Chapter 1: ‘Peacemaker. What a joke.’
Chapter Text
Breathe.
In.
Whistle.
Out.
Whistle.
“I told you we never let our people die, Colonel.”
It was strange. His return. There were so many worthy people to bring back, so many lives more valuable than Christopher’s. Brainwashed, after a long coma, after complicated series of rehabilitation exercises, after a few new adrenaline dosages, he couldn’t believe Waller found him useful.
First, there were no serious missions. They just got him to the headquarters in South Virginia. Wandering around a four-story building, watching cleaners doing their job before Amanda’s arrival, Chris tried to predict what would the next mission be like.
Terrorists? New secret meta-lab? Aliens (again )?
Whatever global threat endangered the Earth or the US (or, again, whatever Amanda found valuable enough to protect ), Chris didn’t give a shit. Doing exhausting runs along the stairs, he tried to focus on his indestructible principles.
But one day, when he was truly alone, in the room they gave to him, peering into the white ceiling, Christopher ‘Peacemaker’ Smith was caught off guard by a backstabbing thought.
Three pillars, three titanic whales of Peacemaker’s philosophy were dead.
Their gigantic bodies had drowned in the black waters of purifying coma.
Now, there was a void. Floating in his head and displacing every other image. Each and every, except one.
Brown eyes looked at him, a hint of childish confusion glistened weakly before turning into dead glass.
His father never taught him to help people. His father never showed mercy or empathy to him, though Chris couldn’t call his father or himself a finished sociopath.
Blood and gore, children’s deaths, eyeballs popping out of the sockets, garlands of guts, living human bodies without a single bone, meta-lab failed experiments… Chris saw tons of shit, and nothing, literally nothing, and nobody could move his beliefs for an inch! He was peace! HE WAS AT PEACE!
Half-grin in the mirror lowered. His twin sighed in his reflected world.
No more peace after…
“Come on, just say it,” demanded the reflection. “Say it aloud.”
...these words burnt before being said. They burnt his neck, Bloodsport’s bullet had left him a scar which turned now into drops of heated magma. Heavy blazing drops.
The acceptance of the events couldn’t drag his old doctrine too.
Unfortunately, Peacemaker died with Richard Flag.
Chris didn’t recognize the talking man in the mirror.
Chris didn’t like talking now.
What a peculiar thing: at the moment when you think your life’s too bad to go on, everything becomes even more complicated than the most complicated scenario you have ever imagined.
For Chris, it’s hard to say for sure if his life had become worse with the team’s arrival. But it definitely became stranger. DuBois, a self-obsessed douchebag, never talked to him. No surprise: Bloodsport would never be happy to have Peacemaker covering his ass.
But then, suddenly, enslaved by an inner sense of justice, Chris asked if Robert knew where they buried the Colonel.
A long row of thoughts about graveyard clothes and flowers and sorrowful words were broken by a sharp arc of the cocked eyebrow.
“Buried? The Colonel?”
“Yeah. The Colonel. Rick Flag. Remember him?”
“Rick? Buried? Are you drunk, mate?”
After those nine words, no one more was thrown at Christopher. He felt exiled. Confused. Hung above the black growling abyss. Did DuBois mourn his pal? Why did he show such a level of astonishment? There still existed a little chance Bloodsport despised him that much. For Chris, it was understandable.
Until…
“Wanna talk?” Harley didn’t look at him, examining the showcase with colorful cupcakes. Fortunately, the canteen was always empty if it’s not mealtime. Their schedule’s pretty tough. “Hurry then, big guy. I gotta grab some lil’ presents for my friend! Y’know how it happens, right? You lose your bet, then a couple of pretty women must ride your face, and then you are to buy a cupcake to the winner.”
What the hell is going on there in her head…
Chris shook his head.
“A friend, huh...”
“Yeah, Richie likes cupcakes,” cooed Harley, hanging over the showcase and stealing cupcakes. More than a couple. Her beautiful round ass, now seen perfectly under the bright lights of the canteen, wrapped into tight spandex could knock anyone out. Maybe, even Crhis one day.
What do we say to the gods of nice asses? Not today.
“Richie?”
“Yeah,” the girl appeared again with her face bearing evidence of the cupcake crime. “Flag. He’s late a bit, lil’ prankster, but he owed me a new bat, and I–”
While Harley’s chirping about yellow shirts, make-up removers, and a new flare gun with a lollipop keeping section, Chris’ heart missed several beats.
His throat went dry. Dreadfully dry, like some shitty desert surface. Instead of the sand – words, painful words scratching his trachea, and mouth, and lips, and even his tongue. He couldn’t believe he asked Harley, but mostly he couldn’t believe the answer he got.
