Chapter Text
Ghost had killed twelve men before breakfast and been shot at enough times before noon to qualify as a weather pattern.
He moved through the reeds like a nightmare in tactical gear, silent and implacable, rifle shouldered, skull mask dark beneath the overcast sky.
Around him, the marsh stretched wide and green-gray, broken up by low water, tall grass, and rotting fence posts. Somewhere beyond the treeline sat a smuggling route, a weapons cache, and a very bad day for the men guarding it.
They were halfway through turning that bad day into a catastrophe.
“Two tangos by the shack,” Price murmured over comms. “Soap, take left. Gaz, right. Ghost, hold overwatch.”
“Copy,” Soap whispered, crouched in mud and bad decisions.
Gaz slid forward through the reeds. “On you.”
Ghost adjusted position on a little rise by the waterline, one knee down, rifle steady. He looked exactly as intimidating as a man possibly could while lying next to pond scum.
Soap risked a glance back.
Even now, even covered in marsh filth, Ghost looked terrifying, like some sort of marsh cryptid. Men saw him in the field and started reconsidering every choice they’d ever made. He was death in a balaclava. A horror story with combat boots.
Then something hissed behind him.
Ghost went still.
Soap frowned, arching a brow. “Wha was tha?”
“I didn’t hear anything, mate." Gaz whispered.
Another hiss. Loud this time. Wet. Furious.
Ghost slowly turned his head.
There, standing on a muddy little bank, too close for Simon’s comfort, was a goose.
Not a swan. Not some exotic nightmare bird from a classified government pond.
Just a goose.
White and brown, wings slightly spread, black eyes full of malice so concentrated it ought to have been illegal.
It stared directly at Ghost. Ghost stared directly back.
Price, still focused on the actual military operation, muttered, “Ghost, status?”
The goose took one waddling step forward.
Ghost, in the flattest voice imaginable, said, “...Minor complication.”
The goose lunged.
What followed was so violently at odds with Ghost’s entire reputation that Soap nearly inhaled a reed and died.
Ghost, apex predator, boogeyman of half the known world—let out a sharp, deeply offended “Fuckin hell—” and jerked sideways as the goose launched at him like a feathery missile.
It hit him in the chest. Not hard enough to do damage. Hard enough to do psychic damage.
Ghost tried to shove it off. The goose flapped in his face, honking like a broken alarm siren, and pecked savagely at his vest and mask. Ghost swore, lost his footing on the mud, and slid half down the bank into shallow water with a splash that echoed through the marsh.
Soap buried his face in his sleeve. Gaz made a strangled choking noise over comms.
Price said, after a long, disbelieving pause, “Ghost.”
“I’m handling it.”
“Are you though?”
The goose hissed again and came at him a second time. Ghost actually recoiled, and let out a weird, small sound any odd them had ever heard before.
Soap nearly passed out from trying to hold back laughter.
The bird snapped at Ghost’s hand. Ghost dodged, grabbed for it, and the goose twisted out of reach with the sort of serpentine fury usually reserved for demons and tax officials.
Then Ghost made a fatal mistake. He reached for one of the knives strapped to his kit.
The goose saw it. Everything changed.
With the precision of a career criminal, the bird struck. Its beak clamped around the knife handle. The sheath strap, already loosened by the scuffle, came free with a sharp snap.
And the goose stole Ghost’s knife.
There was complete silence over comms.
Ghost stood knee-deep in filthy marsh water, staring at the goose.
The goose stood on the bank, knife hanging from its beak like it had won the world’s most deranged prize.
Soap froze, couldn't speak.
Gaz wheezed, “It’s armed.”
Price said, in the tone of a man watching civilization collapse in real time, “We are in the middle of an operation, you muppets."
Ghost took one slow step toward the goose. The goose took one slow step back.
Then it honked. Not a normal honk. This was smug. This was pointed. This was, somehow, mocking. Peace was never an option.
Ghost’s voice dropped an octave. “Give it back.”
Soap lost it. The laugh hit him so hard he folded in half in the reeds, shoulders shaking helplessly.
“Soap-" Price snapped, eyes narrowed.
“Sorry, sir—” Soap gasped. “Sorry— it’s just—”
Gaz was no help at all. “He nicked his knife! The bloody bird mugged him!”
“I know what happened, Gaz.”
Ghost moved again, eyes focusing on the goose. He pointed at it. “Don’t.”
The goose hissed. Ghost hissed back.
There was another silence.
Price said, very carefully, “Ghost. Leave the bloody bird.”
Ghost turned his head slightly, still watching the goose. “Negative, sir.”
“That is a goose.”
“It's got my bloody knife."
“We have a target package.”
