Chapter Text
MILITARY CORDON OFF ENTRY TO ERSKINE
The small town of Erskine awoke to chaos following a private affair in the early morning of August 25th, followed by Armoured Personnel scouts. The private affair has left the town in confusion as at 11am this morning, an official dispatch being released stating that the town is strictly prohibited for entry and that residents have to stay put until further information is released. Requests for more answers and information have been declined & left unanswered.
If you have any information relating to this current event and would like to discuss, email at: [email protected]
27th August, 2024
It’s roughly three hours since their helo left them in the Nevada desert and Ghost is surveying a defunct looking set of warehouses through the lens of his rifle. Laswell’s array of connections dug deep to come across a shell company belonging to Shepherd with a physical address in an old industrial park. In short order, Price had sent Ghost and Soap out to the US to covertly recon the area. Despite the abandoned look of the place, there is a uniformed guard with a dog pacing each of the three buildings and a small group of cars — it isn’t much but it’s enough to keep Ghost watching.
The two of them are on the third floor of an office building, the premises of a failed business with desks and chairs left on site. They have roughly seven hours of sunlight left before the low-vis at this distance will send them back to the crappy motel room. With nothing better to do than watch and record movements, Ghost is just waiting for the moment when Soap gets bored enough to complain. On missions like this, it’s usually somewhere between hour three and four when the Sergeant cracks
The recon gets cut short three hours before sundown, both men being pulled from their aimless thoughts & comfortable silence by Laswell, being ordered to return back home. Soap, being Soap, who just can’t seem to accept that the world likes to throw shit at him, gets a little bit pissed, “We only just got here, Chief, we’re both fuckin’ knackert!”
Over the only moderately dodgy internet connection, Ghost can still decipher the minute signs that something isn’t right on Laswell’s face; the strain around her eyes, the strands of hair that have escaped her usual, neat bun. He knows she is chasing every lead on General Shepherd she can find so to pull them out of the field after less than a day state-side isn’t something Kate is doing lightly. There’s something going on and it sets a tendril of unease curling through Ghost’s grey matter, leaving him on edge and irritated. He leans down to snatch the laptop away from where Soap is sitting in front of it at a disused desk, the screen pixelating when the movement drops the call quality.
“Kate, what’s going on? Why the change of plan?” Ghost questions once the connection evens out, knowing Soap is far too busy whining over another long flight to even bother finding out more.
Laswell shakes her head, glances around her surroundings as if they will provide an answer before her head shakes again and in that moment, Ghost feels a creeping sense of deja vu. The look on her face is familiar enough to any soldier with enough years on the force; it’s the look of a superior ranking officer with no fucking clue what to do. The look of someone who's been told little and is allowed to say even less. It makes Ghost’s lip curl in distaste beneath his mask; there’s nothing quite so annoying as being left in the dark.
“Gimme somethin’, Laswell,” he presses again, shoving Soap forcefully out of his personal space when the man appears behind him, attempting to look over his shoulder for no reason other than the Scot always has to be a part of things.
“There isn’t much I can give you, Ghost. The most I know is the UK brass is ordering home as many active duty soldiers as they can,” Laswell’s tone is apologetic, “Interagency communication is strained, everyone is keeping any information they have close to their chests. Just get to the airfield, boys.”
With that, she cuts the connection before either of them can get another word in. Ghost pushes the laptop closed with more force than necessary and starts to disassemble his rifle with practiced motions.
“You heard ‘er, Soap. Pack up,” he instructs the Sergeant, jerking his chin at the laptop, “We’re out in five.”
The younger man stands for a moment, eyebrows perched low as he stares between the Lieutenant and the laptop, trying to brace back the overwhelming urge to argue, to ask what the fuck’s going on and why are they being pulled out so suddenly; especially when it’s over a six hour plane ride here, and then back. He knows it’s pointless to moan, Ghost knowing only as much as he does, but there’s something slightly off kilter with Simon, a slight glint in his eyes: irritation, or maybe frustration?
Soap doesn’t bother to prod or to ask too many questions, knowing it won’t help either of them & will probably end with tender sores across both men’s cheeks and noses. Instead Soap packs in almost complete silence, slightly humming under his breath, trying to keep his mind busy so as not to let it stray and torment him.
