Oc x canon, vigilant tf141, spider-sona. Simon x Kieran. Very short 🐌 (134 words)

Kieran gets himself comfy in Simon’s lap, back against the larger man’s chest, and uses his hands as frames for webs, weaving patterns between the man’s hands.

Simon rests his face against Kierans shoulder, keeping his hands steady as to not disrupt his activity. He had just woken up, not even questioning why Kieran was in his quarters or how he got into the 141s living arrangement without being with him.

He was a little confused by how Kieran got in the room and in his bed without waking the very light sleeper that is Johnny in the bed next to them. 6 in the morning and he’s desperately trying not to fall back asleep or else it’d destroy Kierans work but it’s a bloody weekend, he was supposed to be sleeping in </3

Kaia has never had a tight friendship with anyone in most of her life, she would describe herself as a “floater friend” someone whos accquainted with everyone and would greet anyone who passes by, friendly but not friends.

Till she met Kyle, and it’s not out of the ordinary, they had reasons to become friends, they have the same frequency, same interests and are on the same level at being social, he’s avoidant? Sure. She loves space, she wants to hang out? He’s down. No forcing or backstabbing here.

Just calm and understanding between them, most of the time, they play chess, or drink tea and talk about their previous tasks and missions or some past stuff that happened to them, no trauma bonding, no gossip.

And that’s what i love about their friendship, they can always count on eachother .

🧢💫

I’m still in a very much of a friction mode realising how much complicated simon Riley’s personality is also some fanfics and Wattpad stories makes me go distrustful towards this character confusion and curiousity sometimes lowkey exhaustion which one should I believe that he is only loyal to the team and duty or in personal life too

Ima highly likely going to ship my oc with him as a peer it feels much safer and in character sounds cute too

Boobug/bugboo is really cute but i think ghost and roachs ship name should be roast

Necromechanic - Chapter 17: We Fight as One

[PREV CHAPTER] [AO3]

Managed to edit this chapter today so I’m posting it, the sketch isn’t done yet unfortunately so I’ll add it at a later date.

Currently all I’ve said in the previous post still applies, and I don’t know when I’ll post the next chapter, but I hope you enjoy this one

The tiles beneath Soap’s boots are eroded, the marks lining with his body as if hundreds of knights have dropped to a kneel in the exact same place he does now. Devotion is woven into each crack and stone in the Observing Hall, generations of fighters giving their lives for the oath. Soap wonders, if they struggled with doubt like he is.

In the breath between lowering their heads, and the call to rise, it is not the Watchers that occupy his mind, not his duty.

It is a man, no longer human, left to rot by all forces on Earth. A man, who knew no peace from the day he cried his first tears, until he became entombed by metal. A man that cannot stand by his side, not here, because none see his heart, which may beat no longer, but still screams it is alive.

But Soap sees it, sees him, Ghost, Simon. In each memory that breaks free from his chained mind, each order disobeyed, each action driven only by his own emotions. There lies a man, that has no equal, in his eyes.

He does not take the privilege of seeing it lightly, not when he knows just how much Simon fights to be seen at all. It makes him want to be selfish, gather him close, lest unworthy gazes dare look upon him and think that he is no person, but a facsimile playing pretend.

It was clear to Soap, Gary is counted among those who don’t understand what Simon is, neither human nor machine. His memories are not a past to him, but a puzzle, to be fit in a cold, objective timeline he constructed from the stories and rumours he has collected through the years.

To Gary, Simon is a riddle to be solved, a mystery to uncover. Soap finds it horribly disgraceful, to reduce him to such things.

As Simon recounted the recollection he saw to them, he told them of a man. Someone who sounded regrets, at his face, who dared say Simon is dead. Gary was intrigued, to say the least, finding yet another enigma hidden within Simon’s skull, and Soap somewhat understood him. He too was excited by the prospect of finally finding Ghost’s identity, giving him that last freedom.

But he only felt a white-hot anger constrain his lungs, a thirst for violence against a dead man rising up his throat.

How dare any imply that he who is living, fighting, screaming with all the air he has not in his lungs that he is still here, is dead?

A seedling of sacrilege sprouts in his breast, asking if the guiding hand of the Watchers is to be trusted, when it would have guided him to kill a soul like Simon’s.

Soap is left to wonder, questions muddy the clarity he once thought can never be shaken, as Watcher Laswell speaks.

“We know you are angered, knights. The Aether takes, and cares not for how young, how innocent, the minds it steals are. Our squires shall be rewarded with eternal gratitude, for their sacrifice in the fight against evil.” She passes her eyes over the Order’s knights, her expression impossible to name as always. “Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” Soap murmurs, voice melding with his siblings in blade and blood.

Watcher Hext hums, her eyes blind to their world but keen in finding the Aether’s, “we heard your tales of Worms invading spaces they once never appeared in, the beasts chasing you from the Aether.”

They were not the only one to be taken by surprise by a Worm…?

“We believe these happenings are tied to the numerous finds of Elder Sigils across the Orders,” a shiver drags up Soap’s arms at the mention of the accursed objects, “and the churning of the Aether tell us a sliver of their wretched plans.”

She lowers her head, gaze following hidden patterns, “we must strike before the enemy can.”

“We held talks with Watchers of all Orders, finding points at which the Aether is weak of hold.” Watcher Waldroup says, his only remaining hand gesturing to give power to his words, “when called, each knight Captain will receive a quest taking place at one of those points. You are to be sent immediately, as time is not on our side.”

One by one, squads are summoned forth to take on their quest, the Observing Hall thinning as more leave for the tear walls. Hot shame begins to burn Soap’s nape as he realises merely a handful of squads are left in the Hall, and there is no sign of them being invited to accept a quest.

He knew from the moment he stepped foot in this Hall that not all Watchers approved of his presence here, but were they not called, it would not only mark them with dishonour.

It would mean the Watchers don’t see them as proper knights, capable of such tasks. And the thought of that, to be deemed so feeble that he cannot stand even among the youngest of the Order, may very well be his worst fear.

He attempts to catch Gaz’s eyes, see if the same fear reflects in him, but is met with the stiff profile of the knight.

Minutes pass slowly, his heart clenching into itself as they are left last in the Hall, still kneeling at the feet of their leaders.

“Sir Price,” Watcher Waldroup says, and Soap has the urge to cover his ears, as if it would protect him from being sent away with empty hands. “Your squad was among those that encountered a Worm. I see none of your charges were injured.”

“Only by the grace of God were we able to retreat safely,” Price bows in respect.

Nodding in understanding, Watcher Waldroup continues, “we may not be in full agreement on the subject of the compatibility of your knights, but it is undeniable they have willpower few match.”

Soap blinks a couple of times, taken off guard by the compliment.

“I trust they will withstand the lands of Urzikstan, then,” he straightens, stern look pinning them down, “you are to meet an Urzik squad, who will inform you of their situation. As it was at the day of the invasion, Urzikstan sees the shifts of the Aether clearer than most.”

“Understood.” Captain Price answers, unfaltering under the weight of the Watcher’s gaze.

“Hold your head high, knights. There is no sharper weapon than hope when evil encroaches.” Watcher Arkwright smiles, “now go, prove humanity will not bow down to monsters.”

“I don’t understand-” Gaz turns around, checking his gauntlet again, “the tear was supposed to bring us right to the Lost Lands’ edge!”

Soap kicks at a stray rock, enjoying the sound it makes as it drops into a shallow stream, “maybe yer gear is broken.”

“It is not!”

“Boys.” Captain Price sighs. “No matter the reason, we have legs and are able to walk. It should be less than an hour from here, so we best get to it.”

Switching the dials on his gauntlet, Gaz huffs in frustration and gives up. “Must’ve been all the damned Aetherium in the Aether messing with the calibration…”

Raising his hands with a ‘who knows’ hum, Soap sidles to Ghost, bumping his shoulder. “Got any jokes to pass the time?”

Ghost takes a few seconds to reply, surely scanning his vast database for the worst joke possible. “Knock knock.”

“Yer joking.”

“I am, that’s what you requested,” the cheeky wee bastard says, “knock knock, Sir MacTavish.”

Hiding his wide grin beneath his helm, Soap shakes his head outwardly, putting on an air of exasperation. “Fine, who’s there?”

“Code.”

“Code… Who?”

Ghost’s stare lowers to meet his, “code you open the damn door already?”

Stopping in his tracks, Soap looks to the yellow skies, “God, why couldn’t ye have given him a better sense of humour.”

“You mean why code-n’t you-”

Soap cuts him off, “if ye finish that sentence I’m gonna throttle ye.”

Peeping up from behind them, Gaz laughs, “I have to side with Soap on this one, that was bloody awful mate.”

He finally chuckles, turning to goad Ghost some more, when he sees three forms, shadowing the dead grass.

Ghost follows his gaze, sensors beeping as they scan the environment. “Non-Aether lifeforms detected, identified three knights.”

“The Urzik squad shouldn’t be here,” Gaz says, staring off at the figures, who seem to notice them as well, as they begin stepping closer.

“They aren’t Urzik.” Ghost responds, and Soap’s grip on his swords loosens as the air thins, and the colours of their banners reveal themselves.

The Red lion stares back at him, over a fierce yellow.

“Knights! You hail from the Scottish Order, correct?” Price calls once the squad is within earshot.

Soap stands frozen, his lungs emptying harshly, as the Scottish knights call in return, “aye! We weren’t told we’d meet ye here!”

Fuck, just hearing that accent come from a mouth that isn’t his own hurts like a punch to the face.

“We didn’t either, but a friendly face is welcomed all the same” Gaz approaches their Aether specialist, but Soap can only look at the mechanic.

He knows this armour, the heavy chest plate fit under a thin blue cloak. Last saw it over a year ago, when his old squad had joined forces with another to take down a Greater Abomination. Remembers the way she would sit with Arran for long hours, pour over schematics that then made no sense to him, back when he was titled a combat specialist, his rightful role.

She stops in front of him, voice soft, “… Soap.”

“Eilidh.” His breath stutters, “it's… I’m glad ye are well.”

They stare at each other for long seconds, Soap at a loss for words. What could he say, after all that happened? How could he show his face without shame, when he failed their Order-

Strong arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him down to a hug, “we missed ye-” Eilidh cries, “so much!”

trembling, Soap hesitates but a moment before returning the embrace, “how is everyone, has Morna…?”

Eilidh pulls away to stare at him, “Morna now trains the squires. It is… The best she can do, since… Ye know.”

Since she lost her arm trying to escape certain death, Soap finishes her sentence in his thoughts.

“Aye… That’s- good.” Soap steps away from her touch, “I… Could ye tell her I’m sorry, fer what happened? I don’t think I ever got the chance-”

Slapping his shoulder with the back of her hand, Eilidh retorted, “what nonsense are ye spittin’ out now? Did ye forget she’s only alive because of ye?!”

“She’d still be a knight Captain if it weren’t fer me-”

“Stop that!” She shakes his shoulders, forceful like every aspect of Eilidh, “since when are ye so full of doubt, lyin’ to yerself about the past?”

Soap would’ve preferred she slapped him, that would hurt less than those words.

In her mind lives a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore, one that died with Arran that horrible day in the Aether, consumed by mouths of zombie and Worm. What remains of him is chipped at every night, Aetherium creeping up his nerves like choking vines.

The Soap she knows wouldn’t have such doubts, about himself, about the Orders. That Soap smiled with sincerity, joked with true mirth, found kinship and friends with every knight he met. That him that belongs only to dirt now would step with no fear, his legs able to bear his weight, his arms the burden.

That knight is no more alive than any undead they slay here in the Lost Lands, forsaken.

Were it anyone else, he’d put on the mask, his thin attempt at reviving the Soap that was. But Eilidh, who knew the real performance, won’t be fooled.

“I rather not speak of that.” He mutters bitterly. “What are ye doing in Urzikstan?”

If Eilidh notices his awkward try at changing the subject, she has the courtesy to ignore it, “we sent to meet an Urzik squad around 'ere, got some rift to explore.”

He hates the shiver that passes through him, “we were supposed to drop farther south, meet an Urzik squad as well.”

“God had chosen for our paths to cross, it seems,” he hears a smile in her voice, “I suspect yer clearin’ the path for us.”

“Aye, the centre of the storm is a way off-” The words die on his tongue, a warmth encompassing his back. He looks up, finding Ghost peering over him.

“Sir MacTavish. Captain Price has ordered us to move.” He says flatly, not sparing a look towards Eilidh, who is clearly intrigued by him. What mechanic wouldn’t be, when he’s such a marvel of engineering, steel plates sliding seamlessly with each other to build a body so flawless, so unerring-

Eilidh whistles, “I only heard rumours about him, but he’s real bonnie up close huh?”

Bonnie? She’s calling him bonnie of all things? And what’s with that reverent tone in her voice, the unmoving gaze pinning Ghost?

She reaches out to touch Ghost, mumbling under her breath, “good God, that must’ve taken ages to build, look at those joints-” And Soap had enough.

Grabbing Ghost’s arm, he drags both of them away, hoping the grit of his teeth isn’t heard as he says, “it’s been good teh see ye, Eilidh! May our paths meet once more!”

As dirt crunches beneath their boots, his flash of anger dies down as fast as it sparked. What the fuck is his problem? Eilidh wasn’t doing anything to Ghost, and he has the ability to disobey her order since she isn’t in a position to command him.

Why does the thought of her fingers grazing his metal plates irk him, then?

He shakes his head, letting go of Ghost, who simply stares at him with that picking gaze, sure to examine each and every move of his. Avoiding what is sure to be a conversation as pleasant as pulling teeth, Soap approaches Price, who is speaking with the Scottish Captain.

“-Terrible fate, they had.” Price mutters, “but knowing her, she would’ve preferred it to end like this.”

The Scottish Captain tsks in disagreement, “ye know exactly what she would’ve preferred. If ye don’t keep him safe, I swear-”

“Captain. We’re ready to move.” Soap nods to the other Captain, who simply sighs.

Patting Price’s shoulder, the Scottish Captain leans in to whisper his parting words, walking off to collect his knights. Whatever he said leaves Price deflated, a hitch to his breath.

“Captain?” Soap repeats, snapping him from his unusual lowered spirit.

Price clears his throat, nodding, “of course. Let us return to the task at hand.”

The lands that were first touched by Aether on the day of the invasion suffered most, trapped in an endless state of chaos decades later. The knights of such places rarely leave their own territories, unable to do much more than protect their people from the monsters knocking on their walls.

