Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    Most bars were empty by this time. This one was no different. All the party animals and loud drunks had gone home by now. Only a few stray cups, mugs and plates littered the tables. The lights dimmed, the chairs haphazardly pushed back in. Everyone but the bartender had left, rinsing out the last glasses before closing time. Everyone, that was, except for Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley.

    He stared down at the glass of whiskey in his hands from underneath his hood. Hunched over the bar’s counter, he swirled the glass. Dully, he watched the ice cubes float in the dark liquid, like… he wasn’t sure what they looked like anymore. His mind was beyond foggy. Thoughts were scarce and slow. How many drinks has he had now? He couldn’t remember. He lost track a long time ago. What did it matter anyways? Nothing helped anymore. One more drink wouldn’t mean anything.

    It had been quiet in the bar for a long time now. They had shut off the music, leaving Ghost alone with his thoughts. There was nothing to distract him anymore. In the months he was confined to his apartment between deployments, there was more than enough time to spend a night at every lounge. He didn’t have any particularly strong feelings one way or another for any of the bars in his area. They were all more or less the same. They served the same crappy wings. Played the same awful music. Were always full of the same overenthusiastic people. The noise was too overwhelming during the early evenings, and by the time things quieted down, most had been long locked up. Lucky for him, there were a few places that were open much later, welcoming a few late night stragglers. He was awake almost all night anyway, so he could take full advantage of the empty lounge.

    His breath was hollow and ragged. The drink in his hands called to him. He looked at it for a long time. His murky reflection stared back. He looked different, somehow. Older. More tired. His hair was growing past his neck. The curls were messy and unkempt and clung to his face with sweat. Stray hairs hung over him like light curtains. His face was veiled in shadows under his hoodie, but it wasn’t the hood that darkened him. Black circles hung under his sunken eyes. He stared longingly at the drink until it wasn’t his own eyes that looked back up at him. Until he no longer recognized the reflection. Someone else stared back up at him. The skin on the back of his neck prickled the longer he looked. He had always been told that his blond hair looked like his mother’s, but he had his father’s eyes. His lips drew back into a snarl. He threw his head back and downed the glass in one go. The cold liquid scorched his tongue and burned like hot embers down his throat. It stung his cracked lips. He didn’t flinch.

    The glass slammed back down on the polished counter with a heavy crack. A few drops dripped down the sides, pooling at the bottom of the glass. The orange colour slowly turned pale the more the ice cubes melted. Picking up the glass, he turned it in the dingy light of the bar. He was a kid the first time he tried alcohol. It was a bottle of vodka he and his friends had gotten off their older brothers. They took it up to the friend’s room and stared at it. It was nerve racking, no one wanted to go first. Eventually, Ghost was the first to drink. He took a swing from the bottle and almost spit it out. He had not accounted for the strong burn. Coughing and spluttering, he passed it along. In turn, each of them took a sip and hacked. That was a long time ago now. It was strange. It felt like it was a different life entirely, a life that wasn’t his own. He set his own glass back down.

    Pushing the newly finished glass towards the cluster of empty glasses already in front of him, he shakily raised himself out of the bar stool. It was a challenge to keep himself upright. The buzzing in his head got louder, like a swarm of bees attacking the brain. He massaged his forehead in an attempt to sooth his mind, flinching at the coolness of his fingers. Groping around the stool for his worn leather jacket with the British flag spread across the shoulder, he fumbled with the sleeves before slipping it on. It had an old smell to it. Not the hearty smell of a campfire, but the tangy, dry smoke of a cigarette. It mixed with the odour of aged leather, it reminded him of his uncle’s old farm, of the crusty leather seats of their old pickup truck. He had to lean against the counter for support to stop himself from falling over as he stood.

    He clumsily fished around in his pocket for his car keys. In a daze, he must have checked every pocket at least three times before he pulled them out. He held them up to the light to look for the right key. A skull charm reflected the dim glow of the bar. A gift from a long time ago. From a friend. Someone who had long since moved on from this life. There was something etched on the back. A ‘G’ and an ‘a’ carved lightly into the metal. The other two letters were scratched and unreadable. They matched the set of dog tags worn under his shirt, right next to his own.

    Once he decided on a key, he grabbed his wallet from his pants pocket. The smooth, shiny leather was soft in his hands, showing signs of good, hard use. The hide began to flake in some places. It threatened to rip right down the middle, though it was relatively empty. There were only a few cards and a wad of miscellaneous cash. Still, it was holding up for now. He grabbed whatever bills he had tucked away and threw them towards the drinks, not bothering to check their value.

    He started off towards the door. Every step made the world sway under his feet, like his body had been thrown inside of a washing machine set on spin cycle. He was barely able to keep his eyes open. He bumped into table after table, loudly making his way to the doors. The bartender popped his head in from the staff door. He was speaking, but it was too jumbled up and too far away for Ghost to hear. It sounded like it was coming from the back of his mind. A tap on his shoulder made him spin around. He threw a fist blindly. His body jolted with the familiar feeling as he connected, landing a solid hit. There was a crack and a crash. Pressing his boot down hard on the body below him, his muscles tensed in preparation for another punch. His eyes came back into focus long enough to see the bartender sprawled out on the floor, gripping Ghost’s boot.

    “What the fuck, you asshole!” the man yelled. The loud sound made him flinch. He pressed his foot down harder on the man's chest. If he pressed hard enough, he’d shut up. “I asked if you needed a fucking taxi, you drunk bastard!”

    The bartender’s voice faltered under the boot, looking up at the large man above him. Despite being as wasted as he was, he had instant reflexes, like he knew that someone was coming. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Ghost stared down at the bartender with glossy eyes, like he wasn’t really there. Deep scars ran across his face, down his neck. Swallowing hard, the bartender probably wondered what gang this guy might be a part of.

    Grunting, throwing a slurred curse under his breath, Ghost turned and left without another word. On his way out, the world tipped and he was thrown against one of the swinging glass doors. Before he could hit the floor, his hands were able to curl around the frame. He pulled himself to his feet, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

    By some miracle, he was able to make it to his car. The bumper was severely scratched and dented, and there was a large chunk missing from one of the corners, when he had bumped into a lamppost. The car was more silver metal than it was black now. He stopped bothering to get it fixed because it was such a drain on his wallet and he would be back in the shop within a week. He gave it a sharp kick as he passed, turning the bumper crooked. Maybe if it fell off he would finally have an excuse to fix it.

    Shoving the key in the ignition took him a few tries. The key kept splitting in two and trembled when he gripped it tighter. Heat flared up in his chest. A low growl turned into a strangled howl. He threw the keys somewhere in the backseat. They fell to the floor, clinking faintly. Pain flared up in his thigh. The tips of his fingers dug into his jeans hard enough to leave marks. He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. He pressed his head against the steering wheel, half hoping the coolness would sooth his pulsating headache. It didn’t. Just for a moment, he let himself breath and waited for it to pass, for these feelings to melt away.

    After some time, he was able to collect himself enough to search for the key that had fallen under one of the back seats. Leaning back in his own seat, he put the key back in. It turned more gently this time, starting the engine. Shifting the car into drive, he vaguely watches himself pull out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. The roads were empty too. He caught sight of a truck in the opposite lane, but otherwise he was alone. The streetlamps cast long shadows in the car when he passed under them. Flinching every time the light flashed through the windows, it was blinding him. Gunfire. It looked like gunfire. His grip on the wheel tightened.

    Phantom pain of past wounds flared up over his body. The scars on his face stung with fresh stitches. The stab wounds that littered his chest dripped with fresh blood. Bullet holes pulsated with every beat of his heart. He was hyper aware of every hair on his arms. Every fiber of cloth that dug into his skin. The air wasn’t making it to his lungs. It felt like a hand was clamped over his neck, crushing his throat. Twinkling lights of all colours blurred around him.

    Get rid of it. Get rid of it all. Make it stop. It hurts.

    Streetlamps flew by.

    A dark mass appeared in his line of sight in front of him in the next lane. He didn’t see it. His car shuddered beneath him. The road slipped under the tires. In seconds, he blew past it. It was gone. Everything was blending together. Too bright. He wanted to close his eyes. Let it all slip away. Let it go.

    Just when he was starting to slip away, a bright red light caught his eye. A traffic light. Stop. He had to stop. His brain was foggy. He tried to move. His body was stuck. Like he was moving through mud. He screamed at himself to hit the brakes, but his mind seemed to move lightyears faster than his foot.

    In a moment of clarity, he managed to slam on the breaks. Tires screeched horribly on the asphalt. The stench of burnt rubber filled his nose and lungs, strong enough to taste. His body lurched forward, slamming into the seatbelt. Sharp pain stung his neck and chest. The car slammed back down, throwing his head against the headrest. The edges of his vision blurred. Holding onto the door for support, he swayed in his seat. A blaring noise pulled his eyes upwards. He could barely hear it over his own heartbeat. Another car was stopped on the road in front of him, barely inches away from his bumper. He stared wide eyed at the other driver, who stared back at him in horror, his mouth agape. The man ran a hand over his face and let his head fall back. He turned in his seat and reached his arm back. Ghost followed his movements. In the backseat of a car, a young child looked up at his father with tears in his eyes. A kid. A kid was in the car.

     Joseph?

    For a split second, he locked eyes with his nephew. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t look. He couldn’t open his eyes to see Joseph’s face. What if it was? Whether he hoped to see the kid’s face, or prayed that it wasn’t, he couldn’t decide. He didn’t know what to think. With his heart beating out of his chest, he gathered the strength to look. Gingerly, he opened his eyes. The face of a stranger looked back. Blinking hard, he realized he didn’t recognize the face. He breathed out deeply. How stupid of him. Of course it wasn’t. It couldn’t be, that was impossible…

    The kid had been asleep moments before, his hair standing up on one side. He must have been terrified. Ghost’s breath was shallow. The other man, the father, looked from the car back to him. Unable to move, he watched the other car pull away and down the road.

    There was a kid. There was a kid in the car. That man had a family, and a kid. There were people who cared about them. Someone would be waiting at home for them. They would get the heartbreaking call. Man and child dead, killed by drunk driver. Hanging his head, he clutched his stomach. It twisted violently. Pressure built up inside of it, pushing up. A sour taste stung his throat. Ghost, who had nothing, almost destroyed two lives.

    It was… it was different somehow than his job. He killed people. That’s what he did, what he was good at. Somehow, seeing the fear in those innocent eyes, it moved something inside of him. He’d seen that same look on the faces of his enemies, the ones who begged for mercy, but they didn’t deserve pity. But the kid... Never in his goddamn life could he hurt a child, and he had almost killed one tonight.

    He felt sick.

    When the roaring sound in his ears started to subside, the beat of his heart against its cage filled the car. He stared blankly at where the other car had been. It was so close. So close. In an instant, he had almost ruined all three of their lives. His knuckles turned white where his nails dug into his skin.

    What the fuck was he doing?

Chapter Text

    He turned the key and pushed open the door to his dark apartment. The highway scene was still fresh in his mind. His skin still prickled even at the thought of getting back in a car. The face of the other man and his child he had almost hit flashed in his mind every time he closed his eyes. Gagging, he rushed to the bathroom, stumbling against the walls. He made it just in time. His stomach emptied out in the toilet. A violent, rancid taste filled his mouth. He gagged and heaved helplessly. When there was nothing left to retch anymore, he coughed up spit and acid. His stomach twisted and cramped. When there was nothing at all left inside of him, his body slumped to the floor.

    His breath was quick and shallow. His head hung forward limply. Snot filled his nose, tears stung his eyes. He sat with his mouth agape like a fish, trying to catch his breath. Spit hung off his lips and dripped onto the floor. Running his hands through his hair, his fingers wrapped around the matted tangled curls and pulled at the roots. That wasn’t the first time he had driven home drunk. Of all the times he had left the bar, driven carelessly, never had anything like this had ever happened. Never. What if something bad had happened? What if he hadn’t been able to stop the car? Nausea flared up again. It swirled in his stomach and spun in his brain. A lump pressed against his throat. He slammed his fists against the wall, letting out a pained cry, like a wounded animal. He hid his face in his hands.

    After nearly crashing, he hadn’t driven back. Half tempted to leave his car on the road, he forced himself to keep driving. His car sat in the middle of the intersection for a long time before he was able to unclamp his hands from his sides, and it took even longer for his foot to step on the gas. Taking the first exit, he pulled his car into a parking lot and called a taxi. Finding the car in the morning was only an afterthought.

    Struggling to his feet, Ghost stumbled into the kitchen. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, and he didn’t care now. He fumbled in a cabinet before pulling out a glass. He turned on the tap and held the glass under the running water. The cup trembled so violently that more water made it onto the floor than in his mouth in an attempt to wash the vile taste away. Water ran down his arm and spilled onto his chin, soaking his dark hoodie. He choked as he gulped down the liquid. All the vomiting had scorched his throat and left it raw. It was only a temporary relief. Even breathing hurt.

    Jolting awake, Ghost’s eyes fluttered open. Cold tile dug into his skin. His brain was foggy. Forcing his eyes open despite the crust that held them shut, peeling oak wood cabinets and packages of old foot containers and empty beer cans and liquor bottles greeted him, illuminated by the first slivers of dim light. With a sigh of relief, he recognized his own kitchen. A kink in his neck flared up when he tried to move. Stretching and rolling it out, his skin cracked and pulled at the hair on his neck and chest. He touched a hand to the skin gingerly. He pulled it away to find it covered in dry flakes of blood. A sound of disgust escaped him. Running his hand down his neck, his fingers traced along a ridge that disappeared below his collar. A cut. A big one, too.

    How had he wound up here? At some point during the early hours of the morning, he had managed to collapse on the hard floor. From exhaustion, judging by the way his body ached and how tired he felt. But why was he on the floor? Too many drinks? He couldn’t remember. Blurry images flashed in his mind. He vaguely remembered leaving the bar, driving away, swerving on the road…

    His eyes grew wide. It started coming back to him. He remembered. Not all of it, only bits. But it was enough. Enough to make him feel sick all over again.

    He pushed the thought away. He pushed them all away. He tried, at least. But they were still there, in the back of his mind, like an itch that wouldn’t go away. Not loud enough to be heard over the other thoughts, but still pestering him. Still haunting him. Aching with hunger, his stomach started to cramp, but the thought of eating anything at all was nauseating. His body screamed at him to get up. The floor was getting increasingly more uncomfortable with every passing second. Letting his head fall back against the oak cupboard behind him, he closed his eyes and waited. He just needed a break.

    When his eyes fluttered back open, the room was bright with morning light. The darkness no longer hid the wreck that was his apartment. When night came, it was like everything disappeared. It didn’t exist if he couldn’t see it. But now that he could see the mess before him, it filled him with dread. Cleaning would be the easy solution, but it wasn’t just the kitchen, it was the whole apartment. The task was daunting. So much clutter. Too much. So nothing changed, and everyday the mess would grow, and everyday he’d curse himself a little more.

    Feeling began to return to his legs. They ached and burned on the cold floor. He managed to haul himself to his feet, only stumbling slightly. More cans and garbage littered the countertop. He averted his gaze. Bushing them aside, Ghost pulled open a drawer. Inside, he shuffled around before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He flicked it open, only to find it empty. With a dark scowl, he tossed it back on the counter with the other trash and searched elsewhere.

    Kicking aside a discarded shirt in the doorway, he made his way into the bedroom. The bed was a disaster. The black duvet was hanging off the edge and the sheets were a tangled mess. The pillows were nowhere to be seen. The rest of the room wasn’t much better. Moving past the few articles of clothing he owned that were scattered on the floor, he picked up a box on the nightstand. This box had what he was looking for.

    “About fuckin’ time,” he grumbled and pulled a cigarette out. He yanked open the drawer and grabbed a lighter. Popping it open, he held it up and lit the smoke. An image of dark eyes flashed in his mind. Startled, he almost dropped the cigarette. Stuffing the lighter away and taking a long drag in, he savoured the soft burn in his lungs and to push the image in his mind away. He breathed out heavily, watching the grey smoke wisp around him. It danced around his breath before fading away. Just like that, it was gone. Lost to forgotten memories, a victim of the passage of time itself, never recovered. If only it were that easy to disappear.

    Moving past the master bathroom, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. A thin vale of blood caked onto his neck, his curls plastered to his forehead with sweat and grease. He shook his head to try and fix it, but was overcome by a wave of nausea. He resorted to just brushing it aside. Then his eyes found their way to the blood.

    He moved into the bathroom to see it in better light. He set down the cigarette on the counter. Lifting his head to get a better look, he pulled down the collar of his hoodie. A thin, pale line ran down his neck and chest. He grabbed a white cloth lying on the counter and ran it under warm water. Setting the wet cloth back down, he tossed his leather jacket on the floor. It landed in a heap. Next, he pulled off his hoodie and tossed it in the same pile. Then, his shirt. There were dark crimson stains on the black material. When he lifted it off, parts clung to his skin where the seat belt had left the cut.

    He leaned on the counter, pondering if it was worth the trouble to clean. The wound was only open in a few spots by now and the blood was dry, it would hardly make a mess. It wouldn’t stain anything, at least. He moved to turn away, when he caught sight of dry blood cracking and peeling off. Tempted to leave it, he leaned back on the sink with a heavy breath. Sleeping in a messy room was one thing, but sleeping in blood was another. The sight of it made his chest tighten.

    Taking the cloth, he dabbed along the edges of the wound. He winces slightly when he touches a particularly ragged area. It had mostly closed by now, but too much pressure could reopen it. The pale skin around the cut was painted dark blacks and blues all the way to his waist, where the seat belt had been. Gradually, the thin layers of blood faded away. His neck had been cut deeper and would scar, but the cut on his chest was more shallow and would fade within a few days. He snorted. Another scar to add to the growing collection.

    In the top drawer under the sink, he took out a pack of butterfly stitches, just in case. Pinching the skin together, he applied then one by one. When it was done, he let his hands fall to his side to admire his handiwork. Moving his head side to side to make sure the stitches stayed, he was satisfied to see they’d hold. He picked up the cloth and rinsed again. It would never wash the stain away, but it would help.

