Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was underground. The smell of decay was thick in the air.

‘Where was he?’

Dirt fell from above him, onto his face. Something was crawling across his arm, a bony hand digging into his back.

‘Was he underground?’

He tried to move and feel around to try and orientate himself. Wet. One of his hands was on something wet, but he instinctively knew it wasn’t water, it was too thick, and slimy. His other hand met the cracked hardwood above him.

‘A coffin?’

He was in a coffin, with a dead body. The sickening scent of rot made sense now. Lightheadedness was slowly beginning to set in. His air was running out, 'no ventilation underground', he mused.

‘He needs to escape.’

Clawing at the roof of the coffin was pointless. He needed something stronger. He was wearing nothing but boxers. He felt the around him, the body beneath him seemed to have been buried in a similar state of dress. His hand then hit the body’s decomposing face.

‘Use the jawbone.’

Bracing himself, he put his hand into the mouth, thumb beneath the chin to give him a better grip. Gripping the jaw, hard enough for his fingers to rip through the decomposed flesh like paper, he yanked his arm back. Bile rose into his mouth as the sickening crack reverberated through the silence of the coffin. He swallowed it back. Throwing up now would only make the stench worse.

‘The air is running out.’

Slimy flesh oozed between his fingers, making the jaw hard to grip. He gripped the jawbone harder and bashed it against the rotting wood above him. A few swings and the wood gave way to dirt. He no longer knew how long he had been digging, the passage of time only being monitored through the increasing feeling of lightheadedness. It must’ve been hours, the teeth of the jawbone dug into his hand. Blood ran down his arms, dripping down onto the corpse below him. The rhythmic splats were beginning to drive him insane.

‘Light!’

His eyes screamed in pain as the light blinded him as it broke through the darkness. He had broken through to the surface! Discarding the bone, he used his hands to claw his way out. His already broken nails cracked and bled as they hit rocks and tough bits of dirt. He didn’t care. He kept digging. He felt high on the air he was given, he didn't know how little he had left until he was practically choking on every lungful he inhaled. It must’ve taken hours, but the hole he dug was finally big enough to squeeze himself through.

‘Fuck.’

Falling to his knees, he doubled over in pain. The injuries he had been ignoring made themselves known. His eyes rolled back into his head as pain viciously attacked him from all sides. His eyes were fluttering closed as consciousness slipped away from him.

‘No. Get up.’

He staggered to his feet, clutching his abdomen. A particularly long gash made itself across his stomach, and blood was slowly seeping from it. He was covered in dirt, the larger wounds looked slightly green around the edges.

‘Open wounds around decomposing corpses. Not great.’

The light allowed him to look down into the grave he had just freed himself from. The glossy eyes of his CO, Vernon, were now staring up at him. The man was barely recognisable, rotted and jawless.

‘Good. Get what you deserve.’

He stumbled away from the gravesite, his battered body screaming at him to rest. To just lay down and sleep. He didn’t, he wouldn’t. He carried on. It felt like his legs would give at any moment, but he just kept walking. His feet were covered in blisters, burns and cuts from wandering through the desert for so long.

‘Just got to get to the border.’

Was he even going the right way? His lips were chapped from dehydration. The desert sun was beating down on his bare skin, sunburn pulling painfully as he stumbled. His body was burning up, he was not sure how much longer he could last in this heat. He was so thirsty. His vision was blurring, everything around him nothing more than vague shapes and colours.

‘Is that a road?’

He tried to go faster, seeing salvation so close. Was it even real, he’s so delirious a this point nothing seemed real. The world seemed to be spinning, slowly getting faster. He needed to make it. The world slanted as he fell to his knees. He quickly lost balance and ended up lying face down in the scorching desert sand. He couldn’t even register the pain the impact had caused.

“This is Officer Jones. I’ve got a stiff- Shit, he’s actually alive! Requesting ambulance ASAP. This man has extensive injuries and looks severely dehydrated, he may also have heatstroke.”

He could barely hear anything, the whole world felt like it was underwater. A blurry figure crouched down in front of him. He wanted to move away as a hand grabbed his wrist. Checking for a pulse, his mind supplied. Still, the touch caused a weak flinch down his arm.

“Hey there, pal. Do you know where you are?”

He wasn’t sure. He knew he was in a desert, the blazimg sun made that hard to forget. Was he still in Mexico? The guy didn’t sound Mexican, not that that meant much. Did he make it, did he get across the border? He must’ve walked for days before he collapsed to do so. God, it was so hot. Maybe he was dead, and just burning in hell already.

“I’m Officer Jones. You’re in Texas, close to the border. What’s your name, pal?”

What was his name? His mind drew a blank. Why did he not know his name, he’s pretty sure he had one. “English.” That name caused a full-body shudder, his earlier nausea returning. He tried to shake his head, but he was not sure that the thought got past his mind. What was his name?!

“Let's roll you onto your side, can’t have you choking on your vomit.”

His whole body exploded with white hit pain, his whole world whited out as the lashes along his back made themselves known as his body was twisted. There was a quiet gasp as his face was revealed to the Officer. A long partially healed gash ran from the top of his left cheek to the top of his lip. Another ran jaggedly up from his jaw to his eyebrow. Many tiny scars and wounds littered his hairline from how many times they had bashed his head into things. Other smaller scars also littered his face, an ‘x’ shapes scar on his cheekbone, and another across his nose, which was now slightly wonky from how many times it had been broken.

“Shit!”

The movement must have jostled something, he couldn’t breathe. It felt like the air was being pulled out of him. No matter how much air he got, it wasn’t enough. Black spots crept on from the edge of his vision, pain coursing through him as his body convulsed. Sirens could be heard in the distance as unconsciousness finally managed you drag him into the dark.

Chapter Text

Hands were touching him. The lights were too bright. The room was spinning. People were touching him. He thrashed, only to realise he was strapped down. More hands grabbed him, pinning him down. The bright lights, loud beeping and whirring of the machines around him caused pain to shoot through his head, he squeezed his eyes shut to try and relieve the pain. They flew back open as he felt something being put over his mouth, he struggled more, wanting to claw it off. No, get off!

Whatever drug they had given him worked fast. His consciousness was slipping from him, he fought it but it was useless. He found himself slipping back under.

“So this is the new patient?”

He felt a cool hand on his head. It felt nice, unlike the other hands that had held him down as he’d struggled. The voice was slightly distorted as he began to regain consciousness. The rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor, grounding him slightly giving him more clarity than he’s had in months. The world still felt hazy around him, it still spun, just slower. It was a nice reprieve. Then the hand was gone, along with the short reprieve as the sweltering heat took over again.

“Yeah, he came in with a foot in the grave. I’m honestly surprised he pulled through”

A different voice said, feeling much further away. His brain barely registered what they’d said, only picking up on the grave comment. If he were more lucid, he may have found the statement ironic.

“He’s so pale, he may as well be a ghost.”

The first one said. Ghost. That felt about right. When he looked over at the nurses, all he could see were two skulls staring emptily back at him. They were moving closer to him. The skulls seemed to stare into his soul. He heard the heartbeat monitor tick up slightly. The nurses didn’t respond. He felt like he was paralysed, within a waking nightmare. “I am the death of everything you know and love.” a voice echoed in his head.