But make no mistake, those warriors are forged of different kind of metal, their fight glorious in its own right.

The moment their squad steps into Urzikstan’s inner border, Soap could feel the air shift in his lungs. He knew, since they were given the quest, he’d have to prepare for all sorts of enemies. With every pouch on his armour vest full, every spare pocket brimming with explosive powders and electrical bombs, he’s ready for an army of evil.

He almost dares to think he overestimated the level of threat they’ll face, but it takes startlingly short for them to see the first Abomination.

“Is that…” Gaz points ahead, “bloody Hell, that’s a Greater Abomination.”

Soap scoffs, looking at the biped beast run through a dilapidated city, “haud yer wheesht, there’s no way there’s a Greater this far from a storm, that has to be a Lesser Abomination.”

“Lessers don’t have Aetherium crystals attached to their shoulders!” Gaz retorts, and Soap throws his hands in the air.

“Well Greaters are bigger than this one!” It’s hard to tell its size from here, he concedes privately, but that’s irrelevant.

Gaz huffs, “you got a better argument than 'it’s small?’”

“I-!” Soap scrambles to find another point to his claim, coming up dry. “I… do not!”

That clearly catches Gaz off-guard, as he lets out an incredulous chuckle. “At least you admit it.”

“Boys,” Price groans, “focus on the task at hand, please.”

Soap smiles at the exasperation in his voice, sobering as the Greater Abomination rushes around a building, roaring loud enough for them to hear from their vantage point. “What is it doing? Shouldn’t we go down there and help-”

A loud static fills his helm, Gaz and Price flinching with him. Through the buzzing, he thinks he can make words-

“All squads— Attacking from east— Malika, now!”

Light bursts from the foundations of the building the Abomination has been circling, purple and blue and brilliant red striking the monster. It shoots at the knights, but they manage to evade, a different squad emerging from the shadows to attack.

The beast is funnelled through ruins, tearing down any obstacle in its path. Soap can now see the forms of knights hiding in every building, each cutting at the Abomination, confusing it.

It reminds him of the colonies of ants he’d watch as a young page, carrying bugs 10 times their size to their homes. Each weak enough to squash with a fingertip, but together strong enough to kill even the cruellest of beetles.

Soap marvels at the flawless coordination of the Urzik squads, their knowledge of how to play the biggest monster the Lost Lands know to contain. It twists and turns, charging with no reason, lost in the craving of blood, running closer and closer to… Them.

Ghost is the first to move, drawing his blades and rushing forward, “requesting permission to engage in combat.”

The Greater Abomination crashes into the building in front of them, concrete chunks dashing against the road below. Price unfolds his shield, stepping back, “denied! We’re retreating, Gaz, Soap, you’re up front, Ghost and me at the rear-!”

Footsteps echo from the floor above them, and Soap wildly thinks a damn zombie snuck up on them, readying his swords, when three figures jump down.

The figures, all knights, appear to be as taken off guard as they are, but the thundering shrieks of monsters call for their attention. “British knights…” The knight in the middle murmurs, “we were supposed to meet you by the walls, but the storm advanced faster than we foresaw.”

“It’s no matter,” Captain Price nods, “we’re here to aid you in every fight.”

She switches the grip on her long knife, a curved sword in her other hand, “of course. Are your field talents armed?”

Soap flicks his eyes to the edge of his helm’s display, the gauge of his still at halfway. At their silence, the Urzik Captain says, “they’ll will charge quickly enough.”

The building shakes, a loud rumble emanating ominously from under them. The Abomination collides with the wall in full force, Soap stumbling as the floor cracks beneath him. Ghost catches his bicep, pulling him to his chest.

“What are you planning exactly?!” Gaz exclaims, arms flailing as he tries to maintain balance.

The knight to her left answers, his gauntlet-clad hand marking his as an Aether specialist, “we will give the wretched beast a warm welcome, from above.”

“Urzikstan has only one sort of answer to such evil,” the third knight says, a grin in his voice and an accent not unlike Watcher Laswell’s.

Metal creaks as claws dig into the guts of the structure, the gurgling screams of the Abomination reaching ever closer. The Urzik squads on ground are rushing to them, but they’ll never reach in time.

“In clearer terms?!” Soap shouts, every thump echoing through his ribcage.

The Urzik Captain steps to the edge, “we’re attacking, until nothing remains.”

And in a gut-dropping display, jumps.

SYSTEM DIAGNOSTICS RUNNING… NO ERRORS FOUND

AETHERIUM INHIBITOR STATUS: NORMAL

CURRENT LOCATION: 43°39′09″N 51°09′27″E

CURRENT OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE HOSTILE TAGGED “GREATER ABOMINATION”

“Get after them, down!” The Captain calls, and their squad runs to the end of the floor, leaping to his command.

The ground beneath his feet stolen by air, gravity pulls at his still-human organs like a hook, Ghost stutters as fear flashes through his limbs until his system recovers.

Scanning for weak points, his HUD marks the Abomination’s malformed eyes. He throws his blades at them, their violet trails a path of blood striking into the monster.

Johnny falls beside him, twisting gracefully in the air to aim his swords downwards, kicking off the building to gain more momentum. He reaches the Abomination first, and once his weapons dig into the pale pink flesh, he redirects his momentum with a flip, dragging the blades down through the beast’s back.

Ghost can’t help but save that recording, the precision in his moves a glimpse to his days as a combat specialist.

He and Gaz land at the same time, finding themselves at opposite sides of one of the many maws of the Abomination. The Aether specialist uses his long halberd to spear the mouth’s roof, Ghost taking hold of one of the larger fangs, sawing at it with one of his knives.

“What are you doing-?!” Gaz yells, until the tooth detaches.

Ghost uses both hands to stab it into the Abomination’s head, stomping it with all the mechanical force in his body to drive it down. Gaz laughs, surprise colouring his voice, as howls fill the air.

Light rises up to the surface, Aetherium bubbling from the wound, and Gaz narrowly dodges a claw swiping for his head. “Abomination’s about to shoot, take cover!” He warns, piercing the monster’s side to hang away from the mouths.

Ducking out at the last second, Ghost’s system frazzles as a beam of pure Aetherium hits the building, glass and concrete shattering around them. He forces himself to refocus, tracking the movements of the Urzik Captain.

She weaves between the crystals growing from the Abomination’s back, fluid as her blades drag through the purple fog. Her team covers her flanks, and with a coordinated attack, slams into the centre of the beast.

Blackened blood sprays them, but their weapons heed no warning, digging and digging until they tear a wide gash in the sickly flesh.

Ghost joins them, throwing his knives deep and circling to the other side, calling them into his hand. They act as bullets, ripping straight through muscles and bone.

“Keep doing that, it’s working!” Soap shouts, dropping beside him to slice at the newly formed holes. Captain Price and Gaz follow soon after, the British squad at full force. Aetherium-tinted blood drips down their blades, filling their field talents, and their opportunity to be deployed comes before long.

Rumbling bellows under their hands, Ghost’s system alerts him that the Aetherium levels in the air are rising, the crystals at the Abomination’s back growing impossibly.

As he keeps an eye on the calculations his system is running in the background, Ghost finds that while his database may include all known types of enemies the Aether can create and their weak points, it can’t compare to the act of fighting.

He could study the theory for weeks, plan optimal methods of combat, but the field never presents the same image.

A route draws itself on his HUD, instructing him to change position to the head, use the openings presented by the many maws of the creature to strike at its central nervous system, and sever it to neutralise the hostile.

That would leave his squad exposed to whatever the Abomination is gearing up towards, though, but his system doesn’t care. His primary objective determines that the faster the monster is killed, the faster the squad will be safe, and the better he could keep them covered, once the biggest threat is eliminated.

But knowing that he both can’t predict what the Abomination will do next, and how it will affect Gaz and Soap who are both susceptible to different types of attacks, makes him reconsider.

Ghost ignores his system, stabbing his knives to climb up the gory stomach, peering over to scan.

Price calls to him from below, “what are you seeing, Ghost?!”

SCANNING… Aetherium saturation reaching critical levels… Damage to target estimated at 34%… Multiple Aether forms detected…

The Abomination’s back twitches and churns, Ghost tracking the movements beneath the surface with growing interest. It almost seems like…

All at once, arms claw their way out of the flesh, like flies from carcasses left to rot, heaving themselves up with high-pitched wails. It takes him a few breaths to understand what he’s looking at, and that is all the time it takes for those fetid creatures to lock their gazes onto them.

Wretchlings. Super-charged zombies with one purpose - get close enough to explode into an Aetherium-electrical burst.

Ghost barely leans away before the first reach him, the undead detonating as it falls. “Wretchlings identified, attack imminent!” He informs his squad, who all gasp and curse.

The likelihood they’ll be able to fight both a Greater Abomination and a horde of corpses chomping at the bit to gain the opportunity to go off beside them is reaching for 0%, and even Ghost’s system is at a loss for what he can do to change that.

His answer comes from Soap, who climbs up to stand beside him, kicking a wretchling that dared reach too close. “Captain, my field talent is ready, permission to activate?!”

“Negative!” Price instantly answers, “get back here, we’ll find another way!”

Johnny growls, cutting off a head of an enemy with a violent arc, “there is no other fuckin’ way!”

Before the Captain can protest further, the Abomination shifts beneath their feet, shaking its giant, malformed body, attempting to throw them off. Soap’s left leg buckles, and he yelps as he’s left hanging from a single sword stabbed in the target.

Ghost pulls him up, stretching his arm to hold him near, making sure the Captain and Gaz are also secure. The Urzik knights fare far worse.

They are helpless as they watch the Urzik Captain get thrown into the air, her limbs flailing wildly. If she falls to the ground from that height, not even a knight’s armour could save her.

But then, she calls over comms.

“Activating Lightning Storm!”

Electricity shooting from her blades, she spins to aim straight to the Abomination’s back, the epicentre of the Wretchlings. Her field talent hits all of the knights, using their armour to conduct down, creating a net to trap their enemies in.

As the lighting strikes the Wretchlings, they explode, cratering the Abomination’s flesh.

The Urzik Captain screams as she drops onto the beast, and with a final discharge, stab through the wounded monster, stilling it once and for all.

With a grunt, she pulls out her bloodied weapons, turning to stare at Johnny and him, “are you injured?” She asks, flinging her blades to remove some of the thick blood.

“Fine,” he answers, a laugh bubbling up his throat, “ye beat me to the field talent.”

She offers a hand to them, pulling Soap up to his feet. The rest of the Urzik squad joins them, as well as Gaz and the Captain. “I"m sure you will have many chances to use yours here,” she answers, sheathing her sword and knife.

“My name is knight Captain Dame Farah Karim,” she nods to the knight on her right, “this is my Aether specialist, Sir Hadir Karim, and my mechanic, Sir Alex Keller. We are grateful for your aid.”

Ghost took upon himself to keep watch as the squads introduce themselves, knowing he isn’t needed for pleasantries. He distantly listens to Captain Karim and Captain Price as they recognise each other from an earlier quest, instead scanning the remains of the Abomination.

By the rough estimations his system is presenting to him, there must’ve been over 100 zombies’ worth of muscle and bone interlaced within that wretched body. That count does not include all the Wretchlings that crawled inside, finding home where they could protect the vast Aetherium deposits that stand in for the heart and lungs of the monster.

Each and every one of them was a human, at some point. Like him, he supposed.

“What are ye doing here all by yerself?”

“Cloud watching. That one looks like you,” Ghost jokes, pointing to a abstract-shaped cloud that passes by them through the red skies. Johnny snorts, coming to a stop beside him.

He motions to a larger cloud behind the first, “that must be you then, giant fucker that ye are.”

They continue staring up, far-off sounds of fighting the only crack in their peaceful bubble. Ghost discretely scans him, checking that his knee is still well, when he finally meets his gaze.

“Thank ye. For helpin’ me back then.”

Ghost answers easily, thinking he’s speaking of the recent battle, “I would never let you fall.”

Soap huffs, a smile curling his words pleasantly, “aye, that too. but I meant when we met, and every time since. Just realised I never really thanked ye.”

It stumps his system for a moment, and eventually Johnny nudges him with a shoulder, nearly butting heads, “don’t have to say anything, but I wanted ye to know.”

As if his insides have been pumped with helium, Ghost feels lightness spread through him, desperately wishing to see Soap’s face at this moment, bask in his bright smile.

It hurts, for a reason he can’t understand, how much he wants.

“… Thank you.” Ghost says, knowing full well it doesn’t encompass his feelings in the slightest.

He decides to mimic Johnny, using touch to convey what he cannot say, and raises a hand to wrap around Soap’s nape. Ghost almost retreats when the reaction he receives is a little jolt and a gasp, but the muscles under his fingers melt, and press against him with a sigh.

Oddly enough, his system notifies him Soap’s breathing and heart rate are elevated. He wonders if he may have read the motion wrong, that it is unwanted and unsettles him.

He isn’t able to wonder for long, when a sudden flash blinds him, the ground shaking with such force it brings him to his knees, and he loses his contact with Johnny.

System overloaded, sensors fried with light, he draws his blades at the sounds of a song of shrieks, those which herald nothing but evil.

“Soap!” He shouts, uncaring for whoever may listen beside one, “where are you?!”

ALERT: MULTIPLE AETHER FORMS DETECTED

The choir grows ever louder, roars of beasts ten times his size making the air itself cower before them, Ghost growls, banging his temple until his vision restores, and he freezes at the sight.

Ground splintering before claw and fang, a crowd of disciples directing their armies to them with no mercy, the Urzik knights yelling as they’re torn apart, not methodically with the ruthlessness of a butcher, but with the uncaring impact of an avalanche. A force of nature none can plead with.

But that is not what planted his feet in the dirt, no, because Ghost knows how to face such powers, war a familiar song, death etched in his bones.

That does not scare him. Losing, losing does.

He turns, shuddering, searching for Johnny. The place he stood at not moments ago is gone, a steep slope chiselled out into the road instead. Through the shock he hears Price bellow, call for Gaz, and receive no answer.

They’re gone.

AETHERIUM INHIBITOR STATUS: CAUTION

His system screams at him to move, charge the incoming horde before it reaches them, keep them away from the knights, but he can’t. He won’t. He needs to find them.

ERROR: OBJECTIVE SET CONFLICTS WITH PRIMARY OBJECTIVE

SCANNING… ERROR 126 FOUND TO CAUSE AETHERIUM INHIBITOR MALFUNCTION

FIXING ERROR 126…

Ghost jolts as his legs move without his say-so. His system forces him to walk away from the chasm Johnny and Gaz fell into, making him obey.

