#I mean I know but also someone make this invisible cow to get its hoof off my CHEST

[curiouschild]

Whoo babes I am so depressed

[awed-frog]

Consider this your ask about "ghost village" (from the bear skeleton post)

Hello person who reads tags! Thank you for this ask!

I’m more of a book person than a dig person, so I won’t be able to explain this properly, but basically what happened is that ten years ago I randomly got the chance to work on a dig in Georgia (the country) and I got very excited because

considering you work for free, it’s surprisingly hard to get any kind of international experience;

Georgia is the El Dorado of Greek archaeology because most of the sites were abandoned and forgotten about, so we keep finding awesome things;

Georgia is also a beautiful country in its own right, and well worth a visit;

and what all of that means is that I was too busy jumping up and down to properly look into the work we were going to carry out there.

(Also, to be perfectly honest, most of my research was about stuff like ‘what to do if Russia invades’ and ‘how to outrun a tank’ and ‘contacting your consulate 101′ and possibly ‘Russian for: don’t shoot I’m an archaeologist’, so.)

To give you a bit of context: Georgia is not a country it’s easy to be ready for, and the first few days were a confusing, surreal experience. I’d read about Georgia’s hospitality culture, but I was shockingly unprepared for just how pervasive and ritualistic it was. Like, I was expecting that the other students and I would immediately be put to work (my normal dig experience that far had been something along the lines of ‘Welcome! That is your tent and here is your shovel! Enjoy!’) - instead, for the first three or four days no one even mentioned why we were there? During the day, we were encouraged to laze around the camp - self-imposed activities to appear busy included picking wild hazelnuts, offering to help in the kitchen and marveling at the boss’ outstanding backgammon skills - while at night we were whisked away to various social events.

Aaaaand more context, because ‘social events’ doesn’t cover it. 

First of all, picture a table of sixty people in evening gowns, plus ten archaeology students in polo shirts and work boots (no one had told us to bring suits or anything). Embarrassment factor, checked. On top of that, those were not random people peacocking in their one good shirt - we were informed in advance, in excruciating detail, of everyone’s rank and title and family tree (think very wealthy donors who’d contributed money for our dig), and for some reason it’s even more uncomfortable to be there with your zip-off trousers next to literal royalty. Third, you can’t speak to anyone because there’s just no common language. Georgian is not something you pick up in two weeks, and my Russian didn’t extend beyond ‘I’m twenty-six’ and ‘Alexander Pushkin died a long time ago’, so there’s a lot of smiling and nodding and checking useless pocket dictionaries and stammering გმადლობთ every time you’re handed something. Fourth, there’s thousands of unwritten social rules you know nothing about - and I know, I know, social rules are a thing everywhere, but I’ve yet to find something quite as complex and fascinating as a Georgian feast. And finally, because of the aforementioned social rules, all of this happens as you’re blind drunk.

(If anyone’s curious: every Georgian meal is basically a banquet, because no matter the circumstances there are going to be at least fifteen different dishes on the table, ranging from home-made stuffed bread to whole sheep’s heads, and the problem is, you can eat as much as you want, but you have no control - zero - over what or when you’re drinking. 

At the start of the meal, what you assumed was a water glass - think a decent-sized thing - is filled with wine to the very brim. Next, everyone starts eating. After ten minutes or so, someone calls for a toast, everyone stops eating, and they all listen and cheer as a guy makes a five-minute speech about the host and how the host is the best person on the whole planet. Once he’s done, everyone drinks - as in, you have to drain your glass in one gulp - basically a shot of wine - and wait for your glass to be refilled. More eating, more pretending you understand a word of the conversations around you, and then a second guy stands up - there’s a very precise hierarchy for the toast orders - and starts praising the house of the host, most beautiful and welcoming. Shot of wine, more eating, another toast: to the wife of the host! Shot of wine, more eating, another toast: to this most blessed evening spent in such blessed company! And next: to the dig! To these talented students we’re so lucky to have at our table! To their bright future! To our glorious past! To Georgia! To this amazing wine our host made with his own hands! To the host! And it all starts again.

I’ve been told that as the evening goes on, toasts become more and more ridiculous as people struggle to find a worthy subject. Since you can’t drink when you want to, but only after a toast, there’s a rush to toast everything and anything either because a) you want to drink yourself or b) you worry your guests want to drink and you’re preventing them from doing that with your shameful lack of toasts. So in the end, it doesn’t matter how much you eat: since you can’t pace yourself, mostly every evening meal ends with a blood alcohol level of .99.)

So this is the situation: by the fourth day, I was walking around in a haze, never quite sober, happy with everything, grateful to everyone, more khachapuri than human being, and when we finally got to start working, we found all the upper layers had already been removed, which meant we would likely start finding bodies in a matter of hours.

Except we didn’t: there are no bodies in Georgia.

I think it has something to do with the chemical composition of the soil and how it eats away at the bones, but as I said, my knowledge of this stuff is pretty limited. What happens, though, is that you find graveyards and graveyards of invisible people. You uncover the beads and spirals of headdresses, then a clasp, next a pair of bracelets, and a pair of anklets, and finally the grave goods, placed at the feet of your mystery woman. And when I realized this was how it was going to be, at first I thought it would make things easier?, less creepy?, but I actually found it more unsettling - we were in the middle of this old, overgrown forest, and it started to feel like those people had gotten up and walked the fuck away - like they’d left behind their jewelry and weapons and clothes and simply - disappeared, and maybe they were there with us in that very moment, sitting on the ground and watching us marvel at their rings and pottery, maybe they would follow us back to our wooden houses, and maybe - surely, this seemed more and more like an inevitability with every passing day - surely they would sit down with us for the banquets, they would find those evenings a kind of coming home, because that laughter, those rituals, that wine aged in clay pots buried deep undeground - those things were all as old as those ghosts dining with us; Homeric Greece hunching down upon us, dark and glittering and something I will never, ever fall out of love with.

(And if anyone’s confused and incredulous and all, ‘But Frog, are you saying everyone’s drunk all the time?’, well - no - Georgians have this soup they drink the morning after a feast, and it sobers them right up, fog gone, headaches gone - one bowl contains about fifteen cloves of garlic, some magical herbs and one cow hoof - a whole-ass hoof, just floating there - so our group quickly found itself split into hungover people and hoof-eating people and you know what?, I’m damn proud of the camp I chose.

Damn proud.) 

[reivenesque]

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap CH7

Chapter 7: Girls Got Rhythm (17390 words) KC seems to be taking advantage of being able to order any kind of food he wants, and by any kind Floyd means absolutely every kind. He’s pretty sure he heard someone actually say ‘alligator nuggets’ which is some messed up boondocks, furthest most backwards shithole of the Louisiana bayou he’s ever heard of. But doubly creepy considering KC might be eating a distant cousin or a long lost niece or something.

“I’m a fucking crocodile, asshole. It even fucking says so in the title sequence,” KC says when Floyd for some reason brings it up.

[ch1] [ch2] [ch3] [ch4] [ch5] [ch6]

(ao3)

It’s been 2 days, 17 hours, 43 minutes and 13 seconds since he last saw the other members of the squad.

It’s been 2 days, 20 hours, 23 minutes and 4 seconds since he last saw Flag, GQ, June and his precious baby, but…not like he was keeping count or anything lame like that.

5 seconds… 6 seconds… 7 seconds…

“Hey Lawton, ya’ decent?”

The sudden loud bang on his metal door sends his mind lurching out of his thoughts. The new guard in charge was already way better than Griggs—who had all of a sudden taken an extended leave of absence out of the blue. Floyd pretends not to know why but since he and Harley are pretty close, he considers himself in the know, on the D.L, hip to be square or whatever it is kids were saying nowadays. He’s sure that the little GQ sitting on his shoulder speaking words of wisdom into his ear would beg to differ.

That didn’t mean that the new guy was any less of an asshole. He was just less ruthless and demeaning about it.

“I know you want sum’ma this, Wilcox, but I’d kindly ask you to keep it in your pressed khakis. You’re not my type.”

The hinges of the door creak and whine and whinge as it opens with an almost painful screech before the big burly man steps into view.

“You should change your nickname to The Comedian, since you think you’re so funny, Lawton.”

He reminds Floyd of Commander Jeffries in a way. He was unapologetically uptight and by the book, but he proved himself entertaining in his own cynical way and Floyd didn’t outright hate his guts, which was always a bonus.

“Pretty sure that would be copyright infringement, but whatever you say. Get to the damn point; you’re making me late for my appointment.”

“Appointment, really?”

“Yeah, really, appointment. Over on that side of the room,” Floyd points towards the far left of his 10 by 10 foot cubicle. “As you can see, I have a hot date.”

“You need to stop cracking me up, Lawton,” he says, with the sternest, strictest expression ever. “But your date will have to wait till after breakfast.”

“You say breakfast, but I see none. There’s one person with an overreaching imagination here and surprisingly it isn’t me.”

But Wilcox pays him no heed, instead motions to the two guards flanking him on either side; the fact that he came over to Floyd’s cell with only two guards (who were both armed) but absolutely nothing else immediately lifted him straight out of Floyd’s shit list. “Biggits, Banks,” he motions with his chin for them to stand at attention on either side of the door. “Lawton. I’ve come here as a courtesy with these two family men who have families they want to go back home to at night. I would appreciate it if you showed as much in return and don’t make a problem for all of us.”

Floyd does like him. A lot. He’s already head and shoulders above that git, Griggs in dignity and composure. At over 6 foot tall, he’s literally head and shoulders above Griggs physically as well.

“Well, far be it for me to keep these men from their families,” Floyd says, trying to mask the twinge of his own sadness at his statement with humour. He raises both hands above his head in a show of peace and steps out of the cell. He feels Wilcox’s eyes looking at him up and down and he tries not to flinch at the intensity in the gaze. Surprisingly Wilcox nods towards the two guards behind him and beckons for him to follow with a nudge of his head. No cuffs, no gurney or straps, no wheelchair; just the three guards and Floyd.

Floyd tries not to let his surprise show outright on his face as he walks in step with the big man down the cold and dreary hall.

He really has no clue what’s happening or where they’re going, usually this situation would have invoked some kind of fight or flight instinct in him, but somehow Floyd felt safe enough, trustful enough of this man he didn’t know to follow him towards uncertainty. Somehow he had a feeling that it had something to do with Flag. This man, Commander Jeffries and Flag, they all had the same type of aura about them, something that felt very military. Floyd didn’t know how to explain it. It was like a scent, but not one you smelled, just one that wafted of their person like an invisible sensation. It commanded respect, but not out of fear, just out of reverence. And this man had it in spades. Floyd had a feeling Flag had a hand in this.

It wasn’t just with what happened with Griggs who gave his 7 day notice but then skipped the whole 7 days of work; 90 percent of the personnel and staff at Belle Reve had been different when they returned.

If not Flag, Floyd was certain it had something to do with Waller.

They end up in a part of the wing that Floyd had never been in before. This area actually had white paint on the walls that were still white and unstained, and better yet, still on the wall; not dried, broken chips on the ground. Even the air in the place felt different; cleaner, lighter somehow. It made Floyd feel less down than he had been just a few minutes ago.

