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socially-awkward-skeleton · 6 months ago

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Chapter 8 - Blow the House Down

[Also Available on AO3]

Shadow Dance Masterlist

Summary: The remaining members of the 141 stage a prison break to free Soap, Ghost, and Los Vaqueros from being "detained" by Graves and Shadow Co.

Warnings/Tags: Minors DNI, swearing, character with trauma, established relationship, military inaccuracies, canon-typical violence, includes some in-game dialogue

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC - 3rd person POV (Rory Sinclair)

Word count: 4.1 K

A/N: the further continuation of Rory's story, this follows and expands upon the COD: MW2 reboot canon. Told from Rory's POV

November 3, 2022 04:57 - Las Almas, Mexico

The hazy gray of dawn slowly began to lighten the sky, yet the golden gleam of the sun remained absent. Cloud cover built overnight acting as the fuel to be burned away in the tinder box of morning radiance.

From the depths of the receding darkness of the night, the purring engines of two white vans raced down a dirt road, flood lights shining a path towards the exfil point, scorching a hole through the bleak black around them. Skidding to a halt just outside the prison walls, the desert’s powdery sand scattered up behind them and drifted down past the headlights, caught in the rays of the high beams as they parked beside an abandoned vehicle. A chorus of gunfire in the distance greeted them as bullets sliced indiscriminately through the air. Thunder claps of ammunition exiting the chamber rolled over the vast landscape of rocks, cacti, and wild grass, echoing out and silencing the cries of coyotes and the calls of owls.

Three figures in shadow exited the vehicles, heading towards the prison walls. Their heads on a swivel, eyes peeled for possible enemy activity as they scurried towards their point of access. It seemed as though Shadow Co. was being kept busy, and considering the other vehicle left to the side, someone else must have taken it upon themselves to stage a coup against Graves, an attempt at cutting the head off the snake, one that acted as the perfect distraction for the other members of the 141.

Price’s strides were long and purposeful as he led the way into danger, relaying the rules of engagement to the two soldiers in his wake before they started for the top of the wall. “Expect heavy enemy fire. Take only the shots you need,” he said with a quick glance over his shoulder at Rory, his eyes sharp. “We’re here to get our people out, not clear the zone – this is an extraction, not an offensive.”

With ropes and ascenders in tow, they made their way up to the top of the wall of the fortress of a prison. Watchtowers stood guard to their left and right, overlooking the prison yard of weathered cement and weeds prying their way through the cracks, sprouting into overgrown shrubs. Below, the distant flashes of muzzle flares glimmered across the ground like fireflies dancing at dusk, burning motes of light traveling in the gloom of the coming morning.

Bonfire Night had come early, and they had arrived just in time to enter the fray.

Taking position behind the barrier of concrete, Rory lowered to a kneeling position, placing her rifle on the cover wall. Searching through her scope, she caught sight of the white bone of Ghost’s mask as he, Soap, and the members of Los Vaqueros fought their way through the Shadow Company resistance against them. “We’ve got friendlies coming from our one o’clock,” she called out.

“I see ‘em,” Gaz confirmed while scanning the battle zone below. “They’ve got company.”

Enemy combatants waited for them, scattered throughout the field that the escapees would be forced to cut through. Enough bodies to make it a problem.

Taking a steadying breath, Rory tapped her practiced finger against the trigger and the bullet collided with the back of a Shadow’s thigh while hiding behind cover. A pained groan carried across the expanse of open asphalt, his reaction leaving him open to another rear assault. Without wasting a moment as he dropped, unphased by the quiet tinkling of her bullet casing dancing across the ground, she lined up the angle and with a precision hit, cleared the x-ray from the route.

“Keep that up, Ror,” Price barked approvingly. “I want that route kept clear.”

With a nod, she returned to the comfort of her scope. But that old, reliable feeling of the weight of a weapon in her hands didn’t last long as the low hum of rotors coming to life alerted the group to the appearance of a helicopter heralded by their arrival.

Soaring overhead – all black, predatory – hunting them down, it swooped in low. The searchlight washed them in bright, white light, stinging their eyes while hair and clothing whipped violently against them under the current blasted from rapidly spinning blades.