Growls rising from his mouth, he fights himself, screaming trapped within his mind that he won’t obey.

One step, another, and with a final snarl, he stops his own legs from moving. Shaking, he commends his system to shut down.

That would be his last mistake.

AETHERIUM INHIBITOR STATUS: CRITICAL

The world, his conscious, any memory of the knights and Gaz and Johnny, all snap and break away from his mind.

Simon falls silent in his mind.

The only voice that remains is the gurgling breaking free from his throat.

Excerpt from John “Soap” MacTavish’s journal, page 106 (“GREATER ABOMINATION”):

I am so sorry I haven’t really posted any. Simon Ghost Riley fanfiction.

Especially the anxious dad ones, I have been really, really super burnt out on working on those and I’ve been kind of dealing with some other stuff lately, but slowly, but surely I’m getting back into it.

I just been dealing with a lot of creative burnout lately when it comes to writing.

But I’m getting back into it

Some more about my COD oc kaia! 💫

A more relaxed info page about her.

Appearance

so kaia doesn’t really have an official faceclaim or appearance cuz i can’t render her yet due to my pc issues BUT her face is heavily inspired by zoë kravitz, especially her whole vibe in the batman (2022). not identical or anything, just that same effortless cool, sharp but soft, calm but still expressive type of beauty. that’s the closest visual reference i ever have for her.

her natural hair is 3b / 3c curls and it’s actually really full and fluffy when it’s grown out, but she almost never leaves it like that. she gets overstimulated by too much hair touching her neck 😭 so she mostly keeps it in a pixie cut. clean, simple, low maintenance. when she wants a change she does soft butterfly locs, usually medium length, slightly messy on purpose. she likes hair that looks lived in, not overly styled.

tattoos… yeah she has a LOT. not in a super planned aesthetic way either, more like collecting pieces over time. anchors and stars show up the most, like repeating symbols she never gets tired of. she has them tiny, medium, random placements, some old, some newer. then she has little quote tattoos inspired by absurdism and nihilism. nothing super long, just short phrases about meaning, existence, choice, stuff like that. the kind of tattoos that make people go “wait what does that mean” and she just shrugs 💀

piercing history is kinda chaotic lol. right now she only wears a tiny diamond nose stud. very simple. very clean. but in her “experimenting era” she had a septum, both nostrils pierced, and a belly button ring. she didn’t remove them for any deep symbolic reason… she just woke up one day and was like “yeah i’m over this” and that was that and also because shes in the military, piercings can get stuck or ripped off.

So i do a have a portrait i have made of her but its a bit outdated but here’s an idea of what she looks like :

Sooooo tea ✨️☕️ am i right?

Also another fact about her, her scent enters the room before she does, she just breathes in vanilla buttercream pastry air, off duty duh, so here are some products she uses.

Also this WHOLEEE dove line up lol

She carries small roll on perfumes and bodymists everywhere, she always offers Soap deodarant in a way of telling him that he stinks 😔, i won’t show her uniforms and military outfits yet, im still working on those but i can tell yall what she wears off duty. She chooses comfort over attention, she never enjoyed wearing pretty outfits, she hated being in the center of attention. So she always went for a cozy and boring look, but you could also say, she just never found her style. Over time she learned her style.

Dark tops, tight on the arms and abdomen, no designer stuff.

Embroided low waist pants, baggy sweatpants, denim penskirts.

black boots, cowboy boots, sometimes heeled, or simple no designer sneakers, rarely adidas.

Music taste

music taste is everywhere but also very consistent emotionally if that makes sense. she loves heavy metal, especially stuff that sounds intense and heavy in the chest. but then she also listens to dreamy slow music that feels like floating or staring at the ceiling at 3am. her playlists go from loud screaming guitars to soft sad girl energy in like 2 seconds. she doesn’t organize anything either, just vibes. if a song makes her feel something physical she keeps it.

In her earlier years, basically teen Kaia, she loved music, she wouldn’t go a day without listening to music.

Music is kaia’s comfort, i even made a playlist incase you guys are interested on Kaia’s taste ( current and present days )

Or just want to listen to her vibe

Food 🍽

she’s greek (balkan ), afro-bahamian, and polynesian, and food is honestly one of the most consistent parts of her personality 😭 she does NOT eat pork at all. she prefers salty and savoury over sweet like 90% of the time.

her snack choices are lowkey chaotic but she swears they make sense. she loves dried fish with fizzy drinks (yes together… yes on purpose), sardines straight from the tin, dates, olives, seaweed snacks, coconut chips, roasted chickpeas, spiced nuts, salty cheeses, grilled seafood with lemon, savoury pastries, flatbreads, pickled things, fermented foods, smoked fish, anchovies… basically anything salty, strong, or slightly intimidating to picky eaters 😌 she also randomly craves super simple stuff like plain bread with olive oil and salt.

Her favourite balkan dishes are souvlaki with tzazkiki, cevapci with flatbread and yoghurt drink, sarma, yum yum.

I haven’t mentioned what type of polynesian she is, she has some hawaii blood in her, but she’s more samoan, so her favourites from those areas are Lomi Lomi salmon and her favourite thing to eat when shes in hawai'i is Haupia. She loves coconut. Her fav samoan snacks/dishes are Koko alaisa, Fa'apapa and Oka l'a. 🥥

Her favourites in general are, Greek chopped salad and there HAS to be feta in it, ramen especially when shes in japan, she enjoys a warm yummy pho when shes feeling down, she lovesssss Bacio ice cream. Anything coconut, she loves a pina colada and mojitos, and honestly, she tries many drinks but her usuals at a bar is a Paloma.

A bit personality

She’s not super expressive emotionally but she’s not cold either. she just processes things internally first. she’s actually pretty funny in a dry way when she’s comfortable. like the kind of person who says one sentence and everyone laughs 10 seconds later.

she drinks way too many fizzy drinks. like… concerning amounts. if it’s carbonated she probably likes it.

she stands kinda still when she’s thinking. like fully pauses mid movement. buffering irl.

she prefers sitting on tables or counters instead of chairs for no reason.

she reads random philosophy but also watches the dumbest internet videos imaginable. full duality.

she zones out a lot but hears everything.

she doesn’t really follow trends but accidentally looks trendy anyway.

she’s not super sentimental with objects but VERY sentimental with music.

overall she’s just… chill. observant. slightly sarcastic. eats salty snacks like it’s a personality trait. changes her look whenever she feels like it. quietly funny. and permanently existing somewhere between deep thoughts and absolutely no thoughts at all 😭✨

Peace out. 💫

A yumeship commission of their oc with ghost

Necromechanic - Chapter 16: And Your Face Shall Become of Iron and Steel

[PREV CHAPTER] [AO3]

This chapter ended up huge, it’s practically a chapter and a half lol

Ghost is shaking. His voice petered out, body stiff in a chair unfit for his size. Even his robotic recounting dragged new tears from Soap’s eyes. Whether they’re born of fear or anguish, he can’t say.

Perhaps it is the traces of his nightmare still laying cloyingly over him like a thick blanket, weaving memories and monstrous figments along with the horrors that make Ghost’s mind. What have they taken from him, his thoughts ask.

How much more can they take?

The only comfort he can draw is from the metal hand still cupping his injured knee. Protective, as if he’d start banging it against the wall again, like he nearly did in the throes of his nightmare. It means he’s here, and he’s not leaving to avoid him again.

Soap chews on the inside of his cheek, placing his palm over Ghost’s. “Ye didn’t hear the Worm, did you?”

Ghost’s head twitches, rising from the heavy gaze he cast to the floor. “I heard it roar.”

“But you didn't… Understand it?”

“Negative. Are zombies able to do that?”

“I don’t know, I was just- Curious.” Soap drags a thumb across the ridges on Ghost’s knuckles, lightly pressing on the plates. “Do ye- Nevermind.”

Ghost leans closer. “Speak.”

“Do ye prefer being called Ghost, or…” Soap presses his lips together, “or Simon?”

With his face this close, in the low light of the dark room, Soap can see Ghost’s irises move to look away from him. His body is pulled by them, moving without his say-so, yearning to find their colour at last.

And as Ghost’s head lowers, the light finally hitting just right, he sees them.

A brilliant, dark brown, nearly black as flecks of gold glisten in the lamp’s glow.

Soap is stuck, the vision enveloping his heart with odd warmth, when Ghost finally answers. “Neither names are mine.”

“None of us chose the name we bear,” Soap murmurs, voice breathy, “but ye can choose both, or none. It doesn’t change who you are.”

Ghost seems to maul over it, the hood slipping down as he raises his head. Soap traces the lines on the skull plate adorning his face, marvelling at the way they frame his eyes.

He thinks he can see lashes, pale and sparse, and it almost hurts how much he yearns to see further in.

Wait. Soap sits up straighter, the sticky, hot fog that has settled around his mind clearing. Could there be a way to see?

With the hood down, a rare sight as Ghost never removes his meagre clothing, Soap can see the way the front plates connect to the back of his head. He always thought it was an odd choice, to have so many separate plates in a place that doesn’t seem to have that much movement, but…

They appear eerily similar to collapsible weapons the knights use, Price’s shield being one Soap has worked on personally, on the occasion it would dent and obstruct the folding mechanism. Which would mean that… That Ghost’s may also have that capability.

Soap drags himself to the edge of the bed, finding himself between Ghost’s legs, and grasps at his cheeks, turning it towards the light.

“Johnny?” Ghost asks in confusion, allowing his body to be manipulated regardless.

“I think-” Soap trails his fingers to the back of his skull, searching, “I think I can remove this. At least partially.”

Ghost lets out a staticky sound as Soap cups his cheek, “remove my armour?”

“On yer face,” Soap huffs with excitement, “and- and maybe more, if it was constructed in the same manner.”

“Most of my body is-” He shudders as Soap digs his nail at the junction of two plates, feeling for a latch, “is made of metal by now.”

He finds a divot, smiling excitedly up at him, “do ye want to try anyway?”

An odd rumble breaks out of the slats over Ghost’s mouth, and he pushes his head closer to Soap. He realises with a jolt that he had crowded Ghost, chests nearly flush with each other, hands entwined. “Please.” Ghost whispers, and Soap’s hands move on their own accord.

Pressing down into the small opening, he pulls at it just as he would any weapon, manually engaging the folding mechanism.

Nothing happens.

Ghost growls, his real voice a contrast to the level-toned robotic one, and he knocks Soap’s hand off to claw at the plates himself. “Ghost-?” Soap asks, startled by the sudden anger in his movements. “Ghost, wait, yer going to hurt yerself-!”

“It doesn’t work,” he grunts, neck now twitching with each violent grasp, “my system is fucking b-b-blocking it from working-”

Metal creaks ominously under the pressure, and it only fuels the fury in Ghost’s attacks further. Soap reaches out, attempting to pry those hard-surfaced fingers, only to be completely ignored.

At a loss for what to do, he calls for him, in the name given to him not by scientists, but by those who raised him, the human beneath the mask.

“Simon, stop!”

And he listens. Brown eyes raising to meet his, he relaxes his hands, allowing them to fall to his lap. “Let me… Let me look, alright?”

Soap tries to get up, wincing when his leg buckles. He could use a visit to the Cleansing Pools, perhaps a couple doses of painkillers.

Ghost, as attuned to his pain as always, huddles him back down, turning in his seat instead to give Soap access to the back of his head. And God, is the sight hurtful.

Scratches tarnish the polished steel, crisscrossing like scars where they catch on every edge and crevice. Worse is the area surrounding the divot Soap has pressed into before, dents marring the plates in the shape of hands.

He hesitates to even touch the area, fearing he’d only make it worse. “Does it hurt?”

“I don’t feel pain.” Ghost answers instantly, and Soap gets the feeling he’s lying.

He tests the damage carefully regardless, “it’ll take a good few hours to fix this… I’d have to bring my kit here, the Workshop doesn’t have chairs for me to sit at.”

Ghost moves to stare at him, “you shouldn’t be doing any work, the healer said-”

“He said rest, didn’t say anything about my hands did he?” Soap crosses his arms, if only to cement his point. “And if ye really don’t want me walking, ye could bring my tools here.”

Seemingly out of arguments, Ghost lets out a glitchy sigh, replacing his hood and dipping his beautiful eyes into shadow once again. “If you move an inch I’m taking your kit back to the Workshop.”

Before he can hear out all of Soap’s playful swears and curses, he leaves, taking with him any life these four walls have ever had.

Soap inhales deeply as he leaves the infirmary, his hands finally empty of crutches. It took him a couple of days to recover fully, Ghost not letting him put a toe out of his bloody room. He’d be angry about it, if the big bastard didn’t also keep him company all throughout the boring wait, indulging him in long conversations the like they usually have under the cover of night.

A part of him wishes for some time alone, though. Not because Ghost’s presence wasn’t wanted, no, it was a growing heat in his gut, a weird fluttering of his heart, that made him act… Weirdly.

Every touch they shared felt electrical, rising a warm flush up his neck and cheeks, and it confuses Soap. He never felt that way before, not this intensely. They were all squires once, thinking unholy thoughts full of lust, but their oath disallows them from acting upon any.

He hasn’t considered to, not until now. Even the mere whisper of the imagined acts Ghost could share with him, kisses and flitting fingers conjured by his mind, make him flustered.

So while he is not comforted by the distance between them now, as Ghost was called upon by Garry for a routine checkup, he is at least glad for the lack of opportunity to embarrass himself.

Still, he can’t help but wander towards him, that same fluttering urging him to find Ghost. He considers going out through the outer courtyard when a familiar voice calls for him.

“MacTavish!” Captain Price waves him down, signalling for him to come closer. “I see your leg is faring better.”

“Aye, the healers just gave me the permission to return to my duties.”

The Captain gives him a warm pat on his shoulder, forceful enough to jostle him around, “that’s good to hear, son. I didn’t want to bother you while you were resting, but I think we should have a little talk, hm?”

Soap doesn’t allow his unease at the prospect of having a private conversation with Price show, instead giving him a smile and nodding, “aye, lead the way, Captain.”

“You look healthy, Soap.”

He blinks, gaze flitting away from the trees scattered across the outer courtyard, “uh- Thank ye, Sir.”

“I mean it,” Price huffs, coming to a stop under the shade of the fort, “I don’t think you were this well since you’ve got here. Didn’t hear you getting into any fights for the last three months either.”

