Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thirty thousand steps. That’s how many you’ve counted so far.

Thirty thousand steps since your last break. Five hours. Twelve point four miles. Twenty kilometers. A few thousand more and then you can stop before the temperature becomes unbearable.

Thirty thousand and two.

Thirty thousand and three—four—five…

You stop, briefly, to look at the map that was made so long ago the names on it no longer have any meaning. The places marked with those names have ceased to exist. You can faintly make out some landmarks that tell you that you’re on the right track.

You should keep moving. You’re out in the open. 

You’re a target.

Six—seven—eight…

A gust of wind blows through the rolling hills, carrying sand, twigs and other unfortunate debris that ends up in your eyes despite the scarf that’s wrapped around your head.

Goggles. You need to find goggles.

You checked a few abandoned stores back in the town you came across some hours ago, but were shit out of luck. Not a pair of snowboarding goggles left on the dust-covered shelves. Both places must have gone out of business as soon as the snowcaps on the mountains melted for the last time. Ski resorts, you remember the name. They were called ski resorts. Entire towns, little ecosystems resting on the presumption that there would always be snow. People used to spend holidays there.

Fucking eons ago.

The dust makes you cough. It echoes out in the open, and you cringe. Someone could’ve heard that. So, you pick up the pace.

Nine—ten—eleven—eleven and—

“Shit! Fuck!”

You step on a rock that’s sharp enough to pierce through your boot. You jump aside with a yelp that is surely heard far and fucking wide. 

“Keep one eye on the road, one on the horizon, one on the sky, and one on either side.” That’s what Dad used to say when you stumbled in your steps. 

“How many eyes am I supposed to have?” You mutter as you spot something on the horizon that piques your interest. You squint.

A bridge. A viaduct? You check the map again. There is indeed a bridge marked on it. A rail bridge the trains used to cross the river back when there was a river. Or trains. The tracks are mostly removed, repurposed for making other things. The ground still faintly smells of creosote. You’ve encountered little shacks, fences, and other structures with that same distinct smell.

There was a time when buildings made with anything from creosote to asbestos would have been deemed unfit for humans to live in. But as of late, anything goes.

Absolutely anything.

The bridge looks intact. Weight-bearing, at least judging by the multiple train car carcasses still on it. Even stripped of all their usable parts, they’re still heavy. Heavier than you. It should be safe to cross.

Still, you take careful steps, counting them as you go.

It’s a way to make sense of the distance you’ve covered, but it also keeps you from losing your shit on your lonely journey. Repetitive counting, like a mantra, keeps you present. Grounded.

Thirty thousand, two hundred and seven steps.

Seven—eight—nine…

Ten—elev—

Wait.

You stop.

But the sound of the steps doesn’t. You can still hear the gravel crunching in a steady rhythm. Left, right, left…

It’s coming from the other side of the train cars.

The steps are heavier than yours, but equally careful. The person on the other side has either heard you or come to the same conclusion—it’s best to stay quiet, lie low, make yourself as invisible as possible. 

You swallow, feeling your arms tingle with anxiety. You crouch down behind some rubble and hold your breath as the steps draw closer and closer.

A friend or a foe? A threat or a harmless passer-by? There’s no way to tell.

The footsteps are close, you hear the sound moving past the cars and then—

No, do NOT. Fucking. Stop. Keep, Walking. Asshol-

They stop on the other side of your hiding place.

They know you’re there.

“I have a gun!” You blurt out the first thing that comes to your mind. “I have a loaded gun.” A weirdly specific way to put it, but when in panic…

The Unknown Walker from the other side doesn’t reply. 

The gun you had so boldly advertised is tucked neatly in your backpack. Not the best place to keep it while you’re traveling,  but there’s no holster or anything to strap it on, really. You awkwardly rummage through your backpack and pull out the Beretta 98 that doesn’t quite settle into your hand right. But that’s all you have to defend yourself with.

The person on the other side makes some kind of noise, almost like a… sigh? A chuckle? Something menacing, no doubt. Fucking fuck.

You force a breath in and out and in and get on your feet.

“Look, buddy, I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you don’t start walking,” you shout with the steadiest, sternest voice you can muster, cocking your head in the direction you came from. “Go.”

The person, a man, the tallest man you’ve seen in your life, doesn’t answer or make a move in any direction. He just stands there like a statue. Staring. Like he’s waiting for something to happen.

A mask obscures his facial features. It’s not that unusual. A lot of people cover their entire bodies now, from head to toe. 

What is unusual and slightly disturbing is the skull pattern painted on the mask you don’t recognise. There are a lot of gangs out there that deck themselves out with all kinds of morbid symbols, but you haven’t seen this one yet. Maybe he’s a part of some underground raider crew or maybe he works alone, or—

You squeeze the gun in your hand, very poorly hiding how badly it shakes. The man doesn’t back away, despite your half-assed order. But he doesn’t approach you either. He hasn’t pulled out a weapon, assuming he has one, and turned the whole situation into a proper Mexican standoff. You would have the upper hand, in theory, if you followed through with your threat and fired a warning shot. Just to show him that you weren’t fucking around.

In practice, you don’t want to pull the trigger.

First of all, you don’t want to waste the only chamber of bullets you have left.

Secondly, your aim is shit. You wouldn’t hit him if you wanted to and the warning shot would ricochet back in your own face. The gun is best for pointing and shouting yourself out of sticky situations.

Lastly, you don’t want to kill him. Gang member or not, you do not want to shoot him. You don’t want to see him die. You don’t want to kill him.

Even the possibility of that makes you queasy.

The man still hasn’t moved a muscle.

Your breathing has become shallow.

“I don’t want to shoot you,” you repeat. The words come out thin and hoarse. “I really don’t want to. But if you don’t go, I’m going to do it. And I can’t aim for shit so it’ll hit your stomach or something, and you’ll bleed out. I—”

His head tilts, ever-so slightly. You’ve got his attention.

“Please. Just go. I don’t have anything you want. It’s not worth it.”

Slowly, he starts backing up. Two, three, four steady and silent steps. You realise he could’ve easily caught you by surprise if he wanted to. He walks backwards up all the way to the railing of the bridge. He doesn’t raise his hands, doesn’t surrender and makes sure you know that. He’s merely ignoring the situation and moving on.

It’s like he knew you would not shoot him.

Your legs wobble as you stumble into the opposite direction.

Whoever the hell he was.

Best of luck, you think. See you never.

The trees on the other side of the bridge offer some cover. The sun is at its peak, beaming down on the dry, barren land. You hike deeper into the forest and in the middle of it, you hear something that makes you think your luck has finally turned.

Water.

A narrow stream trickles down the hillside, buried beneath the only kind of plant that refuses to die. You see a cluster of creeping vines that tangle around everything, suffocating what’s beneath. 

Knotweed. It grows everywhere and on everything.

You grab a handful of vines and start pulling. It’s a tedious task, and it takes forever to tear a tiny hole for you to reach the water. You fill a bottle and suddenly find yourself fighting the urge to take a sip. The water is cold, and doesn’t have any noticeable odour to it—but you know better. It’s not clean.

Boiling isn’t enough , you remind yourself as you stack rocks and twigs into a circle. This needs some filter tablets too. The twigs are bone-dry and catch fire easily. You pour the deliciously cold water into a pot and place it over the fire, frowning as you think how instead of the cool, crisp river water you get to enjoy it lukewarm and with an aftertaste of iodine powder.

You sit down, waiting for the water to boil.

Perched on the rock next to you is Dad.

“Could’ve used some help back there, you know?” You grumble.

Dad is silent.

You try a different approach.

“I met a boy today,” you huff. “Big boy with a skull face. Didn’t talk much. Didn’t talk at all, actually. I think I prefer them that way. You surely would.”

The fire crackles in the pit. Steam rises into the air. The forest is quiet. No birds. No bugs—nothing.

“I really thought I’d have to shoot him. It was so much easier when that was your job.”

The water starts to boil and you wait, probably longer than is necessary, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Now it has to cool down so you can add the tablets that bind the polluters. “And with just these three easy steps, you too can enjoy lukewarm, disgusting prison hot dog water,” you mutter, but your joke goes unheard. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

You check your belongings as you wait, sorting through the few things you have left.

“Take only what you can carry and then remove half.” Dad told you whenever you were packing for something. “You need less than you think.”

Solid advice. As always.

Something rolls out of your backpack and you catch it. It’s your most prized possession. A can of peaches that’s still good. You could probably trade it for a month’s worth of dusty lentils, but there’s no way in hell you’re doing that.

One day, you think, one, really good day, I’ll open this and devour this whole thing in one sitting. Syrup and all.

The water cools too slowly. You yawn and stretch.

“Red Hawk to Blue Sky,” you say, softly. You and Dad came up with those code names when you were little. “Do you think there’ll ever be a day good enough to open this can of peaches”

There’s no response. You yawn again.

Your body is no longer running on adrenaline from your little… encounter. It’s focused on survival now, trying to make you sleep to conserve energy. But you can’t. Not even if the ground feels surprisingly comfortable, with a tree trunk supporting your back and—

A sound that is too loud and too electronic to be coming from the surrounding forest snaps you out of it. The adrenaline comes rushing back into your system as the noise approaches rapidly.

Drones.

Shit.

You’re deep in the woods. The drones can’t fly in here. You should be safe. You, your belongings and Dad. It should all be alright. But you need to see to be sure.

Even if the drones can't locate you, nothing stops them from carpet-bombing the area if it's marked for that. 

There shouldn’t be a reason for that, you think as you climb the hill for a better view. There’s nothing here.

But you need to be sure.

You reach the high ground and kneel between rocks. The distinct whirring of the drones is getting closer and you can finally see them in the sky. A whole swarm of them is approaching in a formation that… doesn’t make a lot of sense for bombers. They’re flying in a wonky formation, flickering lights in mismatched colors.

Your racing pulse becomes steady again.

Ads. Fucking sky ads.

The swarm forms shapes in the sky, but you can’t make out what they’re advertising.

Who sent these out at this time?

It’s too bright. Usually they’re launched at night. And in populated areas. This must be a mistake.

A mistake that almost made you lose your shit for the second time today. 

Tomorrow better be so fucking excellent.

“Red Hawk to Blue Sky: False alarm,” you say as you reach your little camp again. “Not that you care either way.”

You glance at the coffee tin with Dad’s ashes inside it. You’ve placed it on top of a rock near the fire. You like having it— him —around.

“Rest easy, old man,” you whisper. “It’s just you and me.”

Like it always has been.

It didn’t happen in a day.

Someone might say that it took an entire year for the world to end.

Another might look at the bigger picture and point out that it actually took ten whole years.

It’s under debate whether it started earlier than that.

For you and billions of others, it started little by little, and you barely noticed it at first. The only thing that you paid attention to was the fact that every year, the cost of living became more and more expensive. You read the explanations from the news articles, and believed it was the inflation or stock market crashing or something other that caused it, something you didn’t know shit about and didn’t care. All you knew was that your rent took most of your paycheck and the rest went to groceries and bills and other things that kept you alive.

You remember it not making sense in your head that the farms were going bankrupt while the price of produce kept going up. You remember groaning at the headline announcing how all drinking water was now controlled by a single company. More and more businesses went down and the same few corporations were always there to buy them out.

In a few years, everything was owned by those few companies, run by a few billionaires. All the resources in the world were flowing into their vaults, in one way or another.

And your rent went up, as did the price of your groceries. But you managed. You had a job as a graphic designer for products you weren’t able to buy with your salary.

Then, the richest of the rich started to buy land. Lots and lots of land. Entire cities. And with the money they had, there were few that would decline the offer. Soon, the biggest cities in the world were owned by a handful of people. Many still looked up to those billionaires. Many welcomed them as their new leaders, thinking they would bring peace and prosperity to the middle class.

The middle class failed to realise that those cities weren't for them. They were for the ruling class. The new royalty. The Oligarchy. 

You no longer managed with your salary and had to take out loans to survive.

There were jobs, but they didn’t pay for shit. The people working those jobs were being used to cater the needs of the Oligarchs. Soon the cities were surrounded by walls. Checkpoints at the gates made sure the people didn't leave.

You got fired from your job as a graphic designer. They didn’t need a human for something a crafty, generative AI could do a million times faster.

You couldn’t afford to live in your apartment anymore.

So you left, escaping the city just in time before the gates closed and moved in with Dad.

Dad was an army veteran who lived alone in the countryside. When the companies started buying land, he declined their offers. Again and again, until they eventually gave up.

He took you in, and even though you tried to convince both of you that it would only be temporary, It had been clear from early on that things wouldn’t improve.

And they didn’t.

The world leaders were bought, one by one, at least those who would let themselves to be. Unsurprisingly, those that tried to stand their ground ended up disappearing. Along with the leaders, the national armies were also bought. They became toy soldiers for the Oligarchy to use in their petty disagreements. The lengths that money would go seemed absurd and every new headline was more baffling than the last. It didn’t seem to make sense: the super-rich had been living well and comfortably in the world all their lives, so why would they now build their own little city-states just to play house and occasionally fight with each other?

Apparently, in addition to getting their hands on all the resources in the world, they also had access to secret knowledge.

It wasn’t really a secret.

The effects of climate change were pretty common knowledge.

But only the billionaires knew just how fast it would turn most of the planet into an unlivable hellscape. They were given the data, the numbers, everything and even though many of them preached against it, they all knew it would happen and they all believed it. And when the vast majority of the population started to get more and more affected by it, it was too late to do anything.

There hadn’t been snow on the ground anywhere in years before you moved in with Dad.

The countries near the Equator became inhabitable a year after you moved in.

A new pandemic swept across the globe every year. Thickly settled areas became breeding grounds for viruses, bacteria, and the remaining independent, unbought countries declared an international emergency. The healthcare system collapsed universally, as the number of deaths reached so high no one cared to keep track anymore.

The housing collapsed, as the natural disasters replaced seasons.

Former middle class began dying of hunger.

The poor never stood a chance.

And the society collapsed, approximately five years after you moved in with Dad.

He woke up every day like nothing had happened, but the battle-hardened, former general had realised what was happening when you still struggled trying to keep your job. That’s why he had invited you to stay.

You were his only daughter. His only living family member. He wanted to protect you and teach you how to protect yourself. So he trained you like he would train his soldiers.

Or, at least he tried to.

He noticed pretty early on that you weren’t fit for that. You were too soft, too easily distracted. You refused to kill anything when he took you hunting. You had a horrible aim and you couldn’t get a throwing knife to hit the target board on your best day. But he never scolded you or blamed you for all the things you lacked. Instead, he adjusted his training methods. He made you run, climb, exercise in ways that didn’t require handling firearms or other weapons. He taught you how to forage instead of hunt. He showed you which plants and mushrooms were edible and which ones would make you hallucinate and which ones you should steer clear from. He taught you to survive.

It worked. You caught on easily. Thrived. And that was all he wanted.

All he wanted for you was to be able to survive as long as possible. You didn’t need to fight if you could stay hidden. You didn’t need to shoot for your meal if you could find roots and berries to eat.

“You’re smart,” he said, tapping your forehead. “And you're kind. It's a rare quality to have in this world. And it's the best thing about you.”

Dad seemed to have an endless list of random rules for ensuring your survival.

Keep to yourself, stay away from crowds.

Boiling water isn't enough, always filter it afterwards. 

Always have a roll of duct tape with you.

Never eat a white mushroom.

Some of them made more sense than others.

Things seemed fine for a long time. Even though the world crumbled around you, Dad made every day seem like it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Money no longer held any value, so people began trading supplies. Small communities formed here and there, but Dad was strongly against joining any of them. You would occasionally trade with them, but that was it.

“We’ll get by just fine. You and me. And the thing about groups is—someone always gets sick,” Dad explained. “Saw that on missions back in the day. A squadron standing by, waiting orders, hauled in a foxhole. Filthy and tired. And then a guy comes over and starts with Sir, I’m feelin’ a little… You know how that ends. Once someone catches it, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does.”

He made a valid point. So you stayed in the house, tended the garden, and he took up the hunting while you still refused to do it. 

“It’s not the dead or the shooting; it’s the dying, ” you explained. “It’s the moment that life leaves them. I don’t know why, but I can’t be there to see it. I can’t be the last thing they see. It’s too much.” 

It sounded stupid when you said it out loud. But Dad just patted your shoulder and gave you a reassuring smile. It wasn’t brought up again.

Until he could no longer hide the sickness festering inside him.

It wasn’t one of those diseases that wiped out hundreds of people every day. It had nothing to do with pollution, he didn’t catch it from the water or the soil or the air. You had stayed isolated in the house for a long time. 

It was in his genes, standing by until he got some minor infection that turned his white blood cells against him.

He was going to tell you. He always planned to, but he thought he had more time. More time to teach you, more time to keep you safe.

Once he stopped hiding the symptoms, the situation spiraled out of control.

You did your best to take care of him. All you could do was manage his pains. Help him eat. Take care of the house where you both had managed to live for so long in the world that was ending.

And you couldn’t watch him die. You turned away like a coward as he took his last painful breaths and left you alone in the world that was ending.

You tried staying in the house for a while after that, you even thought about burying his body in the garden. But the house wasn’t a home anymore; it was a tomb. So you bribed a crematory worker with everything valuable you found in the house so they’d burn his body separate from the others and you could keep his ashes. You put them in a coffee tin and began preparing to leave.

You weren’t leaving just for the sake of leaving.

Dad must’ve known the end was near when he, out of nowhere, gave you a box that he told you to keep, just in case. After he died, you opened it to find a stack of maps, a photo of a man you didn’t recognize, and a letter.

The letter was addressed to you. The rest was about something he was in the middle of planning before he got too sick to do anything.

So you took the maps, the photo and tucked the letter inside the lining of your jacket, packed everything you needed, put them in a backpack with Dad’s ashes, and left the house that had kept you both safe.

While the world was ending.

You must have slept for hours.

It’s dark now, and you’re groggy, disoriented, hovering above the little camp you made. Except the camp isn’t there, it’s gone. How can it be gone? Your fire pit has been stomped—and your backpack... Where the hell is your backpack? 

And why are you in a tree?

The last bit of your sleepy haze disappears, and you flinch, losing your balance.

Something grabs you.

Someone grabs you, yanks you back onto the branch you were sitting on. That someone presses you against the tree trunk and you find yourself staring at a skull painted on a mask. 

There’s no way it’s him. There’s no fucking way it’s the man from before. 

He left in the opposite direction and you made sure he didn’t follow. Right? You checked, didn’t you?

He’s sitting next to you, perfectly still, holding onto your arm with a bruising grip. Your brain tries to formulate a response to the situation but instead of fight or flight, it defaults into freezing. You’re frozen, breathing shakily right into his face. He smells like dirt and copper.

He raises a finger to where his mouth is, signaling you to be quiet.

You want to do the exact opposite of that. You want to scream, kick, push him off the tree, but your body doesn’t comply.

He points  towards the trees you can barely see in the darkness. Flashes of light move through them, blinking, sweeping. You count three.

They’re looking for something.

Are they after him?

The lights get closer and you see three people, two men and a woman, dressed in black gear with masks and goggles covering their faces. At first glance, you could mistake them for soldiers, but as they spot your camp and begin investigating, you notice all three are carrying improvised weapons: baseball bats, axes, crowbars… No firearms.

Which means they don’t have access to them. They're raiders. And those uniforms are stolen.

The grip on your arm loosens. You don’t dare to move. Whoever the man sporting the unnerving skull mask is, right now he’s your ally.

“Found something,” one of the men informs the others, squatting down near the remains of your fire. “A coffee tin.”

Fuck. Dad’s ashes. No, no—no…

He pops the lid open and smells it. You feel sick to your stomach.

“It’s gone bad,” he says, puts the lid back on and tosses the tin back on the ground.

“Coffee doesn’t go bad,” his partner argues.

“Give it enough time, and everything goes bad,” he insists. He gets up and you can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Probably why she left that shit behind.”

She?

They were looking for you?

“I told you this was a bullshit side quest,” the woman grunts. “Now we’ve lost the target and the little lady in the woods.”

“She might’ve had something!”

“Like fucking expired coffee?” She kicks the tin, and you hear it land in the stream. A whimper forces its way out of your mouth and all three of the raiders freeze.

“The hell was that?”

The man on the branch next to you turns his head towards you and for a second you almost feel like he’s about to scold you for making noise. The raider who found Dad walks over to the tree and looks around, his flashlight sweeping the forest floor. “Are there animals around here?”

“There aren’t animals anywhere,” the woman snaps. “I swear, if I get stuck with you idiots one more time, I’m going to—”

The wind rustles dead leaves in the tree, and the raider below turns his head to look up. “Hey—”

Your silent companion reaches down and wraps his arm around the raider's neck, throttling him up. He’s struggling for air. Holy shit, that man is strong as hell. The raider gargles and thrashes, kicks the air in a pointless attempt to free himself.

The man in the skull mask begins to twist the raider’s head, and the man gasps as his airways close. The head turns slowly, slowly, and you know what’s about to happen. There’ll be a pop and then the body goes slack. Dead. You lean against the tree trunk, squeezing your eyes shut and covering your ears. It’s dark, but still, you don’t want to see or hear  it happen.

It’s not the dead, it’s the dying.

The raider falls down on the ground with a soft thump and it alerts the other two. The man abandons you in the tree and jumps down without a sound like a large cat. He stalks over to the woman and she reaches for the crowbar on her back while the other raider rushes towards them with his axe raised. The man dodges the attack and the woman lunges at him, but he keeps his balance and pushes her back. She lands on the ground, coughing, growling at her partner for help, but the other raider steps back, then flees, leaving her behind.

The man kneels, pushing his knee against her throat and you hear the woman beg. She’s trying to bargain with the man, but he digs something out of his belt— a knife —and you close your eyes and ears again.

When you open your eyes, he’s standing below you, wiping his knife. You wait. There’s no immediate danger anymore, so maybe he’ll leave.

He doesn’t.

When the knife is clean enough for him, he tucks it into his belt and looks up. He doesn’t say anything or make any other attempt to communicate. Just like before on the rail bridge, he stands there, staring at you.

You shimmy down from the tree.

“I—” you start, but then remember something.

Dad. Fuck.

You dash in the direction the raider kicked the coffee tin. Holding your breath, you hope and pray the lid has stayed on. It’s all you have left, besides the maps and the letter and the stupid photo that’s not even his. It’s of some random man in a uniform, holding a cigar.

The coffee tin has landed in a tangle of knotweed. You reach for it with trembling fingers.

The lid is still on and there isn’t a single dent that wasn’t there before.

With a sigh of relief, you head back to find the man still in your camp. The raiders' bodies are missing, but you spot a pile of items on the ground. The man must have dragged the bodies away and searched them in the short time it took for you to find Dad’s ashes. And you know you weren’t gone for that long.

You would be impressed if you weren’t so exhausted and reeling.

You’re not sure what to do next. You don’t know if he’s leaving, but judging by how he meticulously sorts the raiders' things, he’s not in a rush.

He still hasn’t said a word, you realise.

You clear your throat. He doesn’t turn to face you, but stops what he’s doing.

“Why did you follow me?”

The man doesn’t reply. He continues his task.

“Why did you—okay, first of all, who are you? And did you know those people? Are you in a gang? How did you know they were after me? What do you—”

He drops the item he’s holding and turns to face you. He tilts his head a little, but doesn’t speak.

Demanding an answer clearly isn’t going to work.

You need to switch tactics.

“Did you hide my backpack?” You ask. A simple yes-or-no question. He nods and points to a pile of rocks. The backpack is buried under leaves and dirt. You dig it out and open it.

You don’t have the slightest clue of how interrogation works, but you know how to trade. And you have something to offer. With bitter reluctance, you reach for the can of peaches you have been saving for a long time. 

“Hungry?” You offer him the can. “They’re still good. I got lucky at a supermarket.”

He takes a step closer and snatches the can from you. You secretly wished he had declined.

The man sits down with the can of peaches you’d been saving for a celebratory meal and opens it with his knife. The sweet smell of syrup makes you regret you gave the thing away. It might have been a stupid move, maybe he’s unable to talk—what if his mouth is disfigured or his tongue cut out or…

The man lifts the mask, folding the fabric over his nose to reveal a mouth that very much isn’t disfigured. His features are sharp, pronounced, and he licks his lip slightly when he fishes out a mushy peach that’s soaked in syrup.

He is hungry. Malnourished.

But there’s nothing else wrong with his face, at least not with the part you can see. You shamelessly stare as he eats, watching him take careful bites of the fruit. The man licks his fingertips and then goes back for another peach.

He’s ravenous. And yet, he’s being very careful.

The man swallows and you see a faint red light blinking from under his jacket. There’s something around his neck. 

“… What’s that?” You ask. You shouldn’t, but you can’t help yourself. The man stops his feasting. He pulls down his jacket just enough for you to see a dog collar around his neck, with a small black box and a red light that blinks.

What the hell…?

He pulls the jacket back up and returns to the can of peaches.

Suddenly, his precise and careful movements start to make sense.

“Is that why you can’t speak?” You ask. 

He nods.

“What happens if you do?”

He shakes his head and gestures an explosion with his hands.

Okay, holy fuck. He’s wearing a jerry-rigged explosive dog collar.

“Were those raiders after you?”

He nods again and takes a sip of syrup from the can.

You stop to think. You shouldn’t push. He seems to be good at keeping his cool, but you don’t want to risk agitating him. If his head explodes, you might go with it. But you do need to find a way to communicate with him.

You have a journal with you. Something to keep your mind from sinking into the darkest depths when you’re lonely or bored. There’s a sad little nub of a pencil left, too. You open up an empty page.

“I guess you can call me Red,” you say.

“Don’t give anyone your name. Always use another, but choose one you’ll answer to.” Another one of Dad’s rules of survival.

“What should I call you?” you ask, placing the journal in front of him. He picks it up, studies it, scribbles something on the page and hands it back to you.

It’s a short reply. 

Nothing.

You snort. Is he serious?

“Okay, um, sure, but… I don’t think that’s going to work.”

You push the journal back into his hand. “Let’s try this again. You can call me Red, and I can call you…” You did not give him the peaches to get Nothing in return.

The man makes as much of an exasperated noise as his collar allows. He scribbles something else and tosses the journal back. 

Nothing.

Underlined.

"Have it your way, then," you grumble.

Asshole.

He did just save your life, though.

Still. Asshole.

Chapter Text

Asshole.

Peach-hogging Bastard.

Prick.

While trying to figure out what to call the silent man, who insists you call him Nothing, you only come up with insults. It might be a little unfair, but you’re not feeling particularly friendly.

Son of a bitch.

Dickhead.

It’s too early. You’re cranky, hungry, and tired and woke up with a kink in your neck. Nothing out of the ordinary for you, but the unexpected mute companion adds a layer to your irritation.

Piece of shit.

Creep.

And he’s not exactly your companion, either. You never made a mutual aid agreement or any kind of deal. You woke up, and he was there. And once he started walking, so did you. Intentional or not, you're both heading the same way.

You might as well be two strangers travelling side by side. You’re not straying from your path. 

You have somewhere to go.

The maps Dad left behind have multiple locations circled. He never explained why these places were important. Since you only found the maps after he was gone, you never got to ask. 

You could have opened the box before it was too late.

You definitely should have opened the box.

Most of the circles on the maps mark locations that no longer exist. Power plants, factories, construction sites and so on. If anything is still being produced, it’s near the city-states to keep the workers under control.

Slave labour is alive and well in Post-Apocalyptia.

Your mind is wandering. Where were you?

Right. Dad’s maps and the cryptic markings. Random locations crossed over or circled with a smudgy black marker. All except one—marked with a big red circle—somewhere on the coast of Britain.

A logical place to start looking. Why would it be highlighted like that if it wasn’t something important? Dad wasn’t one for mind games and wouldn’t leave you a weird puzzle to solve—especially not when your survival was on the line.

He had simply run out of time to explain.

At least your wandering has a purpose. A destination. You try not to think about what comes after. You’ll cross that bridge when you get there.

You haven’t shown the maps to Skullface Creepster. To his credit, he hasn’t really done much to earn the names you call him in your mind; you’re just being pissy. Without him, you would have been robbed blind and naked by those raiders. Most likely, you’d have been killed, or dragged back to their compound. But that isn’t enough for you to share your travel plans. Besides, he doesn’t seem interested in you at all. He moves like he’s on autopilot, like he knows exactly where he’s going—which, apparently, is the same way as you. Whether that is fortunate or unfortunate remains to be seen.

In the meantime…

Wanker.

Dick.

Weirdo.

Fucking Skeletor.

Yeah, that’s it.

There’s just something about his presence that keeps you on edge.

You arrive in a town that’s as dead as the ones you’ve seen before. Nobody nowhere. The buildings are rotting, collapsing, and very inconveniently blocking the road ahead. Knotweed slithers up the walls, over cars, slowly swallowing everything that stays still for more than a few days. You spot something else, too—a different shade of green on the horizon. A forest that’s not all dead trees and dried up shrubbery. And fucking knotweed.

Finally, you think. I’ve been running on fumes for too long.

And it’s true. You’ve got only a couple handfuls of dried beans left. You need food. You’ve seen fewer and fewer people, all with dwindling supplies. Trading hasn’t exactly been fruitful. And you’ve run out of things to trade, anyway.

But the forest, that’s something. Good kind of something. Depending on what grows there, you could find some roots and berries, maybe even wild garlic if you’re lucky. With enough edible plants, you can make crust. Crust is what you call the concoction you make by mashing up berries and plants into a paste. Then, you let it dry by the fire so it turns into something vaguely resembling pemmican. It’s disgusting, but it lasts. Long enough for you to reach the next trading hub and figure out what to do.

You could also stock up on some willow bark while you’re at it. Not a day goes by without some kind of pain in your body.

But the forest is all the way on the other side of this town and you need to get past the debris first. Skullboy McFuckfa— Skeletor has already climbed up on the roof of a truck and is looking around.

“See anything?” you shout. Your voice echoes off the buildings. The man glances down at you, then back up. 

“I’ll take that as a no. Or a none of my business."

It’s not like you’re trying to start a conversation. You know he won’t answer. But the silence is too eerie.

Skeletor keeps his gaze on the horizon. You decide to do a little snooping of your own.

The layout of the town is pretty straightforward. A main street cuts through the middle of it, lined with abandoned shops—a pharmacy, a florist… You check out a few of them, but they were all emptied a long time ago. With the ceilings caving in, it’s dangerous to linger.

You stop at what used to be the town square. Now, it’s a tangle of concrete and creeping vegetation.

The place is in worse shape than the towns you’ve come across before. They all were empty too—abandoned and all—but this place is different. It’s rotting. Like a corpse.

Like something happened to everyone at once. People usually hold out until a storm tears through or raiders wipe them out. 

But there’s something different here. Something that feels wrong.

It looks like everyone just… gave up. Vanished.

A suicide cult? The thought makes your skin crawl. It’s not unheard of, people were doing things like that long before the world went to hell.

Something stands out on the north side of the square. It’s a church. Not an unusual sight in an area with deep Catholic roots. Yet, it is in far better condition than the rest of town. It’s also fenced off, barricaded with junk.

What on God’s uranium green Earth…?

Then it hits you—it’s a sanctuary. It must be. A safe haven for those seeking solace in the one place that still gave them hope. They must have abandoned their homes, taking refuge in the church building, weathering the storms and the raider attacks, together.

That actually sounds kind of… Nice. Those people had hope.

And they could still be inside. They might have seen you coming and retreated. Or maybe there are snipers in the bell tower, aiming down at you…

You peer at the bell tower.

There’s nobody up there.

Nobody nowhere.

You consider telling Skeletor. Maybe you should continue on your own. But your subconscious makes the choice for you, and you find yourself retracing your steps back to the roadblock.

He has gotten down from the truck, and is just standing there, leaning against the rusty vehicle. Nothing in his behavior betrays any emotion. It’s the fucking mask. You can’t read his facial expressions, anticipate his movements—nothing. It’s frustrating, but you remind yourself that he’s not your travelling partner. He’s just a guy that tags along for some reason. Or maybe you’re the one tagging along.

“I found something,” you say, pointing towards the town square. “And I’m going to check it out, so…” you add, to emphasize how much you don’t care if he follows you or not.

He stays a few steps behind you as you make your way back to the church. The moment he notices the same thing you saw before—the barricades—a switch flips and he’s acting differently.

It would be interesting if it wasn’t kind of terrifying at the same time.

He gets out of the line of sight, behind one of the junk fences. You don’t know what the fuck is up, but you do the same. He looks up at the bell tower for a long time.

“Didn’t see anyone up there,” you say. He motions for you to shut up. You sneer.

He eventually reaches the same conclusion and stalks towards the church doors. You follow in his steps. Skeletor morphs back into the stoic robot he was.

That is interesting.

He assessed the situation and knew exactly what to do. And that tells you something about him. You recognise that type of protocol. You’ve seen it before—Dad used to give you countless lectures and demonstrations of different combat situations.

Skeletor isn’t just some tall guy following you.

He’s a soldier.

Or he was a soldier.

He gives the left side door a push. It won’t budge. It’s locked. Why wouldn’t it be? He backs away, hesitating, and you realise he can’t apply more force. The collar on his neck might register it and that could be the end of him and you and the holy house.

He glances at you, then the church, then back at you. He kneels down, grabs his knife, and draws something on the ground.

You lean closer to look.

“A crowbar?"

He nods.

“Some of the cars might ha— Oh.”

He takes off before you finish the sentence. The message was clear. It was an order.

You force open a couple of car trunks around the square. They’re about as empty as you expected. A garage down the street is empty, too. Skeletor sweeps the stores across the square and he doesn’t seem to have any more luck than you.

You exit the garage through the flower boutique you spotted earlier. It’s filled with dead plants, cracked pots, watering cans and all kinds of shit that isn’t useful. You were silently hoping to find seeds—they’d be great for trading. 

You’re about to head out when you spot something by the doorframe. A red cabinet mounted on the wall. It’s rusty and hidden and you could have easily overlooked it.

It’s not all useless junk around here…

You feel around for a latch, and after a while, your fingers find something protruding from the metal. You pull on the small handle and the door comes off with a deafening clatter.

There you are…

A fire axe sits at the back of the cabinet. And it’s in good condition.

Skeletor, alerted by the ruckus, stands outside of the boutique.

“It’s not a crowbar, but it could work.” You present him with the fire axe.

He takes it from your hand and heads back to the church.

Ouch. Not even a thank you?

Not that you’d need his validation…

He wedges the axe between the double doors and twists. The doors crack open just enough for something or someone to fit through. He nods at the crack.

So you’re a team now?

You slip through the doors and he pulls the axe out. The doors slam shut with a bang.

If there was anyone here, they would definitely have heard you by now. You slide open the bolt locks and let Skeletor inside. He hesitates for a second, then hands you the axe. Yet another unpredictable move. But an axe is a good tool.

Because that’s what you’ll use it for.

As a tool and nothing else.

The place is remarkably well intact. And it’s kind of clean too. Pillows and blankets are placed along the pews. If it weren’t for the layer of dust covering every surface inside, you’d think someone was living there. But you don’t see footprints, handprints, or any signs of recent visitors. Disappointment stirs in your gut. You don’t know what you were expecting—maybe someone to talk to. Someone to tell you there’s a thriving community, and that you’re welcome to join.

You scoff at your own delusions.

A community.

You know how that would end. Best to stay on the road.

But a little respite would be nice.

The altar stands at the end of the aisle. The cross is placed in the middle, flanked by candlesticks. In any other world, this would all seem normal. But in this one, everything that’s not nailed down is taken, looted, stolen, and traded. This church was well guarded until…

Did they all get fucking Raptured?

You approach the altar. Among the traditional religious elements, there are some odds and ends: little shiny rocks, rosaries, dead flowers placed around the dusty cloth.

Offerings?

Skeletor has disappeared.

Maybe he was cast out, you think. It makes you chuckle.

A faint noise from the sacristy pulls your attention back to your surroundings. Your not-quite-companion is still nowhere to be seen.

Assuming it’s him making the noise, you approach the door to the sacristy. It’s slightly ajar.

“I don’t know about you, but I feel a little weird about taking things from here,” you comment. “Ransacking Jesus’ backstage is a little disrespectf—”

The sacristy is empty and completely dark. Skeletor isn’t there.

A dank smell wafts from the room, making you back away and pull a surgical mask from your backpack. You shouldn’t waste them, but you’re way too curious to walk away. Something made a noise in there. You want to find out what it was.

You take slow, careful steps as your eyes adjust in the darkness. You have a flashlight with you, but the batteries are almost out—you need to find a window and unblock it.

You hear the noise again, louder this time.

It’s coming from the back of the room. It’s not quite a growl, but it sounds organic. An animal? When was the last time you saw an animal in the wild?

This starts to feel like a bad idea.

You see a sliver of light coming in and follow it to the window. The curtains are heavy velvet, so you grab one with both hands and pull it aside, revealing the source of the noise.

It’s a man.

Or it’s something resembling a man.

Oh fuck. Oh, hell no.

He’s standing—or rather, leaning—in the corner, held up by nothing but the Holy spirit at this point. His body is shriveled into a walking corpse, his clothes hanging halfway off, covered in bile, blood, and shit. The surrounding floor is covered in shit.

His skin, stretched over his bones, is yellowish green and dappled with lesions. His eyes are milky white—fuck, he’s blind—and the noise you heard is coming from his mouth. It’s a weak groan, repeating over and over. His fingers are laced together. He’s praying. The noise is a prayer.

Another voice, equally broken and weak, wails, joining it. You look down and see another person lying face down, their body covered in similar lesions, too weak to do anything but wail. There are more. Some moving, barely, some not. Some haven’t moved in a long time.

It wasn’t the Rapture.

It was an epidemic that passed through here, and the whole town got infected. They locked themselves inside the church, knowing what was about to happen—and—

Oh shit. Shit. You need to get out. You haven’t got the faintest idea of what kind of disease this is and how it spreads.

You move away from the window, bumping into a table beside it. The noise alerts the sick and all who can let out a collective cry. They scramble towards you, poor blind bastards, and you dodge the grabbing, desperate hands.

The man in the back of the room starts banging his head against the wall. The others get distracted enough, and you manage to slip away. As you do, you catch a glimpse of a text on the wall.

Quiconque vous êtes s'il vous plaît, mettez fin à nos souffrances, car le Seigneur ne nous laisse pas mourir. 

Whoever you are, please put an end to our suffering, for the Lord does not let us die.

You slam the door closed behind you. The wailing continues on the other side.

You want to collapse on the floor.

You want to cry and scream and tell them you’re sorry that they’re hurting. They’re asking for mercy. They want you to show them mercy, by—

You can’t. You CAN’T. Not even though they’re begging for you to do it, you can’t. It’s not the dead, it’s the—

Skeletor comes down the stairs. He was in the bell tower this whole time. You force yourself to move, and before your brain catches up, your feet are running, carrying you out the side door by the altar and out of the church. You run for a good while until you’re sure you can no longer hear the cries, the wailing, the pleading.

You kneel on the ground and rip off the mask, hyperventilating. They begged for mercy. They were so sick, in pain, tired, lying in their own waste. How many days had they been like that?

And they had locked themselves in there, together. To die together, in peace. But there wasn’t peace, just the disease eating them away, killing them slowly.

And you couldn’t grant them mercy.

Footsteps behind you won’t make you even turn your head. You know who it is.

He stands in front of you and you look up. He’s wiping his knife.

“Did you…?”

He nods.

He has done what you couldn’t.

Later, even with the church miles behind you and no one left alive to cry, you swear you can still hear them.

A couple handfuls of beans in boiling water is hardly a meal, but it’s better than nothing. It’s not meant to taste good; it’s meant to delay hunger. To be fair, it doesn’t even really do that. 

Skeletor and you reached the forest by nightfall. You made an executive decision to camp there until dawn. He didn’t object. He barely reacted.

You haven’t found anything to eat in the forest so far. No roots, berries or nuts. Nothing is in season, and you’re not entirely sure what season it’s supposed to be.

You stir the mess in your pot, waiting for the beans to soften. They grow in size as they absorb water and you can almost trick yourself into thinking there’s more to eat.

Skeletor doesn’t sit by the fire, but he’s around. There are so many questions you want to ask him, but you can’t waste the last pencil you have just to satisfy your curiosity.

You could show him the maps, let him point out where he’s headed. But he might lie, randomly pointing at anything and you’d be none the wiser. Or he might just outright refuse, which seems more likely.

You sigh and look at the beans that have turned mushy and plump.

Ew.

It’s time to bargain. Yet again. At this rate, he’ll have you out of supplies in a matter of days.

You set aside a small portion for yourself and approach him with the steaming pot of suspicious looking gunk.

“No peaches this time,” you say. There’s no humour in your voice, despite the sad attempt of a joke. “I’m fresh out. But you can have these beans…”

He reaches for the pot, but you pull it back and raise your hand.

“... If you give me something in return.”

He tilts his head. The patchy skull pattern stands out in the dark like an angry exclamation point.

Play ball, Skeletor. Come on, now.

You reach for the box with the maps inside. “Here’s the deal. You point out where you’re headed, and I’ll give you these beans.”

It’s nearly impossible to manoeuvre with one hand while holding the pot of beans with the other. You fumble, and the box springs open, spilling its contents across the ground. 

“Shit!”

You’re too focused on saving your belongings to notice Skeletor picking up the photo of a man Dad left you.

“Huh,” an involuntary noise crawls out of his throat.

You both freeze.

The collar around his neck starts beeping.

The red light is blinking rapidly and you don’t see his face, but can imagine his throat going dry, his life flashing before his eyes as it’s coming to an end. You back off, crawling away, looking away, you don’t want to see it, you don’t want to hear it, you don’t want to…

The beeping stops.

The red light is blinking steadily again.

It was just a small noise that he made but it was still enough to trigger the sensors.

How long has he been living with that thing?

You reach for the pot of beans on the ground. No more bargaining tonight.

You barely know anything about him. And yet, there’s an inkling of empathy for this man whose life could end horribly with an accidental huh.

He can have the beans, for all you care. You’ve lost your appetite, anyway.

The maps and the letter are scattered around, and the photo has landed at Skeletor’s feet. You pick it up. His eyes follow intently as you put it away.

Is it something about this that made him slip?

A thought crosses your mind. A really, really stupid thought. 

There’s no fucking way… But you have to try.

“Do you… know who this man is?” You ask, suddenly afraid of the answer. “You don’t need to nod,” you quickly add. You don’t want to risk another catastrophe today. “Just, like.. Blink. Twice. If you know him, blink twice.”

He stares at the photo. Considering. Processing. Hesitating?

His eyes turn to you.

Holy shit, there’s an actual human being in there.

He blinks once.

Twice.

Chapter Text

It’s fascinating how deeply hard-coded resilience sits in the human DNA. It conquers all—even the constant need to consciously destroy their own habitat. Don’t shit where you eat, they say, yet continue to shit exactly where they eat, drink and sleep.

That unyielding resilience keeps the human species alive.

Resilience and communality.

Even when a good two-thirds of the world has become inhabitable, humans prevail. Not as it once was, but in smaller colonies, settled in the few corners of the world that are still tolerable. Not livable, but tolerable.

Aside from the city-states built for the elite and their servants, communities formed wherever people migrated. Some of those still stand; others do not. Some never really settled, staying on the move instead. The nomads of the wastes.

They’re collectively known as the Caravans. Using carriages pulled by people and vehicles, they quickly became links between settlements.

One of those Caravans was the first group of people you encountered after Dad died.

You had left the house after packing up everything you could carry and trading whatever still held value. Everything sentimental you burned in the backyard—photos, your childhood toys, Father’s Day cards with your little handprints on them. You couldn’t carry everything, and leaving things behind in a soon-to-be-looted house felt wrong.

So you took it all out back and burned it. In a way, it was a ritual of grieving. You let go of the old and embraced your new life, albeit reluctantly.

It wasn’t just the smoke that stung in your eyes as you watched the collection of your childhood memories burn to a crisp.