“With these injuries, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was one.”

The other replied. Maybe he was dead. A part of him had been torn away and left to rot in that grave. He didn’t feel alive, Ghost seemed like an appropriate name for him. It's not like he can remember his anyway. The nurses’ chatter slowly faded away as he drifted off once again.

The next time he woke up there was a man in uniform sitting in a chair near his bed.

“Sargent Simon Riley.”

Simon Riley. The name felt familiar. Like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that couldn’t quite fit anymore. The puzzle was too old, the cardboard had been warped over time as the wrong pieces were jammed together in an attempt to solve it. He looked over at the man addressing him. A white skull staring back at him was all he could see.

“I am General Robert Dunmore. Do you know where you are?”

Texas. Had he had made it, he hoped he had. He tried to open his mouth and speak, all that made it past his throat was a dry wheeze followed by a coughing fit.

When the fit subsided, he registered a straw in his peripheral. He eyed it suspiciously, the general raised an eyebrow at him, though he wasn't surprised at the distrust. The general waited patiently until his thirst won out.

The water cooled the burning fire in his throat, he couldn’t remember the last time he had drank anything, the last few days in the desert a blur. He tried to speak again, managing to give the general an answer. His voice sounded raw, a mix of disuse and dehydration making his answer garbled, understandable enough for the general to understand though.

“That’s right. Do you know the date today?”

He remembers the mission he had gone on was on November 1st, during the Day of the Dead festival. The mission felt like a distant memory. How long had it been? For all he knew it could be anywhere from weeks to months, though it felt like he’d been there for years. There were so many blank spots, periods his brain refused to remember. He shrugged, he had no way of telling the time there. Locked in windowless rooms, the only sign time was passing was the seemingly random intervals his tormentors visited him.

“It’s July 29th, 2010. You’ve been MIA for just over nine months.”

Nine months. That felt like both too short and too long of a time. He’d been missing for so long. What were his family thinking? Had they been notified of his return? He wasn’t sure if he’d even recognise them. When he tried to picture them all he got were blurred faces. Would they recognise him? Nine months, and nobody came for him. Did anyone else make it out alive? Sparks, Cumberland, Washington, were they also caught?

“You’ve been in a coma for two weeks and suffered extensive injuries. It would probably take me an hour to list them all off, you’re lucky to be alive. Once you’ve been cleared by the doctor, we’ll be able to get you back onto British soil. Get some rest, Sargent.”

The chair creaked as the general stood, and the room was quiet again. The fever was still making him, Simon, uncomfortably warm. They must’ve put him on some strong painkillers, there was a weird floating feeling in his chest. The absence of pain felt odd after spending so long, nine months, with nothing but pain to ground him. Not that it wasn't nice. Simon settled back down into his pillows.

He was transferred to a hospital in Manchester, where he was monitored for two more weeks to make sure the infected lacerations littered across his body were no longer life-threatening. At that point, though he was hopped up on so many drugs, time seemed to fly by. Before he knew it his brother, (he had a brother, how had he forgotten that?) Tommy was coming to pick him up from the hospital. He has vague memories of them coming to see him, his mother crying at his bedside gripping his hand like a lifeline.

“Hey, Simon.” Tommy smiled, helping him up. The name still didn’t sit quite right with him, maybe it was due to so many months without one. Simon looked up at his younger brother, there was always a sad look in his eyes whenever Tommy looked at him. He hated it. Tommy helped Simon out of bed and into the wheelchair, which he had to use unless he wanted to rip any of the many stitches they’d given him.

He’d been told he was in surgery for over 24 hours when he first came into the hospital in Texas, even then some minor gashes were missed in favour of treating the more life-threatening wounds.

He was helped into the car, it seemed like they were only driving for seconds and then the car pulled up at his childhood home. The wheelchair had to be ditched to get up the front steps of the house. It had taken far too long to reach the door but when they did his mother was waiting for him at the door. She looked as if she’d aged decades since he had last seen her, weary lines embedded under her eyes and worry lines on her forehead. Her smile was the same though. She stepped forward cautiously, arms open and Simon jerked his head in a short nod.

His mother’s arms enveloped him in safety that he hadn’t felt in months. He had to pull back before long, arms quickly turning from comforting to suffocating as his mind turned against him.

Despite being home, he was still on bed rest. The worried gaze of his mother bore into him, guilting him into staying in bed. He felt useless, just lying there wasting away but he didn't want to cause his family any more worry.

Any food he ate barely even had time to settle in his stomach before gruesome nightmares tore him from rest, giving him the highlights of his time with Roba and had him spilling his insides into a bucket, which had become a permanent feature beside his bed.

It took yet another two weeks before the Doctors approved him for exercise, as long as it wasn't too extensive. Simon had been going on runs ever since then, which allowed him to slowly rebuild some of the muscle he had lost through the months of starvation, surviving on the bare minimum and nothing more.

After yet another restless night, he made his way to the bathroom. He needed to get the taste of bile out of his mouth, the images of his hands covered with another’s blood out of his mind, and the sick joy he took from it out of his chest.

Ever since he’d gotten back, his thoughts have been turning more and more violent. He was restless, he needed to go back to the field but he was weeks away from being cleared by medical. He felt like he was going mad.

He turned the light on, his eyes caught sight of himself in the mirror. Except it wasn't him, a skull stared back at him, he blinked, and it disappeared. But when he looked again his face still didn't look right. He wasn't Simon Riley. Simon Riley was lying dead in an unmarked, shallow grave somewhere in Mexico with Major Vernon. He was simply a husk. An empty shell of a man, a ghost.

He's not sure what drove him to do it, but he grabbed the toothpaste off of the side and smeared it across his face, painting it white in a desperate attempt to recognise who he saw in the mirror. It kind of reminded him of the face paint he had worn on the day of the dead.

A small gasp behind him alerted him of another's presence. Looking into the mirror, he saw his mother's fearful gaze directed at him.

"Simon, son?" she said, "Still having Nightmares?”

He nodded, “In my dreams... I do terrible things. Violent things. To people, to women. And the scary part is, I like it.” He looked down at his hands, unable to see them beneath the blood that dripped from them.

His mother smiled sadly, “You’re my good boy, Simon. You just need time to sort it out.” She reached out to touch his shoulder, but then thought better of it, dropping her hand to her side. “I’ll go put on some tea. You startled me for a second there, I thought you were your father.” She left Simon in the bathroom, presumably to go to the kitchen.

I thought you were your father. That stung, though maybe he was. These violent thoughts had to come from somewhere. Angrily, he scrubbed the toothpaste off of his face. Irritating the cuts on his face, even causing a few of the larger ones to bleed sluggishly as the scabs were harshly scrubbed off. He grabbed some tissue and held it to his face as he made his way to the kitchen to join his mother.

They wouldn’t clear him for service. He was fuming, he needed to get cleared by the damned shrink. He was fine. The doctors had cleared him over two months ago. He’d told that to his new CO, who’d then told him “You don’t need to convince me, I would’ve had you back with the unit as soon as the doctors cleared you, you’re the best man we have.” The shrink didn’t understand. He belonged on the battlefield, civilian life was not for him.

