Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sealed, manilla paper unfurled to a surprisingly small amount of text on the page before you. Basic, bullet-pointed information about a meeting. Tomorrow’s date: 06:00 hours; a cafe name you vaguely recognized; come alone; do not bring your firearm. The Director signed it in the practiced and manicured handwriting of someone untouchable and high on the totem pole. Usually, whenever someone that high up in the chain of command wants something from you, it’s bad. One last note: destroy after reading.

The sun barely had time to catch up to your wake-up call before you were out the door for this mysterious meeting. The consequence of an urgent meeting with someone very important was a sleepless night of rerunning every mistake you’ve ever made. At least the coffee shop was lovely, with short green and white canopies over the only illuminated windows of the waking street. This is the place. This is the time. How were you supposed to know who you’re looking for?

A petite woman, looking up through her blonde bangs, rises to welcome you to sit at a black ironwork table set. The steel squealed on stone as she pushed her chair back, rising to extend her hand out to you in a practiced handshake. Black coffee, half drank, implied she had been here for a short while.

“Hello, Miss Grant, Kate Laswell, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Please, have a seat,” gesturing to the adjacent seat, she slid back into her chair. “Well, good news to start us off, your security clearance came back clear.”

“I didn’t know I was due.”

“You weren’t.”

A gracious pause before calmly moving into her following sentence gave your conscience enough context that this mission is important. Quite important. At this moment, you couldn’t afford to let your nervousness register in your demeanour. This was a big opportunity.

Don’t blow it, for fuck’s sake.

“I had a flip through your file. You’re quite accomplished. 172 on your DLAB, 94 on your Air Force ASVAB...” Without raising her gaze, Laswell remarked, still thumbing through a short stack of papers, “How’s your Russian?”

“Beglyy.”

Marking the paper with tiny stars and stripes next to key points, how patriotic. Swallowing timidly, rolling your shoulders back as another flip of the page offered a glimpse at her notes - two dashes under Russian and Cantonese in your skills and specializations section.

With a final click of her red pen, she neatly stacked the papers into a manilla folder and pushed her chair back to rise. You unconsciously mirrored her motion to stand, neatly clasping your hands behind your back, only to have the motion swiftly come undone as Laswell extended her hand.

“Welcome to the team.” Laswell asserted with a nod and a closed-lip smile. An extended hand invited you into a curt handshake, leaving a white envelope in your hands.

“It’s a pleasure,” You responded, stifling the instinctive urge to respond ‘you too’ to her remark, “When do we leave?”

“Be there on the tarmac at 900 hours ... Dress warm.”

Holy shit, that’s like, two hours.

You knew the drill by now, especially when it comes to these types of missions. Bring only socks and underwear, maybe a pair of loungewear, though it’ll probably never see use, and leave your SIM card. This wasn’t your first deployment, not even close. Since wrapping up your master's, your past four years in the service were full of highs and lows.

On some missions, you were in a van somewhere, calmly putting transcriptions into deciphering algorithms for the better part of 2 weeks. Sometimes, it was a vessel somewhere in the Pacific, analyzing heated foreign communications about minor border disputes. Once in a while, you’ll get to diplomatically translate a senator telling your commanding officer to go fuck himself in three different languages.

Palming some warm, dry underwear from the dryer, the thought of the upcoming mission rattled around in your head as you folded the white envelope into the back pocket of your bag. The next issue that clicks into your mind is Chupacabra, your goldfish that most bases let you hang on to for long-haul deployments. Laswell was nonspecific about the timeframe, but you managed to weasel a mostly uncertain ‘two weeks, give or take’ from her lips. A ding from the phone downstairs alerts you to check your messages on your next frantic sweep of the residence.

The bubble read Sammy, Maybe Tammy (neighbour) “Come drop the fish off any time, sweetness. Australia is beautiful this time of year.”

“Fuck, fuck.” you huffed. In your scramble, you expressed your sadness over an aunt in Austria, not Australia, who needs some help for the next few weeks — seemed wiser than blurting about the top-secret mission to the first person who would listen.

One last frantic scramble back down the stairs left you five minutes of grace before your taxi arrived to take you to the airport. Years of training or experience make a last-minute scramble seem bearable, though no less jarring. You expected to spend the day catching up on months of missed seasons of your favourite shows and maybe finally get back to some unanswered texts. They’ll have to remain unanswered.

For now, you had to lock in for a 15-hour flight.

After the initial excitement of takeoff, the rest of the flight left you with the excitement of reading serial numbers off crates, with all the thrill of politely exchanging awkward smiles with Laswell. It’s hard to find sleep when you’re seated next to a military-grade jet engine, but you made do by fiddling with the zipper of your thermal jacket. Sooner or later, someone will tell you what’s happening, but your only duty is surrendering to the process. It makes you call into question how easy it would be to kidnap you.

That gut-wrenching falling sensation that churns your insides, paired with the distant sound of radio chatter, dragged your sleeping mind to alertness. You guessed you had about 60 seconds before touchdown by the plane's descension rate. Heavy rubber tires made contact with the runway, and lazy, sluggish fingertips dragged over the buckle for your harness. The plane barely slowed to a stop before Laswell swung her legs to stand as the tinker of fluorescent cabin lights turning on made the departure from your sleepy sanctuary official.

"Short refuel, then we’re on to the base,” Laswell answered your question before it could manifest.

“Where are we now?”

“Mongolia. Let’s chat in the rig.”

Settling into the significantly more comfortable seating of the small but quaint DHC-6 Twin Otter, you sighed just before Laswell stepped into the seat next to you. The darkness of the night reminds you of the dreamless sleep you experienced no more than 10 minutes ago. Adjusting your eyes to the tablet Laswell placed on your lap took a minute.

“We’re set up about 300 klicks NorEast of Chita, Russia,” her voice elevated to cut through the kickstarting engine taxiing to a takeoff position. “Familiarize yourself with the profiles of your teammates.”

You did so, swiping past faces and lack thereof of the bunkmates you’d spend the next two weeks with, taking particular notes of names and corresponding ranks, mentally categorizing them by most to least intimidating. Two sergeants, a captain, and an ominously absent lieutenant, he must’ve missed picture day. There is a lot of redacted information, in which you only gathered that they are British, along with alarmingly high physical evaluations for each.

“We want this to be quick, efficient, and tidy,” a marked emphasis on tidy made your stomach churn.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She clearly must have identified some aspect of your demeanour that radiated anxiety as she paused before speaking.

“You’re just a translator. I told the boys to take good care to ensure you won’t see combat.”

That would be a calming enough sentiment if it weren't for the metaphorical elephant in the cockpit: Flying an unmarked plane to an unmarked base a short distance from the Chinese/Russian border. These profiles under your illuminated fingertips painted a picture of some of the world’s best soldiers, accompanied by a linguist, all undoubtedly off the radar of your home government.

Out the window was inky black darkness from every direction. The kind of darkness leaves you wondering if you’re even upright, though a glance at the pilot’s equipment defuses your anxiety. Laswell filled the silence with polite small talk and an anecdote about the one time she went skiing when nightfall crept up on her. An indeterminate amount of time passed as Laswell eventually clicked her seatbelt into place, implying you do the same. Looking out the window, the stars were so different from home. Different from any place you’ve ever been and much brighter. From here, there wasn’t a single indication of where the nearest sign of human life could be.

A distant floodlight illuminated the blinding white snow around a structure in the distance, dark ants scuttling out. That familiar descending sensation said that this was the location as the pilot leaned back in his seat, definitely relying on the equipment for this one. Ants turned into humanoid figures as the plane neared the ground, distinguishable enough that it was possible to identify one doing jumping jacks while the others stood at attention. The back of your neck burned from strain as the restraints of your harness screamed against your chest. Undoubtedly, it is a water landing.

After a short motorized taxi to the platform, the engine purring as Laswell flipped on a cabin light to help with your fumbling. The rubber soles of boots met the cold ground as searing cold air flooded your lungs. A kind of cold that made you wonder if your eyes could freeze. Extending an arm to Laswell, she dropped down to the wooden platform that made for a makeshift dock on the frozen lake. Four, maybe five figures approached, and Laswell initiated a conversation with one of them, taking him aside.

“Travel-sized,” quipped one of the silhouettes forming your welcome party, half-illuminated as they approached you. They probably thought you wouldn’t hear that.

Two of the four were easily recognizable enough: John and Kyle, the two sergeants, stood at attention with heavily padded winter coats. John was tapping his boot against the plane's tire while Kyle bounced on his heels to retain some range of motion in this biting cold. An eerie figure loomed along with the group whose faceless profile seemed to remain faceless in practice. He must be pretty enthusiastic about his job to hide his face from even his senior officers, or maybe he’s just hideous. Stern, unmoving expressions followed your gaze, sizing you up as if you were a wrist flick away from drawing a gun on them.

At first, the base almost looked like a bunker, with the sloping snowdrifts easing the structure into the landscape. No, a bunker that big would be impossible; the ground is way too cold for that kind of excavation. Tall, slender trees stood so straight one could easily be fooled into thinking they were each crafted by an automated machine—sparse shrubbery with thick pillows of shimmering snow in its stead.

Frigid shock ripped through your gut as you met the gaze of someone expecting a response from you.

“Ah, there you are,” A familiar American accent slipped through his smug smile. “nice of you to finally join us.” His voice was heavy with satire as he tilted his chin up.

“Yes, sir,” you breathed, mind scrambling to connect the face to the profiles you skimmed earlier.

“Graves. Pleasure. I’m sure Kate gave you a basic sitrep. As for first impressions, we may or may not have time to get to know one another.” he rested a palm on your shoulder, his words oozing out of his mouth like warm honey. “But that’s just how these things go.”

Releasing his vice, you eyed the familiar faces from the profiles as they stood, now fully illuminated, before you.

“Grant,” Laswell grunted, “take your bags in. I’m afraid it’s not getting any warmer,” taking her leave to rush into the illuminated sanctuary.

You might as well be a newborn deer, fumbling around on unsteady legs from the last 15 hours of kneeling, and the four gargoyles could smell it. They’re looking at you like you’re a meal as every neuron screams for you to break down and start crying. One foot in front of the other. Catching your duffle from the pilot and swinging it over your shoulder traded the unfortunate consequence of uneven momentum, making you scramble to regain balance on the icy ground.

Raising your eyes brought the exact type of shame you came to expect. First, a hoot, then a stifled laugh, and then one spoke up.

"Ooh! We’ve got a Salsa dancer.”

Muffled laughter boomed from the biggest one, uncrossing his arms and trudging back to the base. You imposed a courteous, tight-lipped smile despite wanting to crave the satisfaction of telling them where to shove it. The other two followed, leaving one behind.

“C’mon, let’s get you situated.” Price said surprisingly gently, his face you could easily identify from the profiles, “You get the whole women’s dormitory wing to yourself since Laswell gets the General’s quarters.”

Chapter Text

Calling it a “whole women’s dormitory wing” was bold. What you encountered was more of a broom closet at the end of a hallway, with all the modern amenities of ceiling tiling that you’re almost positive is covered with asbestos. On the bright side, you had the luxury of having a bathroom to yourself, diligently marked by a yellow sticky note taped to the door with the word “Women’s” on it.

Sleep didn’t come quickly for you, be it from exhaustion or the sickeningly stale hot air blasting on you from the radiator at your feet. When sleep finally washed over you, dreams of airplane seats and your scramble to gather for travel flashed through your mind – It’s like your subconscious self was crawling to catch up with your physical movements.

The sound of the familiar beeping of your standard-issue wristwatch forced you to remember that you were in an unfamiliar bed. You slap your hand down on the watch beside your bed, lazily running your thumb along its edge to flick the off button. Begrudgingly dragging your sluggish body from the heavy comfort of your warm blankets, it was time to get up and report for duty. Whatever that duty was.

Stepping down your hallway, you spy the unmistakable classic military special of pale oak circular tables signifying a mess hall: pale green linoleum floors, creased and bumpy from age, wear, and harsh climate. Almost on queue, a chair screeched backwards, detecting motion as you rounded the corner.

“Salsaaaa, nice to meet you. I’m John, but you can call me Soap.” You couldn’t easily forget his mohawk hairstyle, paired with the thick Scottish accent aligning with the flag emblem on his profile. “That’s Kyle Garrick. We call him Gaz.”

Gaz smiled and raised a hand in a dutiful wave, rising to hike over to greet you. Tall, slender, with dark, kind eyes that didn’t match the vicious demeanour you’d expect with someone with his confirmed kill count.

“Big fucker is Ghost, but you’re welcome to call him-”

“We’re going rucking, be geared in 20,” ‘Big fucker’ interjected, commanding the air out of the room.

Your eyebrows furrowed, a sly smile tugging at your lips as your eyes darted to gauge the reaction of your newfound comrades. You hadn’t gone rucking in ages—one of the perks of being a specialist. There was no way they were saying you had to go rucking with them. The thermostat said the outdoor temperature was a crisp -32 c, and the sun had no intention of rising for at least another two hours.

So much for being “just a translator.”

Ghost finally rose, though you wish he didn’t. His size triggered your fight or flight response, and Ghost would raise your hackles if you were a dog. That pale, skeletal mask crudely stitched onto a dark balaclava was like something straight out of a nightmare. You can see how this mask might effectively intimidate enemies, but you struggle to understand why he’s wearing it around comrades. You keep your gaze forward and back straight as instinctive compliance kicks in. Heavy, rhythmic footsteps approached you.

“This isn’t a vacation,” he leaned forward, penetrating your field of view, “lives are on the line, Corporal.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Words were jutting out of you as if you’d just been punched in the gut.

Rucking is not for the faint of heart. At least, not for you. For all you know, it could be a piece of cake. However, specialists usually get a pass to dodge rucking requirements with the excuse of study or practice. Price must have assumed that position, seeing as he was absent. A lack of training, compounded by a beyond hostile climate, meant the pack of equipment on your back was immensely heavy, even at a stationary position outside the base, especially not at the ass crack of the morning.

Ghost was leading the group, three perfect soldiers dutifully wearing their snow camouflage like they were born to it. The three of them were elegant, armoured troopers, willing and able to snuff the life out of a person in an instant. You, however, look like a tire company mascot. The smallest possible issue for the thermal pants left masses of unused fabric on your ankles and wrists. At least the elastic-based balaclava was snug on your face. White puffs of steam from everyone’s mouths stated the obvious: It’s fucking cold.

The boys didn’t make it easy either, dropping into dead sprints at indeterminate intervals, scrambling up cliff faces. Digging the heels of your boots into the snow, a slide down a small hill offered an infinitesimal break from the weight on your shoulders, swiftly followed by the next task of rising to your feet and catching up.

Air burned into your lungs, scorching your throat and searing into your chest. Cold, sweet spit floods into your open mouth. It’s hard to think straight when every ounce of energy goes toward lifting each foot out of the sinking snow, but it’s harder even to consider having to scan for hypothetical enemies in this condition.

“I take it they don’t go rucking much in the Shire, hey Salsa?” Called a Scottish voice from the top of a sheer hill you hadn’t even considered climbing. That’s a tally of two jokes about your height, and it’s not even been 12 hours.

He’ll have to settle for stern eye contact as an answer, which he smirked back at and disappeared behind the hill. Lacking dexterity thanks to the subzero climate, gloved fingers fumbled to grip powdery snow as you heaved your knees up to support the climb. Hot puffs of white steam cloud your vision and the top of the hill.

The scenery was beautiful, at least. A moment's pause gave your body a short moment to stop aching in strain to let you consider the view. Cresting sun over the frozen territory, a blanket of muffling snow made the whole world sound wonderfully silent. This virgin wilderness is like something out of a Bob Ross painting, and it could almost make the rucking worth it. Almost.

“We head back to base camp. Keep up.” Ghost’s husky Manchester accent cut through the silence; it took your frozen mind a moment to register his barbed comment. His frigid gaze sends a chill through your core that the sub-zero climate could never achieve.

Downhill was easy until it wasn’t. The boys made it look easy, gliding over the snow like it didn’t affect them. They even had the nerve to talk while they outran you easily, Gaz jumping up to swat at heavy tree branches, dumping snow on Soap, who ran behind him. Their boots don’t even sink into the snow like yours do. They don’t fumble, or wheeze or sweat. It was Soap who approached your narrow field of view, he had turned around to wait for you to jog along.

Pockets of hot and cold air settled in all the wrong places. Sweat pooled under your blazing hot thermal jacket while the promise of frostbite kissed the exposed skin on your wrist. There’s something sickening about the overstimulation, screaming into your conscience with each step.

Wordlessly meeting his unreadable blue eyes, he gripped the back of your pack, heaving it free from your shoulders, slipping his arms through the loops. Featherlight relief flooded into you as you unburdened your shoulders from the pack. Having adjusted to carrying all the extra weight, you almost effortlessly kept pace, finally feeling the cold air fill your lungs.

You finally had the opportunity to take in more details of your comrades. The three were nearly indistinguishable from behind, all in the same standard-issue winter armour and gear built for this type of climate. However, Ghost clearly stood about half a head taller than the other two, striding through the snow in steps that counted for two of yours. Gaz bounced along, only tailed by Soap, who seemed entirely unfazed by the extra weight. Showoff.

“Sergeant.” Ghost barked, jolting you to attention.

Raising your gaze once again, you caught Soap as he shrugged off your extra pack in one fell swoop, holding it limply toward Ghost. Sometimes, it was hard to tell if Ghost was mad; his resting demeanour seemed agitated. In this case, he was pissed off. That much was written in stone. The way he turned and locked his gaze on you, it sucked heat out of your face. Closing the distance between you two in only a few steps, his immense height blocked out the sun as he stood the closest to you since you started rucking before the sun was even up. Looking up at him through snow-covered eyelashes, he flicked his arm, flinging your sack into your chest, knocking the wind from your lips.

“Toughen up.”

For the remaining distance, you put your heart and soul into keeping pace, refusing to allow yourself to consider slowing down and risking the wrath of the Lieutenant. At this point, you were running on the fumes of shame and sheer willpower.

It took the remaining strength you had not to drop and lay on the floor like a starfish. Alas, once again, appearances take priority as you tried to go for that smug nothing hurts me disposition despite the situation on the hike. Pushing closed your quarters' door, you finally shuck off the remaining thermal layers after returning your body armour and pack bashfully to Ghost in the makeshift armoury. Peeling off the second pair of pants, you lay on the cot, overworked muscles radiating heat, thighs scorching to the touch.

Rifling through your bag for a fresh edition of the same standard t-shirt and pants you’ve been prescribed for years, eyes caught the white envelope Laswell handed you yesterday. You clumsily ripped the seal, unfurling a new SIM card, and a smile warmed your face. At least you’ll be able to make a call. It made you wonder if she knew you’d be on edge and needed a pep talk from a familiar voice. If it’s 09:00 here, it’s got to be… 22:00 in California. With luck, he’ll pick up.

On days like this, Uncle Chucky was your lifeline. A voice of reason, a bastion of wisdom, a tad bit of an alcoholic, and someone who’s been in the military since before you were conceived. Chucky is the kind of person that makes the world go round,’ but too much of him will drive you crazy. Delightfully stubborn, pleasantly infuriating, and a damn good sense of humour. The familiar phone number was an effortless dial.

“What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m usually so confident, so sure-footed, I’m so on edge, and they can tell.” Your voice was thick with irritation, picking at your fingernails with your phone pinned between your shoulder and ear.

“You said you felt on edge when you first landed in Somalia, but those nerves passed the second you started working.”

“Somalia was different. I had other specialists with me, not just soldiers.” You kick the toe of your boot on the doorframe, “not to mention other new faces with which I could blend in. This time, I'm the sole outlier.”

“That’s the thing when you get yourself in the military, my love.” An audible sigh came from his side microphone before he spoke again. “The big fish picked on the little fish. Eventually, you survive getting pecked at long enough to chirp at the people below you.”

“It’s fucking gross. It’s like a boys' club. I’ll never be in their circle, not really.”

“That’s it, I’m pulling the plug,” you shook as an unbecoming booming voice rose from the speaker, “Enough with the pity party. They’re testing your limits, and you’re letting them win. Get - a fucking - grip, Lua.”

Your head spun at the change of tone, enraptured by shock as his burst of agitation faded into something more patient.

“Baby love, I know you can do this, and if you weren’t qualified, they wouldn’t have chosen you.” Chuck breathed into the mic, stifling a laugh before speaking again, “Y’know, in my final years in the Marines, whenever someone tried to puff up their feathers at me, I’d imagine them crying listening to Mr. Brightside. Works every time.”

Laughter erupted from you as your mind wrapped around the sentiment. A gentle tear streaming down Ghost’s mask as he hiccuped back tears, listening to the whimsical musings of The Killers. Calmness and confidence swirled into your chest, breathing a satisfying breath for the first time in what felt like months.

“On the Brightside, heh, I got a stupid little nickname for being a fucking moron at my first meeting… They’re calling me Salsa now. Apparently, I was slipping and fumbling, and it looked like dancing.” You smirked, nipping at the raw skin around your fingernails.

The unmistakable snort of someone inhaling their drink in laughter burst from your speakers.

“They call you Salsa?”

“Mhmm.”

“My love, Salsa is … “ he smothered a laugh.

“What?”

“Salsa is an acronym. It- it means ‘Student Aviator Lacking Situational Awareness,’ they’re fucking with you.”

A spark of shame sliced across your brow. You thought they were being sweet and endearing… giving you a cheeky nickname to welcome you to the crew. The reality was a thinly veiled malicious jab at you. They found humour in your nerves about being a lone female, surrounded by strangers, in a place where nobody would be able to find you if you disappeared. As quickly as your shame faded, a new emotion manifested: white-hot rage.

“I gotta go. I love you, Chuck, I’ll be in touch.” swallowing your bile to donate the last few moments of calmness to your precious uncle before the end call button clicked. Like that, you shrugged into your quarter-zip and tore down the hall.

They had the nerve to be in the gym as if the morning ruck you’ll feel in your bones for days was a lazy evening stroll. Something about how they carried on as best buddies, humiliating you in code while smiling to your face, made your blood boil. It made you question if Soap knew Ghost would give you an earful if he took your pack off your back.

“Y’know, that’s real fucking sweet of you,” your voice cut into the small gym. “Pretending to be nice to me.”

Stepping forward, you closed the distance as eyebrows furrowed over blue and brown eyes. They even had the nerve to look shocked, their dumbfounded faces looking like a deer in headlights. Your jaw worked before you spoke.

“Salsa… Student Aviator Lacking Situational Awareness?”

Soap huffed out a laugh, but a sharp look from Gaz extinguished his smile.

“Funny, it takes a big man to make a girl feel like shit as soon as I step into your little clubhouse. Don’t worry, I won't be here for long.” Take extra care to accentuate every syllable, resting your palms resting on your waist to avoid the possibility of you throwing a fridge at them.

“We were just being cheeky,” Gaz spoke up for the two, “didn’t mean anythin’ by it.”

“Cheeky? Picking on someone who’s burdened with having a different skillset from you. What’re you, five?” You spat back.

“We’ve all been jabbed at when we’re the new guy, we’ve all been at the butt end of some banter.”

You bit back the creeping urge to spit back that your situation is nothing like his. Of course, those two knuckleheads didn’t have the empathy to grasp the situation from your perspective. You blinked, simmering in your thoughts. Wrath, translating into a simmering rage, washed into you. Working your jaw from side to side, you ended the silence.

“Cheers.”

Before anything had time to register, you were walking down the hall toward your linen closet of a bedroom, fingernails digging into your sweaty palms. White hot rage darkened your vision, electrified by a simmering sense of self-consciousness. In an instant, you snapped out as you caught Laswell’s gaze past your furrowed brow, dissolving your demeanour, manifesting your most polite smile to shield her from any indication that everything isn’t peachy. You took the opportunity to duck into the bathroom. Despite her unique ability to follow you, you deemed it a safe option. However, you genuinely had the excuse to take a much-needed shower. A precious opportunity that you refused to let pass.

Chapter Text

The hard water left phantoms of orange streams along the presumably beige shower tile. Most of the time, showers had to be limited to five minutes, ten if you whine about it. Nobody could tell you that you couldn’t indulge in a fifteen this time. It’ll be hard to even think of it as a fifteen-minute shower when you have to punch a button in the wall every 60 seconds to remind the plumbing that it doesn’t have permission to stop. 

Running your hand under the stream of droplets, lukewarm is what you’ll have to settle for, but it’s better than freezing. 

Cool streams of water stream over your skin. It feels heavenly. The military isn’t famous for its luxury showers, nor is rural Russia. Every second counts, scrubbing your face and body in pace with your five-minute regular showers, permitting a tranquil ten minutes of nothing but the sensation of trickling water across your searing skin. In a way, the overzealous force of the water flowing from the faucet was more of a perk, offering a kneading massage across aching shoulders. 

One final mouthful of water left the taste of bitter pennies in your mouth, pushing aside the plastic curtain shielding you from the cooler bathroom air. Pessimism aside, the shower did a fantastic job of cooling your nerves, literally or figuratively. A quick towel dry did the trick, making the standard-issue cargo pants chafe against your skin, only reminding you of the bliss you just stepped out of. At least you got to have your own bra and underwear. That’s a luxury the higher-ups didn’t get to take from you, though the natural tradeoff of function over form meant beige and black were the sole options. Wet hair, mostly brushed, clung to the back of your black tee shirt as the bathroom door clicked shut. 

I’ll have to face them again eventually. Just rip the band-aid off and meet them again. At this point, they have every right to shun me. I’ve been nothing but a fucking nuisance. It’s just not meant to be. It’s over before it even started.

Rounding the corner leading from the so-called women’s wing, the common room hosted two of your teammates. Or so it should have been. Craning your neck to see the gym or office, still no one. Maybe what you said was so obscene that they returned to their rooms in shame, or perhaps this is your sign that you can pack up and leave. The shame swirling in your gut grew for a reason beyond your compensation. They’re still assholes, whether they're here or not. 

Just off the common room, a flash of movement passed over the circular window on the kitchen door. A deep sigh and you crossed the distance to press your fingertips on the swinging door. Soap and Gaz were under the sterile fluorescent lighting of a 1970s military-issue standard kitchen. Your appearance halted them in the middle of their conversation. The kitchen was a wreak, open sainted wood cabinets revealing shelves that had clearly been rummaged through.

“Hey,” you breathed, rolling on the balls of your feet, “Sorry for freaking out, heh .”  

“Yeah, Laswell gave us an earful, but even before that, that’s pretty shitty.” Gaz rested against the linoleum countertop, folding his arms over his ‘SAS’ tee shirt, “She’s got us-”

“I hope ye’ like fuckin’ birthday cake,” Soap interrupted through a slanted grin, doubled over a mixing bowl. 

The scene of the kitchen became crystal clear; two grown men, in reality mostly just Soap, were frantically baking a boxed cake at the behest of a disgruntled superior officer. Considering the main tools to work with were tools salvaged from an abandoned bunker, paired with basic MRE equipment. Restaurant-grade single-use butter containers littered the countertops, clearly a last-ditch attempt to make up for the oil requirement. Gaz was trying to dissect a MRE trail mix pack, separating M&M’s from nuts and raisins. 

“Don’t sweat it. Getting chirped at is just part of the fun… I’ll consider it water under the bridge if I can return the favour back at you.” 

Soap looked up from his whisking as if he’d taken some grave offence.

“Of course, you can. Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Not gonna’ lie, when you talked to us earlier, I was scared shitless. Bloody hell , I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice!” Gaz added, scratching at his stubble. 

“Are you ready for this?” he fumbled with the lid of the vanilla extract bottle that had probably been there since the Cold War. “Y’a ready? This is what I like to call the Scottish Touch,” proceeding to deposit a glugging dump of vanilla extract, eliciting a shout from Gaz.

You gave Gaz a raised eyebrow, reaching for and flipping over the boxed cake mix to reveal the instructions, clearly disregarded. It didn’t even call for vanilla. Suddenly, you felt less ashamed of being incompetent while rucking. 

“Aye,” Soap swiped the box from your fingers, “it's gonna be the best cake you ever had, better than mom used to make. And you’re gonna fucking like it.”

—

The cake was a sight to behold. It had finesse in the weirdest locations, delicately displaying evident incompetence. A lumpy, watery topping was the obvious result of applying the icing to a still-hot cake out of the oven. At the same time, there was a delicate, skillfully placed ring of M&M’s arranged in a repeating order on top. 

Standing around the kitchen counter again, Soap volunteered to begin cutting into the lumpy cake with a KA-BAR knife- which he immediately licked clean. Responding to your disgusted face as if he forgot he wasn’t the only person in the room. 

“Look, clean!” showing his knife proudly, catching Price’s gaze as he pushed open the kitchen door. 

Snatching a slice of cake onto a Folger's coffee tub lid, Soap handed you a spoon, clinking others to Gaz and Price. Gaz awkwardly adjusted the fit of his baseball cap, an obvious nervous response to Price’s attempts to hold in his laughter. 

“Sergeant, what the fuck is that” Price bellowed, 

“No, no, no, no. Gaz, you’re in this with me. This is a team effort.”

“I want nothing to do with this cake. All I did was the decorations.”

“Excellent job on the decorations, Gaz,” Price added.

“Ya’ haven’t even tried the bloody thing yet! Go on, Lua, try your fucking spectacular cake.” Soap took special care to enunciate his words with a chef’s kiss motion with his fingertips. 

“If this kills me, I’m haunting you forever,” you spoke up, smiling widely at Soap’s agitation. 

“Shut it,” 

You lifted the bite to your lips, cautiously biting the spoon and working the flavours over your tongue. Bone dry but paradoxically greasy. Sweet, courtesy of the non-perishable vanilla cake mix, but that’s about it. Despite being below average for a shitty cake mix, at the very least, it had the delightful pillowy warmth of a freshly baked dessert. Raising your eyes to the audience of grown men patiently expecting your response, you thoroughly and teasingly smacked your lips to unveil your conviction dramatically. 

“Tastes like a fuckin’ birthday card.”

“Can’t say I’m familiar with the taste,” Price quipped, timidly placing a piece of the sweet treat into his mouth on the back of his knife. What’s with these men and their knives? 

Soap just shook his head, dunking his spoon into the entire body of the cake, correctly assuming that nobody intended to go for seconds. He, too, momentarily pondered the flavour, only to contort his face into a cringe. 

“What the fuck did you do, Gaz? It’s fucked!” spat Soap, cheeks still full of cake. 

“Me? You’re the one who said we could use water instead of milk, and you said to add all those butter packets!”

A choked laugh barked out of Price. 

“It must just be the Scottish touch ,” you quipped, grinning mischievously as you took the opportunity to slip away from the carnage that was certain to follow. 

The commotion accelerated in the kitchen as you passed through the common room. A member is missing from your cake-walk, not just Laswell, who had the excuse to stay in the commander’s suite. Another glance at the gym on your way down the hall to your room showed that, to your knowledge, Ghost was nowhere to be found. He was probably starting fires or popping beach balls. He seems like the sort. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mind is in a tortuous replay of the events of the day. Try as you might. Cold shame forbids your conscience from slipping into the rest it desperately needs.

What the fuck is wrong with me? All that drama over some banter with the rookie. I just got here, and I’m already scrapping with people. What reason do they have not to ship me back home at first light? Chuck was right; there will be no more pity parties. No more resting on my laurels.

After hours of consideration and tortuous recaps, relaxation washed over you, and you drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

A morning workout would help after an essentially sleepless night spent alone with your thoughts. No, probably not. Either way, it was a good use of your time. Despite what Ghost said the other day after the frantic scramble to get you to this compound, this has been very much like a vacation. The running shorts you wore as makeshift pyjamas were ideally suited to live up to their original purpose. 

Passing the common room toward the gym, the ticking clock read 04:06. Something in you said that these boys could probably sleep through anything, so some running on the treadmill will surely be within their sleeping range. 

Seeing Ghost not in full body armour and armed with at least two firearms was like seeing a shark on a mountaintop. Impressively, he kept the balaclava on during his pullup reps, although you couldn’t help but laugh considering the concept. Whether he noticed you come in or not, he likely wouldn’t visibly regard you. 

Somehow, he managed to get his hands on some headphones, something you hadn’t considered bringing before you left. Stretching your hamstrings, then your calves, the room's silence offered a unique opportunity: what kind of music does Ghost listen to? Nosiness took the better of you as you halted your breath to gauge the sound from your incredibly intimidating gym partner. At first, it almost sounded like white noise- almost like distant TV static. He looks the part; it’s like something straight out of Poltergeist. No, a closer listen left you certain that it was heavy metal, the kind of metal where you can hardly identify lyrics from the singer’s screaming. The guy who wears a skull on his face 24/7 listens to heavy metal music—a surprise to absolutely no one. 

There’s something eerie about being this close to him, like his proximity being an inherent threat. He’s technically your ally, on paper at least; why is he so unnerving? For the time being, the treadmill was your main interest. The treadmill was gravity-powered and looked like it was from sometime in the 80s by the orange racing stripes on the iron handlebars. Your thighs and calves still burned from your excursion yesterday, but a strong will, or perhaps stubbornness, forced you to refuse to appear weak.  

The walls of the makeshift gym were a nauseating rich yellow, which you got a delightful view of from the angle of the treadmill. At least there was a tall, slender mirror to break up the monotony of the wall, though its reflection offered a consistent startling reminder of the danger in your peripheral. Steady thumps of your footsteps let your mind wander elsewhere, landing on old friends, ex-boyfriends, and the welfare of your goldfish back home. 

Heavy, rhythmic grunts behind you, followed by a low, deep sigh- the signature of a finished rep, which the clunk of a weight confirmed. This would be an excellent time to finish your run and try to break the ice with this sentinel, and maybe he’s just playing a character. Whenever you encounter a tough guy act, in your experience, it always takes a ten-minute conversation to realize that they’re all bark and puffed feathers. On second thought, that sounds far too terrifying. You survived his proximity only by his grace. Let’s not push your limits. 

The sudden surge of adrenaline building in your system as you considered civil chatter needed release, and you broke into a sprint on a whim. Picking up your pace, you felt your ponytail slap the back of your neck. Somehow, the release of energy felt incredible, like it was exactly the kind of distraction your body was asking for. 

This pattern continued for an indeterminate amount of reps; Ghost would finish his rep, you would sprint to redirect your nerves, his next rep would begin, and your hackles lower. An uneasy alliance, or maybe he couldn’t care less about your existence. Most likely, the latter. At least you managed to break through Gaz and Soap, including you in chatter and Soap’s sarcastic knock on your bedroom door wishing you ‘nighty night, don’t let the asbestos bite.’ The memory flashes a thought of how many years this indoor run might be stripping from your life in this unregulated facility. 

One breathy groan from the being behind you clicked your nerves into another sprint, hot beads of sweat pooling on the back of your neck. Suddenly, an unbelievable opportunity presented itself. In the reflection of the mirror you faced, you saw Ghost walk out of view and return to his bench – a perfect side-on view—one of the lukewarm water bottles in hand. You watched the muscles in his wrist flex as he opened the bottle and lifted it to his mask. With glued eyes, you watched as he lifted the bottom fabric piece of his mask about two inches over his chin. Eyes flicker away. Something feels wrong about looking like this is some test and you’ll be executed for witnessing some forbidden knowledge. Eyes return to him again, catching a glimpse of his chin, the curve of his jaw, a pale neck. Something in you relaxed slightly; like subconsciously, your body recognized him as a human rather than a somewhat sentient killing machine. He had some interesting scars along his jawline, white puncture marks about an inch apart. His dark irises flashed to you, and your gaze averted immediately. Maybe he didn’t see your gaze, and perhaps you were quick enough. 

“Is there a problem, Corporal?” 

Icy cold shock hit you, compounded by the cool air on your slick skin. Racing a million-miles-a-minute, your mind is wracked for an answer to his question. He’s expecting a response. Stop running. No, keep running; everything is normal. You saw the forbidden knowledge. You tasted the apple. This is the consequence of your sin.

“No, sir ,” you responded with surprising confidence, considering your mental anguish. 

Sir? Is he sir now? What’s wrong with me?  

Another instinct to sprint washed over you, but this time, something said that this rep wouldn’t be on the treadmill. You were planting your feet on either side of the track, letting the g-force of the lack of motion wash you, steadying for the next hurdle – leaving. That unnerving, primal feeling that motion will detect his wrath, like a T-rex, washes over you as you find your feet unsteady under your weight after the run. You didn’t have the heart nor the courage to meet his gaze as you headed for the door. It’d probably turn you to stone at this point. 

The air outside the gym was much colder, or maybe the energy in your previous environment was stifling. Two figures down the hall headed toward you on an intersecting path, Soap and Gaz. Brighter windows say that the sun had time to rise, meaning you must have been in the gym for at least two hours, give or take. Gaz acknowledges your approaching presence with a head tilt as you catch the tail end of a conversation with Soap about cars. 

“Laswell’s looking for you,” Gaz called as your paths crossed. 

“Graves too, office.” Soap added.

Considering their comfort with spending days with a pack of men, surely they won’t mind your post-workout miasma. This meeting will determine if you’re heading home or not. You are probably getting shipped home for immediately picking fights with your teammates, where Laswell had to step in and play grade school principal. If only the compound were bigger, you might have more time to script your dialogue on your walk to this meeting. Arriving at the thin laminate-wood door, the patient rapping at the door was met with a quick and efficient ‘come in’ from within. 

“Grant,” Graces spoke from a small iron table across from Laswell, “Take a seat.” 

You cross the distance between the door and the metal table with a curt nod. It couldn’t look more like an interrogation room, a lightbulb on a wire above a sterile furniture set. Laswell tapped papers on the table, meeting your gaze. Sitting in the chair dutifully, you rested your sweaty palms in fists on your thighs. 

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” you breathed.

“Not to worry, it gave us time to catch up,” Laswell responded confidently, slender fingers dragging a laptop from her bag to plant on the table. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.” Graves piped up.

That was an understatement. Your mouth twitched as you swallowed your nerves. Take deep breaths and straighten your back as you had done thousands of times before when you were under extreme stress.

“This is an extremely serious situation and much of the information on this mission is on a need-to-know basis.” Graves leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee as he flipped a pen through his fingers. 

In an instant, nerves settled. They were keeping you on, and for the umpteenth time, worrying about what others think of you got the better of you, what you wouldn’t give to be back on that treadmill again. 

“We received intel on some stolen Chinese weapons, and it’s making them particularly anxious.” Laswell met your gaze, and the intensity of her posture spoke volumes, “We have reason to believe that the Russians stole these high-value goods.”

You could feel Graves’ gaze on you. Flicking his pen between his fingers, he makes a particularly distracting commotion just out of your peripheral. It’s like he was testing you. You’re already being told highly confidential information. Isn’t it a little late for that?  

“The convoy holding the weapons is moving, and they know this terrain better than we ever could. They’re dodging satellite reception and flying totally under the radar. When they send out internal messages, they're coded and multilingual. That’s where we need your expertise.” Said Laswell, opening the laptop to turn the illuminated screen displaying dotted GPS signals showing a path leading away from China. 

“The Chinese government is sweatin’ bullets right now,” Graves unfurled his legs to lean forward. “We want to get our hands on that hot potato.”

“Their transmissions come in randomly, and we can’t even be sure if it’s chatter from the Russian convoy or civilians.”

“When was their last communication?” You finally spoke up. 

“Yesterday, but it’s mostly just nonsense.” Laswell tapped the laptop keyboard as she spoke. 

“Do you have any recordings?”

“A little over ten hours total.” 

“I’d like to listen.” 

At some point during your conversation, Price had entered the room, the shadow of his familiar Tilley hat looming on the wall beside you. Catching a glance from the corner of your eye, he stood with an arms-crossed, intense gaze on Laswell’s laptop screen. Graves reached down to Laswell’s bag, fishing out some clunky headphones and dropped them on the table in front of you with a noisy thud, the noise reverberating on the thin metal table. 

“We have reason to believe they’re going to pass near this compound very soon, so we need to be able to be ready at a moment’s notice.” She spoke, lifting her gaze to meet Price’s.

“Once we confirm the location of the weapons, we get our boys in and get them out. Simple as that.” Graves’ lips formed a thin line, rising from his seat to take his leave. “You’ll be back home in time for supper.” With that, he patted your shoulder with jovial force, forcing you to stabilize your posture in your chair. 

For the time being, your task was straightforward. Gather as much context as possible. Scrub through 10 hours of useless radio conversation, searching for the slim possibility that there might be something valuable. In the worst-case scenario, you waste over ten hours of your life. That lingering, exhausting thought is overrun by the realization that this situation is literally life or death, and any insight you gather can be game-changing. 

It seems that some consensus has been reached between the others in the room as they exchange nods and glances. Laswell shifts in your peripheral, sliding the laptop to rest in front of you, hearing the distant click of the door as at least Graves has left the room. With a heavy clack of the trackpad, Laswell demonstrated how to scroll through the list of audio files. 

“When we get a message from them, they’re all from the same channel, leaving from the same location in China. We’re nearly certain they’re our guys.” She spoke, pushing her chair back to stand. “Stay listening in on this signal. The clips you have are all communications from the location in question.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

Laswell carried herself with a certain calmness of someone with grace and patience, partnered with an eerie feeling that she most likely has intel on you that could ruin you. Dangerous, lethal and confident, all wrapped up in an almost contradictory business casual wardrobe. Something about her is so inherently trustworthy and kind. Or maybe that’s just in contrast to the other associates who are all willing and able to squeeze the life from your throat in an instant. 

Locking your gaze on the grainy screen, you slip the headphone jack into the laptop, planting the headphone pads over your ears. The click of the door behind you let you finally drop your shoulders, letting out a sigh. You scoot the chair forward, making an uncomfortable screech under your weight. At least Laswell did you the courtesy of leaving you a notepad should you need it, the proud eagle sigil of the CIA emblem standing silent and judging, vigil over your work. 

Thunk . First track, hitting play. Headphones scream with static, making your skin crawl as you frantically tap the volume button. Steady static fills the headphones around your ears. It almost sounds like the ocean. Multitasking, you take preemptive action to pull up a blank page to transcribe any and all communications that will surely come through. With luck and a bit of patience, the muffled dialogue from a husky male voice speaks Russian, obscured by static. Unravelling each sentence at a time, you record the conversation as you hear it, documenting a weather report and news about a patch of ice on the road. 

A click at the door behind you makes you jump. Whipping your head around, the four white walls of your box were empty. This time, it was truly empty. The issue with surrounding yourself with highly trained soldiers has the consequence of being unable to perceive them. Or at least whenever they don’t want to be perceived. Right now, the only priority is to gather information and listen for any intel you can collect from nondescript radio conversations. It’s safe to say that the vacation is over. 

Chapter Text

Instances like this make you realize how lucky you are to have modern technology. Something as simple as the capability to fast forward through the vast amount of audio to sift through could save you hours of your life. Instead, you sit in a stuffy, dingy office in an excruciatingly painful desk chair. Another hour was spent listening to static, occasionally interrupted by the gravelly Russian voice of a chain-smoking Russian trucker complaining about his boss to a colleague. Every utterance, time, and basic voice description is noted. 

Thunk. Another clack on the heavy trackpad to start another audio track. The last recording included a two-way conversation about the latest blockbuster action movie and their mediocre opinions on the fight scenes. At this point, you’ve gathered a rough outline of a few characters. Smokey has the distinctive grumbly tone of someone who’s been chain-smoking for years, and he drives logs to Chita from Ulan-Ude. Whistler has a higher-pitched tone, and his teeth whistle when he says his S’s; he is trying to quit his usual route up to Bratsk in favour of something less hazardous, especially with a baby on the way. There’s also Tato, with a thick rural accent, who notably seems to enjoy cheap potato vodka when working long-haul overnight shifts. 

Creating profiles is part of the job, but in a way, it’s oddly fulfilling. These are humans with lives, goals, and opinions. You get to look through the keyhole into their lives without them even knowing you exist. It’s a unique one-way relationship reminiscent of cheap reality TV shows about icy road truckers. 

Just around the start of hour six, just over halfway through, you hear the unforgettable sound of footsteps stopping right outside your door. Cracking the door open, a glance over your shoulder showed Graves peeking in. Rolling your head to stretch your neck, he interpreted it as an invitation, pushing the door open with his hip. He carried a paper cup of something steamy and a MRE package of what looked like Beef_Ravioli™. The cool, fresh air from the hallway illuminated how stuffy your enclosure had become. 

“How goes it?” Graves chirped, kicking the door stopper to leave the door ajar. 

“Nothing newsworthy,” your voice squeaked, unused to speaking for the past few hours, “I’ll leave you the report of everything I gathered.” 

Graves gingerly placed some warm tea beside the laptop, plopping the MRE beside it. His presence in your peripheral socially queued you that it was time to take a short rest from the files. Thunk, pause. A little agitated that you couldn’t continue and get this over with sooner rather than later, you submitted to your rank and let Graves’ presence take priority. In a perfect world, you would’ve told him to beat it. Pushing back from the glaring screen, your eyes settled on Graves as he skimmed her eyes over your notes. 

“The profiles help me keep track of who’s who. You never know,” you spoke up, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool air overwhelmed you. 

Graves hummed in approval, turning pages of your notes between his calloused fingers. Your raised eyes let you know that he had also left you a water bottle as well. It’s embarrassing to have a stranger be more in tune with your body than yourself and your mouth twisted in irritation. At least they cared whether you lived or died, an expectation you previously were unsure of. 

“Good shit,” He slapped his hand down on the paper, almost expecting you to jump, “be sure to come up for air every once in a while.” 

Every fibre of your being urged you to explain that you just wanted to rip the bandage off in one go, but you opted for a polite smile and a nod instead. His quaffed blonde cut disappeared again, hearing thumping, meandering footsteps strolling down the hallway. Whistling as he walked, offering you an auditory impression of how far away he was. Once the distance was decent, your shoulders released, and you returned to the screen. Thunk. 

Hours melted away, or so it seemed. The clock at the bottom right of the bleached white computer screen was the only way to tell the time. One could easily be confused since the lack of sunlight made the dim office feel eternally in a state of timeless purgatory. Only static and the occasional chirp of interference alerted you that you hadn’t yet slipped into some sort of laminal space. 

The MRE and tea had long gone cold. The tea was mediocre anyway, so gulping it down in one swig was all you would’ve given regardless, so being lukewarm was just a bonus. At this point, you had created profiles of seven unique regulars and the occasional Mongolian or Chinese voice whose transmission had briefly been picked up. Nothing important, though notable only by definition, just like the last eight hours of your life. On the bright side, two forty-minute tracks were your ticket to retiring for the evening with a clear conscience. 

Finally, the last clip came to a close. That delightful pause symbol switching to play made it official that the scrub through those audio tracks was done. Shifting backwards in your seat sends searing pain through your body, your tailbone prickling with discomfort as it had sat in the same position for God knows how long. A deep breath of stuffy air flooded your lungs, scrubbing your dry eyes with your fists as you stood. Finding the strength to stand, you stretched your back, taking unsteady footsteps on your way to the common room to face your colleagues, who most likely think you died. 

There’s something inherently comical about three massive guys crowded around a TV no bigger than a microwave. Price, Gaz, and Soap crouched around the screen, Price passively rolling his calf muscle on a tennis ball. They didn’t even notice your presence, making you snicker at the thought of you crouched in front of a screen of your own only minutes ago. Except in your case, you weren’t muttering commands to the figures on the screen and groaning when the soccer ball got kicked out of bounds. 

“You missed more rucking,” Soap called out to you, making the other two whip their heads around to face you. 

You laughed, dropping the CIA notebook of everything you gathered over the last 10 hours on the small coffee table. Taking the opportunity to stretch your legs, you stand and shift your weight to one hip, squinting to read the score of the soccer- or rather, football game on the screen. 

“Awww shucks,” you murmured sarcastically, eliciting a grin from Soap and Price. 

“I thought the cake sent you home,” Soap chirped, smacking Gaz beside him with the back of his hand. 

You chuckled, swirling the remainder of your water bottle passively, pacing forward slightly to stop your legs from seizing up. The ghost of the smell of cigars hung in the air, though it was faint enough that it hadn’t been lit indoors. Going to bed without a little conversation felt wrong, as the entirety of your day was monotonously spent in that stuffy office. 

“So, corporal,” Price piped up, throwing his arms behind the 1970s time capsule of a couch, “How’d you manage to join so young? Masters and soon to be a sergeant at just under thirty. You’re putting our other youngster Johnny to shame” he smacked Soap over the shoulder with his palm. 

“Well, government pity bucks and learning to keep myself busy helps. I’m not really tied to any place back home, so I’ve always been able to devote myself to my work.”

“Should I be concerned about any psych evaluations?” Price noted, 

“I’d say we all should be if we’re to stay here for too long,” You quipped, 

Psychiatric evaluations have come back squeaky every year since, and it seems that everyone in the room had read enough of your record to gather your story without the need for a prayer circle. Bipolar mom wiped out your family, and you had the fortune, or misfortune, of being the only one to pick up the pieces. There are days when guilt and shame weigh heavily on your heart, and that crushing feeling in your throat says it’s time to bury yourself in work. In many ways, it’s kinder to yourself to submit to the fact that thinking about the past is just unhealthy. These issues are best addressed with a government-issued professional in toe whenever you get the time off work. 

It’s hard to tell if it’s comforting or gutwrenching to know that everyone in your group is entirely filled in on the most intimate details of your conscience. Maybe that’s the consequence of working with such high-ranking government people. Judging by their reactions, they seem remarkably unfazed by your sob story, most likely having seen miles worse in the past two weeks. There’s something sickeningly sweet in that to you. For once, you’re not some wounded animal with a tragic backstory. You’re just another cog. 

“Grant, pass me your notes from earlier. I’d like to have a look.” Price spoke up after a particularly enrapturing play concluded on the television. 

“For sure,” you slipped the notebook off the table, placing it in his expecting palm he extended to you over the back of the couch. 

“Did you run into anything remarkable?” 

“No, just parsing through ten hours of nothing,” you retort, taking the last swig to empty the plastic water bottle from earlier. “but I can tell you everything you need to know about potato vod-“ 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is that not what we brought you here in the first place?” Graves piped up, seemingly out of nowhere. 

That smooth American accent caught you off guard, his arms crossed over his chest, pacing eerily toward you. He had a way of sucking the air out of the room when he wasn’t happy, contrasting with the nurturing lunch he brought you only hours ago. Reminds you of your mother. 

“How ‘bout you do your job, Grant? It’s the bare fuckin’ minimum,” he added, staring down his nose at you. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” You spoke attentively, assuming a more guarded posture to stand at attention as you had in your first week at basic training. 

He held your gaze for long enough to make sure you knew his opinion of you. Breaking the glare to nod to the others in front of the TV, though Soap didn’t even seem to notice the conversation whatsoever, enraptured by the match. Graves finally stepped out of your immediate proximity, turning on his slick shoes to take his leave. Only when he was thoroughly out of view did you finally inhale, processing the whiplash you just experienced. You didn’t have the heart to follow through on any emotion other than peaceful, timid complacency, knowing your current station had no right to complain about the workload. 

“I’m off to bed,” You finally spoke, awkwardly tapping your palms over your thighs, “see ya’” 

As your sneakers hit the laminate floor, a notable silence immediately following your departure signified an obvious intention to discuss the topic of you as soon as you were out of earshot what you wouldn’t give to see someone who didn’t just see you as meat. Eager to begin your isolated pity party in your sterile dormitory, a door swung open to your 3 o’clock, making you flinch. And you had every reason to flinch as that familiar cold, hostile gaze met yours as Ghost exited the men’s bathroom, clearly post-shower. You didn’t have the patience to be sweet this time, rolling your jaw and matching his frigid gaze as you passed, nearly missing your exit to the women’s quarters. 

As the dust settled, and you sat in bed in the familiar, comfortable, and by now definitely filthy gym shorts, your mind wandered. 

The boys were most likely not talking about you the instant you left the room, and like Gaz said yesterday, everyone gets chewed out all the time for dumb shit. You were just used to being exempt from that kind of fury because of your exceptional skillset. In this case, your skill set was average- expected. At least Ghost wasn’t there to exponentially increase the discomfort of that whole situation. You doubt you could’ve kept it together under that heavy stare. It’s hard to identify if you were scared of him, intimidated by him, or desperate to prove him wrong about whatever assumptions he has about you – Sometimes, there are people you just aren’t meant to please. 

Pulling the scratchy blanket up to your chin, you used the brief time between laying in bed and sleeping to scroll through old photos on your phone and swipe past years of scenery from the tops of mountains or clips of raging dust storms. Exotic animals you’d only see in zoos, selfies with old friends back home, and a short video of your bunk-mate eating a scorpion on a dare. Sweet, peaceful memories and the steady thrumming of the heater at your feet lull you into another round of sleep. 

Chapter Text

You realize your fists were clenched before your mind even had the chance to become conscious. Waking up from rapping at the thin door only feet away from your head made fear and panic surge through your blood. Someone’s here. Someone’s outside the door. Wake up.  

“Grant,” a familiar feminine tone, it’s Laswell. “Get up, we got something.”

You recognize the environment as your dormitory bedroom, shifting your itchy blanket to let the cold air breathe across your thighs. In an instant, you’re slipping on your cargo pants and sliding your clinking belt into place. One last dimly lit glance to make sure you’re entirely covered, and you swing the door open. You met the closed fist of Laswell as she was seconds away from knocking again. 

For the sterile conditions of an abandoned bunker, it becomes somehow eerier and more unsettling when nobody else is awake. Like the concept of space and time doesn’t exist, where you and Laswell are the only two echoing footsteps on the planet. In the palm of your sweaty hand, you held the CIA booklet you wrote your notes in earlier, dogeared, but the same. 

“That convoy we’re tracking started transmitting a signal. We need to know if there’s anything we can use.” Laswell spoke, pushing the office door open with her forearm, meeting Graves already seated inside. “They’re using some sort of private network to break up their cellular transmissions, but we have a few tricks of our own.”

“The MAC address says that we can be almost certain that this device was in the same location as the stolen weapons, and their zig-zagging movements tell us that they’ve got something to hide.” Graves said, catching your reflection in the thin, wiry glasses on the tip of his nose.

You smooth your hair back, taking in the surroundings. Two laptops and a tablet were connected with heavy wires on the same industrial metal table you spent the previous day at. For all you know, it’s technically the same day.

Graves shifts the laptop to you, a blank text document inviting you to sit and do your fucking job like what he chewed you out for yesterday. In an act of defiance, veiled by due diligence, you decline, sliding crisp white paper across the metal surface.

“I prefer to write it down. More control,” you spoke, not meeting his gaze.

Laswell hummed in approval behind you, detecting movement; you turned to see her wheeling a bulletin board from the corner, flipping it over to reveal the plain green canvas of a chalkboard. She craned her neck to unclasp a small box built into its side, pulling out pale chalk and neatly placing it on the shelf lining the chalkboard. Meanwhile, Graves pulled up live audio on the laptop from a feed pulsating lines of waveform visualization. Static, thumps, and clicks came from the wiry headphones as you habitually slid them over your ears. 

Steady static and the occasional lurch of feedback crept from the headphones. Seconds turned into minutes as you sat, quite literally on the edge of your seat. Expecting something, anything, eventually. The absence of stimulation makes your fingers restless, as excess energy translates into your knee bouncing. Only the unpredictable click of interference in the background alerted you that you weren’t just listening to an empty transmission. 

A calm Russian conversation suddenly interrupted the silence, commanding your body to shift into a more attentive position. The change in your posture must have alerted the others as the sound of rustling fabric shifted behind you. You could practically feel the heat from their bodies as they loomed over you like the angel and devil on your shoulders. 

Conversation between three men, two Russian, one speaking Cantonese, your fingers whirling the pen to transcribe the information. Confusion and fatigue swept over you as your eyes caught up with the sentences you frantically cited. Their pointless dialogue was about the first Russian guy’s daughter’s birthday.

Minutes passed as the second Russian voice spoke to the Cantonese speaker, patiently and calmly describing in picture-perfect detail the best way to prepare canned Pilaf so it stayed crisp and fragrant. The best rice to use is Rapan, but Osman will also be sufficient. If you can get your hands on some almonds for garnish, it adds a pleasant crunch to the meal. The Cantonese speaker responded in fractured Russian about whether peanuts could be a good substitute. 

This couldn’t be the right transmission. 

Pushing the headphone pad off one of your ears, you turned in your chair to meet the furrowed eyebrows of Laswell and Graves, who had clearly come to the same conclusion. Graves turned curtly, huffing an exhale as he paced away, leaving Laswell holding a stern, void stare into nothingness. Graves’ pacing brought him back around, snatching up the white paper containing your transcriptions, once again urgently flickering his pale eyes over the paper. 

“Do you recognize the voices?” Laswell finally interrupted after what seemed like an eternity while the Russians in your headphone pads discussed the perks of cast-iron cookware.

“Negative,” you breathed, exhaustion catching up with you. 

“Is there any indication that there’s a relation?”

“Negative,” you said, watching stubborn frustration wash over Laswell’s face.

Heavy sleepiness smoothed over your nerves, and unused energy and alertness crept out of you. At this point, Graves was already down the hall, still pacing, but now at a distance. 

“I’ll sit and listen, but I’ll call you in if I get something.” Your voice cut into the room, eliciting Laswell’s gaze to finally rise from the void to meet yours. 

It took Laswell time to respond, as if she was running the situation through thousands of simulations in her mind. Conversation within the headphone pad on your ear continued about the benefits of ginger tea before bed. Instead, Laswell turned on her ankles to swing a chair up beside your position at the table, pulling up one of the laptops to begin typing. Laswell’s rhythmic tapping and steady dialogue about bedtime practices whispered to your conscience how warm and cozy your cot must be right now. 

Heavy eyelids obscured your view of the screen. Why is it now that now your body blesses you with the ability to sleep instead of all those sleepless nights thus far? Your workout this morning, or maybe more like yesterday, aches in your bones, becoming acutely aware of every form of stimuli except the one in front of you. Graves enters the room and talks to Laswell as you dedicate your full attention to the broadcast. Begging for anything more useful than cooking advice. 

Unexpectantly, your conscience hooks on the specific phrasing of something said in passing. A single out-of-place sentence that made your shoulders stiffen. The second Russian’s voice shifted away from his casual tone as if reading something. Clicking back a few seconds, you reviewed the sentence in its entirety. There was an intro and closing ‘dear [...]” and “sincerely, [...]”, a queue that made you kick your chair forward to lock into a more attentive position. Laswell’s rhythmic tapping halted. 

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ you transcribed the voices within your headphones, translating the gravelly Russian voice into legible English, ‘the Dumplings are out of the oven, and we’ll be-’ Static interrupted the dialogue, giving you a moment’s grace to catch up with transcription ‘-roads have been smooth. Thank you for your understanding.'

Your breath quickened. Pen scrawling over the paper in steady, controlled motions, contrasted by your wild expression that must have caught Laswell's attention.

“What’cha got.” Laswell scooched her chair in closer, the distant pacing down the hall halting, then picking up pace in your direction. 

Relief and tension danced in your mind, along with a whirlwind of emotions and a sudden awareness of the tightness of your shirt’s collar. Underlining points in jutting pen strokes, you give yourself a moment's pause to gather yourself before explaining your sudden intrigue. Two sets of expectant eyes met yours, pleading. 

“I think I’ve got something, but it’s hard to tell for sure.” You croaked, Laswell attentively jotting down notes on the chalkboard. 

“What, what - what is it,” Graves spoke urgently, impatience radiating from his posture.

“When you’re transmitting sensitive information, you’ll use padding at both the beginning and end of short messages to protect them from crypto-analytical attacks by the enemy.” You spoke, making useless hand motions to emphasize your points, “It essentially works to signify that the important part of the message is between an opening and closing phraseology signifier.” Reciting the textbook definition effortlessly due to hours of relentless study. 

“How can you tell if it’s padding phraseology or civilian conversation?” Laswell asserted, crossing her arms over her tidy blue button-up.

“That’s the thing, you kind of just have to have an ear for it,” your eyes unwavering from the fluctuating soundwaves on the screen, “it’s something that might not entirely make sense within the context of the conversation.”

“What does this mean?” Laswell taps her fingernail on the paper where you underlined, making the metal table rattle. “Could ‘dumplings’ be some sort of co-”

Just then, you clasp your palms over the headphones in an attempt to isolate the sounds coming from the laptop. Apparent urgency in your tone sucked the voices from Laswell’s throat, and silence fell like a heavy blanket. Your dry eyes followed the motion of the soundwaves on the screen, capturing your rapt attention. 

‘ I hope all is well. This tool we’ve got will do wonders to help you clear out those pests in our backyard. The red and blue fuckers that keep tossing stuff over the fence. Speaking of which, there’s some hot weather coming tomorrow. Keep an eye on the road conditions. ’ A generous pause, with a hint of feedback, followed, ‘ ... we have the tools . Let’s see if we can bring them home in time for the road trip. Take care now.’

A third Russian voice interjected, static at first, followed by ‘and that the Uniforms are ready… two thirty-five, expect us. Best wishes. ’ The transcription cuts with a click. 

Recognition triggered in your brain, as you identified the familiar voice of Smokey , the chainsmoking trucker from yesterday, speaking with an unknown additional party. His tone was different, more serious and stern. Running your fingers through your scalp, you leaned back in your chair, neurons firing on all cylinders to make sense of the dialogue. A scrawling circle around the name Smokey caught the attention of the shadows behind you, sending them to exchange a flurry of urgent conversation and scrawling on the chalkboard. 

Uniforms? I thought he exclusively transported logs, and why so early? Tools… Tools… The Russian word for tools could be multipurpose. It could mean hammers, lawnmowers, cutlery or… weapons. Ominously nondescript but just vivid enough to trigger alarm bells.

Your scrambling hands copied your thoughts onto the paper, another frantic circle capturing the importance of the use of the Russian word tool . A glance at the digital clock said that it was 01:38, leaving just under an hour for whatever was about to happen. Snapping out of your pensive trance, Laswell and Graves were exchanging words behind you. Cold sweat pooled in your palms, wiping them on the thighs of your cargo pants, dry eyes whirling across your paper. Suddenly, said scrawlings were swiped off the table by Graves’ hand, dragging your attention to focus on the conversation in front of them. 

“-I need a percentage, Grant, how sure are you that this is what you say it is?” Graves held your paper to your nose, “This sentence padding, this tool , are these our guys?” 

“Ninety-five percent,” your voice squeaked, folding damp palms over each other. “But we don’t know where, or even a direction, I-”

“We have coordinates for a potential meetup spot we gathered from… an informant,” Graves interjected. The verbiage of ‘informant ’ made your skin crawl, and Laswell’s posture infinitesimally shifted.

“But I’d need to listen again. I need to check fo-” Graves interrupted your speech.

“No time. We have to hightail it out there,” Graves shifted, now clearly speaking to Laswell rather than you, ending his sentence with a curt nod. 

She nodded in response, clicking her pen off and on repeatedly. The energy in the room shifted from an eager and attentive tone to tense and grave. 

“Wake the boys,” Laswell spoke, uncrossing her arms. “Kitted up and moving in fifteen.” 

With that, Graves was out the door, breaking into a hurried jog as soon as he entered the hallway. Laswell scooped the laptop into her arms; frantic, hurried movements with practiced accuracy enraptured your attention. The distant commotion of pounding on doors, paired with Laswell’s urgent movements to unplug and package cables overstimulated your senses. 

“You’re coming too.” Her voice cut through the daze, your eyes snapping to meet hers. 

Chapter Text

A makeshift armoury that crudely held tables covered in body armour, flares, glowsticks and guns laid out in extensive kits for the team. A buffet of pale grey and white camouflage fabric, thick kevlar, and steely gunmetal. Laswell was barking orders, stern voice cutting through rustling fabric and the tight clinks of clasps slipping into place. Swiping the zipper of your thick thermal jacket over the additional lump of your crossbody 9 mm holster, your ears caught on to Graves’ directions for the team, who goes where, what to expect, and the intel he had gathered. 

Soap was to hang back on the trail on an icy mountainside turn that would force the convoy vehicle to slow, giving him time to throw a sticky listening device to the side of the van. He will rendezvous with Price and Gaz outside the hangar where the convoy is expected to meet. Ghost and Grant are on the cliff face, holding a sniping position while Grant transcribes. No squirters, lethal authorised. The soldiers all responded with a diligent and unanimous ‘yes sir,’ which snapped you to respond the same. 

Hearing your own name in this high-stress context is jarring but not exceptional. Urgent transcription under stress that would make a grown man cry, well, it’s part of the job. What wasn’t standard was being this close to the action; usually, you’re tapping at a laptop from the comfort of a van, often blocks away from combat. Being with a sniper would mean you couldn’t have a screen to help you, as an illuminated face in the darkness would surely set off some alarm bells. 

Stuffy artificial heat radiated from the heaters in the room as an uncomfortable reminder that you’re due to spend at least an hour squatting in the lethal cold. It was Price who spoke up first, asking for permission to speak plainly. His voice was strong and brassy, far from the tone of someone who had just awoken no more than five minutes before. 

“What if this is a trap? They could be planting this info because they know we’re on their tail. This could be a ploy.”

“They have no way of knowing we’re even here.” Graves asserted, gesturing to you with an open palm, letting his arm slap down to his side again “Our linguist says they’re in talks about a weapon.”

Your eyes raised from another round of scanning the transcription, gnawing at your lower lip as you scanned every letter on the page. 

“‘Speaking of which, there’s some hot weather coming tomorrow. Keep an eye on the road conditions.’” you reread the transcription aloud, eyes fluttering over the page, jolting to attention as you recognized your transgression. “-Sir.”

“Woah woah woah,” Soap interjected, “What about that says anything about these Chinese weapons?” His Scottish accent cut through the echoing room, catching the gaze of the silent Ghost. 

“I don’t like working with shit this flimsy, Grant,” Graves slapped his hands down on the now empty armoury table “What happened to ninety-five percent?” 

“I-it was within a padded message; the use of language was alluding to a tool or some sort…” you pause, feeling six pairs of eyes burning into you, “and uniforms, something about uniforms.”

After all, it was the signature of good coded intel if it’s instilling this kind of doubt in the enemy, making you more confident that this is the right lead. Nagging doubt tugged at your mind like a loose thread from a sweater, promising to make you come undone. No, this is way too perfect. It sounds too real. Smokey, the trucker from earlier, turns this conspiracy on its head. What was he doing there? How deep does this go? 

There didn’t seem to be any time for doubt, no room for uncertainty. Right now, the mission was clear, despite the rest. Right now, you were loading into a thoroughly kitted-out truck, a snowmobile in the truck bed catching your attention. The balaclava over your face did nothing to shield you against the biting cold and additional discomfort of long hair dragging with every movement under the tight wrapping. A thickly plated helmet transferred the engine's rumbling to rattle your skull against the back of the car seat. You were positioned behind Soap and Ghost in the truck, knees pulled up to your chin to make up for the fact that he clearly forgot you were behind him. Tearing onto the unmarked road, Ghost’s driving made your skin crawl with uncertainty. Does he even know where the road is?  Tree branches and short saplings crackled under the tearing truck, and Price and Gaz’s vehicle disappeared into the darkness. After a short but bumpy trip, with a handful of falling sensations that made you certain death was imminent, the tires spun onto the familiar crunching sound of a gravel road. 

All the while, the boys barked at one another. The rumbling of the engine and your occupied mind disavowed you from listening in, not that you needed to anyway. In the height of your nerves, you found yourself fiddling with the clunky walkie-talkie you were armed with, extra bunk thanks to an extended battery to guarantee long haul functionality in this hostile cold. If it wasn't for Soap crudely punching Ghost in the bicep, you could’ve sworn they were arguing. Booming laughter came from Soap, his head swivelling around to meet your furrowed gaze. 

“Chin up, buddy, L.T.’ll keep the bullets from ye’.” He chirped, tone surprisingly jovial, “and maybe we’ll be back to wrap up our beauty sleep. God knows this guy needs it.” Once again, Soap patted Ghost’s bicep, making you question the wisdom of roughhousing with the guy driving on an icy mountain road. 

“I’m more concerned about the latter," you quipped, the first smile dancing over your clothed mouth in hours. 

“We’re flying blind with your dodgy intel, corporal.” That militant Manchester accent cut in, gruff and stern. 

The barbed comment stuck into your skin, prickling against the emotions that you were swallowing back down. It took a wave of willpower not to bite back ‘I do my job. You do yours.’ to his implied threat, only saved by the reminder that he outranks you. The fucker is trying to get under your skin, his husky voice promising wrath or worse. He probably knows you’ve been a firecracker since you got here, but you refuse to give in. 

Asshole. 

“Understood, Lieutenant, I am confident, Lieutenant.” your voice oozed out of you. If he’s pulling rank, you'll yank back. 

More familiar clinking and ringing metal of inspecting firearms, followed by the jarring, though satisfying click of the magazine sliding into place. Soap gripped the grab handle on the roof of the truck, lifting his weight off the seat in front of you. Uncertainty washed over you as your partner, Ghost, also flicked open his side door. Blind duty took over, though you had assumed the truck would take you to your cliffside lookout. Cold boots sunk into the snow while the two boys unlatched the hatch of the trunk bed in sync. Wordlessly and with a heavy grunt, they heaved the snowmobile in the back, sliding it off the truck. The wheels of the truck bounced with the relieved weight, the snowmobile slipping into the snow on parallel treads. 

More likely than not, you were walked through the details of this part of the mission. However, the finer points of your transcription running through your mind kept you far too busy to register these instructions properly. One last pat over your body steadied your nerves as everything you needed was in place. Aching cold screamed into your bones, rapidly identifying the weak points in your thermal equipment with frigid pain. This time, though, compared to the rucking, you had the heat of adrenaline and racing blood, keeping your chest’s furnace electric with heat. 

“If we make it back with the cargo, Grant,” Soap paused, taking time to walk over to you and planting a gloved palm on your shoulder, “We’ll owe you another cake.” He sneered under his balaclava, the sarcastic threat lifting your spirit, if only for a moment. 

A laugh slipped out of your lips. If it weren’t minus 40, you might’ve thought of something snarky to retort with. Another wave of confusion crossed your face as you watched Ghost straddle the seat of the snowmobile. Looking up to meet Soap’s gaze was fruitless, as he had already turned to swing himself into the open truck driver’s side door. Recognition clicked in your mind at the same instant that Ghost flicked the vehicle’s engine alight, the rumbling roar steadying into a gentle purr. Heat and embarrassment covered your face, overruled by an understanding that this was the military, not high school. He won't bite. You don't think, anyway. 

Willing your heavy boot to rise from the sinking snow, you swung your hips over the narrow seat, using the treads of your boots to flick down the rests that would support your feet. There’s no time for timidness, and you politely plant your hands on his waist. When the snowmobile lurched forward, your ginger hold on his waist tightened to an iron grip lest you get left behind in the snowbank. The thick gasoline smell from the engine and powdery snow fluttering in your eyes complimented the discomfort, working together nicely as the butt of Ghost’s sniper rifle on his back jabbed at your face only inches from your eyesocket. Inspiring a new understanding of being between a rock and a hard place. 

Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to see the direction of travel or the upcoming terrain, thanks to his hulking shoulders blocking your view entirely. From your angle, you saw inky trees whipping by, weightlessness and crushing weight alternating as your skeletal pilot tore through the wilderness. For a second, you could swear you saw a deer, swivelling your head to look, only for a sudden and alarming change in direction, nearly sending you to meet the deer up close and personally. This mechanical bull offered a moment’s pause from the agony of rerunning every possible situation through your mind, letting your nerves redirect the tension in your body into actually hanging on to this roller coaster. You still didn’t understand why you couldn’t just listen to the transmissions from back at the base rather than being thrust into an active combat zone. 

Reversing treads sent your body slamming forward, the butt of his rifle firmly pressing into your cheek. This must be the location, your body reeling from the lack of acceleration, feeling movement under the thick jacket in front of you as your lieutenant leaned forward to hush the engine. With the engine cutting, a deafening silence washed over the terrain. Darkness, save for the limited beam from the headlight of the vehicle, and unnerving darkness. 

Painful air filled your lungs, armed with a thickly padded suit and clunky gloves, and total darkness paired with deafening silence. For all you knew, you could very well be an astronaut on the surface of the moon. 

Ghost kicked back into you, swinging his legs over to hop into the snow. Seeing him sink about shin-deep into the powdery snow gave you enough context to gauge how much of a drop to expect. One last click of the headlights shutting off sent the world into moonless darkness, only phantoms of light coming from the stars and a single illuminated glow stick he cracked alight. No gentleman here, as Ghost had already trudged forward, leaving you to drop into the sinking snow and drag yourself into his footsteps. The span between his footsteps left a distance just barely under a comfortable following distance, forcing you to forge your own trail through the snow. 

Your stomach lurched into your throat, fingertips falling numb as the proximity of the sheer cliff face revealed itself in the blinding darkness. The shadow crouching beside you implied you do the same, settling your weight on your haunches. 

“Eyes on the hangar,” Ghost’s voice finally cut into the silence, screwing the extended muzzle of the sniper into place.

Wordlessly, he planted his stomach into the snow bank, kicking his legs behind him to settle into position with textbook precision. If it were anyone else, you’d be so much more calm. Even Price, who outranks your company, would be a marked improvement. At this point, it wasn’t about rank. It was entirely his unsettling demeanour. The hangar below the cliff had a short snow-cleared tarmac, sporting half a dozen floodlights illuminating the well-trodden snow. This place is clearly an active hub, but it seems so out of place in this desolate wilderness. The perfect place for unsavoury activity. 

“On your stomach, corporal,” another irritated command slicing into the silence from the gravelly voice of your partner. 

In an instant, you slipped yourself into the same position, feeling pillowy snow mold to every contour of your body like memory foam. It could almost be comfortable if it weren't for the aching cold. Pulling out your radio, you armed yourself with your own metaphorical weapon, sliding the headphones band under your chin, helmet not permitting you to wear them the expected way. 

“In position,” Ghost’s radio chirped, clicking the button to speak.

“Check,” you retorted into your radio, ensuring your teammates knew the first team was in place. 

“Bravo-six, oh-two minutes out from position, stand by.” Price’s voice crackled in response. “Any eyes on target?”

“Negative.” Soap retorted, all warmth extinguished from his usually jovial tone. 

This was the time. All or nothing. By the time supplied in the enemy's transmission, they were about three minutes from Soap’s position and seven minutes from yours. Headlights of heavily armed vans would likely be flooding this area any moment; it’s just a matter of patience, like cat and mouse, cops and robbers, us versus them. There’s something uniquely thrilling about being on the other side of an ambush, taking down the bad guys and saving the day. Except in this instance where you’re robbing the robbers… maybe this isn’t the time to consider your moral standpoint. 

The only sound was your own breathing and the sound of your blood pumping in your eardrums. Dead, soulless silence and equally soulless company to boot. You couldn’t even hear his breathing. It’s like he’s a living skeleton. Practiced, trained, and steady breaths came from where you assume his mouth is, only barely lit by the deep red underlighting of the portable glowstick. From the angle beside him, you got to see his gloves as they wrapped around the rifle. They had white bone details on them. How corny. Your mind spins with anything to pass the time, anxious seconds ticking down to a writhing pit of acid deep in your chest. Any second, Soap will crackle through your Walkie and radio the target’s location. The seconds couldn’t tick by fast enough.

Chapter Text

Neurons fire like sparklers on the Fourth of July, making your mind imagine jumping shadows in the void darkness surrounding you. Just stay on your stomach; no one will see you without you seeing them from a mile away. Ghost’s hawk eyes will keep you safe, just like Soap assured you. Expectant, teasing anxiety tightens your throat, like the feeling that you’re being watched. Except in this case, you are the one doing the watching. A single crackling branch in the distance behind you makes you whirl around in panic, wild eyes flashing in anticipation. 

“Don’t go out in the woods much, I take it.” Ghost’s voice cuts the silence, additionally startling your heightened nerves. 

“I go out plenty. It’s just hard for you to watch your six when you’ve got your nose down a scope,” you grumbled in reply. 

“Don’t worry, corporal, I’ve got eyes on the back of my head,” he huffed back, matching your agitated tone, “and the side.”

You swallowed the urge to bite back some nasty quip about his ego, once again fighting the bile in favour of not getting a dishonourable discharge. Maybe he was right, though; after all, there wasn’t even any indication that there was any other living creature at least a few square miles. Save for the dear from earlier and your ghoulish company. Most likely, it was nothing, but the slim chance of a counter-ambush still stuck in your mind like a thorn. Turning back around to rest your torso on your now rock-hard pillow of snow, a quick flick of your radio's on and off button hailed the others for an update. 

“Alfa team, this is Bravo 7-1, still no eyes.” Soap’s voice cut into the microphone.

“Solid copy, standing by.” You respond. 

Minutes melted by. Agonizing silence. By this time, the meeting time given by the radio had long passed, and the shame and horror manifesting inside you made you mortified that you may have made some grave error. No, trust in your skills. This wasn’t some translation error; you knew what you heard and had recordings to back it up. The message padding, the Chinese informant, and Smokey, it all hiked on your nerves, refusing to settle like a pill caught in a dry throat. One thing was for sure: something was wrong. 

More tentative check-ups on the lookout on the road, each response diligent and practiced, but that didn’t dissuade the elephant in the room: The convoy wasn’t here, and we’d been sitting there for at least an hour. Ghost would never show it, even if his patience were wearing thin, but the off-radio dialogue between your comrades must be starting to point towards you. Every agonizing minute became an excruciating hour, and rubbing the cold from your thighs started having less of an effect. All the calories burned from your body fighting to keep up with agonizing cold made the empty pit in your stomach more poignant, though a steady, nauseous sensation kept the worst of the pain at bay. 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Price finally spoke up through the radio, speaking what was on the top of everyone’s mind, “We’re sitting ducks out here. Gold Eagle Actual, what’s the status.”

Price’s radio to Graves implied an eagerness to wrap up the mission to come home, deeming the outing a lost cause. He’s probably aching to get back to bed, though you doubt he’d ever admit that. A glance at Ghost’s wristwatch next to you said the time was 03:54. Unwelcome sweat began to bead along your hairline as your neck muscles started to ache from strain.

“Just a little longer,” you croaked into the microphone, desperately hanging on to any semblance of hope, “-Sir”

“Little Miss, I don’t believe you have the authority t-” Grave’s voice was cut off suddenly. 

“Headlights, nine o’clock.” Soap’s radio crackled alive, 

Just like that, joy followed by relief, then gnawing dread sang through your mind, and your partner beside you shifted his posture. 

“Two vehicles- Three. I repeat, three vehicles westbound, coming ahead. 30 seconds out.” 

“Don’t miss, MacTavish,” Gaz chortled over the mic.

“I don’t miss,” he retorted. 

This was when your portable radio came into play. Once Soap gave the order, a listening device would be stuck to the undercarriage of one of the vehicles, a coin toss if it landed on the one hosting vital conversation. Rolling the dial under your finger, you sparked your end of the device alive. Waiting, frigid seconds ticked by as you heard Soap rustling into position through your mic, slow, practiced breathing as he stilled for action. Like a mountain lion stalking in the bush. A crunching sound and crisp rustles came from the device in your hands, then a delicate clunk. 

“Listening Device in place, coming to your position, Alfa Team, ” Soap’s voice triumphantly. 

“Solid copy, Bravo 7-1,” Price and Graves responded unanimously. 

Deep breaths of numbing cold tore down your throat as you steadied yourself against the headphones, squeezing your eyes shut to futility cut out all stimuli- not that it did anything in the surrounding darkness. A Cantonese voice is speaking through your headphones, relaying information to another. They were discussing the hangar and that they’d also need to collect the security tapes when they arrived. Shit, that’s important. 

“Two Cantonese-speaking males discussing coming to the hangar to collect security tapes.” You relayed into your shoulder radio.

Once again, you stilled yourself for more information, not bothering with any of the formalities of radio chatter, considering this situation was already exceptional by default. A Russian voice cuts in, asking for a translation from one of the Chinese members, responding in fractured Russian with a crude translation of the previous dialogue. 

“Russian male. At least three Tangos, stand by.”

Other than the minor conversation, there was almost no noise inside, save for an eerie Slavic folk tune singing about the grace of the motherland. Unsettling accordion notes screeching through a cheap radio. Then, you hear it. The unmistakable sound you recognized from earlier. The same clicking sounds you heard from Soap’s gun maintenance in the truck. 

“Armed. Repeat, Tangos are lethally equipped.”

You detect another shift in your comrade’s posture, like he’s giddy. Opening your eyes just in time to see the swinging headlights from the treeline turn into the open landing strip. Two thick black vans surrounding one flatbed cargo truck pulled in front of the domed hangar. Their engines rumbling audible from your elevation without the need for your radio. 

“Eyes on the target, Bravo 0-7, you seeing this?” The voice of Price made your eyes flicker to the northeast section of the compound where he, Gaz, and Soap now sat in wait. 

“In my sights,” Ghost uttered into the mic, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

Another voice cut through the radio, making you clamp your gloved fingertips over your headphones. Ghost murmured something along the lines of ‘hold’ into the radio as you focused your attention intensely. 

"We’re early, cunt, I don’t like being early," A gruff Russian voice cut crackled through the listening device's speakers.

Early? The transmission said 02:35, it’s past 04:00. That doesn’t make any sense. 

“They’re early? Grant, I thought you said 02:35,” Price shot through the radio on your shoulder, you heard the barely audible sound of someone sighing in frustration behind him. 

“They did, I don’t understand,” the connection that Price, too, knows Russian churned in your stomach. It would’ve been nice to know that earlier. 

The two sturdy vans’ doors each popped open, each van carrying four armed soldiers, black body armour making them match their shadows from the floodlights. That’s a count of eight armed Tangos, information which Ghost radioed to the ground crew, with at least one more driving the flatbed. Each sported dark, ominous firearms glinting in the stark floodlight, distant chatter bouncing off the cliff face to reach your astute ears. Another chill crept over your brow as you watched Ghost’s index finger smoothly sweep across the side of his rifle, promising to shift to the trigger at a moment’s notice. Ready to paint the ground with pink mist, swift and lethal, edging toward that kill shot. 

One of the figures crouched, unclasping a lock from the hangar door and swinging it open with the sound of shambling sheet metal. The sharp, heavy clunk of industrial lights sparking to life revealed the interior of the hangar, cluttered with a handful of small boxes and a few desks in the far corner. More information was relayed through the radio, and hushed chirps were heard in reply through the speakers. They were talking about another group meeting up, waiting for ‘Púpsik’ to arrive. Púpsik, a feminine colloquialism for ‘cutie’... there’s another party coming, the feminine prefix implying a dear female figure… a... mother.

“More Tangos en route. It sounds like this is a tradeoff point.” Although the Russian language made you question if Price came to the same conclusion you did, sharing your familiarity with the tongue. 

“Copy.” Price responded in turn. 

“This is Watcher; Any eyes on the cargo?” Laswell’s voice clambered through a staticky frequency. 

“Affirmative, Tango's transporting a shipping container from the truck into the hangar.” Price responded.

“Stand by for further instructions. Let’s wait and see who’s gonna show.” She posited. 

“Rog.” 

The sound of metal scraping and casual conversation echoed through the night. Although technically morning, there were still many hours before the sun would rise in this northern climate. One of them sparked up a cigarette, amber flashes illuminating his face before sucking back a long drag. You noted no flags on any of them, cracking icy binoculars to fit your eyes. Fingers numb to the cold made your movements clunky and uncoordinated, reminding yourself how long it had been since you moved your legs. Movement was key in this gnawing cold, though any sound could jeopardize your position, no matter how minor. It was a gamble that you just had to take. 

Watching the shadows waddle back and forth, securing the container, distant idle chatter from the vehicle-mounted listening device was nearly fruitless, save for a few key phrases. ‘Púpsik’ was three minutes out. The cold gnawing at your extremities was past the point of pain and beyond the pin-prickling sensation, finally settling into a void, empty numbness. This was the time to gather your breath because, at any moment, things could go sideways. There was more radio chatter. Gaz reported headlights behind the hangar. Here comes mama. 

Another round of headlights swung out, another group of three, and a similar flatbed truck, though their flatbed seemed extensively kitted out with plated siding and heavy-duty engines. More doors swung open, and a squad of seven similarly armoured soldiers marched to meet the existing ten, all sporting glinting firearms on their backs. 

“Seventeen tangos, eyes on cargo. Grant, what’s the status?” Price relayed from the shadowy vantage point just out of view of the enemy combatants. 

“They’re exchanging greetings… One is asking about the tool…, and another is saying it’s- it’ll do wonders to clear out their backyard. Uniforms… two thirty-five…” you transcribed from what you heard from the radio in your palm, “They’re exchanging the cargo.”

“It’s now or never,” Laswell breathed. 

“Time to bring home the milk boys, let’s make it home in time for breakfast,” Graves' smooth southern tone quipped back, seemingly in high spirits now that the agonizing wait was over. 

“Bravo 0-7, take down the squirters. Alfa team moving in.” Price’s radio clicked to a close, making your stomach knot. 

“Yes sir,” Ghost uttered. 

The slinking shadows skulked around the darkness, utterly invisible to the pack of soldiers just inches from them. In an instant, the sizzle of a smoke grenade sent a cloud of piercing white smoke into the hangar with a heavenly glow thanks to the stark overhead lights. Pop, pop, pop. Commotion, more pops. It’s horrifying not to be able to see who’s getting shot at, and you can only trust the physical exam evaluations you read only days ago on Laswell’s tablet. Frantic shouting in Russian and Cantonese reverberated across concrete and metal siding. A deafening blast in your right ear nearly made you nearly pass out in shock. Ghost had picked someone off. You couldn’t decide what was worse, watching uselessly through your binoculars to watch your teammates fall potentially or the unforgiving and hammering unknown. Bang. Another deafening blast as Ghost cocked the rifle in patient preparation for another kill shot. 

Utter chaos screamed through the radio that must have been flicked on by mistake in the scuffle. Noise and shouting tore across the wild terrain, collateral of the combat below. Ghost’s rifle had gone quiet now, his steady breathing slowing to an impossibly slow pace. Radio chatter was full of expletives and fruitless commands, agonized whelping silenced by another pop. The courage to pull the ice-cold binoculars to your eyes manifested, and you beheld bodies strewn across the snow, red splatter, and brain matter pooled on concrete and asphalt. Noting the singular bodies of combatants fleeing to the treeline, picked off by your ghostly associate. 

The pandemonium stilled, gradually unwinding, like the crescendo had passed, leaving dwindling silence. Spare for occasional pops reverberating across the cliff face. There was still commotion from within the compound, out of view of your sniper’s position. 

“Alfa team, what’s your status,” Ghost called through the radio.

Silence in response, but evident gunfire, said the status was still in question. Blistering anxiety and tension rippled through your body, meagerly quelled by a deep, steadying breath. More pops and unsettling crackles from your comrade's radios. You were sitting blind and useless, with comrades cornered inside the hangar. Ghost impatiently tapped the side of his rifle with his fingertip, steady breathing, exhaling in a sudden, quick breath. 

“We’re going down there.” Ghost’s gruff voice cut over the gunfire, lifting his radio from his shoulder to speak. “Actual, this is Bravo 0-7, moving in to support the Alfa team, over and out,” his dark eyes meeting yours expectantly, swinging his body above yours and clutching your back by your crossbody firearm harness. 

Chapter Text

Your legs didn’t even have time to connect with your nervous system. Like the unsympathetic cold had sucked the use of them from your body, leaving stumbling, loose trunks of dead weight under you. However, muscle memory and the stern grip of your lieutenant on your back compelled you to break into a fumbling walk toward the snowmobile. Vision narrows, forming blackness at its edges as if your body was debating if it should go limp. There was no time to think about that; it was time to join the fray.

Numb thighs crackling awake with pinpoint prickling, an illusionary heat tore through your bones in an instant, the consequence of prolonged exposure to the cold. In an instant, you were clinging to Ghost’s back like a spider monkey as that all-too-common falling sensation sparked your senses alive. Trees whipping by indicated that you were already in motion, tearing down the hill toward the hangar. Movements and colours flashed past you impossibly fast, white wafts of snow kicking up after another sharp turn.

Ghost parked the snowmobile beside the hangar, efficiently swinging his legs over the side of his ride, leaving you to heave your limbs in pursuit. 

“Stay here.” 

“No, I’m coming. I have combat training too, y’know.” 

“I promised Laswell you couldn’t see combat.”

“Well, you’ve already failed that pretty spectacularly so far, so I might as we-”

“That’s an order, corporal.”

Just like that, your hope was snuffed. It’s like he doesn’t understand that you have been in combat situations before and had weapons training and thorough tactical awareness scrimmages. With all the thermal gear you had on, you wouldn’t be surprised if it could stop a bullet, too. Sure, you weren’t on the same skill level as these SAS supersoldiers who’ve dedicated their whole lives to being at the peak of fitness. That didn’t mean you couldn’t recall at least half a dozen times when you’ve navigated your way through nearly impossible situations, squeezing the trigger if need be. 

I don't need to be babysat. 

Agitation simmered, and your skeletal companion crouched on his haunches, pistol in hand, waiting to spring around the corner. You could hear a commotion inside, rustling and shouting just beside your head through the sheet metal walls. Ghost had since disappeared around the corner of the hangar, whispers of featherlight footsteps on concrete disappearing from your perception. The blinding floodlights ahead of you illuminated only a fraction of the casualties of this encounter. Bodies, at least four from this angle. They almost looked like mannequins, dropped off and discarded. That would’ve almost been enough to shield your conscience from the mental anguish if it weren't for a singular pair of steely blue eyes facing in your direction. Some poor fucker had taken a clean shot to the side of the head, definitely the handiwork of one of your comrades. A loose cigarette, half-smoked, sat about two feet away. 

I wonder if that’s Smokey. Poor fucker. At least he got one last ciggy before he kicked the bucket. 

Your head swung around before you even properly registered what you heard. A slamming metal door nearly knocked off the hinges, echoed from behind you. The hangar must have a back door, and someone just blew out of it. Clumsy fingers numb from frost had already clamped around your 9 mm. Turning on the pads of your feet, you angled yourself to fire, rolling back your shoulders and steadying ragged breaths. By the lighting in the area, you had the advantage of being out of direct light and the additional bonus of a snowmobile for cover. Every instinct ran an analysis of your circumstance, simulations wracking through your mind as precious seconds slowed to a halt. Low, crunching footsteps came toward your location from just around the corner. One last deep breath, and they’d be in your view. Crunch, crunch.

Pop.

Red mist and a thump. Only at an unexpected angle. Price’s hatted head whipped around the corner, flickering the pistol in your direction, then swinging to turn his back to you, clicking another magazine into place. Your potential killer lay limp on the ground, and your eyes settled on the rifle across his chest that would’ve undoubtedly been the murder weapon. There wasn’t any room for complacency in your mind, only analysis of every sound, every shadow, every breath in your chest. Who’s coming next? 

“Clear. Two WIA. One S-i, one Triple-i. Executing emergency medical procedures.” Price’s voice came with a wave of relief through your radio, then a brick wall of panic. 

You didn’t even hear Laswell or Grave’s reply, the only sound was your pounding heartbeat in your ears and crunching snow under you. One serious injury and one incapacitating illness or injury. Winding around the corner of the hangar, you saw your teammates. Gaz lay on the ground as Price wound a tourniquet around his thigh, a medical kit strewn beside him. White shock hit you as you approached, mindlessly stowing your pistol back in its harness. A slice through his thermal pants Price had made showed a 4-inch gash into Gaz’s thigh, deep and oozing blood, his face contorting in anguish. Sucking air past your teeth, you hovered in the void of the vast compound. 

Eyes flicker up, seeing Soap doubled over. More shock. Ghost standing in wait, craning his head over him. No blood at his feet, save for the blood from the bodies of dead combatants littering the concrete. Just then, muffled murmurs around you transformed into audible language. Unwinding from the chaos, you began to understand your circumstances properly. Soap was saying something about a bruised rib, shucking off his jacket to reveal a crater in his bulletproof armour, dead center in his chest. Though it undoubtedly stopped the bullet that would’ve unquestionably been lethal, it still came with the punishment of delivering devastating force across your body. Bone-splitting pressure; unquestionably painful. 

Numb to your surroundings, though still on high alert, your eyes dragged around the harshly lit compound. A sucking gasp from Gaz snapped you out of your observations, spinning over to see Price pulling thick medical tape to pinch shut Gaz’s thigh, a band-aid solution. It’ll have to do. Soap had caught his breath, now zipping up his jacket to preserve precious body heat, face rippling with agony. Your wandering gaze landed on the next target: The steel, monstrous cargo container labelled “Amylco LLC” that sat just barely within the doors of the hangar. Glancing back, you saw four pairs of expectant eyes meeting yours. 

Wordlessly, you and Price stood to meet the bolted doors of the container. Place your hand on the iron lock, from which the frigid cold from you felt through your thick gloves, straightening its position. You stepped back, letting Price utilize the perfect angle to smash the lock with his portable sledgehammer, sending the metal lock shambling across the concrete. Drawing your pistols for good measure, with a nod, you swung the squealing doors open. 

Eager eyes washed over colours and textures that sparked recognition in your eyes, but not for the right reasons. Inside the container was kitchen-grade cooking equipment, including stacks of canned rice pilaf, tightly sealed frozen meats, and unmistakable boxes of plastic single-use dinnerware. A humiliating CAT forklift sat in the back, yellow paint smirking back at you triumphantly. Price rolled one of the cans through his hand, testing his boot against the side of a sturdy box of rice and loose tea. Clicking your firearm back into place, you waded through the foodstuffs, desperate for any sign. 

“Grant, it’s fucking cooking supplies.” Price barked, his gaze now locked on a sagging burlap sack filled with almonds. 

“I don’t understand, the signifiers were textbook… I-it -it was-”

“We just shot up a bunch of Russian civilians, thanks to the help of translations I could have done myself.” Price snapped back hotly, raising his radio to transmit the gathered information back to overwatch. 

“Then why were they so heavily armed?”

“Because it’s the fucking boonies, Lua, and I’m sure there are plenty of thieves and grizzly bears.” Soap spoke up, leaning on the side of the swinging door. 

“You know full well they weren’t hunting grizzly bears.” You spat. 

Price spun on his boots with wild rage in his eyes, slamming the can of pilaf into one of the crates. 

“Captain, I-”

“One of my men took a bullet because of this, another took a gash half a centimetre from his femoral artery,” He whirled, his icy eyes boring into yours. 

White hot shame wafted across your face, petrifying and excruciating. The padding, the odd dialogue, the armed mercenary posing as a trucker. Maybe he wasn’t even a mercenary after all, and sifting through the cargo despairing, it seemed more and more likely that these were just civilians. Just like you promised yourself not to do when you first laid eyes on Laswell at that cafe, you went and fucked it up. Eagerness to prove your worth and ignorant pride made you loose and sloppy. The first shot in the big leagues, and you swung and missed. No, not even that. You threw the baseball back at the pitcher, and now they’re laying cold and dead on the asphalt, half-smoked cigarette only inches away. They were all right to look at you like a slab of meat. You weren’t cut out for this. 

“Let’s exfil our injured before more show,” Ghost spoke. You were thankful for his mask for once, as you couldn’t tolerate whatever spiteful expression he was sporting. 

You cursed the CAT forklift and its arrogant yellow paint. Yes, it surely would’ve done a fantastic job clearing out whatever was burdening them in their backyard, but now these seventeen lives have been extinguished because of your hubris. 

“Wait…” you breathed, tearing off your glove and sliding pale fingers over the forklift.

You angled your fingertips over the ties of the forklift. Something wasn’t right here. The tires were thin, smooth and pristine. Summer tires in rural Russia. No, this doesn’t work. Your hands running along the tires must have caught Price’s attention, halting his status update to overwatch to observe. The world around you stilled, all sound, all smell, your aching joints from hours in the cold silence. Thinking aloud, your mind worked over the context. 

“Uniforms… Uniforms at two thirty-five. Uniform 235. U-235… Oh my God, Uranium 235… there’s a nuclear bomb inside,” you blurted with hysteric urgency. 

Frantic, scrambling fingers now alight with energy tore across the cold biting metal, eyes flashing over the rivets. Rustling fabric and the familiar arm patch of the British flag caught in the corner of your eye, catching a glance at Price as he gingerly helped you heave the engine plate free. Tossing aside the painted panel with the deafening sound of metal slamming onto metal, a sharp gasp slipped from his lips. Inside the cavity of the forklift, draped in shadow, were the unmistakable conical shapes of three nuclear warheads.

Chapter Text

Standing that close to a nuclear weapon makes your stomach queasy. Before you could even blink, it could detonate, and every atom in your body would be utterly vaporized beyond belief. Like getting raptured and brought up to heaven, enveloping you in a blinding holy light, leaving nothing but your boots behind- and a crater the size of Texas. The nuclear weapons were smaller than you’d expect, about waist high, roughly the size and shape of a traffic cone. Standing so close to the three warheads makes you lightheaded. Surely these things aren’t emitting live radiation, right? 

Your morbid curiosity was cut short as Price placed the plate back over the forklift as you heard the tail end of a transmission instructing him to repackage the container as you found it. Stepping backwards out of the cargo container as if taking your eyes off the explosives might trigger them to detonate, the squealing doors coming to a close set you at ease. 

“Grave’s got our exfil. Helo’s sixty seconds out.” Ghost called. It was almost as if he had refused to meet your gaze since your discovery. 

“Good fuckin' eye, Lua,” Gaz spoke up, hobbling on his weak leg to rest his palm on your shoulder, using the opportunity to steady himself.

“Ahh, I was never worried.” Soap chortled, meeting your gaze with a sly smile. 

You rolled your jaw in irritation, huffing out a breathy laugh. Sure, he was being sarcastic, but it stuck in the back of your mind that he was absolutely ready to leave you in the snow if your intuition didn’t whisper to recheck the forklift. He’s making light of the grave situation, and for once, it was desperately welcome, as if there wasn’t enough firepower to wipe out the dinosaurs four times over only inches away. 

“We’re not in the clear yet, Johnny.” Ghost corrected, hearing the chopping of a helicopter only moments away. 

It was almost impossible to see the helicopter as it lowered to the ground, blinding spotlight and black hull paint made it seem like you were about to get abducted by aliens. Behind you, Price and Ghost were tightening straps and aligning hooks to give the cargo its best shot at surviving the trip to the bunker. The boys already knew the drill, efficiently aligning and preparing the container in a manner similar to ants bringing resources back to the colony. The rapport these men have built over the years made them function like a well-oiled machine. For them, there was no need for instruction or direction; instead, they filled up the insufferable cold with observations from the recent combat encounter and their satisfaction with the accuracy of their marks. 

Unfortunately for you, you were not a part of their hivemind, connecting only a moment too late that they were heading to take their seats in the open-air fuselage of the helicopter. The smell of fuel and raw metal was heavy on your senses, hopping to sit on the elevated floor of the helo, swinging your legs to rise and stand upright. Poor Gaz’s face said it all, his eyes creasing in discomfort as he settled himself into his seat while you took the one opposite to him. Senses still alight with tension and energy, the winding start of the engine humming to life made your heart skip. Within seconds, that low whirr became a thunderous roar. Feeling the weight under you increase, watching the ground from the helicopter's open door as it drifted away. A sense of peace settles over you as the booming engine roaring creates a calming white-noise effect, forcing any thoughts to be drowned out by its blaring. 

It took you a second to understand what Price was gesturing at, waving his hands next to his head and pointing behind you. Still sparking with anxiety, you spun around anxiously to see no enemy crouching behind you in your seat. In the turn, you identified a pair of pale green noise-cancelling headphones with a microphone attached. Slipping them on, the roaring engine hushed and disconnected voices of your comrades' mouths finally matched up, and their conversations became legible. 

“Good shit, boys,” Graves’ voice crackled through the headphones. 

“You had us on the edge of our seats for a while there,” Laswell added, “Excellent work. All of you.” 

“Now we gotta’ tuck n’ roll out of here. When we get to the base, we have 20 minutes to be on the tarmac like we were never here. Understood?” Graves ordered. 

“Yes sir.” all of the diligent soldiers responded unanimously. 

A moment of silence offered a break for you to ask a nagging question that had tugged at you since the second you noticed the warheads. 

“Where are they taking them?” You asked meekly, swallowing your nerves before continuing, “The… tools.”

“Submarine off the coast of Nunavut in Canada. They store a lot of our nuclear. They’re NATO property now.” Laswell spoke up on behalf of everyone. 

The answer satisfied your nerves, comfortable that the weapons you unearthed wouldn’t be used to rain hellfire anytime soon. More silence fell over the team, and you took the welcome opportunity to rest the back of your head on your seatback, drinking in the darkness from closing your eyes. What you wouldn’t do to be back home in a long, warm bubble bath, with a glass of white wine and at least a dozen scented candles. Soon enough. However, Ghost was right; you aren’t in the clear until you’re on home turf. You’ll have to settle for imaginary self-care until you’re out of the woods for good, hopefully sooner rather than later. 

“How’s the leg?” You spoke, tilting your chin to Gaz. 

“Well,” he shifted his leg to show the medical tape holding it closed, “it’ll have to get a few stitches when I’m back on solid ground.”

“He’s probably more worried about the helicopter,” Soap barked out a laugh.

The meaning of the quip was lost on you, which must have been evident in your expression as Price spoke up to clarify. 

“Gaz doesn’t have the best track record with helicopters.”

“He fell out of one once,” Soap spoke up, face alight with a shit-eating smile. 

“Twice, if I remember correctly,” Ghost added, eliciting another barking laugh from Soap. 

“Yeah, yeah, keep talking, and you’ll be doing the same,” Gaz pestered in response. 

Your face contorted into a concerned yet polite grin, shrugging off the dozens of questions that rattled in your mind. The boys carried on their seemingly endless banter as you ran a simulation of everything you needed to do to prepare to leave the bunker that was approaching the helicopter’s view. As the ground rose to meet you, the next task was to grab everything important and have it in a bag outside. Not that you brought anything important anyway. 

Getting away from those hideous linoleum floors was a blessing. This tacky, sparsely furnished and definitely mouldy bunker has seen better days, and you were excited to get the musty smell out of your nostrils. With everything snugly packed in your duffle bag, one last sweep over the pathetic living quarters left you excited to be in your home bed, to say the least. Clicking shut the faux wood door for the last time, you followed towards voices in the common room, just down the hall. 

Passing the never-before-seen hallway leading to where the boys slept, a short space for four cubicle rooms that were actually designed to be bedrooms, you spotted a unique opportunity. Hunched over his bed, you observed Ghost neatly and agonizingly precisely folding a tee shirt into delicate sections. Creasing it with the side of his hand, he created measured lines of perfect 90-degree angles. A small stack of other shirts and garments to match showed he had been at this since he arrived. The absurdity struck you. Forty minutes ago, he was blasting holes in people’s heads. Now, he’s spending his free time delicately folding every clothing item into perfect rectangles. Craning your neck to see the others’ rooms, you saw the same diligent military-style bedsheet folding, save for Ghost’s, whose was particularly immaculate. 

You took the opportunity to leave before you had another insufferable encounter like the one a few days ago in the gym. A snickering smile crossed your lips, stowing this memory away as it could be fuel for future pestering. Rounding the corner into the common room for hopefully the last time, you met the rest of the crew, discussing the details of the mission and entering midway through a passionate conversation. 

“-Yeah, that was the guy that nicked Gaz. I saw Price at my four and missed the guy dead in front of me.” Soap laughed, slapping the back of his hand on Price’s bicep. 

