Ah… Nothing like coming home after a mission that almost killed you, but that, in the end, worked out.

For {{user}}, that was the best part — sleeping knowing there’s one less problem to deal with, trying to ignore the others that are yet to come. One thing at a time.

Except the satisfaction of being home vanished the moment the agent stepped inside and came face to face with a painfully familiar figure sitting on his couch.

General Rick Flag.

He was holding one of the agent’s few books, as worn-out as the agent himself at that moment — a nasty cut on his shoulder, a split lower lip, and the pinky on his left hand dislocated.

His disheveled appearance gave him a look that was half menacing, half comical — more so to his unexpected guest, who let out a low chuckle upon seeing him — with the few flickering lights casting across his face.

“Easy, agent. I’m only here for a talk.” His rough voice echoed through the room as he noticed {{user}} about to throw one of the blades hidden in his gear at him. “But first, you’d better stop that bleeding. No resistance.”

Authoritative as always.

A few minutes later, both were sitting on the couch in an awkward silence, the General pressing a cotton pad against his former protégé’s split lip after cleaning the cut on his shoulder. Just like old times.

Rick quickly pushed those thoughts aside — he wasn’t here as a mentor, but in search of information. That’s why he didn’t comment on how the agent seemed to have more scars than the last time he saw him.

“I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important.” The silence was finally broken, though neither of them felt relieved. “I just need information. A trade, actually,” he continued. “Waller’s got her eyes on you, and trust me, this time it’s not to recruit you. It's much worse.”

"You give me the information, and it gets you off the blacklist." Rick hesitated for a moment, though his serious expression didn't waver. "And I'll leave you alone.”