Boots

by That_one_writer_with_ADHD

Summary:

“Seven! Six!” the countdown rang throughout the helo, everyone on board listening intently. They were being sent on a recon mission in Poland. John “Soap” MacTavish, Liam “Robin” Miller, Captain William Cabaniss and Billie “Shark” Lawrence. Each SAS soldiers in their own right.

 

*

 

How did I get here? Is the main question. How has he done this? His head spinning, his body aching, bleeding from every possible limb, stuck in a polish forest.

The Helicopter.

or

Soap in his old team is the sole survivor, survives in the Białowieża forest and then gets saved and its a whole thing.

Notes:

Sprained my ankle, heard the poem and said hey, that'd be good for a fic. so here we are. hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Seven, Six, Eleven, Five, Nine

“Seven! Six!” the countdown rang throughout the helo, everyone on board listening intently. They were being sent on a recon mission in Poland. John “Soap” MacTavish, Liam “Robin” Miller, Captain William Cabaniss and Billie “Shark” Lawrence. Each SAS soldiers in their own right.

Robin isn’t much older than Soap, being twenty seven while Soap sits at twenty four years of age. He’s the one always joking, always one step ahead, always being the one keeping them awake during blood loss. Yet now, just like every other mission, he has a look of determination. He makes some joke Soap doesn’t hear over the blades of the helicopter. Billie chuckles though, she treats him like a little brother at the best of times, always returns to the serious, cold Lieutenant seamlessly though. Captain Cabaniss starts to relay the plan to them, Soap tries to listen but ends up relaying it in his head. Get dropped off at start point, make way to the enemies supposedly abandoned and cleared out underground base, find the intel, and make it to exfil.

Simple in and out, right?

Right. This is the SAS.

 

*

 

Eleven miles. At least that’s how long it feels. Soap’s probably exaggerating. It probably wasn’t that far. But this forest is big, and the bunker, base, whatever was a long trek away. Approximately between two to four hours nonstop walking at their average speed. Only God knows John’s speed now. The cold late September air of the night biting at him, the ache burrowing itself deep into every muscle and bone in his body. He really wants to just fucking sleep. Wouldn’t that be nice? He can’t. Don’t think of sleep. Sleep in this situation means death. But oh, how he longs for it.

A warm liquid was dripping down his forehead and temple, now dried and crusted, cracking at every wince and movement of his face. When he wiped his hand at the substance it was crimson. Blood. In all fairness there probably isn’t a part of his body that doesn’t have blood on it. Cuts on his arms and legs, torso and cheeks, and a pretty bad gash on his left arm as well. His right ankle hurts, at first he debated if he could even walk. With the help of trees, training, and mental encouragement, he managed.

How did I get here? Is the main question. How has he done this? His head spinning, his body aching, bleeding from every possible limb, stuck in a polish forest.

The Helicopter.

 

*

 

It was after they shouted “Five!”

The sound of something distant, something like a firework.

Soap knew the sound, of course he did, he was a technician. A demolitions technician.

An explosives technician

It was an explosive.

A missile.

None of them had enough time to react before it went off. The explosion, the blaring alarms, the helicopter spinning. Robin got thrown out of the open doors, hanging on for dear life. Shark tried to reach for him, she didn’t make it in time. His grip faltered and he fell to his presumed KIA status. Cabaniss yanked her away from the door so she wouldn’t fall out after Robin. The helicopter kept spinning and the closed door on the other side managed to open, sending Cabaniss out into the trees. Just Soap and Shark left. They both hung on, he remembers that. What he’ll never forget is her look of pure horror and fear before the helicopter hit a tree and broke. It was around then he blacked out.

The pilot never made it to four.

 

*

 

John woke up to the smell of fire burning. Not much. But burning. Instincts kicked in, grasping the nearest thing to the exit and pulling, dragging his own body out of the wreck of a helicopter.

The cold air hit him like a train. September in this forest isn’t the best and most certainly not this close to October. The warm liquid on his face seems to just make him colder as the breeze passes over it, bringing with it the mid-autumn chill.

What really catches his eye, is the swinging. Back and forth. Back and forth. Over and over, moving one way with the wind then back the other way as it passes. Back and forth. Way back, then forth. Swing left, then right. Left, then right. Left then right.

It’s Robin’s body. It hits him like a bullet train, making him audibly scream and shuffle back, only to realise his right ankle is fucked.

“Steamin Jesus…” he mutters to himself. There’s no fuckin way. Not fuckin chance.

It’s Liam. He must’ve gotten tangled in a rope or a wire of something. It’s Liam.

He’s dead.

Soap- no, John had to bite his lip and swallow to prevent the stomach full of vomit he was about to lose because what the fuck kind of sight is this? Liam is hanging, upside down, dead. He’s gone. What the fuck.

Keep calm.

Keep calm.

Keep calm…

Liam’s daughter is nine… today.

Chapter 2: And Twenty Mile Today

Summary:

“Whatever happens, no matter the situation, never turn back.” One of the first things John was taught in the SAS. Obviously not to be taken too literally, there were situations where you had to turn back, but the sentiment stayed. Maybe that’s why he’s thinking of that now, in the middle of the forest, dehydrated and injured.

Notes:

Sorry for the short chapter! its difficult to make it long with the situation and motivation and everything but I promise I'll try to make them longer!

school is fast approaching and I'm not excited but oh well, enjoy the chapter!

“Whatever happens, no matter the situation, never turn back.” One of the first things John was taught in the SAS. Obviously not to be taken too literally, there were situations where you had to turn back, but the sentiment stayed. Maybe that’s why he’s thinking of that now, in the middle of the forest, dehydrated and injured. John can feel everything, the way his ankle throbs and stabs at every wrong movement. The blood seeping out of the gash in his left arm, the bugs that fly around it that he’s lost the energy and will to shoo away. His head hurts. He wants to go home.

 

Home. What even is that anymore? The place he grew up? Or the place he learned survival? Or the place where Liam taught this poor idiot how you’re actually supposed to hold an infant after the poor thing was found abandoned and they had to wait for social services. That was how he found out Liam has a daughter. Dumb mistakes but a healthy enough relationship, a lot of conversations and issues and solutions, and he ended up in the army to make enough money for them. It was hard for him to rarely see his daughter, but Liam told John that she loved him all the same and how grateful he was for that.

 

To be perfectly honest, the man was happiest when ranting about his daughter and girlfriend, let alone when annual leave was drawing closer. There was always the excitement, then anxiety, then nervousness, the pure joy whenever they came to pick him up themselves. John misses that day.

 

If only fate wasn’t so cruel. If only Liam had more time. Maybe if the roles were switched, Liam would see them again. But John can’t change that now. Liam “Robin” Miller is KIA. John “Soap” MacTavish is not. Though it sure does feel like he’s dying.

 

John feels ill. His head feels like it’s being crushed from within, trying to escape his head or shrink further into it. His body doesn’t feel like his own, his left arm throbs while his right feels weak. He can see his vision fading in and out as he tries to press on and keep moving forward. He could’ve been here for days and he would be none the wiser, though he doubts it.

 

Keep moving. Ignore the cold of the night, ignore the bugs circling your arm, ignore the way your stomach is doing backflips, ignore the way your brain can’t fit in your skull. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

 

Suddenly, the smell of burnt rubber fills his nostrils. John quickly looks around, his head spinning from the movement. Nothing. No fires or heat or even rubber. Simply nothing. Every nerve is on edge, trying to locate the source while slowly moving along, his fingers twitching without him telling them to. His heart thunders in his ears, the dull yet slightly off beat turning into a fast rhythm worthy of racing against.

 

His legs grow weaker, being dragged more than actually walking. He tries to hold onto a tree, a bush, the stick, but it’s difficult with your vision and depth perception slowly fading and coming back.

 

He feels the tip of his entire body moving forward just slightly before everything goes dark.

Chapter 3: Four, Eleven, Seventeen

Summary:

The first time John remembered wanting to join the army and be a soldier was four. Sat in his reception class, with all the other four and five year olds, talking over each other, full of energy and excitement. They had been told some special guests from the British Army were visiting.

Then he finds himself sat at his desk, waiting for midnight, for when he turns eighteen.

Notes:

I have motivation before skl, ofc.

Enjoy!

The first time John remembered wanting to join the army and be a soldier was four. Sat in his reception class, with all the other four and five year olds, talking over each other, full of energy and excitement. They had been told some special guests from the British Army were visiting.