He grimaces sheepishly, thinking back to the many, many needless battles he picked with the squires and knights of the British Order, at the beginning. Every little comment made him furious, the wounds on his body and soul still fresh, and he wondered back then, if Price ever regrets taking him under his wing. If he looked like the broken knight he felt deep inside.

Soap shifts in place, putting weight on his left knee just to reassure himself it can take it. He isn’t sure how he should respond, not without opening things he rather keep secret from the Captain, so Price continues.

“Coincides with Ghost’s arrival, now that I think about it.” Price hums in thought in a theatrical way.

The mention of Ghost startles him, “ah- Yes, I suppose it does.” He mildly puts it.

In reality, it won’t be an exaggeration to say Ghost is solely responsible for tempering his irrational fury. Soap would find himself calmer around him, unwilling to get into arguments as his dark eyes were watching. Part of it was shame, but he always knew the others treated Ghost as an outsider not welcome in these walls.

It was a familiar feeling. And he didn’t want to impart it to him, even before he knew he had a human mind.

Price’s light expression falls, a furrow settling between his brows. “I wanted to apologise, Soap. For both not helping you enough, back then, and for two days ago.”

That takes Soap off guard, “ye don’t need to apologise, Sir-”

“But I do.” Price sighs, his shoulders tensing as if he braces for stones to be placed upon his back, “the Aether weighs heavy on you, don’t think I can’t see it, and you don’t know who you-” He cuts himself off, roughly rubbing at his temples with a forefinger and a thumb.

Soap waits a few moments as the Captain composes himself, before asking, “who I…?”

Price’s eyes open once more, a storm brewing behind them. “I haven’t told you about Siobhán, have I?”

Siobhán? He knew a few knights by that name from the Scottish and Irish Orders, but never heard the name uttered here. “No, Sir.”

With a deep inhale, the Captain turns to stare at the distant fort. “She was a Scottish knight. Had a fire in her few have, and was better skilled in combat than some Captains not three years after her knighting.” He smiles, nothing but sadness in the lines crossing his forehead, “reminds me a bit of you.”

“How did ye meet?” Soap asks, fearing to hear the end of this story, but curiosity pushes at him harder.

“She saved my life, I later got to return the favour. Our squads tended to be sent together, and it felt like we were unstoppable. I learned a lot from her, and it was almost as if- As if she was my mentor, in a way, an elder from a different Order.”

A sigh drops from Price’s lips, the sound carrying with it years of pain and regret, watching those around him fall and parish. Soap knows, even being over a decade younger than the Captain, that each and every death leaves a mark nothing can wash clean.

“Siobhán was sent along with several squads into the Aether, following the path of a Worm.” A chill runs under Soap’s skin at the mere mention of that accursed beast. “They fought valiantly, I am certain of that. But it wasn’t enough.”

A dread settles heavy in him, Soap lowers his head.

He can’t see his Captain’s expression anymore, but his voice has an air of finality. “I will never know what went wrong, why they didn’t succeed, but at some point they sent out a flare. My squad was there to answer.”

“Captain…” Soap pleads, because this story sounds far too familiar, written by the same hand his own was.

Price doesn’t bestow any mercy on him. “They were dead. Every single knight, torn apart by teeth and Aether, near unrecognisable as human. And Siobhán…” His breath stutters, voice rasping, “I only knew it was her because of her armour.”

Soap presses his eyelids shut tightly, pain bubbling up his throat at the words.

He wasn’t sure who survived, if anyone, on the day God had turned away from them in the realm of no death. At first, while he was bed-bound in the infirmary, healers’ faces severe and quiet, he prayed they will all come back, the dozens of knights that were there with him.

As nights stretched on, and no one came to him, Soap got desperate, and in his hopelessness selfishly asked for only his squad to survive, pleaded for hours to just bring them back, please, I ask for no more.

He should’ve known no such mercy will be granted, when they called him for a funeral, and a removing of a title.

Their mechanic, Arran, was a man a few years his elder, and had a taste for mischief. It would have gotten him frequent punishments, if he wasn’t also an exceptional knight.

He’d be there for everyone who suffered from the longest fight the Aether presents, the one within the mind, casting out the cruel voices with jovial stories of his time as a squire, as he took it a mission to be the biggest headache in the entire Order.

There wasn’t a body to bury, his limbs torn apart and torso cleaved in pieces.

Morna received a better fate, though thinking so feels like an insult, when her arm was butchered enough to be cut altogether. His former Captain will never wield a sword again, her title as Aether specialist stripped, the greatest disgrace a knight could endure.

She tried to thank him, before he left the Scottish Order for the final time, for saving her life. Soap couldn’t hear it, stopped her with a growl. In her eyes he saw pity, and he knew his own showed shame.

He sees that same shame in his Captain, now, and he can’t help but hate them both for it.

“Why are ye telling me this?” He asks, as if knowing would lessen the pain.

A hand touches his shoulder, squeezing at his muscle. “You remind me of her in more ways than one, son. I’ve watched you claw your way out of an injury that should have ended your life, become a mechanic despite only studying the speciality for months, find your place in this fort.”

“Don’t make it sound as if I have succeeded in anything, Price.” Soap grits out, clinging onto a flash of anger like he wont to do. Anger is easy, simple.

Anger doesn’t make him face his mistakes.

The Captain clicks his tongue, using his other hand to turn Soap so they face each other. Unable to run, he lifts his stare, glaring up at the man that gave him a second chance at life, despite the fact he very much does not deserve it.

“I don’t want to watch you die.” His lip trembles lightly, and the fury within Soap burns out as fast as it ignited. “I know, were things right, you would have never been here, but I am proud to be your Captain. I am proud of the knight you became.”

“There is nothing in me to be proud of.” Soap answers bitterly.

He can hear the disappointment in Price, hearing those words, but that is the harsh truth. “Call it amendments, then. To Siobhán, who would’ve been your elder, had I not failed her.” The Captain lets his arms fall away, unfathomable grief retreating under the surface once again. “I see your path ending in the same fate, should you not change course. You are destroying yourself, and the Aether would not hesitate to take you, Soap.”

Ah. there it is.

How many times was he told he should simply give up on his oath, relinquish his title, bid goodbye to the Lost Lands forever?

None understand why he so desperately wished to return to the place that took everything from him, weeks after he was nearly killed. They don’t understand, that nowhere else does he feel alive. Even if it hurts, even if it scares him, the idea of giving up is akin to letting himself fall on his blade and die.

Unbidden, his mind conjures up the image of Ghost, of Simon, dark eyes glowing under golden light. He already knew he’d give his life to him, if it meant he’d be saved. It was obvious, that given the opportunity he’d sacrifice himself to save his brother in arms.

He didn’t know, that as he faces the idea of dying, he would also be there, his voice would whisper, beckon him to stay.

He didn’t know, how desperately he’d want to listen to that voice, the way it would drive him as much as his oath does. Urge him to live.

Soap doesn’t want to die. Knighthood doesn’t allow him to fear the end, only ordering him to fight, fight, fight. Through the pain, through endless armies, through Hell itself, their reward pushing back the Aether for another day.

Whether they live or die doesn’t matter, as long as they never drop their blades.

But he wants to live. He wants to stay by Ghost’s side, see the man beneath the armour, beneath the mask. It is wrong, the strong pull he feels towards him.

Tapping at his shoulder, Price makes him lift his head, “think about it, alright? Anything you need, know you can talk to me.” He ruffles his hair, making Soap pout, “or Ghost, for that matter, he’s doing a better job at keeping you away from trouble than me, I reckon.”

Soap fixes his hair back in place, “doesn’t say much when I still manage to get injured nearly every quest, does it?”

“Baby steps, MacTavish, have faith.” The Captain huffs, “I’ve kept you from your duties for long enough, go on Soap.”

“Yes Sir,” Soap bows exaggeratedly, receiving a light slap to his shoulder.

Price drags a hand over his features, “get out of my sight,” he grumbles with too much fondness to be truly angry.

Chuckling in return, he exhales a long breath once he’s out of sight.

His heart asks to see Ghost, the comfort that dark stare brings unmatched by any earthly possession, and his feet obey, carrying him towards the Workshop once again.

SYSTEM DIAGNOSTICS RUNNING… NO ERRORS FOUND

AETHERIUM INHIBITOR STATUS: NORMAL

CURRENT LOCATION: 52.056°N 2.716°W

CURRENT OBJECTIVE: REPORT TO GARY SANDERSON

It’s illogical how different Sanderson’s tools feel to Ghost, compared to the careful hands of Johnny.

He doesn’t have any ultra-sensitive pressure sensors lining his plates, as that would not go well in a battle, and mechanically he shouldn’t be able to tell who is touching him.

But he can. There’s a certain impatience to Gary’s movements, as he goes through each of his limbs to test them. His monthly checkups are never a particularly interesting occasion, but the newfound knowledge both of them have charge the air with tension.

Ghost isn’t set on what he should reveal to Sanderson willingly, knowing that on one hand, he is the most likely to be able to find anything about his past, but on the other…

Trust is a fickle term in his mind, its borders hazy and unclear. Even so, he knows who he trusts, and Gary is certainly not among that short list of names.

Said man drops his small flat-head screwdriver to type with one hand, “your joints are well-oiled, I don’t remember doing that.”

“Soap did it.” He answers automatically, turning around as Gary motions him to.

“Is that so… I’d have to thank him, makes my job easier,” Ghost turns his head to watch him move his cloak to the side, “let’s take a look at your inhibitor, bet that’s been working overtime.”

That’s a bloody understatement if he’s ever heard one. Just a few days ago he’s been around more Aetherium than his system has ever dealt with, and it brought it down to its knees.

Sanderson opens a panel at his back, violet light filling the room. With both hands occupied, Gary can’t speak, and so Ghost is left cataloguing the minute changes his mechanical parts detect as they’re tweaked. The familiarity with which Sanderson navigates his own body would frighten him, if he wasn’t used to the labs by now.

He knows, what he remembers is nothing but a fraction of what he must’ve endured there, as it could have been decades between when he was first taken in by the scientists of J.S. Systems, and now. Who knows how many iterations of himself lived and died there, Ghosts that never passed the rigorous tests they all went through.

Endless tasks, endless orders, none of which he could disobey, his body a cage and he, its prisoner.

He supposes that hasn’t changed much, Ghost still inclined to heed the command of his masters, and his system actively disallowing him from opening the metal frame encasing him.

Sanderson tightens some valve in his chest, Aetherium surging in his artificial veins for a moment. How much control does Gary have, how little does Ghost…

… Could he…?

“Sanderson.” Ghost turns, Gary grunting as his arms are ripped away from his inner parts, “do you have schematics of my body?”

Giving him the dirtiest look he’s seen on a person, Sanderson wipes his hands of grease, and grabs his keyboard, “of course I do, why are you asking-”

“Show me.”

Blinking rapidly, Sanderson opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, not unlike a fish, “why- No, just let me finish your checkup.”

‘No.’

No, He won’t let Ghost learn how his own body works. No, he doesn’t get to take a bit of control of his own leash. No, his father screams, you don’t get to decide shit, you fucking waste of space.

Sanderson approaches him with a pair of pliers, and their shape elongates, hones into a blade, and he hears the laughs of a man who, for a time, had the final say on every single thing Simon did. When he slept, when he ate, when he suffered, when he died.

It rips through him, his system demanding he’d listen, obey, relinquish control. It’s what he was built for, what they built him for.

But there’s a different voice, louder, belonging to neither his system nor the soldier. It screams, I am human, and shouts, I want out.

Its name is Simon. The boy that had no blood on his hands but his own, and never wanted anything but to live.

He is small, soft, but determined, hopes and dreams only a child can hold onto fuelling him through Hell.

And it is that which moves Ghost, not the Aetherium inside him, not the fear-stricken once buried soldier. He picks the pliers out of Sanderson’s hand, throwing it at the wall with enough force that it dents it.

Towering over him, he growls, “show me the blueprints to my own body. Now.”

Eyes wide, Gary leans away from him, typing slowly, “what would you do if I didn’t?”

Without removing his glare from him, Ghost commands the blades lining his forearms to his hands, Aetherium knives humming a silent warning. Sanderson scoffs, “you can’t kill me, you know that-” And he throws.

Six blades dig themselves into the large screen mounted on the wall, sharp glass shattering loudly. Ghost removes them with a flick of the wrist, sheathing them as Gary cowers.

“You’re right,” Ghost says, stepping closer, “I can’t kill you, as that would also kill me. But…” He makes a show of surveying the room, “you have plenty of equipment to destroy, and I got all day.”

“You-” Gary snarls, “you’re a bloody arsehole, you didn’t need to do that!”

He finds mirth in that statement. That might be the first time Sanderson has talked to him like he’s an actual person. Can’t say a machine is a jerk when it can’t do anything beyond what it’s programmed to do, can you?

Ghost comes to a stop, leaving Gary cornered, “wouldn’t have if you listened to me.”

“Why do you need your schematics anyway?” Sanderson exhales roughly, “you should have access to everything through your system!”

“Everything except the controls on my face plates.”

That pauses the quick fire typing of Gary’s fingers. He taps the side of his keyboard, twisting his lip. “You want to open them?” He frowns, “what for?”

The answer should be clear for both of them. Ghost stops himself from pulling out his knives once more, thinking Sanderson is playing dumb on purpose, but…

His confused expression doesn’t look like a trick, genuine curiosity shining over malice, the latter he knows well. It simply doesn’t occur to him why he’d want to remove his mask.

Does he even remember that there’s anything beneath there beside wires and cogs?

“I want to see my own face.”

“Your face-” Gary halts his text-to-speech from finishing the sentence. “Right. You were searching for your identity, I suppose getting a vague idea of how you look would help.”

He turns his chair, using his sleeve to dust off the bigger glass shards from the desk, “you owe me a new screen.”

Ghost leans down, watching the cursor jump around on the smaller screen, “I don’t have anything to give you.” No one ever bothered setting up a bank account for him, surprisingly enough.

Gaze not straying from the screen, Sanderson types with his left hand, “there isn’t much I can ask of you, is there…” He wets his lip for a moment, thinking. “Those images we saw on the screen, your memories.”

“What about them?”

“Did you have any more?”

Sanderson is staring at him now, waiting. Ghost returns as good as he gets, and figures that either way, he’d have the memories plucked from his brain eventually.

Being as he is, often forced by his system to volunteer any and all of his thoughts, given the opportunity to choose for himself first, Ghost would rather give up the intel himself.

“I know my name. My first name.”

