Chapter 1: The Grim Reaper
Chapter Text
‘Wha’ the bloody hell goin’ on?!’
Ghost had been wandering the long fluorescently lit, bleached cleaned hallways of the hospital for several hours now, and was finally at his wits end.
Distractedly, he rubbed his skeleton gloved hand along his chest. The skin underneath his black tactical suit prickled with the memory of a defibrillator being used on him. His nerves zinged like a lightening tattooed across his heart.
A muffled grumble escaped his skulled balaclava as he rolled his shoulders, trying to regain a sense of control in his predicament.
Hadn’t he been caught in an explosion?
Ghost peered down, noticing his outfit was no longer splattered with blood, nor torn where the shrapnel had ripped through him. But his memory was as hazy as a Kentucky bourbon-addled hangover. All Ghost could recall was stumbling about the hospital as a blur of staff members rushed past.
With adrenaline pumping through his blood, instinct drove him to seek safety. Somewhere to decompress from the urgent shouting, blaring beeps, and crowding sea of white coats and scrubs.
So Ghost hid in a custodian closet.
Alone, dark, quiet.
‘Perfec’.’
The rush of adrenaline faded, and his breathing leveled out. Once back in control, Ghost ventured out. And that was when things became strange .
Without even opening the door, he walked right out of the closet.
Ghost froze in his tracks, blinking as his brain finally caught up to the fact that his form had passed through a solid door, completely unbothered. He huffed and turned to stare at the door, as if the particle wood had personally insulted him.
Cautiously, he reached out a tentative hand. His gloved fingers made contact with the smooth door: solid, cool, smooth.
‘Alrigh’, noted, keep calm and carry on…’
Then he tried asking the staff questions, but no one seemed to be aware of him. Now Ghost was a master at being undetected when desired, but this was becoming ridiculous. His presence was commanding when he willed it. His barked out orders always followed to a tee.
But it was as if the world had gone deaf and blind, specifically towards him.
‘Somethin's faulty here…’
Exasperated, Ghost turned upon booted heels, just as a female nurse walked right through him. She gasped, shivered, and clutched at her chest. Meanwhile Ghost, he felt nothing at all.
Well, that was a lie.
Ghost felt highly annoyed by this entire situation. But, losing one's mind over it wouldn't be tactical. Though having a crash cart pushed right into him, as if he weren't there, was starting to grate on his fraying nerves.
He wanted to fling the crash cart across the hallway. But the moment Ghost grabbed the cart, so did a male nurse.
“Hands off,” Ghost growled as he held fast onto the cart. His voice gruff with a warning that usually sends cadets scurrying and sergeants straightening their backs at attention. Instead, the nurse frowned and tugged back on the cart, making no indication whatsoever that he noticed a hulking six foot plus skull masked man looming over him.
Ghost grumbled, relinquishing the cart, letting the nurse stumble back a bit.
Huffing, the nurse wheeled it back into the room, muttering, "The wheels must be faulty on this one," just before the door closed.
As night set in, Ghost meandered through the sterile hospital. The quiet hallways were haunted by the sleepy staff of the evening shift, accompanied by the lull of beeping heart monitors, raspy ventilators, and the clicky-clack of keyboards.
This was no longer a hallucination, or a polypharmaceutical drug trip brought on by over-sedation.
‘Fukin’ hell.’
…Was he a bona fide ghost now?
Oh the irony.
Soap would have cracked a joke and howled with laughter until his spleen ruptured. Gaz would have given a hearty chuckle, shaking his baseball-capped head. And the Captain, well, he'd look bemused, take a puff of his cigar, then say something like, "Well, what did you expect, Simon?" with his blue eyes alight with laughter.
And now they would be hot on Makarov's trail without him.
Fuck, he had to return to the living.
‘There must be a way.’
“There is a way,” a voice remarked.
Ghost wasn’t spooked, never did he startle. But, he also hadn’t detected this presence that now stood behind him.
Slowly, with jaw clenched tight and muscles flexed, Ghost turned around. His deep brown eyes widened at the figure standing a few feet away.
An Angel…
Steamin’ Jesus, Soap would have sworn, but not Ghost. He remained quiet. Watchful, wary .