“It has my knife-"
Soap pressed both hands over his mouth. His face had gone red.
Price inhaled. Exhaled. “Soap. Gaz. Move on the shack.”
And because they were, somehow, professionals, they did.
For fifteen glorious minutes, the mission resumed.
Soap and Gaz cleared the outer perimeter. Price repositioned. Ghost rejoined overwatch with visible reluctance, though every few seconds he’d glance around toward the reeds where the goose had vanished into the marsh like some kind of feathered bandit king.
Soap was still grinning every time he looked over. Ghost ignored him with the grim dignity of a man being haunted by poultry.
They breached the shack. Two hostiles down, one surrendering, one trying to run and promptly regretting it when Price intercepted him like an angry freight train.
“Clear,” Gaz called.
“Back room clear,” Soap added.
Price cuffed the surviving smuggler and keyed his mic. “Ghost, status?”
From outside there was nothing but silence.
Then a distant honk. Then another.
Then Ghost’s voice, flat with murderous intent: “The bastard’s back.”
Soap dropped his head against the doorframe.
Outside, Ghost was standing in the reeds, rifle raised, staring into the marsh with the focused hatred of a man who had found his nemesis.
About a few distance away, on a grassy hummock, stood the goose. It still had the knife. It honked again. Flapped its wings contently. The knife swung triumphantly.
Ghost’s shoulders went rigid as he narrowed his eyes at the goose.
“Love-" Soap said, coming up beside him with a hand over his grin, “let it go, aye?"
The goose honked.
Ghost fired out of nowhere.
The shot cracked across the marsh. The bullet missed, kicking up muddy water behind the bird. The goose didn’t even flinch. It spread its wings wider. And honked again.
Ghost was even more frustrated. He never fucking missed.
Soap made a noise halfway between laughter and a dying engine. “It’s taking the piss.”
“It is-" Ghost said, voice shaking with rage so profound it had become spiritual.
“Focus,” Price barked, emerging from the shack with Gaz. “Exfil in three. We are not bloody doing this.”
The goose turned.
For one brilliant, horrible second, it looked back over its shoulder. Then it ran, flapping madly, knife still clamped in its beak, and launched itself into the air.
Ghost stared, straightening himself. “No,” he muttered.
The goose gained altitude.
“No.” He said clearly, more louder and personal.
It cleared the marsh reeds. Ghost took off after it.
“GHOST!” Price roared.
Too late.
Soap watched, stunned and delighted, as Ghost—legendary special forces operative, death incarnate, his boyfriend, bane of insurgents everywhere—charged across the marsh after a flying goose while yelling at it.
“Come back 'ere, you flappy prick!!" Ghost yelled out loudly.
He didnt make it very far before the ground betrayed him. The mud gave way with a wet sucking sound and Ghost went in up to one thigh, swore so violently a nearby frog probably converted religions, and yanked himself free.
The goose landed on the far side of a low embankment.
Ghost vaulted it.
And immediately discovered the goose had friends.
A lot of friends.
The far pond was full of them. At least twenty. Maybe thirty. An entire feathery battalion slowly lifted their heads as Ghost stumbled into view, breathing hard, covered in mud, rifle in hand, and radiating enough homicidal energy to power a city block.
At the center of them stood Knife Goose.
It gave a short, sharp honk.
Every head turned toward Ghost.
Ghost, to his credit, did not retreat. He squared up.
Soap came skidding over the embankment a second later, saw the pond, saw the geese, saw Ghost.
Soap whispered, awestruck, “Steamin Jesus, we are fucked-"
Ghost ignored Soap. He pointed at the knife goose. “You. Me. Now.”
The knife goose screamed, flapped its wings. Then the flock charged all at once.
Soap barely got out of the way before three geese came at him like furry missiles with wings, honking in full battle cry. “CONTACT FRONT!” Soap shouted on reflex.
“THAT’S NOT THE FUCKING ENEMY!” Price roared back.
“IT IS NOW, CAP'N!” Soap yelled as a goose launched itself directly at his chest.
One smacked into his shin. Another leapt chest-high and flapped directly into his face. Soap yelped, staggered back, and windmilled into Gaz, who had just arrived and was immediately set upon by an avian hate mob.
“What the-?!” Gaz shouted, slapping at wings.
“They’re organized!” Soap yelled back.
“That one’s got my comm wire!”
Price crested the embankment, took in the scene in one sweeping glance—Ghost in hand-to-hand combat with a goose, Soap being chased in circles, Gaz trying to peel an enraged bird off his shoulder, and an entire flock boiling out across the marsh like a biblical plague—and physically stopped moving.
“I'll kill the lot myself-” he grumbled.