    His eyes couldn’t help but follow the pale lines that decorated his skin. They weren’t trophies to him, not like other people bragged about. They weren’t battle scars to him either, they weren’t stories. They were bad memories. Every line was connected to something, an event or a day he didn’t want to remember. But it was impossible to forget when he was reminded everyday when he looked in the mirror.

    On the bright side, the bullet holes that had littered his legs were fully healed now. There was nothing but scared indents left now. Luck must have been on his side when he had been shot. There had been minimal damage to his nerves, but enough to have him sent back on medical leave.

    The muscles in his jaw tensed. He grabbed the cigarette he had left and swiftly turned his back on the mirror. He scooped up a grey sweater and slipped it on. He laid on top of his mattress and the clothes that littered it. Taking another long drag, he fell back on the bed. The smoke swirled in the air above him like water. He blew more smoke, just to watch it dance.

    Once the cigarette was long burnt out, he continued to lay there, motionless. His arms felt like lead, his legs like stone. The longer he laid, the more he was stuck. A shower. He needed a shower. His body was plastered in dry sweat, his hair greasy. His whole being felt dirty, but he was used to the feeling. While on deployment, he’d go days before being offered some way to get clean. Being soaked in blood, sweat and mud was such a natural feeling that it just became a part of him. Cleanliness was the very last thing on his list, when completing the mission came first. It was hard to transition when he was back in his apartment.

    In a lot of ways, living a domestic life was hard. Cooking, cleaning, being a general human being, that was difficult. He could never wash the blood and gore off his hands. But most of all, he felt estranged. Alone. Different. Seeing all those people, blissfully smiling in their ignorance, his jaw clenched at the thought. They hadn’t known a day of suffering in their lives. They had no idea the horrors he’d seen, the atrocities he’d committed. Deep down, he knew that wasn’t fair, but he couldn’t help the anger that nested in the empty crevice of his chest. The way they’d look at him when they passed on the street. He noticed the way they’d tug their children closer. Maybe they were right, to be afraid of him. But he still had to live with himself, every day. Day, after day, after day.

    His thoughts drifted aimlessly. His consciousness floated away from him, but never far enough for sleep to take hold. He was tired, so tired, but could never lull his mind into rest. It would be so much easier to sleep. If he slept, he’d have an excuse for wasting the day in bed. He could forget about being alive, just for a minute. But he wasn’t that lucky. The little sleep that he was able to get was never any good anyways.

    The sun dipped below the horizon and the shadows crept back into the room. They stretched across the walls, devouring the light, reaching towards him like clawed hands. A faint voice, raspy breathing, arose at the edges of his fogged mind. With a start, he quickly turned on the lamp on his bedside table. Visions of a night he prayed every day to be able to forget began to resurface. They bubbled up like toxic gas, poisoning him with guilt and regret and longing and shame. And those eyes. Oh god, did he remember those eyes.

    “No, please,” he whispered to himself, falling back on the dirty sheets. He screwed his palms into his face, willing it all to go away. “I can’t do this. Not now. Please.”

    Lighting another cigarette was the only way to make the thoughts go away. The nip of every breath gave him something to focus on. And so he laid again, just waiting. Either everything would go away, or he would drown in it all tonight.

    A bright flash caught his attention. Letting his head fall to the side, his phone screen illuminated his face. 9:47, the clock read. Rolling his head back into place, he sighed. Productive, as always, he sneered at himself. Maybe if he laid here for a little while longer he could sleep. If he waited long enough it was bound to happen eventually. So he waited, just a little longer.

    The late hours of the evening came and went and still, sleep did not come. It felt like an eternity as the hours crept by. It felt like how a child felt, waiting for days for Christmas to come. He was sure the alarm would go off, anytime now. And so he waited, and still, nothing came. When nothing came and went, he waited some more. When restlessness overcame the fatigue, he rolled over onto his side and tapped the screen of his phone. It was only barely past midnight.

    Desperate for sleep, or anything to quiet his mind, he rolled out of bed. He stood in the middle of the living room. Just stood, as if he was waiting for something to happen, for something to get better. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes and lit another. A half empty bottle of whiskey sat on the coffee table. Picking it up, he took a long swig of the bittersweet liquid, savouring the taste.

    Moving across the room, he stopped in front of the glass doors to the balcony. Bright city lights twinkle at him, captivating him. They called out to him. It was beautiful, he could see for miles. Unlatching the lock, he pulled the door open. The cool night air washed over him like a waterfall, sending a chill down his spine. Heavy lidded eyes looked out at the empty streets.

    There were no cars, no people. It was quiet out tonight. Only the rustling of the trees in the gentle breeze filled his ears.

    Leaning against the railing, he inhaled the fresh air. Glancing down at the ground below him, it seemed so far away. He stood, several stories above the earth, soft wind on his face. It was a long fall. Surely fatal. The railings in the building were rusty and flimsy, they couldn’t hold much. If someone were to accidentally put too much weight on it, it might give out. And then nothing would be holding them back. He smiled at the wind in his hair. Only the stars would bear witness to the fall.

    Snuffing the cigarette out on the rail, it creaked painfully. He flicked the burnt out smoke over the edge and turned back inside. He slid the door closed behind him and retreated back to the shadows of his room. Another night, perhaps, the rail would collapse. But not tonight. Tonight, the stars twinkled happily in the sky.

Chapter Text

    This routine continued for days. Every morning was the same. Every afternoon. Every night. Nothing changed. Every day was filled with the same emptiness, the same vague, blank look in his eyes. Looking out over the same view from the balcony. Leaning on the same rusty rails. And each day, when against all odds it still held, the cycle continued. He always came back to the mess of the whole place. No matter where he looked, there was no escape from it. Everything about the chaos reflected him. It looked just like he felt.

    He found himself standing in front of the mirror more and more often. And every time he turned away in disgust. It took a few days before he took note of the shifts in his appearance. The changes are almost unnoticeable at first, but as more time passed, they became more evident. His curls got longer and tangled. It looked darker, covered in a film of grease. It fell in his face now, getting in the way. They brushed against the back of his neck, leaving him with an unsatisfiable itch. He half wanted to take a pair of scissors and cut it all off in the sink, but the scissors stayed tucked in the back of a drawer somewhere. His stubble, which is normally mostly clean shaven, was grown out, thick around his chin and jawline. His lips cracked. The circles under his eyes darkened. His light blue eyes didn’t quite look so bright. They looked more like murky water. It made him look older. He hated it.

    A shower would help. It wouldn’t fix much, but at the very least it would make him clean. It would wash the stink off, maybe wake him up. But as he found himself laying in bed, it seemed like such a hassle. He’d have to get out of bed, get clean clothes, turn on the shower, wash his hair, wash his body, dry himself off, put clothes back on and get back into bed. But he was already in bed. There was no point in getting up if he was just going to end up back in the same place anyways. And the matter of clean clothes. Nothing was clean. All his shirts were stained and dusty. Everything was scattered on the floor, the bed, thrown around. He’d have to wash the clothes and the towels, and that was more that he was capable of doing. They’d just end up dirty again. So he laid there, his mind screaming at him to move, to get off his ass, to stop being lazy and do something. All the while, his body cried out with exhaustion and begged for sleep that would never come.

    This routine continued for days. Every morning was the same. Every afternoon. Every night. Nothing changed. Every day was filled with the same emptiness, the same vague, blank look in his eyes. Looking out over the same view from the balcony. Leaning on the same rusty rails. And each day, when against all odds it still held, the cycle continued. He always came back to the mess of the whole place. No matter where he looked, there was no escape from it. Everything about the chaos reflected him. It looked just like he felt.

    He found himself standing in front of the mirror more and more often. And every time he turned away in disgust. It took a few days before he took note of the shifts in his appearance. The changes are almost unnoticeable at first, but as more time passed, they became more evident. His curls got longer and tangled. It looked darker, covered in a film of grease. It fell in his face now, getting in the way. They brushed against the back of his neck, leaving him with an unsatisfiable itch. He half wanted to take a pair of scissors and cut it all off in the sink, but the scissors stayed tucked in the back of a drawer somewhere. His stubble, which is normally mostly clean shaven, was grown out, thick around his chin and jawline. His lips cracked. The circles under his eyes darkened. His light blue eyes didn’t quite look so bright. They looked more like murky water. It made him look older. He hated it.

    A shower would help. It wouldn’t fix much, but at the very least it would make him clean. It would wash the stink off, maybe wake him up. But as he found himself laying in bed, it seemed like such a hassle. He’d have to get out of bed, get clean clothes, turn on the shower, wash his hair, wash his body, dry himself off, put clothes back on and get back into bed. But he was already in bed. There was no point in getting up if he was just going to end up back in the same place anyways. And the matter of clean clothes. Nothing was clean. All his shirts were stained and dusty. Everything was scattered on the floor, the bed, thrown around. He’d have to wash the clothes and the towels, and that was more that he was capable of doing. They’d just end up dirty again. So he laid there, his mind screaming at him to move, to get off his ass, to stop being lazy and do something. All the while, his body cried out with exhaustion and begged for sleep that would never come.

    It was getting too much. He had to take a step back. He could see the slippery slope that he was headed down. He was drinking even more than he was before. A few days ago, while wandering around in a daze, a flash of orange caught his eye under the bed. Stooping down, he pulled out a small pill bottle tucked away, hidden under a cloth. He heard a clinking against the plastic when he shook it. Guess it wasn’t empty yet. How long has it been here? The memory in the hospital and the doctor’s prescription was hazy. He popped open the lid. What had the doctor said? Small pills spilled out into his hand. How many was he supposed to take? Tilting his head back, he swallowed the handful dry. It didn’t really matter anyways.

    He had been on this path for a long time now. The hopelessness was like a weed. The seed could go dormant, unnoticed and invisible. But as soon as it sprouted, it was too late. It wrapped around his throat. It snared his lungs. It tangled in his mind. No matter how hard he tried to cut it down, burn it out, or get rid of it, it would always grow back. It would always be there, polluting his thoughts with its blackened venom, poisoning his blood. The weeds would always grow back. Sometimes, when times were good, when the sun was too strong for its spiny leaves, it would wither away for a while. Never die, no, it was much too resilient for that. It would always come back, one way or another. Once that damned seed took hold, he would have to carry it for the rest of his life. If he wasn’t careful, the vines would grow out of control. The tangle would wrap around his heart, leaves growing in his veins. It was hard to hack out of the dense undergrowth.

    But he ignored it, just like he always did. It was a strange feeling, to be so unmotivated. He could feel it, the hopelessness. It was reaching out towards his heart with its poisoned leaves and black spines. It was all so bland. He had lost sight of the point of anything. It was easy to ignore these feelings while on deployment, when he forced himself to run mission after mission. The obligation of the assignment always overruled everything else. It was like a focus point. The danger suppressed his thoughts, reverted him back to his instincts. The violence quieted his mind, like a dam that held back the waters. But now that he was back in the quiet apartment, alone, everything flooded back to him all at once. It sucked him in, drowning him. He didn’t know what to do. He simply hoped that one day, it would all go away.

    The weeds grew closer still.

    It was one of these nights, where his thoughts got loud, that he needed to feel something. Anything. The sensation was strange. He smoked to feel the burn. He drank to feel the heat. He punched to feel the pain. Those pills, they didn’t help anymore. His throat and lungs felt charred. Hot embers prickled his insides. Pain exploded over his knuckles and radiated like waves through his wrist and arm. Fresh blood seeped through the split skin. Stumbling back from the hole he’d just smashed into the wall, panic seized him. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t helping. Why wasn’t it helping? Not the alcohol, not the smoking or the drugs, not even the violence. Biting down on his lip hard enough to pierce the skin, his body froze. The taste of iron swirled over his tongue. It craved more. It needed more than that. This wasn’t enough.

    The second set of dog tags around his neck burned against his skin. Regret was eating him alive tonight. Ripping him apart from the inside out, fiber by fiber, muscle by muscle. It would strip him bare until he was nothing but a carcass of scarred bones.

    With a start, he found himself staring at the dark city, cold air swirling around him. He tripped over himself backing away from the balcony. Hot blood rolled down his hand, leaving a dark trail on the ground.

    Choking. He was choking. He couldn’t breathe.

    The vines.

     The vines.

    He shut himself in the bathroom. Huddled against the wall in the shower, his legs curled into his chest, head tucked in his arms. His breath was ragged and uneven. The world spun under his closed eyes. He trembled violently. He curled tighter, shivering. His skin prickled with goosebumps. Every hair stood on end. He had been drinking again. Cans and bottles littered the floor. Half smoked cigarettes still burned around him. For the first time in a long time, he was scared. He was scared of what he’d do to himself. He couldn’t be alone anymore. He held his phone in trembling hands. His thumb hesitated over the call button. Pride told him no. Ego willed him to set it down, but he held on. A wave of impulsivity surged through him. He called the only contact he had in his phone. Silently, part of him begged for them to answer. Another, darker part hoped that no one would pick up.

    A sickening thought nestled itself in the middle of the chaos of his mind. What if no one answered? He would be left all alone. No one to stop him. What if all the alcohol went to his head? What if he lost control of himself? He could do something drastic, something he would regret. Something that would–

    The call went through.

    “Hello?” a voice asked on the other end. Ghost let out a soft sob, his breath unsteady. His lips quivered as he spoke.

    “Price..?” he whispered. His own voice was small. Timid, like the whimper of a dog backed into a corner, its tail between its legs. There was a pause. The silence was so loud. His heart was beating rapidly. It felt like it was about to burst out of his chest. A high pitched ringing filled both his ears. Be real. Please, for the love of God, be real.

    Then, a soft, “Simon?”

    Letting out a mix between a gasp and a sigh of relief, Ghost slumped forward, closing his eyes. A stray tear leaked down his cheek. That one word, that one word, was so tender and soft. There was unmistakable fear laced under the gentle tone, but it was also heavy with concern. The shivering subsided just a little, hearing a familiar voice. He curled in on himself even more. His cheek dug into his knee to the point of pain. The fabric of his sweatpants would leave marks on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but each time the words died before they could escape his lips.

    “Hi, Price,” was all he could manage to choke out. His voice broke upon saying the name. He pulled his lip in between his teeth to stifle his laboured breathing. It was still bruised and bleeding. The sudden pain made him flinch, but he didn’t stop. A drop of blood trickled down his chin.

    “Simon! Where are you? Are you safe? What’s going on, are you okay?” Price breathed over the phone, words merging together in his haste. He winced. The concern, the emotion in his voice, it startled him. The phone jerked away from his ear instinctively. Gingerly, he held it back up. Listening hard, he picked up a lot of noise on the other side. Shifting and hasty movements. Someone else asked something, but it was too far away to hear. He still caught their concerned tone. He also caught Price’s hushed voice snapping at them. His eyelids dropped. He waited for silence before speaking.

    “I’m, uh, in…I’m in my apartment,” he answered the one question eventually. But he didn’t have an answer for the others. He held his breath. The overwhelming urge to hang up the phone gripped him. He had to physically stop himself from throwing the phone across the room. Save his ego, his mind protested. Save himself. Protect him. It wasn’t safe. Not safe to cry, not safe to bleed. Hang up before anyone had the chance to hurt him.

    “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” The questions came again. Ghost shifted in silence. He whipped his face on his sleeve, sniffling. The empty bottles of whiskey pooled at his feet. His head was pounding, it hurt behind his eyes. His bones stung with an icy chill. Yet, at the same time, sweat rolled down his shoulders. Panic blazed up in him again.

    “Please, Simon,” the voice whispered. It hurt. It hurt like hell to hear the fear in someone else’s voice. He could only guess how Price felt. Confused, scared, terrified. This hurt him too. It was one thing, knowing the struggle, but it was so much more difficult to admit out loud that he needed help. It was like admitting something was wrong with him.

    “Can you just talk to me? Just for a little bit?” he said softly. “I don’t want to be alone right now…”

    “Yeah, yeah of course, son. I can do that,” said Price. Breathing out a thank you, Ghost let his head fall back against the cold wall of the shower. His lips pressed into a thin line and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, listening to Price’s gravely, yet soothing voice ramble about anything. It wasn’t the words he listened to. He yearned for the comfort of someone else. It reminded him of a campfire. The crackle and pop of the hot wood, the hearty smell, the hot embers. It reminded him of dry, dusty roads. Of hot cups of coffee. Of leather and old books. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

    Even after the tears ran out, after rhythm returned to his lungs, Price stayed. He droned on about something only another old man would understand. Something about fishing, maybe. Ghost was only half listening. Tugging at the edge of his sweater, he ran a finger over the rough seams. His teeth hooked into the peeling skin on his lips, pulling the small strips absentmindedly. He thought back to the muffled sounds he had heard on the other end. Price had been with someone, probably a few people, and his phone call disrupted them.

    “Price–” Ghost cut through the middle of another story, startling himself with how ragged his voice sounded, like sandpaper. “You don’t have to do this anymore. You can go now, I’ll… I’ll be okay.”

    “I’ll stay for as long as you need,” Price said. Ghost started to speak, but was cut off. “It’s okay, take your time. I’ll be here as long as you need me to be.”

    If he had any more tears left in his body, he wouldn’t have been able to hold them back. A second wave of relief and sadness racked his body. He still shivered occasionally, and his stomach was a tight ball of knots, but he was able to breathe easily. Just knowing that there was someone on the other side of the phone helped slow his heart rate. There was a strange feeling of comfort in knowing that he wasn’t alone. Being alone was his default state. It was the only way he knew that was safe.

    Fluttering his eyes open, Ghost shook himself awake. There was no sound coming from the phone. He waited, but nothing more came. Scrubbing the dried tear streaks from his cheek, he shifted his legs. Just as he was about to hang up, Price spoke.

    “Thank you,” was all that was said. His brows furrowed.

    “What?”

    “For trusting me.” Price said simply. “Thank you. I know it must have been hard. I know what it’s like, doing the impossible. I’m proud of you for reaching out. And… I want you to know that I’ll be here if you ever need me again. Just call. I don’t care how bad it is, if you ever need anybody to talk to, I’ll listen.”

