn’t want to be found knew how to vanish, especially in your line of work. You’d done it yourself, slipped off the radar when it suited you. But this wasn’t just work. This was personal, and the gnawing need to find answers, to make sure, refused to let you give up. Still, with every dead end, the frustration boiled hotter, a cauldron of anger and helplessness threatening to spill over.

The sun dipped momentarily as a shadow crossed your table. Reflexively, you snapped the laptop shut and leaned back in your chair, your heart jumping into your throat. A woman slid into the seat across from you, her presence filling the space with an air of authority so heavy it was almost suffocating.

“Long time no see,” she said, her tone sharp and clinical, a razor hidden in velvet.

Amanda Waller.

Her name alone was enough to make your blood run cold. Memories flooded back—her standing on the other side of prison bars, her unreadable expression masking the calculated ruthlessness that defined her. She had once held your fate in her hands, delivering an offer that came with strings so tangled they threatened to choke you. You had taken it, knowing full well the price, but it didn’t make you hate her any less.

You couldn’t decide what burned hotter: the simmering anger or the nauseating dread her presence stirred in your gut. Amanda Waller wasn’t just a woman; she was a force, a puppet master who played games with people’s lives as if they were nothing more than chess pieces. She was power personified, her influence stretching like dark tendrils into every corner of the world you thought you knew.

You met Amanda Waller’s sharp gaze, fighting to keep your face blank, but the effort only seemed to make the bile rise higher in your throat. Waller had a way of peeling back layers without saying a word, her presence alone dredging up memories you would’ve rather buried. She wasn’t just a reminder of what you’d done in the past; she was a mirror reflecting what you’d become—someone who had made compromises, crossed lines, and lived to regret it. The years you’d spent trying to distance yourself from her world felt futile in this moment, with her sitting across from you, calm and calculated as ever.

Still, you forced a sarcastic smile, the corners of your lips twitching with disdain. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you quipped, the edge in your voice barely concealed.

“I wouldn’t call busy the right word for what you’ve been doing,” Waller countered, her tone dripping with condescension. “I thought we had an agreement.”

Her words stung like a reprimand from a strict parent—or worse, an overbearing relative you’d never been able to stand. The kind that didn’t know you but loved to judge you anyway. You scoffed, rolling your shoulder in a dismissive shrug as you grabbed your coffee cup.

“No,” you said flatly, taking a deliberate sip, “I believe you made the agreement, and I stayed quiet.”

Waller’s eyes narrowed slightly, her hands clasping together on the table in that deliberate, predatory way of hers. “You agreed when you stepped foot out of Belle Reve,” she reminded you, her voice low and weighty, like a ticking time bomb.

You tilted your head slightly, letting the silence stretch between you for just a beat too long. “Cut the shit, Waller. You and I both know you’re not here to talk about whether I’ve kept my end of the agreement. So why don’t we skip the theatrics and get to the part where you tell me why you’re really here?”

“What? No friendly chat? It has been a while,” Waller replied with a faint, predatory smile—the kind that made your fingers itch to grab your laptop and swing it across her face.

“We don’t do friendly chats,” you said dryly, leveling her with a pointed look.

She studied you for a moment, her lips pursed in thought, before she spoke again. “Rick Flag—”

“—is dead,” you cut in, your tone as flat as the coffee now cooling in your cup. You took another sip, watching for her reaction over the rim.

Waller gave the faintest twitch of her lips, her mask unshaken. “Word travels fast.”

You shook your head, leaning back in your chair. “Or slow. It’s been a few years now, hasn’t it? Since that clusterfuck in Corto Maltese?” A smirk played at your lips. “Bet that cut deep—losing one of your best.”

Waller’s jaw tightened for just a moment, but her composure returned almost instantly. “Flag thought very highly of you,” she said, her tone softer than you expected, though still measured, “Neither one of would be sitting here if he didn’t.”

Her words hit you harder than you cared to admit. Rick Flag Jr. wasn’t just a leader to you—he was the backbone of Task Force X, the moral compass in a group that often had none. You’d fought alongside him, trusted him in ways you hadn’t trusted anyone in years. He was steady, brave, and stubborn as hell—qualities that made him both a great soldier and an infuriating human being.

Memories flickered through your mind like flashes of lightning. Flag barking orders during a mission, his voice cutting through the chaos with an authority that made you fall in line without question. The way he would give you that look—half exasperated, half amused—whenever you made a sarcastic comment in the middle of a firefight. And then there were the quieter moments, when the weight of what you’d done caught up to you, and he’d remind you why you were there. That he’d make sure you got to go home one day.

He’d believed in you when you didn’t believe in yourself.

And now he was gone, his death another casualty in Waller’s endless game of manipulation and control.

The bitterness of the coffee did little to soothe the knot in your throat, but you forced yourself to take another sip anyway. The heat grounded you, chasing away the unease that threatened to surface. Your voice was steady but laced with resentment as you finally said, “He deserved better. A hell of a lot better than what you gave him.” You set the cup down harder than you intended, the thud punctuating your words.

Waller’s face was impassive, unreadable as always. “Flag knew the risks. He made his choices,” she replied coolly, as if the weight of a life could be boiled down to logistics and protocol.

