Chapter Text
He was in the small kitchen of their cramped rec-room when the phone rang; the incessant sound shattering the fragile peace created by the whistling kettle and the steady hum of the TV he could decipher in the background, where some shitty romcom movie was playing.
Two heads turned faintly in his direction when he didn't pick up immediately, but he didn't recognise the number, give him a minute.
“Riley.”
“Lieutenant, Major Richards speaking. Captain MacTavish will be needed for an additional 2 months. I will get back to you then, should this period be extended. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
The conversation was over faster than he could blink, and left a sour taste in his mouth. All but slamming the phone on the counter he took the now boiled water and poured it in his teacup (black and white, it was a gift from several 141 members. Since he refused to give up his birthdate, they had taken one at random and stuck with it. If John noticed how much he cared for it, he was kind enough to never mention it).
“Is it the captain?” Groused a voice from the couch.
“Is he being held back?” Said the second man, draped all over the dark grey lounge chair. How the fuc-
“Yes. Nothing we can do about it.”
To him, it felt like the admission ripped him open, and flayed his guts out for everyone to see. The mask probably only made him seem frustrated.
And frustrated he was, because MacTavish had been lent to the 13th regiment to organise a high stake, cross-army mission set to take place a year and a half from now, and he hadn't been back to base in almost 70 days. That was more than two months. Now, he could deal with being alone, wouldn’t survive in this job otherwise, but ever since that Scottish bastard had wormed his way into his brain, he struggled increasingly to detach himself from things like these.
‘Dissociated state’ the therapist he was forced to see once years ago named it. He was unsure what to make of that, so he simply refused to acknowledge the issue.
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The nightmares were getting more realistic. Not worse, just more accurate. More real. They stopped being shapes and feelings, and started to be scenarios of pursuits, of his failures or of John dying. They were almost always of John dying. Either shot in the head, or catapulted through a window, or bleeding out somewhere alone. And every time he wasn't fast enough to get there. Every time he stood useless at the ex-fill point, or he laid somewhere on top of a building miles and miles away, or he was running towards him but too late. Always too late. Always too far. And never enough.
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The next month passed without much ado; some of the 141 were dispatched, other came back with a few scratches here, a minor stab wound there.
Mission reports came in, and he felt extremely grateful to know that this was an ephemeral situation, because he could not deal with this on a daily basis.
His skin itched increasingly, and everywhere. Several times he caught himself either peeling the skin off his thumbs or scratching his arms until his nail-beds turned red, but the feeling would not leave. As if little bugs were crawling on his scars that already felt like they were stretching his skin, at the same feathers were touching his raw muscles and it was making him crazy.
But it was fine. He still worked efficiently, trained the others ruthlessly, and was someone his subordinates could rely on. Once he even organised a group sparring session, just to beat everyone in regular hand-to-hand combat and in a few boxing matches, for those who dared challenge him.
He was still as competent, and worked his way around his feelings by simply locking them away in a little box on the left, just below his ribcage.
Around 12 days before the task force was set to regain their actual leader, their expertise was needed on a low-risk mission with very specific parameters. Planning the thing was easy, choosing the equipment and soldiers even more so.
73 hours after he announced their job to the team, they were sitting on the uncomfortable benches of an Air Force carrier flying them across the black sea.
The objective was to identify and report on various safe houses across Turkmenistan, rumoured to be those of an emerging terrorist cell. Every thirty days two members would restock or utilise the abodes, so their job was to see if the buildings littering the area were inhabited by people or by equipment. If their intel was right, no one would be there when they came. Nevertheless, they had to be prepared for every scenario, especially with new organisations, in which sudden changes and switches in planning were more frequent than in old, established ones.
The plain they landed on in the dead of night was only faintly illuminated by the silver shine of earth’s natural satellite, but they couldn’t stop to appreciate the scenery before disappearing into the woods that would become their home over the next six days.
Twigs cracked under their boots, and branches swung against their gear in their trek to the first location, five miles from the drop point.
“’Could’ve at least given us the good NVGs instead of these relics’
“Be glad we have them at all. It’s way less fun when you’re blind as a bat”
“Well, it wouldn’t kill them to- bats aren’t blind you moron”
“I'm a moron? You were the one who-”
“Okay, okay, I get it, no need to bring this up again”
Ghost tuned the slowly brewing argument behind him out, and concentrated on the narrow path in front. Insects flew carelessly in the air, and one could hear small animals rustling in the bushes.
As they advanced into the forest and the trees grew denser, the incessant bickering quickly became bothersome combined with the stress slowly building up inside him.