    Ghost swallowed hard. A warm feeling swelled up in his chest.

    “Okay,” he said, barely above a whisper.

    It took a lot of effort to hang up the phone.

Chapter Text

    There was something about sitting in the shower that was oddly comforting. Maybe it was the steady pressure pounding down on aching skin. Or maybe it was the warmth that draped over him like a blanket, wrapping him tightly. Or, it may have just been that standing took too much effort and it was just easier to let the water run off of him. Nonetheless, he found comfort in sitting there. The drone of the water falling helped relax his mind. It pooled underneath him, slowly edging back towards the drain.

    After the phone call, he hadn’t managed to make it out of the bathroom. The cold and glossy walls helped bring him back to reality. Now, it was freezing. All the sweat was beginning to dry, letting the cool air seep into his skin. He threw off his shirt and finally, after days or weeks, he couldn’t remember anymore, turned the shower handle.

    He glanced at the empty plastic bottles of shampoo and conditioner on the ceramic floor in front of him. How long had it been since he had used them up? The lids had been screwed off already and he had even filled them with water to get every last bit of gel. And still, they sat in the same place on the floor, untouched, unused. They were right there, in plain view. They weren’t even hidden. They were just sitting there. Yet, every time he’d get back in the shower, they were still there, waiting for him, empty as always. And every time he’d get out, that’s where they’d stay.

    He rested his chin on his arms. Droplets fell from his curls, gliding down his forehead, falling off of his lashes. His eyelids sagged under the weight. He let them fall closed. A stream of warm water found its way down the bridge of his nose and fell off his lips. With every breath out, small specks of water dusted his arms. The air was so heavy with steam that it made the air thick, blocking his lungs. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like suffocating, while still being able to breathe.

    Using the wall for support, he got to his feet. He tipped his head back into the falling water. It was like a gentle massage running over his scalp. He let his eyelids fall closed again. Hot steam filled his nose and lungs. The rhythm of his breath was deep and slow. His chest expanded and fell slowly, taking in and expelling as much air as possible. He could feel the buzz in his mind begin to creep up.

    Somehow, his eyes found the lines of the scars that wrapped around his arms. The drops of water caught the pale grooves and followed along before inevitably dropping off. He turned his hands over and flexed his fingers, watching the way the lines stretched. Straight lines ran up the knuckles on his right hand, scars from when his hand had gotten crushed during a mission. There were more slits from shrapnel and blades further up his arms, like he had been savaged by a wild animal. They tore through the ink patterns that covered his arm. He let his hands fall to his sides, balling into fists. His nails left shallow red marks on his palms.

    Under the hot flow, a stray drop of cool water would fall from the showerhead periodically. When the cold overtook the heat, Ghost shut it off. Pushing aside the shower curtain, steam poured out behind him. Cool air hit his body like ice. The mirror was covered in a foggy haze. He could hardly make out his blurry figure. Pressing his hand to the cool surface, he smeared the condensation until his own reflection looked back at him. Grabbing a towel that hung on the edge of the door, he pressed his face into the coarse cloth. Ruffling his hair, drops of water flew from stray strands, leaving spots of the mirror. Stepping out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, he threw on a black shirt and slacks that were sitting on the set of drawers across from his bed. The fabric hung loose on his figure. He had to tie the strings of the pants to keep them up, and they still hung low on his waist.

    Instinctively, he found himself moving to the bed. The warm covers beckoned him closer. At least it wouldn’t be cold under the blankets. But if he laid down now, there would be no getting up again. Jerking his head away, his feet were forced to carry him out of the bedroom. He stood aimlessly in the dark in front of the living room couch, lit by the hallway. He hovered between sitting down and standing still.

    He settled for one of the stools on the other side of the counter. Picking a glass from inside the sink, he set it down with a soft clink. He stood up and yanked open the fridge door. Pushing aside half used condiment containers and cans of beer, he pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Setting back down with the glass and the alcohol but hesitated to pour himself a drink. He swirled the whiskey, watching the amber liquid reflect the tiny bits of light scattered around the apartment. Eventually, he did pour the drink, but it sat on the counter untouched. Somehow, it had lost its appeal.

    A soft pitter patter drew his attention to the dark window. Drops of rain slithered down the glass, leaving small trails in their wake. They shone like vibrant diamonds against the shadowy atmosphere. The colourful city lights sparkled brightly in the reflection. Only a fraction of the moon appeared whenever the clouds passed, before hiding away once more.

    He ran to the front door. He threw on a coat and forgot to put socks on in his haste. He shoved his shoes on, not bothering to untie the laces and rushed out into the hallway. Moving swiftly, he turned the corner to the stairwell. His legs couldn’t get him down fast enough. Yellow lights flickered overhead. The double doors of the flew open. He stepped out under the overhang of the apartment building. His gaze followed upwards, to the sky. Black clouds rolled above him like dark, crashing waves. They seemed to drift off into oblivion, disappearing behind buildings. The rain fanned out the light of the streetlamps, making them look like fuzzy halos. The wind whipped in his hair, carrying with it the heavy scent of fresh earth. He breathed deeply, taking it all in. The air was clean and fresh. It was alive. He was alive.

    Childlike wonder swelled in him. It fluttered lightly in his chest. Leaning back against the brick wall with the whole world above him, he watched the clouds roll past. A cat slinked across the street and into the alley. A dog barked off in the distance. Long blades of grass danced and swayed along the edges of the sidewalk with the gusts of wind. The city never looked more beautiful. It looked like a scene straight out of a movie. It was perfect. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

    An icy chill ran down his spine. Tugging the hood of the coat over his wet hair, he sank back further on the wall. The sharp corners of the hard clay bricks dug into his shoulder blades. But it was so peaceful outside. He didn’t want to go back in. At least for a short while, the storm put out the raging thoughts in his mind. He shivered again. This time it was deeper, like he was shaking from his very core. With a defeated sigh, he looked up one last time at the black ocean of clouds. He held out his hand just to feel the water hit his skin. Droplets splattered on his fingers, sending even smaller specks of water flying. They dropped off his knuckles and collected in his palm. The small pool grew until it spilled over the edge of his hand. Shaking the remainder of the rain off, he whipped it on the front of his coat and turned back inside.

    Dirty footprints followed him up the stairs to his apartment. There was no mud on his shoes, the rain had mixed with dust and grime on the concrete outside to create a sort of murky water he left behind with every step. Once he was back inside, he kicked off his shoes and flung them into the open closet in the small entryway. He didn’t bother with the lights. Pulling his hood down, he let the coat slide off his shoulders. He moved past the empty hangers and tossed it on the kitchen counter on top of the mess that was already there. It landed next to the sink, knocking into his glass from earlier and sent it crashing to the floor. Shards of splintered glass spread out across the cramped space like flood water. His body convulsed, like a bolt of energy shot through him.

    His heart hammered in his chest. He pressed himself flat against the wall, eyes flying wildly around the room. He breathed silently. His ears strained for any sounds of movement. A shuffle, or a footstep, or a shift. But there were no other noises. Only the quick beating of his pulse. His hand went instinctively for his knife, always tucked into the belt pocket of his gear. Upon realizing he was not wearing his gear, he looked around the room cautiously. Then he saw the shattered bottle on the floor, and his coat laying in a heap beside it. His stiff posture relaxed just for a moment, only for his chest to tighten again. It was just broken glass.

    “Fucking hell,” he cursed at himself. That was stupid. Why did he jump like that? It was just a bottle. Just a stupid fucking bottle. A hardtrained, heartless soldier, jumping at the slightest sound. A bottle was enough to make him snap. The sudden boost of adrenaline still pumped through him. He found a dustpan tucked in the back of the entryway closet. He brushed up as much of the debris as possible. Stuffing down the top layer of empty takeout containers and bottles in the garbage, he made enough room to dump the pan into it.

    A high pitched phone ring jerked his head to the bedroom. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was hardly past ten. Tossing the dustpan under the sink, he left the kitchen. He found the phone vibrating on the bathroom counter. The unknown number flashing on the screen held him in the middle of the room. With his skin still pricking with energy, he answered.

    Hanging up the phone, he tossed it back onto the counter. He stared past the blank screen, letting his thoughts absorb him. His chest quivered, but not with shivers from the cold. It was like a mangled well of emotions held in his chest finding their way out of his body. He had just been notified for a mission. He was moving out in two weeks exactly. Details would be discussed on his way out. For now, he was left in the dark. It was thrilling, the secrecy that shrouded missions, the under the radar outings, the classified information, the undisclosed stories. It never failed to make his blood rush.

    Half turning, he found himself gazing back into the dark bedroom. The darkness lurked just beyond the faint light spilling out of the bathroom. The piles upon piles of clothes sat there, staring at him. Taunting him. Frowning, he stood motionless in the doorway. He barely even had enough plates to feed himself, how could one room get so messy?

    He used his foot to pick apart the closest pile to the door. Two piles were made; gear he would need for the mission, and then everything else. Semi-clean shirts were tossed to one side of the room, anything unwearable was kicked to the corner. By the time the floor was clear enough for the muddy grey carpet to peek through, he almost wished he hadn’t picked anything up. Maybe it had been better when it was covered in clothes, then the stains would be covered up.

    Scooping up a clump of clothes, he tossed them into the hall. Putting them in the washer would be a job for morning-Ghost. But then the kitchen caught his eye. His heart sank looking at all the plastic containers sitting on the counter. It was a depressing sight. Looking from the bedroom to the kitchen, his heart sank deeper. There was still so much to do. Not to mention that most of the living room furniture was covered in a thick layer of dust, and there was nothing but beer and bourbon in the fridge, and the garbage was overflowing, and–

    Kicking the door closed behind him, he sank down onto the dark covers of the bed. The fabric was smooth under his coarse fingertips. Ghost felt very out of place amongst soft textures and domestic life. It didn’t feel right. Everything felt off while he was in the apartment. This feeling of deep emptiness lingered in the air. It followed him wherever he went, always peering over his shoulders, weighing down on him. Nothing seemed to help either. Not the booze, not the smoking, none of it. But now that his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the new mission, it gave him temporary relief from the unrelenting isolation. There would be no sleep tonight.

    In the early hours of the morning, Ghost stood at the front of his apartment, shifting from foot to foot. A grey hood hid his face from the dim sunrise. The sky was still dark above him, the light barely peaked over the horizon.

    He had downed the last drops of a coffee on his way out the door. A pot had been sitting on the counter for days now, untouched. A good cup of Earl Grey was his go to, but there were only empty boxes in the cupboards. Taking the cleanest mug out of the sink, he poured a cup and popped it in the microwave. He took a sip of the warm liquid and grimaced. It tasted old, and stale somehow too. Spitting the mouthful of bitter liquid into the sink, he turned away from the growing mess. The glint of amber caught his eye. The shine of the half empty glass of bourbon still sat on the counter.

    It was calling his name.

    He needed something to keep him awake. He massaged the bridge of his nose and poured himself another cup of mediocre coffee, tipping the untouched glass down the drain. A throbbing pain had settled right behind his eyes. Leaning against the cold countertop, he gritted his teeth. He looked across the room and out the balcony window. Stars were still sparkling at the edges of the sky, but it was starting to light up near the horizon.

    He swung the scratched closet open beside the front door. Pushing aside fallen coats and boots, he rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a pair of tattered running shoes. The white colour was a faded ash grey now. The rubber on the left shoe was barely hanging onto the heel. There were a few holes, and the fabric was peeling. They would have made the perfect nest for a mouse. It was amazing that they were still holding together. It was the same pair that he had had since high school. He had practically worn them out by the time he graduated, but kept them anyway. He had worn them during his first place track race. And the first time he and his mates ran from the cops. They had been there when he enlisted in the military. And, by some miracle, they had survived at least a dozen moves. By now, they were indestructible.

    Taking another swing of the coffee, he tugged the track shoes on. Part of the heel almost tore, but for the most part they slipped on easily, just as snug as ever. Their many years of use had conformed them to the shape of his feet. Grabbing a coat off the counter, he downed the last of the coffee. It was still bitter. Dropping the mug back into the sink, he poured the rest of the coffee pot down the drain too. He hesitated in front of the door. He stared at it uneasily, his hand frozen in mid air, reaching for the handle. His face suddenly felt very bare, very exposed.

    He retreated back to the bedroom and returned with a dark ski mask and pulled it over his head. The pressure felt familiar. Knowing. Comforting.

    He made his way out into the hall and down the stairwell.

    The windows of the double doors of the apartment building were fogged up from the outside. Pushing them open, the crisp morning breeze blew past him. The hood of the jacket was tugged over his head, and the zipper zipped up tightly. The street was still slick with last night's rain. The dew on the grass that poked out between the cracks in the pavement shone like tiny diamonds in the early morning sun. Bending down to lace up the track shoes, he looked down the street uneasily. He lingered in the doorway. He half turned to go back inside but stopped himself. He looked back down the road.

    “It’s just one block, you bloody wimp,” he grumbled to himself. Letting his hand slide off the cold door handle, he took one step out onto the sidewalk. Before he could sike himself out, he forced his legs to take another step. It was a little easier to move this time. Then another, easier still. And another, until his arms pumped vigorously, and his legs moving on their own. The small puddles sprayed rainwater with every step. A cool chill settled into his feet, but he pushed forward.

    Sweat trickled down his neck and back. His breath was quick and controlled. The sensation of blood pumping through his body swelled inside him, his pulse voluntarily beating fast. His eyes were alert, his mind finally awake. The wind whispered through his hair and weaved through the fibers of his clothes.

    His feet pounded the sidewalk, finding a familiar rhythm. It sent jolts up his legs and spine. The freshly healed bullet scars throbbed painfully with every step. The flesh may have been healed, but muscles were still adjusting. A dull ache gnawed away at his muscles. It had been a long time since he had run like this. It had been a long time since he had been able to get off the couch. His breath was shallow. Every beat of his heart resonated throughout his chest. It felt like his lungs were about to burst.

    He hadn’t even noticed the sun rise above the buildings. Adrenaline pumped in his veins. It was intoxicating. When his legs began to ache, and his breath became sloppy, he pushed harder. The edges of his vision began to blur. He pressed onwards. When black spots dotted in front of his eyes, he ran farther. Nausea bubbled up in his stomach, threatening to spill. Still he ran.

    He kept his head facing forward. Moving his head at all in any direction provoked the unsteady feeling at the back of his throat. Finally, his body had enough. It physically would not allow him to take another step. So it stopped him. Stumbling, he barely had time to catch himself on a low stone wall before his knees buckled. He pulled himself up just in time to lean away from his feet as his stomach emptied out on the pavement, barely managing to pull the mask above his mouth. The awful coffee mixture spilled out in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut, he winced at the bitter aftertaste that coated his mouth. At least going down it tasted alright. Breathing in shakily, he gritted his teeth. But before he could catch his breath, another wave of sickness washed over him. Doubling over again, he heaved hard.

    When the immediate sickness passed, he lowered himself down onto the low wall. His knuckles turned white where he held onto the stone. Letting his chin fall onto his chest, he let out a heavy sigh. The tension in his stomach slowly undid itself until the sick feeling pressing against the back of his throat subsided. He closed his eyes and sat on the low wall. His legs were shaking, it became increasingly difficult to stay still. Closing his eyes, he breathed slowly through his mouth. Resting his elbows on his legs, he hunched forward. It steadied him. He gently palmed the bullet scars on his legs in an attempt to relieve some of the soreness. He pursued his lips.

    “Alright, to hell with that,” he mumbled to himself, wiping the corner of his mouth on his sleeve. “This is why people don’t run for fun.”

    This wasn’t the first time that a workout had turned sour. Days at the gym usually ended with him locked in the bathroom leaning over the garbage, or out back in the parking lot doubled over. The little food he ate would never stay down. Trying to unlock his door after a workout took a couple of tries. His hands had trouble steadying enough to get the key in the lock.

    The sun rose above the buildings now. Wispy clouds drifted in the pale blue sky. A flock of black birds landed in the middle of the street. Ghost watched curiously. They hopped and edged closer to what appeared to be a brightly coloured bag. They pecked at the bag cautiously, creeping closer to it. One bird took a stab at it and pulled it and jumped back, flapping its wings in panic. The rest of the flock closed in. They crowded together, blocking his view. Wings flapped and beaks chirped. Then, one broke away from the group, tugging the ripped bag in its beak. French fries spilled out of the hole, leaving a trail of deep fried potatoes behind it. The birds chased each other around, playing tug of war with the fries until a bike rode by, ringing the bell on its handlebars, scattering the playful birds away.

    Pushing himself to his feet, wavered slightly, and started off back down the sidewalk. Only a few wobbly steps across the concrete, he stopped short. A feather floated down from the sky. It twisted and danced on invisible puffs of air, twirling and drifting. The world slowed down to match its gradual descent, like it was suspended in honey. The soft bristles of the feather rippled like water, reflecting the sun. It came to rest just in front of his muddy grey shoes.

    The wind kicked up, tossing the feather back into the air. Watching it, as if in a trance, the feather was blown across the street. It settled in the middle of a half empty parking lot. With a start, he recognized the car that was parked in front of the feather. He recognized the long scratch that stretched from the back wheel to the licence plate, and the small dent on the bumper from the time a truck had backed into it trying to pull out the backlot of a bar. It was unmistakable his dinged up, scrappy car.

    Tapping his pocket to feel his keys, he unsteadily crossed the street. He had been in such a rush getting out of the car the other day that he hadn’t remembered to check where he left it. That whole night was a blur. Fuzzy images flashed in his mind, but they were murky and distorted. The only thing he could remember clearly was the intense feelings that night had caused. His heart fluttered unpleasantly in his chest. Putting the car in reverse, he pulled out of the lot, distracting his mind with thoughts of the new mission.

Chapter Text

    For days, Ghost spent hours pacing up and down the small hall between the bedroom and the kitchen. He’d lean into the bedroom every time he passed the doorway. The floor was mostly clean, except for a pile that had been pushed into the back corner of the room. One lone backpack sat on the end of the bed, along with a small stack of poorly folded shirts and pants.

