#greenflag

A parent should never outlive their child but what’s worse than outliving your kid? Not getting to bury them…

Rick Flag Sr. braced himself for the worst possible outcomes the day his son enlisted. Sr wanted to say he saw himself in his son, but that wouldn’t be true. He’d joined the military to support his family, not out of some deep seeded love or devotion to his country…No, that was his boy. He’s said it before and he’d say it till the day he died…Junior was a better man than him in every way. He even said it the day they had to lower an empty casket into that grave. 

Each time they parted, it was never ‘goodbye’. That was too final…too permanent. It was always some iteration of ‘see you next time’. God he regrets that so much…Their final farewell wasn’t anything special, why would it be? Sure, it was a dangerous mission into a hostile situation, but when had either of them ever been given an ‘easy’ mission? They were both used to the risks, they knew the danger, and time after time they’d always meet again.

So much for routine…

Jr. got tired of this played out song and dance by now. His old man rattling on in his ear to be careful and yadda yadda yadda, shit he’s heard a thousand times by now. Waving his hand dismissively before throwing a duffle in the back of his truck, Flag turned back around to face his father for what, unknowingly, would be the last time. 

“Cut the protective shit, Pops. How many times have we gone through this now?” 

“Don’t get snippy you little prick, I’m just telling you to be careful.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Sr. knew he rightfully didn’t have a leg to stand on. His son had done his tours and been deployed on countless covert missions before and every single time he’d gotten an earful from his father, but he’d always come back so what was the harm in it? At this point it was just a good luck ritual. It’s not like his kid hadn’t done the same to him. 

“I know, I know. But which of us has gone on more missions?” His annoyed tone giving way to a taunting one instead, he’d just recently surpassed his father in number of missions, even if they were off the books. 

“I will lay your ass out right now!” Punching his son’s shoulder while chuckling, Flag rolls his eyes before he continues. “It’s quality, not quantity. Besides, mine have been longer.” 

“Fucking gross.” Brushing his father’s hand from his shoulder, Junior walks around to the driver’s side of his truck before hopping in. He had a habit of driving himself to the base, didn’t like someone dropping him off or picking him up, felt too…impersonal. His dad respected it, didn’t get it, but respected it. 

“What? I’m talking about deployment, I don’t know where your head is at.” Something deep in Sr felt some weird sort of pride about being able to make those sort of jokes at his kid. When they’re young, you need to be your kid’s parent first and their friend second…But now? His son, the same kid that used to get scared of the dark in kindergarten and sneak out at night in highschool, had grown into a fine upstanding adult. He’d grown into a better man than his father ever dreamed he’d be. 

Junior turns on the truck and rolls the driver window down. Waiting for what he knows is coming as the truck idles, Junior leans back further in his seat as his father bends down slightly, one hand on the roof of the cab while his other calloused hand grips the door moulding. The final part of their prolonged send off routine. Sr pulls a face and almost glares at his adult son when he sees the state the truck’s interior is in. 

“Jesus, Junior!”

“Dad, don’t start-”

“Have you ever cleaned the inside of your truck?!”

“Oh here we go…Listen, I’ll clean it when I get back.” 

“Oh fuck that, I’ll go on base and clean this shitbox before that. You’re gonna survive a war zone just to come back and your truck is gonna kill you with fucking mold.” 

“Shitbox?! Listen, if you still can, you geriatric fucker, you touch my truck on base and I’m flying home just to kick your ass!” 

“Oh yeah, you and what army?”

“The fucking US one!” 

The seemingly hostile mood instantly fades the second Sr’s forced glare fades, giving way to a broad grin as he ducks his head head down laughing. Shoulders shaking as he chuckles himself, Junior leans forward with his forehead resting on the steering wheel. 

This was the last piece of their routine, one forced and playful fight right before parting. It was never serious and always in good fun, it was a way to ease whatever nerves or anxiousness might be still lingering in the air. 

Lifting his head, a small yet endearing smile across his face, Sr looks to his son who’s still lightly chuckling before speaking. 

“You good, Junior?” 

“Yeah. Always am, old timer.” Straightening his back, Junior sits up a little taller before he extends his hand out to his father, waiting for a handshake. 