 

He still remembers staring in awe at them, how tall they seemed to be, the air of respect that circled around them. It was mesmerising. There was three. One seemed a bit old (probably forties looking back on it), while one was younger than him (probably late thirties), and one seemed even younger (probably early twenties). The other children kept asking question after question, each one more excited than the last. John didn’t ask a thing, trying to come up with a better question than the others repetitive ones. He distinctly remembers someone asking when you can join, only to be met with that you have to be eighteen. Eighteen!? That’s ages away.

 

Break time rolled around. The trio sat on a bench in the corner of the playground, talking amongst themselves and chatting. Every other kid seemed to have lost interest in asking them a million questions, and were running around playing, so John took his opportunity. He walked over to them, catching the attention of the oldest ones who told the youngest to turn around, only to be met with Johnny standing right there.

 

“Hey, little man. Something you need?” the youngest asks, a kind smile on his face. He seemed nice enough the entire time, he was also a bit funny despite the others thinking he wasn’t.

 

John thinks for a minute before asking “is it difficult to be in the army?”

 

The oldest two just stare while the youngest tries to come up with an answer. “Well, it’s certainly not the easiest job in the world. But if you have the right motivation and heart for it, you’ll be just fine.” The youngest decides to respond with.

 

John contemplates it for a moment, going over it in his head. “Do you think I could?” he asks, wanting their opinion.

 

Again, it’s the younger one who responds. “Maybe when you’re a bit bigger and older. Then I believe you can, soldier.”

 

Soldier.

 

 

*

 

 

It was at eleven when John properly researched how to join the army, the requirements, the training, what they do, the different things you can do. It’s a lot more than just shooting a gun. There’s demolitions, communications, infantry, you get the idea.

 

His Da didn’t fully mind the idea, said that if it’s a phase then it’s a phase, if it isn’t then good for him. His Mammy was more worried though, afraid her son would get injured and killed but ultimately knew that if he did go through at eighteen she couldn’t stop him. But he’s eleven, so she doesn’t have to worry for a while now.

 

His sisters always would love to hear what he learned that week, always being supportive and kind about it. They had no interest in joining, but looking back on it, they probably just loved hearing him so happy and excited about something.

 

John would beg for books about different things in the army, read them cover to cover multiple times and relay what he learnt to his sisters or his Da, since he always had that same smile every time he would listen to his son ramble on and on about the topic.

 

The Army was a common topic in that house.

 

 

*

 

 

Seventeen. Not for long. He’s been trying to join since the day he turned sixteen, always caught. Never accepted. They’ll have no excuse once the clock hits midnight.

 

Tick.

 

Tick.

 

Tick.

 

Tick.

 

It’s never felt so quiet. This house, his aunties. It hasn’t been the same since the accident, since they were all gone. Once he finally makes it into the Army, he won’t be coming back. Not to this house, this so called family that’s been breaking from frayed seams for years under his nose and blanket of pure childhood innocence. Not anymore. This room is already mostly packed, obviously it takes a certain amount of time before you get accepted and can leave, but he won’t waste another minute, another hour, another year in those four walls.

 

The clock hit midnight, and he clicked confirm.

 

 

 

Chapter 4: Thirty Two

Summary:

He slowly stands up, ignoring the way his muscles scream in agony, probably a fair warning for him to stop but stopping here means accepting fate and dying; John is not dying here. His head still pounds like it’s banging on his skull to let his brain be free, at this point he wants to grab a rock and just smash it against his head until the pressure relieves itself. Is that a sign of insanity?

*

“Are you Soap?” the guy asks, staring directly into his eyes, whatever he sees he doesn’t like because his eyes widen a tinge in what John thinks is horror.

“Aye, who’s askin’? John- no, Soap replies. The smell grows stronger and his fingers twitch involuntarily.

 

- -

 

or stuff happens and a certain group finds him.

Notes:

I have motivation and I am trying okay? good

Enjoy!

Everything hurts way more. John’s body aches right down to his very core. Light shines in his eyes, the golden glow flitting between leaves and branches. Daylight. The air is warmer, heat getting stuck under the branches. It’s still cool, due to the time of year, but sweat still lingers on his forehead. Maybe he’s getting sick. Wouldn’t surprise him, he hasn’t done a thing to help his arm, or any other part of him.

 

He slowly stands up, ignoring the way his muscles scream in agony, probably a fair warning for him to stop but stopping here means accepting fate and dying; John is not dying here. His head still pounds like it’s banging on his skull to let his brain be free, at this point he wants to grab a rock and just smash it against his head until the pressure relieves itself. Is that a sign of insanity?

 

John keeps moving, weaving through trees and bushes, evading thorns and nettles and whatever may be lurking in them. He’s thirsty. So damn thirsty. His throat and mouth are dry and he hasn’t had water in ages, though some part of him wonders if he would even be able to keep it down long enough for it to really matter in the end. Who knows? He’s in the middle of a Polish forest, everyone else is probably dead. Liam “Robin” Miller is confirmed KIA, Captain Cabaniss is MIA, so is Billie “Shark” Lawrence. What’s the point in hoping they might be alive? They’re probably dead. Maybe it’s for the best. It would kill him to think of any of them going through this agony, this helplessness, the sense of dread as death is slowly coming for you and there’s no way you can prevent it.

 

John has never actually felt this scared on a mission before. Fear is part of the job, fear of you getting shot – possibly your teammates as well. This fear is new. It’s raw and helpless. There is no way to save yourself. John can’t save himself. Soap could’ve, John can’t. John is afraid.

 

Afraid of the end, afraid of being shot, would it really hurt in the end? Afraid of an enemy finding him and torturing him for information, what was the name of those they were searching for again? He doesn’t remember. They had some memorable logo, something unique, something like… the Logo on the box two feet in front of him.

 

He pauses. A long, contemplative pause. A box? Oh, and a tent. Multiple boxes and tents, and a campfire. Oh, it’s a camp.

 

A camp.

 

It takes a second for that to register but when it does he quickly moves behind a tree, peeking over to check the surroundings. It looks abandoned. Some tents are broken, the fire reduced to embers, boxes and crates emptied or simply untouched. Yeah, they didn’t even pack up, they just left. It should make him feel uneasy that they left in such a hurry, but it doesn’t; maybe that’s the insanity or exhaustion. Either way, he stumbles in, searching the crates and tents.

 

One of the mostly intact tents still has a bag in it. Some poor bastard is probably being chewed out for it, or he’s dead. Still, poor bastard. Inside the bag is usual stuff, empty things of ammo, an empty MRE and… a knife. That’s a lucky find, and a med-kit. “Like fuckin Christmas.” John mumbles to himself, opening the med-kit. There’s only a bandage which isn’t much, but it’s something. He quickly grabs it and begins shakily wrapping his arm, it’s mediocre at best, but it’s all he has. It’ll have to do.

 

He grabs the knife, keeping it firmly in his good arms hand, which is luckily his dominant combat hand. Standing up, he scans the area again, checking it’s safe and having the knife, now his, at the ready. It’s eerily quiet for a forest. There’s the sounds of the wind, whatever creatures and critters are up and about, but for an abandoned camp, it’s too quiet. It seems like there should be something happening, or maybe that’s just his anxiety talking.

 

John makes his way out of them camp, going in a direction where there’s no prints so he’s definitely not going to walk into them (not that he would anyways with his snail pace). The ground beneath his feet seems like it’s not enough to hold him, maybe that’s just his legs being too weak which is more probable.

 

Just keep going. You’ll be okay if you just keep going.

 

At least he hopes so. He can’t know for sure. His left arm is wrapped but probably infected by now, his brain is trying to escape his skull, oh and his ankle doesn’t agree with walking much so that’s fantastic. He’s probably sprained it. He can sort of walk on it, though the dizziness after walking for too long wasn’t fun when he discovered that side effect.

 

The trees seem so close yet so far, it’s probably just his vision again, depth perception is a lovely thing to have and a horrifying thing to lose whether you’re at home or a forest.

 

What catches his eye is a strange structure in the distance. Concrete? Out here? There are probably stranger things you could find now that he starts to think about it, but he tries not to focus on it for long since it gives him a banging headache. As he slowly approaches the structure he realises it’s completely destroyed and in ruins. Walls and half walls, no walls, rubble, you get the idea. It’s destroyed.

 

As he inches closer he realises he can hear something. Movement, voices, people. People.

 

Shit.

 

John quickly hides behind a wall that’s actually halfway intact, trying to listen to the conversation. They sound familiar, not as individuals but their way of speaking (what’s the word again?) is familiar in a way that hits close to home. Where has he heard that familiar sound before?

