Chapter Text
Logan held her beanie to her head as the helicopter whipped the air up around her, kicking up dust on the tarmac as she held her duffel bag of possessions to her side. The sun was bright for golden hour, a deep orange hue glinting in her eyes. Beneath the beating of the helicopter engine, she could faintly hear the activity on the base, bustling and efficient as the last hours of daylight make their escape.
She raised her free hand, motioning in a circle to signal to the pilot she’s out of the way. In response, he nods at her and takes off once more, leaving her behind.
As she continued to look around, she felt that familiar tension in her chest, that physical thrum of anxiety as she took in the sights of her new home base, halfway across the world. She’s no stranger to the travel; her commanders point, she goes, no questions asked. But this time was different. A Joint Operations task force, yet she was the only American on the ground.
And if Laswell’s hesitation to tell her anything about her new teammates was anything to go by… the only woman, once again. She blocked the sun from her eyes with her hand, watching the troops across the base as they worked, diligent and organized like ants.
Logan was pulled out of her thoughts, watching the helicopter fly off into the sky when she heard the dull thudding of heavy boots approaching her. Turning and lowering her hand she came face to face with someone she’d only met once before.
“Welcome to 141, Sergeant,” Captain John Price said, his voice deep and gruff. “Glad to have you aboard.” He wasn’t phased when she only nodded in return, reaching out to grasp his gloved hand in hers. He had a firm grip, a pair of eyes beneath his boonie hat that held both kindness and sternness in equal measures. Still, the eye contact he leveled her with was intimidating, and she had to smooth a hand across the back of her neck to calm her nerves as he led her inside. He smelt like cigar smoke and aftershave, the combination making her nose scrunch up beneath her mask.
He turned a corner, down a hall, his hands resting on the magazines tucked into the front of his tactical vest as she trailed behind him, looking around and doing her best to memorize every inch of every step they took; building her own mental map of the place.
Finally, he pushed open a door about midway down a corridor. The plaque on the wall beside it designated conference room #3. Inside, Logan met another, more familiar face.
Kate Laswell stood in front of a projector, pointing out places of interest on a map of a compound. Logan recognized it as the one she’d been studying on the way over. There were three men around the table, however, she had never met before. It didn’t take a genius to deduce that these were her teammates, the smallest squad she’d ever been on thus far. Their attention was immediately pulled away from Laswell, and all eyes were on her as she stood in the doorway beside Price.
Laswell’s smile was gentle, warm like a blanket as she rounded the table, extending her arms towards Logan. The three at the table fell silent, watching with sharp eyes as Logan accepted Laswell’s hug.
“Glad you got here safe, Logan,” she murmurs into the younger woman’s ear, before they pull apart. Logan gives her a nod as well, scrunching her eyes in a way that she hopes alludes to the relieved smile beneath her mask.
Logan’s eyes were immediately drawn to the man sitting in the far corner, thick arms crossed over his broad torso, leaned back in his chair, his chin tilted into his chest as he stared down at the papers strewn out on the table. His appearance was nothing short of intimidating; large, muscular, dressed in mostly black with one glaring exception: the mask over his face. Logan tried to guess what it was made of. Sewn directly onto the balaclava beneath it, stained and weathered… was it clay? No, that might be too brittle, unless he spent all his free time making the damn things. She nearly chuckled aloud imagining this hulking man hunched over his desk in his dorm room doing arts and crafts. It couldn’t be plastic, either, she thought. As if he could feel the moment her eyes trailed over his form, his gaze flicked up from the pages. Her heart dropped into her stomach at the intensity of his glare, and she felt an involuntary shiver rush up her spine. Still, she didn’t back down, matching his gaze until he finally broke from their little staring contest without a sound or a word otherwise.
The other two were far more normal in appearance, the kind of young men you’d expect to see somewhere like this. The only thing that stuck out to her about one of them was his choice of haircut- a shaggy mohawk that made him look almost boyish if it weren’t for the scruff along his jawline and the jagged scar on his chin, a visible tattoo on his muscular forearm.
The other one sitting beside him was a young, handsome black man, a baseball cap with the United Kingdom flag atop his head and a more relaxed, friendlier face than the others in the room, yet he still held himself with a serious no-bullshit demeanor. At least these two seemed close to her age, she mused, unlike Price. She couldn’t tell a single thing about the masked man on the other side of the table; perhaps that was on purpose. It wasn’t too different from herself, she supposed. The dark gray gaiter mask on the lower half of her face, and the beanie covering her hair was more than a fashion statement, after all.
Kate turns towards the three men sitting at the table. “Boys, I’d like you to meet Sergeant Logan ‘Mouse’ Sheridan of the American Special Forces.”