Reaching over, Sr takes his son’s hand with a firm grip and points at his son with his free hand. 

“You know, I’ll kill you if you die over there, right?” 

That line…To this day that seemingly innocuous line haunts Rick Flag Sr. 

It meant nothing…It wasn’t supposed to allude to anything, it wasn’t a curse, it was just a father playfully teasing his son.

Rolling his eyes as he pulls his hand away, Junior simply nodded before reaching over to grab his seatbelt. A curt “Yeah, Yeah” being thrown towards the still open window. 

“See ya next time, Dad.”

“Next time, Junior” 

Those were the last words Rick Flag Sr. said to his son. Days and weeks passed before Flag got any proper answers for what happened over there. And it was about a month before he was told he’d never get the chance to bury his son. No intact remains were able to be recovered for proper burial…

So there he stands before a grave dug for his son who’d never been laid to rest there. The casket wasn’t empty, a few tokens of life being placed inside in lieu of the body. The graduation cap Junior had worn during his highschool graduation ceremony, a copy of Sr’s favorite photo of his son, and the baby blanket Junior had been brought home from the hospital in, a square patch of it roughly cut from the corner as a small remembrance piece.

Rick Flag Sr vowed to visit his son’s grave once a week. Every time he’d go to leave, he’d utter those words that now both haunt and comfort him.

“Next time, Junior”

Weeks turn to months and the months roll into a year. 

Exactly one year today is when they buried that casket. 

Flag was never told the true ‘Date of Death’ and truthfully there was some part of him that didn’t want to know the exact date. Was it the delusion that if he didn’t know the actual date that it didn’t count? That some part of him was still able to believe there was a chance this was all a massive fucking mistake? That his son wasn’t really gone? Perhaps, or maybe these were just the irrational thoughts and hang ups of a man grieving an unthinkable loss…

But now the one year anniversary of them burying that casket is here. 

And Rick can’t bear being alone today.

There was only one person he knew that could possibly share his pain that he could actually get to talk to him. 

Heavy footsteps echoing as a harrowed expression paints his features as he walks down the walkway. Pressing his access badge to the security scanner, the heavy doors slowly open to reveal a hall of solitary cells. The place where only the most depraved or dangerous inmates of Belle Reve were held. 

Unlocking the cell without any other guards present, Flag having demanded they leave them ‘the fuck alone’, Flag walks in without waiting for a reponse or acknowledgement. The only person who he thinks might be able to understand or share in his pain, know the ache and feeling of despair that comes from losing a child is none other than Dr. Alexander Sartorius AKA Doctor Phosphorus…

The fluorescent skeleton laying on his prison bunk clad in a pair of orange sweats, the book he was holding in his hands slowly closing as Phosphorus hesitantly turns his attention towards the unannounced guest.

“Listen, if you’re here to finish what we started in Pokolistan, I’ve decided to be the bigger person and not get my ass shocked while fighting you.” 

Without speaking, Flag drops down to one knee and slings the bag on his back around and gently places it on the floor. Unzipping the backpack, Flag simply reaches in and pulls out a cold bottle from inside. Before he can even question what’s going on, Phosphorus sees the remote shock controller be thrown by Flag onto the floor. Clicking against and sliding across the floor, the glowing skeleton can only watch confused, thinking this has to be a ruse…some hidden motive behind the gesture, clearly just trying to bait him into another fight. 

Rising to his feet, Flag has two chilled beers in his hands as he approaches the bunk. Finally closing his book completely and putting it on the small table next to his bed, Phosphorus sits up more and swings his legs over the side bed and watches Flag. 

With his back towards the prisoner, Flag’s shoulders are slumped forward as he reaches back towards Phosphorus with one of the beers in his hand. 

“Take it…Please…”

“Alright, I’ll bite…” 

Hesitantly reaching forward and taking the brew, Phosphorus doesn’t open it right away, trying to gauge what kind of breakdown he’s just been thrust in the middle of. 

“Flag, what is this? You don’t seem the kiss and make up over beers type of guy.”

“Alex…” Flag starts, his voice low and pain filled. He sounds like a broken man…A stark contrast to every time Phosphorus has heard him speak before, and for that he forgives the first name usage. 

“What?”