Chapter 1: Post-attack
Chapter Text
“Well, Brother.” Willow walked up to her brother Reed as he stood at the bow of the wooden ship, contemplating the utter chaos and atrocities he had taken part in. The Irish sea was calm today despite the sins they had committed. “How’s about that? This shit is gonna be mental. Story a’ the century. Tíocfaidh ar lá, eh? I thought for sure we’d be at least acknowledged by name in the news by now.”
“Yeah? You want that validation?” Reed looked at her, before chuckling. “You never changed one bit, Wills. You needn’t be getting used to it. You’ll get your bleedin’ validation soon. Without a doubt after what we did, counter-terrorism will be on our asses. Our ship wasn’t exactly designed to be hard to find. And was the figurehead really necessary?”
“But it looks cool.”
“Willow-”
“Look at this beauty, Reed. There is no denying it’s sick as fuck. Didn’t even pay that much for it.” Willow pointed towards the dragon figurehead at the very top of the ship. Her pride and joy.
“Your confidence is going to be our downfall, you do know that, right?” Reed looks at Willow, looking genuinely worried for his sister’s safety.
Willow picked up a fishing rod from the deck and cast it out. “Don’t you trust me? Look, we’ve already outlined our advantages and disadvantages. Maybe my- our ship is incredibly… noticeable… and maybe we’re very easy to spot in the crowd… but we have Daisy. And we have a bunch of bombs… a ship which may be slow but is virtually untrackable with today’s technology… And best of all… the element of surprise…” Willow said, smirking and elbowing him.
“G’way, would ye. Element of surprise me arse! I bet them Brits will be fuckin’ waitin’ for us in Fishguard.” Reed smirked and punched Willow’s shoulder, playfully. He couldn’t deny it. He loved the thrill. Even if it was going to give him a heart attack afterwards. She had half a mind to wrestle him to the ground and ruin his freshly combed hair, but she held back. Wasn’t the time. Reed was a worrier and for once, he had good reason to worry.
“If we were to be caught now, we’d be dead. No chance we have at this wooden thing being able to hold up in a naval battle.” Reed uttered, worried for the mission and the ship. It would be a real shame if she was sunk on only her 4th voyage.
“It’s just a means for transportation. Anyone asks, we’re boat enthusiasts or something. They wouldn’t exactly expect bombers to escape in a bloody wooden brig straight from the 1800s.” She gestured to the boat they were standing on. Intricately cut wood and the railings whittled to look like they were covered in scales. Truly an artisan’s work.
“Oh and these bombs below deck? Oh, they’re merely for show! T’is only replicas!” Reed mocked his sister which ended up with her clobbering him on the head with the fishing rod.
She had to acknowledge that in the deepest pits of her frozen heart, she did feel a little bad for her dad and his family. He spent decades building the ship with his brothers and sisters so that they could keep their fishing traditions alive without having to rely on new technologies only for his children to use it to cause suffering… No. They were doing it for him.
Yes.
He would be proud his ship was being put to use like this. He would be proud that his children would soon be known worldwide for rebelling against the tyrannical occupation of their beloved country. Constituent country her ass. It’s occupied land. And there was no convincing either of them or really anyone on this ship otherwise. She really needed to stop thinking about dad. She needs to focus.
_________________________________________________________
Laswell had Captain Price on call.
“I’m sure you heard what happened in Belfast last night.” Laswell said, sounding serious.
“I fucking have… The boys and I just watched the news. Bloody idiot nationalists trying to restart the troubles! They want war.”
“Exactly.” Laswell nods. “It didn’t take long to get some IDs. It wasn’t any of the organisations on the list. They’re new. There are two people responsible for a squadron of people who had planted the bombs. One was in charge of the Shankill Road attack and the other attacked the city hall. A brother and sister according to intel.”
“Sounds like a lovely family. You know who they are?” Price remarked.
“They’ve small criminal records and their appearances are hard to miss.. They’re mages”
Price looked up at Laswell. A look of pure hatred. “Mages? A bunch of kids playing army. The lot of them.”
The amount of times the 141 had to clean up a shoddy job because some overachieving, self absorbed mage who had only served for less than 3 years thought they knew best was horrifying. And that’s not even mentioning the self pity they have. Constantly acting as if they’re the victims after “centuries of oppression.” Giving theatrical performances explaining how they deserve eternal compensation because a bunch of religious alarmists hunted them down for a couple of centuries. What a load of bullshit.