Sanderson got more excited by the newfound knowledge Ghost shared with him than he anticipated. He went on and on about how it narrowed down their searching scope, and the possibilities of Ghost’s, Simon’s, connections with the original founders of J.S. Systems.

Ghost himself doubts the scientists that built him had any attachments to the person he used to be, seeing as they did their damn best to bury Simon and choke his voice until it was barely a whisper. Gary didn’t want to hear about that, and eventually, returned to his computer to find what they were looking for.

As he goes through his folders, one image stands out. It’s a rudimentary sketch, made by someone clearly unskilled in art, of his face. Or, the face he was made to bear, the skull mask.

There’s something odd about it, though. It doesn’t look exactly like his, the lines going down his cheeks painted rather than being a hollow, the lower jaw missing, lines extending down his teeth instead. He thinks the chicken-scratched lines drawn from the tip of the mask to his head are stitches, and he can’t make sense of it.

Before he can ask Gary about it, a series of clips breaks free from his long-dead neurons, his system melding with his mind

PRESSURE REGISTERED OVER PLATE-05, PLATE-07, PLATE-08, REGION CODE NAME “FACE”

“Can you feel that, Ghost?”

“Pressure registered, all systems operational.”

A sigh. “Sometimes I regret giving you this face. I thought you’d appreciate it when you- If you woke up.”

“'Waking up’ is not a registered command.”

“I know. You’re dead.”

PRESSURE REMOVED FROM PLATE-05, PLATE-07, PLATE-08, REGION CODE NAME “FACE”

“I… I need to leave, but I’ll return tomorrow. Jack wants to do some tests, give you some weapons to try. You’d like that, wouldn’t you LT?”

“instructions unclear. Rephrase your order.”

“… Goodnight, Ghost.”

LIGHT SENSOR: 0

SYSTEM ACTIVATING POWER CONSERVATION MODE

AUDIO SENSORS DEACTIVATED

“-Ghost?”

He feels the wall hit his back as he jolts. The wires travelling up his spine and around his skull buzz with a rush of electricity, a phantom pressure triggering his sensors.

Shaking off the static from his vision, Ghost notices Gary’s arm lifted, a wire clutched tight between his fingers. Recognising it as the one he uses to connect to his system, Ghost knocks it out of his grasp, and away from him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He growls.

Sanderson has the gall to act irritated, “you were not responding to me for several minutes! I thought your system crashed, or-”

“My system is fully operational, Aetherium Inhibitor status at caution.” Ghost recites, off-putting to himself as he mimics what he said in the memory nearly word for word. “I saw something.”

Sanderson raises his brow, “like what?”

“A memory-”

He is interrupted by the door to Sanderson’s room opening, the light and sounds from the Workshop filtering in. At the threshold stands Johnny, his bright eyes meeting his with a slight smile, so small Ghost doubts it’s conscious.

The overflow of electrical currents fogging his head clears, his joints relaxing from their tight hold. His lungs may not need air anymore, but his whole body feels lighter with him here.

“Soap,” Gary types, “what are you doing here?”

Johnny strolls in, weight spread equally between both of his legs. It settles Ghost, seeing him healthy and confident as he should be.

Coming to a stop beside Ghost, Soap taps his shoulder, “can’t have my minder on the loose can I?” His cheery demeanour changes when he notices the shattered screen in front of them, knife marks obvious in what remains of the glass.

“What- Ghost, why’d you-?”

Looking away, Ghost answers lowly, “had to do some convincing. That’s between me and Sanderson.”

“He wanted to know how to open the plates on his face.” Gary adds. Fucking snitch.

“Oh!” Soap takes a closer look at the surviving screen, “do ye know? I’ve been trying to do it manually but Ghost said his system blocks him from engaging the mechanism.”

Sanderson waves for Johnny to take the mouse, the knight awkwardly navigating through the folders. Shifting his gaze towards Ghost, he types, “you were going to tell me something before Soap came in.”

It doesn’t escape him that Soap instantly angles his body to cover Ghost at the words, arms tensing for a fight, ready to jump into his defence. How odd it is, to have someone willing to do that for him.

Ghost, however, allows his system to calculate the best course of action, and concludes sharing that information with Sanderson will only aid in their objective.

“Affirmative. I saw another memory from my past.”

Excerpt from John “Soap” MacTavish’s journal, page ??? (ripped) (“ARRAN and MORNA”):

Fighting myself I always lose

So I’ve decided upload schedules are overrated, have some MWII angst and fluff

fighting myself I always lose - That_Unfortunate_Crow - Call of Duty (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

just got a new model woo hoo

Two fine lads down some ale and go straight for it 😳

fr though I love it when boys are being boys. Price and Ghost are cringing hard, too tired to tell them to shut it. And yeah, they got so tipsy they took off their coats ‘cause it’s “warm enough” (uh-huh, as if)

simon is such a great character bc i can so perfectly imagine him being nasty and rude and disrespectful in all of the perfect ways😋

like you can’t tell me that man isn’t a misogynist asshole at least a little i’m sorry

Yes of course!! I don’t have a sibling myself but I have a few friends who do have siblings and this has happened. I know big brother Hesh is walking over to whoever Logan pointed out to try and get their number for him, no need to be asked. Logan would do the same, but he’d need explicit directions to go ask for Hesh.

Ive been watching A Knight of The Seven Kingdoms and all i can think about is SIMON RILEY

THATS HIM THATS THE FACE

Bound in Rouge Chapter 7: Pyrolysis

Prev Chapter

Next Chapter

cw: Guns, graphic violence, drugging, murder, death

You had finally done it, infiltrated the Mashcov family, yet, how would Simon react now that you’re gone

°❀⋆.ೃ⋆˚🐝˖°ʚɞ°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

Your plan was going perfectly. 

You’d know there was no way to get through to the Mashcov family from the patriarch; that much was obvious, yet the son, the son, was more of a weak spot. Not totally convinced by his father’s life, yet complicit enough to enjoy the fruits of what comes from it. So you go through him, you get into his house—the one he shares with his father, and you get to snoop through the files on his Daddy’s computer. 

Flawless design. 

It worked too, you get to the back of the car, Abelev sat in the front seat as the man’s hands are on you, his lips attaching themselves to the side of your neck as his fingers trace the hemline of the dress you’d changed into before you’d left out the back door. You weren’t quite in your body when you felt his grip drag on you. It was so different from the feeling of Simon’s own on you last night—his rough and reverent—while Isaak’s was soft and voracious. You didn’t quite know when you’d started comparing men’s touches to your Lieutenant, somewhere in the quiet night of him cradling you with his hushed gravel stories of his mother and little brother, you think. It wasn’t consuming, but it was confecting. 

The song was the perfect bait for Isaak, but the words, you couldn’t quite help yourself from staring at the man who had slowly become a fixture in your nights. The dry wit, the strong concerns, the little quirks. You could feel the sparks of something…beginning, and that terrified you.

So, you did what you did best, enmeshed yourself in the mission, let every part of it extirpate the hopes blossoming in your stomach. You let go of who that was, unmoored yourself from using him as an anchor, and forced yourself to be the soldier you knew yourself to be. You couldn’t let yourself fall to this, no matter what you’d said in your song. You liberated yourself from the binds he was deliberately inflicting on your skin. 

From one trap into another, from one grasp into a new. 

“You are so beautiful,” Isaak murmurs against your pulse point, a sickening feeling flowering underneath your skin. “How did no one take you yet, hmm? No one scooped you up?” 

A forced laugh as he continues to play with the hem of your skirt. “No one has been lucky enough to catch me.” 

“That will change, yes?”

His mouth reattaches to you, and you roll your eyes slightly at the words. As if. Your mind wanders back to Simon, back to your Lieutenant. Just this afternoon, you’d been translating some intel for your Captain, conversations between Isaak and his associates; you’d been haunched over since early morning, only half-heartedly gnawing on a chunk of a ration bar before going back to it for breakfast. Ghost had come up behind you, the feeling of his observations barely registering in your mind. You don’t think of his rustling, nor the groan of the stovetop being clicked on. Not until you hear a grumble behind you, the warmth of his body coming up to caress the empty space between you two. “You need to eat.” 

You hum tepidly, not pulling away from the thick headphones and hushed Russian dialects slipping through the speakers. You don’t even pull your eyes from the script of your writing inked across the lined paper. 

A brusque muttering slipped through the back of your hearing before you suddenly felt the chair being pulled out, the rickety wooden thing leaned back on its two legs, your eyes meeting deep layers of brown, a twinkle of mischief. “Eat. Or I’ll be offended, Sergeant.” 

There’s a distinct swoop feeling in your stomach as you chuckle, a mirthful feeling building for the first time in a long time. “How could I possibly offend you, Lieutenant?” 

He doesn’t move, doesn’t let you free from the bosquet abyss. Just lights up, like the small glow of fireflies lazily drifting across the dew-slicked grass. “Make me think you don’t like my cooking.”

“Well, you do know the saying about Brits and their cuisine.” A huff and then suddenly, his hands around your waist, his arm grabs you into the crook of his body, lifting you up and out of the chair with ease. 

“Up an at ‘em, soldier.” He tugs you despite your peal of laughter, nudging you to your spot on the wall, a bowl of what looks like instant mashed potatoes and sausage. “Bangers an’ mash.” He mutters as you turn. 

You cackle at that, and he rolls his eyes warmly at you despite the fact that you don’t see him. In fact, all of him seemed to soften. You coo contentedly at the warmth of food in your stomach…

“Blyat’!”

You jerk back suddenly, the swear edging your lips as the feeling of a bite nipping the crook of your shoulder brings you back to the moment. Issak’s teeth pierce your skin painfully. You let out a hiss of surprise as he chuckles at you. “Now I have your attention again.”

“Sorry,” you smile mousily as he soothes the bite with his tongue, the feeling of the car rocking to a close. The large upscale mansion is a heady melding of Byzantine and ancient Rus. The wooden arches are Russian motifs; obviously pulling inspiration from ancient palaces and churches in Yaroslavl. It was probably built in the nineties; any time before that was uncommon for such upscale buildings. It was glorious. A beautiful array of carved lumber and polychrome brickwork. “It’s… magnificent.” You murmur. 

Yet, you don’t even feel his eyes slip from you as he agrees, dragging you out of the car incessantly. As his hands paw at your body, Abelev follows close behind, his large body off-puttingly quiet on the gravel pathway. “Roma, you may leave us now,” Isaak says with finality as you enter the foyer, the large, grandiose staircases leading further into the home. The man drags the charcoal leer to her, the rise of his scar twisting on his mouth as he hesitates, before nodding once. The thick molasses depths of his glower put you on edge; Isaak barely lets you pause on it. You are pulled to the left, the man dispassionately listing off things as he passes. Bathroom, guest room, library, my father’s study, oh look, this is my bedroom…

Father’s study, hmm. 

There’s little to register in his room, a show of opulence, a little boy playing dress up as a grown man under his daddy’s roof. 

You’re pulled into Isaak’s lap as he settles you against the deep blue silk of his bedsheets. Hands on your hips, roaming your body, you can feel the press of him against you, the feeling of his icy hot touch on your body. Blistering frost stains your skin black with the bite as they trail over the soft press of your flesh. It was a swinish gluttony that obliterated any sense of peace you’d found within yourself. The touch… it was too much, too soft, too little, too hard, just… wrong. His hands weren’t quite large enough, calluses never having been built along the pads of his palms. It was…unnerving. 

With a smile, you slowly trail your hand down into the slope of your skirt cheekily, as if putting on a show, and covertly you grab the small needle taped to the inside of your thigh. You pull the cap off, pricking him slightly as you bring your hands up and then drag your nails down his neck—disguising the feeling. The drug was a small paralytic that you’d thankfully brought in your ruck before the mission. 

It works within minutes, his eyes dilating as his touches get more sluggish, blinking with an enfeebled motion. His brows furrow as you slip off him, Poppy disappearing in a second as Mozu emerges.”Shhh…shhh…” You sooth condescendingly as he slowly slips into a hemiplegic sort of state. “You’re confused, and that’s okay… of course you were too stupid to know you were being used.”

Those piercing cerulean waves crash violently against the shores of his lashline, Poseidone’s mighty anger fracturing on rocky paths below. You knew he was pissed, murderous even. Yet you just bend down, giving a patronizing coo. “You thought you were hunting me? You thought you could catch me?” You get really close and whisper in English. “You don’t even know who I am.” 

As you slip out of the room, you feel a heavy weight being swung at you, ducking and twirling out of the way and bringing your leg up in a swift cyclone kick. It barrels directly into Abelev’s stomach knocking the wind out of him as you grapple his arm, latching his wrist joint so he drops the gun and you can simultaneously hitch forward wrapping your legs around his neck and twisting into a leg lock, crushing his windpipe as you grab the blade from the side of your dress and stab it into the side of his neck; the spray of arterial blood sputtering across the room as his eyes roll into a blank slate. Heaving your breath, you get up, fixing the hem of your skirt, you kick the heels off, slowly making your way through the halls.

You find your way into the large, maximalist office. Deep red, brow,n and cream colors enrich the paint. Marble and brass accents mix together, and the plush velvet fabrics and brocade hang across the walls. A lone computer sits in the center of a large executive desk. A smile brightens on your face, looking around and clearing the room, you slink inside deeper. Rounding the computer, you click your teeth as you see the password. Grabbing the HID from your bra ha—. You stick it into the side of the computer, opening a backdoor and obtaining passwords through the computer’s contents in seconds. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, finding the files you were looking for and screenshotting them, every paper trail, all the locations, uploaded within seconds. 

You step back with a satisfied smile before your heart drops at a familiar click. 

“Oh, Mozu, I wish you wouldn’t have done that.” 

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Am gáeth i mmuir. ar domni. Am tond trethan i tír. Am fúaim mara. Am dam secht ndírend. Am séig i n-aill. Am dér gréneg. Cia dé delbas faebru.” You sing, the weight of a young girl against your chest as you slowly run your hands through her silken curly locks, the vivid ginger color mixing between shades of fiery strands. “A ndind ailsiu. Cáinté im gaí cainte gaithe. Am.” 

She giggles brightly, “Again! Please Brígh!”

‘Location—Port Rois, Mission–rtseterio tiinfnrlato, Name—Brígh Doyle

“If I sing it again, it won’t be as special, hmm?” You whisper, kissing her rosy, youth-chubbed cheeks. 

She nods solemnly, her pleats perfectly styled with matching bows to her school uniform. “Do I look pretty?” 