“Focus on that field, Lieutenant,” Price commanded in a hoarse bark, raising his voice above the sound of the aircraft to be heard. The brim of his boonie hat fluttered and flapped as he readied his weapon, tucking it tight against him and taking aim. “Gaz and I’ve got the bird.”

There were times when she could tune out the whole world while staring down her rifle, a reprieve from the continuous noise of her head that she had learned to get along with. Finding the calming point of peace as everything else blurred into white noise. This, however, was not one of those times. The controlled chaos that ensued only increased their chances of success, Shadow Co. were caught with their pants down and they were all too happy to take advantage of that.

Streaks of fire shot out towards the enemy helicopter from the field opposite them, burning comets in the sky of hot lead ricocheting off the fuselage, sparking against the metal and pinpointing the exact location of their allied forces. Joining forces with the concentrated bullet spray of Gaz and Price’s weapons – the combined weight of heavy fire still wasn’t enough to bring it down.

The loud pinging in Rory’s ears of bullets not quite making their mark caused her to squint, gritting her teeth while reacting to something akin to nails on a chalkboard. A high pitched screech that pinched at the very nerves in her gums, sending shivers to course up her spine and lock her ligaments. Clearing her head with a sharp intake of breath, her lungs holding just to the edge of aching, she once more fired out into the black abyss below and was met with another cry of agony.

“All stations, this is Bravo-6,” Price shouted his orders over the radio, his low growl carrying over the prison barracks walls. “Get down!”

A grenade lobbed into the hovering chopper and the resulting explosion finally caused it to lose control, the fire spreading through the cockpit and flooding the interior like a sinking ship. Crashing into a nearby wall, swallowed up in a giant cloud of smoke and flame, the stench of fuel rose up into the air along with the thick, black fumes that darkened the sky once more.

“All Bravo and Vaqueros… Top o’ the wall. Get here and I’ll get you out. How copy?”

“Loud and clear, Price. Comin’ to ya…!”

Ghost’s gravelly voice responding over the comms had her breathing a small sigh of relief. They weren’t anywhere near to being in the free and clear, but it was a small concession she would keep a tight grasp of.

The glint of a green flare sparking to life caught out of the corner of Rory’s eye as Price tossed it down to the ground below, grabbing the attention of their team. The caustic, potent stench of burnt rubber spewing forth as the gas burned off to light the way, mingling with that of the wreckage in the corner – the fiery mass of metal like a solar flare in her scope.

“Be advised, ropes deployed. Find ‘em and climb.”

“Roger, that.”

The friction squeal of Soap and Ghost’s ascenders on the ropes grew louder as the braided nylon became taut, the two men rising to the top of the wall, vulnerable while Shadow continued firing off potshots towards them.

Her rifle continued in a rapid succession of percussive bangs as bodies dropped like crumpling ragdolls around the field, sacks of meat and marrow made obsolete with a bullet. Lives taken all in service of keeping her team alive and well. It was a common thing for her not to feel much remorse while taking on the enemy, having learned to ignore that voice in her head repulsed by the thought of killing, teaching herself to see it as inconsequential. Calcification of her conscience. Her or them. But in this case, knowing these were traitors – even if simply following orders like she did – made it all the more simple to shred them with each perfectly positioned shot. As the enemy popped out of cover, it became a game of whack-a-mole, a carnival shooting gallery of targets. Easy picking. Her heart rate maintained at a steady beat as rescue efforts went on around her, letting it all fade into the background, a muted distraction. Take aim, take a deep breath, hold, and then fire.

The first heavy tactical boot made contact with the edge of the wall with the rough scuff of sole on weathered cement, and the breeze ruffled through the dark fluff of Soap’s mohawk as he reached the heights at the peak of the wall, the rough leather of his gloved hand reaching out to meet Price’s as he was pulled up. Flood lamps above cut sharp streaks of fluorescent light over the sergeant’s face, showing off the weary lines etched around his eyes. His gear stained with blood, it was clear Shadow hadn’t made things easy.