Sure, genocide isn’t a good thing at all. Price has seen too much of it in his years of service. But mages, the petty people they are, never let go of it. Maybe if they cared so much about their population being a twelfth of what it used to be, they should settle down and have families instead of taking jobs away from actual talented people in the military.
They completely neglect the fact that they were worshipped as literal demigods by the Romans and Greeks centuries prior to that. If he was honest, most of them probably still view themselves as demigods. They might as well be, seeing how much the military bends the knee to accommodate their mage soldiers. Just the other week, his base’s local mage, Sergeant Dixon, had demanded the office next to Price’s for ‘research on tactical magic techniques’.
The fact it was still being considered was astounding to Price. He outranked the kid for Christ's sake! Why should the mage get the same luxuries he gets?! As soon as those slackers get out of basics, according to policy, they’re suddenly qualified for high positions. Just because of some ability they were born with. The ultimate nepo babies.
Needless to say, Price wasn’t a fan of mages. And today was not helping his distaste for them.
Laswell brought up CCTV footage of the two mages and seemingly another important person in the attack in a purple trenchcoat exiting a car together with 2 other masked individuals. While both of their hoods were pulled up, particularly for the tall woman, their brightly coloured hair was clearly visible. The man had green hair and the woman had light blue hair. Maybe water magic or even lightning. Something like that.
Green hair could be anything, really. Acid or maybe Poison. He wasn’t quite sure which base magics, or the magic a mage was born with, resulted in green hair. To be frank, he didn’t really care. Why should he memorize the multiple different colours or even shades of colours of each mage type? They all bleed the same.
The two mages and the man in the coat were in front of the masked men who followed behind. What bizarre choices of clothes, Price thought. Purple was a pretty eyecatching choice.. It didn’t make sense why someone would choose to wear something like that. Maybe he was also a self absorbed mage. Going to war in designer clothes. Nothing more stereotypical than that. He didn’t have brightly coloured hair but that didn’t particularly mean he wasn’t a mage..
“Witnesses claim they saw people matching their descriptions hours after the bombs went off.” Laswell brought up another image. This time, it showed Willow, Reed, Purple Coat Man and the 2 masked men in Rosslare. Heading towards the docks.
“They’re trying to come to the fuckin’ mainland..”
“A fisherman who spoke with them in Rosslare claimed to hear them talking about going to a town named Fishguard. He could’ve been working with them but it seems the most plausible. That town has a train station that goes into London.”
Price raises his eyebrows “They're not wasting any time… fucks sake.. Confident bastards..”
“I need you and your team to go and stop them. I can supply you with restraints and drugs that can weaken or even nullify a mage’s magic..” Laswell handed Price a needle. CIA shite. Same thing they used in Amsterdam but with a different drug inside.
“What the bloody hell is this?” The needle had an off white liquid in it. A viscous texture. What the hell was he about to inject into these mages?
“It’s called Prometheus’ Tears.”
Price looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Really?” Quite a dramatic name if you asked him. He was surprised he never heard of it. But to be honest, he’d never really had to deal with rogue mages before. Then again, mages are too privileged to bother with terrorism. Always settling for high paying positions that just require their magic.
“The concoction was originally from ancient Greece. It was the best they had at the time to combat the high population of mages in the world at the time. A little fun fact for you. It stops the flow of magical energy and has a sedative effect.” Laswell said as she took out some sort of medieval torture device. It looked like shackles with needles built on the inside to dig into the ankles of whoever wore it. Yeowch.
“What’s it made of?” Price asked, shaking the liquid. It reminded him of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“The main ingredient is fluid from a psychedelic mushroom.” Laswell said with a stoic face. That was not what Price was expecting to hear. “Has an unusual effect on mages. Their brains can’t process their own magic when they’re under the influence of the chemicals.”
Price wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. So he just let Laswell continue with her instructions.
“You pour the PT drug into the back. The needles give a steady flow of the drug, not enough for a lethal dose but enough to keep them under control. I preferably want the two mages alive. They’re trying to start a war and I want to know why. Mages are never interested in things like this. It just doesn’t make sense.”