They stop suddenly in front of a metal, double flap door. Hell even the door looked slightly less metal and imposing than they looked over in his personal side of hell. There were no large bolts or welding marks or peculiar, humanoid looking scratches in the surface. This door actually looked new. The whole corridor looked new. What the hell was going on?

“What the fuck is going on?”

Wilcox doesn’t answer; he only gives Floyd a lopsided smirk that Floyd really wanted to punch off his person, regardless of whether or not he liked the man.

“After you,” he motions towards the door as he takes a casual step back.

All of a sudden Floyd is nervous again, in a way he hadn’t felt in a long while. What if this was some sort of test, or a trap? Was there a bomb inside that room that was set to go off when he opened the door?

Wilcox was far too relaxed and casual about it, arms crossed over his chest and an easy going look on his face. Even the two guards flanking him were currently engaged in small talk between themselves which was not the casualness Floyd expected to see from guards at Belle Reve. He was used to getting punched and kicked and tased and stabbed even, but getting this kind of nonchalance from people who should be terrified of him, who should hate him, it was thoroughly unnerving.

But he throws open the door regardless—

And gets bowled over by a figure moving too fast to see.

“Dadshot! I missed you so much! How have you been, darlin’? Well? I’ve been well. We’ve all been well, we’ve been better, but being well isn’t exactly a step down.”

“Harley?”

But Harley’s speaking a mile a minute and pays absolutely no attention to the person she’s tossing the grenade of words at.

Floyd manages to push himself into a sitting position with Harley still latching onto him like a baby monkey and looks out at the room he just entered.

It looks suspiciously like a cafeteria, but again, it’s large and clean and new—

And KC is seated at the far end chowing down on what seemed to be remnants of whole roast cow. Not roast beef. Like an actual cow, head, hoofs and all.

Diablo is seated across from him with a posh looking cup of tea that he’s tipping in Floyd’s direction.

On the next table there’s a mountain of fast food paper bags and food wrappers strewn about and the sound of an animal hungrily chomping down on the carcass of prey it just killed. On the side there’s also 2 half empty six-packs of beer that immediately gave the person’s identity away.

“You just gonna lie there all day, Lawton?”

Floyd knows he’s looking a bit like an idiot sitting there with his legs stretched out in front of him on the floor, but his brain feels too incoherent and confused to send the necessary signals to his body in order to make it move up off said floor.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Breakfast, dumb ass. Even criminals know what that means, right? Now get the fuck up and get the fuck over there. I have better things to do than wait around for you sitting there like the blackest beached whale in the entire ocean.”

Floyd feels his body move of its own accord as he gets up into a standing position. Harley finally gets the hint and lets go though she’s still talking shit to him that he has absolutely no clue what about. The moment he’s up and out of the way the doors immediately slam shut and he hears the sound of the locks being bolted from the outside.

“Floydkins? Only two days away from us and you’ve already reverted back to your Neanderthal ways?”

“Shut up, Quinn.”

“Now there’s the grumpy old assassin we all know and love.”

Floyd doesn’t hit girls, but sometimes he wonders if Harley actually qualifies as one, especially after the shit she just spouted.

He’s not that old.

“Floyd,” Diablo greets him cheerily.

Diablo, greets and cheery are not three words Floyd ever thought he’d ever use in a sentence together, but there he was before him, looking like he finally got rid of the burden of the world he was carrying around on his back.

Floyd doesn’t dislike it. It’s just strange.

And KC just swallowed an entire cow hoof. Whole.

“Boom, did you eat yourself to death already?” KC bellows out when Floyd approaches.

Out of the mountain of trash, Floyd hears a mumble and a quake before the vibrations shake all the Happy Jack’s paper wrappers and paper bags onto the floor, leaving a very giddy, very well-fed Australian in its place lying flat on his back on the table.

“Keep eating man, I like my meals well fed,” he adds with a guffaw.

“Piss on ya’, KC. I’m too full to even fucking care right now, mate.”

“Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Floyd says finally. Why the hell do none of these people seem as concerned as he is about this whole bizarre turn of events? Where are they? Why are they there?

“We’ve got good food, amazing coffee and a gorgeous fucking place all to ourselves that doesn’t smell like the inside of Boomerangs’ disgusting coat. Who fucking cares?”

Harley makes a good point, but Floyd isn’t as easily mollified as she is. “I fucking care, that’s who. I did not just spend 3 fucking days locked up by myself with no news of the outside, no news of you guys and now we’re all here in this nice decent cafeteria with actual edible food, it’s like they’re fattening us up before leading us out to slaughter.”

“For the record, man, I have no problem with that as of this moment.”

“Shut up, Boom. No one fucking asked you.”

Frankly, Floyd is fucking pissed at their nonchalance. But he’s abruptly cut off when there’s a clicking sound of a door being unlocked from the opposite end of the room and all of them finally decide to take this fucking seriously.

Floyd follows the slowly opening door with his eyes; fingers subconsciously reaching out for the nearest object he could use for protection. That object happened to be a recently chewed cow thigh bone which was both gross, but currently needed.

The door opens almost comically slow like some kind of horror movie parody, complete with dramatic squeaking as it slows to a halt and a figure suddenly jumps out of the darkness.

“Surprise!”

“Jesus Christ,” Floyd rolls his eyes exasperatedly and immediately relinquishes his grip on the disgustingly greasy and moist piece of bone.

“No guys, it’s me, GQ. It’s only been 2 days; don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already.”

“You’re about to become a distant memory, GQ. What the fuck were you thinking?”

GQ shrugs his shoulders casually, making it clear that in true GQ fashion, he really wasn’t thinking anything.

Floyd actually really missed the dumbass. He was like the annoying little brother Floyd never had, never needed, never would have wanted but got stuck with anyway. Plus he isn’t the worst company, so there’s that.

“Bet you didn’t see this coming, did ya’?” He says, a little too enthusiastically for Floyd’s ever waning patience, motioning to the room. “We’ve scheduled it so that you guys will get to have breakfast, lunch or dinner here together once a day. Which meal time on which day is completely up to you guys. That’s why none of us were around the last couple of days. It’s been complicated shit, but you know, you’ve got me on the team and handling all this complicated political stuff—”

“So you mean Waller did all this?”

GQ deflates a little. “Well—yeah. Waller gave the okay but Flag was the one hounding her into submission. If you can imagine the word submission and Waller in the same sentence. And you can imagine that Flag’s still not 100 percent and looks only slightly better than someone who’s actually dead, so that was doubly astounding seeing Waller actually cave.”

“How is our favourite Colonel doing?” Diablo asks, beating Floyd to the proverbial punch.

“Oh you know, being very Flag with the doctors and all the medical personnel. And by that I mean pissing the shit out of everyone by acting like the world’s worst, most disgruntled old man. Which by the way, I’m not sure he isn’t at heart.”

“Sounds like Flag,” Diablo lets out a small chuckle. “But seriously, how is he?”

GQ sobers up almost immediately. The grin fades from his face and the difference is almost astounding.

“He isn’t paralysed if that’s what you’re asking, but only because he’s literally the luckiest son of a bitch this side of the solar system. The bullets didn’t hit his heart because of Lawton’s cross and it barely missed his spine, but there is damage to the nerves and the doctors say that he probably won’t be able to do most of the things he used to, or at least, not without difficulty.”

The statement causes the entire room to sober up the same way GQ did not two minutes ago.

“What does that mean for the squad though? If Flag can’t go out on missions anymore?”

GQ looks almost hesitant to answer. This is the serious version of GQ they’ve only seen a handful of times and his appearance here and now is unnerving.

“Just tell it to us straight, GQ. No bullshit,” Floyd knows that whatever GQ has to say will not be what any of them want to hear. But like a band aid, better rip it off quickly and get the pain over with.

“The truth is…uh, I don’t really know the workings of the higher ups and this is just what I’ve heard people saying. There’s talk that the military wants to give Flag an honourable discharge for his services in the military in the past and for his role as leader of this squad. But Waller hasn’t confirmed or denied anything yet so…I don’t know. We’ll just have to see, I guess.”

Silence swallows the room.

Floyd doesn’t really know what to say. Of all the things he expected, that was absolutely the last thing. He knew that if the bosses deemed Flag unfit to lead the squad on ground missions that he wouldn’t be with them, actively, but he’s sure that he’d at least still be there working with the squad from behind the scenes or something.

The military wanting to discharge him, honourably or otherwise wouldn’t mean that he’d have nothing to do with the project or the squad anymore, right?

The squad without Flag, without GQ or Katana or any single one of them—well…it just wasn’t the complete squad then.

The day that ended up being pretty good turned out to be worse than what Floyd had expected.

GQ stayed a couple more hours after that, just talking. But the mood in the whole room was sombre. Even Harley didn’t make any inappropriate jokes or give them any new pastry-related nicknames. In fact, she looked the most sombre of them all.

The next few days pass in a blur. The daily meals with the squad at the cafeteria did wonders for morale.

Wilcox actually turned out to be a pretty swell guy. Somewhere along the way, he even stopped bringing backup when he came to escort Floyd to the cafeteria. The walk usually took about 10 minutes that they actually spent talking. Floyd discovered that Wilcox (though he declined to provide a first name. “Think of me like Drake,” he said) is married with two kids. Floyd actually talks to him about Zoe and Wilcox to his credit actually seems genuinely sympathetic by his situation. Floyd guesses that it’s just a universal thing that fathers would understand.

The first week rolls around in the blink of an eye. Katana stopped by a few days after GQ came. She didn’t say anything. She just sat morosely in the corner sharpening her sword but her mere presence provided a familiar sense of comfort. At one point Diablo actually walked over with two plates of food, one for him and one for her and silently took seat on the empty spot beside her. Neither of them said anything or even made eye contact, but that was the most relaxed Floyd had ever seen either of them.

June stopped by the following week and for some reason after being acquainted with them for just those couple of days in the hospital—excluding the time they as a collective team banished the evil ancient spirit that was embodying her soul—somehow she’d decided to take up the mantle of Squad Mom. Asking everyone if they’d eaten, making sure KC got an extra serving of cake and everything else. Brewing both Harley and Diablo coffee, which they later declared to be the best cup of coffee they’d ever had. June made the coffee the old fashioned way, not with one of those fancy espresso machines Harley had.

Floyd wasn’t sure whether Boomerang liked her, or liked her liked her, but since she was officially Flag’s old lady, Floyd knew even Boomerang was aware that meant that she was irrevocably off limits. Floyd wasn’t sure whether Harley liked her, or liked her liked her, either. But that was an entirely different ballgame, one he absolutely did not want to get involved with. He loved Flag like a brother and he’d die for the guy, but he would not get between that for any amount of money or familial bond.

June tells her about Zoe which simultaneously cheers him up and weighs him down. How well she’s doing in school and ‘no, she doesn’t have a boyfriend’ and that she stays over at June’s at least a few times a week. Whenever Darnell or her mom are away for extended periods of time, June will come and stay over or Zoe will come and stay over at June’s, since June hadn’t officially moved back into Flag’s apartment yet since he wasn’t there.