    Moving over to the bag, he grabbed the stack by the handful and shoved it in, compressing the clothes as much as possible. The jeans had a hard time staying down, they kept crumbling into a ball that took up most of the bottom of the backpack. A pair of shoes was thrown in on top to add some weight, along with a pair of gloves. The leather was faded, but clean, and still stiff. There were no holes that had to be sewn back together, or tears along the seams.

    Pulling open the top drawer of the dresser, he fished out a second pair of gloves. The faint outline of bones were painted along the fingers and hands. He ran his fingers over the coarse cracks in the paint. Small flecks peeled off, leaving patches of the rough leather showing through. A gift from someone a long time ago. They were tucked into a side pocket in the bag.

    An array of other supplies and a few extra pairs of long black shirts and camo pants were thrown into the bag. Drumming his fingers on the sheets, he frowned at the bag. Everything that had been laid out on the bed had already been packed, but he hesitated before zipping it up. Looking around the room, he checked for any stray items lying around. Shrugging, he began to tug the zipper closed.

    His head jerked up. Quickly, he yanked open the drawer of the bedside table. A collection of hand painted balaclavas were scattered inside. Picking up the whole lot in both hands, he moved them to the bed. Something clattered to the floor from within the pile. Turning to pick it up, the soulless black eyes of a skull hard mask stared back up at him. The white bone had faded, covered in layers of dirt and dust. There was a fracture in one of the teeth, and scratches were carved into the hard material. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. On the inside of the mask, traces of dried blood and flesh dotted along the ridge of the nose like crimson flakes on snow. His skin pricked when he looked into the empty eye sockets of the mask. He tucked it into a pouch safely. Zipping the bag shut, it was thrown against the front door, ready to go.

    As the hours trickled by slowly, the day of the departure was upon him. Lying in bed, he watched agonizingly as each minute passed on the clock on his bedside table. Once the clock struck a reasonable hour, the covers were thrown off and he was up. Taking in the room one last time, he made his way to the kitchen. Picking up his keys off the counter, he half turned towards the front door, but paused. Glancing at the freshly empty cigarette boxes on the counter, he sighed heavily and went back to grab another box from the bedroom. The ones he found only had a few smokes left in them. Grabbing the ones that were scattered about, he stuffed them into one box, setting one aside and pocketing the rest.

    Lighting the cigarette with a cheap plastic lighter, he gravitated towards the balcony. A dark pair of eyes flashed in his mind when he looked at the flame. A flash of guilt skittered across his mind, but he took a long drag to push it back.

    He stood in front of the glass, watching the still sleeping city, stories above the ground. Breathing in deeply, the burning embers of the cigarette flickered. Catching his own eye in the reflection against the dark sky, he instead took interest in the ground. One lonesome flower bloomed on the spotty lawn. It was too dark to tell what colour it was, but it was impressive that anything could grow on that desolate backyard. It poked out of the ground between two vacant garden boxes, as if to mock the poor soul that tried to grow anything there.

    A cat slinked around the corner and sat in front of the flower. It sniffed the plant cautiously, before giving it a few light swats and continuing on its way. The cat disappeared behind a sad looking bush. The faint wail of a siren rang in the distance. A hefty sounding bark joined the chorus, breaking the tranquility of the early morning.

    Pulling on one of his masks, Ghost turned away from the balcony. He let out a deep sigh, feeling the comfortable and reassuring pressure of the mask on his face. Stuffing his feet into the shoes that were waiting for him at the front door, he stepped out into the hall. Hand on the door handle, he gave the dark apartment one final look. He sighed. Not because he would miss this place, but because this is what he would have to return to. It hadn’t even been cleaned. It was the same apartment he had lived in on his own. It was small and cheap, and the power shut off for an hour or two every other day. Still he stayed. Averting his eyes, he slammed the door shut behind him.

    The rest of the trip was a blur. The car ride was short. The wait flashed by. He was boarded onto a plane. It was small, and compact. He took a seat beside the window. Crates of supplies took up most of the room in the back, so the rest of the crew and passengers were squished into the few remaining seats. There were only half a dozen people with him, all military personnel, but the plane was almost filled. The seat beside him remained vacant.

    The twin engines under the wings roared to life. Before long, the plane was moving down the runway. A line of trees swayed in the wind past the chain fence that surrounded the airport. They were blown over an awful lot. Just then, they began to shoot down the runway. Ghost’s grip on the armrests tightened. The wings shuddered and jerked, the wheels lifting off the ground, bobbing up and down.

    The rest of the flight was uneventful. The pilot’s voice rang out through the small space, announcing their arrival. Golden sand dunes rolled under them as they flew by, touching the horizon, as if they were reaching out to the sun, like waves reaching for the shore. Tiny, dry bushes dotted the ground, the smooth dunes occasionally broken by dark, jagged rocks. Nothing like back in England. It was dry, and warm. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

    Within minutes of landing, the cabin was filled with stifling, dry air. Stepping outside, the asphalt runway shimmered under the bright sun. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and winced at the light. There was nothing to stop the sweltering heat. Surveying the area, he noted a chain fence that bordered the tarmac, separating him from the vast rolling hills of a desert. Half a dozen large warehouses and buildings were lined against the fence. Soldiers hurried past from one building to the other, like ants from their hill. Scrambled to onlookers, but organized beneath the surface. The dark fabric of his mask began to heat up under the uncomfortable intensity of the sun. He ran a gloved hand over his eyes and cheeks, whipping away the sweat that was already starting to soak the mask.

    He ducked under the shade of the wing of the plane. The double doors on the nearest building swung open. A group of men marched out, led by a man in Ghost knew well. A fat cigar stuck out of the corner of his mouth, under a large and bushy mustache, his eyes shaded under the brim of a bucket hat. Price stopped under the shade alongside him, the group stopping just short behind them.

    “Good to see you, soldier,” Price said, extending a hand. Not as a professional gesture, more of a welcome back, good to see you old friend.

    “Good to be back, Captain.” Ghost clasped his hand.

    Price had been looking at him with a worried look in his eye. It made Ghost shrink away. He gave the old man a tight nod and turned his attention to the men that stood back.

    Heavy rifles were strapped to their chests over top of padded vests. Their gear was light, both in colour and weight, and well ventilated. An array of badges were pressed into the uniforms of the men, along their shoulders and chest. A few of them unstrapped their guns, wary of the stranger in black that stood before them, and well within their right. One of the men stepped up and offered his hand. He was shorter than Ghost, but stocky. The sleeves of his black short-sleeved shirt were rolled up to the shoulders, exposing his thick biceps. His dark curls reflected the sun held back by a bandana, whether to keep the grease or sweat out of his face, it was hard to say. His mouth was hidden beneath a clean cut black beard. A thin, white scar that ran from under his left eye to his ear stretched when he flashed a broad smile. It stood out against his tanned skin.

    “Ay, call me Colonel Badger,” the burly man said.

    Two more twin scars, thick and jagged, ran from his forehead to the corners of his mouth, one over each eye. Like the pelt of a badger. Ghost huffed.

    The Colonel nods to Price. “Captain here calls you Ghost. What’d you do to earn a name like that?”

    Hot irritation spread across his shoulders. The question came out as more of a sneer. Ghost simply stared. The air grew stale. The men shifted behind them. Hot desert wind blew waves of sand across the tarmac and kicked up small clouds of dust into the air. At least the mask was able to keep the sand out of his nose.

    There is no place for kindness in war. There was no use in being friendly with anyone here. Once the mission was over, he’d pack his bags and return back to England. He’d never see these men again. Smiles and handshakes and small talk were useless. Nothing but empty, meaningless conversations and even more meaningless answers. It was easier to shut it down in the beginning, to have it not happen at all.

    “I’d like you to meet my team, the Ravagers,” Badger said without skipping a beat and gestured to the men behind him with a cocky smile. “You’ll be a part of our team for the next little while here. My own subunit. The best men that we can offer, all highly skilled and trained by me. You won’t ever have to worry about watching you back with these men around. They’ll have your back, on special order from the Captain.” He gave Price a quick side glance, in a mocking kind of way.

    “I know you’ve had some… bad experiences with your last team. I’ve known most of these men since they were boys. They’re trustworthy soldiers, they’ll stick to the plan.”

    Ghost’s nostrils flared under the balaclava. With gritted teeth, he gave Price a hard stare out of the corner of his eye, whose own brows furrowed while he chewed on the end of his cigar. The two shared a look.

    Moving past the comment, Ghost looked over the Badger’s shoulder at the men. He stood a head above even the tallest of the group. He sized them up individually. They straightened their poster under his gaze, one even jutted out their chin at him. He almost barked a laugh. They looked just like rookies under evaluation. Or like birds puffing out their chests to seem bigger, more intimidating.

    More than anything, Ghost wanted to wipe that confident, arrogant smirk off Bader’s face. He settled for an icy stare. Price cleared his throat and nodded for everyone to go back to the building. There, he informed Ghost, he would learn about the details of the mission. Badger gave him quick side eye glances as they walked, like he was sizing him up himself. He could feel the eyes on his back, studying him. Trying to pick him apart.

    Once inside, cool air washed over them. It was a relief. He pulled the mask up slightly around his neck, letting the air conditioning, alleviating some of the heat. He rolled back the cuffs of his shirt, his sleeve tattoos and scared arms on full display.

    Badger began to lead them down a hall and through one of the many doors for a debrief. Hanging back and letting the rest of the group pass, Ghost pulled Price aside. Taking a quick glance around the room, they talked in hushed whispers.

    “What,” Ghost seethed, barely able to contain the tremor of rage in his voice. His expression was stone cold. “The bloody hell was that.”

    “I suppose it’s too late to ask you to play nice now, hm?” Price asked, running a hand over his beard with an audible sigh.

    “How did he find out about my last mission? What else does he know?” Ghost’s voice was low. He stepped close to the Captain, his breath hot in his throat. “Those were classified documents. You gave me your word.”

    “It was an incident report, nothing more.”

    “You knew?” Ghost had to swallow hard to push down an unhinged laugh from bubbling out of his throat.

    “It wasn’t my call. Or Laswell’s either, so don’t go barking up that tree,” Price said sternly, giving his soldier a hard look. “I approved it, though. Only the bare, strictly necessary details. I swear it.”

    Ghost glowered, his hands balling into fists at his side.

    “Don’t look at me like that. We need to gain their trust, hm?” Another pointed look was shot his way. “Your reputation has its reaches, Ghost. They need our help, but they’re wary of you. Your track record is muddy and grim. Don’t use this as an excuse to butt heads. I know how you can be.”

    “I don’t bend a knee to bastards.”

    The Captain put a hand on his shoulder, steadying Ghost’s thoughts. He couldn’t meet Price’s gaze. Even he knew he was being unreasonable. But he already hated the heat, and was slowly starting to hate the situation. Badger made him feel restless, uneasy. Something was off putting about his behaviour.

    “I’m not asking for trust,” Price assured him. “Just the mission.”

    Ghost nodded stiffly. Maybe the months of rotting away in his apartment, off the battlefield, had made him soft. Arrogant. Jumpy. Cool resolve washed over his face, sweeping away any visible expressions.

    Lingering a moment, Price gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off.

    Waves of rage still prickled down his arms beneath the surface. It all felt like an invasion of privacy. Price reading his documents and reports, that was one thing, but a stranger? No. All missions were meant to be classified. And he goes and throws it out so casually. What else could he have gotten his hands on, if he was able to get this?

    With another heavy sigh, he looked down the hall where Price had walked off. One of the doors was left ajar, presumably where he was supposed to go. It was no use being pissy, he finally told himself. Just the thought of being able to slip into a mission and forget about everything calmed him. Breathing deeply, he started off down the hall.

    A janitor was mopping the floor across from him, pulling the bucket along with him. A blue hat hung low over his brow, shielding his eyes. Before the two of them could cross paths, the man pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked a door next to the one Price had entered, a brass plate across the front reading Storage. Staff Only. The man stepped inside and locked it with a click.

    Entering one of the doors down the hall, a large metal table sat in the center of the room. The soldiers were already standing in clusters around the room. They briefly looked up at him before busying themselves with whatever was in front of them. The table was lit by one dusty bare lightbulb attached to the ceiling. A cork board hung on the wall just behind it. A map was pinned to the board, and dozens of smaller pictures and notes were stuck along the edges. Red pen circled various locations on the map. Moving towards the middle of the dark room, open folders and reports were scattered on the table itself. More red ink was scribbled next to the title of one of the reports. Before he could investigate the papers any further, Badger cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention.

    “Listen up,” Badger said, his voice commanding the room. He took on a serious tone, to Ghost’s surprise. The smile and cheerful attitude slid off the Colonel's face. He spoke in a language Ghost didn’t understand. Price cam to stand next to him, whispering translations as the Colonel spoke.

    “For the past few months, there have been a series of organized attacks on the country’s high value political leaders. At first, it was sloppy. It was messy and it was sporadic. But now they’ve gotten smarter. They’re stronger now. They have a plan. That’s where we come in. They need weapons, bombs, ammo, whatever they can get their hands on. Sources have spotted a transport truck headed for the city. Our job is to stop that truck before it gets to its destination.”

    Badger bent over the table, slamming down a map, a serious tone slipping into his voice. “We have no idea what’s inside of these trucks. That means we have to be extra vigilant. We enter the city here,” He prodded the map. “And set up here. Three men here, to stop the trucks. I lead. We arrest anyone inside. Ghost, you two, you’ll round up whoever we arrest, and keep them clear of the trucks. And the rest of you, you’ll be in the area on standby. Keep it clear for us. I need a sniper on the roof, to watch our backs. Things can go south very quickly here. It should be quick, but stay on guard. They may be armed and unpredictable.”

    Badger looked at each man in turn, staring them down before they gave him a stiff nod. Once he was satisfied, he pressed on.

    “We won’t have much time. The shipment is headed for the heart of the city. We must stop it at all costs before it’s able to get over this bridge. If it does, we’ve failed. And if we fail, do not go after it. The city is dangerous, and we are not prepared to advance into that territory yet. In there, we won’t just be fighting terrorists, but gang members and drug lords too. Once the job is done, our own men will transport the prisoners back to base. If at any point, we are in trouble, we rendez-vous here, where we can get another vehicle in quickly.” Price was a little uncertain in the translation, but the message was loud and clear to Ghost.

    Badger clapped his hands together with a wide grin. Price huffed, blowing his thick mustache to hide a grin. “Routine op, nothing fancy. You’ll be home in time to kiss the wife goodnight,” he repeated, amused. Ghost was not.

    Dry chuckles made their way around the room, the Colonel’s laugh ringing out the loudest, like the deep bark of a dog, and just as ear piercing.

    Ghost looked blankly at the men in front of him, eyes half lidded. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, tense. The plan mulled over in his head. With such a tight timeframe, there was little room for error. He shifted through a stack of documents referencing the city. Incident reports, building details and maps of cartel territory.

    While turning one of the pages, a drawing slipped out. Tilting it curiously, he held the paper in the light. It was a detailed pen drawing of the city. Scratchy notes were scribbled in a language he had never seen before. Some of the words were barely legible, smudged beyond recognition or just too messy to read. Snaking down alleys and through buildings, paths and directions were drawn in pencil, showing routes through the city.

    The men in the room slowly began to trickle out, until he stood over the table, alone save for Price, who pulled the fat cigar out of his pocket. He dipped his head and lit the smoke, blowing out a faint grey cloud.

    “Who are we after ‘ere, Captain?” Ghost asked, his accent thick.

    Price regarded him for a moment under the rim of his hat. He chewed on the end of the cigar, leaning over the table. “I’ll be honest, we don’t know much. They call themselves the Red Accord, and they’ve staged multiple kidnappings of political leaders.”

    “What do they want?”

    The fan in a vent near the corner of the room hummed loudly. Icy cold air was pumped into the cramped space.

    “There’s been a lot of civil unrest here for the past few years. You must have seen it by now, it’s been on the news a few times. There’s been riots, and people have been fleeing the country. But it’s worse than that. Violence on the streets, more than what’s being reported. The people aren’t happy with the way things are run. The Red Accord, that’s what the locals have been calling them, are probably looking for an opportunity to seize control. And we have no faces to match. Not a single lead to point us in the right direction. Nothing. Like bloody ghosts.”

    He paused. “There’s more to this than that. I can’t put a finger on it, but…”

    “I haven’t heard of them.”

    “You should be glad you haven’t. I read through a few of the reports… The politicians are taken from inside their homes, sometimes just abducted right off the street. In broad daylight. Can’t even begin to imagine what those lads are put through, the torture. They’ve mutilated the corpses of their victims and left them to be found. They left one governor on the steps of a police station.”

    Now that was some new shit. There had been plenty of terrorists he had dealt with in the past that had their own plethora of torture and sick methods. Kidnapping people off the street wasn’t unheard of, but deliberately leaving the bodies to be found… no doubt sending a message to their opponents. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, one of unease.

    “Horrid.”

    “It’s beyond that, soldier. It’s some damn heavy stuff.” Another pause. Price then cleared his throat, moving towards the door. “I’ll get someone to show you to your room so you can get settled in.” Price was half turned before Ghost spoke.

    “A room?” he echoed.

    “Yes, a room,” he turned back, one eyebrow quirked. “Unless you want to bunk with a recruit, which could be arranged.” He shook his head. “Thought so. But yes, you get a room. I can’t guarantee it’ll be anything special, but it’ll have a bed.”

    “That’s all I need.”

    “I know.”

Chapter Text

    Stepping out into the hall, Ghost turned the opposite way he came. The moment he stepped out, the storage closet door opened and the janitor with the blue hat appeared in front of him. The man spared him one uneasy glance before focusing on the floor. Ghost was no stranger to those looks; his mask often appeared in his own nightmares. It was no surprise that others shied away from it. He quickly pushed past the janitor and continued on, following his Captain's directions to the barracks.