“Sniper, Cyber Operations Specialist. She’s the newest member of 141. Treat her like family,” Price added from her other side.
The mohawked man snorted at the reveal of her callsign, before Logan catches a flash of movement beneath the table. The masked man kicked his shin with almost supernatural accuracy without so much as a glance in his direction, making the other jump a little from the pain and attempt to recover, clearing his throat with a cough.
“That’s Sergeant MacTavish and Sergeant Garrick,” Price says, gesturing to the two men respectively. “And he’s Lieutenant Riley.”
Logan glances towards the masked man again, armed now with his rank and surname. Lieutenant- he must be closer to Price’s age than hers, she assumes. He stares back at her again, and she can see the bottom of his brows as they furrow, his eyes narrowing at her in scrutiny. His gaze darts around her smaller frame, her muscles and figure obscured by the bulky tactical vest. He’s trying to size her up, Logan assumes with a slight scowl. There’s a charge in the air between them, indiscernible but undeniably tense.
She barely notices Price gesturing for her to take the last open seat at the table, the one directly beside the Lieutenant. Flexing her jaw, she nods and sits down as the others look at her curiously. Logan pointedly stares towards the projector on the wall as Price and Laswell close the door to the room and return to the head of the table.
“Now, normally I would prefer to give Sheridan a day or so to grow accustomed with the base and the team before sending her out on a mission, but we’ve received an urgent tip regarding a man we’ve been tailing for a while.”
She taps the spacebar of her laptop, and a photograph appears on the projection behind her. It was blurry, low resolution, but she recognized him all the same. Dmitri Borisov, the Commander of a private military company from Russia. Same receding hairline, same eyes that seemed angry with the world, same square jaw. A face she’d been hunting for the better part of three years now.
Her eyes flicked back to Laswell, silently urging her to continue.
“We’ve learned of a base of operations for Sabre Company,” Laswell says. “It’s not their main headquarters, but we’ve discovered a large server network within.”
“A private island,” MacTavish murmurs, rubbing his chin with one hand in thought. Logan blinked in surprise, glancing at the mohawked man. She hadn’t expected the Scottish accent that left his lips.
“Correct,” Laswell continues. “The objective is to get in, retrieve the data off of their servers, and destroy their systems without raising any alarms. Mouse will break into the server and retrieve the intel, and Ghost, you will be her escort in and out.”
That news seemed to piss the Lieutenant off. His eyes snapped back towards Logan, but he didn’t protest against Laswell and Price’s orders.
“Roger,” he finally speaks up, his voice deep and gravelly, a thick British accent that felt like honey coating his tone. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as night falls,” Price replies. “Report to the tarmac at 2100 for the bird that will carry you both to the island. The rest of you are dismissed. Sheridan, I’ll show you to your dormitory in the barracks.”
Logan turned to their commanders and nodded. This was her chance to prove herself; she would show Price that his trust was not misguided, and prove to Laswell that she was right to put her faith behind her. She stood, picking up her duffel bag from the floor and following Price out of the room as the three men slowly got to their feet.
Once the door shuts behind her, Soap and Gaz approach Ghost.
“So…” Soap broaches the subject carefully. “A new member.”
Ghost only shrugged, following them out of the room as he stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “She better not be as unpleasant as she seems to be,” he grumbles. “You notice how she kept starin’ at me?”
“She’s got this air of mystery about her, kind of like you, Ghost,” Gaz says with a chuckle. “Maybe you’ll get along swimmingly. Y’know, bond over masks and such.”
Soap nudges Ghost’s arm. “Maybe you made her nervous, L.T.,” he says cheekily. “You aren’t the friendliest-looking guy.”
Ghost rolls his eyes at their teasing. “I’m not here to babysit her. If she can’t hold her own out there, I’m not risking my ass to save her.”
“And I mean… that callsign,” Soap continues, chuckling to himself. “She looked like she could break my arm off, yet they call her ‘Mouse’?”
“Enough, MacTavish,” Ghost butts in.
They turn a corner, heading to the mess hall. There’s a comfortable silence before Soap speaks up again. "Hey, what do you think she looks like under that mask, anyway?" He asks, and Gaz nudges Soap's shoulder as he gives him a smirk.
"Why, is she your type?" Gaz teases. "Cold, dark, and silent?"
"That's not what I meant, ye bastard!" Soap replies quickly, shoving Gaz.
Ghost remains lost in thought as the two of them bicker, prodding and shoving each other like preteen brothers. His mind is filled with thoughts about that mysterious woman. Her sudden appearance, her intense stare, and the way she hadn’t uttered a single word… it all intrigued him, he begrudgingly admitted.