They'd given him some bullshit honorary promotion as some kind of thank you for his service. He didn't want some worthless medal or promotion, he wanted back in. It was the only way he could control his violent thoughts and urges, he could get lost in orders and missions and not worry about hurting some innocent civilian.

“Simon!” his mother yelled, snapping him out of death-glaring at the wall. “Come help me lay the table. Tommy and Beth will be here soon and they’re bringing Joseph!” Simon got up and went to grab the cutlery from the draw. His mother patted him on the shoulder and smiled, “Cheer up son, it’s Christmas Eve!”

He looked over the decorated tree. Festive lights were hung around the living room. He smiled too as he remembered decorating it with his mum, helping her reach the top of the tree, and being allowed to put the star on the tree.

The doorbell went off, “Could you get that for me, Simon?” His mother asked from the kitchen.

Simon got to the door and was immediately greeted by an excited Joseph, “Uncle Simon!” He yelled reaching his arms up to be lifted, he was way too old now to need to be carried but Simon could never deny him anything. Simon lifted the little guy and flew him around like a plane down the hallway. Beth and Tommy followed him to the living room to sit while they waited for dinner to be ready.

“So how’ve you been doing?” Tommy asked, smiling at him as Simon sat on the floor, allowing Joseph to use him like a climbing frame.

"Not bad," he said, keeping his gaze focused on Joseph.

"It's okay if you're not, y'know. I want to help like you helped me. You pulled me out of the dark and I wanna do the same for you, if you'll let me" Tommy said, looking at him earnestly.

Simon nodded, Tommy didn't need to be burdened with his problems though. He had enough on his hands already with Joseph. So Simon changed the subject, "I'm proud of how far you've come Tommy," he turned to Beth, "and I'm glad you found him."

They all sat down at the table, it was the nicest meal he'd had in a while. Conversation flowed as they ate the meal, all of them catching up with each other. Simon stayed quiet for most of it, hoping his mind would let him keep his dinner down for the night.

Finally, they'd all settled in the living room after dinner, the dishes were left for later as they all relaxed for a bit after their meal.

"Faster! Uncle Simon!" Joseph giggled. Simon lifted him up quickly and then swooped him down toward the ground.

“Go easy on your uncle, Joseph!” Tommy called out, laughing from the couch.

A loud knock at the door disrupted the peaceful atmosphere of the evening.

“Hey, English!” Simon had to suppress a flinch at the name, hating how the word would forever be associated with his tormentor.

Simon then registered the American accent, looking up to see a surprisingly familiar face. “Sparks?” Simon said, unable to keep the surprise. He thought he was the only survivor. How had Sparks managed to escape, had anyone else?

Sparks could see that he had many questions, “Why don't we go for a drink, eh?” Sparks said, already grabbing Simon’s arm and pulling him out the door.

“Simon? Where are you going? Who’s this?” his mother asked, eyeing Sparks suspiciously.

“This is Sparks. He was with me in Mexico,” her eyes widened at that. “Thought he was dead, I should be back before midnight, I just wanna catch up,” Simon said. He needed to get Sparks out, he needed to know what had happened to him, how he had escaped.

They made it to a local bar. Simon ordered a beer, that went untouched as Sparks talked about his and Washington’s, who had also managed to escape, promotions. They were both a few years from retirement, “So what happened? You were one unbreakable sonofabitch, I thought for sure they’d kill you”

“I think they did,” he said in a rare moment of honesty, hoping his fellow soldier may understand. He finally, took a sip of beer, he'd gotten a bottle that he had opened himself. His paranoia wouldn't let him take anything he hadn't seen being made.

Sparks ignored his comment in favour of checking out a woman who’d just walked by. “Maybe it's just me, ‘cus I’m shipping out in three weeks, or do the ladies in this bar look pretty nice.”

“Y’feeling alright Sparks?” Simon asked, despising the way Sparks was speaking about the woman.

“So… Word is you’re having a hard time getting back into the field.” Sparks said, grabbing another bottle of beer from the bartender.

“Yeah, it’s all up to the Psychologist lady, she’s a pretty uptight one.” He grumbled, still pissed that she was the one thing between him and getting back to his job.

“You didn’t tell her about the nightmares? The pills help, if you don’t fight them. They feel kind of good, wish fulfilment, man,” Sparks said, almost dreamily.

“Maybe we’re having different dreams,” Images of Simon beating an innocent man to death, or wrapping his hands around a woman’s neck until she went limp. His hands were perpetually covered in blood. How was any of that wish fulfilment?

“It’s like Roba says, 'rules are just bars man makes to keep himself in a cage'.” Sparks quoted as if Simon would be on the same page as him. As if Simon would listen to Roba’s advice.

Shit.

Sparks hadn't escaped Roba.

“That’s who you’re looking to for advice now, Roba.” He said, he couldn't help the way he spat out the name.

Sparks’ eyes narrowed, “How’d you say you escaped Roba?” His voice had taken on a more threatening tone.

“I woke up and realised the bars didn’t need to be there. And they weren’t.” Simon lied, wanting nothing more than to deck this man in the face. He held back the urge. He needed to know what Sparks was up to.

“Right on, English!” Sparks said, smirking. Simon then ushered Sparks out of the bar, Simon could barely contain his rage as Sparks bragged about aiding Roba’s cartel, simply holding the door open to allow heroin and terrorists into the USA.

“Hey, look! It’s the chick from the bar!” Sparks yelled, interrupting his own ramblings. Out of nowhere, he grabbed her and covered her mouth to muffle her cries. Her bag was thrown onto the ground as she struggled. Sparks yelled at Simon to grab her keys and open the door.

Simon grabbed the keys and opened the door, rage rolling off of him in waves. Before Sparks could even register his rage toward him, Simon’s fist met his face, he felt a satisfying crunch beneath his knuckles. Sparks was knocked back into the building, letting go of the woman in surprise. She wasted no time running off into the night. Simon stepped in and shut the door behind him, before turning back to Sparks. He pulled out a knife and pushed it up against Sparks’ neck. His free hand gripped Sparks' neck, squeezing at the soft flesh beneath it.

“So what? Roba gives you some cushy promotion and pills and you become his bitch! What the fuck happened to you!” Simon dug the knife in deeper. “What does Roba want!” Whatever Sparks said next went unheard as he heard the door open. Sparks wasn’t alone.

“Sparks you won’t believe what I- Shit!” Washington pulled out a gun and fired. Pain shot through Simon’s thigh. He knew he was outgunned, so he ran to the window, jumping from the second floor. The adrenaline managed to numb the pain slightly, as he staggered from the landing before running toward the nearest car. Hijacking it from the couple packing their things into it.

'You told me what would happen.' Simon thought as he remembered what Roba had told him.

“This is your mother’s skull.”

Come on. Come on. Pick up!

“This is your father’s skull.”

No, no, no! This isn’t happening, PICK UP!

“This is your brother’s skull.”

He had made it to the house. He knew he was too late, the door was wide open. The house was dark aside from the faint glow of the red and green Christmas lights.

“No” the hoarse whisper left his mouth as he entered the living room.

It was only half an hour ago that they were all sat around the tree, smiling. He had finally felt content after so long.

Now, the bodies of his family were strewn around the floor, all shot in the head - executioner style. Two small feet poked out from beneath the bloodied tablecloth, which must’ve been pulled from the table in the struggle. Three sets of unseeing, glossy eyes were staring back at him.