The drive to the small airfield their ex-fil is waiting at is longer than it needs to be, traffic seeming to pick up in the more populated areas. It only serves to make both men more irritable, the Jeep’s air con doing little to cool the dry, warm air. When they arrive at the runway, there’s a small plane already waiting for them which takes them to a military base an hour away. It’s starting to get dark by the time they’re in the air again, in two hastily acquired seats of a huge Lockheed airlifter. Ghost doesn’t miss the fact that the cargo hold is full to bursting with covered pallets of fuck knows what. He tries to ignore all the fragments of data trying to draw themselves to a whole in his mind; Laswell’s subtle tells, the strange buzz of activity at the military base, the pilot and his crew’s tense silence and the lost looks they’re giving each other. It feels as if they are on the precipice of something, leaning over into a thick, tar-black chasm with no way to detect the bottom — if there even is one.
“Get some rest, MacTavish,” Ghost advises his subordinate with a detached chill to his tone, “Might not get a chance when we’re back.”
He feels more an animal than man, stuck in the metal structure of their ride home; his hackles raised, skin electric, fingers twitching. The way creatures sense the chaos building right before a natural disaster, Ghost feels it keenly in this timeless moment. He smells the sweetness of petrichor, pungent in the air and feels the fragile shift in the ozone when lightning splits the molecules of its existence right down the middle. It’s a maelstrom in his head and he can make no sense of it, cannot gather more data, cannot analyse when he has no fucking clue where to start. He tries to take his own advice, crossing his arms tight around his chest and tipping his head back but sleep doesn’t come easy.
Although drifting off is a difficult task for the Lieutenant, sleep comes quickly & easily for the Sergeant, drifting off within minutes of closing his eyes, body relaxing into the awkward bend of where he sits close to Ghost, shoulder pressed firmly against the other man’s. It doesn’t take long until the Brit’s feeling a heavy thump against his side, not having to open his eyes or look down to know that Soap is cheek first, smushed against the arm of his zip up, already picturing his half open mouth and thick eyelashes fluttering softly as he rests.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but Soap’s wakening with a harsh start, jolting violently in his seat; which is unintentionally jolting the other man he's passed out against. His stomach lurches with a terrible wave of what he can only describe as a burning heat and tries to swallow quickly around the tight pull of his throat, which causes him to gag dryly, furthering the heat that now feels stuck in the center of his chest.
Before Ghost can mutter a word, Soap is holding his hand up, giving another try at swallowing before he’s finally braving turning his head to look towards the Lieutenant, vision swarming with three other versions of the man, “M’sound…Think it’s the travel…Or somethin’ I’ve ate…Sorry if a woke ye.”
Any sleep Ghost gets is fractured, either turbulence or Soap’s somnolent twitches waking him on and off for the few hours he rests. He grunts his dismissal of the Sergeant’s apology, rolling his shoulder now he has use of it. He turns to assess the other man, eyebrows creasing beneath his hood at Soap’s state. A few hours of rest and the Scot looks worse — his eyes appear hazy, unfocused and there’s sweat on his brow, his mohawk dampened with it. His skin is clammy, pallor off and despite the chill air of a plane more suited to carrying equipment than people, Ghost can feel the heat seeping through his jacket where Soap’s shoulder and bicep press against his own.
“Take a drink, Johnny,” he passes his half empty canteen over to Soap, “Might just be dehydration.”
The thing he needs right now is the Sergeant getting sick, if what Laswell has told them is true, Ghost can only foresee some kind of serious situation back home.
It’s dark when they touch ground in England, the sky washed out with hundreds of drab, grey street lamps as they fly low over city streets busy with traffic. Ghost watches Soap from the corner of his eye, quietly assessing him as he leans his face against the window of the helicopter they’re now taking to base. In the dim light of early evening, he can’t be sure but it’s possible Soap’s colour is a little better though the neck of his tee shirt is still dark with sweat and the loose way the Scot leans against the side of heli shows how bone tired he seems to be.