Flag was out of the ICU and had been moved into a regular room. He still needed a few days of rest before the doctor would consider himself fit to start physical therapy; a fact that according to June really brought him down and Floyd was sympathetic. He knew how tough Flag was; they’d all seen proof of that with their own two eyes, and to end up in this vulnerable position with still such a long road ahead after all the fighting he’d been doing, it must be devastating. Floyd knows the kind of person Flag is, how going out into a raging battlefield with bullets whizzing past his ear and the heat of bombs going off in his face must seem like a cake walk compared to having to deal with stupid things such as emotions and feelings.

Floyd was the same way. Not to the crazy jarhead extent of Flag, but he understood enough.

At the very least though, he was glad that June, Zoe, GQ and Katana were all there for him. Hell, even Waller, cause if there was anyone knew how to kick an ass into gear, it was Amanda Waller.

It wasn’t until the third week of what they’d describe as a much appreciated relaxation yet repetitive amount of complacency that Floyd feels like things were truly starting to change. He’d even go as far as to describe where he was at this point in his life as contented, maybe even happy.

Wilcox calls for him early after lunch that day. Usually they have a couple of hours for lunch and by 4.30 P.M. they’d be called by the head guards of their respective sections to escort them back to their cells. Harley actually has a female guard in charge of her wing of Belle Reve this time and someone she never fails to make suggestive remarks towards and flirts incessantly with as they leave.

Floyd always thought he knew Harley, or at least knew enough of her, but at one point during the last couple of weeks he realized that he didn’t really know her at all.

It’s only 3 P.M. and Wilcox is already hollering at him from the door and Floyd controls the urge to use a small carton of uneaten yoghurt as a projectile aimed straight at the man’s fat black head.

“Let’s go, Lawton. We got a hot date for you today.”

“I knew you were lonely without me, Wilcox, you could have just told me outright instead of planning this extravagant proposal,” he says with an eye roll as he irritably gets to his feet.

“Tone down the egotism, Lawton. Even in a room with former Latino gangbangers, basket cases, humanoid reptiles and Australians, you’re absolutely the last person I’d pick for my dodgeball team in a zombie apocalypse.”

Everyone seemed way too amused by Wilcox’s words than Floyd really thought was necessary, they were after all supposed to be his squad.

“See you guys tomorrow,” he says, but no one bids him goodbye. They were all still too busy laughing and truth be told, Floyd felt a little betrayed by their reaction.

“You poisoned them, didn’t you? To get them on your side.” He confronts Wilcox as they’re walking down the now familiar path, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the corridor walls.

“Just with my charm and wit.”

Floyd takes back what he said in the past. He hates this fucking guy and his stupid smug smirk.

They take a different bend than the one that leads back to Floyd’s cell today.

“You taking me out back to kill me, man? Now that you’ve won over the loyalty of my squad.”

Wilcox actually seems genuinely amused by the whole exchange. The asshole. “I wasn’t. But that’s actually not a bad plan. One less asshole I need to deal with on a day to day basis. It isn’t enough that I have this annoying as shit whack job former billionaire on the upper level crying about Batman every night, I’ve got to get down in this hell hole and deal with you too.”

Floyd is curious about this whack job former billionaire with a Batman-phobia, but not enough to actually inquire.

“My heart weeps for you, man.”

Wilcox responds to Floyd’s last quip with a slight upturn of the lips before he motions for Floyd to stop.

This is it, Floyd think. He’s about to get murdered in cold blood and his squad probably wouldn’t even notice. They already got their replacement black guy to fill the minority quota and he’s just as witty as Floyd and a big enough asshole but obviously nowhere near as good looking. He and Flag would probably get along great, if they don’t already.

“Why’re you looking like someone’s about to murder your three legged puppy, Lawton?”

That shakes Floyd immediately out of his reverie. “What monster would try and kill an innocent three legged puppy?” he responds disgustedly and slightly taken aback.

“It’s a figure of speech, man,” Wilcox says, looking at Floyd like he was talking to a petulant two-year old. “Now if you’re done doing an impeccable impersonation of an angst ridden teen, I have placed to be and people to see. It does not say ‘professional babysitter’ on my job description.”

Wilcox just punched a code into the keypad beside the large imposing door in front of Floyd and both of them step back and watch silently as the metal door slides to an open.

They seem to be in the more high tech section of Belle Reve, a place Floyd didn’t even know existed. Hell, he didn’t even know they had a cafeteria, much less one that actually looks like a cafeteria where people actually eat in and not an underground butcher shop in some uncivilized third world country. Although on KC’s section of the room, people might actually make that assumption.

They’ve spent meals together there every day for the past three weeks, and while they spend most of it just chilling, sometimes without even having to say a word to each other. Once in a while Harley or Boom starts telling one absurd story or another, sometimes to them, most of the time at them. Diablo has unsurprisingly the lowest word count of the squad if they don’t count in Katana. But then again, Floyd’s pretty sure the amount of times they’ve heard Katana speak since the day they met her he’d be able to count on the fingers on one hand. KC seems to be taking advantage of being able to order any kind of food he wants, and by any kind Floyd means absolutely every kind. He’s pretty sure he heard someone actually say ‘alligator nuggets’ which is some messed up boondocks, furthest most backwards shithole of the Louisiana bayou he’s ever heard of. But doubly creepy considering KC might be eating a distant cousin or a long lost niece or something.

“I’m a fucking crocodile, asshole. It even fucking says so in the title sequence,” KC says when Floyd for some reason brings it up.

But during those three weeks, they’ve all sort of gravitated towards their own section of the cafeteria. KC’s original spot ended up being KC’s permanent spot since it already smelled of roasted animal carcass and no one even put up a fight for it even thought it was closest to the doors that lead to the kitchens, or whatever room was there that the food came out from.

Diablo took the section closest to the entrance door, for reasons Floyd’s confident he can guess.

Harley has her coffeemaker, a giant mirror and a couple of makeup shit she somehow conned one of the guards into getting her all arranged nicely on the table pushed up against the door. No one says anything during the times she chooses to do some suggestive yoga poses in her section after eating. Harley’s an attractive lady but Floyd can’t even think to look at her in that way or in that direction whenever that happens. It felt too much like a father walking in on his daughter doing something no father should ever walk in on their daughter doing, like making out with a poster…or a boy, but preferably a poster of a boy, or a girl. Floyd doesn’t really care. In fact, he’d prefer a girl since guys should never be trusted.

Boomerang with his ratty coat drinking beer like it was oxygen but never actually getting drunk would always be Boomerang. He has his pink unicorn plushie by his side and a poster of some jacked up mutated kangaroo on his wall.

“After you, Lawton,” Wilcox says, motioning to the open door.

Floyd is by no means afraid. He really isn’t. He has no reason to be considering all he knows about Wilcox. But vigilance is something that’s been ingrained in him; it has to be given his occupation. This line of work affords him many enemies, most of them crazy, all of them dangerous. He can’t afford to let his guard down ever, especially since he has his beloved daughter to think about. He admits he’s grown a bit lax in his own caution since becoming a member the squad. They were called the Suicide Squad for a reason, and Floyd hates to admit it but he’s grown used to having other people there to watch his six. Between Flag and Diablo and KC punching through the enemies front line like the soggiest paper bag in existence, Harley and Boomerang’s comforting brand of crazy and knowing that GQ and Katana are around picking off the stragglers like pathetic flightless birds, Floyd admits that he doesn’t look over his shoulder as much as he did or as much as he still should.

“I’m not trying to kill you, Lawton, Jesus H. Christ and Mary, so would you please stop sulking. I don’t have all day to wait for you to put on your big boy panties.”

Floyd is offended by that comment but tries not to show it.

He squares his shoulder, readjusts his adult size male pants, large enough to hold his giant cojones and steps into the room with one last glare at Wilcox and is met by…

…nothing.

The stupid room is fucking empty except for a couple of rows of chairs by the wall and the large wooden table at the far end.

Floyd is pissed. And kind of relieved, but mostly pissed.

He squares his shoulders, pulls up steel plated man pants and marches across the room; hearing only the sound of his own footsteps reverberating against the wall. Only when he comes with a few meters of the wooden desk does he notice the white, old school turn dial phone sitting innocuously in the middle of it.

Floyd has not fucking clue what’s going on and it only does piss him off.

He doesn’t even get to dwell on his annoyance or his anger because all of a sudden the phone starts ringing; one of those shrill tones from a mobster movie set in the 40’s.

He approaches the table and the phone tentatively and with one last look behind him at the now closed door, deep down waiting for someone (like GQ) to leap out of the woodwork and tell him that he’s on Candid Camera.

No one shows up.

Floyd squares his shoulders and answers.

The word that flows through and the voice that reaches his ear feel like a burning stab right through the gut.

‘Daddy?’

Floyd cries.

Floyd Lawton was a killer. He’s still a killer. He kills people for a living if not for the reason to continue to stay alive. He stays alive for Zoe, his baby, his daughter, his life and his whole universe. He stays alive because he’s the only person Zoe has. Sure there’s her mom and the non-entity that is Darnell, but he’s the only person he trusts to protect Zoe and to care for her and to always put her needs first.

He realizes now that he hadn’t been putting her first, if he had he would have stopped killing a long time ago. The blame for his current predicament falls solely on his shoulders.

They talk and talk and talk and talk, for an hour, for hours. Floyd just listens to Zoe talk about everything, about June and Flag, about her mom, even about Darnell and it doesn’t even evoke a murderous feeling deep inside his soul. Zoe tells him about school and her teachers and how good she’s gotten in math even though her teacher would still prefer if she stopped using bullet trajectory and assassination blue prints as an example. Zoe tells him about a boy in her class that she has a crush on, and even that doesn’t incite Floyd to go on a killing spree, he’s just so happy and so glad to be able to hear her voice. Everything else is just appetizer.

He’s happy to hear Zoe talk about June; it’s evident how much Zoe likes her. Flag still hasn’t been discharged from the hospital despite his vehement argument about how he doesn’t need to be there any longer. June takes Zoe to see him a few times a week and she says he’s doing much better, he’s still having problems because of the nerve damage in his back but Flag being Flag thinks he can work his way through this problem the way he doesn’t everything else, by grunting through it and refusing to accept anything less as an outcome. Floyd can only laugh at that. His laughing makes Zoe laugh and Floyd doesn’t think he’s ever heard a sweeter sound.

He’s sitting there listening to Zoe talk, looking around at the empty room and he can only ask whatever higher being’s out there if this is actually real. It doesn’t feel it. But like with the cafeteria and the change in personnel that actually treat them all like human beings, Floyd feels like he has fallen into that crevice of complacency and he’s pretty fucking happy to stay there. He knows, like a feeling deep inside his gut that Flag definitely has something to do with everything. Like he was some sort of Jarhead Secret Santa for Floyd and the squad, except that he isn’t expecting a present in return. But Floyd supposes that the knowledge that they all had his back in return, that they proved it on more than one occasion over the course of the last couple of month was gift enough for Flag.

He’s grateful.