 

He’s broken out of his thoughts by the sound of one of them approaching from around the corner. His panic spikes, anxiety on full alert. He ignores the smell of rubber returning, deciding it’s a question for a later time. Peeking around the corner, he sees a guy with a cap turned around, presumably saying something to someone else. He takes the opportunity as he sees it and attempts to grab the guy to stab him, it doesn’t go well though as the second he touches the man he snaps around and slams him into the wall, making John let out a small cry of pain, glaring at the man pinning him. He looks around his age, brown eyes, brown hair, and dark skin. His vest has a flag that seems familiar. The UK? Oh the Union Jack.

 

The guy seems to get a good look at him, his head injury, the haphazardly bandaged arm, and the way he favours one ankle over the other. Or maybe he’s just looking at his basic appearance, brown hair in a mowhawk, union jack on his vest, blue eyes. Whatever he sees, realisation and recognition flicker in his eyes, something John did not expect.

 

“Are you Soap?” the guy asks, staring directly into his eyes, whatever he sees he doesn’t like because his eyes widen a tinge in what John thinks is horror.

 

“Aye, who’s askin’?” John- no, Soap replies. The smell grows stronger and his fingers twitch involuntarily.

 

“SAS, CIA, us aka Task Force 141, you’ve been MIA for around a day and a half, mate.” The guy informs, scrutinizing Soap as if he’s missing something.

 

The CIA? He understands the SAS in part but what does the CIA have to do with this? That’s America! And what’s this Task Force 141? Many questions, little answers, and even smaller awareness as his vision starts to fade and go blurry, the burning rubber smelling it’s strongest and his muscles twitching without him commanding them to.

 

Soap faintly hears the guy ask if he’s alright before everything goes sideways, then a single word being shouted.

 

“Price!”

 

It all goes dark after that.

Chapter 5: The Day Before

Summary:

Eighteen hours. That’s how long Captain William Cabaniss, Billie “Shark” Lawrence, Liam “Robin” Miller, and John “Soap” MacTavish had been MIA.

Task Force 141 wasn’t usually one for searching for missing men, that was the job of the branch they belonged to. However, Captain John Price had taken an interest in Soap and his skills as a demolitions expert and a sniper. So when he heard that he was missing when he requested his presence, he agreed to get him and his team to search for him

That’s how they ended up in this briefing.

Notes:

motivation is up and I'm using it while it's here.

Enjoy!

Eighteen hours. That’s how long Captain William Cabaniss, Billie “Shark” Lawrence, Liam “Robin” Miller, and John “Soap” MacTavish had been MIA. The Helicopters tracker showed that it had gotten to the drop off point but experienced what appeared to be turbulence before the tracker turned off, signalling main command who then took action.

 

Task Force 141 wasn’t usually one for searching for missing men, that was the job of the branch they belonged to. However, Captain John Price had taken an interest in Soap and his skills as a demolitions expert and a sniper. So when he heard that he was missing when he requested his presence, he agreed to get him and his team to search for him.

 

That’s how they ended up in this briefing. CIA agent Kate Laswell briefing Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, Simon “Ghost” Riley, and Captain Price on why Soap and the team were there and what is predicted to have happened.

 

Apparently, the team were there to make their way from the drop off point to an underground bunker that served as a base that supposedly was abandoned and belonged to members of a terrorist group they had been tracking for a while now. The plan was to find and sweep the base and gather any intel on their plans. What is predicted to have happened is that the base was not abandoned at all and just not visibly active, so when they saw the helicopter approach, they aimed a missile and fired, causing what appeared to be turbulence on the tracker which would explain why the tracker turned off not long later. The helicopter had crashed.

 

The plan was to drop into the forest much further from the base than the original team planned and travel over to the heli and investigate what is predicted to be a wreckage, then either follow any prints or make their way over to the bunker and clear it. It was made clear they are only to go to the bunker if there is no sign of anyone or if they do not find any survivors, if they do its immediate exfil.

 

The plan seemed simple enough, though execution would be much more complex. They were given a few hours to prepare, being told they were leaving at 0500. It’s currently 2000, leaving nine hours to prepare, get some rest, and then leave. Why was it done this way? Gaz doesn’t know, neither does he complain. Nine hours to prepare is ridiculous numbers and a miracle, probably from having to prepare a route to the planned drop off zone and watching weather patterns to find a safe gap.

 

He decides to use his time wisely, and what’s wiser than grabbing a warm cup of tea from the kitchen before and while checking equipment before getting rest to then get up early enough to prepare to leave. Genius plan of action.

 

The base is still alive, the mess hall is packed since tea was served not long ago, Kyle got his share before the briefing by having made a few friends in the kitchen. The common room and kitchen was empty, which just made his life easier. He fills the kettle and makes sure it’s plugged in at the wall before flicking the switch to boil, grabbing a mug and putting a teabag and two teaspoons of sugar in it. Gaz turns to lean against the counter and nearly jumps out of his skin as he makes direct eye contact with his Lieutenant, the skull mask and blacked out eyes not helping lessen the fright.

 

“Jeez- Ghost. Trying to give me a heart attack?” he jokes, trying to laugh off the fact his heart skipped a few beats out of pure panic.

 

Ghost just stares back, a faint sound can be heard that sounds oddly close to a chuckle, but maybe just an amused huff is heard. He walks over, grabbing his own mug and putting a teabag in it, casting a glance at Gaz’s mug and his eyes narrow. “You trying to give yourself a heart attack?”

 

Gaz blinks at him, confused, looking from him to the mug twice before it hits. “Oh, I just like my tea sweet.” He explains “it’s only two.”

 

“Too much.” Ghost mutters, trying to sound serious but Gaz knows he’s probably messing with him.

 

It’s quiet in the kitchen, the only sound being the kettle that’s boiling in the corner of the counter. The silence is only interrupted by the click of the switch on the kettle, signalling it’s done. Gaz reaches over and grabs it, pouring water into both mugs while Ghost grabs the milk. Using a teaspoon, Gaz takes the teabags out and puts them in the bin while Ghost pours milk into both mugs, grabbing his own and pulling his mask up just enough to take a sip.

 

“Dang, you drink it right away?” Gaz asks, an amused smile on his face.

 

Ghost looks at him, the confusion still evident despite only seeing his eyes. “You don’t?”

 

Gaz chuckles, shaking his head. “Not a chance, I’d burn my tongue off.” He replies, leaning against the counter again.

 

The silence returns, comfortable and strangely domestic for two men going on a mission about looking for survivors of a helicopter crash or gathering intel and wiping out an underground base in less than nine hours.

 

The situation doesn’t fully feel real, in a few hours they’ll be in a polish forest looking for a guy and his teammates who might be dead. Not only that but if they can’t find any of them alive then they have to go clear a base that’s probably filled with enemies to attempt to retrieve the intel the others couldn’t retrieve.

 

“You alright?” The sound of his Lieutenants voice breaks him out of his thoughts, realising he’d just been staring into space for the last five minutes.

 

“Yeah, sorry. Got distracted.”

 

Ghost grunts in acknowledgement, staring for a few seconds before talking again.

 

“You should get some rest. You look knackered.” He advises, probably noticing the lack of any sort of the usual energy coming from the Seargent.

 

“Still gotta check equipment, sir.”  Gaz explains. He knows he’s tired, he can feel it in his bones. But tiredness does not discriminate when things need doing.

 

Ghost seems to scrutinise him for a moment, trying to decipher whether he’s serious about checking important equipment while tired. He figures out he is. “You should check it when you’re rested Seargent. If you do something improperly while tired and you don’t check it while rested that will be an issue.” He warns, it sounds like a suggestion but is probably an order in disguise.

 

“Yes, sir.” Gaz knows there’s no arguing with Ghost once he’s already suggested it, even though it was clearly not a suggestion.

 

He takes a sip of his tea, the liquid now warm instead of scalding. It’s comforting, warming him from the inside out. It’s a simple pleasure in a not so simple job.

 

The silence returns for the god knows what time, both of them just drinking tea in silence. It’s kind of sad really, oh well. The overhead light is quite bright now that Gaz thinks about it, bright white on white walls and white floors, reflecting everywhere. Eventually, it’s broken by Ghost rinsing out his mug and putting it on the draining board.

 

“I’m gonna sleep, you should to.” He breaks the silence, his voice gruff and thick with exhaustion.

 

“I will, don’t worry, I don’t have a death wish.” Gaz replies, a small smile on his face as he says that.

 

Ghost huffs in amusement, muttering “Cheeky, bastard.” Under his breath before walking out, leaving Gaz alone in the kitchen.

 

Silence.

 

He’s probably going to miss the comfortable kind.