The Caravan had stopped by a parking lot of an empty supermarket when you walked past them one gloomy afternoon. A broken wheel on one of their carriages had forced them to stop. What caught your attention was that everyone was helping: those not working on the carriage were cooking, organising, doing maintenance, or handling some other task. Everyone was pulling their weight, doing their part for the common good.

This piqued your interest. You had lived most of your life in a world that pushed individuality —being self-centred was the norm. Every man for himself was the default. Even Dad encouraged it, although his reasons might have been slightly more altruistic. He wanted you to survive on your own. And you had thought nothing of it.

But as you stopped to watch the Caravan, mostly out of curiosity, you wondered if Dad had been right at all. The wound of your grief had barely scabbed over, and you were angry at him. Angry for leaving you here, alone, and demanding that you survive for the rest of your life like that. It didn’t feel fair.

Keep to yourself. Stay away from the crowds.

But this wasn’t a crowd, right? Fifteen people, at most.

Fifteen people, all getting along with each other. They joked, laughed, and genuinely appeared to be having a good time. Unlike you, stewing in your misery.

You stood there, observing, long enough for someone to notice. A man sorting out a box of tools waved at you. You returned the gesture, and he motioned for you to come closer.

“You here to trade?” he asked. No, you wanted to reply, I’m standing here being jealous of all that I don’t have. But you bit your tongue.

“Yeah, if my junk’s worth anything,” you replied. For an army veteran, Dad hadn’t kept much—one weapon, some memorabilia, and an old radio that didn’t work but he loved to tinker with. Army surplus would’ve been golden. Instead, all you had were things salvaged from the house. Pots, pans, and silverware usually made a good trade, so you presented him a few. The man inspected the items like he was evaluating antiques.

“It’s not bad, but I don’t think we have any use for these. We’ve got enough for all of us.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and an awkward silence stretched between you. He looked genuinely sorry.

Of course you don’t need any of my shit, you thought. Of course you have everything you need.

The man glanced around, spotted someone, and called them over. A tall woman with an eye patch and a permanent frown etched on her face walked up.

“We got any use for these?” The man gestured to your pots and pans. You wished you’d just left. You didn’t need another person confirming it: your shit was useless. Unnecessary.

The woman stood there for a long while. She looked at your things. Then at you. Then back at the things—her gaze was so sharp, you felt like she could see every bad decision you had ever made and judge you for all of them.

“We won’t need them,” she finally said.

You sighed. Was it really necessary to make a whole spectacle out of it?

“We have enough cookware for us all.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on you, and you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

“All fifteen of us,” she added.

A dramatic pause.

“However…” she turned to the man, “if there were sixteen of us, we might need those.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away.

The man waited until she was out of sight, then burst into laughter. “What do you say, kid?”

“About what?” The entire scene was fucking bizarre. What is this, a post-apocalyptic improv troupe?

“She asked you to come with us. You’re welcome to join if you want to. There’s room in one of the campers.”

What?

First of all, that woman didn’t ask you shit. If anything, she had a laugh at your expense.

Second, this was against everything Dad had taught you. Against everything he wished.

Keep to yourself.

Keep to myself, and what, Dad? What then? What if I get hurt? What if I get sick? You really want me to be alone and miserable?

You bit your lip. Tears welled up in your eyes and you blinked them away. He wasn’t there to explain, to argue, because he wasn’t there at all. He was nothing but a coffee tin half-full of ash, stuffed in the bottom of your backpack.

He couldn’t tell you what to do anymore.

“Which one?” You asked. The man pointed to the second-to-last camper van in the row.

Shut up, Dad, you thought as you collected your things and tossed them in the back of a carriage. You died. You don’t get to choose.

Because he would have chosen differently.

And he would have been right. 

But you would find that out later.

Calais.

One of the smudges on the map. One of those smudges you knew has some significance to it, after learning that there is, indeed, a trading hub here. So Dad hadn’t just been pointing out old infrastructure; he must have known about some of these new places. 

But how? Neither of you barely left the house.

You don’t have time to ponder that now.

The smudge demands your attention.

Calais—once the largest city in Pas-de-Calais—never turned into a city-state despite its size and strategic location. It wasn’t as interesting to the Oligarchy as Paris or Marseille, which were highly sought after. You remember a brief war being fought over who would claim them first.

Sick, spoiled fucks.

Calais, or more specifically its seaport, was claimed by folks who had lost their homes. Over time, it turned into a trading hub for travellers passing through. The port itself lacks any notable buildings, just shipping containers turned into makeshift shelters all the way down to the docks.

Some of them have lights on, you notice. They’re leeching off power from somewhere. That’s pretty clever.

You wouldn’t settle down here. You wouldn’t settle anywhere. But even you have to admit that business is good. People will trade just about anything around here. For the right price, you can find food, drink, even company for the night—if that’s what you’re looking for. 

The place smells rancid. It’s muddy, a fucking cesspool, yet still travellers from all over the continent gather here.

But it’s not the port they come for. 

It’s the Chunnel Terminal.

The Chunnel is another smudged line on the map, stretching from the coast of France to Folkestone.

The undersea railway tunnel connects the remains of the United Kingdom to what’s left of Europe. One of the few rare forms of public transport, if you can even call it that. The locals who manage the railway are well aware of how much people are willing to pay for tickets.

There hasn’t been an active train in years. People are supposedly being transported back and forth with handcars.

Or that’s what you’ve heard. It could all be bullshit. The whole thing might have collapsed a long time ago. You only know what you’ve heard from the few travellers you’ve crossed paths with.

But it’s your best and only shot at getting across the channel. The red circle on your map isn’t far from Folkestone.

If there’s nothing there— no, your mind is wandering again. You need to focus. 

There’s a storm brewing somewhere over the sea. 

You should get into the tunnel before it hits.

As soon as you arrive at the gate, you notice the seaport is packed with people. People and mud and shit. There’s safety in numbers, to a point. But after what you saw at that church… You couldn’t be paid to stay anywhere with this many people.

Having one person in your proximity is enough.

After the scare Skeletor’s collar caused you in the woods, he pulled back a fair bit. He doesn’t come close to you at all. Not that he did before, but now he keeps even more distance between himself and you. 

Consequently, it has made you curious about him. You still barely know anything about this man, but you know two things: he was a soldier, and he recognised the man in the photo.

You tried to ask, but he refused to answer. You were ready to sacrifice what was left of your pencil to get more information out of him, but he wouldn’t write down a single word. He retreated into his shell and stays there. 

It’s frustrating.

But it’s not on the top of your to-do list right this second.

He sticks with you, or the other way around.

For now.

You layer a scarf over your surgical mask and head into the Calais trading hub. You need to find someone who knows someone who can sell you a ticket—tickets to the Chunnel. After that, you need to convince them that your last, dented and scratched kettle is worth said ticket. It’s all you have to trade. 

You didn’t find much in the woods during the three days you spent there—just some beech nuts, wild lettuce, and willow bark, all of which you need for yourself. And for Skeletor. You pointed out what was edible and what wasn’t, and he sheepishly filled his pockets.

He responds to you. Kind of. He’s just uncooperative as hell sometimes.

The first trader jumps out of nowhere, and you nearly fall flat on your ass. He has a container filled to the brim with junk and you practically fight him off. Skeletor hangs back, not interrupting. 

Thanks for the help, buddy. You shoot him a look, and he ignores you. His tall, hulking figure isn’t enough to keep the hustlers at bay if he’s walking twelve steps behind you.

Another hawker, a little less enthusiastic, cuts your path. This time, you manage to get a few words in, but he doesn’t know anyone who sells the tickets—although he could find out if you were to trade with him first...

This isn’t a community. It’s a collective of people, but in the end, it’s every man for himself.

No luck with the other vendors, either. None of them seem to know who sells the tickets. Or maybe they do, but you’d have to pay for that information first. You don’t have resources for that. 

The hustling is annoying as shit, but you remind yourself that they’re just trying to survive. Same as you.

You might as well find something to eat, make your way to the Chunnel entrance, and try to bribe your way in. With the fucking kettle.

The mask makes your face sweaty and hot and disgusting, but you’re not going to take it off until you’re out of here. 

You stop behind a container, next to a pile of boxes. 

Skeletor is out of sight. You noticed someone trying to sell him porn magazines and didn’t stick around to see how that ended.

You need a minute to think.

“A couple more tries, then I’m… We’re out,” you say, to no one in particular.

“Hrrrr-uh,” comes a sound from one of the boxes next to you. Startled, you almost push the entire pile into the murky water below.

The fuck…?

Are you hallucinating now?

But the box shifts on its own and makes another noise.

Holy shit. An animal? An actual living animal?

You don’t remember the last time you saw one alive. It must have been years ago. And it’s a big one. The box could fit a German Shepherd inside.

Your original plan vanishes from your mind, and curiosity takes over. You shouldn’t look. It’s none of your business. If someone has come here to trade an animal, it’s their funeral—others will eventually notice, and all hell will break loose as people fight over it.

The box shakes. “Hrrr.”

Just a peek. 

Just a little peek, while Skeletor is busy… dissociating or whatever. 

No one will know.

You lift the flap of the box, just a tiny bit, and freeze as two sets of eyes—canine and human—stare back at you.

There is a dog.

And a child.

Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle, is someone trying to sell—

The flap slams shut, and you turn around. Behind you stands a woman with a knife in her hand.

“Don’t—” she says. Her hand is shaking. “Go away. Leave us alone. Please.”

You raise your hands slowly, trying to avoid any sudden movements. The woman is distraught, panicking. 

Where the hell is Skeletor…?

“I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t going to—Look, just… put the knife down and I’ll go, okay?” You try to keep your voice steady. The woman isn’t budging. You recognise the look in her eyes. You know what’s going through her head. You were in that same state not too many days ago. Scared. Desperate.

“The boy is in pain. Please, we just need to trade the dog for some medicine. You can’t take him—”

As deep in the trenches as you feel like you are, this woman has it even worse.

“I am not taking him. Put the knife down, and I’ll walk away.”

She lowers her hand, and you take a step to the side. You hear the little boy whine inside the box.

“What kind of pain is he in?” you ask. You probably shouldn’t meddle, but you can’t just turn around and walk away. They need help.

“It’s his arm,” the woman explains. She puts the knife away. You’re no longer a threat. “He dislocated it, and the pain won’t go away. We have nothing to trade besides the dog. It’s his dog, and he loves it so much…” Her voice breaks. It’s a minor injury with major consequences.

“I think I have… You open your bag and take out a handful of wilted wild lettuce. You really can’t afford to give handouts, but the boy needs those herbs more than you. “Here. For the pain. It should make it more tolerable. And make a sling for his arm. If you were able to pop it back into place, it should heal on its own.”

The woman stares at the slightly suspicious bundle of herbs in your hand.

“Just take it,” you say. “And get them out of here before anyone notices.”

Kind. Be kind.

She takes the wild lettuce and you help her move the box into a shopping cart.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything to give you. I’m not used to getting anything for free.”

You almost laugh.

“Hey, same here. I think nothing comes for free anymore.”

She pushes the cart towards the gate. You follow her. It’s nice to actually talk to someone for a change.

“What did you come here for?” she asks.

“The Chunnel. No luck with the tickets.”

She nods. “They’re expensive as hell.”

Of course they are. But since you don’t know how to get them anyway…

You stop in your tracks. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know who sells them? I tried asking around, but the traders won’t even give information out for free.”

She points at one of the stalls you haven’t visited. It’s small and so far back you could have missed it entirely. “I overheard some people talking—he’s the one you’re looking for.”

“Really? Thanks for the—”

A low growl from the box cuts you off. It catches the attention of some people nearby.

Oh shit. Shit. Shit!

Before they can make their way to you, another sound echoes through the place: a loud splash followed by a scream.

People start rushing towards it.

“Someone fell in the water!”

“Go!” you say to the woman. “Now!”

She runs out of the gate and disappears. You try to figure out what’s happening.

Off to the side, you see Skeletor standing, leaning against a wooden post, unbothered by the situation.

A bit too unbothered.

He’s looking at you. You point at the mass of people running down to the docks to fish out the one who fell.

He shrugs.

Right.

The ticket seller laughs at your sad attempt to buy them with your stupid piece of cookware. He is eyeing something else, though.

The fire axe hangs on the side of your backpack.

It’s in a better condition than anything he’s seen in months. You’re not keen on parting with it, and certainly not for Chunnel tickets.

“I could throw in a couple of these,” the man says, lowering his voice as he opens a small safety box. Inside is a stack of instant noodles. Chicken flavoured.

Back when things were normal, you wouldn’t have given them a second thought. But now, the familiar logo on the package is enough to make you salivate.

“Four, plus the tickets,” you say.

“Three,” he counters.

“Deal.”

People have lined up at the Chunnel entrance. Someone at the front turns away those without tickets, trying to maintain order. It’s strangely familiar and almost a little nostalgic to stand in a queue with a ticket in hand, waiting to board one of the handcars. You were so used to waiting like this, standing with other people on your way in and out of planes and buses and bars and concerts and…

Skeletor stands behind you, rigid as a statue. You pick up on some subtle uneasiness. He is still a walking safety hazard and now, it’s not just the two of you who are in danger.

“I never took the train when it was still operational, you know? The thought of being underground and underwater scared the shit out of me.”

He doesn’t respond, because if he did, you’d both be blown to smithereens. But catch his eyes flicking down to you. He’s listening. Judging, maybe, but listening nevertheless.

“And now I’ve just traded the most valuable thing I had to go fucking underwater-underground with three packs of noodles to my name. This is insane.”

He rolls his eyes. Your chatter is nothing more than an attempt to distract him, but he’s not making any effort to get you to stop. 

It’s not an act of kindness, definitely not. You need him to stay calm out of self-preservation.

“Did you have something to do with that guy falling in the water?” You ask. He doesn’t nod or shake his head, but his eyes narrow.

“Alright then, keep your secrets…”

The person in the front ushers the line forward.

You step into the tunnel just as the first raindrops land on your jacket.

The air smells like sulphur. Behind you, people rush to shelter from the acid rain.

You climb on the handcar and watch the platform disappear. Skeletor sits next to you, his legs dangling over the edge.

You’ve made it. 

For now.

Chapter Text

You and Dad once took the overnight train from Stockholm to Berlin when you were little. You don’t remember your exact age, but you were young enough that the entire world felt like it had shrunk to things immediately around you—the cabin, your seat, and your little backpack. A colouring book. New sneakers with laces instead of velcro. And Dad. He took up a lot of space in your tiny universe. He was the foundation on which you stood with the sneakers and the backpack and the colouring book.

And those other things mattered less when he was there.

Things would break and disappear, but he’d stay.

Dad would stay.

You had fallen asleep just before the train reached the long bridge stretching over the sea between Sweden and Denmark. A distorted announcement from the loudspeaker woke you up. It was dark, you couldn’t see so you reached your little hand out to find your backpack and your colouring book and—

Dad wasn’t there.

There was no one in the cabin.

You were alone.

Outside was nothing but the vast emptiness of the sea on which the train chugged on its tracks.

Your little world had suddenly expanded into proportions you were struggling to understand and the foundation of it was missing.

Dumbfounded, you rubbed your eyes. This couldn’t be real. You must have been dreaming. You squeezed your eyes shut and opened them again, expecting to be greeted by a familiar face.

It wasn’t there. He wasn’t there.

“Dad!”

You called out for him. There was no answer. You cried out, screamed, but the cabin was still silent, the train was still moving and the sea below was still dark and terrifying. You kicked and screamed, as if making enough noise could chase away the horrible silence and loneliness. You cried until your voice gave out and curled into the corner of the seat, hiccuping and whimpering. You had no perception of time—it could have been minutes or hours or millennia you spent alone, crying, scared, so scared it was overwhelming.

Monsters lurking in the darkness didn’t scare you. You weren’t really afraid of being alone, either.

You were terrified of being without Dad.

Without him, your little world would crumble and no amount of sneakers or colouring books would ever—

“Sweetie pie.”

A hand touched your shoulder. A warm, familiar hand.

You opened your eyes to light streaming through the window.

You looked up and saw Dad sitting there, like he had been the whole time. He wiped your tear-stained cheek with a paper tissue.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

You nodded, frowning, lip quivering like you were about to burst into tears again. Dad sighed and pulled you close.

“Don’t leave,” you said.

“Where would I go?” he chuckled. “We’re on a bridge. It’s not like I can just take a hike in the middle of it.”

You grabbed his sleeve, your hands curling into fists. He shook his head and pretended to talk into a radio.

“Blue Sky reporting to Red Hawk: I won’t leave you, I say again: I will not leave you. Copy?”

You buried your face into his jacket, nodding vigorously. He laughed again, and you felt it reverberate through his whole being.

“Copy.”

Sitting still for a long time is making you sleepy. It shouldn’t come as a surprise—after all, your body is doing what it’s supposed to: keeping you functional by saving energy.

The handcar isn’t the most comfortable place to nod off. You’re sitting on cold metal and the edge of it cuts into your legs, so you have to wriggle around a lot. Falling asleep could also make you lose your balance and fall off. Besides, you’re not travelling alone. There are around six people packed in the crudely modified handcar with you and Skeletor, plus two men operating it. Anyone could potentially rob you blind if you succumb to a careless nap.

He could keep them off, you think, glancing over at Skeletor. He sits next to you, perched on the edge like a gargoyle. Not that he’d protect you or anything, but his presence alone might do the trick.

He hasn’t moved since he sat down. It’s not unexpected, but it sure as hell must be uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable, and very much none of your business.

The handcar rolls along the tracks and you close one eye at a time, trying to keep yourself from falling asleep. The monotonous dark tunnel has warped your sense of time, and you can’t really tell whether you’re two hours or twenty minutes from Folkestone.

A sudden jerk of the vehicle jostles you back from the edge of sleep.

The handcar has stopped.

Are you there yet?

A confused murmur rises from the group of passengers. Two men operating the handcar curse in French. You hop down on the tracks with the others to see what caused the sudden halt.

Turns out a bump on the tracks derailed the whole thing. It doesn’t take long for the people to start asking, complaining and generally unloading their frustration on the operators. You stick to the sidelines, listening, but not joining in what seems like a scuffle in the making. Finally, somebody calls for everyone to calm down and orders the strongest of the group to help him steer the handcar back on track.

The shared goal of getting the fuck out of here makes finding volunteers easy.

“You,” one operator points at Skeletor. “We need your help, too.”

Your first reflex is to tell the man not to bother. That the man who looks strong has checked out of this reality and into his own—and oh, he has a collar rigged to kill everyone here if he so much as grunts too hard. But Skeletor, being the unpredictable little shit he is, approaches the handcar and joins the others.

After a couple of tries, they manage to get it back on the tracks.

The operator goes around thanking everyone who helped. You see Skeletor flinching, ever-so-slightly, when the man grabs his hand and squeezes it.

Chalk it up to the list of random things you’ve learned about him so far: military or ex-military, knows the man in the photo Dad left, eats his way through your supplies, has no problem killing people and is allergic to expressions of gratitude.

What a dating profile that would make.

The rain in Folkestone doesn’t reek of sulphur like it did in Calais. It’s muddier, heavier, but less hazardous. The acid rain won’t melt your skin right off, but being exposed long enough causes a rash and makes it itchy. It’s not clean by any means, but at least it doesn’t make you want to scratch your face off.

The Chunnel terminal, or what’s left of it, is in rough condition. Despite that, it remains a popular gathering spot. You make your way through the crowd as fast as you can and once you’re in the clear, you finally, finally take off the surgical mask you’ve had on for way too long. You gasp as the cold air hits your face, which has been marinating in sweat.

Gross.

But you won’t let it dampen your mood. You’re getting closer to the red circle on the map. 

Not far now. Through the town and up along the coastline for a day and a half.

That’s nothing. You could skip and hop all the way to the destination. And nothing is going to bring you down—not the rain, the sweat or the fact that you’re just now realising how utterly filthy you are. Not the lack of food or sleep, not your grumpy companion. Nothing will ruin this for you.

Except if you reach the red circle and there’s nothing there— No. You shake the thought away. Dad never did anything for shits and giggles. He would never misdirect you like that.

Folkestone looks like it used to be a quaint little town, back when those still existed. All the houses are in ruins, all the stores looted. You don’t come across a single shop window that isn’t bashed in. In a way, it looks more normal than the town you passed a few days ago in France. These people here didn’t go out all at once—they fought and eventually gave up. Got overrun by a gang. Or maybe the city went quietly, collapsed on its own due to lack of power, water, and healthcare, and the looting came later.

You don’t know and you may never know. It’s not like anyone has been documenting the world going to shit in real time.

You scowl as you walk past a church. It doesn’t look like that one, but still… 

Too soon.

Skeletor keeps his distance. Nothing new on that front. Except that, yes, there is— he seems much more aware of his surroundings than before. Or not aware… wary.

You know by now that asking him anything will result in a side-eye at best, so you let him be. Besides, your temporary companionship will become obsolete soon enough.

A day and a half.

A skip and a hop.

It bothers you a little how he’s going to continue on with that collar. It shouldn’t bother you at all.

A school building looms between the endless rows of terraced houses. It’s a large, red brick building that towers above the others in the area. Surprisingly, it seems to be in better condition than most of them. Some windows are broken, the front door is nailed shut, and the gate is missing, but that’s about it.

Upon closer inspection, you realise it’s a college. A list of courses still hangs on the shattered bulletin board.

Green Woodworking for BEGINNERS

LEVEL 1 Electrical Installations

ADVANCED Ceramics

GRAPHIC DESIGN AND INTERACTIVE MEDIA

You really don’t have time to stop.

But the nostalgia tugs on you too hard. This was your life at some point. Not here, but somewhere else. It was so long ago.

You’ll never have it again.

You snap out of your moment of sentimentality to see Skeletor making a beeline for the barred door.

What the fuck is it now?

He’s acting stranger and stranger. Does this place hold some significance for him? Or is he just now developing a sudden interest in advanced ceramics?

You don’t have to follow him. You can keep moving. Really, nothing’s holding you here. He has clearly lost it, gone bonkers in the tunnel and it’s none of your business.

It’s not.

He removes the nails with his knife and the boards come off, one by one. The lock mechanism on the door has broken so long ago it swings open on its own. Skeletor stops.

Why isn’t he going in? And why are you still standing here, when you should be on your way, skipping and hopping?

He makes a gesture. He wants you to follow.

You’re not going to, right? You don’t have the time. You should be going—

From the inside, the school looks empty, like the shops and the houses down the road. You can’t make sense of why Skeletor needed to break in here. And why you, against your better judgement, followed him.

You want to see what he’s up to. If it’s nothing, you’ll check out of this strange companionship.

The ground floor consists of an auditorium, a few office rooms, and a dilapidated lavatory. All empty, all useless. Skeletor meticulously searches through them all before moving down to the basement. Like the curious spectator you are, you follow him to the flooded hallway below. It’s not like you can let him go there by himself—he doesn’t have a flashlight as far as you know. Not that you’d give half a fuck, but…

The water is cold, muddy, and nasty, rising to your knees. You mutter a curse under your breath. If this swamp muck gives you an infection, you’ll make his collar explode on purpose.

What is he looking for?  

And why so frantically, all of a sudden?

One of the flooded rooms looks like it once belonged to a caretaker—rusted shelves, broken mops, and tools scattered around suggest as much. Skeletor examines them, then dips his hand into the green pool of thick, disgusting sewage. He feels around a bit and the sloshing, squelching sound makes your stomach churn.

He pulls something up from underwater—a t oolbox. Locked, mostly intact.

Oh, so now he’s tinkering? With what?

You wade after him through the basement and up the stairs, all the way to the top floor of the building. He sets down the toolbox and pries it open.

You no longer exist to him as he picks out the tools and starts working on something. You don’t see what it is—that would require getting close to him, his gross swamp hands, and those shit-soaked tools. Not a lot makes you queasy these days, but stagnant water marinating in a basement still manages to do it.

Now’s the time to head out. You don’t need to play a part in this anymore. There’s still a bottle of water in your backpack and it should last you just enough to get to—

“I’m going,” you say, as nonchalantly as you can muster. “Have a good… whatever. ”

He stops his impromptu workshop and turns. Slowly, carefully, he shakes his head.

No.

He’s telling you no.

“Look, I can’t hang around here. I have somewhere else to be. I can leave you some matches and water and a pack of noodles…”

Not out of kindness. You’re trying to buy your way out of this situation.

He shakes his head again, then presents you with the object he was working on.

It’s a handheld radio. You recognise the model.

Dad had multiple of those.

He has a radio, and…

“...You need me to use that for you,” you finish the thought out loud. He nods. To be fair, there is an option for you to say no, to just leave . It’s not like he could force you to do it.

He… wouldn’t, right?

He doesn’t move a muscle, just sits there, holding the radio out to you.

You don’t have to do it. But you didn’t have to come into the building either, you didn’t have to get him a ticket for the Chunnel, you didn’t have to give him the can of peaches…

“Alright,” you sigh. He shoves the radio into your hand. The smell makes you gag.

You sit down at a desk that’s left standing near the window. The reception should be better there.

“So do I just… say anything? Like, hello?” you ask, realising you don’t know who he’s reaching out to. He mimics writing with his hand and you rummage through your backpack for the journal and the last of your pencil. He grabs it and scribbles down a couple of lines.

There are words you vaguely recognise. Military lingo. Codes. A call for help. You switch on the radio and it immediately picks up on some static. It feels weird to hold something electronic in your hand again, but you need to push past the sense of wonder and focus.

“Okay,” you say, and swallow. “Here we go…”

He dials up a frequency for you. You press the side button to speak.

“Bravo Zero Seven to base, requesting for exfiltration, I repeat: requesting for exfiltration. Does anyone copy?”

The static crackles. You repeat the message, calmly and clearly like Dad taught you.

A noise breaks through the buzzing. A… sigh? A gasp? You repeat the words once more.

There’s definitely someone on the other end.

“Hello?” you say, going off script.

Silence.

Then—

“Who’s this?” a gruff voice asks.

“Who’s this? ” you shoot back.

“How’d ya get on this frequency?”

“Someone gave me the radio.”

The voice on the other end goes silent again.

“Are ya with him?” The voice asks. There’s an undertone to it, almost like… he’s worried.

“Am I with who?” You ask back. You still don’t know who you called and giving out information is risky.

“Fuckin’ hell…” the voice sighs. “ Ghost. ”

What kind of fucking psychic hotline did Skeletor make you call?

“Who’s Ghost?” you ask. 

“The man yer with, fuckssake… Ghost’s the only one who has access to this channel.” The voice sounds frustrated.

Ghost.

No fucking way he’s called that.

“So, are ya with him or not? ‘Cause I need to know—”

“Yes, yes I am with him.” Sure. You're travelling with Ghost and a dead man's ashes. How fitting.

“Is he hurt?”

“I don’t think so.”

The man on the other end sighs and huffs. He sounds like he’s losing his mind.

“Aye, if he’s with ya… Why isnae he speakin’?”

Oh shit. How to explain that…

“He can’t. There’s like a… like a dog collar on him. It picks up on his voice. Or if his throat moves, or something. And it… explodes. ”

The man pauses. You can practically sense the worry and anger and all kinds of difficult emotions through the static.

“Can ya do somethin’ about it? I could walk you through—”

Skelet— Ghost waves his hand furiously. He doesn’t want you or anyone touching it.

“I don’t think so,” you say. “I’d say I lack the skills to do that.”

Poor bastard. Both, actually. The man on the line is clearly worried about Ske— Ghost, goddamnit.

“I think he wants to go… Home, ” you say, trying not to further upset anyone. “I can give you the coordinates so you can come pick him up.”

“Yer close enough, since the radio picked ya up. Search and rescue first thing in the morning, we’ll get you here an—”

“Whoa, not, uh… I’m not coming. I’m just here to help him get back to you guys. I have somewhere else to be.”

A hop and a skip. You could be on your way.

“Aye. We’ll pick him up then.”

“Copy that.”

You’re about to put down the radio when he speaks again.

“What d’ya call him if not Ghost?”

“I’ve been calling him Skeletor. ”

“... To his face? ”

“No. He looks like he would skin me alive if I did.”

A weak laugh crackles through. “Aye. Sounds ‘bout right.”

The radio runs out of battery after a quick thank you-goodbye, leaving you in silence with a man who now has a proper name. Well, not a name. It’s his callsign. A little silly one, but not the worst you’ve heard.

Your plan has derailed like the handcar in the Chunnel. It’s already getting dark outside. You might as well camp here for the night and be on your way before Sk—fuck—Ghost’s buddies come pick him up in the morning.

The instant noodles smell amazing.

At least amazing enough to cover the foul stench of the stagnant basement water on your clothes.

The expiration date wasn’t too long ago , if you don’t look too hard, and the smell of spices almost makes you drool. Finally, something with actual flavour in it.

Two packs out of the three are simmering over the fire you made. Ghost helped you break down the desk for firewood. He’s not acting any differently from before.

“Excited to get back?” you try to start a conversation. You’re leaving soon anyway, so why not?

He doesn’t react. He stares at the fire and the noodles like you’re not even there.

“I should charge you. For the food and stuff. You eat like a horse. On steroids.”

No reaction whatsoever.

You pour the loose interpretation of noodle soup into two bowls.

“That’ll be nineteen fifty, ” you mutter. “Or your firstborn son. It’s a tough economy.”

As he grabs the bowl, you notice that his right ring finger is bent at an unnatural angle. It’s black and blue and looks painful.

“How did that happen?” You raise an eyebrow. The handcar. He hurt himself lifting it—you have to hand it to him for keeping perfectly still and quiet despite the pain.

He puts the bowl down.

“Can I…?” You reach for his hand. He pulls back.

He’s like a skittish cat.

“Let me see,” you demand. “It’ll get worse if you keep ignoring it.”

You reach out for his hand again. He reluctantly lets you.

His hands are really big, you notice. Long fingers, lots of healed cuts and other wounds. You frown. There are cigarette burns on the back of his hand.

But it’s none of your business, so you focus on the finger that looks out of place.

“I don’t think it’s broken. Just sprained. I can tape it for you.”

You don’t stick around to wait for a nod and go grab a roll of duct tape from your bag. It’s all you’ve got, and it’s not ideal, but it should keep the finger in place.

“Get someone to check this when you get home,” you say, as you carefully wrap the tape around his ring and middle finger. “It’ll hold for the night, but the tape stretches so you’ll need to change it.”

One last round of tape for good measure.

“That good? Not too tight? I’ll do it again if it’s uncomfortable.”

You glance up and meet his eyes. He’s staring at you, intently. The gaze behind the mask isn’t hollow or vacant, like before. It’s piercing, but not hostile. Cautiously curious.

The fire casts a glow over his mask, making his eyes look amber. Dirt stains the skin around them, creased into the fine lines. Little details you haven't noticed before. 

It's probably just because you're about to part ways. You haven't formed a solid opinion on this man in the short time you've spent with him.

The red light blinks steadily under his jacket.

You feel bad every time you watch him eat. It looks so slow and difficult and he must be starving all the time. Life hasn’t been exactly easy for you, either, but not being able to eat properly or drink more than a few sips at a time…

He’s getting back to his mates tomorrow, you remind yourself. They’ll figure out how to help him.

Yet still, it fucking sucks beyond comprehension. 

He looks so goddamn tired.

You let go of his hand. The amber flame in his eyes vanishes.

“You need someone to check it,” you repeat.

Unlike before, this is a kindness. After all, you didn’t have anything to lose besides some tape and a pack of noodles.

You decide you need some company to go with your meal, so you take your backpack, the bowl and settle in the far corner of the room. There’s a broken window, and somewhere out in the darkness below lies an entire town, devoid of all life. And somewhere on the horizon is the red circle on your map.

You take Dad out the backpack and set him down next to you.

You’re not crazy. You just need someone to talk to.

“Red Hawk to Blue Sky,” you whisper. Ghost doesn’t seem to care. Good.

“Haven’t talked to you in a while. It’s been… busy. I don’t know where to start.”

The coffee tin reflects the dying flames of your campfire.

“The man I met, he’s called Ghost. He ate my peaches, so, yeah. A little salty about that. And he eats so much, I’ve run out of food. But it’s fine because—I’m almost there, Dad. I’m almost at the place you wanted me to go.”

You sip the noodles from your bowl. The artificial chicken tastes like fucking five-star meal. 

“Man, these are good— where was I? Right. I’m in England now. We’re both here. And he’s getting back to his pals and I’m going alone. Or, I guess I’ve got you, so not alone. Y’know?”

Dad is the foundation under your feet.

“I hope there are people where I’m going. I know you’re against it, and I’ve learned my lesson after the Caravan, but I think I’m ready to not be alone anymore. It’s so hard sometimes. Did you really want that for me?”

You finish your dinner and sigh. So good, but gone so soon.

“Sorry Dad. I’m tired. I know you meant well. I just wish I didn’t have to be by myself.”

The coffee tin offers no closure. Still, you smile.

“Time for you to go back,” you say and put the tin away. “Red Hawk out.”

The footsteps approaching in the night don’t wake you, and neither does the cold blade pressed against your neck. What jolts you awake is a pained screech, a voice you don’t recognise. You scramble on your feet, stumble in the darkness, but manage to turn on your flashlight. In the light, you see a pale, scrawny woman with a knife, struggling to fight off Ghost, who’s twice her size.

Fuck.

She must have seen the fire through the window. You should’ve been more cautious.

The intruder has something else too, and it makes your blood curdle in your veins.

Your backpack.

The woman screams like she’s possessed and swings at Ghost with what little force she has. Ghost wrestles the knife from her, and they tumble towards the broken window. She’s not a match for him. It doesn’t take long for Ghost to fling her out of the window.

“NO!” you shout and dash after her without thinking. Ghost grabs you by the shoulder at the last minute. You manage to get a hold of the backpack, but the woman is still hanging on it, screaming unintelligible words at you. She’s dragging you down with her, but you’re not giving up. She’s not taking the backpack, she’s not taking Dad.

Dad’s not going anywhere.

Dad’s not—

Ghost yanks you back and now you’re fighting against him, the woman and gravity and all three are kicking your ass. The woman starts to climb back up, using the backpack like a fucking rope.

She’s nimble, and running on pure insanity. She screams and laughs like she’s mocking you, but you won’t let go. You can’t let go.

And you don’t have to. 

Because Ghost makes the decision for you.

He leans down and, with one swift move, cuts the strap you’re holding.

You watch as the screaming intruder, everything you own, and Dad fall into the dark. It’s so far below, you can barely hear the thud when they hit the ground.

Ghost pulls you back inside.

Without thinking, you turn and aim your fist at his face.

He stops it, mid-air.

The adrenaline in your body tells you to try again—to punch him square in the jaw, never mind the consequences.

But it’s not his fault. You know it’s not. He chose the only option that didn’t involve you falling out of the window with the backpack and the woman who now lies somewhere in the street, dead or dying.

And still… Dad. Everything you had left of him.

You could still make it down there, find the backpack, the letter, the maps, the coffee tin—before the noise attracts more scavengers.

You’re at an impasse. His hand grips your fist and you push against it. You can’t see his eyes in the dark, but he’s close enough for you to feel his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

He’s trying to keep himself in check.

“Let me—” you grunt, and he drops your fist. You grab your flashlight from the floor and rush to the stairwell. There’s still time. You can make it—

“DROP THE WEAPON!”

Two armed soldiers with rifles aimed at your head stand in the doorway.

“We found stragglers,” one of them says into his radio.

“Bring them over for questioning,” a voice replies.

Chapter Text

“Keep movin’. We ain’t got time for sightseeing.”

One of the soldiers nudges you forward with the butt of his rifle. It’s unnecessary. You’re keeping up with the others just fine.

Bastard. He just wants to show he’s in charge, you think, so you pick up the pace for theatrics.

They tied your hands behind your back with a zip tie. It’s too tight, already cutting off circulation. You look over at Ghost, who’s walking beside you, with his hands tied like yours.

He didn’t put up a fight like he had with the raiders.

Because, unlike raiders, these two are trained professionals. And from what you’ve gathered, he’s not stupid. Ghost might be tall, strong, and fast, but these soldiers have guns, ammo, and backup. All he has is the collar that might go off if a fight breaks out.

So, the best strategy is to comply, for now.

The soldiers don’t talk to you. They barely talk to each other. They’re not giving out any information, even on accident. Another telltale sign these two aren’t fucking around.

But they seem nervous. There’s a hint of hesitation in their voices when they order you around. They’re not holding their rifles with the confidence of seasoned veterans. No, these guys are green. They’re new recruits, probably out scouting for the first time. It could work to your advantage. Or it might not—being new doesn’t always mean the same as being inefficient. And they still have their guns, so trying to pull any stunts would probably lead to a disaster, anyway.

You try to steal glances at their gear. No insignia you recognise, but the patterns match. The uniforms fit too well to be stolen. 

Dad would be proud of your ability to assess the situation.

Dad…

You didn’t get the backpack. Didn’t even get a chance to go after it.

And you can’t spend another second thinking about leaving it behind, or you’ll collapse. So you push the thought aside and keep walking.

The muddy road takes you through a sleepy suburb. More dead than sleepy, actually. Some streets are closed off with roadblocks. They’re remnants from the early days of the collapse, back when people still protested. Yellow tape hangs from a bent stop sign. The police tried to protect the middle class from the angry masses.

They failed, and the middle class fell with the poor and the angry.

“Quit lagging behind!” A rifle taps between your shoulder blades, and you take a stumbling step forward. Mud squelches beneath your boots that are soaked through. You’re cold. The wind bites through layers of clothing, and the adrenaline is wearing off.

Where the hell are they taking you? 

You’ve been walking for at least an hour. Everywhere looks the same, and without the map you can’t figure out exactly where you’re going. Northeast, judging by the sun that’s barely above the horizon. But how far north?

Close enough to reach the red circle on the map? The one that’s now lying in the mud, miles behind?

You could have made it by now. You could have kept walking. But you chose to stay and help Ghost. That decision came back to bite you in the ass—now you have no map, no backpack, no destination, and no Dad. The man in the skull mask that silently marches by your side has cost you everything so far, whether he meant it or not.

It’s hard not to feel a little resentful.

“Little Switzerland” reads a sign as you stop just outside of town. Steep hills and narrow paths as far as you can see, fading into the fog that creeps in from the sea. The waves crash to the shore somewhere below.

This place was a campsite once. Abandoned camper vans are scattered around the area. Torn up tents, broken folding chairs and other miscellaneous things that have been gutted and repurposed a long time ago.

They remind you of—

Absolutely fucking nothing worth reminiscing right now.

The soldier that jabbed you with his rifle opens the door to a camper. 

So they have an outpost here. Or a stash. Or something.

He disappears, then comes back with a duffel bag and a container of yellow-brown liquid. The paint-thinner stink tells you it’s petrol. Gone bad a long time ago.

They have a vehicle.

Which means they’re going to take you even further away from Folkestone.

So, unless you make a run for it soon, you’ll lose any chance of getting your things back and reaching that red circle on the map. 

Ghost is standing by the camper, staring out at the sea. Or spacing out. You don’t know. A flicker of anger flashes through you. Why is he so… passive? The soldiers seem occupied, so if he was going to take advantage of the situation, now would be the time. But he doesn’t seem to care. There’s no way for you to communicate to him that it’s crucial you both bolt right fucking now.

You should just leave. Escape. Take your chances out on the road on your own.

You should have left yesterday.

You back off a step. The soldiers don’t seem to notice. Another step, and they’re still clueless, trying to figure something out amongst themselves. Third, fourth, fifth—

A twig snaps under your boot, and you stop, holding your breath. The soldiers stay preoccupied.

But Ghost turns around. You lock eyes across the patch of dead grass.

He knows what you’re about to do.

You swallow and jerk your head to the side.

Ghost shakes his head, slowly.

No.

No?

What the actual fuck—

“Keep up,” the rifle-poking soldier says. “We’re movin’ downhill from here.”

There goes your chance.

And the vehicle turns out to be something other than what you were expecting. Down by the shore, hidden away between the rocks, lies a boat. And the rifle pointing at your neck makes it clear that you’re getting on that. 

The further along the soldiers take you, the sloppier they seem to get. Holy shit. They really are new to this.

Maybe there’s a way to reach them. Maybe.

The engine roars to life. It drowns out everything else, but you try anyway.

“Wher—”

One of them cuts you off “No talkin’. You’ll be questioned when we get to the Wa—”

“Gone soft in the head, mate?” the other one nudges him. “No names, no coordinates, no information they could use against us, you bloody twat. ”

Apparently, there’s no talking your way out of this situation. Defeated, you watch as the cliffs of Folkestone disappear.

You’re not getting Dad back.

It’s fucking massive up close.

You’ve seen a few warships before, but since Dad had a little to do with the Navy, you can barely tell a tanker apart from an aircraft carrier. It’s a little unsettling to drift beside the large vessel with the teeny tiny boat.

“We're bringing in stragglers,” your captors inform their squad. “Toss us a ladder, sir?”

“Affirmative. Send them up first.”

The ladder is slippery and the way up is long. Climbing isn’t usually a problem, but you’re cold, exhausted and half-jokingly entertain the thought of hurling yourself down into the murky water. It wouldn’t solve any of your problems, but how much worse could it be?

Onboard, you’re greeted with a team of soldiers decked in similar gear with the two that captured you. Some of them have patches indicating ranks and units. You squint, trying to remember if you’ve seen the words “Who Dares, Wins” before. It’s Special Forces, that’s for sure.

An officer approaches you and Ghost. The soldiers that captured you salute him and he nods. 

“Caught these two trying to make a run for it,” one says. 

Liar, you think. Neither of you tried to run. Or resist.

“One of them is dead. They got into it over something, and the big one killed her. Nasty fuckers.”

None of that happened!

The officer barely acknowledges their report. His eyes dart between you and Ghost, who stands still like a statue. But his eyes are on fire and he’s clenching his fists behind his back.

Something’s not right with him. You’ve spent enough time trying to decipher his body language to notice.

“And have they shown aggression during transport?” The officer asks.

“No, sir—”

“Any resistance while being arrested?”

“No, sir, but—”

“So there’s a chance you haven’t caught the actual stragglers, but civilians instead?”

You can almost hear their faces drop. Finally, you’ve found someone with more than three brain cells.

“Cut the zip ties, for God’s sake, before their hands fall off,” the officer grumbles. “ID them, see if we can spare any supplies and send them off.” He turns to the two soldiers that look like schoolboys being scolded. “I’ll deal with you muppets later.”

Your hands sting as blood rushes back into your fingers with a vengeance.

The soldiers on the deck are staring at you and Ghost.

No, they’re only staring at him.

“That bloke looks like….” One of them narrows his eyes.

“No he doesn’t. Too skinny. ‘Sides, he’s dead. Been for months. Anyone could’ve nicked his mask.”

“Not dead. Jus’ MIA. Heard they’re sending someone after him again.”

“Disappeared, dead, it’s the same now, innit?”

What are they saying…?

Shit.

The pieces fall into place in your head. It all makes sense now.

It’s the reason Ghost was so calm when they caught you—why he didn’t resist, fight, or cause any disruption along the way.

And why he shook his head and told you not to go.

He knows who these people are.

But they don’t realise who he is.

“Ghost!” You blurt out the word. Every pair of eyes turns to you. “He’s called Ghost. He’s—he’s with you, isn’t he?”

The silence is deafening.

Ghost’s fists unfurl.

“We’ll need some proof of—” the officer starts, but before he can finish Ghost removes his dog tags and tosses them at him. “Right, let’s see…” He stares at the tags, then at Ghost.

Then the tags again.

The Ghost, again.

Then you.

Then his soldiers.

And Ghost, once more.

“Jesus Christ. How…?” He blinks and clears his throat. “Never in a million years… Shit. Welcome back, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant?

The officer goes in for a handshake, but Ghost retreats a step. He unzips his jacket, revealing the blinking red light. The officer’s eyes go wide with shock. “What the hell is that?”