One goose flew directly at him. Price hit the deck, staying behind cover. From god damn geese.
“GET OFF!” Ghost bellowed, wildly batting at wings. “I’LL BREAK YOUR FUCKING NECK, YOU FEATHERED LIL' CUNT!”
Soap was on the ground laughing and fighting for his life at the same time, which was not ideal tactically. “Si! Love! it’s got yer mask!”
A goose did have a bit of his mask. Ghost made a noise Soap had previously only heard from chainsaws and one exceptionally angry badger, forcefully getting the goose off that tried to get his mask.
Behind them, down near the smuggler route, shouting erupted. The gunshot had drawn enemy attention. Half a dozen armed men were pushing through the reeds toward the shack, weapons raised—only to be intercepted by what must have looked to them like the wrath of a very stupid god.
The geese turned on the newcomers with democratic violence. And they immediately got attacked by geese.
One smuggler fired wildly into the air before two geese hit him in the face. Another dropped his rifle and ran. A third fell backward into the pond, screaming as wings and fury descended.
Soap clung to a fence post, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “They’re attacking everyone!”
Gaz, bent over and trying to protect his head, shouted, “This is your fault!"
“How is this my fault?!”
“You encouraged him!” Gaz yelled back, pointing to Ghost.
Soap thinned his lips, gave a smug look as he shrugged his shoulders at Gaz. Gaz just rolled his eyes.
Ghost was no longer using military strategy. Ghost was using vengeance. He had slung his rifle and was stomping through mud with the implacable determination of a slasher villain, eyes locked on Knife Goose.
The bird dodged him with infuriating ease. Every time Ghost lunged, it skipped sideways, honked once, and forced him to pivot straight into another goose.
At one point a smaller bird launched itself at his back. Ghost spun, caught it under one arm by sheer reflex, stared at it in offended disbelief, then got attacked by three more and had to release it again.
Soap was crying now. Actual tears.
“L.T!” he shouted. “Love, break contact with the geese!”
“NO.”
Price fired a warning shot into the air. “Fall back!”
A goose bit his boot. Price kicked it off with the expression of a man reconsidering every life choice since 1999.
Gaz finally managed to wrench his comm wire free and made the error of looking at Ghost.
Ghost had Knife Goose cornered against an old metal trough.
For one shining moment, victory seemed possible.
Ghost advanced slowly, muddy, seething, one gloved hand outstretched.
“Enough,” he said to the goose, like it understood. “You’re bloody done."
The goose narrowed its black, beady eyes.
Then, with all the calculated cruelty of a criminal mastermind, it dropped the knife.
Ghost blinked. The knife hit the mud. He bent to grab it—
And Knife Goose pecked his hand, snatched the knife back up, and blasted straight between his legs in a flurry of feathers and treachery. Ghost fell straight down on his ass.
Soap collapsed into the mud laughing. Gaz actually sat down where he stood, too exhausted to continue functioning.
Price took off his bonnie cap, ran a hand over his face and hair, and put it back on with the air of a man being punished by some unmentionable higher being.
Ghost turned slowly. The skull mask should not have been able to convey humiliated betrayal.
And yet.
“Oh, he’s furious,” Soap choked out.
Ghost pointed at the goose. “That one dies.”
Price snapped, “No one is killing the geese!"
“That. One. Dies."
“We are leaving!”
“That one has committed acts of war!” Ghost yelled out, still viciously pointing at the Knife Goose.
Soap pushed himself upright, still cackling. “Well, Cap, the goose did steal his knife and made the first honk-"
Ghost looked at him, darkly.
Even with geese screaming in the background and smugglers fleeing for their lives, the look promised death.
Soap grinned helplessly. “Sorry. Sorry. Carry on, love."
He was not sorry.
The flock surged again. One goose leapt onto the captured smuggler’s back and rode him into the pond.
Another stole a balaclava from one of the enemy and ran off with it.
Gaz swore as a bird flapped up and smacked him squarely in the cheek with its wing.
Price made a tactical decision.
“Retreat to the vehicles,” he barked. “Now!”
Soap grabbed Ghost’s shoulder. Bad idea. Ghost shook him off without looking, still stalking Knife Goose through the reeds like Captain Ahab if Ahab had night vision and severe social issues.
“Simon- love-"
“It’s personal.”
“I know, but we’re being overrun by waterfowl!”
Knife Goose honked from atop a log.
Ghost pointed at it. “You hear that? It knows.”
Soap looked at Gaz. “He’s cracked.”
“He was cracked before,” Gaz said. “Now he’s just loud about it.”
Price physically inserted himself between Ghost and the goose. “Lieutenant. Move.”