    Price had been right; the room designated to him was small. If he reached out, his fingers could almost touch both walls. At least it was deeper than it was wide, but it was more of a storage closet with a bed than an actual room. A compact mattress a few inches thick sat on a tilted metal frame, and a thin, scratchy blanket was laid on top. There was a set of drawers, three compartments to be exact, and a table and chair tucked into the corner. A small window let in a little light through its beige curtains above the table. Letting his backpack slide off his shoulder, it fell onto the faded green sheets. He kicked the door closed behind him and flicked on the lightswitch. A bulb in the centre of the room blinked a few times before the light steadied. It was faint, even in the shaded room.

    Gingerly, he set himself down on the bed. The frame almost gave out, sinking deeply in the middle. It let out a loud, painful screech, a mix of metallic grinding and old springs. He huffed in defeat. The mattress was lumpy, and firm. Phantom pains of past broken limbs haunted his sleep at night, even years after.

    He pulled off his dark mask. As soon as it was off, he took in a large sigh, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The balaclava was tossed over the back of the chair to dry. It was soaked with sweat and condensation from his breath, his skin clammy and hot. The small room provided little relief from the heat of the sun. At least outside, there was a breeze. He warily pulled back the curtains on the window. From here, he overlooked the sand dunes outside of the fence. Meager, little purple flowers grew on the tiny bush just below him. They looked like… well, he wasn’t sure what they looked like. It was a harsh contrast to the bland, faded yellow of the sand, but at least it helped reduce the strain on the eyes, even if they did look wilted.

    Muffled voices and far off gunshots were drowned out by the wind. His shoulders tensed at the sound before remembering where he was. The living quarters themselves were rectangular buildings with up to a dozen rooms, packed tightly in neat rows. By the looks of it, the rest of the windows would open up to the compound or face a wall. He had been lucky enough to get a room at the edge, facing the fence. That way he could have his mask off and the curtains open without the risk of being seen. It was quiet here.

    It was nice, the sound of the wind. It didn’t do much to drown out the unpleasant thoughts that always lingered at the edges of his mind, but it eased the burden. They had a heavy, indistinguishable presence, but they were always there. Looming just beyond comprehension, materializing at seemingly random intervals, creeping towards his conscious mind. Sometimes, they were like living nightmares, sometimes faces. Other times they were disjointed feelings, or flashes or memories. But no matter what form was taken, these things were always there, dark and heavy.

    Being alone both helped and made it worse. It was easier to decompress when he was by himself. He could simply exist on his own time, forget about mortal responsibilities. Just be alive. On the flip side, there was nothing to stop the constant stream of images, nobody to disrupt the fast flowing waters, no rock to slow the rapids. He was stuck with whatever came to mind, which were usually those unpleasant thoughts, with no one to bring him back out. Still, It was easier this way, being alone. There was some comfort in knowingly sinking into the deep waters. A little like a sense of relief, that one day he might drown.

    Dully, he remembered the plan that was made for him for the rest of the day. There was training, and more debriefs, and something else he couldn’t quite remember. Get up, he wanted to tell himself, but the flood waters had already been let out. He had let his mind roam freely for too long already. The obscurity of his mind crept closer to his conscious thoughts. The air was muggy. The room was warm. He was cold. He laid back against the pillow that was too flat on a bed that was too lumpy on a frame that was too rusty.

    With a twinge of remorse, he realized that nothing had changed. It was still the same, even here. The vines of hopelessness somehow found their way through the cracks in the walls. They tied him down, wrapped him up, held him here. Hadn’t he prayed and begged for things to change? Hadn’t he tried? And yet here he was, lying in bed, the same bland, grey feeling seeping into his bones like an old, dry rag soaks up fresh blood.

    Hours passed, wasted. The sun had set a long time ago, letting the deep chill of the night air crawl in through the open window. The curtains were still, there was no breeze tonight. There was nothing tonight. Nothing existed outside of the walls of his room. Or… no, that wasn’t right. Everything existed. Time kept moving, people kept living, the world kept turning. It didn’t wait for him. The world didn’t wait for him to catch up, or slow down so he could catch his breath. No, everyone still lived their lives, went about their days, changed the course of their future, while he lay here paralyzed. They left him behind.

    Everybody left him behind.

    The second set of dog tags he wore under his shirt felt cold on his skin. His gloved fingers found their way up his neck, wrapping around the tags. Pulling off the fabric, he traced the lumpy, disfigured ridges and curves with bare hands, careful to avoid the letters stamped into the ID. Small, rusted and charred flakes fell onto his chest. If he cleared his mind enough, he could remember the smell of burning smoke. He could almost taste it…

    Movement at the foot of the bed caught his eye. It had been a quick flash, barely noticeable, but he caught it. There was the sound of fabric shuffling, only for a second. He strained his eyes in the dark, searching the small back wall. He waited for his light eyes to adjust to the lack of light. There was the outline of the desk, he could vaguely see his mask hanging over the chair. His open backpack on the floor, the set of drawers–

    His breath hitched in his throat. Every hair on his arms stood on end. His lungs could no longer expand. He wanted to move, to sit up, to run. His muscles tingled but would not respond. He was pinned down by the pair of eyes that stared at him from the darkness just beyond the edge of the bed. The same eyes that flashed in his mind whenever he looked at a flame.

    They stared, unblinking. Motionless. Angry. The eyes seemed to look beyond him. The gaze was cold and fierce. It looked right into his soul.

    The smoke. He could smell the smoke. Not of a wood fire, no. It was pungent and acidic, it was the smell of something not meant to be burned. There was another smell. It was almost entirely masked by the overpowering stench, but every moment the eyes stared at him, the stronger it grew. It was nauseatingly sweet, he wanted to be sick.

    There was the sound of fabric shuffling again. The eyes moved closer, close enough so he was staring into a horribly disfigured face. Even in the darkness, it looked like it was melting. The once smooth, even contours of the features were mangled. Lumps pulsated. The skin bubbled and dripped. Heat radiated from the wounds. With sickening horror, he recognized the smell. He was smelling burning flesh.

    “You left me behind.”

    Most beaches were empty by this time. This one was no different. All the party animals and loud drunks had gone home by now. A few plastic forks and straws were half buried in the sand or getting churned in the waves. A toy shovel was lodged between two rocks just beyond his field of view. A stray beach towel slowly drifted across shore in jerky movements, like it was being pulled by invisible hands. It felt nice, the wind on his face. It was refreshing to breathe clean air after spending so much time under those masks. To smell the salt in the air, to feel the crisp chill of sea spray. He let it fill his lungs.

    The moon hung high in the sky, nearly full tonight. Its reflection danced on the surface of the churning waves, waltzing with the stars sprinkled in. A tap on his shoulder drew his attention away from the ocean.

    A man stood beside him, his mind lost in space. His dark hair was blown askew, getting in his eyes. His mouth hung open ever so slightly, lips drawn back into a small smile. His dark brown eyes sparkled with awe, the very cosmos shone with him. Somewhere, deep below the surface, hidden by pain and suffering, the whole universe could be found in his eyes.

    He made a few quick gestures with his hands, never looking away.

    “Yeah, it is beautiful,” Ghost whispered back, voice faint in the wind, eyes trailing over the man beside him. They stayed like that for a long time. Time didn’t exist here. There was nothing but the waves, the stars and each other. If life could always be like this, blissfully stunning, then life was worth living for.

    It was a long time before he realized that the eyes which had been fixed on the sky he had been so captivated by looked back at him. Jumping slightly, he averted his gaze. He quickly mumbled out an apology. Sheepishly, he looked back up. He swore, his heart could have stopped from the sight and he would have died happy.

    The man’s shoulders shook from silent laughter. Not at him, though. Never at him. His dark eyes were all squinty, his nose scrunched up from the force of his smile. Oh, his smile… Nothing in this world was more pure. It was so genuine. Beauty practically radiated off of him. It was enough to make even the most stone cold heart flicker with warmth. An unfamiliar sensation filled Ghost’s chest. He really did feel warm. Despite the cool breeze, he felt warm. It was nice.

    The silent laughter subsided, but the man’s smile never faded. He held it with grace and certainty, like he wanted to smile. Which struck the soldier as odd. Still, after all the times he had been looked at with honest happiness, he could never get used to it. Not a man like Ghost. Not him. Because of where he came from, what he was. It didn’t seem right.

    But when the man gently raised a hand to his face and cupped his cheek, he thought that it was alright, just this once. So he leaned into the touch. He even pressed his own hand overtop of the other’s. I don’t deserve you, he wanted to scream. Every lesson he had ever learned, all of the walls he had built, they begged him to pull back, to walk away. He cast those thoughts aside and let himself take it all in.

    ‘You do deserve this,’ the man said in sign language, as if reading his thoughts, only momentarily pulling his hands away. For the few seconds that the warmth was gone, Ghost’s skin felt frozen. It all dissipated when he was pulled back in.

    “Thank you, Gary,” he said, barely above a whisper, pressing their foreheads together. His voice cracked with the emotions that threatened to spill out. Before he could push them back down, he did the unthinkable. Simon smiled.

    If only moments like this could last forever.

    But that’s just wishful thinking, isn’t it?

    It was supposed to be an easy mission. Get to the checkpoint, regroup, capture the enemy and then get out. It had already been several days that they had been on this particular string of missions, hunting down the agent one final time. He was cornered, and on the run. His trail of bloodshed and carnage led them here, to a large warehouse complex. Six men in all to clear the buildings.

    Ghost had gotten held up, he was late to the rendez-vous point. Over a crackling radio, he told his team to go ahead, he would be right with them. After navigating down to the large fence topped with spirals of barbed wire that enclosed the warehouses, he slipped through the hole his team had cut through the metal. Concealed by the shadows of the night, he made his way into the first storehouse. Huge, thick shelves stretched across the open space inside, scraping against the roof.

    “Roach, Price, how copy?” he spoke into his mic. Gun raised, he turned sharply around a corner, ready for anything. Nothing. He continued down the rows of shelves, quickly and silently. He turned another corner. Nothing again. Reaching the end, his skin began to prickle. No sign of any activity here, or anyone for that matter. This one was a dead end.

    “See you’ve joined the party, Ghost,” another soldier’s rough voice crackled in his ear. “No sign of him here. Keep looking, that rat has to be hiding here somewhere.”

    First building clear. Stepping outside, he edged his way around the side towards the next building. Adrenaline spiked when he heard the next words through his headset.

    “He’s here! I found him–” Roach’s voice yelled, rough and cracked, like splintered wood and bone, piercing his ears, then cut off.

    “Where? Where is he?” Ghost yelled urgently into the radio. Irritation flaring, he looked around for any signs of the enemy, or the sounds of gunfire. Just then, the ground shook, rattling the doors on their frames. Hot wind billowed past him, blinding him with a wave of dust. When the cloud of debris cleared, his eyes flew wildly. That’s when he saw it. The dark sky was set ablaze. At the very end of the compound, the windows of what looked to be an office building lit up the whole area with bright orange light.

    “Roach!” Simon yelled into the comms. He took off at a dead sprint towards the back of the compound. Every wall and window he passed could have concealed anything. He ran. His feet pounded the hard concrete, leaping over chunks of metal and smashed pieces of walls. The sting of chemical smoke burned his lungs, searing the tender flesh. The mask would help him breathe.

    He stopped dead in front of the huge gaping hole left by the explosion and stumbled back. The heat was unbearable. Flames jumped out at him, reaching for him with desperation. He backed away, nearly tripping over a chunk of debris. He looked through the fire and the smoke, desperately searching. Shadows seemed to move behind the embers that were kicked up by the wind. It only fueled the fire. Soon, the flames started bursting out of the second floor windows. A portion of the room cracked and moaned alarmingly. It came crashing down. A hiss of hot, ashy wind blasted him. He barely had time to shield his eyes with his arms.

    The heat licked at his skin. It felt tight and rigid. It burned.

    “Simon…” a weak voice called out to him.

    His blood ran cold.

    It hurt Roach to speak. It was much easier and painless to use sign language. He only ever spoke when it was absolutely necessary or when it was important. Ghost seldom heard his voice. Don’t let this be the last time.

    “No. No, no, no.” It was all he could say. He knew only that word. All he could do was whisper it over and over again. He hesitantly took a step closer to the explosion hole. The smoke was so strong. So bad. Shaking. Burning. Melting. He took another. Crying. Howling. Scorching. And another. Reaching. Yearning. Pulling. Closer and closer. Then stopped. His clothes steamed.

    He leapt into the open jaws of the beast. It swallowed him up. Fire wrapped around him. Covered him. Consumed him. His calves shrieked. His head spun. His lungs ached. Choking. He was choking.

    Screams swirled in his ears. It was too loud and too muddled to tell whether they were human or the cries of the dying wood. It didn’t matter. They sounded so real.

    The world began to spin. Before he could fall, he was yanked back. His head smacked the concrete. White spots exploded in his vision. He coughed violently. Quickly, he rolled onto his side. The mask was barely over his mouth before he vomited. His body convulsed. It curled in on itself.

    “Soldier! What the fuck were you doing?” Someone knelt down beside him, shaking his shoulder. Nausea spiked. He heaved again. He had no time to regain his bearings before a hand was shoved under his armpit. He was hauled to his feet roughly. Swaying dangerously, Ghost stared at the blaze. He staggered back to the flames.

    “Ghost, stop!” the voice yelled again. He was too focused to listen. A pair of arms tried to wrap around his shoulders. He swung at the figure, fist connecting sloppily. Shoving and kicking, he tried to shake them off. But the arms held tight. A bloodcurdling scream cut through the night, freezing both men in place. It echoed in the desolate compound, settling in his chest. Everything stopped. It came from inside. From the maw of the beast. He knew that voice. He knew. It sounded like his name.

    “Gary!” Simon howled back. Vision blurring, he let out a roar somewhere between a growl and a scream. Something inhuman. With all the strength he had left, he threw the person retraining him into the rubble. A stepped into the fire. “GARY!”

    There were more hands grabbing him. More arms holding him back. He struggled harder still. He fought back with every ounce of strength he had until his body went slack. Someone grabbed hold of him before he could hit the ground. He stared at the fire. It stared back. He wanted to reach out, but his limbs wouldn’t move. For a second, he could have sworn someone was reaching back. Whatever he had seen was swallowed up by the raging, fevering sea. The building began to fold in on itself. He watched helplessly while he was dragged away as the jaws of the beast smashed down, sending embers shooting high into the dark sky.

Chapter Text

    Ghost flew upwards. His chest heaved rapidly. His hands balled into fists on the coarse fabric underneath him. He could feel his heartbeat. It felt like his chest was going to explode. He gagged, head spinning.

    Hours seemed to have passed before he recognized where he was. The texture of the sheets was familiar. The uncomfortable bed, he knew it. But it didn’t help ground him. His body curled in on itself, like it was trying to disappear. His knees pressed tightly against his chest, his face buried deep into his sleeves. Nails dug deep into the soft flesh of his arms, hard enough to engrave small, red lines into the pale skin. He rocked back and forth ever so slightly.

    “I didn’t leave you, I didn’t…” he cried out softly. “Please, please! I didn’t leave, I didn’t. I didn’t.” he repeated over and over. Every muscle in his body tensed. It hurt. His chest, his mind, his soul. Like he was on fire.

    The image was so strong, so vivid. He remembered every minute of that night. He would give anything to forget. It hurt so much to remember. It physically pained him. But he would never forget. Deep down, he knew that. Just like he would always relive the torment from his brother, the suffering his father caused him, the torture he indured while being captured on missions. No amount of drinking, or fighting, or smoking could stop the memories. He knew. He always had.

    He slipped a mask over his face. The pressure of the fabric soothed his pulse. It was familiar. With it, he laid back down and closed his eyes. There would be no more sleep tonight. His breathing was still sporadic and uneven, but he focused on it anyway. Only now did his tight muscles finally uncoil.

    Rousing from a state of semi-consciousness, his eyes fluttered open. It was still dark out. His skin prickled. Reluctantly, he looked at the foot of the bed. He let out a heavy breath. The back wall of the room was as empty as ever. Nothing stared back at him. He half sobbed in relief. Sitting up in bed, he flicked on the lightswitch just beside him. He massaged the side he had been laying on. Parts of his gear that he had never taken off had dug into his ribs painfully. He tossed the bulk of the accessories onto the floor next to the drawers. The large, black boots he wore were still laced on his feet.

    Swinging his legs over the edge, he moved towards the door. There was no point in staying here anymore. If he was awake, might as well get moving. The hall outside was just as cramped as the room itself, except he could touch both walls by barely lifting his hands. It was dark and silent. He rounded the end of the hallway that opened up to a small kitchen unit. You could hardly call it a kitchen though. It had a fridge that was missing the freezer compartment, a microwave that had no handle and a sink. The red, digital numbers of its clock displayed something like four in the morning.

    He opened a few of the cupboards. One over the sink had cups and mugs, while the rest were filled with an assortment of small snacks and boxes. Sifting through the packages, he pulled out a box of teas. Flipping it over to read the back, he was pleasantly surprised to find it was an Earl Grey. Microwaving a mug since there was no kettle in sight, he had to fight with the machine to pry the door open with a spoon just to put it in.

    Taking out the steaming water, he dipped the teabag in. Swirling the mug, he watched as the colour slowly overtook the clear liquid until a deep reddish tint took over. The heat radiated in his hands. The mask was pulled up just enough to expose his mouth. He sipped it slowly, relishing the burn swirling on his tongue. He leaned against the cold stone countertop. The sharp edge dug into his back.

    There was an unexplainable comfort in being awake while the rest of the world slept. It was just… peaceful. He still couldn’t shake the empty feeling that lodged itself into his chest. Heavy and hollow all at one. There was little he could do to push it back down once it had reared its ugly head.

    Within the next two hours, the whole compound seemed to rouse. People started shuffling around their quarters. The sound of trucks rumbling passed by. Ghost took it as his cue to retreat back to his room. Shutting the door, he stared at the spot where the eyes first appeared. The swirling black ink of guilt spread through him. He looked away.