“The most.” You promise sweetly, your hands brushing against her face. “Now go on, grab your shoes and school bag. We’ll walk in a moment.” 

“And you’ll be taking Conan with you both.” A deep north-Irish accent spills across the room, and you feel a weight appear on your upper shoulder as you glance up to see him. 

A strong stubbled jaw, the slight peppering of greys mixing in with the deep browns. Solid, clear blue eyes, the same shade as the Atlantic Ocean crashing against the limestone cliffs of White Rock. He leers downward, the weight of a ruler looking to a maid, yet when he sees you, surrounded by his daughter’s toys and hair products, he softens. “You know better to go anywhere without him, both of you.” He states that firm rhotic sea-salt words splashing across your body. You give a sheepish look, ducking your head as you glance up between your lashes. 

“Sorry, of course, Mister Cillian.” You say, standing up, fixing the pleats of your skirt. 

The tender note is back as he fixes the collar of your polo. “Now, you know you can call me Darach.” 

 Before either of you can speak again, the excited squeal of Róisín interrupts the moment. “Da!” As she tackles his suited legs, the man swoops her up in his arms and brings her close to him. 

“Mo stóirín.” He coos at her as they sit for a moment in the silence of their comfort. 

“Did you see how Brígh did my braids? I’m so pretty now, pretty like her.” At her words, you feel that warm underglow come back to your cheeks, and the duo turns on you with matching shades of oceanic mischief and awe. 

Yet, Mister Cillian only nods in solemn agreement. “You’re right stóirín, she is quite pretty, both of you are.” 

You let out a gentle cough as Róisín reaches for her with grabby hands, he transfers her to you as you swoop her to your hip. “Come on, wee one, time for Primary. Say bye to your Da now.” You give Mister Cillian a shy wave as the two of you are joined by Conan, who leads you both to the school yard a few blocks away. 

You didn’t always walk, but on days like this, when the weather was perfect in the sky, you and Róisín preferred it. She was off your hip now, hands wrapped in yours as she chimes in your ear. Skipping the cracks in the pavement as the young girl swings your joint arms. “Brígh, will you always be here?”

The question is so sudden, but with children, it’s something you get used to. They have little use for filters, a thought pops in their mind, and they spurt it out with no social niceties. You hum in pretend thought, “I’ll be here a long time, and when you don’t need me anymore, I’ll be a ring away.”

Those eyes look up at you, the ginger locks almost glowing in the sun. “I’ll always need you.”

“Then I’ll always be here.” 

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“What do you mean, she’s gone AWOL? Ghost—damnit Lieutenant, answer me!”

There’s no comprehension of the orders in his ear as he snaps the stupid earpiece to the ground, stomping his heel on the small object. His dark eyes drag over the dressing room, over the small vanity with the words ‘Poppy’ strewn across the back. The blooms sitting on the edge in an immaculate crystal vase mock him, grabbing it, he chucks it against the wall, little care for the shards scattering and exploding across the room. 

Will drive you, will drive you…Mad!

You were gone. You weren’t here. He had ripped the crowd apart looking for you, but Isaak, Abelev, and most importantly, you were gone. Miss Petrov gave him a pitying glance when she saw him roving the mob of people. Like he was some jealous boyfriend and you were his scorned lover drawn to the arms of some other man. 

As if he were some… cuckold and you had found yourself a new paramour. 

Roxanne!

There’s a certain… anger that bellows inside of him as he progresses into something…wrathful. 

You don’t have to put on that red light..walk the streets for money…you don’t care if it’s wrong or if it is right

You didn’t, how could you do this? Break the bounds of what you were becoming for a damn mission. He knew you’d said that you’d do anything for it. Anything to complete your tasks, but this? 

Roxanne!

There was no mistaking that you’d gone willingly, you’d not caused a commotion, your gun had been left with the rest of your gear in your changing bag. 

You don’t have to wear that dress tonight

The sight of you, wrapped in the same color as that man’s eyes, swathed in his stare with the weight of him. It was… it was something else, that bitter jealousy, a contagion inside of him, spreading metastasizing…

Roxanne!

No. He wouldn’t allow it; he knows exactly where you’re going, knows the damn place where they’d taken you. Where you’d willingly gone.

You don’t have to sell your body to the night

No. He had some hunting to do tonight.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You’re frozen, hands drawing away from the keys as you slowly draw your hands up, stepping back from the desk. Mikhail Mashcov stood before you, an almost bored look on his face. He had another man behind him—one you recognized from photos as one of the Bratva guards. He helped a stumbling Isaak, who looked at you with a shaken lividity. You smile once, tilting your head as you slowly take hold of the situation you’d found yourself in. “You’re too late, I’ve already uploaded it. You have failed, your plan is done.” 

His head tilts, and he nods once, “You’re right, the SAS knows my exact plans…” You become rigid as the man clicks his teeth, the guard helping Isaak to a chair in the corner of the room. You’d never mentioned the organization you were with. You’d had the name Mozu since you were in the American forces. There was nothing that tied you to the SAS, unless he had some other intel. Unless your whole mission has been made. “But…we adapt, we make new plans, that’s how the world keeps turning, yes?”

Mikhail sneered, those oil-black irises practically gleaming in the lowlighting of the room, he gestures with his gun for you to walk forward; you do so. Cautiously, you inch near him, eyes on his index finger. Waiting for the second it twitches to the trigger.  In that moment, that second, your life would be done. The blink of an eye, a millisecond decision, and poof, oblivion. “Yeah? Adapt? How you gonna do that? Your government? Knows you failed. Your money? It’s gone.”

The silence stretched for a long time before there was a loud sound of deep belly laughter. “You think Russia is the only one who has money? No… Now, when I first heard of a foreigner in the club…I was a little angry when I found out my dear сын had fallen for a spy.” You stare at him through his joyful explanation, not understanding where he was getting at. “You are a very good spy, little Kukolka. We didn’t even know it was you until that little scuffle at the club. That Englishman? Did you in. When we realized our little Nadzeya was just a story? We put your little face out there to see what bit.”

The terror began to brew in your stomach; too many organizations to count wanted your head on a spike. “Yeah?”

“The only thing we needed to do then was… catch you. Our client, you see, said he’s paying almost double our government for you. Alive, unfortunately.“ 

Alive? That was a surprise; your brows furrow as you shake your head once, not understanding. “Who would want me alive?”

“Someone who thought you dead. Brígh.”

No.

You try to move back, but the safety clicks off on the gun as you glance to the side, the guard is watching you with a dark outface. 

No. 

You don’t realize you’re panicking until you see him, cavalier and purring his deeply thick words through her like molasses. He nears you closer, his body almost touching you. “Oh…Kukolka… a certain man was so happy to hear you had made it.” The slimy, sickly fatherly tone makes her hair stand on end. “So he asked that I…keep you here until he can come and collect you.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, steadily including buh-dump, buh-dump, buh-dump, racketing across your ribs. Flashes of dulse and peat fires consume you, dragging you back to places you feared. Pulling you down into purgatory as your nailbeds bend with the effort of your claws. 

“So, we let you play your little game… because, do you want to know something, Mozu? The best way to catch a bird?” The muzzle of the gun pushes against the underside of your jaw, resting in the small area underneath your chin. You shake your head, not quite sure when—

“You give it a rat.” The shot rings out as the slunken sound of a bullet rips through Isaak’s throat, ending him in moments. A gasp escapes you, despite yourself. Out of all the things you’d expected him to do, it wasn’t that. The sacrifice was so biblically true to his namesake; he was gone. Those haunting expanses of cerulean dimming to grey stygian depths.

Looking back to you, the hot metal stings with a sulphuric fire as it presses against your cheekbone. “Now he said alive, but he didn’t say we couldn’t have some fun first, yes?”

꒷꒦ꙮ꒷꒦

completely forgot to post lol, hope y'all enjoy, oh and BTW, FUCK ICE, GO TO LOCAL PROTEST, BE SAFE, HELP YOUR NEIGHBORS

song: El tango de Roxanne by Ewan McGregor, Jacek Koman, and José Feliciano

Necromechanic - Chapter 13: O Lord, Give Us a Heart Steadfast, Which No Tribulation Can Wear Out

[PREV CHAPTER] [AO3]

It’s time for me to justify the “Ghoap” tag I put on every post >:)

The helm was heavy on Soap’s weary head. Sweltering in the summer’s sun, even without the artificial air to choke him it was difficult to breathe.

Gaz is at his right, back ramrod straight and posture proper, had he been any stiller he’d be a statue. Soap fixes his banner once more, exhaling roughly.

“Never realised how long the other knights had to stand for us when I went through my knighting trial…” He muttered, “damn waste of time, in my opinion.”

He receives a light chuckle from Gaz, “for once, I wholeheartedly agree. Could think of a dozen things I’d rather do right now.”

“Ye can say it again,” Soap’s eyes pass over the long row of knights, leading to a forming Aether tear. The Summer knighting trial is soon to begin, very soon if God will be ever so merciful, allowing the squires who are of age to attempt to earn their title as knights of the Order.

They will either become knights, or die. And many will die.

“Finally,” Gaz whispers, and the sounds of heavy steps herald the coming of the squires, their armour identical as they have yet to attain their own.

Helms tucked under their arm, Soap watches their faces pass by, a myriad of emotions swirling across them. They look young to him, being 7 years their senior, and Soap’s thoughts can’t help but drift to the only person missing from their squad in this occasion.

He wonders how old Ghost is. It is such a simple question, one he never thought would be hard to answer, but for a man trapped under metal plates and reduced to a machine, it is impossible to tell.

Ghost didn’t react to Gary’s finding yesterday, the realisation he is from a world extinct. He remained silent by Soap’s side, barely responding to his words, and when they reached his room, bid him goodnight and disappeared.

Soap tried to sleep for about an hour before giving up, roaming the halls until morn, searching for a trace of metal and coming up empty handed. It was just his luck that he forgot the date, and had to rush to the armoury to don on his armour for the knighting trials’ send off.

Among the resolute faces, he spots Matthews, a slight tremble to his step. Beneath that cocksure attitude hid a frightened boy, it seemed, and Soap doesn’t take any glee in seeing it.

He still remembers the fear, the first time he stepped into the Lost Lands and knew, this fight wasn’t a training exercise.

No, it was a fight for life and death.

In his hands, a broadsword, gripped tightly as if it will shield him from the cruelty of the world. Matthews’ eyes meet his for a moment, and Soap nods solemnly, hoping to impart on him courage.

The wide-eyed stare he receives in return doesn’t tell him if he succeeded, but that will be seen once the squires return, their hands anointed with Aether blood.

The squires stop at the cusp of the tear, waiting for their elders to signify their orders. Captain Price is with them, his white armour shining in the sunlight like a beacon. Many look up at him, his arm sure as he orders their helms up.

As one, tubes are connected, chemical air flowing through youthful lungs, and a silence falls on the order.

Soap inhales, and his voice recedes into the calls of his brothers in spilt blood, as they pray for their young.

“Harken, we beseech Thee, O Lord,
Grant us Divine Grace,
To protect and conquer our five senses.

O Lord,
Bless us this blade,
To be the fear and terror of all evil-doers.

O Lord,
Give us a heart steadfast,
Which no tribulation can wear out.”

His leg screams for rest, but Soap persists, heart thumping as they shout, the squires readying to enter the Lost Lands.

“Hark! Behold our will!
Hark! Behold our strength!
Hark! Behold our faith!

Banished shall be the Aether’s fate,
Damnation its doom!”

“Blessed be our knights and Watchers, blessed be our squires!” Their Captains call. “Charge!”

“Blessed be!” The squires yell in return, and in a rush of heavy steps, run into the Aether tear, and allow the violet light to consume them.

And in the quiet following, Soap’s heart slows, in the sea of knights of British red and blue, prayers that are not his own on his tongue, he has never felt more alone. The reminder of his failure is carried at his hip at every moment, a sign to all that he succumbed under the weight of his duty.

Wouldn’t it be easier to fall, and never rise again?

“We would embrace you, knight,
In flowers eternal,
In Aether undying.

You belong with us,
With those who fell and rose once again,
With those who gave themselves to the sovereign,
With the all powerful,

Our Dragon.”

An unblinking eye stares at him, light swallowed by its pupil. Fangs sharpened grin at him, and a maw opens, and it beckons, it beckons, it beckons to him.

No… That can’t be his place… Can it?

“-Soap?”

He gasps, Gaz’s helm tilted towards him. The rest of the knights have started dispersing, returning to their daily work, the two of them standing alone beside the tear walls. “A-aye?” He forces his tone to be calm.

“… You solid?” Gaz asks, removing his helm to pin him with a look. Soap doesn’t follow his lead, the visor a welcome hiding place for his flickering expressions.

“As a rock.” He responds, giving him a pat that gets lightly slapped away. With a chuckle, he starts walking back to the fort, “tell me if ye see Ghost around, will you? Bastard is avoiding me again, I think.”

Not staying long enough to hear his answer, Soap runs off, the creeping feeling of teeth scraping against his spine following him all the way there.

Thump.

The training sword hits the target with force, shaking the entire rod it’s mounted upon. Soap strikes at it again and again, its surface puckering as the cotton ball filling gets beat down.

Thump, thump, thump.

His leg burns, arms screaming for rest, muscles nearly giving out. Teeth grit, sweat dripping down his nose, he slashes the dummy, the dull edge of the blade leaving only faint marks on the fabric.

A sword at this state is not fit for fighting with, unable to cut even the softest of foes. It would not handle the force of a real battle, sooner to break than to kill the weakest of enemies. It is brittle, in mind and spirit, and pathetic, a mockery of the weapon it once was.

Thumpthumpthumpthump-

Soap’s knee finally buckles, and with a frustrated snarl, he pushes off the floor to thrust at the dummy, ripping the crude stitching along its side and spilling cotton. He stares at the white fluff with distaste, his stance shaky, out of form.

He kicks the ruined target down to rest beside the other three he has already destroyed, and moves to the next, relishing in the numbness spreading through his limbs.

The sword in his arm feels impossibly heavy, yet he lifts it still, his blood singing for the self-inflicted pain of this fake war. A knight such as him should be able to take it, even as each and every of his cells begs for rest, as his scars pull on his skin so tightly he wants to cry.

Soap swings the weapon down, but it never connects with the dummy.

A cold hand holds it aloft.

“You need to rest, Soap. This is enough.”

He rips his hand away, intending to ignore him as he stabs the target again, and again, until his legs give out beneath him, and he falls-

Only to be caught by metal arms, their grip steadying him.