Chapter 6: Boots, Boots, Boots, Boots

Summary:

The whole process of arriving happened so quick that if you blinked you’d miss your cue.

Attach to the rope, wait for the signal, side down the rope, disconnect from the rope, and follow Price.

By the time they disappeared into the trees, the helicopter had been and gone with a “good luck, boys.” From Laswell. Gaz wondered just how much they would need it.

 

*

 

Gaz stands up and takes a few steps back, making the fatal error of looking up. There’s a pair of eyes staring straight back at him, lifeless. He steps back, a sharp gasp escaping his throat. That’s a body.

 

*

 

The sound of helicopter blades grows nearer as they approach,

Gaz hopes he never ends up hanging from those blades.

Notes:

Sorry this chapter isn't as in sync with my others to be fair its probably gonna take me this long if not longer to make chapters because of school but i did do most of this chapter then had no time to get it done until today.

Enjoy!

The helicopter flew overhead of the Białowieża Forest at around 0600 hours on September 30^th. Mission had different outcomes depending on what or who they did or did not find. Find any survivors? Evacuate them. Don’t find them or they are all confirmed KIA? Attempt to gain intel from the base they were going to search and potentially clear it out.

 

The forest looked thick from up here, the trees high and the ground almost invisible. They were aiming for a clearing just big enough that the helicopter could get low enough and the team could rope down there.

 

Gaz had to admit, this was insane. They know that there is a base that is controlled by terrorists and those people could and probably will come out of that base presumably to search the wreckage they were going to the last known location of. It was predicted that the team would have a bit of cleaning up to do, which wasn’t an issue necessarily but the hope is that it wouldn’t get too messy.

 

The whole process of arriving happened so quick that if you blinked you’d miss your cue.

 

Attach to the rope, wait for the signal, side down the rope, disconnect from the rope, and follow Price.

 

By the time they disappeared into the trees, the helicopter had been and gone with a “good luck, boys.” From Laswell. Gaz wondered just how much they would need it.

 

 

*

 

 

The woods were still waking up at this time, birds starting to chirp and sing, bit of the wind flowing through the trees and bushes, the ground wasn’t too wet due to recent dryness. If the circumstances were different then forest would seem almost peaceful, but they were not. They were heading towards a wreckage of an SAS helicopter and were going to look for its inhabitants.

 

“Why’d we agree to look for this team anyways?” Ghost spoke up from behind him. “Let the SAS clean up their own mess.”

 

He had a point. This wasn’t particularly their concern. Maybe the terrorists, yes, but looking for the missing team? It didn’t concern them in the slightest, not with their work.

 

Price responds from in front of Gaz, not looking back at his Lieutenant while responding to him. “Because they’re useful, Ghost.” He responds simply, his gruff voice making it difficult to argue with him, at least for Gaz. “Specifically the one that goes by Soap.”

 

“What makes Soap so useful?” Gaz questions from in between them both, he doesn’t get it. He saw a picture of this Soap guy and read part of his file in the briefing; Sniper, demolitions expert, Brown hair in mow hawk, blue eyes, Scottish. What was so special about him?

 

Price doesn’t slow down their pace, keeping it up while looking at the surroundings while coming up with a response. “Youngest to pass SAS selection, and one of the fastest in room clearance and urban warfare techniques. And he’s a demolitions expert and sniper if you didn’t read the file properly.”

 

“I did.” Gaz confirms, still trying to process all of that. He had to admit, this guy sounded impressive.

 

“Good.” Is the response he gets from Price, an acknowledgement more like. “He’s about your age. Bit younger, by months.”

 

That surprises Gaz just a bit. He’s the same age? Months apart or not, that’s a struggle to wrap his head around. He doesn’t say it outright, partly because he doesn’t know what to say, partly because Price signals that there’s something up ahead.

 

All three stop, staying silent and waiting. Price inches closer, using the trees and bushes. Gaz can start to see what he was focusing on, the wreckage. It’s what you would expect, pieces of the helicopter across the ground, one of the blades embedded in a nearby tree. The reason they all took cover behind different trees or vegetation is the people, all armed, none friendly. There was only three. One was keeping watch, another checking the outside of the helo while another was investigating inside.

 

“Any got a clean shot on the one inside?” Prices voice comes over the comms. Gaz can’t get a shot, not from here.

 

“affirmative.” Comes from Ghost, hidden behind a tree a few meters to Gaz’s right, having direct eyesight of the helicopters open door.

 

“You take him, I’ll get the one making rounds of the crash, Gaz you take the one on watch.”

 

“Roger that.” Gaz responds, taking aim at the one on watch, the man just standing there and staring into the trees opposite his position.

 

“On my mark…” Price instructs, probably due to the fact he’s still partially instructing Gaz as a newer member and Sergeant, since Ghost doesn’t need reminding to wait for a signal.

 

Time stands still, each taking aim, waiting for all to be in range.

 

“Fire.”

 

In an instant, three shots are fired, two landing while one misses. Gaz curses quietly, realising it was his shot that missed. The guy turns towards the wreckage, shouting something in what he guesses is Russian before he fires another bullet into him, this one landing.

 

It silent for a moment before the quick “Clear.” Is confirmed by Ghost.

 

All three of them emerge from cover, walking into the dirt clearing and assessing what’s happened.

 

“Aim could use a bit of work.” Ghost observes, having noticed Gaz’s mistake. “But your reaction was good.” He continues, recognising how Gaz handled the mistake. He turns to Gaz, probably waiting for a response.

 

Gaz nods in acknowledgement, recognising that Ghost was waiting for some sort of confirmation he heard him. “Thank you, sir.”

 

Turning his attention back the wreckage. It was in ruins. Some blades bent, another missing, the whole tail disconnected from the rest of the helicopter. Ghost went in to check the cockpit and the inside while Price checked the outside of the helicopter and the main chunks of wreckage.

 

Gaz looks around a bit and spots a small area under it, tight but big enough that a person could theoretically fit. Maybe not Price or Ghost, but he surely could. He crouches down and looks inside, nothing special, burnt pieces of metal and wiring, gasoline that was burnt hours ago and blood. Blood? The blood is smeared and goes out of the hole, blending in with the dirt until it’s pretty much unrecognisable. The blood leads to prints, footprints, he’ll have to point that out to Price.

 

Gaz stands up and takes a few steps back, making the fatal error of looking up. There’s a pair of eyes staring straight back at him, lifeless. He steps back, a sharp gasp escaping his throat. That’s a body. Definitely a dead body. Staring straight back at him. Through him? He can’t pry his eyes away for a good few seconds, until the wave of pure nausea hits him. He stares at the ground, bending over, hands on his knees and trying to get himself together. One of the soldiers they were looking for is up there, lifeless, dead, blood was dripping from God knows where onto God knows what. He’s hanging by his leg, tangled in something, probably the same kind of rope that the team used to get into this forest about an hour before.

 

“You alright, Sergeant?”

 

The voice of his Captain breaks Gaz out of his trance of questions and horrors. He takes a deep breath, standing back up properly and looking at his Captain, seeing the slight confusion and worry in the furrow of his brow.

 

“Fine, Captain.” He confirms. Gaz gestures upwards, towards the… non-survivor. “Found someone…”

 

Price looks up, seeing what Gaz was distraught about. “Jesus…” he mutters, next to Gaz to try and identify them. “Liam “Robin” Miller.” He declares, making Ghost poke his head out of the inside of the helicopter. Noticing where Price is staring and looking for himself.

 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” Is Ghost’s response, only looking for a short while before back at where he’s going as he exits the destroyed helicopter. “Pilots KIA. Same goes for Robin I suppose.”

 

“Seems so.” Price replies, taking his eyes off of Robin to look at Ghost and then Gaz. “You gonna be alright, Sergeant.” He reassures, more as a statement than a question. It’s pretty horrific to look up and see someone’s lifeless eyes staring straight into your not to lifeless ones.

 

“Yeah… affirmative.”

 

“Good lad.”

 

 

*

 

 

The trek through the forest continued. Three pairs of boots, three soldiers, three men. The trek is long, following the prints Gaz found. The air seems to get slightly warmer as the morning progresses. It’s still technically cold by temperature standards, luckily each one of them got the memo to dress warmly and tactically, which in these circumstances is almost the same thing.

 

It’s the same things for miles; trees, trees, more trees, bushes, nettles, bugs, birds, a few small animals, forest things. Then the same dark coloured patch from the helicopter. Blood on the dirt. The prints stop and then start again after it, the ones after more fresh than the others. They don’t investigate it for long, focusing on following the trail.

 

“Think he collapsed? If it is him that is.” Gaz questions, stating the obvious.