“R-Rick’s alive?”
Harley’s brows cocked, and her sincerity reminded him of DuBois.
His peace was broken.
His world exploded, and nothing left.
Tunnels of the light devoured him, stripped the flesh from his bones. The only correct description of what was Christopher now: a concept. A pathetic bunch of ideas other people have about him. They thought he’s rude, they expected him to bite back, surely they’d wait for Peacemaker to protect Waller’s will as ‘peace’ he’d sworn to protect at any costs. Was that all? To get back from a coma, to be dead for a minute and a half, and then...everything would be the same? Missions, deaths, and fragile peace to keep?
Maybe, it’d be better to act precisely as others expect him to? It’s easy, wasn’t it? Expectations, expectations were just the synonym for orders. Just one more ‘normal’ word to cover the rotten meaning.
It’s easy to have no thoughts. To follow orders-expectations.
The next week passed by; short conversations and training evenings, long sleepless nights of tactic analytics, and unpleasant screams of Weasel merged into a thick layer of white noise. A firm cocoon of insignificant events was squeezing him, tighter and tighter every day.
Migraine occupied his mind.
Painfully clenched teeth: to stay assured he’s awake, everything around was real. Not comatose dreams produced by his vegg-like brain.
Sunken dark spots circled his eyes. A special mark: look, this dumbass can’t fight insomnia!
No one asked him about anything. Chris didn’t try to talk to anyone. He didn’t even shout at Weasel. Whatever. He knew nothing would help to shut the bitch up. Only one person, one of all he knew, could find a common language for all those bastards Amanda Waller used to hire. Crazy Joker’s ex? Easy. They’re best friends! A fucking mutant weasel who (or what ) couldn’t swim? Easy. The bastard’s now alive and leaking his balls in his own room. Jesus fucking Christ. Mad rat-loving girl, the giant speaking shark, the bastard using the smaller bullets… You could give Rick Flag a pack of retarded shit, and he’d come back with the squad of the loyal soldiers. Tactics and maps, quick decisions and orders priority, other’s lives… Rick Flag was the only person able to gather people, to assemble them no matter what. He was the leader the US must be proud of.
Maybe, this is the reason why DuBois and Harley reacted as they did?
Maybe, it’s hard to admit someone’s death if someone saved their life? Cared about them, never hesitated to rescue. Chris failed to recall at least one brief moment when Flag lost his courage, his famous golden optimism.
For Chris, it’s hard not only to admit someone’s death.
It’s hard to accept the fact of his life. Undeserved.
The reflection guy talked to him every time he approached the mirror. But Chris never answered.
Losing your self-determination is no different from being dead.
Three more weeks passed.
Harley didn’t stop stealing cupcakes. But, as Waller said during the call session, they’re not waiting for anyone to come.
It’s time to admit: there’s nobody to eat stolen sweets.
They say, there’s karma.
Once, Chris had been young and enthusiastic to learn more about the world and people. So, they said there’s karma, natural law for keeping the balance of the universe. This bullshit had never impressed him, he’d never believed in gods or spooky spirits. Instead, the more religious facts he had discovered, the clearer picture of the human mind Chris had gotten. Throughout history, at whatever age, people had always tended to find peace.
A funny joke of Fates.
He'd lost his peace while trying to keep it. He thought he was keeping it. He thought, and he believed.
The mirror guy laughed. but his laughter was bitter. He didn’t smile. His eyes were dull, emotionless. Just two blinking pieces of glass.
...a funny joke of Fates.
All his life had been a continuous railway of eternal scorn for believers. In the end, it turned out he was the biggest fool. A religious fanatic with the god his insane father had infected him with.
Peace.
Bullshit.
For long seconds the reflection guy didn’t move. He didn’t laugh. No talking. The only thing he did was examining his bruised fists and looking back into the little piece of the mirror he had just smashed. Idiot. Why did he break the mirror?
The mission seemed a bit difficult. They had to find the camp in the forests, kill everyone except the main geneticist, destroy (first find, Pissmaker) the secret lab.
What’s in there – nobody knew. Waller’d mentioned the illegal metahuman experiments, meta-mutations particularly.
Danger level: an uncontrollable, unpredictable army of metahumans.
Chris’ confidence level: 100%.
100% they would die.
“Bitch!”
“Pissmaker!”
When they got few inches left before their faces clash, a black and red flash appeared. Harley’s head crashed their noses with victorious yell “Donkey!”.
Surprisingly, it took just a couple of seconds to understand Bloodsport and Peacemaker were not playing ‘that funny game when Shrek (the loser) must drink alcohol’.
