Chapter Text
“Ya excited yet, L.T.?” Soap asked, a cheeky grin spread wide across his face while he elbowed the crossed armed man in the side. He’d been pestering Ghost since the moment they made it to the helipad; constantly asking if he was “ready” or “excited”.
“Quit it, Johnny.” Ghost grunted, annoyance evident in his tone. Soap laughed a little before tilting his head to the side, a pout setting across his features. Ghost would almost believe he was genuinely sad if it wasn't for the teasing glint still in Soap's eyes betraying his A-plus performance.
"C'mon, L.T.," he drawled, "you ain't just a little curious on wha' our new transfers gon’ look like?"
Ghost didn't answer at first, instead opting just to give Soap a side eye. He'd been hearing everyone gossip about the soldier from KorTac—mostly, his recruits being the ones chirping about—from the moment Price informed everyone someone new was being transferred to the 141.
Though he’d been feigning a front of disinterest, admittedly, the talk had him a bit curious, which was the only reason he agreed to come with Soap today. But there was no way he'd let Johnny know that.
“No.” He responded and set his eyes back to the front; a clear indicator that he was done with the conversation. But, like always, Soap didn't know when not to push his luck. A truly nasty habit.
“C’mon, from wha I’ve heard everyones been sayin’ he’s 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 than you. You can't tell me you ain't just a bit curious to see if that's true.”
Ghost stayed silent, sticking to his decision to no longer converse about the new transfer.
Soap continued on, completely unbothered by Ghost's silence; having gotten used to it by now.
Somewhere along the way time blurred together and Ghost had tuned out the Scotsman’s ranting entirely, instead wondering just what was taking so long for the chopper to arrive. They'd been waiting for a solid ten minutes now. Ghost glanced down at his watch; it was three minutes past the aircrafts scheduled arrival. He bit back an annoyed sigh as his eyebrow twitched. He wasn't going to wait all day for some newbie. He'd meet the guy eventually—the base wasn't 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 big, after all. He was about to tell Soap just that when he was ripped back to the present by one simple sentence.
“I’ve even heard he’s stronger than you, from the way everyone's talkin’, I can't help but think it’s true. Bet tha's why you don’ wanna talk bout' Im'.”
That admittedly did get his attention. He’d been hearing a lot about the transfer—this not even being the first time he’d been compared in strength to the guy, considering most of his recruits' chatter had only been debates on if the soldier could defeat him.
Some said he could, others said there was no way. Hell, Ghost was pretty certain there had been bets placed—which he had no doubt Soap was in on and could care less about—but having heard Soap say he thought the transfer could beat 𝘩𝘪𝘮 (joke or not) made something deep inside him unsettled, like the uncertainty you feel when you're walking in the pitch black of night and are left wondering just what is laying awake out there.
It was just a simple comment, a tactic Soap’s decided to use to get under his skin like any other day, but for some reason it set him off more than it usually did.
At the sudden lack of constant rambling and a Scottish accent Ghost glanced towards Soap, who was looking at him expectantly; a clear sign Soap wouldn’t be letting him not respond to that particular comment.
𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, the lieutenant thought with a silent sigh.
“You don’t say?”
Soap grinned. “I knew that’d get your attention, L.T.,” he teased.
The Scotsman opened his mouth, fully prepared to continue on his rants or maybe start teasing the lieutenant, but lucky for Ghost before Soap could start, the sounds of an aircraft's engines in the distance began to fill the very brief silence surrounding the landing pad, instantly drawing Soap's attention away from him.
The first thing Ghost noticed the moment their new arrival exited the chopper was the sniper hood. It caught him off guard for a moment; not used to looking at another mask-wearer on base. Let alone a hooded mask-wearer.
Then, a split second later, he realized Soap was right—he 𝘸𝘢𝘴 tall. Lean, not too muscular under all that tac-clothing, which made sense when you looked (or more accurately looked 𝘶𝘱) at the man. He had to have had a good few inches on Ghost 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺. However, the way he walked was... weird, to say the least. He had a slight hunch with each step, head tilted down and shoulders drawn forward, almost like he was trying to shrink himself—a giant hyperaware of the space he took up. It was ridiculous. Nothing like how a soldier should represent themselves, especially not when trying to remain unnoticed. He should know carrying himself like that would only draw more attention rather than takeaway. Hell, if he wanted people to not pay attention, he should walk at full height and glare at anyone who dared to stare for too long. It's what always worked for Ghost when he got annoyed by the constant staring from his rookies. It even brought him a little joy on occasion from how quickly they'd shy away (some even bolting out of the room in fear of what he could do to them).
Quite frankly, he reminded Ghost of a stray dog being cornered on the streets, eyes shifting everywhere, unsure of its surroundings, and so visibly wired that it was ready to lash out at anything, whether it was a hand wanting to provide shelter and warmth or a dangerous predator. It made him feel like 𝘩𝘦 should be on the lookout for something as well. As if he were the one walking into uncharted territory, and at any minute someone could get the jump on him and stab him.
𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨? a small voice in Ghost's mind spoke up, a taunting thing that only made him more agitated.
Soap, completely unaware of Ghost's sudden shift in attitude, stood there next to Ghost excitedly. He clicked his tongue and squinted in the bright sunlight, barely making out the tall figure walking towards them. That had to be König, the new transfer and—"Holy shite," he whispered. "Now tha’s somethin' ya don’t see everyday. Wha' are they feedin’ this guy?”
Though he wouldn't say it out loud, Ghost agreed with that reaction. The guy was 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭. Taller than he’d like to admit. Especially as he stood before them like a god damn bloody tower.