“Sergeant MacTavish,” John greeted, voice hoarse and rasping like steel wool. His hand rested on Soap’s shoulder, giving one of his trademark pats – ever the handler to his pack of unruly mutts.

“Good to see you, Captain.”

Soap’s Scottish brogue was an oddly comforting sound after everything that had come to light with Shepherd and Graves, and hearing it, even over her shoulder as Rory continued to fire, made any worries about him and Ghost being in danger instantly fade, settling whatever nerves were hidden under the mask of calm control.

She rose, rifle in hand, and rested her foot on the wall, the small chunks of chipped away cement crumbling under her foot. Glancing away from her scope for a moment, she tipped her head to the side and made visual contact with the big, blue puppy eyes of MacTavish. “Good to see you in one piece, sergeant.”

A wry grin curled the Scot’s lips, tipping his head eastward. “Ah, ‘the missus’. Thought y’ were supposed t’ be in North Africa, Lamb?”

She hummed, adjusting the rifle in her arms. “Heard your arse needed saving.” Returning to her duty, she changed the angle of her fire, focusing on shorter range, and picked off the Shadows who had closed in around the escaping soldiers. Her bullets buzzed past members of the Los Vaqueros, skillfully missing them, even in tight confines as they lined up to get to the ropes dangling over the edge of the prison wall.

Shadow forces under fire retreated to the safety of walls, towers, and roofs – Cockroaches, she thought with a sneer, the lot of them. Men and women that were hand selected by Graves himself. Knowing the sort of man he was made her question just what these soldiers were willing to do, what lines they might straddle, others they might cross, and it all made something inside her tense. It took a certain type of person to become a PMC, to pull away from the rigidity of governed rules, the type of person who wanted to make their own. Breaking free of the structure, the form…

Given pause for a moment, her stomach clenched, that quiet voice in the back of her head a timid whisper about whether she was any different at all. She had gone in with good intentions, but that had paved the way to hell. All too aware of what she was capable of, handpicked by Price, willing to forgo the usual channels to complete a mission–

The brief moment of reflection under a starry sky and with bloodshed down below was quickly swallowed back down. Sometimes it was best not to think on those sorts of things.

The next boot met their position with a heavy thud, the weight of a walking fridge behind it, as a long leg swung over the barrier. Rifle hugged tight to his chest, the same way Rory held hers, Ghost scanned their surroundings from on high, dark eyes behind the mask penetrating the gloom below, quietly observing, meeting Gaz’s greeting with a curt nod.

“Garrick. Price.” Ghost’s attention lowered on Rory’s back as she maintained cover fire. “Nice shootin’, Sinclair.”

“I do my best,” she muttered while taking out another Shadow with a clean shot to the chest. Soap looked between Price, Gaz, and Rory still laying down fire, a hint of confusion in the lines of his brow and around his eyes as he caught his breath. “How’d you know?” “Laswell,” Gaz replied. “Soon as Shepherd went dark, she called us.”

“Laswell, still solid as a rock,” Ghost said, the usual stoicism giving way to a hint of pride hidden behind the handsewn skeletal visage.

As the squad caught up, the Vaqueros began their ascension, beginning with – who Rory assumed was the leader – a grim looking man, his stubbly jaw clenched tight, eyes burning with fire. The sting of betrayal and the need for revenge after being imprisoned by a former ally cut into every sharp edge of his features.

Soap, seemingly friendly with the man, gave the introductions. “Colonel Vargas, meet Captain Price, Lieutenant Sinclair, and Sergeant Garrick.”

“Thanks for the assist –” Vargas glanced over his shoulder at the sound of yet another shot going off and the cry of pain that followed it reaching his ears, studying Rory for a moment, brow cocking as he watched her catch stray Shadows and keep his men alive. “Suppose you’ve been the one keeping my men under cover fire, huh?”

She pulled back from her scope, releasing the extractor as another casing fell to the ground and chimed softly at her feet. “Suppose so.”

A half grin curled his lips, showing off sparkling teeth. “I’m impressed,” Vargas said, nodding his head. “You’re one hell of a marksman, Señora.”