Silently, Ghost studied this ethereal figure before him. Her height rivaled his. She seemed to be carved from pure white marble that had life breathed into it. Such delicate detail as her lacy, yet thick veil shifted as she moved her head, tilting it slightly as if in question. Her face was completely hidden behind the curtain of milky silk.
She stood proud and regal before him. Pure ivory robes hung loosely from her lithe figure. Large snow white feathered wings were comfortably tucked along her back.
“Hello, Simon Riley,” Her feminine voice rang like silver bells; musical, clear, and bold.
A shiver ran down his spine. There was power within the spirit’s voice. Ghost felt that a single commanding word from her hidden lips could bring him crashing down upon his knees should the Angel wish it.
“No kneeling required dear, but an offer worthy of one.”
His Adam's apple bobbed in trepidation. He didn't trust his voice, but apparently he didn't need to. Instead Ghost inclined his head, questioning her proposal.
“Harvest 100 souls, and earn the chance to return to the living.”
Ghost remained silent, wary. Mulling over the proposal meanwhile heart monitors continued to beep, ventilators hissed, and keyboards clacked.
“Wots’ the catch?”
Her silver belled chuckle rang through the hallway. “No catch, just, a trade.”
“An equivalent exchange to keep balance, if you will,” the Angel added as she drew closer. Her steps made no sound upon the tiled floor.
Ghost shifted his stance, rolled his shoulders, and mulled over the proposition. His very nature is to be cautious, it has kept him alive, well, up to now.
“Alrigh’, tell me who and where.”
“Shouldn’t you also ask, with what?”
Looks down upon his gloved hands and flexes his grip. “My fists aren’ good enough? I can make anything a weapon.”
Gently, she shook her head, as the veil swished side to side. “You will need the tool of the trade Simon,” the Angel remarked as her long, graceful, alabaster hands outstretched. And from nothingness, she summoned a large obsidian scythe, a deadly shine gleaming along its long curved blade.
If Ghost wasn’t a believer by now, well, then this definitely did the trick.
“There, the proper tool of a Reaper.”
Ghost admired the handsome blade with the appreciative eyes of a connoisseur. His hands itched to grab a hold of the scythe. But, the childhood memory of him and Tommy wielding sticks as if they were swords bubbled to the surface, making him pause.
Stark eyes tore away from the scythe to stare up at the Angel. The question was harrowing in his mind. One Ghost's constricting throat dared not ask aloud: Would he see Tommy, his mother, his sister-in-law Beth, and his nephew Jacob again?
Yet the Angel knew. Of course she did. Who wouldn’t ask about their family if given the chance?
“They have moved on, Simon.” The seraph answered kindly as she held out the scythe. “Continued onto the next chapter of their lives. And they hoped you would one day find peace.”
He blinked, then nodded. Underneath the mask, Ghost gulped down the tight knot that had twisted itself within his throat.
Finding peace . That was not in Ghost’s plan. Apparently not even in death…
Ghost rolled back his shoulders and straightened to his full height. Still wary were his silent steps towards the Angel. Cautiously, Ghost’s gloved hands wrapped themselves around the snath. At first, Ghost assumed it would feel awkward and unbalanced. Instead it felt right.
‘Perfect. ’
His hands slid reverently along snath as he felt a kinship to the weapon. It seemed to agree as the thrum of energy, something ancient, that warmed the obsidian pole. Reverently held in Ghost’s hands, it felt as if some sleepy muscle memory had awakened.
‘Wait .’ A frown crinkled against his mask.
“Don’t dwell on it too much upon it dear, you have work to do, and now a promise to keep.”
“Righ’,” Ghost blinked, relaxing his own hidden face. Passive .
Quickly he changed gears, and shifted back to being the soldier as he asked gruffly, “Targets?”
The Angel seemed pleased, even though he couldn’t see her smile, Ghost somehow felt she appreciated his no nonsense approach. Is that why he was chosen?
No answer for his thoughts this time, instead she handed him an ivory folder. Within it a thick stack of dossiers.
How… beurocratic .
A gentle chuckle, reminding Ghost that she was indeed still privy to his thoughts.