Price looked at the shackles before nodding. “Do you have their names?”
“An Garda…” Laswell stopped. She knew she was gonna butcher the Irish words. “The police force in Ireland has a small file on both of them. They’re known colloquially as the ‘Blue’ siblings-”
Price bit back a snort. Fitting name.. For one of them.
“Willow and Reed Blue. Well known pair. They’re from western rural Ireland. Had mostly minor crimes on their record.”
Price looked at Laswell. Usually the case with nutjobs like this but he couldn’t help but be curious. “What crimes have they done before?”
“Nothing as bad as this. Shoplifting, vandalism, a couple of traffic violations between the two of them.. The worst on the list is arcane assault. The boy. He was 13 at the time and got a few months on probation.”
“That’s it? Just probation?!” To Price, it didn’t matter how old he was. Magic was dangerous. The maximum punishment was 10 years in prison and that little shit got a tag on his ankle for a few months?
“It was his first offense and the person wasn’t seriously wounded. Apparently, it was an accident according to the file. Even if it wasn’t an accident, it still doesn't make sense to me. Why would the two of them do something so drastic as this with hardly any background..?”
Price stood up. “We're about to find out.”
_________________________________________________________
“RIGHT. BLUE, KENTON AND O’CONNOR TO MY CABIN!” Willow called out from the command deck. Her room had maps of UK public transport on the walls, a couple of nice weapons, armoury reports and generally all the files needed for a budding terrorist crew. But most importantly of all were all her notes and study books on magic circles and proper technique. But they didn't matter at the minute.
“Right. Just so everyone’s on the same page, I’m going to go over the plan again. Edward, Reed and I are going to go to London for our next blow to the Brits. Oisín, I’m going to need you to be in charge of taking the ship to Shoe.. however the fuck you pronounce that.” Willow pointed to Shoeburyness on the map.
“You’ll also be mindin’ this radio for us.” She handed Oisín the radio. “The batteries are out. Keep it that way, don’t touch the knobs or buttons or anything. Went through a lot of trouble to get it connected to our ally. Can’t be gettin’ him caught.”
“Get each of your fellas in your squad to grab some bombs. They’re detonated remotely, don’t lose the bloody remotes. It’d be really nice if we got Westminster. But that’s not gonna be bleedin’ happening, unfortunately.. So we’ll target Big Ben but I reckon it’ll only need 4 bombs for that. Still, we’ll see where we go from there. We have 17 of the bombs and the remotes are attached to them by zip ties. To keep ‘em organized and shit. If the seas stay this way and the trains are on time, we should be arriving in London at roughly 11 at night.”
Reed puts a hand up. “What if our bags are searched on the train to London?”
“Lad. Who the fuck is searched on a bloody train? If it does happen, just drop ‘em. If it gets that bad, we haven’t a hope anyways.” Willow said, not making eye contact.
“Right…” Reed shook his head. He had a million what if’s in his head. He couldn’t help it. It’s his nature. Before he could even consider asking more questions, Willows started to talk again.
“Bombs will be detonated at 5 AM preferably, but if things go to shit, just bombs away, I suppose. You have until then to plant the bombs. Edward’s team takes Big Ben, My team takes the underground and Reed, during high tide, your team will get Tower Bridge. There’s equipment ready for you in the armoury. Be careful. There’s tides, boats, corpses and probably the bubonic plague there.”
Reed shook his head. “Sounds like great craic.” He knew he was the best for the job but taking a dip in the Thames just wasn’t a very pleasurable experience.
Willow grabbed the radios they picked up on the way back from Belfast and threw them on the table. Every team needed a way to communicate, right? They were all ready. This was gonna be some hell of a day. But not for the reason they think.
Chapter 2: Fishguard
Summary:
Their crimes are catching up with them.
Notes:
After this chapter, we'll see a lot more of the 141. Enjoy. :)
Chapter Text
The boat was docked in the late evening, just long enough for Willow, Reed, Edward and the crew to hop off and grab a couple of cars. They needed to keep a close eye on the media. In case they needed to divert.
Things were going well.
“I really would've thought law enforcement would be on our asses by now. Good for us though, eh? Not even a word of us in the news.” Reed said, holding some of the equipment he was going to use to protect himself when he was eventually going into the Thames.