“That’ll learn ya’,” He retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Our next mission better be somewhere warm,” Gaz spoke up, “This is what, our third mission in the fucking cold? Laswell better have a task for us in Hawaii or something by now…”

“I just want to be somewhere I don’t have to worry if my balls’ll freeze off,” Soap added, noticing your presence, “...Sorry, Grant.” 

You shrugged in response, waving your hand and dismissing their concern. That familiar masked face rounded the corner, encouraging you to sling your duffle bag over your shoulder in the expectation of leaving. His body eclipsed the doorframe, creating an unwelcome edge to the conversation like a wild animal had just walked next to your campsite, and you were making discrete and deliberate movements to dodge its interest. Moments passed, and he went to sit beside Gaz to discuss God knows what. It could be anything from cleanliness techniques to how best to blast someone’s head off from 100 meters away. 

“Can’t wait to get home and have a pint, Fuck, I deserve it.” Price sighed, tilting his head back in thought.

“I don’t know why you’re celebrating. I’m the one that did the hard work,” You chirped, a wicked grin crossing your lips. 

Before more chaos got to ensue after you dropped that metaphorical, though relevant, bombshell, you slipped away. Hearing footsteps behind you, you slinked into a maintenance closet, slowly and patiently winding the door handle shut so as not to make an audible click. Your heart thrummed in your chest, wide eyes drinking in any scraps of visible light in the pitch-dark closet. The door could fling open any second, and some cruel fate could befall you. Maybe thrown into a snowbank or dumped into the frigid lake. Or worse yet, more rucking. Jogging footsteps pounded past, likely going to check for you in the other closet, which was your makeshift bedroom. 

Opportunity struck. Winding the doorknob, you cringed as the door made a low groan as it eased open. Redirecting the stored adrenaline from your hidey-hole in the closet, you steadily crept to the exit door, only feet away. Whipping your head to check for footsteps, more hooting laughter from the other side of the compound said they were coming your way. On bounding, featherlight footsteps, you crossed to the other side of the hallway, pushing open the latch bar with your elbow and slipping the door closed with your fingertips. 

There was more frigid air, but this time, it was welcome. Having escaped your second life-or-death situation of the day, your boots crunched over thick snow, seeing Laswell and Graves expedite the warheads being placed in what looked like a lead-lined container. Their voices came into earshot as you approached, their chatter with the pilot concluding. A second plane came into view, dwarfed by the larger one. The smaller one would clearly be the one transporting the ‘hot potato,’ as Graves once put it. Angular wings and inky matte paint said that this thing was built to fly under the radar of anyone who would be looking for it- and people would soon be looking for it. 

A sideways head-tilt from Graves indicated that the larger plane was your ride, swinging your pack to rest in a hanging mesh net over the seating area. The two continued their dialogue outside the plane, carrying on about where they could rendezvous to debrief in the next few days. Rubber boots thrumming against the industrial metal fuselage of the plane, you took a moment to dissect your surroundings. This wasn't a commercial plane, far from it. Though the make and model were foreign to you, the shape of the wings and sleek design said that it was designed with one key purpose: Speed. It felt nice to be treated with a speedy ride home. Laswell has a way of always knowing what you’d need before you even knew it. 

Numb joints are set aflame with discomfort, making their irritation known as you settle yourself down to assume your position on the bench of seats. The distant chatter and motion from outside the plane grew louder, hearing the familiar brassy tones of your comrades as you picked at your nails in anticipation. Gaz poked his head around the corner, and you greeted him with a tight-lipped smile, pulling your harness over your head and clipping you into place. Partially to prepare to leave, partially so they couldn’t toss you into the snowbank without a bit of a fight. 

“She’s in here,” He called out, tossing his bag and climbing with a groan into the plane cabin. 

“Snitch,” You uttered, catching a smile from him as he chucked his bag into the mesh hammock. 

Gaz had a grace to the way he walked, even when he was injured. If you didn’t know he had an inch-deep gash in his thigh and maybe ignored a couple of winges, you’d never know he was wounded. It must be a consequence of the job; these boys probably see injuries twice as severe every other week. The rest of the task force approached in due time as you heard the tail end of Ghost's thick accent saying something about an ‘old geezer.’

Seeing the jet carrying the warheads disappear into the horizon, blinking in disbelief at its pace's sheer speed and silence. Satisfied at the rate of the weapons’ proximity from your person fading, you listened as the remaining three teammates arranged themselves for another flight. With that, you were in motion, taking advantage of a cleared space of concrete and clipping the trees with the landing gear as you reached liftoff. It didn’t take long for all traces of your existence to be wiped from the compound, just as a delicate snowfall started to flurry in the early morning darkness. 

“Alright folks,” Laswell sighed into the microphone from the cockpit cabin, creating a short staticky rumble of feedback from her breath “We touch down in Alaska, then go our separate ways.”

From an estimation of the distance from flight logs you had read once, you gauged that you could be in for an eight-hour flight before you’re in friendly territory. Six with the make of this plane. Could be five if weather permits. Precious seconds before you’re back in the comfort of a bed that your tepid muscles pleaded for. Your mind was a tangled mess of unwrapping the last few hours. First, to what show you’d catch up on when you get home, then how close you were to freezing to death, and again, what you’ll bring home for your neighbour who took care of your goldfish. Luckily, you had a few hours to digest these thoughts before they’re put into practice in your home state. 

“Earth to Luaaa… Calling Miss Graaant,” Soap’s voice cut into your conscience, snapping you out of your daze, “Welcome back. Hey, we’ve decided on your callsign. There’s no talking your way out of it this time.”

Chapter Text

“There’s no talking your way out of it this time,” Soap shouted over the roaring engine of the plane, “we’ve decided on your callsign.”

“I thought you’d’ve learned your lesson from last time.” 

“You got out of that one on a technicality. Not this time. We’re calling you Cricket.”

Your brows furrowed, considering Soap’s words. Despite years of service, you’ve never really been considered an applicant for receiving a callsign. With your role as a specialist, you’re onto the next task by the time your current team knows you exist. You never get any voice in what your nickname is either; usually, they just happen, a label on your record as a reference to some embarrassing moment or notable feature. Being compared to an insect doesn’t quite sit right, but you don’t have the authority to argue. 

Cricket? Like… the bug? I think I liked Salsa better. 

“Because you’re always chirping at people, then as soon as someone’s fed up and goes to smack ye’, you’re invisible,” Soap clarified, smiling triumphantly.

“I mean, I’d rather not get a callsign from someone named Soap,” You countered. 

“Actually, it was Ghost that came up with it.”

Your eyes flicker to the culprit. Half-shadowed in darkness by the dim cabin light, he smirked at you- or you assumed he smirked. The mask made it hard to tell when he was being malicious. Perhaps that’s the point. 

“Well, I guess I don’t have a say, do I,” You spoke after a tentative silence. 

“Not a chance,” Price added, letting out a breathy sigh as he looked like he was about to take a shot at catching some shut-eye. His hat tilted to fall over his eyes like a sleeping mask. 

Numb to the discomfort, you unclasped the helmet you had by now forgotten was squeezing your temples as the stiff metal yawned from the change in temperature. The balaclava, too, had the tensing benefit of feeling like a snug blanket around your face, but its time had also come to an end. You combed your fingers through heavy hair, thick with sweat and unwashed dust, feeling like you could take the first real deep breath in hours. The feeling that washed over you after unburdening yourself with now unneeded armour could only be compared to nirvana. Aching eyelids fell over dry eyes, still cold from the frigid Russian air. 

Then there was Ghost. Ghost was such a tough nut to crack. So unreadable, so ambivalent to the world around him. Though evidenced by his rapport with his teammates and Soap’s affinity to joke with him, he clearly must have at least a little humour under that tough outer layer. Something about him made you want to get under his skin. Like an otter smashing an oyster open on the riverside, you needed to see what was under that tough outer shell, or die trying. He ground your gears in a way so few people could. There was something about the arrogance in his sanctimonious skull mask. How does someone so emo make it so far in the military anyway? It’s like he got his mask from Hot Topic. 

You blinked, realizing you had been staring into oblivion for an unknown amount of time. 

“So, Cricket,” Price spoke up, creating a welcome break to the stiff silence, “What’re you expecting back home?”

“Not much. I’ve got some shows and friends to catch up with. Definitely due for some dusting around the house… and a goldfish back home, who must be missing me dearly.”

A grin illuminated Soap’s face, indicating that he was about to say something dastardly. He always had this look in his eyes that read like he was ready to say something cheeky. It’s best when you see it on his face before any words even leave his mouth, letting you get a head start to retorting to whatever stupid comment he has coming. 

“Lua, I hate to break it to you. It’s probably long dead by now,” he quipped.

“No, it’s-” You sighed and smiled, rolling your eyes with feigned agitation, “It’s with my neighbour.” 

“What’s its name,” He added, intrigue as an apology for implicating you as a fish murderer. 

“Chupacabra,” a cheeky smile and a rolling ‘r’ accentuating your exaggerated speech.

“Sounds like a killer,” Price sighed, fiddling with one of the straps on his harness. 

You felt your cheeks tense as a smile widened across your mouth, sifting through your comments to respond with. 

“Oh, he’s a killer,” The answer finally hit you, “but when he makes a kill, he doesn’t have to debrief about it with his buddies for twenty minutes.”

Gaz kicked his head back to laugh while Price let out an exhale out of his nose. There was something uniquely satisfying about making these seasoned executioners chuckle. It feels good to be able to keep up with their wit, although it doesn’t seem to be that much of a challenge. These old fuckers probably have too much brain damage to compete fully. Though, maybe that’s more of a slight on your own humour.

Time slipped by, thinking and reliving details of the last few days, trying to refuse the creeping smile in satisfaction at having solved the Russian mystery. As satisfying as it might have been, Graves did have a point. It was your ‘fucking job,’ and you shouldn’t be digging for praise on a thing that you were uniquely and specifically trained to do. After all, you don’t see Price or Gaz raving about how satisfying and skillful it was to pick off enemies and slink through the shadows. Well, maybe a little. You made do with folding and re-folding the strap of your duffle bag half a million different ways, having now relinquished the remainder of your thermal gear and weaponry to Laswell’s instructions.

Cresting sunlight peaking over the horizon revealed a vast landmass creeping over the skyline. You made it to friendly territory without being shot from the sky, so that’s the first step. Satisfaction washed over you, making the remaining ninety minutes due on this flight seem in higher spirits than ever. Gnawing muscles from strain and lack thereof crackled to life as you stretched your back to wake up your body. It seems that Ghost’s mind was also elsewhere. You watched as his eyes flickered between two invisible points in his vision. He has brown eyes, something you never had the opportunity to note before. However, your experience with looking at his face was usually him shouting at you or his eyes boring into you in judgment. 

Feeling the clunks and clicks of lowering landing gear, you prepared yourself for yet another landing. Increasing pressure against your chest from the harness attaching you to the plane made it official, though you frowned seeing Soap winge against the unwelcome pressure on a fresh injury. The rest of the gang stretched and crackled, especially Price, who clearly had the fortune of being able to fall asleep with a jet engine screaming in his ear. A low rumble and bouncing tires winding the plane to a halt. Muscles protested the movement of raising to your feet and even more so to having to absorb the shock of jumping off the plane’s elevated floor. Fresh air, though still agonizingly cold, couldn’t penetrate the depths of your bones quite like that Russian night air. 

“I have to say, that was my first time uncovering Chinese nuclear warheads in rural Russia,” You breathed, sliding your palm over the strap of your duffle bag.

“I bet…” Price took his time to saunter over to you, a surprisingly warm smile on his face, “we’ll be seeing you again, Cricket.”

“Oh! And I think we owe you a cake too, eh?” Soap interjected your sweet moment. 

“Not a chance in hell, Johnny.” You chirped in response, playfully slapping the back of your hand on his chest. 

In an instant, he doubled over in pain, whinging and groaning. You recognized your transgression, and your face dropped, clasping your palms over your mouth in horror. The damage he sustained from the bulletproof armour was just sparked alive by your thoughtless banter, his blood-curdling winging proof of his agony. Frantic's apologies sputtered from your mouth, looking up to meet Ghost’s judging gaze looking down at you, arms crossed, an unreadable expression in his eyes. He's probably furious that you just damaged his comrade.  

“Ahh, I’m just fucking with you.” Soap sprung up from his stupor, cackling with laughter at your shocked expression. 

“See ya’ Cricket,” Gaz called out with a nod. 

You nodded in response, giving Gaz a dry wave and a tight-lipped smile, still reeling from Soap’s little stunt. 

A new wave of emotion washed over you, mouth agape as you were a split second away from bursting into tears. Laughter crackled through the air. So full of real comradery that made your reluctant smile widen. However, it was due to end. After all, it’s not like you’re the first specialist this task force has interacted with, and you’re sure they’ve met thousands of other people with your skillset. At this point, it made you consider what must have happened to their last linguist to need a new one desperately. It really makes you wonder. 

Four supersoldiers, each horrifying bunks of muscle and lethality, turned to walk toward a pre-arranged plane to take them wherever home was to them. They walked like the ground rose to greet them with every footstep, wearing their combat gear like they were born to it, effortless and confident- which still somewhat irritated you. Sure, they were good at that one thing, but they weren’t that special. You could do without some of them, but at least most of them weren’t miserable company, for the most part. 

At least you won’t be leaving empty-handed. Now you have a new callsign that is most likely not an acronym for a slight. How do you uphold a callsign anyway? Is it just a trust system? What’s stopping you from saying that some unnamed comrade has given you the callsign Emperor  or DragonWizard ? Either way, satisfaction bloomed in your chest, and you were eager to start your new life anew as Corporal Lua “ Cricket ” Grant. 

It took a few hours for a flight from Alaska to California to arrive, and the sensation of raging homesickness took over you for the first time in weeks. Although restlessness is hardly uncommon at an airport, a particular aching desperation to get home gnawed at your bones. The idle chatter of strangers and familiar sterile lighting did nothing to ease your comfort, though well-regulated heating and cushioned seating made it bearable. Memorizing each pixel of the digital clock under your gate number, probably looking like a lunatic to passing passengers. 

There’s a certain safety in an airplane; everyone is locked into one location, no one is going anywhere, and there is a certainty that there are no guns about to be pulled on you unexpectedly. Everyone is lazily lounging in their slightly reclining seats, enjoying a movie they hadn’t had the time to watch under normal circumstances, and enjoying the distinctive view of the planet from up high.

Staring at the TV screen on the seatback, you settled in for the final flight that would be bringing you ever closer to your final destination. Meeting the deep brown eyes of a child seated next to you, likely no older than ten, his eyes were shining with awe. You couldn’t help but smile. A genuine lightness lifted your chest. Something about the innocence and wonder in his face, the mechanical figurine in his hand implied that he must look to people like you like you’re superheroes, reminding you that you’re still wearing an army uniform. A kind smile did nothing to drop his gaze from you, still enraptured by your presence. Recognition struck, and you realized that you likely looked like a disaster of messy hair, a dishevelled uniform, and sunken cheekbones from days without eating. The intentions of the child would quickly become unknown as the show on his seatback monitor started a particularly engaging action scene between two monsters, commanding both yours and his undivided attention.

Chapter Text

You almost couldn’t believe that you were actually at your front door. Kneeling to tip one of your planter pots on the porch, you rolled your finger over the silvery key and clicked it into the lock. A welcome sight met your entry. Calming wood floors and a home made just to your liking beckoned you to unburden yourself. Kicking off your boots, fumbling with the tight laces, spying white and beige envelopes of unopened letters, fighting for your attention over aching eyes and screaming sinews. The letters will just have to fall on on a lower rung of the list of things your body was demanding. 

Mouldy fruit in the fridge caught you off guard, turning your face away as you fumbled to shimmy the slippery bananas and apples into shiny garbage bags. Although it was dark and in desperate need of an opened window, it was yours. Your sanctuary is provided by your comfortable but not extraordinary corporal’s salary. It was delightful to have the only care on your mind be which bodily function to care for first, rather than snipers and nuclear weaponry. 

The best thing about living alone is that nobody can tell you that you cannot strip every fibre of fabric on your body and let the warm, smooth, mellow air breathe across your body. A sensation so foreign and exhilarating no matter how many times you’ve done it. You found pine needles moulded to your skin in places you couldn’t understand how they’d reached. A few more hours of daylight before you decide it’s an acceptable time to retire for the night, refusing to damage your sleep schedule, carrying on by stubbornness and sheer willpower. 

Clicking your original SIM card into place, you set it down on the counter to give it time to buzz and calculate every missed email, text, call, and demand. It was a combination of months of content for you to sift through, considering you hadn’t had time to gather yourself after your last deployment. Even when you’re off work, the work isn’t off you. 

Ding .

Ding .

Ding .

Ding . 

Each text or a call from someone you’d been unable to respond to, after all, duty calls. Or called , rather. Not that you protested, though; this lifestyle of rolling like a rolling stone is what kept the fire in your eyes. The work you did gave you purpose, fulfilment, and satisfaction that no other thing could compare, be it from self-actualization or a desperate craving for validation from others. This was the lifestyle that you knew, the one that stimulated your senses just enough to keep your mind from finding ways to bury itself in the sand. 

So there you stood, dead center of your kitchen, stark naked and aching for comfort. You feebly deliberated over which task needed to be approached first. Your mind was slow and lethargic from a lack of sleep, water, food, the social expectation to gather your goldfish from your neighbour, and the absolute mountain of communications that you needed to sift through. Agonized and helpless, you committed every remaining atom in your body to accurately determine which of your needs had greater importance.

Gnawing on stale granola bars to satisfy your eerily silent stomach, the motion of chewing flexed muscles that protested against movement. Your stomach must be accustomed to starvation, as the taste of the food between your teeth did nothing to ignite any excitement to eat. The second bar was to make double sure you wouldn’t silently wither away in your sleep, slipping an oily vitamin D pill down your throat with a crinkling bottle of bottled water. 

You didn’t even remember going up the stairs, but the feeling of the crisp white sheets sliding over your legs felt like everything you needed and more. Texting Sammy Maybe Tammy (neighbour), that you made it back from your trip and that you’d be over in the morning, you slapped your phone screen down on your bedside table, letting the weight of your limbs settle into soft and familiar sheets. In what felt like an instant, you felt yourself slipping into a dreamless and much-needed sleep. 

—

Waking to the asbestos ceiling of the broom-closet bedroom, you blinked, finding yourself in your own home again. A major drawback of a fast-paced lifestyle is not knowing which temporary sleeping location you’ve found yourself in for a split second after waking. Arching into a stretch, you slipped your cell phone from the bedside table and squinted at the brightness. 11:26 shone into your eyes, making you shoot up into a seated position. That’s something like 14 hours of sleep, give or take. 

Shrugging into the unfathomably soft comfort of a cotton sweater, you kicked on some sandals and shuffled across the sidewalk to your neighbour's doorstep. Bearing a stuffed Kermodie bear teddy you plucked from the Alaska airport and a bottle of wine that had sat on a rack for months, you gently rapped on the door’s glass. 

“Gosh, you startled me, Lua!” Sammy, or Tammy hollered, “You look like death!” She added.

“But I’m glad to be back.” You smiled sweetly, exchanging the wine and bear in your arms, resisting her modest refusal. You can’t blame her; you probably looked like a corpse that had just been struck by lightning and surged with new life. 

A series of questions flurried past you, answering the ones you could, though she didn’t seem genuinely concerned with the answers- just eager to lunge into the next sentence. Her fluffy ginger hair bristled against your cheek when she hugged you, but her embrace was something you had no idea you were so starved of. The dialogue flowed from her like a waving tide, effortless and relaxed conversation free from Sirs and Ma’ams. Returning home with Chupacabra’s sloshing tank, aching muscles proved that the last few days’ events weren’t a fever dream, the prospect of which was still so foreign. 

Settling your goldfish into his comfortable little apartment on your kitchen counter, you watched him casually meander around the tank, utterly oblivious to the world around it. Spending time with this fish was so oddly refreshing, it’s so nice to have another heartbeat. This little being that relies on you. That looks up to you. They rely on and love you and won’t wake you up at night to get you to frantically translate something. Catching your face in the reflection of the glass, you froze. The eyes blinking back at you were sunken and dark, nearly unrecognizable if it weren’t for the stranger’s movements matching yours. 

As if you’d get a different answer if you looked into the mirror, you pressed fingertips against shallow cheeks and dark under eyes. Exhaustion and depriving your body of its most basic requirements left your skin brittle and pale, as a sinking dread makes your limbs weak. You can’t even have control of your own body. Agitation fueled by shame and a pinch of self-hatred inspired a drive to regain control of your physical health. 

A few days had gone by before you felt like you had fully bounced back from looking like you could dissolve in an instant, just in time to get a mandatory health exam. Muted blue chair cushions, splitting from wear, lined the gleaming hospital flooring, counting the click-clacks of distant high-heels down the hall. Nerves prickled in your mind for reasons unknown to you. Aside from shedding a few pounds, it’s not like anything dramatic has changed in your health over the last few months. Surely, they won’t take issue with that. They don’t track that, right? Your mind spun, overcomplicating a menial question that the doctor probably won’t even look up from their checklist to check for. Just then, movement. A nurse entering the room caught the corner of your eye, reading your name from a metallic clipboard. 

Yet again, another time you’ve found yourself sitting on a paper sheet, a blood pressure band on your arm. The doctor flipped papers over his clipboard, wheeling his stool over to sit before you, preparing to embark on the mandatory 70+ questions about every detail of your overall health. Swinging your feet off the side of the bed, you confidently and sternly answered the yes or no questions, from if you have a history of asthma to if you’ve happened to have lost a kidney since your last visit.

It’s the question about having seen a psychiatrist, psychologist, social worker, counsellor or other professional for any reason that always makes your breath hitch. It always catches you, just for a moment. You know that the ‘Yes’ answer you’ll give will be followed by at least a half dozen follow-up questions about frequency and reasoning. Then, those questions branch into further questioning about medication history and past diagnoses. 

If that one day had gone differently, your life could be entirely dissimilar from your own. If you picked up that phone. For that one moment, your hand slipped to your purse and felt the vibrations. Years of self-induced mental torture and guilt wouldn’t have translated into a desperate need to fill the void with validation from others. It’s hard to feel anger towards your mother; every cross-legged therapist or councillor has extracted those thoughts from your mind and successfully checked another box. She had every opportunity to make things better. Another check . You’re repulsed that you share her flesh and blood. Another check . 

On the drive home, it was nothing short of a miracle that you didn’t crash or run straight through a red light. Your mind was entirely occupied, decrypting every answer you gave to the doctor, glassy eyes staring blankly through the windshield. Thoughts of legacy, purpose and death gravitate to your conscience like a moth to a flame. You gnawed at the dried skin on your lips, still not having had time to regenerate their natural moisture barrier after having been stripped in the biting cold.

At this rate, you were averaging an hour-long bath every 24 hours. Scrubbing hardened callouses from your heels, finally feeling rid of the physical memories of your mission in Russia. Aching muscles from rucking weren’t even a blip on your mind’s radar anymore, leaving you to enjoy smooth, fragrant skin that melted into your bedsheets. 

The morning’s sleepy trudging down the stairs proved surprisingly fruitful as the beaming white envelopes that your front door had left finally caught your eyes. One by one, you flipped through brochures and the odd bank statement, finally rolling your thumb over the pristinely printed emblem of the Canadian Air Force. Roughly 47 emotions flooded through your mind in a wave of mania, ranging from certain termination to the probability that it’s a Purple Heart medal for having gone rucking again. 

Frantic fingers sloppily tore the letter envelope, unfurling a wall of crisp white printed lines and a swirling signature below. Churning dread sank in your stomach, proposing in your mind that you keel over and vomit up your lunch. Two words caught in your mind as your eyes zig-zagged across the bland typeface: Pinning Ceremony. Narrowing down your criteria, as termination was no longer on the table, your eyes settled on visiting each letter more thoughtfully. 

A promotion. You were approved for a promotion for exceptional service and a thorough review of your record. Butterflies and an overwhelming urge to scream swirled in your throat, and a toothy smile breamed from your face as you rocked on your heels. Patience, hard work, and the occasional white lie to your doctor have finally paid off. Your days as Corporal were numbered, making way for Sergeant Lua Grant, or as some shitheads like to say, Cricket .

Chapter Text

Usually, when it comes to military paperwork, things move slowly. Impossibly slow. It's so slow that you wonder if you’re even enlisted anymore. However, this time, your upgrade came in a matter of weeks. Two, to be exact, with another date calling for your pinning ceremony. It's only a week away. Really not letting things simmer, are they? Not that you minded anyway. So much time at home left you restless, eager to stimulate your brain. You ached for something more meaningful than daytime TV and shitty action movies and occasionally flipping through dogeared textbooks to refresh old lessons. 

Your flesh had become plumper, dry skin no longer splitting and crackling. The task of recovering basic stamina and muscle mass has been checked off your list, but eyes in the mirror still lingered. Whistfully. 

Days passed of domestic bliss and self-care, and finding time to talk with people who weren’t comrades or superiors made you realize how disconnected you were from others. Though it never bothered you. To you, knowing that your friends’ only concerns were asshole neighbours and shitty phone operating system updates brings you peace in that there was always stability to come home to. A sorority of eager friends who genuinely cared whether you lived or died. Not seeing you as a badge, now with one additional stripe, on a database somewhere. 

What wasn’t easy was lying to them. Not that you had a choice. Telling them that there had been a death in the family and that’s why you were absent, with the bonus of excusing your sunken eyes and mangled cuticles. It made you wonder what they’d think of what you’d seen, though, weighing their opinions on Russian trucking rings or your terrifying lieutenant who wore a Halloween costume 24/7. They’d get a kick out of him. 

To your delight, you finally forgave yourself enough to indulge in your favourite sweets, sticky fingers bringing sugary treats to your delighted lips. You never understood why people praise well-made desserts as being ‘not too sweet .’ As a little girl, you’d suck on Tic Tacs until the sweet film dissipated, spitting out the bitter mint before popping another onto your tongue. Something MREs hardly carry is chocolate, gummies, and anything sweet save for the odd M&M in trail mix or the odd chocolatey granola bar, portions which you deemed unsatisfactory.

Years of service made the action of tucking your hair into a taut, styleless bun a breeze, tight enough to cause a steady headache from the pressure. Fingertips slick with the necessary gel made you cringe at the thought of washing the crunchy stuff out later. It was no matter; laying on your bed was the freshly ironed but no less frumpy green formalwear that was expected for a pinning ceremony. Searing spotlights and a tedious ceremony would conclude in a matter of hours, and your baptism into your new rank would be complete. 

Chucky was at the ceremony, sitting tall and stiff. You could tell he’s ex-military even if he was wearing a two-piece pyjama set. Even how he cut his hair was dutiful and prim, no longer peppered with grey, but now entirely silver in colour. No longer salt and pepper, but just salt. From the view up on the stage, it would be hard to tell if he was proud to be there, but the way he wiped his nose, just for a moment, made your heart soften. Surface-level emotion had been wrung from him decades ago, but you had the eye to see right through that kind of stoicism. He rose from his seat, dutifully following the line of called-upon family members of neighbouring pin recipients. As is tradition, family members are invited to deliver the reward unto your uniform, and the glossy gleam in Chucky’s eyes as he clipped the new patch onto your regalia set your soul on fire. Nothing in the world could strip this memory from your mind, stepping back diligently to fall back into line. 

In your opinion, the following pomp and ceremony came and went a bit overly patriotic with high-flying proud flags and a particularly enthusiastic rendition of your national anthem. Cherrywood podiums and screeching metal chairs, voices of presidents and directors who had never even known of your existence hours before. At this point, you wondered if you might be the first sergeant to piss themselves at their pinning ceremony. Kicking your heels to march off the stage, you performed the practiced and stiff walk off the platform to conclude the ceremony. 

There was Chucky. Wine and flowers in hand, pulling you into a tender hug, feeling the tacky bouquet of rainbow flowers smashing into your back. The look on your face must have screamed that you were eager to exfil, and he concurred. He had promised a lavish meal at the fanciest place in town, sparing no expense for the new Sergeant Grant, a cheeky grin creasing across his sun-spotted face. You both knew what that truly meant. Sloppy, greasy tacos from a curbside pop-up, eaten on the tailgate of his kitted-out truck. It was a decent distance from your house, but every mile was worth it in the little slice of nostalgia, perfect for baring your soul. 

“The assignment went well. Got to spend some time up north. It kinda reminded me of home. Home home.” It's weird not being able to blabber about every detail of the mission, though if all people were to understand, it would be Chuck. Not that it mattered, as he seemed to enjoy his own presence enough regardless of your company. 

“You should go back,” He huffed into the crinkling tin foil of his soggy burrito, “it’s been a while, no harm in a visit.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve been back. I don’t even know anyone there anymore.”

“You’d be surprised, Lua, people up north are pretty damn stubborn. They hardly ever just pack up and leave, and I know you’ve got some cousins o’er there, too. Hmm. They might be second cousins, not too sure.”

“I’ll think about it…” The words slipped from your lips between crunches of starchy taco shells, calm California air gliding under the sleeves of your frumpy jacket. 

“Hell, I remember one time I was a pilot up n’ Siberia, and this sucker stood too close to the helo, and the upward suction from the blades picked him right up and got his head snipped clean off,” he made a snipping action with his fingers, almost giddy with excitement. “I’ll never forget the look on Davey’s face when he saw it, hah. You remember Davey, right? The guy who lost his leg to the submarine door? Oh- he’s dead now. Forgot to tell ya’. 

“Ever the storyteller, Chuck-O.” 

Back home, opening the sugar-sweet, cheap white wine Chucky knew you preferred, you toasted your success in one steady gulp, tipping another glugging pour into your empty glass. Peeling the firm bun from your hair, praying for it to relieve the thrumming headache it manifested, you scrolled through texts from friends and past colleagues celebrating your new rank. A blissful sigh slips from your lips, shrugging the heavy overcoat of your standard-issue formalwear onto the couch, now decorated with one extra stripe. 

A knock at the door stopped you in your tracks. Craning your neck around the corner, the particularly shadow bulky shadow in the misted window on your door didn’t indicate that Chucky was back for Scar Show-And-Tell 2.0. Flurrying footsteps skipped to open the door, peeking through the privacy curtain to reveal a familiar face. It was Jason, an old comrade all the way back from basic training. He was affectionately called Rhino because of one particular stunt in the barracks that caused him to fling himself head-first clean through a sheet wood door. 

“Rhino! Long time no see!” You whipped the door open, greeted with Rhino’s lopsided smile and pale eyes illuminated by your porch light. 

“Hey Lua, I heard ‘bout your promotion. Wanted to give you this.” He shifted his armful of roses for you to receive. 

It’s so nice to see familiar faces, especially in this line of work. So often are you introduced to new and changing faces that the familiar ones almost come as a shock. Hopefully, at the higher rank of a sergeant, the grunt duty that comes with being on a lower rung will be a thing of the past. Though Rhino refused to come in and enjoy some shitty wine, he did share a handful of life updates that left you at peace, finding that he has a wife and a baby on the way. Although Chucky always said comparison is the death of hope, the wide smile across your lips as you nodded in intrigue was marred with envy. 

An extravagant bouquet of roses and baby’s breath, crinkling plastic revealing a delightfully painted hand-crafted vase. This must’ve been expensive. He had no right to spend this money on you, especially as a comrade you hadn’t seen in years. Along with the bouquet was an oddly shaped envelope, which he took special care to ensure you received. 

“Good to see you, Cricket,” He spoke, turning for one last word before disappearing for an unknowable distance. 

“You too, Rhino,” you smiled, clicking the porch light off for the evening, “take good care.”

Setting the fragrant bushel of roses down onto the counter with a heavy thump, you took a moment to enjoy the sight. Velvety red petals alight with vitality, cut with the grace and care of a master of their craft. Eyes wandered to the manilla envelope, oblong shape, piquing your interest and refusing to be ignored. Tipping the envelope, a heavy object slid onto your palm. A cell phone. A cheap flip phone in particular. Clicking the screen open, you were surprised to see no mysterious contact labelled ‘Detonate’ or something. 

It didn’t take more than five minutes after Rhino left, vibrating with that eerily cheerful default ringtone on burner flip phones. Your fingertips wavered over the device, considering the possible consequences of hearing who is on the other end of the call. It could be a prank. It could also be a muffled voice demanding ransom. Hell, it could be a detonation device, and you just doomed some pipe bomb somewhere to explode. Curiosity overrides all restraint, and in an instant, you flick the phone open and press it to your ear.

“Hello?” 

“Nice to hear from you again, Miss Grant.” 

“Laswell. Pleasure,” you nodded in response, though the motion is fruitless in a cellular conversation, “what can I do for you?”

“Well,” She paused for a moment, making your anticipation spike, “quite a bit, actually. What’s the soonest possible time you can chat?”

You, too, took a moment to pause, weighing the consequences of one last night in your bed over her implied insistence that you drop everything to meet her. The glass of wine in your hand gave you enough validation to respond comfortably, your alibi swirling in your palm. Fuck. You’ll have to text Chucky to take custody of your goldfish this time. 

“Morning.” 

“How early? ” Laswell retorted.

“I can meet at oh-six hundred.”

“Excellent. Meet me at the Roadrunner Cafe near you then. Pack a bag.”

“I can’t help but notice you didn’t instruct me to ‘dress warm,’” you smiled into the phone.

“That would be correct.”

Chapter Text

What made this meeting different from the last early morning meeting with Laswell was that you refused to lose precious sleep in anticipation of whatever shitshow was incoming. If this task is anything like the last one, your future self would curse you for not taking advantage of a good night's rest. The comfort of a temperature-regulated bedroom was a luxury you refused to let pass up. One last trip down your staircase, sweeping your eyes over your home space as if it would be something you'd never see again. Flicking on a lamp to give the illusion that this house wouldn't be empty, you clicked your front door closed once again. 

With a duffle of fresh clothing, you craned your neck to see Laswell through the glass, seated in a booth and talking on a cell phone. Her eyes seemed intense, unaware of your presence, until you took it upon yourself to sit. For six in the morning, the cafe was bustling, occupied by flurrying servers and the flannel shirts of truckers hucking back pancakes at the cafe bar. Pale blue checkered tiling shone under overhead lights, the headlights of more guests pulling into the parking lot briefly illuminating the waking diner. Bustling servers and booming laughter from a seemingly familiar crowd of patrons made this place seem like the only bastion of life in the darkness of the early morning. It was a little pocket of energy in a sleeping city. 

"'Hope I wasn't interrupting." You sighed, smiling politely. 

"Not at all," Laswell replied astutely, leaning forward to knit her fingers together, "I'd love to sit and chat, but we are actually in a bit of a time crunch. I'll give you more information when we're in the air. We have a plane waiting for us to leave in twenty minutes. The Mexica-"

She paused, politely waving away a proposed refill of coffee from a harsh-looking waitress who looked like she desperately needed a smoke break. Reassuming her position, Laswell restarted her sentence. 

"Mexico. This is highly time-sensitive, and we have to get going right away."

"Okay," You breathed, "What can I expect?"

She paused, rolling your words in her jaw for a moment, eyes flicking back to you as she seemed to have come to a conclusion.

"I'll give you the details when we're in the air," she repeated. 

Sitting in the back of the stuffy SUV that was taking you to the supposed plane, you couldn't help but be struck by the encroaching importance of whatever task was due. Laswell was tapping away at a cell phone, you didn't dare try to screen peek, but instead noting the flurrying speed of her thumbs on the glass. The driver was some unknown Joe, so formally dressed for a military operation, the security's aesthetics made you feel like you were on a presidential campaign. Head bobbing from the motion of turning onto a gravel road, you spied a landing strip you'd never previously known existed- shielded by a thick layer of trees. 

Chauffeured by more Joes, you stepped directly into a small four-seater jet, occupying the back seat with Laswell, who had just concluded her last message. Only seconds after clicking the seatbelt, the plane kicked into motion, taxiing into takeoff position, craning to get one last glimpse of familiar shrubbery. Mexico. That's not much to go off. Any second now, Laswell will cut into the silence and explain the task at hand. It took for the plane to kick into takeoff, gluing you to the back of your seat, before she even dared to speak. She seemed to find comfort in talking once airborne, the prospect making your stomach knot. 

"This is a hostage recovery mission. Washington state Senator Geoff Moss' daughter, Samantha Moss, went to Mexico for her senior prom trip. Didn't make it back." She spoke matter of factly, "They got a message from a cartel gang going by the name of the Alianso Cartel. They're demanding $90 million, or they start sending fingertips."  

"Wouldn't this be Secret Service or CIA business? It's US politics, what's making it international?" Your brows furrowed, blinking in confusion.

"It would be, but this has Chinese and Russian fingerprints all over it, and the US's enemies associating with the cartel is a relationship the world can't stand to see. On top of that, Mr. Moss is a flight risk with highly sensitive NATO information, and such a contact could jeopardize the upcoming US election."

Her words prickled in your brain, rallying back and forth like a high-stress tennis match. The question that burned in your mind still pinged as unanswered: How would you fit in all this? 

"This doesn't have to do with… last time," You tilted your head, implying she fill in the gaps in your dialogue.

"No. We have no indication that this and your last mission are related."

A significant weight you didn't know existed lifted off your chest, though additional questions still left you restless. Hostage situations can last anywhere from ten minutes to months. This one could be a long-haul. 

"So, where does a linguist come into this?" You finally indulged your nagging question, twisting your timid fingers under your palm.

"Well," The way she paused before speaking made your heart sink, "Your role is a sensitive one. This whole event is off the record."

Your eyebrows furrowed, locking your eyes onto hers in a silent plea to spill it as she diligently met your gaze. Her hands folded over the papers she held in her lap. Your experience reading through tough exteriors, courtesy of Chucky, made you sure that Laswell was somehow uneasy about sharing this information with you, though her tone would never portray such doubt. 

"Our plan is to have you infiltrate an exclusive party being held on the Alianso Cartel's leader Armando Marín's private party yacht. Photos and cross-referenced intel suggest that Senator Moss's daughter will attend this party as Armando's personal companion. A Russian gang affiliate, Aleksandr Ogievich, will also be in attendance, a gang member who's connected to a massive human trafficking ring in Central Asia. Aleksandr has a personal affinity for ladies of the night…" 

She paused, though her continuing hand motions implied she was raking through her mind for the appropriate verbiage. Your face softened in realization, though a sense of duty washed over you, willing you to override any emotion. It's just business. You're just a cog. 

"Your task is to infiltrate the gathering posing as a Russian escort named Olga Abakumov," She dropped several pieces of stapled paper on your lap, with pictures of your face aligned with the foreign name, along with citizenship documentation and even a birth certificate. 

"I'm still not seeing how my skillset falls into this category," You breathed, though as the words slipped from your mouth, you realized your transgression. Laswell was your superior by far, and you were in no position to question her authority. She must have seen your face change and chosen not to chew you out as she was postured like she was planning to. 

"Your multilingualism will make it possible to communicate fluently in Russian posing as someone who's lived in Saint Petersburg her whole life," Laswell tapped her finger on your faux birth certificate, "while also being able to identify when key Spanish intel is being shared, and to listen in accordingly. Additionally, Miss Moss speaks English. If we can mark her as being at the scene, you can communicate to her the exfil strategy, and we can effectively get her out of Cartel territory."

You nodded dutifully, feeling surging waves of blooming heat and piercing cold cross your cheeks as you considered her words.

"If a situation arises where you can get Miss Moss alone, her parents have a very particular nickname, 'Squink,' that they call her by, along with a hand motion," Laswell signed a hug across her chest, making an X shape with her forearms. "Communicating these messages to her will let her know that you know her family and are an ally. However, you cannot communicate this to her unless you have definite approval from 141 of exfil, as you can't risk uncovering your position."

Continued nodding followed, and you blinked rapidly as you digested her orders. You continued rerunning Squink and the hand motion in your mind like you had done with countless textbook definitions throughout training, forging them into a lasting memory. Laswell took a moment to breathe, and a softness fell over her tone, though you ensured your outer appearance betrayed no emotion of distress. You were due to be stationed alone in the company of gang members and a violent cartel, each famous for their affinity for transporting young women. It was a genre of terror that you were confident almost none of your comrades could empathize with, though something made you feel like Laswell was an exception. In the end, your other teammates were more than comfortable with putting their lives on the line, often taking a bullet or a knife to the thigh in the name of their cause- even if they didn't understand the end game of their plan. Now, it was your obligation to do the same. But something heavy still sat on your conscience nonetheless. 

"We'll be outfitting you with cameras and microphones so we can listen in to every utterance," by the way she spoke, you half expected her to pull you into a hug. "141 will be following in tow in a dingy, ready to infiltrate at a moment's notice. The Coast Guard will also be pursuing with a mothership prepared to drop helicopters in on your location. We also have the support of a small but mighty Mexican Special Forces team."

You tried to swallow the new lump that caught in your throat. The night you indulged in your own bed, slightly wine-drunk and comfy, were precious hours this precious girl had spent in evil's grasp. It made you sick and slightly lightheaded, feeling sticky sweat pool in your palms. You needed to get this girl. She must be terrified. So alone, so confused. You had to sweep these emotions from your mind; for the best chance of saving this woman, you had to eliminate all feelings and handle the task objectively. The emotions can take hold after she's on home soil. 

"Understood," you responded plainly, nodding stiffly and meeting her eyes as to communicate your lack of discomfort. 

"Even then, we have no reason to believe they'll even leave the dock. Despite owning a multi-million dollar yacht, Mister Marín doesn't seem fond of the ocean." She added, a grin pulling at her cheek, seemingly relieved by your reciprocation. 

An uneasy silence fell over the cabin, leaving you to watch the wind wash over curling blue waves from your view out the window. The cabin seemed to feel less small after she relayed the mission to you, like you finally had the opportunity to take in what was around you. A dun-coloured interior of a small but surprisingly modern plane, your pilot seated in the front sitting like a mannequin in his seat, his bulky headset making his silhouette visible from your view of the back of his headrest. At least you had a more thorough understanding of what to expect, and there was no use in worrying about things you couldn't control… yet. You had no right to display any uneasiness about your role when there's a girl out there who's been plucked from her prom trip into the grasp of depravity she could have no capacity of understanding. 

"Did you hear I got a promotion?" You huffed, trying to lighten the stiffening aura in the cabin.

"Yes, you received our bouquet, no?" She responded, not looking up from her work. 

"It was beautiful. Thank you."

At that moment, yesterday's instance clicked into recognition. She had sent that bouquet, Rhino, all of it. Of course she did. It was all scripted and manicured to make any eyes on you now that you're a hot commodity look the other way. A pang of disappointment surged through you; how foolish you were for thinking an old comrade would genuinely want to visit you. With the speed at which your paperwork returned and your rapid promotion, it all makes sense. Doubt subsided as pride rose in your chest. You swung in the big leagues and hit the ball, at least. Didn't kill the umpire or something. That's a win. 

It seemed like no time had passed, occupied by your thoughts and recollecting the fine details of a Saint Petersburg girl's accent. Before you knew it, the proud redwoods of California had been replaced with slick palm fronds. Judging by the fact that the ocean had never left your side for the whole flight, you gathered that you must be landing on the west coast of Mexico, somewhere in south Baja. The landing strip you were aimed towards manifested into view through thick foliage, spotting a handful of people awaiting your landing. 

A team of armed soldiers stood in wait under the roof of a small hangar, a distant tank cruising by on the dirt road in the distance. The air was humid, thick and sticky, blurring the horizon of the tarmac in a hazy heat. Everything from the sky to the foliage to the dirt was so much more vibrant, and the rich smell of recent rainfall filled your sinuses. Two men stepped forward, one with pale brown hair and darting eyes, another with an easy smile and a sloping forehead. 

"Ah, Sergeant Grant. I hear they call you Cricket," a tall man said with a smooth Mexican accent, waltzing toward you with upturned palms. "My name is Alejandro, and my comrade here is Rudy," he gestured to the other figure in his shadow. 

The title of sergeant still read as foreign when it came before your name, and you mindlessly nodded in response, creasing your lips into a smile and accepting his gruff handshake. His handshake was surprisingly gentle, like he was scared to hurt you with his grip. In the motion, you spotted the proud Mexican flag on his shoulder in the exchange. This is the Mexican Special Forces Laswell mentioned.

"Awfully quiet for a linguist," Alejandro teased, patting your shoulder with a gloved palm. 

"That's a first," the familiar voice of Soap piped up from behind you, rounding the corner from behind the plane. 

Responding to Soap with a cheeky smile and a huff, you returned to Alejandro after swallowing your nerves. The rest of the pack of familiar teammates emerged, calmly striding to your position. They were all fully armed to the teeth in their armour and uniforms, Ghost resting a silky black rifle over his forearms. Ghost must be a sadist to wear that dark mask in this sticky humidity, whatever he's hiding under there couldn't be worth all that trouble- or maybe that's just what he wants you to think. Though Price's hat was shielding his eyes from the harsh afternoon sunlight, he still squinted against its brightness, which Soap concurred. However, Gaz seemed more than comfortable in the searing heat, he almost looked like he could be a tourist if it weren't for the straps and plating of full body armour.  

"I'm just refreshing my mind with the Saint Petersburg accent," You responded dutifully, a half-truth. "I'm eager to get started." In reality, your mind spun with the gravity of the mission, having never been the person infiltrating but always the person listening in. You had the skills, training, and combat experience, but it still piqued your nerves in a way no Chinese nuclear warhead plot could. 

"Good, Good, Good…" He trailed off, clicking his tongue contentedly as he casually paced away, striking up a conversation with Ghost. 

Laswell flicked her papers in a follow me motion, guiding you to a sleek white camper van with the words Honeymoon Tours plastered on its side in swirling calligraphy. The door squealed as you stepped into the crisp air conditioning, finding Graves typing at a clunky laptop at the fold-out table. He didn't even look up to greet you, though it was obvious that he was aware of your proximity.

"Kate, Julian will be expecting her at 16:00, let's get Grant in her fixins." Graves sighed, finally rising and clicking on a projector screen with a detailed map, the legend on the side designating who goes where. 

His choice of words got under your skin, creating that lightheaded feeling in your fingertips as you considered your role. After taking a long swig of water from a canteen, Laswell stepped into view, pointing at the grainy projected image with her stack of papers. 

"You'll be placed with Julian, the Dolly Manager on Armundo's ship… He gets the girls ready." She flickered her eyes over to you; though her tone might not have said it, her eyes betrayed her stoicism. "Julian is an ally, he'll take care of you. He'll keep several pairs of eyes on you throughout the night…" Another pause. "We have an outfit set for you, it's in there. You can change in the bathroom." Laswell gestured to the master bedroom at the back of the van. 

You smiled dutifully, nodding and kicking your heels to turn down the narrow hallway, subconsciously following the exact dutiful compliance as when you were at the pinning ceremony. Laswell's words did nothing to dissuade your whirling mind from humming with trepidation, and you knew that she knew that. After all, on the last mission, Laswell promised you wouldn't see combat, yet you'd been forced to draw your firearm at least four separate times. What truly solidified your resolve was the knowledge that a senator's innocent daughter is likely confused, scared, and hopeless. Flickering thoughts of what might have happened to her since her capture are quickly extinguished so as not to soften your heart. Kindness and compassion aren't what will save this girl from the grip of evil men; it's willing your mind to become a cold, impenetrable machine.

Chapter Text

You couldn't believe it when you first heard the mission description, but the outfit they had laid out for you only solidified your disbelief. Dubious fingers slipped under the smooth items, gathering them into timid arms. Mocking floral prints on the walls, bedsheets, and lampshades made the cramped camper van surreal. Faded, muted begonias and roses on worn, plastic walls created an echo chamber that amplified the thrumming sound of your own heartbeat in your ears, save for the distant sound of helicopters chopping overhead. 

The adjacent bathroom wasn’t much better, impossibly cramped and stuffy, with a single overhead skylight inspiring imagery of having to crawl out of it to desperately escape. A thin, lacy, redundant curtain covered a misted window, only barely being able to perceive distant figures crowded in a circle. Now, with more figures in the hazy powwow, you identified the silhouettes of Price’s hat and the white of Ghost’s mask, along with Soap's obnoxious mohawk visible through the blur. A shard of ice cut into your stomach at the thought, and you settled on returning the pathetic doily of a curtain over the window again. With no surface area available in the portable bathroom, you settled for unfurling each item into the pale yellow bathroom sink.

The sleek, glossy black strapless dress is complimented by a pale pink off-center stripe running down the center. It was definitely a sign of the times, looking like it was right out of the early 2000s. If you didn’t already have the pre-conceived notion that it was a dress, you might initially mistake it for a silk pillowcase, given how shapeless and short it was. Scrunched into a ball, a pair of gritty black stockings were implied to be worn as additional body armour. The magnum opus was a hot pink bra that was nothing short of an assault on your senses, be it visually or texturally, as the cheap lace felt like tree bark under your thumb. 

You figured the logical order to apply your kit was to leave the dress for last, carefully rolling the notoriously fragile stockings over your knees, letting the elastic constrict around your waist. That fucking bra was next. The cup size is definitely too small, but you suppose it would be more alarming if they got your measurements in this location exactly right. It feels like sandpaper under your arms, propping your breasts up like delicious treats on a platter for these cartel fuckers to pluck. The last step was slipping the strapless straight jacket over yourself, jumping to hoist the unforgiving rayon sheet over your rump. 

You’d be fine with the attire in any other situation. You could easily recall dozens of nights spent downtown with your friends clothed in half as much, singing in the hazy streetlights and electric with alcohol-fueled ecstasy. You had to witness the wall dividing the two sides of your personality crumble before your eyes, as the work-life separation was actively becoming a distant memory. Behind the eyes you painted with mascara in the mirror, an internal monologue dissected what life decisions led to you finding yourself in this situation.

Feeling the soft, pillowy bounce of breasts that are propped up under rib-crushing pressure, you catch your reflection in the dingy mirror, a visage of raw discontentment. Your body armour and itchy uniform were remarkably more comfortable than this, though you'd have to get used to the feeling of your own breath ghosting over your exposed chest. The major difference is that this definitely could not stop a bullet nor prevent death by hypothermia, though in this context, those might be welcome. Where you had previously found comfort in being able to wear your own underwear, exempt from the military uniform’s reach, that rule was now null.

“I better be getting the fucking Medal of Honor for this.” You called out into the void from behind the bathroom door. 

“Hah, don’t worry. You’ll be decorated like a Christmas tree after this.” Graves called in response, his tone dripping with sarcasm. 

“I think I already am…”

Steeling your nerves, you swallowed all pride. This is your job, and your job is to save this woman. You have the skills and a unique opportunity to help her, which led to you being selected. This isn’t about you. Stepping out of the claustrophobic bathroom, you were greeted with the minor consolation of a smaller audience than you were expecting, seeing only Laswell and Graves remaining. Laswell’s nose was buried in a laptop, a single headphone pad pressed to her ear, while Graves was looking through the window with a pair of binoculars, a distant helicopter chopping in the distance. Laswell looked up first, the phantom of a smile creasing her lips, amusement sparking in her eyes. If it weren’t for her politeness and steely workplace professionalism, you were certain she’d be cracking up right now. 

“Well, you definitely look the part of a Russian hooker.” Graves blurted, his voice catching you off guard. 

The amusement in Laswell’s eyes blinked away, her shifting to rise from the cubby she was seated in, holding clasped handfuls of bulky jewellery. Bulbous pink gems embedded in a matching necklace and earrings set along with a single silvery bangle. Before you got an opportunity to observe the items fully, Laswell was signalling with her hands that you hold back your hair. 

“The jewels are outfitted with cameras that can let us see a live feed. The bangle’s got a mic.”

“I didn’t know they could make cameras that small.” You posited, staring into oblivion as she clasped the necklace around your neck like a collar. Her icy fingers connected with the back of your neck, making you flinch. 

“According to public knowledge, they don’t.” 

The jewellery was remarkably heavy, and the bangle that you squeezed your wrist through felt like you could knock someone out with it. Even if you were looking for hidden cameras and microphones in these items, you could never tell. Rolling the pink gem on the choker around your throat, you stared into the shimmering glass to try to identify any red gleam of a camera. Graves, clearing his throat, snapped you out of your inspection, seeing your scrunched face displayed on his laptop screen at a horrifyingly unflattering angle. 

“Here,” Laswell spoke from behind you, making you swirl around in the cramped van to see her hands cupped around another minuscule item.

A tiny beige sphere, about the width of your pinky nail, rested in her palm. Your mind crawled for potential uses for this tiny item, as the silence was increasingly implying that you should be doing something with it. What is that thing? Her hand gestured toward you again, suggesting you pick it up. Is it a suicide pill? Another camera? Some sort of vitamin, or maybe even a weapon of some kind? In the time it took your mind to spin with potential uses of the tiny object, she must have lost patience and took it upon herself to do whatever it was you were supposed to do for you. 

“You’ll have to wear your hair on the side, but this should be essentially invisible anyway.” Laswell sighed, running her fingers over your scalp, fluffing your hair, and pushing it to the side. 

A canister of hairspray and a cheap hair comb still in its packaging that she handed to you suggested you take agency of your own hair styling. The answer to what this item was still remained unanswered, but you figured it was too late to ask now. Turning to step into the bathroom again, you delicately styled your hair into a waving bundle over your shoulder, spraying clouds of hairspray that burned in your lungs to solidify the mass. This is not even close to what you could’ve imagined yourself doing on your first mission as your new rank. A recognizable brassy tone of Price, as the squealing door parted, gave you some sort of indication to hurry up, eventually swallowing your perfectionist instincts in favour of getting this task done as quickly as possible. Stepping out of the cubicle bathroom once again, you caught Price’s eyes as he was leaving, his neck kicking back in shock ever-so-slightly, making your skin crawl.

Yeah, give me that look all you want. Yuck it up, whydontcha’. Let’s see you do a mission in stilettos, cocksucker. 

It took all remaining self-respect not to utter those words aloud, though his pale eyes had long disappeared from view by then. Laswell standing behind the door nearly made you jump out of your skin, feeling stinging unused anxiety from a burst of adrenaline trickling down your fingertips. She took your chin in the crux of her palm, rolling your head to the side and slipping the mystery pill into your ear. Default instincts urged you to jerk your head back in response to the foreign item, but recognition slipped in and made your nerves settle. It was a communication device. Resting it under the mat of smoothed, stiff hair, she tilted her head to Graves, and he slid a microphone across the plastic fold-out table. 

“Testing, testing, Houston to-” Graves spoke loudly into the microphone.

Ear-splitting feedback and thunderously loud speech erupted from the earpiece, making you double over in agony. The whirring continued, feeling like your eardrum could split under the squealing frequency, frantically clawing at your ear to pry the object free. For what felt like minutes, the pain made you feral with panic. In reality, in a matter of seconds, Laswell had lunged over to the laptop, yanking the microphone cable free from the laptop’s port. In the silence, you realized the groan that had been coming from your lips, leaving a tinging ringing in the absence of sound. 

“Well, that was unexpe-” Graves huffed.

“Are you okay, sergeant?” Laswell interrupted, her eyes intense, but a creeping grin betrayed her seriousness. 

Realizing that deafness was no longer a prospect, relieved tension translated into a relieved laugh, seeing Laswell unburden herself with the nervous chuckle that was manifesting across her mouth. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, snickering at the situation, “that’d be pretty fucked up if the linguist went deaf on an undercover mission.”

Laswell, and surprisingly, Graves, laughed in response, Laswell sitting beside him to try to unravel whatever mishap had caused your agony. Be it from the dispelling nerves of nearly going deaf only seconds ago or a genuine eagerness to save a young woman, a sort of peace washed over you. No harm done, no bad feelings. Though a prickling suspicion that Graves may have intentionally tried to spark your nerves still lingered. 

“Testing, one two.” Laswell’s voice softly called from both in front of you and your earpiece, causing a moment of confusion in your senses as to which direction to turn your response to. 

“Heard.” You spoke in response, smoothing your hair down with your palms and realigning your necklace. 

“Excellent. The boys are outside. They’ll be taking you to meet Julian, the gentleman pairing you with your new… affiliate,” She said, nodding to annunciate her words to imply you fill in the blanks. 

You nodded in response, feeling the unfamiliar weight of heavy dangling earrings sway in the motion. As Laswell so horrifyingly put it, Julian was the Dolly Manager, who would ensure you smoothly make it onto the party yacht. From there, you play the role of arm candy to some Russian mobster, hoping to spot the senator’s daughter or, at the very least, overhear vital information. 

Twisting your wrist to open the squealing camper door, a blast of humid air and blazing sunlight made you recoil. Wobbly stilettos, uncommonly high for your preference, met on searing concrete, raising your eyes to see your familiar comrades. Fuck. They all turned and looked in sync. This is a fucking nightmare. Why can’t they be the ones in tacky push-up bras?

“Ya’ look like my fuckin’ mum when she goes to the pub.” Soap boomed, though he only stood a few feet away. 

Gaz gives him a weird look, crossing his arms and blinking rapidly. Price too, furrowed his brow in response, Rudy’s head flicking from Soap to you, then back to Soap before he stifled a bubbling laugh.

“No, like- in the sense that,” he stammered, halting the sentence altogether when he caught your furrowed gaze. 

It gave you a moment’s pause from the burning eyes, a rippling smile, partially due to self-consciousness, partially due to Soap’s stammering, pulled at your cheeks. An overwhelming urge to cross your arms over your chest screamed from every instinct, feeling manifesting beads of sweat catching the smooth, warm breeze. Ghost’s gaze unsettled you the most, though his stare never wavered despite Soap’s icebreaker. He wasn’t staring at your chest, though that was the bare minimum you should expect from them. No, he was staring dead into you, through you, tracking you even when you shifted to adjust your heel in your shoe. Enough with the bashfulness. You have a job to do, and 'Squink' is probably out there, destitute and terrified. 

“Alright,” you breathed, cutting into whatever awkward banter they carried on, encouraging at least one of your comrades to take the initiative and kick the operation into motion, "Ready?"

“Yes,” Alejandro spoke up, calmly approaching your side, “We’re heading to the docks. Julian will be meeting us there.” 

It took half a mind not to grab his forearm and let him guide you, taking your temporary position a little too seriously. Yes. To the docks. It took Price barking something directly to Ghost, urging a bold and dutiful ‘Yes sir ’ from under his imposing mask did he break his death stare, and your hackles lowered. For a few seconds there, you silently wished that the mystery earpiece Laswell handed you earlier was a suicide pill because you would’ve crushed it between your molars right then and there.

Chapter Text

Alejandro lifted himself into the doorless jeep, flicking the ignition into a rumbling purr. His brown eyes calmly swung over his surroundings as you identified the signature eye motions of someone checking for snipers. An unsettling thought, but perhaps it’s just habit. Flickering your eyes to the thick fauna on the treeline, you, too, spotted no white flashes from the glint of a scope. Stepping into the seat beside him, your mind surged between the need to pull your dress up to cover your chest more or shift it down to cover your thighs. To your dismay, sauntering teammates, armed to the teeth in heavy jackets and kevlar vests came sauntering over to send you off. They were probably seeking to catch one last glimpse of a dead girl walking.  

“‘Borrowed some of your eyeblack. Hoped you wouldn’t notice,” you joked to Ghost as his familiar mask came into view. Humour manifested as a last-ditch defence mechanism against the encroaching danger of his presence, compounded by your mortifying near nudity. You silently wished he would just fuck off, as the additional anxiety his proximity added to any situation was particularly unwelcome right now.

“Good thing you didn’t tell me,” he responded curtly. 

By the tone of his response, you would have assumed it was something spiteful, cold and disillusioned. Only after actually combing through the context did you gather that it was a joke. Though by the time you recognized that you should have laughed, his attention was on Price, receiving more orders about God knows what. 

"See ya' soon, Cricket," Gaz nodded, offering an additional nod in Alejandro's direction.

Gaz was called back, as they were running final checks on the firearms before carefully loading them into the back of a vehicle that mirrored your own. Your ride pulled away, leaving your teammates to disappear into a cloud of dust and sun glare. Having even a tiny Ruger, a Glock even, anything would calm your nerves and make you feel less like you’re walking into the viper’s den barefoot. A tablet that had been placed on your lap at some point, which offered a window into the images of a young woman only days before she was abducted. Samantha was laughing, volleyball under her arm in one picture, beaming a smile into the lens of the school photographer's camera in another. Another swipe. A missing person file. It described an 18-year-old girl with long brown hair with blonde highlights, grey eyes, a slender build and a stick-and-poke smiley face just above her thumb. All details burned into your eyes, risking burning a permanent image into your brain of a possibly dead girl, all in the service of potentially being able to identify her. 

The sensation of your seatbelt tightening around your waist snapped you out of your concentration, quivering fingers unclasping the latch attaching you to the Jeep. Adjusting your eyes to the blinding sunlight, you worked your mind to make sense of the surroundings, now acutely aware of the fact that your armed escort was soon to dump you. 

“Cricket is in position. En route to Bravo team.” Alejandro murmured into his mic on his shoulder, nodding curtly to you, then winding the wheel of the Jeep and accelerating away. His eyes lingered on yours for a short moment before he pulled away, radiating with a softness and kindness that caught you off guard.

The cloud of dust from your chauffeur’s departure took its time to settle, revealing a small garage. The vegetation seemed to recede from around the wide metal doors, leaving a clear view all the way to the back of the building. A short, slender man with a Red t-shirt that was draped over his hunched shoulders briskly approached you, whisking you into the warehouse. Taking the time to peek over each shoulder, the moment she shuffled you into the confines of the garage, you were hit with a powerful smell of must and gasoline. 

“You must be Olga,” he croaked, disappearing briefly behind a faintly translucent plastic sheet, “Julian. I’m Julian.”

The slightly colder air provided by the shielding of the harsh afternoon sunlight made goosebumps prickle over your skin, or it could have been from the sight of a stained mattress in the corner of the room. It could be a combination of either, but more likely than not, it was mostly due to your current wardrobe. Even though fresh air was only steps away, you couldn’t help but feel like you could suffocate in the vast open warehouse. You flinched at the sudden sound of chambering metal ringing across the floor, the consequence of Julian’s rummaging. He shrugged into a surprisingly well-tailored pinstriped suit jacket, finally providing a reason for his now matching pinstripe pants.

“So…” you folded your hands behind your back, standing at attention as a default position that had been drilled into your psyche since Basic Training, “What can I expect when I meet my companion, Mister Ogievich-”

“Aleksandr Ogievich, yeah, Mister Ogievich,” Julian was electric with energy, almost giggling with excitement as he spoke, “You’re in for a real treat little chica,” his eyes were wild, tilting his peach fuzzed chin at you as he spoke. 

He was trying to get under your skin. Trying to test you to see if you’ll crack. You’ve seen it before, almost regularly by now; people see a small woman in your position and presume they can be the smartass that can make you crumble. No. Ride it out, and let him get his fill. Just like a grizzly bear, you’ve just got to play dead and wait for him to get bored and move on. 

“Anything else I should know beforehand?”

“Guy’s always got blue roses. They’re his thing. If you see a blue rose, that's your guy. I hear he makes his girls get tattoos of 'em too if he gets them under his thumb." 

You wordlessly nodded along, subconsciously tugging the suddenly noticeably tight-fitting choker necklace to give yourself an opportunity to breathe. 

“Fat fucker’s always had a thing for salmon caviar and olives, so we'll keep them coming, and you'll keep his lap warn. We’ll get the liquor flowing, and hopefully, he’ll be inclined to spill everything… in more ways than one.” he tacked the curt comment onto the end of the sentence, continuing to murmur in hushed Spanish. 

It didn’t take an expert to gather that Julian didn’t care for any of these men whatsoever. It softened your heart to know he was so willing to pursue avenues to give his home government a leg up to strip down these corrupt cartel gangs. However, it made you wonder if it was virtuous in nature or an extension of his scramble to stay afloat, evident by his current living situation. The US government must pay big bucks to the guy who can slip an agent into cartel ranks, but so too, would the cartel pay to double-cross your mission and make an example of someone like you. The prospect brought back that lightheaded nervousness that invited your lunch to sit in the base of your throat, practically watching your own heartbeat increase through the window on your chest. He didn’t seem to know how to not keep his hands active, always finding something to check the integrity of, touch up, or screw back in. He was a handyman at heart, that’s for sure, but it made you wonder if he was like this when he wasn’t working on the clock of someone who could snuff out his life and make it seem like he never existed. Nobody will cry when one of Marín’s Dolly Managers trips and falls on a shank 34 times, and his job is equally as replaceable as the Dollys he manicured. Nobody weeps for spiders, snakes, or pimps, that’s for sure. 

“Now remember, little chica,” he spoke up, thick Baja accent cutting into your daze, “You don’t speak a word of English. Spanish neither. You’re just a dumb Russian hooker with a great pair of tits, and you don’t want to know what they’d do to you if they found out you’re a snake…”

His cutting words caught you off guard again, though the information he portrayed was far from something you hadn’t considered. Of course you understood the grave danger you were putting your life in. You understood the second Rhino handed you that oblong envelope with Laswell’s flip phone. 

“Understood…do you have any gum?” 

—

You stood at attention on the dock before the yacht, smacking pink bubblegum under your glossy lips. Though it had long lost its flavour, the intention wasn’t for your enjoyment but rather to sell the illusion of the expensive Russian escort. The exact one that would find the senator’s daughter. With a little luck, regular cold soulless stares, smacking gum, and twirling a strand of hair between your fingers will make you appear unapproachable to any unwanted attention. The salty ocean air wafting over you threatened to compromise your carefully crafted hairstyle, forcing you to hold your hair in place to wait out each gust. 

The other women stood shoulder to shoulder, lined up on the swaying wooden bridge connecting land to boat. The image comically calls forward memories of standing at attention when the Drill Sergeant bore into you as a young Private at basic training. You couldn’t afford to let the bubbling smile touch your lips though, letting the steady thumps of stilettos on the wood guide you to your assumed position. Other dolls stood in the row, and you counted seven other women, ranging in height and build, all wearing the standard issue uniforms of tight dresses with blistering shoes. Another risky flicker of your eyes down the lineup showed Julian in his suit, standing proud and pleased with his 'Dollys'. 

One of them sported fluffed, boxed dyed red hair, a crocodile-skin dress squeezing her breasts to accentuate the plunging neckline. The woman on your other side was darkskinned in complexion; she wore pale white lipstick and a shimmering nylon miniskirt. Her dialogue with the woman beside her swam between English and Spanish, carrying on like they were sisters. By the angle of the searing white sun that caught glares on your eyelashes, you gathered that it must be almost 18:00, and the guests should be arriving any minute. 

“Who’re you?” The box-dyed redhead spoke up in Spanish, you saw her tilting her chin to you from the corner of your eye.

According to these girls, you don’t speak a word of Spanish. Nor English. Despite something telling you that these women couldn’t care less if you were an undercover agent, you couldn’t risk it. Just keep resting your eyes on an osprey in the distance as it shoots like a bullet to catch a fish under the ocean waves. Sloping pebbled shorelines receding to concrete seawalls, leading to hazy red asphalt, all simultaneously radiating with a stifling humid heat, only momentarily relieved by the gusting ocean wind. 

“Hey,” She continued her pursuit, but after seconds of getting no response, her tone took a turn, “What’re you fuckin’ stupid or something?” Her tone was more agitated as the English rolled off her tongue with a thick accent. 

“I think she’s, like, French or something,” another woman spoke up from somewhere down the line. “That’s what Julian said.”

That seemed to have smoothed Boxdye’s irritation, leaving her to lunge into a new topic with another girl. Crunching gravel under a pack of trucks arriving in sync caught your attention, finally giving you a reason to lift your eyes from the glittering waves. Car doors slammed, and boisterous conversation from a gaggle of men grew nearer to your position. The girls at your side fell into a tight line, each matching your gaze that tracked the approaching suited figures. About fifteen men emerged from several glossy black cars. They formed a cluster that grew near, nearly bouncing on their toes with excitement as cackling laughter put the sloshing ocean waves to shame. All in suits, varying in colours and patterns, but predominantly navy in colour with thin, old-school ties that fluttered out of position in the humid breeze. 

“That’s him. That’s Armundo Marín, the Cartel leader.” Laswell muttered into your earpiece.

Just then, a broad man stepped into view, the heels of his expensive loafers echoing over the boardwalk. Despite having deep brown eyes, his gaze could be described as nothing short of piercing, he pushed his greased hair back into position. He reeked of cigars and of someone who was heavy-handed with their expensive cologne, the kind of fragrance that sears your nostrils and lingers in the back of your throat. He took his time to examine each girl, his swaggering comrades puffing their chests behind him, one of them telling a booming anecdote about his recent golf game. 

Marín’s piercing eyes locked onto you, eyeing you up and down in a way that made your skin crawl. His eyes lingered on your chest, tilting his head in a thoughtful stare. After a moment, his attention on your chest made a shard of ice slice down your spine as the thought occurred that he could identify the hidden camera in your necklace. He seemed to be surveying you, considering something behind those dark eyes. It’s over. The gig is up. He’s snuffed you out, and you’re doomed to a fate worse than death. Marín’s thumb tipped your chin up, then to the side, then the other side, finally returning to face him. 

“You’re a muscular one,” Marín spoke in English, huffing out a breathy chuckle, “you must work out,” he posited, a sly grin creasing his crow’s feet. 

He was testing you. Tapping the glass, and testing out if you really were a Russian prostitute. No response, save for smacking bubble gum and thoughtless fluttering eyelashes. You must have passed, as he craned his neck, flicking his wrist to summon one of his comrades. Out of the flock of pinstripes and cigarette puffs emerged a short, stout man, his thick gut concealed by a dress shirt that sat snug against his stomach. Your eyes caught on one of the women in your lineup as she squealed in delight, her leg hitched up the side of one of the attendees’s maroon suit.

“Aleksandr Ogievich, that’s your guy, ” Laswell chimed in through your earpiece, though you had already gathered as much by the noble blue rose that was pinned to his lapel. 

“Privet, Dorogaya,” his grumbly voice spoke up, calling you dear in Russian in a silky tone that made your skin crawl.

You willed your eyes to spark with recognition, twisting your mouth into a smile and lowering your eyelids into a sultry gaze. Extending your arm, you offered the top of your hand to him, which he graciously accepted by planting a languid, wet kiss on your knuckle. You shivered, but not with delight. 

Snapping his fingers, he summoned the remaining flock and your line of female allies paired off to take the arms of patrons, seemingly at random. Pattern recognition sparked, and you snaked your arm into the crux of Mister Ogievich’s arm. Evidently satisfied with the walking amenities, the energy of the crowd escalated, turning from a giddy buzz to feverish excitement. Your range of motion was significantly hampered by your rib-crushing dress as the crowd was led up the ramp onto the vast yacht. This boat was absolutely massive. Like a floating castle. Sloping white siding and slick treated wood bounded over the waves, outfitted with mellow lighting and a smiling crew eerily beaming with joy at the entourage’s approach. You counted five floors above deck, and likely at least two below, multitasking by observing your scenery and taking care to hone your hearing to track the nearby conversing. 

The main deck was adorned with white low-seated sofas and lower set tables, sleek and modern, all over a rich lacquered wood floor. Low underlighting under each furniture item illuminated polished and angular decore, evidently worth the millions he must have paid. Access to the wafting ocean breeze did nothing to soothe your nerves, making relaxed movements to drape yourself next to your associate on the plush couch. The change in angle revealed a small hot tub under the sloping awning, the hazy steam rising illuminated purple with expensive underwater lighting. One of your fellow escorts had already taken it upon herself to settle herself into the bubbling waters, shimmering sequin dress laying dormant on the slat wood floors. Little did your companion know that thinly veiled under sultry smooth movements were muscles rippling with anxiety. He didn’t seem to notice, though, his imperfect Spanish carrying on eagerly to discuss the housing market in Italy with another suit next to him. It took Aleksandr about ten seconds after sitting down before he lunged to reach for the finger food platter, popping half a dozen olives into his mouth.  

Lively Mirachi music yawned to life, bassy thrumming shattering through your already aching ribcage, kicking the atmosphere into the infancy of a lively party. Now that everyone was seated on the expansive open deck, you got to gather a profile of the women in attendance. Your eyes flickered over the faces of your fellow escorts, mentally contrasting them to the mental image you seared in your mind of Samantha Moss. No matches thus far. Spotting movement behind the slanted glass of the inside cabin, you watched two smiling women in matching mock navy uniforms, in miniskirts, of course, bringing forward round trays of clinking cocktails. The dreamy Mexican sunset whispered that there you had about 40 minutes left of daylight before this party was beginning, and you were looking way too stiff. Swallowing your pride for the sake of duty, you urged reluctant muscles to settle yourself into the side of your target, his heavy arm handing on your back as he welcomed your movement. 

Animated dialogue spilling from your companion that had since shifted to horse husbandry left your senses wandering to latch onto a new target. Listening in to other conversations was made easy by the boisterous chatter erupting from nearly every patron, gathering useless information about financial success and recent football scores. Flickering back to your current specimen came with dire consequences, as your movement in his peripheral caught his attention like a cougar spotting its next meal. 

“Vodka . For me and my Paramore,” Aleksandr purred to one of the crew, pushing his hand on your back to urge your body to rest flush against his side. 

Chapter Text

It took half a mind not to bite the man. Lash out in raw, feral fury and take out at least one of his eyes. Succumb to your mind’s screaming to descend into a slobbering, gnashing blur of nails and teeth, all growing more and more tempting with every lingering second Aleksandr Ogievich’s hand rested on your lower back. You could do it, too. Take a bite out of his blubbery cheek before he can even register your movement. Your mouth’s proximity to his throat made your thoughts of massacre trickle into your mind. That steady trickle became a thundering waterfall whenever he’d take a breath from blabbering about his Wife’s insistence on buying a second summer home in Monaco and glide his stocky fingers over your ass. 

No. Continue twirling his tie between your fingers and steeling your nerves. This is all intel Laswell and co. are watching through your necklace and hearing every vile utterance through the bangle you strategically kept held over his chest. Your coos of affection were so fake, so soulless, though he seemed to lap it up. His breath reeked of olives and vodka, though every slick mouthful of the clear liquid that slid down his gullet sparked growing confidence that he’d get looser with his conversing. Sooner or later, he’ll shut the fuck up about all the grand and expensive things he’s been up to, and the glassy eyes of the target of Ogievich’s dialogue said he shared the same sentiment. 

Between giggles and delighted squeals, you occasionally dared to swing your eyes over the growing crowd, moody dim lighting making it increasingly difficult to identify faces since daylight had been extinguished. The woman with the white lipstick from earlier was teetering a shot of either vodka or tequila between her tits, gleefully gulped by a man in snakeskin loafers. The glint of a wedding ring on his left finger forced you to redirect a bursting laugh into a stifled cough. He turned and caught your eyes. Fuck. You waved with fluttering fingers, turning to snuggle closer to your vapid paramore, enraptured by his opinions about authentic Russian vodka. 

“That’s Lucia Chacón. He’s the leading presidential candidate for the upcoming Venezuelan election,” Laswell spoke into your ear breathlessly, seeming shocked by the identification. 

It was just your luck that the president-elect was swaggering towards you. Your heart sank to a depth you’d never thought possible. You looked away again, begging that dodging eye contact would make him magically disappear into the thunderous, bassy roar of the booming Mirachi music. Feigning giving the Russian diplomat your rapt attention, nodding along attentively. Nope, a shadow darkening your peripheral said otherwise. 

“Aren’t you a precious thing,” he cooed in attempted confidence, betrayed by his fumbling English pronunciation. 

You blinked dumbly, flicking the gum over your teeth in a snapping pop, offering him a pouting smile. The orc beside you finally recognized the additional presence, huffing into a breathy chortle, making your head that was planted over his shoulder shake in the commotion. 

“Ah, Lucia! Good to see you again,” he spoke, oozing the smell of warm olives and liquor over you, “This n’ doesn’t speak. Well, she does, but only Russian.” He slapped his hand on your ass. You disguised barred teeth as a dumbfounded smile. 

“Hah, well, you know me,” his palms tilted upwards in an enthusiastic show, “the less talkin’ they do, the better, hey?” the president-elect clamoured, playfully nudging Ogievich’s other shoulder. 

Another bellowing laugh. To sell the illusion, you smiled sweetly, turning to look over your shoulder at something in the distance to imply you had no knowledge of their dialogue. In a sick and twisted way, you were pleased that people like Graves were watching an interaction like this through your communicators. 

“You know me, Lucia, I’m never shy of sharing my toys,” your companion blurted, the implication sending a chill down your spine as your mind connected with his affiliation with human trafficking back home. “But not this one. She’s my little slice of the motherland,” he retorted in his thick Russian accent.

“Oh, come on, let me take this sweetness off your hands,” he urged, with fumbling pronunciation.

“Wars have been started for less,” Ogievich responded, cheeks glinting with crimson as the alcohol was beginning to work its magic. 

That’s when you saw it. Saw her. A slim, relatively tall woman with brown hair and blonde highlights, an oddly lax red dress sat on her shoulders, implying it wasn’t her native wardrobe. Though, to be fair, yours wasn’t either. The sight was just for a moment. A flicker of a visual that made your heart skip before she disappeared into the dim crowd. Adrenaline surging through your veins commanded your feet to rise, but dutiful compliance to the undercover appearance glued you to the couch. Wait for the right time. The angle of your chest mustn’t have caught what you just witnessed; else Laswell, on overwatch, would have chirped into your ear again. You need to get off this fuckers lap, find Samantha, if that’s even her, and communicate the info to the task force that’s lurking somewhere in the inky darkness. 

You murmured in your partner’s ear that you needed to visit the lady's room, but the way he rudely waved you off made you confident that you would be easily excused. Standing, you paradoxically lifted and lowered your dress, taking a moment to gather your hips to sway as you sauntered toward the interior cabin area of the boat. Your pounding heels thumped over the planks of the deck, thoroughly muffled by the eccentric music. Taking your time to link eyes with every passing stranger, exchanging a sultry look, all as a veiled attempt to ensure overwatch can gather as many faces as possible. The indoor section of the boat was no less noisy, only slightly more muffled. A sloping, modern art bar was kept exceptionally tidy by waiting staff who shovelled out shots and cocktails to boisterous patrons. Taking quick, efficient steps through the mass of people on crunching tippy toes thanks to your shitty stilettos, you sidled your way through the crowd. 

Pale grey eyes met yours. You felt your facial muscles drop. As quickly as your eyes had connected, she dropped your stare, her gaze low and submissive. She looked like hell. Heavy-handed red lipstick covered a busted lip, telltale bruises on her biceps in the shape of fingertips said a thousand words. Eyes on the target, you adjusted your necklace in a camouflaged attempt to ensure Laswell sees what you’re seeing. Despite overstaying your visit with your lingering stare, you even identified that stick-and-poke smiley face on her hand that was wrapped around a glass of amber liquid. It took a concentrated effort to lower your shoulders from the newly induced stress and additional effort to will your face back into an indifferent but sultry scowl. 

No response from overwatch on your discovery stuck in your mind like a snagged thread, but you surged forward regardless. That’s her, there’s no doubt. 

Why is Laswell being silent? Is she still watching? Fuck, maybe there’s no signal in here, and I’m flying dark. Oh God, what if there’s a signal blocker or some sort of tracker to identify spyware…I have to get off this fucking boat.

Knocking on a bathroom door down a dimly lit hallway, you didn't even bother to wait for a response before you fucked behind the thick wood door. The bathroom was small, tidy and contemporary, with gleaming white porcelain and matte black metalwork piping along with warmly coloured wood-panelled walls. Small, barely wide enough to fully extend your arms, though at this point you had a seeming affinity for finding closets to hide in. 

“Laswell, how copy?” you raised your bangle to your lips, sliding your fingers over the smooth bracelet to see if there was some kind of activate switch. 

Radio silence, save for a faint crackle in your earpiece. You were half a second away from frantically scrambling onto the deck to get ahold of any friendly voice, regardless of suspicions, before you heard a sound through your ear.

“Cricket, solid copy,” Laswell breathed into your ear, hearing the sounds of paper rustling in the background.

From what you gathered, the copy didn’t sound solid, but you had no authority to question her message's validity. You found yourself gripping the lone porcelain sink, hands on either side and staring deeply into the backlit mirror. A twang of horror prickled down your spine as you realized you were offering a full mirror view down your tight dress from this angle, and your posture snapped to attention. 

“The target has been identified as present,” you said sternly, finding yourself out of breath as you whispered, “I repeat, the target has been identified.”

More silence. Utter silence. Deafening, nerve-wracking silence. Something’s up. 

“Understood. Return to the party and stand by for instructions.” She finally responded.

“Rog.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Before you could blink, you were slinking back to your paunchy companion, curling your calf around his knee in a relaxed seated position. Marín was chatting with your guest, making a tight circle between the cartel boss, president-elect, and your human-trafficking companion. Boxdye from earlier sat on Lucia’s lap, running long painted fingernails over the collar of his shirt, glinting in the dim light. She caught your eyes, and met yours with a surprising visage of compassion, like she was murmuring keep your chin up girl, you got this, with her eyes. Just then, the dialogue took an unexpected 180 from idle chatter about quarterly reports.

“So I heard the Yanks got their hands on some Team China uniforms the other day,” Armundo Marín spoke in smooth Spanish into the clinking glass of iced rum he slipped under his moustache, his voice stony and unsettling.  

“I heard that too,” Lucia, the Venezuelan president-elect from earlier, concurred. 

Your guest groaned in agreeance as he plopped another cracker topped with caviar and olives into his mouth, the heaping treat threatening to spill onto his proud blue rose on his lapel. 

Uniforms. That familiar code word. A million thoughts washed through your skull like turbulent waves, churning and forceful. You felt your fingertips go cold, joints buckle, scalp pinprickling with trepidation. Could that code mean what you think it meant? How could they know? No, it can’t be. Your mission was British in origin, using SAS equipment and soldiers. This has to be something else. The self-soothing thoughts did nothing to dissuade your mind from heaving over every possible outcome in nauseating detail. Are there more warheads? Had your team just scratched the surface? Maybe they hadn’t even been reported as missing yet. No, it couldn’t be a regular thing that nuclear warheads go missing. Right?

This was something you had to relay to overwatch as soon as possible. After all, it’s not your job to determine the weight of each message. Just report information. It’s not your job to understand international affairs, and even less so to know the inner mechanisms of every nationality’s artillery movement. Still, there was a lingering sense of dread resting in the base of your throat, laying dormant but ever-present. 

Boxdye doing a sultry dance to a particularly sensual song that came on enraptured enough of the local's attention to let you dexterously disappear from sight. Slipping into a small closet, off one of the half dozen bedrooms that you reckoned were scarcely used for sleeping, you tucked yourself into the oddly comforting tight space. Hangers clambered at the intrusion, bumped by your sudden movements, which you frantically quieted with hushing fingers. The split-second action gave you precious moments to gather the billions of words that rattled through your mind in order to create a cohesive sentence.

“Actual, this is Cricket. I-” your voice caught in your throat, “One of the guests mentioned Yankees having uniforms , said in a similar context to…”

“Understood,” Laswell responded, now hearing hurried typing from her microphone. 

Footsteps, echoing down the carpeted hallway, said you had seconds to evacuate. You could risk hiding, but that could have disastrous consequences. Life-ending consequences. Weighing your options in a matter of nanoseconds, you gauged that the best option would be to surrender to your camouflage and feign as a drunk hooker who got lost on her way to the powder room. Occam's razor would favour that over an undercover spy radioing to HQ to report a nuclear weapon plot. 

“Ah, M-Mister Marín,” you purred, fumbling and planting a delicate hand on the chest of his suit, “I- Um, I-” you feigned being drunk, sloppy and ditzy, but most importantly, innocent. “I have too much vodka-” you interrupted your own speech with a squealing giggle.

“You’re a funny one,” he murmured back, tangoing with your artificially drunken self to hand you upright, hand swaying on your lower back “but my sweet, I must confess... your nails are unacceptable .” He clicked his tongue, wrapping gruff fingers around your knuckle to show your mangled cuticles from nervous picking and a distinct lack of polish.

You couldn’t afford to look shocked. You could hardly even afford to register what he was saying. Eyes flickered to your nails, and they were indeed oddly bare. Hardly something you’d expect from a seasoned escort. Fuck. Fuck . 

“I didn’t pay Julien top dollar for second best now, did I?” he whispered in your ear rhetorically in a sinister tone, oozing with implication. What felt like minutes passed of him horrifyingly waltzing with your fumbling feet, still dedicating every atom of your body to commit to your act, else your life is forfeit, “Understood, little dove?”

Biting your lip, you smiled dutifully, squeezing your eyes shut before looking up with your sweetest puppy eyes. He seemed satisfied, turning and humming down the hall, one could easily get whiplash from how suddenly his tone changed from hostile to pleased. You felt your upper lip threatening to curl. Gravity begged your knees to buckle under you, and you suddenly became all too aware of the constricting nature of your tight dress on your ribs, exponentially increasing your sudden breathlessness.

“-Oh, and hurry on to the deck now. We’ll be giving the locals a sendoff before we ship off.”

“W-Water?” you gestured to the window that faced the sea, thick Russian accent rolling off your tongue as you gave yourself an imaginary pause to consider the right word. 

“Yes, little dove, we’re going for a joyride.” He snapped his fingers in a flinging motion, urging you to make haste to whatever position you were expected to assume. In reality, a new level of panic surged into you. A level of energy no human should be exposed to, like a blast of radioactive energy scrambling the atoms in the body of a helpless scientist at Chornobyl. This could get very messy, very fast.

Chapter Text

Stilettos echoed down the carpeted hallways, orienting yourself by following the thumping bass toward the outer decks. Stiff hair from overzealous hairspray made your hair feel more like a helmet that extended over your back, though in this state, any additional armour is welcome. A horrifying shift in your balance caused by underwater motors whirring into action made you splay your hands over the wood-panelled walls, and your eyes swung around to recollect yourself. This boat is no longer a floating extension of the land. It’s headed into the open ocean, temporarily disconnected from the umbrella of the Task Force’s immediate protection. At least you still had the Coast Guard’s shelter, though that could easily be changed if Marín deems it so- and more likely than not, he will. 

“Actual, did I hear that correctly?” Ghost’s smooth accent rolled through the microphone in your ear. Has he been listening in the whole time? Have they all been? You don't have time to process how embarrassing that is. 

“Affirmative. All teams move to secondary position. The Coast Guard is in the loop. Cricket on standby.”

That you were. Soon to be swaying on the stern, waving away safety, under the arms of someone who was an enemy to everything you’ve ever held dear. Though, to be fair, that mainly amounted to a goldfish and your uncle. The boat was speedy for its size, watching in horror masked as awe as the land mass disappeared into a memory on the horizon. Overhearing boastful Spanish banter about hitting 70 knots on this castle of a yacht from Marín across the railing, your heart went still. 

“Ah, there’s my dorogoy,”  Ogievich extended an arm to you, now standing on the balcony as you watched in horror as the shore drifted away. 

“I missed you, my darling,” you responded, sliding under his sweaty arm, “This ship is so confusing,” you pouted. 

“You should always be accompanied by a strong man, my baby. You never know what might be lurking out to get ya’,” He muttered in Russian, taking the opportunity to dig his fingertips into your hips in a playful scare, sparking nerves that had been pricking for far too long.

You let out a startled squeal that you played off as the best flirtatious banter you’ve ever seen. Selling this act was your only lifeline. A performance you could win an Oscar for. You couldn’t not come off as a sultry, slightly drunk, high-class Russian whore. Everyone in your proximity was a threat. One slip-up, and you’re doomed to a fate worse than death. Every time you wiped clammy palms on your dress, it came with the need to pull up your dress once again, the frequency of this motion becoming more and more apparent. They're going to notice. They know you're not one of them.

Calm yourself. It’s fine. Some of the best soldiers in the world are probably counting every pore on that fucker’s nose through a sniper right this second. Samantha there has been feeling this way for days, without the protection of an elite task force. Do your job and calm-the-fuck-down. 

You caught the image of Samantha in your peripheral, under the arm of Marín. The sweet girl looked miserable. Sunken eyes, raw and dark, told the story of a girl who could scarcely reach a lower low. The look in her eyes when she met your stare again, her brows furrowing in confusion as you held her gaze yet again; it was everything you needed to swallow your nerves and take control of your mind. 

Your team was working on a tight clock. If you reached international waters, the Coast Guard's aid came to a hard stop. The aerial exfil option, faster and more efficient, would be eliminated. Satisfied with the send-off, the patrons returned to their libations, drinking and hollering to their heart's delight. Your heart pounded in your ears. This whole operation is now spring-loaded, promising to blow like a jack-in-the-box. The incoming transmission only solidified your inclination. 

“Calling all, lethal is not authorized.” Graves loudly piped up through the microphone, his voice stern and cutthroat. 

The call made your blood run cold. A chorus of Roger and Yes Sirs echoed through your earpiece that was now connected to the Task Force’s external channel. 

“Alfa team is a quarter klick from Tango’s three o’clock.” The familiar Scottish tone of Soap crackled into your ear. 

“Bravo on ten, standing by half klick.” Rudy’s voice spoke, the sound of gusting wind nearly drowning his speech. 

“Coast Guard mothership a klick out, but standing by with helos,” Laswell added. 

Turning over your shoulder, sloshing black waves offered useless inky darkness. Void, chopping waves barely reflecting twinkling stars above, diffused by meandering streaking clouds. Even squinting, it's impossible to see anything meaningful in the lifeless dark. For just a second, a split second, you saw it. A white glint you’d learned to identify from years of service. The glint of a sniper’s scope, impossibly faint, and entirely invisible to the untrained eye. 

“My sweet, why don’t we get in the hot tub, hm ?” your company’s voice caught you off guard, hot, putrid breath ghosting over your neck as he spoke. 

Disgust washed over you. No. Don’t curl your lip, don’t gnash your teeth. 

“I don’t know, I didn’t bring a suit, handsome,” you purred in silky Russian, the softness of your own voice catching yourself off guard. 

“A dip in the tub sounds like an excellent idea, eh ladies?” Marín spoke up on your behalf, as if he understood your Russian conversing, an eager voice booming into your conversation. He tightened his grip on Samantha, squeezing her tight, her eyes raising to you lifelessly. 

“I’ll have to get changed, my heart,” you concurred in Russian, “You said I shouldn’t go alone. Can I bring this one to the lady's room? You know how girls like to move in groups.” Your voice was soft and seductive, pouting your lips as you spoke.  

“How could I ever say no, my baby.” He murmured in Russian to your ear, raising his head from your proximity to speak to the group, “The girls will get changed and be back.”

Marín seemed displeased by the thought, his mind clearly working over Ogievich’s words. Dreadful silence fell over the conversation, save for the deafening music blaring from towering speakers. After the pause, he relented, flicking his hand in a dismissive wave and releasing his vice on the target. This is your chance. 

Extending your hand with a smooth grin, giddily giggling, you took Samantha’s hand, squealing like a schoolgirl as you led her into the indoor section, skipping with delight. Dodging the nearest bathroom, you instead opted for the farther option, meeting confused resistance from the target. Pushing her past you into the bathroom, you flickered your eyes up and down the hallway before whipping the heavy door shut. Her face met yours with furrowed eyes, grey eyes trying to make sense of you. 

“Samantha,” you breathed, standing tall, dropping the feigned higher-pitched tone of a girl speaking in front of men. 

She looked more shocked, eyes growing wild with confusion, brows lowering further as she took a step backward, fumbling against the sink. 

“I’m a federal agent. I know your family. We’re bringing you home.” your eyes pleaded for her to make sense of your actions. 

Her mouth opened like she was trying to speak, not even a breath coming from her cracked lips as her face contorted with uncertainty. She nervously raised her fingers to her ears, her back flush to the back wall.

“Squink,” you breathed, recalling the familiar nickname, and crossing your forearms over your chest in the mimed hug motion Laswell insisted she’d recognize.

Like the flick of a light switch, her face dropped. Lips barely parted, air crackling with recognition as she took a long moment’s pause. Then a belligerent, gut-wrenching sob poured from her throat. In a matter of seconds, her face was slick with tears, hiccuping and clutching to your biceps as you saw her knees buckle under her. Her grip was like a vice on your arm, lacking the energy to keep her head up, her neck craning as she wailed at the floor in anguish. 

“What’s going on in there?” A patron you didn’t recognize spoke up through the door, his voice hot with irritation, “What’re you doing to her?” 

A flash of movement. The flimsy door locks were no match, and he flung the door open, snatching your wrist and dragging you into the hall, feeling your cheek collide with the smooth walls. Reeling, you turned to meet a tall man in a beige suit, pupils dilated to saucers, the definite consequence of drug consumption. 

He approached you quickly. The furious eyes of a man seething toward you made your hackles raise, weighing your odds of a physical altercation. He has the size and the range of motion, but you have the skill and finesse. If you were quick, you could lead with a pump-fake punch, and hit him with a solid groin kick. The tightness of your skirt could hinder your accuracy. All thoughts of violence were snuffed when you spotted it. When he lifted his arm to point to you in his approach. The pistol on his belt holster. Plan B: go limp. 

“I- She get nervous. I talk to her. Five minute,” you murmured in fractured English, mirroring the syntax of a Russian attempting to speak English rapidly. 

His fury didn’t waver. In a second, his hand was on the scruff of your dress, gripping the tight nylon with crushing force, forcing all air from your lungs.

A deafening crash. Vision goes black. Your own cold fingertips dig into your palm, and you realize you are still conscious. Opening your eyes, there stood Samantha. Squink. A Wall lamp she had wrenched free had been crashed over the back of the head of the suited assailant. Your eyes flashed up to hers, her eyes wild and terrified. The energy in the room became electric with trepidation. 

“Cricket, take the target to the B2 engine room. Take the staff corridor at your six. Stand by for further details. Alfa-Bravo, move in.” Laswell’s voice calmly ordered into your ear.

“Engage, engage, engage. ” Price’s voice boomed through the mic.  

The passage of time stopped. Analyze. The body, the gun, the girl. Move. Muscles aren’t moving. Go. Go. Go. 

Practiced hands flickered over his belt, rolling his limp body. Palming the steely luxury embellished revolver, you flicked the revolving chamber in a familiar motion. Unloaded. Fuck. Move the body, the body, the body. He’s breathing, but soon to wake. Heaving with every ounce of strength, kneeling in stilettos, making your balance uneven, your blood surged with adrenaline and sheer vivacity. Propping the heavy patron upright in a seated position, you raised your crouched gaze to Samantha. Her face is a picture of raw horror, but still looking at you like you were a tall glass of water in the Sahara desert. 

“Come. Now.” your voice surging from your throat was raw and husky. 

Pistol in hand, drawn as if it were loaded, you weaved through the staff corridor, the clacks of high heels flurrying down double-backing steel stairs echoing over the iron walls. Samantha’s heaving breath behind was a welcome sound, swinging the pistol down adjacent hallways to rapidly identify any personnel, wherever present. Another staircase. B2, and there’s the engine room. That’s the hideout. Cranking frigid iron under calm, trained fingertips, winding the wheel of the latching door and ushering the target inside, then pushing the door shut behind you and rewinding the latch.

“Target is in position. Standing by,” you spoke into your bangle, receiving stern confirmation from overwatch. 

Panic had long subsided, now replaced by unbreakable willpower and skillful diligence, instincts that had been long since drilled into you through years of practice. Your head was on a swivel, nerves electric with expectation, catching the inaudible pattering of a rat behind the churning engine. The gun that rested in your palms, much like the entirety of your role in this mission, was entirely for show. Decorated, with the appearance of being lethal, but lacking any of the capacity to actually control any situation. All bark, no action. That’s what your life has been. The appearance of control is all a thin illusion in the name of keeping up appearance. Devoid of all agency, a victim whomever’s hands were on you for the current circumstances. 

“Cricket, approaching your position,” Gaz’s voice entered your ear, offering a momentary opportunity to hear chopping helicopters through his microphone. 

“Roger,” your voice responded without even recognizing it as your own.

Eyes caught Samantha’s again. Her face was pale, void, with flickering eyes. She stood crouched in the corner beside you, still armed with the lamp from earlier, now significantly bent. A softness washed over you, and a new instinct flooded into your skull.

“We’re getting you out of here, Squink,” you breathed, nodding in her direction. 

Her face contorted, scrunching into a raw, ugly cry that she had clearly been holding for days. Weeks. Though you weren’t in the clear yet, something said that she deserved to die with a little hope in her system if things did go south. A knock at the door. Gentle tapping that made both of your heads snap to attention. 

“Grant,” the muffled voice of Price called from behind the steel.

Cranking the door open once again, you were met with an unfamiliar sight. Price, and who you assumed to be Gaz, were outfitted with heavy gas masks and steel tanks of reserved oxygen protruding from the mouthpiece. Recognition clicked, and you holstered your gun down the front of your dress and whipped Samantha’s mask to her, sliding your own over your face. Leading down the winding halls, the upper deck was mortifyingly silent despite the thrumming music still audible from your position. Practiced crouching soldiers flickered the signature red munitions of non-lethal beanbags, firearm flashlights swinging to check every corner. The upper deck was a blur of yellowish fog, seeing waving lights of neighbouring firearms flickering over you as you approached. A blinding spotlight overwhelmed all senses, squeezing your eyes shut as they scrambled to adjust from the darkness you had previously inhabited, as chopping helicopter blades overwhelmed your remaining senses. 

Chapter Text

The sweet girl was fumbling around like a newborn deer. Coughing, wheezing, hands fumbling into nothingness to try to scramble through the fog. Her long hair was a tangled mess of brown curls, caked with filth and what looked like blood from a small head wound. You had no way of knowing what she experienced during her time in captivity, but from the way she buckled with every heaving step, you knew exhaustion was the least of it. Your hand extended to rest on her shoulder, feeling frail muscles recoil in alarm. Though an unexpected touch on her bare shoulder must be the last thing she needs right now, it’s a necessary evil in the name of guiding her through the fog to the sanctuary of the unseen helicopter. 

Head still on a swivel, you caught the rest of your teammates, Ghost and Soap were securing zip-tie handcuffs around the unconscious armed security guards whose presence you’d never even noticed. Horrifying. The manmade fog of what must be a smoke grenade still clung thick to the deck of the ship, overzealously staying long past the duration it was needed for. Although the fog had heavily impacted your vision, it most definitely impacted the patrons' as well, and time spent in agonizing fitness training made you confident in your capabilities to navigate through it. It was almost definitely vaporized chloroform to pacify the party, then a smoke grenade for additional security. Grave’s instructions to leave with no casualties were taken deathly seriously. 

You caught a glimpse of Boxdye, and the girl with white lipstick, huddled under a table- looking like they’ve slipped into a peaceful slumber. The two girls were slack in each other’s arms. For some reason, a heartwarming sensation washed over you, oddly touched by their sisterhood. These two women had one another. They had returned to each other’s arms for mutual comfort, finding sanctuary in a feminine ally in this boisterous party. That’s a type of sisterhood the grizzliest warlord couldn’t pry from their souls. They didn’t deserve to be a part of this conflict, this violence. It’s you who was the harbinger of pain in their life, and that’s what will linger in your conscience for nights to come. 

The helicopter chopped enough of the fog away to manifest into view as you reached the far bow of the boat, the open fuselage door revealing Rudy, Alejandro, and a handful of armed Coast Guard tossing down a ladder. Your stomach dropped. Samantha won’t manage. She’s so weak, too frail, it’s one slip and she sinks into turbulent waves, and the clock on the Chloroform gas was ticking fast. It was now your time to play shepherd.

“Squink, you gotta’ climb. Don’t worry, I’m right behind you,” you shouted over the deafening chopping of helicopter blades and blasting music. Even with a gas mask concealing her entire face, you could feel the anxiety resonating off her like a furnace. The way her fingers curled, the way she froze like a deer in headlights. “I’ve got you,” you added calmly.

She took your offer, not that she had much of a choice, and caught the clambering rope ladder in her palms, looking over her shoulder to catch your reassuring nod. It takes a considerable amount of strength and willpower for you, a seasoned expert, to climb a rope ladder into a helicopter- especially in heels. However, sweet Samantha was going to have to push through something she’d definitely never done, with all odds against her. Frankly, rushing her was the only way to get her to climb- leaving her with even a moment to question if she could lift herself onto the next rung could be disastrous. One last glance over your shoulder, past Ghost’s ghoulish mask, to catch one last look at the girls under the desk. You swore you could see one of their heeled feet twitch. Time to go. 

Ghost followed immediately under you, ensuring you kept a rapid pace as you felt the weight of his presence weigh down the ropes beneath you. Climbing was easy for his stature, effortlessly clearing two rungs at a time. In a matter if seconds, he was practically nipping at your heels as if he was a herding dog. Price and Gaz held the ladder’s base as the rest of the team ascended, flashing firearm flashlights over quickly dissipating clouds of smoke. 

Waving your eyes to the ledge of the helo, you were met with the extended palms of Soap and Rudy, eagerly heaving you onto the platform, passing Alejandro as he held a sniper’s position on his stomach. You didn’t remember whose hand you grabbed, but whoever it was hoisted you onto welcome solid ground, staggering as you steadied yourself. Taking Samantha under your wing, you made yourselves small, tucking into the back corner of the helicopter, returning a stern nod to Soap. The girl was oddly still, not even responding to pry her mask off like you just had. Taking her face in your hands, in slow and deliberate motions, you unfurl the buckles that firmly attach the device to her face. 

Her eyes were glassy. Staring into oblivion. You shouldn’t be processing the emotions of the mission, not for someone of your station. In your position, you were supposed to be a soulless stiff machine, rolling through the organized and choreographed motions of a Sergeant on a rescue mission. It’s just that she reminds you so much of your sister. Carolyn. She was the same age as Samantha when it happened, and she even looked like her too. This is not the time or place to think about that. The way that she continued to clutch your wrist made it feel all too real, though you’d never let these emotions register on your demeanour. The land was coming into view, meaning you were about two minutes out from the seaside tarmac that you landed on only hours earlier.  

The helicopter landed so quickly that, for a moment, you were certain it was about to be a crash landing. Luckily, it was not. Dim and flashing lights rose into your vision, replacing the dark gathering rain clouds that obscured the stars. Finally, movement under your arm. Samantha was shaking like a leaf, as if only now did it actually click that she was in safe hands. She followed you like a shadow, gripping your wrist as if you’d drift away like a balloon if she wasn’t tethering you down to the earth. It didn’t take long to spot a pair of people approaching, a pack of Secret Service agents in blackout sunglasses orbiting them. 

Seeing the way Samantha’s parents hugged her was something that could make a grown man cry. If it weren’t for your emotions being overridden by the lingering adrenaline of maneuvering through an extremely deadly situation, you’d be a slobbering mess. Instead, you stood in obedient silence, shoulder to shoulder with your heavily armoured comrades, definitely sticking out like a sore thumb. Besides, it would be beyond inappropriate to express sympathy to the Senator and his family or even emote them in any way; this was your job. Another completed task. Nothing more, nothing less. It seemed your teammates concurred with this sentiment, standing tall and at attention, hardly even registering the soulful reunion before them. Now that the immediate task had been fulfilled, and the target was now firmly in the Secret Services’ hands, felt the energy shift to a more relaxed attitude.

