Chapter Text
"Heed these words, You who wish to probe the depths of nature: If you do not find within yourself that which you seek, neither will you find it outside. In you is hidden the treasure of treasures. Know Thyself and you will know the Universe and the Gods."
- Oracle of Delphi
"my dreams are crawling from my sleep
it's a liminal dichotomy or parasitic effigy yeah,
i know to do what what i'm told, but i can't help shake the feeling that ive already been down this road"
-Red Hour by Tart
"Pharmakon" / "φάρμακον"
An ancient greek word meaning both "poison" and "antidote"
The sound that wakes him is murky, like he's underwater.
He can't see anything. He's not even sure if his eyes are open.
"------ready---release into---"
"----sure?"
Voices trail by him, around him, but he can't make out everything they're saying.
It's his job to gather intel. Why can't he hear them?
His eyes are wrenched open. He's not sure if by him or by something else. The light is blinding, and everything tinted a wicked shade of green. He squints and tries to pull his arm up to cover his eyes, but it yanks against a restraint.
He blinks a few times, clearing the haze and adjusting his eyes to the light. His head is stiff and jerky when he tries to see what's holding him hostage.
A wire, plugged into a suit of armor he's been stuffed into.
His jaw hurts.
One person in a suit with thinning grey hair carefully combed over a balding patch in a black and white business suit, and one person in a lab coat with thick brown hair and square glasses, clearly younger than both of them and holding a clipboard standing in front of him.
He can understand them better now. The one in the lab coat studies him like an animal behind glass.
"SM-0702, report."
Somehow, the words come to him without having to think about them at all. "Fully functional and ready for duty, sir."
It feels awful. Like spitting lead out of his mouth. His own voice grates on his ears. Why does he sound like that? Did they make him sound like that?
Did they make him?
His thoughts are cut off by the man in the suit. "Excellent. 702, you are to report to Arthur for your assignment.
The lab technician has moved over to the side and is typing on the computer that's attached to the various wire tubes sticking out from his body.
A screen flickers to life, flashing across his vision. He knows how to use it intrinsically. It makes his stomach twist that he knows.
He pulls up a mission report sent to him and looks at the picture of his new commander, face covered by shiny green, black, and yellow armour.
He shifts his digital vision to the edges and focuses back on the suited man. "Understood, sir."
"Good," he nods in return, "dismissed, soldier."
The lab tech types something else, then there's a low hissing sound as the wires drop off of his body. He feels them disconect, like getting a needle shot. One in each arm, one on his upper spine, two on his stomach, and one on each cheek. He barely acknowledges the pinches. Barely blinks as he strides off from his– from basically his birth room– and goes to find his superior.
-------------------------------------
It's been 3 months and 8 days since the death of John MacTavish.
Ghost feels like he still hasn't woken up, like one day he'll truly open his eyes and see Johnny waiting for him, realising it really was all a dream. He would tell the brunet exactly how he felt, not bothering to waste time anymore.
Instead, his presence is missed immensely. In the day, he's present, doing whatever needs doing. Paperwork, training, helping Sergeants and troops, and going on missions; they all have just started to blur together into one long dull memory.
Nothing is the same. Somehow, everything is the same.
The world moved on without Soap. To the military, he was just another soldier lost protecting his country. He was so much more to Simon.
Even after taking revenge on Makarov and spreading Johnny's ashes over the highlands, Simon was never the same. He will never hear Johnny call out his name anymore, so no one gets the privilege to call him by anything but his callsign.
He hardly speaks, now. No one worth talking to. No one worthy of hearing his jokes or affections over comms. No one worthy of answering back.
====
The grey industrial concrete walls do them no favors in terms of trying to keep quiet. Every footstep rings in his ears, even though he knows he's likely the only one who can hear them. Flourecent lights line the ceiling every handful of feet, but half the bulbs are dim, and the other half are burnt out, plunging the hallway into a barely visible murky darkness.
Ghost is infinitely grateful he doesn't have to check in over the radio. He would have had it off currently, anyway, because he's currently sneaking his way through a repurposed nuclear plant. Price is a few feet behind him, sweeping a second clear after him.
There are SpecGru grunts everywhere patrolling every dark corner, so he has to make like his name and get scarce. He slips in between patrols seamlessly, avoiding their detection.