They were all dead.

His family was gone.

Whatever was left of him after he crawled out of the grave, was lying dead infront of him.

Chapter Text

Laughter echoed through the deathly silent house.

Who was laughing? What sick fuck would laugh at this?

Was he the one laughing? Why was he laughing?

Tears streamed down his face- he couldn’t stop. His teeth bit into his knuckles until they bled in an attempt to stifle the harsh sound coming from his mouth.

No matter what he tried, he couldn’t shut himself up.

He just. Kept. Laughing.

He went to his bedroom. Reaching beneath his pillow, he pulled out his gun. The laughter still hadn’t stopped, he was still letting out harsh barks of laughter. He dropped to his knees, body still shaking with laughter. He put the gun in his mouth.

He was still laughing.

Shut. Up!

He couldn’t do this anymore, his family were the only reason he was still here. The only things tethering him to humanity after being deprived of it for so long, and they were gone.

A particularly cruel laugh caused his shoulders to jerk and the gun hit the back of his throat, gagging him. He threw up, only making the tears come faster. That was the last meal his mother had cooked, now a regurgitated mess on the floor of his home.

As he stared at the vomit on the floor, as anger consumed him. If he was too much of a coward to die, he would do his damn well best to destroy the motherfuckers who had done this to them.

He gripped the gun in his hand. He stormed past the cooling bodies of his family towards the last place he saw Sparks and Washington.

He dialled Sparks’ number, on his burner.

“Just so you know, English,” the name dripping with vitriol, “You really blew it.”

“I’m not the one who sold out my country.” he ground out, glaring at the empty room he was standing in. They were long gone by now.

“That’s not what they’ll say when they find your lady shrink’s body.” He wanted to punch that smug bitch’s face through the phone.

“You setting me up, Sparks?” He looked out the window, catching a glimpse of a black truck outside, Sparks' truck. He was already running clear of the room by the time they fired the rocket into the house. He’d just made it out as the room went up in flames.

“You set yourself up, English” the name was sneered through the phone in the smug voice of someone who’d thought they had won. Simon saw their truck pull away, they didn't even bother to confirm their kill.

Weren’t they in for a surprise?

He went to the hospital. He needed answers.

“Well if it ain’t my son. The butcher.” his father was lying in a hospital bed, tubes sticking out of him from everywhere. He was reading the local paper the headline read: ‘SAS Officer Wanted’ with a picture of his face beneath it.

“Come t’off me too?”

“No, you miserable bastard. I’m only here for answers.” Simon said, yanking the cords attached to his father’s face. “I fucking laughed at their corpses. Why the fuck would I do that? Did Roba mess me up that bad?” He gripped his hair as his thoughts spiralled.

His father barked out a harsh laugh, “I wouldn’t worry about it none, Sonny, y’ain’t been brainwashed.” his father let out another laugh. “You’re just a pussy.”

That had stunned him slightly, but the state he was in couldn’t make him feel more than a slightly taken aback. “How ‘bout this, if you promise to pull the plug on me. I fuckin hate this place, I'm dying anyway. I’ll tell ya a story.”

Simon wanted nothing more than to do so, he nodded.

His father told him how he had forced Simon to go to a rock concert, to toughen him up. Simon remembered feeling trapped, too loud, too many people. He saw his dad running off with some random woman. Though he didn’t remember what happened next, his father told him that he had followed him to the bathrooms and that he’d seen the prostitute overdose. His father then held his head, forcing him to look at the body. “Laugh, boy. Hahaha. Laugh, Laugh!” the grip on his face was bruising as he let out a forced laugh.

Simon shoved his father back down onto the bed and stormed. Ignoring his outraged cries, “Hey! We had a bargain, a Bargain! Simon!”

That's all Simon needed to know, he wasn’t brainwashed, he hadn’t been broken by Roba.

The credit went to his father.

As he left the hospital room, he ignored the gunshots that echoed through the hallways, ducking into another corridor as Sparks and Washington passed him.

He stared at his painted face in the mirror, he had painted his face white, and black smears of paint went across his cheekbones and eyes.

Sparks and Washington were holed up in RAF Bonnington, sleeping like babies believing they were safe behind the triple barbed wire fence and 24-hour satellite surveillance.

Believing that Riley was dead.

Though, they weren't wrong there. Everything he’d he’d dear was gone. Riley no longer existed, just a dead man.

A dead man on a mission.

Pulling on a balaclava and his old tac vest. He made his way out of the hotel room he was staying in. Troops were due to return to the base tonight, all he needed to do was hitch a ride.

Laying down along the middle of the road leading into the base, he readied himself to grab ahold of the underside of the car. His black outfit blended with the surrounding darkness and the tarmac making him invisible to the drivers above.

His back dragged slightly along the tarmac as he got onto the underside of the car, he quickly pulled himself up and held himself under the car until it had passed through the base’s security, he dropped back down when the car parked, knocking out the driver with the handle of his knife when the car door had opened.

He silently moved through the base toward the administration office. He had to duck away from a few patrolling officers, but it was surprisingly easy to get past. They were getting too comfortable hiding behind their walls. He managed to hack into one of the computers and find which Barracks Sparks and Washington were in, Number 12.

Sparks and Washington were fast asleep in their beds. He covered Washington’s nose and mouth with a gloved hand. Washington thrashed as he was startled awake, eyes staring fearfully into his. He thrashed as he struggled to breathe.

Simon put his knife against the neck of the Lieutenant, slowly dragging it across, digging the knife in deeper. He watched as the man beneath him struggled in vain to breathe through the blood pouring into his airways, as Washington choked on his own blood. Tears fell from Washington’s eyes as he fell limp, he put his hand on the pulse point - just to be sure.

Then he moved towards Sparks, he took a sleeping pill out of one of the pockets in his vest. “Time for you’re pills Captain,” he said as he forced Sparks to swallow the pill. It took effect almost immediately, Sparks’ pupils were blown wide and his gaze went distant. Sparks' head lolled to the side, seeing Washington's dead body lying next to him, Sparks' eyes widened and attempted to struggle, but the pills caused the movement to be sluggish at best.

He threw Sparks’ body over and made his way out of the base, there were a few close calls with the patrols, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He made it to a car and drove straight out of the air base.

He drove them both back to his home, where his family’s blood still stained the walls. He grabbed Sparks’ hair and crained his neck back forcing him to look upon the carnage, a blood-stained Christmas tree on the ground, the presents underneath crushed.

“My mother, My brother, His beautiful wife! Their son, Joseph.” Simon said, forcing Sparks to look at their blood, which was still pooled on the floor. “And the worst part is, I can’t grieve. I can’t feel the proper things. I can just do what needs to be done.” He said, throwing Sparks’ to the floor, causing the man’s head to bounce.

“You know what you need, Sparks? You need to be hooked up to a morphine drip. You need your entrails strewn out in front of you, spelling out your confession” He dragged his knife across Sparks’ stomach, to punctuate his point, letting Sparks’ blood drip down. “You need to read it over and over as the morphine wears off and the pain comes... And you feel what I should be feeling. That I can't. And you need to die from it.” He glared at Sparks over his shoulder, moving to the kitchen to grab a sharper knife. Leaving Sparks tied up in the living room.