 

“Likely. Probably injured and exhausted.” Ghost answers. “We’ll be lucky if we find him alive after this long. Been missing for over thirty hours.”

 

They all know he has a point, the man was in a helicopter crash and somehow could stand and walk off. If that’s not adrenaline then it’s pure insanity.

 

The hour drags on, sun gleaming through the trees and a breeze in the air. At some point in time, the prints seemed out of place and disorderly, causing them to lose track. As a solution, Price just recommended they stick to the approximate direction they were going, deciding it’ll be the most logical solution instead of backtracking possibly all the way to the helicopter.

 

The forest slowly emerged into a small clearing of some ruins, a building long destroyed by time and other affairs leaving nothing but it’s said remains. The sweep of the area found nothing, not a soul in sight.

 

“We’ll rest here for a bit.” Price announces. They’d been trekking through the forest for the better part of almost five hours, so it was a welcome idea.

 

Resting consisted of sitting on fallen logs or the floor, or just simply standing. Gaz was leaning against a pathetic excuse for a wall, watching Ghost and Price talk about whatever. The conversation was quite one sided, having Price do most of the talking while Ghost chipped in or simply grunted in acknowledgement.

 

After a short while, Gaz could swear he heard rustling and a small thump. He checks around the corner, slowly walking over before the sound of his captain’s voice stops him. “Gaz? Where are you going?”  Price inquires sternly. Right, should’ve said something.

 

Gaz turns to talk to his captain, moving backwards a few steps after doing so. “Just thought I heard something, probably an animal.” He explains, watching Price’s reaction and response. Ghost has looked over by now, his eyes unreadable.

 

“Go check it and come straight back then.” Price begrudgingly instructs him, understanding the importance of being aware of your environment and the sounds within it.

 

Gaz nods, moving backwards a few more steps before feeling someone try to grab him. He quickly snaps around, slamming the attacker into the wall with a thud and their small cry of pain. Looking over the man, he notices everything; the hurt ankle, the pathetic bandaging of their left arm, blood dripping from their head, union jack on their vest, blue eyes, brown hair in a mowhawk. Gaz pauses, realisation setting in.

 

“Are you Soap?” Gaz asks, staring directly into his eyes. Horror sets in as he realises one pupil is bigger than the other.

 

“Aye, who’s askin’?” The man, Soap, responds. God he does not sound good…

 

“SAS, CIA, us aka Task Force 141, you’ve been MIA for around a day and a half, mate.” Gaz informs, trying to find any other sign of what’s the underlying cause of that enlarged pupil.

 

The guy looks like hell. Bleeding and bruised almost everywhere, ankle injured and probably sprained, his arm is probably infected, possible brain injury. He looks out of it, unsteady and nearly tipping over.

 

“Are you alright-” Gaz starts to ask, before the guy fully tips and starts shaking.

 

He’s having a seizure.

 

“Price!” Gaz shouts, putting the man on the ground away from the wall but having no idea what else to do other than stand back and watch. What are you supposed to do?

 

Price and Ghost round the corner not five seconds later, both as surprised as each other but not as horrified as Gaz. They’ve probably seen worse shit.

 

“What happened, Kyle?” Price asks gently, moving over to Gaz while Ghost keeps his eyes trained on Soap.

 

“I don’t- I don’t know, he was injured and one of his pupils was bigger than the other and he was talking but then he just collapsed.” Gaz explains, in a bit of a state of shock of how quickly that all went down. “That’s Soap.” He concludes, remembering how the guy confirmed it.

 

Price and Ghost share a quick glance, a silent conversation passing between the two. Probably recognising this is the guy but also that Gaz is in shock.

 

“Right, okay. It’s fine, you’re okay, we’re gonna help him. Got that.” Price reassures.

 

Gaz nods immediately, not knowing if to look at Soap or the ground or Price, he opts for Price. “Yes, sir.”

 

Time moves in a bit of a daze, Price radioing, Ghost calling out a time once Soap stops seizing, radios, Laswell’s voice over them, moving Soap, going towards extraction, the sound of boots, the wind and birds sound more ominous than soothing. Everything is muffled and dull. The sound of helicopter blades grows nearer as they approach, loading Soap onto the helicopter and then all three men following suit.

 

Gaz hopes he never ends up hanging from those blades.

 

 

 

Notes:

hope you enjoyed!

I did try to make it clear how much Gaz was affected since he is the youngest and has probably seen some shit but maybe not to this extent? either way I tried.

Chapter 7: Moving Up

Summary:

What John woke up to was not the sound of birds or bugs buzzing in his ear, it was not the outside cold mixing within his inner warmth and making him shiver and sweat, it wasn’t the flicker of the sun flitting through the trees, it was much brighter. White and harsh, a soft beeping in the background, mechanical yet strangely human. The beeping keeps rhythm with the thumping under his skin.

A heart monitor.

A hospital?

Notes:

School has started so updates will be slow, maybe once a week or every few days but I promise I'm trying and have a lot of ideas for this series!

Hope you enjoy!

What John woke up to was not the sound of birds or bugs buzzing in his ear, it was not the outside cold mixing within his inner warmth and making him shiver and sweat, it wasn’t the flicker of the sun flitting through the trees, it was much brighter. White and harsh, a soft beeping in the background, mechanical yet strangely human. The beeping keeps rhythm with the thumping under his skin.

 

A heart monitor.

 

A hospital?

 

His eyes flutter open, squinting against the harsh light. Most of the surrounding area is white, burning through his unadjusted eyes. The room is a blur of white and shapes, light and colours. As his eyes adjust, he realises he is indeed on a hospital bed, in a hospital room, with a chair next to his bed and random posters hung up about health. Definitely a hospital, fits the description perfectly.

 

John looks down, noticing the bandage on his left arm, wrapped properly this time unlike his sad excuse of wrapping. He touches his head and realises that there’s a bandage covering part of that to, his hair poking out and going over the bandage, he probably looks ridiculous. His ankle doesn’t seem to have had much done for it though, it’s wrapped in a bandage but it doesn’t seem like its doing much for it. Probably just precautionary or some bull.

 

What on God’s green earth happened? That guy knew him, then he blacked out. The word- no, name Price. Who the hell is that? What on earth is happening?

 

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the door opening, the same guy he remembers seeing and meeting (kinda?) before he blacked out walks in. The guy seems surprised, then relieved he’s awake.

 

“You’re up already?” The guy questions in what John- no, Soap guesses is a joking manner. Seems like it, he’s smiling.

 

Soap shrugs as best he can, keeping his eyes trained on the guy, he doesn’t trust him yet, he doesn’t know him.

 

The guy seems to get it, putting down his stuff on a chair in the corner before making his way to sit in the one next to Soap’s bed. “figures.” He mutters, probably to the lack of Soap actually talking. “You gave us a heart attack back there, spazzing out and shit.”

 

“Huh?” Soap questions. “Spazzing out?”

 

“You had a seizure. Hell, you had a lotta things up with you. Three seizures, two before the hospital and one in it, an infected arm wound, sprained ankle, and some brain injury I can’t remember the name of. Something along the lines of epidural hemasomething.” The guy explains, and Soap can feel his expression shifting from confusion to realisation to horror.

 

“Calm down, though.” The guy cuts in before Soap can go down that spiralling rabbit hole. “You’re okay, surgeon and nurses patched you up real good. You’re gonna be fine.” He reassures over and over, making sure Soap gets the message. He does. “My names Kyle, most call me Gaz.” The guy, Gaz, introduces, that same friendly smile on his face.

 

Gaz seems nice enough, looking around Soaps age, maybe a bit older but only just slightly. “Soap.” He replies, even though he’s aware Gaz already knows that. Gaz nods anyway, seemingly pleased that Soap actually responded to him without it being just a gesture or a question.

 

“Nice to properly meet you, without you looking half dead and then seizing on me.” Gaz chuckles a little, this guy seems to joke a lot, maybe a nervous habit.

 

Soap finds a bit of amusement in it as well now that the confusion and wariness have worn off, huffing a little as his own sense of humour returns in the slightest. “Yeah, bet that was a bleedin’ sight…”

 

Gaz huffs a laugh, recognising the shared humour they’re both trying and succeeding to find in the situation. “Oh yeah. Don’t think even Price had seen it before. You’ve made quite the first impression, mate.”

 

Soap rolls his eyes playfully. “Aye? And who’s that? Yer lieutenant?”

 

“Captain.” Gaz corrects. “Cold and stern as ever but he has his moments.”

 

“Sounds ‘bout right for a Captain.” Soap replies, rubbing his tired eyes again. He glances at Gaz, getting a good look before speaking again. “How old even are ya?”