Evening training was the worst thing. DuBois’ pitiful confrontation attempts really got under Chris’ skin. Now he had a motive to sleep, otherwise, he wouldn’t have enough powers to throw the black bastard off the climbing wall.
And Harley… Jesus, she’s really insane. Chris had never met such loonies. Or, at least, he had never known crazy jerks too well. By lucky chance. Watching Joker’s ex trying to run the wall on her fours, Chris realized his luck left him. With a loud dramatic door slam. Where did he go wrong? He needed to know what sins to confess. In his previous life, he must have been the biggest sinner in the world, there just couldn’t be any other reason to have such a team.
‘We don’t leave one of our own behind!’
Flag’s voice in his head sounded deafening, roaring thunder on a sunny day.
He used to say ‘we’.
During the mission, the latest one, Chris hesitated Flag’s decisions, didn’t trust his intuition, never believed his sanity.
“Hey, Milton! Look at me! Look!”
Chris knew no reason to call DuBois Milton, but he wasn’t going to ask court jesters about their kinks.
‘...one of our...’
...Rick would have asked. About kinks, and food, and weather, and the last book you had read. The more features of his Chris remembered, the more he thought about Flag and his unique ability to make everyone his mates, the less anger stayed with him.
A painful twitch in his chest turned Chris away from Bloodsport and Harley fooling around.
At this particular moment, he smelled the tobacco.
“Hey, assholes!” Two figures crossing the gym stopped. Who were they? It’s supposed to be a secret place, damnit! “No smoking! Are you blind!?”
Truly, Waller had to spend a penny or two: printed signs with the cigarette crossed worked unexpectedly good. Nobody liked the tobacco smell, neither in prison nor in the canteen or wherever except the outside.
Then both figures showed their faces.
One face.
The other had a tactical mask.
“Excuse me?” asked Rick Flag.
Insomnia greeted him, an old friend. Its welcoming embrace stroked his mind slightly, throwing the previous day at him.
Rick Flag.
Alive.
Looking at him like they had never met before.
No, that couldn’t be true. Just…
He had to sleep. Hallucinations would make him ineffective.
The guy in the mirror greeted him with a broken nose and unreadable expression in his eyes. Who cares what reflections think about, right?
‘Holding a gun on me is pretty fucking personal!’
Magnum slid off his temple. Not today.
For a whole week, there were no apparitions to haunt him. Moreover, Chris had slept ten hours in total! Considerable progress for someone with...specific issues.
In the small assembly hall, the round table was already waiting for them, the next Task Force X squad. An interactive map above the desk threw firm cold blue light; Harley tried to catch electric beams with her pocket mirror; DuBois took a seat and didn’t even look at Chris, but he recommended Harley to change the angle so she could blind Nanaue; the shark was simply reading (wow, not upside down!) until the reflected flash of light distracted him. Others, Chris saw them for the first time, whispered behind him, not sure where they could sit.
“Alright, pals, our first meeting!. Any questions, inquiries, and suggestions are not forbidden but still not wanted.” Chris froze at his spot, feeling his legs petrifying and his heart racing as some rabid, sick hare.
This voice.
His voice.
Chris watched two figures enter the hall. Black fatigues, both got a cigarette over the left ear.
Both were Colonel Richard Flag Jr. In the flesh.
“Clones?”
DuBois sighed. A strong, stinging regret filled his mind, but Waller ordered to reveal the truth to Peacemaker.
“Flag’s family have been serving the country for generations. His father, his grandfather, you get it. Our gov consider him as the best leader, they don’t want to lose the guy who can control sui–” A pause. Slight coughing. “I mean, Task Force. Best strategist, best leader, people love him. I saw Rick in Qurac, man. He brings back his people alive from Hell if everyone follows his orders.”
So, the government wanted to empower its positions on several fronts. They had made three copies of the Colonel. Why not more? Clone technology issues? While the original one was helping his country during legal war conflicts, others were leading secret missions, including Task Force X.
“...as far as I know, as the time passed, two of three clones showed themselves as defective. They were executed. People in administration shitted their pants and decided to reinsure.”
Chris’s glance moved to the distant table, where Rick (both of them) were laughing pretty loud. Maybe, it’s Harley’s jokes…
“What did they do to him?” He asked.
But DuBois just shrugged, and Peacemaker captured disappointment notes.
“Wish I knew. Sure as hell: they did everything they could to protect their precious puppet.”
“Tell me everything,” she demanded, her gentle fingers stroked re-grown hair. “I missed you, Richie.”
“I missed you too, Harls.”
“Why so sad?”
“It’s just… Too many shitty things dumped into my plate. I’ll be alright, don’t worry.”