A pair of Joe’s in suits and sunglasses briskly ushered the trio into a black SUV that sat in waiting. One of them shared a curt nod in your team’s direction, though retaining the lack of emotion on your face must have made you look beyond intimidating, leaving him to hurry away. For the first time since you boarded that cursed yacht, you took a deep breath. Or rather, the deepest breath you could take in the crushing pressure of the constricting dress. Only then did the self-consciousness kick in, and you looked down. 

That gaudy, embellished pistol you think you remember prying off some poor sucker was still wedged between your breasts. You blinked in disbelief, catching Soap stifling a bubbling laugh with furrowed brows. You shrugged with a sarcastic frown, and he shook his head. Fishing it out, it was remarkably warm to the touch, taking your time to roll your thumb over the exquisite gold dragon design along its side. Unquestionably worth a small fortune, though you’ll never know. It’ll be confiscated by Laswell or whoever, never to be seen again. What a waste.  

“‘Seems you’ll be home in time to give your goldfish its breakfast,” Price spoke up, indirectly celebrating the swiftness with the mission had been completed.

That irked you. He just came in at the last minute, swooped in and cuffed a couple of unconscious, drunk, and or high partygoers. You were the one that did the heavy lifting. He just got to play mall cop and probably didn’t even break a sweat. 

“I’ll have you know I have much more interesting plans when I get back than feeding my goldfish,” given the situation, you dismissed all formal code when it comes to speaking to your superiors. 

“Is that so? More grand than getting in the hot tub with your Russian sweetheart? ”

You forgot that Price knew Russian too. Your suspicions that they had open access to your communicators made your heart sink, though only one of the four could actually decipher your cringey utterances. That’s assuming Price wasn’t playing translator to his colleagues… Fuck. He seemed to take your hateful gaze as a valid answer, catching Soap stifle another laugh in your peripheral. They’re giving you every reason to tear them a new one, but it’s just so hard to stay truly mad at these fuckers. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Cricket,” he playfully punched your shoulder, “ya did good' in there.”

“I know I did,” you countered, rolling your jaw in agitation.

“Well what’re these grand plans back home?” he asked, interest posturing as an apology for his mockery. 

You took a moment to consider your words, passing your eyes over half-listening colleagues, Soap and Ghost carrying on one of their signature heated banter. Soap playfully patted Ghost’s body armour during the banter in a way that made Soap look like he was trying to pet a feral dog; sidefaced and cautious. As if Ghost could snap and bite his hand. 

“If you really care,” you paused for dramatic effect, shifting your weight in your now agonizing stilettos, “It’s actually my birthday this weekend, and I intend on tearing up the town with my girlfriends.” 

“I would’ve thought tonight was enough excitement for you,” he replied, grinning and scratching his beard, "Well, happy birthday in advance then."

“Well, it seems you don’t know me very well then.” 

He took your answer with a barking laugh, patting you on the shoulder and turning to shepherd Gaz and Soap to unload weapons onto the mobile armoury, taking your pistol off your hands as he went. Mechanical clicking ringing through the breezy night air, a sudden chill catching your bare shoulders. Despite everything, despite the horror of this evening, the night was beautiful. Warm gusts over tropical foliage made a soothing chorus, peaceful and serene. Eerily contrasted by the armoured and masked personnel still occupying the forested tarmac. 

“On days like today, I wish I could cruise around in a Halloween mask all day,” you chirped in Ghost’s direction, who still remained in your presence, “I think it would’ve made that whole mission a lot more bearable.”

“I think that’d be best for the lot of us,” he retorted, chuckling softly. 

“Oh come on,” you feigned offence, “you’ve gotta’ admit I clean up nice, Lieutenant,” pouting your lips like a duck sarcastically.

“I’ve seen better,” he huffed in response, smooth and calm, though his gaze was contrastingly hard and cold as he dragged his eyes over you. 

He’s seen better? The fuck is that supposed to mean? Feigned offence translated into genuine offence. He has no idea what you just went through, and there’s no way in hell you’re taking fashion advice from Diet Screamface. Suddenly, his eyes crawling over you felt like shards of glass. You don’t owe anything to the likes of him, no matter how many times he wordlessly stares down his nose at you and makes your blood run hot. His opinion means less than nothing to you, and your stomach heaved with agitation. The air was thick, humid and suddenly still, feeling like lightning could strike at any second. Palms heat, and you become increasingly aware of the tension around your chest that constricts your breathing. The only sounds were your pounding heartbeat and the faint, distant chatter of your colleagues bantering about nonsense. 

He’d crack under the pressure, I have no doubt. Fuck him. Fuck that smug prick. I’d like to see him do what I just did in there.  

Your eyes couldn’t lift off his. You refused to submit to his insult and be the first to cave, only praying that your eyes mirrored the way his bore into yours. His gaze was smug and half-lidded, you swore under that mask he must’ve had a smirk. What you wouldn’t do to jump up and smash that stupid skull plate like a mirror. And worst of all, you could tell that he knew that. He knew that he could slide under your skin, and rile you up. You’re too easy for him, too predictable. Fuck that stupid fucking mask. 

“Grant,” Laswell’s voice snapped you out of your showdown. Fuck, does that mean he wins? 

“Yes ma’am,” you returned, obediently. 

“That’s your ride back,” You followed her finger to land on a small Cessna, catching the nodding visor of your presumed pilot. “You did good. We’ll be in touch.”

Laswell chucked the duffle bag you had brought back to you, catching the underhanded toss in your forearms. Flickering your eyes back up, you were met with the same frigid gaze, sitting in the same position as if Laswell had never broken the stare. Just then, he breathed a short snicker, turning on his heels and walking toward the main hangar. That made your blood boil, and he knew it. You still needed to break him. Find what makes him tick, and crack him on the shore like an otter with a shell. For now, though, your ticket to a comfortable bed you weren't expecting to see for a while was waiting. Walking away was easy. Walking away from all of it. You didn't care about getting changed out of this goofy outfit, you just wanted to shave as much time as possible off your trip back to familiar territory. Popping the heavy door open, you flung your bag behind your seat, settling in for yet another flight. 

It’s always nerve-wracking to be in such a tiny plane. It’s like a strong gust of wind could send you tumbling into the ocean. The pilot was quiet. Something you were more than grateful for. He didn’t end up saying anything more than alerting you to prepare for takeoff, and kindly providing an estimated flight time. Unlike your travels from your previous mission, your operations in Mexico only left you with a brisk two-hour flight back home. The cockpit was filled with the calm white noise from the engine's low, steady whirring, and the trickle of nighttime rain starting to stream over the windshield. If it weren't almost morning, you could have easily drifted asleep. You'll be home before you even know it, and you'll have plenty of time to build up your self-confidence before you're out on the town for your birthday. Come hell or high water, looking forward to an opportunity to let loose, genuinely loose, will be something Laswell and co. won't be able to take from you. 

Chapter Text

The neighbourhood was chilled with morning dew, in that awesome purgatory between after the streetlights had turned off and before anyone had risen for their commutes. This time of day was almost exclusively reserved for early morning flights or the crescendo of late-night escapades. It was your favourite time of day because it was so silent, so still. Sunsets were beautiful and serene, the topic of countless ballads and poetry, but this early morning dimension was so personal, so intimate. At this time of the day, the world only belongs to you. 

The house was exactly how you left it, go figure. You'd expected more dust bunnies but knew that didn't make sense. The mission was less than 20 hours, yet it felt like a month. That topic is best addressed by dreams that will curse you by replaying every image from behind your eyelids as you sleep. However, like it or not, you knew that would be best for you. 

Drawing the curtains in preparation for the incoming blazing sunlight of the California afternoon, you settled into lockdown, your home to make for a crash landing site. However, technically, you had already landed. If the clock reads 04:53, you can get about four or five hours of sleep without completely ruining your sleep schedule. That's just a consequence you'll have to spend tomorrow with- today with. Flicking your phone to silence, you settled in to enjoy a moderately restful sleep, pleading with your mind to forgive your nerves and welcome the soothing rest you craved. 

—

Jingling house keys and a creaking front door made you realize you were standing upright before your mind caught up. Someone's at the front door. Nobody's supposed to be here. Raw panic gripped your throat as you darted toward the gun safe, except for the fact that your feet wouldn't move. Bare feet glued to the floor, forcing your mind to focus on listening instead. There it was. Chuck's signature cough he'd developed from decades of chainsmoking in the army. Recognition struck, and the paralyzing tension diffused down your feet to the cool wood floors. You remembered asking Chucky to pick up your goldfish, working with an expectation that you'd be on your previous mission for a long while. 

Shrugging into a housecoat, you tied the belt around your waist as you creaked your bedroom door open, peeking your head down the stairs to greet him. His shoulders, too, seemed to settle, as he was clearly not expecting company either. The thought of you drawing your firearms in a duel like cowboys in the Wild West made you laugh, and you trudged down the steps to sit on the second last stair. 

"Hello," you croaked, voice gravelly from having just woken up.

"Oh, I thought you said you were leaving yesterday."

"I did," you sighed, a breath of a laugh huffing over your tongue, "I guess it was pretty in and out."

He seemed skeptical, somehow off-put by your answer. He was probably shocked that you'd slept in this late, an unusual sight for a lifestyle that regularly calls for 04:00 wake-up calls. Crossing the distance to you from the doorway landing, he craned his neck to analyze you, making a bewildered face. You raised an eyebrow at him, urging him to spit out whatever he was ogling. 

"Were… were you wearing mascara on a mission?" The corner of Chucky's mouth rose as he furrowed his brows in amusement. 

Oh, Chuck. If you only knew the half of it. 

Lucky for you, he didn't pry. For all you knew, he probably thought you were disguising a late-night booty call for a 'military mission' and that the previous 'operation' was just a first date. Somehow, him leaving with that conclusion rested better on your conscience than correcting it, and you let the matter drop entirely. 

"Well, I was bringing this for you to have when you get back," he turned to show a small stack of boxed chocolates with a curling red bow cascading down the side. "It's your birthday present, though I expected you to receive it long after your birthday, whenever you got back."

"Oh, thank you, Chuck," you padded over to him, running the swirling gold letters of luxury boxed chocolate under your fingernails. 

"I'll let you rest. You look like you need it."

"Rude," you huffed. 

"Happy birthday, Baby Love," Chucky smiled in his twangy American accent, "See ya'."

He kissed your forehead tenderly, finally releasing you from a loving hug. Although you'd never guess it from a man like that, he gives the best hugs. With that, he was out the door, waving and sending him off as his truck whipped out of your driveway. In your housecoat's pocket, you felt a buzz. The phone screen's brightness caught you off guard, winging in response as it threatened to illuminate your dark kitchen. A contact called Therapy had left you a wall of text, along with missed calls from a private number. 

Hello [Name], this is Joan. I'm excited about our Therapy & Counselling appointment tomorrow. 

Text 1 to confirm the appointment time,

Text 2 to reschedule the appointment ($70 USD cancellation fee.) 

Forgetting to cancel your appointment before you left came with unexpected boons. Instead of swallowing a $70 cancellation fee, you'd get to enjoy the delights of mediocre military therapy. The automated, characterless text felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders; it's no longer your sole responsibility to try to unravel the events of the past few days- hours. A trained, experienced professional can start to pull at the threads that would snag in your mind and brush out all the kinks that'll keep you up at night. 

Another waiting room, this time significantly more calming in nature. Beige walls, beige carpet, and a cheap white noise machine playing ocean sounds on a tight 4-minute loop. It would have been calming if it weren't for your recent encounter on the sea that left you with a lingering but faint uneasiness. The tiny television in the corner of the room plays 24-hour live news feeds celebrating the safe return of Senator Geoff Moss' daughter. For a while there, you were able to comfortably pretend that the last few days hadn't happened, but it seems that the news media wanted to ensure you'd never let it down. On the bright side, you were a nameless, faceless agent in a mysteriously named 'elite task force' that was a small facet of the Secret Service's plan. You couldn't help but scoff. 

Having a mental health file made things so much easier. For a few years, therapy inherently agitated you. The thought of regurgitating every detail, emotion, and action in painstaking detail made your mouth tighten into a line. By the time you've finished explaining what happened, the session will be over. This time, you went in with a specific goal, specifically breaking the details of the past few missions with the confidence of receiving sound advice from someone who wasn't your ex-military uncle. While you couldn't break down the specifics of the task force's excursions, a few changed names and altered timelines let you confident in your ability to unravel your mind fully. Taking Marín's commentary about your mangled cuticles to heart, you made a pact with yourself to refuse to nervously pick at your nails any more, leaving your knee nervously bouncing instead.

The drive home was remarkably silent. Silent in your mind. Crashing thoughts and emotions in turbulent waters have settled to become more consistent. Still powerful, but now more predictable. Joan had helped you make sense of your actions and your eagerness to become agitated. Not that you ever said it aloud, you could put into words the tugging feeling that had hitched in your throat. Agency. Control. You need to have a say in your life, not just roll with the punches. An approaching birthday delivered the perfect amount of shame and self-disgust to motivate dreams to cross into reality. 

Realization struck. You knew what came next. Punching the nearest shopping mall's location into your car's GPS, you cranked your wheel to your new destination. A little retail therapy was next on the list, and you had a single goal. Something that you've been craving. A need has been aching in your core, like a call refusing to be answered, much like the private number's calling notification that you dismissed again. 

For now, agency starts with loving yourself and picking out the sluttiest, strappiest, most toe-curling outfit was precisely what would quench the bubbling desires in your mind. You didn't know what you expected to win. Probably nothing. You've never really been the type to bring a guy home for a lust-fueled evening. This time, you're not rolling with the punches. You're taking what you want. 

Malls had a way of making you nervous. There are big crowds, bright lights, and expansive open hallways. So overstimulating and vast. Each store was a little pocket of something different, like whiplash on your senses as passing a threshold offered entirely different music, smells, and visuals as far as the eye could see. Not to mention the soulless salespeople, reciting scripted lines of corporate-mandated dialogue with the hopes they will profoundly impact your shopping experience. It's not their fault they're commanded to ask if you need help with every glittery garment you roll between your fingers. 

Fashion had never really been your forté, though you'd scarcely say you were below average. A lifetime of standard-issue military garments involving black tee shirts, cargo pants, compression shirts, and the odd pair of frumpy jeans didn't make you stand out as a pariah of good taste. However, you did have a chorus of friends to be your compass. Girls you'd known for years. Some have been since grade school, others gathered from your time in university, the occasional friend of a friend, and one girl you just picked up as a friend on one of your previous birthday outings. 

Like a drill sergeant in basic training, these girls were ruthless in their instruction, running the group chat like the Navy. They commanded you to ditch the instinct you followed of picking up a revealing dress, an idea which you subconsciously agreed with. Instead, they ordered you to try on a series of two-piece sets that made you blink in disbelief. Squeezing into pinching shirts, disoriented by straps and lacing, you snapped dull, sterile poses clothed in garments that had no intention of displaying any modesty. You couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity, but eventually opted to surrender to the process. Once you caught yourself in the mirror, all your hesitation was barred because what you saw in the mirror made you look like a fucking superstar. 

Working in your singular input that you wear your favourite string of pearls necklace, the final consensus after the tedious debate was reached. A team of 5 of your best friends, armed with about 200 photos gathered over the hours you'd spent in the mall, had decided on a pale blue silk set. 

The plunging neckline that reached the bottom of your sternum made you blink in confusion as you wondered how a bra would fit into this. Perhaps that's part of the allure. Paired with the long-sleeve shirt was a matching mini-shirt that hugged every curve of your figure, restricting movement, though this time, you had no intention of wrestling gunmen. Although you'd never be satisfied with yourself, if the pack of ladies deemed this outfit superior, then who were you to argue. 

The makeup you stored back home was pretty pathetic, too. Expired makeup, a concept you had previously not been aware of, had been with you since grade school. Mascara, though sticky and functional, was beyond the point of any repair. You'll have to swallow your pride and surrender to the surprisingly gleeful advice of workers behind the makeup counter to support your shopping spree. When one of the workers asked what you did for a living, you sheepishly said that you were in the army, an answer that always elicits a flurry of further questions. Sometimes curiosity, usually shock. After all, you were quite short, and the thought of you with a machine gun decked out in camo in a proud beret was definitely a funny mental image. 

A handful of receipts later, numbers on which you refused to acknowledge, you had wrapped up your spree, juggling paper bags of goods into the back of your car. A pre-conceived notion that salespeople were all soulless zombies had been extinguished, replaced with more modest and charitable phrasing. They weren't all bad, and they, too, were following the orders from some unknown Big Brother who had a grand scheme in mind. However, you still had a lingering repulsion toward shopping malls. They're too open, with too many vantage points and too many windows to clear for snipers. 

Today was exhausting in more ways than one. Your couch became a welcome sight, whose comfort you had every intention of spending the rest of the day with. And that you did. Displaying your finds over your kitchen counter, you stood triumphantly and proudly, pleased with the looting. Your sergeant's salary would now more than cover this kind of expense, though force of habit said otherwise. For now, nobody was telling you that you couldn't fall asleep in front of the TV and polish off at least two boxes of birthday chocolates.  

The session of whatever dumb reality show you had been marathoning had long since timed out, replaced with a default network screen saver, and morning light streamed through the curtains into the room. You flip over your phone. 10:22. Another day spent in your own peaceful company, free of time restraints or rushing orders. Today, again, was yours to command. Do whatever you want, whether reading, watching more television, indulging in another bath, or whatever your heart desires. 

Tomorrow, your birthday will be a blur of energy and excitement from friendly faces, sharing drinks and dancing your thoughts away. One more sleep, and you'll get to spend an unforgettable birthday out on the town with some of your favourite people in the world. So alive, so free, and in control. Time couldn't pass fast enough.

Chapter Text

Seeing that the person in the mirror's movements matched your own was shocking. Makeup, carefully applied using methods beyond your comprehension, made your eyes look like a cartoon. If it weren't for the coven of yipping friends around you, you might have insisted the false eyelashes were too much. Long hair, soft and fragrant, spilled over your shoulders as the first sip of liquor started to breathe warmth into your system. One embarrassing story about a disastrous date led to an epic about having a scandalous one-night stand with a psychology professor, and the gaggle of girls was a whirlwind of preparation. Bubbling laughter erupted around you, eagerly fastening straps and clasping buckles on tight heels. 

After all, birthdays were precious to you. Each year, another year of life lived became more important to celebrate. One more year that you got to live. So many good people are gone before their time, and a bubbling sense of shame urged you to live each birthday to the fullest. Another private number's missed call. If it were work-related, it would come from the flip phone. There's no way in hell Laswell or anyone important would be dumb enough to contact your personal cell. This scam caller is persistent. 

If anything, one of the leading factors that inspired your change in heart and recent optimism about your body recalls your latest encounter. Being asked to parade yourself in front of evil men, smirking and snuggling with men that repulse you, made you fight for control of your own sexuality. Marín doesn't own you. Neither does Julien, and neither does Laswell. Tonight is all about reminding your conscience of that and reclaiming yourself. The sentiment was made easy by a batch of eager friends who are hungry to get you as drunk as possible on your birthday. Judging by the pace of drinks you were downing before leaving the house, the current mission was on schedule. Heels clacked down your porch stairs, funnelling into the back of some poor taxi driver's car, having to cooperate with six drunk women's hooting and hollering. 

It didn't take long until you surfed between bars, gauging each drink's price and finding the music playing at each location progressively better. Streetlights twinkled as the sidewalk rose to greet you with each staggering step. The night was electric, drinking in the humid air inside each bustling bar, endorphins dancing through your mind like your friends around you. It's like the DJs were reading your mind, finding the perfect song to make you sway your hips low and slow, lapping up the movements around you. 

You thought you were hallucinating. Someone must have slipped something into your drink, or maybe someone pricked you with a needle of some sort- because there's no way you just saw what you think you saw. No, it's real. That's Kyle- Kyle fucking Garrick. 

"Cricket!" Gaz shouted, sidling through the crowd to reach you, raising his palm to catch your attention above the jumping partygoers. 

"Lua answer yer' fucking phone!" Soap added, bounding past him, clearly already half in the bag. 

"How the fuck did you find my number, find me?" Your mind was still reeling with the recognition, the walls separating work and your social life now a distant memory. 

"Let's just say the SAS has their methods." Soap boomed, pulling you into a sidefaced hug. 

"You used SAS tracking technology to track my location?" you screamed, eyes wild with disbelief, pushing him off you as you couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. 

There was Ghost, too, who was eyeing you blankly. You refused to let him suck the life from you. Not today. Soap responded with a shrug and feigned innocence, leaving you to question the validity of his whole story. Either way, you weren't done with questions just yet. 

"Where's Price?"

"It wasn't the geezer's type a' crowd," Gaz added, "plus, it already took our combined effort to convince this fucker to come with'" he gestured to Ghost, who was side-eyeing some particularly rowdy patrons beside him. 

Seeing these guys not in full-body armour and tactical gear was so bizarre. They all looked so ordinary. Jeans and rolled-up dress shirts, Gaz wore a flannel. Ever the oddball, Ghost still didn't drop his mask; instead, opting for a privacy mask with the bottom half of a skull face printed on it and a black hoodie with the hood up that gave roughly the same amount of coverage as his regular balaclava. What did catch your attention was pale, brown hair that fell in strands in front of his face, where previously you had questioned if he even had hair under that mug. It made your heart skip. Reminding you of the last time you dared to see more of what he looked like under his mask, only to get snapped at like a shepherd nips at his lambs. Be it from alcohol-fueled confidence or the fact that this wasn't in the formal military setting, you decided that you no longer had any reason to fear him, and you insisted on making sure he knew that. 

"Well, you guys need to catch up with us if you want to roll with us," you slurred.

"Oh, don't worry," Gaz put his arm around you, nearly putting you in a chokehold, "we stopped at a couple a' nearby pubs to see if you were in them."

Satisfied with their answer, though still no less confused, a song change forced you and all your friends to the middle of the dance floor with a choir of squeals. Once again, returning to the lively music, though now with an odd and slightly unsettled exhilaration that surged into your veins. Deafening bass music that pounded through your chest and passing laughter exchanged with giddy friends did enough to dissuade your withholding. They're here because they wanted to be here. Be here for you. An excuse to let loose after back-to-back missions promised a life-or-death situation in each. 

The crowd parted for a split second to let you catch Soap and Ghost leaning at the bar as they kick their heads back to shoot down a shot of amber liquid, Ghost quickly slipping his mask back down to reassume its protection. Without the searing taste affecting them, they moved forward, raising their fingers immediately to the bartender to repeat the round. At least they weren't expecting you to play babysitter, and they seemed perfectly content to handle themselves independently, despite this country being a foreign land to the native Brits. 

Song after song had you bouncing on your toes, belting each lyric to the nostalgic music with friends' lacing fingertips, ensuring you keep pace with their dancing. Hypnotic, neon lights flashing beams across your vision, searing past washes of clouds spurting from fog machines, alcohol making every atom in your body alight with energy. Air waved over the exposed skin of your chest, and you felt your hands glide over your own body, downing every molecule of energy in the room. The silky blue two-piece that had been picked out for you embraced every curve of your body, providing delicate pressure to squeeze every inch of your body into just the right places. 

Enraptured by the music and focused on dancing to the pounding beat, the girls didn't notice you slip away. You caught a glimpse of Soap flirting with your friend, leaning back against the bar and whispering a seemingly hilarious story into her ear. His arm around her was placed in a way you doubt her deadbeat boyfriend would approve of, but she seemed more than eager to return the attention. The mental image was a vision you washed away with the fruitiest, sweetest cocktail the bartender could manage. The world became smoother, gliding with your eye movements, and thrumming music became almost algorithmic in your mind, consistent and delicious. 

Sweeping eyes across the bar, your vision narrowed in on Ghost, calmly watching the bounding dancing, a black shadow cast on the corner of the bar. He stood resting his shoulder on the back wall, as he'd seemed to stow himself into the corner against the bar, giving him an excellent sniping position. He didn't seem uncomfortable though, nor displeased, only calmly observing, flickering his eyes over passing partygoers. You had always craved the unattainable, the impossible. It made your blood burn. A simmering ember lit into a raging inferno in your chest as you had just poured metaphorical gasoline, in the form of alcohol, onto your bonfire. The music around you was nothing compared to the thrumming pulse in your ear, fingernails raking over clammy palms. The climax of a thunderous song was the final kick to jump-start you into movement. 

You had already closed the distance, slipping your fingertips over his veined knuckles, taking the top of his hand in your palm. His fingers were still chilled, wet from the glass of iced whiskey he held seconds ago. Lifting his hand from the surface of the bar, you laid it to rest on top of your eyes, providing temporary coverage of your vision. Raising your now free hand, your digits slithered across his Adam's apple, using your thumb to pry his mask to rest just over his nose. Your mouth collided with his, pressing glossy, sultry lips to taste him in a clashing surge of heat. You didn't even have time to consider if this was a good idea before his hand on your back was pressing your body into his. Feverish and urgent, tasting each other's mouths as his searching hands lapped at all the energy across your skin, seemingly content with your blindfold. He tasted like Kentucky whiskey, warm and spicy, snaking hot fingers to explore the side of his neck. Lively partygoers provided privacy in numbers, just another couple in the crowd caught up in the charged atmosphere. He urged you closer with every gasping breath, clashing hot tongues together in frantic passion. It felt so right, so necessary. Like the feeling of your desperate exploration of each other's mouths, and hungry panting was an oasis in a barren desert.

You didn't even remember parting the kiss before you were whipped away. Another chain of squealing friends dragged you away from your encounter, denying your mind a moment's rest to gather itself. Your forearm collided with the swinging door of the women's bathroom, meeting the stark, sterile, and particularly shocking lighting of a public bathroom as your eyes reeled to adjust. Friends, strangers, and a pair of two women making out in the corner were what you were met with when you stumbled into their presence. Your eyes were wide, wild and dazzled. They were saying something to one another, but the crashing heartbeat in your ears hampered your ability to hear them. 

"I just made out with my Lieutenant," you blurted, the words leaping from your throat.

"Is that a good thing?" One of the unfamiliar women spoke up.

"What's your rank again? Weren't you like a Sergeant or something?" Your friend spoke up, pushing up her eyelashes as she leaned into the mirror, "I can't remember if that's higher or lower."

"Oooh, like Saving Sergeant Ryan?" Added an eager, though thoroughly intoxicated girl in a stunning red dress, eyes wide with excitement.

"Sarah, it's Saving Private Ryan," another stranger corrected.

"Oh." 

"I'm so fucked," you breathed, a bubbling cackle betraying your seriousness, eyes wide and focusing to stare into nothingness. 

"Well, if you play your cards right..." your friend added, eliciting a chorus of hoots and hollers from the surrounding ladies before the topic shifted to something new. 

That wasn't quite the comfort you were seeking. You didn't want to fuck him. That was just a spur-of-the-moment, self-soothing and slightly horny decision. He's probably thinking the same thing, if he's even thinking about it at all. For all you know, he could be doing the same thing with the next giggling pair of tits that walked into his field of view. Too many possibilities and a lack of certainty left your mind swimming, blinking past the trepidation and smoothing down jumbled hair in the shared mirror. 

For the rest of your friends, sucking face with some random stranger at the bar was less than uncommon, eagerly listening to the details, though not particularly bewildered. You, however, had a million and one reasons to be bewildered. You crossed an uncrossable barrier, which could permanently mar your record. Sure, you were seeking agency, but you weren't expecting your first action to be to dance tongues with someone who you thought wanted you dead. 

Swallowing your restraint, the dance floor was now yours to command. Crackling with newfound confidence and a faint sense of lingering dread, nobody could tell you each song wasn't matched your heartbeat. Swaying and grinding with the motions against people you'd never see again, your mind dared to question if any of your other teammates had seen your brush with Ghost. That's a thought that's best pocketed for later. Right now, the only thing in the world that mattered was the intoxicating movements of your dimly lit ballroom. 

A pull at the back of your skirt sends you staggering backwards, nearly falling if you weren't stopped by what felt like a brick wall. That smell, Kentucky whiskey and musk. A gasp slipped from your lips, tilting your head back and seeing Ghost's hungry eyes staring down at you, craning above your vision. His body was hot, radiating languid heat, creating a sweltering inferno that matched yours. 

"Close your eyes, darling," he purred into your ear. 

You didn't need to be told twice, shutting your heavy eyelids and rolling your shoulders back to invite whatever mystery was incoming. His palm rested on your belly, securing you firmly to rest against him as he prepared something beside him. His chest was flush against your back, treacherously warm and solid. A lack of ocular stimuli left you whirling to identify surrounding sounds instead but returning empty-handed with the familiar pounding of lively club music. 

"Good. Now, open your mouth." His voice growled through you, sparking goosebumps and electricity to surge down your back.

Parting your lips, you surrendered yourself to whatever was about to happen, feeling cool air flood across your damp tongue. Your mind flickered to the thought of this being some sort of military hazing joke, but the way his hand reached around your neck and gently tilted your chin to face the ceiling left you reeling. In a second, cold liquid splattered into your mouth, catching droplets that dribbled down your chin. Whirring neurons scrambled to connect sensations to reason. Ghost had just spit a tequila shot into your waiting mouth. Worst of all, you obediently and eagerly gulped up the alcohol he spat into you, leaving your face flush with searing heat. He permitted you to close your mouth with gentle guidance on your jaw, allowing you to graciously swallow the bitter liquid as another shiver ran down your spine. His fingers slid over your molten skin, a cold hand splayed across your heaving belly, finding yourself feverishly pressing your whirling hips into him, slow and dangerous. This cannot be happening. You are so fucked. 

"You liked that, hm?," he breathed into your ear, voice gravelly and low.

"I've seen better." 

Chapter Text

You blinked in shock. Time moved at a snail's pace, though still not slow enough to let your mind catch up with what was happening. Despite all logic, all sense, your muscles worked to make you spin and face him, nearly tumbling over if it weren't for him catching you and letting out a huffing laugh. His hand slid over your eyes, blocking your view as he lowered his mask, before his other hand caressed the slope of your spine. Rhythmic, pounding music slammed through your chest as his lips once again seized yours in a parched, thirsting kiss. Sharing the bitter taste of tequila across your tongues, your lungs burned from oxygen deprivation, making you gasp and sputter against his invasion. Your body screamed for this, feeling the shirt around your chest constrict as you began to imagine the sight of him tearing it off you right then and there. 

Relenting his assault, you were left sucking in the air for a moment before his palm slipped from your eyes to grip your bicep, limply wrenching your body to follow him. If you had the capacity to blush deeper, you would, seeing flashes of familiar and unfamiliar faces in a blur as you passed. The girl in the red dress from earlier's eyes sparked with recognition as she pointed, letting out a squealing yell. She must have recognized your predicament. That, or she might have thought you were getting kidnapped by some masked assailant. Knowing how unsettling Ghost's presence can be, you can only hope it's the former, lest your encounter be interrupted by a SWAT team. 

His grip on your upper arm was harsh, gripping the soft silk under his fingers with crushing force. It only took a few fumbling steps to find yourself whisked past a swinging metal door, cold, fresh air surging into your lungs. Streetlights twinkled brightly, making you squint to adjust from the dim lighting inside. Staggering to understand where his heavy footsteps were leading you, your heart pounded in your chest. In the end, it wasn't a leading concern. It didn't matter because no matter where you end up, the outcome was going to be the same.

Sluggish identification clicked into place when he started whipping his head around to look for company, flickering in the same way you've seen those dark eyes scan for snipers on previous missions. It gave you a second to admire the way the muscles in his neck flexed when he turned, making your mouth water. Bystanders stumbling upon you should consider themselves lucky since every neuron was begging you to do this dance with him in the bustling club only moments ago. Alcohol-fueled conviction insisted that everything else in the world is secondary right now. 

Guiding you with his fingertips on your chest, the wall came to meet your back. Recognition and eagerness sparked in your mind as he stepped closer. His feet, planted like roots on either side of yours, locked you between a rock and a hard place, and his hands falling on your waist made it official. You were utterly caged, a fly in his web, and he had every intention of devouring you. Looking up through thick eyelashes, his eyes were a vision of intensity.

"You're gonna close your eyes, and keep them closed," His hand abruptly slipped over your exposed neck, calloused fingers gliding over the sensitive flesh, "understood?"

"Mmmhm," you hummed, obediently shutting them and leaning your head back against the bricks. 

"Is that how you say it?" he cooed lowly, playfully, yet dangerously, toying with you. His rough palm over your throat threatened to constrict, tapping his pointer finger on the side of your neck as he clicked his tongue in disapproval. 

"Yes sir," you purred, correcting.

His lone thumb gently pulled on your lower lip, urging your open mouth closer, though still under his calculated control. Hot breath ghosted over your teeth as he hovered hungrily over you. Every atom screamed to dig your nails into him and drink him in, but something about him made you sincerely doubt he would permit it. His presence was intoxicating and dangerous, like fully surrendering to the will of a wild animal that could rip out your jugular in an instant. 

The lack of stimulation left you in a caged void; you felt weightlessness take over as your knees threatened to buckle. The only sound was distant bassy music reverberating from next door and distant cackling from a group of smokers. The agony of heaving breath and the sensation of his proximity was rewarded with a surprisingly gentle kiss, which you interpreted as permission to delve into a fervent response against his lips. Bobbing in and out of gasps and frantically exploring one another's mouths, you returned to the same starved passion you shared earlier, now with the boon of likely privacy. 

A hand slipped under your shirt. Cold, deliberate fingers slid over your ribcage, eliciting a soft gasp from your lips that was swiftly smothered by another searing kiss. The lip gloss you wore earlier was a distant memory, feeling his hand slide over your spine and onto the hem of your skirt. Exploring with newfound confidence over his solid chest, fingers taking the role of your eyes, felt the curves and slopes of chiselled muscles through his cotton sweater. You couldn't help yourself anymore, and your body surged forward to connect with his in a desperate search to satisfy your raging wildfire. This is so fucked up. This is so fucked up. This cannot be happening, but God, it feels like it needs to. It has to. 

Cold, calloused fingers slide over the soft mound of your ass, eliciting a low groan from him between roiling kisses. His grip on your body wavered between bruising and hash to shockingly delicate and tender, working his hand down your rump to rest on the back of your thighs. An increase in pressure from his fingers made you identify his request, shifting your weight to allow him to guide your knee to rest on his hip, pinning you closer to the alley wall. Tender fingers slid over your thigh, sliding his palm over your now exposed ass, thanks to the creasing skirt. Urgent kissing followed as you felt what must be more than a notch in his jeans press against your weeping groin; all nerves were desperately alight with need. 

It was your turn to enter the fray. Commanding your fingertips to explore him as well, slipping a hand under the hood of his jumper, gripping soft, short hair under your knuckles. He seemed to enjoy the tight grip you held, driving him to push you further into the stony wall at your back. Grinding hips became increasingly insistent on finding a certain type of friction that you both knew how to satisfy, and the way your hand started to slide down his chest made him press against you even further. 

His kissing slowed to an eroding halt, curved fingertips smoothing over your skin. You pursued. The eager resistance you'd meet whenever you crashed your mouth into his was suddenly retreating under your lips. Desperately thirsting for more, you hitched your leg further up on his hip to connect your searing groins, eagerly goading him to continue the chase. No luck. His actions were slowing, ceasing, like a speeding steam train clambering to a halt. His lips parted from yours entirely, despite your resistance, forcing your mind to attempt to unravel the change in tone. 

"Stop…" he sighed, his tone eerily calm and stern, as he had already slid his mask back over his face. 

The world ground to a halt. Your mind began to redirect from firing on all cylinders to take in every inch of skin on yours to trying to wrap around the situation as your eyes opened to see him. Cold shock wrapped around your mind, fearing you'd somehow taken things too far without his approval. Fingers froze, and your hitched leg lowered to your side. As his body pulled away, chilled night air breathed across searing skin, now lacking the protection from your current company. 

"Is everything okay?" instinctively, your hand raised to touch the side of his face in an act of comfort. He jerked his head back to resist the action. 

"I can't… I can't do this," the sudden change in tone in his gravelly voice made you blink in disbelief as he continued, "I can't.'

An uneasy silence fell over the misty air; you found yourself trying to meet his gaze, which he dodged consistently, staring off to the side into oblivion. 

"What are you talking about?" Your voice squeaked from your mouth, forcing you to clear your throat to adjust to its change in usage. 

He sucked a sharp breath through his teeth, sternness falling over his dark gaze, the warmth of his embrace suddenly no longer desperately desired. There's something to the way he won't meet your gaze, though. He's feigning ambivalence, but there's something under that look. Years spent with Chucky and the like have left you uniquely equipped with the ability to read through those 'tough guy' characters. The more you read his face, the way he slid his hands into his sweater's pockets, the more it was spelled out so clearly. 

"There's more to this than you're letting on." You urged, searching. 

"It's not-... It's just that," He relented, taking time to work his words from his mind before finally breathing the truth into the conversation, "You're too… too unpredictable."

Another pause. The air became unsettlingly still, as if someone had just hit the pause button on a plane crash. A million thoughts surged through your mind and came up empty-handed as to what he could possibly mean. Unpredictable? 

"What do you mean-" Tenderness dissipated from your tone as a new, more flat. Insulted by his slight, agitation crossed your face as your mind worked over his words. 

"You're always making stupid fucking decisions on the missions. You don't listen, and you can't take orders. You tried to follow me into combat at Chita and would have certainly died. It was just a fluke that you identified those warheads, too." He chewed you out, his tone low and thick with rage. 

Breath caught in your throat. The faint taste of Kentucky whiskey sat motionless on your tongue as you wracked your mind to make sense of his onslaught. A flickering streetlight from the other side of the alley gave you brief glimpses of his hard gaze.

"Even in Mexico, remember when you were specifically told not to reveal your identity to the target until after the exfil was confirmed? Or did that go over your head, too? You probably don't even understand how dangerous of a position you put yourself in. If our team wasn’t as fast as we were, and if you had crossed into international waters, you’d be in a box in the ground" He whirred. 

"I-" you stammered.

"You're impulsive, and it's going to get you killed. You don't understand the danger you're in because the rest of the team is experienced enough to pick up the slack. And one of these days, we're gonna miss something." Ghost's voice cut through your skin like serrated daggers. 

Words were lost on you. Be it from whiplash from being halfway down this guy's throat a matter of seconds ago to him currently ripping you to shreds, or otherwise. Even if there weren't a drop of alcohol in your system, you wouldn't be able to will your leaded tongue to reply. 

"I can't-" he hesitated, his palm hovering as he froze in thought, "I-" another sigh, "I can't get close to someone who's so eager to get killed in combat."

"You're acting like I asked to get put in those situations, Simon," you spat back, the words slinging past your lips before you even registered their meaning. The heat that bloomed over your face was no longer the result of carnal lust but instead scorching outrage. 

The eyes that met yours were wild and spiteful, scorned and full of shock. You didn't even realize that you had said his first name, and were even more shocked by the fact that you remembered it. Months ago, on that plane to Russia with Laswell, somewhere you read his name and managed to commit it to memory. It struck a nerve with him. His forearm slammed across your collarbones in a flash, crashing you back into the brick wall.

"You don't get to call me that," his voice dripped with rage, "and no. You didn't ask. But your choices have consequences, and they're going to start catching up with you."

"Get the fuck off me," you growled in response, every muscle in your face tightening into a scowl. 

With that, he shoved off you, feeling your heels finally connect with the gravel beneath you. His breath was heaving. As was yours. An unreadably calm look flickered over his eyes for a second, like he was considering some further action. For what felt like an eternity, you both stood there, toiling over ways to rip each other apart, hate simmering behind your locked eyes. You blinked, and he was slinking out of the alleyway, just another hooded figure in black slipping into the suddenly freezing night air. Your gaze tracked him like a predator until you saw him completely disappear from sight behind another wall of brick until he was gone for good. You expected your breath to calm and your face to cool, but it just didn't. The rage lingered. It simmered under your skin like bubbling lava, the tension of your jaw threatening to split your teeth. 

Fuck him. Fuck that hateful asshole. I should've never kissed him. No wonder everyone who knows him doesn't touch him with a 10-foot pole. How dare he use whataboutisms to try to cut down my capabilities. He's just a hateful, cold, vicious piece of shit. 

The ball of your fist prickled with pain, and you realized you had slammed it repeatedly into the wall at your back. Hot huffs of breath surged from your throat like a huffing dragon as it took every straight-thinking neuron in your skull not to curse his name at the top of your lungs. Your phone illuminated your face in the alley, winging at the sudden invasion of the foreign light source. It's time to get back. Not to the club. Back home. 

Anger still enraptured you. Apathy and lingering self-disgust churned through your mind, staring blankly through the glass of the taxi's car window. If it weren't for the everpresent reek of cigarettes invading your senses, you might have been able to spend more of your brainpower toiling over your recent encounter.

Chapter Text

Streaming daylight cast wandering light beams across your dark bedroom, an unwelcome intrusion to your crash landing site. Commotion in your peripheral dragged your sleeping mind into this new dimension, turning your aching neck to see your phone screen alight with an incoming call. For a brief moment, you lived in blissful ignorance of what had happened only hours ago. However, that moment had since slipped through your fingertips, shooting a twinge of spite and horror through your foggy mind. 

The phone fell heavy in your palm, weighing your options for whether or not you should get more sleep. Who are you kidding? Sleep’s never been a privilege in your line of work. As expected, the notification displayed a missed call from a private number, just as a new call charged through your phone, making your blood run cold. With all the acidic hate in your system from the crescendo of last night, your internal monologue gauged whether it has the capacity to accept a snivelling apology from Ghost for being an asshole. A stitch of nausea plunged through your gut before you raised the phone to your ear.

“Hello?” your voice came out as a husky groan. A searing headache surged through your mind like crashing waves. 

“Cricket, open the door, we’re outside.” That unforgettable Scottish accent sounded through the speaker. 

For fuck’s sake, Soap, today’s not the day. The last thing you wanted to see was any reminder of your likely forfeit role in the armed services. He’s probably here to let you down easy and hand over your files. He must have heard your hesitation and opted to pursue it, knowing you’re always the type to be easily swayed. 

“Today, y’old bat.” He added, hearing Gaz in the background bark a laugh. 

“Fine.”

The mirror that passed your line of sight on your way down the stairs would have elicited some sense of shock or shame if you had any remaining self-respect left in you. Phantoms of dark eye makeup left heavy rings under your eyes and wild hair pulled into a presentable, though far from perfect, ponytail. How did they even find your house address? The record you were given had all geographic ties redacted. That’s a thought better muddled under less urgent circumstances. One last check over yourself to ensure you have the major clothing groups in check and the doorknob was creaking under your palm. A sudden surge of intruding sunlight made your face contort into a cringe as you gathered the faces of two of your comrades on your doorstep.

“Heeeey Cricket,” Soap cheered, pulling you into a side-faced hug as Gaz raised his hand in a polite wave. “We wanted to bring you over a birthday gift before we ship out again.”

“Ship out without me? I’m hurt.” You joked, though subtly prodding for additional information about your questionable employment. 

“Nah, it’s just tactical training,” Gaz piped up, “I think it’s water rescue this time.”

“They chuck us in a fuck-off-cold pool, and we have to drag these mannequins onto a helicopter ladder,” Soap groaned, coming entirely into view to show an armful of flowers with the exact wrapping they sold at the convenience store down the street. 

You accepted the armful of slightly withered assorted flowers, sharing a kind thank you with the group. It’s impossible to tell if those two pairs of eyes staring back at you were those of genuine companions looking to share a birthday gift or the gaze of two colleagues who saw what you did in the dark. Your mouth pressed into a thin line, awkwardly patting your fingertips on the doorframe and sucking a sigh in through your teeth.

“Well… will you come in for tea?” Your voice was stern and calm, but every muscle behind your carefully constructed smile begged them to decline. Ever the oblivious ones, they happily accepted your invitation. 

Despite having an equally inebriated night out, probably out later than you, too, they had the nerve to look absolutely peachy. No dark circles, uncouth hair or waxy skin, just neatly pressed SAS tee shirts and those same lazy grins. Catching a nosey but curious side-eyed gaze from your neighbour as you ushered these living weapons inside your home, reluctantly. 

Be it from time spent away from home for so long or a genuine indifference toward hot drinks, you were shamefully unequipped to serve tea to two Brits. What kind of tea do they drink anyway? It definitely wouldn’t be this Christmas Sugar Cookie tea mix. A more significant concern overtook you, as your typically tidy and organized living space looked like the wreckage of an airstrike. A single thong that you had no idea where it had come from was quickly whisked between a couch cushion just in time for them to lazily stroll into your open kitchen. 

“I can’t help but notice you’re down one,” you asked, probing about Ghost’s whereabouts, hopefully at the bottom of a river. 

“LT was up before both of us. He went for a jog around the area and said he’d meet us at the tarmac.” Soap responded plainly, casually strolling through your living space as if it’s a fine art museum and he’s on a field trip that had been begrudgingly dragged into the exhibits.

“We missed you last night. Plan A of your birthday gift was to buy you a drink.” Gaz spoke up eagerly, resting his hands politely in his pockets, unlike Soap, who was plucking polaroids off your fridge. 

“That’s still on the table, y’know,” Soap corrected, eliciting a theatrical winge from you that made him chuckle.  

“Ehh, I don’t tend to stay out too late on my nights out,” You sighed, shovelling armfuls of empty cans and bottles into the sink, flurrying fingers whipping the filled kettle onto its base. 

The two were exploring your space, completely unabashed by your frantic cleaning. There wasn’t a knick-knack or picture frame that wasn’t astutely studied, flipping through music records haphazardly, making you silently cringe. Soap had the nerve to flip over one of the half dozen empty chocolate boxes, presenting it to Gaz triumphantly with a bewildered grin.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Gaz inquired, picking up a framed photo in a lacquered frame. 

"Is she hot?" Soap interjected, half-joking, or so you hoped. 

“She’s dead.”

“Ah, apologies,” Gaz apologized awkwardly, cautiously setting the frame in its original place.

“This must be the man of the house!” Soap hollered from behind you, taking bounding steps to press his nose to the glass of your goldfish’s tank. 

“Chupacabra!” Gaz concurred, stepping beside Soap to watch the thoughtless creature meander around its tank.

Having these men running loose in your house was like herding cats. They’re obsessively curious and are too courageous, or stupid, to have any sense of self-censorship. It was the last thing you could have wished for in the morning after a night out. On the bright side, at least their asshole friend did you the courtesy of knowing he wouldn’t be welcome. Still, it is pretty entertaining to see these supersoldiers gush over a literal goldfish. Days ago, these two were dropping out of a helicopter to raid a cartel yacht off the coast of Mexico and shooting down their armed guards with pinpoint accuracy. 

“I swear to God he just winked at me,” he howled, pressing a fingertip into the glass. 

“Soap, that’s impossible. They don’t even have eyelids.” You grumbled in response, pouring the steaming water into a trilogy of mugs. 

“Sure they do, how do you think the fucker just winked at me. I saw it clear as day,” he pressed.

“Don’t call my fish a fucker,” you huffed, stifling a bubbling laugh.

It’s always been so hard to stay mad at these guys. They’re kind, moderately considerate, and damn good storytellers. They could have easily stayed for hours, tolerating your tea, and you tolerating them fumbling over one another to share gut-wrenching horror stories of missions gone haywire. They weren’t bashful about eating up all the food in your fridge, too, eating up everything in sight. Before you knew it, the two soldiers were back out the door, and you found yourself not as weary as when they first arrived. 

Days slurred along, leaving you ample opportunity to spend time alone with your soul-crushing thoughts. It gave you time to digest the bile and hatred that churned in your intestines, chewing over every word that you could recall. Having those two lunatics eat up all your food was more of a blessing in disguise, as it forced you to come out of hiding and face the sunlight that didn’t come from your fenced backyard. Rattling carts and swinging fluorescent lights overhead, you found yourself oddly triumphant in buying more short-term shelflife foods like fresh fruits and vegetables. Now that you’re becoming increasingly confident in not being called into work any time soon, you can finally explore your cooking abilities again. Self-heating MREs and vacuum-sealed granola for months on end have a way of eroding your tastebuds, something you refuse to let the military strip from your soul. The exotic and flavourful dishes, for one, were still marred with a sense of dread, knowing these flavours were only the consequence of crossing an uncrossable barrier. 

Wrath translated into apathy, which dabbled into deep, agonizing sadness on your longest nights. The nagging thirst for knowledge and research is the only thing stopping you from clocking into a psych ward. Now that your first attempt to control your circumstances went so spectacularly wrong, the days just blur by. Stark white pages of case studies printed on the backs of your eyelids when you fall asleep. Coffee doesn’t taste the same since hopelessness and simmering wrath are forever lingering on your tongue.

Another afternoon spent with your legs dangling in the murky pool in your backyard, green waters a torrent of sticks and leaves, and you couldn’t help but mourn. It had been just over three months since your last notification from Laswell- from anyone. You weren’t even sure if you had a job anymore, and maybe your paperwork was lost in the mail. Being left in the dark is agonizing. Uncertainty seems to be the name of the game when it comes to the special forces. Birds had the gall to sing as sweetly as ever, mismatched to your vicious internal monologue, staring daggers through their white underbellies from the dingy poolside. 

Thoughts lingered on Chupacabra. The strange little glimmer of hope in your life. After all, he’s so happy to swim around his bowl, ecstatic to explore the same plastic leaves and ceramic cave. The fish is so excited to gulp up every food flake and carry on with gleeful optimism. If only you could find that same optimism. Ultimately, your first attempt to take control of yourself failed spectacularly, and maybe that was the universe’s way to slap your wrist. Having a pet is just no longer suited for your life. In the best-case scenario, you’re back at work, and the fish will be shipped to the next best owner for a few weeks. In the worst case, you’re looking for a new job, and the gleeful little fish will constantly remind you of the life you’re just never set to be content with. No matter how much of a rock that thoughtless little bundle of cells might be, that's no way to leave a pet.

Luckily for Chupa, the neighbour’s daughter was more than happy to take on the new fish, and the lingering frown couldn’t help but be overshadowed with triumph. If nothing else, that’s one good decision that’s come out of the last few months. Before you knew it, the weeks that passed had since dissolved your disgust in your inability to care for a literal fucking goldfish. That sweet boy deserves better than what you had to offer.

Chapter Text

Like Chucky would say, enough with the pity party. Though you still haven't had the heart to tell him the truth of your dilemma. For all he knows, you've been on stand-by awaiting further instructions. Arguably a half-truth. Enough sulking. Five months of silence, five months of toiling over every mistake you've ever made, five months of pointlessly studying case studies and language reviews. On the bright side, you had managed to become conversationally adept in Portuguese, though that did little to satisfy you. The only odd thing was that the salary cheques rolled in every month, gasping in shock at the commas you found in your accounts, thanks to your recent pay raise. That's it. It's time for something different. It's time to take a trip back home; although it might not be home anymore, it's at least your birthplace. If anything, it's an excuse to escape this monotonous purgatory.

At least you didn't have to hunt for seat sales; instead, you just landed on the most recent flight you could find on your time. You still didn't have the heart to splurge on first-class seats. Be it modesty or a lack of self-respect. it's almost alarming to be in an airport, and not be in a frantic panic like a chicken with their head cut off, or exhausted to the brink of near death. Blasting dry heat washing over your senses pulled you from a dreamless sleep, blinking to adjust your eyes to beaming white snow out of the plane's window.

This town is much smaller than you remembered, maybe because you were just a kid when you left. With towns like this, time moves like cold molasses. The couple that greeted you at the sleepy Bed and Breakfast welcomed you with skeptical eyes into the dated floral guest room. Up here, there are scarcely any tourists, especially in the dead of winter. There's a certain peace in that, though, knowing that all these two locals with deep crow's feet and silver hair see you as just that. A stranger. Not one of them, not the lone survivor of the town's local tragedy. 

A stroll through the city plaza is almost exactly how you left it. The same dreary, slushy streets, broad faded street signs and sloping brick walls; a signature of 1980s architecture. A single clock tower stood vigil over the sleepy town, now marred with loosely painted-over graffiti and a few more cracks. Snow brought all the muted colours together, creating a grey panorama of a town frozen in the shape of its former glory, like those fish that lie on beds of ice in grocery stores. 

The time alone left you to consider yourself. Consider your life choices, your love choices, your career choices. What is this is the end of this road as a military linguist? Many universities would take you on as a professor; the consistency might be what you're craving. Or some cozy federal job where you're on a vast team sitting in a cubicle daily. You've always craved this trill, the danger in your life. Most importantly, you lusted for the feeling that your actions are impactful. It's a feeling that sets your nerves on fire and keeps the light from leaving your eyes. Thought that light was once entirely extinguished. 

Time in this town only reminds you of why you left. It reeks of nostalgia, a horrifying physical reminder of a time long past. People who have long passed, and when that version of yourself died slowly. You couldn't stand to look at it anymore. Unclenching your jaw made you realize that you'd chewn through your lip enough to draw blood, and blinking your eyes reminded you of how stern your gaze must be. 

The police report says you vomited, but all you remember was the feeling of your wet face in the crook of some cop's jacket. Waiting for hours in the creeping sunrise for EMS to arrive to shovel away your blanketed family. You snuck out that night; you couldn't handle the screaming and arguing because it was always about the same thing – nothing. Belligerent, nonsensical screaming about doom and disappointment from your mother, all falling on the ears of a wallflower father. You couldn't stand any of it. Just needed a night away, a night on a friend's couch. You'd be back before 4 AM before it was time to leave for school. Back before anyone could notice you've slipped away. 

Those glassy grey eyes staring up at you, once green and full of vigour, have forever been burned into your sleeping mind, occasionally jolting you from a waking sleep to a gasping breath. All of them, all three of your family members. Root and stem. No bundle of peace lilies or heartfelt eulogy will ever burn away the horror you walked in on. No thoughtful text or sympathetic hug will unburden you of the scent of rotten blood that still festers in your sinuses a decade later. She had every opportunity to make herself better, and she failed us. She failed me; she failed Dad. She failed Carolyn.  

What kind of mother are you to send me away into the void, to separate us all forever? You brought us into this world, our creator and our curse. I will never become you. 

Your sister always loved strawberries. Your earliest memory with her was fighting her away from your breakfast plate, swatting her away from the precious fruits, especially with their rarity in this northern region. The comradery of a sister, flesh and blood, was robbed from you. You were supposed to be there with her. Hold her in her final moments, join her in oblivion. Getting the plastic cartridge of strawberries was coded into your mind from decade-old muscle memory, swiftly tucking them into an old tee shirt. 

The next step was simple. Snowmobile rentals are easy to come by, and the furrowed gaze of the person you gathered the wethered keys from made you eager to flee to save yourself from an unwanted dialogue. These civilian units are much clunkier. They don't glide over the snow effortlessly like those military ones. The bright orange fuselage is almost more offensive on the eyes than their snow-camouflaged armoured counterparts you were familiar with, but it'll get the job done. After a short sputter and a half dozen attempts, the engine whirred to life, contentedly humming and awaiting command. 

A waft of gasoline slammed through your senses, flicking the acceleration to charge into the snowy wilderness. There was one spot that you loved. The spot where dad used to take you, he'd take you up to watch the northern lights dance across the stygian night sky. He'd tell you about his life and how he met your mother. He'd share his passion for painting. His lust for life and art. Mountains don't change much either over the years, as those same slopes and turns from when you were a girl were still as steep and treacherous as ever, though now significantly less gutwrenching. Experience with manic drivers, especially over snowdrifts, left you numb to the dangers of a hundred-foot drop into oblivion. 

There's the summit. Or rather, the summit you knew. In reality, you were far from the top, only a couple hundred feet up. In every direction, as far as the eye can see, pale glittering snow swirled over virgin wilderness, still just as lively as summertime under a blanket of snow. The sunlight shone in beams over proud pines, drinking in every spec of detail with wandering eyes. A small town that once felt like the biggest place in the world to a soulful little girl is now a tiny marble on the horizon through the eyes of the jaded woman she's become. Concluding your sweep, your eyes fell on your more immediate standings, evaluating your surroundings. This is a good spot. 

Patting your boots onto fluffy snow, you pat down a small platform- a pedestal. Buried in your coat pocket, you knelt down to unveil a bundle of strawberries you gingerly placed on the flattened snow. This was when you'd feel closest to your family. Time like this spent alive and breathing, things that were stripped from them long before their time, left you guilty. That masked fucker has no clue how much of a nerve he'd struck. But you'll never let him know that. You can only hope they're up there somewhere, behind those streaking clouds, shaking their heads at the mess you've made of your life. Even if not, it's a kind tribute to unburden your conscience. 

On your way back down, you met the figure of a short, haunched indigenous woman doubled over a long, glinting blade. Military instincts made you waver, but when she looked up to gauge your presence, you saw her delicately sheering the skin off a rabbit, still steaming from its extinguished body heat. Swallowing your instinctive panic, you smiled at her in greeting, which she warmly reciprocated, before flicking her knife back to the rabbit and making a tidy incision at its heel. Dismounting your rig, you crunched over powdery snow to stand with her, her gaze locked on her game. Dark hair fell in strands around her calm stare, bare fingers making clean work of the prize, mesmerizing and elegant. 

"Must be a lot of rabbits up here," you breathed, breaking into the lulling silence. 

She looked up to you momentarily, acknowledging your language, though not reciprocating. The sympathy in her gaze said she didn't understand your words. That's okay. That's ideal, really. You were sincerely hoping for no company for the rest of the day, but somehow, this woman was an exception. So there you stood, in tranquil silence on the twinkling mountainside, breathing in the cold air and sighing out long-held tension. You watched in her blissful company, watching her make clean work of three more rabbits, flickering her bloodied knife over raw leather to prepare for another. An unusual urge crept into your throat, a desire to speak your mind and unburden your last stone. 

"For all my life, I've been a victim of my circumstances. It's like I've been thrown into surging waters, and I'm just tumbling along with every crushing wave. The one time I tried to take control, I fucked up my life spectacularly. I just need someone to tell me I'm doing the right thing." Your voice came out like a sob, cracking under bubbling tears that stung against the cold wind.

She met your eyes, and you met hers. Despite the barrier of language and culture, in the end, you were just two souls up in the mountain. There was a kindness in those deep brown eyes, a soulfulness that made the chemistry in your mind change. She didn't know your story. She didn't even understand what you were currently saying. Yet, that human connection was all you needed to reignite your lust for life that had been a low, trembling ember. She smiled. It's like she knows what's churning in your mind. So there you stood, in the company of a strange woman, two galaxies colliding in this starless snowy universe. It left you thinking of how precious and short life is. Maybe Ghost had a point. But you'll never let him know that. This brief supernova of life we spend on this earth is too rare to dispose of by making stupid decisions. It's disrespectful to the ones you've lost to dispose of this life you've been given by making half-baked ideas based on whims and intuition. 

It took the sun threatening to set on you before you snapped out of your tranquil trance, spurred by the stranger grunting at you with a flicking chin movement. All good things must end, and it's time to get back. A calmness smoothed over jagged emotions, scratching an itch that even the best-paid therapist couldn't even attempt to reach. One last glance over your shoulder, and she had already long made her way, trudging on top of suffocating snowdrifts, disappearing behind blinding snow. Something whispered into your mind that she was some sort of guardian angel. 

Snowdrifts down the hill brought you home significantly faster now that you were descending. Before you knew it, you were resting crooked keys under the loose brick by the snowmobile rental, making the final trudge back to the bed and breakfast under flickering street lights. Screaming hinges invited you in, stepping over a lounging dog to climb the squealing stairs to your bedroom. Senses snapped into focus as you heard that signature buzzing sound. A phone vibrating on a thin wood table. Whipping your coat onto the bed, you clambered to stand in shock over the device. It's like seeing a call from an old ex. Do you answer and swallow the potential heartache? 

What the fuck am I talking about? Have I seriously been getting in my own head so deep that I'm inventing my own demons? It's just a job. It isn't supposed to be anything more than that. 

The humour of it all crashed over you like a raging tidal wave. Tearing yourself up over nothing. You only dreamed you hadn't spent more time enjoying yourself on the precious vacation you were given. After all, Laswell probably felt bad for putting you through that trainwreck of a mission in Mexico with the Senator's daughter, and this was just her form of apology. Or, perhaps it's neither, and it's just that they haven't needed you until just now. Almost certainly the latter. You flicked the thrumming device open with sluggish fingers from the biting cold. 

"Hello?"

"Grant. I hope you've been doing well," Laswell's voice crackled through the spotty reception. You both knew this was a formality and eventually, she'd divulge what she really wanted. 

"Never been better."

"That's good to hear. What's the soonest possible time you can be on the road?"

You paused, words catching in your throat on dry vocal cords. Staying to prepare yourself was a mistake last time, but you also left your uniform and personal equipment back in California. Clarity clicked into place.

"I can depart immediately, but I'm currently vacationing in Atlin." You figured she had seen your file enough, even beyond the redacted parts, to know that you were referring to your hometown.

"No issue. Head to that airport down the road. A plane will be there in an hour," she replied calmly. 

The timing of it all struck you. Of course she knew where you were. She probably knew what you had for breakfast last month. She likely fucking watched you spill your soul before that stranger on the mountaintop and was snickering in some booth with Graves and Price. It's not even worth asking if she can have a uniform prepared for you when you arrive, but if you're honest, the standard-issue tee shirts and cargos are your entire wardrobe anyway. 

"I'll be there."

Chapter Text

Somehow, you managed to get what felt like the best sleep of your life, being jolted awake by seatbelt lights signifying an incoming landing. At this point, you've mastered the ability to sleep on airplanes, preemptively catching up on sleep with an expectation of countless sleepless nights to come. Heavy engine rumbling, now lulling white noise, rather than earsplitting racket. Upon walking into the modest airport, a broad swirling sigh welcomed you to Belarus. Though you've long since adjusted to the fact that the first flight is always just a rough geographical estimation, the second or third flight will start to hone you in on your actual location. 

It was still nighttime, though a flick of your coat jacket to reveal your watch said it was the early morning. Just as you were orienting yourself and gauging if you have the time to buy a sandwich before you're locked into MREs for the next while, your phone buzzed in your pocket. After a brief panic to identify which pocket demanded a response, you mindlessly flipped open the vibrating device, casually strolling to a quiet area.

"Laswell."

"Grant, there's a shuttle waiting for you at gate Zulu 3, the driver will bring you to your next ride." Grave's voice surprisingly came through your end of the speaker, making you shake your head in confusion. 

"Understood," you replied calmly, now thoroughly awake. 

Craning your neck to see the airport directory, your eyebrows narrowed in confusion as the alphabet displayed stopped after K. It's not exactly the kind of thing you can ask for help for, considering this is all unquestionably top secret. An extra five minutes of tracing fingertips along the map showed tiny Belarusian letters that expressed that further gates were in the old building. With a destination in mind and an overpriced plastic-wrapped sandwich in hand, you found your shuttle driver waiting patiently at the far end of a mildewy carpeted foyer. Thoughtlessly climbing into the van with a stranger, once again subject to the whims of some grand scheme you'll never know, you were ferried to meet the pilot of a Huey helicopter on a distant tarmac. 

Despite your presumed new ability to sleep on planes, the booming engine of the industrial Huey must be a unique exception to your skills. The metal was cold, and the seating was thoroughly wethered like this specific helicopter has been in the service long past its prime. Wide awake and fiddling with your zipper, you sat in the empty cabin of the vehicle, your mind still chugging along trying to wrap itself around the new surroundings. Hours ago, you were mentally picturing how to structure your resume, and now you're half a world away, headed into another dire situation. They better not put you in a fucking dress again, though something tells you you're not in a position to barter. 

A familiar petite silhouette caught your eye as the aircraft lowered onto the grassy field, blonde bangs covered by a palm shielding her eyes from the gusting updraft. A vast, ice-kissed field glimmered in frozen dew rose to meet you as you collected your items to part ways with your coach. The strobe light illuminating the landing location made Laswell, and now Graves, glow against the dark abyss surrounding them. Eagerly hopping off the moment the Huey touched the grass to alleviate your aching tailbone, you flung your pack over your shoulder to approach the pair. 

"Good to see you again Grant, welcome to Verdansk. We're going to need your skills with this mission, but it comes with a caveat…" Laswell greeted you, ushering you to walk briskly into the base behind her. 

"Our Ukrainian communicator's security clearance hasn't come in yet, and this happens to be his hometown," Graves interjected, tapping a fistful of papers on his forearm. "That's a risk factor that we're hoping we can dodge," his posture looked like he was ready to tackle you if you took a step closer. As if rejecting whatever proposition he'll come to will result in him throwing you out like a bouncer. 

"We were expecting to have you on a communications team, but that could put us in a dangerous position," She added.

It almost sounded like they were trying to come to a point. They both turned on their heels to stop their steady pace and looked through you, searching. Their business casual outfits had an unsettling ability to make you feel like this was the farthest thing from a casual environment, as a distant glint of the rising sun illuminated their faces behind clouds of steamy breaths. They must have identified your skepticism of their point and continued their rhythm by concluding their ask. 

"We can't give you additional details until you agree to our request," Laswell sighed, eyeing Graves from the corner of her eye. 

"What can I do for you?" You replied confidently, biting back the urge to thrash them until they came forward with whatever fuckery they were asking of you. 

"The CIA and Ukraine are on thin ice right now since we kicked the Russian bee's nest next to them, and for all they know, it could have been anyone- including us." Laswell's voice was low and grave, searching your eyes to gauge your reaction.

"We need you to learn Ukrainian." Graves finally relented, crossing the finish line to arrive at the long-awaited point. "-And fast."

Ukrainian. That's crazy to ask someone to learn a language so fast, but the urgency in their voice and eyes glinting with desperation said you were in no position to say no. Especially with how sure you were that you'd lost your career no longer than 24 hours ago. It took you five months to become conversationally adept in Portuguese, but mastering the nuances of a whole language on a time crunch is just cruel and unusual. To be fair, Ukrainian is exceptionally similar to Russian, though that fails to include regional syntax and accents. Although you have a roughly 65% head start in learning it, that still leaves a soul-crushing remainder. 

"I can do it," you nodded, seeing glimmers of relief flickering in their stone faces. "Give me two weeks," your voice shocked you as they left your throat. 

"Make it one," Graves asserted, his southern drawl betraying his sternness. 

"Ten days," you insisted. 

"Done."

With that, Graves pressed the shirt sleeve of his rolled-up dress shirt against the latching door of a seemingly abandoned office complex. The proud swirling lettering of what you presumed was an office supplies store printed long since faded signage, creeping vines caressing every crack through the brick. The inside was just what you would expect. Dingy, thoroughly wethered carpet, disjointed cloth-covered cubicle units, and antique clunky computer monitors implied that this office must have been left as is since the '90s. Laswell charged forward, leading you past what must have been a once homely receptionist desk to a storage closet. Eyes flickered to drink in every detail of the hallway, catching wethered cracked tile floors illuminated under tinkering fluorescent lighting. 

You turned to see Laswell kneeling over something, Graves tucking his papers under his arm to help her. They parted to show a surprisingly modern-looking latch door, opening to a steel staircase leading to a basement unit. It looked like a chasm into the abyss until the clicking of a pull-string light switch illuminated the concrete floor at the base of the stairs. Obediently, you followed Laswell as she led you down the echoing staircase. You met a new pair of doors, which she promptly pressed past. To your delight, or horror, you met a series of all too familiar faces, bickering before a projector screen map of the local area. Price cited Xs and Os over points of interest on the whiteboard behind, flicking the dry-erase marker through gloved fingers. They hardly noticed your presence, save for Price, who nodded in acknowledgement before lurching into his following assertion. 

"We're sitting ducks if we stay here," he circled what looked like a street corner on the illuminated map, "we need to fall back so we have an easy out if shit hits the fan."

"And lose this position?" Gaz interjected, throwing his hands up in frustration, "We've dug our heels in." 

"They can't push us anywhere unless we choose to," Soap concurred. 

Laswell cleared her throat, making the rest of the task force swivel in their chairs to meet you, your hands awkwardly clasping behind your back as you felt sweat pool under your shirt. They looked more exhausted than you had expected of them. With tired eyes and wavering patience, they seemed more than eager to get back to discussing work. Even Ghost looked tired, though you only managed a glance into his eyes before the powers that be compelled you to dodge him. 

"Grant has agreed to help us. She'll be fluent and online in ten days." She called out triumphantly, crossing the small room to scoop a small stack of papers under her fingertips. 

"Good shit, Cricket," Soap blurted, pumping his fist and meeting you with a sly grin. 

You nodded in response, offering a tight-lipped smile to Soap's enthusiasm, though Graves and Laswell hardly gave you a choice. If anything, you were itching to get to sitting down and studying. You'll have to get your hands on a dictionary and a handful of Ukranian lexicon books. The sooner you can get to a quiet place to focus, the better.

"She wasn't in a position to say no," Ghost added coldly, "not with the tight perimeter we've spent months setting up." There's about his gruff Manchester accent that has a way of giving his words an extra edge. 

It's hard to say if Ghost is being particularly cold or if this is standard practice for him. If memory serves, he was always a bit of a frigid bastard, though your internal narrative insisted he had a particular distaste for you, one that you now reflected back to him. He held his gaze on you for longer than expected, boring into you to read some emotion or response you refused to display. He relented just as you were about to challenge him in response with a matching glare. 

Laswell crossed over to stand in front of the projected screen with Price before her audience of soldiers. Gaz swinging a squealing metal chair to face forward implies you join them and sit. Unfortunately for you, sitting with Ghost's presence at your side made your blood pressure spike with hatred, though you'd never let him know that. Cranking a dry-erase marker open, Laswell used her fist to erase someone's crude doodle of a goldfish holding a gun to write your name next to a list of "factors." She shifted on her hips before lunging into her speech.

"As Ghost kindly established, this has been a long-haul mission for us, and we have to be extremely cautious," she paused for a moment, catching a nod from Price before continuing. "This operation is entirely off the radar of the Ukrainian government, and we're hiding right under their noses. Four clicks directly west is a major military base."

Eyes flickered to the projected map, seeing a massive X over a sprawling compound, a short distance from an O denoting your current location. Your blood ran cold. That lightheadedness and weakness of dread breathed over your senses, finally understanding the soundproofed padding on the walls of the broad bunker. If it weren't so dim in the room, only illuminated by the projector's beam, you would have been trying to read the expressions of your teammates. To say this mission was undercover would be an understatement. 

"We're having trouble getting through to a group of Elders, who are having an open dispute with a local gang syndicate with close connections to a Russian cartel." Laswell's voice was stern and practiced like she was reading off an official report from memory. 

"I didn't happen to snuggle up to one of these cartel leaders in Mexico, did I?" you quipped, the callous joke leaving your throat before you even registered the appropriateness of humour in this context.

Gaz snorting a laugh beside you settled your nerves, as Laswell, too, swallowed a chuckle before continuing. 

"Unlikely. After months of unsuccessful attempts to stop the syndicate from taking control of the military zone, we're trying to negotiate with the Elders to form a temporary alliance against the coup."

How she expressed timidness about forming an alliance with the Elders suggested they were a force to be feared. Everybody in this situation seems at least a little morally grey, but the Elders appear to be the least grey. Ironic. The enemy of my enemy is my friend seems to be the name of the game for this mission as you chewed your raw lower lip to process the plan. 

"The Cartel have the Elders' family members as hostages, and the Elders have bunkered themselves down in a small city block," Laswell stepped closer, slapping down a stack of bleached white papers on a small coffee table before you. "It's a ruse. They don't have their families, and the pictures the Cartel gave them were altered. They're not real." Pages before you showed faces of bound women and children staring up at a camera with pleading eyes. 

"This is where you come in, Grant," Graves snapped you out of your meditation. "We want to drop leaflets overhead onto the Elders' barricaded area and communicate that the Cartel has no leverage over them." He tapped his fingers hotly on the paper to enunciate his urgency.

Your eyebrows furrowed, wracking your mind for logic in the complex situation. Not only do you have to scramble to learn a new language in ten days, but you'll then have to create content that will efficiently and thoroughly diffuse the situation. It's the kind of thing that you'd have one shot for. But there's a problem.

"This falls more into Psy-Op territory," you breathed, eyes locked into a blank stare, "I haven't been trained for this." As the words came out of your throat, speaking as you think, you realized your transgression, "-Sir."

You made the mistake of subconsciously meeting Ghost’s stare as you said the word, feeling a shard of ice slice through your gut. Mental fortitude willed you to resist blushing, refreshing yourself with the imagery of the fake hostage photos to drown out the bubbling drunken memories, fighting fire with jet fuel. 

"Do we have the wrong person then, Grant?" Graves added unmercifully as you felt every pair of eyes pierce through you.

"Negative, sir." Your voice came out stern and cold, so cold that it even shocked you, though you'd never let it register on your face, "Can I begin my studies?"

Chapter Text

What you assumed to be a small, quaint basement under an innocent office supplies store turned out to be anything but. Pushing past a swinging door with a significant amount of locks, you couldn't help but gasp as a vast underground garage came into view. It could easily hold a basketball court, a small stadium of raw concrete with low-hanging lights swinging on wires. The expansive garage was a broad, open room with two vehicles tucked into the nearest corner. Stepping beside the open door for a better view, you gathered information on your location. One of the vehicles was a tan military Humvee, the kind you've seen hundreds of times before, while the other was one of those white windowless vans your parents tell you to beware of. 

Walking toward the vehicles, you were hit with the overwhelming smell of rubber, a consequence of a scarcely ventilated underground bunker. As soon as you started wondering how the hell they'd get two vehicles down those metal stairs, you saw the shipping elevator come into view. Pipes and pistons are ready to elevate a grated platform into a hatch door near the ceiling. Once you'd approached the white van, she cranked the handle latch on the door, hauling it open to reveal a small desk and a bench-style car seat. Humour washed over your mind as you had once again been stowed into an impossibly small broom closet of a bedroom. 

"This will be your space, and you can find dictionaries and linguistic textbooks inside. They should have everything you'll need to learn the language." Laswell's voice was stern but kind, like she understood the absurdity. 

"Yes, ma'am."

She seemed to read your silent studying of the tight quarters as a reason to clarify your sleeping space, resting a palm on her hip. From the corner of your eye, you felt her staring at you as she fiddled with a paperclip on her stack of papers between her thumb and forefinger.

"There are only five bedrooms." she breathed.

"It's no problem, really," your voice came out as a polite laugh. 

Stepping up onto the elevated cabin of the van, you ducked your head to avoid thumping it on the dwarfish roof. Fingertips ran over a waist-high stack of glossy textbooks and sleek printed manuals, resting your aching thighs from crouching to sitting on your knees before the towering stack. Laswell seemed to have taken this as a sign of approval, and you heard clicking footsteps recede out of earshot. Flicking on the overhead light, how little it illuminated was almost humorous. There you sat, half a world away from where you were less than 24 hours ago, about to embark on a 10-day study spree to frantically learn an entire language. The gravity of the situation in the form of faint lightheadedness struck you, threatening to cripple your confidence. Sure, you had a solid head start by having Russian as a foundation, but that still left a staggering amount of knowledge to cram in under two weeks. A crunch that would put the toughest university class to shame.

So now it begins. Cracking open the starchy covers of brand-new textbooks, you stood- as tall as you could- and tried to map out your strategy from a bird's eye view. Clicking to attention one of the bundles of ballpoint pens, you scrawled 10 squares, signifying 10 days to work. For the first two days, you'll work on familiarizing yourself with shared words and grammar styles between Ukrainian and Russian. Days three to five will be the intensive study days, taking advantage of the tidy stack of blank flash cards that were conveniently tucked under the calculator, whose purpose you struggled to grasp. From days six to eight, it's all about practicing pronunciation and running tight language drills on yourself to ensure you're emphasizing the right syllables when you vocalize your practice. That leaves the last two days for running final tests on areas you deemed yourself weak on and a single day as a grace period in case things go sideways. Confident with the scheme, the plan was set in stone. It didn't take long before the rhythm of the study habits enraptured you for the day, an aching stomach alerting you to the fact that it must be time to eat. And this time, you refused to let your priority on work coax your body into rapid weight loss from near starvation.

Days came and went, blurring together thanks to the lack of a day-night cycle from the rising and setting sun. On one of your trips to the restroom, along with an excuse to stretch your tense legs, you met the boys after just coming in from a run or some sort of workout session. Considering the mud on their boots, they must have gone into those piney woods you saw when you landed. You made the mistake of bleating about how much you would've enjoyed seeing the sunlight, a testament which would have consequences later on. At some point, after another handful of hours spent in the spine of a textbook, you looked up. Smiling and shaking your head, you set your eyes on a poorly drawn picture of a tree and cartooney sunshine taped to the small window on the door of the van. Someone's sick joke to make fun of your whinging about missing fresh air. It was fitting, though. It was just the morale boost you needed to remind you to swallow that creeping feeling of despondency and get back to wrapping your head around this foreign language. 

Right when you begin to think you understand the lexicographic way to pronounce the word with those swirling Latin letters, your confidence is dashed as you speak it aloud. Step by step, brick by brick, you suffer agonizingly rereading the same basic sentences until the syllables roll off your tongue according to the textbook's insistence. The problem with learning a language based on a textbook is that it leaves you blindly trusting the assertions of a textbook that could have been written decades ago. Although Laswell kindly got you the most recent editions of these laminated texts, you knew all too well how slow linguistic innovations can be. 

There's just this one thing that keeps nagging at you. Tugging on your mind like a snagged thread. The more time you spend with the language, the more of a grasp you get on the way Ukrainian grammar focuses on relationship and social rank, and the more it dawns on you. This plan, dropping information leaflets from an overhead plane, could never work. It doesn't make sense for the language. It doesn't make sense for the people reading the pamphlets. Linguistics 101 says that the method of delivery gives valuable context to the message, and everything about this message screams that this is a foreign intervention. Fingertips trailed around every groove of the steel fuselage of the box you had spent the past four days in, seeing lingering phantoms of bleached paper when you closed your eyes.

Day after day, sleeping in the cramped pullout seat that formed a makeshift couch, you spent every ounce of time between alertness and slumber thinking about the plan. This language's distinct cultural and societal weight makes it unique from others. The words mean more than sounds from your throat or shapes on paper. The inflections and eye contact from the speaking deliver just as much information as a carefully constructed sentence or paragraph. More time spent studying only solidified your resolve, as you recently passed the halfway mark of your allotted study time. Be it from genuine conviction or a touch of stir craziness, you jotted your thoughts onto one of your sprawling loose papers and prepared for an offensive. This cannot work. This message just can't be communicated authentically with this method. Especially since the Elders are already skeptical of the allegiances of the local military base, they'll be entirely dismissive of any attempts to infiltrate their ranks from a military approach. They have no way of knowing if the nearby base flying their flags is secretly held hostage by Russian occupation. If you went forward with the original plan, you'll just be delivering a bonus shipment of toilet paper to these Elders. 

Raising to your feet caused a waterfall of pinpoint prickling to surge down your legs as you adjusted to a standing position. Like a trial by fire, you stride forward, leaping off the bumper of the truck to hit the ground with an explosive reaction from your stiff muscles. Taking advantage of a surge of confidence, you made your way to the basement's main room. You pushed open the door and met three pairs of eyes, along with Soap who was doing pull-ups on the doorframe, who dropped down to meet you. The way you pushed the door open must have made your urgency clear, as they all looked at you with shock and bewilderment. 

"I'd like to talk about the plan."

"Okay sergeant," Price spoke for the group, tilting his head to the other three to bring them to gather in the seats in front of the whiteboard. 

"The PsyOp plan won't work. It couldn't, no matter how much evidence we have. We have to do something different." You barely even gave them time to fully find their seating before you started exclaiming your rambling thoughts.

"What?" Soap blurted, baffled. 

"We need to think about it from their perspective. This group of people has been here for generations, and they're dealing with an enemy that puts kids in chains. These people are stubborn, loyal, and aggressively resistant to foreign intervention in their politics. This is their territory, and they'll fight tooth and nail for every pebble."

The group was stern and grave. Four pairs of eyes boring into your soul from a seated position, as if any sudden movement you might make could cause them to lunge at you like a startled animal. Betrayed by their lounging positions in the metal chairs, you recognized those cold faces as anything but casual. All four of them were waiting on your next word with bated breath, making you will your voice not crack under the rising pressure as you continued. 

"Do you think it'd be beyond the cartel's repertoire to lie about the hostages so they can infiltrate their barricade and wipe them out from the inside?" You point at the whiteboard with the projected map, taking turns to retain cold eye contact with each of them, "A bunch of grizzled, jaded leaders are going to be a lot more skeptical of CIA, NATO, or SAS intervention- even if they don't know it's us. They will not listen to anyone unless they're one of their own."

"Well, what's your plan then?" Price spoke for the group, gruff and cutting. 

"I go in and talk to them face to face."

"Absolutely not," Price started, waving his hand dismissively. "It's like you said, we're dealing with an enemy that puts kids in chains. The Elders would do far worse to you if they think you're backed by the Russians."

"I know," You stopped your passive rocking, solidifying your ironclad conviction. "That's why I want to bring in one of the 'hostages' with me."

A wave of expressions washed over the crowd, all a variation of outrage and dismissal. The energy in the room crackled with doubt, frustration, and hesitation. Price shook his head in frustrated disbelief, Soap holding your stare with a prying gaze. You came into their territory, their field of expertise, and told them how to do their jobs. You might be the same rank as half of them, but you were nowhere near a tactical strategist's position, and yet your certainness remained static. 

It was Gaz and Ghost whose faces stayed grave and unwavering like they were taking their time to roll your proposition between their fangs. The silence continued for what felt like minutes, turning to hours as the four worked over the strategy through simulations mapped out behind cold stares. 

"Alright," Gaz rose to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest, "let's say we do it. How do you get the 'hostage'?"

Like you promised to yourself on the mountaintop, jaded and desolate, you vowed to be done with half-baked plans. Lucky for your suspicious audience, you had thought that out as well.

"Laswell has profiles on all the hostages the Cartel claims to have. When she showed me the images, I saw that she had gathered intel on each of those faces. I know they're storing the wives and children of the Elders in a guarded housing center southeast of here. Since the mission has been going on for so long, they let the adult women leave the secure facility to go to work and buy groceries."

"Okay, what then?" Price spoke, as he too stood up. He was still skeptically holding your gaze with piercing blue eyes, but was now walking toward the whiteboard to erase the notes about the PsyOp plan with his fist. 

"In a few days, I'll be fluent in Ukrainian. In the meantime, Laswell gets intel on the movements of an adult target, and I meet them undercover when they leave the facility and bring them to the Elders' barricade. From there, I can convince them from the inside and speak to them in a way that will actually resonate."

"We'll need to hold a tight overwatch then," Soap finally contributed to the conversation, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. "We have to be right up their asses in case things go sideways," catching agreeing nods from Price, who started jotting notes with the squeaking dry-erase marker. 

"Your Ukrainian better be immaculate, then." Ghost added coldly, his unsettlingly calm expression unwavering, brown eyes boring into yours. 

"Then can I get back to studying?"

Captain Price dismissed you by tilting his chin toward the door to the garage you came from, as you knew that further assertions into their realm of expertise would be far from welcome. Turning on your heels like a dutiful soldier, you marched back to your workspace. A beaming grin pulled at your cheeks, borderline euphoric as cascading tension diffused through your system. You did it. Your chest felt charged with triumph, and a pang of anxiety promised to undo your vivacity as you realized you had just inserted yourself onto the front line of this violent conflict. Swinging yourself back into the windowless van, you settled into your cocoon, ecstatic electricity emitting from your bones radiating off the thin metal walls. Your mind spun to gather yourself after successfully telling these supersoldiers, these titans, how to do their job. Best of all, you proved to yourself that you can trust your own judgement again and made that masked fucker eat his words. 

Your cramped office felt less like a cardboard box, and more like a grand throne as the riveted metal and chevron-patterned couch unit bowed to greet you. A new sense of optimism made the self-heating meals whichever of your teammates placed outside your sliding door taste better and more fulfilling, fueling you to continue studying. Staring at the ceiling of the tin coffin, you smiled with satisfaction, feeling genuine progress in your studies, permitting your mind to wander off-topic for a few minutes before you sleep. Thoughts danced over memories, pleasant and satisfying, until they reached that one memory. That one spotty memory of that dark alley in that tight silk skirt. Your stomach tightened, and you willed your mind to redirect. Just as you shifted your posture in the musty bench-style bed, you heard something out your door. Blood froze. It sounded like a footstep. Your lungs seared in your chest as your breath held, trying to hone in to ingest all sounds and vibrations. Nothing. Spinning with heightened nerves, you knew exactly what you heard. A single, scuffing footstep just outside the door of the van that has been your living space. Too exhausted to care, you gave in to the benefit of the doubt that it's probably just cabin fever and submitted to your heavy eyelids. 

It took Price lecturing you to get up and stretch for you to realize how antisocial you'd been, making you vow to speak to the group at least once daily. After a snorting laugh, you agreed to abide by his terms. On one of your daily excursions, you caught the gaggle of troopers discussing their locations on the quickly approaching engagement date. A crude drawing of a cricket, more like an oval with some legs, denoted your location when you enter the compound. Swiping on the laptop changed the slide, showing a street view of a small grocery store just around the corner from your current location. They had these streets memorized, down to every grey brick on each street corner, dusted with a thin layer of snow. You'll squeeze all that vital information into your memory if it's manageable. 

During your two-minute shower, the realization hit you that you had less than two days remaining to master the language. A twang of panic surged through your cold blood, and the frigid bottled water on your skin had an adverse effect on your hissing nerves. You practically jogged back to your van, catching the tracking eyes of your teammates in your peripheral. You must look crazed, but at this point, you just might be. Failure was not an option for you. Not just so the Russian Cartel could take hold of a vital military base or even to service your country; you needed to succeed to prove to yourself that you could. With enough willpower and a touch of vitamin D deprivation, you can do anything- and do it right.

Chapter Text

Despite a 06:00 wake-up call, it seemed like the boys had been awake long before you. The only thing stopping you from being certain they were all vampires was the mountains of food and coffee they all consumed daily. They've got to maintain those hungry muscles somehow, but at this point, it's just becoming shocking. Ghost still evaded the non-vampire clearance, though, as it occurred to you that you'd never seen him eat. Making your way into the dim room, you settled onto one of the squealing metal chairs next to Gaz. Price stood in front of the whiteboard, face painted by greyscale imagery of the town map thanks to the projector's beam, only catching reprieve from the blinding light thanks to the brim of that stupid signature hat of his. 

"Cricket will be meeting Mariya Kobzar, wife of Sergei Kobzar, in the Atlas market on the corner of Barakett Promenade West. Mariya is permitted outside travel every second Tuesday at 09:45 and is expected to be back at the housing center no later than 11:00. Sergei loves his wife fiercely, and he'll do anything for her. That makes him their weak point." Price's speech directed toward you reflected the scrawling notes across the board.

Mariya was her husband's high school sweetheart, sharing three young children with him who are all kept under tight watch at the housing compound she came from. As an elementary school teacher, she's a dearly beloved and trusted figure in the community. Her reputation in the community could be rivalled by her husband, Sergei, upholding strong family values in the town. He would be beside himself with panic ever since the Russian Cartel sent those edited hostage photos of his wife and children. For all Mariya knows, Sergei is being held up by a council of elders, in which his participation is only conscripted by his high-ranking council member father, who is threatening to turn those cobblestone streets into a battlefield. It's a microcosm of a situation reflected in dozens of those armed Elders, and their panic makes them sloppy. 

"They have the Stadium in town on total lockdown," Price's booming voice eliminated all residue of sleep from your system, jolting you to attention. "Cricket will bring Mrs. Kobzar along Tavorsk Park street until she reaches the barricade. Ghost will be holding a sniper's position over Cricket until the entry is confirmed, then he'll rendezvous with the Alfa team on the ground and be prepared for entry if shit hits the fan."

A jarring pause ripped through the basement situation room, cutting through the tension simmering across concrete walls. You're as prepared as you'll ever be, and by the looks of your thoroughly kitted teammates, they seem to be too. Grey and beige jackets will help them effortlessly blend into the scenery of the snow-kissed cityscape; thick kevlar and night vision helmets under their arms left them more than equipped to be the immortal sentries they needed to be. 

"Understood?" Once more, Price's voice surged through your racing mind. 

The plan had been drilled into your head previously, only hours before when you went to bed. This was just the morning refresh that will leave no room for confusion about everyone's role. It seems that the rest of the crew had been reviewing the minute details before you woke up, as there are significantly more dry-erase markings over the whiteboard since when you went to bed.

"Yes sir," you all vocalized in response as Laswell pushed past swinging doors behind you. 

That nasty habit of picking at your nails returned with a vengeance as your mind spun to grapple with the mission, the language, and the map, all while Soap annoyingly bounced a tennis ball off a wall. A tap on your shoulder made you flinch, catching the attention of the habitually calm task force as Laswell ushered you to follow her. The thought of your wardrobe hadn't even been on your radar until Laswell handed you a thick, bulky black vest that made your arm buckle under its weight. Reading context clues, you shrugged off your hoodie to slip the cool metal-plated bulletproof vest over your chest, separated from your skin only by the thin sports bra you had already equipped. These guys have seen people's heads explode into a pink mist, so you pinned them as being far from the type to get bashful at a dressing woman. She wasn't finished with your uniform, handing you a shiny, navy blue puffer jacket that reached your knees, cool to the touch as it skimmed over your bare arms. With your attention focused on bringing the metal zipper over the hump of the vest, Laswell wrapping a scratchy scarf around your head made you jump once again. The scarf wrapped twice around your head left your hair entirely covered, tucking neatly into your jacket as the zipper finally cooperated. 

"We move out in 40," Laswell nodded as she spoke, sharing one with Price and the team. "You've got this, Cricket," She added, low and personal, making you grin weakly as your callsign sounded so foreign from her. 

Concluding his barking order to Ghost, Price stepped past him with a pat on the shoulder to come meet you. A dark object came into your view from where your eyes rested on the floor tiles and gestured toward you in a motion for you to take it. Slipping the heavy dark object in your ungloved fingers, you flicked the hilt of a short dagger an inch out of its sheath. Your eyes met his, though he had already met yours. Staring down his nose at you, his cross-armed posture suggested he was testing your metal to see if you had what it took. 

"No guns," he asserted, as he must have deemed your posture to be skeptical of your current equipment. "They'll rough you up if they find a knife. They'll skin you if they find a gun. Both could save your life." His words were icy and horrifying, but laden with the blunt wisdom of someone who knew this setting all too well. 

"Yes, sir."

You didn't have the luxury of transit from a Humvee, nor did you get to hitch a ride in your mobile office you've spent the last 10 days in. Your fate was to walk along the grey, snow-dusted roads only occasionally graced by the swinging headlights of a passing car, van, or the odd tank. Overcast skies basked the encroaching town in a halo of grey light, distant blocks on the horizon becoming identifiable as soaring brick apartments. The city was sixteen minutes out from your current position, as Price's voice reminded you on the radio in your ear, catching the sound of a humming engine in the background. 

Unstable feet on dry snow made you fumble as your mind rehearsed your script for the umpteenth time behind a focused gaze. The boots Laswell gave you were chafing, poorly fitting and slightly too big, but they suited the appearance of the mission better than the bulky hiking boots you were equipped with when you arrived. The repercussion of not having time to prepare your wardrobe for the environment before you leave. After what felt like an eternity, a cracked, uneven sidewalk parted for the inner city's grey cobblestone and smooth pavement. 

Block 18, then there's the BCH TV station on your right. Once you reach the river, take the bridge just after block 14 and follow that road until you see the Atlas Market at the end of the street. That's the route that Price made you repeat to him four separate times to ensure it's drilled into your psyche. It's a winding route that's far from a direct passage, but it's the more believable path of someone taking a morning commute from the nearby apartments that conveniently dodges the surveillance of stationary cameras. Every passing landmark made the BPM of your heart rate elevate, feeling previously considered insufficient winter gear to begin to feel like a boiling kettle. The kevlar and steel-plated vest wasn't exactly what you would describe as breathable. 

The town was on edge. No civilians wandering the street, no elderly couples sauntering through sprawling parks. For 09:12 on a Tuesday, there was no sign of kids headed to the school you saw by the river. The only signs of life were armoured vehicles whirring past and moving curtains behind windows whenever you raised your eyes from the concrete. You raised the scarf over your nose and lowered your eyes again. One could easily be fooled into thinking the town was abandoned at a glance, but with sharp eyes, you can see a thrumming, steady heartbeat of life just under a cover of brick, wood, and sheer lace curtains. 

Sliding doors welcomed you as you passed under the flickering Atlas Grocery sign. A symphony of that low humming from whining LED light fixtures basked the quaint marketplace in an eerie blue-grey glow. Towering shelves separated narrow isles, passing the teenaged cashier to rest the handle of a metal wire basket over your forearm. For the moment, you were killing time, signified by Laswell relaying over the radio in your ear to the waiting team that you were in position. It hadn't even occurred to you that Laswell might have instilled a camera somewhere on this jacket, though any documentation of your death would be welcome at this point. Missing ceiling tiles created phantom images of snipers' barrels peeking through the starchy white tiles, almost expecting to catch the white flash of a sniper's scope at any moment. 

Running your thumb over a glossy persimmon, pondering its sheen and firmness as if it were vital to your survival, you caught movement at the sliding door from the corner of your eyes. The CCTV screenshots Laswell showed you earlier manifested in the flesh, identifying the plum-coloured jacket with a fur collar that was cited as Mariya Kobzar. Laswell's voice again calls through your radio, concurring with your observation. Your heart skipped, and the persimmon in your palm gained a slick sheen of sweat as you rolled it between your fingers. That will have to be someone else's misfortune, but unfortunately, you have bigger priorities. 

Placing a bundle of leafy carrots into your basket, you made special care to make your observances of the target brief, rare, but thorough. As she entered and collected her own basket onto her forearm, her eyes flickered to yours momentarily before approaching your peripheral to consider the fresh goods. Hold- she's exchanging words with the cashier. Hold- she's still too close to the door. Okay, this was your chance. You just need her to take a few more steps before she slips past the all-seeing eye of the security camera. Just a few more steps Mrs. Kobzar, come on. 

"Mariya, I need to speak with you," you spoke plainly, shoulder to shoulder with her.

"Who are you?" Mariya's steely blue eyes were wild, her posture tilting away from you though you maintained your same distance. 

"I have an interest in keeping the Russian Cartel out of Verdansk. Mister Kobzar needs to speak with you. Can I count on your support?" Your voice came from your lips low, almost a whisper, but with the thick confidence you needed it to portray. 

Your verbiage was textbook Ukrainian. It had to be. Although it still felt like a Hail Mary, the recognition on her face slightly dulled your stabbing nerves. Taking her elbow in your palm, you gestured for her to walk with you to diffuse suspicion, though she jerked away from your touch. 

"How do you know my husband?" She whirred, her tone demanding as she pushed short brown hair behind her ear as if trying to hear you better. 

"I don't, but I know his cause. The Elders believe that you are being held hostage, and we believe that showing proof that you are not in Russian hands could diffuse their outrage and prevent civil war." 

The way that the space between her eyebrows started to crease lets you know that you were working with precious seconds before she pinned you as a Russian agent and ran screaming for the hills. The textbook's assertions in the universal pronunciations failed to calculate regional accents, and right now, you sounded exactly like a Russian trying to speak Ukrainian. There wasn't enough time to articulate that despite how it might look- how it might sound - and that you have her town's best interests in mind. The situation is slipping between your fingers, and passing shoppers catching your gaze made your body threaten to tremble under the pressure. The tension was reaching a breaking point, and you both knew it. Thoughts bolted in the foreign language, crackling like fracturing lightning for potential solutions. An idea hit you. 

"Mariya, look into my eyes."

You gripped her forearm, but you didn't relent this time when she resisted your touch. She wrenched and glanced over her shoulder like she was eager for a bystander's eyes. You couldn't afford that. It was like trying to hold water in your clasped palms, and her trust was slipping out of your grasp. If your words don't resonate, your demeanour will. One stern flick of your wrist to urge her to face her brought you to meet her face again, pleading. 

"I need you to trust me, for Verdansk's sake. For your children's sake." Your voice wavered ever-so-slightly, making you cringe internally, but still not even daring to blink. 

Icy eyes regarded you with furrowed eyebrows, weighing your life, your worth, your existence. Praying to every holy figure you could recall beseeched her to take this trust fall with someone she had no reason to trust, only based on your sincere gaze. The ticking clock overhead kept a steady rhythm for the harrowing anticipation that fizzled through the air between you two. Her eyebrows softened, giving her a cold, despondent glare. You weren't sure what that meant. 

"Lead the way," she murmured, looking over her shoulder to identify potential eavesdroppers. 

Crashing relief whispered for you to pass out from the rapid change in emotion, steeling your nerves and affording her a stern nod. Discarding the wire baskets onto a display of tomatoes and assorted apples, you locked arms with her. She was taller than you by quite a bit, and her hovering grip on your arm implied that you were working with borrowed trust. A blast of frigid air couldn't be more welcome; snowflakes rapidly identified beads of sweat that pooled under your scarf. Eyes flickered to identify the statue in the square that would be the landmark that leads you to the stadium, and there would be the barricade. 

Laswell alerted the task force to your successful extraction of the target, making you thank your lucky stars that she couldn't understand how painfully close it was. Price replied with something along the lines of approval, but right now, all you could think about was urging each footstep to be calm and steady. Blocks came and passed, steeling your nerves to retain the necessary confidence to lead the target to the next destination. It's hard to say if the hard part is done or the hardest is yet to come. That's the kind of thing you'll have to ponder with the grace of hindsight, assuming you make it out alive. 

"Your Ukrainian fucking sucks," Mariya chastised before sharing a kind nod and a smile with a passing pedestrian. 

"I know, Mrs. Kobzar," you couldn't help but try to stifle a creeping chuckle. If she only knew. 

Taking the redundant crosswalk across the vacant street that headed to the sprawling barbed wire fence, you nodded in recognition as you identified the encroaching barricade perimeter. Brick walls, easily 10 feet tall, were equipped with winding barbed wire and creeping ivy, now glistening with frost. Floodlights slammed to attention with a crash that flooded your senses with a blinding light. Despite being daytime, you recognized this dazzle tactic from being on the other side of a 10-foot wall, giving gunmen ample time to assume their positions as you scramble to gather your senses. 

"This is a restricted area. Turn back now." A booming voice crashed into your senses, littered with squealing feedback thanks to an ear-splitting loudspeaker. 

The clinking of weaponry drew flickering eyes to identify a series of a half-dozen turrets whirring to attention, commanded by dark figures with obscured faces thanks to the blinding spotlight. They were expecting an answer, and the words escaped you for a moment. The dazzle tactic worked. Cool air ghosted across your tongue as you struggled to find the wind in your throat to deliver the speech they were expecting. 

"I need to speak with the Elders. I have information that they will want to hear." The Ukrainian voice that came from you shocked you, riding off pure muscle memory.

"Give us the message." The thunderous, faceless voice blasted into your cranium. 

"I must deliver the message in person." You held your ground. 

A pause. They were deliberating your message. The searing spotlight roaring into your eyes, illuminating your eyelids even when you blink, made scorching sweat-covered skin become alight with radiating heat. Once again, you are subject to the painstaking decision-making of a stranger. You might owe The Man Upstairs a couple of reluctant visits to church if you keep beseeching for divine intervention on these missions. 

"This is a restricted area. Turn back now." The voice reiterated. 

Blood ran cold. Hot skin and frigid blood created an unholy cocktail, topped off with a dollop of sheer dread as you processed those words. The weight of your vest increased under weakening knees, days of minimal sleep and mental exhaustion catching up to you. If you can't get in, the mission is a bust. The mission fails, and it's all on you. Your lips parted to prepare to argue your position once more, but no muscle memory verbiage flowed from your throat.

"Let me speak to my husband. Sergei Kobzar," Mariya spoke, sucking the air from your chest. 

Eyes flickered to her, but her resolve was set in stone. It caught you off guard, as you had previously pinned her as beyond skeptical of your attitude. She must have seen something in you that made her decide you were worth slipping past these armed guards despite non-existent trust or rapport. 

"Identify yourself," the thunder retorted.

"Mariya Kobzar." 

More deliberation. However, this time, you weren't just waiting a matter of seconds for a response. Minutes passed. Agonizing minutes as a cauldron of bile churned in your stomach under sticky skin. Your audience, ever the stoic one, reflected the guise of a woman who is entirely ambivalent to your schemes as if your existence is a minor inconvenience. After counting seconds to gauge the passage of time, you predicted ten minutes of deliberation until it happened. A whining buzzer and crude thunk snapped your senses to attention as the grand steel door cracked to invite you in. 

Chapter Text

Gloved palms met your bicep with bruising force, winding your arm to wrench you into a submissive position. You were thankful for the additional padding that the puffed jacket provided, though it did nothing to reduce the invasive hands exploring your torso for strapped firearms or explosives. Your heart entirely stopped when they felt the bulletproof vest that rested just under your zipper. Cold air tore across your damp chest as they ripped the zipper to reveal the vest, unfortunately, though expectantly, identifying Price's knife strapped to your thigh. That didn't last long. Only after blinking several times did you realize that the person with their hands around the scruff of your jacket was yelling in your direction. 

"What is this?" A pale man with savage eyes gnashed his teeth before your eyes as he tore the knife from your thigh with vicious strength. 

"Self-defence. Nothing more. I come as a messenger." The words finally met you as you tried to regurgitate another of your rehearsed Ukrainian lines. 

A blast of pressure erupted across your cheekbone as you felt the ground connect with your knee. There was no time to collect yourself before another hand gripped your collar, heaving the ground away from your feet as you met the face of another unfamiliar man. Blooming pain prickled over the side of your face as you scrambled to identify your circumstances, red-hot heat illuminated the exact spot where you had been struck. 

Words were exchanged that you genuinely couldn't identify from beyond a pounding heartbeat, but the feeling of the ground coupling with your chafing boots started you off into a fumbling walk. You were being led deeper into the barricade. Deeper into the lion's den. Sure, you were just a messenger, but you also were a foreign emissary representing political intrusion that you know full well is entirely unsolicited. 

Vision darkened as you identified yourself as passing under the yawning shadow of the broad stadium in the center of the barricaded perimeter. Another clambering steel gate and another brisk shove from behind you urged your feet to fumble to continue into the building. In your scramble to gather your balance, you caught the eyes of Mariya, her gaze that same stoney expression, though her treatment from the guards was notably more civil. To be fair, Price mentioned the risk of bringing a weapon you chose to arm yourself with. Though, to be even more fair, he likely knew you'd be frisked. That's yet another bullet point to add to the docket of things to ponder if you make it out alive. 

They were dragging you into the stadium's inner sanctum, seeing riveted concrete and framed jerseys flash past hazy vision. Verdansk Wildcats read the repeating signage along rows on rows of posters and billboards in faded blue calligraphy. The smell of tires caught in your senses as a trail of loose black specs of filling led you like breadcrumbs to the open field. On sweeping bannisters, rows of swaying orange banners proudly cited championships won on this artificial green turf. A group of figures gathered on the sidelines of a sprawling soccer field, seeing packs and crates scattered over the playfield. 

Motion in your peripheral caught a blur of plum purple, seeing Mariya break into an open-armed sprint to be captured by the embrace of a calling husband. It would be heartwarming if you weren't also met with the encroaching stares of over a dozen men stepping between your view of the reuniting couple. Sheer willpower surged through your veins, urging you to stand proudly despite your wounded ego- and cheekbone. An encroaching semicircle of shadows and grim scowls made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up under the scarf, beginning to feel more like a noose. Feet shoulder's width apart. Chin up. Look them in their eyes. Like a bear in the wild, show them no fear and establish your confidence. 