They had listened to a news station while they were waiting to dock. All that was being said was that the attack had happened and about the death count. All that was said that was of concern to them was that witnesses are being urged to come forward with any information.
“Would ye say that’s a good thing or a bad thing?” Reed asked as people were getting their weapons, balaclavas and other supplies off the ship.
“Could be both, to be fair. Could mean that they haven’t a clue who did it or it could mean they’re trying to keep their efforts secret.” Edward spoke up as he checked his numerous pockets on his beloved purple coat, making sure he had everything he needed.
“Oi, what’s with that coat anyways? I never see ye without it. Not a bit queer, no?” One of the crew members asked. But Edward just shrugged.
“Sure, them men in the Flying Columns had trench coats. Mine just so happens to be purple” The crew member seemed satisfied with this response.
Eventually everyone who was going to be involved with the bombing was off the ship. All weapons were carefully hidden, but the docks weren’t that full to begin with. Not a lot of people would be fishing after dark. Still, it's better to be safe than sorry.
Willow walked to the top of the group and pointed towards a man with hair long enough to reach his chest in a fairly empty car park. “That fella there's with us. Those three cars are ours. He’s a knobhead though.”
The group cautiously went up to the man. The crew member who had teased Edward about his coat was clearly hiding his snickering. But the man couldn’t really do much about it. There were 30 of them and only one of him.
“Well, Mark.” Willow stood a little too close to the man. He took a step back before giving the keys to Willow who then gave the keys to Reed so he can make sure the cars actually bloody work.
“Went through a lotta trouble to get these. Don't linger in them for too long, the three of them are from Manchester. Someone'll be looking for them.”
Reed circled one of the cars. “I doubt it. Looks like it came straight from a kip” He kicked the side of the car, half expecting it to just spontaneously combust. Once he was positive the car wouldn’t explode, he hopped in and checked to see if the car would start. Thankfully it did. He did the same for each car. The last car was a bit low on fuel but other than that, they were operational.
The man looked mildly irritated at his precious stolen vehicles being manhandled but held his tongue.
“Sound.” She handed about ¥50,000 in cash to Mark.
“The bloody hell is this?” He counted the foreign currency, confused.
“Money. Just gave ye what I had on hand, lad.” Willow had been waiting for a chance to get rid of her stacks of Japanese cash.
“Yeah, and how the hell am I supposed to know this is the amount we agreed on, you idiot girl!”
Reed was about to butt in but Willow just gave the man an exasperated look. “Google?”
He didn’t seem to appreciate that. The man put one arm behind his back. “You’re cheeky… Should’ve expected that from a
mage..
”
Now the whole crew was looking between Willow and Mark. She raised her hand, creating a magic circle in front of it. The runes formed from pure magical energy that Willow had memorised her whole life.
“We could always settle for something else but I don't think either of us want that. So you can accept the money and be on your way or you can-”
Mark pulled a gun on Willow and shot through her magic circle and her hand, shattering the circle. Luckily for her, she was surrounded by allies who quickly killed Mark with a simple bullet to the head. Turns out those silencers weren’t a waste of money after all.
“The motherfucker…” Willow said, clutching her hand. She took off her overshirt and wrapped it around her hand so that it would stop the bleeding. Reed tried to help his sister but she moved away from him. She was trying to figure out the optimal technique for wrapping her hand with one hand.
Reed looked at her. “I see what you meant when you said he was a knobhead. He’s also an idiot. How the hell did you get him to do anything for ya?”
Willow hissed in pain as she tightened the shirt around the wound. She kept wrapping her hand until no more blood seeped through. She finally answered him after a solid minute of him staring at her like an idiot. “He owed me a favour. I told him the right horse to bet on a while back.”
He nodded. But he couldn’t help but wonder how she knew the right horse to bet on in the first place. “Will I throw the body in the sea?”
Willow looked at him. “Throw him in the boot. Doesn't matter if we're caught with murder after what we're about to do. Someone else can do it. Bastard deserves to be found in the boot of an abandoned car…”
Edward spoke up. “I'll take the body in our car and leave it somewhere far from the station. It'd be harder for someone to tell where we went off to if we split up into opposite directions.”
Reed looked at Edward before nodding. He gave the man a radio. “We'll be on this channel.” Edward nodded, took the body, some loaded weapons, the bombs and his men into the car and drove in the opposite direction of the train station.