He looked and sounded like Rick Flag Chris used to work with on Corto Maltese. Today, there was no infectious optimism in Flag’s voice. Instead, Chris found sorrow, so tangible that he could stretch his hand and touch it, feel floating in the air.
They were sitting under the oak tree, Harley and Rick. She was sitting, and Flag allowed her to drag him lower, to lie on her laps.
“Tell me, or you’ll be tickled to death.”
Several days left before the first intelligence on the enemy’s territory. Everyone tried to have as much rest as they could. So, two of them got out, to enjoy the fresh air and have a talk after...long time.
When he went out, Chris didn’t have an intention to eavesdrop. His plan contained a simple walk before training.
“Easy, Harls! Keep your signature for enemies!”
Slowly, layer after layer, Chris discovered what a person Flag was.
He had had a wife, her name was June, but she was killed.
Witness protection agents should had watched his life and protect him from any possible intervention. Appreciated for his service to the nation, Rick had hoped to get a normal life, away from fights and death.
But here he was.
Throwing jokes with Harley and sharing an apple, acting like besties.
The sick feeling in Chris’ stomach empowered his suspicion. What’s wrong with Rick? He’d returned to the crew, to his work – for what? You must be insane to agree with Waller willingly. Sure as hell, there were reasons to get back.
“Harls, could you mend it? I’m sorry I gotta ask, you–”
“Aw, is this the Corto Maltese bunny!? OH. MY. GODS. I loved this shirt! How and why did you save it? Admit it, you liked the way you look in it, fashion boy.”
“No, not really. I just like it.” Rick sighed as if the next words were the load he’d never lift. “And he doesn’t.”
Chris didn’t even notice his thoughts suddenly matched Harley’s.
“Holy shit, bunny.”
...except for ‘bunny’.
Anger inflated his nostrils, widened tiny threads of eye capillaries almost coloring them into crimson red.
He’s gonna kill the bitch.
Fuck Waller’s orders, fuck Waller!
The fucking rat chewed his last pants this night! If the Weasel didn’t swim, Chris sure, he’d find the way to kill fucking–
“Watch your fucking step!” He shouted at the top of his lungs at the guy in the black when their shoulders clashed in the narrow hall.
Only looking over his shoulder to notice the moron’s face, Chris realized his mistake. Goosebumps ran along his spine as his hair rose on the back of his head.
The guy in the black.
FUCK.
Colonel Richard Flag (the original one) stopped and faced him. His attendant, in military green-yellow, threw a couple of hissing sounds on his tiptoes to get closer to Flag’s ear.
What a wonderful thing’s a human glance.
It may inspire hope and light thoughts, it can tell even more than any smart word sometimes.
Now, even keeping in his head his height, Chris found himself a miserable, tiny, useless atom of litter suddenly brought by the wind on the clean, perfect surface of life. Richard’s eyes didn’t tell anything to him, but they pressed on, slamming his ego, erasing his thoughts and emotions, leaving nothing but cold, biting ice.
Pale lips squeezed the burning cigarette.
Colonel snickered before leaving Chris alone.
“What a joke.”
Chapter 2: 'Golden sun.'
Chapter Text
The third medical principle of beneficence claims 'facere bonum et vitare malum'.
Do good and avoid evil.
And Chris tried, he bent over backward to stay at the position where he could do no evil to himself and only good to his mental state. Unfortunately, with Flag’s arrival, things worsened till the very bottom. And even lower.
They were about to move out to explore the territory and find the traces of the morons who managed to escape Amanda’s sharp eyes. The squad, all at arms, ready to jump in the dead of night and rush into the battle. But Rick (both of them) decided to wait for something. For a sign, or, as DuBois’d said, for ‘any of the gods’ shitty gift’.
Whilst Colonel had been waiting, Christopher got fed up with the gods’ moronic gifts.
First of them, and not the slightest, was the fact that Colonel Richard Flag liked the cupcakes. Indeed, he loved the sweets, the mad jester girl didn’t lie. The evidence, just as cruel and merciless as the ax of an executioner, faced Chris when he was sitting late in the canteen. Insomnia and the Weasel howling left no chances for him to stay long in his own room. Was it better in the fucking Belle Reve? Hell yeah, it was. You didn’t know what you got until you lost it, right?
Because there was no Rick Flag licking the topping of the fucking cupcake.
Because there was no Rick Flag’s whore tongue to brush the lips and steal the blue icing (which looked like semen, and Chris knew it was obvious for fucking everyone, and still nobody said a fucking word!).
Some drops stay in the corners.