If someone had said to him, or KC and Diablo and Harley and Boom, so many months ago that there would come a day where they’d find themselves in a squad with four other criminals, a couple do-gooder military types and some freaky Japanese lady—well, that person would probably have woken up dead. If that same person would have said that they’d end up in that situation with this unlikely group of people and actually like it? That person would definitely have woken up dead. If that same dumbass person would have said that there would come a point where Floyd or KC or Diablo or Harley and maybe Boom if he were in generous mood, would willingly die for each and every one of these people? Then that person would have wished they were dead.

“Lawton?”

It’s Wilcox.

Floyd knew that this wasn’t going to last forever, but still the end came far too soon.

“I have to go, baby,” he says reluctantly into the receiver, feeling his own heart shatter with those five simple words.

“Oh, okay, daddy,” Zoe sounds disappointed but not as disappointed as Floyd expected her to be. Maybe Wilcox got to her too the same way he got to the squad.

“I miss you, Zo-bear and I love you. I want you to always remember that okay?”

“I love you too, daddy and—ooh, June’s here. We’re going to see Uncle Rick again today.”

“Say hi to him for me,” Floyd says, feeling a pang of sadness hit him right in the chest. Flag and June are both out there, free and able to see Zoe any time they want, while he’s stuck there caged like an animal and probably will never get to see her when he wants to again. He feels both sad and jealous and angry; angry at himself for every choice he ever made, everything he’s ever done that landed him in that position. But also feels grateful for Flag and June being there for Zoe when he couldn’t.

“Okay, daddy. Take care okay, and I’ll talk to you in a few days. Love you!” and with that Zoe hangs up, before Floyd’s mind could even really register the second part of the sentence. The dial tone and lingering silence from the other end of the line only leaves him perplexed.

“Lawton. Making enemies with innocent phone receivers now are we? Maybe you do need a hobby.”

The entire walk back to the cell block is in silence after that phone call, but especially after that last comment. Floyd can feel Wilcox’s questioning eyes on him on more than one occasion but he doesn’t feel in the mood to entertain him with an explanation. He’s desperately missing his baby who seemed far too eager to hang up the phone, not to mention the thing she said about talking to him in a few days. Was that just a figure of speech? He’s pretty sure the phone call would be a one-time thing to give him closure of some sort. He’s resigned himself to that fact. Maybe he’d be able to go see Zoe after they’re out on a mission or something. Or maybe he’ll get to talk to her again if Flag ever stopped by.

If he’s even able to anyway.

Floyd remembers how grave his injuries were and the tough times in the hospital not knowing if he was even going to make it through the night. They thought he was at least out of the woods by the time they left for Belle Reve, but from what Zoe and GQ said it seemed like Flag was dealing with a more permanent bunch of problems because of the shooting.

“Hey, you still with me, Lawton?”

The nudge on his shoulder indicates that that may not have been the first time Wilcox’s asked that question within the last 5 minutes or so as they come to a stop in front of his cell.

Floyd likes the man, he really does. He’d even go as far as to say that he respects him, and that’s much bigger a deal. The amount of people he’s genuinely respected in his life he could count on the fingers of one hand. But now because of Wilcox, hell even because of Banks and Briggs, he might even have to start utilizing his second hand to count.

“Yeah. Just missed my baby something terrible,” Floyd says. This time without a witty comeback or even a hint of irony in his voice and he appreciates Wilcox’s just accepting it without comment.

He unlocks the large metal door without word and when Floyd steps into his familiar 10 by 10 cubicle of desolation and despair, Wilcox surprises him by stepping in after him; grabbing a couple of cardboard boxes he hadn’t noticed sitting beside the door and shoving them into Floyd’s arms.

“You have 15 minutes to get your shit packed. I’d say use it wisely and keep the daydreaming to a bare minimum this time if you could. I’m not your personal chauffeur to keep dragging your ass back down to earth and across the compound.”

“What?” For the umpteenth time that day, Floyd is left completely flabbergasted.

“Your shit—” he makes circular motions towards Floyd’s scarce personal belongings scattered around room—“In box.” He points towards the box in Floyd’s arms like he was talking to the world’s dumbest 48 year old toddler.

For the second time in approximately 15 minutes, Floyd feels like the world’s dumbest 48 year old toddler.

“You need me to draw you a diagram?”

“Fuck you, Wilcox.”

“That’s the spirit,” Wilcox says a little too enthusiastically. “Fifteen minutes,” he repeats, this time while making a sign for one and five with his fingers.

Floyd takes back what he said about respecting the man. The ass hole was insufferable but he cleans out his stuff nonetheless. There’s not much they could do to him that hasn’t been done to him in that place already. He knows when a beating’s coming and he’s already mentally and physically prepared for it when it does. But all these uncertainties and the shiftiness of Wilcox and the guys there, all these strange orders and comments that just don’t add up. That Floyd can’t deal with. He can deal with shooting a target he can’t directly see, but it’s much harder shooting a target when you don’t even fucking know which one is the real target. Right here at this moment though, Floyd kind of feels like he’s actually the target.

It isn’t a good feeling. All of a sudden he feels kind of sorry for the people he’s killed though the years.

Except—nope, he’s not really. They were all scumbags who deserved whatever they got.

Moment of repentance over and done with, now back to the present.

“Are we there yet?” Floyd asks for the third time, two minutes into the walk from his jail cell. His previous jail cell now he supposes.

“I consider myself a man of many positive attributes, patience being one of them, and you’re testing nearly all of them Lawton, so if you would kindly shut the hell up.”

Floyd reluctantly lapses into silence, allowing the click-clacking sounds of their footsteps to resound against the wall.

Another day another new corridor explored, another new wing uncovered. If Floyd had been gathering information for a layout blueprint of a place for his escape, they were making it far too easy.

Walking past rows and rows of heavy bolted cell doors only adds to Floyd’s confusion and feeling of not knowing what the hell was going on. The screaming emanating from inside the cells and the pounding noise does nothing to help it either. He kind of misses the guys at this moment. Hell even fucking GQ. He would actually pay money to have Katana there to back him up just in case his probably unfounded worry turns out to not be unfounded. If the last couple of weeks have taught Floyd anything, it’s to expect the unexpected.

He and the squad haven’t seen Flag at all during that time. The only thing they know about what’s going on with him is from whatever second-hand news they get from whoever’s visiting. Though just the fact that they actually get people visiting is a luxury none of them ever expected. Becoming this close to each other, to a point where they would perhaps even without hesitance refer to each other as friends, maybe even family, was an unexpected turn of events. Not to mention the fact that they actually have people on the outside not only with clearance to come and go from Belle Reve almost as much as they please, who also take advantage of that ability to actually come and see them, hang out with them, bring them actual things from the outside and generally seem actually pleased to be in their presence. In GQ’s case, it seems like often times he’s almost more reluctant to leave. Floyd has no doubt that given the choice GQ might even decide to move into one of the cells. It doesn’t seem to be a decision out of character for GQ.

June on the other hand is one character that Floyd just can’t get a grasp on. She seems nice enough most of the time and to the naked eye it would seem like she’s truly nothing more than your run-of-the-mill, dewy eyed archaeologist.

A terrible archaeologist, if Floyd has to be honest, considering her abysmal track record, what with releasing some evil ancient being and getting possessed and everything. But Floyd and the rest of the squad (except maybe Boomerang) have noticed on more than one occasion that there’s so much more to her than meets the eye. It’s nothing outright obvious, he doesn’t think anyone else would really notice, just more of a feeling. Not a dangerous feeling, not like the Enchantress, more like remnants of power that keeps of wafting off her unintentionally. Mostly it feels benign if not outright friendly. But then again it’s pretty hard to be intimidated by a person no matter how powerful they might be when they’re talking so excitedly about the discovery of a 3000 year old golden bong while trying to force feed you chicken broth. Floyd’s pretty sure that actually happened even though he seems to be the only one who remembers.

If June did indeed have powers as Floyd suspects, he thinks that she either doesn’t even realize when she’s using those powers or she’s aware and gotten really, really good at pretending otherwise. Knowing how well June knows Waller, Floyd suspects the latter. He wonders what Wallers makes of the situation, since he’s 100 percent sure that Waller knows about June. Waller knows everything.

It’s only then that Floyd realizes that they actually went up a level without him noticing. It feels weird being in an area of Belle Reve that seemed like it housed actual people. Even the air in the place felt different, less stagnant and stale somehow, if that even made sense.

“You may unclench your sphincter now, Lawton. We’re here.”

Floyd and Wilcox come to a stop in front of, surprise, surprise, another heavily bolted metal door. The people who designed Belle Reve really needed to think outside the box once in a while.

He sees a smattering of guards lined up sparingly along the corridor, but other than that he guesses that they’re in a less secure part of Belle Reve than he was previously. At this point he’s almost completely sure that between his recuperation and organizing all this, that’s what Flag is busy doing behind the scenes that’s preventing him from coming to visit. He’d never admit to feeling hurt about it, though he’s slightly less hesitant to admit that he kind of misses the asshole. He’s glad Flag is doing better though and he thinks Zoe mentioned that Flag was getting discharged from the hospital tomorrow. Thoughts of Zoe manage to drag Floyd back down to the pits of despair so he stops.

Wilcox is eyeing him strangely when he looks at the man.

“What?”

The look gives way to a small smirk but the man says nothing.

Floyd really, really doesn’t like him. It’s confirmed.

“Welcome to your new home,” Wilcox says and pushes open the door like the host of some stupid game show unveiling the stupid prize behind door number one.

The prize it turned out, to not be a jail cell but something more of a mass hall. It wasn’t especially large, but huge compared to his 10 by 10 cell, with stairs leading into an upper level and he sees a few cell bar door lining the side.

“Dadshot!”

It’s like a painful déjà vu when he feels a figure slamming into him from the side sending him sprawling to the floor on his stomach. He skids about a foot before squeaking to a stop, the figure like a heavy lump sitting way too comfortably on his back.

“A handshake next time, Harley,” he says exasperatedly. “A handshake would be enough.”

“But that’s no fun. I missed you, grandpa.”

Once again Floyd resists the urge to let punches fly. He’s only in his forties for fucks sake.

“We were only together like 2 hours ago, woman.”

“Feels like ages.”

“Hey, Lawton, you two need some privacy, esse?”

It’s much less politically incorrect to punch Diablo than Harley, since they’re both men and they’re both the obligatory minorities. But Floyd keeps his fists to himself and pushes himself back up into a standing position; something much easier in theory if Harley wasn’t currently latched onto his back like the world’s most annoying gangly koala.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks when he finally grunts to his feet.

“I thought you were gonna tell us. We’ve been waiting here for about an hour. No one’s telling us anything.”

Floyd looks past Diablo to KC sitting at the edge of the one of tables in the middle of the hall like some underworld boss waiting for his lackey.

He waves happily when he notices Floyd looking at him.

“Considering his flair for the dramatics, I guess we should just wait for GQ to make some hammy entrance to explain this shit to us.”

Both of them lapse into silence, as if preparing themselves for GQ to leap out of the woodwork the way he’d done during the cafeteria thing.

Alas no GQ.

“Well, this has been fun,” Wilcox says after an awkward silence. “But I’m sure someone will be along shortly to entertain you, since last I checked, that still isn’t my job.”