Later that evening, Logan pushed open the door to the base’s armory. Her shoulders tensed when she realized Ghost was already there, his back facing her as he prepared his gear. She watched his gloved hands shove various knives and grenades into the slots on his vest.
Just as he had in the briefing room, Ghost seemed aware the moment her eyes took in his figure; his head turned ever so slightly to the side, his eye meeting her through the mask on his face. It sent chills up her spine, and she turned away quickly to her own locker on the opposite side of the room.
When Ghost glances over at her, she has her back turned as she takes a honey badger off of the wall, before outfitting it with a suppressor and a scope. She works aptly and deftly, efficient- it’s clear she’s very comfortable working with guns. Once she has it secure on her person, she reaches for a pistol and another silencer, checking over the gun before screwing the attachment into place.
As she works, his eyes roam over her body. The tactical vest hides most of her figure, and the beanie on her head makes it impossible to tell how long her hair is, but her clothes are rather form-fitting underneath, and she definitely looks muscular.
Interestingly, there’s something hanging from a zipper on the pack attached to the back of her vest… a keychain, a tiny plush raccoon that has clearly seen better days. It throws a wrench into his initial assessment of her, certainly.
They geared up in relative silence, but then his voice reached her ears once more, just as commanding and striking as it was hours beforehand.
“You better keep up, Mouse.”
Logan looked over her shoulder. He was only a few feet behind her, looking down at her hands as she assembled her rifle. His eyes trailed up. her arms, towards her face.
It was hard to discern anything from behind that mask of his, but from this distance, she could see the black paint smudged around his deep brown eyes.
When she didn’t respond verbally, his head tilted to the side ever so slightly. He had expected a fearful ‘yes, sir’ or even a witty retort if she were the confident, cool, and collected type. Not… silence. Not the subtle tilt of her jaw, her eyes flicking up and down his form again before she turned back towards her gun.
It baffled him.
“I’m talking to you, Sergeant,” he tried again, leaning in a little closer.
She nods.
He huffs, then tries a different approach. “What’s with the raccoon?” he gruffs. “We’re going to a battlefield, not a goddamn primary school playground.”
This does get a reaction out of her; she turns to face him, giving him a sharp glare.
“It’s cute,” he goads. “You bring it everywhere? Need a stuffie in case you get scared?”
She picks up the messenger bag containing her laptop, a transfer cable, and an external SSD, turning away from the bench. It gets slung around her body from one shoulder, her gun’s sling around the other, and she tugs her vest down to rest properly over her body. That’s when she meets his eyes again, a stern look before she motions towards the door.
He raises an eyebrow at her beneath his mask, but he doesn’t say anything more. It annoyed him that he couldn’t instigate her into speaking up. No- it royally pissed him off. He turns on his heel, walking out of the armory, but not before his shoulder collides with hers as he trudges past. Her face twitches in irritation beneath her mask, but she bites it down and trails behind him.
The tarmac is quieter than it had been earlier that evening, aside from the idling engine of the helo. Ghost pulls open the door, hopping up into the vehicle before turning and extending a hand to her. She looks a little surprised, her brows raising through the black paint around her eyes, but after a moment she puts her gloved hand in his and lets him pull her up into the helicopter.
Logan sits directly across from him- the helo is compact, so their knees brush together every so often- and she buckles herself in before giving Ghost a thumbs up with her gloved hand. She looks out the window to her side at the dark, almost midnight sky as they take off towards the enemy compound, keeping her knees together and to the side to give Ghost as much room as possible. She appears calm, but her low, angular eyebrows and hooded, deep-set eyes still have that intense look.
Ghost is beginning to wonder if that intense, angry stare is just her resting expression.
Or maybe she doesn’t like him.
Good, he thinks. I don’t like her either.
It only takes fifteen minutes of silent-filled flight for Ghost to turn back towards her, speaking through the comms system in their headsets to be heard over the thumping of the helicopter blades overhead.
“Are you always this quiet?” He asks gruffly. She tears her eyes away from the cloudy star-speckled sky outside to meet his eyes again.
She gives him one subtle, curt nod.
“Is there a reason?” Ghost presses. She nods again. “Will you tell me?” A shake. “Are you deaf?”
Logan gives him a comically quizzical look, as if she were saying, “What do you think?”
He sucks on his teeth in annoyance, slumping back into his seat. His hands rest loosely on his thighs as he takes her in once more.
“Is it me?” He asks after a brief silence. She shakes her head again.
He grunted, leaning back and crossing his arms.
“Well, don’t expect me to be a chatterbox, either,” he grumbled.
If he could see her lips beneath her mask, he might’ve spotted the small smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. All he saw was the roll of her eyes as she leaned back as well, settling in for the long haul.