You leaned forward, your voice sharpening into a blade. “And you made damn sure he didn’t have a choice at all.” The words carried more anger than you’d intended, but you didn’t care. You shrugged, feigning nonchalance to mask the storm roiling beneath your skin. “But I’m not here to reminisce,” you said with a pointed glare.

Waller didn’t flinch, leaning back slightly as if your accusation was nothing more than a passing breeze. “After the unfortunate and regrettable events of Project Butterfly,” she began, and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at her attempt to spin the disaster, “the government has put a hold on all Taskforce X programs for the foreseeable future.”

A wry grin tugged at your lips. “What a fucking shame,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sympathy.

Her expression didn’t shift. “So officially, we can’t use humans on the task force anymore,” she said matter-of-factly, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t use non-humans.”

Your grin faltered. Something in her tone made you sit up straighter, the casual indifference replaced by a prickle of unease. “Okay…” you said slowly, drawing the word out. “Where exactly are you going with this?”

Waller leaned forward, her tone cooling to an unsettling calm. “Rick Flag Senior has returned to ARGUS. He’s agreed to lead Taskforce M.”

Her words landed like a fist to the stomach, knocking the air from your lungs. You blinked, then let out a humorless laugh, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as if trying to shield yourself from the cold truth. “That’s low, even for you, Amanda. A man buries his son, and you drag him back into the mud like he never left? Do you even hear yourself sometimes?” You’d met Rick Flag Sr. before, back when Belle Reve was your gilded cage. Those brief encounters, fragmented as they were, had stuck with you. He was a man of few words, and what few words he spoke carried weight, like the thud of an iron door closing behind you. His eyes, steely and unwavering, would bore into you with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. He could take your measure with a glance—no judgment, no malice—just a sharp understanding of who you were, what you could do, and what you were capable of.

There was something about him that was fundamentally different from Waller. He didn’t speak in half-truths or veiled threats. What you saw with Rick Flag Sr. was what you got. His bluntness was a sharp, unpolished tool that never veered into cruelty, even when it could have. He had an uncanny ability to be firm without being harsh, his no-nonsense demeanor setting boundaries without needing to impose them. There was no posturing, no manipulation—it was all business, but there was a quiet dignity behind it.

It was strange, seeing a man like that caught in Waller’s games, surrounded by people who thrived on deceit. Rick had always struck you as the kind of person who would walk away from all of it if he could. But every time he looked at you, there was this subtle shift in his eyes, like he was trying to decide whether you were worth saving or whether you were beyond redemption. In a world that never offered anyone second chances, his steady gaze was a rare commodity.

Maybe that’s what stung the most—the realization that he wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t a pawn in Waller’s game, but somehow, he kept coming back to it. He had lost so much. His son, his sense of purpose, and perhaps a part of himself, all shattered in the wake of the war he’d been dragged into. And yet, here he was, again, called back to lead her task force.

The man deserved peace, not this endless cycle of violence.

“He volunteered,” Waller replied, her voice flat, unyielding.

“Bullshit,” you spat, leaning forward as anger flared in your chest. “Nobody volunteers for this unless they’ve got a death wish.”

Her eyebrow arched at your defiance, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Waller was as unshakable as ever, her patience infuriatingly calculated. “As I was saying,” she continued, ignoring your interruption, “Taskforce M has just completed their first mission. A relative success.”

“Relative?” you echoed, raising a skeptical brow.

“There are… kinks to be worked out,” she admitted, her words clipped, deliberate. “But they’re as solid as they’re going to get.”

You let her words hang in the air, suspicion creeping in like a slow-moving fog. “And what’s this got to do with ruining my day?”

“Because,” she said, her voice dropping with a razor-sharp edge, “I need you.”

You froze, then a grin broke across your face, unrestrained and gleeful. In all the years you’d known Amanda Waller, you never imagined those words would escape her lips. “I’m sorry, what?” you said, leaning forward as if you hadn’t heard correctly.

“Don’t make me say it again,” she snapped, her irritation slicing through her calm façade.

Grinning, you reached for your coffee, savoring the rare power shift. “Why me, Amanda? What could I possibly offer Taskforce M?”

Her gaze bore into you, sharp and assessing. “You can get information no one else can.”

Your smile faded as unease coiled in your chest. “What kind of information?”

“Taskforce M operates in some of the most volatile regions in the world,” she said, her voice low. “We need someone who can slip through cracks, gather what’s missing, and…”

“Spy, murder and steal for state secrets?” you interrupted, setting your cup down as memories clawed their way to the surface.

The taste of bitterness lingered on your tongue as your mind unraveled the tangled web of your past. Espionage had been your craft long before you ever landed in Belle Reve. A game of shadows, deception, and carefully measured risk. You'd learned early on that the world of intelligence was no place for the faint-hearted. It wasn’t just about gathering secrets—it was about manipulating them, weaving them into something valuable, something dangerous. And for a time, you had been damn good at it.

Your contacts were your currency. You played people like a well-tuned instrument, your every move calculated, your every word chosen with precision. Diplomats, soldiers, businessmen—everyone had their price, and you had a gift for finding out what that price was. The art of extraction came naturally to you—whether it was sensitive information or valuable assets, you knew how to slip in and out unnoticed, leaving no trace behind. The thrill of it, the high of walking that razor-thin line between success and failure, had become your addiction. But addiction always comes with a price. And that price for you? Betrayal.