Ghost stood there, chest heaving, mud dripping off him, while behind Price the goose gave one final, victorious flap of its wings and strutted three steps sideways like the world’s most insufferable celebrity.
The knife gleamed in its beak.
Soap saw the exact second Ghost decided revenge could wait. Not because Price ordered it. Not because the mission came first this time. Because the goose tripped over a reed, almost dropped the knife, recovered, and then looked far too pleased with itself.
Ghost whispered, with chilling calm, “I will remember your face.”
The goose honked.
“Right,” Price said briskly, as though this was normal and not a complete mental collapse. “Exfil.”
They ran.
Behind them the marsh descended into full warzone absurdity—smugglers splashing through water, geese in hot pursuit, honking echoing in every direction. Soap nearly ate dirt twice because he couldn’t stop laughing. Gaz swore continuously for the full sprint back to the trucks. Price kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected the birds to organize into air support.
Ghost got in last.
He slammed the door shut, breathing hard, soaked to the bone, covered in mud, one knife down, dignity in critical condition.
Soap climbed into the seat opposite him and made the mistake of looking directly at him.
Ghost sat rigidly upright, arms folded, skull mask splattered with marsh water and mud and one single white feather stuck to his shoulder.
Soap broke instantly. He doubled over, howling. Gaz got in beside him, took one look at Ghost, saw the missing knife sheath, and started laughing too.
Price climbed into the front, shut his door, and stared straight ahead for a long moment. Then, without turning around, he said, “No one is ever speaking of this again.”
That only made Soap laugh harder. Ghost said nothing. He just sat there in brooding silence while Soap periodically made tiny dying noises every time he remembered some new detail. Gaz was no better. At one point he tried to say “armed goose” and had to give up halfway through.
Finally, Soap wiped his eyes and leaned forward, grin still murderous. “So-"
Ghost said nothing.
"How's the rivalry?"
Silence once again from Ghost.
Soap nudged his arm. "Think it fancies ye. I'm jealous."
Ghost slowly turned his head. Through the skull mask, his stare promised murder.
Soap grinned wider. "C'mon, love, dinnae be like that. You gave the poor beast mixed signals. First you let it steal yer knife, then ya chase it through a swamp, then shot at it. That's basically foreplay in some circles."
Gaz made a strangled noise somewhere behind them.
Price muttered and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Jesus Christ."
Ghost spoke at last, very softly. “Johnny.”
“Aye?”
“Better sleep with one eye open."
"Love, ya come into my room every night, I know when my sleep paralysis demon is nearby." Soap burst into fresh laughter.
Ghost just glared at him, and didn't say anything else.
The truck hit a bump. From somewhere far behind them, faint across the marsh and the engine noise and the dying daylight, came one distant honk.
Everyone inside the vehicle fell quiet. Ghost stared out the back window.
Soap saw it happen. That terrible stillness. That awful focus.
“Oh no,” Gaz muttered.
Price closed his eyes. “Don’t.”
Ghost leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed at the horizon with the intensity of a man sighting artillery. “That flappy cunt followed us-"
Soap was already laughing again. “Si, no.”
Ghost reached for the door handle. Price slapped the child lock on. Ghost looked up slowly at the front seat. Price did not turn around. “No, Ghost." Price said as if he were talking to a toddler.
Another faint honk echoed over the marsh. Ghost sat back. Folded his arms and pouted. And in the gravest, most solemn voice Soap had ever heard in his life, said: “This ain't over.”
Soap laughed so hard he nearly fell out of the truck when they stopped.
That night, back at base, Ghost found a nice drawing taped to his door. It was a goose in tactical gear, wearing a skull mask, holding a knife.
Underneath, in Soap’s handwriting, were the words:
GOOSEY GHOST
Ghost stared at it for a full ten seconds. Then he looked down the corridor toward Soap’s room.
From inside came muffled laughter, then Gaz’s voice saying, “No, no, draw the knife bigger.”
Ghost took the paper down very carefully. Folded it once then placed it inside his vest. And smiled, despite himself.
Just then, somewhere outside, in the darkness beyond the fence, a goose honked. Ghost froze. Slowly, he turned toward the window.
Ghost walked out at full speed.
“WHY IS IT BLOODY HERE?!” Soap yelled out as he turned to look at Ghost who stood next to him now.
Soap turned to look at him and arched a brow as Ghost looked at the darkness beyond the fence. Soap chuckled, leaned over, kissed Simon's cheek through the mask.
Ghost ignored him.
"Alrigh, you bloody bastard. I'll be ready-" Ghost grumbled, balling up his gloved hands into fists.
Soap clung to him, buried his face into Ghost's sleeve and laughed.
At last. Round two.