Floyd and Diablo don’t really notice when Wilcox leaves, the door slamming shut behind him and leaving them all to their confused devices.

“Is it time you stopped hanging off my back, Harley?”

“Why?” she whinges. “You’re warm and squishy and comfy. Have you put on weight, Floyd?”

Floyd can only splutter. He most definitely has not put on weight. He does a thousand sit-ups and a thousand push ups a day without fail and he’s about to point out the beat up old punching bag he just hauled across two-thirds of Belle Reve when a sudden sound of metal slamming into metal interrupts them out of the blue.

KC and Boomerang both leap to their feet. Harley is off his back and in a defensive position before Floyd can even blink and Diablo’s got his heckles up like a startled cat. Everyone is primed and ready to meet (and defeat) whatever surprise the higher ups of Belle Reve have decided to toss in their direction. The sound is coming from one of the cells on the upper level; the cell bars thrown open callously and out from the shadows of the unlit cell comes—

“Fucking hell, GQ,” Boomerang curses, verbalising the general thoughts of everyone in the room as they all continue watching the most unlikely of members of their rag tag bunch; yawning and arms stretched out wide like he’d just taken the deepest sleep of the century.

“Oh hay, guys,” GQ says nonchalantly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, as if his presence there and the entire situation was nothing out of the ordinary. “Surprise, wheee…” he says with about 2 percent enthusiasm as the world’s saddest exclamation of joy trails off into another loud yawn.

“What the fuck is going on GQ? More importantly have—have you been there the entire time? We’ve been sitting here for more than an hour and no one’s come or gone besides us.”

GQ stops in his tracks as he slowly makes his way towards the stairwell leading to the ground floor. “Fuck, I must have fallen asleep. Well—oops.”

Floyd’s not sure whether that’s supposed to be some sort of apology in GQ speak, but regardless, it was a piss poor one. “Cut the crap and the GQ-ness and just explain what the fuck is going on this time.”

To GQ’s credit he actually cuts the chit chat and gets to the point almost immediately. “I thought that part might be obvious. Don’t make me utilize my collection of Homer Simpson quotes on you. You’ve been moved to new quarters. One that’s much better at quote unquote, maintaining squad morale, or some sort of shit like that. That was the line Flag sold to Waller anyway and I don’t know if the Missus is getting all naïve in her advancing age but for some reason she bought it without too much resistance. She probably just wanted Flag to stop talking at her with those sad puppy dog eyes. I think Flag’s getting real good at this manipulation game…unless that’s Waller’s plan all along; manipulating Flag into manipulating her when she’s the mastermind controlling the whole manipula—”

“GQ shut up.”

“Roger that,” he says, almost as is he himself realized that he was rambling incoherently.

“Fucking Flag,” Floyd says but it isn’t in a malicious way and he can’t stop the stupid grin from peeking out at the thought of their fearless leader who was still having their backs from behind the scenes. All of a sudden Floyd’s imagining the squad without Flag there to lead them and it’s a terrible prospect to even consider. But if the military was going to discharge him than that’s what it spelled for their squad, unless Waller could pull a string or two and somehow keep him on, but would she even do that?

Floyd thinks he should give himself a proverbial pat on the back for managing to make himself feel all depressed again when the already topsy turvy day was actually turning out quite positive. That’s why he never dwelled too much on stupid things like emotions and getting attached, eventually everyone leaves.

“You guys should come and check out your new digs,” GQ says when the silence starts weighing everyone down, almost like the whole squad was having the same disconcerting thoughts about their favourite half-Viking colonel.

Almost reluctantly all of them make their way up the stairs towards the upper level. The stairs is in the middle of the room leading up towards the far end wall of the cell block hall where it diverges into two opposite L shaped corridors lined with 3 cells on each side. GQ is waiting for them at the top of the stairs as they make their way up one by one; Harley skips up the steps with spryness that Floyd can only dream of. Floyd comes up behind her and his knees seem to creak and pop just to spite him. Diablo and Boomerang comes up behind him and KC brings up the rear, shaking and rattling the steps under his giant reptilian feet.

“Welcome, friends,” GQ greets dramatically when they all reach the top step. “Mr. Lawton, Ms. Quinn, if you would head in this direction,” he motions to his right, towards the three cells along the right side of where they were standing. “And the three of you of one name notoriety—”

“I don’t know if they taught math at that white trash school you went to, GQ, but Killer Crocodile is two words.”

“But it might as well just be one word. Isn’t crocodile a killer by definition? Isn’t that like oxymoron or something?”

“The only moron in question here is you,” Harley interrupts suddenly, turning around quickly from where she was about to go skipping off towards her cell. “I think the term you’re looking for is tautology. It means the use of redundant words, not unlike everything you say ever.” And like that Harley drops the mic. Floyd doesn’t know whether to be impressed or to hand GQ some ice for that devastating burn.

“Damn, man,” Diablo says amusedly.

“Geez, Harley. We’re all on the same team here,” GQ says, but he doesn’t look especially hurt or offended by her words.

Harley blows him a kiss from half across the walkway.

“Well, better just get to it. Don’t want to say anything redundant or anything,” GQ says almost dolefully. KC just guffaws and reaches over to ruffle his hair fondly. Diablo also has a look of fondness on his face as he reaches over to circle him arm around GQ’s shoulders and drags him off towards the left side cell block.

Floyd reaches his cell first since it’s the very first one in the line. He’s not sure whether to be grateful or offended. Harley’s in next to his and the one at the farthest end is left uninhabited. At first glance it seems like a regular prison cell, single bed with a standard issue crisp mattress. There’s no toilet seat in the middle of the room though which is always a plus, but begs the question how and where? Or did they expect them to hold it in till someone decides they’re in desperate enough need to use the joint bathroom downstairs and lets them out?

There’s a nice wooden book shelf on one side of the bed and a small table with a picture frame on the other. A writing desk sits innocently enough against the wall opposite the bed and on closer inspection there’s a book sitting in the middle as if waiting for him. On even closer inspection Floyd sees that the cover is an illustration of a sad bunny and the title is ‘The Night Dad Went to Jail’.

Floyd’s 200 percent confident that particular gift is courtesy of Rick Flag. He tries not to let how pleased he feels on the inside show outright on his face. He doesn’t think he succeeds. Instead he tears his gaze away from the sight before him and goes over to Harley’s cell. The first sight he sees is her doing a split while hanging upside down on the stripper pole that’s been mounted right in the middle of her fucking room. Floyd could not look away quicker had it been a sight of naked Boomerang doing a split instead. It just wasn’t right.

Instead he goes to check on the other guys; Boomerang’s cell is the first one immediately opposite his own and much like his cell, it seemed like a regular cell with a bed and a desk (rather redundant addition if he had to be honest) only instead of a bookshelf, Boom’s held a fridge instead. Surprise, surprise. The Australian inside was sprawled out on the bed, equally unsurprisingly asleep.

Next to his is KC who has a large screen TV mounted to the wall and a surround sound system and a shelf full off terrible comedies, most of them starring Adam Sandler. Floyd was internally grateful to not be sleeping next to that mess.

“How you like your new place, KC?” he asks KC’s back from where he’s currently admiring his new DVD collection.

“Finally feeling appreciated man. Not gonna lie ‘bout that.”

“Yeah, I get what you mean,” Floyd answers, seeing for the first time ever KC showing his sombre side.

“You should check what Diablo’s got in his cell tho. Flag really pulled out the stops looks like.”

That rouses Floyd’s curiosity as he makes his way to the cell at the farthest end, opposite the empty cell on his side. Immediate first sight he sees is GQ lounging way to casually on Diablo’s bed. Like his own cell, Diablo has a shelf full of books with undoubtedly a much finer choice of reading material. Flag was always biased like that. Diablo is sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner among what seems to be a bunch of soft toys, a few bowls and what seems to be a grey, fuzzy ball of fur purring comfortably on his lap.

“Diablo gets a cat? Really? Biased much?” Floyd says when he enters.

Diablo is actually smiling and it’s an unnerving sight to behold. Floyd doesn’t dislike it; it just looks so out of place on Mr. Sombre himself. What’s next? Katana smiling? That would just be too bizarre a sight to imagine.

“Don’t be jealous, amigo,” Diablo says way too gleefully. “We always knew who was Flag’s favourite. This is just proof I guess.”

“I think I miss the old gloomy Diablo more, can he come back instead.”

Diablo laughs and Floyd feels happy despite his forced annoyance.

“This is pretty awesome thought right, guys?”

“I have to reluctantly agree with you, GQ,” Diablo says. “So, you moving into the empty cell there or what?” he adds, motioning towards the vacant cell across from his.

“Unfortunately not,” and GQ looks genuinely upset by that. As if it were such a disappointing thing that he wasn’t moving into a jail cell in the most tightly guarded prison in America with them. GQ must live a much emptier life than Floyd could even imagine. He kind of feels bad for the kid. “I heard that someone might be moving in there, but that information is way above my paygrade.”

As much as that new information tickles Floyd’s curiosity, it’s too low on his priority list to focus on at the moment.

“Oh, by the way, the ceremony for Colonel Flag’s discharge is in a couple of days.”

The statement brings another bout of heavy silence to the room. Floyd doesn’t know how to process that information. Frankly, he’s a little hurt that Flag didn’t at least come to tell them himself, but the rational side of him reasons that Flag might have been too busy between physical therapy and going through with the whole ceremony. He’s confident that Flag would have absolutely been there to tell him if he could. He has faith in that and if being in the squad has done nothing for him, it’s given him back his faith in other people. Flag especially because he’s proven time and time again that he’s always had Floyd and the squad’s back and they’ve all proved that they have his back in return.

“Oh,” is the only thing Diablo can say and Floyd seconds that sentiment.

“The colonel says to apologize for not coming by to visit you guys. He’s been having a tough time with PT and this whole thing with the ceremony. He’d totally be here if he could though. Just wanted you guys to know that.”

“What’s going to happen with the squad? Who’s going to be in charge?” it seems like Diablo spontaneously turned into the voice of reason in the squad and at this point Floyd can only be grateful for that.

“I don’t know. They haven’t exactly filled me in on the finer detail of the plan. They might bring in some super cool, big shot military guy to lead the squad on the ground. But I have no idea who that’s going to be either.”

“What about Flag? What’s he going to do after all this? I don’t exactly see him and June retiring to the Poconos.” At least Floyd certainly hopes not, unless they take Zoe with them. But Floyd is confident that even if Flag wasn’t involved with squad business anymore, he would still continue looking after Zoe. He’s confident that both Flag and June care about Zoe as much as he does.

Eventually Floyd and Diablo feel like they’ve had time to process the information enough and call the rest of the squad back down to the seating hall downstairs. The silence that falls once they finish filling the rest of the team in is familiar. KC and Boomerang are both uncharacteristically silent and Harley looks genuinely upset. She doesn’t say anything in return and after a few introspective moments to herself, she walks back up the stairs, closing the door behind her as she disappears into her cell.

Everyone watches her leave without word. Honestly, no one knows what to say to comfort her anyway.