You’d made the mistake of thinking you could trust your own network. You’d believed that the people you’d worked with were bound by the same code, the same unspoken understanding of the game. You were wrong. Every contact, every ally, every deal had been a calculated risk, and in the end, you lost. One payday, one moment of overconfidence, and everything unraveled. The contact you’d trusted? Sold you out to the highest bidder. The intel you thought was secure? Flipped, manipulated, used against you. The very people you’d helped, the ones who’d benefitted from your work, turned on you without hesitation, feeding you to the wolves for the right price.

That last mission—the one that ended your career as a free agent—had been the last straw. You’d been brought in to handle a delicate extraction. A government official with sensitive files—nothing too complicated. But somewhere in the execution, things went sideways. The clean getaway turned into a bloodbath. And when the dust settled, you found yourself betrayed, exposed, and framed for the mess. The cold, harsh truth? They wanted you out of the picture. Dead or alive, it didn’t matter.

But alive you remained, a prisoner in Belle Reve, your reputation in tatters. The very bars that held you were a testament to how badly you’d miscalculated—how your overconfidence, your need for control, had led you to underestimate the treachery of those around you. In that cage, you learned a hard lesson: no one in this world was truly trustworthy. Not even yourself.

Waller shrugged, her indifference sharper than her words. “I never said that.” But her eyes betrayed her intent. “Officially, you’d be a consultant. Unofficially? That’s between you and your conscience.”

Your stomach churned, but you straightened in your seat. “And does Senior know about this? About what you’re asking me to do?”

“He knows I’m speaking to you about joining the team as a consultant. Beyond that, it’s need-to-know.”

A grin tugged at the corners of your lips despite the heaviness settling in your chest. “Bet he loved that idea.”

Her expression remained unmoved, but her voice carried the faintest hint of exasperation. “He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the possibility of you returning to Belle Reve. Even less so about working with you.”

The jab stung, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned forward, your grin sharp. “Guess we’ve got something in common.”

Her silence was telling. This wasn’t an olive branch; it was a noose, carefully laid out for you to step into. Waller knew you better than you liked to admit. She knew the lure of the game, the thrill of outmaneuvering the system, was too strong to resist. And even as your instincts screamed at you to run, you couldn’t help but feel the pull. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you looked away, trying to clear the fog in your mind. The street was alive with noise: pedestrians chatting animatedly, cars honking in an endless chorus, the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee still wafting through the air. It felt like a world far removed from the conversation you were having. The normalcy of it all seemed like a cruel contrast to the weight of what Amanda Waller was asking of you. You sighed, running a hand over your face before finally breaking the silence. “Thanks for the consideration, but I’m not doing it.” You looked at her then, unwavering. “I’ve done my time. I’m done with suicide missions and being your puppet.”

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but they were the truth. You had sacrificed too much already—your freedom, your soul, your trust. You had fought and bled for people who would toss you aside the second you weren’t useful anymore. This wasn’t the life you wanted, not again. Not with her. You drained the last of your coffee, the warmth of the cup a fleeting comfort as it settled into your chest like a final anchor. It wasn’t going to change the cold weight of the decision you were about to make.

You stood, sliding the laptop towards you and tucking it under your arm with the kind of finality that only came from years of experience with ending things. “It’s a hard pass for me,” you said, your tone clipped, emotions running dry. You turned, your footsteps firm and steady, as you made your way toward the door. This was the end of the conversation. Or at least, it should have been.

Then came the voice that could stop you in your tracks, like a knife cutting through the noise of the world around you.

“I can get you who you’re looking for.”

You froze, mid-step. The words hit you like an electric shock, the grip on your laptop tightening as an icy chill crawled up your spine. The blood in your veins felt like it had turned to ice, and the pounding of your heart echoed in your ears, the sudden rush of adrenaline making your muscles tense. You didn’t dare move at first, your mind racing.

Slowly, you turned back to face her, your eyes narrowing as you regarded the woman who always had a way of getting under your skin. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice low, cautious, a protective wall wrapping itself around your words. The wariness was clear, but it couldn’t mask the raw edge of hope that flickered behind your eyes—a hope you couldn’t afford to entertain.

Amanda’s smirk was enough to make your skin crawl, the kind of smile that said she was already two steps ahead. She knew how to play this game better than anyone. “You do this for me,” she said smoothly, her voice dripping with calculated ease, “and I’ll give you access to everything I have on them.”

Your jaw tightened, a muscle in your cheek twitching involuntarily. The calm that had settled over you moments ago was now long gone, replaced by a knot of dread twisting painfully in your stomach. You wanted to tell her to shove it, to walk away from this damned conversation once and for all. The words were on the tip of your tongue, but they never came. Instead, your mind reeled, flashing through the endless hours of searching, the months and years spent chasing down dead ends and false leads.

The sleepless nights. The gnawing frustration. The moments where you felt like you were drowning in the abyss, and every effort to get closer to the truth only sent you further into the darkness. You had been relentless. You’d scoured the public databases, hacked your way through layers of encryption in private ones, and even dove into the depths of the dark web. And still, after all that, you had nothing.

