Chapter Text
"No, no, no..." you groan, eyes flicking frantically across the screen as you pray for your VPN to spring back to life.
Unconnected.
Reloading.
Unconnected.
"Fuck," you hiss, wiping your drive and fidgeting as the loading bar crawls across the screen.
This was bad. So bad that even the hackers you were hoping to impress were gobsmacked by your bravery (stupidity). From the main server onto smaller ones, harder to infiltrate, ones that were filled with currency symbols and unfamiliar alphabets. And then into the binary code which sent goosebumps over your skin.
Something so private it was left to be decoded on either end, lost in a sea of zeroes and ones in between.
You hacked what?! Are you fucking stupid?
Shit. Wipe your drive now, delete my number.
You mutter prayers to anything that will listen, heart pounding as you try to construct a plan in your head. No one knows...yet. And it was the yet that worried you. The worry follows you all the way through scrubbing the hard drive, cleaning your cache and every inch of your computer until there's no trace left of your snooping left (to the untrained eye). Sleep is persistently evasive, even after jumping jacks and a shower and flinging the window wide open and snuggling down under a blanket. The alarm clock blinks 1:47am. 1:48am.
"It's fine," you whisper into the dark of your room. "No one knows, no one's going to know. Just...relax. Act natural."
After a struggle you manage to close your eyes, but the lids pop open again as if on springs. Your next muttered curse is punctuated by a thud from downstairs, followed by a faint shuffling and muffled voices.
Without blinking, you sit up in bed and push the covers down past your knees, head swivelling in the direction of the open bedroom door (no need to shut it when you lived on your own). The telltale creak from the bottom stair finally pushes you out of bed and over to the cupboard. A bitter thought skids over your mind as you tuck yourself inside between the hanging coats.
There hadn't been a string of burglaries down your road so this was an unexpected cherry on top of the cake that was your Thursday night. They wouldn't find anything of value downstairs, unless you counted a vintage collection of Garfield plushes. But what mustn't be touched, what you valued over everything else in your life, was your pc. It wasn't just a place to house all your favourite media, every picture you ever took on every phone you ever owned, but a tool that allowed you to slip in and out of back doors to libraries of Alexandria. The sum of all human knowledge, just floating out there in the ether, just a click away. Or several hundred clicks and a few pages of code. And knowledge was power, after all.
If they take your pc, they'll be taking the evidence of any wrongdoing.
Wrongdoing. Like you accidentally stumbled upon an email thread detailing an affair and shared it around the office. Not exactly delving deep into military files and deeper, into territory completely unknown. Medical history, redacted mission files, bank transactions that spanned years, millions of pounds and dollars and currencies you'd never even heard of. Another shudder runs down you as you crouch next to the walking boots that never saw the outside of the box.
"...check upstairs. Bathroom's clear."
The tone furrows your brow, the terminology even more so. Clear, like they were sweeping the house. You wish there was a hole in the wood small enough to peek through and not be noticed, but the door was a solid installation.
A mutter you don't quite catch, then a barked Affirmative.
Oh god, was this a police raid?
You have to bite your lip to stifle a moan of dread, trying hard to keep your breathing steady and quiet. Stupid thing to do really, hide from the police. Makes you look even guiltier than you already are. But the urge to remain hidden overrides any sane decision to come out with your palms open and held high.
"Bedroom's clear," repeats the rough voice.
You shift slightly to stop the growing tingling in your foot and a traitorous creak slips out from the wooden board under you. The movement in your bedroom ceases for a few seconds that drag on for a millennia. A slow footstep, and then another.
oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-
The cupboard door swings open to reveal a towering figure more tactical gear than man, gun held loosely by his side inches from your face.
"Gotcha."
There's no time to squeal before he's grabbed a bicep in an unforgiving vice and wrenched you up, slammed you back against the wall.
"'s that your computer?" He demands in a snarl, the weight of his glare behind the eyeholes of a skull pushing you back against the plaster board.
"Get off me-" you grunt, trying to pry his fingers off your arm which you're sure is swiftly turning purple under his glove.
"Must be, she's the only one here," adds a deep Scottish rumble from behind him.
The fingers shift from your arm to your jaw, sinking in with a force that makes your skull ache.
"Get off me!" You repeat, pushing hard on his chest.
"I asked you a question," he says in a voice as rough as oak bark.
The spit comes out half-reflex, half-indignation. How dare he break into your house in the middle of the night and push you around?
Instead of the slap you brace yourself for, those dark eyes crinkle slightly in what could be a smirk of a sneer, indistinguishable under the balaclava. He lets your jaw go and wipes the saliva away with a patience that sends your blood cold. It was coming. Whatever his reaction would be, it was coming.