He had heard Sparks struggle to free himself and stood there in the kitchen, just waiting for Sparks to come for him, idly fiddling with his gun. Just as he thought. The cocky bastard came in wielding a fire poker only to freeze as a gun was pointed at his head. He didn’t hesitate, shooting Sparks straight through the jaw.

He switched out their tags and doused the place in gasoline. Simon stepped out of the house for the final time, dropping a match into the pool of gasoline at the front door. He stared at the house in flames, this wasn’t some cleansing fire. This was a funeral pyre, and that was the end of Lieutenant Simon Riley.

All that was left was a Ghost.

He had somehow made it across the border, being legally dead was a logistical nightmare. He had hijacked a car once he got across and made his way to Coahuila. He needed intel, he’d heard of the war between the Cartels through the news. Rumours spread of Roba’s right hand, Gilberto, leading the troops against their rivals. Perfect.

He had been laying low for six weeks, waiting for his chance. A firefight had just broken out outside, gunshots ringing out throughout the street. Once the firing had stopped a man burst into the bar that he’d taken over. It was just the man he was looking for.

Gilberto demanded a tequila loudly as he slammed the door open, his eyes widened as he recognised who exactly was serving him.

“You’re supposed to be dead, English!” Gilberto sputtered, stumbling backwards, the name only serving to fuel his anger.

“Ghost,” he corrected, “We’re all dead: Sparks, Washington, Riley. Everyone you tried to brainwash. Roba’s plan failed.”

Ghost dragged Roba’s right hand into the backroom of the bar and shoved him down into the metal chair he had placed there in preparation. “I heard Roba’s flown the coop, and you know where.”

“I thought the dead were meant to know all, maybe you’re not dead” the man laughed. Ghost tied him down, tying the rope as tight as he could.

“What the dead don't know, we can learn, " he said, pulling out a knife. "Here is where you tell me where Roba is.”

“Ha! Fuck you, English. Kill me, torture me, I will not talk.” The guy glared at him from his chair.

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. There isn’t a man alive that doesn’t have a breaking point," he said, dragging a knife down Gilberto's arm.

"Your mistake was that I had already reached mine a long time ago, I was already broken, mate.” Ghost said, switching on a bright spotlight and shining it into Gilberto's eyes.

"Y'might call me a high-functioning wreck, but the truth is I've been half dead for more than twenty years. Now I'm all dead, I'm feeling much better." He took the knife away from Gilberto's arm, only to slam it down through his thigh.

Gilberto screamed, taking a few breaths to compose himself again, he spoke, “It’s too big for you, English. I will tell you nothing of Roba’s plan.”

Ghost grabbed three needles from the case he had set on the table behind him, placing each one between his fingers, and gripping them tightly. "I guess this was what Sparks was so desperate for," Ghost mused, holding them up to the light. He turned back to Gilberto, "All I need from you is where he moved, I'll get the rest straight from the horse's mouth."

He stabbed the syringes full of psychedelics, opiates and whoever knows what else into Roba’s right-hand’s face. Gilberto screamed as one pierced his eyeball, the other two going in through the eyebrow and cheekbone. Ghost pushed down the plungers, the liquid causing unnatural bulges to form on the man’s face. Despite it being injected in the face, the drug was already starting to take effect.

Ghost yanked the knife out of Gilberto's thigh, holding it to the man’s face. The man shrunk back in fear, the drugs most likely making the scene in front of him twice as frightening. Ghost didn’t care.

“Tell me where Roba is.” He’d say after he'd cut line after line into the man's face. Despite his agonised screams, the man shook his head each time.

Ghost then took the knife to Gilberto’s shoulder, holding it sideways. He carefully dug the knife in and pulled it down, peeling off the skin of the. Just like Gilberto had done to him. Though Gilberto didn't seem to be taking it as well. Though he still refused to give up his boss, even after three more patches had been removed.

Time to switch tactics, Ghost grabbed a pair of pliers from the shelving unit in the corner of the backroom. Gripping one of Gilberto's nails with the pliers, a sharp yank ripped it right off. Ghost didn’t give the man time to breathe before he picked up the discarded needle from the ground and stabbed it into the exposed nail bed. Screams tore from Gilberto's throat as Ghost did it again, and again, and again.

Tears were streaming down his face, “Fine! Fine, I’ll tell you! But you have got to promise you’ll kill me. You of all people know what Roba can do!” Out of spite, Ghost stabbed the needle in again, this time going straight through the finger.

“Roba...” the man gasped through the pain, “Roba’s base is deep in the Jungles of Chiapas, it’s completely hidden from the air.” His head was hung low, sweat dripping from his hair.

“Please, Kill me.” Gilberto pleaded, tears running down his face and mixing with the blood leaking from the gashes Ghost had previously made.

“Pathetic.” Ghost scoffed, before plunging the knife into the man’s chest, and walking away.

Roba’s base was built like an impenetrable fortress. The jungle’s predators were enough to put off a lesser man, and the armed soldiers guarding the mansion enough to put any man off. But he was no man. He was Ghost.

Armed with a sniper (which he had stolen from one of Gilberto's men), a pistol, his old army tac vest and the multitude of blades he’d collected on his way here, Ghost made his way through the jungle. His machete slashed through the thick foliage as he went deeper into the jungle.

There were spiders the size of his head crawling around at his feet, Jaguars hiding in the brush ready to pounce on their prey at any given moment. The birds, though, were silent, no birdsong rang throughout the jungle. The rhythmic crunch of leaves beneath his boots was the only sound that he could hear. The sun was beginning to set, a foreboding atmosphere taking its place as night fell.

There was a faint light in the distance. The artificial nature of it looked so out of place in the jungle.

‘Target in sight.’

Ghost silently stalked toward his target, blending in seamlessly with the shadows of the jungle as he got closer. He scaled one of the taller trees overlooking the mansion, finding the perfect perch for him on one of the thicker branches of the tree about a third of the way up. He set up the rifle on the thick branch of the tree and looked through the scope.

There was a patrol headed toward his location. He took aim and opened fire. The three at the back went down with relative ease, each with a single shot to the head before they even had a chance to panic. The shots had alerted the others of the threat. They ran to find cover, he got one in the chest before they could find it. The final one had slid down a slope, and out of his sights.

Ghost climbed down the tree quickly chasing the straggler, gripping his machete in his gloved hand. He found the guy hiding in a bush reaching for the communicator on his belt. In a single swing, the man’s head was detached from his body, Ghost standing behind as the communicator fell to the ground along with the headless body. The communicator called out to the patrol, asking for an update they’d never get.

His infiltration had gone noisy. Time for the real fun. Ghost gripped the bloodied machete as he heard the voice over the comms put everyone on high alert. He had found some explosives on one of the patrol members he’d taken down whilst searching for anything of use. As he ran through the jungle toward the mansion, he planted charges onto random trees, starting their countdowns as he went.

Just as he had made it to the wall surrounding the compound the charges went off, one by one. He was close enough now that he could hear the alarmed shouts of patrols as they headed toward the explosions, leaving the mansion unguarded.

Ghost broke in through the closest window on the first floor, climbing through the shattered glass. He fired off two shots at the approaching guards, as he climbed through the window. Two bodies dropped to the ground.