For the first time since arriving the guy, 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨, finally looked in his direction, amber eyes meeting his own.
Ghost waited for the recognition or even an introduction. For 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. Really anything at all, but it never came.
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘺?
Ghost was quick to move on from that though; instead opting to pick apart every surface detail he could see. He took in the creases of black grease paint under the Austrian's eyes, the way his legs were tense (like he was resisting the urge to move or run) and noted how he was decked up in tactical gear as if he was about to fly out.
Although, upon further inspection, Ghost noticed König’s gear wasn't the usual gear you'd see on a soldier. Sure, he had his own variants of a vest, boots, gloves and dark tac clothing along with a standard sidearm, but that's not what caught Ghost's attention.
What stood out was that König wore a helmet that seemed to resemble a bicycle helmet, his forearm guards also resembled those of ski guards, and, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘬𝘦, his helmet seemed to be composed of millions of things a normal millitary standard helmet would have—an integrated communication system, night vision capabilities in the form of a small flashlight bulb velcroed to the top of his helmet making him slightly resmble a anglerfish, and reinforced materials for enhanced durability—but it was all bolted or bloody 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 on.
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬.
Now, that certainly wasn't what Ghost’d been expecting from their anticipated newcomer. He expected one of two things: fear at the mere sight of him or (if this guy was like the rumors—which so far he certainly 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵) a defensive, maybe even challenging glare.The hood paired with his height, and all the gossip surrounding the man gave the guy quite a daunting, imagitive image after all.
Then, that voice in his head popped up again. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦.
As soon as the thought came, the energy around them shifted, like a coin had been flipped. Everything about the taller man was starting to rub Ghost the wrong way. All the way from his posture to his stupidly ridiculous height—it was all unatural. A sensation that weaved its way into his very bone structure and made a nest there so inherent and abject that he just couldn’t ignore it; there was something about this soldier that was just 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨.
“Another masked man, aye? It seems you ave' some competition, L.T.,” Soap teased, cutting through the tense atmosphere as if it didn't exist. Ghost didn't flinch per'se, but he had tensed. He'd honestly forgotten the Scotsman was still there; too ingroused with studying the man in front of him and trying to pick a part any detail he could get to use to put together just who this man was, and what he was about.
"Tha’ certainly a gift of height you’ve got there, big guy," Soap continued with a grin, the earlier shock of just how tall the man was being long forgotten.
König couldn’t help the way his neck tensed at the man's words. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸. It’s something he hated about himself; the "gift" of height being his biggest curse. It was always the first thing people commented on—the thing they noticed above all else.
He’s never been particularly fond of being noticed by others, but with his height there's never a moment someone doesn’t pick him out from the crowd.
Ghost watched the way König grew more tense with that statement. 𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵, he noted, then cataloged that away for later inspection among a list of other things.
"Guess we finally found someone who gives you a runnin' for your money, huh?" Soap continued and elbowed Ghost. König, for the first time since arriving, fully focused on the men in front of him.
The man who spoke had an accent that König couldn't quite place, but certainly somewhat British. He was (unsurprisingly) shorter than him with some stubble across his jaw and an unmistakable mohawk. He held a broader build with arms corded with thick muscle, a form built by discipline. His voice was rather cheerful, almost too optimistic for someone who had faint scars dotted down his arms.
The man's eyes stared at his hood, as though he was trying to unveil his face, eyes roaming over the few features his hood allowed to be shown through the fabric. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s stared at his hood, no doubt trying to piece together a picture of what his face might look like underneath. He kept preparing himself for when the other was going to ask him about the hood—because they always do—but he never did.
𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦.
The man who he poked fun at was tall, but not taller than König. He appeared to be quite broad—certainly larger than the other man—and muscular under his clothing, powerfully built like a tank with broad shoulders and a thick, muscular neck that highlighted his years of no doubt vigorous training. His arms were heavily muscled, with pronounced biceps and triceps that were shown through his dark tactical gear. His chest was broad and well-defined, giving him a powerful upper body. Hell, even his legs were impressive, with strong, muscular thighs and calves that could support quick, powerful movements. At first glance, the only thing that crossed König's mind was to run. It was as though he was face-to-face with a phantom of some kind. For some strange reason, he couldn’t help but feel like he'd seen him somewhere before.
Furthermore, the mans eyes were a pale, husky blue, completely devoid of light, encased deeply within dark hollows and framed by the craters of his skull balaclava. Piercing. Soulless. 𝘜𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨. König felt an odd and uncomfortable sense of exposure under their gaze, something he couldn’t quite place but quickly recognized—he felt small, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵 under this man's intense scrutiny. Like a lone sapling in a vast, empty field, overshadowed by towering mountains, and aware of just how insignificant it was in the grand landscape around it.
“Cut that, Johnny,” the skull-masked man said, “You’re scaring im’.” The man, 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘯𝘺, as the skeleton wearer called him, laughed a little before silently raising his hands in a mock surrender.
"Alright, don' gotta get ya panties in a twist," the Scott mumbled.
König didn't miss the slight eye twitch the masked man made.
“𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨, is it?” the man asked, ignoring his fellow soldier and then continued on, not waiting for a response, “I expect you to know wha' you’re doin'.”
“Now 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 scaring im’, L.T.” The man called Johnny joked again, and it only made him more disturbed. That knowledge felt familiar. That man who was comparable to a reaper, or two, was someone he should know. Or his name, at least. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. He’s not crazy—he’d seen him before. If he wasn’t so, well, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘥, he’d probably find it in him to recall the guy's name.