He struggles weakly, his breaths coming out short, “let me go! I’m- I got this!”

“Clearly.”

Soap growls, pushing away from Ghost with as much force as he can muster. Ghost simply wraps his arms around him, encasing him wholly in an iron embrace.

He pulls Soap’s head to tuck under his chin, and his world is reduced to armour plates and glowing wires.

It rips out a silent gasp from his chest, as if Ghost’s hands have wrapped directly around his heart, held it between those metal fingers. They could kill it effortlessly, it won’t take a fraction of the power that courses through his artificial veins.

But they hold it instead, hold him, and in the near darkness, Soap’s body betrays him, and he loses the fight in his muscles, falling limp.

“Why are ye here.” He asks, voice tired. “I thought yer avoiding me again.”

He feels fingers trail up his braid, the sensation driving a heat up his stomach. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Soap scoffs, attempting to shove at the confusing feelings in his gut, “aye, you were just workin’ on yer disappearing act.”

It sounds whiny when spoken out loud, the fact that not a full day apart digs into him with claws, as if he needs Ghost to be there at all hours of the day. In his defence, his absence in the past has solely meant bad.

But who’s to say that, now that Ghost has more free will over his actions, he even wants to be around Soap?

The thought sours every previous one he had, and he huffs a self-deprecating laugh, “ye don’t need to watch over me anymore, you know. Ye can just ignore Price’s orders, doubt anyone will report you.”

He expects Ghost to drop him, leave him shaking on the cool stone floor. Soap would understand him, even if it would hurt in a way he didn’t think he could still feel after what he’s been through.

Instead, the arms around him, his shield from the harsh world, tighten, and a robotic voice snarls in his ear, “what makes you think I’m here due to orders?”

At Soap’s stunned silence, he continues, “you were the only one to treat me as an equal from the start. There is no one I trust as much as I trust you.”

He… Trusts him? Better than anyone?

That feeling in his gut returns tenfold, a searing heat that rises from the tips of his toes to his head, and it wants out with a laugh or a cry, Soap barely keeping it locked inside.

Nobody… Soap is nobody’s first choice, in anything. Not the best knight, nor squad-mate, not even friend. It is both horrifying and exhilarating that he’s Ghost’s most trusted person.

It nearly feels like a lie, and he would’ve argued against it, if he didn’t trust Ghost as much in return.

Soap finally wraps his arms around Ghost as well, his shaky muscles protesting the motion, but he has no issue ignoring them. He grins so hard it hurts his cheeks, and raises his head to meet Ghost’s eyes, smiling wider as he sees them already on him.

“Alright?” Ghost asks, and he has to let out a chuckle to dispel the pure glee it mounts in him.

“Aye,” he feels his cheeks colour, a part of him embarrassed at his odd behaviour, “more than.”

Ghost nods, and to Soap’s dismay, loosens his hold on him, allowing him to sit and rest his legs. Soap notices his stiff posture, almost sensing a loss of direction now that he’s made sure Soap is taken care of. “And you?”

“What?”

“Are you alright?”

Metal limbs shifting, Ghost takes long moments to answer. That hot burning in Soap’s gut recedes, worry replacing it.

It can’t be easy to face what Ghost is remembering, the little Soap is privy to terrifying by its own right, made all the more horrid by the fact it is from a life stolen from Ghost. Made forgotten by the hands of men who are dead, allowed to rest unlike the machine they created.

They were never supposed to meet, were things right, he realises. Soap wasn’t supposed to be here, in a fort which does not match his own colours, and Ghost…

Ghost would’ve been long dead, or sentenced to roam the earth as a lifeless husk, until he was made dead.

Some ugly part in Soap is happy that their lives didn’t go that way. If only so that their paths intersect, that they could reach this point, find a kinship in the other. It may be the most selfish thing he has ever thought, but he can’t help it.

“There is something funny in it all.” Ghost eventually says, garnering a confused look from Soap. “The fact I was a soldier. Was made for killing long before they replaced my parts with steel.”

“Yer not merely a killing machine, Ghost.” Soap objected fiercely, rising to shaky feet.

It doesn’t convince Ghost, “the only thing I can remember is death. My role was to kill, or be killed, and it is no different now, is it?”

“You are not yer role!” Soap snarls, the idea Ghost is just some weapon making him want to scream.

He’s so much greater than a simple blade to direct at enemies. His dead-pan humour, the way he goes out of his way to help Soap, his arms embracing him, strong enough to crush yet gentle, their caress on his skin a flitting kiss-

What in God’s name is he thinking about?

Soap mentally shakes himself out of his mind, “and beside, you forgot one memory. The woman.”

“That… That felt different.”

“But she was familiar to you, right? You weren’t born a soldier, a robot. There was a Ghost that had a family, friends, dreams and fears, because you are- You were human.”

Ghost’s stare leaves him, tracing the stone floors with a tilt to his head. “It doesn’t feel that way. Most days.”

“The more you remember, the more it will. I swore to help you, and come hell or high water, we will find out who ye are.” Soap says, assured, “and we already found a lot, we just need to find some sort of database from before 2024 and search for ye.”

“You say that as if it’s easy.” Ghost drawls, but his eyes lift once again.

Soap gives him his well practised cheeky grin, “psht, can’t be that hard, couldn’t have been that many British soldiers, not like ye were at war or anything.”

“There were 183,000.”

“183 what?!” Soap squawks, before gathering himself. “I mean- Like I said, it can’t be that hard.”

SYSTEM DIAGNOSTICS RUNNING… 9 ERRORS FOUND

AETHERIUM INHIBITOR STATUS: NORMAL

CURRENT LOCATION: 52.056°N 2.716°W

CURRENT OBJECTIVE: AWAITING ORDERS

The sky is cloudless, a vast blue stretching infinite above Ghost. He wonders just how many times he saw these same skies, what they used to remind him when the make of his mind was still whole.

Every new piece of himself confuses him further. Memories of a life that was his, in some ways, and in others not. He is not the person that broke out of that coffin, suffered endless torture, the scars of each and every of his battles erased.

Just how much of a person can you replace until they’re not the same being anymore?

He doesn’t feel like that nameless soldier, but a base version of him fears all the same. The name of his tormentor still invokes rage in him and the soldier, his face making him itch to bury his knife into a malicious grin.

Would he like whoever he was? Was he even a good person? Violence seems like an afterthought for him, the soldier, a mentality that ignores blood no matter where it drips from.

Who is Ghost now, anyway? A machine has no sense of self. You cannot say a blade is adventurous, or playful. You cannot say a gun is timid, or envious.

The program in his head can’t answer any of those questions. It knows to follow orders, and to kill. Nothing more.

And isn’t that what a soldier is, at their core?

Ghost watches the banners adorning the fort’s wall flutter in the wind, threads shimmering in summer sun. The decorations, tassels and bells and glyphs, meant for the knighting trial that must’ve ended moments ago.

Watches as a figure steps closer, armour clinking, his face stern.

“Soap has been looking for you.” Gaz says in lieu of a greeting.

It doesn’t surprise him, but the reminder of the knight he is supposed to protect ricochets inside his chest, firing off all sorts of sensations. “Does he require my assistance?”

Gaz sighs, his helm tucked under his arm, “how would I know, he practically ran away after we sent off the squires to their trials. What are you doing here?”

“… Thinking.”

“Lots to think about, I’d bet…” Gaz trails off, shifting in place. He’s looking at him as if he’s expecting something, so Ghost lets out the topic they have ignored since returning from Mexico.

“Were you lying to me about getting hurt?”

Gaz rolls his eyes with a rough exhale, “wasn’t bloody lying, it wasn’t- I had it sorted. Dealt with worse before.” He rubs at his right wrist, a place that on Ghost’s scanner has the highest concentration of Aetherium, out of the rest of Gaz’s body.

And it tracks, since that is where his gauntlet, the instrument that allows Aether specialists to harness Aetherium as a weapon, would be located.

Ghost’s database pulls up the file on Aetherium resistance tests, ones each child between the ages 8-12 has to go through to determine if they’re fit to be knights.

‘Tests’ is a big word for the event, where each is given a piece of Aetherium to hold, and a stopwatch is started, checking for how long the children can withstand the corrupting material until it begins hurting them.

According to the intel he had gathered in his time in the British Fort, Aether specialists score extremely high on Aetherium resistance tests. It is also the reason Ghost cannot compute a different explanation for Gaz’s reaction to the Abomination’s attack, because if he was not hurt, that would mean…

“Your Aetherium resistance score.” Ghost says, testing his theory.

Gaz’s shoulders hike up, “what about it?”

“They were low. Lower than fit for an Aether specialist. That is why the Aetherium beam was enough to down you.”

Dropping his gaze, Gaz huffs a mirthless laugh. “Almost got it.” He looks up, to the same skies Ghost has been searching his answers in for long minutes. As if salvation waits for either of them there. “My scores were too low to be taken into knighthood at all.”

“How many minutes?”

“Two and 53 seconds.” Gaz clutches the helm at his side, as if someone would take his title from him for admitting the truth. “The lowest a knight can score is three,” he grits out bitterly.

He was rejected for a difference of seven seconds, in an ability he has no control over, and cannot train to improve. Aetherium resistance is hereditary, and a mostly unexplained phenomenon where some are simply better at.

“But you were accepted into the Order.” Ghost tilts his head down, staring at each minor expression passing by Gaz’s eyes. It is still hard for him to tell one emotion from another, but there is a yawning emptiness in them.

Gaz blinks, his breath stuttering on an exhale, “I was, purely because Captain Price vouched for me. Had to work doubly as hard to be knighted. And even then, anyone that knows just how weak my body is against Aetherium looks down upon me, as if they’re bloody better for having a trait they were born with.”

The furrow of his brows, the strained tone in his voice, those Ghost knows well. He’s angry. “Who knows, then?”

“The Captain, obviously,” Gaz huffs, straightening back into his practised stature, “my instructors, and the knights who studied with me as squires, all Aether specialists. The sole reason Soap doesn’t know is because they probably hate him more than me.”

“You don’t want to tell Soap.” Ghost remarks his observation.

“I- He doesn’t need to know.” Gaz scoffs, “it makes no difference to our work, not until I succumb to corruption, which I still have at least 5 years according to the healers.”

The underlying message is clear. He doesn’t trust Soap. Not with his greatest weakness.

A gloved finger extends to point at his chest, “and you better not tell him.”

Ghost regards it coolly, “Understood.”

Gaz’s arm drops, switching to hold his helm. “Right,” he nods to himself, “I have to return my armour. I suppose I will see you when we receive another quest.”

“Affirmative.” Before Gaz leaves, however, Ghost remembers what he told him at the start of the conversation, “do you know where Soap could be?”

Without looking back, Gaz says, “I’m not the one that follows him everywhere he goes, you’d know better than me!”

“So if we take one minute to look through each soldier, and we divide the work evenly between the four of us, it would take…” Soap’s mouth twists in thought, “well, an hour has 60 minutes, so it would be… 1440 minutes a day…”

Ghost silently listens as Soap attempts to calculate an estimate, his system solving the equation five seconds into his monologue. Still, the voice at the back of his head is pleased at seeing him calm, the shake in his limbs subsiding as he rests.

Soap’s knee will likely give him trouble for the next few days, the idiot overworking practically every muscle in his body, but Ghost is assured that his objective to help him was completed successfully.

“-So it would take about 750 hours to comb through most of the database!” Soap grins up at him from the floor, “wait, how many days would that be-”

“31.25, according to your calculation, but you were rounding down. It’s 31.8.”

“I was close- 31 days?!”

“Assuming we can read through a file and determine a soldier isn’t me in one minute. And you didn’t take into consideration the fact I was likely enlisted before 2024, which would add about-”

Soap cuts him off with a wave, “alright so maybe it will take a wee bit longer, surely we can shave off a few days with the rest of the information we know!” Before Ghost can give him the estimate his system informed him with, Soap pouts, “don’t actually answer that.”

Looking to the side, Ghost gets an idea, “taking everything into account, the number is 1278.”

Mouth dropping open in a silent scream, Soap sputters, “there’s no steamin’ way- Wait, are ye fuckin’ with me?”

Something light finds a home in his chest at the smile spreading across Soap’s face, “the action 'fuckin’ with ye’ doesn’t exist in my system.”

“Oh you are, you bawbag!” Soap gives Ghost’s leg a little push, which does absolutely nothing to his stance. “Think yer funny, huh?”

“They programmed me with only the pinnacle of comedy.”

“No,” Soap’s smile softens, “I think that’s all from ye.”

The words are painfully sincere, and as he turns them over and over in his mind, Ghost retreats into silence. Soap doesn’t seem to mind, falling back to lay on the stone floor, the sweat on his skin cooling off.

How can you tell, Ghost almost asks, which parts of me are still human?

But disrupting the peace settling between them would be a crime in both his system’s and his own mind’s opinion, so he doesn’t give his thoughts a sound. They pester him regardless, and Ghost reasons Soap has an ability others, including himself, don’t possess.

The capacity to see metal and code, and find the husk of a human buried beneath.

A part of him wants so desperately to learn it himself, if only to draw clear lines between the robotic voice of men long dead ordering his every move, and the whispering of the soldier, the human, he was before.

Ghost lowers himself to sit beside Soap, one blue-grey eye opening to grin at him.

Perhaps it is fine if he can’t learn, though, if Soap is there to tell him, continuously, that he is more than the voices in his head.

The tolling of heavy bells breaks the gentle calm, deep and loud. Ghost has yet to hear them in this pattern, almost frantic as they go on for long moments, Soap rising with alarm.

“Something is wrong.” He mutters, rushing to stand on shaky legs. Ghost catches his arm, attempting to offer him support, but Soap pushes off him instantly. “It must be the squires, I know the trials are never easy, but the bells aren’t rung unless…” He exhales roughly, “we need to go to the tear walls.”

“Understood.” Ghost follows Soap’s lead, ready to catch him if he falls.

Knows he’d run to the ends of the earth, to keep the honour of staying behind him.

Excerpt from John “Soap” MacTavish’s journal, page 95 (“GHOST”):

Lines Between Us - Chapter 9

Fandom: Call of Duty
Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley/Reader
Important Tags/Warnings: Childhood Friend AU, Toxic Relationship, Possessiveness, Insecurity, Self-deprecation
For more accurate tag/warning list, check Ao3 link.

BETTER FORMATTING ON AO3!
Ao3 Link (Whole Story)
Tumblr Version Masterlink (Split into Chapters)

Chapter Summary: The chapter in which he does return to you, but it doesn’t go as planned, thanks to Ghost’s mindset. Simon is insecure about how much you are his.