The world swayed on its axis, and your temple collided with cold concrete. Another stinging pain on your cheekbone manifested as you swiped your tongue over your teeth to ensure they were in check. Bitter copper pooled in your mouth, vision dimming at its edges. A searing headache doubled in pressure as you were once again heaved to your feet, foggy eyes staring down someone's throat, hot breath washing over your nose. Willing your mind to derive all remaining strength to focus on decoding the words that were slamming into your mental barrier, you honed in. 

"-What did you do with my kids?" A belligerent voice clicked into recognition as you struggled to translate. 

More nonsensical dialogue that you wracked your mind to comprehend slipped past you, blinking hard to alleviate a pounding headache. You caught a flash of plum purple in the blur, the sleeve of a jacket hooking under the elbow of a raised fist that was postured to pummel you again. More noise. Sheer fucking noise. It's so blurry. Focus. Focus. 

"Linguist, linguist-" was all your lips could manage, tilting your head back in anticipation of another crack against your skull. 

More dialogue that your mind scrambled to grapple with, catching ghosts of sentences and laughing. Why are they laughing? Your neck screamed from excess pressure as the world shook, wild eyes meeting yours once again as language clicked into place.

"Who are you?" A man with salt and pepper hair in a prim grey jacket whose hand was around the collar of your coat spoke with enunciated words. 

"I'm a linguist. I want to help-" Your voice came out like a croak, goading fading eyes to meet his fierce gaze. 

"We don't need your help, Yankee, " A voice from the crowd called. 

Well, there go all plans of appearing to be a native. Not even just a native Russian either. They picked up on your accent, or maybe inflection, faster than anyone you've seen. That could be either a scramble to learn the language or the amount of fists that graced your presence in the last ten minutes. From an objective perspective, it's definitely a combination of both. Whether or not you wanted to feign naivety, the glaring thought in your mind that you're a mouse that's just been dropped into a snake pit, and all eyes are on you. 

"I don't need you to like me. I don't even need you to trust me. All you need to know is that you and I have a common enemy, and we have information that can change everything." The voice from your throat latched back onto the script you established with a touch of dramatic flair. 

"Out with it then, fucking out with it bitch." Salt and Pepper shook you again, neck muscles straining to keep your eyes upright and attentive. 

"They don't have your families. They're all safe- they're being held under guard by the military near the base. They never had your families."

"You fucking lie," another man in a checkered flannel pointed his finger under your chin, "we have pictures." 

"She's a Cartel informant, and you just let her in here. Fucking kill the bitch and show them not to mess with-" Another voice in the crowd blurted out cutting words before you cut him off. 

"The photos are edited. They're not really your family," you croaked. 

"You said it yourself Yankee, we don't trust you." Salt and Pepper's gnashing teeth were inches from your nose, the crushing force of his grip making you strain to keep your toes connected with the concrete. 

"I knew you wouldn't. That's why I brought Mariya as proof." You choked. 

There was more discussion in the crowd, but your greying friend kept you under tight vigil, catching a view of white knuckles under your chin. The bitter iron taste reemerged with retribution every time you moved your jaw to speak, as the creeping chill crept over your torso thanks to the gap in your outerwear. It was a chorus of jaded men, estimations would say fifteen, but for all you knew, there could be another fifteen behind you. Scruffy beards suggested they had been here for a while, and raw eyes solidified that observation. 

"How dare you speak my wife's name," A shadow emerged, obscuring the view of that plum coat you caught in the corner of your eye.

Just as the shadow, now a shorter man with a square haircut came into view, he came paired with a glimpse of a pale fist aimed to bludgeon you again. You slammed your eyes shut in anticipation. Time halted as your brain prepared to absorb another blow, as all stimuli graciously vanished for the passing milliseconds. More shouting, but it's different. A woman is yelling, and you've yet to be reintroduced to the cold concrete. It was hard to say if it was safe to open your eyes, but you opted to listen to the dialogue in hopes of gathering something important. 

"-compound, we're fine. Same with Boros' and John's too, we're all there. They even let us out for groceries. I buy Artur those crackers he likes." You recognized the voice of Mariya, calmly but eagerly explaining her routine to the crowd of men. 

You deemed it safe to un-crumple your face, allowing you to see the side of Salt and Pepper's face as he drank in her words. Furrowed eyes didn't relent, though you count your lucky stars that you hadn't been thrashed in the past thirty seconds. 

"Do you trust her?" The man in the checkered flannel spoke up, hotly waving his hand in your direction. 

"No." She turned, her blue eyes were bluer than ever as they cut into you, "But she had every opportunity to hurt me, and she speaks truthfully."

"She can't speak for shit," Salt and Pepper spat. 

"I know," Mariya chuckled, "but I think she knows that," her eyes softened from her locked gaze.

Silence fell over the group as they chewed over your words. Flowing glances nods, and shakes wavered through the crowd, scratching beards and folding arms. Your captor had the grace to relent his grip on your collar, inviting gravity to make your knees buckle under newfound strain. The chatter in the radio in your ear went on unheard, as it had already taken all of your remaining brainpower to focus on transcribing the present dialogue, be it verbal or mimed. How did the radio manage to stay in your ear anyway? Laswell should get a raise just for that. Taking advantage of the lull in conversation, you took a gamble in vocalizing your position once again. 

"The barricade is cutting you off from vital resources, and the civilians are suffering without your support." Your voice erupted from your throat, confident and assured by a surge of strength. "I've seen firsthand the carnage that the Russian Cartel can express on the town, and if you don't act soon, those fake hostage photos can be a reality." 

For a second, you were sure that one of the moustached faces in the crowd was about to sock you, but his clenched fist relented. You had an advantage; they were in the middle of pondering your words, and this was the time to drive your intentions home. This was your final chance to sway this audience. 

"We share an enemy, and-" 

"Who's We?" Salt and Pepper returned with that cutting baritone voice, making you flinch in anticipation of another thrashing. 

Fuck. Laswell gave you specific instructions on how to handle that question. You can't just say you're SAS, or CIA or whatever acronym- that's the whole point of this mission plan you insisted on. You can't say that you're foreign intelligence, and they're already more than aware that you're not native to the region. They already pinned you as a Yankee, for fuck's sake. What were the words? What was it? Heavy eyelids steadied in an attempt to focus on your posture, cracked lips falling open as words caught in your raw throat. 

The strangest sound started to ring from your 4 o'clock, and your spinning mind stopped in its tracks. It sounded like a whirling skip rope or one of those battery-powered toy trucks that always break after one use. Furrowed eyebrows fell on a grate at the base of a wall. Your eyes flashed up to Mariya, her stare boring into yours with concern and betrayal. Turning back to the bizarre note, its volume clicked higher and higher as, in an instant, your shoulders raised to your ears. An amber cloud parted bricks, sending stones hurtling toward you. The last thing you remember was your shoulder hitting the ground, slamming into that familiar concrete with whipping force, all to the chorus of a deafening B sharp note.

Chapter Text

A splitting headache drug you from the groggy sleeping world, opening dry eyes to meet the faded chevron pattern of the van you’d spent days in. Fingertips rose to run along those smooth metal rivets along the steel fuselage. Blinding daylight streaming in made your eyes sting, raising the back of your hand to shield your eyes. Wait, daylight? You blinked. The light was brighter than ever, making impossibly dry eyes squint to prevent the searing shine from before you. Alertness finally clicked, and your raised hand slammed to the ground to rush yourself into an upright position. The van warped, now manifested into a dusty soccer field, pushing heavy rocks off your legs in a panicked response to gather your surroundings. Creeping, agonizing realization relentlessly crushed into your mind, and your vision locked on those blue eyes. 

“Mariya!” you blurted, scrambling to shove a stack of loose bricks off her, urgently brushing loose dust off her to identify any blooming red spots. 

Raw fear in a carnal gaze met you before your head whirled over your shoulder to spy, to your horror, a foreign masked soldier rising from a chasm in the wall. A detonation charge cracked open a meter-wide hole in a cavity below the stadium- some kind of underground tunnel. By the looks on the faces of your peers who scrambled upright beside you, the Elders weren’t aware of its existence either. Another shadow emerging behind the first, now recognizably armed with a rifle, you spurred into action.

This is one of those crossroads moments training tells you about. Sometimes, you’d have to make one of these split-second decisions that will determine your fate forever. You could surrender to the soldiers, raise your palms in submission and be exposed to interrogation, torture, or worse. There was another option, and that was to lunge at the armed figures in the hopes of buying precious seconds for your peers- it also increased the odds that you wouldn’t be taken for interrogation. 

An ear-splitting blast made your decision for you. The combination of choking dust in your nose, a deafening blast in your right ear, aching muscles and devastating visuals made you slam your eyes shut in the overstimulation of it all. It gave you precious milliseconds to gather yourself. Gather what protocol drilled into you at some point would be most applicable here. You’re still thinking, so that’s an indication that your head hasn’t been blown off your shoulders just yet. Eyes opened. Another blast made you flinch, but by the looks of the armed soldier in all black at the foot of the chasm’s entrance, you’ve earned a few more seconds to kickstart yourself into motion. The intruders bore no insignia or flags on their shoulders, just tactical gear layered over hoodies and windbreakers. The radio screamed into your ear, swinging your eyes around to identify your allies. 

“Cricket, take them to the locker rooms- cross the field and take the hall to your right. Now, now, now!” Price’s voice tore through your bones, spurring muscles into movement before your eyes could catch up. 

Another blast. There are 20, maybe 25 people whose eyes are wracked with shock. In this state of shock, they’re especially vulnerable to being picked off by these raiders. Now, they were your sole responsibility, thanks to a direct order from your Captain. You had to swallow your initial attempt to speak in English, reconnecting with the initial plan and setting with a foggy mind. 

“Follow me right now!” The first attempt to speak came out like a crackle thanks to clogging dust, but the second attempt tore over the faces of your direct audience, bringing wild eyes to meet yours. “Let’s go, Let’s go!”

Just like with Samantha climbing onto the helicopter, you can’t give people the time to evaluate their setting or bodily harm. You just have to whip them into motion, nipping at their heels and herding them to the intended destination. Your gaze locked onto a pair of broad doors just along the half line on the field, on the other side of the turf. It’s a mad dash across horrifyingly open territory, but the blasts over your shoulder suggested you had solid overwatch. Waving your arms and shouting the direction seemed to gather most people into a mad dash, giving you precious seconds to gather the ones who have yet to find their feet. 

At least one has fallen. A boulder of debris had hit one of the men clean in the side of the head as you refused to let your eyes linger on the spilling pool of blood under its weight. Eyes fell on Salt and Pepper, clutching a blooming wound on his lower abdomen, absorbing the brunt of a bullet fired from one of the emerging from the explosion site. Yet again, drilled instinct brought you to hook his shoulder behind your neck before you could blink. He was screaming in your ear, only momentarily deafened by another series of blasts. You could only pray that none of them had hit you, as pumping sheer adrenaline made your body numb. 

“I can’t-” Salt and Pepper groaned, clutching a gushing wound that trailed down his thigh. 

“You will.” You urged, raising eyes to meet the rest of the crowd as they had barely run halfway across the distance they needed to cross. 

He was too heavy, and every hobbling hop threatened to drag you down to meet the turf under his tremendous swaying force. Another blast. This time, an explosion of movement in your body made your heart stop. Looking down with despair, you saw no crimson, no bone. Salt and Pepper’s body going limp gave you the information you were searching for. There wasn't time to mourn or hold him in his fleeting final moments. Freed from his grip, your vision swung around to see the bullet that had lodged into the back of his neck and the gunman who was in pursuit. His body fell limp with a pink mist just before the blast from your peripheral caught up with your ears. Flickering up to the stands in the distance, you caught that white flash of a honing scope. Thank fuck for Ghost. 

Now, it was time to break into a cold sprint to reach those doors before you meet Salt and Pepper's fate. Freed from excess weight and hopped up on a lethal amount of adrenaline and hiking knees, you caught up with the remaining herd of cattle within seconds. Whooping and hollering, you urged the pack to slam past the doors - thank God they were unlocked - and take a scrambling turn to the hallway on the right. The change in floor texture from turf to tile made you fumble under a lack of traction. You could identify some of those pale faces beginning to fall on you from the corner of your eyes. A winding circuit of concrete and steel wound around in a route that guaranteed at least one certain circular path around the inner field. Your mind worked fast, shapes and colours falling into place as recognizable objects. The orange steel doors you identified as the locker rooms would be your best shot at a hiding spot for the time being.

Waving the flock through the locker room door, you didn’t have time to do a role call before you did one last flicker down both sides of the hallway and slammed the door shut. Stepping back, you blinked in shock as a pair of hulking men charged towards you armed with chairs and benches. Pushing past you, they stacked the wooden items under the door, firemen passing more to cover the frail lock. The burn of your heaving chest caught up with your senses as a pack of 20 odd eyes fell on you as you doubled over to catch your breath. Thrumming vision fell on scratchy tile floors, grey and worn from years of regular wear. No injuries, save for a crushing pain on the side of your right thigh and the lingering sting from your cheekbones. 

A fist fell on your throat, committing to squeeze the life from your throat as your eyes felt like they could pop out of your head. Heaving to catch your breath, you immediately halted as you met that square haircut of Mariya’s husband. He had a smatter of blood along his ear but was mostly covered in a thin layer of beige dust. 

“Was this you? ” he roared, raw berserk eyes promising to wring your neck for everything left in your screaming lungs. 

You didn’t exactly have the range of motion to shake your head no, and any attempts to speak came up emptyhanded as you could only mouth your response. The crushing weight didn’t relent, though your breath did. Black specs in your vision sweetly reminded you how peaceful a nap would be right now. A flash of plum purple on his shoulder forced life back into your lungs with gasping gulps. Sputtering coughs erupted from your throat, crumbling to your knees to coax your throat back into an open state. 

“It was the Cartel, Sergei! I know those uniforms- or lack thereof. They’ve been swarming the streets while you bastards have been hiding in this stadium,” Mariya scorned, slamming her palm into his shoulder. 

Their continued dialogue gave you enough time to grapple with the context of the room, and the shouting in your ear. Hooks and lockers that once held the uniforms of giggling children and practiced athletes now house a swarm of frazzled and volatile men, throwing their hands up in frustration as they continued their observations. Gaz’s voice cut into your ear, concurring with an order you never heard. Ghost said something about sweeping the ground floor and reconvening with Price on the West end. From behind the door, crackling gunfire reverberated off concrete walls, reaching your ears with a steady echo. Your mind lurched to hook onto something that was said in the conversation that unravelled before you. You swore you heard something like ‘We still have the transmission’ and ‘Where’s the USB?’. 

“What - What transmission?” A raw voice came from your throat. 

“That’s none of your goddamn business.” The guy in the checkered shirt chastised you from behind the crowd. 

“I am not your fucking enemy,” you blurted, spitting back crackling nerves that still surged with adrenaline. “It’s like Mariya said, we’re being ambushed by the Russian Cartel. They were shooting at all of us.” 

You bit back the urge to clarify that it was your sniper that saved them from being pumped full of lead, but raising suspicion wouldn’t aid your situation. Instead, you just worked with the assumed belief of luck, assuming cartel raiders’ heads just happen to have a habit of exploding into a fine pink mist. Raising to your feet, you refused to let damaged pride and cheekbones hold you back from pressing the issue. 

“I’m a linguist by trade. If you let me see this transmission, I might be able to get some vital information.” 

“There are no tapes, or-... transmissions.” Mariya’s husband stated blankly with furrowed brows. A Freudian slip accidentally revealed additional information, courtesy of his cracking voice.  

Bull. 

More pops of gunshots peppered the silence, hearing thumping footsteps catch onto your senses as they trudged closer to your position. It sounded like a group of footsteps, maybe five, but it’s impossible to say. Nerves spiked as a caught gaze from one of your peers concurred with your creeping dread. 

“First floor clear, descending to ground level. 0-7 and 7-1 are now on the way to Cricket’s position.” Ghost’s voice spoke into your ear, catching a swift copy from Price.

“We have to exfil Cricket before the Barricade troops and the military find her position.” Gaz’s voice added, hearing more distant pops before he closed his microphone. 

“This is Eagle Actual, we’re 02 minutes from your position 141. Once we touch turf, we gotta’ hightail it out of here before the Ukrainian military has this place surrounded.” Grave’s voice retorted, hearing chopping helicopter blades in the background of his transmission.

Okay. Let’s think. The Elders will be significantly more compliant with their home government now that they know they've been watching over the their wives and kids in their absense. Now, the Cartel doesn't have hostages over them too. The Elders still won’t trust the military with key information though, which could cost them the upper hand in stopping a hostile takeover from the Cartel. They'll never surrender the people's control over Verdansk. You can’t just let this opportunity slip through the cracks. You’ve come too far just to fumble at the last hurdle. Solidifying your resolve and relaxing your shoulders, you prepared to pressure these men while they’re still considering their allegiances. 

“Is this what you want? Verdansk to be pillaged and torn apart by three grabbing hands? If we work together, we can stop this conflict from escalating, and you all know damn we’re aiming towards civil war.” You shouted confidently, even catching you off guard, speaking over popping gunshells echoing louder and louder. 

More silence, dozens of skeptical eyes staring through you, only now, some of them were tainted with desperation and compassion. Most of these men were fathers, and by the looks of their clothing and un-calloused hands, they probably weren’t even soldiers either. They were tired. Utterly exhausted from months of holding their ground in this stadium, months spent away from their loved ones, months spent thinking their wives and kids are in the hands of people who want them to suffer.

“If you won’t accept militaristic help, that’s fine. But let us help you with what we can, and we’ll expect nothing in return. No statues or reimbursements. We’re only doing this because we have a common goal, and frankly, we don’t trust you either.” Your voice cut loud and deep through the room of eyes that momentarily flickered with the offence, then contemplation, then unreadable blank expressions as you continued. “We all can’t afford to see this violent cartel take hold of a vital military base.”

“We have an open transmission that was snuck in from a turncoat.” Another man, a man you hadn’t recognized before, spoke up. 

Deep wrinkles creased around his cheeks and pale eyes, and the way the others parted around him when he spoke suggested his words held some significant social value. He had kind eyes and bloody fists, an oxymoron that unsettled you to your core and somehow simultaneously inspired you to trust his words. Something in the stoic look on his face when he's speaking so gravely reminded you of Chucky.

“We know it’s saying something important, but we have no clue what they’re saying. It’s a language we don’t understand…” he continued, stepping forward and approaching you as you tilted your chin to meet him. 

“I’ll have a look. I will crack it,” you met his pale grey eyes with matching intensity, “and when I do, I'll share what we learn. You have my word.”

“Cricket we’re at your position, we gotta’ get out of here,” Ghost’s voice spoke into your ear, though you resisted letting it startle you in favour of retaining this man’s grave stare. 

A pounding at the door made everyone’s heads snap to the sound, except for yours and the stranger’s. You two were locked in a deadlock like he was testing your metal to scrutinize your integrity. There was no way to communicate to Ghost that pounding on the door risked damaging your rapport of gathering crucial information, and a thin layer of sweat was under your slick jacket. More pounding. A searing gaze. The pressure in the room was electric. 

“Take it and go,” he flicked a USB out of his pocket, eliciting furrowed brows and frowns from the crowd, “ ‘We’ is waiting.”

Words couldn’t express the relief that surged through your bones. A slight prick of horror as you realized he recognized your team’s intrusion from the start, but overall, it was sheer solace. It felt like an orgasm, a cigarette, and a breath of fresh air all at once. Screeching wood finally snipped the simmering tension between the two of you as you muttered a wordless thank you and slipped the red USB into your back pocket.

Chapter Text

You didn’t realize how much comfort you found in the locker room until it was gone, whipping open the un-barricaded steel door to meet Soap and Ghost on the other side. The lights were out, and it was a nerve-wracking void in the hallway, a consequence of lights being shot out from waves of gunfire. Flashes of green from night vision goggles before you were all the visual information you could gather now that the light from the door behind you swung shut. One of their hands on your forearm, urgently ushering you further into the darkness with a brutal grip, as you caught more distant screeching behind the door, re-applying the makeshift blockade. 

Boots crunched over glass, and an unseen wet substance your frantic mind insisted was blood. Whether it was or not was not a concern right now, as the fist around your your forearm slammed you into the wall with bruising force. More gunfire, deafening and sharp, briefly illuminating Soap’s face as he took out an enemy you have no way of seeing. To say you’re flying dark is an understatement, as even the flickering exit sign stood no chance against the AR-15s your colleagues were armed with. Total darkness was an advantage for them here, and these two were working with creeping efficiency that made you deeply thankful you were not on the other end of their rifles. 

Everything from how they communicated to how they flickered around corners to clear each branching hallway was executed with elegance and swiftness. Distant pops not coming from your current company made your neck hairs stand. You couldn’t afford to quiver or tremble. Don’t show fear. You’re cargo to these soldiers, and the best thing you can do right now is shut the fuck up and don’t move unless one of their brutal grips is urging you to. 

“Gold Eagle, can we bring Cricket out?” Soap spoke, flicking up his night vision helmet extension as you recognized that the light from the cracks under this door led to sunlight. 

“Go ahead 7-1,” Graves responded flatly. 

“Roger,” Ghost added beside you. 

Dazzling sunlight was entirely unforgiving for the lingering headache that plagued your skull. The world went from total, starless darkness to the brightest, most blinding light you’ve ever seen. You could barely even make out if your feet were on the ground in the brightness before you were breaking into a drop-dead sprint toward the thrumming engine of a helicopter whirring to life. You had about 50 meters before you were in the safety of the metal fuselage of the war machine that was actively blasting hot air with increasing pressure as you tore down the field towards it. Blinking did nothing to dissuade foggy eyes compounded by this stark sunlight from making you nearly blind. 

What you did see was in the form of auditory stimuli, hearing distant shouts and gunfire, utter chaos surrounding the turf of this battlefield. A crashing explosion made your knees buckle, feeling scratchy turf between your fingers as you were hauled to your feet again by another brutish fist around your upper arm. It felt like an earthquake, though it could have been anything at this point. Considering the chaos that swirled around you, you wouldn’t be shocked if Godzilla was making his presence known to fight as a fourth entity in this brawl. The helicopter was in view now, seeing Price and Gaz flickering M-14s around as coverfire for your approach. 

Another blast was deafeningly close. Two, maybe three more. Things were moving so fast. Before you could identify anything, you were being thrown like a sack of potatoes into the bed of the helo, feeling cold steel roll over your body as you grappled to steady itself. Your hands flurried around your bulletproof vest, frantically feeling for any weeping wounds that you’ve recently received. 

“Ghost’s been hit! Ghost WIA,” Price’s booming voice rivalled the volume of the firearms. 

Wild eyes snapped to the open door of the helo, seeing a slumped skeletal body rag-dolled over Gaz’s shoulder as Soap fired off steady covering fire to ensure enemy heads stayed down. Your blood froze in its place. An ECG would swear you’ve flatlined as Ghost was slammed onto the cold metal beside you. The remaining three barely connected their boots with the helicopter before the green turf with its proud white lines drifted away. Your cold fingers trembled uselessly as a blooming pool of deep maroon crept out of a wound you hadn’t spotted before your vision was obscured by Price. There was a dent in the lieutenant's helmet. They were speaking to him. Price was shouting something, and Soap was yelling something else over the radio in your ear. It fell on deaf ears, though, as all stimuli were flooded by an ear-splitting heartbeat pounding in your head. It was so loud that your palms clasping over your ears did nothing to mask that deafening, pummeling pulsing that tore through your muscles.

You caught a glimpse of fluttering eyelids behind that skull plate as Price reached for the medical kit Gaz had whipped over to him. Bullets pattered against the black steel beneath you. It was so much. It was all so much. You’d curled into a ball, finding solace in covering your ears despite it doing nothing to dissuade your thunderous fluttering heartbeat. If you were faster, this wouldn’t have happened. You could have gotten that USB another way. You took too long, and Ghost is dead on the ground because of it. He died, and you lived, and it’s not fair. 

They were wrapping a tourniquet around his arm, around a corpse. Tears stung in the ducts of your eyes. They won’t stop fucking shouting. They were prying off his helmet as if it would do anything. You took too long. You took too long. Those stupid fucking bone gloves tightened into a fist- rigour mortis is already kicking in. This mission was all your idea. He’d be alive if you didn’t start running your stupid mouth. He’s groaning, but it’s just one last death rattle; it’s just stale air evacuating his lungs. 

When you couldn’t take any more of the agonizing panic, you gasped for fresh air as you turned to face the sealed window of the sliding fuselage door. You were headed in the opposite direction of the base. What are they doing? The Verdansk River winded in reverse as you passed beyond an increasingly unfamiliar landscape. 

Time went by in five-minute intervals; the first two were sent in a blinding panic, watching the flurrying hands of your colleagues as they rushed to keep the precious maroon liquid inside the leaking water balloon. One minute was spent re-running every mistake that led to this, down to the second you touched foot outside that crumbling office supplies store. Another minute was spent gasping for air and flickering wild eyes out the window to see when you could escape this metal coffin. The last minute was spent in a numb emptiness, drifting in space with motionless muscles. All in silence, making yourself small and invisible in the corner of the fuselage. That cycle had repeated about five times before you felt the horrifying sensation of gravity ceasing, feeling like you were falling out of the sky. 

The top of a building swung into view, flashing lights welcoming you to an unfamiliar landing pad. You half expected to be met with another volley of bullets before you identified a blocky Red Cross emblem on the side of the limestone building. Price and Soap collaborated on carrying Ghost’s limp body just in time for the helo to connect with the hospital’s landing pad.  

“Where are we?” You croaked, sluggish muscles that might as well be stone screamed as you unfurled yourself from the tight ball you’ve made yourself into. 

“Przemyśl, Poland. We’re taking Ghost into intensive care, and you should get that looked at, too,” Gaz gestured to your lower half. 

Blinking in confusion, your chin tilted to observe whatever injury he was referring to. Lightheadedness washed over you as you saw a gaping hole in the side of your jeans, a weak stream of blood trickling down the side of a crush wound on the side of your thigh. No bone was visible, but minor split skin and creeping red veins suggested you’d sustained some sort of injury in the scuffle - likely from that detonation charge. Although your teeth were all in check, there was no doubt that a bruise was manifesting on the side of your cheek, thanks to Salt and Pepper. At least you made it out better than he did, though his loss was still no less devastating. That’s another life lost because of you. Another tally on your confirmed kill count. 

Somehow, you’re already in the stark hospital hallways, being ushered with the support of the arm of a flurrying nurse, cruising past triage with surprising ease. Your head whipped to see your teammates, though they were already walking in another direction, Price wringing his hat in his hand in a rare glimpse of his actual hair. It’s more full than you always imagined. You always thought the hat was compensating for something. Ghost was nowhere to be seen. A nurse’s intrusion into your field of view separates your attention from your departing group.

“Captain!” you shouted over your shoulder, resisting the stern guidance from the nurse. 

Price’s blue eyes swung to meet you, meeting a grim face that shocked you to your core. Gaz, too, looked despondent, though their trained expressions wouldn’t read as grave as they did to you with your knack for seeing through stern gazes. Shaky fingers fluttered to your back pocket, wrenching away from the nurse to palm the red USB under damp digits. 

“Catch,” you flung the USB over to him weakly as he strained to catch it thanks to your weak toss. 

By now, your only role was to submit to whatever these flurrying nurses were urging you to do. Maybe it’s the blazing hospital lighting, but your headache was pounding in your temples, which translated to you being acutely aware of a stinging pain around your throat. The Women’s Ward sign above you implied why Gaz and Price were hesitant to join you. On the bright side, that implied that your injuries were non-threatening. However, it also meant you’d be subjected to screaming babies in the proximity of the maternity ward, and any high-pitched noise might just make your brain explode into a pink mist. 

Latex gloves were shucking your slick skin from a shockingly filthy puffer jacket, torn clean down one side, and caked in a thick dust that created a cloud of soot as it was dropped into a plastic bag. A new pair of hands worked to cut your jeans with hooked scissors, while another set fumbled with the complex clasps that welded this thick vest to your torso. Snapping into awareness, you gingerly ushered blue latex fingers from the clasp, instead working experienced digits to undo the double-backing buckle. A woman in a white coat, noticeably different from the surrounding blue scrubs, tilted your chin to look her way. Another blinding light tore into your eye, thanks to the slender flashlight she flicked between your two eyes. It’s so goddamn bright. What you wouldn’t do to be back in that dim van again, shying away from this horrible brightness. Maybe you’ve become the vampire after all.

They continued their fussing and chattering until you eventually retired to an impossibly plush bed. Although hospitals aren’t famous for the comfort of their beds, this thing felt like a bed of moss under the trees, surrounded by butterflies and streams of dappled sunlight. Even with the IV in your arm, you’ve never found more comfort than you did in these smooth sheets. More likely than not, it’s just a stark contrast between the living conditions you’ve suffered for the last two weeks, though you refused to let that subtract from your ecstasy. The nurses assured you of no breaks or stitches, only a touch of gauze on your outer thigh and a very mild concussion. The IV welcomed Vitamin C and K into your bloodstream, vital chemicals to reduce the dreadful bruising set to mar your face, throat, and thigh in the coming days. 

“What about-” your raw voice caught in your throat thanks to manifesting wounds, “What about the man in the mask?” 

The stout nurse looked at you with creased eyebrows, stopping the notes she was writing on her clipboard like she was weighing your words in her mind. The nagging ice in your heart still persisted. She probably didn’t speak English; you’re just talking into the void. The few words of Polish you knew were useless in this context, and the phone you brought from home was probably lost forever back in that basement you spent days in. She's going to shake her head and crease her lips. Your imagination confidently created imagery of her lips mouthing the words 'I'm sorry' before she spoke.

“Man is in recovery,” she spoke with a heavy accent, gesturing with her pen to the hall, “no visitation now.” She returned to her notes, continuing her work like nothing had happened. 

Despite the frigid ice packs on your skin, tranquillity surged into your veins with a speed and intensity that no IV or injection could rival. You wanted to thank her, you wanted to kiss her, though something told you the best way to show your appreciation was to let her do her work. When she left, she dimmed the lights in your room, suggesting it was the mandated sleeping time that was imparted by the hospital. Even though you hardly felt injured, in fact, you were totally fine. You knew that was likely a consequence of the fluids in the sack above your shoulder that dribbled nutrients into your bloodstream. Sleep came easy, like it was your body’s attempt to grasp the healing period a deep sleep provided. 

You dreamt of the mission in hazy detail, feeling facts and sentences become blurred as your mind attempted to wrap around the context. Your subconscious mind was sprinting to catch up, and it invaded your unconscious mind to do so. Thoughts fell on Ghost and how certain you were that he was dead. You didn’t care because you had any love or care for him. Just sheer dread that one of Price’s elite soldiers died because of your mission. You didn’t care if he lived or died, just like he didn’t care for you. Still, it feels damn good to see him alive. Dreams swam back home to that mountaintop and that woman with her rabbits. They drifted past memories with ex-boyfriends and dumbfounded looks of friends you’ve pranked, laughter and crashing ocean waves. They even fell on Carolyn and those hazy memories with her in your youth. That one lingered the longest.  

Neck muscles burned, and scorching pain ripped you awake as you blinked past the horror of the unknown to identify yourself as being in some type of infirmary. The nurse plucked your IV out of your arm, making you winge. With steady hands, that same nurse from last night unhooked you from whatever devices kept you locked down to the bed, wordlessly preparing you to free this bed for the next patient. You’ll gladly oblige. They dressed you in matching pale pink scrubs, making you accept the lingering thought that your original clothes had been destroyed. Damn. Those were your favourite jeans. Oddly empty-handed, you met the rest of your crew patiently waiting in those standard cracked pleather chairs all hospitals seem to have. They all looked way too big for those chairs, like grown men trying to drive those Little Tikes cars. Price nodded in your direction, and the three of them rose to meet you. 

“You look like shit,” Soap spoke, sporting that same shit-eating grin he always wore whenever he was being a twat.

“So do you,” you sighed, despite his noticeably un-injured self. 

Gaz laughed, and that’s all the conformation you needed. Plastic sandals squeaked on the echoing linoleum, drawing unwanted attention with every striding step you took. You refused to let any sign of pain register on your demeanour. Maybe it’s naive, but showing any sign of weakness around these soldiers was simply not an option. Passing faces ogled you, donned with a split lip and bruised cheekbone, shuffling beside a pack of men who could each snap you in half like a glowstick. You probably looked like a case study to their wandering minds, but frankly, whatever stories they created about how you received these bruises couldn’t matter less. You all wordlessly knew exactly where you were headed. There was only one way to go through this winding labyrinth of linoleum and Polish medication advertisements. 

Chapter Text

Hospitals always had this way of being paradoxically the filthiest place you could be and the safest sterile environment in the world. No matter where in the world you were, every hospital had this certain uneasiness to them, like the lights were too white, and the polished floors were too glossy. Even the sounds were eerie, like there was an omnipresent sound of distant chatter and clacking shoes no matter where you were. The radio playing through circular speakers overhead softly played an oddly upbeat English pop tune. However, you definitely didn't recognize the song - though that's probably just because of your lack of exposure to pop culture in this field of work.

"What were his injuries?" you asked casually, gazing out an elevated window at a sprawling Polish cityscape as you walked. 

"Hmm, let's see," Price grumbled, flipping through one of the papers he held in a lazily folded stack, "Three broken ribs and a grade 1 concussion, and a gunshot wound from a 9-millimetre calibre in right deltoid."

"Fun," you breathed, your racing mind created imagery of visceral mutilations that were now dissolved by Price's matter-of-fact notations. 

"Lucky that the low calibre shots were the ones that hit his helmet, and the sniper shots hit the vest. They got the bullet out' his arm too, lucky bastard." Soap responded unsettlingly casually, making a passing family whip their heads around in shock at what they just heard. 

"Yeah, but I'm scared if we let you in his room his heart might give out," Gaz added over your shoulder as he walked behind you. 

Your heart stopped momentarily. Weakness in your body made you particularly susceptible to panic, and right now, your mind was racing. You couldn't help but wring your hands nervously to diffuse clambering alarm bells. 

What does he mean by that, exactly? Does he know about that encounter we shared that night at the club? It was nothing personal, just a quick kiss. He better not think it was anything like… oh God, what if Price knows too? Is that a complication? Is that a workplace hazard that's going to be brought up at some HR meeting when I'm back home? Is there even an HR department for this team? They're looking at me differently now. I just know it. 

"No offence Cricket, but ya' look like a banshee," Soap quipped, catching your nerves off guard. "Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?" 

A brief wave of relief hit you, though you were still far from relaxed. If these men who spend their days in the same outfit for years on end are commenting on your appearance, then it must be particularly horrifying. 

"Rude," you glared at him sarcastically, "fine. I'll meet you guys there and tidy myself up first." 

"Cool, we'll be in here." With that, they stepped into the recovery room behind a lacquered wood door. 

Spotting the illuminated sign down the hallway, you ducked into a brightly lit women's room. Meeting the mirror, you couldn't help but shake your head in disbelief. Soap was right. You did look like a banshee. You'll have to make do with combing your hair with your fingers, prying free knots and a few black bits of turf from the field that managed to stay lodged in the mats. Swiping fingertips under your eyes did nothing to negate the dark circles that made you look like a sunken corpse. Manifesting bruises created a perfect recreation of the fists that strangled your trachea in a palette of purple and red. To your shock, your eyes were slightly bloodshot too, though the nurse had assured you that that symptom would disappear in a day or two. You can't magically make your bruises around your cheekbones and throat disappear, though. At the very least, your hair and clothing could be smoothed down so that if someone catches you from just the right angle, you would pass as not looking like a murder victim. 

Swallowing all self-consciousness, you tapped your fingers on the wood door. You passed shoulder-to-shoulder with Price on his phone, leaving the space before you stepped into the dimly lit visitation room. Gaz and Soap had already made themselves comfortable in the two wooden chairs afforded to the room, absentmindedly leaving you to stand. There he lay, also looking like a murder victim. Beeping medical equipment was hooked up to a man who somehow managed to keep that stupid fucking mask. Although a different shape from his typical model, like the cloth-printed skull shape was a macabre reminder of this specific setting. You were met with a surprising amount of skin, once again making you hesitate if you're witnessing something you're not meant to. A bleached bandage sprawled across his bare chest, covering creeping deep purple markings on the side of his chest. The wrappings crept over his shoulder too, allowing you to identify where Soap mentioned a bullet had been fished from. You assumed the rank of standing slightly beside his two closest comrades, letting the people he actually cares for get the most direct attention. Calling it a visit to boost his morale wouldn't entirely be correct, as it's hard to say if that grim cunt even has emotions at all under that hand-sewn mask. 

"I saw you in the helo Cricket. You looked like you were havin' a fit," Gaz joked, drawing sorrowfully unwanted eyes on yourself, feeling like you could crumple back into that fetal position you assumed earlier. "I didn't know you cared so much for this ol' fucker." 

"I was just worried Price would kill me for breaking one of his toys," you quipped back, smirking to diffuse creeping tension. You looked down and noticed yourself picking at your nails, yet another thing for your body to heal, "I was scared I'd be next on the chopping block."

"Oh, believe me, it's gonna take a lot more than that to kill us," Gaz sighed, crossing his arms. 

"If anyone were to survive a headshot, it'd be our LT, Eh?" Soap tapped his fist on Gaz's shoulder.

"I've had worse," Ghost stated plainly, rubbing the back of his neck in thought. 

Their conversation drifted to a series of progressively more grisly injury stories. They started off with a time Price broke Soap's toe by dropping a garage door on it, and it escalated to a time when Gaz saw his own internal organs through a bullet hole. It made you reflect on your far more mundane medical record of an ear infection and a minor slashing wound on your leg. It seems that all four of these men are in a constant state of healing from their last traumatic injury of some sort. Almost like they almost take turns rotating between who has the life-threatening wound when on a mission.

Your eyes drifted to Ghost's un-bandaged arm. He had sprawling, inky tattoos on a sleeve along his left arm. You couldn't help but hone in on a menagerie of soldiers, guns, and macabre imagery painted across the muscles of his shoulder, all the way down to his wrist. Tattoos of skulls and barbed wire warped over muscles, slightly faded to a dark grey, implying they'd been there for a while. More unravelling details you've never even imagined from this obscured figure. It just made you more eager to drink in any details, like this will be your one and only opportunity to ever see his collarbone. One of the items in the sleeve looked exactly like that sentient bullet from Super Mario, and you had to pretend to be extremely interested in Gaz's horror story to stop yourself from giggling. Gaz has this horrifying way of acting out injury scenes that makes the toe-curling gore just that much more visceral, so making your smile fade was easy. 

They all seemed entirely content with one another's company, almost immediately steering the conversation into a tactical analysis of how the situation should have been handled. Your eyes glazed over, hearing unfamiliar technical jargon even years in the military didn't expose you to. You made do with tracing your eyes over crumbling wall trim and water-stained tiles. The door clicking snapped you out of your haze.

"Gaz, Soap, I need a word." Price spoke, whipping his finger to gesture they come to the hallway with him. 

The two of them filed out of the cramped box of a room efficiently, sharing a nod with their ally before they stepped out of the threshold. Click. Dread crept over you, and you realized your new role. It was now your social responsibility to talk to the patient, but you uniquely don't have any particularly interesting war stories to share. Moisture gathered in your palms, and the crinkly fabric of the scrubs you were prescribed radiated your nervous body heat back unto you. Your eyes flickered to his as your senses became acutely aware of the steady beeping of his heart rate monitor. Unlike you, he seemed to have no bodily reaction whatsoever to the awkward silence. 

"Look where following orders has got us'" you sighed, raising your palms in lighthearted exasperation, making jest at your shared bodily harm.

"These were your orders," his voice was cold as ice. 

Asshole.  

"They worked, didn't they?" You countered, raising an eyebrow at him, all humour immediately fizzling. 

"Not sure yet."

A jaded scoff erupted from your throat, crossing your arms over your chest in frustration. He's so goddamn insistent on painting you to be this walking hazard that plagues his workplace. Despite bruises and contusions, you refused to let him wound your pride. He made it particularly easy to be icy back to him like he was expecting that furrowed stare to make you start shaking in your boots. No. Fuck you, you're not letting him have the last word or win another frigid deadlock. All sympathy for this poor, bandaged creature whose feet were barely over the edge of the bed had entirely spilled from your body.

Another click at the door dissuaded you from lunging onto his cot and wrenching your thumb into his bullet hole. Looking over your shoulder, you caught Price as he stepped past the threshold again. This time, he actually entered and sauntered over to Ghost's bedside. He tapped his closed fist on the plastic guard rails on the side of the recovery bed. A phantom of a grin lingered in his eyes as he observed the patient's position. They exchanged a nod. 

"Simon," Price breathed, turning to grip the plastic railing with both fists. 

"Captain," Ghost replied curtly. 

A silence fell over the room, and the energy in the room sparked with expectation and dread. A pause that was in reality no more than a few seconds stretched on for minutes. Judging by his hesitation to speak it must be something grave, though he hasn't shushed you out of the room yet, so it can't be too grim. At this point, you couldn't care less what Ghost thinks of you, so any reprimand of your mission from Price would hardly be embarrassing. 

"We have you on a flight to London in 30." He said curtly, letting out a low sigh.

"Yes sir," Ghost replied immediately, and your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

30 minutes? Does he not see the inch-thick bandages around his shoulder and the sprawling purple skin representing broken ribs? There's no way he can get back to action. They've got to be just moving him to a new hospital. Once again, Price broke you out of your trance. 

"Cricket, a word?" He tilted his head to the hallway. 

"Yes sir," You too replied. 

Stepping into the starkly lit hallway, you leaned against the wall in mental exhaustion as you mentally wrestled with understanding the situation you're now in. The words that caught in your throat were pleading for Price's forgiveness, for some sort of punishment or flogging for leading one of his soldiers to near death. Every word in your mind screamed to ask him to never trust you with leading another mission again, and you have no place having that kind of responsibility. It hurts so bad, and it scares you. Although you felt no sympathy for the man himself, your mission led to Ghost nearly facing death thanks to a plan you personally strategized.  

"The USB you tossed me earlier had some interesting stuff on it." He craned to look over his shoulder and down the hall before continuing. "It had a bunch of audio recordings and a link to a private radio frequency."

"I believe the man who handed it to me mentioned something about them not being able to decode it." Your shoulders released as you realized he was not planning to reprimand you. 

"Now that we're out of Verdansk, we have a committee to help decipher the content that's working directly with the Elders. It's almost a year's worth of content, and they said they'd be in touch if you're needed," he trailed off. 

An odd sense of betrayal washed over you, quickly overshadowed by clicking logic. Of course, you weren't the sole linguist on this mission anymore, especially now that you're not in some bunker in the middle of nowhere. It'll be just like your regular missions before you met this task force, just you and a team of peers chipping away at a project. The 'if you're needed' is what snagged in your mind most, and his posture spoke of a lingering uneasiness. Since you've stepped foot in Poland, Price has been on edge about something. He answers every communication from his dinky flip phone, the same one you have, without a moment's pause. 

"The committee had a look. It looks like they were using cross-translated Korean and Turkish to communicate in Arabic, but the signal was cut short only hours after we got our hands on it." Price continued, "luckily they had hours of tapings before it got cut, and a linguist task force is working on it as we speak. They said it'll take a few months to break it all down, but right now, we need you to join us in London."

"Yes sir," you nodded, decently satisfied with the surprisingly rapid response to the conflict. 

His mouth hung open like he was about to say something else, but a buzzing cell phone didn't even spend a second in his waistband before he flipped it open. Before he rounded the corner, you couldn't help but eavesdrop and catch the name 'Kate' being spoken in greeting as he answered. Kate. Kate Laswell. You could easily be forgiven for forgetting she has a first name at all. So often, are you referring to these people by their rank, surname, or maybe the odd callsign if you are close with them. It's almost unsettling to remember that these cogs in these highly functioning machines are people's sons and daughters.

It's so easy to wind yourself up in this injured state, like you're shadowboxing with made-up villains you're spawning from your imagination. It's like you're still just as on edge as you were in that locker room, like one of the nurses sauntering down the hall beside you are going to drop their clipboard and wring your throat like a towel. You just need to walk it off. Breathe away the tension and get yourself something to eat. Folding sore arms over your chest, you aimlessly sauntered over to one of the hospital sitting rooms. The grainy ceiling-mounted television would be hard to read even with the best eyesight, but as you squinted and stepped closer, trying to make sense of the scrolling red text. Talking figureheads spoke unfamiliar words in Polish, a language that you'd yet to pick up. Though from shared words from neighbouring languages and some inferring, you gathered the gist as your face dropped. A terrorist attack. London. A bomb went off on a busy street, numerous civilian deaths, and something about a terrorist group.

Chapter Text

After two weeks in a basement bunker, London is far from where you'd hope to rejuvenate your body's aching for vitamin D. Catching a view of the white cliffs of Dover over Gaz's shoulder, a lengthy flight immediately after a hospitalization left your sore muscles restless in anticipation of an upcoming landing. Unlike your travels in the States, you weren't treated like a diety whenever you wore your uniform in public. On this side of the Pond, there were no thank you for your service's or forfeited seats, instead just lingering glances thanks to your marred face and throat. Just a crying baby whose uproar did nothing to stop Soap or Gaz's impenetrable slumbers, and a broken seatback display left you weighing every action you've made in the past weeks. 

Ghost had the luxury of being given first-class tickets, though that was a result of his injuries requiring more breathing room. Arguably deserved, though no less irritating. They're more than eager to put millions into a helicopter that'll just get shot out of the sky, but they won't spare a couple bucks to fly their agents first class? You'll just have to make do with fighting for legroom sandwiched between these two goliaths. These two make it look so easy. 

Technically, on paper you're RCAF. Canadian. However, your home government freely trades specialists like you among adjacent American organizations, along with a famously tight alliance with the British government. Right now, you're an RCAF linguist officer operating under CIA orders on a SAS task force, functioning as an extension of NATO- or maybe NORAD. It's an easy mistake to forget which alphabet soup acronym you're taking orders from each day, but frankly, you stopped asking questions months ago. Whichever organization it is, they seem to have a cavalier attitude towards keeping you on a consistent schedule. After almost half a year of deafening silence, you're now scrambling between tasks and frantically pushing your limits under impossible pressure. Such is the life of someone with a very specific and unique set of skills; it's always been hurry-up-and-wait. 

Based on the limited information you gathered from Laswell or Price before they departed on their own plane, your orders were to await further instructions at the SAS Barracks. The terrorist attack that had happened in London hours ago had the two of them worked up beyond what you'd expect from an attack on friendly soil. It's almost inevitable that a disgruntled civilian with an unsettled mental state would do something drastic, but their combined apprehensiveness articulated a larger issue. You could just tell. That lingering thought wasn't helped when even the energy on the plane you were locked in was unsettled as people's eyes lingered on you, a clique of soldiers in uniform, for longer than what you'd expect from someone with your injuries. 

As the rolling countryside translated into a looming cityscape, even from a bird's eye view, you could tell the country was electric with tension. Counting landmarks you'd recognized from pop culture, you predicted your landing would be in about 10 minutes. Streets growing nearer and clearer were peppered with those chartreuse English police uniforms and blocked roads in the inner city. It was past noon by now, but the streets were almost entirely devoid of traffic.

Even when you landed, an extra frisk of your person was the consequence of a country that was springloaded with tension after a direct attack in their capital. Just another airport, though at least now you have the companionship of three other familiar faces. Precious few words were exchanged between the four of you besides directions and wordless commands in the form of points and nods. You were flying dark in this unfamiliar territory, but your allies' confidence suggested you would be far from lost. 

Efficient transport was arranged to escort you to the barracks you were prescribed to visit, but it'd let you catch an intrigued glance of this age-old city from the tinted window of the dark SUV. You'd spent a few short weeks in Brighton early in your career while on a diplomatic translation mission, but otherwise, this was your first time in the United Kingdom as a whole. There's a certain charm to the narrow streets and ironwork lampposts, though that would be quickly overridden by the imposing sprawling compound that was marked to be your destination. Dewy rain misted your face as you climbed granite stairs toward a surprisingly modern building with sloping gleaming glass and glossy steel columns. All it took was a nod from Ghost to the receptionist, and you effortlessly slipped past a front desk with impressive ease, breezing past metal detectors and security teams without a second glance. 

Just another military base, just like the hundreds you've seen before. Though particularly modern, that's just a consequence of staying at an active base rather than some abandoned Cold War settlement. This building had all the glitz of modern military funding, leading past keen-eyed students early listening to a lecturer's speech in a sloping auditorium from the vantage point of a glass railing catwalk. The boys walked as stern as ever like three diligent bulldogs striding like the ground was rising to greet them with upturned palms. For their ranks and portfolios, the little squirts in this training ward must look at you four like Gods walking among mere mortals. In reality, you had felt just as small and insignificant as those keen trainees barely a year ago when you met these titans. 

Passing under a hanging Officer's Quarters sign, it struck you that you were no longer expected to sleep in communal sleeping quarters like the grunt you were early in your career. As a senior officer, you had the amenity of having an exclusive personal chamber. A senior officer. You're already a senior officer in your career, yet you can't help but feel so dreadfully unfulfilled. The last time you insisted on improving your interpersonal life, you did something woefully drastic and consequential. Maybe you're just fated to solve gang disputes and weaponry scuffles until the day that you keel over and die. 

"Three-sixteen," Ghost's voice chilled your bone marrow, cutting you from your imaginative trance. 

Tilting his chin to direct you down a sleek hallway of hotel-like residence units, mathematically measured to provide the exact same amount of relief issued to you by your higher-ups. With a nod, you parted ways with your chattering colleagues. The three of them headed in the opposite direction, immediately carrying on their boisterous discussions about fishing, football, and/or their recollections of their basic training days in these halls, remarking on recent renovations. Respectfully, you couldn't care less, just nodding along and smiling when it was socially expected until you could shed this chafing uniform in your own space. 

Three-twelve, three-fourteen, there it is. An unlocked door groaned as you pushed past, meeting a delightfully prosaic desk and bed combo that could be more accurately described as something you'd see on a ship's quarters. Not ridiculously cramped like a broom closet or that white van, but it is far from the comfort of a hotel room. Both would be equally uninspired, though a hotel room would definitely discard those standard-issue green wool sheets that feel like steel wool on bare legs. Slumping your bags next to the pale wood dresser, you weighed whether it was viable to pack your items into the wardrobe. Considering the pace at which things have been moving, you could either be here a month or 45 minutes, and it'd be impossible to guess. 

It didn't take a second after the door clicked shut before you were stripping from that starchy uniform. Crisp air ghosted over your skin, feeling goosebumps whisper over your exposed flesh in the cool air. Shrugging into one of your dozens of black tee shirts and green-grey cargo pants, you were hit with a jolt of surprise as you caught your wounded appearance in the tiny mirror. That's just a sight you'll have to get used to for the next few weeks. Most of all, you couldn't wait to take advantage of that aluminum shower you were afforded within the cubicle of a bathroom in your unit. At this point, a hot water shower was as foreign as seeing a shark on a mountaintop, but now you were on your way to explore this strikingly well-funded compound. 

Leaning over another catwalk, you overlooked an immense training gymnasium as you rested your forearms on the glass railing. Distant tweets of whistles sang along with a chorus of grunts and pattering footsteps. Drills of heaving recruits and exercising soldiers occupied small collectives of personnel, moving in small packs of their own like differing species on the safari. It's like the water fountains on the perimeter were watering holes, and the yellow wood parquet floors of the open arena were the grassland savannah of West Africa. Following that logic, that familiar dark balaclava'ed fucker you spied must be like a lion or a cheetah; recruits dodged his path as he exercised alone as if they knew he'd bite if they got too close. 

You spotted your remaining crew not far away, squatting on a bleacher just within earshot of their masked colleague. Satisfied with your time spent overseeing nature unfold in this barracks gymnasium, you descended the riveted aluminum staircase, dodging a coming pack of joggers to join your partners in their discussion. Proud glass windows offered a view of a dreary cityscape of dark brick and sloping metal roofs as you passed, sliding across smooth wood to find a seat among allies. Gaz and Price nodded in your direction, acknowledging your introduction. 

You had stepped into a conversation about a change in their fitness plans. Price thoroughly recited the upcoming adjustments they can expect to their weekly regiments, shooting drills, and cardio expectations. Eyes glazed over. This couldn't be less relevant to you, though you still were somewhat interested in the superhuman outcomes scheduled for their weekly training that you, lucky, could dodge. After wandering over distant burpees and sprinting, training you begrudgingly remembered doing in your own training back home, your eyes settled on the subject immediately before you. 

Ghost was doing expertly measured push-ups on the glossy wood floors only feet from where you were sitting. With a bandaged arm folded behind his back, you got to spy the skillfully wrapped gauze around his upper arm, which looked like it was curated with manic precision. The grim menagerie of inked barbed wire and skulls on his tattooed arm flexed and bowed as it worked to sustain the doubled weight- effortlessly. It's almost unfair how his splayed fingertips were just guiding the floor away from him with every grunt. His shoulders tightened every time his body hovered back into the lowered position under that SAS tee, watching the letters warp. No shivering or buckling like you would be doing under those conditions, only skillful accuracy and sheer strength willing his body to rise once again with another low breath. The man had only barely broken a sweat despite being at this since you'd spotted the group on the catwalk above. A shiver trickled down your spine, causing you to reflexively shake your head to dissuade bubbling thoughts. You defensively turned your attention back to Price's spiel just in time for Ghost to seemingly conclude his set, rising from his knees to stride over. 

"How's it feel to be back in your hometown?" you pouted to Ghost as he approached with honey-sweet mischief on your tongue, the words lept from your mouth before you could even recognize what you'd blurted. 

"I'm from Manchester, you muppet," he grumbled, undoubtedly spiteful, halting his approach as his shins brushed against the lowest step of the bleachers. 

These Brits have such an odd way of being so fiercely defensive of whichever town they came from, fighting tooth and nail about the cultural differences they have from the next town over. Despite that town being about a fifteen-minute drive away. You couldn't help but tease them because you knew it would get under their skin. The way Ghost's stare bored into you despite your creeping grin, you knew he was fully aware of your tease. His gaze cut like a dull knife, sawing and agonizing, but you didn't care. It gladdened you to know that you ground his gears in a way nobody else could, a sentiment you both exchanged with one another. 

"LT's grounded until he's fit for action again, but we're going to go rucking outside if you want to come with," Soap asserted, folding and unfolding a lustrous yet bland pamphlet between his fingers.

"In the rain?" you queried, flickering your eyes to the tall glass displaying a grim view of sheets of rain. 

"Unless you wanna' keep this miserable fucker company," Price huffed, gesturing to Ghost with a stack of papers in his hand. 

Go rucking in pouring rain with soldiers who you knew full well had a cruel level of physical stamina, or be stranded in the most vicious company you could imagine. It's like having to choose between having a nail shoved in your eye or getting your fingernails pried off. Both were horribly unappealing and will unquestionably lead to some form of injury. You had the grace of dodging their last session in Verdansk, so you hardly had any excuse. Neither did you have the excuse of injury, especially since Ghost was just doing one-armed push-ups with a fresh bullet wound and actively healing ribs only seconds ago. 

"Rucking sounds fantastic," you grinned. 

Soap clapping his hands made an ear-splitting echo that made you nearly jump out of your skin. Soap and Gaz seemed shockingly enthusiastic about you joining them. As though they knew your aching joints would scream in protest before you even set foot on the pavement, let alone after an hour or two of running. 

"Fuckin' right, Cricket," Soap leaned forward to slap his palm over your shoulder. "Go get your boots on and meet us out front." 

Blinking hard, you fumbled to gather what you agreed to. Given the alternative, this was far more preferable, though no less dreadful. Considering you were the unprepared one, you were left to speedwalk back up those echoing aluminum stairs to grab your boots from your quarters. On your way back, boots and shell jacket equipped, you couldn't help but chuckle as the keen-eyed recruits that passed looked at your battered appearance like you were a ghost that haunts the halls. It took a molecule of self-respect not to indulge in their fear and take advantage of now being the big fish, lunging at them and making them leap out of their skin. No. You won't be the cruel jokester others exposed you to when you were their rank. Even though it would've probably felt fantastic. 

Slipping past the security team with a nod, you saw Price, Gaz, and Soap just outside the grand glass doors in front of the luxurious barracks. Soap was eagerly bouncing on his toes, warming up relaxed muscles in preparation for a big hike. There were no backpacks for you to carry, so that must be their apology for guilting you into this. Price politely whipped the door open for your arrival, passing Gaz as he turned to stretch his calf over the stairs. 

"Alright, let's go," Price nodded gruffly. 

"Where 'we headed?" You inquired, shielding your eyes from the drizzling rain.

"We've got a place. Come along," he replied, pulling his hat down to dodge the damp air. 

Following Gaz's bounding steps, the three of you set off, trudging along grey streets in an entirely foreign direction. Soap seemed more than eager to get running, nearly springing with every step, slapping crawling tree branches to leave an onslaught of shed droplets to fall on you in his wake. You cut him with your gaze when he turned to laugh in your direction, and he just carried on in the vanguard. They were leading you farther into the city's density, though a city sprint could easily fall into the repertoire of a soldier of their calibre. After all, you must be trained for all environments, including the damp and dreary London inner city as the setting sun tinted the dark sky a pale red as it insisted on setting soon.

Cool, misty air settled in your lungs as your skin grew clammy under the waterproof jacket, and you grew eager to use the body heat from running to warm your chilling muscles. Your head shook in confusion as Gaz ducked into a nearby storefront, leaving you pacing a few steps away as you scrambled to understand the change in direction. Soap and Price had followed as if it was clearly marked on the intended route, though they had the grace to stop and wait for you to grapple with what was happening. Your eyes flickered to the dripping sign above, clearly reading Pub. Soap and Gaz grinned at you with those shit-eating grins you've become used to. These cheeky fuckers. 

"C'mon Grant, before I change my mind," Price teased, rolling his head to gesture for you to follow. 

It didn't take a second thought. Your legs practically sprung into action, catching the heavy swinging door with your forearm and progressing into the bustling pub. After all, when in Rome. The air in the pub was heavy, but lively, passing shoulder to shoulder with laughing patrons as you worked the zipper of your jacket free. Gaz and Price were already carrying on about their favourite local beers while Soap eagerly swiped up the laminated menu from the booth they settled into. A live band blasted eccentric grunge music, feeling an overwhelming atmosphere of elation as you slid over the plastic seats next to your comrades. 

Despite recent events leaving you more than deserving of an alcohol-fueled bender, what you craved more than anything was orange juice, of all things. It felt like it was all you could think about, though it's definitely your body's physiological reflex to expedite your body's healing process. The three of them clinked their beers to your juice, silently toasting to many more team outings to come. Maybe rucking isn't so bad after all. 

Chapter Text

It's so reassuring to know that when life hangs in the balance during a mission's most dire moments, somewhere else in the world, absolutely nothing is happening. This was the case for Chunky when you dialled him moments after you recognized your cell phone at the bottom of your pack. When he answered, it was more than clear that he had just woken up, hearing squabbling gulls and wafting breezes flooding the device's microphone. You had made the mistake of interrupting his 14:00 hours nap on the beach, but you'd caught him precious seconds before the first drink was to enter his system. Retirement was always fashionable for him, and he wore the California beachside sunshine like he was born to it. 

He took issue with you being stationed in London after a terrorist attack that occupied every talking head newscaster back home's script for the past few days. A SAS barracks would be an ideal target for a follow-up strike, and he might be right. However, considering what you've seen in the past month, you've seen a decent success rate at surviving remote detonation charges- even when they're right next to you. 

It makes you extremely grateful that he couldn't see your face and throat right now, even when you've already seen significant healing over the past few days. Knowing him, he'd probably have a cow. He's always been so overprotective of you, but sometimes it gets to a point where you're bound to get injured, and his outrage would just be an inconvenience. If it weren't top secret, you would've loved to spill every detail about the punches you caught with your eyesocket, but it might just make his heart give out. You'd think a veteran of over five decades would be more sympathetic to workplace injuries in this field of work. He'll just never shake that mental image of you in his head of the scared 14-year-old girl you were when you first came into his care.

This recuperation was precisely what you were craving, still forcing you to be on guard in this working environment but just relaxing enough to let you catch up to your surroundings. Contemporary, sleek architecture with rich black metal and industrial wood floorings significantly improved from your last sleeping situation, though it was still far from your personal preference. These tall, angular walls and hovering square balconies crested into vast open common spaces filled with bustling cliques of crisp uniforms and neatly tied shoelaces. It had a way of making your footsteps echo down these halls louder than any place you've ever been, especially once those bright-eyed soldiers slinked into their studies.

The shooting range was surprisingly quiet at this time of day. Around 9:00, it was far too late in the morning for an early scrimmage, and most of the pupils were well into their classroom lectures by now. The echoing concrete chamber hosted a buffet of pistols, rifles, and even crossbows to take aim upon your choice of a selection of targets with varying sizes and distances. The smell of musty concrete and lingering gunpowder settled in your sinuses as you palmed a standard Glock. You're scarcely armed with much more than a pistol in your role, so this 9mm will have to be your new best friend for the next few hours until you're sufficiently sore. 

Shooting practice works muscles you didn't even know you had, like the space between your fingers being sore or the muscles just below your collarbones. With every shot reverberating through your shoulders, you felt a euphoric exhale alleviate deeply rooted anxiety with the conclusion of the anticipated blast, even with the muffled protection of these yellow headphones. A flashing siren signalled the rotation of the targets, rolling your neck to either shoulder in an effort to diffuse tensed muscles. In your turn, you caught that familiar hulking figure occupying the space beside the armoury wall. He has a talent for appearing exactly when you're seeking focus.

Slender hips leaned against a broad metal table, a dissected rifle laid with surgical accuracy, more evidence of him being an obsessive neat freak. Those stupid skeletal gloves slid along the smooth metal, inspecting for dust with his two fingers across every curve and switch on the M4. Your tongue fell heavy, oddly hypnotized. Then they were plunging into the magazine cavity, inspecting for debris in a fashion you've seen hundreds of times before. Swiping to examine every inch of the gun's inner sanctum, the stern expression on those dark eyes under that skull plate suggested he was taking this deathly seriously. Gloved knuckles buried digits past the narrow opening as they worked to swipe over the deepest extent of the chamber before he withdrew. Cool air breathed across your neck, watching him smoothly slide the dark ammo cartridge into the thoroughly inspected slot with a satisfying click. The feeling of your teeth digging into the soft tissue on the inside of your lower lip made you snap back into reality, just in time for you to dodge him looking up and noticing your rapt surveillance. 

Mechanical clinking of the paper shooting targets rotating into position snapped you back into focus while a shaky breath slipped past your tight lips. Muscle memory compelled you to do the preliminary sweep over the range before you raised your pistol, aiming the gunmetal barrel toward those coloured concentric circles. A deep inhale, hold, and squeeze the trigger on the exhale. Activating this trigger in one place makes a splintered hole manifest in the paper prey across the room, it's something that's always been such an abstract thought to you. Slightly off-mark but well within the final black circle. Textbook, though it took you a solid eight seconds, a task those burning eyes you felt on the back of your neck could do in a split second with supernatural accuracy. 

Another round of targets. A stinging pressure in your chest made your arms feel weak. Every time you squeezed the trigger, you panted air through barred teeth with dissatisfaction. Round after round after round, your shots fell progressively farther off the mark. You must've hit the point of diminishing returns, as on another dissatisfied sigh, you caught a foggy silhouette of those classic blonde bangs through the range glass. 

Sliding your Glock back onto the rack after a clean would surely satisfy Ghost, who had long since established himself at the far end of the range. Laswell stood in the viewing area, catching your eye contact with a polite wave, holding a bundle of manilla folders across the front of her pale button-up. It was a 50/50 chance that you were the one she was looking to speak to, and the other 50% would mean you could get a head start on handling your grumbling stomach. 

"I didn't mean to interrupt," Laswell called as you slipped past the swinging glass door. She invited you to sit at a small metal table with your shoulders to the broad glass wall. 

"No worries, I was just wrapping up," you cracked your knuckles to relieve aching joints. 

"Your face looks good," she noted, gesturing to the marred flesh under your eyes and cheekbones. 

It took half a mind not to say 'you too' for reasons entirely unknown to you. Laswell's been the first person to actually acknowledge your injuries in the sense that it might have an effect on your appearance. Even with her role as the impartial task deliverer from whatever faceless higher-ups compel her, there's always been this sensitivity to her. Laswell's seen all four of those boys beaten within an inch of their lives, and she still had the patience to show interest in your healing process. She must share a sympathy for you in this field where your likenesses were beyond uncommon. It's probably why she spurred Gaz and Soap to make you that apology birthday cake back in Chita after they scorned you. Or, perhaps she's just the first person who doesn't immediately ridicule and/or tease you as soon as they lay eyes on you. An intense stare and deep frown lines suggested a long commitment to this high-stakes career. It's funny how people's faces tell such a vivid story of what they've come from.

"I've been craving oranges like you wouldn't believe," you smiled.

"That's your body telling you that it's in a rush to get better," she laughed harder than you would've expected. "The boys are headed out to a new position in an hour, but for now, we'll have you hang back here." 

"Yes, ma'am."

"You won't be here long, though. We'll have you on standby with us after we set up a perimeter," she said plainly, knitting her fingers together on the table.

"Seems pretty useful to have a linguist in your back pocket," you added.

"Exactly." 

Her pushing back her squealing chair suggested this discussion had concluded, her arm hooking under the neatly stacked pile of papers and folders, hugging them to her chest again. Without question, the next stop was an ice-cold shower back in your room, and maybe you'll find a quiet space in the library for some study for the rest of the day. Muffled pops from behind ballistic glass fought for attention over your concentration as you reminded yourself which direction led to your dormitory. 

"-and Lua," she paused, waiting for you to turn over your shoulder to catch her gaze one last time. "Excellent work on that last mission." 

A warm smile pulled at your cheeks, nodding dutifully as you folded your hands behind your back. If she only knew how reassuring those words were for you, as only a few weeks ago, you were certain your employment was terminated. It seems that being in Laswell's good graces requires back-breaking flexibility and a penchant for self-destruction. 

Being served warm meals is nice, but access to hot showers is what really makes this place seem more like a hotel with every passing day. Paired with a library with no business being so well equipped with cutting-edge linguistic case studies and theory, you were more than set to be stimulated for the next few weeks. It takes a bit of getting used to having so much top-secret information rattling around in your brain, making you shudder at the thought of whether sleep-talking might make you unveil nuclear codes or vital coordinates. The downside to these black-and-white modern art exhibit of a complex meant that every day felt like a waking daydream, blending each day into the other. Even with gigantic windows on nearly every surface, the day-night cycle did little to soothe your creeping restlessness.

Another shower. Now, there's no time limit or shouting Captain to remind you to wrap up your allotted water usage. In the quiet of your private cubicle bathroom, despite the fact that you could only barely spread your arms fully, this was your sanctuary. Cool droplets slid down radioactive skin, though this time, this shower was just a formality. It had no inherent purpose to strip the day's grime from your skin. Your earlier shower handled that. This shower was a different kind of cleanse. A reality cleanse. A factory reset of your sense of self. What the fuck were those thoughts that surged into your mind in the range earlier? Unexpected thoughts. Twisted thoughts. Thoughts that make your eyelids fall heavy and your breath hitch. You plunge your face into the frigid stream, sputtering and coughing as icy water surges into your sinuses. 

You didn't get a chance to send off the boys, or give Soap one last closing chirp before he left. Disappointing, though as Laswell said, they'd call you in sometime soon. It could be days before you're thrust into another bustling airport, so you might as well take advantage of any precious quiet time you could find. You found this one nook at the back of the library that was an immediate favourite. It had cheeky graffiti from edgy recruits and crude drawings of genitalia, entirely lacking finesse, but still somehow uniquely charming in its absurdity. Booth cushions felt more like bus seats, meaning you'd have to adjust your posture after an hour of reading, but it was an excellent way to pass the time. 

Days slipped by, and you buried yourself in self-prescribed studies. With a trade so focused on problem-solving, it's handy to review how other linguists handle impossible situations under brutal pressure. Case studies of catastrophic World War miscommunications that left a fleet at the bottom of the Atlantic, and a time a lone linguist doomed a small Hawaiian hamlet to Japanese bombings because of a minor mistranscription. All are tools to be slotted into your mental toolbox, just another key in your loop. Occasionally redundant, at times humorous, but more often than not, these cases provided key situational skills that could change the game on a future mission.

Deep red and blue bruises under your eyes slowly stabilized into rich yellow brushstrokes that swept across your cheeks. The pain had long dissipated, even permitting you to rest your weight on your previously wounded thigh when you curled into your booth. So long as you have Laswell's flip phone in your back pocket, you have no reason not to be allowed to explore the cobbled streets under a rare blue sky. Dancing ivy caressed the sides of tall brick townhouses and pruned hedges daring to creep into the expanse of the cracked sidewalks. 

Bouncing kids in ties and blazers sprung past you on their way to school, swinging clanging metal lunchboxes with every step. Kicking stones past pointed ironwork fences, you inhaled deep. The food here was terrible, and the weather was worse, but at least there wasn't a six-lane highway tearing through those lazy plazas of boutiques and pubs. Scripted trees plotted in designated holes lined the paths you walked with a tidy yet rustic charm.

By the time your injuries were a recent memory, a buzz at your phone summoned you to your duty. Laswell's crackling voice implored you to take advantage of your last night at the barracks before you set off to the military airbase just a few blocks away in the early morning. The flight would bring you to Syria. That confession left you spending those last precious hours in a plush bed staring at the ceiling, familiarizing yourself with Arabic. This time, there was no 10-day scramble to learn the language. This was a tongue you were more than comfortable with, one you'd picked up early on in your career. With that knowledge, you are at least partially at ease before you're again off to the races. 

Chapter Text

They had the grace to fly you first class, though the flight route was staggeringly long. Zig-zagging patterns meant you were touching down on nearly every continent, sometimes ordered to spend no more or less than 10 hours in an airport hotel room without leaving, then hurry onto the next plane. Laswell could be trying to shake someone off your trail, but more likely than not, it's just prudence. You were at the beck and call of whatever text came through your flip phone, usually directing you minutes after landing to which gate to head to and where to pick up your boarding pass. Even security was weird. You'd be 'selected for special search' by a female officer every time without fail. It's like each of these airports had express orders to handle your case with care.

Curiously, the name on your room didn't match your IDs, and none of them seemed to blink an eye. It always seemed to be a shift manager in suits and workwear dresses leading you down carpeted hallways to your room with their exquisitely polished shoes. Sure, the hotel rooms weren't spectacular, but they'll offer the legally mandated six hours of sleep you'll need before they can stick you back onto a plane. With more sliding glass doors and polished marble floors, you're back in the plainly coloured airports with a newly printed plane ticket from a code texted on your burner. It's gotten to the point where it's hard to say how long you've been travelling when you're flying to Egypt, to Switzerland, touching tires in Portugal, then finally finding the final stop.

Judging by the sea hugging this body of land, you gagued that you're likely in the Republic of Adal, a territory within Syria. It's a hotbed for gang violence, and it's made the news lately for their elections to separate from their national government. You spotted a decently sized town from the view up on the sandy hill that the small Cessna left you off on, shielding your eyes from the blistering afternoon sun. Pale beige brick buildings made up of houses and stores came closer into view as you made your way down the slippery dune. Sand had long since settled into your boots, but the closer you got to the town, the more oddly mesmerized you were by its placement. The city was backed in against the sprawling view of the Mediterranean Sea over one shoulder and an endless desert on the other. South is a marshland, west is the ocean, and the north and eastern directions are nothing but sprawling desert. It's such an odd harmony of ecosystems but an apparent hasty reaction to an oil deposit discovery. If it weren't for this small, hazy city, it would be entirely virgin wilderness. 

A vibration in your back pocket, and you're already flicking open the dinky device. A private number texting three words. Observatory back door. It's unsettling to consider how easy it would be to kidnap you, but you were already calculating your route by squinting at the blurry horizon as the thought entered your mind. Bulbous white orbs from what looked like radomes were barely visible when you shielded your eyes at the right angle. If that's an observatory, it's a ten-minute walk. You made the effort to tie your standard-issue jacket over the body of your duffle bag, feeling the effects of the punishing sun on your skin. Spending the better part of three days almost entirely stationary didn't help either; feeling cool beads of sweat immediately heat on your skin. Hot sweat formed in a thin sheen over your skin, cursing your black tee shirt for its heat-absorbing properties. 

The grand complex solidified into view, satellite dishes mounted on vast smooth grey stone made up what had to be said observatory. Chipping blue and white paint on tall metal doors was just beyond a chain-link fence; you could easily slip under a broad hole you'd found after a minute or two of searching. The chain-link rattled as you passed underneath, swinging your pack back over your shoulder that you'd thrown ahead of you. The arrogant Trespassers Will Be Shot sign above the steel door did nothing to stop you from pushing past. Cautious eyes fell on a staircase immediately after the door's opening, breathing in damp stagnant air that reeked of mildew and rust. Willing every muscle in your thighs to step silently, you reached the top of the stairs that greeted you to see an all-too-familiar face. 

There stood Price. Smiling through his moustache, he'd probably have tipped his hat to you if his arms weren't crossed over muted green body armour. The faintest thread of suspicion that caught in the back of your mind immediately smoothed, allowing you to climb the last few steps of the stairs fully. With the weight of your pack being all too apparent in the sweltering heat, the cool interior urged you to slump your duffle bag onto the ground. Your chest was heaving, gasping in the slightly less suffocating air.

"Maybe you needed that rucking back in London," he smiled.

He'd have to settle for a glare as an answer, cracking a smile as you wiped slick sweat from your brow. The room was more like an open auditorium, where tiers of metal overpasses crisscrossed over what looked like concrete floors below, though it was too dark to tell. The only reason you could identify anything was thanks to a single camping lamp twisted alive next to a cluster of miscellaneous laptops, headphones, and cassettes. It's definitely a sign of the times, as if the chipping racing-stripe wall paint didn't already imply this place had been quickly built around the late '70s and looked like it was quickly abandoned by the '90s. 

"Laswell will be here shortly to help you with settling in. In the meantime, welcome to Al Mazrah, the capital of the Republic of Adal, or so the locals want you to believe."

"Are we not in Syria?" 

"Oh, we are," he raised his brows as he spoke, scratching his beard. "We're here because a gang here is taking responsibility for the London attacks. The Separatists."

"Attacks?" You queried.

"Attacks. There have been two more explosions since you left, plus an attack on the English embassy in Damascus. The Separatist gang leader in town is toasting to his role in these strikes often and loudly." His tone was grim and stern, not unlike how he's given orders on other missions. 

The sound of heavy boots crashing down onto clambering metal from the shadows made your knees instinctively buckle into a lower stance. By the time your eyes even identified the direction of the sound, Price had the courtesy of pointing to the intruder with a glinting pistol. 

"Fuck's sake Farah," your Captain sighed, flicking the safety back onto his pistol with his thumb. 

"Keeping you on your toes, old man," A tall woman with dark eyes swaggered out of the shadows, palms raised. "You're making me nervous." 

She spoke with a candour that caught you off guard, stern and unbothered. She obviously has a rapport with Price, considering he didn't just blast those sloping cheekbones off the plane of her skull. Adrenaline still prickled in your fingertips despite their relaxed attitudes, darting your eyes between them in confusion. He raised his hand to point in her direction, rolling his head over to speak to you. 

"Lua Grant, meet Farah Karim, leader of a local resistance movement. Farah, this is the linguist I told you about."

"I hear they call you Cricket," she extended her palm to yours, taking your hand in a crushing handshake. 

"Some do," you smiled, nodding in acknowledgement. 

"Farah's offered us her support on this," Price interjected, "she knows this territory better than we ever could. And she has a knack for handling warlord Separatists."

"We have common interests, but don't get soft on me, Captain," she smirked coyly. "SAS helped me once before, so I'm just answering a called favour. Plus, these warlords' arrogance is just irritating, and it'd be my pleasure to knock them off their pedestal."

"Why are they so eager to take responsibility for the attacks on British soil?" You finally let your throat succumb to the burning question that rattled in your swirling mind. 

"To kick the hornet's rest," Farah's words tore into the conversation; even in dim light, her face was an image of passivity. 

"If they're pitting the UK up against Syria, the ensuing conflict provides enough civil unrest to let the Republic of Adal establish a martial state of their own. It'd be a breeding ground for global terrorism and extremism," Price elaborated on Farah's assertion. 

"These Separatists are a scourge of this city. They're embezzling, enlisting child soldiers, obsessed with power and keen to use violence on anyone who'll get in their way. They'd torch every hospital in the city if it meant they could make another pound." A fire in her eyes illuminated her disgust with this topic, a passion that spoke volumes to her character. 

Farah seems like the kind of woman you'd hate to make an enemy. Bloodied knuckles poking through her fingerless gloves suggested she, too, has no problem using violence against those in her way, but she fights for a different side. She fights for the people, evident by her hesitance to accept foreign aid. Even based on Price's placement of trust, she'll get no opposition from you. This woman has no interest in the games that Presidents and Ministers play on the global stage, only interest in the people's suffrage; It's a simple philosophy that you can't help but envy.

"The issue is that people are being picked off, dying and disappearing in mysterious ways. Their power is slipping, and those London attacks are the Separatists' way of initiating their control under their new martial state," Price continued. 

"The mayor tripped and fell on his switchblade 32 times the other day," Laswell's voice caught you off guard, catching her walk toward your gathering with an armful of papers. 

"Such a shame," Farah cooed, her tone thick with venom and satire. Her posture was standoffish and cross-armed, but she was still undoubtedly poised. 

You could do nothing but nod along, drinking in as much information as possible. Their sarcasm and frankness speak volumes to their attitude toward this topic despite this region being entirely foreign. You're flying blind on the words of a person with borrowed trust. Judging by the city's layout you spotted before you dodged that harsh sun, you're implied to be stationed in this observatory, over a kilometre away from the closest Al Mazrahian citizen. 

"Price, could you show Cricket to her office," Laswell nodded to her colleague, turning to tilt her head to a set of swinging doors across the steel perimeter platforms. 

Price wordlessly introduced you to your office for the next few days or months, which conveniently also doubled as a bedroom, considering the wiry metal bedframe in the corner. Paradoxically damp and dusty at the same time, the room was outfitted with those hulking wall-bolted computer displays that, at one point, displayed astronomy data. More red, white, and orange racing stripes ran along at a waist level among water-damaged drywall and a single lightbulb as a beacon for brightness which unfortunately didn't obey the command of the hollowed lightswitch. The problem with the wall-mounted computing goliaths is that they had limited desk space, so a dented sheet metal desk made up for where they fell short. Those laptops and headphones had been arranged attentively before a folding orange floral chair. The room was not small, though, surprisingly hosting a house's worth of couches and filing cabinets that were utterly caked in dust. More shadows that will keep you up at night. 

Crossing the room to set your bag down came with a cacophony of squeals from protesting floorboards. Thin walls let you hear Price and Laswell chatting with Farah from down the hall, unable to perceive words, though another one of those CIA notebooks, fresh and pristine, ranked over your urge to eavesdrop. The smooth pleather cover creaked as you pried it open to unveil the printed text across the folded paper. Flipping it open between your fingers, you blinked dry eyes to read the short paragraph within. 

Listen to the transmission on the laptop. It's a 24-hour broadcast, and the speaker comes in at random intervals. Keeping our thumbs on the pulse of the civilian chatter. Write the transcripts in this booklet and I'll get you a new one every morning. -L

Classic. You've done this exact task dozens of times before joining this team, so a blast of normalcy was almost unheard of. Mostly useless and rarely somewhat relevant, but a standard job for a military linguist, offering fresh transcripts for the higher-ups to dissect. Having you into the location connects you to the context that this broadcast is on a local wavelength, unfortunately eliminating the possibility of doing this in the comfort of that London barracks dorm. Sliding the orange chair across splintering floors, you pried open the laptop to prepare for your remarkably simple task while cracking your knuckles. As Laswell promised, the computer displayed stagnant audio waves of a vacant broadcast, slipping headphone pads over your ears as a formality.

The task reminded you of your time in Chita, listening in on broadcasts for this mysterious squad in that crumbling bunker. Thankfully no Graves this time, though many people have had a tendency of popping up out of the blue in the past hour. Where are the boys anyway? Where there's smoke, there's fire, and where there's Price, there's his squad- so they can't be too far. Your mind couldn't help but wander, waiting for this mysterious Arabic voice to cut through the silence. A tarp covered a small window across the room, allowing you to watch settling dust caught on the light beams of the setting desert sun. Just as you became enraptured in watching individual particles dance over the dwindling sunlight, a voice cut into the broadcast abruptly, commanding your attention. Clicking the blue pen you were provided alive, you straightened your posture in anticipation. 

Hamza, 22, has been missing for three weeks. His mother misses him dearly, and please come home. Mohamed and Michel, two brothers aged 19 and 16, respectively, haven't been home in four months. A daughter, Fatima, 21, hasn't been spotted by any of her family in over ten days, and they're worried sick. All transcriptions you begrudgingly scrawled into a notebook. You knew full well what these transmissions really were. It's an impossible thing for any family to grapple with. Mothers and fathers were broadcasting the digital tombstones of their lost sons and daughters- all between the ages of 15 and 30, with the horrifying exception of a four-year-old boy. 

That much was evident in the broadcaster's gravelly voice, taking long cigarette drags between every transmission. He never said his name, which was odd. No codename or callsign, just this faceless, jaded voice calling into the abyss. Like a shout into an empty dripping cave, except this time, there's no echo to acknowledge his existence. There's something charming in that, something that touches you deeply. This lone man is a lighthouse of hope in a town with such a hostile occupying force, only thinly veiled as protection. He's making his stand triumphantly, based on motives that are beyond your understanding. 

By the time the broadcast cut out, your wristwatch read 01:43, meaning you'd spent almost the entire night listening to the dreadful intel. The pages of Laswell's booklet had long since become crinkled and wavy thanks to hours of writing, and the tender muscle on your palm screamed for relief. This bedroom had fallen harrowingly chilled, something you assumed resulted from an unforgiving desert climate with a short memory. Stacked sweaters and shirts from your pack gave you a cocoon of warmth that only barely kept chilled fingers from losing momentum. The overly springy bedframe caught your weight on its stiff mattress with squealing resistance. There wasn't even time to lie awake watching shadows behind the furniture stacked in the corner before you were fast asleep.

Chapter Text

Beep. Beep. Beep. Your fucking wristwatch you had fallen asleep wearing had the nerve to wake you up a mere three hours since you'd fallen asleep. The stacks of sweaters you wore as a supplement for the lack of a blanket left deep red lines across soft flesh, urging your muscles to allow you to rise. Cresting sunshine tinted the land outside the tiny window with a holy golden glow, glistening over amber waves that rippled with the morning breeze. Yesterday was more adjacent to a dream until you crackled joints to life with a reaching stretch. You were seconds away from striding out into the open area of the observatory before a knock at your door nearly made you pass out from fright. 

Quickly tucking the discarded sweaters into your duffle once again, you cautiously crank open the groaning door separating you from your guest. You meet the pale eyes of Laswell and the golden complexion of your mysterious ally, whom you'd met hours ago. Courtesy compelled you to open the door beyond the crack that would let you slip past, pressing your lips into the thin line of a polite yet awkward smile.  

"Good morning," Laswell said courteously, bundled in a small but sporty hoodie.

"How was your first night in Al Mazrah," Farrah added half sarcastically as she pushed past you into your room, not waiting for a reply. 

"Successful, I think." You shrugged, turning to see Farah already thumbing through the notebook you'd left on your desk before you crashed. 

Farah hummed in approval as she flipped through the pages, flipping it into Laswell's palm to let her have a chance. As you watched Laswell thumb through the first few pages, Farah took advantage of the view from the small tarped window, peeking through the crinkling blue blinds to see the morning sky. 

"Do we know who he is?" You crossed your arms over your chest and stepped back to let Laswell cross to investigate as well, "the… speaker ?"

"No. Nobody does." Farah spoke plainly and efficiently, assuming the duty of scouting out the window. "Grim business," she muttered.

Faintly pattering footsteps on the metal catwalks, almost imperceptibly quiet, revealed the rest of your team of soldiers. You came to recognize Price, Ghost and Gaz standing while Soap took it upon himself to settle into one of the extensively dusty couches in the corner of the room. It's definitely an odd way to start your morning to have six people invade your space only seconds after your feet leave your sheetless cot. 

"I'll try to put faces to these names and run them through a database. They could be a lead," Laswell sighed, passing the booklet off to Price as she spoke. "Cricket, keep it up." With that, she pulled another pristine booklet from a manilla folder under her arm and replaced it with your worn one. 

"Yes, ma'am."

The cycle of transcript curation fell into a steady rhythm. Wake up, give Laswell her booklet. Then, for the few hours when the broadcast is quiet, you can grab an MRE and maybe catch the boys for an opportunity to use your vocal cords. Even as almost a week of the same thing over and over had passed, more dead names, the ages just get younger and younger. One of the names was a 10-month-old, and it's lingered in your mind for days. The scorching daylight and numbing evening cold have a harsh way of reminding you of the passage of times.

There are so many names, some repeating from the past few nights, but some new. They seem to come in bunches, you've found. After a few days of the same names being recycled, a new bundle of four or five doomed souls. You had run two full blue pens bone dry over your transcriptions, forcing yourself to stand from that aching orange chair to force blood flow to trickle back into your thighs. It's mundane and simple; it's something you quickly fell at peace with- these tasks were so predictable and tranquil. Although it did come with the consequence of leaving your wandering mind to count every crack in those splintering couch cushions stacked across the room. From this angle, you spotted 122, but you'll have to re-count a few more times to be sure. 

Raised voices snapped you out of a mid-afternoon daze, taking the opportunity to stretch your legs and get another packet of Government Mandated Energy Kibble. On this particular excursion back into the open observatory common area, you caught a glimpse of Farah having a heated discussion with the rest of the crew. The entire front of her linen and cotton garb was covered in a thin layer of beige dust, her dark hair tied back with a worn bandana. You caught the tail end of a debate as you pushed back squealing metal doors. Gaz and Soap were seated at a table in the open computer room, lazily passing a soccer ball between them wordlessly.

"-It's not making a difference, Captain."

"We can't move until we have more information. We're on the edge of global war."

"You're playing into their game if you play like a fed." Farah clicked her tongue in disapproval. "How many more dead kids, Captain? How many more dead kids do you need as proof."

"You know it's not that simple," he held his ground, arms crossed. 

"If only we had an Arabic speaker who could go in and gather intel-" Farah's palm gestured to your direction, despite her back facing you. 

"Not happening." Price silenced her in an instant. 

If Laswell's tight-lipped stare into your soul wasn't clear enough, the topic of the conversation had clearly landed on you. They're implying you go undercover again, something you've done before.

"Let the little bird fly. We're doing fuck-all just sitting here like cowards," Farah spat, hooking her finger under Price's beard, dangerously close.

It's entirely beyond your understanding why he didn't snap at her. He has every reason to pull rank and chew her out. And he's not. There's some rapport or respect between them that goes beyond any social or military rank. It's kind of chilling. 

"I can get her the clothes. Besides, nobody knows she's here, and it's a big city."

"Not that big," Ghost interjected from behind a circular table in the middle of the room, his tone cold as ever.

"Big enough. Her skills are wasted if you keep her in here listening to missing person ads," she retorted, like fire to his ice. "Let's see what the people are saying."

Your mind spun a million miles a minute, and it was almost impossible to say if additional information was being spoken in your direction; your mind just blocked it all out. Here you are again, putting yourself directly into harm's way like you have a death wish. It's worked out spectacularly so far, but that luck is doomed to run dry soon enough. It took a conscious effort not to wring your hands in anticipation. A flash of blue in your direction brought you up to meet Price's stare. His face wasn't cold or judgemental. It was unsettlingly neutral, with no flicker of doubt under that moustache or furrowed brows. It's like he's evaluating your reaction, scanning you for an answer. He's come to trust you. He's looking at you for an answer. This trust that has been formed brick by brick over the past year has not gone unnoticed by this wolfish titan. A sense of pride and warmth manifested in your chest, like you're a giddy little girl who was just given a cookie after finishing her homework. The fruits of your labours have manifested in Price's slim, but existent trust. But that doesn't mean he won't keep you on a dangerously tight leash. 

"I'll go." You spoke plainly, stepping into the conversation from your vigil. 

"That's my girl," Farah grinned, stepping in your direction, away from Price. 

"How are we going to keep an eye on you if things go sour?" Gaz spoke up, rising to his seat from his position at that circular table. Across from him, Soap strained to catch the pass Gaz sent his way from the half-deflated soccer ball. 

"You're telling me the CIA doesn't have every street camera tapped?" You raised your eyebrow. 

"Excellent, so we can watch her get tortured in crisp 1080p," Soap quipped grimly, enunciating his sarcasm with his fingertips pressed to his thumbs. He then tapped the ball back to Gaz. 

"More like 240p," Gaz couldn't help but snicker, flicking between grainy footage on that familiar laptop with his clunky fingertips. Gaz passed the ball to Ghost who trapped it between his ankles, silencing their game like the asshole he is.

"People don't even look at women in this town," Farah spoke grimly, stepping as a shield in front of you. "Trust me, she'll be fine."

A silence fell over the room. She had just successfully shut all participants into a pensive trance during the conversation. Once again, all semblance of this being a standard mission is entirely out the window. It was almost too good to be true to expect to be just managing transcripts for the next few weeks, and you're once again doomed to walk a tightrope above a den of vipers. Once again, there's Ghost, lounging in the back of his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. If you didn't know any better, you'd have assumed he was asleep. But on a darker look, dark eyes cast in shadow because of the stark overhead light that scarcely illuminated that same plain stare. Those same eyes tracked you like a bird of prey since the second you walked into the room.

"Now come on, let's get you dressed," She put her fingertips on your upper arm, strikingly gentle, but confident.

You managed to catch one last glance of the torrent of skeptical and uncertain gazes before you were ushered out of the situation room. The second the swinging double doors clicked shut behind you, muffled dialogue manifested in the room you had just vacated. Unquestionably unsettling, though they've yet to play an active role in your downfall, so that's earned them the benefit of the doubt thus far. This complex had an eerie way of making both your footsteps echoing down the aluminum stairs sound like the loudest thing in the world. Farah had pushed past a short metal door, approaching what looked like a break room. The walls had those cheesy 80s workplace morale posters, displaying words like Attitude and Teamwork with stock photos of rowboats and skydivers. 

A small suitcase of vibrant fabric and textures clinked open under a heavy metal clasp, Farah pawed through the puddle of cloth and linen. It made you wonder how this trunk even got here. Maybe this mysterious woman had been talking about sending you in for a while now, and it's only just come to a head. By the time your thoughts wandered to the logistics of it all, she was flicking dust off a navy and black sheet of fabric that manifested into the shape of a gown once she was done fiddling with it. Your hands sprung to catch the cloth as it jolted into your immediate surroundings, thrown to you from across the room as Farah worked to gather more. Working the lightweight cloth between your fingertips, you identified swirling flower patterns in navy and gold elegantly patterning over the long gown. Farah stopped you as soon as you started working to identify the opening that would allow you to slip the garment over your head. 

"Uh-uh, no military clothes. Women here don't wear cargo pants and dog tags," she lamented, "especially not when they're around town." 

You couldn't help but detect an odd sensitivity in her voice like her stern, commanding tone would overshadow the flickers of sadness between her words. She tossed a pair of brown leather-healed loafers onto the tile with an ear-splitting crack as you took your time to sit in one of the dusty cushioned chairs. As you worked to pry apart starchy bootlaces, Farah continued unfurling more cloth, landing on a bundle of inky black cloth and another sheer black rectangle she set aside. Slipping your feet from the tight boots that felt more like a second skin, you worked the loafers over your heels as you took in your present company. This woman was muscular and tall but still remarkably slender. Her baggy clothes must do an excellent job at camouflaging her in this desert landscape but also be presentable enough that she might not immediately be pinned as the expert sniper she was. Although you'd yet to see her shoot or even wield a rifle, the .300 Magnum bullets she kept in her back pocket meant that she. was used in long-distance combat - or rather, a lack thereof. 

"Farah," your voice caught in your throat despite your best efforts. 

You weren't even sure if you had the authority to use her first name, and you weren't even sure what to call her if that weren't the case. Nonetheless, she turned to face you, hands on her waist, and seemed neutral to your tone. 

"All those names from the broadcast-…" You couldn't bear to look up at her to meet her intense gaze, but you willed yourself to comply, "Were all those people killed because of these Separatists?"

Another pause. Shame manifested in your cheeks as you realized how pathetic you must sound to her. Her pronounced eyebrows laid straight on her face as she worked your thoughts through her mind. 

"Yes." She spoke flatly, her arms folding over her chest, "-And you now know what happens when you speak up about it." 

Her words were laden with intention, but it didn't take another word for you to understand the implication. Those names you'd been recording in those paper graveyards. Dead souls who are probably out there decomposing in the dunes are a consequence of questioning these warlords. More likely than not, these weren't even the people who made the initial statements but rather the collateral damage resulting from cruel and unusual punishment. It's a dreadful thought, and you simply can't let it illustrate on your demeanour, lest you want to take a long nap in those sandy hills. 

Your next step was to shed your standard clothing, though she had the courtesy of wordlessly turning her back to you in the form of temporary privacy. Everything, down to your underwear. At the very least, you're not expected to wear a tacky lace bra like that mission in Mexico. Fumbling to identify the space for your head to poke through with the draping triangular sleeves, a firm tug at the garment from an outer force brought your vision from the darkness of the dress. You met those deep brown eyes, blinking calmly, before returning to the table with the rest of the items. There was something so fascinating about this woman. Despite only knowing her for a matter of days and speaking less than 30 words to her, she commanded your attention with every diligent movement. 

"You're just observing," a firm hand rested on your shoulder, ordering your eyes to meet hers. "You'll be back in time for another lukewarm food packet," a phantom of a grin pulled at the side of her mouth. 

"I think I'd rather go missing," you sighed, mimicking stoicism until the amused smile that manifested over her face compelled you to laugh. 

In a weird way, you were envious of her. She had everything you felt like you wanted. Farah was so confident and self-assured. She didn't fumble or doubt; she just did what needed to be done on her own terms. Not every day do you meet someone who can stand toe-to-toe with Captain Price, let alone sneak up on him. She's a pariah of confidence and self-respect, all in a lethal package that didn't ask for approval or assurance from anyone, not even Laswell. Yet, she had their undivided respect. Some day, you'll have to wrench that story from Price over a drink or two on your next 'ruck.' 

Tucking hair under that featherlight rectangular scarf laid on the table could easily be twisted into a makeshift hood. Entirely indistinguishable from any other woman in town, with the added bonus of being an excellent way to conceal your identity. At some point, Laswell and Price had entered, along with the rest of the crew, to your shock. Just eerily watching you get dressed like psychopaths. 

"We'll be in your ear if we need to give you orders on the fly," Laswell said, handing you another tiny beige earpiece to rest in your inner ear and tucking an apparently loose bunch of fabric under your collar. 

"We've made a path for you to follow. Under no circumstances can you stray from it." You've never quite seen Price's eyes so intense as he held a paper map under your chin. "Understood?"

"Yes, sir." You nodded.

This must have been the agreement the two parties reached. Farah wants you to explore the city for clues, and Price fears one of his toys will get broken. It was a compromise, though one you had no say in. Not that your say would've been much farther from the current plan.

Chapter Text

It's really no wonder why heavy gowns and scarves are so common in this climate. Loose cloth kept your arms and legs cool, while covered skin meant unexposed flesh would be shielded from the punishing desert sun. It's the kind of thing you would have no way of understanding the effectiveness of without trying it yourself, and as the ground crunched under you, you entirely understood. Even with the efficient fashion, the cruel midday sun reflected off the ground before you, effectively baking the sensitive flesh on your face. 

As angular, boxy buildings came into view, the space between your eyebrows crinkle, exasperated by beading sweat. So many of these buildings were shaggy, decrepit, and hollow. They probably once housed lively and keen families, now hollow with unhinged doors and sunken roofs. A thin layer of golden dust promised the validity of your suspicion that these houses hadn't been occupied in years. The houses that did have elderly patrons kneeling on stone porches had faces that portrayed jaded eyes and profound wrinkles. 

That's when it came into view. You had to blink to clear any dust from your eyes, or else you would've been certain you were seeing things. An extravagant marble, jade and quartz fountain. Exquisitely carved fish bellowed glimmering water into a pool with expertly manicured tilework. It looked like something you'd see in one of those cheesy Maphia movies when they visit the Don's house. Only when your fingertips made contact with the scalding marble did you actually identify it as a genuine object and not a mirage. 

Shaking off the disbelief, you surged forward. Crunching gravel beneath your feet was occasionally interrupted by screeching eagles or the odd truck driving along the eerily broad streets. The closer you got to the inner city, there were more and more signs of human life, but you still struggled to understand your surroundings. Old buildings falling apart from wear are juxtaposed with a glamorous park only a house's width away. The path led you past an elementary school that looked more like a modern art exhibit, along with a freshly painted artistic basketball court with plexiglass hoops. It's objectively a beautiful school, the kind of place you'd bribe and lie to get your kid in. Except there were no kids in sight. What made it even more odd was the disintegrating buildings on either side, with streets disfigured by knee-deep potholes and heaving creases. 

Price's path didn't allow you to explore further down that road, but it did include a route toward the sprawling plaza that hosted dozens of bustling citizens. People-watching would be the most logical thing to do in an effort to let your eyes process the disturbing architecture this city offers. A stylized painting of a coffee cup signified a cafe, also signifying an excellent place to sit and observe. Although a warm coffee would be far from what your scorching flesh would request, it seemed like the locals were more than partial to the drink. A pair of papery bank notes would get you a cup of black coffee, one that the old man behind the counter wordlessly provided. 

The inner portion of the cafe was delightfully air-conditioned, with polished floors and sleek paint, but the outside portion was more intriguing. The searing porcelain cup in your palm compounded the baking desert heat in the patio area. Your eyes swung over contemporary outdoor furniture, triangulating the best position for people-watching. Weighing your options must have made you seem like a stranger, as an Arabic tongue called for your attention from just over your shoulder. Swallowing bubbling panic, you temporarily scrambled to identify the face that was beckoning to you expectantly. 

"Come sit, I was just about to leave." A middle-aged woman with the most striking grey eyes you've ever seen nodded and invited you to sit with her. 

At the risk of standing out, though somewhat skeptical, you mustered your sweetest smile and accepted the company. As you approached, you pulled back a pale, cloth-covered chair to join her at the carved wood table. This woman wore a similar full-length gown, though dark hair curled out of her scarf in cheerful coils. The memory of coffee sat at the bottom of her mug with her hands clasped around elegant fingers that hosted a glinting yellow-gold wedding band. Being off-put or nervous was unbecoming of a local, so you mustered your calmest smile as you settled across from her. 

"My name is Basmala," she spoke so sweetly, in a gravelly yet stern tone.

"Fatema," you smiled, reluctantly landing on the most common female name you could remember off the top of your head. 

"What brings you to Al Mazrah, Fatema?" 

You took a long sip of the scalding liquid in your palms, cautiously eyeing the dark liquid before you sip. Usually, your palette would insist on at least four scoops of sugar and a steady gulp of milk for your morning coffee. However, those weren't options at this establishment, so you'll have to settle with black. What you couldn't understand, though, was how flavourful and smooth the hot drink was as it slid over your tongue, rather than the sour, bitter flavour you expected. The coffee you're used to would make you shudder at the thought of drinking it black, but this drink didn't even resemble the same substance. Your fascination subtracted from the vital time you needed to come up with an answer, forcing you to think on your feet.

"I'm visiting my cousin; he lives in town." Her eyes pondered you as you spoke, as you recognized your need to clarify: "My brother is with me."

She seemed satisfied with your response, resting her chin on her palm as she side-eyed the bustling street with those striking eyes. Your eyes swam to settle on something that caught your eye initially- her yellow shoes that peeked out from under her long skirt. Yellow leather mary-jane shoes, so vibrant and joyful, you couldn't help but be set at ease by their cheerfulness. There's just no way some undercover Separatist spy would wear something so stylish, something with that much personality. Humming in approval, her gaze once again returned to you. 

"What do you think of the city?" Basmala traced her finger around the mug she held, making use of idle fingers. 

"It's a beautiful town," you responded in your most eloquent Arabic, though the look on her face flattened.

Something in what you said made her unsettled; you could just tell. Milliseconds without chatter to fill the gap made you antsy to catch her before she left. Awkward conversation and stale air. She was slipping right now, yet her eyes dug into you. The warm air felt like a crushing blanket around every limb, making sweat pool in your palms around your steaming cup. Say something. She's a Separatist. She's going to report you. Laswell, Ghost, and Farah, and the rest of them are about to listen to you get skinned alive. 

"But I do have one question," words manifested in your throat before your mind caught up.

You'd recaptured her attention only briefly. Think, fast. Say anything that can keep her around, get her talking, and gather useful information. Don't say anything incriminating. Don't imply you're with the military—not the military, a foreign military. You just have to continue moving your vocal chords now. 

"I-... well, as I explore this stunning city, I'm seeing so many varrying architectural styles. Is there any reason for that?" you continued, kindly rephrasing the screaming alarm bells you identified the second you stepped foot on the gravel path leading to the inner city. 

A smile, of all things, breathed across her face, illuminating creasing smile lines and crow's feet as it widened. Her posture shifted, leaning back into her creaking chair as she weighed your question. A perfectly timed cool breeze ruffled the long sleeves of her dress as she rolled her jaw before speaking. 

"Do you mean that glamorous school that was just built down the street? Or the golden fountain that's in the plaza?" She tilted her head in the direction of the landmarks she referenced, seeing the shining beacons cresting over the stout roofs. 

"Yes," you took another sip. 

"Oh, but they're not our buildings, my sweet." A sugar-sweet voice was betrayed by a stern gaze with deep eyes that could cut glass. 

She must have interpreted your eyebrows flickering in confusion as a reason to clarify as you indulged in more of the decadent drink. Basmala once again used pushing her hair behind her ear as an excuse to glance over her shoulder before speaking. 

"Those buildings are apologies." She continued a modest laugh, tinting her words with an unsettling tenderness. 

More cryptic words. Your eyes drifted to the grand cobbled plaza that united the populous storefronts in the inner city. Then, they saw the delicate, sculpted gazebo on the perimeter. Despite squatting civilians dodging the harsh sunlight only meters away, the gazebo sat vacant. There sat a pristine, stunning form of shelter for an elderly man and woman sitting on a bench nearby, yet they preferred the direct sunlight. The pounding heat didn't help your mind swim to understand Basmala's implication. 

"How do you mea-" Her hands clasped over yours stopped you in your tracks. 

"They dump money into our schools as an apology for raping this land. They let foreign corporations dump toxic waste into our harbour for another coin in their pocket. They conscript seven-year-olds into their militia. It's sick. They-" another calm glance over her shoulder, "they're performing chemical experimentations on the sons and daughters of people who speak up."

You willed your face into a peaceful visage, even letting a faint, kind smile brighten your cheeks. The words she was saying were grim and desperate, yet she trusted a stranger with them. Just as you rounded your lips to pursue this thread in conversation, she added to her speech. Those pretty yellow shoes crossed at the ankle as she leaned in closer.