    He took on a new mask from his bag. This one came from the side compartment; it was the hard mask. The skull. Two strips of faded white paint were streaked from the forehead down to the teeth. He had sewed it on a plain mask years ago. It had been the first one he had made on his own. The stitching was sloppy and uneven. He didn’t mind, he never claimed to be any good at sewing.

    The mask was pulled over his head. The strong shape conformed perfectly to his face. He didn’t bother changing his clothes, that would only have been a waste of time. He did, however, slip a dark jacket over top of the long sleeved black shirt he wore. He tugged the faded, yet stiff leather gloves along with whatever other gear he thought he would need for the mission later that day before stepping back out into the hall to search for Price.

    The hours leading up to the start of the mission were filled with briefings, and lots of meetings. Any time that wasn’t spent getting lectured, Ghost spent hovering around the compound. Arms crossed, he stood back and observed. He had been encouraged to get to know the team he would be working with, to get to know Badger’s men. There were four of them. Hawk, the sniper. Falls, the brute. Percy, the navigator. And finally, Rico, their version Ghost. Rico stood out to him the most. His movements were fluid, and silent. He made no sound when he walked. But what caught his attention the most was the mask. He wore a balaclava too. Plain black. The only part of his face exposed was his dark, vigilant eyes. In a way, it reminded him of his younger self.

    “Not going to talk to any of the boys?” Price asked, coming to stand next to him. Ghost shot him a quick side eyed glance and scoffed.

    “Waste of time.”

    “And why’s that?”

    Why? These men were just faces. He didn’t exist to them. And he never would. He was just a mark on the wall. A spot to glance over. He was a part of their lives for an insignificant blip, before their paths diverged again. He was nobody before, and he would be nobody after. It was better to never know than to forget to remember.

    “Not a social butterfly, I suppose,” he said.

    He nodded simply to the man beside him and stepped outside. The sun was low on the horizon. They’d be heading out soon. The mission was so close, he could almost feel the adrenaline spike already. He wandered to the back of the building and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Barely lifting his mask to hold it between his teeth, he flicked open a lighter. He held the end close to the flame until it burned. Those eyes from yesterday flickered in his mind. Inhaled in deeply, and let out a thick plume of smoke. Smoke. He stared at it as it was carried away by the wind. His chest ached. Through his shirt, he gripped the dog tags with such force he was surprised they didn’t bend.

    What if he could have saved him? The spotty, waxy skin on his legs flared with irritation. He could still smell the sweet scent of his own burning flesh. His stomach twisted. The pain had been excruciating. After stepping into that fire, it had taken weeks for his calves to heal. It had been his legs that suffered the most. He couldn’t imagine his whole body… The sky flickered with bright flames. The blood, the pain. He didn’t want to picture it. Those dark, handsome eyes wide in the blaze. And the scream. He could hear it, still. It didn’t sound human, like a dying animal crying out. In the fire, all alone–

     You left me.

    He closed his eyes. Not here, not now. But the voice was persistent. It whispered to him. He shook his head, as if he could shake the thoughts away. It didn’t help. His mind grew fuzzy. Taking another long drag, he tried to force the thoughts out. But they wouldn’t budge. They wouldn’t die, just like a roach–

    The cigarette slipped out of his fingers. There was almost nothing left of it. It left a faint trail of smoke as it fell. Smoke. It bounced on the ground, sending small embers into the air. Embers. He pressed his fist against his mouth. His lips were pinched between knuckle and bone so tightly the flesh turned white. The sky blazed bright orange in the sunset like flickering flames. Flames. He stopped seeing. He stared at the dirt wide eyed. No sound reached his ears. No, stop. Stop it. Stop no please STOP NOT NOW I DIDN’T LEAVE NO STOP PLEASE NO STOP NO NO NO.

    “You listening, Ghost?” a voice came suddenly. There was a firm grip on his shoulder. He turned slowly to face it, as if dazed. Price smiled at him, quirking an eyebrow, and gave him a gentle squeeze. He blinked.

    “Uh, no, sir?” he stammered.

    “Step-off is at 0200. We’ve still got time, but you’d best be getting ready now. Come on, lad.” The Captain jerked his head back towards the compound, wrapping an arm around Ghost’s shoulders and steering towards the truck. He made no movements to resist. It didn’t seem like his body could move on its own at all. His arms were limp at his sides, his legs filled with lead. But instead of walking towards the truck, Price turned them towards the building.

    “What? But–” Ghost started to say.

    “We’ve got time for a cup of tea before we go, huh? You wouldn’t turn down an old man’s offer, now would you?” Price asked, giving him a closed mouth smile. He tried to argue, but the Captain kept cutting him off.

    Moments later, a very confused Ghost sat with a steaming cup of tea in his hands, across from Price. He had been led to a secluded room and sat down at a table. He sipped it cautiously, looking over the brim of his mug while the other blew on his own. It was good tea. Price always made good tea. He almost got up to leave, but something inside stopped him. He had a feeling he should stay.

    “What were you doing outside?” Price asked, thumbing over the handle of his tea. He looked up under the brim of his hat.

    “Smoking.”

    “Just smoking?”

    “Just smoking.”

    There was a beat of silence. The two men drank quietly. Ghost busied himself with tracing the grain in the wooden table, following the slanted lines with his gaze. He glanced up a few times, only to find he was already being looked at, and quickly focused on the table again. He took a large sip, hiding the other man entirely with the mug.

    “I’m worried about you, Ghost.”

    He set down his cup. His brows furrowed. His mind drew a black. He had no idea what to say. Suddenly, the tea in his hands didn’t look so appetizing anymore, it was pushed aside. He hadn’t realized, but the mask had been pulled back down over his face.

    “I’m worried,” Price said again.

    “I don’t understand.” Worried?

    “What do you mean you don’t understand? It means I’m–” he cut himself off, leaning back. His words were spoken quickly, his voice tight. The Captain huffed heavily, blowing his bushy mustache. He shifted in his seat. It was a while before he could look at him again. He grabbed his tea again to keep his hands busy.

    “I just want to know if you’re okay,” the man said finally. Ghost set his jaw, back straightening.

    “Why do you care?” he snapped back, full of venom. Only, he didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh. The second the words left his lips, he wished he could bite them back. Price’s expression hardened.

    Price only blinked. It was that almost startled, not angry but surprised look that seemed to dig a wedge between Ghost’s shoulder blades.

    “Ghost, I’ve known you for a long time now,” Price edged, that calm look in his eyes. “Maybe not before this all started, but at least before it got bad. And I’ve seen the way you’ve changed. I’ve had to fake your psych evals for long enough to notice that you’re getting worse. I just… I worry about you.”

    “What?” Ghost spat. He had no idea where this anger was coming from. He understood even less why it was directed towards Price. He was just as surprised as the Captain to hear the words tumbling from his mouth. “You think you can save me? You think I’m some broken thing that you can fix? That'll make up for everything you’ve done?”

    He was headed towards dangerous territory. He needed to draw back. He didn’t mean what he was saying. He had no idea. He didn’t want to. But it was the only way. The words spilled out of him like a gutted animal.

    “You think by saving me,” Ghost leaned forward, sneering. “You’ll make up for what you did. That you can–”

    “Don’t.” Price warned. “You don’t want to do this.”

    “–Take back all the horrible shit you’ve done.”

    The words hung in the air like smog. They dangled there, aloof and inky black. Price’s face paled and he recoiled like he had been slapped. All the blood and anger drained from Ghost’s face in an instant.

    “Wait, Price, I–” he tried to say.

    “No, no. That’s quite alright, Lieutenant.” Ghost’s heart sank, his body freezing. “Forget I said anything. Clearly you need some time to sort yourself out.”

    Price stood and gulped down the last of his tea. He didn’t even look at Ghost. As he wordlessly crossed the room, he stopped beside the chair.

    “I’ll still be here when you’re ready. I can’t help you figure this one out, but I’ll be here nonetheless. When you’re ready to talk, come find me. Otherwise, I won’t keep pressing. I can’t always take your outbursts, Ghost. At some point, you need to take some responsibility, as much as it hurts.” He gave a short squeeze to Ghost’s shoulder. “I need to know you want to get better so I can help you.”

    Ghost watched him wordlessly as he crossed the room. The Captain’s voice had been so taught, so strained. Like he was holding back.

    He almost lifted a hand to stop the older man, but it fell limply back in his lap. Stop him, the voice inside his head cried. Don’t let him leave, stop him! Get up, move, do anything. He did nothing. He watched as the door snapped shut, and he was left alone again. The silence rang loud in his ears. He’d done it again, hadn’t he. Fucked up, that’s what he did.

    He didn’t mean to say that, just like he didn’t mean to leave his friend in the fire? Just like he didn’t mean to speed that night, almost killing a father and his son? Or drink before he drives, or wish for his balcony to give out? Oopsie-fucking-daisies, huh? Oh, he could tell himself he didn’t mean to, that it was an accident, that he didn’t want it, but it still happened in the end. Maybe he could tell himself it wasn’t his fault, with what little self preservation he had left, but it was his fault. All of it was.

    Living a lie. Was that what this was? Was he lying to himself? Probably. Just like he lied to everyone else. Because it’s better this way, isn’t that right. It’s better to have no one at all than to see the pain in their eyes while you push them away. It was worse to see the people he cared about hurting than being alone. Save both of them from getting hurt, in the end, even if it was just a little bit, right?

    He hid his head in his hands, like that would save him, like it could make his thoughts go away. They were so loud. His head fell back, and he stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t know what to think anymore.

    He had crossed a line that he should never, ever have dared even draw near. And Price, being the better, more caring person as always, would still help Ghost if he asked. He didn’t deserve it, but the offer was always there.

    Memories from his childhood drifted to him. He was nine, hiding under the covers. His brother slept just across the room from him. If anybody stood in the middle of the silent room, they could hear what sounded like soft choking and gasping. If they strained their eyes in the dark, they’d notice the shape of a small child under the blankets shivering. His body has racked with violent sobs. His hand was pressed so tightly over his mouth it was a wonder he could breathe at all. He would not, under any circumstances, let anybody hear him weep.

    Facing the wall, trying so hard to steady his breath as the hot tears raced down his cheeks, he was on the verge of passing out. By the time he was ten, he didn’t need the hand to keep his mouth shut or to keep his voice in. At eleven years old, his body didn’t shake with every sob. He was still. In fact, he had gotten so good, he could keep a completely straight face while he cried.

    It was one of these nights that he was overcome with the tears that he was finally found out. Not by his father or brother, but by his uncle Thomas. He had been staying with his uncle for the past few days after things at home had ‘gotten messy’ as his brother put it. So the two children had been sent away until things could straighten out again. Tommy had run away, and was staying with some friends of his, leaving Simon alone. He didn’t mind, though. It was nice to get a room to himself for once, even if it was just the living room.

    He had been crying again. The pillow was stained with tears when his uncle walked in and saw him.

    “Please don’t tell dad!” he begged, panicked and pure fear painted his face white. He urgently wiped his eyes.

    “Don’t worry, kid, I wasn’t gonna,” the older man said. They looked at each other for a good long while. “Here, come with me for a minute. I wanna talk to you about something. Go grab your coat.”

    He quickly did what he was told, putting on his jacket and following his uncle out onto the porch. Uncle Thomas didn’t look up when the porch screen door swung shut. He simply patted the spot next to him on the old wooden steps. They sat in silence for a long time, looking at the trees that surrounded the farmhouse. Occasionally, the older man would take a swig for his bottle of beer. Simon hugged his jacket tightly around himself and shivered, trying to hide from the cutting, chilly wind.

    “Y’know, boy, you might think things are pretty tough right now. And they probably are,” his uncle said gruffly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I’ll be the first to tell ya’, it ain’t ever gonna go away.”

    Young Simon frowned.

    “Now, now. I know how tha’ sounds. Just hear me out, ok? But it’s true. It doesn’t just go away. You’ll have to deal with it for the rest o’ your life. You’re not gonna find no quick fixes that’ll solve all your problems, so don’t even try it. It might get hard. Real hard. Sure, it’ll get better for a little while, always does, but it’ll get worse again too. I… I would know.” his voice faded to a whisper as he pressed the bottle to his lips again.

    “Then how do you fix it, Uncle Thomas?” the young boy asked.

    “To tell you the honest truth, you don’t. It’ll stay a part of you until the day you die. It can get pretty heavy, and it makes it seem like the whole world’s gone dark. You just have to learn how to carry it. Just don’t give up, kid.”

    His uncle gave him a knowing smile. He wrapped his arm around Simon’s shoulder and pulled him closer, so they could watch the stars together. He wasn’t shivering anymore. He was warm.

    That was the first time that somebody didn’t try to fix his problems for him, or give him their filthy pity. He hadn’t realized the impact those words would have on him as a kid, but once he grew up, it became a part of him. Nobody had understood him like his uncle had, not even close. He hadn’t tried to use fluffy language, or dance around the subject. It was brutal and it was honest, and sometimes that's what needs to be heard.

    Now, as he sat at the table with his cold tea across from an empty seat, those words came back to him, heavier than ever. It was like finding a lifeboat in a storm. It was something to hold on to, something to ground him, to bring him back. He had to find his own way to carry the weight again.

Chapter Text

    The bedroom seemed smaller than before, like the walls had started creeping closer. The dingy light barely illuminated the room, giving off just enough light so Ghost could dump out the contents of his backpack and reorganize his gear. A heavy vest was spread out on the bed, all pockets flipped up and open. An assortment of accessories were set out all around it, from trauma scissors and tape for emergencies to extra batteries and a surplus of ammunition from the armory. Every item was packed into their assigned spot, for quick and easy access. He knew it by heart. He could find any item in the pitch black of night. Satisfied, he fastened most of the pockets closed, leaving a few open for last minute additions, for much more dangerous essentials.

    He hesitated before moving to pack his backpack. The two ballistic panels that served to bulletproof the vest rested on the wall and the foot of the bed. They would add a few pounds to the load he already had to carry, and would slow him down. On the flip side, they offered protection. He paused and thought about it for a moment, considering. All they would be doing was stopping a few trucks, and heading back. He didn’t need them. He set the vest aside and moved on.

    Once everything was set, he joined the rest of the men readying their weapons. A few magazines were added to the ensemble. A handgun was strapped into the holster on his thigh. When he moved, the straps stretched and tensed over his muscles, digging into his leg. Propping on foot up on the bench, he had to loosen the buckle to ease the strain.

    Occasionally, he would glance up at Price, who was prepping across the room. He half hoped that the other man would look up, look back at him. But the Captain kept his eyes on his own bag, shoving his equipment in his own backpack, his face hidden under the brim of his fishing hat.

    Ghost loaded his own gun forcefully, earning his curious glances from the rest of the team. He paid them no mind and snapped the last clip of his vest closed. Their eyes followed him, watched him closely, cautiously. His lips twitched into a hidden snarl. He brushed past Price on the way out. He didn’t look at the other man this time. He turned to the side slightly to avoid bumping each other in the small space, barely missing the shoulder with his own. He stepped outside with heavy footsteps.

    Armoured trucks waited for them, exhaust billowing in the harsh breeze. Floodlights spread around the compound strengthened the deep shadows. He flinched at the brightness, squinting his eyes at the sudden change from inside. Powdery dirt and fine sand was swept up into the air, cutting at the exposed skin around his eyes, getting inside his mask. It coated his nose. The earthy taste somehow got into his mouth. The wind itself brought a chilled bite, despite the heat earlier in the day. His jacket deflected the worst of it, but the temperature was dropping fast. In no time, it would dip below freezing.

    A glint of light in the reflection of one of the windshields caught his attention. Facing the building again, the rest of the team, the Ravagers, made their way through the doors as one unit, led by Badger, closely followed by Price. The Colonel stopped just short of the trucks with a wide smile, gold tooth flashing.

    “Awfully eager, are you?” he said, voice booming. A battle rifle was strapped to his chest, a streak of faded yellow paint down the side, presumably to match his metal crown. A matching pistol hung at his hip. His eyes were black as ink in the dark, like the depths of the ocean, or the obscurity of an endless cave. Cold and calculation, and sharp.

    “Not eager, sir. Prepared,” Ghost replied in a low voice. They locked eyes. Unblinkingly, he shot back a hard yet calm gaze. It was a test of wills, and neither would give in. The smug, irritated look on Bader’s face added to the tension. The rest of the squad had already moved past them and stood silently, watching.

    “Let’s move,” Price said, clearing his throat.

    “Right, you heard the man! Load up!” Badger ordered, moving past.

    For a moment, Ghost’s bitter glare was transferred to Price, spitting venom. If it had been anybody else, they would have crumbled, or shrank away under the intensity. Dried up like a stream under the blazing desert sun. Not Price. Holding himself with unbreakable certainty, he set his face. His expression was made with unreadable, stern authority. Even the menacing masked soldier fell back in line. With one last leer, he turned his back on his superiors and slammed the truck door shut behind him. It was a good thing the mask hid his face. The Ravagers followed suit, hopping into their respective vehicles.

    The Colonel and Captain would lead at the front, while his vehicle followed behind. He sat in the back on the passenger’s side. His knees brushed up against the seat in front of him. Two other Ravagers took their place up front. They both shot him uneasy glances over their shoulders while they settled in. He busied himself with his gun. They must have heard his laboured breathing. Agitation bubbled up in his throat, wormed its way deeper below his burning skin, then demanded to be released. His whole body was still on edge, it had been like that for at least the past few weeks, probably longer. He felt fragile. Not with fear or vulnerability, it was the animosity that threatened to breach the surface. He felt like a pot of boiling water, that any moment, tension could break and spill out. He was having trouble raining it back in now, after what had just happened.

    “Fuck!” he hissed out through gritted teeth. His fist slammed against the car door with a loud, fierce bang. The two men in the front seat jumped and spun around, staring at him with bewildered expressions.

    “Just drive,” he growled darkly from beneath the skull.

    The truck lurched forward, nearly sending his face into the headrest. His hands flew up to catch his body just in time to avoid knocking his head. Returning back to his seat, he watched through the glass as troopers and officers scurried by, as they passed the warehouses and offices.