"Ah, Ghost, you got 'er," comes a gruff confirmation from another figure.
Your bedroom looks impossibly small with the three men taking up so much of the space. Eyes barely visible and no skin showing other than a sliver of face, they loom over you like uniformed sleep paralysis demons, armed to the teeth.
"She's not talking, Price," Ghost says, voice so deep it wouldn't sound out of place coming from a bear's mouth.
You keep your mouth figuratively closed, lips parted as your shallow breaths escape.
I have the right to remain silent and I exercise that right.
"We can't fuck about here. We'll take her to the safe house," Price grunts, jerking his head in the direction of the door.
"W-what?" you ask, and Ghost's hand returns to your arm so hard it forces a yelp.
"What's going on?" You shriek, writhing against him.
"Christ, can you shut her up?"
"Fuck off, Soap," Ghost barks, wrangling your flailing limbs.
"Help!" You wail, more out of instinct than any common sense.
"Fuckin' 'ell," Ghost mutters, shifting your wrists into one mammoth gloved hand.
His other rams the butt of a pistol into your skull and then black rolls over your vision like an ascending blind.
-----
"There she is. Sleeping Beauty."
An earth-shattering headache throbs steadily, radiating out from the back of your head and threading over every inch of your scalp. You move a hand to rub at the sorest spot and find that it's attached to your other hand with a cable tie. Not handcuffs.
Ignoring the ache that has settled so resolutely in your head, you look round at the room you're in. A house bigger than your own, but missing any signs of life that accompany a long-term stay. One sofa in the (living?) room, two chairs and a table between. The panes of the bay window are boarded up with plywood, a sad yellow lampshade the colour of nicotine throwing the room into a depressing glow.
Price looks different without the helmet and mask, revealing muttonchops flecked with grey and several deep grooves that run over his forehead.
"It's your computer, isn't it?" He asks, lips shifting as if mouthing an imaginary cigar.
Even if there were words in your mouth ready to go, you doubt you could force them from your throat which felt almost too tight to breathe through.
"No point denying it, lovey," he chides, flashing a smile that disappears as soon as it's there. "We caught you hiding in the wardrobe like a child."
You redden, clamping your jaw shut.
There's a buzz of static and Price turns his head to the radio clipped to his shoulder. Somehow he's able to decipher the words which reach your ears like garbled nonsense, half numbers and half letters. He straightens from a crouch and looks up to someone in the corner of the room. Your neck cricks as you turn to follow his gaze, spotting the man in the skull mask. Ghost seems an apt nickname for someone lurking in the shadows, hiding behind Death's face.
"He's on the move. Laswell reckons he doesn't know yet, so you've got a couple days tops. Send me what you find out."
Ghost nods, pushes off the wall as Price trails out, slamming the door behind him with an echo that rings through the empty house.
"What's going on?" You ask, eyeing him warily as he moves over to the sofa.
He removes his tactical gear in a methodical ritual, motions he's made a thousand times before. Unclip, unbuckle, unwrap, fold, drape.
You wish you could pull your eyes from his frame as it's slowly uncovered, but the black t-shirt that clings to a tree trunk of a torso is too distracting to ignore. Sweat-stained and faded in patches, it stretches over an immense chest, tighter at the shoulders which swing as he walks, and snug around a paunch that no doubt hides a thick layer of muscle underneath. The movement wafts a musk, part sweat, part gun oil, that skips your nose and lodges deep in your brain.
"Price has left you with me," comes the innocuous reply.
The words only become sinister when the removal of his jacket reveals a knife holstered on a utility belt. You next inhale comes sharply, paired with a squirm on the wooden chair. Not tied to it, but you might as well be.
You swallow hard. "Why?"
"To make you talk."
He turns to you slowly, tugging both gloves off to reveal hands as veiny and scarred as you had imagined. The size of them is obscene, pads rough with callouses and a faint yellow staining on the first two digits of his right hand. You wonder briefly what they smell like.
"I haven't got anything to say."
You keep your voice firm, trying not to let your gaze linger on the blade at his hip.
"Don't believe that for a second, Princess," he says, raising a paw to brush his knuckles over your cheek.
You jerk your head back, glare up at him. "Don't fucking call me that. And don't touch me."
"Ooh," he croons. "She's got a temper."
"Fuck you," you mutter, eye twitching in time to the pulse thundering through your temple.
"I can beat it out of you, if that's what you'd prefer."
His hands shift, tighten into fists before flexing in a lazy wave of his fingers. One punch would shatter your jaw, you were sure.