When they glide closer to the structure of the base, Ghost leans up in his seat to look out from overhead. It’s all wrong, too quiet for the type of commotion Laswell had been suggesting; there’s a section of the base that is dark, more noticeable to him than the brightly lit corridors of the other buildings. There’s a noticeable lack of vehicles around the concrete slabs of the car parks he can see dotted throughout the HQ from up above, particularly in the spots marked out for the brass.
“Soap, look sharp,” Ghost nudges the man with his elbow, digging in roughly to his side, trying to rouse a little more vigilance in the Scot.
He doesn’t know what the fuck’s going on but whatever it is, he needs Soap awake and alert for it.
“Right,” Soap snaps, an odd irritation bubbling in the core of his chest, feeling way too out of sorts to be dealing with anymore bullshit today. His limbs feel weighted, staticky, and his head feels on the edge of rolling off his shoulders. He’s shifting groggily closer to the Brit, leaning his hand against the top of Ghost's knee as support as he pushes himself weakly up to look out overhead.
“Whit is it I’m lookin’—,” Soap’s mutter trails to a fall off, Ghost being able to see the exact moment it starts to dawn on the Weegie’s face that something isn’t right. Johnny’s furrowing his eyebrows, narrowing his eyes like it’ll somehow help him get a better view. Confusion is the first thing Soap feels, it then twisting into something that almost presents as fear, the hairs on the back of his neck & forearms rising.
Seeing their base so empty, deserted, is an extremely unnerving thing, it almost having a subliminal feeling while staring down from above, like they’ve entered some type of different threshold than from the one they left in. “Has anyone been in contact since we took air? Laswell? Price?” Soap questions, unable to mask the slight waiver of his voice as he settles back down against the helo’s seat, “I don’t see shit down there, Lt.”
Normally seeing no sign of danger or threat is a good thing, but in Soap's field of work, it stirs and whirls around his stomach, intensifying the already intense nausea he’s bearing through.
The pilot switches his radio to signal the control tower, seeking clearance to land but there is no answer save for a short burst of static. Ghost shares a glance with Soap at the same time the pilot looks to his second before he’s switching stations, searching for any sign of another human voice on the other end.
“The building that’s gone dark,” Ghost points over at it, the windows pitch black, “That’s comms in there, innit?”
“For the base, yeah but the control tower is on a different circuit for this reason,” the co-pilot speaks absently, staring in confusion out the window.
“Helipads are clear, I’m setting her down,” the pilot switches radio channels to inform them, his voice tense, “We have another run to do once you’re out.”
“Copy,” Ghost’s reply is short as he shoulders his pack while the craft begins to lower towards the landing pad.
Before long, the pair are setting their boots down on the tarmac and Ghost doesn’t miss the way Soap is unsteady on his feet for a brief moment before he finds balance. There’s a stillness to the cool air that feels false; the soft lull in a movie score before the jolting, sharp burst of shrieking violins. He hates every moment of it.
“Let’s go to Price’s office an’ see what’s going on,” Ghost decides for them, more ready to shed some light on their early return.
He moves towards the heavy double doors of the building the 141 has been allocated, pushing through into the corridor with its yellowed, supposed-to-be-off-white walls without bothering to check if Soap follows. The hum of the strip lighting buzzes straight through Ghost’s skull, setting his teeth on edge in the unnatural silence. It doesn’t make sense, the building is shared with a platoon of SAS soldiers who were grounded on base in the middle of deployment prep — this time of evening, there should be the bundles of noise of twenty odd men around the halls.
Soap follows a few steps behind Ghost, the slight chill of the night creeping into the warm dampness of his shirt, giving a crumb of relief for how sweaty and hot he’s feeling. The Scot feels a lot more uneasy now that they've landed, being able to really feel how dead the base is, the growing cloud of panic beginning to pass overhead as he surveys the open vastness of emptiness. The nausea starts to pull worse, his throat tightening around an invisible lump, feeling the need to hack until whatever lingers there dislodges.
He’s been in these types of situations before, places just completely void of any sort of life, yet none of them have given Johnny the dread that he feels now. It’s a slow creeping fog, a mist that crowds his vision, confirming that whatever lies ahead isn’t something both men are prepared or ready for; and it buries into Soap, furthering the intense need to vomit.