Ghost’s fingers tightened upon the folder as his gaze returned back to the Angel. “Are they…” His voice trailed off while dark eyes flitted through the pages. Photos along with bios, extensive criminal history, and note that each one continues to evade their expiration.
A Reaper’s touch was needed.
“Tying up loose ends. Each worthy of your scythe,” She stated.
Ghost huffed as he snapped the folder closed. “Alrigh’ then, but the firs’ target’s all the way in Urzikstan. Do I need to purchase a plane ticket? Hitch a ride? Swim?”
“If you’ve been there before, picture the location in your mind and you’ll be taken to that very spot.”
‘Huh, simple enough.’
“Good hunting, Simon.”
She was gone in an instant. Leaving no lingering trace of her presence. Ghost would have dismissed the bizarre interaction as a hallucination, but the scythe in his hands was solid evidence to the contrary.
And now he had a job to do…
After a couple of tries of envisioning the back alley of a café in Urzikstan, Ghost felt a sudden rush of wind. A weightlessness made his stomach flip, as if he were falling through the world before his feet found purchase on the uneven, graveled ground. The flickering fluorescent hospital lights were instantly replaced by a sweltering sun, and the scent of dry sand and burnt metal filled his nostrils, rather than the aseptic smell of bleach.
Once getting his bearings in the bare dusty alleyway, Ghost began hunting his target, a Russian general turned Makarov-loyalist. The general now led a hidden cell of Konni mercenaries entrenched in Urzikstan, awaiting instructions. No doubt biding their time to plant more false evidence against ULF.
Unfortunately, when bored, those with evil intentions seek cruel and bloodthirsty means to sate their hunger. And Ghost couldn’t turn a blind eye to the atrocities he found in the bunker. He knew the Angel would not condone his attack on anyone else other than the targets. But, she never forbade him from…instilling a little fear in the rest.
Objects moved on their own, doors swung shut to lock insurgents in various rooms to rot, and electronics to call reinforcements fizzled out. The sound of scythe’s blade trailing along the cement, sent hair raising shrieks of metal while sparks crackled in Ghost’s wake.
A haunting before the strike.
His dark eyes settled on the General. Who now acted like skitterish prey with tail tucked between his legs. The man retreated into the deepest office, closing metal door after door in his wake. But Ghost stalked with hunger, and nothing in his way remained solid.
The General stood alone in the office. A lone lamp casting tall shadows against the metal walls. The pistol shook slightly in his hands as he pointed it at the door. Not realizing that the beast was already in the room.
Unseen, unheard, and undead.
Ghost whipped around the obsidian scythe, slashing it through the General’s midsection. The blade cleaved smoothly through the General’s body as if it were made of butter. The lifeless husk toppled over, hitting the ground with a dull thud of dead weight.
No blood, pity …
Instead the ethereal glowing form of the General still stood, shaking with fear.
He now saw Ghost, and let loose a blood curdling scream. But no one else would hear the General. Even as he shouts echoed off of the metallic walls of the bunker.
Before Ghost could worry that the soul of the General may flee, Angel appeared. Feathered wings outstretched in fearsome glory. Even Ghost suddenly felt as if gravity had doubled in her presence, pressing him bodily down to kneel before the seraph. Yet, Ghost stood still and resolute.
But the General fell to his knees. Stunned at first, mouth agape and eyes bulging as he took in the spirit. Then he began babbling rapidly in Russian. Shouts, pleads, and curses.
Yet not a word from the solemn Angel. Deaf to his cries as she approached him. Grabbing him tightly by the forearm as if he were solid again, though his form was still a wispy luminescent shadow.
Then, they were gone.
And the hunt would resume. Ghost would cleave and Angel would collect; quietly taking the fighting soul with her. Off to where, Ghost didn't care as he moved onto the next dossier. One by one his targets fell prey to his blade.
Soon the news took to the wind like wildfire. Corpses found without trauma, poison, or any other hint of foul play. Some were found deep within bunkers or behind locked doors.
Hushed whispers that a ghost was afoot.