“Guess that’s why the Captain keeps me around,” she said with a smirk, flipping the wave of hair that fell in front of her eyes back, and glancing past Alejandro’s shoulder at Price, holding his stare until he dragged his tempest gaze away from her, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

“Well, perhaps I could assist,” Alejandro said, immediately getting into position beside her and helping to lay cover fire down for his men against Shadow Company. “Cheers,” she said with a grin that had yet to fade from her face. “Happy for it.”

There were still at least a dozen men below that needed to climb, moving targets for the Shadow forces to take aim at, while the others remained corralled together. Fish in a barrel. Her hand tightened its grip on her weapon, holding it steady against her as she observed the muzzle flares flashing like fireworks before the sound of the gunshots met them. No longer facing singular guards and scouts, there were now roving packs to contend with. Armored vehicles. Snipers.

“Gaz, Soap, Ghost – Overwatch – Now!” Price commanded.

A storm of lightning and thunder held contained within prison barracks rained down. Pot shots taken at the wall sent dust and debris falling like hail into the faces of the men trying to climb to safety. Chaos swirled and explosions rang out as soon as Soap got his hands on a grenade launcher, nearly vibrating with excitement over the newfound artillery power.

The ground shook, rumbling up below their feet as the tectonics of the battlefield shifted, becoming aggravated, an open wound. For everything Shadow threw at them, they met it in kind, holding them off.

“Got snipers on the roof.” Price growled. “Take ‘em out, Ror.”

“My pleasure.”

Her rifle swung to the left, taking into account the new wind speed and direction as it breezed over the peaks of her cheeks and tousled the loose waves of her hair. Lining up her shot, crosshairs set, eyes narrowed, seconds felt like hours as she listened to the steady rhythm of the beat of blood in her ears – like holding a shell and hearing the ocean. Her gloved finger whispered over the metal of the trigger, and with a sharp breath sucked between gritted teeth, the air was punched from the enemy sniper’s lungs, their life taken in the blink of an eye.

The wall they had claimed steadily filled with escapees, and once the last man had reached the top, Price pulled back from his firing position. It was time to pull out. This wasn’t the war, it was just a staging area, one that let them see the enemy in action, spot their weaknesses and plan how to use it against them.

Pointing out the ropes they had entered with, Price barked out his orders, “Down the wall. We are leaving!”

Repelling down with ease, soldiers streamed over the wall to freedom on the other side. One after another, boots hit the sand, weapons kept at the ready. Until the prison was out of sight, they weren’t clear of danger.

In the distance, the sky had become a deep indigo blue with the coming morning as a sliver of orange cut across the horizon line. Fire in the sky stretching out, slowly climbing above the mountain ridge. Each fine, tensile ray like the sharp edge of a blade slicing through the darkness that blanketed the land.

Soldiers lined up, waiting at the bottom of the wall for the Captain to arrive – always the first into a foxhole and the last to leave – it was just one of the many things that he did that commanded the respect of his team. The reminder that there were still those that held some sort of honor in a world full of liars, cheaters, and traitors. People desperate for strength, power… control. Things that seemed to seep from Price’s very pores, exuding from him – a born leader. They trusted him to have their backs, to not leave them behind and he had never failed in that duty.

Uncoupling himself from the rope upon making landfall, Price’s heavy brow furrowed as he looked out towards the horizon. With a command, the group split into two, retreating into the safe confines of the vehicles there to extract them with the same rush as a holiday crowd through an airport.

Climbing into the passenger seat up front, Rory took her spot beside Gaz behind the wheel. The vehicle rumbled forward, his hands steady at ten and two, following Alejandro in the other van as they were led to safe harbor where they could amass for the next front. The mission had become more than just a search for missiles – another end of the western world threat – the lives of their own had been made into fodder so others didn’t have to face the consequences.

Glancing over at Garrick, the rising streak of sunbeam blazed like a molten core amongst umber as he watched the road ahead, the fierceness having grown behind his eyes since the first time she had met him. His stare was now as focused and piercing as the Captain’s. Coming into his own, it was a remarkable thing to witness. He was as much a soldier as the rest of them were, the war they were about to face just as personal to him.