"Then do it," you add, a sudden jolt down your spine as you realise what you've just said.
"That'd be a shame. Don't wanna ruin this pretty face."
The hand returns and this time it follows as you lean back, fingers warm and rough on your face as he turns your head side to side. Inspecting. You bring yours up to push it away and the grip tightens.
"Behave," he warns, so softly it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up.
It had never registered as strongly as now, the intense need to push back against demand. Some sort of unscratchable itch that nestled deep in your brain stem when an order was given. Your life, your choice, your autonomy. Anything else gave you an all over nausea that extended into your very soul. One of the many reasons you hadn't held a full time job since you were a teenager.
"Don't tell me what to do."
The words come out as definitely as they sit in your brain, a sentiment so strong it might as well have been written on your forehead. Another pause, swollen with dread as he studies you.
"Tough, too," comes his final response.
But before you can wonder where the conversation's going, his hand shoots out and snatches your throat. His hold is as unbreakable as granite as it pulls you from the chair, drags you alongside him as he scales the stairs. You stumble after, clawing desperately at his forearm which rises in red welts where your nails sink in.
"You wanna act like a brat, you'll get treated like a fuckin' brat," he huffs, hauling you into the bathroom and shoving you face first into the empty tub.
Your knees meet the tile with a sickening crack, bent double at the waist as the edge of the tub digs into your stomach. With one hand on the back of your neck like a misbehaving dog, he reaches over and covers the plughole before turning both taps on full force. Brown water that coughs and splutters into a chalky mixture and finally clear spews from the rusted funnels. You watch the water creep up, rising slowly but surely.
"What the fuck are you doing?" You ask, wriggling under his hand.
"Take a wild guess," he replies, free hand resting on the lip by your side.
The tub is small and fills quicker than you expect, the water already halfway up the side and close to your face.
"You can't drown me, i-it's against the Geneva Convention," you tell him, staring at your quivering reflection and trying hard not to panic.
"No one 'ere to stop me."
Your stomach flips and a cold sweat gathers on your back.
"Okay! Okay...it's my computer."
But his hand doesn't move, grip doesn't relent as he holds your head over the rising tide.
"G-Ghost? It's my computer!" Your voice becomes shaky as the water kisses the tip of your nose.
You scrabble around like a rat in the dirt as the water rises high enough to envelop your nostrils.
"What were you doin' on it?" He asks, as calm as if asking for the salt.
"Please! Plea-"
The water swallows your mouth and your pleas become bubbles, muffled screams that reach the air as carbon dioxide and nothing else. It's only when your lungs burn, chest tight like it's caving in on itself that he wrenches you back. You suck in the biggest breath you've ever drawn, eyes wide and wet with tears. He forces your head back over the tub, just above the water line, twisting the taps off before it overflows.
"What were you doin'?" He asks again, close in your ear.
You cringe away from his voice, clutching onto the edge of the tub for dear life.
"I...I was hacking into a server," you sniffle, blinking away the tears.
"Which server?" He growls, mask brushing against the shell of your ear.
"It...it started off as...as a military record site," you say, hiccuping as your breathing steadies. "Then I found a backdoor into some other places."
It might be your imagination, but you swear his grip loosens a fraction.
"What places?"
"I don't know, it's the dark web," you relent, resigning yourself to whatever punishment awaits. Jail time probably. "Once I got in, there were links and files to different things. I couldn't even read it."
He stiffens, lets go of your nape and straightens. "Why not?"
You roll back against the door, wet hair sticking to your neck as you bring your knees up. "It was in Russian or something."
"Cyrillic," he corrects, head tilted in mockery.
"Whatever," you murmur, scowling at the floor.
"What did you find out?"
You shrug, still tense and ready to kick out if he reaches for you. "Nothing I recorded. Nothing I can remember. Just...names and dates, figures. Prices."
"Prices?"
"Yeah, like sales. But it was in Cyrillic so I don't know what they were selling."
"You're not gettin' that computer back," he says in a rumble, bending to grab your arm and haul you to your feet.
Once again he's too quick to dodge and he presses you firmly against the door with one hand, the other slipping a brick from his pocket.
"Ghost. What have you got?" Price asks when the ringing stops.
"She's gotten into military files, but nothin' she claims to remember. Reckon we search the house, take the pc. Cut 'er loose."
"Negative. Somehow Makarov's gotten wind of the security breach. Traced it back to her house. We're clearing it out but she's got to stay there."
His dark eyes narrow at the mention of the name, but that's all you glean from their exchange.
"How long?" Ghost asks, gaze returning to you.