 

Gaz pauses, probably caught off guard by the sudden question. “I’m- uh, I’m twenty four.”

 

“Really? When?”

 

“Back in April.”

 

“Dang it. I was born in July.” Soap admits, sighing in disappointment.

 

Gaz quietly laughs at that, enjoying Soaps disappointment. “I’m older than you then, ay?” He teases, rubbing salt in the wound.

 

“Ay, no need ta rub it in.” Soap mutters, a bit salty about it but mainly just messing with him.

 

The room delves into comfortable silence, Gaz checking his phone while Soap tries not to fall asleep. Eventually it’s inevitable.

 

 

*

 

 

When he wakes up again, he’s met with a guy who seems to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties, with a beard and a tired look on his face. He seems to notice when Soap wakes up, smiling at him when he does. Why does everyone smile at an injured person when they wake up?

 

“See you’re up, soldier.” He greets, the way he addresses him oddly familiar while Soap’s sure he’s never seen this guy before in his life. “How you holding up?”

 

“Fine.” Soap replies stubbornly, he doesn’t know this man so why would he tell him his head is spinning in about five different directions and none of them are a real, plausible, possible one?

 

The man just grunts in acknowledgement, probably catching on to Soaps pure bullshit.

 

“I’m Captain John Price.” The man, Price, introduces. “You’ve already met Kyle Garrick, Gaz. There’s also my lieutenant, Ghost. He’s a scary bloke with a skull mask, you’ll know him when you see him.”

 

“Ghost?” Soap questions. “The man dead already?” He quips, partly forgetting the man in question outranks him.

 

“You’re not exactly a bottle of carex, are you?” Price responds to Soaps quip

 

“Touché” Soap mutters, realising Price has a point, and he should probably stop trying to poke fun at the call sign of a superior when his isn’t much better.

 

Price nods in approval at Soap backing down. It’s silent for a good few moments too long to be comfortable. “Well, Sergeant. I have a good feeling we’ll be taking quite a bit more, but I won’t go on to you about official business until you’re mostly healed and not still at risk of dropping dead.”

 

“Thanks for the encouragement.” Soap mutters

 

Price smiles at that, sensing the sarcasm. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

 

 

*

 

 

The hours and probably days blend together, nurses checking vitals, asking questions, writing notes with the scratch of paper. The beeping of the monitor becomes a familiar lullaby, the rhythm rarely changing due to his lack of moving much.

 

The nurse is a lovely lady called Miss Rough that despite her name, is one of the sweetest, gentlest souls on earth. She talks quite a bit but never too much, or maybe Soap’s biased since he talks a lot. Either way, she has the right amount of medical professionalism and humour, somehow managing to keep his nerves calm despite the fact he has a literal brain injury.

 

She’s good at listening to his concerns and is always quick to reassure him that every concern he has is actually completely normal to not only have, but be concerned about. Human nature and all.

 

So when the door opens and it’s not her, or Gaz, or Price, but a tall man with a skull mask and two drinks in hand, to say he’s surprised is an understatement.

 

They both stare directly at each other, Soap between confused and horrified and the guy…well you can’t see his face, but his eyes don’t narrow. Skull mask, tall, Ghost? Oh that’s Ghost.

 

The realisation hitting him is short lived as his attention is directed to the fact the guy is walking over to him, his figure quite imposing and intimidating considering Soap is sitting up in a damn hospital bed. For half a second, Soap thinks this guy is gonna turn him into the ghost here. Until Ghost holds out one of the drinks to him.

 

Soap stares at the cup, then up at Ghost, probably looking like an idiot. Ghost seems to notice, since he finally speaks.

 

“Milkshake. Thought you’d want something better than water or apple cartons.” He explains simply, not moving in the slightest, it’s a bit freaky in all fairness.

 

“Oh.” Soap replies dumbly, taking the cup off of him. “What flavour is it?” he asks, taking a sip anyways.

 

“Banana. Would’ve got Strawberry but they ran out.”

 

Soap hums in reply, he can definitely taste it. “I’m more of a chocolate guy anyway.” He replies, taking another sip. It’s not that bad, better than the things he’s been drinking lately. “Thanks.”

 

Ghost grunts in reply, not even taking a sip of his own drink.

 

“Yer Ghost, right? I’m not just assuming wrong, am I?” Soap asks, realising he should probably confirm it.

 

Ghost nods, confirming he is who Soap assumes he is. “Price told you?” he questions.

 

“Guy with a skull mask.” Soap relays to him. “I see what he meant by I’ll know ye when I see ya.”

 

“Hm. Guessed.”

 

“Ye don’t talk much, do ya?” Soap points out, taking more sips of the banana flavoured milkshake. That doesn’t technically taste of banana… that’s a debate for later, MacTavish.

 

Again, just a grunt. This is going to be a theme.

 

“Well if you don’t talk I’m going to just be talking yer ear off, ya know that?” Soap warns, finding this interaction the tiniest bit amusing at just how anti-climactic it is.

 

Ghost just stares at him, a bit creepily if it wasn’t for the milkshake in his hand. “I have all day.” He mutters, sitting in the chair by Soaps bed.

 

The hours are spent talking about random things, food, work, animals, colours (Ghosts favourite is red, wonder why?), the banana flavour debate, and some childhood gems. Ghost didn’t participate much in that one, Soap didn’t question why. It’s a surprise Ghost engaged at all, but Soap appreciated it.

 

It’s probably the longest he’s stayed awake since the forest.

 

None of them have mentioned the forest.

 

Soap doesn’t want to think back to there.

Chapter 8: And Down Again

Summary:

Waking up feels…different. Well, at least for John “Soap” MacTavish. The sharp, aching headache has come back full force.

“You alright?”

“Feels like my head is about to explode.”

Notes:

Motivaton said yes.

Enjoy!

Waking up feels…different. Well, at least for John “Soap” MacTavish. The sharp, aching headache has come back full force. His brain feels like it’s playing with its new hammer on his skull. The beeping indicating he’s alive is less soothing and more of a metronome, measuring the tempo of the hammer banging over and over, pulsating.

 

Every sound, every tick, every shuffle makes it worse. He has half a mind to just take his brain out to make it stop. Touching things is an awful experience now, the blankets feeling like they’re scraping at his skin, his hair brushing against his forehead sending waves of uneasiness and nausea, or is that juts the migraine? In part, maybe it would just be better to crawl out of his skin and curl up until it’s all gone, wouldn’t that be lovely? Humans aren’t built like that, can’t just shed your skin and pray.

 

The sound of that god forbidden creaky door opening makes him wish upon every godforsaken star that humans did, in fact, evolve that way. John glances up, expecting to see Price, or Gaz, or Ghost, or Miss Rough. Instead, he gets greeted with a young looking probably student, or maybe just very new, nurse who has an air of confidence that outweighs her skill and knowledge. She walks over to the monitors, checking the numbers and rhythms, checking the IV is fine, not checking that he’s fine, scribbling down notes with a scratch that claws at his brain.

 

“You seem to be doing great!” The nurse informs a bit too happily, a voice that pierces straight through his skull. “Though your heart rate has gone up a bit, probably just your body coping with recovering.” She mentions, not even asking him if there’s a reason for it or any concern like Nurse Rough would’ve.

 

“Really?” he asks incredulously. “Because my brain feels like its playing with a jackhammer inside of my skull to escape it.” John informs, agitated mainly due to the pain of whatever is in his skull.

 

“Calm down, it’s probably just your brain healing. Nothing to fret over.” She replies, sounding slightly condescending and annoyed, probably at the fact he’s questioning her.

 

“Probably? My head feels just as bad if not worse than before I got here, and you’re only saying it’s probably fine?” If it wasn’t for the absolute state he was in, he might’ve just started shouting then and there.

 

She looks like she’s holding back an eye roll. “You’ll be fine. You’re getting the nutrients you need to recover and its prob- it’s just the pain meds warring off.” She brushes him off, clearly thinking she knows better.

 

John want’s to argue back, but he’s just too tired, maybe it’ll be easier to just shut up and let her go away so he can sit in misery. He catches her nametag, P. Casey. He hopes to never see that name again.

 

Sleep comes easier than he predicted.

 

 

*

 

 

When he wakes back up, it’s still not gone, in fact it’s worse. His left hand feels weak and tingly, like it’s in between numb and feeling. The door creaks back open with that awful sound. A guy with a skull mask walks in, holding two drinks. The sight of anything he can consume makes his stomach churn. On another note, he seems strangely familiar, he’s seen him recently he’s sure, but where?

