The stale, recirculated air of A.R.G.U.S. always carried the same scent: ozone from the server banks, cheap floor cleaner, and the faint, metallic tang of anxiety. Rick, now inhabiting the title of Director like a suit two sizes too big, stood before the panoramic window of his new office, but he wasn't seeing the D.C. skyline. He was seeing the red dirt of Corto Maltese.
A soft click-whirr from the door mechanism broke the silence. He didn’t need to turn. He knew the rhythm of your entrance, the particular weight of your step on the industrial-grade carpet, the way you carried the scent of your shampoo—something with jasmine, a small, living rebellion against the building’s sterility—into the room.
“Burning a hole in the bulletproof glass, Rick?” your voice was low, a familiar melody undercut with a new, persistent note of concern.
He finally turned. You were leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. You wore standard-issue tactical pants and a simple black tee. Your hair was a bit messy, like you’d been running a hand through it while buried in code. You looked like home, and the sight of you in this place, his place now, sent a complicated pang through his chest.
“Just thinking,” he grunted, the sound rough in his own ears.
“Dangerous pastime,” you said, pushing off the doorframe and walking in. Your eyes did a quick, professional sweep of the room before landing back on him, full of an intimacy that still, after months, felt like a miracle. You’d been one of the 11th Street weirdos, the tech whiz who could hack a satellite or jury-rig a sonic boom with equal parts genius and sarcasm. You’d known his boy. You’d been there, in the periphery, when the world ended for Rick.
You came to a stop beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your arm, but not touching. The space between you was a live wire.
“Waller’s old chair doesn’t suit you,” you murmured, your gaze drifting over the obsidian desk, a cold, monolithic thing. “Makes you look… corporate. And not the cool, tech-bro kind. The ‘I’ll drone-strike your grandma’s book club’ kind.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. You always did that. Sanded down his sharpest edges with a bit of humor. “Gotta keep up appearances, sweetheart.” The petname was gravel in his mouth, a term of endearment that felt unworthy of the man he was becoming.
“Appearances,” you echoed, the word flat. You turned to face him fully, your expression softening into something that made his gut clench. It was pity, and understanding, and a profound disagreement, all mixed together. “I saw the draft for Operation Starlight. The asset allocation is… aggressive.”
There it was. The chasm. His knuckles, resting on the cool windowsill, turned white. “It’s necessary.”
“Is it?” You didn’t raise your voice. You never did. Your power was in that quiet, unwavering certainty. “Rick, this isn’t you. This… leveraging, this playing god with intel and drones… This is Waller’s game. You hated her.”
“She was effective,” he said, the words tasting like ash. He was doing it for Rick Jr. Every decision, every morally grey area he now colored black, was a brick laid on the grave of his son. A fucked-up monument to a loss so vast it had hollowed him out. He’d been given this power, this gavel, and by God, he was going to use it to make sure no other father had to stand in a morgue and identify a piece of his soul lying cold on a slab.