But here she was, offering a glimpse of what you’d been searching for—a lifeline you knew you had no right to take. But God, you might have to. She had access to intelligence networks you could only dream of, systems and people that could uncover what had remained hidden from you for so long. If anyone could get you the answers you needed, it was Amanda Waller. You didn’t want to admit it, but deep down, you knew she was your best shot.

“How do I know you have anything?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, thick with caution and skepticism. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you tried to keep the tremor in your hands from showing.

Waller’s eyebrow quirked in an almost amused gesture, her composure unshaken. “When have I ever not held up my end of a deal?”

The words, so simple and yet so full of meaning, stung harder than you expected. You hated it. You hated the way she made you feel cornered, like there was no choice but to comply. You wanted to walk away, your instincts screaming at you to sever this tie before it could tighten around your neck. But how much longer could you keep searching on your own? How many more years could you waste, hunting for a ghost that may not even exist anymore?

The weight of your failure pressed against you, each second in her presence adding another layer of suffocating pressure. Frustration and anger boiled inside you, mixing with a growing hatred—not just for Waller, but for the situation she was dragging you back into. A part of you wanted to burn it all down, walk away with your dignity intact. But the part that had been clawing at the back of your mind—the one that couldn’t let go of the hunt, the need for answers—pushed you to the brink.

You clenched your fists, every muscle in your body coiling with tension as a wave of frustration surged through you. Rick Flag was going to make this so much harder than it needed to be. You knew him. Knew the way he operated, the unyielding sense of duty that anchored him to whatever mission he was on, regardless of the cost. That was the thing about Rick: he was predictable, almost painfully so. He didn’t take shortcuts, didn’t play games, and he sure as hell didn’t like it when people bent the rules. Especially people like you.

You’d seen firsthand how relentless he could be. There was no room for anything but obedience in his world. If you were going to be working beside him, it meant playing by his rules. No matter how much you hated them.

That was the part that stung the most—the thought of being stuck in that damnable situation again, constantly battling with a Flag’s ‘right way’ of doing things. Every conversation, every mission would feel like a tug-of-war, him pulling one way, you pulling the other. His rigid sense of honor and duty was like a wall, unmovable and suffocating. You’d never been one for order, and Rick Flag Sr. thrived on it. He was going to drag you through every painful step of this mission as if you had no choice, no say in how things played out.

You could already feel it: the pushback, the constant friction. It wasn’t going to be smooth sailing. And deep down, you knew it wasn’t just the job that would make it hard—it was him.

You spat through gritted teeth, the words bitter as they left your mouth, “Fine. But I’m not dealing with Flag’s bullshit.”

The satisfaction that flickered in Waller’s eyes was colder than ice, sharper than you’d expected. Her smirk shifted, taking on a darker, more sinister edge, like a hunter savoring the moment before the kill. She had won this round, and she knew it. There was no escaping what she’d just set in motion.

“You’ll work side by side with him,” she said smoothly, her voice slipping like silk over steel, her control unwavering. “You’ll follow my instructions, provide backup when he needs it. But your real mission? It’s your own. Parallel to his. Do you understand?”

Her words settled in your gut like a heavy stone. Parallel, she said. That meant walking that tightrope between cooperating with Flag and doing whatever the hell you needed to do on the side to get your own answers. That would be no easy feat, especially with Rick breathing down your neck, watching your every move. He wouldn’t trust you—hell, you didn’t trust him. But in Waller’s world, trust was a luxury you didn’t get to have.

You didn’t respond right away. Your mind was racing, weighing the consequences of every move you’d make from here on out. No matter what Waller said, the real challenge wouldn’t come from her. It was going to come from the man you were stuck with—the man who believed in following the rules, in doing things the “right way.” And as far as you were concerned, that made this mission more of a trap than anything else. The weight of her words settled like a lead anchor in your gut, pulling you down into a pit of suffocating uncertainty. You froze, your breath hitching in your chest as your mind screamed at you to run, to stand up, to refuse her demands outright. This was a decision that could haunt you for the rest of your life, and yet… the silence stretched on, suffocating you in its weight. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t turn away from the only chance you had left to find what you’d been looking for.

Reluctantly, against every instinct telling you to walk out, you nodded.

"Yeah," you muttered, your voice barely more than a whisper, as if saying the word out loud made the reality of it all even worse. The word felt like defeat in your mouth, heavy and bitter.

Amanda’s smile widened, like a predator who’d finally cornered its prey, her victory confirmed. “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten hundred hours.”

The moment those words landed, disgust rippled through your chest, spreading like poison through your veins. This was it. You had just signed up for something you knew would break you. You felt the weight of your decision sinking in, an overwhelming pressure that twisted in your gut. You had just agreed to be pulled back into the madness—no going back, no excuses. The anger roared in your chest, but you swallowed it down. "I fucking hate you," you muttered under your breath, the words bitter, raw, and full of venom.

Waller’s response was a low, almost amused chuckle. Unfazed by your resentment, she gathered her things with that same infuriating calm she always exuded, her back straight, her confidence unshaken. "Always a pleasure."

And just like that, she turned and walked away, her every step radiating that unnerving, unbreakable confidence that made you want to scream in frustration.