As they delve further into the building, things become clearer and muddier all at once. First, Ghost notices the eastern corridor is blocked off with a collection of furniture; the shabby couch from the nearby common room, metal frames of old barracks beds, an overturned cupboard. The only sounds are their cautious footsteps and the soft hum of electricity; both noises seem to grow louder by the minute for Ghost, ricocheting between his ears maddeningly. Next, Soap nudges his side gently and points silently, with an unsteady aim, at small pieces of shattered glass glinting in the harsh strip lighting. They follow the trail of it to larger pieces near a broken window — there is dark blood, congealed and half, on the jagged pieces of glass that remain in the frame. A little further on there’s a conference room with a wardrobe blocking the door, a smear of blood on the mirrored front that Ghost reaches out to touch, hearing more than feeling the tackiness against his glove.
“Do you ‘ear that?” Ghost turns back to the Scot, his eyes still stuck on the bloody mirror, his pale face reflecting an expression of unease.
The older man moves to the panel of windows that line one side of the conference room; the blinds are all down but Ghost cups his hands around his eyes and peers through. He gives up after only a moment, returning to the barricaded door and leaning closer, eyes narrowing as he listens intently.
“It sounds like breathing,” Ghost’s voice is low, soft in the quiet of the corridor.
There’s a disquiet building in the base of Ghost’s chest, something writhing and sharp reaching up to grasp at the bottom of his lungs until it is an effort to draw full breaths. He doesn’t wait around for Soap to confirm the sound of the slow, even breathing from within the room, doesn’t bother to see if Soap hears how wrong it somehow sounds.
“C’mon, ain’t far to Price’s office, Johnny,” he urges the Sergeant to speed up his dragging steps, moving into a quicker pace as he rounds the corner.
It might be due to the loud drumming against his eardrums, how everything sounds extremely muted and low, distorted and fuzzy, but Soap isn’t hearing shit. He tries to focus more intently on his surroundings, trying to tune out the soft buzzing, but it only furthers the tight pressure that pulses deeply behind the Scot’s eyes.
Soap wants to snap at the Lieutenant as he tries to catch up quickly, feeling his stomach lull with each step, wants to take a dig at Ghost and his long fucking legs, sorry that he didn’t get a chance to win the green fucking giant genetics. “Ah don’t think this is a good idea, Ghost, this place is geein’ me the fear,” Soap’s whispering low, now practically riding up the back of Ghost's heels. Johnny isn’t a pussy, if this was any other moment in time, he’d make sure everyone knew he was coming through those double doors, loud and ready to fucking go. Right now? He can barely see a foot in front of him without wanting to vomit, never mind having to fight whatever the fuck lies a heads. In truth, he isn’t fit to engage and knows full well if shit was to go down, Ghost is practically a one man team.
Moving forward shouldn't feel like he’s walking further into the belly of a beast, but Soap's reserve slowly starts to dwindle and he’s getting more worked up, heart beginning to race, palms beginning to sweat, his spit thick and cottony around his tongue. This feels bad, nothing he’s ever experienced bad and it’s making the Scot feel like he’s being closed in on, imitating the gut feeling of when someone’s staring at you from a far but you can’t find who, or when you see something just at the corner of your vision but whatever it is scrambles just as you turn, it’s an unpleasant feeling and he hopes he’s not alone with it.
“Doesn’t feel right, Sir…”
“Thank you for the translation, Sergeant,” Ghost snaps at Soap, irritation roiling beneath the surface of his skin because geein’ me the fear is already pretty obvious. Johnny is right, however; Ghost does not like the state of unknowing either, the crawling shift deep in his marrow that triggers sirens — sharp and piercing — to echo in his ears.
The soldiers follow the corridor round in silence, Soap a few steps behind his superior with a tired shuffle to his pace. Ghost can feel the tides of jet lag pulling gently behind his eyes but he blinks it away, willing himself to stay alert as they come towards the door of Price’s office. He raises a hand to still Johnny and leans close to the Captain’s door, his good ear pressed against the cheap wood but there is nothing audible on the other side.
“Watch my six,” Ghost tosses the order over his shoulder. He knows Soap isn’t in the state to watch more than the inside of his eyes right now but he says the words to keep the man somewhat alert rather than for any support.