Rick didn’t eat the cupcake. He fucked with it in front of everyone in the canteen: Harley (Nah, didn’t count since Chris heard they’d screwed a while ago), DuBois (didn’t count either, he was walking out of the room) and… Fuck. FUCK.
...and Chris.
He missed the moment when Harleen’d gotten up from her seat and stared at him, ready to leave and turn the lights off. “You’re coming or when?”
“It’s ‘or what’, Harls.” Of-fucking-course, Flag would correct her. This righteous, squeamish, loyal good-boy-doggy Flag with his long whore tongue… His half-grin with the light spots of the frosting caught all Chris’s attention.
“So, it’s who? You’re coming when who?”
“Harls!”
“What!”
“Yes!”
They left him, becoming just a distant sound of the jester’s chirping about Flag’s ability to stay sane.
Oh no.
Flag’s had the titan nervous system. Crystal clear mind, so shiny to lighten their path through the missions. Flag’s saint, Flag’s the sanest. It’s not him who stayed in the canteen, it’s not Rick not able to move because of the tight bulge in his pants.
Rick’s not a fucking mess.
“I don’t like it.”
He sighed, letting the leather belt slip down on the floor. “I know.”
“But I still watch you wearing this.”
“Yeah.”
As if they were nothing but a reflection of someone else, they landed on the bed at once, in one motion, with a distinctive sharp tilt of the head. The eye contact stayed unbroken, steady as an old brick bridge. They knew every single thought of each other, they knew every impulse they’d follow or ignore.
It was a strange bond Rick never had with others. With other clones or just other people.
He was special.
This one, the last, had always been...different, to put it mildly. Although he didn’t possess the features the original Richard would like to see, the remaining clone-Flag was more curious about life and the world and the emotions. He was more of a researcher, a passionate explorer of everything he saw, heard, and got in touch with. It was this clone who had fallen in love with June Moone and who’d saved her and the whole world from Enchantress and Incubus. Had anyone known this? Had anyone ever noticed the great abyss of dissonance between the real Richard and his copy?
The mission had been completed. Any squad they both had been thrown at never suspected this trick. Except for Harley, but, well… She’s very smart, whatever those morons may tell behind her back.
“Again.”
The original raised his head. Gliding out of deep thoughts and memories, Colonel thought his clone was too good to even for him. Too kind, too caring. How could this be possible? Just a copy, the scientists used to say. A sample of DNA thrown at the centrifuge. A miserable print of Rick’s being...
“Again what?”
“Too far from here again.” The ‘miserable copy’ stretched out and put the annoying yellow piece of garbage he called a T-shirt off. With this, the scar on his chest hooked Flag’s eyes and mind. Peacemaker, this pathetic parody on a human… “Stop it. I know what’s in your head and I want you to stop.”
“I–”
The trick about clones is you can’t lie to them or hide any shit you’re thinking about. In some sense, it’s like lying to the therapist you’ve been visiting for a couple of years. Especially when you’re both (or all of you, no matter the amount) experience the same situation. Since you’re the one person, the pattern of your mind constructing the thoughts and ideas is always the same; your neurotransmitters provide the same hormones, and the reactions your bodies produce are the same reactions.
Usually.
Not equal to ‘always’.
This rule hadn’t worked with June. The original Rick had never loved her. They had barely met. Besides, her appearance and the way she’d behaved annoyed him, so strong, till nausea. But this particular copy of him… After their marriage, Waller had allowed them to stay in NY, to leave the missions and the military service, to turn into a couple of normal civilians. All this stuff as Thanksgiving turkey and the Christmas socks, and long nights full of future plans, and inventing kids’ names… Everything had been taken by his, Colonel’s hands. It looked like he killed his own happiness despite the fact he had never even touched it.
Internal affairs had reported they’d found the proof of June being dead, all this time the little piece of the immortal whore’s soul had been mimicking Moone.
Before her death (they hoped the final one), she’d managed to tell the clone a pretty...peaky phrase.
‘I’m glad they haven’t sent sorta clone or something. You know I’d notice the trick.’
That’s it. Amidst the avalanche of lovely confessions, there’d been hidden a rock to kill.
“Stop.” The other Rick demanded again and pressed his hand to Colonel’s forehead. “The day was heavy. Tomorrow’s not gonna be easy either.”
He turned his gaze to the Corto Maltese souvenir of the canary color. Sewn, almost every inch of the cheap fabric. Little white traces of Harley’s attempts to get this thing back to life. All of her stitches were crisscrossed forming a ‘ha-ha-ha’ pattern.
“I’ll get you the new one. I don’t want you to look like some hobo.”
Rick smiled and leaned closer.
“Just admit it: you like the view.”
“No, I don’t.”