You were left standing there, alone, the weight of your decision crushing down on you. The world outside the café moved on—pedestrians chatting, cars honking, the city alive and unaware. But inside, everything felt frozen, stuck in the moment where you had sealed your fate. Anger, frustration, and a deep sense of failure swirled in your chest, gnawing at you like a persistent ache. It was a suffocating, unrelenting feeling.

And beneath it all, a growing sense of regret—quiet but undeniable—settled deep in your bones. <><><><><><><><><> Rick Flag Senior hated every single aspect of this.

He didn’t need a consultant. Taskforce M was his responsibility, and he’d proven time and time again that he could handle it. Sure, it wasn’t perfect—missions rarely were—but he’d built something functional, something with potential. Bringing in an outsider, someone who didn’t know the team, their quirks, or the trust they were starting to build, felt like a slap in the face. No, it felt worse than that—it felt like Amanda Waller didn’t believe in him. And that burned in a way he didn’t like to acknowledge.

But it wasn’t just about having a consultant. It was you. That was the part that twisted the knife deeper. He didn’t need someone like you—volatile, unpredictable, and with a track record that made his skin crawl. You were the antithesis of everything he valued in a teammate. He prided himself on discipline, order, and loyalty, and you? You were chaos wrapped in charm, a mercenary with a moral compass so skewed he doubted it even pointed north anymore.

Rick leaned back in his chair, the creak of old wood breaking the heavy silence of his office. A part of him wondered if this was just Waller testing him, making sure he could still handle the job. Maybe she thought he was losing his edge, and this was her way of keeping him in line. But if that were the case, there were a dozen others she could have sent. Capable people, experienced operatives who had the kind of restraint he respected. People who wouldn’t make him want to grind his teeth every time they opened their mouth.

Instead, she’d saddled him with you.

The thick folder on his desk seemed to glare at him, daring him to open it again. He already knew its contents by heart, but the sight of it still made his stomach churn. Espionage. Murder. Theft. Treason. There was even a terrorism charge in there, though that had been dropped early on. Your rap sheet read like a checklist of everything he despised, every line a reminder of just how different the two of you were.

Then there were the reports from Belle Reve, pages filled with cold, clinical observations of your time in captivity. Notes on your temperament, your willingness—or lack thereof—to cooperate, and the missions you’d been forced to undertake for Waller. And then, buried deeper in the file, were the reports about you working with his son. Rick Flag Jr.

That was what had made him pause. What made him agree to even consider this arrangement in the first place. His son had worked with you. Trusted you enough to go into the field together, to fight side by side. There were even notes in the margins about missions where you’d saved each other’s lives, instances of camaraderie that Rick couldn’t ignore no matter how much he wanted to.

But trust didn’t come easy to him, especially now. His son had been everything Rick valued in a soldier: brave, loyal, and unwavering in his sense of duty. Could you have corrupted that? Or had there been something redeemable in you that his son had seen and he couldn’t?

He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his graying hair as he stared at the folder. The weight of Waller’s decision sat heavily on his shoulders, pressing down like an iron chain. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to push back completely. Maybe it was the thought that he owed his son something—owed him the chance to see if there was more to you than what was written in black ink on those pages. Rick leaned forward, elbows digging into the edge of his desk, his eyes fixed on the folder that now felt like a monument to his growing frustration. Every instinct screamed that this was a mistake. Bringing you into Taskforce M was bound to complicate things in ways he didn’t even want to imagine. You weren’t just a wildcard—you were a loaded gun aimed at everything he had worked to build. Yet, despite the storm of doubt churning inside him, he had agreed. Waller had played her hand perfectly, and now he was stuck with the fallout.

The sharp knock on his door jolted him from his thoughts. His head snapped up just as the door creaked open, revealing John Economos peeking through the small gap. His glasses were perched high on his nose, and his curious expression shifted to mild concern as he took in Rick’s appearance. The older man sat hunched over the desk, the tension practically radiating off him.

“You ready?” John asked, his voice tentative as he eyed the scene. Rick’s jaw was set tight, his brow furrowed deeply, and his fingers drummed against the desk with barely contained irritation.

If John was being honest, he didn’t really understand why Rick was so worked up about you joining the team. In his mind, you were one of the few operatives who managed to bring a spark of life into the chaos of their missions. He remembered how you’d built an easy camaraderie with the squad, even when the missions were at their bleakest. Your dry humor and biting wit had a way of cutting through the tension, and more often than not, it was your jokes that got the team laughing in spite of themselves. John liked that about you—how you could find the absurdity in everything without letting it dull your edge. He didn’t see the harm in having you back. If anything, it might make the team feel less like a collection of expendable assets and more like, well, a team.

Rick sighed heavily and got to his feet, pushing the chair back with a scrape that made John wince. Without a word, he moved to the door, swinging it open wider and stepping into the hallway. John hesitated for a moment before following, the tension between them palpable. Rick shut the door behind them with a firm click and started down the corridor, his strides brisk and deliberate.

“As I’ll ever be,” Rick muttered in response, his tone clipped.

John fell into step beside him, stealing glances at the older man. There was something simmering beneath Rick’s composed exterior, an unspoken weight that seemed to drag at his every movement. John wanted to say something, to lighten the mood or at least acknowledge the obvious tension, but he held back. Rick wasn’t the type to open up easily, and pushing him wouldn’t help.

Still, the silence between them felt heavy, and Rick broke it first. “She here yet?” His voice carried a forced casualness, but John wasn’t fooled.