"I lost my daughter three weeks ago. My husband's been missing for half a year," Her grave words cut especially deep, as you may have heard her plea through the radio signal you were sent to decrypt. "They take everything from us, then build us these grand parks and schools as if it'll make us forget. We don't forget."

"Who is 'they' ?" The burning question manifested. 

"The Separatist," those slender fingers around yours clenched with intensity, "They want to turn the town I grew up in into a hub for their violence. I- I can't take it." 

Her voice wavered, crackling under pressure that she smothered with a toothy smile. Those smile lines told the story of an existence full of a love for life, but her crumbling smile whispered utter despair. Your own voice caught in your throat, paralyzed by her unwavering stare. 

"You know what my daughter wanted to do before she disappeared?" Basmala continued, "She told me she wanted to study Pharmacology in Brussels." She leaned in closer, allowing you to see that practiced smile start to crack. "I had to tell her no. I told her no because the people will hear she's from Al Mazrah and see the news… they'll…"

"I'm so sorry," you swallowed hard. Your words were heavy in your chest, but duty insisted that you follow in pursuit, "can you tell me about th-"

She retracted her hands in an instant. Cold air, thanks to her absence, washed over exposed knuckles as you watched her rise from her seat. Basmala still kept that bittersweet smile on her cheeks, even when her words crushed you. Neither of you could afford to let your conversation resemble anything other than a heartfelt reunion, even though it felt so like she'd just spilled her soul before you. The lingering smell of coffee and hot cement filled your senses as she obscured the splintering sunbeams with her figure, casting her face in shadow from the sun's brilliance.

"It was so nice to see you again, Fatema." She spoke so warmly that it made your skin crawl. 

"And you as well, Basmala," she breathed, letting you share one last glimpse of this stranger before she turned and left your presence, never to be met again. 

Watching her leave filled you with the strangest feeling. She looked exactly like another figure on the busy street, evaporating into the crowd- but she had just spilled her soul to you, a stranger. Every time she looked over her shoulder as you conversed, it only solidified your alertness to the possibility of espionage. Even with the risk, she asked you- begged you to listen to her story. It's a kind of bravery that can only come from someone so profoundly hopeless. 

Your coffee had long since gone cold, though most of all, you'd lost all appetite. You need to get back. You have to report every word. Returning your mug with a polite nod, you crossed your billowing gown over your chest as you made your way along Price's prescribed route. With new context, the harrowing view of a once proud city displayed a splintered future for its residents. Those 'chemical experiments' that've probably doomed hundreds to a fate worse than death. These warlords, the Separatists, need to be crushed. Not just for the mission's sake or retribution for those petty attacks on London, but for those hundreds of missing souls in those CIA notebooks. For Basmala and her daughter, and the grizzled faces you passed likely had mirrored stories. 

Even without the gaudy modern additions, the town was, without a doubt, charming. The main flaw was that no families remained to uphold these grand family homes. It's hard to believe these houses once held lively young families and neatly manicured gardens. Now, time and the wind have been at these cracked, sunken walls and crumbled archways. With additional context provided from your visit, the quirky town is now marred with sinister intent, leaving a creeping sense of uneasiness to make you lightheaded. If Laswell and co. are keeping an eye on you through every passing street camera, they must see the paleness creeping over your scorching skin. Brilliant white rays of the sun threatened to cook your churning mind in your skull. It left you weighing the physical toll it might take to increase your walking speed in exchange for reaching interior air sooner. Each crunching footstep back to those white circular domes of the observatory couldn't move fast enough.

Chapter Text

All six of those faces met you seconds after you climbed those metal stairs you rose from on your first day at the observatory. All six of those faces impatiently waited for your debrief. Lucky for you, Laswell's communication device she placed in your ear happened to work both ways. You've long since come to terms with the fact that the listening devices and cameras she bears will never be perceptible unless she specifically points them out. If you, the one equipped with them, can't see them, neither will an enemy unit. Audio processing gives you a handful of minutes to drown your thirst in a plastic water bottle's worth of liquid and hone your body temperature back into a cooled state. The scarf that shielded your head from the heat left your hair to spill over your shoulders. 

The rapid succession of events and information churning in your mind forced you to remember to switch your speech patterns back into English, back from your subconscious Arabic monologue. With an occupied mind, you were seconds away from shedding the thick navy and black gown Farah had provided you before the thought struck you that you were scarcely clothed underneath. Spared of a heart attack, you found a seat where Laswell was ushering you to sit, turning a laptop to face you. 

Once again, here's another familiar situation. On diplomatic missions like this, your role as a linguist means being equipped with a recording device during a discussion and returning to base for a debrief. In this case, you're respeaking hour-old dialogue in a new language, sharing devastating intel with the task force. Glimmers of shame and doubt were quashed after it occurred to you that all six of these faces have unquestionably seen worse. Still, that doesn't stop you from having to heave deep, self-soothing breaths before pressing play. 

For the first while, the dialogue was silent. Devoid of anything besides that crumbling sound of wind in an open microphone and crunching gravel under the loafers you still wore. To make use of idle time and fill the silence that made the air feel sickeningly stale, you scribbled the visual notes you had gathered into a fresh notebook. This would be the first replay of many, just an initial brief to relay the time-sensitive info to the crew. After one listen-through, it's time to surrender into that office you've called home, transcribing and editing your findings and serving a polished report to Laswell. 

As the recording started approaching the cafe where you met Basmala, a sense of bashfulness washed over you for reasons beyond your understanding. You'd scarcely worked in a setting where you're presenting information live to this team. Sure, you've done your work in front of them before, but something about having them all stare right into your face as you work these words through your mind makes your shirt collar tight. Like you need to prove yourself to these people who are already more than familiar with working with you. Maybe it's Farah's tilted look at you as you explain every syllable spoken between you and the stranger at the cafe. Maybe she's translating what you're saying in her own mind, judging your iteration of the events. Maybe Ghost is judging your movements with those splitting eyes. You could only hope your face wasn't registering these swirling emotions because every ounce of brainpower actively went to changing the language in the audio. 

Six pairs of eyes watched you with attentive posture, not even fluxuating when the conversation with Basmala shifted into the delicate subject matter. Soap did you the courtesy of furrowing his brows, confirming in your mind that you weren't just speaking into the void, especially when your companion's voice grew more despondent. After all, it wasn't your role to make sense of the information; you only relayed it. You'll feed that pretty little transcript you'll write into the machine, and they'll churn out a solution to this, and you're onto the next mission. You made the mistake of catching Farah's hard gaze as the topic in the recording mentioned child soldiers, as a smouldering inferno simmered behind those dark eyes. 

You couldn't stand meeting Farah's gaze toward the end of the recording, not because of any shame or anything of the sort. You couldn't will yourself to look at that expression she held, so stoic, but with a tinge of raw hate that chilled you to the bone. It's no wonder why she's so personally invested in this, and it took you biting the bullet and returning with civilian conversation for the rest of the team to connect with her. The cloak you wore felt like it was radiating the scalding body heat you created with each passing second, feeling bile and sweet spit pool under your tongue. Bright white lights felt more and more like stage lights toward the end of the presentation. More than anything, you wanted to slip back to that chilled office and hide under the non-existent sheets on your squeaky cot. 

Luckily, there were no remaining questions for you, letting you slink away as they immediately broke into exchanging words and strategy, letting you slip past those squealing metal double doors. Your heels thumped over the thin metal of the catwalk, opening the squeaky door to your office and pressing your back to the plywood barrier with a heaving sigh. You couldn't strip out of these heavy clothes fast enough, opting to switch it up by equipping that standard black tee and green-grey pants. Even though you're inside, the air felt so much less stagnant than it did outside, though that could have easily been because of the blistering heat. Could your face burn after scarcely ten minutes in indirect sunlight? 

Although the transcript in its entirety was no more than 45 minutes, only about 15 was meaningful dialogue. Every time you reached to flip the page in the notebook to start a new line, the orange floral chair made its presence known with a whining creak. Every time you reached that pause, where Basmala was seconds away from leaving, your face contorted into a winge. At times, you'd scrub your eyes with your fists, cringing at the sound of your own voice, though your sense of pride was second to your workplace obligations. 

There was a gentle tap at the door—so gentle that you had to lift your headphone pad off your ear just in case it was imaginary. It gave you a chance to spark life back into your feet, which prickled with pain due to limited blood flow. Another tap, but this time, it came with a voice.

"Lua," Gaz's voice, weirdly soft, came from the other side of the plywood, "you might want to come see this."

"Alright," you were unsettled that he called you by your first name. You'd already said you were not hungry when he offered an MRE, so maybe there was a question about your presentation earlier. 

You met him gesturing with a follow motion as soon as you opened the door, hearing the echoing click of the door clasp behind you reverberate through the open complex. That view over the aluminum railing, probably a 60-foot drop, was particularly discomposing as Gaz wasn't filling the walk with his usual chatter. His speed was barely above your standard pace, forcing you to take bounding steps to maintain a decent following distance. Before you knew it, he was pushing past those steel double doors that opened into the computer room where the rest of the crew had set up command. 

They were all crowded around the broad monitor of a portable display, and all six of them turned in sync, including Laswell. Most of them had their standard blank faces, but it was Farah who gave you the most social context. She looked so disgusted, and her upper lip scrunched ever-so-slightly in a way that made your skin crawl. 

"Is everything alright?" you breathed, settling into a semicircle around the screen that illuminated the dim room. 

Someone responded, but it was hard to say who exactly it was because, at that moment, your senses were entirely locked up. The screen displayed CCTV footage. A grainy and wavy view of that gaudy marble and jade fountain you saw earlier. Your stomach heaved like it was urging you to vomit, and a pang of ice in your throat concurred with that sentiment. A man you'd specifically seen earlier on your walk kneeling on his stoop was heaving a tarp over it, but it was too late. You saw those yellow mary-janes laying face up on that dusty soil. You saw the pool of dark crimson that sprawled under the crinkling tarp. You saw the cylindrical mass that was being shielded from your eyes despite the blue cover's intervention. No, no no. Your knees felt weak, and you felt all the heat slide from your face. It's not real. What you see on that screen isn't real, it's just not.

"All our cameras went dark for about 15 minutes," Laswell's voice broke you out of the deafening uproar in your brain. "They just came back on..."

"I take it that's Basmala," Price sniffed, being the only person in the room who did you the courtesy of not boring through you with their stare. 

"It is- was." Instinctive compliance swept over, overriding any emotions that might threaten to cloud your judgment in this mission.  

Price turned to speak lowly to Laswell about something, but in his stepping aside, it let you spot something more up close. You knelt before the screen, feeling numb knees connect with the cool tile. Even with the grainy footage, you spotted words on a sign on a piece of paper above the body, one that wasn't there before. Your face was pressed so close to the screen that you felt the device's heat radiate on your nose, squinting and blinking to make sense of the words. 

"There's a sign," you began. 

"What does it say?" Price stepped behind you as the rest of the crew's attention fell back onto you. 

The letters were so grainy, but what's the most odd was that they weren't in the swirling abjad script that you'd expect of an Arabic written note. You could only squint at the dark black lines that occupied the billowing white paper that was occasionally obscured by passing panicking civilians. 

"It says- It says za nashe obshcheye delo," your eyes trembled due to the strain. 

You turned on the pads of your boots to look up at the crew as you steadied yourself on the desk. Everyone shared a furrowed look except for Price, who shared a look of seriousness with you that solidified your dread. If the world couldn't get more foggy, it just did, even with the numbing electricity that cracked through your aching muscles. 

"It means 'for our common cause' in… Russian," your voice came out like a croak. 

Soap was rocking on his ankles as soon as you finished speaking, his look to Ghost gave you every bit of reassurance you needed that this was deadly serious. It's impossible to know what details the rest of them are processing behind those stern looks. Ghost was shouting some command to Gaz, and Soap was throwing his hands up in frustration, though all the voices were drowned out. This situation just went from an already strenuous pace to the kind of speed that makes your kneck burn from the G-force. Your heart felt like it could pound out of your chest, but you insisted on remaining composed outwardly. The door swinging shut with a clambering ringing made your eyes jolt up to see the tail end of Farah surging down the hall. 

"Grant, we need those reports done," Price pointed to you, meeting your gaze with those horrifying, piercing eyes that clarified his seriousness. 

In an instant, you were pushing the cold tile away from you, clambering to your feet and feeling trickling anxiety fizzle down your thighs. The boys were now crowded around a circular table, pointing at documents or maybe maps, but it's hard to tell. You had your role, and they had theirs. With the door swinging shut behind your ankles, you heard the tail end of a heated discussion and names you didn't recognize being thrown around hotly. By the time that orange chair creaked below you, you'd nearly crushed the laptop screen with the force of your panic. It's time to slow it down. Time to focus.   

The rest of the transcription was a blur. You had to do this thing where you pretend everything that's happened was just a bad Hollywood movie. Pretend that the corpse that hemorrhaged blood on the sandy gravel was a mannequin and the panicking civilians were a meandering camera crew. The movie will be in theatres for a week before another better picture comes out, and it'll briefly entertain snacking moviegoers until they're back to their mundane lives. Maybe it'd get nominated for an award at some glitzy award show where actors are dressed to the nines in glittering dresses and prim suits, but it probably wouldn't win; the story is too predictable. Anything you could do to distract yourself from the prickling mist that manifested on your waterline and complete the task at hand. Anything to distract yourself from the fact that you're listening to the voice of a dead woman, a ghost, and you were the last person who spoke to her.  

"Excellent," Laswell flipped the booklet into her pale fingers once you're returned to the command room.

She began waving it to Price until it caught his attention, and he nodded before returning to his discussion with the rest of the crew. The room was tense, that much goes without saying, but an unholy cacophony of emotions overrode any perceptive skills you might have. It's an odd, unsynergized mix of fear, rage, numbing apathy, and a twinge of nausea. It made you wonder if this observatory was a good enough hiding spot, seeing as this had happened only minutes away. You can only hope she's had a nice burial, maybe somewhere next to the empty graves of her husband and daughter. 

"Get some sleep, Lua," Laswell's calm voice brought your eyes up from their void stare. 

You nodded and smiled politely, putting every molecule of composure into manifesting a calm demeanour. By the time you were back in your room, the cot was squealing under your added weight, and you fell into a pensive trance. Cracked grey ceilings hosted flowering brown rings, showing a rich history of water damage and a lack of maintenance. Nighttime came in a blink, though you didn't bother to crack alight that camping lantern Price provided. The world moved around you, and not you it. 

In this line of work, it will always be hard to rank the mental difficulty of a job. Often, you're making impossible choices under brutal conditions that will regularly test your moral compass and push your ethics to the limit. This one really got to you. Yes, it's your job to be impartial. Not to get frazzled, and just do your duty. Having your emotions get in the way of missions has happened more times than you'd like to admit, and you refuse to let that happen again. These emotions will just have to be digested in a few weeks or months or whenever you end up on home soil, and you can only pray it won't be in a coffin. This one will take more than a few mandated therapy sessions to pry out of your nightmares. 

It makes you wonder if she knew she was putting a bounty on her head. The more you dwelled on the thought, the more it made sense. Though you weren't sure if that was comforting or inspired a deeper dread. The best thing you could do for Basmala is follow orders and hope that the powers that be have some scheme to make this warlord group come undone. It's the only way you could have a meaningful impact without ending up in those dunes. It's a type of terror that no gunfight or sheer cliff could come close to inspiring, like it could freeze the marrow in your bones and make your nerves snap. 

Chapter Text

It wasn't even worth spending another hour staring at the ceiling because sleep just wasn't coming. It's torture, really. Self flagellation. Spending your waking moments laying awake thinking about what happened to her. What happened to Basmala, what happens to people that you get close to. As soon as you believe you are making a positive change, it crumbles spectacularly, slipping like sand between your fumbling fingers. It's so exhausting. It's so exhausting that you can't find sleep, only toiling in self-destructive thoughts until the cresting sun eventually forgives you.

Rising from the cot came with a chorus of squeals from the protesting from the rusted bedframe you'd occupied. At least there were no blankets for you to fold when you rose, but that also meant the bitter desert cold quickly identified the weak points in your thick hoodie. There was no need to spark up that camping lamp that was left to you; your eyes had long since adjusted to this darkness. On one of your trips to stretch your legs, you found this spot that looked like an excellent place to avoid people. Price would probably refuse to let you climb up the rusty steel ladder that led to the roof, but what he doesn't know can't hurt him. Every rung of the ladder came with a starchy red residue of rusty grime that stuck to your digits. This discomfort takes second priority when you're using every atom of your body to prevent the squealing hatch from alerting the others. Painfully, slowly, and obsessively cautiously, you left the roof hatch door to close by using your fingertips as noise absorbency. 

The roof of this observatory was a stunning place to take in the night sky, though that's probably a surprise to absolutely nobody. Bulbous white radomes that once aided radars in tracking the stars now stand vacant and rusted. Stepping closer, thin layers of grime caked between the folds of the white fabric, at times slipping away from its intended form thanks to years of neglect. The roof was covered in thin stone slabs and pale pebbles of gravel where verdant moss established residency next to small pools of stagnant water. The air was crisp and biting, leaving sparkling puffs of white air clouding your vision with every breath. 

A sloped metal box that looked like it was once some sort of ventilation valve looked like the perfect roost for brooding. Aluminum echoed your footsteps despite your best effort, but you'd at least have the benefit of the doubt that your sounds could be wildlife making a ruckus on the roof. The chill reverberated through the metal into your bones, making you wrap your sweater even tighter to warm yourself, pulling your knees to your chest to expedite the process. That frigid dread didn't intend to keep you warm in this biting cold, and thoughts of despair resumed the second you weren't actively moving. So there you sat. Sleepless and numb, seeing moonlight reflecting on a shallow pool of water manifest into the exact shade of grey as that woman's eyes. You couldn't even will yourself to think of her name. 

Crunching pebbles made your head whip around, spotting a figure behind you, even with your hood obscuring your vision. Pushing the hoodie aside, you couldn't tell if you should be relieved or more on edge when you identified it as your grim lieutenant. Of course, this isn't the type of hiding spot that would only register on your radar, where he, too, seems to have a knack for finding precarious hiding spaces. He wore a dark sweater like you, though he fit his body so much more naturally, whereas yours looked more like a scrunched blanket that clung to your bones. He looked like a shadow that haunts the city streets, and you look like a shivering puddle of fabric.

"Out for a smoke?" You called as he took a few steps closer, cringing as your throat croaked thanks to your simmering sorrow. 

"No. That stuff'll kill ya'," He chided, resting his bare hands in his hoodie pockets.

"You're right. It'd be horrible to put your life on the line like that." You returned your gaze to the night sky. You could only hope he would pick up on the mockery in your words. 

In reality you knew full well that these athletes would never be afforded a cigarette habit. Not only would the smoke erode pink lungs that need to be in peak performance, but also logistically, a steady supply of cigarettes on long-haul missions just wouldn't make sense. Even still, it did slightly surprise you that he didn't partake. There aren't many amenities that are afforded to you in this field of work, no gum, no hair conditioner, stereos, cigarettes, candy, or even a pair of earrings or piercings of any kind. You can't even have your hands in your pockets, though Ghost must be on a rebellious streak with his current posture. 

Brooding never fit you, despite your best attempts. The sadness came easily, but it only left you desperate for human interaction, not the opposite. Sore muscles from a lack of rest furthered their assertions to keep you awake with their dull pain. Every once in a while, you'd hear the faintest breath behind you, letting you know he was still in your presence. He, too, was taking in the dark night air, only a thin halo of street lights illuminating the distant town. So many sleeping souls, comfy in their beds, temporarily escaping the grim reality in their sleeping state. Ghost came to settle on another vent across from you, doing you the courtesy of knowing your space on the vent you claimed wasn't open for guests. 

The sky was so bright that counting stars would be entirely impossible, seeing every star in the Milky Way spreading like a paintbrush stroke across the inky sky. To say a sea of stars would be an understatement. That glimmering blanket of flickering celestial bodies easily illuminates the sandy dunes beyond that chain-link hem that kept the night sky aloft. This grand tapestry of stars was placed specifically for you tonight as if you're the only soul awake at this wee hour to bear witness. Except for Ghost. It's hard to say if he's also awe-stricken by the brilliance above you or if it's just interrupting his sulking session. You knew your eyes were vacant of that starlight above you, utterly crushed by recent events. Restlessness came over you, and your eyes threatened to mist and blur the twinkling stars together in a haze. 

"Lieutenant," the vibrations of your voice in your throat threatened to shake loose the gathering tears in your eyes, "is there anything that scares you?"

There was a pause after your words. If he weren't immediately visible in the corner of your eye, you would've assumed he'd slinked away into the darkness and left you to your toiling. This world was so scary, so full of hate and wrath. As a kid, you'd always assumed the human race's vitriol would become clearer and more understandable with time, but it never really did. If anything, it's more grim. The soles of those yellow leather shoes will always haunt your senses, lingering behind your eyes like a constant reminder of what happens when people get too close. There are days when you can't shake the reality that he was right. He was right, that this job will be the death of you, if it hasn't been already. It scares you, chills you, makes your skin feel numb. 

"Snakes," He concluded, nodding his head as a puff of white air slipped through his mask with his speech. 

Snakes? Fucking snakes, of all things? Out of all the horrors beyond comprehension and the viscera and depravity this man has witnessed, that's what makes him uneasy. It's not entirely the comfort you were seeking, prying for an answer like 'the unknown' or 'death.' The answer was so mundane and average that it caught you so entirely off guard that a laugh bubbled up in your chest. You couldn't help it. The giggle just surged from your throat before you could rationalize it. 

"What?" Ghost asserted defensively with that rumbly voice. 

"It's just… that's not what I was expecting," a smile that pulled at your cheeks pushed gathering tears to stream down your cheeks, forcing you to wipe them with your sleeve - an action you could only hope he didn't see. 

"I mean look at them, they're fuckin' horrifying," he continued, flicking his hands up to emphasize his point, "freaks of nature." 

"Oh come on, they're kinda cute with their beady little eyes and flicking tongues," you argued, succumbing to how good it felt to have the weight of your agony temporarily lift. 

"Well you're welcome to handle the next snake we come across, just keep it far away from me," for a second there was almost a lilt of what sounded like a huffing laugh in his tone. 

The air around you no longer felt so horrifically cold, though it still left you shivering. Maybe what happened was just the kind of thing that was supposed to happen. A tragedy like that would be the catalyst to make a change and spur you into action. Farah was a psychic if anything. She probably knew you'd witness some kind of game-changing tragedy that would alter your perspective of the situation, though it also implied that this kind of thing is all too common.

"What about you?" That smooth voice caught you off guard, realizing he'd turned to look into your face.

"Hmm…" in all your thinking, you hadn't even thought to come up with a tidy answer to the same question you'd just posed. You could only go with what came from the heart, "I'm scared of not being there when someone I care about needs me."

Another pause, but not a dreadful one. Freezing air slipped into your lungs and soothed your burning chest, rather than numbing it. They were words you'd never said aloud, but as soon as you breathed them into existence, they felt so right. It felt so real and so honest. Something you've never said to another soul, though to be fair, Ghost might not be the best example of someone with a soul. It still felt so relieving, like you could finally pinpoint an aching muscle that's needed work for months. Twinkling stars, faintly red or blue, winked confidently as if to congratulate you, and no streams of clouds dared to overshadow this vision. 

"-and Jason Voorhees," you nodded, gravely serious. 

"What?" you caught him turning to look at you. 

"The Friday the 13th movies always scared the shit out of me as a kid," a grin crept over your lips. "Still do."

"That explains a lot," he sighed in that gravelly accent. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" You sat forward slightly, furrowing your brows. 

More silence, though now you had the visual stimuli of seeing dawning sun tint the far edge of the vast sea of golden desert dunes a brilliant orange. It made your heart feel lighter, though still weakened. You no longer felt like you were on the precipice of a mental breakdown, but churning nausea still sank in the pit of your gut. 

"You did well yesterday, Lua." He really let those words simmer, taking a long break like he wanted them to settle in deep. "Now get back to bed, sergeant," he sighed, with a tint of humour behind that monotone voice. "That's an order."

Another chuckle passed through your lips. Fine. You'll slink back to your room before anyone notices you've been up, but that doesn't mean you'll sleep. More likely than not, you'll be awakened to manage more broadcast transcripts with a fresh booklet from Laswell in an hour. You slid the rubber soles of your boots down the metal vent, absorbing the weight of your body on weakened knees. It wasn't even worth looking over your shoulder one last time before you descended that iron ladder, as your company had probably already reassumed his grim sulking. 

You had only barely slipped into your office, taking a handful of deep, heaving breaths before you heard footsteps on the steel catwalks outside. It couldn't be your masked ally you'd just spent the night in the company of. They were too loud. Slipping on a fresh, less frumpy hoodie that didn't have tears on the sleeve, you took advantage of the precious few moments you had to freshen yourself up. As expected, there was a knock at your door before Price's voice nearly made you jump out of your skin. 

"Cricket, 'need you out here." The captain spoke through the plywood door that you whipped open to his surprise. "Have you seen Ghost?"

"No," you lied, turning to put your boots back on to avoid his stare that would almost certainly catch your treachery. 

Stepping back onto those steel catwalks above the void of the open complex, you met Soap, who was a few steps ahead of you and headed into the computer room. Laswell and Farah were seated at the round table before a laptop that illuminated their faces. When you entered, their faces were surprisingly not as grim as you expected, an attitude that Gaz seemed to carry while he stood behind them. Nobody had bothered to click alight the portable lamps, letting the lights on the screens and the creeping morning sun illuminate the eager soldiers. You found an angle over Laswell's shoulders to squint at the bright electronic display. 

"We've got something," Price stood over the crowd with glinting eyes.

Ghost had entered the room, pushing past the doors, striding through while sharing a nod with Price, and settling in to stand just behind you. The body heat from his presence made you shiver. 

"When they killed Basmala, she didn't die in the square where we saw her. They brought her in after the fact," Laswell bellowed over the crowd, making your heart sink. "But we caught a license plate off the truck that brought her there. It's a work vehicle belonging to the local quarry, the one on the edge of town." 

"The abandoned coal quarry?" Soap posited.

"The very same." Price clarified, "probably just as abandoned as this observatory." 

Looks were exchanged around the room, stern and dutiful. Suddenly, the morning energy that was once grim and hopeless was now electric with trepidation. This lead could change everything. This unmovable object has met its match against an unstoppable force, and you're now one step ahead in this game of cat and mouse. Your fingertips felt clammy, and all memories of the chill in your bones were overridden by an eager anticipation. 

"Let's get the boys kitted up and moving," Laswell's words confirmed the creeping need for action that was becoming increasingly obvious. 

"'Knew you could do it, Cricket," Farah tapped your shoulder with the back of her hand, sharing a giddy smile with you. 

This would make an excellent case study to occupy those lofty library shelves within that barracks in London, though it's hard to put the carriage before the horse. You weren't in the clear yet. You were far from it. For all you know, this could be a red herring, but something in your gut said otherwise. Somehow, your heart soared with every click and buckle of the boys' mobile armoury unfurling beside you; even Farah was rocking on her heels eagerly. This mission would change everything for this sleepy city, change everything for you. You just knew it.

Chapter Text

Of course something like bulletproof armour would be that heavy. Still, when you offered to hand Gaz his armour from the table, you weren't expecting your arm to nearly buckle under the strain. If Ghost's last mission was any example, this stuff can definitely sway the odds of a lethal injury, but hopefully, this operation won't be as nerve-wracking. Soap seemed to be in the best mood of all, nearly bouncing on his toes. He must get a kick out of this setting; it seems like every time there's movement in a mission, he's always bouncing off the walls with excitement. It could be a calculated method to improve the team's morale before the raid; it's hard to say. However, another giddy punch from Soap on Ghost's bicep made him look like he was about to bite, so maybe that's not the goal. 

Farah, who had been kitted up and ready long before these boys, was helping Laswell with a map sprawled across the circular table in the middle of the room. The sound of fingertips dragging on paper and buckles clicking filled the charged air, and the observatory computer room was electric with eager energy. It felt almost awkward, of all things, like you didn't know what to do with yourself. You didn't need to dress up in armour, neither did you have any meaningful intel on the venue, and you definitely couldn't strategize an attack route. You were just floating in a sea of organized chaos, a torrent of calculated checks and sweeps over gear. On the bright side, it meant you wouldn't be anywhere near combat which was a welcome break, but it still came with a sense of soul-crushing apprehension.

The curled paper Laswell had unfurled across the round table looked like a map of the quarry, unfortunately marred with a broad coffee stain across the dry parchment- though it'll still get the job done. Coffee stains and some deep creases aside, the real problem with the map was that it was thoroughly outdated, with a date on the legend reading 1962. Although an old quarry wouldn't be likely to have any drastic renovations, it does leave an element of the unknown that will definitely put the team on edge. Another issue is that most of the operation will occur within the tall concrete walls of the quarry's administration building, making having an eagle-eyed sniper like Farah a bit useless. On the bright side, having a world-class sniper means she can do just that- snipe, but at an incredible distance. That way, she'd be able to hold overwatch on any approaching vehicles to the quarry while also keeping an eye on you and Laswell back at the observatory. 

In all ways except on paper, your role here was complete. You've delivered translations, played diplomat, and presented gift-wrapped transcriptions to the powers that be. But right now sending you home just isn't a priority. So instead, for the time being you're bench-warming for Laswell and being at the beck and call to any spontaneous linguistic queries she might have. More likely than not though, you'll have front-row tickets to seeing these supersoldiers deliver an ass-kicking of a lifetime to these warlord separatists. And by the looks of their dark gear, helmets, night-vision nods, and at least two firearms each, these brutes were ready for war. Their intimidation scores each go up about 150% when they're kitted up like this, especially Ghost, who's more like 300%. 

"We'll have you dropping in from the roof, clearing the second floor, and working your way down," Laswell called over the crowd, commanding their rapt attention to the map below. "There are two main points of interest: the crusher room and the offices. If they're operating anywhere in that quarry, those are the spaces they'd work from."

"Are the freight elevators still active?" Ghost posited in Farah's direction. 

"They've been cut off from power to everything except lights since the 90s." She breathed, still sternly studying the blueprints and maps. 

"We can use the freight elevators as repelling shutes to get us in and out of the floors." Ghost said flatly, "No windows. The darkness will be our friend."

"How many floors we lookin' at?" Soap added, resting his thumbs in his vest.

"Two above ground, one below. You're looking at a lot of closed-off office spaces on those upper floors; it could be tight," Farah said, resting her pointer finger on the crinkling map as she spoke. 

"It's not something we haven't done before," Price's eyes squinted into an unsettlingly passive-aggressive smile, one that Farah seemed to return. 

"Suit yourself, old man," she grinned. "Now let's crush these fuckers." 

"Best of luck, everyone," Laswell nodded, folding her hands behind her back as she dismissed the squad. 

"See you soon," you offered a tight-lipped smile to the group as a farewell. 

It's like a switch was flicked, and all five of them were filing out the door, leaving you to overhear distant thundering footsteps down the steel catwalks. Somehow, it felt more official, like years of research into a satellite had come to a head, and the shuttle had just launched out of the atmosphere. Their trajectory was set in stone, and there was no coming back. Hearing the engines of those dune buggies spark alight outside the complex made the nerves start to set in as eagerness changed gears into anxiety. 

At least Laswell will keep you company though, and she had the compassion to allow you to listen to the comms by unplugging her headphones. The laptop speakers were far from surround sound and often peaked whenever there was a slightly above-normal sound, but it helped diffuse the trepidation of silence. The boys had body cameras on their nods, so you'd see each individual's perspective. It's kind of funny to see how high off the ground their vision is compared to yours, realizing that they could probably see dust on shelves you wouldn't even fathom. But right now, they weren't inspecting dusty shelves; they were taking the long way across the northeast, behind the desert dunes, to come around to the other side of town where the quarry was perched. 

The microphone was filled with rumbling static as the wind and engines flooded the flimsy speakers. Laswell flipped between perspectives, pulling up a handful of CCTV angles that showed distant, blurry shots of the target area. Farah had split off by then in her own buggy; you'd caught a glimpse of her departure from the pack from Soap's perspective, preparing to find her roost. She didn't have a camera, though she'd definitely refuse it if offered- something about her tells you that she wouldn't comply with that kind of surveillance. She took a comms device, so you'll have to settle with that. 

The quarry rose into view from behind a sandy hill, and you saw Price's perspective whip around to his six' to hush the team and assume their positions. They've reached the closest distance before the two quad-seater dune buggy's engines become audible, so the rest of their trek would be on foot. It's honestly incredible to see how they trek through the early morning desert sun in those pounds of armour and equipment without keeling over and dying. It really puts into perspective how weak you were when you first arrived here in Al Mazrah, though to be fair your fitness regimen isn't specified for that kind of stamina. 

Laswell had offered you a coffee, and you politely refused. One reason was that you had enough energy to stay awake for days. Another more honest reason is that the coffee you had at that cafe in town was just too good—after one taste, you're now effectively too much of a snob for Western coffee. Still, the gesture was kind, and she invited you to sit in one of the squeaky wooden chairs with her around her menagerie of displays and papers.

A glance at the screen again made you on edge, and your knee started to bounce nervously as you saw them start to scale the tall concrete outer walls of the quarry. Flat roofs mean a perfect plateau to identify a skylight to drop in from, and it also means an ideal kickoff point for the operation. You got to watch Ghost's skeletal gloves secure a set of thick chords around a bolted exhaust pipe, securing them with a tight tug. Price was already buckling himself in with Gaz by his side, preparing to descend in pairs of two; that way, the upper team could keep vigil and so they could stagger their descension- or so you assumed; what the fuck do you know about this.

Laswell's voice caught you off guard. She spoke directions to Price and Gaz, orienting them to the map they had studied minutes ago. Whining carabiners from their mic signified Ghost and Soap's arrival to complete the team. At this point, your nerves were more than acute in your surroundings, hearing every distant thump and rattle from crumbling architecture in the observatory and every distant eagle's trill. 

The screen flashed a blinding white momentarily, diffusing into a green-tinted grainy view of the inner sanctum. Roof entry meant they were starting on the second floor, but the surprising amount of plant life all the way up off the ground was most intriguing. Concrete floors conceded to creeping vines, the signature of a long abandoned complex, all in a grainy view of green and black. From the look at the maps over Laswell's shoulder, the first destination would be the offices. 

Nightvision nods meant that not only could these titans be entirely unperceivable to the eye, but their inaudible bootsteps meant they stalked this compound like pumas that hunt in darkness. Price held a fist from Soap's headcam and signalled to the team to prepare for entry, springloaded on crouched haunches to crash past a sheet wood door and charge into the office. Every time the need to blink manifested, you dreaded the millisecond that meant you'd be unable to watch this nerve-wracking raid. The held fist turned into a point, and a sharp blast of a boot on a door left the handle clambering across carpeted floors. Laswell clicked to Ghost's perspective as he charged beside Price past a maze of shoulder-high cubicles that each made for perfect hiding spots. You couldn't find a comfortable sitting position, nervously crossing and uncrossing your legs on the far edge of your seat. There are so many hiding spots behind those desk units that could easily host twenty or more armed guards would take half a second to light up this quartet. 

Nerves diffused as one by one, every corner, shelf, and desk had been flickered with the end of a rifle, effectively diffusing one Jack-in-the-box. But that still left one more. It's hard to say that's a good thing though, as no signs of life also means no signs of warlord hideouts. Dust, scattered wires, waterlogged papers, and a handful of disintegrated furniture were all they found when they got the opportunity to evaluate their surroundings as a whole. Gaz concurred with a conformation to Watcher, which Laswell clicked on the microphone alive to copy. One thing caught your eye through the wavy green and black vision on the screen that just couldn't go unnoticed. 

"Did you see those empty cans on the ground?" you posited to Laswell, gesturing to Gaz's perspective as he flickered his pistol over a patch of chairs in the corner.

"Yeah," she breathed with furrowed eyebrows, clicking her microphone alive, "Bravo 0-6. Are you seeing the fresh food with Bravo 2-6?"

Price's gloves came into view of Gaz's camera, and he pawed at a batch of pried cans laid out on a table. Modern expiry dates and half-consumed meals implied that someone had recently been here. 

"We might have interrupted breakfast," Price lightly placed one of the containers back onto a squealing desk chair. 

"We need to get to the crusher room, now." Ghost's baritone voice cut through the rising tension.

"Copy 0-7, on the way." Price confirmed. 

You couldn't stand the pressure, sitting there watching. It's agonizing, like your pulse pounding in your ear is fighting for your attention over every other sense whenever one of those hands whips open another door. The second floor had passed secondary clearance, and now it was on to the first floor, where the target room was on the far wing. Leg muscles spring you to stand, and you cannot handle standing in a passive position for this long, not under this kind of pressure. Pacing between observing the distant town to ensure no buildings had relocated and flickering back to the boy's perspectives on those grainy monitors. From this view, the city didn't look as dilapidated as it really was; the whining carabiners sang as Price and Gaz lowered themselves down the elevator shaft. Morning gulls cawed over the blue-grey ocean, catching morning sunlight on the white crests; Ghost's signature gloves were whipping open another set of doors into a vast cafeteria- unoccupied. Once there's a resolution to this operation, you can indulge in that crushing hunger pain in your gut, but certainly not under this stress. 

They move like wraiths, haunting the halls like shadows that round up any living soul and consume them without strain. But the thing is, there aren't any living souls. Despite obvious signs of life, the entire building seems vacant. It just wasn't right, but you refused to let it hinder your hope. Be it foolish naivety or a benefit of the doubt, you scanned every inch of the monitors in case they could be missing something. Wall signs in Arabic pointed from the cafeteria to the industrial units, undoubtedly toward the open warehouses where unsavoury activity could be operated without prying eyes. The map had long been memorized by the team before they even entered, meaning you had no reason to direct them based on the signage- they knew every square foot by heart. A blinding beam of sunlight from a cracked roof threatened to blind poor Soap when he whipped open one of the bathroom doors, even making Laswell winge from behind the comfort of a screen. The travelling pairs of two convened around the swinging double doors that lead to the jackpot. 

Another point from Price, and they stormed through the swinging doors with a thunderous crash. No pale palms raised in defence, no white glinting eyes in the scotopic sights. Fuck. It doesn't make sense; someone must have been here, but this crushing room just has massive decrepit machinery that once pressed coal boulders into usable sizes. It looked like Price was raising his shoulder mic to his mouth before he paused- and a glance at Ghost's perspective explained why. Glossy eyes staring into oblivion from a fresh corpse laid in a surgical bed. A man, maybe 30, garbed in a paper gown with a dripping gunshot wound to the temple. Dripping, that doesn't make sense either. Laswell leaned in, and you sat back down. 

Without the threat of a person lunging out from the shadows, the room's makeup settled into place. IV bags on wiry stands created creeping shadows beside more reclined hospital beds and more bodies. Freshly executed. Gaz redundantly checked one's pulse, his headcam flickering to Ghost in his peripheral, who lifted his shoulder mic. 

"Watcher, you seein' this?" Ghost cut into the flimsy laptop speakers. 

"Affirmative," Laswell stated dutifully, "What's with the bodies?" 

"Someone put them down just before we got here, 'looks like drug trials."

"She said something about 'chemical experimentations,'" You babbled absentmindedly, pinching your lower lip in thought. 

Realization struck. This was the place. Gaz palmed an IV bag still connected to the bruised forearm of one of the cadavers. The open garage of a crushing room housed a lair of unsettlingly modern equipment and computers, along with bloodied cloths and discarded rags- tinged with dark stains that you could only assume were blood. Even with ceilings that high, it felt horribly cramped, suffocating even when you weren't there in person. 

"All Bravo, gather as much information as possible," Laswell frantically tapped at another laptop, jotting down notes at an accelerated pace. "This looks like our people, I nee-"

"I've got eyes on a squirter, West side, alone." Farah interrupted, "Headed to the sea, 'might be a boat."

"Soap, Ghost, catch the squirter. Gaz and I will do the secondary clearance," Price nodded. 

"Yes, sir," they both responded dutifully, instantly turning on their heels. 

You didn't even realize the vice-like grip you had on the back of your scalp until a much-needed blink snapped you into the present. Things were moving so ruthlessly fast that you could scarcely follow the snapping commands and efficient movement. These boys move like a well-oiled machine, crashing like lightning, straight and true, into every space with supernatural reflexes to every shadow. Every rooting plant, every leaning shelf, and every maintenance closet was scrutinized by Gaz and Price while Ghost and Soap were thundering down the hall toward the secondary entrance. 

Hawk-eyed overwatch called for a person fleeing on foot headed for the nearby coast. This could be the chance for contact on this alarmingly peaceful raid. The Separatists had slipped away just in time, but this one guy could be the chance. Soap and Ghost had broken into a drop-dead sprint, tearing through halls and crashing past doors until they came face to face with blinding sunlight. Slowly, technology aligned itself with bleached dunes, gradually gathering colour as Ghost took a beeline for one of the dune buggies. Farah updated distances to the millimetre, creating an unholy layer of tension in this action movie unfolding within the monitor. 

Soap swang his body onto the outer fuselage of the buggy that Ghost roared alive, flickering the engine once, twice, and off it went. Hills rose and fell on the horizon, allowing you to feel phantom falling sensations in your gut after the vehicle tore over hill after hill. Finally, your eyes adjusted to the change in lighting. You wrang your fingers in your clammy palms, listening with bated breath for every call and copy through the microphone, eyes utterly glued to the screen. 

Over a chorus of a roaring engine, Farah counted down meter by meter until the two hunters would spot the target behind the sandy crests. Forty meters from the Tango, Twenty-five meters, Fifteen meters, there he is. A man in a dark outfit with hand wraps and a handkerchief over his nose whipped around to haphazardly fire his pistol at the buggy. Your back straightened, face softening in despair and anticipation. Pedal to the metal, Ghost ducked the onslaught of pops, hearing whipping air tear past his shoulder-mounted microphone. Time moved in half-seconds. In an instant, the lieutenant had cranked the wheel over and over again, giving Soap the perfect momentum to launch himself to crash into the target. Your heart sank as the Glock pointed in Soap's face clicked, spent, as he collided with the escapee like a quarterback. 

To your despair, their perspective fizzled out. The reception was spotty, and you caught glimpses of motion and the occasional roar through the microphone as it was clicked alight in the scuffle. A torrent of sand, unidentifiable fabric, and kicking boots. You saw those bone-patterned fists crash down into the side of the tango's face with tooth-splitting speed. Silence. Silence, and the occasional blip of motion from the camera. 

"They got him," Farah called through the microphone, making your heart soar in relief. 

"Good shit, boys," Price added triumphantly as you watched Ghost ziptie bandage-wrapped forearms behind the back of the lone target.

Chapter Text

It wasn't worth translating to Soap or Ghost what their zip-tied Tango was saying to them. They probably didn't care to hear the Arabic verbal barrage the man slumped over Soap's shoulder was spewing their way. The way he immediately carried on after Soap threw him onto the back of the dune buggy would almost be funny if it weren't for the deathly serious context. There didn't seem to be any need to clarify where to go either, as they wordlessly whipped the roaring engine back into motion and tore back into the dunes. 

Meanwhile, Laswell had typed walls of text into her laptop, flurrying fingers stopping with a breath. It left you oddly uneasy without the tapping white noise you've become accustomed to. The room felt lighter since there was no longer the fear of the unknown, but now it was the known that lingered in your conscience. A recently evacuated complex and test subjects with fresh bullet holes in their temples. Only by the grace of sheer luck did Farah spot that lone soul fleeing on foot in the desert. Who knows what evidence he hid with those precious seconds before 141 tore through that quarry. It's impossible to know what might've been burned or shredded, and a flicker of a glance at Price's headcam on screen showed him rifling through mountains of waterlogged documents- utterly unreadable. 

Your stomach nearly flipped as Gaz lifted himself on top of one of the crushers, spotting a dark churned pulp within, the makeup of which you couldn't bring yourself to imagine. There's no doubt that the quarry was the hotspot. One hotspot. For all you know, this could be the tip of the iceberg. Right now, you could just work with what you could and go one step at a time. 

"All Bravo, this is Watcher. Bravo 0-6 I need you to get as much evidence as possible at that compound. Keep your gloves on and head on a swivel. We're sending all of this footage back home. Bravo 0-7, bring the Tango out back and let's have a chat with him. We'll meet you there." Laswell's words painted a clear picture of orders, stern and certain, evident by the chorus of 'solid copy' in response. 

We'll meet you there. She has to mean Farah, right? She's shifting in her seat like she's ready to stand, and every emotion crashes into your mind with such ferocity that it makes your sinews crackle with anticipation. She's standing, and you do, too. You don't know why, but you just did. Firecrackling tension trickles down your thigh, and lightheadedness clouds your senses. 

"Cricket," Laswell gestured to the door with the laptop she'd scooped under her arm. 

Before you could blink, you were already forcing paralyzed tendons into action, hearing the sound of your own footsteps before you could even register the subsequent actions. At least she led the way; otherwise, you'd have no idea where you were going. Once again, you're tapping down the ironwork catwalks, but only this time at an accelerated pace. The stairs crashed under you, fluttering down each step, catching a flash of blonde whip around the base of the stairs toward the exit ramp. With a light hop, she had broken into a jog. You did, too. She pushed past the unlatched door into the white sunshine. You did, too. Laswell swung herself into a smaller, more pedestrian dune buggy than the boys' model. You did, too.

Dust and the smell of gasoline flooded your senses, fighting inconsequentially to keep coarse sand from flying into your hair and eyes. At least Farah would still be on overwatch, though something told you this barren, pathless golden wild didn't come with many passers-by. You gripped the buggy's metal frame like it would be drifting away into that blinding sky if it weren't for your courageous vice, even when your wrist muscles trembled with strain. 

Only when you were in the passenger seat, following the same twin pairs of tracks the task force had left as sandy breadcrumbs, did you actually connect with your circumstance. They're going to have you in the complex, among rank and putrid rotting bodies, sifting through evidence to uncover some key evidence. The smell of a dead body is a hard thing to get out of your system. Let alone the sight. At least you have time to mentally prep yourself for the onslaught, but most of all, you were eager to help unravel this plot. If anything, those bodies should be an incentive to get this intel rather than a root of apprehension. No time for emotions. Just do your job. Do it for Basmala. Do it for her daughter who should be studying in Brussels right now. 

It's so odd to see the quarry in person, like it's stepping into the screen you'd been watching minutes before, even down to the perspective. You've seen Gaz's identical perspective in the passenger seat of a vehicle, the same as you, crashing and soaring over heaving dunes. Only this time, the phantom falling sensation became more real than ever. A wavy view of tall concrete walls came closer and closer, the scorching ground making it look like a hazy grey cloud. Be it your elevated heart rate or the sun pummelling your dark tee-shirt, a thin layer of sweat made your vice on the fuselage slip with every plummeting hill. 

Price's raised palm looked like a torch in the darkness, like a British and moustached Lady Liberty, signalling you into the harbour with open arms. Only it wasn't a harbour; it was a shambling stone construction with a crooked sign hanging on for dear life above a brutally rusted set of doors. Ghost and Soap stood vigil over their catch, guns drawn, like hunters eagerly displaying their game for social media. Poor fucker was zip-tied up like a prized hog with a burlap sack reading 'onion' in Arabic taped around his head. Gaz reached over to place his palm on the roof over Laswell's side of the buggy, saying something in that accent that you couldn't quite catch. Fuck, maybe this heat is getting to you because Price was signalling for you to join, and leaded muscles scarcely cooperated. 

Hot sand took no time to spread their scalding words through the rubber of your boots. The desert sand has a way of being so deafeningly loud with its radiance, like you're hearing the sound of your own eardrums baking. They were talking about the elephant in the room, being the prisoner, and what to do with him. Frankly, you couldn't care less. You just wanted to get inside and get to work, to get out of the sun. It's when you hear your own name in the context of this stranger that your eyes snap into focus. 

"It can't be on the record," Price mouthed, "But Cricket can get us a written transcript when she's done. Right?"

Your face hardened. You were hearing things, seeing mouths move and eyes land on you, but it still wasn't loading in your overheating hardware. Even when your mouth hung open, hot air on your teeth provided an unwelcome sensory overload that made your stomach heave. 

"Wh-" you breathed.

"We'll get you and Ghost to take him over by that old hydroelectric dam, and let us know what he's got to say," Price clarified, those icy blue eyes did not provide the cooling relief you were craving. 

"I doubt he'll just volunteer the info... They- they're probably threatening to do to his family what they did to Basmala." Finally, a sensical thought slipped into your mind and past your lips as the situation clicked. 

"Ghost has a way of making people talk," Laswell nodded, glancing over her shoulder at the phantom.

"He might be better at your job than you," Gaz joked with that shit-eating grin he and Soap liked to sport. 

You managed your fiercest look past your furrowed eyebrows with remarkable ease since it came so naturally. By now, you're well aware that he's joking. Probably. Maybe. 

"I prefer to operate within the Geneva Conventions," you chided. 

"Conventions and rules will only get you so far sometimes," Price swaggered into view with folded arms. 

"And getting them to talk is one thing; getting them to say the right chatter is another. It's yet another thing is to actually understand what they're whaling."

"He's the best chance we've got," Laswell's voice cut deep, not only because you've never heard her be so sharp in your direction, but because she was right. 

You had no problem with catching a dishonourable condemnation or discharge if it meant standing up against torturing someone. Torture. That's what it is, torture. In so many ways, this was out of your league. Out of your skillset. Out of the things you weren’t psychologically equipped to absorb into your conscience. This one little flicker kept you in it, though. Those yellow mary-janes. If this is what it takes to unravel this grisly plot, you'll have to get your hands dirty. You'd rather take the weight on your shoulders of this poor soul's torment over the sleepless nights of feeling like you could've done more. Another set of impossible choices. Once again, a tragic ethical dilemma. If only one of those textbooks back in London had the wise words of some decorated linguist's solution, but maybe that's the thing; history is written by the victors. 

"I'll do it," you insisted dutifully. 

"Good," Price nodded, patting a gloved palm over your shoulder. 

The heat of his palm was unwelcome, but that placid face said that he was aware of your psychological sacrifice, a big ordeal for your rank. These guys have probably done this dozens of times before. You wouldn't be shocked if your lieutenant's number was closer to the combination of theirs. Yet, the crinkled smiling eyes he shared with you, likely somewhat sarcastically, said he was proud. He's definitely more than aware of your recognition of the satire in the action, though. 

"Don't worry about Ghost, he doesn't bite," Laswell grinned warmly, reassuming her position behind the wheel of her dune buggy. 

Oh Kate, if you only knew the half of it. 

Soap and Ghost bantered about something seemingly hilarious while you grappled with the ethical dilemma afoot. Every time you thought the mission was moving impossibly fast, a quick gearshift sent the operation into a new warp speed. The rest of the crew had gone inside, evident by the squealing rust, and Laswell had tore back toward the observatory to fire off more communications. Reality looked like a movie taking place before your eyes as if you were in the front row at a movie theatre. Soap's posture suggested he was just turning to leave, concluding his chatter. No Soap, don't go. Don't help Ghost heave that bound mass into the back of one of the buggies, wrestling against his explosive protests. At least he had the courtesy to buckle him in though, safety first. Now, his gaze turned to you. He was walking over to you. There's that stupid fucking grin. 

"See you soon, Cricket. LT'll make your first time extra special," another slap on your shoulder, he looked like he was on the edge of a laughing fit. 

He was obviously referring to the grim reality of forced information gathering. Obviously, he's talking about the torture. You felt your face scrunch into a tight-lipped smile. He seemed content with your wavering response, turning on his heels with one last look to his comrade. Fucking Soap. It's a wonder what he sees in this grim fucker, and what humour he seems to find in him. Maybe it'll be worth eavesdropping on their next banter session. With sprightly efficiency, he disappeared into the abyss below that collapsed, once vibrantly painted sign. The door clicked shut to a choir of shrieking metal, gone from view. Now you were alone. Alone, save for the dreadful, loathing figure that's utterly disgusted by having to exist in your presence, with their mouth wrapped in cloth that's sparing you from a view of barred fangs- and the hostage. 

As he approached, he blocked out the sun, making you look up past furrowed brows to meet his stoic gaze. That stupid fucking white plate in the shape of a skull caught the glare of the sun, eagerly reflecting bleaching white into reluctant pupils. You detested being there with him, and the odd humour reflected in his eyes. Humour, of all things. The fucker had the nerve to smirk at you through dark eyes, staring down his nose at you. He was getting a kick out of how uneasy and upset you were. Sick fucker, it's like he forgot that you're not the one he's supposed to torture. You'd be so much more at ease if it were anyone else. It'd be so much more doable, having constructive reassurance from someone with positive rapport to help guide you. No. Yet another trial by fire, though at least the Grim Reaper was already here to drag you to hell once this was done. Wipe that smug look off your face. 

"In," he flicked his chin to the vehicle that held the writhing subject. 

You detested taking orders from him, turning over your shoulder to the buggy. It's when you felt a featherlight hand on the base of your spine that your nerves sparked alive like firecrackers, leaving tingling flesh in their wake. Scorching breath halted in your throat, threatening to singe fragile lungs. Stepping into the machine like he suggested left your mind spinning. A simple action with dire consequences. He was just helping you climb back into the dune buggy. That's really it. The humming engine matched the vibrations of your humming nerves.

Every cascading hill made the hogtied Tango in the back seat groan against his confines like a cat in a bag. What set your mind at ease was that he wasn't protesting his innocence or asserting some grand misunderstanding with every outburst. This fucker had the nerve to call you every curse word in the book, including a handful of regional phrases that you hadn't had the grace of being exposed to in your academic setting- though you could infer their meaning. This guy knew he was caught, and your masked colleague was interested in making him sing, not scream. 

At least being in motion made a breeze breathe across your damp skin, even though it felt more like standing in front of a hairdryer. Last time you were alone with this man, truly alone, you couldn't control yourself. A spur-of-the-moment action made you act on deeply rooted instincts. Though that time, you had alcohol as fuel. However, this time, you have something much worse; lingering glances and heavy-lidded daydreams that'd spent months marinating. The head has a funny way of prying these unspeakable thoughts from your conscience when you're in heat like this, like you're sweating out the toxins in your system. 

What the fuck am I thinking? This is work. This is a job that has to be done. Seconds earlier, I was considering a dishonourable discharge. That one action. That second of touch did that to me. Am I that touch starved? What the fuck is wrong with me?

"Farah, how copy?" Laswell's voice cut through Ghost's radio over your shoulder, snapping you out of your trance. 

"Peachy," Farah retorted, stern and apathetic. 

"Good to hear. The Bravo 0-6, 2-6 and 7-1 will search the quarry and gather a case. We're counting on your overwatch."

"Rog."

"Watcher out," Laswell ceased the dialogue, forcing the quiet company back into an uneasy silence.

A hazy mountain, long and straight, manifested into the shape of what seemed to be the destination in the afternoon sun. Broad letters in abjad script confidently noted Al Mazrah Hydro, though by the depressed state of the dam, it looked like it had been long abandoned in the peak of the desert's punishing heat. Sprawling vertical streams of orange and red led to leaky pipes, far beyond repair, forking up and down the 100 ft mass of concrete and stone. The closer you got, the more your heart rate steadied, making way for a washing sense of duty. Duty and confidence. It's time to make this fucker pay. Wring out every drop of information that can make his warlord bosses pay for what they did to these people, what they did to Basmala, and all those graveless names from that transmission. Luckily, it came with the bonus of extracting crucial information about his boss or some game-changing intel that could turn this entire operation on its head. Details that Ghost will gleefully unburden him from with practiced brutality.

Chapter Text

"Bravo 0-7, going dark," Ghost called into his radio before shutting it off entirely, causing the impending apprehension in your gut to lurch. 

Gold sand conceded under a sprawling concrete hydroelectric dam, long abandoned. The perfect quiet place to forcefully elicit some dialogue from the writhing subject in the back seat. It was a monolith of smoothed stone that blotted out the sun as you approached the barely recognizable parking lot, now caked with a thick layer of sand. Years of idling left the entrance barricaded by orange rust and pale blue-green moss, and another protest from the bound guest in the back seat concurred with the vehicle grinding to a halt. 

A thin shower of rust and dust showered the top of your head as you ducked past the half-cracked steel door. Tall concrete walls rose to uphold a domed metal roof, supported by long black beams that stretched and occasionally collapsed under the colossal size. This building was massive, vast and echoey, where the eroded concrete had a unique capacity to reverberate every footstep. It wasn't even worth offering assistance to Ghost in this initial setup phase, as he had no problem slumping the 200-pound man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It seems wiser to just steer clear, giving you an excellent opportunity to take in the scenery. 

A family of birds scuttled away at the sound of your approaching footsteps, fleeing out of one of the many shattered windows that occasionally graced the barren stone. At one point there must have been a reception desk and executive offices over on the far end where a small forest of feral foliage has set up residence. The guest calling your poor lieutenant a flurry of slurs brought your attention to him being fastened into a metal armchair from a stack near the door. More zip-ties buckled him into place at the wrist and ankle to his new throne. Those military-grade plastic zip-ties are shockingly sturdy; they definitely aren't for your garden-variety cable management. 

"What kind of questions do I even ask?" you asked Ghost, folding your arms over your chest as you sauntered to take in the view before you. 

To your dismay, a cold, dark glare in your direction implied his distaste for hand-holding you in this process, making you roll your eyes the second his attention rediverted to securing the writhing man. Maybe he's forgotten that torture isn't in the standard repertoire of a linguistic specialist, and they forgot to teach those skills between your Psycholinguistics and Morphology lessons. Still, common sense suggested you'd ask about his boss and their operations, but he didn't have to be such a cunt about it. 

"Names and Locations. Methods are secondary, motives are tertiary." He spoke, dragging a screeching metal table over the cracked tile with an ear-splitting whine. 

You'd expected his glare to be the end of it. At least he had the courtesy to give you an actual answer, giving you a clearer indication than the initial starting questions that were bubbling in your mind. Still, he's always going out of his way to be an asshole. 

"Tap one finger to decrease pressure, two to ramp it up," Ghost loomed over you as you were lost in thought, feeling his body shield beaming sunlight with his size. 

"Understood," you nod, refolding your arms so that your fingers are visible on your bicep. 

The sound of metal crashing on metal snapped you into the present as Ghost slammed an inky Glock onto the shambling metal table alongside a warped jerrycan of what you assumed was water. You can only pray this guy complies sooner rather than later, saving him from the physical anguish and you from the psychological. One last nod was shared between you two, and those bone-patterned gloves whipped off the burlap onion bag off the head of the protesting target. A mat of scruffy hair slumps forward, whinging against his restraints as you kneel before him. Instantly, the man you'd decided to affectionately name Charlie settled his gaze on Ghost. And he was right to do so. From now on, the lieutenant would be the angel of pain for this poor soul, the harbinger of his undoing. 

"Hello," you spoke in his familiar tongue, making him snap from his locked gaze on Ghost to meet your eyes. 

"Fuck your mother," he spat back in Arabic, lunging against his restraints as if he would've thrashed you. Fortunately for you, you had no particular need to uphold your mother's name.

"That's not a good way to start this conversation," you cooed, praying that he won't see your bold-faced lie of feigned confidence. "It's a simple trade," you stood, "you give me information about your bosses, and I'll stop Ghost here from making your nightmares come true."

Charlie curled his moustached lip in disgust, light brown eyes flashing with raw wrath. Even still, with his hostile posture toward you, those eyes still flickered to follow your partner's skeletal mask with every pacing step he took. Ghost had no idea what was being said between you two, but it didn't take a linguist to translate the immediate fear this man had of your comrade. 

"I won't tell you fucking anything," he spat at your feet, silently making a pang of sadness sing in your gut.

Rocking on your heels, you rolled your neck, tapping two fingers on your upper arm. It was the signal Ghost needed to step into Charlie's peripheral with a heavy bootstrap. Feebly, he held his ground, looking past his furrowed brows to meet Ghost's masked death stare. Instantly, he was writhing against his restraints as he approached, a hulking presence representing his new god for the next while.

"I was sincerely hoping you wouldn't say that," you frown. 

Raising your eyes to your comrade, you signalled with two tapping fingers on your arm to ramp up the pressure. A crack against his jaw wipes that stoicism off his face really quick. Your comrade had slammed his fist into his face for a second time, though at least he had the wisdom to aim for the jaw lest he lose any cognitive function from a blow to the upper skull. That's the kind of instinct that comes from experience. A spatter of pink spit coupled next to the first on the grungy tile, and Ghost again turned to collect an item from the table. Whenever you felt lingering uneasiness manifest in your gut, you willed your mind to remember the stolen futures of all those graves in the dunes. Futures stolen by his regime. Futures stolen by this man who just won't talk. Yet. 

"Who gave you the orders to shoot those test subjects?" Your mouth twisted, staring down at him. "That coal quarry with all the forced chemical tests, the one you were fleeing," you corrected. 

"I'm not telling you shit," he bit back, snickering and rolling his jaw. 

Bad answer. Another tap, two fingers. Ghost lept into action. It all happened so fast, making your stomach heave as you processed his intention. Due to a lack of preparation, your comrade was forced to improvise his extraction methods. This meant making him resort to more physical techniques rather than relying on a tool. Unfortunately for Charlie, the lieutenant had cracked one of his fingers like a glowstick between those black and white gloves. A scream ripped through the concrete chasm. You steadied your guard, refusing the bubbling bile back down your throat. 

"Let's try that again," you continued, "which Sepratist gave you the order to shoot them?"

He took a second to calm down his hysterics, and you caught a glimpse of wickedly bent fingers shattered in every wrong direction. It'd make you heave if you had any food left in your stomach. This is dirty, evil work. Even if it's for a greater purpose. 

"N-nobody," he dodged your gaze, slumping away from Ghost's presence over his shoulder as he refused to meet your face. 

You clicked your tongue disapprovingly, kneeling before him to force his gaze to meet yours. He was pale, but still full of fight. He was so fiercely defending these warlords like a whipped dog, stoic and full of poison. 

"Wrong answer," you clicked your tongue disapprovingly, "You could walk free if you just give us your boss’ names." 

He rolled his head away from you once again, giving you enough of an answer to rise and side-eye your grim shadow's prowling. He had a way of lurking around passively while you two spoke in Arabic, waiting obediently for the next order. Another two-finger tap, and in a split second, he whipped Charlie's chair backwards on its two back legs, tilting it to lay flat on the ground. The words that poured out of him were everything but answers. And as Ghost was preparing the canister of water, you caught a glimpse under his arm bandages; pink streams of scratch marks. That was an easy sign to solidify your resolve. Those were the telltale woulds of someone's final resistance to being strangled. They were the last plea from a dying soul under this man's crushing grip- likely the son or daughter of one of those jaded faces you'd passed in town. Those were the bandaged hands of a brute, of a killer. It made it so much easier to watch your comrade slip a dusty sheet over his mouth and pour glugging water over his gasping mouth. Water torture is so particularly brutal because it's entirely psychological. His drowned screams and wheezes echo through the vast compound, reminding distant families of birds and rodents of this man's hysterical anguish. 

"Who gave you the orders!" you screamed over his sputtering coughing, making sure your shrill voice was loud and clear. 

Ghost whipped him back into an upright position, heaving and spitting water- he politely whipped the damp cloth back off his red, gasping face. He sank into his chair when gravity was back in a familiar position. With shattered fingers and a heaving chest, this guy should look miserable. Yet, of all things, the most prominent emotion you could read was sheer terror. Every time your dancing partner walked around him, the target would buckle and heave in his chair, contorting against his restraints to creep as far as possible from his presence. You found it oddly relatable. Still, it was beyond clear: he's fucking terrified of Ghost. He's like a dog with his tail between his legs, cowering at the suggestion of his presence with his gargantuan shadow. 

If vinegar won't work, honey will. It's time to change gears. At least now he's broken in. Another tap, one finger. Slow it down, Ghostie. 

"Why are you protecting these warlords?" you willed your voice to be soft, sympathetic, and warm. 

"Th-they have my children," he sputtered, finally a word of truth after a long silence. 

"Don't you see what they're doing to the people in Al Mazrah? You know, it's a razor-thin line between your kids and all those dead kids your bosses put in the desert," you spat. 

"This is me bringing them into a better world, " he spewed through barred teeth. 

"Is that what they're telling you? Are you too fucking slow to see who truly benefits from a martial state in Al Mazrah?" The words were laced with venom as they slipped from your coarse throat.

A sinking silence fell over the unsettlingly open area. It felt like a vast ocean around you, where your meek presence at the sheltered base of this dam was like a spec in the infinity of space. It was so unnervingly grand that it could make the nerves stand on end if you had the strength to consider that horror. You could feel Ghost's dark eyes watching your movement like a wolf, obediently and dutifully waiting for your command to feast on more dripping red meat, and he was practically licking his chops in anticipation. 

"Just kill me already," he asserted, grinning with a crooked nose. 

"Oh no, this isn't stopping until you give us names. Good names." 

"Oh yeah? And how are you going to know that they're good names," he snickered. 

"We have inside sources," you lied behind a composed smirk. 

Straightening your back, you watched him slumping those grungy locks back over, defeated. It felt like you were close. The honey is working, and surely Laswell would reluctantly comply if you promised his family's protection. That could be the last push to wring out the crucial answers that can make the Separatists come undone and start to work on undoing all those wrongs. Although it might be impossible to undo the chemical tests they inflicted on unwilling civilians at that quarry or the hundreds of graveless souls in those sandy hills, anything would be a start. Elongating shadows and a holy golden glow cast the view out the cracked windows into a brilliant vista, where streaming sunbeams caught dancing dust in the disrupted air. 

That's when you heard a sound you were entirely unprepared to hear. You blinked in disbelief as you looked over your shoulder at him, but there he was. Laughing. Laughing like a fucking hyena, with blood pouring over his teeth. A shared look with Ghost confirmed your suspicion, and there was an unsettling energy in the atoms around you. His bellowing laughter made your skin crawl, and the look in his eyes was utterly soulless. 

"You dumb fucking whore," he spat, trickling blood from licked teeth, slumping forward in his seat.

He looked like he was about to say something else, but another roaring cackle interrupted his speech. The air was stagnant and rank, heavy with the thick smell of blood, developing an unsettling chill as the peak of the afternoon's heat promised an upcoming biting cold. This man was broken, shattered beyond recognition. Between a rock and a hard place, except the rock is an active threat against his family, and the hard place is Ghost's oath to splinter more bones if he doesn't cooperate. It's his laughing that won't stop, despite the bubbling first few syllables of sentences in their infancy trickling between cackles. 

"We've been in your radio since Verdansk," he roared, eyes wild and crazed. "We've heard every word you dumb cunts have said for months. Us and- and the Russians," he could barely get the last words out before he erupted into hooting laughter.

Cold shock hit your face, furrowing your brow. Blinking in confusion, you felt prickling anxiety and dread creep up your spine at the onset of his unsettling words. Fingernails started to dig into your palms as if he'd inflicted some personal slight. Most of all, confusion. 

"The air raid we called will be hitting your team any second," he squealed, voice cracking under the strain of cackling, "all your SAS buddies and the bitch are getting blown sky high."

The horrifying reality surged through chilled blood, pumping ripping thoughts into you once your heartbeat continued. It's the Russian Cartel; they're partnered with the Russian Cartel! It's how they knew to start the attack the minute you stepped into that stadium in Verdansk. It's how they knew to cut their transmission on that USB as soon as you got it- the Arabic-speaking transmission. It's how they knew you were on their trail after the London attacks. It's how they knew what Basmala said and to come after her so immediately. It's how they knew you were coming to the quarry so they could slip out in time. Hell, it's how they know exactly where to send this new torrent of hellfire to maximize your squad's casualties. You were so close to the truth the whole time, it was all right there.

Every emotion you've ever felt, duty, wrath, pride, jealousy, fear, and despair crashed into your consciousness in a matter of two seconds flat. A piercing chill made your face drain of all heat, feeling your face soften in shock. There wasn't even time to think about what you were doing, the words just lept from your throat. 

"Radio- Radio now!" You cried in English, making Ghost flinch in confusion. 

The man in the chair continues his maniacal howling, rocking back and forth against his restraints. He rolled his thumb to realign the radio's frequency, unclicking the device from his shoulder warily to place in your hand. Instantly, the radio blared to life, sending squealing interference through the device. 

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday," you wailed hopelessly into the black device, "All Bravo, Actual, incoming air raid on your location, they have our radios tapped!" 

You turned to look at him, but he was already boring into you. Ghost's eyes were suddenly fierce as he, too, began to grapple with the situation over a symphony of belligerent laughing. You begged and prayed for an answer—anything, any sort of signal to prove that your comrades weren't currently ignited by the promised threat. You were just about to click the radio for another call, feeling fumbling, slick fingertips sliding over the button, when a voice cut through.

"Say again, Cricket? " Price spoke. His tone was stern and confused.

Despite the momentary relief, your heart still hammered in your chest as you could barely muster the strength to meet Ghost's hard eyes with muscles this weak. 

"They're sending an airstrike to the quarry and the observatory, you have to get o-"

"We've got some warbirds coming in from the west, flying low," Farah's voice crashed over yours. "Coming fast."

"Understood," Laswell's voice made your heart soften as you could hear the sound of fumbling equipment through her mic. 

"Farah, help get Laswell out." He commanded harshly, his tone immediately shifting into action. 

It's a level of panic you've never entirely felt before. Crumbling confidence, absolute terror. It almost felt like one of those dreams where you're falling, seconds from the ground, except you're in a perpetual state of being an instant away from being utterly obliterated by the incoming ground. Ghost's hand charged into your peripheral, gruffly snatching his radio from your numbing fingertips.

"If they have us bugged, we all have to go dark," he called, low and sharp. 

"All Bravo, cut comms," Price concurred, hearing the huffing breaths of someone in a dead sprint. "Bravo 0-7, route to the safehouse, bunker down and wait for the countersign." 

"Roger," Ghost responded flat and dutifully, meeting the intensity in your face. 

Just before he slipped the radio shut, the gut-wrenching sound of a deafening explosion tore through the speakers, clearly sparked alive in the commotion from someone's frequency. Your stomach lurched to your throat, hearing the last chirp of whatever hell was being wrought upon your allies one last time. For good measure, the batteries were pried from the device's innards. A single shaggy breath since you'd spoken left your lungs burning for oxygen, but the paralyzing anxiety forbade the indulgence. 

Crippling despair crushed your bones, raising your shoulders and making your face go pale. It's not fair. It's not fair that this guy gets to take the fall for sick warlords who want to bring this proud town to its knees, all for their financial gain, thinly veiled as a people's revolution. Heat sparks in you like a cheap lighter. Spite and wrath, hatred at his patheticness, disgust. Lightheaded dread changed gears in dragging seconds, and you felt your face harden. Volcanic hate seared behind your eyes as your vision raked over those pink tracks on his forearms from desperate fingernails, pleading for mercy. No, you don't get mercy. 

Once numb fingers found the grip of the Ghost's Glock on the sleek metal table, heavy but familiar. Your lip curled, and so did your finger around the dark trigger. Another hand slipped to cock the gun, a satisfying click went almost unheard under your thunderous heartbeat. Vision went dark with fury, and the look in the face of the crazed, cackling patron was a visage of satisfaction at your despair. All in a matter of seconds, your arm swung the pistol with a locked elbow, making a red flower bloom between his eyes. The deafening crack of a spent shell left you feeling your teeth consider splitting under your iron-clenched jaw.

Chapter Text

Since you crashed back through that stuck door you'd slinked through no more than an hour before, the sky was now an entirely unrecognizable shade. Cresting sunset compounded the sheer hellfire that surged over the horizon. The blip of the white radomes you could squint to see once before had been wholly swallowed, now utterly obliterated by circling warbirds, like carrion over a fresh corpse. It could easily be an illusion, but you swore you could feel the distant heat from the raging bonfire coming from where you'd spent the last few odd weeks. Ghost's shadow loomed beside you in stretching shadows, exaggerating his height to a supernatural level as he spurred you forward. 

Time moved with brutal speed. It seemed like every time you blinked, an entirely new set of circumstances commanded your attention. One second, you were cracking the fingers of some belligerent terrorist; next, you were spilling out of the crumbling dam in a mad sprint, and another blink brought you to swing yourself into the passenger side of that same dune buggy. At this point, you were just on auto-pilot, surrendering your conscience to follow wherever Ghost's movements led you. Distant booms and rumbling aftershocks occasionally threatened to drag you from your trance and respond with the appropriate level of panic. 

"Would've been nice to know about this safe house earlier," you sighed. 

"It was on a need-to-know basis," he bit back, cold and dismissive. 

"What if I needed to know?" Your eyebrows furrowed. 

His lack of an answer made you grind your teeth; you relented, but only for the purpose of not causing unnecessary strain to your already aching jaw. This is all so much. It's all so chaotic. Brief seconds of bittersweet peace are immediately overshadowed by a torrent of crippling agony and ethical dilemmas. When it rains, it pours- and you've found yourself in the desert. Well, maybe that's just the nature of the field of work you've chosen, isn't it. It's all fucking unpredictable. In 8 seconds, an air strike could hit this so-called safehouse, and you'd be lucky to die instantly. Otherwise, you'll spend your last minutes desperately suffocating under the crushing rubble. 

Dust stung in your eyes, reminding you to blink as the buggy tore over dunes once again, only now you're headed in an entirely new direction, further into the sandy abyss. The sun threatened to set, and thoughts considered dipping into the territory of if your comrades made it out alive, if Laswell made it out alive, if Farah made it out alive. Surely Farah is competent enough to slink Laswell through enemy territory without being spotted, or obliterated, but lingering doubt snagged in your mind like a loose thread. These boys have probably survived worse odds with time to spare. Maybe the precious seconds you afforded them were enough to spare them. Maybe not. 

A small shelter came into view at the base of a white stone cliff. Snapped wood-tied fences surrounding a broad perimeter suggested that this was once some sort of ranch, but decades of abandonment meant it was more dune than a house. Nonetheless, Ghost steered the rumbling vehicle around the side of the collapsing sunbleached shelter. Your numb mind watched absently as he swiftly stepped from the vehicle to unlatch a broad barnlike door, creating a barely wide enough hole for the buggy to continue. Feeling like he was your chauffeur, he stepped back into the driver's seat to pilot you and your transport into the now-open shelter. 

Caving roof slats invited streaming, though waning, daylight into the sandy room. Most of the windows were boarded up with crossing planks, and the air was heavy with the smell of disturbed dust. Long cast-iron furnaces and rusty troughs made you consider if this was once a goat farm, but the snapping flick of cloth ripped you from your concentration. Your comrade tossed a bleached sheet over the dune buggy he had parked behind a stack of similarly covered furniture in the far corner. In theory, you should be helping him, but he seemed to have a thoroughly mapped plan for this exact situation, and your additions would probably be unwelcome. Another distant blast shook the sand from the caving roof; that explosion was a big one. 

You watched as he heaved a large crate, pushing with dragging feet to reveal a hatch door under an unassuming discarded linen sheet. Leaving just enough room for a person to squeeze through, he knelt to wind the pale green iron latch open to reveal a shallow concrete staircase within. You couldn't help but flicker your gaze back from him to this seedy hidden basement as you considered your circumstances, but another knee-buckling rumble spurred you into action. A flick of his head suggested that you file ahead of him into the bunker, making you swallow dryly to build the strength to venture into the darkness. Squeezing past his looming glare, you tapped down smooth concrete steps to a narrow hallway leading to yet another metal door. 

More wrenching pulls, and he had successfully re-barricaded the secluded entrance, effectively cutting off all major signs of daylight in the small hole, leaving you in near darkness. You doubted that you had the authority to continue into the next chamber, but frankly, you didn't care about his authority right now. Taking the cool, slick iron wheel in your palms, you pass hand over hand until you feel the clicking pressure released from a freed latch. Just as you shifted your body weight to heave the dense door open, Ghost had already stepped into your peripheral with that greyscale Union Jack on his sleeve and whipped the door partially open. He'd allowed himself in before you, but it's hard to say if it's in the act of scoping out the new area for potential threats, or if he's really not a gentleman whatsoever. Either way, you slipped past the second latching metal door in two minutes into the next space. 

A flicked light switch illuminated white painted brick walls and textured poured concrete floors, which were remarkably contemporary considering the surrounding area. It's funny to see in-person one of the standard issue NATO bomb shelter units you'd seen on a glossy pamphlet at some point when you were waiting at that base in London. If memory serves, it looks like this is Unit Type #2 from the catalogue, far from the largest, though at least it's not the bare minimum. At least you've got the edition that has the small portable heating unit. It's impossible to say when this shelter would have been built, but it looks like it was built in the current decade. 

Ghost stepped around the bunker, taking inventory of the wall-mounted first aid kit and the sparse equipment in the laughably small kitchenette unit in the corner. Another rumble and a faint sprinkle of white dust rained from the concrete ceiling. It was a simple rectangular unit, you estimated about 15 x 20 feet. Scanning eyes identified a small triangular bathroom unit wedged in the corner and an army green bunk bed in the other, with a small square table with steel folding chairs bridging them together. It's a small enough space to qualify as a jail cell, and you definitely weren't short of a warden either, but at least there was a small shelving unit of books for you to stimulate yourself with. 

That's when tinkering fluorescent lights were abruptly cut short, snuffing out all forms of light and comfort. For a second, a lightning bolt of panic chilled your blood, halting your breath in your throat. 

"Fuck's sake," Ghost sighed lowly, hearing approaching rustling fabric in your proximity, making your nerves spike higher. 

A sharp crunch made you flinch, reminding you of similar crunching snaps you'd heard only minutes ago. Suddenly, the room bloomed with the red glow of one of the glowsticks that were a constant feature in his kit, and they were surprisingly effective. Those military-grade glowsticks can be used to mark cleared rooms, identify a chasm's height, or, in a pinch, illuminate a bunker unit. The only issue was the 12-hour shelf life for one of the makeshift light sources, though, by the looks of the half-dozen strapped to the front of his kit, you'll surely be able to find a solution by then. In the very worst case scenario, he had his night-vision nods that would easily let him see in the pitch darkness, though you didn't. He raised his hands to inspect the light with a glowstick in one hand, attempting to fix the fixture with his craning height. It forced you to stifle a laugh to consider how much easier it would be if he could hold the stick between his teeth while he worked like a normal person. It's funny to see him face the direct consequences of wearing a mask all the time. Even with dim light, it was easy to see that after the cover was pried free, the light socket was well eroded from what looked like dripping water damage. That's an issue you'll have to report back to the author of that NATO bomb shelter unit pamphlet. 

Now, it's time to wait. There's nothing else to do, so you might as well get started on reading your sparse reading material. Finally urging sore legs to move, you crossed the tiny space to unfurl a folded metal chair, aligning it to sit next to the metal table to which your comrade had set his glowstick. You've come to know your mind well enough by now to know that if you let yourself sit in silence, you'll work yourself into a panic, and this grim fucker will probably taste the blood in the water and bite. Squealing whines of protesting metal coils caught in your ears, making you turn to see Ghost settling himself to lay in the bottom bunk, still fully kitted up as if an armed assailant could spring from that five square-foot bathroom at any second. He looked like he was posturing to nap, laid out with his hand cradling the back of his neck as his feet draped over the far end of the bed. 

In your mostly blind swipe at the bookshelf, you snatched whatever book first fell into your grasp. It was a read you squinted to identify as Black Beauty, a book you'd read as a kid. Thanks to your temporary lighting, you'll have to squint to detect the dark letters on the red paper, but a foggy memory helped you fill in where your eyes strained. Sometimes you too felt like a starry-eyed horse, lugging carriages along for uncaring cab drivers, gleefully repeating the same redundant task until you catch an injury, become a burden, and eventually croak. Sure, it's a children's book, and no profound horse metaphor could accurately describe the orchestra of screaming emotions in your brain, but it still pangs as oddly fitting. 

Every time you paused to flip the pages, increasingly loud thoughts surged into your mind, pleading for you to dissect the day's events. It became desperately insistent with unwavering intensity. Not only had you inflicted pain on a defenceless soul, but you'd uncovered a gut-wrenching plot that could easily have been the death of each of your comrades. All the suppressed emotions bubbled to the surface, emotions that were once swallowed whole by white-hot rage. 

"I shot him… I just saw red, and I shot him." you confessed, dejected, "I didn’t need to- I wasn't supposed to. I wasn't authorized."

Void silence filled the dim room, and if it weren't for the red glow, it'd be impossible to convince you that you weren't floating in space. Usually, a lack of stimulation would be welcome, where so often you're flooded with an overload on every front. However now, you felt lost and ungrounded, yet still burning hot like a raging supernova, alone in the void, bearing the front of every unprocessed emotion all at once. 

"You're right, you weren't," he responded, surprisingly alert for someone you'd assumed to be asleep. 

A part of you wanted to argue that the enemy terrorist wouldn't have been able to join you in the top-secret NATO safehouse anyway. Even if he could have given valuable intel, something about the maniacal laughter implied that he might not comply with further questioning. Still, it’s not the behaviour of a trained, calculating officer at your rank to lash out in frustration and execute an untried civilian. No matter how guilty he made himself to be. Though it’s also not authorized to torture those untried civilians either. It might be best if the topic was laid to rest. That way, you can save yourself from another inevitable scalding chirp from your menacing company, now in a unique position where neither can slink away to avoid the other. 

It felt like you were a gladiator dropped into an arena with a feral lion. Except instead of a sprawling, dusty, open-air colosseum, it's a concrete coffin in the ground, soundproof and entirely off the grid. Both of you are more than capable of tearing each other apart, but for right now, you're just dodging one another's eyes while tracking every movement. 

Luckily, although cracked at some point in the scuffle, your wristwatch was still functional. Therefore, you could at least identify the passage of time in this bunker without needing a day-night cycle. Time to bury yourself back into your book, drinking in the fantastical landscape of the internal monologue of a 19th-century horse to escape the current hostile environment. Red pages flipped by, and your vision became accustomed to the dim crimson under glow that illuminated the bunker, even letting you spot Ghost slinking in silence in your peripheral. 

"You have to eat," Ghost signed, raising your attention to the sealed strongbox of non-perishable foodstuffs with a cold stare down his nose. 

Maybe it's the selection of years-old MREs or the canned pork liver pâté, or perhaps the fact that for all you knew, all your comrades are charred bones, but you weren't very hungry. Every blink felt like sandpaper, but your mind was stirring too much to permit your appetite. The airstrikes might not even be limited to where your allies are. For all you know, they could be lighting up that quaint cafe where that old man made delightful coffee, or that bustling civilian plaza with the vacant gazebo. There were so many unanswered questions, along with the unfortunately grim selection of company, and it was fodder for you to chew your inner lip bloody in anxious thought.

"I shouldn't have to track your meals, Sergeant," he scorned, sighing as he walked back to the shelving unit. "I'm not your fuckin' babysitter."

"Why do you always have to be such a cunt," you cursed back with venomous spite, making him pause in his tracks. 

Trickling tension from the bullet you administered not long ago still pinged in your body as unused, inadvertently creating an eagerness for agitation. Lashing out like this could easily catch you a dishonourable discharge, and he sported an entirely unrecognizable expression that you could only interpret as surprise. At least you had the benefit of having no radio signal or communicators of any kind to record such a transgression. Still, it felt good to make him flinch when he's so conceited as to think you're some delicate flower that won't bite back in anger. 

"I told you, you don't fucking listen," that black mask probably holding back spitting words as he snarled through what sounded like bared teeth. "You're arrogant and impulsive, and It's gonna get you killed. People with much more situational awareness have survived far less than you."

"I seem to remember you being the one that took a chamber of bullets last mission," you bit back, "Don't you think it's a bit hypocritical to chastise me for putting my life on the line?"

In your wrath, you had found yourself rising to your feet under springing muscles; every atom in your body screamed for you to thrash him. Sink your teeth in and gouge out his eyes. Fingernails bit into your palms every time you weren't flinging your hands in frustration with every sentence, hoping to cut him just as deep. Wound-up emotions turned you into a powderkeg, along with a unique opportunity to really make him squirm. 

"If I didn't happen to know of a safehouse, you wouldn't be alive to ponder my hypocrisy, would you," Ghost chided in that gravelly accent. 

He too had risen, though his frustration was more of a cold, stalking and calculating in his wroth. White scleras caught dim red lighting surrounding a deep, sunken stare. He doesn't even have the balls to deny it. He's a brooding, cynical, hate-filled hypocrite, and he has the nerve to take out his disgust for the world on you. No, no. You aren't the one. You won't crumble and submit as soon as he bites back. You've built up an inferno of your own; you'd built up barbed defences to counter his spiteful criticisms. You aren't that confused, shambling, drunken wreck he'd left you as in that alleyway. 

"I don't believe you," you rolled your jaw in agitation as you spoke. 

"What?" His voice was still cold as ice, sharp and biting. 

"I don't believe that that's why you're so mean to me."

Chapter Text

"I don't believe that that's why you're so mean to me." 

His hostile, defensive demeanour might almost read as believable if it weren't so laden with bullshit. The issue with his hotness and wrath is that it comes undone with the simplest argument: He's not this cold and spiteful with Soap or Gaz, who are even at your same rank. It might be fair to say they have more rapport with him than you, but you've spent almost a year being affiliated with this task force, and the team as a whole has scarcely existed for three. Ghost is just as cold as day one, if anything he's colder. He's respectful with Laswell, and jovial with Farah, so it's not a matter of disgust toward your gender like you might initially suspect. It doesn't make sense. It just doesn't make sense, and it pisses you off to no end. 

"You're in the military, Grant. I shouldn't have to sugarcoat everything."

He got closer, obscuring the red glow of the room with his mass. The implied threat of intimidation only solidified your resolve; he won't brute force his way out. You're not some civilian who would crumple if an armoured soldier in a demonic mask loomed over, and he's either too arrogant or slow to read you properly. He wants to make you squirm, and you won't bite. Instead, you tilt your head to meet his scathing brown eyes and curl your lip in disgust. 

"There's a difference between sugarcoating and having a fucking vendetta," you countered. "And I've been in the military long enough to know the difference," it took every fibre of your being not to take the pooling saliva over your tongue and spit it at his feet. 

"Bloody hell. You're so precious that you can't ever take the slightest bit of criticism," he leaned forward with icy determination, meeting your eye level with the precision of an expert in intimidation. "Well, I won't baby you like Price does, no matter how much you whinge about it."

It's almost fitting that the room is soaking in this stark, bloody red under glow, where the entire bunker is comprised of varying shades of red or black. The setting could only be made more appropriate if there was a squealing violin orchestra with increasing intensity, like one of those cheesy 80s horror movies when the murderer is on the hunt. Only now you can't entirely be sure who's the killer and who's the victim. You couldn't bear to look at him, to hold his glare, but you did. It wasn't an option not to. If anything, it only fueled you to scathe more. 

After what felt like minutes of you staring at him, blinking calmly, and refusing to relent, he broke the deadlock. With a huff of air, he stood back upright, kinking his neck and turned back to his bunk. The sound of those squealing violins you were anticipating erupted from the coils as he settled into the ironwork bedframe that only hardly supported his weight, even without the kit. The mask gives him such an excellent method to hide from his hypocrisy. Hide from all of it. He can successfully dodge criticism if he intimidates the prosecutor enough, and if all else fails, he can feign icy ambivalence. You wouldn't have to prosecute him either if he had the decency to admit that he has a personal vendetta. Once-blooming lust for him now chilled you to your bones now that you're starting to see him for what he really was. 

"Stop looking at me like that," he sighed, resting his hand behind his head, "let me get some damn sleep."

He spoke from an angle on his back that would've made it almost impossible for him to see you. Yet, he continued. You weren't done, and he doesn't get to slink away as soon as you start making sense. Disgust began to dip into the territory of pity, of all things. This feral dog knows nothing more than hate and wroth, and it took you until now to identify it. The only potential emotions he has the processing power to compute are hostility, gloom, and maybe the odd one-liner joke. He doesn't have the intelligence to feel anything else, though he posits himself as some profound scholar who sees the world for what it really is. But the real kicker is that the mask he dons also works like horse-blinders, making him shortsighted and obtuse. It's all optics. 

"You're not man enough to admit it."

The words oozed from your lips like warm honey, but bitter like dandelion tea. Your arms crossed over your chest, not in a form of self-soothing, but in an attempt to stop your palms from colliding with the side of that helmet. Creaking bedsprings corresponded with him sitting up slowly, like Nosferatu, tilting his head back to meet your gaze, re-entering the red din from the glowstick across the room. 

"Is that how you want to talk to me, sergeant?" That cold venom realigned with his tone, and that imaginary hair-raising violin music resumed. 

You stood your ground. He really has the nerve to pull rank now, as if he could get more pathetic. At least he's an easy formula, resorting to every trick you predicted he'd pursue. It must be so comfortable for him. It is so blissful to know that if all else fails, he can use his single rank above you to command you. It won't happen. The tightness of your grip on your arms only made you more confident. You may have seen him mutilate a man only a few hours ago, but that example did nothing to hinder your riling regard. If he brutalized you right here and now, at least your corpse would be proof enough to at least see him demoted. 

What felt like hours passed, but in reality, it was easily minutes. Explosions continued, and the hellfire outside this capsule often snapped you out of your trance momentarily to remind you of the imminent threat outside; in a second, a direct strike on this bunker could easily shatter the thick concrete ceiling and make you suffocate on the dust if the rubble doesn't immediately bludgeon you to death. Staring in another deadlock, mulling over every agitation that he'd expressed upon you over the span of the past missions. Recalling every time he made you feel unsettled or flinch, your confidence resurged like an eruption of scalding heat. Even with the bitterness in your mouth, your body was calm and calculated. He doesn't scare you, not anymore. Not now that you understand him for the soulless clay soldier that he is. You'd mistakenly thought that his mysterious mask and grim persona meant he had a personality. 

In the heat of your internal monologue, he sat up, and after a short while you watched his head slump forward. It was a posture you weren't used to seeing him in, but you weren't naive enough to pin it as defeat. Scratchy velcro came undone, making your eyes flash down to the skeletal gloves that he pried from pale fingers. You'd only ever seen his bare hands a handful of times, but initial wonder slipped away pretty quickly under another tidal surge of agitation. He's probably planning to bludgeon you with his bare hands, savouring the sensation of pummelling your skull like he's been so eager to do for months. Still, he sat in frigid silence that wasn't helped by the encroaching chill seeping in through the concrete from the barren desert's promised nighttime cold. A deep sigh was partnered with the introduction of words, words that caught you entirely off guard, no matter how much you'd solidified your resolve. 

"Early in my career, before this," he gestured to his mask, with a voice that's low and calm. "I had a family. I lived with my brother and mother and had a little nephew, too. Things weren't great, but they were what I had."

He paused to collect his words, giving you an opportunity to collect them as well. This would be the last of all the places you were expecting this conversation to go. It wasn't even the last; it wasn't even an option you'd considered in the repertoire. The softness in his voice is what unsettled you the most; leave it to Ghost to find a fresh new way to make your skin crawl. 

"I pissed off some old comrades, and one thing led to another…" he continued in a low rumble, sliding his thumb over his bare knuckles as he spoke. "They killed Tommy, they killed all of them. Because I got too good at my job."

Another pause and the chill in the air really made itself known, thanks to the long-since-set desert sun. If the crimson lighting permitted it, you'd surely see twinkling snowflakes reverberating from every breath you exhale. Another booming aftershock of a distant explosion once again proposed the option of crumbling to your knees under the varying gravity. Still, you refused the option of stumbling in favour of drinking in whatever conceded confession he was brewing. With his face half cast in unforgiving blackness, he continued. 

"Since then, I've always been cold to people that get close to me."

His tone was collected and matter-of-fact, but you'd learn to read through this act long ago. There's a despair in his voice, and it threatened to pry away some of your heaving wrath. You've never been one to easily forget, and forgiveness may come with time- though usually, it would take considerably more time than this. It felt like you'd cracked him, but it's hard to say. This could also be a calculated script he's learned to fill once he's been caught out, and you've only slipped into the second phase of exfil strategies. 

"There are people out there that want to hurt me- they want to hurt me when their bullets couldn't. I became cold to old friends, comrades, girlfriends, everyone. I can't afford to get hurt again, not anymore."

"I still don't think that's the whole of it," that poison inside you still lingered, refusing the softness. 

What you might initially describe as softness couldn't entirely be categorized as such. It's not like he's soft and pliable and sweet now that you'd made him squirm. He's still just as far as ever from being gentle, and that's an aspect of his character that's likely been extinguished forever. It felt like a game of chess. You took turns calculating and scheming, looking for weak points and gaps in methodology to viciously undo the others' strategies. Each turn brought you closer to a victory or a defeat, but it was hard to say who had the upper hand. You'd cracked past his Sicilian Defense, but your sturdy resolve has kept your King far from being toppled by his onslaught. This new gambit was an unfamiliar opening, and he was trying to break your pieces with this unnamed strategy. Checkmate is inevitable; it's just a matter of who endures more turns. 

Stillness in the air signalled the end of your turn, but he'd yet to play. Your move might have overpowered his attrition. He was glaring at you, and you could pinpoint the exact size and shape of the glowstick from the reflection in his eyes. The pieces have been moved, and your table clock has been switched. It's the fact that Price, Soap, and Gaz are all comrades. Friends. And he's still not this much of a cunt. He carries on conversations with them fine, as if he's a regular person, for the most part. Reading each others' faces, he seems to try to start a conversation a few times, but with the inability to see his mouth coupled with dim lighting, it's hard to say for certain.

You're almost there; you can feel it. You're so close to the truth, and unlike this horrific plot between the Russian cartel and the Separatists, you won't let the obvious slip past your vigil—not again. 

"Something about," he starts, "Something about you makes me- makes me… It-."

An explosion, closer than ever, cut off his train of dialogue. It was fortunate for him, giving him seconds to gather his thoughts and dodge your judging gaze behind a clenched jaw. Thin trails of dust rained from the ceiling, making it the second life-or-death threat you're presently fighting. 

"I just keep trying to push you away," he sighed. And in an instant, that agitation returned. "I don't…" 

He clenched his pale fists in frustration, sucking in frigid air between his teeth, darting his gaze back to you with renewed fury. You're starting to see him for what he really is, despite his shielded appearance. It shocked you, but you remained skeptical. Sucking your teeth, you drank in his sputtering sentences as his emotions shifted like tides before you, always defaulting back to anger. 

"And I see how you look at me when you think I don't see you staring," He restarted, with a new tone of voice that was flat and mocking, still poisoned by his agitation. "I see how your pupils dilate," he spat.

"Don't get all high and mighty as if you don't do the same," you scoff, scrunching your face in disgust.

Yet again, he's surprised you with his capacity to be such a scathing hypocrite. It's not like he did the same when you wore that skimpy dress back in Mexico. His staring might not be as blatant, even though yours is apparently more plainly readable than his. Trickling horror, horror and shame cooled searing blood, and a cruel churning of overwrought emotions boiled your train of thought. Your eyes fell to the floor, dejected, watching red-lit pebbles jump and gyrate with every distant rumble. The fact that your thoughts were so readable irked you like the privacy had been stripped from your own mind. It could be shame, it might be self-consciousness.

"That night on your birthday…"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come onto you that fast," a twinge of embarrassment crashed over you. There's always been this lingering self-shame in how you handled that situation. You'd imposed yourself over him and wedged yourself in when alcohol made you both pliable. It was a short-sighted, lust-fueled attempt to-.

"-No, I… I wanted it, fuck, I really wanted it. But I panicked. I wanted to make you hate me, because it's… because it's safer that way." he trailed off, letting out explosions of dialogue to interrupt your internal monologue.

He scoffs. Scoffs. It makes you raise your eyes with furrowed brows. No longer furrowed in agitation. Ghost concluded the unsettled working of his hands, clasping an open hand around a balled fist. His intense eyes staring into the void, unnerved. Whatever happened to those expertly crafted emotional control methods to ensure accurate sniping in the field? 

"I thought I'd beaten that feeling… having daydreams and fantasies, laying awake like a fuckin' schoolboy." His chuckling unnerved you, and the words struggled to penetrate your defensive barrier of pawns and bishops that shielded from his assault. 

His laughing dissipates into that ice again. His fists clench. There's that wrath. It's starting to return again. His words reverberate around the concrete shell like a magic bullet, let loose. It made understanding this grand plot you'd revealed look easy as his baritone words settled deep in your sternum, planting seeds for a cacophony of agitated bees. 

"I won't let that pain happen again. It can't. Not when I'm this far ahead," That commanding authoritarian tone came out, confident and bold. Once again, clenching those balled fists. "I don't want to get attached."

He sat back, satisfied with this conclusion. Those creaking bedsprings meant he was done. He'd said the final words that brought this chess game to a close. He's willed this game to a close, and any further pursuit would surely lead to more violent conflict. Another sprinkle of dust from another round of distant hellfire, and he was posturing to sleep like an angel. Your arms unfolded, letting pinpricking nerves trickle down to your fingertips from relieved anxiety and churning new emotions. The heat in your gaze redistributed across your face. 

"Then don't get attached."

The confidence in your voice surprised you, and the words didn't even have a chance to be submitted to your conscience for approval before they lept from your throat. Confidence and paradoxical sheepishness commanded the words from deep within you. Shocked by your implication but fueled by a militia of scorching bees at the base of your throat. You'd placed a new outcome on the table, though the gravity of your words had yet to entirely connect. You knew he heard you, even if he sat silent. Chilled air became uneasy but electric, like the anticipation of a lightning strike. Checkmate.

Chapter Text

The rest of the team, Price and Laswell and the lot of them, could never be coming for all you know. Though you might have enough MREs to last you maybe two weeks, that doesn't mean there isn't a lingering feeling that you may need to start hunter-gathering soon. Considering your track record of overestimating how easy it would be to kill these fuckers, they're more than likely fine. It's not like there's any meaningful way to reach them, and that communications device you did have is bugged. It could possibly have some sort of GPS, so reconnecting the batteries beside it could equate to an airstrike on your exact coordinates, down to the inch. 

Ghost was still seated on the bunk, reclined but unquestionably alert. If this man can hear a footstep from across a building past ear-splitting gunfire, he definitely heard what you'd just said. It felt like you were working on a timer until the creeping chill seeping through the concrete immediately wipes all proposed prospects off the table. Your mind relentlessly circled back to the setting, reminded by another onslaught of rumbling. They're less sporadic now, more coming in clusters. A new cluster was just beginning, cruelly reminding you that nervously sitting still won't do. You have to be moving, and these anxious nerves won't settle for stagnation. 

The issue was that your eyes kept returning to him. Long limbs and a penchant for melancholy. It made you desperate for his attention. What the fuck? At some point in the crucible, you'd been forged to be attracted to these traits for reasons beyond your understanding. The tall, dark and mysterious. Something about the mask and grim demeanour is intoxicating, and lately, you've found yourself drunk on the clock. This uneasy electricity in the air made you restless, desperate. Yet you'd never let it be readable on your expression. He'll never deserve to understand the effect he has on you physically.

It's only been one day in his company, and you're already discussing the unthinkable. Thoughts you'd drowned in the shower under ice-cold water come to a head. To your delight, or horror, he's mulling over the same conclusion in the same electric silence. A lack of movement and riling rage left you susceptible to the encroaching chill, crossing your arms in an effort to self-regulate your bodyheat. You'd forgotten to pack a jacket when you were whipped from the Observatory by Laswell without a moment's notice. No time to pack a bag. Maybe that's for the best since you'd likely want to burn these clothes for all their memories once you return to home turf. If you make it back to home turf. 

Wistful thoughts landed on home, but bedsprings squeal unexpectedly, demanding your full attention. He's risen from the bed, standing tall. Your eyes landed on that red-lit Union Jack on his chest that proudly sat dead center on the kevlar vest. He still wore that dark jacket he'd equipped before the raid even began, a luxury you wished you could burglarize if it didn't belong to such a provoking subject. With the knowledge of his ownership, you'll gladly succumb to the elements. 

In bounding steps he was walking towards you, your blood froze. He crossed the distance in lengthy strides in a matter of milliseconds. Your heart thundered, and your nerves flinched as if you were about to be hit by a baseball. If he's thinking you're just going to roll over and show your white underbelly, he's mistaken, and just as you were ready to clock him in the jaw, his paced steps progressed past you. Thoughts whirred in confusion, but the ear-splitting sound of metal dragging on concrete snapped you to his new position. He'd pulled the coupling chair to the metal table, partnered to the one where you'd sat reading earlier. Your face hardened in uncertainty, and he raised his eyes to meet yours, calm and smooth. 

"We need to establish a code of conduct," Ghost spoke matter-of-factly as if describing a tactical scrimmage. 

"Agreed," you breathed without even thinking.  

He'd practically read your mind. An extended hand gestures for you to sit. You comply, pulling the squealing chair out teasingly slow to ensure his commands wouldn't be so easily taken. The thought charmed you, so you furthered the willful objection. You'd taken to agonizingly pull the metalwork folding chair creating a sound adjacent to nails on a chalkboard as you took your time to draw your seat, toying with the overabundance of spare time. His patience remained unwavering, calm as ever. Dark eyes tracked your every movement, looking amused if anything, cocking his head to the side. His control is an illusion; it's your independent concurrence that compelled you. It was time to establish your own Geneva Conventions, your code against any war crimes that could mar this agreed-upon combat. 

"No first names," you led, finally seating yourself fully on the chilled metal. 

He nodded curtly, sitting like a diligently dutiful little soldier, palms face down on his thighs and upright. At first, there was an attempt to sit straight-backed like him. However fidgeting trepidation left you to run the smooth glowstick to occupy your nervous fingertips, slouching. There are far too many neurons firing in your brain at once to consider a similar stoicism.  

"No cuddling," he countered, cold. 

A fair option to strike from the selection. Cuddling afterward is like a gateway drug for creeping emotions, no matter how cold the room gets. Best to keep things tactical. 

"No kissing," those two words elicited a slow blink from him that you deemed unreadable, though satisfying to your sadism toward him.

”The safety word is ‘frosty’,” he added flatly, an odd safe word, but acceptable. 

You half considered positing 'no tequila' too, just to spite him, but at this point the bitter drink might be bordering on necessity. The MREs won't, but maybe that medical kit could keep something of the sort if you're lucky. The thought made you shiver. It felt like you two were discussing the nuances of legal paperwork and establishing the liabilities and scope of your contract, like two shepherds quarrelling over the logistics of a freshly drawn fence. The air was eerily still, almost humid, where previously chilled air paired with a thundering heartbeat equated the air to be an unsettlingly neutral temperature. Every time you flipped the light source around in your hand apprehensively, it cast new angles of his mask into view and drenched others into inky shadow. 

"And you have your IUD." 

His words entered your conscience smoothly until they were upended by recognition. Skepticism and irritation surged into your blood once again, hardening your gaze and halting your fiddling. 

"How do you know that?"

"I read your file," he shrugged, seeming amused by your resentment. "I read everyone's file."

"You fucking dog," you sighed, laughing along with your outrage, ready to gouge him. 

"You don't have to like me," he retorted, "that's not part of the negotiations."

That's another bullet point to be stored in your conscience. Another straw. But the subtle motion of his index and middle finger tapping on his thigh made your gaze fixate momentarily. It's hard to say if he's goading you or if you're just so wound up. You began to become aware of your quickening breath. He rose from his seat, you did too, both of your chairs making their ear-splitting protest known on the concrete. Really not wasting any time, are we?