You don’t miss the side-glance from Ghost. It’s not the first time he’s communicated with you through his eyes.

Consider the hint taken, buddy.

“It’s an explosive collar, ” you say, as calmly as you can muster. But the message is enough to further escalate the tense situation. The soldiers reach for their weapons, aiming at Ghost.

Oh, fuck. A trigger-happy bunch. Your palms start sweating.

You have nothing but respect for his ability to stay calm at gunpoint.

The officer backs off, raising his hands. “Stand down,” he barks at the men. “Sir,” he nods at Ghost. He’s calm, but there’s an urgency in his voice.

And shit, Ghost outranks him, too.

“We’ll deal with this immediately. A team will be assembled—”

Ghost snatches a pen from the officer’s pocket and writes something down on his hand. The officer swallows. “Right, of course, sir. Somebody get Sergeant MacTavish!” He orders.

The team of soldiers dissolves, all but one carrying a clunky-looking laptop and a fingerprint scanner. She gestures for you to come over.

“Do you have any form of ID on you?” She asks.

“… No?” you reply. You couldn’t think of a situation that would require it anymore. “Why?”

“We keep tabs on civilians in the area.”

“… Why?”

“That’s classified.” She powers up the scanner. “Place one finger at a time on the pad, starting with your right thumb.”

“Wh—”

“Just cooperate,” she sighs, “It's not for nefarious purposes or anything. We just keep track of folks that come through here, alright? The sooner this gets done, the sooner you’re out of here.”

Back to Folkestone.

Back on track. 

You look around to see Ghost, but he’s gone. Vanished. Like he was never there to begin with.

So he’s not even going to say goodbye? Is this what he was planning for all along? He needed someone to speak for him, and you did just that. And now he doesn’t need you anymore.

He was using you.

He was just using you. And you let him do that.

You lost everything because of it: your backpack, your way, the can of peaches he did not deserve.

Dad.

Everything.

So long, then, asshole.

See ya never. For real this time.

“Okay.” You press your thumb on the scanner. It whirs.

“It takes a while to add new prints to our database,” the woman says. “At least six minutes per fing—”

The scanner beeps. The laptop flashes a notification.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “There’s a match. ”

There’s a what?

The woman shrugs. “Your fingerprints are listed in the SAS database.”

Your fucking what are where and… huh?

“There’s no way that’s right.”

“That’s what it says in here. I’m afraid I can’t let you go, Ma’am.”

Maybe you did fall from the ladder and are currently floating in the freezing water, hallucinating. Or maybe you fell from the window back in Folkestone and hit your head. Or maybe you’re just dead and the afterlife is a confusing mess.

Because there’s no way in hell your fingerprints could be found in the British Army Special Forces database. You scarcely registered them anywhere when it was a thing. You didn’t trust the technology that required you to give up something so personal in exchange for access.

And you can swear on your life that you have never ever enlisted in an army of any country. Having one family member going on deployments was enough.

Besides, you never expressed interest in anything remotely like that.

But there it is: your name. Your full name, listed under the operators section.

It must be an accident. You don’t belong here and you don’t want to belong here. You need to get back to Folkestone and put this whole miserable shit circus behind you.

“There’s no medical record, so we need to run some tests,” a friendly medic explains. You barely register his words. You’re spiralling.

“Do you… need a minute?” Thank fuck he clocks your distress. You cough a faint yes and he takes you into an empty room.

“Take as long as you need,” he says. “There’s a wee bathroom on the back if you need to go. Just take this cup with you and bring it back to me, yeah? And we’ll need to take some blood, too.”

“Sure…”

And he leaves you to sit in the room that’s cleaner than anything you’ve seen in a long, long time. You’re so used to everything being covered in dust, sand, dirt and disgusting shit it takes you a while to realise that this time, you’re the filthiest thing in this place.

A clock ticks on the wall. It’s almost ten. You spot a sheet of paper next to it labeled 'April,' with tally marks below it. A calendar. They’re keeping track of time, whereas you’ve mostly relied on guesswork.

There’s a stack of boxes on a table. Rapid tests for infections.

Using a bathroom sounds like a fucking joke. When was the last time…?

But they have them here. Actual bathrooms.

They probably have showers, too.

And beds.

And food…

The shock, strain, and stress catch up with you at once. You can’t feel your legs and your head is throbbing. It’s too much. All of this, too much. The room shrinks, it’s suffocating, you’re suffocating, you’re—

The darkness swallows you whole.

“Ma’am?”

A concerned voice cuts through it.

“Ma’am?”

You wish they’d stop calling you that.

The voice sounds distorted through the ringing in your ears. You’re lying on an examination table.

“How—wha—”

“Keeled over there for a bit,” the medic says. “I'm sorry, I shouldn’t’ve left you alone like that. It’s been a while since I’ve treated someone coming from the outside. Should’ve figured you’re just as shell-shocked as the rest of ‘em.”

The fluorescent light hurts your eyes. You’ve lived off-grid for so long, you can almost hear the electricity buzzing in different devices around you. 

“What is this place?” you ask in a voice that isn’t yours. It’s thin and shaky.

“Aye, She’s a ship,” the medic chuckles. “The Wave Knight, a Wave class fast fleet tanker of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary. Or just Wave Knight—don’t s’pose the rest of it matters anymore.”

“A ship,” you repeat. “Figured, since… there’s… water.”

The medic belly-laughs. “You’re a comedian, eh? Besides a ship, it’s what’s left of the Special Air Service after the Army was disbanded. Then, there are others such as meself. Used to be in the Navy.”

His casualness feels strange to you, but not off-putting. You’re just not used to it. People you’ve come across recently haven’t been sociable like that. One prime example just arrived with you.

“Can’t tell you much about what happens outside of this clinic, ‘m afraid,” he continues. “I have my plate full o’ runnin' things in here.”

You’ve heard rumours, but always thought they were just that— rumours. Stories of rogue military units operating on their own, looking out for the thinning herd of people trying to survive. Staying hidden. Fighting the private armies of the Oligarchs. It sounded too much like a plot for an action movie, so you didn’t buy into it. If something sounds too fantastical to be true, it usually is. 

And now you’re on a ship of the very unit you brushed off as nonexistent, your fingerprints and your name in their database and…

You start to feel woozy again. The medic hands you a paper cup with water in it.

“You’re severely dehydrated.” His brow furrows. “And I’d say you’re suffering from more than a few vitamin deficiencies. I’d like to take the samples now, if that’s alright with you?”

The rapid tests come out clean. After the medic has declared you not the worst case of malnutrition he’s ever seen, but definitely something to be concerned about, you leave the clinic.

There’s a soldier outside waiting for you. You can’t be trusted to wander around the ship by yourself.

You follow him through the cramped passageways, past the compartments you can’t name and people going about their business with such ease, it feels like a fever dream. Like they’re not constantly alert, in danger, on the lookout. Your senses are stuck in a hypervigilant overdrive, because that’s what kept you alive.

All these people here are acting like it’s just another Tuesday. They’re all talking, laughing, bickering with each other. Hanging out without a care in the world.

It feels surreal.

And it makes you jealous.

But it’s not going to last. It never lasts.

All it takes is someone to start coughing a bit, and within months, the Wave Knight will turn into the Flying Dutchman. A ghost ship.

Speaking of— where’s Ghost?

No, you don’t care about that.

Yeah. Fuck that guy, you think, bitterly.

It doesn’t serve a purpose to try to seek closure—out of sight, out of mind.

Instead, you should focus on getting out of here as fast as possible. If they’re kind enough to hand out some supplies, you’d be good for at least a few days. They seem to have plenty to go around—you saw someone eating peanuts. As a snack, not a full meal.

The soldier stops by a door leading to the command centre.

“Captain wants a word with you.”

You nod. It shouldn't take much to convince the ship's captain you really don’t belong here. All you need is anything they can spare and a ride on one of their boats Then you'd be out of their hair for good.

The soldier who accompanied you opens the door, and whoever it was you were expecting to see, it sure as shit wasn’t—

“John Price,” a familiar-looking person sitting behind a desk, introduces himself. 

It’s the man from the photo Dad left you.

“Take a seat, please. We have a lot to discuss.”

Chapter Text

“If ya keep wrigglin’ like that, I’m gonna leave it as is.”

Ghost closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. Not too deep, not too shallow. In and out. Steady.

“How’d ya end up with it, anyway?”

Soap’s fingers are gently tugging at the collar around his neck. An assortment of tools lies scattered on a table next to the bunk they’re sitting on.

It’s been so long since he’s sat in this cabin.

It looks just like it did when he left.

There were times Ghost had made peace with the fact he’d never see it again. That he’d never see Johnny again. Or anyone, for that matter. And because he had accepted his fate, returning to Wave Knight and seeing his Sergeant almost lunge at him for a hug didn’t make the relief ripple through him like it should’ve.

He was numb.

Like he was present, but wasn’t.

And yet, here he is now, sitting on the edge of the bunk, fingers curling into the mattress, while Johnny carefully examines the device emitting a red blinking light.

The countless fucking times he had considered poking his eyes out so he wouldn’t have to see it from the corner of his eye.

It’s so close to coming off now. He needs to focus.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Johnny picks up pliers and makes a small notch on the collar. Ghost’s heart rate spikes.

Nothing happens.

Nothing will happen.

Soap knows what he’s doing. Sure, he acts like he’s… insufferably dense, at times, but Ghost knows there’s more to it. He wouldn’t trust anyone else near that collar. Or near himself.

“Ya reek,” Johnny huffs, so close to his neck he can feel it. “Been rollin’ in shite all these months?" The pliers clamp down on the collar. The notch becomes a cut. “Can’t bypass the mechanism on that thing…” He points at the device attached to it. “But I think I can get around it. Cut ya loose, eh? How does that sound?”

He keeps talking, knowing full well Ghost can’t answer. But that’s not what Johnny is after—he’s trying his best to keep the situation calm.Trying to make it feel like just another day on the job, and not something that might blow up in their faces. Literally.

The pliers inch up the thick material of the collar. It’s painfully slow, and each snip sounds like a mockery in Ghost’s ears. It could still go wrong. Horribly wrong.

Snip.

This cut didn’t kill him. Maybe the next one will.

Snip.

Johnny knows what he’s doing.

Snip.

He’s going to die, they’re both going to die, this was a stupid plan—

“Done.”

Done?

The weight that has been pressing on his throat disappears. It’s only now he realises how tight the collar has been this whole time. Not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind him that any cough, sneeze, or yelp could be his last.

Tight enough to keep him under control.

“Aye, done,” Soap repeats. “Welcome back, L.t.”

Ghost swallows. He feels hot, then cold, then hot again. Itching. He can feel the air on the skin of his neck. He opens his mouth, but after months of silence, the words die on their way out.

“That’s an intricate little gadget,” Johnny says, examining the collar. “There’s a pressure plate right here.” He points at the back of the device. The red light is still blinking. “And a microphone on top. Someone really wanted ya to clam up."

The joke goes unappreciated.

Ghost runs his fingers up and down his neck, like he’s making sure there’s nothing wrapped around it. A rash has formed where the collar was digging into the skin.

It’s gone.

“I can detonate it for ya,” Soap says quietly, reaching out to squeeze his arm. Ghost flinches at the touch. “Rest easy now. Yer safe.”

No, he’s not. Not yet.

Ghost shakes his head and grabs the collar. His tired, weary eyes meet the Sergeant’s, who merely nods. He knows Ghost needs to do this himself.

“The wind’s blowin’ from the west,” he says. “Be careful, aye?”

The taste of copper flooded his mouth.

Blood.

His own?

Ghost rolled his tongue around. It felt strange, thick and heavy, but at least he still had all his teeth.

He tried to open his mouth. His jaw barely moved. His face, his neck, all felt like they had been cast in concrete. Stuck.

He was stuck.

Paralysed? Did he break his neck? Had he fallen?

Liquid dribbled from his nose and down his face. His nose was bleeding. He inhaled deep, and that did nothing except hurt. 

His nose was broken.

Ghost tried to look around. There wasn’t much to look at in the dark, damp… wherever the hell he was. He heard thumping, irregular and distant, through the wall—but couldn’t place the sound.

He closed his eyes. Everything was either numb or hurting. He tried to retrace his steps—he’d left for a supply run earlier. Alone, which wasn’t unusual. He, like countless others with enough experience, was sent out solo all the time.

He was looking for electronics to scrap for parts. Transistors. Circuits. Johnny had given him a list—like he was going to a shop down the street.

“Come back without a spark plug and I’ll turn yer cabin into a mine field,” his Sergeant had said. Ghost had punched his arm.

Had he found a spark plug? Did he find anything he was looking for? If they were in his bag, he couldn’t reach for it to check.

The thumping on the other side of the wall stopped. What the hell was that?

Ghost refocused his wandering thoughts. Components. He had been looking for components for Johnny, and had broken into an abandoned department store. It was empty—the looters got there way before him. But he decided to take a look anyway and headed up to the electronics section. Like the rest of the store, it had been looted clean. No spark plug for Johnny.

So, Ghost had left, empty-handed. He was outside, about to call in to let the others know he was returning to the ship, when—

He had heard something. It was a faint noise, but he had heard it enough times to know what it was.

A silenced pistol going off, not far from where he was standing.

Ghost pocketed the radio. The call could wait. He retreated back into the building, crouched beside a wall, and… Footsteps? Yeah. He had definitely heard footsteps. And another quiet tschk of a silenced pistol, and after that—

And after that…

Nothing.

Nothing, until he tasted the copper in his mouth and found out he couldn’t move.

He had been ambushed.

The thumping was back, but there was something more to it this time. Something… organic, human. With each thump, a little cry followed, then silence, then another thump, another whimper. More sounds and voices joined it. Thuds, cracks, cries. Like a gospel choir from Hell.

The place he’d been brought to wasn’t just a hideout for a few marauders. It was an actual prison. 

He was a prisoner.

The field manual had detailed instructions for when a soldier became a prisoner of war. There used to be laws regarding their treatment, regulations written in the Geneva Conventions. But none of that mattered anymore. And this wasn’t a war, this was a sick and twisted free-for-all. A world-wide Battle Royale.

Imprisonment was child’s play. Ghost had gone through worse. Not that he could remember when, or how much worse, exactly, but surely there was a time—

A loud clanking of metal derailed his train of thought.

Behind him, a door creaked open, followed by loud footsteps dragging across the floor. Whoever had come in, struggled for a minute, then flicked on a flashlight, shining it directly into Ghost’s swollen eyes. After a few painful blinks, his eyes finally focused enough for him to see.

His own mask was staring back at him.

That bastard fuckin’ took it.

His face had been too numb, and he hadn’t noticed something was missing.

“You made this yourself?” The scrawny, scarred, and poorly tattooed man mocked. “Always fancied me some accessories.” The man adjusted the mask on his face and laughed. “You and your friends make these together?” Ghost didn’t answer. Even if none of the other rules in the book mattered, staying silent still gave him the upper hand. He wouldn’t give this stupid waste of oxygen the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him.

“I asked you a question,” the scrawny sack of shit barked. Ghost ignored him. “You fuckin’ mute or somethin’?”

The man seemed easily agitated and not too bright. He was a raider—that much was clear. The prison was run by raiders.

Great.

Sound as a fuckin’ pound.

Still, this wasn’t the worst situation Ghost had faced. He could outsmart a gang of drugged-up idiots. Clever people learned to adapt and survive. Clever people didn’t become raiders.

Ghost just had to wait for one of them to mess up. Luckily for him, waiting was something he excelled at. Most of his career had been just that: waiting. Waiting in hangars to be shipped thousands of miles away into nowhere. Waiting for a target to walk straight into his sights. Waiting for an enemy convoy to pass through the desert, lying behind rocks, knees aching, sand filling his eyes and nose.

He was nothing if not patient.

But the scrawny little shit wasn’t. A sharp jab landed on Ghost’s jaw—then another, and another. His face wasn’t numb anymore. The punches were weak, but they made his already sore face hurt like hell.

Still, he stayed silent.

Eventually, the man stopped his half-arsed attempt at an assault. He was sweating, shaking, and pissed.

“We’ll try this again tomorrow,” the man said, and marched out of the cell.

Go ahead, Ghost thought. I can take a few days of beatin’ from this sorry lot.

And he did. He took a few days of beating.

The next day, a different guy came. Bigger and stronger. He asked questions, and when Ghost didn’t give him answers, he picked up where the last one left off. And Ghost took the punches, unflinching,

There was another beating the next day. 

And the day after. 

And the one after that. 

They blended into a routine.

I can take a few days of beatin’.

The days turned into weeks.

Grunts came and went.

He took every hit, every kick, without a sound coming out of his mouth.

He started counting the blows.

One hit. Two kicks. A second hit? No— third. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

Weeks turned into months.

Ghost gave the raiders nothing.

Neither did he join the wailing choir of other prisoners in the surrounding cells.

He was barely conscious during the rounds of interrogation. The words his captors spoke had stopped making sense in his ears. There wasn’t a method to the madness. No rhyme or reason, other than to keep him alive enough to go through another day of senseless beatings. What were they getting out of it? They could have finished the job whenever they wanted.

Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. 

That was barely a jab, doesn’t count.

Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

Johnny will never get the components.

Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

Did they come looking for him?

Twenty-five. Twenty-six.

Did his team go after him?

Twenty-seven.

Twenty eight

Did Johnny come looking f—

A kick in the head put an end to that thought.

“What have you done to him?”

A sharp, commanding voice cut through his haze. Fuckin’ hell. He’d been sure that last kick would finally let him sleep. Forever, ideally. He had endured the beating from the sorry lot far more than he had anticipated.

He wasn’t in his cell. He had been locked in that filthy room for so long, he could feel the difference with his eyes closed. The place smelled like disinfectant. Not blood, not dirt, not whatever the fuck had been smeared on the walls of that bloody cage.

“‘M sorry, Mistress,” another voice replied. “The lads got a little… excited. There was a bet going for who’d crack him first.”

“I can fucking see that! Did you literally try to crack his skull open?”

“Mistress—”

“ Fuck off. You and your useless, spineless, worthless bunch of junkies.”

“But—”

“Get the fuck out of here. NOW! ”

A door slammed. Ghost had tried to follow the conversation, but his head was pounding and his throat felt dry and tight. He was groggy, groggier than usual. And nauseous. It was a different kind of nausea than he’d get post-beating.

He managed to open his eyes. Everything was blurry, the lights were too bright and the room was spinning.

He had been drugged. 

A gang of raiders wouldn’t have the mental capability to do this, not even with all their brain cells combined. It was too elaborate. Too planned. He squinted, trying to make sense of his surroundings, when a sickly sweet voice greeted him.

“You’re awake! Oh, that’s so great, you don’t even know…”

A woman leaned so close to his face he flinched. That was something weeks of beating didn’t manage to get him to do. 

She looked unreal.

She looked like someone had picked one of those rich mums out of a reality show and accidentally placed her in charge of a battalion of raiders. She was all dolled up, wearing pristine clothes and —perfume? Something fruity and… repulsive. No wonder the raider had called her Mistress.

“I told the boys to soften you up,” she said, forming a practised, exaggerated frown. “I should have known they’d take it too far. Poor feller.”

She reached to fluff his hair, like she was petting a dog.

A simple gesture, yet it made him sicker than being kicked in the stomach. This place wasn’t a prison run by raiders. 

It was something else.

Something worse.

Few things in his life had been as unnerving as someone smiling at him and acting excited while he was drugged and tied down.

He tried to swallow, but his throat felt tight and dry.

For the first time in months, he opened his mouth to speak. To say… anything, really. He needed to know what the fuck was happening. But the woman, still smiling, shushed him immediately. “Uh-oh, that’s not… I wouldn’t if I were you.”

She turned around, rummaging through a cabinet behind her. “Where did I… Shit! Oh, there it is.”

She grinned like she had just found a winning lottery ticket.

“Here you go,” she gleefully announced, holding a mirror up to Ghost’s face

The man staring back at him was bruised and blue. Beaten. Broken.

“Do you like it?” the woman asked. “It’s a bit tight, but you’ll get used to it.”

Ghost’s weary, blurry gaze fell to his neck.

Around his neck was a dog collar. In the centre of it, pressing against his throat was a black box with a blinking red light.

The woman’s horrid smile had turned into a smug smirk.

“I think it looks mighty fine on you,” she said. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“I think you’ll make a very good pet.”

The high wind blows from the west, but he barely feels it.

The rain pelts down hard, making the deck slippery, but he doesn’t notice. Waves crash against the Wave Knight, making her sway and bob, back and forth.

The whole world could drown in the grey depths and he wouldn’t give two shits about it. It wouldn’t solve any of his problems, but how much worse could it be?

His throat is burning.

Itching.

Like there’s something trying to claw its way out after being held down for so long. But he doesn’t let it surface, not yet. He has waited for months. What’s a few more minutes?

The taffrail feels cold under his left hand. Cold, metallic, tangible. Something to hold on to in the storm. In his right hand, he holds the collar.

The red light still blinks, like it’s mocking him. He sees it through his eyelids whenever he tries to sleep. He sees it in every reflection of himself. He sees it when he’s not looking and he’ll keep seeing it for the rest of his life.

The collar is off, but he’s not safe.

Another wave hits the hull as the ship lists.

He stands there, waiting. Another wave rolls by. And another. With the patience of a monk, he waits.

That thing in his throat digs its claws into his vocal cords, demanding to be released.

“Be careful,” Johnny said.

His Sergeant should have a little more faith in his throwing arm.

He rolls the collar up into a ball, a makeshift grenade, careful not to push on the pressure plate. His hand is shaking, but he wills it steady.

The collar is off, but he isn’t free.

Then, in one swift motion, he throws it into the wind.

The collar flies fast and far, until it hits the surface of the water. A muffled explosion sends  ripples across the surface and shoots a pillar of water into the sky. 

That’s all.

A broken, painful scream forces its way out of his throat.

The explosion isn’t enough to spark the interest of anyone on the ship. A radar picks it up, but no one’s panicking. It could have been a dud naval mine, a small container of chemicals floating in the water, anything. His moment of catharsis didn’t blow out of proportion.

Everything is as it’s always been. Like he was never gone.

People are retreating into their cabins; it’s late. They’re talking, laughing, someone’s playing music. It’s all so normal, so very mundane. He was never really a part of that. He kept to himself most of the time. His team was what mattered. Everyone else was insignificant. 

It feels a little arrogant in hindsight.

Did they notice he was gone? Did they care?

Does he?

Johnny cares. Too much, always. The way he ran up to Ghost when he saw him, like a long-lost brother returning from war. And Ghost’s head was too far up his own arse to see it. All he could think about was getting the collar off.

It’s off. He’s safe.

And he should really say something to his Sergeant.

Soap’s cabin is across the hall from his. At least, it had been when Ghost went missing. A crude drawing of a Scottish flag on the door implies the inhabitant hasn’t changed.

He doesn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to strike up a conversation before, and now it feels borderline impossible.

Thank you would be a good start. 

His throat isn’t itching any more, but he’s not sure how his voice will hold up.

Enough with the bloody stallin’. Ghost knocks on the door once, twice. Nothing happens. He knocks again. A soft pitter-patter of light feet approaches, and the door opens.

What the hell?

You.

What the bloody fuck are you doing in here?

Why are you in Johnny’s cabin, and more importantly, why are you on the fucking ship?

You’re standing in the doorway, baffled . You look different from before. Your face is a different colour. So is your hair—clean and not covered in grime. 

Your hand grips the doorframe. It’s shaking. So is your arm, your whole body is shaking. Shivering. Like something happened just before he knocked—no, he doesn’t care about that. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be on your way to… wherever.

Not here, not on this ship. You don’t belong.

His shock turns into anger, and so does your bewilderment. You hold his gaze, your brow furrowing in sheer judgement.

“The fuck do you want?” You hiss through your teeth.

With a voice as raw as an open wound, he spits out a single word.

“Nothing.”

Chapter Text

The ship tilts and you struggle to sit on the chair offered to you. You grip the edge of Captain Price’s desk to steady yourself. A myriad of questions floods your mind, but nothing comes out. You open and close your mouth like a fish, staring at Price, his desk, your hands and Price again.

All the answers are within your reach, yet your brain doesn’t seem to know what to ask.

Price graciously picks up on your struggle and fills the awkward void.

“You’re a spittin’ image of him, you know?” The lines around his eyes deepen as he offers you a small smile. There’s permanent weariness to his features, which makes it difficult to estimate his age.

“I thought he’d be with you,” he continues and sighs. “Since it’s just you, I’ll go ahead and assume he—”

“Passed,” you say, finally figuring out how to speak. “Multiple sclerosis. It… It progressed rapidly once it started to show.”

Dad hadn’t told you he was sick before he could no longer hide it.

Price nods. “Figured. It stayed in remission during the years when he was on active duty. I’m sorry for your loss.”

But apparently he had told Price. Years ago. What the hell, Dad?

“It was a long time ago.” You shrug dismissively, even though it hasn’t been that long and the wound still stings when you poke it.

“Still,” Price says. “He was a good man.”

“He was.”

You both fall silent. The cabin fills with the quiet noise of creaking, humming sounds of the ship like she’s a living thing. You purse your lips, trying to catch any thought, any question flitting by like a panicking bird.

“What did you mean?” you finally catch one. “You said you thought he’d be with me. Were you expecting us?”

Price straightens himself in his chair and turns to look out of the small window.

“It’s a long story,” he says. “But I guess you want to hear it.”

You nod. It’s not like you’ve got somewhere else to be anymore. So, Price tells you everything from the very beginning.

Years ago, before even an idea of you existed, he had met Dad during a joint deployment at the British Army Training Unit in Kenya. You remember Dad mentioning it once or twice—reminiscing the days he was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Lieutenant, eager to climb up the ranks. Price was a hot-headed young Private and, in his own words, a proper fuckin’ tosser. They were both assigned to guard a supply convoy headed through the jungle when it drove straight into an ambush. A group of armed smugglers was hiding in the area. 

Dad had saved Price’s life that night and the shared experience eventually led to them becoming acquainted and later, friends. Even while duty and life pulled them in different directions, they stayed in touch over the years. Price visited Dad not long after you were born, though you don’t remember that. But he does.

At some point Price became a sniper for the 22nd SAS Regiment, and later a Captain, establishing his own Task Force in the British special forces. Dad was promoted to Major General. With both their jobs now highly classified, they rarely met anymore—only spoke on the phone on occasion.

That changed when Dad retired.

He had seen the signs of the global economy shifting towards catastrophe before many of his peers. Officially, the chronic illness was his reason for the sudden retirement. Unofficially, it was that he needed time. Time to prepare himself, to prepare you for what was to come.

And to contact Price to devise a plan.

The broken radio you had tossed into the fire pit before you left Dad’s house wasn’t broken after all. Dad had meticulously put it together to stay in contact with Price on the nights you had exhausted yourself with training and gone to bed early. He took it apart right after every call.

Of course. Because Dad never kept anything for shits and giggles. Not even the Father’s Day cards with your tiny handprints—they too served a purpose. It was a way for him to have your fingerprints in the Army database, in case something happened. 

Fuckssake… He could’ve really just asked you.

Price tells you that Dad had stayed in contact with him until he could no longer properly use his hands and his speech had begun to slur. Their last radio check was the last time Price had heard from Dad.

“I recorded it, not sure why but I thought…” Price rubs the back of his neck. “Reckon, I wanted to save a sample of his voice. Somethin’ to remember him by. He sounded rough back then.” He picks up a small tape recorder and places it on the table. “Take it,” he slides the device towards you, “you can listen to it later if you want to.”

His voice.

You haven’t heard that in…

You’re not even sure if you’d recognise it.

“Sure.” You pick it up and it feels heavy— not the device, but what’s inside.

It’s quiet again. Price looks like he’s struggling to find something to say. Your eyes scan the cabin. There’s a map on the wall, marked with circles, lines and arrows.

“What are those?” You point at the map.

“These markings? The lines on the map are our supply routes. The crossed ones are no longer in use. The arrows show the route the ship takes. We move into certain locations at certain times to reach our contacts and deal with the hostiles,” Price explains.

“And the circles?” One of the circles matches with the one you had on your map.

“Hideouts with radio equipment to reach the ship, in case one of ours gets lost.”

That’s why Dad marked it with red. He wanted you to go there. The two soldiers from the ship had just happened to find you first. It had been Dad’s plan all along to get you on the ship.

But why? Just to stay safe? After all of those lessons on how you should avoid crowds? There’s something missing, something you’re not seeing. What is it?

Price doesn’t know how to answer that. Only Dad could. He’s the one who left you with this cryptic puzzle that’s slowly unravelling. So, you turn to other matters; asking Price things about the ship, the crew, the supply lines, their contacts outside the ship. Partly out of genuine curiosity—you need a clear picture of the place you’ve ended up—and partly to distract yourself from the device burning a hole in your pocket.

Dad’s voice.

Price patiently, and somewhat vaguely explains everything from the food and fuel supply to their allies and contacts, few and far between, to their chain of command. It turns out he’s just a Captain—not the Captain of the Wave Knight.

It’s safe to assume he knows Ghost, but you don’t ask about him. You’re a little curious, but not enough to bring it up. And you’re still pissed. The ship is somehow smaller on the inside and there’s no way you’d be able to avoid running into him. But for now, he isn’t worth your time or worry.

Besides, you’re still trying to wrap your head around all of this new information.

“Captain?” The door creaks open and the soldier that escorted you pops his head in. “Fuckssake, Kyle, ” Price grunts. “I get we don’t have visitors often, but knockin’ would be appreciated.”

“I’m sorry,” the soldier says, “but they’re clearing up the galley and want to know if the newcomer wants something to eat.” He’s younger than Captain and seems… kind. He has kind eyes.

“Right.” Price nods and turns to you. “This is Sergeant Kyle Garrick, but you can call him Gaz, like everyone does. Or Kyle, like I do when he’s bein’ a knobber who doesn’t know how to knock— ”

“Gaz is fine,” the soldier dismisses his superior’s jab. “And you are…?”

“She’s the daughter of Blue Sky,” Price says. Gaz’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“Shit, really? Blue Sky—as in the General?”

Apparently, Blue Sky wasn’t just a special name you called Dad. It was his actual callsign. And these people know him. Knew him. Fuck. Again, what the hell, Dad? Was nothing ever just between you and him?

“The legend himself. Her name is, uh… Well, what would you like to be called?”

Not by your name. No one has called you that in a long time so it sounds weird. Besides, no one here seems to go by their actual name, anyway. 

And certainly not Red Hawk.

“Red,” you say, offering your hand for Gaz to shake. 

“Just Red?” he asks.

“Just Red.”

“You'll find a couple of showers back there in the head,” Gaz says as you walk with him through the ship. “Should be empty by now, but most of the warm water is used up.” He sounds a little apologetic.

“I don’t mind,” you say. “I haven’t been near a real shower in months.”

Gaz shakes his head. “Don’t take this as an insult, but… I can tell.”

No shit. You must smell like a wet dog. Your clothes feel like they’re a few days away from actually fusing with your skin.

“I’ll see what I can grab from the supply department. Wait here.” He leaves you alone in the passageway. All the doors are closed and there’s no one around.

You realise you’ve talked more today than you have in a long time. You’ve had actual conversations. Nothing like the moments you tried talking to Ghost. Or the one-sided musings you used to have with a coffee tin full of Dad’s ashes. You’ve been basically talking to a wall for months.

The tape recorder ends up in your hand again. No, not yet, you remind yourself and bury it in your dirty pocket. You don’t want to turn it on by accident. You need to be alone for that—prepared, and not covered in dirt.

“A towel, some clothes, your basic hygiene products, a little past their prime but they get you clean just the same,” Gaz lists as he comes back. “You lucked out on boots. These look like they’ll fit. Just… Do me a favour and toss those overboard, yeah?”

You glance at your shoes. They’re falling apart. At this point, they’re more duct tape than shoe.

“Yeah. Consider them tossed.” You take the pile off his hands. Clean clothes, a towel and a little bag of toiletries. Used, patched up, old, but clean. You follow Gaz to the head, a little space with toilets and a couple of showers in it.
“I’ll stay outside this door,” he says. “People are decent here, but just to make sure some bloke wants to take a massive shit right n—”

“All right,” you croak. That’s a visual you didn’t need.

The door closes. You settle the clothes and other items in one of the sinks and start taking—no, peeling the crusty clothes off your body.

Goddamnit.

You were too busy focusing on staying alive to notice that your trousers are dirty enough to stand on their own. You inspect the layers as they come off and sadly see nothing worth salvaging.

They can all go overboard with the fucking boots that almost dissolve as you unlace them. The rain and the mud really did a number on everything you’re wearing.

You wonder if Ghost is just as gross as you—No, no, you don’t wonder. You don’t care. He’s probably even more gross than you.

The water isn’t cold, but not exactly warm either. But it’s running and clean and washes the layer of grime on your skin down the drain. You laugh out of pure relief as the contents of the little bag turn out to be a bar soap, a half-full bottle of shampoo, a washcloth, small scissors, and a shaving kit. Shaving hasn’t crossed your mind since… Well, it’s something that belongs to another life. But now, presented with the opportunity, you run the cheap plastic razor up and down your armpit. It feels strange, but funny and exciting. It’s not even a priority, but doing it just because feels liberating.

You rub the bar of soap over your body multiple times just for the hell of it. You had forgotten how good it feels to be clean. You’re smiling ear to ear while lathering your hair with shampoo.

A careful knock on the door signals the end of your time with running water today.

Right. Of course. You’re not alone anymore.

That’s something you have to get used to.

People.

Avoid crowds, huh, Dad? Make it make sense.

Gaz stands outside with a plastic bag. You dump your old clothes in it with a cringe. “Burn it. Burn everything. Or if you don’t carry biochemical weapons on the ship, these might work just fine.”

He chuckles. “I’ll shove these into the fuel tank and we’ll launch this ship to the Moon.”

He doesn’t just look kind. He is kind. Everyone, besides the two idiot soldiers and Ghost, has been decent—welcoming, even. They’re not looking to hustle or fuck you over and steal your things. Nobody’s plotting to stab you for a can of beans.

Is it because they knew Dad?

Is it because not everyone sucks?

“Sergeant MacTavish’s cabin.” Gaz stops by one of the doors with a Scottish flag drawn on it. “It’s yours at least for the night. He’s staying with me.”

Sergeant MacTavish. The man Ghost had asked to see when you arrived.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Gaz pushes the door open for you. “We’ll try to arrange some food for you. Meanwhile, just… relax, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The door closes.

You’re alone, again.

Relax.

When was the last time you relaxed?

It feels like a foreign concept. You sit on the bed and the unexpected softness nearly throws you off balance. A mattress, a blanket, a pillow. A fucking pillow?

The new clothes hang a bit loose, but it doesn’t matter—they’re soft, comfortable, and clean. Everything is so clean it makes you giggle.

A thought crosses your mind. You know you probably shouldn’t, but you can’t help it—you kick off your new, clean boots and climb on the bed, and jump. It’s stupid, silly, but you need it. You need an outlet. You jump on the bed and laugh until you’re out of breath and red in the face. As you finally collapse on the mattress, something drops from your pocket.

The tape recorder.

Shit, you had forgotten about that.

The excitement vanishes.

You’re alone now.

You haven’t heard his voice in so long.

You sit, stand up, then sit down again. You don’t know what to do with yourself. What if it’s too much and you faint? There should be something to support you.

After a minute of pacing around the cabin, you settle in the corner, on the floor, count to three and press play.

Are you there Dad? It’s me.

There are at least three minutes of quiet static before anything happens. It makes you feel uneasy, but you don’t want to fast forward and miss something by accident. Shit, did Price mess up the recording? He said he hasn’t listened to it yet—

“Seven—six—eleven—five—twenty-nine—”

The familiar voice is like a knife to the heart. It’s Dad. His voice is a little shaky, like it often was towards the end of his life. 

“Seven—six—eleven—five—twenty-nine—”

Why is he speaking like a numbers station?

Another voice cuts him off before he starts again. It’s Price.

“ Bravo Six to Blue Sky. How the hell are ya?”

“John. It’s—hah, it’s great. Never better.” Dad’s laugh is weak. Was this before or after he began to go blind? You should ask Price for some kind of timeline.

“Still walkin’ alright?” Price asks. Dad sighs. It takes a while for him to answer.

“Not like I used to. Must be getting old.”

“You should really come down here while you can still stay on your feet. I can send a patrol to pick you up—”

“No. It’s not time yet. We’re not ready.”

“ General— ”

“No need for titles, John. That’s in the past now.”

Static silence lingers.

“There’s something you’re not tellin’ me,” Price says. His tone is accusatory. Dad scoffs. 

“Nothing to worry about.”

“I’ve told you to haul yourself, your shit, and your kid out here. Many times. And you keep puttin’ it off. What’s the hold-up?”

“We’re not ready.”

Price sighs. He sounds frustrated, like this has been going on for a long time. But Dad must’ve had a good reason to stay, right?

“Can I be honest with you?”

“Have you ever not been, John?”

“I can’t keep you on the list for much longer. You or her. We can’t keep waiting for you to show up.”

“I… I understand. Just a little more time is all I’m asking.”

Why was Dad stalling so much? You could’ve made it to the Wave Knight with him. Hell, you would have forced him to go if you knew. But he never told you, and suddenly, it was too late.

“A week. I’ll give you a week,” Price says. “After that, you better call in to tell me you’re packed and ready to move out, yeah?”

“John… Goddamnit.”

“ One week.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know?”

“Always been, General.”

A weak chuckle, a cough. Dad sounds really sick.

“How’s—” Price starts, but Dad cuts him off.

“She’s fine. She’s good.”

“Is she the reason you’re pushing the departure? You think she’s not ready yet?”

“It’s not that,” Dad says. Liar. He is… was good at keeping secrets, but a terrible liar. “I just need to finish up some things here, that’s all.”

“Right. Just… Try to hurry, alright?”

“I’ll—” Dad goes into a coughing fit, for a second it sounds like he’s choking on his own spit. “I—I should lie down. Blue Sky out.”

“You do that. And… Hey?”

There’s no answer.

“Hello? You still there?”

Static crackles, but the line stays dead.

“Fuckin’ hell. Stay safe. Bravo Six out.”

The play button pops back up and the tape recorder rewinds automatically. You squeeze it in your hand, knuckles turning white.

It must have been the night Dad got into his bed, but never got up again. On the following days, he had made you a list of tasks and you dutifully carried them out. He made you get your backpack and an assortment of items to pack. You weren’t sure why, but thought it was just in case. He’d been bedridden before, but always got better.

This time he didn’t. 

He must’ve known it, so he was preparing you to leave without him, to reach the Wave Knight and Captain Price on your own.

On his last night, he gave you the box that held the maps and the letter and that photo of Price.

“Keep this with you. The gun is in the safe. The combination is your birthday. Sweetie pie, I love you. I love you so much. There’s still so much I need to tell you—”

But he never did, he couldn’t.

On his last night, he died mid-sentence. 

And you turned away, because you couldn’t look.

Dad had done everything for you. He stayed in the house because of you, because you weren’t ready to leave yet. He wanted to make sure you’d be safe out there.

He died in that house, because you weren’t ready soon enough.

He waited.

And now he’s—Now he’s gone, his ashes tossed and forgotten somewhere in Folkestone like they were trash. All you have left is that recording of him, asking for Price to wait just a bit more.

A week wouldn’t have made a difference in his condition. You know that.

But it doesn’t stop the guilt that comes crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Dad is dead. Not just dead, gone. All you had left of him is gone.

The tears burn your eyes; the air stings in your lungs. He’s gone, gone, gone. Nothing will ever be right again.

For the first time in a long while, you’re in a place that’s safe enough for you to cry in. To be off your guard and let the emotions come.

And so they come. You completely fucking lose it.

The grief twists your whole body. It contorts your face into a silent scream. It punches the air out of your lungs. It hurts. Everything hurts. The cabin is too small and you can’t breathe. You can’t breathe and all you can see is the tears blurring your vision. All you can taste is blood in your mouth when you bite your quivering lip.

Dad is gone. Gone. You have nothing.

But you’re safe, you try to convince yourself.

You don’t deserve to be safe. It's not fair. It's not right.

Bile gathers in your throat and you fight it back down. An inkling of decorum in your grief-addled brain reminds you that you are a guest, and guests do not puke on the floor, no matter how painful their emotions are.

You grab a pillow and hold it against your body like a stuffed animal. You’re breathing rapidly, crying inconsolably, barely noticing the sound coming from the door.

Knock.

Dinner, you realise, but your fatherless inner child is currently running rampant and does not want fucking dinner.

Knock knock.

Still, Gaz hasn’t done anything to upset you. He’s been nothing but kind, and you don’t want to be rude. You put the pillow down and take shaky steps towards the door. It flings open with more force than you meant it to.

It’s not Gaz on the other side.

It’s the last person you wanted to see right now.

It’s… him.

Fucking Ghost.

He looks dishevelled, like mirroring your own stress. Why the hell is he here? Was he sent to get you? Did he follow you, and if that’s the case, for how long?

The collar is off, you notice. No blinking light peeks from under his clothes. And yet, he doesn’t speak. Does he even know how to?

You grab onto the doorframe. He’s not coming in.

His eyes are bloodshot and dark. Heavy. His mask… that goddamn mask is still on, still the same. He breathes so heavily his whole body moves.

He hasn’t changed clothes. He hasn’t changed anything at all. And he sure as hell didn’t seek you out to thank or apologise. He just stares at you.

Just stands and stares and fucking breathes.

Frustration, no—anger spikes inside you, burning away the grief.

“The fuck do you want?” You hiss.

His throat bobs as if his vocal cords are shot. Then, a single word emerges from behind that stupid fucking mask.

“Nothing.”

Hah. He wants nothing.

“Have at it, then,” you bark, about to slam the door shut in his face, when the whole ship shakes violently, throwing you into the hallway. You’re about to slam your head to the opposite wall with full force when a hand grabs your arm and halts the movement. You sway backwards and bump into Ghost’s chest.

The ship keeps rocking back and forth, but with less force. He lets go and you turn to meet his gaze that's vacant, but not calm. Like there's something brewing beneath the surface.

Pain. Hurt. Rage—no, you're projecting.

Stop it.

Fuck him or how he feels, right? 

You’re still angry, aren’t you?

Of course, you are. He saved you from splitting your skull, but he’s still an assh—

“Found ya!” A man with a mohawk and piercing blue eyes has appeared so quietly it almost makes you jump. He nods at Ghost. “And you.”

“What—what happened?” you ask. “Did something hit the ship?”

“Nah, the lads are heavin’ her up, is all.” The man grins. “It’s about time we left these waters, eh?”

Chapter Text

Settling into your new environment is a bit like learning a dance routine. Especially when that environment happens to be a ship at sea, constantly swaying and rocking from side to side. There’s always movement—even when the ship isn’t going anywhere.

So, you try your damndest to learn the steps of the ever-evolving choreography. It’s a waltz that suddenly morphs into an interpretive dance verging on acrobatics, then the rhythm changes again and you’re one-two-stepping around the decks. Everyone else on board has learned to dance with the ship, so your main objective is not to step on anyone’s toes. Literally or figuratively.

And while you might be forced to improvise your steps, there are still rules you have to follow. It makes sense, of course. A military-operated place thrives on discipline and order. They make the small ecosystem work, and keep everyone safe. The more security and stability a place has, the stricter those rules usually are.

It takes some getting used to, since you’ve spent so much time as a lone wanderer, making your own rules and following your own schedule. You almost missed out on food for the first couple of days, because you couldn’t just eat whenever. 

There isn’t a written schedule anywhere. Everyone just seems to know what to do and where to go. Everyone onboard has a job, a purpose.

But you don’t, at least not yet. You don’t know if anything is expected of you, but you can’t stay idle forever.

It makes you uncomfortable.

You keep to yourself, and explore as much of the ship as you can access, trying to figure out what to do. 