Reed waved him off before turning back to his sister, who was currently bleeding out onto the ground as she had removed her shirt from the wound, trying to find a way to stop the bleeding all together so she could drive. “Need a hand?”
“Not if you’re not a fire mage.” She had summoned a small magic circle. Her base magic, snow. Useful in more situations than you’d think. But still. Snow can only do so much for a bullet wound. Only really stopped the inflammation.
“Someone else will drive for you until we can get it fixed.” He helped her up.
She muttered a thanks before standing up straight and fixing her shirt over her hand again. Tightly this time. “Right, let's go, then. We'll split up as well just in case someone's looking for us. O’Neill,” She looked at one of the many men. “You drive. I’ll take the front seat. Good luck, fellas.”
“Some hairdo they have, aye?” Soap said, looking at the pictures of Willow and Reed. While having a mohawk.
“You’re not the man to judge hairstyles, Johnny.” Ghost muttered while looking out the window of their van, looking for the two mages. Blue and green hair. Really specific description and yet they haven’t found anyone like that.
“Easy enough to find. Should stick out in a crowd.” Gaz said, taking the picture from Soap and gazing at it himself.
“They have a whole little army of their own. They’d
be
a crowd-” Price started talking before Gaz interrupted him.
“Is that hair sticking out of that car?”
They all looked at the car Gaz had pointed out. Price drove a bit ahead so they could see who was inside. The car was stuffed to the brim with masked people. Like sardines. Except for the driver who had a purple coat. Ah. Purple Coat Man.
“Looks like them.” Price said. Everyone grabbed onto their weapons. The windows of their vehicle were tinted, unlike Edward's stolen car. As soon as there was a red light at a junction, the taskforce all filed out of their own vehicle and surrounded the stolen car.
“GET THE FUCK OUT AND HANDS IN THE AIR NOW!!” Price yelled at the driver. However, naturally panicked, he just floored it. The taskforce opened fire on the car, popping its wheels and breaking the rear windshield. The now destabilised vehicle swerved across the road, causing a minor collision between other cars on the road, blocking the way. This gave the people in the vehicle enough time to arm themselves. However, it did them no favours to be stuffed against each other. There were 10 men in a 5 seater, for heaven's sake.
The 141 all ran back into their own truck to chase the van. It was not difficult to catch up to the unstable car. Mainly because they could hear the tires screeching followed by a bang as the car crashed into a brick wall. They hadn't a chance at retaliation. Cramming all those people into one car turns out, is a terrible idea. Most of the people were injured in the crash. They all got out of the vehicle, taking the bombs with them.
“Open fire on them!! THROW THE BLEEDIN’ BOMBS IF YOU HAVE TO!!”
The taskforce pulled up to a barrage of bullets being shot at them. They quickly took cover behind some parked cars and returned fire. Just as they positioned themselves, Soap spotted a familiar rectangular explosive being thrown towards them. They didn’t have grenades but they had this shit. Great.
“Price!-” Soap shouted, backing up from the thing. The amount of power in that rectangle was enough to blow them all up.. Then not only would they be dead, but those mages would be able to frolic through the streets of London with those very same bombs and potentially detonate them, killing hundreds, maybe thousands-
Before Soap could continue his adrenaline-induced rapid train of thought, Price took the bomb and threw it right back at the enemy just as he figured out how to use the remote for the detonation.
Kaboom.
Edward flinched hard when he heard the explosion. Shrapnel pierced his bicep as he desperately searched for his radio to contact the others. It was only 4 men… And they managed to wipe out half of his entire group. Just like that... And he had ordered them to fight back. But really, could he blame himself? What choice did they have? Surrender to a bunch of brits?! Never! He checked his pockets. Where the hell was that bloody radio...
“Keep going, lads! Help’ll be here soon!!” He said to the remaining 5 boys who looked a little shellshocked at the explosion.
There.
The radio was on the ground underneath the ruins of their very much obliterated car. That Mark guy was probably cremated by now. He just needed to call for backup and it'll be all okay. He reached his arm underneath the car and grabbed it.
“Captain Blue!"