Story under ‘Keep Reading’

Previous Chapter  Next Chapter

After that call, Simon tries to wrangle any lingering remorse for his work into his duffelbag for when he goes back. He struggles with it, as if a loose animal that needs to be muzzled and hidden away. He’s lucky that the task force got put on what seems to be a simple cleanup of the otherwise disastrous attempts of a cartel’s collapse, a feeble power vacuum. The easy mission means he gets regular showers, the crappy military bed and some guarantee that he can communicate with you some more. It’s not much. The internet is spotty at best, and even if he were to message you via SIM card, it’s limited to 10 texts a day on the terrible, dated burner phone from before. Phone calls get blocked. Too risky, is what the comms officer said. He bites his tongue. A text is a text, he shrugs to himself.

He texts you a little through the week; The moment he gets back on the foreign base, his hands are digging deep into his pockets to fish out the little device and tap something funny to you. He can feel the teasing glares of his squadmates burn holes in the back of his neck, and he tries to shake the pathetic masculine urge to write you off as just a fling in front of them. After their help getting him back into your arms last time, the team had not been shy about giving Ghost their approval whenever they see him try to digitally vie for your attention. Ghost is entirely thankful that they at least have the mercy to not push any dreaded “how’s the missus?” comments into their carefully maintained banter. 

He doesn’t like to admit it. Ashamed almost to concede to his heart when he admits internally that having the reliability of your reply keeps him more desperate to survive each mission. It’s a discordant array of emotions- you fuel his survival instinct, making it ever more rational and urgent to push ahead and drag himself through motions of slaughters. Yet at the same time, the safety of knowing you’re on the end has him second-guess his comfort level with taking lives. It must be clear in the way he’s more still- more deadly or perhaps more succinct in his actions. Ever more distant, Price catches him on it- pointing it out as if making harmless commentary of a tiny splotch on a painter’s magnum opus:

“Tryna gain more brass, eh, Ghost?” The comment makes Ghost stiffen with slight vexation - nothing more distant in his mind than medals and meaningless army rituals.

“Negative.” Ghost smoothes a thumb over the grip of his rifle- the last shot so precise he could just feel the impressed gall of his peers over the comms. “Why?” He asks dryly.

“You’ve been on the up. Cleaner clicks and all that.” There’s a pause as Price carries on, only slightly cutting out from signals, “as if you’re tryna prove something.” As that gets mentioned, another body in the near distance thumps to the ground, his bullet having ripped through the air with ease. Ghost doesn’t say much to that, response limited to a grunt too quiet to be picked up by his transmitter. He shifts, body wriggling to get a bit more comfy as he’s covering for Gaz and as small arms fire breaks out, he witnesses a slight struggle in movement.  He zeroes in on the game of elimination. 

By the time he watches Gaz come back out of the building unscathed and hears confirmation of a clean breakaway, he’s rucked himself up and has already moved to a different vantage point. The rest of the squad easily pull through and Ghost efficiently retraces his steps to the carrier. Between the commendation he got earlier, Gaz’s pleased nod and the light pat on the shoulder as he passes by Soap, it makes a queasy feeling of guilty pride even worsen. He’s good at his job- you’ve somehow made him better at it too. For all the wrong reasons- and Ghost doesn’t really know how to process the sinking feeling that his greatest achievements are bathed in harsh orders and adrenaline fueled focus. Frustratingly, Simon pokes at him- surging from the deeply dormant regions of his consciousness, about how you’d comment on every little detail in his peripheral vision. You’d probably look at the empty villages with philosophical remorse, or balk at his indifference to the sunset that he’s forced to march through during recon. You’d be much too engaged with the humanity of it all. Ghost stares forward. He can’t normalise this thinking. You text him that evening. You’re painfully optimistic that he’ll be back soon- the 2 months left countdown vibrant in your mind as you text him about being on holiday when he touches English soil again.

[I can pick you up from base if you’d like! I’ve got about 3 weeks off] 

Your statement implicitly suggests that you intend to waste your time off on him. It’s addicting- the idea of it all, as usual, comes crawling up his spine and settles all cosy in his mind. You want him there, and you wish to use him for your own little trivial entertainment, and that’s just fine…right?. It’s Ghost’s turn to torment Simon’s thinking. You’re just bored; that distance does make the heart grow fonder but fondness is not the same as the heavy and loaded word that describes your place in his meagre existence. By the time missions get done, and Ghost is given the go-ahead to go home, he is once again conflicted by the anxiousness of not knowing what he should expect of you. 

Your words from that night, when he had you splayed out beneath him you echo. You had told him- tried to drill it into him, that you will be there when he’s back. But between the gunshots and long silences, he is left despondent. She’s being kind- polite…pitiful. When he does get returned to Manchester’s Army reserve base, the imagined version of you once more fills him with dangerous ideas of domesticity and derails his focus. He barely follows the tail end of the debrief, strong legs already moving fast toward the gates of the training grounds. Ghost’s end-of-mission gift to his alter ego is to keep chanting that you’re not his, that a mission would be better, that it wasn’t too late to sign up again-

You’re there. You did come for him. Your shitheap of a second-hand car is parked neatly on the side, and you’re leaning against it.

But you’re talking to someone.

-

You couldn’t have timed it more perfectly. When Simon had told you he was to arrive on the first evening of your half-term break, you wanted to thank the unseen forces that had blessed you. You’ve tried to dress a bit nicer, but with the evening air, you’ve had to pull on Simon’s hoodie instead. The grim parking lot is pretty empty, and the few soldiers that mill about, leaving the base, look at you oddly, but you give it no mind. Your car door is frigid and slightly uncomfortable as you lean on it- too excited to stay sitting inside as you keep your eyes focused on the gates. 

Your focus is shattered when another person makes their way towards you- it is not Simon. This man is not nearly as tall or as buff; the leanness of the man is a clear indicator that he’s much more junior than your boyfriend? Friend? Simon. The young faced creep gives you an odd look mixed with a smirk and comes jogging up to you, rather interested. You try to avoid his gaze. It does not work.

“You alright, ma’am?” Christ. This man practically drools out the words with a flirtatious twang. He’s not trying to hide his intention. He’s come right up to you and is eyeing you up as if you’re something in a museum to be gawked at. 

“Yes- just waiting for someone.” Before you can move away or even get back in your car, the man clicks his tongue and tries to keep the conversation going.

“Whose this lucky someone? Any bloke would be happy to have a beautiful bird like yourself waiting.” You try not to visibly cringe- staying as still as possible- almost as if you’re mimicking the energy that Simon usually evokes when someone irritating comes his way. The man is leaning towards you. His military uniform brushes against you as he invades your space.

“I really suggest you don’t talk to me-”

“Aw, come on, darling, we both know military men don’t expect commitment- I’m sure your lad won’t mind” he pauses as he tries to lean his arm on your car. “Better yet, he doesn’t need to find out if we share numbers.” You gulp. The man is not leaving you alone, and panic starts to leach into your body as he tries to even touch your hair. Your eyes squeeze close as the man almost laughs at your ‘shyness’; You can feel your fight or flight nearly kick in- he’s much too close, much too rude and much bigger than you, so you know you can’t fight back-

“Is there a problem here, Private?” Simon’s voice crackles through the air like a lightning bolt that wakes you up. You straighten up and shift. You see him, he’s somehow managed to creep up on the stranger and you. He looks mesmerising- all composed, but from the rigidity of his shoulders and chest, you can tell he’s not pleased with the scene before him. The inferior use of the other man’s rank is spoken with such authority that it almost makes you dizzy at the idea of Simon being so thoroughly in charge. The man himself splutters and quickly moves away from you. He stiffens up to attention as he scrambles to salute:

“Lieutenant Riley, Sir!” the man’s previous bravado crumbles like a cookie, and it worsens when Simon makes an obvious display at dropping his duffelbag by your feet and crossing his arms as he faces the scared shitless soldier.

“Problem?”

“N-No, Sir.”

“You’re dismissed. Get going.” As Simon commands, his hand goes to grab your car keys from your hand greedily He unlocks the vehicle and opens the passenger side door. He motions with his hands and grunts - insisting you get in instead of driving. He says nothing as you do scramble in, too nervous to say anything. Both of you watch the soldier disappear- fast paced and speed walking to his own car, refusing to look back at the two of you. Simon simply gets into the driver’s side. He’s seething. You can tell from the way he grips the key and forces the ignition. This is not how you wanted the evening to start. You’re fiddling with the drawstrings on his hoodie as your eyes glaze over, watching the dashboard. Your voice leaves your throat before you comprehend you’re speaking.

“Welcome back Si.” As the car drives out and the streetlights of outer Manchester blink as you pass by, Simon stays dead silent. You’ve got his duffelbag pushing against your legs in the footwell, and you could drown yourself in the suffocating feeling the car exudes. You’re about to try to lighten the mood when he finally decides to speak.

“Should have slapped ‘im.” 

“Simon! You’d get in troub-” You tut out quick, but before you can finish, he interrupts.

“Not me. You.” Your head whips towards him, and you’re aghast with horror at the idea-

“Me?! Simon I’d-”

“Did you want him that close?” He technically asks, but the words are steeped in accusatory venom. As if he is trying to interrogate you as he’s signalling a turn. You scoff and you can feel the bile of humiliated anger slowly rise within your mind.

“Excuse me?”

“You din’t push him away. Din’t even fucking move-”

“And do what, Simon? Take a shit ass beating for not letting him hit on me??” You defend yourself, irritation and exasperation permeating in every shrill response you shout out. What was he expecting? At the rhetorical questions, you see Simon regret his words, his head goes to tilt down, and he huffs out- obviously trying to calculate something else to bite back with. To snarl out with his never-ending nihilism.

“Shouldn’t let him touch you,” he says it almost as if he’s telling himself off and not you. “Fucking little shits trying to touch crap that isn’t-” He’s about to say something in his rambled irritation, but he stops himself suddenly- as if the next word makes him queasy. “…Don’t let them touch you,” he near whispers the demand. He turns to look at you when he says it- as if trying to confirm your loyalty to his demand. Your eyes soften. You can tell there is more to this conversation, something permeating in Simon’s thoughts that you are unable to capture and dissipate for him.

You just nod.

Simon is fucked up. A villainous entity keeps his mind hostage as it paints you out as a traitor for even existing near that man earlier. He knows you didn’t ask for the man to come near you- knows that you’re much too soft, too sweet, too delicate to have put that dipshit of a cretin in his place. But fuck. A disgustingly corrupt part of him would have loved to see you push against the enemy. To have seen the softness in your body move with antagonistic intentions for once, and to punish something putrid with your lawful and tender fists. His thoughts linger back on the feeling of the sting on his cheek from when you had slapped him before. 

He knows his criticism of you was uncalled for. To expect you to have squared up to a man double your weight is appallingly unrealistic. He tries to wrestle with the internal displeasure that is clouding his judgment. He’s just too sensitive to the very idea that you could willingly be pinned down by anyone else. Countless stories and army base gossip of affairs and unfaithful partners eat at him, and obsessively, he lets them consume him. You’re his- or at least that’s what he so desperately needs to believe. He sighs and tries to sneak a look at your pout as you’re sitting in the passenger seat. You had agreed to his ridiculous demand to not let anyone touch you. The demand had been born out of pure insecurity, possession and a sick fantasy that he could lock you up and make sure you were untouched and unscathed in every possible way, untouched by anything but him. You had nodded. You agreed. 

He tries to subdue the horribly manipulative thoughts that threaten to sidetrack him from apologising. He hadn’t wanted to come back and greet you with this tense and unhealthy distrust. You had come to collect him. You kept your promise- Simon was the shitbag, taking a right piss on tonight. He’s fucked up. Fucked up- like every fucking time- His hands grip the wheel, and when he stops at a red light, he lets his head droop dow,n and your words cut through his self-loathing so sharp and it makes him flinch.

“Stop with the self-deprecatory inner monologue, you idiot. I can practically taste it from her,e Simon.” You scold him bitterly, but the way you turn your body to angle towards him and your shoulders droop in bothered frustration. The way you bite at him, the rawness in your understanding of him scares him. You pick on him and his trauma-induced cues so easily, it makes him feel truly unhealed and examined like a bad dissection. He’d spill his guts for you, and you know it.

“M’ Sorry, Dove.”

You ignore the apology. “I showed up, didn’t I?”

“Ye. You did”

“What do I have to prove to make this easier for you?” You sound miserable, anguished as you’re trying to plead with him to tell you how to fix him. Easier is not possible. Nothing about having you is easy. He doesn’t deserve the ease of being with you. It makes him shrink, and he wants to lash out. Once again, he is uncharacteristically caught off guard by the way you don’t give up on him. He is still the stormcloud rolling in, and you are the fool who goes out with an umbrella and a raincoat beneath his relentlessly constant rain on your parade. He pulls into your driveway, but neither of you moves to unbuckle or to get out.  “I wanted to make tonight nice for you.” You say it pained, and your frown has your cheeks puff up in a way that makes Simon churn.

“Dove I-.”

“…And I missed you so much, and to have you get so angry, as if looking at me is too difficult-” You start to hiccup as you vent, you’re not even that sad at the situation, but you can feel the overwhelming nature of it all pull at your tear ducts. “I wanted you home, Simon.”

Guilt. Remorse. Unadulterated shame. He tries not to go on the defensive as he watches you struggle to vocalise your conflicted feelings about him. As with every time you’ve been displeased by his emotional ineptness, he sickeningly wishes you were more crass and aggressive and not this. He wishes you’d put him in his place, like what he wished you’d do to the other men who have tried to take advantage of you. That’s precisely what he’s doing to you, right? Advantage? You deserve to hurt him. He deserves to hurt. Maybe that’s what caused him to suggest you beat the other man up- he was subconsciously yearning to watch you stand up for yourself against a bully like him. You’re staring at him. You’re not crying yet, and Simon feels felonious for again having the sick infatuation with how you look when you’re torn up by him like this. 

“I came back.” He says it rather weakly. As if it’s an achievement, you need to give him credit for. You suppose you should- you dread the likelihood of the idea that he’d rather be back out there than be with you. You sigh. The plastic and metal buckle of the seatbelt clinks as you click out, and you leave the vehicle to open your front door. You drag his heavy bag to the doorstep, and you wait for Simon to join you. 

This was not the way tonight was supposed to go.

Previous Chapter  Next Chapter