    The fence swung shut, obscuring his view. Following the curves and hills of the dirt road, the whole compound disappeared behind the dunes. Their destination was only a short drive away, but out here in the middle of the desert, it was easy to lose track of time. Away from the pollution of the base, the sky was so clear. Stars twinkled high above, like they were waving, smiling down at him. You could never get a view like this back in Manchester, not even close.

    As a child, he had always thought the stars were the tears of angels. His mother had told him that even the toughest of angels would cry. That they painted the cosmos with their pain, and turned their suffering into something beautiful. The stars felt more like home than any physical place could ever claim to be. They were there when nobody else was. They would listen always, and never complain, never protest, never turn him away. The stars would always come back, every night. He wouldn’t have to be alone for long. He knew that they would be there, waiting for him to come home. Tonight, they were so vibrant. They looked alive here, so much more than he had seen in a while.

    The vehicle was silent for most of the ride. The two Ravagers in front hardly spoke, and if they did, it was in hushed whispers. They’d lean their heads together, like two children sharing a secret. He didn’t bother to listen. He much preferred the company of the stars anyways. A radio would blip occasionally, with updates from the base or from the other truck. Rousing Ghost from his stargazing, the radio announced their arrival at the city, advising the soldiers to be on guard. Time passed by so fast already. Resting his hand on his gun, he sat back, watching the approach.

    The city itself seemed to rise out of the sand. Square buildings marked the outskirts with their dusty walls and sealed windows. The side road they took was bumpy, and full of potholes, unlike the main highway he had seen off in the distance when he had first been flown in. He had to brace his arm against the door to stop from being thrown about. The houses here were small, crammed together, like tightly pressed packages. Deeper, closer to the heart, taller structures jutted out like awkward tree trunks, reaching to the heavens.

    Inside the city, the once bustling streets were still. Shop windows were dark, shutters were drawn, the people, asleep. Or so it seemed. As they drove past the shattered, broken and abandoned buildings that dotted every corner, covered in faded graffiti and paint, he felt uneasy. The city might have looked asleep, but corruption never rested. He pulled the gun up higher on his lap. His finger rested alongside the trigger.

    The truck in front of them slowed to a stop in the middle of the street, blocking it off. The doors popped open, the Ravagers jumped out. Pulling up behind them, Ghost pushed his own door open. Cool air washed over him, the sharp sting settling into his bones. The engine hummed and fell silent, the headlights blinking out. His boots kicked up small clouds of dust under him. He scanned the area. Stairways, ladders and alleys could conceal any number of enemies. They could be almost on top of them before they’d realize. Pushing passed those thoughts, he joined the rest of the team out in front of the vehicles.

    “Take your positions,” Price said with a hard look. Badger barked rapidfire orders in another language around the circle before the Captain could finish speaking. His soldiers sparked to life. Begrudgingly, Ghost could admit that he had a very commanding presence.

    “Hawk on overwatch. Percy, suppressive fire,” The Colonel said in English for the two birts, and nodded behind them. “You, watch our six. Falls, you’re with me and Price. We stop the drivers and get those men out of the trucks.” Badger rounded on him. “Ghost, Rico, prison transfer. Load ‘em up and then join us to search.”

    “Roger,” Ghost said, moving away from the group.

    Weapon drawn, he hurried across the street and he braced himself against the lip of a wall. Eyes forward, he listened hard. He glances at Rico, who crouched on the ground against the bumper and gave a sharp nod. Badger was the one who came to join him. Not the Captain, he thought bitterly.

    There wasn’t much cover along the barren walls, forcing the Colonel to take place in a notch just behind Ghost. He crouched on the ground to get a better angle on the road in front of them. A tense aura filled the air. Agitation clawed under Ghost’s skin. That, and the increasingly strong sense of anticipation.

    “Stop,” Ghost said suddenly. Badger’s grip on his weapon tightened as he pressed it close to his face. There it was again. The hairs on the back of his neck shot up. The churn of gravel. Faint, but crystal clear. He heard it, the grinding of tires on dust and rock. The drone of the engine. The sound of one– no, two or three, if he had to guess, transport trucks approaching.

    “They’re here,” he said.

    “Stand by. On my lead.”

    Before Ghost could bite back at the Colonel’s orders, bright headlights appeared at the end of the block and turned towards them. The light was blinding, the glare completely hiding the front seats. Two plain box trucks pulled up and stopped, a few meters short of their makeshift barricade. There were no logos on either of them, only faded grey paint.

    The Colonel gave the signal. Along with the other Ravager, the two of them moved into the street, guns pointed at the cabs. They edged closer, cautious of the light obscuring their vision.

    Badger shouted. His voice boomed, echoing off of the buildings. Though Ghost couldn’t understand the words themselves, he could grasp the gist of it.

    The driver’s side door popped open. Reaching inside, a man was dragged out by his shirt and knocked roughly to the ground. Another man was forcefully removed from the passengers side and shoved down with the other. They were escorted over to Ghost, guns on their backs, who waited with bindings. Tying up the men, he and Rico stood over the terrorists as they huddled on their knees. Two more men were pulled from their vehicles and brought to him by Price. One man in a white shirt struggled against the Captain’s vicious grip, earning a sharp jab in the back of the leg, buckling him over. Their wrists were bound tightly.

    “Well done, boys,” Badger said with a grin, clapping Price on the back. His gaze turned dark while on the captives, and lightened when he moved on to Ghost. “I’d say you can handle them from here on out, yeah?” He didn’t wait for a response.

    They turned to leave. The man in white turned back and spat at Badger, glaring at him with animosity. He threw harsh words in a language Ghost didn’t understand. It was probably best he didn’t. He could be sure, at least, the man wasn’t thanking him. He was surprised to hear the Colonel grumble back with a smile that was anything but kind. Ghost gave the terrorist a sharp nudge, kicking him back in line with the others. The prisoners made no effort to run, or to struggle at all, but he kept a close eye on them nonetheless. Their behaviour unnerved him.

    Price’s voice echoed off the buildings just before the metallic screeching of the heavy doors of the trucks were swung open. As soon as the latch was unclasped, a roaring bang went off, shattering the peace of the night. His head whipped around, sights aimed down the barrel of the rifle. His eyes shot around wildly. Flashes of light erupted behind the trucks coupled with the sound of rapid gunfire. Bullets rained down all around him, aimed at the truck.

    He picked up the strangled voice that yelled out over the deafening noise.

    His heart dropped out of his stomach.

Chapter Text

    “Price!” he bellowed. His finger tensed on the trigger. He couldn’t see what was going on, the truck blocked his view. He attempted to rush forward, but a stream of bullets cut him off. Staggering backwards, he pressed himself tightly to the wall. He remembered the captives. But they were nowhere to be seen. They had disappeared. Armed figures appeared from the shadows from every direction, moving towards the vehicles. Towards Price.

    Adrenaline spiked. Movement, to his left. He raised his rifle and fired. The body dropped. The side of the truck. He shot again. Two more in the street. Again. A fourth. Each corpse struck the floor with deadly precision. Thick, red spray coated the faded walls. Blood softened the ground, stained the street.

    Just beyond the truck, something moved. Alive. His finger nearly pulled the trigger before recognition screamed in the back of his mind. He let his grip relax momentarily. Price. Huddled against the wheels. More enemies, more than he could handle, pressed closer. Pistol drawn, Price fired at the dozens of men closing in on him. He ducked just in time. A bullet whizzed by his face. More rained down on him.

    “Taking effective fire! Ghost, abort! Get the hell out of here. Go!” Price managed to grunt. No sooner than Ghost set a foot out onto the street was a hole blown in the wall beside his head. Ducking back into the shadows, he cursed. In a frenzy, he patted the pockets of his vest, searching. Missing. He had left his usual load behind. He was traveling light. Then, his fist closed on something. He turned back to the trucks.

    “Steady, Captain!” he yelled, and threw the object. He ducked back, shielding his eyes. A blinding flash illuminated the entire block, a thundering crack exploding right behind it. For a brief moment, he couldn’t hear anything at all. Then, a high pitched ringing settled in his ears, still blocking out all other noise. It filled him with dread. His most powerful tool as a hunter was his hearing. Without it, an alarming feeling took hold in his stomach. It took a great deal to ignore it. He had to use the moment of disorientation to his advantage. He sprinted out into the street, into the hornet's nest.

    The last remnant of smoke dissipated in the air. There. He spotted it. He threw himself to the ground next to Price. The man winced and blinked rapidly, mumbling, not registering he was there. Raising himself to a crouch, he quickly threw the Captain over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. There was struggle at first, he took an elbow to the face before he was recognized. He was on his feet, only staggering slightly, just as the first shots began to ring out again. With one quick breath to ready himself, he ran. Taking on a dead sprint, his focus narrowed in on the alley just behind where he had hidden. The dirt ruptured around him. Small bits of stone and brick pelted his face where there bullets struck. He did not falter.

    Nearly slamming into the opposite wall, he bolted down the alley, keeping pace. The pound of heavy footsteps on the packed dirt followed him. Desperately, he tried to recall the map he had seen the first day he had arrived at base. The hand drawn sketch of the city. Follow the map. Muddy, disjointed images began to piece themselves together in his mind, but not fast enough. It was still a blank slate when he came to the first fork in the side street. Paralyzed, he looked between the two. He could almost remember. Was it left? He stepped left. He stopped. No wait, it could have been right. He stepped right. He stopped again. He moved in one direction and froze, before turning the other way. Which way was the right one? He was running out of time. The voices that followed him grew louder, closer. They would be on top of him. Any second now, they’d be here.

    Which way? Make up your mind Ghost. Which way? Which way?

    His feet wouldn’t move. He was stuck. He had to move. Move, or they’d die. Price would die. He didn’t deserve to die. Don’t let him die. Run. But he couldn’t move. He froze, just like he did when his bitch of a father used to scare him. He froze, just like he did when he almost crashed into that car, almost killed the kid. If he couldn’t break out of it, if he stayed here now, he’d be responsible for even more blood on his hands. The blood of someone he knew. He cared about. He loved. Run, goddammit, RUN!

    By some miracle, he was able to move his god damn fucking legs. Just in time. The moment he was out of sight around the corner, the building exploded with a blast of fire. The strength of the shockwave nearly knocked him off his feet, slamming his shoulder against a hard brick wall. The air was forced out of his lungs in one quick compression. They refused to inflate again. Huge chunks of clay and stone pelted his body, leaving welts of pain where they struck. Somehow, he managed to keep a hold on Price, who groaned in pain on his back. Smoke and dust began to settle, he was losing his chance to escape. He staggered further into the city, quickly regaining his swift pace.

    Having been thrown off balance from the blast, the mental image of the map was completely pushed out of his mind. His heart beat too loud. His brain pulsed against his skull, ears ringing painfully. Safe. Save Price. It was the only thought he managed to hold on to. It was enough to focus his attention and drown out the buzz.

    That’s when he felt it. Damp spots began to stick to his spine, hot and thick. The familiar tang of iron filled his nose. He had to hurry. Turn after turn, the stains grew larger. Soon, he could feel droplets seeping through the fiber of his clothes. It rubbed on his bare skin, dripped down his back. Before slipping down a narrow passage, the rip of a motorcycle blew past him, followed by more shots. They were getting close.

    Rounding a corner, he spotted half a dozen men blocking his path. They turned around and pointed. Someone yelled something. Guns were raised. Skidding to a halt, he took off barreling in the other direction, passing even more men who had followed from the street he had just come off of. He searched for safety. Closed shops and houses lined the street. Bullets barely missed piercing his flesh. They grazed his thighs, his arms, leaving thin gashes in their wake. Fuck, Price was on his back, exposed. Just then, a searing pain ripped through his calf, scorching down to the bone. Like a drop of ink in water, the throb spread through his muscles, contracting and spasming. He lurched forward. Using his momentum, he managed to throw himself to the side into the door of a house. The wood splintered with ease, part of it still hung on the hinged, sending the two of them tumbling inside.

    Price slipped out of his grasp, slamming onto the stone floor. He rolled like a rag doll before his back met with the base of a set of stairs. A low groan escaped him as his eyes welled shut in agony. Rolling onto his stomach, it took him great effort to push his elbows underneath him. He let out another groan, letting his forehead fall against the stone. Ghost moved over him, pulling a glock out of his own thigh holster, eyes locked on the sad remains of the door.

    “Come on, old man,” he grunted, wedging his hand under the other man’s armpit and hauled him to his feet. Slinging a limp arm around his neck, he half dragged, half supported the Captain, pushing deeper into the house. More angry shouting outside, more shots rang out in the street. They were moving too slow. He tried to pick up the pace, but the quiet string of curses and moans from Price forced him to slow down. If only he had been able to keep his rifle. He had lost it during one of the explosions.

    Trying to make their way to the front door, Ghost stopped. Muffled voices came from the front entryway, no doubt readying to rush the building. Once again, his eyes scanned the room. Around behind the stairs, he spotted a closet and yanked it open. Piles of clothes and towels were strewn about the floor. Not only was it out of the way, it was padded. Perfect. He laid his Captain down as gently as he could, but he still winced. Picking up a cloth, he handed it to the other.

    “Here, use this. Apply pressure. Stop the bleeding,” he said, pressing it down over Price’s shaking hands, covering the worst of the wounds on his stomach. His own gaze quickly darkened. Dark blotches of red were already leaking through the white fabric. He looked up at the Captain. His face was shiny, covered in a thick layer of sweat, the colour draining. He could barely stay awake, his head kept jerking up sharply.

    “Hold on,” Ghost whispered. He backed out of the closet, closing it with a soft snap. Slipping a hand into his vest pocket, it closed around a thin hilt. Pulling out the dark blade, it glistened in the dim light. He pressed his body tightly up against the door, eyes zoned in on the entryway. His arm cocked back, muscles tense, ready to release. There was no more running. The second they dared step outside this house they would be swarmed. Stung to death by the hornets. Every fiber in his being twitched with anticipation, but he kept his grip on the knife loose and steady.

    The front door flew off its hinges. A blinding flashed filled the hall. Whipping his arm forward, the tension snapped like an elastic band. All energy was concentrated in the weapon. The blade flew from his fingertips, spinning ferociously, lasered in on its target. The wet thud of slicing flesh reached his ears, then a gagging, choking sound. The first body went down. Pulling a second from his vest, he threw again. Another body hit the floor. A third, before they could even pull the trigger.

    His time was up, and he was out of knives. Ducking back behind the wall to avoid the shots, his grip tightened on the gun. Just as he was about to return fire, a canister skidded across the stone, bumping against the baseboards. Dense, grey smoke burst out of the can, immediately spreading out to fill the room. Taking in one last breath of clean air, he smiled wildly to himself. The smog wrapped around his body, pulling him into its depths. He faded into the shadows.

    Heavy boots thundered down the hall, stepping over the motionless bodies. Foreign voices shouted madly, their flashlights sweeping the room, scanning for any signs of movement amongst the fog. It creeped out towards them, like it was reaching. Their pace slowed to a cautious crawl. Edging forward, the man in front stepped aside. He pulled his hood over his head and nodded for the next man to keep going. He would follow behind with the light. Even slower, one foot in front of the other, the next man approached the smokey vail.

    A flash burst from beyond the edges of the fog. The man’s body dropped. Two more bursts. The hooded terrorist rushed forward. The misty greyness surrounded him, blinding him, nearly running him into a wall. Spinning around, he tried to orientate himself in the dark. The tactical flashlight was useless, the smoke was too dense. He backed up slowly. He had no time to scream. A hand clamped down hard on his throat. Air stopped moving through his chest. His gun fell, sending off an accidental shot. He clawed helplessly against the grip, struggling like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. The serrated edge of a blade sliced through his skin, severing an artery. Blood spurted out from the wound. As the knife yanked free, it splashed the walls like a garden hose, coating every surface with its hot spray. Gasping and spluttering, he fell to the floor. It pooled beneath him, staining the stone bright red. He caught one last glimpse of his killer. Ash white bone emerged from the haze. The cold gaze shows no mercy through the slits of the skull mask. Unmistakably, those were the eyes of a predator.

    Dozens of men charge into the fog soon after. More gore splashed the walls. The blade became slick with it. It coated his hands, clouded his mind. He pressed the barrel of the glock against a head. Pulled the trigger. He fired again. He shot at anything that moved. Over and over, the bang rang out. The knife was driven down. It parted the soft flesh easily, like it were jelly, not solid chunks of meat. A feral look was plastered on his face. He brought the knife down again. Man after man fell to his godly blade. It sliced. It ripped. It gouged and tore. It killed.

    Panting heavily, the air finally stilled. The atmosphere was quiet. The soft pit pat of blood dripped onto the floor along with his ragged, uneven breathing were the only sounds that filled the room. His chest heaved. The knife was held so tightly in his hand, his whole arm began to tremble from the intensity.

    The world had gone silent. His brain began to quickly fill with the loud noises of his thoughts again. That horrendous, awful buzzing. Like flies, or bees. They crawled around his skull, eating away at the tender flesh. Loud. Too Loud. Not enough. He needed more. More bloodshed. It would make it quiet again. Silence it all.

    A thump drew his attention. One single man was left standing amongst the mounds of his dead comrades. His eyes were wide; they shone with the spark of panic, his cheeks glinting with wetness. The barrel of his gun was raised, but his hands shook so bad he couldn’t aim steady. He swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he yelled, rising to an awful, high pitched squeak, like a mouse. It was quiet inside his mind.

    Ghost locked onto the target with animalistic intent. He stalked slowly towards the target, head bowed, shoulders forward. With every step he took, the man before him pushed backwards. He tripped over a slack hand, crashing to the floor. His gun flew out of his grasp, coming to rest at the masked butcher’s feet. He stepped over it with ease, his boots squishing quietly through the crimson puddles. The scent of fear was thick and heavy. The man looked up, face stark white. He scrambled backwards, spewing words that jumbled together so incoherently they weren’t spoken in any language at all. It did nothing to deter the advances. In desperation, the man pulled a pistol from the clamped fingers of a cold body. He tried to push himself backwards, until his back hit the wall.