Edward felt a kick right into his gut. He tried to grab his gun and get up but he then felt a sharp, unforgiving pain in his leg. He'd been shot. He's officially fucked. He looked around. He'd led his men to their doom. They were all dead. It was all his fault.. God dammit. He heard a voice above him. “I have the purple one, here.” When he looked up at his enemy, he was met with the barrel of a gun. Was this the end?
There were 2 men in front of him. 2 men checking the identities of all the masked men. “Neither of ‘em are here.” A man with a.. Was that a mohawk? He looked around at the people around him. The one holding him at gunpoint had darker skin and a… fucking Union Jack on his hat… the man next to him had a bucket hat and mutton chop beard. Bizarre choice.. and the other one taking Edward’s comrades' masks off to check their identities had a black uniform and a mask with a skull on him. He couldn't resist scoffing. Not even Captain Blue, despite her recent decorative choices for the ship, was that bad…
The man with the beard tried to grab the radio but Edward had a death grip on it.
“Eddie?” He heard Willow's voice. This was really bad. He had to say something.
“Captaen! Dún an raidió, tá naimhde anseo!!” Edward felt a kick to the head and he fell back to the ground. But it worked. The radio abruptly cut out. The mission was safe for now. All he had to do was waste these fuckers’ time.. and he had just the plan for it.
“This one was with them in the video as well... The one with the purple coat. Eddie, wasn’t it?” the man with the hat said while looking down at Edward as if he was dirt. He didn't say anything in response. He couldn't say anything that could put the mission at risk. He didn't bother struggling. It’d only make the pain worse.
“Is he not one o’ them? A mage, nae?” He heard a Scottish accent ask. Edward had mixed feelings about that country.
“Better safe than sorry, no?” Oh, that was definitely a brit accent. He looked up at the man who was referring to him. The man with the Union Jack cap. He had a needle. Full with c- no. That’s Promethean Tears.
He remembered being told about that drug. Reed had been injected when he was arrested as a kid. Apparently it felt like acid burning through every nerve in your body while also pulling your mind deep underwater, each thought coated in thick honey. Almost incomprehensible. Didn’t sound very nice. Once again, he is glad he is not cursed in such a way.
“He would’ve used magic beforehand. None of these are mages.. Don’t waste a drop, we need all we can get.” That was the man with the hat again. Sounded like a smoker. With a rough, gravelly voice. “Bag ‘im. He knows info, without a doubt.”
Edward saw skull face grab a bag and approach him. No way was he just gonna sit pretty and let them put a bag over his head. He spat right on the skull face’s boot. Which, unfortunately, did not get Edward the reaction he hoped for. It just ended up with him getting a steel toed boot to the ribs.
His hands were bound behind his back and he was searche
d. They found his lockpick he always kept in his sleeve just in case. Bollocks. He could practically sniff the smugness coming off whoever was searching him. Finally, he heard someone say “He’s clean!” before he was hauled to his feet. His knee buckled under his weight and his arm was screaming at him. But they didn’t give a shit.
He could feel himself being dragged around somewhere before he's forced into a vehicle. He didn't feel anyone else there. Just the enemies squashed up against his sides. Now that he wasn’t focused on his own survival, he couldn’t help but think to himself.
What happened to his team? Did they all die? What sort of commander was he? As he was driven to god knows where, the guilt of his team's death hung heavily over his shoulders. He barely had any time to think about it before he felt himself being dragged somewhere.
It wasn't too long of a walk before he was tied to a chair and the bag was taken off his head. He knew this was going to be a long, painful few hours.
Chapter 3: A little chat
Summary:
141 get trolled on by a homeless Dublinese man.
Chapter Text
Price spoke to Laswell on the comms, informing her about their new prisoner.
“We didn’t get either of the mages. But we have one of their friends. The one in the purple coat. About to have a chat with him now.” Price remarked as he parked the truck.
Soap grabbed the motherfucker and dragged him into a shipment container where they’d be interrogating him. This man was no mage. The taskforce knew that much. He would’ve cast a spell on them before he was captured. But it didn’t matter whether he was born with magic energy in his veins or not. There was no doubt he had information. Price roughly ripped off the bag over Edward’s head and pointed a pistol at his head.
“Who are you? Full name.”
The man looked at Price, his expression feigning pure and utter confusion. “Tá brón orm. Ní féidir liom ach mo theanga duachais.”