A hand rests feather light on the pistol strapped to his thigh, one finger resting over the trigger guard as he pushes open the door with his free hand. There is nothing behind the door; just a dark office — a shitty plywood desk, mismatched chairs, a fucking ashtray despite the smoking ban over a decade ago because Price never gets rid of shit. Ghost’s shoulders drop right as the muscle on the left side of his jaw ticks up; he flicks on the light switch, dumping his rifle case down beside the door and slinging his pack into a chair he knows is uncomfortable. He’s starting to get really fucking sick of the intercontinental run around, the muddy way he knows fuck all; it’s the being unprepared that Ghost hates the most. Without understanding the situation, he cannot consider every eventuality, formulate the zeroes and ones into coherent data and extrapolate the appropriate plans.
“Let’s go,” the Lieutenant grunts to Soap, turning on his heel to stalk out the door of the office.
Even Soap, in his half-awake state, hears the two sets or hurrying footsteps out in the corridor. He stiffens beside Ghost, hand straying blindly for his pistol and missing before he rests a hand on it. Ghost moves forward in one hushed, fluid shift to put himself between the door and Johnny — an unconscious movement to a vague threat. He slips a knife from his tac vest, resting loose and ready in the palm of his hand as he stands out of view from the doorway.
From his position, Ghost can’t see as the two unknowns round the corner into view but he sees the disconcerted surprise on Soap’s face when he sees them and it is enough. He raises the blade in one hand as the other goes to his pistol, preparing to shoot before he’s even thrown the knife. It all comes to a complete halt when the unknowns step properly into the room and he sees them.
It’s Price. He has red on him. Gaz stands behind him, seeming as irritated as Ghost feels though he can see the anxious way the other Sergeant’s hands are clutching into tight fists.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” Price is brusque as usual but the genuine confusion in his voice has Ghost’s hackles raising. He doesn’t want to hear more fucking questions when what he needs is answers.
“What’s wrong with him?” the Captain doesn’t give either of them a chance to answer him before he’s starting again, looking at Soap with an open suspicion that gives Ghost a prickle of dread that twists with his slow rising ire. His fingers itch to pick up the knife once more and he steps — running on unexplainable instinct — a little closer to Soap.
Soap should be feeling relief at seeing the Captain and the other Sergeant, but from the looks of them, he wishes he was still back on the helo. Price radiates hostility, it’s not hard to notice and he’s definitely not being subtle about how he looks at the Scot. He can’t help but stare at the Captain with confusion, eyebrows knitting forward, lips turned down in a slight frown, “Ah think ‘ave caught a bug or somethin’, we only just only landed, couldn’t get through—”
Price cuts him off sharp, Soap being able to see how the older man grips the knife he’s holding that bit tighter, knuckles pulsing white, how he even sets his shoulders back, like he’s bracing himself for a planned attack, like one he’s already had to face today “Did you get hurt?”
“Did I get hurt? Price what the fuck is goin—”
A loud bang bounces through Soap, wincing from the pain that vibrates through the back of his skull, only catching as Price raises the knife off the table from where he’s just slammed it down, “Did you get hurt, Soap!?” his tone’s aggressive, loud, putting Johnny on edge. He tries to stay calm, to not let how sick and exhausted he feels affect how he treats his superior, “Naw. I’m not hurt, but I’m extremely confused, and exhausted and to be honest, Sir, I’d really like to sit my ass down if that’s alright by you.”
Gaz is glancing up and down the other Sergeant, eyes narrowed, focussed, before he's dragging them away and turning more toward Price, speaking to him low, directly, “I can’t see any blood or marks on him…But…” and Soap can see the slight fear behind the other man’s eyes as he turns to look at him again.
Price is swallowing hard, inhaling deep but slowly as he stares at Soap, like he’s trying to decide what to do with him, or whatever he’s chosen is a hard decision to announce. “Captain, no offense, but I feel like shite, my heid is poundin’ and I’d rather—”
Yet again, Price is cutting Soap off, this time by surprise.
“I need you to strip, Soap, show me you're not wounded.”