“This ere' is Ghost,” Johnny continued and tilted his head, turning a cheek towards the man next to him as if he could read König’s thoughts.
𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵? König thought, 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳? 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯—𝘐'𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘰—
That's when it hit him like a freight train going full speed, his eyes widened—he knew who Ghost was. Ghost, the elusive shadow from T.F. 141, one of the most feared men on the battlefield and the most respected. A 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵. How could his mind just blank like that, when the man was right in front of him?
König’s heart picked up in his rib cage, beating so rapidly he was sure it would burst out and splatter all over the two men in front of him, granting him one last moment of embarrassment before death came and swept him away. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if the reaper sent to take his soul was the very skull-masked man standing before him.
When Ghost was on the field you 𝘳𝘢𝘯. It wasn't an option—not when you came across him of all soldiers—because the moment you did, you were already dead. Everyone knew to avoid the man in the skullface. To avoid his eyes. Those eyes, those 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 eyes—
“What makes you believe tha' you're allowed to introduce me like tha', Sergeant?” Ghost asked, forcefully cutting König’s thoughts off. Even though he just met him, he could tell by the tone that the man—𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, was only mock reprimanding the Sergeant.
The latter, however, was completely unbothered by it, and it didn’t take a genius to tell that they must be incredibly close, for a dynamic like such to be even remotely acceptable.
“'M' try’na lighten the mood ere', L.T.,” the Sergeant said with an eye roll and scoff, then turned back to König, “I’m Sergeant John Mactavish, if you want to talk about formalities. But ya can just call me Soap. Come with me, I’ll show you around.”
König nodded, letting out a breath of air he hadn’t realized he was still holding, silently grateful he didn’t have to say anything.
He'd never been very talkative. Even as a child he’d always stuck to his own devices, finding comfort for himself through books, music, rain, and other things that caught his interest. Back then, it had been a choice on his part, a way to escape the cruel reality of which he lived in. Now he was a loner because he figured he kind of 𝘩𝘢𝘥 to be. It was just easier that way.
Safer.
König dared a glance back to the man still standing next to Soap, immediately regretting it when he locked eyes with that cold, unwavering stare; he’s almost certain Ghost hadn’t taken his eyes off him or even blinked since he got off the chopper.
For a moment it seemed like Ghost wanted to say something, maybe disagree with Soap showing König around, like he was worried the Sergeant wouldn’t come back, but he stayed silent.
“Ya comin’, big guy?” Soap asked, drawing König’s attention away from Ghost. At some point when König was staring at the masked man Soap had started walking towards the doors leading inside the base. How König managed to completely miss the Sergeant walking away, he had no idea, but he didn't dwell on it for long—instead deciding to stop wasting the Sergeant's time and follow him.
The lieutenant watched with a heavy stare as the Austrian walked away alongside the Sergeant, Soap already having begun ranting about the base as they walked.
Ghost didn't once look away throughout the entirety of the hooded man's retreat into the base until he was far out of sight. Only then, did he allow his eyes to wander, locking onto a path leading to a certain Captain.
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The room was deafeningly silent from the moment Ghost firmly shut the door behind him, to the moment he sat down in the seat across from Price’s. Neither man spoke a single word to the other, besides from the brief words exchanged when Ghost had knocked and Price had said, “Come in.”
Ghost watched as Price looked over mission documents and soldier reports, not sparing a single glance his way. The older man looked completely unbothered by Ghost's interruption or his unwavering stare. Instead simply continuing to scan over the papers he held.
It stayed that way for a solid five minutes before Price quietly sighed and shuffled the papers he’d been going over together and threw them in a pile to the side. Ghost straightened ever so slightly as he was met with a quirk of a brow followed by, “Something I can help you with, Ghost?”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as he clasped his hands together. “Who is he?”
Price leaned back further in his chair and brought a hand to his fisher's hat, setting it down—revealing short, dark brown cropped hair with the sides and back neatly trimmed, while the top left just a slightly longer length of trim to the hairsyle—on the table before he let out another small sigh. It was clear he already knew that Ghost was there for their newest teammate, but had been silently hoping it was about something else. It slightly irked Ghost how easy it was for Price to predict what he was going to do at times. “He’s a new transfer who was assigned to work ere' from KorTac. He's an insertion specialist tha' goes by the name König.” Price answered.
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵.
The lieutenant's jaw tensed, and he breathed in slowly through his nose, the faint smell of cigarette smoke lingering and infiltrating his lungs. He understood that what he was about to request was substantial and might be refused, but he cut straight to the point. "I want his file," he stated firmly, no hint of doubt evident in his tone.
The older man squinted his eyes a bit. “Is there a reason for tha’?”
𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮.
“I’d like t’ skim it over,” Ghost lied. He couldn't be fully honest with Price. Not about this. “I want to know who I’m going to be workin’ with. Hard to run a team when you know nothin’ about one of your members.”
It was a bullshit excuse, he and Price both knew that. Ghost had never asked for anyone else's file before now. Still, it was a pretty reasonable request, as long as you looked past the fact Ghost didn’t have the rank or the authority to ask for such a thing. But typical rules and regulations tend to get swept under the rug when you run with the 141. Something you learn very quickly. Especially when it came to him—a testament to the unspoken, but mutual high standing he had with Price. Soap liked to say it was because he was Price's favorite. Ghost didn't see what the Scott was talking about.
“You’re certain you need his file?” Price asked after a moment. Ghost knew what the question really was: 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?
“Yes, sir.”