The taskforce stopped. Seriously? Was he having them on? It didn’t matter. They’re going to get the information out of him one way or another. “Gaz, go get a translator.” Gaz pulled up… google translate.. Edward knew that this plan was going to work out better than expected. Every Irish person and their teacher knew that google translate was not as reliable for Irish as it is for other languages.
Ghost grabbed Edward by the hair and forced his face towards the device. “Speak.”
Edward smirked and said “Mura dtaga leat tar leo!” into the speaker. However, the translator did not understand that the t in “dtaga” was silent. So it completely mistranslated the sentence into pure and utter nonsense.
The taskforce looked at each other. This clearly wasn’t working out well for them. Price sighed. This wasn’t going well at all. Soap turned to Edward and smacked him across the face. “Speak English, ye fuckin’ bampot!” When Price heard that Scottish slang, he suddenly got an idea.
“Soap. You said that you took Scottish Gaelic in school?”
Soap suddenly perked up at the chance to talk about his culture. “Oh, yeh. Studied Gàidhlig
fer years! Y’know our language is a big part of our culture. Very important for us to keep them traditions alive! Especially-”
Price interrupted Soap, pointing at some sort of article. “So you can speak it well. Says here that Gaelic and Irish are similar enough. You translate.”
Soap suddenly realized his error… Bragging about his native language was now coming back to bite him in the ass. Sure, he studied the language… but he barely passed GCSE Gàidhlig. “Well, er.. It’s a very different language, sir.. I’m not sure.. If I could get the whole conversation..”
Price glared at Soap. “Well we don’t have much of a choice at the minute. Gaz, you try to get through to Laswell and see if you can get an actual Irish speaker. Until then, Soap you’re going to have to just try.”
Soap realized there was no point in arguing… if he could just bluff until they have an actual Irish speaker.. He might be able to preserve his dignity.
He stood in front of Edward.. “Haló..”
Edward looked at him with a raised eyebrow. The bastard… He could see right through him and Soap knew it. “Dia duit…”
Ghost looked at Soap. “Ask him what he was doing in Belfast with the two mages.”
Soap nodded and, with a very stoic face trying to sound as intimidating as possible spoke “Dè bha thu.. a’ dèanamh.. ann am Beal Feirste.. an Nollaig seo chaidh?” (What were you… doing… in Belfast… Last Christmas?)
Edward raised his eyebrow “Nollag seo caite?” (Last christmas?)
Ghost smacked him across the face. “Answer the question.”
Soap kind of enjoyed that. The dickhead was getting what he deserved. Edward’s face was looking pretty red from the amount of times he’s been smacked within the last few minutes. “Bhí mé i mBaile Átha Cliath!” (I was in Dublin!)
Price looked at Soap. “What did he say? What does that mean?”
Soap was glad he learned off place names when he was in school. “He said he was in Dublin.”
“That’s a load of bollocks! Tell him we have CCTV of him and his little friends right before the bombing!” Price shouted, getting increasingly irritated at the fact that he couldn’t understand a thing that the two of them were saying.
“Tha an CCTV anns an taigh-beag agus… tha pàrtaidh aig do charaidean!” (The CCTV is in the toilet and your friends are having a party!) Soap declared with a confidence that sounded like he was directly translating what Price was telling him to. God, he wanted the earth to swallow him up. The deeper he went into this lie, the more embarrassing it’d be if it all came crashing down on him.
The utter confusion on that poor man’s face. No. Not a poor man. He killed innocents. But still. He looked like didn’t know if it was because of the language barrier or the fact that Soap was just saying absolute nonsense. He narrowed his eyes “..Céard? Ní labhraím Gaeilge na hAlban… Ach níl cainteoir dúachais tú ach an oiread... amadán..” (What? I don’t speak Scottish Gaeilge… But you're not a native speaker either. Idiot..)
Soap knew that word! He knew it well. And he gave the man a right punch to the gob for it. “He just called us a bunch a’ idiots…” He crossed his arms. Price didn’t look too happy either. Still, he had no other choice but to rely on the scot. Soap looked towards Price, hiding his utter relief at being partially saved by Edward’s loss of patience. “The barrier is too strong, sir. Two different languages, y’know?”
The captain shook his head and called out to Gaz. “Gaz! any progress on getting an Irish speaker?”