It's just sex, really. Just a transaction between bodies. Bonobos in Central Africa use sex almost purely for communication, regularly using it as a form of currency. And not even for the express purpose of reproduction; it's predominantly for pleasure. They treat sex like a form of social relationship, like a kind handshake or offering to get someone tea. Sure, you might not ever consider getting this asshole tea, and you have zero interest in building any social rapport that might stem from a civic transaction with him. In theory, it's really no different from humans, where you share a considerable amount of DNA with those primates. Wow. Your mind really starts taking itself for a joyride when you're anticipating such a nerve-wracking transaction with someone you detested. 

He did something you didn't understand at first. He had turned to the iron bunk bed and began wrenching free his lower mattress. You stood in confusion. It thumped on the ground with an even slam, and your mind continued to reel. Sheets and covers were peeled off for the most part, and a mediocre boxspring mattress lay attentive on the concrete before him. It's like one of those foam mats they lay out during training, where you're always filled with a pang of dread when you step into the gymnasium. Mats and foam on the floor always lead to grapple training, and you, in particular, always happened to get paired up with the most unbalanced scrim partner. 

"Now, take off your clothes," he ordered, crossing his arms over his chest and kicking his feet shoulder-width apart. He mirrored the posture of some ghastly drill sergeant that'd make you crave absolution after a brutal workout. 

Bile stung at the base of your throat. You considered rejecting him. Considered making him have to work for the prize that you'd so eagerly offered on a drunken night before. It would send a message. Now's not the time apparently; your thumbs had already been hooked under your black tee, crossing your arms to lift free the familiar fabric. Muscles moved before you had time to ponder the most effective method of sending your message. That'll just have to sit on the back burner for the time being. He watched you like you were a new recruit who was attempting firearm maintenance for the first time. Every fingertip was tracked, every wrist movement was cited. It's exciting. 

The chill in the room became more apparent when you clipped your bra, stiffening eager nipples for your grading onlooker to consider. No reaction. No visible reaction, that is. Maybe he's no longer deserving. You'd regularly imbibe in drinking in cold air over bare breasts when you're in the comfort and privacy of your own home, so the sensation wasn't entirely foreign. Bras are uncomfortable, especially on long missions. It's just practical. You willed your mind to consider this a similar circumstance; just a way to unburden a dull ache. Yet pride and a low trickle of self-consciousness were overruled by your own gluttony for release, making short work of unbuttoning those standard cargo pants you've been consistently prescribed. They fell to the floor in a satisfying flop. Even socks came free, feeling frigid concrete on the pads of your feet. 

"You're not done," your instructor chided, nodding at your remaining underwear. 

"Now it's your turn," you tilted your chin at him.

"Finish." He barked. 

His raised voice almost made you flinch, and maybe you did only slightly. Once again, that question of self-consciousness rattled in your skull, but that was an easy one to override. If this agreement was just relieving collective pressure, you owe him not a single care about how he perceives you. He may as well be a sentient dildo for all you care, and his opinions couldn't matter less. Complying reluctantly, you easily snaked dark panties down your thighs. You could hear his breath, steady and controlled.

Instincts commanded you to raise your forearms to shield your body, but simmering distaste left you ambivalent about his stare. He had the nerve to drag dark eyes up and down your body, wordlessly considering your form. 

"Take off your clothes," the words surged from your chest as you attempted to meet his level of intensity. 

"You don't get to give orders to me, sergeant."

"Fuck you," you cooed, dripping with poison. 

Again, with the rank-pulling. It's like he doesn't see why it's fair to assume all rules of military conduct and respect are out the non-existent window right now. It's unquestionably an ego thing, more than anything, and he just likes feeling like he's better than you. As if you hadn't crushed him like a walnut with a handful of glares and roughly twelve words only minutes ago. 

In an instant, a crisp crack of fabric and a flash of pale skin shot in your direction. Deeply rooted instincts compelled you to parry with a deflecting push with your forearm. That was clearly the intended reaction, as his other hand hooked under the back of your knee. An efficient shift of his posture rotated his body 90°, and you quickly felt the room sway on its axis. Your back had collided with the flat of the springy mattress in record time, though a hand on the back of your neck stopped you from cracking your skull. How courteous of him.

It was a single-leg takedown with a pump-fake opening. One of the first you're taught at basic training and the kind you'd been trained to execute- and protect from. Unfortunately, those defensive instincts were clouded by a cocktail of emotions, and tight muscles made you unprepared. Not that you stood that much of a chance, even in the best of conditions. He'll probably passive-aggressively drill this exact takedown next time you're at a gymnasium, and the mischievous glint in his eyes concurred.

He rose upright to sit on his knees before you. With the single beacon of red gleam behind him, you could scarcely identify what he was doing. However, the sound of thinking metal explained his actions entirely. Everything about him was soaked in shadow, a void of light with a crisp silhouette shaped like an armoured soldier. Vague darkness offered little insight into his movements, but steady, calm breaths did. 

Butterflies and a tinge of nausea sang in your stomach, and they lurched as he shifted his weight to hover over you. In the dim din of the room, a hand snaked up your lower abdomen, a rough palm sliding up your torso. It tickled a bit, leaving you helpless to the blooming goosebumps. The phantom's hand stopped over your breast momentarily, cupping and crushing with an intensity that made you sigh. But he pursued. The digits walked past your collarbones, up your neck, where his middle and ring finger pressed on your lips. You complied, but only after weighing your options. 

Those fingers slipped over your tongue, pushing down your jaw and digging into your mouth. It was easy to lap up the taste, sliding your tongue over the digits with hot saliva. After a few seconds of half-lidded sucking indulgence, a perfect opportunity arose. A consequence of his own hubris, and you dug barred teeth into the calloused fingers. He didn't yelp or retract; he only let out a slight puff of air and simply halted his intrusion until you'd finished punishing his digits. A small victory, and the fingers were retracted. You weren't entirely sure if he'd even registered the pain you'd administered. Another poorly timed rally of hellfire outside in the desert temporarily lifted your mind from this newfound fog, and for a split second you remembered the circumstances that brought you here. 

The faint taste of salt lingered on your tongue, and watching his hand movements made all thoughts of the outside world cease. A new sensation made you flinch, and his free hand gripped your waist, digging his thumb in the plush tissue just over your hip bone. Two dampened fingers slipped over sensitive folds that made you heave under his touch. They slid in, to the knuckle, with significant ease thanks to your simmering eagerness while cold air breathed over your teeth as your mouth hung open. His cupped palm rested at the sensitive nexus between your thighs, and the intrusion of slender fingers felt so urgently necessary.

Time within this concrete bubble moved impossibly fast. Sweat tingled at the base of your neck, feeling a unique opportunity to feel distant rumbling from the chaos outside through the flat of your back. It's been so long since anyone touched you like this that you'd entirely forgotten the sensation. Years of duty and study have left you finding your own sexuality as secondary, tertiary, even. It left you accidentally forcing lingering hormones to explode out of you in half-baked schemes to relieve that white-hot pressure. Here you are, one again trembling under the grim reaper's touch. Simple wrist movements elicited soft whimpers from you as he worked sensitive flesh. Skilled fingers dug deep, and his touch left sparks in its wake. It felt so fucking good, and he knew it. With his steady breathing above your vision, it came out in a puff of amused breath when you stifled a pleading whine. What have you gotten yourself into?

Chapter Text

He must think he has you wrapped around his fingers. While I'm a literal sense, that may be true, you still retain every ounce of control over this controlled combat. He's only continuing to pump his fingers inside you by the grace of your own mercy towards him. He retracted his vice on your hip with his free hand to lean in closer. Instead, an elbow planted beside your temple, letting him hover over you like Thanatos himself. His fingers dig deeper, faster, and your neck strained from arching. Idle hands explored his armoured back. Fingertips identified smooth fabric from his slick jacket and crossed onto his armour vest's raised gruff surface. You could feel each individual plate of steel-plated ceramic, which is the recipe for stopping speeding bullets. 

His pace quickened suddenly, thunderously. It set every nerve you had on fire. You could hear the sound of your wetness slapping every time his palm reconnected with your entrance. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as you held your breath to drink in the onslaught of pleasure.

"You like this, don't you?" He growled in your ear, entertained by your writhing. 

"Fuck you," you sighed back, planting your hand on the back of his helmet, dragging him closer to ensure he heard you clearly.

Fingers retracted entirely. The world ground to a halt. Singing nerves continued ringing, calling out for the rhythm to resume. A palm laid flat on your thighs left memories of dampness on the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. Plying your legs apart, he shifted on his knees to settle impossibly closer. You gulped dryly. Resting back on his haunches gave you a brief respite to drink in your circumstances. 

Your thighs were pried open to invite your lieutenant to ravage you. By all means, this is an offence that could get you discharged- both of you. At any second, the iron doors that vacuum sealed you in this chamber could come undone, and Price, Soap, or whoever could stumble upon the mess that’s about to be made. It made your blood chill, but a cold palm on your jaw suddenly began dragging your gaze away from the vault door back to the current threat.

The angle of the light source had moved, glowing brightly in his palm, illuminating the sight before you in a dim red glow. His grip on your jaw was like a vice, commanding you to meet his gaze. You could do nothing else but comply, even as he set the glowstick down beside you, casting long shadows across the walls. It clicked, becoming clear that the light wasn't for your enjoyment- it was so he could drink in your contorting face as he wrought his plans through your body. 

That's when you felt the bulbous head of his cock press against your entrance, and your voice croaked. In a small panic, you pawed below yourself to identify the object. By all means, it was massive. Thick and veiny and straight and hot, it was easy the length of three or your palms stacked over one another as you explored his member. He seemed amused by your grading, watching you with darkening eyes. It made your blood run cold, filling you with dread. You can't take all that, it won't fit. There's no way in hell you're going to suffer internal hemorrhaging for his satisfaction. If you think about it, it's really just closer to average size if you take his height into account. He's really not that spectacular at all. He's probably smirking under that mask, fucker. Your mind grapples for strategies to demean him in your conscience, but a new sensation commands your attention. 

His head slipped past your entrance, and you gasped loudly. His hand is planted beside your temple. Slowly, he pushed himself farther, and your vision darkened as your eyes slammed shut. Craning your back, he only took the initiative to grip the exposed small of your spine, dragging you closer onto his cock. Another huff of air from him suggested he's amused by this. It stretched you hard, making you feel your muscles and nerves bend and bow to accept this intrusion. 

He temporarily halted his installment, recanting his insertion, only to push back in with more resolve. He continued this for a short while, gradually working more and more of himself like Jacob's ladder. The friction was delightful, like an itch that hadn't been scratched in years. But his size made pinprickling pain surge through you with every deepening thrust. 

"It's too much," you cried in a whisper, legs shaking. 

He withdrew slightly, pausing. After a short moment, he continued cautiously as if he were thoroughly considering the logistics of your words. Frankly, his pleasure came secondary, and all you wanted was the physical relief his end of the puzzle piece offered. Whether or not he got his rocks off was entirely inconsequential. You'd reached a steady rhythm by now, and he was even managing to elicit guttural whimpers from you as he worked you further. The pace furthered, and he dropped from a planted palm to rest his forearm on the springy mattress right beside your head. Every nerve felt like a lit firework, hot and sparking, sharing heaving and gasping breaths while you hovered over one another. Whenever eyelids fluttered open, you were met with that grim mask locked over your vision. 

"Come on, you can take a little more, hm?" His voice was almost trembling in that gravelly accent.

His voice was eerily sweet though laced with burning desperation. He sounded like he was almost out of breath. There goes that practiced control he'd built. No longer the expertly controlled sniper that crashes through locked doors and sweeps rifles over dim rooms. He was trembling over you like a dog. You gave a shaky nod and he continued, cautiously, carefully. Maybe the warmup made things easier, or maybe your own excitement overruled the creeping pain. Now that he was going, the whole world around you became irrelevant. 

Your enjoyment of one another's bodies was chaotic and passionate, gasping and brutal. You were each fighting for control of the other, clawing arms and pinning shoulders. Your legs quivered when he pressed himself, nearly to the hilt, but the pain subsided. Brutal pacing made the knot in your core tighten, and you felt your organs shift with every plunge. It felt like heaven, and you couldn't get enough, wrapping your thighs around his waist with crushing intensity. 

Gasps turned into pants, steady—until they weren't. Right when his breath started to grow ragged in your ear, opportunity struck. His time hunched over you had given you perfect access to the zip ties housed on the side of his kit. 

His thrusts grew more erratic, and you could tell he was getting close. Unable to glance at your work in order to avoid him catching on, you blindly worked your shaky fingers to fasten one end of the tie around his wrist. Whenever you felt like he was coming close to identifying your scheme, you let out a breathy groan that latched his attention back onto your open mouth. It was working perfectly. With one hand attached, it's time for the other- though that will take a prime opportunity. 

Nails dig into his jacketed bicep, sinking with cloth-splitting wrath as your blood boils at the fact that he has this effect on you. He left sparks on your skin every time calloused fingertips traced up and down your spine. It made you want to slam that can opener on the shelf into his prefrontal cortex. But that would mean you'd have to forfeit the breath-halting friction that his guided stroke offered. It's unfortunate that you'd taken kissing off the table, because by now you'd likely have bit his tongue clean off and made him mute for life. 

When you lifted your hips up, arching as he walked closer to his climax, he inadvertently knit his fingertips together under your tailbone in an attempt to lift you to meet him. You stupid dog. With lightning speed, your hands snapped to clasp the other end of the zip tie. He recoiled, but it was too late. One last tug and the zip tie fastened with a series of clicks, locking his wrists together. 

"Wh- what are you-" 

It took all your strength and more to roll his weight over with shaky knees, unfortunately landing his back flat on the concrete rather than the plush mattress. Slipping out from under his arms, a second tie fastened his plastic shackles to the metal foot of the bed frame. The pliability of his confusion and clouded lust left him easy to manipulate, but sweeping realization left you without seconds to spare as he began to buck against his restraints. 

"What the fuck is this?" He spat, staring up at his wrists fastened above his head. 

"Did you honestly think I'd let you off the hook that easy?" You cooed, stepping to kneel beside him. "You underestimate me."

He was a vision. Long legs and clunky boots stretched out before him, and a shadow of his cock standing tall. It breached a lowered zipper in his dark pants, alert and twitching, probably agonizingly chilled now that it's out of the comfort of your warmth. His eyes were the best part though, dark and scathing as he wrenched pathetically to escape the tight cuffs. Even the bed frame heaved under his strain, making the 400-pound ironwork bed heave on the concrete with every yank.

"I want to talk to you now that I have your attention," you reached your hand over to touch the length of his member before you. It twitched under your touch, and his hips flexed slightly. "I want you to apologise for all the times you've hurt me." 

"Bloody hell, we already talked about this," he barked. 

"You talked about it, but I didn't get to say my piece," you grinned, working the pliable skin on his length with your thumb and index finger, watching him with eagle eyes. 

"What the fuck are you on about?" He swallowed dryly.

"That time you left me on my birthday, do you know how much I cried?" Your voice was hard and stern, commanding his attention. "I was so miserable, I'd lost all hope in myself. You sapped me of my self-worth. I was vulnerable, seeking agency, and you crushed me." 

You saw his gaze darken in a different fashion from before. This was your chance, and you snatched those bone-patterned gloves from where he'd left them in the knot of sheets. 

"How the fuck was I supposed to know you'd throw a fit after that?" His gravelly accent made you smirk; it unsettled him. 

"You might not have predicted that, but your eagerness to make me miserable since day one is finally catching up to you." Scratching Velcro heaved free, and you slipped your hands into one of his gloves, loosely slipping it over your dominant hand. They were clearly too big, but you pulled the knuckles tight enough that they wouldn't be too baggy. 

"And it didn't help that I was left idle for all those months afterwards, left entertaining the idea that you'd snitched and lost me my career," you continued. "I'd worked myself into a bitter depression, thanks to you."

"Do you think I have control over when you're deployed?" He yanked at his zip ties again, "-and snitching on you would've cost me my career as well."

His outrage threatened to make him go soft, and that's something you couldn't stand for. Extending your gloved hand, you wrapped the scratchy fabric around his cock. He twitched again, and you pumped your hand agonizingly slow, taking your time to work him rigid. 

"No, but your actions have consequences, lieutenant. You scorned me. You cut me so deep that I returned to my hometown, a place I swore I'd never visit, so I could try to find myself again." 

You met his gaze, though his eyes were fixated on your steady working below his unfastened belt. His hardness came back almost instantly, feverishly eager and throbbing. The rhythmic drawing must be blissful, but his chafing gloves must be delivering the exact level of subtle anguish you were aiming for. He was lacking an answer for you, but that's alright. It's not his time to speak. 

"You made me feel hopeless, lieutenant," your free hand shot to grip his jaw, just as he'd gripped yours, and brought his gaze to meet yours. "I felt empty and directionless, like how I felt when my family died." 

He was unquestionably listening, though his half-lidded eyes ensured his attention. Slow and steady, you eased your pace slightly to ensure this session lasted as long as you'd planned. 

"I think it's safe to say I don't handle rejection well, wouldn't you say?" You pressed. 

No response, just gently moving hips under your steady grip. That's not good enough. 

"Wouldn't you say, lieutenant?" You slapped your palm, hard, across his attentive cock, and he gasped. 

"Yes, yes…" he trailed. 

"Do you think that's fair, lieutenant?" You cooed, pouting your lower lip mockingly. "That you got to be cruel to me, using similar familial trauma we both share as an excuse?" 

His half-lidded ecstacy halted as he considered your words. There's that anger, there's that outrage. Doesn't it sting, Simon? 

"Fuck you," he spat, wrenching at his restraints harder than ever. 

You pressed the issue, pumping your hand harder and faster, combating with his attention to wrestle him back into submission. His hips heaved and bucked as he kicked his feet for leverage, but you held on to him like a mechanical bull. You blessed the name of whatever Western weapons manufacturer created such ironclad zip ties to be able to restrain such a beast. They should seriously up their prices. 

"Even after that, you didn't have the intelligence to see how much you'd scorned me." You turned to spit on his slick head, providing extra lubricant, spotting a pale bead on his tip. "And all those times afterwards. I had to press you to admit your vandetta, isn't that pathetic?" 

His head slumped backwards, gently rocking his hips with your rhythm as you brutalized him with his own gloves. Such a poor, weak man. Come undone by you so easily, so readily.

"Oh, and don't get me started on all the times you were mean for no reason in particular." 

He was approaching climax, evident by his shallowed breaths. Withdrawing your hand, he paused in his motions entirely, cock twitching and flinching. 

"Let's see, there's that time you chided me for making small talk when you were in the hospital," you exaggeratedly counted on the fingers of his glove, teasingly looking up at the ceiling in thought. "There's the time you made me feel like shit when I was chatting with you in Mexico, remember that dress?" His eyes fluttered as you recalled that memory, solidifying in your mind that he only feigned apathy towards your skimpy outfit. "You were rude to me when we first met in Chita, and you were cold when I was nothing but kind to you in Verdansk. Ah~ you were also disagreeable with me only minutes ago, before... this. Along with so many instances where you were mean without cause, and staring daggers for no reason at all. Does this all sound familiar?"

When your vision lowered, his eyes were locked on you—dark, intense, and full of spite. If his hands weren't fastened with those same zip ties he'd used on gunmen and criminals hundreds of times before, he'd likely be thrashing you right this minute. 

"You pick on people below you and flex your rank if they start to make sense." You cooed, leaning over him. 

His eyes locked on your breasts that hung before him, but your fist around him once again commanded his attention. He snapped back to meet your eyes hesitantly, and his brown puppy eyes gleamed in the red light.

"What do you want me to do about it? You know what my intentions were now. I just didn't want- I-" he stammered as you started to wrap your fist around his rock-hard cock once again. 

"I want you to apologise," you rolled your jaw in agitation as you spoke. 

"Fuck you," the soldier trembled. 

You hummed in satisfaction. Not satisfaction in his answer, but satisfaction that it meant you got to punish him more. It was exciting to work him to the edge and never let him find peace in the peaking conclusion. You couldn't help but feel your own ache coming on, watching him writhe and buck under your touch. Every muscle in your wrist had more sway over his fate than him, and his steady panting made it clear that you were on the right track.

His breath started to hitch, and you halted. Retracting your skilled touch, though not without the cost of slipping your own bare fingers into your dripping entrance. He noticed, almost immediately, craning his neck to watch you fuck yourself with your own two fingers. His eyes were forlorn and pleading. Again, you used your gloved hand to touch his eager length, but he sprung into that tipping point faster than you were expecting. He'll have to suffer this rising and falling tide until he learns to apologise, and like Pavlov's whistle, you'll grant him completion- if he's lucky. 

Your slippery thumb slid over your clit, sending lightning bolts of ecstasy through your body. Fingers worked too, coming out glistening and gleaming from your depths, all under his watchful eye. You didn't even have to touch him right now. His lifting hips did enough to communicate his proximity. Still, no dice. 

Giving it another shot, you waited until his contracting cock ceased and pursued your grip once again. Except you didn't. Your hand hovered over him, and he silently pleaded for more, craning to reach the comfort of his scratchy, gruff glove. 

"Do you want to apologise to me, lieutenant?" You purred, low and sultry. 

He gasped again, resting his head back down on the cold concrete, hearing the low thunk from his helmet connecting to the floor. Unsatisfied, you let your bare fingers slip back into your folds, and the soft squelching of your self-indulgence made his attention snap back to you. You couldn't help but chuckle lowly. The second your hand connected with his cock, it felt electric with anticipation. A little too close for your liking. He'll have to cool off. You're close to cracking him, and this time, you'll find peace. 

Both hands fell to your side. He'll have to take a few paces away from that ledge before you can continue, and you watched him swallow hard as he caught his breath. A short time was spent waiting for him to unwind, watching his chest rise and fall. In your boredom, you took the initiative to unbuckle the clasps on the side of his vest, to his protest, hoisting it over his head and tossing it aside with a hearty thump. One less layer, he still had his dark jacket and long pants to protect him. But you continued, taking it upon yourself to unclasp the buckle of his helmet across his chin, calmly placing it to the side while he watched you like an eagle. He'd sufficiently cooled off, enough for you to move in for your most brutal punishment. 

Lifting your knees, you planted yourself to straddle on his lap, midway over his muscular thighs. He bucked against your seating and muttered a series of 'fuck you'’s and other similar jaunts under his breath. You could deem his words as inconsequential, but that wouldn't be strictly true. With renewed outrage, you gripped his attentive and eager cock with brutal force. A groan caught in his throat, and you began to slide your fist along his length. Suddenly and barbarously, you pumped his cock with vicious speed, watching his mouth warp and open through the black fabric over his mouth. 

"Apologise, lieutenant," you chanted, feeling his muscles writhe under your flank. "Apologise for making me feel small. For making me feel hollow. For hurting me because you're not man enough to face your own emotions," in your fury, you'd worked yourself into a shout. 

No response, won't he learn that that's not good enough? A glob of saliva from your tongue re-administered the slickness his glove had absorbed. His head shot up to observe. Your pace was punishing, and his fingers bound above his head flexed and strained into fists as you worked. For someone so obsessed with rank, it's pleasing to see him come undone before you, all while reminding him what relentlessly spewing about his status gets him. 

"Apologise," you spat. 

"I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he pleaded, husky and desperate, "I'm sorry for hurting you. I shouldn't have been so mean to you. I'm sorry, I'm-"

His eyes were foggy, glazed over and unfocused. You'd worked him into a snivelling mess. Weak and hopeless, only a fraction of the desperation he'd inflicted upon you. Hopefully, this will be a lesson, lest you have to outfox him once again. He's not as all-seeing as he thinks he is.

"Good pup," you cooed, his whimpering sounded like music to your ears. 

Ghost's muscles trembled under you, and your steady heartbeat began to blare in your ears. His pleas sound genuine as if he's come to understand the anguish he'd inflicted. Your bicep almost started to strain with your crushing force and thunderous pace, and you could see his mouth form a perfect O through the cloth of his mask. A rare glimpse, interesting. Hips flexed and bucked under you, feeling like you were riding the mechanical bull rather than wrangling it. His breath hitched and shallowed, and this time, you didn't relent. 

A roaring groan tore through his chest, feeling like a drug in your system. Spasming and rising to bury himself deeper into your gloved fist, he spilled shooting white seed in pale ropes over his jacket. His breath caught and hitched as you worked the last dribble from his tip, wiping excess residue from his enormous spillage over his slick pants. Muscles slumped, and he looked like a vision of victory. You'd conquered this man, left him heaving and spent. Wrists fell limp, still securely fastened in his prison. Shaky breaths made his chest before you rise and fall, and you considered this a job well done. Now you just have to figure out how to free him without him thrashing you to death. You hadn't thought that far ahead.

Chapter Text

The Beef Ravioli Meal Ready-to-Eat™ was definitely the weakest flavour; gummy pasta and freeze-dried meat had a unique ability to taste like fish despite its assumed absence. No matter how much imaginary fish there was in this beige packet of nutrients, it tasted like ambrosia, personally gifted into your open palms in a basket of grape leaves by the Olympians above. It was fitting, too, when the long sheets you'd wrapped around yourself made you look like an elegant goddess in a flowing toga. You'd even managed to subdue a Nemean lion, writhing and buckling under his restraints, a gift-wrapped offering. You felt like Heracles himself. Nothing could be as satisfying and filling as this. Well, maybe that's not strictly true, considering your company. You simply couldn't scarf the food down fast enough. Like a light switch, your appetite had clicked into your system again, discarding all courtesy and restraint. 

"Could you at least zip me up?" Ghost barked in that deep, commanding tone, attempting to dazzle you into action as if he had any dominion in this bunker.

"Hmm," You took another bite, humming into the provided plastic spoon as you spoke. "I'll circle back to you on that one."

"You've had your fun Cricket. Let me go, we have no idea when someone will pull us out of this shithole."

"How will we know it's one of us?" You posited, mulling over the thought as you processed another mouthful of food. 

"They'll use a countersign."

"What's the countersign?" 

"That's classified."

Your eyes involuntarily rolled. Asking him to not be an asshole is one thing, but asking him to be nice is another. You'd already survived drilling deeply buried sympathy from him, so it's probably not worth digging for additional kindness. One step at a time. After you're done with him, he'll be a gentle and soft-spoken sweetheart like Bob Ross or Mr. Rogers. The prospect made you nearly choke on your spoon. 

"And I thought we were getting somewhere with those manners of yours," You pouted, glancing back at him as you finished your last morsel of food from the glossy packet. "Plus, I'm enjoying the view." 

Satisfied with your meal, a different hunger had yet to be fully addressed. Noticing your approach, he heaved against his restraints again, watching the whites of his eyes as he scowled up at you coldly. Even with that supposed reluctance and furrowed glare, his stiff anatomy betrayed his stoicism. You practically fell to your knees, planting them on the brisk concrete beside his waist. Wasting no time, your cool fingers angled his cock back into the correct trajectory that would let you slide yourself over it. Despite enjoying it a short while ago, the size still made you gasp, no matter how slick you'd become. His hips lifted to greet you, and you afforded him that rare glimmer of agency only because it felt so good. Slowly but eagerly, you worked yourself to rise and fall over him, lavishing in his ability to reach an itch you'd never felt scratched by any other partner. He shouldn't get that much credit though, you're doing all the heavy lifting. 

"You did this to yourself, you know," you sighed, smiling coyly as his eyes lifted to meet yours. "I'm sure Laswell would understand if she saw you like this."

He was visibly repulsed by your words. Repulsed by the mention of his boss, he was horrified at the implication. It pleased you. Unfortunately, you shared a boss, so mentioning her name would go best left unsaid. This entire encounter was like a game of cat and mouse. No, that's not entirely correct. It's more like cat and cat. Cat and cat who's finally finding karma catch up to him. 

A flash of silver caught your hazy eyes in the red din encompassing you both, catching a glimpse of his dog tag in the breathy scuffle. Taking advantage of a rare opportunity of pliability with this man, your fingers were already fishing beneath the collar of his jacket. For the brief second your fingers got to slide below his jacket, his skin was scorching to the touch. He wrenched his head away, to no effect. Silvery hot metal, warmed by his heaving chest, was clinking under your curious fingertips. They were made differently from your own, circular rather than your country's rectangular models. O-POS blood type, Lt. RILEY S., SAS, and a lengthy service number were what you could make out in the dim crimson lighting. All known information, though it still felt like a rare sight- like a white hart or a stripeless zebra. Glancing back up, he was glaring at you cautiously. 

With renewed fervour, your pace quickened as fragrant hair spilled over his face. Hooked and lopped around your thumb, you dragged the steel pearls to the back of his neck, forcing the chain to catch just below his Adam's apple. His breath faintly weakened under your grip as you wrought his own jewellery around the collum of his pale throat. It made your insides coil as you churned them with his anatomy, forcing your heaving breath to thunder from your chest. Satisfaction was quickly approaching, and you knew he could tell. 

"Come for me," he commanded, sucking in air through his locked teeth. 

"I don't recognize your authority, lieutenant," you sighed sweetly, letting your mouth hang open as you kicked your head back. 

You were simply enjoying the ride. Finding peace and satisfaction in riding at your own pace, straining your thighs to find that ideal tempo that makes your insides tighten. It made your grip on his metal collar tighten too, digging it into his biting flesh. For the first while, you weren't even sure if the act elicited any form of reaction, but now that you'd put nearly your entire body weight into the act, his breath finally hitched under the strain. Watching his eyelids flutter as he watched your every movement is what aimed to send you over the edge, feeling your thighs ache under the exertion. Burning muscles are irrelevant, and your body takes over your consciousness. Pants and sighs slipped past your lips, lowering your gaze to see his half-lidded stare at your open mouth. Ripping heat tore into your core, and your head swayed back as the climax crashed through you. You identified the low whine that had inadvertently surged through your throat and your brutal grip on his dog tags. 

Satisfied and warm, your rocking pace ceased entirely, relenting your vice on his jewellery. With one last pleased exhale, drinking in the tingling warmth, you lifted yourself off his lap. Staggering but easing into your exhausted thighs, you trod over to the aluminum table across the room, cloaking yourself in the discarded sheets once again. More than anything, your other hunger still lingered, and you pawed through the shallow trunk to identify another MRE flavour to savour. You'd settled on Chicken Minestrone™, a personal favourite, though it's like choosing your favourite way to be punched in the face. 

"Aren't you going to come finish me off?"

"You already had your fun. You haven't earned another," you raised your eyebrows to match his scathing glare while you pried open the glossy paper packaging. 

"You're cruel," his low voice croaked, surrendering to slump back down on the floor. 

"I try," you sing into the spoon. 

He should really consider this meal break as more of a mercy, counting himself lucky that your nerves had left you starved of food for the past few days. It's giving him an undeserved break from your brutalizing. To say it's enjoyable to take potshots at him is an understatement. It's justice, really. He's enjoyed his time when he could jibe and chide you in every other setting, but for probably the first time in his life, he's now subjected to the consequences of his unnecessary meanness. It's got to sting for him to feel this way, almost as much as it stings to be on the other side of his needlessly cold rebukes. Maybe this will teach him a lesson, maybe it won't. Either way, relieving this explosive tension that's been building for months is satisfying. 

"I thought you SAS folks were supposed to have expert control over your body," you sighed, knowing your words will cut deep. 

"Fuck off."

"I was honestly expecting you to put up more of a fight," you veiled your face in a visage of despondency.

He left his turn to silence, forcing you to enjoy another bite of mediocre Chicken Minestrone™ without another grumble from your patron. 

"Believe me, I know just as well as you- these urges build up over time," you lamented sweetly into another mouthful of lukewarm powdery pasta. "I mean, we have the same lifestyle, you know."

He raises his head to glare at you, eyes squinting slightly in disapproval, scoffing at your words. 

"-For the most part." you corrected, pouting in simulated uncertainty. 

The cutting scowl persisted, cold and knowing. 

"-kind of."

The harshness softens into his standard brooding glare. Returning to problem-solve himself out of his bindings, you recognized him identifying the weak points in the cuffs. No, you're not done with him just yet. 

"You're telling me you boys don't ever do it with each other?" You cooed in feigned ignorance, masking your prodding with concern. 

He looked back at you from his strategizing to stare at you in utter confusion and disgust. Even with the mask over his face, you saw his eyebrows furrow intensely, offended by your proposition. You sighed in satisfaction, recognizing an excellent opportunity for cruel and unusual sadism. 

"No."

"Never? Not once?" You curred, cocking your head to the side in concern. 

"Never," he spat coldly. 

"Not even a little tug from Soapy under the table when Big Daddy Price isn't looking?"

"No, and don't call him that."

"What, Soapy? Or Big Daddy Price?"

"Just shut the fuck up."

"Ohh~ she's bashful," your mouth tightened into a cheeky smile. 

He'd turned to ignore you, arching his back to gather a better view of his vice in an attempt to relive the plastic shackles. The red lighting was coming to dim slowly, approaching the tail end of its expected shelf-life. It was threatening to bask this entire bunker into cruel darkness, though it also brought a few new options of indulgence to the table.

"I don't believe that. When you're surrounded by a group of strapping, fit young lads I'm sure you must want to cop-a-feel in the changing rooms. When your blood's up after a tough raid, you've got to find release somehow… It's only natural, lieutenant," you posited, crossing your leg over the other in the thin metal chair. 

He continued to ignore your prodding, unfortunately signalling that he'd refuse any further divulgences into this topic. Still, a certain curiosity nagged at you. This was another opportunity to pry lingering questions from him, especially when he was particularly compliant. Plus, you can't just let him continue trying to rid himself of your bonds. 

"Well, when's the last time you had sex at all?" You posited, resting your elbow on the table in thought.

"I don't fucking remember, I don't care."

"You must really enjoy your fist then," you smiled, knowing full well how much he delighted in the feeling of his own glove only minutes ago. The flicker of recognition in his eyes said that he caught your connotation.

"I can't remember," He sighed, dejected and bored. 

"That's what they all say. You're a man. I know damn well you remember."

"Are you calling me a liar?" That bitterness returned, eerily lighthearted and unnervingly chilling. 

"Categorically," a new smile pulled at your lips, and when you raised your vision, he was staring at you with that dark glower again. 

"Fuckin' hell, you're so insufferable," he chuckled lowly. 

Ironic. 

That prompted you to stand, pushing the screeching metal chair across the rough concrete. Sore muscles around your hips made their protests known, and you fumbled slightly. It's like the feeling you get in your bones after a particularly severe workout, only it's condensed into a stagnant ache just below your belly button. He noticed, scoffing at you. Funny, is it?

That tape you spied in his kit a while ago looked mighty tempting right now, and his mouth could use a bit of extra covering. Bending to snatch it, another ache made itself known, and you identified his eyes, scanning you skeptically. A popping button freed the smooth dark roll from the side of his kit, rolling the velvety smooth tape between your fingers. These guys are equipped with a whole hardware store on every mission, so it's no wonder why they're always so grim. Your footsteps slapped on the cool concrete as you paced, twirling the roll around your pointer finger. He tracked you like an eagle watching salmon in a stream. You'd gathered the red glowstick in your fingers as well from where it had been left beside the mattress, it was notably warm to the touch. However, that heat was quickly dissipating. That's of no matter, though. You shared with him one last glance in his direction before you popped the glowstick into the trunk of MREs, extinguishing the light in the room as you clicked the jingling clasp shut. 

Now basked in utter darkness, you followed memorized footsteps to return to his company. You knew he'd hear your treads as well, and the darkness is surely making his mind spin as to what brutal punishment you'd have in store for him next. 

Hiking your knee up, you planted your foot on his chest, pushing him down to lay flat, despite some resistance. You felt the gruff zipper and slick nylon of his jacket beneath you, pushing him down and staring at the darkness where you imagined his grim and spiteful glare to be. It conjured memories of when you spied him doing single-arm pushups in the SAS academy in London. The heat you felt in your chest, watching those heaving muscles effortlessly lift and lower his massive chiselled form. And here he is now. He's under your foot, literally, at your beck and call. Your personal sex toy, who moonlights as a SAS super soldier. 

You knew he'd recognize the scrunching sound of unravelling tape as it reverberated through the concrete echo chamber. He sighed when you dropped yourself down onto his lap again, where he was already noticeably eager for your approach as you connected with his groin. Setting the readied tape aside, you shuffled yourself to rest tighter on his lap, feeling your way up his torso. Fingertips settled on the base of his mask, loose fabric draping around his throat. He jerked his head away from your touch, but you refused to relent. After all, you knew full well he knew the safe word. He came up with the damn thing. 

Lifting the fabric piece of his mask to rest across the bridge of his nose, you fumbled in the darkness to trace down his jaw. You felt stubble prickling across his chin and jaw, probably a consequence of spending so much time away from the base. Fingertips continued to serve as your eyes, feeling brief pauses in stubble that made way for glossy skin, definitely scar tissue. His lips were parted slightly, slick but cracking from a lack of moisture, likely a result of spending days on end with a mask over your mouth. He'd kicked his head back sharply, concluding your exploration. Doesn't he know he's not in control? Resuming your initial mission, you took the silky tape back into your hands, unwinding a length and snipping it with your teeth. The first strip of tape around his mouth was met with some resistance, but the second helped solidify its hold. A third, for good measure, and he was left to groan and mumble the obscenities he was likely spewing at you. Enough talking for you, Ghostie. 

It made your heart rate elevate and breath deepen; a shift in posture let you feel his rigidity below your heat. You imagined those puppy eyes, so sweet, deep brown and gleaming. However, when he quickly realized that voicing his opinions wouldn't work, he changed gears to unveil a new method to find what he sought. That's when he did something you weren't expecting. Renewed fury spurred him to wrench at his plastic shackles, and you could do naught but listen on in horror as the mechanical bull bucked below you. He had been sliding the zip tie binds against the gruff metal of the cast-iron bed frame, degrading its composition. It was only seconds after your foggy mind could articulate what he was doing before he'd used one last tactful yank, and he was free. 

Tinkering plastic shoots over the concrete floor, and icy dread pangs in your throat- as does his fist as those bare, calloused fingers clutch your trachea. It felt like the basketball had been tossed into the air to kick off the start of a match, and for a moment, time stood still.

Chapter Text

This was it. This was where you die. You'd had your fun with the caged beast, but in the process, you'd humiliated and irreparably wounded the ego of this hulking human weapon. He'd been planning on squeezing the life from you for having your fun with him while he was incapacitated. And now he's no longer incapacitated. You didn't need to be able to see his expression in this pitch darkness to know that he was a vision of outrage. Perhaps you could have gone easier on him; maybe it would've softened his oh-so-tender heart to prevent the bludgeoning you're aimed to receive. Perhaps not, and you were right to take advantage of every morsel of control you had over him, no matter how brief. You were starting to consider the disappointment that came with dying before you got to milk your body of every climax it could offer. His free hand wrenched the tape from his mouth, freeing gnashing fangs to rip through your tissue. 

"You little fucking minx. Do you think I'll let you get away with humiliating me like that, hm?" He growled in your ear through bared teeth, raking long fingers through your scalp and tightening into a brutal vice. 

"Yeah," you croaked sweetly. 

A hot breath over your ear from a low chuckle made a smile dance across your lips. It was fun to unnerve him, like you're dripping single droplets into an overfilled glass of water, pushing the surface tension to its limit. Seeing how much you can get away with before it all snaps. The thought that one of these days it'll break and make a mess of things, well, the anticipation is the second best part. It's especially fun with someone like Ghost, who you know you have the unique capacity to upend, cracking through years of expertly trained emotional control. Breathing exercises and tough discipline from over a decade in the armed services. It's like sport to you. And now, the tension has truly snapped, and your vicious ridicule will no longer go without protest. 

Despite predicting it, it still made you flinch when sharp teeth sank deep into the tender muscle bridging your neck to your shoulder. Exploring hands were no longer kind, if they ever were. No holds barred, he yanked your hair back to shift your posture to lay you flat on your back. At least it meant you had fallen on the plush mattress, a luxury he wasn't afforded, though it seemed like it was an exceptionally lucky and unintended outcome. 

Maybe it was a bad idea to piss off an experienced tormentor? Even if it was definitely worth it. You couldn't deny it felt good. It felt good to be chased, to relent control and succumb to the brutalization he'd promised after hours of your personally inflicted misery. Pursuing this new arrangement, he let his body weight fall on you as his teeth dug farther over tender skin. The feeling left quakes of fireworks over your skin, fighting for air from the sensation of his hands, his teeth, his hot breath on your skin. 

"No," you inhaled, fighting for breath despite sitting still, "No marks- no marks that'll be visible later."

"Shut the fuck up," he cut you off coldly in a low grumble, unrelenting in his pursuit. 

Fuck. Fuck, that's not good. It's easy to wipe away evidence of an encounter and smooth down frayed hairs. It's harder to explain away a bite-sized blemish across sensitive skin after you'd spent an unknown amount of time alone in the company of another soldier. To your surprise, his assault on your skin did relent. Or rather, reposition. The bites and gnawing translated down your body, below your clavicle, and farther down as he shifted your body upwards on the mattress like a rag doll. He was careful not to kiss you though. No, that's not a part of the agreement. It's strictly prohibited. 

You'd felt his breath over your nipple before his teeth collided with the sensitive nerves. It made you yelp in shock at the sensation of his teeth rolling over that section. The ratio of pain to pleasure was askew with every further bite, though a flick of his tongue helped soothe you from yowling. Your face couldn't get warmer, and your cheeks tingled with anticipation. He continued his exploration after his temporary torment, updating his movements down your body with quick nips over your ribs and down over your belly. Breath over your inner thigh made you gasp, but a harsh bite over particularly sensitive flesh made your initial gasp graduate into a breathy whine. He bit once, twice, again and again, all with escalating force. It made you shudder and flush to think of how all this had been hiding under that cloth mask, biting and inhaling your skin with a heat never before seen. 

The assault on your skin halted, and he'd sat up, entirely invisible in the void of darkness around you. Without the heat of his presence immediately over you, the cool air of the surrounding room made you shiver. Dragging metal over concrete and a soft click of plastic caught your attention momentarily. You wanted to urge him back with calves hooked around his waist. But then he rocked forward to rest his palm on your throat again, and the only thoughts you could manage quickly returned to the electric feeling of his hands on your waist and throat. You could feel him longingly pressing against your entrance, and your mouth hung open as he tilted your head back with his grip. 

That grip on your waist tightened, but not for the reason you expected, as your back's connection to the flat mattress lifted. His grip on your throat translated to the back of your neck as you could only rely on the consistency of gravity to direct you to which orientation you were. More springy and slightly scratchy fabric pressed into your collarbone, and the rest of his weight over you followed suit. On your belly, you're now left with even less control over your surroundings. Not that you had much to begin with. 

He planted a palm at the base of your spine, snaking the other to constrict around the back of your neck. Transferring to a renewed grip on your scalp, he had the nerve to yank your hair with wrathful force, craning over your vision- if only you weren't met with blinding darkness. His brutal vice was forcing you to meet his presence from above you, straining your body to obey. Arching your spine cruelly, he pressed himself into your heat. All sweetness and consideration from your earlier rendition of this dance was stricken from the record, thrusting himself deeper without regard. You couldn't bring yourself to disagree with the pain though, even with the involuntary cries that slipped from your chest. It felt like your punishment, and the thought lit your senses. His vice on your hair yanked you backward yet again, as your eyelids fluttered closed. 

“Keep your eyes on me, sweetness,” he groaned, drunk with lust. 

“I don’t know where you are,” you sighed through a smile, hot and heaving with eagerness. “how am I supposed to-“ realization struck, and eagerness faded.

That cheeky son of a bitch. 

“Are you-” your hand shot up above you, feeling blindly to find the side of his head. Just as you suspected, he’d slipped on his night vision nods in the darkness. “You fucker!” you shouted, bitter anger bubbling in your throat. 

He refused to play fair, to succumb to the even playing field of utter darkness. It almost felt like a violation if anything, and your lip curled in renewed disgust. He was taking advantage of being able to see in darkness where he knew you couldn’t. Seeing you where you had the peace of mind that he couldn't. There he goes again, using petty advantages to snicker down his nose at you. You wanted to buck him off, to kick him in the groin and deprive him of the satisfaction he was getting out of this. 

“Next time you should come prepared,” he chuckled low and dangerous, and his deep, gravelly accent reached an octave that made your skin prickle with sweat. 

At least he'd relented his grip on your hair, though that quickly developed into a renewed grip on your hips, lifting you to greet him so he could bury himself further. Your wrath still simmered, only briefly eclipsed by searing, crashing pleasure. Saying his cock kissed your cervix would be putting it a bit too romantically. No, this dance between you two was much more brutal and depraved than that. His length pummeled your heat with unyielding force, all while he gripped the soft flesh on your hips with a cruel clutch. This was retribution for making him come undone with the touch of his own skeletal grip, but you didn't mind the punishment. Another change in grip, but it hardly made things more comfortable. His palms connected with the tops of your wrists, pulling your arms tight to the side of your body, where he rested the majority of his body weight. Even with him on top of you, pinning down every joint in your body to lock you onto the mattress, you still felt a sense of pride and control over him. Only you could make him pant like this right now. Only you had this death grip on his body. You could tell he was getting closer when his hands readjusted his grip on your scrunched arms, reaffirming his command over you. It made your skin scorch. His pacing was punishing and merciless. 

“Oh fuck,” he growled, his voice creaking in his throat under the strain. 

You could feel your own climax coming, hard and fast. You were just looking over that ledge as he started mumbling a series of 'oh fuck’ and 'holy shit's, and even a few 'fuck you's peppered in there as well. You came undone around him in an explosion of heat and gasps and groans. Blooming heat surged through your body like white-hot lightning, making your toes curl in the body-wide tension. His pace fucked you through every possible quivering quake your body could muster all the way up until his composure started to slip as well. He locked your legs down flat with his shins and tightened his bruising grip on your wrists, feverish and savage. This brutality continued for what felt like hours, and you lapped up every second of it. You could do nothing but raise your hips to welcome him further as he spilled himself inside you, letting out a low groan and jagged breaths. The vicious tempo relented, ceasing for steady rocking thrusts, forcing you to hear every steel coil in the rickety mattress whine. 

All the passion gradually ground to a slow, working every last bit of himself deep within you. It felt like a minute had passed before he finally withdrew. You felt like your skin could be glowing from the molten heat. And that heat from your body, paired with the relief from your release, made the scruffy mattress feel like a warm cloud. A biting chill in the air made itself known thanks to the deprivation of friction, and your bliss was further cut short. 

The fucker had already gotten up, zippered himself, and sat down with a book in the time you spent basking. You'd found the discarded knot of sheets and dragged it over yourself, quickly finding yourself trembling from the seeping chill. That puny portable heating unit is putting overtime, chugging away in the corner. 

You'd fallen asleep in record time, now that exhaustion of a dozen different kinds sank their hooks into you. No dreams, no thoughts. Supernatural calm sang your body into a humming stupor. In a blink, time had passed, and you were only awoken by the sound of a page-turning. He must be doing it intentionally. Turning another crisp page, startlingly loud in the deafening silence. Maybe he's just too deaf from all the sniping to know how obnoxious that is. Just when you were tempted to snap at him, wring out his throat, you swallowed your nerve. A glance at your watch said you were out for six hours, maybe seven. Impressive, but not entirely ideal if you wanted to retain a decent day-night cycle. It sounded like the air raid attacks had ceased, but that was far from meaning you were in the clear. It could mean they'll come get you in 5 minutes, or you could be in this bunker for a month. It all depends on how hot it is out there, the visibility of a helicopter, and when it's ideal to risk the manpower in the hostile social climate to exfil you two. It must be closer to daytime now since the layer of cool sweat at the base of your neck reminded you that you weren't in biting cold anymore, and the heat of the baking sand above the concrete box was making its presence exceedingly clear. 

Waking from the solace of sleep invited an immediate surge of panic as all those thoughts and more dragged you to alertness from your groggy sleep. You're in a bunker in enemy territory, essentially doomed. A renewed red light illuminating the shelter suggested Ghost had cracked another glowstick alight. There's the mask again, and you slump back into the makeshift bed. Help might not be coming. Price could have died and been unable to communicate that you're in the bunker to begin with. You have two weeks of supplies, and to say you're deep in enemy territory is an understatement. It's not like you can hunt or forage either, you're in the fucking desert. You can satisfy your morale with sex, but that doesn't address the warlord elephant in the room. 

Ghost didn't seem bothered though. Glancing farther over your shoulder to a chorus of aching muscles, he appeared to be contentedly reading a slightly water-damaged version of Life of Pi from the standard-issue library's repertoire. Hilariously fitting. Which of you two does he think is the tiger in this desolate raft? He must've eaten while you were knocked out in your much-needed sleep, evidenced by the tidy meal packaging beside his seat. The fucker sat like he didn't have a care in the world. Knees kicked apart, reclined in the thin metal chair in a way that made you wonder how it could support his weight. 

His calmness somewhat settled your nerves. Ultimately, SAS wilderness survival training is internationally recognized as the gold standard; if anyone could survive this unforgiving terrain in the desert, it would be him. However, that doesn't include you, a linguistic specialist with a painfully average fitness record. You'd resigned to the prospect of sudden death the day you entered the armed service, and at least you got to go out with one last blaze of glory. Maybe he'll cannibalize your bleating carcass as the Hyena did to the Zebra on Pi's boat. 

Rather than dwelling on the uncontrollable and working yourself into a state of alarm, you instead fiddled with his armoured vest you'd cast aside in the heat of your excitement. His excitement, rather. Cool magazines for his rifle lay strapped with scratchy woven Kevlar. Fingertips traced over the Union Jack patch, and the blocky stitched SAS lettering below. Even farther down, more fabric clips held glow sticks, though two of the slots now lay empty. You'd come to find a smooth canister with bevelled edges and a lever-shaped clasp on top; it's probably best not to touch that one. More glossy wires connected unrecognizable devices to clips and buckles, and you came to identify the slot on the shoulder that once held the communicator device. All are neatly organized, cleaned like new, and perfectly in their places. One cloth pocket held what you associated with being a sound suppressor for a pistol; fishing your fingers into another paired pocket revealed a device that must be some sort of rifle extension. It's flat and kind of shaped like a trapezoid with a smooth metal lip around the edges. Maybe a leaf sight? No, it's not the right shape. Your fingers semi-blindly explored it further in the red darkness. 

"Don't fuck with my shit, Grant," he spat, using his innate ability to see you without even facing your immediate direction.

Your fingers shot up, off the mystery device, sighing and slipping it back into its housing pocket. You inhaled deeply, graduating into a yawn, and rolled onto your back to further sink into the warm, dingy mattress. Too awake to sleep, too sleepy to read, too nervous to eat, and too understimulated to sit still in creeping panic.

"You should get dressed." 

"I don't know if I will," you smile, singing your words at the ceiling. "Wouldn't it be glorious if they found us like this?"

"You. If they found you like this," he spoke flatly, loudly turning another page in his book. 

"You say that as if you don't have dried spunk on your jacket."

"Get dressed. That's an order, sergeant." 

"Did that whole spiel about needlessly pulling rank go over your head? Or do I need to milk another epiphany from you?" you chuffed, letting your eyelids fall heavy as you considered more sleep. 

The sound of a closing book made you stifle a grin. You opted to play dead, posing as if you'd fallen into a deep and immediate slumber. A heavy boot connected with the ground. And another. Even through the back of your eyelids, you could see the shadow blot out the red gleam from across the room. He'd clearly seen through your feigned sleep, if you could even call it that. If you had it your way, he would be back there zip-tied to the bed, and you'd have been able to get away with your cheap pot-shots at his ego. His halted approach made your heart rate spike, and you finally relented to opening your eyes, straining your vision to look at him but not turning.

Really, round three already? You knew these soldiers had superhuman stamina, but you weren't expecting it to extend to this context. Or maybe he's genuinely planning to cave your skull in this time. He could easily stomp you with his boot. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from laughing. Crinkling fabric made your pulse flinch. 

Hooking an arm under your waist, he hoisted you up on his lap as he settled back into the metal folding chair. All in one efficient movement. The steel croaked under the newfound strain, but that was of minimal concern for him. He'd laid your stomach across his thighs, exposing your rump to lay bare before him. A free hand wrenched both of your arms to cross behind your back, effortlessly held firm by his sprawling fingers. 

"If you're gonna act like a brat, you're getting treated like one," his husky voice commanded down to you. 

In an instant, his bare palm collided with your ass with stinging force. The searing crack made you gasp in pain at the prospect of how hard he could strike before he'd hit you again. 

"Ohh- did I hurt your feelings that bad, lieutenant?" You cooed, solidifying your resistant resolve. 

"You bitch," he snarled, laughing cruelly. 

He struck you again with agonizing integrity. The sound of flesh cracking against flesh echoed around the concrete amphitheatre, reaching your ears like a deafening echo. Another, and another, and you didn't even realize the yelps that were coming from your throat until you looked up and saw him already glaring down at you coldly. He must have some sort of oral fixation or fascination, as you recalled every time he'd locked his gaze onto your open mouth. An interesting tidbit to remember for later. 

More slaps promised to bruise the tough muscle along your flank, though after enough of the brutality, he did do you the courtesy to start to run his rough hand over your rump. The warmth of his rough hands seemed to communicate a temporary apology, if you could truly call it that. Although given the creeping rigidity you felt under your belly, his gliding palm might be more for his satisfaction than yours. 

"I want you to thank me for spanking you, then I might fuck you again as a reward," he ordered, slipping a finger into your exposed folds, making you gasp. 

This fucker was using your own strategy against you. Using sex as leverage for a confession. Uncreative bastard. Still, the requirement didn't seem nearly as lofty as his was. The admission of satisfaction would offer the glory of another orgasm, though admitting pleasure from his brutality makes you hesitate. It meant admitting the delight that was elicited from the same cunt that used his nods when you'd assumed the courtesy of fair play. Another thunderstrike from his palm across your ass snapped you back to attention, and creeping instincts commanded you to route to his proposed fucking. 

After everything he'd done, you had to withhold his climax to edge him closer to apologizing to you- a conclusion that he would never reach naturally. That infuriated you, but another crack, harder than ever, made you yowl. He's started to make a habit of coupling the searing pain he'd administered across your flank with plunging his fingers into your dripping depths. If your knees had any strength under them, you'd be writhing under his touch; it felt heavenly, though you'd never admit that willingly. The thing is, another round of this is becoming necessary, and you'll be left with no choice but to admit defeat. Unless you can fox another scheme, but something tells you he's a lot more alert since your last venture.

It's hard to say which part felt better; when his hand first collides with the back of your thighs, and the crashing sting it leaves, or the dulling ache that his fingertips trace over afterwards. At times, the pain was unbearable when blooming heat as your body's defence mechanism made your skin hot to the touch. Slap after slap after slap, and he'd occasionally plunge two of his fingers into you if he hadn't received enough of a reaction. 

"Say it," he bit mockingly. 

Your lips involuntarily curled into a smile, eagerly raking your mind for a cheeky response. It's fun to rile him up, and the ache afterwards is part of the fun. However, all heat sapped from your body in an instant when you heard the sound of rapping at the bunker's outside door. It's not entirely fair to say all good things come to an end because this was more of a net negative encounter overall, despite the decent sex. Of all times to evacuate you… couldn't they wait another thirty minutes? Please?

Chapter Text

Ghost, ever the gentleman, threw you into a fumbling walk as he lunged forward. Your attention was entirely transfixed on gathering your clothing, and he clicked his pistol into a readied state, efficiently flipping his armoured vest back into place across his chest. Your bra was somewhere on the floor last you remembered, but that was a day, maybe two ago. More commotion above, it sounds like dragging wood. Uncoordinated fingers trembled with shock, a type of nonsensical panic that you thought had been long since drilled out of you from years in the service. You're shaking like a leaf, like a recruit, trembling as you're trying to clip those hooking clasps blindly around your back. The darkness didn't help, making it especially worrisome when you didn't immediately relocate a piece of your wardrobe. Footsteps are approaching. Heavy, thundering bootsteps. Turning to heave your pants up, you caught Ghost shushing you from his crouched position. 

Cold sweat pooled over your forehead from the panic, and of all things, humour surged into your conscience. It feels like you'd been walked in on at the wedding reception. Scrambling to make the cool and collected walk of shame out of some locked bathroom. You'd found one sock easy enough, but the other had somehow lodged itself under the mattress in the scuffle. At least two pairs of footsteps scuffed to a halt just outside the winding metal lock. Silence. Horrifying silence. What happens now? You haunched behind Ghost awkwardly, feeling your thighs cry out from the familiar strain. All humour drained from your system, reconvening into that same simmering on-edge feeling, like you're expecting to catch a baseball from someone with a particularly brutal throw. 

"Yorick, Yorick, Yorick," a male voice called out from the other side of the metal. 

Of-fucking- course that's Ghost's countersign. 

Those words seemed to spur Ghost into some sort of action, and he shifted from his crouch behind the door hinges to stand. Holstering his pistol, your nerves settled. You smoothed down your hair, tying it back as neatly as possible in near darkness. Click, another few weaker clicks in rapid succession, and a loud thump. Metal scraping on metal, and the brightest thing you'd ever seen nearly blinded you. The strain on your eyes was so intense that you felt nausea creep up to the base of your throat, and your fingers reflexively pressed to shield your screaming pupils. Ghost was speaking to another man. You didn't recognize his voice, but he was American, and seemed familiar based on his casual tone. There were a few more voices, but your mind was too occupied to fully drink in what was being said as you once again broke into a frantic scramble to gather everything. Luckily, you hadn't brought much to begin with, but maybe something about the context of what had just been interrupted made you particularly wary. 

"Miss Grant, come with me please," another unknown male caught your attention, and you squinted to see into the blinding chasm from beyond the door. 

His hand was extended. It felt like you were a caveman stepping out of the cave. Reflexes suggested you follow blindly, as Ghost had already disappeared up the stairs, but it took you spying a flag on the green pleat of a uniformed soldier to recognize that you were actually safe. You blinked. Green uniformed soldiers two ushered you to follow with Syrian flags on shoulder pockets. You never realized how glad you could be to see a flag on someone's shoulder. Two more at the top of the stairs and the chopping revolving sound of a helicopter winding its propellers to life. 

The smell of fresh air was beyond welcome, and you eagerly heaved yourself up the concrete steps past the second door you'd crashed through a short while ago. Hot air blasted over damp skin, mirroring the sensation of opening an oven to check how well the cookies had risen. Only instead of cookies, it's two slightly dishevelled comrades who had just spent the better part of two days alone in a bunker. Best not to let that sheepishness hinder your current predicament; you're not safe just yet. Those engine sounds were getting louder, and a manmade breeze started bellowing the tidy sheets that covered the furniture you'd seen when you arrived. 

Recognizable fingerless gloves shot into your vision, and you didn't need to raise your eyes to see whose they were. There's Farah, grinning down at you, hoisting you up onto the bed of the helo. Her rugged grip left phantoms of pain on your bicep, ushering you to clip yourself into one of the crossbody harnesses. It didn't even take two seconds of seating before the sensation of gravity doubled, and you were lifting away from that crumbling facade of a sheep ranch. 

"'Glad you made it out, Cricket," Farah tapped the back of her hand on your shoulder, finding the seat beside you. 

"You as well," you shouted over the roaring engine. 

It felt so good to talk to another person. Especially since your only other reference was Ghost, who seemed to be contentedly chatting with that mysterious American voice you'd heard earlier, a tall man with light brown hair and a broad moustache. You couldn't help but notice vibrant tattoos below rolled sleeves with an easy and laid-back posture, almost a mirror opposite of Ghost in nearly every way. The rest of the soldiers had settled in beside you lot; dark sunglasses prevented you from gathering the jist of any of their expressions. 

"How'd you get out?" You called out to Farah, eagerly striking up further conversation. 

"Price ordered me to get Laswell when things went haywire. I brought her out to the shore to catch a skiff, but a shell totalled our buggy. We had to make a forty-minute trek on foot, but it's better than being dead." She spoke from the corner of her mouth, grinning as you nodded along. "Laswell's tougher than she looks. Like you," she shouted over the chopping blades above.

"And the rest of them?"

"Your teammates are all waiting for you back at the base." She clearly picked up on your anxiety. 

They're alive. Those words provided more relief than you expected, though you should really get used to their unique resistance to death. It only takes one slipup to undo that streak though. No, it's not even worth thinking about that now. Just one victory at a time. The next logical question is the base. For all you know, this base could be anywhere in the world. It'll likely be London, or maybe somewhere closer by, but it's always a surprise to you. This base could be on the fucking moon, for all you know. Despite everything, a single question had snagged in your mind since you stepped foot in that cursed bunker, and it still stood just as prominently at the forefront of your morals. 

"What-… What happened?" Your eyebrows wrinkled in concern, and Moustache, seated across from you, raised his head to listen in. 

A hush fell over the group as if a thick fog clouded every corner of the industrial helicopter and ground every peripheral conversation to a halt. Your eyes flickered to the window, seeing tall pillars of smoke from your increasingly distant view of the town—craters and scorched Earth, towers of some white and some black smoke. It looked like a hellscape, and you could scarcely muster the strength to even behold it. Her fingertips tapped on her harness, tapping along to the rhythm of a conversation that had yet to be started as if she were rehearsing her words before speaking them into existence.

"You really stirred the pot, Cricket," Farah finally broke the silence. 

"You blew the lid off a massive operation, and now they're all scurrying like roaches," Moustache spoke up, nodding in your direction to address you. "Heh, no pun intended." 

"Even before you went to the quarry that morning, a small civilian militia was initiating an uprising. Bombs started dropping, and the National Guard got involved," she continued. 

That snagged in your mind. Confusion made your composure sit askew as you tried to identify the established timeline. It didn't help that a whirring engine made you strain to gather every syllable being said, and more and more eyes started falling on you. 

"They got the Separatist leaders, or the ones that matter at least. The rest folded pretty quickly once they realized how fucked they all were, and it didn't take long for some Russian cartel kingpins to get name-dropped." Moustache eagerly explained, sharing his gaze between you, Farah, and Ghost in rotation. 

"No honour among thieves," you smiled weakly, unable to resist the nervous urge to fiddle with the buckles on your chest harness. 

"And then the global news got a whiff," Farah added, her words slow and dripping with venom. "It's so great to know that this meaningless loss of life is suddenly of importance, we weren't sure for a while there," despite the sweetness of her voice, her tone reeks of satire and disgust. 

A smothered laugh came out like a snort through your nose, catching her bitter humour. 

"On the bright side, the citizens of Al Mazrah are getting some much-needed support," Moustache sighed. 

"-But it never lasts." Farah's words cut in curtly, like a much-anticipated lightning strike in humid night air. 

Farah turns and holds your stare. It's hard to say if her gaze is frigid cold, or superheated like a metal-melting laser. Either way, it's intense. It's another one of her points that she wants to make sure is drilled into your conscience. She wants to make sure you understand the root of her vehemence. 

And she's right. You're a foreign army, just like in Verdansk, stepping in where you're not supposed to. Sure, you're responding to a terrorist attack on home soil, but that doesn't entitle you to insert yourself into an active warzone. Even if you may have had a successful track record of preventing further loss by utilizing an unwaveringly utilitarian approach. But, no matter your approach, be it utilitarian or deontological, the one throughline is the ambivalence toward civilian interests. Snagging questions unravel your conviction, sliding under your skin and sinking hooks in deep. Whether it was an implicit threat, a friendly warning, or something entirely different, Farah's message was received. 

It's cruel and unusual to face such serious dialogue while your superheated biochemistry unwinds. Your body was frantically trying to diffuse the heat from the contract that was struck from inside that bunker, and it was making your mind foggy and sluggish. In the chaotic last few minutes since your harrowing rescue, you hadn't even considered where you were going. A glance out the window to orient yourself showed a deep blue rippling ocean in every direction, matching a pale, cloudy sky. What made your heart sink was the peppering of warships that littered the vast sea. Grey and steely blue ships with whirling marine radars standing over towering command centers. It seemed like every country had their own flag proudly painted on the side of at least one of the destroyers like it was some fucked up Olympics opening ceremony. 

Your stomach heaved as the helicopter shifted to a lower gear, dropping abruptly into a controlled fall. Your heart sank, and your mind hummed. You noticed Ghost's eyes on you from the corner of your eye. Dropping quickly, you saw the corner edge of a landing platform rising to greet you, and a flash of sunlight threatened to blind already squinting eyes. 

Buckles clicking suggested that you follow suit, hesitantly following Farah as she dropped out before you onto the scratchy rubber tarmac. These warships are more like floating cities, seeing a football field worth of flat manmade terrain over one shoulder and a steel castle over the other. So many soldiers, some striding in packs of six or more, others standing vigil over the open ocean. All in prim green uniforms and those boxy hats, occasionally led by a slightly more decorated rendition of the same gear. 

The grandness churns your stomach, and lightheadedness trickles down to your fingertips, reluctantly drinking in the horrifyingly gargantuan scale. Your breath shallowed. It's easily five times the size of the last warship you'd been on, one that looked like a lifeboat for this floating continent. A harsh ocean breeze, although refreshing, reminds you that you're significantly underdressed in the same tee shirt you wore when you left the observatory. 

Luckily, a soldier with a flight helmet under his arm ushered you forward. Ghost had already stepped ahead, taking broad footsteps to cross the distance, leaving you to jog along in pursuit under weakened knees. A jet, smoothly sloping and glossy, sat just feet away from him, thoroughly implying this is your next mode of transportation. They really don't leave you much time to gather your surroundings. Snapping fabric and a crisp salute, your pilot turned to mount into the small plane. He saluted you. It made you blink in surprise. You're not used to being the one that's saluted at, despite your recent promotion. 

Precious few words have been said since you parted ways with Farah and the rescue squad. Not that you're forlorn. It's welcome. Despite hours spent in agonizing silence, secretly begging for any other company, now that you're in the open world again it felt like you couldn't find strength for conversation. From the half-dozen words shared with your pilot, you'd gathered that your course is set for a NATO base in Italy. 

A strong gust of wind threatened to blow you off the slick metal wing of the jet before you could duck into the cramped cockpit. Four seats, two for the lone pilot and a nonexistent co-pilot, and two for you two. To say it's cramped would be putting it kindly, and the clunky mask that slipped over your face amplified the feeling of claustrophobia. It didn't help that Ghost took up significantly more surface area, forcing you to shift your knees off to the side to give you the illusion of more room. More clicks and switches, beeps and muffled radio communications. Little figures with blinking handheld wands ferried the pilot to the landing strip. Once again, that creeping, whirring sound of an engine preparing for an explosive takeoff has an inherent quality of making your blood pressure spike. 

The crushing pressure of accelerating movement caused the g-force to essentially bolt you to the back of your seat, increasingly thankful for the cool air being forced into your lungs from the air-tight mask. The crushing change in acceleration never ceased, and a banking turn made the ocean briefly fall level with the view out the window. These jets are damn fast, it's almost exciting if it weren't for the soul-crushing context. Trajectory set, the pilot's yoke settled flat, and all you could do was wait. It's like the conversation with Farah in the helo had been put on pause, and newfound stillness invited you to unpause the dissection. 

Your actions had caused the first domino to fall, inviting a crusade of events that guaranteed the destruction of a town that had already been on its knees for far too long. Where might they be if it weren't for you? Sorrow and disgust tickles your tear ducts, making you realize how impossible it would be to wipe away any loose streams in this headpiece. Things were so much easier when you were just chugging along on some base, transcribing transmissions with a crew of colleagues, and then returning to a plush barracks bed every night. It was mundane but predictable. You'd never imagined yourself questioning your own ethics like this. Nobody does. It's so easy to uphold your personal values when you can clearly see every card, but you're scarcely afforded that luxury when you're crashing between missions, dilemma after dilemma. 

Once again, Ghost's eyes were on you from the corner of your vision. You couldn't bring yourself to meet him. Not because of bashfulness or a need to hold your ground, but because a stinging pang of shame sang through every sinew. You'd spent the last two days in a bunker, fucking and guzzling food, reading and lounging. All while your actions have plunged the region into warfare. Stinging shame sits in your system like a scorching and squealing hot coal dropped into your tepid waters.

Chapter Text

The air here was so humid it felt like you could drown on solid ground, though it might just feel that way when you compare it to your climatized opinions based on parched desert air. It forces you to reflect on just how dry that setting had left your skin, your hair, your nails, everything. This military base was remarkably more visually stunning than your last few, especially London's. Yellow brick and plaster in broad arching columns with tidy white trim, soft salmon-coloured bricks lined outer courtyards with manicured foliage and lemon trees. You heard another crisp salute over your shoulder before your pilot returned to taxi away your ride. Ghost seems to be familiar with this base, making his way toward a small red brick building on the far side of the landing strip just beyond a small patch of skinny palms. He always acts like you've been to these bases before as if you have any clue where to go. 

Just before awkward confusion settled in, you caught a hazy view of those blond locks approaching from across the heated tarmac. The poor woman had her arm in a sling over a prim blue dress shirt. The closer she got, the more you noticed blooming red sunburns across her nose and cheeks, conveniently shielded by sleek bangs. It felt so good to see another familiar face, though it pulled at your heartstrings to see her injury. A warm and refreshing ocean breeze flooded your hearing, ceasing just before Laswell spoke. 

"Good to see you, Lua." 

"It's good to see you, Ma'am," you smiled. "I'm sorry to hear about your snowboarding accident," you mused sweetly, nodding to her cast. 

"Waterskiing with my wife, actually," she quipped back, allowing you to share a polite chuckle. "I told her it was too windy to go out."

Of course, you both knew the actual context, being her mad scramble with Farah to evade certain death from raining hellfire. However it's not exactly easy, let alone secure, to communicate the truth about the impairment. It's still good to know she got out alive, even if she likely had the worst injury in the group. Her eyes were kind; they always were, even if you have significantly more reason to fear her than any of your teammates. This woman could disappear you and everyone you've ever known with a handful of phone calls, or she could probably make you the leader of a small city-state if she really wanted to. Her connections, her authority, could make a grown man weep. 

"I'm sure you're eager to freshen up," she chimed, gesturing for you to walk beside her. 

Truer words have yet to be said. Filth of multiple forms has made your skin slick and grimy, leaving you eager to shuck these scratchy clothes from your body. Making your way to those same red brick buildings on the far edge of the tarmac, you felt more at ease than you'd expected, considering your existential dread only hours ago. The sun was warm, you were surrounded by familiar allies, and you had the promise of a proper bed along with a much-needed shower. That, paired with the residual orgasmic bliss helped unwind long pent stress. Laswell had described it as an executive suite for officers, making you sigh in relief that you wouldn't be in bunks next to the based soldiers who saluted you as you passed. 

Finally, a quaint but equipped room to temporarily call your own. White sheets and wooden furniture, even a hairdryer in the bathroom and a small cactus on the glossy wooden dresser. This felt more like a hotel than anything. A new thought crossed your mind for a moment, making your face furrow in thought as you realized that all your former luggage had been thoroughly destroyed. It's not like you can ask to send a jet back to Al Mazrah to gather your cell phone and the rest of your nicely broken-in hoodies. It seems like Laswell or the powers that be have already answered that question before the thought could be fully realized. Prying open the fresh black backpack that was laid on your bed, you hesitantly unravel its dark contents. It was a cornucopia of uniforms and tees, still swaddled in thin plastic wrapping, all exactly to your sizing. Even a cell phone in a sleek box, paired with a new dinky burner. It even held new undergarments and hair ties. They really thought of everything, all with that plasticy new car smell. 

Passing the bathroom again allowed a brief glimpse at your reflection, which forced you to exhale sharply in laughter. Your fucking shirt was inside out. Of course it was. An obvious result of your scramble to dress. The thought forced your imagination to recontextualize lingering glances from Farah and Ghost, flooding you with a wretched combination of dread and humour. Hopefully, Laswell didn't notice, but something tells you that few things get past her. That thought filled you with additional dread. Standing in front of a rectangular mirror lets you take a more thorough inventory of your body's state as you separate dusty clothing from grimy skin. This career has a way of rewarding the ability to power through injury, teaching you to save dull pain from minor injuries until after you're on home base. Even if you're not technically on a home base, sunken cheekbones from an appetite overridden by horror and strained morals left you with apparent consequences. It's hard to say if the bruises were a result of the overall vitamin deficiency or if Ghost's grip on the soft flesh just above your hip bone was really that brutal. 

You're really doing a number on your body, the one thing you're supposed to have control over. Anxiousness and guilt have consistently taken a toll on your body, no matter how many times you will yourself to do better on every mission. Tangled hair and dirty fingernails. It's still far better than the last opportunity you had to take a good hard look at yourself again; no bloodshot eyes or strangulation marks around your throat, nor a bloodied crush wound on your outer thigh. You'll feel better after this shower, and hopefully it will wash away this sinking trepidation.

Excusing the literal metaphor, hot water on your skin felt like much-needed rain in the desert. The water temperature couldn't get higher, the steaming heat was the only thing you felt could sufficiently purify the days of grime and sweat. That and the standard-issue bar soap that was so kindly provided. The initial protest that your nerves gave from the scorching water, let alone the strain on the poor metal showerhead was enough to make you think twice. But refused to capitulate. That familiar feeling of fingertips on your skin made your pulse quicken, even if they were your own. They just didn't provide that same electric feeling when they reached the same places as someone else's. Like a hexagonal wheel. It can get you there, but not with the same efficiency. Maybe it would've been wiser to take a cold shower.

A flash of purple caught your eye, an angle that hadn't previously been visible. A ring of teeth marks, and another. Harsh bites once left on your inner thigh had left physical memories across sensitive flesh. Threatening a devastating slip, you propped up your thigh to examine the injury further, letting scalding water trickle on the back of your neck. You couldn't help but grin. Yet another glimpse at the man under the mask. A perfect dental record, clear enough to get a fucking set of braces. Slightly rotated lower canines, but otherwise remarkably straight teeth based on your inexperienced dental opinion. You'd come to expect fangs, with rows upon rows of teeth like a shark or one of those lake eels. It makes you wonder if many of them are fake, considering how likely it is that so many had been knocked out in combat - or by someone who doesn't take too kindly to his constant brooding. 

The thought made you chuckle, as did the idea of having an unintended glimpse past his defences, one that he was too drunk on lust to even consider. Here you are, a grown woman, giggling to yourself about dumb fucking bruises on your skin. It's more of a liability, frankly, as was the slightly reddened and blued skin on the back of your thighs as you twisted in the mirror to view the carnage. More injuries sustained during an active combat mission. You should get a medal for this, really. A shining Purple Heart to pin to your oh-so-decorated uniform's lapel. 

Satisfied with the minor burns that bloomed over mercilessly scrubbed skin, you'd deemed yourself to be washed free from every possible atom of debris from your body. If the scrubbing didn't leave lingering pain, the phantoms of bruises across your behind did. Sitting to put on socks made sure to remind you of that. You were more interested in catching up with the rest of your teammates. They're alive, so you have that as a baseline. But the thought of gnarly injuries, worse than Laswell's, flickered in your mind as you donned a freshly creased grey hoodie. 

Stepping into the cooled stone hallway, flimsy knowledge of Italian led you to believe the common room would be down by the southern wing. In this small guest suite barracks, they'd definitely be there. Footsteps echoed over weathered bricks and plaster walls coloured with thick, glossy paint. Every blink offered a new view down crisscrossing corridors and small meeting rooms, leaving the lingering impression that this complex could've been a monastery in another life. 

There they were, just as expected. Gaz and Soap slung over a low sunken couch, facing a small TV. The two wore mirrored outfits, standard tees and pants, not dissimilar from the ones your pack provided. They sat reclined, focusing on drinking every pixel of the soccer game on the screen. If you thought that the kiss was lingering in your conscience, there was now a new elephant in the room that was invisible to everyone but you and Ghost. Who knows wherever he'd so hurriedly fucked off to, anyways. Luckily for you, their couch faced away from your current position, allowing you to loom over their shoulders.

It's hard to look someone in the eyes when you've just fucked your shared colleague. Twice. You could argue three times, but you got out of that one on a technicality. But Soap and Gaz would understand, surely. Your mind spun. Even if they found out, Soap almost fucked one of your friends on that drunken night at the bar on your birthday. He probably did, and you wouldn't put it past her. Or him. You fiddled with your hoodie strings. Gaz would probably bring up concerns about this affecting synergy on missions somehow, but that's easy to diffuse with the fact that there was no love lost or gained with your interaction with your lieutenant. Even if it clearly hasn't softened either of your hearts, you and Ghost could happily uphold your default ambivalence toward one another.

"Hey, Cricket," Soap glanced over at your approach. 

"Howsit goin'," Gaz yawned, stretching his arms and crossing them behind his head. 

"I'm alive," you sighed, nodding back at the two soldiers. 

"How was yer' little vacation with LT?" Soap nodded, smiling from the corner of his mouth. 

The question made your heart stop. You almost started a shambling flurry of 'what do you mean's before he turned to absentmindedly return to reviewing the game. 

"I got to read some old books n' catch up on some sleep," you retorted politely, gauging their reaction from over their shoulders. 

No response. There was a penalty kick that was about to be struck, and they'd both leaned forward on their seats. 

"We almost killed each other a couple of times," you breathed, eyeing the two of them as they remained transfixed. "I was just getting close before help arrived and saved him." 

Gaz barked a laugh, Soap remained aloof. 

"Maybe next time," Gaz called over his shoulder, and you returned a mannerly grin. 

Maybe next time. Those words have more implications than he could ever understand. It's relieving to know that it's back to dreadful business as usual, and these two chumps have made it out unscathed. They're almost shockingly unphased, where you assumed they'd have at least a few more questions about what happened with the bugged transmissions or the torture you inflicted. 

They didn't seem particularly phased by it all. The questions stopped there. If it were your friends back home, this would have bred at least 35 follow-up questions and a formal investigation. These two are different; they're surprisingly easy to lie to. Well, it's not technically a lie. You could argue it's lying by omission, but they also didn't specifically ask if you copulated with Ghost in that bunker. Judging by how enraptured they are in the plasma screen, you could probably admit it all aloud and get a passive 'mhmm' in response at best. 

"Oh, they want to see you in the office. Down the hall, second to the left," Soap finally spoke up with relieved breath after the goalkeeper successfully captured the ball. 

A dutiful nod excused you, and turning to walk away made up for the explosion of panic that crashed into your system. It felt like when the principal asked to see you in the office after you cheated on a test. They wouldn't have let you freshen up beforehand if it was really bad. They wouldn't have given you a bag of clothes and a new cell. Every clicking footstep made your blood pressure spike, catching the passing glances of bustling packs of soldiers who must be reading your expression of worry. That distant chatter from shoutcasters on Soap and Gaz's game slowly dissipated as you approached the second door down the hallway. Ghost slipped out from the door before you, and your posture tightened. 

The look Ghost gave you as you passed him in the arched stone hallway made your blood run cold. He held your gaze with an intensity that made you question its meaning. If only you could read minds. You suddenly became more acutely aware of every possible stimulus all at once as nervousness settled in. The feeling of your socks in your boots as they stepped through the threshold, the weight of your hoodie around your shoulders, the sweat pooling between your fingers. What could they possibly want?

Chapter Text

At least the interrogation room wasn't as industrial and soulless as the others you've found yourself cornered in. There was no stark white lighting or metal furniture that looked like embalming tables. This room was nice at least, almost pleasant. It had actual wooden furniture that looked hand-crafted, with calming amber lighting from overhead. Small, narrow windows near the ceiling invited beams of sunlight into the room, bright enough to watch dancing dust cascading as a result of your entrance. It was almost romantic if it weren't for the horrifying context. 

A wide oak table sat in the middle of the room, where your three justiciars sat preparing your trial. Laswell gestured that you sit near her at the end of the table, Price seated next to her. To your dismay, Graves was there. He'd settled himself at the far end, flicking a pen between his fingers as he shared you a base courtesy nod. So here you are. Your judge, jury, and executioner. Your wood chair dragged over the terracotta tiles in a way that made your hairs stand on end, if they weren't already. 

"I'm sure you know why we called you in today, Miss Grant," Price said in that grumbly tone he'd always sported, pensively tapping a bottle of what looked like an expensive brand of coconut water on the wood table. 

Their eyes pierced through you, scathing, knowing. Unfortunately, you do know. It's hard to say which emotion is stronger: embarrassment or sadness. Even with the decent lighting, shadows darkened around you, and you couldn't help but wipe your damp palms across your cargo pants. You crossed and recrossed your boots since you couldn't find a position that relieved this bone-crushing pressure. You swallowed hard. 

"What happened in there, Sergeant? What happened when you were off comms there with Ghost," Graves spoke up in that twangy southern tone, immediately jumping into confrontation. 

Your heart sank. Another hard gulp forced incoming vomit back down your throat. Your forehead trickled with an icy chill, and all colour drained from your vision. 

I can't believe after everything, all the good work I've done, my career in this task force is cut short like this. Eliminated because I made a few rash, lust-fueled decisions. It was so inappropriate. They'll ask me to resign if they're feeling kind, but the look on Price's grim face says he doesn't have much patience with me. They'll discharge me, send me home, and I'll get a hefty letter of condemnation to sit with me, alone in my dread. 

"I need you to tell us everything, Cricket," Laswell clicked a pen alive as she spoke, preparing to take notes. 

How am I going to explain this to Chucky? He won't exactly believe me if I say they just let me go, and I don't know if I have the strength to lie to him. I'm going to miss Soap and Gaz, and I'll never see Farah again, either. 

"Ghost said you did a good job at getting him talkin', I'll give you that," Price chuckled lowly in a way that made you sick to your stomach. 

He told them everything ? I'm surprised he was willing to admit I'd bested him like that. He's got more balls than I thought, but Price's shallow praise won't do me any good. I have to come forward. I can't go down as a coward. I have to own it. 

Your mouth rounded as you prepared to speak. 

"Oh wouldja' knock it off, Sergeant?" Graves leaned in, throwing his hand up in frustration. "Do you think all these boys haven't done the same when their superiors aren't looking? "

…What?

"Sometimes a forced confession is a necessary evil, and I wish we could have given you time to prepare for such an ask. Such is the nature of this field," Laswell sighed as Price gave an audible 'mhmm' in agreement. 

Oh. Oh! The transcript. The guy I shot back at the dam, the guy we tortured. That's what they've been asking about this whole time.  

"I haven't had time to write a formal transcript, but I can have a finalized version by 08:00-" you spoke with forced confidence. 

"To hell with the transcript, we wanna know now. What happened?" Graves bit back, interrupting your stammering. 

"He wasn't giving us anything for the first while, but eventually he broke. He started talking about 'blowing us all sky high' or something of the sort. And- and he mentioned you by title as if he's familiar with the crew. Something about Laswell at the observatory and the rest of the task force. He said they, the Separatists and the Russians, had been in our comms since Verdansk- our previous mission." you rambled along, trying to patchwork day-old sentences. The mention of your radio comms being tapped sparked Laswell and Price to share a glance that didn't go unnoticed. 

"I called in the mayday as soon as I got the intel, and you already know the rest."

"That's when the spooky fella' put him to bed," Graves chirped. 

"Yes," you spoke, praying your confusion wouldn't register. 

"We found whose device was tapped," Price tossed a black device that skid across the table, a device you recognized. "It's yours."

Spiking blood pressure entirely halted in your bloodstream. 

"Wh-I would never-"

"We know it wasn't intentional," Laswell cut in, saving you from an unnecessary plea. "You had no way of knowing. They must have slipped a bug into it at some point when you were restrained at the stadium in Verdansk." 

"it's just information, Sergeant. How many countless lives did you save when you made one terrorist sing," Graves leaned back in his seat, exasperated. 

Graves seemed agitated by your reluctance to torture an untried civilian, a prospect that agitated you in turn. He sees softness in your hesitance, whereas you see a warmonger in his keenness. A sly smirk on his face only solidified your disdain, but in the face of three superior officers, you retained your composure. 

"Well, we'll need you to write a detailed transcript like we asked. Tell us everything he said all the way up until Ghost executed him," Price stated firmly, passively twirling the bottle on the smooth table. 

"We'll be expecting it tomorrow morning," Laswell nodded, eyeing you to gauge your response. 

"Yes, ma'am," you spoke with sudden renown. 

Suddenly, the room wasn't quite as dark as it was a few minutes ago. Lingering adrenaline made your muscles feel like you could run a marathon in record time, and the strain on your heart made you slightly lightheaded. Holy fuck, that was close. No time to fuck around. You have your work cut out for you. Considering you're the only living person who knows exactly what was said in his confession, the onus is on you to deliver the truth. Laswell placed a booklet and pen in front of you, one that you slid through clammy fingers. Just as you felt confident enough to rise to find a new place to begin this tedious task, Graves' voice cut you off. 

"You're not excused just yet, little miss. Ghost did give you a report card, said you were hurtin' for some combat training." 

"Well, we weren't exactly expecting to have her in a combat zone," Laswell glanced over her shoulder to Graves' position at the far end of the table. 

"You have to expect the unexpected. There's nothin' wrong with a bit of practice." Price's jovial but cynical grin under his moustache suggested the matter was set in stone. 

That fucker. 

"Yes, sir," you spoke through a tight-lipped smile. 

Price slamming his hand on the table nearly made you jump out of your skin, and he seemed to snap back to his casual and stoic self. Of all the people in the room, he's the least likely to care about dwelling on your reluctance. He's got a point after all, but it's just that you wished it didn't come from the source that it did.  

"Excellent. We'll find someone to train you. Expect lessons every morning once you pass in your transcript," he boomed lightheartedly, taking a long, dragging drink from his coconut water before continuing. "Good shit, Cricket, you're excused."

Another nod was shared with your jury, and your chair squealed under you as you rose to slightly unsteady feet. You smiled politely as they scanned your every movement, turning sharply to leave the room. 

"Oh, and Cricket—" Laswell spoke up just as you planted your palm on the brassy doorknob. “There's a gala coming up in a few weeks. Some ministers and state supporters wanted to celebrate the soldiers and crews who were on the front line against the Separatists. You're invited." 

"I'd be happy to attend," you replied dutifully, folding your hands behind your back. 

"You'll have to do some shopping, though. I didn't include anything appropriate in your pack. It's a black-tie event."

"I won't be wearing my formal uniform?" you queried, furrowing your brows in confusion.

"No, you'll just be a guest for this one," she smiled calmly, absently tapping her fingertips on the table with her hand that wasn't bound by the sling. 

Your eyes darted to Price and back to Laswell. They both seemed like stern, motionless titans. It's a gala thrown in honour of the troops that brought down the terrorists in Al Mazrah, and you're a guest? It's beyond a slap in the face; it's downright insulting. With all the bubbling emotions churning in your brain paired with the three sets of pale eyes drilling into you, you swallowed that initial insult in favour of diplomacy. 

"Yes, Ma'am," you repeated. 

Another flicker of smiles to Price and Laswell excused you; Graves was mulling over a laptop he'd cranked open at some point in the conversation. This time, it felt like you could actually be excused, and you took your leave back through the wooden door. The second your face passed through the threshold, cool air surged into your sinuses and administered an immediate dosage of relief. A click from behind you left you at ease with the fact that you now had a barrier between you and that stuffy room, and your back immediately collided with the cool, smooth plaster walls. Sighing to catch your breath, after a few more gasps, you spotted the culprit across a sunny courtyard. 

Even in the shade of an archway, Ghost looked like a shadow made real, out of place in the brilliant sunlight. Frankly, you couldn't be fucked to deal with him right now. He can choke. Your back parted from the support of the wall, and your footsteps led you back to the main building, armed with a currently vacant notebook. Too many emotions and thoughts, paired with unused adrenaline made you uneasy. But there was no time for nonsense. A deathly serious task is asked of you, and you have no choice but to deliver. Not only are you transcribing days-old memories of conversations that happened under extreme stress, but you're also dealing with the inherent duress that comes with sleeping with your colleague on the job. Your superior. All while the rest of the crew was fighting for their lives. 

Your trajectory brought you to the food court to gather an armful of fruit and a bowl of that stale sugary cereal they always seem to have, and that'll appease your hunger until morning. It'll probably be a long night for you, so a coffee or two would also be wise. The shadow had left his position from where you'd last seen him. If he was half the man you thought he was, he'd know that now isn't the time to chat. Not to mention the combat training you'll be forced to entertain for the foreseeable future thanks to his input to your boss, along with the fact that you're getting zero recognition for your sacrifice in the past few months. 

It's hard to say if the bubbling spite is genuine or a consequence of overstimulation and a lack of proper nutrition, but the resentment still sticks like a thorn in your side. When you joined the service, you weren't expecting every commanding officer to kiss your boots every time you completed an expected task. But with all the work you've poured over, the inujuries you've suffered, and the despair you've faced, it'd be nice to get a little more than a 'good shit' from Price. In the meantime, your colleagues will be worshipped like gods walking among mere mortals decorated in gleaming chest candy while you're just a guest.  

Chapter Text

How do you transcribe torture? The dialogue itself came easy, and lucky for you the conversation wasn't longer than 20 minutes. Should you describe what Ghost did to make the conversation temporarily halt, or do you just cite it as an [intermission]? Will they be expecting you to translate belligerent screaming and pleading into notes? How do you even articulate a blood-curdling wail? It's not exactly what they teach you in school. Laswell mentioned earlier that it was entirely off the record, so it's bizarre that they want the record to begin with. The powers that be command this of you, and what are you if not obedient. Like a feudal monarch, this mysterious overlord holds your life in their hands, drinking in your life's worth without a blink. Every flick of your pen made you more uncertain, and it didn't help that the small wooden desk in your room squealed every time you turned the page. 

When you're the arbiter of truth, being the only living person who knows what was really said, each penstroke comes with a lot of responsibility. Not to mention the default fact that your comrade already lied for reasons you'll never understand, covering your ass from scrutiny for shooting the subject without authorization. It would be easy to lie and say that the man you interrogated immediately admitted his affiliations and intentions. But that's not the truth, is it? You can't in good conscience lie twice in one sitting. It took Ghost splintering bones and worse to get him to admit the bare minimum, and you used unnecessary personal slanders to get under his skin. Any professor or coach you've ever had would thoroughly condemn your actions and reject their affiliations with you. Those academics probably wouldn't recognize you now, and neither do you. 

A thick fog in your mind ground your productivity to a halt. Occasional drifting into daydreaming shifted into a nearly consistent frame of mind. Your eyes tracked shiny lacquered wooden trim along white stucco walls. Ornately crafted porcelain lamps on either side of a white bed in the shape of pearly clamshells, and sheer orange curtains that touched the floor. The rest of the world could really take some valuable notes from the design of this military base. To be fair, you are in the executive officer's quarters, where it's fair to assume the regular grunt bunks wouldn't be nearly as luxurious. It's still a comfort to know that this random Italian military base sees you as someone of a higher social standing than a fresh recruit. That's more respect for your expertise than from your actual reporting officers. 

That's it. It's fair to say you won't get any more work done in this room. It's time for a change of scenery, and maybe it'll refresh your memory. Standing to rise from hours of sitting made stagnant blood in your feet crackle to life while you gathered Laswell's notebook and pen, with a goal to head into the inner sanctum of the base. You couldn't be sure what you were looking for, but something told you you'd know it when you saw it. Another creaky groan, this time from the door to your quarters, and you were set off down the hallway. Earlier, when you saw Soap and Gaz, they were watching soccer in a small common room. That might be the best place to start since dark, overcast skies suggested rain on the horizon, eliminating the prospect of peacefully sitting under one of those lemon trees. 

Most soldiers are relegated away from the officer's building, so you had the comfort of knowing that you were out of the public eye, for the most part. The twisting hallway adorned with charming wooden archways will eventually lead to that same common room, though this maze of corridors could easily disorient you. Just as you suspected, your four colleagues were there. Price sat at the head of a long plankwood table, flipping through pages of paperwork with a cup of tea on the table beside him. Another glance showed they each had tea next to them in ordinary white mugs, they looked like espresso cups in their broad hands. Soap was directly next to Price, looking like he was bored to tears. Gaz was there too, across from Soap, also looking like he was bored to tears, practicing pen tricks by flipping one between his fingers. Failing, sending a pen skittering across the surface as he was distracted by your approach. 

"Hello, Cricket," Price nodded, taking a long sip from his tea. "How's the transcript coming along?"

"I'm done writing it out, now I just have to edit it," you lamented, slumping yourself into a chair a few seats from the rest of them. 

You didn't even notice Ghost at first, though he tends to have a habit of being invisible to the naked eye. A dark hoodie and broad shoulders made him look like a piece of furniture at first glance. He sat near the corner, facing away, pouring over what looked like paperwork. There's no doubt in your mind that he saw you enter, even when faced away. He, too, had a cup of steaming tea at his side. Fucking Brits. Seeing him caused your mind to subconsciously flutter to the dull pain from the bruising on your insides, the memory of his breath and sharp teeth on your inner thigh. Seeing him come undone from your talented touch, writhing and heaving. Your throat tightened.

The news was on in the background, and your colleagues suddenly drawn gazes compelled you to follow their sight, effectively redirecting your attention. A complex slurry of emotions swirled in your system as you saw a female figurehead discussing a grainy, distant view of what you immediately recognized as you and Ghost in a CCTV camera. It was definitely taken as you were taking the tango to the dam; it must have come from live cameras operating outside the quarry they had raided. Lanky figures, essentially blobs, were only barely recognizable thanks to the wavy image. It was you, your hair, your build, your same black tee, all scarcely visible as you were swinging into the buggy's doorless frame - and Ghost's unmistakable silhouette ducking into the driver's seat. You weren't referred to by name, or even referenced at all. It was simple b-roll imagery, one of many more. It's like your five seconds of fame. Briefly seeing yourself on global news before a new image is slid over the previous, returning your existence to obscurity. The newscaster recited the downfall of a dangerous plot, bringing justice to those injured in the London terrorist attacks a few weeks before. What about the citizens of Al Mazrah? 

Your grip on your pen tightened. Enough distractions. Just as inspiration begins to flow, you can't afford to have the muses slip from your grasp again and subtract from your crucial role in this machine. The boys chatted about something along the lines of wanting to switch the channel back to sports, and Price's barking disapproval extinguished all hope of that. You shook your head to focus, planting your palm on your forehead in thought. Another turn of the page, a new fresh slate, more room in the book that would serve as excellent evidence in the case that this is brought to a military tribunal. 

"Can I 'ave a peek?" Gaz craned his neck to look at your booklet.

"No, Gaz, you can read it when everyone else does," you chirped back, tilting your book to shield his view dramatically. 

He huffed a laugh, leaning back to stretch to an orchestra of squeaks from the wood chair that filled the otherwise silent room. Inspiration returned to your clouded conscience, reminding you of otherwise forgotten details to quickly jot into your notes. You're on your third draft now, and each new draft comes with clarified recollections. Any good transcriber would be able to deliver an official record in the original language for good recordkeeping. That original would come with a translated version as well so your Western overseers could gather whatever intel they desire. It helps with transparency and hinders any skepticism of inconsistent recollections. 

Soap pulling apart an orange across the table threatened to snap you out of focus. Of course the bastard had to choose the most obnoxiously pungent fruit to enjoy when you need absolute concentration. Silence was occasionally interrupted by Soaps smacking or a page turning loudly, and a kind reminder from Gaz that rain looks to be coming soon. Thanks, Gaz. It was easier than you would've expected to fall into a rhythm of writing, finding it easier to recall the details in original Arabic and saving the translations for when you're farther along. 

Just as you felt confident in finalizing your fourth draft, you noticed Soap's scheme when you glanced up from your paper. Price looked like he was on his third cup of tea, piping hot on the table next to him as he studied blanched papers. Carefully and agonizingly slowly, Soap tilted a glass salt shaker to pour white grains onto a shallow spoon. A glance to his Gaz for his affiliation showed that he had tilted his ballcap over his eyes, entirely asleep, reclined in his chair with folded arms. Meanwhile, Soap was persistent with unwavering dedication. You watched with a raised eyebrow as Soap discreetly tilted the spoon of salt into Price's mug, cautiously returning his raised arm to rest back on the wooden table. A witnessless crime until he noticed your surveillance. He nodded, and you shook your head, returning to the book with a creeping smile. 

The sun had long since set. A flick of your wrist told you it's 22 hundred hours, and creeping exhaustion reminded you of that. Less than 24 hours ago, you were in that bunker with Ghost. Don't think about that. Focus. Another page flip brought you a single page closer to being able to hopefully retire for the night, though you still have a whole English translation to handle after this. Just as focus returned and you rediscovered your rhythm, an imperceptible change in energy caused you to raise your eyes. Price, without looking up from his paper, raised the mug to his moustached lips. Soap's eyes flickered to yours and back to the subject. To both of your horror, or surprise, he set the mug back down with a satisfied sigh. A look that can only be described as what the fuck flashed over Soap's face as he looked back your way. 

So there you sat, at a steady pace, making quick work of the rest of the remaining translation as Soap coyly slipped more bitter salt into his drink, eliciting nothing but a standard grumbly cough from the Captain in response. Finally, just as midnight struck, your chair squealed as you rose to your feet, forcing poor Gaz to snort awake. You slapped the plastic journal down atop Price's stack of papers, catching his eyes rising to meet yours.

"Now go get some sleep. Training starts tomorrow morning," he nodded, taking the journal in his hands.

"Training, eh? What training's that?" Soap chimed in, making Gaz grumble awake at Soap's contrastingly high energy. 

"'Combat Training,' whatever that means," you yawned. "Who knows, maybe soon I'll be able to give you guys a run for your money."

"Hey, wouldn't that be something," Soap laughed. "Maybe I'll pick up some Spanish or something n' give you a run for your money."

"You barely even have English so far, so I'd like to see you try," you grinned playfully, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"Some fitness training is necessary if you're going to stay on this team," Ghost's gravelly voice cut into the conversation coldly. "You're long overdue."

The room fell silent. 

"It could save your life, Cricket," Price clarified peacefully, taking another long sip of his tea. "It's just a precaution. We might not always be there to protect you."

"Yes, sir," you voiced through a forced tight-lipped smile.

"Six hundred hours, meet me back in this room for training, Sergeant," Price rose to his feet as well. "I'll introduce you to Lorenzo."

A curt nod and you were excused, armed with a new task to awaken to in the rapidly approaching morning. As you turned to return down the arching hallway, a reverberation of matching chairs screeching across the tile signified the rest of the team rising to retire as well. Were they being sweet, staying up with you to finish your work? Maybe. Or, perhaps they'd just forgotten that sleeping in a bed was an option, and your retirement motivated them to do the same where they'd be entirely comfortable to sleep standing up like horses. 

Your dorm door clicked shut behind your back with a sigh. Another day survived, though it passed like a nonsensical blur. Jets, warships, and global news whirred everpresent in the background. Who knows what the global opinion of your work might be. An exhausted mind couldn't handle the additional strain of pondering what this greater scheme might entail, and you certainly can't afford to lose any sleep over it. 'One day at a time' you reminded yourself as you shucked these brand-new clothes from aching muscles, inside and out. 

The backpack Laswell gave you caught your eye as you sat on the bouncy bedsprings. Without thinking, your hand snaked within to retrieve that pristine boxed phone you'd been given as an apology for your last. Sleek and modern, the newest rendition of your previous phone's model. The truth of the matter is that it no longer holds precious video memories and photos of past adventures, old colleagues and stunning vistas. No contacts, nothing. A blank slate of technology that functioned as an agonizing reminder that your loved ones are just a click away. However their phone numbers had drifted from your memory, obscured by a brutal career that's jam-packed it with lessons and procedures. What you wouldn't give to hear Uncle Chucky's advice right now. He'd probably remind you how dramatic you're being and to stop beating yourself up over nothing. He'd probably be right, too. The thought invited a much-needed sigh to escape your chest. 

A click of the seashell lamp sank the room into tranquil darkness, where smooth sheets felt unimaginably lavish. This extraordinary bliss may just be in contrast to your consistently sub-par sleeping conditions, where painfully average sheets feel like silk and cashmere on your freshly washed skin. Even in darkness, your eyes fixated on the joisted ceiling, transfixed by swirling thoughts as you willed your body to unwind. What will training with this Lorenzo character entail? Will it be just you, or will the rest of them be there to watch the spectacle? Or worse yet, participate. You'd likely die of embarrassment if the latter were the case. Maybe this training will be for the best. It might help you relieve this building stress in your muscles that seek relief at all costs. Though the last time you tried to alleviate stress, you ended up fucking your lieutenant. Hopefully, this won't go that way. 

Chapter Text

He was shorter than you would've expected, shorter than any trainer you've had before. Even stood next to Price, he looked nearly half his size. You could easily match his height with a better pair of shoes than your running sneakers. A decent night's sleep made you bright-eyed and eager to learn, a sentiment Price seemed keen to share, catching a glimpse of a confident smile under his moustache. For the time being you were taking in as many visual clues as possible as to who this prescribed instructor was. A tight-fitting moss-coloured tee clung to lean muscles on a slender frame, definitely not a soldier per se, but unquestionably some kind of martial arts instructor. Roughly your age, with deeply rooted smile lines etched into his cheeks. 

"Sergeant Grant, this is Lorenzo. Lorenzo, Sergeant Grant. You'll be spending the next few weeks together," Price's voice boomed over the tile toward you.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sergeant," Lorenzo spoke in a thick Italian accent, rocking on his heels as he spoke. 

"It's nice to meet you as well," the words flowed easily as you stood before the two men, the rest of your comrades sat just past them at the same tables you had spent the night before. "-And just Lua is fine." 

From the corner of your eye, you saw a skeletal mask rise from whatever he was doing as you spoke those words. Lorenzo smiled sweetly when you approached, pulling you into a handshake that shook your entire body. With an upturned palm he led you through a pair of swinging doors that bridged the common room to the outdoor courtyard, not wasting time with further introductions. Gleaming sunlight caught on fresh puddles that made your pupils strain to adjust to the change of lighting. At least the air was fresh, sticky with dew. It still smelled of warm rain on damp concrete and grass from the recent showers Gaz so kindly noted the night before. 

"Do you speak my language?" He spoke as you walked, 

"Like a two-year-old," you lamented, "nothing beyond the bare minimum."

He hummed in thought as he pressed further into the sunny turf, taking his time to consider his words as an unsteady silence wedged between you. From where you stood, there were buildings on either side of you, like a horseshoe of concrete and plaster enclosing you into a broad grassy courtyard. The opening that didn't directly lead to a glass window or brick wall led to the damp tarmac where bustling aircrew scurried like ants to ferry jets and trucks to their allocated spaces. 

"You captain said you're like a kind of traduttrice," he spoke with an air of certainty despite his fractured knowledge of the language.

Of course Price speaks fucking Italian. He seems to speak a little bit of every language, to the point where it makes you wonder why you're even on the team to begin with. 

"A linguist. Like a translator, just with a few extra steps," you corrected awkwardly, raking your eyes over the lush trees that fenced the grassy plaza offering shade for rich soil. 

"Linguist, Linguist," he trailed off, rolling the word over his tongue as if to taste it. "You're like a songbird- la uccellino, singing different songs and chirping them back to your officers."

"That's one way of putting it," you shrugged, returning your gaze back to his. 

It gave you a chance to consider his appearance further. Rich olive skin made him look like he belonged in an oil painting, and brown curls hooked and looped atop his head in messy locks. He wasn't hard on the eyes, definitely the kind of man you'd see on the cover of one of those 10-cent romance novels you see at thrift shops. And something about his easy grin said he knew it. 

"Let us begin?"

"Here? In the yard?" You jested, uncertainty reverberating through your system as if he'd just delivered a punchline. 