Price is busy, and he doesn’t really know how to employ you, anyway. 

“Take it easy,” he said. “You could ask Wave Knight’s Captain—I really don’t have the authority to assign tasks around here. I look after my own team and that’s it.”

His team, which consists of himself, Gaz, Ghost and the guy with a mohawk. The last one laughed in your face when you called him Sergeant MacTavish—he insisted you called him Soap instead. You didn’t ask why.

You rarely encounter any of them during the day—they’re all working on their assigned jobs, whatever those may be. You try asking Gaz about if you could help—he’s been the nicest to you so far—but he tells you not to concern yourself with it, to take it easy like Price said.

You keep pushing so much that he finally starts avoiding you. 

Great. Wonderful. 

There goes the only person on the ship you could talk to.

Ghost is a looming presence that is there but also kind of isn’t.

You begin to see how his callsign makes sense. He just haunts the ship. You don’t give a shit about his comings or goings and he doesn’t seem to care about you.

Soap is constantly on his heels. They’re friends, clearly, or something like it. Soap has obviously been worried about Ghost while he was gone—months, apparently—so he doesn’t let him out of his sight. Ghost either doesn’t care or doesn’t mind. It’s impossible to tell.

So, finding a way to contribute through Price and his team proves futile. The ship’s Captain refuses an audience. The next person that comes to your mind is the friendly medic that did your bloodwork when you arrived. You’re not licensed in… anything, but you know how to set a dislocated limb, clean a wound, and perform CPR.

The medic appreciates the offer, but since you don’t have official training, all he could let you do is organise the inventory.
“And there isn’t a lot of that, ’m afraid. We’re chronically low on everything. I get what yer after, lassie, but I don’t think I can help. I’m sorry.”

He’s very nice about it, but you still feel like he couldn’t get you out of his hair fast enough. Besides him, you only know the two idiots that arrested you, and you learn through the grapevine that they were sent back out.

Not that you’d want to have anything to do with them.

You return to taking it easy, which basically means dancing in meaningless circles in your cabin that isn’t even yours.

On the road, you used to dream about having nothing to do. Not being cold and dirty and miserable, always on your guard and preparing to run. Not scrounging for food. You should be happy, thankful that you’ve achieved all that. 

Out there you always had something to do, something to prepare for.

But the idleness is driving you mad. Taking it easy is not easy.

It gives too much space for grief to surface.

The Wave Knight sails out to sea for a few days before returning closer to shore to anchor. The fog is thicker than you’ve ever seen, and you can faintly smell chlorine as the ship makes her way to the mouth of the river and further inland. 

It’s smog. You must be getting close to a big settlement.

You climb to the upper deck for a better view and spot Price standing by the railing, peering into the dark thick, dark fog.

“How’s the… view?” You approach cautiously.

“Not exactly breathtaking,” he mutters. “Can’t get much closer than this.”

“Closer to what?” You lean over the railing. The smell of chlorine is getting stronger.

“You’ll see. If this bloody fish tin doesn’t get stuck in the shallows.”

The ship drops speed until it stops in the dark. The loud rattling and splashing of chains signals the anchor being dropped.

Why here?

What is there in the fog that’s so—

A cluster of lights flickers in the distance. It flashes in different colours and shapes, until abruptly stopping, then starting from the beginning.

You’ve seen that before.

Drone ads.

Another swarm of drones lights up. You squint, but can’t tell what they’re advertising. And the ad isn’t for you, anyway. There’s only one specific group of people those are meant for—the only people who still see any value in money or what it can buy.

The Oligarchs and their brainwashed lackeys living in the city-states.

“Is that…?” You try to remember the layout of the map and the cities marked on it. 

“London, ” Price says. “Or that’s what it was called when I still lived there.”

The City-State of London. 

One of the metropolises that was bought out by the ultra-rich.

This is the closest you’ve been to one of them. You steered clear of Paris on your way through France. The checkpoints at the gates have guards who won’t hesitate to shoot on sight, whether you’re trying to access the city or just passing by. And it’s not just the city and its fortified walls that can get you killed. So-called buffer zones surrounding the walls expand for miles. They’re usually turned into minefields or live-fire ranges for Oligarchs’ private armies. Some of them have devolved into raider strongholds—lawless communities where torture is considered entertainment for the masses.

You’re not sure which is the case with London. You remember hearing that the businesses and real estate in Central London were bought up relatively early, before anyone grew suspicious. From there, the new owners expanded, covering more and more areas until all the buildings in the inner borough were owned by a single company. After that, it fell victim to the same fate as the other City-States—high walls and militarised borders. People were either enslaved or thrown out, as the Oligarchs turned London into their personal playground.

“When did you leave?” you ask, gesturing towards the glowing lights in the distance. Price shrugs. His eyes are glued to the blinking drone show.

“I was in Mexico when I got notice that my house was bein’ repossessed. Some shit excuse—said I was behind on my payments or somethin’. It wasn’t true—I’d paid off my loans years ago. I came back to sort it out.”

The drones blink red, yellow, and white. It’s an eerily mesmerising sight.

“When I got there, they didn’t let me see it first,” Price says with a hollow laugh. “‘Cause there was nothing to see. The whole bloody street had burned down during the protests.”

Some people fought back. A few of them escaped the mass executions for civil disobedience.

You never had the courage to join the protests.

“Can you believe I was angry at them first? The protesters.” He shakes his head. “They were the only ones who saw what was happening and tried to do somethin’ about it.”

“I think it makes sense,” you say. “You lost your house. Home. You lost your home. I’d say that blaming the ones who burned it down is a pretty default response.”

“Home,” he repeats. “I barely lived there. Still…”

He trails off. The smog is making your eyes itchy.

“How’d you lose yours?” he asks quietly.

“The same way most people living in the cities did. I lived in a shitty little flat in the outer boroughs, but the rent got too high and I had to leave. I think I got lucky. I left before they built the walls and closed the city off.”

“That’s one way to see it,” Price huffs, “but I agree. You got lucky.”

That place was never your home. It was just a place you lived in. A stopover. Your home was somewhere else. 

Your home was a person.

The glowing light pollution from the city-state paints the clouds orange and purple. It’s unnaturally quiet on the riverbanks. No frogs, no birds—no people. 

“Why did we come here?” you ask, not really expecting a response. But Price surprises you with an immediate answer.

“Supplies. There’s an outpost near Tilbury that trades with us, but we had to wait for the right conditions. It’s not easy to hide a tanker.”

The smog. Low visibility makes sailing the river dangerous, but it’s the only way the ship can slip inland unnoticed.

You sneeze. 

The stench of chlorine is starting to burn inside your nose. Price tears his gaze off the horizon.

“C’mon, Red. Let’s get inside before your face melts off.”

Tonight's dinner includes beans, rice and a chunk of questionable meat substance, served with a handful of expired vitamins courtesy of the medic. 

“They’re still good,” he said, “just not as effective, so take four of each instead of two.”

Besides the working showers and toilets on the ship, you deeply appreciate the fact that there’s food. It’s not tasty or good by any means, but you go to bed with a full stomach, which is more than you’ve had in months. And you don’t have to cook.

The food comes in the form of expired field rations, most of them still sealed properly and safe to use. Some nights, when you’re lucky, you get some biscuits or dried nuts as a dessert.

A dessert. Never in your wildest dreams…

You dig into the pile of food with a fork, which you had to re-familiarise yourself with after so long eating with your hands. You still wince at the memory of your first time in the mess. Everyone around you paused to stare as you went at your plate with both hands. It took a solid five minutes—and Gaz sliding the utensils across the table—before you realised and snapped out of it.

You still dissociate while you’re eating. It’s mind-boggling to be able to do so without constantly calculating how much to save and where your next meal will come from. 

You’ve devoured the beans, and are halfway through the rice and the mystery meat, so engrossed in your food that a whispered “hey” near you goes unnoticed.

“Hey.”

You break the intense eye contact you’ve been holding with the almost-minced-beef and look up. 

Soap has sat down next to you.

That’s odd. He and Ghost have been sitting at the table behind you every night. Ghost is still there, unenthusiastically poking at his meal with a fork. His mask is folded up over his nose. It’s the most you’ve seen of his face. He never took it off when you stopped to camp overnight.

“I was wonderin’” Soap says, fiddling with a dinner knife, “if ya ken how to cut hair?”

What?

You do, in fact, know how to cut hair—you’ve always cut your own and your friends’ and Dad’s. But…

You raise an eyebrow, looking at his mohawk.

“Yeah, I can cut hair, if it’s just a trim you want—”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Not mine.” Soap points at Ghost. “His.”

Again— WHAT?

“And a trim would be perfect.” He turns to Ghost. “She said yes.”

No, you didn’t.

Ghost glares at him.

“I’ll go to Mel’s,” the masked man grumbles. That’s… almost a full sentence. You’ve never heard him talk this much.

“Aye, good luck with that. Mel hasn’t been here in three months,” Soap says. “And ya need a haircut.”

“I’m fine.” Ghost doesn’t sound like a willing participant to this conversation.

“Yer a fuckin’ roaster, that’s what you are,” Soap scoffs. “Tried to cut his hair himself. It looks like a wean found a razor and chopped his locks with it.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny…”

“I think Mel left a box of scissors and combs somewhere.” Soap gets up. “I’ll see ya both in thirty minutes.”

He walks off. Ghost follows him and you can hear them argue as you try to redirect your focus to the dinner that has gone completely forgotten.

You didn’t say yes.

You didn’t even say maybe.

But it doesn’t seem to matter. Exactly half an hour later, there’s a sharp knock on the door of your cabin. From the sheer perkiness of it, you know it’s not Ghost.

“Found a bunch of things,” Soap says, shoving a box in your hands. “She left a shaver behind, used for beards, but if you can work with it—”

“It’s fine.” You pick up the electric razor and examine it. A hair clipper would be better, but this isn’t exactly a salon.

“Red says it’s fine!” Soap shouts through the door. “Get in here.”

“Why is this necessary?” You ask as Ghost walks in with Gaz following him. “ He clearly doesn’t want me to do it and I didn’t exactly say yes to this.” Surely it isn’t a stylistic choice. If he cared about how he looked, he wouldn’t walk around with that stupid mask.

“Ghost hates how it feels under the mask,” Soap explains. “And besides, I heard you’ve been goin’ around the ship, complainin’ yer bored. ” He glances at Gaz, who raises his hands.

“That’s not what I said.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Alright, let’s just get this over with.”

Ghost sits on a chair, taking up a lot of the cramped space. The bed is shoved too close to it, forcing you to climb over to reach the other side. Having Gaz and Soap crowding the cabin isn’t helping. At all. They’re both having a good laugh at the expense of your and Ghost’s apparent misery.

Is this supposed to be some kind of initiation rite? 

You did not say yes to it.

“Okay, too many people in this goddamn shoebox. You,” you say, gesturing at the two Sergeants, “and you, out. I don’t need you here.”

“Neither do I,” Ghost chimes in. Holy shit, is he taking your side? Although you’d much prefer he left, too.

The guys leave, Soap protesting a bit harder than Gaz.

As the door closes behind them, you realise you’re alone with Ghost for the first time since Folkestone—and for the first time since the collar was removed.

Folkestone was where you last felt a shred of empathy towards him.

Then he made you angry—

“I can leave. We don’t need to do this,” he says, without even looking at you.

Yeah, go ahead, leave and butcher your hair all you want, take the tools, too and—

“No,” you catch yourself saying, “it’s fine, I’ll just…” You grab a towel that’s neatly folded on top of the drawer. It’s clean, you think, frowning. Are you really sacrificing the one clean towel you have to accommodate him?

Apparently, you are. This day has been a fever dream. A fever nightmare.

You drape the towel over his shoulders and pick up a pair of scissors.

“Uh,” you say, looking at the back of his head. “The mask. You need to… So I can…”

“Right,” he says, but it sounds more like wrong. His fingers find the edge of the mask and he removes it. Slowly. Like he’s afraid his head will come off with it.

You weren’t sure what you expected to see, but at least the back of his head looks normal. Except for the—

“Oh my god. ”

There’s a patch of hair missing from the nape of his neck and a large, unevenly chopped area above his left ear that he clearly cut himself.

“Why did you do that…?” You’re not trying to make idle conversation—you’re genuinely stunned. It looks awful.

“Needed it gone.”

Right. Sure. Whatever.

You fidget with the scissors, not sure where to start. An idea crosses your mind. 

You’re still pissed. The anger has died down, but the pettiness hasn’t gone anywhere. And now you’re being served a chance to get back at him. The scissors could slip, just a little, and his haircut would make him look like an ass. Or you could accidentally go a little too far with the shaver and buzz a bald line right in the middle of his stupid fucking head—

Stop.

You’re kind.

So be kind.

Your hands don’t comply with your evil plans. You cut a few strands of hair from the back of his head. He tenses up like you’ve just stabbed him in the back with the scissors.

What the hell did you get yourself into?

You move on to cut more of his hair, working through the back of his head and down to the left side.

“Shorter,” he says.

“You can’t see how short I’m cutting it.”

“I can hear it. Shorter."

Oh fuck off— he definitely can’t hear the length his hair is being cut. But you go over the back of his head again, cutting it shorter. He doesn’t correct you, so you move on to trim the sides, blending in the weird patches of uneven hair as you go. It’s hard with scissors. Despite that, you manage to do a decent job, finishing off with the shaver. His hair looks fresh, evenly cut and slightly longer at the top. Ghost hasn’t said anything, which you take as a sign of acceptance.

You step in front of him to see the results, but his arm blocks your way.

“What are you doin’?” He asks. The voice isn’t angry, just stern. He simply doesn’t want you to do that.

“I need to cut it from the front,” you explain. He hesitates. The arm withdraws. You try to keep your face straight as you see his for the first time.

Sans mask.

Damn.

To be completely honest, you spent some time on the road trying to guess what he looks like. You wondered whether the reason he wore the mask was that something horrible had happened to his face.

In your head, you pictured a face with half a nose missing or covered in skin lesions or burns.

There’s none of that.

He looks… normal. Disarmingly normal.

A little worse for the wear. Tired, like he hasn’t slept in ages.

A bit scruffy. Rugged.

Normal—if you don’t count all the scarring. Some look like they were cut with intention. He wouldn’t…? Right? 

A pink, more recent-looking gash runs vertically across his left brow, almost down to the corner of his eye. It blends into another that looks older, white and faded. An attempted Glasgow smile is more prominent on his right cheek than his left. That must have hurt like hell.

A spiderweb of pain. A map of the damage done.

There's no way he did this himself, which means…

Someone did this to him. It makes your throat tighten. What kind of fucking psycho would do this to another human being? Raiders? No, some of these look really old.

His nose is crooked. It actually kind of suits him— no, don’t go there.

And stop staring.

Stop staring at him.

The scissors have been idle for an awkward amount of time, so you blink the thoughts out of your head and get to work. His eyes follow you, but not scrutinising like you’d expect.

Just observing. 

Cautiously curious.

Jesus Christ, his eyes are huge. Or maybe it’s just the obvious lack of sleep that makes them look like that. Lack of sleep and malnutrition. And dehydration. You’ve both been through the wringer.

It’s like you’re looking at a warped version of yourself.

His hair is much harder to cut from the front. You feel like you’re invading his space and simultaneously, like he’s invading yours. Locks of dirty blond hair fall down on the floor, on the towel, his lap, but he doesn’t move an inch. He’s like a rigid statue. You recognise that from before: when he wore the collar and couldn’t react to anything because of it. When he had to hold back.

Is he holding back now?

What is he holding back?

“Done. I don’t have a mirror, but I can go ask if someone—”

“It’s fine,” he says.

“Oh, so you can hear when it’s fine?” Your joke falls flat.

Ghost looks at your face the same way you looked at him a moment ago—like he’s studying it. Like he’s memorising all the cuts and bruises and lines and making his own assumptions of how you got them.

You feel exposed.

“Peaches,” you blurt.

His eyes lock on yours and his brow furrows.

“You ate my peaches,” you say. “I was saving them. I—I had been saving them for a long time, and I got really pissed that you ate them all.”

It’s not the fucking peaches that got you riled up, idiot, you curse internally. It’s the fact that he used you to get here.

But even that reason has started to falter. He just wanted the collar off. Maybe it had nothing to do with you.

Are you seriously defending him to yourself right now?

Get. A. Grip.

He swallows.

“I—”

The door flies open and Soap barges in. “Oh, thank fuck yer both still in here. ”He glances at Ghost. “Lookin’ class, L.t. We need to go. Price wants a word with all of us.”

Us?

Shit.

That includes you now, too?

“Close the door,” Price says, and lays out a pile of papers on his desk. “We can’t have the whole ship hearin’ this. They’ll get the short version of it once we’re done here.”

“What is all this?” Soap picks up one of the papers and you crane your neck to see what’s on it. A bunch of obscure symbols. It’s some kind of code, but that’s all you can tell.

“The ship’s heading west tomorrow,” Price continues, as a tense silence fills the cabin.

“West,” Soap repeats, “as in Ireland?"

“As in across the Atlantic. They’ll drop us off near Bar Harbor, Maine.” Price opens a map on the desk. “And through there, we’ll go—” he circles a place north of Quebec. “Here.”

“Saguenay,” Gaz reads the name aloud. “What’s in there?”

Price chuckles.

“Just some old friends, is all.”

Chapter Text

Mud squelches beneath your boots in a way that’s eerily familiar.

Didn’t you just get out of the rain and away from the mud and the cold?

A blanket of grey clouds lies above the barren land. You can just make out the dark smears of storm clouds on the horizon, rolling in from the sea, miles away.

It could pick up speed fast. Storms on this continent are no joke.

It has been three days since you said goodbye to the small-but-cosy cabin and the running water. Three days since the Wave Knight dropped the anchor. Three days since you climbed down the flimsy ladder and into the same boat that brought you aboard.

You’re on the road again.

Like you never left.

But this time, everything is different.

First of all, you’re thousands of miles away from the road you left behind in England. You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference just by the looks of it—the obliterated landscape is pretty much the same everywhere.

Secondly, you have a properly stocked backpack with supplies to carry you over a week of hiking. Maybe longer than that, if you’re as frugal as before. You have a new knife, shiny, freshly sharpened, and heavy—a great tool overall. Your clothes and shoes aren’t brand-spanking new, but they’re not falling apart either. The boots keep the cold water out as you slog through the muddy, broken remains of a highway.

And lastly, most importantly, you’re not alone.

You’re with Price and his team. As far as he’s concerned, you’re one of them now.

You’re not moving in a formation—this isn’t a march and there’s no point in trying to act like your little squad of five is something more than it is. You’ve got a pretty good sense of what everyone is like in this kind of setting. That’s important—and also one of Dad’s Rules of Surviving This Fucking Shit-show of a World: sometimes it’s best to stay back and observe. People tend to drop the act when they’re under stress.

And that’s when they usually show their hand.

So you stick to the sidelines and observe. But not in a… malicious, creepy and predatory way. It’s just vigilance that comes as naturally as breathing.

Price gives the initial orders, which makes sense. He is their de facto leader, whether they’re still officially with the Army or not. He tells the group where to go, when to stop, and what to expect down the road. He holds the map, but doesn’t hoard it—a very important difference in your eyes. Price seems generally trustworthy, despite the fact that he hasn’t yet told you or anyone who you’ll be meeting in Saguenay. The others aren’t prying, so you won’t either.

Gaz checks on you every now and then. It’s a little awkward—but sweet. He keeps glancing at the remaining patches of forest, like expecting something to jump at him. But he doesn’t seem to be afraid—just keeping track of his surroundings. You do that too, but not to the same extent. You may have a thing or two to learn from him.

He’s always the first one to start setting up camp. He finds water sources and keeps track of the food. He’s also the first to crash at night and snores like a chainsaw. It doesn’t really bother you. If anything, it reminds you that you’re not alone in the middle of the wilderness.

Soap carries the heaviest load of items, most of the camping supplies and the food. He even offered to carry your backpack, which you politely declined. It was very nice and chivalrous of him, but you can manage just fine. Before you left the Wave Knight, he pulled you aside to ask if you were really up for the hike to Saguenay. You put that concern to rest quickly by vividly describing the journey through continental Europe you survived with almost no supplies. 

He still tries to help you whenever he thinks you need it. It’s, again, sweet—and awkward. He’s also the most talkative and funny as hell. It’s quite the opposite of Ghost, who—

Right.

Ghost.

Whatever his problem is.

His role in the group is to walk and… fucking sulk? He stays a little ahead of the group, which makes you think that Price has probably planned the route with him. Sometimes you don’t see him for a couple of hours until he emerges again and reports straight back to Price.

“Recon,” Soap explains. 

“I’m aware,” you shoot back with a chuckle. “You know I’m—”

“Aye, right. Yer Dad was the Legend himself. Excuse us poor mortals, princess,” he laughs.

It’s hard not to notice how worried he gets every time Ghost disappears.

You, on the other hand, don’t really care where the Lieutenant is, as long as he stays out of your way, and you stay out of his.

The truce, or whatever mutual acceptance you had achieved, didn’t last long. He’s not weirdly dismissive and hostile like he was before that, but you’re definitely both avoiding each other now.

While the Wave Knight made her way over the Atlantic, the word got around that you knew how to cut hair. Soon there was a line at your cabin door and you had to establish some kind of opening hours. It was a bit overwhelming at first, but at least you had finally found a way to contribute. You did your best with the haircuts, and people paid with whatever they had—snacks, mostly, but also books, magazines, and cassette tapes.

You knew all those people didn’t appear out of nowhere. And you were right. It was Soap who had spread the rumours about a New Mel taking over the Old Mel’s business. He had done it as a favour for you, which made you wonder what he’d want in return.

Maybe he felt like he owed you for helping his Lieutenant’s ass back on the ship and reuniting him with his team.

His Lieutenant’s ass, whose voice you heard shouting through Price’s cabin door as you passed by one night. You’d just spent two hours untangling the hair of an unlucky crew member who had a fishing hook stuck in their head.

You knew it was none of your business. You should’ve just turned around and gone back to your cabin, pretending you heard nothing.

But hearing him speak—shout—was still way too intriguing. What the hell had him so worked up?

You leaned against the door to listen. It wasn’t exactly your problem that the doors were so thin. And that Ghost was shouting.

And so was Price.

They were arguing.

“We’re not going to take her with us,” Ghost yelled at his superior. “And you shouldn’t’ve included her in any of this!”

“That’s not your decisio to make, Lieutenant. ” Shit. Price was pulling rank. “She survived for months out there, and she’ll—”

“She’ll fuckin’ die, and it’s on us!”

“She’s the daughter of—” Price began, but Ghost interrupted. They both kept constantly cutting each other off.

“I don’t give a shit if she’s the daughter of Jesus Christ! She should stay on the ship.”

“She can’t stay. You know she can’t. They can barely support their own crew, let alone us. I promised the Captain of this bloody floatin’ fish bowl there’d be fewer mouths to feed. It was the only way he agreed to take us to Maine.”

“And we can’t drop her off to a settlement somewhere?”

There was a long pause. Your heart was in your throat; they were talking about you. And more importantly, Ghost seemed hell-bent on leaving you behind.

“There are no settlements around here anymore,” Price sighed, “just some outposts. And they’re tradin’ off everything they can. It’s a matter of time until they start tradin’ off everyone they can. And you know I can’t do that to her. I owe too much to her father.”

“He saved your life once.” Ghost’s voice stung like poison. “By that logic you owe all of us the same.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sounds pretty simple to me, boss. She can’t come. She doesn’t belong with us.”

She doesn’t belong.

You don’t belong. 

He wanted you gone.

He didn’t sound angry; he almost sounded desperate. Like he was begging for Price to agree with him and leave you behind.

“She’s comin’ with us, Simon. Whether you like it or not, she’ll stay with us and we’ll keep her safe.” Price lowered his voice. It was harder to pick up on the conversation. You pressed your ear against the door so hard it started to go numb.

“She won’t be safe,” Ghost huffed. “Not with us.”

“Then we’ll just look after her, yeah? Safety’s never guaranteed. But we’ll do our best, all of us.” Price started to sound tired of the back and forth. The conversation turned into something that you couldn’t hear anymore.

You didn’t care to hear more.

What you had heard made the anger stir in your gut, but you kept it down. You were going with them, even if Ghost or Simon or whatever the fuck he was called didn’t want you to. It wasn’t his call to make. Having three out of four on your side was more than enough.

“Wasn’t this entire country carpet-bombed to bits after the war?” Gaz’s voice breaks the silence that’s lingered since breakfast. Everyone is getting tired, yet no one wants the others to notice.

“The war they fought against the States?” Soap says. “When the Canadians sent the American troops packin’ in a week? Thought that was the end of it.”

It was one of the shortest and most embarrassing conflicts in modern history. Instead of the official U.S. Army, those so-called American troops consisted of roughly a million right-wing nut jobs with a license to carry. 

Gaz shrugs. “It’s just a rumour. What do you know about it?” He turns to Price.

“It’s mostly true, according to my contacts on this side of the pond.” The Captain stops to look around the desolate landscape. The closer you get to Quebec, the more rubble and destruction you see.

“The large cities are—were—all located near the U.S. border and the States were looking to… expand. Canada and Greenland had some minerals they wanted. Their invasion plans went to shit, but after their government fell, the fuckin’ twats got a hold of the ICBMs.”

“So they just… Levelled every major city,” Gaz says grimly. “That’s a mature response.”

“With dirty bombs. The destruction zone created a barrier that was so contaminated the troops on either side couldn’t get across,” Price replies. “It’s still dangerous to enter.”

“So they pretty much sealed off the northern parts of Canada. And Alaska too,” you say. “What about the minerals they were after?”

“They couldn’t get to those. Neither did anyone else. That was the only resource the Oligarchs couldn’t tap.”

“And the people living in Canada?”

“Succumbed to the same fate as the rest, I suppose. It must’ve become just as unlivable as everywhere else. Haven’t heard anything that’d suggest otherwise.”

Most of the folks already lived in the cities near the border when the fuckin’ twats dropped the bombs on them. A handful of communities might have survived, but would likely wither away—it happened everywhere else.

“Canada held on the longest,” Price continues. “They didn’t let the rich buy out the cities when it started.”

“Yeah, and then there were no more cities to buy,” Soap replies grimly. “And it was Scotland that held on the longest. Still holds.”

“Shit, really? How?” You raise an eyebrow. So they finally gained independence. Sort of.

“Some poor bastards started buyin’ land around Glasgow and Edinburgh. Didn’t take long for the locals to notice what was goin’ on, so they stopped sellin’ and started hagglin’. Whatever price they were offered, they always asked for a wee bit more. This went on for years. Eventually, the bastards gave up.”

“That can’t be the end of that. Sounds too easy.” An entire nation still functioning sounds too good to be true.

“Aye, it wasn’t. Once the Brits were pushed out of their homes, a lot of them went north. And I mean a lot. The cities became crowded. And then…”

“Someone got sick,” you say.

“Someone got sick,” Soap repeats. “And after that, a lot of them got sick. And the sick people fled to the countryside, got more folks infected. Still, more came from the south.”

You bite your lower lip. “What was the solution?” You can guess what happened. There aren’t a lot of options when a disease is spreading like wildfire.

“They stopped lettin’ the English in the cities, and…” Soap doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. Most of them died, of hunger, exposure and eventually the sickness, which didn’t recognise any borders.

In the process of trying to stop Scotland from becoming a bunch of City-States, it had turned into one. It might not be controlled by the Oligarchs or filled with slave labour, but for those dying outside, it’s no different.

“Where’d you hear all this?” You ask. Soap has a tendency to play up the dramatic parts.

“Have—had family livin’ in Glasgow. They’re all gone now.” His eyes are somewhere in the horizon. Before you can open your mouth to utter the words I’m sorry for your loss, he waves his hand dismissively. “Save it. We’ve all lost someone.”

He’s right. Statistically, it would be a miracle if one of you hadn’t.

“The only bridge across the river goes directly through the city centre.” Ghost materialises out of nowhere. “The next one is eighty miles upstream.”

“It’s an entire day we can’t afford,” Price grumbles. “We’ve got masks. They’ll hold up long enough. We put them on as soon as we get near the centre and won’t make any stops until the air is clear. It won’t be a nice walk, but we’ll manage.”

“It’ll be even less nice once that storm reaches us,” Gaz points at the dark clouds gaining on you.

“Fuckin’ hell. Let’s keep movin’.”

The air feels thicker as you approach the Pierre Laporte Bridge. It’s so thick it falls down your throat and into your lungs, but doesn’t want to get back out. It has the familiar, chlorine smell to it.

“Masks on,” Price orders. The filters should last for at least ten hours. It shouldn’t take us that long to get out of the city, but better safe than sorry. Try not to talk with it on, or you’ll get exhausted quickly. Try not to touch the inside of the mask. Your hands aren’t clean. Put your mask straight into one of these once you take it off.”

He hands out plastic bags. You realise the instructions are mainly meant for you.

The mask is a standard M50 general purpose model. Dad kept a few after his retirement, but you had to trade them to get his body cremated. It doesn’t sit quite right on your head and your face begins to sweat, fogging up the lenses.

As you struggle to adjust the front piece over your nose, you feel a strap on the back of your head being tugged upwards. The front of the mask settles on your face and doesn’t press on your nose anymore. It’s not comfortable, but it’s better.

“Thank—” You turn around expecting to see Gaz or Soap—whoever helped you—but instead meet the blank stare of Ghost through the polycarbonate screen.

“It’s going to leak if it doesn’t sit right,” he says and walks off before you come up with a response.

Was he helping you just now?

Shit.

He doesn’t want you around, but he doesn’t want you dead either.

Why the hell is he being so hot and cold— no, lukewarm and cold?

And why do you care? Three out of four are on your side. You don’t need him to be.

“We can’t stop for anything for the next six hours,” Price says. “Not to eat, drink, or rest.”

“What if I need to take a piss?” Soap asks.

“Then you’ll piss your trousers, MacTavish. Everyone ready?”

There’s not an intact building in sight across the bridge. Nothing stands out from the rubble that has been sitting there for years since the bombs fell.

The pettiest and most useless display of senseless aggression in the history of senseless aggression.

Everything is covered in a layer of yellow dirt. It’s the kind that looks like it eats your organs from the inside if enough of it gets in your system. Like asbestos, but worse. It’s everywhere. The particles fill the air like fog. Visibility is shit, and six hours of walking might as well turn into ten.

You don’t pause for anything, as Price said. Besides, exploring a place like this is as dangerous as it is pointless. You press on and pray the road ahead isn’t blocked.

You’ve been through ruined towns before, but they all pale in comparison to the level of destruction in Quebec. There’s nothing left.

Nothing.

These people never even had a chance to fight for their city. For their lives. Everything was just… over. In a heartbeat.

The wind pushes aside the yellow-tinted haze and ahead of you stretches more of the great Nothing that spans as far as the eye can see. 

It makes you feel small.

Insignificant.

The sun is high, but hides behind the clouds. The whole world is like a bubble of mustard gas and you’re walking through it, not entirely positive if you’ll make it to the other side before the mask filters get clogged up.

After what feels like a lifetime of wandering, the yellow gloom fades just enough for you to see—

“We need to move faster,” Gaz’s muffled voice comes from behind you. “The storm’s going to hit soon.”

A mass of dark clouds billows just overhead. The wind picks up, twirling the yellow particles around in little dust devils that grow larger and larger. The air clears momentarily. In the distance, you see something that looks like a wide pillar of cloud that suddenly cascaded down from the sky.

“Is that a fucking tornado? ” you ask, trying to see better. “Why is it so… still? ”

“Aye,” Soap shouts through the wind that is pushing against you. “And it’s coming right at us. Better start runnin’!”

“We can’t outrun a bloody tornado! We need to find shelter. As soon as you see houses that aren’t blown to shit, take cover immediately! ” Price yells.

The dark clouds swallow the sun and the rain begins to pelt down like a pressure washer. The ground turns into yellow sludge that trips you over multiple times. You want to yell to the others not to wait for you, but your lungs are already working overtime with the gas mask and no sound comes out. The farther you try to get from the tornado, the closer it seems to follow.

Price’s right. There’s no outrunning a bloody tornado.

None of the collapsed houses you encounter are stable enough to weather a storm. It’s miles from ground zero, but still not far enough. You’re not sure if the direction is right, but you blindly trust in Price and the team that’s now running like a pack of wolves.

The stinky, gentle rain of England feels like a fond memory of a holiday.

Just as you’re starting to feel like things cannot possibly go any worse, the situation spirals into chaos—you run into a dead end. The road is blocked by a fence on both sides and a gigantic pile of bricks in the middle.

Going back would send you right into the eye of the storm.

You’re going to die covered in yellow dirt with this stupid fucking mask on your head, unless by some miracle the tornado changes direction.

It doesn’t.

There’s nothing but rubble behind the fence. Nothing but—

“There’s somethin’ a couple of streets over, behind those houses!” Soap points in the distance. It could be a building, or it could be something useless. You can’t see through the fogged-up, dirty lenses of your gas mask.

“You have to be a bit more precise than that,” Price shouts back. “What do you see?”

“A warehouse!”

Soap scales the fence, and you follow. It takes a couple of tries. The fence is tall and slippery from the rain.

“Try to keep up,” Ghost snarls as he drops down on the other side of the fence. “Start draggin’ behind now and you’re dead.”

Rude and uncalled for.

“Yeah? I don’t think you’d mind if I stayed behind!” You snap. Is he fucking serious? He’s barely said a word to you, and now he decides to start lecturing?

“Maybe you should drop me off somewhere! You don’t need me here! It’s not like I’m the daughter of Jesus fucking Christ, is it?”

He doesn’t reply, and merely pushes past you. Everyone bolts towards the warehouse like the world behind was collapsing into a sinkhole.

There really is a building. An intact one. It must have withstood other storms before, since it hasn’t been blown to bits like almost everything else around it.

Water Treatment Plant, the sign reads.

“Get inside, quickly now,” Price hurries the others as he runs up the stairs to a door and grabs the handle.

It doesn’t move. The door is locked.

Of course, the only intact building in the deserted city is fucking locked.

“See if there’s anything we can use to break this open,” he grunts. “Anyone got a jemmy?” 

No one has packed a crowbar.

“I’ll go look for somethin’.” Ghost jumps down the flight of stairs and disappears. You look up at the windows. They’re too high to reach from here, but if you had access to the roof—

One window lights up.

“There’s someone inside! Hey! HEY!” You jump and wave at the window.  “HEY!!”

A figure stands in the window, then disappears.

No, no, please, no—

“Hello?” A voice crackles through the intercom next to the wall.

“Yes, hello!” You pant through the gas mask. Fucking mask. You want it off. “Please, let us in—there’s five of us. We’re not looking to harm you. We just need to wait out the storm and we’re gone as soon as it passes.”

Silence. The person behind the intercom is considering it.

Come on, please.

“That part of the facility is closed off,” the voice says. “I can open the garage door for you remotely. The thing is, the door only opens for ninety seconds and then closes on its own and stays closed for like an hour. It’s a fluke in the security mechanism and I don’t know how to fix—”

“Ninety seconds is enough, thank you!”

The garage door makes a terrible ruckus as it slowly opens.

You fucking did it.

You’re safe.

You’re all safe.

You’re all—

“Ghost!” Soap shouts into his radio. “Fuck, he’s still out there somewhere. GHOST!”

“...s—fuckin’ stuck, I ca….” Ghost’s voice cuts in and out.

The door starts to close. Just as slowly as it opened.

The ninety seconds are up.

“Wasn’t there supposed to be five of you?” The voice from the intercom asks. You spot a security camera in the corner. This place is clearly guarded, but so far they haven’t used weapons against you. And they seem willing to help, so that’s a good sign.

“There’s still one outside! Are you sure you can’t stop the door?”

“The system is broken, I told you! All I can do is cut off the electricity.”

Price slams his fist to the doorframe. “Bloody do that then!”

“Not—Not an option, really. There’ll be other problems if I do.”

Soap tosses his backpack on the floor. “I’m goin’ after him. Figure out how to keep that door open ‘til we’re back, yeah?”

He takes off, and you can faintly hear him calling for his Lieutenant.

The chain rattles as the garage door keeps closing. Price stacks pallets under it, but the door is industrial-grade, heavy, and starts chewing through them like a wood chipper. You’d need to wedge a car under it, and even that might buckle.

The mechanism is exposed—chains rattling, gears turning…

The gears.

You need to stop the gears.

There are no crowbars, no metal pipes, nothing of the sort lying around in the small garage besides the useless pallets. You need something that’s durable enough to jam the gears.

The new knife in your backpack is shiny and sharp—the best tool for survival. With just that knife and the clothes on your back, you could survive for weeks. Maybe even months. It’s tough. Reliable. Sturdy.

Sturdy enough to stop those gears.

It’ll be entirely Ghost’s fault if you end up dying without your knife out in the woods, you think, as you shove the whole thing between the gears and the chain. 

Now who’s the one dragging behind, Lieutenant?

What the hell is taking them so long?

Fear slithers up your spine like a snake. They can’t die out there. They can’t. Soap went after his comrade—his friend—for fuckssake. He doesn’t deserve to be crushed to death by flying debris.

And Ghost…

Maybe you don’t like him—but you don’t want him to die.

The loud screech of the gears pushing against the blade is horrifying. You, Gaz, and Price all cover your ears as metal grinds against metal. But the door holds. It’s stuck open.

“What are you doing in there?!” the voice in the intercom panics. “You’re making the whole facility short-circuit!”

Just a while longer.

Come on.

Come on!

The knife is starting to bend. It’s going to break.

“We need something else to block it!” 

Gaz tosses you his pistol. Fuck, it’s going to get mangled.

But just as you’re about to thrust the weapon into the gears, Soap slides in under the door. Ghost follows him. 

The knife snaps like a twig and the door comes down with a deafening crash.

“Steamin’ Jesus…” Soap takes off his gas mask. Everyone but Ghost follows suit. You’re all sweating and gasping. Your heart is pounding somewhere between your throat and stomach.

The storm howls outside. Heavy things slam against the walls as they fly past. But the building holds.

You’re safe, for now.

“What happened out there?” Price asks.

“Bastard got stuck,” Soap replies bluntly. He glares at his Lieutenant, who is conveniently dissociating. “Was tryin’ to get to the roof, and the ladder came down. Some roof sheets followed and landed on his leg.”

“Fuck,“ you croak. “Is he—are you okay?”

Ghost shrugs.

Right.

Soap keeps staring at him.

They’re leaving something out. It’s so painfully obvious Price and Gaz must’ve picked up on it too.

Whatever it is, it has to wait—the intercom crackles again.

“H-hello? Stay put, alright? I’ll be down in a minute.” the nervous voice says.

You’re not in immediate danger anymore, and the ebbing adrenaline is giving way to a massive migraine. You groan as fluorescent lights flicker on.

What is this place?

There’s enough power to feed the security system and lights. 

Still no hostiles in sight.

“Don’t suppose these are the old friends you mentioned, boss?” Gaz says, lowering his voice. The intercom has gone silent, but someone could still be listening. Price shakes his head.

The door leading further into the building clicks open. Three bald, tattooed men in white linen robes step inside. They’re unarmed. The one in the middle clears his throat and greets you. You recognise the voice—he’s the one who let you in.

“Welcome to the Compound, friends,” he says with a voice that clearly isn’t used to public speaking.

The two men flanking him set down bags filled with white clothes.

“These are for you. Please, leave your weapons in the crate behind this door.”

What on scorched earth have you walked into?

A fucking cult?

Chapter Text

The yellow dust has found its way in your hair, in the pores of your skin—every exposed bit. Even in places you hadn’t noticed. It mixes with water and swirls down the drain as you squeeze the sponge you’re scrubbing with.

Your clothes soak in a nearby bucket filled with pungent laundry detergent.

“Wash yourselves and your clothes,” the bald man in white robes had said. “The lady goes first.”

So that’s what you’re doing—washing off the toxic dust. It’s not the easiest, given you only have a couple of buckets to work with, and you’re trying to be fast. There’s a line of four guys waiting for their turn.

“Fuck—ow!” you flinch. Something stings on the inside of your left wrist.

There’s a tiny cut on it.

Below the cut is a small, hand-poked tattoo. What used to be the letter E has spread out and morphed into a blob.

“Goddamnit,” you huff. “Almost forgot about you. ”

Almost.

“Hawk!”

A loud thud woke you up from slumber. Then another. And another.

“HAWK!”

“Coming…” You groaned and tossed aside the pile of blankets you’d burrowed under. It was chilly. No—cold. Freezing. You could see your breath, like white smoke in the air. You kicked the broken space heater as you stumbled out of bed and to the door of the camper van you occasionally shared with…

“Eli…” you yawned as the door flew open and your friend barged in.

“Fuck me, Hawk, it’s freezing in here,” they said and began to rummage through your cupboards.

“And good morning to you, too,” you murmured and slouched back on your bed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just came by to see if you had any… Ah, yeah, you do. Great.” Eli grabbed a handful of tea bags from the shelf above the sink. “I’m fresh out.”

“Hey, I was saving those,” you protested, reaching for Eli’s hand. They laughed and stuffed the bags in their pocket.

“I’ll pay you back, alright? I always do.”

“You literally never do.”

Eli sat on the bed next to you and wrapped their arm around your shoulders. Shuddering from the cold, you leaned into the touch. Eli was warm. You closed your eyes, more than willing to fall right back asleep.

“Baby Hawk.” Their voice softened to a whisper. “I’ve got something for you. Something special.”

Hawk.

Eli was the only person who’d call you that. They insisted. Apparently, you looked more like Hawk than Red.

They were the only person you’d ever allow to call you that.

After you left Dad’s house and crossed paths with the Caravan, Eli was the first to reach out.

Dad had taught you many things, but honing your social skills wasn’t one of them. You were surrounded by people—friendly people—but you kept to yourself. You did your part of the chores, you contributed. But you didn’t socialise.

You’d much rather retreat into one of the camper vans than participate in an impromptu football match or hang around the campfire at night. It wasn’t because you didn’t like the others—they were a bunch of lovely, lively people. And it wasn’t because you didn’t want to join them—being around people dulled the pain of losing Dad. It let you breathe. Laugh. Be more than just an emblem of grief.

It was something you were used to, so you barely noticed it anymore.

But the others did notice.

More specifically, Eli noticed.

They had their eyes on you from the moment you stood across that parking lot and stared at the Caravan. You were carrying a ridiculous pile of obscure junk. Eli chuckled to themself, watching as you spread out pots and pans for trading. You would have been in even without that weird showcase. The Caravan accepted anyone who’d bring anything with them—a skill, useful items, or simply their company.

Everyone was useful—therefore, everyone was accepted.

You were useful in a particularly valuable way. While skipping lessons on human interaction in Post-Apocalyptia, Dad had taught you to identify a wide variety of useful—or dangerous—plants and mushrooms. There weren’t many to find, but you still managed to forage a good amount of herbs to help with the common problems: aches, fevers, skin conditions, stomach issues and nausea.

It was nausea that brought Eli to you in the first place. They’d been spewing out their guts most of the day and you gave them some peppermint to chew on. You thought nothing of it—until they came back the next day. And the next.

At that point, you became suspicious. You told Eli there was either something seriously wrong with them or they were faking it. They responded with a sly grin and said they just really liked peppermint.

You kicked them out of your camper—only for them to show up again the next day.

And the next.

It wasn’t just the peppermint they liked.

You had made a friend. Or something.

In their former life, Eli had been everything you secretly wanted to be. An outspoken activist who wasn’t afraid to raise hell and stand up against authority. Meanwhile, you went on with your life, blending into the mass of people who had it good enough—and didn’t dare disrupt the system. 

Eli was on the barricades.They protested when resources and property were privatised, hosted workshops, raised funds, and trained others to fight back. They were also arrested—very publicly—more than once.

Year after year, support for their cause dwindled. Not because people stopped believing in Eli—but because they were too afraid.

And then the executions for civil disobedience began.