Yet again, he was living up to his name, even in death…
Ghost worked around the clock. Neither eating nor sleeping. His body did not require it as a Reaper. So, he poured his focus into excelling in his element, hunting down targets with an obsessive zeal. But it wasn’t the job that burned within his core like hellfire, it was the desire to return to the 141.
Makarov would not be a loose end for another Reaper to have to clean up. He’d ensure it would be the 141 that would end Makarov by any means possible.
Like a blood hungry hound, Ghost struck down each target, until finally cleaving through the 99th soul.
He was so close now…
Hidden from the bustling city. Ghost stood alone underneath a flickering door light of a dark, seedy, and damp alleyway. The muffled thrum of energetic bass of a nightclub reverberated behind the door. It wouldn’t be long before ambulances and police rushed to the scene of a mysteriously deceased syndicate boss.
But Ghost’s mind was elsewhere as he remained quiet, unmoving, and staring down at the empty folder.
There were no more pages…
Each dossier disappeared once the soul was collected by Angel. So where was his 100th target?
Nervous energy began to seep from his core as Ghost snapped the folder shut with a huff. Had there been a mistake? Surely there was an 100th soul, and she’d keep her promise.
The Angel wouldn’t lie, right?
Ghost’s jaw muscles twitched before he opened his mouth. His gruff voice crackled from disuse, causing him to cough roughly before shouting in a deep graveled voice, “Angel?!”
A luminescent glow, that rivaled the hidden moon above, burst forth from the darkness and took shape before him.
“Yes, Simon?” Angel asked serenely.
Ghost had nearly forgotten the sound of her silver belled voice. They had not spoken since the initial meeting. Had that been over a week ago? Or a month? Time felt different in this state of being.
‘But never mind that.’
“My 100th soul?” Ghost grunted. “Was the dossier?” He asked with a roll of his shoulders. As if trying to flex away the nervous energy
“Eager are we.”
“Eager to get this over with and return to my team? Yeah, bloody eager,” Ghost huffed as he eyed the new folder Angel offered.
A fresh folder for the 100th soul? Was it something special? Ghost exhaled through his nose as he took the dossier.
Your dossier…
Ghost stared down at a photo of your glowing face, grinning wide, and bright eyed.
Your report was heavily retracted, save for a name, age, and address. Your life story is hidden behind more black ink than the other 99 dossiers combined.
The gears in Ghost’s mind shrieked to a halt.
“Da’ fuck?” He spat.
But Angel was already gone the moment the dossier changed hands.
Dark eyes fell back down to study your photo. You don’t look like a hardened criminal. More like a ray of sunshine with a splash of chamomile tea. Hell, you're probably the type to help gran cross the road and thank the cars for waiting.
Sighing deeply, Ghost grabbed his scythe and headed out.
If you had any skeletons in your closet, Ghost would find them, and take your soul.
Chapter 2: The 100th Soul
Summary:
“That's it!” You yell at the unknown miasma. Whipping your kitchen knife around.
“I’m going to perform an exorcism!” You threaten, pulling up Google search.
Notes:
“You’re you - and Ghost doesn’t know what to do.”
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[YOUR POV]
Every day is precious, even more so when you are feeling particularly well.
Today had the makings of being wonderful.
Now -there weren’t birds singing outside your windowsill and you didn’t jump out of bed carpe diem style. More like, you rolled out of a plushy bed with a clear mind, relaxed muscles, and joints that moved without pain.
You were grateful.
But, something strange is afoot. And it's starting to mess with your head.
You took your morning handful of pills -check; made sure to have breakfast this time since pills on an empty stomach led to some nasty business. No breathing treatments nor infusions were due soon.
Yet something is niggling you, as if you were a spool of twine that someone was trying to find the beginning bit with the intention of slowly unraveling you…
And the puzzle intensified with the movement of the warm sun across the clear blue sky.
You’re working from home now, which is nice. It keeps you busy. A focused mind keeps it from receding to other, darker recesses in your brain. Plus, it’s nice to feel purposeful and needed.
But your electronics don’t seem to be in agreement today. The laptop kept flickering. A snail could have outpaced the rate at which your cellphone was downloading data. And the modem was just begging to be turned on and off.
‘Mondays imma right?!’