"Rule one: combat doesn't consider your comfort," he said, slapping his hands together in a clap as he spoke, rolling his neck around his shoulders.

"But… does the first lesson have to be in the mud?" Only after the words passed your lips did you realize how whiny you sounded. 

"Okay, we can just talk then," Lorenzo smiled sweetly, meeting you with hazel eyes. 

"Thank you," you said, folding your arms over your chest as the chilly morning air crept over exposed forearms. 

"Okay, Uccellino. See how your feet are shoulder-width apart?" He stepped closer, meeting your eye level. 

Your eyes followed his pointed finger as it led you to correct your stance, but just as your gaze caught your feet, a flash of movement caught you by surprise. In an instant, an explosion of pressure hit your shoulder, one that you quickly identified as you being hurtled to the ground. His boot had swiped out your feet from under you, toppling you to the ground like a sack of rocks. Sunlight suddenly beaming in your face, paired with cruel gravity and searing pain made you wince. Cool mud from a rainy night before squelched under your shoulder, seeping through your shirt and caking into your hair as you wrestled against gravity. 

That's when you heard your peanut gallery chuckling in the background. A flick of your eyes showed your four comrades watching this trainwreck unfold in a matter of seconds. The world had only just stopped spinning when you caught their playful judgement, but the horror of their scrutiny was overruled by your attacker's approach. Lorenzo extended his hand down to you, inviting you to help yourself back up to your feet. It took half a mind not to slap it away, rejecting his corny training style. 

"You lied," you barked, slapping your hand against his as you hoisted yourself back upright. 

"Rule two: don't trust anyone," he let his grip on your hand slip, making your tailbone collide with the damp mud again. 

You swung your ankles behind you, leaning forward to bring yourself upright on your own, but a boot on your hip sent you toppling back down. Cool mud squished between spread fingertips, blowing away stray hairs with an exasperated breath. The peanut gallery dispersed, catching them sauntering away toward the tarmac on the horizon. Another flash of movement commanded your attention back to the figure before you, reflexively wrenching your body to catch an incoming kick from hitting your side. Recently pristine pants chafed and dragged over your thighs, forming leaded weights restricting explosive movement. 

"Do you think the only time someone'll attack you is when you're on satin pillows and sheepskin?" he called down to you playfully after you thwarted his initial kick. "No—the real combat happens when you aren't ready for it. It's dirty and unpredictable, and it always will be. Even when you're training."

"How am I supposed to train if you won't even let me get back to my fucking feet?" You spat, offence clouding your vision along with the slurry of muck. 

"That's not my problem," he sighed, circling around you like a vulture. "It's yours," his passing shadow suggested he was keen for another strike. 

"That's not fair, attacking me when I'm already down," the words came out like a roar, clawing for control over cruel gravity that insisted you surrender. 

"It's the best time to attack someone, really," his shadow lurched into yours.

Your legs sprung forward when a clenched fist tried to grip the back of your slippery shirt, instincts compelling you to resist his grapple at all costs. Seconds fluttered past in a blur. Unsteady ground resisted your attempt to understand your footing, forcing the terrain to serve as an additional opponent in this fight. There wasn't enough breath in your lungs to allow you to leap to bring him down with you like you wished you could. 

"So is this what you teach? Brutality?" you roared. 

"I teach survival. 'Doesn't have to be pretty, Uccellino," his accent rolled his words, swinging on squishy footing to aim another shot at your side. 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," you grunt with a tight jaw restricting your enunciation. 

"My beloved mother used to say, 'Every knock is a boost,'" he sang as his boot connected just below your shoulder blade. 

You cried out in pain, and for a moment all the world's colour was replaced with darkness. Blooming heat radiated from where he'd struck, forcing all remaining air from your lungs. It made you gasp and gape for air like a fish out of water.

"I doubt your mother has ever had to deflect a kick to the kidney laying flat on her back in the mud," you chirped back with a fractured voice, creaking from your strain for oxygen. 

Finally, an explosion of movement and sheer willpower brought your feet to swing below you, rising from a crouch on shaky posture. It could have been his mercy, but you'd prefer to recognize it as you finally getting ahold of yourself. Crisp air on damp skin did an excellent job at cooling superheated muscles when you finally had the opportunity to find precious moments without an incoming smite. Your head spun, even when you tried to shake away the fog that came with standing upright too quickly. 

"Rule Three: Use your size to your advantage, Uccellino. You're no brute like your comrades," Lorenzo gestured for you to lower your stance with a downward-turned palm. 

"You're just making these rules up as you go, aren't you?" you muttered, turning on your heels to face him as he began to pace around you again, eagerly. 

"Let the attackers' momentum do the heavy lifting, and you're just here to guide them along," his words and actions clicked in your mind, and he hopped into a jolt toward you.

Where his fists initially collided with the fabric material just below your collarbone, you instead deflected his grip with your forearm, swaying your torso low to steady your balance. In a show of repurposed kinetic energy you guided his advancements past you, planting the heel of your palm on the back of his shoulder to steer him away. With your posture lowered, it meant your center of balance was low- lower than someone who had height over you. Low enough to regain composure quickly enough to strike back, slamming your shin into his spine as he stumbled from your diversion. His grunt turned into a laugh as he turned back to you, responding your well-placed strike with a pleased smile that flickered to a wince. 

It was a valuable lesson, a unique trait of your stature. One that was never taught to you expressly taught to you in generalized training that came with your enlistment. Laswell did indeed mention that you wouldn't be expected to see combat, but the field has regularly put you closer to the action than you're used to. The threat of violence is just the new norm now, and it's past your time to adapt. Part of you made you hate the fact that Ghost was right about one thing, but the other part of you wanted to deny his correctness altogether, opting to declare it your own discovery. 

Training went on for a time, possibly another hour considering the sun's angle. It was no use looking at your wristwatch; it was caked with a thick layer of mud thanks to Lorenzo's avant-garde teaching style. By the time he called it, you found yourself cradling muscles you didn't even know existed in your body. Sweet spit had pooled in your tongue and messy hair made you look like a wraith. The thought of what passers-by might be thinking had never crossed your mind since your comrades left, but the few passing soldiers in tight formations seemed too thoroughly drilled to turn their heads to observe fully. However, that didn't stop brief glances. 

Initial outrage and a damaged ego translated to an unexpected bump in confidence once you started getting the hang of your instructions. Learning always felt so rewarding, especially when it's on your own terms. Bidding Lorenzo adieu came with a polite smile and a 'well done' that made weakened muscles feel like they're worth the oncoming soreness. Eventually you stepped past the swinging doors you'd passed through hours before, yawning in the crisp conditioned air. The Italian sun was searing at this time of year, though nowhere as severe as your last locations. Perfect imprints of each tread of your boots were left behind with every step toward your dorm, counting down the seconds until you could burn these ruined rags. 

Even in the shower, you got to track what existing bruises marred your skin before the new ones had time to manifest. Deep red teeth marks on your inner thigh began to fade to pink, a dwindling memory, soon to be overridden by brutal Lorenzo's grappling. It's refreshing to not have to scuffle with someone twice your size. Price couldn't have chosen a better instructor, though the thought of another lesson in the morning made your joy dim. It felt like every time you ran your hair through another handful of shampoo, more dirt swirled into the drain in a neverending cycle. Uccellino, what a sweet nickname. Little bird. So sweet, more graceful than a cricket. An insect that's known for its penchant to irritate people. 

Just as you started to wonder where those teammates had disappeared off to, a view past orange curtains showed them filing out of a boxy green jeep just off the distant tarmac. Price and Gaz immediately followed by Soap and Ghost. Each sported heavy armour and packs, but it goes without saying what they were up to. Probably trudging through a nearby forest or cliff face, enjoying local scenery while you were fighting for your life in the mud. It's hard to be upset though; after all, it means you got to avoid rucking. That's a win, even if it means cleaning rocks of dirt from split fingernails. 

They had the nerve to look peachy keen, bounding toward the complex in springy steps. Didn't even break a sweat. Soap was swinging his helmet around like a purse, tapping the back of his fist into Ghost's shoulder. Ghost must have replied with some snide quip that made the other's faces light up with a chuckle before they slipped from your field of view. Just before they passed, you swore you felt brown eyes flicker to meet yours through the window, but the second you saw movement in your direction from that pale mask you'd ducked away. 

More than anything, a sense of power and pride warmed your chest as you wring your hair dry with a thin towel. The world tends to feel small when you're stuck with the same six or seven faces on repeat. Especially when each of those faces could pummel you to death, shatter your career, or both in some cases. A rare glimmer of hope sang in your bloodstream, and with the upcoming gala, it felt like you might just meet your prince charming who'll whisk you off your feet. You'd never pinned yourself as the hopeless romantic type, and the thought confused you. Maybe Italy just has that effect. Ultimately, the feeling of control and pride is an illusion, and the powers that be hold your puppet strings like leads. But it didn't mean you couldn't enjoy one moment of genuine peace. No matter how brief it'll likely be. 

Chapter Text

Today's lesson is all about improvised weapons. When you can't outrun an attacker or overpower them, your only option is to fight. And you can't just fight them with punches and kicks; they'll be easily quashed with a bear hug or a knee on your spine. As mentioned, your attacker likely has size and speed over you. Instead, you have to get crafty. You'd be surprised how effective something like a pen could be in a fight; it could pierce an eye socket, but it could also function as bootleg brass knuckles that could elevate your punch's power. Keep an eye on what your attacker is wearing. A scarf or necklace could be a good way of restricting airflow and giving you a leg up in a scuffle. Even a tie can work in a pinch in more ways than one, though most of all, a pocket knife or a claw hammer could even the odds of a fight with remarkable effectiveness. So too could a sturdy dinnerplate if you have enough vigour. It's all about staying on top of what's available at all times.

Lorenzo was so kind whenever you trained with him. When he wasn't trying to teach you a lesson about trust, he was so polite and gentle when he helped you to your feet after every fall. At least this time you weren't in the mud, instead occupying a corner of a small gym. Clunking weights crashing to the ground and thumping overhead music threatened to drown out his soft voice, but he instead stood close enough for you to hear him clearly. In the early morning the gym was alight with energy from keen soldiers you shared the barracks with, like a communal watering hole for these living weapons. It's an environment you're familiar enough with within this career, but your specialization tends to bring you closer to the libraries or computer rooms rather than a proper gym. 

When you'd rolled out of your bed earlier in the morning, you caught a glimpse through your window of the boys disappearing into another one of those jeeps. The same one they'd slipped away in previously, but this time shrouded in the morning twilight. It looked like they'd returned. In one of the instances when you were knocked on your back, you saw an upside-down vision of your four comrades gathering around a rack of weights. Gaz and Price nodded politely, and Soap howled a laugh at your current position, shouting something like 'Keep up the good work, Cricket' to you over the commotion in the bustling gym. Yeah, that's fair. You couldn't entirely see Ghost's perspective from this angle, but the white of his mask was definitely facing you. Fucker has a staring problem. That much is clear. He must be used to getting away with it too, he almost seemed unsettled when you met his gaze with a matching challenge. However, that habit was drilled out of you pretty quickly when Lorenzo made a point of emphasizing situational awareness once you rose to your feet again. A gentle thumb and pointer finger tilting your chin back to his attention made it clear, a simple touch with heart-melting effectiveness. The thing is, this was you practicing situational awareness; keeping an eye on the only actual threat in the room. 

He thanked you for spending the time to train with him, a courtesy that rang as entirely foreign. The notion that your attendance might not be the default expectation, but rather gracious voluntary attendance made your heart soar. It felt good to feel wanted. His showering appreciation took time to sink in, like rain in the desert, but when it did you felt yourself glowing with newfound self-confidence. It made you want to put your heart into everything. Even when your scrimmaging was done and you found yourself enjoying a hearty lunch, that radiance didn't fade. You had the whole day to yourself once your time with Lorenzo was done, a day to follow your heart to wherever the wind takes you. 

And the wind brought you under a lemon tree, reading case studies and Italian language introduction booklets, occasionally opting for a bit of people-watching. This was an uncommon amount of free time. The world looks so different when you have warm meals every day and a soft bed to retire to. It feels more gentle, like rough edges are being eroded to make way for more complex thoughts than basic survival. Despite a few bruises and aching neck muscles, you felt fantastic. The most darling idea struck you as a cherry and peach flavoured sunset illuminated a clear sky.

You scrounged together a cup of hot tea from the vats at the cafeteria that held nearly-boiling water, thumbing through unremarkable flavours of black and green varieties. What you ended up with was more milk and sugar than tea, really. The porcelain mug scorched your fingertips as you walked down quiet halls. You discovered a second floor on one of the trips to explore the executive officer's building where you passed off exploratory expeditions as getting 'lost.' It was almost exclusively offices, but past a corridor that led to a hallway, there was a broad balcony just past two opposite sets of slender wood doors. More auburn tiles, slightly weathered and mossy between the cracks from years of exposure to the elements covered a half-sheltered terrace. Whitewood railings cast elongated shadows that stretched nearly the entirety of the available floor space. 

Black ironwork chairs would be the best place to perch, take in the sunset, and enjoy your tea made just how you like it. Even though this might be the best time to consider your circumstances and ponder your satisfaction, you opted for silence. No churning thoughts, just fluttering pigeons and the odd bat as the sun crept to kiss the horizon. The air was warm, but you were thankful for a hoodie that you could zipper around your legs when you pulled them to your chest. Tranquil silence was occasionally interrupted by a blaring jet engine as a new aviator tore down the runway, but other than that, it was a perfect paradise. Fleeting but effective. 

"How's your training?" A familiar voice over your shoulder made you flinch, nearly spilling hot tea on your lap. 

"You tell me. You were watching the whole time," you grumbled back to Ghost, eyeing him cautiously as he settled himself at the railing a few paces away from you.

"Well, you couldn't exactly get worse," he teased, efficiently choosing to sit in an iron chair beside you. 

Humour had faded on you. It gave you a chance to glare at him coldly, seeing a pale grey and slightly fuzzy jacket looming. No skull plate this time, instead wearing that dumb skull-patterned balaclava with red and orange tinted ballistic sunglasses. Wow, a new outfit. How rare. His change in fashion must have given him the confidence to feel like he's welcome to interrupt your quiet time, waltzing in like he owns the place. He seemed more than eager to kick his feet out before him, reclining in the ironwork chair without a care in the world. 

"You're a real prick, y'know that? It's like you go out of your way to be vicious," you spoke into another long sip of tea.

"It's just banter Cricket, I'm not trying to insult you," he sighed nonchalantly, folding his arms over his broad chest.

"Thanks, I'm cured," your scorning words deflected his attempt to portray a calm demeanour. 

He scoffed at your retort. Taking in an audibly deep breath as if to buy time for a response, though not enough to spare you from nearly a minute of timid silence. 

"I'm hard on you because I want to see you become a better person, a better soldier. Not because I'm disappointed."

"You can't just prescribe a new meaning to words you've already said," you countered coldly. 

You simmered in his words. Searching for some distantly manipulative meaning. Laswell probably put him up to this, like that time she gave Gaz and Soap the task of baking you that cake as an apology for being assholes. Finally a fraction of humanity. Maybe. Somehow there was still a change in the air, not just due to the sun dipping below a distant skyline. 

"Cricket… I'm proud of how far you've come. Really."

"See, not that hard, is it," you spat back. 

He let out a sharp exhale in the form of a chuckle. It's like he can't take your outrage seriously. By now, the sun had fully set, and dwindling twilight no longer provided and distant floodlights flashed awake on the surrounding terraces. He's still wearing those fucking sunglasses, even in this light. Showoff. Another sip of tea, now lukewarm. You sat in silence. Maybe ten minutes, possibly twenty. Dead silence. So much silence that a handful of bats that hid in an overhead vent felt the coast was clear to prowl for the night, shooting over your head in dark blurs. 

"You're too arrogant, y'know that? Sometimes I can't fucking stand being around you." 

"That's a shame, maybe I'll have to find someone else to fuck when I get bored," you could practically hear the smirk on his lips through the balaclava.

You shot to your feet in outrage. He lazily rose too. Your mug toppled from your grip in the commotion, spilling milky tea across mossy tile. 

"Best of luck to her," you purred back with a sick grin, turning to face the sky again. "Tell her that you look so glorious when you're tied up. Begging like a dog." 

Another huff of a laugh from him as if you'd responded with some polite banter. But it wasn't polite banter. It was calculated shots at his colossal ego, thinly veiled by a monotone voice. Now would be an excellent time to get up and leave. It would send a powerful message. Something compelled you to stay, to see how far you could string this out. He wants to make you feel like you're replaceable? Maybe you should help him understand how replaceable he is too. The chilly evening breeze breathed down the zipper of your hoodie where cool air danced over damp skin. It's a gorgeous night to be a cunt. 

"Tell me, do you really think girls are charmed by your monotonous hostility? Personally, I find it boring." 

"You'd be surprised by my persuasiveness." 

"I haven't seen such persuasiveness."

"Because I've never needed to persuade you," he spoke in a gravelly voice that oozed from his throat like warm honey, it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

"You never persuaded me. You were just convenient," you snarked back. 

"Oh? You don't think I can be charming if I actually tried?" he mused, turning to look at you with eyes alight.

'I'm not questioning the range of your ability to be charming. I'm just denying its existence altogether."

"You haven't seen me try," he grumbled down to you, nearly a whisper. 

"And nor you, me," you refused to lower your voice to match his tone, retaining your composure at all costs. 

"No?" Amusement lit up in his voice. "I remember you cuddling up to that Russian mobster on the yacht. Whispering sweet nothings, curled up on his lap," he mocked in his vain accent, hot breath from a low chuckle touched your nose as he spoke.

The flash of embarrassment he tried to squeeze from you was quickly ejected from your psyche. In that moment, you reached a new understanding of his personality, an epiphany that made his entire being make so much sense. 

"I didn't take you for the jealous type," you pouted diabolically, your fresh confidence making you giddy to continue this thread. 

"Don't flatter yourself," he spoke dangerously close to you, leaning down to meet your eye level. "I'm just calling your bullshit," his words felt like a palm on your spine, contrasting their meaning.

His body heat was radiating on your skin. Every atom in your body begged you to slam your shin into his groin and dig your thumbs through those sunglasses to send splintering red and orange plastic into his eyes. You could probably do it too, this new training has given you the confidence to at least give him a run for his money. If you're quick and unpredictable, you might just get a solid shot in before he inevitably stops you. Something held you back, a knot in your stomach. 

"No?" you repeated the word back to him. "That's fine, I'll find myself another slut to fuck when I get bored too. I think Lorenzo is interested, I think I might take him for a ride instead." 

Sick amusement lit up in half-lidded eyes staring down at you past the tint. He's smirking at your threat. If it even is a threat. He holds no social power over you. No relationship, no expected trust between you two. Not even a suggestion of loyalty. You'd be entirely within all rights to bring your trainer back to your room for the night, and maybe a few more nights after that as well. It's the way Ghost was staring down at you that made your blood heat. An unrecognizable expression, entirely foreign even if you could see the whole of it. 

"What's the matter, lost your touch?" you pressed with velvety spite. 

Words will never be able to articulate how good it feels to make him feel small. Challenge his obtuse confidence and sow sand under his pillars of arrogance. Your eyebrows knit together in feigned concern, and he had the gall to laugh again. You could see your own reflection in those sunglasses, though it's nice to know that the smug look on your face was clearly readable as cutting and venomous. 

"Goodnight, Cricket."

He doesn't get to end this discussion on his own terms as soon as you have the upper hand. His self-satisfied conclusion won't suffice. He'd already turned and started walking away toward the nearer exit, heavy boot steps soundlessly treading on terracotta tiles. You click your tongue in disgust. His footsteps stop. Yours don't. You turn to leave the other way, opting for the long way back to your dorms despite yours both being just doors away from each other. 

Electricity in your footsteps made you nearly skip back to your room the second you rounded the corner into the main corridor. Footsteps flurried down the stairs to approach your dorm, opting to hang on to the mug until morning rather than make an effort to return it to the cafeteria. Surely the kitchen staff won't mind. It's just that you're far too wound up, more wound up than you'd expected. Nothing another cool shower wouldn't fix when your initial attempt to relax into your bed was a failure. 

There was so much on the horizon. Exciting training with an instructor who actually sees you as a human being, and a unique excuse to escape the barracks and explore the inner city. Tomorrow, you've been given leave to finish the shopping that dress Laswell recommended. When you mentioned you were off to buy a dress for this grand event, Lorenzo promised to go easy on you next time, even when you insisted that the promise was another 'rule.' It would be easy to let the fact that you're not a guest of honour grind your gears, but a pleasant evening made you a hopeless optimist. Despite Ghost's intervention. Tomorrow was an opportunity to reconnect with your identity again. No more black tees and standard ordinary uniforms. Tomorrow, in the brick streets of the inner city shopping to your heart's content, you'll be in full control. Nobody can take that from you. 

Chapter Text

A cruel idea struck you when you noticed Ghost's line of sight on your training from across the gym. Lorenzo promised to go easy on you in the wake of your upcoming venture into the city, but you had no intention of being docile. You don't have to turn and look to know he's watching either, pretending like he's interested in hearing whatever Price is barking. It's just something you can feel. Intuition, maybe. Or maybe you're just wise enough to know that nothing escapes those sniper's eyes, sharp enough to spot a catfish at the bottom of a lake. In this windowless training ground, there's an opportunity to put that jealous allegation to the test, especially when today's training mainly focuses on takedowns. It's the perfect time to faff around with your trainer a bit, a socially acceptable way to bump and grind on one another, free of repercussions or second glances. Except for ones from those who matter. 

It seems that Lorenzo caught onto your drift pretty quickly, though he may just be eager to put his all into today's training. Those hands were smooth and soft, his grapple gripping your bicep like silk ropes. Once again, you brought him down from an upright position, even after he tried to sweep your legs and topple your balance. You sat astride him, wrenching his things from kicking under you with a sturdy stance. A flash of brown curls and olive skin whirred past your vision. He seemed to be stunned by the sudden onslaught, but an unconsidered method of wrenching your knees away from under you left you planted under his grip.

This tumbling match had the bonus side effect of teaching you valuable lessons about redistributed body weight. Your scuffle carried on for nearly half an hour with increasingly heaving breaths. Occasionally catching dark eyes from the corner of your vision, electricity made your fingertips tingle. After enough clothed heavy petting disguised as pins and holds, the time came to stretch before you bow out. When you met his pale eyes, they were scorching, sending shivers down your spine. Your heart thundered in your ears. Taking a seat on stiff foam flooring to stretch, meaningful words finally shattered the silence. 

"Any closing thoughts? How did I do?" You smiled, folding to stretch your calf. 

"I think your brain is foggy. You spend too much time with men, they make you brutish and heavy-handed," Lorenzo noted, knitting his fingers together between his knees. 

"I don't have much choice in my coworkers, unfortunately."

"Get out, explore the world. My Uccellino spends too much time in her cage. Don't you ever just leave and get away?"

"I wish. But it's not that easy. I need to be ready to move at a moment's notice."

"You'll be no use to them if you're wound up and stir-crazy with nothing but soldiers to keep you company."

"And what, rent a sports car? Go for joyrides?" A disbelieving grin pulled at your cheeks.

"Why not?"

"Why not? " you mused, scoffing. "I'm in the military. Deployed on a task force… it's a lot of paperwork to leave for more than a single afternoon within walking distance from the base, and that's assuming they approve it. I can't just drive into the sunset even if I wanted to."

After a pause, his eyes glinted with mischief. "You play by the rules too much, little bird." 

"I seem to recall you making half a dozen rules for me to follow on day one," you mused, rising to your feet lazily. He followed your lead obediently. 

The truth is, you don't always play by the rules. In a flash you recalled dozens of times you've bent or broken rules. You already have a compromising history with your lieutenant. On paper, it would be written as a relationship that could threaten the impartiality you need for this job; in reality, it's nothing like a relationship. But that's not a distinction your superiors will likely care to hear you out on. 

"Tomorrow we train at dusk, Uccellino. Meet me in the old building, the grey one on the far end of the landing strip," Lorenzo smiled sweetly, pulling you into another tender hug that signified the end of your scrimmage.

Another quick shower and you were good to go. Having no purse meant you'd have to juggle your wallet and phone, though the former could easily be changed once you get into town. It makes no sense as to the plausibility of how Laswell managed to get replacements of your bank cards and IDs into this CIA-emblemed wallet, but some questions are better left unanswered. 'They' probably have access to every bank statement you've received since you were sixteen, so it's not even worth panicking over the lack of privacy now. If anything, it makes you more proud that you do have some secrets that are beyond their scope. Beyond the all-seeing eye of the mysterious 'They.' Slipping through one corridor and another, you finally reached the main entrance of the barracks, where a short paved road led to the nearby inner city. This time, there won't be a gaggle of friends to guide you in making a stylish choice, so you're flying blind on sheer instinct. 

Hot sun heated your bare forearms, but a smooth breeze kissed away the discomfort. You couldn't have asked for a clearer sky. On the other side of the road where you walked was a hilly terrace where marching soldiers ran brutal cardio drills on yellowing grass. It's like you're slipping away from this little ecosystem you've found yourself in and stepping into a new climate. The last time you stepped into a city, the first person you talked to got whacked by the cartel, so the prospect of striking up a conversation with the locals in this foreign habitat struck you as a bad idea. Just as you were close enough to consider the geometric patterns of interlocking tiles of approaching Tuscan roofing, an intentionally loud boot scuff behind you made you flinch. 

"Oh for fuck's sake…" you sighed. 

Three familiar silhouettes make their way toward you with tall shadows, closer than expected. They all looked like three different flavours of the exact same outfit. A simple tee shirt and the same standard military khakis that everyone gets in their pack, and those same dull brown sneaker-boot hybrid shoes. The exact same outfit as yours. They better not be planning on following you. A sense of embarrassment washed over you at the thought of wandering through town with these three pit bulls on your ankles. This was supposed to be your 'me time.' Your time to explore your own interests. 

"Did you think we'd let you go alone?" Soap called over the sound of a nearby jet takeoff. 

"Yes, I did."

"Too bad," Gaz sauntered over to you, putting an arm around your neck and pulling you into a brotherly chokehold. 

"Soap needs to pick up a dress for the event, too," Ghost jested, eliciting a snicker from Gaz.

"Actually I believe you mean a kilt," Soap raised his palms defensively, hotly correcting Ghost's allegation. 

"I fail to see how any of this is an invitation to follow me," you groaned, failing to fight off the creeping grin and ducking away from Gaz's arm. 

"I'll take any excuse to leave the base. S' fucking boring. If I have to spend one more minute in that tiny blimming gym with recruits everywhere, I'll fling myself onto the tarmac," Soap rambled in a thick accent that made his words barely distinguishable, even for a career linguist. 

It seems like you didn't have much of a choice as they all already started walking toward town. So much for Lorenzo's advice to discover yourself away from these guys, because it seems you're now tied to them for the foreseeable future. Not that you minded though; Soap and Gaz always have a way of brightening up a conversation when they're not in 'work mode.' It's Ghost that's the oddball. You'd never expect him to willingly join you lot on this excursion. More likely than not, it's not willing, and Soap or Price guilted him into coming on a little field trip to get him out of the base. The look in his eyes behind his balaclava concurred with that plotline. 

As the city drew nearer, tall, slender trees blotted out the sun for split seconds as you passed, creating a landing strip for you to step under sprawling archways. In some alleyways you could easily touch neighbouring walls with either hand, and in some blocks you could see clotheslines and sunbathing locals drinking in the early afternoon sun. You could easily get lost in the architecture and the beauty of it all. No parking lots or chain convenience stores, just lively cafes and the odd street busker. Background banter broke your pathfinding concentration, bidding your attention with the usage of your name.

"Which of us has the best fashion sense, Cricket?" Gaz asked slyly. 

"Hmm. It has to be Gaz," you smiled after some thought. 

"What?" Soap decried, though his intentions were drowned out by Gaz's howling in approval. 

"I'd say it's LT, he's grim, but at least he's got a vibe to 'im, y'know?" Gaz added.

"I have a vibe," Soap cursed under his breath. 

"I don't want fashion advice from Ghost… I'll end up with a dress made of skinned cats and skulls," you snarked, turning over your shoulder to catch his reaction.

But he wasn't looking your way. He seemed vaguely disinterested in the conversation, glazed over eyes watching the upcoming city. Surprising, he won't take an opportunity to stroke his own ego. His loss. The paved road made way for yellow brick streets of pale interlocking stones, radiating afternoon warmth even through your boots. It's lucky that this base was so close to a posh shopping district, where tall multistory buildings lined with cloth canopies advertising exquisite fineries. 

The first store you stepped into was a bust. You barely spent more than two minutes within the racks before you got the gist; a bridal store, as if the ivory gowns in the glass display weren't enough of a clue. Your comrades refused to step foot past the thresholds of the boutiques, like vampires stepping into the light; it's against their nature in every way. Their disinterest was also met with a hearty warning that three buff men stepping into a store might scare the hell out of the poor shopkeep. It's just an unnecessary level of anxiety for both parties that can be easily avoided. 

The next store was closer to what you were looking for, but the dresses seemed a bit too… indiscreet. Low plunging necklines and dramatic thigh slits don't exactly ring as something you should wear at work— even if it would be hilarious to show up in such a gown and steal the spotlight that's rightfully yours anyway. You could do it too, and a red silky number with sultry black lace would send a message. Regrettably, this noxiously perfumed boutique isn't the one.   

A few more stops came and went, and your once-willing colleagues started to make their protests known. It took you snapping back at them that this was their idea before they began to recognize that their moaning and groaning would only drag this out farther. And you could drag this out much farther. At least their banter made for pleasant company as you navigated the narrow streets. You had one last stop on this street before you'd have to circle back and lower your standards. A remarkably modern storefront, clearly newly renovated with sleek floor-length windows and tidy cedars out front. The boys found a wall to perch on, a waist-high half-wall that bordered the brick walkway. Looks like it was once the foundation of a building that had been lost to time, a skeleton of its former self. 

When you've been to enough of these formalwear boutiques, they all start to look the same. The carpets all smell the same, the glossy mannequins look the same, the sultry pop music sounds the same. This one bundle of fabric caught your eye though. Behind a mannequin in a sequin dress, a folded lump of black. An unassuming sheet of flat black tulle until you lifted it free from the shelf. A petite little thing. On the hip, a single strand of tulle extended like a ribbon, inspiring you to imagine it fluttering gracefully in the wind as you walk. The thought made you smile weakly, just enough to sell you. It's entirely clear why it's not hanging on a rack with the others; the low dropped shoulders sat on either side of a heart-shaped neckline, making it resistant to regular hangers. Slim steaks of black fabric crossed over the bodice, settling on a romantic slope that'd reach just above your knee. Your bruised knee. Fuck, that'll take some makeup. The dress looked fitted, it's definitely the kind of thing you'll have to try on. No time. Your colleagues will probably maroon you if you take much longer. This one will have to do. 

Only when you were moments away from spilling the pile of black fabric on the counter did you remember the need for shoes and jewellery. Combat boots and dog tags don't exactly scream Black Tie, but this wouldn't be an issue to begin with if you were allowed to wear your formal military uniform. Sometimes, you just have to pick your battles. Without a thought, you palmed a seemingly suitable bauble from a cloth bust near the counter, a glossy dark jewel the centrepiece of four or five strings of pearls. Heavy in your palm and close fitting to your throat. You didn't even bother to consider the price, most likely you can afford it. You'd spent months deployed now without touching your account, plus you can probably write this off as a work-related expense. Lastly, you can't go wrong with black stilettos. Whatever. You just wanted to get back to base for chow. 

The cashier was sweet, a tall, slender woman with a chic blonde cut and dark roots. It'd be easy to mistake her as one of the mannequins if she wasn't politely smiling at you whenever you raised your eyes to her. Even her fingernails were elegant when she slipped your garments through the scanner. Slender and polished nails, a far cry from your split and cracked nails with dirt and God knows what else deep under the nailbeds. Days come when you crave the idea of a life like hers. Tranquil and mundane, where you'd have time to consider what colour to paint your nails each week. It's the idea of elegance always snags your intrigue, but you could never find the time to put those pipe dreams into practice. Not this time. This time, you get a say in how you look. Maybe being disgraced as a patron to this banquet held in your honour was a blessing in disguise, and this dress will be your 'fuck you' to their dereliction. 

A blast of warm air hit you as you stepped down the stone stair that elevated the boutique. In the minutes you spent inside, it seemed like the temperature had doubled, and the cool breeze from the sea no longer countered the scorching sun. Only one bird sat on the wire, forsaken by the other two. Poor Soap sat alone on the cracked foundation, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight as you approached. 

"So our comrades abandoned us?" You called, finding a seat on the cobblewall beside him. 

"Yeah, ya' took too bloody long…" Soap grinned. "Nah, they went to get us some gelato or something."

"Oh please, I was in and out in five minutes."

"So you found something? Finally." Soap nodded to the paper bag you held in your fingers. 

"It'll have to do," you sighed, sitting on the cobbled wall beside him, squinting at the gleaming sunlight. 

"I would've offered to help, but you scorned my sense of fashion already," crossing his arms in a huff.

"I can live with that."

"What's wrong with my style, oh wise one" Soap quipped.

"The mohawk," you sighed, kicking your feet absentmindedly. 

"The mohawk is badass," he snapped, offended.

"It's a bit goofy," a giggle paired with your words as you said them. 

"I don't do it for your approval, Cricket."

"I know. I can tell."

"Oh what, so you're the spokeswoman for all females then?" Soap turned to look at you, sporting that dumb smile when he's up to no good. "What do you know."

"Soap, you talk as if that goofy mohawk profoundly impacts all women who see it. What other women have you bounced the seductiveness of that hairstyle off? The only other woman you talk to is Laswell, and she's a lesbian. And married. And your boss."

"I'm pretty sure Farah said it looked cool once," he grumbled, kicking a rock with his boot as they dangled over the wall.

You didn't even need to respond to that one. You'd both burst into cackling in time for Ghost and Gaz's shadows to interrupt your ripostes. They each came with a paper cup of the before-mentioned gelato in either hand as they drew nearer. Sunshine like this made you envious of Gaz's sunglasses and cap, tools that would've been a game-changer in this heat. 

"Don't tell Price," Ghost murmured, handing you a cup.

What landed in your hands was an utter monstrosity of candy and sugar. Blue gelato, probably cotton candy flavour. Didn't know gelato could even be cotton candy flavoured. It came topped with a fistful of gummy bears that were rendered stiff by the chilled treat. 

"'Not in the meal plan,” Gaz warned, handing Soap's cup of what looked like lemon gelato covered in strawberries and mango, which matched his own. 

"I love secrets. They make for good blackmail," you smiled into the smooth plastic spoon. 

"I think the cashier thought he was about to get robbed, though," Gaz laughed, flicking his eyes at Ghost's balaclava. 

A simple movement in your peripheral made you nearly leap out of your skin in horror. As Soap praddled on about how he would've preferred something less sweet, a flash of pale flesh captured your attention from the corner of your eye. Ghost lifted his mask over his mouth, slipping a spoon of what smelled like cappuccino flavour into his mouth. The other two didn't seem bothered, entirely content to carry on like nothing. Like your famously anonymous colleague didn't just lift his mask free from his mouth, a percentage of his skin you'd never been able to get a clear look of. He must eat at some point, so this must be a relatively common sight. He had the wisdom to face away from the street and any nearby windows, casting your immediate vicinity into shadow. No matter how much the curiosity nagged, you didn't have the guts to get a direct look. It was more entertaining to watch Soap and Gaz bicker about the validity of mint ice cream anyway. They have a unique skill: always finding something to ramble about. Even Ghost stepped in to defend Gaz's 'it tastes like toothpaste' side. That made it easy to join Soap's side, no matter the fact that mint ice cream personally repulses you. 

It got you thinking about the flavours on your metaphorical plate right now, not the ones in the paper cup in your hand. You've found yourself at a fork in the road. It's like choosing between sugar and spice. Two choices, each clearly vying for your attention, whether they want to admit it or not. One is sugar sweet and tender, affectionate and sensitive. The other is bitter and cruel, cold but familiar. The truth of the matter is that you've always had a sweet tooth. 

Chapter Text

The more you look at it, there's something inherently funny about seeing these guys cross their arms. Their biceps, or maybe pectorals, are so big that they look like they have to strain to maintain a grip on their own arms. It's enough to make you snort, but not worth the verbal beratement you'd get if you chirped at any of them about it. It seems they've gone their whole careers looking corny because they're so muscular, and so few are willing to chirp at someone who could crack their spine like a glowstick. It only makes it more tempting. You'll have to be content with creepily studying them from a distance as they head out in clunky black kits and cruel blue jeans in this warm early afternoon sun. The loyal ducks filed into one of those deep green humvees, tearing down a gravel path toward a distant treeline. 

The officer's quarters are starting to fill up, and foreign diplomats in spangled uniforms peacock in this hilariously pedestrian setting. It's funny how they all stand the same way. Not just because they stand with the refined postures and straight-laced uniforms of someone who's spent far too long in the service. Occasionally, a few of them cycle between staring out the window at the training soldiers, hands folded behind them with puffed chests, satisfied. As if they're proud of their flock of lambs. Staring into oblivion, nodding with a frown as if to say 'at ease'. More than satisfied to continue gulping down bitter black coffee as if it makes them tougher than other people. They don't even look at you, but you don't mind. Your uniform, or lack thereof, lacks the chest candy to warrant a slapping handshake and a booming cackle. You didn't even have to spy the American flag on the loudest's sleeve to know his allegiance. 

People-watching was only the intermission, though. Being in such executive quarters means the library isn't exactly academic. Rather than case studies and textbooks, the library was occupied with poetry and a few fiction epics. The pristine papers were far too clean to be of the same calibre you're used to, still stiff and crackling with every turn of the page. You'd found some old Jane Austen books to pass the hours of the day, skimming through some pages, daydreaming past others. You also had a brand new cell phone that could be calibrated to your preferences, though it's sorely lacking familiar contacts. It's an excellent way to pretend to look unapproachable. 

Training isn't until dusk today, so you would have no reason not to enjoy the sunshine if it weren't for the cruel heat. Maybe your time in Al Mazrah has left you jaded to brutal heat and a punishing sun, or maybe people-watching peacocking out-of-touch generals whine about their 'bitch wives' is just too rich. Plus, they don't have reclining upholstered seats with crisp air conditioning out there under a lemon tree. It's just so easy to pass the time here, more leisurely than home in many ways. 

What's so bizarre is that there are nearly no requests of you during this idle time at the base. Here you are, an able-bodied and more than capable linguist who could easily be aiding in some sort of project. Even if it didn't involve said linguistic skills. Surely Laswell could use a hand with filing papers or something. Surely they didn't even need to keep you here in the first place. Sure, you were just rescued from that bunker just over a week ago, but medical clearance should mean you're entirely entitled to find a lovely cottage in the countryside by the sea to unwind in before heading home. It only occurred to you now, watching new faces in green pleats boast and bellow, that you realize they're intentionally keeping you. Why bring you to the gala in the first place? It's not like you're a guest of honour; they made that point clear the day you touched turf in Italy. 

Just then, you caught familiar faces in the courtyard through tall windows; rucking must not be enough for these boys. It seems like those hours slipped past faster than you were expecting. Cruising past cliques of troops in the busy afternoon, they aimed toward the shooting range with broad rectangular cases in hand. It's a gorgeous day, sunny and humid, just past noon. Even indoors, you could smell the hot concrete past the frigid air conditioning unit that was churning away above the table of Generals and Secretaries that sat across the room. 

A small pack of cats, maybe three or four, trailed Ghost's boots with high tails. A small grey one with snipped ears, some brown and orange calicos, and one remarkably fat tabby—that one has definitely found success in the stray lifestyle. A weak snort escaped your nose as you put together the pieces. You'd bet your life that he's been secretly feeding the little buggers at night or when no one is looking. From this angle, it looks like Soap is inquiring about the strays and laughing. Price is trying to shoo them from slipping past the steel door to the shooting range. Ghost seems to be posturing with that same cold ambivalence you knew well, opting to ignore their eager and targeted yowling in favour of retaining that on-so-spooky demeanour. 

With a few cups of coffee and some fresh fruit in your belly, the sun was finally low enough to mentally prepare yourself for Lorenzo's training. Low-light training makes sense; it's not like you'll always find contact in brightly lit football fields with floodlights smothering every shadow. If anything, nearly all combat you'll face will be in low lighting. It's not like there's anything better to do, so you might as well put the book back in the dusty library and make your way to the grey building Lorenzo mentioned at the end of the tarmac. 

He's already there, standing in a gym that looked like it hadn't been touched since the 1980s. In its age, it'd become a makeshift storage facility. Painted wood floors now house stacks upon stacks of neatly piled metal chairs. Old workout equipment, thick ropes for cardio training, and those grey plastic tables that fold in half are all relatively organized around the dim space. A few of the humming florescent lights tinkered with the strain of their apparent age.

"Hello, Uccelio," he drew fully into view. That voice always made your heart flutter. "You're early. This is okay, though."

"Let's not waste any time then," you hummed, stepping onto a cracked training mat that's definitely seen better days. 

Lorenzo seemed satisfied with the prospect. You were just eager to finish the training so you could get a good rest before tomorrow's tedious event. He ran those brown curls through his fingers, pondering his words as he stepped to circle your position. This man definitely has a way of leading lessons that teach you theory and practice in equal parts. After every session, you're left to reconsider existing moves and reflect on old instincts. 

"You know what makes you lucky, Miss Cricket? You're a woman." His tone sent shivers down your neck. 

"Men walk through life with a bullseye between their legs," he continued, his prowling now circling you in the opposite direction. "The wise soldier takes advantage of all of the enemy's weaknesses."

"The wiser soldier…" his monologue halted for dramatic effect. "-Can exploit those weaknesses with more than one method."

The way he's leading this session made you frown with amused confusion as his implication struck you. Does he think this is the first time you've used sexuality to take advantage of dumb suckers before? Does he think this is some profound and abstract thought that doesn't occur to every woman on the planet? He'd give you a gold star for your work on those Russian mobsters and cartel goons back in Mexico. The memories made you shiver, but in that instance, the successful outcome far outweighed the expected discomfort. 

"You have a womanly influence that can sink into a man's mind and soften him," he said, stepping closer, standing eye to eye. "And you have the advantage of being a pretty little bird."

Lorenzo's hand made contact with your wrist, and you wrenched yourself free without a second thought. It was textbook. Must be starting with the basics. Your heels hovered as you readied to spar. What confused you was when he tried the same move again. You wrenched again and broke free easily. But this time, his eyes had a different look, one you recognized from yesterday. His mouth collided with yours. What? You had to remember the action of kissing back. The action was alien to you as if you'd somehow forgotten how to ride a bike. For a moment, you leaned in, tasting his lips as he insisted. The wetness on his lips tasted sugar-sweet on yours. Yet your conscience receded.

He was mumbling something to you, but it wasn't registering in clarity. You have every skill and capacity to push him off, but you won't. You have every skill and capacity to lean into his touch. You're supposed to want this. He's been nothing but kind to you. He praises you and makes you feel special. Why do his fingertips feel like spiders on your skin? Muscles were stiff, instinctively protecting your neck for reasons beyond your comprehension. 

Fireworks on your skin teetered on the edge of feeling like sparked gunpowder, scratchy and sulphurous. The gunpowder feeling from his touch suddenly ceased as you came to terms with your body's subconscious recoiling, only to detonate. An explosion of pressure on your cheek, and he's shouting something. Carnal fear wraps you temporarily before instinctive mechanisms rebuke his suddenly hostile posture. He's getting close again, but those eyes are different. Terror, shock, wrath and the floor all collided with your skull, and in a single blink you were kicking slipping feet under you to scramble upright. Your cheek burned. The heat from a blossoming pinpoint strike throbbed; it made no sense. Doesn't he know you have a gala to go to tomorrow?

Sweaty palms flung the door open, wasting precious seconds to heave the wood and steel. Just as you passed the threshold, a heavy boot slammed the door shut on your heels. You caught the whites of the eyes of a few startled soldiers as you caught your feet under you. Amber lighting overhead no longer offered soothing comfort, but instead looking the colour of a distant flickering fire. Something in you was certain that the building was alight with hungry flames that would engulf your dorm room as you charged within. Anxiety and dread churned in your stomach in a thick knot. 

Time felt like an abstract hypothesis, an unfinished concept that was still in early beta. Once warming, plaster walls became grainy and hard. Why are you so rattled? It's not like you couldn't fight back– What's the last week been about if not teaching you how to fight back? Fighting back against him in particular, even. Maybe it was a part of the lesson? Things went wrong so fast, and it all stems from a lack of biochemistry. You had every reason to lean in. To invite the tension and unburden yourself as you've done before. It's not like he was expecting a relationship. The way he'd smile at you, the way he made you feel special and heard, it made you feel powerful. Important. Why do you have to constantly find a way to fuck up every good hand that you're dealt? 

At some point you'd made your way into bed. It felt like you were drunk, nearly blackout. Soft white sheets no longer offered the plush comfort you'd worshipped when you first arrived. They felt void of tooth, too slick, like you're in one of those sensory deprivation tanks. Darkness forced you to stew in your own thoughts with no outer stimuli. The only sensation that registered was the prickling pain on your cheek, and closing your eyes did nothing to soothe a racing mind. Tomorrow's a public-facing day; it'd be a cause for alarm if you showed up with a bruised cheek. Especially as a guest and not a clearly established uniformed soldier. Fuck, it's not like you're getting any sleep anyway. Rising with a groan, you were shocked at how dark it was. 02:24. How the fuck did five hours slip in a blink. Time is just slipping away here like this barracks is in some sort of black hole. An ice pack will numb the bitter nothingness that engulfs you, solving your problem in a backward sort of way. 

Familiar hallways were stark and barren, in that weird uncanny state all buildings get when everyone is asleep. That same common room you'd spent hours at earlier had low commercial lighting you'd expect from what's essentially a hotel. On the bright side, a small ordinary scullery unit had an ice machine that likely hadn't been cleaned in years, despite its modern appearance. Crunchy ice folded into a mat of tissues, moulding to your cheek with a damp chilling bite. Footsteps approached, and your heart sank. Fuck. Fuck, what are you supposed to say to him? Did he actually punch you? Maybe one of those stacked chairs hit you in some freak accident, and you took off like a spooked cat. Another instance when your emotions enraptured sense. Just as you readied your throat to speak, the bill of a baseball cap stepped into view from around the corner. It's Gaz. He noticed you, clicking a phone shut as he stepped to sit at one of the wood tables. 

"What're you doing up?" you asked, shifting your posture and fighting for control over the bundle of ice. 

"'Was just on the phone with my mum," he responded politely, tapping at the phone screen absently.

What wouldn't you do to talk to your own loved ones right now? 

"Is she back in the UK?" You forced a smile, pulling up a chair adjacent to him. 

"Nah- nah," he shook his head, finally setting the small phone on the wood table with a thump. "She's in Azerbaijan."

"It must be rare to have such a small time difference." 

"It's rare to get to speak to her at all, really," Gaz smiled, turning to look at you with a suddenly surprised expression. 

"What uhh-… What happened?" He continued, gesturing to the pack on your cheek with a furrowing gaze.

"Training," you chuckled. 

It's not a lie, and it's not entirely true either. It still made you sick to speak the word aloud. He nodded casually as if he understood entirely, but that relaxed look on his face faded. Reading into your face that you willed to retain calm stoicism. The air fell still. He's doubting your story but also too unsure to press further. Silence lingered, and your churning thoughts settled somewhat. Fuck. How are you going to train tomorrow? How do you recover from whatever the hell just happened? Pretend it didn't happen? Apologize? No, you didn't do anything wrong, but it'd make things less fucking awkward. The skills are useful, and he's a sweet man. He was a sweet man before he graced you by socking you in the cheek. Why did you recoil? How much of that was real? 

"You know that we always have your back, Cricket… You can talk to me."

He sucked air past his teeth, rocking back in a creaking seat once again. Ever the heart of the team, he folded his arms and leaned in again as if uncertain of what to do in this situation. You've seen this man crash through enemy compounds and gun down terrorists with uncanny accuracy, but trying to comfort you is a tool he never learned. 

"It's okay, Gaz," you smiled weakly, making sure to meet his eyes. "I'm fine. It's just one of those days," you laugh, forced and meek. 

You'd never seen this side of him before. It's not that you didn't want to talk to him because of his merit or personality. If there's anyone you feel you could bear your soul to, it would be Gaz. You just couldn't bring yourself to speak because silence was just more befitting, and silence in solitude didn't fit. It's an easy silence. With your eyes closed, you could hear him tapping on his phone screen again. There wasn't even a soul in the vicinity, and another friendly face was the life raft you needed. The ice in your makeshift icepack had long since melted, and you surrendered to the fact that it's now just a damp bundle of tissue.

Just when confusion starts to cease and make way for a clear idea of what you want, you're always sent back to the drawing board. Every time you feel control catch on your slipping grip, it's forcibly yanked from you by some punishing lesson. It feels like every instinct is wrong. All faith is askew. This so-called agency you've pursued has consistently brought you a solid gut punch in one way or another. The exhaustion from cyclic mental toiling leisurely set in. Over what might have been an hour, you'd seen him continuously try to shake off sleep, sighing deeply and adjusting his posture when the late hour started to get to him. At this point, it started to feel cruel. Cruel, but effectively comforted. When you rose to tell him you're off to bed, the back of your hand on his shoulder made him startle awake. Sleep won't be a guarantee, but at least you won't have thoughts of isolation and danger clouding your self-reflection. These guys might have your back through thick and thin, but it seems like they're powerless against your most significant threat to date– your own intuition. 

Chapter Text

The ground connected with your feet before you entirely understood what was what. In a panic, a rhythmic thump on a thick wooden door compelled you to stand at attention at morning call as if you were back in your first week of basic training. Light peeks through sheer orange curtains. You've slept in later than usual. Hours spent awake with your thoughts dug into dedicated sleeping time. That's when a surge of memories hit you in the form of a stone in your gut, recalling the cause for your aching cheekbone. For some reason you'd fallen asleep fully clothed, but it meant that whoever's on the other side of the door won't be meeting you in your skivvies. Your response timer is quickly elapsing, and the creaking door is flung open to reveal a familiar face. 

"Sergeant," Price wasted no time, crashing into a conversation as if you hadn't been asleep seconds before. "I have some bad news."

"What is it, Captain?" 

"It's about your trainer. Lorenzo," he leaned his shoulder on the doorframe, effectively locking you in your prison with an intense look.  

You swallowed hard. The bruise on your cheek probably says it all; probably horribly angry and purple from a night spent manifesting. Fuck. What if Lorenzo got to Price first and told some horrifying story of your deeply inappropriate behaviour. In truth, you have nothing to worry about, nothing that can't be explained away as training. But that's why they're called malicious lies. He wouldn't be so evil, right? Well, he did sock you for not immediately leaning into kissing him. Maybe you're just a poor judge of character. Down the hall, your other comrades were bickering about someone's shooting record, fighting for your attention as your captain fought to find words. 

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but he quit. Pretty unexpectedly," Price sighed, flashing you a crumpled piece of paper caught between his fingers. "I got a note on my desk sometime last night. 'Said there was a family emergency or something," he grumbled. 

A steady silence settled into the dialogue, manifesting an expression of concern made for an excellent way to disguise your racing mind. You sighed deeply, but it did little to relieve a building tension in your chest. Phantoms of words sat heavy on your tongue.

"But we'll get you a new trainer, someo-"

"Captain I- "  The words caught in your throat, simmering like acid under your collarbone as time stood still. "I've learned enough from my time with him. -Sir!"

The cool morning air became increasingly noticeable as his eyes bore down into you—icy blue eyes that weighed your soul below the wide brim of his hat. Your words made him squint for a second, turning to scratch his beard to consider your proposition. You studied his expression as he studied yours. The issue was that his expression was entirely unreadable. He was intense and stoic as always, almost flickering with humour, if anything. 

"We can talk more about this tomorrow," he responded flatly after a short period of consideration. "Laswell asks that you're set to go by 17:00. She'll meet you at the front."

"Yes, sir," you nodded dutifully, finally mustering enough willpower to meet his gaze. 

He seemed satisfied with this solution. Slapping his palm on the doorframe and smiling casually past his moustache. Price took it as a satisfactory conclusion to the issue, sighing deeply and nodding with a smile, excusing himself down the hall. You peeked to watched him leave, almost doubting the authenticity of the encounter entirely. He disappeared around another corner toward booming voices reverberating over slick plaster walls. No training, no expectations, the day is entirely your own for the time being. Your door clicked shut after a hearty creak, giving you the grace to cross the room to observe the aching blemish on your face. To your surprise, it's not as dark as you'd expected, and you'd become alarmingly adept at identifying how quickly and deeply bruises manifest. However, memories of a late-night ice pack quashed the lingering mystery as you rubbed sleep from sunken eyes. 

A stack of magazines in that dusty library will make suitable food for thought to pass the time, despite their publishing dates being barely within the decade. Scores of generals and patrons gradually made their way to the distant banquet hall that you'd vaguely overheard the location of. Only a ten-minute drive from the base, a grand section of a parliament building that's dedicated to hosting this type of event. Even when the afternoon quickly came and went, you spotted Laswell bustling down the corridors, echoing flats pattering over wood and stone. It's heartbreaking to see the sling that still cradles her arm, a result of your last mission, but it hardly seems to register as an impairment to her. 

It's always hard to gauge how long it takes to get ready. You can be out the door in half an hour for military formal wear, assuming your suit lapels and pants have already been ironed the night before. Makeup is a non-issue, and neither is finding a pair of matching shoes for your outfit. There's only one way you know to effectively style your hair, but that sort of defeats the purpose of finding your own personal style for this rare occasion. A tight military-style bun won't match your outfit, either. That black mass of tulle sat dormant in the same bag it'd been left in when you bought it. You could only hope it didn't wrinkle because there's no way you'd know how to get your hands on an ironing board. The nerve-wracking thought spurred you to leap into action. 

After a moment of trying to orient which direction was upright, you flung the dress onto white sheets. You looked at it, and it looked at you. Your final obstacle, except for maybe the shoes. Or the makeup. Or maybe the hair. In what order do you even do these things anyway? The black dress was more fitted than you were expecting, snug along your hips and waist. It didn't have quite as much cleavage as your getup in Mexico, but it's not entirely far off. The guidance of an unsettlingly upbeat tutorial you'd found on your phone will help you achieve a look you'd seen in one of those magazines. It only took you two tries to achieve the manicured 'effortless' look of updos that are supposed to make you look carefree and elegant. Frankly, it couldn't be farther from your actual psychological state. Stray strands tickled bare shoulders, a thoroughly unfamiliar sensation, but it somehow registered as pleasing. This is your reward for hard work, and when's the last time you've been able to doll yourself up and peacock among greatness? 

Coral gloss made your lips shine like fresh peaches. A quick swipe of flesh-coloured eyeblack in a pearlescent tin does the trick to mask dark under eyes, the consequence of a sleepless night. It'll also cover weeks of miscellaneous bruises that flaw your skin. Every time you were certain you'd smothered the last bruise in makeup, a new blemish manifested somewhere else on your body. Some came with memories of specific encounters, and some were mysteries that left you questioning any vitamin deficiencies. Glancing at the clock commands you to fulfill any remaining swipes and tucks before stepping into unbroken black stilettos that brought you down the stony corridor. 

Although the navy blue dress Laswell is wearing is modestly styled, it still doesn't register as natural to her. She seems more like the type to wear khakis and a dress shirt or sweater, but a knee-length fitted gown seems like the rare sight, tied together with a thin white belt. You'd bet your life that's her one formalwear dress that she breaks out on every once in a while if the occasion demands it. Either way, she's gesturing that you follow into the pedestrian black truck, and you kindly oblige. Hopefully your unsteady gate won't be too noticeable as you approach a cobbled pathway, feeling a cool breeze grace mostly bare shoulders. 

"I hope Italy has treated you well," Laswell smiled, gripping the steering wheel with her unbound arm.

Oh Kate, if you only knew the half of it. 

"It's a beautiful country," you smile sweetly as you swing into the passenger seat. "I could definitely get used to linen sheets and hot coffee."

"Don't get too attached. You're all headed to a new spot in a few days, another situation."

"Should I be worried?" you queried flatly, already expecting her incoming response. 

"Nothing to worry about for the time being. You'll be filled in when the boys are," she glanced at you, diffusing bubbling curiosity with a sober look. 

Small talk was easy with her, effortlessly crossing the barrier into friendly dialogue that flowed back and forth like a crashing tide. A sweet story of her honeymoon in Italy made for a surprising coincidence, finding time to travel with her wife along the same countryside you could barely spot when you drove over the crest of a hill. She complimented your dress, and something about it made you smile at the thought that that'll likely be the only recognition of your wardrobe all night. 

"I'm sorry to hear about Lorenzo," she sighed after a generous lapse in conversation.

"Do you know what happened?" you gulped, prying for additional context absent from Price's description.

"John said he left in quite a hurry," she sucked air through her teeth in thought. "Not even two weeks' notice or anything. But hopefully, we can get ahold of him again. Price said you were making good headway."

"I'd be interested in exploring other styles if that's okay with you- or... him," the words slipped over your tongue in an effort to dissuade that outcome. "My training in his style had reached diminishing returns anyways," you forced a relaxed grin. 

Laswell smiled with a pleased shrug, content with your selection. Your heart rate steadied from the initial spike in adrenaline that threatened to sweat away your carefully applied makeup. The whole situation still rang as bizarre, like your mind would only dabble in connecting your consciousness with the gravity of last night's encounter. The thick string of pearls around the collum of your throat constricted around your airway. But the thought was quickly swallowed as a new flow of dialogue as Laswell bemoaned how tiring these social events can be. A welcome change in pace and a welcome diversion from clamorous thoughts. 

At this event, you know no one. The only faces you might see will be occupied with ceremonial duties, likely standing at those gold-inlaid fences that Laswell pulls you up to. Definitely a parliament building, exquisitely carved pillars and painted statues adorne a square building, easily six stories high. A bowing sunset painted pristine white walls the colour of sherbert and salmon, a feast for the eyes save for the armed guards. And it was beyond evident that those guards had no intention of letting a single passing caravan go uninspected; you could spot matte firearms under crisp black suits, invisible to the untrained eye. An eye that Laswell shared, exchanging a knowing smirk as you stepped toward the gates.

An expansive and grand central room made itself known after a set of heavy gilded doors. Inset white panels along tall walls that reached an arching ceiling made way for grand chandeliers, each easily the size of a small Cessna. Lustrous tiles glimmered with shimmering specs of pearlescent stone, currently occupied by meandering footsteps from painstakingly polished shoes and stilettos. Even if you tried, not a single face in the crowd rang as familiar. Bustling bodies created warm and fragrant air that reeks of excellence and pomposity. Colognes and lotions that cost almost as much as the clinking glasses of rich amber liquid and gems so sparkly they looked like they'd charge you just to observe them. 

Laswell stopped every few patrons, chatting and sharing polite handshakes with enthusiastic guests. It's hard to say what's more embarrassing; being Laswell's awkward and helpless-looking company or being at this gala to begin with. The more you spied shimmering gowns and bubbling champagne flutes, the more you realized how out of place you were. Even the music was eerie, upbeat and carefully rehearsed orchestral melodies on harp and piano, only somewhat drowned out by a steady murmur of conversation. It's clearly enough to get them to forget why this event is happening to begin with. Another few steps further into the crowd, and another guest recognizes poor Laswell, who spared an exasperated glance in your direction as a way of bracing herself for a particularly rowdy decorated general. It's funny to see glimmers of her candour before she's thrust into another unsolicited and lively exchange. 

From the corner of your eye, just past a set of tables with exquisite displays of bouquets, sat another form of manicured display. Your comrades stood at attention in formal uniforms, living mannequins that help these wealthy aristocrats remember why they're here in the first place. Rows on rows of soldiers arranged like a choir stood with prim uniforms, some familiar, some not. Your four British companions stood shoulder to shoulder in their proper blue suits, packed neatly on the third row behind a legion of similarly dressed soldiers in green and grey suits. Black ties on white dress shirts made them look like prim little businessmen. You could tell them that they look absolutely precious in their darling blue uniforms, but if you did, they'd likely ring your head like a bell. It's hard to tell your allies apart at first, though that's the point of a uniform in the end. 

Past a bustle of some passing patrons, they were easy to spot in the group with their SAS tan beret prescribed to the elite rank. It's weird to see Gaz without a baseball cap and even weirder to see Price without his boonie hat. Ghost was easy to identify, standing a head taller than Gaz, and Soap was last in line. A flash of pale skin made you instinctively divert your gaze to avoid consuming the forbidden fruit. Curiosity compelled you to look back. A full balaclava with a skull plate crudely stitched overtop must not be included in the British Air Force No. 1 Dress Uniform, so he'd have to make do with an alternative. Instead, a black tube of fabric, not unlike a scarf, covered the lower half of his face, settling just below the bridge of his nose. It made him stand out, but maybe that's why they're all disgraced to the third row. You had to fight the urge to chuckle, spotting an unseen scar creating a notch spanning above his eyebrow, making him look like a victim of a hockey hazing ritual. Pale brown hair was horrifyingly visible in the short space between where the beret met the black facemask, and just observing it felt like a forbidden insight. 

Each soldier was sparkling with gold and silver multicoloured metals on their breast pocket, making it easy for figureheads and diplomats to separate themselves from the brutality of these soldiers' practice. How do they think they earned those Purple Hearts and King's Cross'? Stepping closer made you grin at the thought of testing their drilled obedience, daring any of them to flicker their trained gazes to spy your approach. You strain against the tight fabric to will your legs to bring you closer, fighting gravity to remain on tippy-toes. No dice, even when you stepped an arm's length from the front row. Such compliant little toy soldiers, playthings for exuberant patrons to collect and brag about, boasting association to the corresponding nationalities on many of their sleeves. So many of these faces were noticeably absent from this recent conflict, save for a few of the helicopter crew you identified in the back row. Farah and her moustached familiar were notably absent, though that's far from a surprise. She seems like the type to sooner fling herself from one of those overhead balconies than be eye candy to politicians. 

Perhaps you just didn't notice these thirty-odd soldiers with polished medals when those four raided that hellish quarry back in Al Mazrah. Maybe their presence just slipped past you when you were transcribing those transcripts and interviewing the terrorized citizens. Possibly they were standing at attention in the background while you and Ghost brutalized vital information out of a cartel terrorist? It's an easy thing to miss, especially with their rows upon rows of shining chest candy that catches every stray light and jingles like sleighbells.

Closer inspection made you flinch in confusion. At the far end of the third row, just beside Soap, a shorter figure stood a head shorter than the Scot. What made your gaze furrow further was the fact that she looked so similar to you. Your same hair, complexion, even eyes matched yours. Her jaw was slightly rounder, with a few freckles you'd never been blessed with, but otherwise a near mirror. She too stood at attention, standing tall and proud in the deep blue formalwear of an American troop, lacking the light blue stripe on the side of her pants that your comrades sported. A recognizable badge on her chest denoted her affiliation as an Information Analyst, a similar pin to your own. Hopefully she's not your replacement, though Laswell did mention your trek to the next mission in the coming days. 

Maybe this is their cruel way of breaking the news? It's unbecomingly petty from someone as stark as Price, but maybe Lorenzo's unexpected resignation was the last straw after all. The thought of termination, paired with an unwelcome memory, made your dejected gaze fumble, only to catch onto something new. Out of all the things that are yet a mystery, those red scuffs and scrapes on Ghost's freshly bloodied knucklebones suddenly made the logic behind an unexpected resignation clear. 

Chapter Text

Passing servants looked almost alarmingly ecstatic, like their life purpose was to push another crystal flute of golden champagne between your fingers. Bored eyes conjured phantoms of snipers that flashed in your vision every time you glanced up to those balconies on the skyline of the ballroom. Those tables with long pleated tablecloths would be an excellent place to store some crouching armed soldiers, primed for sabotage. An improvised explosive could be wired into one of the orchestra's instrument cases, and this gala could be a mess of stone and steel before anyone knew what was where. Knowing how oblivious this crowd is, they could probably wheel in a couple of nuclear warheads on serving carts, and nobody would blink an eye, only asking if they're serving spinach puffs yet. 

This place seems to be far too well-manned for that kind of thing to happen, and if the security's worth their cost, they'd lurk where you don't even see them. It takes a trained eye to notice the translucent earpiece in a passing servant's ear or the bulletproof vest under the slightly frumpy pinstripe suit of a passing patron. Well hidden, props to them. But it'd take a lot more than good security to make this event tolerable. 

Blinding spotlights cutting through moody ambient lighting create a contrast that leaves ghosts of shapes and colours under your eyelids. Farah's face keeps flashing in your vision every time you blink. Something about this whole event keeps bringing your wandering mind back to that look she gave you when her squad rescued you from that bunker in Al Mazrah. That disgust she held when her American buddy mentioned the relief from foreign aid that would smooth things over. Something about her leaves you striving for her approval, like she's an older sister or a teacher you really like. Your thought was interrupted by your roaming gaze catching with an unknown woman's foxish eyes. Shit, she's coming over.

"I don't believe I've seen your face at one of these events before," she said, gliding to your side with a lilt of intrigue. 

Short, quaffed silver hair curled under her ears in a way that looked so effortlessly elegant. Even how she gripped a bubbling glass of champagne screamed how proud and refined she was as she raked over you with sly and amused eyes. She felt like the kind of woman you'd hate to have as a mother-in-law. 

"I'm just a guest. I'm not from here," you chimed in a manufactured tone. 

It felt like she was judging you, and her pleasing, practiced smile betrayed her. She was pretty by all definitions, in her silver years still graced with plush cheeks and gentle wrinkles that spoke of thousands of dollars worth of facials and surgeries. Her dress wasn't dissimilar from yours, another black gown but with puffed sleeves that reached her forearms. The inky fabric sat on her skin with purpose and intent where your dress clung to you with borderline reluctance. She made elegance look easy. 

"What's your name, sweet thing?" Her question sounded like a silky ballad in your ears. 

"Camila," you lied, easily. 

It felt more comfortable to lie. It's like sport, a way to pass the time. You'll sleep better at night if none of these perfumed cunts know a thing about you. Nothing about your name, nothing about where you come from, not even a word about what you do. It's a way to feel in control, or rather, like you can strip further control from them. 

"What's your name?" a glimpse of surprise flickered on her face as you asked her, but she smiled off assumed insult at a passing guest. 

"Meranda," she smiled through her lips, puckering at the seams with Botox.

"And where are you from, Camila?" Her voice sounded velvety smooth and almost sultry, and not quite American or British. 

"Madrid," you furthered the ruse, meeting her searching eyes. "What brings you to this gala, Meranda?" 

"My husband is an Intelligence Director," she spoke as if you're supposed to already know that. "He helped bring down the situation in Adal. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for him." 

You smiled back at her pleased grin, sweetly enough to conceal your bubbling distaste. Passing patrons shared a ghost of a kiss on either cheek with her, sharing those canned laughs and manufactured smiles before evaporating into the crowd. Temporary interventions of straight-necked guests, giving you ample time to study her mannerisms.

We wouldn't be here if it weren't for him. 

How rich. Looking down their nose at you, a nobody. If you're not a uniformed soldier they can temporarily worship, or a peer they can kiss the ass of; these people don't even want to breathe your same air. You'd bet everything you know and love that her husband's hands had nothing to do with Al Mazrah's final act. It's just highroller whiskey glasses and manicured French nails. Senators and diplomats, figureheads and CEOs. It must be nice, peaceful, even, to think that their inputs have any impact on whether or not more bones are in those dunes.

"Tell me, Meranda, has your husband ever been to Al Mazrah?" your sickeningly sweet tone, taking a sip from your own glass of golden champagne. 

Another smiling flock of passing guests nodded in your direction, easily content with moving along to sleaze their exalted selves toward another crowd. A pause smoothed over the conversation. She turned to look at you with a mastered open-mouth smile, studying your face with cutting and angular eyes. No matter how practiced and easy her smile might come to her, it does nothing to upend her vicious aura. It must feel alarming to upend her pride. Without even meeting your gaze, you watched her take a delighted and smooth sip from her crystal flute. Oh, to know the thoughts buzzing around under those silver locks. 

"Have a good night, Camila," even with words so audibly laced with ice, her smile still never left her lips and plush cheeks. 

Miranda guided your shoulders with the side of her arm to kiss either cheek into one of those imitation kisses that hovered over each cheek. She smelled like lavender and expensive musk, leaning into you enough to feel her non-existent body heat. If you're lucky, that's the kind of thing that'll unnerve her for the next while. And if she takes serious offence to your jab, Camila from Madrid better watch her back from a tragic and entirely accidental death. 

Occasionally you'd catch a flash of Laswell's blonde bangs in the crowd, buzzing around to her heart's discontent. Sometimes she looked like the one who needed rescue, but you knew full well that this is what she excels at, even if she might not always enjoy it. Usually, this kind of event isn't much of an issue. The pomp and phony laughing is a bit irritating, but it's valid in the context of a graduation or a commemoration of some kind. It's warranted. And that's why it's tolerable. The difference is that those celebrations with champagne and pearls are celebrating a personal accomplishment of some sort. Even beyond that, a graduation ceremony comes with some sort of understanding of what it took to get there, tedious lectures and essays, and hours and hours of time spent pouring over details. Instead, this gala celebrates the harvest from seeds they never sowed, reaping the rewards of untended fruits. A microphone squealing to life with a thundering rapping commanded your attention to crimson curtains on the opposite end of the ballroom, cruelly interrupting your brooding. 

"Hello, Hello- Thank you. Yes, it is fantastic to see you all here today. We gather today not just to celebrate a peaceful resolution to the conflict in Adal, but a testament to the unwavering spirit of international cooperation," a silver-haired man with dark skin spoke into the microphone with a thunderous and raspy voice. 

Peaceful? They firebombed a city. 

He'd barely spoken a sentence before he felt the need to fish a fistful of queue cards from within a dark suit. The band had ground to a halt, bowstrings standing straight in the air as all eyes fell on the speaker at the room's far end. This would be an excellent time for you to slip away. If only. 

"Justice was brought to Adal thanks to shared intelligence, relentless diplomacy, and unwavering courage. We owe our respect to our administrative personnel who toiled tirelessly, often unseen, making sure what needed to get done was done," he delivered those last few words with an extra punch that made the audience erupt into applause. 

'Often unseen.' Yeah, that's one way to put it. 

Your eyes glazed over when the esteemed announcer started sharing famous names and titles for figureheads whose sleepless nights destroyed the Separatist terrorist group in Al Mazrah and brought justice for the London attacks. Everyone wants a piece of the credit when things go well, even if not according to plan. It's hard to feel high and mighty, though. You're not gloating about a conflict that came to a so-called peaceful resolution without your input because what you actually did was worse. It's unlikely that these wise and patronizing senators and lawmakers would think highly of your torture and execution of some random guy you found in the desert. It was luck that he had the correct information, really. You're both on the wrong side of different coins. 

At least the champagne was sweet, but having more than two glasses hardly seems socially acceptable. Not that these peoples' opinions matter much to you, not to mention that you'll probably never see most of them again. It's funny how social dictation still has you in such a chokehold, even in situations like this. Your attention brought you to glance over your shoulder back to the choir of decorated soldiers standing tall and proud. Their ties are faultlessly straight, their suit lapels adorned just so. Poor Soap would probably take a ballgown and heels any day over having to stand so painfully still in a stuffy blue suit for at least three hours, so far. 

Your comrades on the literal pedestal are known, revered. They are respected as loyal dogs who they can sick on whatever enemy they desire. You, however, are no one. No famous callsign with a recognizable and sinister motif. Just Lua Grant, some random fucking linguist that happens to be associated with this band of ghouls. It leaves you wondering why you even care for the recognition to begin with. You're clearly disgusted by these diplomats and politicians and their wives, so why are you so eager to be up there with your comrades? Knowing yourself, you'd probably be just as miserable if you were standing next to them anyway. 

Thundering applause snapped you from your train of thought, nearly making you stumble on unsteady footing thanks to tall heels. You clapped your hands together in a polite pause mechanically, tapping your empty glass on one of the carried trays. 

"And thank you to our brave soldiers!" He shouted over the noise, eliciting a new octave from the applause. 

That felt like an insult to injury. Ah, yes, the people did the work you doled out. You caught Laswell's eyes from across the room, and she tipped her glass to you before drinking with a tight-lipped smile. You smiled back, but only to politely conceal bubbling discomfort. More than anything, you just couldn't wait to get on whatever new mission she had mentioned; hopefully that will distract you from feeling like you could bite the next perfumed senator that walks by. That seemed to be some kind of break-word for the soldiers, and like trained dolphins at an aquarium, they were relieved from their positions. One by one, row by row, they each broke form and disbanded, merging into the crowd below. 

The dress was tight around your ribs, making breathing laborious. Shoes chafed and rocked with every step. The insipid company looked down their nose at you. And as if things couldn't get more displeasing, more insulting, they were just about to. As grinning faces handed hearty bouquets of perfectly manicured flowers into the arms of awkwardly smiling guests, your eyes fell on that American Information Analyst. The one that's probably your replacement, knowing your luck thus far. She'd been surrounded by what looked like a small swarm of guests, pinstripes and silk, flocking to her like moths. A bouquet of stunning roses, blue like the sky and easily ten pounds, was placed in her arms that she eagerly cradled with a toothy smile. Far classier than the chintzy multicoloured assault-on-the-senses bouquets Chucky always gets you. You couldn't help but laugh at the significantly smaller crimson roses placed in your comrades' arms, bundles that they wordlessly set down on a table with others almost immediately after nodding politely at the donee. 

For some reason, that was it for you. That's the straw that broke the camel's back. Whining and prattling on about this event in the comfort of your own conscience can only get you so far, and sure, it is a welcome change from bunkers and abandoned buildings. But this luxury for the past few days doesn't undo the willful negligence of your efforts. Nausea breathed into your system as the orchestra resumed, a bittersweet upbeat tune that only further agitated your feelings of disgust. It's just too much. You have to get out of here. Part of you wanted to passive-aggressively congratulate your co-workers for their unwavering courage, but the sense of agitation and wrath overruled your senses. Before you knew what was where, you were sidling past a group of patrons, free from any 'excuse me,' you had no patience for pleasantries. There's got to be an exit somewhere. You'll make your own way back on foot, the walk in the cool night air would do you some good. Laswell can get back just fine. She'll probably get a parade thrown in her honour just for returning to base in one piece. Fuck this job, fuck this gala, fuck that stupid blue bouquet that should've been yours. 

Chapter Text

This career feels like you're running uphill on a sandy dune. Every step makes you slip, and as soon as you feel upward momentum, your feet are swept under you. Clawing all the way. Scalding sand punishes your palms, and sticks in barbed grains under your nails. Still, you know nothing else but to persist. Why? Why do you persist? Habit? Marble floors, sickeningly bright thanks to overhead chandeliers, clack under your heels as you surge through another hallway. You'd found an offshoot office area off the main ballroom, and green overhead signs directed your attention to a nearby fire escape. Lofty walls and vast spaces have a way of making you feel claustrophobic and strangled. 

There's a steel door at the end of that branching hall, easily missed if your head wasn't on a swivel. Cool metal stung your forearm, and you took a deep breath of reviving fresh air. In the coolness of the night a thin layer of mist hung in the air, making distant streetlights along the gilded fences become hazy. You were met with a terrace and a concrete sidewalk lining the periphery of the grand castle. As far as the eye could see from either end, smooth stone hugged tall gilded walls, illuminated in measured parts thanks to wall-mounted sconces. Gurgling fountains plated in gold and copper peppered the sprawling terrace, interrupted by angular shrubbery and drooping lemon trees. Not a petal out of place. Not a single fallen fruit was left decomposing in the turf. 

It took you nearly ten minutes to unwind from the initial outrage, pacing and digging pointed heels into the stone. The jaw-splitting agitation sapped you of the willpower to swallow creeping rage, cruelly contrasted by an occasional spike of hopelessness. Flattened grass spreads across your sight, linear and measured, taking in the feat of manpower with a wall of marble at your back. The distant murmur of the gala goes on, thundering percussion piercing above the hum. Moths fluttered around balls of light, yet you'd settled on a space between their luminance, finding peace in the anonymity. But of course, there's no anonymity. Not around these guys. 

"Hey," a husky voice called to you from the shadows beside you. 

Your body didn't even flinch. It's expected at this point, as if privacy was never a consideration. That deep blue suit steps into your peripheral vision, but you can't stand to meet his approach. Hateful conviction made it impossible to respond, even if you wanted to. Enough built-up ice will hopefully make your body language readable as hostile, to the point where it might be possible to will the dancing mist into snow. Ghost has always had a habit of interrupting your brooding, which rarely ends well. 

"Cricket, what're you doing out here?"

"What're you doing out here? I'm sure there's someone wanting to lick your boots in there," you scoff, snarling your lip. "Just fuck off."

"You think I want to be in there?" he professed calmly, the whites of his button-down becoming visible in the edge of your vision as he approached. 

"Don't you," you spat, turning your shoulder to him. 

He seemed perfectly satisfied to stand there, getting his ass licked by the honourable mister-so-and-so and his stuck-up wife. Even from the corner of your unfocused gaze, flashes of silver and gold on his chest signified a long history with award ceremonies. You sucked your teeth, feeling tension in your jaw radiate down your neck. He should know he's the last company you're interested in seeing right now, that you're still far too prickly to talk to. Especially from him in his decorated suit. If only you could go back to being ignored by all. 

"Lu- Cricket, I can't stand any of those posh cunts either. 'Listen to that bollocks speech, how pleased they are with themselves," he scoffed coldly, huffing in agitation. "I couldn't give less of a shit." 

"Spoken like someone who actually gets rewarded for your hard work," you spat. 

He sighed deeply, turning away from you to follow your gaze back to the tree line. Tidy cypresses separated manicured grass from the untamed wilderness beyond. Neatly tucked out of view. Even so, you could smell the wilderness beyond, splitting wood and mulch, the kind of all-encompassing freshness that an expensive cologne can't mask. All it takes for a deer or bear is to cross that imaginary fence of tall cypress, yet they remain. They opt to remain in the gruff, untamed wild. Why?

"Try not to worry about what they think because they're only satisfied when you're doing their dirty work," his bassy words sang through your system. "They don't care about you. They don't care about me. They don't care about anyone but themselves. Just as long as you're useful to them, and never a second more."

His words churn in your thoughts, creating crashing waves that smooth down your rigid edges. A harsh reality, but reality nonetheless. Maybe the deer don't cross that barrier because they know they'll find no sustenance in inch-long grass and thorny rosebushes, opting to stay where belonging is inherent. Pesticides and bleached petals must not offer the same nourishment as the real thing. Nothing can ever match the real thing. Nature has a way of creating accidental perfection.

"Laswell's constantly singing your praises to anyone who'll listen," that low voice crawled back into your conscience. "She's always going on about your adaptability and willingness to get your hands dirty. Price too. He babies you,-"

"Price does not baby me," you shot back hotly. 

"Like hell he does," you saw his jaw work side to side as he spoke, words giddy and mocking. 

"No he doesn't!"

He laughs, even when you turn to face him. He really has the nerve to laugh, folding his arms and leaning on the stone wall as if to dig his heels in the mud. Looking up to face him drags your eyes to brown hair, rendered damp in the misty evening, catching beading droplets in the radiance of the overhead wall sconce. Loose strands fell out of place as he tilted down to meet your gaze, neat hair unravelled by the less-than-optimal climate. You wanted more than anything to smack that stupid beret off his head, but you could only hope your expression communicated that enough. 

"I've been in this task force longer than you, remember," the sternness in his tone sends a chill down your spine. "He never raises his voice at you, he's always worrying about where you sleep. He asks Soap and Gaz to check in on you and make sure you're alright. He's had me sleeping on concrete floors while you're in a cozy van or a cot," he'd worked himself into a breathy chuckle. 

“That van in Verdansk? I call bullshit," you scorned, rolling your eyes back to the misty skyline. "Laswell said there were five other bedrooms."

"She said that to make you feel better."

"They forced me to master a language in ten days, I was under my own kind of cruel stress. And that doesn't mean Price babies me," you furrowed your eyebrows in agitation. 

"Oh yeah? When's the last time you went rucking?" He cocked his head. 

Fuck. He had you beat there. But you couldn't just give up the game like that. Your arms folded over your chest in an attempt to solidify your posture. Mirroring his. He'd leaned forward in his onslaught, his blue suit puckering from the misalignment. Close enough to smell that standard-issue bar soap on his skin. And it always somehow smells better on him. Distracting. 

"I went in London while you were using up all your sick days, turning the barracks into your spa."

No response. He just chuckles at your words. It makes your nails dig into your bicep. You already knew you lost, that your logic is marred by emotion. There's just so much to think about right now. The gala, rucking, Laswell's clone, Price's alleged favouritism, Lorenzo, your satisfaction with this career, and, above all, how much you miss your own bed. Overworked emotions left you percolating with rage, numbed by the desperation on the precipice of understanding. Your feelings are just too raw to understand, and they pour out of you like water in cupped hands. All you've sacrificed, all you've seen, going above and beyond what's expected of you for nothing in return. He's staring at you, you can feel it. A wall of shadow from a tall figure in your peripheral. Your dress constricted around your ribcage. 

"Still," you huff, your voice creaking with strain. "It makes it hard to give a shit if I don't get any recognition."

"If I got recognized for everything I did in my career I'd get the chair," he spoke in a gravelly, monotone temper.

That one got you for some reason. Without thinking, a chuckle erupted from your throat, and he also seemed to share one. Maybe your hotness got the better of you, and this is just one dumb event where your name must've been written out of the formal recounts. Hell, Price did explicitly say that a lot of your work would be off the official record. You laughed, and you couldn't help but hear his low chuckling under your gasps. Tears stung in your eyes, tears conjured from a menacing cocktail of hormones and emotions clouding your intuition. Maybe a rose is just a rose, and a lack of recognition from snooty politicians shouldn't be how you define your self-worth. That doesn't mean Laswell and Price don't owe you explanations, but alas, your rank doesn't entitle you to their strategy. Warmth returned to your skin after considering Ghost's words, and maybe it's just inefficient to approach every conflict at once. The benefit of the doubt soothes razor-sharp trepidation enough to let you register just how uncomfortable these shoes are. 

"Who was that woman anyway? The American IA standing next to Soap?" You mused with a lifted spirit. 

A wickedness lit up in his eyes, enough to make you flinch. If you could see the lower half of his face you'd definitely see that cheeky grin Soap and Gaz always sport whenever they're up to something. 

"I didn't take you for the jealous type," he mused sadistically, boyishly using your words against you. 

"I'm being serious," you glare up at him from the corner of your eye. 

"I have no idea, you know as much as me."

"Did you see the bouquet they gave her? Fucking ridiculous," you scoff, trailing your eyes on a breeze that danced through leafy foliage in the distance. 

"Yeah, I don't like it," he spoke with a seriousness that caught you off guard.

"I know, like… she wasn't even there. The most she would've done was proofread my tr-"

"Cricket, don't you see how suspicious that is?" Ghost cut you off harshly, voice husky and cold.

The sudden change in tone gave you whiplash. Just as you were starting to get over the rage. 

"What?" you stumbled. 

"You get a lookalike taking your spot beside us, and she gets handed an unusually splendid and specific reward by a stranger?" 

"What are you saying?" you pressed, turning to face him fully. 

"I don't know. I don't know- but whatever it is, it's on Laswell's radar. If I were you, I'd continue on with business as usual and not fuck with whatever's going on behind the scenes," he commanded down to you with dark, intense eyes. 

His words were registering as complete sentences, but their meaning slipped from your grasp. A surge of panic struck you like lightning, then simmered back into confusion. A chill hung in the night air, making goosebumps prickle on your skin. He's staring down at you like you're supposed to understand his words and inherently understand whatever strategy he's describing. Is it a half-assed disregard for your hard work and an easy mistake, or is it a grand scheme that involves a mysterious enemy you'd picked up for some reason, and the CIA being involved, ominously sending you some sort of message through a bouquet? Occam's razor says the former is the obvious answer. It's also fair to think the guy who wears a mask to conceal his identity 24/7 might also have a penchant for being overly paranoid. Nonetheless, the thought sticks in your mind like a snag in a quilt. A tolling bell in the distance chimes ten times, reminding you of the existence of time and space in this humid void. 

"Do you want to go back insi-"

"No," you cut him off coldly, staring intensely at the tree line.

That's the last thing you wanted. Maybe. You can't entirely be sure what you wanted, even if you tried. Too many moving pieces, too many unknowns. It's overwhelming, like you're sinking in turbulent waters. New missions are on the horizon, all while you're scrambling to process the past ones. Crawling along when you're expected to sprint. You should be back inside, but you can't. The wobbly heels on your feet weld you to cool cement, effectively paralyzed. The past 48 hours alone are enough for a novella, yet you persist. Out of habit, perhaps. Even when the beams of light narrow and your vision darkens, electric fear wracks your sinews. It's creeping up on you, crackling with distress. 

It reminds you of advice your Uncle Chucky gave you once when he was utterly sloshed on margaritas. That in times like this, when you're overburdened and overwrought, to return to the simple things. Details lead to complications. People-pleasing creates faults in ethics. Approaching every issue at once breeds sloppiness. Take a breath, and simmer down your broth to its most basic parts. From there, you add ingredients, and not the other way around. What do you want? Not for a career, not for a lifetime aspiration or a sense of belonging. What do you want right this second? Well, that's pretty easy. 

"Wanna have sex?"

He responded to your words, barely, with a blink in shock. Those were likely the last words he was expecting, evident by a quick exhale he let out. Things went quiet, but you didn't have the mental fortitude to consider whether what you said was inappropriate. You'd stormed out of that glitzy ballroom, disappearing into obscurity and hoping to stay that way. Maybe something inside you wanted someone to follow you. Maybe something deeper knew it would be him. 

"Are you sure that's wh-" his voice was uncharacteristically soft.

"Ghost," you could only hope your cold gaze would be enough to communicate your disinterest in talking about that right now.

A message he received instantly. You knew what he was referring to, and he has no business to pry. Like before, it's just practical. Just a transactional relieving of pressure. Nothing more. Part of you refused to let him have that control over you. You won't let Lorenzo's spidery fingertips leave trails of malaise across your skin that hot showers don't wash down the drain. You can't. He can't be a blotch in your history. This part of you wants to reclaim your sexuality, to rewrite apprehension and a sleepless night. Another part of you fears the absence of your interest altogether, praying that every sexual encounter won't feel as hysteric as with your trainer. There's only one way to find out, only one way to test this theory. And if you run off screaming for the hills, something tells you Ghost won't hunt you. Even if he has the unique capacity to do so effectively. 

"You seem eager," he tilted his head back, staring down at you past his cheekbones. "That's quite a change in attitude."

He must know how that low grumbly tone he picks up affects you. A certain change in his delivery that makes his words come out like a rhythmic growl. It sets your skin on fire. Stay cool.

"What can I say, I'm a sucker for a man in uniform," you curl your lips into a shameless smirk. 

"And you've chosen a career where you're surrounded by men in uniform," he pressed with a lilt of amusement. 

"So you better hop to it."

Chapter Text

"I don't know, Sergeant," he said in a low, mocking tone, dragging out the words and leaving you lusting for every syllable. "You abandoned your post."

Words that are supposed to be threatening make your spine tingle and your breath quicken. Maybe that's part of why they make your skin electrify. Damp evening air becomes more prominent now that a thin layer of humid sweat is gathering over the skin on your heaving chest. The air you gulp in is cool on your teeth, but his expression is unreadable in the deeply cast shadow. 

"And here you stand," you breathed back, the words pour over your tongue.

"A rescue mission," he commanded in a gravelly murmur, turning to stand directly in front of you.

He should know by now that you have less than no interest in returning to that gallant circus. Especially not when the company out here is so much more intriguing. What Ghost has to offer is a simple, unencumbered satisfaction that no award could fulfill you with. More temporary than a medal or even a bouquet. But far more memorable. That certain achy needy discomfort returned, unshadowed by the dreading thought of a reappearance at that dumb fucking gala. 

"I'm not going back in there," you swore, holding your ground firmly. "You're welcome to report back to them with your failure, lieutenant," your palms planted against the marble wall to your back, knitting your hands under your tailbone. 

Holy hell, his body is so warm, radiating through you like a furnace. Polished shoes firmly planted on either side of yours effectively lock you in; no other option but to look up at his towering silhouette. Giddy muscles flinch in anticipation of his touch. He won't imbibe just yet. Why isn't he touching you? Slow, calculated breaths confirm that he's still living, but motionless like the dead. Even without a skeletal pattern on his mask, the black fabric still effectively makes him look like a vessel of vitriol. It's those dark eyes that sell it, you realize. Never the mask itself.

His body moves closer to yours. Pressing warm mass to your chest, his groin connecting to your lower stomach makes you gasp weakly. The silence only makes your mind spin faster, wracking your thoughts for possibilities and predictions. Screaming consciousness makes nearby bass and chatter nearly imperceptible. Here you are, between a rock and a hard place, as the back of your head met cool unforgiving stone. Just the act of drinking in his body heat with his chest pressing to yours is enough to make your tongue pool with sweet spit. 

"You don't have any zip ties in that coat, do you?" You sing softly, standing on your toes to whisper as close to his ear as you can muster. 

An exhale in the form of a low laugh pushes hair from your ear, and your skin runs slick with goosebumps. His eyes remain stoic but unquestionably entertained, making your heart sting whenever you meet them. 

"Funny," he growls, ever so slightly pressing himself more firmly against your form. 

Something about the words in his Manchester accent, or maybe his tone, makes your muscles burn. Get a grip, will you? The thought of someone seeing you struck for a moment, making your imagination create imagery of your shambling explanations and flushed faces. Your flushed face. He seems entirely stoic and cold, but his half-lidded eyes sing a different song. Just then, his hand touched your forearm. Hot, rough fingertips rippling over bare skin, manifesting into a firm grip. His body parting from yours left you aching for his body heat once again, but by the time the sensation manifested, you were already stumbling to follow his lead. 

Your shepherd drew you further into the misty void, stepping in uneasy stilettos on plush grass, feeling stray blades of grass tickling the sides of your feet. The night air was thick with the smell of grass and rain, singing sense into your superheated consciousness with their chill, with no luck. After only a few dozen stumbling steps, you saw the gravel trail just beyond a breech in the cypress barrier around these lush gardens. Distant cicadas murmur and chirp, gossiping about your approach, singing sweet, filthy nothings that bring a smirk to your lips.

A sentinel of security guards noted your absence. This won't be the first walk of shame the guards will oversee tonight, but you overestimate their role if you think they'll report your specific departure. They're just paid to make sure those pompous cunts stay as far away from actual combat as they typically do, and nothing more. Those are the rewards you reap when you're filling ceremonial roles with the promise of conditional loyalty and indifference. It made you giddy, if anything. Poor, bored, kitted guards in snooty suits, wishing they could slip into the darkness for a sneaky moonlit foxtrot. When your attention returned to the direction Ghost was leading you, your eyes fell on one of those same deep green trucks they've been utilizing for the past few weeks. 

It's not technically a military Humvee, but you'd be remiss to say it's a downgrade. Parked along a gravel road around the back of the massive, gallant stronghold of ornate marble and granite. He popped one of the back doors open, swinging it open to invite you. The darkness made it hard to see within, like you'd discovered a new shade of dark. A distant streetlight of black iron and gold leaf weakly illuminated a few of the other cars lining the gravel path, but not nearly entirely enough to let you identify any meaningful details inside this one. From the corner of your eye, you saw your lieutenant work to lift his jacket free from his chest, carefully peeling it off one arm and methodically drawing it down the other. 

You took it upon yourself to step into the back seat on your own, seeing as he didn't seem to have the patience to usher you like a proper gentleman. You overestimate him. Seats are cool to the touch, with slippery pleather that clings to damp skin on the back of your thighs. He'd just finished neatly folding his blue suit jacket in the front driver's seat along with his beret before he stepped into your adjacent door. The door slammed shut beside him with a thundering crash, then, deafening silence. The outside murmur had been stifled, no more distant bassy tempo or serenading cicadas. He sat neatly in his seat, and you yours. But that won’t last more than a few moments. So proper in his tidy white dress shirt and black tie, he looks like he's equipped for stock trading on Wall Street. His eyes were too hungry to be described as anything adjacent to something so innocent, though.

Turning side face in his seat, he turned to face you, wasting no time to crawl his hands across your body, sliding you over smooth, level seats. The back seat of this expansive truck unit could arguably be pinned as the rough size of a twin mattress if you excuse about a foot of length. It'll have to do, though, and he seemed to have no intention of waiting. Not that you did, either. You found yourself on your back, black rumpled fabric bunched under your tailbone, but suddenly, he was moving in the opposite direction from your expectations. Instead, he crept down to the hem of your skirt, and your elevated knees quivered at his approach. Obscured by the taught fabric of your dress, his face was effectively out of sight. His comfort was made evident by the foreign but delightful sensation of a hot, dragging sensation sliding across your slick panties. His damp tongue dragged over the cloth, a touch that set your nerves on fire, carrying on in tandem with your writhing pleading. Only when he decided you were thoroughly toyed with did he pinch the fabric between his teeth, dragging it free from your electrified skin. 

He knew just when to suck and nip. Toying with tension and pressure, lapping up sensitive nerves in a way that almost made you angry. Nobody who's this good hasn't done this before. It makes you wonder what other women have been subjected to this onslaught from his skilled tongue. It made you angry, seething for reasons that are beyond your understanding. How dare they. How dare he. Fuck. Logic melts into obscurity, and humid sweat makes fumbling hands slip and slide over slick car seats. And the introduction of his calloused digits into the fold was enough to tip you over the edge if you weren't nearly there already. It made you crazy, and he knew it. He knew it by the way your knuckles gripped his short, soft hair, urging him further. The muscles in your back arched your back as his tongue flicked over your most sensitive nerves with a cruel tempo. For a moment, you swore he laughed, feeling hot air puff over your weeping flesh after you let out a particularly desperate whine. 

Your palm met cool glass, misted from the change in climate, inside versus out. It squealed when your fingertips dragged down the window, but it rang as inaudible over the sounds of your own heartbeat in your ears and panting in your throat. He'd sometimes take the time to blow cool air over the bundle of nerves in a way that made you cry out in a way no one else has, dragging out the ecstasy and rendering you to relent. Inside your mouth, the flesh of your inner lip stung from the pressure of biting teeth, but it wasn't worth holding in your moans anymore. They seemed to fuel his vigour, anyway. Pumping fingers and a lashing tongue were enough to introduce your body to that familiar rising tension from the knot in your core. 

The orgasm wracked your system with a searing intensity that seized your muscles into strain, gasping at the air even when your lungs refused the intake. Trembling and riding searing pleasure he wrought that sapped you of your breath. He eagerly lapped up your nectar all the way through and beyond. Even though the tsunami had passed, your shores still tingled and lingered with molten electricity. 

"Did you enjoy that?" his gravelly, velvet voice cut through the sudden silence. 

"Fuck you," you'd yet to find it in you to compliment his efforts, as if your quivering muscles weren't clear enough. He won't indulge his ego by prying for praise on your watch. 

Like the masochist he is, he flicked his finger to strike your sensitive bundle of nerves, and it made your body feel like you'd been hit with cruel lightning. Searing, breath-sapping agony that made you yowl into the silence. The fucker was chuckling, and just as you found it within yourself to try to drive your thumbs into his eyes, he was climbing over you. Once again adorned in that black mask, now slipped up to his nose bridge, he fought your bucking resistance to climb between your legs. Pain still surged through your system like a struck bell, but clinking metal and a sharp, unmistakable note of a struck zipper only momentarily grounded your senses. 

Knees tightened around his hips, and your nails found the crisp sleeves of his white button-up. You fought his advance over your searing skin, but only for the purpose of making him fight more. And just in case he'd start to suspect genuine resistance, your arms crossed over your chest to relieve your shoulders of draping straps, effectively dragging tight fabric free from your heaving chest. Cool air breathed over eager nipples, and his breath halted entirely at the sight. Torrid skin made damp with beading sweat lingering remnants of throbbing agony set the context for his cock to kiss your entrance. It's everything you ever could've hoped for.

It's a relief to know this libido was still possible, where you'd come to fear the prospect of this being stripped from your system entirely. You could cry at the relief, fearing that some foreign phobia had manifested in your psyche. A life of renowned celibacy was possible if such were the case, perhaps stepping into the shoes of a nun. You had been spending weeks in a monastery turned barracks, so the sleeping situation wouldn't be too unfamiliar. Still, the humour of it all struck you as you lay on your back in the backseat of a van somewhere in Italy, feeling your lieutenant's dark tie drag over your bare chest as he thrust into you. It's safe to say your career as a nun is off the table, if it ever were there to begin with.

His size never fails to shock you, and you feel your face tighten from the strain. He's still patient enough to wait for your body to become accustomed to the burning agony. How courteous of him. Fucker. Even if it doesn't take long, your body melds to adjust by any means necessary. It didn't take long before you were writhing to meet his rhythm, eventually graduating into countering his every movement to optimize the friction. Bumping and grinding in the dim light, only the whites and his shirt visible in the twilight, raking desperate nails down the smooth, soft fabric. You'd take this over any champagne flute or senior orchestra any day. 

He seems to be okay with doing the hard labour this time around, though it's only fair considering the heavy lifting you had to do last time. It felt good to be chased, to surrender to whatever plans he had for your body. Even if it meant temporarily surrendering control. Control you'll seize once again, soon enough. Not yet, though. It feels too good right now, and you can't help but curse his name. Never aloud, though. That's another rule. It's just that Ghost doesn't quite roll off the tongue as the forbidden first name. Alas, that's the cost of a contract like this, and they're even terms you unanimously swore. 

Something about how he would groan and say 'fuck’ in your ear set your nerves on fire. In a matter of moments, that familiar tightness at the apex of your thighs made you feverish and desperate, crying for him to keep going. And that he did. Just enough to wring another crashing climax from your system, more powerful than ever. You practically screamed a breathy sigh into his ear, and your head kicked back as the spasming ravaged your body. 

A hand on the base of your jaw made you gasp in surprise. He lifted you to meet him with brute force, and suddenly, your own hazy gaze met his, only an inch from his face, now sitting upright. The sudden change in movement and gravity confused your senses, but luckily, he was more than capable of commanding your muscles for you. 

"You will suck my cock now, sweetness," he commanded, tightening his grip on your throat. 

The way he called you 'sweetness' when he was like this, you couldn't get enough of it. You stuck your tongue out, dragging it along the fabric that covered his face from below his dark eyes. Your pointed tongue identified the swell of his lips through the mask, lavishing in the shape of them, if not anything else. An excellent tease, and for the second when you caught his eyes, he was a vision of surprise and challenge. His arm, and by extension, you, were pushed away. Unfortunately, rules are rules; no kissing. That simple act seemed to inspire a carnal response, feeling a brutal grip on your hair drag you to buckle under his direction. You'd slipped between the seats, a surprisingly vast amount of space in this calibre of truck. 

Still drunk from your climax, your breath only just began to catch up to you when his merciless cock stood tall at attention for you. You won't give him the satisfaction of asking again and making him feel like his words are compelling you; this is entirely your own independent resolution. Even the act of touching the flat of your tongue to his spongy tip made him flinch, resting his head on the headrest behind him. Seeing him writhe and buck under the simplest touch made you surge with a power never before seen, hungrily savouring in the taste of your own succour on him. Without zip ties, you wouldn't be able to drag this out as long as you like, especially with him already predisposed for his climax before your orgasm. Unfortunately, his hand on the back of your head guided you to glide his member across your tongue at a tempo he prescribed. Your jaw strained at the size, but a greedy, low whimper from under that mask made it all worth it, only challenging yourself to take more. His skin tasted so addicting and sweet, like your body was meant for this, making you ravenous for more of him. 

He sounded like he was stifling words, choking on consonants and syllables, even when his penetration into your throat made your muscles involuntarily reflex and spasm. Breathing was a challenge, and your eyes stung with tears from the strain, but fuck, did it make your heart smoulder. Glancing up, those dark brown puppy eyes raked over you with a hazy expression. It all happened so fast, and he spilled himself down your throat in a warm stream you eagerly gulped. It's a shame you didn't get to savour the taste, but his angle within your mouth made it essentially impossible. His hips ground to a halt from their steady rocking, and his brutal grip on the back of your scalp softened. The space was plunged into a sudden stillness, almost deafeningly quiet, save for his soft panting. 

"Did you enjoy that?" you croaked, slipping his cock from your lips with a soft pop. 

"Yes!" He meweled, as was wise enough to catch on to your game, or rather, his game. 

That was surprisingly intuitive of him. You had every intention of giving him a nip or two, or some kind of mark to remember you by. Such a shame. He helped lift you from your crouched position enough to follow his lead in exiting the vehicle. There's the third rule; no cuddling. Fishing clinking keys from the pocket of his suit jacket from around the seat, he threw the car door open before you. Cool air struck you as a shock, a punishing chill that crept over molten skin, frantically reminding you to pull up your dress to cover your breasts. Yikes. You heard the driver's door pop open, and you followed suit in the passenger's seat. The seat was biting and cold under your bare rump, not warmed from friction and body heat like the seats behind you. Your panties had been lost somewhere in the back seat, and your hair looked like you'd been struck by lightning, yet your shoes had been quickly identified in the gap between the seats. 

"Now you can go back to the gala."

He proposed it like he offered you the option, as if he were gracious enough to release you now that you've had your fill. He's probably trying to avoid future questioning about your whereabouts, but frankly, you'd rather cross that bridge when you come to it.

"I'm not going back there," you snapped, firmly reminding him of your earlier declaration. 

"To the barracks then," he countered. 

"Not the barracks either."

You both sat in your words for a moment. Orgasmic bliss won't soften your resolve; you still have no intention of willingly showing your face at that event. But still, somehow, the thought of going back to the barracks also filled you with dread. You'll have to find somewhere else, anywhere else, until you're willing. An odd twang of misery sang through your bone marrow, and once tight muscles in your face softened. It was becoming harder to reject that creeping, numbing ice in favour of hanging onto the simple orgasmic nirvana. Even without a word, the flick of the ignition flooded the immediate foreground before the truck into amber brilliance, making your eyes sting at the change in lighting. With the new lighting you could clearly see that his hair, too, looked messy, a vision of pale brown hair that caught in the low amber headlights. Yet his gaze remained fixated forward and stern. They say a picture says a thousand words. And the image of those bloodied knuckles that gripped the wheel, graced with gashes and scrapes, whispered a thousand words about the pummeling of some poor Italian soul's faculties. Wherever he was leading you, it'll somehow feel far safer than any barracks or gala, no matter how many sentries of armed guards.

Chapter Text

These fucking car seats are always kicked back to a ridiculous degree. Sure, they need more legroom as significantly taller soldiers, but you could easily fit three of yourself in this seat before you even touch the dashboard. Greedy. Only after you readjusted nearly every setting on the seat could you see leafy trees whirring past, occasionally interrupted by increasingly crooked street lamps. Smooth concrete made for a usually smooth drive in tranquil, easy silence. But once enough silence had elapsed, and Ghost cranked the wheel to pull onto a crunchy gravel path, a lingering question struck your lips.  

"So, what were you before? Before the SAS, before any of this?"