All support for Eli vanished, and they had to disappear, too. Otherwise, they’d risk ending up in front of a firing squad.

They really never talked about the toll it took on them to lose all support. Or about watching the world turn into a burning pile of garbage despite their efforts. Eli usually focused on reminiscing the glory days of the resistance and all the stunts they managed to pull off before the inevitable happened.

But you saw through the bravado. You saw the hurt behind it. And Eli saw the hurt behind your casual, withdrawn facade. It was that shared pain of losing everything you both had tried so hard to hold on to for so long that brought you together. 

There was no bullshit between you two. Just two broken pieces trying to fit together. Two people who had desperately tried to save something doomed and unsalvageable.

That hurt you shared also brought Eli to your bed at times.

You were never exclusive; you were never anything, really—other than friends. Sex was just a way to make the world disappear for a while. It started as one drunken night gone that got too far, but you soon realised you enjoyed their company in more ways than one. You enjoyed the closeness.

Eli’s body.

And Eli enjoyed yours.

So why deny yourselves one thing amidst the chaos that made you feel good?

The cold light of the morning that danced on Eli’s face made them look ethereal.

“It better be really special,” you said and leaned back on the bed. You were feeling grumpy—the heater needed parts, and you needed tea, which Eli had just casually nicked from you. “That’s the only source of caffeine we have, unless someone has a stash of coffee grounds somewhere.”

Eli laughed. “Fuck caffeine, Baby Hawk. You’ll flip out when you see what I brought.”

“It’s not like…” You were trying to think of any other stimulants there might be. “Expired Adderall or something?”

“It’s not,” they said. “And I don’t think Adderall expires.”

“That’s not true, not even remotely—”

“Will you shut up about drugs and see what I got you?”

You raised your hands. “Fine, alright, let’s see the not-drugs."

Eli skipped out of the camper and returned with their hands behind their back. You leaned on your elbows and cocked your head. “Well? What is it?”

They shook their head and laughed. That bubbly laugh would forever be stuck in your memory. You liked it, but never told Eli—it would have gone straight into their head.

“Catch!” Eli tossed something at you. You barely caught it mid-flight.

It was an unexpired can of peaches.

“Red? Hello?”

“Earth to Red: we’ve been standin’ out here for a while now!”

“Did ya faint?”

“Shit, what if she fainted? RED—”

Time to go. You snap out of whatever memory was running through your head. The guys are still standing in line, still waiting.

“I’m—I’m fine! Got a small cut, but I’m fine!”

You quickly rinse your hair one more time and empty the laundry bucket.

“It’s free now! Sorry!“ You call out.

There’s a fresh-looking set of clothes waiting for you outside and you struggle to pull the white linen shirt over your head. It’s a little itchy, you notice. All the clothes feel itchy.

Probably just because these are new and not worn-in, like the clothes you’re used to. These are new and made of natural materials, not polyester.

The smell of the detergent is strong.

At least you’re clean and wearing clean clothes. So what they are a bit itchy and don’t quite fit right—

It’s going to bother the hell out of you. 

Still, you have more pressing matters at hand and can’t let the slight discomfort get in the way.

You hear water splashing in the small room next to you. No sounds of friendly chatter, so it must be either Price or Ghost. Soap would probably try to strike up conversation through the thin wall. So would Gaz. But Price would likely focus on the task at hand and stay silent, and Ghost is… well, Ghost.

By the looks of it, the small washroom has been set up in what used to be a locker room for the water plant workers. Much of it is covered with tarp, plastic sheets taped over vents. A half-assed renovation project.

What if it’s the workers who are still running the plant, you muse—what if they all came to work one day, and the world ended before their day was done? 

Working overtime for eternity.

The trousers are just as uncomfortable as the shirt. An itchy robe completes the look.

You don’t have a mirror at your disposal, but you assume the outfit makes you look like you should be on the set of some evangelical TV show.

There’s a good chance you’ve actually run into a cult.

They didn’t shoot you at their doorstep. But if documentaries are any indication, these kinds of communities like to play the long game.

Should you judge a cult by its cover?

You sneak out of the dressing area with a pile of your wet clothes.

You feel weird and exposed in the new garments. You had to wash everything you were wearing—including your underwear—and weren’t given a new set of those along with the ill-fitting clothes.

The itchiness adds a layer of discomfort to your existing stress.

And migraine.

Fuck, the migraine…

There’s nothing but an empty hallway, brightly lit like you had just stepped into a hospital. Everything is clean. Sterile.

Maybe it’s a cult of Supreme Cleanliness. Maybe they all spend their time on the floor on their knees, scrubbing and—

“I’m sorry we couldn’t lend any underwear.” A voice, interrupting your thoughts, almost makes you jump out of your skin.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You flinch and immediately regret using those words—given the circumstances, using holy names in vain might not be the best idea.

The man who let you into the building flashes a small, hesitant smile. “And I’m also sorry for scaring you just now. It has been a while since we had any… guests.”

He’s trying to joke around a little. He’s being friendly.

“And again for… not introducing myself.” He laughs awkwardly. “My name is Oswald.”

“O...kay…” you cough out a reply. It’s not a name you were expecting, but then again, what name were you expecting? 

Oswald. A lanky, tall, skinny cult person called Oswald just doesn’t sit right.

He nods. He’s expecting a response.

“Red,” you say. There’s no way you’re giving Oswald any more information than that.

“Just Red?”

“Just Red.”

“Alright, Just Red,” he says, pointing down the hallway. “These rooms are all empty—pick whichever you want. Not much in the way of amenities, but there’s a bed, a couple of chairs, and a rack to hang your clothes.”

The water from the wet pile you're carrying is starting to seep through your clothes.

“What about our backpacks?”

“They’re too contaminated,” Oswald explains. “We can’t risk it.”

Besides the weapons, you had to leave everything except the clothes you were wearing in the box next to the door before they let you deeper into the building.

You were given an option to stay in the garage and wait for the storm to pass. But Price took one look at your tired face and decided to accept the terms.

He risked his team because he thought you were tired.

You tried to brush it off, but he wasn’t arguing with you.

And you do feel exhausted, but the idea of being treated like you’re fragile is strange and off-putting. Especially after surviving in the wilds on your own.

Which Price knows.

Has Ghost been talking shit about you? The thought nearly makes you cackle. All those moments he and Price stood around the map, pointing fingers… What if Ghost was just running his mouth?

Yeah, right. Like he’d ever run his mouth—you’ve barely heard him open it.

Maybe it’s time to step back a little.

And there’s plenty of space for that in this water treatment plant—or the Compound, like Oswald calls it.

You randomly choose a room and spread your clothes around to dry. It’s squeaky clean and smells faintly of bleach. There’s a makeshift bed against the wall, a chair, an empty shelving unit, and a filing cabinet. Marks on the floor where a desk once was. This room used to be an office. A window above the bed has been covered, but some kind of purple gloom bleeds in through the cracks.

That’s definitely not the outside.

There’s a lock on the door. You turn the small knob and it clicks.

The room locks from the inside.

At least you’ll have privacy.

Oswald is waiting in the hallway. A door to your left slams shut.

“The rest have been assigned rooms,” Oswald says. “Walk with me while they settle in?”

His demeanour has changed. The nervousness is replaced with a polished kind of friendliness. Like he’s trying very hard not to seem like a threat.

Maybe you should wait for the others.

Or maybe you should let them be and make your own decisions.

Oswald leads you out of the hallway and into an open space with more doors lining the walls.

“This floor used to be for management,” he says, opening a few doors for you to peek through. “We turned it into living quarters and storage. There’s a cafeteria below.”

A wide interior window opens down onto a large room with rows of tables. It’s surprisingly messy, considering the rest of the plant looks so clean and organised. Dirty dishes and overturned chairs—like a fight had broken out.

“The storm,” Oswald explains, noticing how your eyes linger in the mess. “It came out of nowhere. We had to hurry and secure the Compound. People will—hopefully—come back to clean up soon.”

“Isn’t the security automated? I mean…” Your brow furrows as you tear your eyes off the cafeteria. “I thought you had a control room where you could lock the doors remotely and all that.”

Oswald shakes his head. “The machines are getting old and there are no replacements. A lot of manual labour is still needed. Half of the console is useless.”

“And you mentioned a section that’s sealed off—the one we tried to get into.”

He pauses for a second. The bluntness of your questions might be a bit much.

“There was water damage. Black mould. You may have noticed how we tend to keep things clean around here? It’s because of stuff like that.”

Mould in the structures sounds like a very pre-apocalypse problem. It’s been the least of your worries whenever you’d settle down for a night. But maybe these people do have some weird fixation to hygiene.

And maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

“Does the—the plant itself still operate?” You’re trying not to turn this into an interrogation, but it’s hard.

“The filtration system itself is broken. But we still have chemical agents to treat the water. And the Compound is self-sufficient when it comes to electricity—the generators are water powered.”

An oasis in the middle of Hell itself.

“That’s… impressive.” And it is. Genuinely impressive.

“Not as impressive as what I’m about to show you,” Oswald says.

You follow him down two flights of stairs and—

Whoa.

He wasn't lying.

Heavy double doors swing open and reveal the source of that purple light you saw before. 

Grow lights.

Dozens of grow lights mounted on the walls, hanging from the ceiling, and on top of every surface. And basking in those lights—plants. All different kinds of plants you haven’t seen in years.

Tomatoes. Bell peppers. Cucumbers. Something that might be potato stems, beetroot, carrots. Herbs. Berries.

Strawberries in hanging baskets.

Plants you don’t even recognise.

The smell of it all makes you dizzy.

This isn’t an oasis. This is Paradise. In the middle of Hell, there’s a green paradise full of beautiful life.

“Wha—How—” You have so many questions, but can’t find the words. You’re stunned by the surrounding greenery. “How is this possible?” You finally manage.

“Clean water and power to keep the lights on,” Oswald replies.

“But—but pollination? And what do you do when the lights go out? Do you have replacements—”

He waves his hand, cutting you off. “Please, go ahead and enjoy the garden. You can eat anything you want, but be mindful—we have five new mouths to feed, it seems.”

He picks one strawberry for himself and one for you. “All your questions will be answered—in the meantime, have some of the blackberries. Or an apple. I’ll go see if your friends need assistance.”

An apple?

The strawberry tastes like nothing you’ve had in years. It’s like sunshine and summer— not the scorching heat that has turned most of the planet into a desert, but the summers of your childhood. When everything was green, soft and easy.

Oswald leaves, but you barely register it.

The whole thing is gone in two bites, but the taste lingers.

Apples.

Did he really say there’d be apples?

In the middle of the garden stands an apple tree—not huge, more like a tall bush. It doesn’t look very old. 

How long has this place been here? At least long enough for this tree to grow..

You hear the door open and close quietly. Oswald is back.

“Hey, just out of curiosity, how old is this tr—”

You turn around.

It’s not Oswald.

It’s Ghost. Of fucking course it is. He always shows up unexpectedly, unannounced and unnecessary.

He’s unfazed by the garden, like he’s seen a hundred just like it this past week. He doesn’t really greet you, just nods—acknowledging your presence.

And you don’t greet him either—you’re too distracted by what he’s wearing. Or, rather, not wearing.

He was given a similar set of uncomfortably itchy clothes as you, but only seems to have chosen to wear the trousers.

No shirt, no robe.

Only the trousers that clearly don’t fit right, because you can see his—everything. Outlined. Accentuated.

That has to be uncomfortable. 

Tight.

Don't think about it—and stop looking at it. Him. Stop looking at him.

And he has his mask on—Oswald probably didn’t feel like fighting him about it.

Suddenly, you want to giggle. No, you want to laugh. The sight of Ghost in nothing but his mask and a pair of ill-fitting trousers is utterly fucking ridiculous. Like you have never seen anything so funny in your life.

He stalks closer and you swallow the giggling fit that threatens to spill.

“Didn’t find a shirt?” you ask to break the silence. “There was a robe too, you know?”

“Didn’t fit,” he replies bluntly. You’re in a weird stand-off, the apple tree between you like a referee.

“I think they’d give you bigger clothes if you asked.”

“I’m fine,” he says in a tight voice that suggests he’s anything but.

In the bright light of the garden, it feels like you’re seeing him for the first time.

Really seeing him.

He’s bulked up. Put on weight. Soap must’ve practically shoved food down his throat—because from what you’ve seen, Ghost hasn’t exactly been enthusiastic about his meals. Not even after being forced to nibble his food in tiny bites for who knows how long.

But he looks better. Healthier, probably— you’ve never seen him shirtless before.

His body is as scarred as his face. Whatever stories are behind those marks, they’re none of your business. The white ridges, the pink gashes, the burns and blemishes—he’s had it rough.

He was such an asshole to you earlier. You’ve been on the fence about whether you like him or not, and land on a different side approximately every twelve hours.

And now he looks so… bare. Exposed.

You reach for an apple that hangs from the tree.

“Hungry?” you ask, trying and failing to sound casual as you approach him.

It’s not just an apple. It’s a peace offering.

It’s an act of kindness.

Because you are kind.

“No.” He shakes his head.

Oh, well fuck him, then. 

Not even a no thank you, just a no, point blank. You shrug and take a bite of the apple yourself, trying to act like there wasn’t a meaning behind it. 

“Your loss. This is delicious.”

“Wouldn’t eat anythin’ they give us. People don’t hand out food and expect nothin’ in return.”

He’s right, in a way. But the strawberry didn’t kill you, and why would they waste food just to poison people? 

The apple is so goddamn juicy. You’re in heaven right now.

“If I don’t start choking, will you eat the rest of this?” You try again, and this time, he doesn’t shoot it down.

“I don’t trust him,” he says—meaning Oswald. “I don’t trust people who give stuff away.”

“You trusted me.”

He trusted you enough to eat whatever you gave him. Starting with those fucking peaches…

“Right.” He takes half the apple you’re offering. “Startin’ to think I shouldn’t have.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why? Because you think I’m a burden? Because I’m a liability that doesn’t belong or some shit?”

There’s no use in pretending you didn’t hear the heated conversation he had with Price on the Wave Knight.

“You hear somethin’ and like to think you know everything, Red.”

Red.

He hasn’t called you that—he hasn’t called you anything, really. This is your first real conversation.

Red. 

The way he says it makes your cheeks warm. Like you’re… embarrassed. And not at all.

“I like to think I know enough, Simon.” You try your best to sound cool, and a little smug. But casually dropping his name like that doesn’t have the effect you’d hoped. Damn.

He lifts his mask just enough to take a bite of the apple. “Price wants us to protect you. I don’t think it’ll work out.”

That bite looks… enticing—no, it doesn’t. You’re just exhausted. And hungry. And weirded out by this conversation.

“Did you follow me down here just to stand there and piss me off?” You snap. “Why did you come at all?”

“Because it’s not safe here,” he says.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Not what I meant, Red.”

The others burst in, making loud remarks about the impossible wonderland in the middle of the water treatment plant. You don’t have time to unpack how he says 

Red.

You meet more people living in the plant over dinner. They’re all bald, like Oswald, and wearing similar robes. All white, all made of the same, itchy fabric.

You want to scratch the skin of your arms so badly you’re shaking.

During the dinner, you notice that Oswald is the only one from his group that really talks. The others grunt, hum, nod or shake their heads, maybe slip a word here and there, but stay silent most of the time. Price grills Oswald about the logistics of the place even more intensely than you did before. Oswald gives him the rundown to the best of his ability—turns out that he wasn’t working in the plant itself when the bombs dropped. He was an IT guy, who would come in when needed.

On that day, they had needed him.

It strikes you as a little weird that he doesn’t fully know how the security system works, given he worked in IT. But you surely don’t know anything about those systems either, so you let it slide. Maybe he was just a different kind of IT guy.

He’s more relaxed now, but still not the charismatic leader you’d expect to run a place like this. Then again, maybe you’ve watched too many cult documentaries. Or maybe he’s just the most competent one here.

Maybe none of that is your business.

They can’t be all bad if they have managed to run this place for as long as that apple tree has been here.

This place is wonderful.

Perhaps wonderful enough for you to stay, even after Price, Gaz, Soap and Ghost leave. That could work, in theory. Right? You’d be safe here. The building can withstand the weather and the surrounding area is dangerous enough to keep away any unwanted visitors. There’s water, food, a whole goddamn garden.

You can’t imagine Price being too upset about leaving you there. He would have done his part, paid his debt to Dad. You’d miss him a bit—Soap and Gaz a little more. They were good company.

Ghost you wouldn’t miss.

At all.

You would be more useful at the Compound than on the road—you know enough about crops to pull your weight. You just need to get Oswald on board.

It’s an exciting plan, but you keep it to yourself. You can’t just blurt it out during dinner—sleeping on it feels like a better idea. You need time to gather your thoughts until you discuss with either Price or Oswald.

There is, however, one thing you can’t see yourself getting used to, no matter how much time you’d spend at the Compound:

The itchiest clothes known to mankind.

After dinner, you retreat into the room assigned to you. Oswald gave you a handful of grapes for a late-night snack, which you devour on your way to the room. You crash into the small bed and would drift off happily—if it weren’t for the fucking clothes grating your skin raw.

Suddenly, it’s all you can think about. The itch. You want it to go away before you peel your skin off.

You glance at the door.

It’s locked and you’re alone.

The cabin on the Wave Knight had a lock too, but there was always the risk of a drill—or some emergency that yanked you out of bed in the middle of the night.

Fuck it. It’s not like anyone will see… 

You strip off the itchy clothes and toss them to the floor beside the bed. You can change into your old clothes tomorrow when they’re dry.

The bedsheets aren’t as itchy as the clothes. They feel… comfortable. Cool and surprisingly soft against your skin.

Even the bed is nicer than the one on the ship.

It’s getting harder and harder to think of a reason not to stay.

Is this how they get you? Is this how cults gain members? By having a lovely, cosy place with strawberries and apples…

Who wouldn’t want to join?

You chuckle as your eyes grow heavy and reality blends with the dreamworld. You weren’t supposed to sleep yet, it’s a little early for that… But you feel lazy and tired, warm and fuzzy… A bit disoriented, but…

Soft… and cosy.

So soft and so cosy you don’t register the key turning in the door you thought would keep everyone out.

Click.

Your eyes crack open. No, no, no…

You scramble for your clothes on the floor. Panic battles drowsiness—what’s wrong with you?

“It’s just me,” Oswald says. “I came to check on you and… I see you’re getting comfortable.”

The words he speaks are as cautious as before, but the tone of his voice has changed. There’s nothing friendly or welcoming in it now; it’s cold. Hostile.

Greedy.

Your eyes are blurry, like you’ve just slept for a week straight. He slithers closer and you back away, clutching the blanket like it would keep you safe. Like it would keep him away.

He sits on the bed and smiles.

He fucking smiles—not the polite, nervous smile from before. It’s a smile that says you’re fucked, that he saw an opportunity and seized it.

“It gets lonely here, you know,” he says. “Do you get lonely, Red?”

It doesn’t take a genius to get what he implies. You feel sick to your stomach, but it’s not just because of his words or how he says them. There’s a thick layer of haze muddling your thoughts.

The grapes. 

There was something in the grapes Oswald gave you. You downed the whole bunch without a second thought.

You trusted him. You trusted the lock on the door. You should’ve done more—pushed the filing cabinet in front of it or something.

You should have insisted you all stay in that garage.

You’re utterly fucked—and it’s your own stupid fault.

“You’re shaking,” Oswald croons. “Come on now, don’t be shy. It’s just closeness—”

You brought this upon yourself. 

Fight back.

Fight!

What the hell are you doing?

Fight him!

Kill h—

The door swings open and before either of you can react, Oswald is grabbed by the throat and slammed against the wall.

Ghost.

He holds the skinny, bald man up by the throat so effortlessly it looks like he’s choking a ragdoll. Oswald kicks and tries to pry off his fingers, but he only presses down harder.

Ghost could easily kill him, you realise.

Oh, fuck. Ghost is going to kill him.

No matter how much of a disgusting sack of shit that man is, killing him is not an option. And however much everything in you screams that you want him dead, you can’t watch him die.

“Stop,” you croak, trying to focus your eyes. “Ghost. Stop.”

Your voice is so thin, you think he won’t hear, but he lets go of the man who slumps down on the floor, heaving and coughing.

“I’ll do it,” Ghost grunts. “Next time I catch you like this, there won't be enough you left for a fuckin’ funeral.”

Oswald scurries out of the room.

You've definitely worn out your welcome, but that’s the least of your worries.

Ghost doesn’t check on you. You don’t expect him to—but it would make you feel a little less awful if he asked if you were okay. To which you’d lie that you are. You think he’s about to leave, but instead he closes the door, drags a chair in front of it, and sits down.

Sits and stares. Not at you, but just… the wall. Like he often does when he’s gone somewhere in his head.

“Go to sleep,” he says, without breaking eye contact with the wall.

“Will you…?”

“I’ll stay. In case he comes back.”

You turn around and pull the blanket up to your chin. It doesn’t feel comfortable anymore. The groggy, fuzzy haze from whatever was in those grapes is fading, and your heart starts to race.

You froze when you should have fought.

Oswald drugged you.

And Ghost had to save you.

Is that why you’re a burden? Did he just prove his point?

The sleep has left your body and refuses to come back. You lie awake, eyes wide open and perfectly still, like something bad would happen if you move an inch.

You’ve survived through so much and almost threw it all away for some fruits and vegetables.

You’re better than this.

Are you better than this?

Ghost sits on the chair and doesn’t make a sound. He chose to help you, chose to stay. You didn’t ask him to. He did it anyway.

He’s so quiet.

Maybe you should turn around to check if he’s still there—

“Jesus fucking Christ!” 

You roll onto your back—he’s there. Hunched above you. His eyes look almost black in the faint purple glow.

He’s close, but he’s not touching you.

He’s not trying to touch you.

He’s just there, his body covering yours, but not touching. And somehow you know he’d back off if you told him to.

The fear and nausea don’t sweep over you like they did when Oswald was this close to you. Not like when Oswald tried to—

“What are you… doing?” The words tumble out to fill the space between you.

He blinks.

“Noth—”

“Say nothing and I’ll make you eat that stupid mask.”

His eyes scan your face. What is he trying to see? 

You’re close enough to notice something you didn't catch before—a rash or burn, trailing from his right cheekbone down to his neck. It wasn’t there when you cut his hair and it wasn’t there when you saw him switch his balaclava to a gas mask.

Something caused it while he was stuck outside.

What happened out there?

And what’s happening now?

And why are you all but sitting on your hands to try to stop the urge to reach up and touch his face?

“Bed,” you murmur.

"What?" His voice is a strained, gravelly whisper.

Shit. What?

“You should sleep in the bed,” you say, struggling to form a sentence. Your face is burning. “You can’t sit on the chair all night. I can sleep on the floor.”

He sucks in a breath and you see his jaw clench.

“Please,” you add, and why in the hell would you do that? What is wrong with you? Now you suddenly care if he’s comfortable?

That makes Ghost snap out of the weird trance. He backs away and hesitates at the door.

“Sorry.”

The door closes. 

He's gone.

Chapter Text

Sorry.

With his eyes closed, Ghost leans against the door to your room.

He needs to calm down.

Sorry. That’s all he could come up with. What he actually wanted to say would've opened a whole can of worms he doesn't want to face right now. Still, that half-arsed sorry ringing in his ears sounds like mockery.

Sorry.

He didn’t mean to end up as your babysitter or your bodyguard. If it were up to him, they would’ve dropped you off to a secure location back in Europe. But Price was adamant that there wasn’t a place secure enough for you. Hell, it’s like he wants to lock you up in a vault and personally escort you there. Price won’t explain why your survival is so important, but Ghost trusts his Captain. He has no choice but to trust him.

But having you tag along with the team complicates things. No matter how close your father and Price once were, you’re still a wild card. An outlier.

And it’s not the only thing that bothers him.

You’re soft.

You’re too soft.

He noticed it right away when he saw you for the first time.

And that was before you ever saw him.

Ghost had been out scouring the wastes for—he honestly wasn’t sure how long—when he happened by an abandoned ski resort. The sun was beaming down from the cloudless sky and a half-collapsed gift shop offered just enough shade to cool off.

Day three without food or water.

Ghost was starting to lose his grip on reality.

The collar dug into his neck, chafing it raw. It was frustratingly hard not to accidentally cough and set off the whole thing. Or maybe he should’ve coughed—it would have at least let him out of his misery. And maybe taken the gift shop down with it.

He knew he wouldn’t survive much longer, anyway. He wouldn’t make it to England, let alone close enough to the Wave Knight to contact his team. His radio was fried—not a hard fix, normally. But since he couldn’t talk, he could do fuck-all with it. He needed someone. He needed help.

And without food or water, the rest wouldn't matter. 

The gift shop had nothing useful inside. The other stores down the road were all looted clean. It wasn’t a surprise—everything he’d come across had already been picked over long ago. The sand and dust had claimed ownership over everything.

Nobody nowhere.

Maybe he should’ve just climbed the mountain, screamed at the top of his lungs, and let the collar blow him sky-high. 

One last glorious explosion.

As if he were dramatic enough to do something like that.

He’d probably go alone, quiet, his body shutting down somewhere in the desert. So he might as well keep walking for as long as he could.

Ghost was about to check another abandoned store—ready to be pissed and disappointed—when a noise coming from it caught his attention. It wasn’t the wind rattling broken windows or the creaking of the old wooden facade.

Footsteps.

The empty resort wasn’t as empty as he thought.

Can’t be more than one person, he figured, crouching behind a window.

Footsteps. Something shattering. Someone cursing. The footsteps approached the storefront. They sounded light, so the person couldn’t be heavily armoured. Their voice was muffled, like they spoke through something—a mask or a scarf.

They passed Ghost without noticing him. Once the footsteps faded, he lifted his head to see the bloody bastard who was stupid enough to trample through the town alone in broad daylight.

That was the first time he saw you. You didn’t look like a raider—he had seen plenty of those. No weapons, no armour.

You looked like you were on a hike through the Alps with your backpack and duct-taped shoes.

You looked like the opposite of a threat.

That was when he made the split-second decision to follow you.

He would follow you for as long as his body would allow him to move. Eventually, he'd have to face you, and figure out how to get you to help him. That there’d be something in it for you. His plan was to persuade you to follow him to England and help him contact the ship. Whatever you’d do after that was none of his business. It was a bit harsh—he’d manipulate and coerce you if needed. But Ghost was desperate. And you looked easy to push.

Soft.

He didn’t have to wait for long. The opportunity came sooner than he thought. Just not in a way he would’ve preferred.

He was aware that he’d most likely be followed after his escape. The raiders were stupid but vengeful and would love nothing more than to make an example out of him. One of them in particular would cherish the opportunity to make him suffer. He hadn’t expected to be in the clear yet, but when he spotted the raiders following you from a distance, he knew he had to move. Fast.

Those nasty fuckers must’ve been after him, but got sidetracked by what looked like an easy target and a bit of fun. Ghost had been around them enough to know what they’d do to you.

He needed to come out of hiding and convince you he wasn’t a threat. Then he’d deal with the raiders.

When you pointed that pistol at him on the bridge, he knew you wouldn’t pull the trigger. Later, when he followed you to your camp and took care of the raiders, he knew you’d trust he was on your side.

When he showed you the collar and you offered him the can of peaches, he knew you would help.

You were kind.

And that made you soft.

And he put up with it, because he needed you.

Ghost put up with your meltdown at that small-town church. After you ran out, heaving and gagging, he calmly put each of those poor bastards out of their misery.

He listened to your monologues—not that he could speak anyway—and quietly overlooked how jittery you got whenever you came across a settlement. He didn’t tell you anything about himself, even though you kept asking. You talked a lot more than you probably realised.

He always turned his back whenever you took something from your backpack and sat down to talk to it. Whatever it was, your ways of coping were none of his business.

Your kindness might’ve helped him to get where he needed to go, but it almost caused a riot in Calais. Because you just had to talk to that lady with the kid and the dog and draw attention to yourself.

Luckily, Ghost had been standing near the water and pushed one of the hawkers down to create a distraction. He didn’t feel too bad about it—that same bastard had approached him and asked how much it would cost to take you out of his hands for an hour. Slimy piece of shit was going to end up in the bottom of the bay either way.

He tolerated looking after you—though, to be fair, you looked after him too. You didn’t just forage yourself; you showed him which plants were edible and always made sure there was at least something to eat. It was never enough, but if it had been up to him, he would’ve starved to death.

You also got tickets for both of you to the Chunnel, even though you didn’t have to. You helped him reach Johnny and shared your campfire and noodles on what you both figured would be your last night together.

You set his sprained finger.

Ghost thought you’d be gone by morning.

Something changed after you lost your backpack in Folkestone. Whatever was inside it must’ve been irreplaceable. And the farther you got from it, the glassier and more vacant your eyes became. Like you were coming to terms with the fact that you’d never get back your…. whatever it was that had meant so much to you.

It made him feel guilty. It wasn’t exactly his fault that it was lost, but he made a point to send the two gonks who had captured you to look for it. Just in case.

You cut his hair.

He didn’t hate it.

Just when Ghost had made peace with you staying on the ship, Price yanked the rug from under him—the team was heading to Canada and bringing you along.

Price said they’d keep you safe. Ghost knew that was impossible—there was no safety where they were going. His team walked right into danger head first like it was a habit. You’d have a better chance to survive literally anywhere else.

Your dad might’ve been a general, but you weren’t a soldier.

You were too kind.

Too soft.

You belonged somewhere safe. Somewhere not around him them.

But that decision wasn’t his to make.

It still isn’t his decision.

Not even if it makes things complicated. Not even if it frustrates the hell out of him. 

It’s up to Price, who clearly knows more than he lets on. Ghost has never seen his Captain act this way—almost paranoid. Like they're smuggling a bomb across the continent.

They could've stayed in the garage. That was Price's call, too. Is his age starting to catch up to him? At least in the garage, you wouldn't have been alone. And Oswald—

He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe. In and out. Slow and steady.

He’s still so furious he’s shaking. Seeing that spineless, disgusting fuck sitting on your bed and talking to you like that—talking to you at all—made his blood boil.

Ghost wanted the man dead.

He tried to touch you—so Ghost would make sure he’d never touch anyone again.

“Stop. Ghost, stop.”

Your voice had shut off his murderous rage like a switch. He didn’t want to stop—he wanted to see Oswald’s eyeballs bulge and pop out right of his skull. But you were right. Killing him could bring the whole Compound after the team. So he let the scumbag run and would deal with the consequences later. With his own two hands, if necessary.

The aftershocks of burning hot rage pulsate through his body. For a fraction of a second, he felt like he was watching himself from the outside, choking out that miserable piece of shit. He’s no longer in captivity and doesn’t need to compartmentalise the ever-loving fuck out of everything, but still… 

His anger didn’t die down when the bastard left. He can still picture Oswald’s bug-eyes, staring at you like you were something he was entitled to. And you—what the bloody hell were you doing naked?

Ghost has to rein himself in. You being naked wasn’t the cause of all this. The clothes are uncomfortable. The door has a lock on it. You trusted you’d be safe. It’s not your fault.

He probably should’ve said that instead of sorry. But he doesn’t really know how to talk to you—lately, it has turned into a weird cock-measuring contest. You act like you don’t need help from anyone and every time he opens his mouth you bite his head off.

Almost every time.

It’s ridiculous how fast life fills up with meaningless shit like bickering, when he’s not just trying to survive the next moment, and the next, and the next—

He planned to sit on that chair all night, ready to make sure Oswald would meet his maker if he came crawling back. But he couldn’t help himself—he had to check on you. He has spent so many nights watching you sleep by the campfire that he knew something was wrong. You were dead silent and perfectly still. He needed to see if that fucker had managed to lay a hand on you, after all.

And of course you turned around just then.

Now you probably think he’s a bloody pervert like Oswald.

Fuckin' hell.

You should’ve stayed on the ship.

The fluorescent lights burn through Ghost’s eyelids. The lighting, the smells, the clothing —everything is so unbearably uncomfortable it makes him want to punch a wall. The smell is the worst of them—it’s like bleach mixed with something else. Something familiar. 

Fuckin’ hell, do these people drink bleach and then shit it out?

A dark figure suddenly blocks the light.

“L.t.” A quiet whisper calls to him. He opens his eyes and sees Soap standing in front of him, wearing his regular clothes instead of the horrible Compound robes.

“Johnny.” Ghost nods, wondering if his Sergeant can sense how far on the edge he is.

“What’s wrong? Ya doin’ alright?” Apparently he can.

“Caught that sack of shit in her room.” Ghost grits his teeth. “He was tryin’ to… feel her up. ”

“Jesus…” Soap’s jaw clenches. “Oswald? What did ya do?”

Ghost shrugs, but his Sergeant doesn’t let up that easily. 

“Simon. What did you do?”

“Not enough, ” Ghost huffs. “Just scared him a bit. I think we should start packin’.”

“No arguments here. I’d rather we take our chances outside.”

So he has noticed it too. There’s something very wrong with this place.

“If the storm has died down, we can leave,” Soap continues. “The thing is, there’s no way of knowin’. The only windows are in the part that has been sealed off and in the control room that’s locked.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny. Been snooping around?”

The Scot flashes a grin. “Aye. Was actually doin’ my job while you were out there in the garden, seein’ Red.”

Ghost shoots him a look.

“She can't be by herself. That bastard almost got her—” He doesn’t even want to finish the thought. The grin on Soap’s face disappears.

“Is she alright?”

“She’s safe.”

“Aye, but is she alright? ”

Probably not. But safe has to do. For now.

“You up for some more recon, Johnny?”

“Always, L.t.”

Soap stands guard by your room as Ghost returns to his own to change. His clothes haven’t fully dried, but he prefers them over the scraps Oswald and his minions forced on him.

They need to move quickly. First, they have to alert Price and Gaz about what happened and make sure one—or ideally both— look after you. After that, they need to break into the sealed wing and the control room. It has to be done now while most of the Compound is sleeping.

“I’ll try to get through to the part that’s sealed off while Johnny breaks into the control room. There could be an exit they’re not using.”

“Aye, I’ll see if I can turn off the security.”

“Could either of you swing by the room we left our things in?” Price asks. “Oswald’s ego’s bruised. Leaving here might not be as easy as we thought.”

“It’s closer to the control room,” Soap says. “What can we use to break down the doors?”

Ghost tosses him a metal pipe. Soap frowns.

“It’ll take fuckin’ forever with these.”

“Can’t afford to be precious about it, Johnny.”

His Sergeant grumbles something under his breath.

“RV here in an hour,” Price says. “That’s about all the time we have. Good luck.”

The hallway to the closed-off part of the Compound is blocked by a pile of office equipment. None of it is heavy, but it's still frustratingly hard to move. 

He only needs to make enough room to get the door open. He has to be quick, silent—

“You’re being really loud.”

What the fuck?

You emerge from behind a row of filing cabinets with your hands raised. You’re not here to argue. You still look a little shaken and definitely haven’t slept.

“Just thought you should know,” you say, tapping a finger on one of the metal cabinets. “This space echoes, and most of these are metal.” 

“You’re supposed to be with Price,” Ghost says.

“Well, technically, I am. He thinks I’m in the bathroom.”

Fuckin’ unbelievable. You slipped away from the people looking after you just to follow him?

“Do you need help?”

He wants to tell you to sod off and go back to Price before all hell breaks loose when he realises you’re gone. But instead, he says, “Think you could lift these?”

You nod. Together, you start shifting the furniture until the path to the door is cleared. Ghost wedges the metal pipe between the frame and the edge.

“Oswald said it’s black mould,” Your tone drips with disgust at his name. “That’s why it’s closed off. But I don’t think that’s it.”

“It’s the smell,” Ghost says. “Like they’re covering somethin’ up with bleach.”

“You noticed it too? I can’t really tell what it is, other than it smells… familiar, somehow.”

Ghost leans into the pipe and the door pops open. The stench of that something familiar lingers in the air behind it.

“You should go back,” he says. You shake your head. For whatever reason, you’d rather follow him into the possibly mould-infested and dangerous space than go back to Price and Gaz. He knows he should stand his ground and make you leave, but the look on your face…

You really, really don’t want to. So he’s not forcing you to.

“See if there’s a light switch. I’ll go in first.”

He hears you sigh, like you’ve been holding your breath just now. 

The lights flicker on one after another. There’s nothing unusual—and no black mould, either. Just doors lining the walls like everywhere else. But the smell is getting stronger.

The door that leads outside is nailed shut tight. It would take a while to get through all the layers of boards and plywood—someone clearly wanted it sealed. Ghost sweeps the area, looking for more exits, but there are none. A large window sits on the opposite wall. It’s boarded up too, but not as tightly as the door. He wedges the metal pipe behind a plank and pries. A couple of boards come off easily.

The window overlooks the roaring rapids below. No one’s getting in through here. 

Or out.

It’s dark, but the wind has died down. The storm has passed.

From his peripheral, he sees you trying the other doors. They’re all locked or barricaded.

“This one moves,” you say, pushing your full weight against one. Ghost gestures for you to step aside. The smell is very strong here.

What is that?

Like bleach mixed with something.

“Might not be black mould, but could still be toxic,” he says. “Stay back.”

Like that would help. If there’s something in the air, you’ve both probably been breathing it for a while now.

The door feels heavy. It gives a little, then slams shut again—like something behind it moves when he pushes. He rams into it a couple of times, until it finally cracks open halfway, revealing the source of the stench.

It’s not often Ghost sees or smells something that makes him want to barf. He’s seen and smelled a lot in his life.

But a room full of rotting corpses doused in bleach is breaking his resolve. 

You’re not doing any better— openly gagging at the foul stench.

“Fuck…” You say, holding your nose. He wholeheartedly agrees.

The bodies—Ghost counts twenty—have been here a while. They’re not fully broken down, but they’re in similar stages of decomposition. He’s no expert, but it looks like they all died around the same time.

“Three weeks at most,” you say quietly. You’ve caught on to the same thought. “It’s pretty cold and dry here, but they would still be soup if it was longer than that.”

You’re not panicking. There are dead bodies scattered around the room, and yet you’re calm. A little nauseous, sure, but otherwise just fine. Level-headed. Analytical. That’s… good, isn’t it? He recalls how you lost your shit after encountering the dying people in the church. How is this any different?

Who are you and what have you done to Red?

Are you still in shock?

“They’re wearing overalls,” you continue, like some proper crime scene investigator. “I think these are the people who worked here. And if they’ve only been dead for a while, it means—”

“That whoreson had somethin' to do with it,” he concludes. “And he’s after you—us now.” Ghost pulls the door shut, knowing that the smell will linger in his memory for a long time. “Let’s get back to Price and the others.”

Price looks angry but relieved when he sees Ghost return with you.

“Do not pull that kind of shit again, yeah? I’ll deal with you later,” he says to you, and turns to Ghost. “Did you find anything?”

“A room full of dead factory workers,” Ghost says.

“A room full of murdered factory workers,” you correct him. You’re becoming your annoying self again. “I think those were the ones who actually kept this place up and running before Oswald took over.”

“Bloody hell… Explains why he couldn’t go into specifics of how this place works.”

Soap catches up to the rest of the team. “All gone. Couple o’ our masks were on the floor, but everything else—the backpacks, our guns, the whole box— gone. Heard someone comin’ and bolted.”

“What about the control room?”

“Aye, there was…” Soap takes a deep breath. “The console was broken. Like someone had smashed it with a hammer. And there was a fuckin’ body in the corner, wearing a jumpsuit. Beaten to death, poor bastard.”

“We found his coworkers,” Ghost says grimly. “Anything useful in there?”

“Managed to open the garage door and jam it. Permanently, I think. Flipped a few switches, tampered with some wires—not sure if it did anything.”

"Well done, MacTavish.” Price pats Soap on the shoulder. “We might have to fight our way through. Grab anything you can use as a weapon—"

“I have a better idea,” says a voice that sparks nothing but violence in Ghost. He turns to see Oswald pointing at you with a rifle.

His rifle.

“I suggest you all get back to your rooms and stay there.”

Chapter Text

Time flies when you’re having fun.

It, however, stops when something bad's about to happen.

When you say something stupid.

When you drop something.

It stays still forever, just before the impact.

Time doesn’t move when there’s a rifle pointed at your neck.

Angled just enough that you can see Oswald’s bug-eyes and his pupils shrunken into pinheads. He’s on something.

The whole fucking Compound is on something.

“You’re coming with me,” he says. His voice is shaky, and so are his hands holding the rifle with the exact confidence of someone who doesn’t know how to use it. Which could be even worse—he might pull the trigger by accident and send you right to Dad and Eli. Or he could misfire, hit an artery, and you’d bleed out slowly. Or he could—there are a thousand scenarios that could play out if the psychopath fucking flinches.

Oswald needs to stay calm, so you get to live.

You raise your hands, slowly, taking shallow breaths and avoiding any movement that his addled brain could interpret as a threat. Without breaking eye contact with him, you move closer to the nearest door. You need to get him out of the hallway.

Away from the others.

The others, who are standing by. Frozen, like time itself. You can’t tear your eyes off Oswald to look, but you know they’re all watching. Helplessly, just… watching the situation unfold.

You can’t see Ghost, but his rage is so palpable you can sense him.

Oswald seems sure that pointing the weapon at you is enough to keep the whole team in check. What if he’s bluffing? What if he doesn’t even know how to shoot? No. That’s too risky to even consider.

Your foot hits the threshold and you start backing into a room. Oswald follows. Oh shit, what if he trips, and the gun goes off? It’s just you and him now, and the room is small, so very small. He keeps inching closer and closer. The wobbling barrel of the assault rifle is almost—

And then, every single light goes out at once.

Time is moving again, and on instinct, you duck. The rifle above fires with a bang that turns the pitch-dark room into a horrifying echo chamber. But it misses you, he misses you, and you hear his frustrated swearing coming from the direction of the door.

Run.

The lights flicker back on for a second as you make a stumbling dash towards the door and into the hallway. Soap’s tampering must’ve done something, because the lights are flashing on and off like you’re in a goddamn doomsday discotheque.

“The garage!” Someone shouts. Gaz? Maybe. “Let’s go!”

“Get her out of here!” Another voice responds as the hallway erupts into chaos. You’re grabbed, dragged along, and you realise it’s Soap who has a steel grip on your arm.

“I’m okay,” you say, but your voice is hoarse, shaky, and not at all convincing.

“Aye, sure you are,” Soap grunts. You whip your head back just enough to see Ghost holding Oswald in a chokehold, like he did a few hours ago.

This time, you’re not going to tell him to stop.

“He’ll catch up,” Soap says. “Won’t take long for him to—”

“Through here!” Gaz holds open the door that leads into the locker room. It hasn’t even been a full day since you were obliviously scrubbing yourself in the washroom, and now you’re running for your life.

The door to the garage is locked. Soap and Price start breaking it down, while you keep glancing back over your shoulder.

Ghost is still back there. What is taking him so long?

The door gives way and Price tosses Gaz one of the gas masks.

“Red gets one of these. The rest of us—we figure something out.”

It doesn’t take a genius to understand that there’s no alternative to a gas mask in these conditions. The best you can do is run fast enough to get away before the yellow dust clogs your lungs.

A roaring sound echoes from the bellows of the Compound. The rest of those maniacs are awake and coming after you. This was a setup all along. A trap you all half-willingly walked into.

“We have to GO! NOW!” Price shouts. “Where’s Ghost?”

Still out there. 

Soap spits a litany of Scottish curses and shakes his head

“I’ll go get him. Move out—”

A wallowing mass of Oswald’s henchmen, followers, fucking minions floods the locker room. Suddenly, they seem to be coming from all directions, crawling out of air vents—like a swarm of murderous cockroaches. Price and Gaz back out into the garage, trying to fight them off with whatever they can get their hands on.

These fuckers are high as a kite. They’re trampling over each other, screaming, laughing, and don’t seem to care if they’re hurt. Soap knocks over a woman who’s reaching out to grab your hair.