The trick’s not only in the absence of the ability to lie to your clone. It’s also about total helplessness in front of his wishes.
Because they don’t belong to him only.
They are yours.
It was a bad nights streak. Weasel’s being obsessed with the full moon, his instant scratching against the wall was driving Chris mad. Talking to the mockery of nature, Chris achieved no results. While the man’s voice was producing sound, the beast was looking at him. And even a few minutes after he finished his passionate monologue. Then, the scratching and the howling pretty similar to a coyote which finally found a fucktoy repeated again. And again. And again.
Thus, Chris found himself wandering purposelessly around the lower floor shared by both Colonels and… Actually, Chris didn’t see anyone staying on this floor after the lights out signal. Why would Waller become so fucking generous to leave a whole floor to one person? Well, making allowance to the clone…
Still not obvious.
This part of the headquarters had nothing spectacular, at least at night. Just dull night lights along the hall, robocleaners sneaking around silently, some doors: a couple for urgent meetings, one of them led to the emergency exit… Breaking the silence of the dark time, a muffed squeak attracted Chris right at the moment he made his mind to look for an alcohol secret stash in another place.
This sound wasn’t just a random sound you’d hear at night when everyone’s supposed to sleep. And when it repeated again, Chris couldn’t resist the curiosity. He went cautiously towards the source of the squeak, not sure what he could meet there.
Turning to the left down the hall, he found a door, semi-opened, with the same dull lights on. A huge shadow shifted sharply, the hissing of the fabric touched Chris’s ears but made no sense. What was happening there? Was it the Colonels’ room? Seemed so.
Changing the angle of the view to get a better picture of what was on in the room, Chris froze at the spot the second he noticed two naked bodies on the bed. Limbs intertwined, someone’s legs squeezing the other’s waist so tightly…
Rick’s hand pressed forcibly the clone’s mouth, but muffled moans escaped.
Chris knew it was a clone under the original Flag. Because from his point, he saw the ugly scar across the chest pretty well. They moved in absolutely crazy tempo, wild, like aggressive animals fighting for the prey.
“Shut…fucking…up…” Low growling returned Chris from cold frustration to the sinful Earth, where twitching in his pants appeared to be a bit uncomfortable. “You don't…” Two more thrusts caused a new wave of whining. “...want to be heard, brat…”
Realization of the present swallowed Christopher up in one gulp.
Cold and heat attacked him, making him light-headed. It was better and worse than being drunk at once.
Richard Flag, this sick bastard, was fucking his own clone.
Apparently, the last one didn’t mind at all.
Fuck! They’re all sick here! Metahumans, Task Force X (all damned generations), and the whole world were just a fucking sick bastard! They’re all mad, and let them burn in hell, in the deeps of hell, burn in the blue flames! Damn!
Caring absolutely about nothing, including his cover, Chris ran out of the hall. He didn’t catch the moment when he appeared in his own room, but he found himself leaning the locked door, with a tight grip of his own hand on his dick and masturbating as hard as he never did in his entire life.
The image of the curves of the bruised, scarred body of the clone-Colonel carved inside his eyelids, burnt in the visual center of Chris’s brain.
…with pearl-white strands of the cooling semen, Chris slid down on the floor, not bothered by the disgustingly spoiled pants.
“Fuck…”
On the rooftop, where the landing site was set up for today’s raid, he found clone-Rick alone. As usual these days, the Colonel was scratching in his notebook with a little pencil. The ideal circle of the sun halo around his head blinded Chris for a while, though the idea of the sunbeams dancing in Rick’s hair was hard to miss.
As he approached, Chris looked over Rick’s shoulder to see an unbelievably chaotic scheme of their raid. And to be greeted with a friendly murmur, “Gimme a minute…”
Again, that stupid yellow T-shirt with a stupid bunny with a stupid inspirational quote. What did he find in this piece of garbage? Even Harley’s stitches didn’t add any point of ugliness to this nightmare of a tailor.
“Wanna talk?” Rick turned around too quickly, and Chris caught his eyes too close, closer than expected. Brown eyes, reflecting the sun, burn gold and amber, and the liquid poison enters Chris’s soul to raise a tsunami of shame.
Cleared the throat, blinked to ease the strange pressure of the friendly open gaze. “I… Wanted to talk.” With a smile, Rick hummed but didn’t interrupt. Yeah, so stupid… “‘bout the Jötunheim lab…” Smith hated himself, he hated to see the golden sparks flee, and only cold focus stayed. “Look, I’m not proud of what I’ve done, okay? ”
This feeling… It was different every time Christopher approached Rick. or just looked at him, or even thought long enough to let the image of his dead body appear in his head. Something was wrong about Rick Flag, maybe because of him being a clone – yet Chris couldn’t know about that during the last mission. Something… Something clung him up, like a hook, a tiny sharp hook. It pulled Chris towards the Colonel, forced him to expose the most rotten parts of his nature.