“In a couple of days you said?” Diablo asks, if only to break the awkward silence.

“Yeah,” GQ replies equally sombrely.

Floyd tries to search his face for any sign that any of this is some sort of stupid joke, but his face his hard and grave. GQ couldn’t be that good a pretender if he tried.

“That sucks,” KC says and the general consensus is agreement.

The next couple of days pass by in an almost repetitive, monotone routine: get up in the morning, walk out the unlocked door of their cell (a fact that surprised Floyd even though he was still in faux-mourning), eat breakfast and get some rec time. Wilcox comes by with a couple of guards to escort them to and from the field. Wilcox is still an asshole, but Floyd is thankful for that. It takes his mind off everything that’s happening, or rather everything that isn’t happening and the date that’s rapidly approaching.

The day of Flag’s retirement from the military and the squad.

He feels he has the right to be as disgruntled as Wilcox says he is.

He wakes up one morning and all of sudden it’s the day of Flag’s discharge ceremony and the day could not start any crappier.  

“Rise and shine, squad.”

Floyd stands corrected.

“Isn’t it a little early for you to start your shift guarding the bridge, Wilcox,” Floyd says from over a spoonful of scrambled eggs.

“Oh come on, Lawton. You gonna make me say that line?”

“What’s happening?” Diablo asks as he takes a seat across from Floyd at the table.

Wilcox just smirks and steps aside. About half a dozen military men come clattering in, taking up position at the ready along the wall beside the door.

Floyd senses his aura before he even steps through the front door. It smells like rule-abiding, sphincter clenching responsibility.

“Commander Jörmungandr!” Floyd states happily when the stern faced man walks through the door.

“It’s Commander Jeffries, pee-on.”

By this time the commotion down in the mess hall has attracted the rest of the squad, who are watching the entire scene unfold from above the second floor rail.

“You guys have 5 minutes to get your gear and get ready.”

“What’s going on?” Floyd stupidly asks.

“4 minutes and 55 seconds, people. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Floyd and the rest wisely keep their questions and comments to themselves. There’s time for all that after. Floyd feels at home once he slips into his red suit and he’s sure everyone feels the same. It’s been too long since they’ve put on anything other than the terrible orange prison jumpsuit. In the four minutes or so they took to get ready—in Boom, Diablo and KC’s case though the only thing they had to do was change trousers and put on a jacket, since Diablo was always wearing that same fucking white wife beater even in prison. Boomerang brings out his trusty yet ratty coat from where he undoubtedly kept it fermented under a dirty mattress because Floyd can smell him coming before he even walks out of his cell. Harley on the other hand managed to change outfits, do her hair in two neat pigtail braids cascading down the front of her chest, a checked red and black pair of leather pants with a matching top that showed off her midriff. In those four or so minutes she’d even managed to do her make up which Floyd found absolutely mind blowing. Talk about multi-tasking.

“You look nice, Harley,” Diablo says.

Harley beams at the compliment. “Thank you, miguelito.”

Diablo laughs at that. “Miguelito, really?”

“You know, crispy and toasty on the outside, soft on the inside.”

“I guess I can live with that.”

They follow Commander Jeffries and his factory-setting team of uptight G.I. Joes out the cell block and down the all too familiar corridor of Belle Reve; four of the military guys on either side of them or two flanking them from behind. Wilcox and his team bringing up the rear.

They leave Wilcox and the Belle Reve guards behind. Floyd keeps his eyes on the man as the armed vehicle they get into pull out of the compound and into the deserted road headed away from the prison. The ride out is in silence; no one asks the questions they have in their heads. Commander Jeffries sitting across from Floyd doesn’t make eye contact through the whole ride.

Floyd doesn’t really know what’s about to happen. Were they actually invited to Flag’s retirement ceremony? If they were was it out of courtesy or just to rub the shit in deeper. It wouldn’t bode well for the squad regardless.

Floyd has a terrible sense of déjà vu all of a sudden of an almost similar car ride taken barely even a month ago; Flag and GQ nowhere to be seen and this stoic new, unfamiliar commander in their place.

“Just answer me this, Commander; Flag didn’t get shot again did he?”

Commander Jeffries levels him with a stern look, but he answers with a simple ‘no’ which at least eliminates that particular worry from Floyds mind.

They pull into the familiar parking compound and the squad files out of the vehicle into the warmth of the outdoor sunlight. Floyd never thought he’d miss being outside this much.

Katana meets them the moment they step into the building and silently accompanies them the whole way up to the tenth floor where Waller’s office and the command center are situated. The same place they go for mission briefings and all that political shit; the same place they first received news of Flag’s attack in what seemed to be ages ago.

The whole squad is uncharacteristically silent.

If Floyd had to be honest, if they were indeed holding the retirement ceremony there they could have at least chipped in for some balloons or a few streamers or something. This was drab even by military standard.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Floyd tries his luck asking Katana, but the stoic lady just shrugs her shoulder in negative. “Don’t know why I expected any different,” Floyd whispers under his breath to himself. GQ’s still nowhere in sight and at this point Floyd’s constantly preparing himself for the man to suddenly jump out from behind a closed door unannounced.

GQ is actually inside the commander center when they enter; standing stoically in the middle of the aisle and looking so uncharacteristically un-GQ like that Floyd is taken aback for a solid second.

“I hate to repeat myself so often but what in the blue hell is going on, GQ?”

GQ clears his throat; an unnerving and uncharacteristic frown on his face and his arms clasped firmly behind his back. Floyd has never seen GQ look so stern and professional in his life and he misses the chatty, fallen puppy-dog eyed GQ they’d all come to know and love.

“That’s Captain GQ Edwards to you, soldier,” he says, dropping his voice an octave but not dropping the façade whatsoever; “Commanding officer of the New Suicide Squad. These hands raised you from perdition and it can throw you back in. So y’all better start showing me some damn respect.”

Floyd doesn’t know how to react, but KC lets out an amused snort from beside him and bursts into laughter. Floyd glances over at GQ just in time to see bits of the stoic façade get chipped away little by little until the regular Cheshire cat grin of GQ’s makes its triumphant comeback.

“Man, Floyd!” he says between bouts of laughter, “You should have seen your face. I think you may have crapped your pants a little.”

“You son-of-a-bi—” but Floyd doesn’t finish that statement cause he lets out the breath he’d been subconsciously holding and allows the relieved smile to curl at his lips.

“Captain GQ?” Diablo repeats as he sidles up to GQ who has dropped every last bit of the put on professionalism and stoicism and reverted back to his devil-may-care attitude and stance.

“Yeah, man. Got a nice ring to it don’t you think?”

“Are you gonna elaborate more on that tho, mate? Cause I still don’t know head nor tails of what the fuck is going on here.”

“To be fair, Boom, you don’t know what the fuck is going on at any given time, but I’m going to explain it anyway cause I’m nice like that,” GQ says, stepping over to one of the electronic counters on the side and perching on the edge. It seemed like the command center had a day off cause besides them there was no one else actually around. “Here’s the explanation, so y’all better listen closely,” he draws out the pause for drama and seriously testing Floyd’s very slim patience level. “I got promoted.”

The confused silence in the room is palpable as Floyd looks at Diablo who looks at Floyd and KC looks at Harley who’s looking at GQ and Boomerang’s looking for something deep inside his ratty pocket, seemingly not paying any attention to the conversation whatsoever.

“And? We were listening,” Floyd says.

“I got promoted. That’s it. Not everything has to be some big dramatic moment, you know, this isn’t some B-rate superhero movie.”

“And what the hell did you mean Commander of the New Suicide Squad?”

“Umm, I didn’t know you guys were this slow. And you thought I was the dumb one. Exactly what it said on the box. Captain GQ Edwards, commanding officer of the squad from today on.”

“And when the hell did that happen?”

“Umm, it’s been in the works for a couple weeks. Didn’t I tell you guys that.”

“No you did not think to include that bit of information, you asshole.” Floyd is happy by the news contrary to his reaction. It just took him by surprise and he hates fucking surprises.

“Well, whoops,” GQ shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes it obvious to Floyd and everyone in the room that it was no mistake whatsoever.

“What are you scheming, GQ?”

“What—lil’ ol’ me?”

“Yes you, no one in this room trusts you a damn bit starting from this moment. Our trust-o-meter has officially been reset.”

“But, guys!” he whines and to his credit he looks genuinely distraught at the prospect of losing the fragile trust they’ve built.

Floyd takes pity on the guy. “Fine, GQ. But you’re threading on thin ice at this point. We hate fucking surprises and let me reminds you that all of us here used to kill people for lesser offences.”

“Your concerns and warnings are duly noted,” he says with a salute. “But—uhh, can we maybe pinky promise on at that the end of the day? Cause, uh…”

“What is it now? And where the fuck is Waller? And Flag for that matter. We’re here for his ceremony at least, right? Don’t tell us you lied about that one too.”

“Well in my defence, I did not actually tell any lies. I only told selected truths, which is not the same as lying.”

“GQ!”

“Okay, okay—geez, guys. Chill. I didn’t lie about Flag getting discharged from the military though,” GQ says and at this point Floyd doesn’t know if he can truly trust the guy anymore. He feels a little bit betrayed to be honest.

“What about Waller?”

“Hmmm, Waller huh. Good question.” He makes a point to look confusedly around the room until KC makes a point to look like he’s about to rush him and beat him to a mushy GQ shaped pulp. “Fine, guys seriously. You’re no fun. Waller got promoted. After the whole Agent Gumby thing and stopping what the higher ups deemed ‘domestic terrorism against members of our military’ quote unquote,” he does the last bit in some overly exaggerated deep monotone voice.

Floyd reaches up to massage the bridge of his nose. “And you were planning on telling us all this…when?”

“I’m telling you guys now,” even the perpetually unruffled GQ seemed slightly annoyed at this point. “It’s a surprise, guys.”

“When did we ever give you the impression that any of us in any way liked surprises, GQ?”

“Oh,” GQ says, looking like the thought genuinely had never occurred to him before.

“Speak for yourself, Floyd. I love surprises,” Harley says, interjecting into the conversation and sidling up seductively beside GQ. “Also I take back what I said. You’re weaselling your way out of redundancy one little white lie at a time, GQ. I approve,” she adds, reaching over to run her fingers through his hair playfully.

“Thanks, Harley,” GQ replies, looking more than a little pleased at the odd compliment. But this was Harley, so it wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary.”

Floyd can just exhale exasperatedly. KC and Boomerang have taken seat in a few of the empty chairs on the side and Diablo is perched at the edge of the table in a mirror position of GQ’s pose. It’s eerily similar to the situation they were in the last time they were in that room, missing only Waller herself.

“Anything else we might need to know? Any more surprises?”

GQ makes a face indicating that there indeed was more surprises instore.

“This was all Waller’s plan, since she’s been promoted; you’re also getting a new handler. Obviously your new squad leader is yours truly.”

Floyd’s not sure whether he likes where this seemed to be going. Considering GQ’s recently discovered aversion to telling the whole truth, he’s not sure what to really expect at this point.

“Not sure if I like the sound of this, mate,” Boomerang says and Floyd is inclined to agree.

