FRACTURES ━ RICK FLAG [O.H]

ONE.

━ FRACTURES
i. BRAND NEW WORLD
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SOME DAYS, WASHINGTON IS TOO MUCH FOR PHOEBE. The hustle and bustle of the city is intense. Even for her, after all her years in the military, it's a little overwhelming. But believe it or not, it was the best place to hide. Being on lockdown every other week for presidential motorcades and whatnot seems to keep the other mercenaries out of this spot.

The streets are quiet today. She hasn't left her apartment in days, hopping back and forth between wanting to claw her way out and not wanting to move at all. The human mind is a funny thing on its own...and then there's Phoebe's. Constantly going haywire, feeling like it's been thrown in a blender. She needed the sunshine today.

Her dad said the combination of coffee and sunshine was what kept him going on tours.

Phoebe still thinks he's full of shit, but there are things you just don't argue about with the dead. The café is open and peaceful, students littered in corners with their laptops and a few in suits grabbing to go orders before they head to the office. It's so normal it almost freaks her out. Her life used to be like this once. Before her dad and what followed, she used to sneak off base all the time for a break.

After grabbing her order from the barista, she sinks into a chair tucked by the door. Her therapist in Maryland told her it was good to do these things. To process things like a normal person. He called it exposure therapy or something of the sort.

She fucking hates it.

The buzz from her burner phone startles her. Phoebe's brow furrows as she pulls it from her pocket. No one ever texts her. She has a few contacts here and there who still reach out, either trying to ask for a favor or keep her updated on Deathstroke's whereabouts. Since she's actively under contract, she doesn't talk to people much.

Heard something is coming your way. She shoots of her chair and coffee flies across the table. One of the baristas stares at her, startled from the sudden movement. Phoebe grabs a stack of napkins and soaks it up, tossing her trash into the can.

"I'm sorry!" She says, a shaky laugh coming from her lips, "It makes me jittery. Maybe I should stop drinking it!"

The brunette grabs her back and darts out the door. The phone buzzes again. Old military business is what they're telling me. She almost drops it. Then it starts to ring.

She answers in a second, "Your cryptic comments are giving me a fucking heart attack."

"Jesus, Phoebe," Abi breathes out, "That was a quick answer."

Phoebe tries to keep her shit together considering she's standing on a somewhat busy sidewalk. The last of the morning rush, of course. She scours the top of the building across from her, squinting from the hard lines of the sun. Nothing points out to her. Is it real chatter?

Did Abi get it wrong? Did someone put a bug in her ear just to spook them both? But who would do that? Knowing her confidant and somewhat friend could kill them in an instant, it couldn't be worth it.

"Listen, there's been nothing on you until this morning," The woman tries to keep her calm, "You know there's only so far my clearance goes. I just wanted to give you the heads up."

A blacked out SUV stalls in her path, "I gotta go."

"Phoebe―"

She knows what this is now.

If she can make it to her apartment, she might have a chance at fighting them off. Her eyes dart to the SUV again and her feet begin to move. Phoebe knows all about this. She's done the intimidation thing before, knows it doesn't turn out well. Usually for the one they plan to take in.

The car begins to follow. The fear begins to bubble up in her chest. This was a bad idea. An incredibly stupid idea at that.

She bolts through the side door of the apartment complex. Shaky fingers pull her hair into a lazy updo. Might as well be comfortable if she's going to die. Phoebe slips into the elevator and slams her back into the wall. She's not sure what she's trying to mourn.

This half ass life she's made, or the one she lost before.

Her apartment door is locked. She fishes the keys out of her pocket, spewing curses as she struggles to unlock it. The door slides open, keys still in the lock. Phoebe shrugs off her jacket, side holsters revealed in all her glory. She pulls a gun from her left side, stepping into the hallway.

The living room is where she finds her. Amanda Waller sits rather comfortably, a stack of files laid on Phoebe's coffee table. A feeling of dread washes over her. Abi was right, this is definitely something.

"What are you doing here?" She croaks, "Finally deciding to take me out?"

Waller grins, "We've got something to talk about, Ms. Drake."

As we falls from Amanda's lips, her 6'2 lapdog emerges from the corner.

"You've got to be kidding me."

†

RICKPHOEBE LIVES GUYS