This is a lot for a tiny team recon mission, but he's starting to see why Gaz, Cap, and their assigned 4th, Sellino, were sent. Any larger sized team would have been spotted and killed immediately.
He's already taken plenty of pictures to bring back. They only have one more section to clear: the armoury. He climbs the staircase railing and drops silently a floor below a pair of guards trailing upwards. Price drops a second after him. A crackle comes from the Specgru's radio, and they answer back, but it's too far to make out.
The two sneak down the twisting corridors. The more time that passes that he doesn't hear any footsteps from guards, the more the uneasy knot in his stomach grows. He glances at Price, who gives him only a miniscule shrug in response.
Around a corner, an ominous metal reinforced double door waits in front of him. He taps the keycard he stole off a guard against the scanner, but it beeps a mean red at him. He scowls at the halt in his progress, but he's intrigued by this hidden door he's somehow discovered. This wasn't on the map he was given in the intel.
He tries the door anyway, and to his surprise, it opens without resistance. The keycard scanner must be detached from the door in some way. it leads to not a full armoury but more of a weapons/storage/locker room combination. What hits him next is the smell. The familiar, acrid sent of blood hit his nostrils, and he curls his face. He carefully scopes around the corner and clears the first row, but the small room that opens up in the middle is where he finds the body of a lab technician dead in a puddle of his own blood from several gunshot wounds. Tiny rivers of blood trail through the tilecracks like they have a destination.
He picks up the shells from the spent rounds a few meters away and drops them into a small plastic bag he shoves in a vest pouch. 5.7x28mm casings. An SMG or pistol, likely. He snaps a picture of the body, but the room he was shot in looks like a shower room. Nothing else looks important.
Cap is making his way through the last of the lockers when he returns to the main room. He's paused, frozen, staring in front of one, but snaps out of it with a jolt when he hears Ghost's footsteps.
"All clear?" He checks in.
"Aye," Price replies, "all except this..."
When Ghost leans over to see exactly what Price is looking at, he understands exactly why the other man was stuck in place. The nametag sticker on the locker read 'SM-702'.
It could mean nothing. It could very well be a total coincidence.
"Open it." Ghost croaks.
Price cracks the lock with the butt of his gun, and it pops open with a clang. It's almost bare, a spare uniform and some ammo. Ghost reaches in and flips the tag on the inside, confirming a medium size. He flips the tongue of the shoe to see an 8.5 size tag. His stomach drops. He drops the shoe like it burned him. It could be a coincidence.
Price's hand on his shoulder makes him jump.
"Don't look too hard into it, son."
Simon can't bring himself to speak, so he nods. He closes the locker and tries to ignore the ache in his chest.
There's only one other door in the room, the same style as the entrance but on the opposite side. It also opens without resistance. This whole place reeks of suspicion. The doors open onto a metal platform, offering a staircase down into a much wider room with a dozen metal platforms with large back plates where large, loose wires hung limp. Every platform was attached to a rolling computer setup, but there was not a single screen or tower unsmashed.
Urgent beeping alerts the two to a multitude of bombs strapped to the various computer platforms.
"Bloody fuck!" Price cursed under his breath. "Snap your picture." He leans into his radio, "Gaz, Sellino, get out now. Rendezvous to exfil. Bombs are all over the basement. No time to defuse."
Two "Copies" come over the radio, and by the time their done the exchange, Ghost has snapped more than enough photos. He nods at the Captain and the two sprint back the way they came.
They haul themselves up flights of stairs. Dodging the same soldiers left and right, unwilling to start a firefight this close to detonation.
When they make it outside, the sun it starting to set over the west horizon. They have to trek a quarter mile still back to where their vehicle is parked.
Gaz and Sellino come from around the side of the bulding, sweaty but none the worse for wear.
As soon as the two caught up, the four of them took off towards their destination.
They were halfway to the chopper that was waiting for them, Gaz having radioed command as soon as they'd loaded in when the air around them shook so violently their windows rumbled in their frames. It was very shortly followed by a distant rumble, and Ghost felt a shiver run down his spine, knowing they were just in there.
At least now they had information about the operation Specgru had dug themselves into. They would take it, analyse it, and tell him where to go next.
He tries not to think too hard about the possibilities of what that locker could mean. He keeps reminding himself it could lead nowhere. But he can't ignore how he feels like he's starting to wake up.