John glanced over, adjusting his glasses. “Uh, yeah. She showed up about half an hour ago. Waller wanted to talk to her before the briefing.”

“Of course she did,” Rick muttered under his breath, the words dripping with irritation. His mind immediately went to what Waller might be saying to you. Setting expectations? Laying traps? Manipulating the situation in ways only she could? He didn’t know, and it gnawed at him.

As they approached the briefing room, Rick’s steps slowed. The weight in his chest felt heavier now, a mixture of dread and resignation. He didn’t want to see you sitting there, didn’t want to deal with the complications your presence would bring. But he had no choice. He was in this now, and no amount of frustration or second-guessing would change that. John noticed Rick’s hesitation as they neared the door, the way his pace slowed just slightly, as if he was already dreading what—or who—was waiting inside. Taking a breath, John decided to speak. “Look, man,” he said, his tone gentler than usual, “I know this isn’t ideal for you, but... she’s not all bad. Might even help, you know?”

Rick didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the door ahead, his expression a tightly controlled mask. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, guarded. “I guess we’ll see.”

The words lingered, heavy with apprehension, as they reached the door. The muffled hum of voices inside filtered through the cracks, a constant reminder that the moment he dreaded was here. Rick squared his shoulders, bracing himself, and pushed the door open.

The familiar ops room greeted him. The glow of computer monitors bathed the space in cold light, staff members clicking away at keyboards or murmuring quietly into headsets. The hum of machinery filled the air, blending with the muted conversations, but none of that held his attention.

No, his focus landed squarely on Waller, standing near the center of the room. She was speaking to someone seated in a large swivel chair. The chair swayed lazily from side to side, and Rick caught the repetitive motion of something being tossed between two hands.

As he stepped closer, the object became clear—a blue stress ball, flipping casually through the air. You were lounging in the chair like you owned the place, the picture of unbothered confidence. Rick came to a stop next to you, his eyes narrowing as he looked down.

The ball stilled as you paused, your gaze meeting his. And then it came—that grin. That familiar, shit-eating grin that had the uncanny ability to set his teeth on edge. Rick regretted saying yes to Waller all over again in that moment.

You’d aged since he last saw you, that much was clear. There was a hardness in your posture now, a sharper edge in the way you carried yourself. Time and experience had left their mark, but your eyes were the same. They still held that gleam he remembered from years ago, the one that screamed, I’m going to make your life hell.

“Looks like we’re about to become besties,” you said, your grin widening.

Rick let out an exasperated sigh, dragging his gaze away from you to glance at John, who had already retreated to his station. Then he turned to Waller, her ever-impenetrable expression meeting his with a subtle challenge. She knew exactly what he was thinking—hell, she was probably thinking it too.

When Rick didn’t respond, you let out a dramatic huff, resuming the lazy toss of the stress ball. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re still a fucking peach,” you quipped, your tone dripping with casual mockery.

“So, she’s consulting,” Rick said flatly, addressing Waller directly, deliberately ignoring you.

“She’s right here,” you cut in, spinning the chair slightly to face him more directly. “And she has a name.”

Rick’s jaw tightened, his patience already wearing thin. His eyes moved back to you, locking on that infuriating smirk. The chair continued its gentle swing until, without warning, his hand shot out, gripping the backrest firmly and stilling it mid-motion. The sudden halt caught you off guard, though you didn’t let it show, keeping that same irritating grin plastered on your face.

He turned back to Waller, his tone sharp. “What exactly is she consulting?”

Waller, unfazed by the tension crackling between the two of you, met Rick’s glare with her usual composed confidence. “She’s here to assist with your operational strategy,” she said smoothly. “Her expertise is... unique.” Rick’s hand lingered on the chair a moment longer before he finally let go, his grip leaving faint indentations in the leather. Waller’s words hung in the air, a leaden weight pressing down on him. Unique. He scoffed inwardly. That wasn’t an endorsement—it was a warning. You weren’t here for your operational strategy or whatever fancy title she wanted to slap on it. You were here because Waller saw you as a weapon, one she could aim and fire. And now, for reasons that made his stomach churn, you were his problem.

Rick’s voice was measured, but the frustration simmering beneath it was unmistakable. “Operational strategy?” he repeated, the words practically dripping with disbelief. His sharp gaze locked on Waller, probing for the ulterior motive he knew was lurking beneath her calculated exterior. “And yeah, I know about her expertise,” he added, the bitterness in his tone impossible to miss.

His calm façade was a thin veneer, cracking under the weight of his growing resentment. Waller’s methods had always grated on him—the manipulation, the way she wielded people like tools. But this? This felt like a personal jab. He didn’t trust you, not because of who you were, but because of what you represented: another one of Waller’s gambits, a pawn she’d placed on his board without his consent. The entire setup left a sour taste in his mouth.

Across from him, you leaned back in the chair, the blue rubber ball spinning lazily between your fingers. The grin that tugged at the corners of your mouth was infuriatingly nonchalant, your body language relaxed in a way that seemed to mock the tension in the room. “Then you know I’m good at what I do,” you said, your tone breezy, almost playful, though your eyes stayed fixed on Rick’s face. They gleamed with something sharper than your words—a challenge, perhaps, or a silent dare for him to push back.