For a painfully long moment, the older man looked as though he was going to argue with Ghost’s request—brows furrowed and calloused fingers tapped against his bearded chin—but then, he let out a small, defeated sigh, and Ghost smirked.
1 - Ghost.
0 - Price
He’d won this round.
“S’ fair, I suppose,” the older man said and gestured to the pile of documents he tossed to the side. Ghost stared at them for a moment, confused as to why Price was gesturing to some random report documents he wasn't authorized to see, but then it hit him. That wasn't a stack of reports but König's file. It was bloody 𝘩𝘶𝘨𝘦.
However, Ghost didn't dwell on that for long, instead opting to quickly reach for it as to not risk Price deciding not to share König's file with him anymore, his eyes immediately falling on the I.D. photo in the corner of the front page, or better yet, the lack of one. There was a picture, but—just like how he'd taken his—König was wearing a mask in it, a simple balaclava, but he donned that damned sniper hood too. As though one wall between himself and the world wasn’t enough, so he needed to add another.
It could be for show. A way for König to intimidate his opponents on the field—not that he needed it with the fucking height he had—but something told Ghost it was deeper than that.
It shouldn't have pissed him off as much as it did to not be able to see the man's face, but he was a selfish bastard. He couldn’t say he hadn't been hoping to get a glimpse of the man behind the hood, to have an advantage over him that the other wouldn't.
It wasn't because he was jealous of the Austrian as Soap would probably put it, no, it was just that Ghost wasn’t used to feeling this 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺—to feeling like he was actually a step under someone.
He was used to having an advantage with the people he met with his rep, height, and build alone, not to mention the intimidation his own mask brought. The uncertainty of what monster hid behind it.
Now, here he was at a 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 in height, and almost evenly matched in build with the same uncertainty of what hid behind the sniper hood. It was just one more thing that rubbed Ghost the wrong way. One more thing that made him feel like he was staring at an incredibly warped mirror.
𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚: 𝘈𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘈𝘭𝘰𝘪𝘴 𝘌𝘣𝘯𝘢𝘳
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙎𝙞𝙜𝙣: 𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨
𝙍𝙖𝙘𝙚: 𝘊𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯
𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮: 𝘈𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯
𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝘽𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙝: 𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘵, 𝘈𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢
𝘼𝙜𝙚: 29
𝙃𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 203.2cm
𝙒𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩: 215 𝘐𝘣𝘴.
𝘽𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙏𝙮𝙥𝙚: 𝘈B-
𝘼𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤
𝙊𝙛𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙍𝙖𝙣𝙠: 𝘓𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵 (𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵)
𝙃𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮: 𝘑𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘈𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘍𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 2012. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘬𝘳ä𝘧𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘻𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘳ä𝘧𝘵𝘦. 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘈𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘑𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘬𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰. 𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤 𝘪𝘯 𝘈𝘶𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 2019. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘒𝘰𝘳𝘛𝘢𝘤 (𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘱𝘨. 16 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵). 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵.
𝘿𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵, 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘱𝘵. 𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘢𝘹𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘮 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵.
𝗠𝗮𝗷𝗼𝗿 𝗜𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀: 𝘚𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘮, 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘭𝘣𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯. 𝘓𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦.
𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙮: 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦-𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵, 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘺
𝙈𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘛𝘺𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 "𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤" 𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬". 𝘏𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘺. 𝘈𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 "𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵" 𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦" 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥.
Ghost paused on the last line of the first page, his attention inexplicitly stuck there. He was right.
König was dangerous.
He’d admit it was pretty hard to picture how the man who hunched himself up like a turtle trying to hide away in its shell could be described as savage, but there was a reason König was where he was now—he was no saint. None of them were.
But most men who worked on the battlefield weren’t known to be particularly violent or savage in high-risk situations, either.
Ghost bit the inside of his cheek before inhaling. “Tha’ really true?” he asked, lifting his eyes away from the file to meet Price's. “He’s violent?”
Price nodded. “Tha’s what it says, and tha’s what I’ve been told.”
“He's really the best they could send?” He slid the file back to Price. “A potential liability to any operation we're sent on was the best candidate they had?”
Price sighed and picked up the file, opening a drawer on his desk and dropping it back inside before closing and locking it. “He’s had more than one good word put in for ‘im, Ghost,” Price said. “If he’s a real problem, we’ll send ‘im back. But before we make any premature decisions, we should see ‘im in action. He could come in pretty handy on the field.”
Ghost stayed silent, contemplating how Price could even humor this. That bullshit excuse of, “he could come in pretty handy on the field”, was a bunch of ludicrous. Ghost knew better than anyone that violent men only bred destruction. That when the tides turned they would stop at nothing to gain the power they once had back in their hands. He’s seen plenty of it in his life. He's been that man.
𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳. Now he had no choice but to keep an eye on the newcomer. Like hell he was going to sit by and wait for their new loose cannon to go off and get him killed, or worse, one of 𝘩𝘪𝘴 men.
He wouldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not when he had something more valuable to protect this time.
”Besides,” Price continued, his words cutting through Ghost’s thoughts like a blade through butter, “for the next 𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 months he will be working along side you an' this team, Ghost. I’ve got my orders from Laswell, an' there’s not much I can do to reverse this whole ordeal. There’s more going on ere' than you lot think. An' before you even think of asking, it's classified.”
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯.
Ghost exhaled deeply as he nodded, not daring to say anything in fear of finally crossing a line he couldn't come back from. Besides, he had no reason to. He already got what he came for: confirmation, and he definitely wasn't going to try and push his luck, he wasn't Soap after all. The waters had already been disturbed enough tonight with his bold—yet entirely respectful—request.