“When they told me that the grave was empty, I knew you’d come back.” Roba’s voice echoed through the halls. “I do not fear the inevitable.”

Ghost didn’t respond, instead taking out the rest of Roba’s guards, picking off each one. All of them were stupid enough to place themselves between Roba and a bullet. His target was in front of him and all he could see was red.

Roba pulled out a gun, but Ghost had already anticipated his attack. A knife was embedded in Roba’s arm before the bastard could even think of pulling the trigger. Ghost relished in the pained groan that got from Roba as he clutched his wound with his free hand as if that could help him now. Anything he did now was futile, Ghost was on a mission and nothing could stop him from completing it.

Roba took off running down the halls and Ghost followed, not letting his target out of sight through the twists and turns of the unfamiliar building. Any guard that tried to hold him back from Roba was taken down with brutal efficiency, left dead or bleeding out as his knife slashed through their flesh like it was nothing. A trail of bodies was left behind him as he advanced on Roba.

It turned out Roba was leading him to his bedroom. A woman lay in his bed the duvet pulled up around her as she tucked herself fearfully into the corner of the room. Roba pulled out an automatic rifle from his bedside table and opened fire in the enclosed space. He was laughing maniacally, thinking that he had won.

Bullets ricocheted off of the walls. Glass sprayed all over the floor as they tore through ceiling-to-floor windows of the bedroom. Ghost took cover on the opposite side of the bed as he waited for the bullets to run out. The woman was shouting and crying as Roba kept his finger on the trigger. The room went silent, only the stifled sobs of the woman echoed in the bedroom

Roba panicked when the gunshots stopped, he had no more ammo. He took off sprinting again, surprisingly fast for a man of his size, though Ghost assumed that was mostly due to the fact he was literally running for his life. Roba ran out the shattered windows making it about halfway down the garden path before Ghost shot him in the back.

Fitting really.

Roba was gasping in pain as blood filled his lungs. Ghost kicked at his side, rolling the man over and then crouched over him. Roba was rambling, about how his family were killed, and how he realised people were expendable, he saw the bigger picture, because of course he did, he was above everyone else.

His speech only made Ghost’s rage flare, fighting to get out to tear Roba apart like a wild animal. He had no pity for the man before him, Ghost doubted anyone would. People weren’t expendable, his family wasn’t just some cost, some failed experiment. They were his world, and they were gone.

"The world is full of billions of people, we live, we die, what does it matter if a few people die? It's not like there's a shortage," a coughing fit interrupted Roba's speech as he choked on a laugh, "In the end, I'm just one man."

"A man who needs to go." Ghost said, speaking for the first time since he'd left for the jungle.

A final shot rang out through the now silent mansion, going straight through the bastard's forehead.

The charges were now set, ready to crumble Roba’s empire once and for all.

Getting out of the base was a bloodbath, he was reckless, uncaring of whether he’d make it out alive. It’s not like there was anyone waiting for him to return. He fired off rounds into patrol groups, wasting the limited ammo he had. Once he ran out, he discarded his guns, throwing them to the ground to rid himself of their weight.

Ghost pulled the knives off of his vest, throwing one into the neck of one of the men attacking him before spinning around and stabbing it into the jugular of one who had thought they could sneak up behind him. Yanking the knife out caused a spray of blood to cover his mask.

The fight to get out was stained in a red haze as he focused on tearing down as many of Roba's men as he could before someone got a lucky shot. Man after man falling to his blades. It felt endless as enemies just kept appearing only to be defeated seconds later. Against all odds, that lucky shot didn't come and eventually, there were no more enemies left. Ghost stood in the middle of the battlefield, bodies littered the ground around him as he waited, senses running on over time as he tried to listen for any more threats. He stood still, breathing hard. The jungle was silent once again.

Slashing through the foliage once more, Ghost made his way to the clearing he’d seen when he was mapping out his journey. Only once he’d made it to his destination did he dare to look back. The mansion was hard to make out through the trees, he grabbed the switch out from his tac vest, thumbing over the button. Ghost pushed the button.

BOOM!

The mansion was set ablaze.

His mission was complete.

A cold empty feeling spread throughout his chest as he realised he was now truly alone. There was nobody alive who knew Simon Riley.

He had no purpose. Nothing but the empty void in his chest where his heart was supposed to be.

The beating of helicopter blades caused Ghost to tense, as he stared up at it.

Did Roba call for backup?

The helicopter landed and Ghost gripped his machete tightly in his hands. Waiting for another wave of men to come charging out of the helicopter.

That didn't happen though, a man wearing a boonie hat stepped out of the helicopter. As he approached, Ghost recognised the British flag that was sewn onto the man's tac vest. Though he did not relax, he had no clue what the British military would want with him now.

Ghost backed up, bringing his machete to chest height.

"Easy there, son." The man said, putting his hands up to show he wasn't armed. "I'm not here to hurt ya."

Ghost said nothing, keeping his distance, ready to run if he needed to.

"I'm Captain John Price, I'm starting a task force, 141," he said, gesturing to the circular patch on his shoulder. "I'd like you to join me, as my Lieutenant."

Chapter Text

Ghost was speechless. This man wanted him to join a team. Him, a man covered in blood, who looked like some feral animal in a skull mask. Not only that, but this man had just called him son, something his own father barely ever did.

The shock had replaced the adrenaline coursing through him, the pain fading back in as his injuries made themselves known. He looked down to do a quick sit-rep of himself. There were many gashes where bullets had grazed him. A bullet had actually managed to lodge itself into his shoulder. A knife was buried in his side.

He wasn't supposed to survive this mission. There was no plan he had for after, nobody waiting for his return. Yet this man was giving him something to do, a purpose.

It was a tempting offer, there was nothing else he could do. Ghost was a weapon. He could be useful, be their weapon. He knew he was too much of a coward to take his own life, so maybe he could go out fighting like he had planned to.

He took a step forward toward the helicopter. The world spun and he was suddenly staring up at the stars. Maybe he wouldn't survive this, after all, his mission was complete it didn't matter what happened now. He heard a voice yelling orders, but it sounded so distant as his eyes slowly drooped closed.

He woke up in some unfamiliar place for what felt like the tenth time in as many weeks. He was beginning to get fed up with it, he'd prefer it if he just didn't wake up at all.

Ghost was surprised that his mask was still in place, he'd have thought the medics would've taken that off him the instant he was unconscious. He was glad for the extra layer of defence though, despite how dirty the thing was.

Price was sitting in the chair beside him, it looked as though he had been for a while. The man's uniform was wrinkled and he looked as if he hadn't slept in a while. Price looked up and saw that Ghost was awake, despite the fact Ghost hadn't moved a muscle from when he was asleep. Price somehow just knew.

"Mornin'," Price greeted, grabbing the glass of water that was sitting on the nightstand. Handing it over to Ghost, he couldn't be bothered to be suspicious of it. Not like there was any point, he was already hooked up to god knows what through the IV.

"You've been out for about a day." Ghost nodded, feeling the crusted blood on his mask flaking off with the movement, he winced internally at the feeling of the crusted blood. Price seemed to be able to read his mind though, pulling out a new mask, "I got this from the kit area, figured you'd want something clean once you woke up." he said as he handed over the balaclava.