“Come on!”

You can’t see or hear Gaz or Price—the screaming crowd blocks the garage.

You have to go back.

Adrenaline floods  your legs and your muscles grow tight and numb. You stop thinking about anything except getting away from the grabbing hands and swinging fists. You end up back in the hallway. In the blinking light, you see a pile of bloody robes on the floor, poorly covering something—someone—that's been beaten into pulp.

Ghost isn’t here.

So he just fucked up Oswald and—left? Where?

Soap kicks the mangled body.

“Go fuck yerself, Simon!” He grits his teeth. “This is the last time I come after ya.”

A faint, hollow sound of metal grinding against concrete echoes from somewhere in the building. You can barely hear it from the banging and howling on the other side of the wall.

“I know where he is.”

You and Soap hurry towards the closed-off part of the Compound. The furniture you moved earlier is piled up again—Ghost has built a barricade to buy himself time. Soap helps you over the blockage and you rush through the door.

A figure lunges from the shadows like a panther and slams Soap against the door.

“Stop!” You croak. “It’s—it’s just us!”

Ghost backs off and stares at you and Soap. He opens and closes his mouth, like he’s about to scold you, but then decides against it. There’s no time for that now.

“Help me with the door, Johnny.”

His Sergeant also looks like he’s about to go off on him, but stays silent. You all begin to tear down the layers of plywood blocking the exit.

A cacophony of screams and growls tells you that Oswald’s army of junkies is approaching. And you’re no closer to getting out—under every piece of wood is another, nailed tight.

“What’s through there?” Soap points at the window on the opposite wall.

“Can’t go that way,” Ghost says, as his fingers dig into a sheet of plywood. “It drops into the river. Could be shallow, we’ll break our necks—if we’re lucky.”

The barricade comes crashing down behind you.

There’s nothing between you and them now.

And the exit… 

The door is still blocked.

“Fuckin’ hell… Keep at it!” Ghost runs to hold off the horde that’s charging at you. The final barrier blocking the door is more nails than wood. It won’t budge.

It won’t budge. You’re trapped.

“Red.” Soap wraps his arms around you, but it’s not a comforting gesture.

“Yeah?”

“You can swim, right?”

You manage half a nod—Soap is already breaking down the boarded window. The cool night air bites into your skin for a second before you fall into the freezing river below. 

Alone.

The last thing you see is Soap being violently yanked back inside. You plunge into the water and the current pulls you under.

The bubbles should tell you which way is up.

But in the dark, muddy water you can’t see them. The river hurls you downstream, tossing you around like a ragdoll. You can’t see. You can’t hear anything besides the rushing water. Your lungs are collapsing, like waiting for an inhale of water that would end it all.

And Soap would’ve saved your sorry ass for nothing.

You struggle to bring your hand close to your face and let out a weak stream of bubbles. You try to feel which way they’re going, but it might as well be up, down, left or right.

Again.

You force yourself to blow more bubbles.

Left.

Again.

The bubbles are going left.

The water wants to pull you back into the murky depths, and keep you forever. But self-preservation kicks in and you fight it.

You fight death. 

You fight against the fucking nature that’s just doing what it’s done since the beginning of time.

You’re not going down. You’re not going to die.

Not today.

The sound of the river changes as you near the surface. You can hear the rapids churning around you, and the faint glow of the dawn filters through the water.

You don’t care if half the air you’re breathing is yellow dust—as long as it’s air. You gulp a breath, sink below the surface, and come back up. There are no rocks, thank fuck. The river is dangerous enough as is.

But there’s nothing to hold on to, either.

You know you can’t float on forever.

The river merges into another body of water—wide, like an open maw. You can barely make out shoreline in the distance. The current slows down, but you’re dangerously tired. You keep going under, again and again, and every time you come up you struggle to stay there. 

The adrenaline is wearing off. Suddenly you feel the cold, and the ache in your limbs. The shore is far away. So impossibly far.

You sink down and come up again.

You wheeze in a desperate breath.

Your back slams against something. It knocks what might be your last wind right out of you.

A pipe sticks out of the water.

A gas line, maybe. Or something like that.

Now, it’s your saving grace.

You haul yourself onto it and flop on your back. It’s not really safe—you could fall off any second—but you're too exhausted to care.

The yellow haze gleams somewhere in the horizon.

You’ve drifted far from the Compound.

And the others… They’re gone.

It’s like a slap in the face.

You’re alone.

Gaz and Price made it to the garage. That’s all you know. Maybe they got out—maybe they didn’t.  Even if they did, they won’t find you.

If they’re alive, they’re not coming to save you.

Soap got pulled back inside by those fucking psychos.

Because he let you escape first.

And Ghost…

He killed Oswald.

The horde must have torn him to pieces. Trampled over him like a herd of buffalo—dug their disgusting fingers into his eyes and—

Ghost saved you—from Oswald, from raiders, from becoming a target in Calais, from falling out the window in Folkestone. He kept saving you. Standing guard even when you didn’t appreciate it.

So many times.

Only to die like that.

Fuck.

You can’t cry—not that you don’t want to. You physically can’t. Your body no longer has the energy to produce tears. The only thing left is to balance on the pipe, and breathe.

In.

He annoyed the shit out of you.

Out.

But he didn’t choose to be around you.

In.

He clearly wanted nothing to do with you.

Out.

Yet he stuck around. Always.

In.

His Captain probably told him to look after you.

Out.

But he made sure you were safe. Even before you got on the Wave Knight.

In.

He used you to get to the ship.

Out.

He’s not a bad person.

In.

Out.

You start drifting in and out of consciousness along with your breathing. Exhaustion is winning. Once it claims victory, you’ll fall into the water and drown.

“Red!”

You snap awake for a second, then your heavy eyes fall shut again. Auditory hallucinations. A sure sign of the inevitable.

“RED!”

Is this what it’s like? The last moments of your life—your name ringing in your ears as the world dissolves into nothing.

“Shit… RED!”

The voice is insistent. Who the fuck is calling you in your final hour? Your head is heavy—like it’s cast in lead—as you turn to look. A blob of something drifts closer.

The blob has an arm, which it waves and it keeps calling for you. You lift your own to wave back, but the movement tips you off balance and you dive head first into the water.The blob curses and shouts. Someone grabs you by the shoulder. You force your eyes open.

Soap stares back at you, shocked.

“Red, can ya hear me?” He shakes you. You cough out water and try to answer. Nothing comes out. Half-convinced he’s just a hallucination, you grab his arm. You’re both floating on a wooden pallet, which can barely support your combined weight.

“You’re… here.” Your voice isn’t yours. It’s barely a voice at all. “You’re not dead. You’re here, and… and not dead.”

You're stammering. Soap blinks, then nods slowly. Like he can’t believe you’re alive, either.

“Ghost,” you say, swallowing a sob. “Where’s… where is…”

“Dinnae ken,” he hisses. “Thought he jumped after me, but…” Like you, Soap is struggling to find words. If the thought of his Lieutenant sacrificing himself gnaws your chest, it tears his wide open.

Soap cared about Ghost more than anyone.

“What about… Gaz and… Price…” Your throat burns. But you need to know. 

“If they made it out, they’ll head to Saguenay.” Soap reaches for your hand. “Listen, Red. We’ll get out if this. We’ll be alright. I promise—”

“SOAP!”

He vanishes with a splash and the water swallows him whole.

Without thinking, you dive after him. But the dark, filthy depths are playing sadistic hide and seek with you.

You call out to him every time you come up for air, but there’s no answer—only lazy waves that rise so high you can’t see behind them. The current is trying to pull you away, but you can’t give up the last person you have left. Everyone else is dead.

Everyone else is gone.

You make one last desperate dive after Soap, but run out of air too quickly. 

You can’t find him.

You can’t save him.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, just to get it out in the universe. It’s not just for him, it’s for everyone. “I’m so sorry.”

“Quit moanin’ and gimme a hand.”

What? 

You’ve finally lost it.

There's no fucking way.

“Are you deaf? He’ll drown!”

Ghost.

His voice is stern, but his eyes are wide with panic. You use what little strength you have to keep Soap’s head above water while Ghost steers all three of you to the shore.

Where the hell did he come from?

Each time you get closer to the shore, a rogue wave draws you back. Again and again, so many times that you lose count.

When your knees scrape against the rocks in the shallows, the relief almost makes you cry. Maybe you already are crying. It’s hard to tell—your face is numb from the cold, and your eyes burn with exhaustion.

Ghost carries Soap until the water is so far behind it can’t possibly reach them anymore. He lays his Sergeant down and begins chest compressions.

You stumble on your shaky feet and follow him, but he doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t care.

You’re alive, enough, so you don’t exist to him right now.

You sit—or collapse—onto a patch of dry grass and stare as Ghost puts everything he has into reviving Soap, who lies motionless on the ground.

He’s not breathing.

Time slows down again.

The overwhelming urge to run takes over. You don’t want to see it. You can’t see him die. 

But your legs are frozen in place.

You squeeze your eyes shut and cover your ears. It makes no sense; Soap’ll die quietly, peacefully, almost like he’s falling asleep. But still you can’t watch.

How long is it going to take?

How long until Ghost gives up?

Seconds stretch into minutes.

Is it over?

Is he gone?

You crack open one eye to see.

Ghost sits beside the body of his Sergeant with his head bowed. He has stopped the compressions.

It’s over.

Soap is dead.

You don’t know what to do.

You don’t know what to say.

And you don’t have to.

With a strangled gasp, Soap jolts back to life. He groans and sits up.

“I—” Ghost starts.

Soap punches him square in the face.

“YOU!” he roars. “And yer fuckin’ death wish!”

Ghost tugs his mask up and wipes his nose. It’s bleeding. Soap growls and lunges at him, tackling Ghost to the ground.

You stare, dumbfounded, at the brawl that has broken out in front of you. Or, not a brawl—it’s just Soap beating the shit out of his Lieutenant. Ghost takes a punch after another, until he decides he’s had enough. He lands a good few jabs and they both go tumbling down towards the water. You sensed some tension earlier, but whatever it was it’s now being released all at once.

They’re not going to stop until one of them either gives up or gets knocked out.

You have to do something before they both end up at the bottom of the river.

They’ve tired themselves out and can barely stand up. Still, they keep at it, hitting and kicking and tackling each other like complete…

“IDIOTS!” you scream, hoping to break it up. Neither of them even looks your way. It’s not the best idea to get between two people in a fistfight, but you have to do something.

“If you two don’t stop RIGHT NOW, I swear to—FUCK!” A fist slams into your jaw with a crackling sound that definitely isn’t good. You fall flat on your ass.

“See what ya did now? You hit her!” Soap—three and a half Soap’s, actually—kneels beside you.

“She got in the way.”

“And I’ll do it again,” you grunt. Your face stings. “Are you two done?”

“Aye,” Soap says, extending a hand. “We’re done.”

The shore you’ve washed up on leads into a forest that looks untouched. A nature reserve or a national park.

Your face throbs. It’s swelling already and there’s nothing to ease the pain. You’re not familiar with the local plants, and you’re too exhausted to tell cloves apart from foxgloves, anyway.

Getting yourself poisoned would be a perfect fucking cherry on top of this shit-muffin.

Ghost marches so far ahead you can barely see the back of him through the trees. Soap stays with you, but he’s not making any small talk. He checks on you every now and then, but mostly stays quiet.

Something’s been brewing between those two for a while, and the fight was just a glimpse of what bubbles underneath. The bruise in your jaw is a painful reminder to not get involved more than you already have.

Can they keep their collective shit together all the way to Saguenay—if you even get there? You’ve been wading through dense forest for hours now, and you’re starting to think you’ve been going in circles.

“Buildings up ahead.” You can barely hear Ghost’s voice through the thicket clawing at you from all sides.

Oh, fuck me sideways—is that poison ivy?

You yank your sleeves down, trying to shield your skin.

The trees part into a clearing—an abandoned campsite, with a few rotting cabins that are one breeze away from collapsing. Nothing remarkable, but not something to ignore either—campsites usually have maps for the hikers. You spread out to search.

Two of the three cabins are empty. The third one is jam-packed with junk. Upon closer inspection, it turns out to be some kind of office. Still no maps anywhere. Nothing useful.

You kick the wooden frame of a cabinet. It splinters from the force and the pieces fly around the cabin.

You’re done. Suddenly, you’re so fucking done with everything. You’re tired, hungry, angry, and hurt.

Usually, you’re good at pushing those things down. But not right now.

Is it because you’ve never almost died this many times in one day?

Because you thought that sticking with special forces would somehow make life easier?

Is it because Ghost fucking punched you?

You find something else to kick. It’s stupid.

But so are you.

Fuck it.

Fuck it, fuck this.

Ghost walks past the broken doorway, says nothing and moves on.

Fuck him.

Fuck you.

Fuck you fuck you fuck you—

Clank.

A piece of junk you kicked around the moss-covered floor hits something metallic and hollow. You kneel down and peel away layers of wet, cold moss.

“There’s a hatch!” You call out.

It looks like an entrance. 

It could be a bunker.

The mechanism is stuck, and it takes several tries to get it open. It’s completely dark down there, but there’s no smell—the air is bone-dry. Still pissed off, you don’t stand around waiting for instructions. You climb down the metal rungs that lead into the bunker.

What’s the worst that could happen?

You feel your way around in the dark. Near the ladder, hanging on the wall is something that’s shaped like a cylinder with a little handle on top. It's an electric lantern.

Your luck is really starting to turn.

You find the switch, and the lantern turns on, emitting a faint buzz and a blinding beam of light.

“Oh shit!” you stumble backwards.

“What’s goin’ on?” Soap's voice echoes off the concrete structures.

“Nothing, nothing… I found a light!”

“Any maps down there?”

“I’ll look around, just—keep the hatch open, please.”

A horrible thought of the hatch snapping shut and trapping you underground crosses your mind, but you shove it down.

You notice the bunker barely fits one person: there’s a single sleeping bag, a table, and a chair. A cooking plate and a small gas tank—empty, unfortunately. A bunch of empty water bottles. Those could be useful if you find a water source.

Your eyes scan the shelves lining the walls. Was this the campground manager’s personal bunker—a hidey-hole no one knew about?

You’ve seen TV-shows about doomsday preppers. 

Looks like they were right. Kind of.

Everything is neatly organised, but most of it is what you don't need right now. Books and magazines. You flip through a couple.

Oh. That’s… porn. Okay.

Fun, but not crucial for survival.

Mugs, bowls, spoons, toilet paper. Could be useful, but you need something to carry them in. Maybe someone got here before you. Or maybe the campground manager left with all his maps and food, leaving all the useless shit behind.

You almost miss a cardboard box stashed behind the cookware. It’s tucked in the back, like someone was trying to hide it. That usually means there’s something valuable inside.

The tape holding it together comes off and crumbles into dust.

Holy fucking jackpot.

A whole stack of canned food—beans, corn, tomatoes, and something that looks like Spam, but with a label in a language you don’t understand. You’ll be good for a while with these.

There’s a folder under the cans. You skim through the contents.

“Got some maps,” you shout and get a mildly enthusiastic response. “And food.”

The folder is a mess of notes, a journal of some kind. A log, maybe? There are graphs of weather patterns, folded maps and drawings stuffed inside of it.

Maybe there’s something useful there.

You decide to take the whole box. And the sleeping bag for good measure—

“Oh my god!” 

A cloud of dust puffs into the air as the sleeping bag reveals itself to be the final resting place of someone who stayed in the bunker. The body is dried up, mummified. The person was curled up under the sleeping bag when they died.

Poor guy went down for a nap and never got up again. It’s more sad than scary.

You pull the sleeping bag over them. It doesn't feel right to take it.

“Sorry I woke you up,” you mutter, and leave the bunker.

“Steamin’ Jesus, that’s a proper shop down there.” Soap takes the box, clearly impressed by your haul. “Anything else?”

“Just the… resident, I think,” you grimace. “Here are the maps.” You shove them into Ghost’s hands and don’t bother to wait for a reply. You don’t want to be around him right now.

You take a gamble with the canned food and open what might be Spam. It’s surprisingly tasty—slightly sweet, but definitely not expired.

So, you’re back to this life. Canned food that you have to stretch so it lasts for miles and miles, and days and weeks. Hiking towards the unknown.

It’s not so bad.

Well, it’s kind of bad, but it’s what you’re used to. You might even prefer it—especially compared to the horrors of the Compound. It feels like a lifetime away, and it has barely been a full twenty-four hours.

You sit down on a fallen tree trunk and open the folder. The log entries go back a few years. Some of them are smudged, and the handwriting is hard to read at times, but one by one they paint a picture of what happened to the place.

[2022/06/04]

Sunny, 26°C

Hope I got the date right. I forget to keep tally sometimes.

The cabins are full. Three families came from the south after losing their homes in Quebec. I hope they excuse my French. It’s not what it was back in high school.

 

[2022/10/25]

Sunny, 17°C

It hasn’t rained in two months. The pond has dried. The stagnant water wasn’t good for drinking, anyway.

Hiked to the river with one of the dads. He likes to talk. A lot.

I used to wish for a never-ending summer when I was a kid.

 

[2023/04/30]

Partially cloudy, 20°C

It’s a nice community we have built here. Not a lot of traders come by, and the gas stations along the highway have little to offer.

Irvin, the one who loves his own voice, said he’d gather volunteers to go on a supply run.

He asked me to come, but I’d rather stay here.

Where it’s peaceful and quiet for a change, is written under the last sentence.

 

[2023/07/04]

Rainy; the thermometer broke

Irvin and the others have now been gone for two months.

The kids are asking for their dads.

I don’t think they’re coming back.

We’re starting to run out of

EVERYTHING!!!

 

[2023/12/24]

Cloudy and windy

A man came by. Not a trader, but he gave what he had. Hiked all the way from Edmonton.

Said it’s bad out there, but when I asked he didn’t tell me what he meant. Just gave me some canned food and a blueprint of something and left.

“They’re spreading east,” he said.

A strange fellow.

 

[2024 / I don’t know]

Buried another one today.

No matter how many times I do it, digging a grave always makes me cry.

The kids don’t seem to get it. They call me Gravedigger-Howie.

They think their moms come back after a dirt nap.

I can’t be the only adult here.

 

[2024]

There’s something outside at night. We all sleep in the bunker now.

I think I caught a glimpse the other

dAY

it looked looked like those blueprints.

My hands are fucncking freezing.

 

[2024 ???]

The kids have stopped crying.

They just… stare now.

Do I stare, too?

Do I?

I

Do

 

Oh no. The journal isn’t a log—it’s the unravelling of a man’s sanity. The rest is just scribbles, random words.

You open the last page.

I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m 

Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry 

I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m 

Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry I’m Sorry

I’m cold

 

Howie, the mummified man in the bunker, tried to keep a bunch of kids alive—and ended up dying alone, cold and scared.

There’s something outside at night. It can’t be a bear or a mountain lion—no one has seen those in years. A pack of wolves seems just as unlikely.

It resembles some kind of robotic dog, like something a tech startup would sell. Is that what Howie saw? Maybe he just went mad and the children played along, not knowing any better. That makes everything even sadder than it already was.

The trunk dips and you don’t even have to turn your head to see who it is.

It’s the one who always comes unannounced and just… lingers.

Haunts.

Your jaw still hurts.

Ghost sits a respectful arm’s length away form you. You’re still angry at him. It’s just buried under everything else on your mind right now.

You could get up and leave, or rather, tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t. Instead you ask, “Have you eaten?”

You know he hasn’t.

“Wasn’t hungry,” he says.

“Have some of this, anyway.” You offer him the half-eaten can of mystery meat. “It’s Spam, I think. And ask Soap for some beans.”

He takes the maybe-Spam and puts it down.

The clouds cover the sun like a thick, grey blanket and the forest muffles all sound. The silence between you and Ghost is like a game of chicken—which one of you breaks it first?

“I didn’t mean to hit you.” Ghost is the chicken.

“I know.”

You’re not ready to forgive him, and he's not apologising either. Or so you think until he reaches out and slips something in your hand.

It’s a round piece of plastic.

It's a lid of a coffee tin.

It’s the lid of your coffee tin.

Dad.

Well, not quite, but—

“That’s all there was.” His words are clipped, like he doesn’t know how to speak. 

“How…?” You’re equally struggling with yours.

“I sent those two muppets lookin’ for it. That’s all they found.”

“Why…?” Your eyes are so heavy with tears your vision starts to blur.

“Because it was yours and you lost it.”

He’s had it ever since you left Europe. He held on to it all this time. The whole team has lost everything from weapons to rations to flashlights, yet Ghost has somehow managed to secure a lid of a coffee tin.

The most valuable thing in the universe.

He takes the can of something Spam-ish and gets up. Your offer has been accepted.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He shrugs and mumbles something.

You swallow thickly and carefully place the lid down next to you.

“Red Hawk to Blue Sky,” you say, and chuckle through the tears.

“You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

Chapter Text

“Popcorn.”

“Popcorn?”

“Aye. The kind they sell in the pictures. In a bucket the size o’ yer heid.”

You raise an eyebrow. You asked Soap what food he misses most, and the man flat out said popcorn.

“I don’t think that counts as food, but I’ll allow it,” you say. 

“If it goes in yer mouth, it’s food.”

“I don’t think that’s right—”

“But it’s the game, yeah? No thinking allowed, just the first thing that pops in yer mind.”

He’s right, technically—listing popcorn as food doesn’t go against the rules of the game you and Soap came up with on the road. It mainly consists of listing things you miss from before: food, TV shows, harmless and mundane things you took for granted while you still had them. Nothing too deep, just a brief distraction on your hike to Saguenay.

Things like popcorn. Food item or not.

Ghost does not participate in your silly pastime, which is to be expected. He’s scouting up ahead, and you can’t see or hear him for hours at a time. It makes you a little nervous, albeit much less than before.

Because he always comes back.

“My turn,” Soap announces. “Favourite pub.”

Your brow furrows as you try to think back to what kind of pubs you used to visit. There weren’t many—a couple of joints you’d go for cheap drinks and tolerable company. Nothing remarkable, surely nothing you actually miss. But there was one place you found yourself frequenting after you left Dad’s house.

Eli knew how to brew a mean batch of prison wine. They’d serve it fresh and room-temperature out of the trunk of a camper. It was disgusting, but you sat there almost every night, downing mug after mug. Somehow, you never got sick from it.

It wasn’t the mauve-brown, sickly sweet liquid you went there for.

But you’re not ready to pick on that wound, at least not now. You’re supposed to keep the game light, so you just come up with a name of some bar you once went to and hope Soap won’t ask for details.

And he doesn’t. Clearly, this question was just a set-up for a story he is dying to tell.

“My favourite pub,” he says in a voice full of longing, “was a dark and dingy hole in Shotts. That’s ‘bout halfway between Glasgow and Edinburgh. Mate had a house in town and I spent a few summers there as a wean. Lovely, boring place.”

“So you spent a lot of that time in a… pub? As a child? ”

“Aye, they didn’t care about a couple of lads runnin’ around.” His eyes are almost dreamy. “Some fun we had. Stayed in touch after, too. The last time I visited him was just before I enlisted.”

“Was the hole still dark and dingy?”

“Christ, no idea. I wasn’t allowed inside.” He laughs. 

You’re confused.

“But you just said they didn’t mind two boys running around—”

Soap shakes his head. “Didn’t. But they did mind the wee fire we started in the kitchen.”

You have so many questions you don’t know where to start. Soap continues, “I wanted to see which one would burn faster: vodka or whisky. For… science purposes, ya ken?”

You nod, even though you certainly dinnae ken.

“So they kicked us right out. Had our pictures on the wall for years, even had our mums bring new ones as we got older.”

“So, your favourite pub is a place you went to as a kid, tried to set on fire and got permanently banned from?”

“Aye. Ah, memories.” He makes a theatrical gesture.

“I’m not going to ask what childhood hobbies you miss the most,” you huff. “If arson is on the list, I don’t think I want to know the rest.”

“Well, camping certainly isn’t.” 

His smile fades. So does yours. The journal entries in the campground manager’s folder you found are harrowing.

“Poor bastard,” Soap mutters.

“And poor kids,” you add. “All holed up in that bunker, scared out of their minds.”

“Such a waste,” he agrees. “Kids. Haven’t seen those in two or three years.”

You nod. Birthrates had globally plummeted a long time before the whole world went to hell. Suddenly, fertile women were highly sought after—first as partners and surrogates, and later… Well, there are rumours of what happens to those women in some places. The Oligarchs allegedly pay good money for someone to carry on their lineage.

What if that’s what the woman in Calais was running from? There are fates worse than death.

“I—we saw one in France. A little boy. And his mother and their dog.”

Soap whistles. “A wean and a dog? Don’t suppose ya caught a mermaid ridin’ a manatee too, eh?”

You wonder what became of those three—if they ever reached wherever they were going. The woman was hauling proof of her fertility with her, and anyone she’d confide in could rat them out.

You wish you could’ve helped her more than with a handful of wilted herbs.

“Yer turn,” Soap reminds you, but he doesn’t sound so cheerful anymore. The mood has soured, the game is no longer fun.

A question has been gnawing at you. It’s none of your business, and it definitely breaks the rules of the game, but…

“What happened at the Compound?” The question unshackles itself and tumbles out. “When we arrived, when you went after Ghost… What happened?” You had noticed the tension. The new marks on Ghost’s face. The fight. The silence after.

Soap’s face drops at your unexpected question. For a while, it seems that he wants to argue, to tell you to play the game right.

“He’s changed,” Soap sighs. “Ever since he came back. Somethin’s off and I can’t figure out what it is.”

So Ghost wasn’t always like this?

“Ghost was always a grumpy bastard,” Soap explains, like he’s picking up on your thoughts. “But he would talk. To me. And now he’s just… by himself. All the time. At first I thought it was because of the collar—that he had his vocal cords fucked or somethin’. But I heard him talk to Price, so it isnae because he can’t. It’s because he won’t. ”

Oh, shit. You clearly went poking around where you shouldn’t have.

“I left it alone—figured he wanted some time to sort himself out—” Soap rubs his neck. “But at the Compound I… I couldnae just leave him there, yeah? Outside to die in that storm. So I went after him.”

You had barely managed to keep the door open long enough for them to come back.

Soap scoffs. “Eejit was out there, leg trapped under a sheet of metal. He’d gone on the roof but dropped something, some stupid fuckin’ piece of… whatever. So he jumped down from the bloody roof and some of it came down on him. Broke his gas mask, too.”

It’s not a rash or a burn like you thought. It’s the broken bits of the gas mask that cut his face.

“He told me to fuck off when I found him,” Soap chuckles, bitter and hollow. “And he told me to fuck off when I picked the shards off his face. And when I moved the roof sheet and helped him up, he told me to fuck off. Told me to leave him.”

“What was it he jumped after?” you ask, though you already might have an idea. You hope you’re wrong.

Soap shakes his head. “He won’t say. And I don’t… I’m tired of askin’ him anything. He’ll just tell me to fuck off. When we escaped, he shoved me out of the window and—and I thought those were his last words to me. Fuck off, Johnny.”

You bite your lip to keep down the unwelcome sting behind your eyes.

“I’m sorry—”

“Not yer fault. He’ll come around,” Soap says, but doesn’t sound very convincing. “He has to. We’re not just teammates. We’re mates. Friends.”

Friends who tried to knock each other out a while ago. Although Ghost probably would have deserved it—Soap must have had it up to his ears with his Lieutenant. Still, he trusts him enough to follow him without question.

It’s not like there’s an alternative to that, anyway.

“What was he like out there? When ya travelled together?” Soap asks.

An unexpected, but fair question. After all, you broke the rules of the game too. You try to think. What was he like? You really didn’t get a read on him. He was withdrawn, reserved, and…

“... silent,” you say.

Soap bursts into laughter.

“Fuckin’ hell, Red,” he finally manages to say. “Yer a right comic. But aye, sure he was silent.”

You arrive in the quiet, deserted Saguenay on a surprisingly sunny day. The river threw you off course for a couple of days’ worth of walking, and the one day you spent at the campgrounds adds to the delay. Since you don’t know what exactly awaits you, there’s no telling whether you’ve arrived late or early.

Ghost seems to have some idea, but he’s not willing to share. You and Soap follow him through the sleepy suburbs filled with overgrown yards and empty houses.

The vastness of the desolate city isn’t surprising or new, but it still stirs something visceral in your gut. It looks wrong. No matter how many abandoned places you come across, it never fails to make you uneasy. Some of them—like Quebec City—have been levelled, while others—like Saguenay or Folkestone—are relatively intact. Just devoid of people. Devoid of life.

Half-rotten laundry hangs on windows and balconies.

Some storefronts have been painted with big, bold letters that say things like MEDS or FOOD or BABY FORMULA. 

Distribution centres. Clever.

Some houses have their windows marked too—decorations and encouraging messages, most likely from the early days of the disaster. Faded flowers, rainbows, smiley faces. Post-its arranged into letters and shapes.

You spot a window that has JAMIE IS A CUNT written over and over and suppress a giggle.

Some windows have the residents’ names and ages listed. Was it to keep track of survivors? Here and there you see some names crossed over.

TB, stay out!!!

Running low on insulin!

Baking bread on Friday! Draw a little loaf on your window if you want some! No gluten-free, sorry :(

Five houses nearby have little loaves on their windows.

Honestly, that’s a pretty solid way to communicate.

More names crossed over, more TB!! written on windows. You’re starting to piece together what happened. The same thing that always happens.

Saguenay thrived. Until someone got sick.

A new sign catches your attention.

EVAC POINT 3 KM plastered on the side of a delivery truck, with a big arrow beneath it. Another down the road points the same way.

At least some of them got out. Maybe this place got luckier than others. But who was overseeing the evacuations? The Canadian government? And where did they go? You don’t have time to ponder that, as Ghost picks up pace in the front. You jog to keep up.

The road leads to an excavation site—an unusual sight near the suburbs. Large signs reading EVACUATION ZONE and ASSEMBLY POINT hang above wide-open gates. Inside, a few tents remain somewhat intact.

“What exactly are we lookin’ for?” Soap asks, opening and closing the flaps of a tent marked HEALTH CHECKS .

“A vehicle,” Ghost says, pushing open a warehouse’s sliding door. It’s empty.

“How d’ya know we’ll find one?”

“Price told me there’d be one. Just in case.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Soap frowns.

“It was need-to-know.”

“What if I needed to know?”

There’s no car in sight—only red sand, rocks, the warehouse, and the tents. You flip through some papers you find. They're mostly lists of people who came through—names, ages, medical details. Some names are crossed out in red marker, with possible TB scribbled beside them. A poster on the wall lists tuberculosis symptoms and warns that anyone showing them is moved to the quarantine zone for clearance.

They didn’t evacuate the sick, at least not immediately. Nothing here explicitly shows what happened to the infected, but the little cynical voice in your head tells you that they probably weren’t evacuated at all.

It would be cruel, inhumane, but not unusual.

There’s luggage piled up in one tent, but the bags are mostly filled with clothes and toys for kids. Nothing useful—except for a book titled Explorer’s Small Guide to Wildlife in North America. You quickly pocket it before stepping outside.

Soap is calling out for you.

“Someone took the car,” he says. “But we found tracks. A couple o' days old.”

The tire imprints are pressed heavily into the red soil. The tracks lead across the excavation site and through an opening in the fence. From there, the car has ploughed through the shrubbery and onto a road that winds deeper into the forest.

“So we’re… following these? ” you ask. Going after a car with a few days worth of head start on foot feels like a fool’s errand.

“It was our ride,” Ghost says. “We’re takin’ it back.”

The car lies abandoned on the side of the road, approximately fifteen miles from the evacuation zone. It’s a light blue, small, and sensible Toyota Prius—not quite the military vehicle you were expecting. The doors are unlocked and the keys are still in the ignition. You sit in the driver’s seat and turn the key. The car sputters, then goes silent. You try again, a couple more times.

The Prius is completely out of juice and the electric motor doesn’t show any signs of life either.

That explains why it was left here. Its unusually good condition strikes you as odd. You’re used to seeing anything and everything stripped for parts. Cars, bikes—hell, you’ve seen people take batteries out of electric wheelchairs.

Soap kicks the tires and groans. You silently join in on his frustration.

You’ve lost Price and Gaz.

You don’t know where you’re going—Ghost seems to have some vague idea, but maybe it’s nothing more than that. He’s quiet. Almost as quiet as he was with the collar around his neck.

He doesn’t seem to care that the car is dead. He opens and closes the doors and the trunk, checks under the seats like he’s looking for something. You leave him to it and sit on the hood of the car, fish out the Explorer’s Small Guide to Wildlife in North America and start flipping through the pages.

The book is old, worn and well-loved. It must have belonged to a nature enthusiast. At some point in time that was considered a hobby. Now it’s everyday survival.

There are notes etched in the margins. The previous owner recorded places where they encountered certain birds or plants, adding exclamation marks to those they found particularly exciting.

You wonder if they made it to their evacuation destination.

Most of the book is about local fauna—deer, moose, caribou, black bears, beavers, and so on. Interesting, but not useful. The last twenty pages briefly describe edible and medicinal plants found across North America. It’s not much, but it’s something.

It makes you feel slightly more prepared.

“Hey Soap,” you say as you drop down from the hood. “Would you rather fight a moose or a black bear—”

But Soap isn’t listening. He’s leaning against the trunk, watching Ghost open a small plastic bag.

“That fell out when I kicked the left front tire,” he explains. 

Ghost spreads the contents of the bag on the trunk. There’s not much—a small watch with a built-in compass, and a note written in a code you can’t read.

“That’s from Price,” Soap says. “Bastards must’ve made it out.”

At least Price has.

“What does it say?” you ask, peering at the strange symbols on the note.

“Heading west directly from this point,” Soap deciphers.

“Northwest,” Ghost corrects. “Don’t travel at night.”

Hope can be a dangerous thing. You’re used to taking it with a grain of salt. But the note from Price—who’s alive and kicking enough to leave instructions—sparks a small glimmer of that wicked optimism.

The note didn’t specify how far northwest you’re expected to travel, but at least now you have some sense of direction. Which is better than nothing.

You try to spot the plants you saw in the book, but so far the only one you can identify is stinging nettle, which is delicious when cooked, but not worth the blisters. 

You’ve been hacking through thick forest for hours, hot and exhausted. But you don’t dare to ask for a break—Ghost took off in the direction pointed to him almost immediately and doesn’t show any signs of slowing down.

Soap doesn’t seem tired either. The opposite, actually—it’s like learning his Captain is still alive gave him a power boost. He’s constantly talking to you or to himself, which was fine for the first couple of hours, but now…

Goddamnit. You need to figure something out.

The sun is starting to set when you reach a small stream running through the woods and Ghost finally stops. The note strictly said that you should only travel by day, so you’re settling in here for the night.

You comb the area as a last effort to find something edible, but only find a bush of unripe blueberries that are not yet in season.

Soap follows you around, rambling about anything that comes to mind. He means well, and you can’t bring yourself to tell him to calm down and shut up.

So you take a different approach.

“Hey, uh, I need a favour,” you say, lowering your voice.

“Yeah? What can I do for ya?”

“There’s this one plant I need to find—it should grow around here. It’s small and has light blue flowers. It’s called sore mint and I think I saw some of it back there.”

“Aye, you need me to… fetch you some flowers?”

“Well, it’s called sore mint because it’s good for treating sores and I have a—a sore. A bad one. In a bad… place.”

He nods, confused, but doesn’t question your knowledge on the subject. You point vaguely in a random direction and he heads out to find sore mint.

“Don’t go too far!” you shout after him. He waves in response.

It was a dirty trick, but you were desperate for some peace and quiet.

The stream runs down a small, rocky cliff. It doesn’t have any distinctive smell. It’s the cleanest water source you’ve seen in a while. Still, you have to boil the water to be safe, so you fill up the largest pot you found in the bunker and start gathering firewood.

“The fuck is sore mint?”

A gruff voice cuts into your quiet chores, startling you as Ghost sets down a pile of dry branches.

Suddenly, you’re flustered. Not only was he listening, but he clocked your lie as it slipped out of your mouth.

“Look, he needed something to do, and I needed to do something without him…”

Ghost doesn’t reply.

But… was that a chuckle?

Did he just laugh?

“Johnny’s a right mither sometimes, but he’s not stupid.” 

You assemble the twigs into a loose pile and light a piece of bark. Ghost props a branch up with some rocks, and you hang the pot above the fire. You work together seamlessly, like you used to, back in what feels like a lifetime ago.

The fire crackles to life, ravenously swallowing the dry wood. Wind rustles the treetops. In this little, calm circle of light, the darkening forest doesn’t feel hostile. It feels friendly. Safe, almost. You sit on your knees and feed the fire,

Ghost pushes his mask off his face and lets it hang on his head like a beanie. It looks dorky, and you catch yourself grinning.

“What?” He quirks an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” you huff.

Pieces of pinewood snap as the fire heats the sap inside.

You lock eyes over the dancing red and orange flames. His eyes have that amber tint again, and the carefully curious expression on his face makes you very aware of how intently he’s looking at you. Studying you.

You thought you had imagined all that before.

The warm glow softens the sharpness of his features.

He looks kind of—

“Mither,” you say, to fill the silence and steer your thoughts away from what he kind of looks like.

“Hm?” His eyes narrow.

“Where’s that from? That word, I mean—mither.”

“Manchester,” Ghost replies. 

So that’s where his accent comes from. Manchester. You try to imagine the man in front of you as a young boy, growing up in the Northwest of England. He must have been one freakishly tall teenager.

“What was it like to live there?” you ask, to make conversation, but also because you really want to know more about him.

“Shit,” he scoffs.

And your attempt fizzles out like a match in the rain.

Then he unexpectedly backtracks, “I mean, not… all shit, but mostly. Haven’t gone back since I enlisted. I doubt it’s even there anymore.”

The water starts to boil. You mull over his words.

Nothing is where you left it, either.

“I grew up in—”

“I know. You’ve told me. Multiple times. Where you lived and moved to and when you moved back. Where you went to school and where you worked.”

Your face feels hot. Fuck. Were you really yapping his ear off while you travelled together? You didn’t talk that much, did you?

Fuck. Fuck!

“I had no idea—”

“It’s fine. ‘Sides, I couldn’t do nothin’ about it without blowing us both up, right?”

There it is again, the faint chuckle and the slightest grin. Or not a grin, just a small upturn of the corner of his lip.

It’s funny how clearly you can see all that in this lighting.

And how exposed you feel.

“You could’ve always punched me, you know?”

Ghost groans, but his smile spreads wider. You can’t stop yourself from chuckling. He looks away. Now it’s his turn to get flustered.

Your hand instinctively reaches into your pocket and squeezes the small, round lid.

He held onto it for so long.

Because he knew it meant something.

He’s been a real hard-ass for the last few days, but now he seems relaxed like you’ve never seen him before. In a way, you understand. He was doing what you did back when you were travelling alone, just desperate to get from one point on the map to another, counting steps, making little to no stops.

He just needs to get to his destination, which remains unknown.

He tilts his head, revealing the cluster of tiny cuts on his face and neck. The aftermath of the broken gas mask. They must itch like hell.

“I’ll try to find something for that,” you say, gesturing at the wounds. “You should at least try to keep them clean. There might still be shards and they could cause an infection—”

“So you’ve been talkin’ with Johnny about everything? ”

An awkward silence follows.

You sigh.

“I think… maybe you should be the one talking to him.”

And as if summoned, Soap’s voice cuts through the trees. “Didn’t find the boar mint or whatever the fuck, but I think you should come and see this!”

He sounds urgent. You and Ghost both spring up and rush in the direction of his voice. The uncanny smell of blood and flesh hits you before you can see what Soap is staring at.

It’s a deer carcass.

It would be nothing out of the ordinary in a setting like this. Coming across a dead animal in the wilderness seems like something that would happen regularly.

Except it hasn’t happened in years.

You marvel at the dead buck. One of its antlers has broken off and fallen on the ground. The deer itself is bent at a strange angle, lodged between two trees, like it was suddenly butchered while standing on its hind legs.

And the way it has been butchered.

Clean, deliberate slices through the stomach, sides and one across the spine. Stab wounds on its neck and head.

This wasn’t done by a predator.

These cuts are too clean. Too precise.

“We can’t stay here,” Ghost says. “Clear out the camp and head up that hill. We need a vantage point if someone’s out there after us.”

The rocks are slippery with moss and the forest is pitch dark. You try your best not to think about what gang of psychopaths could be coming after you this time.

You’ve barely survived the first one.

The hill opens up to a steep, bare cliff overlooking the area. The last rays of the sun dip down behind the treeline. You try to look, but there's nothing in the forest that suggests humans—no fire, no shooting, no shouting. Nothing. Just eerie silence and your own thundering heartbeat.

A hand lands on your back.

Soap is trying to calm you down. You feel bad about tricking him earlier.

You stare into the darkness that has turned from friendly and safe to strange and hostile. You stare at it. It stares at you. You blink.

It blinks.

What the fuck?

No, you didn’t just see…

“Look,” you whisper, your voice straining and cracking. “There was a flash. A blue flash.”

A few seconds pass, then… blink.

And another.

Blue lights flicker on, miles away, on a distant hill. They move around in the woods like the flashlights of a search party, but somehow more organised. Synchronised.

You spot something else, too. A light in the sky, a tiny dot that grows and grows and grows. Something’s flying towards you.

As it flies above the hill where the blue lights flicker, they halt their searching and start following the light in the sky.

Now they’re all getting closer.

“We need to go! We need to hide!” You shout, ready to bolt.

“I think we should make a run for it, L.t,” Soap agrees with you. But Ghost stays put, staring at the approaching light in the sky. As it nears, you begin to hear a steady, rhythmic chopping.

It’s a helicopter.

Ghost turns on the electric lantern and flashes it several times.

Then a few times more.

On and off, in uneven intervals.

It’s a morse code.

Someone in the helicopter replies. A light blinks on and off and on again.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap squints to see. “Is that a bloody Black Hawk? ”

The giant military helicopter hovers above you. Its blades make a deafening noise and every living thing in the forest must have heard it by now. 

Two ropes fall down. Soap and Ghost catch them with practiced ease. Soap gets lifted first, and Ghost manoeuvres the harness on you and holds onto the rope with his bare hands.

He’s insane.

And insanely strong.

“Ready?” he asks, but your answer morphs into a scream as you’re being lifted into the aircraft.

The blue lights spiral like a pack of wolves in the forest below you.

With shaky hands, you grasp onto the arm offered to you. When you’re finally stable enough to stand, you realise whose arm it is.

“Fuckin’ hell, Garrick,” Ghost greets Gaz, who coils the ropes and buckles himself into a seat.

Gaz grins.

“Good to have you guys back.”

Chapter Text

You’re not scared of heights.

It’s not comfortable, by any means. If you had a choice, you wouldn’t choose to sit in the cabin of a military aircraft with gaping holes on both sides, hurtling through the air to a destination only known to the pilot. You tried asking Gaz, but couldn’t hear shit through the racket, so you let it be.

You glance down a couple of times, and see nothing but occasional blue lights flashing in the wilderness below. They look so small, so very far away.

And you’re high in the air above them, soaring through darkness.

You’re not scared of the dark, either.

It’s just the combination of those two that makes you slightly nervous. 

Because you’re not scared. 

Just nervous.

So you stop looking outside and try to find something to focus on in the cabin. That’s easier said than done. Your eyes keep landing on someone’s face, and whenever they do, the person seems to think you’re trying to make contact. Then it’s the awkward back and forth of WHAT? and I CAN’T HEAR YOU! all over again.

Ghost sits buckled up beside you, which is good—you can’t physically turn your head to stare at him from where you’re sitting.

You close your eyes and try to ignore the occasional creaks and thuds the aircraft makes.

You squeeze the plastic lid in your pocket like it were some magical charm to keep the helicopter from crashing. It’s just a habit, you tell yourself—something to keep you awake in case there’s a situation.

There won’t be.