“Need I remind you that you’re playing with fire right now, GQ, and I don’t mean Diablo. Cut the crap and these little half-truths cause I’m about one surprise away from stomping over there and whooping your sad little white boy ass.”

It shows really just how complacent they’ve become that for the second time in the span of a couple of months, a person managed to waltz all the way into the room and all the way up to them before they even realize there was someone standing right there.

“You’re talking a lot of crap for such an old man, Floyd.”

And it’s that voice. For a second Floyd doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or if he was actually hearing wrong or projecting his deepest desires into reality where everyone can see and mock him for it. It feels like he hasn’t heard that voice in fucking ages, and he didn’t even notice the existence of that ache in his chest until that very moment, hearing that painfully familiar voice making a painfully familiar jab and all of a sudden the memories of the last couple of months come rushing back to him like a speeding train.

The reaction is immediate even though everything is playing out like a bad slow motion black and white movie in Floyd’s point of view.

Harley leaps off the table she was perched precariously on and rushes forwards with a cry of ‘Colonel Cupcake’ that is one third excitement, one third happiness and one third relief.

Diablo, KC and Boomerangs almost in-sync cry of ‘Flag’ resounding in his ear like it was part of his own heartbeat.

Floyd still hasn’t turned around to look; he’s almost too scared to. A fear that’s mostly ridiculous and probably unfounded but turning around and looking at Flag and seeing him there in person in front of his eyes, that would ground everything in reality and Floyd’s not sure if he wants to let that happen yet.

One by one Diablo, KC and Boomerang push past him to get to where Flag is probably standing, undoubtedly with that stupid white boy smirk plastered on his stupid white boy face with that stupid white boy crew cut on his stupid white boy head. Speaking of stupid white boys, GQ is still grinning something awful right in his line of sight.

Pleasantries are exchanged. Laughter rings out. Even fucking Boomerang sounds like he started tearing up at some point and still Floyd has yet to turn around. Like a petulant child being asked to do something he doesn’t want to, Floyd’s inclined to whine out, “But I don’t wanna,” at the first person to ask him to. But no one does, at least until he feels the warm breaths of someone who seems to have walked up and is standing right behind him. He’s about to mutter out something about personal space when the voice speaks again.

“Did you age so much in the meantime that it’s already starting to affect your hearing?”

Fucking Flag.

Floyd doesn’t know whether to turn around and punch him in his dumb face or turn around and hug the asshole for making it seem like he abandoned them.

His brain decides on the former but his heart seems to have developed a mind of its own because the moment Floyd turns around and his eyes fall on Flag, actually living breathing Flag, upright and not dressed in a crisp white hospital gown being surrounded by too many tubes and wires to count; at that moment, Floyd loses all impulse control and rational thought. He reaches out, grabs Flag sternly by the shoulder and pulls him into a hug usually only reserved for Zoe and a bolster pillow absolutely no one knows he sleeps with. He doesn’t know how long he latches on. He feels Flag’s own arms circle him around the chest and returns the hug with equal amount of comfort.

For like the first time since the shooting, Floyd feels like he can finally truly breathe and if he holds on to Flag for a few seconds longer than is absolutely necessary, no one says anything.

At this point Floyd knows that Flag is holding on mostly for his benefit so eventually he manages to gets his emotions in check and peels out of the embrace almost hesitantly. The immediate first thing he does is punch Flag unceremoniously in the arm.

“That’s for leaving us in the dark the whole time, asshole.”

“Wait a minute,” Boomerang says suddenly. “Does this mean that you’re our new handler, mate?”

Flag looks confused for a hot minute as he regards Boomerang and turns back to Floyd. “You didn’t know? I sent GQ to the prison to let you guys in on what was happening and why I wasn’t able to come visit.”

All eyes snap immediately in GQ’s direction. GQ to his credit looks absolutely unapologetic, if anything, just mildly annoyed.

“It was a fucking surprise!”

Flag all of a sudden looks like he just aged about 2 years in the span of 2 seconds.

Floyd takes in his appearance for a moment, between feeling half annoyed at GQ (cause no one can be a hundred percent annoyed at GQ ever, the guy just had that quality about him that was just incorrigible but in an endearing way) and feeling like he finally had a partner that related to his perpetual exasperation, it felt like Floyd finally had a moment to process everything.

Flag still looks like Flag; strangely Nordic looking, whiter than a baby seal. Hair still closely cropped but obviously growing out. He’s actually wearing a suit and a decent one at that, which was an unnerving sight on its own. It had a tie and a fucking pocket square and everything and also a silver tipped black cane that Floyd was positive held at least 2 concealed knives. He would have been sorely disappointed if it didn’t.

“You’re looking very suave, Colonel,” Diablo says, saving Floyd from actually having to pay Flag that compliment.

Flag rolls his eyes and groans disgustedly. Now there’s the Flag Floyd knew and loved. “It’s not my choice and you better take a fucking picture to commemorate cause this is the first and last time this will happen. It feels like stupid ass tie has a mind of its own and is trying to off me for good this time,” he says, tugging at the material around his neck with two fingers. “Waller insisted on it and god knows that woman knows how to get her way.”

“But seriously, how you doing, Flag?” KC asks.

Flag exhales loudly, the cane thumping on the ground in an almost comforting rhythm as he walks over to a seat GQ just pulled out for him. Floyd notices the way his face contorted slightly when he went to sit down and he’s sure the whole squad noticed the same thing.

“I’ve been better,” Flag answers, “and I’ve been worse. So I guess I really shouldn’t complain.”

“How’s uh—you back? We heard some…less than encouraging things.”

“Yeah,” he answers, leaning back in the seat and allowing the cane to rest against the chair by his knee, “bullets are fucking nasty sons of bitches. It fucks up a lot of shit before it even gets to the actual damage. Us humans create some really nasty shit. But I guess I can still walk, so it isn’t the worst outcome. It sucks that I can’t go out in the field anymore. It’ll be pretty hard trying to run around dodging bad guys when you can barely walk a straight meter without feeling like it’s actually 3 miles of hot coal,” He trails off to a pause. “But enough of this depressing shit. I’m alive at least and I guess that’s pretty good. Also—uh,” It’s a little unnerving to see Flag look so nervous and at a loss of word, but that’s exactly what seems to be taking place. “I never really got to thank you guys for—uh, what you did back there. At the hospital and taking down the guys who shot me and bringing the double agent to justice. I don’t think I can ever tell you how much I appreciate everything you guys did and staying at the hospital. I—I guess—what I’m trying to say is uh—Thank you.”

The whole squad looks like a fine mix of sheepish pride and joy, except Harley who is outright beaming. “Our pleasure, Cupcake. You know we’re always game for a little murder, and it’s a bonus if they actually deserve it,” Harley says and Floyd thinks that they’ve unlocked a new level in their friendship that he finds that statement genuinely touching.

“You’re welcome, Flag,” KC says in a much saner show of appreciation.

“You know, we’d do it all again, cause we know you’d do it for us,” Diablo says. “Todo para la familia,” he adds, shooting a small grin in Floyd’s direction after he said that, “It means ‘everything for the family’.”

“Isn’t that the Nickelodeon show?” GQ says, more of an observation than an actual question.

“Cause you’re our family,” Floyd says, feeling like the sappiest motherfucker in all the land immediately after those words left his mouth. He tries the word on for size, feeling it roll unfamiliarly off his tongue before he comes out of his mouth; “Rick.”

Rick Flag actually smiles one of the few genuine smiles anyone has ever seen on his face that wasn’t a grimace, a half grin at someone’s expense or an outright smirk. It relieves a majority of the tense feeling still lingering between them in the room.

“Christ when did you assholes get so sappy?” he asks, but more of as a deflection than anything else.

“We’re only representing the people in charge of us, esse.”

Without missing a beat, Flag looks disapprovingly over at GQ. “Well then GQ should have set a better example.”

“Me? I have literally been team leader for thirteen whole minutes.”

“Well, first rule of leading the team, Captain Edwards, is that the leader is always responsible for the actions of his squad, no matter how long they’ve been under his command.”

Flag has a smug look on his face that’s far too self-indulgent than is truly necessary. He reminds Floyd of Waller so much in this moment which begs the still unanswered question.

“Speaking of command tho, where is Waller exactly? And does this mean that you’ll still be in charge of the squad? Cause I don’t know if my vote would count at this point but I’m totally down for that.”

“I’m about to tell you. Yes and thank you, I appreciate the vote of support,” Flag answers immediately. “Firstly, yes, I’ll be taking over Waller’s position at command center, since I can’t be down in the field anymore and Waller insisted that if I left her alone in charge of this, and I quote, ‘group of uncouth assholes with absolutely no respect for their superior officer’, then she was going to, and I quote, ‘hunt me down to the nethermost region of the earths asshole and kill me’.”

“Colonel Flag’s going to be the Zordon to our Power Rangers,” GQ elaborates further.

“I thought they gave you early retirement from the military, or was that another of GQ’s little white boy lies?” KC asks and Floyd seconds the question.

“That is true, but it was just a formality. Waller insisted on it because she wanted me loyal only to her command, not something I’m really keen on but only cause it keeps me on the squad in some extent. I wouldn’t just abandon you guys without making sure you’re taken care of. I owe you guys more than that,” he thinks hard on the subject before he adds. “There wasn’t a ceremony or anything extravagant like that if you’re wondering. I guess it just would be complete without my whole squad there.”

In that moment Floyd knows that Flag isn’t just taking about the squad before him, but also the squad of good men that didn’t make it to this point. It grounds everything in a much sombre reality for a minute. The first day he met those men out on the airstrip just hours after the creation of the squad, he could never have imagined a future where there would be a point he’d genuinely mourn for their loss. He never had a chance to become acquainted with them the way he had with Flag, GQ and Katana, but just the fact that these were people Flag and GQ still spoke of with reverence and fondness made Floyd believe that he too would have shared that sentiment.

“And Waller?”

That question gives Flag pause and he reaches over to whisper something to GQ, sending the younger man reaching over to fiddle with something on the computer keyboard at his side.

“I think I should let her answer that question herself,” he says, turning the seat slightly to the side and motioning with one outstretched arm to the large monitor at the end of the room. “Behold, the face of god.”

It’s reminiscent of that moment on that airfield when they first learned about the squad and about their mission and the fact that not all of them were going to make it out of that mission alive.

And on the humongous monitor mounted on the wall at the far end of the room, taking up the entire span of the wall, came up the single most terrifying sight any one of them has ever witnessed.

Amanda Waller in a blood red pantsuit, mimicking the bloodthirsty colour of her very soul, addressing them from a far too familiar podium, flanked by two flags of the United States and the emblem of the White House mounted on the wall in the background.

Holy fuck.

That was the general consensus of everyone in the room, Flag included.

‘Squad,’ she says, her voice booming out the surround sound speakers and drowning all other noises in the room.

Floyd didn’t know whether to laugh or feel absolutely terrified at the sight and the idea that this terrifying woman was now in the single most important house in the entire U.S of A, if not the world, no doubt calling the shots in the background of the entire government. But at that moment, looking at the all too familiar face looking down at them and glancing over at Flag looking at Waller on the screen with barely concealed fondness and awe, Floyd can’t help but think that these two people who have done so much for them are exactly where they both deserve to be.