Price looked away as Ghost switched his masks over, "Thanks." Ghost rasped, his voice rough from disuse.

"No problem." Price said, then he grabbed some papers, one Ghost recognised as his old file. Ghost showed no outward expression, keeping his usual dead-eyed stare at Price, but on the inside, he panicked a little.

It's not as though his old identity was a secret, but that person was dead, Ghost could not be Simon Riley.

"Simon Rile-"

"Ghost. Simon Riley is Dead." he said, voice coming out cold and harsh.

Price blinked, his only tell that he was taken aback, "Okay then, Ghost." he conceded, "Here it says you were former SAS, top of your class. You were MIA for just over 9 months." There was an odd look on Price's face when he said that.

Ghost didn't need any pity, but Price continued, "You were then Dishonourably Discharged, and a few days later you were found dead in your family house, identified by your tags." Price's raised eyebrow told Ghost he was to explain himself.

But Ghost said nothing, words still heavy on his tongue. How could he even begin to explain what had happened

Price sighed and left.

Whilst Price was getting approval for his task force, gathering resources and Men, Ghost was put under the command of Major Shepherd, the man who had sent Price after him in the first place after discovering his identity through the cameras at the Bonington RAF base.

Shepard knew of his skill and that he was alone. So Ghost was sent into the most dangerous places in modern history alone. Suicide missions, where he had to get Intel or take down some dictator or another.

But no matter how dangerous, or impossible the mission seemed to be he always made it back. Maybe he was cursed, maybe he just couldn't die. His instinct to complete the mission always outweighed the urge to just let himself slip. Let his guard down on the field and face the consequences.

By the time the task force was being sent out on their first mission, Ghost had already developed a reputation. People saw him as the personification of death, the Skull was an omen once it was seen you were dead seconds after.

It felt as though he was swimming in blood with the amount of people he'd killed. The more the rumour spread, the more he leaned into it. He was Ghost, the insane, unfeeling monster.

He waited on the landing strip, Shepherd quickly briefing him on the mission. "You and the Sergeant will take the lead on the mission."

"The Sergeant?" Ghost asked, annoyed that he'd have to share command with someone else. Ghost watched as soldiers exited the transport vehicle.

"Soap MacTavish" Shepherd introduced through the comms.

Ghost identified him quickly as the one with the mohawk, who was currently walking toward him, "Let's get ourselves a win, yeah Lt?" he said, casually punching Ghost's shoulder as if Ghost hadn’t killed men for less. At Ghost's silent stare, he turned around and headed to the helicopter, "I'll save you a seat,"

Ghost could already feel the headache this man would cause him, "Fuckin' hell," Ghost ignored Shepherd as he asked him if everything was okay, not like the man actually cared, and he headed toward the helicopter as well.

Soap MacTavish had to be one of the most infuriating men he has had the displeasure of working with.

On one of the first missions they shared, Soap had ignored their objective in favour of securing the Alpha team's crashed helo. From an outside perspective, that would seem heroic and it was. However, as a result of this choice, their mission had failed. Hassan got away. “Choices have consequences,” Ghost had told him.

They had to chase Hassan into Mexico, which already sucked. But to top it off they were getting involved with that damned cartel. Ghost didn't think he could hate a mission more.

As Alejandro drove them through Las Almas Ghost couldn't help but think back to Cohalia, they seemed to be the same. Streets full of guns and death, the cartel everywhere he looked.

"With your mask, you will fit in well here Ghost." Rodlofo's comment made him wince internally, it was only an observation since the cartel members were also wearing skull masks. He knew his reputation, and what people thought of him though, so he couldn't help but think there was some deeper meaning to that statement.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Soap silently gesturing for them to cut it out. It seemed that despite Ghost wearing a mask and keeping his expression blank, Soap seemed to see straight through him and sense his discomfort anyway.

The more he interacted with the man, the more confusing he got. Soap treated Ghost as if he was just some guy, not some weapon used for the messed up operations the military can't send out normal recruits for. Soap even seemed to look up to him slightly, always eagerly taking in his advice when it was given.

Then he'd turn around and pull stupid stunts like this. They were currently infiltrating some VIP party, full of people under the thumb of the cartel, and Johnny just volunteered himself to go in, unarmed to try and meet El Sin Nombre.

Soap was too righteous for his own good. You couldn't afford to be in this line of work. Their job was to get themselves dirty so that the world could stay clean.

Ghost was stuck on overwatch, which was useless if they were going underground, so he grits his teeth and waits.

They'd done it. El Sin Nombre, Valeria, was captured. She gave them the missile locations and they were all set to destroy them.

Graves had betrayed them.

Part of him wanted to laugh, he was betrayed. In Mexico. Again

But now wasn't the time to laugh, because they needed to get out of here. Las Almas was crawling with Shadows searching for anything that moved. Gunshots echoed through the streets along with the screams of innocents.

Alejandro was captured, Soap had been shot. At least he knew Soap had gotten away, he'd ordered it himself, someone needed to get out and warn the others.

Ghost had also managed to slip away and make his way back to the streets of Las Almas. Ghost kept moving, grabbing anything that was useful and looking for any means of escape. Alejandro had told him there was a safe house about two hours out.

"This is bravo 7-1, in the blind. How to copy?" A breathless voice patched in through his earpiece.

Ghost wanted to kick himself, he was surrounded by Shadows, any misstep would reveal his position. There was no way he could respond yet.

"Ghost, this is 7-1. Do you copy?" Soap's voice was more urgent now, Ghost only had one more shadow to take down, and then he'd be in the clear.

"Soap, this is Ghost. How copy?"

Nothing.

"Johnny?" The nickname seemed to come out of nowhere, Ghost didn't realise what came out of his mouth until he’d said it..

Nothing again.

"Johnny, how copy?" Ghost was getting worried now, what if Soap had been captured? Images of Roba flashed before his eyes, along with phantom pains. How they'd butchered him day and night, how they cracked open his chest as if he was already dead.

"Solid." Soap groaned, snapping Ghost back to the present. Soap sounded weak, most likely from blood loss, but alive.

"Thought we lost you there." Ghost said, unable to hide the relief from his voice. "Are you injured?"

"I'm good," Soap replied after a second.

Ghost knew Soap was lying, he'd seen him get shot, "We'll see just how good you are, keep your blood in you, you'll need every drop."

"Thanks for the tip." Soap replied sarcastically. Ghost could practically see him rolling his eyes. There were a few minutes of silence as both men snuck out of the way of Shadows before Soap asked, "Where are you?"

"There's a church, I'm heading to it. Let's RV there" Ghost had seen it in the distance, the spire visible from the streets below, making it easy to find. It would also give him a better view of their position.

He let his training take over, focusing on coaching Soap helping him survive. Ghost may have done this countless times alone, but Johnny didn't need to. They were both being hunted and Ghost was not going to let Johnny die. Not on his watch.

"Look for supplies and things you can make tools out of." Ghost paused, thinking back to the many times he's had to improvise on weapons. All the missions that had gone south, where he'd had to claw his way out alone, he wouldn't let Soap go through that, "Welcome to guerilla warfare."

There were tense moments of silence as they made ground, every now and then, Soap would update him on items he'd found, and Ghost would give him uses for each item.

"What's the latest?" Ghost asked after a particularly long silence.