Minor annoyances, nothing disconcerting, yet…
Hot steam tickled your nose as you gingerly sipped upon warm tea. Meanwhile the loading bar inched across the screen. Your gaze meandered past the laptop to sweep across the collection of colorful knicknacks, many of which were of Giraffes captured in various mediums, colors, and poses. They were such odd creatures -so ofcourse you took a liking to those suspiciously long horses ever since seeing one on a school field trip to the zoo.
The animal just didn't make sense in your brain, yet it somehow thrived in this world. And deep down, you felt a kinship towards them.
In between the cornucopia of Giraffes, were photos filled with smiling faces that decorated your work table. Mementos of happier times and places, before your body began to sabotage you at every turn.
A sigh left your lips as you gazed past the windowpane to watch fluffy marshmallow clouds duck behind the looming glass covered skyscrapers of the bustling city you call home.
Then, something in the reflection of the window shifted. Behind you. A dark shadow darted past.
Your head whipped around, as you frowned, ears straining for the slightest creak in the floorboards.
Nothing. A quiet and lonely apartment -as always.
‘Hmmm…’
Well, it was time to get up stretch. Move around while your laptop goes through its own existential dread of being rebooted.
Meandering out of the little office space to the kitchen, you notice other things that are just a tad bit off around the sun lit cozy apartment.
‘Huh’, the closet door was left ajar. You know it takes a little extra oomph to close, otherwise the wooden frame pops it open like an old man’s rickety joints. So, it’s a habit to give the stubborn thing a double-tap.
The closet door snaps with a thrust of your elbow, then pops securely shut with a thump from your rump. Meanwhile your gaze travels into the homestyle kitchen. The utensil drawer is completely pushed in, dammit, you liked to keep that stubborn drawer slightly open otherwise it gets stuck.
Huffing through your nostrils, you stomp over to the kitchen as if readying for battle. It takes a bit of jiggling with the handle while the utensils rattle about like anxious children on a bus driven by a manic driver trying to get them to school on time.
A deep sigh escaped your lips before your gaze snapped to the usually well organized stack of tea bags on the countertop. The colorful and alphabetized collection looked askew. As if someone had riffled through your tea satchels…judgingly…
You frowned in the midst of tucking Earl Grey back into its place, when a cold shiver danced down your spine. Your skin crawled, and the small hairs on the back of your neck raised in warning. It was the unsettling sensation of being watched by an unwavering gaze from unseen eyes. Your toes curl inside the warm house slippers as you whip around, looking wildly about the empty living space.
No eyes were found staring back.
Yet the air thickened, as if the gaseous molecules grew heavier around you. It reminds you of that looming pressure that precedes a thunderstorm. Though somehow concentrated in the vicinity of your apartment.
‘Oh, something just wasn't right.’ And that off kilter sensation began to peck at the knots holding you together. Bindings stabilized by the various cocktails of medications, woven together by surgeries, and secured in place by your own sheer stubbornness.
Yet the all too familiar sensation of control slipping away began to surge forth. Static hummed like angry flies stuck in your ears. Lungs felt breathless as your chest painfully tightened with each heartbeat. Tingles from angry nerves prickled down your shoulders, vibrating into fine tremors that shook your fingers.
Your body was threatening to rebel.
There were various pills for anxiety within the mini pharmacy located in your bathroom. Helpful when your heart starts to race like a rabbit and no amount of deep breathing could coax it to relax. But they dulled you senseless, and you didn't want the catatonic fog to set in on a day where the sun would feel delightfully warm on your skin.
…Maybe that's what you needed. Get out of this walled off apartment for some fresh air and naturally made vitamin D from the sun.
Grabbing your tote and walking shoes, you headed out into the bustling city. Dodging commuters and weaving through the heavy foot traffic you notice that the looming presence trickled away. Still there, like soft static from a radio, as it seemed to follow up about the city as you walked to your favorite café.
A little hole in the wall mom and pop café that served your favorite treats. Entering the rustic venue, you were enveloped with soft music overlaid by the rippling murmur of voices. Lungs inhaled the warm scent of foamed milk, brewed coffee, and freshly baked flaky pastries.