Why?
Why the fuck, this guy in this whole mad world..?
“Got an order. To keep the peace.” Rick nodded as if he understood. But how!? What did he understand!? “Not an order to kill you. Or to devalue your vision and the mission.”
Vomiting the decay gained during all those months, Chris felt no relief. No, on the contrary, despite facing the understanding, the empathy in the warm brown eyes, he felt drowning, choked. It was unfair. Rick must shout at him, he must tell Chris what a piece of garbage he was. But instead, only this gaze, semi-relaxed pose, and the corners of his lips twitching a bit nervously, as if ready to smile again.
WHY DID HE DO THAT TO CHRIS?
At the end of the confession, Rick simply asked, “And the reason you decided to share is..?”
The dam burst. Blood flooded Chris’s cheeks filling him with powerless, desperate anger at himself. “I should’ve died! It was I who deserved death! You wanted to reveal the truth. The biggest reason to–”
“Look around.” Rick turned his head, and Chris stared at his profile, so tired, and his eyes so exhausted. “Look, where we all are now. The truth doesn’t set you free. And it never will.”
Prison.
It’s the prison and death around and inside.
And the golden halo around Rick’s head looked like a mockery of a shitty god who decided to play with Chris. Maybe, he didn’t survive the mission on Corto Maltese. Maybe, this was his personal circle of Hell.
They’d been walking deep into the forest for more than four hours. Rick and DuBois – the head of their line; Harley and the Weasel in the center, controlling the communication; closer to the ‘tail’ – three high-rank soldiers of Waller’s personal staff, they provided the constant location scanning, not distracted by rare attempts to start a chit-chat.
Chris closed their little raid group, his task was to watch the possible trails Rick and the army of rats could miss.
Oh, yes.
The rats of that crazy hobo tramp girl followed them from the landing point. Somehow, she got the information her little flea-bitten gathered online and consulted the Colonel as they moved further and further. As the day rolled down to its finish, the sun danced brighter in reddish tones on the trees' crowns. Surrounded by the thick forest, a grassy glade beckoned with a smooth surface perfect for saddle-point.
But the fortune, as always, got other plans for Chris.
“We’re staying here,” clone-Flag took the binoculars away from his face and gathered their group in a circle. “DuBois – slight research of the closest spots. You and you…” he pointed at a couple of Waller’s soldiers, “We need fire and food. Quinn and Smith – be around, I need your reports. The rest – safety for the camp, according to the protocol.”
His words sounded so natural as if those didn't order but predicted what everyone would do in the few minutes. No questions or extra familiarity, the members of their squad started creating a safe spot for the camp.
Rick returned to his binoculars and stared at the glade again, humming nervously and biting his lower lip.
Inopportunely, a little dark purple-red spot on the lower part of Rick’s neck, slightly above the shirt border, attracted Chris. And revived the previous night's view. Of Rick, sweating under himself, his red cheeks both up and the lower ones and…
“Fla-a-ag! You promised to teach me!”
…it was the first time Christopher felt grateful to have this crazy jester girl around with her annoying distracting voice.
“Oh… Yeah, okay.”
…or not grateful. Because in the next second Rick asked him to stand closer. To show Harley her mistakes in combat and demonstrate tips on how to avoid the capture.
“You’re a pro gymnast, Harls, and you forget about it when needed. Now, show slowly how you’d attack someone bigger and heavier than you. Like Smith. And you…” Rick threw a quick glance at him, thrilling, commanding. “...don’t hesitate to block her. Slowly.”
The girl’s punches could be good for anyone but Chris, Rick was right. She’s too…light, too easy to grab and disarm.
When Chris let Harly off, Flag continued. “Now you see, a straight confrontation isn’t a good tactic for you. If a piece of beef tries to attack you, you won’t block him properly. But it’s good for you to be flexible and fast. Be smarter, Harls.”
A piece of beef, huh!?
Rick stood in front of him, calling Chris to raise his hands and take a stand to attack.
“Go on, try to get me.”
A quick flashback of Rick’s dead body blinded him. Once, he had already gotten him. Once, Rick had already been defeated, in hand-to-hand combat. Was it wise now?..
“Whee! That was fun!”
Chris didn’t understand when and how, but in a blink of an eye his neck was squeezed in a chokehold by Rick’s thighs, and his right arm on a breaking hold, not too painful though, only demonstrating.
