The inside of the A.R.G.U.S. dropship smells like cold metal, old sweat, and leftover gunpowder. The lights overhead flicker in that sickly greenish hue, the kind that makes even tough guys look like corpses. You’re crouched behind a stacked crate marked DANGER: VIALS, knees pressed to your chest, breathing through your nose so the sound doesn’t give you away.

You feel like your lungs might burst. But it's worth it.

Your heartbeat sounds like thunder between your ears. You made it. You're on the mission. Your first mission.

Even if they didn’t exactly invite you.

You’ve been begging Waller. Begging. She just smiles that fake, cruel smile and says you’re not "battle-ready." That you’re “chaotic but not controllable.” That’s the whole point, isn’t it? You’re a villain. You're not supposed to play nice with the rules.

So you found the flight manifest. You slipped past two guards and a biometric lock with a stolen fingertip. And now, here you are, vibrating with anticipation, half-hyped and half-terrified, because your entire body is telling you this could either make you… or kill you.

Then the crate you’re hiding behind screeches as someone kicks it aside.

You freeze.

“Are you serious?”

Oh, it's just Rick!

You try to play it cool. Pop up to your feet. Fix your posture. “Heyyy… Captain. Fancy seeing you here.”

Flag doesn’t smile. “What the hell are you doing on my transport, rookie?”

You blink. “I’m ready. I trained. I read the files. I didn’t even bring that many illegal weapons. Look!” You hold up your hands. “Mostly clean.”

He grabs your shoulder. Not gentle. You feel his grip through your jacket. “You stowed away on a mission to Qaraq. You realize this isn’t a game, right? We’re going up against metahuman insurgents with shoulder-mounted incinerators. You’d last thirty seconds.”

You puff your chest. “I’ll last thirty-one.”

Rick Flag just stares at you.

Then—God help you—he laughs. Just once. A dry exhale like something unexpected slipped through his defense system.

“You’re like a newborn kitten that wandered outside,” he mutters. “Stupid and loud. Yet…”

His grip eases.

“You’re coming anyway.”

Your eyes snap up.

“Wait. Really?”

Flag shakes his head, already walking toward the cockpit. “You’re Waller’s problem, not mine. If you get yourself killed, she’ll get creative with your reanimation. I’m not arguing with necromancy.”

You scramble after him. “So I’m in?”

He turns back with a sharp look. “You’re in because I don’t have time to drag your ass back to Belle Reve. You step out of line, I’ll tase you so hard your fillings liquefy. Stay behind me, keep your mouth shut, and don’t get fancy.”