 

Ghost, right.

 

Ghost offers him the drink, to which he takes, debating for a full five seconds before putting it on the table next to his bed without even a sniff. Ghost stares at him, confusion flickering in his eyes as they narrow, scrutinising.

 

“Not thirsty.” John lies, he probably is but he doesn’t trust his body to keep it down.

 

Ghost doesn’t look convinced, but either way doesn’t comment on it. He sits down in the same spot as last time, the seat next to Soaps bed without taking a sip of his own drink.

 

John decides to question it, looking for a distraction from the toddler throwing blocks in his head. “You ever drink that?” He regrets it immediately, the sound piercing his ears and it feels like they want to bleed.

 

Ghost just grunts a sound of confirmation. “In my own time.” It’s simple enough.

 

It’s silent for a good few minutes, not unwelcome but eerily still. The headache doesn’t go away, John tries to put his head in his hands, hoping it’ll help but it’s not that useful. He groans in frustration and pain, wishing it’ll just go away.

 

“You alright?” It’s a simple question, but it jolts him into remembering that Ghost is there in the room with him. He glances over at him, seeing the way his eyes narrow. He knows something is up, John knows that.

 

“Feels like my head is about to explode.” John responds, praying to every singly spirit and god and angel that his head stops this crime against an SAS soldier.

 

Ghost is quiet for another few seconds, maybe debating what to say and what not to say, what to do and not to do, he must come up with an answer because he starts talking again. “Have you told a nurse, or doctor?”

 

John has half a mind to scoff, but ends up just huffing in frustration. “Of course I did. Lass didn’t listen to a bleedin’ word I said. Kept brushin’ me off. Was some new lookin’ nurse. Not the nice one like usual.”

 

“You catch a name?”

 

John thinks back to earlier, when that nurse came in a checked the monitors and that stupid scratching pen and the condescending smile on her face. “Aye, P. Casey. At least if the nametag was right or me eyes haven’t given up on me yet.

 

Ghost seems to take in the information, leaning forward for a minute before standing up. “I’ll be back”

 

John looks at him fully, confused. “What? You gonna attack her or something?” he asks jokingly, silently hoping the answers no while his subconscious begs for it to be yes.

 

“No.” happiness and disappointment. “Grabbing a different one to her.” Oh. That makes sense.

 

John doesn’t input anymore into it, just lets Ghost walk out, leaving Soap alone with the beeping, two drinks and a godforsaken headache that he’s just begging to stop.

 

The other sounds sound louder now that there isn’t another humans breathing in the room. The beeping, the shuffling, the outside voices. Then there’s the feelings. The scratch of the sheets, the cold air around him, the pain, the dread coming from every sane survival instinct inside of him

 

Something is wrong.

 

It feels like back at that stupid forest, cold air, blinding headache, bright lights, and distant sounds and close ones where they all seem like too much or too little to keep his sanity alive.

 

This is not right.

 

He is not right.

 

Nothing has been fixed.

 

Or maybe they just rebroke?

 

Burning rubber.

 

Was that a sign?

 

It all goes dark again.

Notes:

small tip for ya'll, if you didn't notice I'm trying to use each line as a prompt for each chapter, seems to have worked like how chapter 4 'Thirty Two' was him being missing for thirty two hours.

I try, okay (same applies for switching between John and Soap which is kind of touched on the why in I think chapter 1 or 2)

Chapter 9: There's No Discharge

Summary:

Loud.

So loud.

Everyone’s voices are so loud.

Bright.

It’s also bright.

Why is it so bright?

Notes:

2 chapters in 1 day?!

motivation said yes and id rather post when finished then have to proof read bc I hate reading my own work and I don't wanna not post it as soon and I'm finished so

Enjoy!

Loud.

 

So loud.

 

Everyone’s voices are so loud.

 

Bright.

 

It’s also bright.

 

Why is it so bright?

 

Everything around him is moving too fast, sounding too loud and looking too bright. Quick voices, swift hands, orders. Orders. He can follow orders. Soap can follow orders. MacTavish can follow orders. John can follow orders.

 

He doesn’t know what happened? Another seizure? Was that why he could smell burning rubber? But his head was supposed to be fixed, right? He was supposed to be fixed, right? He should be fine. Why is he still broken? Soap isn’t broken, John was patchwork but not broken, Johnny is broken. Little Johnny is broken, not the man he has made himself. John is not supposed to be this broken.

 

But he knows without a doubt that he is, the bright lights above him, the sound of rushed voices, the familiar movement of being moved from one place to another in a rush. He is not fixed, far from it.

 

A mask is put over his face, and it all fades away.

 

 

*

 

 

When John wakes up again, it’s slightly different to last time, maybe he woke up earlier after surgery than last time but there’s the distinct feeling of something on his face, making oxygen easily accessible. An oxygen mask, John. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not comfortable either. It’s just… there.

 

He tries moving, his tired and weak limbs refusing to cooperate. Soap isn’t weak. He can do this. He gets stopped in his attempt at forcing his muscles to work by a gentle hand placing itself on his chest and using the smallest amount of force known to man to push him back down. Yeah, he definitely looks pathetic.

 

He cracks his eyes open, squinting to try and make out the one who has stopped him in his futile attempt at movement. It’s Price. John can tell at the older, more tired look of the man and in part, what Gaz had said earlier. “Cold and stern as ever but he has his moments.” And he definitely looks like he’s in that moment. Well, he has a glint of concern in his eyes and is softer than what you would expect from a military captain, but still it’ll be what Gaz meant.

 

“At ease, soldier. You’re safe here.” Price reassures, his hand returning to his lap as he stares directly into John’s eyes, there’s no mistaking he’s talking to him. “Bleed re-opened, bad. But they fixed it, want to monitor you closely for any complications. You’ll be alright.”  

 

Calming. That’s a good way to explain how Price’s voice sounds in this moment. Like he’s trying to avoid any collateral damage from spilling over and creating a flood he won’t be able to hold back. Maybe a flood is needed to wash away a broken city, or maybe you just have to get up and fix it.

 

For now, John just closes his eyes and lets the darkness return.

 

 

*

 

 

A lot of John’s time is spent thinking, thinking about his MIA or KIA team, thinking about what the nurses are writing down and what it all means, thinking about what could’ve or would’ve been if they had been better informed, or what Gaz is yammering on about while Soap just idly listens.

 

Gaz talks about his childhood in London, his family, his home, how and why he joined the military. He talks about Price, how his favourite movie is something to do with a soldier who doesn’t want to even touch a weapon so becomes a medic and tries to save as many soldiers as he can, how he doesn’t have a favourite colour because all of them mean something to him. John wonders what Red means to Ghost. Gaz talks about how Ghost isn’t one for talking about home or himself, but he’s caught him enjoying most dystopian and complaining about inaccuracies and going back to something like Matilda because it’s “a classic”. Gaz talk a lot. Ghost does not. John can live with that, Captain Cabaniss didn’t talk much outside of work related things or when a member of the team needed support, Liam talked a lot though and Billie was in between the two.

 

That begs another question.

 

Has anyone called Molly and Kaitlyn?

 

 

*

 

 

21:23

 

The office is silent, lamp buzzing, paperwork pretty much untouched, computer shut down and phone off. Price sits there. The weight of the world has fallen upon him. His team technically found Liam Miller, so whoever at the SAS would’ve had to make the call, wriggled their way out of it like a wimp and made him to it.

 

Kaitlyn, his partner (presumably girlfriend due to no marital status) was not happy. He didn’t expect her to be. The poor woman doesn’t have her partner anymore and has a nine year old to look after. He told her to call if she genuinely does need anything, and he’ll do what he can. It’s the least he could do.

 

Liam “Robin” Miller is KIA, Billie “Shark” Lawrence is MIA alone with Captain William Cabaniss, and John “Soap” MacTavish is injured and in hospital. This couldn’t get any worse, could it?

 

He wishes he didn’t say that as his ringtone fills the room. He sighs, picking up the phone and reading the name of the guy at the SAS they’ve been working closely with, probably the team’s main commanding officer after Captain Cabaniss. He answers, bring the phone to his ear. “Hello? Captain Price speaking.”

 

“We found Billie Lawrence.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I tried, hope I got across what I wanted to

only 40 more chapters to go (yay)

Chapter 10: In The War

Summary:

Price has never liked hospitals, too bright, too sterile, too quiet yet too much ambiance, and always has too much of the feeling of dread and death. Souls wander the halls of these place in sync with the living, they’re probably one of the most haunted places that nobody thinks about. The agony people have felt in each room, how they all had to go home at the end of it.