‘I will forgo the pleasantries, squad and just get right down to the point. Everything has changed, but nothing has changed. The management may have changed hands, but function of the squad has not. You all are still tasked with eliminating threats to the government and to the safety and livelihood of our citizens. You are the sword that defends us from the enemies that ordinary forces cannot stop and if required, you will give your life to fulfil that duty. That’s the reason you’re here, that’s the reason you’ve been chosen.’

“In the meantime though,” Flag interjects quickly, showing more balls in that one moment than the entire time Floyd’s seen him in actual missions, “We will do our best to treat you like human beings and make sure that you are compensated in full for your contribution to the safety of our nation.” Flag finishes his statement and glances over at Waller, having an entire private conversation with that look alone giving Floyd the impression that this is a topic they’re argued intensely over in the past.

Waller eventually relents with a pointed glare at Flag that Floyd interpreted as fifty percent annoyance and fifty percent actual respect.

‘Well, I suppose all that is up to your now, Colonel. Or should I call you Zordon.’

The unexpectedness of that statement takes everyone by complete surprise so none of them could stop the snort of laughter before it slipped out into the open.

‘Well then people, I have our entire fair nation depending on me to protect them from the forces of evil, so I will leave the mission briefing in Colonel Flag’s more than capable hands,’ before the camera flickers out, Waller has just enough time to spare a look at Flag and a couple of words of warning; ‘Don’t disappoint me.’

“No, ma’am,” Flag answers to the static noise of the cut out screen.

“So we’re actually going on a mission today, boss?” asks Diablo, always the most level headed one in the group. Floyd thinks that it really should be his job since he is the faux-leader of the squad on an average day.

“In a way,” Flag answers cryptically, making it clear that he inherited more than Waller’s job, also her penchant for answering questions with non-answers. “You’re not just here to listen to GQ talk crap or see me in this monkey suit, there’s actually someone else you’re here to meet; a new member of the squad.”

A tense silence falls over the group. Floyd shares a look with Diablo and the meaning that passes between them is that this will either turn out really good, or catastrophically terrible. Both of them are leaning towards the latter.

The door in the background behind GQ suddenly opens and all of them notice movement in the dark as GQ walks over to greet this new arrival.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Flag starts before his eyes fall on KC and he adds almost automatically, “And gentlecrocodiles.”

“Damn right I’m gentle.”

They see the outline of GQ walking towards their direction and into the light, one arm reaching to the newcomer. Floyd can’t see who or what it is, only the outline of a petite, lithe figure.

“May I introduce you to the new member of your team,” Flag announces as the figure steps gracefully into the light and into their line of sight. Floyd’s immediate first response is: flaming red hair—a bit too much hair than is truly necessary on a human being, he thinks. The woman, as they just discovered, sidles up behind Flag with an almost seductive kind of sashay, her fingers creeping across his chest like a vine as she embraces him affectionately from behind. Flag looks too unruffled by the act for it to be an unexpected occurrence. “Pamela Isley,” he says as he grabs one of the hands that’s getting a bit too intimate with his chest area and guides the person forward, “Also known as, Poison Ivy.”

The lady folds herself into a rather exaggerated bow, one leg crossed behind the other and both arms, including the hand still held by Flag, spread out at her side. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, boys,” she says; her voice coming out almost a purr.

Besides Floyd, Harley is bristling. After all, no one cuddles members of the squad except her.

Floyd doesn’t know whether it’s the murderous aura currently rolling off Harley in waves or the heated glare she she’s shooting like laser beams that attracts the newcomers eyes to Harley, but they fall on her almost immediately with an astonished ‘oh.’

“Boys and ladies,” Pamela corrects, her eyes never straying from Harley; in fact studying her up and down with a hawk like gaze. She’s staring a bit too intently in Floyd’s opinion, it almost feels like he’s infringing on what should be an intimate moment. “I do like what I see,” she says and for the first time ever, Floyd sees Harley completely at a loss for words.

The rest of the squad on the other hand obviously approve, if the appreciative glint they all had in their eye was anything to go by.

“So, Isley,” Diablo starts, once again taking over as team leader from Floyd who just needed more time process this shit. “What do you do? Or rather what can you do?”

“Well, ma Cherie—”

Besides Floyd, Harley is almost shaking with rage at this point. After all no one gives members of her squad nicknames besides her.

“—Let’s just say that I have an affinity for flora.”

Floyd doesn’t know what exactly that’s supposed to mean, until Pamela raises her hand, palm up, in front of Diablo and a small rose bud rises up out of the very skin of her hand and blossoms into a gorgeous purple rose.

“Holy shit!” KC nearly jumps out of his scales at the sight.

“Fuck, mate. That’s the coolest shit I’ve ever seen!”

Even Katana’s eyes widened from behind the mask and Floyd hears GQ letting out a whistle from somewhere in the background.

Diablo looks more than a little impressed by what he saw.

“What about you, papi?”

Diablo smirks, and raises his hand, palm up, in front of Pamela and a spark of flame ignites right in the middle of his hand; burning red embers of flame taking shape of a fiery orange rose.

Floyd looks at Flag looking at the scene in front of him and the asshole looks far too smug by the exchange happening in front of him.

“Nice,” Pamela says equally as impressed. “I do think we’ll all get along just fine.” She tears her eyes away from Diablo suddenly, taking a couple of steps further into the middle of the assembled group and stops right in front of the still bristling Harley.

Harley opens her mouth to say something when Pamela raises the hand that’s holding the flower and offers it to Harley.

“A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady,” she says and Harley’s mouth snaps shut as she looked confusedly between Pamela and the rose being offered to her.

It’s Katana who nudges her gently with her shoulder, snapping her out of her befuddled thoughts and brings her back down to reality. Harley hesitantly reaches up to take the offered flower from Pamela’s hand with a muttered, ‘thanks’ as all the indignation and rage that was seeping off her being immediately drains away. Pamela moves quickly just as Harley’s just about to the rose out of her offering grasp, grabbing the outstretched hand gently and planting a soft kiss on the back of it, visibly startling the still befuddled Harley.

“A single purple rose means love at first sight,” Pamela adds and for the first time ever, Harley is both blushing and at a complete loss of words.

Floyd thinks that they actually seem to be off to a good start; Harley no longer looks like she wants to kill the new girl on sight. The new girl looks like she has other plans for Harley, if the seductive gaze she keeps shooting at her is any indication. The only downside if the fact that Floyd only just remembered that he’s in the cell right next to Harleys and the one he assumes now belongs to Pamela.

Maybe there’s still time to ask for his old cell back.

He shares a look with Flag sitting directly in front of him as the rest of the squad converge on the new member, throwing around questions and a couple of inappropriate comments. Floyd hears a desperate choking sound that sounds suspiciously like Boomerang and he doesn’t even have to turn around to know that the new girl is more than capable of protecting herself from Boom’s crude advances. He walks over to where Flag is still sitting on the office seat in the middle of the command center aisle.

“So…”

“So,” Flag mimics his statement as he turns around to perch on the closest table beside Flag, watching the scene unfolding before them with an amused eye. “What do you think of the new girl?”

“Seems like another scary ass woman who can more than kick out asses, figuratively and literally.” Flag chuckles and Floyd doesn’t know how much he’s missed hearing that sound. “Better question is what does the new girl think of Harley? Cause I can tell you the answer, it’s nothing appropriate.”

“Yeah, she’s a piece of work, but so is Harley. And they’re both smart, consenting adults. Also the alternative…”

Flag trails off but Floyd completely understands the unsaid comment. He’s sure they’re both thinking of Harley’s less than proper and very unhealthy ex. Instead both of them look over to where Pamela is still openly staring at Harley and Harley in return actually looks shy at the attention, but doesn’t look like she’s about to stab the other woman in the eye with the rose stem. Instead she’s holding onto the rose like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“June’s spending the day with Zoe, by the way. I tried bringing her here but, with the new member and Waller and everything, I think it’s better for when things aren’t so frantic. Pamela’s still in the testing process. I mean, we’ve been looking at candidates for months and we still have to get to know her on the field and how she’s handle it. She’s more than capable to neutralize threats on her own, but like with you guys the first time. Being in a squad is something she’s going to have to get used to.”

Floyd tries not to let his disappointment show at the mention of Zoe. But he remembers the phone call and decides to ask Flag about it. “So, Zoe called me the other day,” Flag looks like he knows exactly what Floyd is talking about, “and she said something strange, that she’ll talk to me again another time?”

“Yeah,” Flag answers, looking up to meet Floyd eyes. “I got her a cell phone that makes calls only to me, June and GQ, and also to the phone in Belle Reve. But it’s just for a set time once every few days, since it’s still a prison with rules. But I am working on getting a phone for you that can just make calls to Zoe and me. That one’s proving to be a bit of a challenge. Waller’s grown immune to my charms in the last couple of weeks.”

Floyd is touched, and he doesn’t even attempt to speak when Flag finishes because he knows the only sounds he’ll be able to make are gurgled sobbing sounds. He knew that Flag was still working to set things up for them behind the scenes, as demonstrated by the cafeteria and their new digs, but he didn’t know it extended this far. It’s more than material things Flag is handling for them from the outside; it’s also the emotional aspects and taking care of everything near and dear to them. He’s sure that the choice of adding Pamela’s particularly to the squad wasn’t something accidental.

Flag, June, GQ and Katana, all of them are the family none of them ever really had; even more than that. It’s a relationship built and forged in fire and something that can never be truly severed. They see in Floyd and Harley and KC and Diablo and Boomerang what everyone else in the world has given up trying to look for; humanity, importance and love; three things that Floyd never saw of himself until this very moment. Looking out to the squad laughing; GQ and Boomerang are outright ogling Pamela who just made vines creep up her arms and spout out little white buds. KC who is guffawing loudly seemingly at something Katana had said and the usually stoic Katana is actually smiling.

And Harley who’s looking at the scene taking place in front of her and at the woman who can’t seem to tear her eyes away from her; eyes that shine with awe and the unfamiliar glint of admiration. Harley’s used to looking at others with that gaze, but has never had that look or those emotions being directed at her.

Its mind blowing, she thinks.

“You’re breath-taking,” Pamela says to her.

And in background Flag and Floyd both look on, grinning like the proudest and dorkiest parents in all the land.

 tbc.

This chapter is 17390 words long like daaaamn. So hopefully it makes up for the super long wait. Also everything I write will have a happy ending, the happiest ending if I have anything to say about it and I hope it lived to up everyone’s expectations. For the record, I knew I wanted to end the story by adding Poison Ivy, so finally getting to write that scene makes me very happy and very pleased.

Wilcox, Biggits and Banks are actual Belle Reve Penitentiary guards in the Young Justice series.

Also I said that this was going to be the last chapter, and for all intents and purposes, it is. But then I realized that how can I finish this story without bring it full circle and end it with everyone’s favourite disgruntled colonel. And so, we will have one last short epilogue to end things and tie off the few lose ends I have hanging.