“Yep, got one on the line now. Coming in.” Gaz came in with Laswell and a woman who presumably spoke Irish. Soap could’ve fallen on his ass in relief. He didn’t look like a complete idiot in front of his team! The Irish speaker said something in Irish to Edward. She sounded like the real deal. Spoke fairly fluently.
He paused for a moment, then looked at her dead in the eye. “Je ne parle pas irlandais.”
The bastard was just messing with them! That was the last straw for Captain Price. It was now obvious what he was doing. Trying to bullshit them and waste time. The longer they spent trying to interrogate him, the more time those god forsaken mages had to attack another city. And the worst part? The smug look on his face. Price shot him in the knee. Again. He was done playing games.
Edward yelped in pain like a kicked puppy. He knew that they’d be pissed about him wasting their time but this seemed a bit much. Price grabbed Edward by the jaw and pointed the gun against his temple.
“Speak English. You were in Belfast with the mages. Why’d you bomb it?”
“The 6 counties don’t belong to you.” Edward growled through gritted teeth.
Oh the cheeky bastard.
He could speak English after all.
Price gave him a good punch to the eye which resulted in a satisfying shout of pain coming from Edward. Blood was dripping down both of his legs and his head was hanging low. He’s bound to crack sooner or later.
“Ghost, you take over.” Price said, standing off to the side with his hand rubbing his temple, trying to soothe an oncoming headache from all the bullshittery he had to deal with in the past 20 minutes.
Without warning, Ghost grabbed Edward by the hair to force him to look up at him. “What are you doing here if your goal involves Northern Ireland?”
Edward barks out a laugh. “There’s plenty a’ reasons. We take the conflict away from home, less Irish die. You’ll finally acknowledge that this is a war-”
Price interrupts Edward. “That isn’t war. That’s terrorism.”
That shuts Edward up for a few seconds before he scoffs. “Well, let’s see. Terrorism is targeting civilians to instill fear, is it not? Unless you have another definition of terrorism that I don’t know about. We could discuss-”
“He’s still tryin’ to waste time.” Gaz said, crossing his arms. They were all positioned in a circle around the bound Edward.
Instead of trying to defend himself, the cheeky bastard just sticks his tongue out which earns him another punch to the jaw which causes a very pleasing cracking noise to come from him. He cries out in pain. He can’t take much more of it. His mask is slipping. They’re close to cracking him open.
Ghost leaned in really close to Edward. Edward’s nose almost touched his mask. “Where are they attacking now? When is your next attack?”
“We have enough bombs to ruin your country like yours did ours.”
Ghost wasn’t having this bullshit. He leaned his elbow on his injured knee which hurt like a bastard.
“Didn’t ask that..” He pulled out a knife and sharpened it over his very wounded legs. Edward was sweating. Pale. He wanted to go home. He didn’t want to be here. But he hoped to god that he had stalled enough for the team to get a headstart.
“...London… We’re targeting the London underground..”
“When?” Soap asked.
Edward hesitated a moment before replying. “Now.”
The team looked at each other. Was this bullshit or the truth? Ghost dug his knife right beneath the knee. They couldn’t afford to take chances with this man. “You’re a liar.”
Edward hissed and groaned in pain. His eyes were tearing up and he was whimpering like a little boy. Where was his dignity, god dammit! His hair was damp with sweat and the parts of his body that weren’t restrained were shaking from pain and exhaustion.
“I promise! I’m not lying! Please, just stop!!”
He was wedging his knife further into his leg and pushing the knife upwards for maximum pain. Edward didn’t care about anything else at that point. Not his dignity. Not his honour. Just the pain, specifically getting it to stop.
“STOP IT! I SWEAR!! PLEASE, STOP! PLEASE!!-”
Price put a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, causing him to let go of Edward. He whimpered as the knife left his leg. “If he’s telling the truth, we need to leave now.”
Ghost pulled the knife away from Edward who winced as he felt the steel leave his flesh. “Nice chat.” he growled before Gaz threw a bag over his head. There were people that will collect him and take him into custody elsewhere. They might still need him, after all.
Notes:
I want to get this done so I can start another, better fic.
Frosted_Annie on Chapter 3 Sat 06 Sep 2025 06:49PM UTC
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