“...flexible…smart…”
Words, so many words, and Chris heard none of them.
He got in between Rick’s thighs.
Between… Rick Flag’s…
The thought of Rick’s possible victory then was also demolished by a confusing position.
DuBois and Waller’s soldier was to have a night shift while others were sleeping. But either those stupid insects, cicadas, were creaking too loud, or it was Flag’s absence that stole Chris’s dreams (what a fucking misery joke, you, piece of shit ). Tossing and turning didn't help, only made it worse. And he decided to follow Flag’s steps. Back to the glade again.
“A strange place, right?” Rick greeted him not even turning his head away from the suspicious spot.
“Why didn’t we get the camp closer?” Chris wondered, not trying to conceal his presence. Looking silently at the back of the man you saw fucking wasn’t a normal thing, right? “What’s wrong with this place? The strategy says we could have a better vision of the location here…”
For awfully long seconds, probably minutes or even hours, Chris could never know being too close to Rick, the Colonel kept silent looking into the binoculars. Then, he hummed again and lowered his hands to look at Smith. “What’s wrong? Everything. The rats reported the perimeter had been mined. We can’t get closer. You know what it means?”
Rats reported… Jesus Christ, our Lord, did you really abandon humanity?
To compliment Rick, he was very good at using any resources he’d gotten from the headquarters. Even…rats.
“The smooth surface is convenient.” Christopher shrugged. “Those mines provided security from being captured in the open place…”
“But it’s not our territory. The terrorists got it decades ago, this whole region, not only the forest. Why mining such a little piece?”
A good question, indeed.
“I want to go and check it.”
What?
“You with me?”
As a sane man, Chris must refuse.
Well, if he was a sane man.
And the last days proved the opposite.
“Lead me.” His dry throat allowed him to spit out a hoarse combination of sounds, but Flag understood him well somehow.
And he led.
Caught Chris’s hand and led through the minefield, explaining how the rats helped him to highlight the safe spots. It looked like someone needed a secret path to get closer to the glade, but the purpose slipped away from Chris’s mind. It was an empty point, nothing around except the forest, nothing above them – the starry night sky was a pure blanket with shiny dots, beautiful and cold.
Probably, they would find one more underground lab or something that needed to be blown up…
“It’s not underground stuff,” Rick broke his theories as they stood in the center of the meadow. “The rats have tunnels, there’s nothing in the earth. Only soil and worms. And shrews.”
“Then it’s stupid of us to come ‘ere and stay in the perfect shot position–” He watched as Rick lay on his back. “What are you doing?”
“I want to understand what we’re missing. It itches, you know? Scratches my mind. I don’t like complicated riddles when it comes to people’s lives and safety. Well… I do, but I don’t. Does it make sense?”
Nothing made sense in Chris’s life recently, he was a bad advisor in this situation. With no arguments to speak aloud, he followed Flag and appeared close to him, their temples almost touched.
The ground was cool, not enough for him to catch a cold, just a bit uncomfortable.
Stars pulsated into their faces, and the scent of the grass seemed a bit exhilarating. Chaotic field of constellations teased and made him blink rarely, to catch the lines and remember the images…
“Oh. My. Fucking. God.”
Rick, Rick, Rick.
Too much of Rick, why his impulses had always become infectious? Why his every word could never be ignored, why everyone including Chris looked into his mouth waiting for further commands?
Like now, as Flag cursed, Christopher turned into a tense string. The quiet exclamation raised a strange mix of anticipating, aggressive. If he was a dog, he’d have his tongue out and the foam dropping off his fangs.
“Look, look!” As they laid almost head to head, Rick grabbed him and pressed to his tightly, the other hand raised to show something in the sky. He’s so warm, so hot. Did his blood boil too? “What’d you see?”
“Uh… N-nothing?”
“Exactly! Look! There’s nothing! No stars! See? See!?”
Again, following the pointing finger, Chris looked attentively up.
It was barely seen, and hard for human eyes to concentrate on, but still possible to find a border of a circle, not a perfect one, where the night sky changed. High in the sky, just above them, one spot missed stars and constellations.
They turned their faces simultaneously, and the tips of their noses met.
“The airbase!”
“The airbase!”
It was good to see Rick’s eyes reflected grass and eyes, and Christopher’s stupid expression.
It was good to watch him smile.
Because Rick Flag was a good person, and genius, and…alive.
Rick Flag was the only person deserving to live more than many others Chris knew. Including the guy in the mirror.
Rohanne on Chapter 1 Mon 13 Sep 2021 04:33AM UTC
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StrayLupum on Chapter 1 Tue 14 Sep 2021 05:59AM UTC
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