“Give ‘im a chance Ghost. I don' want anything that could result in a write up taking place ere'.” Price said as Ghost stood up and pushed in his chair. His own subtle way of saying he knew where Ghost was coming from, but he wouldn't stand for any sort of disputation.
That was fine. Anything that may happen will be König's own fault, not his.
“Understood, sir.”
He didn’t have the jurisdiction to question Price or anyone above him—a fact he'd long accepted. He wouldn’t press it further since it clearly wouldn’t get him anywhere. Without evidence nothing would ever be done. He just had to wait for their not-so-little loose cannon to do something. To give him something he could come back to Price with. From what he just read he doubted he’d be waiting long. He probably could get the Austrian gone by the end of their first mission. He just had to make sure that mission didn’t end with any dead bodies from his side.
1 - Price.
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The Sergeant walked before him in a playful fashion, so content it seemed like he was in his own home rather than a military encampment. A place where most longed to be back with family or dwelled on the horrors they've seen and done. It was confusing how he seemed to enjoy being here. Although, maybe to some people, it was a joy. König couldn’t begin to ever understand, and he wouldn’t dare try to.
The base was larger than he’d been expecting it to be as he took in the sight of it all, the dim lighting, casting eerie shadows along the cold, metallic walls and the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor accompanied by the scent of metal and cleaning agents, giving the hallway a sterile and impersonal feel.
He’d barely walked anywhere, only coming from the blacktop to one of the many endless hallways this base had, and he already felt like he was in a maze. He could easily see himself getting lost here. And it didn't help that most of the buildings looked the same to him.
He’d idly wondered what 141’s base was going to be like on the transport ride there. After all, he’d heard that their base was nicer, with better facilities like training equipment and fancy light sensors that switch on and off and dim at certain points of the day. Even had showers that didn't get cold after seven and a half minutes of being used.
He doesn't usually intently listen to conversations that he's not a part of, though according to his teammates—mainly Horangi—T.F. 141 is made up of, “some of the most skilled guys out there”, so it would stand to reason that their base would be good. Only the best for the best, right? Not that he really cared about any of that. He’d just been curious about what the place he’d most likely be staying in for the next couple months would be like. So far everything the rumors talked about were true. But, at the end of the day it was just another base. It’s not like he’d be staying there any longer than needed. He’s just a pawn for them to use, a monster they need to keep in check. He's not allowed to ask questions like when, where, and how long he will be sent off to risk his life? Questioning isn't in his contract—if they say go, he goes. If they say, blow up a military base full of soldiers who just want to go home to their families, he does. He’s not supposed to question things, and he never will.
“So,” Soap began, instantly bringing all of König’s attention back to the present, “you a fan O’ pubs?”
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?
Since the beginning of this little tour of 141’s base König has learned Soap is on the more talkative side. From the way he had been doing a mix between telling König about the actual base and filling him in on random facts like they were gossip—good places to visit, or what some good hobbies were—it's become increasingly obvious the Scott loves to chat. Despite him knowing this information, König hadn’t been expecting Soap to just randomly ask him a question so…strange.
He stared for a moment at Soap, wondering what his motive was before realizing he still hadn't answered the question.
“Oh—ja, I suppose I am.” König finally said.
The Sergeant let out a huff of breath, as though he was amused. “‘Suppose’, eh? I can work with tha’. How’d ye feel bout' going for a wee swallie at a nice little pub in town some time? Got some great food too.”
Oh. König hadn’t known what to expect but he certainly hadn’t been expecting 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. He just met the Sergeant and he was already asking him to go drinking with him? (At least that’s what König assumed a ‘wee swallie’ meant.) It was obvious the Sergeant was friendly—a trait that reminded him a lot of Horangi—but he was sure the other man wouldn’t even care about this conversation in a few hours, probably forget it entirely, so why bother going as far as to invite König (who he’s probably just being nice to out of courtesy) to go get a drink later? Before König could think of something to respond with, or a way to get out without being overly rude, Soap’s eyes flickered over to him.
"Of course ye don't ave' to do anythin’ you ain't comfortable with. Just thought I'd ask. Been dying to go but no one's been able to."
Ah, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 just what he wanted; a drinking partner since all his friends were too busy.
König doesn’t exactly do well in places with lots of people. Just the thought of it made his face retort into a discomforted expression. Luckily, his hood hid the expression his face was wearing. “Ah, sorry. You probably don’ want to go either, huh? After all, you've just arrived and probably want to ge’ settled in,” Soap quickly added with a sheepish chuckle.
Now that would have been the perfect opportunity to get out of going. All König had to do was confirm the Sergeant's guess that he was tired and wanted to settle in. He didn’t have to try and awkwardly come up with some other excuse or explain his dislike of others. But there was just something about the look on the Scotts face that made him hesitate. He never thought a grown man could look so much like a kicked puppy, but here there was one standing right in front of him. Maybe that’s how König found himself saying, “Ja, I’d be happy to go with you, Sergeant.”
The look of pure joy that crossed over Soap's face made König think just maybe he wasn’t going to completely hate his soon to be outing with the Sergeant.
“Pure dead brilliant,” Soap responded. “And don’ call me Sergeant. I told ye to call me Soap.”
“Ah,” König felt his cheeks heat up under the hood. He hadn’t forgotten about the Sergeant's earlier introduction, but he didn’t think the Scott would actually want him to call him by anything other than rank off mission. He’d just figured the suggestion was just that, a suggestion, nothing but a courtesy. “right, sorry.”
They walked in silence for a few blissful minutes longer before Soap spoke up once again, “So your call sign is ‘𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨’, right?”