And you’re not scared.

Not even a little.

And you definitely don’t scream when the Black Hawk suddenly makes a stomach-churning drop in the middle of nowhere. The pilot clearly knows what they’re doing—the helicopter lands gracefully in a fenced area that’s barely the size of a small backyard. In the gleam of the spotlight, you can see a skeletal metal structure extending towards the sky.

You’ve arrived at a lookout tower.

“Is this it?” Soap shouts as the Black Hawk’s blades finally stop spinning and the engine dies down. “A helo and a bloody… fire tower?”

“It’s a pit stop,” Gaz replies. “We need to refuel and the pilot needs to rest before we move on. You could use some too, yeah?”

The last comment is not directed at anyone in particular, but you can’t help feeling like it was meant for you. And honestly, sleeping indoors in a secure building that overlooks the whole area doesn’t sound bad.

The lookout tower has been out of commission for a good while. There’s a round, topographic map in the middle of the small cabin. Rotten cupboards line the walls, along with a desk and a rusty bedframe. The cast-iron stove looks like it could still work, but the cabin is already warm from the lingering summer heat.

The wooden structures have the familiar smell of creosote and mould. You’ve spent countless nights in shelters like this, wondering if whatever’s growing in the walls will be the thing that finally takes you out.

Ghost hangs the electric lantern on the wall and leans over the topographic map with Gaz and Soap. You consider joining them, but they’re crowding the map and you can’t see anything. So instead, you sit between the bedframe and the stove. Suddenly, you’re too tired to care about anything other than closing your eyes and having a few, precious hours of unconsciousness.

You half-listen as the others go over what happened in the last few days.

“Why didn’t Price come with ya?” Soap asks. “Is he hurt?”

Gaz’s reply sounds a bit reluctant, “He’s… fine. Considering…”

“Considering? Considering what? ” Ghost cuts in. “He’s either hurt or he isn’t.”

“We had to fight our way out of that fuckin’ garage,” Gaz explains, “and one of the bloody lunatics followed us. Captain got stabbed, but—”

Stabbed? Price was stabbed? Your eyes fly open.

“He was fuckin’ WHAT?” Ghost’s voice thunders with anger. Gaz takes a step back and gestures to the others to calm down.

“Pipe down!” He points at Soap. “Both of you, fuckssake… You’ll wake the dead and then some with your yellin’. Price was stabbed. He’s in recovery at the place we’re headed—awake, doing fine, just couldn’t come with me to fetch you sorry lot.” Gaz’s voice is stern, if a little raised.

These three trust each other to tell the truth, no matter what.

That’s… actually kind of sweet.

You’ve valiantly fought sleep, but in the end it wins you over and you slump into your little corner.

Gaz is alive. So is Price. And Soap. And Ghost.

And you. You’re alive too.

For now.

“Ah, fuck me sideways—”

The first rays of the rising sun beam straight into your eyes, waking you up in the mouldy little cabin above the woods. The others are asleep—or pretend to be—spread out on the floor, snoring like chainsaws.

You get up slowly and take a moment to check if your legs can really be trusted. The exhaustion of the last few days feels bone-deep now that you’re no longer running on adrenaline.

You step over Soap who lies face down near the door. He can breathe just fine, judging by the snoring and gargling. The door miraculously doesn’t make a sound as you slip out and onto the wraparound balcony.

The sun washes the treeline on the horizon in that bright yellow light you only see in early summer. It evolves into hot, glowing red and orange heat as the season passes and the nights become longer.

When was the last time you paid attention to your surroundings without it turning into surveillance?

When was the last time you looked at the trees just because they were trees and not because you waited for something to jump out?

When was the last time you just looked?

Or listened?

You shift your focus from the slow sunrise to something new and unexpected—the surrounding trees are loud.

It’s not just the wind gently swaying the branches and fluttering the leaves. It’s something you haven’t heard in a long, long time.

Birds.

Not many. Not nearby. But down in the valley the tower overlooks, you can clearly hear chirps, rhythmic rattles, and high-pitched whistles. As the sun creeps higher above the horizon, more little voices join the cacophonic choir.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?”

Gaz leans against the railing and you turn to look at him. He’s alive. Intact. Tired, but otherwise in good spirits. He chuckles.

“Thought I was losin’ my mind the first time I heard it.”

“It doesn’t feel real,” you mutter, as more birds begin their twittering and warbling. The whole forest around you becomes a living, breathing, singing creature that chants asynchronously with itself. “I thought there wasn’t a place in the world left for wild animals.”

“I don’t know how many places there are,” Gaz says. “The northern hemisphere hasn’t entirely burnt to a crisp yet.”

You stand silent and listen to the concert around you. If the deer buck back near Saguenay is any indicator, there might be more animals around than you’ve seen in years. And who knows what else there is?

A container somewhere below you opens and closes with a bang. The pilot has woken up and is refuelling the helicopter.

“We got lucky to find you so fast,” Gaz sighs. “There are a few fuel stashes around, but not enough to fly across the country more than twice, maybe three times. We’re already burning some questionable blends.”

Explains why the helicopter was making such weird noises.

“You left us directions,” you say. “We just followed them.”

“That you did.”

He tilts his head.

“What’s that on your face? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

You instinctively touch the bruise on your jaw. It’s healing, but still reminds you it’s there.

“This, uh… Ghost punched me.”

Gaz lets out a baffled chortle. “He what? How did that happen?”

“It’s a long story, he got into this whole thing with Soap, and I tried to break it up, and…”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” Gaz runs his hand over his face. “So that’s still happening. A word of advice? It’s not the first time they’ve fallen out. And it won’t be the last time. Let ‘em tire themselves out and whatever you do, don’t get between those two, yeah? They’re like an old couple, twice married and divorced. Better to stay out of it.”

You nod, even though it might not be as simple as Gaz says.

“You two are loud, y’know” Soap exclaims as he steps out of the cabin with a theatrical yawn. Ghost walks behind him, and you manage to glimpse his groggy expression and sleep-tousled hair before he quickly pulls the mask over his face.

Almost a shame—

“And what’s that ruckus?” Soap asks.

The birds are still chirping like on any other sunny morning.

“That’s the sound of nature, you wanker.” Gaz pats him on the shoulder. “We should get going before the pilot leaves without us.”

It takes two more refuels to reach the outskirts of a large, destroyed city, where the helicopter drops you off. By now, you’ve concluded that rappelling down the rope is actually far more terrifying than going up.

“The pilot has a supply run,” Gaz explains, watching the Black Hawk disappear from sight. “We’re drivin’ the rest of the way.”

The city must be one of the major ones closer to the border. Even though you’re far out in the suburbs, you can still see a cloud of yellow dust in the city centre. Gaz whips out a map, and you follow him to a house with a locked garage.

“There she is,” he says, opening the garage door to reveal a desert-beige Humvee with—weirdly enough—U.S. Air Force plates. “It’s a five-hour drive and we’re not stopping, so I suggest you do whatever you need to do before we leave.”

“Three hours if I’m drivin’,” Ghost grumbles.

“Aye, an’ we’d all be covered in puke,” Soap says. “‘Sides, Garrick knows the way.”

“I hope.” Gaz grimaces. “You’ll see why.”

The vehicle barely fits all four of you, but you’ve started to accept that comfort is not something you might ever feel again. You’re always hot or cold or tired or hurting or dirty. So you steel yourself the best you can and look out the tiny window. The view isn’t much—collapsed buildings and rubble, much like on the east coast. Half a sign hanging from a pole reads GARY.

“We’re just outside the contaminated zone,” Gaz says, cocking his head towards the ominous, yellow gloom in the distance. “If the wind doesn’t change, we’ll be fine.”

“Where exactly are we going?” You can see mountains in the distance. The closer you get, the more nervous Gaz seems to become.

“There’s a settlement up there,” he says. “Built by someone we used to work with and… To be honest, I didn’t get to look around that much before I had to jump into the helo and come find you.”

Gaz grows quieter with each passing hour, and the looming mountains morph from small peaks in the distance into huge, jagged teeth, like the maw of a giant. The battered highway stops abruptly, and Gaz steers the Humvee onto an overgrown dirt road. After a while, he stops the car right in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, British Columbia.

He stares through the windscreen, like waiting to see something emerge from the woods. 

Nothing happens.

“Right. I need you to listen to me,” he says, lowering his voice as if someone might be listening. “You saw the blue lights, back there in the forest before we picked you up, yeah?”

You remember the strange searchlights going up and down the mountainside.

“What the hell are those?” Ghost asks. “People? Another fuckin’ cult?”

Gaz shakes his head. “No. Not a cult.” He swallows. “And not people.”

Not people? And definitely not animals, so it could only mean—

“Machines,” Gaz says, and raises his hand before anyone can open their mouth. “And I don’t know much more than that. Didn’t exactly have time for a proper briefin’ before I left. All I know is that they’re machines—robots, UGVs, or somethin', and they’re dangerous.” He glances out of the window again. “Can’t see any outside, but it doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

“And ya couldnae tell this before we got here? What are we waitin’ for, parked up here like idiots?” Soap leans towards the window, peering outside. “Let’s fuckin’ go already!”

“I’m telling’ you this now, because we need to do something before I can drive us to the settlement. There’s a stack of space blankets in the back. We need to cover the windows—all of ‘em. It sounds stupid, but… you just need to trust me on this—”

“Get the bloody blankets,” Ghost says. “‘Course we trust you, Sergeant.”

You cover the windows and the windscreen of the Humvee. Gaz starts the engine again, then picks up a radio and sifts through channels.

“Bravo 2-6 to all: Crawler-1 is standing by.”

The channel buzzes with static, then a muffled voice replies.

“Team Overwatch’s got you, Bravo. We have a visual. Are the windows covered?”

“Rolling in fully blind, Team Overwatch. Requesting you to repeat the instructions.” Gaz taps the steering wheel. He can’t see where he’s going, but his eyes stay fixed on the Mylar blanket draped over the windscreen.

“Slow and steady wins the race, Bravo. You may proceed.”

Gaz lifts his foot off the brake, and the Humvee crawls along the dirt road.

“Be ready to steer the Crawler left when I say so. Should be clear from here on—SHIT! Shit! Bravo 2-6, stop the vehicle, I say again, stop the car!”

The halt is so sudden you lurch forward in your seat. Gaz sits perfectly still, staring straight ahead, squeezing the steering wheel. The radio cuts out, and for a moment, it’s completely silent. Silent, like in every empty, lifeless forest on Earth.

Then something taps the side of the Humvee. It’s not human, and it’s definitely not an animal—the sound is hollow, metallic. 

It taps a couple more times.

Like it’s trying to figure something out.

Like it’s—

A loud thud from the roof rattles the Humvee. Is that—whatever the fuck that was—climbing onto the car? Or is there another one? It hits the car with what sounds like a large knife or a goddamn sword, over and over, metal grinding against metal with horrifying screech.

You don’t dare move or turn your head to look at anyone. You barely manage to breathe. You can almost hear Gaz’s knuckles turn white as he squeezes the wheel.

Then a loud bang goes off somewhere in the forest. The attacker jumps off, making the whole vehicle sway as it leaps. You stay still, silent, waiting.

Waiting.

Is it gone?

The radio crackles back to life.

“Bravo 2-6, make the left turn and keep driving straight. We got the fuckers off your back, but they’ll return. It’s all clear now, just step on it! Copy?”

“Copy,” Gaz replies with a steadier voice than you ever could. He starts the car and turns left, then speeds ahead blind—until the voice in the radio tells him to stop again. This time it’s not because of those things in the forest.

You have arrived… where, exactly?

“Fuckin’ hell…” Gaz slumps in the driver’s seat and rips off the space blanket covering the windscreen. Someone knocks on the door and he opens it. A man in military gear pops his head in.

“We’ll take the Crawler from here,” he says, then turns to you, Ghost, and Soap. “Newcomers’ check-in is by the barracks. I reckon Bravo 2-6 knows the way?”

“Yes, sir.”.

“Right. Have a good one… uh, dismissed, I mean.” The man leaves.

You climb out of the Humvee and are met with the busiest sight you’ve seen since the Wave Knight or Calais—though they don’t come even close to this. The entire area is buzzing with people decked in military fatigues and protective gear. Trucks, motorcycles, and other vehicles are neatly parked next to an enormous wall stretching into the forest.

Is this a military outpost?

Someone with a welding mask climbs onto the Humvee’s roof and starts fixing a huge dent.

What the fuck were those things?

Gaz leads you away from the gates and deeper into the outpost. He looks a little shaken, which is saying something—he’s a seasoned military operator, from what you’ve heard he trained with the U.S. Marines back in the day. You’re not the only one who notices—Ghost approaches him, but you can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s not meant for you, anyway. But when he finally, a little hesitantly, pats the Sergeant on the shoulder, you realise it was some kind of a quick debrief. A hot wash, as Dad would call them.

In his natural habitat, Ghost is a different beast altogether.

He’s grumpy and kind of an ass, sure, but deep down, he’s a decent Lieutenant.

You approach a giant building by the lake that looks like someone took their obsession with castles a bit too far—like a Disney resort had magically appeared in the middle of the mountains. Tacky, out of place and huge as hell. This must have been a hotel at some point.

“The barracks,” Gaz says as you stop by the main entrance. “We got lucky with the rooms—”

“IDs and fingerprints!” A loud voice cuts him off. A grumpy woman sits at a desk near the door and looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. “Let’s see some IDs, dog tags—come on now, we don’t have all day.”

Ghost, Soap and Gaz present their dog tags and the lady scans their fingerprints. Then she turns to you.

“Well?” She spits.

“I don’t—”

“Civilians through the back!” She barks.

“But I’m with them—”

“Do you have a military ID?”

“No, but—” Your fingerprints are in the system too, right? The lady won't budge. She's not going to run the scan.

“Civilians through the back,” she repeats. “Turn the corner and follow the line. Shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes.”

The others stand in the lobby, looking confused. You make some kind of weird wave-shrug at them. The lady shoos you out of the door and slams it in your face.

No, no, no…

There are too many people everywhere—it’s too much. The whole place is too much.

And you’re not ready to face it alone. The overwhelming anxiety of getting separated from the others gathers bile in your throat. The memory of what happened at the Compound is still way too fresh. You don’t trust this place.

The queue that the rude lady mentioned snakes out the back door and into the yard. Defeated and disappointed, you take your place at the tail of it.

What did she say—it shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes?

Relax.

No one’s pointing a gun at you.

That you know of.

You suppress a groan. The people standing in front of you look equally defeated. Some seem to have formed groups and are familiar—maybe they came here together and are seeking refuge? Some have luggage, some don’t. Some have clean clothes and others look like they’ve been wearing the same rags for months. Someone coughs, and the people around them move aside.

Are these people from Saguenay?

Was this the place they were evacuated to?

You hear multiple languages being spoken—not all are from around here: English, French, Spanish, Mandarin, some languages you can’t quite place. There are people from all over.

The queue moves on, then stops, then moves again. Some people are crying. Others are angry and frustrated. They’re scared, you realise. Scared of being turned away.

Because some are turned away, sent to another building. All of them are coughing—so that might have something to do with it.

They didn’t evacuate the sick, but some must’ve slipped through.

When it’s finally your turn, a lady, who’s as rude as the first one, hands you a form to fill. You write down the first name that comes to mind—it’s a habit by now. No matter how well-organised this place may seem, you don’t know these people.

Next you check a variety of boxes: gender, age range, a bunch of skills that seemingly have nothing in common, possible chronic illnesses, and relationship status. Have you arrived with a spouse? Is your spouse missing? Are you carrying weapons? Which weapons are you carrying?

The list is endless, and the lady looks like she’ll throw you out herself if you don’t check the boxes fast enough.

One of the last questions asks if members of your immediate family have served in the military.

Huh.

You hesitate, then check the box labelled none.

It’s a gut feeling, but you decide to trust it.

The lady takes the form and practically shoves you into another queue—for health checks this time. You’re handed a bunch of tests and a cup, like that nice medic did at the Wave Knight. But now, there’s no nice medic, just a few very busy nurses running around. You wait to use the bathroom. You wait to return the samples. You wait for your blood to be taken, and you wait and wait and wait until finally someone hands you a key to a room.

Your room.

For a while, at least.

It’s on the seventh floor—because of course it fucking is. And the elevator isn’t in use—because of course it fucking isn’t. You climb the stairs and find a perfectly adequate hotel room waiting for you.

In the middle of all this absurdity, it looks so normal it almost makes you laugh. You’ve hiked through continental Europe with a man wearing an explosive collar, sailed across the Atlantic, survived raiders, a cult of psychopaths, a tornado of toxic dust, almost drowning, and whatever the fuck was out there in the woods just to end up in a… fucking holiday resort in the mountains.

You toss the small number of items you have on the floor—you simply can’t be bothered. Pots and pans don’t matter now.

There’s a big bag full of clothes on the desk. A note on top of it asks you to choose those that fit and to kindly return the rest to the laundry room in the basement. On the nightstand is a stack of papers, like you’ve just walked into a rehab.

A map of the area, with big red circles around the places civilians are not allowed. A list of jobs available.

For civilians.

Because that’s what you are—a civilian. Here, whoever Dad was has no meaning, because you’re not a soldier.

You’re so engrossed in reading the brochures, that you almost miss a knock on your door. you hope it’s Gaz or Soap, but it’s not. Behind the door stands a woman, who greets you with a slanted smile. Holy shit, she’s the most handsome woman you’ve ever seen. She’s almost as tall as Ghost—and looks like she could pick you up and throw you over her shoulder. Is she a soldier?

“There’s an orientation for the newbies in auditorium three,” she says. “I’m Maya, from across the hall—I saw you earlier, in the line downstairs.”

“Uh…” You have absolutely no idea what to say to that. “Red,” you manage, and shake the hand offered to you.

“Just Red?”

“Just Red.”

Chapter Text

“Everyone! Please sit down for the presentation!”

Auditorium three is full of people, but all you care to see is whether you can spot the rest of the team—your team—anywhere.

They’re not there.

Of course they aren’t.

You sit down next to Maya, who cannot stop talking. She’s younger than you, an athlete, and acts almost giddy when she explains how she’ll be transferring over to the military barracks soon. You half-listen and try to nod and hum politely in agreement with her monologue—your head is all over the place.

It’s too much all at once.

One of the Grumpy Ladies from the reception walks on the stage and clears her throat right into the microphone. A large sign that says WELCOME in multiple languages appears behind her.

Oh fuck, this place is probably called the Sanctuary or Haven or something equally tacky.

“To those who arrived today,” she says, as the feedback of the mic screeches. “Welcome to Fort Louise.”

There’s no way this place is fucking called Louise.

The first order of business is a list of rules for the residents. They are what you’d expect from a secluded, heavily guarded settlement like this.

Military buildings, training sites, and barracks are off-limits for civilians.

No unauthorised visits to other rooms, except family members assigned in different rooms.

Mandatory health checks.

Mandatory safety drills.

No excessive or wasteful use of water or electricity.

All residents are assigned a job, except those unable to work due to disability.

Curfew from 10:30 PM to 5:30 AM, except for residents who work night jobs.

NO ONE is permitted to leave the premises under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES unless escorted by military personnel.

There are a few more rules that mostly remind people to mind their manners and clean up after themselves in the common areas.

You’d be downright bored if you weren’t so… antsy.

Grumpy moves on to show a map of Fort Louise—the same one you have in your room—so you lose interest. Your eyes scan the room to find a single, familiar face, but there are only strangers who look exhausted. Grumpy goes on and on about the logistics of the place in her monotone voice, while anxiety twists your guts into a knot.

What if this is a trap? What if the rest of the team is locked up somewhere, or worse? What if they brought all these people here to kill them or run some sick experiments on them or—

“Hey,” Maya whispers, “I get that you’re stressed. The first day can be kind of overwhelming. Just take deep breaths, okay? You’ll be fine.”

She’s being nice, friendly, but oh God, she has no idea what kind of tempest is brewing inside you. Your mind has convinced you this is a trap, but your body isn’t doing enough to make you flee. So you sit still, making yourself as small as you can as the audience asks questions.

They’re asking about the water and electricity.

They’re asking about rooms, suites, and why some people have suites while others don’t.

They’re asking about—about stupid, useless shit, but they can’t see that their lives are in danger. They can’t see that the doors are locking, that the guards are circling them, that the air is being sucked out of the room—

You can’t breathe.

You can’t breathe.

You jump from your chair and run towards the door. Others in the auditorium turn their heads, confused, as you throw yourself against the double doors.

How can they not realise that they’re trapped, they don’t know they’re going to die, they’re going to—

The doors aren’t locked. Hell, they’re not even fully closed. You fly through them, landing flat on your face on the carpet outside. A couple of soldiers walk by, rolling their eyes at you.

“Hey!” a voice from behind you shouts. You’re being pulled up. You don’t have the strength to stand, so you fall on your knees.

“Hey,” Maya repeats, and tries to examine you for injuries, but you vehemently resist. You don’t want her or anyone to touch you right now. 

“It’s okay, Red. Breathe. Just breathe. Can you do that for me?”

Barely. The air hurts your lungs and the bile in your throat is making its way up. The doors behind you open, and the audience scuffles out of the auditorium. The orientation is over.

Everyone’s alive.

It wasn’t a trap.

It was just an orientation.

You drag yourself to your feet, refusing the hand that tries to help you.

“I swear, I get it,” Maya says. “I’m a stranger, and you don’t trust me.”

It’s not even about that, you think. There are just so few things in this world you can trust anymore.

“Are you good to go to your room and have some rest? You didn’t miss much at the end, and I can fill you in at dinner. They’re serving it until six tonight.”

You nod. This stranger has shown nothing but kindness so far.

And you’re kind.

So be kind in return.

“I’m fine, I’m… I’m good. Thank you.”

The toilet in your bathroom is not only out of use—it’s been removed completely. One pamphlet explains that you may only use the shower and sink, and that you mustn’t pour anything other than liquids down the drain.

Luckily, the contents of your stomach are nothing but liquid as you spit them into the sink. The person staring back from the mirror might as well be a stranger—you haven’t seen your reflection since you caught a glimpse of it on the surface of some stagnant pond.

Thousands of miles away.

It’s a privilege to be here—to be surrounded by a wall and have military protection. To live indoors, even with fluctuating amounts of water and electricity. To have people around you assigned to take care of your wellbeing.

It’s a fucking privilege, yet you choke up thinking about the lookout tower and the birds in the early morning, and the complete, perfect peace.

Fort Louise is a sanctuary.

There are things outside the gates that will kill you.

You’re surrounded by safety and comfort , and all you want to do is fucking fight it.

This bathroom reeks, you think—before realising it’s actually coming from you. You are so used to it, you haven’t even noticed.

30 SECONDS OF HOT WATER EVERY OTHER DAY, a note plastered on the wall reads. This place is riddled with rules. But that’s the price you pay for safety—the more secure a place is, the stricter its protocols become.

You wash the remnants of dirt off yourself and watch as the murky water bubbles on the shower floor. There’s a lot of stuff stuck to your hair—twigs, leaves, oh fuck, you must’ve looked like a caveman trapped in that auditorium, scared of modern technology and desperate to get out. You’d laugh if you weren’t still shaking.

The pile of donated clothes has little to offer, but you find a bland shirt and an unremarkable pair of jeans.

No need to bring any more attention to yourself.

It’s like a fever dream—choosing clothes for dinner in a hotel when the world around you has burned down or is burning down or is about to burn. Drying your hair with a clean towel when there are indescribable horrors hunting people in the forest.

No. Stop that.

You’ll send yourself spiralling again if you think too much.

The bed feels nice—too nice, soft, and comfortable—as you plop down and lie on your back.

Dad, you think, fidgeting the plastic lid. What the fuck do I do?

You close your eyes, just for a bit.

To think about the birds in the forest.

The slaughtered deer buck.

The sunrays that reached your eyes in the morning.

The incomprehensible vastness that wasn’t all wasteland.

The—

You swear you only closed your eyes for a bit. For a second.

But if the clock on the nightstand is still on time, it has been hours since you went to lie down.

It’s 5:30.

Fuck. The dinner. Fuck!

You run down all seven flights of stairs and follow the noise of the friendly chatter and the clinking of cutlery to what used to be a restaurant. It has been converted to a mess hall, and apparently it’s the one place where the soldiers and civilians are allowed to mix. You see people in and out of uniform. Almost every table is full.

How many of them witnessed your little episode back in the auditorium?

“I thought you weren’t coming at all,” a voice snaps you out of your thoughts. It’s Maya. She’s carrying a tray full of dirty dishes, having clearly finished her dinner. “Sorry, I really need to go,” she says. “Are you feeling any better?”

She’s so nice. Genuinely nice.

But so was Oswald, screams the cynical voice in the back of your brain.

“Yeah, I… I slept.” You cannot form a sentence to save your life.

“Oh, okay, that’s good.”

You both stand in an awkward silence.

“Sorry I missed the dinner,” you say. Maya shakes her head and smiles.

“It’s fine. I’ll catch you later. I spotted some cute guys in the back, so I had some good entertainment with my meal,” she laughs. “I think I saw one of them earlier at the gym. He wears a mask all the time, and I’m beyond intrigued. Tall and mysterious—I wonder if he’s up for some…”

Ghost.

They were at the dinner. They might still be.

“Are they still…?” You wave towards the back of the hall. Maya looks confused.

“Yeah, sure, they’re still—”

“Okay, thanks!”

You leave her standing in the doorway and wade through the crowd until you see them. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz are all sitting at a table, finishing their meals.

Still no Price.

The wave of relief washes over you as you’re finally, fucking finally surrounded by familiar faces. A chair next to Ghost is empty. He’s not paying attention to his food, but seems to be surveying the room instead. You realise they didn’t randomly choose this table—it’s a perfect place to sit and observe.

“Lookin’ good, Red,” Soap grins and skewers a bunch of green beans with his fork. “Can ya believe this place?”

No, you most definitely cannot believe this place.

“Fuckin’ braw’s what it is,” he continues, his mouth full of green mush. You realise you haven’t picked up any food. 

“Here.” Gaz offers you a bun. “Feelin’ alright?”

“Sure. Yeah. It’s… it’s a lot,” you say.

You hear Ghost let out a long sigh. Soap laughs.

“Ye been holdin’ that breath in for hours, L.t.”

Ghost glares at him.

“Have you seen Price? How’s he doing? Can I go see him?” you ask, changing the subject. Gaz’s face drops.

“They said he needed to rest, so we couldn’t see him today,” he says. Your heart rate picks up again, and your thoughts start to race. What is going on? Is Gaz leaving something out? Are the people here keeping Price locked up? Is he alive at all—

“I saw him,” Ghost interjects. “Told ‘em I was his Lieutenant and would negotiate my fists if I had to.”

Thank fucking God.

“Boss’s fine,” he assures. “Looked a bit rough, but he’s fine.”

You dig into the bread offered to you. It’s not nearly enough to count as dinner, but Soap reluctantly gives up the two apples he had been planning to save for later.

“Some of us are headin’ out later,” Gaz says. “There’s a pub in town nearby. They’re hostin’ a welcoming party or something like that. It’s not exclusively for soldiers. I think you should come.”

“Aye,” Soap chimes in, “you’re especially welcome now that he’s not comin’. We need backup.” He points at Ghost, who scoffs.

“Never said I wasn’t comin’,” he grumbles. “Just said it sounded stupid, is all.”

Town is a very loose interpretation of the resort-turned-village less than a mile away from the hotel. Barracks. Whatever. The shops that used to sell hiking gear and souvenirs have been gutted and turned into lodgings, storage, a chapel...

Who the hell runs this place?

The pub, set up in what seems to have been an upscale brewery at one point in time, is packed with people. Soldiers, civilians, all mingling and laughing without a care in the world. You spot Maya as you walk in, and she waves at you. Someone thrusts a beer in your hand. It smells… yeasty, like mead. Homebrewed.

“It’s not that bad,” Soap assures you as he steers you through the crowd and into a corner where Ghost stands. You fight the urge to slip behind him and hide from people.

“I lost Gaz,” the Scotsman says with a frown and sets out on an expedition to find his teammate. He’s in good spirits, and some of those good spirits have clearly made their way in his system. Ghost, on the other hand, isn’t drinking. Or mingling. Or looking like he’s having fun. You’re a bit unsure about yourself, too. It’s loud, hot, and overwhelming, but you were asked to come so you came. Besides, you’ll take any excuse to spend time with him—no, them. You feel safer when he’s around.

When they’re around. Goddamnit.

You feel safer with your team.

The beer in your hand feels warm. Too warm, perhaps, for a beverage that’s probably still fermenting in the bottle. You discreetly place it on the nearest table and watch as one of the partygoers snatches it up, grateful for the free drink.

You didn’t pay for it—it was just handed to you. How does one pay for anything around here, anyway?

The corner you’ve claimed is, once again, the ideal spot to observe. Is that why Ghost chose it? Why did he bother to come at all?

“How are you settling in?” you ask, fully expecting him to stay silent.

“Tryin’ to not get too comfortable,” he says. “In case we’re not stayin’.”

So he’s struggling too.

“And if we are? Do you want to stay here?” you ask. For the better part of the day, you’ve been ready to climb over the wall surrounding Fort Louise and take your chances with the things in the forest.

Ghost turns to look at you. His eyes never fail to pull you in like a magnet. At first, it was a little unsettling, but you’ve grown used to it.

You’ve grown used to him.

So much so that you—

“Depends,” he says.

“On what?” you hold his gaze.

“On who I’m stayin’ with.”

All the comfort and safety in the world at his disposal, yet he’s just as hesitant as you to stay here. He doesn’t trust the place either.

He inhales sharply.

“I—”

“HEY!” A cheerful greeting shatters the moment and you’re both pulled back from the pocket universe you always somehow slip into. Maya takes swaying steps towards you. It’s unclear whether she’s drunk or doing some kind of dance.

“Whoa,” she says, checking out Ghost, who has straightened his back and crossed his arms. “You two know each other or something?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly wishing you didn’t come. You don’t have the social stamina to introduce a person you just met to a person who barely speaks.

“I want to arm wrestle with you,” Maya slurs to Ghost. “Come on. Comeoncomeoncomeon. Lemme see what those biceps do!”

She’s catching the attention of the whole pub, and it makes you uncomfortable. She doesn’t mean any harm, but your heart is in your throat again.

“Boooo,” Maya shouts, and waves her hand, which unfortunately holds a glass of wine that smells strong and sweet—homebrewed, like the beer. The glass tips over just enough to splatter wine on your jeans—and Ghost’s shirt.

A convenient escape.

“Oh, shit,” you say, playing up the upset in your voice. “These are new, I should leave and go wash them—”

“Fuck, Red, I’m sorry,” Maya groans, reaching out to touch you. “I’m sorry, let me get you a beer! A shot!”

“No, no, it’s fine, look, I should really—” 

A song comes on, drawing people to the makeshift dancefloor. You try to slip away in the chaos, but Maya grabs your arm.

“Please, I’m sorryyyy!” she pleads.

“I’ll arm wrestle with you,” Ghost says, cutting off her apologies. Her face lights up with a drunken smile.

“Yes! I knew you couldn’t resist!”

You have no desire to stick around and see how the match plays out. You push through the crowd, towards the door. When the cool air of the summer night gently brushes against your skin, you decide you’re not the type of person who likes to party.

Not after a day’s worth of meltdown, anyway.

It’s quiet outside.

Nothing but the wind rustling the leaves.

No birds around here.

You arrive at the barracks-hotel-whatever, but going to your room and calling it a day suddenly feels like giving up. You’re not ready to yield and accept your fate just yet.

Most people have retired to their rooms. The rest are still at the pub.

The smell of sweet wine reaches your nose. It has seeped into the denim, and the longer it sits, the worse the stain will get.

There’s a laundry room in the basement.

Curfew hasn’t started yet.

You might as well do some late-night washing.

The laundry room is decently sized—its original purpose was to run the sheets and towels and other textiles through daily cycles of deep cleaning between the changing hotel guests. The machines, you notice to your disappointment, are currently out of use. And washing a single item of clothing would be considered wasteful, anyway. They’d probably have you scrubbing the floors with a toothbrush, or shovelling shit, or whatever they use as punishment around here.

Hopefully nothing worse than that.

The faucet above the sink sputters loudly before running a steady stream of lukewarm water. You take off the stained trousers, but run into another problem—you need something else to wear in the meantime. You could swing by your room and grab something else.

But there’s a pair of shorts hanging from the clothesline, and they’re your size.

No one’s going to notice.

And if they do, you’ll just play dumb. Surely no one would think otherwise after seeing you flee the auditorium earlier.

That whole fucking incident.

You cringe.

The wine stains don’t come off entirely—the detergent has expired some time ago, and you probably should’ve added more.

All of this is fucking ridiculous.

You’re washing your wine-stained clothes like the world outside never collapsed. Like everything is normal.

You hang your jeans on the clothesline that’s closest to the window, then crack it open. The dryer is out of commission, so you sit down on top of it to wait for the jeans to dry.

You’re sitting in a hotel laundry room, on top of a dryer, like the whole planet hasn’t turned into war and wasteland.

Everything that happened in Quebec feels so distant, and what happened in Europe even more so. You have questions. A lot of them. But they’ll have to wait until you can talk to Price.

Was this the place you were meant to end up?

Was this his plan?

The door to the laundry room creaks and clicks shut. Whoever came in doesn’t turn on the lights. The moonlight filtering in through the window is enough.

The soft steps patter on the tile floor like a cat.

Like a big cat.

You don’t need to look up to know who it is.

“Who won?” You ask. The space is so small, so anechoic, it swallows your voice.

“She did,” Ghost replies. He’s standing by the washing machine, with his mask pushed back on top of his head, and wipes sweat off his face.

“Did you let her win?” You ask. Maya wasn’t even trying to hide how interested she was—so much so that it struck a chord inside you.

They’d be a match. She’ll start military training soon, and who knows—maybe they’ll have more in common than just their career choices. Maybe Ghost is looking for someone he could actually wrestle with.

“Yes."

Damn. He lost on purpose. That is practically courting.

“Did the pub close down?” You dangle your legs over the edge of the dryer and feel the sting of irritation brewing into something stronger.

Why do you give a shit who he’s wrestling with?

“No.” His shoulders flex with the shrug you hate—the fucking nonchalance of it all. Infuriating.

“Then why’d you come here?” You ask. 

“Need to wash my shirt.” He takes off his t-shirt and tosses it into the sink. You watch as the fabric absorbs the suds you left—because you’d rather watch anything but his shirtless form.

"And also to keep an eye on me?" You're not blind to the fact that wherever you go, he follows. Sooner or later.

"Captain's orders," he says. 

Right. Of course.

Ghost moves closer and stands in front of the dryer.

He doesn’t say a word, and your eyes drag from his chest—fuck, Jesus—to his face. At first, his face looks as expressionless, as vacant as ever, but the more you stare—at a distance that’s way too close for comfort—you pick up the subtle movement of his lips, his jaw, his throat. He swallows, breathes in, out, and swallows again.

He leans forward.

You lean backwards.

He leans again and you lean down until you’re flat on your back on top of the dryer and he’s hovering over you.

Standing between your legs.

“What are you doing?” you mutter.

He reaches his hand behind you.

“Washing powder.”

Huh?

He pulls the box of detergent off the shelf behind you. He needed that, and you were simply sitting on his way.

And now you’re flat on your back with your legs spread.

Like an idiot.

He returns to the sink, dumps a generous scoop of white powder into the water and starts washing his shirt. You sit up, wishing the floor would suddenly open and swallow you, your stolen shorts and the earth-shattering embarrassment.

“What was it that made you upset?” he asks, not lifting his eyes from his task.

“The pub was loud,” you say.

Liar.

You couldn’t bear to watch someone flirt with the last reliable person you had left.

He shakes his head.

“Not in the pub—earlier. You were cryin’.”

Shit, he’s right. You were crying. All the way from the auditorium to your room, you were sobbing. You only noticed it when you saw your tear-stained face in the mirror. But he couldn’t have seen that. Right?

“How could you tell?”

Ghost stops scrubbing the shirt in the sink. He leans on the dryer, again, leaving some distance between you this time. Water runs down his tattooed arm and drips on the floor.

He looks almost unreal. Unlike the warm glow of a campfire, the blue moonlight paints his features sharply, accentuating every line and angle of his face.

And his chest, shoulders, arms—all of which you’re not staring at.

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

If he sees anything.

“You looked like you had been cryin’,” he says. “You came to the mess lookin' like a—”

“A mess?” you quip.

He blinks.

You bite your lip.

Ghost turns his face away and huffs out a laugh. A genuine, amused laugh. And his lips curl in a way that makes you blush.

Hard.

You’re both laughing at your stupid joke now. When you finally calm down, you expect him to move back to the sink, but he doesn’t.

“I feel like this place is fucked up,” you whisper. “Or are we?”

Ghost’s eyes refuse to leave yours.

“We might be.”

He just stands there. Close enough for you to reach out and touch him. And not for the first time, either.

You’re fucked.

Get a grip, he used you, remember? 

Completely, utterly fucked.

You can't stand him, he ate your peaches, remember? 

He leans down, closer, and definitely not reaching for detergent this time.

“What the bloody hell is it about you that makes the Captain think you’re special…” His voice is husky. Gravelly. Warm, like sunkissed stone in the desert.

“There’s nothing special about me.”

This could be a drunk mistake, except neither of you is drunk.

“There has to be somethin’.”

It could just be a mistake. Surely you’d both regret it later.

“Why do you care, Simon?”

It could be a—

A door opens somewhere, and you can hear a rowdy crowd of drunk soldiers barging into the lobby.

The moment has shattered.

Again.

Ghost backs up and returns to the sink. You hop down from the dryer, grab your still very soaked jeans, and head to the door. The curfew starts soon.

“... Good night,” you whisper hastily, before crossing the threshold.

He stops washing, and without turning around, mutters, “Night.”

And something else you don’t hear because you’re running up the stairs to your room, blushing like an idiot.

Like you’re just staying in a hotel.

Like the world outside never ended.

Chapter Text

Uncomfortable.

How would you describe your current status? asks the sloppily filled form on the nightstand, next to Ghost’s bed. It’s a sorry excuse for a psychological evaluation—it’s clearly meant to weed out those with trauma severe enough they might suddenly flip the switch and turn on their own.

Ghost stopped answering honestly halfway through—right around the part where it asked about his feelings, his sleeping habits and social adaptation.

He had stomached the queries about his history in the SAS and his expertise in the field. He had reluctantly given accurate information about his physical health. But going into questions about his wellbeing… those, he wasn’t ready to write down. Let alone discuss.

He had written down a single word, then crossed it out.

Uncomfortable.

It’s not new to him—he’s been uncomfortable most of his career. Most of his life. When the shit finally hit the fan on a global scale, not much in his life changed. People still kill each other over territory and resources like they’ve done since the dawn of time. The only difference now is that he’s no longer getting paid to intervene.

It’s not some burning desire to save mankind from its own self-inflicted annihilation that drives him. People have shown, over and over, how much they’re ready to destroy in order to gain so little. And how much more they’re ready to obliterate to prevent anyone else from getting it.

He does what he does because that’s all he knows.

And leaving his team when the British Army crumbled into small units that disappeared into the wind was never an option.

So he stayed with the Task Force. A team that now exists solely to keep its members and allies alive. His life has a meaning—sort of—as long as there are civilians to rescue and enemies to kill.

Being a little uncomfortable is just… a little uncomfortable, is all.

Although right now he’s teetering on the edge of extremely uncomfortable. Not because of the intrusive questions on the form, the unravelling world, or his questionable reasons for living. None of that has made him uncomfortable like this.

Right now, he’s uncomfortable because of you.

Unbearably uncomfortable.

Because you had to sit on top of the dryer in that humid, hot room, wearing those tiny, stupid shorts.

Because you had to sit there, like you owned the bloody place, and he couldn't stop looking at you.

Because the memory of those few seconds you lay on your back on top of the dryer, with him standing between your spread thighs is enough to make him—

“Fuck,” Ghost grunts and rolls over in his bed. It doesn’t help—lying on his stomach just adds friction, increasing the discomfort that stretches and blooms in his boxers.

He’s hard. Painfully hard.

It’s been like that since the early hours of the morning.

It dies down a bit occasionally, but just as he thinks it’s gone for good, he closes his eyes and sees you. 

On your back, beneath him.

Looking up with eyes that always betray your thoughts.

Looking up at him with eyes that fucking invite him to do unspeakable things.

No, they don’t, and he wouldn’t—he’s not a monster, at least not that kind of monster. But had those words actually fallen from your lips, had your mouth spoken what your eyes said, he would have—

Ghost groans quietly as his cock twitches at the thought. He needs to think about something else besides last night. Last night, when he felt like he finally saw you. And in that moment, he didn’t want you just because of how you looked, but because of how you looked at him. He didn’t want to take you. You aren't his to take. He didn’t want to ravage or claim you. He wants to—fuckin’ hell—he wanted to shield you. To cover you with his body. To stand between you and the world that preys on those who are kind.

Soft.

He wanted to protect you. There were no threats in that hot, moonlit laundry room, but Ghost wanted to protect you. 

To have your skin touching his.

To hold your body against his, so you'd look at him like that again

Of course he didn’t—because it doesn’t work like that anywhere other than his depraved fantasy.

Price wants him to keep you safe—but pressing you against a washing machine or laying you down on top of one most likely wouldn’t count.

He rolls over again, running his hand over his abdomen and toying with the idea of taking care of the situation. Ghost knows he won’t do it—it’s just not something he does. He can’t recall the last time he got off.

It just doesn’t happen, not to him.

Sex isn’t high on the list of his priorities. To him, it’s barely a need—just something people irrationally obsess over. No matter how bad things get, he can always count on people having a ferocious hunger to fuck, then fuck each other over.

Unnecessary.

This whole shitstorm his bloody hormones have stirred up is entirely unnecessary.

He’s not a teenager, he's pushing forty. He can rein this in. He has to.

He grinds the heel of his palm against himself.

Fuck, that feels—

It feels—

His eyes close again, and he falls back in time. Back to last night. Back to when you skipped out the door, and how he should’ve gone after you. He should’ve pulled you back inside. Locked the door. At the very least, he should’ve kept you around for more than just a fragment of a cheeky argument.

Or, better yet, he shouldn’t have gone to the laundry room at all. He should’ve stayed in that state of irritation around you—the one that stemmed from his own guilt for using you to find his way back to his team. The guilt that he later over-corrected by holding on to that fucking lid of a coffee tin.

The look in your eyes, when he gave it to you.

You looked at him like he had just hung the moon and stars.

Pure adoration.

He doesn’t deserve that.

Maybe he should’ve gone with that girl from the pub who shamelessly tried to flirt with him. One heated night, no strings. That should’ve been easy. Except that Ghost doesn’t do that, either. He just never really has. He could’ve kept the act going long enough for her to invite him up, but that’s it. He wouldn’t have been able to perform, no matter how eager the girl was. And if, by some miracle, it happened—his mind would have been elsewhere. He had purposefully lost the arm wrestling match and left right after to avoid his opponent’s advances.

So, no. Getting laid isn’t an option, because his bloody stupid brain doesn’t allow that.

Having a wank isn’t either. He can’t chase pleasure for the sake of pleasure.

But why does the slightest touch through his boxers set a fire the size of—

“Lieutenant!”

A vigorous knock on the door sobers him up quickly.

“T-minus five minutes!” It’s Soap. He rattles the door that threatens to come off its hinges. “We’re meetin’ the big boss!”

More insistent knocks land on the door, sending dust flying everywhere.

“Fuckssake, Johnny, you’ll break the door if you keep that up.” Ghost hastily wraps the blanket around his waist to conceal the erection that’s still somewhat present. He cracks the door open and barely manages to stop Soap from coming in.

“Can’t just barge in like that, MacTavish.”

“Aye,” Soap grins, “am I supposed to request an audience now?”