"Mercs are killing everything in their path," Soap said, unable to contain his anger at the needless bloodshed.

"War crimes." Ghost said grimly.

"Makes me wanna commit a few war crimes of my own."

"Tyranny, it won't stand."

"You think we'll get a green light to go after these guys?"

Ghost sighed internally, he needed Soap to understand their position, Graves had gotten orders from Shepherd. Meaning Shepherd was most likely the one orchestrating this whole plan. They were alone, they couldn't trust their CO's to do what was right. "No more green lights Johnny," he said softly, as if that'd soften the blow, "We’re on our own."

"What about Captain Price?" Soap asked, and on some level, Ghost agreed. But Price isn’t here to bail them out, and Ghost said as much to Soap. "I trust the Captain," Soap had said it so earnestly.

Price was a good man, there was no denying it, but Ghost knew from experience, "Be careful who you trust, Sergeant. People you know can hurt you the most." Ghost knew he was being overly pessimistic, but if that wasn't the story of his life.

"Good advice, Lt. I wanna be just like you when I grow up." Soap said sarcastically.

God, he hopes not. "You wanna be better than me, Johnny" Ghost said, a bit too truthfully.

There was something about this mission that made him want to lighten the mood a bit. It was an unfamiliar feeling to him, being the bringer of darkness and all that. Maybe it was how he could hear Soap's pained breathing whenever he spoke, it felt so wrong to hear from such a happy and energetic person.

"See the caged dog?" Soap asked

"If he barks, shoot it and repo quickly. Don't get compromised." It may have seemed obvious, but despite that Ghost still gave the instruction.

"You are stone cold, Simon." Johnny said back.

Simon, it wasn't as if his name was kept secret. But it was so rarely used, mostly due to him breaking bones whenever some rookie thought it'd be cool to call him by it. The rumour spread and people quickly learned not to call him Simon.

Simon was dead.

But when Johnny said it it just sounded right. It didn't feel as though he was jamming a warped puzzle piece into the wrong slot. It felt natural as if Ghost hadn't been avoiding it like the plague since he'd buried himself in his childhood home.

"What has two legs and bleeds." Ghost said, bringing himself out of his head.

"Don't tell me," Soap sighed, bracing himself anyway knowing his wish would be unheard.

"Half a dog." Ghost said anyway, grinning slightly at his own joke.

"I asked you not to tell me." Soap tried to sound annoyed, but Ghost could tell he was smothering his laugh. And if that wasn't a weird feeling, making someone laugh in such dire circumstances. He'd seen it happen with recruits, using humour as a coping mechanism. Though he'd never done it himself, always stayed focused on their objective.

Ghost continued to make his way to the church, taking down shadows when necessary, he'd almost made it.

Soap had been quiet for too long again. Not that Ghost blamed him, he was being quiet too, they had to be since the place was infested with shadows. But Ghost also knew Soap was injured and out of his depth here.

"You may get a brag rag for this," Ghost said, trying to make some kind of conversation to mask the worry that was needling his chest.

"A medal?" Soap asked, wondering where this was going.

"Chest candy." Ghost thought back to all the medals he had buried in a bottom drawer somewhere. He'd never had much use for his ceremonial uniform anyway. Too busy running missions to need one.

"I deserve one," Soap lamented.

"You said you wanted a win, congratulations you're a winner." The words just seemed to roll off of his tongue, as if joking around on missions was normal for him.

"Away n' bile yer heid!” Soap whisper-yelled.

"English, MacTavish" Ghost had some idea of what was said, but he'd like to hear it in real words.

"Sorry Sir, let me translate." there was a pause and Ghost could picture the smug grin on Johnny's face, "Go fuck yourself"

"Much better," what can he say, if he was going to get insulted, he'd prefer it if he understood.

He was at the entrance of the square the church sat in, the large open space would be difficult to get through undetected. Grabbing a few cans from a nearby bin, he launched one as far as he could toward the opposite side of the square. As the shadows went to investigate, he sprinted to the church as quietly as possible and slipped in through the door.

Ghost made his way up to the roof. He silently took out the sniper posted there, thankfully facing the opposite direction to where he'd made a break for it. Ghost set up his position and looked through the scope for anything nearby that could be used to escape. There were a few abandoned trucks that had their lights on.

Soap was still quite far out though, his injury slowing him down significantly. Still, Soap pushed on, telling Ghost everything he found. Ghost tried his hardest to think of what it could be used for, it was a good way to keep him grounded.

After a few minutes, Soap piped up again, "Ghost, you missing a knife?"

"Several," he remarked, feeling kind of naked without the many knives he was used to being equipped with.

"Think I found one," Soap said, and Ghost could hear the knife being yanked out of whatever poor sod's body Soap had found.

"Some of the dead shadows are my handy work." Ghost explained.

"You came through here." Soap's voice had lost a bit of his playfulness.

"On my way to the church." Ghost said, a tad defensive.

"And you left me?"

"I'm used to working alone." He'd not done a team mission like this in years, he wasn't very cooperative with some of the rookies. Though there was an occasional team mission, he still wasn't used to thinking in terms of a team. He's sure with the 141 being official now, he'll have more team missions, which he was dreading.

"So much for no man left behind." Hurt was now audible in the Sergeant’s tone, as he spoke.

"Just get to the church," Ghost said, a bit too harshly. The whole reason Ghost was staying was to help him, he could've left. Hell, at the time he didn't even know if Johnny was alive. Someone had to make it out and it seemed he was the only one capable.

Soap had finally made it to the Church, the increasing amount of gun fights echoing through the streets had him worried, but Soap had made it.

He led Soap through the square toward one of the trucks he saw and they both got in.

"Alright, Johnny? You made it." Ghost was glad, they were both in a car, ready to get the fuck out of there. He stayed vigilant though, they weren't in the clear yet.

"We made it Lt." Johnny corrected, grinning, all too happy to see Ghost alive.

They had freed the Vaqueros and the Ghost team was born.

Simon had shown his face for the first time in years, it was only for a few seconds, but he stupidly trusted these people. They'd been through hell together and survived.

Now it was time for them to bring hell. Hassan, Graves and Shepard won't know what hit them.

Hassan was down.

Everyone let out a collected sigh of relief. They could finally leave, and get back to base. Laswell had pulled a few strings to ensure the 141 didn't have any missions for at least a week, more if she could make it work.

Ghost allowed his shoulders to drop slightly, releasing some of the tension they'd been carrying for days. He was glad that the mission was over, usually, he’d be dreading the weeks he’d have off, but this time he wanted to just rest for a while.

They'd finally landed in the 141 base. Price had dismissed them, saying they'll debrief at 0800, tomorrow. Which meant they had the night off. They'd discussed going out for drinks, Soap and Gaz being the loudest about their excitement.

Ghost was going to refuse, and then Soap piped in, "I'll buy you a bourbon if you come Lt." he sing-songed, confident that Ghost couldn't refuse a free drink after the hell they'd just been through. He rolled his eyes and Soap cheered, knowing that he'd won despite Ghost not verbally saying so.

It was kind of nice having someone who could read him, who knew what he was thinking before he said it. It was also terrifying, to let someone get so close again. Close enough they could see glimpses of Simon Riley, a man long dead and buried.