Rick’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could feel your gaze boring into him, testing his patience. The words slipped out before he could stop them, sharp and cutting: “Not good enough to not get caught.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the air thick with tension. Your grin faltered, just for a fraction of a second, and Rick caught the flicker of something in your expression—irritation, maybe, or a flash of old wounds reopened. But just as quickly, the mask slid back into place. You tilted your head slightly, your smile returning, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes this time.

“Touché,” you said softly, your voice low and measured. You didn’t bother defending yourself or explaining the circumstances behind your capture. Instead, you met his gaze with unflinching resolve, the grin fading into something closer to quiet defiance.

Rick clenched his fists at his sides, his frustration mounting. He hated the smugness you carried, the way you seemed so unbothered by the gravity of the situation. But more than that, he hated the part of him that suspected Waller had a point. He didn’t want to admit it—not to her, not to you, and certainly not to himself—but your presence here wasn’t just a coincidence. There was a reason for it, even if he didn’t like what it meant.

Waller broke the silence, her voice calm and measured. “Enough,” she said, her tone carrying an edge of finality. “You don’t have to like this, Flag, but you do have to make it work. Both of you.”

Rick’s eyes flicked back to her, his frustration now mingled with resignation. He had signed up for this, hadn’t he? The job. The sacrifices. The compromises. But as he glanced at you again, watching as you tossed the ball lightly between your hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this particular compromise was going to be hell to endure.

Rick turned back to Waller, who watched the exchange with her usual composed detachment, though he thought he caught the faintest twitch of her lips. “The last mission was successful,” she began, her tone measured, “but at what cost? Things happened that didn’t need to happen, and I don’t want to see that again.”

Her gaze flicked to you, and Rick followed it, noticing the way her eyes lingered for a fraction too long. “I know this isn’t an ideal situation, Flag, but you need to look at the bigger picture,” she added, her voice softening ever so slightly.

You snorted, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the chair’s arms. “Because you’re such a big-picture kind of person,” you said, your tone dripping with mockery. It was a calculated jab, and Rick knew it. You wanted to see how far you could push before someone pushed back.

Waller didn’t miss a beat. “Contrary to popular belief, yes,” she replied smoothly, glancing at you with the same detached confidence she always carried. Rick sighed, running a hand down his face, the coarse scrape of his palm against his stubble grounding him for a moment. Frustration warred with exhaustion, but he forced himself to focus. He hated every part of this: the manipulation, the power games, and most of all, the way Amanda Waller had this uncanny ability to make him feel like a pawn. But no matter how much he despised it, there was no denying she was right. You were here for a reason, and whether he liked it or not, he’d have to make it work.

“So,” he said finally, his voice rough and reluctant. “What do we need to do? Where are we going?”

Amanda reached back to her desk and pulled out two thick cream-colored folders, her movements deliberate. “San Sebor,” she said, placing the files on the table with a soft thud. “We’re tracking black market weapons stolen seven years ago. Weapons that were never supposed to leave U.S. soil.”

Rick’s brow furrowed as he opened his folder. Maps, grainy photos, and endless pages of intelligence stared back at him. He flipped through them methodically, while you, on the other hand, lazily flicked open your file and scanned it with a raised eyebrow.

“Didn’t you guys already have your fingers in that pie?” you asked, your tone carrying an edge of amusement. You leaned back in the chair, your posture relaxed but your eyes sharp as they glanced up at Waller. “From what I remember, the government backed the coup that overthrew the old regime. And now it’s just... what? One big capitalist playground?”

Rick stiffened slightly at your flippant tone, but Amanda’s expression didn’t falter. She met your gaze with the same unyielding calm. “Things have happened over the years that were... beyond our control,” she said coolly. “But recent intelligence indicates we now have a chance to recover those weapons.”

You flipped to another page, skimming reports of arms shipments, encrypted communications, and dossiers on key players in San Sebor. “How’d they get stolen in the first place?” you asked, your tone almost casual, but your eyes didn’t leave the file.

Amanda’s answer was clipped. “Classified.”

You smirked without looking up. “Shocking.”

Rick couldn’t suppress the brief tug of his lips at your dry remark, but he quickly masked it, turning his attention back to Waller. “So you want us to retrieve these weapons?” His voice carried a note of skepticism.

Amanda nodded. “Yes. Everything you need is in those folders—maps, layouts, recent intel. The president of San Sebor is expecting you there by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” you echoed, closing your folder with a soft thud. “That’s a bit short notice.” Waller’s lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smirk. “I’m sure you’ve had shorter.”

You rolled your eyes slightly but didn’t argue. Instead, you raised your arms with a lazy stretch, the chair creaking beneath you. The cream-colored folder dangled from your hand, its edges already slightly bent where your fingers had fidgeted against it. In the same hand, the blue stress ball spun idly between your fingers, your movements slow and deliberate, as if you had all the time in the world.

“Guess I’d better pack a bag then,” you said, the sarcasm in your tone as sharp as ever.

“Not just yet,” Waller interrupted, her voice firm and cutting through the room like a whip. “You’ll meet the team first.”

You paused mid-spin, tilting your head at her in mock curiosity. “Meet the team?” The corners of your mouth twitched, betraying the beginnings of a smirk. Then, your gaze slid to Rick, who stood next to you, still pouring over his folder. “So, General,” you continued, your voice teasing as your eyes danced over him, “are you giving me the grand tour of the team?”