"Not sure yet. Plan for the week."
"Affirmative."
He returns his phone to his pocket and then every inch of his attention is back on you. A spotlight that burns, singes the skin.
"Who's Marakov?"
"Makarov."
Your jaw clenches briefly. "Who's Makarov?"
"Russian terrorist."
The air in your lungs escapes in a wheeze, the words ringing in your head.
Terrorist.
"Is he..."
"Comin' after you? Doubt it. But I'm sure he'll send his men."
A powerful shiver skitters down your spine, leaving you trembling.
"Is this a safe house?"
Ghost nods, brushing the damp hair from your face in a skin-crawlingly tender motion. You try to wriggle away and the hand slips into your hair, tangles and tightens until you squeak.
"What did I say about behaving?"
"Maybe if you stopped fucking torturing me," you growl, trying to maintain a glare through the searing pain.
His laugh comes loud and unexpected.
"What's so funny?" You demand, pushing at his chest.
His other hand wraps snug around your throat and he leans down, head hovering over yours as he presses closer.
"This ain't torture, but I can demonstrate later if you keep fuckin' about."
You're small then, pressed against the door and cowering like a cornered animal. Torn between curses and pleas, you remain silent until the hand on your throat drops and he steps back.
"Downstairs. Now."
He lets you walk ahead, not worried in the slightest even as you tap down the wooden stairs quicker than him.
"Can you take these off?" You ask, pointedly waving your wrists at him.
"Are you gonna be good for me?" He asks, striding over.
Somehow you're able to stand your ground, unsure if it's because your bravery remains or you're rooted to the spot in fear. You nod once but this isn't enough to satisfy him.
"Use your words, Princess."
"Don't fucking call me that," you snap before you can stop yourself.
He tsks and turns to walk into the kitchen, making you follow like a lost puppy.
"I could get them off myself," you say, trying to burn holes in the back of his head with your glare.
"Why're you askin' me then?"
He moves around, grabbing a tea bag and sugar from the near empty cupboards with muscle memory that suggests he's spent time here before.
He's got a point. There's no reason to ask when there would be knives in the draw, or at least scissors that could snip through the plastic in seconds. You step forward and pull a draw out but there's only a few forks and a butter knife, and even then it's one without a ridged edge.
Ghost fills the kettle, flicks it on and watches in amusement as you raid the kitchen for something sharp. The closest you can get it a vegetable peeler which you angle back and swipe over the plastic in short stabbing motions.
"Careful," he says, reaching for the kettle when it boils.
"Shut up," you murmur, frantically jimmying at your restraints.
"What was that?" He asks, and when you look up he's closer than before, bearing down on you with that cold gaze.
"I said shut up," you answer quietly, forcing your eyes to his.
Bad idea. Stand down. Retreat.
His eyes catch the light as he approaches, glinting as he backs you up against the wall.
"Consider this your first and final warnin'," he says in a low voice with a serated edge. "Don't talk back to me."
You swallow away the lump in your throat. "Or what?"
"Or I'll hurt you."
Your breath catches as he reaches again for his knife, brings it up so the tip rests against the hollow between your collarbones. He must feel the thundering pulse against the blade.
With a quick slice, the zip ties snap open and fall to the floor. Any smart remarks have settled at the bottom of your head, down in the shadows where you hope they'll stay. You bite back a thank you.
And with that, he moves away, returns to making his tea. You hover, unsure what happens next.
"Bed's upstairs," he says without looking at you.
You rub your wrists, feeling sheepish. "Aren't you scared I'll run?"
He lifts one massive shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Can if you want. I won't stop you."
Your brow furrows. "Am I not under arrest?"
"Not from us," he says, turning to take a sip of his scalding drink. "But there are worse things than me lurkin' outside. Men who'll drag your death out for hours. Days."
There's an uncomfortable tug in your stomach as it churns, threatening to empty itself onto the grimy kitchen floor.
"So it's outside with them, or in 'ere with me. Your choice."
"Not much of a choice," you mumble, kicking gently at the door.
"You're lucky we've got time to spare, or you'd be left to the wolves."
Your eyes snap to his and realise he's watching with fevered intensity.
"Bet your flesh'd tear so nice for 'em."
He chuckles as you run out, hurry upstairs and into the only bedroom. A small double with a bare mattress and a woollen blanket that scratches horribly when you run your fingers over it. You bite down on your knuckles to dampen the sobs that shake your body. The exhaustion has caught up with you, leaving every inch buzzing and aching and desperate for comfort. You crawl into bed without kicking your shoes off, curl up under the blanket. Sleep washes over in an all encompassing wave.