The last thing he expected out of his Captain's mouth was to take his clothes off, confusion completely washing over the Scot, “S-Strip? You want me to strip? You takin’ the piss?”
Price is rubbing a hand over his mouth, scrubbing at his mustache, not exactly happy with what he’s having to do, “It’s an order, Soap.”
“What the fuck, Price?” Ghost’s tone is blatant aggression, voice lower and volume louder which causes Gaz to cut him a sharp glare and everything just gets more fucking confusing. His shoulders square up in a mirror to Price’s, hand straying back towards the knife he only just put back. He doesn’t want to do this, has no desire to hurt Price but if it’ll get him some fucking answers , if it’ll get the Gaz and the Captain to stop looking at Soap like that; he’ll do it — mostly for the answers.
“Listen, just do it, Soap!” Gaz is getting impatient, far more on edge than any of this warrants. Ghost eyes the younger man and realises with startling clarity that he’s shaken up; his hands trembling, jaw tight. There’s blood on him too, he notices belatedly — flecks on his knuckles, beneath his nails, wiped on the edges of his shirt. The look in Gaz’s eyes is what seems to damn Soap the most; a delicate mix of fear and guilt seem to flash across his brown eyes and Ghost doesn’t know what that means.
“Watch it, Gaz,” the warning is growled but entirely calm. He doesn’t take his eyes off the Sergeant, watching and waiting for the rising fucking hysteria to bubble over and spill over into caustic chaos.
Only it doesn’t. Because Soap’s hands start to move to the edge of his shirt and Ghost has to look away. This is not how he pictured the Scot being ordered to strip for them. Not in this cluster fuck of a situation.
“Fuck sake, Johnny,” Ghost’s irritation is back in full force as he snaps, “You don’t have to fuckin’ do what he says!”
Soap flashes Ghost a quick look, a way to tell the Brit to relax, he’s fine, to ease back and that if this is what Price wants to see, Soap hasn’t got fuck all to hide. He’ll admit that it’s strange though, and it’s fucked him off; Price never speaks to them in that way, especially with how he looked at the Scot, like he was about to blast a bullet through the thick of his skull. It has Johnny's stomach churning, rightfully scared by how Price & Gaz seem to be reacting around them.
“If it’ll keep bawjaws here happy,” Soap directs towards Price, his voice low and dry, “but it’s a waste of fuckin’ time.” He gives one last look at Price & Gaz, trying to decipher what the fuck has both of his mates so manic, then begins to tug his damp tshirt up, letting out a grunt when his shoulders arch, arms stretching up, muscles aching from exhaustion.
He holds his shirt tight in his grip, feeling the chill of the deserted building against his skin and starts towards the buttons of his jeans. It’s awkward, being told to do something quite intimate, something exposing like stripping but it’s god damn awful being told by your superior; it’s something Soap never thought he’d hear the Captain or Sergeant ask, and to undress with all six eyes on him, has Soap feeling a little nervous, a little doubtful.
What if he does have a wound? An injury? Something he can’t remember happening because it’s him , and they all know how terrible he is at throwing himself head first in the deep end. As Soap checklists over the last week's events, working on the buttons and zip of his trousers, Gaz is glancing an anxious look towards Price, then to Ghost, before landing his stare on the Scot, “What other symptoms have you had? Or what ones are you still experiencing?”
“Nodded off while on our way here and woke up nearly spewing ma load and could barely see two steps in front of me,” Soap answers just as he’s about to tug down his trousers. There’s a small feeling of shame and embarrassment about being forced to undress, Johnny having unnecessary thoughts about his pudgy tummy and hips which he is normally very content with, but he’s being unable to meet the other’s eyes; Ghost has seen him naked on numerous occasions, but never in a dubious way, and he’s not sure how he feels about it. It’s not about being mostly naked for Soap, it’s about why he’s getting mostly naked, and being in this position fucking sucks.
His trousers finally drop, pooling around the ankles of his black timberlands, now only in his briefs that have dark spreads of grey spotted over the fabric; due to his excessive sweating. “Been sweatin’ like a bastard and ‘ave been havin’ some dizzy spells that comes with pressure behind my eyes,” Soap adds, finally tipping his head up to meet both men’s gazes, “Boxers too or do I get to keep my dignity?”