Rick looked up, snapping the folder shut with a sharp, deliberate motion. The sound echoed in the room like the punctuation to his rising irritation. “Guess I’ll have to,” he muttered, his tone flat. He turned on his heel, his shoulders tense, and moved toward the door. Pausing, he threw a glance over his shoulder. “But be warned,” he said with a hint of grim finality, “they’re nothing like your old team.”

Your brow arched slightly, intrigued by his words, but you didn’t reply. Rick had already turned away, his jaw set, as though eager to escape. He’d almost made it when Waller’s voice sliced through the room again.

“Oh, and General?” she said, her tone laced with calculated amusement.

Rick stopped, his body stiffening as he turned slowly, dread pooling in his chest. You stood just behind him, your expression a mix of mild curiosity and suspicion. Waller’s gaze flicked between the two of you, and Rick braced himself for whatever was coming.

“Keep it in your pants this time, won’t you?”

For a moment, the air seemed to leave the room. Rick’s stomach dropped, a wave of heat rising to his face as his jaw clenched tightly. Anger, embarrassment, and the bitter sting of humiliation swirled within him. He shot a warning glare at Waller, who merely smiled, knowing full well the chaos her comment would ignite.

Beside him, you shifted, and Rick didn’t have to look to know you’d caught on. The grin that split your face was audible in the tone of your voice. “Oh no,” you said, a laugh bubbling in your throat as you moved quickly to catch up with him. “Rick Flag, you fucked on the job.”

Rick let out a long, exasperated sigh, his strides lengthening as he exited the room, determined to leave the moment behind him.

“Hey, no judgment,” you continued, falling into step beside him, the blue ball now bouncing rhythmically in your palm. “We’ve all been there.”

Rick didn’t reply, his silence a wall he hoped would shut you out. But inside, frustration gnawed at him. Waller knew exactly what she was doing, and now you were running with it, your teasing a relentless needle in his side.

“So,” you drew out, your tone practically dripping with exaggerated curiosity, “who was it? Friend? Foe?” You tilted your head, your smirk turning sharper. “Teammate?”

Rick swiped his card at the security checkpoint, the door’s beep loud in the tense silence. He stepped through without a word, his shoulders rigid as the heavy doors slid shut behind him.

The corridor ahead stretched long and stark, the fluorescent lights casting harsh reflections on the pristine white walls. Your footsteps echoed beside his, the rhythm uneven as you occasionally tossed the ball and caught it again. Rick stared straight ahead, trying to block out your presence, but the weight of your gaze was undeniable.

You, on the other hand, observed him with curiosity. His rigid posture, the tightness of his jaw, the way his hands flexed and unflexed at his sides—all of it spoke volumes. He was uncomfortable, agitated, and maybe even a little ashamed, though he masked it well.

The silence between you and Rick was suffocating, thick with unspoken tension and the weight of everything left unsaid. As your boots echoed against the cold, sterile floors of Belle Reve, you found your thoughts drifting, unbidden, to Rick Flag Jr.

When you left this place before, you hadn’t thought much about him. He was just another cog in Waller’s machine—a soldier following orders, the golden boy with a sharp jawline and unwavering conviction. You hadn’t expected to miss him, hadn’t expected to feel anything at all about him, really. But being back here now, in the belly of this hellhole, his absence was glaring.

Rick Jr. had been a constant during your time on Task Force X. His no-nonsense attitude balanced the chaos, and, begrudgingly, you’d come to respect him. You remembered the quiet moments on the flights home, the way he would throw a deck of cards at you and tell you that it was your turn to deal, the way you’d both throw your hands up at each other when the other was annoyed at whatever the other was doing, the push and pull between you which almost always ended with compromises and a sharp grin on your end. He had that rare quality of being genuine—a trait as alien to Belle Reve as sunlight. He treated you like a person, not someone tainted by the weight of what they had done. And now that he was gone, the void he left was sharper than you anticipated, like a ghost brushing past your shoulder every time you turned a corner.

Finally, the oppressive quiet was too much. You broke it, your voice softer than you intended. “I’m sorry about Rick,” you said.

Rick Sr. stopped mid-stride, his body stiffening as though you’d struck him. For a moment, he seemed frozen, his breath caught in his chest. His grip tightened on the folder in his hands until his knuckles turned white. You saw the faintest tremor in his shoulders, the kind of grief that simmers just beneath the surface, restrained but ever-present.

“He didn’t deserve what happened,” you added. The words came easier now, though they carried a weight that made your chest ache. “He was one of the good ones.”

Rick’s jaw worked as he swallowed, his throat bobbing as he wrestled with the surge of emotion. The edges of the folder dug into his palm, grounding him in the moment, pulling him back from the brink of memory.

Hearing you say his name—his son’s name—brought an ache to Rick’s chest that felt impossible to push down. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not without his voice betraying the grief clawing its way up his throat. Instead, he squared his shoulders, focusing on the door ahead as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality.

With a deep breath, he swiped his card and stepped through as the door hissed open, revealing yet another stretch of lifeless corridor. Rick’s voice, when it finally came, was gruff and edged with finality. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

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