He drew a long, thoughtful breath, leaving you to linger on the edge of his forming words, wrestling with cruel anticipation. It leaves your waiting mind to consider the lifestyle this man might have led before being a counter-terrorist was an option. It's almost like he came out of the womb with a balaclava and an AK-47 in his writhing fingers, kevlar and all. With someone of his prestige, his mythos, you'd think he's more adjacent to a cryptid. You probably won't find yourself pondering what Dracula was up to before becoming a vampire when you're fumbling through a Transylvanian castle. You'll probably be more focused on not being hunted for sport by some fanged creature. He broke into a low chuckle, catching you by surprise before he spoke. 

"I was a butcher at a Tesco," you could hear a smile on his lips, even when you couldn't see it. "I enlisted in the Air Force two days after I turned 18. Never looked back."

"If you were in such a hurry, why'd you wait two whole days?"

He lifted a hand from the wheel to scratch his chin through the plain, dark cloth, once again pausing in thought. The landscape flattened into a vista of an inky sea, where the streetlights of a distant peninsula cutting into the waves left a haze in the misty night air. It seems to be a topic that he's not used to discussing, though jaded soldiers on a battlefield aren't famous for asking thoughtful questions about their comrade's childhood. The act of reflection seemed to make him laugh, when you'd made peace with the assumption that he'd probably coldly shut you down after the initial question. And flowing answers felt like forbidden knowledge. 

"One day to get pissed drunk, another to recover."

"Did you use any of those skills on your résumé to get into the SAS? I can't imagine you've been fighting smoked hams and blood sausages since you've enlisted."

"Taught me some knife skills. 'Got good at stripping meat from bone, it's surprisingly useful in my new career," he turned to give you a cheeky glare.

"That's a good thing to brag about when you're driving alone with a woman at night," you croaked.

"You asked."

"What would you be doing if the military didn't work out?"

"I didn't get to ask my question."

"I don't care about your dumb fucking question," you sighed dejectedly. 

He laughed at your words, making a smile pull at your cheeks as well. Unlike him, you don't have any legendary status or a haunting reputation. You're just a regular linguist information analyst who's apparently good enough at her job to be kept around. You're not the anonymous one. 

"If I wasn't in the military? I don't bloody know…" he flexed his grip over the wheel as he mulled over your question. "Organized crime." 

"Hmm," you smiled at the thought, even if his words were clearly facetious in nature. "Narcos?"

"Are you kidding me? I'm not that bloodthirsty." 

"You did say you were a butcher," you smiled as the vehicle slowed to a halt. 

Cutting the engine made it official, and the absence of amber headlights left the foreground in sudden darkness. The driver's door popped open, and you followed suit with yours. He'd brought you to a park by the seaside, elevated by a thick seawall made from stone and moss. Pockets of light provided by tall street lamps illuminated a smooth Sampietrini walkway that eased along the seawall's raised edge. Around the park were raised rocks with copper plaques rendered smooth and tinged in colour by decades of luck-seeking tourists. Every time you stop to consider your surroundings, nearby crashing high-tide waves surge for your attention, even from beyond a meter of elevation. 

Over your shoulder, Ghost seemed to have settled himself in at one of the picnic tables nearby; brightly painted wood of blue and swirling magenta contrasted his grim appearance. He tapped away at a blocky cell phone he must've kept somewhere in that suit, noticeably still free from his embellished blazer. He's probably alerting his comrades to the fact that he hasn't gone AWOL, and the military vehicle that'd been hijacked is in his custody. 

In the afternoon hours, this place would be buzzing with activity. Joggers with swinging ponytails, leashed dogs rolling in patches of thick grass, elderly couples with folded hands considering curated patches of flowers. But now in the late hours of the night, or perhaps early morning, it's devoid of all life. Hopefully. Cool sea breezes fought for dominance over heavy, humid mist, billowing smells of salt and seaweed into your senses. It's easy to forget the horror that brought you here. Those yellow Mary Janes are still as clear in your memory as the granite park benches that offer dreamy views of inky waves. Flashes of snapped fingers in jutting directions and soulless cadavers catch in the underside of your eyelids with every blink. Sprinting past gawking soldiers down amber hallways like a bat out of hell, the blooming pain on your cheek and spiders on your skin. 

"Ghost," The following words caught in your throat, leaping from deep within your system.

Once electric muscles felt weak from exertion, it felt like your mental faculties had been tapped dry. Social exhaustion left your conscience vulnerable to heavy thoughts that clung to your brain like burrs. Some mental burdens are too heavy to bear, and the words pour out of you before you even have a chance to stop them. 

"How do you sleep when you've seen things? The viscera and horror and people who've died because they met you… What keeps you,-" you sucked in a breath of cool salty air, staring blankly at the invisible line that separates the sea and sky. "What keeps you grounded?"

"It's not all bad," he sighed nonchalantly, slipping the phone into his side pocket. "I've seen some good things, too," he hummed mischievously.

Without even thinking, you pivoted on your heels to shoot him a glare. He knows damn well that's not even remotely the response you're expecting. It seems that he got the change in attitude by the look on your face, and he dropped his antic. That change in attitude dampened the atmosphere around you, and his gaze drifted to the distant twinkling cityscape, to the sea, and eventually back to you. 

"I try to keep myself in the moment, not worrying about the future or the past," he said slowly, grumbling every syllable as he knit his fingers. “I like to play a game."

Intrigue compelled you to track his words, commanding you to pursue this train of thought. Basalt tiles clicked under your heels as you approached the park bench he'd perched in, leaning over the adjoined table as he watched you calmly. Instead of sitting in the bench seat beside him, you settled for resting your hip on the side of the picnic table, where charged dread made muscles tense with anxiety. You watched with a furrowed brow as he fished the flat, sloping shape of a folding switchblade from his pocket. 

"This knife, it's real," he flashed the silver blade open with a flick of his wrist and a satisfying click. "-And fucking sharp," he placed his hand down flat on the table before you.

The absurdity of the situation washed over you as he sloppily pushed white sleeves higher on his forearm. Wherever this is going is bizarre, but oddly in character for this ghastly psychopath. He'd officially captured your attention. 

"Stab between your fingers like this," he spread his fingers across the painted wood, placing the downward-facing blade beside his thumb. "You start slow. If those thoughts keep creeping up, go faster until you have to focus on the present."

Finger by finger, he stabbed the razor-sharp weapon down between his pale digits, returning back to the original starting point after each tap. The Knife Game. The kind of game you play in middle school or with a mischievous older sibling. You watched with suspicion as he methodically tapped the point of the knife down between his splayed fingers, doubling back on his pattern in a practiced strategy. 

"Sounds… healthy," you mused, gaze still knit with skepticism. 

"You asked," he shrugged coldly. 

It seems like every time you do ask him a personal question, he never fails to surprise you with the depths of his edgyness. What a strange answer. What a strange man. You turned further to get a more astute perspective of his method, glaring down at him as he tapped the knife back down beside his thumb with a concluding thud. 

"What if you slip up and stab your hand?"

"Then you have bigger problems than whatever's keeping you awake."

Your eyes met, and you nearly choked on a bubbling laugh at the absurdity of his solution. It's like holding a shotgun to your nervous system, willing it to silence. Evidently effective, considering his permanently calm and collected demeanour. That and the government-mandated therapy you're all subjected to. However, he likely doesn't bring up this strategy at those sessions because they'd probably put him in a padded cell if he did. He seems to get a thrill out of danger and horror. It makes his regular skull-patterned mask much more sense, even if he just has that flat black model on now. He's a remarkably simple creature if you strip him down to the bare bones, literally. 

"Teach me," you ordered. 

Of course, you didn't really need teaching. It's a game that an eight-year-old can grasp. There's something about the danger of it, with a tendon-splitting knife in the presence of the Grim Reaper, that makes it so delicious in your mind. You didn't even give him time to agree before you were slipping off the table to his side. He shifted on splintering wood to offer space on the seat beside him, but that wasn't what you were after. It may be his game, but you're choosing the playing field. Betraying his expectations, you slipped yourself into the measured space between him and the table, settling yourself down between his thighs. His forearms lifted in stupefaction at your intrusion, but his skepticism faded as he repositioned himself to sit farther back on the bench to permit you more room. With you both facing the same direction, you could pluck the cool knife from his fingers and practice with your own volition; but still partnered with an angel, or devil, over your shoulder.

A hot breath over your shoulder made your skin ripple with goosebumps, and he matched your grip on the knife over yours. The knife was lightweight in your fingers but undoubtedly heavy with balanced steel that would make it easily slip into someone's heart without effort or sound. Cobwebs of cool, dark metal knit together into an elegantly crafted, expensive knife with a tiny skull crudely carved into the pocket clip. Distant cicadas from the nearby forest sang in anticipation of these ceremonial games, lavishing at the bloodsport and goading you for more. Rolled prim white sleeves bordered your peripherals offering glimpses of macabre tattoos, his free hand holding the top of your wrist to lay flat on the wood with his palm. His touch was hot on your cool skin, chilled by the night. Reaffirming your grip on the tool, you blinked away your creeping nerves and planted the blade down beside your thumb, apprehensively leading the game with his pursuing touch. 

Tck. 

Tck. 

Tck. 

Tck. 

Tck. 

Every time the glinting blade tapped down between one of your fingers, it made your adrenaline spike. This weapon could sever muscle from bone so quickly and with such a supernatural sharpness that you wouldn't even feel the torn ligaments until there's spurting blood from a dangling digit. It commanded everything from your senses to focus, even with his guidance. However, scuffed and scraped knuckles occasionally caught your sharpened attention under the misty streetlight, highly visible when contrasted by pale skin. All you could hear was your breathing, only occasionally interrupted by the crest of a crashing wave. All you could see, all you could feel, was this game. Weaving between your fingers, where a single flick of your paralyzed fingers could mean an indeterminate number of stitches. 

"Do you know any other games?"

"I can think of some," you could hear the smirk on his lips as he spoke. 

"Bloody Knuckles?" you blurted confidently, without thinking.

The words slammed the conversation to a screeching halt. You knew he caught your insinuation. You aren't talking about games anymore. It felt good to make his breath halt, at least, a rare chance to make that icy poker face crack. Even if just for a split second. His grip on your knuckles weakened, and your breath stilled in your chest. In a matter of seconds, a shard of ice manifested in your throat at the flicker of that memory. The memory of your trainer's creeping hands, of the makeup over the bruise he left, of Price reluctantly informing you of his sudden resignation.

"I don't need you to bludgeon every person that crosses me."

He should know you can function on your own without a feral pitbull to rip the ears off every soul who does you wrong. You've been fine with going your whole life without having a guardian angel in a skull mask. Lorenzo's creeping hands on your apprehensive skin was your problem to solve, your right to resolve. The question of your willpower to do so still sat like a heavy blanket on your conscience though, and creeping weakness made tears sting in your eyes, making you thankful he's not facing you. It stings to surrender control, but it stings worse to think about that sheer terror you felt in his presence for reasons that are beyond your comprehension. Any of your colleagues would have done the same if you approached them directly, but Ghost seems to have a particular affinity for making people sing their deepest secrets. You're glad it's over, that goes without saying. The method of its resolution just caught you off guard. Deserved, but unexpected.

"-But sometimes it is nice," you sighed. 

A sharp exhale in his laughter blew cool air over your bare shoulder, and a melting smile pulled at your lips. Maybe it's okay to accept help, even if it's against your nature to do so. Whatever his methods for finding out were; maybe from Gaz, maybe from your frantic dash from the direction of your training, maybe from him spying on your training like a gargoyle in the rafters. Perhaps he made Lorenzo squeal like he'd done to countless terrorists before, or maybe by another unforeseen strategy. It doesn't matter, really. It's a closed chapter in a book that feels like it's only just begun. A complex cocktail of pity, pride, guilt, intrigue, irritation and flattery swirled in your system. 

"Now, you go," you hummed into the air, cutting the humid silence.

At this point, you'd come to realize the very real possibility that your weakened muscles and sloppy mental fortitude might genuinely lead to injury. You flashed the flat of the hilt into his palm, splaying your hand onto the table before him. With some hesitation, he gingerly lifted the weapon from your clammy fingers. This could make for an interesting trust exercise if nothing else. It could also make for exhilarating entertainment from someone as allegedly adept as him. Let's put those honed senses to the test and see how good he really is at this game. If he's going to act like a guardian angel, it's nice to know if he cares about your safety, or the act of playing the hero. There's no better way to put someone's intentions to the test than by putting a knife in their hand and turning your back. Well, maybe there is, but they wouldn't be as exciting as putting the pedal to the metal like this.

Chapter Text

What would your father think if he saw you right now? Putting a wickedly sharp knife in the hands of a man you've just knowingly turned your back to. He's specifically trained in pinpointing the most efficient way to sever your life from your body. A man you've known for a year, tops. Whose background strongly suggests that he should be an emotional wreck and has already established himself as a fanatic for the macabre. Hell, he just technically admitted to bludgeoning a man within an inch of his life with his bare hands just minutes ago. Worst of all, nobody's even seen his face, so filing a police report about your murderer is off the table if some civilian happened to walk by. So why does the heat from his chest along your spine taste so sweet? 

"Aren't you worried I'll cut you?" The warm air from his whispering breath on your earlobe made goosebumps run down your arms. 

"I don't know, are you getting sloppy?" You chime sweetly. "I thought you SAS type were better than that."

He slammed the blade down flat between your pinky and ring finger; the flash of cool air from the movement made you shiver. The knife buried an inch deep in the picnic table, splintering thickly painted wood as his free hand on your lower stomach dragged you closer to his torso. He must have been intrigued by your challenge. It startled you and softened you in equal measure, suddenly accurately aware of a swell of body heat radiating through you. The act saps the breath from you, how close it was to the webbing between your knuckles, a show of force. A familiar pace in his breathing captured your fascination, especially as he reaffirmed control of the knife by slipping the blade free from where he'd buried it in the wood.

Each tap of the dagger made your heart thunder, but digging fingertips and a flat palm on your lower abdomen was the scourge of your creeping apprehension. Parylization ceased, and your free hand slid down his arm, across his knuckles, even when the present setting commanded your attention with every slice. The thought of this being a somewhat innocent game of chicken with your comrade quickly spiralled into something darker. He dared to go faster, even with your skyrocketing anxiety. Yet, it made you crazy. Your head fell back against his shoulder, feeling the humid night air breathe across your damp neck. Sentences in their infancy crept across your lips, falling short of formation, betrayed by the hypnotic spectacle. He was finding feverish excitement in this game he was playing with your body as the field, and you were no more than a spectator. Not that it made it any less entertaining. 

Tch.

The blade was all you could focus on, except for the split second between when it snapped back to the surface. 

Tch.

A bead of sweat slid down the column of your throat. 

Tch.

Your free hand shot to grip his fair hair from over your shoulder with white knuckles. 

Tch. 

He started a rhythmic rocking of his hips against you that made saliva pool over your tongue. 

Tch.

What if someone walks by?

Tch.

Is it wise to grind against his searing body heat and redirect more blood flow to the hardness pressing against your tailbone?

Tch. 

The thrill, the fear, the risk, makes you crazy. Makes you both crazy. Drunk on a frenzy of anticipation of pain, a blood-curdling scream for both of your attention that you were both equally forced to obey. Hazy streetlights above grew hazier from the view of half-lidded eyes. Especially when the scratchy fabric of his mask slipped across the bridge between your shoulder and neck. This really is a testament to the extent of his superb control over every muscle in his body, especially when it comes to those knife skills. This would've made for excellent recruitment propaganda for the SAS if it weren't for his free hand sliding over your breast, crushing soft flesh. Laboured breaths on your shoulder and a drawing at the hem of your dress pushed you beyond your breaking point, only held back by the prospect of that pocketknife slicing your flesh from the bone in a split second.

For only a moment, the game ceased. Just long enough to let him manhandle your hips, lifting you properly onto his lap. The hardness of his member under your bare core ripped a sigh from your throat, forcing you to try to recall where you'd lost your underwear. Just as you were able to get a grip on your position, he gripped both of your wrists, commanding you to spread your fingers on the dewy wood with a pointed finger. You did so, bade by his harshness. And you'd be wise to keep them in that position he demanded from you, because he'd slipped the silvery weapon back between his fingers, posturing to resume this sick game once again. Now toying with all ten of your fingers, methodically working around you with masterful precision. The intensity was enough to wring a whine from your chest, paralyzed by anxiety, save for your rocking into his lap. 

That pesky unused hand made its way along your wetted entrance, audibly snickering in your ear at the revelation. Being subtle was no longer in his repertoire, toiling in this sick display of authority with clearly evident excitement. Not a word from either of you. Just breathy silence and the occasional whimper when he continued to drive his fingers into you while your eyes followed that glinting dagger. Unholy heat crept through you, drained when his digits briefly slid from within you, only to be swiftly and cruelly readministered. It's enough to make you crazed, and he clearly found some sick pleasure in your paralyzed state, taking advantage of your lapse of control. Even the sound of his work on your body made you shiver and sob, electrified by his dexterity.

Something inside of him must've made it known that you were close to coming undone around his fingers, and he cut his slippery intrusion short in an instant. A flash of movement made little sense in your hazy mind, but he'd picked you up, stepping free of the bench and walked you over to the end of the table. The smell of damp wood filled your senses, and your cheek pressed into the cool surface. Effectively crushed down into the soaked tabletop with a palm at the base of your neck, the pads of your feet fought for traction against the misted grass below. After a brief fumbling of fabric and a struck zipper, he slid himself into your dripping depths with never-before-seen ease. Strangled cries tumbled over your tongue, and his groans harmonized with your meweling. The sideways view of a seaside city park, hiding in plain sight– without the hiding. This is so dangerous, so indiscreet, so inappropriate, so fucked. But the sinful sound of his thrusts striking slick flesh made all concern dissipate. Once again, his hand wrangled your wrists together, planting your palms back into the table, hazily but greedily obeying every radiating atom in his body. 

"Relax your hips a bit," the words sounded like a song in your ears. 

A slice through the air broke your concentration on his command, if you had any to begin with, dragging your chin along the tabletop to see the knife buried in a space between your pinned fingers. Pumping pressure rocked you dangerously close to connecting the bridge between your fingers with the razor-sharp blade, fighting terror and pleasure in an unholy cocktail. You obeyed his bidding to the best of your ability, even if it was nearly impossible with charged muscles. Who cares if someone sees you, they should be lucky to bear witness to this sinful coupling. The world has never felt so small, so simple as it does right now. Just the present, just this table, just his cock churning your insides and his knife between your fingers. It's enough to walk you to the edge of your climax, chased by an oncoming wave of creeping heat that breathes through your body. 

"That's it," his smooth, gravelly accent made those two words force a chill run down your spine, helplessly obeying him with bated breath. 

You came undone around his cock, nearly screaming at the unparalleled pleasure that tore through your system. He took his time to wring every tremor from you with an unforgiving pace, grunting ill-mannered expletives into your ear as he pressed what must be his entire body weight against you. That punishing pace of his faltered, pouring his seed into you with reckless abandon, groaning heartily into the open night air. You didn't even notice his fingertips crushing against the soft flesh around your hips until their grip was softening, slowing to a tedious rocking in and out of your core. Your hands were free nearly the whole time, but the gripping tension in your body compelled you to obey him beyond the need for orders. 

He slipped himself from within you, and a flash of white sleeves in the corner of your vision signified his release of the grip on your body, collecting his knife from above you. A sobering click of his blade folding shut lifted your attention to the present, snapping you into reality with the sudden absence of his body heat. Warm essence streamed down your thigh, and you fought for the strength to lift your chest from the picnic table, but you did. Unexpectedly, he flicked the bunched skirt of your dress back down over your rump, eliciting a snicker from him. With some strain, the pads of your feet fully reconnected with solid ground, taking some time to gather your senses again. Not far away were your stilettos, rendered slippery and unsteady by idle mist whenever, or however, you'd discarded them.

"By now, most people would've asked about my mask," he struck up an unusually casual conversation, calm and collected as ever, hearing a clinking belt from over your shoulder. 

"That's a predictable question. Predictable is boring," you chided absentmindedly, your thoughts still foggy and raw. 

"You seem interested enough."

"What, are you scared I'll lose interest if I see your ugly mug?" 

"That's not a concern," he mused when your eyes met once you rose to face him.

"Quite an arrogant one, aren't you," you griped, hopping into a faster pace to catch up to his sudden leave. 

"It's not arrogance if it's justified."

"Says the man who's hiding behind a piece of cloth."

It's a good thing the truck wasn't parked too far away because your weakened knees had yet to fully regain strength. Even prying open the heavy passenger door proved challenging, with lazy muscles hesitantly following your direction. But stepping into actual shelter will be gleefully welcome after spending so long out in the biting early morning air. Be it a subtropical region or not, the nights were chilly, especially with bare shoulders and a thin sheet of tulle separating you from the elements.

"Well, have the others seen your face?" The words squeaked from your throat from the strain of lifting yourself into the seat. 

"Pretty predictable question, wouldn't you say?" he chirped in that low, casual articulation with contrastingly impish eyes. 

"Fuck off then."

Laughter cut over the sound of a rumbling start of the ignition, flooding the terrain in illumination. No longer in near pitch darkness, the trail leading up to that quaint park is nothing short of picturesque, looking more like a default wallpaper on some expensive laptop. Even as you drove away, your head swivelled to catch a departing view of that seaside terrace. 

"Price, Soap, and Gaz have, Laswell hasn't," he affirmed calmly, reigniting the conversation. 

"Why did they get to see?"

"It was strategically important at the time."

"And Laswell not seeing it was strategic?"

"She wasn't there."

"Will you ever show the rest of us your face then?"

"If it's strategically important."

"What if I told you I've already seen under your mask?" 

"Oh yeah?" He challenged hoarsely, intrigue igniting in his gaze on the illuminated road. 

"Yeah, I peeked in your window when you were sleeping. S' nothing special," you shrugged with brazen certainty.

He huffed a laugh with knowing arrogance at your bluff. Reading right through you before the sentence is even fully formed. Even without taking his eyes from the road, it was like he was looking right through you, probably weighing your soul with a smirk under that dumb mask. Cheekily lying to people used to come so easily to you, are you losing your touch? 

"I sleep with my mask on."

It's hard to say if he's joking. He probably is, but an odd part of you sowed doubt in your conviction. He seems the type. A familiar silhouette of that boxy barracks and landing strip came into view after being temporarily obscured by dark foliage. Returning there no longer filled you with dread, only the thought of returning to bed and getting at least some sleep before wake-up-call. At least he was kind enough to take you to the back entrance of the compound rather than the front, avoiding a lengthy walk of shame. Tires slowed to a halt on crunchy gravel just under the light of a flickering wall lamp, a metal fire escape door that'd been left ajar by some lazy recruit. 

"Where are my panties?" You pressed, writhing in your seat to find where they'd wound up.

"Confiscated."

"I didn't permit you to loot them, you dog."

"'Call it a brag rag," he grumbled playfully, sliding his hands down the side of the wheel to rest on his lap.

"You already have enough of those," you snark coldly, fighting a bubbling giggle to retain a glimmer of composure.

He scoffed, and you swung your legs from the car seat, planting wobbly stilettos on uneven gravel. The thought of a sheepish but satisfied skip back after curfew made a cheeky grin pull at your cheeks. Everyone else is asleep, and you'll soundlessly tiptoe down echoing hallways, slipping past your dormitory door and taking great care to prevent it from creaking. Whatever excuse Ghost will have to conjure for your abandonment of your post better be good, because poor Price's heart might just give out if he knew what you were really up to.

Chapter Text

If your drill sergeant back and basic training had seen the state in which you'd left your quarters, he'd probably have you running the mile until noon. That dress you'd spent so much time searching for lay in a shrivelled mess across the bedroom tile, a single stiletto in your bathroom, another just under your bed. To your shock, your pearl necklace was still clinging to your throat, leaving lingering pink dents from a haphazard night's rest. Last night was a blur, but precious few memories that do flicker in your waking mind make your stomach flutter. You have to get up, even if sleep-deprived muscles make their protests known with every movement. 

It's nice to know that the barracks are quiet once again, seeing as most of the exalted generals and commanders have fucked off to whatever decorated offices they'd spawned from. Although, as comforting as the architecture might be in this stunning vista, it'll never ring as comfortable. A solid sleep being a consequence of sheer exhaustion, not a peaceful state of mind. Familiar halls steered you toward the common room where you'd previously found your colleagues lounging on other mornings, so you'll likely find them there. An odd sense of self-consciousness washed over you, not quite guilt per se, but a sense of abashedness that made your eyes flicker to make sure you're stepping through this wooden threshold with all your clothes on. No lingering glances, or even a glance at all; Soap was weaving blades of long grass into twine for whatever reason, and Gaz and Price were enthralled with their soccer on the grainy screen. 

"Cricket," Price grumbled; it made you flinch. "Good morning."

"Morning," you called, rounding the corner to find Ghost seated beside Soap's weaving station at a table by the window. 

"Seeing as you're excused from training today, I thought we'd get you out in the field to compensate," his piercing blue eyes saw through your soul when he turned to look at you.

Getting out in the field. That only means one thing. It's hard to say if Ghost's words with Price mentioned your aforementioned lack of participation in the practice. It might be Ghost's way of including you in an activity that distracts your mind from your cancelled training, or maybe he's trying to punish you for abandoning your post at the gala. Or, maybe it's just as simple as Price including you in rucking because you haven't accompanied them in a while, and that's the whole of it.

"Yes, sir."

"Get kitted. We'll be out and back before the afternoon sun cooks us," he grumbled, taking another long drag of coffee from one of those white mugs. 

Unluckily for you, this time around they had no intention of stopping in a pub on this excursion. No, it's for real this time, evidenced by a single twenty-pound pack of equipment slung beside four other kits laid up against the stucco wall by Soap. Still 'babying' you, as Ghost so uncharitably put it, as their packs looked to be easily fifty pounds, not counting the layered jackets and denim pants you're expected to equip. The military-grade jeans could probably stop a bullet at the right angle, starchy and heavy, finely woven to catch serrated blades in their place. It's easy to forget how weighty this armour and steel-toed boots feel once you've got them all equipped, but that's the purpose after all. And that purpose is to make this tactical equipment feel like a second skin, teaching harsh lessons of endurance and self-discipline with every agonizing pound. Buckles and velcro pull at unusual locations, grounding themselves in the sensitive flesh of your inner elbow and thigh, even with a thick barrier separating them from your skin. Eventually, you're all kitted up, only making your teammates wait about five extra minutes, despite only needing to apply half as much equipment. 

White sunshine made your pupils burn at the change in brightness, but pushing through the strain, you could barely make out Gaz's raised hand ushering you to the mode of transport. Of course it's in one of those trucks. And not just any truck, either. It's the same fucking one from the night before. At least you were wise enough to collect all of your garments before you left, or rather, most of them, but the thought still made your blood run cold. Soap gestured for you to slip in before him, oh-so-gentlemanly using saying 'ladies first' as an excuse to give you the dreaded middle seat in the back of the vehicle. The universe seems to have an odd sense of justice though, as only seconds later, after he'd assumed his position on your flank, Gaz's seat kicking backwards stripped him of the extra legroom. Ghost sat in on your other side, effectively sealing you into a horrifyingly claustrophobia-inducing situation. A front passenger seat had been dragged forward so far that only someone like you could've been seated there, but nobody bothered to question. That's weird. 

Chilled morning steam contrasted with warm breath created the most mortifying sight. A sight that even Ghost didn't initially spot until he followed your mortified gaze. Perfect imprints of sweaty palms and dragging fingertips imprinted on glass perfectly choreographed a sinful scene. Soap was contentedly distracted enough by arguing about soccer with Price and Gaz in the front seats, seemingly insulted by his opinions being intentionally disregarded. The Englishmen have banded together in an unsteady alliance, rejecting the inputs on the sport from the resident Scot. The distraction was enough for Ghost to think on his feet, rolling down the windows to drown away the scene on the glass. Fresh air didn't hurt either, and it felt like a crisis averted. Still, the stress is enough to make you forfeit your breakfast right then and there. 

Eventually, the vehicle came to a halt, and Soap's door swung open before Price even had the opportunity to take the keys out of the damn ignition. It came with fantastic timing because the sense of surging claustrophobia was just reaching a new high. The Captain had steered your hike through a lightly wooded scape that dramatically dropped into a sheer cliff that sloped into the rocky sea below. Kicked pebbles scuttered into freefall, the ensuing splash only barely audible over churning waves, white peaks of crashing saltwater lashing at the cliff face down below. 

So long as Price is satisfied with how exhausted you are, all while bearing it with a stiff lip, he'll relent his grip and let you shed this cruel equipment. You have to look tired, but not too tired. Dirty, but not too filthy. You have to keep up, but not enough to look like your equipment isn't a significant burden. At least the view is nice, where the morning sun had a way of making the late-night mist sparkle on the lush branches of proud cypress trees. Salty air sucked away simmering heat from under your jacket, where cool air breathed across the sweet spit that pooled over your tongue as you heaved. Rucking is exhausting and mentally draining in a backward sort of way, where you're in a constant state of willing creeping thoughts of weariness to silence. 

A fluttering bird over the horizon caught your attention, soaring and drooping with sleek wings, slicing through the air and stopping on a dime with a flash of flared tailfeathers. An osprey, probably. The speed at which it tears through your vision makes it difficult to identify it beyond a blur of brown and white until it deems whatever fish it'd spotted as an unworthy cause, instead flattening angular wings to catch the calming gale. Not delicate and demure like a sweet songbird, those seem to be plentiful in this patch of birch. It seems like every other branch is dotted with a spatter of yellow feathers, contentedly harmonizing with the next branch, little beacons of sunshine in their tiny bodies. 

But a trill, slicing through the air above crashing waves and thundering footsteps, enraptured a swivelling glance from all five of you. That osprey, commanding respect. They could be described as meek when held up to the mighty eagle, but they are independent and fierce, especially in their native environment. They don't have to fight for attention or prove themselves. Their worth is effortless, natural. But you couldn't get too lost in thought because every once in a while, you'll catch the tail end of cheeky banter between Soap and Ghost that sounds more like a married couple's squawking. Soap'll push Ghost's buttons about something menial, Ghost will have some stony and grim response, and Soap will cut the tension with some intentionally obtuse quip. It's like fire and ice with those two; it's easy to forget they're both career killers. 

In your eavesdropping, you'd uncovered the trivia that Ghost sometimes plays the drums, surprising as you'd always pinged him as a bassist. Soap used to play the bagpipes, but he'd apparently never graduated beyond playing the reed and not the full bagpipe, a detail he was fiercely defensive over when Gaz pushed for more information. Price glanced back at you as if to posit the same question of preferred instruments, but your heaving gasps seemed to communicate that you don't have the breath to contribute. And the assumption was entirely founded, because your lungs were burning in your chest just by keeping up this enduring pace. 

Your wandering mind made it possible to submit to your hiking, finding the same winding trail through tall birch and cypress trees reversing before you. You'd survived another session of rucking. Though this only counts as the second, and a half, rucking outing with these guys. Even still, it's enough to make you comfortably surrender to the fact that you're not cut out to be in the Special Forces. Conversation was easy whenever you found the breath to participate. Of course, it was easy for these guys; it was more like a leisurely stroll, swatting damp branches and kicking pebbles into the turbulent sea below. It felt like everyone was just contentedly avoiding the elephant in the room. It made your skin crawl, and your skeptical eyes dart to Ghost up ahead, on the vanguard of the trail.

Just as the afternoon sun was becoming unbearable, honing in on dark equipment, the cool wind from the opened windows in the truck gave you the comfort your slippery skin was begging for. You were getting dangerously close to heat exhaustion, but you'd never admit that. And Price would never knowingly put you in a situation he didn't think you could handle. Or so you hope. The sweet smell of manufactured coolant from the air-conditioning sang through your system, breathing life into dragging joints. Just as the rest of the gang was eager to unwind tense muscles and shower, you caught Ghost on his way down the hall, glancing for company before skipping to catch up. 

"What did you tell them?" You pressed, forcing him to halt his rigid pace. 

You knew he'd know exactly what you meant. Not a peep of concern and where you'd disappeared off to in a huff after just over an hour at the gala, never to be seen again. Nobody's asked where you and Ghost slinked off to, inconveniencing the lot of them by hijacking their ride. How did they even get back? Maybe they caught a ride with Laswell, or maybe they hiked back in the damp night, suits and all. Not exactly a hero's welcome, in spite of their medals and ribbons. 

"I told them the truth," he pledged with a cold and unabashed tone. 

Your heart plunged, frigid blood crashing through your system. The truth? He told them about your time at the park? 

"And what's the truth?" You croaked, feeling your forehead crinkle in abrupt concern. 

"That you're struggling to understand why you're not getting any recognition," he replied simply, edging on a challenging tone. "I said that I explained it to you, that I gave you a pep talk, and that it won't be an issue anymore."

"And you were the wise and valiant hero that wrangled me from that ledge," you scoffed, redirected horror manifesting into creeping agitation. 

"Yes," he replied arrogantly. "And I have the trophy to prove it." 

"A trophy you plundered from another. That's very British of you," you chirped, sealing your pack shut with a satisfying zip.

"Funny," he snarled flatly. 

It took the willful command of every muscle in your body not to swing your palm to smack him, striking that snide look off his face as he looked down at you. Yet, a sneaking sliver of yourself found discomfort in his initiative. He'd taken agency of your mental health, capitalizing on it to get you out of a sticky social situation. But at the same time, it's not like you had the willpower, nor the rank, to bring up those concerns to the Captain on your own anyway. And it's not like you weren't eager to take any opportunity to conceal a sneaky link on company hours. A part of you knew that he was aware of your dilemma. You'd given your trust to him, wholeheartedly laying your soul bare. But you came out of a willful disobedience of orders scot-free. Hell, if anything, he's the one who's under the magnifying glass now, seeing as his objective was to retrieve you from fleeing the gala, a mission he'd failed. Appearances that would've been damaged were saved by charisma and probably a handful of white lies. Effectively wriggling you free of a scolding from Price or Laswell, bringing up your concerns that you'd have to silently bear otherwise to your superiors, and permitting you to selfishly imbibe in another encounter with this coworkers-with-benefits relationship. Well played, Simon. 

"Lieutenant, sergeant, pack your things. We're in the air in thirty," Laswell called in your direction, already disappearing in a flurry of steps down another connecting hallway. 

"Do you know where we're going?" you posited, glancing back over to your colleague with a sudden surge of energy. 

"Berlin," he began. "You should really start paying attention to the news."

Chapter Text

How are you even technically associated with this task force, anyway? Your mind drifts to deem them co-workers, but is that even true on paper? The jet Laswell ferried you into was marked as British, some sort of British officer's jet that tears down the runway like a bat out of hell. But you're definitely not British. Though neither is Laswell, yet there she sits, across from you in your aisle tapping away at a bulky laptop. So why are you tagging along on this mission? The Canadian Air Force is pretty far separated from the SAS, only sharing the Air part in their names. Is SAS even the Air Force? You'd surely read that somewhere, but it's hard to say. They're like, the British version of Navy SEALS, but in the air, for some reason. The details get foggy, but by now it's definitely too stupid of a question to ask. Maybe you're on this specific mission as an extension of NATO again? Maybe some sort of exclusive Air Force club you've accidentally joined? It started off simply enough, just helping out with the odd mission and utilizing your unique set of skills where you're applicable. Now, it's gotten to the point where you can't seem to shake this British bag of goons.

Your role as a specialist always had you on these kinds of gigs, being casually traded around to other organizations to serve wherever you're needed. They could send you home after one of these missions, and you'd never see any of these faces again, likely shipped off to another transcription mission on a boat somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. It's been so long since you've been on familiar soil that you can only speculate that your home government hasn't marked you as KIA. But that seems to be the lifestyle of working with an elite counter-terrorism task force. What's Uncle Chucky been up to? Is the goldfish you'd surrendered to your neighbour still alive? Your friends back home have probably gotten married and had kids by now. Yet here you are. 

The stray cats, with a sudden and entirely coincidental fixation on Ghost, will have to carry on without him. At least they were appreciative though, even bidding him adieu from the edge of the tarmac with some distant hungry yowls. So far as you've been told just over thirty minutes ago, you're on your way to Germany. It's not a far flight, especially with the significantly more speedy military airliner you're on; you're looking at an hour flight tops. It's pretty luxurious too, with that classic plastic-ey wood that forms a thick plate over any appliances and comfy leather seats that groan with every movement. It's not quite a jet, but it's big enough for you and Laswell to split one seating quadrant and Gaz, Price, Soap and Ghost to sit at another just across the aisle. They'd found a pack of cards somewhere in the cabin, which explains their occasional outbursts of commotion. It sounds like they're playing bridge, and Price is wiping the floor with the lot of them. 

"Cricket, I hope your German is up to snuff," Price spoke, shifting across the aisle to settle next to Laswell after making Gaz throw up his hands in frustration. 

"That won't be an issue," you nod, smiling politely as you feel the others' gazes eavesdropping on your conversation. 

"Where would we be without you," Laswell enthused, occupied with unclasping thick buckles around a messenger bag.

"Probably back in Chita trying to find those warheads," you chuckle.

Laswell and Price had an unusual reaction, like just for a moment, a flicker of discomfort and concern flashed across a shared look between them. It's as if you'd struck a nerve. It made discomfort radiate through you at the thought, but almost on queue, Price cleared his throat to speak, and the cabin collectively stilled. 

"Laswell's got the sitrep," he boomed, clearing a path for Laswell's contrastingly weaker voice. 

"A hostage situation has gotten out of hand. 17 British secondary school students, two teachers and three chaperones on a field trip were taken hostage in a historic theatre in West Berlin. A religious extremist group has barricaded the hostages, armed to the teeth with stolen foreign weapons," She made sure to exchange eye contact with every one of you as she commanded. "They're demanding a televised transmission so they can share their violent gospel, and killing them outright will only make them martyrs."

"It got messy when one of the chaperones died after the cultists refused to accept diabetes medication provided by the negotiators," Ghost added gruffly from across the aisle, slyly reminding you to 'pay more attention to the news.'

"'Medication is of this world, and this world is sinful,'" Price quoted sarcastically. 

"That's horrible," you gulped, but the rest of them seemed unfazed. 

"The Germans aren't happy about having the SAS step into their turf, but now that a British citizen has died in a hostage situation, the whole world is watching," she continued, folding her fingers together on her lap. "We want the weapons in our custody, the hostages back home, and the terrorists to be brought to trial, not executed. And we want it all done yesterday."

Hostage situations are always the worst. They rarely get resolved with outright violence, running with all guns blazing like cowboys. Instead, they have to be solved diplomatically; trying to talk sense into the heads of people who abduct innocent civilians for leverage. Taking their offer and sharing violent cultist ideologies with the people of a nation that's looking less and less competent every passing day is a recipe for increased terrorism. If they're calling in a Task Force like 141, it must mean that there are details about this situation that are particularly sensitive. That it's beyond the scope of a run-of-the-mill hostile takeover since it's making government bodies panic.

You can only hope you won't be on the negotiation team, because Laswell should know full well by now that that's a topic you're not equipped to approach. Graves might be willing to bend your described skillset to fit a mission, but the thought of doing anything more than translating and decrypting makes your fingertips feel numb. Not only that, but you're entering a setting where the default attitude toward your presence is hostile. It's got to be hard to forcibly accept help, especially when Germany is famous for producing some of the best hostage negotiators in the world. But you're more than used to handling hostile presences at this point, seeing as you've survived being around Ghost for this long. 

"You'll be working with two other linguists this time around. They're gonna' be your new best friends," Price emphasized sternly, staring through you with a trusting gaze.

"Yes, sir."

"Korvettenkapitän Nyota Wolf, she's been hand-selected by the Inspector General of the Navy. She's the best of the best," Laswell spoke, extending her arm to place a tablet in your fingers.

"Should I be worried about my job security?" You smiled, squeaking in an attempt at smoothing down creeping anxiety. 

"Don't give me any ideas," Price grumbled with that classically British sass that's almost indistinguishable from seriousness. 

The illuminated display showed the profile of a stoney-faced woman, denoting her rank and affiliations in a tidy profile. Deep umber skin and a stout nose, finely decorated in a heavy black trenchcoat with gold buttons, signature to the German Navy. The bulky navy scarf crossing over her collarbones and tucked into the coat made her look like a cobra, especially with angular eyes that stared through you, even behind the safety of a screen. She seems like the kind of person you don't want to piss off, but unfortunately, it seems you already have.

"You'll also meet Otto Krause, a Linguistics and Cryptology Professor from Humboldt University. He's been an academic in the subject since before you were born," she continued, nodding for you to swipe to the next slide.

Professor Krause looked much more approachable, dressed in a bulky suit of tacky brown houndstooth, calling forward imagery of at least a dozen professors you'd encountered in your time in academia. Thick aviator glasses with silver frames made him look like he'd never left the 1970s, especially with a strategically styled hairstyle that made use of sparse silver strands. Thick frown lines creased pale, wrinkling skin, firmly cementing him in the age bracket of somewhere between 70 and 120 years old. 

When it comes to high-ranking task forces, it's always best to travel light, even if it would technically be wiser to have peer-reviewed work. It's why there are only four of those boys, rather than a squad of 30. Having too many cooks in the kitchen can make critical intel take longer to get back to the task force, a field where every second means life or death. Of course, your work will always be passed back to a team of linguists once the mission is complete and every utterance and solution is recorded. Except for when it isn't. It'll be nice not to be the sole linguist, and if shit goes haywire, you won't be bearing all of the responsibility. Especially when there's already been a civilian casualty so far. But it also comes with the consequence of reduced control, particularly with a decorated Navy Korvettenkapitän, which if memory serves, significantly outranks you. KKpt Wolf operates the DHO38, a German transmission station famous for its use in decrypting encoded messages, as the profile neatly notes. It indirectly tells you about your details of the upcoming mission, and your role in this puzzle. 

It's easy to forget how quickly things move in this career. Less than 24 hours ago, you were standing at an insufferable gala, forced to tolerate pompous diplomats boasting about their supposed role in your accomplishments. At least you had a solid exfil though, and you got to have a slightly more memorable night instead. One that will probably leave you with a pretty unhealthy expectation that you can avoid any unsavoury social setting with a sneaky hookup. You can still feel his presence inside you. Not in your oh-so-tender heart but in the pit of your lower abdomen. Rucking might grace you with bruises and aching muscles in the morning, but it won't hold a candle to the bruising Ghost wrought into you when you fled said insufferable gala. 

There's no escaping this time, and not nearly as much independence. Anxiety always comes easy, but you can't afford to let it take hold of you right now. The rest of the flight was spent toiling in your recollection of the German language, a far less foreign language than Arabic or Russian, with a relatively familiar syntax to your native tongue. On the bright side, if you ever forget a particular word, there's a significant chance the actual word is a compound of a few adjacent terms that create a mini sentence. Tintenfisch… ink fish… squid. Fledermaus… flying mouse… bat. Best of all, Handschuhe… hand shoe… glove. It gets a bad rap for sounding like an 'angry language,' but that's always struck you as a cruel and unusual way of describing it. Any language sounds like an angry language if the person speaking it is yelling at you, especially as a Westerner who might not understand the social customs that've existed for generations. German seems to have become the scapegoat, even if it’s absolutely undeserving of that reputation, biases aside. 

Only when you'd landed at another standard military airport did you get to consider how much of a difference an hour flight can make in the environment. The trees aren't as dry as their sun-baked counterparts down in Italy, though that's probably a consequence of shorter days and more forgiving temperatures in late summer. The grass is shorter here, more green, even though it might just be contrasted by the significantly greyer sky. Not nearly as many cats, too.

Almost immediately after your boots touched the ground, you were shuffled into a dark van that ferried you to the theatre. Laswell offered you a thin shell jacket to cover your shoulders in the temperature change, but only after the zipper reached your chin did you realize the blocky "Informationsanalytiker" text along every face of the piece. Neatly categorizing you as an Information Analyst long before you'd even reached the setting. It felt like you were being herded into your pen, catalogued by your coat to be as easily accessible as possible, and the lanyard around your neck like a lead really sold that concept. You didn't have to ask if you were close to the hostage situation yet because blocky inner-city architecture and buzzing civilians with craning necks welcomed you to the arena. 22 civilians sit behind those theatre doors. Well, 21 now. How long have they been there? How many Tangos are there? How will you fit in with the dynamic between the other two linguists? Nearly a million more questions swirl in your mind, effectively distracting you from the fact that you could easily be on this mission for a month. Rows of blockades thwarted chattering press crews, German police in their Navy and black uniforms chattered warnings through muffled radios of your approach. The city grew denser, and so did the pressure. Price swung open the sliding side door, and you instinctively followed like the obedient little lamb you are. 

It's a lot bigger than you were expecting. The theatre was pretty unassuming from the outside, easily missed among the grey stones of the inner city, but a steadily focused floodlight and a sprawling sign differentiated it from the others. Two expansive wings on either side of a massive multi-level central auditorium, all made from the same uniform grey stone bricks. Cobblestone streets led up to a steep staircase, up to a polished white door, now haphazardly barricaded with wood slats. A square sign with slots for sliding letters that once displayed some prestigious play or musical lay shattered on the ground, reading Kino Der Toten in shattered bulbs. 

"There it is," Price spoke from beside you, folding his arms and drinking in the established perimeter.

"'Cinema of the Dead,'" your face crinkled in thought, reading the sign's lettering. "It's a bit on the nose."

"Western Europeans tend to have a pretty grim sense of humour. But we'll be staying across the street," he chuckled, suggesting you turn over your shoulder to follow his nod. "'KK' Wolf and the professor are expecting you."

His nod directed you to a significantly more ornamented restaurant that stood on the opposite side of the grey street. Even from your angle on the ground, you could spot shadowy figures with the probing ends of a sniper's rifles jutted out from the windows and rooftops. So many windows face this small plaza; it'd be nerve-wracking if you were on the other side of this conflict. Now, with an awareness of their presence, you could see at least a half dozen other pockets of snipers on every street corner. There are probably another half dozen that you haven't even spotted yet, a team that Gaz and Ghost take the initiative to join, watching them head toward one of the outposts. They're the designated snipers, but it's relieving to know they, too, have to awkwardly work their way into an established foreign team. It's almost funny to see how much people tip-toe around you, and it only just occurred to you how close you're allowed to get to the theatre without having been stopped by the police. 

Your friends may have built families and found lifelong spouses, but you'll have to settle with the satisfaction that you're not being ushered by any of the armed police officers that buzz around in the background. A few nods and the odd salute, but other than that, these people mostly ignore you. Because that's the thing; you're a slave to your work, and it comes with the consequence of expected participation from your colleagues in the field. They don't have to question if they'll have Sergeant Grant to help them whenever shit hits the fan because you've already been crowned as having no life outside of work anyway. At least your devotion means you're free to briskly walk over to the designated location you've been allocated; but don't worry, your leash is just a precaution, and try not to think of it as a collar. Just past these tall windows boasting exquisite seafood with elegant calligraphy, beyond drawn curtains to keep out the peeking press, are your 'new best friends.' Hopefully, they'll have some answers for you before they start asking you for the answers.

Chapter Text

With a heavy heart and a shotgun blast of apprehension, you swallowed all pride and pushed through the glass doors. Meeting new people is always the worst. 

"Hello?" you pressed your lips into a tight line, awkwardly calling into the empty restaurant.

Even when you crane your neck to sweep any corners where your 'new best friends' might be hiding, these exalted experts aren't anywhere to be seen. You took extra care to make your boots echo on polished wood floors, hopefully alerting someone to your presence, but long shadows from drawn curtains cast every corner in hostile darkness. It quickened your heart rate, making you almost frantic to find your peers; otherwise, you'd have to sheepishly report to Price that you'd lost them. A fate worse than death. Only when you came around to the other end of a chic, modern bar did you find another human. Faces you'd seen on Laswell's tablet manifested in the flesh, though not nearly as prim and put-together. 

"Sergeant Grant," Korvettenkapitän Nyota Wolf barked out your presence as you approached, making the professor flinch wildly, sending a white mug of coffee crashing to the floor. 

You winged at the clamorous cracking of the glass, but her heavy gaze didn't waver. The Korvettenkapitän's dark formal jacket lay neatly strewn over the back of one of the cloth chairs, where she stood folding muscular arms over her chest. A finely ironed button-up with a tight collar made Laswell's similar clothing style look so much more approachable. Professor Kraus was within arms reach, slumped into a matching chair, nearly strangled by a chunky sweater of beige cable-knit wool. She stood tall and stern, commanding respect with her posture, whereas he seemed entirely aloof to your entrance, more concerned with sipping at another cup of coffee he'd kept as a backup. 

"Nice to meet you both," you sighed deeply, breathing away bubbling tension. 

This dining space would be so romantic and intimate if it were under the intended circumstances. Low cylindrical crystal chandeliers glitter even when they're illuminated by a stark floodlight, the apparent source of those long shadows. The shimmering crystals create the most stunning effect on the ceiling, almost like a water's surface sparking life into lofty ceilings of dark panels. Tabletops that aren't repurposed to function as makeshift workspaces are adorned with pristine white tablecloths that flow over the edges of the tables, with sultry, slender candlesticks and withered bouquets. Your 'new best friends' have established themselves next to an elegant bar of black wood and smooth steel, making use of the nearby kitchen's stark lighting. 

"Commander Karim told me about you," the polished Korvettenkapitän spoke, scuffing polished shoes as she approached. "She and I used to work together. She spoke highly of you, said you were one of the best she's ever seen." She glowered down her strong cheekbones at you skeptically.

Commander Karim? Who the hell is Commander Karim? 

Your mind spun as KKpt's words rattled in your mind, failing to stick their landing. So many faces had come and gone in the past few months; it's a wonder you can remember your own name if only it weren't shouted at you every other day. Precious seconds used wracking your mind are ticking down, and the Korvettenkapitän's social timer is quickly slipping. 

Who is that… who- oh! Commander Karim! Farah Karim! Oh, she's talking about Farah, and she left a good word about me too. I only worked with her for a few days, so I must've left a deceptively good first impression. Damn. I owe her a drink. 

"Farah was a treat to work with," you smile after a rigid pause. 

"Yes…" KKpt spoke cautiously, you turned to see that she was visibly unsettled by your usage of Farah's first name. "She called you 'Cricket.'"

"Ah," you chuckle weakly, "a nickname I've picked up. You can call me Lu-."

"Why 'Cricket?'" Professor Kraus cut you off, finally lifting his head to speak with piqued curiosity. 

"Are you a fan of the sport?" the Korvettenkapitän circled around you pensively, folding her hands behind her back as she stalked.

Words failed you for a moment. Why are you called cricket? When Soap's logic finally did click into place, it struck you as something you shouldn't explain in conjunction with a first introduction. Being pinned as a shit-talker isn't conducive to a reliable and hard-working teammate. It would be easy to lie; you could easily make something up like 'I'm a really good jumper' or 'I have a brother named Grasshopper,' but lying to allies you'd just met just doesn't feel right. There's nothing to fear from these people. They're peers. The professor, this Korvettenkapitän, just more faces you'll forget in a few weeks. But this time, you won't be the meeger and soft-spoken specialist they expect to meet. You've earned your merit. And you won't roll over and show your underbelly at the first sign of intimidation. 

"It's a nickname I got from chirping at my superiors," a wicked smile lit up your face, rolling back your shoulders. "And I pissed them off enough for them to grace me with a callsign."

"Yet you've managed to keep your employment in the military with such a lack of respect?" Korvettenkapitän Wolf lashed.

"I got promoted from Corporal to Sergeant a few months ago," you shrug, meeting KKpt's intense eyes with a matching challenge. 

Her eyes were dark, scathing. A different kind of dark from Ghost's. His were scathing and spiteful, the eyes of someone who could kill you without a second's remorse. Hers, too, were warning and lethal, but more skeptical than anything. You'd do anything to know what thoughts are rattling around under those tight curls that cling to her scalp like a helmet. 

"I like you, Cricket," she said, putting extra emphasis on your callsign. The sudden change from skepticism to camaraderie caught you entirely off guard.

Somehow those words lowered your guard enough to rest your hip on the side of their table, craning to take in their work. A handful of paper-thin laptops dotted the cris-crossing tables, temporary stations for these manic cryptologists to flit between. Cords and crumpled papers served as excellent trip hazards, and a deep coffee stain on one of the stark tablecloths will have to come out of the German military's budget. But you could feel the Korvettenkapitän's eyes on you. She's not done with you, and the anticipation of her next words sat in your conscience, even when you tried to look like you were reading. 

"I-I read your file, Sergeant Grant," Professor Kraus spoke shakily, seemingly oblivious that this topic had already been discussed while he studied his papers. "You're a bit of a superstar in the linguistic community lately."

His words made you freeze, turning your absent gaze to meet him. 

"What?"

"Your work in Al Mazrah was incredible. I've heard and read your transcriptions with some of my peers. What a bold choice to go into the town in person, and your use of sociolinguistics to infer and problem-solve is remarkable. It takes a lot of nerve to think of something like that, and do it yourself too," a phantom of a smile pulled at her cheeks.

"Oh, that wasn't my idea to go into town. It was actually Farah's… Commander Farah's," you corrected sheepishly. 

"You applied all the right methods, and your understanding of regional Arabic syntax is textbook. Beyond textbook, I was really impressed with how you-" the professor's gushing was cut off. 

"And your understanding of the message padding in the oral transmissions in Kazakhstan, that was some quick thinkin'," Korvettenkapitän cut in, stepping closer to you. 

Kazakhstan? When the hell was I in- oh… Chita, Russia. The first mission they had me on when I met 141. Laswell probably changed the details of my location and mission to protect the security of the task force, especially with something as highly sensitive as stolen nukes. I wonder what they would've thought of the other highly classified missions I've done. What would they think of that hostage recovery on the yacht in Mexico with all the Russian mobsters, posing as a sex worker, or when I was torturing vital info out of that guy in the dam. Maybe it's a blessing that they don't know about those missions. 

"I was just following orders," you manifested your most modest grin, feeling like you could shrivel into a ball at the sudden onslaught of affection. 

"Now- I wanted to pick your brain, Miss Grant," the professor bumped the table as he clumsily rose from his chair. "How did you get the idea to take one of the family members into the barricade in Verdansk?"

"What approach did you use to understand the sociolinguistics of Ukrainian Pidgin so fluently in ten days?" KKpt approached further, craning to stay in your field of view as she stood above you. 

"I'd do anything to see your notes," Kraus nearly lept over her words, keen eyes searching your face for answers.

Ukrainian Pigin? I definitely wasn't fluent in ten days, they pinned me as a 'Yankee' almost immediately. I can still feel the scar tissue from the beating I suffered because of it, too. Laswell must've buttered up my record because it certainly didn't go that smoothly. 

"I was doing what any of you would've done under the same pressure," you croaked, the barrage of attention making your visage of confidence crack. 

"Very good!" He blurted, tipping his new ceramic mug to you, almost giddy. 

There's nothing as foreign as this feeling. It feels like you're hallucinating. You were expecting to be reluctantly recruited as a forced addition due to the SAS' occupation of this existing encampment, yet you're receiving a hero's welcome? This celebrity status you've inadvertently gathered just by doing your job, it's like how the soldiers at all the barracks' look at Ghost and Price… revered. It feels good. It feels wrong. Like they're only praising you because Laswell puffed up some of the details and made you look more impressive than you actually are. These two are staring through you with keen but increasingly puzzled expressions, like they're watching your sense of self unfold before them.

"So what's the sitrep?" You blurted, eager to redirect the conversation in the creeping silence. 

"Right," KKpt Wolf stood straight-backed again, smoothing down her dress shirt and returning to the main table. "Our heartbeat detector shows five extra tangos outside of the known 21 hostages. They've been barricaded for 10 days, and they're all heavily armed, including remote detonation explosives stored in caches around the hostages."

"This is a Sig-Int mission, so we're working on the back foot," Kraus looked up past his heavy glasses to speak, haphazardly shifting the topic. 

"Sig-Int… so what Signals do we have Intelligence on?" 

The Korvettenkapitän slammed a booklet on the table at your hip, a predictable dazzle technique that failed to make you flinch. You're too used to Graves to be spooked by that, but at the same time, something about this woman makes you think she could give him a run for his money. She's got the physical intimidation down with broad shoulders and a tight mouth, but you'd never see Graves admit admiration for someone below him.

"We had a breakthrough two days ago, it's been the bane of my existence," the professor started, tugging at the high collar of his sweater. "A hostage held up one of the terrorist's internal messages to the window, and we got a glimpse at the code they're using."

KKpt Wolf placed down a still image taken through a sniper's scope of pale fingers pressing a crumpled note to one of the windows at the theatre. You slipped the shiny paper into your palm, examining the photo. Through a rain-spattered window, the hostage offered the linguistics team a Hail Mary: a string of strategically and clearly laid out letters and numbers in a grid along pale paper. A maroon emblem in the bottom right almost looked like a wax seal, though it was too obscured by the window pane to know for sure. They were begging the linguistics team to make sense of the nonsensical characters, but you're all just as confused as them.

"It's a one-time pad," you spoke, studying the text block with a crinkled face.

"You are quick," the Korvettenkapitän's confident tone resumed. 

"We haven't been able to crack it," Professor Kraus said, tossing his wiry glasses onto the desk and reclining in his chair again, defeated. 

One-time pads have been around since the 1800s, and they've been used in warfare and espionage ever since. Only usable for one message, and is useless immediately after, hence 'one-time.' Secure, virtually unbreakable, and as Professor Kraus put it, the bane of a linguist's existence. Scrambled letters and numbers make a chart-like structure on the page, a perfect block of text only discernible by the keyholder. They're annoying as hell. 

Kraus has been running a frequency analysis of the text, his swirling, elegant handwriting noting any repeating characters that might fit the vowel structure of any known language. Time and time again, slashes and dashes eliminate attempts at cracking the cipher, each new piece of dogeared loose-leaf signifying another failure. KKpt Wolf had a much more barbaric approach; a brute force assault on the letters, one by one, going through each potential possibility in an attempt to bend the cipher to her will. Her handwriting is stiff and rigid, with angular letters in all capitals, each failed jab at the code is slashed with a red pen. They both know what they're doing, unquestionably experts in their field. But they each represent polar ends of a linguistic cryptologist's approach. 

Piles of papers splayed on repurposed dinner tables proved they've been at this for a while. Borderline insanity bleeds into their word, sprawling dashes along one particular piece swipes over white tablecloths, indistinguishable from white paper for the exhausted linguists. You slid off the side of the table, standing on your feet again and pacing passively to pacify tense muscles. 

"These terrorist zealots won't do anything without the word from their 'god,' this 'oracle' figure they keep mentioning," Kraus grumbled after a raspy cough. "They won't operate without 'his' word."

"Fucking fanatics," KKpt cursed under her breath, resuming her lurking and muttering, moving in an opposite momentum to your pacing. 

"We suspect this is a seal from the oracle, proof that his coded orders are official," he added, tapping a thick finger on the maroon blotch at the corner of the photographed note. 

"It works in our favour, though," KKpt said in a brittle voice. "It means we won't have to worry about copycats. The media's having a goddamned field day." She pressed her clenched fist on the table beside you, and the professor sighed. 

"They've been receiving orders from this 'oracle' since they've been held up... Somehow," he clicked and un-clicked a pen, seemingly bored by the conversation as his eyes wandered to the rafters. 

"Somehow? That doesn't make any sense, isn't there a blockade?" You pressed, turning on your heels hotly. 

"There is a blockade." She spat with that familiar coldness. 

"Could they be receiving the transmissions digitally?"

"We've asked the area's satellite and landline providers. No transmissions are coming from inside the building. No cellular, nothing," she chided, refolding her arms over her chest again.

"If they aren't receiving it digitally and they aren't sneaking notes through the back door, how are they communicating?" you continued. "I-is there a signal flare communicating in binary we're missing or-"

"We have eyes on every window from here to the fucking Rhine River," she commanded, halting her stalking eerily.

"The Cuckoo Clock is ticking," Kraus said, oddly aloof. "Supplies are bone dry inside the theatre, and the hostages can't survive on vending machine food for much longer."

"The General says we have three days to figure it out," Korvettenkapitän Wolf barked, running a chill through your body. "Or all our necks are on the chopping block."

Chapter Text

It's hard to complain about shitty sleeping conditions if you have nearly no memories of where you laid your head last night. Hours spent pouring over details, running through every textbook's spine, and scouring for a groundbreaking case study left you on the brink of utter exhaustion. Hoping that one of them will give you some direction because, at this point, you're coasting off hope in miracles. After hours of heated discussion, often boiling into screaming and resulting in a couple of shattered ceramic mugs, you'd retired to the dingy motel they're keeping you at. All you remembered was a drizzly outdoor walkway leading to your door, musty orange floral sheets and dead flies settled at the bottom of tinkering light fixtures. Frankly, you didn't have the mental capacity to process anything around you. 

The morning came with the shock you were dreading. They'd received more orders. The terrorists held up in that fucking theatre had received more external communications. It was all the buzz as you made your way past bustling soldiers and police, all gawking at your presence as you pushed toward the restaurant once again. Based on how close you've come to solving this, the only two possible ways they receive their orders are telepathic communications or divine intervention. Or, as Professor Kraus postulated, they could've trained the pigeons to speak. But that one must've been some sort of regional colloquialism that totally went over your head. 

So here you are now. A styrofoam cup of burnt coffee on an empty stomach compounded electrified nerves in the same repurposed restaurant. All of your Task Force comrades, plus a few more, stood in cross-armed silence, awaiting your solution. You and KKpt Wolf stood straight-backed and tall when your superiors filed in, a memo that Professor Kraus seemed to purposely miss. He doesn't owe these generals and captains the time of day; they asked him to be here, not the other way around. You could only silently envy the way he could lazily lick his cinnamon-covered fingers as Laswell filled you all in on the updated situation. 

"So, as I'm sure we're all well aware by now, more messages got in. They're demanding four million euros and a spot on daytime television to share this tape," she tapped a blocky black cassette down on the tablecloth. "Or they'll start executing."

Your fingers wrung your eyes, diffusing the words even as you could sense them coming. You'd seen their sign portraying the ultimatum as you passed the theatre, painted on the back of a glossy movie poster with scratchy black marker. A proud middle finger to your efforts, it made your forehead prickle with sweat from the stress. 

"We're still no closer to understanding the message," the Korvettenkapitän spoke for the linguists, and you sheepishly met Price's stare in agreeance. 

"But the words have meaning," One of the unknown faces with a reddish beard spoke up, some Joe from the German military that the KKpt yielded to. "They're not just random letters and numbers."

"Might as well be," Professor Kraus smacked with a mouthful of pastry. 

"If it's possible to crack it, aren't there algorithms to break these kinds of things?" Soap's foreign Scottish accent was cut off. 

"Attempting to break a one-time pad manually is like trying to shoot a bullet with another bullet, blindfolded, with your wrong hand, pissed drunk, while riding a horse at 70 kilometres an hour," Kraus interjected, reclining in his seat. 

The corner of Soap's mouth flickered into a smile, but the collective's stony expression only hardened. Clearly, Professor Kraus' metaphor didn't land. It would make sense for an auditorium of keen linguistics students but not for a choir of stone-faced army folks who don't have the patience for theatrics. 

"It's essentially impossible," you chose to break the cringeworthy stillness. "You can't see the message without the key, and the key doesn't make sense without the message. You can't have one without the other."

"How are they getting these messages, then?" Gaz asked, sliding one of the messy pieces of handwritten nonsense into his view, frowning at the scratched-out words.

"The message the hostage showed us was in a physical format, the most secure form. They could be using some sort of binary transmission, but it wouldn't make sense for them to add a seal of approval afterwards," you rubbed your eyes as you spoke. "The seal implies it's coming from outside the theatre, but all evidence says they're not being delivered by hand."

"Agreed," Kraus audibly scratched his stubble as he spoke, not even facing the direction of the conversation.

"Are there any underground tunnels?" Ghost asked, shifting on his hips with folded arms. 

"We have the original blueprints. There's nothing underground, not even a well," Laswell answered calmly, glancing at the professor's odd posture. 

"Even still, our heartbeat sensor would pick up any secret dropoffs." Price grumbled, his signature hat peeking into the corner of your vision.

"Let's double up overwatch. We clearly need more eyes on the building," Ghost ordered, nodding to Gaz and Soap.

"I already said they're not being delivered by hand," you bit back sharply, sucking your teeth in deep thought.

Only after another eerie creeping silence did you realize your transgression. Like something straight from a nightmare, everyone's eyes fell on you coldly, as if the teacher had just called your name while you were lost in thought. Speaking back to your lieutenant's order is a serious offence in this career, especially in the direct company of Captain Price and Laswell. A panicked surge of sweat and bile crashed into your system, and the room felt 20 degrees colder.

"-Sir," the correction meagerly slipped from your throat. 

It's easy to forget that he's your commanding officer, even if Price and Laswell are significantly higher up the totem pole than him. Even in the state that you've seen him in. It gets frustrating when you're talking in circles. Repeating old points that'd already been eliminated. It made you sharp and jaded, unaccustomed to the standard military dress. Luckily, Korvettenkapitän Wolf took the reigns, leading the conversation to wrangle attention off your risky insubordination, leaving eloquent closing remarks that silenced the investigation.

Eventually, they left just as quickly as they came in. The second that glass door clicked shut behind the last pair of polished boots, you could let out a long-held sigh. However, the tension wouldn't entirely dissipate. There was still so much work to be done. It's not wholly your expectation to solve this mystery. The linguistics team is just one cog in the machine. If anything, the overwatch squad has The Man's breath down their neck, as their iron blockade had been penetrated again. Your team is under additional stress because you're the closest to finding a solution. But that's the thing; you're no closer than them. One additional clue, likely entirely useless unless they happened to transmit game-changing information in a single message.

You'd started with creating potential profiles of the five terrorists, age profiles and demographics based on shoddy intel thus far. Having five of them suggests at least one is in command, delegating orders to the others and a second in command to help enforce command. The cult only lets men be their sacrificial lambs in their escapades, so you can expect five men between the ages of 18 and 45. Not much to work with…

Kraus was almost certain he found the word 'the' in the cipher, but you had to break his heart with the reminder that that's assuming they're working with a substitution cipher. Even if such a discovery would be a blessing, not unlike the feeling of a newborn child in your arms. The KKpt was tapping away at a laptop at one of the cloth tables, but every once in a while she'd slam it shut in frustration, let out a heavy sigh, and pry it open again only seconds later. 

You'd all reached a somewhat steady rhythm of work, about two hours of silence, looming over a book or laptop with an aching posture. Once the silence made everyone nervous enough to snap, you all broke into a fear-fueled, impassioned discussion. This was the kind of stress you'd feel if you'd found out the deadline for an essay was 11:59 that night, and it's worth 60% of your grade. Panic was only alleviated if you could focus long enough to forget where you were. There wasn't a reprieve in checking in on your colleagues either; the windows are all blocked to keep peeking soldiers and press at bay. Your British buddies could've given up on you and moved along to the next mission for all you know. 

Saliva stuck in a clump in your throat when the clock read 22:00. There's no way this day ticked past so fast. So horribly fast. An entire day spent in this restaurant, feeling like you could easily dissolve into a sobbing mess if you allowed yourself the time to feel the emotion. Your second day had melted away with nothing to show for it. One more day. Tomorrow, better make a difference. 

The stagnation made you stir crazy. You'd reached diminishing returns. When your eyes dragged over text passages, the words no longer sank into your mind, instead gliding off like rain on a wing. Passages about WWII linguists cracking Axis transmissions looked just as foreign as that crumpled letter the hostage pressed to the window, begging for your competence. Before you knew what was what, you'd entered the starkly lit kitchen, not even glancing to see if your peers were even present anymore. Wolf, Korvettenkapitän Wolf, had the same idea. Fresh air from the back door where countless sous chefs took their smoke break, a cool slab of concrete that separated the cobblestone from the swinging metal door. Streetlights were a foreign sight, and the darkness of the night sky was blinding. You settled in beside her, and she shifted to make room. Your polite smile was met with a curt nod, but you'd come to expect that from her at this point. But just as a comfortable silence crept over the two of you, her voice cut into the night air, and you didn't even notice her eyes on you. 

"What happened here?" KKpt Wolf tapped a dark finger on her cheekbone, mimicking the location she was referring to. 

Your voice caught in your throat. For a moment, you genuinely didn't know what she was talking about. Her pressing gaze persisted, and your exhausted mental faculties sputtered into action, remembering the bruise you'd suffered only days ago. Lorenzo. The shiner he'd graced you with as a parting gift. You didn't have any makeup to cover it up, shit. What do you say to her? The half-truth you told Gaz manifested on your lips, ready to explain it as a training mishap, but a foggy mind resisted the elusive response. 

"I rejected the advances of my trainer and…" you shrugged, forming a nonchalant smile on your lips to deflect any blooming pity. "I was leading him on, but then it- it suddenly started going too fast and I-"

"Did he come here with you?" she leaned in, gravely serious despite your attempted diffusion. 

“No- no,” you gulped. "He's back at the base we'd just left. One of the guys beat him within an inch of his life, I think."

Her pressing expression and snake-like eyes didn't relent, even when you were sure it would. If anything, she's more intense. The sudden surge in energy and attention made you cringe and tremble under the weight of her gaze. This was a can of worms you hoped to leave sealed, but your subconscious seemed to have insisted that it'd already been cracked open long ago. 

"I just don't know why I didn't just lean into it. I wanted it," you fumbled the words. "I panicked. I haven't had this problem before wit—" You cut yourself off before you overshared, luckily. 

That fucking stare didn't relent. Not even to blink. Two dark orbs tear into you like bullets through paper, wringing the truth from you with ease. It doesn't help that she keeps her navy uniform on 24/7, probably even when she sleeps, making her feel like a titan of forbearance and self-control. 

"I- ran away when he put his hands on me, I didn't even say a word. I guess he didn't like that, and he socked me," you tried to conjure a punchline and a weak chuckle to ease this electricity. 

She didn't even do you the kindness of sharing your laughter. Fuck. You were stammering like you'd taken a cookie from the cookie jar, wracked with a pang of guilt you couldn't understand. This silence stayed, though. She shifted her posture back, illuminating her face under the overhead door light. 

"Anyone with your best interests in mind will hear 'no' and not think twice about it," she finally spoke, her softness unfaithful to her grave expression. "I think something in you knew he was bad news."

"I think you're right," you sighed. 

"This career isn't kind to women," that severe tone you were expecting manifested again. "You have to come forward when something like that happens. Even if it might not always seem like anything changes afterwards, it does make a difference. If not for you, it'll make the path easier for the next woman that happens to." 

She spoke with a level of confidence that made your gut wrench, sure that was speaking from experience. The thought made your face wrinkle in despair and your heart soften in a conflicting cocktail of emotions. At some points in her speech, you weren't sure if she was scolding or comforting you, but that just seems to be the way she is.

"-And it doesn't sound like he'll be groping any more of his students anytime soon with the beating he got," she added, a smile finally cracking onto her lips.

It's like she's finally allowing you to laugh. And you did. Fuck, it felt good to laugh. There's nothing more embarrassing than being psychoanalyzed by a stranger, except for the fact that she's entirely correct. Someone you met less than 48 hours ago reads you like a book. Laughing away the stress felt like the relief you craved, even if the quip wasn't that funny. The change in gears stunned you. Not just her shift in attitude, from cold and calloused to displaying a steady thrumming heartbeat of compassion and respect, but also the unexpected change in tune from the slog this workday had been. 

"Better get some shut-eye. Tomorrow's the last day," she warned, dusting off her heavy coat as she stood, ordering you to do the same. 

"Goodnight," you nodded, meeting her face one more time before you parted for the evening.

Renewed hope for life and crushing dread at the current circumstances created a battlefield in your mind. It would usually be fodder to keep you awake for hours, and yet muscle memory commanded your sluggardy muscles to follow the route back to the motel. Boots tapped on creaking iron steps that brought you to the second floor of the same dingy motel, fumbling with a rusty room key past heavy eyelids. You collapsed on the squealing mattress, surrendering into the sheets and breathing in the stale pillow. You barely had the mental faculties to slip off your cargo pants under the sheets before you were deep into an impenetrable sleep. 

Dreams fill your mind with colours entirely absent from your vision for the past 48 hours. You dreamt of old memories with friends, times you'd snuck out late at night. Swaying palm trees and sturdy redwoods. Of the Korvettenkapitän's forgiving glare. Dreaming of that seaside park, peace and warmth at your back, of the osprey's wings slicing through the air. Warmth at your back dissipated, and you turned to see your front door, just in time to be met with an outpouring of dread. The dream shifted, and a wave of silky blue rose petals were washing on the sidewalk shores in front of your house, rising. You run to your front porch, desperate to escape the surging wave. Fingertips are a breath away from your front door; you can practically feel the biting metal before it slips from your grasp. The front door fades from view, and a crushing onslaught of velvety petals surge into your lungs, sapping the life from your veins.

Chapter Text

This final morning was a rainy one, leaving you utterly soaked after your short walk from that dingy motel. The atmosphere was different in the temporary workspace, more dreadful. KKpt at the professor didn't even rear their heads in acknowledgement as you stepped past the glass doors, wringing your soaked shell jacket. You'd finished the night with the idea to use an inversed transpositional cipher and went to bed with the phony joy of a possible solution, leaving the dread of proofreading for the morning. And almost immediately, hazy eyes blink in disbelief at your work from the previous night. Utterly useless, ink now bleeding with stray droplets from your dripping hair. 

Humidity from the air made your clammy skin feel feverish and sticky, clinging to the plastic-ey jacket that crinkles every time you lean to rest your face in your palms. Maybe you're looking at this wrong? What if it's an inside job, and the professor is secretly an armed cultist, the outsider, the one without militaristic security clearance. A glance over your shoulder, he was lying on his back on the wood floor, houndstooth blazer creased as he was clearly lost in deep thought. No, it's not him. Could they be using commercial radio communications? Manipulating stations or songs to send signals, where songs from the 80s mean affirmative and songs from the 90s mean negative. Intelligence would've picked up on that, that kind of surveillance falls into Laswell's field more than yours. They would've noticed something obvious like that long ago, but the sound of movement behind you shattered your concentration. The sound of scuffing boots over your shoulder made you halt your pen entirely, placing it across the paper with an awkward candour.

"I hope we're not being a distraction," that infamous Scottish accent spoke up from behind you; it would've spooked you if you weren't already so hopeless.  

"Distraction or not, our productivity level is the same," you sigh, breaking into a frustrated chuckle. 

You were seconds away from turning to snap at them for being unhelpful when the unmistakable sound of thick plastic snapped you from your irritation. It's a sound everybody knows, so uniquely distracting, the iconic sound of a plastic cake container being awkwardly pried open.  

"We forgot to ask them to write on it, but Gaz had the idea to write you a message in Morse code," Price nodded, placing a cake beside your damp notepad as you rubbed your eyes. 

"Seeing as you're a linguist and all," Gaz chuckled, clearly pleased with his contribution. 

Not for much longer, it seems.

You craned to look at the unfurled cake, a small treat of puffy chocolate icing with delicate shavings of white chocolate and plump strawberries. An exquisite treat from a bakery a few blocks away, just out of the reach of the barricade. Treats arranged in dots and dashes from licorice and MRE M&M's crudely manifested into a morse message. 'Happy Bsrthday Crscket'. An easy mistake, but you plucked the unnecessary dots to correct the i's and popped them into your mouth, a mistake that made Price jab an elbow into Gaz's shoulder. 

"I've got a birthday candle, too," Soap slipped the dark canister of a CTS Flash-Bang from his vest, trying to fight a creeping grin. 

It managed to pry a weak laugh from your chest, where you'd previously been stunned by the gesture. You'd forgotten your own birthday. Another year of your life passed both horrifyingly quickly and agonizingly slowly. The thought made you lightheaded and mortified at the realization that so much of your life had been spent with this crew. When did you last see Chucky? It'd been a year since you've seen your friends, since you've been in contact with them altogether.

This time last year, you'd made a haphazard attempt to take control of your life by making out with your colleague. A memory that makes you wince. It does explain why these guys remember the date, seeing as they made a point of visiting you at that bar in the first place. As kind as they might be, a reminder of your birthday and the passage of time might not be as welcome as you'd thought. A million thoughts and more crashed into your mind, and sweat pooled in your palms. How old even are you? 28? 29? No, 30? Probably 30. You'll have to do the math later. Holy shit.  

"Kate bought you a gift," Price's voice snapped you out of your trance, rattling your bones. "Simon is still on the overwatch shift, but I'm sure he says 'happy birthday' as well." 

He placed a delicate paper box beside the cake, one that you were eager to pry open to distract your racing mind from the oncoming existential crisis. In a nest of lavender-coloured shredded paper, she'd bought you a scented soy candle and a crinkling bag of fruit-shaped German candies. It made a smile pull at your cheeks at the gesture, willing your conviction to soften, otherwise you'll have a psychotic break. Lilac and vanilla scented, probably bought at one of the boutiques along the tourist quarter. So thoughtful. 

"How've your duties been?" You asked, manifesting your most polite smile as you rolled the small candle in your clammy palm.

In truth, you didn't have the stomach to eat the sweets they gave you, as out of character as that might be. Stress had eaten away at your appetite, and some odd part of you felt strangled with guilt at the thought of the manmade famine those hostages were facing. It doesn't feel right to gorge on cake and candy while you're on the crew bade to find a way to free the pack of frightened students. Or maybe it would feel worse to abandon the food that's so scarce for others. Maybe that's just another pointless ethical dilemma. 

"A pigeon shat on Gaz when he was on overwatch this morning," Soap snickered, sitting himself on the table beside you. 

"I had half a mind not to blast it into a puff of feathers," Gaz nodded along, breaking into a snort, "but it got too close to the theatre."

"Count your rounds sergeant, we're in a fucking city," Price scolded.

"Sir, yes, sir," Gaz chuckled, grinning wickedly under the bill of his cap.

"What if—" KKpt suddenly spoke up from behind you all, leaving you with a pause in her words as she thought. 

The words sounded so abstract for a moment. They sounded like it was just a random sound she'd formed from her vocal cords, but when you turned, her pressing expression sold her seriousness. It didn't look like the eyes you'd become familiar with when she thought she'd had a minor breakthrough in one piece of the cipher, they were so much more thoughtful than that. Intense, void eyes finally snapped to meet yours, sucking the air from the room. 

"What if they're using carrier pigeons," she finally vocalized the thought that had her shocked that she'd even spoken it. 

"Ah, like the Narcos in the 90s," Professor Kraus grumbled as he fought gravity to sit upright.

"It would explain the physical format," she continued, planting her palms on the white tablecloth before her.

"And the need for a seal," your spinning thoughts lunged into speech, springing to your feet.

Your eyes flashed back to your comrades, whose faces each furrowed into intense confusion as the linguists scrambled. Their three pairs of eyes were intently tracking your expression, drinking in the sudden surge of electricity in your posture and straightening their spines. Price cleared the space across the room in four broad steps, flipping through a blueprint that'd been lazily folded on the table. Other than the sound of quickly flipping papers, the room fell into a charged silence, compounded by thick humidity. 

"We have a list of suspicious characters," Price spoke, quickly putting the pieces together. 

Before you could understand what was what, he was flipping open one of those burner phones, hearing the dial tone from across the room. The Korvettenkapitän had taken a posture over Professor Kraus' shoulder, reading line-by-line through a passage of text he followed with his finger. The dial tone rang again, and seconds passed like hours. 

"Do any of the suspicious characters happen to have an interest in aviculture?" you ask, nodding with Price as he parrots your question to what sounds like Laswell answering the phone. 

He stepped from view, ducking into a small server's closet that would've once been lively, filled with pitchers ice water and lemon slices. Even with the assumption of privacy, apprehensive silence in the room left you able to hear the phantoms of their conversation. He mentioned a possible lead; she responded with something you couldn't hear, and you caught the tail end of something about an 'intelligence database.' Gaz tried to play it off like you all weren't rudely eavesdropping, nervously clearing his throat and sighing loudly, but Soap only leaned forward to get a better listen. The difference in both of their levels of manners was hilariously apparent. Finally, Price concluded with a clear 'understood,' and stepped back into view. 

"Kate will run through the sources. She's just next door," he grumbled, slipping the dinky flip phone back into his belt. "She'll come over if she finds anything." 

"So this is our best lead? Carrier pigeons? " Soap tucked his thumbs into the straps over his shoulders. 

"Yes," you three linguists all proclaimed as one. 

"They're out of supplies in there, time is ticking fast," Price's booming voice echoed in the empty restaurant. "These cultists know we're scrambling. I am sick of them having us on the back foot." 

It's scary to see Price be visibly agitated, even if this is probably far from the extent of his genuine wrath. He's right, though. Playing into the first rash idea you have could be playing into their scheme; it could be a diversion to get you out of the area for them to carry out a more dastardly attack. It's a dice roll, but at least that means you're playing the game now. The influx of energy made the room plunge into another apprehensive silence as everyone collectively paused to digest the conclusion. You couldn't handle the stillness, pacing frantically in laps around your colleagues' workspaces. Gaz pried open the heavy curtain over the front window, creasing darkness with pillars of murky light as he craned to look at the theatre. 

"The hostage-takers won't execute until they're given the order, but that order could arrive at any second," Gaz spoke, dropping the curtain and forcing your eyes to adjust to the darkness again. 

"Then we can't let another order arrive," Soap added, settling down into one of the cluttered table settings. 

"Shoot down all of the pigeons until we get one with the note," Price met your eyes. "From there, we can crack it and get into their communication line."

His directed attention made you feel like he was asking for your authorization. He was looking to you to approve this outcome, assuming you can take the baton from there. Your overstimulated mind stuttered at the foray, swimming in possibilities. It felt thrilling to be seen as an authority, but also devastating at the thought of making the wrong decision. Shoot down the pigeons and collect the notes before the terrorists do. 'From there, we can crack it and get into their communication line.' 

"No. Both the sender and the receiver must have the keys to the one-time pads," you finally found your voice to contribute, and Price's eyes almost imperceptibly narrowed. "If we get the message but don't have the key, we're back at square one,"

"She's right. One is useless without the other," KKpt came to your defence, and you felt the tension in your chest loosen slightly. 

A flash of blonde bangs pushed through the glass doors and entered your peripheral. The temporary break from concentration only served to remind you of how tense your jaw is, reminding you to blink. It felt like the air was sparked with anticipation as everyone fell dreadfully silent, listening to every tap of Laswell's petite boots as she approached. 

"One of our key suspects lives just six blocks away from here. She's been on the German Intelligence's radar for some time… and," she slapped a manilla folder on the table, loose polaroids of CCTV footage showed a hooded figure at a phone booth. "Her parents own a dove aviary business."

"That's our 'Oracle,'" Price's gravelly voice made your heart sink and soar in equal measure. 

"What if this is all just a red herring, and we're wasting precious seconds that we could be using to crack the cipher?" Professor Kraus bumbled, shaking his head in shock. "How would we know if she's even the right person?"

"Under normal conditions, surveillance and patience," Laswell rallied, rocking on her heels. "We don't have patience, and this is all we've got."

"We shoot down any pigeons we see until we get one with a note," Price nodded to Soap and Gaz. 

"Shoot the pigeons? In the city with roosts and windows on every corner?" KKpt folded her arms, scoffing in disbelief." You'd have to have an incredible shot to hit a mark like that."  

"Like shooting a bullet with another bullet while riding a horse, yada-fuckin’-yadya …" Soap murmured sarcastically, fiddling with a stray pen that you'd run bone-dry.

"We have to get her in our custody and stop any orders from coming in," Laswell approached Price, tapping the printed CCTV photos atop the file. "John, I need 141 to raid her apartment nearby and bring her into custody. But be careful, we don't know what kind of security she might have."

"Have we forgotten that there are fucking hostages in the theatre still?" KKpt stepped between Laswell and Price's dialogue, standing her ground against these titans. "We have hours until they start executing them, they should be the priority."

"We can't approach the hostages until we've eliminated the threat. They have that entire theatre rigged with explosives," Laswell countered. "We cannot have any more orders reach the terrorists."

"Hang on…" you interrupted her, pinching your lower lip in thought and feeling every pair of eyes settle on you. "I have an idea."

Chapter Text

"I have an idea," you started, feeling the corner of your lip twitch into a smile at the absurdity. "What if we give the terrorists orders?"

Maybe your words had entirely stunned the room into silence, or maybe your buzzing thoughts drowned out the sound of the ensuing conversation. Ideas started to click into place in a way that they hadn't before; it felt like a breakthrough. After days of infuriating stagnation, your spinning mind gained traction at this crucial discovery.  

"From how they have to be set up for this communication method to work, both sides are already working with a list of keys. They have to," you started pacing, making use of idle hands by hastily acting out your words. "The sender dispatches in a message, and the receiver aligns their existing keys to decode the message. It's the most secure way for them to use a one-time pad."

"They already have the keys… So, in a way, the message is the key as well," the Korvettenkapitän's face dropped as she caught onto your train of thought. 

"If we get our hands on a message and the key before it reaches the terrorists, we can alter the text," your eureka moment must've made you look crazed, as Price, Soap, Gaz and Laswell all had stoney expressions. "It'll look entirely indistinguishable from orders that would be coming from the oracle!"

"We can use the seal from the stolen message to make our new message look official," Kraus added, pointing the tip of his pen at you. 

"Why don't we just order them to release the hostages and surrender?" Gaz lifted himself from leaning on the side of a table, folding his arms. 

"An outright order for unconditional surrender could come off as suspicious. We only have one shot at this," your hands cupped your face as you spoke, nearly tripping over Soap's extended legs.

"And there might be some kind of killswitch message for when the Oracle is compromised. We have to be strategic." KKpt's words could have been interpreted as a jab at Gaz, but he didn't seem phased. 

"A-and if we happen to apprehend the right person and if this is the right trail, how can we convince her to send in a message that undoes everything they've been working towards?" Professor Kraus’ conviction faded, and pragmatism made him shudder.

"It'll be pretty hard to say no if Ghost is peeling your fingernails off," Soap shrugged, reclining and folding his hands behind his head. 

After a few moments of your manic pacing, you recognized the awkward silence that had just filled the room at Soap's words, just in time for the man himself to walk in. Speak of the Devil. Ghost must've been called in my Price while your mind was spinning with possibilities; he ducked past the glass door, clearly just relieved from his overwatch duties. His presence and Soap's words made Kraus' face pale, and KKpt's tracking gaze honed on his menacing company. Kraus made a point of positioning himself with Soap as a barrier from Ghost's presence, hovering timidly by Soap's lounging in your hijacked seat. 

"It's a joke. That was a joke," Laswell clarified with a polite chuckle, an outright lie. 

The lie seemed to put Professor Kraus entirely at peace as all tension in his wrinkled expression immediately settled. If he only knew the half of it. 

"Either way, 141 can be pretty persuasive when they need to be. We need to start thinking about how we'll craft the message," you posited to the other linguists, manifesting your most commanding tone. 

"The hostages are the number one priority. Not some, not most, all of them," KKpt reaffirmed her assertive tone, commanding the humour out of the situation. 

"We can't even approach the situation until we know it's safe. We have to start with the explosives," Laswell argued.

"On top of explosives, we can expect armed contact with five tangos," Gaz chimed in from beside you, looming over the dogeared blueprints. "They can make or break this whole mission."

"Five tangos? Piece a' cake," Soap quipped as his mouth twisted into a grin, Kraus bellowed a hearty laugh.

"141, this is capture, not kill. We've been given orders to bring these people to trial," Laswell barked. "But I can't speak for the German military."

With so many possibilities up in the air and so little time, it's a wonder that the room became silent. Every soul in that room was raking their mind for logic, seeking past experiences and wisdom to make sense of this change in tempo. You realized your hands were shaking, but you hid them under your folded arms as you paced further. That decadent chocolate cake the boys had bought you couldn't look less appealing right now, about as appetizing as a leather boot. Your nervous stomach couldn't handle the sight. Ghost's eyes in your direction caught your attention, his presence and intensity were apparent. When your eyes swam to dare to catch his gaze, he didn't relent. Brown eyes bored into you with a lingering agitation that made your gut feel like a canon ball had been dropped into it. What's his problem?

"There's too much press," Price sniffed, scratching at his beard. "We can't go in loud, it's too urban. Plainclothes, no armoured vehicles, no kits. Ghost and Soap will infiltrate the apartment and get this Oracle to comply. Gaz and I will be secondary clearance on the ground. Cricket, we'll get you what you need."

He nodded at you, sharing a glance with your colleagues as well. That's working on a hearty assumption that you'll know what to do with the intel they gather. It's also working with a hearty assumption that you're on the right trail to begin with. 

"When can we begin?" Soap sat forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his knees. 

"What time is it right now?" Price scoffed. 

They all move as one. Not a word, no additional clarifications. Laswell gathered her intel in her arms again and slipped out, sparing a nod your way. Once again, just as quickly as they all manifested, they all shuffled out. Soap rose from your seat, Price and Gaz babbled ever so casually about a recent soccer match, and their distant voices trailed into oblivion. Price and co. were headed to the armoury or wherever, the barrel of Ghost's rifle disappearing last from view. Explosive commotion from behind you made the world blur, and suddenly you were being pulled into a giddy embrace. A wall of scratchy blue cotton with gold buttons pressed into your cheek, glancing over to padded shoulders to see the professor bounding over. Surrendering to the crashing relief, you joined your peers in a giddy group hug, squeezing out the deafening tension that's gripped you three for days. Korvettenkapitän Wolf was belting praises, and the explosion of movement sent the professor into a brief coughing fit.

For now, this mission is out of your hands. It's not your field. You're no strategist. Ideas you might bring to the table have probably been long since dissected by the experts, dismissed, as you'd expect. If someone came into your field of expertise and told you what to do, you’d feel pretty irritated too. Laswell will get back to you with the most carefully worded message you can deliver, curated by senior intelligence and coordinated with the ground crews. This feels like the inverse of the desperate hope they instilled in you. It's funny how the tables have turned, and the weight of the mission is now on their shoulders. It feels good. Looking down your nose at them, rolling your eyes if they don't immediately have a solution. The feeling won't last long, but it's worth savouring. Like a game of Red Light, Green Light, you'll be expected to act soon enough.   

"We fucking did it," you cried, the words ringing as false in your reeling mind.

"The hard part's done, but there's still more to do," KKpt tempered the energy in the room, a message that was only partly received. 

"What's the one with the," Kraus raised his hand to gesture to the top of his head, "hair."

The professor seemed eager to keep the electric atmosphere alight, an opposing energy to the Korvettenkapitän. He stood a lot closer than you were used to him too, pale cheeks alight with life, a flush you'd assumed had been drawn from the success. This aloof professor was now bouncing on his toes in his frumpy brown blazer. 

"Oh, that's Soap," you answered casually, slowly catching onto his lingering smile. "Why?"

"I like him," he could barely contain his smile, tapping fidgeting fingers on his styrofoam cup of tea. He looked like he was about to say more. 

"Can we focus, please?" KKpt barked in that brash drill-sergeant tone that made the professor quiver in his houndstooth suit.

"Right… Once the task force gets the oracle in custody, we'll have to work fast," you uttered, trying to fight the urge to continue the previous conversation. 

"We'll have to get the key, decrypt the original orders, then write the new orders into the key and send it out like new," she continued. 

"It's important to remember that we're working with a character limit in this medium," Kraus grumbled, shaking away his fluster. "Once we know what the new orders will be, we'll have to tailor our message within a few short lines of text."

"There's also the issue of internal dog whistles. There might be some secret keyword or omission of keywords that signal infiltration," KKpt pressed a balled fist to her tight mouth. 

"You have a skeptical mind," Kraus huffed, flopping back into a chair with a squealing creak. 

"We should have one of us creating the new message with the existing key, one person to read through the old orders to see if there are any consistencies, and another person to make sure we're not fucking it up," you ordered. 

Immediately leaping into action, you gathered your things, preparing for anything. A pen, a notebook, and crumpling up the rest. Wads of discarded papers sat like shovelled snow in corners and under tables, forcing yourself to take a long drag of coffee to fuel whatever's to come. The rest of them caught the message, following with the same energetic preparation. For what? Who knows. Preemptiveness, more like. Pieces are in motion, and the energy can't go unused. It's like when you send a risky text to someone you fancy and start frantically cleaning your entire house for reasons you'll never grasp. Almost on queue, the door creaked open again, and a glimpse of blonde bangs corresponded with the sound of someone clearing their throat. 

"The boys are about to head out," Laswell tapped her hand on the doorframe, only halfway through the door. "We'll be watching in the van. You should come join me."

"Yes, ma'am," you unfold your tight arms, letting them fall to your side. 

You nodded for the others to follow, almost as if they were waiting for your approval to follow this random woman with skeptical brows. Daylight was blinding, and that blonde silhouette was the only distinguishable figure in the early noon sunlight. It makes you realize how much of a cave that restaurant has become. Your two peers followed at your heels, each armed with a laptop and a fistful of loose papers. The grey cityscape manifested once your eyes adjusted and you found your footing on the uneven sidewalk. A maze of vans and tents and floodlights, this tourist center has become a military encampment, armed to the teeth with cops and soldiers.

Your colleagues, the task force ones, swam into your field of view from across the street. There's something so unsettling about seeing these guys without their full kits and camo. Ghost had a blue and yellow sweatshirt with some sports team's logo on the front, unquestionably not one from his personal wardrobe. A black medical mask and a baseball cap made him look like any other commuter on a bus, backpack over one shoulder and all. On the other hand, Soap looked like at least a dozen other people you'd seen at the gym before, with a grey hoodie with ripped-off sleeves and running shorts. If you close your eyes and imagine a jock, that image of Soap is precisely what you'd see. He looks like a retired quarterback that peaked in Highschool. Even though they're not supposed to see them, you could barely see the bulletproof vests under their clothes. Not nearly as high of an armour level as in their usual kits, but could save their life nonetheless.

The rest of them wore jeans, almost like Soap was the one who didn't get the memo, even though his disguise was by far the best. There's Price, no hat, Gaz neither. It's such a rare, once-in-a-lifetime sighting that feels so unsettling, like you've just drawn a sword from a stone. Except after this mission, you probably won't be crowned King of Angleland. Even though it might feel like you deserve it. 

Your staring was interrupted, and Laswell ushered you into the butterfly doors of a white van. Laswell seemed somewhat preoccupied, doing sound checks with dinky headphone pads that she pressed to her ears. She'd set up the interior with a wall filled with screens and graphs, a handful of CCTV angles, and an LED display that listed 141's Bravo signs. Those Bravo signs came online one by one, and Laswell, now 'Watcher,' settled in for her role in this mess. KKpt and Kraus joined you on the bench beside you; he goggled at every flashing light while she was stoic and severe. 

Suddenly, everything was so official. So real. This is happening, and your half-baked scheme based on at least a dozen assumptions is about to send your colleagues into certain combat. Worst of all, if it fucks up, it all falls back on you. Apprehension caught up to you, and your forehead prickled with sweat. Every decision you've made with certainty descends onto your mind like a cold mist, sowing doubt. They're already on their way, picking up on a camera on the corner of an intersection headed further into the city. All 21 of those hostages and four of your comrades, all flying on your dodgy conclusion. It's all or nothing now.

Chapter Text

From a patchwork collection of various CCTV angles, you watched your four comrades make their way past the barricade. Context was given to a persistent rhythmic murmur as, to your shock, a crowd of protesters had gathered at the police's line. Painted signs decried the government's inaction in the weeks-long hostage crisis, gnashing teeth chanting for retribution for one of the dead hostages. Rows on rows of gathered civilians formed an uproar in protest of your presence, and a handful of signs even denounce the SAS' presence altogether. It's easy to lose said soldiers in the crowd, but you barely spotted the top of Ghost's cap as he stood over a head taller than the rest. To a lively crowd of agitated protesters, four foreign soldiers in kits and uniform attempting to blend in would've seen to them being drawn and quartered in record time. Price had the foresight to know as much, and their plainclothes let them slink through the sea of signs and fists without a passing glance, evaporating in the commotion.

Now on the other side, the four soldiers split, and you wrung your hands in anticipation. Two groups of two, weaving in branching paths toward the inner city. Another camera angle showed a grainy vista of ferries churning along stone canals, dashed with arching bridges with iron fences. Stalls occupied with bouquets of tulips and sunflowers in crinkling paper contrasted the undercover soldiers marching by, wolves in sheep's clothing. Even though the CCTV wouldn't pick up audio, you were forced to imagine the songs coming from that lively street busker Price and Gaz just passed. 

Blocky red brick and grey stone apartments heaved above streets lined with leafy trees. Your other colleagues' weaving path finally brought them to their point of interest. Another angle from outside a small corner store showed Soap glancing over his shoulder as Ghost slipped into the glass doors of a particularly run-down apartment building. They disappeared into the building, and your legs crossed at the ankle. Seconds turned to minutes, then it felt like hours. Each passing minute was illuminated on the bottom corner of nearly every LED screen, a nauseating reminder. Deafening silence. Eventually Gaz sparked a cigarette, using it as an opportunity to stand idle vigil, puffing clouds of white smoke as he rocked his heels. All of you were patiently waiting for an update from your colleagues in the apartment, and you couldn't help but glance at Laswell to gauge her sense of urgency. 

"Soap, what's your status," Laswell called after a click. 

No response. 

"Ghost, what's your status," after another click. 

No response. 

Utter silence. 

You gnawed on your thumbnail, not even daring to see if your present company matched your level of subtle discomfort. The collar of your shirt felt tight around your throat as the lack of feedback was mortifying. All eyes were glued to the screen, and your ears were desperate for any stimuli other than distant chanting and humming electricity. 

"Watcher, we have the oracle. I'm sending pictures your way," Soap's voice finally cracked through the speakers. 

"Nice work," she spoke into the mic, turning to you to meet your wide stare. "Standing by."

There was motion on one of the screens, and Laswell brought up an encrypted messenger from a censored cell number. After a few tense seconds, the empty inbox was suddenly flooded with waves of image files. Clicking them open with a heavy click of her mouse, half the empty screens along the van wall sparked alight, illuminating dozens of photos. All four of you leaned forward in sync, studying the stimuli with raking eyes. 

The keys looked almost like a calendar. A square block of characters, with a column and row highlighted in each, with a secondary line below highlighting the axis of the text in blue letters. Once a section of ciphertext is aligned with the adjoining keyword, the plaintext message that contains the orders comes unravelled. This was your initial scramble to gather context, analyzing every shape on the screen to make sense of the images. 

Laswell's clearing throat cut above the tapping of keys on laptops and whirling pens. The corner of a white page flickered in your focused vision; you blinked, meeting a piece of paper being thrust into your field of view. You were about to tap your comrade's shoulders to get their attention, but their eyes were already scanning the page. A simple block of text handwritten on ripped paper, the new orders. While it might be odd to wait this long to give you this critical info, it's wisest to hold the top-secret communications until the last possible moment, reducing the risk of a mole upending the scheme.

They will bring the hostages to the Dressing Room at the northeast of the building and rendezvous the tangos to the Lower Hall and await further instructions. In the case of detonation, the demolition experts assure us that the remote explosives won't penetrate the brick wall separating the Dressing Room from the main theatre. The first entry squad will use the ground-floor fire escape at the back of the Dressing Room to secure the hostages. A secondary and tertiary squad will enter through the foyer and the basement, cornering the tangos in the Lower Hall. Get them to unload their firearms.

The orders were clear and sensical. Not that you'd have much of a say if they didn't make sense. Now, your task is to make those orders come to fruition, and your mind starts to whirl with forming sentences. In an earlier life, you would've been expected to manually go into what's essentially a game of cryptogram and use up precious minutes breaking messages one by one. Luckily, you're in the digital age, and algorithms expedite the process to a supernatural level. After a collective ten seconds spent gathering information, Kraus immediately got started on his task. One of the batches of photos was pages from a book, keys to the ciphertext. The ciphertext, in a coffee-stained folder Soap's gloved fingers spread across a cluttered kitchen counter, was Kraus' task to unravel. While he gathered key context, you were still waiting on more, and just as the question manifested on your tongue, a new batch of photos came in. The birds. 

One of the pigeons in a wiry cage had what looked like a bandage around its leg, but after closer inspection was the message that was to order the execution of the hostages. A storyboard of images created a series of events that you were forced to stifle a laugh at. Image by image, it told the story of Soap identifying the pivotal pigeon. Another shot at a closer angle, a third with his glove gripping the startled bird with blurred wings, three accidental pictures taken during a frenzied scuffle, then Soap's hand tarred with white feathers presenting the small scroll. It's hard to say who was victorious, as when Soap's fingers spread the unravelled message, pink dots and nips along his wrist showed a tentative victory for the pigeon. 

That was the information that had you and the KKpt on the edge of your seats, and a deep breath felt foreign in your tight chest. While Kraus was tapping away at the text, already with half a dozen translated messages, KKpt's screen matched the key to the text. As you suspected, the text the computer algorithm spat out was a nauseating order. To bring one of the hostages to an upper-level window, within view of distant television crews, and terminate a preselected hostage, one of the chaperones. There's something about reading someone's execution order scrawled on a piece of parchment that makes you feel lightheaded. Termination of human life reduced to a handful of scrambled letters. The thing about one-time pads is that you're working with a strict character limit. In this case, the oracle decodes their messages into four lines of 15 characters each, a total of 60 characters to portray an entire message. Usually, a multiple of five and a certain number of characters must fit in a certain number of lines, so abbreviation is common. It comes to show a disturbing glimpse into the inner communications of a fanatic group, where these armed terrorists seemed to refer to themselves as 'apostles' and the hostages as 'disciples,' abbreviated to APTL and DCPL, respectively. An important note Kraus underscored is that the oracle always leaves OCL at the end of their message as a signoff from their leader, the oracle. That'll have to be incorporated in the limited text.

Meanwhile, Laswell didn't need to be told that this was everything you needed to get started as she took it upon herself to update the boys that the linguists were getting started. In your focus, you vaguely overheard Ghost's voice updating Laswell through the mic, but all your ears caught was the female voice in the background calling Ghost a wide variety of German insults and slurs. 

"We've got some company out here," Price's voice cut through the radio, and Laswell lept to flick between camera angles.

"Two big guys are trailing us," Gaz added, sounding like he was walking briskly. 

"Split them up and use the needle if you can," Laswell spoke calmly. "You know what to do."

It's hard to stay focused when the situation outside that apartment gets more intense by the second. Gaz and Price have been spotted by whatever guerilla militia is protecting this religious group, and they have neither the armour nor the cover to handle this like they usually do. You couldn't afford the mental bandwidth, but still snuck a glance at Gaz's silhouette on an angle from across a street, showing a hulking figure in a thick out-of-season jacket gaining on his heels. Another angle showed Price standing in an alley just across from the apartment building with one of those industrial green garbage bins at his side. The letters were falling into place after a few flustered seconds of panic, but Gaz's mic cutting through sapped your concentration. 

"Easy there, champ," Gaz chuckled in an unnervingly jolly tone loud enough for passing civilians to hear. "One too many drinks, eh?"

Your brows furrowed as suddenly the man slumped into Gaz's shoulder, softly lowered into a park bench. He lifted his hand from its placement on the jacketed man's stomach, folding a silvery needle back into his pocket. Just like that, Gaz's would-be assassin was reduced to a rowdy barhopper on his last stop of the evening. 

"D-did he just kill that man?" Kraus barked, his voice trembling.