“No, Soap,” the Captain says, a little too clear and decisively firm, like he’s afraid the man will do it if he gets a chance. His expression changes then, lines creasing around his eyes and a grimace Ghost cannot discern appearing on his lips.
“Can you just—” Price cuts himself off then, lifting a finger and spinning it in a gesture that the Lieutenant easily understands. Beneath the hood, Ghost’s scowl matches his superior’s as Soap sighs in exasperated understanding and turns, awkward and slow with his trousers tangling around his ankles.
“Great, now pull your fucking keks up, Johnny,” Ghost grits out impatiently.
Soap has the audacity to glance up at Price with the familiar expression of a subordinate waiting for an officer’s assent, silently asking permission. And oh, how swiftly and viciously Ghost hates seeing that face directed at anyone but him.
“You’re fine, son,” Captain Price has the grace to look away then, that apologetic smile pulling at the weathered skin around his eyes when he turns back to the Sergeant once his clothes are righted.
“Biological or chemical?” the Lieutenant questions then, glancing between Price and Gaz, searching for the answer in their faces before they even speak. The wary questions and demands to see Soap’s skin are enough for Ghost to take a guess; the guilt he had seen in Gaz’s eyes and the relief he sees now are enough to tell him how bad it is.
“Fuck knows,” Gaz sounds frustrated, eyebrows furrowing in thought as he stares hard at the thin carpet.
“The control tower was supposed to radio your pilot to divert up north,” Price explains, moving to the other side of his desk and opening drawers as he speaks, “We had orders to ship out and meet you up there before everything went to shit.”
“Control’s dark,” Soap drops himself into the chair not occupied by the Lieutenant’s pack and leans his cheek against the heel of his hand, “Up north though?” he asks, making sure he heard correctly, “Is that still a plan?” which gets him a shrug of the shoulders. Johnny won’t lie, the idea of being back up North sounds extremely fucking braw, but if this is a widespread issue, how dangerous is further up going to be?
“Can someone no’ just tell me what the fuck is going on now? Why did you order me to…” gesturing with a lazy hand towards himself, “You asked if I was injured , whit were ye looking for?”
“We can talk while we walk, lads,” Price pulls out a keycard to the armory, wiggling his prize, “Gaz can fill you in on the way.”
“You serious?” Soap says, maybe a little more cunty than he intended, it being directed more towards the walking and less towards the Captain, “No offense, Sir, but I’m barely fit for action, what is it that we’re up against here?”
Price and Gaz are close now, seemingly fine with being in a close proximity to the Scot and although he’s still fucked off with them both, Soap feels the relief flood him now that he knows his team — his brothers — are safe. Price's hand comes out to grip softly over the Sergeant’s shoulder, giving a small squeeze, “We’ll explain as we move, can’t stay here too long. Think you'll need help?”
Soap turns his head up to look at Price, and warms under the small, reassuring smile he receives, “Naw, I should manage, Sir.”
Ghost follows behind the two Sergeants with Price leading them through the empty hallways back towards the entrance they came in. He is silent as Gaz gives them a run down, crunching the numbers and balancing the accounts of their ever fragile mortality. The final sum is pretty fucking low — even by their abysmal standards of life expectancy. By the time they quietly reach the armoury two buildings over, Ghost is glancing to the dark skies with the expectancy of government-mandated bombings he is sure will come sooner or later.
Officially, the party line is a large-scale terrorist event with some kind of contaminant. The truth — unsanctioned for the public at large — is that as far as NATO is concerned, there is no known country nor power in the world that could have so completely hidden weaponry of this scale until now. It’s blind siding, undividedly damning in a way nothing has ever been before. Gaz tells them the first traceable signs of outbreak were in Indonesia within mills and granaries that supply to companies and stores all over the world. Governments were quick to place embargoes but the damage was done.
He tells them to watch for headaches, sweating, erratic behaviour, aggression and Ghost quickly understands their earlier reticence to dismiss Soap’s mild illness. Then Gaz tells them about the bites, with a guilty look to the Scot and Ghost understands again.
Understands that they are royally fucked.