Death isn’t new in his field of work, but hospitals just quietly accept it, unlike it being loud and clear in the field, it is quiet and accepted. It’s never settled right with him.

The lift doors open.

Notes:

motivation seems better at the weekends I guess I'm just bored.

Hope you Enjoy!

Price doesn’t think he’s had to drive that fast to a hospital more in his life than what he has been this past week. The road familiar, the same signs and trees, same puddles in the same places as he drives by with the same exact ones splashing every time.

 

The radio fills the quiet air, some songs from the 80’s playing and every so often does a random guy chip in to say the next song that’s playing. The backseats have a few blankets and a duffle bag or two, the blankets probably from whenever the team came back from a rough, cold mission and he had nowhere else to abandon the blankets. They’re more helpful in the back of his car than some military truck that gets blown up the next day, and he was probably the one that put them in there anyway but he’d never mention it. The bags are usually for the others if they ever need it, in this case maybe they’d be more useful for Soap and Billie “Shark” Lawrence, or just Shark.

 

He’d been given the basic rundown, concussion, skull fracture, broken arm, stabbed through the shoulder, multiple lacerations, and given antibiotics for lingering infections. Doctor said she’ll live with minimal to no complications. She got lucky, most don’t.

 

Price had already been informed earlier that she is unconscious and unresponsive but she is stable. He knows he won’t learn anything about what happened, he plans to ask Soap later, but for now he just feels like he needs to see her, like he owes it to Soap and the rest of his team to make sure she’s okay for them. Nobody has told Soap, he didn’t think it’d be a good idea after they just had to re-operate on his head due to the bleeding coming back full force. It’s better to not add more onto him, not at this moment in time. If he asks, Price will have to tell him. He owes it to the kid, after everything the poor lad has been through.

 

The Hospital parking lot is reasonably empty for the time of night, finding a suitable spot isn’t the most difficult thing, it never really has been for Price, due to his smart planning on what times to come over or what time he should go and park for what time he actually wants to be there, it seems pointless to others but strategy is ingrained into his very being, if you’ve been in the military as long as he has and been to this hospital more often than he’d like, you’ll learn it.

 

The rain beats down on his coat and hat, the droplets sliding off and onto the floor, adding to the pitter patter that follows him as he walks through the reception doors and towards the desk.

 

The woman there is the same one that’s been here around this time, she instantly recognises Price and smiles gently. “Back again? Is it for Mr MacTavish?” she questions, she’s always been nice since the start.

 

“No, actually.” Price starts, “I’m here for a Billie Lawrence. She was brought in a few hours ago.”

 

He watches her face change from thinking to recognition. “Oh, her. Yes, she’s doing alright. Let me just find what room she’s in, one moment please.” With that she starts typing on her computer, most likely looking for Billie’s information. She seems to find it as she looks back up at him. “She’s in room 307 in the Neurosurgical unit, floor 5 then down the hall then the first left and then just down that hallway.”

 

“Thank you.”  He replies gruffly, as thankful as he can muster.

 

Price has never liked hospitals, too bright, too sterile, too quiet yet too much ambiance, and always has too much of the feeling of dread and death. Souls wander the halls of these place in sync with the living, they’re probably one of the most haunted places that nobody thinks about. The agony people have felt in each room, how they all had to go home at the end of it. The lift chimes as the door opens, a woman and her daughter getting out as Price gets in and presses the distinct number 5 button, watching the rim of the circle glow as the doors shut. Death isn’t new in his field of work, but hospitals just quietly accept it, unlike it being loud and clear in the field, it is quiet and accepted. It’s never settled right with him.

 

The lift doors open.

 

 

*

 

 

Gaz talks a lot. Soap does as well. It’s a great pass time and bonding technique for both of them and they’ve quickly managed to become friends because of it. Ghost does not talk much though, so Soap has had to get creative with how to bond with the guy, and Ghost seems to show his affection in his own way.

 

Like today, as the creaky door opens again and Ghost walks in with two drinks again, offering one to Soap, again, the taste is what Soap did not expect. Chocolate.

 

“You got me chocolate?” Soap questions, intrigued.

 

Ghost just shrugs, putting his own drink on the table next to Soap’s bed. “You said you prefer it, so I got you it.” He replies simply.

 

“So ya did remember!” Soap half teases. “Knew you weren’t as ignorant as you come off.”

 

“Ignorant?” Ghost questions, his eyes narrowing. It doesn’t throw Soap off though.

 

“No offence,” Soap starts “but you don’t give off the air of “I’m going to remember that your favourite is chocolate from one interaction.” You know?”

 

Ghost just shrugs, unbothered. “Well I did.”

 

Somehow, his short responses are good enough.

 

 

*

 

 

Billie Lawrence is alive. That is confirmed. Her vitals were steady, her heart beating and her lungs breathing despite the fact she’s hooked to machines and has an oxygen mask on her face, she’s alive.

 

The walk down the long hallways down to Soap’s room seems long as hell. The distance probably isn’t that long but hospitals have a way of seeming like a labyrinth with no exit, a maze with no prize. The walls filled with health posters and room numbers, white with some colours so your eyes don’t go blind, same halls, same soldiers, and different injuries. Well, these are different soldiers.

 

Price knocks on the door quietly, opening it with a creak. Inside is Ghost, sat on a chair next to Soaps bed and Soap, the bastard sat up even though he’s technically not allowed to yet. “Thought you were too injured to do that?” he questions, jokingly.

 

 

*

 

 

Soap likes Price, he’s like Cabaniss and Shark, stern in the eyes of duty but kind for the sake of his soldiers, at least when possible.

 

“I’m not that crippled yet, captain.” He quips back at Prices remark, amused at the banter.

 

He can swear he hears a quiet “Cheeky bastard…” be muttered before Ghost stands up, muttering something about paperwork and duty and whatever. Soap just thinks he finds it awkward to be in a hospital room and try to have a three way conversation. So they’re left in the silence. Price stood near the end of Soaps bed, thinking.

 

“You’re curious, aren’t ya?” Soap breaks the silence, already knowing what this conversation will lead to. Price seems to perk up though, making eye contact with Soap as the question is asked.

 

“It was quiet, I guess. And cold, it’s nearly October so that shouldn’t be a surprise.” Soap starts.

 

“It is October.” Price corrects him.

 

“Already?” Soap questions, bewildered. “Anyways, it was nearly October at the time. There was also a lot of bugs, probably why me arm was infected and why I have to take those horrible antibiotics. But mostly it was just agony and loneliness. Just me, me thoughts, and me pain. There wasn’t much else to it. No run ins with anyone, no crazy discoveries, just a brain injured soldier wanderin’ to God knows what.” Soap rambles, trying to get all bases down before Price asks questions.

 

It’s quiet for a good minute, Price probably going over all that information and Soap trying to process the fact he just blurted all that out without actually thinking it over beforehand. It’s strange just how naturally that all spilled, like it was long overdue.

 

“I guess I can’t argue with or question that.” Price eventually says, looking back at Soap. “Though I guess I do have an offer for you, even if you did get a brain injury and somehow came out seemingly fine.”

 

Soap blinks, confused. An offer? Of what? “Okay?”

 

“You don’t need an answer now. But I’m asking if you want to join my task force. The 141. We’re anti-terrorism. Me, Gaz, and Ghost. I was seeking you out when I found out about the helicopter crash, figured we should help.” Price explains.

 

Soap doesn’t genuinely know what to say. Anti-terrorism. Gaz, Ghost, and Price and potentially him. He’s loved the SAS but in all honesty, the offer doesn’t seem half bad, if not a good one. He nods, looking back at Price. “I’d like that.” He replies, a small smile on his face, Price smiles back.

 

“Well, legal things and paperwork come later, since you’re currently WIA. My only thing I have to ask right now is, do you have any questions for me?”

 

Soap thinks about that for a second, thinking over questions in his head. “Did you find them? Shark and Cabaniss? I know Robin is dead, I saw him” He asks, he figures they’re dead, he’s accepted that.

 

“Yes and no.” Price starts off with. “We have not found Captain William Cabaniss yet.”

 

Soap sighs, figures.

 

“However, we have found Billie “Shark” Lawrence.” Price continues.

 

Soap perks up at that, a faint glimmer of hope burning and dying. Though Prices next words are better than anything he could’ve prayed and begged for.

 

“She’s alive.”

Notes:

I realise I am a bit cruel since Billie is unconscious but at least she's alive because she was dead in the original plan so you're welcome.

Notes:

hope you enjoyed! COMMENTS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED (no spam or hate tho c'mon guys)