König nodded.
“Right, is that yer last name, or does it stand for something? Certainly ain't English.”
“Nein, it’s not a last name,” he replied after a second, eyeing the floor so he didn't have to look at the piercing pools of jade that were boring into the side of his head. Seriously, this guy must be the extrovert of all extroverts—with a possible staring problem too.
He briefly considered shutting down the conversation and leaving—where to, he didn’t know—but decided to stay put because the other seemed like a genuine person, soley wanting to get to know König, and he’d rather not leave a bitter taste in Soap’s mouth so soon after meeting him. Making an enemy so quickly would not end well for him. If he could, he'd like to stay as just another soldier and not considered some man who was rude and thought himself so much better than others he couldn't even humor them to talk to them. He nearly cringed at his own thought train—𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘉𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥.
“Right, so it stands for somethin' then?” Soap asked, still looking at him like he was interested in hearing about what König had to say, as he comfortably walked down the halls having full confidence that he knew where he was going, which he probably did.
König studied Soap, unable to shake the momentary fear that the other man was toying with him right now like so many others, maybe trying to find the next thing he could gossip about (he probably was), but there was nothing cruel or teasing in the other man’s eyes (that he could decipher). He just seemed curious.
König slowly nodded his head. He wasn’t too fond of telling others his call signs' meaning. He’d originally gotten the name from how well he could take control over any situation on the battlefield, basically dominating anything and anyone who stood in his way, making them "bow before him" as some of his teammates liked to say. A true king.
His mother had been so proud of him when she'd learned what his call sign represented. So proud that she started calling him her "little könig" despite him being an adult.
His call sign then became an honor and reminder of home while on the battlefield, but after her death it was just a cruel reminder of the few good things he once had before he became the monster he was now. Not to mention once people learned the meaning they instantly became repudiate.
Guess it was better to rip the bandaid off now and have Soap be done with him then try to keep up the facade that Soap could actually want to become friends with him. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵, an ugly voice murmured in the back of his head.
“Ja, it stands for, ” a moment's hesitation, “…king,” König finally responded. Soap nodded his head, a concentrated look on his face.
𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴.
“Tha’s a pretty bad arse call sign, innit?”
𝘏𝘶𝘩?
“Wha language is tha' from?”
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘪𝘵?
Out of all the things König had been expecting he certainly wasn’t prepared for Soap to just accept the meaning and move on. Most would have questioned why he thought he deserved such a high title for himself, or would start to whisper about how he must think he’s better than them. Soap was certainly…different.
“I—uh, it’s German.”
“You’re German?” Soap asked, excitement and intrigue plain as day in his voice.
“Nein, I’m Austrian.”
“But you speak German, don’t ya?”
“Ja, but Austria is a heavily German speaking country. I don’t have to be born in Germany to speak the language.”
“Ah,” Soap clicked his tongue, “well, ya learn somethin new everyday.”
"Ja,” König agreed. Then, without really thinking, he asked, “What about you, Sergeant—ah, Soap?”
“Wha’ about me?” Soap asked, a small, impish smile creasing his face.
“I mean, uh, where did you get your call sign from? It's not one I'd usually hear. It's quite odd—I mean unique.” His voice got a bit quieter by the end. God, he wanted the ground to swallow him whole and to disappear all at once—if the Sergeant hadn't noticed his unshakable awkwardness, he certainly would have now.
To his relief Soap just laughed. "Ah, I'm glad you asked. I got my call sign from cleaning house with remarkable speed and accuracy," he explained with a proud grin.
"That's quite admirable."
"Eh," he shrugged, "it's nothin fancy like king, but it's still bloody impressive once y'know wha it stands for."
König nodded in agreement, staying silent for a minute and fiddling with his hands before working up the courage to ask, "Where are you from? I couldn’t help but notice you have an accent."
Soap's steps faltered, eyes widening before a huge grin broke out across his face. "Ah, I'm surprised you couldn't tell right away." He moved his hand up to point his thumb at his chest proudly. "I'm from Scotland."
König nodded then said, "I've never been to Scotland," simply to fill the silence. (Something he'd never thought he would do.)
Soap laughed. "Well then, you'll just have t' visit some time. Maybe I could take ya. Anyhow, this ere' is your room,” the Sergeant gestured to the door they came to stand in front of, "It’s meant to be for two, but lucky for you it's all yours. There's only a few rules Price has, one, no smokin,’ two, no harboring pets, and three, no loud noises after 0100. Simple, aye?"
König gave a small conformational nod. Soap took that as his cue to continue.
"If you need additional supplies like 𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘱–” a wink followed by a small grin. “You have to submit a request to PM, which I'm sure you're familiar with, but I gotta inform ya so Gaz doesn't get on my arse or tattle to Price. Got it, big guy?” The Sergeant leaned back on a wall, arms crossed against his chest as he tilted his head towards one side, staring at König, waiting for an answer.
“Ja, understood,” König replied, back stiffening up.
𝘔𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘵, 𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘎𝘢𝘻?
“A’right then, I’ve gotta get on goin.’ Got a drill t' run with these bloody new recruits in five,”
Soap took a step forward towards König, a small smirk creasing his face. He extended a hand forward. “It was nice talking t’ you, König. M’ lookin’ forward t’ working with you.”
König exteneded his own hand, silently grateful for this social interaction to be done with. It wasn't that Soap was terrible to be around, no, it was just the Sergeant was a lot. He talked. And talked. And talked some more. It was never ending. It was pleasant conversation but not something he wanted to get accustomed to. “It was nice to speak with you too, Soap.”