    His finger was on the trigger, he held the weapon in both hands in a feeble attempt to aim. The figure loomed over him. Hysterically, he searched the figure’s shaded eyes from pity. For mercy. For sympathy. His features contorted into a hopeless sob when he realized there was none. The cold, black glare of death burned into him. He clamped his eyelids shut, and pulled the trigger.

    With one swift motion, the pistol was knocked from his hands. In the same movement, the blade swung back, sinking into the soft muscle exposed between his vest and neck. Blood spurted out black in the darkness. The eyes behind the skull reveled the sight. The knife slid smoothly out. It ripped back in. The rabbit struggled in the jaws of the wolf. It squirmed helplessly, kicking and scratching in terror, until its neck was snapped, severing the nerves. The body strained, convulsed, then went limp in the grip.

    Ghost stood back from the remains of the man. His back hunched with the force of his breathing, his grip suffocating on the hilt of the knife. The hair on the back of his neck stood on edge, he ached to his core. He felt sick, but alive. He felt good.

    That feeling quickly faded as he came down from the high. It was replaced with dread, the need for more. It was so intoxicating. It burned up like a flame in his hands, leaving behind smoldering blisters on his fingers, but he’d come crawling back anyways, just to feel the burn of the scars come to life again. The steady drip of the blood. The iron in his nose. The slice of meat against the sharp edge. More. More, he needed more. It wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He needed it. Blood, flesh, bone. All of it. More, MORE, MORE–

    A loud crash drew his attention. Turning to face the noise, he stopped. Every hot, angry, spiked feeling that clung to his tight frame fell away, like the dead leaves in fall. They slid away effortlessly. The pressure that was building up under the skin, buried in his very bones flushed away like it was nothing. It no longer felt like the need was intertwined around his lungs, squeezing out his breath. Panic seized him in its place.

    The closet door stood open, swinging slightly, bumping against a body on the floor. Price’s shaking hands clawed at the slick stone, but they slipped in the blood. Heavy, ragged breathing filled the small hall. It didn’t sound human at all. Moving to kneel down beside him, Ghost gently laid a hand on his shoulder, which jerked at the touch. Even Price’s shoulders were shivering, his face pale. Ghost looked back around the room once more. It was still. Not even the wind seemed to blow outside. Still, he felt uneasy.

    “Price,” he whispered, voice coarse as he eased the man on the ground into a seating position. Fingers dug into the thick material of his jacked forcefully, quickly followed by grunts of pain and strain. Taking the moment of tranquility, he moved back to assess the wounds. Dark patches stained various spots on the beige uniform. The worst of it was on the right side of the stomach, where the stains were the biggest. He had to pry the hand away to get a better look, but he half wished he had let it be. The bullet had ripped the flesh apart, tearing into the soft tissue below. Blood still poured from the gash.

    “Can you walk?” he asked and hooked the Captain’s uninjured arm around his neck, who had given him a weak nod. “Lifting now.” Transferring the weight onto himself, he managed to straighten up partially. He guided them to the back door as the semi-conscious Price struggled to stay upright between the grimaces and the limp. Ghost managed to stoop down and collect the bucket hat as they went. He had to kick the dead body out of his way to clear a path for the injured man.

    At an agonizingly slow pace, the two made their way down the streets under the safe cover of darkness. “Just a little further,” he urged, feeling Price beginning to slip. He was doing more dragging than supporting now. It was only a little ways ahead now. He had spotted what appeared to be an abandoned house nestled on a desolate corner. The buildings that surrounded it didn’t look to be in much better condition. Judging by the broken windows and graffiti on the walls, nobody lived there.

    Kicking open the half rotted door, he did a quick once over of the hall and living room. The moonlight barely provided any visuals, but turning on a flashlight might attract unwanted attention. Once he had decided it was safe enough, he brought Price in. He laid the drowsy Captain on a couch that, under normal conditions would spend the rest of its life in a dumpster, and pressed the cloth he had used before to apply pressure on the wounds. There wasn’t much blood gushing anymore, but it still flowed and stained the fabric.

    Detaching the small medkit on his vest, he laid out its contents. Bandages, gauze, tape, his trauma scissors, all standard emergency equipment. Not nearly enough to deal with active, open bullet wounds. Most of the cuts were shallow, but some of the lacerations dug deep. Gently cradling Price’s head in his hand, he moved it away from the wounded shoulder to get a better angle. He pulled his gloved hand back to reveal the fresh glisten on his fingertips. He rubbed it between his fingertips. It was thick. Shit. The fall against the stairs. Price must have hit his head.

    Shuffling through the medkit, he pulled out some wipes to clean the blood. He set them down on the edge of the couch and gently tried to roll Price’s head to the side to expose his injury. Pulling a clean, white wipe out of the pack, he adjusted himself on his knees and pushed the hair that was mated and stuck to the scalp aside. Before he could start to clean, more blood spurted out from his shoulder. A strange, abstract feeling welled inside of Ghost. This one must have happened when he carried the Captain on his back as he ran. There was another, just beside it on the upper arm. Holy shit.

    Finally taking in the whole image, he only just began to realize just how much blood there was. There was so much. The light uniform Price wore was covered in large patches of red, some still growing. It seeped into the couch, too, turning its dark fabric even darker. And Price… His skin was so pale. His eyes were glazed over, like a thick mist was blocking him from really seeing the world. Ghost snapped his fingers in the man’s ear, waved in front of his face. No reaction. It was like Ghost wasn't even there.

    Dread swelled inside of him. He quickly shoved two fingers under Price’s jaw, looking for a heartbeat, digging into the dirty, blotchy skin. He had to move them around multiple times, even trying the other side, before he finally felt the pulse. His stomach dropped. It was weak. As he sat there, it felt like it was getting fainter by the second.

    Don’t let him die.

    He turned back to the medkit with a newfound determination. Stop the bleeding first. Keep as much blood as possible inside. But where to start? There were so many open, bleeding wounds, and not nearly enough gauze. He stripped off his jacket to use when he ran out of bandages. For a moment, he stood frozen over the body with gauze in hand. There was so much. He had to close his eyes for a brief moment. Every second that he wasted, Price would slip further away. Swallowing hard, he pushed down the feelings that clung on to him and drew in a deep breath.

    Looking back down at the Captain, he peeled the soaked cloth away from his stomach. Droplets fell onto the dusty wooden floor as he lifted it up and tossed it aside. He firmly pressed the gauze bandage onto the bullet hole. Price groaned sharply, his breath hitching. A hand flew up and clawed at Ghost’s shoulder, scratching and pushing away at the same time. The Captain’s chest rose and fell quicker now. It sounded more like struggling, choking rather than breathing.

    “I know, I know,” Ghost managed through gritted teeth. He ignored the agonizing moans and pained cries from his Captain. It took a lot of effort not to pull his hands away, to keep applying the pressure. It took a lot to not turn away completely. The sight was almost too much to bear. “Please, I know it hurts. I have to. I have to.”

    Lifting up his hands, he prayed that the gauze had stopped the bleeding. It hadn’t. Grabbing a fresh bandage, Ghost gave Price an apologetic look for what he was about to do. He pressed the fresh one over the wound again and propped himself up on his knees. Locking his elbows, he leaned forward, shifting his weight onto his hands. He kept his eyes focused downward. It physically pained him to block out the piercing, howling cries. It had to be done, he tried to convince himself. He needed to, it was the only way to stop the bleeding.

    “I have to,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

    It had taken what felt like hours of speaking into an empty radio before they got a response from home base. He had unhooked Price’s from his vest because his own lay in pieces on the table behind him. It still sparked every now and then.

    He had explained that the mission had been completely FUBAR. There was no fixing it, no way they could turn it around. And worse, there was no response from anybody else in the squad. Ghost didn’t even remember seeing anybody when he first ran headlong into the gunfire. If they were alive, nobody was communicating with him. They were isolated out here, and help was a long time away. It would have been so much easier to travel closer to the edge of the city, but that wouldn’t be happening any time soon, so someone would come from them eventually. They had to, he told himself. People would come. If not for him, for Price.

    Turning away from the murky circle he had cleared in the duty window, Ghost regarded Price, barely picking out his resting form in the darkness. Luckily, the wounds themselves hadn’t been that deep, and most of the bullets were shallow enough to dig out. Still, with the amount of blood that had been lost, the possibility of more severe damage than the few, messy stitches he had managed to sew despite the thrashing wouldn’t fix hung in Ghost’s mind. That was if he survived the night, if he hadn’t lost too much blood already.

    His bloody knife sat on an equally dusty table. The cluster of bullets laid around it, specs of blood and flesh littering the surface.

    Deciding they were still safe enough, he gave up talking over the radio and moved back to the couch. He inhaled sharply as the pain in his own leg jolted him. The adrenaline had long worn off by now, and the ache of his own bullet wound grew progressively louder the longer he put off checking it. It could wait a little longer.

    He sat down on the edge of the couch, careful not to jerk it too much so as to not aggravate Price’s injuries. His right glove was pulled off and his bare hand pressed against the Captain’s forehead, who flinched only slightly. Satisfied, he put the glove back on. No fever, that was good at least. Price’s head began to sag, as if he were trying to sleep.

    “Hey, hey!” Ghost half shouted. “Keep your eyes open. Don’t fall asleep on me now, look at me.” It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Ghost could feel the shift of weight on the couch and some of the tension returned to Price’s body. There were still many hours between now and evac. He had to stay awake.

    “Good, good. Okay, uh, talk to me, Captain. Tell me something. Talk to me, yeah?” A raspy, laboured sigh was heard in the darkness. It didn’t sound pretty, there was some struggle to take the breath. Ghost’s own heart began to beat faster.

    “Come on, Price. Talk to me. You have to stay awake, okay? I need you to say something.” He waited. “Please,” he added under his breath. More silence. He wasn’t quite sure that he had even said it out loud. Just as he was about to open his mouth again, fumbling trying to get the words out of his throat, he fell back.

    “You’re a good kid, Simon. A good kid.” Price breathily whispers, clearly delirious. Still, Ghost’s brows furrowed under the mask. Price half started to say something, but was briskly cut off by a series of violent coughs, no doubt tearing the fresh stitches.

    “When this is all over,” Price gestured vaguely to the air once the fit had subsided. “I’ll teach you how to fish. There’s a nice lake back home. Lots of fish in the water. Bigguns, too. I’ll teach you how to catch those slimy buggers. How does that sound, son?”

    “Good, I’d like that,” Ghost said softly. Part of him hoped that through Price’s hazy vision of pain and delirium, there was some truth to what he was saying. Maybe this was his way of showing Ghost he was still there, that he still wanted to help. Ghost looked away shamefully. It had been his fault that they had fought in the beginning. It was selfish to think that he could get off so easily. He shoved down his unrealistic desires and focused back to keeping Price talking.

    “Tell me about the lake. Is it nice there?”

    A faraway look glazed over Price’s eyes, like he was retreating back to a fond memory. “Always warm in the summer. There’s trees all around it. Great big ones. And it’s quiet too. Part of my grandfather’s old land, no one goes out there but me. One time while I was out there, I, uh… I…” His voice began to fade and his eyelids fluttered, struggling to keep them open.

    “Tell me about the fish you caught,” Ghost interjected before his thoughts would slow to a halt and it would be too difficult to get them going again.

    “Kate, I’m… I’m worried about the kid,” Price said, not hearing a word Ghost said, which furthered his panic. He was confused, his eyes unfocused. He thought he was talking to Laswell, a friend and supervisor who overlooked Price’s teams. He wasn’t able to keep himself in the moment. That was a bad sign. Now, more than ever, Ghost wished he would have paid more attention to the first aid courses he had taken. He had no idea what to do anymore. His main goal had switched to keeping Price talking.

    The sound of Ghost’s fast breaths filled the room, but it didn’t completely block out Price’s low, hoarse breathing. He waited, he wasn’t exactly sure what for, but he waited. The audible slow of Price’s breath shot another wave of panic through him.

    “Yeah? Why’s that?” Ghost said allowed. Had no real idea what he was saying. Maybe if he stayed in character and pretended to be whoever the Captain thought he was, he could keep him talking, keep him awake.

    “...I don’t want him to end up like me,” Price finally said. “But I don’t know how to help him. Fuck, Kate, I don’t know what to do. I tried, but he won’t let me.” His voice grew tight as he spoke.

    Ghost could do nothing but sit there, arms frozen, holding on to Price’s arm. Whether this conversation was real or a made-up scenario built on blood loss, it didn’t matter. Ghost’s heart beat loudly in his chest.

    “I jus’… I– don’t…” The words struggled to leave Price’s lips, he barely managed to get those out. He continued to mumble, increasingly softer, until it seemed like he was making no sound at all.

    For an agonizingly long couple of seconds, the only part of Ghost’s body that seemed to work were his fingers, digging the nails hard enough into the skin to leave marks through his gloves. He strained his ears for anything, any gurgling of even the puff of air as it left the Captain’s lungs. For a mere moment, it looked like his chest had stopped moving in the darkness.

    “No! No, don’t you fucking dare!” Ghost yelled forcefully and regained sensation in his arms. He slapped Price crisply on his cheek. At first, he was appalled by what he had just done, but it seemed to work. The Captain’s upper body jerked awake as he gasped. His hands flew up and grabbed onto Ghost’s shoulders. Even through the thick fibres of the shirt he wore, it was not enough to block out the cold chill of the fingers digging into his skin. It didn’t feel like the flesh of a living person. It felt more like the claws of a corpse. They were slick with blood and as cold as ice. A sick pain spread through Ghost’s body. Out of all the times he could have used a stim shot, or a bloody fucking anything to keep somebody alive, now would have been the time, but of course he had to travel light. Ghost could cuss himself out later for his stupidity. For now, he slapped the man in front of him again.

    “Come on, stay fucking with me. No, no, don’t close your eyes. Look at me. That’s it, look at me. Tell me something, please,” Ghost began to beg in desperation. “Tell me about your dog, um, what’s his name? Fucking– Watson? Winston? I don’t know, Wanker? What’s he like, come on, you can tell me that much.”

    “Your leg,” Price said, eyes finally focused behind him. Ghost hardly glanced back before he spoke.

    “It’s nothing, doesn’t matter.” But in truth, it wasn’t nothing. In the hours it had taken him to clean, sew and bandage Price’s wounds, the dull, thundering pain in his calf had grown to a loud scream. Whenever he stood to get a better angle while digging out the bullets, a wave of nausea would wash over him. He had to grit his teeth and wait for it to pass. Now, his muscles began to cramp and twist. His whole right leg was shaking slightly. The skin itself was reddening and the first signs of swelling began to show.

    “ ‘s fine,” he grunted. “Just stay with me a little longer, ay?”

    Footsteps outside drew his attention. There were voices, too. Two of them. Ghost’s whole body shot up like a dog on edge, his focus transfixed on the dirty window. Price, who seemed confused by the sudden change in demeanor, lazily frowned. Before he could speak, Ghost hastily patted him on the arm gently, never looking away. Despite his state, Price relaxed back into the couch. Although, it wasn't really relaxing, more like cautious, fearful obedience.

    Momentarily ignoring the worried look Price gave him, he waited.

    As if moving in slow motion, Ghost stooped down, outstretching his hand and feeling along the floor. His hand closed around his glock. Holding it firmly, he straightened back up slightly but his shoulders remained taught, like a stalking predator.

    He rose slower still off of the couch and moved past the coffee table, to the wall with a limp. Through gritted teeth he had to suppress a groan. His leg was in flames with the activation of his calf muscles. He flattened himself against the wall, cold, rough stone digging into his back and decided to focus on that. The sharp corner of a jagged crack poked his back. The rough texture felt like sandpaper through his shirt. Small puffs of loose rock fell to the floor with a hiss. He tensed. Any noise was amplified a hundred times in the darkness. His head edged its way into the window frame and peeked outside. His eyes were barely visible through the glass.

    Two men stood out on the street. They were talking fast, in disgruntled and loud voices. One of them gestured dramatically with his hands and shoved a finger into the chest of the other man, shouting more angry accusations. Each of them was holding something, but with the limited view he had made it impossible to tell what. He dared to push into the frame just a little more.

    He was momentarily distracted by the illumination of a flashlight as another man joined the other two. He chanced a glance back at Price. His head had gone limp, but he was still breathing steadily. Ghost cursed under his breath. Those men had to leave fast. There was no way he could talk to Price and keep the man awake with hostiles on their doorstep. That’s when Ghost noticed the large guns in their hands. Part of him wanted to take them out right now, but he knew that others would undoubtedly be close by, in the surrounding buildings or further down the street. This house wasn’t exactly a stronghold either. And that would endanger Price. No, he ruled that thought out immediately.

    Just then, Price broke out into a horrendous coughing fit. It sounded like a bark from the dryness of the air they were breathing, and raw from the broken screams that tore through the night when the bullets had been dug out. Light flooded the window from the outside. Ghost launched himself off the wall and over the table to clamp a hand over the Captain’s mouth. He thrashed and struggled weakly against the grip. All the supplies from the medkit and his vest’s contents clattered to the floor noisily. To his ears, it sounded as loud as gunshots. Heavy silence returned once the dust settled.

    Ghost was as still as a statue. He couldn’t even bring himself to breathe. The beat of his heart pulsed against his ears and in his chest. He could only stare straight ahead as he watched the light sweep through the window behind him. The voices drew nearer. He screwed his eyes shut and begged silently for them to go away. His lungs began to burn from the lack of air. All they could do was wait.

    Then, by some miracle, by some stroke of luck, the noises outside began to fade away. Another voice yelled further down the street, calling the men away. The blinding light through the glass disappeared. Still, he waited and listened. His head was beginning to spin. Only when he was absolutely positive there was no sound at all, not even the rustle of wind, he gasped. He gulped down the cold, filthy air like he had never breathed something so sweet in his life.

    He pried his clamped fingers off of Price’s jaw, flexing them through the ache of the tenseness they still held and slumped down, letting his head fall back. That had been far too close for comfort. He whipped the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead with a shaky hand. He was going to be sick.