Tight jaws, scowls, and narrowed eyes abounded in the vehicle. The electric buzz of anger rolling like a charged current around them. Would have been easier if they just came clean to start with, if they hadn’t been sent on a wild goose chase, she thought, eyes fixed on the rear lights of the vehicle in front of them. Tidying messes was something she had gotten used to in her career – the dustpan and broom of colonial powers – but it was the sheer hubris behind Shepherd’s actions that annoyed her most. A man who had grown far too used to thinking himself above it all, the untouchable, as if the law and truth held no sway over him. That he was incapable of being punished for the things he felt he had a right to do because he was under some false impression he knew what was best.

A reflexive twitch shot through her, fingers curling into a fist on the armrest of her seat. She had come face to face with men like that before, seen the monstrous things they were capable of. Men who deemed themselves worthy of the power they had amassed. Violent means were an easy tool for them to cling to, the lives of others meant little in the path of their own personal crusade. For greed, for dominance… for trying to do a little good in a world of bad. Her eyes lifted to the rear-view mirror and landed on the back of John’s head before meeting her own reflection glancing back at her.

Fuck, need a cigarette. Anything to ignore the hypocrisy that swirled in her thoughts, jaws of razor sharp teeth that lay in wait, ones she still tried to pretend weren’t there despite claiming the opposite.

“Shepherd burned us.”

Ghost’s rasping voice filled the back of the van, contempt rife in every word, drawing her back into the here and now, tearing her from the inside of her head before she was dragged down into the bog of things she buried deep.

“He sent Graves and his Shadows to kill us and round up Los Vaqueros.”

“We know why.”

“The missiles,” Rory started, filling in the void Price had left behind, looking back over her shoulder at the two hulking squad mates they had just saved. “The ones you found. They weren’t supposed to be out in the wild. It was a mistake. One Shepherd and Graves are both at fault for. You lads and Los Vaqueros just happened to be the unlucky recipients of their efforts at trying to bury it.”

“Bury it?” Soap snarled, dark brows knitting with the deep set furrow between them.

She nodded, her eyes flitting to Price, noting the rigid lines of his shoulders. He was stewing in silent rage. She could only imagine the thoughts brewing behind the eyes that gave nothing away, a placid surface hiding jagged points of ice and cruel riptides. “And you weren’t the only ones,” she added, glancing over at Soap. “You were right about how I should still have been in Africa. The mission I’d been on, the one to collect Botha, ties right back into this. Hassan had come to him first to transport the missiles to America. Had information that could have saved us a lot of trouble.” Rory turned back to face the road they drove on, her voice a low murmur of regret, “He ended up dead because of it.”

“Steamin’ Jesus. What the hell is Shepherd doin’?”

“He’s like most at the top, Johnny.” Ghost sat stiff against his seat, his mass locked down and only his head on a swivel. “Ready to drop ya at a moment’s notice t’ keep ‘imself in power.”

If Shepherd thought this was the best course of action to clean up his mistake, he had been dead wrong. He’d only gone and made things impossible for himself, gaining the ire of a whole squad of soldiers who had done all manner of questionable things in their careers in order to meet the successful end of a mission. A foolish thing, indeed. It wasn’t like they hadn’t all come with their own reputations when he had backed the creation of the taskforce. A captain who had been sent into brutal conflicts all over the planet, making the tough decisions no one else wanted to, ruthless in his endeavors, a man only an absolute numpty would want to make an enemy of. Two lieutenants who had both been through their own versions of hell, facing torture and pain, who knew what was necessary to survive at all costs. And two sergeants, while young, full of piss and vinegar, and not yet quite as cynical as their veteran leaders, were treading the same path into the bowels of the dark parts of the world few others ever saw.

Shepherd was in for one hell of a reckoning.

“That’s why we’re going to take him and Graves out of the picture,” Price husked, his head angling sharply to the side. “Get rid of a problem before it gets worse.” His glare darkened, the cold machine of a soldier ever present in those bottomless steely blue eyes. “Then we focus on Hassan.”

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare 2 #captain john price #john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #alejandro vargas #kyle gaz garrick #oc: rory sinclair #skelly writes #fic: shadow dance #chapter 8

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