Taking your usual place against the large window facing the street. It was a prime location for people watching, a favorite pastime as you awaited your order. Your gaze soaked in the fashionably dressed ladies and gents that sauntered past. Interspersed with people walking their dogs, as you picked out characteristics they shared. Meanwhile sporty runners dodged them all like a living obstacle course.
Your fingers itched for a sketch book. But they were still quivering from the morning's adrenaline rush. Instead you kept them busy by tearing apart pieces of a warm buttery croissant. It’s your go to. Don’t need to use utensils that’ll clatter about like shivering teeth in your trembling hands.
Fluffy bits of pastry were dipped into hot coffee. The flavors danced in your mouth as you sighed deeply. The echoes of the flavors still on your tongue as you return to your abode.
You had nearly forgotten the sensation that had caused you to flee in the first place until the door swung open.
Tentatively crossing the threshold, you exhaled as you felt the air had returned to its usually stilled calm. Silent dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that warmed your living space. The apartment was once more your untouched fortress of solitude.
Cautiously you enter. Apparently the spot of fresh air from the jaunt outside seemed to do the trick…
Then the noises started.
Floorboards creaked from invisible weight. The soft shuffle of items being rifled through by invisible hands.
And breathing…
Muffled, low, and rhythmic.
‘SHIT!’
Instincts ingrained into your hindbrain were screeching with alarm while emergency lights flashed inside your skull.
Someone was in your home!
You grabbed the largest kitchen knife out of the wooden block like King Arthur pulling Excalibur from the stone. But, with your trembling hands, you were more likely to do more harm to yourself than an intruder.
Damn it all, you weren’t going down without a fight!
Knife in one hand, cellphone in the other with the emergency number at the ready. You swept through your territory just like they do in the movies. Knocking doors open with more righteous anger than courage as someone dared cross into your safe haven. You already had to deal with a body that warred against you, so no one else had the right to mess with you!
Yet the apartment was empty as you swept through like a tidal wave of fury. Crashing against the pressure on whatever unknown presence prowled about.
Yet there was nothing and no one.
What was going on?!
Was it your medications? Each had a plethora of side effects, most breezed through during commercials, glossing over the terms paranoia, dissociation, and hallucinations by an overly caffeinated voice.
Is your apartment suddenly haunted? Is that a thing? Usually a ghost is there when you move in right, not a ghost moving in while you’re there…
Again a dark shadow danced just outside your peripherals. Gone, vanished the moment your head turned towards the door.
“That's it!” You yell at the unknown miasma. Whipping your kitchen knife around. “I’m going to perform an exorcism!” You threaten, pulling up Google search.
Suddenly, there was a low murmur, then the apartment cleared up. The pressure -evaporated, the unseeing eyes -gone, the breathing -silent.
You nearly dropped the knife in shock.
Clearly you were losing it.
Tea was in order. You needed something to ground yourself with. But even as you sip the warm brew, the hint of lavender was doing jack shit for your nerves.
The delicate tendrils of your neurons were frayed from the anxiety.
Your cup is now empty, but your mind is full…
‘What the hell just happened?!’
[GHOST POV]
‘Christ, they’re perceptive.’
Ghost felt like he was on an espionage mission with how stealthily he needed to move about the apartment. Your eyes seemed to track after him. Ears perked at his movement. And you paused as if sensing him through the force.
But surely you couldn’t see him…other than Angel, no one else made the slightest indication of awareness of his being.
Until now.
Ghost could feel you tense up, your heart rate spike, and breathing quicken.
And a small part of him, the reckless part kept under wraps and chains, wanted to see if you truly could. But, he reeled it in and remained dutiful in his reconnaissance all day. Going as far as trailing after you to the corner café. Where he watched from the shadows.
Never in Ghost’s life had he been on his tippy toes than when you searched for him, armed with a knife and cellphone.
First of all, he was concerned for your safety. Which was entirely contraindicatory to his very mission.
But there you were, raging like a chihuahua. Trembling. Bark meaner than your bite.
You weren’t some drug lord or Russian spy.
Hell, the only crime committed was your choice in tea!
Otherwise you were the most normal person in the world. Well mostly normal…he peered around the corner.
The final straw, you looked to be at the verge of a mental breakdown.