Technically yes—Ghost is his superior and Fort Louise seems to have established some kind of old world military hierarchy. In reality…

“No, just don’t expect me to be happy when you break down my door.” Ghost steps aside and Soap steps in.

“It reeks in here,” Soap says, pushing the window open before Ghost can protest. “Reeks like ye been—” He looks at the bed that’s a mess of sheets and pillows.

“Been wha’?” 

Ghost disappears into the bathroom to run cold water over his face. The water has a brown tint to it, but he gladly risks an eye infection—his face burns from the lingering whatever-the-fuck it was that possessed him earlier. Thankfully, the situation in his boxers has calmed down.

“Like ye have been…” Soap inhales through his nose. “Fuckin’.”

“I’ll break your nose in three pieces and shove them up your arse,” Ghost replies flatly. “What I do in my room is none of your business, Johnny.”

Soap raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

Despite all the bullshit Ghost put him through, he keeps coming back, sassing like nothing ever happened. There’s still so much left unresolved that has been hanging in the air ever since Ghost came back.

But now’s not the time to dive headfirst into that.

“Big boss,” Ghost steers the conversation back. “A general of what army?”

Soap shakes his head. “Dinnae ken. Garrick’s in the dark too. All we know is we’re expected by the ski lodge at 0800.”

Ghost pulls out a neat stack of clothes from the dresser drawer. The shirt he washed last night is completely shrunken and ruined—he had no idea what he was doing.

“Let’s not keep ‘em waiting, then.”

The ski lodge sits on the hillside, overlooking Fort Louise. The guard doesn’t bother to ask for IDs as he opens the gates to let Ghost, Soap, and Gaz through. A sign that once had the name of the lodge on it now simply reads HEADQUARTERS.

Headquarters of what?

The recruits stationed in Fort Louise are from all over—a ragtag battalion of young men with more enthusiasm than experience. Still, that’s better than nothing.

During the brief time Ghost spent in the mess, he overheard them talking—about how stoked they were to be here, and how eager they were for some action. Words spoken by those lucky enough to have avoided it so far.

He’s spotted a few more seasoned soldiers—men with the vacant stare of someone who’s seen what most can’t even imagine. He knows that look. Everyone in the SAS had it. Everyone in his team. Some are better at hiding it than others.

Like Johnny.

“Who d’ya reckon is waiting for us?” Soap asks. He has a knack for filling the void with chatter—something Ghost has learned to tune out.

“Not many allies left,” Ghost replies. “Keep your head up.”

The front door opens, and a group of soldiers in black gear steps out. They look more professional than anyone Ghost has seen here—their equipment fits like it was tailor made. They move with the confidence earned only through years of service.

There’s something familiar about them, too.

“What the fuck is Shadow doin’ here?” Soap snarls. “Did ya know about this, Garrick?”

Gaz shakes his head. “Don’t have any more intel than you.”

The group settles into formation, weapons steady—not aimed, but close enough to send a message.

They’re at the ready.

“I remember you from Mexico,” one of them says, his voice laced with mockery. “Damn near got shot because of that shit you pulled in Las Almas.”

“Ya only almost got shot because we were feelin’ friendly that day,” Soap snaps “Thought all of you were bought by some rich fucks. Or am I lookin’ at the ones they passed on?”

“You shut your fucking—” One Shadow breaks the formation and points the barrel of his gun at Soap, who stands his ground.

“Stand down, MacTavish,” Ghost says calmly. “They’re tryin’ to rile you up. If they wanted us dead, they’d have done it in our sleep last night—like the cowardly shits they are.”

A black car with tinted windows rolls through the gate, drawing everyone’s attention.

More Shadow?

The soldiers quickly get back into formation and stand at attention as the door opens. A woman in her late forties steps out. Her jacket reads CIA in big, bold letters.

Ghost almost smirks beneath his mask. He wasn’t exactly sure who or what he expected—but it sure as hell wasn’t her.

Kate Laswell.

The CIA Station Chief and Case Officer within the Special Activities Division, if any of that still exists.

She waves awkwardly at the Shadows, who scatter like smoke and disappear from sight.

“I’ve told them a thousand times not to do that,” she says. “I’m not their precious Commander.”

“Steamin’ Jesus, Laswell! Where did ya come from?” Soap moves to pat her shoulder. She dodges.

“Soap.” She nods, then turns to Gaz and Ghost. “Glad to see you all here—and in one piece. Still prefer to be… not touched.”

She looks the same. It’s been years since Ghost last saw her, but somehow the woman in front of him looks like a relic from a different time.

“What’s Shadow doin’ here?” Gaz asks.

“They're here to assist,” Laswell replies. “Their commander helped build this place. Most of his men chose to stay here after he died.”

Graves is dead?

“Good riddance,” Soap mutters. “See ya in hell.”

“Keep that to yourself,” Laswell warns him. “I never trusted him either—but to people in Fort Louise, Graves is a hero.”

Soap grumbles something under his breath.

“Let’s get inside. We’re burning daylight.”

The lodge has indeed been transformed into operational headquarters. The living room pool table now serves as a conference table, surrounded by eight seats. A few laptops and a projector are propped up on it. The windows have been painted black, and cables snake along the walls, all plugged into battery packs marked LNDA.

A makeshift control room.

“Sit anywhere,” Laswell says, gesturing towards the pool table. “Like I said—we’re in a bit of a rush.”

After everyone has found a seat, Laswell powers up one of the laptops.

“Sorry, I, uh…. I haven’t slept,” she says. “We had a situation in Juneau.”

“Juneau, Alaska?” Soap asks.

“No, MacTavish—Juneau, bloody North Korea.” A gruff, familiar voice replies, and Ghost turns to see his Captain standing in the doorway.

He looks rough. Still. Ghost managed to get a peek in the infirmary before he was caught.

Price's left eye is bandaged, and he leans heavily on a pair of crutches as he claims a seat at the table.

“The hell are you all starin’ at, muppets?” He nods at Laswell. “Sorry, Kate. Continue.”

“Haven’t even started yet,” Laswell replies. “All right. Welcome, John. Glad you could make it.”

She turns on the projector. It flickers for a moment, then casts a light on the wall.

“Fort Louise,” Laswell begins, “is one of three—well, apparently two—settlements currently under the control of the Last Northern Defence Alliance. The other is Pituffik, a former United States Space Force base.”

“And the third was Juneau?” Gaz asks grimly.

“Yes, Juneau was the third. We evacuated as many as we could.”

Not that many, judging by the weary, disappointed look on her face.

“What happened in Alaska?” Ghost asks.

Laswell hesitates. “Something we’ll face here, eventually.” 

It resembles the sketches in the campground manager’s journal.

“I heard you were attacked on your way here.” 

The creature’s sharp limbs match the dents on the Humvee.

“That’s what attacked us, right?” Gaz taps his fingers on the table. He’s nervous—if he hadn’t kept his cool, if he had slipped, all four of you would be dead.

“Correct,” Laswell replies. “These were taken by one of our scouts. He… didn’t make it back. But someone found his camera while on patrol.”

Poor bastard.

“What you’re looking at is Warfare Optimised Logistics Framework, or WOLF. It’s a quadrupedal robot, designed for frontline combat—specifically to detect and destroy humans. It was supposed to save resources by targeting enemy soldiers instead of their vehicles or weapons. After the beta run, they were able to distinguish humans from other life forms based on thermal imaging. They’re fully automated, solar-powered, and virtually indestructible. Once production kicked off, the plan was to connect them all into the CIA network and let them comb through and analyse the APB data. That data would then be used to hunt down terrorist organisations.”

She paces around the room as she speaks.

“That, as you can imagine, never happened. When the United States fell, so did the agencies. The networks shut down within a week after the right-wing American troops declared war on Canada. We were left in the dark. The WOLF operating system was never finished, and we were stuck with an army of useless prototypes.”

“Until someone let the dogs out,” Ghost huffs. “How’d they end up here?”

Laswell sighs.

“What was left of the CIA at the time decided—we decided—to gather everything we had and move to Alaska. It was the last free state at the time, and we had contacts there. Allies, friends. We loaded the WOLF prototypes onto a ship headed to Anchorage to be recycled for parts. The ship never reached the shore. Or, it did—just not in Anchorage. It washed ashore later, some five hundred miles south. The crew had been dead for weeks when we found them, and the bow door had been torn open. Clawed open. And the prototypes were gone.”

She rubs the bridge of her nose. Never in his career has Ghost seen her iron resolve crack. 

“What we found out was that they were moved outside on the decks during ship maintenance. The prototypes are solar powered and once they were out in the sun, they gradually charged themselves until fully operational. Like I said—they’re fully automated. After that, they must’ve taken out the crew members and as soon as the ship drifted ashore, their thermal sensors picked up humans, which they followed. Now—”

“Kate,” Price cuts her off. “You’re among friends.”

She exhales. “Yes. Thank you, John. It’s just not the first time I’ve given this speech. The reactions tend to be... hostile."

"After leaving the ship, the prototypes followed their primary directive—search and destroy. Without the system update, they classify every human as a target. On average, a single WOLF patrols a territory between 100 and 300 square miles, usually centred on areas with remaining population. There aren’t many of those left, and prototypes have begun forming packs. It’s a built-in feature that lets them sync their charging cycles so at least half the unit is always active. Some packs have reportedly moved east, reaching as far as Quebec. There are also signs of changes in their behavioural algorithms—several units have started attacking animals. We can only keep them at bay for so long before a breach becomes inevitable. That’s what happened in Juneau.”

The butchered deer buck. It was killed by a WOLF.

“So… in short, they're evil robots. Gone rogue." Gaz tilts his head and leans back in his seat. "It looks like a dog, if you squint."

“They’re not evil. They’re not good either—they simply follow a protocol programmed in their system. It’s what they’re made for. And whoever programmed them, is either dead or missing. Any hints to their whereabouts were lost when the CIA database was wiped out. But if we manage to capture one, we might be able to find a way to shut them off.”

“And that’s where we come in,” Price says. He stands up on his crutches. “That one,” he points at the screen, “is reportedly circling an area nearby. Our objective is to disable, capture, and bring it back.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Soap asks. “The left front leg looks off.”

“It walked into a landmine,” Laswell says. “Even that didn’t stop it—just blew off the leg and scrambled its navigation system. It has been pacing the same patch of forest for weeks. It’s still dangerous—but capturing it should be easier. I’d advise you to keep your distance and not approach it directly.”

“Shouldn’t waste any more time then, eh?” Soap says. “Let’s catch ourselves a fuckin’ WOLF.”

The few, once-luxurious bedrooms of the ski lodge are crammed with crates and lockers. Tactical gear, uniforms of different terrain patterns. Vests, helmets, gloves, grenade pouches galore—but no grenades. The dwindling amount of weapons is unnerving. Are they expected to fight these machines bare-handed?

“Got you somethin’,” Price says, handing Ghost a piece of black fabric stitched with white armoured plates.

His hard-plated skull mask.

Where did Price get this? Ghost had come to terms with the fact he’d never see it again, and settled for the painted balaclava.

“Had it made. The seamstress in town didn’t ask questions, but I reckon she’ll have nightmares.” Price chuckles. “It blocks thermal imaging better.”

Most of the gear here has been modified to make the wearer invisible to WOLF sensors. But it comes at a cost—the clothing is heavy, bulky, and significantly limits mobility. Not exactly ideal in combat.

“Ready, Johnny?” Ghost turns to his Sergeant. 

“Born ready, L.t.”

The modified clothes and armour might make their wearer invisible to thermal imaging, but they introduce a whole other kind of threat—being boiled alive.

Death by being extremely uncomfortable.

Halfway down from the ski lodge, Ghost is already sweating bullets.

By the time he and Soap reach the gate, a layer of sweat covers his entire body. With nowhere to vaporise, it clings between skin and fabric, forming a sloshing, itching seal of unnecessary insulation.

Uncomfortable.

Soap huffs and puffs—he’s not doing much better. But stripping even a single layer, even peeling it back for a second, would expose them to the thermal sensors. And that would blow the whole mission.

Hauling a heavy crate filled with car batteries and cables only adds to the hot, suffocating misery.

The forest is silent, not resting, but dead. Everything feels dead. The evergreen trees, the earth, the air itself. All dead. Claw marks slash across the ground, tree trunks, and rocks where a pack of Wolves stormed through. They must’ve scared away the wildlife, if there was any to begin with. 

Ghost catches himself thinking that the sight of this would make you sad. You’d never say it, but every time you came across a place like this—empty, lifeless—your eyes glazed over and you grew distant.

Like it was your personal tragedy.

Then Johnny would say something stupid to make you laugh. Ghost wasn’t always sure if it was genuine or if you were just being nice.

Kind.

You’re kind. Soft. 

Sweet.

You’re—

Fuckin’ hell. This is not the time.

He needs to get a grip before his mind drifts back to last night and those places it shouldn’t go. But the suffocating sweat and eerie silence of the forest make it hard to stop.

He doesn’t like the idea of you being separated from the rest of the team.

“Ya think she’ll be alright?” Soap breaks the silence.

“Red’s been on her own before,” Ghost replies, caught off guard.

Soap chuckles. “I was talkin’ about Laswell. But aye, Red. Let’s talk about that. What’s goin’ on in there?”

“Nothing’s goin’ on in there,” Ghost mutters. “Keep it tactical or shut it, Johnny.”

“Ach, keep it tactical in yer bollocks, Simon.” Soap shakes his head and laughs. “Ya malfunctioned when we got separated from her.”

“Price wants us to keep her safe. I’m stayin’ on top of that.” He immediately regrets his choice of words as they leave his mouth. Soap erupts into a full belly laugh.

“On top of that? Or on top of her?”

“Fuckin’ hell Johnny—”

Rhythmic thudding cuts him off. It echoes through the silent forest, bouncing off trees and rocks and reverberating through the soil.

One, two, three steps—then nothing, where the fourth should be. One, two, three. One, two, three.

One, two—

Then they see it.

WOLF.

It stumbles forward on three legs, still counting in the fourth, missing leg. It pauses, most likely to calculate its route, then continues. One, two, three. One, two, three. An endless pattern, trapped in an endless circle.

A piece of the shattered leg dangles from its frame, held on by sparking wires.

It walked into a landmine, Laswell had said. Still, the explosion barely slowed it down.

The white panels on its torso reflect light with an almost blinding brightness. Scratches and cuts mar the surface, smeared with what looks like dried blood.

It moves slowly, Ghost notices. Slow enough for him to walk up to it, if he wanted to. But that could just be to conserve energy. It doesn’t need to run.

It hasn’t seen him or Soap.

One, two, three.

The limbs make a faint, whirring sound as it approaches. It has trampled a clear path in its wake.

“Watcher-1 to Ghost.” Laswell’s voice crackles through the static. “We've got a clear visual. There’s a spot between some rocks and a pine tree up ahead. It should take a while for the WOLF to reach there—plenty of time for setup.”

“Copy.”

Ghost drops one of the car batteries behind the tree while Soap places the other behind the rocks. He tosses a cable over the narrow path the WOLF has stomped into the ground and carefully connects it to the battery. Ghost waits until his Sergeant’s hands are off before attaching his end of the cable.

An unassuming live wire. It was Soap’s idea to set up a localised EMP.

“Ghost to Watcher,” he says quietly. “We’re in position.”

“WOLF approaching. Good luck, boys.”

The comms cut out. The forest falls silent.

Then, after a while—one, two, three. One, two, three, thump, thump, thump. Whirring of the mechanical joints and buzzing of the exposed wires.

One, two—

The WOLF stops right in front of the cable.

Fuck.

Despite being blown to hell and broken enough to repeat the same route, it can still see—or sense—an obstacle in its path.

It doesn’t try to find a way around it. It just stays put, turning its screen—its head—from side to side, as if trying to figure out what’s in front of it.

Minutes pass.

The WOLF doesn’t move. It can spend days like that, stuck and calculating. The solar panels behind it will keep charging it, so it never tires or runs out of power.

They can’t move either—the smallest leaks in the armour would show up in the thermal sensors.

Soap looks at Ghost, then cocks his head towards the WOLF.

Ghost nods. 

It's time to improvise.

“Fuck this,” Soap grunts, standing up. He rips off his helmet and mask. “Hey! Get some of this, ya big ugly bastard!”

The WOLF whirrs to life, its attention now solely on Soap. It charges like a three-legged bull, dashing towards the cable.

And leaps over it.

Shit.

“Johnny!” Ghost yells, watching the WOLF chase after his Sergeant. His brave, stupid, reckless Sergeant. Why the fuck did he have to—no, there’s not time for that now.

“Over here!” he shouts, lifting the battery with the deadly contraption still attached. “Johnny, fuckssake, get behind me!”

The three-legged WOLF is surprisingly agile. Soap tries his best to slip through the dense tree branches, but it tears through them like tissue. Then, he misjudges a step, makes one tiny mistake, and trips. The robot charges at him full speed, raising its one intact front leg with a gleaming steel claw, ready to tear him open from throat to stomach, ready to carry out its only function.

Ready to destroy.

But as the claw plunges into the soil, barely missing Soap, the WOLF stops. The whirring and creaking of the metal turns into crackling and buzzing of electricity. A thick cable wraps around the robot, and electricity from the live wire digs into its exposed blue innards.

It bends and shakes, twitching like a seized motor. When the car batteries finally short-circuit, so does the WOLF. A loud snap. A flash of light. Then the stench of scorched wires—and the overload takes the robot down.

“Ghost—” Soap gasps, but his Lieutenant doesn’t see or hear him. Ghost drops on his knees beside the robot. With shaky hands, he tears off what’s left of its broken leg. 

It could still be electrified. He doesn’t care.

Doesn’t care if it hits him.

Doesn’t care if it stops his heart.

He starts beating the WOLF with the bent clump of metal.

The soft, rubbery seams give way under each blow, revealing layers and layers of wiring, circuits, lights—the insides of the beast that tried to take away his Sergeant. The world around him disappears.

All that’s left is him and the machine he keeps beating, senselessly. There’s no point. No method to his madness.

His fingers are bleeding. He can taste metal in his mouth and he can't see straight, but he doesn’t stop. He needs to keep going. He needs to end it, just like he needed to end that disgusting sack of shit at the Compound. He needs to—

“STOP!” A firm slap on his face stings, even through his mask.

Johnny has a heavy hand.

“You’ll fuckin’ break it, ye eejit!”

The world that was cloaked in darkness seconds ago comes back. It’s sunny, warm, and the forest around them is no different from before.

Sweat stings his eyes.

Soap kneels beside him. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t blame or berate. He just sits there, holding Ghost’s gaze, until both their breathing slows and Ghost’s hands stop shaking.

“C’mon, L.t.” He finally says. “Let’s get back.”

“Watcher-1 to Ghost and Soap.” Laswell sounds tentative, like she’s unsure to interrupt. “Leave the carcass as is—we’ll send Shadow to pick it up.”

They don’t talk to each other on the way back.

Ghost’s ears are ringing from the racket of metal hitting metal. Over and over and over.

How could he explain what just happened?

How his vision went red and the world turned black. How all he could feel was uncontrollable rage. How he almost ruined everything just because he couldn't keep himself in check?

How could he explain the overwhelming need to destroy what almost killed Johnny? That he didn’t care if the stupid fuckin’ piece of titanium and rubber broke down into a million unsalvageable bits?

How could he ever explain… anything?

The slick sweat chafing beneath his clothes feels like an appropriate punishment.

As they reach Fort Louise and turn in their gear, Soap doesn’t pester him with questions or demand an explanation.

“Y’know where to find me,” he says, and walks off. He knows when Ghost needs space.

Ghost doesn’t go after him, doesn’t even call after him. The words would just stick to his throat on the way out.

He finds a quiet spot outside near the barracks and sits down.

He'd kill for a cigarette right now.

Of course he shouldn’t have acted like that. He knows. He’s not that dim—it was something primal, visceral that took over. Something that wasn’t him.

He isn’t himself.

He hasn’t been, not since he got out of the—

“Hey,” greets a soft, careful voice behind him.

Unlike Johnny, you don’t seem to know when he needs space.

Ghost doesn’t turn to look at you, but you approach anyway and stop at his side. He silently hopes you won’t ask—about what happened, about anything. He’s not ready to face the consequences yet.

He needs the quiet to gather his thoughts. Not to answer questions like—

“Want to see something?”

Maybe, not that. But—

“Come.”

Reluctance wrestles with curiosity as he gets up and follows you. You don’t say a word, just lead him through the yard, up to the fifth floor, and through a door marked NO ENTRY!! in angry red letters. 

It leads to a rooftop patio, now filled with makeshift shelters.

He follows you inside one of them, and the sweet, musty smell reminds him of a raid on a drug baron’s warehouse years ago.

What can you possibly have to show him?

You’re covered in dirt up to your knees. There’s hay in your hair.

“Wait here,” you say and he stills.

Wind howls in the walls. They’re partially made of plexiglass.

Is this a greenhouse?

The door clicks open and shut. You’re back.

And you’re holding a…

“Ta-dah." 

There’s a—a chicken in your arms.

“Her name is Missile,” you say.

The bird clucks.

What the hell have you been up to?

Chapter Text

“So, you’re like… half-siblings? Cousins?”

Maya sits across from you at the mess, unenthusiastically digging into her breakfast. You tried to find a place to sit where you’d go unnoticed, but she somehow managed to spot you. And now you’re being roped into a conversation you do not want to be a part of.

You shake your head. No, you and Ghost are not cousins.

“At least tell me you’re related,” she says, trying her best to make it sound like a joke. “So I can trick myself into thinking you’re close because of that and not because… other reasons.”

“We’re teammates,” you reply, scooping a spoonful of the grey sludge that passes for porridge. The dinner served on the first night wasn’t an accurate depiction of the quality of food in Fort Louise. It was false advertising, something to reel you in.

As if you could leave.

“Teammates,” Maya repeats, as if the word were a foreign concept. “And you stood between him and the rest of us like a guard dog.”

Shit.

Really? You don’t remember doing that.

“But I left,” you say. “And you got your little arm-wrestling match, didn’t you?”

She shrugs.

“Yeah, but he let me win. It lasted, like, two minutes. And he took off right after.”

Because he came looking for you. But Maya doesn’t need to know that.

“So, please please please tell me he’s somehow related to you so I can still have a fleeting chance with him and not feel guilty about it.”

Maya laughs, but she’s clearly not joking. It hits a nerve, but you remind yourself she’s not doing it on purpose. She’s not trying to get a rise out of you.

She doesn’t know.

Maya doesn’t know about last night, about the laundry room and the humid heat that melted your brain, made you see signs where there weren’t any. You have no right to clip your words and look away like she was somehow in the wrong—like she was doing something to deliberately upset you.

This is stupid. You’re not two girls fighting over a boy.

She’s not doing anything wrong.

Be kind.

Solidarity, sister.

You unclench your jaw, straighten your back, summon a polite smile, and meet her eyes.

“We’re teammates. But that’s all there is. Nothing going on between me and Ghost.”

Liar.

But telling Maya that would just complicate things.

“And do you think I’d have a shot with him? Hypothetically speaking.”

If it were anyone but him, there’d be no doubt. Maya is gorgeous. Witty, confident, and strong as hell. A little clueless at times—or maybe that's just you, trying to justify any criticism you can latch onto.

Realistically, she probably wouldn’t have a shot with Ghost. Neither would you. No one, as far as you’re concerned. 

“I don’t think he’s looking for anything right now,” you say. For a second it looks like Maya is about to protest—your answer isn’t to her liking—but she stops herself.

“Shame. He’s hot. Maybe I just need to get laid.”

Maya moves on, casually listing other eligible bachelors around Fort Louise. She accepts her defeat with dignity.

It’s not your win, a small voice in your head says. And it’s right—Ghost isn’t into Maya, but he’s not into you either.

You just got so hot and bothered because you were tired, it was late, he was so close and—

It was all in your head. There was… there is nothing going on between you and him.

He’s not at breakfast, and neither are Soap and Gaz. The familiar, acidic burn of anxiety creeps up your throat—but it’s just nerves. You’re new here, and you feel lost without your team.

Right? 

It’s not because you can’t see Simon—

Ghost. 

Keep your distance. And stop calling him Simon in your head.

Get a grip. 

And maybe get laid.

Maya begins ranking potential partners with a five-star rating system. Maybe one of them would be up for a good, old-fashioned one-and-done. A release. Because that’s what you need to smother the heat that rises to your cheeks when Simon—Ghost, goddamnit—looks at you.

You could drown in the pools of amber in his eyes.

A commotion by the door pulls your attention from Maya's list. You crane your neck to see what’s happening.

A man enters and a woman, much shorter than him, follows. Nothing unusual—yet people are staring. It’s like they’re measuring them—no, her. They’re measuring her. Evaluating. Judging. 

What have they done to earn those stares?

“She’s a teenager,” Maya whispers. “Around sixteen, the youngest one here. That man is her brother.”

Sixteen. Practically a child. No, definitely a child. 

“Did she do something? What are they all looking at?”

Maya sighs. 

“She hasn’t done anything—just born when birth rates started to tank. There are no kids here—or anywhere, really. She’s like an anomaly to some of these people. It’s disgusting. Her brother worked with private military; most folks know not to fuck with either of them. But he’s stationed up near the ski lodge with his team, so he’s not always around.”

Your eyes follow the shy girl as she grabs a tray and a bowl of gruel. You suddenly realise you’re acting just like the others—you're leering at her. You quickly turn away. Maya scoffs.

“There’s a rumour going around that she might be fertile. I don’t know if it’s true, but some of those”—she points at a group of men a few tables over—“have got it into their heads she’s the solution for repopulation.”

Fucking creeps. 

The crowd disperses, and the teenager disappears from sight. A few of the men who had been watching her are gone too.

Maya stands up. 

“I’m going to see if she needs help.” 

You’re blessed with the silence you initially craved, but it feels unimportant now. 

There are layers to safety.

A small cabin in the woods is safe, because it’s surrounded by wilderness. It’s also not safe, because of the wilderness. 

A fortified settlement is safe, because there is safety in numbers. But the greater that number is, the more likely it contains people who are not working towards a common goal. A few bad apples might ruin the whole batch.

A prison is safe, to some people. To others, it’s just a place where danger lives.

For a teenage girl, there aren’t many safe places. There never really were.

Even a rumour that she might be fertile is enough to make people act like animals. The idea of her being coaxed into giving up her body for a future that might not even happen—it’s sickening.

If she knew, she’d keep it to herself. Anyone with a uterus would.

You do too.

Because your cycle remains regular, even with all the stress of survival and your diet being what it is. 

Because years ago, you went to see a doctor for something unrelated and found out you have a functioning set of ovaries and a fair number of healthy-looking eggs, as the doctor put it. So much so, in fact, that you were asked to consider donating them.

You said you’d think about it, but before you could decide, society collapsed.

And who knows—maybe your functioning set of ovaries collapsed too. Maybe your eggs went bad. There’s no way to know for sure, so the best thing you can do is to stay safe and keep your mouth shut—because even a rumour could lead to someone trying to find out.

And there go your dreams about possibly getting laid—the only available contraception these days are hopes and wishes. You’ve never risked it before and you’re not about to start.

Even if last night your body was screaming for you to fuck around and throw it all away for Simon—

No. Ghost. 

Goddamnit.

The list of jobs available isn’t long. Most of it is maintenance, which makes sense—the place requires lots of upkeep. None of the positions listed seem like something you’d be any good at. Only realistic options for you are odd jobs, assisting with anything you can. Helping in the kitchen or with the crops. Organising inventory. Monitoring hallways at night. Shovelling literal shit. Cleaning. Yard work. None of them sound appealing, but you’re not in a position to negotiate. Your degree means fuck-all in here—people need food, medicine, and clean clothes, not eye-catching posters or neatly designed page layouts.

So you’ll work whatever job you’re assigned to. It’ll be hard, regardless. Hard and boring. But it just might push away the anxiety of being separated from Soap and Gaz and Price and Simon—Ghost. Shit. 

You still find it hard to trust this place. You need to know more—and a job might help with that.

Grumpy, who together with her sister basically runs the whole facility, barely looks at the form you filled on arrival. She detaches a set of keys from a massive keyring on her belt and motions you to follow.

That’s weird.

You were sure she’d just hit you in the head with the closest available occupation and throw you out of her office.

You follow her up to the fifth floor and through a door that reads NO ENTRY!! with big, red, angry letters. The door leads to a rooftop patio that’s populated with makeshift shelters cobbled together from rusted metal and cloudy plexiglass. There are no railings, you notice. 

Did Grumpy bring you here to push you down from the roof?

It’s a stupid, irrational, paranoid thought, but you steer clear from the edge of the roof. Just in case.

She tosses you the set of four, almost identical keys—they’re labelled ROOF, SHED, COOP and G-HOUSE. You glance around. The key to the roof is obvious, and the other three must be for these hastily assembled huts.

“This was appointed from the top,” Grumpy says suddenly, almost making you jump. She hasn’t spoken a word since you skulked into her office earlier. “The previous caretaker left. We all have our hands full without this useless little experiment,” she huffs.

Experiment?

What the hell is up here, a meth lab?

Grumpy points at the largest building that’s mostly made of plexiglass. “That’s the greenhouse. And that’s the coop,” she gestures towards a smaller shelter behind it. “The shed is by the door.” She walks past the shed and opens the door to head back inside.

“No days off,” Grumpy says. “If you’re unable to work, find a replacement and report them to me. Don’t lose the keys. And do not go around blabbering about what you do up here.”

And that’s the extent of it. She’s leaving and you have no idea what you’re supposed to do on this roof.

“Wait,” you stop the door before she closes it. “What am I doing here? Are there any instructions or is someone else coming up or—”

She laughs. It’s a bored, tired, and pissed-off laugh.

“The higher-ups seem to think you’re capable enough. There’s a folder in the greenhouse.”

She slams the door shut. The sound reverberates through the patio.

You’re alone, with no idea what to do next.

The door to the greenhouse is stuck. After several tries, you finally manage to pry it open. The air inside smells like the flat below you in University housing: sweet, musty, and—

Dank.

The sun filtering through the dirty glass isn’t enough for you to see. You feel around to find a switch and flip it, triggering a series of lights that reveal the source of the smell.

You immediately recognise the brownish-green plants sitting in planters placed along the walls. They’re all desperately reaching for light through the dirty glass. Fan-shaped leaves droop on the slender branches that bend under the weight of resinous flower clusters.

You’ve been put in charge of a fucking rooftop grow house.

Your initial reflex is to turn off the lights, lock the door, and go back to Grumpy’s office. Make her eat the keys she gave you. This feels like a joke, this must be a fucking joke, this—

Calm down.

Breathe.

Yes, the air smells like skunk, but take a deep breath.

First of all, this isn’t illegal. Weed was legalised in Canada back when it mattered—and there’s no way there are any regulations to it now. There are no governments, no laws. Hell, you could be cooking heroin in here and nobody would bat an eye. Or maybe they would—this place seems pretty established. But they wouldn’t make you grow cannabis and then punish you for it.

Secondly, there must be a reason for them to keep the greenhouse up and running. It makes sense—weed is good for medicinal use. It’s a resource. Even if you’ve only seen the recreational side of it back in Uni. 

Whoever put you up for this task trusts you enough to keep it quiet. Grumpy wouldn’t say anything other than it came from the higher-ups.

A folder hangs by the door, attached to the wall with a string of yarn. Was the previous caretaker sampling the product and forgetting where they left it? There’s a tally running in the margins of the pages, dates, estimations of dates, and then no dates at all. Just line after line.

The only actual instructions say:

• Bring harvest down to the clinic on Wednesdays
• Don’t over-water!!!

It’s up to you to figure out the rest.

Shit.

You hear a faint sound coming from the building behind the greenhouse. It sounds like someone was punching the wall repeatedly. The rhythm is way too random to be mechanical—no, this is organic. Thump. Thu-thump, thump. A beat of silence, and thump, thu-thump.

Thump. Thump.

And another noise you can’t quite place, but it sounds vaguely familiar.

Is—holy shit—is there someone locked up in the coop?

Are you supposed to look after prisoners, too?

Thump–thu-thump, and more of that sound—what is it?

You grab the nearest gardening tool—a fucking trowel—and approach the coop. If there’s someone inside who comes at you, you can… gently scoop them with the trowel?

There’s no plan.

But you need to see what’s in that coop.

Whoever is making that sound can hear you—they fall silent as you carefully turn the key that reads COOP.

“Hello?” you say, slowly opening the door. “Stay back, I’ve got a—” Nothing, really, you’ve got nothing to defeat an opponent with. Which is probably fine. Because there is no opponent either. It’s dim in the small makeshift shelter. Some of the roof sheets have been replaced with cloudy plastic, like a very poorly made skylight.

There’s hay on the floor, a pile of something on the far side—

That something moves.

“Hello?”

You raise the trowel and approach it.

“Are you hurt—”

The shape lunges from the shadows with a screech. You back off, trip over a lump in the hay, and fall flat on your ass. It comes at you like an unstoppable force, hurtling toward your face. You close your eyes, shield your head, and brace for the impact.

The impact never comes.

You crack your eyes open and slowly lower your arms.

Cluck.

The shape paces around at your feet.

Cluck-cluck.

You can’t possibly get high just from inhaling the air of the greenhouse, right?

“Bawk-bok,” says the stout little chicken and pecks at your boot. It’s grey and round—kind of like a pillow. The bird puffs its feathers, clearly trying to look intimidating. You’re an attacker, a fox in the henhouse—the chicken is bravely defending its territory.

A chicken.

In the middle of the mess your life has become, you’ve run into a fucking chicken.

You fall onto your back in the hay and wheeze, then burst into hysterical laughter.

In the middle of the chaos, you’ve found something so ridiculously unbelievable that you don’t know what else to do. So, you laugh, snort, and cackle until your eyes are watery and hiccups burn the roof of your mouth. The chicken circles you, unsure about what you are and why you’re there. It makes little clicking and purring noises, and you hear something in the shadowy corner respond.

A large, black chicken takes careful steps towards you. It has a long set of tail feathers that shine dark green where the light hits them. You’re not sure, but it might be a male. It coos at the grey hen at your feet, who hisses in return.

“Are you two a couple?” you ask, amused and baffled by the sight.

Animals. Actual live animals.

The cock bows its head and the grey hen lets out a series of low bok-bok-boks.

“Are you guys in a fight?” You reach your hand out. The grey hen tilts its head from side to side. Then, with a quick flutter of its wings, the bird leaps into your lap.

The feathers feel impossibly soft.

You could catch salmonella. Or would you have to lick the chicken to get that?

The grey hen coos and purrs. You pet the soft wings and the animal relaxes, closing its eyes.

Poor little bird.

“Why’d you scare me like that?” you murmur. “Came at me like a missile or something…”

The cock has waddled closer and is taking tentative steps around you. The talons on its feet look intimidating—you don’t want to risk an angry rooster scratching your face open.

“Is it just you two?” you ask. It feels strange to talk to living beings that aren’t human. You sit on the ground, petting the grey hen for what feels like hours. The bird is asleep. It likes this.

It likes you.

It feels safe.

Something about that clenches your heart.

You watch as the male walks in circles around some kind of structure made out of plywood. You get on your feet, carefully placing the grey hen on the ground. It stirs, but falls back asleep.

“Is there someone else?” You lean down to peer into the structure that turns out to be a cluster of nesting boxes. None of them have eggs inside—maybe the grey one doesn’t lay eggs?

You hear something from one of the nests—it’s another chicken, a very small one. It huddles in the back, as if trying to make itself even smaller. Curious, slightly anxious eyes watch you as the bird jerks its head back and forth, chirping faintly. You reach out, but it makes a distressed squeak and flutters its wings.

Hint taken.

The small one has beautiful, auburn feathers that glow golden in the beams of light bleeding through the cracks in the wall. 

Why are they here? And how did they get here? Two hens is not enough for egg production on the scale it would take to feed the whole settlement. Fertilisation, maybe?

You curse Grumpy in your mind. She was so reluctant to give you any kind of advice—like you’re expected to fail.

This whole coop is in poor shape, you notice. The walls and ceiling all have holes in them—you don’t know if the animals would escape if the coop collapsed, but it doesn’t sound like a risk worth taking.

The shed. There might be tools in there. Something to patch up the holes with. After that, you can figure out if someone knows more about these chickens.

The grey one realises you’re leaving and dashes after you.

“I can’t let you out, you’ll fall off the roof.” You gently carry it into one of the nests. “Do you guys have names?”

Why do you keep asking them questions?

“I’m going to call you Missile,” you mutter, petting the grey hen once more before leaving. “Because you keep coming at me like one.”

There’s not much in the shed—just more feed for the chickens, which is better than nothing, and instructions to leave any eggs as they are.

So, they’re trying to breed more livestock, it seems. You flip through the little notebook. So far, there haven’t been many eggs and none of them have hatched.

Shit. Are the animals suffering from infertility, too?

The sun has just passed its highest point in the sky and the rooftop is basking in light and warmth. You sit down and look over the edge.

“Red Hawk to—” you start. “Ah. Fuck it. Dad. Hi. How are you? Still dead? I found some chickens. Live chickens, not fried.”

The lid of the coffee tin in your pocket stays silent. You spent a long time without talking to him, and now, every time you do, it feels odd. Like it’s something you’re supposed to do.

Dad was your only company on the road for so long.

It feels wrong to treat him as an obligation. You liked—shit, you like talking to him, remember? It was a way to decompress, to go over what happened and make some sense of the senseless world.

But now…

There are people. You’re still not close with them, really, but the more time you spend with them, the more you want to share. And they talk to you, unlike the inanimate object you project Dad onto.

You haven’t grown tired of him. You just feel ready to move on—

Guilt stings in your gut as soon as you think about it. Moving on feels like betrayal. But you can’t keep pouring your deepest, loneliest secrets into a fucking piece of plastic.

It’s not him. It’s not Dad.

There are people made of blood and bone, heartbeat and heat, synapses and soul.

There’s one person who barely speaks, but still overrides your every sense by being around. 

You’re not trying to patch the hole of loneliness with Simon. You’re not trying to fulfil the need for human connection with an unpredictable masked ass—

You glance down and see him.

He’s coming from the gates. 

Full gear. A different mask. But it’s him. It’s him.

Your heart vaults to your throat.

He was outside of the wall.

Outside—where those things roam the forest and wreck military vehicles like they’re made of cardboard.

He’s fine. He’s alive, he’s fine, he’s fine. But he went outside and—

Outside.

Outside.

Outside.

Where it’s dangerous.

Deadly.

Air escapes your lungs. You're yanked back into the hellscape of your own making—the same place you went in the middle of the orientation. Where everything is a trap and everyone is a threat. The sky bleeds red. The rooftop morphs into metal spikes. And Simon—sitting on the bench below—isn’t really there. He didn’t make it back. He’s outside. Just outside, by the gates. The beast in the woods is watching him, waiting to tear him apart.

And you can’t help him.

You can’t—

You can’t help anyone, you can’t even breathe, Your body should know how to inhale and exhale on its own, yet this blood-covered nightmare is compressing your chest like it’s a plastic bag. Breathe in, in, do it, breathe in—

Breathe.

Breathe.

Don’t cough.

Don’t heave.

Breathe.

The sky isn’t blood red. It’s blue.

The rooftop isn’t metal spikes. It’s artificial turf and cracked tiles.

And Ghost—Simon is not outside the wall. He’s still sitting in that same spot.

But your brain won’t shut up until you go down and check.

“Want to see something?”

You manage to keep a deadpan expression as Ghost finally turns to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot. He’s sitting still, but his hands are shaking, ever so slightly, and he seems… off—like he’s gone to that headspace where he sometimes disappeared while out on the road. 

Like he's clocked out.

He doesn’t say anything, but you gesture him to follow. And he walks five steps behind you. There’s a weird drag in his movements. He’s not his usual self, who stalks around like a big cat with sharp eyes and soft steps.

There’s a heaviness to him you can’t explain.

Once you reach the greenhouse, you leave him there. You don’t bother turning on the lights—you don’t know how much of the daily electricity quota they use up. This won’t take long.

Missile waddles over to you, making curious and somewhat agitated noises.

“I’m sorry I left so suddenly,” you say as you pick up the bird. It wriggles in your arms, adjusting its round body until it’s comfortable. “I want you to meet someone.”

Holding Missile with one arm and manoeuvring the doors with the other, you open and close the door to the greenhouse.

“Ta-dah!” You present the grey hen like it’s an alien lifeform you’ve discovered.

Ghost doesn’t react. He doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, like he’s frozen.

“Her name is Missile,” you say, and pet the grey hen. Missile clucks. Its beady little eyes peer at Ghost, like it’s trying to figure out whether this gigantic being in a skull mask is a friend or a foe. Or food.

“Missile,” Ghost repeats. His voice is strained, hoarse. He sounds uncomfortable. But then he takes a step closer to look at the bird. Missile hasn’t decided what to make of him yet and pecks at his sleeve a couple of times.

“Where the hell did you—” Ghost is just as flabbergasted by seeing a live animal as you were a few moments ago. “How did you—”

“There’s a coop out back,” you say.

“A coop,” he repeats, carefully reaching out to touch the fluffy feathers. “So, more of these…?”

“Two more. A cock and a shy little hen.”

Ghost runs his finger along Missile’s back. It coos, enjoying the attention.

“Do you want to see them?” you ask. Talking to him in this state feels like defusing a bomb. One wrong word and the whole situation blows up in your face.

He nods. You lead him to the coop, where the cock announces your arrival with a hoarse crow.

Poor fella. No one would wake up to that.

Missile jumps down and runs to the cock. It sounds like they’re getting into an argument.

“The shy one is there,” you point at the nesting boxes. “I don’t know shit about chickens—it might be broody. But it still worries me.”

Ghost doesn’t reply, just kneels by the boxes. The bird doesn’t make that panicked sound it did before, but clucks, curiously. 

“Hey, girl…” Ghost murmurs, reaching out to touch it.

“She doesn’t like that—” you start, but Ghost doesn’t hear your warning.

And the red hen doesn’t squawk or flutter. It stays still until Ghost’s hand is close enough. Then it gives his glove a curious peck.

And another.

Ghost reaches further into the box and gently, carefully scoops up the little hen.

“There’s no egg,” he says. His big hand dwarfs the little creature. It settles into his palm like it’s a nest—relaxing completely.

What the fuck, Simon the Chicken-Tamer?

You crouch down next to him. The red hen doesn’t care—it tucks its head under the wing and falls asleep. Sunlight dances on its feathers and Ghost’s mask. The whole sight is so absurdly endearing you’d give anything to have a picture of it.

Neither of you speak for a long while.

You barely dare to breathe as you look at him, holding the small animal gently in his hand.

Safe.

“You’re alright, girl,” he says with a low, warm voice. You know he’s talking to the chicken, but it brings the heat to your cheeks all the same. The coop isn’t a silent void like the world around you and him usually is—it’s creaking and thudding quietly, bustling with life. The other two chickens have calmed down and you’re pretty sure you can tell Missile’s coos apart from the cock’s.

You’ve slipped into a pocket universe, where everything is safe and the world is a warm, welcoming place.

You desperately wish you could keep him here.

He looked so lost out there in the yard.

This isn’t Ghost.

It’s Simon.

Just Simon.

Holding a tiny, red hen.

You clench and unclench your fists, then shove your hands in your pockets to fight the urge to slip your hand into his.

You don’t realise, he’s staring at you.

He hasn’t looked at the chicken in a long time; instead, his eyes study your face, your features, how you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

Then you finally catch on and lock eyes with him. The new mask obscures his face even more than the balaclava—it’s like you’re staring at a skull with big, beautiful brown eyes.

An awkward tangle of words is about to tumble out of your mouth, but he’s quicker.

“Johnny and I went outside the wall," he says.

Fear—or worry—claws at your throat, but you force it down. “Are you okay? Both of you?”

He seems taken aback—you’re not asking why they went there, but if he’s okay. He gives you an unsure nod.

“‘M alright. Johnny too. I just—”