The other man dropped his hand and gave him a small tap on the shoulder as he turned to leave, but before he even made it three steps away he quickly spun back around and said, "Oh, by the way, me an’ Ghost’s room is jus’ down tha’ way if you need anythin’.”
König froze. What did he say?
He and Ghost were roommates?
He stood there for a moment, awestruck, thoughts racing in his mind as he watched the Sergeant retreat down the hall.
From his understanding, every officer’s room had its own bed (or beds), some with their own bathrooms, even. However, in König’s experience, they typically didn’t involve having two entirely different ranking soldiers of such a caliber residing in them. And most bases that had officer's that permanently resided within them didn't usually have their soldiers share rooms—having temporary transfers like himself stay in the double rooms. Especially bases this fancy. So for Soap and Ghost to be roommates….that meant they had to be really, really, good friends or something.
Or something.
𝘖𝘩, 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘪ß𝘦. Were they—
He shook his head. There was no way. It was just too unimaginable. Soap and Ghost seemed to be complete polar opposites. For them to—no. No, no, no. He was being ridiculous. Perhaps it was a situation much like his own? Yes. That was it. 141 simply put Soap and Ghost together despite their different rankings because they lacked rooms and were friends. It didn't matter that the base was more than big enough to house all its soldiers.
Besides, if that were the case, they'd be breaking so many rules and regulations, there was just no way they would really risk—
König let out a long, audible sigh, letting his shoulders slump.
𝘔𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘵. 𝘐𝘤𝘩 𝘣𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘤𝘩ö𝘱𝘧𝘵.[1]
Today had been a whirlwind so far, and he wasn't even a full hour in yet. Not to mention he still had to unpack. This was not the time to worry about living accommodations that didn't even effect him personally.
Eventually, König managed to will himself to move and unlock his door, realizing that he had been staring into oblivion for a good few minutes since the Scotsman left.
The room was set up like a slightly wider college dorm room—if a dorm had steel bed beams and thick walls with a wide, narrow window. Next to said window was a small floating shelf above the head of the bed, probably for personal items or photos. On the side, there was a closet, a bit larger than what König was used to; inside it was empty.
There was a singular bed with his military standard duffel bag set atop of basic sheets and a pillow from whoever brought his belongings there. Across from it, where there would normally be another bed if he were sharing his space with someone, was a small desk with a chair. On the nightstand next to his bed was a lamp and a standard, basic alarm clock that read 16:45—
“Scheiße,” König muttered. He was scheduled to be at Captain Price's office by 16:40 as long as there were no delays in his flight. He was five minutes late.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It took another five minutes or so of navigating the endless halls that had barely any signs on them or people around to ask for guidance, but König 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 found Captain Price’s office. He regretted not asking Soap for directions before he left.
With a silent breath of courage, König walked up to the wooden door and respectfully knocked on it twice with his knuckles.
Then, after about two seconds, a man called out from inside. “Come in.”
He pushed open the heavy door to the office, already feeling the tension tighten in his shoulders. The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes and ash. A smoker. The room held a faint layer of smoke stifling through the air, no doubt from the freshly put out cigarette the man before him had been smoking before he arrived; if the slightly opened window and fresh cigarette bud still sizziling in the poorly hidden ashtray was any indicator.
“König, correct?” the seated man asked. From the accent he was certainly British. He looked up at the Austrian from his desk full of papers and a computer, hard, blue eyes staring into König’s soul almost the same way the lieutenants had earlier; never blinking, opting to take in everything he could—committing his new, albeit temporary, soldier to his memory. The only difference between this stare and the lieutenants was that König didn’t feel like he was unnaturally seen through or a bug about to be squashed.
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮?
König clasped his hands behind his back and straightened. “Yes, sir.”
“And am I sayin’ it right, 𝘒-𝘰𝘰𝘩-𝘯𝘪𝘨?”
“Yes, sir. König.”
“Good,” Price said, motioning him to the seat on the opposite side of his desk. “Have a seat there, lad.”
König quickly obliged, not wanting to waste anymore time than he already had.
“Y'know, you're late, König,” Price said, his voice calm and unbothered. König felt his jaw clench. Of course he was late, he got stuck in an endless conversation and then stranded in the maze that was this base. What was he supposed to do?
“Apparently, sorry, sir,” König muttered, trying to shake off the irritation that had settled in when he received the subtle jab from Price. He wanted to make a good first impression and definitely didn't want any issues with his superior. However, it wasn't just Price's little jab that bothered him. No, it was the fact he'd been in the field with his team for weeks, and it wasn’t until he returned to base that he learned he was now part of a coalition with Task Force 141. Not a word from his own command, and now he stood before the Captain of 141, feeling like a bull in a china shop. He knew he wasn't paid to ask questions—didn't deserve to ask them—but it still would've been nice to not be blindsided. Knowing your a trial run that could quite literally change the connections between two extremely powerful military factions was information that needed to be delivered a little in advance.
"First things first,” the Captain started, “do you prefer to be called 'König', or by your first or last name?”
König, admittedly, hadn’t been expecting that as one of the first things discussed with his new Captain. How long he’d be staying? Sure. What his role would be from here on out? Absolutely. What he wished to be called? Never. No superior he’s had thus far had ever asked him that before. They always just called him whatever they wanted, more often than not, his call sign.
“I prefer König, sir.”
Price nodded. "Is there a reason you're in a bad mood, König?" He asked, instantly calling him out. König fought against a wince. 𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪ße, he thought. Just great, he was already making a bad impression. He considered playing dumb, but he knew that would be pointless. Price wasn't stupid—he was a Captain for a reason.