“That's it!” You shouted. Whipping a blade around with manic energy on par with Johnny. “I’m going to perform an exorcism!” You threaten. A sound plan that would have scored points in Kyle’s book.
“Fuckin hell,” Ghost grumbled under his breath.
This was mental.
It didn’t feel right, and it made Ghost antsy. He was not one to feel so unsure.
He left your apartment to seek the quiet alleyway where he paced before yelling, “Oi, Angel!”
“Angel?!”
The seraph appeared, but Ghost doesn’t give her a chance to speak.
“There's gotta’ be a clerical error,” He thundered, waving your dossier about.
“What makes you say that?”
Ghost huffed sardonically.
“I've been watching them all day, they ain't a sinner like the other damned souls.”
Angel was quiet, contemplative, and hard to read -which irked Ghost.
With a gentle tilt of her veiled head, she finally answered, “You're not a judge, Simon.”
“You're a grim reaper.” The wings upon her back shifted, like a cat flexing its retractable claws. A silent reminder of whom Ghost was speaking to. “Do your duties, one more soul and you're free. Is that not what you wanted?”
Yes, but, it felt wrong. Something just wasn’t right.
But Ghost bit his tongue before growling, “Fine. Fuck!”
“One last goddam soul coming up.”
Turning upon his booted heels, Ghost retreated, whipping the scythe angrily about.
Angel did not disappear this time, but lingered, watching.
A small smile hidden behind the veil.
[YOUR POV]
You were enjoying the momentary solace from the earlier…hallucination. By now you’ve chalked it up to the medications, and an empty stomach. The outing and delicious meal from the café seems to have done the trick.
Curled up amongst soft blankets upon the comfy couch, you’re enjoying another cup of tea, a fruity herbal blend that reminds you of summer. And you let a memory of a warm breeze on a sunny day envelope you. Eagerly, you harvested berries at a small country-side farm. Eating every third berry. Fingers grew sticky with fruity sweetness and dyed with splotchy magenta-colored stains.
Fingers that weren’t yet tremulous.
The world still large, full of potential, and dreams.
Before you found out…Fingers paused mid-doom scrolling as the air about your living room thickened once again. The floorboards creaked and the low gravel breath returned.
You look up.
And you see him. A hulking figure dressed in black gear, a skull mask covering his face. Within his skeleton gloved hands, a black deadly looking scythe.
Shit, the blade looked real!
You both stared at one another - you bug eyed in alarm, him unblinking yet widened in surprise at the direct eye contact.
A bloody shriek exploded from your lungs as you flung the mug of hot tea at his skull covered face.
You didn’t linger to watch the cup sail through his head, smashing into the wall behind him. Instead you scrambled out of your tangle of blankets. Like a rabbit caught in a bind.
“Oi!” Barked an unfamiliar gruff British voice. “Hold on!” It added angrily.
“Hell no!” You spat leaping over the couch like a pole vaulter. Who in their right mind would hold on when facing a guy like that?!
Fucking murder she wrote going to happen here if you don’t move it!
How the hell did he get into your apartment?! You didn’t even hear the door open!
Swiftly you lurched for your pepper spray inside the tote on the kitchen counter.
But the frayed twine that had been holding your constitution together finally snapped with vengeance.
The world wobbled, sounds warbled, and your body painfully locked you in. As if you were a frozen web browser. Then you toppled, like a marble statue pushed off its stand. Stuck in a pose you couldn’t break out of.
‘Oh…oh no…not now.’
Everything tilted to the left, before the world came crashing down.
And just before the thick curtain of darkness fell, you heard a rough, “Oh fuc’!”
Large warm arms grabbed you around the middle, saving you from the usual painful fall.
Notes:
Thank you for reading (´◡`) Hope you enjoyed 'Your POV', again trying a new writing style, but it has been fun so far. Any thoughts on Chapter 2?
You can find me on Tumblr: @FromAthelasToVeritaserum ٩(⁎❛ᴗ❛⁎)۶
(DISCLAIMER) I do not own nor claim to own any of the Call of Duty Franchise and Activision’s work. It is from the team's own brilliance…my additions are from my own madness. Please do not feed my work into AI apps.