He half shouted, half whispered some bullshit threat about putting them on latrine duty if they didn’t shut up into the comms, before spotting a rectangular-shaped shadow 400m north-west from their position.
He knew the rest of them saw it too, because silence descended on them brutally, leaving the conversation to be picked up by the surrounding fauna.
Two groups formed almost naturally, training kicking in: Ghost and Roach took the back exit, Meat and Archer the front one.
There was no movement inside, the lights were out, and the chimney inactive. Still, they acted with caution and care when breaching the doors, prudent not to jostle the soundless environment, and entered.
Ghost cleared the back effortlessly, while Roach went up the stairs.
“Bravo 1, back’s clear.”
“Top floor’s secure.” came a hushed answer.
A beat passed before static came trough his comms with a low “Alpha 4, front is clear.”
Relaxing slightly, he ordered them to start inspecting the rooms, to look for hidden doors or openings, or anything that could hide tunnels, weapons, people.
They came up empty. There was nothing incriminating, nothing illegal, just an abundant stock of bedding, clothes and medical supplies, like basic surgery tools, paracetamol, or hydrogen peroxide wipes. The rooms were only under a slim layer of dust; the kitchen was well equipped: the cupboards looked full with canned food and, interestingly, MREs. American MREs.
“’Pork sausage patty, maple flavour’. What the fuck.” commented an astounded Meat.
“Even Belarus has better packs, I swear.” cracked Archer’s response.
“Probably says something about them.”
No one needed to specify whom he meant.
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As 1 AM approached, they’d ticked off 2 more buildings on the list, and decided to lay low until sunrise. The improvised camp they set up had a small fire in its centre and two standard green tents around it; positioned between high trees and thick under-bush, the risk of being spotted was relatively low.
The frigid air turned their breath into mist, and even though it was only October, temperatures felt very winter-like. Each of their backpacks contained slim sleeping mats, blankets and hoodies, but it all seemed futile considering the lack of heating.
Dinner consisted of ‘Hunters Chicken’, which was… edible. At least it was warm.
They’d found one weapon cache in the second house, but everything was rusty, and the ammo was missing. So far two theories were plausible: the safehouses were a front, and the real ones were elsewhere and this was a trap, or the people keeping them were incompetent. They had a clear preference for the second, but it seemed unlikely; years of experience telling him to never underestimate the target.
While the flames died down, Ghost took a worn down, square shaped notebook bound in black leather out of his tac vest, and began writing down the mission objective, what they saw, and what he deduced from it. No sketches or drawings, only data.
He knew he picked the habit up from the captain. Knew he wasn’t the only one. Knew Roach did it too. Sometimes. When he was anxious. Couldn’t bring himself to care.
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Before them stood a little red house. It was quite charming, with purple flowers by the front porch and a white iron table in the garden. Or what was left of it, really. The paint flacked and fell off the table, the picket fence was torn down in places, and ivy clung on the wooden walls, up to the roof, almost obscuring the colour in places. It hung heavy and dense over the windows, hiding whatever lay inside from the curious eyes of by-passers.
“You sure we have to check this? It’s falling apart, no one would stock anything here”
“Which makes it the perfect spot, no?”
Coming closer to it Archer took point, and Roach covered their backs. They slowly crept forward, careful not to jostle anything or, god forbid, activate IED’s. Without a sound each one of them took a room, cleared it, and radioed back.
Still nothing.
Nothing in the house, nothing in the garage, nothing in the basement or the attic. The place was simply abandoned. Were they anyone but professional soldiers, they probably would have been freaked out; the heavy atmosphere and dust dancing in the faint sun rays leaking through the leafs all coming together to form a rather unsettling image.
Old planks creaked under their weight as they made their way to the exit. One more house to check, and the mission would be completed.
Ghost almost, almost, felt something like relief overcoming him at the thought of finally returning to good old England. It wasn’t like he longed to go back to his boring routine, with seemingly always the same people, but the humid air he was subjected to here was becoming unbearable, and the idea of a real cushion too appealing to delude himself into thinking the field was his real home any more. He didn’t feel that strong sense of belonging every time he was out in the wild any longer. Instead, home began to have a smell and a specific voice, and peace felt reachable again.
Those meagre, useless thoughts made their way up to the forefront of his mind more than what he’d like, and perhaps it was only partially due to them, but added to the lack of proper sleep and food of the last four days, he entirely missed the fine thread of pulled-taunt wire between a shelf and a vase opposite it, and tripped.
Right behind him Roach barely had the time to register the words “GET UNDE-” before his vision went white, then red, then black, then his ears heard only a fine shriek before his head acquainted itself with the floor.
He hoped John wouldn’t mourn him too intensely.