König hesitated, taking a deep breath. He shifted in his chair, fighting the urge to start tapping his leg, but he couldn't mask the tension in his posture. “I didn’t expect to be informed last minute about a coalition with such little information, sir. My team should have briefed me.”
Price hummed. “It seems they did,” he replied casually, finally looking away from König to shuffle some of the papers on his desk. “They told you you’d be joining us for a coalition and theres not much more to it then that, I'm afraid. Its mostly for classified reasons, and financial. S’not exactly a normal situation as you've probably guessed. That’s why you’re ere'. Guess they thought you’d be able to manage.”
König clenched his fists, feeling heat rise in his chest. “Manage? I’ve been managing fine without being blindsided by…,” he paused, searching for a diplomatic term but finding none, “decisions made without my knowledge. This was...unprofessional,” he finished, his voice growing weaker at the end. What was he 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨? Arguing with his new captain wasn't a smart move. The only thing it was doing was making 𝘩𝘪𝘮 seem unprofessional, like a baby whining over trivial matters. He hated conflict like this, why he was making such a big deal over it he couldn't say for sure. After all, it wasn't like it was his reputation he was worried about. The fact his reputation as a capable operator was now intertwined with what happened here at Task Force 141 couldn't be anymore insignifigant. What was signifigant was his impression with Price. He usually tried to play nice with his superiors but for some reason that wasn't the case here. Gott, he should've just laid down and rolled over for Price like he did so many others. What was wrong with him?
Price raised an eyebrow, a smirk ghosting across his lips. “Welcome to the military—unprofessional is our middle name. You want a medal for being miffed at your team?”
“No, sir.” König said, trying to keep his voice steady. It was pointless to argue. Gott, why was he so stupid? He should've just ignored his growing irritation. Now he was surely going to be sent back to KorTac and then be kicked out and—
“Just focus on the mission,” Price said, putting a paperclip on his stack of papers and returning his gaze to König. “We’re a team now, lad. Learn to work with us, yeah? The enemy isn’t goin' to wait for you to catch up an' I don't want to see you leaving ere' in a body bag.” Price said, his voice growing just a tad softer at the end.
König nodded, cursing himself for being such a child over all of this. It wasn't the first time something like this has happened to him and it wouldn't be the last. "I understand, sir,” the Austrian replied. "I will do my best to serve your company well."
"Right then, tha's what I wanna hear. I’ve heard good things bout' you, König,” the older man said, and turned the papers he'd been messing with to lay on the desk facing König. The Austrian sat up a little straighter on reflex. “It says ere' tha' you’re quite the effective insertion specialist. '𝘓𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘭 an' 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬.' Tha' true?”
König swallowed and answered the best he could. He had some ideas about what things that file could hold, and he knew his 𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦—as most called it—wasn’t the prettiest. “Yes, sir. I aim to do my job the best I can.”
”Can I trust you t’ work alongside my team an’ get them home safely?”
“Of course, sir.”
"You going to go around causing trouble?"
"No, sir."
"An' I can trust your loyalty t’ me an’ my team, for the length of your stay ere'? No questions asked, no secrets kept? You're not trying to take advantage of us, are you?”
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? 𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴?
”Yes, I am loyal. I would never betray or keep secrets from you or your team throughout the duration of my stay, sir.”
Price hummed. “Tha’s just what I like to hear.”
The older man reached forward and put the file in front of them to the side. König stared at the front page of the small stack, specifically at the low quality picture of his masked face in the corner. He’s not sure why they even forced him to take the damned thing. It's not like they were able to get him to take off his hood or balaclava.
Clearly his new Captain was far more observant than he’d given him credit for because König had barely looked at the I.D. photo for more than two seconds before the man asked, “D’you wear the mask often?” His voice just a tad bit quieter than before, a bit more sympathetic.
König took a moment too long to answer, heart picking up speed, sweat beginning to build in his palms, words tumbling through his brain like fallen cards. He wasn't very fond of explaining himself and the 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥.
Still, he couldn’t just 𝘯𝘰𝘵 answer his superior’s question—no matter how much he wanted to. “Yes, I do, sir,” he eventually forced out, nearly cringing at the way his voice raised in pitch, almost cracking.
“You don' ave't explain it, lad,” Price cut in. “In fact, forget I asked. Everyone has their reasons and its certainly not my place to know yours unless you want to share.”
“Danke, sir,” he muttered, feeling his cheeks burn in embarrassment. Although he couldn't deny those words brought him some comfort, his shoulder muscles slightly relaxing.
“Course,” Price curtly said. After a moment of silence, he then added on, “Have you got any questions for me? Don’t be hesitant to ask.”
“Yes, sir,” König said. Then, “When will I meet my team?”
Price sighed and leaned back in his chair, bringing a hand to rest on his bearded chin as he considered his next few words. “I suppose some of 'em might be dodlin ‘round ere' somewhere. You'd probably find some of ’em in the gym and training areas, or the rec room,” Price said. “We’ll have a briefing on your upcoming mission tomorrow afternoon at 1500. It should be on your itinerary. If you haven’t met ‘em all by then, then you’ll see ‘em there.”
“Ah, I see,” the Austrian said. That was good. It meant he didn’t have to go out of his way to meet anyone.
“Right, then. You got anything else you’d like to ask me before you get settled in?”
Not wanting to bombard his new Captain with endless questions so soon König responded, “No, sir.”
“A’right, from this moment on you’re now officially a part of the 141. I’m proud to say welcome, and I expect good things from you.”